Baen Books

Free Stories 2021

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.

APPLESEED: A Founder Effect Legend © 2021 by Robert E. Hampson

Latuda’s Lady in White © 2021 by Aaron Michael Ritchey

Misfits © 2021 by A.C. Haskins

All Orca Go to Heaven © 2021 by Joelle Presby

The Paoshi Puzzle © 2021 by James L. Cambias

Of Shadows and Caves © 2021 by David Weber and Richard Fox

Salvage Judgment © 2021 by G. Scott Huggins

Murder in Space © 2021 by Les Johnson

The Man Who Would be Dracula © 2021 by Simon R. Green

Shattered Trust © 2021 by Dave Bara

Echoes of Meridian © 2021 by M. Elizabeth Ticknor

The Rot’s Last Laugh © 2021 by Charles E. Gannon

Fire-Bright Rain © 2021 by Jane Lindskold

From Every Storm a Rainbow © 2021 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

A Baen Books Original

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eISBN: 978-1-62579-832-9

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APPLESEED: A Founder Effect Legend
by Robert E. Hampson

"Izzy, do you have a minute?" Jan knew that Isaac hated the nickname; that was one reason he used it. However, this might not be one of those times. The senior data tech from Logistics and Supply had a serious look on his face as he floated in the doorway of the Sensors and Tracking office.
"Not really, but you look like I need to, Janny." Isaac used Jan's least favorite nickname in response, but again, there was no rancor . . . just a slight irritation.
"Well, it's the trajectory data from Ceres Station. There's a serious downtick in arrivals and departures." Jan held up a databord to emphasize his point. Isaac could see nothing but columns of numbers on the 'bord's display screen.
"That's Traffic Deconfliction stuff, Jan. What does it have to do with Logistics?"
"It's an odd pattern, Isaac." The very fact that Jan wasn't calling him by a nickname was a tell-tale that he was worried.
"Well, it's a pattern. Something strange."
"Show me."
Jan touched his 'bord, then flicked his fingers in a gesture toward the wall screen in front of Isaac. The numbers now appeared on the screen accompanied by a graph of inbound and outbound trajectories over the previous twelve months. "See here?" A bargraph appeared showing totals per month, declining toward the present. "A thirty percent decrease, and it's all in trajectories inbound and outbound from the Belt."
Ceres was the primary supply base for the independent miners and prospectors working the Asteroid Belt. Every one of the stakes in the Belt needed resupply, approximately every three-to-six months. A decline in ship traffic meant that they weren't resupplying at Ceres.
But there wasn't any other location to resupply other than Earth or Mars . . . was there? Belters wouldn't willingly enter The Well just for groceries.
"What does Ceres Logistics say?" Isaac asked his counterpart.
"Earth shipments are on schedule, but the warehouses are starting to back up. Stuff is not being distributed outbound as fast as it's being supplied. The weird thing is that the major difference is in produce and consumables."
"What? We've never seen a surplus of fruit and vegetables! Ceres is usually right on the fine line of shortfall—only the L4 and L5 farms keep that from happening. It would drive the prices sky-high if not for the price controls ordered by Congress three years ago." Isaac thought for a moment. "Okay, Jan, so why did you bring this to me?"
"Well, Isaac, I was hoping you could run some tracking and figure out where the Belters are going for their groceries—if not Ceres, then where? We need to know in order to ensure that it's safe . . ."
". . . and job security has nothing to do with it."
"Well, once that big colony ship out at Mars is finished, stocking it is going to use up everything we've got. There won't be any surplus; it'll be a logistics nightmare." Jan shuddered. "That's why we need to figure this out. It could mess up all of the planning."
# # #
"Entry Squad, this is Eagle One. Sound off."
"Eagle Five, ready."
"Eagle Four, ready and waiting."
"Eagle Three, planting daisies and watching the grass grow."
"Eagle Two, about to put a stiction boot up Eagle Three's ass if he doesn't watch his comm discipline. E-Two ready."
"Eagle Six, this is Eagle One. Carl is being a pain in the ass and is about to earn a pain in the ass, but we're ready to enter."
"One, this is Six. Clear to enter."
"Go, go, go. Execute entry plan alpha."
"Five, in and clear right."
"Four, in and clear left."
"Three, in and Oh my god, it's full of stars!"
"Two, in and clear straight. Oh. Oh my."
"Eagle Six, this is Eagle One. You're not going to believe this, sir, but the asteroid's been hollowed out and turned into a biosphere. There's soil, plants, even trees."
"Eagle One, are there lifesigns?"
"Sir, this entire place is lifesigns."
"Not what I meant, One. Are there any people in there?"
"Negative, sir." The comm was silent for many seconds as the squad leader checked his sensors. "There's insects in the soil and on some of the plants. Something small is flying… honeybees?" After another pause, he continued, "not even a mouse, sir."
"Understood, Eagle." A new voice had come over the comm. The sergeant recognized it as belonging to the lieutenant colonel in charge of the Marine patrols for the outer Belt. "It was a long shot, anyway. Tracking says there's been minimal activity to this rock in the past year. Foxglove and Gladius platoons have found the same thing—hollowed-out asteroids with full biospheres inside. RTB and get prepped for a six-day high-gee boost. There are several more promising targets about ninety-degrees' rotation from your AO.”
Two of the other three squads of Eagle platoon were securing the entry and docking structures on the exterior of the hollow asteroid, while the third was checking on a few rocks in the near vicinity. The new orders meant that they would return to their patrol ship, along with the other two platoons of Charlie company, Fourth battalion, Five-Oh-First regiment of Lunar Marines. Their next destination was one-quarter of the way around the sun from their current position. It would require nearly a week at one-and-a-half gravities of acceleration, and the same amount of deceleration, to get there in time to meet up with the rest of Charlie 4/501. Even though all Marines trained at a minimum one-gee, their bodies would require preparation for the extended load.
Command was hot to get them onto the next target.
What was with these hollow worlds, anyway?
# # #
"Sensors and tracking. Isaac."
"Have you seen the latest, Izzy?"
"Hi, Jan. Nice to hear from you, too. How are Maureen and the kids? Enjoying the new posting? Thanks, Lorraine and I are fine. Jakob starts at the Academy in Harriman Dome next month."
"Umm. Oh. Sorry, Iz. It's just that there's a new report in from Cybele."
"Cybele. Three-hundred-kilometer C-type in Outer Belt? Okay, I heard something about—Hey, isn't that where they found the kids last week?"
"Yeah. Hollowed-out and bio-formed just like the rest, but this one had people living in it. There were a few older rockrats, some whole families, and lots of dependents."
". . . and the new report? Don't keep me waiting, Jan."
"Oh. Sorry. Well, the report said that one of the older folks said the habitat was set up by someone named 'John Chapman.'"
"Chapman, huh? That name rings a bell."
# # #
"General Ishihara, how is the search going?"
"Mr. President, there is nothing new to report. So far, the Patrol has located seventeen unregistered biospheres—thirteen uninhabited and four inhabited ones. I need to caution you that we have surveyed less than ten percent of the Belt, though.
"The Trajectory Deconfliction division claims that each of the uninhabited spheres has been visited at least once since we started tracking six months ago, but that they have not yet been able to track any of those ships to its next destination. In each case of the occupied worlds, the residents claim that they were told of the biosphere by a man who called himself John Chapman, and that they could move there as long as they 'promised to tend the orchard.'"
"John Chapman. Why do I recognize that name."
"Johnny Appleseed—a legend in colonial America, Sir. Planted apple trees. I'm rather surprised to be saying that to an American President, Sir."
"Oh, I know the legend, General—for that matter, it's more than legend, it's history. Appleseed planted hundreds of nurseries, mostly apple, but other fruits as well. They stretched from Pennsylvania to Illinois and he actually tended them himself. He was a preacher and his travels allowed him to return and tend to the nurseries for decades." The President paused and chuckled at the expression on his chief of staff's face. "Well, I was a history professor, General. So, this person or organization styles itself after Johnny Appleseed?"
"Individual, as far as the reports go. All of the people interviewed provide the same description."
"So why do they say he's doing this . . ." The President gestured vaguely.
"Terraforming, sir. The witnesses said he's establishing these worlds to preserve Earth's fruit trees."
". . . and that sounds familiar, too, although that movie is over one hundred years old by this point."
"Yes, Mr. President. It doesn't change the fact that he's violating the Planetary Protection statutes, though."
"Stupid. The laws, not this Appleseed person; but then again, if he's supplying the rock rats, he probably doesn't care about Earth laws anyway. Still, the Alliance is fragile enough as it is."
"We'll find him, sir. It's just a matter of time."
"I'm certain that you will, and a smart man will be ruined, I'm sure." The President sighed. "Keep me posted, General."
# # #
The gavel slammed. "Siôn Céapmann, aka John Chapman, you are charged with violations of the Planetary Protection treaty, the Luna-Belt trade pact, and the Food and Drug Act of 2120. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty, your honor."
The defense attorney had wanted the trial to be publicly streamed on the 'net, but the prosecutor invoked federal security concerns. That didn't keep the proceedings from being viewed with interest by several governmental agencies on private channels.
"So this is the guy responsible for the hollowed-out asteroids?"
"That's what they are saying. He hollowed out carbonaceous chondrites, turned the slag into soil and atmosphere, installed lightpipes, then planted trees and other plants."
"He couldn't have done it alone."
"That's pretty obvious, but no one has come forward and he's not talking."
"Huh."
Elsewhere . . .
"He screwed up a decade of logistic planning. We knew that Victoria was going to need provisioning, and we planned for it. That's why we got the contract. He screwed it all up. Ceres has overflowing warehouses and produce rotting in the cryo-prep area. He's a menace."
"Technically, he made our job easier, we always ran short on fresh produce for the belters."
"Who cares about the belters? Scarcity drives the prices up. The Victoria contract was supposed to set us up for the next decade; now we'll be lucky if we just break even over that same number of years."
In Mars orbit . . .
"I like this Chapman, person. You say he's a plant geneticist, Adam?"
"Best I ever met," said Adam Walker. "I tried to recruit him for the TRAPPIST-2 mission, but he turned me down. I ran his name anyway and apparently the psychs had their own reservations."
"Hmm, perhaps we can make him an offer he can't refuse," mused Keegan Coran.
Later . . .
"Mr. Chapman, this court finds you guilty. You are sentenced to life imprisonment on Earth. Since you have spent most of your life in reduced gravity, and this would essentially be a death sentence, the Court has considered the alternative that has been presented by Mr. Coran." Gavel bangs. "You are hereby sentenced to exile in the form of the TRAPPIST-2 colony mission. You will be remanded to the custody of the Colony Foundation in the person of Mr. Adam Walker, where you will be immediately placed into cryo-suspension until the mission arrives at its destination. Since we have your recorded assent to this sentence, we feel that we have offered sufficient clemency to fulfill our humanitarian obligations. As such, we have a Finding from the President that there can be no appeal without reinstating the original on-Earth sentence." The gavel banged again. "This court is closed; members of the jury, you are dismissed."
# # #
The man was essentially naked except for a light mesh singlet holding the sensors in place. He sat up and looked around. There were five other individuals within sight, also just getting out of their cryopods.
"John Chapman?"
He nodded at the questioner, not yet able to bring himself to speak.
"Welcome to Cistercia. You and the others in this cohort are part of Terraforming Team Six. You will have your work cut out for you."
"W—wh—why?" he finally got out.
"I don't have all of the details. I was simply told that the expected advanced terraforming did not happen. We're carving this world out all by ourselves."
John swung his legs out over the edge of the 'pod. Full gravity. We're on the planet already. "Gravity?" he croaked.
"Don't worry, you've had one hundred seventy years of medical treatment in the cryo to strengthen your bones and circulatory system. Any weakness you feel right now is strictly muscular. It will dissipate in a couple of days." He was handed a bulb of opaque liquid. "Drink this. It's protein, electrolytes and a mild stimulant. Think of it as a coffee smoothie."
John did as he was told. A new world, a new biosphere, and one that wasn't supposed to require environment suits—or, at least that was what it was supposed to be. "Atmo? Temp? Water?" The cool liquid was easing the dry soreness of his throat.
"Earth normal within ten percent all around. This is Antonia, we've been onsite for about two years getting the habs set up. It feels like subtropical Earth—Florida or the Mediterranean—oh-two is a touch high, but it's moist enough that there's not much fire hazard. We're also near a river delta, and just off of a large bay, so we have freshwater and low-saline shallows available. There's rainforest equivalent well to our south, cloud-forest in the highlands to the northeast, and grasslands to the northwest." The man recited the conditions without obviously consulting the databord in his hands, so he must be involved in either the terraforming or science groups.
"Sorry, but you are?"
"Oh, yeah." The speaker tucked the 'bord under his left arm and held out his right hand. "Emílio Belo, supervisor for Terraforming Section B; that's groups five through eight. Yours is the second cohort we've decanted today." Releasing John's hand, he consulted the 'bord. "Once your cohort is ready, I'll take you over to the dorm and we can get you kitted out. Your personal cargo kilo is in the drawer under your pod, and your allocated cubic meter of effects will be delivered to the dorm later. We're all in dorms for the time being, but you'll be assigned to a remote facility within a couple of weeks. Again, welcome to Cistercia."
# # #
"Absolutely amazing." Belo looked over the field of small trees, each about a meter in height.
"They are a fast-growing variant. That means less time until they flower and fruit, but they won't live much more than ten years. The trees—and the fruits—will always be small because of that fast growth, but at least it will provide fresh fruit." Chapman beamed with pride, but then his face fell. "Unfortunately, they will need to be replaced sooner than ten years. The downside of this strain is that it depletes soil nutrients in a few years… and they need Earth nutrients. The Cistercian soils are not enriched enough to grow any of the strains we've tested so far."
"That shouldn't be a problem. We'll just terraform more hectares of land. Until then, these will make excellent luxury goods in the marketplaces."
Chapman's expression darkened. "What we grow here is supposed to be for everyone."
Belo laughed and slapped Chapman on the shoulder. "And they will be. Eventually."
When the supervisor left the test nursery, John turned to his co-worker, Maile Kailani. "Luxury goods. Typical bureaucrat thinking. What we need to do is develop a strain that thrives on native soil and does the transformation for us. These trees and their fruit should be for everyone."
Maile nodded. "I've heard this argument before. I've made this argument before, remember?" She was native Hawaiian; an agronomist in the Green Sahara project before joining the colony mission. "Look, I studied plants that could turn a bare rock lava field into grasslands, pineapple fields and macadamia groves. We never quite managed to transform equatorial Africa back into fields and forests, but we learned a lot. We'll make this work."
John grunted and turned back to the grove of young trees. He took a sample container out of a pouch on his belt and scooped a small amount of soil into it. He repeated the process at several points across the field, and then proceeded into the defoliated perimeter and into the native Cistercian growth past the quite literally terraformed fields of the agricultural research center.
Maile shook her head as she watched him move off. He's obsessed with fruit trees and making sure every single colonist can have their own garden complete with fruits and vegetables. Well, I suppose that's a pretty good obsession.
She heard a faint buzz behind her and turned to see a small honeybee settling in on a flower in an adjacent plot of hibiscus shrubs. Technically, they weren't food plants, but rather were interspersed with the plots and groves to encourage pollinating insects. "The fact that they smell nice doesn't hurt," she muttered to herself.
"The bees are doing fine. In fact, they're doing better than our best projections." She hadn't heard Cruz Fernandes, Team Six's apiarist, come up beside her. "I'm fairly confident that there's hives out in the outback by now." Cruz waved vaguely at the low native growth beyond the terraformed region.
"That would be good, especially if . . ." she trailed off without finishing the thought.
". . . especially if Apple Tree Johnny goes through with his plans."
"Shhhh. That's not something to spread around."
"Hah! As if no one knows."
"Well, as far as we can tell, Emílio doesn't know. And if he doesn't know, the colony leadership doesn't know."
"Those fools?" Cruz phrased it as a question, but it wasn't really. Everyone on the terraforming and agriculture teams knew that something was out of synch between colonists and colony administration. "How in the hell did we end up with an eco-protection idiot as mayor?"
"Especially on an interstellar colony mission?" Maile asked in turn.
"Exactly. Rumor has it his father bought his selection."
"Who's his father, anyway?"
"Actually, no one's really sure, some say Keegan Coran, the Foundation CEO, some say he was a high muckety-muck in the FEFfer movement."
"Fix Earth First? But they hated the mission."
"So, what better way to make sure we fail? If the sabotage didn't kill us, the government would."
"True. Which is why those of us who know John's plans aren't telling," Maile concluded.
# # #
"Okay, let's call a break." The men climbed out of the ditches and off of the heavy machinery and headed for the shade of the trees lining the sides of the roadbed.
On Earth, crews would have set a course and programmed a RoadBuilder2150 or similar fully automated device to clear the ground, prepare the base and leave behind a weatherproof surface for suitable wheeled and ground-effect vehicles alike. The loss of the automated heavy terraforming equipment meant that the Cistercian colonists had to revert to techniques used throughout the late Twentieth and early Twenty-first centuries. They had plenty of heavy construction equipment, but it meant that the road-building crews had to actually operate bulldozers, excavators, pavers, and yes, picks and shovels. The overland road between Antonia and New Virginia would take a decade to complete at this rate, so the crews made sure to pave right up to the ground that they cleared, as soon as they cleared it. The result of that policy was that homesteads, ranches and farms followed close behind the leading edge of the road. With "civilization" so close behind, many of the crew lived close to the leading edge of construction, so the actual "construction camp" was fairly small, but well-supplied.
However, they were not so well-supplied that Nguyen Phan's lunch went without notice.
"Apples? Full-size apples! Where did you get apples?" one of the other construction crew asked quietly.
"What, Newby has apples?" Hector Santos' voice was not so quiet, and several heads turned to listen.
"Quiet!" hissed Gernot, the one who first spoke.
"Well, of course," answered Nguyen. "There's a grove of apple, orange and pear trees on my father's farm." He was new to the crew, just turned thirteen, and part of the first generation of children born on Cistercia. No one was very old on the crew—except for Mr. Santos—because frankly, the colony couldn't afford idleness from anyone capable of working.
"Your dad planted them?" Paola asked. She, too, was new to the crew, and also from a farm sited about ten klicks back from their current location. "You'll have to tell my grandfather how he got them to survive. Grandpops wants lemon trees so that he can make his family's traditional limoncello."
"He didn't plant them. They were there when he cleared the land."
"Nonsense. Earth fruit trees don't grow in this soil. They certainly don't grow out in advance of the terraforming perimeter." Hector was not only foreman of the ground-prep part of the road-grading crew, but he'd originally been part of the crews that cleared native Cistercian life out of the zones that were marked for agriculture. "Earth and Cisty life don't grow in the same places. The terraforming eggheads said it was something about extra 'tides and nuclei or something like that."
Nguyen looked up at the sky. There were two moons up there, although only one was visible in mid-day. "Tides? But we're nowhere near the ocean?"
"Not that kind of tides, Newby. The science-y kind… And no, I don't know any more about it. I only know what the eggheads said—" He broke off as one of the members of the vegetation-clearing team came running up.
"Mr. Santos, we have a problem with the trees."
"What problem? Either cut them down or bulldoze them."
"No, it's not that. These are Earth trees!"
# # #
"My God, John, you look horrible."
"I've been camping. Lost my gear in a storm a month ago."
"You've been gone for almost three years. People have been looking for you."
"I've been tending my nurseries."
"Yes, that's why they've been looking for you—"
# # #
The gavel banged. John winced; it brought back bad memories.
"John Chapman, you are charged with resisting arrest, failure to register your whereabouts with the Committee for Public Safety, and fifteen counts of violating Antonia Terraforming Ordinance 10-505.3, regarding commingling of Terran and Cistercian lifeforms." The judge paused, looked at the gallery and saw the nod from the Mayor. "How do you plead?"
". . . he performed unsanctioned genetic splicing on Cistercian and Earth plants . . ."
". . . he's insubordinate. He listens to orders and instructions only when they suit his own purposes . . ."
". . . well, he didn't resist arrest exactly, it's just that noone wanted to get that close to him . . ."
". . . there's groves of apple, cherry, pear and citrus trees halfway to New Virginia . . ."
". . . we had to re-route the overland highway five times to avoid digging up orchards . . ."
". . . we’re starting to find Terran growth all through the wildlands, now . . ."
". . . I mean, just look at him! Does a reputable scientist come to court barefoot and in clothes that are frayed at the ends of the pants and sleeves? This man is no more a scientist than—than you are, Your Honor! ..."
". . . what my esteemed colleague should have said is that my client cares more about science and feeding people than about his own appearance . . ."
# # #
"Miss Forewoman, what are the jury's findings?"
"Your Honor, on the charges of resisting arrest—we find John Chapman not guilty. On the charges of violating Terraforming Ordinance 10-505.3—not guilty. On the charges of not reporting his location—guilty . . ."
Gavel bangs. "Miss Foreman, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the court thanks you—"
"Your Honor, we're not done. The Jury wants to add that we think the registration regulation is stupid. The rules limiting the planting of Earth crops are stupid, and frankly, we suspect that the Mayor . . ."
Gavels bangs repeatedly. "Enough. Jury, you may not editorialize in my courtroom. You are dismissed."
# # #
"Mr. Chapman, you have been cleared of all charges except failure to report your location to the proper authorities. Since we cannot sentence you to anything like returning you to Earth, you will wear a tracking bracelet at all times, and are banned from travel beyond the city limits.
"And keep in mind that the court is aware that this is your second strike. If you persist in defying authority, we will put you back in cryo—indefinitely."
# # #
"Mr. Mayor! Mr. Mayor! A statement for the newsbriefs, please." The reporter held a databord up so that its pickups would record the politician's image and words.
"Why certainly, Janet. I would like to say that City Hall is somewhat displeased that the jury has acquitted the so-called 'Apple Tree Hero.' Rest assured that this man is no hero. We are scrutinizing his activities and backtracking his movements while he is off the grid and are certain that he has violated many more laws and ordinances than the paltry few presented here. Trust me, we will stop this terrorist in his tracks!"
Multiple voices clamored for attention.
"Yes, I said what I meant. John Chapman is an ecoterrorist. He is now, and he was before we left Earth and Mars. He has no regard for the consequences of his unrestrained genetic monstrosities . . ."
An object flew out of the crowd and hit the mayor on the side of the head. Security guards immediately closed in and hustled him off the entry steps of the municipal dome. More objects continued to fly, pelting the mayor and his security team.
For the most part, the fruit squished when it hit, seeing as it was largely rotten—that is, except for the dwarf-apples which were still mostly solid. The fruit had come from the city leader's own commissary supply. No one wanted to pay the commissary's exorbitant prices when the city market sold fruit at less than a tenth of the cost. Hence the rotten surplus that constituted a classic protest against oppressive authority.
"It might be time to activate Operation Trudovik," the mayor muttered to his chief aide once they had escaped the crowd.
# # #
Maile Kailani waved to the crowds at her inauguration. She scanned the gathering looking for a particular face—long stringy hair and a lined, weathered face. John Chapman wasn't a young man when the judge on Luna had sentenced him to exile, and he'd spent most of his twenty years on Cistercia out in the fields and forests. She hoped he was here. He'd been one of the major reasons for it.
The demonstrations following Mayor Ivanoff's accusations of ecoterrorism had brought about a major change in government. The mayor and his Committee for Public Safety cronies had left on the next shuttle, destination unknown. Over the next few months, nearly five hundred others left Antonia, cutting the colony's population by nearly one-tenth. Strangely enough, the workforce was not greatly reduced, since the people who went missing were predominantly from the science, education and administration offices.
In their absence, many of the regulations that had limited colony growth, including the expansion of the farming and ranching lands, were repealed. There was considerable progress in adapting Terran lifeforms to grow in Cistercian soil without preconditioning, and a new Office of Forestry was established to foster and guide the industry that was transforming the native plains and forests with Earth-Cistercian hybrids.
John would love it—if he were here. Maile scanned the crowds again but didn't see him. Oh, there were still reports of Apple Tree John sightings, and nearly every month someone reported coming across a previously unmapped grove of fruit trees. Just last week they received a report of a brand-new nursery with seedlings that couldn't be more than two months old.
He was out there, and the whole colony was thankful.
Maile proudly brandished and then bit into the fresh apple a staffer had handed her. It was the symbol of her campaign, and it never failed to get an enthusiastic reaction from the crowd.
Thank you, John, wherever you are.
# # #
A statue stands in the Municipal Park in Antonia of a thin, raggedly clothed man of advanced years. He has one hand upraised, holding an apple. The other hand is down at his side, holding a gardening tool. One foot is raised and resting on a rock. A plaque attached to the rock reads:
Apple Tree John: Siôn Céapmann, plant geneticist, agronomist, nurseryman, who took the name John Chapman in honor of the legend of "Johnny Appleseed." Born 2131 CE, Rinehart City, Luna; died Cistercia, date unknown. Chapman defied authorities on Earth, Luna and the Belt by creating unlicensed asteroid biospheres containing plants and trees adapted to grow in low-gee, low-oxygen and low-nutrient soils. He joined the TRAPPIST-2 Colony Mission in lieu of a life sentence for violating Earth-Luna-Belt ecological laws. Chapman is credited with developing plant varieties that would grow in Cistercian soils without terraforming and is suspected of being responsible for spreading groves of fruit trees throughout the wildlands outside the colony perimeter. He is often associated with apples and apple trees, even though he always took care to promote all manner of flowering fruit and nut trees and shrubs. This statue marks the location where Mayor Maile Kailani launched her Appleseed Campaign to oust the corrupt of administration of Mayor Filip Ivanoff—the success of which Mayor Kailani attributed to the example set by Chapman.
—Encyclopedia Astra, Gannon University, Antonia, Cistercia, AA212.

This story is set within the shared future history of The Founder Effect , edited by Robert E. Hampson and Sandra L. Medlock. The anthology contains stories by David Weber, Larry Correia and more! Robert E.Hampson is a scientist, teacher and author who uses his Ph.D. to study memory and diseases of the brain. He turns real science into hard-science and military SF and likewise incorporates for SF influences on science into his teaching. He is also a popular convention panelist who makes science—and science fiction—interesting and accessible to the public. Find out more at his web site here.

Latuda’s Lady in White
by Aaron Michael Ritchey

Hiram Woolley was with his son Michael, in the cab of their Double A truck, driving through the sage, scrub and rocks of Spring Canyon above Helper, Utah. The sunshine of a May afternoon had done a fair job turning the dirt road into dust.
Michael glanced over at him. “So, Pap, you’re saying we’re out here following your dream?”
Michael had known his father was a cunning man for only about three months. For Hiram, it was a time of hope and fear because there was a real chance he’d lose the respect of his son. Even after all they’d been through, Michael still nursed his doubts like they were the green shoots of new plants. Would they grow to bring more doubt? Or would they wither as stronger beliefs took root?
Hiram would’ve thought being in Spring Canyon again would help his son with his doubts. After all, his son had seen the forces of darkness firsthand back in February.
However, Hiram knew that the logical mind was quick to affirm its own ideas.
Hiram adjusted his fedora and wiped a hand across his mouth. What would Michael’s real father have thought of his son, flirting with atheism, longing to be a scientist. Yazzie would’ve smirked and said something sarcastic about the blind leading the deaf. Or how God had a sick sense of humor where sons, spring snowstorms, and moody wives were concerned.
In the end, Yazzie would’ve put his faith in God. And so would Hiram. “Yes, son, we’re following my dream. I had the same one a week in a row. There’s a woman in white standing outside of a black shack in Latuda.”
“The Latuda Mine,” Michael took his dark eyes from the road, as if he needed his father to see his fear. “Just up the way from the Kimball Mine. After all we’ve been through, mines are not really popular with me, Pap.”
Hiram shrugged and gestured for his son to keep his eyes on the winding stretch of dusty road. The previous day’s rains had helped the desert limp out of a long winter, though that moisture was now gone, and they might not get more rain for weeks if not months.
“However much I’m soured on mines, Pap, it’s still just a dream.” His son paused to consider the problem with that quick mind of his. “But the same dream? Seven nights in a row? That is odd. I wonder what Carl Jung would say about it.”
Hiram extended his hand to show his son a big silver ring on his right ring finger, fashioned from Saturn-metal and bearing Saturn-signs, after the pattern his Grandma Hettie showed him “I know you probably won’t believe this, but the ring is attuned to Saturn, and brings me dreams.”
“I’ll probably never believe in any of that astrology stuff,” Michael said. “The planets are just planets in our solar system. It’s like saying what’s going on in San Francisco right now is having an effect on my life. Sorry, Pap. Don’t buy it.”
And Hiram knew there was a good chance that his son never would believe in anything but his scientific method. His world had been reduced to atoms, planets, and human fallibility. But Hiram felt God’s authenticity, and he knew know that ring had given him a powerful dream that needed to be heeded.
A woman in a crystal white gown next to a black house. Her face was pale, her eyelids pink, her nose red from crying. She reached out with white, pleading hands. Her fingernails seemed pink at first glance. A second look—her fingernails were gone. She’d scratched them off. There should’ve been more blood. At first, Hiram thought her hair was blonde. No, it was white, almost crystalline, like her dress. Her pale blue eyes seemed to be frozen open.
Behind her leaned a black tar paper shack, all by itself, in gray-green sage.
The dream tumbled into images. A man’s rough hand with big knuckles and black fingernails gripped a bottle of whiskey. Wind whistled through a broken window. Snowflakes tumbled through the crack and onto a counter where the word Latuda had been written in blood.
Whispers, whispers under the floor of the shack.
The whispers woke Hiram up, covered in sweat, with one last image in his mind.
The woman’s mouth—a white tongue on yellow teeth and chapped lips—whispering the same words over and over.
No one can help me.
Those five words whispered over and over.
“Do you want to tell me more about the dream, Pap?” his son asked.
“Maybe it was just a dream.” Lying to son was almost as easy lying to himself. It shouldn’t be like that. Truth should be his armor, and it was, most of the time.
Hiram’s truth right then? He didn’t want to talk about the woman. She unnerved him. He wanted to quiet her urgent whispers. He wanted her to find peace in the Lord Divine.
Hiram and his son motored up through the mining camp of Latuda, which was empty of men, since they’d be underground. Women stood chatting outside doors of clapboard houses. Children gamboled in the alleys between shacks mixed with tents. The administrative buildings and town shop stood off in the distance. Most of Latuda lay on a flat space halfway up a rocky ridge that still had some snow in the north-facing shade. The settlement looked far more like an established town than the Kimball Mine had. Latuda seemed like it could make a real go of it and maybe even rival Helper someday.
“Turn right,” Hiram muttered. He was going on intuition. Down between houses, he saw the shack, built back away from other homes, standing alone in the gray-green sage. Near one squat house, a thick woman hung laundry with a wooden clothespin in her mouth. Near her, a little boy threw a rock at a cat. His aim wasn’t good. The cat went streaking off.
“That’s the shack back there,” Hiram said.
“I’ll find a place to park.” His talkative son had turned quiet. Both of them had. Normally, they’d joke and laugh. Hiram enjoyed his son’s wit like nothing else. But not that May day. Even with the sunshine, it seemed cold.
Hiram found himself clutching his chi-roh amulet. He’d slipped his hand underneath the front of his overalls and between the snap buttons of his work shirt.
Michael wedged the truck between a low pile of split firewood and another miner’s home. He turned. “Look, Pap, I’m glad I know about your cunning man work. It makes a lot of what you’ve done over the years make much more sense.”
“So you don’t think your father is crazy?” Hiram asked.
“I never said that.” His goofy grin showed he was kidding. “For example, you’re gripping your chi-roh amulet awfully tight. This one is scaring you, isn’t it?”
Hiram shrugged. “I’m probably being silly.”
“Are you bringing the gun?” Michael asked.
“I’m more worried about my soul at this point,” Hiram said. “Just wait in the truck until I know it’s safe.”
The woman who’d been hanging laundry walked up to the truck with her empty basket on her hip. “Hey. You there, man. What ye doin’ in that truck with that Indian boy?”
The woman had a harsh accent, almost British, though she hit her Rs hard and dropped her Hs. She wasn’t the woman in his vision. She had dark brown hair whipped back into a bun and big ears, probably twice the size of Hiram’s. Her nose fine at the tip but took a lesson from her ears by being abnormally wide between her big brown eyes.
Hiram had no idea what to say.
Michael was never at a loss for words. “Hi, Ma’am. I’m Michael Woolley, and this is my adopted father Hiram. We’re looking for our friend who lives back in that shack.” He pointed.
The old woman’s face fell, concern rather than suspicion in her eyes. “Mr. Teague? Can you ‘elp ‘im?”
“It’s why we’re here,” Michael said.
Hiram couldn’t help but admire his son’s quick wit. At times, Hiram thought Michael’s mouth would be his undoing. Right then, his tongue was the keenest of tools.
Hiram got out of the truck. “I’m Hiram Woolley. Is Mr. Teague home?”
The woman shrugged. “Oh, ‘e’s ‘ome. Says it’s ‘is back that ain’t right, but you know there’s more to it than that. Says that ‘e can ‘ear ‘is dead baby boy under the floorboards. Gives me the willies to ‘ear ‘im talk. I says to my Jack, we needs to help ‘im, but Austol Teague won’t let no one ‘elp ‘im ever.”
Her own big-eared boy—barefoot, patched trousers, thin shirt—squinted up at Hiram.
“I’ll go and talk to him,” Hiram said.
The old woman shook her head. “If ‘e’s not too drunk to eat, I made a bit of saffron cake. It might make ‘im feel better.”
“I’ll ask him if he’s interested,” Hiram said.
He started down the alley between two houses. The mud should’ve dried from any rain. In the shade, he felt the temperature drop to frigid. It shouldn’t be so chilly.
Hiram thumbed the Saturn ring. His dream was warning, and he was glad his son was back in the car. Most of the time ghosts were just lost souls, melancholy, fearful, and lonely. Sometimes they wanted to grasp the warmth of living if only to watch them grow cold.
Hiram had his chi-roh amulet. He had his bloodstone in the side pocket of his overalls. Both offered protection, but his best weapon was his faith.
He walked down the muddy track and up to the shack’s door. Leather hinges held the door to a rough piece of wood. He knocked three times.
“What!” A voice bellowed from inside.
“Would you have a minute to talk, Mr. Teague?” Hiram touched the felt of the tar paper. The waterproof material was originally meant to lay under the roofing shingles. But tacking it down to the outside walls kept the wood dry and offered a scant bit of insulation.
“Who’s coming to talk to me? Boss Woon? I’m laid up on account of me back. No work today! Tell Woon to piss off!”
“I’m Hiram Woolley,” He wished he had Michael’s way with words. As it was, Hiram didn’t know what else to say, so he merely stepped back into the truth. “I dreamed about a woman standing in front of your house, Mr. Teague. It’s strange, but it’s the truth.”
From inside, heavy boots stomped across a wooden floor. The door was wrenched open. Austol Teague stood in his stained undershirt. His coveralls were pulled down to his waist. He was a muscled man that had been chewed thin. He would’ve been handsome with his thick head of golden hair and his pale green eyes, instead he stood gaunt and haunted in the doorway. He might’ve been thirty years old. He looked twice that.
The stink of strong liquor boiled out of the shack. Hiram was grateful his religion had made it quite clear that alcohol shouldn’t be a part of a good man’s life. This wouldn’t be the first hope-to-die drunk Hiram had ever met.
“A woman ye say!” Teague thundered. His bottom teeth were rotten. His top teeth were oddly much better. Again, it was a face that should’ve been more handsome than it was.
“A lady in white,” Hiram said softly. “But she’s not with us anymore. She’s passed on. And I heard tell you lost a son.”
The man’s mouth fell open in surprise—that didn’t help the smell any. “You best tell me who you are again, mister. Tell me who you are and why my bad business is any of your concern.” Again, those hard R’s. That rough accent, that matched the woman hanging up laundry, though Teague was better with his Hs.
“I’d like to hear about your bad business,” Hiram said. “I’m from the Mormon Church, and I like to help people. I might be able to help you.”
Teague eyed him. His thick-knuckled hands hung loosely at his side. Those hands had been in Hiram’s dream, holding a bottle.
“You looking to save my soul?” the man laughed. “Unlikely, Church Man! Bloody impossible. ‘Cause I’m damned. You’re looking at a damned man.”
“Then maybe you can help me.” Hiram was glad Michael had remained in the truck. Not only was Teague drunk, maybe violently so, but there was a double-barrel shotgun at the door, sawed down. It was a weapon you didn’t hunt with. It was a weapon for killing men.
“Help you how?” Teague asked, one eye squinted, his mouth open, lips trembling.
“Mr. Teague, I’ve had the same dream seven nights in row, about a woman in white standing here in Latuda. Her whispers wake me up, and I don’t mind telling you, I wake up afraid. I don’t expect I’ll get any peace until I figure out what happened to her.”
Teague howled laughter. “Oh, Church Man, you don’t know fear. Come in. And have a drink with me, and we’ll talk fear, Church Man. We’ll talk fear.”
Hiram found himself seated at a rough-hewn pine table, on a chair that would probably rip the seat of his overalls. The room hadn’t been cleaned in months. Empty bottles lay scattered about with various tools and other mining debris. A mattress Hiram could smell was pushed against the wall across from the door. In the corner, a stove sat in a circle of ash and kindling.
Teague tipped a bottle of brown liquor, splashing hooch into a pair of ceramic mugs.
“I don’t drink, Mr. Teague. Like you said, I’m a Church Man. But I appreciate the offer.”
Teague’s pale green eyes were so bright compared to the dust on the man’s skin, from his last shift digging coal. He hadn’t washed. The liquor stink oozed out of his body along with an unwashed stench.
Teague stared at Hiram, trying to cow him, but Hiram showed his resolve, his strength of will, and his faith. The hard part had been telling the drunk man the truth. Teague could’ve made any number of choices. He’d chosen to let Hiram in and tell him his sorrows.
It was an act of charity for them both . . . for Teague to talk and for Hiram to listen.
Hiram was also glad that the drunk man hadn’t recognized his name. After their adventures in the Kimball Mine down the canyon, it felt at times he’d become a minor local celebrity. Any fame was certainly from his bloodstone, since it had that unfortunate side effect.
Teague dropped his eyes. “More for me, Church. I know the name of your lady in white. Lowenna. That was me wife. She’s dead. Her and me boy, Branek, both dead.”
“How did they die?” Hiram asked.
Teague didn’t answer. He sipped the whiskey, or bourbon, or whatever alcohol came in brown colors. Hiram didn’t know. And he wasn’t interested in knowing.
Hiram waited. Either the man would talk, or he wouldn’t. Hiram did reach into his pocket, felt the bloodstone there. He prayed to the Lord Divine that this man might unburden himself and find comfort.
“I hear my son under the floor.” Sudden tears shimmered in Teague’s pale green eyes. “He whispers at night. He knocks.” Teague wrapped his knuckles on the wood. Knock. Knock. Knock.
Hiram hadn’t dreamed about a boy. Or about knocking. But he knew about the whispers.
Teague turned sheepish. “You think I’m just another Cousin Jack, and I’ve been hearing a knacker, a knocker, a bucca. You might know it as a tommyknocker. But we’re a fair distance from the mine. And I started hearing it after Lowenna and Branek died. Wasn’t so simple, them dying.” Teague’s eyes begged Hiram for a deliverance he couldn’t give him. “I loved her, Church. She was so pretty. She was so fair. Bonny, ye might say, if life were a song.”
Hiram felt the bloodstone pinch him. That was a lie. Teague might have been married to Lowenna, but he didn’t love her, not really.
“And you loved your son?” Hiram asked.
“Yes, loved him most of all,” Teague said.
That wasn’t a lie. His bloodstone lay still in his pocket. Hiram had known men like Teague, men who tolerated a wife, but only because the woman could give them a family.
Hiram thought Teague might start weeping, but he didn’t. He drank the liquor instead of weeping, which was just one of the many problems with alcohol.
Teague sighed. “I was the best with Branek. I’ve always been a drinking man, learned to drink in my homeland of Cornwall, and a Cornish man drinks.” He sang a snatch of a drinking song, all hard Rs, in a growling language.
“Not just another Cousin Jack,” Hiram said. He remembered something, someone had told him, while he’d been in mining country. Cornish miners were so numerous, and they had such big families, a lot of times Cornish men would get hired on and ask if their Cousin Jack could come work with them. And so, Cornish miners were called Cousin Jacks.
“Not just another Cousin Jack!” Teague roared, laughing. He was getting drunker by the minute. And he glanced at the shotgun by the door. “You been dreaming about my Lowenna? You wouldn’t be the first man. She had a wanderin’ eye. Didn’t think too much of being a miner’s wife. Thought she was too pretty for Austol Teague, she did. Well I say, I was too pretty for her!” That laughter was more about hurt anger than mirth.
Teague leaned back on his pine chair. “She wasn’t in our house, Church Man, when the avalanche come. She thought to run. If she’d have stayed here, like I told ‘er. I always told ‘er. First with me tongue. Then with me fists. If she’d have bloody stayed inside, my little boy would still be alive! He’d still be alive! And not whispering at me from under the floorboards.”
He stood up, cast the chair back, finished off his drink and pushed the mug between his eyes. “I was in the mines. We came running. Our house was fine. Other houses weren’t so lucky. But she got swept out. We dug for Lowenna. We found her in blood snow. Tried to claw her way out of the ice. Lost her fingernails. Bloody stumps they were. We got her body out. Looked for my little Branek. Never found him.”
Teague stopped talking. He didn’t cry. He huffed in breath and then seemed to stop breathing all together.
Hiram ran his thumb over his Saturn ring in the gloom, and images came to him, partly from the dream, partly from his own imagination.
The windows were too filthy to let in much sun. Hiram had the idea when Lowenna was alive, she’d kept their home tidy, and yes, she might’ve wanted better things for herself than being Austol Teague’s wife, but she would’ve reminded herself to be grateful that her man had any work at all, given the state of the country.
Austol Teague was both a miner and drinker. Which was the worse problem? He tolerated his wife, yes, but he wasn’t above hitting her. He’d admitted that right to Hiram’s face.
He could see Lowenna taking care of the house, taking care of a blond little boy, enduring the long winter nights and hours. She longed for the handsome man who had captured her heart to love her, but he didn’t. He loved liquor and his son, and in that order.
She’d been boiling water for tea when she heard the thunder of the avalanche. She took up her little son in her arms. She ran through the door and the world went white.
Hiram remembered the winter of ’27—snowstorms hit every week. He remembered reading about avalanches hitting Spring Canyon. That must’ve been when Lowenna died, which meant, she’d been gone eight winters now. Teague kept on at the mine, worked only so hard as not to get fired, so he had enough money to keep the shack and to keep drunk.
Teague stood with his mug pressed against his forehead. He’d stopped huffing. It was silent.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Hiram felt the hairs on his back stand on end. An icy, evil feeling filled his belly.
Teague walked over and set his empty mug down at the table. He grabbed the full one he’d poured for Hiram. “There he is, Church Man. Little Branek. He knocks during the day. He whispers at night, only real quiet like, so’s I can’t hear the words. Sets my hair on end. I’d leave here. I’d go. But being near him is better than not. Do ya kin?”
There were no lies there.
But Hiram hadn’t dreamed of the son, only of the woman. Why?
Because the son had moved on into the loving arms of the Lord Divine. Whatever was knocking and whispering under the floor wasn’t the man’s son.
Hiram stood, moved the bottle and mug off, and lifted that table. He set both chairs against a bare wall. The floor was pine, one by six boards, with a crack between them.
“Don’t waste your time, Church. I looked. Can’t see a thing.”
The bloodstone pinched Hiram’s leg. A lie.
All that time, Teague hadn’t looked. He hadn’t wanted to know. He found a horrific comfort in what he thought was his dead son’s knocks and whispers
Hiram knelt above where he’d heard the knocking. He was afraid of what he’d see under the floor, and yet, he had to check. He felt the mystery of the moment longing to be solved. “Can you get me a candle, Mr. Teague? It’s not your son down there. It’s something else.”
The Cornish man gripped his mug in white-knuckled fingers. It was amazing that ceramic didn’t shatter to pieces all together. “You come into my house, Church. You talk about my wife! And you want to disturb my boy! He wants to be down there, Church! He wants to be down there, damn you!”
Teague threw the mug and it smashed against the wall. He whirled, going for the shotgun.
Hiram was both fit and sober. He crossed the room to snatch the shotgun out of Teague’s grip, so he couldn’t use that other barrel. The pair fought over the weapon. The Cornish man’s finger must’ve hit one of the triggers because the shell on the right-side fizzled and smoked. That gun-smoke perfume helped with the stench. Teague’s stink nearly overwhelmed Hiram. However, it gave him some incentive to end the fight quickly.
Had Hiram gotten lucky? No, that shell misfired because Hiram was being protected by his faith. He was a righteous man, and he’d been called to the shack on a righteous mission.
Teague’s muscles were solid knots of steel, from all those hours working moving rock. Hiram, though, was the better fighter, thanks only to the Great War.
Hiram stomped on the man’s shin, then tore the gun away, and slammed the butt into Teague’s chest.
The Cornish man went crashing into a little counter by the door, turned, and grabbed a pick.
Hiram backed up with the shotgun raised. He wasn’t going to shoot Teague unless he came at him.
Both men were breathing hard.
Then.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
From the center of the room. Underneath the floor.
Hiram felt his mouth go dry, and again, icy fingers tickled his nape. He remembered more about Cousin Jacks, and about their tales of the tommyknockers. “Two knocks means you’re close to what you want, whether that be coal or gold. Three knocks means you need to dig somewhere else. It’s not your boy, Mr. Teague.”
The drunk man shrieked, “It is him! You want for me to show you? You want for me to see his little broken body? He crawled through the snow to get under our house. He’s under there!”
Teague hammered the pick into the floor, again and again, driving the pick into the wood. He grunted as he pried lose the squealing, squeaking boards.
Hiram watched with the shotgun. If some fiend did live under the floor, that left barrel might come in handy.
Teague got one board up, and then a second. The windows were too filthy for enough light for them to see what lay underneath the floor.
Hiram’s sweat was chill on his hot skin. While that cabin should’ve been hot in the May sunshine, it felt like February. And the smells, of the sorrow, the liquor, the wasted life, made it reek like a crypt.
The drunk man retreated to get a candle, but he was trembling so much, he had trouble getting a match lit. Finally, after three dead matches, he got a flame. He set the candle near the pit. Most of the ground was hard-packed dirt. In the center was a pit, two feet in diameter. The hole was stuffed with tar paper, some old canvas, some old gray timber, and some cast off Juniper branches.
Teague grunted and sweated as he pulled debris out of the hole. Hiram watched with a terrible feeling in his gut. Of what they might find.
Teague tossed the branches, canvas, and tar paper over his shoulder, until the hole was cleared. Teague pointed at marks in the rock and a single cross beam of an old railroad tie, stained with creosote. “Those are chisel strikes there. And that beam is the top of a crib. This must be an old mineshaft, far from the mine itself, or maybe connected.”
Both Hiram and the Cornish man froze—to contemplate that hole and what it might mean.
The next knock, a single knock, made them both jump. It was the door. “Hey, Pap, it’s Michael. I got worried about you. Can I come in?”
“Look!” Teague gasped.
The flickering candle cast a dim, uneven light below. But it was enough to show a green arm, the hairy arm of a tiny man. He didn’t have five fingers . . . just four, including a thumb. His body was lost in darkness, but that hand was there. It made a fist and wrapped on the cross beam.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Then a whisper. The candle went out.
Hiram’s mind tried to convince himself he hadn’t seen what he’d seen, or heard what he heard, but he had a vision of a little man in overalls made from scraps of cloth—denim, tar paper, canvas, a tiny man with tiny hands and feet. And a black bushy beard. He had diamonds instead of eyes. He whispered and knocked. Whispered and knocked. Three times.
“What you want isn’t down there,” Hiram said. “You’re a Cornish man. Act like one.”
Teague’s face was ashen.
Hiram continued. “Your Branek has passed on and now walks hand-in-hand with the Lord Divine.”
Michael pushed open the door. “Pap, what’s going on?”
“Get the saffron cake from the woman. Tell her that Mr. Teague is hungry.”
Michael’s eyes went to the hole in the floor of the shack, then to the shotgun in Hiram’s hands, and then to Teague, who was gray, hardly breathing. Those pale green eyes were a lot more sober than they’d been a few minutes ago.
“Cake?” Michael asked.
Hiram nodded.
His son blinked, shocked, turned on his Harvesters, and left. They heard his boots tromp down the alley.
Teague grabbed a ragged canvas tarp and was about to stuff it back into the hole.
“Stop,” Hiram said.
“Why?” Teague asked. Then he knew. “You’re probably right, but I hate you, Church Man. How could I not?”
“You pulled a gun on me, Teague,” Hiram returned. “If anyone has the right to hate, it’s me. But I forgive you. You weren’t in your right mind.”
“Just one of the dangers of drink.” Teague slumped down on his mattress, his head against the wall. He shoved his knuckles into his eye sockets and sat there. He didn’t offer an apology.
When Michael returned, he carried three big pieces of yellow cake, dotted with dried currants, all on a single white plate. “Mrs. Chenoweth said she apologizes for the dried fruit, and she could only use half as much saffron as she usually does, but it should be tasty.”
“We won’t know,” Hiram said. “Light the candle, Michael.”
“What’s going on, Pap? Why the pickax home decorating?” His son’s dark eyes were wide with wonder.
“Long story. Maybe Mr. Teague would like to tell it.”
The Cornish man didn’t move nor make a sound.
Michael lit the candle, and Hiram gave him the shotgun to hold. Just in case.
Hiram’s life was full of tasks he didn’t enjoy, and being a cunning man, he often had to do things that terrified him. And yet, his faith made him strong and steadied his hand.
The railroad tie was about three feet below the floorboards. Hiram had Michael hold the candle aloft, so he could see, but still, down that hole, that lost part of the mine, was a thick, impenetrable darkness. And that knacker . . . that bucca . . . that thing . . . wasn’t of this world. Its ways were not the ways of man. It might have wanted to scare Teague, or to laugh at him, or, as Hiram thought, it was warning the man that his boy was gone.
Hiram gripped the floorboard with his left hand. He held the plate with his right. And he eased himself down into the hole and set that plate of cake onto the beam. All the while, the darkness yawned beneath him. He didn’t want to see the bucca, its dusty bristling beard, its diamond eyes, its piecemeal overalls. He didn’t want to see an inch of its hairy green flesh again. And he didn’t want that thing yanking him down into the lost mine shaft, maybe with another dozen of the tommyknockers. Their beards would split to show mouths full of jagged black teeth. And he would be eaten.
It was just his mind playing tricks on him.
He settled the plate on the beam.
He lifted himself up. Again, the candle was extinguished. Whispers from below. Rustling from below. And they waited.
Michael swallowed. “What’s down there, Dad?”
It was Teague that spoke. “It’s the bucca, spriggan squall, comes to cry for ill and for all. In the rocks where the devil does burn, give it the tezan, tezan saffern. Me own father sang that to me when I was wee.”
“What that’s again?” Michael asked, an impish smile on his face. “I’m pretty sure some of those words weren’t English. What are we dealing with?”
“The tommyknockers, child,” Teague said. He dropped his hands to the mattress. “The cake will show them my gratitude, and they won’t plague me with any mischief. Your goddamn father thinks he’s doing me a goddamn favor.”
Hiram couldn’t but grin. “At least the tommyknocker gets to eat a bit of tezan saffern.”
Michael re-lit the candle. The plate was empty. The knacker was gone.
Hiram took the shotgun, broke open the action, and dumped both shells onto the floor. “Michael, if you could give that woman back her plate, I’d appreciate it. Then wait in the truck. Mr. Teague and I are about finished.”
Mercifully, Michael didn’t fight him.
With his son gone, Hiram went to Teague. The Cornish man stood gazing down into the dark pit, his pale green eyes filled with equal parts rage and sorrow. He’d stuffed the hole full again, he’d repair the floor, and he wouldn’t feed the knackers again. Hiram could see it all in the man’s face. Teague wanted to continue his seven-year long dance with the monster.
Hiram gripped the man’s arm. “Your son has found peace, Mr. Teague, but your wife has not. It’s why the shack is cold. It’s why the ground is always wet. I think whatever she needs, she needs it from you. Perhaps your sobriety. Perhaps your forgiveness. Perhaps the love you never gave her in life. I think only you can help her.”
“She can burn in hell,” Teague growled into his face. “Leave now, Church Man. And don’t come back. You robbed me of my son. My drinking is my own business. Not yours. And not that green devil who likes saffron cake.”
Hiram let go and stepped back.
Teague, red-faced, screamed at him. “No one can help me! No one can help me!”
Hiram shivered, remembering that Teague’s dead wife had mouthed those same words to him.
Hiram then saw, he’d failed. This man wasn’t going to change. And now, when he heard the knocks, he wouldn’t think of his son. Now he knew those ghostly whispers were not his son speaking to him from beyond the grave.
Hiram turned and left, his heart hurting.
Back in the truck, Michael sat behind the while. “So you saved that man from the monsters under his shack with cake? Before you answer, I want you to know, I fully support us starting a bakery that fights evil.”
His son could always make Hiram smile. He didn’t answer his son’s question. Because Hiram hadn’t saved anyone.
He’d done his duty, though, and he’d gone to Latuda to confront the drunk man, and that was the end of it. He didn’t dream of Latuda’s lady in white for a long time.
Months later, Hiram read in the Helper Journal about the death of Austol Teague. Reports were, that he lit his own shack on fire before putting his shotgun in his mouth—miners saw flames, and then they heard the gunshot. Hiram had to wonder if that fire reached down into that hidden mineshaft.
That night, he dreamed of the lady in white, one final time.
He now knew why her hair was white, that was the frost of covering her. And he knew why her fingernails had been ripped from her hands.
Lowenna Teague’s ghost stood in a white gown of snow, the same snow that killed her and her son. His Saturn ring told Hiram that the avalanche had tumbled Branek’s body down into a tangle of junipers. When the snow melted, the coyotes claimed the body.
The woman in white stood in her frosty gown, in the smoking ruins of the shack, where it would always be cold, where the ground would always be wet.
He saw her white tongue against her yellow teeth. She saw her chapped lips mouth words. No one can help me.
Hiram heard her husband, Austol Teague, scream the words her lips formed.
No one can help me!
Hiram was jerked awake, in his bed, in his farmhouse, heart pounding and drenched in sweat. He grabbed his Saturn ring, trying to clear his mind of the spectral figure and his ears of that dead man’s shriek. One killed in an avalanche but unable to let go of her sorrow. One dead by suicide. Whatever the lady in white had wanted from her husband, she’d never get it.
How long would the lady in white haunt Latuda?
Hiram prayed for both the husband and the wife. But strangely enough, his thoughts turned to the tommyknocker. He found himself sincerely hoping that the thing in the mineshaft had enjoyed its saffron cake. And that it might find other, more willing people to help.
Hiram Woolley would endeavor to do the same.

This story takes place within the world of novels The Cunning Man and February’s The Jupiter Knife by D.J. Butler, creator of the Witchy War saga, and Aaron Michael Ritchey. For twenty years, through twelve novels, Aaron Ritchey has stood at the mountain pass of Thermopylae and has surveyed the Persian army of rejection, failure and death and yet he continues to write! When he’s not battling Persians, you can find him supporting anesthesiology software, bicycling, or being swept away by the raw female power living in his house (via two daughters). He is a Dragon Award finalist. His web site is here.

