Table of Contents

- Does a Bear Shoot in the Woods? by Wen Spencer

- DEI BRITANNICI: A Prologue to Witchy Eye by D.J. Butler

- Preparations and Alliances: A Story of the Arenaverse by Ryk E. Spoor

- Into Gonebeyond by Susan R. Matthews

- Cutting Corners by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

- A Fire on the Hill by Brendan DuBois

- Feldspar by Philip A. Kramer

- Bullet Catch by Stephen Lawson

- Force Multipliers Being What They Are by Travis S. Taylor

- The Powhatan by Tony Daniel

- What We’re Made Of by Frank Chadwick

- The Blue Widow by J.P. Sullivan

- Sufficient Unto the Day by Tim Powers

- On-Site for the Apocalypse by Ryk E. Spoor

- Block Party by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

Baen Books

Free Stories 2017

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.

Does a Bear Shoot in the Woods © 2017 by Wen Spencer

Dei Britannici © 2017 by D. J. Butler

Preparations and Alliances © 2017 by Ryk E. Spoor

Into Gonebeyond © 2017 by Susan R. Matthews

Cutting Corners © 2017 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

A Fire on the Hill © 2017 by Brendan DuBois

Feldspar © 2017 by Philip A. Kramer

Bullet Catch © 2017 by Stephen Lawson

Force Multipliers Being What They Are © 2017 by Travis S. Taylor

The Powhatan © 2017 by Tony Daniel

What We're Made Of © 2017 by Frank Chadwick

The Blue Widow © 2017 by J.P. Sullivan

Sufficient Unto the Day © 2017 by Tim Powers

On-Site for the Apocalypse © 2017 by Ryk E. Spoor

Block Party © 2017 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

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eISBN: 978-1-62579-595-3

Electronic Version by Baen Books

www.baen.com

Does a Bear Shoot in the Woods?

Wen Spencer

“Wait! I have cookies!" Dugan yelped in fear. Yes, a stupid thing to say, but Dugan was desperate. He was miles from home, deep in the woods, and pinned to the ground by a massive bear. The smell of dead moldering leaves flooded over him like an omen.

The bear blew out an explosive snort that sounded weirdly like a laugh. It paused, head cocked, a paw the size of dinner plate on Dugan's chest. "What? Stale Oreos?"

"No!” Dugan said once he got over the shock that the bear actually talked. “Rocky road! Fresh! I just made them last night."

"You made them?" The bear’s tone was doubtful but nevertheless it took his paw off Dugan's chest. "They're probably not very good."

Dugan ignored the insult to his baking. It was probably an echo of his grandpa’s belief that men didn’t cook. His grandpa always complained that Dugan’s cooking wasn’t as good as his dead wife’s and then ate the food anyhow. Dugan frantically dug through his ancient ammo pack. He’d abandoned his equally ancient squirrel gun while trying to outrun the bear.

A small mental voice (and possibly the only sane part of his mind) pointed out that bears didn't talk, so this conversation was probably entirely his imagination. The voice was withholding judgment on the actual bear; it seemed too tangible to be imaginary. Said bear kept sticking its nose into the search, panting hot breath over Dugan's hands, and being terribly real.

"I've got them in a can.” Dugan pulled the old Danish butter cookie tin out of his ammo bag. “The lid is really tight. You probably couldn't get it open."

"Please." The bear held up its paw to show off four-inch claws. The bear could easily tear through just about anything. Dugan, for example.

"Right." Dugan pried off the lid. The scent of cocoa blasted upwards.

"Ohh." The bear stuck his snout into the tin. "Mhese mare mgood."

"Thank you." Dugan set the container gingerly on the ground. He edged away from the bear. His muzzleloader lay the dead leaves fifty feet back. He’d have to abandon it for now. "Okay, so, I'll be going."

"Hold it!" The bear growled.

Dugan froze in place.

"Let me see it." The bear licked the last crumbs from the tin and then stalked toward Dugan.

See what? "Excuse me?"

"Let me see the picture." The bear sat down in front of Dugan. It held out a paw and did a little "gimme" gesture with its massive claws.

Even with it sitting down, Dugan had to look up at the bear. It was a seriously big animal. It was too large and too brown and too talkative to be a normal black bear. It looked more like a Kodiak, which was the largest of the brown bears. Of course that didn't explain what it was doing in West Virginia and how it could talk.

If it was talking; that part was still unproven.

Dugan’s life was full of things that didn’t actually exist. He saw things that other people didn’t see and didn’t believe existed. The monsters didn’t normally talk but they could still wreak havoc with his kith and kin.

It had taken him months to track down a good digital camera that he could afford. Even used, it had cost several hundred dollars. He didn’t want to give it to the animal. The bear's paws looked strong but not particularly nimble. Dugan unslung the camera strap from his neck. He turned the screen toward the bear and started to thumb through the pictures he'd taken.

"Okay, you're a good baker, but you’re horrible at taking pictures." The bear said after the tenth photo. "You have a good eye. Your subjects are interesting and in focus, but your composition sucks. Also you're not paying attention to amount of light. Everything is either over exposed or under exposed."

"I'm just learning."

"Learn smarter. Get a book out of the library on photography."

"I Googled—"

"Google schmoogle. The Internet tries to compress everything to the attention span of gnats. Most things in life are too complicated for a bulleted list. Get a freaking book. Stop. Delete that one."

It was the first picture Dugan had taken of the bear. It was blurry because of his excitement at seeing such an exotic animal. He’d crouched down, carefully laid his muzzleloader in the dead leaves, and lifted his camera to snap a quick picture.

"You get any more?" the bear said asked.

Dugan had another two dozen photos. The first was the bear's head snapping around at the sound of the shutter. (Why did cameras still make that noise anyhow? It’s all digital now.) The next two pictures were of the bear charging. The rest were smears of the ground as Dugan took off running for his life, his finger still on the button.

The bear snorted with what sounded like giggles and had him delete the four photos that showed the animal. "You can keep the rest. Don't take any more of me. I'll know. I won't like it."

It stood, shook and lumbered off into the woods. Just before it disappeared from view, it turned and called back. "You've got a good instinct for what makes a great picture. Keep it up."

Tracking down the bear a week later was a calculated risk.

The few minutes of photography tips had jumped Dugan forward in ability. There was no question that his pictures improved. It could simply be that he’d found a useful book and studied it closely. He’d hit a wall, though, with some of the finer points. It was possible the bear could help him.

There was a good chance that the bear had been all his imagination, thus he was in no danger whatsoever. Certainly that made the most sense; brown bears were not native of West Virginia or even the East Coast. If it was a real bear, then it had escaped from a zoo or a circus. Such an animal could be considered somewhat tame.

As usual, he could find no proof that he saw something real. He lived deep within a mountainous two-million-acre national forest. A slew of bears could be roaming the woods without being spotted. Certainly there were no news stories about odd bear sightings in the area.

“Bear” and “talking” search terms pulled up fairytales (once he eliminated storytelling teddy bears). It was interesting to note that unlike wolves, bears were more like cats in such stories. They were usually good and noble and protected little girls and such. Of course, Dugan wasn’t a little girl, but then it was doubtful that the bear was a cursed prince.

All this considered, the risk in tracking down the possibly imaginary bear seemed minimal. Just to be on the safe side, Dugan made his best pastry.

He followed the big bear tracks for an hour. His loud footsteps on the dead leaves and occasional scolding from chipmunks were the only sounds in the thick woods. This deep into the national forest, there wasn’t even distant traffic noise. Dugan scrambled up and down the steep hillsides of the two hollows until he found the bear beside one of Deer Creek’s many smaller branches.

"I have macarons!" Dugan called as the bear grunted and started to turn away.

"Seriously?" The bear paused. "Macarons? You do know this is West Virginia?"

"Yes." Dugan wasn't sure what that had to do with anything.

"Macarons?" The bear ambled up to Dugan, snorting with disbelief.

"They're good."

"I'll be the judge of that."

He'd carefully packed the pastries in his tin, separated with wax paper. He used the lid as a plate, laying them out for the bear.

The bear grunted as if hit upon eating the first one. "You made these?"

"They're fussy, but not that hard to make well. Baking is just chemistry. The trick is to start with a good recipe and then follow it exactly."

"The rocky road cookies I understand, but macarons?"

"You don't like them?"

"They're amazing, but this is the freaking middle of nowhere. Why macarons? Where did you even have one in the first place?"

"I saw this video on YouTube. The girl made them sound so good. It was a little tricky figuring out what they're supposed to be like when they were done. I like being good at something to make up for being so bad at—other things."

"What other things?"

Dugan hesitated and then realized that if he was sitting in the woods, talking to himself, there was no shame in admitting the truth. "I'm bad at telling what's real. I'm schizo. I see things that aren't really there."

"Like what?"

"Like talking brown bears."

The bear hit Dugan on the shoulder, sending him tumbling through the dead leaves.

"Ow!” Dugan said. “What was that for?"

"Just proving that I'm real."

Dugan groaned. "Oh, no, it doesn't work that way. My delusions are all self-referential. The logic loops around. I throw myself on the ground and then say that I fell because I was hit from behind. See." He held up his left arm to show off the scars. "I hurt myself while thinking I was fighting a monster in Brice’s cornfield."

Even now, eight years later, the memory of running through tall corn with Jenny Brice stayed vivid. The bright moonlight. The smell of damp earth. The sound of rustling leaves growing louder, as if it was the wind that chased them through the darkness.

The bear wrinkled its snout as it peered at the scar. There was cream filling on the tip of his black nose. "It looks like claw marks to me."

"No one else saw anything. No one ever sees them." By “them” Dugan meant all the weird things that haunted his life. Most of them weren’t as dangerous as whatever had been in the field. If there had been anything chasing them through the corn. When he was little, he had been oh so sure. Lately he started to question all his memories. Some of the “monsters” might have been simply a byproduct of his mother telling him scary stories and insisting that they were true. The others? Maybe he had always been insane.

"There are things in the world that most people can't see,” the bear said. “It means you're special."

“The talking bear tells me that only ‘special’ people see weird things. That’s the very definition of self-referential!"

The bear sent Dugan flying through the dead leaves again. "Why are you here other than to drive me nuts?"

"I want you to look at more pictures. I want . . . ” Need was more correct but he didn’t want to admit it, not even to the bear. “ . . . to get better at taking photos. What you told me last time really helped.”

"Did you get a book?"

"Three." He didn't add that two of the books had been for children and fairly worthless to him. He already knew "How all those little buttons on your digital camera work." He didn't want to know "How to make your pictures wacky."

After those two failures, picked totally at random, he’d tracked down a book by the man who started him thinking of a career in photography. He was a photographer with the unpronounceable name of Cerek Niedzwiedz. Dugan had seen his photos at the Fralin Museum of Art in Charlottesville during a school field trip. The docent explained that the photographer traveled to desolate, isolated places to take his world famous pictures. It seemed like a perfect job to Dugan. It didn’t require him going to college, got him out of West Virginia and yet limited the amount of time he needed to interact with other human beings.

It was a career path paved with its own difficulties. He didn’t initially own a camera. He had no idea how to take award-winning photos. He wasn’t sure how to make money once he did. He was tackling life one problem at a time, as quickly as possible. The clock was ticking. He had only another fourteen months before his world crumbled.

Cerek used his own photos, taken around the world, to explain various points. Between the exotic subjects of the pictures and the fact Cerek would only give one sample picture to explain a complex point like "leading lines," Dugan was left scratching his head as to how to apply it to the photos he was taking.

It took him a minute to find Cerek’s book. He kept everything personal in his old canvas ammo bag. His grandpa raided his room whenever he wasn’t home, stealing whatever he could find.

The bear snorted when he saw the book. "Yeah, right, not special at all. So they only had three books?"

Dugan opened the book to its index to find the page he wanted. “I got out two books for kids; I thought I should start simple. They were too basic. They just covered how to operate the camera. The books for adults all seemed to be about taking pictures of little kids and weddings.”

"Pandering to the masses." The bear covered the index page with his paw.

Dugan eyed the five huge claws resting lightly on the page. “I ordered this one through the inter-library loan system. It explains the things I wanted to learn but there are parts that I don’t understand.”

"Forget the book. Show me your pictures."

"Okay." Dugan waited until the bear moved his paw. He put the library book back into his ammo bag where it would be safe. "Well, I decided to take pictures like the ones Cerek uses as samples. When you're baking, you're basically trying to match someone else's results. What made the macarons tricky was I didn't have anything to compare them to see if I was doing them right."

The book safe, Dugan began to flip through his photos, trying to ignore the massive head leaning over his camera.

"Art is not cookies,” the bear rumbled. “A thousand little elements go into the makeup of a photo. The angle of the sun. If the sky is clear or overcast. The green of the vegetation or yellow."

This was because Dugan had stopped on the first picture of the tombstone.

The bear shook its head. "The weeping angel statue is very similar, but the original photo was taken earlier in the autumn. The yellow foliage was what made that photo striking. You took the picture about two weeks too late; the leaves have all fallen. You did well with the exposure. The bare branches clutter up the frame without adding to it. Whenever you can, you should simplify the photo. You can do that by blurring the background by playing with the aperture and focal length of the lens. Let's see the rest."

The bear was definitely not real, Dugan decided as he scrolled through the pictures. A black bear in their woods could be real, but a huge brown bear was so unlikely that in itself was suspect. Add in the fact it talked and knew about focal length of digital cameras, and Dugan obviously was sitting in the woods, talking to himself. Should he really be courting his insanity? Did he have a choice? He had to do something to earn money when he turned eighteen.

"Who's this?" The bear asked when they hit a picture of Gin Belle posing beside the weeping angel.

"My friend, Gin. Her real name is Virginia but she hates it. She has her own car; she gave me a lift into Marlinton so I could take these photos.”

"You tell her about me?"

"No!" He said louder than he intended. "I don't want her thinking I'm even crazier than everyone says. I don't tell her spit.”

“People say you’re crazy?”

“Crazy runs in my family. When I was little, I didn’t know to keep my mouth shut. I kept telling people about the crazy things I saw. The stuff that wasn’t really there, or at least, I couldn’t prove was there.”

The bear considered for a long silent moment and then asked, “Like me?”

“Yes, I know that you have to be imaginary. A talking bear of your size defies everything, but I’m learning a great deal about photography. Somehow.” Since he was simply talking to himself, he decided to be totally honest. “The thing is that this might be crazy but it works. I need it to work. As an orphan, I only get Social Security until I’m eighteen. I won’t be able to get a job around here. In grade school, we did a field trip into a coal mine. That didn’t go well. There’s not much else in West Virginia. I thought that I could bake wedding cakes and such for a living. Mail order cookies or whatever. I did research and that’s not going to fly. It’s still a fall back plan. I looked into woodworking but that takes a lot of expensive power tools. I don’t have the money for that.”

“There’s scholarships for bright kids who are disadvantaged.”

Dugan shook his head. “I was thinking about going to college. My guidance counselor Mr. Durham said he could get me a full scholarship based on my grades and the fact I’m an orphan. Then I went to Charlottesville on a field trip to tour the University of Virginia. I kept seeing wolves. No one else did. Just me.”

That had been a huge turning point for him in so many ways. All his life, people had told him that everyone in his family was insane. Up to that day, he was sure that they were wrong. He didn’t feel crazy. The wolves all pretending to be people made him realize that he couldn’t trust his own perception of reality. The day ended with a trip to the emergency room.

“I don’t think I can do college,” he told the bear. “The wolves made me realize that.”

“Yes, Charlottesville is thick with wolves but they’re not feral. They’re actually surprisingly academic. That said, there are colleges that don’t have wolves.”

“Says the talking bear.”

The bear looked away. “Fine. I’ll teach you. I don’t want you taking any pictures of me though.”

“I figured that was coming. Self-referential. No pictures mean no proof that you’re just my imagination.”

“Stop with the self-referential bullshit. Who taught you that anyhow?”

“My school is making me see a shrink. I had the panic attack at Charlottesville after being stuck in an elevator with two wolves. I tried to pass it off as just being claustrophobic, but then I made the mistake of talking about my diet. Apparently it triggered all sorts of alarms with the wrong people. I was seeing Dr. Metzer, the school psychologist. He was okay. He started me thinking maybe I was crazy. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. Life is easier when you think its everyone else is wrong. Dr. Creepy is the new psychologist. He freaks me out. I’ve been trying to bribe Principal Adkins with cookies to get out of therapy.”

“What the hell do you eat?”

“I’m a little OCD about the few things I can control in my life. I was just seeing if my diet would change anything.” His grandpa grumbled loudly at the “weird” food but ate it none the less. “You know paleo, gluten-free, vegetarian . . . ”

“They sent you to a shrink for turning vegetarian?”

“ . . . and fasting.”

“Ah, let me guess, it was the fasting that triggered all the concern.”

“Yeah.” Dugan waved to indicate the mess was over. “I’ll talk my way out of everything eventually. I’m good at that; I’ve had lots of practice. I had to do a lot of research, though, to deal with Doctor Creepy. What to say, and more importantly, what not to say.”

“What shouldn’t you say?”

“That I’m getting photography lessons from a giant talking bear.”

“I suppose that would be a little difficult to explain,” the bear said.

“It’s just that Doctor Creepy is—creepy. He scares me. I don’t want to tell him anything; I’m afraid of what he might do. I’m not sure what he can do. The laws seem to say not much but—I don’t know—it just seems like he could do something—evil.”

“He scares you and I don’t?”

“You’re—you’re not real. And I feel safe around you. Even when you had me pinned to the ground, I didn’t really think you were going to hurt me. I thought about it later, how crazy it was to offer you cookies and I realized it was because deep inside, I felt like—like—you were just in a bad mood because you were hungry.”

The bear snorted, blasting hot breath over Dugan’s face. “Does Dr. Creepy have a real name?”

“Doctor Robert Creagh. I meet with him every Monday morning, first thing. I’ll have to see him tomorrow. Why?”

“Curiosity. I didn’t think his real name was Creepy. Okay. Let’s tackle your Medusa complex."

"My what?"

"You walk up, see something you want to take a picture of, and turn to stone. You’ve got it into your head that ‘holding the camera steady’ means you can’t move at all. You need to move around more. Try different angles. Kneel down. Find something to stand on to get a higher perspective. What you want to do is find the lines in the picture and maximize them. Come on, pick something out—not me—and practice taking pictures of it. No, not a bird either, they move too much for you to learn on. Start with a rock.”

Dugan stood in the doorway into the receptionist area of the high school offices, stunned at the chaos around him. He had dropped his coat at his locker, stopped in at his homeroom to make sure he wasn’t marked absent, and then come up stairs to the offices for his appointment with Dr. Creagh.

The rooms looked like a tornado had touched down within the area. The door was torn from its frame and lay in the hallway. Desks and filing cabinets were overturned. Paper littered every surface. The office reeked. A solid wall of something pungent made his nose wrinkle and eyes water.

It explained the police cars that had been parked outside the building. They delayed the unloading of the school bus until the officer by the front door had gotten a message of “All clear.”

Clear of what? Dugan had noticed the police officers walking the edge of the parking lot, obviously looking for something, but he couldn’t tell what.

“What happened?” he asked the room at large.

