Table of Contents

- The Gift of Music

- The Aristocrat and the Free Man

- STEALING ARTURO

- Magic and Other Honest Lies

- Soft Casualty

- Songs of Waste and Wood

- The Last Secret of Mary Bowser

- Low Arc

- Balance

- A Thing of Beauty

- An Imperium Pursuit

- Picket Ship

- The Golden Knight

- Bare Snow Falling on Fairywood

- Bait and Switch

- The night don't seem so lonely

- Long Nights Moon

Baen Books

Free Stories 2014

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.

The Gift of Music © 2014 by Sharon Lee

The Aristocrat and the Free Man © 2014 by Robert Conroy

Stealing Arturo © 2014 by William Ledbetter

Magic and Other Honest Lies © 2014 by Robert Buettner

Soft Casualty © 2014 by Michael Z. Williamson

Songs of Waste and Wood © 2014 by P.C. Hodgell

The Last Secret of Mary Bowser © 2014 by Steve White

Low Arc © 2014 by Sean Monaghan

Balance © 2014 by Marina J. Lostetter

A Thing of Beauty © 2014 by Charles E. Gannon

An Imperium Pursuit © 2014 by Jody Lynn Nye

Picket Ship © 2014 by Brad R. Torgersen

The Golden Knight © 2014 by K.D. Julicher

Bare Snow Falling on Fairywood © 2014 by Wen Spencer

Bait and Switch © 2014 by Ryk E. Spoor

The night don't seem so lonely © 2014 by Sharon Lee

Long Nights Moon © 2014 by David B. Coe

A Baen Book Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

eISBN: 978-1-62579-277-8

The Gift of Music

by Sharon Lee

Early September; the air crisping up, and the sea getting feisty.

Fall was bearing down on Archers Beach, and all the rest of Maine, too, the way Andy heard it, but you'd never tell it from the number of folks on the streets, and filling up all the hotels. Folk that'd come up from Away down Boston, and Montreal, Vermont, and New Hampshire. Places Andy'd only heard about, him being Archers Beach, all the way through.

He stood on the Pier, arms folded on the rail, guitar in its case nestled like a dog at his feet. Standing right there, he could look down and see the breakers strike the white beach and splinter into ivory foam. Turning his head just a little, and he could see straight up Archer Avenue, all busy with automobiles, and horse-drawn wagons, pedestrians, and the electric trolley just making the turn down from Portland Street.

Well, Andy thought, squinting up the hill against the September sun; it'd be winter soon enough, and the town hunkered down against the cold. Half the hotels would be closed by All Hallow's, and the rest by Thanksgiving Day. Then, it'd be the townies keeping their own company 'til April brought the owners back from their winter places in Portland or Boston. May and April, those were working months, repairing what the winter'd broke, cleaning up, and repainting 'til the town was fit for company again.

He straightened away from the rail, and stretched before reaching down to take the guitar in hand. Truth told, a crowd in town suited him fine; it was always better to play for something other than himself. It was nice to get paid, too, though -- another truth told, even at the height of summer there wasn't a lot of work for Andy LaPierre.

The ballroom and the concert halls paid best, but they wanted the Big Bands, and the big acts up from New York and Atlantic City.

A fella like Andy -- single fella with a guitar -- not much call for him. Less even than a call for a duo -- guitar and fiddle, like him and Cray tried doing.

Damn' fool thing, that'd been. That fiddle was dangerous, which they'd both known. Their mistake was in thinking they could handle it -- which made them a pair of damnfools.

Fiddle'd almost killed a boy, dancing, at Fathom Five -- well, no. Him and Cray'd -- they'd almost killed the boy, it being them that'd brought the fiddle into it, knowing what it was. And -- full truth told -- if the boy had died, it would've been Andy's death. He was older and he should've been watching; he'd told Cray that he'd be watching.

But the fiddle -- well. Say the fiddle had its own ideas.

In the end, Andy had come to himself in time, and no lasting harm was done. The boy'd wanted a bracer, and a friendly arm to lean on back to his hotel. Couple of Cray's fingers got burnt, but that wasn't worth mentioning -- though Cray still did, now and then, being Cray.

Could've been worse.

It did put an end to the duo, though -- no real loss. Cray didn't need the music, not like Andy did, and he was happy enough to go back to the marshland and tend his own potatoes.

So that left Andy -- a fella and his guitar -- playing fill-in, side, and early at the little places, and the speakeasies. Fathom Five, The Pearl and Coral, The Sea Nymph, The Conch -- those were his usual venues. Once or twice a summer, he'd pick up a gig at one of the big hotel restaurants, wandering from table to table, playing soft, maybe crooning a little. That was fine, and the tips were good, but the big hotels didn't want the likes of Andy, not regular.

That was all right. It was the music that was important. More important than money. More important than love.

Learning that. . .that'd been a shocker. But the music -- it wanted -- it needed -- to be played. It wouldn't let itself be put away to fester. The music -- that was his gift, and it wasn't going to let him waste a single note of it.

So, Andy played where they'd have him, for the hat, and supper, sharing his gift, and, just by the way, healing himself.

Tonight, for instance, he was playing The Conch, seven to ten, which was longer than usual, but the sax player's wife had sent a note that he was under the weather. Meaning that he'd drunk too much coffin varnish again.

The word came to Andy's ear about the time it reached Mr. Flannagan, The Conch's barkeep and manager. That meant he was walking in the door, having given the doorman the word, guitar in hand, smoked glasses covering his eyes, before Flannagan had time to send 'round to any of the other regulars. The barkeep didn't necessarily like Andy, which was mutual, but he wasn't a man who relished putting in extra effort, either. Mr. Flannagan didn't like music, and he didn't like musicians, and one was as good as another to him.

Spying Andy, he gave a short nod and turned to draw a beer.

"You're playing straight through tonight," he said.

"Yes, sir," said Andy, nice and polite. He took the beer, and went down to the little stage to set up.

He could feel the music buzzing at the ends of his fingers and in-between his ears. He'd just played two days ago, but the music was eager, like there was something special brewing.

He thought about that, tuning up. Something special, was it? Well, if that was the case, then it had to be the night was somehow special, 'cause it sure wasn't the gig.

The Conch wasn't one of your upscale places, like the Sea Change or the Casino. But it wasn't just a townie joint, either. Flannagan didn't like townies any more than he liked music or musicians. About the only thing he did like was that money from Away. That being so, The Conch made itself agreeable to those folks from Away who had money, but who didn't necessarily expect the digs to be top-notch.

That meant it drew a younger crowd. A tougher crowd. Sometimes, things happened at the Conch that shouldn't've. Flannagan paid a nice percentage of that Away money to the cops, to make sure those things never came to their official notice.

Andy didn't mind the crowd; trouble never came to him that way -- and hardly ever came to The Conch when he was playing. The only thing that mattered was that he got to play. Mostly, too, he played for himself; the crowd had their own business, and the sounds he made were background, or less, to them.

That was all right, too; the music did its work. It didn't have to be heard; it only had to be played.

#

He noticed them about half-way through his second set: A couple like any other from Away who owned the kind of money that would make Flannagan's nose twitch. She was pretty, he thought; kinda skinny in a short dress and long beads, a bell-shaped hat cocked over one ear and a big red flower pinned to it. He didn't necessarily incline toward skinny girls, but this one had great, sparkling eyes, and a wonder-smile on her painted mouth. She was hearing the music, no doubt there; hearing it and wanting to hear more.

She made for the empty table to the right of the stage. Her fella followed, but it was plain he wasn't best pleased; jerking his head toward the back o'the room, where there was an arm in the air. Bigger'n her, naturally; burly and thick muscled in a tailored suit; his hair was glossy with brilliantine, slicked back from a square, hard face. He had a little black mustache over a full red mouth, and his hands were square and soft.

He jerked his head again toward the back of the room. The girl pouted. Her fella pulled her chair out with ill-grace, and went to the back of the room alone.

Andy forgot about her for a while then, lost in the music himself. The next time he noticed her was during his supper break. Her fella had come back to her table and was apparently wanting to move on. The girl shook her head, and he grabbed her wrist, jerking her to her feet.

Andy came away from the bar fast, meaning to have a word with the boy, but -- she looked right at him; met his eyes like she could see them behind the dark lenses. . .

. . .and shook her head.

He nodded, slightly, and went back to his supper, watching as her fella pulled her arm through his, and they moved toward the door. It seemed she went willing, and her fella stayed civilized, 'til they were out of his sight, gone into the breezy September night.

Andy sighed, still feeling unsettled, which was just foolishness. He didn't have nothing to do with people from Away. Nothing to do at all.

#

He amused himself with a run of old ballads: “Low Bridge”, “Old Dan Tucker”, “Big Rock Candy Mountain” -- nobody noticed. Nobody ever did. He played 'til it was time to stop playing, got the guitar into its case, and drank a last beer while Flannagan counted out the hat. Two dollars and eighty-five cents; more than he'd expected from this crowd. He left fifty cents on the bar, so Mr. Flannagan wouldn't find him to be lacking in gratitude, stowed the rest in his pockets and strolled down the noisy, crowded room. The guy on the door opened up for him; he nodded his thanks, and followed the smoke out into the sweet autumn air.

#

He walked down the hill, among the glare of the electric lights. Despite the hour, the streets were crowded; the light spilling from the new hotels making the street as bright as day. Down at the bottom of the hill was the Pier, hung with so many lights it looked like a sun had fallen into the sea. Andy could hear the band playing at the Casino -- Paul Whiteman's Orchestra, it was this weekend -- nice and clear.

He ambled along, in no rush to be anywhere, guitar case over his shoulder, weighing whether he wanted to go over to the Casino and take in what was left of the show. Might learn something.

Or might not. He didn't much care for the Big Band sound, and while some of the arrangements might be adapted for a single fella and his guitar, most were built for that full orchestra.

Be a lot more to learn at the jam session, after the Pier closed down for the night and honest folk were asleep. That was when the roadies, and some of the orchestra musicians, too -- the ones who lived the music almost like Andy did -- they'd get together to play. Blues, now, there was something a fella and his guitar could learn from the Blues. Might be good to sit in, tonight. Nothing else doing, after all.

It was right about then that he noticed her, keeping pace with him on the crowded walk, a careful arm's length away.

Andy stopped. The girl stopped, too, and turned to face him. Her big eyes were bright under the brim of the perky little hat -- bright and hard as glass. He could see her shivering, which was no surprise. September it might be, and mild, yet, but they were still on the Maine coast, and the wind off the ocean wanted a shawl or a jacket to turn it.

"Best you go inside," he told her, gentle, because it took some that way, those who really heard the music, and they got confused about what it was they wanted. "I've got nothing for you, missy."

"But you do." Her voice was husky, and it shivered, too. "Have something for me."

Well. Maybe he'd misjudged. He looked at her dress, the pearls, and the earrings. Expensive things, by his reckoning.

"You want money?" he asked.

"Money?" she repeated blankly, then swept her hand out, as if tossing the word, or a coin, away. "I don't care about money."

"Right, then. You go on back to your room, wherever you're staying."

Her hard, brilliant eyes widened, and she lunged, catching his sleeve.

"No!" she said sharply, and then, more moderately, "No, I can't go back there. Please -- please walk with me, just down to the trolley stop."

They were blocking the sidewalk, or should've been. People flowed past without seeing them, no smallest shift of the eyes to acknowledge their presence. That was right, most folk didn't see him, unless he wanted them to, which he didn't, right at present, and they'd automatically look away from a girl who was talking to herself.

Still, seemed the best thing to do was ease off the don't-see-me, and get her out of the way, before some drunk trampled her, or a fella with an eye to opportunity decided she was too crazy to know what was happening to her.

"Sure," he said. "I'll walk you down. Best step it up; last trolley for Portland leaves at midnight."

"I know," she said, and, "thanks."

He waited for her to let go his sleeve, but she didn't, just stood there looking at him, shivering in the breeze -- or maybe, he thought suddenly, not only with the breeze.

"Where's your fella?" he asked her.

She blinked. "Gone drinking with Percy. I told him I was tired, and wanted to go back to the hotel to sleep."

He nodded, and, when she still didn't move, or let go of him, he turned and started walking again, down the hill.

She went with him, drawing closer, and slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, like they were walking out together. That hurt, that did, and he almost pulled himself free of her.

"You can, can't you?" she said breathless and shaky before he could pull away. "You can. . .fix things."

He felt a thrill; a stronger repeat of the sensation he'd had earlier, that there was something special about. . .to happen. He'd seen that the girl heard the music; that she'd also been able to puzzle out the music's purpose -- well. There were those who could see the wyrd and understand the strange, even though they, themselves, were neither.

Her question wanted answering, though, and he had to be careful with it.

"I can't fix anything," he said, and felt the sour truth in his belly.

"Not you, maybe," she said, talking fast, now; her words tumbling over each other like puppies. "The guitar -- the music -- that's it, isn't it? I felt it, back there in the bar. I felt it begin to -- to stitch me together." Her laugh was even less steady than her voice. "Stitch me together, that was it. Like a kid's ragdoll."

"Look, missy," he said. "Whatever you want --"

"I want you -- the music -- I want. . .to be fixed. It -- the music -- it can do that, can't it?"

She'd found the twist, bless the girl. He couldn't fix one blessed thing, true enough, but the music -- that was something else.

Careful again, he said, "It can't fix. Not the way you're thinking, it can't." He hesitated, and threw her a glance.

That was a mistake. Her face was rosy, her eyes on fire; the bright red mouth pinched until it was hardly pink.

"What's the trouble?" he asked, the words drawn unwilling out of him, one by one.

"I just want to get away, that's all!" she said, her fingers digging into his arm like a vise. "But he has the stuff, and he -- I -- if I don't have it, I'll die."

He knew then, why her eyes was so bright, and why she shivered so.

"Your fella gives you dope?" he asked.

She nodded, jerkily.

"It was -- swell at first, y'know? But it didn't stay swell. I'm sick of it -- and I'm sick without it."

"That's how it goes with the dope," Andy said, and it was pity he felt for her, knowing now why she was so thin. "Nothing to fix it, that I ever heard."

"If I can get away," the girl said. "Go up to Portland. I got -- I got an old school chum in Portland. She'll help me."

"Then you don't need me," he said. "Last trolley to Portland's at midnight."

"I know that, don't I? Or why'd I ask you to walk me to the stop?"

"You said you wanted to be fixed," he reminded her.

"Fixed -- I need; I need to stay strong enough -- to not go back -- to get on that trolley and get to Sarah."

It wouldn't do her any good, and might hurt Sarah, too, depending on how deep the dope had a grip. Not his problem; he told himself. He had nothing to do with folks from Away.

He sighed, lightly, and put his hand over her fingers that were leaving bruises on his arm.

"I'll wait with you," he told her. "And I'll maybe play some while we wait."

Hope flared in those too-bright eyes.

"Thank—"

"No, now, hear me out! There's no fixing involved. Music might put a little courage in you, maybe. Maybe. And not so much as that." When she crossed out of Archers Beach -- well, he didn't know what happened to the music's power, outside of Archers Beach, now did he?

"Courage enough to hold you on the trolley," he said, not promising it -- not exactly. "So you'll sit tight, all the way into the city. Get a taxi to your friend. Understand me. . ." He paused, thinking how best to tell her that distance wasn't what she needed; that she was carrying her doom inside her -- she was sick, he recalled her saying. Well, then, she knew as much as he did.

"Sylvia," she said, shaking him out of his thoughts.

He looked down into her face again.

"What?"

"Sylvia. It's my name."

He felt it strike him, solid, like a fist against the heart, and almost swore. Dammit, he hadn't asked for her name!

Asked or not; he had it, now. And everything that went with it.

He sighed.

"Dangerous thing to be giving your name out to anybody," he said, mild, like it made no difference.

"You're not anybody," she answered. A breath, and she added, "You don't have to tell me yours."

Damn right, he didn't have to tell her his.

"Cross here," is what he said, and took them across Archer Avenue, to Milliken.

"Trolley stops on Grand," Sylvia objected.

"Stops on Milliken first, and it's quieter there. You want the music to concentrate on you, right?"

She nodded, jerkily. "Right."

The town council had planted fewer street lights on Milliken, it being a secondary way. There was plenty of spill off of Archers Avenue, though, and a lamp post right next to the trolley stop, its light furry in the sea-damp air.

Andy settled into the corner of the little wooden bench, and slipped the guitar out of its case. He could feel the music buzzing in his fingers; buzzing in his head. It came on like that, sometimes, 'specially if he hadn't played in a while. After a night of moving music through him. . .it worried him a little, just while he was getting the case out of the way and settling his fingers along the strings. It worried him, that the music was so eager, almost like it. . .had a plan.

It ought to worry him, that the music had a plan, but once he had his fingers on the frets, nothing worried him at all.

"Sit on down," he murmured. "We got a couple minutes."

"I don't want to sit down!" she snapped, and he might've snapped back, but there wasn't any sense to it -- it was the dope making her twitchy and mad.

"Suit yourself."

His fingers were already moving, teasing out a melody – “Simple Gifts”, it was. Good music, that one; gentle.

Powerful.

What it felt like, playing the music -- the kind and style of music he played. . .It felt like. . .it felt like he went all still at the dead center of him while light filled him up, flowing out through his fingers to wash away the pain and sadness around him.

That was why he'd stopped playing, after Nessa married her prince and took herself off to the Land of the Flowers. He'd told her that he was happy, so long as she was happy -- but that'd been a lie.

The truth was, it felt like his heart'd been torn out, and there was no still place inside him for the light to fill up. He'd gone back to his land, threw himself into its care and keeping, not thinking; only serving.

Until the night he found himself standing on the corner of Milliken and Archer, hat on the ground by his feet, his fingers bleeding from the strings -- playing.

Playing.

That had hurt -- the music melting the scar tissue; growing him a new heart. It had hurt for a long time, but he learned. He learned to let the music -- what the music was and everything that it did -- fill him up and flow away. It was his gift -- his gift to give away.

It was rare that he played just for one person. The full power of the music focused on a single heart and soul -- not many could bear that. When he'd been young, and learning his gift, he'd broken a man's heart, playing just to him. His fault; he hadn't known the limits of a human heart, then. Still didn't, though he had a far shrewder notion.

He learned to play for big groups; he'd learned to give the music away to the street, to a meadow, to the sea -- and to those strong enough to bear it.

This girl now, this Sylvia -- she was only human, wyrd-sighted though she seemed. Whole and healthy, she wasn't strong enough to bear the full brunt of the music; sick with the dope like she was, and dying -- the best thing the music could do, to fix her, like she wanted, was to kill her outright, and stop her from hurting any more.

His fingers moved along the frets without him paying any particular mind, and it was “Shenandoah” this time, easing into the space that had been warmed by “Simple Gifts.” Andy looked up, wanting to see how she was bearing it -- but what he saw was the music, swirling 'round and through her, lighting her up like she was a candle.

A funny kind of candle, with the flame guttering, and a space of blackness before there was light again, burning brilliant and brave.

He watched, his fingers moving up and down the strings; he watched the music coil around the brilliant base of the candle and. . .tighten. The light moved up, slow, like the dark patch was almost too heavy to budge.

The music tightened again. He found his fingers insistent, and it was some Spanish thing now, that he'd learned from that sailor, long winters ago. Flamenco, thrumming hard and insistent, exerting pressure, until, the white base of the candle flowed upward into the darkness, and the crowning flame flared bright blue-white.

The bottom half of the candle -- that was dark, now, and Andy's fingers slowed, sliding out of insistence into a gentle murmur; not music, really; more like whistling to yourself when you'd just done something that scared you bad.

The music flowed away, the image of the candle faded, and it was just the girl, Sylvia, standing there and staring at him, her face a little pale now, and her eyes soft with tears.

"You fixed me," she whispered. "I felt --"

"You felt," he said, his voice a harsh counterpoint to the murmur of the music. "You felt half your life taken off the back end, and applied to the front. You won't die this week, missy, but you won't live out the length you was given."

Her mouth tightened, the lipstick long gone, and then she nodded, once, firmly enough that the brave red flower on her hat jerked with it.

"But I was going to die this week, wasn't I?"

"Can't say that, missy, but you were in a bad way."

"Then I'll take that shorter span," she said firmly, and stiffened her thin shoulders.

"What're you gonna do, then?"

"Like I said. Go to Portland; find Sarah. Figure out what to do with what I've got left."

A bell sounded, around a crackle of electricity.

Sylvia looked over her shoulder.

"The trolley's here," she said, but instead of moving toward the curb, she stepped up to the bench, leaned down and kissed his cheek.

"Thank you," she said. "I mean that."

She turned, then, took a step, turned back to look at him, a wry grin on her pale face.

"I don't have car fare."

He snorted lightly, and came to his feet, one hand still fondling the strings while he dug into his pocket and pulled out his evening's earnings.

"Here."

"That's too much!"

"Taxi ride to Sarah, once you're in Portland," he said. "Something to eat, maybe." He pushed the money at her. "I'll get more, tomorrow."

She laughed. "You talked me into it."

The trolley arrived with a clang of the bell, the door clattered open.

"Milliken Street!" the conductor yelled. "All aboard for Portland, Congress Street Car Barn!"

A fella came down the stairs, none-too-steady on his feet, tipped his hat in Sylvia's general direction -- "Miss." -- and charted an uncertain route down Milliken, taking the corner wide at Imperial, and heading up the hill, toward the boarding houses.

Sylvia mounted one step, and stopped to look over her shoulder at him.

"Come with me," she said.

He shook his head, both hands on the strings, and the music moving softly out into the night.

"Got everything I need, right here."

"Lucky you," she said.

"Hey!"

Andy turned, fearing the worst -- and here it came, the fella she'd been with at The Conch, hatless and running.

"Sylvia! Hey! Hold that trolley!"

She froze; she half-turned. . .

"Jake?"

Andy brought his hand across the strings in a slash, waking discord.

"Go!" he shouted, and used what she'd freely given him against her. "Sylvia! Get on the trolley!"

Her body stiffened. Wooden, but obedient to his command, she mounted the steps. The doors clashed shut behind her. Electricity crackled; sparks danced along the wire.

"Hey!"

The fella -- Jake -- slammed to a stop by the bench, breathing hard, and shaking his fist at the trolley's backside.

"Evenin', Jake," Andy said, quiet and firm.

The man turned toward him, eyes widening.

"You --What'd you do with my girl?"

"Gave her some help. She asked me."

"Yeah? Well, you're gonna be sorry you did that. How about I break that guitar over your head?"

"No," Andy said, and heard the music coming out of the guitar, thick and dark and heavy.

He tried to stop, but the music had him as much as it had Jake, and the music was angry.

"You better leave," he told Jake, and tried to change it; to play something else. He thought the notes of “Simple Gifts”; but his fingers continued to call forth darkness and doom. The strings were icy against his skin, and he saw the music flow into the man and through him.

Saw the candle -- saw, Andy thought, the man's soul -- dull and tarnished thing that it was, with its flame guttering orange.

His fingers were pitiless; they played on, and the dark music swept out in an eddy so poisonously perfect that Andy felt the tears prick his eyes.

There was no filling here; no squeezing, neither. Just a breeze, that was all, cold, and soft, and sudden.

The candle flame flickered, guttered. . .and licked back up, just a glow now. . .

Andy drew a breath; he drew deep, on all the power he had in him.

He lifted his hand away from the strings.

The music stopped.

The man's guttering soul flickered in the passing of the cold breeze; Jake swayed -- then straightened as the flame steadied and flared.

"You. . ." he snarled again, taking a step forward.

Andy slashed his hand across the strings, making them scream.

"Run!" he shouted. "Jake, you better run away -- and forget you knew Sylvia!"

He felt that last bit take, just before Jake jumped like he'd been poked with a hot wire. A harsh gasp, near enough to a scream, got loose from him, and his slick-soled shoes scraped the sidewalk as he sprang into a run, up Milliken, back toward the lights of Archers Avenue.

Andy watched until Jake was just one more silhouette among the many up on the Avenue. Then, he walked over to the bench and put his guitar away in its case.

He stood for a little while, then, shivering; the breeze off the ocean having gone from chilly to cold.

"Shows what comes of dealing with folks from Away," he said, to nobody in particular.

He sighed, and slung the case over his shoulder, looking toward home.

Midnight, he thought. The Big Band would be finishing up its last set real soon, and the jam session'd be warming up. He wanted voices around him, and music, that was what.

Tonight now, he thought, moving slow toward Archer Avenue. Tonight, he'd learn to play the Blues.

The Aristocrat and the Free Man

by Robert Conroy

My latest novel, Liberty: 1784, takes place in a dark world where the British have won the Revolution and are hell bent on imposing a harsh regime mirroring England’s. This is a short story dealing with, among other things, how black people existed in a New York City at that time. Thus, this tale of a free black man in the alternate world of 1784. – Robert Conroy

William thought he felt a tug on his fishing line. As usual, he was wrong. The dead worm was still there, but he didn’t care. This was his afternoon off from working with Tom Dawson in his inn and stable. He was a free black, a privileged black, and didn’t have to worry about someone scolding him for lazing away an afternoon. There were still many enslaved blacks in New York despite the fact that both sides in the recent war had tried to convince blacks to fight for them. Both sides had promised them the moon but had yet to deliver. William laughed softly. What the hell would he do with a moon? Someone had told him that nearly ten thousand blacks had lived in the city before the war, but who knew for certain. Besides, war, fire, and the British occupation had changed the population. Many Negroes were slaves but many, like William, were free.

William had created his own freedom. Already powerfully built at fifteen and named Ajax by his owners, he’d been abused and was being beaten by his master when he suddenly turned on the smaller man and bashed his skull against a tree, killing him. He’d hated the master, not just for the beatings but for the many times he’d raped William’s mother when William was young. He considered it a mercy for her that a fever had carried her away.

Knowing that a terrible fate awaited him if he was caught, William had run for his life and hadn’t stopped until he reached New York. He’d then found work with Tom Dawson, an Irish immigrant and innkeeper who was also a decent man and one who deplored slavery. Dawson had taken a liking to the hard-working and intelligent William and had even gotten the runaway forged papers showing that his name was William, and that he was a free man and not a murdering slave named Ajax. Of course, William had not told Dawson the exact circumstances that forced William to flee, but the Irishman understood they had to have been dire. Dawson further encouraged William to learn to read and write and do his figures. This kindness was reciprocated and William worked even harder for his benefactor. Now, twenty years later, their relationship was one of friendship rather than employer-employee.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the familiar sound of men marching. A column of redcoats was coming down the road. He watched them with a professional eye. He had spied for Washington’s army because the rebels seemed to promise the most, particularly in New York where there was a small but strong anti-slavery movement, typified by Tom Dawson.

These soldiers William was observing were straight off one of the scores of transports that lay at anchor in the harbor and they looked like hell. Several weeks locked up in a leaky, stinking and disease-ridden tub will do that, he thought. Worse, these looked like the refuse of society which they were. They were pale, scrawny, and sullen. They might as well be slaves, he thought. He had already noted that the average British soldier was shorter by several inches than the average American. He thought it was because Americans had access to better food.

Yes, William was a free man but that freedom only went so far. He could not vote in local elections and many professions were blocked to him. For instance, he could not become a doctor—as if anyone would want to go to a black doctor except blacks who had no money to pay him. Nor could he walk around with a weapon, such as a sword. He had a large knife in his belt, but that could be construed as a tool.

“William!”

Startled, he turned and smiled. It was May, the attractive mulatto who worked at Dawson’s inn and who occasionally shared William’s bed. “What is it May? You miss me already? Wasn’t last night more than enough?”

May giggled. “You’d better get back to Tom. I think he’s about to kill that damned major.”

William rose to his feet and wrapped up his line. “Oh, we wouldn’t want that to happen, although I’d pay money to anyone who did kill the bastard.”

The bastard in question was Major Sir Arthur Harper, a portly thirty-year old who’d been living in Dawson’s inn and stabling his horses and carriage at Dawson’s stable. From the first day, he’d been a boor and a bully and, worse, hadn’t paid a penny of his bill. Now the British were stirring themselves and moving north to Albany from which they would head west and destroy the remnants of the shattered rebel army. Harper was minor nobility and lusted to increase his stature and his wealth. He had only recently come to realize that there wasn’t much in the way of treasure out west. As a result, he’d become bitter and frustrated, concerned that he was on a fool’s errand.

The rebels had collapsed after their crushing defeat at Yorktown and what remained of their forces had headed west where they’d hoped they wouldn’t be noticed.

William hadn’t been anywhere near Yorktown but he knew enough to curtail his activities and curb his tongue with so many redcoats around. So far it had worked. White people scarcely noticed black people except to order them around. Otherwise they were like the furniture, mute.

It was several short blocks to Dawson’s inn and William made it a point to step out of the way of white people, especially British soldiers, even if it meant walking in the street. Several redcoats knocked some people into the muddy street because they didn’t move out of the way quickly enough. Only a few streets in the city had been paved and even those were covered with dirt. The fires, especially a great one that had raged a year or so after the revolution began, had destroyed much of the city, dotting it with charred ruins. Even some of the buildings built by the Dutch a century ago had been destroyed. William thought that was a shame. The Dutch built elegant homes and businesses.

William also considered it a shame that Trinity Church had been destroyed in the great fire of 1776. The Christians had built some elegant churches even though their faith had been such a contradiction. How could so many of them, including preachers, condone slavery? He had frequently attended services there, although always sitting in the back. He felt this had helped cement his reputation as a hard working free man who accepted his lot in life.

William could hear men shouting well before he got to the inn. A few weeks earlier, Dawson had been forced to sell it to a local Tory named Wilford. Wilford was permitting Dawson to pay an exorbitant rent as well as provide hospitality for Sir Arthur. Wilford had let it be known that Dawson would soon be kicked out and on his own, a source of concern for William, Dawson and May.

William entered the stable and stood beside Dawson. Major Harper had turned red from anger and William wondered—hoped—that Sir Arthur would explode.

“Dawson, you will get your money when I give it to you. Nigel, my servant, is responsible for maintaining my funds and he will see to it that you get what you deserve and not a penny more.”

William shook his head at the comment. Nigel was a sneak and a snake. He would steal and cheat for his master—who didn’t realize that Nigel was taking a large portion for himself. May told William that Nigel was cruel as well, and he had beaten her for declining to sleep with him. William hated Nigel for that and only May’s firm insistence that he not kill Nigel kept that man alive.

Dawson continued. “I expect to be paid in full. You’ve been here for weeks now, taking up space and eating my food and I’ve received nothing in payment. And now you’re going north with the army? Sir, if I am not paid, I will take it up with the sheriff and your commanding officers.”

Harper roared with laughter. “And those fine people will do nothing. They know what is going to happen in the future. All of this nonsense about democracy and equality will be meaningless as people of quality like me will be in charge and you will be as nothing. And as to my paying you, your lodgings were miserable and stank of horse shit, and so was the food you provided and for both I was criminally over-charged.”

“But you agreed,” Dawson said with a hint of desperation. William didn’t like to hear that from a man he very much admired and who had been a good friend. But Dawson was not rich and the inn, soon to be taken from him, was his and William’s source of livelihood.

“And that’s another point,” Harper said angrily. “Where I come from, people like you don’t argue with their betters. Nor do they shake hands, which is a disgusting habit. They bow slightly and touch their forehead with their fist. You will learn how to do that when your abominable revolution, which is an insult to God and king, is finally crushed.”

He shook his fist at William. “And you, sir, will once again find yourself a slave. You appear to be slightly white, which simply means that a white ancestor of yours fornicated with a black. Nothing wrong with that, of course, I’ve done it a time or two myself. Would have done it with May who is doubtless also part white, but the haughty bitch turned me down. That said, you are still black and you will be black forever, and blacks have been condemned by God and are not truly human. They merely have human shape and are sometimes able to parrot apparently intelligent sounds and even play music. Blacks are kept as slaves for their own good. They would not be able to function in a civilized white society. Doesn’t what is happening in Africa and Asia prove that?”

“I thought money had somewhat to do with it,” William answered drily and heard May giggle. He’d heard these points before. “And I’ve heard that England is thinking of abolishing slavery.”

“Insolent shit,” Harper said. He raised his hand as if to strike William then thought better of it. William was larger, stronger and impressively muscled. He would crush Harper like a bug. And there was that large knife in William’s belt.

Harper pulled himself up to his full height. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. Right now I’m going for dinner with friends who appreciate who I am and what I do. My luggage is locked so that people like you cannot get your dirty hands on it. I don’t care if we are going to a forest, I will go as a gentleman. Nigel will see to my baggage’s going north. Expect him and cooperate with him and perhaps you’ll get some money.”

After Harper disappeared, they looked at each other. “Now I truly understand why the colonists rebelled,” Dawson said. “This is what we have to look forward to if the British win.”

“Don’t you mean when the British win?” said William.

“Indeed,” said Dawson while May nodded sadly.

William grinned wickedly. “Then why don’t we get our pound of flesh while we can?”

Dawson nodded although he didn’t quite get the allusion to Shakespeare. They went to Harper’s room and saw the major’s three trunks stacked against a wall. As Harper said, they were locked.

William turned to May. “Do you still possess that unique skill that almost got you hanged?”

May examined the locks. “Just like Harper, they are cheap.”

She took a pin from her hair and had them open in a few seconds each. They were filled with Harper’s finery. A number of crisp and clean uniforms had been neatly stacked in the trunks. Harper wouldn’t be back until almost dawn and would sleep until noon. Nigel was their only concern and he’d gone out on a last night of drinking as well.

William took out a uniform and began to cut it into little pieces. He then took a second one and a third. The others joined in until Harper’s immaculate uniforms were nothing more than a pile of sliced rags.

“We could be hanged for this,” Dawson said, but he was smiling. “But we won’t be since we won’t be anywhere near this place this time tomorrow. The new owner wants me out of here; well, he’s going to get his wish. I’ve gotten tired of this place, anyhow.”

William and May laughed and continued their destructive efforts.

“What the hell are you doing?”

They turned in astonishment. It was Nigel and he’d returned early. He reached the trunks and quickly pawed through what was now a collection of rags. “What have you done? What do you expect Sir Arthur to wear? Migawd, you will hang for this, all of you, but not until after you’ve been flogged to ribbons.” Nigel was so angry he was frothing at the mouth. He knew he would be held at least partly responsible for the vandalism.

“Harper can go stark naked like a red savage for all I care,” said Dawson.

“I’m getting the sheriff,” snarled Nigel, his pinched face red with fury. He was about to say something else when his eyes widened and his whole body went slack. May gasped when she saw William’s knife sticking out of Nigel’s back, right where his heart would be. Nigel slid silently to the floor.

“Leave the knife in him for a while,” William said. “It limits the bleeding and that means there’ll be less for us to clean up.”

Almost numb with shock they waited and continued to put Harper’s rags back into the trunks which they re-locked.

“Now what?” asked Dawson.

“It’s gotten dark. What we will do is strip him, wrap his worthless ass in a blanket and drop him in the river. With a little luck, he’ll wash out with the tide and never be seen again. Even if he is found and anyone asks, we’ll say he went out as he usually does and didn’t return. Obviously, he was the victim of some bandits or outlaws. If he isn’t found, maybe the noble Sir Arthur Harper will think his loyal servant deserted. Unless, of course, someone has a better idea.”

No one did. They wrapped the corpse in an old and stinking horse blanket and took him down to the Hudson River which was only a few score yards away. They walked quietly and in silence, holding their breath, concerned that someone might see them. They were especially fearful that the watch would see them and ask what the hell they were up to.

They reached the river without incident. May said a small prayer and Nigel’s remains were consigned to the sea. They watched for a few moments while his pale body drifted away. “He should sink and won’t bob back up for a couple of days,” said William and no one wondered just how the powerfully built black man knew about things like that.

“What shall we do now?” Dawson asked after they returned to the inn. “If Harper finds that we’ve gone, and Nigel is missing, he’ll get suspicious.”

“I suggest we act normal. We should go to bed and try to get some sleep,” William said.

May slipped her hand in his. “Stay with me and we will help each other sleep.”

Harper returned to the inn after noon and greatly the worse for wear. He was angered to find that Nigel was not present and that he had, according to Dawson, gone north with the trunks several hours before.

“People from the Quartermaster’s came shortly after dawn and told Nigel that the carriage and any baggage had to leave immediately. He said for us to tell you that he’d left with them in order to keep an eye on them.”

This was almost the truth. They had loaded the trunks onto the carriage and then hired a man to take them north with the military caravan, which was already leaving. With luck, the honorable major would not find or open the trunks for several days. With a little more luck, he might deduce that he’d been betrayed and diddled by Nigel who had clearly deserted him.

“Damn it all,” snapped Harper. “Now I’ll have to travel for a while in what I’m wearing. Damn.”

Dawson bowed slightly and managed to look humble. “May I please suggest that you consider paying me?”

Harper laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world to him. “Even if I wanted to pay you, which I don’t, I can’t because Nigel has all my money. Everything I had with me last night I managed to lose, which is why he keeps track of my funds.”

William turned away. They already knew that his lordship was broke. They had found a surprising amount of money in Nigel’s clothing and in the trunks. The noble major would have to beg or borrow to sustain himself in a lordly manner in the wilderness.

A short while later, Harper slowly rode away on one of the inn’s remaining horses. It had not been paid for. The money the three had taken would more than compensate.

Dawson grinned. So far they were safe. They should not press their luck. They talked and quickly decided to take everything of value that belonged to Dawson and simply ride away. William would set a slow-burning fuse to some rubbish that would set a fire in the inn that would spread to the now empty stable. They hoped it would further cover their tracks and infuriate the new Tory owner. There had been so many fires in New York since the revolution that one more might not seem significant.

As they rode north to where they could leave Manhattan Island, Dawson asked the question that was on all their minds. “Now where?”

William answered. “They say that Philadelphia is called a city of brotherly love. I say we check that out. There are thirty thousand people in Philadelphia and we should be able to both get lost and earn livings while we wait to see what will happen.”

Behind them, bells began to ring as a thin tendril of black smoke began rising.

STEALING ARTURO

by William Ledbetter

I tried to stay awake and upright as the elevator bucked and jerked its way down the spoke into the Earth-normal gravity of Ring One's sleeping level. The lights flickered as the weight settled over me, pushing my exhaustion deep into every cell. I didn't know how much longer I could take it. If the power failed and left me stuck in the elevator again, I might turn into a raving mad man. Would I really ever escape this station? Were the months of covert effort wasted?

Felicia spoke, but her voice was there and not there, a feathery touch that revived memories of her fingers brushing back my hair. "You can do this. I believe in you, but you need sleep. And a shower."

I snorted and hugged her canister to my chest with one hand and scratched my two day old beard with the other. She was right. It had been nearly as long since I'd showered or slept. Extended periods working in the hub's micro gravity always did this to me, but I had little choice, time was running out.

A hand appeared before the lift door had even opened halfway, grabbed the front of my shirt and yanked me out into the corridor. Since I didn't have my gravity legs yet, I fell directly to my knees. The two Security "officers" laughed, and the one with red hair--whom I had long ago assigned the name Meathead--gave me a little shove with a highly polished boot and I further lost my balance. I had enough warning to at least tuck Felicia's canister against my chest before I toppled over like a crippled old grandpa.

A foot pressed on the back of my head, trying to shove my face into the thick grime that had accumulated in the corner over the decades. Dust and debris were sucked into the air filtration system on low gravity levels, but down here, where the poor people lived, filth collected like it throughout human history. Bits of plastic and a rusted screw decorated the black gunk only inches from my mouth, but I pushed back and rolled over quickly, causing Meathead to lose his balance and stumble backward.

I fought the centrifugal gravity and struggled to my feet, ready to kill the crisply uniformed bastard. As I braced to head butt him, before he regained his balance, I heard Felicia's voice in my head.

"Don't be stupid, Clarke. You're only four days away from your escape. You can't to be arrested now."

She was right, but I had to at least put up a token fight or they'd get suspicious. I gave the two goons a withering glare, tucked Felicia under my arm and tried to push past them. They grabbed my arms and shoved me against a bulkhead.

"Lieutenant Eisenhower sent us to ask about your ice production quota. He thinks you're holding out."

"I don't give a shit what Eisenhower thinks. I don't answer to him. I was hired by the station management."

The goon shoved me again, making my head bang against the wall. "That's Lieutenant Eisenhower. You need to show some respect."

"Lieutenant is a rank that implies either training or experience and he has neither. He's just the head guard dog and that doesn't demand respect in my book."

The second goon--the one with dark hair and beady eyes--took a swing at me, intending to pin my face between his fist and the bulkhead. I dodged, but not quite fast enough and his punch glanced hard off of my cheekbone, then scraped my cheek with his wrist comm as it continued into the wall.

He cursed and punches from both assailants rained down on me in a flurry. I bent low, intending to take a few hits and then try to dart between them, when someone yelled.

"Stop hitting him, you big turds!"

Everyone stopped and turned to see a scruffy young girl in patched clothes standing just behind Meathead. She looked to be around eight or nine and I recognized her as the girl who lived with her mother two doors down from my cabin.

"Get lost, kid!" the dark haired guy said and made a half-hearted swipe at her.

She didn't budge, just glared back at the man.

Both officers laughed, but threw no more punches. Instead, in an unexpected snatch, Meathead grabbed Felicia's canister from my grasp.

I straightened abruptly, shoved them both backward and grabbed for her can, but missed.

Meathead hefted it like a school yard bully playing keep away. "I think we'll have to confiscate this."

"No, you won't," I said.

They glanced at each other and grinned. "We already have, Kooper."

I shook my head slowly. "I don't think you understand. If you decide to keep my property, then you'll have to kill me or imprison me. And in either of those cases, you and everyone on this station will die within a couple of weeks after the water runs out. As your boss already mentioned, my production level is way down. We have about a week's worth of water in reserve. My predecessor already picked the local area clean of icy rocks and they're getting tough to find. Without me, you won't find any ice. Nor will you be able to bring a new ice miner in from Mars or Earth quick enough to stave off that rather ugly death. Of course the managers and your boss will probably hoard plenty for themselves, but do you think you'll get any?"

Meathead shifted his stance and glanced at his partner.

"And if you let me go, but still keep my property, then I have at my disposal forty-nine mining robots, each with a laser capable of burning right through the hull of this station. I wouldn't have a bit of trouble finding your cabin and I don't even have to hit you with the beam. I'd just wait until you were asleep and open a hole in the hull. Then pfffftttt you'd squirt into vacuum like a long string of goober paste."

The kid laughed and Meathead's face flushed red.

"Or you can give that back to me and we'll pretend this never happened."

"Give it back to him!" the little girl said. "Are you morons trying to get us all killed?"

Meathead's buddy poked him in the arm. "Just give him the damned can and let's go get some grub. Eisenhower didn't tell you to take his stuff anyway."

I smiled and nodded, then winced at the pain in my jaw.

Meathead tossed Felicia's canister in my direction. It tumbled and I did some silly juggling to keep it from hitting the floor. The goons laughed and by the time I had it tucked it safely under my arm, they were strutting down the corridor with their backs to the girl and me.

I took a deep breath and dabbed at the blood trickling down my cheek.

"You're a dumbass," she said.

I shrugged and slipped past her. "And you have a foul mouth. Go home before you get into trouble."

She followed me. "Me get into trouble? I saved your ass! If I hadn't come along they would have beat you into pudding."

"I guess I do owe you some thanks, but you shouldn't have done that. Those guys wouldn't hesitate to hit a kid."

I palmed the lock plate on my door. It slid open and I nearly dropped Felicia as the kid slipped past me into my dark cabin.

"What the f--" I growled then heard Felicia again.

"Don't yell at her, Clarke."

I took a deep breath and paused just inside the door. "Let's have some lights, Calvin."

The cabin computer turned on the lights and I could see her sitting in my only chair, legs dangling as she examined a power regulator module from one of my mining robots.

"You have an AI!"

"Just a smart computer," I said. "I spliced it into the cabin electronics. I do a lot of stuff like that. Now go home."

"My mom says you're crazy."

I glowered at her. "Does she also say that you're rude?"

The girl laughed. "All the time."

"Look, kid, you can't be in here. I could get in a lot of trouble." The door started to close, but I grabbed it and held it open. "Go home."

"Why would you get in trouble?"

"I'm sure your mom has warned you about being alone with strange men."

She reached for a paper book I had laying on the table, then stopped and looked at me with a perplexed expression. "You talk funny. You weren't born on the station?"

"No. I was born on Earth. In Chicago. Now, you really need to leave."

With a slow shake of her head, she crossed her arms and grinned. "You'll have to throw me out and if you do, I'll start screaming that you touched me in the naughty place."

Anger flared and I activated my wrist unit -- ready to call security to come remove her -- then stopped. Had I really just considered calling Security?

"Calvin? Lock the door open and keep a video record until this kid leaves."

"Understood," Calvin said.

The kid shrugged. "My name is Nora, not kid."

I leaned against the wall next to the door and hoped I hadn't already attracted more attention from Security. The girl twisted her mouth into an odd slant as she looked around again. She had a squarish face and the same dark hair with pale skin that seemed to dominate the station's worker population, but her eyes were bright and inquisitive, which made her stand out from most of the drug addled adults.

"So how old are you? And why does your mother let you run around alone?"

"I'm nine. And my mom has to do double shifts until I'm old enough to work in the factory. Food and space for two she always says."

I nodded, but hadn't ever thought about how people managed to raise kids on the station.

"Mom won't let go to the factory yet, but I used to help out when I got paid for scrubbing air ducts. I used to be small enough to crawl inside, but I think they found a smaller kid."

My stomach tightened and I suddenly felt very ignorant about the people surrounding me.

"Would you like a food bar?"

"Sure," she said and her face brightened.

I pulled one from my pants pocket and tossed it to her. She opened it and gobbled it down in three bites.

"It's a good thing that security guy is stupid," she said as she chewed.

I blinked at the sudden change of subject. "Why do you say that?"

"Because Mars will be at its closest point in a few weeks. They'd have plenty of time to kill you and get a replacement from Mars."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Holy crap, kid. You're a real piece of work."

"Stop calling me kid. My name's Nora. By the way, you're a terrible liar. Decompression wouldn't squirt that guy through a small hole. His body would just block it. You'd need a big hole."

"I never said a small hole, but I think he got the point."

She shrugged and looked at me through squinted eyes. "You need to clean up. When's the last time you changed clothes?"

I looked down to see fresh blood droplets added to the food and sweat stains on my dingy island shirt.

"Sorry. Hey, this has been nice...Nora, but it's time for you to go."

She ignored my comment and nodded toward Felicia's canister. "What's in the can that you were ready to kill for?"

My initial reaction was to tell her it was none of her business, but then I decided maybe the truth would shock her into leaving. I stroked the cool black metal canister and then held it up. "This is my wife, Felicia."

The kid blinked then frowned. "Um, right. Is it some kind of computer? Or a game machine?"

"When my wife died, she was cremated and her ashes were sealed in this container."

That got her attention. She had a horrified look on her face and leaned forward on the chair. "Ashes? She wasn't recycled?"

I shook my head. "They...sometimes do things differently on Earth and Mars."

"That's kinda creepy," she said.

I shrugged.

"Then why do you talk to it? That's why my mom thinks you're nuts."

"Nora!"

The yell came from just behind my right ear and made me flinch. Nora's mother rushed into the cabin, grabbed her daughter by the arm and pulled her upright. "What are you doing here?"

"Just talking," Nora said, then grinned at me. "He tried to make me leave, but I was having fun. Did you know that his dead wife is in that can?"

"Oh, Nora," the woman said and ran a hand through limp, messy hair that was dark like her daughter's. She also had the same squarish face, but hers had sharp angles from being much too thin. Her eyes were dull with exhaustion and she seemed on the brink of tears.

"I'm so sorry, Mr...?"

"Clarke Kooper," I said and extended my hand.

She edged past me out the door, dragging the girl with her, and once safely in the hall turned back and glanced at my bloody cheek and wild hair, half of which had come out of my ponytail during the fight. She took my still extended hand. "I'm Wendy and I don't think you're crazy. Nora just...has a rather vivid imagination."

"She's been quite," I struggled for a word that wouldn't sound rude, "entertaining."

"I'm sure she has," Wendy said with a sigh then turned to Nora. "C'mon, you little monster, let's go eat some dinner."

As I watched them go down the hall I thought about inviting them to eat dinner with me, then reconsidered. I didn't need to form any new attachments. I'd either be gone or dead within a few weeks.

#

The next day in my hub-based control center, I kicked off from the interface station and floated to the wall hiding my salvation. I resisted the urge to run my hand along the section where the door would appear. On the other side, exposed to the bitter cold asteroid belt, was a four by three meter external equipment blister I'd quietly and secretly converted into an escape pod.

I moved on to the robot launch tube, cycled it and opened the hatch. Burnt smelling air poofed into the cabin as I pulled out the basketball-sized mining drone called a Mining Operations Manager or MOM. Once I locked it into the fixture on my test bench, I changed its status to inactive then opened the main access cover. I slipped my hand inside and removed the mostly empty nano replicator bladder. The "mostly empty" designation could get me killed if station security found out. Nano device manufacture was strictly controlled and each tiny robot made for a MOM had to be loaded into the MOM. But nothing could count the replicators that left the MOM out on an ice ball, the number of times they reproduced or the number that returned with it. This bladder was still a quarter full.

With a series of coded taps against the MOM's inner shell, I directed the remaining replicators into a hidden conduit that allowed them to flow into the empty spaces in the station's hull structure, where they would hide until I needed them.

A loud beep announced the door opening and when I turned the breath caught in my throat. Bernard Eisenhower drifted into the room. He wore his trademark half smile that never reached his eyes. He could be beating a suspect or chatting up a pretty girl and the smile was always the same. I tried to force myself to relax. He probably wore augmentations that helped him read and record fluctuations in body heat, heart rate and eye movements.

"Hello, Clarke. How goes the dowsing? Your magic water stick still working?"

I smiled and pushed my feet into the cleats at my workbench. "Business is slow. But given time, I'm able to find enough ice to keep us going."

He worked his way around the room, looking into every open device, picking up and examining each scroll screen. He nodded repeatedly to himself.

"My boys told me about your little threat yesterday."

"They should leave me alone. I'm just trying to do my job."

"No, you aren't doing your job, Clarke. Instead, you're playing a dangerous game with Arturo Station's water supply. That makes it a Security issue, which is why I sent my men to talk with you in the first place."

Eisenhower might be a bully and abusive with his power, but he wasn't totally stupid. After my first week on Arturo Station, when I realized the highly addictive productivity enhancement drug called Canker had been put into my food--and that of nearly every worker on board--I started planning how to get out of the situation. That had been nearly a year ago and much of the ice I collected had been stored in secret tanks I'd hidden inside the hull, but the official ice I "found" for the station had dropped at a steady rate ever since. Making management and security think we had a limited supply was my only insurance if my escape plot were ever discovered.

"My predecessor used up all the close ice balls. I have to send my bots further and further out. It takes time. Maybe management should move the station to richer hunting grounds or better yet, tighten up their water reclamation system."

"Bullshit, Clarke. There's ice out there close. Our scanners see it."

"In small amounts. It would take twice as long if I tried to mine every little grapefruit sized nugget out there."

Eisenhower glared at me. "Your replacement is on the way. I'm sure he'll have better luck."

I snorted and shrugged.

"You don't believe that?"

"Hell no. If my replacement were on the way you wouldn't be wasting your time talking to me. My corpsicle would already be tumbling out toward Jupiter."

His smile almost broadened and he started toward the hatch. "Don't push it, Clarke. We have backups you don't know about and we will send you spinning to Jupiter if that ice tonnage doesn't come up a lot and very quickly."

#

I exited at my level and Nora was waiting again, this time just outside the lift. Her face lit up and she started chattering.

"You're really from Earth?"

"Yep."

"I was born here," she said. "Momma too. She was in the first generation born on the station."

"So she's never been off of Arturo?"

Nora shook her head as we approached my door. "No. Momma said they'll never let us leave."

Many of the workers would be afraid to leave. Canker was an ugly thing. It was named for the sores that formed around a user's mouth during the long and nasty withdrawal period. It left scars on most and even killed some. Arturo Station was just one of dozens that operated outside the Earth and Mars protective zones, so unless those governments had overwhelming evidence these atrocities were going on--something that would get a lot of press attention--then they would ignore the rumors. They had too many of their own problems to go looking for more.

Nora and her mother would likely spend their entire lives as slaves in this illicit bioware factory.

"So why aren't you in school?" I said as I opened my door.

She shrugged. "I've learned everything they have to teach me."

I snorted. "Sure you have. So you're an expert on Mars history, European literature and calculus?"

"They don't teach us that stuff. But I know how to clean bio-vats and assemble crystal matrices."

I just stared at her as she slipped past me and into my cabin. She looked around, then turned back to me.

"I'll clean your cabin for five credits!"

"Huh?"

"Or I can mend clothes? Anything like that. I need to earn some money. Seth has been coming a lot more since I lost my duct cleaning job. I hate Seth."

I scratched my beard. "Sure."

I locked the door open again and started giving her instructions on what to clean. She worked fast, folding clothes, shelving books, separating my trash into the proper recycling bags.

I hated this station and its criminal overlords since I first realized I'd been tricked, but had always kind of blamed myself for my own stupidity in coming. That wasn't the case for these people. They had no choice. They were born on the station and probably didn't even exist in any citizen records outside this place, but were still made to pay for food and a sleeping berth. It wasn't mean or even greedy, it was evil.

"Well?" she said. "What now?"

"That's enough cleaning for now. Calvin? Please transfer fifty credits to Nora's account."

Her eyes widened a bit and she shook her head. "That amount of work wasn't even worth five."

"It was to me."

She bit her lip and stared at me for a second, before darting down the hall.

#

"This is fantastic," Nora said in a whisper.

I could barely see her mouth below the interface goggles, but it was stretched into a wide smile. I glanced down at the scroll screen echoing what she saw. The MOM's work lights swept along one of Arturo Station's four rotation rings, revealing a complex field of conduits, access hatches, antennae and stenciled identification labels.

"Could you really find that jerk's cabin from the outside?" she said, as she tapped and spun the thumb controls on the tele-operation yoke like an expert.

"If I knew his cabin address," I said, then briefly took the controls to zoom the MOM's camera down to read some of the hull identifier text. It read R1S4-43. "These station habitat rings are assembled from hundreds of identical wedge shaped sections. One for each cabin. So it's just easier to keep the construction identification tags as a cabin address."

"Cool!" she said and took the controls yoke away from me again. "How did you use that camera zoom?"

I showed her and suddenly the view slaved to my scroll screen started zooming all over the station.

"I bet you spy on people all the time!"

"I do not," I said and took the yoke from her again. "And I think this lesson is over."

"Noooo!"

"We can do it again later."

I helped her remove the interface goggles. Her hair floated nearly straight up and she wore a wicked grin.

"You have a great job."

"You didn't think so until I let you drive a robot."

Nora's mother refused to let her come with me until I told her After nearly an hour of Nora's begging, her mother finally allowed her to accompany me to my hub control center for the day instead of staying in her cabin alone. I thought she might like to watch me launch and retrieve some robots. She'd been fascinated for a while by the video feeds coming back from some of the MOMs as they shepherded their flock of nano-disassemblers through the process of stripping the rock and minerals away, leaving the remaining ice in strange, twisted, lacy sculptures that were returned to the station by the MOM.

But she eventually got bored with the video feed, and started playing in the micro gravity. My control center was really too small of a space for her to be flailing and bumping around, so I had to do something.

"I like having you for a friend," she said and then glanced away as if embarrassed that she said it aloud.

"I like you too," I said and then felt suddenly and horribly guilty again. My makeshift escape pod was finished. Using nothing but nano-scale robots, I'd bypassed critical systems without sounding alarms and had slowly separated the equipment blister from the station hub. The little ship contained a minimalist acceleration sling and enough air and water for the two-week trip to Mars.

So why did I feel so damned guilty? She wasn't my kid, but when my hands started shaking I knew I couldn't leave her here. I started rearranging the computer model of my escape pod, adding a second acceleration sling, trying to find places to attach more tanks. I'd need near twice as much water and air. I'd also need more fuel to get that extra mass to Mars. Food? Should I take more food or let her suffer the same excruciating withdrawal I would?

Felicia's voice echoed in my head, telling me no, that I couldn't take Nora. I looked up at her canister locked in its special mount, but ignored her and kept working.

"What are you doing now?" Nora said from right beside me.

I flinched and closed the scroll screen. "Just some work."

She reached out and touched Felicia's canister. "What was she like?"

I tensed up. I hadn't talked to anyone about Felicia since her death and sure never expected to start with a nine year old kid, but as I stared at Nora's open and curious face, I realized I actually did want to talk about her.

"She was very brave and smart. She laughed a lot and loved jokes. And singing. I think she would have liked you."

"You loved her a lot?"

I nodded, the lump in my throat preventing me from saying more.

"And you still talk to her?"

"Yeah," I croaked.

Then she looked at me and squinted. "Does she ever talk back?"

"Sort of," I said. "I can still hear her in my mind sometimes."

"How did she die?"

I swallowed hard. I'd never had to say the truth out loud, in my own words. The helmet cam video of the incident had told the story back on Phobos, so the was never an investigation. I was reprimanded and reassigned, but never once had to talk about it.

My stomach clenched tight and my pulse raced. I'd always hated the cold vacuum, but after Felicia's death, I went to great extremes to avoid it. Herding robots from a warm, safe workstation had been as close to cold space as I intended to get. Until I formed my escape plan.

I blinked at Nora and took a deep breath.

"We lived on Phobos station. We were both surface equipment technicians. One day while we were outside I started goofing around. I jumped up on a big rock that gave way and rolled out from under me. I knew better. I knew to not step on boulders and still... Anyway, the big rock rolled down a slope and on top of Felicia. The gravity was low, but the rock had mass and momentum. It tore her suit and pinned her down. By the time I got the rock off of her and fixed her suit, it was too late."

She touched the canister again.

"It was an accident," she whispered. "But that didn't stop you from feeling it was your fault?"

I nodded. How could a freaking nine-year-old kid understand those kinds of feelings?

Felicia was right. I couldn't take Nora with me. It would be wrong to separate her from her mother, even for her own good. And of course I'd be instantly arrested at Mars for being a child abductor. I'd have to find a way to take them both.

"I think my mom would like you," she said with an impish grin. "I asked her to invite you to our cabin for dinner, but she said that probably wasn't a good idea. It might make Seth mad."

"Is he your dad?"

"I think so, but my mom won't admit it. He spends the night with mom sometimes and she says I have to be nice to him since he's her boss."

I swallowed and felt the panic rising in me again. I had to do something.

When her shift ended, Wendy came to collect Nora.

She hesitated, looking uncomfortable at first, then her gaze hardened. "You sent two payments of fifty credits each to Nora's account. She cleaned for you?"

"Yeah, my cabin and then she cleaned up in here," I said and motioned around my still cluttered work bay.

Nora looked momentarily surprised, then immediately hid it.

"If she wants to come back, I can teach her how to scrub down the robots. They have to be cleaned after every trip out and I hate doing it."

Wendy stared at me, as if trying to read my mind, read my true motivations for being with her daughter.

"There are video recordings of each time she's come to see me. I'll give you access to them."

Then her hard expression collapsed and she looked twice as tired as before. "Sorry, I just..."

"No need."

After they left I floated in the middle of my suddenly very quiet and lonely work bay. I had made no friends and had no lovers since arriving on Arturo Station. It had made my planning easy. But not now.

I pulled Felicia's canister from its mount and held it to my chest.

"I wasn't really brave," she said. "That was just an act to impress you."

"Shut up. You're the most amazing person I know."

"Knew," she said.

I shrugged. "I miss you."

She didn't answer and I floated around the bay for a long time, holding her and remembering. Finally I bumped against the wall that hid my escape pod and new I had to do something. There are the mistakes of our actions, like my stupidity that killed Felicia, but also mistakes of our inactions.

"How can I do this?" I whispered to the can.

"You already know," she said. "You've already decided."

She was right, as always, and the answer was quite simple.

But the execution would be a cast iron bitch.

#

I'd done it again. The gradual increase in gravity from nothing to Earth normal felt as if it would crush me and I could barely stay on my feet. I'd worked more than twenty hours getting everything ready and had almost finished, but with just a few small tasks left, I had to stop and sleep. Even with help from Canker, if I continued on this path I would forget something critical and it would all be wasted.

When the lift door opened I was nearly knocked down by a scowling man who actually growled at me before the door closed. I staggered down the corridor to my cabin, glad for once that it was late in the evening shift and Nora hadn't been there to greet me. Before I could even cross the room to my bed, I heard a pounding on the door and the cabin computer announced Nora.

"Damn." I couldn't. Not now. I ignored her and lay down, but the pounding was insistent and the computer eventually informed me that she claimed it was an emergency.

I opened the door and my fatigue instantly vanished. Tears streaked Nora's face and her hands were covered with dried blood. She grabbed my arm and dragged me down the hall.

"You have to help my mom! Seth beat her up. She's hurt bad."

I ran the last few steps to the still open door.

Her mother lay curled into a fetal ball on the bed. Wet bloody towels lay on the floor beside her, but they hadn't stopped any of the bleeding. Her face was still a bloody mess.

I knelt next to her. Fury and frustration pushed me to the edge of yelling, but I made my voice soft. "Wendy? This is Clarke. Can you hear me?"

She groaned and said something I couldn't make out.

"Before you came, she said her stomach hurts and she can't breathe."

My fury turned to fear as I realized that probably meant internal injuries. "Did you call Security?"

"Twice. The first time while he was still hitting her. They still haven't come."

Security officers were supposed to respond immediately to all injuries and provide transport if needed. Bastards were probably trying to protect Seth since he was a manager.

"We're going to have to take her to the Medical Unit ourselves," I said. "But we'll need some help. Stay with her and I'll be right back."

A minute later, with Nora's help, we slid Wendy and her mattress onto the collapsible equipment dolly I had grabbed from my cabin. It wasn't a good fit, but by positioning Wendy's weight over the wheels and letting half of the mattress drag behind, we managed to roll her through the mostly abandoned corridors, halfway around the ring to the Medical Unit.

#

The soft, yet insistent chiming from my wrist unit eventually made me open my eyes. At first confused by my surroundings, I then spotted Nora standing next to her mother's regrowth tank and it all came back in a rush. If my alarm was sounding, it meant I had an hour before my automated units went active and I wasn't ready yet.

I stepped up beside Nora and looked down at her mom. Wendy floated in a tank filled with blue tinted gel. A tube came from her mouth and tiny blinking monitoring units were attached to her in various locations. She was awake and, even though buried in medical artifacts, already looked much better.

"How is she?"

"The medtechs say she'll be okay, but she'll have to stay here in the tank for a few days."

The letters "TNK YU" appeared on a screen attached to the tank, and I realized Wendy had a small keypad attached to one hand.

I smiled, wishing I could say something cheerful and positive, but the Security officer who came to get statements from Nora and Wendy after we arrived just said they would "talk to" Seth. He was a manager. He was effectively immune to punishment. Of course, if my plan worked, things would get better soon enough, but I had to get to my hub workstation and prepare.

"I'm going to have to go," I said. "I have something important to take care of, but I'll be back later."

I wasn't sure if that last statement was true or not, but I would try.

"PPLS TAK CAR OF NORA."

I stared at the message, wondering how to answer. I couldn't take her. If my crazy attempt at seizing control of the station didn't work, then I'd be in a lot of trouble. I didn't want Nora with me if that happened. I'd assumed Nora would want to stay with her mom.

"Nora, would you rather stay here or come with me?"

She looked at me and screwed up her face. I could tell she didn't know what to do and was on the verge of tears.

"GO," appeared on the screen. "I NED SLEEEP. PLS TAK HER."

I swallowed and nodded. "Okay, kiddo. Let's go. We have a lot to do in the next hour."

#

Everything was ready, with five minutes left on the clock. I looked up from my screen and saw Nora floating in the corner of my little workshop, quietly spinning a screwdriver in the air before her face. Her expression held not even a flicker of hope.

"Be careful with that screwdriver," I said.

"I'd punch it through Seth's head if I could," she said with enough venom that it made me wince. "I hate him!"

"Things are going to get better," I said.

She glanced at me, then away. "I don't see how. He'll keep beating my mom and Security won't stop him."

"Look at me."

She looked up, a little startled at my tone. I wanted to tell her what was about to happen, but didn't dare risk saying anything that could tip off Eisenhower's watchers.

"This is a dangerous room. If anything unexpected happens, you have to do exactly as I say. Do you understand?"

Her eyes locked on mine and squinted slightly. She knew there was something unusual in my statement.

"Um...okay," she said.

I nodded slowly, then picked up Felicia's canister and held it tight as I watched the screen.

While building my escape pod, I'd already learned how to find and bypass control systems without alerting Security, but that had been on a very small scale and in a localized area. So I spent the majority of the previous day interrogating Arturo Station's control and security systems. They had not only the standard triple redundant hard-wired arrangement, but also a fourth and fifth version running along the outside skin in armored cable troughs.

Using my unique method of programming that involved combinations of verbal code words, eye movements, keyboard entries and finger taps, I instructed my robotic accomplices to build fifteen wireless bypasses, inside and outside the hull. Then, when I seized control, my nano-robots would proceed to destroy the original lines. They would send their robots and technicians out to find the problem, but find only empty troughs.

When the timer hit zero, our world changed with a simple message.

EMERGENCY CONTROL CENTER ESTABLISHED.

A virtual control panel appeared on the screen and I started selecting options. The first thing I did was call up a crew status screen. In typical Eisenhower style, it showed the location of every person on the station. I applied a filter to just see managers, security officers, and control room employees. Once I had a good feel for their locations, I sent the emergency de-spin command.

"EMERGENCY DE-SPIN WILL COMMENCE IN TEN MINUTES. THE STATION WILL THEN BE IN A ZERO GRAVITY SITUATION. PLEASE FIND A SECURE LOCATION."

"Holy crap! What're you doing?" Nora said.

"Buckle in, kid," I said.

"Nora!" she said as she pulled her way along the wall and started to slip her arms into straps.

"Not there. On that wall over there," I said and pointed to the aft wall.

She did as told, then said, "This must be the unexpected situation you expected."

I smiled and nodded, but kept my gaze on the personnel screen. As I hoped, all of the control employees and managers were racing for their duty stations or secure cabins in Ring Four. Security however was a different matter. They were scattered around the station and seemed to be running in circles. Two were still in Ring One. I cursed under my breath.

"What the hell are you doing?" she whispered.

"Stop cursing," I said.

"Fine. But what are you doing?"

"I'm stealing the station. I'm going to fly it to Mars orbit."

She said nothing and when I looked up, she was staring at me with her mouth hanging open.

"How? I mean your robots are cool, but they can't push this huge station!"

"Sure they can. It would just take a long time to build up speed. But there's no need. How do you think they got the station out here? The fusion reactor that gives us electricity can also power the engine they use to move the station. Luckily, we enough fuel to accelerate up to speed and slow us down at Mars."

"Wow," she whispered. "But what about security? Even if you control the station, they'll come get you."

"I have plan for that too," I said as the warning sounded the two minute mark. Except for five security officers, all the station's key personnel, a total of ninety-seven, had scurried to Ring Four as I hoped.

The klaxon sounded and green lights appeared all over my screen's station diagram, indicating each section and ring had been sealed off. When the last hatch lock engaged, the station's hull shuddered and groaned.

"Nothing's happening!" Nora squealed.

"Sure it is. The station takes about ten minutes to stop spinning."

"But..." she stopped and looked around the workshop. Some stuff along the walls shifted around, but there was little change in the hub. "Oh right. We were already in zero gravity."

"Micro gravity."

"Wait! What about my mom? Will she be okay?"

"She's suspended in a tank of gel. She'll be even safer than we are."

When the control status showed we had come to a complete halt, I engaged the drive at ten percent thrust. The station creaked and moaned again, this time anything not locked down started sliding aft. Felicia's canister rolled toward the edge of my bench, but I grabbed it in mid-air as it launched.

"I wonder what you would have thought of this," I muttered, but she didn't answer.

Just before I touched the icon to disengage Ring Four, the screen turned to static.

"Damn it!" I said and slapped the bench.

"Don't curse," Nora said, with a smug voice. I nearly yelled at her to shut up, but instead clenched my teeth. She had earlier hit on my plan's biggest weakness. The station was essentially four equally-sized rings attached to a tubular central core. Since the only way to travel between rings, was to take elevators up the spokes to the core, sealing each ring in time of emergency was quite easy. But given enough time, Eisenhower and his goons would get out of their locked sections and come after me. To prevent that, I had planned to disconnect Ring Four from the rest of the station and leave it behind for the authorities to come and collect after we'd told our story on Mars. That now looked doubtful. I wondered briefly how I would hold up under torture.

"What happened?" Nora asked.

One glance at her and I realized they wouldn't need torture. They could make me do anything if they could get to Nora.

"I think they're jamming my wireless communications. I'm crippled without it."

"Damn," she muttered. I glared at her for a second, then grabbed a MOM unit from the rack and powered it up. Using her directional antenna I confirmed my suspicion. The signal was strong from the aft direction, where Ring Four was located.

I closed my eyes and cradled the MOM in my lap for a few minutes. How had Eisenhower figured it out so fast? Felicia's voice answered the question.

"It doesn't matter. You know what you have to do now."

I took a deep breath and pulled along the wall to the emergency locker, where I yanked out two balloon suits.

"Put this on. It's an adult small, but may still be big on you, so cinch it up around the waist, wrists and neck. Just not tight enough to cut off the blood flow."

She took the clear plastic compressed suit. "I know how. We have emergency drills, remember?"

I struggled into mine as the dread continued to build. First the rapid breathing, then the shakes and vomit rising in my throat. I hadn't been in any kind of pressure suit or vacuum since Felicia's death. I didn't want to do this.

I started to explain the entire situation to Nora, then stopped. I didn't think Security could still hear me since I'd seized the control system, but I wasn't sure. I grabbed a piece of paper and quickly wrote it down.

I have a secret space pod attached to the other side of the outer wall. I have my nanobots programmed to automatically open and then close a hole in the hull to let me get to the pod. Just in case they are slow and some air leaks out, your suit will inflate automatically and protect you until you can get out through the hatch.

I handed the sheet of paper to her and and waited for her to read it.

"Understand?" I asked.

"You're leaving? No!"

"I have to. I'll be right back."

"Send a robot!"

"No radio communications. I have to keep my hands on the MOM to talk to it."

Her lip quivered, but she didn't cry.

I snatched Felicia from the bench and handed her to Nora. "Can you take care of her while I'm gone?"

She nodded, then sealed the suit's breathing mask over her face.

I sealed my suit, grabbed my tool harness and tucked a MOM under my arm, then using the tip of the screwdriver Nora had been playing with to tap a series of commands on the wall. A section of the wall started to fade, then turned into a hole that continued to grow until I could step through and into my pod. I then tapped the command to close the hatch and the hole.

I switched on the air circulation and heaters, then tapped the separation command against the wall. Within seconds, the pod floated free and I turned it toward the aft part of the station. There were only two antennas positioned on Ring Four that could beam directly at my small comm array, so I moved the pod to a point between them and instructed it to maintain position relative to the moving station.

Then came the part that terrified me. With shaking hands I attached my tether to an interior bracket, then opened the pod's little hatch and held on as the atmosphere vented. The suit inflated, but I immediately felt cold. The balloon suit heaters weren't meant for EVA or any kind of extended vacuum exposure, they were designed to give people a chance to survive a hull breach long enough to escape to a pressurized area. I had to work fast.

I gripped the MOM's carrying handle in one hand and pulled through the hatch with the other. I hadn't been in hard vacuum for many years and was immediately swept by gut wrenching vertigo. The only lights on the station exterior were flashing navigation strobes and a few floods that illuminated airlocks and important maintenance panels. Since there were few soft shadows this deep in space, the starkly lit edges contrasted with total blackness and made depth perception difficult. After a few seconds my mind sorted through the individual islands of light and I was able to get my bearings. By tapping on the MOM's case with the screwdriver, I activated her flood lights and turned them toward Ring Four's hull.

I was shivering and my teeth were chattering by the time I located the first antenna. It looked much further away than I'd thought it would be, but I had little time and had to try. My shaking hands made tapped commands to the MOM very difficult, but after the third try, a tiny aiming screen flipped open on the MOM's side and I targeted the antenna, then triggered the heavy mining laser.

At first nothing appeared to happen. I could see the beam diagramed on the tiny screen, but only occasional sparkles along its actual path as it vaporized some of the dust that orbited the station. Then parts of the antenna started to glow orange and the dish slumped backward against the station's forward momentum.

Tiny warning lights flashed along the upper edge of my breathing mask, informing me I had only twenty minutes of compressed air left and my temperature was dropping to dangerous levels. I didn't need warnings to tell me that. I could barely feel my fingers and my shaking hands were almost useless. I found it hard to think straight. I knew I probably couldn't control my instruction taps well enough to turn the laser off and back on again, so I swung it upward away from the station and then turned toward the other antenna.

I couldn't see the antenna. In order to use the MOM's flood lights, I'd have to turn off the laser or risk blowing a hole in the hull. As I tried to tap the off command for a third time, sound crackled through my ear piece. The MOM was sending me a message telling me she would overheat if she didn't stop the laser.

"I'm trying damn it!" I said through chattering teeth. Then I realized she had contacted me via radio.

"Turn off laser, MOM."

"Laser off."

"I need you to acc...ess the EMERGENCY CONTROL CENTER screen back in the wor...kshop."

"Contact established."

"Ini...tiate the Ring Four sep...aration pro...proto..col."

"Initiated."

Without a sound, huge mechanical locks swung away from the ring struts. Clouds of chipped paint and ice crystals puffed into space and the ring separated into two C-shaped halves, each carrying three struts. Since the rest of Arturo was still under thrust, the two halves tumbled away slowly and fell behind. In the distance, near one the Ring Four sections, I saw a wheeling, roughly star-shaped figure that resembled a human body. Then it passed out of the light and was gone. Could I have breached the hull? It didn't matter now. If I had it was too late and I was a murderer.

I could no longer feel my hands or feet, but using tiny puffs from the MOM's attitude thrusters and hooking my arms and wrists around the hatch frame I pulled myself back into the pod. Using the MOM as an interface, I verbally commanded it to close the pod's hatch, pressurize the cabin and turn the heat on high.

#

I felt no elation as I left the pod and floated back into my little hub workshop, only exhaustion and a niggling worry about what could only have been a floating body. My hands and feet felt as if they were on fire, but I knew from my winters in Chicago that feeling the pain was a good sign.

I instructed the nanobots to seal the hull again and turned to Nora. She sat in the control seat with my interface goggles covering the upper half of her head. I immediately realized that her bubble suit hood was pulled down around her neck, but before I could yell at her I also saw that her quivering mouth and chin were covered with tears.

"Nora?"

She didn't answer.

I pulled myself over to the control station and looked at the scroll screen attached to the workspace next to her. It showed the same employee location diagram I had used to watch the Ring Four occupants scurry back to their cabins, only now it was separated into two large C-shaped sections. One of the cabin wedges was flashing red with a decompression tag. Blinking employee ID markers filled the corridor outside the ruptured cabin. So perhaps I really had killed someone.

Nora flinched when I gently pulled the goggles from her head. Tiny tear beads left a glittering trail between the goggles and her face, then started falling aft. She slapped them aside and ran wet hands through her rumpled hair.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Nora. I'm not sure what happened. Nobody should have died. I don't know--I just..."

She cocked her head at me and squinted tear clogged lashes together. "You didn't kill anyone. I did."

I blinked at her, totally confused.

She pointed at the employee location diagram. "You left that open. I saw where Seth's cabin was and I remembered what you told that guy about burning a hole in his wall."

A cold chill crept down my back.

"And you'd already showed me how to control the MOMs."

I couldn't speak, but I grabbed her and pulled her into a tight hug. She broke down into great gulping sobs muffled against my chest. Then she spoke. In long unbroken strings.

"I saw it all! Through the camera. I'm not sorry he's dead, but... I didn't know you were going to leave them behind. Will I go to jail? He just clawed at...at nothing. I thought he'd die instantly, but..."

"Shhhh...It's all over."

"Will I go to jail?"

"No...I don't know. I don't think so. You were trying to protect your mother."

She cried again. I stroked her hair and there was nothing I could say that would make it better, but I might still be able to protect her. I'd gone to this much trouble to get Nora fee, I wasn't about to let her be incarcerated by the Martian state if I could help it.

Since the MOM systems are under my control, if I admitted to ordering the attack on Seth, the Martian investigators would probably not see any need to dig further. I decided to send the authorities a message admitting that I had stolen the station and killed Seth. Perhaps, under the circumstances they would be lenient.

After a couple of minutes, I sat Nora back in the control seat and looked at the EMERGENCY CONTROL CENTER screen. Just over an hour had passed since I sent the de-spin command. I ordered the station to slowly spin up again, increased the thrust to 60% and triggered the automatic course corrections that would send us to Mars.

#

After the station's remaining three rings were once again spinning and providing Earth normal gravity, we entered the elevator for Ring One so that we could go see Nora's mother in the Medical Unit.

When the lift doors closed, Nora looked up and me and said, "I can't stop thinking about what I did."

"I know," I said and knelt down next to her. "Look, what you did is wrong and that will never change, but it's over. You can get past this and live your life. I didn't think I could go on after Felicia died, but I did. Does that make sense?"

She shook her head slowly. "It's not the same thing."

"No. It's not the same," I said and then stood up. I couldn't look her in the eye for my next statement. "When we get to Mars, it will be kind of crazy, but I need you to do something for me. I don't want you to lie to anyone, but I also don't want you to tell about Seth unless you're asked."

Her eyes squinted at me, immediately suspicious. "Why?"

Before I could answer, the door opened and a burner gun was thrust into my face, with Meathead attached to the other end.

"My last orders from Lieutenant Eisenhower were to arrest your sorry ass and that's what I'm going to do."

I sighed and gently pushed Nora behind me.

"No, you're not," I said, trying to sound calm and reasonable, "and I'll tell you why. We're on our way to Mars. It's all automated at this point and the controls are locked down. Nothing you do to me will change that. I've also already started broadcasting messages to the press about what has happened here, how we were all enslaved, but finally managed to take over the station and come seeking freedom and justice from the Martian people."

Meathead blinked and glanced at his equally confused partner. Most of that had been a lie. I wasn't really broadcasting to Mars yet, but still had the better part of two weeks to start that up.

"So? You're still under arrest."

"You don't want to be jailed for murdering me as soon as we get to Mars space do you?"

"No one said anything about killing you," he muttered and lowered the gun.

"Good. If you don't beat anyone up during the next two weeks, we might actually be able to pass you two off as heroes who helped save all these poor people. Wouldn't you like to be a hero?"

Meathead chewed on his lip and glanced at his partner who just shrugged.

"It's not like he can go anywhere," Nora said. "You'll know where to find him if you decide you need to beat him up later."

"Gee, thanks," I muttered.

Meathead holstered his gun. "There will be a trial, you know."

"Yeah, but wouldn't it be better for the press to think you're a hero instead of bully?"