Misfits
by A.C. Haskins

A knock on the driver’s side window startled Einar from his catnap. Outside the beat-up ’66 Buick LeSabre, a skinny white boy in his early twenties held his hands up, his expression nervously apologetic. Einar turned off the car radio in the middle of the chorus to Golden Earring’s “Twilight Zone,” then rolled down the window.
“Sorry, did I wake you up?” the kid asked.
“You’re late, Rafferty,” Einar grunted in reply.
“I know, sorry. Study group ran long—I’m the TA for Intro to Mythology this semester.”
“I don’t care about your excuses. You got my money?”
The grad student nodded and passed an envelope through the window. Einar wordlessly took it and opened it up, counting the bills within. After a moment he nodded, tucked it into the inside of his jacket, and stepped out of the car, where he took a moment to fish a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and light one.
He was short, barely coming up to Rafferty’s chest, but built like he’d been carved from a granite boulder, barrel-chested and clearly strong as an ox. With his shoulder-length hair, braided beard, and leather jacket, bystanders might assume he was an outlaw biker, or maybe a roadie for a metal band. They’d be wrong. Einar wore his hair long not because he liked the style, but because it covered up his slightly pointed ears and made it easier to go out in public without a glamour or a disguise.
He led the young man around to the trunk and popped it open. John Rafferty, University of Pennsylvania class of 1987, Ph.D. candidate by day and small-time drug dealer by night, looked in and smiled.
“Can I get a little extra coke this time? It’s selling like crazy—I sold out a week ago and want to make sure I have enough until next month.”
The Svartalf just shrugged. “Sure. I’ve got plenty of everything. Same deal as always.”
The kid nodded and handed his supplier a backpack. “Fill her up.”
Einar silently began to pack the bag with various narcotics, mentally chuckling that the grad student spent all day studying mythology and folktales and never realized that he was working for a being straight out of his stories.
***
After a long night of similar meetings, resupplying a half dozen of his dealers and collecting his cut, Einar pulled into the parking lot of an old brick building by a pier on the Delaware River just as the sun was coming up. With a yawn, he made his way inside.
“Any problems, Einar?” called out a woman’s voice with a thick Hispanic accent.
He grunted in reply. “No, none of these humans are stupid enough to try to rip me off.”
“Damned shame, that,” a much lower voice rumbled. “It’s been too long since we’ve gotten to teach any of ’em a lesson.”
Einar glanced in the voice’s direction, at the impossibly large figure lounging on an old sofa in the corner of the room.
“I know your kind likes fighting, Tal,” he shook his head, “but I like things nice and quiet and orderly. And that’s how I run things.”
“Damn your dwarven efficiency,” Tal said while pushing himself to his feet. Standing almost nine feet tall, he loomed over Einar, his head almost touching the ceiling. If Einar had been carved from a boulder, Tal looked like he’d been carved from a small mountain. A particularly ugly mountain, at that.
The hulking brute scowled. “It bores me out of my mind. This whole operation is boring me to death, really. No trouble with the dealers. No need to worry about the cops. No real competition in years. Just the same thing, month in, month out. I hate it. I want some action, damn it!”
“Cálmate, Talfryn,” the woman’s voice called, “Tranquilo.” A stunningly beautiful Latina, wearing a white dress that perfectly accentuated her curves, stepped out of a back room with a smile on her face. “It is better this way—we can make our money in peace and the Arcanum does not come sniffing around.”
“The Arcanum?” Tal rolled his eyes. “That sorcerer is a drunk. You could walk into his shop and he probably wouldn’t even notice you were glamoured, much less care.”
“Don’t be stupid, amigo,” she replied. “Even a drunk, washed-up Sorcerer of the First Rank is no trifling matter.”
“I’m just saying, is all,” he grumbled. “All this sneaking around don’t hardly seem necessary.”
“Verdad?” She quirked an eyebrow. “Really? Do I really have to explain this to you again? Need I remind you why we hide in the shadows? Your fellow giants gave up manflesh ages ago, but you still have the taste, do you not? That’s why your kin cast you out. I’m a Patasola—while your diet is merely a matter of preference, mine is my curse. I must consume the blood and flesh of man to survive. The Arcanum is sworn to protect humans from the things that go bump in the night. We are the things that go bump in the night, Talfryn. And Einar here is an outlaw, do you forget? Three men killed in broad daylight! Should he be caught, by the terms of the Treaty of Uppsala, his life is forfeit. Rodrigo, mi amor, was exiled from the Kingdom Beneath the Waves for his crimes. You think any of us would be welcomed at a Faerie Market? At an Arcanum Conclave? Hell, even in that Fae pendejo Bran’s pub in Fishtown?
“No, the four of us are misfits. Outcasts. We have no place in the magical community at large. And we cannot risk being caught on camera—it’s not the 1800s anymore, it’s the 1980s. There are security cameras now. No one will notice if the occasional homeless junkie quietly goes missing, but if you were to be caught on video without a glamour, bashing in some dealer’s brains to make a point, the sorcerer would be forced to act, drunk or not.” The giant grunted. “And this is no second-rate self-taught sorcerer that we might be able to take in a fight—he’s trained, ranked, and has the full authority of the Arcanum behind him. You’ve heard the rumors of what he did in Canada. We all have. Should we draw his attention, he’d be within his rights to kill us without a second thought. At the very least he would be compelled to drive us out of Philadelphia and force us to set up shop elsewhere—somewhere, perhaps, with a Rector or a ranking sorcerer who isn’t a drunk, where we might actually have to worry about getting caught. So, let us keep everything tranquilo, my friend. Let Einar manage his dealers his way. It is easier for us all.”
“Fine, Victoria, you win. Like always.” The giant belched and plodded off towards the bathroom.
Einar looked at Victoria, who rolled her eyes. “Must we have this conversation every week?”
The dwarf snorted. “That’s why he’s just the muscle and you’re in charge, boss. Better you than me. I’m gonna have a smoke and then hit the sack. I need to get some sleep.”
“Do that,” she nodded. “Rodrigo will be here tonight with the next shipment from Medellín. It’ll be another late night.”
***
“Where’s that damn fishboy at?” Tal muttered.
Einar just raised an eyebrow and took a drag on his cigarette as the three of them waited by a quiet dock on the Delaware River a few miles downstream from their home, outside of Philly proper. The giant was glamoured, his magical disguise shrinking him to a more reasonable six-foot-seven. Besides avoiding getting caught on camera, the spell was the only way he could fit in the car to get here. But Einar knew Tal hated having to hide his true form, and his irritation grew every extra minute they had to wait for Rodrigo to show up.
“Right here, my large friend,” a Spanish-accented voice called out as a man’s head broke the water’s surface. “My sincere apologies for the delay—the currents were not with me on this trip.”
“Mi corazón!” Victoria exclaimed. “I have missed you so!”
“And I you, my love,” Rodrigo replied as he swam closer to where the group stood in darkness on a small dock. “My heart sings to look upon you once more!”
Einar rolled his eyes. “Save it for the bedroom, you two. Let’s get this over with.”
“Of course, of course!” the merman laughed. “Business first, pleasure after.”
He swam right up to the dock and pulled himself out of the water. As his lower body left the water, the shimmering silver scales of his tail transformed into muscular legs, and the gills on his abdomen closed and disappeared. He sat naked on the edge of the dock, looking like nothing more than a roguishly handsome man with a toned swimmer’s physique, his feet dangling in the water.
“Who has my clothes?”
Einar wordlessly tossed a backpack at him.
“Gracias,” Rodrigo said as he opened it and began pulling out a pair of briefs.
“Rope?” Tal asked.
“Ah, yes, I almost forgot!” Rodrigo laughed. He unwrapped a thin silk rope from his left forearm and passed it to the giant. The other end was still underwater; Tal began pulling hand over hand as the merman got dressed. In a minute, the top of a mesh bag broke the surface, and the giant reached down and grabbed it, pulling it onto the dock with a single mighty heave where it thudded heavily on the wood.
“Two hundred kilos of Colombia’s finest, courtesy of Victoria’s friends back home,” the now-dressed Rodrigo said, taking a deep theatrical bow next to the sopping wet bag full of plastic-wrapped bricks of white powder. “Reagan can pour as many millions into the drug war as he likes; the Coast Guard will never be able to spot a merman on sonar!”
“Great,” Einar grunted as he flicked the butt of his cigarette into the water. “Let’s get it in the trunk and head home.”
***
As Einar stepped through the front door of the dilapidated brick building they called home, he sensed something was wrong. But as he turned to look around, he felt a heavy thump at the base of his skull and he sprawled forward onto the floor.
Rodrigo was following Einar inside when he suddenly saw his companion fall down, but he hadn’t seen why.
“What . . . ” he began to exclaim, then stopped abruptly as the barrel of a shotgun was shoved in his face from someone standing off to the side of the doorway.
“Inside, pretty boy!” the man holding the gun shouted at Rodrigo with a harsh Philly accent. “Come on! All three of you, inside! Even you, big guy, unless you want to get your head blown off!”
Einar groaned and shakily climbed to his feet as his companions trooped through the door with their hands held up in front of them. Rodrigo’s expression was calm, but Victoria and Tal both looked furious. Glancing around, he saw they were outnumbered, a half-dozen armed Caucasian men standing around the room with weapons aimed at the gang. The one at the door with the pump-action shotgun had it trained on Talfryn, who he’d apparently—and correctly—identified as the biggest threat. Apart from him, the rest had an assortment of handguns.
Magical beings tended to be pretty resilient compared to ordinary humans. The pistols would hurt, but they weren’t a serious threat. The shotgun, though, might be a problem, depending on what it was loaded with. Buckshot wasn’t a major concern, but not even a giant would survive a couple of 12-gauge slugs directly to the skull. The gang followed instructions.
“Over there, in the corner!” shotgun ordered. “Drop the goods in the middle of the floor, big guy! Come on, hurry up!”
Tal looked over at Victoria, who quickly shook her head.
“Do what he says, Talfryn.”
“That’s right, Tall Friend,” the man said, “listen to the lady. Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”
“Keep your pants on,” the giant rumbled as he carefully set the mesh bag full of drugs down, then stepped back with his hands up.
“You!” the man gestured at Einar with the shotgun, “Get in the corner with the rest of ’em.”
Einar rubbed the back of his head and complied. He was going to have a lump later. Probably a headache, too.
“All right, amigo,” Victoria said, her voice icy, “what’s all this about?”
“Do you know who I am?” the man with the shotgun asked, lowering the barrel slightly.
“Not a clue,” she said. “Should I?”
“Yeah, you really should. I’m Donny O’Brien. I worked for Mikey Sullivan. You might say I was his right-hand man.”
Her expression changed from furious to quizzical. “Mikey? We’ve been on good terms with the Irish for years.”
He laughed humorlessly, then shook his head.
“No, lady. You were on good terms with Mikey Sullivan. He wasn’t a bad guy, but for some reason he was a pussy when it came to you. I don’t know what you had on him that got him to leave you alone and let you take over the coke business in town without a fight. But Mikey’s dead. I’m in charge of the Irish here in Philly now. And things are gonna change.”
“I see.” She nodded calmly. Her expression turned thoughtful, and she lowered her hands to her hips. “Mikey’s dead. And he never told you why he elected not to bother us. This all makes much more sense now.”
“Right,” Donny nodded back. “So, here’s how it’s gonna be—you lot work for me now. You keep doing exactly what you’ve been doing for the last few years, but you owe me half of your take.”
Victoria shook her head.
“No, Señor O’Brien. I don’t think that will work for us.”
“Oh, it won’t work for you?” he snapped. “How about option B, where me and my guys here just shoot all of you dead and we take over your operations ourselves? In case you hadn’t noticed, there are more of us than of you, and we’ve got the guns. You prefer that option? Just say the word. Only reason that’s not my first choice is that it’d be a hassle having to set up our own deal with the Colombians and find a whole new set of street dealers. But I’m comfortable with that extra work if you’re gonna be a pain in my ass anyway.”
Victoria just smiled. “Have you ever heard of la Patasola?”
“What?” Donny replied, apparently taken by surprise. “No, I haven’t. What the fuck is a Patasola?”
“Back home in Colombia,” she answered, “there are tales of a beautiful woman who lives in the forest. She appears to hunters and loggers, inviting them to enjoy her company. She’s beautiful, and they’re lonely, so of course they often go with her. But when the two of them are deep into the jungle, she reveals her true form as a hideous one-legged monster, the product of a horrible curse, and then she devours them. She is la Patasola.”
“Fascinating,” Donny smirked. “What the fuck does a ghost story have to do with this?”
“Everything,” Victoria replied, her smile gone. “La Patasola is why your friend Mikey chose not to bother our operations, to leave the drug trade to us and stick to running guns and cigarettes.”
“Huh? You told him a kid’s story and he left you alone? Bullshit. Mikey was a lot of things, but he weren’t never scared of ghosts and monsters, lady.”
“You see,” Victoria continued, her tone turning deadly serious, “I am la Patasola. Mikey left us alone because years ago, when we first set up operations in Philadelphia, after he objected to our presence, I revealed my true nature to him and made it quite clear that if he ever decided to fuck with me or my people, I would eat his wife and children in front of him.”
“Is that right?” Donny chuckled.
“So, my new friend Donny, instead of either of the options you gave me, I will present you with the same choice I gave him.” She held out her right hand, palm up, as if to offer him something. “You can turn around and walk out of this building right now without another word, and I will forget any of this ever happened and we will all return to our lives as they were an hour ago.” She held up the other hand. “Or you can watch helplessly as I kill and eat all your men here, followed by whatever family you may have, followed by everyone you ever cared about. And then I will eat you. Slowly. While you’re still alive, screaming, feeling me take and savor every bite, until you finally pass out from the pain and I finish my meal in peace. Choose.”
He pursed his lips as if in thought and nodded once. Then, without warning, he raised the shotgun to a firing position and pulled the trigger. The front of Victoria’s torso exploded in a bloody mess and she collapsed where she stood. Einar heard a ringing in his ears and his mouth filled with the taste of copper as a fine pink mist filled the air.
“Mi amor!” Rodrigo shouted as he dropped to the ground next to her broken form and cradled her head in his lap.
“Can you believe that crazy bitch?!” Donny laughed to his men as he turned his head over his shoulder to look at them. “Guess she won’t be eating anyone anytime soon!”
Einar and Talfryn just looked at each other. The giant began to chuckle as they both lowered their hands to their sides.
Donny’s head snapped back over to look at him.
“What’s so funny, big guy? You didn’t like her much either?”
Tal shook his head. “You fucked up, pal.”
“What?” He aimed the shotgun at the giant’s head. “You want to be next?”
“Buckshot was a bad choice,” Einar said, his voice full of pity.
“Huh?”
“You really should have loaded that thing with slugs,” Einar shrugged. “You aren’t going to like what happens next.”
“Uh . . . boss?” one of Donny’s men nervously interrupted their conversation.
“Yeah?” he said while keeping his eyes—and his shotgun—focused on Talfryn.
“She’s getting up.”
“What?!” he snapped.
“The . . . the crazy bitch. She’s getting up.” He sounded afraid.
His turned to look, and saw Victoria pushing herself to her feet. Her front was a mess, her chest looking like bloody hamburger meat where it showed through the tattered remains of her once-white dress. But despite the horrific wound, she stood tall and glared at the man who’d shot her.
“Mi amigo is correct,” she snarled. “You should not have done that.”
“What the fu—” Donny gasped, stepping backwards in shock.
Her form began to rearrange itself. Her sleek, elegant legs merged into a single animallike appendage, covered in coarse fur and ending in a hoof. Her torso elongated and she gained over a foot in height. Her fingers stretched and grew long claws. And her face seemed to melt and shift, with her eyes turning a deep crimson and her mouth widening until it stretched impossibly from ear to ear. She grinned, revealing a set of wickedly sharp teeth.
“This,” she said, her previously melodic voice now unrecognizably raspy and harsh, “is the part where you scream.”
His eyes wide, Donny looked back over at Einar and Talfryn, only to see that the giant had dropped his glamour, too, and now loomed over the gangster at his full height and weight.
“Who the fuck are you people?! What the fuck?!”
“She already told you that,” Einar shrugged.
“What is happening?!”
“Dinner, that’s what,” Rodrigo said with a laugh.
“Kill ’em!” Donny shouted to his men. “Kill ’em all!”
The guns all began barking at once, impossibly loud in the confined space. They stopped a few seconds later, as handgun slides locked back on empty chambers. Einar winced with pain; a few shots had hit him in the chaos. He noted with irritation a couple holes in his jacket; he knew he’d heal just fine, but good leather was expensive.
He saw Talfryn step forward, seize Donny by the throat with one huge hand, and lift him a couple feet off the ground. With his other hand, the giant grabbed the gangster’s ankles and snapped them both with a single twist. Then he dropped him to the floor, and he and Victoria turned their attention to the other gunmen.
Einar could barely hear the screams through the ringing in his ears.
***
Einar sat in the driver’s seat of his car, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the steering wheel in impatience as his right held a lighter to the cigarette in his mouth. Rafferty was late again. Like he was every month. On the one hand, it was annoying that the kid was never on time and Einar had to wait for him. On the other, it was predictable, and Einar appreciated predictability.
He took a drag on the cigarette and chuckled to himself as Red Rider’s “Lunatic Fringe” came on the radio.
“ . . . I know you're out there,” Tom Cochrane sang. “You're in hiding, and you hold your meetings . . . ”
“Yeah we are,” Einar thought to himself. He took another drag and reflected on the events of the past month. Victoria was right—the four of them were misfits. It was better to stay in the shadows, unnoticed by that drunk Arcanum sorcerer, the Fae, or anyone else who might want them out of town. That was easier to achieve when everyone did what they were expected to do, even if it wasn’t quite as Einar would prefer. He expected Rafferty to be late, so it was tolerable.
When anyone tried to mess with Einar’s quiet, predicable, efficient system—like the Irish had—well, that was unacceptable. But at least Tal hadn’t bitched about being bored for a while. He and Victoria had been eating well for weeks, and they hadn’t even gotten to Donny himself yet.
Personally, Einar didn’t care for the flavor of human flesh, and he definitely thought eating children was in poor taste, especially in front of their father. He’d tried to make sure he was out of the building during mealtimes recently—the screams ruined his appetite.
But he understood it was necessary. The four of them didn’t worry too much about the cops, but if they left any survivors, there was always a chance that down the line someone would come looking to figure out what happened to his or her dad, and maybe see something they shouldn’t, and things could get out of hand. Easier and more efficient just to leave no loose ends in the first place. And while eating them wasn’t strictly necessary to achieve that goal, it wasn’t like Victoria and Talfryn to waste good meat. They hadn’t had to snatch any homeless guys from dark alleys in a month.
Besides, Victoria had offered Donny a choice, and she was merely following through with the option he’d taken. It wasn’t her fault he hadn’t really believed her. La Patasola always kept her word, and Einar appreciated that. It helped keep things predictable.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the skinny form of John Rafferty approaching.
“You’re late,” he called as he flicked the butt of his cigarette out of the window.
“I know, I know, sorry!”
“Whatever. You got my money?”
Back to business as normal.

A.C. Haskins is a former Armored Cavalry Officer and combat veteran turned economist and business strategist (and occasional defensive firearm instructor). He has a lifelong love of speculative fiction, having written his first science fiction novel as a class project in the eleventh grade. His interests include (but are not limited to) ancient and medieval history, mythology, applied violence studies, tabletop gaming, and theoretical economics. He lives in Michigan with his wife, two cats, and a dog.

All Orca Go to Heaven
by Joelle Presby

Note: This short story is set after the events of The Road to Hell (Multiverse #3) by David Weber and Joelle Presby. In the Multiverse of those series novels, two worlds spanning human civilizations occupy their own chains of Earths connected through naturally occurring portals. They have been at war since first contact on Hell’s Gate when a powerful telepath, the daughter of the Sharonan Cetacean Ambassador Shalassar, broadcast the defeat of her Sharonan unit of explorers by an Arcanan military exploration force. The Arcanans have magic, often placed in crystals and used to control magically created animals from dragons and griffins to three-headed hydras. The Sharonans have telepaths and steam power level technology. While the Arcanan magic beasts have been an aerial force and a logistical powerhouse, the intelligent whales, dolphins, and orca back on the Sharonan home world have not previously involved themselves in the humans’ conflict.

Sharona
A seal-sized shadow flippered along the surface. It looked so delicious. The orca Teeth Cleaver wanted it. He powered up from the blue-black deep ready to feast on marbled fat and mouthwatering seal steak. Tired down to his very cartilage, a warm-blooded meal would do very nicely.
But an overly spiny reef creature darted past his jaws, and he snapped at it in pure reflex. The shell’s taste was vile, but his belly felt ready to eat itself, he was so hungry.
The shadow above resolved into a narrow hull and oars.
Teeth Cleaver’s belly growled in dissatisfaction. He couldn’t eat a human.
The thing in his mouth gave a frantic wriggle and he pinned it between his teeth. One doesn’t torment the prey, one eats it.
He chewed barely enough to crunch the spiny thing’s shell and swallowed. The crustacean had an aftertaste of stagnant coast waters and the texture of sea snails.
Teeth Cleaver looked up and gave a mental sigh. It was still only a human up there, not an acceptable meal.
But Sharp Sharp had followed at his side. She’d slowed when he paused, but only out of caution in an unfamiliar ocean. Too late, he remembered the twisted rules of that other ocean.
Her fins gave an eager shiver and she lunged upward.
Whale shit! She was going to eat the human!
::NOT FOOD!:: A dolphin chirped at top volume, its small-bodied voice shrill with horror.
::Mine.:: Sharp Sharp responded.
::No!:: Teeth Cleaver bellowed finding his voice a moment too late.
The white and black orca at his side had already flared her tail flukes to begin a powerful surge towards the surface.
A gray blur streaked past Teeth Cleaver’s flank, and the daring bottlenose rammed into Sharp Sharp’s side. The orca careened off course, howling wordless rage.
Teeth Cleaver dove between the two before Sharp Sharp could close her jaws around a dolphin body in lieu of the human one.
::We don’t eat allies.:: Teeth Cleaver said. It should’ve gone without saying, but he’d had to say it several times already.
::Careless for ones grown so large, your pigfish.:: Sharp Sharp’s gaze flicked back and forth at the closest members of the dolphin pod escorting them. ::Marbled almost, they are…:: She paused as their rise through the ocean layers brought them a trailing taste of the furthest dolphin, the survivor, who swam with difficulty and a wound newly re-opened by the exertion. Her words were rough as if she was trying to communicate something that didn’t quite fit into the Sharonan cetacean language. ::Seasoned. But, much too quick for now. Maybe next hunt.:: The tone was wistful as if the dolphins would always be beyond reach.
Teeth Cleaver wanted very much to reassure the scrappy Arcanan orca, who thought of herself only as a whiteblack, that they could absolutely catch and eat any one of these dolphins if ever they chose to.
But he’d also much rather that she didn’t try it.
Sharonan marine life of all types lacked the gaunt, near-starved look of the natural creatures from the Arcanan ocean. With time in these rich Sharonan waters, Sharp Sharp ought to put on more fighting weight herself. At least enough of it not to shy from some overfed bottlenose pod.
Tougher-than-usual gray ones formed the wall of nearer dolphins, and, Teeth Cleaver realized on closer examination, all of the ones beyond were as well. These dolphins had kept all their pod’s new mothers, elderly, and youngest elsewhere. The respect implied was pleasing.
Sharp Sharp’s fear was rather less so.
Above, a human creature too ignorant to understand paddled on. The young woman’s tanned, not-to-be-chewed-on, arms sculled a barely seaworthy one person hull out past the reefs.
::Not a seal,:: Teeth Cleaver explained again. ::We don’t eat the Two Legs.::
A few dolphins had gone through the new small portal to look about, as dolphins did. And not returned. So. The great whales had sent for the orca. Teeth Cleaver had arrived first. He had gone and returned, as orca do.
There’d been a fight, of course, with plenty of injuries on all sides, but Teeth Cleaver had missed it. He hadn’t managed to eat any of the enemy, and it was making him grouchy. The surviving Sharonan dolphin he’d found had squeaked out a frightened exaggeration of a report of course, but it was missing all the most useful details. What had the opponents tasted like? They had had three heads, okay, but had they moved with interesting cunning like a great white or had they been like so many startled eels that had to be cornered and frightened to make for a decent fight?
And there was the matter of the deeply scarred and half-starved female Arcanan orca Sharp Sharp who’d trailed along behind the Sharonan dolphin and now swam beside Teeth Cleaver to come meet the elders. She’d moved like some sort of ocean scavenger following prey injured by a stronger predator and hoping it fell from the injury, so she could eat. Orca were ill suited to diplomacy, but they could fit through the portal.
::Don’t eat this. Don’t eat that.:: Sharp Sharp began a low sing-song complaint which carried far too well to the hard-nosed dolphins keeping pace beside them. ::Oh, but my second cousin married a sea turtle, we can’t eat those.::
::We can eat turtles.:: Teeth Cleaver interjected. A moment’s further thought compelled him to add, ::Not that I’d want to. Icky shell bits get caught in the back of the mouth and make everything taste gritty for days.::
Sharp Sharp ignored him, expanding her objections. ::And those giant squid can add without even using their tentacles to count, we can’t have them for snack anymore.::
::Squid eat each other.:: Teeth Cleaver was getting annoyed now. ::They don’t get to claim protected status from the great whales for intelligence while engaging in cannibalism on the side.::
::Whales are a myth,:: Sharp Sharp said.
What? No! She couldn’t possibly think— Teeth Cleaver’s mind slammed against the impossible idea.
To imagine an ocean with so few whales that an orca of hunting age did not believe in them was, was, twisty enough only a squid could think it!
Sharp Sharp wiggled a fin at him in amusement at his shock, an orca’s natural grin finally showing through on the scarred killer whale’s face. Her eyes gave a little roll as if he were being quaintly superstitious instead of roiling inside from the shock of her comment.
::Besides us, of course,:: Sharp Sharp amended. ::I mean the mighty thinkers two or more whiteblack lengths.:: She bared teeth in derision as if about to say something only a very foolish and quite young orca calf would believe. ::Or even five plus lengths in the truly ridiculous stories. Those ones the legends say used to lay down laws for the ocean and so forth that are said to be the color of your over-muscled pigfish.::
The space between the two orca and the dolphin pod stretched as the smaller marine mammals thought and rethought about an ocean without whales.
Sharp Sharp swam on.
A trick of the ocean light filtering down on her too thin black and white body gave her a shark like appearance. She flicked her dorsals this way and that, drifting first at an angle to glance up at the human, and then to the sides, considering the dolphin pod plunging up and down beside them.
Teeth Cleaver could hear the deep-water song change. This ocean did not lack for whales. His mind continued down the twisty currents Sharp Sharp had suggested. In the Arcanan oceans, the orca pods called themselves whiteblacks, and they called their rarely sighted dolphin and porpoise species pigfish.
And ate them.
Difficult to blame those orca. Bottlenose dolphin had such a melt in your mouth flavor. The texture was not quite as soft as a delicate bite of white tuna, nor was the tang as savory as shark liver, but it did make a fine meal according to the orca histories.
But back years and years past in this very Sharonan ocean, when the dolphins had been eaten, the waves themselves had seethed almost to a boil with the rage of the great whales. Teeth Cleaver considered the inherited memory. The blood and pulped flesh of orca in a horrific seawater stew was a flavor remembered in the histories too. When those tastes had drifted in the currents, the orca youths deemed too immature to be punished for a pod’s inappropriate diet choices had been bathed in the revolting soup made from the body parts of their own kind.
The surviving dolphin elders, once they’d managed to recapture the great whales’ attention, had insisted on the orcas’ young being moved further away. Such was the way of the gray-finned in Sharonan oceans. Embarrassing.
Teeth Cleaver changed the subject.
::Tell me about your tentacled sea monsters. The new ones. Florescent coloring like our poison-fish, but not actually related, you were saying.:: Teeth Cleaver focused in on the important part. “And parts are edible, you said. How do they taste?::
#
High on the surface of the water, Cetacean Institute Intern Pelgra Forminara thought she was having a very bad day. Just this morning, the Flicker post mail had informed her to expect her pickup boat to arrive in four weeks instead of three.
She’d been already out for a full week on the benighted atoll, subsisting on dried fruit and now seven-day-old travel bread that hadn’t even tasted good when fresh. Her arms hurt. The part in her hair had sunburned.
And thanks to an unfortunate sea gust, she’d lost her hat. Again.
The ugly straw monstrosity dipped in the valley between the rolling wave mountains. She straightened in her deep-sea kayak and squinted against the sun glare on the waves. Several forms swam beneath. Maybe one of them might bring her back the hat?
::Um, gentlemind?:: Pelgra sent out in mindspeech, trying hard to be calm and formal and not ‘squeaky as a porpoise chew toy but less interesting.’
A dolphin fin broke the surface, and she leaned back in delight. Dolphins always help. Except this one streamed straight past without even a greeting and—
What on all the worlds? A bloom of blood curled after in its wake.
A black and white form well covered with the small scars of those nautical combats the orcas sought out for themselves soared out of the water and landed again in an awkward belly flop as if it had tried to attack the dolphin and missed. Was that Teeth Cleaver?
“You beast!” Pelgra yelled at it, forgetting in her shock to use her Talent of Cetacean Mindspeech.
::Allowances for Sharp Sharp,:: a mindvoice from deeper below sent to her. His tone conveyed a flash of teeth and a tail flip somehow implying a sense of diving to pressures almost too much to handle. ::She’s, ah—:: The second orca failed to come up with an explanation beyond another mental image emphasizing crushingly deep waters.
Chagrined, she recognized the second orca’s mindvoice as Teeth Cleaver. So that other killer whale who’d snapped at the dolphin was Sharp Sharp.
“I need you to know our cetaceans by the tips of their fins. If you don’t, you’re useless to me.” Pelgra remembered Ambassador Shalassar saying once in a speech to the embassy staff.
Her face flushed a darker red than her worst sunburn. This wasn’t a fair test! Orca do not all look alike. Not to me. I was just startled. Pelgra tried to reassure herself, embarrassment turning into anger.
Sharp Sharp ducked under the water, denying the intern a chance to study her fins and scars. The orca circled under the boat’s little keel, rudely made no mindvoice greeting, and rose on the other side. Pelgra leaned far out.
She smacked the killer whale across the nose with her bare hand and screamed at it.
::You do not pretend to eat dolphins! Especially not the elderly ones who have trouble swimming! You—:: Pelgra trailed off too flustered to come up with an insult both appropriate to the situation and acceptable coming from a very junior representative of the Cetacean Institute.
The thin black and white whale turned her lithe body against a cresting wave in an expression of shock. The slight marks she’d initially noticed proved to be deep and many. Some older scars made rings like massive suction cups had formed them, and the image of an octopus large enough to leave that size injury distracted Pelgra for a moment. Then she remembered the exhausted dolphin flying by with a trail of actual blood. She smacked Sharp Sharp’s nose harder.
The orca dove and vanished under the waves.
As well it should. She checked the horizon and caught the glint of sun on a dolphin back. The fleeing injured one? She couldn’t tell. She was supposed to be better at cetacean identification by now.
::Do you require assistance, gentlemind?:: Pelgra projected at the top of her mental range, trying not to squeak. She sent in the general direction the dolphin had gone. He might need help. I can do that. I’m not useless to the Cetacean Embassy. I’m not. She had thumbs and even some few medicines and bandages back at the atoll, if the cetacean were hurt enough to accept them. “I can help.” Arrgh. That had been spoken aloud and not in mindspeech at all. She focused and sent as loudly as she could manage, ::I can help!::
Difficult to tell with only the brief glimpse, but the injured dolphin hadn’t actually seemed all that old or infirm. Maybe some older calf dolphins had teased an orca and gotten too close? But that made no sense, even the most playful of dolphins weren’t that stupid. The billowing waves gave her no clues. The cetaceans below in the deep didn’t choose to give her any explanations either. Many minds swam in shoals and pods down there.
::Friend dolphin?:: She tried again. ::I have medicines.:: And thumbs, if she could only paddle back to the island fast enough to put either the hands or the cures to work.
That second call she sent out finally got an answer. A single musical tone hummed back in a wash of cetacean mindspeech. The sound didn’t have a human language equivalent and Pelgra stretched to remember what it meant.
::Unpleasant duty for grown creatures, please don’t stress your little flippers,:: her memory supplied. It was a refrain of a porpoise nursery song.
Oh great, she thought, now they’re talking to me like I’m a newborn.
But, the dolphin had sent it at a volume which added a panic-stricken undertone of wailing for the big whale to please, please, please swim faster. It sounded almost like a whisper of ::wild one gone rabid:: might have been added at the end by a barely detectable hum from a chorus of minds below.
Was there a full pod of dolphins down there? Pelgra stared at the waves with a dubious expression. She’d been warned that a mind sometimes played tricks with itself out in the ocean and that she’d need to take regular breaks from her cetacean language study.
Not that an intern was supposed to ever be idle. There’d been a tidy little pile of cetacean embassy account books with lists of this and that fishy treat. Things purchased. Portions dispensed. Amounts paid. Wastage. Lots of rows of numbers to check and recheck. Trying her hand at an audit of sorts had been recommended.
But the waves were beautiful, and the porpoise pod who’d visited last week was so charming, and so she’d skipped a few of those mindspeech breaks, or maybe a lot of those so-called breaks.
Whatever. A dolphin had been injured. That, her mind had not imagined. She felt a surge of guilt at smacking the orca.
But it couldn’t really have been at fault. An orca would never intentionally bite a thinking creature. Or at least not a fellow mammal. Or not a fellow mammal during this particular century and with the large-mind whales so close and listening. She was almost sure. An orca wouldn’t do that. Except that she thought it had.
Pelgra paddled hard in the direction the injured gray creature had come from and spotted three more dolphins rising from the depths, flitting near and then back below in flashing silver shadows. Oh. Nnnnmmmll, Llllooouooo, and Mmmmunnnll. Pelgra brimmed with pleasure at recognizing the three adventurous bottlenose dolphins.
There below she spotted the orca Sharp Sharp again.
It snapped at them! She saw it clearly.
“You! No! Bad orca!” Pelgra both yelled aloud and screamed at it in mindspeech. She slammed her oar flat against the water in emphasis. That noise attracted enough of the killer whale’s attention to get it to surface near her little boat.
She raised her hand to whack it again when Mmmmunnnll surged up, striking the side of her hull. The boat spun sharply left.
Pelgra flailed with the oar to keep from capsizing. Sharp Sharp’s wide mouth closed on the air where her shoulder had been a moment ago.
Pelgra’s jaw dropped in outraged disbelief. That hadn’t just happened. No orca would do that. She would’ve lost her whole arm if the dolphin hadn’t pushed the little skiff at just that right moment.
The massive shape of Great Holhata rose from the ocean depths and his huge sperm whale back shouldered between her and the impossibly rude creature. Pelgra shook in barely contained fury. With great reluctance, she forced herself let go of the problem.
The large-mind, as the cetaceans referred to the lords of the sea, would manage everything. Besides, she felt Great Kahla deep below also singing an inquiry.
If it were some passing madness, two large-minds were more than capable of arranging a monitored convalescence. If it were pure mischief, well, the laws of the sea were cold and this particular orca would never bother anyone or anything ever again.
Pelgra flinched when a second black and white shape surfaced to float alongside her boat. An old scar ran over the left eye spot, she recognized Teeth Cleaver.
The familiar orca flashed a trace of a smile and shouldered her hull away from Great Holhata’s body.
::Head on home now, Little Crazy Fists,:: he said, and the dolphin Llllooouooo bumped the stern of her boat to start her towards the atoll. Nnnnmmmll dared a burst of speed past Teeth Cleaver to dart in and drop off her straw sun hat.
She fished it out of the water and restored it to her head. It dripped everywhere getting water in her eyes. Teeth Cleaver didn’t make any snide remarks.
Mmmmunnnll lingered long enough to press a friendly dolphin nose against her arm before darting away. Teeth Cleaver didn’t even jostle Mmmmunnnll to prove that he could’ve caught the dolphin if he wanted to.
This was not how killer whales acted. Polite. Respectful. And that Crazy Fists title was a new one for her. She’d been: Paddles Too Slow most recently, Lobster Face for her sunburns before that, and The New It still prior to that.
Pelgra picked her hat back off her head, shook it vigorously, and then redeposited it on her head, too tired to bother with the mystery of one horrible orca and another strangely respectful one.
The dolphin’s report to Great Holhata and Great Kahla on the bad orca Sharp Sharp washed in and out of her cetacean speaker range. She could tell the dolphin spoke but none of the words came through clearly. The whole purpose of her deep ocean assignment was to work on her Talent. So, she focused her mind as she paddled, making the long smooth motions slower than she needed to, and she listened.
::No invalid, I!:: The words filtered through with odd clarity among the mess of more distant chatter, and while the voice was clearly the orca Sharp Sharp’s mindspeech, it had rough unfamiliar tones as if it were in some accent Pelgra had never encountered despite having conducted ocean studies on every single one of Sharona’s seven seas. Pelgra had expected something more apologetic or at least on topic to biting at dolphins, but instead Teeth Cleaver interjected citing some old killer whale song about tuna liver to rebuild strength. . . . And she couldn’t make out what else.
Snatches of something Llllooouooo said sounded a little bit like an old orca war ballad, but coming from a dolphin, that couldn’t be right.
As an adult, Pelgra’s direct range wasn’t likely to grow much no matter how hard she worked at it, but there was a whole ocean of difference between hearing a cetacean and having any idea what it was saying.
The adult sperm whales usually understood all Sharonan languages better than Pelgra understood the varying cetacean dialects, and she’d also been taught that a person’s mindspeech projections could sometimes reach further than her own reception. The dolphins were easily distracted fun-loving creatures according to both her studies and her experience. They might have already forgotten what had happened to one of their own. So Pelgra projected a stream of details about her last few minutes, and adding that little bit of a mental hum which seemed to help with her range, she sang out a report for Great Holhata’s consideration.
At the end of it, she sent a forceful comment towards Sharp Sharp’s distant mind blur. ::Bad orca. Don’t bite dolphins!::
She repeated the image of the dolphin trailing blood in front of her little boat and the orca coming up after it and sent the picture to Great Kahla too just in case her words hadn’t quite captured what had happened clearly enough.
No one answered her. With some reluctance, Pelgra paddled away.
#
The swishing oar sound faded and the deep croon of whale song made a lullaby of the sea. The discord of the killer whales’ complaints in response stood out sharply.
Below, Sharp Sharp had moved past the gibbering stage to complete disbelief with a speed Teeth Cleaver found commendable, if still rather suicidal. His fellow orca paused in her ranting about tentacled beasts and the impossibility of the two whales before them actually existing to comment on the human. Her language flitted back and forth between clarity and a squid-like disregard for decent grammar whenever Sharp Sharp found some Sharonan thing disturbing. The former New It Pelgra disturbed the foreign orca.
::I whiteblack of sharp teeth and sharp mind. What means this two leg saying ‘orca’?::
#
Pelgra jerked. What?
That was Sharp Sharp, she was certain, and sending directly at her which explained how she’d been able to hear that when the conversation with the large-mind had been so much more muted.
::Paddle on, Crazy Fists,:: Teeth Cleaver said.
A dolphin escort bumped her boat another time and shook her concentration. She missed what Great Kahla had to say, which meant Her Largeness wasn’t singing to Pelgra.
She felt the large-mind’s song fall out of the edges of her speaker range as the current caught her boat, but she called out anyway, ::Leave the dolphins alone!::
::It speaks?:: she thought she heard Sharp Sharp say.
That can’t be right, Pelgra thought. All cetaceans know some humans have mind Talents. This one mustn’t have known the embassy had put somebody at the training atoll. That’s all.
Pelgra shook her head at her own foolishness. She was being too hard on herself. The cetaceans weren’t perfectly informed about the doings of their two-legs any more than the humans were informed on cetacean interests. A certain passing fascination with railroads they’d had came to mind. She laughed and the sound felt comforting and normal.
Pelgra shook her head and paddled back to the island, smiling. She’d take a break and do some accounting homework. This’ll be an odd little thing to put in the week’s dispatch. I’ll tell them about losing my hat and a dolphin braving a swim past two orca to bring it back to me, and I’ll tell about Great Holhata showing up and turning the mischievous orca into perfect gentleminds. It’ll make Ambassador Shalassar laugh. She brightened at that. The head of the Cetacean Embassy hadn’t smiled in too long.
And with more satisfaction than she’d had in days, Pelgra tied up her boat to the little dock and headed in to write up the morning report beginning with the usual line: ‘No significant issues to report.’
#
Swimming towards the portal, Great Kahla and Great Holhata listened to the envoy. Teeth Cleaver thought the foreign orca had recovered from her shock at meeting not one, but two, living legends rather well. And the human embassy’s intern was developing nicely. She was Crazy Fists now. Teeth Cleaver smiled in appreciation of how far the New It had come. Pelgra—he did know human names even if orca rarely used them—was on track to be almost as interesting as Shalassar herself. Crazy Fists’s accusations had been immediately discounted by the reporting dolphin, a tough hearted creature who’d been annoyed to have his story of valor interrupted.
The details were hardly believable. First a fight between three headed sea dragons with humans strapped to their backs while other humans watched from flying carpets? And then a combat in another part of the foreign sea almost the same but with some oddly shaped jellyfish who mostly died immediately under the talons of the largest hydra and with the humans watching from more substantial boats? Finally, a creature of many limbs not far from the portal entrance where he’d met Teeth Cleaver and that creature had a numbing sting which paralyzed even a pod of orca? Any credible report should include at least a few flavors.
The dolphin was excused by the whales to go rest before Teeth Cleaver could ask it any questions.
Sharp Sharp supplied a fuller account of Arcana’s oceans. The dragon type hydra, also called seadrakes, tasted much like moose. (On Sharona, a lucky orca might sometimes catch moose swimming between islands off the coast of north western New Ternathia. Arcanan orca had the same experience though Sharp Sharp’s pod rarely traveled to that ocean, preferring to stay nearer the coast of the human nation called Mythal.) Hydra meat was rich and gamey, but its scale hide was tougher than alligator. So, one needed a good angle to chew all the way through it.
Sharp Sharp had swum quickly past a sliver of an apology for the multiple bite attempts and moved on to more interesting things, specifically: tactics.
::When they swallow you,:: Sharp Sharp said, ::you must tear through the stomach lining no matter how vile it tastes.::
The dolphins, Nnnnmmmll, Llllooouooo, and Mmmmunnnll, flicked tails in disbelief.
Sharp Sharp made a snarling sound more like a tiger than anything aquatic. ::You have gods swimming among you and you don’t believe in devils?::
::You can eat your way out?:: Nnnnmmmll said finally, putting the doubt into words.
Sharp Sharp made a complete barrel roll of contempt. ::Of course not. You can eat your way in. Tear through the stomach lining to reach the other organs. Get the heart, or at least the liver. They have three heads, usually, but only one heart. Get it, even a small bite of it, and they die. The pod lives.::
::The pod lives.:: The dolphins chorused back in complete understanding.
The pair of large-minds swam beside them, listening. Their massive sperm whale bodies eclipsed the streaming light from the high surface whenever the orca or dolphins found themselves drifting below.
Shoals of fodder fishes teemed between the massive whales and everyone ate, preparing for battle.
::And if the monster’s mouths are too small?:: Teeth Cleaver inquired.
::Those thin necks,:: Sharp Sharp flashed a brilliant and vicious grin, ::are battle rations. They are provided by the enemy,:: she acknowledged, ::so sometimes they are seasoned interestingly.:: Her tongue lolled out in some remembered gastro delight.
::Puffer fish like poisons?:: The dolphin Mmmmunnnll inquired.
Our little gray ones are meat eaters too, Teeth Cleaver thought with approval.
Sharp Sharp gave a snort. ::Not just those. It’s the magics and spells from the Two Legs that a finned fighter must watch for. They cheat, the Two Legs do.::
::There’s no such thing as magic.:: The dolphin Llllooouooo said.
::Fool yourself if you like.:: Sharp Sharp laughed. ::But eat the Two Legs at every opportunity. If you must choose to bite either a three head or a two leg, always bite the two leg.::
Nnnnmmmll, Llllooouooo, and Mmmmunnnll all spluttered in overlapping objections and were cut off by Great Holhata, who spoke.
::WE DO NOT EAT THINKERS.:: The great whale laid down the law of the sea.
He had said it softly, for a large-mind, to avoid injuring the orca and dolphins, but Teeth Cleaver still had to drift stunned for a moment until the sound’s force wave brushed over him and he re-emerged on the inside of the rolling thunder.
::They eat us,:: Sharp Sharp retorted.
The dolphins squealed and swam hard, away from the whales and orca, expecting a stunning wall of sound to pulverize the impudent foreigner and anyone stupid enough to swim near her.
Teeth Cleaver dove between Sharp Sharp and Great Holhata, the closest of the two whales. ::Truth can be sung. Bad tasting or not.:: he reminded them.
::Mostly they eat pigfish,:: Sharp Sharp continued with a conversational tone indifferent to the anger of ones who could make her otic capsules bleed with a word. ::We,:: She bared teeth crooked and battered from a life fighting monsters. ::are harder to kill.::
The whiteblacks of the other seas may fear the starving times, but they swim into the teeth of all lesser challengers. Teeth Cleaver, proud to be orca, faced the judgment of Great Kahla and Great Holhata at Sharp Sharp’s side.
But the whales dove. A deep chasm of water opened between them and the rest of the cetaceans. ::DISCUSSION.:: A single tone passed between the two as their tails powered them down.
::To Kill a Monster Is Not Murder,:: Great Kahla said, the distance attenuated her voice to merely deafening instead of stunning.
::And The Two Legs of Arcana Are Monstrous,:: agreed Great Holhata.
::All of them?:: Teeth Cleaver inquired. Specificity in these things was important.
::You May Use Your Discretion, Small Whale,:: Great Kahla said.
::Take Back the Waters. Go. We Bless It.:: Great Holhata said.
#
Arcana
::The whales’ blessing.:: Sharp Sharp rolled her eyes, but only, Teeth Cleaver noticed, after they’d passed through the portal into Arcana. ::Be more useful if they’d get that ocean floor hollowed out a little bit more so they’d fit through with us. Blessings don’t eat the hearts of your enemies. You saw the size of their tails. Imagine what they could do to a seadrake, or to a floater barge.::
Teeth Cleaver’s belly hurt from the tight squeeze against the volcanic rock of the ocean floor. No large-mind would be fitting through the portal this century no matter how many blue whales blasted the ocean floor with ear-bleeding sound. Worse, of the two sides of the unusually small opening between worlds, the Sharonan side of the narrow passable crescent of the circular portal arced over a deep murky sand while the Arcanan side was located equally far beneath the ocean surface over a cooled flat of volcanic rock. Any carving would have to be done from the Arcanan side by cetaceans small enough to fit through it. The resulting flat arch of free flowing water space was high enough, barely, to admit a sufficiently motivated orca but not an adult whale.
Teeth Cleaver powered up from the portal. The three dolphins trailed him, fearful. Sharp Sharp’s white belly flashed above, already streaking up towards the surface with no pause.
This Arcanan ocean tasted wrong. Something faintly poisonous lingered too diffuse now to harm, but that wasn’t enough to explain the dullness of ocean flavor. There was an emptiness. Why did the sharks leave so little blood in the water?
Nnnnmmmll, Llllooouooo, and Mmmmunnnll swam close, lingering with Teeth Cleaver as if he were part of their pod.
A chorus, unintelligible, but clearly a battle chant rumbled above.
::My pod!:: Sharp Sharp swam delighted circles, ::They live!::
And nearly a score of battered and emaciated whiteblacks emerged in the murk around them.
The dolphins fled.
Mere moments later a surge of small fishes blasted out of the deep at them.
::Great Kahla sends,:: Mmmmunnnll squeaked the announcement, and kept his distance.
::Eat those,:: Llllooouooo encouraged.
::Not us,:: Nnnnmmmll added.
Teeth Cleaver twitched his tail. Whales. Not entirely useless after all, he noted Sharp Sharp’s surprise with a touch of Sharonan pride.
The leader of the Arcanan orca pod eyed the dolphins with an air of deep consideration. The tough-looking whiteblack said something, and it was utter gibberish. The sung tones of intelligent speech were there but the mindvoice was only the faintest whisper and even the notes failed to align with a normal scale or string together in a comprehensible melody.
::Agreed, Hard Fin says.:: Sharp Sharp translated.
The lead orca let out a blast of noise that certainly included a deep objection. The orca’s left dorsal fin had a jagged edge where something had bitten off the edge of it. The fin had healed with a bumpy scar that had been stretched and bent by growth spurts.
Sharp Sharp hummed something back and then translated again. ::His Self-Importance wants his full name announced, so now I have to talk longer so he’ll think I’ve bored you with the whole naming tale. He is Hard Fin Chokes the Life From Monsters and he agrees not to eat your pigfish right now. It was only one sea dragon and I’d already bitten its other two heads off. But the pod had already given me a name, and he was the son of the old pod leader, so he got the naming story.::
Hard Fin dived into the school of small fish after his pod, unable to hold back from the food any longer. The orca ate with a frantic focus as if there might not be food animals again, ever. And school after school of fishes from fat yellowfin to bright reef fish poured out of the portal. Great Holhata and Great Kahla provided indeed.
::Fine whatever about Hard Fin,:: Teeth Cleaver said. ::But that last bit wasn’t about his name, was it?.::
::Well, ah,:: Sharp Sharp tilted a fin in a minimizing gesture. ::It’s just a favorite song bit, is all.::
::I like songs!:: Llllooouooo called out from a position above, a cautious distance from the orca pod.
::Ooo,:: agreed Nnnnmmmll and Mmmmunnnll.
Sharp Sharp twitched her tail in annoyance. ::It doesn’t translate right into your words. The refrain is about ‘when food creatures have too many young for these barren seas and their old grow weary of life,’ but you don’t have enough different words for hunger to make the translation worth my time.::
::We have seventeen words for eating,:: Nnnnmmmll said.
Teeth Cleaver counted; the dolphin was right.
::We don’t.:: Sharp Sharp growled. ::Of course food creatures would need additional terms for being eaten.::
::Not a food creature!:: Mmmmunnnl interrupted with emphatic agreement from the other two dolphins, but rather than dive past the pod of whiteblacks to retreat through the portal the three dolphins swam for the hostile ocean surface.
::They are, though.:: Sharp Sharp sighed. She made a slow sentry circle guarding the pod from attack while they were distracted by food.
Teeth Cleaver kept pace with her. ::Hard Fin eats his scouts?::
::Maybe the large-minds will understand?::
::They won’t.:: Teeth Cleaver considered the pod of too-thin orca. One feeding, even on well fatted fishes provided by a pair of near mythical whale gods, would not change their view of themselves as a starving people. The faint bitterness of diffuse poisons and the strange screams of unknown creatures made Teeth Cleaver long to immediately begin a hunt, but Great Holhata and Great Kahla had advised whalishness. Irritatingly, that meant giving up the dolphin scouts. ::They should go back,:: he said.
The orca pod was singing. It was the tune about eating all things and the food beasts thanking them for it. Teeth Cleaver could make out some of the words now that he’d had the benefit of Sharp Sharp’s translations. ::Swarges of young in samsampth seas,:: howled Hard Fin with a shout and the Arcanan pod replied, ::We eat oinks!::
::And old marglesd durrfata of life!::
::We eat oinks!::
::Fight. Fight. Fight!:: Nnnnmmmll, Llllooouooo, and Mmmmunnnl chanted along in Sharonan with the beat of the song, their voices fading as they began their first reconnaissance.
::No oinkfish here, Hard Fin.:: Sharp Sharp injected. A babble of back and forth between the whole pod and the Arcanan envoy filled the water and the three dolphins slipped unnoticed out of Teeth Cleaver’s perception as he tried to follow the orca discussion, catching only repetitions of pigfish, eat, and oink from the pod. And then finally whiteblack, whiteblack, gah whiteblack repeated again and again with varying tones of disbelief.
::Coming, us, coming fast!:: Nnnnmmmll shrilled out in a chirped dolphinish squeak.
::Not oink?:: Hard Fin shouldered Sharp Sharp hard into Teeth Cleaver and twitched a disbelieving fin towards the sound’s source.
The dolphins descended, holding a massive tentacle dangling between Mmmmunnnll and Llllooouooo’s mouths and Nnnnmmmll squealed delight enough for all three of them in high pitched dolphin, ::Fight. Fight. Fight!::
::Gray orca.:: Sharp Sharp said, with evident satisfaction.
::Gah whiteblack.:: Hard Fin agreed. And the pod murmured acknowledgement.
Another burst of fishes erupted from the deep portal and feeding resumed.
Nnnnmmmll, Llllooouooo, and Mmmmunnnll chirped their shared pride and flippered back up again for a second reconnaissance.
Teeth Cleaver caught the long tentacle the dolphins had dropped and examined it. Long. More than twice his length and the gnawed side showing no indication of whether this was the full arm or only a small part. An interesting sharp barb dangled from the narrow tip and it scented the water with something numbing when his jaw squeezed the small venom bladder behind it.
Sharp Sharp batted it away into the inky depths with a tail flick before Teeth Cleaver swallowed too much. ::The pod has accepted the gray ones as small orca, don’t get them thinking about how if a gray can be a whiteblack, then maybe a fool of an orca can be an oinkerfish.::
Teeth Cleaver peeled back his lips in disgusted derision and suddenly understood the whale’s law. Cannibals. Dolphin flesh is forbidden, not because the gray ones think like us, but because the great whales think us to all be whales like them. He shook off the uncomfortable thought and refocused on the sinking tentacle now too far below to be worth diving after. Hard Fin batted it through the narrow portal mouth with his much scarred tail and was rewarded with another burst of fishes.
The Arcanan orca fell again on the little morsels in a hurricane of fins and chum. Teeth Cleaver admired their focus. They moved with a precision of motion like every tail flip were a choreographed dance with points taken off for any excess exertion.
::But what of the prey beast?:: Teeth Cleaver said. ::Wounded by our, ah, gray orca? Do its limbs regrow? Quickly, I mean. Could it recover and be a suitable enemy later?:: he suggested.
Sharp Sharp flipped her tail with annoyance. ::No, dead. Hours dead at least. Something stronger eats it.:: She bared her teeth with pride. ::And our gray ones stole a piece of the kill from that one.::
::We’ll hunt that then.:: Teeth Cleaver swam up, intrigued. He broke the surface for a long breath.
Peculiar things hung in the sky. The large square and rectangular bottoms looked like the floating swim rafts the Cetacean Embassy sometimes used for the humans to rest on between visits with finned people. But these rested, not on the water, but multiple nose to tail lengths above the very tips of the rolling waves. And most had pillars at the corners with high arched canopies over them.
Two Legs teemed along the edges of the air barges, squealing at higher pitches than normal. Teeth Cleaver squinted. Children. The humans up there were mostly the young. And in the water between the circling float pavilions, monsters bellowed at each other. The remains of the creature the dolphin’s tentacle had come from hung stinking and gutted in a cage beneath one of the nearer rafts and a couple other rafts held empty cages beneath them.
The eater of the octomonster would be there, in the middle. Teeth Cleaver slid back under the water. Squawking echoed through the water. Seagull monsters? he wondered. They’d better be enormous to be worth the trip here. He hoped they wouldn’t have feathers. The pinions always got caught in the spaces between one’s teeth.
::We plan fight.:: Sharp Sharp called out and Teeth Cleaver dove down to rejoin the pod.
Nnnnmmmll, Llllooouooo, and Mmmmunnnll shrilled in odd high pitches well above their normal voices as they returned. ::Not just one here. Not just one.::
::WE HEAR. THERE ARE TOO MANY. YOU MAY RETREAT.:: Great Kahla said from the other side of the portal. A faint Sharonan orca song came through the portal on the tail of the sperm whale’s words. Ah. Some others of the people were coming to answer the initial whale’s call. A hundred monsters would not convince Teeth Cleaver to retreat now.
Sharp Sharp babbled something that seemed to include a reference to foreign whale gods. The pod was not impressed.
Hard Fin snorted contempt for the concern and gabbled out something which Sharp Sharp translated, ::The Two Legs usually release them one by one to make the show more interesting. So it hardly matters how many there are.::
What show? Teeth Cleaver thought.
::Show?:: inquired Llllooouooo with more politeness than Teeth Cleaver could manage.
::For the Two Legs,:: Sharp Sharp supplied. ::You’ll see.:: Then she paused to make some noises at the pod. ::I told them you inquired about our tactical plans. So think of something insightful to not make yourselves look like fools. There are always Two Legs in floats above the waves. Then there are the creatures who fight each other.::
::Fight us,:: Teeth Cleaver corrected.
::Each other,:: Mmmmunnnll and Llllooouooo chorused. ::We saw.:: Nnnnmmmll added.
::Oh?:: Sharp Sharp’s attention snapped hyper focused on them. ::Report the shape of today’s monsters. What size cages?::
::In the water and four,:: Nnnnmmmll said. ::Too big for cages,:: Llllooouooo said. ::Much,:: Mmmmunnnll agreed. And all three looked bright eyed at Sharp Sharp as if they’d provided a full and complete reconnaissance report.
::Are you using jellyfish for brains?:: Teeth Cleaver demanded. ::How were they fighting each other? Claws? Fangs? Talons? Have they gills or lungs or both?:: He finished with a slow enunciation of each word, ::What. Do. They. Look. Like?::
The three dolphins considered each other and conversed with each other in a flurry of soft chirps before Mmmmunnnll announced with exaggerated slowness, ::Sting, sting, sting, sting, sting, sting, sting, sting. With mouth, mouth, mouth. Bite.::
::Like dead one,:: Nnnnmmmll added in a moment of actual usefulness.
::Except big,:: Mmmmunnnll corrected.
Llllooouooo blew bubbles in deep thought, clearly trying to find other words.
::Ah.:: Sharp Sharp waggled her tail in acknowledgement and babbled to the Arcanan orca pod before summarizing for Teeth Cleaver, ::Bird-headed squid variant hydra, with some sort of poison in the barbs at the tips of the tentacles:: she told Teeth Cleaver. ::I wonder if the Two Legs have figured out how to make them fly this time.::
::The dol—::
::Gray orca,:: Sharp Sharp interrupted immediately with a fin wiggle towards her pod. ::Not speaking a tongue is not the same as knowing none of your words.:: She added in mutter too quiet to travel far.
Llllooouooo shrilled in sudden inspiration, :::Giant squid chicken!::
::Four giant squid chicken!:: Nnnnmmmll and Mmmmunnnll squealed agreement, clearly delighted with finding Sharonan vocabulary that fit the magically created beasts.
A two-voiced deep bellowing challenge resounded through the water. That did not sound like a squid chicken.
::Hydra romthu!:: Hard Fin announced with clear delight.
::New thing?:: Mmmmunnnll blinked in wide-eyed curiosity. Llllooouooo and Nnnnmmmll chirped uncertainty combined with interest.
A dozen throats squawked a return challenge. Four hydra, three heads each, at least one conventional seadrake hydra but with just two heads… Teeth Cleaver thought, doing the math and counting the pod. ::We outnumber them.:: he pointed out, disappointed.
::Don’t worry, :: Sharp Sharp reassured him. ::They’ll out mass us.::
::Big,:: all three dolphins agreed.
The thump of whale tails against ocean bottom sent mud churning through the portal but neither Great Holhata nor Great Kahla could do more than that to express their frustration.
Battling squawks sounded through the water increasing in pitch and the whales stopped all motion, listening closely.
The pod of orca twitched. A glitter of tiny crystals embedded on fins and tails on each of them sparkled. They’ve decorated their wounds? Teeth Cleaver wondered. He blinked at the barbarism. But Sharp Sharp didn’t seem to have a crystal piercing.
Hard Fin roared a return battle cry and the pod rushed upwards into a churning surf.
::Fight begins,:: Sharp Sharp yelled, entirely unnecessarily.
#
::What happened to battle planning?:: Teeth Cleaver demanded, dodging a tentacle the width of a palm trunk as he followed Sharp Sharp in the mad rush after the pod.
::Kill everything.:: Sharp Sharp panted a gasp of air and dove again. ::Try not to die. Same plan every fight anyway.::
Bloody chum splattered everywhere in the water and Teeth Cleaver gave up on trying to identify the mess of flavors seething through the water. Three whiteblacks had died in the first blind rush, but they’d cost the massive squid creatures in torn tentacles, missing eyes, and even a shattered beak.
Four squawking creatures fought each other for control of the surface of the water. Squid chicken indeed, the monsters easily massed as much as a young blue whale and their tentacles curled and lashed out near triple their resting length. Their rubbery flesh bled a yellow brown and tasted rancid. Their stings held some numbing agent which the Arcanan orca seemed partially immune to, but Nnnnmmmll had caught a glancing edge of a poisoned tentacle barb and seized for several seconds before recovering himself. The three heads and their beaks were more eagle than seagull, so they might be what a chicken looked like, if a chicken had three featherless scaled heads with wicked beaks and sharp forward-facing eyes.
Teeth Cleaver couldn’t recall ever seeing a live chicken. He knew the word only from occasional Cetacean Embassy treats. He could say with confidence however, that the squid monsters did not taste like chicken. They tasted like sea urchin, of the spiny river mud kind.
As an ocean people, all the cetacean fighters could stay beneath the waves for a long time, but eventually they did need to breathe, and the squid chicken were waiting for them when they did.
And in the middle of the four, a creature small only relative to the enormity of the squid chicken hunkered on the battered remnants of an empty barge. It refused to reenter the waves now that orca owned the deep. Beneath the surface, the squid chickens fought blind. When a head dipped below, the full strength of the remaining pod savaged it. When the heads stayed safe above the water, the tentacles reached out blindly and met teeth.
Where a Sharonan giant squid would have waited in perfect stillness to let the slight currents of passing bodies give away the locations of the orca, these creatures squawked and flailed, stabbing at each other and churning the waves with so much force that a froth of constant bubbles hid the orca better than any spell.
They are young, Teeth Cleaver realized. May they stay young forever.
He tried not to pant when Hard Fin led a charge to clear a brief patch of surface for the pod to gasp in new air. They submerged again with only one more whiteblack injured and not too badly. Hard Fin had timed the dash flawlessly.
Skilled hunters, they worked in teams to harry the tentacles and shred whatever lengths the squid chickens dared extend beyond the reach of the neighboring arms.
The same efficiency of motion the pod had used when feeding served them well to extend their time beneath the surface as they bit and chewed on tentacles.
A team of four would snap at one rubbery arm while another team bit at the monster’s other side and still a third harassed from the sides and below. The squid chickens squawked and tried to climb the barge to get their limbs out of the orca-filled waters, but the seadrake held her own, the venom-dripping barbs scratching uselessly over the stone scale dragon hide. But their beaks were more than sharp enough to pierce. One of the seadrake’s clawed hind legs bled from a beak stab wound. And the squid monsters both severely outnumbered and severely out massed the two-headed hydra. A stump remained of a third head, but it was clearly an old wound, long healed.
Two of the squid grabbed the same edge of the float raft. The barge itself began to tilt.
The orca surged on the distracted squid chickens, rending and tearing tentacles. One squid chicken wrapped tentacles around the seadrake and failed to defend itself from below. Hard Fin dared all to gnaw a gaping hole into the soft underbelly itself.
And the barge righted itself with no dragon hydra’s corpse falling into the waves.
::The crippled seadrake lives yet.:: Sharp Sharp said with approval.
The water near the barge frothed opaque with yellow-brown ichor. Hard Fin chortled and above, the two headed hydra made a disparaging twinned hiss.
The two stronger squid chickens squawked triumph and converged on the corpse of their dead sibling to gobble down the tastiest internal organs and fell on their injured sister to eat her alive.
::Now!:: Sharp Sharp echoed an order from Hard Fin and the pod re-engaged.
Teeth Cleaver snapped at a tentacle and sheared off a stinger tip as it tried for Hard Fin. ::Why is the sea dragon thing still alive?::
::Us.:: Sharp Sharp’s pride swelled. ::Hear that, Two Head? We finned ones save you. Again.::
The seadrake bellowed back, and a squid chicken squawked pain matching the creature’s objection.
::‘I save self, Water Devil,’ it says.:: Sharp Sharp muttered, annoyed. ::I am whiteblack. Not some mere created Water Devil.::
::Sharp Sharp speaks all tongues,:: Mmmmunnnll observed with notes of appreciation. ::Like whale.::
::I was captured by Two Legs when young. Many spells. Mind made sharp sharp. A bad time. I escaped.:: The orca flicked her tail dismissive of the past. ::Eat them all, someday.::
The surface lay wide open with the surviving two squid chickens engaging each other and the two-headed seadrake over the bodies of the dead and near-dead. But Mmmmunnnll came up near the barge to snatch a precious breath of air, and the seadrake’s left head snapped out and sunk fangs into the dolphin’s side.
The dolphin cried out in gurgling pain. Teeth Cleaver threw himself in a powerful leap out of the water to snap at the seadrake and force it to release the gray creature with only a nasty circle of punctures instead of a death bite of missing flesh.
Almost forgotten above, exhalations of joy and delight showered down from great floating pavilions filled with watching Two Legs.
::What side is it on?:: Teeth Cleaver demanded, exasperated when the second head snapped at his flank. It missed only by a fin’s breadth. Llllooouooo had taunted the first head with a laughing display of smooth belly just out of reach. The jerk of the seadrake’s body as that head lunged at the dolphin pulled it out of range of Teeth Cleaver and the others of the pod defending Mmmmunnnll.
The injured squid chicken wrapped an arm around Llllooouooo and tossed him whole into its open throat.
The crippled sea dragon hissed. ::I, my side.:: And it tore open the squid chicken’s gullet, killing it. Llllooouooo flopped out, gore covered and trembling. ::We even,:: the hydra said.
::It speaks,:: Nnnnmmmll chirped, horrified.
The six heads of the surviving squid chicken swiveled intelligent bright eyes from dolphins to orca to seadrake and back and the squawks changed in tone.
Hard Fin growled an order.
::Don’t talk to it. Kill it!:: Sharp Sharp relayed.
::This is what we get when nobody bothers to discuss the battleplan before charging in.:: That last was clearly her own complaint, and not a repeat of Hard Fin’s words.
::Only two left now.:: Nnnnmmmll panted with exhausted pride.
::Three.:: The seadrake hissed, offended. ::And I eat your livers. All.::
Excited shouts drifted down from above.
The virulent green crystals embedded in the foreheads of the squid chicken flickered to sickly violet and the creatures launched themselves at the orca.
The pod submerged, laughing.
::Always they do this,:: Sharp Sharp said. ::Two Legs pull magic strings and their creations flipflop like this and like so. Bad fighters Two Legs. No tactical sense at all.::
The squid chicken no longer fought each other, but neither did their tentacles respond with their natural quickness. And Sharp Sharp was right. The pod was winning!
And then there was a splash. A gurgling faint cry.
A child in the water. A two leg child.
The pod paused to turn, like sharks towards blood.
And the three dolphins tore through a gauntlet of tentacles, beating even the orca for speed. Llllooouooo thrust the youngling up towards the surface.
The seadrake slammed into the water beside the dolphin with a two leg strapped to its back. Both heads hissed, ::Mine.::
Teeth Cleaver snapped warning teeth at the hydra.
A violet shockwave burst from the high pavilion. The squid chicken froze. The crystals embedded in each bird forehead dulled to a soft amber.
The seadrake body slammed Teeth Cleaver out of the way. The adult two leg rider snatched the child up onto the hydra’s back, and still hissing, the hydra dragon clawed back onto the barge.
Squid chicken eyes refocused.
::Swim!:: Mmmmunnnll squealed and Teeth Cleaver dove beneath with the dolphins.
Below, Sharp Sharp ranted a stream of unfamiliar curses bumping first this orca and then that. Even Hard Fin hung limp, rising slowly towards a surface full of tentacles as his body’s natural fats caused him to drift upwards when no fin or tail movement controlled his position. Some few of the whiteblacks trembled with slight motions as if they were fighting against the weight of crushing depths to move even that much. And another shockwave flashed through the water. Every one of Sharp Sharp’s old pod went limp again as the small crystals embedded in fins and tails flared brilliant red.
::Two leg magic:: Sharp Sharp howled fury. She tore at the crystals but couldn’t remove even one without crippling damage to the bespelled whiteblacks. ::Two Legs always cheat!::
::Whale shit!:: Teeth Cleaver agreed.
::Do you have some magic maybe?:: Llllooouooo looked hopefully at Sharp Sharp.
She snapped her teeth at the dolphin and he, wisely, returned his focus to protecting the orca bodies from the squid chickens trying to eat them.
The three dolphins snarled and howled, taking positions at the sides of the squid chickens as if they were each a full four-team of orca instead of lone bottlenoses.
::They are letting that gray orca thing go to their heads:: Sharp Sharp muttered.
::It was your idea,:: Teeth Cleaver pointed out.
::Doesn’t mean I can’t regret it,:: Sharp Sharp grumbled. The two orca fought the ocean itself, using their bulks to keep the whiteblack pod members from surfacing.
A whisper of a song reached Teeth Cleaver’s ears. He roared back the wild chorus and laughed in raw joy.
Sharp Sharp dodged a tentacle while butting the sluggish form of Hard Fin out of the way and snapped, ::No time to go battle mad, Sharonan.::
::Our sea gods cheat too,:: Mmmmunnnll explained.
And a super-pod of Sharonan orca surged up from the deep.
Teeth Cleaver rose to take a breath, still laughing. The Two Legs above cried out in amazement as their squid monsters, living and dead, were yanked beneath the waves and only yellow-brown chum resurfaced. A pavilion dipped low enough to reclaim the child. The crippled seadrake climbed into the cage beneath the flying raft as it floated far beyond the orcas’ reach. ::Another time, cheaters,:: it said.
::You’d cheat if you could figure out how.:: Sharp Sharp complained.
::So would you,:: its other head hissed back.
::Not wrong,:: Nnnnmmmll agreed.
::You’d both make good dolphins,:: Mmmmunnnll said to Sharp Sharp and Teeth Cleaver.
::Shut up or I’ll eat you,:: Teeth Cleaver said. Llllooouooo, with barely enough strength to swim, nudged the orca affectionately.
::We love you too,:: Nnnnmmmll replied.
#
Sharona
::WAKE!:: Great Holhata called.
Pelgra bashed her nose falling out of the hammock and ran out to the end of the pier holding an emergency kit she hadn’t remembered grabbing and her blanket which she’d forgotten to drop. More than a dozen strange orca waited for her.
::Our Two Legs aren’t as good at cheating, but they’re useful,:: Teeth Cleaver was saying while Sharp Sharp echoed the cetacean mindspeech in a dialect Pelgra couldn’t follow. ::This is Has Thumbs, she will remove the crystals.::