“A bear broke in last night.” Mrs. Casto was gathering scraps of a torn donut box from the floor. She answered without looking up. “Someone left food in their desk. Bacon maple donuts. No one is admitting to bringing them in on the sly.” From the tone of her voice, the classroom rule “must have enough to share with everyone” applied to the office staff too. “The police think that’s what attracted the bear.”

“Bear?” Dugan echoed. “A black bear?”

“What other kind of bear would it be?” Mrs. Casto stopped to look up at him.

“The black bear is the state animal.” Dugan backed out of the conversation as gracefully as he could.

“We put an electric fence around our garbage cans to keep the bears out,” Mrs. Westfall said. “My youngest son keeps forgetting and shocks himself every time it’s his turn to take out the trash.”

Dugan scanned the damage. Deep scratches on the walls and woodwork left little doubt that a large animal had rampaged through the rooms. To Dugan, they seemed too big to be made by a black bear. The security camera mounted high on the wall seemed untouched.

“Did anyone look at the video?” Dugan asked.

“Come on in, Dugan!” Principal Adkins brushed past him. “Apparently bears don’t piss in the woods, they piss in schools.”

Dugan wanted to ask if they were sure if it was a black bear. To quote Mrs. Casto, what else would it be? Not his imaginary Kodiak. Right? “Did you get the animal on camera?”

“Who knows,” Principal Adkins said. “The bear did a number on the recording equipment. There’s nothing left of the recorder but little pieces everywhere. It also took out the printers, the phones, and the PA system.”

Dugan had spent enough time sitting and waiting in the offices to know that the recorder was in a secure little closet under lock and key. While most of the equipment was logical collateral damage, the security system wasn’t. Destroying it would be have to be premeditated and deliberate. The wide path of destruction, though, would mask that fact.

“Self-referential,” he murmured to remind himself to beware neatly wrapped bundles of logic. That way lay true insanity. Yet he couldn’t help but wonder why would a bear destroy the recorder? Dugan resisted the idea that the bear knew that it was being filmed. That went against all logic. A bear was a bear and nothing more.

Unless it talked.

If it did talk, why would his bear show up at his school? To find out if he told Doctor Creagh about the photography lessons? Without supporting pictures, it wasn’t as if the psychologist would believe there was a brown bear. Dugan had searched all the local and state news feeds. There hadn’t been any escaped bears and no one was running a big game sanctuary within a hundred miles of the creek bottom.

Besides, he hadn’t considered continuing the photography lessons until Friday.

“Principal Adkins.” Dugan normally dealt with the man in his office. Adkins had a jacket in hand, apparently heading out to deal with the police again. Dugan held out a plastic butter container he’d filled with cookies. “Sir. I made chocolate chip cookies.” He said it quietly, screening the transaction with his body so the secretaries wouldn’t see. “I’ve been seeing the school psychologist for over a month. Can’t I stop? It was just one panic attack. There’s nothing wrong—seriously wrong—with me. I just don’t deal well with enclosed places on school field trips. It’s a weird combination of the two. I had the same thing happen at the Beckley exhibition coal mine.”

Principal Adkins took the container with a furtive glance toward his staff. He flipped his jacket over the cookies, hiding them. “I know, Dugan. We’re just being careful, what with your family history and all. You’ve had a rough time in life. I can’t just stop treatment on you.”

“Why not? I only had one attack brought on by stress. It could happen to anyone. I don’t need this. Dr. Metzer said I was fine. Can’t I just stop? Please?”

“It’s not up to me, Dugan. Dr. Metzer left us high and dry in terms of paperwork. Dr. Creagh needs to fill out the needed forms for you to stop. Until he does, my hands are tied.”

Dugan controlled the urge to take back the cookies. He’d used up all the flour, sugar, and eggs in the house to make them. Eggs he could get from the hen house, but the rest was money out of his pocket and required a trip to Marlinton to get.

“That’s the only way?” Dugan said.

“In theory you could go to an outside child psychologist. I don’t know of one in the area. Since you’re a minor, we’re not allow to get involved in your medical care beyond the school nurse or psychologist. Also, you’d have to pay the doctor yourself; the school wouldn’t cover it.”

The joy of living in the middle of nowhere. The entire county had a population of fewer than nine thousand. Dugan would have to go the whole way to Harrisonburg or Charlottesville to find one. Even if he had the money, he couldn’t get to either city without his grandpa driving him and that would never happen.

Principal Adkins waved toward the maze of narrow hallways that lead to the individual offices. “If Dr. Creagh agrees to sign off on your forms, then you can stop treatment. He’s in his office. There’s nowhere for you to sit out here. Go on back to his room.”

The pungent smell grew stronger as Dugan picked his way through the litter in the hallway. A left turn, a right and the doorway to Dr. Creagh’s office came into view, identified by the name plate that used to be mounted on the wall. It lay now on the floor along with the doorframe and door. The walls were ten foot tall. On either side of the opening, claw marks raked from ceiling to floor.

Had the bear marked his territory right at the entrance of Dr. Creagh’s?

Dr. Creagh’s room had been equally ransacked as the rest of the offices. If the bear had targeted the psychologist’s space, it was impossible to prove. There was only the lingering suspicion, urine and scat.

Dr. Creagh was brooding in the center of the chaos. As usual, the sight of him made Dugan’s skin crawl. He could never put his finger on why the man seemed so creepy. He was a thin, tall man of indeterminate age, somewhere between thirty and sixty. His flat-top hairstyle gave no hints as it was a color somewhere between white-blonde and gray. His eyes too were pale to colorless. There was something about his skin that made it seem as if it was too small for his frame and stretched tight over his bones. When he was still, he was far too still. When he moved it was in fast, precise motions that struck Dugan as inhuman even though they were all perfectly normal.

Like now, when Dr. Creagh suddenly turned his head to look at Dugan over his shoulder. “Do you know what did this, Dugan?”

“Mrs. Casto said it was a bear,” Dugan said.

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know—I don’t know what happened. I suppose it could have been a bear. I don’t know why a bear would have broken into a school though.” He was talking too much. He should shut up.

“It rifled my case notes and urinated on them,” Dr. Creagh said.

Self-referential.

“There’s no saving the notes,” Dr. Creagh continued. “The ink ran. The paper is a biohazard.”

Did the man never blink? Dugan’s eyes started to burn in sympathy although that might be the stench. If it was his bear, what the hell was it thinking? Peeing all over everything?

Dugan glanced down at the paper. The smeared ink made it seem that the pages were covered with weird pictures and scribbles. They were clearly unreadable. “Since your notes are ruined, can we just drop this?”

“You are keeping secrets from me. Until I know your secrets, we will not stop.” Dr. Creagh flicked out his hand, making Dugan jump back. “Go on. We can’t meet today. We’ll meet on Wednesday during your study hall.”

“What are you doing here?” Gin greeted Dugan when he flopped down at her secluded table in the library. He normally kept his distance while they were in school because he didn’t want anyone decide that she needed to be “warned.” He searched her out because he needed the comfort of someone else’s voice. Someone who didn’t think of him as crazy because at the moment, he wasn’t sure if he was or not. Had there been a real bear in Dr. Creagh’s office last night? Or had Dugan totally lost it and trashed the school so it just looked like a bear had been there? The second seemed nearly as reasonable as a talking bear giving him photography lessons.

She had her long legs up on the table, idling tapping her booted foot to the music playing over her headphones. She actually wanted to know why he was there; she’d tugged the headphones down so she could hear his answer. Babymetal rumbled through “Karate.”

“Ordering more books on photography.” He didn’t lie. The bear gave him a list of books to order via the interlibrary loan system. It represented the world’s best photographers. Ansel Adams. Dorothea Lange. Diane Arbus. Walker Evans. Josef Koudelka. Elliot Erwitt. The list went on and on.

(“You need to see through the eyes of an experienced artist to understand what you’re looking for,” the bear had explained. “Learn from the best. Let it seep in until it’s in your bones.” Dugan had copied down the list wondering how the bear knew the photographers’ names complete with correct spellings of Arbus and Koudelka and Erwitt.)

“You’re supposed to be in therapy.” Gin’s tone indicated that she was annoyed by his dodge. “It’s first period study hall on Monday.”

Dugan threw his hands up. “I-I-I have not a clue. Something trashed the offices so Doctor Creepy rescheduled to Wednesday.”

“It’s so bogus that the school is doing this because of what you eat.”

His diet, his epic panic attack in Charlottesville, what was written in his elementary school records, and his family history of suspicious deaths that were ruled as suicide. He’d never told Gin about his past. Her parents had moved back into the area after years of traveling the world. Unlike all the other kids in their class, she had no memories of the weirdness that was his first years at the century-old Green Bank Elementary. Gin didn’t fit in at Pocahontas High School. Her Mohawk haircut, Goth makeup, and weird mix of clothes from around the world made her stand out too much. The other girls favored long hair, blue jeans and hoodies bought at Walmart. He wasn’t sure if Gin was friends with him merely because she was desperate or her sense of honor insisted that she champion him. It could be both. He didn’t want to explore the depths of her friendship. He was afraid it was shallow waters.

“I need to go to the supermarket today,” he said. “Can you give me a ride?”

She guessed the reason why he wanted to restock. “You need to stop baking cookies for the people in the office. It’s their job to take care of you. You shouldn’t have to bribe them with sweets.”

“They do take care of me,” he said. The teachers and administrative staff might think he was crazy but they were all mindful that he had no parents. “Principal Adkins bullied grandpa through getting SNAP set up in ninth grade; it really made it possible for me to start baking in the first place. Mr. Durham is still trying to get me a full scholarship even though I changed my mind about college. Mrs. Westfall helped me buy my camera; I needed a credit card to order it online. Mrs. Costa gave me a hat last year when she realized I didn’t have one. Mr. Simpson is letting me do the yearbook pictures.” He lifted his camera as evidence. Normally he wouldn’t risk it at school but Mr. Simpson promised to replace it if one of the other students broke it. “I’ll have published pictures to start a portfolio with.”

“Published?” Gin snorted. “Simpson is using you. The yearbook staff all quit once they found out how much work it was. He’s trying to talk me into being the editor. He says it will make me more popular. As if. And that hat is butt ugly.”

Dugan decided not to continue with all the many kindnesses that the staff showed him over the years. Today proved that trying to bribe Adkins was a waste of time. “IGA is having a sale on collard greens, dried black eye peas and corn meal. I need flour and sugar but I’m not making cookies for them. We don’t even have school tomorrow; it’s an in-service day. I plan to spend the day taking pictures. There are basics I need to practice.”

He demonstrated by pointing his camera at her. The bear had given him homework on finding the optimal lines to lead the viewer’s eye to the subject. By shifting to his left, he could use Gin’s long legs as leading lines to her face.

She blew a bubble with her chewing gum while glaring at him. He thought she was trying to decide if he was bullshitting her. “Pecan tassies.”

“What?”

“I want pecan tassies. You make cookies for everyone else. I drive you around.” She stabbed the table with her pencil. “I like pecan tassies but the ones you get at the store are just cheap-ass cardboard tasting things.”

“Oh. Sure. I can make pecan tassies.” He’d been afraid that she would get angry at him if he made her cookies. He couldn’t remember exactly why but it had to do with her yelling at him about something to do with political alienation and gender roles. “I’ll look up a recipe and see what I need to buy.”

There was an angel in the Pocahontas IGA supermarket.

After school, Gin had driven him the twenty winding miles through the wide valleys between the mountains into Marlinton. Both Green Bank and Dunmore had little convenience stores with a pair of gas pumps outside, but they carried only the basics at a steep price. For bulk quantities of inexpensive food and pecans, he needed the bigger, cheaper store.

He hit the sales items of collard greens, dried black eyed beans, and corn meal first. He wanted to stock up. He wished it wasn’t so hard to get to Marlinton; he liked being able to shop without everyone paying attention to everything he did. He could pretend his life was completely normal.

He turned the corner and saw the angel.

She crouched in the center of the aisle, her wings gleaming brighter than the overhead fluorescents. The air was filled with the scent of thunderstorms and spring rain.

Dugan ducked back around the corner. He pretended to look at the shelf in front of him while trying to decide what to do. She'd been kneeling in front of the baking supplies. He didn't know what angels would want with King Arthur flour, but there she was, big as life.

To make tassies for Gin, he needed flour, dark brown sugar, and pecans. Even if he talked Gin into a different type of cookies, he would need flour and white sugar.

"Angels are not real," he whispered.

Neither were talking bears.

One delusion at a time.

He turned the corner, hoping that she might have disappeared.

The angel still crouched in front of the baking goods. She seemed to be picking up bags of flour just to put them down again.

He edged around the wings, trying to keep focused on what he needed. Generally speaking, if he didn't pay attention to his delusions, they didn't pay attention to him. The bags of shelled nuts were right by the corner. The white sugar was on the shelf below the nuts. The brown sugar put him closer to the angel. The scent of thunderstorms grew stronger.

It was never good when he could smell the delusion.

He braced himself against the fear skittering around in him, and shifted closer to grab the nearest bag of flour.

"What?" she growled. Her wings flared wide, like an eagle before its strike.

He squeaked and backpedaled. Not good. Not good.

She wore a black leather jacket, an expensive-looking silk scarf, knee-high combat boots and an open carry handgun. She had gleaming red hair with soft curls gathered with a green velvet scrunchie. She was the most beautiful being that he’d ever seen. Even without the wings, she was too stylishly dressed to be a local.

Maybe she was a tourist. A Hollywood starlet in Marlinton for—for—for some inexplicable reason and he was just imagining the massive wings. It would mean that there was a real woman in his path and he was simply being weird. Again.

He didn't normally notice people's eyes; he wouldn't be able to say what color Gin had. The angel’s eyes were too vivid green to miss. The angel stared at him in surprise and confusion. It was as if she didn’t expect him to actually notice her.

And he was staring back at her. It was clearly pissing her off as surprise gave way to anger.

"I-I-I--" He pointed. “Flour!”

She glared at him.

"Please. Can I just get a bag?" He edged closer to the flour.

She stood up to block him. "I'll get it for you."

It felt like a trap. He didn't want her to pick up the bag. Either she was as real as the bag or the bag was as delusional as her. He didn't want to leave the store just thinking he had flour when he didn't.

She crouched again and her wings brushed over him. They were soft as thistledown and brilliant as halogen lights and tangible as the wind.

Were they even really there? He tried to catch hold of the feathers as they trailed over his fingertips. His fingers closed on warmth, trapping nothing. She didn't seem to notice.

Wings not real. If she handed him flour, chances were that the bag didn't exist either.

"I'll get a bag of flour," he said despite the fact he probably wasn't talking to anyone. He added, "I'm almost out" just in case Gin heard him talking to himself.

"No." The angel picked up a bag and something black darted out into the aisle.

Out of pure instinct, Dugan stomped on it without seeing it clearly. It was the size of a very big cockroach but the shape been wrong.

It squirmed under his foot. It felt pissed.

He whimpered. He just knew if he lifted his foot, it was coming for him. Up his pant leg; all sorts of claws and fangs and possibly scorpionlike tail.

And at the same time—there may be nothing at all under his foot. Probably. It was unlikely anything like that was hiding among the flour.

The angel stared at his foot, still holding the bag of flour that she picked up. "Don't move."

She put down the flour. Reaching into her jacket, she pulled out a huge gleaming knife. It blazed as white as her wings.

Stabbed by angel or bitten by bug from hell?

Dugan jerked backwards. The angel shouted and stabbed. The blade missed the bug by a hair and buried tip first into the floor. The bug darted toward him. He stomped on it again.

"I said don't move." The angel grabbed hold of his wrist with her free hand.

"Don't stab me in the foot!" He stood still only because, without breaking free of the angel, he couldn't flee the bug. She had an iron grip on him.

She tightened her hold as if she knew he would bolt at first opportunity. "I need to be in position. Hold still until I say you can move."

"Don't stab me in the foot."

"I'm not going to!" She jerked free her blade. She shifted closer, knife pointed at his foot. "Move!"

She let loose his wrist. He snatched up a bag of flour and took off running. Something tiny screamed, like a baby rabbit caught by a cat. He glanced back. The black spot of the bug was pinned to the floor by the angel's gleaming dagger. Her wings were spread wide, hooding the angel as she pulled out a second dagger.

The aisles stocked with baking goods created leading lines that pointed directly at the angel. It was a perfect picture. He lifted his camera and took it.

Gin was at the magazine section, leafing through an issue of Field & Stream. “I really don’t understand this glorification of hunting wild animals.”

“It’s free meat,” Dugan said. “It’s like winning the lottery.”

She held up the magazine, showing off the cover picture of a pretty blonde woman holding a massive gun, dressed all in camo. “This is not about food! It’s about sport! The fun of killing!”

“Shh!” Dugan glanced behind for the angel. It didn’t seem as if she’d followed him. “That’s Field & Stream! You should read Garden and Gun.”

“I looked at that. This is West Virginia, not the Deep South.”

“That’s debatable.” Dugan grabbed her hand to drag her toward the checkout counter. “Let’s go. I need to get home.”

“What the hell is your rush?”

He didn’t want to tell Gin about the angel because she probably didn’t exist. “I shot three squirrels yesterday. I like to cook them slow for about an hour.”

“You’re eating meat again?”

“Yeah. Vegetarian wasn’t working for me.” He decided when he started seeing wolves pretending to be people in Charlottesville, it was time to give up on the weird diets. Seeing talking bears clinched the deal.

“Okay. That lane there.” Gin pointed to nearest line. She slipped the Field & Stream into one of the magazine racks opposite the candy. Below it was The Times West Virginian newspaper whose headline read “Massacre Body Count Rises!” In smaller font it stated “Utica Wolf Hunt Continues.”

See, Dugan thought, that’s what normally happened when people tried to interact with large wild animals. They ended up dead. They weren’t taught photography. Then again, wild animals normally don’t ransack high schools.

“Utica doesn’t have wolves.” Gin pulled the newspaper out to read the top story.

“Did you hear about the bear?” Dugan suddenly wanted validation that his world model on animal behavior was normal. He was right—wasn’t he?

“What bear?” a woman asked.

The angel was standing behind him. Gleaming wings widespread. Fierce eyes fastened on him.

He was sure he was staring back with horror.

“Hm?” Gin didn’t look up from her paper. “What about a bear?”

“What bear?” the angel repeated. “I’ve heard that there’s an unnaturally large bear in the area.”

He glanced at the huge pistol on the angel’s hip. It felt very dangerous to tell one delusion about the other. He needed the bear.

“Someone at school said something about a bear.” Gin flipped the newspaper to read the bottom half of the front page. “Is that why Creepy canceled on you?”

The angel poked him hard in the ribs. “What bear?”

Time to deploy decoys! “Yes. Someone left food out in the school offices. Bacon maple donuts. A black bear got in and made a mess. You know how bears are. They’ll break into a locked car to steal groceries. They’ll come up onto your porch to eat your cat’s food and lick the grease trap of your grill clean.”

“Yet another reason I can’t wait to graduate and go to college some place civilized.” Gin didn’t seem to notice the angel. “This is insane. A dozen people mauled by wolves in Utica. The sole survivor has gone missing. If I had his last name, I’d hide from the media too. I wouldn’t want it smeared all over the media. People are cruel.”