"Girls love heroes," Nora said.

That made him smile, then he produced a stern face again. "Why should we trust you? What would stop you from making us out the bad guys when the trial comes?"

"I just want to get this station to Mars. I don't really care what happens to you two after that. Besides, you know that with my robots I could have killed you any time I wanted and yet you're still here."

He thought about that for a second, then shrugged. "C'mon Ramon. Let's go get some grub."

Nora and I started down the corridor in the other direction, toward the Medical Unit.

"You did good, Clarke," Felicia said and I stopped in the middle of the hall. I had forgotten Felicia's canister in my workshop. It was the first time since her death that I'd gone farther than the bathroom without her.

I wasn't really crazy, not totally. I knew that Felicia's voice was all in my head, but part of me had always believed that voice would go away if I didn't keep what was left of her near me. Now I knew that wasn't true.

"What's wrong?" Nora said.

I took a deep breath, shook my head and continued walking. "Nothing important. Let's go see your mom."

END

Magic and Other Honest Lies

by Robert Buettner

Tamara Welder visored her right hand above her eyes and stared skyward at the star cruiser. Drifting down as silent as a pearlescent feather, the great ship cast a shadow broader and darker than a storm cloud’s. Around her churned casino chauffeurs, free-lance escorts, and purveyors of the other diversions that earned Foundationally Earthlike 117 its common name, “Funhouse.”

Tam’s job wasn’t normally guest pickup, but the Earthman she was picking up was no normal guest.

She slid a two-Titan coin from her pocket, rolled it across the backs of her left hand’s fingers, thumbed the brass disk under her palm, repeated, then shifted it to her right.

The finger rolls calmed her, but also maintained the nimble fingers that now made her living, as Pop had always believed they would.

Not that Tam believed everything Pop had believed. Pop had believed in what he called honest lies, and he was dead. Tam believed that, except for magic, lies were lies, and she was still alive.

Clang.

The hovering cruiser’s gangway telescoped out from the vast hull, rang against the arrival plaza’s flagstones, then rumbled as a tide of disembarking vacationers flooded down it.

Tam whispered her guest’s name onto her handheld, then held its screen high, so the three-inch tall red letters would lead the Earthman to her.

She was predisposed to mistrust Dr. Trevor Jamieson because she mistrusted everyone who wasn’t Pop. Also, Merlin told her Jamieson was a Trueborn Earthman, and like most outworlders Tam believed that it was easier to take a Trueborn’s money than it was to take a Trueborn.

But mostly Tam mistrusted Jamieson because he was from the government and he was here to help her. In her lifetime, Tam had suffered the lie in that crummy joke often, enjoyed its truth never, and couldn’t afford to misplace her trust again.

The man with watery blue eyes waved a hand at her as the crowd buffeted his spindly body. Predictably, he wore neat casuals. Less predictably, he carried himself with round-shouldered diffidence, rather than the upright openness that Trueborns called self-assurance—and Outworlders called arrogance.

He extended his hand to her, smiled. “Trevor Jamieson.”

She nodded, furled her handheld, then shook the proffered hand like it was attached to a corpse, not to a cop who had a Ph.D in Gaming Theory. “I’m Tam Welder.”

Jamieson’s eyes widened. “Tamara Welder? You came to meet me yourself?”

She pointed to her left. “Dr. Jamieson, baggage claim is this way.”

The Earthman held up a faded knapsack. A fresh upshuttle carryon tag still dangled from one shoulder strap. “This is all there is.” The Trueborn smiled again. “And call me Trevor. Please.”

Jamieson raised his eyebrows when he saw the Merlin’s House of Cards electrobus. Sagging on worn springs, it squatted diagonally where Tam had parked it, blocking both VIP pick up lanes.

A gray haired casino chauffeur, leaning against the fender of the limo that the bus blocked in, shook his finger at Tam. “Next time I’ll turn you in to the Port Authority, Tam.”

She wagged a finger back at the old man. “Don’t. Or next time I’ll turn you into a toad, Leo.”

He dismissed her threat with a wave. “Everybody knows magic’s a lie.”

Tam called back, “Exactly! That’s what makes it an honest lie.”

The chauffeur sighed. “Just move that heap.” As he turned away, the old man scolded over his shoulder. “You got a serious problem with authority, young lady!”

Three minutes later, Tam felt the clunk as the Parkway’s autolane took over driving. She sat back and looked out the window, away from the Earthman in the front passenger seat alongside her.

Jamieson said, “He seemed angry. I assume he would turn you in next time.”

Tam shook her head. “Doubtful. I got Leo that job. Trueborns assume too much.”

“But you assumed a Trueborn would have so many bags that you brought a bus.”

“No. You need a VIP Lane permit to park close so I brought a bus. Plus, I refuse to buy new tags for my car.”

“Ah.” Jamieson nodded. “So you don’t have a problem with Trueborns. You just have a problem with authority?”

Tam shrugged. “If authority has a problem with me.”

Jamieson pursed his lips. “I assume you know why I’m here?”

Tam gripped the wheel, breathed deep. Because authority had a problem with her? “To ask me questions. Because I followed the rules and reported an incident to the Gaming Authority.”

Jamieson nodded.

Tam said, “Merlin said there won’t be trouble with my dealer’s license if I’m forthcoming.”

Jamieson smiled. “I expect your Merlin’s right. So, tell me how you remember the incident.”

“Incidents. It’s happened three times now, since the first one. Last month I was dealing during my show and I felt—” Tam spun a hand at her temple, “—a ping. But not a ping.”

Jamieson cocked an eyebrow. “A ping?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what you call it at a university, Doctor. In the real world we call it a ping when a card cheat sneaks a physiologic sensor into a casino to read the dealers’ tics. To get a betting edge. Dealers are trained to feel it.”

“I assume pinging is common on Funhouse?”

Tam wrinkled her forehead. “It’s nonexistent on Funhouse. And every other gaming jurisdiction. Pinging’s obsolete. Because you can’t ping a ‘bot, all the casinos’ table games are dealt by ‘bots.”

“You’re not a ‘bot.”

“Sharp, you Trueborns.” Tam shook her head. “Dealing limited stakes games incident to card manipulation and table magic is defined as entertainment, not gaming. You still need a dealer’s license, though. There’s maybe four of us card pushers working the smaller casinos, and a couple lounges around Funhouse.”

“Ah. But the important thing is -”

“Whoa!” Tam and Jamieson pitched forward as the bus hard-braked itself.

A hundred yards ahead three fawn-colored, droop-snooted quadrupeds, each standing over twenty feet tall at the shoulder, had lumbered out of the orange and violet forest beside the road. The ‘pods hopped the parkway’s border fence, crossed the traffic lanes and resumed grazing the trees in the parkway’s median.

Jamieson whistled. “First live titanopods I’ve seen. Surprisingly agile.”

The bus sped itself up.

Tam shrugged. “The ‘pods always surprise first timers. But the government says they’re road hazards.”

Jamieson pointed at the Casino Grand Luxoriana, a pair of alabaster eighty-story crescents that rose like ship sails above the multihued forest, and wrinkled his brow. “Human presence on most outworlds affects less than one percent of the planet. Most indigenous species just learn to avoid us.”

“‘Pods may be agile. But fast learners?” Tam shook her head. “No.”

A two-place, open animal control skimmer popped up above the treetops and streaked for the three ‘pods. The right-seat warden leaned out and darted the biggest. It wobbled and crashed into the underbrush as the smaller two sprang back into the forest from which they had come.

Tam sighed. “They’ll haul that one off to one of the tracks and race it to death. Isn’t that crap?”

Jamieson cocked an eyebrow. “You disapprove of pari-mutuel wildlife contests? But you make your living here. Without them Funhouse would be just another subtropical Earthlike.”

“You ever actually see full-contact titanopod racing, Jamieson? They strap spiked armor skirts around the ‘pods, hop ‘em up on speed, and they gore each other the whole way round the track while the jockeys beat the hell out of one another.”

The Luxoriana disappeared behind them.

Tam said, “By the sixth race, blood turns the finishing straight into red mud. Life expectancy is six months for the ‘pods, three for jockeys. I feel sorrier for the ‘pods.”

“Oh?”

“The animals aren’t intelligent enough to know it, but they don’t even have a choice. The jocks are intelligent, so at least they have that.”

Jamieson said, “I suppose the worst of all worlds would be to have the intelligence but not have the choice.”

Tam looked away, nodded. “Trueborns would be surprised how often that happens on the outworlds.”

“Some Trueborns might not be. Surprise works both ways.”

Then the Earthman was again peering out at the next landmark.

Tam said, “That monstrosity over there’s the Funhouse Sporting Club. The amphitheater in the middle’s the Coliseum. They import the biggest offworld species to fight the biggest local ones. Makes ‘pod races look like gerbil wrestling.”

“With bigger bets?”

“Most profitable gaming enterprise in the Human Union, twelve years running.” It was a question she thought a gambling expert wouldn’t need to ask.

Jamieson eyed a road sign as the bus continued up resort row on Lucky U Parkway. “These are the most exclusive resorts in the Human Union. But the name of the main road sounds like it belongs on a row of cheap motels.”

Tam shrugged. “The Gaming Authority names the roads. So the names ‘evoke and promote gaming.’ Even if they sound like crap.”

The conversation between Tam and her visitor had fizzled into trivia, but Tam’s anxiety about this Trueborn’s mission hadn’t shrunk a micron.

She asked Jamieson, “Why would a crummy table game fix report bring an expert like you all the way out here from Earth?”

Jamieson’s smile flickered, but only for a heartbeat. “Actually, it didn’t. Bring me from Earth, that is. I had just come in to the Mousetrap aboard the Valley Forge, headed home. Then word of your report caught up with me. Iwo Jima was outbound for Funhouse fifty minutes later. You know I had to sprint for that connection!”

Hair stood on Tam’s neck. “I do?”

“Your dealer’s license says you were born and raised in the Mousetrap.”

Crap. Jamieson’s doctorate and smile notwithstanding, he was, after all, a kind of Trueborn cop. And cleverer than he looked. He had managed to not answer her question to him, but flipped it into a question that let him test her.

Tam shallowed her breathing, kept her eyes on the road, “Oh.” She smiled. “Yep. Third generation ‘Trap rat.”

“Welder. Is that a common name in Mousetrap?”

Actually, it had been picked for her because it was the most common.

She nodded. “My grandfather emigrated as a cutter’s apprentice during the Buildout.”

Tam Welder’s legend was respectable, yet generic. So far it had bought her the anonymity the Trueborns had promised.

Jamieson laid back against his headrest and closed his eyes like a weary traveler. Maybe because she had passed his test. Maybe because she was paranoid and it wasn’t a test at all.

Five minutes later, Jamieson sat up with a start when Tam turned off the parkway onto the seedy strip of grind clubs, slot shops, and package stores that she drove by when she was going to work each day.

She sighed. “If Lucky U Parkway’s the class of Funhouse, the Monster Mile, well, isn’t.”

Jamieson pointed at the sign above the pre-fab domelet on the right and read aloud. “Bug Tussle?”

Beneath the sign’s undulating neon letters hung a klearsteel globe bigger than the electrobus. Inside the globe a man-sized crimson scorpion and a bear-sized, tiger-striped spider lunged at one another, kept apart by a transparent partition that bisected the globe. The giants’ attacks swung the globe beneath its mounting. A bleary knot of men stood alongside the road, drinking from plastis, swaying beneath the globe and taking in the free show.

The flatscreen beneath the animals announced ever-changing pari-mutuel odds – the scorpion currently was favored 5-2 - and promised “Admission Includes Monster Mile’s Longest Buffet!”

Tam said, “The Coliseum’s the top of Funhouse animal pari-mutuel. The bug houses are the bottom. But admission’s cheap, and they’re always open. They’re considered good entertainment value for the money.”

“To say nothing of the buffet.”

“The bug houses can afford to give stuff away. They actually collect bounty from the government for taking bugs out of circulation. The winners eat the losers, so feed costs the owners nothing. And the bugs are naturally competing predators, so there’s never danger of peace breaking out when the bell sounds.”

“Efficient. Yet so classy.”

They passed five slot parlors before Tam swung the bus into Merlin’s cracked and weedy lot and parked in front at the “Courtesy Bus” sign.

Jamieson craned his neck at the holo generated lettering that floated above the casino’s roof, bright even under the afternoon suns.

“So this is Merlin’s House of Cards?”

The name faded and Tam’s smiling image, wearing the evening shows’ blue velvet sorceress robe, replaced it. Onscreen she spun, the robe flowed, and nobody could tell it was a cut down bathrobe. She produced cards in fans and fountains from her finger tips, transposed them into stacks of chips, then cascaded more cards from one hand to the other.

The video cycled back to the casino name, and Tam shrugged at Jamieson. “I deal at the center stage table as a novelty act. Card manipulation and sleight of hand magic, mostly. Simple escapes, a couple illusions.”

Jamieson eyed his ‘puter, glanced around the parking lot. “Noon and the place is full! Unless those cars belong to the help.”

“The matinee draws. So we all have to park out back.” Tam shrugged again. “But if the crowds ever start shrinking, Merlin’ll replace me with a piano bar.”

Jamieson furrowed his brow. “But you’d still get by?”

She snorted. “Get by? Outworlders always get by, Dr. Jamieson. Sometimes we get by with help from friends. Sometimes we get by with a lie, or a mistake. I’ll get by shoveling bug crap if I have to.”

Trueborn empathy normally extended only as far as other Trueborns, but for an instant Jamieson’s eyes softened.

Then he was again the inquisitor. “You called this road the Monster Mile. But so far,” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “the only animals I’ve seen were the bugs.”

“The real monster show’s down the road.” Tam pointed over the vacant lot’s trees. “See the dome? That’s Critter Fest. They import offworld exotics to fight local animals. The poor man’s Coliseum. The species aren’t as big or as common. There’s no performance record on most of them, so the outcomes are less predictable.”

“That makes it popular?”

“They fill ten thousand seats a night. Biggest draw on Natural Way.”

“Natural Way?”

“Monster Mile’s not the street’s real name.”

Jamieson smiled. “Natural Way. I like that. Not every street name on Funhouse is about gambling.”

Tam stiffened. In that instant all the little inconsistencies about Jamieson, the uncharacteristically empathetic Trueborn, congealed in her gut. Then the memories that she had hidden away for twenty years flooded back.

The men with the Trueborn accents who came and sat with Pop and whispered with him. Pop telling her to forget she ever saw them. Then, later, for months, the men with the Yavi accents, who came and left, came and left, again and again. Until they came back with the needle guns. And Pop cold and small and bleeding to death in her arms.

Now she saw that, like the Yavi who had killed Pop, and like those Trueborns who had recruited him, this atypically modest Trueborn was not who he said he was.

The ice in her belly swelled and her breathing rasped. She gripped the bus wheel so this Trueborn, or whoever he really was, couldn’t see her fingers tremble.

“Tam?” Jamieson reached from the passenger’s seat and touched her arm. “Are you all right?”

She jerked back at his touch, tore open the driver’s door. “I’m late for my show.”

Trailing her costume over her shoulder on its hanger, she slammed the bus door and ran.

Merlin himself held the left door open for her, while Oscar the bouncer held the right. Merlin, his star-studded cone hat drooping, scowled through his fake beard. “You’re on in four minutes! Don’t be late tonight!”

She brushed past him, tugging the loaded prop vest over her head, then covering it with her robe. “I’m taking tonight off. Have Maya cover for me.”

Her boss dropped his jaw. “Oscar’s kid? Maya couldn’t vanish a frog with a hand grenade!”

Tam turned back, winked at Oscar. “She’ll do fine.”

Four minutes later the house lights dimmed, except for the main down-spot above Tam’s center stage table, and except for the pencil spots that lit the tiers of game tables that ringed the stage. The table ‘bots kept on dealing, and winning, while she performed.

As Tam swept down the center aisle and mounted the stage, producing and re-vanishing card fans as she moved, the voiceover boomed above the fanfare, “This afternoon’s presentation employs no holography, magnetic levitation technology, or electronic augmentation. For the next thirty minutes, what will baffle and delight you is simple magic, the universe’s most honest lie.”

Tam sleep-walked the show, mind racing as her heart pounded.

She transformed a customer’s empty high ball glass into shrink-wrapped packets of 5-titan chips, then tossed the packets to the audience. As she did, she spotted Jamieson, seated front row left, smiling and applauding every vanish and production.

It surprised her that his smile comforted her. Was this how the Trueborns had recruited Pop? Pop himself always said “First, make a friend. Then make a deal.”

She flipped and flourished decks in front of the four spectators at the stage table, conjuring buffs who had paid to watch her work up close. She dealt a winning hand to the slim man in seat two, because he wore a strap banded antique watch. As she pushed his chips to him she misdirected him with her touch and a smile while she unfastened the band. When she palmed his watch, the audience, watching the slowmo overhead replay, roared. But the mark, even though he must have been expecting something, never felt a thing.

In that instant the ping struck her again. No longer a confused question in her head. It was a snarl, so startling in its frustration and nascent anger that she sat up stiff, as though she had been slapped.

She lost her grip on the card fan she was about to produce, and the prop slipped down through her cloak, onto the floor. She toed the cards away with her slipper, then cut the trick from the act.

Tam stole a glance at Jamieson. He was leaning forward on his elbows, now. He had noticed. Or had he caused it? Before Jamieson arrived she only had had a mystery in her head. Now she had a banshee.

Pop had gotten mixed up with liars like Jamieson and Pop had died. In that instant Tam decided to follow through with the plan she had half-formed when Jamieson had touched her arm in the parking lot. A half ass plan implemented in time was better than a perfect plan too late.

Her hands trembled, weakened, so she omitted the handcuff escape and skipped to the final trick before the Lady And The Phoenix transformation closed the show.

She had to transpose the watch she had palmed, then produce it from the cleavage of the man’s wife, who sat to his right.

As Tam loaded the watch, she stole a glance at Jamieson. He remained seated, again relaxed, though serious and intent.

Even before the applause died when the mark got his watch back, Tam climbed, then stood on, the tabletop. She closed her eyes, raised her arms overhead, and the tubular veil floated down from the ceiling and hid her.

She dropped through the trap door, and even before the veil above dropped to reveal the flapping, squawking bird that had replaced her, she wormed furiously down the tunnel, scraping her palms and knees.

Normally, when she emerged from the floor trap behind the kitchen pantry, she shed her loaded vest before she reappeared at the bar.

Today, she ran for the stage door, robe still flapping, like the devil nipped her heels. First, she would put distance between herself and the Earthman. Then she’d think of something. She always did.

As she dashed through the kitchen she jostled a sous chef, whistling as he walked, and plucked the boning knife from his belt scabbard. He never missed a note.

Tam burst through the stage door, squinted against the afternoon sun.

She held her breath against the dumpster’s stink, then rounded the building’s corner, full tilt, car fob in hand, into the employee parking lot. And stopped like she had struck plate glass.

Jamieson leaned against her car’s driver’s door, arms folded.

Tam’s mouth hung open as she swung her hand around the fifty cars in the employee lot. “How’d you find my car?”

He flicked his eyes at her rear bumper. “I narrowed it to the cars with expired tags. Then I bet on the one with the ‘Horn Broken, Watch for Finger’ bumper sticker.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You said you’d be forthcoming. But your face onstage said differently.”

“And you said you were a gambling expert. One honest lie deserves another.”

“What do you mean?”

She drew the boning knife, crouched. “Get away from my car!”

“I can explain.”

“Oh? Explain why a gambling cop was on Dead End.”

The Trueborn drew back, narrowed his eyes. “What? I never said I was on Dead End.”

“There are no casinos to inspect on Dead End. It’s just jungle and giant grizzly bears.”

Jamieson extended his hands, palms down, nodded. “Okay. Downgraded Earthlike 476 is a primitive. But there are five hundred twelve planets in the Human Union. What makes you think I came here from that one?”

“I grew up in a starship hub, remember? Hub kids memorize ships and routes like other kids memorize pop lyrics. You said you came to Mousetrap on the Valley Forge. But you still had an upshuttle carryon tag on your bag. The only port where the Valley Forge calls that bounces shuttles to orbit is Dead End.”

Jamieson nodded. “Okay. You’re a detective. What’s it prove?”

Tam shook her head again. “By itself? Not much. But a gaming cop who doesn’t know about robot dealing?

“That’s hardly -”

“In blackjack a natural’s an ace and a ten point card. A winner. And a seven or eleven shooting dice. But you didn’t even know it was a gambling term.”

Jamieson sighed, ran a hand through his hair. “Alright. I’m no gambling expert. But the story got me past the Gaming Authority and past your boss so I could talk to you.”

She snorted, poked the knife at him.

“It was an honest lie.” Jamieson’s face hardened. “You’re no stranger to those, are you, Tamara?”

Her breath caught.

Bad enough that Jamieson was a liar. Worse, he knew she was, too. She had feared this from the moment Merlin told her a Trueborn official was coming to see her. Really, she had feared this since the day Pop died.

Tam blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about,” Jamieson said, “A Yavi refugee in Mousetrap who supports himself and his daughter as a pickpocket. Who believes the Cold War has good guys and bad guys. And who believes that working against Yavet and for the good guys is an honest lie.”

The tears welled, blurred her vision as the knife quivered in her hand. “You bastards sucked Pop in. But you didn’t protect him from the Yavi when they figured out he was a double for you. Then to make up for it you stole what was left of my crummy life and gave me this crummy one. Traitor’s daughter dies aboard a starship, gets buried in space. Tamara Welder gets dug up on Funhouse. You said you’d never bother me. Which is now officially one more lie.”

Jamieson shook his head. “That wasn’t me. I’m not even that kind of spook.”

Tam flexed her fingers on the knife’s handle and her lip quivered. “Then what kind of spook are you Jamieson? If that’s even your name.”

Jamieson sidestepped away from her car, hands still raised. “Tam, this isn’t about the Cold War.”

She tossed her head. “For Trueborns and Yavis everything’s about the Cold War.”

He stretched a thin smile. “It’s more important than the Cold War. At least to me. And, if I understand you, to you, too.”

She rolled her eyes. “Go ahead. This should be good.”

Behind them, the kitchen door opened, a busboy stepped out, and lit a tobacco cigarette.

Jamieson eyed him. “Can we continue this somewhere private?”

Tam shifted her weight, stared at the Earthman. If Jamieson was the kind of spook who had recruited Pop, he would have pulled a gunpowder pistol on her by now. And as long as she and Jamieson stayed around Merlin’s, Oscar the bouncer was only a shriek away.

Tam waved the spy away from the car, lifted the driver’s door, then she motioned Jamieson to sit in the driver’s seat.

With her knife pricking his throat, she tugged his wrists so that one was atop and one beneath the steering wheel rim. Then she dug in the pocket of the loaded vest beneath her cloak until her fingers closed around the handcuffs. The real cuffs, not the breakaways. Tam locked Jamieson to her car’s steering wheel.

Then she swung down the driver’s door to close him in, slipped into the front passenger’s seat, and darkened the dome glass so they weren’t visible to onlookers.

She faced Jamieson across the center console. “There. Private.”

Jamieson rattled the cuffs. “Seriously? We couldn’t just go for coffee?”

“You might poison mine. Talk. I’ve got another show in an hour.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Something true would be good.”

Jamieson squirmed in his seat. “Okay. Truth. You asked me what kind of spook I am. The research kind, I guess.”

“Researching what?”

“That trick you did, where you read that guy’s mind?”

“I forced a card on him. You do know telepathy’s not a real thing, Jamieson?”

“Do I?”

She paused. “You’re saying maybe those pings came from somebody?”

Jamieson nodded. “Not maybe. And not some body. Some thing.”

Tam smirked. “Magicians lie for a living, Jamieson. You’ve gotta do better.”

“Tam, the reason I was coming from Dead End is that I work there. I’m a xenobiologist. And kind of a diplomat.”

“Ambassador to the man-eating grizzly bears?”

“In a way. The grezzen aren’t just alien bears. They’re the only other intelligent species in the known universe. And they’re telepaths.”

Tam’s mouth formed an “o.” “You’re serious? We just found this out?”

“We’ve known for years. But the grezzen don’t trust us as a species.

She smiled. “They really are intelligent.”

“So we keep their true nature quiet because that’s the way they want it.”

“While the government uses them to read all the rest of our minds.”

Jamieson shrugged. “There are benign applications, too.”

“All of which has what to do with me?”

“Three months ago poachers on Dead End managed to kill a female grezzen. Quite a feat of arms, by the way. Even a female weighs nine tons grown, and can still sustain sixty miles per hour while gravid. We recovered her body, but we think the unborn cub was extracted alive, and smuggled off the planet.”

“To Funhouse?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Talk about an up-and-coming contender.”

“And this cub is what pinged me?”

“That’s my working hypothesis. Your report was the only lead the real spooks could come up with fast. I’m assuming the cub’s probably being kept at that monster fight club next door.” Jamieson shifted in his seat, nodded at his cuffed wrists. “My fingers are turning white. Do you mind?”

She leaned across, then paused with her fingertips on Jamieson’s wrists. “If I let you go, the cops will raid the place, save the bear, and you’ll leave me in peace?”

Jamieson squirmed. “Well –”

“Goddam it! What well?”

“You got pinged again during the show, didn’t you?”

Tam nodded.

“What was it like?”

“This time? Different. At first it was just, like, a question.”

“What question?”

Tam shrugged. “Not specific, like did I hold an ace. Just curious. Like a baby, maybe.”

“But this time was different?”

Tam nodded. “It was like – growling. Angry.” She leaned toward the slight Earthman. “What does it mean, Jamieson?”

He frowned, swore. “That it’s growing up fast. That’s why it’s just me chasing this thing. There’s no time to get operations specialists in place. These people – hell, these murdering kidnapers - have no idea what the physical capabilities of even an infant grezz are. If we don’t get the cub back before it starts developing ... Well, at best, they’ll get themselves killed. At worst, the cub will have to be killed.”

“And that won’t help our relations with our co-intelligent species?”

Jamieson nodded. “Or my conscience. I knew the cub’s mother.”

Tam unlocked the cuffs, and Jamieson rubbed his wrists.

She said, “There. Now call in the cops.”

Jamieson shook his head. “I told you. We – mankind – promised the grezz we’d keep their secret. Look what just one bunch of poachers did, just to trap a better pit bull. Imagine what some people, just here on Funhouse, would do to get their hands on a telepath.”

“You’re the frukin’ government. You can protect them.”

“Presuming they’d trust us to, if we can’t even make this incident right. Telepaths don’t know how to lie, but they understand that we do. And they’ve already had a belly full of it.”

“So you’re gonna try to rescue the baby by yourself? All hundred sixty-five pounds of you?”

“One sixty-eight. I was hoping for some help.”

“And since I’m the only one here who already knows the big secret, that could only be me?” Tam shook her head and raised her palms at Jamieson. “Sorry. My family’s done being recruited by spies we’ve got nothing in common with.”

“Fair enough. But you don’t like the bloodsport charnel houses on this planet any more than I do. And you’ve got plenty in common with the cub.”

“It’s a six legged bear. I’m a lounge magician.”

“You’re both orphans.” Jamieson raised a finger. “Tam, a baby bird will imprint on a sock puppet if it’s the first maternal figure it encounters. Once before we’ve seen an orphaned grezz imprint telepathically on a nearby human female presence.”

“I have a kid? And I didn’t even get laid?”

“Not exactly. But the cub could respond to you as a maternal surrogate.”

“I’m not breast feeding an alien.”

Jamieson turned pink. “The bond’s just mental. But if the cub recognizes you, it might trust you. If it trusts you, it might physically follow you.”

“Or it might eat me.”

“They usually just dismember humans. We’re too bony.”

“There are nine million women on Funhouse. Why did this thing pick my life to screw up?”

“Well, you were physically near by. And I suspect you reminded it of its mother.”

“What?”

“Grezzen females are absolute matriarchs and apex predators. They confront any challenger head on. The human equivalent could correspond to a headstrong woman with an absolute hardon for competing authority.”

“Oh.”

“Any more questions?”

Tam shook her head.

Jamieson called up a real time overhead image of the Critter Fest grounds on his handheld. “First, we’ll need to break in to the animal pens. Then locate the enclosure where the cub’s held.” Jamieson pointed at the image. There’s a fence all the way around. High one, by the shadow on the ground. We’ll need cutting equipment.” He scratched his head. “Guard post here. Probably cameras –”

Tam laid her palm on Jamieson’s wrist. “Jamieson, it’s not that hard.”

“It isn’t?”

* * *

Eleven hours later, in the chill three a.m. moonless

darkness, Tam pulled her coupe silently in around the electrobus in Merlin’s deserted parking lot.

As bugs trilled in the surrounding trees, Jamieson sat on the pavement, head down and elbows on knees. The bus’s dismantled seats lay beside him in a neat row and wrenches littered the pavement at his feet.

When Tam lifted the coupe’s door, Jamieson massaged his skinned knuckles. “You said this wasn’t hard.”

“My part wasn’t. Now follow me in the bus, park it, and I’ll pick you up.”

Ten minutes later Jamieson sat beside Tam in the coupe, parked in the shadow of a woodline fifty yards from Critter Fest’s main rear service gate. The Earthman peered through night binoculars out the windscreen at the lone watchman, who sat in the guardhouse window, scowling as he polished a pistol. “It’s not much security. But he’s got a gun.”

“They don’t need much security, if you think about it. Monsters are their own best watchdogs. And there’s no point in sneaking in here to drug the contestants, because they get tested before any tickets pay.”

Behind the guardhouse a fifteen foot tall fence topped with razor wire secured vast ranks of bar-fronted sheds and stables within which hundreds of vast, dark, disparate shapes groaned, snored, undulated and rumbled. Occasionally something snarled or shrieked, and set off a chorus of its neighbors.

Jamieson asked, “You think he’ll just let you drive up and walk in the door?”

“Yep. He’s Oscar the bouncer’s cousin. A couple times a month one of us brings him leftovers from the Merlin’s buffet. Get out and wait here.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jamieson climbed back in Tam’s coupe with her.

As they drove to pick up the bus parked on the opposite side of the compound from the guardhouse, Tam told Jamieson, “He recognized the grezzen when I described it. This place bought it for cash no-questions-asked a couple months ago. It doesn’t eat much, but it’s still growing.”

“You found out where it’s caged?”

“And where the nearest auxiliary gate is to the cage.” Tam held up a fob with a keypad on its top. “And this is the master key to all the gates and cages. Also to the security camera junction box. But we won’t need to mess with it. He never watches the screens while he eats because the animals do disgusting things.”

“He gave you that key?”

“Loaned it. But he doesn’t know he did. He doesn’t make rounds for an hour. By then I’ll come back for the cake plate and then his keys will be back on his belt. He’ll never miss ‘em.”

After a further fifteen minutes, the electrobus had driven silently through the auxiliary gate nearest the cub’s cage.

Tam and Jamieson crept to the cage’s bars and peered in at the snoring lump inside.

Tam pulled her blouse collar across her nose with one hand and breathed through her mouth while she rested the other hand on one of the bars. “Do they all smell like this?”

“Think how we smell to them. You get used to it.”

“Now whuddo I do? Sing to it?”

“Actually, I’m surprised it hasn’t already sensed your –

“Baaoum.”

When the grezzen leapt at Tam, and crashed against the bars, its momentum knocked her onto the ground on her back.

The cub retreated, and Jamieson stepped to the bars. He thumbed the fresh claw gouges on them, then whistled. “A week older and he’d have broken through.

Tam scrambled to her feet, her eyes glued to the cub in the tiny cage and her jaw slack.

The infant was already larger than the largest bear she had seen in a wildlife park. It paced back and forth in its cage, ambling on six claw-footed legs that supported a long-haired, muscular body.

But the thing – things, actually - that riveted her were the cub’s eyes. Three glowing red coals, glowing in a line above a ragged mouth filled with razor teeth and the stubby beginnings of down-pointed tusks.

They were not the eyes of a brute, but the eyes of a being as curious and sentient as she was.

Jamieson opened the bus’s back door and Tam climbed in and faced the grezzen as Jamieson backed the vehicle up against the cage’s locked door.

The grezzen stared at her, mute and still as a three-eyed sphinx, betraying no intention.

Jamieson leaned back from the driver’s seat, thumb on the master key’s unlock button. “Ready?”

Tam, mouth dry, heart pounding, shook her head. “It doesn’t know me.”

Then she felt it. The cub was in her head, and the fire in its eyes died back to a warm glow.

Tam whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Open it.”

“You’re sure?”

Tam nodded.

And then there was nothing between her and the cub but open air.

The cub stared at her, then crouched, its already-bulging muscles flexing, scimitar claws scraping the cage floor. Then it slid a forepaw out of its cage, into the old electrobus, and tapped a claw against metal.

Then the cub purred, and Tam cooed back at him.

* * *

Forty-eight hours later Tam stood facing Jamieson, once again in a star cruiser’s shadow at the base of its extended gangway.

Jamieson said, “The cub took sedation perfectly. It’s in a hold with no other cargo, and I’ve got the only passcard. My cabin’s one deck forward. Once he’s home, he should have no trouble bonding with a childless female.”

Tam smiled. “He’ll do fine. I feel it. What will you do after that, Jamieson?”

The Earthman shrugged. “I was on my way to Earth for leave when this business blew up.”

Tam made an “o” with her lips. “I’ve never been. But they say it’s magic.”

Jamieson shook his head. “At best, an honest lie. I was actually thinking of coming back here, instead. If you’d keep me out of trouble.”

She smiled again. “Maybe, Jamieson. Maybe.”

Soft Casualty

by Michael Z. Williamson

Jandro Hauer waited in the hot, bright light of Iota Persei for his shuttle to clear for boarding. On his forearm was a medication patch feeding a steady dose of strong tranquilizer. Above that was an IV line from a bottle hanging off his collar. He'd be in orbit in a few hours, and then transferred to a starship home. Perhaps then he could calm down.

"Hey, Soldier," someone called. There were eighty or so people at this boarding. He looked toward the voice to see another uniform. A US Marine with a powered prosthesis on his right leg gave a slight wave.

"Hey, Marine," he replied. "Soldier" wasn't strictly accurate for the combined South American Service Contingent, but it was close enough.

"I noticed the meds,” the man said, pantomiming at his own arm. "Are you a casualty? If it's okay to ask."

Jefferson was a beautiful city, or at least it had been before the war.

Jandro Hauer looked out from his quarters. This building had once been apartments for the middling wealthy. The enlisted people had a good view, the officers were lower down. That's because the locals occasionally fired a missile. Usually Air Defense intercepted it. Usually. Three floors up there was a hole, and a sealed off area, where one had gotten through and killed two troops. That's why he was inside the window with the lights off, not out on the balcony. He could see the towers of brilliant white clouds rising over the coastal hills just fine from here.

Support troops spent a lot of time indoors, not interacting with the planet or its residents. It was safer that way. That, and it meant not having to deal with the bright local light, thin air, and vicious fauna.

He still didn't get it. The former colonists were so willing to fight the UN and Earth they'd destroy their own city in the process, which would just guarantee whatever was rebuilt would look like all the other major colonial cities. Being independent had let them develop a unique architecture and style. That wasn't going to last with them reverting to Colony status.

It was 1900, but still full light here. The local day was twenty-eight and some odd hours. The UN Forces stuck to Earth's 24 hour clock. That led to some really surreal days where it would be midnight at noon.

A chime at the door indicate his roommate returning. He stepped aside because…

Jason Jardine swiped the lights on as he stepped in.

"Off!" Jandron shouted.

Jason scrabbled with the touch plate. "Sorry," he said as the room darkened.

"Always check the window first, Jase," he said. Jase was a Senior Corporal in Finance, but had only been here a week. He was still adapting. It was his first offworld mobilization.

The man nodded. "Yeah."

Some troops even kept the windows opaque 24/7, or 28/10 here. That was safer, but it didn't let them have a view.

"Goddamn, it's a hell of a city," Jardine said, walking over to the window.

"It is. That concentration of wealth thing is pretty dang good, if you're the one with the wealth." He looked around inside.

Troops had scribbled notes, art, tags and names on the walls. There had been decorations. Even though war trophies weren't allowed, there were ways to get stuff out.

Jardine looked where he was looking.

He said, "Just pay some local a few Marks to sign it over as something sold to you, and as long as it passes Customs, you're fine. The guy you replaced picked up quite a few neat things in town."

"It's that easy?"

"Depends. If they have kids to feed, they'll sell just about anything. You know prostitution was legal here, right?"

"I heard. Not just legal, but unregulated."

"Pretty much. So some of them are still in business, and others are freelance."

Jardine said, "Just wear an all-over polybarrier."

"Not really. Most are actually clean. That was one of things they were very strict on."

"I heard they're cheap, too." Jardine stowed his day pack on a rack by the door.

"I've heard that. Never tried, not planning to. I also hear some of them made a fortune."

"Doing what?"

"Doing rich guys. Apparently when you have a lot of money, you want to spend it."

"Makes sense. Almost like a tax."

"Hah. Good." He hadn't thought of it that way. What would you do if you had all that money? "Heading for chow?"

Jase said, "Nah, I was wondering if we could go out and eat? Into the compound area, I mean. I know there's vendors out there. Do you know much about them?"

"Yeah, I'll go with you. I've eaten at several. That will be a change from the chow hall. They're doing lameo chili again anyway." He hated military chili. It wasn't chili with paprika and rice and whatever else they put in to make it international. It was nothing like the chili he'd had when visiting Texas, or that you got in a restaurant back home. He’d also had enough sandwiches lately. He didn’t want another bland burger thing.

He took a step, looked down, and said, "Let me change into casuals." He was still wearing a battle uniform, even though he never went out on patrol. They had orders to "support the battlefighters." That meant dressing up like them during the work day.

He went to his room, undressed and tossed the Battle Uniform onto the bed for later. It was a nice room. Most of the furnishings were still there and in good shape. The dresser was real wood of some figured sort. He grabbed a clean Casual Uniform from the top drawer and pulled it on. He was back into the common room in two minutes.

"Let's go," he said to Jase.

Six squares of this area was controlled compound, barricaded off with triple concrete and polyarmor walls. Inside that were military and UN contractors only. Outside that was another four blocks of restricted area, where local contractors took care of nonessential functions. Outside that, chaos.

Though even there, most of the fighting was subtle. It wasn't until you got outside of the metroplex that violence started in earnest. Here, they didn't even need armor. As long as it was stored in their quarters, it was considered "within reach."

They walked the two blocks to the inner perimeter and berm, scanned out through the gate, and entered the Gray Zone. It was patrolled by bots with cameras, and there were a few MPs rolling around in carts. He still wasn't sure how many, but there was usually a cart in sight. He looked both ways and saw one patrol. There were probably a hundred troops in sight, more around the rest of the perimeter.

The local sun was gradually going down. It was late summer, and it was merely hot, not scorching. It reminded him a bit of Rio, except for the thin air and higher gravity. The sky was clearer, though, and this city had a split personality. Most of it continued to function, its business and politics monitored by the Interim Government in this compound and in those two buildings to the south, protected by lots heavy floater platforms, manned air support and ground-based lasers. Very little got shot at it these days, but occasional gunfire happened to little effect.

This area was a low-intensity war zone.

To punctuate that, his phone chimed a message.

He looked fast, wondering if there was something inbound, some political change.

It was from Kaela Smith at the MP station.

The screen read, "Jandro, the sniper casualty earlier today. Moritz got shot. Sorry.—Kay."

He didn't even swear, he just wiped the screen.

Jase asked, "Something bad?"

He realized he was tearing up. "That sniper this morning at the West side? Got Sammy Moritz."

"I'm sorry. Were you close?"

"No, it's just…" he took a deep breath, because this was scary. "Right after we secured this area and set up for the diplomats and provisional government, they shot some guy at the gate. Just dropped him from a distance and that was all. He got replaced by someone else. They got shot. Moritz was the fifth or sixth person in that duty slot."

"That's sick." Jase apparently hadn’t heard about this yet.

"Very. They're not targeting battlefighters or staff. Just people at random, or in this case, not random. It's been six people in about three months in that slot."

"Glad I'm not an MP. At least not that MP."

"It's creepy. I wonder which poor bastard gets it next." He didn't want to think like that, but he couldn’t help it. One field unit kept losing cooks. Convoys got disrupted. They needed live drivers because automated ones got waylaid or hijacked. The enemy was outnumbered, but technologically smart and vicious.

He always wondered if they'd come after Logistics some day.

Jase asked, "Can't they rotate around?"

"They do. But they seem to follow the slot, not the location."

"Sheesu."

"These fuckers have no sense of decency. We laughed, it was hilarious, when they abducted Huff, stripped him naked and made him walk back. But if you're a prole, you're likely to just wind up dead."

"Is that why the no fraternizing order?"

He nodded. "Absolutely. Outside the second line, nothing is safe."

"Almost makes me glad to be stuck in here."

"Almost. Would like to actually fight, though. Or support it. Something." He actually wasn’t sure about that, but he kept telling himself that.

"Yes, but logistics is what wins wars,” Jase said. “And my family's glad I'm safe,” he added.

"Hey, at least you're here, doing something." They crossed into the plaza that had been a park of sorts. Much of the greenery was chewed up from troops walking and playing. One of the trees had been used for climbing until the CO stopped it.

Jase nodded. "You’re right about that, and so was the Captain. These people really don't want us."

He said, "It's resistance to change. In twenty years, their kids will love life and wonder why anyone lived this way." They were told that, and he wanted to believe it.

"I hope so. The poor people must appreciate it."

"So I'm told. I see interviews."

Jase gave him a disgusted look. "Oh, come on, you don't think those are faked."

Jandro sighed. That hadn't come out right in English. "No, not at all. But everyone I've met locally has a couple of different things going. I've also read that civilians will tell occupying forces anything to keep them happy. And I can't imagine a lot of frustrated rich people are shooting at us."

"No, but maybe the people doing the shooting need money badly enough to do it for them. Or are held hostage some other way."

"Or maybe they're just afraid of us from propaganda. Hate isn't rational."

"Yeah. Okay."

Good. Jase didn't like the conspiracy nuts any more than he did. Sure, there were problems back home, but no one started a war just for a political edge. Paid bribes, manipulated language, made economic payoffs, but not start wars.

"So what looks good?" he said. There were ten or so little carts and knockdown kiosks offering food.

"Pizza's always good. Or I always like it. But it just doesn’t taste right here."

"They grow different grain breeds."

"That must be it. Don't they use real animals, too?"

"Yes, raised out in the open air and then killed."

"That's awful. It's so awful I want to try that, just to stare at people and tell them."

"Hah. It was really trippy the first time. I got used to it. It's just meat. You realize that's in the dining hall too, right?"

"I didn't." Jase looked at him with distrust.

"All food has to be locally sourced. There's just no effective way to bring in that much meat from outsystem, process it in orbit and land it. So we get it here."

"Why don't they tell everyone?"

"It's inspected and approved. There's some sort of BuAg exemption until we can build enough facilities here. So they don’t mention the source in case it disturbs people."

"I guess I can see colonies needing that, but once you get to cities," he waved around at the surroundings, "shouldn't you be building vatories?"

"Exactly. So you've already eaten dead stuff, and these people either don't have a choice, or actually like it."

"The chow hall meat is a bit stronger tasting than home, I guess. Wow. Suffering animals. One more way we're tougher than civilians."

"You can't really brag about it. Someone will call a counselor."

"I know. But part of it is knowing, and part of it is tossing it out there when someone wants to try to measure up."

He nodded. "There is that. I feel sorry for the grunts. You can't boast about being in combat. It's seen as some sort of moral and mental handicap. No wonder they all burn out."

"Six months is a long time. I've been here a week and it's getting old fast."

"So what are you eating?"

"How's the bratwurst?" Jase asked, and pointed at a cart under a broad tree that was warping the plascrete walkway.

"Spicy and greasy. Occasionally there are small bone chips from processing."

"How spicy?"

"Middling. Hot for Europe, medium for Tex."

"Let's do it."

"Looks like he's closing, too. Better run."

They jogged over to the cart, and looked over the menu. It was posted on a scrolling screen in English, Mandarin, Arabic and Russian. Next to the screen was a tag certifying inspection and authorization to be in the Gray Zone.

The cook looked up and nodded.

"You're just in time. What can I get you?"

Jandro said, "I'll take a cheddar brat."

The man nodded. "Got it."

Jase said, "The 'Meatlog.' That sounds suggestive."

"I had one before. It's good. Savory and salty as well as spicy."

"Sure. That's two hundred grams? I'll take two."

The cook, Gustin, per his nametag, flipped three sausages off the grill, said, "That's all I had left. You're in luck," and rolled them around to drain on the rack. Then he rolled each into a bun, and pointed to the condiments. "What would you like?"

Jase considered and pointed. "Lemme get the dark chili mustard, onions, relish and banana peppers."

The man didn't stint on the toppings. Each boat-shaped bun was overflowing.

They paid him in scrip he could exchange later. It was supposed to cut down on black marketing, but Jandro had heard of so many ways around it. He wasn't really interested in scamming stuff, but it wasn't hard.

He pointed to a bench under another tree. It was made of wooden timbers locally, not extruded.

"I was on Mtali for a while, too, when I was just out of training," he said.

Behind them, the man closed his cart, unfolded the seat and drove off. It was a fueled vehicle, not electric.

"Oh?" Jase asked.

"That was much worse than this place. Here they're opportunistic. There, they were crooked."

"How crooked?"

"We had to open every package, test every delivery, and no local help at all. They'd steal it in front of you, toss it over the fence to a buddy, and insist they never saw it."

"Hah. Lameo."

"Very. It was pathetic. These people are creative at least." And scary. He'd swap that for incompetently dishonest any time.

"The food looks good."

Jase squeezed and stuffed the bread around the contents, angled his face and got a bite. He chewed for a moment, and flared his eyebrows.

"Damn. If all dead animal tastes like this, I could be a convert."

"Hah. Just don’t say that around the cultural officers."

"Oh, hell no. But it's different from vat raised. Stronger tasting? Something. Good stuff."

The cheddar brat was good as always, and he tried not to think about dead pig. On the other hand, he'd seen pigs up close. They were pretty nasty creatures.

Jase took another bite and made it disappear.

"Is stuff like this why people stay in? Seeing all parts of the universe?"

"All parts we know about. It does cost a veinful to travel. We get to see the bombed out ruins. Chicks in New York and Beijing and Nairobi pay good money for that."

He munched the brat. Yes, once you got used to the ugly fact of a dead living being, rather than one raised in a vatory with no head, they were tasty. Did the animal's emotions and life flavor the meat? That was a bit creepy, and bit taboo.

He bit something hard. There was something in it, probably a bit of bone. He worked it around and pulled it out with his fingers. It was gray. He wiped it on the boards and kept chewing.

There was another.

“Damn, they need a better butcher. I’m getting bone bits.”

Jase took another bite and twitched, then pulled back with a confused look.

"What the…" He reached into the bun, grabbed something and pulled it out. It was a long, gray piece of polymer. It took a moment to recognize it, and then it was instantaneous.

It was a shredded dogtag, and it had been inside a sausage. That meant…

Jase screamed through the entire audio spectrum, then he vomited a meter, gushing and squealing and choking and trying for more.

A moment later it hit Jandro, and he puked and puked and kept puking. He realized he'd blacked out, and was leaning over the table. Then he heaved again. It felt as if he'd emptied his entire tract, and he hoped he had.

Someone nearby asked, "What's wrong, are you alright?"

"Water!" he demanded. "Ohdioswater!"

A bottle was placed in his hand. He cracked the seal, rinsed, spat, rinsed, spat, gargled, and kept going.

Everything blurred out as two people helped him walk to the clinic. There were MPs around, and camera drones. Someone handed him two pills and another bottle of water, and he tried to swallow them, but spat the water out. The pills went with it.

He didn’t want to swallow anything.

Someone waved an inhaler under his nose and he passed out.

He woke up in a bed, wrapped in a sheet, and a South Asian woman in casuals sat next to him. The lights were at half. He could tell he that was medicated.

"How are you doing, Alejandro?"

"I feel ill," he said. Very ill. He'd eaten…oh, god.

"I'm Doctor Ramjit from Emotional Health and Wellness. You're safe here."

"I know. I'm just…it was awful. Jase pulled out that tag…"

"What do you think it was?"

"A shredded dogtag."

"The investigators say they're not sure of that."

He sat up and shouted, "It was a maldito dogtag!" As she recoiled, he added, "Ma'am." If he wasn't careful, he'd wind up in some long term facility.

She reached out and offered a hand. He took it and clutched at it.

She said, "It may have been. If so, it may have been a prank."

"I hope so." Yes, that was entirely likely. Like stripping the General, or the doped sodajuice one time. The locals wanted to find ways to screw with the troops. He hoped that was it.

"Did they get the vendor?"

She hesitated a moment.

"No, and he's not responding to contact."

"I feel okay otherwise. How long am I here?"

"When you feel fit you can leave. We will do trace analysis on the regurgitate. We'll let you know what we find."

He wasn't sure they would. If they said it was clean, would he believe them?

"Can I get something for the stress?"

"Yes. I've prescribed some tranquilizer patches. You're welcome to come talk to us any time, or the chaplains. You're on quarters for tomorrow so you can de-stress."

"Thank you," he said.

He gave it a few minutes, decided he could walk, and signed out. He made his way back to the dorm, and slipped inside.

Jase's room was dark, but the door was open.

"Jase?"

"Yeah."

"How are you?"

"Sick."

The man didn't want to talk more than that.

He went to bed, and the tranquilizer did help him sleep. He woke up twice, hungry, but shook in terror at the thought of food.

He was still awake on and off, and a glance at the wall said it was 0500. The chow hall was open, and he was hungry. He'd slept in casuals, so he wore those down.

He walked into the dining hall, and walked right back out. They had sausage in there, and pans of other meat. He couldn't do it.

He went to the dispenser in the rec room and swiped his hand. He went to select a bag of vegetable chips, and his hand froze. They were local, too.

Perhaps he wasn't hungry yet.

Two hours later he was back in the clinic.

Doctor Ramjit saw him at once.

"Please tell me," he said. "I have to know what you found."

"The sausage contained human flesh," she said evenly.

He'd known it would be bad news, because he couldn't have trusted the good. He closed his eyes and felt dizzy, as if spinning.

"It was only a trace amount," she said. "Probably a piece of muscle tissue. The identag was deliberately placed to draw attention to it. It was intended to be morally horrifying, and it was."

It was intended to be morally horrifying. What she was didn't seem to grasp is what that implied. The troops knew what had happened, and everyone had been eating local food for months. There was no way to be sure how much of it was contaminated with their buddies, and there was no way to be sure how much wasn't.

It was worse than that.

That was the moment Jandro knew there was no line the rebels wouldn’t cross. They'd spent a year and a half escalating the moral outrage, humiliation and fear. The executions of the MPs, and this, had been a message.

We will hunt you down relentlessly, remorselessly, tirelessly. Regardless of your power and the damage you inflict, we will violate the sanctity of your mind. We will make you question reality and yourselves. And we will never stop.

He wanted to go home. There was nothing here but hatred, no one to be liberated, no one to be brought into line with modern thought. They were atavists and savages who could not be reasoned with.

The UN Forces alliance had come here to save them from rampant repression. He'd seen some of the poor in images from patrols. Out of the city only a few kilometers, some people lived in shacks without power or plumbing, because it was cheap. No one should be forced to make that "choice." There wasn't even a right to due process. That had to be paid for in cash, in an annual tax that they insisted on calling a "resident's fee," even though it is a tax. Fail to pay, and you had no status.

Yet, when the Forces arrived to help them, dirt poor and super rich alike homogenized into one people, intent only on fighting them.

"Whose tag was it?" he asked.

She blushed and stammered.

"I don't have that information."

"You do," he said. "It was a real person's tag, wasn't it?"

"It was," she nodded, looking queasy herself.

"Who?"

"Binyamin Al-Jabr. The first MP shot at the gate."

His head spun again.

"That's not for release," she said. "At all. But I'd rather you had the truth than a rumor."

It was orchestrated terror. They'd shot the man and taken his body. They'd shot everyone who replaced him in the last three months. The MPs were near rioting in terror. Then they'd chopped him, or parts of him, up and fed them to Jase and Jandro.

He really didn’t want to know what muscle they'd used. Nor how many batches they'd made.

"I can't eat," he said, and erupted in tears. His lips trembled as he mouthed, "I have to go home."

"I will arrange it," she said. "I've documented both emotional trauma and post event trauma. We'll get you home. We've got other people distressed as a result, though of course, none had the direct experience you and Senior Corporal Jardine did."

"I can't eat," he said again. "Please hurry."

Doctor Ramjit seemed compassionate, but someone in the chain didn’t believe him. A sergeant from Commisary took him over to the kitchen, to watch the food being prepared. It arrived in ground and cut form, and he watched a steak go from freezer to grill. He could smell it, too, dead meat. But the cooks were all contracted locally, brought in every morning and searched. A couple of them stared at him, then there were a couple of giggles.

“Didn’t you see that?”

“See what?” his escort asked.

“They’re laughing at me.”

“It’s fresh steak. Or you can choose a vegetarian option.” Though the man looked unsure himself. He kept glancing furtively at Jandro, and at the cooks.

“I…” He had no ability to trust them.

The smell caught him. Somewhere there was pork, and he remembered bratwurst, and there it was again. He ran from the kitchen.

They took him back to the clinic and dosed him again. He felt needles, and they said something he didn’t follow.

He almost limped, almost staggered back to the dorm, escorted by a medic. He carried a case of Earth-sourced field rations. He had that, and sealed bottles of expensive, imported spring water. That would have to suffice until he left.

Jase wasn't there. He was probably at the clinic, too. He might even be worse off, since he'd gotten the whole dogtag.

That set him reeling again, and he quickly brought up some landscape images from Iguaçu National Park.

Two hours later he stared at the open packets before him. He'd even placed them on a plate and microheated them, so they'd look more like real food.

He couldn't.

He knew it was perfectly safe, packaged on Earth, and was real food, but he couldn't.

Maybe in a day or two.

The door chimed and opened, and Sergeant Second Class Andreo Romero walked in quietly.

"Hey, Jandro."

"Hola."

"Jase is in the Emotional Health Ward. They reassigned me here."

On the one hand, he needed company. On the other, he knew a suicide watch when he saw one.

"How is he doing?"

"Not good. Homb, they officially haven't said anything, but there were witnesses. Everyone knows what happened."

"Did they find the vendor yet?"

"No one knows where he is."

"Not even the other sellers?"

"They say they've never heard of him. They're also gone. No more local carts. All food is going to process through the dining hall now, for safety."

It might well be. But Jandro couldn't eat it. He pushed back from the table and left the food there.

"Is Jase coming back?" he asked.

Andreo shook his head. "No, he's pretty much sedated and prioritied to return home. He took it pretty hard."

"I took it pretty hard."

There was awkward silence for several moments.

"Well, if you need anything, I'm here. They say you're on extended quarters until tomorrow, then you're on days."

"Days" didn't really mean much here, since each shift would be four plus hours out of synch with the local clock. It was a gesture, though.

Andreo said, "The cooks are all going to be offworld contractors, too. Pricey. We put in a RFQ already, and have some interim workers from BuState and elsewhere. The chow hall is going to be substandard for a while, but that's better than…" He faded off, and shivered.

Jandro nodded. Lots of people had eaten from the local vendors.

Andreo asked, "Can I finish that ration if you're not going to?"

"Sure."

At least someone could eat it.

That local night, another MP was shot. Officially they were told counterfire had demolished the sniper’s hide, along with a chunk of that building, but he didn’t think it would matter.

He twitched all night, between wakefulness and dozing. The next morning, he was ravenous. He opened another field ration, and managed two bites before nausea caused him to curl up.

It's from Earth. It's vatory raised chicken. There's eggs and vegetables. It's guaranteed safe.

Maybe lunch.

He walked into the Logistics compound, into the bay, and got greeted.

"Hey, Jandro. Good to see you back."

"Danke," he said. Johann Meffert was German.

He had materiel to process. Three huge cargontainers sat in the bay, pending sort. This shipment was ammunition, spare parts, tools, generators and nuclear powerpacks for them. He had units and their transport chains on cue, with quantities needed. Those always exceeded quantity available. He broke them down by percentage, then applied the urgency codes to adjust the amounts. Once the Captain signed off, the loader operators would dispense it to be tied down and depart for the forward bases.

He ignored Meffert's periodic stares. Everyone was doing it.

"Ready for review, Captain," he said into his mic.

He sat back and stretched for a moment. It did feel good to do something productive.

"Looks good so far, Jandro. But those KPAKs need sorted, too."

He looked at his screen. He'd missed four pallets of field rations.

"It's not my fault!" he shouted at the bay. "I didn't plan to eat him, I didn't want to eat him, and I didn't put him in the food!"

He stood up and walked out, back to the clinic.

"You really must try to eat something," Doctor Ramjit said. "Vegetables should be fine. I've switched to that myself. It's perfectly understandable that you don't trust the meat."

He sat in a reclined chair, surrounded by trickling fountains, soft images, and with a therapy dog for company. It responded to his scratches with a thumping tail.

"They're from on planet," he said. Had they urinated on the plants? Grown them in poison? Fertilized the ground with dead troops?

"How are you managing with field rations?" she asked.

"Better," he said. "I've eaten part of one."

Her frown was earnest. "That's not enough for three days. You've already lost weight."

"I know," he said. "But I can't. I just …can't." He hoped she understood.

"It's not just the food," he continued. "It's this place. All of it. I can't be around people like this. The cooks were giggling. Our people stare at me. They get the gossip. They all know. Jase has already gone. Please send me, too."

"I'll try," she said. Her frown came across as pitying. He didn’t want that, either.

He untangled from the chair and dog and left in silence, though she said, "Good luck, Alejandro. You have our wishes."

As he entered his room, his phone pinged a message. He swiped it.

"Alejandro, you are scheduled to depart in fifteen days. The clinic will fit you with a nutrient IV to help you in the interim."

"Yes," he said to the Marine. "I'm a casualty."

"Good luck with it, then. I'm sorry, At first I'd figured you were a base monkey. They don't know what the point is like."

"No, most of them don't," he agreed. He looked around at the other people on the rotation. Some were military, some UN bureau staff, some contractors. They might know what had happened, but they had no idea what it felt like. Thankfully, none of them recognized him.

The Marine said, "But I saw that," pointing at the IV. "I hope you're recovering?"

"Yes. It shouldn't take long. Good luck with the leg."

"Thanks. They say three months."

He boarded the ship and found his launch couch. The shuttle was well-used, smelling of people, disinfectant and musty military bags. He settled in and closed his eyes, not wanting to talk to anyone. They bantered and joked and sounded cheerful to be leaving. He wasn't cheerful, only relieved.

When they sealed up, pressure increased to Earth normal. He breathed deeply.

The acceleration and engine roar took a faint edge off his nerves. Soon. Off this nightmarish hellhole and home.

The tranks worked. He had a scrip for more, and a note that said he should not be questioned about them. Doctor Ramjit had said that wasn't unusual for some of the Special Unit troops, and even some of the infantry. "The ship infirmary should be able to refill you without problems," she'd said. "Especially as we've put out a bulletin about personnel generally suffering stress disorders. We haven't said why."

They even helped with launch sickness. He felt blissfully fine, not nauseous.

He zoned through until the intercom interrupted him.

"Passengers, we are in orbit, and will dock directly with the Wabash. Departure for Earth will be only a couple of hours. Final loading is taking place now."

Good. He eyed the tube on his arm. He could have them unplug this, and he could eat real, solid food from safe, quality-inspected producers on Earth.

Well, he'd have to start with baby food. Fifteen days of the tube had wiped out his GI tract. He'd have to rebuild it. That would be fine. And he'd never touch a sausage again.

He unlatched when the screen said to, and waited impatiently. He wasn't bad in emgee, knowing how to drag himself along the couches and guide cable. Several passengers didn't seem to know how, and some of them were even military.

Shortly, he was in the gangtube, creeping along behind the Marine and a couple of contractors rotating out.

There was a small port to his right, looking aft along the length of the ship. He looked out and saw the open framework of an orbital supply shuttle detach a cargotainer from the ship's cargo lock, rotate and attach another in its place.

He flinched, and nausea and dizziness poured into him again.

The cargotainer was marked "Hughes Commissary Services, Jefferson, Freehold of Grainne."

He fumbled with his kit, slapped three patches on his arm, and almost bit his tongue off holding back a scream.

Songs of Waste and Wood

by P.C. Hodgell

I

“Oh, I have come from a far, far land

My songs to sing to you...”

What came next? As he groped through his sodden memory, the Wolver Grimly slipped on a pink marble step and started to fall. The stair circled the outside of the Rose Tower, a long tumble to the hard pavement of the plaza below. Grimly yelped and flailed with all four paws, turned clumsy with drink. He tripped and slid down to a landing, chin first, biting his tongue. The night spun around him, the moon careening through the sky.

Laughter spilled down the steps from King Krothen’s Rose Chamber above, and Grimly flinched at the sound. Now the party guests were applauding, but not for him. Never for him.

“In green halls first my song began

When first I heard another sing...”

That had been the poet Malodium, performing for Krothen’s father King Kruin in the Grimly Holt. Oh, what beauty. The wolver pup had yearned toward it from the bushes where he had crouched hidden. For years he had practiced with only the forest as an audience, and then he had come here, to Kothifir the Cruel, to find his master. Now an old man and out of favor, Malodium had nonetheless welcomed him and promised to present him to the king. With what pride had he stood forth to sing. Silence had greeted his end, and then laughter, with Malodium laughing hardest of all.

Now they called him the Wildman of the Woods, and he capered to win the only accolade they would give him, and he drank to blunt the shame of what he had become.

Here at last was the bottom of the stair. Grimly rose on his hind legs and shambled forward, naked except for a garland of wilted flowers. He began again to sing, or rather to howl.

Quick steps sounded on the pavement, and someone crashed into him. Grimly went down with a startled yelp.

“Rose, stop!” Somebody else had come up, hard on the heels of the first. “I’ve heard of this fellow. He clowns for the King.”

“I do not!” cried Grimly, curling up in a hairy puddle on the ground, his tail tucked tight between his legs. “I’m a court poet! Hic.”

A child stood regarding him. Where had she come from? Even in the moonlight, her hair was a dark red helm, her eyes a startling shade of green, her gaze solemn and direct.

“Is the puppy sick?” she asked.

The woman named Rose stepped away from Grimly. “No, dear. The puppy is drunk. Why did you attack my daughter?”

“Attack her?” wailed Grimly. “I didn’t even see her!”

Beside Rose and the child, two other people stood over him. One, like Rose, was a tall, rangy woman – a Kendar of Krothen’s mercenary Southern Host, most likely. The other was nearer Grimly’s age, not much more than a boy, slender and dark-clad.

“What are you doing in the city at night?” the latter asked the child with concern, as if he really cared. “The lift cages don’t even run after midnight.”

“I climbed.” The little girl handed Rose a packet. “You forgot your dinner.”

“Oh, Brier. How often do I have to tell you not to follow me?”

The boy nudged Grimly with a booted toe. His eyes were an arresting shade of silver-gray, set in a fine-boned face. No Kendar, this, but definitely Kencyr. Grimly’s scrambled wits came up with a name: Torisen. The city had noted this young Highborn although it had no idea how he fit into the Southern Host. The Caineron, most powerful of the nine houses that made up the Kencyrath, dismissed him as a bastard. Nonetheless, second–in-command Harn Grip-hard had first made him his clerk and then a one-hundred commander, tasked with learning why so many Kothifiran nobles were mysteriously dying. Neat and supple as tempered steel in its sheath, he made Grimly feel acutely uncouth.

“You can get up now,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

“’Sorry.’” Grimly heard the whine in his voice and hated it. “Who apologizes to a poor wolver so far from home?”

Torisen regarded his shadow as he rose. “Do all wolvers cast the shadow of a wolf?”

“It depends on the phase of the moon.”

“Which tonight is full. Do you know a wolver called the Gnasher?”

“Oh, him.” Above, people were clapping. Lights played against the paper thin marble petals of the king’s chamber. “Steer clear...hic...that’s my advice. I’m from the Grimly Holt, but he’s from the Deep Weald. ‘nother kind of beastie altogether. What?”

He looked up, perplexed, at three intent faces.

“When did you last see him?”

“Why, tonight. He’s up there, entertaining the king. Juggles lights, doesn’t he? Shining Glory, they call him. He’s performed for all the best families.”

“Damn,” said Torisen. “Rose, stay with your daughter. Rowan, with me.”

“Don’t you want to hear one of my poems?” the Wolver Grimly cried after them as they sprinted to the foot of the stair and began to climb its sweep of steps three at a time. He didn’t want them to go, especially not the young Highborn, but what could anyone like that want with someone like him?

“Oh, never mind,” he muttered, and stumbled back into the city.

II

It was hard, afterward, to figure out what had happened. The Gnasher had fled Kothifir. Apparently he had been behind all of the mysterious deaths through the casting of his shadow. Grimly only knew that his absence had opened no new opportunities for him, nor did he see the young Highborn Torisen again for some time.

Previously, Grimly had paid little attention to Kothifiran politics. What were they, after all, to an artist? Now he found himself wondering what role that silver-eyed boy might be playing in them.

Within days after the Gnasher had fled the Rose Tower, Kothifir declared war on the distant city of Urakarn, infamous for its religious fanatics. The reasons for this war were obscure: Princess Amantine had lost her husband to the Gnasher, and the Gnasher had some connection to the Karnid Prophet, who had been King Kruin’s advisor. Moreover, Lord Caineron’s favorite son, Genjar, was currently commandant of the Kencyrath’s Southern Host, and he was hot to prove himself in battle.

Grimly went out with most of Kothifir to see the Host assemble on the south-western training ground below their permanent camp. Genjar rode up, self-important on a showy white horse, trailed by his gaudy staff made up mostly of Kothifiran nobles. Native brass bands bounced around the perimeter of the field playing different patriotic tunes, chased by over-excited dogs and one confused donkey. Genjar made a speech that few could hear. Nonetheless, when he stopped the crowd cheered. Grimly ducked through their ranks, looking for Torisen. There he was at last, riding expressionless beside the scowling hulk that was Harn Grip-hard.

At last the Host marched away. When it was only dust on the horizon, everyone went home.

III

Days passed without news, then weeks. Grimly reminded himself that Urakarn was on the far, western side of the Southern Wastes, a month’s round trip at least. Patience, patience...

In the meantime, he moved into very modest quarters of his own among the abandoned towers, over the indignant protests of his mentor. Malodium had done very well out of exploiting his freakish guest.

“Just see what becomes of you without me!” he shouted after Grimly as the wolver trotted away down the street, his belongings in a bundle over his back, jeering children on his heels. “Kothifir isn’t called the Cruel for nothing!”

At least now Grimly could choose his own audiences. He drank less and practiced more, not that it did much good; Kothifirans were too used to him as a bumbling buffoon and laughed before he could even open his mouth. At night, he crouched on his shaky, rusty balcony overlooking the lit towers of the central city and sang to himself, not in court Rendish but in the crooning wails of his native holt. A swelling howl shaped the full moon. Shorter yips traced the outlines of trees and the walls of the ruined keep that was his pack’s den. Burbling ululations became the creek that run through the fallen blocks. Sometimes stray dogs below lifted their voices with his, but he did not understand them, nor did they him. Perhaps it was time to go home, back to the wood. First, however, he would wait until news came from Urakarn.

At last it did.

Genjar led back the tattered, bloody remnant of the Host, depleted by at least a quarter. The Karnids had ambushed him, he said, and there were too many of them. He hadn’t been warned of that. It was all the fault of the vanguard which had pressed too far forward, intent on stealing his glory. Damn Harn for his ambition and jealousy of his betters. Damn that sneaking bastard of a clerk, Torisen, for urging the big Kendar on. It served them right that they had all been slaughtered and that their bones were left to rot in the sun. At least he, Genjar, had brought what remained of the Host home safely. The Kencyrath and King Krothen owed him thanks for that.

Kothifir murmured, uneasily. At the foot of the Escarpment, the camp of the Southern Host settled into a sullen silence.

Grimly started to drink heavily again, often forgetting to eat. He couldn’t get Torisen’s fate out of his mind, or Genjar’s boasting. Besides “rescuing” the Host, the Caineron demanded praise for his feats in battle, which no one else had witnessed. To challenge him, however, would be to accuse him of lying, and one apparently did not do that to a Kencyr Highborn.

Then a summons arrived. The Caineron commandant had been holding high court ever since his return from the Wastes. Now he wanted the Wildman of the Woods to perform for him.

Grimly thought about that. He had ignored more and more requests while his funds had shrunken to a pittance. To drink or to eat? Food didn’t assuage his hunger. Drink, then, although sleep brought him increasingly vivid dreams of the hunt. The pursuit, the pounce, the rich red blood gushing between his sharp teeth – oh, so satisfying! – while wild, disbelieving eyes stared into his own...

When he woke from this fever dream, he found himself crouching before the eastern gate of the Caineron barracks. Despite being called a camp, the structures here were three stories high and quite substantial. It was morning. Surely he had been asked to sing at supper. On this day or another? And had he really meant to rip out Genjar’s throat for the sake of someone whom he barely knew? Because Torisen had been kind to a child? Because he had apologized to a wretched wolver? Because his hands and eyes were so beautiful?

Within the Caineron barracks, someone shouted. More echoed him, the alarm spreading throughout the fabric of the compound.

A door set in one leaf of the outer gate opened, and a figure stepped out, clad in shabby black rags.

“Oh, Grimly,” it said. “What have you done to yourself?”

The wolver had flattened to the ground in his full furs. For one distracted moment, he was aware of the matted gray coat that barely covered his prominent ribs and concave stomach.

“You’re dead!” he croaked.

Torisen thought about this, silver eyes huge and puzzled in a wasted face. “I don’t think so,” he said, doubtfully.

Caineron were running down the street from both directions. Grimly rose, grabbed the Kencyr’s arm, and hustled him across the way into the protection of the gate leading to the abandoned Knorth compound.

The tumult within the Caineron barracks increased.

“What did you do?” Grimly demanded.

“I? Nothing.” Then Torisen added, as if as an afterthought, “Genjar is dead.”

“What? How?”

The other didn’t seem to hear him. He was shivering and the arm that Grimly felt through the tattered sleeve burned with fever. “It’s my fault,” he said, staring at nothing. “It’s all my fault.”

The wolver gripped him. “You need help,” he said. “The infirmary...”

“No!” With a quick movement, Torisen thrust his hands into his armpits and huddled over them. “I need Harn.”

“He’s alive too? Never mind. Come on.”

No one noticed them as they stumbled away from the barracks, across the inner ward, and into the office block set against the camp’s northern wall. Harn Grip-hard was in his quarters, issuing orders, a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his brow.

“Out,” he said to the crowd that surrounded him when over their heads he saw Grimly and Torisen in the doorway.

The room emptied, many glancing curiously at Torisen as they passed.

“Where have you been, boy?” Harn loomed over the new-comers, his haggard face like a bristly moon. “I told you to report to the surgeon.”

“I can’t. My hands...”

“Let me see.”

With surprising gentleness, he disengaged Torisen’s arms and held the latter’s hands in his own. Those slim, elegant fingers were swollen with infection and crisscrossed by a lacework of deep, angry burns, red and yellow and black.

“What happened?” Grimly blurted out, and Torisen answered as if dazed.

“The Karnids worship their god-prophet. They tried to convert me. ‘Do you recant...do you profess...’ I couldn’t. Our Three-faced God gives us no choice in such matters. ‘Then we must convince you, for your own good...’ They fit me with gloves of red-hot wire and I burned, I burned...”

He swayed in the wolver’s grip, horror dilating his eyes. “I-I can’t go to the infirmary. The surgeon will cut off my hands.”

“That’s as may be.” Harn scooped him up as one might a child. In the doorway, on the way out, he glanced back at Grimly. “Thank you.”

IV

More days passed. The camp shut in on itself and little that happened there reached the city above. Rumor said that only four had returned from the Host’s vanguard – Harn, Rowan, a Kendar named Burr, and Torisen. A fifth had been lost in the Wastes – Rose Iron-thorn. Grimly wondered about her young daughter, Brier. He also worried about Torisen. Were his hands healing? And why did he blame himself for the slaughter that had befallen the Host’s vanguard?

Caldane, Lord Caineron, arrived to claim the body of his favorite son. Grimly saw him ride through the streets of Kothifir, a frog-faced man in gaudy robes with death in his eyes. Nusair, a younger, less favored son, rode beside him and chattered, unheeded, in his ear. They took the lift-cage down the Escarpment to the camp. There the Caineron barracks swallowed them.

With his last coins, Grimly bought passage down to the camp and slunk about its streets, hungry for news. A whisper sent him to the Caineron compound where Harn Grip-hard had been called to account for the Urakarn disaster. How to get in? Stray dogs nosed about the gate, looking for scraps. Grimly dropped to all fours and threaded between them, twice as big as they, snapping whenever one drew near. He passed over the threshold on Harn’s heels. The big Kendar glanced down at him but said nothing.

They crossed the grassy quadrangle and entered the barracks proper. Here was the great hall with Caldane enthroned at its head in squat majesty, his son Nusair lounging beside him.

“So,” he said heavily, regarding Harn. “You were my son’s second in command. I have heard about you. A Knorth, were you not, before Ganth Graylord’s fall? You never supported my son Genjar as you should. He told me that. I also hear that you were struck senseless by a rock early in the battle and so had little to do with its conclusion.”

“Nonetheless,” growled Harn, flexing his big hands, “I take responsibility for all that happened under my command.”

“Of course you do, and so you are,” said Nusair with a smirk. “No one forgets that.”

His father glowered sideways at him and he shut up. Lord Caineron turned back to Harn.

“My understanding is that your...ah...clerk took charge after you fell. Perhaps it is to him that I should speak.”

“He is still recovering from wounds taken in the campaign...” Harn began, but the Caineron checked him.

“Nonetheless,” he said, “here he is.”

Two Kendar pushed to the front of the crowd, towering over Torisen whom they held captive between them. He was dressed better than when Grimly had last seen him, all in black as befit his nickname. However, his face still looked harrowed and white bandages covered his hands. Kencyr heal quickly. Clearly, Torisen had not, as if he hadn’t let himself.

“It’s my fault,” he had said. “It’s all my fault.”

“I’m done with you,” said Caldane to Harn. “Go.”

The big Kendar drew himself up, glowering. “I’ll wait for Blackie.”

“Do it outside.”

Harn glanced at Torisen and then, fleetingly, at Grimly. Stay with him, said his eyes. With that, he turned on his heel and left.

The guards released Torisen and he stepped forward, drawing his hands protectively behind his back.

“My lord,” he said, with a respectful but wary nod to Caldane.

The Caineron leaned back in his chair. “So,” he said. “You are the mysterious boy whom Lord Ardeth sent to join the Host. I thought I knew every Highborn in the Kencyrath. No doubt you are one of Adric’s bastards, eh? Perhaps of mixed or unclean lineage? That house is so proud of its pure bloodlines. I wonder how many freaks it keeps in its shadows. So you took it upon yourself to assume command of the vanguard, and no one challenged you. Odd, that, but never mind. What happened?”

Torisen gulped, silver eyes refocusing on memory.

“The vanguard was surrounded by Karnids,” he said. “Commandant Genjar had ignored the reports of his scouts as to the enemy strength, and there were many, many more of them than he had thought. They were destroying us. Harn ordered me to fight my way back to the main body of the Host to ask for reinforcements. Then he fell. A handful of us went, only to find that the rest of our forces were also heavily engaged. They might have held, but Genjar panicked and fled. The rest of the Host followed him, leaving the vanguard to Karnid mercy, of which there was none. They slaughtered all but a quarter of us, whom they took prisoner. Only five escaped Urakarn and one, Rose Iron-Thorn, was swallowed by sink-sand.” He gulped again. “I had to tell her daughter.”

“You’re lying!” Nusair burst out. “My brother never ran away! He was a hero!”

Caldane raised a hand to stop his son, although he too looked pale. “Perhaps this conversation is best conducted in private, and the truth pursued by other means of...er...persuasion. Nusair? Make your brother proud. The rest of you, leave.”

The crowd broke up, muttering, and Torisen was led away. Grimly tried to follow, but a forest of Kendar surrounded him. Those who noticed as he shouldered his way through their midst cursed and kicked him. With difficulty he restrained himself from snapping right and left with jaws that could have sheered through flesh and bone.

Here in a hallway the mob thinned, but where was Torisen?

Grimly ran back and forth, anxiously seeking his scent. It seemed to take forever before he found and followed it, up stair after stair to the Caineron guest quarters. Grimly reared up, placed his paws on the door, and pushed. When it opened a crack, he slipped through into the empty antechamber beyond. Nusair’s muffled voice sounded from an inner room. The next door stood open, but furniture blocked the view of its interior. Tapestries covered the walls from floor to ceiling. Grimly crept in behind them. If anyone had been paying attention, which they were not, they would have seen a large bump making its way around the edge of the room. It was very dusty behind the arras. Grimly struggled not to sneeze. Then he found a gap between panels and cautiously pushed his nose through it.

A massive oaken table occupied the center of the room, strewn with loose papers with more in a stack at one corner, held down by a chunk of granite. Nusair lounged behind the table in a thronelike chair, elbows on its armrests, fingers steepled before him. He seemed to be trying to imitate Lord Caineron’s ponderous manner, but the effect was marred by his petulant expression.

On the other side of the table stood Torisen in the grip of a large, silent Kendar.

“Father says that you are an Ardeth bastard. Did they keep you locked up in the cellar full of creepy-crawlies? Is that why no one ever heard of you before you showed up here and became Harn’s pet? Is it true that he favors little boys?”

When Torisen didn’t answer, Nusair shifted in his seat and gave a moue of discontent.

“Where’s the fun if you won’t play the game? You talked to Father. Why not to me? Let’s try this again. You said that my brother Genjar ran away from the Karnids. Of course he didn’t. Why did you lie?”

Torisen hissed through his teeth; the Kendar had twisted one arm up behind his back. Grimly, with difficulty, kept still.

“I know that there’s been talk,” said Nusair, again moving restlessly. “A strange way to commit suicide,’ they say... People can be so petty, so vindictive, and the dead can’t speak for themselves. At least his death was honorable.” His voice rose as Torisen looked away. “Well, wasn’t it?”

The Kendar twisted again. This time he had shifted his grip to Torisen’s bandaged right hand, and the boy cried out involuntarily in pain.

“Ah, your hands. Let’s see them.”

Encircling him with long arms, the Kendar grabbed the young Highborn’s wrists and held his hands out, flat to the table. Nusair stripped off the wrappings, then sat back. A curious expression, which he tried to hide, flickered across his face.

“You are a mess, aren’t you?” he said. “After all of this time, too. I wonder.” He picked up the granite paperweight and balanced it on his palm. “If I were to smash your fingers with this, would they split open like bad sausages? So I ask you again: what have you heard – what do you know – about my brother’s death?”

Torisen strained in the Kendar’s grip, but said nothing.