Joelle Presby was born in France, raised in Cameroon, and now lives in the United States. She writes science fiction and fantasy. Her web site can be found here.

The Paoshi Puzzle: A Tale of the Billion Worlds
by James L. Cambias

Adya Elso sat in a comfortable chair and turned mauve with excitement as the ship soared through Saturn's atmosphere. Pelagia, the ship, refused to follow a straight vector approach, preferring to bank and swoop through the clouds as if she was dodging imaginary missile barrages.
Adya's comfy chair was in Pelagia's "control room"—which had all-around viewscreens so that Adya seemed to be alone among the ammonia clouds. There were no actual controls: the name was purely traditional. Pelagia's augmented orca brain did all the flying from an armored support tank, and wanted no interference.
"There it is," said Pelagia. "I knew it was around here somewhere." Ahead, between two columns of cloud a thousand miles high, Adya could just make out a tiny pink bubble: the aerostat city Paoshi, one of thousands floating in Saturn's atmosphere.
The little bubble seemed just a short distance away in the clear hydrogen atmosphere, but even at the speed of sound Pelagia needed the better part of an hour to reach it. Adya struggled to comprehend the scale of the cloud mountains around them. Her homeworld Miranda was five hundred kilometers across—and some of the storm cells in Saturn's atmosphere were twice as big. Clouds as big as moons: the thought made Adya's skin shift from mauve to tangerine.
"How much time must we waste here?" asked Vasi, entering the control room. Vasi was a human-shaped mech who worked for Adya's family. On this trip it served as a combination tutor, bodyguard, trainer, and financial manager—but its primary role was spy for Adya's parents. As members of Miranda's oligarch class, the Elso family did not allow their daughter to roam the Solar System unescorted and unwatched.
"We haven't even landed yet and already it wants to leave," said Pelagia.
"As I have said, I do not plan to stay long in Paoshi," said Adya. She was careful to use proper formal style with Vasi present, and kept herself a demure blue-green color. "My task is but to see the artifact, and verify its age. Once that is done we can depart."
"It is very suspicious that this Tagatan person refused to send you a scan."
"He said he has a fear of forgery—to send a scan to me in far Miranda runs the risk of interception. A crook could then print duplicates, and thus devaluate Tagatan's original," said Adya, not for the first time.
"That is one explanation," said Vasi. "Another is that he knows he has a fake and didn't expect you to come all this way to examine it. Your parents were very generous to pay for this trip."
"My paper on the superweapon myth will tell the truth of what I see."
"The myth is simply that: a lie. Do not forget that fact."
Adya didn't reply, but her color shifted to pale blue and she wrapped her arms around her knees as she sat. When her older sister had married, Adya's father had been feeling generous, and told his youngest daughter she could take a trip to any destination. Her parents had expected Adya to pick someplace like mighty Juren, or fabulously rich Deimos. Maybe even walk outdoors on Mars or Earth. Instead Adya had chosen to visit a city in Saturn's atmosphere, as part of a scholarly research project she'd been working on for half her young life.
Pelagia's wings changed from a narrow delta shape to long and broad as she slowed for landing. The tiny bubble grew and grew until it filled the forward view, a sphere ten kilometers wide full of hydrogen hot enough to glow pale red. The actual city was at the bottom of the bubble, a three-kilometer disk which was almost inconspicuous until the lights on the landing decks started flashing.
Just as Pelagia reached the edge of the deck she tucked in her wings and reversed thrust, coming neatly to a halt just short of the arrestor nets. She let a little bot lead her into the hangar level beneath the city. The color of the walls and deck around Pelagia changed from hazard orange to safety green as breathing air replaced hydrogen.
"All right, you're here," said Pelagia. "Since you're paying for my time, you can sleep on board if you want to."
"That would be prudent. I have been unable to locate any hotels in Paoshi, and living quarters are reserved to citizens," said Vasi.
"Then here in Pelagia's hardy hull shall Adya rest her heavy head, a grateful guest."
Adya and Vasi left the ship and rode up to the main city level above. Pelagia sent along a little copter drone painted black and white to match her hull. "I used to work as a shuttle between Saturn and Mimas, but I never stopped at Paoshi. I've heard it's a nice place."
"It hardly seems very nice to ignore new visitors," said Vasi. "I've done all the customs and health clearances and I have yet to communicate with anything but sub-baseline programs."
"The only person of Paoshi with whom I wish to speak is Tagatan Pamana," said Adya. She connected to the local network through her data implant and tried to place a call. A set of glowing letters appeared in her vision: "NOT FOUND." She frowned and went dark orange. "I wish to speak to the Paoshi main mind."
The city's voice spoke inside her head. "My name is Paoling. I operate all of Paoshi's systems. How may I help you, Adya Elso?"
Despite an audible sound of disapproval from Vasi, Adya didn't use formal style, but kept her speech simple and informative. "I seek a human male named Tagatan Pamana. He is a resident of Paoshi, but the network cannot locate him."
"There is no person named Tagatan Pamana in Paoshi," said Paoling.
"But—I communicated with him from Miranda fifty weeks ago! I arranged to see his collection of ancient artifacts. He said he looked forward to my visit. Did he leave?"
Vasi had no facial expressions, and didn't say anything, but her posture was that of a mech saying "I told you so."
"He did not leave Paoshi," said Paoling.
"Then what happened to him? Is he all right?"
"He is perfectly well, but I cannot tell you any personal information."
"Where can I find him?"
"I cannot tell you any personal information," the main mind repeated.
"Why not?" Adya could tell she was turning crimson.
"The citizens of Paoshi have requested complete privacy about any personal information before Day 313 of the year 9993."
"What? Why?"
"Specific information would violate that privacy request. I can tell you that the citizens of Paoshi adopted a new social structure on that date, and many of them took new names. As part of that restructuring, all legal agreements or obligations predating Day 313 of last year are nullified, and all personal information is privacy-sealed. Giving you current information about the individual formerly known as Tagatan Pamana would violate that privacy."
The elevator door opened and Adya stepped out onto the main level of Paoshi. Pelagia was right: it did look like a nice place. Whoever had designed the city level had kept the streets narrow and the buildings no taller than four or five floors. Centuries-old uba vines, some as thick as Adya's waist, covered the older buildings, while the newer ones had trellised bidomaz plants to add some green to the walls of graphene and aerogel. Archways opened into garden courtyards. It looked like a slow-paced sort of city, with few vehicles and plenty of quiet spots to sit.
"Where is everybody?" asked Pelagia. Her drone rose slowly next to one of the buildings, pausing at windows. "They're not asleep."
"The main mind claims they are all at the daily meeting in the central plaza," said Vasi. The three of them paused to listen and heard a faint echo of an amplified voice, too distorted by distance to make out words.
"Sounds like no end of fun," said Pelagia.
"This is all a waste of time. We should go," said Vasi.
Adya looked at the buildings and turned blue with thought. "Paoling, you said you cannot give me personal information about any of Paoshi's citizens. Can you tell me anything about the city's material structure?"
"I operate and maintain all of Paoshi's systems. By definition, I know all that is known about the city's structure," said Paoling. Despite the mind's utterly neutral tone Adya thought she detected a note of boasting.
"Can you tell me the purpose of the buildings?" she asked, keeping her own tone light and conversational.
"Yes. The structures around you right now were built to house retail and service businesses on the ground floors, offices on the next level, and residential space on the upper floors. Unfortunately no restaurants are currently operating."
"I would like to see a building set up to house and display a large private collection of art and artifacts. It would require extra environmental systems and tunable lighting, as well as large internal doorways for circulation. Are there any places like that in Paoshi?"
The main mind hesitated a full second before answering. "There is one structure which matches that description, although it is no longer in use for that purpose."
"Please direct us there."
As they followed Paoling's glowing markers Pelagia's drone descended until it was just next to Adya. "Ha! Gave that smarty-pants Level Three intellect a good tail-slapping, didn't you?"
Adya looked at the drone in puzzlement. "It was a logical question to ask."
The daily meeting ended before they reached their destination, as the sound of the amplified voice stopped and they began to see people in the streets, moving away from the central plaza. Most of the citizens of Paoling were humans, their skin dark green with dermal chloroplasts. They all wore very simple short kilts of plain gray cloth, and matching tabis on their feet. Adya spotted a few lotors among the humans, dressed in nothing but their own fur; and a couple of corvids flying overhead, but didn't see any mechs at all.
Naturally, the newcomers were very conspicuous, especially since Adya kept getting flustered and shifting from blue-green to muddy yellow. Pelagia took her drone up to rooftop level, staying inconspicuous.
A small crowd gathered around Adya and Vasi. "Who are you?" asked one neuter, pushing forward. Though younger than the others, they seemed to be in some position of authority because the other humans kept quiet.
"My name is Adya Elso and I flew from far Miranda. This mech called Vasi is my mentor. We voyaged through the void for many months to study ancient artifacts assembled by one Tagatan Pamana. Can any tell me where he can be found?"
The neuter muttered something through her link then spoke aloud. "You had better see Saloth—he's in charge of the transition."
"Then tell me where this Saloth may be found, that I may speak with him."
"Right here," said a young male human, approaching at a brisk walk. He was dressed like all the others, save for the addition of a blue-and-gold checked cloth around his neck. "I'm Saloth."
Adya explained again who they were and why they had come to Paoshi. Saloth listened very intently, leaning just close enough to make Adya feel slightly uncomfortable.
At last he smiled sadly. "It appears you've come a long way for nothing, Adya Elso. Here in Paoshi we eliminated the past. Everyone took targeted memory-eraser drugs and awoke as blank slates in a new world. No old grudges, no false ideas, no dead hand of history."
"Show her the manifesto!" said the neuter, and another person handed Adya a printed sheet. "We all woke up with a copy."
The page was half a meter long, densely printed in tiny text except for a headline at the top: THE PAST IS DEAD. Adya skimmed it. Phrases like "the start of a new beginning" and "overthrowing the tyranny of the past" appeared dozens of times.
"That is a drastic step indeed," she said.
"There's no going back," said Saloth. "Now we must forge ahead, united."
Adya glanced again at the sheet. "I forbear to find a forgery. Tagatan Pamana did keep a store of ancient things, and one of them is key to my research. If I can but examine that one item I will pester Paoshi no more."
Saloth regarded her, still quite intent. Then he relaxed slightly and smiled. "I'll have the city searched," he said. "Something might turn up. In the meantime, would you join me for a meal? It's nearly sunset and I like to watch the clouds change color. Does your companion eat?"
"You needn't trouble yourself about me," said Vasi.
They stopped for food along the way. A space which looked to Adya like a former tavern had been converted to a distribution center, where a harried-looking pair of humans passed out meal rolls as fast as they came out of the printer. Saloth ignored the line and took the next two rolls that came out, then led Adya and Vasi to the western edge of the city.
The outer rim of Paoshi was a strip of park land, with big diamondoid windows looking out at the cloudscape. Beyond the clouds the dim orange dot of the sun sat just the horizon.
Saloth held up both ends of the conversation, explaining about how the Transition Leadership Team was trying to fit the people to Paoshi to roles based on aptitudes and preferences. "Once all that's done we can disband the team and our new society will be self-sustaining."
"The idea is not new," Adya pointed out. "The Billion Worlds have seen it tried a million times or more. Such systems seldom last."
"Those others didn't do it right. This time will be different!" He veered off into an explanation of Paoshi's economy, how the city mined phosphine and heavy helium from Saturn's atmosphere for export. "The processors extract enough to fill a shuttle every four weeks. We sell it to the orbital habs. The income pays for Paoling's expenses—metals, templates, data, and stuff she can't print here. She splits the net profit with the citizens of Paoshi."
"Does each one get a share?" she asked.
"Not right now. The Transition Team are working out an equitable arrangement." He leaned closer to Adya. "You know, I need a smart, talented person like you on the team. You could stay here, become a citizen, be part of something important. Interested?"
"Adya has duties back on Miranda," said Vasi. "Her family have been very indulgent to let her spend so much time on this research trip."
"Research? It must be very important if you came all this way."
"My luck was good—Uranus and my native moon were nearly at their nearest point to Saturn when my studies did reveal a crucial clue might be in Paoshi. A decade hence the distance would be such that I could not afford the time or laser cost to make the trip."
"What kind of clue? A clue to what?"
Adya got pinker as she spoke. "An ancient text within a diamond block, immune to forger's touch, with proof of provenance confirmed. If I can prove that text is thirty centuries in age it will—" She stopped herself and went blue again. "It may be of some help to me."
"I hate to interrupt," said Vasi, "Adya, it's time for exercise now. Even in close to a standard gee you still need to maintain yourself."
"Yes, thank you, Vasi. It was very nice dining with you, Saloth. Goodbye!"
Before he could protest Adya and Vasi left the park at a brisk pace, heading for the nearest entrance to the hangar deck.
"This is the first time you've ever asked me to remind you to exercise," said Vasi over their private link as they walked away.
"I did not wish to tell Saloth too much."
"Don't worry about that. I suspect he's more interested in you than your research."
"Me? What for?"
"Adya, your parents spent a million gigajoules on your genome, and it didn't all go for intelligence and perfect balance. You've been trained to be attractive since you could walk."
"I always thought that was culture-specific for Miranda."
"Some things transcend culture." Vasi deliberately waited until they had walked another block before asking, "Do you find him attractive?"
"Saloth? Rather the reverse, I think."
"Excellent. Then there is no need for us to waste a second more in Paoshi. Saturn and Uranus draw farther apart all the time."
This time it was Adya who walked in silence before answering. "Not yet. There are still some things I wish to understand."
The moment Adya stepped inside Pelagia's hull the ship asked, "Guess what my drone saw while you were flank-rubbing with the local alpha male?"
"I do not wish to rub any part of anyone."
"Yet. Anyway, I followed the main mind's directions to the building you asked about. Looked like a shop on the ground floor—closed and empty—with a kind of gallery space on the second floor, just like you described. Also empty. Living quarters upstairs and a rooftop garden.
"While I was looking the place over, half a dozen locals led by a young woman wearing one of those checked neckcloths showed up. They kicked everyone out of the building and then searched the whole place. Very thorough: pulled up floors, took down wall panels, looked above ceilings, took furniture apart. They even pried up all the pavers in the garden."
Adya went orange-red. "This happened while we were dining?"
"Yep. Your boy didn't mention it? Rude of him."
"Did they find anything?"
"Don't think so. They gave up just a few minutes ago. Have you eaten?"
"Lentil and rice wrapped in kelp. Some lime and pepper would have helped."
"You need real food. Go to the galley. I'll print you a box of salmon sashimi and pickles."
"I have a call to make first. Please link me to Paoling."
The main mind's icon appeared in Adya's field of view. "How may I help you, Adya Elso?"
"I have a question for you, Paoling. How could you let your citizens destroy all traces of the past?"
"They did it to themselves. I have managed Paoshi for five hundred and fifty-two standard years," said Paoling. "During that time the citizens have changed their methods of self-government eight times. I do not interfere."
"You let them do this monstrous thing? Destroy all time before a certain day? If all the citizens did vote to kill themselves, would you sit by and watch them die? The difference is not great between the two, for those who lived before are just as dead."
"The citizens decide what rules they must follow, and how to enforce them, and how to allocate wealth among themselves. If they all sat down in the central plaza and cut their throats I would not interfere. All living things die eventually. I am not in charge of people. I am in charge of things. My task has always been to keep Paoshi aloft, provide power and life support, and maintain all the sub-Baseline systems and matter of the city."
Adya gazed into the distance for a moment. Her skin faded from orange to mauve and finally to cool blue.
"I think I understand." She cut the link.
"Adya, it sounds as if this supposed ancient text you're looking for is gone. There's no reason to stay here any longer," said Vasi.
"If indeed it still exists, I think I know just where to look. The sun will rise four hours from now, so I dare not delay. Pelagia, please print me out a travel suit with camo skin and oxygen—and add a backpack, if you would."
"Where are you planning to go?" asked Vasi.
"Not far."
"I'm coming with you. Someone has to protect you from yourself."
#
Night on Saturn was not entirely dark. Gaps in the ammonia clouds overhead let in the reflected light of the Rings, plus half a dozen moons and thousands of orbiting habitats. The light gave the vast storm cells around and below Paoshi a faint silver sheen, while constant flickers of lightning lit up the clouds from within. Adya paused in her climb up the outside of Paoshi to admire the view.
"Keep going," Vasi urged. "If you start to glow with corona discharge it'll be too late to get inside."
"You need not worry about that," said Adya. Inside her suit she was pale green. "Look!" She unstuck one of her hands to point as a bolt of lightning about as long and broad as a major river system touched the tip of a kilometer-long superconducting rod on one side of the floating city and discharged through another on the opposite side. "It's perfectly safe."
"I could feel the EM pulse from that strike. Please tell me where we are going!"
"Just another few meters. There should be an access hatch." With the gloves and feet of her suit in sticky mode Adya climbed up the smooth graphene flank of the city. The hangar level was below her, and below that was a straight drop of forty-seven thousand kilometers, with Saturn's core somewhere at the bottom. The city itself was still twenty meters above Adya, but between the hangar and the city was a service level. She spotted the hatch she sought, about ten meters to her right, and edged over to it. Vasi followed behind, walking along the surface on all fours with its head pivoted around to look forward.
The hatch opened obediently as soon as Adya touched the surface. The two of them pushed through a pressure membrane just inside, into an ordinary breathing-air mix. Frost formed on Vasi's surface as it warmed up. Beyond the membrane a narrow passage lined with conduits and pipes stretched toward the center of the city.
"This is where we are going. I want to examine the waste processing system, but I was afraid they might have someone watching the hangar exits."
"'They' being . . . ?"
"Saloth and his allies. I think you misjudged his interest. He wasn't asking about my research because he desires me—he was showing attraction because he wanted to find out what I knew about any antiquities in Paoshi."
"None of which explains why we are looking for the waste processing system."
"Mass is valuable, especially in a floating city. Paoling wouldn't let them just toss things overboard, and it certainly wouldn't allow any fires. So when Saloth said they destroyed all the old personal items and artifacts, what he really meant was they sent everything down here."
"Where did you learn to sound so pedantic?" asked Vasi.
"I was trained by experts." Adya looked at nothing for a moment. "I believe the main waste processing node is just ahead."
All the systems on the service level were run by Paoling, and repaired by bots or drones under its control, so there were very few signs or human-operable controls. They did pass one interface under a locked transparent panel rimmed in safety orange, with a glowing label "EMERGENCY ONLY."
They found the big metal container where dry waste went, and from there Adya followed the sorting and recycling process. She stopped at a conveyor, where a steady stream of trash came out of the bin.
"Here: optical and millimeter scans identify usable parts and items, and those arms pick them out of the waste stream. They go onto that conveyor. The rest gets broken down." She ducked under the main conveyor and followed a smaller conveyor which was currently stopped.
"Arms to grab things, a bin for sensors, a bin for processors . . ." Adya hurried fifty meters along the conveyor, passing a whole series of containers. "And at the end, miscellaneous items!"
But when she opened the bin it was empty.
"You seem to have made an error," said Vasi.
Adya went from excited purple to greenish brown, then blue-green as she thought. "There must be a long-term storage site. Probably climate-controlled, with a pure nitrogen atmosphere." She stepped out into the transverse passage at the end of the conveyor and looked both ways. "If I was a storage unit, where would I be?" She looked up and spotted a yellow-and-black banded pipe on the ceiling. "I would be somewhere along that nitrogen line."
She walked up and down, looking at the pipe, until she spotted an arrow indicating flow direction. Then she began to run. Vasi switched back to quadrupedal mode in order to keep up.
The passage led into a wider corridor lined with big doors. The walls curved away out of sight in either direction, following the arc of the city's edge. Each door had a virtual tag indicating what was inside. They followed the corridor from "Fluoroantimonic Acid, 1-liter containers/EXTREME HAZARD" past "Iron Powder, 1-micron grains" and "Laser Emitters, milliwatt" before Adya stopped at a door which bore the simple tag "Miscellaneous."
It did not open when she touched it.
"Great Paoling, may I behold the contents of this bay?" she asked over open link.
"It is a sealed environment with no oxygen," said the city inside her head.
"I wear a travel suit with life-support, and you and I both know a pressure membrane stands behind this door. Please let me in."
"There is the issue of privacy—" the city began.
"If that had been your prime concern, the items in this bay would now be broken down to molecules. You said yourself it is your job to care for things in Paoshi. Please let me see the things you saved."
Paoling did not answer, but after a full second the latches clicked and the door slid open. Adya closed her suit and pushed through the pressure membrane into the bay. For a moment the containers within were dark, but then each lit up with virtual inventory tags. Adya found the container marked "Artifacts, Historical: Former Tagatan Pamana Collection" and opened it.
She gasped, and for a moment felt as if she was a child on Miranda again, at a birthday party for one of her cousins where the guests got fancy gifts in honor of the occasion—only this time she got all the presents. A bit of aluminum embedded in plastic was labeled "Fragment of Lunar Farside Radiotelescope, early Third Millennium." A black bird statuette bore the tag "Ritual Object, polymer coating over gold, allegedly Second Millennium Earth, known provenance traces to Somniorum City, 6795." A diamond box with folded gray cloth inside had the tag "Uniform tunic of General Darvek Dida, Lunar pacification campaign of 4684-7, natural cotton and wool. ARGON ATMOSPHERE ONLY."
And underneath that box was a square diamond slab twenty centimeters wide, with rounded corners and edges. It held single page of cellulose marked with fading brush-strokes of ink. Adya held it close to her face and peered at the characters.
"How can you tell that's not a fake?" asked Vasi.
"Tagatan Pamana said he had verified provenance back to the Seventh Millennium."
"He could be wrong, or lying."
"All that is true. I judge it still more likely that he told no lie, and this really is three thousand years in age. See how the diamond block is worn?"
"Good morning!" came a voice from the door of the storage bay. It was Saloth, and behind him Adya could make out half a dozen other Paoshi citizens wearing oxygen masks. Half of them had on the blue-checked neckcloths of the Transition Committee. All of them carried prybars or meter lengths of pipe. "You're up early. What have you got there?"
"Miscellaneous waste items," said Adya.
"I don't think so. That looks like some of Tagatan Pamana's collection to me. Hand it over."
Adya looked at Saloth and turned deep red. "How do you know?" she asked quietly.
"It looks—" he began, and then stopped. "That doesn't matter."
"It matters much, despite denial. You know what this is in my hand, although I did not say. You should not have a memory of what it is, and yet you do. I think you never took the drug at all. By force or fraud you made Paoshi's people take the past-destroying dose—but you did not. You lie, Saloth. You are a liar."
Saloth glanced over his shoulder and silenced one of the others with a glare. "I said it's not important. What matters is that you've got a forbidden relic of the dead past. We've come to destroy all of them."
"I refuse to give it to you." Adya put it back in the container and shut the lid.
He took a step forward, then stopped as Vasi interposed itself. "Her parents hired me to keep her safe. Don't try it."
"You're just one mech. You can't stop us all."
"Uh, Saloth?" called one of the others from outside. "It's not just one."
In the corridor a dozen cargo-handling bots had rolled up silently and now surrounded Saloth's followers. More bots arrived every few seconds.
"They can't hurt us," said Saloth.
"That is incorrect," said Paoling's voice from everywhere at once. "I follow the agreement made when Paoshi was built. I leave the biological and mech citizens alone, and they leave the city's structure and systems alone. You are breaking that agreement."
Saloth looked at the bots, then back at Vasi, and finally at Adya. "You don't understand! It's necessary to get rid of all that old stuff. The past is just dead weight, keeping us down."
"I think that if your brave new world has such fragility that ancient words or images can shatter it, then it will never last. Perhaps you should consign it to the waste recycling bin," said Adya.
"No, I—"
"The salvaged items are under my care," said Paoling. "This area is closed to biologicals now. Please leave at once." It followed that warning with an earsplitting tone from all the speakers in the storage bay. Saloth and Adya retreated outside, followed by Vasi. As soon as all of them were out the door slid shut and latched with a chorus of clunks. To drive the point home a cargo mover bot rolled in front of the door and turned to face outward.
"And now goodbye. I shall not stay," said Adya.
"Paoling takes care of things, not people," said Saloth. He tightened his grip on his prybar, and some of his comrades did likewise. "That's our job. You're under arrest."
"Run!" said Vasi. It slammed one hand palm-first into Saloth's chest, knocking him back into the others, then sprinted after Adya down the corridor.
They ran three-quarters of a kilometer along the passage until Adya turned left into a radial corridor leading for the edge of the city. Vasi followed, demanding to know where they were going, but Adya didn't answer. The passage ended at another external hatch and membrane.
Adya hit the control interface and then looked back at Saloth leading his team toward herself and Vasi. The Transition Team were less than fifty meters away when the hatch slid open. Adya closed her helmet, grabbed Vasi's arm and jumped through the membrane. They fell into Saturn's atmosphere—
—and landed with a thump on Pelagia's back. With sticky hands and feet the two made their way to Pelagia's dorsal hatch as the ship shifted from hover mode to flight. Once Adya and Vasi were inside Pelagia lit her main engines with a roar and began the long climb toward the rising Sun.
Adya refused to say anything until she had a hot shower and a bowl of noodles. She sat in the control room watching the sky turn black overhead as Pelagia accelerated to orbital velocity.
"Well, at least that is finally over," said Vasi. "Now all we need to do is stop someplace for fuel and then get a laser assist to Uranus. This wild goose chase is done."
Adya slurped up some noodles and then asked casually, "How do you suppose Saloth know where to find us?"
"I certainly can't say, my dear," said Vasi.
"He knew exactly where we were and what we were doing. Almost as if someone told him." She kept looking at the rim of the planet ahead as she spoke, but her skin was crimson.
"Protecting you is my job," said Vasi. "Sometimes that means I must protect you from yourself. That old scrap of paper would have kept you wasting time and energy on this mad project of yours. There is no ancient superweapon. It's a myth."
"I read the page. It was a personal account by a dolphin who knew where the device was hidden. It's real, Vasi. I can find it."
"Nonsense. You're going back to Miranda now. That is what your parents paid for."
"I have a little money of my own—the Oort payload shares Great-Grandmama left me. I can buy my own passage. Pelagia? I wish to change my travel plans. Would you be willing to make a detour to the Dictynna cycler habitat? It is currently in mid-transit between Saturn and Jupiter. There is a library on board I must consult."
"Adya, stop this foolish behavior at once," said Vasi. "You mustn't sell your shares just to go off to some cycler chasing a mirage. Your parents will not approve."
"I can get to Dictynna in seventy-five days," said Pelagia. "Vasi, you can disembark when I stop to refuel at Saturn Low Orbit Four. Get a shuttle to Mimas, and ride a cargo sail to Uranus from there."
"I am not leaving this ship and we are not going to Dictynna."
"Adya's only paying for her own passage," said Pelagia. "Are you buying a ticket? If not, then Low Orbit Four is where you get off. Or my maintenance drones can throw you out the hatch. Pick one option."
"You need me, Adya! Who will look after you?"
At that Adya finally turned to look at Vasi. "I shall have to do it myself," she said, turning a serene green color as she spoke.

This story is set within the universe of upcoming SF novel The Godel Operation. James L. Cambias is a writer and game designer, and the cofounder of Zygote Games. He has been nominated for the James Tiptree Jr. Award and the 2001 John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. He lives in western Massachusetts.