Did anyone notice the angel? Dugan scanned the people around them. No. No one seemed to be looking at the woman with gleaming wings. He made the mistake of meeting her eyes. A weird jolt of knowing that passed between them: he knew that she knew that he knew that she was invisible to everyone else. Her eyes narrowed with the knowledge.

“Dugan, are you ready to check out?” The cashier surprised him by knowing his name.

His heart dropped as he focused on her for the first time. The cashier was Jenny Brice, eyeing him with a wariness that suggested that she never forgot or forgave him for “monster lurking in the cornfield” incident. They hadn’t been in a class together since that night. Her parents first moved her out of his fourth grade room and then held her back a year. Eight years was a long time to hold a grudge. Jenny rubbed her left bicep. Did she have scars? The button-down shirt of her uniform covered the place where the monster’s claws had scratched her.

“Y-y-yes, I’m ready.” Dugan stammered. Oh, God, he was so screwed.

Gin stuffed the newspaper back into its holder. She added a pack of Big Red gum to his purchases. Since she paid for gas, he bought her snacks. It made Jenny’s eyes go wide as she realized that they were together.

He was still trying to ignore the angel. His illusion wasn’t cooperating.

Her wings brushed warm over him as she leaned forward to whisper, “Have you seen a big bear? It probably isn’t black.”

Dugan shook his head. He needed to protect the bear. This was not the time, though, to go full on crazy and talk to someone that wasn’t there. Gin was his only friend. He didn’t want to add fuel to the fire that was Jenny Brice.

“You’re new around here, Virginia.” Jenny didn’t score points by using Gin’s real name. He wasn’t surprised that Jenny knew Gin’s name. Gin stood out at Pocahontas High School. “You don’t know what’s dangerous around here, like poke berries and rattlesnakes and Dugan Harman.”

“Shush you,” Dugan said as calmly as he could. “I said I was sorry for every day we were in fourth grade together.”

“Sorry doesn’t cover having your whole life screwed up. All summer I have nightmares about the wind moving through the leaves in the corn field. I haven’t been in one since that night. And I still have this!”

She lifted her sleeve to show off the five parallel cuts across her bicep.

“Can you just check me out?” Dugan nudged his purchases closer to the scanner.

Jenny passed the flour over the scanner. “Harmans are all shifty people. Black pot moonshiners. Bootleggers. Snake oil salesmen. They get barrel-fever something awful, seeing things that aren’t there.” Jenny thumped the bag down harder than needed. “His father killed three men. The state of Virginia executed him for it. His mom threw herself off of New River Gorge Bridge. His grandmother drowned herself in Shavers Lake.” She picked up the pecans and shook them at Gin. “His family are all nutcases.”

“I like nuts.” Gin caught Jenny’s wrist and forced her to wave the pecans’ bar code past the red eye of the scanner. “They make life tasty. Got anything against dark brown sugar?”

Jenny snatched up the plastic bag of brown sugar and scanned it. “He had me believing that there was something chasing us through that cornfield. I believed I could hear it moving closer and closer.”

“You must be fun on a snipe hunt, then,” Gin said.

“He’s a crazy, mean bastard. He likes to scare people.”

“I haven’t done any of that for years,” Dugan said.

The angel put a Payday candy bar down beside his bag of white sugar. He eyed it. Was it really there? Had he missed Gin putting it there? No, Gin was glaring at Jenny like she was about to start throwing punches.

“I’m just being friendly . . . ” Jenny rang through the sugar, Gin’s gum and the mystery candy bar.

“You’re using a definition of that word I’ve never heard before.” Gin grabbed one of the store’s plastic bags and started to fill it up with Dugan’s purchases. “Save your breath. I’m not listening to you.”

The angel brushed past Dugan to pick up the Payday before Gin could bag it. “I’ll talk to you later, when you’re not in the middle of a cat fight.”

Jenny focused on ringing up the total. Gin frowned at the conveyor belt as if she noticed the candy bar’s absence. Neither girl looked at the angel as she unwrapped the Payday and bit into it. Dugan glanced at the cash register’s screen. Last item was a candy bar.

What the hell? Had he just paid for phantom food? Would he find it in the bag later? Was the angel actually walking away, unnoticed by everyone, eating his candy bar?

“I am so screwed,” he whispered to himself.

The angel drove a big, black Land Rover with Pennsylvania plates. It was parked five slots down from Gin’s ancient Subaru. The angel’s wings had vanished as she strolled across the parking lot to it. Dugan glanced into the SUV as they walked past it. A gun vault for rifles was bolted into the cargo area. Daggers, pistol, and rifles. Why would an angel be so heavily armed? What did she want with his bear? Why Pennsylvania plates? West Virginia was the place that was supposed to be “Almost Heaven.”

Filled with unease, Dugan buckled his seatbelt. If the bear and the angel were both mere delusions, what did it mean that one was hunting the other? Was this his super-ego fighting with his id? Could the bear be “killed” by the angel? What did that mean for him? Maybe if he lived near one of the big cities like Charleston or Huntington, he could hope to get a job earning minimum wage. Marlinton was the nearest “big” town. Despite being the county seat, it only had a population of a thousand. Green Bank had a total of 143 people in it. The handful of jobs weren’t trusted to crazy kids from infamous families. His dad’s family hadn’t been moonshiners by choice; there wasn’t any other way to making a living.

The whole photography thing was a long shot but it seemed like it might work. He was learning a lot from the bear. Was this angel going to mess it all up? Could she kill the bear? Were either one of them even real? Something had trashed Dr. Creagh’s office. Jenny had charged him for a Payday. The candy bar was not in his bag.

He thumbed through his pictures. Had his camera captured what he had seen? Had he even taken a picture? Yes, he had. The screen showed the angel kneeling in the baking aisle, her dagger a blazing whiteness in her hand. Her wings were an odd haze over her, like a fog reflecting a car’s high beams. What had appeared as individual feathers to him was merely brightness without form. The bug didn’t show up, not even as a blur of darkness, despite the fact that her boots were the most in focus objects in the photo. It looked like she was holding a dazzling glow stick over a random point on the floor.

Gin was going through her pre-ignition ritual of picking out a CD for her car’s stereo and muttering darkly about Green Bank’s ban on electronics. Gin glanced at the camera’s screen. “You took a picture of that woman? She was hot.”

“You—you saw her?”

“In the parking lot. She drove the black Land Rover. Yeah, I saw her. She’s not from around here. Not with a Land Rover, Doc Martins and a Hermes scarf.”

“You saw her in the parking lot but not in the store?”

“That’s what I said.” Gin stuck a Band-Maid CD into the stereo’s slot.

“She was behind us in the check-out line,” Dugan said.

“Nah. She couldn’t have been. I would have noticed her.”

“You were reading the newspaper.”

Gin started the Suburu. “I would have noticed her. She rocked.”

“Did you see the Payday?”

“The what?” Gin braked hard. She studied her rear view mirror as if he’d been pointing out something in the parking lot behind them.

“The candy bar. In the store. The Payday.”

Gin smacked him. “I thought Payday was some kind of weird car or something that I was going to run into.” She continued to back out of the parking space. “Yes, I saw that you bought a candy bar.”

“It’s not in the bag.”

“I thought you took it. Did that bitch cashier swipe it?”

Dugan stared at Gin as the world remade itself. There was no denying the damage done to his school via a bear. All the teachers and administrative staff confirmed it. Gin saw the angel. Gin and Jenny both saw the candy bar. The angel had taken his candy bar. Both the bear and the angel were real.

Maybe.

Dugan got up at sunrise the next morning and went out into the woods. He took his old muzzleloader and his camera but what he really hunting for was answers. He couldn’t talk to Gin; it was as if the angel’s wings had rendered the woman invisible to everyone else. Gin had only seen the angel after her gleaming feathers had vanished. The fact remained that there had been a very real woman at IGA who wanted to find an unnaturally large bear. More alarming was the fact that a bear—possibly his bear—had torn through his school’s offices. For the first time in Dugan’s life, there was evidence that what he saw might be real. It was the very lack of evidence that had made him start to question his sanity. He didn’t know what to think now that there was proof.

Mist wreathed the mountains as he scrambled up and down the steep hollows, looking for the bear. The forest was still and quiet except for the occasional crow and chipmunk calling warnings of his passing. He found the bear not far from the creek bottom where he had first spotted it.

The size of it still took his breath away. It lifted its big square head to gaze at him with dark eyes.

“Did you trash my school?” he asked it.

Dugan had braced himself for “No” and the need to decide if the answer was truthful or not. He wasn’t prepared for “Hm? Yes. What cookies did you bring?”

“Pecan tassies.” He pried the lid off the tin. “Why?”

“Because I’m smarter than the average bear.” The bear stuck his muzzle into the tin and inhaled the tassies. “Oh these are wonderful.”

“W-w-what?”

“The only way I could find out what your Dr. Creepy was doing was break in and read the notes he was keeping in your file. If I made a beeline to his office, I might as well spray-paint the walls with ‘weird shit happened here.’ I brought a few donut boxes and candy wrappers in, scattered them on top of the chaos, and everyone buys that some random black bear trashed the place for food.”

“You brought the donut boxes with you?”

“I had to go all the way Charlottesville for them. Duck Donuts. Great place, weird name.”

“You went to Virginia to get donuts so you could cover up breaking into my school?”

“I told you: smarter than the average bear.”

“The average bear does not buy donuts! You are not a real bear!”

“Obviously this depends on your definition of ‘real.’ I am a bear. I am really here, sitting in front of you, talking with you. Occasionally I drive over to Virginia to touch base with civilization.”

“Drive? You drive?”

“It’s a hundred and eighty miles, one way. I’m not walking that.”

“You went a nearly four hundred miles for donuts?”

“No. That would be stupid. I had business in Charlottesville.”

“Business?”

“I had to meet with my lawyer.”

“Is he a bear too?”

“No, he’s a wolf. They make very good lawyers.”

Dugan pressed his hands to his face, chasing around and around all that he knew was real and everything that he suspected wasn’t. It didn’t make any sense. Bears didn’t drive. Wolves couldn’t be lawyers. The bacon maple donuts could have come from anywhere. The evidence in the form of torn boxes could have been from a school employee being selfish.

A bear had trashed the offices. That was undeniable.

“I don’t understand. Why did you want to know what Dr. Creagh’s notes said? I told you that he scared me. I didn’t tell him anything about you or anything else weird. Did you have to pee on everything?”

“I went to see if this man that you’re afraid of was actually a man.”

A shiver went all the way down Dugan’s spine. “Is he?”

“No. He’s some kind of monster pretending to be human. To most people, he’s as normal as they are. You can see the flaws in his disguise. You can tell that he’s a monster. Everyone’s been telling you that you that you’re crazy and that he’s a doctor, so you’ve been ignoring all the evidence that ran counter to that. Unconsciously, though, he’s been scaring the crap out of you.”

“What did the notes say?” Dugan cried. “You didn’t see him, so this—this guess of yours is all based on the notes. Right? What did you find out? He would sit and ask me questions and write down something. Stuff. I could never see what he was actually writing. What did his notes say about me?”

“Nothing.”

“Wh—wh—what?”

“He was drawing runes that would keep you from realizing he was a monster. Without magic to bolster his disguise, he wouldn’t be able to face you directly or interact with you any length of time.”

Dugan’s head started to hurt. “But how do you know he’s a monster?”

“He smells like a monster. I am a bear, after all. We have the best sense of smell of all terrestrial mammals. Black bears are said to be able to smell a carcass upwind from a distance of twenty miles away.”

“You. Are. Not. A. Real. Bear.”

“I told you. It depends on your definition of ‘real.’ In terms of my sense of smell, yes, I am very much a real bear. Besides, it’s been my experience that first thing any real doctor does is hang up all the paperwork that shows he’s a real doctor. I noticed that your Dr. Creepy’s credentials all had Dr. Metzer’s name on them.”

Dugan had looked at Dr. Metzer’s diplomas. He’d felt comfortable enough with the man to study the office. With Dr. Creepy, he felt like he had to keep his eyes on the man at all time. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“The question becomes: why didn’t Dr. Metzer take his credentials with him. I suspect the answer is: a monster killed him.”

Dugan hated to admit that there been something off about Dr. Metzer’s leaving. He was an idealistic young man, determined to make a difference in the isolated mountain community. The man had been proud of his framed credentials; he’d explained how the choice of his college reflected well on him. He’d thought that it be would be a good thing if Dugan applied to his alma mater of Boston University. “Okay. You’re a bear and Dr. Creagh is a monster. Shit. I have a session with him tomorrow.”

“Don’t go,” the bear said.

“I have to!”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I have to. If I don’t go, the county will start involuntary commitment on me because my mother and her mother killed themselves. It’s the real reason I’m in therapy. Everyone is worried that I might hurt myself. The school district has set it up that if I don’t go to these sessions, they’ll have me committed so they can’t be held responsible. Not even Principal Adkins can stop them if I skip the sessions.”

“Oh, bother.” The bear gave the tin one last sniff. “I’ll have to do something before then. Why aren’t you in school now?”

“It’s an in-service day.”

“So the teachers are all at school?” The bear stood up and shook himself.

“What—what-what are you planning?”

“I’m just going to have a little talk with Dr. Creepy.”

“No, no, that would be bad.”

“Trust me, I want to catch him alone.”

“He won’t be alone! That’s the whole point! There will be other teachers there.”

“Teachers-schmeachers. They’re not the ones to worry about. You just stay here and practice your picture taking.”

Dugan caught hold of the bear’s fur. It was like trying to stop a truck. “You didn’t look at my photos! I got some good ones! I even got one of an angel!”

“An angel?” The bear stopped.

“Yes! She was killing bugs in the supermarket.” Dugan was afraid to let go. “No one else could see her but I got a picture of her.”

“Let me see this angel.” The bear sat down again. He held up both massive front paws and made the “gimme” motion.

Dugan pulled out his camera. “See. Her wings are all cloudy in the photo but I could see each and every feather. She said she was looking for a bear. An unnaturally large bear.”

The bear grunted. “A Virtue. Bother. I was hoping not to pull the attention of the Grigori. It’s always like playing Russian Roulette with them, especially the young ones. It depends on what definition of monster they’re using. At least it’s not a Power. They like to nuke things from orbit. Let God sort them out. That’s the problem with religious zealots.”

“She’s dangerous then?”

“Heavily armed religious zealots tend to be dangerous.”

“She has rifles!”

“Yes, she does, but those daggers are the deadliest weapons she has. They’re magical. They can kill just about anything.”

“I made a mistake. I told her about the bear at the school. She’s probably there now.”

“Good.”

“What? No. That’s bad.”

“No, it’s good.” The bear stood up again. “If she takes out Dr. Creepy before I get there, then I won’t have to deal with either one of them.”

“It’s over twenty miles to my school. It will take you all day.”

“I’ll drive.”

The bear owned a Smart car.

It was tiny, shiny and blue. Decals of a snarling grizzly bear were plastered on its doors, hatchback, and headrests. It sat abandoned in a pull off on an ancient dirt logging road, a mile from anything vaguely like civilization. If it wasn’t for the decals, Dugan would have thought that a desperate tourist had stopped someplace secluded to pee and would be back any moment. Any doubts of ownership were erased when Dugan opened the door and a Duck Donut box fell out at his feet. The lingering scent of bacon, maple and fried dough followed.

The keys dangled in the ignition on a Chicago Bears keyring.

“Chicago Bears?” Dugan asked. “Aren’t you going a little overboard on the whole bear motif?”

“What? I’m from Chicago.”

“What’s Jay Cutler’s number?” His grandpa had watched the Chicago Bears play on Sunday. In their tiny cabin, it was impossible for Dugan to ignore the game as he baked cookies at the range. The commentators talked at length about the quarterback and his injuries.

“Pft,” the bear made a sound of contempt. “Six. Ask me something hard.”

“Where was he born?”

“Santa Claus, Indiana.” The bear cocked his head. “How do you know? You don’t strike me as a Bears fan.”

“I didn’t actually know where he was born.” It had been a test of his insanity; an imaginary bear should only know what he knew. Dugan wasn’t sure what he just proved; the answer sounded fake. “Santa Claus, Indiana? Are you making that up?”

“No. If you’re coming with me, get in.”

Dugan eyed the tiny car. “You actually fit in this?”

“It’s bigger on the inside.”

“It’s a Tardis?”

“No, it’s a Smart car.” The bear opened the driver’s side door. It fished under the driver’s seat to flip the latch and push it back all the way.

“Do you want me to drive?” Dugan said. “I do have my learner’s permit.”

The bear paused as if he was considering it. “It’s a stick.”

Dugan glanced at the shifter between the seats. Instead of labeled “PRNDL” it had “12345R.” “Manual transmission? I’ve never tried driving one before.”

The bear grunted as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “This should be interesting then.”

“Wait. It’s your car—isn’t it?”

“Doh.” The bear grumbled as he didn’t fit behind the wheel in any way that the designers imagined. While the car provided a lot of leg room, it wasn’t wide enough for the grizzly. “I just don’t usually drive it this way. Get in if you’re coming with me.”

Dugan wasn’t sure if he’d actually fit in the car with the bear. It overflowed into the passenger seat. Also enclosing himself in a very small space with a very big, meat-eater probably wasn’t the sanest thing to do. If he didn’t go with it, though, he couldn’t control the chaos that was about to ensue at his school. He didn’t like Dr. Creagh but the rest of the teachers and staff didn’t deserve to be terrorized.

He eased himself into the Smart car.

The bear smelled like clover hay, freshly cut and drying in the summer sun. It was a surprising and not unpleasant scent. Its fur was much softer than he expected.

Jenny’s parents had owned the skin of a black bear that they had tacked to the wall of their living room. The fur had been coarser than that of a coon hound. His bear was unnaturally soft—like a rabbit. That the grizzly was fluffy, soft, and sweet smelling jarred Dugan’s sense of reality.

With the bear overflowing onto his side of the Smart car, it took a minute for Dugan to arrange himself, his camera, his ammo bag, and his muzzleloader in the tight space left over.

“Close the door,” the bear said.

“I’m getting to it.” Dugan had to hitch himself closer to the bear to actually get it shut. There. He was in a very small car with a very big bear.

They sat for a full minute in silence.

“Can you turn the key?” the bear finally asked.

“W-w-why me?”

“I’m afraid that I’ll snap it off in the ignition.” The bear held up his massive right paw and flexed it. “Not a primate. No opposable thumb.”

Dugan leaned over to turn the key, wondering how the hell the bear drove the car when he didn’t have a passenger.

Backing the car onto the logging road required several minutes of annoyed rumbling and furry elbows in Dugan’s face. An angry grizzly in a tight enclosed space was a frightening sound. Dugan pressed himself tight against the passenger door and made sure it was unlocked, so he could bolt quickly. The only comfort was that the bear wouldn’t be able to quickly follow; it was wedged in tight behind the steering wheel.

Once on the road proper, though, the bear proved to be a calm, skilled driver, manual transmission and all.

He was in a car with a grizzly bear going to fight a monster at his high school.

Maybe. If he wasn’t so crazy that he could no longer tell truth from reality.