Nusair licked his lips and smiled. His eyes bright, he raised the stone.

Grimly charged out from between the arras, leaped onto the table, and skidded across its top with scrabbling claws amidst a storm of loose papers. Nusair went over backward in the chair with a yelp, his feet flying up. The wolver checked himself and sprang at the Kendar, Torisen ducking aside just in time. Grimly hit the big man on the chest and knocked him over. As he fell, he struck his head on the corner of a chest and, once down, lay still.

“Don’t move!” Grimly snarled at Nusair as the Caineron peered fearfully around the seat of the overturned chair behind which he cowered.

Resuming his half-human form, the wolver threw an arm around Torisen’s shoulders and helped him out of the room, out of the apartment. They had stumbled down two flights of stairs to the ground floor before the commotion began above. Grimly ducked under the steps, drawing the Highborn boy with him. Footsteps thundered overhead.

“This house certainly runs around a lot,” said Grimly in a whisper, “especially when you’re involved.”

Torisen was staring at his swollen, burnt hands. “My fault,” he muttered. “All my fault.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“The Karnid prophet said that he only wanted me. If I surrendered the vanguard, he promised that he would spare them. I did. He didn’t. They all died.”

Grimly gaped at him. “And you blame yourself? By stone and bone, Tori, you did the best you could. What more could you have done?”

What more than to avenge them? How had Genjar died? But now was not the time for such a question.

“Forget it,” Grimly said, distractedly waving a hand that was half a furry paw. “Forget it all and heal!”

Torisen looked up, confused. “What, heel, like a dog?”

“No, dammit. Would I of all folk say that to anyone? Heal!”

“Oh.” The boy’s face twisted. He began to laugh with an edge of hysteria.

Grimly was alarmed: what if someone heard? But he felt the urge to giggle himself. They spent a moment choking on helpless laughter in the dust of the stair well.

“When this is over,” said Torisen, wiping his streaming eyes with a cuff, “if it ever is, I would like you to sing for me. Something honest. Something true.”

Grimly felt a long-closed window open up in his soul, through which blew the fragrance of leaf and loam and deep, cool shadows.

“Not in Rendish, then,” he said. “A song of the Holt.”

The grassy quadrangle was momentarily empty. They stumbled across it and out the door into the street, where Harn Grip-hard strode across the sun-lit cobbles to meet them.

The Last Secret of Mary Bowser

by Steve White

After the Civil War, the United States government destroyed

all records of the espionage activities of Mary Elizabeth Bowser,

who had spied for the Union while a servant in the household

of Confederate President Jefferson Davis. Thus there is very

little hard evidence of the details of her story.

But it is generally believed that in January, 1865, facing

imminent discovery, she fled from Richmond after an

unsuccessful attempt to burn down the Confederate White

House. Afterwards, she disappears from history. It is not

even known when or where she died...

The commotion grew fainter behind her as she hurried along Clay Street through the chill night. They must, she thought, have put out the fire. Her upbringing at the Quaker School for Negroes in Philadelphia did not permit her to curse.

Even if it had, she wasn’t sure she would have. At least not whole-heartedly.

She bore the Davis family no particular malice—certainly not the children. She had wept when five-year-old Joseph Evan had fallen to is death in April. And she had no desire to harm nine-year-old Margaret or her little brothers Jeff Jr. and William, much less the adorable toddler Winnie. But Thomas McNiven, the baker whose deliveries had been her means for relaying information, had been found out as a spy, and with suspicion certain to fall on her next, she had hardened her heart and done the one thing she could to cause disruption in the Rebel government before fleeing.

But she had failed. All that was left to her now was flight. She would somehow make her way north to Philadelphia, and her husband.

The thought of Wilson Bowser caused her concentration to wander for a moment as she turned right onto Eighth Street, and she barely managed to spot a pair of patrolmen in time to duck into the shadows before they could apprehend her for violating the Black Code by being abroad after curfew. Forced to remain motionless while they passed, she felt the cold bite into her. It brought home to her how much she needed help.

One place she could not turn to for it was the Van Lew mansion on Church Hill, where she had been born a slave. Elizabeth Van Lew, after her father’s death, had freed the family’s slaves. She herself owed Miss Van Lew her education as well as her freedom, for it was that spinsterish lady who had sent the young freed slave girl to Philadelphia, having recognized her potential. And now, even though her anti-slavery and anti-secession views were well known here in the Rebel capital, no one took Miss Van Lew seriously, for she was quite evidently cracked—“Crazy Bet,” everyone called her.

And all the while the harmless, dotty old maid was running a spy ring that included clerks in the Confederate government, guards at Libby Prison... and a certain former slave of hers, whom she had arranged to have employed in the household of the Confederacy’s First Family.

Being black, the new servant girl had been assumed to be illiterate. She had reinforced the impression by seeming slow-witted. Thus she had gone even more unnoticed than most servants. No one had thought to conceal confidential documents from her, any more than from a piece of furniture. And she had always had a phenomenal memory...

But now she could not contact Elizabeth Van Lew, lest she bring suspicion on her benefactress’ head and wreck her entire fragile structure of espionage. The uncovering of Thomas McNiven was bad enough. No; she must go nowhere near Church Hill.

But there was one place where she could, and would, go.

Even as she resumed walking, drawing her heavy shawl more tightly around her slender body against the January night, she smiled to herself as she reflected on the layers of secrets that comprised her life. There was, of course, the whole cloak of secrets under which she had lived her life in the Executive Mansion. Only Elizabeth Van Lew knew the truth about that... all the while never dreaming that there was yet another layer, of which she was as ignorant as Jefferson Davis was of the first one.

It had always gone against the grain to conceal anything from the woman to whom she owed so much. But there were things that Elizabeth Van Lew didn’t need to know, and couldn’t be allowed to know.

Things that no one not a member of the Order of the Three-Legged Horse could be allowed to know.

And yet... Her thoughts went back to mid-December, when a certain Confederate cavalry captain—or so he had seemed—had appeared with his men, and revealed knowledge he shouldn’t have possessed. She dismissed the always-disturbing thought, for it wasn’t what she needed to concentrate on just now.

Yes, she thought, quickening her steps as she went northward on Eighth Street. I’ll go find Gracchus.

* * *

Rectortown was a tiny hamlet in Fauquier County, alongside the Manassas Gap Railroad. It was well within the vague boundaries of what people called “Mosby’s Confederacy,” where Union forces came and went but the Partisan Rangers led by John Singleton Mosby, the “Gray Ghost,” owned the night.

It was ninety miles north of Richmond as the crow flies. But crows didn’t have to skulk about, traveling by night whenever possible and avoiding all contacts by day, sheltering with free blacks whenever she could find them. It had taken her weeks, and the cold seemed to have seeped into her very bones. But now, at the end of January, she sat in a shack behind Rector’s Warehouse, warming herself by a small fireplace and sipping the blockaded South’s ersatz “coffee.”

“Gracchus ain’t here now,” the aging black man named Marcus explained, “but Ah got a pretty good idea of where he headed. Y’see, last month, just a few days ‘fore Christmas, some men came here that Gracchus had told us to expect—even though they was dressed up like Rebel cavalry.”

She looked up sharply. “Was their leader a captain? And did you say Gracchus told you to expect them?”

“Yes and yes, Miss. The captain, he called hisself ‘Captain Landrieu’ like Gracchus had told us he would. Gracchus didn’t say how he knowed they was comin’. But you know Gracchus. He got some uncanny ways.”

“Yes, he does,” she said absently, deep in thought.

So the mysterious grey-coated men she had directed to this place had come... and just as they had inexplicably known about Gracchus, he had also known about them.

She knew she shouldn’t be surprised. But she couldn’t simply accept things the way Marcus could. She found herself envying him for that. She couldn’t stop herself from wondering.

She, like Marcus, was part of the Order of the Three-legged Horse, but not one of its inner circle who had brought the Order from Jamaica, the source of the legend of the beneficent supernatural being which gave the Order its name. So she did not know the innermost mysteries. But she knew of the demons who had, ages ago, deceived men into worshiping them as gods. (Although she had often thought, from certain things she’d heard, that they weren’t really demons—which her Quaker education disinclined her to believe in anyway—but beings of another mortal race than man, of flesh but a horribly different flesh, come from the stars.) And she knew to beware of the evil, unnatural men who sought to seduce black people into worshiping those demons with unspeakable rites, even including human sacrifice and cannibalism.

But Gracchus, the leader, knew other things—things no man had any business knowing. Things her mind would simply reject lest they destroy it, he had once told her when she had timidly tried to draw him out. A chill had run along her spine, and she had asked him no more questions.

And yet she continued to wonder...

“Anyhows,” Marcus resumed, “they talked about things Gracchus said me and my family was just as well off not knowin’, so we waited in the shed. Then, at dawn the next mornin’, another of the captain’s men rode in—young feller named Angus Aiken, with the reddest hair Ah ever did see.”

“Yes,” she said, mostly to herself. She recalled that one of the enigmatic men who had shown up on Clay Street had stood out from the others by his carrot top.

“He was wounded, and he told the captain that another man who’d been with him had been captured.” Marcus’s eyes flickered in the firelight with superstitious dread. “Now, Ah don’t rightly understand just how, but the captain knew that his captured man was bein’ taken toward Ashby’s Gap. So he and the rest of his men rode off that way, leavin’ Private Aiken here to get better.

“But time went on and the captain never came back. So young Aiken, he couldn’t stand it no longer and headed out to find the others, even though there was Yankee cavalry comin’ through lookin’ for Mosby’s boys. But he never did find ‘em, and a little over a week later, the day after New Year’s, he was back here. He wanted to stay in these parts in case the captain turned up, which Ah could understand. What Ah couldn’t understand was that he has to stay alive ‘till exactly April 5, and after that he’ll be safe. So he decided to join up with Mosby’s Rangers, who he already knew.” Marcus chuckled. “That didn’t go over none too well with Gracchus! But anyhow, that’s where he’s been ever since.”

“But,” she prompted, “what about Gracchus? You said you know where he’s going now.”

“He came through here just a few days ago, on his way to the Valley. Mosby’s Rangers is raidin’ over there, up Harper’s Ferry way, and Gracchus needed to find Private Aiken and bring him back to Ashby’s Gap, because he needs his help.”

“Why?”

All at once, the gleam was back in Marcus’s eyes. “Gracchus couldn’t tell me much, Miss. But it’s somethin’ to do with the evil men we’ve been warned of. They’re up to somethin’ up near Ashby’s Gap. And Private Aiken, like all of Captain Landrieu’s men, knows things about them—things nobody else does.”

She shivered, for she recalled what “Captain Landrieu” had said to her: We have our own war, and it’s with the people Gracchus and his organization are also fighting. People far worse than the Secessionists. People who want to inflict something even more evil than slavery.

Marcus gave her the kind of deferential look he often did, for he was in awe of her education. “Miss, do you know what’s goin’ on?”

“No, but I’d like to find out.” She called to mind a map of this part of Virginia she had seen, and therefore remembered, as she could remember everything. “Ashby’s Gap, you say? Gracchus and this Private Aiken ought to be getting back there soon. I’m going to go there and try to meet them.”

Marcus’s eyes grew round. “You sure you want to, Miss? It’s liable to be pretty dangerous up there.”

She smiled. “What isn’t, these days?”

* * *

Ashby’s Gap lay about eight miles northwest of Rectortown, by very crude roads. At its eastern end was the town of Paris, even less impressive than Rectortown though nestled in a striking locale at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. She skirted the town and began to ascend the gap, climbing into regions where a dusting of snow lay on the ground, stopping frequently to draw deep breaths of the thinner, chillier air. At least the day was brilliantly clear, and the sun plus her exertions had made her almost warm by the time she reached the crest of the Blue Ridge.

She paused, catching her breath and trying to decide what to do next, for there had so far been no sign of Gracchus or anyone else. Ahead, to the northwest, lay the valley where the silvery Shenandoah River snaked among the winter-denuded forests. On either side of her rose wildly wooded slopes. She noticed a trail to her left, leading uphill along the crest. For some reason she could not define, she decided to follow it.

She had followed it for some distance when the ground seemed to jump under her, and a crash like nearby thunder assaulted her ears. Stunned with surprise, she looked around wildly in a moment of near-panic. But nothing could be seen but the slopes and woods that hemmed her in on either side of the trail. Seeing a relatively clear area to her left, she scrambled up a rocky slope. It took her a while before she emerged above the timber line onto a small outcropping where she could look out to the north.

Below and to the left, she saw where the trail came to an end, at a level clearing with a large log cabin to the left, at the base of an overhanging crag. To the right of the clearing, directly below her, was a shallow depression. To the right of that was a sparsely wooded slope, rising up to another clearing, separated by only a narrow wooded area from the trail she had been following—she must have passed close to it. In the center of that clearing, smoke was still rising from the crater of a terrific explosion, surely the one she had heard. It wasn’t easy to tell at this distance, but she was sure she could make out a sprawled, motionless human body not far from the crater. She also discerned four horses tethered to trees at the outskirts of the clearing, near the trail, which was unsuitable for them.

Motion at the log cabin caught her eye. Five figures emerged, running. Three of them paused and threw things back though the doorway, then ran even faster for a few seconds before throwing themselves prone on the ground.

She had no time to puzzle over their behavior before the cabin erupted in a rapid-fire series of shattering explosions that blew its walls out, leaving the roof to collapse with a roar. She fell to the ground and made herself as small as possible, even though she was certain no one would think to look up here in this direction, and that they wouldn’t see her if they did. She remained huddled into herself until the noise had ceased, wondering what kind of nightmare she had wandered into—and what Gracchus might have to do with the things she had seen and heard.

When she finally dared to look again, there was a smoldering pile of rubble where the cabin had stood, and the five men were running across the dry creek bed at the bottom of the depression and ascending the slope to the clearing where the first explosion had occurred. There they looked about, as though searching for something. Then they found the trail leading down the slope and hastily followed it.

Without knowing why, she was certain she must follow them.

Going back down the rocky slope to the trail was even more awkward than ascending it had been, in her long, heavy dress. Patches of unmelted winter ice didn’t help. She was less than halfway down to the trail, slipping and sliding and frequently having to grasp tree limbs to save herself from falling, when she began to hear gunshots off to the right, in the direction the men had gone. She hesitated only a moment before resuming her hazardous descent. She managed to reach the trail uninjured save for minor cuts and scratches. Then, after pausing to catch her breath, she turned right and followed the trail downhill, following the sound of the guns, which presently ceased.

Soon she rounded a curve in the trail... and immediately stepped back and took shelter behind a tree trunk, peering out cautiously at the scene before her.

Three men in Confederate uniforms lay dead. But she barely noticed, for two men had stepped out from behind a large fallen tree—and she recognized them. One was white and Confederate-uniformed, and topped with the flaming red hair of Private Aiken. But it was his strongly built black companion who caused her heart to leap, for he was Gracchus. They stepped forward to greet five white men, surely the five she had seen flee the cabin before destroying it. One of them lay on the ground, wounded, and another was on his knees tending to the wounded man. All five had the look of castaways, for they wore the filthy tatters of Confederate uniforms, and their hair and beards had obviously been neither cut nor tended for several months. One, whose shaggy mane was very dark and who seemed to be the leader, shook hands with Gracchus and Aiken, who was clearly amazed and relieved to see him. It was too far for her to make out their words, but there was something about the dark-haired man’s quality of voice... Come to think of it, there was something teasingly familiar beneath the almost wild look...

Then, with almost physical force, it came to her. This was Captain Landrieu—or whatever his real name was—whom she had met in Richmond, well groomed and nattily uniformed, in mid-December! And now, knowing what to look for, she could also recognize his men. But what could have turned them into these savage apparitions in a mere month and a half?

They spoke for a few moments, and she detected a sense of urgency. Then they seemed to wear the aspect of men making their farewells...

And with absolutely no warning, and no sound save a kind of soft pop, the five grimy, wild-haired men vanished.

All the education that had taught her to disdain childhood superstitions abruptly went whirling down into a howling vortex of primal terror, for she knew she had just witnessed magic. Of its own accord, a scream burst from her lips.

Gracchus and Aiken whirled toward the unexpected sound and came running. “Mary!” exclaimed Gracchus. Then he grasped her by the upper arms and held her tight. She vaguely realized she was trembling uncontrollably. He held her until the shuddering subsided.

“Mary,” Gracchus repeated gently in his deep, strong voice that held a remnant of the lilt of his native Jamaica. “What are you doing here?” Aiken stared, clearly recognizing her. His expression seemed to reflect several things, one of which was worry.

She gulped several times before she could speak calmly. “I had to leave Richmond—they had come to suspect me. I needed help, and I didn’t have anywhere else to turn, so I came up here looking for you. And...” Suddenly she was shaking again, and she pointed unsteadily toward the place where five men had disappeared. “Gracchus, what happened to those men?”

Aiken’s face grew even graver. “So you saw...?”

Gracchus turned to him. “Angus, would you let me talk to her in private for a moment?”

“Oh... sure.” The red-headed young man moved away, just out of earshot.

“Mary,” said Gracchus, “I’m going to tell you things that you’re not supposed to know—things known only to a very few of the Order’s innermost circle. And I’m going to tell you why you must never reveal those things to anyone.”

More secrets, she thought with a mental sigh. But she nodded.

“You’ve been told of the evil men our order exists to combat. What you haven’t been told is that these men are called Transhumanists, and that they’re even more evil than you think, or can imagine. The demon-cults they try to establish among us are merely a means—and only one means out of many—toward their real goal, which his to transform the human race into something God ever intended. To do that, they have ways you’d probably think are magic but in fact are perverted science. And these sciences are unknown to us because, you see, the Tranhsumanists come from the future.”

“Come from the future?” she echoed uncomprehendingly.

“A little over five hundred years in the future. Don’t ask me how they travel in time, just take my word that they do. They’re trying to change the past in ways that will make their victory in their own day inevitable. But one of them—a woman in Jamaica two hundred years ago—turned against her leaders, and founded our Order to try and undo the evil she had been made to do.

“But there are people from their time whose job is to hunt them down and stop them. One of them is the man you know as ‘Captain Landrieu’ but whose real name is Jason Thanou. Between us, he and our Order have just foiled one of their schemes. And what you just saw was them returning to their own proper time.”

For a moment, she could only try to assimilate all this. “But,” she finally said, pointing to Aiken, “what about him? Why didn’t he vanish into thin air?”

“It was just explained to me, but I couldn’t understand a word of it. Aiken was the only one of them who escaped capture by the Transhumanists, who’ve been holding the rest of them in a... place where time is different. For them, more than three months have passed since mid-December. Aiken is here for the real three months. That’s the best I can explain it.”

Her mind was too numbed to form questions. She could only listen as he continued in a graver voice.

“But for now, what matters is that you saw them disappear. Nobody in this time is supposed to have seen anything like that. And now you know things that nobody is supposed to know. So now you’re under the same curse as those of us in the Order who do know them. History, as written in Jason Thanou’s time, says these things didn’t become generally known in 1865. So if you tried to reveal them, history wouldn’t let you. And no, I don’t understand that either. But something would prevent it. Maybe something that would kill you. So you must promise me that you’ll keep the secret.”

“Oh, yes,” she said with a tremulous smile. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Gracchus gave her a sharp look, as if unsure that she fully grasped his words. But what he saw seemed to satisfy him. “All right. Let me go over and talk to Angus—reassure him. And then we’ll go. We’ve got an extra horse for you. Two extra horses, in fact; that’s how many of my men have died. Then we’ll split up. Angus will rejoin Mosby’s Rangers.” He smoothed over his reflexive sour look. “And I’ll arrange to get you up to Philadelphia.” He went to talk to Aiken.

So, she thought, it’s yet another layer of secrets. I’d thought I had plenty.

And it is enough. More than enough. That’s why I’ll keep my promise to Gracchus, even though I understand none of this.

Gracchus and Aiken walked over to her. “All right, Mary,” said Gracchus. “Angus is sure we can rely on you.”

And what would he have done if he wasn’t? she wondered. She decided she didn’t really want to know.

And, she reflected as they set off along the trail, they really could rely on her. She would never reveal any of this to anyone, not even Wilson. And this would be the last secret. She was through with them. There would be no more secrets for Mary Bowser.

Low Arc

by Sean Monaghan

When Colin Bertelli heard Johnston's scream over the comms he dropped the pyroprobe and headed back up the small gray scarp.

"Randy?" Bertelli said. "Status?"

Silence.

Schröedinger was vast. Now he was going to be in trouble for straying too far. He was a hundred and eighty meters from the ridge.

Four minutes walk.

"Randy? Come in."

Bertelli far preferred the science secondment over his old job. But the suits were flimsier. You couldn't afford to fall down. Not at a full run.

He'd lived at the moon's south pole for three years. Ice mining.

That was where he'd picked up bad habits.

Running his suit empty. Pushing tools beyond their rating. Running across the mare or up crater walls.

Valerie was glad he wasn't doing that anymore.

He called for Johnston again.

Still no response.

Johnston wasn't where he was supposed to be. Bertelli should be able to see him from here.

"Orion?" he said. Suze Baldwin, up in the module should have been monitoring all their comms. "Come in Suze."

Ahead Bertelli saw a smooth area. He jumped across. Another bad habit.

Clearing fifteen meters he stumbled when he landed. He kept his legs going.

"Copy you," Suze said.

"Randy's gone silent."

"I heard him yell. I was pushing cycles on the scrubber."

The Orion capsule had been running on a gammy CO2 system since they'd broken Earth orbit. That was the trouble with old technology.

NASA really needed to retire the Orion and figure out the next thing.

"Can you spot him?"

"I'm just over the rim. I'll run the scopes."

"Just pull the video."

"His feed's offline."

Bertelli kept running. The capsule was in a high elliptical orbit. It ran out long and slow over Schröedinger so they had maximum contact time.

When she whipped around the other side--facing Earth--she was so low she practically stirred up dust. If there'd been an atmosphere.

Suze joked that on pericynthion she had to aim between the mountains.

"Where are you?" she said.

"I'm getting there." His knee twinged. He'd rubbed in liniment before they'd come out. Randy had complained about the stink. Surety was a pretty confined space.

Suze swore. "Are you off-table again?"

"I saw some likely rocks."

"And this is the kind of thing that happens when you do that."

"It would have happened no matter where I was."

Randy was on a different grid. They wouldn't have been near each other even if Bertelli had stayed on the grid.

Still, Randy Johnston did some stuff on his own. Liked to think he was the one in charge. The one who knew everything.

On the flight up, Bertelli had woken to find Randy running fuel system checks. Bertelli's responsibility. Another time Randy had checked and corrected Suze's flight vectors. Without asking.

No, Bertelli didn't feel bad for stretching out what he got up to.

"I am never flying with you again," Suze said.

Bertelli came up over the ridge. He saw the landing site and realized no one was ever flying with him again.

The Surety pointed at the wrong part of the sky.

One of her three legs had failed. She was leaning at a twenty degree angle. Maybe twenty-five.

Very bad.

Bertelli started down the slope. He called Suze again. Gave her the news.

"The leg failed?"

"Are you getting my video?"

"Gimmee a second."

As he drew in he could see the leg hadn't failed completely.

The grid work had collapsed in on itself. Part of the lower section had jammed into the upper frame.

It looked like it was barely holding.

"That's bad," Suze said.

Understatement, Bertelli thought.

The Surety was stuck.

Her maximum take-off angle was a shade over nine degrees. Not much wiggle room.

And as he closed the distance he could see that it was even greater than twenty-five.

Running in he passed the broken rover. The new one. A real example of why not to go with the lowest bidder.

On the first day they'd driven it a half-mile before one of the wheels had frozen. Bertelli had tried going back and forth to dislodge it. He succeeded only in digging a shallow trench.

"Reminds me of that Mars rover," Johnston had said. "Spirit. That little guy still did a lot of good science."

"Well, we're not doing any good science with this piece of-"

"Sure we can. Let me debug the system."

"Great. You debug." Bertelli had clambered out. "I'm hitting it with a hammer."

Johnston hadn't replied.

The hammer hadn't worked. Neither had the debugging. Now the rover was just another piece of abandoned hardware stuck on the lunar surface.

A three hundred million dollar piece of junk.

"Gotta call Houston," Suze said.

"Make it quick," he said. "Then start running scenarios."

"What do you mean 'scenarios'?"

"I mean figuring out how to get us out of here."

He knew it was out of reach.

The moon was developing fast. There were plenty of people working up here now. But they were all an awful long way off.

With a surface area more than four times that of the continental United States there was a lot of ground to cover.

There were probably two hundred people up here. Half of them were on the near side--facing Earth. And most of the rest were at the poles.

Commercial mining.

Exactly what he'd been doing.

That was supposed to be the high-risk stuff. Eighteen lunar fatalities in thirty years of continuous occupation.

Seventeen of those in the mines.

The other had been an ESA suicide. Afterwards they'd all looked at her psych profile and scratched their heads.

The moon was unpredictable.

Bertelli had pulled two of the miners out himself. A burst hydraulic line had flicked a stay cable like a whip.

One man had been almost cut in half. The other had gotten just a cracked helmet.

And a crack was all it took up here.

That was when he'd given mining away. But he couldn't give up the moon.

More than once there had been talk of linking up all the various commercial and government installations in a kind of mutual rescue web. Nothing ever came of it.

It always came back to money. The mines had plenty, but siphoned it all back to Earth. The science installations had none.

"Colin? Are you still there?"

"Yes. I mean figure out who's closest to us. Has anyone got a working rover? Or maybe a lander? See if there's anyone about to land and can divert to our location."

"That's going to take a while."

"Then get to it."

"Copy that."

The Surety was less than fifty meters away. With every step he took the damage seemed worse. The lower tips of the landing nacelles had touched the dusty regolith. Cables connecting the ship to solar gatherers had ripped out.

He still couldn't raise Johnston.

"Suze? Any luck?"

"Houston's sending us alternates."

Protocols, he thought. "Nothing from your end."

"I'm waking people up. Working through the list. Sirius haven't got anything ready to fly."

"Too far away anyway."

"Likewise ModCon and ESA. The Virgin Hotel's got gear, but they're plum in the middle of nearside."

"What about something in orbit?" Bertelli stopped and looked over the Surety's exterior.

Parts of the outer skin had buckled. Right around the leg frame. It was just the landing base--the part that got abandoned--but it was still concerning.

Surety was basically just an over-scaled Apollo LEM. A crew module and a disposable rocket base with legs, just twice the size.

The base became the upper module's launch platform for departure.

Assuming the base stayed level.

He walked around and couldn't see any sign of why this had happened. Except for the leg, everything seemed nominal.

The suit air was getting hot. He could hear the dim whine of the regulators trying to keep up with his exertion.

Completely different to a mining suit. With some of those you had to keep moving or freeze to death. The moon was cold, but mining ice at the poles made Antarctica seem balmy.

"Sorry Colin," Suze said. "There are five vessels in orbit. None of them has landing capacity."

"Okay. I'm going to have to climb on board and see what's up with Randy."

The most recent footsteps led right to the access ladder. Randy had gone back?

The internal comms might have broken down when the ship went over. Maybe he'd just stumbled and busted his radio.

There were redundancies though.

Bertelli didn't like to think of any reasons why Randy didn't use the alternatives.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" Suze said.

"Got to find him."

"What if it tips right over? With you on it."

"Risk I've got to take." He started doing the sums in his head. If they had to leave, there was spare oxygen on board. They could refill their tanks.

Once.

The supply was built into the Surety. If he could bring that with him he could just about walk to a rendezvous point.

On a single tank his range was no more than fifteen kilometers. Maybe twenty.

Assuming he wouldn't be walking back.

The capsule itself was very low volume. Cramped. Like the Orion, it didn't have an airlock.

They'd taken two excursions so far. It was rated for fifteen swap-outs. But if they stayed in there they had a couple of weeks of breathable air. Without counting the scrubbers.

It would be stinking inside by then.

Still, technically they could wait it out.

Bertelli put his hand on the ladder.

He didn't want to spend two weeks inside. Not with it at that angle. Suze was right; it could tip over at any time.

He put some weight on the ladder. It seemed firm.

They needed another solution.

He started climbing.

The ladder shook under his foot.

"Are you on?" Suze said.

"Two rungs up. Seems stable now."

He kept moving up. The normally level rungs angled down at the right and his boots slipped against the upright. He could feel the crushing.

"How's your oh-two?" Suze said.

"You tell me. I'm concentrating here."

"Your telemetry says seven point five liters. Nominal."

"Twenty minutes then."

"You shouldn't go out so far."

Bertelli sighed. He was almost at the top. "Tell you what. Why don't you give me the dressing-down when I'm safely back on Orion?"

Silence for a moment, then, "Copy that."

At the top of the ladder he nestled his feet into the exit step. There was nothing there to brace the side of his foot against. He gripped the vertical rungs beside the hatch.

There was a dinner-plate sized viewport in the hatch. Bertelli peered in.

And jerked back.

His feet slipped.

As he scrabbled for balance one of his hands came loose.

He got it on the other rung. With some pulling he managed to get himself on again.

"All right?" Suze said. "Heard you yelp."

"Got a fright. That's all." He wasn't going to tell her just yet.

Peering in the window again, he saw Randy.

He lay against the sample return locker. In the narrow space only his head and torso were visible. He was in his suit, but his helmet was off.

He wasn't moving.

Unconscious. Or worse.

Bertelli swore.

"Language," Suze said.

"Problem down here."

"I know that."

"What's your telemetry on Randy? Has he still got his medical sensors on?" A holdover from old NASA. Voluntary now, but Randy was a stickler for it. Liked to contribute every bit of science he could.

"Everything's nominal," Suze said. "Heart rate, breathing. BP's a bit low. Like he's sleeping."

Unconscious then.

Bertelli tapped on the window. With his glove on it would be as loud as a butterfly kiss.

Taking the rock hammer from his waist he knocked it on the hatch.

Silent to him, but it should ring through the capsule like a gong.

Randy didn't stir.

Trying a couple of times more, Bertelli figured what had happened.

Randy had been standing at the download console when the leg failed. He'd stumbled back, maybe hit his head.

But why did he have his helmet off?

Why was he even inside?

Where he was supposed to be was halfway between Bertelli's waypoint and Surety.

Protocols.

"He's down," Bertelli said. "Like maybe he's hit his head or something."

Suze didn't reply.

Bertelli tapped again. "I think he's not coming to."

What had Randy been doing in the module at all?

Activating the dumb door panel, Bertelli tried to query the system. It didn't give a lot of information. The interior was pressurized. Seals were good. Power was good. Gyros were shot.

* * *

That was all he could get.

"I can't get inside," he told Suze. He wondered what he'd do if Randy had already been dead. Depressurizing the module and opening the door wouldn't make any difference.

Remembering what Suze had said about Randy's low BP, Bertelli looked in again.

Yes. There was some blood on the locker.

Randy needed medical assistance. Someone had to get in there.

Fast.

The only way in, without subjecting him to vacuum, was to dock with the Orion.

But there was no way to launch from this angle.

And no way for Orion to come down to them.

If Randy was going to survive they had to get Surety back up to orbit.

Bertelli realized that applied to him too. Just that there was no way to get inside. No way to tend to Randy. To open the hatch was to kill him.

"Suze?"

"Yeah."

"I need you to pass something on to Valerie."

"No you don't. You'll be seeing her in a couple of days."

"Sure. And if I don't, you can tell her from me that I'm sorry."

"Okay. And I've got a message for you from Valerie."

"Huh?" How was that possible?

"She says that you need to make sure you come home. Whatever it takes."

"Johnston's got kids." Jaimee was three and Samuel was nine months. On the way up both Bertelli and Suze had gotten sick of seeing the photos. Cute kids sure, but who needed to see the seven hundredth photo of the baby asleep? Suze did better with that than he did.

"Yeah. Valerie's pregnant."

Bertelli smiled. "You were doing okay until then."

"Well, she could be."

He let his smile fade. There weren't going to be any kids for them. Plumbing problems on both sides. There was only Valerie.

Bertelli sucked in his breath.

Valerie.

He focused back on his task. Licking his dry lips, he stepped back down. Standing on the moon's surface again he took another sip of water.

If he had power tools and six hours, he could cut the other two legs off. The whole thing would settle down onto the open landing nacelles. Nice and level.

If he had those kinds of tools.

And if he had the luck of that lottery winner from a couple of years back.

Two billion dollars. With a ticket bought on the spur of the moment. Minutes before the cut-off for the draw. And the ticket was lost for a month. And went through the laundry.

When she went to get the prize--just before the money would have been declared unclaimed--the ticket was barely legible.

That kind of luck.

Bertelli wasn't going to be setting Surety back upright. Not with the best will in the world.

"Suze? Except for the angle, Surety's still in good shape, right?"

"You can't launch. If the landing section collapses further you're going to turn into a fireball."

"But everything's in reasonable shape, right?"

Hesitation, then a curt, "Yes."

"Okay. Can you launch her on remote?"

"Yes." The same curt tone.

"Start the procedure."

"I've got four minutes left in line-of-sight. Then you're going to lose me."

"Route the signal." Surely there was a lunar satellite she could bounce off.

Suze tsked. "Bad coincidence there. Nothing to route from. Schröedinger's in a bad spot. Those satellites I guess you're thinking about? Nothing high or local."

Bertelli thought fast. He needed to get her to send him control.

He could fly it out himself using the suit's command systems. They were pretty primitive, but it was just launching. Suze could chase them down in Orion later.

That's what the command ship was built for.

"Also," she said. "I've run launch scenarios. Assuming the landing section actually doesn't collapse under you, the Surety will burn too much fuel trying to compensate for the angle. Even if you didn't rip out the gimbals, you're not going to have enough fuel after that to make orbit."

"This is the moon we're talking about." The escape delta-v was only 2400 meters per second.

But of course the module only carried enough fuel for that and some maneuvering.

Bertelli whacked his hammer against the side of the lander. There was still plenty of extra fuel in there. Randy had made a pinpoint perfect landing. Not a drop wasted.

Of course there was no way to get it siphoned over into Surety.

"Sit tight until I come around again," Suze said. He could hear the concern in her voice. Worried that they wouldn't live long enough.

"Sit tight," he said.

"I'm still working with Houston on alternatives. We're bound to come up with something."

"I bet. Listen. Download the remote control system to my suit." He would figure this out.

"Can't do it."

"Start now. I'm in charge here."

"I mean it'll take three minutes to just sync. I don't even know if your suit's got enough memory for it anyway."

"Start. Just start."

Suze sighed. Bertelli saw a tell-tale light on his helmet's inner rim. The download had started.

"What are you going to do with it? You can't launch."

"See if I can scramble something from the code."

"I don't follow."

"Don't worry. Now get me a link to Cooper P mine. I need to talk to someone."

"The Australians?"

"You've got a minute and a half."

"All right."

Bertelli unrolled his palm screen and started deleting data. Geology. Temperature. Lux.

Gigabytes of stuff.

He hoped it made space for the remote console.

If that rover had been working he could have driven a few hundred miles in it. Maybe. If the battery held out.

That might have put him within walking distance of one of the bases.

With lunar gravity he could easily cover a hundred miles on foot. Probably more. Even with the suit.

Perhaps it was just as well the rover was frozen. It meant he didn't have to make that difficult choice of abandoning Johnston.

There were just thirty seconds left before silence when Suze came back.

"Colin?"

"Go."

"All right. I've got a link to the Aussies."

"Thanks. Who's there?"

"Colin Bertelli!" He recognized the voice right away. Brian Thorpe. One of the old-timers. He'd been at the south pole for years before Bertelli had even arrived.

"Brian. Can you-"

"So," Thorpe said. "What's the news? I hear you're still single. I-"

"Listen," Bertelli said. "I've got a situation here. I'm about to lose my contact."

"I'm listening."

"I'm at Schröedinger. Busted launch vehicle."

"Copy that. Got nothing can reach you."

"Yeah. Can you get something to..."

Static hissed at him. Faded.

Suze had gone over the horizon.

Bertelli cursed. He was on his own.

Once communications would have been continuous. Lunar excursions were just too routine now.

Bad luck for him.

He looked up at Surety again. Her white faceted cone glinted back at him. The sun's stark white light could be blinding.

At least that was something that was going to be reliable. With 360 hours of continuous daylight the moon was tough. Well-lit, but harsh.

He would be dead long before the intensity of light was a problem. He moved into the Surety's shadow anyway.

Taking out his slate display. He looked at the data Suze had sent. Reading through the download, he saw there was crucial information missing.

Her download was incomplete.

He had start and ignition sequences. Unlatching. Gyro and gimbal control. Load balance.

No attitude retros.

All this data was just a couple of meters away. Locked up inside Surety's computer. Inaccessible from here.

With what he had he could launch Surety and have a fair shot at keeping her upright. But without those retros--which were really only for docking maneuvering, not a launch at all--he would struggle.

Really struggle.

This was going to take a physical mod.

He looked up at Surety's external locker. Their stupid rover had been stored in there.

Quickly he got back up the ladder. The rover's locker had been designed to take return samples and some of the science packs that had arrived on the base.

Plenty of space for him to squeeze in and find the internal connections.

Or not plenty of space. He found that out as he attempted to get inside.

Too narrow.

The rover locker was never meant to accommodate an astronaut.

He was going to have to remove his backpack. Slim as it was, the life-support system added too much width.

Working fast, he sealed and uncoupled the main tube. The system was integrated into the suit. It took two people to get it off. But it did have an emergency release. Just in case one member of the crew had become incapacitated. Designed to be used inside the main cabin. Pressurized.

Not in the vacuum of the moon's surface.

Bertelli got it shucked off. The internal reservoir gave him about fifteen minutes. Enough time to get hooked up again.

He stuffed the pack into the locker. Right away he followed. It took some shimmying. He had to slide along into the space. His faceplate bumped against the top.

That would confuse them, he thought. If it cracked and he depressurized, the whole situation would confound the investigators.

He needed to concentrate. The suit was starting to stink of his own exhalations.

Getting the hoses back in place was tough. He had to work by feel. He was used to gloves. Thick, stiff. No feedback.

He got the oxygen tube in first.

Nothing flowed.

With his left arm crushing against his neck, he adjusted the connection. The electronics synced. His headset gave a quiet bleep.

Cool air washed in.

He still had red lights at the helmet rim. Disconnecting the pack had cost him radio and main telemetry.

Worry about that later. At least he had oxygen. He needed to focus on getting the ship out of here.

Just as well Suze was behind the moon. Nothing in the manuals sanctioned what he was about to do.

With the rock hammer he chipped at one of the aluminum joins. There wasn't much reach. He couldn't get anything like a good swing. It took about fifty blows.

The join split.

He wedged the chisel end in. Twisted.

The hammer vibrated in his hand as the aluminum tore.

Just as well he couldn't hear it.

Bertelli kept tearing. Wires and conduits inside. He caught a couple of cables with the hammer's tip and stopped.

What he needed was a USB port.

But that would be far too convenient.

He was just going to have to look for a data cable.

Taking care not to snag wires, he kept tearing. The aluminum folded out of the way.

Reaching in he felt around the wires. The internal hull was just inches away. He reminded himself to be real careful not to puncture that.

The whole reason to do this was to give Randy a chance. If he wasn't dead already.

Bertelli reminded himself that Suze had seen Randy's bio telemetry. He'd been alive twenty minutes ago.

If he could just find something useful, Bertelli knew might be able to get them both out of here.

Back in training they'd been over the whole schematic. Theoretically he'd seen every part of Surety diagrammed out. Every connection, every switch.

He knew there was something somewhere here.

He kept on tearing.

The suit bleeped again. Oxygen level.

Breathing too hard. Too fast.

Sweating too.

If their situations had been reversed he was sure Randy would have had some Zen calming technique to extend out his air. To focus on the task.

Bertelli was far too practical for that. He wondered if Randy would have ripped holes in a spacecraft looking for a way to override the system.

Bertelli laughed.

Sweat dripped into his eyes.

"Valerie," he said. "Sorry. I tried."

The suit bleeped again.

"I really tried."

He blinked, but more sweat just came. Spacesuits weren't designed for horizontal work.

All he needed to do was wipe his forehead. Too bad about the faceplate.

There. He saw a data cable.

A black plastic sheath. Thicker than the others.

He grabbed it.

Quickly he traced it through the maze of others.

Followed it all the way to its plug.

Not compatible with his slate. Well, he hadn't expected that, but he could wire it up. At least he knew the order of the pins.

When he pulled the plug it didn't budge.

He twisted around, tried again.

The suit gave a double bleep. He needed to replace his tanks.

Soon.

Another go at yanking the plug.

"Valerie," he whispered. He needed some kind of motivation.

Sticking the hammer's chisel in against the plug he wrenched.

Nothing.

Great, he thought, something with a quality build. Kind of reassuring really.

Too bad the landing struts hadn't had the same kind of attention.

Three bleeps.

He flipped the hammer around and hit the plug with the striking face.

The hammer bounced back.

With a grunt he hit it again.

He was going to die here. Ignominious. Stuck on his back in the rover locker.

Better to die out on the surface. Kicking at the regolith. Stamping his boot prints into the dust. Looking up at the stars.

That was how.

He slithered out a foot.

With a smile he thought he could write Valerie's name in the dust. She knew anyway, but then she would really know.

Valerie.

She was the reason he couldn't get out and do that. He owed it to her to try everything. Not just Valerie, he thought. He owed it to Randy as well.

Twisting, he swung at the plug again.

It shattered. Plastic shards shot around the space.

The cable dropped down.

Bertelli grinned. Great workmanship succumbs to geology hammer.

He grabbed the cable.

The plug had completely shattered. The pins were bent and twisted. Some had sheared off entirely.

This was going to take some work.

Holding the slate beside his faceplate he prized the casing open. The bezel flapped away.

Don't crack the screen, he told himself.

He slipped the multitool from the belt and opened the pliers. With a squeeze the cable gave up its sheathing. He splayed the wires out.

Guesswork, he thought.

And years of experience jury-rigging equipment in the mines.

Using the corner tip of the hammer's chisel again, he eased some wires out from the docking jack.

That was easier.

The suit's bleeping had become continuous now. He tried to shut it out.

Fifteen wires.

Four connections in the slate's socket.

Almost like a lottery. He hoped he didn't fry everything on his first attempt.

It was tough work. His heavy gloves were okay for working with wrenches and hammers. Not so great for delicate electronics.

Using the pliers he got the first connection made. Twisted them together.

Second connection. Third.

When he got the fourth connection in the first one came apart.

Cursing, he tried again.

When he got it back on again he tried the slate. The de-framed screen came on all right. No sign of the external connection.

He pulled one wire and connected the next.

This was no way to fly a spacecraft.

Still nothing.

Breaking and making new connections, the screen stayed blank. He wondered how many possible combinations there were.

Something like thirty thousand possible connection variations?

"Really a lottery," he said.

The air stank now. Hot and humid.

What he was counting on was that the systems were more fluid than that. So long as one connection was right, he hoped, the whole thing would work.

He pulled off one wire, connected the next.

Rinse and repeat.

On his twelfth try the Surety's system came up on the slate. He would have whooped but the air was like treacle.

Careful not the damage his connections he worked through the access levels. He found the launch controls quickly.

Very limited.

Nothing like the helm inside.

With this he had no gimbal control. No retro rocket control. No throttle.

Ignition. Shut-down.

That was it.

"Just one break," he told the ship.

Bertelli knew the ship would manage its own gimbals. It was programmed to fly upright. Assuming they made it clear of the lander, the Surety would swing its way upright and aim for space.

The problem was, if she did that her fuel reserves might deplete much too fast. And she would know. The ship would fly an abort course and attempt a soft-landing. She was flat-based enough to probably stay upright. Her center of gravity was lower than the landing stack, the framework was strong enough to hold.

It was an emergency protocol only. It assumed that all other options were exhausted. Land with a reasonable degree of safety. Sit tight and wait for rescue.

The protocol assumed that the crew were safely on board.

There were sufficient supplies to wait it out. Rescue might take a couple of days. Might take a week.

Only he wasn't in the crew compartment. He couldn't access any of that. Life support. Food. Water.

He was stuck here in this little compartment, hacking his way into her.

With next to no air.

He was tempted to try another combination of wires. Maybe if he got it right he could access the whole system and override those contingencies. Actually fly the thing.

He sighed. He could feel his vision blurring. His breathing rate increasing.

Sure he could fly it like this. Lying on his back in an eighteen inch high gap. With a slate spliced into Surety with twisted wires.

And if he did nothing, at least Randy might survive. The air circulation in the cabin would continue. Someone might get to him in a day or so.

Bertelli looked at the slate.

Ignition. Shut-down.

Or, he thought, ignore.

That's it. Good luck Randy.

Good luck Valerie.

"I'll miss you," he whispered. He felt sleepy.

As he went to pull out the wires, Bertelli remembered the maps. His old mining set. Back from the south pole.

Those were the days.

Roughnecking and being real makeshift.

The guys would be proud of his attempt here. He hoped someone told them.

The maps. Something about the maps.

Almost unconsciously he opened up the set.

The south pole. Schröedinger. Aitken. Zeeman. Such a beautiful landscape.

That's right, he thought. He didn't want to die stuck inside the can like this. He wanted to look up at the stars.

Staring at the map, he felt his concentration going.

The south pole was only five hundred kilometers away.

Lunar escape velocity was 2400 meters per second. He wasn't going to get that out of her.

But what if he didn't try to escape?

Ignition. Shut-down.

He tapped back up two menus. Found navigation.

Destination.

Locked out. It only wanted to get to orbit.

"I'll fix you," he said. His voice sounded like a wheeze.

He pulled up the map overlays and some old mining data.

Bertelli grinned.

The old systems didn't have the formal niceties of NASA.

Worth a shot.

With a couple of taps the map loaded through the destination system. Surety didn't like it, but she accepted the data.

Destination: south pole.

This was, he thought, the last time anyone would ever be able to do that. NASA would plug that software hole with fifteen hundred lines of code. And cover that with another fifteen hundred lines.

As he felt himself blacking out, he squinted at the slate.

Destination: south pole.

Ignition. Shut-down.

His finger wavered. He felt punch-drunk. This is what it's like to die, he thought.

He tapped Ignition.

Surety shuddered. Light blazed around him and he thought of Valerie.

Smiling. Laughing.

"Valerie," he said. "I did my best."

The light faded. He wasn't sure if it was from lifting off or from dying.

Probably dying.

He didn't feel heavy at all. He felt light.

Airless or weightless.

The world shimmered around him. He hoped Randy made it.

He hoped Valerie did okay.

Haze.

Black.

Haze.

That was surprising.

He could feel the shuddering again. But it wasn't Surety.

There were lights overhead.

The air felt cool and crisp. He smelled pineapples. Weird.

Someone speaking.

"Got him," they said.

Male. An Australian accent.

Bertelli blinked. He wasn't in his suit any more. But he was still lying on his back. Moving. They were carrying him. More voices, jabbering and yelling. Something about cutting into the capsule.

His vision felt constricted, like he was looking through a dark tube. He bent his head up and someone pushed it back down.

Taking another breath of the sweet air, he let them. After a moment they set him down. He was in a small room with a poster of the Sydney Opera House and SuperSpire on the wall.

Aussies.

Someone looked down at him. Brian Thorpe. "Sheesh. Did you come screaming in at us?"

"You look older," Bertelli said.

"Back at you." Thorpe grinned. Toothy.

"Thanks. How's Randy?"

"Alive. We're getting him out, don't worry. Put a bubble over the hatch and we'll get a helmet on him. Are you going to tell me how and why you pulled that?"

Bertelli blinked. "Pulled what?"

Thorpe shook his head. His raggedy blonde hair shivered. "So. Here's what I know. You called me up. Some problem. So I start figuring your location. You were close but not that close. Comms went down, but I knew you had a busted ship. We were going to send Scooter over in a wagon but then you took off. The monitors tracked you coming in. You'll want to see the footage."

"Footage?" Bertelli was only half-listening. He was glad it had worked. Glad he would see Valerie again.

"Video," Thorpe said. "You came in fast. On a low arc. Not even trying for orbit. And you swung the ship around somehow. Landed on her engines. Like she was always built to do that."

"How about that?" Bertelli said.

"And we found you in the sample locker. Gutsy. NASA's been on the horn to us. I think they're going to give you a medal and fire you."

Bertelli laughed. "Did you talk to Suze?"

"Sure. She wants to punch you then take you out for a drink."

"Well," he said. "I'll let her hit me, but I've already got someone who might take me out for a drink." A drink and a meal and a walk on the beach. In the moonlight.

"You?"

Bertelli sighed. "Yes me. Her name's Valerie. And actually if you let me use to radio I'd like to give her a call. Tell her that I'm coming home."

Balance

by Marina J. Lostetter

“Hellooooo,” said Jamal in his small, sing-song voice. “Convoy computer, helloooo.” The eight-year-old bounced a soccer ball on his knee in front of the access panel. He was supposed to be in class.

“Hello, Jamal,” said the ship’s AI.

“Do I get a new baby brother today?”

“My records indicate that your parents will jointly travel to Hippocrates during their lunch hour to retrieve the next available, fully-gestated clone.”

The boy tossed his ball at the panel and deftly caught it on the rebound. “But is it a brother?” Computers could be so dumb. He’d make them smarter when he grew up.

“The next available clone is that of Nakamura Akane. Her original earned a doctorate in engineering and ship design from the university of--”

“A sister?” Jamal kicked the ball down the hallway. “You’re giving me a sister?” He knocked his forehead against the wall and scrunched his eyes shut in frustration. “Why, computer? What did I ever do to you?”

“I am not in control of the growth patterns. And I had no influence over when your parents submitted their request.”

“Mr. Kaeden?”

“Ah, great,” Jamal grumbled. Through the hall came Dr. Seal, his teacher, carrying the scuffed soccer ball. “You had to tattle on me, too?”

“I do not tattle,” said I.C.C. “Dr. Seal inquired as to your location. You are here. I related such.”

“Not cool, man. Not cool.”

“The temperature is seventy one degrees Fahrenheit, twenty one point seven degrees Celsius.”

“No, cool, like neat, or awesome, or stellar.”

“Those words are not synonyms.”

“Mr. Kaeden,” Dr. Seal reiterated, standing over the boy. “You are supposed to be in class.”

“You are too,” he mumbled.

“Jamal will have to cohabitate with a sibling soon,” the computer explained. “The fact that he was not consulted on its gender seems to have caused him distress.”

“I’m getting a sister,” Jamal said with a pout.

“Sisters are people too,” said Dr. Seal as he took Jamal by the hand and led him away from the access panel.

* * *

Nobody understood. The other kids just made fun of the poopy diapers in his future, and all the grownups either waved aside the problem or seemed mad that he was mad.

“But it’s a girl,” he tried to explain.

The botanist that had come to give a lecture on their classroom air garden scrunched up her face. “I’m a girl.”

His ears turned from dark chocolate to strawberry chocolate. He didn’t mean... Ugh. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled. “You’re not a sister.” Even if you are, you’re not my sister.

When class finally got out he knew where he'd have to go to find a sympathetic ear. If anybody in the convoy could understand, it would be Diego.

When he arrived at his family's quarters he was surprised to see his aðon and pabbi--mother and father--there by themselves. No baby. His hopes rose for a moment. Maybe they’d changed their minds. Maybe they weren’t going to get a baby after all.

His pabbi kicked that fantasy out from under him. “We thought you’d like to come,” he explained. “We rescheduled for tomorrow and excused you from class.”

“We didn’t want you to feel left out,” said his aðon from the bedroom. She was changing out of her work jumper.

Well wasn’t that just... He didn’t feel left out, but he wanted to be left out. If he never had to see his sister it would be too soon. They were making a big, fat, ugly mistake. Why’d they want to go and ruin their perfect family with a sister, huh? Weren’t the three of them enough?

He dropped his pack in the entryway and slumped over to the dining table. “Can I go visit Diego when he gets off work?” he asked after he sat down, picking at his fingers and swinging his feet.

“Sure,” said Pabbi. “As long as he says it’s ok. If he’s busy you come right home.”

Diego was Jamal’s afi’s--his granddad’s--best friend. Jamal would never say so out loud, but he liked Diego better than Afi. Afi only liked old people things, and more importantly, only things right in front of him. He had no imagination.

Diego, though...Diego knew how to dream while still awake.

Jamal impatiently watched the minutes tick away. Diego’s shift was officially over at 1600, which meant he should be back at his cabin no later than 1630. As soon as the last minute rolled over, Jamal was out the door and down the hall to the nearest lift.

He had to wait a whole ‘nother five minutes before Diego got there. Jamal sat in front of the old man’s door, knees up to his chin, feet squirming in his shoes.

“Que pasa?” Diego squinted at Jamal when he got close. “Someone have a bad day?” He was dressed in the corn-yellow of most foodstuff workers. His ruddy wrinkles made him look like he’d been basking in the sun all day, though he hadn’t been anywhere near the artificial Sol of a communal garden.

Jamal shrugged, suddenly aware that his complaint might come off as whiny. “How was your day?” he asked politely. Something about being around Diego always made him feel more polite.

“Fine. Figured how to make the soy processing more efficient. My original designed the system, you know. I just made it better.” Diego opened the door. “I was going to watch a movie this evening,” he said as the lights came on. “You might find it amusing. Coming in?”

Diego’s quarters didn’t have as many rooms as Jamal’s. He’d said it was because he didn’t need them. “Only one of me. Can’t take up a family cabin any more. Wouldn’t be right.”

The place smelled like beans and cheese. Diego checked his slow-cooker in the kitchenette, then came back to the main sitting and sleeping area. “How’s the new baby? Problems already? If you liked it you wouldn’t be here.”

“No baby yet,” said Jamal, crossing his arms. “They’re gonna take me with when they get her.”

“Ah. That’s nice.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Oh?”

Jamal shrugged. “Decided I don’t want a sib. ‘Specially a sister.” Diego laughed lightly and Jamal took immediate offense. “You too? You don’t get it. Why doesn’t anyone get it?”

“I’m not laughing at you, amigo. I’m enjoying the simplicity of your problem, not that it is a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve figured out how to live in space and investigate cosmic phenomena up close. But we still haven’t figured out how to make a new brother appreciate his sister. I had a sister, you know.”

“You did? But, you were born on Earth. Was it another clone?”

The old man shook his head and gestured for Jamal to have a seat. “Nope. My sister was born the old fashioned way. She did not accompany me on the mission.”

“What’s ‘the old fashion way’?”

Diego’s face went blank for a moment, then he waved the question aside. “Never you mind. My point is, I felt the same as you, or at least similar, when I was told I’d be sharing my parents with a girl. Anita. Oh, I hated the idea. I considered running away and abandoning my duties if my mother went through with this whole giving birth thing.”

Jamal gasped. Abandoning your duty was about the lowest thing a convoy member could do. The thought of it made him sick inside. “You did?”

“Considered, I said, considered. I didn’t, of course. I stuck it out. The baby was born, came home, and then...guess what?”

Jamal pursed his lips. “What?”

“I was just as upset with the baby there as I was when she hadn’t been around yet. But I got over it, eventually. You’ll learn to like being a big brother. You’ll get excited when she learns to walk, and talk. But you should never hold her gender against her.”

“Why not?”

“Why would you hold anything against someone that they can’t help? You know what that’s called? Prejudice.”

“Sounds stupid.”

“It is stupid. Very stupid. But, there was a time and place where your friend Lewis might not have liked you because of the color of your skin, and where someone like my late wife might never have looked twice at a man who spoke a different language than she did.”

“Everyone on board speaks the same language.”

“I’ll give you that. What I’m saying is we’re explorers, Jamal. Astronauts. You’d understand how wonderful that is if you’d been born on Earth... Point is, if we can’t leave all that other bull pucky behind us, well what’s it all for? And how do we honor our unique position in humanity’s history?”

“Through loyalty, efficiency, and dedication,” Jamal recited.

“Yes, but also through understanding. Living in a convoy means we’re rubbing elbows left and right. We have to look at what ties us together. As soon as we start disliking each other for our little differences it’ll all go to pot. There’s nowhere to run, you see? You’re stuck with everyone on board. Might as well be nice to them, might as well appreciate them. So, don’t be mad that you’ve got a sister. Don’t be blinded by that thing you call ‘stupid.’”

“Yeah, alright,” Jamal conceded. “I’ll try ‘n’ like her. Can I not like her if she’s annoying?”

Diego considered for a moment. “Yes. But I still suggest you try.”

“So what’s the movie you were gonna watch?”

“It’s old, I have to warn you.”

Oh no. Not like Afi old, he hoped.

“It’s about space travel. Before they’d had much space travel.” Diego dimmed the lights and accessed the computer.

Before they’d had much space travel? Jamal couldn’t even imagine such a time. “Like a million years ago?”

“No, not quite,” Diego chuckled. “You sit right there. This is the best of the series--classic lines in this one. You’ll like it; there’s a bold captain, a first officer with pointy ears, and a villain you’ll love to hate.”

* * *

“That was awesome!” Jamal said when the credits rolled. “They were so--weird. They really thought you could chop people into tiny little bits and send them through space? And get a person on the other side, not a pile of guts?”

Diego nodded as though he weren’t really listening. “Glad you enjoyed it. Better run along home. Your parents will probably want to head down to the mess soon.”

Jamal prepared to leave. Diego stopped him just before he went out the door. “Jamal, do you know what your sister’s serial number is?”

“Er...No.”

“It’s her production number. It’s how we keep track of how many babies are being born. Can you ask your padre--your pabbi for me?”

What’d he want that for? “Ok,” he said slowly. “I’ll ask.”

“Don’t forget. It’s important.”

“Ok. I won’t forget.”

* * *

Hippocrates loomed before their shuttle, the second biggest ship in the convoy. It looked...intimidating. Especially with all of its arms sticking out all over the place. Pabbi explained that the 'arms' were umbilical; they could dock with the other ships during emergencies.

The ship reminded Jamal of a dead bug. Or the prickly shell of a nut. Maybe a sea creature--they had an aquarium on Eden. Sea urchins were supposedly high in protein. How much protein did he need every day? Well, he was only four foot eleven, so...

He tried to keep up the wandering train of thought. He wanted his mind to stay away from the pending sister-assault for as long as possible. Figures and calculations for calorie intake swarmed through his brain.

Diego had made him feel a little better about the idea of having a sister, but not much.

Other shuttles zipped by outside, white and silvery against the blackness of space. Light from external LEDs bounced off hulls and windows, producing a glare that kept all natural starlight at bay. The ships and shuttles were bright objects in a dark cocoon. When Jamal touched one corner of the shuttle side-shield, graphics popped up to label the hidden nebulae and galaxies and systems. But even the star charts couldn't hold his attention for long.

His thoughts shifted. The classroom butterflies would be free of their cocoons soon. Then the class would take a trip to Mira's communal garden and release the bugs. Butterflies helped pollinate the plants. Plants were a good source of fiber...

The spiny ship swelled before the shuttle and soon blotted out the rest of the convoy. Near its bottom a bay door opened, ready to gulp up their little shuttle--and Jamal’s dreams of being an only child.

His family was greeted inside by a lady who wore a sea-foam green jumpsuit wrapped in a white smock. A paper mask, held on by bands around her ears, rested awkwardly beneath her chin; she looked like she had a bulbous, snowy beard.

“Hello,” she said warmly, “I’m Sailuk Okpik. You’re here to pick up an infant who’s come to term?” His parents indicated they had. “This way,” she directed.

Jamal had visited Hippocrates only once, on an inter-convoy field trip. His yearly physicals, mental checkups, and even his broken leg had all been attended to in Mira's med bay. But there were a few things done on Hippocrates that took place on no other ship: cloning, for one. Jamal had never been to the growing rooms or the birthing chambers before.

The kids told all types of stories about the spooky tubes. About the half-grown babies with their guts hanging out, and the two-headed flukes they had to discard in secret. Some said the accidental deformities got ground up and put in kids' lunches. Others said they grew them to adults and had them work in secret. Still others said the doctors tried to kill the mistakes, but that they lived and formed their own society in the ships’ walls. There they lurked, watching, waiting, ready to strangle healthy crewmembers in their sleep whenever they got their chance.

Jamal didn’t believe those stories. Not really.

“Would you like a full tour?” asked Sailuk. “You probably took it when you picked up your son, but some second-timers like to see it again. Though, I have to warn you, some children don’t react well.” She turned her round face towards Jamal. “Do you scare easy?”

“I don’t know,” said his aðon, “The fetus tanks were a bit much for me when I first saw them, and I was twelve.”

“I think he can handle it,” said his pabbi, “What do you think, Jamal? Are you up for learning where babies come from?”

“Is it gross?” he asked, turning to Sailuk.

“Sure is,” she said frankly.

What would the other kids say, if they found out he’d gone all wimpyfied? “I can take it,” he said, puffing out his chest.

“Are you sure?” Moms could be so stuffy sometimes.

“Yes, Aðon,” he said in a tone that conveyed how tiresome her question was. “I’m not a baby.”

That settled that.

A wide lift at the end of a long hall took them to the very top deck level. When the doors opened Jamal was immediately surprised by the lighting. Instead of a cold white, everything was bathed in pinkish-purple.

“The lighting helps protect the babies’ skin,” said Sailuk. “In most fetal stages it can’t handle the rays included in our normal lighting. Most of the convoy lights were developed to mimic actual sunlight as closely as possible, to prevent problems like seasonal affective disorder. But these lights screen out anything that would be harmful to the undeveloped infant. They work like an old fashioned dark room for developing photographs--or, of course, a mother’s womb.”

The first room they went into was bright again. White, normal light.

“Here we do the actual cloning. It’s slightly different than traditional Earth cloning, in that instead of using DNA from the original, we build DNA identical to the original and then insert it into a healthy ovum. So over here,” she led them to the left, “you can see Anatoly analyzing a newly formed molecule chain to make sure it is identical to the original pattern.”

A man in a clean-room bent over a microscope and manipulated something on the slide before him.

This was boring so far. Not scary. If Jamal wanted to watch people play with molecules he could just go back to class.

Sailuk ran them through the rest of the first stages, using weird, gibberish words like histone and zygote. Jamal didn’t understand how goats had anything to do with making babies.

They moved on to another purple room. This one was lined with tubes behind a glass window. In each tube sat one worm, suspended in some strange, snot-like solution. Jamal and his parents had entered a viewing cubicle.

“Those are babies,” his aðon said. “They’re only a few weeks old.”

“Ew,” he said curtly. “But they don’t look anything like a baby. Look, this one has legs and a tail.” It was more like a smooth, rubbery lizard than a human. “Ach, this one has big glassy eyeballs, too.” No way these were people.

On they went, through more rooms with viewing cubicles, and he began to see the connection. The more the worms came to look like the thing with legs, the more the thing with legs came to look like a salamander, the more the salamander came to look like a wrinkly naked thing...the more creeped out Jamal got.

Babies weren’t just annoying, they were freaky. Like aliens. And here they were displayed in jars like specimens of dead animals. The whole thing felt...unnatural.

“What’s ‘the old fashioned way’?” he asked suddenly.

His parents stopped scrutinizing a tube that held a baby with head-stubble. “What?”

“Diego said his sister was born the old fashioned way, but he wouldn’t say what that was.”

The adults shared a look. “People used to be born and die a little different than on board,” said his mother. “I suppose that’s the way they still do it on Earth. It was messier, and less efficient.”

“Moms carried the babies in their bellies,” Pabbi said, patting Aðon’s stomach.

“Uh...” was all Jamal could say. That would be even weirder than all this. “Oh, and he wanted me to ask what the baby’s number is.”

His parents eyeballed each other again. What was all this look-passing and eyebrow raising about?

“He must be close,” said Pabbi. “I wonder how many more he has.”

“Far fewer than your dad,” said Aðon.

Annoyingly, they let the matter drop without explaining their cryptic chatter to Jamal.

Finally, the bulk of the freak show was over. Time to get the baby and head home.

“We’d like to attend the birthing,” insisted Pabbi. “We were there for Jamal’s first breath. We’d like to be there for Akane’s.”

“We’re going to watch her come out of the tube and get all cleaned up,” Jamal’s aðon said to him, overly perky. “Look, there she is.” They entered one last room, this one with normal light again. One tube occupied the space, surrounded by four technicians. This baby looked like the ones in the previous room--you know, actually like a baby. Like a real little person instead of a funky slimy thing. She had hair and eyelashes and fingernails and everything.

Two of the technicians held the tube in place while the other two unhooked it from its wires and apparatuses. Eventually they popped the top off and tipped it over. The baby came spilling out onto a thick, foam-looking pad that sucked up most of the liquid.

A man came at the baby with a hose, the tip of which looked like the plastic vacuum the dentist used. The man pushed it up the baby’s nose and in her mouth and soon she was crying. A hoarse, squeaky cry that didn’t sound anything like the crying Jamal had expected.

She looked a lot smaller now that she was out of the tube, wiggling and naked on a table under the lights. She looked vulnerable.

Jamal felt a pang of protectiveness. “Can’t they get her a blanket or something?”

“They will,” Sailuk assured him. “They have to clean her up first.”

After the baby was prepped and swaddled, Sailuk went into the room to retrieve her.

When the crying Akane was brought before her new family, Sailuk asked, “Who would like to hold her first?”

Jamal tentatively raised his hand. “Can I?”

* * *

“Not so bad as you feared, eh?” asked Diego, packing a trowel and a small shovel in his bag.

“No, guess not. She’s kind of nice. Except when she cries while I’m trying to sleep.”

“Did you get the number?” he asked casually, opening the door to his quarters and ushering Jamal out. They were going to work in Mira's communal garden.

“Oh, yeah, here.” Jamal pulled a small ‘flex-sheet out of his pocket. “She’s S8-F94-3-16008.”

“Five more until I get my notice,” Diego said.

“Huh?”

“I’ll tell you about it when we get to the garden. I’ll feel more comfortable with some dirt under my nails.”

The artificial sun sat high overhead, and the cows mooed in a bored sort of way. The weather-planners were pretending it was hot today. The thermostat must have read at least thirty one degrees Celsius. Luckily a large part of the garden sat in the shade of a big tree. A few butterflies flitted by, and Jamal thought he recognized one from his classroom.

The air smelled sweet here. But he was pretty sure the scent wasn’t emanating from the flowers or the grass--it was one more illusion. They pumped in the smell to make the space seem bigger and more open than it was.

Diego dug right in. Only a few minutes passed before his hands, forearms, and boots were caked with enriched soil. “That’s better. Get a bit of this mud on you, it’s nice and cool.” He drew a dirty line down the arch of Jamal’s nose. “Good war paint,” he said with a wink.

Getting into the spirit, Jamal put a dirty handprint on Diego’s cheek. “Looks like I whacked you one.”

“Let me return the favor.” Jamal’s face now sported two handprints that mirrored each other. The dirt might as well have been face paint, and the handprints butterfly wings. “Can’t forget to wash that off before you go home. Otherwise your madre will have my hide. With a new baby to think about she doesn’t need to be giving you extra baths as well.”

“What were you saying before?” Jamal asked, looking over a bowl of seeds they’d picked up at the entrance to the field. “About Akane’s number?”

“I should probably make you ask your parents,” said Diego. He dug a small hole and gestured for Jamal to sprinkle in a few seeds. “But that would be for their sake, not yours. Jamal, I’m going to retire soon.”

The smile slumped off the boy’s face. “What?” He stood up straight. “Why?”

No. No. No. Diego wasn’t old enough to retire. Only really old people retired. And it wasn’t something you talked about. It just happened, they disappeared one day. Said good bye and left for...somewhere.

“What does Akane’s number have to do with that?” he added.

“Sit back down so we can talk about this rationally,” Diego ordered, patting the ground.

Jamal narrowed his eyes. Anything Diego said from this moment on would be held under the highest scrutiny. Sick people retired, frail people retired, incapable people retired--Diego was none of those things.

“You’re eight. You’re big enough to understand about retirement. On Earth I learned about it a whole lot sooner than eight. And we didn’t have that nice euphemism for it. We just called it what it was.”

No one ever said, but Jamal wasn’t stupid. He knew where retirees went. He knew. He just didn’t like to think about it. If no one ever talked about the truth, if everyone always glossed over the facts, why couldn’t he? “I do understand,” he said.

“Then sit down. You know I’m going to die, but you don’t understand the how or why of it. So let me tell you.”

Jamal finally sat and said in a small voice, “Did the doctors find something?”

“No. Nothing like that. I’m as healthy as a, as one of those bovine over there. But my number is about to come up, quite literally. You see, everything on the convoy’s got to balance. All that’s ever here is all there ever will be. Even if we find an asteroid to mine, we can only carry so much. We’re a closed environment. We have to scrimp and save and control and manage. So, we have to pick and choose when it comes to some things. Where do we put our resources?”

Jamal picked at a strand of grass and it gave him a thin cut--it didn’t bleed but it smarted. What did this mumbo jumbo about management have to do with Diego dying?

“Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Jamal mumbled.

“To conserve our resources, birthing can never get out of synch with dying. We can’t have more babies born than people who die. So, everyone on board has numbers. Two numbers--a number that corresponds to their birth and one that corresponds to their death. When the 16013th baby of the third generation is born, I’ll get my notice. It’ll let me know that after another three clones are brought to term I’ll be scheduled for official retirement. They’ll set a date, and I’ll go over to Hippocrates and they’ll--”

Jamal’s hands flew to his ears. “Shut up. I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to know how they’ll kill you.”

“Oh, stop it now.” Diego pried Jamal’s hands from his head.

Fire and water surged inside Jamal’s brain. His face grew hot and swollen. “But why? You’re still a perfectly good person. There’s nothing wrong with you. Retirement is for people who have problems that can’t be reversed.”

“Yes, I know. And a lot of people go that way. They get some sort of terminal or chronic problem and never see their end-number. But I’m lucky, Jamal. I got to live my full life.”

“It’s all Akane’s fault,” Jamal realized. “If parents stopped asking for babies then they wouldn’t have to kill you. It’s not fair! Why grow a new person when you have to kill a perfectly good person to get it? It’s not right!”

“Now don’t go blaming your parents or your sister. Babies can’t be blamed for anything.”

“This is stupid.” The boy stood and pulled at his hair. “You have to fight, you can’t let them take you.”

“They’re not carrying me away kicking and screaming. This is how things work. This is how they’re supposed to be. The old die off, leaving resources for the young. We just make it a little neater and a little tidier. The exact same thing happens on Earth. It’s a natural cycle.”

“That’s bull--”

“Watch your language.”

“I won’t let this happen. They can take the baby back.”

“Now you’re just being childish. Listen to me. I’m ok with this. I knew it was coming. I’m happy to give my resources over. It makes me proud to do so. I’m helping the mission. I’m assuring the convoy remains balanced and healthy. To prolong my life after retirement age would be selfish. Wrong. Disloyal.” He pushed himself up and took Jamal by the shoulders. “I would be abandoning my responsibilities. It would be the worst thing I could do, you know that.”

Jamal threw his arms around Diego’s waist. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want them to take you away.”

“I know, boy. But it’s for you and your generation. I die so you can live.”

* * *

Jamal put on a brave face--even if it was wet and puffy--when he went home. No amount of reassurance from Diego could convince him the old man’s retirement was a good thing, though. No one wanted to die.

Why would they want to exchange Diego--he’d just fixed that bean processer or something, hadn’t he?--for a useless baby. How did that make any sense?

This was wrong. He might only be eight, but there was no way he would sit by while they hauled off his favorite person in all of space.

That night he lay wide awake while Akane cried out in the communal space. His parents were trying to sooth her, but the she just wouldn’t shut up.

Since he couldn’t sleep he worked on a plan. Diego wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.

The next day was group-play day. Not really school, and not really a day off. Someone-- someone’s grandma, if he remembered right--called it daycare. If your mom and dad didn’t have the day off when you did, you went to group-play.

Several halls merged to form the communal play space. It wasn’t a room, and it wasn’t a passage either. It was a strange space on Mira, meant for mingling but rarely used by anyone other than children. Chairs and tables popped out from cubbies in the walls. Hidden closets held extra dishes and celebratory items. The area could be turned into a fort with a few re-appropriated bed sheets and a little squinting.

When Jamal saw that the group-play guardian’s back was turned, it was time to initiate Plan Diego. He shoved his hands in his pockets and side-stepped down the hall, away from the communal area. He found an access panel and dropped to his knees. From his pocket he produced a screwdriver taken from his parent’s emergency tool kit.

Carefully, Jamal unscrewed the fasteners that secure the panel, then crawled inside. There were all kinds of rumors about the access tunnels. Sure, sure, the wrongly-grown freaks were supposed to live in them, but that wasn’t all. Alligators, giant bugs, ghosts, and even alien egg-sacks were supposed to call the convoy ducts home.

Several times he had to stop and fight off the willies--especially when the motion-sensing work lights failed to flick on as fast as he’d hoped.

Cramped, dusty, and sweltering, the tunnels were not the stuff of play-time fantasy. It was slow going, pulling himself up flimsy ladders, shuffling through tight shafts, and squeezing around awkward corners. No one was meant to travel from one end of the ship to the other this way, but that was the idea. If someone found Jamal wandering the hallways they’d stop him, turn him around, and escort his butt right back to daycare.

Twenty minutes later he kicked his way out of another access panel. Only a moment passed before he regained his bearings and confirmed he was where he wanted to be: Outside I.C.C.’s main server room.

He pounded ferociously on the door.

“Yeah, just a sec,” came a man’s voice from inside. A moment later the door slid to the side, revealing a tall, well-built, middle-aged black man.

“I need your help,” Jamal said.

The man considered the boy for a second longer before realizing, “Hey, you’re my replacement, aren’t you?”

* * *

There were two primary clones for each job--cycle mates. Clone A would be in charge while Clone B apprenticed--all while another Clone A was educated and another Clone B was born. The staggered growth was meant to add some normalcy--so that no one was forced into the surreal situation of having to train a genetic mirror of themselves. Subsequently, no fewer than two versions of a clone were alive at any one time.

Jamal seeking out his predecessor was unusual, but not unprecedented. It was natural to be curious about your genetic twin. But cornering them at their place of work was discouraged, because it was rude. Young Jamal was acutely--though not fully--aware of this when the older Jamal invited him into the server room. The space was dark. Ghostly lights formed rows and columns down the sides of the big, black servers, which in turn had been laid out in the room on a grid.

“Something tells me you shouldn’t be here, little man,” said the older clone. He sat down at his work station near the rear of the room. He swiveled his chair to face Jamal, and did not offer the boy a seat.

Jamal realized for the first time why it was important to have the third slapped on the end of his name. “I need your help, uh, sir. It’s important. Something terrible is happening on board, and we’ve got to stop it.”

“What? And you came to me because you thought, heck, I’m you and I’ll understand your problem immediately through, what, a mind-meld? Do they not explain what a clone is to you kids?”

That wasn’t it at all. “You’re not me,” Jamal said, indignant. “I came here because you’ve got access to I.C.C. I want to change some records and you can do it best.”

Older Jamal considered this for a moment. He nodded once. “Ok. Spill.”

Jamal explained, went on and on about Diego’s multitude of virtues, then presented his solution. “I just want you to change the babies’ numbers. Make it so fifty--no, a hundred babies have to be born before Diego retires. Or, you know, just change Diego’s other number--his death number.”

“I cannot allow tampering with the convoy’s inventory system,” said I.C.C.

“What it said.” Older Jamal sniffed and wiped his nose on his eggplant-colored jumpsuit sleeve.

“Inventory?” said Jamal, “You mean like when we have to count all of our quarter’s spoons and forks and stuff to make sure it’s all there? You do that with people?”

“Of course. What did you think the numbers were for?” The computer sounded confused, though its inflections were even.

“Look, kid,” said Older Jamal. A work-cap sat on his terminal. He picked it up and twirled it between his hands. “You’ve got to face it. We’re all spoons, ok? If you want a brand new spoon, you have to get rid of the bent one. Get it?”

“But there’s nothing wrong with this spoon,” Jamal insisted. “And he’s not a spoon, he’s a person. He’s my friend.”

“Yeah, well, we all lose friends. This is just how things work. We’re all on a time table, all set up to rotate. You were born at the precise time you needed to be so that you could replace me when I start to get slow. It’ll be the same for the Jamal after you. It’s part of life. I suggest you accept it and run back to school.”

“But why is it a part of life?”

“Because some guy back on Earth looked at all the numbers and decided this way was best for the mission.”

Jamal squeezed the screwdriver in his pocket, looking for something to hold onto. Something to use as a touchstone. His whole world seemed to be sliding off its blocks. “Is it?”

Older Jamal placed his cap on his head. “Is it what?”

“Best?” Jamal turned toward a blinking red light and camera lens mounted in the back of the room. “Is it, I.C.C.?”

“I do not currently have a holistic comprehension of the idea: Best. Please clarify.”

His little hands did a dance in the air as he tried to explain. “Best, you know, the, uh goodest way to do stuff. Like, brushing your teeth is better than not brushing your teeth, otherwise you’ve got to see the dentist with the drill.”

“I think the word he’s looking for,” said Older Jamal, repositioning himself in front of a monitor at his work station, “is efficient. Is our current grow-and-recycle system the most efficient use of personnel in accordance with the mission?”

“It is a system in which the failsafes create inefficiencies, but ensure the greatest chance of overall success,” responded I.C.C. in its cold, mechanical way.

Older Jamal shrugged, “There you have it.”

There you have what? “I don’t understand.”

The computer began again, “The system is reliant on--”

“Let me put it in laymen’s terms, I.C.C.” Older Jamal waved a hand in dismissal. I.C.C. thanked him, and it almost sounded relieved. Jamal knew it wasn’t used to answering to a child. “Look, little man. Sure, our system isn’t the best in the sense that we don’t squeeze every last drop of productivity out of a person before they croak. We work them ‘til death, but we don’t work them to death. Come here.”

Flicking a finger at the boy, he simultaneously stiff-armed ‘flex-sheets, a half-eaten sandwich, and a coffee cup aside on his console. With a sliver of trepidation, Jamal came forward and let the man pick him up and place him on the now-clean surface.

Jamal looked his older, biological twin in the eye. The expression he found was stern, but not unkind. There were flecks of gray in the hair nearest the man’s temples, and Jamal found himself wondering just how many years into his future he was looking.

“Everything in service to the mission, correct?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Jamal agreed.

“And what is that mission?”

“To make it to the interstellar anomaly, designation LKpyx, and discover...discover whatever we can.”

“Who has to make it?”

Twisting his lips, Jamal thought for a moment before answering. “We do.”

“Who do? You and me? No, kid. It’s not a who, it’s a what. The convoy. Everything we do is in service to the convoy, and it’s the convoy’s mission to get to the star and figure out if we're really seeing what we think we're seeing: a giant, artificial construct. Whether it's a Dyson sphere or not doesn't matter. What matters is the life--the intelligence, greater than ours. Where did they come from? Where are they now? Why haven't they contacted us? Huh? Inquiring minds want to know. You and I, we'll never get to see the answers. But the convoy will.” He patted Jamal’s head. “We’re just parts. Cogs in a machine. Pieces in I.C.C’s system. You’ve got to decide you’re ok with that, or be miserable. It is what it is. Life’s always been what it is. It’s whether you accept that or not that makes it good or bad, right or wrong, upsetting or not.”