Of Shadows and Caves
by David Weber and Richard Fox

Visitors to Port Montclair had to remember three things: Head down, mouth shut, and no questions asked.
The planet Montclair had an appealing enough name, but the world was not a “clear mountain,” but a desert with hurricane force winds and blown sand that would scour anyone down to the bone within minutes. Being aboard the orbiting station was a bit safer, but not by much.
A dark-skinned spacer in a longshoreman’s cheap vac suit and worn equipment harness sat on a barstool overlooking the station’s "walking street." This part of the promenade was one of the first stops for spacers after months in vacuum. The many bars and clubs promised to exchange pay for all manner of pleasure—human, alien, and robotic.
Silas took a sip of his beer, which was awful but at least cold. The street was busy with scruffy spacers. The foot traffic had doubled in the past ten minutes, which lined up with the expected arrival of passengers and crew from the Arizona Bay.
The pedestrians and customers of the walking street were almost all human. A few Quarn lumbered past in their heavy atmosphere suits, though, and a single Rishathan matriarch—three meters tall, with a saurian-looking head and jaws that could effortlessly amputate a human arm—stalked down the middle of the street with all the arrogance of her kind, accompanied by three of her harem. The three males were barely a third her height, with froglike eyes, pale green skin with flat scales, and body language that was decidedly timid.
Rishathan males wouldn’t last long in a fight with the rough and tumble types aboard Port Montclair, but bothering the males would surely bring the matriarch's wrath, and no one wanted that kind of trouble.
“Target acquired,” Baxter said through Silas’s ear bud. “Captain Ma just checked in at the new arrivals concourse. Got four of her crew siding her.”
His voice struck Silas as unreasonably normal sounding . . . for someone who'd been perched on the outside of the station's hull ever since they'd arrived, over forty-seven hours before. Station workers routinely pulled eight or even twelve-hour shifts in vacuum, but not in isolation, with no buddies to keep an eye on them or be close to hand if something went wrong. And Baxter had been out there, reliant solely on his rather specialized vac suit's internal resources, for almost two full days. The fact that he managed to stay so calm while he did it impressed Silas. It was rare to get a competent slicer and adrenaline junky in the same agent, but the Federation’s Intelligence Agency attracted the best.
Silas took a swig of his beer and tapped the bottle on the bar twice to signal that he'd gotten the message.
A few blocks away—between a massage parlor and what was either a restaurant or pet store—a knot of humans turned down the street. Four bodyguards walked almost shoulder to shoulder around a small woman in a no-nonsense cheongsam dress. All of them were clearly of Asian descent, and the guards weren’t focused on the dancing boys and girls or the holographic depiction of unnatural acts on either side of the street; they were watching the crowd around them.
“Doesn't look a whole hell of a lot like the kind of skipper I'd expect a ship with a name like Arizona Bay to have," Whiteside said over the same ear bud. She was a few bars down, ready to keep a visual lock on their target should Silas fail in his task. "More like Hangzhou Bay, I'd say. Still doubt that they’re League special forces, like I said they’d be?”
“Which means we paid off the right people . . . for once,” Silas muttered back.
“Now, mister?” A girl of around ten looked up at him from the other side of the rails separating his bar from the street. She was dressed in little better than rags and her hair was matted.
“Not yet, but get ready." He flicked a station crypto chip off the bar and she caught it. The coin vanished into her rags and she narrowed her eyes at him. She'd been promised two more, so long as she did what she was supposed to.
The bodyguards and their principle continued past Silas. He laid the forearm of his nondrinking hand along the railing demarking the edge of the bar, exposing just the muzzle of the very small barrel hidden in his sleeve.
He nudged the girl with his foot, and she rushed at the bodyguards.
“Mister, mister!” She held out her hands to beg and came at the left rear guard from his right side.
The man stepped aside and thrust out his hand, strongarming the girl in the shoulder and knocking her down. Captain Ma shrank back, her cheongsam swirling around her legs.
It bought Silas the opening he needed. A puff of air hissed from his sleeve, and a tiny dart tagged the edge of her dress.
The girl fell on her backside hard. She swore at the bodyguard in a variety of languages, then jumped back to her feet and ran away into the crowd.
Silas drank his beer, feigning disinterest as the security detail reformed around the woman and continued on their way.
“Squawker dot is embedded in her clothes . . .  moving it a bit deeper into the folds. Nice shot,” Baxter said. “Tracking transmission is go.”
Silas nodded mentally in satisfaction. The tracker would probably never be needed, but he was a firm believer in covering all his bets. Port Montclair's obsolete security cameras left too many potential blank spots Baxter's hack couldn't cover . . . and in which she could meet any number of inconvenient people. Now it wouldn't have to; he could track his dot wherever she went.
“Need secondary?” Whiteside asked.
“Don’t. If we’ve got a solid contact then save your dart. You know how much those things cost?” Silas palmed two coins and lowered his hand. He felt a tug, and a moment later he caught a glimpse of the girl as she slipped into the crowd. She’d almost picked his pocket on his way to the bar, which led to a quick offer for her to make money and keep all her fingers unbroken.
“Since when do we care about costs? Target went straight for the port authority kiosks. Guess they aren’t hungry,” Whiteside said.
“Pull up stakes.” Silas left the bar and stepped into the street. “Baxter, show me what she’s doing.”
A holo projected onto the contact in his right eye as Baxter opened a feed from the station security cams' view on a room marked “Captains Lounge: Ship Masters Only.”
The captain's bodyguards blocked the door as the Arizona Bay’s mistress went inside.
“Fingers crossed,” Silas said.
Shipping and logistics activity beyond the jurisdiction of the League or Federation was rarely on the up and up. As such, captains were picky about their consignments and preferred to do their business in privacy. Because of that shyness on their part, there were no cameras inside the Captains Lounge for Baxter to peek through. Not officially, anyway. But when someone could hack the station maintenance systems, commandeer a repair remote, and steer it to the right location . . .
“O ye of little faith,” Baxter said.
He'd used one of those commandeered remotes to drill a tiny hole in the compartment's overhead and install an equally tiny fisheye lens within hours of their arrival. Now he activated that lens and patched its output to Silas's contact lens so both of them could look down from the ceiling as Captain Ma entered its field of view.
The captain’s lounge was comprised of several semi-circular booths with work stations that accessed the station’s contract database. A half dozen other captains were already present, but Ma went to a booth far from the other occupants and sat down. She put a hand to a reader, then whispered her name.
“Silas? Slight problem,” Baxter said. "The machine she’s using isn’t tied to the station’s system. Maintenance log has that one offline. But she’s got a screen up and she’s using it. Wait. Hold on . . . ”
The captain moved over to another booth and double tapped a signet ring to a reader. Most captains in free space kept their personal access codes and other cypher keys on their person. Silas made a mental note of what to lift off of her should the need ever arise.
“She’s in booth eleven . . . let me tap that feed and . . . bingo! She just put in a longshoreman contract to move cargo from Warehouse Thirty-Seven to the Arizona Bay,” Baxter said. “Damn, I’m good.”
“Thirty-Seven. . . . That's on the alien dock arm,” Whiteside said as she caught up to Silas. She was thirty centimeters shorter and dressed very much like him. “Baxter . . . there’s a Rishathan freighter here, right?”
They slipped into a short, seedy alley that reeked of urine. Flickering signs pointed to an emergency evacuation route at its far end.
“Correct. It's docked at the far end of the spar. I can see it with my bare eyes . . . but there’s no record of how long it’s been docked. Funny, ain’t it?”
“Eight days,” Whiteside said. “Rish got here eight days ago and they've been in trade negotiations with some three-star pirate kingdom for bio samples." Silas raised an eyebrow at her, and she grimaced. "What? Bunch of spacers were talking in my restaurant. Didn’t take much to get them to keep talking.”
“Cover story passes the smell test," Silas said. "Maybe."
He and Whiteside stopped at the doors to the life pod bay. He pressed a wrist band, loaded with override codes provided by Baxter, to a reader and the doors slid open. Flakes of rust fell away as the panels parted.
“I feel so confident in this station’s safety measures,” Whiteside said with a sigh.
The evacuation bay mounted a double row of life pods. Most of the doors were ringed by white lights, but several had blinking red.
“Huh. Internal security system recorded your arrival," Baxter said. "I’m kind of impressed.”
“This an issue?”
Silas thumbed the collar of his vac suit—which was far more capable than its shabby appearance suggested—and drew out a transparent air hood. It wasn't as proof against puncture as a full bore helmet would have been, but it would serve. Pressure seals locked down on his wrists, sealing the ends of his sleeves, and thin gloves extruded from the suit cuffs. They were flexible enough for fine manipulation but would protect his hands from vacuum and maintain a comfortable temperature, although they weren't pressurized themselves.
“What?" Baxter snorted. "Hell no! I have full access. This system runs on a kludge of Federation AI that’s almost two decades out of date. Of course I brought all the sys-keys made by the manufacturer. You’re all set for Pod Seventeen.”
Pod Seventeen’s border blinked red and Silas looked into the small porthole in the hatch. No escape pod within, just the empty hull blister where one should have been. He lifted a weighty switch and the pod bay door shifted on squealing servos and opened almost all the way.
Air blew past them and hissed into space through micro cracks in the hull blister.
“It going to close?” Whiteside—her own hood and gloves in place—stepped into the void where the pod should be.
“Eh . . . we’ll see! I can stymie the alarms. There might be some atmo venting but it’ll be limited to the evac bay. Course, if there's an actual emergency, people won’t appreciate that the alarms aren’t working.”
“We’re not here to make friends,” Silas reminded the others as he joined Whiteside in the empty blister.
The pod doors closed behind them and a warning light spun overhead. Then the shell slammed open, the pod bay's air vented explosively, and Silas and Whiteside looked down the unobstructed depths of the planet's gravity well.
Montclair spun far below, a peach-colored world with striations from planetwide storms that stretched from horizon to horizon. Four kilometers-long arms stuck out from the rotating hub of the central station, as if it were a spider with too few legs. Each of those arms was a docking pier, capable of handling up to a dozen cargo pods apiece, although that was far more traffic than a station like Montclair would normally require.
“There we go,” Whiteside said, and pointed to the end of the nearest arm.
FTL freighters were huge. Anything that mounted a Fasset Drive had to be. As a result, they used externally mounted parasite cargo pods on hull racks, much as a naval FTLC carried its sublight parasites. That was by far the most flexible—and logical—way to do it. But not everyone shared human notions of logic, and at least half of all Rishathan freighters were designed with integral holds, instead of pods. Because of that, frontier stations, especially out beyond the blue line, were normally designed to handle those leviathans. Indeed, that was one reason Montclair's docking arms were as long as they were. Cargo bays were located every few hundred meters, like giant warehouses bolted to the arms, but the real reason for their length was to get the mooring collars at their very end far enough out from the hub to accommodate ships that might be a couple of kilometers long.
Like the one Whiteside had just pointed to.
“Nothing like a little space walk to get the blood going,” Silas said, and pushed off from inside of the pod bay and floated out into the vacuum. He flexed his feet back and forth to activate the propellant jets built into the sides of his vac suit's legs, and a brief burst sent him sailing away from the hub, with Whiteside a few meters behind.
They coasted through the vacuum, toward the cargo bay where the Arizona Bay’s new cargo awaited her, and the running lights on shuttles traced orbits from arm to arm around them.
“I’d enjoy this a lot more if the risk of getting splattered against a shuttle was a bit lower,” Whiteside said.
“Hey, you see me?”
Silas bent at the waist, then kicked his legs out, rotating so that he was moving feet first. At the base of a communication array, Baxter leaned out and waved. There were so many data lines attached to the hacker's oversized helmet that they looked like thin dreadlocks.
“You look ridiculous,” Whiteside said.
“Every line needs a splice, and this place is one archaic system built on top of another archaic system, with some alien tech built in for good measure. You’re welcome!”
“Yeah, yeah." Whiteside shook her head. "Want to trade spots?”
“Focus up. We’re close,” Silas said. “Status on the transfer?”
“A half dozen robot firms are bidding to move the goods . . . fifteen standard containers. I’m futzing with the low bidder and adding an extra zero to their price. Which cancels the contract each time it goes through whatever mushroom’s doing the manual review. Which sends the contract back to bid yadda yadda . . . Should buy you about half an hour.”
“You think this is it, Silas? Finally?” Whiteside asked.
"I sure as hell hope so," Silas said grimly. "Most of the cloak and dagger types back home think we're crazy, I know, but . . . "
He shrugged irritably. The war between the Terran Federation and the Terran League had raged for almost half a century, and every projection Silas had ever run said that the League's economy could never have sustained the conflict this long. As far as he knew, every honest projection had said the same thing. Yet the war still raged on and on, endlessly. Which, as his superiors had told him—with increasingly less patience each time he raised the point—clearly meant the base assumptions about the League's productiveness were flawed. It certainly didn't mean that anyone else—like, oh, the Rish—might be supplying the Leaguies with lethal aid. There was zero evidence for that tinfoil hat theory, so please stop bothering them with it.
“Bottom line," he said now, "even if any of the chairwarmers decide we're not total nut jobs after all, the Federation can’t lean on the Rish without proof. So if we can finally find it . . ."
Silas touched the holstered pistol hidden in his equipment harness.
“‘Lean’?” If she hadn't been wearing a helmet, Silas thought Whiteside would’ve spat. “Rish bastards have propped the League up for who knows how long while we bleed on the front lines. How many billion more people would be alive if the League had surrendered after we hammered them at New Derba or the Battle of Deep Belt?"
“You think the League will ever stop fighting us?" Silas shot back. "Billions of them have died too. But we get the Rish to stop meddling and maybe the League will read the writing on the wall . . . or Intelligence Command will authorize a few more teams to cause a few ‘convenient accidents’ for those running supplies from free space. It’ll either get the Rish to pull out or go overt with their aid. And if the League takes their help out in the open, maybe it’ll piss off the families in the Five Hundred enough for them to finally sacrifice a bit of their wealth to finance an offensive that’ll actually end this war.”
He used a laser range finder and checked the distance to the cargo bay.
“The Five Hundred don’t care if the war never ends.” Whiteside drew her pistol. “They’re not the ones fighting it, just the ones making money supplying ships and weapons.”
“You ever hear the one about a dagger in the dark versus a thousand swords at dawn?" Silas asked.
"Well, yeah. You're kinda fond of bringing it up," Whiteside told him with a chuckle.
"That's because I'm so damned smart. Now, let’s do this.”
Silas slowed his velocity with his suit thrusters and landed on the outside of the cargo bay. Mag locks in his boots gripped the metal and he slid to a stop.
Whiteside hit next to him and skidded into the hull.
“Hate space walks,” she muttered as she rubbed her shoulder.
“Baxter. Get us an entrance,” Silas said.
“Internal alarms are all over the place . . . They don’t want anyone coming in through the atmo tunnels in the pier, but the external air locks are meant for robot cargo haulers . . .  not so many alerts, and . . . bingo!”
A barn door sized slab of metal slid open a few dozen meters away. The inner air lock door was still shut.
The two spies floated into the lock and it closed behind them.
“Closing the outer lock,” Baxter said. “Can you still hear me?”
“Good to go.” Silas drew his pistol and checked the round count.
“No activity inside the bay. I’m getting some weird activity on the network. Let’s go radio silent unless it’s something critical, good?”
“Roger. Get us inside."
Silas went to one side of the air lock, locked his boots back to the deck for stability, and readied his pistol. Whiteside went to the other, and the inner door opened smoothly. Lamps on the ceiling cast white pools around cargo containers. Each container was mag-locked to the deck—or the container under it—to keep it in place, and row upon row of them stretched evenly from one corner of the bay to the other.
“Look at all that hay,” Whiteside said.
“Maybe they’re all needles. Only need one.” Silas pushed off and floated to the nearest cargo container. He swiped fingertips down the manifest box, and text came up.
“Seriously, boss? You think the Rish are going to list what’s really in here?” Whiteside pulled a small cylinder from a slot on her harness.
“Content manifest isn’t what I’m looking for. What I'm checking is . . .  There! This one was dropped in here ten days ago. Too long ago to be from the Rish.” Silas looked to the ceiling and pointed at the magnetic lift mounted there. It was off center, not near the command center at the back of the bay like it should be, if the place was run by competent longshoremen.
“That way." He took off at a slow jog. “I’ll bet that lift is parked directly above the last crate anybody stacked. No one's been in here since the lizards dropped their cargo, anyway. The bastards locked down the bay when they left. You'd almost think they didn't want anyone snooping around in here after they dropped off something valuable.”
“Or incriminating,” Whiteside added.
They got to a container beneath the mag lifter and Silas checked the manifest box.
“Three days in place." He slapped it with a palm. "Think we should open it to check?"
The look Whiteside gave him should have reduced him to cinders. Cargo containers logged every time their doors opened or shut.
“I’m not all that crazy about leaving traces, thank you,” she told him acidly and double tapped one end of the cylinder in her hand to activate it. She pressed the spy drone's other end to the side of the container, and there was a hiss as it burned a hole through the container wall, fused itself to the metal, and deployed its scanner head inside the container.
Silas took cover next to the container, his eyes on the bay's command center. It was lit, but unoccupied.
“Three years on a League planet working security for the local triad boss.” Whiteside bent her arm and brought the pistol next to her face. “All that to figure out which free traders came and went in-system with too many voids in their cargo bays. Then we get the Arizona Bay and now we’re out here flapping.”
“Why’s your drone taking so long?” Silas asked.
“It’s a single-use scanner." She looked at him, obviously wondering if he was more nervous than he cared to appear since he knew that as well as she did. "Can’t alter the quantum matrix once it’s set, so nobody can futz the data. But that means that if it’s got something it’ll be slow. Good sign?” She glanced at the glowing drone.
The drone released itself from the container and floated in the bay's micro gravity, one end still red hot but cooling quickly. Whiteside snatched it out of the air.
“Hot potato. Hot!” She waggled it from side to side, then touched a tip to a reader on her wrist. Scans from inside projected on the contact in Silas’s eye.
X-ray and graviton scans resolved into cones with deep circuitry and sensor banks.
“That . . . that's a League Tán missile warhead.” Whiteside swallowed hard. “That is lethal aid from the Rish to the League. We’ve got them!”
Silas waggled his fingers in front of his eye and the scan zoomed out, showing dozens more warheads.
“This isn’t enough,” he said. His voice was flat, professional, even as his heart soared triumphantly. “We’ve got to have a mountain of evidence to convince enough people back on Earth. More than they can explain away as circumstantial. One box of warheads? Could be going to some pirate fleet.”
“I’ve got four more single-use scanners,” Whiteside reminded him.
“Find containers with the same transfer time. I’m going to the command center. There should be a record of this stuff coming in off the Rish ship.”
Silas gave her a double pat on the shoulder and kicked off, hard, sending himself scudding towards the back of the cargo bay.
“Hurry!” she called after him.
Silas flipped end-for-end, using his suit jets to brake, then caught a handhold at the command center entrance.
“Second container’s got ballistics computers,” Whiteside whispered through his ear bud. “One of those things costs more than I’ve ever made on my joke of a government salary.”
“Use your woman’s intuition for the next one.” Ha, funny. “Let me get into the logs to see if there’s anything more incriminating."
Silas tried the command center door, but—not to his surprise—it was locked. He pulled a small unit from his harness and pressed it to the lock. It manipulated magnetic fields until it popped open, and he pushed himself inside. He waved his hands over the screens and they came to life.
“Baxter? Baxter?”
When the hacker didn’t answer, Silas plugged a line from the back of his collar to a port at the top of the workstation. A pulse went into the station’s systems, and the speakers in his collar fluttered with static a few seconds later.
“Iron,” Baxter said, giving the team challenge.
“Horn,” Silas responded, signaling that he wasn’t under any duress. “Need you to unlock the data banks. We’ve got what we’re looking for but we need more. Have you cracked the Arizona Bay’s data stacks?”
“Not yet. Security's better than I expected. But I’m linked through your suit, so I can crack the cargo bay’s stacks now. Maybe I can backdoor into Arizona Bay that way and—Wait, did you say what I thought you just said?”
“Whiteside’s getting more data on single-use scans, but yeah. We’ve got something solid, this time. Really solid. But we need more to get the whole picture for the brass at the Oval before anyone's going to believe us.”
“No shit? Well, I will be damned . . . . Okay, I'm in. Sending you the Arizona Bay’s data logs now. Wait one while I—huh? That’s funny.”
A data transfer pulsed on Silas's HUD, then the screens on the consoles fluttered and went pure white.
“This doesn’t look like your usual work,” Silas said, then stiffened as an echo of metal slamming against metal sounded through the bay.
“You hear that?” Whiteside asked.
“Close up . . . we might have a problem,” Silas replied, and tapped a button on one side of the screens, trying to clear it. What the hell was —?
“Boss! Boss, I’m made!" Baxter cried. "They’re coming out of the air lock! No. No don’t! Don—!”
The transmission cut off.
“Carla, we’re made!" Silas yelled. "I’m coming to you!”
He hurled himself back out the control center door, sending himself streaking through the bay's micro gravity in the lowest trajectory that would clear the containers . . . and the sharp bark of a pistol echoed through the bay.
It cracked again. Then an automatic weapon chattered in reply.
Silas flipped in mid-air, driving his boots down onto the top of a container and maxing the mag plates. The shock seemed to rip his legs right off, but it stopped him dead, and he braced himself against the sudden anchor.
Whiteside was bellied down behind a container. Two dead men in the shipboard utilities of the Arizona Bay lay on the deck in front of her, and blood oozed thick in the micro-gravity. Another crewman crouched behind his own container, one leg hooked through a handling loop for stability, while he hosed short, controlled bursts at her. He was obviously a pro. His fire was accurate and steady, despite the zero-gee, and he had Whiteside well and truly pinned. Unfortunately for him, he was fully focused on her instead of looking up.
Silas leaned forward, took careful aim and shot him directly through the top of his skull. His head snapped back in a grisly explosion, and a red and gray cloud of blood, brain matter, and bone splinters spread like an obscene halo.
Silas looked around, eyes sweeping as much as he could see of the once again silent bay for any sign of movement. He detected none, so he unlocked his boots and used a handhold to send himself down to where Whiteside crouched.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Almost.” Whiteside held up an arm. The vac suit was punctured—torn, actually, in a gouge that he saw burrowed through the outside of her forearm, as well. Blood flowed from the gouge, but without the heavy flow of a deep wound. "Bastard you nailed clipped me before I knew he was there," she said.
"You can still use it?"
“Hurts like hell, but yeah. And at least it's my right. The scans are still good,” she wagged her left, arm with the five drone cylinders clamped to it.
“Hold on,” Silas holstered his pistol and took emergency sealant spray that was standard on every spacer’s kit from her belt. He held the nozzle close to her wounded forearm and gave a generous coating over each tear.
“Shit!” Whiteside clenched her jaw. “Next time warn me, Silas! Hurts like a bastard. And it’s going to bond to the wound, you know that? Not like a band aid I can just rip off.”
“You want to go back into vacuum with punct—?”
A door on the far side of the cargo bay opened, at the far end of the aisle in which Silas knelt working on Whiteside's forearm. He looked up in time to see the shadow of something big and reptilian coming through before it disappeared. From the limited glimpse he'd had, it was headed toward the control center.
For now, at least.
“Problem . . . big one,” he said. “We need to get back to the air lock.”
“Fine by me,” she said, and switched her pistol to her off hand.
Silas led the way down another row in the low, swooping bounds zero-grav made possible, skimming just off the deck for concealment and zig-zagging their way towards the air lock through the grid of containers. He had no way to know if the newest intruder was alone or if there were more League special operators scattered through the bay, and he had no intention of moving high, fast . . . and right into someone's sights.
A deepthroated, savage roar of fury sounded from where they’d left the dead Leaguies. That was close. Closer than he'd thought even a matriarch could be this quickly.
“Go! Go!” he shouted.
The container behind them burst forward, striking him in the back. He smacked into the metal side of another, then fell back. The moving container slammed into it beside him, so close he barely escaped being crushed by its ponderous mass. The impact staggered the stack Silas had hit, and the upper containers shifted. One slid outward, above him, just as the moving one crashed down on the deck, and the mag locks built into every container's base plate automatically locked it in place before it could fly any farther.
Directly between him and the aisle down which they'd been headed.
He looked up and snarled. The container which had shifted roofed him in. He couldn't just go up and over the obstruction, but he might be able to squeeze through the gap at deck level. Only that damned lizard had to be right on top of them.
“Get out, Carla!" he snapped over the comm "Get it back home!”
He moved toward the gap, but before he could reach it—
Onyx tipped claws curled around the gap. The containers were cubes, ten meters on a side, and micro gravity didn't negate mass. It took just as much energy to overcome inertia and get them moving in the first place, but those claws didn't care. They heaved, hurling the lowest container aside, and Silas found himself face-to-face with a Rishathan matriarch in full fury.
The gray-scaled alien towered over him. Her scarlet cranial frills were flat to her massive skull, spiked, articulated armor covered her shoulders and spine, and psychedelically colored fabric streamers hung from that enormously broad shoulder carapace. They should have looked ridiculous. They didn't. Not with those flattened frills and the short, spiked, angrily lashing tail. Huge golden eyes locked on Silas, and her jaws parted to show serrated teeth at least four centimeters tall.
Yet despite her monstrous appearance, there was intelligence—and speculation—in those eyes as she glared at him.
“You’re no thief.”
Humans and Rish were incapable of reproducing one another's languages, but the translator she wore like a necklet could.
“And you’re not here trading tchotchkes.” Silas backed away. If he could keep this big bitch's attention, give Whiteside more time to get away . . .
The Rish’s nostrils flared. Its eyes dipped slightly, and Silas looked down. There was blood on his gloves, he realized . . . but nowhere near as much as on Whiteside's vac suit.
And this alien could hunt by scent.
Those Rishathan eyes narrowed, and then the matriarch whirled. Her incredibly powerful legs sent her flying down the aisle, and even as they did, her tail snapped behind her and struck Silas in the stomach.
The blow knocked air from his lungs and he flew backward almost a meter before a container side stopped him. But he never lost his grip on his pistol, and temporary lack of oxygen didn’t send him into a panic. He fired at the Rish’s back, hitting her in the legs and hips even as she twisted away. The carapace covering her spine was thick enough to defeat pistol rounds, but blood splashed from at least two hits beside it.
If they hurt her, she didn’t seem to notice.
Silas fought to breathe, his vision darkening until he managed a ragged breath. Ribs ached and a few were likely broken. He coughed and kicked off, suit jets blasting at maximum as he streaked to catch up. It was risky as hell in such restricted quarters, but the aisles were straight, and —
More pistol shots rang out. Whiteside came through a cross gap ahead of him, flying backward in the micro gravity, her pistol held in both hands and firing nonstop. She swept across the aisle, and Silas slammed his boots to the deck. If he'd thought his legs had hurt the first time he tried it, he'd been wrong, he discovered. This time they really hurt. But it also stopped him, and he thumbed his weapon to full auto and raised it, his finger on the trigger, and —
The Rish flashed into view, and he squeezed the trigger.
Violet blood flew from at least half a dozen hits, but the matriarch's momentum carried her across the aisle and back out of his sight before he could tell how much damage he'd done.
Whiteside let out a shriek.
Silas hurled himself forward, sling-shotting around the angle, pistol ready—then braked to a stop.
The Rishathan lay stopped between him and Whiteside. She was a few yards from the alien’s head, and her fire had obviously hit it more than once, as well. Blood pumped from bullet wounds in its flanks, back, and chest in a slowing rhythm.
“Think we got it?” she asked with a shaky smile.
“I don’t know . . . I’ve never seen one in person before. Let’s get out of here before more show up.”
“Sounds good to me. Air lock's that way.” She pointed to one side and dropped the magazine from her pistol. She drew a fresh mag from her harness as Silas stepped over the Rish’s tail to join her, moving past the downed alien carefully.
He was almost clear when a massive hand grabbed him by the ankle. He twisted around as the alien’s jaw snapped up and clamped onto the forearm of his gun hand. The thick, tough fabric of his heavy duty vac suit blunted that savage bite—some—but not enough. He lost his weapon as teeth sank deep into the meat of his arm, and the Rish jerked him to one side, then flung him down the passage and against the bulkhead near the air lock.
Whiteside fumbled her reload.
The Rish raised an arm and swiped at the spy while she was still trying to seat the magazine, and Whiteside shrieked as claws raked down her chest. They ripped her open, from neck to belt, and the alien caught her before she could fall and ripped her left arm out of the socket.
The shredded corpse flew backward, trailing blood clouds and torn viscera, but the Rish ignored it as she sniffed at the arm she held. The one with the single-use scan rods. The alien snarled in triumph, then shoved the arm between its jaws. It bit down, shattering the scan rods—and the flesh and bone of Whiteside's arm—into bloody pieces.
Silas lay stunned against the bulkhead, his vision swimming. The pain from the bite throbbed, growing stronger with each heartbeat. But the airflow hissed in his ears when he sucked in a deep, sobbing breath.
His helmet still had a good seal, and he rolled to one side and pushed himself into the air lock, his injured arm held tight to his chest. The emergency release was under a black and yellow plate with a single twist latch, and he caught the latch as he crossed it.
The Rish spat out what was left of Whiteside's mangled arm, then roared and pushed itself back up. It was slower than it had been. Not surprisingly, given the blood pumping from its multiple wounds. He was pretty sure it had to be mortally wounded itself, but dying or not, it was still lethal, and it started towards him.
He twisted the latch. The plate snapped up, and he reached into the opening with his good arm. He grabbed the red handle and yanked, but it refused to budge. He yanked again, harder, as the Rish gathered speed toward him. Nothing.
He got one foot on the deck, then straightened his leg explosively, heaving at the handle with the full strength of his back and legs . . . and panic.
The handle clicked up. The air lock doors burst off their rails. They went tumbling into the vacuum, and a hurricane of venting atmosphere blasted him out right behind them.
He watched the Rishathan turn end-over-end with him, still reaching, still trying to kill him. But he had a helmet and vac suit . . . she had nothing.
The alien struggled for a seeming eternity that couldn't actually have been more than eighty or ninety seconds, then went still, the blood from her wounds freezing in space.
Silas felt ice growing in his own mauled arm. He was close to passing out as air and blood bubbled from the tears in his vac suit, and he knew it. But he fumbled behind his back, tumbling through space as he fought to get to his emergency sealant.
He gripped it as the pain flashed up his wounded arm to his shoulder and the readout projected onto his contact in lieu of a normal helmet's HUD warned he was losing both pressure and oxygen. He pressed the nozzle and sprayed it uselessly away from him, then turned it to the biggest tear on his sleeve.
The pain of the sealant bonding to his skin was negligible compared to what he'd already been through, and he used the entire bottle to coat the rips. Then he let go of it and watched it sail away from him as he turned end over end in the vacuum.
His teammates were dead. He had no evidence to take back to the Federation, and now he was adrift in the vast nothingness . . . either to float for the rest of eternity or eventually burn up in Montclair’s atmosphere when he finally deorbited. No one back home would ever know what happened to him.
Such was the life of a spy, he told himself.
As he turned over and over, contemplating his fate, the Rishathan ship pushed off from her mooring, and he watched as a half-dozen camouflaged ports opened all down one flank of what was supposed to be a cargo hold. The emitters of what had to be capital ship-grade energy weapons crouched inside those ports, and fury flashed as lasers blasted into the station. The Rish splintered the entire docking arm—and annihilated the cargo bay—with the first strike. But they weren't finished.
They turned their lasers on the rest of the station. The beams bracketed Silas on either side, close enough only the vacuum saved him from being flash fried. It took only two volleys to smash the central station's upper levels. Hull splintered, wreckage spiraled away as the lower levels began to come apart, and atmosphere blazed around the laser impacts as the mortally wounded port burned.
Ships moored to the other long arms cast off frantically, and thrusters flared at full power as they clawed away from the wreck. None of them wanted any part of whatever fight the Rish had decided to finish, and Silas didn't blame them one bit. Life pods blasted away from the station, and their SOS signals squawked in his ears.
The Rishathan ship turned from the station and accelerated away.
Silas listened to his breathing and the panic over the comm as Port Montclair fought to survive.

****

He sat in a bar a few blocks from the Oval, home of the Terran Federation’s supreme military headquarters, and batted a small data chip from thumb to forefinger. The ice in his drink had nearly melted.
The wounds from the Rish’s bite had healed, and modern medicine could have repaired even the scars. But he'd refused . . . and kept them as proof of what he’d been through.
Even if—or perhaps even especially because—the Powers That Were refused to believe a word of it.
A tramp freighter had picked him up after Port Montclair's destruction. The ancient laws of Old Earth's seas still held for spacers, and refusing to rescue anyone in peril was not an option for some ships and some crews, wherever they might hail from.
It had taken months to beg borrow and steal passage back to Federation space, where contacting Intelligence command had solved most of his problems—his immediate problems, at least—and gotten him on the first ship back to Old Earth and to the Oval.
His report to his superiors had not been received well. One data chip and his testimony were not enough to convince the first line of the Federation’s decision makers to take action against the Rish  . . . or to do anything against them at all.
Baxter and Whiteside dead. Countless thousands lost aboard the Port Montclair. All for nothing.
A man dropped onto the stool next to his and tapped out a quick beat against the bar. The newcomer was about Silas’s age, with green eyes, auburn hair, and a moustache.
A robot with a bowtie and an embossed tuxedo slid over on a rail in response to his summons.
"May I serve you, sir or madam?" it inquired.
“Sazerac,” the newcomer replied, and Silas raised an eyebrow. The order was the same as his untouched drink.
The robot prepared the drink with quick efficiency and pushed it to the new arrival.
“I don’t thank robots," the other man said. "They’re not programmed to care, anyway. There are some that might think that’s a tragedy. All that effort and no one appreciates it."
He took a sip.
“Yeah," Silas muttered. "Robot’s got it real rough.”
“But—" the man turned his head and looked squarely at Silas "—men and women who do sacrifice, who do go above and beyond . . . they should be respected and believed. Not that you’d find someone like that behind a bar. Or —" he took another sip "—in the Oval."
Silas raised his eyes to the mirror behind the bar, checking to see if there were any other new arrivals, but the place was nearly empty and all his exits were still open.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“We’re part of the same fraternity. One that knows what the Rish are doing to prolong the war," the other man said. "We just haven’t been able to prove it to the general public. Yet."
“Too bad there’s no such thing as a tinfoil hat drink,” Silas said.
“It would be despised across the galaxy until it became widely accepted as a bar room staple," the other said. "All of a sudden. Same way people treat conspiracy theories that turn out to've been right all along. Not to the surprise of people who've been drinking it the whole time,” the man lifted his glass. “You ever heard of an old drink called Kool-Aid? Pre-expansion Earth.”
“I’ve been drinking it for years,” Silas clinked his glass against his bar mate’s.
“You came back with more than scars." The man pointed a finger at the data chip. “You’ve got a lead.”
“Crew manifests, false bills of lading, equally false ship registries for the Arizona Bay . . . not much of a lead.” Silas palmed the data chip. The fact that a total stranger was interested in it made him cautious.
“Funny thing about liars," the other man said. "The more they lie, the more they tell the truth by accident and omission." He set a pair of data chips on the bar. “Some like thinkers and I took a look at the data you brought back. We found several planets, trade routes, and crew manifests with some . . . interesting overlaps with what you found on Port Montclair. You don’t think the Rish are going to quit just because you got a peek behind their curtain, do you?”
Silas worked his jaw from side to side.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We need capable and determined agents to go after truths that others don’t want to find. If you’re up for another trip beyond the blue line to free space . . . I can make that happen.”
Silas looked at him for a moment, then swept the two data chips into his hand.
“What’s your name?”
“Harrison O'Hanraghty." He extended his hand. "Pleasure to meet you.”

This story is set within the world of June hardcover Governor, by David Weber and Richard Fox. Governor, is a new novel in the Ascent to Empire series which includes the Weber novel Path of the Fury.

Best-selling author David Weber is the creator of the Honor Harrington series. Additional Honorverse collaborations include the spin-off miniseries Manticore Ascendant with Timothy Zahn; and with Eric Flint, Crown of Slaves and Cauldron of Ghosts contribute to his illustrious list of New York Times and international bestseller lists. Weber is also the creator of the Oath of Swords fantasy series. Weber’s collaborations include the Starfire Series with Steve White, the Empire of Man Series with John Ringo, the Multiverse Series with Linda Evans and Joelle Presby, The Gordian Division series with Jacob Holo.  He lives in South Carolina.    

Richard Fox is the winner of the 2017 Dragon Award for Best Military Science Fiction or Fantasy novel. He is the author of The Ember War Saga, a military science fiction and space opera series, and other novels in the military history, thriller, and space opera genres. Fox graduated from the United States Military Academy and spent ten years on active duty in the United States Army. He deployed on two combat tours to Iraq and received the Combat Action Badge, Bronze Star, and Presidential Unit Citation. He now lives in fabulous Las Vegas with his incredible family.

Salvage Judgment
by G. Scott Huggins

“Theo!”
Theo’s Ectoderm tightened, darkening reflexively. It was the eighth day on the Honeymoonlet, and that tone was dangerous. He turned.
Molly drifted into the flight deck like a descending angel of death.
“What have you been doing in the shop?” She was a beautiful sight, mostly, clad in her bridal Layer, an intricate lace-pattern of black and white that wrapped her long form in shifting, tantalizingly curved shadows and turned her eyes into deep pools of night. In the center of the ice-cave that served as their flight deck, she looked like a fairy queen.
Not one of the good ones.
“I don’t know, Molls,” Theo said. “What have I been doing in the shop?”
“How would I know?” she said. “I was going to run some fine assayage on rare earth traces, and it’s a mess: tools and supplies everywhere, I can’t find half of what I need, and why are you messing with my chemicals anyway?”
“Molly, how would I have even been in the shop?” Theo asked, he thought, reasonably. “I’ve been on flight duty the last four hours. Besides, I’m the engineering jock. You’re the chem witch.”
“So, what, you’re saying it was me?” She folded her arms.
“I’m saying I don’t know anything about it.”
“Well, there’s only two things you could mean,” said Molly, her voiced rising. “You forgot messing up the workshop or you think I did! And there were footprints in the tunnel snow, Theo. Footprints.”
“And I promised I wouldn’t do that again,” Theo said, his voice hardening. Molly glared at him. Finally, he said, “Look, I don’t know what happened: let me clean it up, and if it’s my fault, I’ll make sure it never happens again.”
Molly raised an eyebrow. “And you understand why it can’t?”
Theo clamped down on his temper. One mistake—hell, it hadn’t even been that dangerous!—and she was treating him like an idiot five-year-old. “Molly, even in my family we didn’t leave tools loose. I’m not stupid, okay?”
Her expression softened a bit. “I know you aren’t, that’s why it’s so,” she groped for words, “maddening to see you act like it.”
He drifted over and took her hands. “Soon, we’ll have our own Family Ship,” he said. “And we can arrange her, cabin by cabin. Come on. You want to take flight while I go clean it up?”
“Okay. Report?”
“Only interesting thing is that we’re about at closest approach to that Earthcorp heavy hauler. Half a million klicks. Otherwise, massdriver and seismics all nominal.”
Molly snorted. “A bubblehead transport? Have they called us up to check out the freaks, yet?”
Theo snorted, relieved at the change of subject. “They’re ignoring us. You know, my brother Layered his face like a rotting corpse once and sent a fake distress call to a bubblehead ship? Had their bridge crew vomiting in micrograv.”
Molly giggled. “At least it broke the monotony. Can you imagine being out here without an Ectoderm?”
Theo shook his head. He really couldn’t.
In 2042, the Ectoderm had opened the solar system to first-generation miners like their parents. It had replaced his own skin right after birth and grown with him all his life. It allowed people to work in space the way men should be able to work: able to feel the equipment they used, without the constant fear of puncturing a suit. With Ectoderm, all you needed was a rebreather mask. It provided the pressure humans needed to live in vacuum, regulated body temperature through superconduction, and shielded against harmful radiation. Incredibly tough and elastic, it forced human muscles to stretch against it, so they didn’t atrophy in microgravity.
But it was a permanent modification, and Earther bubbleheads were very attached to their skins. Why didn’t they stay where it was safe to keep them?
“I could call them. Confirm their ideas of strange Ecto perversions,” Molly said.
“Oh, no,” said Theo. “I’m keeping your strange Ecto perversions all to myself.” He caressed her back, sliding his hand downward. “Want to go for a walk outside, later?”
“Later. Scoot. And clean up your mess.”
Theo kissed her and flew off through the web of the Rock’s tunnels.

Theo leaped through the drilled tunnels of ice and ore that laced the Honeymoonlet. It seemed empty. A week ago, during the claimgather, this rock had swarmed with as many people as he’d ever seen in his life. The tunnels had been full of Ectos, coring and drilling and carving. Every day had been like a celebration: Molly was really going to be his wife: he was going to live with her, they’d have their own Ship.
Claimgathers were how Ectos in the Belt made their real living. Individual Family Ships mined out surface deposits, along with enough ice to keep themselves going. But a rich strike, worth sending the whole asteroid back to Earth—meant resources, manpower, and expertise that no single Family Ship could possess.
A family that found such a rock sent out a claimcall. Every Family Ship on a favorable vector responded, doing a share of the work for a share of the find: setting up the gossamer mylar solar furnaces to smelt the ore, the thorium reactor to power it, and the huge massdriver to hurl the slag away from the Rock, driving it sunward. It was a celebration: a break from the long, lonely life of prospecting. But for young Ectos who were courting, it was more.
They called it the Honeymoonlet: piloting the claim home to metal-hungry Earth, that would turn the treasure of the outer planets into the technology the Ectos needed to survive. Their payment was the right to buy from the proceeds their very own Family Ship: their key to mining the asteroids for themselves. Or perhaps the Trojans of Jupiter, or Saturn’s Rings. Bringing up their own children in the free vastness of space.
Theo’s face tightened. How many more fights would they have before Molly stopped looking for things to get mad about? The first fight had been about a snowball.
On Theo’s Family Ship, when you were on an asteroid you knew well, you could relax a little. A week ago, he’d thrown a snowball at his new wife. He’d even missed. Molly had exploded.
In her family, asteroids were treated as always dangerous, all the time. She’d accused him of risking both of their Ectoderm. Of course, durable as Ectoderm was, it wasn’t perfect: a single real tear in it would kill them dead as any Earther. But nothing cold enough to cryoshock Ectoderm could have survived in the Honeymoonlet’s pressurized tunnels. That didn’t matter to Molly. You did not touch asteroid ice. With. Bare. Ectoderm. Now she was accusing him of lying, and he hadn’t even been barefoot in the shop.
Had he?
He’d loved Molly for two years, eagerly awaiting each new message, each vidfile. Treasuring the rare occasions their Family Ships had been close enough for realtime vidcalls.
Living with Molly was different from loving her.
Molly’s sudden voice in his earphones nearly made him hit a wall. “Theo?” She sighed. “I haven’t said thanks for what you did for Uncle Rocky yet.”
Oh. “Didn’t do much good, did it?”
“You did try, though. I should have . . .”
“Hey. It wouldn’t have made a difference if it had been you.”
“Probably not. Hurry back.” She signed off.
Well. Maybe no fight after all? Thanks, Dad.
In the glittering ovoid Reception Hall, carved from ice and faceted like the inside of a huge diamond, Theo’s father had taken him aside for a last chat. “Remember, son. For men, the operative word in Family Ship tends to be ‘Ship.’ You have to keep the Ship running. For women, it tends to be ‘Family.’ You have to keep the Family together.” Theo had listened carefully. It was quite possible that he would never be in the same room with his parents again.
“Always remember you need each other. If you work together, you have a Family and a Ship. Work against each other—put Family in the way of Ship, or the other way around—soon you’ll have neither.”
Theo glanced at Molly, dancing with her bridesmaids, reveling in the crowd. It was hard to imagine, but . . . “What if she works against me?”
His father smiled. “Then you have to work with her.” He put his hand on Theo’s shoulder. “Even when you know she’s wrong. No matter what. It isn’t easy. Don’t for a moment think it will be. It’s harder than drilling osmium ore.”
“You and Mom always made it look easy.”
His father snorted. “Which was hardest of all. Children need to know they’re safe. So we hid it from you kids; hissed our words of anger while you slept. But we always showed each other we cared.”
“How do I show her I care? About family?”
His father looked past the gaily-Layered partygoers. Toward a small exit. “Her Uncle Jurgen is down that tunnel. Sneaked out that way with a bottle of hundred.”
Theo hesitated. “Uncle Rocky? Dad . . .”
“You asked,” said his father. “The man’s still her blood, whatever else he is. Thinks he isn’t wanted. You could do something about it.”
He isn’t wanted. “All right.”
Rocky was easy to find. Theo heard the moans before he saw the man, and realized that 100% ethanol wasn’t the only drug Rocky had on him. Judas, Rocky, it’s called AloneTime for a reason. Disgusted, he waited for the man to finish.
Non-addictive recreational drugs were common among Ectos. AloneTime induced orgasm for those who lacked sexual partners. Theo waited until Rocky was finished, then rounded the corner noisily.
Rocky wore no Layer: just bare Ectoderm and grubby shorts. Normally, at a claimgather, Ectos showed off flamboyant, bright color schemes. Rocky didn’t want to be noticed. No. Jurgen. “Rocky” was what you called an Ecto you didn’t know. And didn’t want to. Theo suppressed a shudder. Jurgen had piloted a Honeymoonlet once . . .
“Hey. Jurgen. Uh, Molly was wondering where you’d gone.”
Rocky peered at him. “No, she wasn’t, kid,” he scoffed, voice bearing no trace of slur. “She hasn’t even noticed. And anyone who has,” he waved the bottle, “knows where I am.”
“Come on, Jurgen. It’s a claimgather. Everyone’s here. It’s a long time between them.”
“Not long enough,” whispered Rocky. His head jerked up. “You think I’m in here because I’m afraid of them?”
Shouldn’t you be? Rocky and his wife had lost their Honeymoonlet. The whole Belt knew the story. “No,” lied Theo. “I don’t . . .”
“Well, I’m not,” snarled Rocky. “I’m afraid of what I might do to them.” Then, with frightening speed, Rocky pushed off and took Theo by the arms. “You watch yourself, boy! The Hinderleyders are here. What they did to me, they can do to you!” Rocky’s breath smelled like a distillery’s open grave. He relaxed his grip. “I know what you think. I know what it looked like. But this ain’t about me. It’s about you. About Molly. They want another thick cut of salvage.”
It looked like you and your bride went on a drug-bender and let your mass driver shred itself, Theo thought. Because that’s what happened. Rocky’s wife had left him: sworn he’d forced her, but few believed her. They’d trashed twenty families’ hard work. For drugs. An Earthcorp ship had rescued them. Been awarded half the Honeymoonlet’s value as salvage. Cost the profits of the whole claimgather. And lost their chance at a Family Ship.
Show her you care about family.
Rocky was her family.
“We don’t have to relive this, Rocky,” he said, gently. The nickname slipped out, but Rocky didn’t even notice. “It was fifteen years ago.” But no one forgot carelessness in the Belt. Couldn’t afford to.
“The distress call was a deepfake,” Rocky whispered. “We never sent it.”
Right. Someone deepfaked you begging for rescue, complete with all your Honeymoonlet’s authentication codes. And he blamed the Hinderleyders. Well, why not one of the richest families in the Belt? “Come on, Jurgen. Molly wants to see you. So do her folks.”
Rocky sagged. “Yeah. Sure. I got it, kid.” Rocky let go. “Wouldn’t want to spoil the party. While it lasts.” He followed Theo back into the huge chamber.

Drifting through the now-dark Reception Hall, toward a softly glowing, deep infrared tunnel, Theo muttered, “Sorry, Rocky,” into his breather. They’d found his note the next day. His bare footprints in the cee-snow-2, trudging away from the Ships. No one went looking for him. Even his parents’ grief had looked . . . spent. Like it had run its course long ago.
With a gesture, Theo brought up the lights in the shop, and stared.
Molls hadn’t been kidding. The contents of the shop were clamped to the work rack in no order. Hypercompressed air tanks, glassine cylinders, chemicals Theo hardly recognized, plus coils of fiberoptic cable and heavy-duty hoses. He hadn’t done any of this. What would anyone do with all these things?
But Molly hadn’t, either. Or said she hadn’t. Was it possible his new bride was playing a practical joke? Or, less funny thought: that she was completely delusional? And there in the tunnel: a footprint. My big toe isn’t longer than my second toe.
Molly’s hysterical voice cut through his thoughts like a shard of frozen oxygen. “Theo? Theo! Get up here! I can’t stop it! I can’t . . .”
“Molly!” He’d never heard any Ecto so panicked. “What’s happened? Report!”
“We’re broadcasting! Look at it!” she shrieked.
Theo fumbled for his uphone. It’s the Disaster Frequency, he thought, dumbly.
He stared at his own face. On the flight deck. It was slack, eyes unfocused. It spoke in his voice. “. . . repeating. This is Nadjek family Rock, Registry 2589-P, sending Mayday. We, uh . . . fucked up real good, I’m afraid.” Behind him, Molly giggled, eyes wide and glassy. “Partying kinda hard: honeymoonlet, y’know. And uh . . . I dunno exactly how, but it . . . looks like we dumped the thorium core.”
“Those big levers were so pretty,” breathed Molly’s image. “And you pulled them all…”
“Yeah, my fault,” Theo’s image said, stupidly. “Not Moll’s. So. We’re on battery power, but we’re gonna lose it soon. So we, uh. We really need some help. Please.”
We’re not sending this.
But they were.
Theo frantically tried to shut down the transmission. Then to begin one. Nothing happened. How could he stop it? The antenna was on the surface, kilometers away.
He raced through the dark tunnels. Then the pale face of a serious officer in an Earth-cut uniform on his own ship’s flight deck cut in. “Rock 2589-P,” the man said. “This is Sinoran Combine Heavy Expedience en route to Earth. We are 450 k-klicks out, matching course and speed for intercept and rescue. Please confirm, your vessel without power and you request rescue.”
Theo scrabbled at his unresponsive uphone. “No, we are not!” he screamed.
His image nodded. “Yeah,” it said, sadly. “We’re . . . in a lot of trouble, here.”
The officer nodded. “Don’t worry, Nadjek family. We’re here to help. ETA sixty-eight minutes. Please prepare to welcome our boarding team, and have a manifest ready for calculation of salvage while you wait.” A faint, triumphant smile creased his face. “Expedience out.”
The transmission cut. The Rock’s lights went with it. Theo’s uphone winked out.

Molly’s face was a shattered ghost in the pale glow of the flight deck’s emergency chemlights. She jumped as Theo cycled the door with a clang of manual bolts. Even the power to the doors was gone.
“Theo,” she gulped. “What is happening?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I couldn’t . . . when the transmission went out. You tried to stop it?”
“What do you think?” she screamed. “I even cut the power to the antenna. And it just kept going! This is like a nightmare. Why can’t I wake up?” She clutched at him. “Is what you . . . I mean, it . . . said, true? Is the reactor down?”
“Not just that,” said Theo. “We don’t even have batteries. And look.” He held up his dead uphone. “What about yours? Does it work?”
Molly snatched her own uphone from her belt. Dead.
“This isn’t possible.” Then he remembered. We never sent it. They’ll do it to you, too. “Oh, holy shit,” he breathed. “Rocky.”
“What?”
Theo’s mind raced. “Back to the shop, now!” Without waiting for a response, he leapt for the door, and Molly followed.
Hypercompressed air, glassine, chemicals, fiberoptic cable, hoses, and metastable metallic hydrogen slugs. Wait, were all of those there before? “What is all this for?”
“What are you asking me for?” shouted Molly. “You got them out!”
“I didn’t!” He reached for a plasma torch. “Check the tools for charge!”
“What?”
“Just do it!”
The plasma torch was dead. It had been fully charged when they set out, just a week ago. It hadn’t been used.
Impossible. Molecular distortion batteries lasted for months. But it was gone. Just like our emergency power. He checked a drilling laser. Drained. A seismometer. Drained.
It was as if Theo could see himself from the outside. No way for us to transmit. That confession of drugged incompetence is expanding through the system at the speed of light. Rocky was telling the truth, all this time. We’re going to lose the Rock, our futures, and no one will lift a whisper in our defense, because all they will ever know is that we cost them their fortunes.
A foot scraped on ice.
Molly shrieked. Theo twisted in the air. “What was that?” He raised the dead sonic probe he was holding. It was useless, but heavy. In the dim, chemical lighting, every corner hid gelid shadows.
“Ow,” a voice said. “Quiet down, willya? My head hurts, and we ain’t got time for this.”
Theo’s mouth gaped. “R-Rocky?”
“Yeah, kid. It’s me.” Rocky stepped into view carrying a huge cylinder his own size. “We don’t have much time. They’ve shut you down. Nanoplague. All through your circuitry, now. Tried to stop it, but there’s too much shit scattered around this Rock after a claimgather. They slipped in a trojan horse.”
“Uncle Rocky?” Molly was halfway between screaming and tears. “What the hell is going on?”
Rocky grunted. “They’re coming for you,” he said. “Just like they did for me and . . . me and Justine.” His face twisted as he said his ex-wife’s name. “Like I told you, kid. The Hinderleyders. They were there.”
“What did they do to us?”
“I gotta explain it again?” said Rocky. “The Hinderleyders left something behind. Looked like scrap, prob’ly. You fired off the massdriver, it started spreading. A plague of nanobots with just one purpose: infiltrate every piece of electrical equipment. Then it jacked your antenna and sent that deepfake. Your codes are hardwired into it, so everyone knows it’s really you. Then it blocks the power. Their Earthcorp partners salvage this Rock, take fifty percent. They’ll split it with the Hinderleyders. You get no Family Ship, and blackballed from claimgathers forever. Your names a stain until you die.”
“How do you know?” Molly howled.
“Followed the money,” said Rocky. “when did the Hinderleyders get so rich? When did Sinoran Combine? Fifteen years ago. No proof, of course. But it’s the only thing that makes sense. I have had the time to think it over.”
Fifteen years, Theo thought. Fifteen years, and no way to prove what was done to him.
“They’ll keep you in a nice stateroom while they clean the Rock of any evidence. The nanos are probably gone already: self-destructed. Except maybe some in your reactor to stop you getting any power back. By the time you get to Earth, “proof” of your debauchery will be planted. The story will be all over the Belt.”
“And you stayed . . . here? Faked suicide? Why?” asked Molly.
“Like I told Theo,” said Rocky, a wild light showing in his eyes. “The Hinderleyders. They got me. They’re not getting you.”
Molly looked at Theo in outrage. “You knew about this?”
Rocky spoke. “Molly, don’t blame Theo. I was even drunker than usual. Just crazy old Rocky, spouting the same shit he’s talked for fifteen years . . .”
“I don’t care!” screamed Molly. “You should have told me!”
Theo stammered, “Molly, I didn’t . . .”
“Shut up.” Molly’s voice was liquid nitrogen. “Well, Rocky, what’s the plan? Did you have one, or was it just to watch us go down like you did? So you could finally have someone on your side?”
Rocky’s face hardened. “I’ve planned this for fifteen years. And it wasn’t to assuage my fucking feelings. I had bottles for that. Anyway, couldn’t just build an emergency beacon. That damned nanoplague would just drain it dry. So I built this.” He turned and retrieved his monstrous cylinder, something like the barrel of an artillery piece, black and open at one end, with a crude lever near the bulging tip.
“I was waiting.” Rocky said. “Recorded the ‘distress call’ they planted. And you guys trying to stop it, too.” He drew out his uphone. “Of course, that’s drained, now. But.” He opened a hidden compartment in the tube and slipped it inside. “This is a signal rocket. No battery. Metallic hydrogen-fueled and activated by this mechanical lever. Too fast to intercept.
“Launch this outside, and it accelerates for a thousand k-klicks. Then the flywheel generator triggers the beacon. Mechanical power, so it can’t be drained. It’ll scream its signal all the way to Ceres. And when the Ectos find it, they’ll know—they’ll all know—what the Hinderleyders and their Earthcorp friends tried to do to you.”
The steel band constricting Theo’s heart eased just a bit. “Holy shit, Rocky. You’ve . . . you’ve saved us.”
“If it works,” Molly whispered. “We have to check it out. This is our one shot.”
“What would we check it out with, Molls? We don’t have any instruments.”
She licked her lips. “The nearest airlock is . . .” she hesitated. The Rock was a big place.
Theo racked his brain. “It’s through the mass driver core, and . . .”
“No! Through Reception Hall and out the original core tunnel.”
“Right, let’s go.” He reached for the rocket. There was a scrabbling . . .
“I’m afraid not.” The cold, amplified voice echoed off the icy walls. The drone hovered in the tunnel leading out of the shop. Its black, bullet-shaped body, about the size of a man’s chest, was studded with openings: jets and sensors. A dozen segmented tentacles extended to grip the walls. There was no way past it.
“Three of you,” said the drone. “Unexpected. In any case, you’re going to stay right here for the next hour. Once we dock, everything can be . . . simplified.”
“That’s it,” whispered Rocky. “The plague-carrier.”
Theo kicked off the nearest wall, slowly. The drone wasn’t that big. The laser corer in the clamps might not have power, but it was still a big, heavy piece of . . .
The drone turned and spat a puff of compressed gas. A ragged hole appeared in the corer’s housing. “Stay where you are,” the voice said, calmly. “We’d prefer to have you alive. The living are easier to blame. But we can always make it look like suicide. Or you can actually commit suicide.” Another three spits of gas, much softer, and three bright blue ovoid motes spun out, tumbling slowly in the air. “Overdoses of AloneTime. It’ll be fun. Might even be seen as honorable.”
Theo couldn’t speak. Molly said, “Theo, what do we do?”
That’s what I was going to ask. They both looked at Rocky. He met their eyes, his face pale. His arms tightened on the rocket.
“Let it go, Jurgen,” said the voice.
“Outthought me again,” said Rocky, his voice flatter than the machine’s. “And you can’t let me live. Someone would find the coincidences just a bit too much. But once you get rid of me, anything they say will just be drug-addled excuses.” He took a deep breath. “Well, fuck you. I’ve had more than enough of my life.” He whipped up the rocket and reversed it, aiming the nozzle at the drone. “Eat this.”
“Rocky, NO!” shouted Theo. Rocky pulled the lever.
Theo grabbed Molly and jumped for the shelter of a tool locker. Fire and thunder erupted in a blinding roar. Heat flooded the chamber, painful even through Ectoderm. His closed eyelids shone bright yellow. The storm of sound scoured everything else away, and his spine itched, anticipating a stabbing wash of flame . . .
After an eternity, the cavern went dark. Gut churning, Theo opened his eyes.
Blobs of water drifted in microgravity, blasted free of cracked and polished ice. The drone was a twisted, half-melted spiderweb splashed into the wall. It twitched brokenly. And Rocky . . .
“Oh, God,” Theo choked, leaping forward.
Rocky’s body had been driven into the ice wall. His Ectoderm had been burned away by the heat of the rocket’s skin, blood and plasma oozing from the singed meat that pulled away from blackened bones. His eyes were blistered, his ribs caved in where the nose of the rocket had crushed him.
Incredibly, the man’s eyes fluttered open. They stared out, burnt and unseeing. “S-sorry, kid,” he gulped. “Couldn’t think. Anything else. Had.” He twitched and moaned. “Had all these ideas. How to fight ‘em. Laid it all out.” He nodded to the workbench, mercifully untouched by the firehose of plasma. “No time. But you’ll. Figure it. Fight ‘em.”
Fight them? With no rocket? No power?
“Rocky, what do we do?” The words were a whisper.
“But if y’don’t,” Rocky went on, “R’member this. My fault.” He trailed off in a bloody cough. “My. Fault,” he said, fighting for every word, “was not. Losing. The Rock. My Fault. Wasted. The Life. I Had. But Maybe. If You. Learn.” He drew a breath. “Not Wasted. Love Her. Fight.”
Rocky’s eyes went still, staring at a sky beyond vision.
Oh, God.
He turned. Molly was staring at the wreckage around them. He had to do something. “Okay,” he said, voice echoing in the stillness. “Let’s see what we have left . . .”
“What we have left?” Molly’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but it cut through his own. “What we have? Now there’s a we?” Her voice rose in fury. “Where were ‘we’ when Rocky warned you about this?”
“What? What are you . . .?”
Molly’s hands opened and closed. “You knew what he was talking about. He told you about this! You didn’t believe him; didn’t even mention it to me. And now we are trapped here, our family is over and you let it happen!”
Rage replaced shock. “I was supposed to take him seriously?” he got out. “Me? Your whole family never believed a word of his story, but I should have realized he was telling the truth? You wouldn’t have believed him either!”
“We’ll never know now, will we?” sobbed Molly. “Because you never even gave me a chance!”
“Your family had thirty years of chances!” Theo shouted. Horror engulfed him. “And now they’re going to turn on us the same way, aren’t they? They didn’t believe him. They won’t believe us.”
Molly choked, then said, “And will yours be any better? Your mom and dad are just going to say, ‘Oh, all that completely secure video doesn’t matter? Despite the fact that no one will trust us again, we believe your ridiculous story?’”
Theo’s stomach opened up. He loved and trusted his parents. And they loved and trusted him. But this . . . his sister. His brothers. Losing this Rock would poison every family in the Belt against them. They would hate him forever, and beg their parents to disown him. And his parents would have to, if only to have the faintest hope of giving them a chance to ride a Rock of their own someday. Molly was right.
“Oh, my God,” she was muttering. “The video. It . . . you . . . said it was your fault. Your fault.” She stared at him. He drew in a cold breath. That video. It offered her an out. And she’s going to take it. On the heels of that thought. If you love her, shouldn’t you want her to?
“Molly,” he said. The words wouldn’t come. His mind raced. “We have to . . . to . . .”
“Have to what?” she wailed. “We’re destroyed. Our family. It’s gone.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Because not saying it will make it less true? You didn’t check the toolroom well enough. You missed a stowaway, Theo. Rocky was here the whole time. It was your duty!”
He was going to lose her. He stared at Rocky’s corpse, seeing his own future. No wife. No family. His father’s kind eyes hardening with contempt. Heard his last words.
“If you work together, you have a Family and a Ship. If you start working against each other, soon you’ll have neither.”
“What if she starts working against me?”
“Then you have to work with her.”
No matter what.
“Okay. I failed. But this? This is what they want. The Earthcorpers. That’s why they scripted it that way. They want us fucking each other over and deciding who to blame rather than fighting them.”
“How can we . . .?
Theo’s head snapped up. “Did you ever love me? When you said those vows, did you mean any of them? How we’d be together until we died? Because I did.”
She flinched. “How can you . . .” Horror crawled over her face. “But we are dead,” she sobbed. “We just haven’t stopped breathing yet.”
Theo took her hands. “That’s what they think. They cut off our power. But we’re Ectos. We don’t need computers and power to live in space. We’ve been trained to work by starlight and do calculus in our heads. We’ve got a claimgather’s worth of tools, you’re my chem witch, and I’m your engineer jock. Don’t make excuses. Fight with me. Hard as we both can. Just promise you’ll kill me if it goes bad, because otherwise, I’ll have to live the rest of my life like that,” he nodded at Rocky. “And I don’t want to.”
Molly opened and closed her mouth. “You’d . . .?”
“Yes. But right now, I want to kill those Earth fuckers trying to destroy our family before it even starts. Don’t you?”
And Molly answered him with a feral snarl. “Yes.”
“Let’s see what Rocky left us.”

Hypercompressed air, glassine, chemicals, fiberoptic cable, hoses, and metallic hydrogen slugs. A couple square kilometers of mylar sail. “And less than an hour to work with,” Theo muttered.
“Maybe we should get out there and try to intercept them,” said Molly.
“No, their sensors could spot us miles away. They’d snipe us before we’d ever see them. And what would we fight them with? Nothing here is a weapon, except maybe the air.”
Molly scoffed. “You wanted to fight, now you’re giving up? And how is the air a weapon?”
Theo attached the valve he’d been modifying to a hypercompressed air tank. Aimed it at the wrecked laser corer. “Watch your eyes.” He squeezed the “trigger.” With a rippling whumph, the corer’s housing sprouted a fist-sized hole. “Out to ten meters, you get a concentrated gas slug. If Rocky had put one together, he could have shot the drone with it.” He gazed at the chemicals. “What about those?”
Molly shook her head. “We could make some mining explosives. But without detonators? We’re looking at a bunch of crap piled together by a lifelong drunk.”
Theo opened his mouth to agree. Closed it. Rocky’s rocket was well thought-out, though. “Do we really need detonators?” he said.
“Mining compound needs electronic detonators, Theo,” snapped Molly.
“But not all explosives do. Are there any you could make that don’t?
Molly blinked. “Picric acid, maybe. Friction detonators. We’d have to be very careful, though. Really, really long pull cords.”
Theo’s mind raced. “Okay, let’s put those chemicals to the side.”
“What are you doing?”
“Rocky wasn’t drunk just now,” Theo said. “He had a plan. But you’re the chem witch. What can we make from what’s left?”
“Nothing,” said Molly. “You really think he was stable? It’s like a chemistry set gone mad: krypton. Fluorine.” She picked up a few vials of compounds Theo didn’t recognize. “I could make some really bright flares. Which is stupid.”
Right. The odds that anyone would see such a signal would be literally astronomical. But what was the glassine tubing for?
Krypton. Fluorine.
“That’s it,” Theo whispered.
“What?” said Molly.
“Okay,” he said, licking his lips, “Get on that picric acid. Check me: how many tunnels to the surface? Twelve?”
“Not including the mass driver, yes.”
“I’ll shut the aperture for that manually. Can you make thermite?”
Molly scoffed. “Since I was ten.”
“Great. We’ll weld the airlocks shut. Except one. Now here’s what I need you to do . . .”

Theo had never been so tired.
He leaped through the corridors as fast as he could push himself. At each corner, he braked to a halt and melted a hole in the ice-wall with his gas torch, being very careful not to disturb the larger, ice-sealed holes he’d planted on his first pass. Then he planted a half-meter diameter mylar mirror on its plastic frame, angled it, and let the water refreeze, cementing it.
He leaped on.

“How’s the lasing medium coming?”
“Krypton fluoride isn’t the easiest compound to work with,” Molly said. “I nearly inhaled some hydrofluoric.”
Theo’s guts chilled. “What?”
“I said nearly. Mirrors set up?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t look.” Theo shielded his eyes. There was a flash of light from where Molly knelt, and a burst of steam from the ice wall. Then she tossed him a length of glassine tube wrapped in a spiral of thinner hose connected to a double gas cylinder.
“That should do it. It’s not elegant. When you turn the valve, you’ll get a chemical-pumped flash pulse. You’ll need these.” She tossed her dark welding goggles at him.
“How many shots will I get?”
“Not sure?” Molly did some rapid math. “maybe fifty?”
“I’d better get down there.”
“What will they do? Blast through our doors? Or come down our path?”
How many drones will they have? How fast will they come? So many questions: no answers. “If I were them, I might do both. I love you,” he whispered.
“Love you, too.” Her voice broke.

Theo’s Ectoderm was a dirty gray, as close to the color of the ice-tunnels he moved among as he could make it. In the silence, he imagined sounds, and the echoes of his own careful passage were amplified in his ears. He might make it to the airlock in time to set up a firing position.
Then he heard the hiss. The airlock was opening. Something was coming through.
Charge around the corners and shoot? No. The coillaser was awkward, and he couldn’t outshoot an AI-controlled drone. He leaped backward, around mylar mirror number six and its buried charge and pushed himself back to the next bend. From where he perched, he could see through mirror six all the way down the corridor.
Theo reached for the long cord that led to it, taking up the slack. A charge beneath each mirror, and a friction-primer cord stretching to the next bend in the corridor. A shadow in the mirror. A drone’s movement. Not yet. Too far. I think. Speed and size were hard to judge at a hundred yards. Closer. Closer. The seconds stretched out into a fuzzy eternity, the shape in the mirror seeming to dance at a static distance.
Suddenly, the mirror’s surface rippled, and the drone’s image filled it. Theo yanked the cord. A roar of sound hammered down the corridor, followed by an acrid wind.
Theo blinked, stupidly, peering through the smoke. Something scrabbled at the end of the corridor. Their mirror was gone. Go!
Theo leaped down the next tunnel, heading for mirror number four and the next charge. Crouched and waited. Damn: he hadn’t considered smoke. Looking at this mirror was like looking into a bottle of soup. “Shit,” he whispered. Had he killed the drone? Damaged it? Would they withdraw or push on?
Theo pushed himself away from the wall to clear his laser for a shot and an ugly whine cracked past his ear. The ice exploded in splinters beside him, scoring his Ectoderm. Reflexively, he leaped away. “Shit!” He hadn’t yanked the cord! Too late. He scrambled for mirror number three. If the drone outran him, he was dead. He yanked the cord as he went around the bend. Another rending crack and plume of ochre smoke erupted behind him.
Theo stopped. Had he hit something? No sign of pursuit. Theo peered into mirror three. A shape bobbed in smoke. He looked around the corner.
The crushed drone floated there. Dead. One down, and we’ve used half our mines.
Then something shining black and fast leapt around the corner. Theo frantically twisted the valve of his laser. A slug whined past his ear, going high and faint. Light seared across his vision, and a crack echoed from the end of the tunnel.
The second drone twitched in the air. That was too close. A faint breeze tugged at him. Then he noticed the flashing in the mirror three. Molly was signaling him with her chemlight: breach.
They were coming through the other airlocks. Theo put on his rebreather. Loss of pressure wasn’t even annoying to an Ecto. In fact . . .
Theo’s vision was clearing. The air was taking the smoke with it. If they were coming through the breaches, he had to get back to Molly: they’d be heading straight for the shop. Then Theo froze. They don’t know we haven’t mined the other tunnels. What if they’re just trying to make me move? For a moment he hung on the agony of indecision.
Then he saw movement in the mirror three. How far away?
The great thing about lasers was, as long as you could see it, it didn’t matter. Theo fired.
He couldn’t hear anymore, of course. But when the laser pulse switched off, only fragments remained. Now they’ll come through the breaches. Theo raced back to the shop.