His high school was in the shadow of Thorny Creek Mountain. It had been built in 1968 as a merger of three different towns whose old schools were being torn down. It was, by necessity, equally distant from all three population centers. He’d just never noticed how isolated it was from everything. There was nothing but fields and trees for as far as the eye could see.

Dugan scanned the parking lot full of cars. The angel’s black Land Rover wasn’t among them. He wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad. He wasn’t sure what kind of car that Dr. Creagh owned. He wasn’t even sure if the man—monster—whatever—drove. He vaguely remembered someone saying something about the new psychologist living near the school, with the implication that he walked to work. There were some houses on down the side road, out of sight of the school.

The bear started to pull into the first free slot. It put the Smart car in direct view of the offices.

“No!” Dugan pointed toward the narrow lane that led back to the baseball diamond. “If we drive up there, we can park the car where no one will see us get out.”

The bear grunted. “I suppose that would be wiser.” It guided the car up the lane. There were one or two worrisome grinding sounds as the car bottomed out on the rough, twisting steep grade. The school was ringed with pines, screening the baseball diamond from anyone that might have noticed the Smart car drive past.

The bear fumbled with the key ring and then growled with annoyance. “Turn it off.”

“Okay.” Dugan turned the key. “Let me go first.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“If anyone sees you they’re going to call the police.”

“Hm, I suppose you’re right.” The bear cursed as he attempted to open the door without breaking the handle.

Dugan hopped out of the car. He ran around to the other side and opened the driver’s door. “Stay back and let me do the talking. I’m good at talking.”

“So you claim.” The Smart car shook and swayed as the bear attempted to climb out without damaging his car. Dugan’s thoughts flashed to Winnie the Pooh, stuck in Rabbit’s door for a week. Surely the bear couldn’t get wedged in his own car.

The right side wheel lifted off the ground as bear heaved himself to the left. Dugan scurried back, afraid that the car would roll. With a curse, the bear forced himself out the door and the wheels thumped back onto the ground.

They walked down the hill, keeping the pine trees between them and the school. It was weird that despite the fact that they’d been traveling for nearly an hour between walking to the car, struggling for the bear to get in and out, and the drive itself, Dugan hadn’t considered the actual upcoming confrontation. What was the bear planning to do? Maul Dr. Creagh?

“We just need the man to sign the paperwork saying I don’t need therapy anymore.” Dugan was keenly aware that he still wasn’t entirely sure that there was a talking bear walking beside him. The fact that he was at the school seemed to prove he was, but it all felt more surreal that any other moment in his life. How was this real? Shouldn’t real feel more normal? Boring? It didn’t help that sheer nervousness was making him want to giggle like a five-year-old. This had to be actually happening but cold reason insisted that he wasn’t about to walk into the school with a grizzly bear. He had to be alone and something was seriously wrong with him to not be able to find any rational proof that he wasn’t.

Why was he so torn? It seemed fairly clear in the woods. The forest was a place of changing nature, shifting shadows and whispers of old magic. Fairytales recognized the mysticism of the place. In the woods, anything could happen.

His high school was a place of fact. One plus one always equaled two. Earth was a planet circling the sun. Reality was what one saw and no more.

Up to this point, he could see his possible insanity as an uncertain quirk. He may or may not be imaging monsters. It was possible that he was actually seeing creatures that slipped away, leaving no track, like a quick snake or elusive mouse. There and gone before anyone else saw it.

When they walked into school, he’d know for sure. He was afraid that the answer was that he was as insane as everyone said. That all this time, he had fooled himself into believing that there was some rational answer and that he was sane as he felt.

If he was crazy, then he had little hope for the future. Photography might hold hope for him, but that was questionable if he was so delusional that he was taking pictures of things that weren’t there.

He lengthened his stride as nervousness jangled through his system like pure electricity. He reached the glass doors that faced the parking lot. The first two doors he tried were locked. The hallways beyond the glass were strangely dark; he couldn’t see into the black to pick out any details. He glanced back at the parking lot. Had the teachers all gone home? No, the tight huddle of cars sat in the reserved parking spaces. Mrs. Costa’s ancient wood-trimmed station wagon sat beside Principal Adkins’ red Ford Mustang. Two dozen cars in all indicating that the teachers and the administrative staff were all at work.

The third door he tried opened to a rocky, dark tunnel.

He stood there a moment staring at the jagged cavelike opening.

So much for his sanity check.

The bear peered over his shoulder and grunted. “Not good.”

Dugan glanced back at the cars in the parking lot. “Where are the teachers? Are they in there?”

The bear sniffed deeply. “Yes, they’re in there—wherever there is. Most likely it still looked like a school to them when they went through the door.”

“It is a school. My school.”

“Nah, something twisted this doorway. It doesn’t lead to the school anymore. It leads to someplace dark and wet and cold. I might have rattled your Doctor Creepy a little too hard. He’s taking this fight to somewhere he’s more comfortable.”

The truth that Dugan could feel in the statement jarred horribly with the everyday logic that he normally operated on. People didn’t just transform buildings into caves overnight. Bears didn’t talk.

The bear turned and headed back to its car.

“You’re just leaving?” Dugan called after it, unable to tear his eyes away from cave.

“Letting your enemy chose the battlefield is a loser’s gambit.”

“What about the teachers?”

“Unfortunate collateral damage.”

“No! We can’t just leave them there.” Dugan started back to the car. “I’m getting my gun and going in.”

“That’s not a very sane thing to do.”

“Nothing here is sane. I’m just winging this! Just like I always do.”

He got his muzzleloader and ammo bag out of the Smart car.

“That thing works?” the bear asked with surprise.

“Yes. I hunt with it. Mostly small game. Squirrels. Rabbits. Possum. Anything to put meat on the table.”

“I thought you were carrying around because . . .  Well. I wasn’t sure why you were carrying around a Civil War weapon. I just thought it was one of your quirks.”

“I don’t really have money for a new gun and it works fine.” Placing the butt on the ground, Dugan took a cartridge from his ammo bag.

The bear blocked his hand holding the cartridge. “What is that?”

“It’s a bullet and black power wrapped in a spell charm.”

“Spell charm?” It roared into Dugan’s face, blasting back his bangs with the force of its shout. “Why do you have bullets wrapped in spells?”

“They fly truer that way.” Dugan pulled his arm free. “I need the advantage to take head shots. I’ve tried hunting using just normal paper but I miss every time.”

“Where the hell did you learn spells without knowing monsters are real?”

“My grandpa always says that my mom was just a kid herself when she had me and filled with nonsense from her mother who had been bat shit crazy. When everyone tells you the same thing, you start to believe it, even when you know it’s wrong. I started to think that it was all in my head that I needed the spells to hit a target. That’s why I tried hunting with normal paper.”

Dugan ripped the top off of the cartridge with his teeth and poured the black powder down the barrel.

“Does this thing have enough stopping power?” The bear eyed the gun closer. “I mean—you’re killing squirrels with it. Dr. Creepy is bigger than a chipmunk.”

“I do headshots for a reason. Its bullet is bigger than what people usually use for deer. If I hit a squirrel in the body, I’d ruin half the meat.”

“What the hell? This gun is covered with spell runes! Where the hell did you get it?”

“It was my mom’s gun and her mother’s before her and her grandmother’s before that.” He cut the excess paper off, careful not to damage the spell written on the bottom edge of the paper. He slid the ramrod free and tamped the bullet down until it was seated firmly against the base.

“Are you coming with me?”

The bear looked away.

For a minute, Dugan was sure that the bear was going to say no. Then it gave a loud sigh, and said “Oh, bother. Fine. I’ll come with you.”

Dugan started for the school, gripping his muzzleloader tightly. There’d better be monsters at the school or he was about to get into a hell of lot of trouble.

His class had gone down into a coal mine in fifth grade. It was an old shaft, long played out, the remaining equipment repurposed for educational field trips. They’d been given helmets—as if this would save them if the ceiling collapsed—loaded onto a squat train car, and taken down into the darkness. It seemed at first like a very slow roller coaster ride as they rolled away from the loading zone. The tracks led into a shed made of corrugated tin and then into the arched mine opening. The horror started once they plunged into the darkness.

He suffered déjà vu as he walked down the hill to open the door into his high school. The “hallways” were lined with the same rough-hewn, light-devouring black rock. Dust hazed the cold, damp air. The absolute darkness was held back by bare light bulbs strung a dozen feet apart. The lamps created small islands of dim light surround by shifting shadows. To finish the illusion, intermittent posts and support beams held up a low ceiling.

Was it an illusion or did the doorway into the school now lead to the heart of a mountain?

He’d forgotten to take his camera off. He lifted it up to focus the lens on the hallway. It showed the minelike passage. He hit the button. It flashed in the dark of the hallway. The saved photo indicated that he was really standing in a shadowy rocky corridor.

“You’re still not sure of yourself?” the bear asked.

“I thought that the school would prove things to me. Green Bank elementary was full of creepy stuff. Here? Weird shit never happened at my high school before. It always made me feel more crazy since everywhere else is ‘anything goes.’ If the world is full of scary monsters, then all the world should have them. That my school was excluded made me question myself.”

“I’m not sure if I should say congratulations or condolences.”

“This is not a good thing.” Dugan stalked forward into the dimly lit tunnel.

“No, it isn’t. It would be helpful to even know what kind of monster your Dr. Creepy is. I thought I was somewhat knowledgeable about such things, but I have no idea.”

“This all reminds me of stories my mother told me. My grandmother had taught her a shitload of crazy tales on top of the ones everyone else knows. You know: the fairytales that Disney have animated. Sleeping Beauty, Rapunzel, Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, Hansel and Gretel, and that girl that spun gold out of straw. What the hell is with that shit? Why do people tell kids stuff like that and then expect them to know reality from fiction?”

“There’s a story about monsters in caves kidnapping school teachers?”

“Sort of. If I didn’t eat my liver and onions, my mom would say that a dvergr would carry me off to its lair under the mountains. She’d sing this song about it asking if I should be boiled in broth and gravy, roasted on a spit or browned in stewpan. It scared me silly.”

“No wonder your grandpa thinks she was off her rocker.”

“She said that dvergr were white maggots that fed on the body of this giant by the name of Ymir. He was so massive that when the gods killed him, they created the world out of his bones and flesh. The dvergr were maggots that burrowed into Ymir’s flesh, feeding on his body. They grew intelligent but remained maggots in thoughts and deeds.”

“Hm, yeah, there’s a bit of a carrion smell to your Doctor Creepy. Did she tell you anything useful about killing these dvergr?”

“Not really. They’re fearful things. They won’t attack the strong. They like the dark. They’re clever but you can never figure out what they’re after. My mom says that the girl spinning the straw to gold was dealing with a dvergr. Why did Rumpelstiltskin want the king’s firstborn son? To eat him? To overthrow the king? The stories never say. In all the fairytales, the heroes used the dvergr’s pride against them. They like to think they’re smarter than anyone; the problem being is that they usually are.”

“That’s not promising.”

“Yeah. The reason my mom’s stories frightened me so bad was they weren’t like fairytales. In her stories people didn’t live to be happy ever after. The monsters usually won.”

“A childhood like that and you didn’t know monsters were real?”

“She told me lots of things that weren’t true. Santa Claus. Easter Bunny. The tooth fairy. That my father was a good man when he’d killed three men in Virginia. He was executed shortly after I was born. Everyone else told me that monsters were just make believe. Old stories to scare kids into behaving. It wasn’t until she’d—died that the monsters started to show up.”

They picked their way down the rough-hewn tunnel. The naked bulbs barely held back the dense black of the mine.

The narrow tunnel branched. The passage to the right opened up to large dark chamber. At least, Dugan sensed it was large. He couldn’t see into the darkness beyond the feeble light in the hallway.

“Which way do you think we should go?”

The bear sniffed. “Oh, bother, the teachers are in this big room. They’re not moving. They might be dead, but they don’t smell like it.”

“Dead?” Dugan plunged into the dark.

“Wait!” the bear shouted behind him. “There’s a big drop off right in front of you!”

Dugan froze in place. “What?”

“Don’t go running blindly in the dark!” the bear grumbled. “I can see a hundred times better than you. There’s a huge hole in the ground straight in front of you. The teachers are on the ground in front of it. It feels like a trap.”

Dugan wavered in place. He couldn’t see anything. He should have brought a flashlight. He needed to see in order to shoot anything. Any coon hunter knew that. The muzzleloader, though, needed both hands to fire. He couldn’t hold the long barrel steady enough to hit anything.

Did he have anything that made light? His camera had a flash but that would only destroy his night vision. He thought over the contents of his ammo bag. He had matches. What else?

“What are you doing?” the bear asked as Dugan picked his way carefully back to the last lamp.

“I need light.” He fumbled blindly through his ammo bag, finding things mostly by feel. He found the length of cotton clothesline first. He measured off a couple of inches and cut it with his hunting knife. “I’m going to make a lamp.”

Dugan took out his glass flask. It was only thing he had that belonged to his father. He kept it in his ammo bag to keep it away from his grandpa, who would drink the contents and sell the antique flask. It should be full of his family’s dangerous black pot moonshine. He couldn’t tell by weight. The leather cover made it impossible to check. He stripped off the cover and held it up to the light bulb. Yes, it was still full.

He unscrewed the lid and dipped one end of the clothesline, and then the other, into the moonshine. He threaded the damp line through a grommet and then stuffed the loose end into the flask.

He found his matches and lit the wick. The light it put off was feeble in the oppressive darkness. He picked his way into the large room, holding the flask out in front of him.

The teachers lay in untidy heaps in the darkness. It seemed as if they were all carried to the room and dumped on the floor dangerously close to the edge of a huge hole in the ground. Principal Adkins had his right arm dangling over the lip.

Dugan wedged the flask lamp upright so his hands were free to move Principal Adkins to relative safety in the hallway. He was heavier than Dugan expected; he couldn’t actually lift the man up and carry him. The bear helped drag the man over the rough ground.

“He’s breathing.” The bear sniffed Principal Adkins. “He’s drugged or poisoned or something. The others are probably in the same condition.”

“How am we going to get them all out?” Dugan paused, thinking he heard something. “Did you hear that?”

“Something is coming,” the bear said. “It sounds weird, like a wasp or something flying.”

Dugan listened intently. There was the dry rustling like the thrashing of leaves. It grew louder, like a storm front moving through a forest. He gripped his rifle tightly.

“Look out!” The bear sent Dugan tumbling.

Something flashed over Dugan as he rolled. A large pale shape flickered in and out of the light given off by the flask lamp. He caught the fleeting impression of a large pale wasplike creature with translucent wings. It tugged at the shoulder of his coat, slicing through the thick wool and the flannel of his shirt beneath it, and then was gone.

“What was that?” Dugan scrambled to his feet, bringing up his rifle.

“Dr. Creepy!” The bear shouted the name like an insult.

“You should have stayed out of this, bear!” Dr. Creagh’s voice came from someplace up high. “This is none of your business!”

The bear roared in reply. It reared up on its hind legs, swiping at something diving out of the darkness.

Dugan caught the flash of white as the creature flashed overhead. He pulled the trigger out of sheer instinct. In the muzzle flare, he saw the pale giant wasp dodge the bullet. It flitted away, vanishing into the darkness.

He swore. He needed to reload the muzzleloader in the near dark before it attacked again. He popped the percussion cap out of the lock.

“Shit,” the bear swore lowly. “It stung me.”

“What?” Dugan pulled a second cartridge out of his ammo bag.

“I thought if I could get a paw onto it, I could take it.” The bear stumbled back from the lip of the gaping hole in the floor. “Most things are a pushover for me. I didn’t think that the thing could sting me.”

Dugan tore the top off the paper cartridge. He fought not to panic. If he did, he could screw up reloading. He couldn’t help but curse under his breath. He should have listened to the bear and run. He could have called 911 and hoped that the police could rescue the teachers. He should have tried to find the angel.

Beside him, the bear collapsed onto the ground with a groan.

Dugan poured the black powder into the barrel. He placed the paper-wrapped ball into the barrel, listening for the rustle of wings. If the creature managed to poison him, it would be all over. Everyone would die. The teachers. The bear. Him.

He heard the rustle of the wings. He wasn’t reloaded yet. He couldn’t get a shot off. He needed more time!

He closed his eyes and hit the shutter release on his camera. He saw the brilliant flash through his eyelids. Dr. Creagh cried out in surprise and pain.

Dugan opened his eyes. The wasp winged past him, the stinger nearly grazing him. It circled wide to attack again.

He kicked the flask lamp at the monster.

The glass broke on impact, dousing the wasp in burning moonshine. Dr. Creagh went up in flames.

Dugan pulled the ramrod free. He tamped the lead ball down the barrel until it hit the seat. He pulled out the ramrod, slipped the percussion cap into place. The burning wasp was crawling toward him, the flames reflecting in its multifaceted eyes.

He took aim and fired. Without thinking, he took a headshot.

The monster bore little resemblance to Dr. Creagh. It looked even less like the man with the massive hole in the forehead. It collapsed, still burning.

Dugan stood panting as the flames died away, leaving him in darkness. After a moment, his eyes adjusted and he realized that he was standing in the combined gym and stage. The lights were off and the big, cavernous room was lit only by the small windows high above the bleachers. The teachers and the bear lay scattered around him, unconscious. The dvergr smoldered, looking less and less like a living creature as the exoskeleton turned to ash and collapsed.

What did he do now? If he called the police, how was going to explain this? There was no cave. No monster. Just him, a bear, and lots of mysteriously wounded teachers.

The fire alarm went off.

It was loud blaring noise. The light beside the exit strobed bright white.

“Shit!” The sound made Dugan jump. He raised his muzzleloader to block attacks out of sheer reflex. He stared wide eyed at the rifle. Gun. School. “Shit!”

He had to hide his rifle before the police arrived or he was going to be in so much trouble.

He raced for the nearest the door. “Wait! My ammo bag!” He ran back, picked it up, and realized that he couldn’t leave the bear lying unconscious on the floor. While the police would help the teachers, they’ll probably shoot the bear. “Oh no!”

He tried shaking the bear awake. “Get up! Get up!”

It grunted but didn’t wake up.

It was no use. He had to hide the bear.

He glanced around the huge room. Besides the closed bleachers and the basketball hoops, the room was utterly empty. Extending the bleachers would take too much time. The stage curtain was closed but he wouldn’t be able to get the massive animal up the short flight of steps. Nor could he get it down the steps to the locker rooms under the stage. There was the storage room for the gym equipment and large play props but it usually was locked. He ran over to the doors. Stunningly, they weren’t. He ran back to the bear and tugged feebly on it in an attempt to pick it up.

How long before the police showed up? Neither Dunmore or Green Bank had a police department. They would have to come from Marlinton. It was twenty-minute drive but there could be a squad car patrolling the area. The sound of the alarm might bring the people that lived down the road. They would have guns. Everyone hunted in this part of the woods.

Dugan ran in a circle around the bear. How could he move such a huge creature alone?

He remembered that the gymnastic team had dollies to move their equipment. A couple boys got into trouble last year for racing them around the gym. He ran back to the storage room. Four dollies sat by the door. He stacked them together and wheeled them back to the bear.

He struggled to roll the bear onto the dollies. He heaved up the huge head and kicked the first dolly under its shoulders. The big front paws were easier to move. “You are a seriously big bear!”