Jamal sighed. Why was everyone he talked to so...what was the word for it? It was a good word, he’d just learned it...Rational. That was it. They were like the computer. Didn’t they ever listen to their feelings instead of their brains? Or was that what being grown up was all about: learning to be logical?

But wasn’t ignoring your feelings illogical? Why was his gut so insistent if he was supposed to ignore it?

“What if there’s a better way?” he asked.

“A bunch of big-wigged, scientific mucky-mucks back on Earth couldn’t figure out a better way, but sure, you’re what, nine? I have complete faith that a nine-year-old can figure out a better way.”

“I know what sarcasm is.”

“Good.”

Jamal pouted. “Why don’t we just try my way? An experiment with Diego, to see if maybe I’m right and this is wrong.”

Red and blue lights began flashing down one of the server rows, and Older Jamal went to check on them. “Think it’s best if you went home now, kid,” he called.

I.C.C. opened the server room door.

“That’s it? Just no?”

Older Jamal sniffed again, loud enough to be heard over the humming of the servers. “Just no. Believe me kid, they thought of everything when it came to the mission. If you want to change the system you’ll have to shirk the mission.”

Again, Jamal felt sick at the idea. The convoy was his home, the mission filled him with pride and wonder. They were explorers, boldly going...somewhere. He was proud to be a part of it.

But not proud of how they were going about it.

He went back to daycare the same way he’d come, and wasn’t surprised to find that none of the adults had realized he was missing.

Nothing he did or said seemed to matter to anyone.

* * *

The day came far too soon. Jamal had wracked his brain for weeks, trying to find a suitable solution, and at every turn Diego tried to discourage him.

“You don’t have to defend me, boy. Someone died for all of us. Someone died so your pabbi could be born, someone died so you could be born.”

That just made him more upset.

“I want to come with you, over to Hippocrates,” Jamal declared that morning. His parents had excused him from class so that he could say his goodbyes.

“Your Afi is coming with me. I don’t want you there, Jamal. It’d be too hard.” He was packing a bag. It was tradition to pack up your quarters before you retired. The most important things went in a black duffle bag, to be handed out to your loved ones as mementos. This the retiree would keep with them until the end. Everything else went back into surplus. Supplies to be used again, by someone new.

Bleary-eyed, Jamal hugged Diego around the middle and refused to let go for a full three minutes.

“I know it’s hard. You cry if you want to, let it all out. I’ll miss you, too. But you’ve got to know I’m doing the right thing. It’s for the greater good.”

Jamal wanted to puke on the greater good. The greater good could get sucked out an airlock for all he cared.

“Now, I’m going to take a nice, soothing bath before I go. Would you mind putting my bag by the door on your way out?” He kissed Jamal on the top of the head, said one last goodbye, and went to his bathroom with a smile on his face.

Desiring nothing more than to run down the hall wailing, Jamal took a deep breath and retrieved the bag from the table. He couldn’t deny Diego his last request.

The bag was heavy. Way too heavy for Jamal to lift. He had to drag it all the way across the room. And then it hit him. It was heavy like a person--a small person. Like a Jamal-sized person.

He would go to Hippocrates after all, and stop this terrible mistake.

* * *

Few sounds came through the fabric un-garbled. Light was totally absent, and the tight space forced him into the fetal position. It was a deadly combination of comfort and sensory deprivation that lead to an impromptu nap.

There was no telling how much time had passed before a jarring woke him. Someone had picked up the bag. Afi, if his ears weren’t lying. It must be time to go.

Hold still, he told himself. If he’d stayed asleep he probably wouldn’t have had anything to worry about.

He could tell when they’d entered the shuttle bay, and again when they’d boarded a shuttle. He was thrown unceremoniously into an empty seat, and it took all of his will power not to let out an oomph.

What would he actually do once they arrived? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Surely he would make a grand speech. Something like in the movies, where the hero dashes in and convinces everyone he’s right through the power of words.

But what then? If Diego said he didn’t want to retire would everyone else just let it happen?

He never got a chance to find out. He never even got to make his speech, grand or otherwise.

He was picked up and plopped down several more times before he decided they’d reached the end of the line. This was it, the place he was supposed to be. Time to make his grand entrance.

Jamal deftly unzipped himself, jumped up, and cried, “Stop!”

Everyone stared. There were five other people in the pristine, white room--but none of them were Afi or Diego.

Nearby stood a door, and without missing a beat Jamal threw it open. On the other side lay a glass cubicle--an observation station, like all the clone-growing rooms had.

A place from which to watch someone retire, should you feel the need.

On the other side of the pane, Diego reclined in a dentist’s chair. On one side was a lady wearing one of those medical masks and a hair net, and on the other sat Afi, holding Diego’s hand. They’d wrapped Diego in a long, white fluffy robe that folded down around his feet. He’d been swaddled, like Akane. His eyes were closed.

Clear plastic tubing stuck out of Diego’s right arm and extended up to a bag of foggy, slightly blue liquid. The lady pumped something into the bag with a needle, and the solution turned pale yellow.

“No!” shouted Jamal. He banged on the glass with both fists. “Stop it! Stopit stopit stopit!”

Diego’s eyes flew open as Afi and the technician’s heads both snapped in Jamal’s direction.

“Please,” Jamal pleaded. “Please don’t take him away.” His vision blurred, and he had to take huge gulps of air as his lungs stuttered. “Please.” His voice cracked and he turned away.

As he hid his face there was a commotion on the other side of the glass. Furniture squeaked across the floor, metal rattled, three voices argued and one yelped. When Jamal looked up and rubbed his eyes, Diego stood before him, palms pressed to the window.

“It’s ok, Jamal. You have to let me go. It’s time for you to learn new things and meet new people. You can’t hang around an old fool forever.” Diego sounded muffled, but the words were clear. So was the meaning.

“I don’t want to let you go.” He knew how selfish it sounded. He pressed his palm against the glass as if pressing it to Diego’s hand.

“Go back out that door, now,” said Diego. “It’s time to say goodbye.” With that he returned to the chair, lay back down, and shut his eyes.

* * *

Jamal had never been in more trouble in his life. Apparently hitching a ride to the retirement wing was almost as bad as abandoning the mission. Almost.

No one cared about his excuses. No one cared he’d done it for a noble cause. All they cared about was teaching him never to do it again. They gave him a week to grieve, then enacted his penalty.

As punishment they made him clean the access ducts without the aid of bots. Ironically, the same ducts he’d high-jacked as a short cut to the server room.

Gleaming before him now was a plate that read:

HERE INTERNED ARE THE ASHES OF DR. LEONARD MCCLOUD.

MAY THE CONVOY CARRY HIM IN DEATH TO THE STARS HE ONLY DREAMED OF IN LIFE.

It marked the final resting place of some guy from Earth--some guy who had helped build the mission, but never saw it launch. Guess there really are dead people in the walls, Jamal thought.

Viscous cleaning solution ran down through the words, obscuring them. He mopped the orange-scented cleaner up with a rag.

There would be no plaques for Diego. Spoons only get remembered by other spoons.

“I.C.C.?”

“Yes, Jamal?”

The boy rubbed a hand across his eyes. The fumes stung. “Does it hurt when you die?”

“I have not experienced death, and do not have enough information to extrapolate--”

A burning rimmed his eyes. What strong cleaner.

No, he couldn’t fool himself. He wasn’t crying because of the chemicals. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Never mind.”

A stiff silence followed. Jamal continued to polish the nameplate long after it was clean.

Though he was angry for Diego for leaving, Jamal realized he was also proud of the old man. He'd done something he believed in, no matter the personal cost. He'd done it for Jamal and Akane and all the other children. That could be good--should be good. But Jamal knew it was ok to be sad, too.

Akane. Diego was gone, and Akane was here. She is cute, Jamal admitted to himself. And gurgley.

That day, before he'd gone off to attend to his punishment, she'd grabbed his finger for the first time. She'd held it and smiled, and he had smiled, too.

He didn't want her to go back to Hippocrates anymore, or to disappear altogether. He didn't even want her to be a boy. Now he just wanted to be a good big brother. Like Diego had been for Anita.

“Diego...he was your friend?” I.C.C. eventually asked. It was a cautious question, asked micro seconds slower than usual questions from the AI.

“Yes,” Jamal croaked.

“I don’t comprehend what that means.”

Wiping the snot from his nose, Jamal cleared his throat. “I know,” he said, and patted the wall as if I.C.C. could feel the gesture. “I’ll teach you.”

A Thing of Beauty

by Charles E. Gannon

“The children have become an unacceptably dangerous liability. Don’t you agree, Director Simovic?”

“Perhaps, Ms. Hoon. But how would you propose to resolve the problem?”

“Director, it is generally company policy to…liquidate assets whose valuations are subpar and declining.”

Elnessa Clare managed not to fumble the wet, sloppy clay she was adding to the frieze, despite being triply stunned by the calm exchange between her corporate patrons. The first of the three shocks was her immediate reaction to the topic: liquidate the children? My children? Well, they’re not mine—not anymore—but, just last year, they would have been mine, when I was still the transitional foster parent for company orphans. How could anyone—even these bloodless suits—talk about “liquidating the children?”

The second shock was that these two bloodless suits were discussing this while Elnessa was in the room and only twenty feet away, at that. But then again, why be surprised? Their company, the Indi Group, was simply an extension of the megacorporate giant, CoDevCo and evinced all its parent’s tendencies toward callousness and exploitation. It also possessed the same canny ability to generate profits, often by ruthlessly factoring human losses into their spreadsheets just like any other actuarial number

The third shock was that Elnessa could hear Simovic and Hoon at all, let alone make out the words. Because of the xenovirus which had hit her shortly after arriving on Kitts—officially, Epsilon Indi 2 K—Elnessa had suffered losses in mobility and sensory acuity. But every once in a while, she experienced an equally troublesome inversion of these handicaps: unprecedented (albeit transient) sensory amplification. Six months ago, she had had to endure a hyperactive set of tastebuds. All but the blandest of foods had made her retch. And now, over the past four days, her steady hearing loss had abruptly reversed, particularly in the higher ranges. Elnessa had acquired a new-found empathy for dogs), and could now pick out conversations from uncommonly far-off, whereas only a week ago, she had been trying to learn lip-reading.

She realized she had stopped working; had, in fact, frozen motionless. And Simovic and Hoon had fallen silent, were possibly watching her, wondering if she had—impossibly—heard them. Elnessa raised her hand haltingly, then paused again, hefting the clay. Then she shook her head, plopped it back, and began rolling it to work the water out. Meanwhile, she continued to listen carefully, hoping they had believed her depiction of “distracted aesthetic uncertainty.”

Simovic’s voice resumed a beat later. “So, Ms. Hoon, do you have any suggestions for the most profitable method of divesting ourselves of these young—er, high-risk commodities?”

“Director, at some point, the attempt to find a profitable method of divestiture can itself become a prime example of the law of diminishing returns. Sometimes a commodity becomes so valueless that the simplest and least costly method of liquidating it is best.”

Elnessa reminded herself to keep breathing. The good news was that Simovic and Hoon had believed her performance as “the Oblivious Artist,” contemplating the frieze before her. The bad news was that the discussion at hand had already moved from “should we get rid of the children?” to “how do we go about doing so?”

Simovic carried the inquiry further. “So we just abandon the asset in place?”

“Director, I would suggest junking the asset at a considerable distance from the main colony, and even the outlying settlements. I suggest using an infrequently visited part of the planet. No reason we should risk being seen and reported for disposing of unwanted material off-site.”

Elnessa was now acclimated enough to the horrific conversation that she could actually work and listen at the same time. She straightened, began layering in thin strips of micro-fiber pseudoclay that would hold and provide a reflective receptacle for the back-lit acrylic inserts with which she would finish the high-relief center panels of the mixed media frieze. With one eye on Simovic’s and Hoon’s reflections in the inert monitor of her combination laser-level and grid-plotter, Elnessa smoothed and sculpted the materials while straining her ears after every word.

Simovic chuckled: the sound was more patronizing than mirthful. “Ms. Hoon, sometimes the direct approach to seemingly low-value divestiture is not the best alternative—particularly if one has had the opportunity to plan in advance.”

Hoon’s shoulders squared defiantly. “What advanced planning are you referring to, sir?”

“Well, in fairness, it’s nothing that you could have been aware of. Suffice it to say that with the appearance of this—ah, unregistered vessel—in main orbit, the asset in question may not be wholly valueless.”

Hoon sounded skeptical. “And just why would a bunch of grey-world orphans be of interest to—to whoever it is that’s hovering just outside Kitts’ own orbital track?”

Elnessa watched Simovic lean far back in his absurdly over-sized chair and steeple his fingers. His smile had mutated from ‘smug’ through ‘shrewd’ and into ‘predatory.’ “Come now, Ms. Hoon; surely you can think of at least a dozen reasons why unrecorded corporate wards would be items of interest to any number of parties.”

Hoon’s defiant frown slowly evolved into a smile—at about the same pace that Elnessa felt her blood turn into ice. People, particularly kids, who were ”unrecorded”—who lacked birth certificates and national identicodes—were rare, and therefore inherently valuable, black market commodities. And there wasn’t a single use for such commodities that was anything less than hideously illegal and immoral.

“And why,” Hoon asked in what sounded like a purr, “are you so sure that our mysterious visitors will be interested in such a trade good?”

“That,” Simovic answered with a self-satisfied sigh, as expansive and deep as had he just finished a very filling meal, “will become obvious within the next twenty-four hours.”

Elnessa blinked and doubled the speed at which she was putting the finishing touches on the clay components surrounding the central space she had left open for what she had silently labeled The Brazen City. She had to complete the frieze soon, and in particular, she had to finish on time today, because she needed to make an early visit to her dead-drop site.

She had to make sure that her contact Reuben came to debrief her. As early as possible.

* * *

Sitting on the spongy, close-mowed kitturf that seemed half-lichen, half crabgrass, Elnessa surveyed the small patch of ground that served as the colony’s park, promenade, and grey market. She watched as Reuben led the newest batch of fresh-faced PDPs—Parentless Displaced Persons—to the sparsely-appointed playground at the other end of the public square. Although the orange-yellow disk of Epsilon Indi had almost dipped behind the horizon, the amber-white gas-giant Lee was in gibbous domination of the darkling sky. If one looked closely, the resulting double illumination created faint secondary shadows, with the stronger ones (generated by the system’s primary) rapidly losing ground to those created by the weak, but steadily reflected light of Kitt’s parent-world.

Elnessa smiled as several of the younger children lagged behind, mesmerized by the ghostly effect. Reuben cycled back to the end of the group, gently urged the stragglers to keep up, evidently throwing down the claim that he could reach the playground first. Cries of glee provided the soundtrack for the impromptu footrace to a dilapidated jungle-gym.

Nice kids, thought Elnessa. And they almost always were, despite the hell-holes that invariably spat them out. Usually, their parents or parent had died on a Grey World, still indebted to the company store or transit office, and—presto—the kids became the wards of the corporation. Which fed them as grudgingly and clothed them as generically as the parents it had killed—unintentionally, of course. But once wearing a megacorporate yoke that shackled them to the company store, a great many desperate employees discovered that they had to work in increasingly risky and brutal jobs to defray the debts that accumulated faster than the pay.

Elnessa scowled. The corporations were nothing if not ruthlessly efficient, even in the smallest of matters. Here it was, only two days past the collectively observed year-end holidays, and the physical-plant flunkies were already making the rounds, taking down the ornaments that ringed the periphery of the park. Elnessa watched the strings of white and red lights wink out, one after the other, just before they were recoiled into storage spools by the coveralled workers. ’Tis the season to be stingy, she thought. After all, what was the value in prolonging the modest, celebratory mood of the community when the company could burn a few less kilowatt hours? And all for the sake of something as intangible as joy? Bah, humbug.

She emerged from her bitter reverie, discovered that she was still watching the kids, unconsciously drinking in their innocence like an antitoxin. A moment later, Reuben drifted away from his charges, began approaching her obliquely.

She spared a quick glance at the younger man as he strolled across the spongy kitturf, then she looked back to watch the kids playing. One of them standing at the edge of the playground looked to be the oldest, but he certainly wasn’t the biggest. He was a little short for his age, thin, standing quite still, milk-chocolate skin, dark brown eyes, and very straight black hair.

“El,” Reuben said.

She looked up, almost surprised: he had not meandered toward her as he should have. “Hi, Reuben. Have a seat.”

“Okay. Jus’ for a second, though.” He flopped down on the ground. A slightly musky smell—the one given off by quickly compressed kitturf—rose up around them. “So what’s up, Mata Hari?”

Elnessa snorted, stared down at herself. “Oh yes, I’m one spry, sultry sex-pot; that’s me.”

Reuben—a good kid, but very new at coordinating the activities of Kitts’ illegal (hence, underground) union—seemed uncertain how to respond. “El . . . Elnessa, you’re really not . . . not so—”

“Christ, Reuben, I’m not fishing for a compliment, okay? Thanks to this damned xenovirus, my leg is almost shot, my muscle tone is going, and I stand zero percent chance of becoming a tantric mistress of the Kama Sutra. I know all that. And I know you didn’t mean to get yourself into this conversational mess, so let me help you escape it: I, your inside agent—‘Mata Handicapped’—heard some nasty chatter today between the big cheeses. Concerning your new PDPs.”

Reuben first looked relieved and thankful when Elnessa put aside the unfortunate reference to Mata Hari, but frowned as she concluded. “So tell me the news.”

Elnessa did.

Reuben blew out his cheeks, stared at the patchwork façade of the stacked modular uniroom workers’ quarters. “Damn,” he said. But he didn’t seem surprised.

Elnessa narrowed her eyes. “Give,” she said.

“Give what?”

“Come on, Reuben, you’re going to have to feign innocent ignorance a lot more convincingly than that if you don’t want the suits sniffing you out and introducing you to a sparring partner while you’re strapped into a chair.”

Reuben turned very white. “I’ll work on the act, okay?”

“Don’t do it to please me, Reuben. Do it to save yourself. Now, what have you heard?”

Reuben frowned. “Well, it’s not what we heard; it’s who was talking. And how much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Coded government traffic spiked big time today. Bigger than during inter-Bloc naval exercises.”

“What? You monitor military channels?”

Reuben looked sidelong at her. “You think the Megas are above calling in troops to keep us working?”

“Their private security forces, no. But not the Blocs’. That’s your old-school-union dinosaurs talking, Reuben. Nations and corporations have been at each others’ jugulars for almost twenty years now, with the nations supporting the unions ninety percent of the time.”

“Yeah, well, the industrial megacorporations haven’t become hostile toward the nations.” He leaned his index finger across his middle finger. “The Industrials and nations are like that. More than ever.”

Elnessa shrugged. “Sure. I can’t argue that. But when was the last time the Industrials made a move that even looked like a prelude to strike-breaking?”

“Well, in China—”

“Don’t get cute, Reuben. We’re not talking about Beijing’s ‘companies,’ here. They’re not genuine corporate entities anymore than their army is. They just get their orders from different people. Sometimes. But in the other Blocs—”

“Okay, okay, I get your point. But regardless of that, it’s still SOP for our membership on the other moons, like Tigua, to monitor all spaceside commo, even the coded stuff. Increased activity is positively correlated with impending operations, whatever those operations might happen to be.”

“Makes sense. So what’s the best guess about the cause of the chatter? War?”

“Maybe, but the command staffs of all the Blocs seem agitated.”

“Well, they would be if they were on the brink of war.”

“Yeah, but they’d be agitated at each other. Instead, the various Bloc naval commands were burning up the lascom beams communicating with each other. If anything, the different militaries seem to be cooperating more, not less.”

“So what’s your hypothesis?”

“Well, the only thing that would worry all the Blocs and push them together would be something from—well, from outside their respective command structures.”

Elnessa stared at him. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning—maybe—that unidentified ship Simovic was talking about is not part of anyone’s navy.”

“So whose do you think it is?”

“Look, El, we just don’t have any guesses about that. Maybe some military ship mutinied. Maybe the megacorporations have built their own warship, are throwing their weight around.”

“Then why does Simovic think he can sell orphans to—?”

“Okay, so maybe it’s a ship the megas have slipped into the hands of some of the local raiders you hear rumors about. They might have an interest in kids without records.”

Elnessa nodded; that seemed reasonable—and gruesome—enough. But even so—

“El,” Reuben said after a moment, “have you changed your mind yet?”

“About what?”

“C’mon El, don’t make this harder than it is. Will you take a—a package inside corporate headquarters?”

Elnessa shrugged, looked away. She heard Reuben lay something down on the kitturf beside her.

“What is that?” she asked, not needing to look.

“You don’t need to know, El. Any more than you already do. That way you’re not implicated if you’re caught.”

She turned back to look at him, ignoring the plain brown paper package on the ground between them. “Hell, you’re not very good at this are you, Reuben? If anything in that package is selected for inspection when I go in, then I’ve got to have a plausible explanation ready, don’t I? So I’m going to need to know what each object is so I know how best to hide it, or how to explain it away if they take special notice of it. Right?”

Now it was Reuben’s turn to look away. “Yeah, I guess so. I just don’t want you to get—”

“Reuben, don’t you stare away when the topics get tough: that’s the most important time to stay eye-to-eye. Yes, I’ve been reluctant about doing anything more than listening and reporting. Which, admittedly, has worked out just the way you and your advisors back on Tigua thought. Since the suits have decided I’m nothing more than an unassuming, crippled artist-lady, I’m an operational non-entity to them, well beneath the notice of their security elements. So it’s been easy enough to be your ears inside the lion’s den. But now, with them talking about the kids that way—well, I’ll take the next step. I guess I have to. But I don’t know anything about—”

“El, we only want you to bring the materials inside. You can leave it anyplace you want. Just tell us where you’ve left it when you come out. We’ll take care of everything else.”

Elnessa felt relief at not having to do the real dirty work and in the same instant, felt like both a hypocrite and a coward. Damnit, if I’m in on this plan, then why shouldn’t I take risks equal to—?

“El, there’s something else.”

Reuben’s tone had changed, seemed to have become even younger, and more uncertain, somehow. She looked back up at him.

“Please, El: don’t stare at the kids. Not so much, or so long. It makes them—well, uncomfortable.”

El looked away, felt her chest tighten, forced that to stop—because if she didn’t, she feared she might cry. “I can’t help it, Reuben. They should have been mine.”

“I know. But the youngest is five and . . . well, you scare them.”

She wanted to ask: scare them? Why? But she knew: of course she scared them. Her face was framed by the strange and shocking streaks of silver-grey hair that the first set of transient ischemic attacks had left behind. Since then, she had started hobbling along unevenly with the aid of a cane. There was an ever-changing array of intermittent facial and body tics. And of course, there was her riveted attention upon them whenever they came into view, yearning after what she had lost, and now could never have again. She lowered her head. “I’ll stay away.”

Reuben almost whined his objection. “Look, you don’t have to stay away.”

“Yes. I do. If I’m there, I’ll slip into fixating on them. Never had kids of my own, you know.” It had been an utterly meaningless addition: of course Reuben knew that.

And the tone of his response indicated that he understood the statement for what it was: an unintentional plea for sympathy and understanding. “Yes, El—I know.” The silence that followed was not at all comfortable. “So, um. . . so maybe I should start explaining what’s in the package?”

“Might as well,” Elnessa said, looking up. And what she saw made her smile.

Reuben followed her steady gaze over his shoulder. The little boy with quiet eyes and shiny black hair was only two meters behind him. Waiting.

“Hi,” Reuben said with a quick smile.

“Hi,” the boy answered without looking at Reuben.

He started to rise: “Waiting for me? I’ll be there in a—”

“No, I’m waiting for her.”

“Her?”

Elnessa felt a hot pulse of annoyance: You don’t need to sound surprised that someone might actually want to talk to me, Reuben.

Who asked the child, “Why her?”

Oh, you’re just flattering me no end, now, Mr. Empathy.

Elnessa could see the boy laboring—mightily—to keep his face blank. Why? To conceal his dismay, possibly disgust, at Reuben’s thoughtlessly rude inquiry? “I’d like to talk to her. If you don’t mind.”

“Well, she and I—”

Elnessa interrupted. “We can finish this later, Reuben. Come by about seven, okay?”

“Uh, yeah . . . seven o’clock. In private is better, anyway—for what we have to discuss, I mean.”

Elnessa nodded tightly, amazed that Reuben’s idiot, injudicious utterances had not already undone him and the rest of the unofficial union.

The boy with the big, watching eyes moved into the space Reuben vacated. “Hi,” he said again.

“Hi,” Elnessa replied. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Vas.”

“‘Vas?’”

He smiled a little. “It’s short for Srinivasan. But most people can’t say that too well. Anyhow, I like Vas better. What’s your name?”

“I’m El.”

He cocked his head. “Just ‘El?’”

“Well, my real name is ‘Elnessa,’ but people have a hard time remembering that, too. They keep calling me Elaine or Ellen or Elise . . . or Bob.”

Vas stared, then laughed. “You’re funny.”

“I’m glad you think so, Vas. And I’m very glad to meet you.”

“I’m glad to meet you, too. I’ve been wondering: what do you do? I mean, for a living?”

“Well, I started out as an artist, but that was back before I came to settle in the Indis.”

“‘But aren’t you still an artist? At least some of the time?”

Elnessa started. “Why do you ask?”

Vas looked down at her hands and pointed. “They’re stained a lot, almost every time I see you. Or they’re caked with dirt or clay, I can’t tell which. And you look at things very carefully, for a long time. Like you’re measuring them—or feeling them—with your eyes.”

Clever boy: he sees far more than he mentions. He could teach Reuben a thing or two. Elnessa smiled. “You look at things a long time, too. I’ve noticed.”

“Yeah, but that’s just because I’m really careful. I have to be.” Before Elnessa could ask him why he needed to be careful, Vas had pressed on: “What kind of artist are you?”

“I used to create all sorts of art. I still did some pieces on the side when I first arrived on Kitts. Old style paintings, 3-D compgens, I even dabbled a little in holos.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged and looked down at her body. “A xenovirus.”

“You mean a disease that was already here?”

“Well, sort of. Not really a disease. It’s just that . . . well, most of the life on this planet—er, ‘moon’—just ignores life from Earth because it’s too dissimilar. Even though the life here is built from the same basic stuff—”

Vas nodded. “Carbon. Water.”

“—yes.” Damn, he’s sharp. “But sometimes, the local microbes go after our cells, anyway. Or sometimes, the weaker unicellar organisms from Kitts decide to use our bodies as hiding places from the stronger ones that eat them. It’s bad enough when those hiding microorganisms build up in our system, but sometimes, while doing so, they block or consume the few parts of us that they can use. And that’s not good for us.”

Vas nodded solemnly. “Your xenovirus blocks parts of your nervous system, doesn’t it?”

He is very, very sharp indeed. “How did you know that?”

Vas shrugged. “Because you don’t act sick so much as—well, just not able to control yourself as well as other people. And if the microbes were really, uh, consuming, your nerves, I just kind of guessed that you wouldn’t still . . . well, still be alive.”

And how right all your guesses are, my bright little Srinivasan. Despite the concise recitation of her medical woes, Elnessa only felt joy when she was looking into the warm brown eyes of this child. “You know, Vas, I’ll bet you could be a doctor someday.”

He shrugged, looked away, then back at her. “Will we get it too?” Seeing her momentary incomprehension, Vas added, “The disease, I mean.”

She had been slow to understand his question because she assumed that everyone—even kids—were informed upon arrival that, thanks to the new preplanetfall vaccinations and six-month boosters, there hadn’t been any infections since the first wave of settlers. “No,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “You’re safe. It only got the first colonists who settled here. And only some of us.”

“Why did it only get some of you? And how did they cure it?”

Elnessa took care to compose herself before she answered. “Well, you see, Vas, when the Indi Group got permission to settle Kitts, they started with a really diverse group of people. At first, it just seemed that they were taking whoever was willing to come here, probably because they couldn’t be picky. But it turned out that the mix of colonists was actually carefully selected, and was made up of an equal number of persons from every major human genotype. When we asked why they had done that, the company explained that they wanted to create a truly ‘blended’ colony. We still thought they were just trying to make up a nice-sounding story to cover up the fact that they were willing to sign on anyone who was willing to travel here. Of course, they were building a carefully mixed community but not because they were trying to create social diversity.” She watched to see if Vas had understood all the terms she had used. His brows remained unfurrowed, signifying easy and complete comprehension.

Elnessa went on. “In fact, Vas, we were guinea pigs, and they had to have a reasonable sample size of every strain and subspecies of us guinea pigs.”

Now a frown bent Vas’ brow. “I don’t understand.”

Elnessa had her mouth open to explain and then halted: he’s only a kid, El, even if he is a very, very smart one. Kids worry, have nightmares, particularly if you say something that makes them realize that the world is less safe than they think it is. I really don’t have the right—

“Look,” Vas said very matter-of-factly, his eyes still calm but also resolute, “I grew up on Hard Nut, in the Lacaille 8760 system. Life is—hard—there. I lost my Mom, then my Dad, and my Tito Thabo, all in the last few years. So whatever your bosses did, you can tell me. I can take it.”

Elnessa blinked, then sighed and folded her hands. “Vas, the Indi Group wanted to discover if any given genotype of homo sapiens had a particular advantage or disadvantage in this environment. Not that there’s any evidence for such a theory. But that’s the way they think. Racial ‘groups’ do have unique diseases; ethnic groups can carry ‘predominant genetic patterns’ for certain developmental abnormalities. So they decided it would be best to test people from each genetic hiring pool to see if any of them had special advantages or challenges in Kitts’ biosphere.”

“And was there any difference between the groups?”

“No. And when other megacorporations have run the same tests in other biospheres, they never find any differences there, either. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t biological dangers. Here on Kitts, as elsewhere, it turned out that the local xenobugs were all equal-opportunity pathogens.”

“‘Equal opportunity?’”

“Yes. That’s just a silly way of saying that the xenobugs didn’t care about our race, or color, or sex. And I was one of the twenty-four colonists that the xenovirus decided to infest. After the xenobiot surveys declared the biosphere ‘safe,’ that is.”

“So how did the surveys miss detecting these, uh, . . . these xenobugs?”

“Vas, to be fair, the real question should be, ‘how could the surveys be expected to find the bugs? Computer modeling, lab-testing on human-equivalents: those tools are crude and imperfect. And biosensors? A sensor only knows to look for something that has been identified for it already. The sad truth, Vas, is that you don’t really get a good, reliable assessment of what will happen to a human body in a new biosphere until a couple of hundred of those bodies have lived there for a while.”

She tapped her chest. “So we were the canaries in this coal mine. And those of us who became sick were immediately sequestered for study, which is how they learned which genetic markers put humans at highest risk, and then, which vaccines or prophylaxes offered the best protection. And after that, I guess you could say my real work here was done.”

“But you still work.”

“Oh, they give me make-work because it was part of my agreement. I can have a job for as long as I like, and they’ll provide for me; that’s what they promised. But if I leave my employment here, I can’t afford the shift-ticket to another system. And they’ll also stop giving me the experimental xenoviral suppression cocktails, which are what have probably kept me alive this long. Since each new concoction eventually loses its efficacy, they’ve been willing to keep me around as a guinea pig, because I’m still a useful ‘research platform.’ But once they feel they’ve taken that research as far as they need to—”

“I thought you said they made a commitment to provide for you as long as you were their employee. Doesn’t that include medical care?”

“Yes, but routine medical care does not mean that they have to keep a dead-end research program active just to give me the chance to live another year, and then another, and then another. If they stop, then they’ll be responsible for providing for my minimum needs. Until I no longer need anything at all.”

As she ended her description, Vas was looking up at Elnessa with the same quiet, attentive expression that had been on his face the first time she saw him. But now there was the hint of some emotional battle going on behind it. It almost looked as if he might cry—

—but then Vas leaned toward El and caught her in a firm, unyielding hug. El looked down at his crown of shiny hair, and then put her arms gently, carefully, around him.

* * *

Elnessa resisted the urge to close her eyes as Wehns Shoniber, the big Micronesian leader of Simovic’s personal security detail, started rummaging about in her road kit: a carpenter’s tool box converted into an artist’s traveling studio.

“Hey, El,” Wehns wondered, still staring down into the battered red box, “what’s this?”

“Battery,” Elnessa said, trying very hard to keep her response from becoming a sharp, anxious chirp.

“El, you know I can’t let you take that in.”

“Well, then how am I going to power the lights in the high-relief panels?” she replied. “I got Mr. Simovic’s permission before I started the project that some of it could be illuminated.”

“Well, I’m sure you did, El, but he didn’t authorize an independent power source. I’m sure of that. Security protocols, you know.”

El shrugged as if only mildly disturbed, thought: oh, I know, Wehns, I know. In fact, this was exactly what I was afraid would happen. As I told Reuben last night.

Wehns continued riffling through the rest of her gear, inspecting each of the picks, carvers, and files. He stared uncomprehending at an impress set for creating intaglio patterns and asked, as he did every day, “Anything toxic, explosive, flammable, dangerous?”

“Not unless you’re allergic to clay or acrylics.”

Wehns smiled, scratched one of the clay bricks with a fingernail. “Sorry. Gotta ask.”

“Why? Can’t the big, bad megacorporation afford a couple of chemical sniffers?”

“No, not yet. But it’s just a matter of time, now that the big wigs are here to stay.”

“Big wigs?”

“Sure,” Wehns nodded. Then in a lower voice, so his assistants couldn’t hear. “You know: Simovic and Hoon. He’s got an insane amount of autonomy—which came over with him when he promoted up out of the Colonial Development Combine into his post here.”

“And Hoon?”

Wehns’ face went blank. “She’s as cutthroat as they come. Jumped from field rep to junior director in only six years.”

“Don’t like her much?”

“Don’t much care. She doesn’t notice me; I’m just muscle. And frankly, that’s the way I like it. Don’t want to be noticed. Just want to do my job.”

Elnessa looked down at Wehns’ broad back as he neared the completion of his daily search through her kit. Amiable Wehns Shoniber was proof that you couldn’t hate all the people who worked for a megacorporation. It was not the homogeneous conclave of demons and sociopaths that the worst anti-corporate radicals tried to claim. In reality, any given mega only had a smattering of those truly misanthropic monsters, but most of them were in charge, leading a vast organization of average folks who only wanted to work, get ahead, and not worry too much in the process. She sighed: for evil to triumph, all that’s needed is for good men to stand by and do nothing. Or for people to be too lazy to care.

“Hey, what’s this?” Wehns had produced something that looked like the guts of a remote-control handset.

“IR receiver, so you can operate the frieze’s lights by remote control, from anywhere in the room.”

“Aw, El,” Wehns muttered, shaking his head in regret, “I’m sorry, but that one’s off-limits, too.”

“What? Why?”

“Because some nut-job might try to use it as a remote receiver for—something else. Or as a timer, because they all have internal time-chips.”

Elnessa quirked an eyebrow. “A remote receiver or timer for what?”

Wehns looked abashed. “You know. Something—dangerous.”

“You mean, like a piece of art?” Elnessa didn’t think she’d be able to shame Wehns into looking the other way on this violation, but it was worth a try.

If Wehns blushed, she couldn’t tell. His tropic-dark skin hid all such emotional responses. But his voice sounded regretful, apologetic. “El, look, you’re okay—everyone knows that—”

Yeah, sure. Because I’m a nice little cripple lady . . .

“—but rules are rules. I’m sorry, I’m going to have to hold these for you. You can get them back when you leave today.” With a nod that punctuated the end of both his search and their discussion, Wehns carried the offending items away to his secure lock-box. As he withdrew, he caught the eye of his senior assistant and tilted his head toward Simovic’s office. The assistant turned, and with a smile that as was much a part of his equipment as his outdated taser, motioned that Elnessa was free to go into Simovic’s sanctum sanctorum.

With a sigh, she followed his gesture and dragged her battered red box into the expansive Bauhaus-meets-Rococo-gauche opulence in which Simovic held court, limping as she went. With the power-supply and timer/actuator gone, Reuben’s plan for sending a loud—and destructive—after-hours message to their megacorporate masters was pretty much busted before it had begun. She began hobbling toward the raised walkway that ran the length of the mostly finished frieze. Behind her, the door detail resumed their argument about whether today—New Year’s Day, 2120—commenced the last year of the ‘Teens’ decade, or the first of the Twenties.

“Ms. Clare.” It was Simovic. Whom she had no desire to talk with. Or to look at. Or to share a common species with. And besides, she was supposed to be half deaf, now. So, without giving any sign that she had heard, Elnessa continued to make her slow, painful progress toward the work-ramp.

Simovic’s voice was louder—so much louder, that she would have had to have been stone deaf to miss it. “Ms. Clare!”

Elnessa turned with what she hoped was a look of surprise and ingratiating eagerness: “Yes, Mr. Simovic?”

“Your project: how is it coming?”

“Should be finished tomorrow, Mr. Simovic. Although I hardly think of it as ‘my project.’”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Well, sir, it’s you who commissioned it.”

“Yes, but the concept—and the handiwork—is yours, Ms. Clare. I trust you’ll explain its content to both of us,”—he gestured diffidently toward Ms. Hoon—“when you are finished?”

“Of course, Mr. Simovic. Although it’s neither abstract, nor highly stylized. I think you’ll see right away that—”

“Yes, yes: that’s wonderful, Ms. Clare, wonderful. Just make sure that it radiates the humanitarian side of the Indi Group, would you?”

Oh, yes, I’ll be sure to represent the way it exploits workers, and gives us just enough pay to struggle on from one day to the next. I’ll depict how, after the xenovirus incapacitated me, you made me your corporate nanny, and then, when I couldn’t do that any longer, you met your minimum employment requirement by commissioning this frieze. Dirt pay for me, but a tax dodge for you, and a great PR op to demonstrate how the Indi Group encourages the remaining abilities of even its most severely handicapped employees. But Elnessa’s only reply was, “I’ll explain the frieze to you when I’ve completed it, Mr. Simovic.”

“Excellent!” Simovic actually clapped his hands once in histrionic gratification and pleasure, nodded his thanks, and then drew closer to Hoon. For a moment their voices were too low to hear, but then, evidently reassured by Elnessa’s near-deafness, they resumed the discussion her entrance had interrupted.

“So you see,” Simovic said in the voice of a smug tutor, “our visitors—I should say, our new clients—have good reason to be interested in our commodity.”

“And our cooperation, along with it.”

“Well, this goes without saying, Ms. Hoon. But the children will be out of our hands and out of our files, as soon as they take possession.”

“Exactly when and where will that occur?”

“We are uncertain, Ms. Hoon. But we do know this: the commodity must be delivered to the client in pristine condition. The client’s, ah, research program would be ruined by any damage to the goods.”

Research? On the children? On Vas?

“‘Research’?” Hoon echoed. “With respect, sir, all these euphemisms are getting a bit ridiculous.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that our new customers certainly aren’t scientists, sir. Corporate wards without identicodes are not going to be interred in laboratories. They’re bound for raider ships, brothels, snuff producers, maybe a few rich pederasts, but not—”

El thought she was about to lose her breakfast, and then something calming yet more chilling insinuated itself into Simovic’s even-toned interruption: “Oh, no, Ms. Hoon. You really don’t understand, after all. These wards are going to a lab, which is why their utter lack of a traceable background makes them so optimal for this particular trade. Because it is imperative for both us and our clients that they receive humans who, insofar as the nations know, never existed.”

Hoon was quiet for a moment. “Director Simovic, I find your change of label somewhat . . . confusing. Why are you referring to our commodity as ‘humans,’ now, instead of ‘children?’”

“Because that is our client’s primary interest in our commodity. It is not so much because they are children—although it has been intimated that this is the ideal age group for their researches—but because they are healthy, paperless specimens of homo sapiens.”

In the pause that ensued, Elnessa lifted a long, slightly convex, copper sheet from the floor, and, with a couple of touches of an exothermic chemical welder, affixed it to the naked wall of the room.

Hoon’s voice sounded raspy, as if her throat had suddenly become dry. “Sir . . . I don’t understand. The client wants them just because they’re humans?”

Lifting a thin layer of protective gauze from the copper sheet, Elnessa unveiled what would soon occupy the top third of the friezes’s center: a cityscape cluttered by the various architectures of antiquity. She also reminded herself to breathe, despite what she was hearing.

“Oh, I think you are starting to understand after all, Ms. Hoon. Rest assured; this exchange is not being conducted without adequate planning. Indeed, we had contingency directives sent out to us from Earth more than half a year ago, shortly after the Parthenon Dialogues became public knowledge.”

Elnessa removed six sizable blocks of clay from her studio box, and compared them to the virtual assembly plan on her grid-plotter. She then unsheathed her matte knife, and carefully shaved an inch from the rear of the five smaller blocks.

Hoon had paused again, but not for as long. “Are you telling me that the contingency plans governing this, this—exchange—were crafted in response to the Parthenon Dialogues?”

Simovic considered his protégé over steepled fingers. “Let us rather say that the revelations of the Parthenon Dialogues prompted some of CoDevCo’s more speculative thinkers to provide us with guidelines to handle a situation such as this one.”

Even in the grid-plotter’s illuminated screen, Elnessa could make out the profound scowl of doubt on Hoon’s face. “But the evidence presented at Parthenon only proved past events: that—ages and ages ago—this area of space had been visited by aliens—”

“’Exosapients,’” Simovic corrected.

“’Exosapients,’” Hoon parroted peevishly, “But there was no evidence of a more recent presence.”

Simovic smiled, smug and satisfied. “Yes, that’s the story that was released to the public.”

Elnessa forced herself to keep working. That made it easier not to imagine little Vas spread-eagled on an operating table, surrounded by hideous extraterrestrial vivisectionists. She mentally slapped herself, and mounted the five modified clay blocks on studs protruding from the copper plate. She stood back, admiring the effect: the blocks now seemed to be the stony slabs of an ancient fortress wall that curved out from the faintly raised copper cityscape directly over it—a metropolis which, by virtue of the oblique perspective, now seemed to be sheltered behind the wall.

Hoon had recovered enough to continue. “And so the full truth of the Parthenon Dialogues was—?”

“—Was not shared in detail outside the meeting itself. However, let us say that while the evidence certainly established that exosapients did exist 20,000 years ago on Delta Pavonis Three, it did not go on to assert that there were none left in existence.”

“So you suspect that actual contact has been made in the recent—?”

“No, there’s been no contact that we know of or suspect.” Simovic smiled. “Not until now, that is.”

“So you really think that the unidentified ship up there is, is—?”

“Ms. Hoon, the persons we are currently negotiating with are not human, of that you may rest assured. The communication challenges have been proof positive of that.”

Elnessa felt as though she might swallow her tongue, but instead, she picked up the last, and the largest, of the six clay blocks she had brought with her. She carefully carved the top to resemble a peak-roofed gallery at the pinnacle of a watchtower. Then she bored a small tube up through the center of the block, making sure that it was wide enough to fit the wires for its small beacon light.

Hoon hadn’t stopped. “So how did these, er, exosapients know to contact us and that we’d have these particular ‘items’ that they needed?”

“An excellent question, but those kinds of details are not even shared with regional managers, Ms. Hoon. However, I conjecture that there must have been some prior contact between our chief executives and some representatives of theirs.”

“And you suspect this because—?”

“Because they arrived knowing and inquiring about the commodity we have in our possession. And because they knew our communications protocols, our location here instead of on Tigua, and a reasonable amount of our language. Although that latter knowledge has been decidedly imperfect.”

Elnessa ran the wiring leads up through the tube in the watchtower: the slim copper alligator clips poked their noses out the top of the hole. Deciding to finish the sculpting and wiring later, she mounted the watchtower on its own copper stud, thereby completing the wall around the Brazen City. Then she ran the other end of the leads to a junction box mounted on the bottom of the copper plate, just beneath and behind the lower edge of the frieze. She then covered the wires—and the lower half of the copper plate—with strips of clay that she started sculpting into a semblance of furrowed farmland. Beneath those, she left just enough room for the band of blue-white acrylic that lay ready at hand: a stylized river, frozen in mid-tumult.

Hoon still hadn’t stopped. “So what we’re doing now is—”

“—Is working out the particulars of the exchange, while we wait for Tigua to send us word on the outcome of the official first contact.”

“Which we expect to be—unsuccessful.”

Simovic shrugged. “It is most unlikely that bloc-controlled Tigua will concede to our clients’ military superiority—”

You mean, will refuse to surrender without a fight—

“—whereas we have already assured them of our complete and immediate cooperation.”

You mean, traitorous collaboration offered up to them on a silver platter.

Hoon was smiling now. “How very convenient. For us.”

“Yes, rather a nice reward for patiently enduring the pomposity of the nation-states, don’t you think? Always nattering on about social contracts, and consent of the governed, and the greatest good for the greatest number. I can hardly believe they don’t laugh themselves to death as they spout all that antediluvian rubbish.”

Hoon’s contempt for these same concepts was obviously so great that it exceeded polite articulation: she merely expelled a derisive snort. Then she added, “Well, good riddance to Bloc sanctions and anti-trust restrictions.”

Elnessa delicately swept her wire brush up, up, up, all along the first furrowed row of clay she had set before the city walls, imparting to it an impression of young wheat or corn, just as it sprang from the ground toward the sun. And as she did so, she listened to the unfolding plans for the cool, calculated, and above all, profitable betrayal of her species.

* * *

Once again responding to the gum wrapper Elnessa had inserted into the dead-drop crevice, Reuben approached her hurriedly. He had his mouth open to ask something—

Elnessa preempted him. “Have you heard?”

“You mean, about the aliens?”

“Exosapients,” Elnessa corrected him.

“Whatever. Yeah, I heard. It’s got to be the worst-kept secret there’s ever been. No one seems to be able to shut up about it, even in the military. The word has been leaking out of navy comshacks, out of the commercial transmission offices, everywhere.”

“And you know they’re planning on coming here, evidently?”

Reuben frowned. “Well, amidst all the rest of the panic talk, I’ve heard that rumor, too. But the evidence for it seems pretty vague, pretty much hearsay.”

“Well, it’s not. These exosapients are apparently Indi Group’s newest preferred customers. And they want the kids. For research.”

She thought Reuben would goggle. But like her, his capacity for shock was almost exhausted. All Reuben did was shrug: “Figures. Which makes our mission all the more imperative.” His expression became eager, more focused. “So, how did it go when you went in today? Is everything there, ready and waiting?”

Elnessa shook her head. “I got the payload in, but nothing else.”

Reuben’s jaw dropped open. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that they wouldn’t let me take anything electronic into the office: no independent power supply, and no remote activators of any kind. Like I told you. But even so, I think I’ve found a way to—”

But Reuben was shaking his head. “No, El. It’s finished. Our guy on the inside is strip-searched every day: they’ve got all the usual means of access covered. Without power and a way to trigger the device, it’s no good.”

“I understand your problem. But actually, there’s a pretty simple alternative: you can—”

Reuben stood abruptly. “No, El: I don’t want to know. The less I know, the less I can tell if they eventually root up some pieces of this plot and then try to discover who was involved. I’ve got—we’ve got—to forget about this. Right now. As if it never happened.”

Elnessa looked up at him. “I’m not sure I can forget it, Reuben. Particularly not with what’s at stake, now.”

Reuben looked at her. “Don’t make trouble, El. And don’t make me warn you about coming near the kids again. Vas told me.”

“Told you what?”

“That you made him dinner last night, let him stay until it was way too late—”

“Feeling guilty you didn’t even notice he was missing, ‘Daddy’?’” The moment she said it, Elnessa was sorry: no one knew better than she how hard it was to keep track of almost a dozen kids between the ages of five and thirteen. “Look, Reuben; I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“El, just—just leave it alone. Leave it all alone. And I mean both the mission and Vas. And that’s an order.” His utterance of the word ‘order’ was, laughably, a half-whining appeal, rather than a command.

“Sure,” El answered. “Whatever.”

Reuben turned and walked stiffly into the deepening gloom. About ten meters away, he reached down into a cluster of bushes and gently extracted its hidden occupant—Vas—before resuming his steady march away from Elnessa. Vas looked back, eyes troubled. He waved and was gone.

Elnessa waved, sighed, wiped her eyes, and went home in the dark.

* * *

It was only midmorning of January 2, 2120, when Elnessa stepped back to examine the frieze, in all its finished glory. All that remained now was to put in the prism-projecting Cheops eye, just over the watchtower light, and complete the light fixture itself. Behind her, Simovic and Hoon continued their plotting, as though they had been at it ever since she had left yesterday. And who knew? Maybe they had.

Hoon continued with her seemingly inexhaustible list of questions. “Our personnel—the ones who will gather the children, and the ones who will convey them to the rendezvous point—do any of them, well . . . know what’s really going on?”

Simovic shook his head. “No. They have the necessary timetable, coordinates, and orders, but no knowledge of who our clients are or why we are engaging in this trade.”

“Which is scheduled for when?”

Simovic looked at the digital timecode embedded in the ticker bar of his media-monitoring flatscreen. “Two hours.”

“Short notice,” Hoon commented.

“True. But it’s really quite logical. Even if our new customers trusted us—which they have no reason to do at this point—they have no way of knowing if our communications are secure. Maybe Bloc naval forces have hacked our cipher, know when and where to expect our clients, and will set up an ambush. No, our clients’ prudence is a good sign. It means they are not rash, and, after all, we will need these new partners to be very discreet indeed.”

Elnessa looked over toward the two of them. “Mr. Simovic,” she called.

“Yes, Ms. Clare?”

“Could you please have your security people pull the fuse for the power conduits all along this wall?”

“Why?”

“Well, I need to finish wiring the lights.”

“Can’t you leave the power on while you do it?”

“Only if I want to take the risk of electrocuting myself.”

Elnessa noted Simovic’s hesitation. It didn’t arise from any sense of suspicion—that was manifestly clear—but rather from the inconvenience of her request. Her safety was almost beneath his concern, especially at this particular moment. However, he ultimately signaled his annoyed acquiescence to the guard at the rear of the room, who left to comply with the request.

A moment later, the lights glaring down upon the frieze, along with the rest of the devices which drew their power from outlets along that wall, shut down.

Elnessa nodded her thanks, and limped over to the watchtower, the Cheops eye in hand. She emplaced the round, vaguely Pharaohic piece of multi-hued crystal just above the pointed roof of the watchtower.

Then, picking up the bulb that was to be the watchtower’s lamp, she set it down on the section of the clay ‘wall’ next to the tower, and inspected the two small alligator clips grinning toothily up at her from just beneath the rim of the passage she had bored lengthwise in the tower. She stuck her finger in between the leads, widening the hole slightly, and then buried the two clips side by side into the dense matter surrounding them.

She went to check the switch that provided the manual control for all the lights in the frieze. It was, as she had left it, in the “off” position.

She turned to face Simovic. “It is finished,” she announced.

“Hmmmm…what?”

“I said, ‘it is finished.’ Can you please have the power restored to this wall?”

Simovic and Hoon looked up: he surprised, she bored and impatient. He nodded for the guard to go restore the power, and then stood straighter, scanning the length of the frieze. Elnessa detected surprise and gratification: despite the fact that she had spent the last two months crafting it literally under his nose, he had never truly examined it until now. Simovic cleared his throat. “That is really . . . ”

“ . . . really quite good,” Hoon finished, with an approving nod-and-pout, and a tone of voice that sounded like a grudging concession. Then she was turning back to her documents and data-feeds.

“But you have not seen it all,” Elnessa said.

Hoon looked back up, Simovic smiled faintly. “No?” he asked.

“No. Several elements light up, and can be set to show different times of the day. The sun light is here, and small spotlights are embedded here and here to make the city roofs gleam during the day mode. These other lights—inside the blue acrylic—make the water seem to ripple and churn.”

“And at night?”

Elnessa turned on the switch. “The city’s watchtower burns a faint, but steady amber, guiding lost travellers to shelter on dark nights and in dark times. And all the while, the great prismatic eye of Cheops judges the worthiness of those within the city, and without.”

Simovic seemed to suppress a flinch at the mention of judgment. Elnessa wondered if perhaps he had enough vestigial soul left in him to feel a faint pulse of guilt. Hoon simply frowned, as though slightly suspicious that they had funded the creation of radical art. She asked, “And just what do you call this piece of art? And why doesn’t the tower’s light work?”

Elnessa smiled. “I call this frieze Jericho Falls Outward. Or, if you prefer a less metaphorical title, you can call it, I Will Not Let You Assholes Kill My Children.”

Simovic did flinch now. Hoon’s head snapped back as if she had been struck—and then her eyes went wide with comprehension. She turned toward one of the guards, mouth open to scream a command—just as Elnessa finished her silent count to ten.

* * *

As Elnessa reached “ten,” the current from the wall had spent that many seconds both illuminating the lights of the frieze, and coursing through the alligator clips that were buried in the side of the hole Elnessa had bored through the length of the watchtower. However, the electricity directed into that substance was neither wasted nor idle.

Concealed inside the block of clay, down where the leads were embedded, was a core comprised of an identically-colored, but somewhat denser, malleable material. With every passing second, the complex nanytes which pervaded that substance had begun changing their chemical composition, and aligning to follow with (and thereby offer less resistance to) the electric current. However, unlike the aligning of atoms in an electromagnet, when the nanytes of this complex compound were all finally aligned, they began to work like a battery—which rapidly soared toward overload.

* * *

As Elnessa Clare realized that her ten-count had come and gone, she thought about continuing on to “eleven,” and felt a pulse of worry shoot through her. According to Reuben, the substance that had been embedded at the core of each of the clay blocks—Selftex—could only absorb ten seconds of standard outlet current from the watchtower’s diverted leads. But then Elnessa realized that this one extra second was a gift, time with which she could recall Vas’ steady, warm brown eyes—

* * *

The Selftex—a recent, self-actuating evolution of the plastic explosive Semtex—had been developed to do away with the need for blasting caps or other explosive initiators. Hooked up to a low electric current, it gave miners and construction workers a long, precise interval in which to evacuate a blast site. However, when the current was as powerful as that running through a standard electrical outlet—

* * *

From almost two kilometers away, Vas not only heard, but felt, the blast. A few nearby windows shattered, people stared around wildly, a few—probably the ones who had heard the rumors of approaching exosapients—looked skyward.

But Vas straightened and looked toward the roiling mass of thick black smoke rising up over the Indi Group’s corporate headquarters like a fist of angry defiance. And, through his tears, he smiled. That was the work of El, his El. He had heard Reuben’s injudicious radio talk, had seen some incoming messages foolishly left unpurged from the house computer, and so knew that El had been helping to resist the Indi Group—and as of yesterday, was the only one still actively doing so.

Vas looked over toward the headquarters again, wondered about the frieze Elnessa had spoken of working on for so long, yearned to have seen it. He knew that, since she had crafted it, the frieze had been, without doubt, a thing of beauty—every bit as much as she herself had been. Then he stared up at the crest of the ugly black plume that marked its destruction, and reflected: this was her gift to him, to all the children.

And therefore, it, too, was a thing of beauty.

An Imperium Pursuit

by Jody Lynn Nye

(The Imperium consists of those thousands of systems in the Milky Way Galaxy to which human beings have spread over the last ten millennia. Over that time, its ruling nobility has become, apart from the Emperor or Empress and those working cabinet ministers and planetary governors, a trifle on the self-indulgent, useless side. Lord Thomas Innes Loche Kinago is one who occasionally applies his intelligence and many talents to be actually helpful, a fact that must be concealed at all costs from his relatives.)

“Yoicks, after him, cousins! Kinago!” I exhorted my companions through my helmet microphone, as I dived toward an imaginary quarry on my skycycle.

“Kinago!” they echoed.

I tightened my long legs about the bronze-enameled frame and wrapped my fingers around the control handles, even though I was safely secured onto my saddle by straps across my chest, hips and thighs.

“Forward, Tybalt! Take me to victory!”

My friends and relatives arrayed themselves in three flanks behind me, one each to right, left and above me. The twenty of us swooped straight down a hundred stories toward the busy cityscape of Nikplig. I narrowly missed colliding with a goods vehicle about to dock on a platform a kilometer or so above the ground. With the expert skill at piloting and hair-trigger reflexes that I am too modest to admit I possess, I pulled aside just in time. My younger and only sister, Lionelle, hurtled past me. Her peacock-blue cycle, Destrier, clipped the edge of the lorry. I burst out laughing. She glanced over her shoulder and made a horrible grimace at me through her transparent, full-face visor. I hauled back on the controls and soared toward the brilliant, clear blue sky. My friends and cousins veered off to follow me, with my sister far back in the van.

We were in between rounds of Foxhunt. The game was based upon what had begun upon humanity’s ancient home of Earth as pest control measures but expanded in the hands of the nobility to a pastime bearing little resemblance to its origins and hence had been alternately, sometimes simultaneously, outlawed, vilified and lauded as part of humankind’s inimitable history. The version which we enjoyed was an offshoot of ‘drag-hunting’ that had taken place in the absence of any actual foxes. The trouble with this method was that the dragger often had no style or skill, and lent less sport to the pursuers than the true animal. Our preferred substitute was no less nor more intelligent than we ourselves. In other words, it was one of us. In this immediate case, it had been me. I had led my pursuers on a ridiculously complicated chase, in and out of what attractions existed in this rather pedestrian town. Within mere seconds to go in the time-limit, my cousin Xanson had trapped me in between two power-radiating antennae four hundred meters above the street and tagged me out. As his reward, he took over my role as quarry.

Even now, Xan was somewhere in the city below, waiting until the signal was given for the start of Round Two. In the meanwhile, the rest of us took the opportunity for comfort breaks, to lay waste to the sumptuous buffet that had been laid out for us by LAI serverbots on the roof of the tallest building in Nikplig, the Imperium Entertainment Network Center, or to troubleshoot our skycycles to determine if they had sustained any damage during Round One. Since my capture, mine had been emitting an odd noise in its drives.

Echoes of our engines resounded off the local architecture, no doubt exciting commentary on the part of the denizens of the city of Nikplig, four time zones west of our home in the capital city of Taino. They had not known we were coming, and no doubt wished us home and out of their airspace and afternoon traffic patterns as soon as possible. We always tried to keep our arrival in a new city on the QT, owing to the overwhelming chances that we would be met upon our arrival by the local gendarmerie, who, notwithstanding the fact that every one of us was a scion of the Imperium house, would cheerfully impound our cycles, fine us, and send us home in a secure vehicle. They knew that we fully intended to disturb the peace for an hour or so, possibly all afternoon. Owing to our noble status, law enforcement always treated us with respect, but little love was lost between them and us. The trouble was, the technology required for Foxhunt demanded that we play in fresh pastures that we normally did not frequent, and our incursions were very noisy. Hence, our invasion of a new city, or rather, one whose door we had not darkened in some time.

I tested out my trusty flyer on a turn or so around the building, humming as close as I could to the sides of the edifice without tearing out any of its windows by the velocity of my passage. I tuned a fitting here and a restraint belt there, to reduce as much wind resistance as possible and track down the source of that buzz. On the third revolution, I discovered that one of the housings above Tybalt’s power plant was not damaged but had come loose. It was the work of a moment to snap it back where it belonged. Once all was in place, I turned to swoop upward five kilometers, before arching into a tight parabola to hurtle toward the rooftop. With a sigh of satisfaction, I pulled up my cycle’s nose and came in for a landing.

I hopped out of the saddle, and could not resist giving Tybalt a pat as though my skycycle were a living steed that could respond to my caress. I stripped off the bronze-colored flight suit and tossed it to a nearby valetbot for freshening. I straightened the thin long-sleeved green silk jersey shirt over the tight-fitting black knee-length athletic pants I wore underneath, and enjoyed the fresh, warm air that played about my limbs. In twos and threes, my cousins alit and dismounted, most of them making for the tables. Lionelle streaked in and screeched to a halt beside me. I cringed for the wellbeing of Destrier’s undercarriage. She swung a blue-clad leg over the framework and bore down on me like bad news, ripping off her helmet as she did.

“You could have gotten me killed down there!” she said, her flint-blue eyes sparking. She swung the sapphire-colored helmet and struck me in the arm.

“Ow!” I protested, clutching my abused biceps. “I wouldn’t do anything to endanger you.”

“You barely left me any room to maneuver when you pulled up!”

“You are as good a rider as I am, Nell,” I said. “I knew you would avoid the delivery van.” I spoke no more than truth. We were the most accurate pilots among our cousins. We owed our skill to the heritage bestowed upon us by our mother, Tariana Kinago Loche, First Space Lord of the Imperium. There was no vehicle that we could not fly, ride, steer, navigate or drive with ease upon the first try.

“Flattery won’t repair the housing on my cycle!” She pointed to the frame over the processing unit that controlled Destrier’s steering and acceleration.

“I speak no more than the truth,” I said. “Come on, then. I’ll fix it for you.”

She plunked herself onto the seat of my cycle while I looked out tools to bend the case back into shape.

An onlooker might not find much in the way of resemblance between us. I am of much greater than average height, and I share hues of hair and eyes with our mother, being sandy-haired and sea-blue-eyed, though my skin is tawny after the fashion of my Kinago ancestors. My sister, on the other hand, had our father’s dramatic coloring. Her crisp black hair was braided in a thick plait down her back, and her deep blue eyes were striking in a heart-shaped face of peach-skin complexion. Her petite, slender physiognomy was remarkably similar to Mother’s. And, completing the trifecta in the genetic sweepstakes, our elder brother was again nothing like the two of us. It was a shame that he could not have joined us, but he was off planet on a private holiday with his wife.

“I am so sorry that you must report to the naval academy so soon,” I said, replacing a clip that had been cracked by the impact.

“At least I have a week,” Nell said, kicking her legs back and forth. “It took the six of us much longer to jump back to Keinolt than we anticipated. I thought it would be a lark to travel home from Humbero Academy on a freighter, but we were wrong. It was loud, dull and slow.”

“Well, you could hardly complain of that at the moment,” I remarked. “Apart from the loudness, of course.”

Our cousin Erita bore down on us, a glass of lemonade in each hand. The present amusement had been her idea. It was her turn to choose. She had won the last contest, which had been Nell’s clever notion, and a hard-fought contest it had been, too.

My mother had managed to scoop up most of Lionelle’s time, but what remained she spent in the company of her brothers and cousins, wreaking havoc as we used to do in our childhood. Alas, but I can’t say I missed those days, as they had never really ended. Lionelle and a handful of our younger cousins were due to begin their two years’ obligatory service in the space navy, and were enjoying their last days of freedom. Nell’s challenge had been one of gourmet tastings, to identify the origins and ingredients in exotic dishes. I had enjoyed that mightily, but had been pipped to the post by one single point that Erita had gained by spotting the difference between green and black cardamom. I still stung at the error, something that Erita was not likely to make me, or Xan, who had placed third, forget any time soon.

But I digress.

“Are we all having fun?” Erita asked, offering the beverages to us. The exertion of the hunt had brought roses to her cheeks, freshening her beauty. Erita was not as petite in height as Nell, but just as slim, with a long, oval face and a long pointed nose. Her hair was genuinely pale blonde, a rarity in any era. If any of the normally exuberant Kinago family could ever approach moroseness, she did. I put it down to her father’s family, the Betains. A good line, and related to the third Imperium dynasty, full of brave soldiers and kind-hearted philanthropists, all a credit to humanity, but with an undeniable tendency toward gloom. Today, she was almost outrageously cheerful.

“How soon until we launch again?” I inquired. I took a grateful sip, surprised at how parched my throat had become.

Erita waved her free hand vaguely. “My valetbot, NCK-0722, is on a comlink with the police. They are threatening to close us down. I thought Nancy-Kaye would be more diplomatic than I could bother to be.”

“Quite right,” I said. “When she’s done, we can begin. I am sure that Xan is getting impatient.”

“It is too irritating. They cannot understand why we didn’t stay in Taino.”

“Well, everyone knows that!” I said.

It was not merely a matter of logistics. We needed to vary the location of our games of Foxhunt not only because of the annoyance of the locals had we remained in one place, but because of the Hounds which allowed us to pursue our prey, who made use of technology to conceal themselves from easy discovery.

Boland Vanishment Generators had been in use in the Imperium and elsewhere for centuries, if not millennia, but seldom as objects for amusement. They had begun as tools for military use, providing the means for close-in surveillance and covert espionage operations. If the user remained perfectly still, the occasional twinkle from the image-displaying fabric would never give away their presence. Thus were many coups and catastrophes avoided.

From there, Bolands were seconded to industry, adding a necessary and useful means to avoid the ever-present observation devices that had become prevalent across civilization. Then, to celebrity. What leading social light would not like to escape public scrutiny once in a while, perhaps while making an assignation with another leading light (or someone with whom being seen would destroy one’s reputation or give rise to scandal and gossip)? And, contrarywise, they would have fallen also into the hands of those whom the gossip outlets paid to bring evidence of those secret meetings to the eyes and ears of the gasping public. A Boland, part device, part garment, became part of every successful paparazzo’s bag of tricks. Lastly though not leastly, simplified Bolands began to appear on the shelves of very expensive toy stores and novelty arcades, which is where one of my several-times ancestors discovered them and decided they would make a fun addition to our everlasting games and contests.

Naturally, since one would have been rendered invisible, there arose the need to be able to track one, should it become necessary. Again, we had access to descendants of former military devices, the Poctil Hound Drones. Unlike their fleshly counterparts, Poctil Hounds were upright floating cylinders bristling with sensing gear. A dab of one’s aroma, a drop of blood, a skin cell or two placed in the sensing receptacle, and the Drones would sniff out the whereabouts of anyone who needed to be found, following one very literally to the ends of the Earth. If one secreted oneself in a locale one frequented, the Drones, capable of detecting DNA in parts per trillion, would become confused by the diffusion of old skin cells. In other words, the scent would be muddied, potentially leading the hunters off after red herrings and dead ends, possibly adding hours to a round. My cousins and I did not have the patience for a long hunt. Therefore, it behooved us to seek fresher fields, and allow the old sites to lie fallow for a season or two. In Nell’s honor, we decided to try a city upon which we had not yet bestowed the bounty of our presence.

Hence, somewhere below us in the maze of strange city streets, my cousin, Lord Xanson, also astride a skycycle, but rendered invisible by the Boland drape that until an hour ago I had been wearing, was spreading trails here, there and everywhere in order to throw off any chance we had of finding him. We had to wait until Erita’s signal to release the hounds and set out in search of him. Until then, we amused ourselves, quaffing a stirrup cup or so and exchanging jokes and lies. I had for the occasion furnished myself with a few stories gleaned during my military service that I had not yet shared with my cousins and sister.

To a rapt and appreciative audience, I outlined the first of these excellent jokes, laying the groundwork that I was certain would lead to an outstanding laugh at my punchline.

“…But you all know Lady Carmine, and that she would never think of going away without at least a dozen attendants,” I said, leaning in confidentially toward my cousin Jil. When she was not being deliberately obtuse, she was among the best listeners for whom I could hope. She nodded. The others around her, including a distant relative and recent friend, Banitra Savarola Wilcox, nodded, too. “But she can hardly resist a good tipple. In his youth, my father was rather skilled at brewing cider from the apples in the Imperium Compound’s north orchard….” I stressed the words that would later become part of my punchline.

“My lord? May I have a word?”

I glanced back, dismayed at the interruption.

During most times of my life, the sound of Commander Parsons’s silken baritone voice would have filled me with curiosity and enthusiasm. That dignified and worthy gentleman had shown enormous patience with the budding dragonet that was Lord Thomas Kinago, and had since put me in the way of having some very intriguing and useful adventures. However, since I was at the moment making my own fun, he was, to put it bluntly, one distraction too many. I attempted to complete my story.

“Then, Lady Carmine….” I realized I was speaking to empty air.

The moment had been broken. My audience, always on the lookout for the very next impetus to spur their easily bored psyches, drifted off in twos and threes to seek refreshment. I turned to behold that gentleman’s purposely blank and smooth countenance, contained between a smooth sweep of jet black hair and a black, unadorned uniform.

“Parsons!” Nell rushed to embrace him. With my sister in her colorful riding habit wrapped around his ribcage, he rather resembled a statue suddenly festooned with party streamers. One stiff hand rose to pat her avuncularly on the shoulder. “How lovely to see you!”

“Lady Lionelle, I am delighted to see that you have returned safely. How have you been?”

“Oh, wonderful!” Nell declared, releasing him. “I am enjoying not having any more finals to take. And this welcome-home party has been so much fun. Everyone has been marvelous.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Parsons said gravely.

“I didn’t expect to see you until dinner tonight at Mother’s. Is Thomas in trouble?”

“Not at this time, my lady.”

“Too bad,” Nell said, with a cheeky grin.

I made an ogre’s face and lunged at her with my arms over my head. Shrieking with laughter, she retreated toward the refreshment table. Once she was safely out of earshot, I turned to Parsons.

“And what brings you to this desolate outpost?”

“Your skills are required, my lord.”

I felt my eyebrows climb my brow, but my expression did not summon forth an answering one in Parsons’s dour mien. He might well have been a statue. I was forced to resort to words.

“Which ones?” I asked. “They are all at your disposal, though I would prefer not to disabuse my cousins that I am as dissolute a personality as they believe me to be. In the layman’s cant, I have a reputation to uphold.”

“I realize that, my lord. It would be of great assistance if you would assist me, in a casual way, of course. We are pursuing a miscreant in the proximate region. Your craft is faster and more nimble than most of those seconded to law enforcement, and there are few to rival your skill in the saddle. You could easily cover the airspace, using your cousins’ presence as cover, and relay information back to agents in the area. Mr. Frank would appreciate your assistance.”

He spoke of the mysterious master of Imperium covert operations who had ordered us into action on previous occasions. I had yet to meet the man, a matter that excited my deepest curiosity.

“Say no more,” I said, holding up a hand. “In all honor, I can’t leave my sister to the tender mercies of the rest of the clan. Her absence at school has left her softer than she thinks she is, and I do not want her to harm herself accidentally until she gets her sea legs back, so to speak. In an hour – say, three at the most – Nell will be on her way back home to Mother, and I will be at your service. Unfortunately, we are just about to enter stage two of a three-part contest. I am intrigued, tickled and flattered that you have come to me for aid, but the time is simply not a convenient one.”

Parsons was not to be deterred. “My lord, this is a most serious matter. This individual is very dangerous. Reports indicate he is carrying a device that will disrupt communications between the satellites system and Keinolt defense. It may be a feint to see if we are paying attention to such incursions, or the actual event that precedes an invasion of planetary airspace. Every moment’s delay in capturing him puts the Imperium at risk.”

“I am desolated, but I must refuse. I regret that I have no time to devote to the matter, Parsons, I said, and I truly did regret it. But my sister is only here for a short time, and her well-being is my primary concern. When the contest is over, providing I have not won,” I added, “since I would be choosing the next amusement for my cousins, I will join you wherever you may be.”

I was distracted at that moment by the sister in question. Nell had joined the others among the hovering pack of hound drones, choosing the ones that would fly with her during the next round. They were similar in construction, but their coloration and exterior sensor arrays varied greatly. She beckoned to a handful of them to cluster behind her. Among them her choices was a favorite of mine, which I called Melusine. I strode over and pulled my hound away. It hovered at my shoulder.

“Sorry, Nell, but this one is mine.”

“No, Thomas, you are wrong,” Nell said, with a severe look that could have been my mother to the life. “She was mine before I went away to school.”

“She belonged to me before you began to play at fox-and-hounds,” I said, with a casual shrug. “Childish games. I let you play with her. You couldn’t call that a transfer of ownership. How could I not be generous to my only sister?”

“Oh,” Nell said, with a look so sweet that honeybees ought to have been arrowing directly for her face to sip the nectar. “And you had been! I treasured Melusine. Just because I couldn’t take her with me didn’t change that gift. You are the best big brother.”

I was determined not to give ground, nor was she, but to raise our voices over such a trivial matter as a drone would render us ridiculous in the eyes of our cousins. We fought over it in a deliberately offhand manner which would lead an outsider to think that neither of us cared a subatomic particle for the object in question, when in truth each of us would die before yielding.

Parsons, never one to stand by while war was being waged, stepped in between us.

“Lady Lionelle, Lord Thomas will surely cede you most of these devices, but I believe that he has made considerable use of it during your absence. Even if you shared Melusine as children,” and here he emphasized that word in a way that shamed us both, “he has adapted its programming to his own preferences.”

“I want it.” Nell pouted. “I used it during our chase after him just a few hours ago! You didn’t say anything then.”

“But now that I am back among the hunters instead of the hunted,” I said, “I want to use it. Xan will be tricky prey.”

“It’s the best hound in the game!”

Parsons drew Melusine toward him. A dent of perhaps one millimeter dented his epicene brow, indicating the deepest of concentration.

“But you see, my lady?” Parsons asked, with that austere yet ingratiating manner that made him worth his weight in dilithium crystals, “it is sadly outdated.” He flipped open the compartment on the side and pointed to the polished circuitry around the sampling cloth that Xan had brushed over his forehead and wrists. “The DNA chamber does not have as many sensors as the newest model.” The cloth fell out onto the ground. I sprang to retrieve it. “Thank you, my lord.” He replaced it and closed the chamber. He turned to the next nearest drone, and opened its receptacle to display a galaxy of bright silver dots. “This one that you call Corsair has three times the sensor points. It also has a much faster response time and a more efficient drive. In other words, it will lead not only your pack, but everyone else’s. You would not wish,” he added, with a dismissive gesture toward Melusine, “to operate a unit that is seasons behind the others.”

His reasoning was perfect, if insufferable. Nell hated to be behind in fashion, but she could never bear logic. She gave me a sharp look from under her dark brows.

“I hate it when you are right,” she told Parsons. She waved a dismissive hand at me. “Very well, Thomas, you may have your ancient lurcher. It will be lost in the crowd!”

“Thank you,” I murmured to Parsons.

“My pleasure, my lord,” that worthy replied, inclining his head about three millimeters. “I will see you upon your return. Please inform me when you have intercepted your quarry.”

“That I will,” I said, slapping my hand heartily upon the viewpad upon my hip. “Good hunting!”

“The same to you, my lord,” he said.

Parsons departed with the same discretion with which he had appeared. No more than two minutes after he vanished away, Erita came beaming toward us, her robust cylindrical LAI server in tow.

“Nancy-Kaye has done the trick!” she exclaimed. “The police have agreed to let us alone, providing we do not cause any injuries. Mount up, foxhunters! Let us go find Xan. I am sure it will be a thrilling chase. I offer three bottles of my father’s finest brandy to the one who catches him!”

Cheering, we scattered to our various mechanical steeds, suited up, and strapped in.

“Away, drones!” cried Rillion Kinago Innes, our volunteer Master of the Hounds. The cylinders lifted silently into the sky, their baying limited to howls in our earpieces, and swept off to the northeast. We followed, view-hallooing happily.

Behind us, the LAIs patiently turned their attention to cleaning up the site of our party and packing away the uneaten food, overseen by the ever-efficient NCK-0722. A few securitybots with both city and Imperium markings hovered up over the eaves and scanned the area. I recalled Parsons’s cautions that the man he sought intended to sabotage communications. I grew curious as to the rest of the facts of the case, then ruthlessly pulled my attention away. I would throw all my energies into assisting him later on.

I scanned the clear azure sky ahead of me, both with my natural vision and the heads-up display in my visored helmet. As yet, the Poctil Hounds had not yet discovered any of the trace that Xan had been laying down. He would certainly have provided false trails galore. My cousin was a wily game-player and a worthy competitor. My honor was at stake, since he had been the one to capture me.

“Where do you think he is hiding?” Nell asked me, pulling Destrier up beside my Tybalt. I studied the sky. Not a cloud marred its turquoise beauty. He could not lurk there.

“Xan favors industrial facilities. Their labyrinthine layouts allow him to indulge his propensity for surprise.”

“Where is there a sufficient factory or plant in this city to conceal an individual flyer?” she asked, more to Destrier’s location database than to me.

I heard the tinny ping as the small computer went to work.

“Aha!” she exclaimed. “Hounds, two hundred seventy degrees, nine kilometers!”

Her pack veered off in that direction. I performed a similar search, and Tybalt’s onboard navigator informed me that she was heading towards the city’s power plant. I directed my Poctil Hounds to follow. If there was a trace of Xan to be sniffed out, I had faith that they would discover it before hers could, despite their newer hardware.

My cousins spread out in numerous directions behind their packs of drones. A few of them peeled off from the formation and arrowed west with us. The rest sought their fortune in other potential venues around the city. This initial seeking was the hardest part. Until we determined the quadrant he had chosen as his lair, it could take us hours of hard hunting, but I believed I knew Xan’s thinking.

We threaded in and out of Nikplig air traffic. Heavy goods vehicles tended to stay fairly low, so as to lessen the impact should they lose power and plummet to the ground. At the altitudes we were traveling, in the five to ten kilometer range, long-distance passenger transport, education caravans and tourists were the most likely to be our neighbors in the skies, keeping to well-defined airways patrolled by airborne policebots and cycle-riding officers. Still, here and there I caught disembodied glints and ripples outside the flight paths. Experience had taught me that those were single vehicles covered by Boland devices. Xan was not the only person who wished to conceal his passage. Could any of these be the person for whom Parsons was looking? That must explain the presence of so many law-enforcement agents.

Traffic thinned out to almost nothing by the time we arrived. The Nikplig power plant was exactly the kind of terrain that we adored for a game of this type. Fields of bright silver solar arrays covered the desert ground for kilometers, surrounding the bases of complex wind turbines. Here and there, a grim round tower containing a geothermal retrieval unit loomed up out of the expanse of mirrors. A complicated array of girders strung with wires and emitters lined the perimeter, intending to keep migratory flocks of birds who might think the shining panels were bodies of water from coming to grief. My Poctil Hounds began to cast about. Danae, one of my newer hounds, emitted a sharp bark. I examined her readout in my display. The trace was very faint, perhaps one particle that might or might not have belonged to Xan. They spread out around me, whimpering into my ears as they sought for more evidence of his presence.

But, hark! A slip of shadow passed across a nest of girders a hundred meters from me. I glanced up. Nothing was there that could have cast it. Xan!

I grinned. He was being too clever by half, but he could not escape being a solid body in the eyes of the sun. The Boland would translate part of the image of sunbeam striking him, but the processors were unable to completely conceal a moving image. Melusine loped out ahead of me. She took a sharp right and angled up sixty degrees. I tilted my controls to follow. She was on his scent.

“Here I come, Xan!” I chortled into my microphone. He didn’t respond. I did not expect it. He was no doubt concentrating on how to elude my hounds. “Seek!” I exhorted them.

“Where are you, Thomas?” Nell’s voice sounded in my ear. “Our packs are going mad! Xan must have sneezed upon every millimeter of this place.”

“He’s over here,” I said, forwarding my coordinates to her. “I just spotted him. My beasts are on his trail.”

“On my way!”

“Skycycles, attention, please. This is a restricted area,” said a very severe female voice. “Repeat, this is a restricted area. There are electrical and environmental hazards. Please leave at once. Repeat, please leave at once.”