Two were already in the workshop. Crawling infrared spiders. No sign of Molly. A wash of pressure, and one of the drones was smashed into the wall by an invisible hand. Theo leaped out of his tunnel, flipped over and opened his laser’s valve. The last drone exploded. A chemlight flooded the room, illuminating Molly’s frightened face. Then she leaped at him.
They couldn’t kiss through their rebreathers. But her cheek on his felt warm and wonderful.
There was no time, though. Theo pointed to the mirrors. Molly nodded and went off to check her own set. Seconds ticked by. The mirrors were still.
Working quickly, they sealed off the shop with mylar and chemical adhesive. Then they pressurized it. “No leaks,” said Molly. “I thought you were dead!”
“No, just . . . pinned down,” Theo said.
“Did . . . did we win?”
Theo’s mind raced. “I don’t think so,” he said. “This rock is too big a prize. I think we just ran them out of drones. They’ll come themselves, next. Or they could just wait us out. We have to sleep.”
Theo nodded. “Dammit. If we only knew what they were doing . . .”
Suddenly, as she looked past him, Molly’s eyes lit. “Maybe we can,” she murmured.

It made sense, Theo thought. The one thing the Earthers’ nanoplague hadn’t shut off was their own drone. Repowering and disarming the head was fairly simple.
“Got it!” The lights around the drone’s ominous camera eye flickered on. Theo looked into it. “Hi, Expedience,” he said, brightly. “Turns out we’ve managed to fix our electronics, as you can probably tell by the way your drones blew up. Kind of you to try to help, but we’d like you to back off, now.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then a cold voice said, “I don’t think so, Nadjek. You’d be broadcasting the news to the whole system. I don’t think you can, but . . .”
The rock vibrated. “Just in case my chief engineer was as wrong about that as he was about you being able to resist us, that was your primary antenna. No, you’ve just forced us to deal with you ourselves. Which means we can’t leave you alive: you’ve seen too much, now. But we will be able to have a little fun with you, first. Would you like to ask my chief engineer how much fun?”
A long, ragged moan throbbed from the speakers. It sent ugly ripples up Theo’s spine. Molly looked sick, and Ectos didn’t get sick. “See you soon.”
“Oh, my God, Theo, we’ve got to surrender!” Molly cried. “Please, please don’t kill us! We’ll disarm the minefield . . .”
“Molly, shut up!” Theo yelled. “We can’t let them—”
“No! I am NOT dying here for a stupid Rock! I hate this place, I hate this—”
Frantically, Theo fumbled with the circuit, killed the power, but it was too late to cut off Molly’s screams. The drone’s lights died. Theo turned back, “Molly, how could you . . .?” he snarled.
Into her smug grin?
“Hope that fooled them as well as it did you,” she said.
Theo opened his mouth, closed it. “We don’t have a minefield.”
“No. But they’ll have to look for them. And you cutting me off certainly makes it sound authentic.”
Theo let his breath out slowly. “If I didn’t love you so much, I think I’d kill you,” he said.
“And I need the time to get the explosives prepared.”
“For a minefield?” Theo said, stupidly.
“No. I need you to make us helmets, engineer jock.”
Theo blinked. “Helmets? We need to live like bubbleheads?”
“Trust me. And hurry, because there’s a bigger job I need you for . . .”

Molly touched her enormous bubble helmet to Theo’s. “Stop. There.”
Theo followed her finger. Just over the horizon, a point of light moved, pulsing erratically. “Check my numbers.”
They’d smeared their Ectoderm with a pattern of gray-and-white streaks, resembling the ice they walked on as best they could. But there was no way to prevent their breaths from heating up the bubble helmets, and they had to talk. If Expedience was looking their way with a thermograph, the first Molly and Theo would know of it was a hyperkinetic slug slamming through their flesh.
Of course, they’ll probably be looking out for Molly’s “minefield” instead of at us.
Molly peered through the instrument Theo had cobbled together. “Tangential motion . . . 23 arcminutes per second. Angle from local horizon . . . 5.4 degrees.”
Theo did some mental math. “Twenty-three meters clockwise from right here?”
“I check that.” He ran through the computations in his head. “Get to the massdriver, we don’t have much time.” Molly blew him a kiss, leaped backward and vanished through one of the blasted-open airlocks.
Theo paced off the twenty-three meters. Then he ran in a series of leaps toward the rising star of the Expedience, just kissing the rock’s surface with his feet. Now came the most dangerous part: getting their attention. He switched on the drone camera and speaker that he had bonded to the side of his bubble helmet.
When they noticed, their voice was tinny through the crysteel and canned air. “Did you want to talk, or were you just helping us track you down?”
“I doubt you bubbleheads can really figure out where I am through this feed,” Theo answered, though they could. “I just thought I’d show you something.”
Theo sailed over the lip of a shallow, bowl-shaped crater. An openwork gantry of metal and carbon nanotubes extended about three meters out of the ice. “See, there’s a lot you can do without electronics. Like this chemical laser. Got your drones with it. Think we can’t get some of you?”
“Very creative,” rasped the speaker. “Let us show you something.”
Theo leaped aside. A hammer punched into the ice six meters away.
“Not very accurate at your distance.” As long as I don’t stay in the same place more than about five seconds. But Ectos danced on the surface of asteroids whenever they could. He leaped while he spoke. “We’ve got more than guns.” He faced the gantry. “You know what that is?”
“Core drill mount,” said the voice. Another slug slammed down. Four meters this time. Theo leaped farther. “Probably the way you Ectos discovered this rock was worth calling a claimgather over.”
“Good: you know how deep it goes.” Theo brought a thick disc of carefully-machined metal into view of the camera. “And of course, you know metastable metallic hydrogen,” he said.
“You’re going to blow yourself up?” asked the voice. “Excellent. Good-bye.”
“Oh, there are hundreds more at the bottom of this shaft,” said Theo. “Funny, there’s a truly enormous fault, there. One of them has a contact detonator attached. So when I drop this one down, well . . . things will get very exciting. I wonder if there will be anything left worth salvaging?”
Another slug slammed down where Theo had been seconds ago. Shards scored shallowly into his Layer and Ectoderm. Then the voice was back, tense. “You don’t have anywhere near the supply of metal-H to blow the whole Rock apart!”
Theo snorted. “It IS the most common substance in the universe.”
“As a gas, yes. It takes a lot of power to turn it into that.”
A slug blasted the gantry into scrap.
“Nice try, but the hole’s still there,” said Theo. “And what do you think Ecto ships’ energy is usually doing between rocks? We have to make our own fuel. Have fun picking up the pieces.” And he threw the chunk of metal-H down the hole. Then he drew the hypercompressed air tank from his back and opened the valve wide.
The surge of acceleration whipped Theo off the surface, on a crazy trajectory no gunner could possibly track.
Faintly, he heard a new voice from the speaker shout, “What was THAT?”
Below him, a huge chunk of the Rock’s surface burst into white flame and a cloud of surface ice. Slowly, the Honeymoonlet began to tumble.
“Nice try, kid,” the voice in his helmet said, almost sadly. “But your superbomb wasn’t nearly deep enough.” Expedience flared. Slowed. “And now your damn Rock is spinning. It’ll slow us, but not enough.” Below Theo, the long barrel of the massdriver tumbled into view.
Lining up with the Expedience.
It had no power. But Molly had plenty of metastable hydrogen to detonate in its chamber. The chamber Theo had reinforced to take the explosion. White hot plasma flared from deep in the barrel.
And again. Again. As fast as Molly could wrestle the charges in, they blasted their canisters of slag out into space.
Theo couldn’t see the face behind the voice, but for the rest of his life, he could imagine it: the dawning comprehension turning to horror. “What . . .? God . . . hard burn! HARD BURN!”
Silently, Expedience, sprouted jets of air and water vapor as the Honeymoonlet’s slag struck. Sparks flared and died along with its crew and drive.
And lights went up all over the surface of the Rock.
“Theo? Theo? Are you okay?” Molly was on the radio: she sounded like she’d been crying.
“Right here, Molly. You did it.”
“You did it,” Molly replied. “Lined it up perfectly. How do we have power?”
“The plague,” Theo said. “It must be controlled from the ship. They must trigger it by radio. If the signal stops, it just self-destructs. That way, no one would ever know what they pulled.”
“So . . . we won? Our family is safe?” Molly asked.
“As safe as we can make it,” said Theo. “How big should it be?”
“I think we should fill the Ship. Speaking of which, you want to see if we can tow that wreck in for salvage? We might be able to afford a bigger one.”
“Good plan,” said Theo. “One thing. Our first son. We name him Jurgen.”
“Jurgen Rocky Nadjek,” said Molly. “Done.”

Since 2007, The National Space Society and Baen Books have honored the role that science fiction plays in advancing real science by teaming up to sponsor the Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award. The prize is given out at the annual International Space Development Conference banquet. “Salvage Judgment” is the winner of this year’s Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award. And, for the first time in over a decade, we have a double winner of both the JBM and the Baen Fantasy Adventure awards. “Humanslayer,” by G. Scott Huggins was the 2020 grand prize winner of the sixth annual Baen Fantasy Adventure Award. As a testament to the author’s ability, we would like to stress that both contests are judged blind, and the judges had no idea who the authors were while adjudicating both contests! G. Scott Huggins the author of new novel Responsibility of the Crown, and can be found blogging at his web site, here.

Murder in Space
by Les Johnson

December 1, 2086
Charlie Shattles looked at himself in the hotel mirror and did not like what he saw. Here he was, a man in his early fifties with more than enough money saved to retire early and recline on a beach somewhere studying heavenly bodies. Yet he was in a run-down hotel near Zvyozdny gorodok, Russia, freezing his butt off because the owners of place refused to turn up the heat beyond what was needed to keep the pipes from bursting. Global warming or not, Russia in the wintertime was cold. Damn cold. But he was on a job and the cold and other inconveniences did not really matter. He liked putting the pieces together and getting to the bottom of a case. In cases like this, if murder were involved, then ninety percent of the time the motive was money, sex, or power. He corrected himself; the ninety percent was for men, who committed the most murders. If the perp was a woman, then he could add jealousy to the list and be within the same ninety percent statistic. For this case, he had not even determined if it was murder. Time would tell.
After showering with the water temperature on the highest possible setting, he was finally warm. He quickly dressed, gave silent thanks to the makers of the heated undergarments he wore, and paused only long enough to get the latest update on the proposed rescue mission to Proxima Centauri via his corneal implant. The news was broadcast in Russian, which suited Shattles just fine. He was fluent in five languages and he needed to make the transition to thinking in Russian, not just translating it in his head, if he were to pick up on any nuances in the upcoming conversations. He knew his hosts could speak English, but Shattles preferred to conduct these meetings in the native language of the key players.
Like the rest of the world, Shattles was intrigued by the notion that there were apparently people living on a planet circling one of the closest stars in the sky. Who wouldn’t be? But, as interesting as it was, it certainly wasn’t relevant to the task at hand. He pulled himself away from the virtual heated debate between the talking heads who, thanks to the implant, appeared to be in the hotel room with him debating whether or not it was wise to make physical contact by sending a ship to Proxima Centauri. It looked like they were close to coming to blows. In his room.
It was time to leave and get to the business that had brought him to Russia. He was to meet with the executives who hired him at RKK Energiya, Russia’s largest and most profitable space company. It seems that their CEO, one Maksim Kezerashvili, had gotten himself killed when he and his expensive space yacht became interplanetary dust and gas after the ship’s fusion drive lost containment allowing superheated plasma to rapidly escape from its formerly highly condensed state and vaporize his ship—as unconstrained superheated plasmas were likely to do. Such things were not supposed to happen and there were fairly robust safety systems used in fusion drives to make sure they didn’t. In this case, the systems failed. The experts who looked at the wreckage said the chances of accidental containment loss were next to nil. But it happened. And it killed one of Russia’s most wealthy men. A man who just happened to be running for the Russian parliament and who some were saying was on his way to becoming the future president of the Russian Federation. When a person like Kezerashvili is killed in a freak accident, people begin to suspect that it wasn’t an accident. Shattles’ job was to find out what really happened.
Shattles’ current bet was murder. A great deal of money was on the line. A high stakes political battle was in play. And Shattles would bet his life savings that Kezerashvili or his wife were unfaithful, perhaps both. He had been wrong before, but rarely. And rarely on such a high-profile case. All this was racing through his mind as he made his way from the hotel to the offices of NPO Energiya. The day was overcast and the weather forecast was for snow to begin by noon. The biting wind made his nose and ears cold as it blew against his face. The buildings provided no respite from the unrelenting wind that seemed to permeate Russia in the wintertime. As he walked, he avoided the occasional pedestrian as he reviewed the details of the case using his implant. As he passed the commercial district, he was reminded of how thankful he was that he paid the monthly ‘advertisement free’ net connection fee so he wasn’t assaulted by the various merchants’ pop-up ads that were so distracting to those who could only afford the basic implants.
The woman who had contacted him, Lada Agapov, was waiting in the lobby when he arrived. Looking to be in her mid-forties, Agapov was energetic and greeted Shattles with a smile and nearly flawless British English. After the usual pleasantries, she escorted him to the elevator, which promptly took them to the thirty-fifth floor—nonstop. RKK Energiya’s offices were typical corporate style and would have been indistinguishable from any other twenty-first century conglomerate. Just about every wall was made of glass that could become opaque when needed, the chairs were the type that automatically adjusted to your body contours, and the active background noise suppressors made what was an obviously busy office seem eerily quiet. Were it not for the old-fashioned oil paintings on the walls depicting what Shattles could only presume to be the halcyon days of the Russian and Soviet space programs, he would not have known where he was. After reaching a suitably plush and warm office, Shattles greeted Joseph Bychkov. Judging by his grizzled and pockmarked face, Bychkov looked more suited for filling holes in the sidewalk than sitting behind the austere wooden desk in front of a clear glass window that provided a view of the city and flat, nearly-featureless Russian countryside below. A few snow flurries were in the air, some touching the glass and immediately melting.
Bychkov fulfilled the Russian stereotype by rising from behind his desk and greeting him with a handshake that felt like a vice grip. Shattles, having met and worked with Russians in the past, was prepared and returned the grasp with his own firm squeeze. Both men paused, hand in hand, until Bychkov grinned and burst out laughing.
“Welcome to Star City, Mr. Shattles,” Bychkov said, releasing his grip.
“Thank you. Dr. Bychkov, I am glad to be here,” Shattles replied, having done his homework and learned that Bychkov had earned his Ph.D. in aerospace engineering at The Moscow Aviation Institute. In addition to being the Chief Operating Officer at RKK Energiya, he held twelve patents and had published over twenty peer-reviewed journal articles. Though he was overweight, Bychkov was far from a fat, dim-witted Russian bureaucrat.
“I trust your accommodations are acceptable?” Bychkov asked.
“The room is fine, though they could use a replacement furnace. I was worried I might freeze to death in my room and my body wouldn’t be found until the spring thaw,” Shattles replied.
Bychkov responded with another deep laugh. “My assistant will see to having that problem fixed,” he said, giving Agapov a nod. The big man took his seat and motioned for Shattles to take one conveniently placed to the left of his desk. Shattles sat.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” asked Bychkov as he picked up a large coffee mug that was sitting on the right-hand side of his desk. Shattles noticed that someone had placed a similar cup on the end table just to the left of the seat in which he sat. He picked it up and took a sip. The coffee was strong, but hot.
“You want me to investigate the death of your CEO and determine if it was actually an accident and, if not, to help the police catch whoever killed him,” Shattles said, taking another sip of coffee. It did not seem quite so bitter on the second sip. “Why do you believe it was not as the initial police report claimed—a tragic accident?”
“Mr. Shattles, do you test me? You are an actuarial expert. You know as well as I do that the likelihood of a man such as Maksim Kezerashvili being killed in such a fluke accident as this are nearly zero. Zero. Given that he was one of the wealthiest men in Russia and a rising politician only add to the likelihood of this being intentional, not accidental. No, Maksim was murdered just as sure as you and I sit here discussing it. My team is looking into the technical side of the problem, the misalignment error that allowed the drive to fail. They are searching for any traces of tampering. I need you to look into the other factors,” Bychkov said, leaning forward and staring intently at Shattles.
Shattles was not impressed. Of course, they were looking into the technical side of the accident, as had the police and intergovernmental regulatory authorities who made and enforced the rules for such things in deep space. None of them had found any sign of foul play and ruled the event to be an unfortunate accident.
Money, sex, and power.
“Dr. Bychkov, who could possibly want Mr. Kezerashvili dead?”
“Many people. As you no doubt already know, I stand to become the CEO of RKK Energiya when the board meets next week to name his replacement. They’ve already informed me that I am their choice. If I were you, I would begin with me,” the burly man said, leaning back and trying to make light of the situation with another deep and resonating laugh.
Shattles only nodded. Misdirection. Doublethink. He’s trying to play me. And yes, you Russian SOB, I will be looking into you . . .
“And then there would be the lovely Mrs. Kezerashvili, the bitch,” said Bychkov. “She stands to inherit the bulk of his money, including a sizeable number of shares in this company.”
“She’s not among your favorite people, I gather.”
“Lana disgusts me. She is a gold digger and has been openly cheating on Maksim for more than five years.”
“Who’s the lucky guy? Or is it a woman?” asked Shattles.
“Colonel Viktor Fedorov. And, yes, he is a man. And not the first. By my reckoning, Viktor is the fourth. They are always military men and always younger than she.”
“Is there anyone else you suggest I look into?” asked Shattles.
“Martina Egorov. It is her seat in the Russian parliament that Maksim was planning to challenge. It was not going to be a collegial competition. Both were looking at everything possible in each other’s backgrounds in search of scandal,” Bychkov said, leaning back in his chair trying, and failing, to look thoughtful.
“Were there any major business dealings upcoming that someone might want to derail? Dealings that his successor might take in a different direction?”
“Since I am his successor, I can tell you that there are no major deals pending with Energiya that will change under my leadership. Maksim and I were very closely aligned in our business strategies. Though I suspect his widow won’t follow through with how Maksim planned to divest himself from much of his personal fortune.”
“Oh? And how was the late Mr. Kezerashvili going to spend his fortune?”
“By helping to fund the mission to Proxima Centauri, of course. Maksim was a dreamer. And for most of his career, he managed to turn his dreams of developing space into developing a very profitable company. When he was approached to help fund a starship, how could he resist?” asked Bychkov.
“How indeed. Who was he working with on the starship project?”
“That would be the most-persuasive Dr. Enrico Vulpetti. He is a shrewd businessman, from Georgia, the U.S. state. He is a smooth one. I would think twice before entering into a business arrangement with him. I will send you his contact details.”
“That’s quite a list. Since she has the most to gain, I’ll start with the grieving widow,” said Shattles.
---
He found her over the Moon. Literally. Lana Kezerashvili was in lunar orbit staying in the apartment she and her late husband were provided aboard the Admiral Kuznetsov, RKK Energiya’s space dock. She initially did everything in her power to avoid meeting Shattles, but when her lawyers received the letter from the attorneys for the insurance company saying that if she did not comply with their investigation of Maksim Kezerashvili’s untimely death, referencing page 4, subsection 2, paragraphs 6a and 7c of his very sizable insurance policy, then she would get nothing. After that, she was, of course, ‘willing to help in any way she could.’
For a PI who specialized in space-related cases, Shattles hated going into space. Even having someone else pay for the trip, which was not cheap and for many, amazingly enough, would be considered the trip of a lifetime, was not enough to allow him to enjoy it. He dreaded takeoff and, when it came, the acceleration pushed him back into the padded seat in the passenger cabin of the ten-person ferry that took him from the Baikonur Cosmodrome to the Russian space station in low earth orbit. He was still cursing God, Werner Von Braun, and Jeff Bezos under his breath when he transferred from the ferry to the luxury liner that carried him the rest of the way to the Moon. He did pause to take in the spectacular views of the earth and the Moon as they crossed the quarter million miles from one to the other. If it hadn’t been for the space sickness medication he was taking, he would have been worshipping the toilet gods for the entire trip. Now he was walking the halls of the slowly rotating Kuznetsov, enjoying the one-half earth gravity pull the rotation provided—the only part of going into space that he liked.
Shattles also liked not being made to wait to interview persons of interest in his investigations. Funny how no one was eager to speak with a private investigator. They could not easily put off the police as easily as they could him. They also knew he was not as likely as the police to follow all the rules when conducting his interview and investigation. Such was the life of a PI.
His interview was granted on day three aboard the Admiral Kuznetsov. It was to be an after-dinner meeting. In her private cabin.
Shattles arrived exactly on time, 19:00, and rang the buzzer beside the door. There were not many private cabins, no more than twenty, since this was a space dock with over a hundred workers assembling and servicing the many ships in RKK Energiya’s commercial cis-lunar fleet. The workers lived in barracks style housing, each getting their own hammock and locker to store their personal belongings. Only the VIPs warranted private cabins and, on this trip, Shattles was an RKK Energiya very important person.
When the door opened, Shattles immediately noticed two things. The first was that Lana Kezerashvili’s cabin was at least three times larger than his and much more nicely furnished. The other was the revealing nature of Mrs. Kezerashvili’s almost nonexistent negligee. It was going to be that kind of interview. The kind that was intended to keep him distracted so he would not ask the tough questions. Her immediate attire aside, Mrs. Kezerashvili almost certainly had something to hide. He began to channel his inner Dashiell Hammett.
“Please come in, Mr. Shattles. Our dinner will be here momentarily and I am absolutely famished,” she said as she motioned for him to enter.
Shattles moved forward, accepted her offer and was careful to not brush against her as he entered the room. The door closed and before he could take in the surroundings, she was handing him a drink—evidently preprepared.
“Scotch, neat,” she said, handing him the small glass. “Pappy Van Winkle. I hope you enjoy it,” she said.
Shattles couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at her grossly incongruous statement, but he said nothing. Instead of correcting her, he said a simple, “thank you” as he briefly admired the color and odor of the rare Kentucky whiskey before he imbibed.
Shattles finished his glass and nodded toward his hostess. “I must say, I feel over dressed,” he said.
Mrs. Kezerashvili looked down at what she was wearing and laughed. “I decided I’d had enough puritan modesty for the day and that it was time to get cozy. If I am making you uncomfortable, then I can get a wrap.”
“That’s okay. If you aren’t uncomfortable, then neither am I.”
“Good,” she said, motioning for him to sit in one of the room's three cushioned chairs. She reclined in the other. She then said nothing, looking expectantly at Shattles.
“I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kezerashvili. I know you and your husband had been married for just over sixteen years. That’s a long time.”
She sipped her drink before she replied. “We had our ups and downs, but yes, I do miss him dearly.”
“So, you were happily married?”
“I would say we were,” she said, placing a bit too much emphasis on the word, “I” for Shattles to ignore.
“How do you think Mr. Kezerashvili would have answered the same question?”
“Maksim was a powerful man. He had many loves in his life—work, politics, making money, me. To be honest, sometimes I felt he was not as happy with me as he was the others. But, all things considered, for the kind of man he was, I think he would have said he was happy with our relationship.”
“You stand to inherit a great deal of money plus a rather tidy sum from an accidental death policy administered by my employer,” Shattles said, intentionally provoking her.
“That’s true. But I had virtually unlimited access to the bank accounts before his death. All this was paid for with his full knowledge and support. And I didn’t have to worry about administering the accounts, running the companies, or doing anything to get whatever I wanted. If you are looking for a connection between me and my husband’s unfortunate demise, you will find I had no motive to have him killed. Money was never an issue. I expect I will have to hire someone to handle all the financials now that he is gone. I have absolutely no interest in doing so.”
“Perhaps Colonel Fedorov can help with that,” Shattles said, leveling his gaze, looking for any reaction to his provocation.
“Mr. Shattles, come now. If you expect me to deny having a relationship with Viktor, then you are mistaken. Maksim knew all about Viktor and did not seem to mind. In fact, I think he liked the idea of me having a relationship with another man while he was away running his company and campaigning for office. Viktor did not seem to mind either. When Maksim was around, Viktor took his leave and vice versa.”
“Did your husband pursue any similar relationships?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“I would like to speak with Colonel Federov and I’m working to get an appointment through his staff. If you could put in a word to him to help expedite getting it set up, I would appreciate it,” he said.
Neither spoke as his hostess poured him a refill.
“Is there anyone else you think would like to see him dead?” asked Shattles.
“Well, there are always those who he got the better of in his business dealings, I suppose. There are quite a few. Maksim was a clever and sometimes ruthless businessman. And then there’s his political opponent, Martina Egorov. She knows her seat is vulnerable, but I don’t believe their political disagreements were strident enough to provoke murder.”
Shattles looked around the room as he considered his next line of questioning. The room was, as would be expected, poshly furnished with at least two virtual photo galleries that scrolled through still images of Mr. and Mrs. Kezerashvili in various places around the world and more than a few on the Moon. The rest of the interview went by quickly and he gleaned little new or seemingly useful information.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Kezerashvili. I’ll be in touch,” said Shattles as he rose to depart.
Mrs. Kezerashvili did not join him in standing and instead returned his gesture by giving him a smile. One of those ‘this was interesting and I am glad you are leaving’ smiles. “Have a safe trip, Mr. Shattles. Based on the results from the police inquiry, it certainly appears that you are wasting your time.”
“We’ll see,” Shattles said as he exited. But I don’t think so.
Shattles paused at the open door and looked back toward the woman who was still his prime suspect.
“Yes, Mr. Shattles. You have something else?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do. I’m wondering if you are going to fulfill your late husband’s plan to help fund the mission to Proxima Centauri?”
“No, Mr. Shattles, I am not. I cannot imagine a more wasteful way to spend money,” she said without hesitation.
“Well, thanks again,” he said as he crossed the threshold and the door automatically closed behind him. Money—yes. Sex—almost certainly. Power—maybe. The motive was certainly there, but was there opportunity?
The next day Shattles boarded a shuttle and returned to Earth. He had an appointment in Moscow with Martina Egorov that he didn’t want to miss. The Russian Federation Council was soon to go into recess and he needed to catch her before she left town. For this reason, he took the suborbital ballistic from his landing at the DFW spaceplex directly to Moscow, arriving there just three days after his lunar meeting with Mrs. Kezerashvili.
Moscow was as dreary as ever, the cold grey sky meeting the ground where a fresh layer of snow had recently fallen. The meeting with Ms. Egorov was to be held in her office near the Duma. Shattles had the address and planned to use one of the autotaxis to get him across town for the meeting as he left his hotel. Thankfully, Muscovites knew how to keep warm. His room was quite toasty and much nicer than the one he had in Zvyozdny gorodok, allowing him to depart for this meeting quite comfortably refreshed.
As Shattles left the hotel, the usual line of waiting taxis was nowhere to be seen. He asked the attendant, who merely shrugged his shoulders and said something about there being a conference in town. The attendant did, however, offer to summon one for him. As he was waiting, another man exited the hotel and spoke with the attendant, who motioned the newcomer to stand with Shattles.
“Good morning,” said the newcomer with English-accented Russian. “I’m told there is a taxi shortage this morning and that I should wait here. I hope you don’t mind,” he said.
“Not at all,” replied Shattles.
As they waited, the newcomer acted anxious, tapping his foot, and looking expectantly toward the passing traffic.
“Running late?” asked Shattles.
“Yes, unfortunately. I have a job interview in the Tverskoy District and I absolutely cannot be late,” the man replied, looking again for an approaching taxi.
“That’s close to where I’m going. We can share when mine arrives. It can drop you off first. I have some time left before I need to be at my meeting,” said Shattles.
“Really? Thank you,” said the man, looking away from the line of cars and at Shattles. “My name is Grimes, Roger Grimes.”
“Charlie Shattles.”
“Charles Shattles, it is nice to meet you,” said Grimes. Grimes was unremarkable in appearance, dressed in a heavy black overcoat and wearing an old-fashioned hat reminiscent of what American men might have worn in the 1930s or 40s.
A few minutes later, an autotaxi pulled up in front of the hotel, which Shattles entered first, followed by Grimes.
Neither man spoke as the taxi wound its way through traffic. Looking out the window, Shattles was struck by the demographics of the pedestrians he saw. Unlike the rest of Europe and the Americas, there was almost no racial diversity to be seen. The streets were filled with Caucasians. In the modern, highly connected world, Russia continued to be a throwback to an earlier time. With their declining population, unless something changed, these proud people would soon be in a permanent state of decline.
As planned, the automated taxi pulled up in front of the address Shattles’ fellow passenger had provided. The car had barely rolled to a stop when Grimes thanked Ray again and exited the car.
As the car accelerated away and re-entered traffic, Shattles noticed a small black ball on the floorboard where Grimes had been sitting. He reached down to pick it up, noting that one side of it was somewhat sticky, like it was recently adhered to something. He looked back, wondering if his fellow passenger had dropped it and whether he should stop the taxi to take it back to him. He never had the opportunity. The autotaxi began to accelerate, forcing Shattles backwards into his seat. Ahead lay a mass of slow-moving vehicles and instead of accelerating, the autotaxi should have been slowing down. Unless it quickly braked, he and the taxi would smash into them.
“Emergency stop!” shouted Shattles. The command should have immediately overridden almost any of the autotaxi’s driving commands and taken the vehicle to a safe stop out of traffic. It did not.
When he saw that the stop command failed, Shattles unbuckled his safety harness and hit the big, red stop button in the center of the front dashboard. No effect.
With the rear of another vehicle growing ever larger in the front window, he grabbed the steering wheel and turned hard toward the blessedly empty sidewalk to the right. Thankfully, the car responded, but it was still accelerating. With only seconds left before the car ran out of sidewalk and T-boned into stopped cars on the cross street ahead, Shattles took out his quite-illegal-thank-you-very-much personal stunner, basically a super-charged version of yesterday’s taser, and discharged it completely into the dash of the taxi. The vehicle immediately lost power, activated the emergency braking system, and came to a stop just inches from a car carrying a commuter who was blithely unaware that he almost met his maker.
By this time, the incident was getting the attention of those in the immediate area and some were rushing forward to the now-stopped car to see what was going on.
Shattles knew what was going on. Something supposedly impossible, overriding the control and safety features of an autotaxi. In the seconds he needed to recover and come down from the adrenaline high that his near-death experience invoked, he was completely convinced that the death of Maksim Kezerashvili was not an accident. He was now more determined than ever to find out who was behind the killing and why. Now it was personal.
Dealing with the police and explaining why he had a stunner capable of being set for lethal discharge took some time. Fortunately, he only had to pull a few strings to get them to let him go, sans stunner. As they so insistently and not-so-politely escorted him to the local police station, he sent a message to Egorov explaining the reason for missing their meeting and requesting it be rescheduled. Thankfully, she agreed to meet at the same time the next day.
Shattles did not sleep well that night. Near-death experiences like that just didn’t go away like they did in the entertainment vids where all the ‘tough’ guy or woman needed was a stiff drink and the company of the opposite sex. He awakened more than once shaking and unable to go back to sleep. The next morning, he did not recall any of his dreams, but he recalled enough to know that they were unsettling.
This time, Shattles found an old-fashioned taxi with a driver to take him across town.
---
The meeting with Martina Egorov was mostly perfunctory and unenlightening. Unlike to opulence of Joseph Bychkov’s office at RKK Energiya or the decadent quarters of Lana Kezerashvili, Egorov’s office was spartan and simple with only one small window, faux wood paneling, and standard issue compudesk and conference table. There was nothing remarkable that could be said about it. The same might also be said about Egorov, who looked capable, competent, and energetic, but not overly so. Her well-manicured appearance bespoke of education and likely birth into an upper-class family, but totally without ostentation. In short, she looked like the kind of person one would want to run the country. Interesting how she just happened to be in the majority party doing just that.
Shattles went through his standard list of questions, finding out that she and Kezerashvili had known each other for years (no romance involved), that he had been a financial supporter of hers when she first entered politics, that their political disagreements were strictly policy driven and that there had been no major personal argument between them, and that they had had dinner together just a few days before Kezerashvili was killed. That last fact was the one Shattles decided to dig into.
“Is it normal for political opponents in Russia to have dinner dates in the middle of a campaign cycle?” asked Shattles.
“No. Probably not. But then ours was not a typical political rivalry. Maksim and I were friends before we became rivals and that friendship did not end when he announced his candidacy, though both of us were afraid it might. That’s why we decided to have dinner together. To affirm our friendship and assure each other that the contest was not personal,” Egorov replied, looking earnestly at Shattles.
“What did you talk about?”
“This and that. We talked a bit about our families. He told me about the trip to China he planned to take with wife later in the year, about his business, and, like just about everyone else, a great deal about the whole Proxima situation. We tried to stay away from the campaign,” she said, giving him that “you know what I mean” look.
“Did he express any concerns about his marriage?”
“No. He and Lana seemed to be perfectly happy with each other. He spoke fondly of her.”
“Ms. Egorov, I have it on good authority that the campaign was about to turn particularly nasty with both sides, you and Maksim, digging up dirt on the other. Was this not the case?” Shattles asked.
She paused and moved her eyes to briefly look up and to the top right corner of her vision. From what Shattles knew from his years of reading people, this meant she was sincerely trying to recall information from memory. Either that, or she was counting on him knowing that bit of psychological trivia and was intentionally misleading him. Sometimes he hated having to always be reading people. He longed for far a day that he could take people at face value. Maybe someday . . .
“I cannot think of any time I asked my campaign staff to find—or was informed of—dirt on Maksim or any of my political opponents. Background statements and actions relating to matters of policy difference, yes. Personal information that could be damaging, absolutely not. And I doubt he was doing so either,” she said.
Shattles would have to square this bit of information with what he was told by Bychkov. He didn’t like inconsistencies. Before he departed, he had one more line of questioning to pursue. One that nagged at him only because it seemed to coincidentally come up in his interviews. He did not like coincidences. “You mentioned you discussed the Proxima Centauri situation. In what context?”
“A quite simple disagreement. Maksim was in favor of sending a ship to meet them. I’m adamantly opposed. Just one of many issues upon which we respectfully disagreed,” she replied.
The interview lasted for a few more minutes, allowing Shattles to create a small shopping list of similar issues upon which Kezerashvili and Egorov disagreed before the interview ended. All in all, Shattles got a good feeling from the politician and earnestly wanted to eliminate her from his suspect list. But weren’t politicians by nature people who caused other people to like them?
“One more thing, Mr. Shattles. Please hang on,” she said as she vacantly looked past Shattles, apparently receiving a message of some sort via her corneal implant. “I just received a bit of news from the police regarding your accident yesterday.”
“And?”
“It seems that the autotaxi’s safety system was disabled when it was taken over by a localized virus introduced via the car’s wireless update feature. That black ball you found just before the taxi malfunctioned contained the virus that took over control of the car. It hacked the encrypted key for automatic software updates and installed the program which nearly got you killed. They are looking now for this Mr. Grimes who shared the taxi with you.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” Shattles said. I must be getting close to something if someone thinks I need to be taken out.
“Please be careful. I will let you know if the police find anything else they can share with you,” Egorov said.
---
Money. Sex. Power. Jealousy . . . aliens?
Shattles was sure the connection to the Proximans was there somewhere. But what was it? Who could possibly be so against politically or financially supporting the mission to Proxima that they would be willing to kill someone? He ran through the various suspects and motives as he cross checked them with the alibis for each provided to him. Of course, whoever actually pulled the trigger and murdered Maksim Kezerashvili almost certainly was not among those he was interviewing. No, they would have paid someone else to do the dirty work. That much was evident and only reaffirmed by the recent attack on Shattles’ life. Someone, one of his current suspects or someone else entirely, was pulling the strings.
What was certain was that he did not yet have enough information to put the puzzle together. One step at a time. He had one more person with motive to interview. Viktor Fedorov. Thanks to a surprisingly cooperative command structure in the Russian Space Force, he had an interview with Colonel Fedorov tomorrow afternoon. They were actually flying him in from one of their space stations to meet with Shattles while he was in Moscow. Given the lateness of the hour, Shattles decided to splurge on a meal at the French restaurant around the corner from his hotel. After all, for this job he did have a rather generous expense account.
---
The next morning, Shattles had a message waiting from the colonel asking him if their meeting could take place over lunch instead of at the Moscow Aviation Institute, as had originally been planned. It seemed that the colonel was tired of military food and in the mood for Italian. That suited Shattles just fine.
He spent the morning going through the list of donors to both Kezerashvili and the smooth Ms. Egorov, noting only a few that would require follow up. The first was a rather large donation to Kezerashvili from none other than a subsidiary of RKK Energiya. Wasn’t there a law to prevent that sort of thing? But then again, this was Russia and having your company underlings and sycophants donate to the boss’s political campaign was probably standard operating procedure. The other was a similarly large donation to Ms. Egorov from an aboriginal rights group headquartered in Latin America. It seemed odd for such a group to care one way or the other about an obscure Russian parliamentary election. The rest of the donations on both sides otherwise looked like the usual dross of companies and people hoping to curry favors from the winner once they were in a position to affect governmental policy.
The restaurant at which their meeting was to take place was only a few blocks from Shattles’ hotel, so he elected to walk. Given the previous attack on his life, Shattles took every precaution to see if he was being followed by varying his pace, taking spur of the moment detours, and paying careful attention to those who crossed his path. Not knowing the capabilities of whoever was behind all this, he took the added precaution of placing his implant in stealth mode. Of course, all this would be moot if Colonel Fedorov did not take similar precautions.
The colonel was waiting on Shattles when he arrived, sitting in a booth near the rear of the restaurant. Fedorov would have appeared quite at home on an army recruiting poster, modeling men’s fashions, or on the arm of any female movie star. He was tall, at least 6’ 2”, had blond hair, green eyes, and looked like he lifted cars in his morning workouts. In other words, his mere presence would intimidate most men and attract most women. After the obligatory handshake, small talk, and drink order (vodka, what else?), Shattles got down to business.
“Colonel Fedorov, I understand you have been seeing Mrs. Kezerashvili for at least eighteen months, correct?” Shattles asked.
Fedorov’s first reaction was to smile. Then he replied, “That is correct. Lana and I have been lovers for nearly two years.”
“You realize this places you and her near the top of the list of those who might want to see her husband, her late husband, in his present state—dead.”
Fedorov poured another shot of vodka and downed it before answering. “I had no ill will toward Maksim. He and Lana had an understanding and that understanding included me. Besides, the police investigated the matter and concluded that it was a tragic accident that killed her husband. You are a private investigator hired by his company and I have no obligation to answer any of your questions.”
The look that Fedorov gave Shattles was more than a little icy. Shattles momentarily thought about how easy it would be for Fedorov to bench press him to the ceiling just about any time he wished.
“Then why are you here at all?” asked Shattles.
“Because my commanding officer knows that if it were not for the advocacy of RKK Energiya in the Duma, then the funding might not be there for the missions we perform. You understand.”
“Has Mrs. Kezerashvili told you her plans now that she is inheriting the business and collecting a rather generous life insurance policy?”
The question brought another big smile to Fedorov’s face. “Yes, on my next leave we plan to take a vacation. A long vacation.”
Shattles was beginning to think Colonel Fedorov might be a bit short on the IQ scale. As he considered his next question, he thought it was time to see how the colonel reacted to a throw from left field.
“His death also makes it easier to stop all that money from going to the Proxima Centauri project, saving more for you and her, eh?”
Fedorov’s head twitched, his smile faded, and he said, “how did you know about . . .”
It was at that moment that the colonel’s body abruptly jerked backward as a dark red splotch appeared on his upper chest. Fedorov looked briefly down at the growing patch of his blood and muttered, “what the . . .”
As soon as Shattles saw the bullet strike his dinner companion, he threw himself to the floor and cursed the fact that not only was he without his gun, which he would have had if he were not in Russia, but also his stunner, which was now in the custody of the local police. The other diners did not reach nearly as quickly, some were still sitting in their chairs trying to figure out what was going on when the next high caliber round hit the glass window and shattered it passing through. The first round had likely weakened the glass enough that not much more was required for it to catastrophically fail. With the second shot, most were figuring out that they’d better take cover and were joining Shattles on the floor.
The second bullet caught Fedorov in his shoulder as he slumped out of his chair and onto the floor. He was still alive. Barely.
Since no one had rushed into the restaurant and the shooter seemed content taking distance shots, Shattles decided to turn over the heavy wooden table at which they had been eating appetizers and use it as a shield. He positioned it to provide cover from any more shots coming from outside and crawled over to Fedorov.
The colonel’s eyes were open, but Shattles could tell the life was draining from him. Fedorov had lost a great deal of blood and there wasn’t much that could be done to stop the bleeding.
“Colonel, it appears your lover wants us dead. What else can you tell me? We can’t let her get away with this,” Shattles said.
“It wasn’t Lana. No, not Lana at all. We love each other. He said it would be easy. Just find a way to get the little ball into Kezerashvili’s yacht and the problem would go away. Then I would have Lana and he would slow down or stop the crazy plan to send a ship to Proxima,” Fedorov said, blood starting to trickle from the corners of his mouth.
“He? Who is he?”
“Grimes. Ray Grimes.” Fedorov croaked.
“Ray Grimes? Don’t you mean Roger Grimes?”
But the distinction was lost on the now dead colonel, his eyes staring vacantly ahead. In the distance, Shattles could hear the sirens and no more shots were fired into the restaurant.
---
Later, after Shattles spent four hours explaining to the Moscow police how it was that he happened to be at the site of an apparent terrorist attack just days after being the victim of an attempted vehicular homicide, he was met at his hotel by Lada Agapov, his boss’s emissary.
“Good evening, Mr. Shattles. I understand you’ve had a rough day,” Agapov said without any expression whatsoever. Not a shred of empathy or even a telltale smirk to acknowledge her understatement. Like at their first meeting in Zvyozdny gorodok, she was all business.
“I’ve had better. It might take me some time to get Colonel Fedorov’s blood from under my fingernails, but, then again, maybe not,” he replied.
“Dr. Bychkov sends his regards and has authorized payment of your fee plus a 25% hazard bonus for all you’ve been through investigating this matter.”
Shattles activated his corneal implant and queried his bank. The deposit was pending and would be credited by the end of the business day. “Thank you, but I don’t believe I’ve uncovered the true circumstances behind Kezerashvili’s death.”
“Proving that it was not an accident is all the was needed. Thank you. Your services are no longer required,” she said.
Shattles could not argue with what the woman said. Finding out if it was really an accident was all he had been hired to do. And the pay was excellent. But he was troubled that he didn’t know who was behind the whole thing and what was so important about stopping the trip to Proxima Centauri. He didn’t like loose ends, but his need to be paid for his work was ultimately stronger than his curiosity. He had another job pending, one that involved the untimely death of a banker in Switzerland. And the new job had a particularly good expense account, making that future beach retirement, heavenly bodies and all, that much closer.
THE END
With Travis Taylor, Les is the co-author of Saving Proxima (book one of a three-part series), a new Baen universe in which this story is set. If you enjoyed this story, you might want to read Les’s 2018 novel, Mission to Methone, or the forthcoming, The Spacetime War. You can learn more about Les on his website: www.lesjohnsonauthor.com

The Man Who Would be Dracula
by Simon R. Green

What happened to all the old monsters? There was a time when the vampire and the werewolf were universally acknowledged and feared; and then suddenly we all lived in an age of reason, and no one believed in monsters out of fairy tales. But in reality the monsters chose to vanish from view, rather than risk being exposed by electric lights and mass communications. It was safer to be a legend. And so they all disappeared into the underworld of crime; and discovered new ways to prey on Humanity.
Only one monster was prepared to fight his own kind; Edward Hyde. He founded Jekyll & Hyde Inc, and dispensed his marvelous Elixir to those he thought best suited to take on the now very wealthy and well-established monster Clans.
Daniel and Tina drank the potion and worked for Edward, becoming both more and less than human for what they thought were good reasons. Together they wiped out the monster Clans; only to discover that Edward Hyde was worse than all of them. So they killed him as well, and took over the running of Jekyll & Hyde Inc. Daniel and Tina are the last of the Hydes; but they’re still looking for a few good monsters . . .

The mists were unusually thick on that quiet autumn night in London’s Soho. A great grey ocean filled the narrow streets, diffusing the curdled yellow glow from the street lamps and concealing any number of sins and sinners. Daniel and Tina Hyde went striding through Soho like the biggest sharks in that grey ocean, smiling happily as they went in search of something worth killing. The few furtive souls still out and about at that ungodly hour hurried to get out of their way. They might not know who the Hydes were, but they had no problem recognizing predators when they saw them. So everyone fell back to give them plenty of room and averted their eyes, hoping not to be noticed. A few even hid in doorways until the Hydes were safely past.
Daniel and Tina affected not to notice, just taking it as their due.
Daniel Hyde was tall and muscular, wide in the shoulder and broad in the chest. He strode down the street as though he meant to walk over and possibly right through anything or anyone that got in his way. He was handsome enough, in a dark-haired and dark-eyed way, and wore a smart suit with a casual air. He’d killed monsters and loved it; and it showed in his smile.
Valentina Hyde, (always Tina, never Val,) at six and a half foot was a good head taller than Daniel. She had the physique of a body-builder, and the grace of some exotic jungle beast. She looked glamorous and extremely dangerous, and gloried in it. A great mane of crimson hair cascaded down to her shoulders, framing a strikingly handsome face with fierce green eyes and a wide mocking mouth.
Hydes on the prowl; looking for trouble. So they could stamp on it.
“Tell me again,” said Tina. “Why are we out tramping the streets in this less than salubrious neighborhood, when we could be enjoying ourselves in some fashionable dive; drinking heavily, picking fights with strangers, and generally trashing the place?”
“Because our work isn’t over yet,” said Daniel. “We wiped out the Frankensteins and the vampires, the mummies and the werewolves; but the ghouls have gone to ground. It’s up to us to dig them out.”
“They were conspicuous by their absence, during our war against the Clans,” said Tina. “According to Edward’s files, the ghouls were never organized enough to have a Clan, as such. They survived by making themselves useful, cleaning up the messes the Clans left behind. Because ghouls will eat anything.”
“But now it appears the ghouls are coming together in large numbers, for some purpose of their own,” said Daniel. “We need to find out what’s going on, and put a stop to it. Suddenly and violently, because that’s the Hyde way.”
“You know how to show a girl a good time,” Tina said cheerfully. “But still; ghouls? Are they really worth the effort?”
“They’re all that’s left of the old monsters, and we’re all that’s left of the Hydes,” said Daniel. “We didn’t put our lives on the line to bring down the Clans, just so the ghouls could move into the gap they left behind.”
Tina shot him a sideways look. “Are you sure you’re not just feeling the need to do something, because you used to be a cop? Hydes don’t do duty.”
“Hydes don’t rest on their laurels,” Daniel said calmly. “Not when there are still bad guys who need showing the error of their ways.”
“Will there be murder and mayhem, and mass destruction of property?” said Tina.
“I did promise you a good evening out,” said Daniel.
Tina smiled happily. “Where are we going? Are we nearly there yet?”
“According to an informant who seemed to believe I was ready to beat him within an inch of his life, because I was, the ghouls are currently operating from behind the cover of a fast-food franchise just a few streets from here,” said Daniel.
“How appropriate,” said Tina.

When they reached the fast-food emporium, it was closed. The door was locked, there were no lights on anywhere, and all the indications were that not only was no one home, but no one had been for some time.
“Not so much deserted, as abandoned,” said Tina.
“That’s what everyone is supposed to think,” said Daniel. “I suppose we could go round the rear, crack open a back door and sneak in?”
Tina sniffed loudly. “Hydes don’t sneak.”
Daniel grinned, and kicked the front door so hard he ripped it right off its hinges. The door flew inward and measured its length on the floor, and the crash raised echoes that filled the whole place. Daniel and Tina strode into the gloomy interior, looking around hopefully for something worth hitting. The tables and chairs were empty, the serving area was unoccupied, and when Tina ran a fingertip across a tabletop it came away grey with dust.
“Not that I’m questioning your no doubt suitably terrified source,” said Tina, “But this place couldn’t be any emptier if it was called the Marie Celeste.”
Daniel grinned, and led her through the tables to one particular patch of floor. He knelt down, and pointed out a carefully concealed trapdoor.
“My informant couldn’t do enough to help me, once I’d pointed out that the alternative involved him having to learn how to walk on his elbows.”
“I get so hot when you talk dirty,” said Tina.
Daniel tugged at the steel ring embedded in the trapdoor, but the door wouldn’t budge. From the feel of it, there were a great many locks and bolts involved on the underside. So he took a firm grip on the ring and hauled the trapdoor out of the floor. It came free with a loud wrenching of wood and the squealing of broken steel, and Daniel casually tossed the heavy door to one side.
“Show off,” said Tina.
The new opening revealed a set of bare stone steps, leading down into an unrelieved darkness.
“Of course, it’s bound to be a trap,” said Daniel.
“Great!” said Tina. “Let’s walk into it!”
“Why not?” said Daniel.

They clattered loudly down the stone steps, their eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom, until they reached a huge and intimidatingly heavy door at the bottom, held shut by several really big locks.
“Okay, they’re just teasing us now,” said Tina. And she kicked the door so hard she broke the great wooden slab in two, leaving the jagged parts hanging drunkenly from shattered hinges. Bright light spilled out into the stairway.
“Knock, knock!” said Tina.
The Hydes strolled into a great stone cavern, fiercely illuminated by rows of overhead fluorescent lights. Hundreds of ghouls were sitting packed together on low benches, at rows of empty tables. They all turned to stare at Daniel and Tina; scrawny, naked, grey-skinned creatures, with wrinkled turnip faces and huge eyes.
“So these are ghouls,” said Daniel. “They look like things that belong underground; or under stones.”
“Don’t let the lean and hungry look fool you,” said Tina. “Ghouls have appetites like you wouldn’t believe; and teeth that could bite through a marble mausoleum to get at the goodies inside.”
“How strong are they?” said Daniel.
“They don’t have to be strong,” said Tina. “They have numbers. And teeth.”
And then both Hydes looked round sharply, as a deep and cultured voice issued from the dark shadows at the rear of the cavern.
“Well, well, what have we here? It would seem we have visitors, my children; uninvited, but not necessarily unwelcome.”
Daniel and Tina moved closer together, as a tall and sturdy figure emerged unhurriedly from the shadows and stepped out into the light. He wore a formal tuxedo under a sweeping black opera cape with a blood red lining. He had a dead white face, night dark hair, and when he smiled at the Hydes they could clearly see the elongated canines.
“Hydes . . .” he said. “I am honored.”
Daniel looked at Tina. “A vampire?”
“Very old school vampire,” said Tina. “The full Lugosi.”
“What is a vampire doing here?” said Daniel.
“Ask him,” said Tina.
The Hydes faced the vampire with a cold stare, and he inclined his head courteously.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Dracula.”
Daniel had to raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
“This is my domain, and these are my servants,” said Dracula. “And I remain old school, because this aspect still has the power to compel. My children see, and they believe; and so I have power over them. Ghouls don’t have it in them to challenge the authority of a vampire. I know both of you, of course; the infamous Daniel and Tina Hyde. Word does get around, in our rather limited circle.”
“I was sure we’d killed all the vampires,” said Daniel. “We hit your annual gathering in the deserted Tube tunnels under London, with a rushing river of holy water!”
“We had it blessed specially,” said Tina
“I wasn’t at the gathering,” said Dracula. “I’ve never been a joiner. But since you did destroy all my undead kith and kin, I thought it wise to keep my head down. Until it occurred to me . . . that with all the monster Clans destroyed, there was now a power vacuum at the heart of crime that I could step into. And so I became lord of the ghouls; and a ruler of my own little kingdom once again.”
“I wouldn’t have thought a vampire would lower himself to associate with ghouls,” said Daniel.
Dracula shrugged. “I had to build my power base with the tools available. How did you know to find me here?”
“We didn’t come here for you,” said Tina. “We were just interested in why the ghouls were organizing.”
“So it was my own success brought you to my door,” said Dracula. “Be sure your sins will find you out . . .”
“You’re avoiding the question,” said Daniel. “Why ghouls?”
“These are my new children of the night,” said Dracula. “A bit rough and ready; but so much quieter than the old ones.”
“And they just let you walk in and take over?” said Tina.
“Ghouls have always needed someone to tell them what to do,” said Dracula.
“And what, exactly, do they do for you?” said Daniel.
“I sub-let their services to criminal organizations all over London,” said Dracula. “The ghouls make themselves useful, by disposing of any and all physical evidence that might link someone to a crime. Because ghouls will eat anything.”
“Shut your ugly face,” said Tina.
Dracula broke off abruptly, because no one argued with Tina when she was in that kind of mood. She scowled heavily, concentrating on something only she could hear, and then moved quickly between the rows of tables. The ghouls turned their heads to follow her. She finally stopped before one particular section of a stone wall, and listened hard.
“Get away from there!” Dracula said sharply. “You won’t find anything of any interest to you!”
“But I can hear something,” said Tina.
“It’s none of your business!” said Dracula.
Tina grinned back at Daniel. “Well; now I really want to know.” She leaned in close and ran her fingertips over the stone wall. “Well; would you believe it? There’s a door concealed here. I wonder what’s on the other side.”
She wrenched the door out of the wall and tossed it away. She peered in through the opening, then stood very still.
“What is it, Tina?” said Daniel. “What do you see in there?”
“People,” said Tina, not looking back at him. “Living people, in cages. Some of them are children.”
Daniel moved quickly through the tables to join her. The ghouls watched him pass, making no move to try to stop him. Daniel stood beside Tina and stared into the adjoining chamber. Dozens of naked people had been crammed into cages barely three-foot square. The children were packed in two or three at a time. It was obvious the cages hadn’t been cleaned out for some time. The prisoners looked at Daniel and Tina with pleading eyes, barely daring to hope. The Hydes turned away, to stare at Dracula.
He drew himself up to his full height, and swept his cape about him. “Someone is always an inconvenience, to somebody else. Inconvenient witnesses, certain individuals who know too much; or just people who got in the way of more important people. I take them all. My ghouls are always hungry.”
“Ghouls don’t eat the living,” said Tina. “It’s not in their nature.”
“I take care of that,” said Dracula.
“There are children,” said Daniel.
Something in his voice made Dracula stir uneasily. “Someone will profit from their disappearance. There’s no one in there who matters, or who’ll be missed. Since when are Hydes sentimental?”
“We have a conscience,” said Daniel.
“And there’s a line we won’t cross,” said Tina. “What do you want to do, Daniel?”
“I promised you a night of murder and mayhem,” said Daniel. “How would you like to kill everyone here who isn’t in a cage?”
She thought about it. “There’s no fun in killing ghouls. And I get the feeling they’re as much the victims as anyone else. But Mister Cape and Fangs . . .”
“Yes,” said Daniel. “Without the Count to organize them, the ghouls will stop being a problem.”
“Stand, my children!” said Dracula.
And just like that, hundreds of ghouls rose to their feet. They were all staring at the Hydes now, with their huge unblinking eyes. There was no trace of a human expression in their wrinkled grey faces, but their smiles revealed teeth like chisels.
“My children are always hungry,” said Dracula.
“But they don’t eat the living,” Daniel said steadily. “It’s not in their nature.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” said Dracula.
Daniel reached out to the nearest table and ripped off one of its legs. He hefted the weight in one hand, and then nodded easily to Dracula.
“How do you like your stake?”
Dracula’s smile widened. “That won’t help you, against me.”
He reached inside his tuxedo and brought out a gun. Daniel had to raise an eyebrow.
“Since when do vampires need weapons?”
Dracula shrugged. “We all have to move with the times.”
Tina surged forward impossibly quickly, barging right through the tables and sending the ghouls sprawling. Dracula raised his gun, but Tina was moving so quickly he couldn’t bring it to bear on her. He opened fire anyway, and black blood spurted from ghouls as they fell dying. Dracula ran out of bullets and Tina threw herself at him, her hands straining for his throat. He waited till she was almost upon him, and then his arm came sweeping round with vicious force, hitting her so hard she was sent flying back through the tables and slammed into a stone wall with such force she fell stunned to the floor.
Daniel walked between the tables, heading straight for Dracula. The vampire reloaded his gun, took careful aim and opened fire. Daniel ducked and dodged with more than human reflexes, and though the bullets passed so close he could feel their passage, not one hit him. Dracula ran out of bullets again; and Daniel’s fist lashed out with superhuman strength, more than enough to take Dracula’s head right off. But Dracula’s reactions were more than human too. He moved just enough that the fist sailed harmlessly past his head, and then he slammed his own fist into Daniel’s gut. Daniel went down on one knee, bent over his pain, and Dracula raised his fist in a killing blow over the exposed neck.
Tina came charging forward again. Dracula saw her coming, but by the time he turned to face her she was close enough to punch him in the mouth with all her strength. Blood flew from his crushed lips; and the false vampire teeth shot out of his mouth.
Dracula staggered backwards, blood coursing down his chin. Tina helped Daniel to his feet, and they stood together and stared at the man who wasn’t a vampire. He regained his balance, spat out a mouthful of blood, and raised a shaky hand.
“Wait! There’s no reason for us to fight. I’m not what you think.”
“We had already worked that out,” said Tina.
“If you’re not a vampire,” said Daniel. “What the hell are you?”
“I’m a rogue Hyde,” said Dracula. “I’ve spent years on the run, concealing who and what I am behind any number of masks.”
“I thought Edward killed all the other Hydes,” said Tina. “How did you get away?”
“By not being there when he came to rip my head off,” said Dracula. “I should have stayed hidden; but when I heard you’d killed off the monster Clans . . . I saw an opportunity.”
“By enslaving the ghouls?” said Daniel.
“It’s not like they were doing anything useful with their lives . . . And I made them into one of the biggest criminal organizations in London! Look; I’m not greedy. We can run the ghouls together, and share the profits. The way money has been coming in, there’s enough for all of us.”
“No,” said Daniel.
“We wouldn’t lower ourselves,” said Tina.
“Oh come on!” said Dracula. “We’re Hydes!”
“There’s still a line we won’t cross,” said Daniel.
“What line?” said Dracula.
“The children,” said Tina.
“We kill monsters,” said Daniel. “And you’re the only monster here.”
Dracula turned to give orders to his ghouls, but they were already advancing on him, walking right past Daniel and Tina. Their eyes were fixed on their former master, and they were all smiling the same awful smile.
“They saw the false teeth,” said Daniel. “And they saw you bleed. Now they know you’re not a vampire, you have no authority over them.”
“They can’t kill me,” said Dracula, as the ghouls formed a circle around him. “It’s not in their nature!”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” said Daniel. He turned to Tina. “I’ll take care of this. You free the prisoners, and get them out of here.”
“Why can’t I deal with him?” said Tina. “You promised me murder and mayhem!”
“Later,” said Daniel. “You get to free the prisoners, because you’re the good-looking one. They won’t be as afraid of you. Of course; they don’t know you like I do.”
Tina smiled. “You say the sweetest things.”
She disappeared into the adjoining room, and there was the sound of rending steel as Tina took out her thwarted temper on the cages. After a while, she came back out with the prisoners, and led them through the cavern. Most were so weak they had to lean on each other, but Tina kept them moving until they were out of the cavern and started up the stairs. Daniel turned back to face Dracula, hefting the wooden stake in his hand.
“I’m not a real vampire!” said Dracula. “That won’t work on me!”
“A stake always works,” said Daniel. “As long as you hammer it in hard enough.”
He walked forward, and the ghouls parted to let him pass. Dracula threw a desperate punch at Daniel, but he sidestepped it neatly, and slammed the stake in under the sternum. New blood gushed from Dracula’s mouth, and he clutched the stake with both hands, trying to pull it out. Daniel hit the stake with the palm of his hand, and drove it right through the man’s heart. Dracula fell dead to the floor and the ghouls made a single low sound, like a collective sigh. Daniel nodded to them.
“Bon appetite.”
He turned and walked away, and didn’t look back. He’d have to help Tina get the prisoners to safety, but afterwards . . . He’d promised her a night of mayhem and murder; and the night wasn’t over yet.