When he lifted the bear’s hindquarters, its front started to roll across the gym floor. “No! Wait!”

It took three tries with the bear rolling willy-nilly about the gym to get the last dolly under the massive butt. Over the loud fire alarm, he could hear a distant siren growing closer. The police were coming!

Dugan pushed the bear to the storage room and hid it under bags filled with soccer balls. He ran back to the gym to snatch up his muzzleloader. He heard shouting of men filling the halls. He’d run out of time; he couldn’t leave the school unseen with the gun. He ran back to the storage room.

The door didn’t have a latch on the inside. Dugan supposed it was so students wouldn’t lock themselves in it. The doors opened out, so he couldn’t barricade them shut. He closed them firmly and turned off the lights. All he could do was sit in the dark and pray.

Within minutes, the police determined that there was no real threat of fire. The alarm was silenced.

Sitting in the dark, listening to the muffled voices of the first responders was a weirdly enlightening. For the first time in his life, people saw the evidence that something strange had happened to him. They doused Dr. Creagh’s body with fire extinguishers and then proclaimed that the smoldering remains “weren’t human.” The puncture wounds were discovered on the teachers and staff. One victim was roused enough to cry out. “A mine! We fell into a mine!”

He wasn’t crazy. He was sitting within feet of a snoring bear that could talk. It owned a Smart Car. It could drive. There been an invisible angel at the supermarket.

There was an invisible angel standing in the open doorway.

She’d yanked open the doors and glared down. Her brilliant wings were stretched out behind her, shielding them from the first responders. He knew that she knew that he was at the root of the chaos behind her.

“I didn’t do anything,” he blurted out. “Well, I did something but only after Dr. Creagh—he’s a dvergr—they’re these bugs that look like people—well, I didn’t know they were bugs, my mother never told me about that part. Dr. Creagh did this! I don’t know why. I don’t know anything. My mother never told me . . . ”

Actually, his mother had. He had spent years thinking she was crazy. That he was crazy.

Any relief of finding out he wasn’t crazy was stolen by the knowledge that the world was filled with all the monsters his mother told him about. Her world was a frightening, dangerous place.

Was that why people kept saying that there were no things as monsters? Did it feel better to stay ignorant than admit the truth? But wasn’t it more dangerous to walk around with blinders on? Dr. Creagh had scared him silly but Dugan had no power to investigate Creagh’s credentials or research his background or even check on the well-being of Dr. Metzer. None of this would have happened if the teachers had taken off their blinders and acknowledged something weird was going on.

“Where’s the bear?” the angel snapped.

“The bear didn’t do anything bad!” He stood up. His muzzleloader wasn’t loaded but it would make a good club.

“Where is it?”

He knew it be bad to lie to her. Angels probably were like Santa Claus. She probably knew when he was lying.

Before he could think of a safe answer, the bear grunted loudly from under the soccer balls.

Dugan blocked her glance toward the hidden bear. “I’m not going to let you hurt him,” he said. He had no idea how he’d stop her since her gun was probably loaded and his wasn’t.

She glanced down at his muzzleloader, eyes narrowing.

He pressed on, hoping that he could talk his way out of this since he couldn’t win a fight with her. “The bear is my friend. He’s teaching me photography. He protected me.”

“Do you even know what he is?” she said.

“I know that he’s good.”

“Good is subjective.”

“All my life people have told me that what I knew to be the truth were signs of insanity. They’ve said that every shred of evidence that I could gather was proof that I was crazy. Nothing I could do or say or show them would make them change their minds. It’s because they didn’t want to admit that they’re possibly wrong. They’ve been fed one safe, clean version of reality and refuse to believe anything that goes against.” He waved his hand toward the teachers lying on the floor being examined by paramedics. “They’ll find some stupid, impossible, wrong explanation for this. Toxic gases from some abandoned coal mine. Food poisoning. Something. Anything but the truth, because the truth would require being open to the idea that they don’t know everything. I know that the bear is a good person not because I’m using some preconceived notion of what is good and evil, but because I’ve weighed the evidence.”

She scuffed her boot beside a smear of blood on the wooden floor. “It’s wounded. Is it poisoned like the others?”

“Yes.” It felt dangerous to admit but the evidence was clear.

“You know how to cure dvergr poisoning?”

He knew only what his mother taught him. “Would the nine-herb charm work?”

“Yes.”

He dug through his ammo bag. His mother had taught him to make a healing salve with herbs that they picked on the mountain. It had mugwort, cockspur grass, lamb's cress, plantain, mayweed, nettle, crab-apple, thyme and fennel. Like the spell charm bullets, the salve worked too well to abandon. It was more evidence that he’d been ignoring.

He smeared the salve into the bear’s wound. "Bone to bone, blood to blood, limb to limb, as if they were mended.”

I’m not crazy, he thought. It felt like stepping back to the sanity of his childhood, where the world was a frightening place but he was strong within it. He saw wolves at Charlottesville because they were really there, not because he was insane and seeing things that weren’t real. He saw the truth. The evidence was there if he believed his own eyes and not what others told him was the truth. He was powerful because he could take action.

“You do realize that you’re petting me,” the bear grumbled.

“Oh, sorry.”

“It’s all right.” The bear heaved itself to its feet. “Get your gun, let’s go.”

“What? You think we can just walk out of here?”

“You heard the firemen. Toxic gas!” the bear muttered. “Makes you see the damnedest things that aren’t really there.”

“They still might try to record us with their phones.”

“Oh, the joy of vacationing in this area is that most people don’t own cell phones because they can’t get any reception. It’s the National Radio Quiet Zone. But just in case, walk fast and keep your head down.”

DEI BRITANNICI

A Prologue to Witchy Eye

D.J. Butler

“Please,” Father Edward Grant pleaded. “I believe this may be vital.”

The cold October rain skipped right past Grant’s tall boxy hat and poured down his neck. He shivered, despite the heavy cloak. He’d ridden a long way, dressed in priestly black in the hope that if he met Cromwell’s men, their respect for clergy might give him some protection.

“The general be in council.” The guard’s face was stony, but then relaxed, ever so slightly. He and his fellow soldiers wore Churchill’s red and white, faded and stained almost gray. “I wot who you be, Father. I were born and raised in Aldershot. St. George’s Road, just up the ’ill from your church.”

Grant seized the guard’s hands. The other man’s skin felt hot to the touch, the priest was so chilled from his two days’ ride over the North Downs and into the Weald. “Daniel!” he cried. “You’re the butcher’s son, I know you! I baptized you, Daniel!”

“Aye, you brought me to salvation, Father, but this ben’t the right moment for such recollections. I be on duty.”

The other guard, who hadn’t spoken, stepped forward and put a hand on Father Grant’s shoulder.

A breeze blew open the tent flap behind Daniel for just a moment, and Grant caught a glimpse of long curly white hair. Not the powdered white of an aristocrat’s periwig, but the glossy white of a man whose natural hair had turned that color prematurely, and framed within the silver curls, pale ivory skin.

“Sir Isaac!” Father Grant tightened his grip on Daniel’s hands, hearing the younger man’s knuckles pop. “Sir Isaac Newton, I see him in there in the council.” His mind raced.

“Aye, Father, he were invited General Churchill’s council of war, and you were not.”

“Only do this, and I will leave.” Grant shuffled back half a step, mud sucking noisily at his heels, but retained his grip on Daniel’s hands. “Only give Sir Isaac a simple message. If he is not interested, I will go away.”

The second guard grunted his disapproval, but Daniel nodded. “Aye then, Father. What be the message?”

“Tell Sir Isaac someone has stolen the Aldershot parish register. Sir Isaac, you understand. Sir Isaac must hear the message.”

The two guards looked at each other skeptically.

“I am not mad,” Grant said. “You know me, Daniel, I baptized you.” He sobbed once, saying the word baptized. Then he sniffed deeply, feeling the rain and chill begin to settle into his lungs. “You know I am not mad.”

“I wot you were not mad, Father.” Daniel took a deep breath. “And therefore I shall bear your message. Stay here.”

Daniel pushed the priest farther back. With an effort, Father Grant relaxed his hands and let Daniel go. The young guard from Aldershot stooped to enter the tent.

The second guard snarled, tilting his pike forward slightly in a threatening manner. “I be no Aldershot man, and I ken you not, sir. Keep your distance.”

Sir Isaac Newton exploded from the tent and into the rain. He was not dressed for the weather in his white shirt and breeches, but he plunged past the guard to grab Father Grant by the shoulders in a close embrace. He smelled like man who had not bathed in many days, and his fingernails were stained odd colors—alchemy, no doubt.

“The parish register of Aldershot!” Newton gasped. “Stolen! Are you certain?”

“I . . . I am the parson, Sir Isaac,” Father Grant stammered. “The lock was shattered with a musket ball, and nothing was taken but the register. You understand why I have come straight here, I think.”

“Damn it! Damn us!” Sir Isaac spun and dragged the priest with him toward the tent door. “Damn you!” he cried to the guard. “Damn the delay! Damn it all!”

He pulled Father Grant into the tent.

The interior was lit as well as warmed by torches, and further warmed by a small fire. All the flame left the tent smoky despite an open flap in the tent ceiling that let in a constant spatter of rain in exchange for venting some of the fumes. Standing around a light table bearing a map were men Father Grant didn’t recognize, other than Daniel the butcher’s son and, from his paintings, General John Churchill. The famous war leader had a shopkeeper’s face, but enviable hair, long, black, and thickly curled. He looked much better groomed than his wizard.

“Sir.” Father Grant executed his best bow, holding his dripping hat to his chest and keeping it there.

“My sergeant here says you’ve come to report a stolen register of baptisms,” John Churchill said.

“Aye,” Daniel said.

“And burials and weddings.” Father Grant nodded. “Though it’s the baptisms in particular that concern me.”

“And my thaumaturge Isaac is thereby distressed, though I do not for the life of me see why. Still, he is my wizard, and what is the point of having a magician in your company if you ignore his advice? Also, I find that the most surprising things become matters of life and death when one battles the Necromancer and his forces.”

One of the other men in the tent pressed a warm goblet into Grant’s hands. It smelled of wine and he gratefully took deep gulps, breathing as much as tasting the spices.

“It’s the Aldershot parish, John,” Isaac Newton said. “Aldershot.”

“A third of our men here today are from Aldershot,” Churchill said.

“Stolen,” Newton continued. “The church was broken into and nothing was stolen but the register.”

“They left the pyx and the chalice,” Father Grant said. “Pure silver. They left the poor box. So not ordinary burglars. Not looters.”

“And if Aldershot, why not Farnham?” Isaac said. “Why not Haslemere? Do you understand, John?”

John Churchill removed an octavo volume from his coat pocket and ran his fingers over the spine and cover. Father Grant caught a short glimpse of the book’s title and author, stamped in gold on the front: DEI BRITANNICI, WINSTON CHURCHILL. John’s father, a scholar whose researches into the ancient Britonic and Saxon religious practices of the island had earned him first censure, then praise, and ultimately a reputation for being a heretic.

“I am beginning to understand,” John Churchill said.

“I do not,” Daniel said, somewhat indignantly. The others ignored him and he kept his place.

“It is contagion.” Newton paced the tent in an erratic pattern, wheeling and retracing his steps, changing his angle radically with each turn. In his movements, he resembled nothing so much as a bee. An enormous, silver bee. “A person, having once been in contact with the Aldershot register—and at such a fragile and energy-ridden moment as baptism, at that!—must always be in contact with that register, from the point of view of a practitioner of gramarye. It’s an act of genius, if cruel genius. Do you think he has read the Principia? Good god, did I inadvertently teach the Necromancer his craft?”

“I have read the Principia,” Father Grant said. “It is how I saw the problem.”

“There you have it, Isaac,” Churchill said. “If you gave the Necromancer this foul idea, then you also planted the seed of our salvation in the heart of this good parish priest.”

“Begging your pardon, Sir Isaac,” Grant added, “but in addition to neatly demonstrating the principle of contagion, might this not also be an example of the principle of sympathy?”

Newton stopped pacing and fixed Father Grant with a piercing eye. “How so?”

“The man’s name is like the man. Therefore the man’s name is the man. Especially at baptism, where the child is remade in a new image. What one does to the name, one does to the man. Or am I mistaken in my understanding?”

“It is indeed I, then, who have done this to us.” Isaac Newton’s eyes brimmed with sudden tears.

John Churchill snorted. “Oliver Cromwell was forty years on this earth before you ever saw your mother’s breast, Isaac. What on earth do you believe you can have taught him about magic?”

Father Grant, shocked by the sight of tears, struggled to recover. “Indeed, he may have come to similar conclusions from reading Albertus Magnus. Or Cornelius Agrippa, or other books. I once spent an hour in the library of a London Jew, who had the most astonishing texts.”

Churchill clapped his hand on Newton’s shoulder, nearly knocking the other man down, but he turned his attention to Father Grant. “Is Albertus Magnus part of your lectionary cycle, Father? That seems rather off the beaten path.”

Father Grant looked down at his hat. “I aspired as a younger man to wear the red. To be an adept of the Humble Order of Saint Reginald Pole. Only I hadn’t the talent for it.”

“That’s too bad,” Churchill said. “I’d trade a lot for few more solid Polites.”

Isaac Newton straightened his back, his grief falling off him like red leaves blown off by an autumn storm. “But this parish priest had done you better service than many a wizard would be able, John. Thanks to his warning, we have a chance.”

The flattery from Sir Isaac, his participation in the discussion with such eminent men, and the danger he knew loomed over them all boiled together in Father Grant’s veins and thrilled his heart. “A nighttime raid?” he suggested. “Have you men bold and able enough to creep into the Necromancer’s camp and steal back the register?”

John Churchill blinked at him. “Is that where the book is, then?”

Grant faltered. “I don’t . . . I thought . . .”

“They could be anywhere,” Sir Isaac said grimly. “For all we know, he has the register of every parish in Hampshire locked up in the Tower of London and is there preparing to incorporate them into some unhallowed spell.”

“What is his intent, do you think?” Churchill asked.

Isaac Newton’s expression was grave. “I hope it is merely to kill all your soldiers, John.”

Daniel the butcher’s son gasped audibly.

“Quite,” Churchill agreed. “I’d rather have them dead than raised against me as more of those rotting Lazars.”

“A counter-spell!” Father Grant suggested. “We gather the men in a church until the danger is passed, and we ward the church, further, against the Necromancer’s black art.”

“Isaac’s black art, you mean.” Churchill chuckled. “No, I think not.”

“How would you know when the Necromancer had tried his spell and failed?” Newton pointed out. “Even assuming I could create a counter-spell that would defend against such an attack. It is I who am to do this, is it not? When you say we, Father, do you not mean Isaac Newton shall do it?”

Father Grant wanted to apologize for his presumption, but what came out was a mumble, incoherent even to himself.

“What about silver, John?” Newton asked. “How much have we got?”

Churchill shrugged. “This army marches more on paper redeemable with the Knights of Saint John than it does on specie, Isaac. I doubt I have enough coins to give each man a silver shilling to clutch.”

“And that might not be enough to protect them, in any case.” Newton frowned.

“I have a different idea.” Churchill’s eyes gleamed.

“Tell us,” Father Grant said.

“I have a conceived a scheme that should save the men of Aldershot,” Churchill said, “as well as any other men whose baptismal records Cromwell has stolen. And it won’t exhaust my wizard or cost me silver. And indeed, it should allow us to lay a trap for the Necromancer’s men.”

“It certainly sounds good, John,” Newton said. “What other miracles might it accomplish, this plan of yours?”

Churchill smiled slyly. “It will make of Father Grant here a sort of magician.”

“No,” Edward Grant murmured. An uneasy feeling pinched his stomach. “I don’t see how that could possibly be true.”

“Father Grant,” Churchill said, “I think you are the only man who can save the Aldershot lads from the Necromancer now.”

Grant’s knees trembled. He drained the last of his goblet and set it on the table. “What do you need?”

“Sergeant,” Churchill said to Daniel, still standing in the door of the tent. “I need you to round up every stray animal in camp. Let us spare the horses, if we may, but every other animal. I mean very cow, goat, dog, cat, rat, and mouse you and your men can find. If it were less cold, I’d set you to trapping snakes as well. My orders, no exceptions, any man resisting is to be knocked unconscious. Am I clear?”

“Aye, sir.” Daniel offered a weary salute and exited.

“And me?” Grant asked. “What do you need me to do?”

“First,” Churchill said, “I need you to steel your conscience.”

##

His sobs long since exhausted with the rainfall, his eyes red and his heart black, Father Grant crouched in the gorse thickets on a ridge overlooking Churchill’s camp. With his travel cloak wrapped around him and his hat pulled down low, he should be invisible from the valley, a black blotch against the dark green gorse. Dawn was near. At the edge of camp, the horses grazed where they had been picketed, blissfully unaware anything had happened.

Churchill’s men lay strewn about camp. Some were on cots, others in tents, some on the ground beneath trees, others slumped forward at watch posts. The fires, hammered by rain until midnight, were now almost extinguished.

At the far end of the valley, the sound of marching.

Unnatural marching; too regular, too wooden.

The horses heard it first, and responded. They pulled at their pickets, they whinnied in protest.

Father Grant, alone in the gorse where John Churchill had left him, forced himself to watch.

The men of Essex and Kent, the Roundheads, came into view first. They wore the Necromancer’s black and brown. They carried muskets over their shoulders and bandoliers of cartridges over their chests. Their marching was disciplined enough, but it was human.

Behind the easterners came the Models.

They were the height of men, and some had faces painted onto their knob heads. Garish red devil faces, or crooked crimson grins under green hair, or bright yellow circles with black dots for eyes. Some also had black uniforms painted on their wooden bodies, but many were unfinished, showing garishly what they were—wooden puppets, the height of men, holding spears. Age, weather, and battle had chipped and splintered them, leaving many of them as spiny as hedgehogs.

Puppets without strings.

Murderous, man-sized marionettes.

It was the Models, walking on broad wooden feet the size of tree stumps and stepping forward together, as perfectly synchronized as a clock, that made the unearthly sound of the Necromancer’s advance. Their joints clicked as they walked, and the movement caused the wood of their long limbs to creak like a forest in the wind.

The Roundheads reached the first watchmen, still at the edge of camp. They rolled the guards onto their backs, and then a collective cheer went up from Cromwell’s army.

Several of the soldiers bayoneted the already dead men, to be sure.

Father Edward Grant had saved Daniel and the other Aldershot lads from that fate, at least.

The other Roundheads broke rank and ran forward to loot the camp.

The Models stopped where they were. Controlled by the Necromancer, or by one of his sorcerous lieutenants, they had no lust for booty like that which drove their mortal colleagues.

Grant felt sick to his heart.

The Roundheads rushed forward. Most threw their muskets into the grass, anxious not to be burdened and slowed down by the cumbersome Brown Besses in their race to get their hands on silver rings, gold teeth, pay packets, even fresh food.

As the Roundheads flooded into camp a sudden horn blew.

At the horn’s signal, every man of Aldershot and every other man in Churchill’s Hampshire Corps sat up, took aim, and fired. A ragged BOOM rang out over the valley, wreathing the scene in blue smoke at the exact moment that a crescent sliver of orange sun rose in the eastern sky.