“Very sorry, madam,” I said, absently, as I steered the cycle through the crossed struts. “I am Lord Thomas Kinago. We are engaged in retrieving one of our number, and will be off the premises as soon as we get him.”

I heard snickering from my cousins over the shared frequency.

“Please leave now,” the woman said. “You do not have authorization to be in this area.”

“Yes, madam. As soon as we can, madam.” I clicked off.

I glanced at the chronometer on the scope. Xan only had to elude me for two hours, then he would be considered the winner of this round, as well. Confound it! I would not have him beat me twice!

But the Poctil hounds were on the scent. The group had joined together now behind Melusine. Ahead, I caught another hint of shadow hovering close to the roof of the main generator building.

“Yoicks!” I cried.

As I bored down upon it, the specter hesitated, then lifted off, rushing toward the forest of windmill towers. I grinned ferociously. We should have a merry chase. The Poctil Hounds tightened into formation, baying hysterically in my ears. Alongside their music were the voices of my cousins.

“You found him? Where are you?” “Thomas, how did you find him so fast?” “Your machines are malfunctioning; I have him!” This last was from my cousin Nalney. My location map showed him as clear across town. Whomever he was chasing, it wasn’t Xan.

Xan was a fleeting shadow zipping in between the pylons and up between the blades of the largest turbines. His timing was perfection; he managed to flit between the gigantic white vanes without clipping a single one. The hounds followed him, but they were forced to hesitate lest they come to grief. They were programmed to avoid collisions. In this case, not only would I be subject to a swingeing fine, but a crash might put the city of Nikplig into darkness for an unforeseeable period. I wanted to avoid that.

Tybalt juddered under my bottom as I poured on all velocity. The Xan-ghost took a sharp dive, hoping to lose me among the pipes and catwalks at the base of a cluster of enormous cooling towers. My breath quickened as I leaned left, then right, then left again, matching my drones’ hurtling flight through the narrow gaps. Showers of paint chips shaken loose from the elderly conduits by the vibration of our passage rained down upon us. Melusine’s distinctive bay was the loudest, indicating she was the closest to the source of the scent. I leaned forward avidly.

I heard a loud pop! At first I feared that Xan had struck something, then green smoke filled the air. In this tight maze of pipe and concrete cylinders I couldn’t turn around. Instead, I plunged into the thick cloud.

I tried not to breathe. My eyes stung. Acid bit at my throat and the inside of my nose. Moisture ran out of my nostrils, but I couldn’t wipe it away through my faceplate.

“No fair, Xan!” I cried, coughing. “If you can’t win within the rules, then surrender!”

No answer. I blinked hard as I emerged from the smoke grenade. The Xan-shadow was nowhere in sight.

Luckily, my hounds’ detectors were more efficient than my poor senses. They led me up over the nearest cooling tower and down into a cat’s cradle of walkways. I caught a glimpse of a shadow, which retreated off to the left. The hounds followed it. I kicked Tybalt into a higher gear. We veered under a metal staircase, shocking a worker in a white jumpsuit and safety helmet into dropping its viewpad. The shadow took a hard right around the next cooling tower. The hounds, as one, pursued it.

But it appears that my faith in the aging Melusine was greater than its capabilities. Even as the pack swerved around a sharp arc, Melusine continued off in a tangent, hurtling down a narrow passageway. In my earpiece it was still baying its electronic cry, insisting that it was following the true scent.

“Confound it!” I exclaimed, turning my skycycle in its wake. I jammed my finger down upon the control on my console that ought to have recalled it. My other hounds responded, turning back from the quest. Melusine’s call was desperate. She must be nearly on top of her quarry. I had no choice but to follow.

The other hounds were behind me as I hurtled down the corridor. Windows onto the power plant’s offices opened up to either side of the concrete walkway. They must have been astonished to see me roar past, rattling the explosion-proof glass. I grinned. It would give the employees something interesting to discuss when they returned to their humble homes that evening.

I steered Tybalt up through the framework of a spiral staircase that led up and over to pipes that poured into broad, rectangular pools. I caught sight of Melusine almost skimming the surface of the water, her drives churning up a narrow wake. A second wake was visible ahead of her. I didn’t need the hound to show me my quarry any longer. I kicked Tybalt to its highest speed and stood up in the saddle. I would show Xan what I thought of his smoke grenade!

The reflection of the brilliant afternoon sun almost blinded me as I closed in upon my quarry. I could not see Xan directly, true, but I gauged where his cycle must be based upon the angle of the sun, the shadow, and the point of the wake. As soon as he left the pool I would lose him. My timing must be absolutely perfect.

“Steady, Tybalt,” I said. I let go of the handles, then grabbed them again as the cycle lurched. “Steady! Commence autopilot!”

This time when I let go, Tybalt remained on an even keel. I braced myself. Waves leaped and curled around the rear of my cycle, making it surge like a speedboat. Xan’s shadow was nearly to the lip of the pool.

Steady.

Steady.

Ready!

I sprang.

I threw my arms around virtual nothingness. For a moment I thought I had missed him, but my head and chest impacted with a hard body.

My momentum knocked him loose from the saddle of his cycle. He tilted over. I held on tightly. We hurtled onto the concrete walkway. Pain lanced through my shoulder. I landed hard on the arm that Nell had struck earlier, doubling the bruise. The two of us rolled over and over together, wrapped in the drape from the Boland device. Clattering accompanied our motion, as if I had knocked the housing off a part of his cycle.

“I caught you, Xan!” I cried, swiping at folds of cloth. It changed color and pattern again and again as I fought my way free. I saw my own hands, then the rectangular pools with my hounds hovering above them, then a man’s head. It was round, almost spherical, with close-clipped black hair and a tawny complexion like that of my cousin Jil. Our eyes met, and his went enormous with shock.

“Wait a moment, you’re not Xan!” I said. “Who are you? Did he hire you to draw us off the scent? That’s strictly against the rules!”

For answer, the man rolled onto his back and struck out at me with both feet. I gasped at the impact. The force knocked me backwards. Nimbly, the man rolled over one shoulder and came a standing position.

“No need to be rough!” I protested, rubbing my sore ribs. “It was pure mistaken identity.”

I noticed an object on the ground, a featureless, gray impact case about forty centimeters by twenty-five with a fold-up handle on one of the narrow sides. That must have been the source of the clattering noise when I had knocked him off his cycle. The least I could do was return his property to him. I reached for it. He reached for it. My arms were longer and I was a bit quicker, so I had it by the handle before he could touch it. His eyes widened. I held it out to him. He rushed at me, seeking to shove me over backward. Out of pure defensive reaction, I swung the box. It hit him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling.

“My dear man, I am so sorry,” I said. I went to help him up with my free hand, but he sprang to his feet again, backed away from me, and fled.

As he ran off, I gawked after him. He was not my cousin. I had assaulted a stranger. Undoubtedly I owed him an apology, although he wasn’t waiting around to receive it.

But as he ran, Melusine left the pack of hounds and flew after him, her signal baying in my ear.

“He’s not Xan, you silly creature!” I called to her crossly. “Follow Xan’s scent, not his!”

But I had a sudden revelation. Back on the roof, the drone’s sensor compartment had come open. Xan’s cloth had fallen out… And I would have bet a week’s vacation on a luxury space liner that the scent-marker that Parsons had replaced belonged to this man instead.

An innocent man would not have run away. He would have threatened me with arrest for assault. This was Parsons’s fugitive!

I looked down at the case in my hand. It was without a doubt the infernal device whose existence Parsons feared. I glanced around at the power plant, concerned for the wellbeing of the unsuspecting employees, and came to a decision. Since he had not had time to secret it, the device would not be armed and hence not dangerous. Still, I was convinced he would try to come back for it. He must be apprehended before he could call for reinforcements. But I had my own. I ran for my skycycle. With hands almost trembling with excitement and reaction, I secured the case in the carrier on the back, and kicked the machine into life. I opened the family frequency.

“Nell!” I shouted, as my cycle lifted off the ground.

“What? Did you find Xan? The rest of us have been around and around this wretched plant. Have you uncovered his hiding place?”

“No! Nell, do you still have Melusine’s frequency on your console?”

“Of course I do, Thomas. Why?”

I peered ahead. The man had disappeared down a flight of concrete steps. I could hear the echo of his passage as well as Melusine’s cry.

“Follow it! She is chasing a man,” I said. “I believe him to be a miscreant that the government wishes to apprehend.”

Nell sounded bored.

“Oh, Thomas, what do you want me to do about it? I’m not the police.”

“Follow her! Head him off!” I cried. “I will take care of the rest. This is more fun than chasing Xan!”

“Really? All right. Come on, everyone! Thomas is pursuing a felon!”

I smiled.

Even the fastest of human beings are no match for airborne drones, let alone skycycles. Although the round-headed man had a head-start and what must have been an intimate knowledge of the plant, he no longer had his Boland device to hide from the security cameras in use all over the campus. In any case, he could not elude the elderly, outdated Poctil Hound, Melusine. I followed his progress down the concrete stairs, across the broad industrial campus, and into the midst of my cousins, who swooped out of the sky, shrieking and whooping. They circled him, laughing like drunken university students on senior prank day, their engines drowning out his yells and cries of protest.

They could logically be credited for his capture, but it was I who dove into their midst, I who leaped off Tybalt’s back and tackled him, and I who reached for my viewpad and tapped the icon at the top right on my Favorites menu.

“Parsons,” I said, as the man struggled fruitlessly in my grasp, “I believe I have someone who belongs to you.”

“How did you know that this person was wanted by the authorities?” Nell asked, as the Imperium Security vehicle left, all lights flashing, with their fuming prisoner and the plastic crate. Parsons had arrived with them. He had favored me with a single shallow nod, which was as much praise as a chestful of medals. Then he had disappeared, as if he was never there to start with. My cousins were agog, as were the executives and security personnel of the power plant, with all the excitement. “Are you taking up law enforcement as an enthusiasm?”

I emitted a short laugh. The bruises left by the twin footprints on my chest made breathing a trifle uncomfortable.

“Great stars, no!” I said. “But one can’t help seeing those images of wanted felons go by on the tridee features. I knew I had seen him before.” It was a white lie, but one that would preserve Nell’s image of me as her foolish big brother.

Erita descended upon me with an aggrieved expression writ large, her helmet under her arm.

“Thomas, you have ruined my afternoon,” she said. “This person was not part of our entertainment, and Xan is still out there!”

I leaned close, drawing Erita and Nell into my confidence.

“I have the most marvelous idea,” I said, dropping my voice for dramatic effect.

“What?” asked Nell breathlessly.

I fancied I could feel my eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Let’s leave Xan here. We have already had more excitement than we would normally enjoy in a month. We captured genuine prey today. Mother expects us for cocktails at seven. We have just enough time to hurry back and tidy up before the first drink is poured. Xan will wonder for a while where we have all gone. He can catch us up when he figures it out.”

“Thomas!” Erita said, taking a step back with her eyes wide. Whether or not she was feigning shock I could not quite discern. “You are not thinking of taking revenge upon Xan because you lost the last round, are you?”

“Not at all,” I said, assuming a bored expression that was no more genuine than hers. “I have had as much fun as I can handle. I prefer to limit my pursuits to ones more worthy of my time. Besides, I believe that the Nikplig police would like to see the back of us, as helpful as we have just been.”

Erita rolled this truth over in her mind.

“True,” she admitted.

“You win,” Nell said, throwing up her hands. “You can have Melusine. You’re getting to be just as elderly as she is. With an attitude like that you might as well give yourself over to becoming a useful member of society.”

“Perish the thought!” I exclaimed, stung at the insult. It had come a little too close to a truth I would not admit even to her. “Come on, then! I will race you home. I’ll show you who is getting elderly.”

Picket Ship

by Brad R. Torgersen

The seven-man picket ship bucked and slewed wildly as it flew through thick, turbulent air. Tall spires—the trunks of temperate marshland trees—whipped past the forward canopy while Chief Warrant Officer Amelia Schumann fought for control. Computerized alarm bells screamed in her ears. There had been too much battle damage. Coming down from orbit had made things worse. Schumann slammed her throttles wide open, pulling the control stick into her stomach and willing the vessel to gain altitude.

No good. The little spacecraft shuddered horribly. Piece by ragged piece, chunks of the starboard retractable aero wing peeled off. The control surfaces of the tail planes also remained frozen—their power leads cut by hostile fire.

A large hill loomed in the distance. It was all Amelia could do to nudge the nose of her vessel a few centimeters to port, hoping desperately to avoid the bluff.

Too little, too late.

The belly of the picket ship caromed off the top of the hill, sending it ass-over-teakettles, to come crashing into the middle of the huge trees on the other side. Chief Schumann screamed, every muscle in her body clenching up—waiting for the end to come. Branches and leaves smashed through the ruined canopy, whipping the cockpit and tearing viciously at her flight armor.

Cloudy water suddenly flooded the cockpit and immersed Amelia’s helmet as she hung upside down in her seat. The flight armor should have sealed tight to the helmet when the cockpit was compromised, but something was wrong. Water began to flow around Amelia’s scalp, reaching upwards to cover her eyes, then her nose. Amelia screamed and fought with the restraints of her seat as the water flooded her sinuses, cut off her air supply: stinking, choking, killing. Schumann writhed and banged back and forth in her seat, the straps holding her in a death grip as her wrecked spacecraft sank, sank, sank—

#

Amelia suddenly blinked. She was awake. There was complete silence, save for the sound of warbling insects. Not precisely Earth crickets, but similar. The bright stars of night filled Amelia’s vision. Sweat dripped off her face, and her throat felt ragged. There was a firm grip on her right hand and she realized that she was shaking.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” said a concerned, deep voice.

Ladd, Amelia thought with a sigh. Thank God!

“I . . . I think I’m okay,” she whispered hoarsely.

Sergeant Warner Ladd held a canteen to Amelia’s lips, and she found herself greedily gulping at a stream of lukewarm, clean water.

“You were dreaming,” Ladd said, deadpan.

Amelia sat slowly upright, becoming aware of the other Fleet soldiers who surrounded her. They were barely visible in the night light, but they were there, watching.

The tension was palpable. Amelia could feel their uneasy contempt. For her. For putting them all in this predicament. Instead of being well on their way back to Sol System—to warn Earth—they were now grounded. Unable to complete their primary mission. And in serious jeapordy of getting killed. This wasn’t what they’d trained for. This wasn’t how the war was supposed to go.

Amelia almost laughed at the absurdity of her thoughts. War. What did any of them really know about fighting? She was an astronaut, after all. And the others were technicians of one kind or another. Their rank had been largely thrust upon them when the mantis aliens had crushed the human colony known as Marvelous. A lone starship—fleeing in the wake of Marvelous’s destruction—had managed to warn Earth. And Earth had slapped together a hasty defense.

The Fleet: a drafted amalgam of existing civilian and military personnel matched with existing ships and space stations.

Dozens of little vessels like the one Amelia had flown—and lost—were hastily constructed, and posted in orbit around every human world. So that if the aliens struck again . . .

That the mantes had attacked New America meant that they might be striking elsewhere too. It was the job of the picket ships to send word of attack, while the bigger ships took the fight to the enemy. And gave Earth—and the other worlds under Fleet’s protection—enough time to prepare a response.

But the space surrounding New America had been quickly flooded with enemy ships. The few missiles Amelia had managed to fire, had died impotently against what she could only describe as translucent energy shielding.

There’d been almost no chance for escape.

Which didn’t make Amelia feel any better. She was the pilot. It had been her job to make a quick exit. She’d acted too slowly. The jump apparatus could not be operated in close proximity to a gravity well as deep as that of New America. When a mantis missile had proximity detonated near her spacecraft . . .

Amelia wiped at her eyes.

“Ma’am, I think we should pick up and move on,” Ladd said. “The mantes have no doubt been searching for us since we left the crash site, and that muffled scream you just let out will act like a beacon for any mantis within a thousand meters.”

Ladd’s voice held no hint of emotion. To Amelia, his manner was relieving and infuriating at the same time. The rest of the crew blamed Amelia for what she had done to them, so why not Ladd? She almost wished he would simply chew her out for her mistake. She deserved it. Yet, he remained nonplused and professional—the picture of a model NCO.

“You’re right again, Ladd. I . . . I’m sorry.” Amelia said. “We should get away from this place. And try another call to the Aegean.”

Ladd voiced agreement, and Amelia levered herself off the root bed she had been sleeping on. Then she dropped into the hip-deep water that surrounded her. The wetlands were humid, and cool, and it was only the vacuum-capable combat armor—worn by all—that kept them from falling prey to hypothermia. Amelia shouldered her compact pilot’s rifle by its sling, and followed Ladd as he waded his way back to where the other five survivors of the crash were huddled amongst the trees.

#

It moved over the water with its siblings—the many acting in unison, to almost form a single entity. Like wolves following the trail of their prey, they hunted, tracing the taste of machine oils, metal, and human flesh. The creature—using the sensory capacity infused by its saucer-shaped, biomechanical carriage—surmised that its tactical group had indeed discovered the location of the crashed hostile spaceship.

The mantis group leader’s orders had been clear: exterminate all humans. This order had come from the very top. The Queen Mother was very angry that such a prime, vital planet as this one had been violated by the presence of the soft, bipedal aliens. It was an affront to mantis supremacy in the galaxy.

Human intelligence was dangerous. Much too random. In mantis society, every individual knew his or her place from the moment awareness was attained. The humans, meanwhile, were messy. Disorganized. They built haphazardly, they lived haphazardly, they were stupid, and they were in the way. So, the Queen Mother’s forces came to this world—which would make an excellent future mantis colony, by the looks of it—to cleanse, and to prepare the way.

The tactical group found the human crash site.

Like the insects that they were, the mantes swarmed over the ship, probing for any signs of life. The scent of humans was still strong in the area, but there was no sign that the human crew had loitered. They’d fled further into the wetlands. Either towards what they thought would be safety, or away from pursuit. The group leader surmised that it mattered not. His force was good. If the crashed human ship was any indication, the fugitive crew numbered few. And the mantes could glide through the trees with ease, while the clumsy humans slogged.

When eventually the tactical group caught up with its prey, the humans would be no contest.

Signalling for his troops to follow, the group leader hurried off.

#

Amelia could almost sense the enemy lurking out beyond the farthest trees, waiting for the chance to spring and pull her human crew to pieces with their serrated forelimbs. Grainy digital camera footage from the ship that had fled Marvelous told the story: the mantis aliens were carnivorous beasts. With bulbous insect like eyes, and fearsome beaks filled with terrible teeth that vibrated when the aliens were aggressive. Or feeding. The footage seemed to indicate that there was little difference, once battle was joined. And those flying saucers the aliens rode on . . . nightmarish!

Still, while the company was true, hope flickered like a candle.

Amelia watched Sergant Ladd’s back, and wondered about the man. He had served ten years in the United State Army, and fought in no human wars of which she was aware. Yet being pressed into Fleet service seemed to make no difference to him. He knew his job, and he knew his people, and he didn’t seem to worry about that which didn’t need worrying about.

Which just made Amelia’s guilt worse. The crew were clearly Ladd’s to command. Not hers. Oh, there had always been a degree of deference. But Amelia was only a Chief by accident: utility pilots of all description being accorded the middle-step rank of Warrant Officer in Fleet’s laddered heirarchy. If Amelia flew the ship, Ladd clearly drove the men. Each of whom regarded the sergeant with trusting eyes.

For Amelia, there were only wary glances.

She kept her eyes forward and pushed through the knee-high water. New America’s alien trees began to thin out, and the remnants of the picket ship’s crew soon found themselves in a wide, shallow patch of marsh which was only ankle deep.

Overhead, the bright stars sparkled and danced. But the eastern horizon was just becoming visible as dawn approached. Little lights maneuvered crazily in the sky overhead. Occasionally one of them would flare brightly, and die. Loud booms sounded in the distance—explosions from the mantis planetary invasion? The nearest city was over a hundred kilometers off. Perhaps other human craft had crashed? The bigger Fleet ships had numerous escape pods . . .

Amelia stopped, and called everyone to a halt. Ladd didn’t need to be told what to do. He hastily erected their portable emergency satellite dish. He tapped a few codes into the wrist key pad on his left arm and waited for his armor’s internal communications computer to uplink to any of the human-made ships that should have been in orbit. The Aegean was the newest, largest, and theoretically toughest. If any Fleet ship would be giving it back to the enemy, it would be the Aegean. Alien shields, or no alien shields.

There was a long pause, followed by static in the crew’s ears

“Awwww, man!” Specialist Shaw drawled with much displeasure.

“We be effed,” came the voice of Corporal Powell, a heavy weapons engineer who knew a picket ship’s missile bays like the back of his hand—and was the only troop large and muscular enough to tote their single squad weapon through the uneven, flooded terrain of the wetlands.

A cacophony of groupwide bitching suddenly errupted. Ladd tried to interject, but the crew had had enough, and were jawing at full steam, drowning out the Sergeant’s baritone barking. A day and a night of forced marching had rubbed nerves raw. Men went chest to chest. Somebody shoved somebody else.

That did it. They were ingnoring the sergeant, dogpiling like children, splashing and shouting and filling the air with profanity.

Amelia tried to drown out the noise with her own sullen thoughts, but it was impossible. Even if there was no contact with Fleet in orbit, they still had to find a way to evade detection. Get back to civilization. Find a way to make a difference.

A hot spark of anger suddenly flared up within Amelia. Maybe it was the deep exhaustion, or the sudden hopelessness, or the bitter resentment at her own guilty self pity that caused her to snap.

“Have you lost your minds?” she bawled. “Do you really want to draw them down on top of us, like hawks on a pack of rats?”

The crew, not used to taking sharp orders from their young Warrant Officer pilot, froze in place.

“Keep your effing mouths shut!” Amelia barked. “The next person that says a single word is getting my boot in his balls!”

Amelia’s chest heaved with anger as she spat her last words. And, for the first time, something barely approaching respect appeared in the eyes of the crew. Also appearing for the first time was a slight smile on the lips of Sergeant Ladd.

“Sergeant?” Amelia finally said, motioning a palm to Ladd as she plodded back over and retrived the satellite unit from its watery perch.

“Right,” Ladd growled low and strong. “You people heard the chief.”

Amelia continued. “We’re still Fleet. We can’t accomplish our primary mission. But maybe we can do something else constructive. Those lights moving in orbit tell me that somebody is still fighting. We should see if we can too. We’re all from Earth, I know, and this isn’t our world, really. But for hell’s sake, as long as we’re stuck here, we should defend it like it is Earth! Because if we don’t, then what we’re seeing above us might soon be replayed in Earth’s night skies. Do we want mantis ships dropping down over New York or Hong Kong or Paris?”

The crew muttered negatives.

“Then let’s get moving,” Ladd said. “And keep an effing lid on it.”

Amelia was already heading away from the group, her back ramrod straight in disgust, her legs making strong, swirling strides through the muck and water. Adrenaline warred with hesitation. Anger brought with it a certain bravado, that would drain away very quickly. She’d surprised them. She wouldn’t be able to surprise them again. Her only choice was to try to prove to them—and to herself—that they still had value as soldiers. That they could make the mantis aliens pay for daring to attack another human world.

One by one, the others fell in line, Ladd hauling up the rear.

They slog-marched for almost an hour, nobody saying much, eyes and ears wide open, looking for any hint of trouble. The sky grew brighter and brighter, until the first rays began to peak over the far horizon. The mantes could be anywhere in this morass, waiting to spring. That much was certain. But the crew was small, and if they put their minds to it, they could move quickly when they wanted to.

Eventually, Ladd called for a break. None of them had rested much during the night. All eyes were growing dim and weary.

Amelia clutched her pilot’s rifle tightly and continued to brood, standing in the water, until the strong, gauntlet-clad hand of Sergeant Ladd gripped her shoulder. She turned her head and found herself face to face with the older man.

“That was a good thing you did back there,” Ladd said warmly, a smile on his face. “I was wondering when you were going to pull yourself out of your sulking.”

“I only wish I felt as strong as I talked,” Amelia replied glumly, eyes avoiding Ladd’s smiling face. “Christ, Sergeant, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here.”

“Listen,” Ladd pulled her, “I know you feel like scum for what happened. You were muttering every detail in your dreams. But these guys are starting to get a different angle on you. And frankly, so am I.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Amelia replied honestly.

“Right,” Ladd said, squeezed her shoulder again, then dropped back into the group. Amelia watched him go, a silent thank you in her mind.

#

The scent was hot.

The mantes and their group leader slipped easily through the trees to the clear patch of shallows where the human smell was strongest. Here, the bipedal aliens—with their clumsy weapons and cheap, artificial carapaces—had stopped for some purpose. The group leader swept outward from the middle of the shallows, seeking the new direction of the trail, and quickly found what he wanted. An unvoiced computer message flowed from the group leader’s disc, and that message was heard by the others. The command simply said, follow me!  And the horde of praying mantis like cyborg creatures shot forward into the trees once again, sensing that their quarry was not far away.

The group leader eventually dispatched a scout to snoop ahead—the scout’s natural pedator’s senses combining with his artificial carriage-enabled awareness to ferret out the humans. It wouldn’t be long now. The group leader wondered what it would be like to kill one of the aliens. Mantes had done it before, on other worlds. Long ago. Would humans die easily? Or die hard?

The group leader grew anxious to find out.

#

Private Wang Li had relieved his comrade at the rear of the little column, and slogged through the water, grunting at the weight of his automatic rifle and cursing the partly cloudy sky. Though Li dreaded the thought of face-to-beak combat—for which he’d received what he considered was minimal training—he also hated the never-ending anticipation. Waiting was always the worst part of anything unpleasant.

Then, unexpectedly, Wang got his wish. Looking over his shoulder, he realized he was staring at one of the enemy. The creature had maneuvered stealthily through the trees, using its flying saucer to stay above the water, such that nothing was heard. Until now, suddenly, it was too late.

An instant of alarmed recognition passed—human to mantis.

Aiming his weapon from the hip, Private Li flicked off the safety and squeezed the trigger. For the first time since Initial Entry Training, Li felt his weapon feed round after round through the firing chamber. No brass casings were ejected. None were needed on Li’s space-age rifle. Both the propellant and the soft casing were vaporized the instant the firing pin punctured the thin wall separating the two halves of the propellant proper.

Spouts of water flew up around the lone mantis. Several rounds impacted solidly on the creature’s disc, causing metal and sparks to fly.

Amelia froze, as all around her rifles began to belch propellant and bullets in every concievable direction. The hammering noise of the guns was only bested by the incoherently terrified cries of the crew.

A chortling WHAM-WHAM-WHAM could be heard as Corporal Powell churned up the water with his powerful squad gun, which fired a larger, more potent shell. The lone mantis burst into fragments of alien gore and splintered machinery that fanned outward and splashed into the water.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Ladd yelled.

All of them crept toward the remains of the mantis that drifted in the foamy water. It was the first time any of them had seen the enemy up close and in person. Private Li himself was in a near-daze, his chest heaving mightily. His eyes bugged out so far Amelia thought they were going to pop from their sockets.

Then, the noise of the mantis soldier’s commrades could be heard. The humming sound of multiple discs far off in the trees, but growing louder as they grew closer.

“Must have signalled the rest of his squad,” Ladd said, watching in the direction from which the noise came.

“How many?” Amelia asked, backed up two paces, her pilot’s rifle leveled from her shoulder, but the barrel wavering just slightly as adrenaline made her arms shake.

“Damned if I know,” Ladd said. “Everybody get behind a tree and shoot at the first mantis you see!”

When no one moved—their eyes still transfixed on the alien gore that drifted in the water—Amelia hissed, “Do what the sergeant says! Go!”

Seven humans slipped behind fat tree trunks just as several disc-riding mantes came into view. They moved over the water—the liquid beneath each disc making strange patterns that swirled and distorted according to whatever force it was which kept the discs in the air. None of the aliens spoke, nor made any sound. Their insect like eyes and heads scanned furiously. Until they saw what was left of their commrade.

At which point both Amelia and Sergeant Ladd shouted for the group to open fire, and again the air was filled with the ear-splitting reports of rifles. Only, this time, it wasn’t just human bullets chewing up the scene. Mantis rounds smacked and popped against tree trunks, bursting off great splinters of bark and wood. Amelia flattened behind her own tree as at least a dozen mantis rounds chewed into it. She almost fell to her knees, she was so instantly petrified.

But when she peered to the side and saw Sergeant Ladd still up, and still firing, she forced herself to mimic him, peeking around her tree and popping off shots at the mantes as they scattered between the trees. At least three of the mantes appeared down, their discs half subermged into the water and their exposed upper thoraxes split open, with fresh mantis ooze pouring from the lethal wounds.

Amelia felt a sudden, almost insane surge of pride. If she’d been unable to fight back in orbit, at least down here, humans could successfully defend themselves. That the aliens had fallen at all suddenly gave the mantes a mortal quality which they’d lacked before, in Amelia’s mind. Amelia remembered a line from a very, very old two-dee motion picture entertainment she’d once seen. If it bleeds, we can kill it.

Though fictional, the two-dee movie seemed oddly appropriate, given Amelia’s present circumstances.

But then the firefight turned against them. The remaining mantes ringed the humans, and suddenly everyone was shooting at everyone else. Human had to be wary of shooting at human, while attempting to shoot at the mantes, and suddenly the picket ship’s crew were diving from behind their trees, risking exposure to enemy fire while they tried to regroup. Lacking the kind of concentrated squad-level maneuvering skills a proper infantry element might possess, the crew was quickly routed, and sent fleeing east—for their very lives.

Amelia ran fastest of all.

#

The tactical group leader held his force back, letting the humans go. The patrol had lost five of their number, having achieved no significant human casualties that the group leader could detect.

Except for one.

The human who lay in the water was not dead. Not yet. He dragged himself along, clearly wounded in the leg, and trailing a thick plume of human blood behind him as he want. The tactical group leader called his fellows to him and together they hovered over the human, who’d thrown away his weapon when it became empty of ammunition.

The group leader pointed with a serrated forelimb at the bleeding human and said—in the silent carriage-to-carriage language of his kind—Observe here, the enemy of our people. An animal. Vermin. We are here on this planet to pave the way. Soon, the Quorum of the Select will launch the Fourth Expansion, and evey human on every world will fall to us. Wherever they may be. Look at this one, and remember. Remember how easily they die.

With that, the group leader dipped the leading edge of its carriage, scooped the screaming, bleeding human up—serrated forelimbs holding the squirming human fast—and began to feed.

#

After many minutes of frantic flight, Amelia heard Corporal Powell ordering them all to stand down. Amelia was so exhausted, she literally sank to her knees and panted, eyes staring into the murky water. Her ears thundered with the beats of her own heart, and she would have gotten back up and run some more, if not for the fact that she simply couldn’t get enough oxygen into her blood to make her muscles work.

A minute later, Powell’s voice prodded her.

“Ma’am?” he said in a half-worried tone. “Are you hurt? Ma’am?”

Amelia didn’t respond. She just turned her eyes this way and that, counting bodies as they crouched behind tries, faces flushed and mouths open, taking in great gulps of air.

“Sergeant Ladd?” she said. “Where is the sergeant??”

One by one, she met their eyes, and very quickly she realized the truth. He’d not made it. When they’d broken cover and run, she’d heard someone yell in pain. She hadn’t realized it was him. Of all the people to fall, it had to be the one troop upon whom Amelia felt she could rely with any degree of security.

She let her chin hit her chest, and closed her eyes against the gentle sob that was trying to tear itself out of her.

#

The tacitcal group was thin now. The leader became worried. He had lost almost half his attacking force in the melee with the humans. At the cost of many, his group had destroyed only one of the enemy. And while the feast had been glorious—what a thrill to devour human meat!—the present casualty ratio was not going to yield a successful end to the chase. New tactics would have to be employed. The humans had not gone far. But the water and abundant life forms of the wetlands made it difficult to distinguish the humans from their surroundings. If the group leader sent out a scout, would the scout be any more successful than his fallen sibling? The humans might have been few, but they were heavily armed—something else the tactical group leader had not expected. For a moment, he considered the idea of calling in reinforcements.

It was the logical thing to do. If the humans had proven much more difficult to deal with than expected, overwhelming force would be best. It had worked in orbit. Already, the tactical group leader knew that almost every human craft had been destroyed, or forced to land, whereupon the occupants were slaughtered.

Still, even mantes had their pride.

No. The group leader knew he just needed to be more patient. Calling for help at this stage would be a sign to his superiors that he was not fit for his station. A warrior did not cry for assistance at the first sign of difficulty! A warrior adapted, and overcame.

Using his silent contact with his troops, the group leader dispensed a series of new instructions.

#

Amelia and her crew dragged themselves from the water and flopped onto their backs at the bank of a small stream filtering into the wetland. At last, they had found truly solid ground. Having spent almost all of their duty time where it was dry and clean—Fleet spaceships and space stations being fastidiously neat and orderly—being put through the hell of the swamp march had almost taken the life out of them. They lay or curled on the solid ground, dragging in breath, eyes unfocused and practically pushed to the point of uncaring.

Amelia’s body felt leaden from the forced march. They had only traveled a handful of kilometers, but it felt as if she had walked the circumference of the entire planet. Most pilots had to be in better-than-average shape to pass the standard flight and Fleet physicals. But nothing had prepared her for this. Her body was chafed raw where the flight armor had rubbed against skin, and her legs and feet and thighs were a quivering chorus of agony.

She rolled over and muttered something about the satellite dish.

“I’ve got it,” Private Li said. “I almost dropped it a few times. But it’s our only way to talk to Fleet now.”

Off in the distance, a new noise: the whine-and-thunderclap of hostile ship’s guns could be heard. Only, this time they were firing in-atmosphere. Amelia was just curious enough to crawl her way across the ground to where a pile of half-rotten logs gave her a little elevation. Across the hard ground to the south she could see a stupendously large craft sitting on three, thick, extended legs. It was ringed with what seemed to be smaller craft. Or cargo containers? Troop pods? Amelia couldn’t be sure. They hugged the side of the mother ship. Occasionally one of the nozzle like weapons on the ship’s crown swiveled skyward, and blasted a shot into the sky. What the enemy could be shooting at—when Amelia could not even see it herself—was a mystery.

Suicide, Amelia thought glumly. Leading the crew past this is totally out of the question. But we can’t stay here! And we can’t go back into the swamp. It will kill us, as surely as the mantis patrol will kill us. Sooner or later we’ll run out of ammunition and then . . .

Amelia did not want to contemplate what would happen then. Poor Sergeant Ladd had been the first to fall. She felt a desperate need to make his death count for something.

Dear God, I am so tired, Amelia thought, as her eyes closed.

An indeterminate amount of time passed, and she drifted, at once present, yet not present, her consciousness swirling away into nothingness.

The ground suddenly rumbled and rocked beneath her. Amelia sat up groggily, her mind racing to catch up with the action taking place around her. How long had she drifted off? What was happening now? The rest of the crew were also getting to their feet, the hot rays of New America’s yellow dwarf home star blinding them as they looked towards the horizon, and the source of the trembling.

A great mushroom of fire and debris spouted high into the air in the distance. Directly in front of the huge mantis ship.

Amelia stared dumbly at the sight, and crawled forward trying to understand what was happening. Then, a finger of fire seemed to fly from the sun itself and arc downward, towards the alien craft. Its shields flickered and sparkled. A third strike from the sky left a massive divot in the turf near where the first shot had fallen. Soil and smoke drifted. Another mushroom rose to join the first, and together they began floating away in breeze.

Amelia scrambled back and grabbed the satellite uplink Private Li still husbanded. She unfurled its umbrella like dish, tying quickly in to her suit’s communications computer. Then she aimed the dish a few degrees off the limb of the sun, in the direction from which the tongue of fire had come, and pressed the hail key.

Moments ticked by, and then a sharp, clean transmission broke through.

The crew huddled close, and all listened as Amelia identified herself. It was not the communication’s officer of the Aegean who answered, but a tactical officer from the Tycho Brahe, one of the new swift Fleet destroyers, specifically designed for stealth.

The voice from the Brahe was quick and to the point: those few Fleet ships that were still left were playing a hit and run game with the mantes out beyond the third asteroid belt. Most of the mantis ships had been drawn away as a result. But mantis reinforcements were expected from out-system, and the Tycho Brahe had been detailed to return and aid the very few recovery teams that had already been dispatched. New America was officially being abandoned. Any civilian or Fleet personnel still left alive were being picked up prior to the Brahe leaving for Earth.

“We’ve got a big mother of a mantis craft sitting right in front of us,” Amelia said. “You’re shooting at it, but not causing any damage.”

“The governor’s private entourage was downed a few kilometers from where you are,” said the Brahe’s tactical officer. “We’re trying to keep that beast diverted while we execute a pickup, copy?”

“Copy,” Amelia said, and considered. The same shields that had stopped her missiles in orbit were stopping the Brahe’s kinetic kill strikes as well. They might very well be able to keep the thing occupied while the governor got picked up, but that wouldn’t mean a damned thing for Amelia’s crew if they couldn’t hope for a pickup as well. The only way they were getting off-planet now nevermind was if something—or someone—found a way to get through those shields and neutralize the big bastard where it sat.

Might as well wish for the moon, Amelia thought bitterly.

But then, there didn’t seem to be any ground troops active around the mantis ship. All of its attention seemed to be on the Brahe. Amelia watched for a few minutes while the mantis ship cracked off another round, and then another, and then still another. Each time it did, the air around the craft shimmered just briefly. At which point a small period of clarity could be discerned. As if the milky shielded air around the alien ship resolved into . . . emptiness.

“It has to drop its shields in order to fire,” Amelia deduced, letting a small smile curl up the corners of her mouth for the first time since the invasion of New America began.

“We didn’t receive that, over?” said Brahe.

“The shields come down when they fire,” Amelia said into the satellite gadget.

"We know that—but to briefly to matter."

“Just keep up your firing pattern. I think I might have discovered a way to help you.”

And to possibly help my crew, too, she thought.

Amelia looked from face to weary face. They were all tired and worn down to the nub. There was no exhiliration of battle in their eyes. Just exhaustion. However, they pulled their weapons to the ready and waited.

“What you got in mind, Chief?” said Powell.

It was the first time he’d ever said that word to Amelia. In the past it had always been ma’am.

Amelia did not want to throw all their lives away. She did not feel brave or heroic in the slightest. But she had come this far, and she owed it to Ladd to make a final push. Then, and only then, would the crew get their long-awaited dust-off.

And if they didn’t make it . . . well, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

#

The group leader and his forces were searching the small streams that flowed from a low rise of packed soil that overlooked the wetlands. Beyond, far in the distance, a mantis drop pod super-carrier had landed, and was presently engaged with a human ship that drifted somewhere in a very-low orbit, just out of reach of the mantis guns. At that altitude, the human ship must have been expending tremendous energy to loiter over the drop pod carrier’s present ground coordinates.

The group leader signaled to the super-carrier, announcing his renewed intent to find and destroy the survivors of the crashed picket ship. The commander of the drop pod super-carrier replied that he had no way to assist. Having emptied all of his troops on a human settlement far to the west, he’d set down in his present position to await further instructions when the bombardment from the elusive human ship began.

How the human ship was evading the super-carrier’s targetting sensors was not known. Suffice to say it was difficult to get a lock on the human vessel which would last long enough to launch missiles. The super-carrier commander was therefore engaging the human ship until such a time that mantis capital ships could return from the asteroids, and clear the sky once more.

The super-carrier commander was fairly certain that a refugee crew of humans—armed with only rifles—could not do him any harm. The group leader was instructed to conduct his search and take care of the humans. The super-carrier commander would relay news of the group leader’s success to their superiors, when it was all over. There would be potential for advancement in such a victory. Perhaps even the possibility of mating.

The group leader shuddered with anticipated ecstacy.

Mating was reserved for males of significant rank and ability only. Never in his wildest imagination had he dared to think of such a thing. But now?

The group leader encouraged his depleted force to redouble its efforts. The humans could not hide forever. They would be found eventually. Oh yes, they would be found.

#

Loam and fire flew into the air as the mantis shields swept away another blow from the Tycho Brahe. Amelia and her group were now just a few hundred meters from the low rise upon which the alien craft sat. Like a great elongated egg—mated to a dozen smaller elongated eggs—it perched there: a shimmering dome of energy rippling above it in the blue-green sky, and great, thick landing pylons balancing it on the turf.

A concussion wave from the Brahe’s latest shot knocked Amelia’s crew flat, yet the great egg remained motionless amongst the maelstrom.

“We can’t go much further,” Corporal Powell said at Amelia’s ear. “We’re pinned down here. By our own artillery, for hell’s sake.”

“I know that,” Amelia said back, “but there has got to be a way of getting in closer. We just have to time it right. When the Brahe hits, and when the mantis ship drops its shields for a shot. The real trick is going to be getting in without them seeing us.”

Both of them began to scan around for any conceivable natural form of cover, when Powell’s eyes fell upon the group of aliens floating towards them. It was a much smaller group than the one they’d faced before. Could it be the same mantes? Or a different patrol altogether?

Though still a very long way off, it was clear the mantes had spotted the crew.

So, it had come down to this. Caught, not even in the act . . .

Suddenly, an idea leapt into Amelia’s head. She turned her gaze from the onrushing mantes to the great egg on the hill, then back to the mantes. A realization hit her like a bolt of lighting. Then she was ripping the last bandolier of squad gun shells from Powell’s back, and before he could protest, she was up and running.

Powell yelped, trying to pull her down, but she was too quick. The crew screamed after her as she tore past them, and then they were up on their own feet chasing after her, howling like Zulus.

“No, no, NO!” Amelia puffed into her headset. “Stay behind and give me cover! The mantis patrol will follow me! It’s the ship they’ll be protecting!”

Powell and the others slowed and stopped.

It was true.

The mantis aliens—riding their discs—had turned away from the crew and were now running straight as an arrow at the shrinking figure of their commanding officer. Powell and the rest of the platoon watched in amazement as every last mantis ignored them and pursued Amelia.

“Awright, you heard the lady!” The big corporal snarled. “Up and ready!”

Each of the crew dropped to one knee and raised his or her weapon up to the shoulder, telescopic sights whining as they focused on the retreating images of the mantes.

Rifles cracked to life, sending bullets into the cluster of aliens that were right on Schumann’s heels. The creatures broke formation, trying to avoid the incoming fire, but still maintained their pursuit. Powell, using the last free round for his squad gun, adjusted the weapon’s trajectory and drew a bead on the lead mantis.

#

The group leader died, as did three of its kindred. The dream of mating—so wonderful, so fleeting—was terminated in a hail of anti-personnel shrapnel.

#

Amelia Schumann’s ears pounded loudly as her heart forced blood to her brain. Her legs pumped like pistons, muscles burning, running on pure adrenaline, while her lungs hurt with each ragged breath. The grass and weeds flowed under her feet in a blur, yet the distance to the mantis mother craft shrank ever so slowly. She could hear the hideous squeals of the cyborg bugs as they died behind her, and the reports of the crew’s weapons as they fired. She almost fell as one of Powell’s shells decimated the head of the pack. But desperation drove her onward.

Thus far no one had even put so much as a scratch in the alien ship. The Brahe’s rail guns were hurling everything short of nukes, and they ran off the egg’s shields like rainwater, dissolving into nothingness. The only way anyone was going to get to that thing, was to go right up to it and shove a shell up its ass. And Amelia had a whole bandolier of shells.

#

The drop pod super-carrier commander watched as one of the bipedal creatures—still some distance away—destroyed the tactical group leader who was leading his patrol to defend the ship. The group leader had been on the heels of the smaller biped that now rushed toward the commander’s home. The commander had not given these humans enough credit. They’d proven to have remarkable tenacity, even when faced with overwhelming numbers and technology.

The commander tried to make contact with one of the other mantes troops in the patrol group, and impose his will upon it. But the patrol was too single-minded in their focus now. The little human who ran was clearly all that mattered to them.

The little alien biped sped towards the commander’s armored battle fortress.

Deciding that caution was best, the commander temporarily took his attention away from the pesty human ship in low orbit, and re-concentrated his weapons systems on the planet’s surface around the ship. There were guns for anti-ground attack too. All he needed to do was drop the shield system long enough to squeaze off a few bursts, and the running human would be finished.

Not like a single little alien could do much to hurt the drop pod super-carrier anyway. The little runner seemed almost cute, in a pathetic way. The commander regretted that it would be too easy.

#

Amelia saw the guns emerge, and she leapt violently to her left as a burst fried the air above her head and smashed into the ground several meters behind. Blinded with fear, she ran onward, tears streaming from her eyes, and her breath coming in gasps. The alien craft was less than twenty meters away now. Just a few more meters was all she would need.

More shots lashed out, hitting the ground just behind the Chief. The alien guns were quick, but they could not compensate for her sudden jerking and weaving movements so close to the point of origin. Burst after burst missed Amelia, but the shield system stayed down.

If the Brahe were on its game, it would give the mantis ship a triple strike right now, and finish the job. But the human ship hadn’t fired in over a minute, and Amelia began to wonder if perhaps the giant mantis craft’s sisters in space had returned and gotten rid of the Brahe.

No matter, Amelia had but one last chore to complete. Her eyes fell on the huge, thick landing leg nearest her. The bandolier of shells came off her back. Giving a hoarse, inarticulate, cry, Amelia slipped a hand grenade into one of the empty ammo pouches on the bandoleer, flipped off the grande’s spoon handle, and then hurled the bandolier at the leg. That done, Amelia then threw her whole body to the right, tucked into a ball, and rolled.

She kept rolling until she dropped—rather painfully—into a muddy runnel which had been worn in the low rise. It was perhaps a meter deep, no more.

The bandolier had landed in the metal gearworks that made up the “ankle” at the base of the leg. The grenade’s timer fizzed towards zero.

A blinding flash was followed by a boom that muted out every other sound in Amelia’s universe. Poking her head over the lip of the runnel she saw the mangled mechanisms at the base of the leg begin to buckle and split. The massive mantis ship tilted crazily as the leg finally gave out.

#

Surprise.

That was the drop pod super-carrier commander’s only emotion as he felt his ship shudder underneath him. The pilot and technicians who surrounded the commander’s creche all eyed him; the semi-soft portions of their carapaces flushing with confused tension. How could one little human have done so much damage?

The commander told himself he’d be more careful in the future.

Take off now, the commander ordered the pilot, who signaled his obedience, and started up the super-carrier’s lift engines. Just before the ship could lean dangerously out of whack, the repulsor effect kicked in, and the ship began to fly. Slowly, at first—being so massive. But then gradually with more power. The remaining, good legs left the ground, and the commander ordered a burst at the humans last known location. The shields went down. Then true disaster struck.

Two consecutive rounds from the Tycho Brahe broke the skin of the super-carrier—now far above the ground, and drifting north at speed.

The wounded super-carrier augered in some six kilometers from where it had taken off, at a velocity of approximately one hundred and sixty kilometers an hour. There was nothing the mantis commander or crew could do but scream oaths into eternity as their ship fractured, then exploded like a tiny fusion bomb.

#

Amelia swam in a murky pool of calm. Her body was nowhere to be found, and all she could hear was a slow, steady rumble that seemed to emanate from everywhere. Where had she been? It didn’t matter anymore.

“Hey, are you okay in there?”

Corporal Powell’s voice. It was soft, and filled with respect.

At first, the sound was completely out of place. Why was he here? Amelia’s heart saddened at the thought that she could halve caused Powell’s death too. Then she noticed that the rumble was getting louder and that there was a warm, firm hand on one of her arms.

Arms?

Amelia’s eyes opened slowly. Everything was terribly blurred.

There, a certain blur looked familiar.

Working hard to focus, Amelia recognized the face of Powell. There were other faces, too: Corporal Bybee, Privates Li and Shaw, and the others. They each had various bandages and healing sleeves wrapped around their extremities, but they all seemed healthy and, yes, very much alive.

“I . . . we . . . I . . .” Amelia rasped. Her throat felt funny and her body seemed to be immobilized. Powell placed a hand on her lips and gestured to the rest of the crew.

“We’re all okay, Chief. It’s been five Earth days since the Tycho Brahe’s slicks picked us up. The governor’s party too. We’re the lucky ones. The Brahe was the only capital ship that made it. New America is history. But we’re now high-tailing it for Fleet headquarters. For Earth.”

Amelia allowed herself a small moment of satisfaction. Perhaps she and her picket ship crew would get to accomplish their primary mission after all? The mantis aliens were impressive, perhaps even overwhelmingly so. But they weren’t immortal.

Someone on Earth needs to know that, she thought. And let her eyes close once more. For Amelia, her first battle was over.

For humanity, the war to survive had only just begun.

The Golden Knight

by K. D. Julicher

I knew the boy was going to be trouble the moment he walked into the tavern. He glared about, his hand on his sword’s hilt. “All right, where’s the joker who sent me on that fool’s errand?” he demanded.

The other patrons erupted in laughter and deep inside me, my bear growled. I eyed the boy from my table in the corner. He wasn’t from around here, not with that accent. His tunic hadn’t been washed in weeks and he’d patched the rips himself, from the look of it, but the cut said he’d paid good money for them once.

“Fool’s errand?” Wil drawled. He set down his mug and turned away from the bar. “What, you didn’t find what you were looking for?” His mocking voice grated on me like it did when he’d comment on my limp.

The boy’s eyes narrowed. Though as tall as most of the men in the room, he gave off a gawky air. If he picked a fight with Wil he was going to get a beating. My bear was restless but I wasn’t in the mood to see a fight. It was time to leave. You’re never in the mood for a fight any more, the bear whispered.

The boy folded his arms. “I asked where I could find Prince Garadon and you pointed me right off a cliff.”

I stiffened and turned away. Someone snooping around after the prince could mean trouble. Yes, trouble, the bear whispered gleefully. Something, anything to wake you up.

It’s nothing to do with me, I told the bear. Not anymore.

“Aye.” Wil drank again. “Paul, another! So did you find him?”

I glanced at the boy. He scowled. “After I climbed down the cliff, I found the graves.”

“Oh good, then you did find the prince.” Wil shrugged. I couldn’t see his face but he must have been wearing that mocking grin, the one that always reminded me of my father. He picked up the fresh mug of beer. “Him and most of his men.”

The boy shook his head, his scowl unchanged. He took another step into the room. “Impossible.”

Wil got up from the bar, carrying the beer, and walked over to the boy. He clapped him on the shoulder and thrust the mug on him. Wil was taller than the boy and being the town blacksmith he had shoulders to match. He drew the boy over to the bar. “Why are you looking for an Aradori princeling, anyway?” Wil asked. “You’re Theis like us.”

“I’m his squire,” the boy said.

Despite myself I turned to look. Wil seemed surprised. I studied the boy. I’d have sworn he was telling the truth, with that earnest look about him. But of course what he claimed was impossible. “Who are you?” Wil asked, echoing my own thoughts.

“Alan of Theianbridge.”

Now that was interesting. Theianbridge was a good hundred miles upriver. Father had spoken of the city many times, his words almost enough to make me want to visit, back when I still wanted things.

The bear snorted. Squire? What squire?

Hush, and maybe we’ll learn, I replied.

“And why would an Aradori princeling have a Theis squire?” Wil was saying.

The boy drew himself up. “My business is my own. I’m here to find my master. I went to the main Aradori army first, and they said the prince and his men left six months ago, heading this way along the coast. I’ve been chasing rumors ever since.”

“They were here,” Wil said, nodding. “First we knew about them was when they bought a couple boats from the fishing fleet. They planned to sail east along the coast, back to their homeland. Day they left, a big storm blew in. We pulled bodies out of the surf for a week.” Alan was shaking his head as Wil finished. “So you’d better just head back upriver.”

Alan dropped the mug on the bar. “That’s impossible.” In a more subdued voice he said, “Are you sure the prince drowned?”

“We buried him. Davik there helped. He can tell you.” Wil gestured, and Alan turned toward me. Damn, I should have left when the boy first came in.

Alan walked over to me. “You’re Aradori! You survived. Maybe he did too.”

“Garadon is dead,” I muttered. “I washed up on shore with the rest of the corpses.”

“No.” Alan shook his head. He was even younger than I’d thought. He wore the peach-fuzz mustache every boy tries to grow when he’s that age. “Garadon is a bear warrior.”

“So?” I said. “The bear doesn’t let you breathe water or swim through waves taller than your ship’s mast.” All it did was keep you treading water longer than the rest of your friends. The boy stared at me. I stood.

“You’re leaving?” Alan demanded. “I want to ask — “

“It’s late. Give it up, kid. Leave the dead to the dead.”

“He’s right.” Wil clapped the boy on the shoulder. “Go get a good night’s sleep, boy. Things will look better in the morning. You can put him in my hayloft, Davik, if you’re leaving anyway.” He turned back to the bar.

Alan followed me out into the street. “You work for the blacksmith?” Alan asked. “I saw you earlier, at the forge, but didn’t realize you were one of Garadon’s men.”

“Wil lets me stay on.” I made sure the boy saw my limp as we walked. “I’m not quick but I can haul wood and hammer horseshoes.”

“You were injured in the shipwreck?”

“Yes.” Even now my leg ached with every step. I led us around the back of the smithy to the barn and pulled the door open. A pair of chestnut horses leaned out of their stalls and whickered. “Yours?” I asked Alan. They were too good for any of the locals.

“Yes.” A small cart stood just inside the door. Alan pulled back the canvas. The lantern light was dim but I caught a glint of metal inside. Alan took out a blanket and re-covered the cart. “Thanks for letting me sleep here,” he said, as I pointed out the ladder up to the hayloft.

“Thank Wil, not me,” I said as I watched him climb. “Though I bet you’re paying him twice what you should to stay here.”

“He didn’t ask me for money.” Alan turned around at the top of the ladder, frowning. “Should I offer?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I scowled and eyed Alan’s cart. Wil never did anything for free.

“Can you tell me more about Prince Garadon’s death?” Alan asked. He disappeared up into the hayloft. His voice floated back down. “I have to tell Ana something.”

“Who’s Ana?” I asked. I lifted the edge of the canvas cover.

“My cousin. Princess Ana of Theianbridge.”

Whatever was in the cart glinted golden. I looked back at the ladder to the hayloft. “Why does she care about Garadon? We weren’t planning to go that far north.” I’d hoped to make it back east before winter. We’d seen enough of the idiotic campaign the king was waging out on the border, Aradori blood spilled to conquer lands hundreds of miles from our own.

“They were betrothed,” Alan said.

I blinked. “What?” My bear made a confused noise in my head.

“It was in the treaty we signed four months ago. After the prince left the front, I suppose,” Alan said. “Ana’s father, King Robert, wanted to cement the alliance between Theianbridge and the Aradori. They betrothed Ana and made me his squire, all by proxy of course. Your king loved the bargain.”

I snorted. That sounded like him. “Of course he did. Conquest by any means necessary, that’s his dream.” Never my dream. Schemes I was glad to be done with.

I reached a hand into the cart and touched cold metal. I grasped it and drew my hand out. My breath caught. It was a helmet, covered in gold. I ripped back the canvas. A thrice-damned suit of armor, with enough gold leaf to make every man in this town rich. It looked like the sort of thing my father would wear. “What the hells is this?”

“Lady Ana sent it.” Alan looked over the edge of the hayloft. “A gift for her betrothed. The finest rune-armor our smiths could make.”

I could see the runes now. They were worked in gold, too, hidden by the decorations. “What a stupid gift,” I said. “Saddle him down with a lot of heavy metal that’s going to attract every cutthroat for two hundred miles? Don’t you people know anything about bear warriors? We can’t use rune-armor.” I tossed the helmet down in disgust and covered up the rest of the cart.

“Oh.” His face fell. “It doesn’t matter, now.” He moved away and didn’t speak again. I heard him lie down, not far from the ladder.

I blew out the lantern and opened the stable door. Nothing moved in the shadows beyond. I heard singing from the pub. I limped outside and shut the door behind me. For a moment I considered going home to my shack, but something about this setup smelled. The kid had enough trouble without the likes of Wil bothering him.

I sat on the bench beside the water barrel. “Keep watch,” I told my bear, and closed my eyes.

#

Waves crashed over me, but I’d been soaked to the bone for days. Something rough brushed up against my feet. I kicked the shark, telling it I was still alive, telling it to find easier prey. Three men still clung to the mast with me. “Hang on,” I told them. “Just hang on.”

“There’s no point,” Radik said feebly. “We’ll never make it. We should just give up now.”

I wanted to give up. Wanted to let my grip slack and to slip beneath the waves. I pulled myself a little higher on the mast. Inside me, the bear urged me to stay alive. We can’t give up, it whispered.

#

I jerked awake, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Someone comes, the bear told me. Several men. Drunk.

I let the bear’s power sharpen my senses. Yes. Three or four men, stumbling toward us. I could smell the beer they’d been drinking, the horse droppings one had stepped in, the faint reek of charcoal that always clung to Wil. I didn’t move.

“Just grab the cart,” Wil hissed. His knife whispered as he drew it from the scabbard. I could smell the oil on it. “When the boy comes down, I’ll deal with him.”

“Not very hospitable of you,” I said.

They started. Two of the drunks stumbled into each other. Wil peered at me. “Davik?” he asked. “Is that you? Why are you here?”

I stood up, keeping the stable wall at my back. “My leg was bothering me, so I thought I’d rest. You fellows woke me up with all the noise you were making.” Inside the barn, one of the horses whinnied. I heard a board creak. Good, Alan must be awake. “Just go home,” I said.

“He’s got gold,” Wil said. “Lots of gold. Enough to make us all rich. I’ll give you a share.”

“Are you always this stupid or does the beer help?” I asked. “He’s a nobleman, from upriver. You can’t kill him and get away with it. They’ll burn down the whole village in repayment.”

“We’ll tell them he was never here.” Wil licked his lips. “Don’t be a fool, Davik. We’ll go through you first if we have to. You’re unarmed and a cripple. You’re just going to get hurt.”

I sighed and stepped in front of the door. “Don’t do something we’re both going to regret in the morning, Wil.” Months of peace and quiet, and now it was going to end over a worthless suit of golden armor.

He eyed me. I could see his muscles tense. “Get him!” he said, and they were on me.

The bear roared. Its power rushed into my limbs, gave me strength and speed. Wil started to swing his knife and I grabbed his wrist. His eyes widened. I twisted, and he screamed and dropped the knife. His friends pummeled me from both sides but with the bear in me, I barely felt their fists. Wil clawed at my face with his other hand, so I brought my knee up into his stomach and sent him to the ground.

My heart raced. The bear’s feelings infected me; the joy of combat rushed through my blood. I grabbed the two hitting me by their necks and smashed their heads together. They dropped into the mud in front of me.

The last man had a knife, too. He eyed me warily. For a moment I thought he was going to run. Then, from the ground, Wil seized my ankle and pulled hard. I went to one knee. The knife man rushed me. I scooped up Wil’s knife from where he’d dropped it and stabbed upward. The man’s knife grazed my cheek and mine sank into his gut. He dropped, groaning.

I scrambled up and kicked Wil, hard. He grunted and lay still. “Alan!” I called. “Get the cart. You can’t stay here.” Nor could I, not now. I’d have to find another backwater to bury myself in.

Alan opened the stable door behind me. He had a sword clutched in his hands and he was trembling. “I should have done something,” he said, staring at the prone men. The one I’d stabbed was moaning, clutching his stomach. There was blood everywhere. Good. He’d die fast, of blood loss. Not slow and screaming. Belly wounds were a bad death. “I didn’t know what to do,” Alan said again.

I took the sword away from him. “Let’s go,” I said.

“How did you do that?” Alan asked, hitching his horses up to the cart as I hauled the unconscious men out of our way. “You’re a cripple.”

“Don’t need my leg much in that sort of fighting,” I said. It hadn’t so much as twinged since the start of the fight.

You know if you’d let me, I could heal that leg faster than you can blink, my bear muttered. I ignored it and threw open the other door. Alan climbed into the seat and urged the horses forward. As he passed me, I grabbed on and swung myself up next to him.

He stared at me, eyes wide. The moon cast shadows on his face, making him look even younger. “What are you doing?”

“Coming with you,” I said. I pointed at Wil and friends. “There’s one who’ll be dead by morning and three who’ll be aching for revenge. Doubt I’ll be welcome around here anymore. You owe me a debt and I intend to collect.”

#

We were three days north of Karls Fork, and there’d been no sign of pursuit. I helped Alan make camp each night, and he shared his food willingly enough. The first two days he’d tried to ask me questions about Prince Garadon and the shipwreck. Today he’d kept silent.

After supper, he pulled back the canvas and lifted the ornate breastplate out of the back of the cart. He slipped it on over his tunic. I laughed as he tried to fasten it himself. “Even if you could reach the straps, it’s not sized to you,” I said from my seat on a fallen log.

“I’ve worn armor before,” he puffed. He tried bending his elbow the wrong way around, which worked about as well as you’d think.

“What are you trying to do?” I asked.

“I’ve wasted months looking for Prince Garadon.” He abandoned the straps and grabbed the greaves from the cart. “I need to get back to practicing now, though.”

“Practicing what?”

“Swordfighting, of course.” Alan strapped the greaves to his legs. He picked up his sword and swung it like a farmer wielding a scythe. I choked. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“You’re well-born. Didn’t anyone ever teach you to use a sword?”

He glared at me before ripping the breastplate off. “I had a teacher. I’m just out of practice.” He took a deep breath and went through the first sword drill. His form left openings big enough to drive a cart through.

Is this what you’re reduced to? the bear asked. Mocking someone who still has a warrior spirit?

“You’re very intent,” I said, watching him. “Why?”

“I need to be ready to fight by midsummer.” His face was red, his words clipped. “Ana needs me.”

“Ana’s your cousin, the one betrothed to Garadon?”

“We heard the rumors that he was dead, three months ago, but she wouldn’t believe them. Ana’s father is sick. Dying, probably. And my brother John wants to be king. He tried to force Ana to marry him. She stalled. Said Garadon might not be dead. The wedding is supposed to be at midsummer. John persuaded the other lords that if Garadon didn’t arrive, Ana should marry him.”

Midsummer was three weeks off. He could be in Theianbridge by then, certainly, but… “I still don’t understand why you need to be in fighting shape?”

“Ana said if she must marry, she’ll marry whoever wins the wedding tournament.” Alan must have seen my confused look. “It’s a Theis custom. There’s always a tournament at important weddings. Once or twice, a bride’s lover has challenged her betrothed. So it’s not that far out of custom. John agreed, of course. But he doesn’t expect anyone to actually face him. Ana sent me to search for Prince Garadon. She hoped the rumors were wrong. She hoped he wasn’t dead.”

I watched Alan attack the air a few more times. He changed his stance and slashed sideways. I shook my head. “Tell me you’re not planning what I think.”

“I’m going to challenge my brother.” Alan puffed mightily as he swung. “There, I’m getting the hang of it.”

“Why not just let him marry the princess? She needs a husband, he wants to be king. Seems like it’ll work out fine,” I said.

“My brother is barely a passable earl. He’ll make a dreadful king. A generation ago we didn’t even have a king. Just a bunch of squabbling lords. Theianbridge was sacked three times in forty years because none of the other Theis lords would send men to her defense. Then the Aradori arrived, and King Robert — he was just lord of Theianbridge then — allied with them.” Alan kept up a steady rhythm of swings. “That’s when we made Robert our king. I guess he shoved it down their throats. More or less said ‘you can bow to me, or you can bow to this bunch of savage berkserkers from the east, but you’ll bow’.” He turned to me, his ears pink. “Ah. Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“No, no, we’re savage berserkers,” I agreed. “It’s a good reputation to have when you’re trying to conquer a continent.”

“Without a strong man as king, we’ll fall apart again. John’s not the man to rule. Ana knows it. I know it.”

“And you’re the right man?” I asked.

“I’m not going to marry her.” He looked away. “I just want to give her a chance to find a better man.”

I stood up and looked around in the brush just beyond our camp. “What are you doing?” Alan asked.

“Here.” I tossed him a long stick. He caught it clumsily. I found another for myself. “Put down the sword before you put your eye out.”

He eyed me warily. “You’re going to help me?”

“No, I’m going to show you how stupid you’re being.” I flicked my wrist and struck his ribs with my stick.

“Ow!”

“Defend yourself then.” I struck him again, on the shoulder this time. Then on the leg. Then the ribs again. He flailed about with his stick, not even close to blocking me. I thumped him a few more times. “There. If this was a sword, you’d be dead five times already,” I said.

He scowled at me. “Don’t stop. I was almost getting the hang of it.”

I sighed and hit him again. And again. And again — but this time he got his arm up and my stick landed on his wrist. “There!” he said happily.

“Yes. This time, I took off your hand instead of your head.”

“Again,” he said, squaring his shoulders.

“I can do this all night.”

“So can I.” He stuck out his jaw. “I only have three weeks. You know how to fight. Teach me.”

“Why should I?”

He frowned. “I can reward you.”

I didn’t want any reward, but something about his naiveté tugged at me. I remembered being like that. Perhaps I could find a way to make him see reason before his idealism was so painfully stripped away. The world didn’t need another washed up cynic. I circled him. My bear was very near the surface, eager for the chance to act. I didn’t need the bear to teach the boy a thing or two. But damn, it felt good to have a weapon in my hand again. Even just a broken stick. You see? the bear asked. You can take the Aradori out of the fight, but you can’t take the fight out of the Aradori.

“First,” I said. “You need to learn how to hold a sword properly.”

#

It took us three weeks to reach Theianbridge. Every morning I resolved to leave. Every evening Alan picked up his sword and asked for another beating. Every night after our practice, I wanted to tell Alan to give up. He’d never be ready in time. But his eagerness, the way he picked himself back up each time I knocked him down, stopped me.

It was evening when we arrived at the inn on the outskirts of Theianbridge.“We’ll lay low here and send word to Ana,” Alan said. “I need to let her know we’re here.”

“And tell her what?” I followed Alan across the yard, favoring my leg. The nightly practice sessions made my calf ache. Alan had improved. At least now he knew how to hold a sword without dropping it.

“I’ll figure that out when I see her.” A muscle in his jaw clenched. “Then if you and the smith will help, we can get the armor sized to me. I just hope we have long enough.”

“All right. Go on and see your cousin. I’ll get this armor to a smith. Come find me when you’re done.”

Alan clapped me on the back. “Thanks, Davik. I swear you’ll be rewarded, one way or another.” He hurried out the door.

I found a smith just down the street and offered to trade him an afternoon’s labor in exchange for his help with the armor fitting. A few hours later, I looked up from sweeping. Evening sun sloped in through the open smithy door. Someone was approaching, but it didn’t sound like Alan or the smith. Too light for either of them.

A trim girl stepped through the door. “You’re Alan’s friend?” she asked. She had light brown hair hanging in a pair of braids and wore a linen dress, well-cut and neatly stitched.

“Yes,” I said. “Where’s Alan?”

She glanced from me to where the armor lay on the anvil. “He really was planning to enter.” She shook her head. “Idiot.”

I shrugged. “Can’t argue with that.”

The girl looked me over. She wasn’t as young as I’d first thought. Probably nearly twenty. Her grey eyes were very pretty. “He asked me to find you,” she said. “He’s been injured.”

“What? How?” I set aside my broom. “Where?”

“It’s probably best if you just stay away,” the girl said. “You’ve done enough for him.”

“Take me to him,” I said.

#

Alan stared up at me. “They jumped me,” he mumbled through swollen lips. “Three of them.”

“And John was sitting in the king’s chambers the whole time,” the girl said. She looked disgusted. “He’ll deny knowing anything about it.”

“My arm,” Alan moaned. “They broke my sword arm.”

“And a few ribs from the sound of you,” I said. Both his eyes were black. There was a purpling bruise on his cheek, and every time he breathed he winced. All my training had done was get him a beating.

“I failed.” He shook his head and groaned. “I failed. I’m sorry, Ana.”

“Don’t be.” The girl laid her hand on his forehead. “You tried. Nobody else did that much.” She looked away from him, toward me. Tears glistened in her eyes.

“You’re the princess?” I said. She didn’t look like one. The stubborn set of her jaw reminded me of my mother.

Alan crooked a finger at me. “Davik. You could take her away. Hide her.”

“That won’t do any good.” Ana shook her head. “I can’t escape my fate by running from it. No. I made my pledge. Maybe John will make a better king than we expect.”

Alan made a noise that started as a laugh and turned into a groan. “Do you really think there’s any chance of that?”

“What made you think Garadon would be any better?” I asked her.

Our eyes met briefly. She looked away. “I never met him but I told myself the son of a conqueror would know how to keep Father’s kingdom together. I had hoped . . . I was a fool.” Ana stood up. “I need to go. Father will miss me.” She hurried out of the room.

I knew the look in her eyes. A quiet despair. I’d seen it on my friends’ faces, as they clung to their scraps of wreckage, as they lost strength and one by one slipped into the sea. She’d been clinging to hope for so long, she didn’t know how to give up on it. Even though the waves were crashing over her and her soaked clothing pulled her down and she could feel the sharks brushing against her legs.

Alan stared at the ceiling. “Why did you bother teaching me, Davik? I’m pathetic. They took my sword away from me and beat me with it.”

“We didn’t have enough time. You’ll be a great warrior someday.” You had to know when you were beaten. He needed to learn that or he’d just get hurt again.

“I’m worthless. I wanted to do something great. It wasn’t just about Ana you know. John’s always been better than me.” Alan’s voice wavered. “I was so excited to squire for Prince Garadon. A chance for me to prove myself to someone who didn’t know my brother, didn’t judge me by him.”

“Is John a good fighter?” I asked.

“The best. I don’t see why he had his men attack me. He’d have beaten me tomorrow anyway.” Alan closed his eyes. “And I thought… well, I never met Prince Garadon. But I was his squire anyway. A squire is supposed to protect his master’s interests. Seemed like I shouldn’t let someone else steal his bride without even trying to stop it.”

I stared down at Alan. The bruises made him look older. Less like a boy. He has a warrior’s heart, my bear said. So does the girl.

Neither of them knew how to give up. The circling sharks smelled blood, but they still clung to the wreckage. I couldn’t just watch them go down.

“Rest,” I said. “You need your strength.”

“For what?”

“For the tournament.” I went to the door. “You should be there. Even if you have to get someone to carry you.”

#

The thrice-damned runes took all night to remove. Every time I thought I had the last of them, I spotted another. I could have just scraped off all the gold leaf, but I wanted the armor to look preposterous. Because in the crowd’s eyes, flashy meant powerful. I finished around dawn and went to find something to eat and a bucket of water to wash in. It felt good to have worked up a real sweat.

I should never have laughed at Alan; you really do feel like a fool trying to put armor on by yourself. I got the smith to help me. I took the sword that went with the armor. My own was at the bottom of the sea. Mounting up wasn’t bad. I wasn’t used to armor this awkward. Give me good chain mail any day. But Alan’s horse cooperated. Clearly she was trained for riding, not hauling a cart, and didn’t object to her new, blank livery. She answered my lightest touch.

The sun was high in the sky by the time I got to the tournament ground. I’d heard the Theis went in for elaborate tournaments, but I’d never seen one of their amphitheaters before. The arena, just outside town, had stone walls twenty feet high. I could hear the thrum of the crowd from the street.

Two armed men lounged near the back entrance. They straightened up as I dismounted. “Good, I didn’t think there’d be anyone to take my horse,” I said. “Glad to see you on the job.”

The taller of the two cracked his knuckles while his comrade drew a sword. “We’re not here to take your horse, we’re here to keep anyone from causing trouble.”

“Trouble? I thought the princess’s challenge was for anyone who cared to enter.”

“It is. But nobody except our master cares to enter.” The tall man drew his sword too. “Now will you go or shall we break both your legs?”

I hoped these were the thugs who had attacked Alan. “Come, you’re wasting my time.” I beckoned to them and called my bear. It came roaring to meet me.

#

I stepped out onto the floor of the arena. The stands erupted in cheers as I strode toward the center of the ring. There I stopped and turned slowly, taking it in. There must be ten thousand people here. I hadn’t seen so many since the day I left my father’s army behind me and headed back east. And they were all cheering. Their shouts filled my ears and warmed my blood.

“Who are you?” someone shouted. “Why are you here?”

There she was, right in front. I called the bear, who answered with power and a murmur of laughter. My eyes sharpened. Lady Ana sat on a throne, her hands clasped together, between a blotchy-faced fat man wearing a crown and a narrow-eyed younger man. She leaned forward in her seat, looking at me, hope on her face. She must recognize the armor. She must be wondering what it meant. Near her, Alan sat propped up on a litter. His eyes were wide, his mouth wider. He knew the armor, all right.

Ana turned to the younger man beside her, who wore armor and a scowl. She said something to him. The man shook his head and turned away. That had to be John. “Are you a coward?” I called up to him.

He stood up, glaring at me. He wore his armor like a fighter. Leaning out on the rail, he shouted down, “Who are you?”

“Someone who doesn’t like bullies. Who are you?”

“I am the Earl of Vindersham, you fool,” he snarled.

I stood with my back straight, legs apart, shoulders square. “I challenge you, Earl Vindersham, in front of all these people. Come down here and fight me, or admit yourself a coward and go home!”

His face red, he spat, “You’ll wish you hadn’t crossed me. Someone bring me my sword!”

The crowd went wild.

#

We faced each other and the crowd cheered. The sun had started down from its peak. I held myself loose. Vindersham lowered his faceplate. I called the bear and it leapt to meet me.

Our swords met, and his strength matched mine. With the rune armor, he could go head-to-head with my bear. We struck at each other, swords clanging as we trod the grass to mud.

After a while, we broke apart. Attendants brought water. Vindersham studied me as we drank. Let him look; my face would tell him nothing. “Why did you challenge me?” he asked, handing his water back. “You’re the Aradori lout my brother brought back with him. But he said you were a cripple.”

“Did he.” My leg wasn’t even twinging. I told you I’d fix it if you gave me a chance, my bear said smugly. “I challenged because you are a coward who had his own brother beaten for standing up to him.” I lowered my own visor and picked my sword back up.

The sun was low in the sky when we paused again. The crowd had stopped cheering. They sat silent, expectant. We were well matched. Too well matched. I hadn’t expected Vindersham to be able to counter my bear. I could hear my father now, scoffing at the idea of Theis warriors being any match for Aradori. Father was an idiot. Always had been. What was the point of allying with the Theis if they had nothing to offer us?

“Give up now,” Vindersham panted. “I’ll make it worth your while. You can’t win, and even if you did, you won’t get Ana. Her father will put a stop to it.”

I laughed. “This isn’t about your princess.” Her drowning look still haunted me. Whatever happened here, I wanted to give her a chance. “This is between you and me.”

“No need for us to be enemies. My men were overenthusiastic. I’ve already punished them. Why do you care what happens to the boy?”

“Because he’s my squire,” I said, and attacked again.

Vindersham kept his guard up as night fell. They brought out torches to light the field. We fought, slower than before. Both of us were worn down, drawing on our reserves. I didn’t know how long a good set of rune-armor could last, but my bear was near its limit. I pressed Vindersham. He surged back, smashing his sword into the side of my helmet. “Don’t you know when you’re defeated?” he panted.

No. I didn’t. I’d never learned how to give up. Even draped over a mast with the sharks at my heels, even as all my friends and followers drowned, even as I was powerless to save them. I hadn’t been able to give up.

I’d almost managed, after I washed up on shore. With my men dead and my life gone, I’d had nothing to live for. But I hadn’t quite been able to stop breathing. And then Alan had come and shaken me out of my slumber. Now here I was, fighting a man whose skill was equal to mine. Who hadn’t spent the last six months letting his muscles turn to fat. Six months ago I could have beaten him easily. Today, I should give up and lie down. But I couldn’t.

I raised my sword and thrust. He sidestepped and tottered, off-balance, giving me the opening I needed. I swung and caught him under the arm. I felt his armor give. I stepped in and smashed my sabaton against his leg, sent him staggering back. I slammed my gauntlets down on his helmet and Vindersham crashed to the ground. I stood panting, staring down. The torchlight flickered across his armor. I bent and pulled off his helmet. His eyes were closed. Knocked out cold. I wasn’t much better off myself.

They were cheering, they were all cheering. I didn’t have the strength to salute. Where was the damned bear now? I needed to leave before someone caught me and made me answer questions. I called for the bear and it didn’t answer. My legs buckled and I collapsed to my knees, exhausted.

And it was too late. They came spilling down onto the field, well-dressed men and well-armed men and Lady Ana, wearing gray silk and moving through the crowd like a swan through water. “Halt,” she told the men with her, and approached me alone. She stared down at me. I couldn’t read her expression at all. Resignation, despair? Or was she still clinging to hope? It was such a treacherous companion. As bad as the bear. It kept you from drowning yourself and then left you when you most needed it.

“Rise, my lord and husband,” she said, extending her hand to me.

How could I take her hand? What did I have to offer? Stop waiting to die, the bear whispered. Start living again.

Alan hobbled onto the field, followed by what seemed like half the crowd. Now what?

I had come to give them a show. I might as well make it a good one. I called the bear again and this time it answered. I got to my feet. Lady Ana stared up at me. “I know your armor. Now let me see your face.”

I took off my helmet and gave it to her. “Thank you for your gift,” I said.

Alan gaped at me. “Davik?”

I could see the hope in Ana’s eyes. And the fear. She didn’t know anything about me, but she’d just called me her husband in front of her entire city. Her courage was like a roaring fire, warming life back into me. Alan wasn’t the only one who needed me after all. “Who are you, really?” she asked.

“I am Garadon,” I said, and the bear roared. “Prince of the Aradori.”

“Garadon.” Ana’s eyes widened. “Then you will keep the agreement that my father drew up with yours? To wed me and unite our peoples?”

I could hear the intake of breath, like a gasp, from the crowd. I let them wait for ten heartbeats. Twenty. My last chance to run and drown myself in the crowd. “No,” I said, and Ana’s face fell and the crowd’s sigh swept past me. “No, Lady Ana, I will not be bound by my father’s word.” Ana opened her mouth, but I didn’t let her speak. “I will be bound by yours. I do not come as a prince of the conquerers, but as the man who answered your challenge.” I stood straight. I didn’t have to favor my leg any more. “If you’ll marry me, then I am your husband.”

“My husband,” she breathed. She held out a hand.

“My wife.” I leaned over and kissed her hand. “Thank you for throwing me a life-line.” She looked confused. “When you sent Alan.” Her smile brightened again.

The crowd cheered. I looked up and Alan was staring at me. “As soon as that arm’s healed, I’m teaching you how to win an unfair fight,” I said. “I can’t have my squire beaten up every time some lowlife decides to send me a message.”

A slow smile spread across Alan’s face. “Yes, sir!” he said.

Bare Snow Falling on Fairywood

by Wen Spencer

Law had just hooked a three-foot waewaeli when her phone started to ring. She ignored it as she fought the twenty-pound fish. "Not, now, not now, go to voice mail!" Only a half-dozen people had her phone number and at the moment, she didn't want to talk to any of them. It stopped ringing for a minute, only to start again. And again. And again.

"Who the frigging hell?" She'd lost too many phones trying to cradle them on her shoulder and reel in a fish. She would need at least one hand free to answer the phone. Finally she locked the reel and jerked her phone out of her breast pocket.