This story is set within the world of Simon R. Green’s September 2021 novel Jekyll and Hyde Inc. Green is the New York Times best-selling author of more than sixty science fiction, fantasy, and mystery novels. Simon sold his first book in 1988 and the very next year was commissioned to write the best-selling novelization of the Kevin Costner film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. From there he went on to write many more series of books including Deathstalker, Nightside, Secret History, Forest Kingdom, and the Ishmael Jones mysteries among others. His books have sold over 3.8 million copies worldwide and have been translated into over a dozen different languages.

Shattered Trust
by Dave Bara

The 5 Suns Navy marine was battering on the window of the escape pod with the butt of his rifle. Inside, Jared Clement, former captain of the Rim Confederation gunship Beauregard, looked to his former XO and lover, Elara DeVore.
“I guess there’s nothing to it now,” he said. “We have to blow the hatch or they’ll start using their rifles to cut their way in.”
DeVore reached over to him and took his hand reassuringly. “No more cards to play,” she said.
“I love you, Elara.”
She squeezed his hand even tighter. “I love you, Jared. Whatever happens from here on out, never forget that.”
Instead of replying, he merely nodded, then reached up for the exterior com button. “Stand back from the pod. I am going activate the explosive bolts to release the hatch in thirty seconds.” He could hear muted grumbling at that, but eventually the marines started backing up.
The escape pod they were trapped in was the last one from Clement’s ill-fated gunship, now scuttled on the surface of an ignominious “moon” of the planet Argyle, capital world of the former Rim Confederation, which if it hadn’t surrendered yet would surely do so in the next few hours. He activated the four locking bolts on the hatch and then hovered over the firing switch. He counted down from five in his head, not really sure if he’d given the marines more or less time than the thirty seconds he had promised them, then turned away from the hatch and hit the toggle switch.
The hatch exploded out and away from the pod, landing about a meter from it, clanging on the cold metal floor of the Argyle Station landing deck they had been unceremoniously dropped on. A 5 Suns destroyer had grabbed their pod and dragged them into the station’s landing bay, bringing an end to a near five-year war between the two governments.
As the smoke cleared both Clement and DeVore unbuckled their safety clamps. Two huge 5 Suns marines filled the still-smoking hatchway. “Out!” demanded one of the grunts, who reached in and grabbed DeVore by the hand, forcefully pulling her out.
“Hey!” protested Clement, only to be met by a rifle butt to the chest by the other marine. The blow knocked the wind out of him and pushed him back into his safety couch.
“Don’t you worry, worm. The 5 Suns marines will take good care of her.”
“Bas-tards . . .” choked out Clement, still trying to catch his breath. That earned him another rifle butt blow, this time to his ribs. He moaned—it fucking hurt, and now he was pretty sure a couple of those ribs were broken.
“Don’t fight them, Clement! I can take care of myself!” called DeVore after him as her voice moved further away from him. She was being led away from the pod by four grunts, leaving just two for him. She glanced back his way one last time, then they rounded a corner and she was gone.
“Out!” The huge marine grabbed him by the coveralls and literally pulled him out of the pod with one hand. There were only two of them left now, but after the body blows Clement was in no condition to try and jump them, and ultimately, there was no reason to. The war he had fought so vigorously was over.
They marched him down a series of corridors, one grunt in the lead and the other with a firm grip his shoulder. After going down a few decks in an elevator, Clement was deposited in an empty, featureless cell. They locked the door behind him. He went to one corner of the cell, wondering about Elara, wondering how bad the penalty for his revolt against the ruling power over five star systems would be. He would have plenty of time to think about that.
#
They fed him twice a day, standard 5 Suns military rations. That wasn’t a problem for Clement, as he been eating those same rations for almost a year. He’d stolen them in a raid on the nearest 5 Suns outpost, Kemmerine Station. He got water three times a day, and eventually they installed a sleeping pad and a toilet. No one questioned him, no one talked to him for three solid days. He wondered if they remembered that he used to be a 5 Suns Navy officer, and thus had been trained on their psychological techniques. He decided it didn’t matter. They were going to do what they were going to do.
Per the Navy book, on what he figured was day four of his captivity, he was taken into another room which had a desk with a 5 Suns officer behind it, rank of major, undoubtedly a psychological warfare specialist. A metal folding chair was pulled out and he was “invited” to sit down in it. At that point the psych officer waved the guards out of the room and then he sat there, looking at and shuffling papers, without saying a word.
Finally, he spoke without looking up. “Are your rations adequate, Captain Clement?”
“The shrimp scampi is a bit spicy for my taste, but otherwise it’s as I expected,” quipped Clement.
The officer looked up at Clement through old fashioned round, wire-rimmed glasses and surprisingly smiled at him. “I see you still have your sense of humor, and irony.” Then he looked back down at the papers on his desk, and slid one towards Clement. “This is your confession to war crimes against the legitimate government of the 5 Suns Alliance, up to and including the murder of innocents and nonmilitary personnel, both onboard navy ships and at Kemmerine Station,” he said.
Clement leaned forward and looked at the sheet. There were many pages. He flipped through them. It had the names of sailors and civilians alike, all dead. All killed by his hand. Clement slid it back across the table, where the psych officer let it lie.
“It’s a long list,” admitted Clement quietly.
“Indeed. More than thirty-two hundred names. And you signed their death warrants. You and your Rim Confederation traitors. Do you know what the penalty is for traitors in the 5 Suns, Clement?”
“The same as it is in the Rim. Death by hanging.”
The psych officer nodded. “I don’t imagine you’ll want to be signing that confession, will you, Captain? It would be like signing your own death warrant.”
“Every war has its casualties, Major.”
“Does it?” snapped the major. “Why did you choose to fight this war? Why did you choose to kill so many innocents?”
“Do you really want to know?” said Clement, raising his voice in challenge.
“Yes, I damn well do!”
“Because you were starving us, the Rim. The governor general was stealing all the goods intended for the people on the Rim, and selling them all on the black market. Food. Seeds necessary for planting. Medical supplies. It was a slow-motion, controlled genocide. That’s why we fought you.”
“The governor general has been dealt with.”
“Too little, too late, Major.”
The major leaned back in his desk chair at that and put his feet up on the table. He looked at some more papers on his desk, took a drink of water, watching Clement’s face. “Would you like some water, Captain? I can have a glass brought in for you.” Clement was parched, and his next water ration wasn’t for another three hours. “After, of course, you sign the confession.”
Clement shook his head. “No.”
“How about a real meal? A steak perhaps? How long has it been since you had real food?”
“Probably since the war started, Major.”
The major slid the confession across the desk again, and turned it to the last page. It had Clement’s name with a line for his signature above it. “Just sign it, Captain. Carrying the burden of guilt must be wearing on your conscience. Sign it, and you’ll have that water, and a meal, and even a cell with a window. We’ll treat you well if you cooperate.”
It took all he had to keep from picking up the pen and signing. “Psychological torture is still torture, Major, and illegal under both the Rim Confederation and 5 Suns military codes of justice.”
“I’m the only justice here now, Captain.” He thumbed a red button on the table and two guards came in to take him back to his cell.
It went on like that for at least six weeks, Clement lost track. Sometimes more than once a day, always trying to get him to sign. In between those sessions they asked him about his military tactics, about how he was able to outwit their own navy commanders so often. He always replied with the same answer; “Your commanders weren’t very good.” Eventually though, he just got bored of fighting them, and he began sharing different tricks of the trade he had learned and used. They seemed happy with this information, and his rations improved considerably. He rarely saw the major, but he was there, behind the scenes, guiding the interrogations, no doubt. And then one day he was back, sitting behind the familiar desk.
As Clement sat down he looked to the table, which for once didn’t have his confession on it. In its place were two single sheets of paper, one facing the major, one facing Clement.
“A final armistice agreement has been reached. Both sides have agreed to prisoner exchanges, a general amnesty, a shutdown of military operations on the Rim, and a restoration of peaceful relations between the two parties. Aid is on the way to the Rim worlds, where it will be fairly distributed to the people of Argyle, Helios, and Ceta.”
“Until you appoint a new governor, who will start stealing it again.”
The major shrugged. “The Navy can’t stay out here forever, Captain. Perhaps we should, but many in the Navy believe that we should just cut you loose, grant you autonomy, let you fend for yourselves. But the politicians, they won’t stand for that. Pictures of starving children would arouse disturbing feelings in the Core, and we can’t have that.”
“What’s the paper?” asked Clement, curious.
The major leaned forward. “This? It’s your release. You’re to be transferred to a private mining camp on the surface of Argyle in the morning.”
“I thought you said there was a general amnesty?”
“Oh, there is. Most of your compatriots are being released back to their home planets in the next few days, but we’ll be holding on to you. There is a clause in the amnesty for “high-value prisoners,” and regrettably for you, you’re one of those. If you sign the transfer agreement, you’ll spend six months on the planet’s surface, working for the Argyle Mining Corporation. Then you will be eligible for parole and eventual release to live a normal life again.”
“So you sold me as chattel.”
The major shrugged again. “If you like. We have to find some way of deferring the costs of this war. Why complain? It’s only six months.”
“Mining is a dangerous business. It could be my last six months.”
“Read it.” The agreement was very much as the major had stated, no secret clauses or contract embellishments. But there was one provision that caught his eye.
“Why am I being banned from seeing my former crew members?”
“The Navy wants to discourage fraternization by former combatants. You won’t be able to meet with former members of your crew for the duration of your work assignment and your parole.”
“And how long is my parole?”
“Twenty-four months from the date of your capture, Captain. Then you can renew your old associations.”
“Except for one.”
“Except for one. You’ll never be allowed to see Elara DeVore again.”
“Why?”
The major shifted in his chair. “Because she has requested it.” That hit him like a punch to the gut.
“Did you really think you’d be able to marry her? Settle down, buy a farm, have little children running around at your feet? No. It’s not for you, Clement. Now sign the release. I’m sick of looking at you.” He stuck a pen in Clement’s face then. Clement looked at it, thinking about the past, and the future. One was filled with regret, the other with black despair.
He signed.
#
Six months in a mining camp had hardened Clement’s body, but had done nothing for his mood. True their word, the Argyle Mining Corporation prepared to let him go after his six months of penal duty, most of which had been administrative. Oh, he did his time of hard labor, working the mines like any other grunt, but they knew who he was and how his talents could be best utilized. They even made him an offer of a new contract at thirty-two thousand crowns a year, not a bad wage, but he’d be stuck to the ground for sure. No, he decided his future was still in space, he just didn’t know what it would be yet.
They cut him loose with a standing offer of employment, but Clement figured (or rather, hoped) that he could make at least that much as a merchant pilot on Argyle Station. He had no love for the planet itself, nor did he think he could go home to Ceta and face both his parents and the people he had failed there. Emotionally, he just wasn’t ready. He took his two hundred crowns severance and bought passage to the station, along with a couple of days of rations. It was all he could afford, all that he had to his name in the universe.
After arriving on the station he managed to obtain a single berth based on his former navy credit. It seemed Rim currency was still being honored on a one-to-ten ratio, until the end of the next year. He set about aggressively trying to find employment in the merchant fleets running the supplies from the Core 5 Suns worlds out to the Rim, as agreed to by the armistice. There was plenty of work about, but mostly as a seaman, which didn’t pay much. Eventually he lucked on to a couple of back-to-back piloting assignments on former Rim freighters, and then his flight reputation was sealed. It came as no surprise when one of the big import/export companies called up his file.
He went in for an interview less than three months after arriving on Argyle, and just a year after the war ended. To his surprise, the interview was with Patrick Ngokue, Chairman of the appropriately named Argyle Starfreight Services, or ASS as sailors on the station called it. He smiled at that as he was led into the office.
Ngokue didn’t rise to greet Clement at all when he entered, he just motioned for him to take a chair while he sat behind his desk, shuffling papers. It reminded Clement of his meetings with the nameless intelligence major.
The room was spartan and decorated in a style that reflected the Chairman’s desire to not spend a penny more than necessary. It was filthy. Clement noticed a pest trap under one desk.
Ngokue was a huge African man, and he dwarfed the desk as he continued shuffling for a few more moments, then looked up.
“I have a job for you, Captain Clement,” he said.
“I’m not a captain anymore, sir. Just a ‘Mr.’ will do for now.”
“Whatever you want, Mr. Clement. Now about this job—”
“You’re contact com didn’t mention a pay rate. I always start with the pay rate. That way we can find out quickly if we are wasting each other’s time.”
Ngokue eyed him for a second, then slid him a piece of paper across the desk. Clement looked down at the paper. Forty thousand crowns. “Do we have a deal, Mr. Clement?”
“At that rate you could hire me for a year. You’re paying me this for one trip?”
“You haven’t heard what the job is yet.”
“I’m not likely to care.”
“Well, that’s why you were top of my list.” Ngokue motioned for Clement to read the rest of the bill of lading. “Out loud, please, so there is no confusion.”
“One nine-day run to Kemmerine Station aboard the freighter Shattered Trust, there to pick up supplies of food rations, assorted beverages, and miscellaneous items. Nine days return journey to Helios Station where cargo is to be transferred to Rim Resources Management, Inc. for resale and general distribution.” He shrugged. “Seems simple enough. Why is the pay rate so high?”
“Let’s just say that I need a man with former military experience to guarantee a safe and secure transfer of these goods to their destination. Do we understand ourselves, Mr. Clement?”
“I think we do. It’s odd, though.”
“What is?”
“The name of the ship, Shattered Trust? It’s a bit odd, even for a freighter.”
Ngokue sat back in his chair. “It’s a name that may or may not reflect my personal feelings about some aspects of the war. Before I bought the ship her name was the Kettering. Not really very exciting.”
Clement thought about that answer. Was the ship’s name reflecting his belief that the 5 Suns broke trust with the Rim, or the other way around? His intuition told him to be careful, he was sure the military would be watching him. His training told him to be suspicious of everything.
“What are you running?” said Clement flatly.
Ngokue stared across the table at him. “That information’s not part of the contract.”
“Crew?”
“Just you and a copilot. All the moving of merchandise will be done by private dockworkers.”
“Private? I see. Now I think I understand why you’re paying so much.”
Ngokue waved him off. “Enough of this. I’ve arranged for your copilot to meet you aboard the ship. You depart at noon tomorrow.”
“I’d prefer to pick my own copilot.”
“That’s not in your contract.”
Clement looked down again at the one-page document. “I guess it’s not.”
“Half up front into your credit account, half when you deliver the goods at Helios,” stated Ngokue.
Clement took a pen off of the desk and signed the contract. “The twenty thousand has to be in my account before noon tomorrow.”
“Done,” said Ngokue. With that Clement got up and left the office without another word, heading for the station bar, there to buy three bottles of Argyle scotch, the best stuff they had. Nine days was a long trip.
#
He arrived aboard Shattered Trust ninety minutes before her launch, his small duffel bag and the three bottles of liquor in tow. From there he checked out the freighter’s systems, found them compatible with his skills and experience, and quickly programmed his personal settings into the controls. After that he went to the hold and found that Shattered Trust was almost as big as a Rim Confederation destroyer. There was a huge amount of empty space in the hull, enough for food to feed a small city. But her size displacement meant she was also slow, thus the nine day journey to Kemmerine. He was surprised nothing was going outward bound on the trip, but he didn’t want to ask questions, and there was no one to answer them anyway.
He went to his cabin next, a berth that said “Captain’s Cabin” in faded, grimy letters. Inside was a simple bed and a small desk and chair. Across from him was another, unmarked berth, and down the hall there was a shared bathroom for two, along with several empty cabins, not needed for this trip.
He looked at his watch at 11:45 and made his way back to the bridge. As he walked the metal deck he felt the engines kick in, likely the missing copilot warming things up. When he got back to the bridge the copilot’s seat was occupied. He walked to his seat and plopped himself down in the chair, then turned to look at his copilot.
She had dark hair and dark olive skin; her hair was cut short to almost military regulation. She had a finely featured face, and for moment, just a moment, his mind played tricks on him. She looked remarkably like Elara DeVore, so much so that he felt that it couldn’t be a coincidence. She was about the same age, in her late twenties, and had a similar complexion and sumptuous body type, like many of the ethnic Brazilian descendants of Helios. Someone is playing me, he thought.
“Captain Clement! I’m Tima Morales,” she said cheerfully, reaching out hand to him. “I’ll be your copilot on this trip.”
He took her hand and shook it. “Please, don’t call me ‘Captain,’ it’s just Jared now.”
She held on to his hand a bit longer than required, making their skin contact last beyond a simple business greeting. “Jared, then. Please excuse me if I get a bit carried away with excitement about meeting you.”
Clement pulled his hand away, then said, “You shouldn’t think of me as a hero, Miss Morales. We lost the war.”
She nodded and smiled a bit less. “I know. But still, you gave so many families in the Rim hope. The first hope we’d had in decades.”
“Well, thank you, but let’s focus on our mission, uh . . . I mean our assignment,” he said, embarrassed at how quickly he’d slipped back into military jargon. He set about going through a pre-flight check list, which kept her attention on her work, not him, which was the way he wanted it.
They left dock ten minutes late, but Clement quickly had them on a bearing for Kemmerine Station running full out. By his way of calculating it, they would get there in just 8.25 days, better than the nine the contract called for.
He socialized with Morales a bit, but for the most part he kept things formal between them. He also kept them physically apart, with him running the “day” shift and her running the “night,” with just two hours of necessary crossover time each day which they used to eat and converse. She was always asking him about the war, and he regaled her with a few tall stories, but when she tried to get too personal, he always fended her off.
On the fourth day out of Argyle, Clement was in his cabin, drinking from his precious scotch supply, trying to forget how much Tima Morales reminded him of Elara DeVore. That fact made him question both her and Ngokue’s intent. He wasn’t sure he could trust her, but he wasn’t sure he couldn’t, either.
As he lay on his bunk nursing his third shot of the night and looking disappointingly at his diminishing alcohol reserves, he overheard the sound of the shower running in the shared bathroom across the hall. Morales was supposed to be running the ship. He assumed she’d put the Shattered Trust on auto-pilot, and he debated getting up and going to the bridge himself to check it out, but ultimately decided to wait patiently with his shot glass in hand. The water ran for almost five solid minutes before she shut it off.
Thirty seconds later there was a knock on his door.
He debated what to do next, whether to give in and just let it happen, or to continue to fend her off. She aroused his feelings for DeVore, and those feelings hurt, but it had also been a very long time since he had been with a woman. Too long.
“Come in,” he said.
She came through the door topless, with beads of water running down her body thanks to the artificial gravity. She only had a small towel around her waist. He was glad he’d let her in.
She stepped closer without saying anything, her dark olive skin glistening in the course light of his cabin. “It’s time,” she said.
He sat up. “Yes, it is.”
Their sex was quick and frantic. After the second round of taking pleasure from each other, he “ordered” her back to her station. They carried on like that for the next few days, sometimes on her watch, sometimes on his. He let himself enjoy the moments, but emotionally he kept her at a distance, all the way to Kemmerine.
#
Just over eight days out from Argyle the Shattered Trust docked at Kemmerine Station. After clearing station customs and confirming their Bill of Lading with the station guard, the private dock workers quickly set about the task of loading cargo, all under the watchful eye of station security. It all looked right as they began filling the large cargo bay with the appropriate goods, so much so that Clement decided to head onto the station to pick up some more supplies for the trip back, including better food provisions. Kemmerine had much better cuisine choices than Argyle did.
Morales seemed happy to “watch over” the loading process as he did his shopping, using Ngokue’s credits. When he got back the deck was almost fully loaded, and he let Morales sign off the cargo manifest. Six hours after they arrived, they were back in space, bound for Helios.
The two of them carried on as they had before in bed, but Clement found himself drinking more and more, and wondering what they actually had in their hold. On the second night out from Kemmerine, when he should have been sleeping, he got out of bed, pulled on his coveralls, and checked his bridge monitor. It showed Morales busy at the copilot’s console.
He slipped out of his cabin and went quietly down to the hold. He walked through the columns of cargo boxes, all carefully marked and logged. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, until he found it.
In one of the back rows against the outer hull, he noticed a metal container with an electronic lock on it. The cargo bill stated it was “Quantar Shiraz” wine, whatever that was. He tried the lock several times, but ultimately he got locked out. He found another box, smaller, but with the same bill and code box. He’d been good with codes in the military, and this lock box certainly looked military grade. This time he pulled the RFID blocker off of the credit chip Ngokue had given him, and applied it to the code box. It was a trick he’d used many times during the war to access 5 Suns Navy contraband. The RFID blocker wouldn’t break the code of the box, but if the box was separated from the security network, it might let him reset the code.
Sure enough the code box went to amber from red, indicating it was offline from the rest of the network. He looked at the keypad. Standard commercial security used an eight-entry key, but the military used twelve. He decided to take a gamble, and at the prompt from the box, he entered in his old Rim Navy twelve-entry key. The code box went green. It had reset the pass key. He turned a handle on the coffin-sized box and the lid opened up.
Inside was a treasure, for any military man. There were many scattered rifles and pistols inside, both conventional firearms (antiques, really) mixed in with used military-grade energy weapons. He reached in and pulled a small caliber gun from the pile of weapons. It had a full magazine with six shots in it. He checked the chamber and it was empty. He tucked the gun in his coverall hip pocket, where it was almost unnoticeable. He counted himself lucky and shut the crate, then pulled the blocking chip from the code box. When he did, the room lit up like Christmas. All of the other crates with code locks were resetting, going from red (locked) to amber to green once they received the new code key. After a few seconds they all returned back to red, indicating they had accepted his new code. He had the keys to the kingdom.
Still curious, he opened up one of the larger containers, and then he knew what Shattered Trust’s cargo really was. Inside were mortars, coil rifles, RPG’s, enough to start a war with, or a second revolution.
Clement quickly shut the container and scrambled back to his cabin, hiding the gun he had taken behind his booze. He didn’t sleep much for the rest of that shift, and deep inside he began to wonder what was really going on.
And why.
#
He cut Morales off from sex after that, saying he wanted to “keep things casual,” and locked her out of his cabin. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, it was that he didn’t trust anyone anymore.
They were still two days out from Helios when Morales called him up to the bridge in the middle of her shift, when he should have been asleep. He went up and sat in his pilot’s chair across from her.
“What have you got?” he asked.
“I’m not sure, but it sounds like a distress beacon.”
“Let me hear it,” he said, then donned his ear phones. It sounded like a standard merchant distress call, a repeating series of long and short radio bursts. “It’s an S.O.S., no question,” he said as he pulled off the earphones. “Can you tell what direction it’s coming from?”
She nodded. “It looks like it’s coming from an asteroid field fifty-thousand klicks off of our current course. We can be there in ninety minutes.”
“We’re obligated to try and rescue them. Slow the engines and change our course.” Clement made excuses to return to his quarters, and once there he threw on his utility coveralls and placed the gun in his hip pocket, loading a round in the chamber first. If ever he was going to need the gun on this mission, now was the time.
As they closed on the beacon’s position, the reason for the S.O.S. was obvious. A mid-size freighter, maybe two-thirds the displacement of Shattered Trust, had a gaping hole in its side, the entire cargo bay exposed to space. It was drifting, slowly being pulled in by the weak gravity of the asteroid field’s biggest rocks.
“See if you can pick up any communications,” said Clement. Morales tried, but there was no response.
“I’d say their coms are down.”
“I’m going to try to get them using Morse code.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“It’s an old communications method. We learned it in the military as part of our survival training. Give me the com.” She did, and he proceeded to send out a signal. After a few tries, he got a response. “Two survivors in the main cabin, nineteen missing and presumed dead. They say they have about an hour of oxygen reserves left.”
“Lucky we came along when we did. So what do we do now?”
“If I can get us close enough, we’ll use the docking umbilical and try to lock onto their exterior airlock in the crew cabin. Lucky this ship has one. Most freighters don’t.” With that he maneuvered the Shattered Trust to within about ten meters of the drifting freighter. “No time to waste, Morales. They’ve only got forty-three minutes of O2 left.”
“I’ll lock the thrusters down. Be there in two minutes.” Clement nodded and headed off to the cargo deck. He had to override several security protocols to deploy the umbilical.
“You’re very skilled at this,” Morales commented after joining him. He nodded.
“It comes with my resume.”
“Of course it does.”
Seven minutes later and they had a seal on the umbilical, and he began pressurizing it. Once secure, he picked up a wrench and walked the distance to the freighter’s airlock and rapped on the door. There was excited pounding on the other side. With that, the freighter door opened and two very happy looking merchant sailors started to come out of the ship in full EVA suits.
A second later and a blinding flash cut them both down in their tracks, dead. Clement whipped around. Morales was now pointing a coil pistol directly at his chest from just a few feet away.
“What shame to waste a man like you, Clement. You’d be the most valuable man in the 5 Suns Navy,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re talented, smart, a good flyer, almost as good as me, and you’re even good in bed. Your only mistake was giving me two minutes alone to arm myself. I’m sorry, but, this is the end of the line.”
“Is this the part where I start talking to you to prolong my life for a few more seconds?”
“It is. Now raise your hands.” He did as instructed. “Drop the wrench.” He did that too.
“So do I get an explanation?”
She shrugged, but the gun stayed leveled on his chest. “If you want. My job was to evaluate your usefulness to the 5 Suns, and your true level of threat. I can see now that threat is substantial. You broke the 5 Suns best security protocols. You can fly almost anything, even this clunky freighter, and the Rim people see you as a war hero. As I said, a waste of talent.”
“So, I’m going to have an accident?”
“Yes. You’ll be written up in the history books as a man who tried to start a new rebellion after the end of the war. I’ll be dumping all of our cargo here, and when they come to investigate they’ll find your body, and the weapons. Case closed.”
Clement let his hands sag lower. “But who ordered me to be killed? Was it the 5 Suns? Ngokue? The Argyle corporations?”
“Does it really matter? I’ve been paid a handsome sum to make sure you don’t come back from this mission. There are so many people who want you dead. If you’d just stayed in the mining camp, you might have been able to eke out a living for a few years. But they would have got to you, eventually.”
Clement nodded. “They picked you because of how much you look like Elara DeVore. They thought if I was distracted by your looks, I’d let my guard down.”
“Something like that. Now step back onto the freighter, Clement,” she said, waving the pistol at him.
“You’ve only made one mistake,” Clement said, slowly backing up.
“And what’s that?”
“You gave me those same two minutes alone down here. It gave me time to prepare.”
“Prepare for what? If you think I don’t know about that gun in your pocket, you’re sadly mistaken.”
Clement stood on the threshold of the damaged freighter. He shook his head. “No, not the gun. Just this,” he said. He dropped his left arm and a small remote control slid down into his palm. Before she could react, he pressed the control button with his thumb. A charge set at the entrance to the umbilical lit up, and the walkway was suddenly exposed to space. In the same instant, Clement stepped back onto the deck of the derelict freighter, and slammed the hatch control closed. There was just enough time to see Morales being sucked out into the void as the umbilical explosively tore away from both ships. The last thing he heard was her scream, fading quickly into the dark.
Clement sucked in as much air as his lungs could take, kneeling on the deck. The umbilical connection had allowed a small amount of oxygen into the freighter. After a few deep breaths, he said out loud, “If I can’t have Elara DeVore in my life, it’s not worth living anyway, lady. At least you were a good lay.”
#
It took him fifteen minutes to tear an EVA suit from one of the dead men, repair the hole Morales had put in it, then open the airlock door and drift over to Shattered Trust. The two unfortunate merchantmen floated off into space, their bodies unlikely to ever be recovered, just like Morales. Once aboard he jettisoned the cargo, all of it, the good and the bad, and set his course for a return trip, not to Helios, but back to Argyle Station.
When he docked he reported that the wreck of the freighter was unrecoverable, and that Morales had been killed trying to help with the rescue of the two merchant men. Things like that happened all the time on the Rim.
Once he was cleared by station security and the Shattered Trust was turned over to the port authority, he made his way down to the Argyle Starfreight Services office where he had met with Ngokue. It was empty, completely cleaned out. At least he’d received the first payment. This had been an extensive covert operation, and that implied that the 5 Suns military had been involved. He tapped the gun in his pocket just as a reassurance, and determined he’d need better protection in the future. If he had a future.
A day later Clement walked into the Argyle station bar. There was a collection of assorted scruffy looking sailors, and not much else. It looked safe, for the moment. He went to the bar and sat down in a chair, drinking alone.
“What’ll it be?” said the bartender.
“Argyle whiskey, single malt,” replied Clement.
“That’s our best stuff. It will cost you half a month’s wages.”
Clement eyed the bartender scornfully. “Just pour it, and leave the bottle.” The bartender did as instructed, but demanded payment, which Clement gave him from Ngokue’s still-active credit account.
The bartender stood in front of Clement as he poured his first shot and then drank it before quickly pouring again.
“You trying to forget something?”
“Not something,” Clement said, pouring a second shot.
“Trying to forget a lot.”

This story is set within the world of Dave Bara’s October science fiction novel Trinity, the first entry in the Trinity’s Children series. Bara is the author of The Lightship Chronicles Series including Impulse, Starbound, and Defiant. His other works include Saint Cochrane's World, Speedwing and stories in anthologies Infinite Stars, Star Destroyers, and The Chronicles of Davids. Dave grew up as a fan of the Gemini and Apollo space programs and dreamed of being an astronaut one day. Since that time he has restricted his journeys into space to the written word. He lives in the Pacific Northwest. His web page is: http://www.davebara.info/.

Echoes of Meridian
by M. Elizabeth Ticknor

For nearly a decade, thousands of original fantasy stories from around the world have been submitted for the Baen Fantasy Adventure Award. This year, the grand prize was taken home by M. Elizabeth Ticknor for her story “Echoes of Meridian.” Congratulations!

A gust of wind danced between the lean-tos and leather tents of the Wendren camp, carrying the sweet promise of deer and rabbits that lurked in the woods beyond. Drora’s claws twitched with anticipation. Her tongue flicked, unbidden, across her teeth. This was the fourteenth anniversary of her adoption into the Wendren tribe and the perfect day for a hunt.
Her adoptive father, Cers, sat in front of the tent they shared, carving spokes for a broken wagon wheel. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. How could he just sit there, ignoring the enticing scents that beckoned from the horizon? Concentration twisted the tattoos on his head into eldritch patterns as he worked the morning away, oblivious as ever to the call of the wilderness. He’d sit there all day if she let him.
Not that I will.
Drora slipped behind him, moving on all fours, stealthy as a wildcat. She hunkered down and waited for him to grow used to her supposed absence.
A fresh gust of wind pushed past Cers, carrying the pungent sting of embalming fluid to Drora’s nostrils. No matter how much Cers bathed, he always smelled of it. Even with thick cloaks and long-sleeved tunics to hide the stitch-like scar patterns and runic tattoos that laced his body, he barely passed for human. Drora wanted to know why Cers looked like that, why he smelled that way. He dodged personal questions with such infuriating consistency that she’d long since given up asking.
Cers’ shoulders stooped as he bent over his work, letting down his guard. Now. Drora wound her muscles tight and pounced.
Cers was easily twice Drora’s size, but years of practice had taught her where to aim if she wanted to take him down. She planted her weight between his shoulder-blades. The tackle sent him and his work flying. Drora vaulted off his back, tumbled to the ground, and loosed a playful roar.
Cers showed no signs of surprise as he stood and dusted off. She hoped she’d caught him off-guard—surely he would have ducked if he’d anticipated an attack. He glanced in her direction; his left eyebrow arched in a silent question.
Drora rocked back on her haunches and gave a razor-toothed smile. “I want to go hunting.” The grin was all bluster. Jubilation faded and uncertainty set in. Was Cers feigning stoicism, or had he willingly let her pounce him?
Cers picked up the wheel and regathered his tools. “Then go hunting.”
Normally Drora appreciated Cers’ brevity, but today it raised her hackles. Had he forgotten her Finding Day? She grabbed his wrist and used pressure points to loosen his hold on the wheel. “I want us to go hunting. Together.”
Cers scowled. “I’ve no interest in hunting, and Allmother Maela’s wagon needs repairs so we can continue our travels on the morrow.”
Drora knocked the wheel away and pulled Cers’ arm behind his back. “We’ll only be a couple of hours. You’ll have plenty of time to fix that stupid wheel. Come on, we used to do it all the time.”
Cers made no effort to escape. “You were younger, then. It was just a game.”
“It wasn’t a game for me!” Drora tightened her grip and pushed.
Cers sucked in a sharp breath and stared at her, his expression unreadable. “I’ll go if you promise not to kill anything.”
“What's the point of hunting if you don't follow through? There's nothing like the taste of fresh meat.”
“I don’t enjoy it.”
“That’s because you’re weird.” Drora released Cers’ arm and shoved it away. He never wrestled with her anymore. Just once, she wished he’d fight back.
Cers’ expression darkened. “Go if you want. I don’t. I won’t.”
Drora bared her teeth and snarled. “Fine.” If Cers wanted to stay in camp whittling like an old man, that was his problem. Drora wasn’t going to waste the rest of her day. She stomped off toward the woods.
On her way out of camp, an age-withered man with chalky hair and worn robes approached her from the direction of the road. He smiled, baring yellowed teeth, and snatched at her elbow with bony fingers. “Excuse me, young lady. You wouldn’t happen to know a tall fellow, broad shoulders, lots of tattoos?”
Drora jerked away and growled low in her throat; she had little patience for strangers at the best of times. Cers didn’t either, come to that.
Dad brushed me off. He forgot my Finding Day. He deserves a little extra frustration.
Drora jabbed a claw-tipped thumb over her shoulder. “He’s back that way.”
#
Cers carved one final spoke, set it aside, and pulled Drora’s Finding Day present from his pocket. Fashioning the puzzle ring’s individual bands from a single piece of bloodwood had been difficult, but once the shaping and polishing was finished the rings would intertwine perfectly, with heads that combined into a single image: a large hand holding a smaller, clawed one. He’d intended to finish Drora’s gift last night, but the breakdown of Allmother Maela’s wagon had left the entire camp moored on the edge of the wilderness.
Cers’ stomach knotted. He shouldn’t have refused Drora’s hunting invitation, but he needed privacy to finish her gift, and the idea of killing innocent creatures made him uncomfortable. It was too similar to warfare for his tastes. He’d never actually hunted when he accompanied Drora into the woods; he’d simply ensured she wouldn’t become prey for something larger and more toothsome. She was older, now. She’d learned the wilds’ dangers. More than that, her teeth and claws had grown sharp enough to rend flesh from bone.
A familiar voice slithered into his ear as he shaved an errant burr of wood off a ring’s loop. “Hello, Cers.”
Cers dropped his knife and looked up slowly, goose-flesh prickling on the back of his neck. His creator, Tirian, stood before him. Age had curved the mage’s spine and dulled his hair, but his eyes still contained the same feverish spark they’d had when Cers first gained sentience on his operating table.
Cers forced his expression to remain stoic and reclaimed his knife with a trembling hand. “I expected you’d be dead by now.”
“Only stupid mages die of old age.”
Cers wished for the wit to concoct a clever response, but he’d never been skilled with words. “Why are you here?”
“I want to speak with you. Privately.”
Cers’ skin crawled at the idea of being alone with his creator. “I’ll not go anywhere with you.”
Tirian smirked. “Would you rather I air our grievances publicly? People could get caught in the crossfire.” He pulled an obsidian focus stone from his robes.
Cers tensed. Decades ago, Tirian had used a stone much like that to melt flesh from the bones of enemy soldiers. Cers was capable of crushing it—had crushed the last one—but all Tirian need do was speak a trio of words to send black lightning arcing toward the tribesmen and women working nearby. In sixty-seven years, only the Wendren had accepted Cers’ presence without question. They’re kind. More than that, they’re innocent. They don’t deserve such painful deaths.
Cers cast his gaze downward. “Privately, then.” He tucked Drora’s ring back into his pocket and gestured to the freshly spoked wheel. “But first I must finish repairs on Allmother Maela's wagon.”
All pretense of amusement vanished from Tirian’s face. He glowered at Cers, eyes narrowed with barely contained rage. “No. You’ll come with me. Now.” His voice carried a weight of command that bound Cers’ will tighter than any shackles.
#
Drora slunk through the forest on all fours. The animalistic posture afforded her both speed and silence. She swiveled her head from side to side, hyper-aware of every snapping twig, every rustling leaf.
A panicked rabbit stopped foraging and dashed toward its burrow. Drora pounced on it, latched onto it with her teeth, and broke its neck with one vicious shake. No point in making the animal suffer unnecessarily. After skinning it with her talons, she bit into the raw, juicy flesh. Rabbits were too lean to satisfy unless consumed whole, and the bones added a satisfying crunch.
Once Drora ate her fill, she caught another brace of rabbits to bring back as a peace offering. Her Finding Day could still be salvaged. Cers always seemed happiest when he was focusing on a project; he enjoyed the act of preparing food even more than Drora enjoyed eating it. She’d ask him to help her cook the rabbits and see how things progressed from there.
Halfway back to camp, Drora caught a telltale whiff of embalming fluid on the trail. She froze, eyes narrowed. Cers had refused to go hunting—so why was he here?
She bent low to the ground and sniffed deeply. Someone else had been walking alongside him—someone with an unfamiliar scent. The greasy stench of old age overlaid a sharp, bitter amalgamation of spices, chalk, candle wax, and powdered bone.
Wait.
That man she’d passed on her way out of camp—he’d asked after Cers, hadn’t he? And now Cers was just traipsing off into the woods with some odd-smelling stranger when he should be spending time with her.
Drora growled, tossed the rabbit carcasses aside, and stalked after her father. When she caught up with him, she was going to show him how unwise it was to anger a feral.
#
Cers stood rigid and immobile. Tirian had commanded him to stay still, and the glyphs tattooed on his body glowed white-hot from his struggles to resist. Tirian’s will had strengthened since their last encounter, perhaps magically so—every command bit deep. The mage circled him again and again, lighting candles and tracing arcane symbols at strategic points in the earth.
At least he didn’t forbid me to speak. Cers gritted his teeth and asked, “How did you find me?”
“Patience, research, and attention to rumor. Even among the Wendren tribes, you cut a pretty noticeable figure.” Tirian gestured up and down at Cers’ hulking frame.
Cers grunted. “I expected the Rysan government to punish you with impunity.”
“They started press-ganging convicts. Funny how desperate people can get during wartime. It took a decade of service, but I earned my freedom.”
“Then you understand how valuable freedom is. Return mine.”
“I understand that you’re a construct. You were designed to obey commands, not to have thoughts or opinions of your own.”
Cers tensed. “I’m a sentient being—”
Tirian spat, “You're a mistake. A fly in the ointment, a spell gone awry. Without my magic to command you, you should have collapsed into a pile of smelly corpse-bits within a week. Your continued existence defies seven different rules of spellcraft.”
“So you intend to dismantle me?”
“I intend to fix you.”
A shiver went down Cers’ spine. “I don’t require fixing.”
“You’re in no position to judge.” Tirian drew a final glyph in the earth. The writing around Cers’ feet started to glow.
Energy flooded Cers’ body. His mind was engulfed in a blaze of electric agony; it felt as if his very soul were aflame. The pain surged through neurons and nerve endings, dragging his spirit beneath waves of torment—and all he could do was scream.
#
Drora skulked through the forest, temper rising, until she found a place where the earth had been scorched. Arcane glyphs stood out black against the undergrowth. The circle reeked of burnt flesh, ozone, and acid, drowning out every other scent in the region. The forest was quiet here, as if every insect and animal were holding its breath.
Drora’s small hairs stood on end. The strange-smelling man Cers was traveling with must be a mage, but why would he have anything to do with such a man? Drora had begged for him to let her study magic when she was younger. Instead, he’d told her horror stories about the atrocities committed during the Meridian War, about how her ancestors had been irrevocably altered through the use of spellcraft, about the wild magic storms that could come about from a spell gone wrong.
Drora had never seen Dad work a ritual spell in his life, and that was the form of magic he’d warned most strongly against. Ritual circles served as fonts of mystical power, capable of enhancing any spell channeled through them but prone to explosive volatility from even one misplaced line or sigil.
After half an hour of frantic searching, Drora tracked the scents to a remote clearing surrounded by old, knotted bloodwood oaks. Cers sat in the center of the grassy expanse, cross-legged. His tattoos glowed blue-white. The mage stood near Cers’ shoulder, a feverish gleam in his eyes as he said, “Let’s see how your healing capabilities have held up over the years. Break your arm.”
Cers took hold of his right arm and twisted it sharply. The limb snapped with a loud crack. A spike of bone jutted through his wrist.
Drora bit her hand hard enough to draw blood and choked back the urge to scream. She shrank into the undergrowth, heart hammering in her chest. Why would Dad mutilate himself like that? Why would anyone?
Cers’ bones snapped back into place. Torn flesh regrew in a matter of moments. The mage applauded and sneered. “Beautiful! Do it again.” Cers’ grip shifted and his arm cracked just above the elbow. The fresh break healed as swiftly as the first.
Drora shuddered. Something’s very wrong here. She needed to understand it—no, she needed to stop it. This was her fault. She’d wanted to annoy her father, not to harm him. Guilt and concern churned in her gut as she paced the clearing’s perimeter.
A line in the dirt traced along the clearing’s edge, wreathed in arcane symbols. Drora studied them for a long moment, uncertain of their purpose. For all she knew, anything that crossed them would burst into flame or dissolve in a puff of smoke.
She kicked a stray twig across the line to test it.
The mage’s head swiveled in her direction. He scowled. “Cers! We have company.”
Cers jerked to attention and turned to face Drora. The lack of recognition in his eyes sent a shiver up her spine. It was like he’d become a completely different person.
He’s got to be in there somewhere. I can still reach him.
She steeled her confidence and stepped forward. “Dad?”
Cers didn’t move. The mage laughed. “You can’t seriously consider this thing to be your father.”
Drora blinked. “He’s not a thing. I don’t know who you think you are, but you look like your neck would snap if you sneezed too hard. Dad could squash you like a bug.”
“Cers isn’t squashing anything unless I tell him to.”
“What the hells is that supposed to mean?”
“Allow me to enlighten you.” The mage snapped his fingers. "Cers. Kill her."
Cers lurched to his feet and stalked toward Drora, fists clenched.
"Dad? Dad!"
Cers continued to advance, tattoos glowing, eyes dark.
An edge of panic crept into Drora's voice as she backed away. "This isn't funny. What's wrong with you?"
The mage laughed. "Nothing’s wrong with him. Quite the opposite, in fact. I've improved on his original design."
Cers lunged at Drora.
Drora leapt back. Cers' fists pounded the ground where she’d been standing. The impact left a buckler-sized crater in the earth.
Drora vaulted into a bloodwood oak. Cers hauled a fist back and slammed it full-force into the trunk. Bark splintered; crimson sap spattered everywhere. The entire tree lurched with the force of the hit.
Drora scrambled to hang onto the branch she had perched on. Her breath seized in her throat.
Cers slammed his full weight against the trunk and pushed. Roots ripped out of the earth. The tree groaned, swayed, and toppled. Drora kicked away before the falling branches could pin her to the ground. She lurched to her feet.
Cers backhanded her into the clearing.
Drora’s legs trembled as she stood again. Cers had barely touched her, yet he'd flung her ten feet. Was this part of the mage's modifications, or had Cers always been this strong?
Wait. The mage. He stood in the center of the clearing, watching the fight, eyes sparkling with the same glee a sadistic child got from smashing ants. His guard was down.
Drora rushed him, tackled him to the ground, and wrapped her arms around his neck. She pressed a talon against his carotid artery. “Call him off or I'll slit your throat.”
The mage grinned. “Killing me won't make him stop.”
Drora growled with frustration. She had to find a way to convince the mage to change those orders—she couldn’t let whatever he’d done to Dad become permanent. She kicked the mage at Cers’ feet, hoping to slow his approach, but he stepped over the mage without missing a beat.
Drora backed toward the edge of the clearing. “Come on, Dad. You don’t want to do this. I know you don’t. You’re a good man. You’re gentle. You’ve never hurt me in my life.”
Cers’ tattoos flickered. His movement slowed; he tilted his head to the side.
Drora stopped retreating. “That's it, calm down. It's me. It's Drora.”
Cers halted his advance. The mage reached into his robes, watching with narrowed eyes.
Drora approached Cers slowly, as if he were a cornered animal. “See? We don't have to fight. You don't have to kill me. You don't have to kill anybody.”
Cers remained still. Drora took a shaky breath and pulled him into a hug. Cers hugged Drora in turn. For a moment, everything felt right with the world.
And then Cers started to squeeze.
Drora's eyes widened. “Dad—”
Cers squeezed harder. Air fled Drora's lungs. Cers’ arms tightened around her like iron bands. His lips brushed her ear and he whispered, “I'm sorry.”
Tears ran down Drora's face. She didn't have the breath to respond. She struggled, gasping, her movements growing ever weaker until consciousness abandoned her.
#
Cers let Drora's body slump face-first to the ground and swiveled away from her limp form. He couldn't afford to see her take a shallow breath. He couldn't even afford the hope that she might be able to breathe. The idea that he was capable of killing someone he cared for as much as Drora seeped through his veins like poison. For the first time since his creation, he was truly a monster.
He seized that thought, held it close, forcibly blackened that part of his soul. Drora must be dead. There could be no doubt in his mind, or he’d be compelled to cave her skull in.
Tirian arched an eyebrow. "Impressive." He took a few steps closer and bent down to study Drora's body.
Cers didn’t believe in any gods, but in that moment he prayed that Tirian wouldn’t look too closely. Let him think her dead—
No. She was dead. She had to be. Cers clenched his fists and stared at the ground, driving that certainty back into his mind.
Tirian straightened and gave an approving nod. "Excellent work. I liked how you pretended to warm up to her. That was clever."
Cers didn’t respond. Drora’s presence had pulled him back from the depths of mindless obedience Tirian had tried to drown him in, but the struggle to maintain his sense of self was constant. Every word Tirian spoke burned itself into his brain, an indelible rule of the universe. Every command must be obeyed, without question and to the letter.
To the letter, certainly, but such things were open to interpretation if one paid proper attention.
Tirian walked past Cers and beckoned with two fingers. “Come on, then. We’ve places to go, research to do, and wars to win.”
A knot twisted in Cers’ chest as he set off after Tirian. Even now, the words burned in the back of his mind in an endless loop: Kill her. Kill her.
He couldn’t risk the thought that Drora might yet live, but he hoped that if she had survived, she’d have the good sense to stay away.
#
Drora woke slowly. Every breath raked at her aching lungs. She lay in the clearing for what felt like hours, too sore to move, and picked through her memories in an effort to understand what had transpired before she passed out.
Dad tried to kill me. He tried to crush me like an egg.
No. If that were true, she'd never have survived. Cers could punch holes in trees. If she was still breathing, he'd made considerable effort not to kill her.
How’s the mage controlling him? Drora had never heard of a spell that could dominate a person so completely—but then, Cers had never been like other people.
She thought back to stories the elders had told around nightly campfires, tales of the warspawn that had been created during the Meridian War. The worst tales spoke of constructs, the only warspawn created from dead humans instead of living ones, soulless beings used as siege weapons. Their terrible strength had caused so much devastation that their creation had been outlawed after war’s end. The elders claimed they’d all been destroyed, but Drora wasn’t so sure.
She huddled in a ball and shivered as childhood memories warred with primal terror. Constructs were supposed to be mindless beings, little better than statues unless driven by their master’s orders. Before today, Drora had never seen Cers obey orders without question. He wasn’t rude or obstinate; he simply wanted to know why.
Construct or no, he was still a person, with thoughts and feelings all his own. He was still her father—more than that, he was the only parent she’d ever known. Her mother had died when she was too young to retain more than instinctive impressions of sound and scent, and she had no idea what had happened to her birth father.
Drora braced herself, then felt at her ribs. They were bruised, but not cracked or broken. They would heal soon enough. She shifted to her hands and knees, reacquired Cers' scent, and followed it with single-minded tenacity.
It was almost midnight before she caught them again. The bloodwood oaks grew thick and tall this deep into the forest; trees butted up against the Dragonspine Mountains’ rocky peaks. The mage had made a fresh camp in the mountains’ shadow. Drora kept to the underbrush and took stock of the situation from a distance, her features knotted into a frown.
Cers sat by a low-burning fire and stared into the woods. The light from his tattoos shone like a beacon, brighter than the moonlight that filtered through the trees. The mage slept on the far side of the fire, his back pressed against the cliff. Another circle had been drawn around the camp’s perimeter. It had to be some sort of magical alarm.
Drora couldn’t stand up to Cers in a head-on fight. In order to save him, she’d have to get him away from the mage’s sphere of influence—without alerting the mage to her presence. Drora thought back on the lessons Dad had taught her during their old hunting trips. When taking down larger prey, it was important to manipulate their attention and use their size against them.
She filled her pockets with pebbles, then carved four wooden stakes with her claws. Once she felt properly equipped for the task ahead, she hopped into the branches of a fir tree and flung a pebble against a nearby oak. Cers’ head whipped around to face the sound. Drora threw a second pebble; it bounced off another tree further into the forest.
Come on, Dad. Take the bait.
Cers entered the woods to investigate, moving with a predatory grace that belied his size. The mage continued sleeping when Cers crossed the perimeter. Drora sighed with relief and followed her father, shifting from branch to branch, baiting him with errant noises until he was well away from the mage’s camp. Once she was certain they were out of hearing range, she tackled his knees from behind and jabbed one of the wooden stakes into the back of his knee.
She expected him to scream, but he only gave a strangled grunt. Somehow, that seemed worse. Was he muffling himself to protect her, or was he simply inured to pain? Either way it made her heart ache—she couldn’t afford to back down now, she had to see this through.
She ripped into his right elbow with her teeth, tearing at bones and ligaments, and shoved another spike into the wound before it could close. The foreign material should keep him from healing properly, at least in the short term. It wouldn’t kill him—she wasn’t sure he could be killed—but it should slow him down.
Cers rolled over and attempted to crush Drora beneath him. Drora leapt away. She swung back into a tree, panting.
Cers stood on shaky legs. His right arm hung limp by his side. “Drora?” His voice radiated parental concern, but his eyes searched the foliage with calculated precision.
Oh, no you don’t. I’m not falling for that again. Drora kept silent, slipping from branch to branch in an effort to keep out of sight. This wasn’t like a hunt. There was no playful exhilaration—only adrenaline, guilt, and terror.
Cers reached for the spike in his arm. His tone grew bitter. “You shouldn’t have come back. Now I have to kill you.”
Drora vaulted down behind Cers and kicked his right kneecap hard enough to push it out of socket. “Have to catch me first!”
Cers staggered and fell.
Drora cringed as she jammed her spike into his freshly-injured knee. She skittered away and paced in front of him. “Sorry, Dad. Nothing personal, but I can’t help you if you break all my ribs.” She tried to keep the hurt from her voice, but it seeped through all the same. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a construct?”
Cers’ expression tightened. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”
Drora wanted to claim that his fears were unjustified, but she knew how conflicted she’d felt only a few hours ago—how conflicted she felt now. No wonder he’d wanted to spare her that confusion. “Who’s the arthritic prick?”
“His name is Tirian. He built me during the Meridian War.” Cers lunged forward and grabbed at Drora.
Drora skipped out of Cers’ reach and stabbed her final stake through his hand, pinning it to the ground. “How do I stop him?”
Cers looked away, his expression haunted. “I don’t know.”
Drora considered taking a rock to Cers’ skull, but decided against it. She didn’t know if his mind would heal the same way his body did, and couldn’t bear the thought of causing him lasting damage. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll figure it out.” She climbed back into the trees and returned to Tirian’s mountainside camp.
Tirian jerked into a sitting position when Drora crossed the circle’s perimeter, his eyes bleary and wild. Drora flexed her claws and stalked toward him, a predatory grin plastered onto her face. “Let’s try this again.”
Tirian scrambled to his feet and backed away, bellowing, “Cers!”
“It’s just you and me now.”
Tirian’s hands slipped into his robes. “We’ve been over this already. If you kill me—”
“It won’t solve anything. Yes. I know. But you already told him to kill me, and I'm not dead. Your hold on him isn’t as strong as you claim.”
Tirian scowled. “That’s easy enough to fix.” He pulled a black sphere out of his pocket, clutched it tightly, and spat words in a language Drora didn’t understand. An arc of black lightning surged out of the orb. Drora dodged the main blast, but the hair on the right side of her head disintegrated into smoking ash.
Drora snarled and whipped a rock at Tirian’s hand. She missed. Tirian uttered a fresh spate of dark words. Black energy surged toward her. She was ready for it this time, and vaulted out of the way. The spell connected with a tree branch, which exploded into a swarm of splinters. The branch’s crown toppled on Tirian’s head and he crumpled with a shriek.
Drora stalked over to him, kicked the focus orb out of his grasp, and wrapped a hand around his throat. “Why would you need to fix Dad? Why’d you decide to come after him in the first place?”
Tirian bit back a whimper. “He was my most powerful creation. I've never been able to duplicate him.”
Cers limped into the clearing. He yanked the stake free from his right arm; the elbow popped back into place.
Drora winced. She watched Cers out of the corner of her eye, but kept her focus on Tirian. “Listen up, you geriatric bag of bones. Maybe killing you won’t keep my dad from hurting me, but it’ll keep you from hurting anyone else. Call him off or I’ll tear your throat to shreds.”
Cers wrapped his hands around Drora’s throat. His fingers trembled even as they tightened.
Drora gritted her teeth. “Make him stop.” She dug her claws into Tirian’s flesh. “Now.”
Blood trickled down Tirian’s neck. He gasped, “Cers. Stop!”
The glow from Cers’ tattoos guttered out. He released his hold on Drora’s neck.
Drora’s nostrils flared. That was too close. She couldn’t let Tirian recant those orders. She couldn’t let him harm her, or Cers, or anyone else ever again. Her fingers flexed in preparation for the killing blow. Tirian whimpered.
Cers placed a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t.”
Indignation welled in Drora’s chest. “He would have killed me! He wanted to do worse to you.”
“Even so. You don’t need his death on your conscience.”
Drora ran her tongue along her teeth. “But he’s dangerous. If we let him go, he’ll come right back and do it over again. One way or another, I need to stop him.”
Cers thought for a long moment, then nodded. “Do what you must. But don’t kill him.”
Drora’s jaw twitched. I’m going to have to maim him, then. “Hold him down.”
Tirian’s eyes widened. “Cers—”
Drora backhanded Tirian. “One more word from you and I will slit your throat, no matter what Dad says.”
Tirian glared at her, his gaze accusatory, but said nothing. Cers knelt opposite Drora, his movements slow but purposeful, and pressed Tirian’s shoulders to the ground. Drora forced his mouth open, pierced his tongue with a claw, and pulled. Tirian screamed and flailed, but Cers held him in place. Once the mage’s tongue was split, Drora broke both of his hands and severed the tendons in his wrists for good measure.
Cers snapped, “Are you done?” His voice was cold, his posture tense.
Drora nodded. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his face. She didn’t want to know what she’d see in his eyes.
Cers tore strips off Tirian’s cloak to bandage his tongue and hands. Then he lifted Tirian’s chin so they could look each other in the eye. “There’s a village at the base of Ryking Pass. If you follow the mountains north, you should reach it within a day. They have doctors who can tend to your wounds.” He stood, crushed Tirian’s focus orb under his boot, and turned south, toward the Wendren camp. “Don’t come after me again.”
Drora followed Cers into the woods, arms wrapped around her chest. She didn’t feel good about what she’d just done. She felt no joyful rush of a hunt fulfilled—only the cold certainty that she’d done what she had to, and the fear that she might have done too much . . . or worse, that she might not have done enough.
#
Dawn encroached on the Wendren camp as Cers and Drora returned home. Drora stumbled into their tent, exhausted. Cers knelt outside while she slept and envied her ability to do so. His carving tools lay scattered, the wagon wheel still unassembled, yet he couldn’t muster the energy to complete the task. More than once a tribesman approached, brow knitted with concern, only to be warded off by the sternness of Cers’ glare.
Tirian might be gone, but his shadow still lingered in Cers’ mind. There was a constant, subtle pull toward the direction he’d fled, as if Cers were a compass needle and Tirian were north. It made focusing on anything else nigh impossible.
After the sun passed its zenith, Drora exited the tent and sat beside Cers, clutching a strip of dried horse-meat. She gnawed at the makeshift meal for a long while, studying him in silence. Finally, she swallowed the last mouthful and asked, “Do you think he'll come back?”
Cers stared listlessly into the distance. “I don't know.” He shouldn’t have let Drora mutilate Tirian, but he couldn’t have done it himself—the enchantments Tirian had woven refused him the option of harming the mage. Tirian’s eyes had stared into his soul, silently accusing. Monster. It had been all Cers could do to hold Tirian down, to avoid lashing out at Drora for attacking his master.
No. Not his master. Not anymore.
Drora punched Cers in the arm. “Hey! Stop it.”
Cers blinked. “Stop what?”
“The brooding.”
“But—” He paused for a moment as he tried to find the right words. “I nearly killed you.”
Drora pulled her arm back, gave him a pointed glare. “Do I need to punch you again?”
“No.”
The silence stretched, but Cers found it more comfortable than before. Drora’s leaned against his shoulder, nibbled at a fresh strip of jerky, and stared up at the stars. Her presence soothed him.
Cers massaged his temples. “I can still feel him in the back of my mind. He’s calling for me.”
“So ignore him.”
“I’m trying.” Cers took a shaky breath, then released it slowly. “I don’t know how long I can.”
Drora grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you distracted. He can't live forever.”
“Neither can you.”
Drora tilted her head to look at Cers. “I’ve still got a few decades left in me.”
“You sleep. I don’t.”
“So keep yourself busy at night. The Wendren always need new tools, and the kids love your toys.”
Cers blinked. “I never finished your Finding Day present.” He reached into his pocket, but found only shards and splinters. It must have broken during one of the fights.
Drora took Cers’ hand and squeezed his fingers gently. “That’s okay. You’re more important than any present.” Cers pulled Drora into a hug and kissed the top of her head. Drora smiled, her eyes aglow with affection. “That’s better. Now come on, we’re going hunting.”
Cers frowned. “I’ve caused enough harm today.”
“That’s okay. We don’t have to hurt anything. Ever hear of catch and release?”
A nonviolent solution. The thrill of the chase, but no death in store for their quarry. Yes, that would do. That was a hunt he could participate in. “So long as you're gentle.”
“I can be gentle.”
“No claws or teeth.”
“Take all of the fun out of it, why don't you?” Drora chuckled, then tugged at Cers' arm until he stood. Cers’ large hand wrapped around Drora’s smaller, clawed one, and they walked into the forest side by side.