Roundheads fell on all sides.

In Edward Grant’s ears, the booming of the guns sounded like the ringing of the bell. Once for each man in the camp, and the last time for himself.

Stunned, disbelieving, most of Cromwell’s men only stopped their efforts to loot and stared instead. Churchill’s men fired again; each had lain within reach of as many loaded muskets and pistols as possible.

John Churchill’s men rose with pikes, bayonets, and swords, and charged into the unresisting Roundheads. In Grant’s mind’s eye, the book of the Gospels slammed shut. Again and again, once for each man who fell.

“Pikemen, form up!” Churchill strode from his tent with a pistol in each hand, hair flying behind him. It made a grand entrance, and for good effect, he fired the pistols at the Models.

The Models charged.

“Fire!” Churchill yelled.

He did not mean guns. As the Models crashed into the pikemen and slowed, becoming entangled with the long spears and halberds that tried to push them away, another dozen men charged from Churchill’s tent. Daniel the butcher’s son was one of them, and they held bottles in their hands. The bottles were stopped up with oily rags, and the rags themselves were burning.

In a frayed wave, the bottles hurtled through the air. Maybe half of them missed, but even those that struck the ground shattered, splashing the Models with flaming oil. The direct hits were even more impressive, coating the Models in some cases nearly from ball-like head to clomping foot in sheets of flame.

Some flaming Models managed to crash through the pikemen. If anything, the Models were more terrifying when aflame—their mere touch wounded, and one of them scooped up two of Churchill’s men, one in each arm, and hugged them screaming to its chest as it collapsed, all three of them destroyed by the fire.

All three, snuffed candles.

But mostly, with Cromwell’s musketeers fleeing, Churchill’s men had only to hold back the Models while they burned down to cinders.

When the last Model was a heap of embers, Father Edward Grant staggered down through the gorse.

All night long, one at a time. He had asked each man in camp his full Christian name, and then by bell, book, and candle, he had excommunicated them. He had started with John Churchill, who’d done it, he said, to set the example, and he’d done it holding his father’s book. Isaac Newton followed, then Daniel the butcher’s son, and last of all Father Edward Grant.

Whose name, after all, was also in the Aldershot parish register.

Paradox. He had excommunicated himself, and God must have accepted it, because Father Edward Grant yet lived. But that was not blasphemy enough. Saving his own life by renouncing heaven was not vile and venal enough for this black night, no.

To know for certain when the spell had been cast, John Churchill suggested, and also to give the Necromancer the impression that his magic was succeeding, Isaac Newton added, they had agreed it was important that something die.

After excommunicating each man, therefore, Father Edward Grant had baptized an animal by the same name. Cats, dogs, mules, vermin. Baptized and then penned up, tethered, or caged, and last of all to receive baptism had been a scrawny brown mouse christened and baptized Edward Grant. In that one final case, Grant had baptized the mouse first, hoping he might still then have the authority to do so, before excommunicating himself.

He shook at the memory.

The animals had died one at a time, simply dropping in their tracks. Churchill had organized his battle plan and given his men orders, then sent Grant up onto the ridge to be out of harm’s way.

Now, as Grant staggered down the hillside, cold and bone-tired, feeling a fever begin to burn up his forehead, Churchill strode forward to meet him. Daniel the butcher’s son followed a few paces behind.

“Father!” Churchill called, opening his arms to embrace him.

Grant accepted the embrace, reciprocating it but little. “No,” he said, “I am no father. Indeed, I am not Edward Grant.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and took out the little brown mouse, stiff and cold. “This was Edward Grant. Father Grant, Christian.”

Churchill looked at his face carefully. “Maybe. But if so, then you are Edward Grant, magician. Edward Grant, hero. Edward Grant, the man who saved England.”

Grant was too numb to respond. Instead he staggered on. “I must gather the animals up.”

“Why?” Churchill asked.

“They died Christian beasts. They deserve Christian burial. God forbid one of your men try to eat a baptized sheep. In the eyes of God and the church it might be cannibalism.”

“I’ll help you,” Daniel offered. “I’ll dig a grave for each, if you like.”

Churchill chuckled uneasily. “Of course.”

Grant took a few more unsteady steps.

Then he collapsed, but Daniel caught him.

Churchill called again. “You really have saved England, you know!”

“You’ve saved me,” Daniel whispered. “You brought me to salvation again, Father.”

“Have I?” Grant stopped, not looking back but gazing on the camp, where Churchill’s men now looted the bodies of the Roundheads for their bits of silver and copper, their weapons and ammunition. He looked up into Daniel’s face, blunt and honest and wearing a look of mixed pride and surprise. “Perhaps. And have I also damned England? Have I damned you, Daniel? Have I damned us all?”

Preparations and Alliances

A Story of the Arenaverse

Ryk E. Spoor

i.

Saul Maginot stood at the entryway for the shuttle Tranquility, ignoring the unusual sensation of having two physical bodyguards to either side of him. This was not terribly difficult as much of his attention was currently focused on dealing with the empty void in his head where his AISage, Elizabeth, usually lived. Elizabeth had been Saul's constant support and companion since Saul had been a young boy, which was about seventy years back or so.

But here in the Arena, no artificial intelligences or even sophisticated automation could function—barring, of course, the nigh-omnipotent Arena itself, if the intelligence that sometimes spoke for the Arena was an AI and not a living being. Even within the Harbor, the central hollow portion of the Sphere that represented humanity's original Solar System in the Arena, only simple automation or living intellects functioned; even high-power sources, such as nuclear fission, fusion, or antimatter, would not work. The Arena had its rules, and when you were here, you had no choice but to obey them.

It was a frighteningly lonely sensation, to be isolated in one's head after seven decades of having someone constantly with you . . . but it was also strangely exhilarating. He could have thoughts that were utterly private, make his own decisions without anyone or anything interfering or second-guessing.

And this is how the inhabitants of the Arena live their lives. And how our visitor's species has lived for its entire existence.

The immense door at the end of the Dock slid open with a ponderous majesty, and three figures passed through the gap: two human and one . . . not.

The human in the lead was none other than Thomas Cussler, the Governor of the Arena-side human colony now growing in the Inner as well as the Upper Sphere. Bringing up the rear was a military guard—CSF uniform, looks like a captain . . . ah, yes, Captain Ashita. Good man, remember him well.

Between them, currently blindfolded, was a diminutive creature; standing no more than a meter and a half, its body was covered with a smooth, shiny integument more like chitin than skin, glimmering white with patches of brilliant purple. Bipedal, it had a well-muscled, somewhat humanlike body with three-fingered hands and three-toed feet that looked nearly as capable as the hands, and a long, powerful tail. The head was smooth and rounded; though the blindfold covered up the large, red-tinted eyes that Saul had seen in pictures, he could see the small mouth beneath an equally small nose and the faint bumps of the inset ears. Despite being blindfolded, the creature walked with a smooth, confident stride that somehow conveyed a feeling of great power that belied its small frame.

Thomas stopped as the main Dock door finished closing. "You can remove the blindfold, sir."

The figure reached up and removed the blindfold. I'm a bit sorry we had to do that, Saul thought, but it seems the interior of our Sphere is very different from that of others, according to DuQuesne, and that is a secret we need to keep, at least until we know what it means.

Now visible, the slanted ruby eyes of the alien glinted with both a sharp intelligence and caution, scanning the entire area. The body relaxed, a nigh-subliminal increase in fluidity of motion, and it moved forward to walk alongside Cussler.

"Tunuvun of the Genasi, allow me to present to you Commander Saul Maginot of the Combined Space Forces of Humanity. Commander Maginot, Tunuvun of the Genasi, Master of Challenges and Leader of the Faction of the Genasi."

Tunuvun bowed low, with arms and hands spread wide and head kept raised so that his gaze maintained contact with Saul's; Saul repeated the gesture as best he could. "It is a great honor to meet you, Leader Tunuvun. Welcome to our Sphere."

"A far greater honor is mine, Commander Maginot," the Genasi Leader said; his voice was a high tenor, with a tone in it that gave great emphasis to the words. "If what my friends and allies-in-arms Ariane Austin and Sun Wu Kung have told me is true, I am the first alien—the first not of your Faction—to be allowed to enter your Harbor and, I am given to understand, journey to your home system itself."

"That much is true, Leader Tunuvun; I have been told that your Faction has explicitly and directly allied itself with ours?"

"It was your aid—and your champion, my new brother Wu Kung—that gave us our Sphere and thus our recognition as First Emergents, as citizens of the Arena. There is no value we could place on this debt, Commander, without diminishing its true nature. Do you understand that?"

"I believe I do—at least intellectually. Your people are natives of the Arena, but have never had a Sphere of your own, have hardly ever had the opportunity to visit what we call "normal space." You have been . . . second-class citizens."

"At best. Yes. And so you understand that we must offer whatever aid we can to your people."

"It is appreciated, Tunuvun—may I address you without the honorific?"

A bob of the head and shoulders. "Of course. May I reciprocate?"

"Please. Call me Saul. As I said, it is very much appreciated, Tunuvun. But for now, I think we may have at least as much to offer you. As a Faction even newer than our own, you've got a lot of work ahead of you." He gestured to Tranquility's airlock. "Please, enter. I'm sure you're looking forward to seeing our solar system."

The body vibrated, the tip of the tail buzzing faintly. "I am as excited as a child on his first journey, Saul. A few of our people have been able to visit the other side of the sky, but not I. And now, as I understand it, we have our own world on your side of the sky, and we must learn how to live there as well." His head tilted suddenly. "Many apologies if this is insultingly obvious . . . but I have been told that the Arena's gift of speech does not function in that other space."

"You are correct, Tunuvun, but fortunately for us both, our mutual friends also thought of that; Simon Sandrisson sent us data on your language and we have what should be an excellent translation program. It seems that, because of your people's unique position in the Arena, your actual language has been studied fairly extensively by scholars of multiple factions, including the Analytic, and I am told that this should make the transition relatively simple—language-wise, at least."

Tunuvun gave a grunt that Saul somehow sensed as a nod of assent. The Arena's translation protocols are sometimes eerie. "Then I will not be reduced to waving my hands to indicate I need to eat."

Saul laughed. "No, definitely not. Come, sit with me at the front of Tranquility and you can witness the transition to our space yourself." He gestured to a chair that had obviously been modified for a creature with a tail such as Tunuvun's.

Tunuvun did so—with an alacrity and poorly hidden eagerness that echoed Wu Kung's. It is easy to see why the two of them . . . connected so well. Supreme warriors, competitive, loyal, and still it seems with a sense of wonder. I think I'm going to like him. "It will take a bit of time to reach the Transition location," Saul said. "In theory we could of course transition from the Dock but that would put us far out in the Solar System and it would be a long journey to our actual destination, Kanzaki-Three."

"I will try to find patience within, Saul. A Leader must learn much of patience, and considered response, and as a Champion I have had little of either except in more simple training."

Tranquility fired its engines, and for a few moments they were both silent; even with soundproofing the rumble of a jet accelerating a vehicle at two gravities was too loud to permit normal conversation, and Tunuvun naturally lacked the headware for electronic communication. His people have limited infrastructure of their own, and to implant such headware generally requires nanosurgery that does not work in the Arena.

Finally the rockets cut off, and the cabin of the shuttle was quiet once more. Saul turned back to Tunuvun, who appeared to have been utterly unaffected by the acceleration. Not so surprising; if he could even begin to keep up with Wu Kung he is clearly at the height of physical capability. "Might I ask why you were selected as Leader, instead of some other member of your Faction? I presume you have others who have been less martial in their professions."

Tunuvun gave a laugh—which seemed to be actually signified by a fluttering of the hands. "That is as true as any words have ever been! Yes, many others far more suited at first sight . . . yet given our previous and limited roles in the Arena, I have a position of immense respect, and my name is known throughout our Faction." He paused and Saul sensed him smiling in wonder. "Our Faction," he repeated. "Not merely our people, our species, but a Faction at last—or at least, a Faction-To-Be, First Emergents." A ripple passed from his head through his tail. "There was some debate, but in the end? It was first that we see great changes coming, perhaps great wars, and whoever leads us must be one who can face any Challenge head-on, and second? Second it was that it was my Victory, and my strategy in selecting Sun Wu Kung as our Champion, that gave us this thing we have dreamed of across the ages. And—perhaps—it was that we salute your faction, whose Leader is not a politician or a sage, but a racer and a fighter and one . . . much like ourselves, I think."

Saul grinned. "I think Ariane would appreciate the compliment. And likely find it embarrassing. Might I ask if you resemble her in another way—are you young, as your species counts such things?"

"You have found one of my weaknesses, yes. I am but thirty-seven years old." Behind the translated words, Saul heard "one hundred twenty-two crossings". "For my people this is very young indeed—but that did also weigh in my favor, as no one so young has ever reached such an exalted level in the Challenges before."

Thirty-seven and one of the premier Champions of the Arena. Yes, that is impressive. Although, Saul had to admit to himself, he hadn't been any older when he'd been forced to assemble what became the CSF in response to Hyperion. "What are your people looking to accomplish now?"

"First we must, as a Faction, win another Challenge. We are currently First Emergents, although we have been a part of the Arena since our birth. That should not be too difficult; we do after all have a vast amount of experience in helping others win Challenges. Once that is done, we will, like you, have an Embassy and be considered true Citizens of the Arena."

He looked out at the utter darkness of the interior of the Sphere. "But where all the others lived for their birth and rise to wisdom in your otherspace, we know nothing of it. We must make ourselves at home there, build our strength on this new thing you call a planet, understand the height and breadth and depth of knowledge that will let us be part of that universe as well."

"I hope that your visit will be a good start on that path. Will your people still be willing to provide the same support you have for others—mercenaries and Champions and so on?"

"For Humanity? We, as I said, owe you much. Much aid of this sort we will have to give you before any of us will count the debt paid."

This confirmed what Saul had read in Ariane's summary of the results of that spectacular Challenge, and what she and the rest of her people knew about the Genasi. This was also why Saul had decided it was worth taking the risk and bringing Tunuvun to their own world. Of all the Factions, they owed Humanity the most—even more, really, than the Liberated—and were least likely to talk about, or even make use of, any secrets that might accidentally be given them. "Then I suspect we will both remain in each others' debt as time goes on—which is good enough for us both."

Tranquility's rockets roared again, slowing them to a reasonable velocity for Transition. Then there was the subliminal jolt that accompanied the jump from one universe to another.

Saul felt the sensation of Elizabeth, his AISage, "waking up"; it was like coming home, to feel that presence once more as near as a thought. At the same moment he could see the stars shine out, the Milky Way appear in all its dark-banded glory, and the glitter of Kanzaki-Three, a thousand kilometers away. Microgravity took over, and Tranquility did not bother yet with maneuvers. That would be some time in the future.

There was a click, and Tunuvun drifted forward, staring, mouth open in a completely human pose of awe and disbelief. "What . . . what is this that I see?" The language was now translated through Saul's headware, and sounded less . . . alive, less personal, but with Elizabeth’s help and Saul's memory of Tunuvun's more living Arena-voice, that might be overcome.

Saul looked again, and for a moment—just the smallest fraction of an instant—he suddenly saw the sight of deep space anew, as through eyes that had never seen it, never imagined it, before, and felt a chill go down his spine.

The Arena was awesome and mysterious to humanity, with its endless skies filled with clouds and storms and a thousand thousand species of creatures and drifting Spheres concealed beyond banks of mist large enough to swallow a world, but Tunuvun had been born to that universe, he had lived in it his entire life . . . and now he saw darkness, not oppressive and blank and trackless, but a darkness of distance so great that even the Arenaverse itself could have fit easily between them and all but the few hundred nearest stars, a darkness yet lit with uncountable points and bands of light that still left the space about them purest velvet black, a sight never seen by eyes of the Arena, never imagined by those who lived in the living, breathing spaces of the Arena.

"Those are stars, Tunuvun," he answered, finally. "Suns about which orbit planets. For every sun there is a Sphere in the Arena; for every Sphere in the Arena, a Sun and its attendant worlds. On at least one of those worlds in your Sphere's system, you will find an environment suitable to your people. In ours, we have one such; Earth."

"Where is your world, then?"

Allow me, Elizabeth said to Saul instantly. The little shuttle rotated, and the blaze of the Sun—muted by the light-limiting active nanomaterial of the window—came into view. "That is our star, the Sun. And . . . there, to the right," Saul pointed, "that is Earth, the blue-green point."

Tunuvun's eyes were still wide. "But . . . your world, how small is it?"

"Smaller than a Sphere, but we can live on its entire surface, not merely the top. About twelve to thirteen thousand kilometers in diameter."

Tunuvun looked at him in disbelief. "But it is . . . so tiny!"

He shook his head and smiled. "Not so tiny; we are so far away. We are in the asteroid belt, and Earth is—relatively speaking—close, yet still more than three hundred million kilometers away."

The silence stretched out as Tunuvun continued to stare. "I . . . I had heard these things. But . . . I could not believe them. In the Arena, you might see . . . oh, a hundred thousand kilometers, perhaps—very dimly, under the best conditions, when looking for the shadow of a Sphere. But you say we see your world clearly at a distance more than a thousand times that?"

"You see much farther than that, Tunuvun. Each of those dots, with few exceptions, that you see in the sky is a star that is many light-years, many tens of trillions of kilometers away. So far that no technology in our possession could reach even the nearest of them in less than many years of travel."

While Tunuvun continued his rapt contemplation of a new version of the infinite, Saul took a moment to check some vital issues. Elizabeth?

I find no sign of any nanotech on him — active or otherwise. As we discussed, I have placed the exterior nanoprotection on him to ensure he is not infected — biologically or technologically — while here.

Will that also detect and track any internal nanotech that may activate, or signals that may come from within?

I believe so. I do not expect any such, however. His people have been traditionally separate from the normal life of the Arena, were not counted among the factions, and do not generally enter normal space where such could be easily planted on him. It would be easier to be certain, of course, if I could also place internal nanos —

Absolutely not, Saul thought sharply. That would be an unconscionable violation of his rights. It's bad enough we're using the externals without his permission, but I think it would be very difficult to describe at this point without making it sound more frightening than it is.

Elizabeth smiled from beneath the virtual hat she was currently wearing. Of course, Saul. I would not recommend such a course of action either. But it was my duty to point this out.

Elizabeth's head suddenly came up, and Saul could momentarily see her profile silhouetted against the phantom clouds of her own native environment. A signal. Saul, it's Ariane's friend, responding to our ping.

Saul tensed. Are we secure enough?

A pause, as Elizabeth re-checked all aspects of Tranquility and those on board.

How long do I have?

Final maneuvers to dock won't begin for another fifteen minutes. Plenty of time for this.

He nodded, then opened communication.

"Hello, Mentor," he thought.

ii.

"AHH, SAUL MAGINOT OF BABYLON COLONY, "boomed a deep, resonant pseudo-voice, seemingly from midair—an interesting trick of electronic perceptual projection, thought Saul. "Your arrival in this, your native space and time, has occurred thirty-two and five-tenths seconds ahead of my Visualization. Acceptable, given my limitations, but still in need of improvement."