"What?" she cried as her rod bent as the big fish fought the line.

"Who is this?" a female voice asked.

"Law!" she shouted. "Law Munroe." At least that was the name she was using most recently. The joy of having a mother who had been married ten times meant that even close family friends weren't sure what your real, real name was. "Who is this?"

"Oh good. You'll be a perfect match. Go to Fairywood and find snow."

"What?" Law cried. "It's in the middle of freaking June! Mid-summer eve is less than a week! There's no snow!"

"Fairywood. F. A. I. R. Y. Wood. It's next to Windgap. Just out of the Rocks—if there was still a bridge. Lots of urban prairie. You need to find snow. Collect snow up and get someplace safe. All hell is going to break loose regardless but let's not give anyone a nice little goat, shall we?"

And the connection went dead and her line snapped.

"Who? What? Hello?" She glared at her phone. Not only had she lost the fish but she lost her streamer fly, too. A Clouser deep minnow. She handmade her flies, so she wasn't out money, just time. She needed one more fish before her ice chests were full and she could visit her customers. If she didn't land another big fish, she'd have to short someone because she could only put off deliveries for so long.

"I thought there was some kind of rule against crazy people on Elfhome!" Grumble as she might, her experiences with her family confirmed it was only diagnosed crazy people who had been deported back to Earth. All the unknown crazies were free to terrorize their relatives and random people. At least with strangers, she could ignore the phone call. "Not my circus. Not my monkeys."

She was standing knee-deep in Chartiers Creek in Carnegie. It was about six miles from where the stream met the Ohio River. In the summer, that section of the Chartiers was too shallow for river shark and jumpfish to navigate the water. She took another fly from her hat and tied it to her line. She'd dropped coolers alongside of Campbells Run and Chartiers Creek every few hundred feet. Parking at the end of Glass Street before dawn, she'd walked back to Campbells Run. In the last hour, she'd worked her way down to where the smaller stream joined the larger one, slowly making her way back to her truck. She had her biggest coolers full of trout and crayfish from traps on other streams, but she enjoyed angling for the waewaeli. Summer was her favorite time to be a professional forager since she could devote much of her time to the sport of fishing. The dry hot months meant that the Chartiers was shallow enough to wade. She was too far upstream to worry about river sharks and jumpfish; they needed at least four feet of water to navigate a channel. The undergrowth lining the creek screened the ruins of the abandoned neighborhood. The play of water and singing birds masked out any distant noise of civilization. It was her and the fish, one on one, just the way she liked it.

Until her phone ran again. Same mystery number.

She sighed and answered. "What?"

"I forgot to tell you: look for the white door."

"Not a red door and paint it black?"

"Oh God no, black would make everything worse. There won't be time to paint it. Just take it with you when you leave."

She knew it was useless to argue about the lack of snow in June. Crazy people didn't listen to logic. Her parents had at least taught her that. "Okay, I'll take the door with me when I find snow."

"Good." And the mystery Crazy Lady hung up again.

She spotted a big shadow in the next deep pool. She played out line until she could feel the rod load, and casted. The morning light was still fragile with dawn, the sun not fully climbed above the hills. It was amazing that anyone was awake enough to be calling her. The woman didn't even seem to know whom she had reached. Had she just randomly punched numbers until someone actually picked up the phone?

She'd just landed the big waewaeli when the phone rang again. Same Crazy Lady. Law sighed and answered. "Yes?"

"You only have a few hours to save her. You have to go today."

"Her? Her who?"

"Snow! They're going to kill her if you don't get her to safety."

"Oh Jesus Christ! Why didn't you tell me that Snow was a person? That changes everything!"

"What did you think? It's June!"

Lawry considered just dropping her phone into the water. No. She knew from experience that didn’t really help in the long run. "Who is going to kill her?"

"Do you blame the maker of the gun or the person that pulls the trigger?"

"The person who pulls the trigger."

"Then you would be wrong." And the woman hung up again.

She waded downstream, replaying all the conversations over in her head. She'd leapt to the assumption that Snow was the name of a person but thinking back, the crazy lady hadn't actually confirmed that. It could be a white dog or cat. And for "where" all she knew was Fairywood—wherever that was—and look for a white door. She had all the fish she needed for her customers and a little time before she needed to deliver them. She could see if she could find Snow.

"Brisbane! We're leaving!" She whistled to fetch him back. Hopefully he hadn't wandered too far from the truck as the porcupine never moved faster than a waddle.

It took her five minutes just to find the bloody neighborhood on her map. Fairywood was a postage stamp of nothingness even before the first Startup, which was why she didn't recognize the name. She only found it because of the mention of Windgap and the Rocks, meaning McKees Rocks. Windgap fared little better than Fairywood after Pittsburgh shifted to Elfhome; it had lost three of its bridges in and out of the neighborhood. Far as she knew, both neighborhoods were now uninhabited. There were businesses in McKees Rocks with people clustered around them.

The bad news, it was in the wrong direction for her deliveries but the good news was that were only a handful of streets officially part of Fairywood. It wouldn't take her long to drive up and down them and see if any white doors popped out at her.

Brisbane came waddling out of the brush. Elfhome porcupines were twice the size of Earth ones and a rich red color. Nothing short of Black Willows and saurus tangled with them, not even pony-sized wargs and steel spinner spiders. As a result, they had one speed. Trying to get them to go faster usually resulted in a couple hundred quills to the face. A porcupine for a pet was the test of true friendship: love me, love my porcupine (and not as a main course for dinner.)

"Come on, Brizzy, get your spiky butt into the truck!" She opened the passenger door so he could climb in. A carrot on the seat just out of his reach was incentive to do just that. "We have some kind of damsel to save."

She wheeled the last cooler of waewaeli up into the back of her pickup with the help of the winch, strapped it down, and covered it with reflective cloth to help keep it cool. By the time she finished, Brisbane had climbed up into the cab and was chomping down his carrot, squealing with glee. Porcupines were noisy as well as slow and stubborn. She closed the passenger door and climbed in the other side.

There was a time when all the roads and bridges in Pittsburgh had been well maintained. At least, according to her grandfather, they were. The roads into Fairywood were a maze of missing bridges and broken pavement. Some of them were only passable because her Dodge had six wheels and massive ground clearance. She wasn't even sure how anyone would get out this far, unless it was a wrong turn off the misnamed Interstates onto Route 60 and then get majorly lost.

"I bet it’s a goat. Crazy Lady said 'goat.' Goats are white like snow. Or an indi, they kind of look like goats, only a hundred times cuter. They're like cotton balls with horns."

They crossed into Fairywood and the roads got rougher. Because of Chartiers Creek and the steep hillsides, there were only three streets that led into the heart of the place to do the planned neighborhood with the circling loop things. With the exception of someone's yapping dogs barking up a storm in the distance, the neighborhood seemed utterly lifeless. The houses looked like they'd been abandoned years before the first Startup. Unlike most of the places in Pittsburgh, they'd been boarded shut instead of left open to the elements. Weather had blasted all the paint from surfaces, leaving graying wood. As she drove through, it seemed to her as if life had been bleached out of the world by time.

Then on the most remote corner of the neighborhood, on a street that ended in a cul-de-sac—there was a house with a stark, freshly painted, white door.

Law pulled to a stop and stared at it. "I guess it isn't a goat."

She had a variety of weapons in her pickup. She spent too much time out in the middle of nowhere not to go armed. She had everything from an easily annoyed porcupine to an Barrett 50 caliber rifle. The question was which was appropriate for the situation. Crazy lady stated that someone was willing to use deadly force, but Law only had the mystery woman's assurances. She was going to look like the crazy one if she went in waving a gun and there was just some scared female inside.

"Come on, Brisbane, we've got a house to check out." She tugged on her Pirate's baseball cap. "And maybe a game of ball to play."

She got out a turnip and her bat and off they went.

No one answered her polite knock. The door wasn't locked. She swung it cautiously open.

The house had never been finished before the first Startup. Rough framed stairs lead upward without any nod towards safety. The ceilings were just studs. The walls were unpainted drywall. With the windows boarded over, the building was a dark cave, the sunlight from the doorway the only light.

Brisbane trundled in.

"Brizzy!" Law whispered.

The problem with a fearless pet was he went where he wanted to go, which wasn't always the same place she wanted to be. He didn't come back when she called, which meant he probably could smell something he wanted to eat.

Law hissed a curse. There didn't seem to be anyone in the house. "Hello?" And then considering she was sent to locate someone with an elf-sounding name, she added in, "Sekia?"

She should have brought a flashlight. After a morning of sun reflecting off water, she felt blind in the cave-like dark. She took out her phone and shone it into the darkness. "Sekia?" And then in English. "Is anyone here?"

Brisbane muttered from somewhere deep in the house. He'd found something to eat but couldn't get to it. There would be no calling him back.

Sighing, she crept forward, panning her phone's light left to right. The house was one of these "open floor plans" that equated into three big rooms downstairs, connected together via large archways. There seemed to be some light shining in the back of the house. "Seriously, Law, why do you keep getting mixed up in shit like this? You don't know even if there's a girl…"

A shadow crossing through the slant of light from the door made her spin around. She couldn't tell what had cast the shadow. She couldn't see anyone. She hadn't heard any footsteps.

"Hello?" she called louder in Elvish. "Snow? This place is not safe." Her high school Elvish classes never covered situations like this. She used Elvish when selling to the enclaves at the Rim but usually the conversations were limited to food, time, money and the weather. Can you get me fish tomorrow? No, you cannot eat my porcupine.

There was a whisper in the darkness to the right of the doorway. As Law stared into the darkness, her eyes slowly adjusted until she could see someone standing there. Somehow she hadn't seen the person tucked into the shadows.

"Hello? Nicadae!" Law tried for cheerful while tightening her hold on the baseball bat. "Sekia?"

"Sekia." A soft confused female voice echoed and continued in Elvish. "Who are you?"

"Law." She patted her chest. She hated her full name but elves complained that her name was way too short. "Lawry Munroe. Who are you?"

The figure moved forward into the light. The female was smaller than Law expected. Her baby doll dress of white fairy silk managed to be very demure for how stunningly short it was. Black curls spilling down her back, nothing like the impossibly straight controlled hair that Law associated with elves. Bare feet. The female pressed a hand to her chest and spilled out High Elvish in a flood.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Law cried in English. "Naekanin." The one Elvish phrase that was useful for all occasions: I don't understand. Law was fairly fluent in Low Elvish; she had to be to trade with the elves. High Elvish, though, was a whole different language. "Are you Snow?" She pretended to shiver. "Snow? You?"

That got a long, uncertain look.

"Okay." Law scratched at her back with the baseball bat. She reasoned out the logic of her problem in English. "Crazy Lady got: Fairywood, white door, female. Let's say it’s a given that someone is coming to kill any female behind the white door, regardless if you're actually Snow or not."

"Naekanin," Snow said slowly—assuming this was actually Snow.

Law simplified. "We have to go." Then realized she'd said it in English. She repeated it in Elvish and used the "come here" hand wave that elves used.

"We have to go." The female echoed the English but she turned and headed deeper into the house.

Law threw up her hands in frustration and chased after the elf.

Off the unfinished kitchen was an area that probably would have been the mudroom. A spell light illuminated the small rough area. Brisbane was rooting through a pile of travel sacks, grumbling at the fact that he couldn't get to whatever attracted him.

"Brizzy!" Law whistled and held out the turnip. "Come on. We have to go."

The elf gathered up her travel sacks. The look she gave the cavelike kitchen was clear enough—whatever the reason she was there, she didn't like the place. She was perfectly willing to pack up and abandon it, even if the ride came with a porcupine.

The elf's hair was blue black.

Out in the sun, it was really beautiful. Glossy, loose waves fell down to her hips, coal-black but with subtle dark blue highlights. Human women would either pay hundreds of dollars or sign a pact with a devil for such hair. Her skin was the flawless pale, pale white of elves, even her bare feet. She had long athletic legs. The fruffy baby doll dress of white silk covered all the naughty bits—barely. Her eyes weren't the vivid blue almost every elf Law ever met had but a deep stormy gray, the color of thunderclouds.

That said, she looked like she hadn't slept for days, and her beautiful eyes were red from crying. But far from being despondent, she explored the Dodge with great interest. She pushed all the buttons, cranked the window up and down and up and down and turned the radio on and off. When she found the maps in Law's glovebox, she gave a happy cry.

Brisbane wanted into the elf's travel sacks and wouldn't leave the sacks alone even for the turnip. Once Law explained that the porcupine stubbornness, Snow produced a saenori out of the packs. The peachlike fruit wouldn't be ripe in Pittsburgh for another month. It meant that Snow had probably recently come from the Easternlands, where Elvish settlements were farther south than those in the Westernlands.

Law's phone rang with Crazy Lady's number again. Law accepted the call and said, "I found her. I think. I found a female elf. I'm not sure what her name…"

Crazy Lady cut her off with, "Did you get the door?"

"The door?" Law echoed in confusion.

"The white door," Crazy Lady said. "Get it and take it with you."

"Really?" Law was running late and running out of patience.

"People will die if you don't get this right," Crazy Lady stated calmly. "Probably starting with you."

"I'm getting the door."

A quart of white exterior paint was just inside the door still with a Wollerton's price tag and an uncleaned paintbrush dried to a solid slab of white. Both looked brand new. The door, though, obviously had hung in place for years. Luckily she had a cordless screwdriver. Dr. Who would approve. After she stowed the door in the back of her pickup, she nabbed the paint can, too.

She wanted to shortcut through Windgap and McKees Rock to get to downtown. It turned out to be harder than she expected. After the third "fallen" tree, it was obvious that someone had recently used magic to block the streets. Anyone entering the area would be funneled straight to the house where Snow had been. But why?

She was trying to decide whether to backtrack or go cross-country, when her phone rang again. This time it was her mom. Her monkeys. Her circus.

Sighing, Law answered the call. "Hello, Mother."

"Twenty-two years I've been telling you to call me Flo."

"You're my mother—or at least, that's what my birth certificate claims."

"You've checked?"

"Multiple times." She kept hoping it was some kind of mistake. Since her mother had saddled her with a boy's name, she'd gone as far as getting a copy of her birth certificate from the city. The paperwork ruled out adoption but not switched at birth. The mirror, however, said that was impossible. The older she got, the more she looked like her paternal grandfather; a fact that made neither one of them happy since he had never approved of her mother. "What is it, Mother? I'm busy."

"People with real jobs are busy. People that play around and call it work are not."

"Mother, we are not having this discussion again."

"We will continue having this conversation until you realize that you are wasting your life. But that's not why I called."

"It's not?" Law held out the phone to eye it with suspicion. Her mother rarely passed up the opportunity to beat the job thing into the ground.

"You will never guess what just showed up at the Scheidemantles' this morning."

"Who?'

"The Scheidemantles. They live down the road, across from Ginny Czernowski."

"I thought she got married."

"If I said Virginia Mary Elizabeth Frankenwald, you wouldn't know who I was talking about." And people said elves had long complicated names. "She married an accountant that she met in college. They moved into the Donaldson's old place. They had a little girl last week. They named her Mercy."

With every life accomplishment that her mother listed for her classmate, Law knew that what she really was ticking off were things that Law was lacking in her life. A college education on Earth. A job as a dental hygienist. An accountant husband. Home ownership. Children.

Law had no interest in any of that—especially the whole dental hygienist thing. If you were going to school for something, why pick something that required you sticking your hands in other people's mouths all day?

"Mother, why are you calling me?"

Her mother huffed. "A moving van showed up at the Scheidemantles this morning. They're are moving back to Earth!"

"And?"

"They have that lovely Cape Cod. It's a four bed—"

"No."

"You can't keep living in that drafty old barn."

"Yes, I can."

"You're going to freeze to death one of the winters."

Law knew from experience that her mother wouldn't listen to any of the sane, logical reasons why she picked the barn, starting with it was as far as possible from her mother as she could live in Pittsburgh. There was no way she would choose a house just down the street from her. "I have a Tarzan swing in my living room."

And her mother hung up on her.

"Let me get this straight." Ellen McMicking was a customer and good friend. She shared many of Law's views on how to live one's life. She owned two gypsy caravans. One was home to her and her three-legged bobcat, Rigel. (Cool, unusual home: check. Odd pet: check.) The other caravan was set up as a food truck. (Own boss: check.) Normally she parked at the Library light rail station's vast parking lot. The day before Shutdown, though, she'd moved them into an empty lot in the Strip District. "You stole an elf and a door?"

"I did not steal her!" Law set up her scales while Ellen lined up her coolers. Said elf was in Ellen's little house, eating a second round of breakfast as if she hadn't had food for week. The steel-cut hot oatmeal with warm berry compote was simply delicious but Law couldn't imagine having a second big bowl. (By now, though, Snow probably was getting the impression that all humans had very odd pets.) "You don't steal people! You steal things like—"

"Doors?"

"Yes." Law was unrepentant about stealing the door; the house had obviously been abandoned years ago. A quick coat of paint did not establish ownership in her book.

"So you kidnapped her?"

"No! She came with me willingly enough." Still, the female seemed slightly leery, deflecting direct questions with a continuous barrage of questions of her own. The thirty-minute ride into town had been one "What's this?" after another. Yet she hadn't asked for help or to be taken any place or to anyone.

Ellen giggled, having entirely too much fun with the situation. "Only you, Lawry, would get yourself into this kind of mess."

"You didn't find it so funny when it was you that I was bailing out of trouble."

Ellen pressed both hands to her chest. "And I'm eternally grateful to you. Oh, those look lovely." She cooed at the waewaeli. "I'm going to honey-fry them."

"Fish and chips?"

Ellen sighed. "No chips. My potato supplier from stateside let me down last Shutdown and even if he gets me some this one, I won't have time to prep them. I've spent the last three days making bread. I'm going with sandwiches. I will have parmesan zucchini fries for the adventurous."

"Sounds good to me."

"Yes, but you're adventurous."

"Most Pittsburghers will eat anything that doesn't try to eat them first."

"Yes, but it’s the truck drivers from Earth whose rigs are being unloaded that have the time and cash to blow. Please tell me that I can have this whole cooler."

"It's yours." Law was glad she caught the last fish.

They weighed out the fish, transferring them to Ellen's ice chests. Ellen was buying a dozen of the waewaeli that weighed in at two hundred and thirty-two pounds. At two dollars a pound, it came out to a little under five hundred dollars. A very good morning's work once she expensed out the cost of gasoline. If she could do it every day of the year, she'd be rich. Ellen, however, could only afford to buy this much once a month for Shutdown. Any other day, she bought one or two fish. Nor could Law hope for safe fishing in the winter when the streams ran deep enough for the man-eating bigger fish to navigate.

"You don't know who it was that called you?" Ellen asked.

"I just have a number."

"You didn't think to ask?"

"I asked, she didn't say."

Ellen plunged her hands into ice water and then wiped them clean. She took out her phone. "What's the number?"

"It's on my call list." Law turned her hip toward Ellen.

"Is this your way to get me to feel you up?"

"Will that work?"

Ellen slapped her shoulder and got Law's phone out of her front pocket without unnecessary (disappointingly so) groping. (Played for the opposite team: no check.)

"You calling her?" Law asked. It was her experience that you never got direct answers from crazy people.

"No, I'm back tracing her number. The joys of having geeky friends is that they give you wonderful apps. Widget gave me a reverse number look up program when she helped me with my bookkeeping software. Oh. Gee."

"What?"

"That's a payphone in Market Square."

Either Crazy Lady didn't have a phone, or she didn't want anyone to trace the call back to her. Law suspected it was the latter. "Tricky."

"What are you going to do now?"

All girls that Law helped usually asked—if not with words, with a desperate look—for Law to bail them out of trouble. As soon as the girls were tucked someplace safe, they spilled out their story. Not all the details—usually they were ashamed of their weaknesses—but at least who the hell they were running from. It was possible that the mystery caller knew something that Snow didn't. Maybe Snow didn't even know she was in trouble. (Although the fact that she had dodged all the basic questions seemed to indicate she did.)

It was possible that Snow didn't trust Law simply because she was a human. Elves came to Pittsburgh via the train. The station was downtown, surrounded by skyscrapers. The enclaves where most elves lived were at the Rim, uphill nearly three miles. The most likely scenario was that Snow had been grabbed and taken by humans before she ever gotten to the safety of the enclaves.

"I need to sell the rest of my fish. I might as well take her out to the Rim; see if she belongs out there."

It was less than twelve hours to Shutdown and the city hummed with activity. The EIA troops were heading out to the border checkpoints. The Pittsburgh Police were going into Nazi-mode and towing anyone that illegally parked. The shops downtown and the Strip District were preparing for a massive horde of trucks to pull up and deliver an entire month's worth of goods. Families wanting first dibs on rare big-ticket items were drifting in. In every abandoned lot and empty warehouse food stands like Ellen's were preparing to feed the incoming masses. Across the street, Gene Thompson had pulled in with his BBQ chicken truck, complete with trailer rigged as a wood-burning fire pit. Gene was splitting hickory with an axe and smoke already scented the air.

She checked her truck just the same as if she'd left it parked on an abandoned, weed-choked lot instead of a city block. She banged on the side panels to frighten out small mammals and heat-seeking snakes. She carefully popped the hood and scanned over the engine to make sure no rats had chewed through hoses or belts. She took a few steps back, knelt and scanned under her pickup, looking for the telltale gleam of eyes or brake fluid on the pavement. She opened the driver's door and scanned the cabin to make sure there was nothing up in the dash, under the seat, or behind it.

Bare Snow had been through the routine at Fairywood. She helped look although it wasn't clear the elf knew what they were searching for. Newly arrived humans always teased Law for her caution but they'd never found themselves suddenly sharing a cab with a two-foot wide spider while going sixty miles per hour. (Luckily the steel spinner had frightened Brisbane as badly as it scared Law and it was instantly a pincushion nailed to the dashboard.)

Brisbane ignored the precautions and climbed up into the cab with his usual disdain.

Law was not one to give credit to rumors. People liked to talk. Just because they ran out of facts didn't stop the mouth from flapping. It always amazed her that people who had never set foot in one of the elf enclaves could go on and on about what supposedly went on behind the high stone walls.

She delivered to the side door that gave access to the motor court, instead of the front door that lead to the public dining areas. Technically, the area was more enclosed than the restaurant part of the enclave. The elves, though, were less careful with the doors and what they said.

Over time it had become obvious to Law that the enclaves operated as tiny little city-states, allied but fiercely competitive. Each had an orchard within the forbidden center courtyard, extensive raised vegetable beds, greenhouses, chicken coops and small herds of indi. While humans might gossip about how the enclaves were nothing more than thinly disguised brothels, they were in fact, cutthroat restaurateurs. If Law sold trout to Caraway's enclave, she would need to sell crayfish to Poppymeadow's. It played into some odd "you're one of us" mindset that the elves had. She was "their" supplier only if she gave them exclusive stock.

Law suspected that the loudest rumormongers were the humans that failed to pick up the cultural subtly. They made the mistake of trying to peddle one type of goods to all the enclaves and found the door slammed in their face. Which was fine with Law; it meant more business for her. It also meant she was more aware that she had to walk a tightrope to stay "one of us" with everyone.

Normally, Caraway's side gate stood open all day and she could back right into the motor court. Today the big doors were shut. She backed her Dodge up so its tailgate nearly touched the inward swinging gate to make unloading easier. Snow sunk down in the seat to peer nervously over the back of the bench seat at the enclave. She had only shown curiosity to the rest of the city, so it was a little worrisome that she seemed scared of other elves.

"Stay." Law said to Snow and Brisbane. The elves thought porcupine was a delicacy and had tried to buy him for dinner more than once.

She went and knocked on the door by the spyhole. The slot slide aside immediately. Brown eyes so dark they might as well be black inspected her and then the slot shut again.

What the hell? Since when did elves come with dark brown eyes?

She stood a moment frowning at the gate. She could sell her fish elsewhere but she'd promised to deliver trout to Caraway's today. If she failed to deliver, she might lose Caraway as a customer forever. She knocked again and called out in Elvish. "Nicadae! Fish! Fresh fish! Very fresh! Very good! You buy!"

The slot opened again and a more familiar set of vivid blue eyes gazed out.

"Law!" The owner of this set of eyes cried. "Forgiveness! Wait!"

And the slot closed again.

Law glanced at her pickup. Snow's stormy gray eyes watched her with surprise and dismay. Snow's blue-black hair and gray eyes should have been a giant clue by four whacking Law upside the head. She knew that elves were very much "us" and "them" even household to household. A handful of elves in Pittsburgh didn't have straight black hair; Ginger Wine was a beautiful auburn. The elves that didn't, though, tended to wear Wind Clan Blue as if to compensate. Snow was dressed in pure white.

Maybe it was a mistake not leaving the female with Ellen.

There was a clang of bolts being thrown behind the gate, so Law focused back on the enclave.

Dark eyes belonged to a sekasha-caste warrior.

Law yelped in surprise and backed up. Sekasha were impossible to miss. They had spells tattooed on their arms, wore a special breastplate made of scales from wyvern, and carried a magically sharp, katana-style sword. They were said to be holy and were rare as hen's teeth, usually only showing up in wake of the Viceroy Windwolf. All the elves she'd ever met were scared shitless of the sekasha because the caste was legally allowed to kill anyone who pissed them off.

Caraway's majordomo for the restaurantside of things was a male by the name of Chili. He was nearly vibrating in place, trying not to get too close to the warrior and still keep her from fleeing. "Law! Law! Forgiveness. Don't leave!" He did a "come" motion with both hands even as he turned to the sekasha and launched into rapid fire High Elvish.

Law glanced back at her pickup. Snow had vanished and now only Brisbane peered out the window. The holy warrior stared at the porcupine, head tilted slightly in puzzlement. Law caught the word "trout" and the warrior's eyes went to the fish coolers and he nodded once.

Chili turned back to Law and spoke slowly in Low Elvish. "This is his holiness Galloping Storm Horse on Wind. The Viceroy is in residence along with two of his Hands." His eyes flicked sideways to indicate the warrior beside him. Chili slipped to English. "Plus one. His English name is Pony, but he speaks very, very little English. The Viceroy is here so rarely; there is no need for his people to learn it. Still, we have eleven warriors to feed for the next few days. I need all the water produce that you have."

"What?" Was this confuse-Law-with-cryptic-remarks day?

"Tomorrow is Shutdown and we will be here on Elfhome and you will be on Earth. The Holy Ones, they need meat." Chili glanced toward the truck. "Are you sure that we can not have the porcupine?"

"No!" Law sang and forced a laugh because the sekasha was right there, listening, maybe understanding. "I have trout! Lots of meat!"

She opened up the nearest cooler, which turned out to be the one with crayfish. The crustaceans raised up their large spiny claws in the sudden daylight.

Chili shook his head. "Those are tasty but they don't have lots of meat."

She lifted the lid on the next cooler. This one had trout on ice. "I have several coolers of the fish. The crayfish –" she didn't want to tell him that she had promised them to Poppymeadow. "You are right. Very little meat."

Storm Horse apparently had never seen crayfish before. He leaned forward to poke a finger at the mini-lobsters.

"They pinch." Law warned and then realized that the elf might not speak English. "He knows that they pinch, doesn't he?"

Chili had his hand pressed to his lips. He was obviously struggling with what to say himself. "I don't know." He finally murmured into his fingers. "He just made his majority in March."

It wasn't like the crayfish could actually hurt the warrior.

Snow in hiding. Holy warrior tempting fate. Time to hurry things up and leave.

Law charged the elves more than humans. She reasoned it was a slight surcharge for dealing with the cultural hurdles. Her life would be easier if she didn't have catch several different species of fish just because the elves had issues. The elves never haggled. Perhaps because haggling required you to lie about how much you wanted something and the quality of the item. At the same time, she never tried to gouge the elves so much that they would balk at her asking price.

Her heavily insulated plastic marine coolers were special ordered from Earth and top of the line. The elves used wicker baskets. She used an antique scale when working with the elves, made in the 1800s. (She was never sure if they didn't understand her digital scale or thought it was inaccurate.) The first step, though, was to establish that the ancient device was calibrated correctly and that yes, five pounds was actually five pounds. Chili used an abacus with cinnabar beads that he flicked up and down. With a hundred fifty quarts of fish, it was tedious. She felt bad that she'd trapped Snow in the front seat of her pickup the entire time. At least with the constant flow of elves carrying off baskets of fish, the sekasha was politely shooed away so everyone could work.

If anyone in Pittsburgh knew all the elf politics and skullduggery, though, it was going to be Chili.

"I found a elf out in the middle of nowhere." Law waved toward the front of her pickup. "She doesn't speak English."

"Yes, I saw." Chili didn't even look up from his abacus. "I heard about her. Thank you for taking the child in."

Law had saved enough kittens to know what Chili was actually saying was "No, I don't want it." Not that Snow was a kitten, but obviously the act of finding her someplace safe was going to be the same process. "Who is she?"

Chili clicked his tongue, which was how elves shrugged. "A mutt. Her name is something like –" He paused to think. "Ground Bare in Winter as Snow Falls in Wind. Or something ill omened like that. You humans would call her—umm—Dead Winter or Barren Ground or Bare Snow. Her father was Water Clan and she was raised in his household. Her twice-cursed mother supposedly was Wind Clan; not that you can tell."

The attitude at least explained why Bare Snow was hiding in pickup.

"Twice-cursed?" Law knew that the elves could do real magic but she was a little hazy on what all they could do with it.

"Maybe thrice cursed. To be stupid enough to leave your clan for a male. To have the idiocy to agree to give birth to a mutt that no one would want." Chili glanced nervously at the sekasha. "At least, not with a name like that. And then managing to get killed, leaving said child at the mercy of another clan. They tossed her out, of course. A child belongs with its mother's people."

Chili had called Bare Snow "child" three times now. Law knew she was a bad judge of elf ages, but she thought that the female was an adult. She was nearly as tall as Law and better endowed.

"How old is she?" Law asked.

Another click of the tongue to indicate that Chili didn't know exactly. "She's still in her doubles from what I heard." He glanced to the cab just as Bare Snow peeked over the back of the seat. The female ducked down again. "You humans would say she's a teenager or a fresh man." He meant the first year university students. The freshmen arrived in Pittsburgh eager to see real elves and made themselves pests at the enclaves. The older students knew better. "She's a little younger than Galloping Storm Horse. Maybe ninety-five. I doubt younger than ninety."

Law had grown up knowing that elves were immortal but it was kind of mind boggling to suddenly realize that someone nearly four times older than she was could still be considered a child.

"I don't know why she came to Pittsburgh," Chili stated. "We wouldn't have been able to take her in, not with the Viceroy staying with us. I heard about her making the rounds and thought I might bring it to Wolf Who Rules' attention. It isn't right to have a child wandering around in this wilderness alone. Before I could, though, she'd been turned down by everyone else and had disappeared."

"The other enclaves wouldn't let her a room?"

Chili stared at Law in confusion. "Let?"

"Rent. Stay. Sleep."

"Oh! No. She wanted to join their household. It’s a totally different thing than staying for a short period. No one wants someone from Water Clan. I have no idea why she came all this way without some guarantee that someone would take her."

They'd unloaded both the trout and the seasi. It totaled up to two hundred and eighty-one pounds of fish. Hopefully the sekasha loved fish because they were going to be eating a lot of it. Chili lifted the lid to crayfish and considered them. "Will you bring more, early Startup?"

"Yes! Certainly!" Law cried, wanting to keep her promised to Poppymeadow. As it was, she was going to disappoint Ginger Wine.

Chili closed the lid. He considered the front of the pickup. "My lord had business out at the aeroport." He meant the airport that was nearly an hour away. "I do not know when he will return. Will you keep her safe?" In other words: I still don't want the kitten, don't you dare leave her here.

"Of course."

"And I can't have the porcupine?"

"No!"

Law sold the crayfish to Poppymeadow. Much to her relief, she remembered that she had four giant snapping turtles tucked way in the back, confined to makeshift cages out of milk crates and chicken wire. Those she sold to Ginger Wine to keep her promise of "water produce" as the elves called seafood.

Bare Snow stayed hidden in the pickup, watching, learning God knows what since most of Law's dealing was a mishmash of English and Elvish.

Traffic was starting to grow heavy as the people returning to Earth started to rush through the last minute errands. She fought her way into Hershel's Exxon on Forbes Avenue, Oakland's only gas station. During a normal, non-Shutdown day, only two of the pumps were in use at the same time. Today there was a waiting line for all twelve pumps. A frat boy in a Smart car tried to dart in and take the pump she'd been waiting for. She laid on her horn and edged her pre-historic Dodge forward until her grill protector filled his back window.

"Hoi!" She leaned out the window to shout at him. "If you want to use that car to get out of Pittsburgh in, you better move it! Your little thing won't even scratch my grill!"

His frat brother beat on his shoulder going, "Dude, what are you doing? The locals are insane! Let him use the pump first!"

They retreated to the other side of the station. Law made sure everything on her truck was locked down and then went inside to pay. It was the other drawback of Oakland. Everywhere else in town, you could pump first. Oakland had too many transients for Hershel's to risk not getting cash up front.

Bare Snow had followed her into the store and was now picking up things randomly and eyeing them closely. All the male eyes were on her. The baby doll dress showed off as much as it covered up—especially when the female bent at the hip to take things off the bottom shelf. Much as Law appreciated the view, she was going to have to get something longer for the female. (Law had shirts longer than Bare Snow's dress.)

Pat Hershel was working the register. "You've got another stray, Law? An elf this time?"

"Yup."

"Don't go forgetting you're just a girl yourself."

"What does that mean?"

"One of these times you're going to bite off more than you can chew. You should be more careful."

Law clenched her jaw against the first dozen things that came to mind. Pat meant well but she was like most people—they only helped people when it was easy and convenient. As soon as things got messy—usually when the girl was on the verge of drowning in her trouble—they'd back off and let nature take its course. Which was fine and good for them, but why they always felt like they have to warn her off too? Why were people more concerned about status quo than actually helping?

"I'm filling up both my tanks." Law peeled off twenties from the ones she'd earned from the enclaves. Elves traded gold among themselves, but they took in US currency from their human customers and cycled them back to Law. "And obviously I need some clothes. Shoes. A dress. You've got any in the back?"

"Maybe." The gas station also served as sort of a general store for the transients. Hershel's had a tiny assortment of basic necessities to tide newcomers over until they figured out where the real stores were. "The kids tend to take anything that says 'Pittsburgh' or 'Elfhome' back with them as souvenirs. We're normally picked clean by end of Shutdown."

That explained their stock. It had mystified Law why all their clothes had writing like "Elfhome: Nailed it" and "Saw a Saurus, Ate it!" Unlike other stores, they also only carried local snacks and drinks. Iron City Beer. Saurus jerky. Steel City Cola. Honey roasted keva beans. Because everything was locally produced, they were usually well stocked.

Pat called it correctly, though. Today the shelves looked like locusts had descended. But they were in luck. Among the leavings was a pair of cowboy boots that fit Bare Snow. Not among Law's first dozen choices for footwear but Bare Snow seemed to like them. There was also a Wind Clan blue sundress with Elvish runes spelling out something Law couldn't read. Bare Snow snickered at whatever it said. The sundress was only a few inches longer than the white baby doll, but they were important inches.

Pat added two slim packs of Juicy Fruit gum to Law's tab. "I was holding those for Stormsong but they tell me she's on Earth with the husepavua."

Bare Snow caught the one Elvish word in the mix. "What about the husepavua?"

Pat switched to Elvish as she rung up their purchases. "The Viceroy is in town because his husepavua is on Earth with one Hand of sekasha. Normally I keep this aside for the Holy One, Singing Storm Wind, but she's with the husepavua. You can have the gum."

"Who else is with her?" Bare Snow asked.

Pat clicked her tongue having lived next to elves long enough to pick up their habits. "I only know the young ones that drive the automobiles. The older elves can't wrap their brains around how to work machines. The 'babies' bring the Viceroy's automobiles here for fuel. Stormsong. Cloudwalker. Hawk Scream. Pony. Sun Lance. Oh! I know! Sparrow took Wraith Arrow too."

Bare Snow directed conversation away by picking up the gum. "What is this?"

Law showed her how to unwrap a stick and chew on it.

Bare Snow's eyes widen and she gave out a moan that sounded orgasmic. All the males in the store drifted closer.

Pat laughed. "Good luck with that, Law."

"Yeah, thanks, Pat. Can we have the restroom key?"

Law pumped gas while Bare Snow changed clothes in the restroom alone. The elf returned with a wide brim hat that she'd gotten from someplace. Law could only hope she didn't steal it. With the skimpy blue sundress, the long bare legs and the cowboy boots, she looked utterly adorable. The color of the sundress highlighted the blue of her hair. A white Ford Explorer at the far pumps caught Bare Snow's attention. One would think that there was no way anyone could miss a gorgeous leggy elf, but the four co-eds who arrived in the vehicle never seemed to notice Bare Snow drift about the SUV, peering in the windows.

The female elf scanned the lot while returning to Law's Dodge. "Your vehicle is very different from all the others."

"It’s—it's very old." In theory the 1947 Power Wagon was nearly a hundred years old, but in truth, every nut and bolt been had been restored or upgraded by her grandfather as he converted the antique truck. It had been his pride and joy and he was probably spinning in his grave that she ended up with it. The simple truth was no one else wanted a manual-transmission gas-hog. Both of parents wanted her to sell it for something more practical; it was the one thing that they agreed on. That, and she should get a dog. (Weirdly, her father was fine with her dating girls.)

"Some of them look identical to me." Bare Snow pointed at the co-eds' Explorer at the gas pump, one parked half a block down Forbes Avenue, and a third driving past. The older SUVs were popular in Pittsburgh. Most cars on Earth were electric, self-driving, and needed extensive high tech support systems that Elfhome didn't have. The Explorers were designed to be driven "off-road." They were easy to adapt to the lower technology level of Elfhome.

"The only differences are these things." Bare Snow pointed at the Dodge's license plate. "What do they mean?"

"Every automobile has a unique code that is written on these." Law simplified best she could. "They're called license plates. None of them repeat. The city uses them to track who owns the automobile, if they've paid taxes, kept the vehicle safe to drive on the roads, and things like that. Why? Did someone take you to that house in an automobile like that one?"

Bare Snow gazed at her, nervously biting at her bottom lip. After a minute of fierce study, the elf took a deep breath. "I don't understand why you took me away from there. You don't even seem to know. You've gone place to place, asking 'who is this' and 'where does she belong' and being turned away. It annoys you not because you want to be rid of me, but because it makes you angry that my people act so coldly toward me." And as if her hands had a will of their own, she reached out to catch Law's shirt and nervously twist it between her fingers. "You've given me food, and clothing, and most importantly hope, and have demanded nothing back. And I don't—I don't understand. Why?"

Law had never been asked why. Most people assumed it was simply the way that she was; like the shape of her chin and the flatness of her chest. She looked more like a knight in shining armor than a princess that needed to be saved. Some assumed that she wanted to be a boy, but she didn't. Certainly it would have made a few things easier; like going pee in the woods. Under all the dirt, though, she was as girly as the next woman. A few people thought she might have some secret past, fraught with injustices and horror. In actuality, she had lived a fairly bland childhood.

"I like feeling strong." She finally settled on an explanation that felt right. "When you're dealing with your own problems, they seem massive and set as stone." Crazy parents. Being a star-shaped peg surrounded by round and square holes. Living on the fringe and liking it except for the fact that it made her feel like the little kid, hands always pressed against the candy store window, looking in but never able to go in and get what she wanted. Not even sure what she would pick if she could get in.

"When you wade into someone else's mess, their problems seem so small and fluid. Do this and that. Hit this guy. Find a new place for her to live. Ask around and find work for her. It all seems so—" She didn't know Elvish for "easy peasy" "—so simple."

Bare Snow nodded slowly. "Instead of being lost and alone and insignificant, it feels good when you're finally able to do something. Be important."

"Yeah." The gas pump shut off as the main tank hit full. Law shifted the hose over to her reserve tank.

Bare Snow grinned. "Good! Let's find the white automobile then!" She leaned against Law to draw in the dust on the Dodge's side panel. "Its license plate looked like this."

Most native Pittsburghers were fiercely proud if their plate number started with AAA, AAB or AAC. It meant they were in Pittsburgh immediately after the EIA took charge and the city became a district separate from Pennsylvania. Law had inherited the license plate along with the Dodge. When the wave of EIA workers and other newly arrived humans applied for plates, someone in the licensing department decided to jump the numbering system to BAA. This, of course, led to nicknames like B-plate and B-hole.

Bare Snow wrote "BAD 0001" in the dust. Either some B-hole had gotten lucky in the random assigning of numbers, or they'd bowed to inevitable and gotten a vanity plate that looked like it could be random. It was a plate you'd remember, though, and Law knew she'd never seen it. She was going to have to pull in favors to find the car. How many depending on what the B-hole had done. Would she just need to kick the shit out of this guy or did she need to get the cops involved?

"Was this the person that took you to that house? Did he hurt you? Steal something from you? Tell me everything."

Bare Snow's eyes went wide. "Everything?"

"Yes, everything."

Her name was Ground Bare in Winter as Killing Snow Falls in Wind. It was the root of all Bare Snow's troubles. Named within days of her birth, it was so fraught with ill omens that the temple priestess apologized to her parents even as she bestowed it upon their baby. After that, anything that went wrong was assigned to her presence. A boat lost to a storm? Bare Snow's fault. A red tide? A tsunami wave? All her fault.

Just as Law was starting to wonder if she'd accidently triggered a complete retelling of Bare Snow's life, the female leapt ahead nearly a hundred years. By then Law had finished filling up her tanks, collected her change, and nosed her way into the heavy traffic.

Five years ago, Bare Snow's mother had died while on a trip to Winter Court. At the time, the poor female had felt crushingly guilty. Had her cursed name killed her mother? Her father's death in the spring nearly broke her. Worse, the household she'd grown up in, that of her father's parents, wanted nothing more to do with her. They gave her a handful of coins and asked her to leave.

She had no other family within the Wind Clan. Unsure what else to do, she'd traveled to Summer Court. She arrived to discover that the town stood virtually empty until the Summer Solstice when the Queen was scheduled to shift residence to the northern capital. Bare Snow drifted through the vacant city, seeking a household that would take her. The Water Clan enclaves would not take her because of her name. The Wind Clan household refused her for her blue-black hair and stormy eyes.

After weeks of being rejected, a nivasa–caste male wearing Wind Clan Blue approached her in the street and quietly told her that she should go to Pittsburgh. She would find people that would accept her there.

At first it seemed as if the quest was blessed. The way to Pittsburgh was far quicker and simpler than she had imagined. She was able to board one of the cargo ships traveling the Western Ocean and then caught the train.

While she traveled she learned more about the Viceroy Windwolf and his household.

"He's of two clans, just like me. His father is Wind Clan and his mother is Fire Clan. He had the support of both clans to set up his holdings in Westernlands. He's asked a Stone Clan female to be his domi; although I've heard that has not gone well. She has yet to answer him. Despite his mixed blood, he gathers to him only the best to be his Beholden. Wraith Arrow. Dark Harvest. Killing Frost. His blade brother is the grandson of Tempered Steel and Perfection. And he holds Sword Strikes' daughter, who is mixed caste! But those are sekasha; they are perfection despite the circumstance of their birth."

She was sure that Windwolf's people would look beyond her mixed blood and cursed name. Her hopes, though, were quickly crushed. It had only taken her a day to get from the train station to the Rim and be rejected by all the enclaves, save Caraway's, which she'd been repeatedly warned not to approach.

"Why?" Law asked.

"Because of the clan wars." The answer seemed strangely condensed.

When Law was a kid with crayons, she always left the sky paper white unless she did a sunset of yellows and oranges. It was the mythical ocean that Law had never seen, the lakes and the rivers that were blue. To the elves, Bare Snow's answer probably would make as much sense as Wind Clan claiming blue as a color when there was a Water Clan. Bare Snow's last name was Wind; why shouldn't she go straight to the head of the clan in the Westernlands? How did she end up on the other side of the city?

"I had always thought that how my parents met was romantic: a chance meeting on a desolate island. I realize now that the years alone had been sheer torture for my mother. That she had been so lonely that she would risk her life to talk to another being."

Sensing that Bare Snow was about to go off into another long, long story, Law asked quickly, "So you talked with someone here in Pittsburgh? And they took you to the house?"

Just as Bare Snow was about to break down, a male approached her on the street. He claimed that there was a special area belonging to the Water Clan and that he'd been sent to take her to it. Law was fairly sure that was a complete lie. According to her high school civics class, as long as the gate was functioning, the city was to be wholly human owned. (Which always struck her as odd wording since if the gate wasn't functioning, Pittsburgh wouldn't be on Elfhome. That was the entire reason they called returning to Earth Shutdown.) Elves weren't allowed to claim anything inside the Rim. More importantly, humans couldn't settle outside of it. Newcomers liked to bitch and moan about that since it meant they couldn't go off and dig up emeralds or pan for gold in North Carolina.

"And this human, he had the Ford? The white automobile?"

"Nae. Nae human."

"It was an elf?" Law thought Bare Snow had told her it was a human.

Bare Snow considered, screwing up her face as she thought. "Looked human. But he was not human."

"Huh?"

"I'd been to Summer Court. All the households I talked to had spoken in a very austere manner of speech. It is based on the Wyverns way of speaking, only more formalized. Here in Pittsburgh, there are only Wind Clan households, and specifically from those from the highlands. You can tell by the way they talk; it’s a very marked accent. Even the sekasha at Caraway's had it when he was using the Low Elvish. It means that the Viceroy must not use the very formal court language and thus his people feel no pressure to adapt."

Law wondered if she was ever going to find out how Bare Snow got to Fairywood. "I don't understand."

"All the humans I've talked with—Law, Ellen, Patty, Jon—they speak Low Elvish with highland accent."

Who the hell was Jon? Law didn't ask. She focused on the mystery human who wasn't a human. "This male didn't have the right accent?"

Bare Snow winced and spoke hesitantly. "It isn't that he didn't have an accent, it was he had too much of an accent. Not even the enclave elves speak as broadly. It was obvious that he was pretending. Once I started to listen closely, I picked up traces of old tongue, that no elf would ever teach a human, not even unintentionally."

"Are you sure?"

"The old ways have been rooted out. Young elves are not taught it. No old one would be so lax to use it without thinking."

"How do you know it then?" Law asked.

Bare Snow blushed and looked down at her hands. For several minutes, it seemed like she wasn't going to answer, and then she said quietly, "The gardener needs to know the weed from the flowers."

Usagi's place on Mount Washington was the kind of playful chaos that only a home with many small children and pets could achieve. The toys started halfway down the block, growing denser as Law neared the front door. She was sure that any home intruder would end up face down on the floor with a dozen Legos embedded in his feet. Certainly she needed to step over several large Tonka construction vehicles and two Big Wheels to get down the sidewalk. There was no yard to speak of; the two raised planters had given way to endless landscaping projects with said construction toys.

Bare Snow bent to examine the trucks, pushing them to and fro. She probably hadn't seen a cast-metal toy before. She was making motor noises for them just like a child would; maybe it was instinctual.

Usagi's door was painted Wind Clan blue. Law frowned at it, wondering if the white door in Fairywood had been an indication that Bare Snow was Water Clan. Why blue for Wind and white for Water? Law rang the doorbell.

After several minutes, the door opened and Moon Rabbit Warrior gazed up at Law. The little half elf was in her tweens but she looked six. She was naked except for a pair of butterfly wings strapped to her back and a pink tutu. Her long black hair was up in its customary pigtails, showing off her elf pointed ears. In the background, the commune's TV was playing a cartoon video at full volume. The sweet cinnamon smell of fire berries washed over Law; it smelt like Usagi had spilled an entire orchard of the fruit somewhere in her house.

As usual, Brisbane ignored all formalities and waddled into the house.

"Hi Moon," Law started. "Is Widget—"

"Mooooom!" Moon shouted at the top of her lungs. "It's Brizzy!"

"Is his mommy with him?" Usagi shouted from the kitchen.

"Yes!"

"Hi, Law! We're in the kitchen!"

Usagi's was a haven to human women who had found their way to Pittsburgh one way or another. They were in love with the idea of magic, elves, and a mystical other world, or maybe just completely disenchanted with Earth. Most of them had the reputation of being "elf groupies," sneaking illegally to Elfhome just to have sex with elves.

In truth, they were taking advantage of a loophole in the treaty. Elf DNA, starting with blood samples but also including children, wasn't allowed to be taken off Elfhome. Elf tradition stated that children couldn't be forcibly taken from their mothers. It created a little known and rarely exploited way to get permanent resident status in Pittsburgh.

It didn't guarantee a living nor did elves pay child support, (and Law wasn't sure if the males even knew of their children's existence). Usagi gathered together other female illegal immigrants with marketable skills to pool resources. They'd taken over an abandoned restaurant building and set up a commune. While each woman shouldered a shift of watching the children, they all also had part-time jobs outside the commune. It was part circus act, part logistical nightmare to get any one woman alone.

Law wanted the commune's newest addition, Widget. She was a cute-as-a-button African-American teenager who wanted to be a translator. She was whiz with the computer and had learned fluent Elvish online but hadn't actually managed to graduate from high school. Locals would hire someone without a diploma; Pittsburgh had a crying need for people with Widget's skills. The EIA wanted people who had doctorates in linguistics and they controlled the work visas. Unable to legally immigrate to Pittsburgh, the teenager had risked her life to swim the Ohio River at Shutdown in the dead of winter. (Of all the insane things! The girl had thought that river shark hibernated or something stupid like that. Biology was not her strong suit.)

Law had fished Widget out of the water and brought her to Usagi's. The girl hadn't gotten pregnant yet (maybe was still a virgin) so she needed to lay low. Law had been quietly connecting her with people like Ellen who needed part-time computer help and kept their mouths shut.

Law wasn't going to find out if Widget was home by asking Moon Rabbit. The little half-elf's attention was now locked on the porcupine. Nor was it polite to stand at the door and holler like a mad woman. She was going to have to venture deeper into the chaos to find Widget. "Kitchen" meant no work shoes and the like, so Law skinned off her rubber boots.

Bare Snow made an odd noise.

Law turned to find the elf pointing at Moon Rabbit, slack jawed. "Tauntiki."

Law only knew the word for "child" because Usagi often used it to call her children. As if summoned, Shield of a Thousand Leaves came toddling in after his older sister. Leaves had on a black cape, white mask and a top hat.

"Brizzy!" he squealed in a pitch that could break glass.

The appearance of a second oddly dressed child seemed to have broken Bare Snow. She went down to her knees to examine them closer. Which was good, because the herd of other half-elf children came thundering to the door to see Brizzy. They quickly decided that a new elf was much more interesting. Bare Snow disappeared in a wave of children, babbling in squeaky voice excitement. "Oh my god, her hair is blue--" "She's Mercury--" "No, no, it's long blue hair, she's Mars--" "What does your dress say?"

Leaving Bare Snow to the children, Law picked her way to the kitchen. The restaurant had been an expensive French cuisine place with a stunning view of downtown Pittsburgh. The dining room had been done in elaborate crown moldings with massive crystal chandeliers. At one time people had had to pay a hundred dollars for a plate of fancy food and amazing views. The elegant room now acted as the commune's common area. Normally it looked as if a tornado had dumped a thrift store onto a French palace. Today, though, it looked like several toy stores had been added on top of the usual chaos.

No matter what the family-area looked like, the kitchen was always spotless. Usagi had gotten the kitchen USFDA approved. The commune made the bulk of their money selling "Elfhome jams and jellies" on Earth. A surprise inspection when the kitchen wasn't clean would sink them. Usagi had replaced the restaurant's original swinging doors between the big kitchen and the converted dining room with dutch-doors. The standing house rule was the bottom half was always, always closed to keep out pets and children.

Today obviously wasn't normal for anyone, not just Law; the kitchen was a disaster zone. The sink had wicker baskets full of rinsed fire berries. On the two big commercial grade stoves were several pots of bright red jam, a pan of boiling water with lids and a forest of thirty-three-quart water bath canners. With the exception of the stoves and sinks, every surface was covered with thousands of canning jars. The bulk were filled and labeled but scores were still empty. The heat of the kitchen was staggering. All the windows were open with box fans struggling to move the stifling humid air.

Usagi was a mini Martha Stewart: five two, blonde bob, and the business drive to make millions. Despite the chaos and heat, she wore a neatly pressed pink gingham apron and crisp matching kerchief on her head like some highly starched skull diaper. As usual, she looked like she could plow through hell while drinking tea with one pinkie raised. Just the sight of her always made Law feel like she was too tall, too awkward, and somehow all boy.

The feeling intensified as Law spotted Widget sitting in the far corner, right leg up, ankle obviously swollen by some injury, with an old fashion ice pack on it.

"Law!" Widget threw up her hands in an unvoiced demand for a hug.

Usagi was much more to the point. "Oh, thank gods you're here, we need help!"

Saving damsels in distress: the story of Law's life. "What in the world is going on, darlings?"

"Everything!" Widget smelled of Dove soap as Law gave her the demanded hug.

"It's been the week from hell," Usagi stated. "The nota inesfa were late coming in. The day before we started picking, Widget fell down the stairs."

"I'm so sorry!" Widget cried.

"It's not your fault!" Usagi waved off the apology. "I love the ferrets, and with this place we really need them to keep the rats out, but oh my gods, every time you start down the steps, there they are, wanting to play with your ankles."

A timer went off and Usagi turned off flames under the forest of canners.

"You didn't break it did you?" Law shifted the ice pack to examine the swollen ankle. If it was broken, it could be a hairline fracture.

Widget winced. "Babs thinks it's just badly sprained."

Widget didn't have the golden ticket of being a mother to a half-elf yet, so she couldn't go to Mercy Hospital for treatment. Babs was the commune's mid-wife. Qualified or not, Babs ended up treating everything from runny noses to broken fingers.

Usagi continued listing their streak of bad luck. "Clover developed edema on the first day of berry picking; her feet swelled up to soccer balls." Clover was nine months pregnant and ready to pop. "Babs ordered her into bed with air conditioning and cold compresses. Winnie has been working double shifts because two of the part-timers at the bakery got caught and are being deported." Usagi windmilled her arms in sheer frustration. "It was just me and Babs and the kids picking. It took forever! We finished two days ago and we've been canning non-stop since then. We're almost done but Clover went into labor. Babs is upstairs with her. We need to have a full pallet packed and ready to go when the truck shows up."

"I'm here for you." It got her a fierce hug that threatened to break bones. For a little thing, the woman had muscles. "Where should I start?"

"Scrub up." Usagi pointed at a clean apron hanging by the door. "Suit up. Build a shipping box, pack it with jars with labels, seal it, and stack it on the pallet on the loading dock. Lather, rinse, repeat."

"Consider it done, but I need Widget to do some database digging when she's free."

Widget threw up her hands. "I'm free right now. I've labeled everything that I can. I have to wait until the seals set up on the next set of jars."

Law knew that by "scrub" that Usagi meant under her nails and up to her elbows. Law moved berries out of the way so she could wash. "I'm looking for the owner of the license plate BAD 0001."

"Someone' s gonna get it," Widget sang as she fished her tablet out of a messenger bag. "What did this B-hole do?"

"He took a female elf out in the middle of nowhere and stranded her there." Law dried her hands and found the shipping boxes.

"Oh my gosh!" Widget cried. "Did he hurt her?"

"No." Law dried her hands and found the shipping boxes. "He might have planned on coming back later, but I found her first." And have no idea what to do with her. "She remembers his license plate. I want to find out who to keep an eye open for." Law stated her reason for wanting to identify the man. She wasn't sure why Bare Snow was keen on tracking him down.

"You should tell the police or the EIA or someone." Widget was sometimes hopelessly naïve. Which was why she had needed Law to haul her out of trouble and hook her up with Usagi.

Usagi snorted loudly as she measured jam out into jars.

"What?" Widget asked.

"I had a dickhead of an ex while going to college," Usagi explained. "He'd got me kicked out of my dorms because my 'guest' wouldn't follow rules. I got a restraining order for him, and moved into an apartment."

Usagi banged around the metal utensils, growing angry as she told her story. "I got kicked out there because I'd called the cops too many times. The landlord called it "disturbing the peace."

"You're kidding!" Widget cried.

"No. The shitty thing was that by the time I'd call the cops, I'd be so scared and angry that I'd be screaming at the world. Dickhead would be calm and smirk and do that male 'must be that time of the month' thing. Like it's unreasonable to be upset by a man who's a foot taller and eighty pounds heavier than you and just won't leave you alone. The cops would end up hassling me more than him. All he would have to say was 'she's my girlfriend' and that would be the end of it. Once upon a time, long past regretting, I'd said 'yes' to this man and that was all that mattered in the cop's head. It didn't matter than I'd been saying 'no' for months, that I given up a full scholarship and moved to the other side of the country. It didn't matter that I wanted nothing more from him. We were 'a couple.' This was 'domestic quarrel' and we were both guilty."

Usagi took a deep breath, eyes closed. "God, sorry, it's been twelve years and it still pisses me off. I finally applied to the University of Pittsburgh and moved an entire planet away from him. I had plans of doing this—" She waved her hand to take up the kitchen and the hundreds of canning jars. "But at the other end of it. I'd be the one living on Earth, calling the shots. In my senior year, he'd gotten my address and started to send me letters. He had plans. Plans that included me. And I just snapped—I was pregnant within a month."

"Wow," Widget breathed. "That sucks."

Law nodded to acknowledge the unfairness of it. Most people were good wonderful people that would give you anything you needed—time, money, patience. There were, however, one or two people who should be just taken out and shot.

Usagi was probably right for the wrong reasons. If the male that drove Bare Snow truly was an elf pretending to be a human, then neither the police nor the EIA could do anything about it. Even if he was a human (and Bare Snow was mistaken about the accent) he actually hadn't broken any laws. Yet. The man definitely had planned something hinky but the police would have their hands tied until someone was hurt or dead.

Someone like Bare Snow.

Law had built, packed, sealed, and stacked thirty boxes when Widget blew out a loud raspberry. "That doesn't sound good."

"BAA to BAZ was assigned to the EIA!" Widget cried.

"What the hell?" Law said. "The EIA doesn't have that many vehicles."

"The range numbers are reserved." Widget tapped on her tablet and shook her head. "Basically it lets the EIA generate random plates to put on their cars instead of having to go to the city for plates. Kind of independent but cooperative."

Law nodded. "Same old, same old." The City and the EIA were two huge cog-turning mechanisms, dependent on each other while trying to stay totally separate. The city was a territory of United States with elected officials and non-military police force. It maintained the infrastructure of Pittsburgh: the roads, the water, the sewage and the like. The EIA was a United Nations entity created to oversee humanity's presence on an alien world at the edge of Queen Soulful Ember's domain. It controlled access entering and leaving Elfhome and had the final word on everything related to the elves.

Widget frowned at her tablet. "It seems as if the license plate BAD 0001 is on a white Ford Explorer. It's labeled UPU. What the hell is that?"

"Unmarked, private use," Usagi said. "Most of the 'official' EIA vehicles are white with 'U.N.' painted on the hood and sides. But the staff is from all over the world and they occasionally need access to cars for personal activities like shopping. The EIA has a motor pool of unmarked cars for private use. UPU. I could have used one while I interned with the EIA but I never had the need for a car."

"So anyone that works for the EIA has access to them?" Law asked.

"Yes," Usagi said. "You're looking at about five hundred possible males. He would have had to sign for the car, so there's a paper trail. "

"Can you find out who used that car?" Law asked Widget.

Widget blew another raspberry. "The city of Pittsburgh has an ancient system. It's easy as pie to get in—actually it's easier than making pie, if you ask me. Rolling pastry is hard! EIA's systems were just updated two years ago with more firewalls than god. I can't get into their system."

"Oh my god, who is she?" Usagi pointed at the doorway. "She's gorgeous!"

Bare Snow peered into the kitchen with curious eyes. A collection of little hands and the top of heads gathered on the sill of the closed half-door.

"Tell her! Tell her!" the children whispered in Elvish.

Clearly uncertain about her mission, Bare Snow spilled out a long discussion in High Elvish, sprinkled with rote-learned English phrases of "Peanut Butter" and "Chocolate Milk" and "I'm not asking. I'm telling."

Usagi covered her mouth to keep in a surprised laugh. "That is not funny." She finally said loudly to the children. She glanced at the kitchen clock. "Oh! I didn't realize how late it was." With her back to the door, she grinned hugely. "I didn't feed them dinner but they know not to get underfoot when I'm working on a deadline."

With practiced ease, Usagi smeared scoops of peanut butter and jam onto slices of homemade bread, squished them together, poured a glass of milk, stirred in chocolate syrup, and then reached one plate and one cup down over the other side of the door to a child. "Bring me your dirty plates. Blade and Thunder, you'll have to take sandwiches up to your mothers when you're done eating."

While the children were given their dinner, Bare Snow continued to ask questions. A blush started to creep up Usagi's face even as she tried to control giggles.

"Poor thing. She wants to know where we got all the baby elves—did we steal them or just find them? Why do we have weasels running loose? Why is there a woman upstairs in a bucket of water, screaming? And why doesn’t anyone seem worried about that?"

"Bucket of water?"

The giggles won. "It's a birthing pool! Only it's tiny compared to what elves consider a proper tub." Usagi put a plate and glass in front of Law and then Bare Snow. "Here, you probably haven't eaten either."

The fire berry jam was like sweet fireworks against the rich creaminess of the peanut butter.

Bare Snow took a tentative bite of the sandwich and her eyes went wide. "Mmmm!" She took another bite, much bigger, swaying back and forth. "Mmmmm."

Usagi explained that Clover was having a baby. She added that all the children were half-elf and had been born to human mothers in the same way. This triggered dozens of questions that Law never had the courage to ask. It amazed her that Usagi actually answered them all.

The father of both Moon Rabbit and Shield was a laedin-caste warrior who belonged to the Viceroy's household and only visited Pittsburgh occasionally. Usagi had deliberately chosen a male who wouldn't be able to keep close watch on her. After having Moon Rabbit, Usagi decided that her daughter should have a sibling, so she'd never be alone. Usagi also wanted her children to be full siblings, so she'd sought the same male out a second time. She'd been afraid that he'd only been with her the first time out of curiosity and wouldn't want a reunion. The male, however, seemed eager to be with her again.

Bare Snow didn't seem surprised. "I'd heard that humans are like peanut butter, but I didn't understand until now."

Law had always wondered what the male elves saw in human females. Not to knock Usagi and her housemates, but none of them came close to Bare Snow's beauty. The elf was stunningly beautiful, the way that the sky was always perfect even when filled with rolling storm clouds. Humans, like Law, were like thistles. She supposed some people could like scruffy, but why roll in the weeds when you could have the sky?

Then again, Law did have a pet porcupine.

"I am Ground Bare in Winter as Killing Snow Falls in Wind. Please, call me, Bare Snow." She used the English words instead of the Elvish. "I like that name better. I came to Pittsburgh hoping to find a place to belong. I thought that I would be happy with anyone that offered to take a pale shadow of myself. The wind. The ground bare in winter. Now I know that I would be miserable unless I was wanted for all of me."

Widget gave Law a confused look.

Law knew what Bare Snow meant, felt an echo within herself. So many people just wanted part of the package that was Law. They didn't want her to be independent and capable. They called it "male" as if no woman could do what she did and still be a woman. They didn't want her to be gay, while ignoring the fact that they never "chose" to be straight. Or they didn't want her to work as a forager despite the fact that they hated their jobs and were envious of her freedom. Or to live in a barn despite the fact that they thought it was cool and had always dreamed about it. She was friends with the people that didn't want to change her, mold her into their idea of "good," but even they had little pieces of her that they didn't want.

Law didn't want to derail the conversation by laying bare her soul, so she looped the conversation back to the whole reason she was at the commune. "So the license plate lead is a dead end?"

Widget stared up at the ceiling, squinting, as if peering into Pittsburgh's Internet clouds. "Well, we could go at it at another angle. I can hit the city's driver license database. There's a security field on it to denote EIA employees. It also tracks gender, hair color, eye color, height and weight. We could winnow through the males to see if any match up to her perp."

"Perp? Is that Elvish?"

Widget ducked her head and blushed deep red. "Sorry, that's what they call bad guys on old cop shows."

Bare Snow described the male. Law wasn't sure she could describe her own father with as exacting details. The female had noted his height, weight, and width of his shoulders, shape of his chin, nose, and cheeks. Bare Snow could even state the exact shade of honey brown hair and green eyes that the male had. It became clear as she described the man that she'd instantly known that he was lying to her and probably meant to hurt her in some way.

"Why did you go with him?" Law asked.

Bare Snow winced and whispered, "Sometimes the only way to learn more about a trap is to trigger it." Then she shrugged and focused on making herself another sandwich. "I knew it was dangerous but it made me happy. For the first time, I felt fiercely alive. I thought I would finally matter. I waited and waited for something to happen, but nothing did, so I learned nothing. It made me so sad. Maybe I was wrong; maybe the male was just a human and this was where Water Clan belonged. I cried until I fell asleep. When you found me, I was not sure why you were there. You were not an elf and you had a porcupine. Things became clearer when you took the door."

"It did?" Law was still mystified about the door.

"That there are three forces at work in Pittsburgh. There are those that set the trap. Those that the trap was set for. And the ones that dismantled the trap before it could be triggered."

"Wait. I got there before the trap was triggered? But—but—you weren't in the trap already?"

Bare Snow shook her head vigorously. "When he left me there, I realized that the trap was not for me. I thought I was to be the bait—although I could not guess for whom. Bait should be wanted, and I am not. When you took the door, I realized that I wasn't the bait. I was the screen. When you set a trap, you seek to erase your presence. You don't want the trap to be detected until it has done its job. And, if it fails to be fatal, you don't want the trap to lead survivors to you."

"All hell is going to break loose regardless but let's not give anyone a nice little goat, shall we?" Crazy Lady meant a scapegoat, not a real goat.

"So basically you being there behind the white door was so that the Water Clan would be blamed for whatever happened?" Law said.

"Yes." Bare Snow took a big gulp of chocolate milk; it left a mustache on her upper lip. "Obviously, I needed to change my strategy. I decided to stay mobile until I could determine the players in the game. I believe now that the trap is meant for the Viceroy."

"Windwolf?" Law cried.

"Windwolf?" Bare Snow echoed back the English name in confusion.

"That's his name in English." Like all Elvish names, Windwolf's real name was impossibly long and meant Wolf Who Rules Wind. Elvish word order meant that humans ended up calling him "Rules" when they tried to shorten his name. The English nickname kept the local elves from being pissed off when the humans butchered the Viceroy's name.

"Windwolf. Windwolf." Bare Snow practiced the nickname and then nodded. "All that I learned today says Windwolf is the target."

"I've been with you all day. No one talked about killing him! He's going to have fish for dinner. That's it!"

Bare Snow tilted her head in confusion. "Oh, you don't know our history. It would not be obvious to you." She thought for a minute. "It is a very long story." She thought for a minute longer. "A very, very long story."

Law went back to building and packing boxes. "This is going to take a while."

The female did not know how to condense. Granted, it was an epic tale. Sometime in the past, God knows when because Law didn't, the Skin Clan had an empire that stretched from the Eastern Sea to the Western Sea. There were roads and aqueducts and shipping canals and great dikes built with slave labor at a horrific cost of life. Hundreds of elves died for every mile of a highway that stretched for thousands of miles. The Skin Clan had been all about flaunting its wealth while grinding its slaves into the dirt. Naturally a rebellion swept through the empire, crashing down on all central government, leaving behind ruins and memories of a golden age. An hour later, Bare Snow had painted an elegant picture of an era gone by.

"But what about the Viceroy?" Law cried finally since his name hadn't surfaced once.

"Wolf Who Rules' grandfather was Howling. He was the first real head of the Wind Clan. We had been the slaves of the King Boar Bristle, whose kingdom was in the highlands. His father—Wolf Who Rules' great-grandfather—Quick Blade had been the bastard son of Boar Bristle and started the rebellion. Quick Blade was but one of many scattered warlords. It was Howling who made an alliance with the sekasha and gathered all the Wind Clan households to him. After the fall of the Skin Clan, the Wind Clan claimed all the Mauhida as their ancestral right. It put them at odds with the Water Clan that long controlled the ports of the Dark Sea."

In other words, her parents were from feuding clans. No wonder neither clan wanted Bare Snow. This explained her situation but not why she thought Windwolf was the target.

"What does this have to do with Windwolf being attacked in Pittsburgh?"

Bare Snow gestured for Law to wait. "It all relates. The war came to the end when Pure Radiance went to Burning Mountain Temple and told the Holy Ones that we were on the brink of complete destruction. Peace must be established and maintained at any cost. So Cinder called a gathering of sekasha. Deeming that enough blood had been shed, they chose to compete in games to decide which of the clans would lead the others. Cinder won for the Fire Clan and Ashfall was deemed king of all our people."

Law sighed and glanced to Usagi who spread her hands. Still no mention of the Viceroy. "What about Windwolf?"

Bare Snow plunged on with her story. "While Wraith Arrow was attending the summit, Howling was assassinated. The leadership of clan fell to Longwind, who was barely out of his majority, but had already taken Otter Dance as his First."

"First what?" Widget asked.

"Hush!" Law cried. If they detoured Bare Snow with questions, they'd never get to the end. The damage, though, was done.

"Otter Dance's mother had been Perfection of the Wind Clan and her father Tempered Steel of the Stone Clan." Bare Snow clasped her hands over her heart and sighed. "Their love is epic. To know in a glance and word that this person shares your spirit." Another heartfelt sigh. "Their daughter, Otter Dance, she spent equal time between them, first at High Meadow Temple and then Cold Mountain. She and Longwind were childhood sweethearts. He thought his lot was like many young elves, to be unimportant in the grand sweep of things. His elders never growing old; his time never coming. He let his heart lead him to take Otter Dance as First despite the fact that her father had been Stone Clan. It was his willingness to look beyond bloodlines that made the sekasha choose him as Clan Head. Pure Radiance had stated that the only way our future could be secured was by close alliance between the clans. Ashfall's first act as king was to call together the heads of the clans and offer up his children as royal hostages, disguised as unions of alliance."

"Eww!" Usagi cried in disgust at the idea of using children as tools.

Law was losing track of who was who. "Longwind is the Viceroy's father?"

"Yes. He took King Ashfall's daughter, Flame Heart as his domi." Again with the hand clasped over the chest and the deep, heartfelt sigh. "It was love on first sight. They had ten children! Can you believe it? Most people don't even have one! The Viceroy is the youngest and the only one that can use both esva. He was given a very blessed name, Wolf Who Rules, foreseeing that he would hold all of the Westernlands."

Law thought the whole naming scheme was a load of crap if it cursed one baby and blessed another. "I still don't see how this relates to someone trying to kill him."

"The sekasha see truth like a coin; either something is true or it is a lie. Heads or tails. They do not realize that truth is like an onion—it has layers within layers. Because of that, they can be blinded to a rotten core by an unblemished shell."

Widget started to say something about onions not having a shell and Law smacked her.

"Stay on target," Law growled. "Who is trying to kill the viceroy?"

"When Howling was assassinated, the sekasha were furious that someone had gone against their decree of a truce while they were gathered at Burning Mountain. The question was: who?"

Law attempted to jump forward in time because she knew that Windwolf was several hundred years old. If Bare Snow was retelling how his parents met, she could be talking all night. She guessed that the assassination of his grandfather must be related to current events in Pittsburgh. "The same people that killed Howling are going to try to kill Windwolf?"

"Yes!" Bare Snow cried with delight.

"So—" Law tried to backtrack through the long story. If Bare Snow had named a suspect, Law lost hold of the detail in the flood of information. "Who killed Howling?"

"This is where the onion starts to peel. Rumors surfaced that a warlord by the name of Tornado might have used a Wind Clan household of trained assassins as a bid for clan head. The sekasha easily found evidence that he'd hired them. Tornado's sekasha executed him and put a warrant out on the Wind Clan assassins who had fled into hiding. They were hunted down and killed, one by one."

"But he was actually framed?" Law asked.

"Framed?" Bare Snow tilted her head in confusion.

Law winced. The word apparently only meant "surrounded with wood" in Elvish. "The evidence was false."

"In a manner of speaking. Someone lied to a laedin-caste male. After the laedin had passed on the lie as truth, he was killed so it seemed as if he was murdered to silence him. This is the rotten core: the assassins were told that under no conditions would Howling ever bow to a king put in place by the sekasha. If another clan head was raised up above him, Howling supposedly planned to kill all the Holy Ones in one massive attack. As domana, Howling had the power to do so. The sekasha's shields cannot protect them from the full brunt of a domana offensive spell. Howling would become what we fought a thousand years to wipe off the face of the planet. No sane person would allow him to go unchecked. That lie, however, was then wrapped in truths. We were in the middle of a war. The assassins could not kill Howling without someone prepared to step cleanly into the void. They chose Tornado to be his successor and then planted the seeds of ambition. He was a proud elf; it was required to make Tornado believe it was his idea. Thus, when the sekasha sought evidence of Tornado's crime, they found it. It was true. At least, on the surface."

Law packed the boxes she'd built while trying to understand Bare Snow's logic. The Wind Clan assassins had killed Howling but they'd been tricked into doing it. While they fled into hiding as wanted criminals, the mastermind remained in place.

Bare Snow's mother had been alone on a deserted island when her parents met.

And her mother had been killed when she returned to Winter Court.

This wasn't some epic story of legendary figures; it was the story of Bare Snow's family and how they were connected with the Viceroy. Elves don't lie; at least the honorable ones didn't. If it had been an utterly random Water Clan female behind the white door in Fairywood, she could honestly proclaim her innocence, and most likely be believed. Bare Snow had been sent halfway around the world to be in Pittsburgh for this Shutdown. Her cursed Wind Clan name and her Water Clan appearance would lead to questions about her parents. Once her mother's identity was known, Bare Snow's very presence would be damning. It would seem as if she was taking vengeance for her mother's household.

Her family had taken the fall once for the real killer. Obviously someone hoped that it would work again. Considering everything, yes, the trap's intended victim most likely was Howling's grandson.

Law glanced at the kitchen clock. If they left now, they could get to the Rim and warn the Viceroy before the border was closed. They only had a few hours left; Pittsburgh was returning to Earth at midnight. All the elves—and only the elves—remained on Elfhome during Shutdown.

But what would she tell Windwolf? If the assassins had known who had set them up, they would have exacted revenge.

Think, Law, don't just react. That's how you get yourself shit-deep into messes.

This was world-level politics, hundreds of years, if not thousands, in the making. She was just a forager, fishing and hunting for a living because it meant she didn't have to deal with the petty politics of a normal business. And really, the only reason she was involved was Crazy Lady had randomly dialed her phone number and sent her on a fool's errand that only Law would be stupid enough to do. Bare Snow was safe. The Viceroy was surrounded by the best warriors of Elfhome.

There was the sudden thunder of small feet.

"Law! Law! Aunt Babs says the baby—the baby has shoulders or something—she needs your help now!"

It was "shoulder dystocia" and it meant Law needed to lift Clover from the birthing pool and get her onto her knees with the baby already crowned. Emergency calm kicked in, letting Law deal with the scared Clover while Babs focused on the baby.

Usagi might be an organized general in business crisis and she could calmly deal with hordes of cranky children, but blood and pain? It rattled her. She became a little neurotic yap dog, barking out useless orders. It was not what either Babs or Clover needed.

Meanwhile, Bare Snow got an unintentional education on the whole childbirth process. Afterwards she gazed wide-eyed at the pointy-ear infant. "So that's where they get them."

"Yes, all of them," Law said.

Down in the kitchen, there was a sharp squeal.

"What the hell?" Law hurried downstairs.

Widget was sitting with hands over her mouth, as if to hold in another scream. She lifted her hands long enough to whisper, "Sorry" and then clapped them down over her mouth again. Her stare was locked onto her computer tablet.

"What's wrong?" Law leaned over her shoulder to see what was on her screen. It was a very handsome white man. His hair matched the very exact honey blonde that Bare Snow described. The database identified him as Andre Brousseau, a diplomat from France employed by the EIA as a customs inspector. Law picked up the tablet and showed it to Bare Snow. "This him?"

"Yes!" Bare Snow cried.

Law turned back to Widget. "You know him?"

"You remember I told you originally I was going to come across the border with another girl? Her screen name was Strawberrie. She never told me her real name. We'd met on this site called Jell-O Shots. It’s a forum for fans of the Adventures of Soulful Ember videos. We both wrote Prince Yardstick fan fiction—although she shipped him with Wraith Arrow and I thought that was a total eeewww…"

"Focus, Widget."

"We emailed back and forth for like a year, talking about how to get to Elfhome. We didn't meet up in person until I got to Cranberry. I thought it be safer to cross with someone else, but when I met her, I could tell within minutes that she had no common sense at all."

This was from someone who'd swam the Ohio River at night in the middle of winter.

"What does this have to do with Andre Brousseau?"

"She'd told me that she knew someone who knew someone who could get us across the border for a thousand dollars. When I got to Cranberry, she took me to this creepy looking house and there were these really hot looking guys there." Widget pointed at the screen. "He was the boss of the guy that Strawberrie contacted. They had these coffinlike boxes and they were going to crate us up and supposedly get us across the border. That was until Mr. Brous—Br-ous—Mr. Fancypants actually saw me. He got all prissy about the fact that I'm black. He actually used the N word! I never heard anyone actually say it before outside of history class." She must have come from an extremely well to do neighborhood then. "And Strawberrie was all 'I didn't know she was black!' instead of telling him to piss off. And what difference did it make? Unless of course he only wanted some white girl to do who knows what with. As you would say: it felt hinky. So I said I had to pee and then went out the bathroom window. I called 911 and then ditched my phone. I thought she'd be better off arrested than left alone with those guys."

Law knew some of the people that smuggled illegal immigrants across the border. They were all native-born Pittsburghers who drove delivery routes during Shutdown. There were ones she knew she could trust, but then even they risked being deported. Trust went two ways. "Do you know what happened with your friend?"

Widget shook her head. "It didn't make any of the news feed. I don't know if the police actually did anything. I never heard from her again. I was hoping that she changed her screen name and was ignoring my posts because she was pissed at me. I used the name Elderberry Wine. Elderberry. Strawberrie. Our names were why we started to chat in the first place."

Law gazed at Andre Brousseau's photo. He had that impossible beauty that all the elves had but his ears were visible. They were definitely round. "Bare Snow, are you sure he's an elf? His ears aren't pointed."

"The Skin Clan made our ears that way so they could tell at a glance who was a slave. It was the first change they made once they realized that we'd become immortal. It means he's a very old elf," Bare Snow said. "His speech pattern says he's thousands of years old. After the rebellion started, the world went into chaos. We were divided into three groups. The Skin Clan and their loyal servants. The slaves that took up arms against them. And all the others fled from both."

An ancient elf pretending to be French man. A possible kidnapper. A would-be assassin.