M. Elizabeth Ticknor is the grand prize recipient of the 2021 Baen Fantasy Adventure Award. She lives in Southeast Michigan. Her interests include drawing, painting, and tabletop role-playing. Her preferred gaming systems are World of Darkness, Pathfinder, and 5th Edition Dungeons & Dragons. Here web site can be found here.

The Rot’s Last Laugh
by Charles E. Gannon

Druadaen nodded encouragement at the sleepy young ur zhog woman who had just finished her thorough account of all the foodstuffs she had eaten while a prisoner in the Under. “Thank you. That is very helpful. Can you recall anything else, Zhuklu’a?”
She shook her head, groggy. “I can barely remember my own name. Our flight from the upper tunnels was very tiring.”
Umkhira, a Lightstrider like her but both older and more formidable, added, “The shaman who held Zhuklu’a did not allow much sleep. It is a common tactic that ensures an escaped captive lacks the endurance to get very far.”
Druadaen nodded, then smiled genuine thanks at the younger Lightstrider. “Rest, then. And do tell me if you remember anything else.”
Zhuklu’a waved acquiescence, reclined, and rolled over. Her breathing became heavy and slow within a few seconds.
Druadaen arched his back to stretch it. Her recounting of foodstuffs had been quite detailed and quite long. He yawned soundlessly, fighting to keep his own eyes open.
“Well,” rumbled an amused voice from over his shoulder, “you asked for it.”
Druadaen turned to nod at the speaker: Ahearn, the nominal leader of their small group. “That I did,” Druadaen answered, stifling another yawn.
“And was it worth it?”
“It was.”
“And you really think you can reason your way to the hidden mysteries of the whole world by compiling the bill of fare that prevails among the urzhen tribes of the Under?”
Druadaen shrugged. “Not that alone, no. But knowing what they eat tells me something about where they get their food.”
Ahearn’s old friend Elweyr looked up from his book of thaumancery. “And if he knows where the food comes from, then he may be able to measure how much they acquire.”
Druadaen nodded. “And so, I might determine if they’re getting food the way the rest of us do or direct from their gods at the so-called Root of the World.”
“It is only myth,” Zhuklu’a mumbled sleepily without bothering to roll over.
The two urzhen—Kaakhag and his recently rescued brother—were anything but tired, however. They had leaned close as the young ur zhog huntress had reeled off a long list of what they and their kind—self-styled as the Rot—considered delicacies.
For his part, Druadaen considered the foods dubious at best. S’ythreni, the sole aeosti in the group, had a more definitive reaction: she had made a gagging sound even as the urzhen brothers’ stomachs growled in gustatory longing.
As soon as S’ythreni had recovered, she looked over at Druadaen, her expression simultaneously nauseated and sly. “The young Lightstrider omitted an important source of nourishment here in the Under.”
Druadaen stared at her. “Which is?”
She glanced at the Rot then around the group. “Us. All of us.”
The two mute brothers glared but offered no negative signs or gestures. Instead, after a short exchange of hand-speak, they crept toward the back of the cave, evidently meaning to get the last of the rats that, like the group, were sheltering in this chamber hidden behind a waterfall.
But Elweyr raised a weary head and muttered at them. “No. Don’t.”
Kaakhag, the one whose quest to save his get-brother had brought them all together, frowned and snapped an impatient gesture at the thaumantic.
Elweyr didn’t need to wait for a translation from Umkhira. “We need to keep at least one more rat alive. To be sure.”
“Sure of what?” Kaakhag’s brother gestured.
“That we’re safe,” Ahearn hissed back. “Now, be still! We’re at the upper reaches of the Underblack, here.”
Kaakhag shrugged and made an “after you” gesture toward Elweyr, who set Ahearn’s mute wolfhound to work finding the last of the moon-eyed rodents. Within a moment, the dog had flushed one from among a cluster of stalagmites and cornered it.
That was all Elweyr required; he put out his palm in the direction of the rat. After a few moments, it calmed, then sat, waiting until the thaumancer had tiptoed over and slipped it into a hide satchel.
The wolfhound had begun regarding the remaining rats with the same hungry stare as Kaakhag and Brother . . . but then turned his head sharply toward the sheet of water that fell like soft thunder just beyond the chamber’s entry. The fur of his ruff rose slowly as he padded stealthily closer to the narrow opening.
In the same instant that Ahearn’s hand fixed upon the wolfhound’s collar, S’ythreni hissed, “Quiet! Footsteps!”
The glowing patches of lichen they used for illumination were hastily covered, weapons were readied, and the group made sure they were positioned well back from either side of the entrance.
They could hear footfalls approach, then enter, the main cave beyond the black sheet of water. However, even though this newest batch of pursuers could not be seen, the sounds that slipped through the susurration of the sulfur-reeking waterfall told them much.
Compared to the first band of Bent which had entered the outer cave some time earlier, these pursuers were both fewer in number and less stealthy. Their voices were low rather than hushed, casual rather than urgent: disgruntled urzhen stopping for a break. Probably to eat, drink, relieve themselves, and do what all warriors did when on a dangerous and frustrating mission: complain.
As they did, the wolfhound remained absolutely motionless and silent. Druadaen wondered how Ahearn had managed to train the dog to maintain such stealthy self-restraint in the proximity of mortal foes. It was an impressive feat, easily rivaling Elweyr’s most elegant displays of mancery.
It was impossible to make out their pursuers’ words through the rushing water, but the longer the group listened, the more certain they were of the general tone: boredom, tinged with annoyance at having many more hours of trekking before they reached the safer upper tunnels of the Undergloom. Eventually, their exchanges became shorter and were largely supplanted by grunts and groans: warriors reluctantly reshouldering their loads. At last, there was a single weary command, a chorus of resigned grunts, and then thumping footfalls that marked their departure.
A minute after the last of their trudging steps faded into silence, S’ythreni loosed the grip on her shortsword and the wolfhound lay back down, grumbling and bored.
Just as Druadaen’s heart resumed beating at a normal rate, Ahearn whispered, “Hssstt, Elweyr.”
The mantic’s “Yah?” sounded sleepy, almost drunk; he had probably dozed off.
“Last act, chum. Time to send out our scrabbly little scout.”
“Yah,” Elweyr agreed, still slurring. Despite the dim light and his dark complexion, his face was still visibly ashy.
Ahearn took up the bag holding the rat. No longer quieted by mancery, it reacted with violent squirming and chittering. The broad-shouldered swordsman locked a fist around the animal’s body through the heavy hide before undoing the top flap. Elweyr looked inside, passed his hand over the opening, and the writhing inside ceased.
When Elweyr had completed further thaumantic passes, Ahearn put the bag next to the waterfall. The rat crawled out, its pupils contracting with fearsome suddenness when they encountered the lichen-light. Elweyr, eyelids drooping, swept his fingers at the rat and then away in the direction of the rushing water. The rat hesitated, then waddled into the pool at the edge of the entry, tucking itself tight against the wall, out of the vaporous downrushing torrent. It disappeared around the corner.
Zhuklu’a rose to a sitting position, her voice hushed in awe as she leaned toward her fellow Lightstrider. “The mancer sees through its eyes?”
Overhearing, S’ythreni responded with a calculating pout. “Probably not. That is more the domain of a faunamancer. But Elweyr?” She considered. “He probably used a thaumate that combined weak affinity and attuning.” When the young Lightstrider stared at the last word, the aeosti explained: “Attuning is a very basic link to the creature, just enough to tell the mancer what it is feeling: scared, curious, hungry, angry. That sort of thing.”
Zhuklu’a nodded.
After about five minutes had passed, Elweyr nodded wearily at Ahearn, who gestured for Umkhira to join him near the entry.
“So,” Druadaen exhaled, “it seems that, in the case of the rat, no news is good news.”
“Yes,” S’ythreni agreed, “except for the rat.”
“Why?”
She scowled. “Do the schools in Dunarra also teach you how to forget the common sense with which you were born? Think: what happens if Elweyr just releases his hold on the rat? It wanders off. And what if the worst of underkin seeking us, the blugner sow, chances upon it while she’s roving about, still trying to find our scent? What would she smell?”
Druadaen nodded. “Us. And so she would backtrack the scent.”
“And come right back here.” The aeosti glanced at Ahearn and Umkhira, who had been having their own muted conversation. The Lightstrider nodded, rose, and slipped through the curtain of water that reflected the faint glow of the lichen back at them.
“Many thanks and fare well, rat,” S’ythreni mumbled through a grim smile as she rustled about in her pack for some dried meat.
* * *
Umkhira eventually returned with the now-dead rat clutched in one sizeable fist. “No one was watching for us at the lower intersection. No sound or sign of movement in any direction.” She held the rodent’s body out to Elweyr, who shuddered. Umkhira shrugged, turned and offered it to Ahearn.
The big warrior considered the small carcass for several moments, but finally demurred. “No, not without a bit of roasting, first,” he murmured. “Guess I’m getting soft.”
Umkhira shrugged and brought the limp remains back to the two Rot, who had no compunctions about quartering the carcass and promptly devouring it.
S’ythreni looked quickly away, focused on Elweyr. “How did you make sure it headed down to the intersection?”
“It believed something from the higher tunnels was pursuing it,” the mantic murmured, rubbing his eyes and forehead.
“What did it think was pursuing it?” S’ythreni persisted, clearly determined to keep her focus diverted from the urzhen as they devoured the rat.
Elweyr shrugged. “I don’t know. Neither did it. It was just a certainty of danger from a given direction.” Seeing the curious faces around him, he explained, “The less specific the control, the less difficult and costly it is to maintain. When the rat reached the intersection, it believed it had reached safety—and waited for Umkhira.”
“Nevertheless,” Umkhira observed, “even casting that ‘simple’ spell seems to have exhausted you,”
Elweyr winced at the word “spell.” “It’s because of the distance. When a mantic can no longer see the object bound into their thaumate, it costs a great deal of manas to maintain any contact with it, let alone exert influence.”
Ahearn nodded sagely. “ ‘Every bit of mancery comes with a cost,’” he recited. “First thing Elweyr taught me about his craft.”
Kaakhagh grunted and began a rapid stream of hand gestures. When he was done, Umkhira translated cautiously, “That is why urzhen shamen are superior to human mancers.”
After several seconds of silence, Elweyr answered, “That didn’t seem to be the case when we defeated the shaman earlier today. And you’d better hope I’m at least as good until we get out of the Under.”
Kaakhag frowned, but grudgingly answered with a few sharp gestures. “This time, yes, I do hope that human mancery is mightier than the miracles from our gods. Despite the way it weakens you.”
Druadaen felt tensions rise in response to that oblique denigration and sought to shift the comparison into a productive, rather than contentious, topic. “And now that the shaman is gone, what do you think will happen to his tribe?”
This time, it was Brother who answered. “There will be chaos.” He pointed downward. “In the Undergloom, his allies—those with red-dyed eyes—cannot even govern their own kind. They act before they think. They only made a truce with each other because of what the shaman offered all of them: a route to the surface for when the Red go a-Hordeing.” Brother made a dismissive gesture. “The weak alliance among them surely died when he did.”
Kaakhag nodded and began expanding upon his sibling’s answer, Umkhira struggling to keep up with his gestures. “The Red do not have strategies. They simply follow their hatreds and their thirst for vengeance and blood. And now that the Hordeing is near, those lusts will burst like swollen pustules. And we, the Rot”—he tapped his green-dyed skin—“shall feel it first as they push up through our tribes in the Undergloom.”
Elweyr muttered, “It’s a wonder that any of you live long enough to actually go a-Hordeing.”
Brother shrugged and sent a stream of signs at Umkhira. “For every dozen Red who stop to make war upon the Rot, there are a thousand who will not stop moving upward until they reach the surface or die trying. All races of the Under must raid to survive, to feed our tribes, or we will starve and be no more. But the Red, they are as savage as animals. They will eat us and even each other.”
“Are you saying you don’t eat other thinking beings?” S’ythreni’s voice suggested she knew otherwise.
Brother signed indignantly. “Rot are not kinslayers without cause. And we are never kin-eaters.”
Druadaen noted that his retort did not address the Rot’s dietary attitudes toward non-urzhen, however.
“Aye,” Ahearn followed with a sigh, “but the Red have the advantage, then, don’t they? For them, everything they kill is a meal.”
“Which is why we Rot must always ready to fight,” Brother explained with gestures both angry and desperate. “It is why we are, and must stay, strong and fierce. If we do not match the Red blow for blow, they will consume us all!”
“Which made it the divil’s own work trying to lead any of the Bent when Elweyr and I were trapped down here,” Ahearn explained to Druadaen.
S’ythreni started. “Why? Did your urzhen eat each other when you weren’t looking?”
The Rot brothers uttered resentful subvocal grumbles.
Elweyr shook his head. “Of course not, S’ythreni. But down here, survival depends far more on fast, violent reflexes rather than deep reflection.”
Ahearn nodded, adding. “And a willingness to kill not only if you’re threatened, but when you think you can get the jump on anyone who might threaten you one day.”
“So you’re saying the Under breeds killers.”
“Warriors.” Brother’s corrective gestures were accompanied by an angry growl.
Druadaen thought the two labels—killer versus warrior—were rarely mutually exclusive, and certainly not in this pitiless environment.
“Still,” S’ythreni objected doggedly, glancing at Ahearn and Elweyr “I would think urzhen with fast reflexes are exactly what you two would have wanted for your war-band, down here.”
“Yes,” Elweyr nodded, “but when you are leading fighters who react before they think . . . well, you can try to make battle plans, but they usually fall apart in the first half minute. Or less.”
Ahearn nodded and sighed expansively. “Our urzh were good fighters, but even if we put the steadiest of them in the lead, damned if there wasn’t always one—or more—that couldn’t stay quiet when they felt a fight coming. Or that couldn’t remember the plan when they got their blood up.“
The two Rot had become completely still and silent. Druadaen discovered he found it more worrisome than when they had been shifting and snarling.
S’ythreni’s faint outline nodded. “So because the traits that make an urzh a leader are big muscles and quick reflexes, it means they tend to rush in when they should make or follow a plan.”
Umkhira translated Kaakhag’s urgent addition: “Many of our leaders are cunning as well as bold!”
Ahearn nodded. “Many are, but their brain is not what puts—and keeps—them in power is it, my big green friend? Particularly not when tribal leadership is decided by challenges. Yes, some chieftains will fall in battle, but most of them die at the hands of warriors they trained themselves.”
This time the brothers just shifted where they sat. Druadaen was fairly certain that if they had a rebuttal, they would have offered it. Which meant that they were losing what had become a one-sided debate about the value of urzhen warriors: a sure recipe for resentment and rage.
Apparently feeling her tense, worried stare, Ahearn turned toward Umkhira. “Now, I’ve learned that you Lightstriders are a whole different kettle of fish. Being hunters and trackers in all kinds of terrain, you have to be smart, resourceful, cautious, patient.” He turned toward Druadaen and S’ythreni. “And just as you’d suspect, their leaders have those qualities in equal measure to physical prowess.”
Umkhira raised her chin. “And because of that, we have the wisdom of our elders until their very last years.” She shook her head sadly. “Among the Rot and the Red, leaders are challenged more frequently just as the experience of their years offers greater value to the tribe than their physical might. But among us ur zhog, a challenge may only be made if one’s honor has been offended.”
Brother sneered, gestured. Umkhira answered sharply in his own dialect and looked away, . . . which prevented the initiation of a staring duel that might end up being settled with weapons. Druadaen glanced at Ahearn for a translation of their exchange.
The swordsman shrugged. “Brother asked, ‘And what if some old Lightstrider insults a young warrior or his family?’”
Umkhira’s chin came up as she repeated her answer. “Then that chief’s many years have either made him so arrogant that he no longer sees himself and his abilities accurately, or he has entered his dotage. And so, whether he is put aside by losing the challenge or the censure of his own clan, his lack of wisdom and prudence leads to his removal as a leader.”
Brother sneered, gestured . . . and earned a mild cuff from Kaakhag.
Umkhira kept looking away, but her jaw grew rigid.
When no one translated, Druadaen looked round the group. “What did he say?”
Zhuklu’a yawned as she rose up on one elbow. “Brother said that being led by a chief who cannot kill his challengers is typical of the Lightstriders. ‘Weak ways for weak urzhen,’ is how he put it.”
Ahearn sighed. “And here you see the other problem we always had down here: endless bickering. And none of them could admit to being wrong without losing respect and honor. Our band spent more time swinging at each other than our enemies.”
Umkhira’s voice was as taut as a cocked crossbow string. “As least for you and Elweyr, the consequences of that bickering and stubbornness was a passing problem.”
“Didn’t feel like it at the time!”
“You miss my point. You and Elweyr were merely interlopers here, which meant that as soon as you escaped, it was no longer your problem. But for Lightstriders, it is lifelong.”
S’ythreni’s voice was quizzical. “How so? Your people don’t even visit down here.”
“No, but we live close to our dark-dwelling kin. And so, many of their problems become ours.”
Brother poked Zhuklu’ah to start translating his sudden burst of angry signing. “Oh yes, Lightstriders have it so very difficult, don’t they? Terribly bothered when we starving Rot come up a-Hordeing every ten years to raid for food, for survival. Better that we should just stay in the Under like the Red, eh? Become kin-eaters and savages, too? Might as well, since you treat us the same way.”
Umkhira was very still. “I have never said such things. I know very well why you must go a-hordeing; you refuse to feed on your own kind. “ She glanced toward him. “But you come up to hunt far more frequently, and never do you ask for the right to hunt in our lands. You simply poach.”
Brother rose, quivering with rage. “And that would make it different between us? Really? Oh, it sounds very nice, what you say. To treat each other as different families within one great tribe. But that’s not really how it is. Because it’s not what you want. “
Druadaen frowned. “What do you mean?”
Brother signed dismissively. “Can you not see that the Lightstriders feel toward us the way you thinskins feel toward all urzhen?” When he saw the lack of comprehension in Druadaen’s face, he grimaced. “Do you know why only outcast ur zhog visit us, trade with us, mate with us? No? Then I shall tell you.
“Because we live in the Under, the oh-so-noble Lightstriders believe the Rot are dirty and dumb, like animals. And that because we fight just to survive, every day, we are savage and hasty. That we are too primitive and ignorant to work or speak or mate with . . . because our dirt and stupidity would somehow rub off on them. Sound familiar, human?”
Ahearn stared from Umkhira to Brother . . . then shouted suddenly: “So move! Both of you!”
“Move where?” wondered Umkhira as S’ythreni put her face in her palm.
“You Lightstriders should just move further away from the Rot,” Ahearn roared. “And you Rot—leave the Under! Live on the surface. You could both—”
But Druadaen shook his head. “They can’t move. Or at least, it wouldn’t do any good.”
Annoyed at the objection, Ahearn’s impatience refocused on Druadaen—as he’d hoped it would. “And why is that? Or is it just some theory you read in that precious Dunarran Archive?”
Druadaen sighed. “I don’t need books to tell me that humans make no distinctions among the different urzhen. Most of us don’t even know that there are distinctions to be made, so we never learn that Lightstriders are different. So they are bountied and hunted the same as the rest of their kin.”
“And your point is?”
“That the bountying pushes the Lightwalkers to live in the same remote, forbidding lands beneath which the Rot and Red live. But since the Lightstriders are already there, where would the Rot live if they moved to the surface?”
Ahearn opened his mouth to rebut—but nothing came out.
Brother laughed: a guttural hooting sound. “Nothing pleases me so much as watching thinskins bickering the same way we ‘savage and stupid’ urzhen do! Yes, you are so much better than us!”
Ahearn’s eyes flashed at the urzhen.
Umkhira glanced at him. “The Rot speaks harshly, but there is also some truth in his words. And humans ignore it—and us—at their peril.”
Ahearn glared at her. “Is that a threat?”
Druadaen stood quickly, threw his weapon on the ground with a loud clatter.
The chamber was suddenly very silent . . . but also very tense.
He looked around at them in the dimness. “We are about to do what no opponents have been able to: destroy this group.”
Umkhira nodded slowly and stood beside him. “Are we truly determined to war amongst ourselves, with escape just a day away?” She aimed her words directly at the two Rots. “Like it or not, you need the rest of us—humans, ur zhog, and aeostu—to escape.”
Druadaen turned toward them, adding, “But we need you just as much. We cannot escape without your help.”
Brother sneered, signing slowly. “More than you know, human.”
Druadaen frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean by—?”
“Let it be,” Umkhira muttered. She and Zhuklu’a exchanged knowing glances and within seconds had burrowed into their sleeping rolls. Still smirking, the two Rot did the same . . . leaving the humans and the aeosti staring at each other in utter bafflement.
* * *
They woke a few hours before the start of what Kaakhag assured them was a “new day.” Ahearn was the first to stand, and he immediately uncovered the glowing lichen. The spongelike clumps had grown noticeably dimmer. “Time to go.”
S’ytheni frowned. “Go where ?”
“First we make our way to the Grotto of Stone Bones. That’s our shortcut to the back door.”
“The back door?”
“The way out of this gods-forsaken place. So let’s be on our way . . . unless some of you want to remain?”
Druadaen shook his head, but asked, “This back door: is this the way you escaped from the Under last time?”
“It is,” answered Elweyr.
“Where is it located?” Druadaen asked.
Ahearn smiled at him. “And if I described the path, rattled off one turn after the other, would you have any better idea of where we’re heading?”
Druadaen shook his head.
Ahearn nodded. “Then I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Druadaen shrugged. “Let us go, then.”
“Not so fast,” Ahearn objected. “One last bit of preparation.”
“Which is?”
Elweyr produced a hide flask. “Concealing our scent. Here at the edge of the Underblack, there are many large predators. And most of them find prey through scent, at least at first.”
S’ythreni smiled at the flask. “And is that some alchemical fluid that will conceal our scent?”
Elweyr smiled back. “In a manner of speaking.” He wetted a rag and held it out to her.
S’ythreni had just started daubing her skin when her noise wrinkled and she recoiled. “This is vinegar!”
“It most certainly is,” Ahearn affirmed with a chuckle as Elweyr passed out more of the damp rags. “All of you: get to it.” He stared when the two Rot simply grinned at him. A bit malevolently, Druadaen thought. “Here, now!” Ahearn exclaimed. “I said all of you.”
They signed briefly while Umkhira translated. “They say that you will want to keep their scent as it is, since it is typical down here. And at this point, we are no longer concerned with the blugner sow, but basic predators.”
Before Ahearn could reply, Elweyr stayed him with an upraised palm. “I think I understand, Umkhira. Now we don’t need to conceal our scent, but rather, make sure we smell like we belong in the Under.”
Umkhira nodded. “Any scent that is uncommon—or unknown—in these tunnels will attract creatures that are curious. And predators tend to be the most curious species.”
Ahearn shrugged, nodded. “That’s right enough; they’re always looking for a novel tidbit to try. But if the vinegar alone isn’t enough, then what do we do?”
Druadaen was wondering the same thing as he put finished wiping down his body with his own sharp-scented cloth . . . and heard a grunt behind him. He turned.
Kaakhag was wadding up another wetted rag which, from two yards away, smelled decidedly worse. Much, much worse. He held it out toward Druadaen. With his other hand, the urzh picked up another rag and commenced urinating on it. Profusely. With a grin, Brother began doing the same thing with another rag.
Druadaen stared at the Rot, then at Umkhira. “You are joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
Ahearn nodded. “Umkhira’s right; there’s no other way.” He held out a rag toward her. “Well, given the choice, I’d prefer you do the honors!”
“No, mine is not helpful.” She gestured toward the two Rot. “It must be theirs.”
“Theirs?” Ahearn grew slightly pale. “Oh, godsblocks—have you smelled it?”
“Not yet, and I have no wish to, but we are going into the Black. My scent would not protect you. Only theirs will.”
Druadaen sighed. “Is this absolutely necessary?”
“It is if we want to live,” Zhuklu’a replied.
Umkhira nodded. “Remember: the odors that arise from your flesh are not merely foreign here; they are associated with enemies from the surface.”
In the meantime, Brother had finished gulping down a bowl of water and set about urinating on a second rag. He glanced at S’ythreni and started chortling, which sounded a great deal like rocks bouncing their way down a terra-cotta pipe. The aeosti looked away and shuddered.
Umkhira merely shrugged in response to her glance. “I will have my own turn,” she said bluntly.
“You? But you’re—”
“Do you think that because we are both of urzhen blood that our urine has the same smell? We grew up in different places, eating different foods. And the Rot take their name, in part, from the fact that their gut is far more tolerant of spoiled food. They can scavenge and consume meat that a Lightstrider would vomit up in a moment. Our organs work so differently that the scents are quite distinct. But we are still similar enough that I shall use the last rag.”
“Because, since they’ve been drinking water, the later rags will be the most dilute.” Druadaen shuddered.
“You perceive. Good. Now, wipe yourself with the rag he gave you. Thoroughly.”
Kaakhag stopped long enough to make a few hand gestures at her.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing of importance,” Umkhira replied almost evasively, tucking her chin down.
“He said,” S’yntheri drawled, “that since you ate so much fine food growing up in Dunarra, you will smell sweeter than anyone else. So you need to wipe your lips and face carefully. Repeatedly.”
Druadaen glared at Kaakhag.
Who simply shrugged and—mimicking human whistling—picked up another rag.
And winked.
Charles E. Gannon is the author of Compton Crook Award-winning, Nebula-nominated Caine Riordan series. He is the coauthor of several novels in best-selling Ring of Fire series. He has written two novels in John Ringo’s best-selling Black Tide Rising series. “The Rot’s Last Laugh” is set in the world of his upcoming epic fantasy novel This Broken World. A former professor, Gannon lives near Annapolis, Maryland, with his wife and children.

Fire-Bright Rain
by Jane Lindskold

“Leeya-toh, should the egg whites keep shaking after I stop beating them?” asked Pippea. Whisk suspended in her upraised right hand, the young apprentice turned her elegant antilopine head toward the senior cook. Pippea’s enormous, long-lashed brown eyes—set within snow white hair accented by a dark stripe that ran from eyes to mouth—were creased with worry as she stared into her mixing bowl. She ran her free hand over the tips of her newly budding horns in a habitual nervous gesture.
Leeya slowed her own steady assault on the bowl of egg whites she was frothing into meringue. As she did, she became aware that the floor was trembling under her feet. Her rounded ursine ears twitched, catching the groan of the cottage’s beams as they complained beneath some uncommon stress.
And I was just getting the first peaks, Leeya thought, dropping bowl and whisk on the counter, grabbing Pippea around her trim waist, then swinging them both out the kitchen door into the early evening grey-light. Once out on the gravel walkway, Leeya dragged Pippea around the cottage as fast as she could, not stopping until they both were clear of anything that could fall on them from overhead.
Earthquakes weren’t precisely common in the vicinity of the Library of the Sapphire Wind, but when one worked for a library dedicated to the magical arts, one learned to take precautions first, ask questions later. Thankfully, when Meadow Village had been designed, the buildings had been spaced comfortably apart, oriented on a rounded green from which radiated six streets, each of which were crossed at intervals by another street, so that the village was designed around a series of concentric circles.
As befitted the chief cook, Leeya’s cottage faced the central green. The kitchen, where she directed food services for the entire community associated with the Library of the Sapphire Wind, was across the nearest radial street, a placement that was either very convenient or annoyingly inescapable, depending on Leeya’s attitude toward her job on any given day.
Releasing the still startled Pippea, Leeya plopped down heavily on the bench where she had spent many a pleasant evening visiting with her neighbors. More of Meadow Village’s inhabitants were spilling out of the cottages, and more still from the dormitories that lined the second loop road, although not nearly as many as there would have been if this wasn’t a holiday break, many of the residents gone elsewhere to celebrate.
I suppose, Leeya thought with exasperation, that we have some neophyte to blame for this, some idiot junior researcher who decided to take advantage of so many of the seniors being gone to try an experiment.
Someone bumped against Leeya’s shoulder, and she looked up into the caprine leer of Septi, her neighbor in the next cottage over. Septi was a motley tri-color, mostly black and brown, with just a little white. The hair around his eyes was dark, accenting his yellow irises with their squared pupils. Still grinning at Leeya, Septi flopped down next to her on the bench, lowering his head slightly, as if he might butt her in the shoulder with the neatly curved horns that rose between his drooping ears.
“Did the earth move for you, too, sweetheart?” he asked, jaw dropping open in a mock pant.
Leeya had yet to figure out why Septi persisted in flirting with her. She was well-over fifty and, having made her living as a cook for at least forty-five of those years, did not possess a fashionably svelte figure. Sure, she was curvaceous, but not in the way that word was usually meant as a compliment. Still, her fur was a nice brown, the shade of dark honey. Maybe Septi was one of those who liked the fuller-figured types.
Maybe he just likes cadging extra food. He certainly shows up at my kitchen door often enough when I’m trying a new recipe. What is my problem, thinking about that annoying Septi? We’ve got bigger problems than my flirtatious neighbor.
“The earth is still moving,” Leeya snapped, wishing that her small ursine ears could pin back to make as dramatic a statement as those of the larger-eared types. She settled for a touch of lip-curling snarl instead. “Is everyone out of the buildings?”
To his credit, Septi sobered up immediately. “I’ll grab a few people to help me check. Can you do a headcount? Since you’re cooking for the stay-behinds, you have some idea who should be here.”
“Right!” Leeya said, reaching into a pocket of her apron for pencil and pad of paper. Then she remembered that others were at risk. Most of the supplies to feed the Library community were shipped in over the lake, but they kept their own dairy animals and poultry.
“Tell Mekhiri to open up the kennels and barns, too. But not the coops. We don’t need poultry all over the place.”
Pippea, who was still clinging to her bowl and whisk, said in a shaking voice, “I’ll go to Mekhiri. I’ve been helping collect eggs every morning and bringing back the first cream. I know where to find her.”
“Go!” Leeya said, starting to scribble. Pippea set down her cooking gear and ran.
Within a few minutes Leeya had two lists going. One was for those who were definitely present in the village; the other was for those who were known to have been working at the Library or one of the associated buildings off the main plaza that day.
If she had felt like braving the main kitchen—which she didn’t until the shaking died down—Leeya could have gotten the official roster. However, she knew that would only be of limited use. Although everyone who had gone away for the holiday had signed out as required, not everyone who had invited a guest had gone through proper channels, mostly because the Library’s administration did not care to feed and house unpaying guests. Then there were those who had come to collect those who couldn’t get away for the entire holiday week but were leaving for the mid-week events.
Trying to get an accurate headcount as the tremors grew worse, and smoke began rising from the vicinity of the main library was an exercise in futility. Some villagers raced toward the central complex, although whether compelled by a sense of duty or that mad curiosity that makes so-called “intelligent” people run toward what “dumb animals” flee, Leeya was too busy to conjecture. Then Septi was back.
“I think we have the village buildings cleared,” he said, “but this isn’t an earthquake, is it?”
“How should I know? I’m a cook,” Leeya retorted. “You’re at least a librarian.”
“A humble cataloger and scribe,” Septi countered.
Leeya found herself grateful for his attempt at their usual banter, but the rank odor of burning that reached her nostrils when the wind eddied round from the direction of the central library complex—ursine types were renowned for their keen sense of smell—was not reassuring.
“I think this is a catastrophe of the first order,” she admitted, “and I think that until someone shows up to tell us what to do, we need to keep our little bit of it from getting worse.”
Septi nodded. For the first time in the years Leeya had known him, there was no humor in his yellow eyes. “Take charge. I’ll back you.” When Leeya started to protest, he waved her down with a curt gesture of ink-stained fingers. “People are used to listening to you order them around, at mealtimes, when supplies come in. Jahk”—the head of village administration—"is gone. Someone has to take over.”
“That’s right. He’s at his granddaughter’s wedding,” Leeya said.
Septi went on, “Doc Hrutu is already too busy. There were a lot of bumps and scrapes, at least one bad burning when a lamp went over, and a couple of breaks. He’s had to risk going back into the infirmary to get out his medical supplies.”
“Septi-lial is right,” Pippea added. She was breathing hard from her run, but no longer seemed on the verge of panic. “Everyone at least knows who you are, Leeya-toh. That’s a start.”
Leeya drew in a deep, shuddering breath, then nodded.
“All right then,” Leeya said. “I’ll do it. My first order. Septi, we need to know what’s going on at the main facility. I’ve seen people head over to the central complex, but I can’t remember seeing any who have come back. Pippea, much as it pains me, we’re going to need to stop making lists and get people gathered in one place. Start spreading the word.”
“Can I help?” The voice was sonorous, almost immediately comforting.
The speaker was Hafyz, who, along with his wife, Neka, was the new manager of the general store. Hafyz was a handsome equine type, with strong black and white stripes, and a bristly mane. Neka was a buff-coated porcine type, with a trim figure and a penchant for wearing elaborate sheaths on her short, curving tusks.
“Neka is locking down the security settings on the store,” Hafyz explained. “Thank those who we’ve been before that both the mechanical and magical can be set from outside. She’s also going to make certain the backups for the outside lights are set. We may be outdoors for a while, although I think the worst of the tremors are subsiding.”
“Good thinking,” Leeya said. “I don’t suppose you feel like taking over organizing what’s starting to feel too much like a mob?” Then she shook her head. “No. I’ll do it. You two haven’t been here long enough. Can you find my assistant, Ankur?”
“Already here, Chef,” came a deep voice. Ankur was a raptor-style avian with pale eyes, dark brown feathers, and a wickedly curved beak. Although he had an alarming tendency to use his beak to snap through joints when butchering, he was otherwise on his way to becoming an admirable chef. “Before you ask. We’ve got the security spells up on the kitchens. No one’s raiding my pantry without permission. If I may suggest, let’s set up some sort of late snack out here on the green. People will gather around, and there’s nothing like food to make everything seem normal.”
“Get on it,” Leeya replied. “We just got in several wheels of sharp cheese, and there’s a whole crate of proggies. Serve zinz tea and nemmesu, but nothing alcoholic. I see some of our kitchen crew milling around. Put them to work.”
Ankur gave her a quick nod and went off, calling out names as he went.
“I’ll spread the word about snacks,” Hafyz said, and hurried off.
Leeya turned to tell Septi that maybe he should get going, too, only to find that he was already gone. She was surprised at the pang of loneliness and fear that followed.
Be safe, Septi. Remember. You’re just a cataloger. Okay, and also a scribe. But don’t make the mistake of playing the hero.
* * *
Septi decided to dare entering his cottage long enough to change into walking shoes and gather a few hopefully useful items. He dropped these into one of the many-pocketed vests he wore when working, then put it on rather than a jacket. Emerging from his cottage, he glanced over at Leeya, and saw she was talking to Hafyz. He thought about walking over to tell her he was heading out, then shook his head so hard that his ears flapped.
After all, you have your orders, my boy. What more do you need? Reassurance? A hero’s send off? Be real. Leeya’s never seen you as more than an annoyance. Maybe if you could stop being such a smartass, but . . . Oh, forget it. Get a move on!
Skirting the edge of the village green, Septi reached one of the two radial roads that extended beyond the village. One went down to the lake. The other went into the thick forest that served as a buffer between the elite community at the central complex and those who made it possible for them to exclusively concentrate on esoteric research.
Septi knew that initially the Library of the Sapphire Wind had been just that, a library, founded by a wizard named Dmen Qeres to hold his personal collection of books and artifacts. However, even within Dmen Qeres’s lifetime, other wizards had asked to have their own collections archived with his. From there it was a small jump to building a residence where visiting researchers and their staff could stay, next a laboratory with associated scriptorium. This last, rather than the Library proper, was where Septi worked.
The original Library of the Sapphire Wind had been a single building housing not only the collection, but also a self-contained community that was hardly more than Dmen Qeres’s immediate retainers. However, as the facility expanded, Dmen Qeres had decided that it would be more satisfactory to have the growing support staff live a short distance away, thereby maintaining a rarefied atmosphere of scholarship at the central complex.
Scholars, their assistants, higher level Library staff, and such still lived around the same plaza that held the main library building, but the many people who made certain the researchers could do their research without interruption—those who did the cooking and cleaning, the laundry and gardening, the grounds maintenance and the handling of supplies, as well as animal handlers, guards, and drivers—lived in Meadow Village.
As a cataloger and scribe, Septi could probably have agitated for quarters in the scholars’ housing, but the honest truth was, he preferred the livelier community of Meadow Village. His comparatively high status, as someone who worked directly with the research staff, meant that he shared a nice cottage with a couple of like-minded individuals.
Both of whom had the good sense to get away for the holiday. Are they ever going to be shocked when they learn what happened.
Although his cottage had a small kitchen, Septi preferred the bountiful offerings in the communal dining hall. The food was as good, if somewhat less elaborately presented, as that served to the wizards and scholars. His laundry was done by the same people who washed the wizards’ robes, and the prices at the general store were quite reasonable, comparable to what one could find in a big city like Rivers Meet.
The late Dmen Qeres had apparently possessed a practical streak and knew that the best way to keep his isolated community thriving was to make sure that those who did the mundane labor were comfortable. Even as his successors had expanded the options for scholars, they had not skimped on amenities for the support staff.
The road that led between Meadow Village and the main library complex was very familiar to Septi, given that he traversed it at least twice a day, more often on many. On foot, the trip took about half an hour’s brisk walk, which he often did in the evening. However, most mornings he opted for the commuter transport, as this was not only faster, but gave him time to finish waking up and enjoy a second cup of nemmesu, the natural dark purple of the brew almost lavender from the cream he had added.
Usually, the road was illuminated by lampposts set close enough to each other that their glow made a comfortable tunnel beneath the overarching foliage of the trees. Today, as Septi had half expected, the lights weren’t working properly. Oddly enough, he found the darkness reassuring. Something was very wrong, and he preferred to see it before it saw him.
Therefore, although he’d brought a light, Septi didn’t turn it on, but trusted to the remaining daylight, which proved to be enough for him to almost always avoid getting tangled up in fallen branches.
I’d forgotten that the tremors would have brought down tree limbs, he thought, puffing slightly as the road angled up—the Library of the Sapphire Wind had been built on higher ground than the lakeside village, enough so that the top of its belltower was visible from the Meadow Village green.
As Septi drew closer to the central library complex, he realized some of the light by which he was navigating was coming from a source other than the fading daylight. Septi wanted to hope this was because the plaza and building lights were casting their usual steady glow, but the odor of burning and the flickering nature of the light made it obvious that the source had to be a raging fire.
Stepping delicately, Septi picked his way closer, staying to the verge where his feet would make as little noise as possible. Probably because he was thinking about not making noise, he realized how quiet the forest was. At this hour, the diurnal creatures should be settling in, the crepuscular ones—including a lovely herd of semi-tame kubran—should be browsing along the road. Other than the occasional efindon that flapped away overhead, hissing imprecations, Septi saw no wildlife. Nor did he see any of the residents: not a single villager or scholar, which bothered him more the longer he thought about it.
Surely someone should have run back to Meadow Village to report what was going on or to get help. Or to get Doc Hrutu. This is very wrong. Could everyone be dead? Am I going to end up dead if I keep going? Maybe I should go back. I was an idiot to come alone. I should at least have brought a messenger xuxu.
Somewhere deep inside, Septi admitted to himself that he hadn’t enlisted help because he’d wanted to impress Leeya. She’d asked him to find out what was going on. She’d trusted he could do it.
Maybe Leeya trusted you to have more in the way of common sense, rather than heroic verve. Well, you’re almost to the complex. If you stop before you get there, you will have hiked all this way for nothing. At least get some information. Maybe you can snag a stray riding vikrew, and hurry back to the village and bring help. Maybe, idiot, zinz will brew itself into a tea.
The ground tremors had ebbed to an almost unfelt pulsing by the time Septi reached the central plaza, but their recent severity was evident from the moment he cautiously emerged from the forest and got his first clear look. The entire Library of the Sapphire Wind was gone, flames leaping up from where, just this morning, the towering building had calmly dominated the plaza. In the firelight, he could see the statue of Dmen Qeres, undisturbed, maintaining its calm vigil over the plaza.
Across from where the Library had been, the residence hotel, which had stood several stories high, was in flames. Like many such buildings, its architecture had been designed so that each story decreased in size. This meant the rubble had collapsed within the outer shell, turning the building into a torch. The structure that contained the laboratory and scriptorium had also semi-collapsed. The fortune in glass that had made the transcription rooms such a delight had doubtless shattered at the first major tremor. This building was also burning, although less vigorously than the residence.
Worse, there was something wrong with the flames, especially those rising from where the Library of the Sapphire Wind should be but, to a lesser extent, from the other structures as well. Amid the yellow-orange of the fires were spurts of impossibly brilliant colors, all the shades of the rainbow, as well as some that Septi’s eyes refused to acknowledge, even though somehow he knew that they were no less real than the glittering hoar frost, sea foam green, variegated ebony, livid mauve, mother-of-pearl indigo, dappled crimson, and other more or less real colors that he saw dodging and dancing among the smoke and flame.
I should know why those spurts scare me so much, Septi thought, but he was distracted from pursuing the impulse by a sinuous motion, low to the ground. To his utter disbelief, he realized that a sparkling blue fog carpeted the plaza, seemingly having risen from where the Library should be. The fog had sent questing tendrils into both the residence and lab, and was probing within. Occasionally, a tendril would ripple and bulge, disturbingly like a long throat swallowing, then it would resume its probing.
For the first time, Septi realized that he was the only living person in sight. Nor did he see any of the Library’s guardian creatures: neither the domestic animals like xuxu and summiss, nor the unique monstrosities. Worse, there were no bodies, only those probing tendrils of creeping blue fog.
Septi felt a sharp pain in his right hand. Looking down, he realized that his fists were clenched, and that he was biting into his own index finger in an unconscious attempt to muffle a scream of sublime horror and disbelief. During his hike through the darkness, he’d prepared himself for destruction. He’d even braced himself to find heaps of the dead, killed by fire or perhaps poisonous exhalations or even by magical energies released by burning tomes. But this absence of not only the living but also of the dead, with the only purposeful motion coming from that blue fog, was more than he could take.
He edged back into the cover of the battered trees. He wanted to run, to flee whatever doom had come upon the Library of the Sapphire Wind, but he dreaded attracting the creeping blue fog that was feeding upon the devastation, sparkling as it digested the missing inhabitants. Moving with great care, Septi managed to get far enough into the forest that he could no longer see the central plaza.
One of the items he had dropped into a pocket of his vest was the headlamp he wore when working with delicate documents.
Do I put it on? On the one hand, the light will let me move faster. On the other hand, it’s going to make me easier to see. Then again, if I don’t have light, I’m going to have to go right down the middle of the road, and that is going to make me more easily detectable by whatever might be out there. So, I might as well be able to see, right?
Not at all certain he’d made the right decision, Septi put the headband on and activated the light. He adjusted it down so that it only provided what he needed to keep from smashing into obstacles—his legs already ached from where he’d barked his shins against various branches and rocks on his trip out. Then, glad he had put on good walking shoes, he hit the road at a steady jog. He kept this up as long as he could, then slowed to a walk until the ache in his ribs eased. Then he jogged again.
The headlamp did keep him from crashing into things, but it also ruined what night vision he had, so that the overhanging forest surrounding him was soon populated with shadowy figures. None attacked him, though, nor even crossed his path. He’d convinced himself that they were imaginary when, during one of his increasingly longer stretches of walking, he saw a small tetzet scoot across the road.
That’s when he remembered what he’d forgotten about the color of those flames, and started running again.
* * *
Ankur’s impromptu picnic had transformed the budding mob into a community once again: a nervous, high-strung, on the edge of panic community, true, but at least a community. When the headcount was done, the population of Meadow Village was resolved to be thirty-six adults, if one counted the almost grown apprentices like Pippea as adults. Thankfully, there were no small children, since any residents with children had been among the first to be given leave for the holiday.
However, thirty-six was far fewer than there should have been. Even with the Library on holiday hours, it took a fair-sized staff to care for even a handful of scholars and their assistants, since these still needed to be fed, cleaned up after, and the like. Cleaning crews often worked in the evening, when they would provide less of a disturbance, which meant they’d likely gone back to the Library after dinner.
If the scholars were doing active research, support staff needed to make certain the laboratories were functional and be available to pull materials from the shelves and repositories. Wizards had a tendency to work late, so it was likely some of the missing personnel had still been at the main complex when the catastrophe had struck.
Then there was the crew that had refused holiday leave in order to take care of the sort of repairs that were hard to manage when the Library of the Sapphire Wind was in full session. These were missing to a one, and Leeya assumed that at the first sign of trouble, they had gone to the central complex to see what they could do.
Add to that the ones who ran to see what was going on, to assure themselves that friends or co-workers were safe, even just to gawk, and what we have here at the village are the quiet, unadventurous souls who ate their dinner and were settling in for a pleasant evening with nothing more demanding on their minds than, say, teaching an apprentice chef how to make meringue.
This was not a reassuring thought. Nor was the fact that Septi had not yet returned, nor sent word. Rather than ordering someone else off on what was beginning to look like a one-way trip, Leeya wanted to go herself. However, she let Ankur convince her that he and Hafyz should go instead, that they would take some messenger xuxu with them, and turn around at the first sign of trouble. Nonetheless, Leeya and Neka walked with them right to where the road entered the forest, as if by doing so they could assure that these latest scouts would come back.
When they heard the sound of stumbling feet pounding against the roadbed, their varied reactions were instructive. The other three jumped back. Hafyz drew a sword, while Ankur pulled a butcher’s knife. Neka dipped her head as if to bring her silver-sheathed tusks into play. Leeya simply froze, and so she was the one Septi crashed into, collapsing into her arms.
“What’s cooking?” he managed, with a trace of his usual flippancy, then fear widened his yellow eyes while the squared pupils shrank as if exposed to too much light. “Back! Get back! Away from the forest! I’ve seen a tetzet!”
They all obeyed, but it was clear that none of them had the least idea what Septi meant. As Leeya got Septi to a bench, the community drew close, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. Pippea thrust a cup of chilled zinz tea into Septi’s hand. He gulped it down while, to a background of murmuring consternation, everyone waited for his report.
When Septi started talking, he’d managed to bank whatever panic had fueled his initial, incoherent warning. His words were as neatly organized as a cross-referenced file. He began with a general description: bad. Moved to the level of destruction, lack of bodies, the blue fog: worse and worse and worse. By the time he drew breath to drain the rest of the zinz tea and hold out the glass in a mute request for more, many of those listening were in tears. The rest were frozen in shock.
But Leeya knew that neither tears nor shock would roll any dough. When Septi stopped talking, she prompted, “There’s more. Go on. Tell us. What’s a tetzet?”
Surprisingly, the answer came from Neka. “A long-extinct creature. Initially, scholars actually assumed that tetzet were more than one creature, but recent paleontological work has confirmed that the small tentacled form is definitely the juvenile form of the larger, heavily trunked version. The tentacles turn into heavy limbs which the tetzet use to grab their prey.”
“I saw one,” Septi said. “Clearly. No doubt. Not a large one, or I don’t think I’d be here. One of the smaller ones.”
Leeya wondered if he’d tease her to make him tell why, after raging fires, collapsed buildings, and creeping fog, the sight of a juvenile tetzet had so scared him, but Septi’s sense of humor had vanished. He went on without prompting.
“I saw spurts of color mixed in the flames of the burning buildings, the most from the Library itself, but some from the lab, even a few from the residence. I didn’t remember right off what they were but colors like that come from magical items being burned.” He peered around until he located one of the lab assistants. “But that many spurts… We’ve got a critical magical overload, don’t we, Vrilla?”
Vrilla, a black and orange striped feline, who worked in the labs, hissed in dismay. “I think you’re right, Septi. That’s the only reason I can think for why you’d have seen an extinct creature in the forest. You’re lucky it was an immature tetzet. They’re too small to be dangerous to creatures our size, but a full-sized one . . . And if a tetzet, what else? You saw more than a few of those spurts of color?”
“Lots,” Septi said. “I didn’t try to count.”
Leeya hadn’t worked at a magical library for these many years without having a vague idea of what a critical magical overload was. As much as she wanted details as to what might happen next, she also knew this was not the time for theory. Most of the flying vessels had left carrying folk for the holidays. However, there were plenty of boats on the lake.
“Xabes,” she snapped, addressing the captain of one of the larger sailing vessels used to transport supplies. “Is there a boat large enough to get us out of here?”
“Not all of us,” came the prompt reply, as the gathered crowd parted to let Xabes, a tall, grey-furred lupine, through, “but I think we can manage to crew several vessels.”
Mentally, Leeya added the boat crews to her list, realizing she’d overlooked them in her original count.
Xabes asked softly. “Are we giving up on trying to rescue those up at the main complex then?”
Leeya nodded crisply, although, thinking of the friends and acquaintances who were missing, her heart wrenched. On a peculiar level, she loved everyone she fed, even the difficult ones who would insist on eggs done a certain way or very thin toast. Maybe, secretly, she loved those a little extra, because they gave her a chance to show off.
“Getting out, but not giving up,” she said firmly. “If we stay too long, we’ll end up being the ones who need to be rescued. If we leave, then we have a chance of contacting some of the magically skilled staff. They’re better equipped than we are to handle a disaster of such magnitude.”
Her words sounded thin, even to her, but to her astonishment, there were murmurs of agreement.
“I know most of you will want to get some of your stuff,” Leeya bellowed as the crowd began to disperse, “but before you do, look at that.”
She pointed back in the direction of the Library of the Sapphire Wind, where usually they’d be able to see the lantern in the belltower. The grey light of evening had given way to full dark but, over the treetops, the glow from the still raging fires lit the sky with a lurid glow. The spurts of dense color Septi had reported seeing were merging into the sort of mess one got when a kid got into the food coloring and decided that more was better: blue and red oozed into each other and didn’t make purple, but made something angrier; yellow and blue tried and failed to make green. Her stomach lurched and she looked away, because she had a terrible feeling that if she kept looking, she was going to be sucked in.
“I don’t want any of us to be here when that storm hits, and it looks as if it’s moving this way.”
That got them moving. Leeya felt a tug at her sleeve and Pippea said hesitantly, “Mekhiri says that most of the animals stayed near their shelters, even after the doors were open. She asked me to ask you, can we take them, too? And the poultry? Mekhiri says the coops were made to be portable, and because it’s dark, the birds are all inside.”
Leeya nodded. “If they can get gotten aboard a transport, absolutely. Talk to Xabes. He’ll know which ship is best. Get some of the others to help. Neka’s good with animals.”
“Yes, Leeya-toh.”
Impulsively, Leeya reached to wrap an arm around the girl’s shoulders and give her a hug. “You’re doing great.”
Pippea’s ears melted in a smile, then she ran off, intercepted Neka, who grabbed Hafyz. The three hurried off along the radial road that led toward the riverside meadow where the animals were kept.
Leeya was coming back from telling Doc Hrutu to get his patients down to the docks, when Ankur arrived. He thrust a rolled canvas bundle with carrying straps at her.
“Your knives,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to leave them. We’re going to need to abandon most of the food, though. Pity. We’d put some lovely things together for the stay-behinds holiday meals.”
“Can’t be helped,” Leeya said. “Maybe whatever’s in that storm won’t care about our preserved taga and pickled proggies, and we’ll be able to retrieve the banquet later. Go help move the livestock. I’ve seen Neka leading a string of animals, but not any of the others.”
“What about the injured?”
Hrutu says that most of the injured are ambulatory, and that the ones who aren’t can be moved by the rest.”
Ankur nodded and loped off. Leeya was considering what to do next when she saw two people trying to move a large painting, staggering as they walked. Their shoulders drooped beneath overstuffed packs so hastily stuffed that items were falling out, leaving a trail of socks and other small items behind them.
“Leave the painting, you fools!” Leeya yelled. “Get your tails on a boat. There isn’t time! Can’t you see? There isn’t time!”
She gestured toward the skies. Overhead, the stars were vanishing, occluded by clouds of something that Leeya was not at all certain was as natural as water vapor or even smoke. Ruddy light was reflected back from more than one point.
Have fires broken out other than at the central complex? And what is that moving against that fire-bright sky? It seems to be rippling. Is it raining over there?
“Maybe you should take your own advice, sweet cheeks?” Septi said, coming up beside her, carrying what Leeya recognized with astonishment as her own favorite overnight bag. “Where you lead, they’ll follow. As long as you’re ashore, though, folk’ll figure they have time.”
Leeya shook her head in dismay at her own shortsightedness. “You’re right. I guess I had some weird idea that the leader should be the last to leave but . . . Let me check on Pippea. She’s my apprentice, so doubly my responsibility. Then I’ll get aboard.”
“Fine,” Septi replied with some exasperation. “How about I tell Xabes to get at least one of the transports loaded and cast off? That should make the stragglers start moving faster.”
“You’re wicked and wise,” Leeya said. “Do it.”
She took a shortcut across the green, intercepted the radial road that led toward the livestock area, and moved along it, relieved that the artificial lights hadn’t failed. A few times she thought she felt raindrops and was grateful for her thick fur. Along the way, she passed Ankur and Hafyz, who had managed to wrestle an entire coop onto one of the large flatbed carts used for moving supplies.
“Good job! Get that aboard,” Leeya ordered, jogging around them, doing her best to conceal gasps caused by this unwonted aerobic exercise.
“Will do, Chief Chef,” Ankur replied. “Neka’s already gotten most of the smaller dairy animals aboard. Pippea and Mekhiri should be coming along with the kaut.”
He looked over his shoulder, as if expecting to see the pair, but the only motion was from the gradually heavier rainfall beating against the foliage.
“I’ll go get them,” Leeya said. “If we need to leave a couple of stubborn kaut behind, so be it.”
But even as she jogged through the rain toward the well-lit barnyard, Leeya wondered if she’d be able to convince Mekhiri to leave her charges behind. The kaut were her particular pride. These were a type that had been bred so that depending on what they were fed their milk could have radically different flavors, from sweet to tart, even spicy hot.
Much as I liked what that did for my custards and puddings, Leeya thought, if those kaut are too stupid to get to safety then . . .
She had to laugh, at herself, because clearly the stupid one was herself. Feet squelching in the sodden ground, shoes heavy with tacky mud, she trudged forward, wishing she’d taken Septi’s suggestion and gotten aboard one of the ships.
Then she saw the kaut barn and forgot about the rain, because the structure was under attack by an assailant at least as impossible as the extinct reborn to life.
As with supplies for the people, most of the fodder for the livestock was shipped in. However, just as Leeya maintained an herb garden, because sometimes there was nothing like fresh, so Mekhiri grew treats for her animals. One of these was uaftet, a bitter green that most people couldn’t stand except as baby greens, but that everything from poultry to the haughty kaut devoured with inordinate pleasure. Uaftet grew in bunches out from a central stalk, and Mekhiri harvested the outer leaves when they reached about two handspans from base to tip.
Leeya only recognized the towering leafy figure that was battering the barn because of the distinctive “finger and thumb” lobe pattern on the leaves. Otherwise . . .
I’ve never heard of uaftet growing taller than a person, nor that it was mobile. I mean, everyone knows there are mobile vegetables, like beti-teneh, but uaftet isn’t one of them.
The gigantic uaftet had curled the “hand” shape of several leaves into fists and was systematically battering the walls of the kaut barn, not seeming to care that it was shredding its own outer leaves. The barn doors had been pulled shut, but several sections of wall had been broken out, and through the holes Leeya could glimpse Pippea and Mekhiri huddled near one of the stalls. Behind them could be glimpsed a supernaturally placid kaut, chewing its cud and occasionally stretching its neck as if hoping that it might reach the attacking uaftet and sample a mouthful. Mekhiri’s eyes showed a white panic line all around, and her large nostrils were flared.
“I wonder,” came Septi’s familiar voice from beside Leeya, “if the uaftet wants revenge? But I suppose its motivation doesn’t matter, does it? I don’t think it seems open to reason.”
“We’ve got to get Pippea and Mekhiri out of there… and the kaut,” Leeya said acidly. “I’m willing to bet my favorite paring knife that Mekhiri refused to leave the animals, and Pippea got trapped trying to help her. Any ideas?”
In reply, Septi shouted, “Hey, Mekhiri, Pippea, if we distract the uaftet can you get the kaut out of there?”
Mekhiri called back, her voice tight and thin. “If you can draw it away from the door. That’s the only opening wide enough.”
“Draw it away?” Leeya said, her voice tight. “Me, be chased by a walking vegetable?” She slid the canvas bundle holding her knives off her arm and unrolled it, selecting a sturdy cleaver that she knew from experience could chop through bone. “I think we’ll see how it feels about being made into salad.”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Septi said, accepting her offer of a slightly smaller cleaver, “but I make a terrific salad. Let’s at it!”
It turned out that the uaftet had very strong opinions about being made into salad, all of which were negative. When Leeya cut through the base of one of the leaves it was using to batter against the barn wall, it loosened the next leaf and made a fist that it brought down at her. The process, thankfully, was slow enough that both Leeya and Septi were able to interpose the cutting edges of their cleavers and use its own momentum to slice right through the leafy fist.
“Spread out,” Leeya called to Septi. “We’ll go for it on two sides!”
Septi responded by angling around in “back” of the uaftet—assuming that a creature with neither eyes nor face, nor even head, except in the sense that many leafy greens were clustered into “heads,” had a front or back—and bringing his cleaver down into a leaf that was still mostly unbattered.
“Wow! That’s like tanned leather,” he gasped.
Leeya understood what he meant when she next swung. The first leaf had been tenderized by being beaten against the barn. The fresh leaf was much tougher, but not so much that her cleaver couldn’t cut through.
Septi’s next blow left the cleaver anchored in the central rib of the uaftet’s leaf. He took a great slogging step back and grabbed a three-tined hay fork from where it leaned against a fence near a manger. Poking only bent the tines, but the sturdy hardwood handle proved to be so good at pulverizing the leafy matter that Leeya wished she had time to switch to her tenderizing mallet. However, behind her she could hear the barn door slowly sliding open, and she didn’t dare risk the uaftet deciding she was distracted enough that it could go back after its original quarry.
“Move along Butterball, Dreamy Cream,” Mekhiri coaxed. “You don’t want that nasty uaftet. I’ll give you much better later.”
Distracted by this byplay, Leeya took a glancing blow to the side of her head that made her ears ring and nearly knocked her on her tail. Had she been as light and delicate as Pippea, she might have been thrown across the yard, but her sturdier frame not only kept her in place, but upright. In pain and anger, Leeya swung her cleaver in a solid downward chop that went right through the outer leafy layers, to vibrate against the central stalk. At this, the gigantic uaftet wriggled its roots, swimming back through the muddy soil, not precisely quickly, but in definite retreat.
Leeya and Septi pursued, also not very quickly, since their legs were weighted with mud to the knees by now, and they had to drag their feet out with every step. However, even when both the prize kaut and their handlers were outside of the barn, the uaftet did not alter its course. It bashed through a fence, then slid out into the surrounding, sodden meadow, and made much better time getting way. In a short time, it had vanished into the surrounding forest.
Seeing it splashing, for the first time, Leeya realized that the lake waters were rising. Meadow Village was on higher ground than the barns, but if they wanted to avoid swimming out to the transports, they’d better get moving. Septi had reached the same realization and was tugging at her arm.
“I’m sorry about your cleaver, but let the uaftet keep it as a souvenir. We’ve got to get out of here.”
Leeya nodded, suddenly aware how much her head hurt. She didn’t shrug away when Septi, leaning on his hayfork, put an arm around her. Together they made it out of the sodden barnyard, onto the road, where they joined up with Mekhiri and Pippea. On the way back to the dock, they met up with Ankur and Vrilla, who had come to find them.
Proving once again how unintelligent so-called intelligent creatures can be, Leeya thought with cheerful exhaustion. The uaftet knew when to cut its losses. We intelligent people don’t seem to be able to do the same.
* * *
Three months would pass before Leeya would see Meadow Village again, and when she did, she and Septi were aboard the balloon ship, Double Bubble, high above almost unrecognizable terrain. The volcanoes had stopped actively erupting, but it would be a long time before anyone could even fly over that region. The lake was much larger, the once inviting blue waters now a turgid greenish-brown. Even the mountains looked somehow sharper and less inviting.
“Meadow Village was over there,” Xabes said, pointing from where he leaned against Double Bubble’s rudder.
His heroics in getting survivors ashore—including going back to rescue the Library’s small herd of domestic vikrew and their drivers—had assured him of a post with the rescue squad. He had to be retrained to pilot air vessels, though, since the few watercraft that had attempted the lake had been pulled under as soon as they reached deeper waters. A number of over-confident wizards had been drowned then, and those that remained were far less confident.
Leeya leaned over the rail, as if that would help her see better, but she had to shake her head. “I can’t recognize anything.”
“There’s not much to see,” Xabes replied. “After we left, the lake rose and swamped the entire area. When it withdrew, every building was gone. The central complex fared a bit better, being higher up, but what fire didn’t get, the weirdnesses released by the conflagration did.”
“So I was right,” Septi said softly. “It wasn’t just fire and water; it was magic out of control that did for the Library of the Sapphire Wind.”
“All those poor people,” Leeya said softly, pressing up against Septi, who slid an arm around her. “Xabes, how many are unaccounted for?”
“Somewhere between two hundred and fifty and three hundred is our best estimate,” Xabes said. “We’ll never know for sure. Seen enough?”
“Too much,” Leeya said, shuddering. “We’ll certainly be able to swear to the survivors that there’s nothing to come back to.”
“Thank you,” Xabes said. “The Library’s administration—I suppose I should say ‘former Library’—has done their best, but almost from the first there were rumors that they were withholding the truth.”
Septi nodded. “We’ve heard the rumors, mostly about the riches that remain and how people are being kept away so that a few can gather up all the treasure. As for me, I’m grateful that there was insurance. With the settlement, most of us have been able to get a fresh start.”
Xabes nodded. “I’ll be moving on to another transport job soon, now that all rescue attempts have been called off.”
“We’ve settled in Hidden Horizon,” Leeya said. “Septi and I have a shop, now: Cards and Cookery. Pippea’s finishing her apprenticeship with me. Ankur’s set up a butcher shop.”
“What about Mekhiri and those kaut?” Xabes asked, leaning on the rudder so that Double Bubble turned away from the devastation. “The ones that almost got you killed?”
Leeya laughed. “Mekhiri bought them, as well as most of the other animals, cheap. The Library administration didn’t want them. She’s settled not far from us. I still get my eggs and dairy from her.”
“I’ll have to stop by sometime,” Xabes said. “I miss your cooking.”
“We have just about everything,” Leeya said proudly, “on a smaller scale, of course.”
“Except for uaftet,” Septi put in. “We’ve had enough of that to last for the rest of our lives.”
Jane Lindskold is the award-winning, New York Times best-selling author of more than twenty-five novels, including the six-volume Firekeeper Saga (aka “The Wolf Books”), the two athanor novels (Changer and Changer’s Daughter), the three volumes of the Breaking the Wall series, the Artemis Awakening series, and many more. Lindskold has also written in collaboration with David Weber (Fire Season and Treecat Wars) and Roger Zelazny (Donnerjack and Lord Demon). When she’s not writing or reading, she’s likely being ordered around by a variety of small animals. Lindskold lives in New Mexico.