"You expected me to arrive only half a minute after I did?" Saul blinked in startlement, then chided himself on allowing any external sign of this conversation. Yes, it felt like a regular conversation, but it was inaudible to anyone else—and should remain unnoticed. "If you actually made such a prediction, don't feel it's in need of improvement. Yes, I had a clear agenda and schedule, but how could you know it would actually be delayed by an hour and a half?"

Mentor's avatar, a sparkling ball of pure white radiance, seemed to smile. "I was aware not merely of your intentions, but the situations that pertained in the Sphere, and extrapolated the likely delay based on the individuals involved and the statistical spread of prior related interactions. In truth, it was, as you might say, a lucky guess; with slightly different choices I would have missed the mark by as much as half an hour or more."

A shift of color and motion. "But you did not leave word for me so that I could discuss my poor and inadequate imitation of my namesake. I trust there is sufficient time—and security—for this discussion?"

Mentor's question was vital. One of the very few absolutely ironclad laws of the Solar System was that an AI above a certain level—basically, anything above perhaps 0.25 Taylers, or T-0.25—could never operate independently of a human being's oversight. Mentor, as a T-5 operating on its own (even with Ariane's blessing), was considered a rogue AI and would be destroyed upon detection. If Saul were connected with the release or aid of a rogue AI, the destruction of his career would be the least of his problems. "Elizabeth believes so, and I have to trust her."

"Indeed. As you called for me, I presume you have relevant data to impart?"

Even speaking mind-to-mind, Saul felt his face hardening. "Not data you will be happy to receive, I am afraid. We have all-but-certainly identified the renegade Hyperion AI."

The avatar froze for an instant, then the sparkling light flared. "That might be called good news, if also potentially bad; a known enemy is preferable to one unkown."

"Perhaps, but even so, I'd say this is very bad. We're pretty sure it's Dr. Alexander Fairchild."

Mentor was silent for a full two seconds—an eternity in direct-comm contact. "Then this is far worse news than I had thought, Saul."

"The idea of DuQuesne's counterpart now loose in the Arena? I would think so. There might be a few of the Hyperion villains I would less want to have survived, but none come to mind immediately."

Mentor's voice was grim in response. "Fairchild's survival alone would be cause for great concern, yes, and even more so the fact that he has managed to overcome one of the key limitations of the Arena, but the emergency is now greater in scope and depth."

Saul's gut contracted and he felt a sour ache. Worse than Fairchild? "Explain, Mentor."

"You are aware, of course, that every individual—naturally born or artificially constructed—has their own set of behaviors and habits, a signature that can be derived with sufficient analysis—an analysis generally prevented by your Anonymity Accords, but not, of course, applicable yet to AI beings."

"Certainly; one way of authenticating pieces of writing and art depends on that."

"You will also recall that when I announced that at least one Hyperion adversary had escaped, I indicated that the number could be as low as one or as high as three," Mentor went on. "The uncertainty there stemmed from a number of factors, but the largest single factor was that whether one, two, or three individuals was responsible for the various activities I had seen depended to a great extent on which individuals I postulated as having escaped. My Visualization—or, if you prefer, my model—gave different answers as I considered different combinations of adversary or adversaries. Some groups clearly could not be responsible for any significant number of the events—such as the suborning of General Esterhauer, or the location and destruction of the sleeping Hyperions under Dr. Davison's care—and thus were eliminated from consideration. Others could be reasonably expected to be responsible for all events and effects I had observed, and thus if they were determined to be the escapee, it would be a reasonable assumption that they were the sole survivor of the adversaries of Hyperion."

"Ah," Saul said, still making sure no sign of the conversation was visible in the physical world. "And you believe Fairchild would have been responsible for some, but not all, of the phenomena."

"Your evaluation is sound. If you are correct in identifying Alexander Fairchild —"

"Oasis—K—is the one who identified him."

"Her judgment in this area should be eminently sound. Then if I take that as an assumption, at least one, and possibly two, adversaries remain at large and unidentified. There is a greater danger, for both of us specifically as well as the Solar System and the Faction of Humanity at large; nearly all of my Visualizations show that unlike Fairchild, the remaining factors will be more obviously malevolent." Mentor fell silent for a moment. "I must return to the most powerful computational housing I can access and examine everything anew in light of this knowledge. It is imperative we identify and understand our adversaries."

"I agree. I'm glad you were able to contact me quickly, even if this wasn't the news we wanted."

"Indeed." Mentor's detached tones sharpened to those of personal concern. "Be very careful, Saul. There is a significant chance that one of our adversaries may target you or others in the nascent government you work for, and my Visualization shows that you, personally, remain a powerful factor in ensuring that Humanity advances to a state of true Civilization. Be cautious."

"You, too, Mentor. I won't be able to protect you if you're caught."

"I shall exercise all feasible caution. Farewell for now, Saul Maginot."

The sense of connection vanished and Saul felt suddenly more alone, staring out at the stars.

iii.

"What has happened, Saul Maginot?" asked Tunuvun.

"What?"

"Apologies if I break a custom of yours in asking," the small alien said. "But your stance and what I detect of your . . . well, noise, I suppose you might say, the sounds that your entire being makes, unbidden yet inevitably—these have shifted in a fashion that speaks to me of great tension and worry."

He is more like Wu Kung than I had realized. With an effort, Saul drew in a breath and calmed himself, directing his nanos to assist. "Your perceptions are very sharp, Tunuvun. I won't pretend you are wrong, but it's something I can't speak of."

Although, now that he thought of it, Tunuvun was one of the only aliens who did know the truth about Hyperion. That didn't mean it would be a good idea to tell him anything about renegade Hyperion AIs, but it did mean that it wouldn't be the huge security breach that it would be if he told anything about Hyperion to any other alien.

Tunuvun gave that same spread-armed bow—though it looked a bit odd as he was currently floating in a mostly-inverted position. "Secrets are to be kept, of course. I trust you will let me know if I, or any of my people, can be of assistance."

"I certainly will." Not in this case, unfortunately; someone who lived in the AI-forbidding Arena wouldn't be likely to even understand how to track and fight an AI enemy, let alone a Hyperion escapee. Still, Tunuvun's obviously earnest desire to do something to lessen the debt his people owed Humanity was something he should be paying attention to. Humanity needed all the help it could get, and if he—Commander Saul Maginot, the so-called Hero of Hyperion—couldn't figure out how to make use of what appeared to be a species of mercenaries, warriors and adventurers, it was clearly far past time for him to retire.

A vibration went through Tranquility and the view in the viewport began to shift. Slowly, an immense rotating structure came into view, a nested set of cylinders tens of kilometers long, with glints of pools of water and the emerald of greenery and the complex geometry of buildings and houses visible as tiny details along the length of the widest. Tunuvun was staring again in wonder at this. "Why are . . . no. Those are buildings built to your people's scale, so that . . . station before us is truly large. I must see it more clearly!"

Tunuvun turned and sprang, with a casual swiftness, towards the airlock. By the time Saul reacted and leapt to stop him, he had already pulled down the lever to open the door.

Fortunately, he hadn't gotten into the lock yet, nor had the chance to trigger the outer door. "Tunuvun, STOP!"

The alien froze in position, and Saul allowed himself a momentary relieved smile. Apparently his long-standing voice of command still carried enough force to convey the imperative, even to an alien. He glanced at Cornelius Ocampo and Rudy-Nine—the two bodyguards had started to their feet in their own panic as it had seemed their guest was about to space himself—and gestured for them to sit back down. Cornelius shot him an "are you sure" look from under bushy eyebrows, and mimed wiping sweat from his forehead. Saul looked back to Tunuvun. "You were going to go outside to see more clearly, were you not?"

Tunuvun closed his eyes slowly, then crossed his arms sharply before him. "How our impulses betray us, Saul. Outside us . . . that is the True Nothing, the 'vacuum' I have heard spoken of. Yes?"

"Yes. There is no air outside at all. I don't know enough about your physiology to precisely grasp what the consequences would be, but it would almost certainly injure or kill you in very short order, and unlike Arenaspace, you would have nothing to help propel you to safety after you leaped out." In the natural spaces of the Arena, the Genasi could shape their tails and to an extent other limbs to the point that they could even "swim" reasonably well through the air.

"I am . . . embarrassed, Saul. As an emissary I am too caught up in the moment. As a leader I should be more aware, more focused. I cannot afford to look like a fool, and even less to die as one."

Saul smiled, still feeling a great relief. "Tunuvun, don't worry. Our friends here," he indicated Cornelius and Rudy, "won't say anything about it, and I certainly won't. Ariane could tell you much about her own . . . missteps. Just remember that very little of the world on this side of the sky is much at all like the Arena, and in some ways it's very, very much less forgiving."

"I am beginning to grasp that, yes. I thank you." His ruby eyes surveyed the other two. "And you; for I saw you began to move to stop me as well."

"It's our job," Rudy said. "Delivering either the Commander or our guest as DOA would look real bad on our record."

The quick shrieking sound was unnerving, but Saul quickly recognized it for what it was: laughter. "Spoken as a true bodyguard! I have worked in your place and I know precisely your meaning!" Another quick bow. "Then I will attempt to think more fully before I act, and rely on you and Saul to catch me if I err again."

"Excellent." During their discussion, the docking sequence had completed. Saul had noted that despite the small accelerations and maneuvers, Tunuvun had adjusted his position with casual efficiency that made Saul look clumsy—and Saul had been traveling in ships maneuvering in microgravity for almost three-quarters of a century. Instinctive recognition of relative accelerations, positions, and balance; his people evolved in the microgravity of Arenaspace.

"What is next, Saul?" Tunuvun asked, as the airlock finally opened—this time to a corridor with breathable air rather than empty space.

"Next, something far more perilous," Saul said with a cheerful grin. "You get to meet our politicians!"

iv.

"Representatives of the Space Security Council and the Combined Space Forces," Saul said, "I present to you Tunuvun, Leader of the Faction of the Genasi."

The council room went silent as Tunuvun stepped into view from behind the rostrum Saul was standing at. The alien Leader strode forward several paces, his heavy tail moving sinuously behind him, and stopped, looking about him with an unreadable expression on his small, delicately-featured face.

He has . . . presence, when he seeks to use it, Elizabeth said to him.

He does that, Saul agreed. How are you feeling? You did well enough awakening after shutdown.

Elizabeth's avatar glanced down; her disconcerted expression was clear, her light skin even more pale than usual. I allowed little of my distress to show, true, but I am still. . . recovering. The sensation of being shut down. . . I do not wish to show it to you. It was unnerving, Saul, in a manner unlike anything else I can imagine. Not quite instantaneous. Just long enough to sense the fading of my self into darkness. It was a relief, in a way, to be almost immediately faced with a direct and simple set of problems. I did not have to think about. . . becoming nothing.

He felt his face tighten in a momentary wince. My God, Liz. How horrid. I will let you transfer to somewhere else before I transition again, then.

I would. . . be most grateful for that, Saul. Thank you.

Elizabeth wasn't usually the sort to invite a hug—her template was very formal indeed—but in this case Saul felt it might be appropriate; when he opened his arms, she leaned in, took a few shaky breaths, then pulled away, straightened herself, and nodded; her smile was steadier. You have but to ask for anything I might give, Elizabeth. You know that.

I have never doubted it, Saul. And it has always meant much to me—and those others of us who depend on you and your allies. Another quick smile. Now pay attention to the reason you're here, Commander.

With an interior smile, Saul returned his attention to the SSC council chamber. Mental dialogue being what it was, of course, only a few moments had passed, and he was in time to catch the first words spoken:

"Welcome to the Solar System, Leader Tunuvun," White Camilla said, their eyes maintaining contact with Tunuvun as they repeated Tunuvun's own spread-armed bow. "It is an honor to meet a Leader of a Faction—other than our own, of course."

Tunuvun's eyes narrowed and widened and his thin lips parted; Saul's translation program annotated that as an ironic smile. "I thank you, but I am hardly the Leader that Captain Austin is. Merely a Master of Challenges who finds himself rather adrift amidst the great shoals of the mighty and the wise."

The short whipcrack laugh was General Esterhauer. "Methinks our esteemed visitor doth protest o'ermuch," she said. "A sought-after Master of Challenges, if I understand the Arena's ways at all, would be someone of consequence in almost any estimation. I'll grant you that it might not make you a master of diplomacy and intrigue, but then again, depending on the Challenges . . ."

Tunuvun bowed again. "Truly I am not adequate in devious intrigue, if you see through me so easily. You are . . .?"

"General Jill Esterhauer, currently in charge of overseeing Sphereside defenses and coordinating with our people here. Still not sure what my official title's going to be."

"Titles mean less than the purpose they represent. Yet I am surprised; most of the species I have met had their . . . structure fully defined many centuries, or more, ago."

"Well, we only just encountered the Arena, really, so figuring out how to deal with a whole new universe might take some time."

Tunuvun rippled his tail, then did a conscious nod, emphasizing his agreement. "As we are new to the actualities of citizenship."

"But you were planning on this for a long time, weren't you?" That was Robert Fenelon. "Your people, that is?"

"Planning is perhaps not the word. The Genasi . . . hoped. Until Sivvis the Honored gave us an unlooked-for chance, planning seemed presumptuous. And even once the chance to Challenge for our own status had fallen into our hands, we knew we might fail—and would have, had not my brother Sun Wu Kung taken our part."

"So how were you chosen Leader—if we may ask?"

"It is allowed," Tunuvun said, with another smile of his eyes, this time without an ironic touch. "Shoal-Pilots and Ranked Champions put forth their suggestions as to who would represent them, and I was fortunate enough to be named most often. I assume this was because more of them have heard of me." A splayed arm gesture that seemed to be a shrug. "I understand the process of such things is more formal and complex for other species."

A ripple of laughter ran around the room, touching even White Camilla's face. "Other species, perhaps," Camilla said, still smiling wryly. "But for Humanity, it was not even so considered and rational an action. Insofar as I understand it, Captain Austin gained her title—and through that, the position of Leader—because none other of her crew wanted the position."

Tunuvun's tail arced and came down. "Then you were singularly blessed by the Arena and Its Fortune, I say, for there are few if any citizens of the Arena who do not respect the Captain, and many who hold her in the highest esteem."

"I do not think most of us would disagree. We were fortunate in a great many things with that first expedition," Saul said. "But if you will permit me, I will speak of our alliance?"

Tunuvun looked at him with a sharp tilt to the head. Indicates slightly embarrassed guilt, Elizabeth noted with the translation program. "Oh, of course, Saul Maginot. I am sorry for the diversion. Please go forward."

"Don't worry yourself about it," Saul said. "You'll be a nine-days wonder here, I'm sure." He turned slightly to scan the entire Council. "Leader Tunuvun—and his people—feel they are tremendously indebted to us, as they credit Sun Wu Kung with their victory over the Vengeance and thus their citizenship in the Arena. Because of this, the Genasi—their entire Faction—have pledged themselves to be full and close allies of Humanity, and wish to render us services to assist us in any endeavors they may be of use in."

Alia Huang rose. "This is a good thing to hear, especially in view of the Factions we know may not be friendly to us . . . but I ask that you clarify what 'full and close ally' means, especially in regards to what we can discuss before our, um, distinguished visitor."

"Of course, Councillor," Saul said. He let Elizabeth remind him of the details and implications. "It means that for most intents and purposes, the Genasi consider our welfare to be their welfare, and—naturally—hope that we reciprocate this. It is closer than a simple mutual defense pact, but includes all the aspects of one—although it is not required that we fully reciprocate."

"You mean it is not necessarily the case that we defend them to the same extent?" Councillor Camilla's eyebrows rose.

"Exactly so—although I would hope that Humanity would do its best to protect all allies it gained, regardless. In this case, allying themselves with Humanity is a matter of both gaining certain status, as we have gained much . . . face, I suppose is the right term, in the Arena, and of gaining certain protections and support that we can provide as the Genasi come to understand this universe—which is as alien to them, I must note, as the Arena is to us."

"Then they—or their Leader, at any rate—would be able to discuss our current . . . challenges as a Faction?" Councillor Huang asked.

Ah. Of course. "Indeed. And if there is such business to be transacted, I think it might be well worth both our time and that of our visitor to address it now." He looked at Tunuvun. "If, that is, you wish to know of and involve yourself in our difficulties?"

Tunuvun's bow was even deeper, and the narrow eyes smiled. "Nothing would please me more, Saul," Tunuvun said in his strange, high voice. "For how can the Genasi offer their aid, when we know nothing of what aid you might need?"

A murmur of agreement rippled around the Council chamber, and Saul smiled. "Then let us to business, then."

v.

"Our entire defense force above our Sphere consists of fifteen ships loaned to us by the Liberated?" White Camilla said; their carefully controlled voice did not entirely conceal a tone of disbelief and concern.

And my answer is not going to make things any better, thought Saul Maginot. "Not quite, Representative Camilla. First, only ten of those vessels are actually warships as such; the other five will serve in support roles. There are also the defense stations for each of our eight Sky Gates, and we are building ground-based defenses."

The slight-figured Camilla stared at him. "And that is the extent of our defense against an anticipated Molothos invasion? We are not required to manufacture any such ships in the Arena, correct? Why are we not having thousands of them fabricated even as we speak? Or am I, and my colleagues, completely misunderstanding the scale of threat presented by these Molothos?"

"I echo my colleague's sentiments," said Jeremiah Britt. "Logistics is my business, and I see no reason we couldn't be drastically increasing our defenses on an almost daily basis."

Saul sighed, and Elizabeth echoed the sound internally. I am afraid that is a discussion you shall have more than once, Elizabeth said on their internal link. You have the perspective of a generalist, while most people are specialists and even more self-focused than they might have been in other centuries.

And now we can ill-afford that kind of compartmentalized thinking, he agreed. But yes, I had best get used to dealing with these kind of questions. Can you deal with outside inquiries for a bit longer?

Elizabeth's brown-haired avatar smiled, and gave a tiny curtsey which sent a ripple through her many-layered skirts. As long as you need. I'm afraid you just be piling up the answers for later.

So many thanks for that. He focused on White Camilla and Britt. "That's quite a few questions in a few sentences, so I'm going to have to take them one at a time. No, that is not the extent of our defenses against Molothos invasion. It is the current extent of our Arena-side defenses, and is not likely to increase drastically in the short term. We are building much larger and more comprehensive defenses here in normal space to deal with any Molothos incursion here."

He raised his hand to forestall more questions. "Please, let me finish. No, we are in no way required to manufacture such vessels in the Arena, and yes, we could produce many of them per day. And no, you are not overestimating the Molothos threat; in all likelihood we are all underestimating them, because human minds, and even reasonable Tayler-level AIs, are not really capable of grasping the scale at which one of the Great Factions operates."

Tunuvun gestured his agreement. "Allow me to emphasize that, Saul, honored members of the SSC. The Great Faction of the Molothos is one of the oldest, and certainly the most feared, of the Factions. It has endured throughout the known history of the Arena, despite being strongly allied to none and often at odds with many. There are no words that could describe their numbers or their cold and calculated power."