"How many 'men' were working for him?" Law asked Widget.

"There were like eight at the creepy house."

A call to the Cranberry police concerning people trying to cross the border illegally would have been diverted to the EIA. Andre worked for the EIA; it was possible that all Widget succeeded in doing was alerting him that she was no longer locked in the creepy house's bathroom. It also meant that Law couldn't contact the Pittsburgh Police about an attack on Windwolf. They'd turn the matter over to the EIA since it involved elves. If Andre had arranged for Bare Snow to be diverted to Pittsburgh from halfway around the world, Law was sure that he had someone covering the EIA dispatch to inception any such calls. Law would bet her Dodge on it.

The problem was that if the shit hit the fan, Brousseau could and probably would start a manhunt for Bare Snow. Enough people knew that she was in town; he'd start the search with "probable cause" and make sure that she didn't survive capture.

"We need to get a step ahead of Brousseau. We have a name now." She leaned forward to check the listing. It gave an EIA office as his address. "Bastard. Can you print me a copy of this?"

"Going to the police with it?"

"No, the elves."

"Someone in Howling's household betrayed him," Bare Snow said. "We were never sure who, but the false information that the laedin-caste male had could have only come from someone close to him. Windwolf has gathered most of his grandfather's household. Anyone of them—except the sekasha—could have betrayed Howling."

Which meant going to the enclave could take them face to face with the traitor.

"So we waylay Windwolf. Chili said he was at the… oh shit!"

"What?"

"He's at the airport." Law leaned over and pulled up a Pittsburgh Map. "The only reasonable way to get to the airport is the I-376. If he took the Exit at Route 60, follow it to here, turn at Woodmere Drive and again at Roswell Drive and he's in the trap. Three turns."

"That's still really out of the way…" Widget protested.

"Route 60 is one of the few roads in that area that still has all its bridges. We're almost to Shutdown. The highways are going to be filling up as people start lining up at the checkpoints so they can be sure to get across the border this cycle."

"So this starts with him looking for an alternate route back from the airport?" Widget started to tap madly on her tablet. "Oh! Blast it all! We have to stop this! Prince Yardstick is the bomb!"

Law growled softly. "The problem is that the elves don't use phones. If I want to talk to the damn enclaves, I have to drive out there and knock on the damn door. That will take me the wrong direction through all of the Shutdown madness downtown. If I start driving around, hoping that I can run into him and then get him to stop without getting cut down by the sekasha…"

"Wait. Wait. Wait." Widget murmured and then flung her hands up into the air and wiggled her fingers. "Muhahahahaha!"

"Is that supposed to be good or bad?" Law asked.

"I have done magic!" Widget gave the evil laugh again. "It's a little known fact that all cars sold in Pittsburgh—with the exception of antique vehicles like your Dodge—still have anti-theft GPS systems. Little known because the city is stuck in the last century, technology-wise. Really—I cry at night for the Internet of Earth. I miss it so."

"What is it? This anti-theft whatever."

"My point exactly." Widget ducked, grinning. "Simply put, the United States managed to get into the treaty that they could have a handful of satellites up in Elfhome space. They're all hush-hush about it. It's all part of 'Pittsburgh is still an American city' brouhaha that they're fighting over in the UN. Since they're American, the satellites aren't under EIA-control. Nor can the local police access it."

"Why the hell not?"

"No idea. Probably politics. The University of Pittsburgh, though, has access to them and their security is full of student-made backdoors. Voila!" She held up her tablet to show off a bunch of dots moving on a map.

"And that is…?"

"Our mystery SUV! It's in… Fairywood. Where's that?" She turned the tablet back and zoomed out. "Oh, down stream, our side of the river."

"And those other dots?"

"Um." She put down her tablet to tap on it again. "This one is BAS-0002." She read off one of the identifiers and crosschecked it. "It's also EIA UPU vehicles. It looks like they have a whole fleet out in Fairywood. Four at least. Acting weird. They're like ants; crawling around aimlessly."

"They're grid searching," Law said. "Can you pull up the Viceroy's cars?"

The elves had a small fleet of the big gray luxury cars for Windwolf and Sparrow's exclusive use. Normally they were kept in Poppymeadow's coach houses when the Viceroy wasn't in town.

"Let's. See." Widget closed the window and pulled up a database. She searched for information faster than Law could follow. "Yes, they do have anti-theft systems. Oh. Oh. Blast it all!"

A lone Rolls Royce sat motionless in Fairywood, the EIA cars prowling around it like a pack of wargs. This wasn't one lone nutcase elf posing as a human; this was some secret alliance of evil. The other Rolls Royces milled about in Oakland, obviously looking for their lost leader in the wrong place.

"They screwed up their hit on the Viceroy." Law watched the markers on the screen move. It was fairly easy to read the activity on the screen since she knew the design of the trap. "He's on foot; running for his life. They probably have people chasing him." She remembered the dogs barking in Fairywood. "Or dogs. Yeah, probably dogs. They're forcing him toward the river." There were only a handful of bridges across the Ohio River and the waters were full of man-eating fish. "The cars will close in from either side, like the jaws of trap."

"Something has changed," Bare Snow whispered.

"What do you mean?" Law asked.

"They have stayed hidden for thousands of years, carefully keeping to the shadows. This is too bold a move. Something has changed."

"Well, someone has dropped a major human city onto the face of the planet."

Bare Snow was shaking her head. For the first time since Law found her, the female looked frightened. "They think they have the upper hand. They would not act so brazenly if they did not know they could quickly take control of all of the Westernlands."

Her history lesson suddenly made sense. She had laid out what it was that these hidden elves wanted: a world where lives of others meant nothing when weighed against their comforts.

Law was getting that familiar angry feeling that she got from having her nose rubbed in injustice. It was a clenching of teeth until her jaw hurt and the nails of her fingers digging into her clenched hands.

"We have to go," Bare Snow said in English.

Law nodded in agreement.

Bare Snow threw arms around Law and kissed her. It was so sudden that Law didn't really get a chance to enjoy it.

"You've got to be kidding," Widget cried. "Really?"

"Um." Law was still off-balanced by the kiss. "Yeah. I'm an expert at getting people out of shit-deep messes."

Pittsburgh had been a city of bridges; nearly five hundred just in the city proper and another thousand scattered in the hills around it. It no longer had the means to keep them all maintained. It lacked the money and the manpower and simple necessity of linking one abandoned neighborhood to another. Main roads linked the city together, but not in a short and direct method. An hour before Shutdown and those main roads were bumper to bumper with several thousand vehicles trying to get into position at the checkpoints or back home before the floodgates of Earth opened up.

Luckily the traffic kept to the main roads, leaving the side streets, backyards, and occasionally shallow streams clear for Law. (Got to love six-wheel drive.) As the crow flies (which was close to the way Law drove) it was six miles to Windgap.

"We need to be careful," Law said. "Just in case we run into the Viceroy's guard."

"They were decoyed somehow from his side. They will not know where to start looking for him."

They reached Fairywood. The Viceroy's car sat on the last dead end street, its headlights still shining on the house where Law had found Bare Snow. The driver and the back passenger doors were open. One of the sekasha warriors lay sprawled on the ground beside the big gray luxury car. He'd been dragged from the car and mauled by a large animal.

"Oh no," Law whispered. Was it the same "teenage" male that she'd met just hours ago? She crouched down beside the bloody body and shone her flashlight on the pale face. No. Stormhorse's eyes had been dark brown and this male had eyes of Wind Clan blue. He still looked impossibly young and vulnerable. Pat Hershel had said that it was the "babies" of the bodyguards who knew how to drive.

"He sacrificed himself," Bare Snow murmured sadly. "The metal within the car kept the Viceroy from using his domana spells. The Holy One drew the attackers to his side of the vehicle so the Viceroy could escape out the other way and use his magic."

"Why didn't his shield spell protect him?" Law panned her flashlight over the ground. There were four pug dogs scattered around him. Judging by the massive burn marks on the dogs and crisscrossing the pavement, they'd been killed by lightning. It looked like a thunderstorm had opened up a can of whoop-ass on twenty-square feet of Fairywood. The pugs had to be the little yap dogs she'd heard barking earlier. They were just tiny things; the heaviest might have been fifteen pounds. They couldn't have been what mauled the warrior.

Dozens of large bloody paw prints mapped the sekasha's death. They were larger than a warg's, didn't have the wolf-like X-shape arrangements of toes and pad, nor were there marks left by the non-retracting claws. They looked like mountain lion tracks, but those were normally only four inches across. These were nearly eight inches, meaning that the beast was freaking huge.

"The shield draws power from the local ambient magic. It can only afford so much protection. Wyverns. Black willows. Saurus. Wargs. If the beast can pin the warrior, its only a matter of time before the spell fails."

Beyond the abandoned car, the dead bodies, the bloody tracks, and the scorch marks, there was no sign of the Viceroy. Distantly she could hear a pack of animals howling. The cadence was wrong for a warg; it was much more the fast baying of excited, little dogs. The sound echoed loud and weirdly distorted. It nearly seemed like the dogs were at the bottom of well, the steep sides echoing and amplifying the howls. The sound was coming from Chartiers Creek, a half-mile or so off. She kept losing the sound of it under the rumble of a nearby freight train that followed the creek bottom to the Ohio River.

"Idiots," Bare Snow murmured. "They sprang the attack too soon. They should have waited. Once the city returns to Earth, Wolf Who Rules will be without magic, and defenseless."

The Chartiers Creek fed into the Ohio River at McKees Rocks a few miles away. The safety of the Rim lay just across the river. The only safe crossing was the McKees Rocks Bridge. There was a little known railroad bridge at Brunots Island, but she doubted the Viceroy—on the run for his life—would think of it. No, he'd head for the massive stone bridge, lit up for barges on the river and any random plane to see.

Law glanced at her phone. They had less than thirty minutes. "Those dogs are still hunting the Viceroy. They haven't caught him yet. We need to find him."

Bare Snow shook her head. "He has every reason not to trust me and none to believe you. He's too dangerous to approach. He'll kill anyone he thinks is part of this trap."

There was a sudden flash of lightning and immediate boom of thunder.

"Right. Keep our distance from the male throwing lightning."

Law had enough experience with traps to know all their frailties. Even brainless crayfish would escape their cage once all the bait was eaten. She and Bare Snow had the element of surprise on their side. The joy of being quirky odd was that, even when the jerks saw her coming, they had no idea how much trouble they were in. A lesbian, a porcupine, and an underage assassin. No, there was no way these guys knew what was about to hit them.

They caught up to the first SUV on Creek Road.

Law drove up out of Chartiers Creek just before the water deepened. She plowed through an old chain link fence and fishtailed onto the narrow gravel road that ran along the stream.

She knew she should be screaming scared, but the cool electric rush was settling in. A righteous fight was like hooking a big fish. There was a thrill in the battle. It was as addictive as any drug. These scumbags were out en masse hunting a young male and meant to frame an innocent female for his murder. She felt nothing but justified for any damage she dealt out.

She caught the gleam of lights off the creek; there was a car ahead on the road. She flicked off her headlights and used the part in the trees fringing the road, revealing the lighter night sky, to navigate. The road was narrow and rough, just a car-wide beaten path. Around a bend in the creek, where the channel narrowed and grew deeper, the road widened. One of the white SUVs was trying to turn around, taking advantage of the grassy bank where locals fished for river sharks. Even in the distance, Law could make out the lighted license plate. It was BAS-0002. It was one of the EIA unmarked cars.

She threw the Dodge into low gear and stomped on the gas. At the last moment, she blared her horn, seconds before ramming the SUV broadside. The Dodge's grill guard rammed into the lighter truck even as its driver instinctively steered away. The SUV rolled down the bank to vanish into the water, upside down. Only the gleam of its headlights marked it in the glittering darkness of the creek. The large dark figure of a river shark cut through the beams of light.

"That should keep them busy." Law backed up and straightened out on the road.

"Awesome possum." Bare Snow breathed a phrase that she must have learned from the half-elf babies.

Law flicked her lights back on and roared down the little dirt road. She knew the feeling racing through her like electricity. She got this every time she went snarling out to save some girl from a bad situation. There was no murky doubt or fear, just bold determination and a sense of right that made the rest of her life seem like she was barely alive.

She realized that up to this point, all the pressure to conform, to be what other people wanted her to be, was a huge mountain pressing down on her. It was only moments like this that she knew that regardless of what everyone else wanted of her, when the scales shifted so that what was at stake was someone's life, that it made her life all make sense. She didn't need to live in a house, have a dog as a pet, work nine to five with a boss telling her what to do, paint her fingernails, fuss with her hair, and lust after some male that would complete her life. All that overwhelming messy little shit didn't matter anymore. She could be herself, completely and totally, and life was good.

She laughed at the knowledge that risking her life was easier than living it.

They caught the second SUV on the bare shoulder of the road, a mile down. It sat a dozen feet from the stop sign where Creek Road branched. The graveled street changed names to Thompson Avenue as it ducked under a low-slung iron railroad bridge to continue following Chartiers Creek or turned sharply and went up the hill. The SUV's interior light was on; its driver was struggling with an actual paper map. The Earth-bound freight train was rumbling over the bridge, drowning out the Dodge's approach.

The map and the train combined to explain why the SUVs were on the odd back roads. McKees Rocks was bisected by the railroad tracks. While a person on foot could scramble between the slow moving train cars, the SUVs needed to find ways under or over the train. There were only three points were a car could cross and they were nearly a mile apart. The question became: on which side of the tracks was Windwolf? The hounds were howling nearby but the sound echoed in the river valley, making it difficult to pinpoint their direction.

Luckily, Law didn't have to find Windwolf to protect him. She only had to derail his killers. She swung in a wide half-circle and rammed the SUV into the driver's door. The Dodge shuddered at the impact, but dug with all four back tires and heaved. The SUV slid on the gravel and then on the grass creek bed beyond. It tipped beyond its center of gravity and tumbled down the bank. It splashed into the dark water.

Her grandfather must be spinning up to mach speed in his grave.

Two down. Two to go. Unfortunately, with the name change, the Creek Road turned to follow the train tracks. There would be no more ramming cars into the water.

Betting that Windwolf wouldn't know McKees Rocks any better than his attackers, Law crossed under the railroad bridge. The Viceroy had to be playing a cautious game of cat and mouse, since he had no way of knowing how many people were chasing after him or how heavily armed they were. The east side of the tracks was known as the Bottoms. It was a flat and desolate area, prone to flooding during the spring thaw. Many of the buildings had been abandoned before the first Startup; part and parcel of Pittsburgh's steel mill age. The only businesses left in the area were a large railroad yard and a sprawling junkyard. It was a maze of hiding spaces. More importantly, it was the straightest path to the McKees Rocks Bridge.

Law checked the clock again. Minutes were left before Pittsburgh returned to Earth. The hunting dogs were baying close by. They were still miles from the Rim; Windwolf was going to be stranded on the wrong world. She still didn't have a good solid plan beyond "whack them hard." It probably was a good time to start thinking of one.

Obviously she needed to nail the other SUVs before the scattered pieces realized that they were under attack.

A few blocks down she found one of the Fords sitting empty under a lone streetlamp. Law tucked the Dodge in among sumac brushes growing in an old gravel parking lot, thirty feet from the Explorer. The white SUV gleamed bright in the pool of light. Its back hatch hung open, but the SUV had sat long enough for the timer on the lights to click off.

Focused on the Explorer, Law missed Bare Snow's cowboy boots coming off. She became aware that the female was undressing as the elf shimmied off her underwear. "What are you—whoa!"

This was because Bare Snow had pulled the blue sundress up over her head. Elves apparently didn't wear bras; the female was totally naked. The harsh artificial light of the streetlight gleamed on Bare Snow's white skin, picking out a delicate, nearly invisible design on her hips and abdomen. It seemed like someone had stenciled her with Celtic knots across her torso with a concealer pencil. She would have never guessed that Bare Snow had such elaborate tattoos because of how much skin that her clothes exposed, but even if she'd flashed panties, the lines would have been covered by her dresses.

"What are you doing?" Law managed as she realized that the markings were spells like the ones tattooed down the arms of the sekasha. An ink that matched Bare Snow's skin color had been used so that they were almost invisible.

"Going hunting." Bare Snow pulled out two long wooden knives. Where had she been hiding them? They looked like the sekasha's magically sharp swords. Did this mean that that the assassins of Elfhome were some kind of holy ninjas? "Stay by the car. I'll engage them."

"By yourself? It will be safer if we tag team—holy shit!"

Bare Snow had whispered something in Elvish. The spell tattooed on her body gleamed for a second and the female vanished from sight. Even the wooden knives vanished. There was a distortion on the seat like a crystal statue sat beside Brisbane.

The crystal statue blurred and vanished as Bare Snow went out the window.

Law breathed another curse in surprise and dismay. It was one thing to know that Bare Snow's mother was a trained assassin; it was another that apparently she had taken eighty-some years to teach her daughter everything she knew before she died. Worse, even if they found Windwolf, Bare Snow's profession was written on her skin. Nothing they could say could outweigh that evidence.

"Yup, stay far, far away from the Viceroy while saving him." If they did it right, it should be easy as pie. But as Widget noted: pie really wasn't that easy.

Law cautiously opened her door and stepped out of the Dodge. It was almost midnight. Night had closed in tight. Rimfire washed in ribbons of green and red over the river, marking how close they were to the border, and yet so far. The sumac bushes had taken over the parking lot of the old wire spring and form factory. Beyond the factory's low-slung modern buildings, there were rows of brick warehouses from the 1800s. The windows were a checkerboard of broken glass, empty holes and boarded over. On the other side of the street, the long train rumbled and squealed and whined to a shuddering stop. The engine must have reached the Rim, miles down the track, and was waiting for Shutdown.

Somewhere nearby was Windwolf, his stalkers, and by the sound of it, half a dozen large dogs.

Brisbane took advantage of the open door and scrambled out of the cab, grunting and grumbling at the effort. The problem with having a porcupine as a pet was trying to stop it equaled getting dozens needle-sharp quills embedded into your hand.

"Brizzy!" Law whispered. "Shit." True to his nature of being contrary, he beelined for the white SUV, grumbling loudly as he went. "Oh Jesus Christ!" Which was both profane and a very short prayer for divine intervention. "Shhhhh!"

He wouldn't be quieted any more than he'd be stopped on his waddle to the Explorer. Porcupine's grumbles sound weirdly like a baby trying to talk. She could almost imagine him trying to explain why he was going to get them all killed for the sake of something delicious he could smell in the SUV.

Law jerked her baseball bat out from behind the seat and headed for the SUV. If she could find what was luring him to the Explorer, she could use it to get him back in the Dodge. "That's it. I'm getting a dog. A little one. One I can just pick up and run with."

There was no one in sight. Not the driver of the SUV or Bare Snow. A block or two away, the dogs were howling with frustrated excitement. They'd lost Windwolf or he'd found a perch spot out of their reach. What was Bare Snow doing? Was she heading toward the dogs or was she looking for the driver?

Brisbane scrambled into the open back. He obviously was following the scent of ripe saenori. Someone else had also recently arrived from the Easternlands. The backseats were folded down and it looked like a small armory arrayed inside. There was even a shoulder mounted rocket launcher.

"Shit." Law breathed. Andre and his people had come armed for bear. She'd suddenly felt outmatched. "Brizzy. Come on. We need to go back and get my shotgun." And maybe a Molotov cocktail.

Brisbane ignored her, digging through a travel sack tucked beside the rocket launcher. "Naaaah, nori, aaah," he muttered and as always her brain desperately wanted to translate it into something understandable. Something reasonable. Something less stupidly stupid stubborn.

Law growled. She leaned into the Explorer, carefully nudged him aside and fumbled with the fabric in the shadowed interior. "Come on. Come on." There were four of the fruits in the bag. She tossed them quickly into the weedy darkness beside the car. Complaining, Brisbane followed the fruit.

Law heard the heavy footsteps approaching; boots crunching on gravel. Bare Snow had taken off her cowboy boots. Law ducked down, gripping her baseball bat tightly. Key to a good ambush was to catch the person totally unaware and make the first hit hard as possible. It wasn't the first time she'd jumped a male with a gun, but never one this heavily armed. It wasn't the case of "a knife" or "a pistol" or "a rifle" but all of the above plus a few grenades to boot.

She rose just as he came around the back of the SUV. Bat cocked back as far as she could get it. All her strength and mass into a line drive hit. Warned by her movement, Andre started to raise the assault rifle he'd been carrying. The bat hit the rifle barrel with a crack of wood against metal. The rifle flew out of his hands, crashing into the sumacs bushes along the berm of the road.

He lashed out faster than she thought possible. She tried to roll with the punch but it was like trying to dodge lightning. His fist connected with her chin, and the night flickered to total blackness as she fell stunned to the ground. He shouted something and slapped his hand down onto her chest. There was a crinkle of paper and a flare of light and then it felt like electricity shot through her body, making her shudder.

He stomped down on her chest and pinned the paper to her as she writhed on the ground. He stared down at her like she was a pinned frog in a science class. "Who are you? You look like one of those foragers. Picking weeds and mud crabs."

"Fuck you." She snarled out between her clenched teeth.

He snorted. "Doubtful. That spell works like a taser on humans. You're not going to be doing anything until I allow it." He glanced about for his rifle. "What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of the night?"

"Going—to stop—you—from killing—Windwolf." Law forced out. Hopefully he might think she had a whole army at her back and flee.

"A little river rat like you?" A laugh slipped out before he frowned at her with worry. "How do you know what we plan? Whom have you told?"

Law thought of Widget sitting with her foot up in the air and all the children at Usagi's. "Fuck you."

He pulled out a slip of paper with a spell inscribed on it. "Who knows?"

"Everyone! Andre Brousseau. Everyone knows what you are."

He knelt to slap the paper against her cheek and spoke an Elvish word.

Pain like a hot dagger shot through her face. She screamed.

He leaned close. "Who knows?"

There was the warning rattle of Brisbane's tail. The porcupine might be slow and stubborn but he wasn't stupid. He knew that Law was being hurt. Law cried louder out to cover the noise.

Motion warned the elf again. Andre glanced up as Brisbane's spiked butt swung through the air, backed by sixty pounds of muscle. It caught Andre full in the face, driving a hundred of the long barbed quills deep into his flesh. Andre screamed. He jerked off of Law and scrambled backwards with Brisbane in pursuit. The slow moving porcupine had no hope of catching the male, but Brisbane was at least chasing him away from Law.

"Get'em, Brizzy! Sic'em." Law clawed at the spell on her chest, her body still jerking and writhing. Her hand finally obeyed her enough to rip the paper off. The spasms stopped but all her muscles continued to tremble.

She fumbled with her baseball bat, trying to get to her feet. Her hands wanted to stay tight fists. Her legs didn't want to hold her up. Andre's face was full of quills, making him look like he had a massive starched beard, but somehow Brisbane had missed his eyes. Andre backed up to the SUV and then half-fell into it.

If he picked up one of the many guns inside, she was screwed. She abandoned her attempts to pick up the baseball bat and stumbled toward the SUV as fast as she could make her wobbly legs move.

Andre fumbled in the truck's dark interior. He shouted something over and over again. On the fourth shout, she realized it was an Elvish name. He was calling for backup. He found a rifle, swung it up, aimed and pulled the trigger. The click of the hammer landing on an empty chamber was the loudest noise that Law ever heard.

He swore, snatched up a magazine, and loaded the rifle. He lifted it again.

Law slammed shut the hatch onto his legs.

He screamed and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash brightened the interior of the SUV. The bullet smashed out the back window and grazed Law's upper arm. It felt like someone hit her in the shoulder with a lead pipe. She lifted the hatch and slammed it down on his legs again, throwing all her weight against the panel. There a muffled scream from within the Explorer and four more shots fired. Bullets whined over her head. Then there was stillness and the scent of blood filled the air.

What the hell?

Law risked glancing through the hatch's shattered window.

One of the bullets had ricocheted and tore through Andre's throat. Blood had sprayed the inside of the Explorer.

"Oh god, what a mess." She'd put men in the hospital, but she had never killed a man before. Technically she hadn't killed him; she'd just beat the snot out of him before he shot himself. She wasn't sure if the police would see it that way.

A shout and the sound of running boot steps made her realize that was the least of her worries. Andre's backup was arriving. They were going to be pissed when they saw his quill-filled dead body. There were four of them, lean and dark, racing toward like a pack of wolves.

"We're so dead, Brizzy." Law heaved the Explorer's hatch door open and pulled the assault rifle from Andre's dead fingers. Her hands were still shaking from the effects of the spell. Blood was pouring down her left arm from where the bullet cut thru her, making the rifle slick.

The lead elf suddenly went down as if clotheslined. The others jerked to a halt, weapons raised.

"It's the Death Wind!" One of them shouted. The remaining three drew swords and put their backs together. Law couldn't risk shooting until she knew where Bare Snow was.

St. John's church bells started to ring in midnight. They were seconds to Shutdown. Pittsburgh would return to Earth that had no magic. Bare Snow's invisibility spell would fail; she was about to become visible. The female elf probably didn't even know what the ringing bells meant.

Law shouldered the rifle and trained it on the males as she counted the chimes of the bell. One. Two. At twelve, she'd be able to fire.

Three. Four. Five.

It nearly seemed like time stopped as the bell rang. The swordsmen stood tense, waiting, knowing what would happen next. Their calmness infuriated Law. They had planned to murder Windwolf—perhaps already succeeded—and had lured Bare Snow halfway around the world to pin the killing on her. They were going to stand there as time ran out until Bare Snow was left helpless. They knew they had all the time in the world.

Six. Seven. Eight.

Somewhere toward the airport, someone was setting off fireworks. The distant thunder of the explosives was rolling up the river valley.

Nine.

The dogs howled a block away. Windwolf hadn't made the Rim. A maze of a large junkyard was between him and the McKees Rocks Bridge.

Ten.

One of the swordsmen suddenly fell as his legs had been swept out from under him. The other two leapt to defend him, furiously hacking at thin air. Law saw the distortion of air that was Bare Snow. The female was lying on the ground. Had she been hit by a sword? Law pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the tallest male in the chest.

A moment later, the other two were on the ground, bleeding, possibly dead from Bare Snow's knives.

Which was a good thing as Law's vision started to blur at the edges from blood loss.

Brisbane waddled over to her, sniffed at the blood dripping on the ground and then stood on his back legs to press his front paws against her hip.

"It's okay, Brizzy." She leaned against the SUV. "Bad guys all dead. I'm going to fall down now." She slid down the side of the Explorer to sit hard on the ground.

Next thing she knew, Bare Snow was kneeling beside her, talking to her about something while bandaging Law's arm. She struggled to pinpoint something very important that they should be doing.

"Windwolf!" Law cried when she remembered. "You should go, find him, and make sure he's okay."

Bare Snow pulled her to her feet. "I will go once you're not out in the open, where you can be easily found. You've lost a lot of blood and there is no magic for a healing spell. You're going into shock. You need to lie down and be warm."

Being in shock was kind of like being drunk but not as pleasant. There was a time of dark non-remembering and then she was lying on a floor in a dark building with no idea where and how she gotten there. At least she didn't need to vomit.

The gray of predawn was filtering through a massive multi-paned window. Brisbane crouched at her feet, muttering happily as he ate something yummy. By scent, Law guessed it was the saenori fruit from the Explorer.

As she sat up, Bare Snow ghosted out of the darkness. She was wearing the blue sundress and cowboy boots, looking too beautiful for words.

"Law! You're awake. Oh good, I was so worried."

"What happened with Windwolf?"

"He was wounded by the dogs, but he was saved by a very brave and clever young female. She's a Wood Sprite; they are very moral and resourceful."

Law scanned the auditorium-sized filthy, empty room and realized that they were in one of the empty factory buildings in the Bottoms. They were probably less than a hundred feet from where the fight taken place. Who the hell did Windwolf stumble into out in this desolated area? "You spoke with her?"

"Oh no! I was careful to keep out of sight. I kept watch until I was sure she was taking good care of him. Much better than anyone else could since we're on Earth. She lives in this little metal house with broken automobiles all stacked on top of each other."

She meant the junkyard. Now that Law thought hard, she remembered that the owner was a young woman and her older brother or cousin or something. They were said to be eccentric but good, honest people. In Law's book, eccentric was a good thing.

Bare Snow settled beside Law with a squeal. "Oh, it was wonderful! I wish you could have seen it." She clasped her hands over her heart and sighed deeply. "You should see the way that he looks at her. He sees her—all of her—and accepts her as she is. He's falling in love; I am sure of it. I wonder if he will ask her to be his domi. Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

It did sound wonderful. To be accepted as she was instead of pressured to change until she was a reflection of someone else's idea of right. Only that reflection wouldn't be her. Law would have been erased. There would be some empty shell of a person in her place.

"We can go home now?" Bare Snow whispered.

"What about those men? Those males." Elf males weren't men; assuming that all Brousseau's people were ancient elves like himself. "The ones we killed. Are they still lying out on the road?"

"I disposed of the bodies," Bare Snow whispered even softer.

"Oh." Law waited for the guilty feeling to set in and it didn't. The bastards were out for blood; they deserved it. "Good."

"So," Bare Snow barely spoke. Her hands were clenched into tight fists. "Can we go home now?"

Home. Together. Law's mind jumped to naughty thoughts and she blushed. A heartbeat later, Law realized why Bare Snow was so quiet. The female was really asking Law if she could move in with her. As much as Law felt she was alone in the world, it was nothing compared to Bare Snow's isolation. The elf was utterly and completely alone. Worse, she had bared all her secrets to Law. The tattoos. Her magical knives. Her assassin training. Everything her name hinted at. The name that made every elf that heard it turn her away. The name that made Bare Snow's grandparents disown her.

And the poor kid was afraid that now Law knew everything, that she would turn Bare Snow away too.

Law reached out for Bare Snow's hand. Part of her felt like she should warn the female about the barn and the Tarzan swing and the roof that leaked like a sieve and the winters in the cave-like milk house. But really, the ugliest, scariest part of Law's life was her inner avenging angel that liked to track down men and beat the snot out of them. Bare Snow met her and wasn't frightened by her. Crazy Lady might have randomly dialed phone numbers until Law answered, but she'd found two soul mates.

Besides, Law was fairly sure that Bare Snow was going to love the Tarzan swing.

"Yeah. We can go home."

Bait and Switch

by Ryk E. Spoor

Chapter 1: Decked in the Halls

"I should've made the front door bigger," I grunted as I tried gently bending a few of the tree's branches while still trying to support it. In gratitude for my care, one of the branches whipped out of my grasp and smacked me in the face, leaving a stinging sensation and a smell of pine.

"I told you to carry it around back," Syl said in her most reasonable tone, "where the double doors are, but you insisted we could get it through the front door. And so now we have to."

I chuckled, even as I tried for a better grip on the trunk. "Yeah, Syl, you were right. As usual. But now we're ... stuck with my choice, I guess we could say."

She snorted at the pun, and shoved hard from her side; I was on the inside, holding the heavier end of the Christmas tree and pulling.

The tree suddenly gave up the fight, which almost caused me to end up on the floor under it. I'm still not quite sure how I managed to stay up, but somehow I did, as Syl came leaping over the threshold — not at all off-balance, as though she'd anticipated that event. Which, given her peculiar talent, she probably had.

Now that we were inside, it only took a few minutes to lug the tree to the living room, where I'd already set up the tree stand and the green blanket which would catch most of the needles that the tree would, inevitably, try to shed all over the room. I got it set in the stand and stood back to admire it. Syl came up next to me; I slid an arm around her slender waist and hugged her close. "Does look pretty, doesn't it?"

"And it'll be even prettier after we decorate it," she agreed. "But that's something for tomorrow. I'm exhausted after fighting that thing."

"Me too. But it's worth it, for our first Christmas in our own house."

We'd been married a little more than a year now, but our first married Christmas had been spent at Verne's, as our house was still being built then. It was a bit odd to spend Christmas at the house of a half-million year old priest of a nature goddess, but Verne was nothing if not adaptable; the traditions of any civilization were something he could accept if they didn't somehow violate one of his basic beliefs.

"You've invited Verne already, right?"

"Verne, Jeri Winthrope since she's got no family in the area, Raikafan and his family, any of Verne's household who want to come — I especially invited Hitoshi because that way he can have someone else cook for him for a change — the Plunketts, your parents, and my parents." Seeing my eyebrows climbing, she grinned. "Now, your parents and mine are almost certainly not coming; they're doing the snowbird vacation and celebrating Christmas in warmer climates. I think Raiakafan and family will be down in Washington with the Senator. I don't know if the Plunketts will come yet. I'm betting that it'll be Verne, Jeri, and some of Verne's people, like Morgan, Meta, Hitoshi, and Camillus."

"Still, a fair turnout for a first Christmas. But hey, I've got a big kitchen, time to really give it a workout, I guess. Now —"

The phone rang. I thought about letting it go to the answering machine, but then I saw Syl's face and ran to grab it. "Jason Wood."

"Sorry to call you this late, Jason," came the voice of Jeri Winthrope.

"Not just late, it's Saturday." Of course, Jeri — who was working for the local police as her undercover assignment to watch me and Morgantown for ISIS — didn't exactly get days off.

She also wouldn't call me like this if it wasn't important. "So what's up?"

"Murder's up," she answered. "But this isn't your garden-variety shooting. You know Hansen Guildermere?"

"How could I not?" I couldn't keep the half-fond, half-exasperated tone from my voice. "He's paid for six consults with me in the last six months, all of them very intense interviews to help him properly set up that Outward Outreach of his."

"Yeah, well, you won't have to worry about any more interviews. He's dead."

"What? Who the hell would want to kill that nice old guy? Even if he was a little nuts."

"Not who," she said grimly. "What. He was done in by a Werewolf."

That got my attention — for more than one reason. First, someone like Hansen had CryWolf sensors which should keep him from being ambushed by a Werewolf. But more importantly, I knew that no werewolf should be killing anyone here at all. The arrangement I'd made with Carruthers and, by tacit agreement, Virigar, should have seen to that. "Are you sure?"

"Damn sure, since the killer didn't get away. Old Guildermere had more up his sleeve than his arm."

Crap. I looked at Syl, who sighed and nodded. So much for a nice evening together, planning our Christmas. "All right, Jeri. Did this happen at his house?"

"No, in the Outward Outreach offices."

"I'll be there in ten minutes. Don't let anyone mess with anything until I get a look."

"Do my best. See you."

I hung up. "Sorry, Syl."

"It's all right, Jason." She had already gotten my coat back out. "This one will be ugly."

"Yeah, I already figured that. Jeri hasn't, I don't think."

It wasn't surprising; after all, Jeri and her whole organization were basically there to protect humanity.

But I'd gone and risked my reputation, and my life, to make sure it wasn't just humanity being protected.

And that meant that I wasn't going to the scene of one person's death. I was going to the scene of two people's deaths, and I was the only one who might possibly give a damn about the second.

This was going to suck.

Chapter 2: Scene of a Crime

"You know what to expect, right?" Jeri asked before letting me pass the yellow tape.

"Remember how we met. Yes, I know."

I steeled myself for the sight I knew was waiting for me inside, then walked past her into the entrance hall for Outward Outreach. A box had been set up just inside the door for people to take off their boots, which made sense; no need to be tracking mud and snow into the crime scene. I pulled on a pair of the provided hospital-slipper type replacements and moved on.

I'd been here twice before, so I surveyed the hallway with an eye to what might be different; aside from the police, I didn't see anything. The CryWolf sensor was in its usual place just outside the door. Remembering my encounter with the Werewolf calling herself "Angela McIntyre", I called over one of the techs. "I'd like to check that unit out, make sure it's functioning right. Okay?"

"Let me check." After verifying that any official tests and photos had been completed, he gave me the go-ahead.

That put off the inevitable viewing by a few minutes. I borrowed a stepstool from one of the other rooms, and opened the case. It didn't take too long to verify that this unit was functioning exactly as intended. Any Werewolf walking by this thing — except for the very few great elder Wolves — would glow with a pattern like a cobweb of fire, and set off a screaming alarm unless the owner had shut it off.

That's just plain weird. No one would spend thousands of dollars on a CryWolf unit just to turn it off, and the CryWolf devices were selective. There were a couple of things besides a Werewolf that might trigger them, but all of them were the kind of thing you didn't want getting close to you. So how the hell had this Wolf gotten close enough to poor Hansen Guildermere to kill him without setting off half a dozen alarms?

I considered, then rejected, the theory that it was one of the true Elders, like Carruthers, for two reasons. First and most importantly, the agreement to leave my town alone had been made in the name of Virigar, their King, and none of those Elders would be insane enough to break that agreement. Second, I seriously doubted any defense that Hansen could have had ready to go would stop one of those monsters.

And if they'd been using Angela's trick of being, well, the sort of person you wanted to meet discreetly, Hansen would never have known, nor had any chance to act.

On the other hand... "Outward Outreach" meant what it said. It wanted to "reach out" ... FAR out. To the nonhuman residents of the world. I had stressed multiple times to Hansen that Werewolves were NOT one of the groups he wanted to try to play with, and that by even starting this thing he was in danger. He had seemed to understand, especially after Angela's trial and conviction. But maybe he'd decided to take a chance that killed him.

Well, I've put it off as long as I can. I took another deep breath and stepped through the door. As I remembered, this led to a reception area, with Hansen Guildermere's office past that reception desk.

I shuddered as I finally got a good look into that office.

Splashes of crimson and red-brown sprayed high and wide all around the formerly white and aqua-painted room, radiating out from and pointing towards the grotesque figure sprawled in a huge office chair. My stomach tried to protest. Preparation doesn't help so much when you recognize the victim.

Hansen Guildermere was almost spread-eagled in his cushioned chair, but his face was nearly bisected by a single cut that was paralleled by three others lower down, sectioning him neatly into four pieces that barely retained enough connection to keep from falling apart, not counting the severed remains of one arm that had been in the way; the stench wasn't just from blood, but from the contents of his lower abdomen, too. Part of the desk had been carved away by what must have been the same stroke.

Contorted on the floor in front of the desk in a twisted pose that showed all too clearly how agonizing its death must have been was the Werewolf. The size of a grizzly bear, the monster would have topped eight feet if it had been standing, and even in death radiated menace from its coarse, shaggy-haired form with the glittering diamond teeth and claws.

"So, are we dealing with a Wolf that can get past the CryWolf sensors?" Jeri asked quietly. She'd come up from behind without my even noting her presence.

"I hope to God not. Either he somehow got in another way, or — for whatever reason — Hansen had the alarms off and the thing got close enough to kill him before he realized it. There was security footage, right?"

"Yeah, we're getting that now. We'll send it over to your offices tomorrow to the attention of your new office manager... um, Wendy, was it?"

"Wanda. Wanda Beers, and don't make any jokes about her name unless you can figure out one she won't have heard a thousand times before."

"You are the one I'd worry about making cheap jokes, Jason."

"Point. Anyway, yes, send it to Wanda. She's not just office manager, she's got the technical know-how to get things started. I'm also finally getting some other field people trained for ... the unusual stuff. I'll introduce you when they get past the basics."

"Good." She clapped me on the shoulder. "Glad to see that you're finally getting things under control over there. James suggested Wanda, right?"

"He did, and a good call that was."

She looked down at the massive furry corpse, covered with a shimmering dusting of silver. "Honestly, though, this looks pretty straightforward, aside from the mystery of the alarms. Wolf comes at man, man's last act is to hit the button, everyone dies."

"He had a special button for that?" I reconsidered my thoughts. "Of course he did. Now that I think of it, he was asking questions about proper defenses and communications. He's got a little control panel there, hasn't he?"

"Not all that little. Take a look, just don't touch."

"I never do."

Sure enough, there was a fairly impressive set of controls inset under the desk, where Hansen could reach them easily yet have them completely out of sight of other people. Most of this was taken up with pretty mundane controls — lighting, environmental, presentations (open up the screen, activate and control a presentation, etc.), and so on — but there were a few clearly meant for dealing with situations your normal community outreach person never had to consider. The silver dispenser was clearly labeled, well separated from all others, bright red, and twice as big as any other button.

I examined the actual dispenser setup. "Thought so. Top of the line from Shadowgard, under cooperative license from me. Pressurized liquid with silver suspension, high-pressure delivery, clean and fast. Obviously worked as intended."

"You see any problems, other than the question of how he got in?"

I frowned.

As I hesitated, I could see Jeri's expression darken. "There aren't any problems... are there?"

Finally, with a sigh, I shrugged. "I wish I could say no, Jeri, but this whole setup stinks. I can't put my finger on all of the details, but I tell you, there's something I'm missing here. Maybe the security tapes will tell me something.

"But you know the real problem as well as I do: this shouldn't have happened, and the fact that it did? That's got me worried. And if I'm worried — you should be worried."

Chapter 3. Images of Fear

I shook my head and closed the book. "Argh."

Syl, who was reading her own book next to me in our king-sized bed, looked up. "Problem?"

"Can't concentrate." I felt foggy-headed and couldn't even put my finger on what was bothering me, but I hadn't even been able to focus on what the book was about. "Sometimes I wish I could just forget about all the stuff I know, not have to deal with it."

"Well," she said, turning towards me, "I think there's a way you'll never have to deal with it again."

Syl's eyes glowed a monstrous yellow as her form began to expand, shaggy black-brown hair forming, the face shifting to a predator's with a mouth of crystal teeth...

I sat up in bed with a scream still echoing in my ears; Syl catapulted out of bed, not even fully awake but still grabbing for her gun in its nearby safe. Then she looked up in the moonlight, and her face softened.

"Nightmare?"

I nodded, not able to speak yet. I reached out and took her hand, and stared into her eyes, assuring myself there wasn't a trace of yellow. I was tempted to find my CryWolf glasses... but I knew better. If that dream ever became reality, that would be Virigar himself, and my gadgets would be useless.

She embraced me and we sat there quietly for a few minutes, which my breathing slowed and I stopped shaking. Finally, she said, "Virigar?"

"Yeah. Like always." I hadn't had nightmares much until I started getting involved in the bizarre, and even after I watched Elias Klein fry I only had a couple. But the King of Wolves... he provided prime nightmare material, and every time I thought the dreams were going away, something came along to trigger them again.

I got up, turned on the lights, found my glass of water and drained it. "Has to have been the Werewolf body I was looking at earlier. That close up... they still give me the creeps even dead."

She looked at me sympathetically, black hair tumbling over tanned shoulders, framing her face in night. "And that's the first of what may be several weeks, if I remember the other times right."

"Maybe it's just a one-time nightmare." I didn't find my tone very convincing.

Neither did Syl. She stood up, a decisive look on her face. "Well, we're going to put a stop to this. After all, this is the kind of thing he wants you to go through. It's one of his victories."

"You have a spell or something for bad dreams?"

She shook her head. "That's not a good idea, Jason. Messing with the way someone thinks, even in their dreams, that's a really delicate operation. Verne can do it, but he's got half a million years of experience behind him — and I really don't think he'd approve of using that power just to stop nightmares.

"No, we're going to beat these nightmares with mundanity. I'm going to teach you lucid dreaming, and eventually you'll take control of the dreams instead of letting them control you."

I remembered the last time the nightmares had come — after Virigar had appeared in a private jet at thirty thousand feet, to both congratulate and terrorize me after the trial of Angela McIntyre AKA Tanmorrai. I'd ended up running without sleep four nights out of five. "Can you teach that? I never know I'm dreaming."

"Most people can learn," she said confidently. "I've been doing it most of my life, and I've taught other people. I'm sure you can learn, at least enough to know you're in a dream and shift it out of nightmare."

I nodded. "Okay. But we'll start on that tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

I thought for a moment; I could feel the terror still receding, being replaced by an exhausted calm. "Yeah. I'll be able to sleep now. Not sure why, but I'm sure."

She gave me a concerned look, but then nodded. "Yes, I guess you will."

I was glad to hear her confirm it, but I was still puzzled by why. It was as I was actually drifting off to sleep that I understood.

The nightmare had been as much a warning of my subconscious as it was the triggered fear. I knew there was something wrong, and if I screwed this case up, the King of Wolves would feel that my time had come.

But at the same time, I also knew I was trying to solve this case, and that meant that — at least for a while — I had nothing to fear from Virigar.

With that understanding, I let myself drift off, and found no nightmares waiting.

Chapter 4: Almost Answers

"What the heck?"

Jeri was up from the chair where she'd been drinking coffee and filling out forms she'd brought with her to my office, where we were both going over the video from Outward Outreach. "What?"

"I was fast-forwarding through the recordings and suddenly Hansen just appeared in the chair — nothing on the hallway cams."

"Oh." She chuckled. "Go back and watch. He had a back door."

Sure enough, a section of wall I thought was fancy paneling opened up and Hansen came through it, placed a briefcase on his huge desk, and sat down.

"Makes sense. Outward Outreach sometimes had uncomfortable publicity, so he had a way of coming and going that wasn't obvious." Hansen pulled something out of his case and inserted it into a computer slot underneath the desk. "What was that?"

"Presentation. He had a whole presentation made for this guy, who was going by the name of Cheney Lugosi."

I snorted. "The Wolves sometimes have low senses of humor. I'll have to look at that presentation, but I doubt it has any bearing on it, unless he was showing him some particular slide that somehow ticked him off."

I fast-forwarded until I saw a flicker of movement in the hallway. "There's our not-man."

"Cheney Lugosi" had chosen a very unprepossessing form — probably deliberately to undermine any fears on the part of Hansen or anyone else he might encounter. He wasn't much over five feet tall and skinny; his forlorn, somewhat beaky face gave me a twinge, because it reminded me somehow of Elias Klein, or maybe of a small Ichabod Crane.

The shimmering network of light visible in the CryWolf sensor layer, however, showed that this was indeed a Great Werewolf.

"Shame there's no sound," Jeri said as the disguised werewolf entered Hansen's office and exchanged silent greetings with the activist.

"Hansen mentioned to me that he wanted to control when actual speech was being recorded, so that's a separate system."

"I know; unfortunately he hadn't turned that one on — we checked."

Still, even without sound, everything seemed fairly clear; Hansen offered his newcomer coffee or tea, Cheney accepted a cup of coffee, and Hansen returned to his own seat.

"See that?" I asked Jeri.

"He was cautious with the silverware. And he sniffed the coffee first."

"Yeah. He's tense as hell." That made sense. Technically he was not violating the agreement I had with the other Wolves, at least so far — he wasn't hurting anyone in Morgantown — but he must know he was trampling on the spirit of the agreement. Plus if he was meeting with a human for a genuine attempt at peacemaking, he was potentially putting himself at odds with Virigar himself.

The two talked for a few moments, Hansen showing some signs of nervousness at first but quickly easing into his more natural and winning smiles. Then Hansen looked down.

As quickly as that, everything changed. A screen started to lower from the ceiling and at the exact same moment Cheney Lugosi's face contorted and his form shifted, lunging in that moment across the desk. Hansen's head whipped up and he made a pathetic attempt to escape, shoving the rolling office chair backwards a few inches before the huge talons ripped through the desk, his upflung arm, part of the chair, and chopped him into pieces; even as that happened, though, the werewolf pulled back, parts of the black-brown fur smoking, and collapsed in agonized convulsions which lasted a few seconds before all living movement in the room ceased.

But in a macabre twist, not all movement ceased. The screen quietly finished extending and the first slide shone out: "Werewolf-Human Relations: Building a Bridge."

"Well," Jeri said, "that looks pretty straightforward. Hansen was either watching him or not in good strike range before; when he looked down to turn on the projector setup, Cheney took his chance."

I frowned. "Maybe. But really, you've seen these things enough, Jeri, and you saw how fast that transformation was. There isn't anywhere in that office Hansen wasn't in strike range if Cheney wanted him dead. That looked to me like something triggered the strike."

Jeri grimaced. I couldn't blame her; the desire to just shove all the blame onto the Wolf and close the case was strong, and perfectly justifiable; we knew that no Werewolf we'd ever encountered gave a damn about any people other than their own. But she knew as well as I did why I'd fought to defend Angela McIntyre from an undeserved charge of murder. "Yeah, it does. But... look how nervous he is. He's really on edge. So his host does something he doesn't expect and suddenly things start moving..."

I rewound and watched again. "Yeah, that timing fits. Fits real well. I would've thought that a Great Wolf would be more controlled than that, though. Still, they aren't as a group terribly bright, and he might have been a young one. Probably was. Still..." There was an obvious question that the video left hanging, and unfortunately the angle didn't let me see exactly what Hansen was doing under the desk.

"Yeah. That."

"Have you checked that panel out?"

"Yep. In perfect condition, works exactly as it was designed. I had people pull the control module itself and test it in the lab."

"Okay. Then my guess is that Hansen got lucky; since his hands were already on the panel when it all went south, he pushed the panic button as he shoved away from the desk."

"Fits."

The two of us sat there looking at the monitor in silence for a few minutes.

Finally Jeri cursed and stood up. "You're not buying this, are you?"

"Are you?"

She grimaced. "I want to. I really do. It fits. I think I could make it stick in court. It'd wrap the whole case up neatly." She paused. "And it stinks to high heaven."

"Yeah." A glimmering of an idea was starting to materialize in my mind. "And that means that we're back to the classics: motive, means, and opportunity."

Jeri nodded. "And there's one doozy of a motive."

"Let me guess: Hansen Guildermere left everything he had to Outward Outreach, cutting out his family and friends."

"I'm not sure if that shows you're too cynical or too idealistic for this business, but... almost dead-on. There were some minor bequests, but the vast majority of his estate went to Outward Outreach and established a pretty impartial board of directors; it'd be hard to ride it as a gravy train."

"Are we talking about enough to kill over?"

"Wood, I've seen people killed over pocket change. But in the way you mean? Hell yes. Hansen Guildermere was worth about seven hundred and fifty million dollars."

Chapter 5. Family and Friends

"I knew something like this would happen," Vernon Guildermere said heavily. "I just knew it."

Vernon's sister Meredith nodded. "We tried to tell him this was a crazy idea, Mr. Wood. We all did."

We were all seated in one of the conference rooms at Morgantown police headquarters; Jeri and her people had done their own questioning earlier, but had let everyone involved know that I was directly attached to the investigation.  I studied the four people in the room with me: Vernon, Meredith, Adam Brown (the CFO for Outward Outreach), and Felicia Santos, Guildermere's executive assistant who had been rather obviously personally involved with Hansen Guildermere as well as professionally.

"All," I repeated. "Does that mean all four of you, or some other 'all'?"

"I didn't try to tell him he was crazy," Felicia said, black eyes swollen from earlier tears; even her well-applied makeup couldn't entirely hide the signs. "Hansen wanted to bring us together, not keep us separate and afraid. That's not crazy."

Vernon's blade-sharp face winced. "Okay. Sorry, Fel; not crazy, but... risky. And he insisted on everything being done his way. Meeting that... thing by himself? That really does push toward crazy, to me."

"But you all helped him with Outward Outreach in various ways, right?"

Adam spoke up; he had a smooth, warm voice which seemed more suited to someone heading up a political party than the guy in charge of money matters. "As Vernon says, he insisted on doing things his way. As his friends, relatives, and, in the case of Felicia and myself, colleagues, we had little choice. Better to work with him than against him."

"How were Outward Outreach's finances?"

Adam gave a wry smile. "From a business standpoint? Hideous. From an operating standpoint? Just fine. Understand, Hansen didn't expect Outward Outreach to make money. It was incorporated as a nonprofit institution, and while one can make money under such an incorporation, under certain circumstances, it was never Hansen's expectation that Outward Outreach would do so, or even that it would reach break-even status in his lifetime. He had found a mission and intended to dedicate himself to that mission, and making money was not a part of that dedication."

"So Hansen was Outward Outreach's sole source of support?"

"Not at all, although it is undeniable that he was by far the largest source of support. There are many contributors to Outward Outreach on individual or subscription bases, and many other sources of material or monetary support."

"But Hansen's contribution was large?"

"Very large. I am not at liberty to be more specific than that."

"What's the point of all this?" Meredith demanded. "Hansen was killed by one of those werewolf monsters, and it was invited in by Hansen himself." She suddenly looked worried. "Unless... this is over his insurance?"

"Insurance?"

Vernon looked puzzled, while Felicia gave a tiny, almost unnoticeable start.

"Hansen had a couple of large life-insurance policies taken out on him, one of them just a couple of years ago," Meredith said. "I thought perhaps the insurance companies might be thinking it was suicide."

That was a wrinkle I hadn't thought about before. "Who are the beneficiaries of these policies?"

"I... I am," Felicia said reluctantly. "For one, anyway."

"And Vernon and I, for the second," Meredith said.

Insurance policies wouldn't be connected to his will, I thought. If they have specific beneficiaries on the policy, his will couldn't take that away.

I decided not to pursue this just now; I had all the info I needed on that front for the moment. "Looking at the publicity, I'd guess Outward Outreach isn't doing well now."

Vernon shook his head. "Well, Adam would know the details, but no. Lots of cancelled subscriptions, withdrawn support. Hansen was the heart of the operation. We didn't have anyone even proposed as a backup; we thought he'd be with us for another twenty years." He looked gloomily down. "I should've found better defenses for his office. Thought I'd gotten the best."

"Shadowgard's are the best," I said. "Well, there might be military ones that are better, but the way Hansen was going about it, there really wasn't much more that could have been done. So you selected his defenses?"

"Not just the defenses; the whole automated office layout and things like that. It's what I do, you know."

I did know that; Vernon ran an office automation and security firm, one he'd built up himself from a computer and electronics servicing business run from his basement. Made sense that his brother had hired him for the work. "And from my quick glance around, you did a good job, down to the modular control panel for the office functions. You designed that layout?"

"The buttons? Yeah, that was mine. I guess it worked well enough. At least he managed to get the monster."

"What if it did break down? How easy would it be to repair?"

"Easy," Vernon said. "Like you said, modular. Any part of the systems, including the Shadowgard nozzles and tanks, could be pulled out and replaced in minutes. But it all worked, right?" He looked suddenly apprehensive. "Right? There wasn't any sign that someone... messed with any of it, was there?"

I couldn't blame him for looking nervous; if anything had gone wrong, who'd be the primary suspect? "No, Mr. Guildermere, nothing wrong. It all seemed to have worked exactly as it was supposed to."

"Oh. Whew." He relaxed. I noticed Felicia also leaning back, as though she'd tensed up herself. Hmm. That's interesting.

Adam spoke up, with a slight furrow in his brow. "I notice, Mr. Wood, that you have not exactly answered Meredith's question. This is a terrible misadventure but it would seem that the facts are clear enough. I've granted you this time in the interests of cooperation with the police, who say you are a consultant, but I must confess that I don't see the point of this interview."

"This is a murder investigation, Mr. Brown." As the others blinked or opened their mouths, I raised my hand. "As the Werewolf Trial established, werewolves are accorded the status of people. Thus, Mr. Lugosi's killing of Hansen makes this a murder, and Lugosi's own death in apparent self-defense requires investigation as well. The police and I are following all the required due process. It would be easier to just say that a monster killed him and he killed the monster and it's all over, but that would be treating the whole situation casually and unprofessionally."

"Oh," said Meredith. "I... I hadn't thought of it that way. But you're right, of course."

Felicia nodded. "It's the way Hansen would want it handled, too." She looked on the brink of tears again at the thought of Hansen.

"But I understand Mr. Brown's underlying objection, and I think we're done for now. If I have any more questions I'll contact you."

The four left with various farewells. I observed from the window as they went to their cars.

The conference room door opened. "Anything interesting?" asked Jeri.

"A few... what was it Sherlock Holmes said? A few suggestive facts, but nothing conclusive. I've got a few things you can research for me that might give me what we need — plus some analysis that's just up my alley." I listed them off, and Jeri nodded.

"That shouldn't take too long." She looked out the window. "What did you see?"

"Felicia Santos didn't drive herself here," I said thoughtfully. "She came here — and left — in the company of Vernon Guildermere."

Chapter 6: Night Before Christmas

"Mmmmm," Syl said, leaning over the smoker. "That smells wonderful, Jason."

I lifted the lid to take a look. The ham was looking a lovely deep red-brown from the smoke and the glaze I'd applied. "It does. Then tonight I put in the turkey."

"Ready for Christmas, then?"

"I guess." I closed the smoker. "Verne won't be eating any of this, but the Plunketts plus a large chunk of Verne's household will."

She put a hand on my arm. "You're still tense, Jason. That case —"

"—will be resolved tomorrow, I think."

"You don't look happy."

I rolled my eyes, then sighed. "No. No, I'm not, if things play out the way I think they will. This was a trainwreck any way I look at it, and it'll be worse by the time it's over, I think."

"It's not your responsibility to worry about that part, Jason." Her voice was emphatic. "Did you figure out what really happened?"

"I think so. I just need to check one more thing... which should be about ready."

Syl followed me into my study, where I had a computer with a secure mirrored connection to my work machines. I brought up the screen from the image analysis package.

"That's part of the footage from the attack," Syl said. "I thought you'd already looked that over."

"Visually, yes. But there are things that don't show easily to the naked eye, even on replay, but a machine can see things that we don't." I looked at the current frame, and already my trained eye could see the difference. "And this is one of those things."

"You mean the screen? But you could see that before."

"Not the screen. Over next to it. Here, and here."

Sylvie squinted, then closed her eyes. "Oh. Oh, dear. There isn't any good explanation for that, I suppose."

"None." I pulled out my phone, hit a well-known number.

After one ring it was answered. "Winthrope here."

"Jeri, it's a go. I'll need them all at my office tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow? But that's —"

"I don't want this hanging over me or anyone else any longer. Tomorrow at ten in the morning."

Jeri sighed. "Merry Christmas to us both."

"Yeah."

Syl didn't say anything as we went back out and set up our Christmas Eve dinner. But her not saying anything meant more to me than anything anyone else could say; she was simply there for me, and that slowly made me able to smile at her again, halfway through the meal. She smiled back, and while I still wasn't looking forward to tomorrow morning, I could suddenly taste my food again.

After dinner we cleaned up, I took out the ham and put the turkey in to smoke overnight. "Ready to hang the stockings?"

She giggled. "Is this silly or what? We're grown people and neither of us Christians, and we're making sure to hang up stockings so a jolly fat man will come down the chimney and stuff them if we've been good."

"My family had the same tradition. I promise not to try to sneak a peek at 'Santa' if you do."

"We'll take turns not peeking, then." She kissed me, and we went upstairs — with each of us going downstairs once more, of course.

Finally I got ready for bed. "This doesn't seem to be working."

"Give it time," Syl said. "Most people don't lucid dream at all. It takes practice."

"But that's sorta what I mean. It can't be that simple — just thinking 'I will control my dreams' — or everyone would do it, right?"

"Will most people focus on that thought, and only on that thought or related ones, for at least half an hour before going to sleep, every night, for weeks? That takes motivation, Jasie. I promise you, this will work, if you stick with it."

"I wish it'd work tonight. I really don't want to spend Christmas half awake," I said as I settled back into the cushions. But I knew she was right; Syl usually was. Nothing worth doing was easy to learn. So I took a deep breath, let it out, and focused. These are MY dreams. They are a creation of MY mind. I am the one dreaming, and so I can control these dreams. They have no power over me; I have power over them. These are MY dreams...

Chapter 7: Denouement

I stepped out of my back office and into the larger meeting room. Everyone was there — Jeri Winthrope with two deputies, Vernon Guildermere, Meredith Guildermere, Adam Brown, and Felicia Santos. In addition, there were two other people — one man and one woman — who I didn't know, but I could guess just from the suits and the body language what they were. Someone's ready to lawyer up. Good for them.

"Thank you all for coming," I said as I entered. "My apologies for interrupting your Christmas; I'm interrupting mine, too, so I'll try to make this brief. I see we have some new faces at this meeting."

"This is Dan Mason and I am Peri Crane, of Webster, Crane, and Mason, Mr. Wood," said the woman, rising and shaking my hand. Her grip was steady as her gaze.

"One of our best local firms; I know it well," I said. "Pleased to meet you, Ms. Crane, Mr. Mason," I shook Mason's hand in turn.

"Our pleasure," Dan said. "We're here as retained counsel for Vernon Guildermere, Meredith Guildermere, Felicia Santos, and Adam Brown, in case legal advice becomes necessary."

"Understood." I wondered who'd called them, and who was footing the bill. Well, it wasn't going to matter much.

"Now, can you tell us why you've had us dragged here on Christmas morning?" Vernon Guildermere's tone was, understandably, a lot less tolerant than it had been in our prior meeting.

"Dragged? I'm quite sure none of you were forced to come here, and in fact that would be criminal, since none of you are charged with anything," I said. "But yes, now I will tell you why you were asked to come here at this time."

I sat down and glanced around the meeting table. "Hansen Guildermere was a wonderful, if possibly somewhat overeager and naïve, old man who had a dream: to unite, not just humanity, but all the thinking, living beings on Earth. To do that, he founded Outward Outreach, opening branches not just here but in a dozen cities across America, with plans to expand beyond our borders soon. He consulted with me on these ideas many times, to the point that I feel somewhat responsible for what happened to him — even if I did warn him multiple times that the Werewolves were not candidates for his outreach plans.

"Some of his work was already bearing fruit; he had had communication from... several non-human persons who were attempting to verify his good will. This was vastly encouraging to him, to the point that he believed that he was truly on the right track — enough to commit himself totally to this work."

"We know all of this," Felicia snapped. "Well, except maybe your guilty feelings, but —"

"Please, Ms. Santos, let me do this my own way. I have my own reasons." She settled back slowly. "Thank you."

"At first glance, this situation seemed straightforward, if tragic: Hansen somehow got in contact with a real Werewolf, using the alias of Cheney Lugosi, who pretended to be willing to talk. Said Werewolf then got himself killed while assassinating Hansen.

"Unfortunately, I had reason to know that it was not that simple."

Peri Crane raised her hand slightly. "Could you explain that, Mr. Wood?"

"There are details I will not tell you at this time, Ms. Crane, but in short, I know for a fact that no Werewolf would ever come to Morgantown to commit a murder, no matter the provocation. After the defeat of their King, Virigar, this town is completely off-limits to them. This Wolf was already skirting the spirit of that ban by being here."

"Oh," said Felicia suddenly.

"Exactly, Ms. Santos. If we accept that the Wolves take such a ban seriously — and they do, I assure you — then this Cheney Lugosi was at worst here to simply amuse himself listening to a foolish idealist's words and lead him on for a bit, and at best sincerely hoped to find a way that he, at least, could truly live in peace with our people.

"But that meant that Cheney had no intention of killing or even injuring Hansen Guildermere when he entered that room.

Felicia's face showed she was near tears again. The discussion couldn't be easy for her, but she did not make a sound.

"The second theory was that the Werewolf, Cheney, was extremely nervous, on a hair trigger — as well he might be in that situation — and when Hansen did something to startle him by unexpectedly causing the screen to lower from the ceiling, Cheney instinctively struck out."

"This was superficially supported by the video footage, and honestly, we would have liked to leave it at that. But we couldn't."

"Why not?" Vernon Guildermere asked. His tones had moderated somewhat, and had a wary note to them.

"Because werewolves — as I risked my life to prove — are people, with exactly the same rights as we have. I could not ignore the possibility that Cheney Lugosi and Hansen Guildermere were both victims," I said.

"And that video footage raised its own questions. I've watched that clip a couple dozen times, and I honestly can't really see when and how Hansen could have activated the Shadowgard defenses. That would have required him to recognize that Cheney was attacking, understand the danger he was in, and then react by pressing the deployment button — all in the few instants available — and then push himself away from the desk, trying to escape.

"I can barely envision it as a sort of accident, in which he happens to hit the big red button as he's pushing backwards, but his hands didn't look like they were in the right position; they look much more like he was already raising them, for defense or protest."

"But... well, he did activate them," Meredith said, puzzled. "Obviously, or that thing wouldn't have died. So what does it matter?"

I nodded. "Yes, that was the question. Did it matter at all? Whatever the trigger, the Werewolf had attacked, Hansen defended himself, both died. A tragic accident in one way or another.

"But what if it wasn't an accident at all?"

Adam Brown slowly turned to face me more fully. "You can't be serious."

"I am very serious. In point of fact, nothing that happened in that office was an accident. It was a very carefully planned murder — a murder of the werewolf calling itself Cheney Lugosi. Hansen's death wasn't necessary, but for the purposes of this crime it was certainly a bonus."

"What?" Meredith was half on her feet. "What purposes? How could that be a murder? I... explain, Mr. Wood!"

"The first and most obvious motive is money," Jeri Winthrope said. "Hansen Guildermere was worth three-quarters of a billion dollars, but he was planning on dumping virtually all of it into Outward Outreach. Since he had no children of his own, it is the people in this room who could be expected to be the biggest losers in that instance — his brother, his sister, his fiancée and right-hand woman, and close friend as well as Chief Financial Officer of Outward Outreach."

"Exactly," I said. "His will had several conditions in it, but the most interesting here is that while he left everything to Outward Outreach, the ownership — though not control — of Outward Outreach was divided among those same heirs. Which meant that if Outward Outreach failed and was liquidated, the assets would be divided among those four people."

I looked around; the four in question were frozen in silence, while the lawyers were visibly tensed to jump in as soon as I made anything approaching an accusation.

"Hundreds of millions of dollars; motive enough. Plus, as mentioned at our first meeting, even if Outward Outreach itself continued onward, there were very substantial insurance policies that would pay out upon Hansen's death. But of course, none of that mattered if this was just an accident. Yes, this event might well be a deathblow to Outward Outreach — Hansen was its heart and soul, and this spectacularly lethal failure in judgment would hurt the cause directly as well — but the question was how this could be a murder, and not an accident."

I gestured with my remote control and the lights dimmed slightly. A screen at the end of the conference room lit up with the scene of Hansen's office, with the human Cheney Lugosi sitting across from Hansen. I let the clip run, but stopped it just before the blood started. The others gasped or winced even so; seeing a Werewolf transform and lunge at an old friend couldn't be pleasant.

"It is clear from this that as soon as the projection screen starts to descend, Cheney transforms and attacks. How, then, could this be an assassination of Cheney? Simple. There is and was already one weapon ready-made for that assassination in the room: the Shadowgard silver spray defense. If Hansen had triggered that at the same time as the screen deployment, it would have been seen as a direct attack on Cheney, who transformed in a last-minute attempt to defend himself or at least get revenge on his killer."

"Hansen... you're saying Hansen attacked the werewolf first?" Meredith said in disbelief. "But no, Hansen would never have ... unless it was an accident? He hit both buttons instead of just one?"

I shook my head. "No. The two were well separated. It wouldn't be possible to trigger them together by accident."

"But you can't tell one way or the other," Vernon said.

"I don't see anything except that screen moving," agreed a pale-faced Felicia.

"No. Things like sprays or rain actually often don't show up at all on cameras, partly from their preferred wavelength filters and partly just because of the effect of the high-speed image acquisition; try taking pictures of rain sometime, you'll find it's harder than you think to make it look anything like your eyes think it looks." I gave a brief grin. "But machines can see things that aren't obvious to us."

The clip ran again, strangely brighter in places, darker in others. The two men spoke, Hansen's head bent down...

... and as the screen began to descend, faint, ghostly jets of grayish fog, barely visible, shot from multiple points on the wall, converging on Cheney, whose face contorted in what could now be recognized as horror and agony just before the transformation began.

"My... my god," Vernon said slowly. "So... so you're saying Hansen did do it. Why? Was he... committing suicide?"

"That was the reason Meredith thought of insurance, of course," I said. "If Hansen had somehow deliberately triggered this event, it could be reasonably ruled suicide, and that would nullify the insurance policy — as he had taken the policy out recently, when he founded Outward Outreach, and thus the anti-suicide provisions were still in force. But the police found one piece of evidence that points in the direction of murder."

Jeri rose. "There were a number of fingerprints on the panel, including the most recent ones on the screen deployment and the Shadowgard defense. However, the prints on both of those buttons were of Hansen Guildermere's index finger."

The room was silent a moment, the others looking puzzled — or at least one, I was sure, faking it and sweating hard. Then Meredith's eyes narrowed. "But we just saw that the screen deployed exactly at the same time as the silver."

"Exactly," Jeri said. "And that would have required him to press both buttons simultaneously; given the spacing and size of Hansen's hands, that would only be possible by using the index finger to activate the presentation and the pinky finger to press the Shadowgard activation; in addition, watching his movements in the camera does not show a swift movement of his arm which would accompany pressing one button and then the other very quickly. The fact that the fingerprints do not match this position, therefore shows that either he did not do that, or that he did and some unknown person wiped the original fingerprints away, replacing them with the ones we found."

Then Adam said, "But... Mr. Wood, Hansen wouldn't have done it. I am sure of that. Yet we can see that the silver was deployed. Could it have been an accident? A short circuit in the system that activated both at once?"

"Our technicians checked it out carefully," Jeri said. "It was in perfect working order."

"So there was another mystery: how was it possible that the silver had been deployed at all? There was no one else in that room. There was no remote access to those systems — that, too, was checked out. The system itself is in perfect condition, and there's never been a report of a Shadowgard system deploying like that on its own."

Dan Mason looked at me narrowly. "And you have an explanation for this?"

"Oh, I certainly do. The key is the fact that the whole system — including that control panel — is modular, easily replaced. It turns out that the control panel itself can be removed by a simple turn of a setscrew and a turn-and-pull action.

"This made it easy for the murderer to set up the entire thing. They knew that Hansen had an appointment to meet a werewolf well ahead of time — more than enough time to modify one of the replacement control modules so that a single press of the presentation button would trigger both screen deployment and Shadowgard silver spray; the modification itself wasn't very difficult, even for someone with moderate skill, as long as they knew how the module worked. Then, the evening of the murder, the murderer substituted in the new module. After the murder was over, the modified module was replaced with the original and touching Hansen's dead finger to the appropriate controls."

I pointed to the screen. "So when Hansen started to give his presentation — a presentation of alliance and hope — he sprayed his visitor with lethal poison, and was killed in return."

I looked down at Felicia. "I don't think you meant to get Hansen killed," I said quietly. "You just wanted to bring down Outward Outreach, once you found out about the will. If one of the creatures that Hansen was trying to build bridges with was killed, apparently deliberately, by Hansen, it would ruin Outward Outreach's reputation. Either Hansen would look like a hair-trigger killer, or Hansen would have to lie and justify the killing — and it was almost certain that other Werewolves would have known it was a lie, and have no trouble spreading that piece of information throughout the hidden world. Driving a wedge between humanity and other species on this world? Exactly up their alley."

"Unfortunately, you couldn't grasp just how fast a Werewolf reacts, or maybe you thought its instinct would be to run away, or maybe even that it'd just drop dead without knowing what hit it. But spraying a Wolf with silver is like hitting it with poisonous acid that causes anaphylactic shock; they know exactly what's happening, and they know they have mere seconds to react, and they always, always react with rage and hatred. So in killing Cheney, you killed Hansen, too."

"I advise both of you to say absolutely nothing," Peri Crane said emphatically, even as Felicia's face crumpled with tears and horror. "This is also purely circumstantial evidence —"

"There's plenty more," I said. "Here's how I think it worked. Felicia did the evening switch when she was closing up the office. You can see she knocks something off the desk and it rolls underneath, so she goes under then gets it out. But there's a very tiny glitch in the recording and the time-markers tell me there's a few seconds missing.

"No one's visible in the later footage, until Felicia comes in the next morning and finds the body. But if you look real close in the footage, you find a short period of time that's a loop from a prior one; the heating system's forced-air and some papers give the exact same ripples from one moment to the next. You can also see from the pattern that someone entering by the hidden panel doesn't have to cross through the blood spatter; the murderer entered that way, removed the panel, and left in the loop time."

"Still circumstantial," Dan Mason said. Felicia was staring at me, but her eyes were also glancing sideways, and I knew who she was looking at.

"But there was one key piece of evidence," I pointed out, "that wasn't circumstantial: the modified control panel. Felicia had to get that module out — she couldn't leave it there. Nor, being the person who was known to be the last out of the building, could she afford the slightest chance of being caught with that device on her person. She couldn't destroy it, she couldn't carry it with her on the chance that she might get caught in the vicinity of the office at night.

"So instead she did something absolutely brilliant: she wrapped it up and put the modified unit into the storage room with the other spare components for the system, underneath another, untouched unit. The purloined letter principle — and one that was even better because no one would even be looking there unless they already suspected something. Once the immediate fuss died down and she could get into the offices again, she could then remove the unit or even simply modify it back to its original functionality."

Jeri stood again. "And since the offices are already a crime scene, we didn't need a warrant to search them again." She slapped down a photograph of the module in question. "Found this wrapped up just as Wood described... and with clear, unmistakable prints on the sides of the module that belong to Felicia Santos."

Felicia's face shifted instantaneously from horror and fear to absolute fury and she swung about. "You told me you would wipe —"

"SHUT UP!" bellowed Vernon Guildermere — but I could see from his panicked face that he knew it was already too late.

I would have grinned, but the situation wasn't funny. "Sorry, did I say murderer? I meant murderers."

Jeri came forward, and handcuffs jingled. "Vernon Guildermere and Felicia Santos, I arrest you both for the crime of premeditated murder of the individual calling himself Cheney Lugosi, for involuntary manslaughter in the death of Hansen Guildermere, and other charges to be preferred later."

Chapter 8: Season's Greetings

"A neat and quick solution to a potentially sticky problem, Jason," Verne said, and raised a glass to me; Jeri, Morgan, Syl, and Camillus — the only ones left after the party — joined him in the toast. "Would you be willing to clarify a few points for me?"

"I guess, though I'd rather not spend the rest of Christmas on this one. In some ways it's a big downer, and not just because that nice old man got killed."

"Why did you accuse Felicia Santos alone, rather than both of them?"

"Because Vernon was a slippery bastard, that's why. I didn't have a good connection for him to the crime — just circumstantial evidence. Of the people associated with Hansen Guildermere, Vernon was the one who not only had the motive, but the means and opportunity. He worked in security, he knew how to edit security footage. No one else in the reasonable group of suspects fit.

"Unfortunately, Felicia was very close to Vernon — close enough that a defense attorney could easily argue that Felicia could have gotten the information on the control panel from him, and possibly the information on the security system needed to mess with the footage. Not likely in the latter case, mind you, but possible; Felicia wasn't just a secretary, but had some prior technical experience and education.

"Vernon figured that no one would catch on to the scam, but he wasn't taking chances either; if the module was found without anyone's fingerprints on it, the default assumptions would point to him. Modifying the footage was also a problem; cutting out the stuff that showed him entering and leaving, not so much, because the whole office was supposed to be empty except for the bodies until Felicia got there the next day, but the footage with Felicia in the office swapping the units? Much bigger problem."

"Why?" Verne asked with a raised eyebrow. "Why not eliminate even the possibility of the question about her actions?"

"Because her routine — setting up things for Hansen, closing up the office, all these things — was known, and her entering the office was also on the cameras in her area of the office — the anteroom leading to Hansen's office. There was a continuous presence that would have been much harder to seamlessly edit into, say, Felicia just walking away from the office, or never going near the desk, so he had to minimize those edits as much as possible."

Syl nodded. "And so there would be video evidence that Felicia, at least, was near the control panel."

"And she couldn't wear gloves while doing the switch; those would be a dead giveaway. So he promised he'd be wiping the module clean, which made sense to Felicia anyway, but instead he left her prints intact, while removing any of his from the plastic wrapping. This gave him one last backup: if the module was discovered, the evidence would lead to Felicia, not him."

Camillus grunted in understanding. "So you staged the sequence so that her spontaneous reaction would bring the connection forward, rather than be brought out later in a court of law — with Vernon having plenty of time to prepare to defend against an accusation he would have known would come."

"Exactly," I said. "Anything else?"

"Briefly, then. You said that you did not think they intended to kill Mr. Guildermere; yet would not Vernon Guildermere's position have been most precarious if Hansen had survived?"

I tried to smile, but the situation was still too serious. "Caught me there. Technically, I said that I didn't think Felicia had any intention to kill Hansen; she might have — I think — been having, or have had, an affair with Vernon, but I think she genuinely loved Hansen and certainly believed in his mission. Jeri and I figure that we can probably get her to testify that it was Vernon's idea and that he told her that Hansen would be safe, especially after he clearly set her up for the fall.

"With respect to Vernon... you're right. He had a contingency for Hansen surviving — he'd come in, get a completely shocked and traumatized Hansen out, promise to "take care" of things, and so on — but he must have known that this would be a very dangerous game to play, and if Hansen ever started thinking carefully about the sequence of events he'd be in huge trouble.

"But yes, I think Vernon wanted Hansen dead. Not only for the money, but also because of Felicia — and for himself. He figured that the death of Hansen, combined with the terrible publicity of the leader of Outward Outreach being murdered by one of those he was trying to contact, would help bring the organization down — and of course by killing Hansen, the money would go first to Outward Outreach and then to Vernon and the others. And he also figured that once Hansen was gone, Felicia would turn to him as she had before."

Syl shook her head. "How terrible. He must have been a terribly stupid man, for someone so apparently bright. Even if he convinced her that it was an accident, that secret would have poisoned any relationship."

"Many men are very stupid in that area," Camillus said. "Money and a pretty pair of... er, eyes drives anything else out of their heads. Still, what did you mean by him doing it for himself?"

"I don't know for sure," I said, "but honestly? I think he was poisonously jealous of his brother. The two of them started out with the same advantages, a couple years apart, and Vernon builds himself a small business, working day in and day out, while Hansen figures out how to do investments long-range and get the right people working for him, ending up running a multi-billion dollar investment and publicity firm, and personally worth five hundred or even a thousand times what Vernon was. Then Hansen just wants to — from Vernon's point of view — throw all that money away on things that aren't even human."

"You might be right," Jeri said. "His business wasn't doing all that well recently, either. If it hadn't been for the big contract he got from his brother, Vernon might've been in a lot more trouble. Problem is, some people are grateful for charity, but others ... it eats into them."

"Well, in any event, good work, my friends," said Verne. "Shall we drink to the memory of Hansen Guildermere, and hope that his dream survives his death?"

"I'll sure —"

The phone rang. I rolled my eyes but grabbed it off the hook. "Jason Wood."

"Ahh, Jason. How pleasant to hear your voice. I hope you're having a good Christmas."

Even though I'd been more than half-expecting the calm, warm, urbane voice, an icicle jabbed down my spine and I felt myself go pale. I didn't let this show in my voice, though. "Virigar. What a surprise. Well, not entirely."

"You did expect me. I can hear it. Excellent. In that case, you know why I'm calling. A job well done, Jason. You found the murderer of one of my people and are bringing him to justice on exactly that charge. I suppose you must find that a bit... disturbing."

"Slightly... but not as much as you think. You see, I know you wanted him dead too."

The voice was amused. "Did I?"

"Cheney — or whatever his real name was —"

"Tanirivanor," supplied Virigar. "A somewhat distant descendant of your old acquaintance Tanmorrai, in fact."

"Okay, Tanirivanor, then. He was in Morgantown against the spirit of your orders, talking with a human being under circumstances that were clearly peaceful. Now he could have been just stringing Hansen along, but I don't think so. The risk of making a mistake or somehow being forced to injure or kill someone inside of Morgantown, and thus getting on your list? Too much for your people. So he was really there to talk — and that is something really against your philosophy. If he hadn't been murdered, you'd have made an example of him yourself, I think."