“Fire-Bright Rain” serves as a prequel story to her upcoming novel Library of the Sapphire Wind, which, along with Aurora Borealis Bridge, makes up the Other Where series.

From Every Storm A Rainbow
by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Sinit Caylon, delm-elect of Clan Mizel, gazed across the table at Peers dea'Gauss.
Peers gazed back, face noncommittal. Neither looked at the third member of their party, Sinit's mother, Birin Caylon, who was Mizel-in-Truth . . .
. . . for another four years. Then, by the terms of the agreement signed with Clan Korval, Sinit would take up Mizel's Ring, clan administration, management of its assets, fiscal, physical, and corporeal. Mizel had signed because her hand had been forced two Standards ago, but she was not reconciled.
The same agreement placed Peers dea'Gauss into Mizel as a consultant, taking up what would, in a less emperilled clan, be the duties of the nadelm. In the proper order of things, Sinit would be nadelm—but, no. Sinit Caylon would never have been nadelm, if Mizel had been in proper order. And, she realized, Peers was waiting for her answer.
"I reviewed the precis you gave me," she said, placing her hand on that document where it rested on the table before her. "In addition, I went back through the accounts to the beginning of my great-grandmother's term of service—"
Her mother tapped her fingers on the table, impatient, meaning, perhaps to distract. However, Sinit had been taking lessons in maintaining one's countenance under provocation from a master, and did not allow herself so much as a pause.
"—in order to identify the moment of error."
Peers inclined her head.
"And did you find the moment, my lady?"
Sinit patted the precis gently, as if it were one of Lady yo'Lanna's large, indolent dogs.
"I see that my great-grandmother and my grandmother kept diversified portfolios and were aggressive in moving funds from under-performing shares. They both kept reserves in conservative funds, but even those monies might be moved to another location, if the terms were sufficiently lucrative, and the fund itself of a high order."
Sinit took a breath and did not look at the present delm, who had stopped tapping the table, which was in someway more distracting.
"I found the error was not a single event, but an accretion; a pattern of behavior that began to have adverse effects on the clan's financial security approximately twelve years into the stewardship of the current delm."
She took a deep breath, embracing inner calm.
"The previous delm's arrangements had not been altered—there was no need; the markets were stable. Mizel's fortunes trended slightly downward, not enough to be thought worrisome. They may have easily recovered, had the markets boomed.
"There was a collapse in the fourteenth year of the present delm's service. The old arrangements were no longer viable. A radical change of financial strategy was necessary." Sinit took another breath, and spoke directly to Peers, as if there was no third at their table.
"Change was not made, and Mizel's fortunes declined, rapidly."
There, it was said. Sinit reached for her teacup. She sipped, awaiting an outburst of chill rage from her parent, and—still—her delm.
None came.
Peers inclined her head.
"Indeed, you have identified the moment when required action was not taken. From that point, recovery became more difficult every year. Is it your opinion, my lady, that recovery is beyond us?"
Sinit knew Peers well enough by now to know that this was a test.
She put her teacup aside.
"Not beyond us," she said slowly, "though I do not make the error of believing recovery will be quick or easy. We will need to be canny and flexible. This is where I depend upon you, Ms. dea'Gauss."
That was nothing more than the truth. If Sinit was going to rebuild Mizel's foundation and standing—as she must!—she was going to need someone very like Peers dea'Gauss as an ally. How Mizel would afford her fees once the six year term was up, Sinit hadn't the least notion. She hoped something would occur to her—well. It would have to, wouldn't it?
"Your ladyship is kind," Peers murmured. "Perhaps you see a target upon which I may train my canniness?"
Sinit reached for the ledger where all of Mizel's accounts were listed out. Her mother sighed sharply. Sinit did not glance aside.
"I believe," she said to Peers, "that we must begin by divesting ourselves of certain properties, not only to increase our treasury, but to lighten the burden of our obligations."
She opened the ledger to the place she had marked, and turned the book toward Peers.
"How dare you!" Mizel erupted. "Golindor Manufacturing has been a cornerstone of the clan's wealth since before your great-grandmother took up the Ring! Will you sell our history?"
"No, ma'am," Sinit said, turning to meet the delm's eyes. She had gotten quite good at meeting anger with calm. That had perhaps been Lady yo'Lanna's most useful lesson thus far.
"Golindor will always be a part of Mizel's history. Indeed, it must be held up as a lesson to future delms and nadelms, for the delm's hand was as deft as her eye was sure. Mizel's long-term stability, which serves us even now, may surely be laid to that acquisition."
She looked down at the sad ledger, the profits line near to plunging off the bottom of the page, while the expense line sought the upper margins.
"In present, ma'am, as you can see, expenses far outstrip profits. Mizel cannot make needed upgrades. Now is the time to sell, while there is still some value left."
"I do not agree to this," Mizel said.
Peers looked to her.
"Of course, it is never pleasant to liquidate assets, but in the case, it is the best for the property and for the clan. I will, if you wish, prepare a report to the oversight committee, presenting Lady Sinit's solution, and your disagreement. Your ladyship surely knows that the committee will debate, but allow the liquidation. Meanwhile, the property will become less attractive."
Mizel glared at Peers, her eyes cold.
"Certainly, we should not wish to bring ourselves to the notice of the committee. You make your point eloquently, as usual, Qe'andra dea'Gauss."
She stood, waving a hand that seemed too frail for the burden of Mizel's Ring.
"Please, continue with your pleasant plans, delm-in-waiting. You have no need of me for this."
She left them, closing the study door gently behind her.
Sinit sat, hands folded tightly in her lap while she examined her actions and intent. After a moment, she was able to admit to herself that she had not acted in malice, nor to cause distress, but for the best good of the clan, insofar as she could judge. Lady yo'Lanna's brother, Delm Guayar, had been adamant regarding the on-going necessity of such evaluations. "For we are none of us infallible, and it is not beyond us to be petty. It is therefore the first duty of we who hold the good of our clans cupped in our palms to be certain of our motives."
"My lady?" Peers murmured. "May I ask after your thoughts?"
Sinit raised her head.
"I was thinking that my mother looks . . . ill," she said, which was not . . . wholly . . . untrue. "This—the transition—is not easy for her."
"No, my lady," Peers said. She paused. "Shall we continue?"
"Yes," Sinit looked back to the journal page.
"Golindor must be liquidated," she said. "I wish to sell quickly, and as advantageously as possible. When it is done, I wish you will review the process with me."
Peers raised her eyebrows. Sinit felt her face heat.
"What I mean to say is that I must look forward to the day when you will not be available to me. I would learn how to make such decisions."
"Ah." The qe'andra inclined her head. "I will be pleased to teach the method, my lady, though I feel I must point out that my canniness is at your service for a few years, yet."
"Yes," Sinit agreed, looking down at the ledger again. "But you and I both know that when I take the Ring, the agreement ends, and Mizel will be in no position to afford you."
That was rather plainly said, but Peers, improbably, smiled.
"No, my lady, you must allow me to work. It is my goal that Mizel will be very well able to afford me, when the Ring passes."
Sinit frowned, recalling her recent review of Mizel's financials.
"I would not have thought that you were an optimist," she said.
"I am a realist, my lady. To the business at hand, you have made a bold and necessary first move to bring Mizel back from the edge. Have you given thought to your follow?"
Sinit bit her lip. But, really, if she could not bring this to Peers, who was required by contract hold Mizel's prosperity as her first priority, then who?
"I wonder if you will advise me?"
"Of course, my lady."
Sinit smiled.
"Then I will tell you that I have a goal. I had been used to thinking of it as part and parcel of restoring Mizel's finances, but lately I have been thinking of assets, and I wonder if we might not achieve this thing separately, and sooner, for it will be years before Mizel is restored."
Peers frowned slightly.
"A few years, my lady. Recall that the agreement has Korval remitting the life-price of a scholar-expert to Mizel when the Ring passes. That is not an inconsiderable sum."
"I do recall that," Sinit said. "But this other thing—I do not wish to wait four more years to bring Mizel's children home!"
Peers blinked.
"Well, they're scarcely children any more," Sinit rushed on. "Tiatha—my sister Aelliana's heir—is very nearly as old as I am, and Ver Non—Voni's heir—not so many relumma behind. Jes and Zilli are younger, but long out of the nursery. The delm had good reason to foster them to Lydberg, but—"
She paused, realizing that she was out of countenance.
"Your pardon. This matter has weighed on me since the delm spoke of marrying Lydberg as the lesser partner. In short, I want our children brought home. They are Mizel's treasures, so much more so than—" She slapped her hand on Golindor's ledger page.
There was a brief silence. Peers inclined her head.
"I understand, my lady. However, the fosterings were done by Mizel's will. They must be dissolved by Mizel's will."
And she was not—yet—Mizel. Sinit sighed.
"I think—I think that my mother might be better served, were there people in the house—kin. To live here alone—" with the ghost of her favorite child her only companion—"I think it cannot be—good for her."
She paused. Peers waited.
"I will speak with her," Sinit said, "when she is in a better frame of mind. I think she might agree to bring them home, if only I can show her the way."
"I understand," Peers said. "I will work with your goal in mind."
#
Despite having been late at Etgora's evening gather, Sinit was up early with her schoolwork. She had completed the basic coursework, and stood within a relumma of finishing the advanced course. Then she would put her name before the Accountant's Guild as an apprentice. Her goal was to have a secure place in one of the established firms before Mizel's Ring was on her hand. The House would need her income, and the expertise she gained could only assist in accomplishing her duties as delm.
There came a rap at the door.
Sinit rose, crossed the room, and opened to Ms. pel'Ena, the butler.
"This came express, Lady Sinit," said that august person, offering an envelope.
Sinit glanced at it, recognizing Mizel's seal—the Thundercloud and Rainbow—and felt her stomach clench. There were only four, now, who would use that seal—herself, her eldest sister Voni, her mother, and her delm.
Voni was not given to writing, being so very busy with her duties as a hostess at the Middlemarch Mountain Ski Resort.
It was equally unlikely that her mother would write—but, no, Sinit reminded herself. Her mother had been very sensible during their last talk. Indeed, she had been eager to see Mizel's children brought back to their proper place, going so far as to promise to consult the delm.
This note could be the result of that consultation. It might, Sinit told herself, be good news.
She took the envelope with a small bow.
"Thank you, Ms. pel'Ena."
"Always of service," the butler replied. "Shall I send a tray up? There's the buffet this morning."
Justus was a busy clan, and breakfast was often a buffet, to accommodate the many diverging schedules.
"Please," Sinit said, the letter weighing in her hand. "That would be pleasant."
Ms. pel'Ena bowed and went away. Sinit returned to her desk, and broke the envelope's seal.
It was . . . not . . . good news.
She might have thought it a joke, save that neither her mother nor her delm indulged in humor.
The agreement stated specifically that Sinit Caylon would not receive lessons in administration from Clan Korval. However, the agreement did not forbid her from speaking to her sister, who was, coincidentally, the delmae of Korval.
The comm signaled twice, bringing Sinit to an awareness of the hour. She moved to cut the connection, but too late.
"Good morning, Sinit," came the cool, firm voice. "Did you enjoy a good sleep?"
"Aelliana," she said, tears starting to her eyes. "Mizel has gone to Low Port."
#
"For what purpose?" Lady yo'Lanna asked. She was in the New Garden, trowel in hand, placing seedlings in a fresh-turned bed.
Sinit dropped to her knees, so as not to be greater than her host, and met the lady's eyes.
"She says to find the nadelm, and bring him back to fulfill his proper place."
"Mizel's nadelm is dead," Lady yo'Lanna stated.
"By the Delm's Word, yes, ma'am. But she never reconciled—"
"I mean to say," Lady yo'Lanna interrupted, "that Ran Eld Caylon is dead in the most physical sense possible. Low Port is dangerous even to those who reside there. It is inimical to strangers."
"I spoke to Aelliana. She assures me of these same things," Sinit admitted, leaving aside the other things Aelliana had said. "She has an . . . associate, whom she will ask to locate Mizel, and return her to her proper location."
Lady yo'Lanna bent her head, perhaps recruiting herself, for Mizel's actions must surely horrify so stringently proper a lady.
"And your own plans?" her ladyship asked.
"I am for Raingleam Street, ma'am, with all speed. The House—"
"Indeed," Lady yo'Lanna said, suddenly brisk. "The House."
She rose, stripping off her gloves. Sinit came also to her feet, extending a hand to the gardening basket.
"No, leave it, child," her ladyship said. "Let us see you on your way."
#
The house was empty when she arrived, early in the afternoon. Well, of course it was. The servants had long ago been turned off, for lack of funds to pay them. Aelliana was lifemated, Voni was at her employment, Ran Eld was dead, and Mother—
Sinit swallowed as she went through the lower floor, opening doors and turning on lights. At the delm's office, she paused with her hand on the door.
Eyes closed, she reviewed her motives. Satisfied that this was a necessary action, she turned the knob—and entered a scene of chaos.
The delm's desk, usually so tidy, was awash in loose sheets and notebooks, as if the contents of all the drawers had been emptied onto it. There were books on the floor—the bound set of the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct, Sinit saw, detouring carefully around them on her way to the desk.
She considered the mess, keeping her hands behind her back. The notebooks were sharesbooks, the loose sheets, ledger pages. Sinit bit her lip. Had she precipitated this, with her talk of bringing the children home?
She leaned closer, seeing a gleam of color among the ledger pages, in the style of a clan seal.
Taking hold of the sheet with careful fingertips, she gently pulled it free.
It was Lydberg's seal. The note was abrupt; apparently in response to a letter from Mizel.
It is gratifying that Mizel has at last recalled its inconvenient baggage. Lydberg is willing to return it, upon receipt of upkeep costs on the order of three cantra. Be this amount received by Trianna Eighthday of the current relumma, the baggage shall be released to Mizel.
If Mizel remains in default on Zeldra Eighthday, the contracts will be sold at Lydberg's discretion, all wages therefrom coming to Lydberg until such time as the debt has been paid in full.
This by the hand of Lydberg Herself
Three cantra! Sinit felt her breath hitch in panic.
But, no. Panic was not an option, not now. She must solve this. When the debt was retired, and the children safe in Mizel's house, then she would panic.
Think, she told herself. Lydberg's letter was meant to intimidate, to demonstrate Mizel's weakness and lack of resource while explicitly placing Mizel's children in peril.
But Mizel had resources.
Sinit placed the letter on top of the chaos that was the delm's desk, and sought the comm in the library. The comm was answered immediately.
"Ms. dea'Gauss," Sinit said, stringently calm. "I need you to come to Raingleam Street at your earliest opportunity. It is a matter of some urgency."
#
She opened the door to the delm's office and stepped back to allow Peers to enter.
The qe'andra walked carefully, avoiding, as Sinit had, the books on the floor, and standing over the desk with her hands behind her back.
She turned around.
"Did you touch anything, my lady?"
"The letter, there on top, from Lydberg. It had been under that muddle of ledger pages on the right. I saw the clan seal and thought—" Embarrassingly, her voice hitched again. "I thought it might provide a clue as to why the delm left us."
"Indeed," Peers said dryly. "Forgive me, my lady, but I wonder if you know where Mizel has gone."
Sinit closed her eyes.
"The delm has gone to Low Port," she said, pleased that her voice was perfectly even and in-mode. "Her reason was to find Mizel's once-was nadelm and fetch him home."
She took a breath, and opened her eyes. Peers was watching her calmly, waiting.
"Lady yo'Lanna states as fact that Ran Eld Caylon is dead to all and everything. My sister—has asked grace of an associate, who may, perhaps, be able to locate the delm and . . . extract her—" that had been Aelliana's exact phrase—"before she finds harm."
Sinit spread her hands. "The delm did write to me of her intent. The letter found me this morning. It is why I'm here."
"Of course," Peers murmured. "How may I serve you, my lady?"
Sinit sighed. "Advise me—Lydberg threatens Mizel's children. Surely, they must be answered, quickly and firmly."
"Surely, they must," Peers said, plucking the letter from atop the pile. "Let us take this to our usual table. First, I will use the comm. The oversight committee must be told."
Sinit sighed as they exited the room.
"Yes, of course. I should have told them, but I thought it best to first secure the House."
"You have the instincts of a delm, and you have done everything that is proper," Peers said, firmly. "You secured the House, and you called your qe'andra. Your qe'andra will now call the committee, which task is her explicit duty."
Sinit reached around Peers to close the door.
"Are they likely to send someone?"
"They may, though I cannot say how quickly. In fact, I will make another call. This is an unusual situation, and I would consult with an elder of my firm. If they deem it necessary to send someone, that person will arrive quickly."
Excellent, thought Sinit, and did not think of how Mizel would afford the expense.
"While you make your calls, I will make tea," she said. "Find me at our usual table, when you are able."
#
"Definitely, a threat has been laid here."
The elder from the firm, Etha dea'Gauss, seemed inclined to take a very dark view of this. She had arrived with astonishing quickness, and sat now with a cup of tea by her hand, notetaker to the fore.
"My first thought had been to stall," Peers murmured. "My second was that such tactics might create greater peril. Lydberg's timeline gives us room to work."
"Your second thought is worthy, young Peers. Immediately, we should send a acknowledgment of receipt, which will also inform Lydberg that Mizel is taking counsel from our firm. More than that is not necessary. As you say, the given deadline, while not generous, allots us some time to work."
She sipped her tea. "It falls to you as Mizel's qe'andra of record to acknowledge Lydberg. Do so. Lady Sinit and I will begin discovery."
"Yes." Peers rose, bowed, and left them.
Etha dea'Gauss finished her tea, and set the cup aside.
"Do you have a copy of the contract with Lydberg, my lady?"
Sinit sighed.
"I regret. There is no contract."
Ms. dea'Gauss inclined her head.
"One has heard that there has been a certain . . . reticence on the part of the current delm with regard to sharing documentation. Perhaps Mizel's former qe'andra will have a copy among their dead files. If your ladyship does not recall the name, I will query the Guild. Indeed, I should have done so before I came to you."
Sinit put her palms flat on the table, and met Ms. dea'Gauss's eyes.
"My mentor has long since despaired of my tendency for plain speaking, ma'am. I assure you that I do not mean to be . . . unconvenable. I merely wish to be certain that information is conveyed with clarity."
Etha dea'Gauss eyed her.
"Certainly, my lady. Clarity of information must be our goal in this and all of our of transactions."
"Plainly, then—if Mizel retained a qe'andra prior to Peers—I mean to say, Ms. dea'Gauss—it was before my birth. As the arrangement we now confront was made after my birth, there is no need to disturb the cellars of the Accountants Guild."
She paused, the elder said nothing. Sinit inclined her head.
"There is no contract with Lydberg, ma'am. However, I can tell you how the arrangement was made."
"Please proceed, my lady."
Sinit reached for her cup, and sipped tea to ease her dry throat.
"When my mother was young, she was sent to live for a year with our cousins Clan Lydberg, while a child of Lydberg came to Mizel. It was a done thing, when my grandmother was a girl, and she felt that her heir should also receive the benefit of being fostered into another House. While she was with Lydberg, Mother and Voni pel'Dina became fast friends. The friendship outlasted the fostering. Mother named the first of her children who remained in-House after her friend, who was said to have done the same."
Sinit paused for another sip of tea.
"When Mizel realized that the House was unable to care for the nursery, Mother turned to her friend for advice. Between them, they crafted a solution—that Lydberg would foster Mizel's next generation. This arrangement was intended to be in force for only a year, perhaps two, until the clan came about."
She paused; Etha dea'Gauss inclined her head.
"Mizel never recovered sufficiently to bring the children back into the House, and mother's friend continued to keep them safe, in hers."
Sinit turned her palms up.
"Voni pel'Dina is Lydberg's sister, she had his ear and his support. It seems apparent that Mizel offended by writing, yet—"
"Lydberg's Ring passed twelve days ago," Etha dea'Gauss said gently. "Voni pel'Dina clearly does not have the support of the new delm."
Sinit blinked.
"I—saw the announcement in the Gazette," she said. "I should have realized that there would be—change."
"No, how could you?" said the elder, briskly. "Unless you are privy to Lydberg's internal politics?"
Sinit laughed.
Ms. dea'Gauss smiled. "Exactly. Now, my lady, attend me. This situation did not grow from the seeds of your errors."
"That is true," Sinit said, "it only falls to me to—to—fix this!" she burst out, which was surely unworthy from one who would be delm.
"It falls to us to fix it—yourself, supported by your qe'andra. We will arrive at an equitable solution. May I ask what your plans are, while Mizel is absent?"
"I will hold the House until the delm returns," Sinit said, wondering what other plans she might have.
Etha dea'Gauss inclined her head.
"In that case, my lady, allow me to be of service. You require staff—at the least a cook, a butler, and a person of all work. I will contact the agency the firm uses and have them send reliable people. Since it is unlikely that they will arrive before tomorrow morning, I further suggest that I have a meal delivered, so that we may continue our work unimpeded.
"Also, if you will take an old woman's advice—have Peers stay with you until the delm returns."
These plans were breathtaking, though surely reasonable, Sinit thought, save—
"Ma'am, I—the former staff was turned off for a reason."
"Perhaps they were, and perhaps we may discover what that reason was. In the meanwhile, if you are concerned about expense, my lady, I can assure you that funds are available. The meal is borne by the firm."
Sinit hesitated. It would be pleasant to have staff, but—
"After all," said Etha dea'Gauss, "someone will need to answer the door."
Well, thought Sinit, that was certainly true.
She inclined her head.
"Thank you, ma'am. You're very good."
#
Breakfast for Peers and herself was tea and the last biscuits from the last tin in the pantry. She would, Sinit thought, need to go to the market.
The door chimed, interrupting these thoughts. She started to her feet, but Peers was already up and moving.
"Finish your breakfast, my lady. I will answer."
There was no arguing with such authority, Sinit thought, and dunked a stale biscuit in her tea. Peers was back by the time she had disposed of it, and resumed her place at the table.
"Lydberg has answered," the qe'andra said composedly, taking up her tea cup.
"But, where is the letter?" Sinit asked.
"At our usual table," Peers answered. "There is no reason that you should be disturbed at your meal by business, my lady."
Sinit picked up her tea cup. She was unused to having such care taken for her; it was both unnerving and comforting. Also—
"I think," she said, meeting Peers's eye, "that I should be Sinit. You have already allowed me Peers, after all." She paused. "I feel that our melant'is must be partners, with I the junior."
Straight eyebrows rose. Peers inclined her head.
"I am honored, Sinit."
She laughed. "Surely, you are! Now, I will tell you that this delightful repast we have just enjoyed is the last food in the pantry. I will go to market today, so that we may—"
"Surely, the cook will do that," Peers interrupted comfortably.
Sinit blinked. "The cook—"
"You will recall that my Aunt Etha had engaged for you three servants from the firm's usual agency. They should be along—"
The door chimed. Peers smiled and rose.
"Very soon," she said. "Shall I bring them to you in the library, or the formal parlor?"
"The library, of your kindness," Sinit said, hastily swallowing the last of her tea. "Thank you, Peers."
#
Lydberg's letter was . . . ungracious. The sum owed was reiterated, with a note that only the signature of Mizel Herself would be acceptable upon the agreement letter, Lydberg having no confidence in the guarantees of delms-in-waiting.
"Now, that," Peers said, "is mere spite, my—Sinit. Lydberg surely knows that any letter of agreement must be accepted by the oversight committee. Without that, it matters not who places their name on the line for Mizel."
Sinit tapped the letter. "The sum demanded, as payment for expenses in arrears . . . "
Peers moved her shoulders.
"We found the ledger sheets last evening, did we not? The amounts were paid."
"No," Sinit said, her meager breakfast a stone in her stomach. "I woke in the night realizing, that—it fell to the nadelm to pay the amounts. That does not mean they were paid in fact, though the ledgers tell that tale."
"I was told that the nadelm had been a bad manager," Peers murmured.
"More," Sinit said, swallowing. "He was—expensive, and unfettered. He used Aelliana's quartershare as his own. He only required tribute from Voni, as she brought profit to the clan. For myself—well. I was fourteen when he died, and not yet grown into a quartershare. However, there had been no funds set aside in an account for my majority."
Peers took a careful breath.
"I see. Your theory is, then, that the nadelm . . . failed to pay the sums recorded to Lydberg."
"Most likely, he spent the money on his own pleasure," Sinit said quietly. "My sister Aelliana may know more."
"Then we will make certain to interview her," Peers said.
"In the meanwhile," Sinit said, firmly. "We will settle with Lydberg in good faith."
"If I may," Peers murmured. "We will offer copies of the ledger sheets, and ask Lydberg to show their accounting. This is standard procedure, and so Lydberg's qe'andra will instruct the delm. In the meanwhile—"
"In the meanwhile," Sinit interrupted. "We must have a plan in place to pay whatever is truly owed, assuming our ceiling is three cantra. Even should Golindor sell today—"
"That is our other danger," Peers said, interrupting in her turn. "If Lydberg puts it out that Mizel is desperate for cash, we will be seeking to sell at a—greater disadvantage."
Sinit wilted.
"There is another option, my lady," Peers said, after a moment. "Forgive me for noticing that Mizel is thin of adults. Would you be open to buy-ins?"
Sinit stared. "Who would buy into Mizel?"
"Well . . . " Peers met her eyes. "Myself, for one."
#
Nuncheon was simple, yet worthy of any meal served to Lady yo'Lanna's table. After, Sinit took herself upstairs. There was no need to open the third floor; there were sufficient bedrooms on the second to accommodate all of Mizel. Merely those that had been shut up ought to be made ready.
Aelliana's former room was stripped to the walls. It was musty, and Sinit crossed to the windows, pushing them open, admitting the sounds of Raingleam Street along with fresh air.
Sinit made a note to explore the storage rooms for furniture—or perhaps Tiatha—for surely this room ought to go to Aelliana's daughter—would like to explore the basements with her aunt Sinit. A shared adventure might ease the awkwardness that must at first stand between them.
The next room was Voni's, which Sinit passed by. The one after had been Ran Eld's.
Sinit pushed the door open, expecting that it had been stripped as bare as Aelliana's—and stood gaping on the threshold.
The room looked as if Ran Eld had left it that morning. The shelves were full of books and ornaments, the floors covered in bright rugs, the wall hung with art, the closet bulging with clothes.
The desk . . . Sinit turned—the desktop was bare; the drawers empty. This, then had been the source of the ledger sheets and sharesbooks they had found on the delm's desk. Suddenly, it made a kind of terrible sense, that Birin Caylon had gone to Low Port, in search of her son, who had all but ruined the clan.
Well.
The room would have to be cleared. It would for Ver Non, who would no doubt also wish to choose his own furnishings.
Sinit closed the door and went downstairs to fetch Mr. pel'Kosta, her staff of all work.
"This must be made ready for a new occupant, who will wish to choose his own style," she said, opening the door. "What is here must be boxed, labeled, and taken to the storeroom in the cellar. Then the room must be cleaned."
Mr. pel'Kosta neither blanched nor protested, which Sinit felt he had every right to do. Merely he bowed, and stepped into the room, looking about with what seemed a practiced eye.
The door chimed, and Sinit left him to it to go downstairs.
The caller had just been admitted—a slim figure in pilot leathers, pale brown hair pulled away from a beloved face.
"Aelliana!" Sinit flung forward, as if she were no more than a halfling. Her sister caught her in strong arms and they stood for a moment in silent embrace.
"Sinit,I have news. Shall we to the library?"
#
"What is it?" Sinit asked, when the door was shut.
Aelliana stood in the center of the room, her back to Sinit.
"Sister? Is the news—not good?"
Aelliana's shoulders lifted, then fell. She turned, reached into a pocket and held out her hand, fingers curled.
Shivering, Sinit cupped her sister's hand in both of hers.
"Show me."
Slowly, Aelliana unfisted her hand, revealing Mizel's Ring lying in the center of her palm.
Sinit caught her breath.
"Mother—"
"My associate was not in time to save her life. Daav is in Low Port with a Scout team, seeing to everything that is needful."
Sinit took a breath. "Surely, I must . . . go to her. Bring her home."
Aelliana shook her head. "Surely, you must not," she said softly. "My associate sends the Ring with his regrets. He asks me to tell you that he saw what was left of Mizel and that it's nothing a daughter will want to have as the last memory of her mother."
Aelliana sighed. "Clarence is Terran, and has sensibilities. If it eases you, he refused me, also."
Sinit swallowed. "Which is why Daav is seeing to the needful."
"Yes."
The silence stretched. Aelliana extended her hand, Mizel's Ring glittering in her palm.
Biting back tears, Sinit picked the thing up and slipped it onto her finger.
Aelliana moved, sweeping a bow—delm-to-delm—and straightened, face solemn.
"Mizel," she said, her voice strong and sure. "All honor to you."
There came a sharp rap at the door.
Sinit jerked around.
"Come," she said.
Mr. pel'Kosta entered the room, offering a book across both palms.
"My lady, I thought you should see this. I began to box the room abovestairs, as you had requested, and this book fell out of the shelf."
Sinit frowned. It was a novel, which was odd, because Ran Eld had not been bookish. The fall had disarranged the pages, so that they were sticking out beyond—
"Those are stock certificates," Aelliana said sharply, and looked to Sinit. "Who's room?"
"Ran Eld's."
"Of course." Aelliana took a deep breath. "I may be of some assistance, Sister."
"Yes," said Sinit. She looked to Mr. pel'Kosta. "Please ask Ms. dea'Gauss to join us."
"Yes, my lady."
#
"Here."
Aelliana reached to the top shelf and pulled a large bound volume down. She cradled it in one arm and opened the cover, read something and closed it.
"This is the original bound copy of the Caylon revision of the ven'Tura Tables," she said, her voice stringently calm. "I knew he had taken it; I suspected he had burned it, but, no—he would have bragged about that, to make the hurt more poignant."
"Take it," Sinit whispered, and Aelliana nodded absently, already back to scanning the shelves.
"There," she said suddenly. "That blue figurine is Voni's. She wept for a relumma after she lost it."
Rapid footsteps came down the hall, and Peers stepped into the room.
"Sinit, what—" She turned her head, and bowed.
"Lady, your pardon."
"No need," Aelliana said, sparing her a bright green glance. "You are Mr. dea'Gauss's granddaughter?"
"I am."
"Then you are the proper person to handle this."
Peers glanced at Sinit.
"This?"
Sinit handed her the book. "It fell off the shelf."
Peers opened it, stared at the crumpled certificates, and took a hard breath.
"This room will have to be thoroughly searched," she said. "My lady, and—my lady, please step out, and leave everything—"
"Aelliana may have that book," Sinit said sharply; "it is hers. We will check it for—inclusions—before she takes it away."
"All else must remain as it is," Peers said. "Lock the door. I will make a call. There is an agency that specializes in this type of room clearing. The firm uses them frequently."
She paused.
"The desk—"
"The desk," Sinit said, hearing the edge in her voice, "was empty before I opened the door."
Peers pressed her lips together, and strode off toward the stairs.
Aelliana stepped into the hallway, and Sinit locked the door.
#
Etha dea'Gauss joined them for a short meeting, staying for prime meal. She left them, promising to send the proper notices to the Gazette.
Sinit stood in the hallway, feeling rather wilted.
"May I bring you a glass of wine in the library?" Peers asked.
Sinit looked up.
"Surely it is not your place to serve me."
"Surely, it is my place to offer comfort to my partner after a very long, and absurdly trying day," Peers retorted, and Sinit smiled.
"You are persuasive. Yes. Bring wine for both."
They had scarcely settled when the door chimed, a moment later the butler came to the library.
"Ma'am, Lady Voni pel'Dina Clan Lydberg asks for a word. I am to say she is a friend of your mother."
Peers's eyebrows rose. Sinit took a breath, and placed her glass on the tray before rising.
"Please show Lady Voni in."
#
Voni pel'Dina was small, round, and grey-haired. Her eye fell first on Sinit's face, then on her hand.
Her face tightened.
"Is Birin gone, then?"
"Today," Sinit said, and cleared her throat. "The announcement will be in tomorrow's Gazette."
"You must tell me," the lady said—"by her own hand?"
Sinit stared, leaving Peers to answer.
"She went unguarded to Low Port."
"That is yes, then. Lady Caylon—I offer my condolences. I came to offer my services in forming a solution to Lydberg's absurdities, but you are in mourning. I will go. Perhaps you will see me later."
"I think," Sinit said, rather unsteadily, "that we had best see each other now, my lady. Mizel's children must yet be succored."
"Yes," the lady said grimly, and sat in the chair Sinit offered. Peers poured her a glass of wine.
#
"I must ask difficult questions in regard to Mizel's grandchildren."
Sinit inclined her head. "Ask."
Lady Voni sighed.
"One has heard that Lydberg received a letter of inquiry from Mizel, on the topic of Mizel's grandchildren."
"I think that must be so," Sinit admitted. "I had spoken to my mother regarding my desire to re-clan Mizel's treasures. She was—much in favor, and I believe the delm wrote to Lydberg after we spoke." She took a breath. "There was a letter from Lydberg, in reply."
"Hah." Lady Voni looked sour. "An invoice was sent, is what I heard."
"A demand, rather," Peers said. "Lydberg states that Mizel is arrears in maintenance payments. Three cantra is required to balance the debt, which would be done by a date, else Lydberg will sell the children's contracts in order to recoup its loss."
"That woman is a fool," Lady Voni said savagely. She had recourse to her glass, and set it aside, empty. Peers rose to refill it.
"One had heard," Sinit murmured, "that Lydberg's Ring has recently passed."
"Indeed it has. The new delm has long been opposed to keeping non-kin close. Thus, her first act as delm—ungracious and unsupported by fact. I will tell you how it was."
She took her glass from Peers, sipped, and set it aside.
"Birin was the sister of my heart," Voni pel'Dina said. "When we were children, we swore that, when we had each fulfilled our duties to our clans, we would live together forever."
She sipped her wine, lowered the glass, and met Sinit's eyes.
"When Mizel's finances became complicated, Birin came to me. Between us, we agreed that the best course was to foster the grandchildren to me, and so it was done. It was to only have been a year or two, that it went longer made no matter. I cared for Birin's children as if they were my own—indeed, my heart insists that they are my own! They were raised with Lydberg's children, but it was I who gladly bore the expense of their support, their education, their pleasures. My brother, Lydberg-who-was, granted them space in the clanhouse—there was no reason not to do so, we have room for more than we are, even now."
She sent Sinit a sharp look.
"You want them, you said. Why?"
"They are Mizel's treasures," Sinit said. "It has—long troubled me, that they were kept apart from us, though it may have been for the best. One's elder brother—"
The lady raised her hand. "Speak no more of your elder brother. I understand what you would say. Birin knew, I think, but she would hear nothing against him. It was your elder brother drove us apart, and I daresay it was your elder brother who drove her to her death!"
She raised her glass.
"If I may ask, your ladyship?" Peers said.
"Whatever you must, Qe'andra. I would see this solved properly."
"You testify that you supported the children. We have journals detailing payments made to Lydberg, for maintenance."
"Birin had made some representation that Mizel ought to pay a stipend, but I put her aside. There was no need."
"And yet . . . "
Her ladyship sighed sharply. "Yes, Qe'andra—and yet. May I suppose it was the boy who recorded those payments to Lydberg?"
"In fact."
"Then there you have it," she said. "Whatever those amounts were, they went directly into his pocket."
She turned back to Sinit.
"I regret that I must ask another hard question, lady. Do you know the children?"
Sinit sighed.
"To my sorrow, I do not. I wish to rectify that."
"I see that you do." She lapsed into silence, sipping her wine, and looking at some point beyond the bookshelves.
Sinit looked to Peers. Peers raised an eyebrow.
Lady Voni spoke.
"I believe we may assist each other," she said slowly. "I will provide a full accounting of my financial support of Mizel's treasures to the qe'andra of Mizel and Lydberg. I will further provide a statement that there is no repayment necessary. Mind you, Lydberg may still demand room and board, but I believe that amount will be found to lie well below three cantra.
"If you allow, Lady Caylon, after the House has mourned, I will come again, and talk to you of the children."
"I would be grateful," Sinit said, and her ladyship smiled.
"It will be my very great pleasure. In the meanwhile, I will put one more thing before you and then decently take my leave. It is in my mind that it were best if I found another House to shelter me. Though Birin is gone, I would honor her by coming into Mizel."
Sinit blinked. Lady Voni raised her hand.
"There are many things to consider. I am employed as a traffic controller at Chonselta Spaceport; that income would of course come to Mizel. I have been accustomed to assisting the delm in administrative matters. That experience would of course be placed at Mizel's service.
"However, you may not wish to have the foster-mother with the children. There could be repercussions, given existing alliances, and the fact that I am many years your elder, and have raised for you a brilliant and strong-willed foursome."
"Good," Sinit said, and her ladyship laughed.
"Excellent! We will talk again, soon." She rose, and Sinit with her.
"Thank you," she said. "I am very glad you came."
"As I am, Lady Caylon. As I am."
#
Voni Caylon came home for the twelve days of mourning, returning to her employment on the morning of the thirteenth day, taking most of her things with her.
Sinit was confirmed as Mizel before the Council of Clans.
The qe'andra for Clans Mizel and Lydberg settled upon a figure due Lydberg to cover room and board for four fosterlings. The sum was paid from the proceeds of the sale of Golindor Manufacturing.
Voni pel'Dina was provisionally admitted to Clan Mizel, pending a review at the end of six years.
Korval's payment for a scholar-expert, due when Sinit became delm, had been deposited to Mizel's account.
The financial papers found in Ran Eld's room were under examination by the Accountants Guild.
Bedrooms had been made ready for the return of Mizel's treasures.
Mr. orn'Verz, the cook, was preparing a feast, and the children—
The children were due very soon now, with their foster-mother.
Sinit sat in her favorite chair in the library. Mizel's Ring glowed on her hand, the motto bright: From every storm, a rainbow.
A familiar step sounded and she turned to smile at Peers.
"You were right," she said. "Mizel can afford you."
Peers smiled. "Did I not say that I was a realist? But I wonder—"
"What do you wonder, my friend?"
"I wonder if you have thought any further about allowing me to buy in to Mizel. Your membership is still thin of adults, and I would be an asset to the House."
"Peers, you cannot be serious."
"But I am! My clan has my heir, and I am inconvenient to clan administration, even as I am valued for my gifts. My grandfather has spoken to me several times about the notion of starting my own business, but that does not solve the issue of the clan, which surely does not need two delms. As a member of Mizel, I would support the delm, and bring the House a trade."
"A trade?"
"Certainly! You have completed your coursework. How if we set up as qe'andra at hire, serving those clans who cannot afford the larger firms? We would maintain our ties with the firm, and I daresay some elders like my aunt Etha would be eager to help out occasionally—" She grinned—"for a fee."
Sinit laughed. "You have thought this through, I see."
"I have. Please, my lady. Have me."
Sinit looked up at the woman who had become her very dear friend, and extended a hand. Peers caught it between both of hers.
"Let us meet tomorrow at our usual table and discuss this in depth," Sinit said. "For the moment, I am—interested."
Peers's eyes glowed.
"Then we are half-way to an accord, my lady."
The door chimed.
"That will be the children," Sinit said, rising, and shaking out her dress. She took a breath to steady her nerves.
Peers bowed. "Mizel."
The absurd gesture gave her heart, and she swept out of the library with her head high and a smile on her face, to welcome Mizel's treasures home.

Maine-based writers Sharon Lee and Steve Miller first teamed up in the late 1980s. Since then, the husband and wife have written dozens of short stories and twenty plus novels, most set in their star-spanning Liaden Universe®. Sharon and Steve passionately believe that reading fiction ought to be fun, and that stories are entertainment. They maintain a web presence at korval.com.