The deceptively warm laugh rolled out. I could see Verne's face across from mine, eyes narrowed. "Perhaps, perhaps indeed, Mr. Wood. But in any analysis, you have done me and mine a considerable service. You continue to adhere to spirit and letter of our mutual ... duel of manners, shall we say? So — in the spirit of the season, and for services rendered, I give you a gift."

"A ... gift?"

"Indeed, and perhaps less disturbing than your wedding gift." My eyes glanced involuntarily towards the front room where the glittering, savage statue of a springing wolf stood. "I give you a year of freedom, Jason Wood. For one year from this day, you may rest assured that this will not be the day on which I begin your destruction. On this I pledge you my word.

"My thanks to you, Jason... and Merry Christmas."

The night don't seem so lonely

by Sharon Lee

"And that was 'Yellow Submarine' by the Fab Four, also known as—THE BEATLES!" The DJ's voice evaporated into a cloud of static, and came back, a little watery now:

". . .listening to WKOX-FM, one-oh-five-point-seven, Framingham, Mass. All rock, all the --"

More static, fizzing loud—.

"Jesus Christ!" Ben swore. "Find another station, willya, Mossie?"

Moss leaned forward, fiddling with the dial, picking up a lot of static, and a thin line of what might've been "Crystal Blue Persuasion," though it was hard to tell in the rush of road noise coming in the open windows.

He upped the volume just in time for the thread of song to dissolve into a loud honk of noise.

"Christ!" Ben swore again, his hand flashing out.

Moss ducked—not that Ben had hit him, yet—and the music clicked off.

"Goddamn dead zone," Ben said. "You wait'll we get to Portland. Got a stereo set up, all the records you can listen to: Beatles, Stones, Dylan, Doors—all the good stuff. You'll like it just fine."

Moss had heard this before—Ben had picked him up a couple miles south of the Mass Pike, so they'd been together almost a day. The story was that Ben shared a house in Portland, Maine, on India Street. The plan—Ben's plan—was for Moss to come home with him, and "help out" for crash space and food.

It was a nice plan, Moss thought—for Ben. He didn't particularly have anything against Ben, mind. The man'd been more than fair with him: fed him a couple burgers, with fries, made sure he had a new, cold Coke every time they stopped for gas, offered to share his cigarettes and his reefers, too; and had only wanted one blow-job, which he'd asked for, nice and polite. His momma would've liked Ben.

Well, and Momma never did have no sense in men; which was the reason Moss was sixteen, and hitchin', and givin' blow-jobs to such folk as might pick him up. Momma'd taught him it was wrong to be beholden, so he made sure him and his rides were caught up even by the time he left 'em.

. . .though that was lookin' like it might be a problem, with Ben, here. Moss had no intention of letting himself be took into a strange house in a strange city and set to work givin' blow-jobs—or worse—to them he owed nothing to—or maybe Ben had the idea he'd like to deliver reefers, which he wouldn't much care for, neither.

Trouble was, they were getting close to Portland—he'd seen a sign 'bout ten miles back that said 38 miles, which meant he was going to have to give Ben the slip at the next gas stop.

He glanced over at the dash. Gauge was showing under a quarter, and the way this old Lincoln drank down the gas, no way they were making even twenty-five more miles without a top-off.

"Be home for dinner," Ben said, maybe thinking he was looking at the odometer. "We'll stop and pick up some groceries—beer, Coke, whatever you like—'fore we get there. Sound good to you, Mossie?"

"Sure," he said, and smiled, because Ben would want him to smile and be excited about comin' inside to a regular house where there was a shower, and regular meals an' all. A place where he could be useful and maybe earn some money and not have to put up with Momma's new boyfriend whaling on him, and calling him a freak and a weakling, and yelling at him to die, already.

His momma—give her credit—she hadn't liked seein' her boyfriend smacking her sickly son around, so she'd done what she could, since she wasn't going to be givin' the boyfriend up no time soon, not with a new baby on the way. She'd given Moss his own daddy's backpack, from when he'd been in the Army, and she'd told him to pack up his clothes and any other little thing that was his. Then, she'd given him nineteen dollars, which was all the grocery money, drove him out to the edge of the city, so the cops wouldn't give him no hassle, opened the door and told him to go.

He gave her back a ten, because he knew she'd want to think well of herself, and remember that she hadn't sent him out empty-handed. The boyfriend, though, he'd still expect to eat, and there wasn't no sense her getting the man mad when she'd just done him a good turn.

She took the money quick enough that he knew she'd been counting on him giving some back. He picked up his pack from between his feet, and got out of the car.

"Moshe," she said, just as he was shutting the door.

"Ma'am?"

"You remember now—don't you walk too hard, or too far. You mind your heart. Promise me."

"I promise, Momma," he said, giving her a smile, and closed the door nice and soft.

By the time he'd gotten to the end of the parking lot, she was gone.

"We'll pull over for gas just up the road," Ben said, breaking into his thoughts. "Get us some Cokes and chips to last the rest of the way."

Moss looked out the window, saw a long main street like a lot he'd seen in New England—hardware store, five and dime, diner. . .and 'way up the end of the block, on the right, a white, red and blue Esso sign.

"Where are we?" he asked, 'cause of course the hardware store was somebody's name, which wasn't no help, and the diner was The Golden Rooster, with a big sign in the front window that said, "Something to Crow About!"

"Saco," Ben said. "That bridge we just come across was the Saco River. Town just the other side was Biddeford."

"And next is Portland?"

"Nah. Still gotta do the rest of Saco, then Scarborough, then over the bridge into the city. Twenty miles, maybe. Home for dinner, just like I said."

This was definitely the place for him to get off.

Moss smiled. "Sounds great," he said.

Ben pulled up to the pumps, and cut the engine. Moss opened his door.

"Gotta hit the head," he said. He closed the door briskly and walked to the office.

"Key?" he said to the guy behind the counter.

"Over there on the hook," the guy said, jerking his head to the left without bothering to look around.

Moss snagged the one labeled "M" and was out the door, ducking past Ben as he came in, and scooting around the side of the building.

But he didn't go to the men's room. He tucked the key on its piece of wood in the back pocket of his jeans, and looked around the corner at the car.

There was only one guy on, and he'd put the pump on automatic while he got under the hood to check the oil.

Good, thought Moss. It was time to leave Ben and get on alone. He couldn't risk the house on India Street, not by a long damn, he couldn't. Sure, he was on the street, and he didn't have an address, but he'd talked to the other kids he'd met on his way out from KC. Some of 'em—a lot of 'em—they'd made mistakes, and they were willing to share what they'd done wrong, or seen done wrong, what and who to look out for. . .

He didn't quite have Ben figured, but that didn't matter. The only kind of person who picked up a hitcher, treated him good, and promised him a nice room in his own home—was the kind of person no hitcher wanted to know. Might be Ben was on good behavior until they got to that house, which might not even be his. Some places, after they had a kid for a while, they sent him out to get more kids. . .

Well.

Wasn't here nor there, really. He had a plan—he had a duty—and he was gonna see it done. He'd promised.

Moss slipped around the back of the car, opened the back door, ducked inside and grabbed the strap of his backpack.

Easing the door closed, he looked to the front, but the gas-guy was still fiddling around with the engine. He stood on tiptoes to look over the roof of the Lincoln; saw Ben in the window, talking with the office man, but shifting a little like Ben did when he was nervous. Might be he was starting to wonder how long Moss was gonna take.

Time to go.

He fished the key out of his back pocket and dropped it onto the tarmac, then slung the pack over his shoulder, ducking a little to be sure he was below the line of the car's roof, and angled toward the shrubs and trees lining the edge of the station.

He'd just gotten past the shrubs and was almost into the trees when he heard somebody running behind him, and Ben's voice yelling.

"Hey! Hey! Moss! You come back here, you little—Hey! Somebody help me catch that kid, he's got my wallet!"

That didn't take long.

Moss pushed further into the trees, wondering how deep the little wood was. Behind, there came some crashing and snapping as branches broke, and Ben yelling, "C'mon Moss, quit foolin' around; we gotta go!" and the gas guy maybe it was yelling, "C'mon, kid; the boss is calling the cops. Just throw the guy's wallet out here and everything's square."

"What the hell you talkin' about?" Ben yelled. "He's with me!"

"Thought he had your wallet."

"Well, he does. He. . .plays these jokes. But we're together. Mossie! C'mon, it ain't funny no more."

No, thought, Moss, it wasn't. Up ahead, flashing silver through the leaves, he saw a chain link fence. Behind him, they were still crashing, and to the right. . .

To the right, it was downhill and more trees and maybe he could lose them, if he ran like hell.

He dropped to his knees in a little clearing, panting for air and his heart pounding funny like it did, and there were little spikes of pain in his chest, and he just put his palms flat against the dirt, and hoped that this wasn't it, the time that his bad heart went bust on him, and then he hoped that it was, it hurt so bad, and then. . .

. . .he woke up to the soft inquiry of an owl, and stars above him, between the leaves. He was tired, but nothing hurt, and he took a deep breath of the cool, damp air, tasting salt.

The ocean, that must be. He was close to the ocean—the Atlantic Ocean, that was. He'd struck out deliberate for the Atlantic Ocean, all those weeks ago, on account of his duty. His promise to his dad. 'course, his dad'd thought—had said!—that Moss would make good on the promise when he was a man.

Wasn't dad's fault that Moss wasn't likely to live that long. He hadn't caught the fever 'til after dad was gone himself. Strep throat, that was what they thought. . .

Well.

Water under the bridge. His dad used to say that. That's just water under the bridge, Moshe, all flowed away and gone.

That was what happened to the bad things—they all flowed away, to the ocean, and the ocean salt dissolved them. Try to carry the bad things around, and they'd weigh you down into the ground.

The good things, though, you carried them with you, 'cause good things, they didn't weigh no more than sunlight.

The owl hooted again, softer, like maybe it was telling him to go back to sleep; he was safe here.

Moss took another deep breath, smiling at the lack of pain.

Tomorrow, he thought drowsily, he'd find the ocean.

The sand on the beach was like his dad had told him, white, like snow; fine as flour. Surely was pretty, but it was tricky to walk in. His sneakers were sliding and his knees were working, and it was hard to make any headway. He did it, though he was panting like a grampaw, and his heart was kinda beating strange, one thump harder than the next two. No pain, though, so he didn't mind it, much.

What his dad hadn't told him about, though, was how the air smelled—not just salty, but fresh, like air right after a thunderstorm. Smelling it made him feel like dancing, though maybe not in the dry sand.

Finally, he made it to wet sand. He could walk better now, almost like on a sidewalk, and he kept on going, to where the waves come in, rolling soft and slow, and every one that found the sand making a sweet little plash.

Moss stood there, looking out over the bright, glittery, gently rolling waters, and he felt something happen in his chest—not pain, or that squeezing thing that sometimes happened. No. . .it felt, somehow like he was happy—too happy to laugh.

So happy, his stupid heart wanted him to cry.

Well. . .

He slung the pack around and lowered it to the sand, then knelt and undid the buckle.

There, in the hidden pocket underneath the right back pocket, he found the little pouch, and pulled it out.

For a long time, they'd just sat out on a shelf in his room, but when Momma's new boyfriend moved in, Moss had thought maybe it would be better to empty his old shooters out into his sock drawer, and put his dad's tokens into the bag, outta sight.

The bag, he tucked under his t-shirts, and the boyfriend never found it to break, though he'd broken some other stuff he had no business putting his hands on. . .

Moss closed his eyes and took a breath.

Water under the bridge, he told himself, all flowed away and gone.

Leaving the pack where it was, he walked down to the place where the little waves kissed the beach. There were shells, here and there on the wet sand; strings of weed, and stones as shiny as living eyes.

Just by his foot were two flat, round bones, beige-brown and laying together in the damp. Sand dollars, they were called, his dad had told him, on account they looked like big ol' silver dollars. The two on the beach were damp, and gritty with sand, and though they looked stiff, he knew that they were living critters.

The one he took outta his pouch, though, that one was white as bone, the critter long dead. He put it on the wet sand near the two live ones, and then reached into the bag for the couple other shells, scattering them onto the sand from his fingertips as he walked a little ways down the waterline.

When the bag was empty, he upended it, so any sand and grit and pieces could fall out, then shoved it into his pocket.

He took a deep breath, looking out over the water, and sighed.

Duty done. Promise kept. The lazy, rolling water glittered a little more, like maybe he'd caught some drops on his eyelashes.

Another breath, and here came a roller that was taller than the others, seeming to move a little faster, too. Before he could figure out how that might be, it struck the sand with a boom! White spray flew into the air, splashing his face, then the wave was gone, leaving Moss with his jeans wet and his sneakers soggy. The sand around him, where he'd left the shells and the dead sand dollar, was clean, just like somebody had reached out a hand and swept them off the beach.

* * *

"Here he comes back, now," Felsic said, leaning on the ticket counter under Noah's Ark.

Phyllis didn't bother to look up from her newspaper.

"Lost boy from Away got nothing to do with me. Or with you."

"Might be he's not lost," Felsic said; "that's what's nagging at me."

Phyllis rattled the paper.

"Says here, next month, NASA's gonna be trying to land on the moon. Think o'that, now, eh?"

"Quite an age we live in," Felsic said agreeably.

The boy'd been down to the sea; his jeans was wet to the knee, and his sneakers squelched on the land. Might've made an offering—he had the look of it. Gone down heavy, come back light. Wasn't nothing more keeping that boy from floating off to the moon his own self, now that the sea'd taken what he'd brought to it.

"Hungry," Felsic said, because Phyllis wasn't near as cold as she talked, and she was listenin', even if she was pretendin' not to be lookin'.

"Give 'im a job," Felsic urged; "can't hurt."

Phyllis sighed gustily, rattled the paper closed, and stared across the parking lot at the kid an' his backpack an' the dazed way he was starin' around.

"All right," she snapped. "I'll give 'im a job, if he wants one, but I ain't chasing 'cross the parkin' lot to hand it to 'im. He gets his tail over here like a sensible boy, and looks at the board, then—all right."

"Fine," Felsic said soothingly. "That's fine."

A little ripple, that's all it took, the boy might be from Away, but he wasn't one o'the deaf-and-blind ones. No, he felt the ripple, took the suggestion into his head, and started moving 'cross the lot, toward the Ark, and the signboard over at the side saying Operators Wanted.

Phyllis saw him moving, took note of his direction and turned a pretend glare on Felsic.

"Well, boss?" she asked, sarcastic, but that was just her way. "Where you puttin' him?"

"Jack 'n Jill," said Felsic promptly. "Sally'll do 'im a world o'good."

* * *

Sally was a little bit something: She teased, and laughed, climbed up the outside scaffolding like a cat, expecting him to keep up. His momma would've said she was "lively." Moss thought she might be something more—or other—than just that. Her eyes flashed yellow in the shadow sometimes, like cat-eyes. She slipped a little, climbing ahead of him, and he thought he saw claws come out from the tips of her fingers and snag the canvas awning stretched between the slide and Noah's Ark.

Still and all, he liked her—claws and cat-eyes, too. She'd come back down the scaffold to him when he'd had to rest in his climb, an' asked what was the matter.

"Little breathy; need a quick rest. I got a tricky heart," he told her, which was more than he told most people, for fear of being laughed at. "Had rheumatic fever when I was a little kid."

"That mean you shouldn't climb?" she asked. "'cause, if you want, we can just set you down at the gate t'take admission. I can do what climbing needs done."

There now—that was why he liked her. She didn't make fun, and she didn't disbelieve, or go tell Boss Phyllis he was sick, either; just offered up a plan for how to work the ride out between 'em.

"I can climb; just sometimes I gotta rest."

"OK, then," she said, and perched on the bar above him, easy as a cat, until he started cilmbing again.

Up at the top of the slide, standing on the platform, you could see everything there was to see in Archers Beach and beyond—the sun glittering on the ocean, and the land curving, miles away. He could see it all, despite the glittery sea and the fresh damp air making his eyes water. Sally got him turned around so he could look up the hill at the stores and the people shopping, and the cars and delivery trucks doing business.

"This is my favorite place," Sally said, close in his ear, like she was telling him a secret. "You can see everything."

Well, you couldn't see Kingman, Kansas, but maybe that was all right, too. Moss took a deep, deliberate breath of wonderful air, and smiled.

"Sure is fine," he said, and Sally laughed.

"Where're you from?"

"Kansas," he said. Sally frowned like he'd said something foreign.

"Much like here?" she asked.

"Not anything like here."

"What brings you to us, then?"

He shook his head, his eyes damp from the sun striking off all that moving blue water.

"Made a promise to my dad. He was here, years back. Picked up some shells and stuff on the beach. He gave 'em to me, before he died, and said that I had to go to Archers Beach when I was grown up, and give the shells back to the sea. Made me promise. So, I come to fill the promise."

Sally didn't make a fuss about that, either, or tell him he was silly. He had the feeling that Sally took promises serious, and he liked her even more.

"Be going back soon?"

Going back? thought Moss. What would he go back for? Or to?

He shook his head.

"I think I'll stay here. I think. . .my dad wanted me to see something different. He told me how, when he first saw the Atlantic Ocean, he said it changed his whole life, and how he saw the world."

"He went back, though," Sally said, looking down at the parking lot below them.

"He did, yeah. He'd made his own promise, that he would go back. He was married to my mother."

Sally nodded, still staring down.

Moss looked up, into the deep blue sky. A shadow flashed over his face, and a seagull screamed. Music started from somewhere—sounded like merry-go-round music.

"We gotta get down," Sally said. "Park's opening for the day."

He did look down, then, thinking about the climb before him, and trying to guess would his chest seize again, like it'd done on the way up.

"We'll take the easy way down," Sally said, picking up a rough-wove mat, and dropping it flat to the platform.

"Here," she said.

Moss blinked.

"Sit down!"

She sounded a little impatient, suddenly, so he dropped to the mat—and gasped when she hit him between the shoulder blades. He yelled, the mat skidded forward, tipped—and hit the slide.

Wind rushed past his ears as the mat picked up speed. He yelled again, and the rushing air snatched his voice away with the rest of his breath, and he was flying, flying toward the ground in a grand, speeding spiral, and he leaned into the next curve, deliberately increasing his speed, chest aching, and the salty breeze in his mouth, and there was the end of the slide, and a stocky figure in a cap at the end of it, and just beyond a pile of sawdust, and he was airborne, sawdust erupting in a fragrant cloud. He collapsed, gasping, until strong arms came around and half-dragged him up and away.

"Can't stay there, boy; we got incomin'," somebody—Felsic—said, propping him up against a sturdy shoulder. He heard a yell over the laboring bellows of his heart and here came Sally, her mat already airborne, and she was out, over the edge, hitting the sawdust and waking an explosion. Pine scent enveloped him and he coughed, grabbing at his chest, and it was glorious, and it hurt. . .it hurt. . .

. . .nothing hurt at all.

He was laying on the ground, in the shade next to the end of the slide. His head was on Sally's knee, and Felsic was bent over him, one hand on his chest, he didn't hurt anymore, but only felt kind of light and cool.

"What's the matter with you, deah?" Felsic murmured.

Moss tried to marshal words out of the vast sense of cool peace, but Sally was quicker.

"He said he's gotta tricky heart," she said. "Needed a breather, part way up, climbin'."

"Rheumatic fever," Moss managed, so they had the right name of it. And if it meant that he couldn't work here, couldn't stay here, then he'd rather die --

"Don't fatch," Felsic said, and Moss felt the rising panic reverse, and just drain away.

"That's it," Felsic said. "You rest a spell. Sal—you go open up. Moss'll be along shortly."

"All right," she said, and Moss felt lips, cool and slightly damp, pressed against his cheek, before she moved his head from her lap to something else soft, and he heard her sneakers scuffing on the tarmac.

"I can work," Moss said, though without any urgency. "Don't want the boss mad at me, right off."

"She's fine." Felsic leaned back, hand slipping into a pocket. "This heart business. . ."

"Means I'm gonna die. But not today."

"Well, then. That's all any of us got, ain't it? You sit up all right?"

He did, with Felsic's help, and a couple minutes later, he stood under the same conditions.

"I'm good," he said. "I can work."

Felsic nodded and stood.

"Up to Sally, o'course, but don't be surprised you're on ticket-box today."

"If that's were she needs me. . ."

A gong sounded, loud; somewhere nearby a mule brayed in either complaint or approval.

"That's my call to the Coal Mine. You go on, an' be good, right?"

"Right."

The rides closed at eight o'clock. Moss went to get his pack from where he'd stowed it, in Boss Phyllis' office.

"Sally said you did good today," the boss said. "You comin' back tomorrow?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll come every day you need me."

She gave him a once-over at that, like she heard what he hadn't said, but all she said was, "Showers in the White Way, next door. You hungry, you stop at Bob's over at Grand and Dube and tell 'em behind the counter that you work for me. Same thing tomorrow breakfast."

Moss looked at her careful.

"That's included in, or comes outta my pay?"

"Included in. That all right by you, deah?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said again; added, "thank you, ma'am;" grabbed his pack and headed for the showers.

There was space for him at the counter at Bob's. He told the counterman he worked for Phyllis, and pretty quick a hamburg platter and a big Coke landed in front of him. He ate it all, even the lettuce, and was finishing up his Coke when he noticed somebody at his elbow.

Well, the placed as packed, and it was probably somebody wanted his place. Moss swallowed the last of his Coke and stood up.

"Sorry," he said—and right then recognized Felsic.

"Evenin'," Felsic said. "You have a good day at work?"

"I did. I like it. Boss said I can come back tomorrow."

"Phyllis likes an eager worker. You keep eager, and she'll keep happy. You mind if I walk a ways with you?"

Moss hesitated, looking at Felsic. He didn't get the feeling that this was a set-up, but. . .

"Just a walk down the beach," Felsic said, nice and easy. "I'll keep m'hands in m'pockets."

It came to Moss that he liked Felsic, and there wasn't really no harm going for a walk.

"Sure," he said.

"You got a place to stay?"

That was a dangerous question, even if he did like Felsic. He wanted to stay here, in Archers Beach. Might be he was tired; he'd pushed himself hard the last couple days, and it could be his heart was tired. He'd think that, 'cept he didn't feel tired at all.

He felt more alive than he'd ever had, in all his life.

"I don't got a place right yet," he said, not wanting to outright lie.

"That's all right," Felsic said. "The land hereabouts is welcoming. You just find someplace comfortable and set down roots, if you've a mind to."

Moss considered that as they walked up the beach. The sand strip was much skinnier now, the sound of the waves striking a constant thunder in his ears. His bones shook with it.

Sally had told him that the water changed—the tide came in and the tide went out, but he hadn't been, in any way, prepared for the reality of high tide. The thunder and the spray and the salt and the wind—all of it just made him feel like shouting and dancing and take the thunder into his bones. . .

He closed his eyes and made himself pay attention to what Felsic had said.

"Just any place at all?" he asked. "Right here on the beach?"

"That could be a problem," Felsic said; "Generally the beach's held to be neutral—not belonging to the sea or the land, if you understand me."

Moss nodded. "No man's land."

There was a small silence, then Felsic outright laughed.

"That's it, that's it, exact! No man's land! You go a couple blocks inland, you might find something that'll do. Otherways, there's a youth hostel up at the top of Walnut. They'll spot you a night, you tell 'em you're working for Phyllis."

"Thanks," Moss said.

"No trouble, no trouble at all. I get off here." Felsic nodded toward the board walk crossing the dunes back onto the streets.

"I'll come with you, if I can," Moss said.

"Nothing stopping you that I see," Felsic answered easily, and so they crossed the boards together, and together they walked down to Grand, where Felsic turned right. Since he didn't have any reason to go left or right, so Moss stayed with Felsic. There was something. . .not kind—No, thought Moss, definitely not kind—about Felsic. Comforting. Down to earth, that was it.

Moss decided that he liked Felsic very much, indeed.

They walked for two blocks, then Felsic angled across the street to a place that was nothing but two houses, backing on what smelled like a salt marsh.

"This is me," Felsic said, and reached out to touch him, softly on the arm.

"Try for something further in. Don't wanna walk too far to work."

That made sense, Moss thought, and in the time it took him to think so, Felsic had walked around the back of one of the houses—and was gone.

Moss shivered, though it was plenty warm.

Just went in the back door, he told himself, and as if to bear him out, a light came on in the nearest house.

Moss nodded, shifted his pack on his back and turned back toward the heart of town.

He didn't much care for the idea of staying at anything called a "youth hostel." There were a number of bad things that routinely happened in dormitories, a couple of which he'd experienced up close and personal. The worst part of those being that he'd known better.

Well, it wasn't raining fit to drown a frog tonight. Tonight it was fine and clear, and there weren't too many people around, down this part of town. No reason for people to come down this way, which didn't offer no music, nor beer, nor nothing much at all, 'cept some little houses, like where Felsic lived. Back one street, there were trees and marsh.

He hit the corner and paused. From the left, he heard the crash and thunder of the waves against the shore. His feet turned, just slightly in that direction, and then --

It smelled like green leaves, and clean dirt, and pine, with a sweet underneath—maybe some flower he didn't know. From his right, away from the sea, borne on a breeze, was what he thought, but the wind was coming from the left, damp and fresh off the back of the waves.

Moss breathed in, letting the sweet, green air melt in his mouth like ice cream. He thought of laying himself down on a mound of pine needles, and sleeping safe and unmolested.

He turned right, away from the crash and boom of the ocean, following the promise as much as the scent. A couple feet down, he left the sidewalk, following a thin, faintly glowing trail, through weeds and reeds, past some sapling trees, between a green-glowing boulder and a white birch tree. . .

. . .and into a clearing floored with soft pine needles. Just off center of the clearing stood the remains of a big, old tree, its limbs broken, but its trunk intact. He saw the small wrinkled objects dangling from one of the partial low branches, and put a name, at last, to the sweet smell.

Apples.

He sighed, looked around, feeling the welcome come up from the ground through the soles of his feet, and tears came to his eyes, even as he thought that this was what Felsic must've meant, about the land being welcoming.

And this little piece of land, right here, welcomed him.

"Thank you," he said, not feeling the littlest bit silly about talking outloud to trees and stones. "I'd like to stay here. I gotta get up in time for breakfast and work tomorrow, but I'll stay here, if you'll have me." He looked around, and saw the gleam of one of those stupid pull-tabs among the pine needles.

"I'll clean up," he said, "and do what else needs done."

The scent of apples grew momentarily stronger; he yawned, hard on it, and slipped his pack off his back.

"It's been a long day," he told the trees, and cast about him. There was a soft mound of leaves and old needles just under the old apple tree, and it came to him that there would be a comfortable bed.

He settled in with a sigh, his pack under his head, pine needles and dead leaves for a blanket, and drifted off to sleep.

He woke to bird song; opened his eyes and just laid there, smiling up into the broken branches above him and just feeling. . .happy. He'd had a dream that he'd talked to the grandmother of this little place, and she had told him that she loved him, and he could stay here forever, if he chose it.

Forever. Now, wasn't that something?

Moss sighed, and the bird sang again, louder this time, or so it seemed to Moss, and he remembered that he had to get up and go to work.

He left his pack leaning against the trunk of the old apple tree, confident that no one would mess with it while he was gone, then he left his welcoming little piece of land, and headed down to Bob's for breakfast.

He was at Noah's Ark well before the ten o'clock opening. Felsic was already there, tending the mules at the Coal Mine. Moss went over to help.

"Sleep good, deah?"

Moss smiled.

"Best in years. Found a. . .welcoming spot."

"Did you now?" Felsic murmured, moving a brush slowly down a mule's short neck.

Moss braced himself, but Felsic didn't ask him where he was sleeping. They finished up combing and harnessing in companionable silence, broken at last by the clang of the side gate closing.

"That'll be Sally," Felsic said. "Best you learn set-up over at the slide. 'preciate the help, here; you got a good hand with the animals."

"My grampaw had mules at his place. I used to help with 'em."

"Well, he taught you good. Go 'long, now."

It was good to belong, it was good to work, and to earn money, and to have a good, safe place that was his to care for, and that cared for him back. Summer heated up, people kept on coming down to Archers Beach, 'til there wasn't hardly any room to walk on the sidewalks, and the rides were busy from opening to close; and on July Fourth, him and Sally, and Felsic and Phyllis all climbed up to the top of Jack 'n Jill and stood on the platform to watch the fireworks. They were so high up, it was like being inside the sparks, and Moss felt each explosion echo in his chest.

In between, he worked on his land, clearing out the old trash, and finding the boundaries of the place that welcomed him, in particular, and bloomed under his care.

He met a bunch of folk, who worked on the rides, and elsewhere 'round the Beach. In particular, he met Vornflee, who was a friend of Felsic's, and who worked at the Moon Ride; and Bonny, who ran the carousel on the other side of the parking lot. Bonny was an important lady, Moss could see that. Even Phyllis deferred to her. She considered him for a long time after they was introduced, face serious; then she nodded, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"You'll do fine," she told him. "Just remember not to be afraid."

Truth said, he didn't have time to be afraid, busy as he was, and it was only 'cause Sally said something about the moon landing coming right up that he realized a month and more had gone past and he'd never been happier in his life.

"I'm goin' up to the top of the slide tonight, and see if I can't see it."

"See what?" Moss asked. "Moon's only just past new."

"The spaceship," Sally told him, with that little sniff that meant she was annoyed.

"Oh," Moss said, 'cause he didn't like Sally to be mad with him; "the spaceship. That's a different proposition. Maybe you can see that."

"I'm gonna try it," Sally said, determinedly; and added, with a side-look at him. "You can come up, too, if you want."

"Sure," he said. "Meet after dinner?"

She nodded, and the gong went off, and it was time to get to work.

He was finishing up his clam chowder when he heard the first siren, and lifted his head, eyes wide.

"Engine number one," Vornflee said, tipping his head, burger held between two hands.

"Headin' down the hill," Felsic said, pushing back from the table, and standing. "Let me just step outside an --"

"Fire at the White Way!" Bob yelled, coming out from the kitchen. "Just heard it on the scanner! All callmen wanted!"

Chairs scraped, and people jumped up, heading towards the door in a rush. Felsic started that way, too.

"You ain't a call man," Vornflee said.

"Fire at the White Way," Felsic said. "I better see to the mules."

Moss stood, too.

"I'll help," he said.

Vornflee sighed, put his burger down on the plate and got up, too.

"I'll watch."

There was a pumper engine 'round back of the White Way, and two volunteer firemen using hoses on a small, smoky fire at the back corner. Moss followed Felsic 'round and over the fence, which was a quicker route to the Mine—and 'sides none of them had the key to the gate.

The space between the rides was filled with smoke, and Moss could hear the mules calling.

"Open the gate," Felsic told Vornflee. "Moss 'n me'll get the animals."

Vornflee nodded and ran; Moss followed Felsic.

The smoke was thicker by the entrance to the Mine, swirling around like it knew there was live things inside for it to torment. Felsic opened the door to the mule pen.

"Get the old man," Felsic said, and Moss grabbed a halter from the wall and went over the fence. The mules were anxious. A couple of the youngers brayed, presssed against the back of the enclosure, like they were trying to get away from the smoke that stalked them even there.

Old Man, though, he saw Moss and moved forward, two more mules following. Moss got the halter on, and patted the old mule.

"Let's go. s'only smoke so far, but you keep sensible, in case you see any fire." He looked at the two keeping pace, though they had no halters: Lacey and Gretel, both sensible folk.

"C'mon, then," he said, and walked them out of the enclosure, into the waiting area, and out into the park.

The smoke was still swirling, and Moss coughed as it got into his mouth. The Old Man was coming right along and his friends, too. Ahead, through the smoke, Moss could see the park gate open, and the parking lot full of cars beyond. He could hear music, from the Pier, and people shouting.

Bonny from the carousel was waiting outside, with Phyllis. Bonny took the Old Man's halter and led him away, toward the beach, Gretel and Lacy still following. Moss turned back, and here came Felsic, the rest of the mules following behind.

"Beach," said Phyllis, and Felsic turned that way.

An explosion rocked the night; smoke belched out of everywhere, like the sidewalks had opened up and hell was coming forth.

"Pull back, pull back! She's going up!"—that was the guys in the pumper truck, and there were other guys yelling—"Get those cars outta here!" and the sound of breaking glass, and—"Oh, no," Phyllis whispered. "Sally."

Moss spun, staring up, and there, silhouetted against the rising flames, Sally stood on the topmost platform of the giant slide, looking out over the confusion, illuminated and then cast into shadow by the dancing flames.

The fire was everywhere, now. The pile of sawdust at the bottom of the slide was afire. The Moon Ride was hidden in smoke, and long threads of flame licked out of the entrance into Noah's Ark.

Moss threw himself at the scaffolding, starting to climb.

"Sally!" he yelled.

"Moss!"

"Climb down!"

"The slide!"

"The sawdust is on fire! Climb down!"

His chest was burning, which wasn't a surprise, with everything else on fire. He hung onto the scaffolding and looked up. Sally was climbing down. That was good. Sally climbed like a cat; he didn't worry about her falling, but if the scaffold got too hot to hold. . .

"Hey, you kids! Get outta there! Charlie! We need the hose!"

Water began to fall though the cloud of smoke. Moss clung and coughed, and watched Sally climb closer, and finally come to rest next to him.

"Why are they spraying us with water?"

"To keep the fire off of us," Moss gasped. "C'mon, we gotta get outta here."

It was gone.

They'd stood there, all together, their arms around each others' waists, watching the amusement park burned.

Around ten o'clock Noah's Ark screamed like a live thing, foundered and collapsed in on itself, flames shooting out of the crater left behind.

Soon after, Jack 'n Jill, girders and slide all soft and black, sagged, crashed to its knees, and tipped over onto its side. The Moon Ride was gone by then, and the White Way was nothing more than ash and glowing timbers.

More fire trucks had arrived from the towns nearby, and they mostly concentrated on keeping the fire from reaching the Pier. They ran hoses into the sea, sprayed down the charred entrance ramp, and managed to keep the fire on land. There were people on the Pier, stranded for now, though Moss thought they'd be able to get off fine—tomorrow, maybe, after they'd gotten boats in and the last of the fire had died.

For now, he was tired. His chest ached, a little, his throat was raw, and his eyes streaming. At last somebody—maybe it was Bonny, maybe it was Phyllis—got them moving, away from the destruction, down Grand, to Bob's.

The place was jammed, even more than usual, no place to sit, and Moss finally leaned up against the wall, feeling empty and sad. It was so crowded, it was hard to breathe, and his head was thumping hard, in an irregular rhythm that was making him sick to his stomach.

Air, that was what he needed. No, more than that. He needed to go back to his place, his little piece o'land, and sit down under the broken apple tree. Maybe take a nap. . .

He pushed away from the wall, but—funny thing; his knees just wouldn't hold him and down he went, hitting a chair and making a big noise, an even bigger noise than what was happening in his head, and --

"Moss!"

Felsic, that was; Felsic picking him up and holding him like he didn't weigh nothing at all.

"Gotta get home," he said—or tried to say—"I don't feel so good."

"Where's home, Mossie?" That wasn't Felsic, that was Bonny, and it was Bonny's hand, he thought, that came cool across his forehead.

"Down on Walnut, little place, old apple tree. . ."

"That place?" Phyllis sounded startled, but from a long, long ways away. He was so tired. . .

"Easy, easy. . ." Felsic murmured.

He felt a little jolt of cool peacefulness, and things come nearer again, though there was something funny happening with his eyes.

"Boy's accepted," Vornflee said, and Bob's voice came in over that, with --

"The kid's dying, Bonny. . ."

"Perhaps not," Bonny said. "Felsic?"

"I'll carry him." He felt himself lifted and shifted and put his head against something firm and soft.

"You stick with me," Felsic whispered in his ear, or maybe straight into his head. "Stick with me, Mossie; I'll get you home."

Might've been he blacked out, 'cause the next thing he did know was the welcome of his own place, rising up into him. He smiled, and he was so very tired. . .

"Moshe, listen to me." That was Bonny again, calling him by his right name, which he'd rather she didn't. He was Moss now, and he belonged to this place.

"That's right," Felsic said. "But you gotta choose it, brother. The land won't take—you gotta give."

"Dying," Moss said, remembering Bob, and his heart, and his promise to his Momma, that he'd be careful—but he had been careful, just not. . .careful enough.

"Dying," Felsic said; "but not dead. If you choose it, the land will have you. But not even the land can cure the dead."

"Moss --" Bonny again. "Open yourself up to the land. It knows you, this land; it loves you. Give yourself to it. I'll tell you; I knew the lady who lived in that apple tree; I was only a sapling myself when she bent down to disease, but I remember her. She was a stickler, and she didn't love easy, but once she did, her heart never closed. If what's left of her in this land chose you, then you can't do any better."

"How. . ." The thumping, and his breathing. . .

"Felsic," Phyllis said. "Let him go. It's his choice now, and you've kept him overlong, if his choice is to go."

Go? But he never wanted to go! He wanted to stay right here, here with this sweet place that loved him and kept him safe—that he loved and would shield with his life and more—he'd promised!

"And I promised," said a voice that he knew better than his own.

He opened his eyes, and there she was, the grandmother of this place. She opened her arms, and he walked into her embrace.

He felt the welcome rise in him, like the tide; he smelled fresh green leaves and sweet apples, pine, and leaf mold, and it seemed, for a minute that his heart stopped beating altogether, and he didn't need breath at all. He felt the weight of the apple tree; knew the flowers like they were his own fingers, and the stones like they were his toes. He was Moss; he was the lady of the apple tree; and the little brown bird—the skylark—that sung him awake every morning, so he'd be on time for work. He was all of the pieces, and the perfect sum of everything. . .

"Here he comes back to us," Felsic said.

Moss opened his eyes, and smiled; feeling his land smile through him.

"I'm not going to die," he said, like he was comforting Felsic.

"Not for a good, long while, I'm thinking," Felsic answered, and all around him he heard an exhale as if a roomful of folk had suddenly sighed at once in relief and pleasure.

"Are we all. . .like this?" he asked, looking from face to face around him.

"We all have taken service with the land," Bonny said briskly. "Each in our own way."

"'cept Sally," said Vornflee.

"Sally's a cat," Moss said. "Even I know that."

"That's right," Felsic said. "Now, how're you feeling, brother Moss?"

Moss laughed, and sat up, full of energy and delight. He felt a chipmunk run light over the land, pine cone in his mouth, and grinned.

"Thank you," he said, to all of them gathered, and those others, who were listening in through their own connection to a piece of land, or a slice of marsh, or a rock, or a tree. He could. . .almost. . .see them all, behind his eyes. Soon, he'd sort them out.

"You okay with this, Moss?" Felsic asked him, and Moss laughed again.

"I'm home," he said; "and I ain't never leaving. Hard to be any more okay than that."

Long Nights Moon

by David B. Coe

December’s full moon is known among some of the tribal peoples of North America as the Cold Moon, or the Long Nights Moon. Living in Chandler, Arizona, a suburb in the desert sprawl of Phoenix, I can’t say that “Cold Moon” has ever had much meaning for me. But as a weremyste I know all about full moons and long nights.

For three nights out of every moon cycle, the night of the full, and the nights immediately before and after, weremystes go through what’s known as the phasing. That probably sounds innocuous enough. Trust me, it’s not. Our magic strengthens, but our minds weaken to the point of temporary insanity. At the very moment when we most need to have control over our thoughts and our runecrafting, we have none. The barriers between reality and delusion melt away. Some of us retreat into our minds, enduring the dark hours in quiet desperation. Others turn violent, lashing out at those we love, or turning our fear and rage inward so that we harm ourselves. I’ve experienced both: resigned withdrawal into my own addled mind and violent eruptions that nearly ended with me putting a bullet through my head. I couldn’t tell you which is worse. They both pretty much suck.

Not surprisingly, these descents into madness eventually cause our minds to deteriorate. One doesn’t meet many sane old weremystes. They don’t exist. My father, who’s also a weremyste, and who, like me, lost his job on the Phoenix police force because of the phasings, is in his sixties, and he’s nuts, just as I will be.

There isn’t much that could make the phasings worse than they already are, but this year’s calendar was doing its best. The next full moon, only two days away, fell on Christmas, which meant that the phasing would begin on Christmas Eve. Joy to the world.

Forty-eight hours shy of the full, and several hours before even today’s moonrise, I could already feel the moon tugging at my thoughts, like idle fingers pulling at a loose thread. Sooner or later, it was all going to unravel.

Right now, though, I was in the Z-ster, my 1977 silver 280Z, following the Piestewa Freeway through the city, on my way to meet with a new client. Mitchell Sullivan owned a car dealership over on East Camelback Road, the heart of Phoenix’s automobile trade. Sullivan hadn’t told me much over the phone, but I gathered he was having trouble with one of his employees.

I’m a private detective -- owner, president, and principal investigator for Justis Fearsson Investigations -- and since I used to be a cop, many of the clients who come my way are business owners trying to manage problems that straddle the boundaries of the law. They avoid going to the police because they don’t want the negative publicity, but they also know that they’re out of their depth. More often than not, I’m a compromise who can make the issue go away quietly and discreetly. Or so they think. Sometimes it seems like I can’t do anything without drawing the attention of the police, the press, and the entire magical community of the Phoenix metropolitan area. But I try not to mention that to potential clients.

“Ohanko.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of the voice. The car swerved, taking me perilously close to the minivan in the lane next to mine. I swore. The other driver yelled something I couldn’t hear.

“Damn you, Namid! I’ve told you not to just appear in my car like that! Not when I’m on a highway.”

The ghostly figure in the passenger seat stared back at me, his expression maddeningly tranquil. Namid’skemu was a runemyste, one of thirty-nine spirits created centuries before by the runeclave to be guardians of magic in our world. He was essentially the ghost of a Zuni shaman from the now-extinct K’ya’na-Kwe clan, the water people, as they were also known. And true to his heritage, he appeared to be made entirely of faintly luminous waters. He was tall and broad, like a warrior, but right now his face and form were as clear as a mountain lake. As his moods changed, so did his appearance, so that he could be as roiled as the ocean in a storm, or as hard and uncompromising as ice. Only his eyes remained unchanged. They always gleamed as bright as stars on a winter night.

For years now, since he first revealed himself to me during one of the darkest phasings I’d ever experienced, Namid had been my mentor in the ways of magic and, enigmatic though he was, my friend. Mostly. He called me “Ohanko,” which, roughly translated, meant “reckless one.” I guess I had earned the name over the years.

“I am sorry if I startled you,” he said, in a voice like a tumbling stream. “Should I leave?”

“No, you’re here now. What do you want?”

“It has been some time since last you trained. Your skills as a runecrafter need work.”

“And you think I can train while I’m driving?”

I found it alarming that he appeared to consider this. “It would be an interesting exercise in concentration.”

“It would also likely get me killed. I meant the question as a joke.”

The runemyste frowned. He had never been fond of my sense of humor. “You need to practice. Honing your magic and your mind is particularly important when we are on the cusp of the moontime.”

The moontime was what he called the phasing. And I knew that he had a point: improving my skills as a weremyste would actually make me more resistant to the long-term effects of the full moon. But despite his interest in testing my powers of concentration, this was not the time.

“You do realize that I have to eat, right? That I have a mortgage, that I need to earn a living? Being a weremyste doesn’t pay any bills.”

“Being a weremyste has been a boon to you in your work as an officer of the law and an investigator. You know this.”

“Fine,” I said. “Practicing doesn’t pay bills. Is that better?”

“Practicing keeps you alive.”

I hated arguing with Namid, because he had the annoying habit of always being right, and because it was like arguing with the world’s oldest know-it-all, or maybe the world’s most persistent four year-old. Either way, I wasn’t sure why I bothered.

“You’re right, it does. I need to practice more. But I have to work now, and I don’t know when I’ll be done.”

He let out a low rumble, like ocean breakers crashing on a rocky shore. Then he faded from view, slowly, glaring at me the whole time. When at last he was gone, I felt both relieved and guilty.

I exited the freeway at Highland Avenue, took Sixteenth up to Camelback Road, and crept along the street past lots filled with new cars gleaming in the Sonoran sun, until I came to Sullivan Toyota and Lexus. I pulled in and parked near the showroom.

A salesman in charcoal gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and a red and blue striped tie, stood near the entrance, smoking a cigarette. He was the only salesperson I saw who wasn’t with a customer. The lot was hopping. I wouldn’t have thought that many people bought cars so close to Christmas, but it seemed I was wrong.

He nodded to me as I got out of Z-ster.

“Nice car,” he said. He dropped the rest of his cigarette into one of those plastic receptacles that look like upside down lollipops, and walked to where I stood. He shook my hand, but he was focused on the car. He walked around it once, nodding at the detailing.

I ate it up. I’m a car guy, and having another car guy admire my wheels . . . Well, the only thing that would have made it better was if he was a she. A pretty one.

“You looking to trade her in?” he asked. “I mean, she’s in great shape; I know we could give you a good deal.”

I shook my head. “Thanks, but there’s no offer you could make that would convince me to trade her or sell her.”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “I figured. Gotta ask, though, you know? So then it’s a second car you’re after.”

“Actually, I have an appointment to see Mister Sullivan.”

To his credit, he didn’t show any disappointment at learning that I wouldn’t be his next sale. He crossed to an intercom panel near the showroom door, pressed the white button, and said, “Sarah, can you send Mitch out here? There’s someone to see him.”

I couldn’t make out what the woman on the other end said in response, but the salesman thanked her and told me that Sullivan would be out shortly. He came back to the Z-ster and after ogling her for a few minutes, asked if he could see the interior.

“Yeah, sure.” I got out of his way.

He lowered himself into the car and just sat, the door open, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the stick shift. “Nice,” he said, drawing out the word. “My Dad had one of these, but he never let me drive it. Where’d you even find it? It’s gotta be older than you are.”

“I found a listing in the Republic classifieds about six years ago. It had maybe forty thousand miles on it, and had been babied its entire life. I was lucky.”

“No shit.”

A white-haired man emerged from the showroom wearing a beige Western cut suit with black piping, a bolo tie secured with a mammoth piece of turquoise, and a stetson that matched the color of the suit. On most people the outfit would have looked ridiculous, but somehow this guy -- Mister Sullivan, I assumed -- made it work. His face was tanned and deeply lined, so that he looked like the old sheriff in every Western I’d ever seen. He was tall and hale, and he flashed a big smile at me as he strode in my direction, his hand outstretched.

“Jay Fearsson, right? I’m Mitch Sullivan.” He spoke in a loud voice that sounded like it had been roughened by a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit. I swear the guy was straight out of central casting.

His grip was crushing.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“You Lee Fearsson’s boy?”

I felt my smile slip. I always grew wary at the mention of my Dad’s name. He didn’t interact with many people anymore. He lived out in a tiny town called Wofford, in an old trailer on land that most people who didn’t understand the desert would call desolate. But he’d left the police force under a cloud of scandal, and there were still some folks around who remembered. It didn’t help that I’d left the force pretty much the same way.

“Yes, sir. You know my dad?”

“I met him a few times when he was still on the force, and I was workin’ a security job over at the airport. That was back when it only had two terminals -- that’s how long ago I’m talkin’. Anyway, he was a good cop and a good man. Always thought he got a raw deal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“He still with us?”

“Yes, sir. He lives out in Wofford.”

“Well, next time you see him, you tell him Mitch Sullivan says hello.”

“I will.”

He glanced at the Z-ster. “Yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Decent car. I always preferred American muscle to Japanese sportsters, but here I am sellin’ Toyotas, so I guess I should just keep my mouth shut.” He laughed and slapped me on the back. “Come with me. We’ll chat in my office. Jeremy, get out of the man’s car and get back to work.”

He said this last with a growl, but Jeremy was grinning as he climbed out.

I followed Sullivan inside, to a posh office that looked out over the lot. He stepped around his desk to a large leather chair, and indicated that I should take one of the black fabric-covered chairs across from him.

“Let’s start with the bottom line,” he said. “Two-fifty a day plus expenses, right?”

“Yes, sir, with a five hundred dollar initial payment.”

“And do I get half of that back if you solve my problem today?” He asked it with a smile on his lips and a mischievous gleam in his blue eyes, but I could tell that he wanted an answer.

“No, sir. Five hundred dollars is my minimum payment.”

“All right, fair enough.” He leaned forward and pressed a button on his phone. “Maria, please have a check made out to Justis Fearsson Investigations, Inc., in the amount of five hundred dollars.” He spelled “Fearsson” for her, released the button, and sat back. “You’ll have that before you walk out of here today.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now then, I have a problem, and you’re going to fix it for me.”

“I’ll do my best.”

His expression turned flinty. “Five hundred dollars says you’ll do what it takes.”

I didn’t shy away from his gaze, but I also didn’t answer.

“I think one of my employees is stealin’ from me,” he went on after a moment’s silence. “Or else he’s giving people access to the lot after hours. I’ve had six cars stolen in the last week and a half. Only one car on any given night, but they’ve all been Lexus sedans, the high-end ones. I’ve got more than sixty grand in each.”

“What makes you think it’s someone who works here?”

“We have a security system here on the lot. You gotta punch in a number before you can move the gates leadin’ in and out. And there’s nothing to indicate that the system’s been tampered with. Now, by itself that might not mean much, but there’s more.” He stood. “Come with me.”

Mitch led me out of his office, through the showroom, where he greeted customers with smiles and handshakes.

“How’s it goin', folks? They treatin' you right? You got any problems at all, you have 'em call for ole Mitch, ya hear?”

I was watching an old pro work a room, and though I was thankful every day that I didn’t have to bust my butt selling cars, I appreciated talent when I saw it.

Once we were through the showroom, Mitch led me to a flight of stairs.

“The secret to this business,” he said, as we went down past the service area to the basement, “to any business really, is makin’ folks feel that that they’re in control of the situation, even when they’re not. Those people upstairs are goin’ to make me a lot of money today, but they’re goin’ to leave here thinkin’ they put one over on me, got themselves a real good deal. Know what I’m sayin’?”

All I could do was agree.

We reached a gray metal unmarked door that Mitch opened with a key. Inside were a set of black and white monitors and a sophisticated security control console. A brawny African-American man in a security uniform sat watching the monitors, a cup of coffee in one hand. He stood as we walked in.

“Good morning, Mister Sullivan,” he said, in a voice that sounded like a salute.

“Mornin’, Rob. Everything look okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’d like you to run the feed from two nights ago for Mister Fearsson here. Just the part that matters.” Mitch glanced my way, his grin putting me in mind of a wolf. “We don’t want to take up too much of his time, ‘cause every minute’s costin’ me a pretty penny.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rob fiddled with a few buttons and knobs, and one of the monitors went blank. A moment later, it came to life again, but I could see from the dark skies onscreen and the time stamp in the bottom righthand corner that this was recorded.

At first, I saw nothing unusual. Like most car lots, Sullivan’s was well lit at night. But nothing moved. Even the foil banners that stretched between lampposts remained still. There couldn’t have been a breath of wind. The feed continued this way for about two minutes.

Then Mitch said, “Keep an eye on that lower left corner. The open pavement there.”

I nodded, watching the spot. And perhaps ten seconds later, a shadow appeared there. It was in the shape of a person, though elongated by the distance between whoever cast it and the lights behind him or her. I could make out a head, shoulders, arms, and the torso down to about the waist. The rest was cut off by the edge of the screen. One of the arms shifted, as if the person had raised a hand. An instant later, the entire image wavered and went blank again.

“Thanks, Rob.”

I looked at Sullivan. “That’s it?”

“That’s all we’ve got. The figure doesn’t show up on any of the other feeds. This person knew just where to stand to avoid bein’ seen. All of the feeds go dead at the same time. All of them remain dead for precisely the same amount of time: approximately twelve minutes. Then the feed resumes as if nothin’ ever happened. Except that one of my sedans is gone.”

“Can I see it again?”

He turned to Rob and lifted his chin toward the monitor. Rob replayed the clip. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, and even after I’d watched it a second time, I couldn’t say that anything in particular caught my eye.

“You understand now why I brought you in?” Mitch asked, once the feed had cut out a second time. “You of all people?”

I faced him, feeling my gut clench.

Magic. That was why he wanted me. Somehow, he knew I was a weremyste, though I saw on him none of the usual blurring of features that I could see when looking at another of my kind.

Plenty of people knew, at least in the abstract, that weremystes existed, but most of us didn’t advertise the fact that we were runecrafters. The stigma attached to mental illness in this country remained a heavy burden for those who suffered its effects. And many people still viewed anything that resembled “witchcraft” with a healthy dose of skepticism, even fear. Combining that misunderstanding of psychological problems with old prejudices against sorcery produced a dangerous mix. Perhaps if people like me were able to be more honest about the phasings and their effects on us, I’d still have a job with the Phoenix Police Department.

But that wasn’t the world in which we lived. Not yet. I didn’t like the implication of Mitch’s question, and just then I didn’t feel comfortable under his keen gaze.

Maybe he sensed that.

“Rob, why don’t you take a short break, refill that cup of yours and maybe grab a bite to eat. Mister Fearsson and I will keep an eye on the monitors.”

He said it with another grin, but I heard the command behind the words.

So did Rob. He was already reaching for the door when he said, “Yes, sir.”

Once we were alone, Mitch surprised me.

“I’m sorry about that. I should have sent him out before I asked.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “You think someone used magic to disable your security system.”

“Don’t you?”

I shrugged, eyeing the monitor, which Rob had switched back to the live feed. “It’s possible. That might also explain the gate. It might not be an employee after all.”

“I suppose. But still, you can help me find the person responsible, can’t you?”

I didn’t answer right away

Sullivan sat in the vacated chair. “I remember that your old man was a wizard, or whatever the hell you all call yourselves. That’s why I figured you might be, too.”

“How did you know that about my Dad?”

“I asked him. He came to the airport lookin' for a job after he left the force. I’d known a guy in high school who used magic, and Lee was askin' questions about the flexibility of the schedule, and bein' able to get a few nights off each month. I put two and two together.” He leaned forward, trying to look me in the eye. “I never told anyone. I swear.”

I nodded. “Thank you.” To be honest, I was still trying to get my head around the fact that my Dad had tried to get a job at the airport. I never knew that, though I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised. By that time my Mom had died, and my Dad was well on his way to becoming a full-time drunk. But he still had me, and he would have needed income to support us both.

“So can you help me out?” Sullivan asked.

“I think I can. The first thing I’d want to do is take a look around the dealership, try to see if I can spot a weremyste among your workers.”

“You can tell just by lookin' if a guy’s a . . . what’d you call 'em, a weremyste?”

“Yes, I can. You can’t, unless there’s more to you than you’re letting on, but I can see the magic in others. And they can see it in me. Any weremyste working here is going to spot my magic, just as I can spot his or hers. Having me here could spark a battle of spells.”

“Well, then what do you suggest I do instead?”

It was a good question, one I couldn’t answer. “Let me walk around a bit. I’ll try to stay out of people’s way, and I’ll be as discreet as possible.”

He frowned, his brow creasing. “That doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

“Welcome to the PI business.”

That coaxed a grin from him. “All right, then. I’ll leave you to it. Just holler at me if you need anything.”

We left the security room and climbed the stairs. I hadn’t noticed any weremystes among the salespeople and clerical workers I’d seen in the showroom, so I stepped into the service area, leaving Sullivan to go back to his office. The guy at the service counter, who wasn’t a weremyste, asked me if I needed help, but I said I was waiting for my car to be serviced, and he told me to make myself at home.

A small waiting room sat adjacent to the service reception area. It had several chairs, a coffee maker, and a couple of vending machines stocked with prepackaged pastries and those peanut butter and cheese crackers that are drier than dust. A woman sat near the door, thumbing through a magazine, but otherwise the room was empty. A window at the back end looked out on the garage, and I parked myself in the corner beside it. I could see most of the workers and the cars they were servicing, but the mechanics wouldn’t be able to see me all that clearly.

It didn’t take me long to spot our weremyste. He was a young guy, not one of the chief mechanics, but a helper. He was about my height -- maybe five-ten -- and thin, with dark eyes and long black hair that he wore tied back in a ponytail. His features bore the tell-tale blur that I saw on all weremystes, but the effect wasn’t particularly strong on him. I suppose he was capable of casting a spell that would put the whammy on Sullivan’s security system, but I had seen more powerful mystes in my day. Lots of them.

I stayed where I was, checking out the other people who worked in this part of the dealership. There weren’t a lot of us weremystes in the Phoenix area -- a couple of thousand tops -- but it wasn’t out of the question that Sullivan could have two working for him. Even as I watched for others, though, I kept my eye on the kid, and I tried to stay out of his line of sight.

After another fifteen minutes or so, I had convinced myself that he was the only runecrafter working today’s shift, and I began to contemplate my next move.

Before I could make it, I saw one of the mechanics call him over and speak to him. He nodded and then started in my direction. I muttered a curse to myself, but that was about all I could do. There was only the one entrance to the room; he was going to see me no matter what I did. I made a point of not staring at him, of making it seem that I was just watching the mechanics work.

But I knew the moment he spotted me. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he slowed almost to a stop, and cast a quick look back over his shoulder. Seeming to realize he had no choice, he resumed walking a moment later, though more slowly now. I could tell that he was eyeing me, perhaps searching for some sign that I had noticed him.

For my part, I could ignore him for only so long before my disinterest appeared too studied. He was a weremyste, and just as he knew that I was, he would assume that I could see the magic on him.

So as he drew near, I stared directly at him and made my eyes widen a little, as if in surprise. I followed him with my gaze and turned toward the doorway as he stuck his head in. He glanced at me, but said to the woman, “Missus Pratt?”

She set aside her magazine. “Yes.”

“Your car’s ready.”

“At last. Thank you.”

His dark eyes flicked in my direction again, but he left without another word. As he walked away, he cast another quick look over his shoulder, but I had seen him turning and was already gazing elsewhere.I waited until the mechanic gave him another task and then left the room, took the stairs, and returned to Mitch Sullivan’s office.

He was on the phone when I knocked, but he waved me in and motioned for me to shut the door. He ended the call moments later.

“Well?”

“I don’t know anything yet,” I said. “It’s possible that one of your nonmagical employees is working with a weremyste, and that person disabled the security camera.”

“But?”

I let out a breath. “But you do have a weremyste working for you. A young kid. Long black hair. He looks like he might be from one of the Pueblo communities.”

Sullivan sagged. “Damn. You mean Tommy Strong.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure he’s a weremyste. Like I said, I don’t know anything else for certain. Where does Tommy live?”

“I can have Maria pull his info-- Aw, hell, I’ll do it myself. Fewer questions that way.” He slid his chair up to his desk and began to click through files on his computer, still shaking his head and muttering to himself. After a few minutes, he said, “That’s what I thought. He’s Pima Indian. Lives in Komatke in the Gila River Community.”

He grabbed a pen and a sticky note, jotted down the kid’s name, address, and phone number, and handed the slip of paper to me. “Truth is, I don’t want it to be him. He’s a decent kid, family’s been through a lot.”

“I understand.”

“But you do what you have to. If it is him, I want you to tell me. We clear on that?”

“That was my plan all along. I’d like to talk to him now, if it’s all right with you.”

“Sure, why not? If any of the mechanics give you a hard time about it, tell 'em you cleared it with me.”

“I will.” I folded the paper with Tommy’s address and tucked it into my pocket. “You’ll hear from me as soon as I know something for certain.”

I let myself out of the office and went back downstairs to that cramped waiting room. But when I scanned the garage, I didn’t see Tommy. I walked out into the work area and found the mechanic the kid had spoken to earlier.

The guy was hunched over a diagnostic computer, a scowl on his face. “Can I help you with something?” he asked after a few seconds, his eyes still on the screen.

“I’m looking for a kid who was in here earlier. I think his name’s Tommy?”

“Tommy just left. Said he wasn’t feeling good. Can I help you with something?”

Damn. “No, thanks. I’ll . . . find him another time. It was nothing important.”

I walked away, resisting the urge to look back. My parting line had been a little weak, and I was sure the mechanic was watching me. But that was the least of my concerns. Halfway to the waiting area, I turned and headed out of the garage, hoping I might catch a glimpse of the kid before he left the dealership.

I didn’t, but I heard a car start up, not with the smooth hum of a new engine, but with the staccato growl of something old and in need of repair. I ran toward the sound and saw a small blue pickup back out of a space.

“Tommy Strong!” I called.

The truck jerked to a stop and then peeled away with a screech of rubber on pavement.

I started to recite a spell in my head: three elements that would have flattened one of his tires. But before I could cast, I felt magic charge the air.

I tried to shift my spell to a warding, but I didn’t have time enough to cast. Even at a distance, Tommy’s spell hit me with the force of a mule’s kick. I flew backwards, hit the pavement and somersaulted onto my front. I lay still for several seconds, trying to remember how to breathe. I hurt all over, but I didn’t think that I’d broken anything.

When I saw him in the garage, I hadn’t thought there was much to his power, but if that spell was any indication, I’d misjudged him. His spell packed a serious wallop. I wondered if he’d been trying to kill me, or if he had been smart enough to hold back. I wasn’t sure which thought scared me more: that the kid might be so desperate he was willing to kill, or that he was powerful enough to hit me that hard with a restrained casting.

I climbed to my feet, feeling like an old man, and glanced around. Miraculously, no one had seen me go down.

With Tommy gone, I had little reason to stick around the dealership. I staggered back inside to retrieve my check and then limped to my car. Rather than get in, though, I walked to the part of the lot that I had seen in the video.

All magical spells leave a residue, a glow of color on the things they touch, including people. And the color of every runecrafter’s magic is unique. So in theory, I might have been able to identify the person who had cast that spell on the security system, if only I could see something else that he or she had touched with a crafting. The problem was, the glow faded with time, and the more powerful the sorcerer, the more quickly the residue vanished. It had been a day and a half since the last spell was cast on the system, and it being almost noon on a cloudless Arizona day, the sun was bleaching the color out of everything it touched.

Still, staring up at the security cameras, I thought I saw a faint hint of golden yellow glimmering on the gray metal. I looked down at my shirt to the spot where Tommy’s spell had hit me. The magic I saw there wasn’t the same color. Not even close. The residue of Tommy’s spell gleamed like fresh, wet paint: a cool, pale blue, the color of a winter sky.

Meaning it was possible that Tommy had nothing to do with the car thefts. But then why had he been so spooked by the sight of another weremyste that he fled the garage and attacked me with a spell?

I returned to the Z-ster and steered her back onto the freeway. From there, I made my way south to the Gila River Indian Community, a reservation on the southern border of the metropolitan area that was first founded in the mid-nineteenth century. Like so many reservations, particularly those in this part of the country, the community dealt with a host of problems, all of them rooted in poverty: health care issues, crime, drug use, gang activity. The folks in Gila River were working hard to overcome those problems, and, in an effort to bring in some tourist money, had managed to open up a couple of golf courses and a few casinos. But I was headed to Komatke, a dusty desert town with little going for it.

Tommy Strong lived on Tashquinth Drive, in a small, one story ranch house. A stunted palo verde tree grew in the middle of the yard, which otherwise consisted of little more than dirt, sand and a few clumps of dried grass. The door was closed and there were no cars in the driveway. I parked by the road in front of the house and knocked on the door. A dog barked from inside, but otherwise I heard nothing, and no one answered my knock.

I walked next door. The yard and house were practically clones of the Strong place; the two homes were even painted the same shade of pale beige. But a beat-up old land rover sat in the shade of the neighbor’s car port, and the front door stood ajar. Inside, someone was blasting country music.

I had to ring the doorbell several times before the volume on the music finally went down. A young woman appeared at the door. She had dark hair and eyes, and nut brown skin. She was heavyset, with round cheeks and a friendly face, though she eyed me warily before peering past me toward my car.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I hope so. I’m looking for Tommy Strong, and I’m wondering if you’ve seen him recently.”

“You a cop? You look like a cop.”

I hadn’t been on the job for more than a year, but I guess the look never really goes away.

“I used to be a cop. I’m not anymore.”

She just stared at me, her eyebrows raised as if she were waiting for me to say more.

“I’m a private detective,” I told her. “I was hired by Tommy’s boss to look into a problem he’s having, and I need to ask Tommy some questions.”

“I don’t think I believe you,” she said, the words shaded subtly with the soft lilt I often noticed in the speech of Arizona’s native people.

“It’s true.” I pulled out my PI’s license and showed it to her. “I was at Sullivan Toyota just a short while ago. Tommy took off in a hurry when he saw me, and I thought maybe he’d come back here.”

She frowned, twisting her mouth like a little kid, and watching me.

“Do you know that Tommy’s a weremyste?” I asked. It was a bit of a risk, since it led inevitably to the question of how I knew this. But I had long heard that American Indian culture was far more accepting of my kind than was white society.

“Yeah, I know,” she said. “He doesn’t try to hide it. That’s probably more than you can say, isn’t it?”

She was smart as hell.

“Yeah, way more.”

She smiled, and her face glowed like the full moon.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “I don’t think I want to tell you that.”

“Okay. Then what can you tell me about Tommy?”

The frown returned and I thought for certain that she’d ask me to leave. But instead she leaned against the doorframe, her gaze roaming the empty street.

“I’ve known Tommy since we were kids, you know? I like him. He’s a good guy.”

“But?”

“But he’s got these ideas . . .” She shook her head. “Being a weremyste in Indian culture, that’s big, you know? Shamans have a proud tradition in our world, and Tommy takes that seriously.” She wouldn’t look at me, and I sensed that she regretted answering the question. “There’s a few of them, boys from Gila River and Salt River -- they call themselves the Piranhas. They’re all weremystes. They have people around here scared.”

The Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community was located in the northeastern part of the Phoenix area, near Scottsdale. It was far smaller in size than the Gila River community, though its population was roughly comparable. Together they couldn’t have had more than twenty or twenty-five thousand residents, which begged the question, how many young weremystes could there be in the two communities?

“There a lot of them, these Piranhas?”

She shrugged. “No. Maybe five boys. But they’re strong because they have magic. People here are afraid of them, even some of the gangs, who aren’t afraid of anything. But they stay away from Tommy and his friends.”

“Yeah,” I said, more to myself than to her, “I’ll bet they do.” A gang of weremystes. That might have explained why the magic from Tommy’s spell differed from the residue on the security cameras. “Have you seen Tommy driving around the neighborhood in something other than his little blue truck?”

I saw her close down on me. Without intending to, without even thinking about it, I’d gone back into cop mode. Her expression flattened, and the look in her eyes turned hard.

“I think you’d better go now,” she said, the lilt sounding less friendly than it had seconds before.

I didn’t argue. “Right. Thanks for your help,” I said. “Have a merry Christmas.”

I started down the path back to the street, and I heard the door shut behind me. A moment later, the music started up again, louder than before.

I would have bet every dollar I had that Tommy and his friends had shown up in a brand new Lexus sometime in the last couple of weeks. I also had a feeling that Tommy wouldn’t be coming near his house tonight. He’d seen me at the car dealership and he’d figure that Sullivan had given me his address. He could be anywhere in the Gila River or Salt River communities. That was over six hundred square miles, and I had no idea where to begin looking. There wasn’t anything more I could do today.

Tomorrow, though, was Christmas Eve, and I had a feeling his family would expect him to be here then.

The problem was, the phasing started tomorrow night.

#

I returned to the dealership, and got the security code for the gates from Sullivan, figuring that if I staked out the lot, I might get lucky. But I think my appearance in the garage had spooked Tommy pretty seriously. Nothing unusual happened during the night. At one point Namid showed up, and since I was doing nothing else, I allowed him to drill me in some rudimentary defensive spells. But I was on a stakeout and I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, which meant there were only so many spells we could practice. After a while, the myste grew frustrated and left. With the first light of dawn I went home and got a few hours of sleep.

I woke up late in the morning feeling dazed and muddled. The moon wouldn’t be up until close to dusk, but already I could feel its weight pressing down on my mind, as unwelcome as woolen blankets in an Arizona summer.

I dressed quickly, strapped on my shoulder holster, and holstered my Glock 22 .40 caliber pistol. I didn’t want to use it, but I would have been a fool not to bring it with me, given what I had in mind to do. I also had a brief conversation with Namid; I needed him to do a small favor for me. It took some coaxing, but eventually he agreed, although not before wringing from me a promise to practice my spells in earnest after the phasing ended.

With all my plans for the day in place, I grabbed my keys and crossed to the door.

The moment I stepped out of the house, I felt the tug of the moon even more intensely. For a moment I merely stood there by my front door, trying to remember where I was going and why.

Then it came back to me: the idea I’d thought up in the wee hours of the morning as I tried to stay awake in a dark corner of Sullivan Toyota’s vast lot. I’d started with the obvious question: How was I, a lone weremyste, supposed to stop five of my kind? Sure, they were kids; they probably didn’t have as much knowledge of the craft as I did. But the spell Tommy had used to knock me over had been nothing to sneeze at. If his friends were as strong, I couldn’t take on all of them at once.

Maybe, though, I didn’t need to.

I didn’t want to hurt them if I didn’t have to, and Sullivan wanted this dealt with quietly, without any police involvement. He had hired me to stop the thefts and, if possible, recover the stolen cars.

No problem. Right.

I drove back out to Gila River. A few wispy clouds feathered the sky, but the air was clear and an overnight snow had dusted the rugged peaks of the Estrellas to the west. A Swainson’s Hawk, neatly decked out in white and brown, circled over the desert, while three ravens, glossy and black, hopped by the highway, eyeing a road-killed jack rabbit.

I parked outside Tommy’s house with my windows down. I didn’t see his truck, or any late model Lexus sedans, but other cars sat in the drive. Two little kids played in the dirt yard, and I could hear lots of people inside.

I pulled out my old cell phone and that slip of paper I’d gotten from Mitch Sullivan, and dialed Tommy’s number. He answered on the fourth ring.

“Hello?”

“Merry Christmas, Tommy.”

“Who’s this?”

“You don’t know who I am, and yet you threw an attack spell at me without even thinking. That’s not too smart.”

This was met with a silence so long, I started to wonder if he’d broken the connection.

“Who are you?” he asked at last. It seemed like he was trying to sound menacing; he only succeeded in sounding young and beyond his depth.

“What did you do with all those cars you stole, Tommy?”

Another long pause. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Should I ask your family if they’ve seen you driving any Lexus sedans recently? I’m sitting right outside your house. I could probably shout to them from here. Or maybe I should bring the police over and let them do the questioning. What would you prefer?”

I heard an odd noise on his end and then muffled voices. I realized that he had his hand covering the microphone, and was talking to his buddies. Good, they were with him already.

“How about it, Tommy?” I asked after a few minutes of this.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, his voice shaking. “We’re coming now, and if you aren’t gone by the time we get there, you’re a dead man. You hear me?”

“Not smart, Tommy. Runecrafting 101: never threaten a weremyste you don’t know.”

I snapped my phone shut -- yes, I still use a flip phone. Get over it -- knowing that would infuriate him more than anything. He and his friends would show. It was just a matter of when.

As it turned out, they must have already been in the Gila River Community, because barely ten minutes had passed before I heard the growl of Tommy’s truck. I climbed out of my car and saw that the little blue pickup was trailed by a second car, a metallic blue Chevy lowrider. I had been hoping to see a shiny new Lexus, but these guys weren’t going to make this quite that easy for me.

I cast a warding, felt the magic settle over me like a cool mist. I knew I would need to cast again once our battle began in earnest, but I didn’t want to go into this unprotected.

The two cars veered toward Tommy’s yard and skidded to a stop, raising a cloud of brown dust. Tommy and another guy got out of the truck; three more boys clambered out of the lowrider.

I did nothing more than watch them, the Z-ster at my back.

The two little kids ran over to Tommy, shouting his name. He eyed them, looking nervous.

“Send them inside, Tommy,” I said.

He glared at me, but then squatted down and talked to them. They cast looks my way before running to the front door and slipping into the house.

“You should have left when you had the chance,” Tommy said to me, straightening.

His buddies closed ranks beside him, which was foolish: they should have spread out. That’s not to say they didn’t look pretty impressive. They were good-looking kids, all of them with long dark hair that they wore loose to their shoulders. One of them was heavier than the others, and another was short and slight. But all of them looked reasonably fit. If this came to a physical fight, I was in trouble.

I cast a second warding, this one a deflection spell that would redirect the attack I knew was coming.

I saw Tommy’s mouth moving, and guessed that he was casting. When he released the magic, I was ready. It hit me with enough force to make me brace a hand against the Z-ster, but my warding did just what it was supposed to. His spell bounced off of my defenses and hit the rear of the lowrider. The bumper buckled.

“Shit!” It came from the heavy-set boy, whose eyes had gone wide. “Tommy, what’d you do, man?”

I cast again. Three elements. A rock that sat nearby, the rear windshield of Tommy’s pickup, and the distance in between. The rock soared at the truck, smashed through the rear glass, and exited the truck through the front windshield.

Tommy gaped at his pickup. Before the boys could recover, I used the same spell to put a stone through a side window of the lowrider.

This last spell knocked them out of their stupor. They charged me, again en masse. They might have had some skill as weremystes, and they might have been big and strong, but they were still just kids playing with powers they didn’t yet understand.

My next crafting I aimed at them. Magic for me is an act of will and of visualization. So I visualized all five of them being knocked back by a giant two-by-four: the kids, me, and that imaginary piece of lumber. Three elements, as simple as you please.

They were slammed back about ten feet, all of them landing hard on their backs. Dust billowed from the ground where they hit, and for a few moments none of them moved.

I chanced a glance at Tommy’s house and saw that two men and three women were watching me from the front walkway. The little kids were with them, hiding behind their legs. For now, the adults had done nothing to intervene, and I took that as a good sign. Maybe they’d been waiting for someone to teach these guys a lesson.

Tommy was the first to stir. By the time he sat up, I had my Glock out. I didn’t aim it at him or his friends, but I made sure all of them could see it.

The boys struggled to their feet, but they didn’t charge me again.

“I can go on kicking your asses all day long,” I said. “You guys look like hell, and I haven’t even broken a sweat yet.” I gestured with the weapon. “Or I can use this if I have to, but I’d rather not.”

“What is it you want?” Tommy asked.

“Your boss, Mister Sullivan, wants his cars back. By his count you’ve stolen six Lexus sedans from his lot. He called me because he doesn’t want to go to the police. But that’s where he’s headed next if you’re too dumb to listen to me.”

I made sure I said all of this loud enough for Tommy’s family to hear.

“We’re not afraid of the police, or of you,” said one of the other boys.

Tommy cast a fierce look his way. “Shut up, Cody.” To me, he said, “We don’t have the cars anymore.”

“Where are they?”

He hesitated, but only for a second. “A chop shop in Glendale.”

“I’ll need that address.”

“You’re going to get us killed!” Cody said. “I’m out of here.”

He started walking away.

Three elements: his foot, my hand, and a firm tug. His leg went out from under him and he went down in a heap.

“No one leaves until I say so.”

I heard snorts of laughter from the other boys. But Cody was pissed. He scrambled to his feet and ran at me. He was about my size and probably could take me. I didn’t give him the chance. All these spells were beginning to tire me out, but I was nowhere near done.

My fist, his face, and a good hard punch.

He was still ten feet away from me when he went down again, blood spouting from his nose. This time he didn’t get up.

A hush fell over his friends.

“Magic isn’t something you screw around with,” I said, walking to where Cody lay. I could see he was still breathing, and after a moment he stirred and let out a low groan. “It can be a powerful tool and a dangerous weapon. You all know that it can mess with your minds; it will tonight. You need to learn to control it, and you need to find something better to do with it than disabling security systems. In other words, you need a teacher.”

“Are you going to teach us?” Tommy asked.

There was no challenge in the question. After all I’d done to him, to his friends, to his car, I think he might have been willing to have me as a mentor.

But I shook my head. “No, it won’t be me. Namid,” I called, raising my voice. “I think we’re ready for you now.”

The runemyste materialized beside me, his pale, clear waters sparkling in the desert sun.

“Whoa!” Tommy whispered.

Two of his friends took a step back.

“What is that?”

“I am Namid’Skemu,” Namid said, his voice rolling like distant thunder. “I am a runemyste, a spirit created by the runeclave centuries ago so that I might guide fools like you through the mastery of magic.”

What a charmer.

“A runemyste?” Tommy said.

“They are not very clever, are they, Ohanko?”

I grinned. “Not very, no. But I think they’re willing to learn, and that’s something.”

Namid approached the boys, gliding over the road like a sailboat on a mountain lake, and began to speak to them, his voice low. I glanced toward Tommy’s house. Most of the adults had gone back inside, but one man remained by the door, watching me. When our eyes met, he nodded once and let himself into the house.

Satisfied that I had done what I could for Tommy and his friends, I walked back to my car. Before I reached it, I heard footsteps behind me and turned once more.

Tommy strode in my direction, a sober expression on his youthful face.

“Thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have to do this.”

I shrugged. “Mister Sullivan hired me to stop whoever was stealing his cars. This seemed like the best way.”

“Yeah, well, I’m grateful, even if Cody isn’t.”

I smiled.

“Is Mister Sullivan going to fire me?”

“I don’t know, Tommy. That’s between you and him. He likes you. He was disappointed when I told him that you might be responsible. So it may be that you can earn back his trust. But that’s going to take some work.”

He nodded. “Yeah, all right.” He started back toward his friends and Namid. “See you around.”

#

I spent most phasings by myself. I feared hurting someone with my enhanced magic and reduced control, and, maybe more to the point, I didn’t want anyone to see me like that: desperate and mad and unable to function.

But this was Christmas Eve, and I knew that my Dad, who was already crazy enough, thank you very much, would be having a rough time, too. So, I bought us a couple of steaks and some potatoes, and late in the afternoon I drove out to his trailer.

The sun angled steeply across the Phoenix-Wickenburg Highway and a stiff westerly wind shook my car and sent tufts of tumbleweed rolling across the road. It would have been a great afternoon for a hike in the desert, but I could feel the moon lurking just below the horizon, reaching for my mind, clouding my thoughts. I arrived in time to get the food cooked and plated. We ate in silence, rushing through our meal like men who knew their minutes were numbered. My Dad wasn’t in great shape, though he wasn’t as bad off as I had seen him on occasion.

When we had eaten and I had put our dirty plates in the sink, I came back outside and draped a couple of blankets over my father’s shoulders.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas.”

He grinned. “Merry Christmas to you.”

We sat together, watching the light change, waiting for the moonrise. Once it came, I lost track of the time. But I remember seeing the moon creep up into the sky, huge and orange, as mesmerizing as it was powerful. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. My thoughts fragmented, and, as I did so often, I began to hallucinate. I remember seeing my mother, dead more than fifteen years, standing before me, the wind stirring her hair. I thought I saw a mountain lion slink across the land behind my father’s trailer. And at one point I could have sworn I saw something flash across the face of the moon in silhouette: a sled pulled by flying, antlered creatures and bearing a single man.

Over the years, I had seen a lot of strange things during the phasing. Who could say which of them were real, and which weren’t?