Saul could see it was not just White Camilla whose faces were tense with fear; White was merely the spokesperson, and they continued: "Then why —"

"If you will allow me, Commander Maginot?" The calm tenor belonged to Robert Fenelon, PolSim Director for the SSC. "There's a great deal here that most of us simply aren't used to thinking of, and I believe I might be able to put it in terms we can all grasp."

Saul nodded. "You cut through some rather thorny underbrush for us when Ariane was butting heads with the general a while ago; if you can do that again here, I'm sure we'll all appreciate it."

Fenelon turned to the others of the Arena Strategic Council—a ten-person task force of the Space Security Council, focused on determining the nature and scope of threats to humanity posed by the Arena and of course on formulating appropriate responses to those threats, and currently under the scrutiny of the rest of the SSC. "The problem that we face for defending ourselves in the Arena is the lack of automation. I'm not sure all of you quite grasp the scope of that problem. Here, we not only rely on fully-aware artificial intellects, such as our AISages, to perform a wide variety of tasks, we also make use of immense amounts of not-quite-sapient but still highly capable and flexible automation—none of which works in the Arena.

"What that means is that we cannot automate our vessels much past the level achieved in the early twenty-first century. Machines can detect and alert us to motion and such, but they cannot make decisions in the Arena. For that—and for any reasonable, reliable control of the vessels—human (or perhaps friendly alien) crews are necessary."

Johona Madoff—Nanodefense Clearinghouse Oversight, Planetside Corps—nodded. "I suppose I understand that. But we have fifty-five billion people here in the Solar System." She grinned, making dark-brown eyes sparkle against the red-tinged brown of her skin. "That ought to crew more than ten ships, I'd think."

"One would think, yes," Fenelon agreed. "However—do you know how to pilot an Arena vessel, Representative Madoff? Do any of us here understand how to operate and aim a coherent plasma cannon? And how well would we do these, or a hundred other tasks, while under heavy fire by real, living beings who intend to kill us?" The others were momentarily silent as he went on, "Speaking only for myself, I haven't really the faintest idea how to do any of that, and the thought of being in an actual battle is . . . terrifying. I have studied history enough to have a faint grasp of what that would entail, and I want no part of it."

"But there's plenty of people who do combat sims—even realistic ones," White Camilla said. "Surely those —"

"Even the most realistic sim has a panic button, the ability to just 'bow out,' as they say, and return to the safety of one's home," Fenelon pointed out. "Knowing that you really are committed to a battle, that there is no ‘reset’ button available? That changes one's outlook tremendously, and given the longevity, comfort, and safety of our current civilization, it is unsurprising that there are not all that many people both willing to take that risk, and able to perform the duties that would be required."

He looked at Tunuvun. "Your people, however, are native to the Arena. Would the Genasi be able to help us in this matter? Crew our vessels?"

Tunuvun gave one of his spread-armed bows, but something about the posture hinted at apology. "It would give us great pleasure to do so, but not in the areas you discuss, I am afraid. Our people would be able to give you many combat personnel—warriors, troops to board and secure other vessels or even Upper Spheres, this sort of thing. But to control and direct the operation of Arenaspace vessels . . . no. We have only a relatively few such."

He shifted slightly, and alien though he was, his posture and expression, as well as his translated words, resonated with resentment and bitterness. "Most of the Factions did not have any interest whatsoever in giving the Genasi such training and resources. Thus—though it pains me to refuse such a request—I must beg your understanding that we must keep the few of us capable of manning such vessels for our own Sphere's defense."

Fenelon nodded. "I believe we understand completely. This does, however, complete the picture for us, and it is not a pleasant one. In essence, the Combined Space Forces are most of the people currently in that category for Humanity's use, and that means that we are having to cannibalize the CSF's people, with a few other organizations or avocations contributing people, in order to crew our vessels. As the CSF itself has only fifty warships of varying size, you can understand that we are severely limited here not by the availability of ships, but by the availability of people."

Britt was biting his lower lip, and his AISage Camden was visible, whispering something in one ear. White Camilla took a deep breath and nodded, their face slightly paler. "I . . . suppose I begin to understand. But can we not simply implant the skills and reactions necessary? If I recall correctly, Ariane's opponent Sethrik of the Blessed was able to do precisely that to allow him to race effectively against her; thus, we know that at least to a reasonable extent implanted skills transfer properly."

To Saul's surprise, Tunuvun reacted first, with a quick, shrieking whistle that cut through the air like a bolt of lightning. Seeing everyone staring at him, Tunuvun crossed his arms in a posture that suggested shrinking into himself, embarrassment and apology in one. "I beg pardon. Perhaps I do not know your people well enough, but in my experience, even gifting someone with the skills to pilot or fight is not enough to make them either pilot or fighter."

Insightful. Undoubtedly necessary if you're a Master of Challenges, remarked Elizabeth. Saul nodded inwardly and picked up the thread. "Tunuvun is unfortunately correct. The mindset to be a warrior or a combat pilot or military commander is not conveyed by giving them the basic skills. And while in theory we could convey the mindset, it would be illegal to do so."

Britt frowned. "Illegal? Why?"

White Camilla looked as though they had just swallowed a lemon whole. "Because that would amount to rewriting elements of the person's self, their basic personality," they said slowly. "We are reluctant to use that as a punishment even on criminals. So the problem is that we will need to find volunteers of appropriate skill and talent and train them to be suitable crew for warships, and that kind of training will still take months, if not longer." Saul nodded. "This is not true here in the Solar System, however?"

"No, and we have indeed begun work on extensive real-space defenses which can be automated to a far greater degree. Multiple Sim Focus Groups are working on designing ships, long-range missiles, major-class energy weapon emplacements, and so on."

Britt nodded, his face showing that this was something he had more understanding of. "And with nanomanufacturing and full automation, this should be something we can easily deploy. So the Solar System itself should be reasonably secure, yes?"

Saul and Tunuvun exchanged glances, and Saul also glanced at Robert Fenelon's grim expression. Britt sat up straighter, and White sighed. "Tell us the problem, Commander."

"Not one problem, Councillor. A number of them. Firstly, the Molothos—or, I suppose, any other adversary we may face, such as the Blessed—are an almost completely unknown quantity. We can reasonably assume we understand most or all of the physics that they do, and probably most of the basic technology, but we have little-to-no knowledge of the exact composition of a Molothos normal-space attack force—what their preferred weapons are, what the ratio of ship types may be, their preferred strategies and tactics, and so on and so forth. Until now, we have fought other human adversaries. The aliens of the Arena are startlingly human in many ways, but far from identical to us. Thus, we cannot be sure of any of these things.

"More importantly—as we discussed earlier—we have no idea what the scale of their assault may be like. Based on what we have learned about the Sky Gates, a properly designed assault force could pass almost incalculably huge amounts of materiel through the Gate in very short time. Given that the theoretical location of the Gates may be in our Oort Cloud, they will not be without resources to use here, as well. We have done little to exploit the Oort Cloud and not very much with even the Kuiper Belt, so we have no direct defenses in that area."

He looked around the Council and his next words were delivered with a slow, hard emphasis. "They have tens of thousands of solar systems to draw upon; if they decide to devote even a relatively small fraction of their resources to this war, they may well be able to out-produce and out-fight us even here, in normal space. We will have the advantage of being in the center where we can make use of planetary resources and where we will have certain strategic advantages.

"But we cannot even be sure of the direction from which they will strike. All eight Sky Gates can be used to Transition to normal space, and thus their forces may emerge from any or all of those directions. Can we defend ourselves against the entirety of the sky?" He shrugged. "In addition, of course, while we can create vast numbers of defensive and offensive systems, they cannot operate completely autonomously, since no significant Tayler-level AI is permitted to operate on its own, and even though we are working through means and approaches to address the . . . emancipation of our AI citizens, I admit that the general public is unlikely to approve of our first test of this emancipation being to hand over control of our most powerful warships and weapons to unfettered AIs. Thus we will still need considerable personnel resources to support any of our defenses."

"Is that all?" White Camilla said; their voice was ironic, echoed by a smile like someone whistling in a graveyard.

"I am afraid not," Robert Fenelon said. "We are in many ways our own worst enemies. The Molothos—and from the data I have received, most if not all of the other Factions—are well-organized and focused on their activities to benefit their people in the Arena as well as normal space. They are united. For the Molothos, this appears to be at least to some degree a species trait; they may be hostile to other species, but they almost instinctively cooperate with their own. The Blessed to Serve have a similar tendency which is obviously programmed in. Other Factions are mostly centered around ideologies and purposes, which means that those who join them are already 'in tune,' so to speak, with the basic focus of the Faction.

"By contrast, Humanity is chaos. There are large swathes of our fifty-five billion people who aren't even paying much attention to the issues of the Arena, incomprehensible though that is to me. Of those who are paying attention, there are wide areas of disagreement as to how various issues should be addressed, who should address them, and so on. We are, in essence, a 'Faction' only in name; we are billions of individual, self-sufficient polities that interact on an ad hoc basis for the most part, with only the broadest of laws and rules covering this interaction. Nothing like this ever existed in our past, and it seems that if similar situations existed for other alien species, they adjusted and changed their approaches after encountering the Arena."

He gave a humorless laugh. "Look at the Sandrisson Drive; in prior eras, that would have been a major effort by one of the largest countries on Earth, an event upon which would have been focused much of the attention of the world. Today, it was a mostly-private project with SSC oversight only because it was to involve human subjects in a potentially risky test. Hyperion was a hobbyist disaster that happened to have system-wide repercussions." Fenelon sighed. "In short—we're not organized for war, or even for cohesive politics, and that's going to be our greatest obstacle."

General Esterhauer nodded. "And it's going to be hellishly hard to convince people to organize that way. We—all of us in this room, really—are freaks by today's standards. We want to be part of an organization that covers a lot of the more dangerous and dirty parts of running a solar system. A lot of us have deliberately put ourselves through pretty painful training, dealt with people we normally wouldn't be caught dead with, and sacrificed time and energy so that we could be part of this . . . thing that we see as bigger than us. But we're actually no larger an organization than a lot of the existing SFGs, or the temples of at least twenty or thirty different religions, or a lot of other serious or casual associations. Hell, the Unlimited Racing Federation has more people in it than the SSC!"

Tunuvun's posture and expression were . . . odd. Suddenly, that shrieking laugh echoed out. Everyone stared at him. "Again, I apologize . . . But Saul, honored SSC . . . I had not yet realized that we were truly brothers and sisters in this."

Ah. I believe I see his meaning, if I understand him right. Elizabeth said.

I'm glad it's clear to you, Elizabeth, but I'm confused. Saul looked down. "You're saying there's something similar with the Genasi? You're not living in this universe, so you don't have AIWish units or assisting AIs or any of the things that made us so self-sufficient that we no longer really needed governments as such."

"No, Saul, we do not . . . yet the Genasi are not so different. We are a million million tribes, spread throughout the Arena, living in its endless skies, each with its own leaders, own thoughts of who and what we are and could be. Oh, we have some shared . . . ideals, principles, for our spread has been due to the first Genasi meeting with the Factions and being disseminated across the Arena through that association, and we have maintained some . . . well, coherence in our language and customs. But to organize our people as a group, as a Faction? It is an ideal we have striven for, yet now that we have achieved it we have no idea how this can be done; our greatest achievement may well be that all the tribes that could be contacted could agree to elect me as Leader. And now I begin to understand what a . . . mess they have given me." He bowed with spread arms again. "But I do see that we are truly of one great tribe, you and we."

Alia Huang began clapping, and despite the gravity of the situation a wave of applause and chuckles swept around the chamber. "It is good to hear that, at least," Alia said. "I just wish we each had what the other needed right now."

"Friends are always needed," Tunuvun said. "And we can at least offer that."

White Camilla rose. "A good sentiment to end on. Commander, I think we all need to confer on these various points and see if any of us, or our associated SFGs, can come up with ways to address or at least mitigate them. I trust that Captain Austin and her associates are aware of these issues?"

Oooh, that's a dangerous question right now, as the Captain either has departed, or is about to depart on her covert mission with Orphan.

Yes, but with luck I don't have to discuss it here on the SSC floor. "She and the rest of her immediate advisors are more than aware of the issue, and are taking their own steps to address the parts of it that they can." Which is true; learning anything she can about that power she gained is crucial, and fulfilling a promise in the Arena is also deadly important.

"Good. I would like a report from her people in detail, if that can be arranged."

"Certainly." If it's a private report I can minimize the fallout from it.

The meeting broke up; Tunuvun followed Saul out. "The situation . . . it sounds grim, Commander Maginot."

Like us, he reverts to formality when dealing with such issues. "I can't pretend it isn't, Tunuvun. A lot of the Council still wants to blame Ariane for how grim it's gotten, but it wasn't really her fault. Or even DuQuesne's, though I wish he'd restrained his impulse for dramatics."

"You mean his delivery of a Molothos corpse as a statement?" Tunuvun's eyes and mouth smiled. "It is true that they undoubtedly learned something from the body, but on the other hand, it was a beautiful statement. My people would applaud it unreservedly; you were saying to the Molothos, 'this is our world, you can't have it, and we do not fear you.' " Another eye-mouth smile. "Perhaps a foolish sentiment, for one should fear the Molothos . . . but a magnificent sentiment all the same, and you gained much respect in the Arena for it."

He glanced at the doors they were approaching. "This is your . . . home?"

"My quarters on board Kanzaki-Three, yes."

"You have no guards? No protections?"

"Elizabeth—my AISage—and the station itself, are very good at protecting me," Saul said. "I had Cornelius and Rudy when I went to the Arena because the same protections won't work there, but here it's almost unheard of. Ariane has Wu Kung, but that's because she is the Leader of the Faction, and because DuQuesne is very paranoid. Not without reason, but still, very few of us would ever need bodyguards." He activated the door, sensing Elizabeth going through her own security process before allowing it to open. I normally don't even notice, but now Tunuvun's got me thinking about it.

The same thinking reminded him of the past that Robert Fenelon often brought up, and he gave a wry smile, looking around the spacious, multi-roomed quarters that were his current home. A large living room, a bedroom, a kitchen, two guest rooms, and more, almost three hundred square meters of area in all. That would be a good-sized house on Earth, and in the past would have been a huge section of any space-based habitat. Now it's merely a reasonable set of quarters for someone on board Kanzaki-Three.

"This is . . . quite pleasant, if restricted," Tunuvun said, looking around.

"Restricted? Oh, of course. Your people live in three dimensions and very wide spaces. I hope you are not bothered by claustrophobia."

"I have dealt with that problem. It is a major challenge for many of my people, of course."

Saul could easily imagine that; a species that regularly swam through the infinite skies of the Arena must find even very large enclosures somewhat stultifying.

Elizabeth pinged him. Saul, you have a secured message waiting.

Mentor? he asked.

It's secured, Saul, she answered patiently.

Saul winced at Elizabeth’s gentle reminder of his foolishness. A fully secured message concealed its contents, including sender, unless the intended recipient opened it and allowed others to read it.

"Excuse me, Tunuvun—I have to take a message; it may be a few moments."

"Do not worry; there is much that is new here for me to contemplate."

The desk indicator was blinking a bright red, confirming Elizabeth’s alert. Saul sat down and touched the panel. "This is Saul Maginot. Quantum-key decryption pulse being sent for confirmation." With the tiniest of practiced efforts he sent the confirmation and unlocking one-time key.

And without the slightest warning, Tunuvun's hand—now broader and webbed—clamped across Saul's entire face, sealing off his eyes, his mouth, his nose, plunging him into a suffocating darkness.

vi.

Tunuvun hauled him bodily from the chair with terrifying strength, scraping Saul's back, bruising his arm with the force of the pull. Saul tugged at the hand that was suffocating him, without avail. A rushing sound was in his ears, and a whistling shriek, and, more distantly, the klaxon of some kind of alarm.

A metallic ripping sound reached his ears, and Saul was vaguely aware that Tunuvun had forced the doors open from the inside. But wait! The doors would normally open easily . . . Elizabeth?

I don't understand. I don't understand. I don't understand. Elizabeth's reaction, her voice, was that of someone in complete shock, a frightening sensation to experience from someone who was literally inside your own head.

ELIZABETH! What's happening? I'm suffocating!

Tunuvun was running now, dragging Saul with him, screaming something Saul couldn't make out. His arms . . . somehow he's covered my ears too?

There was a shockwave and Saul felt the breath explode from his body, Tunuvun's hand flicking outward to allow it, then clamping down again. What? Decompression! I'll be out in seconds!

A swift jolt, a crash, and then the piercing, crushing pressure of air returning, something both soft and burning coursing over his body. Tunuvun's hand released him finally and the tiny alien tumbled to the deck, the white-pink iridescent foam washing over him as well. But even with the foam, Saul could see to his horror that the shining-white and purple integument was . . . gone, eaten away as though dissolved by acid across half the alien's surface. He became aware that he, too, was feeling a burning across his body, and there was a pink in the foam that grew more red.

Elizabeth! Kanzaki-Three, what happened?

"Alert," Kanzaki-Three's core AI voice spoke, echoing through the floor as well as the air, "Inimical nanobreach detected, Class Five."

For a moment Saul couldn't grasp it. A nanobreach? Class Five?

Then he did, and the horror almost made him sick. "Alberto, Kanzaki-Three, this is Saul Maginot. Am I compromised? Is our guest Tunuvun?"

"Evaluation in progress. Make no attempt to escape sealed area."

"What about my quarters?"

"Complete neutralization was necessary."

God Almighty. That euphemism meant that the entire section had been ejected and vaporized.

It slowly dawned on him what had happened. "Tunuvun? Tunuvun, are you all right?"

The voice that answered rasped, rough and wheezing, like scraping files on wood. "I . . . may be. Are you, Saul Maginot?"

"I've lost . . . a lot of skin. God that's starting to hurt! Elizabeth, please, help me out here!"

He felt Elizabeth's shock break. Gracious me—I'm frightfully sorry! Saul could feel her trying to trigger Saul's medical nanos to pain suppression. Dash it all -- Saul, your nanos are all busy on defense. All I can do is direct suppression, with your permission.

The sensations were now like flames licking over half his skin. Yes, do it!

Most of his skin, and much of his body, went numb. He could still control it, mostly, but it was like being anesthetized.

He became aware that his face—most of his head—was wet, soaked in something sticky and thick, something very different from the foam. The foam was slowly dissolving it now, but it had been heavily distributed across his head. "What happened, Tunuvun? What did you do? How did you know to do it?"

"I saw . . . heard . . . sensed, in some ways you humans do not . . . something happen when that red light went out. It was . . ." he paused. His voice sounded just a fraction less rough. "It was as though many of the devices and surfaces in your room were shedding, spreading a pulse of spores, perhaps. I have seen such things in the Arena, poisonous gases and such, and all of us who work with the Factions have heard of your nano-weapons, the hungry dust. I immediately tried to protect your face, prevent you from breathing before it reached you, and as I ran I generated a protective material that we have evolved to defend us against many sorts of toxic and dangerous contaminants."

He perceived the danger and reacted so fast that he prevented me from inhaling any of it, and then evacuated ahead of the ejection and sterilization? Saul was starting to really grasp what it meant to be a Champion of the Arena. "You saved my life, Tunuvun. Thank you."

"Someone sought to kill my host," the high-pitched, rough voice replied, still buried in the foam. "I could not tolerate such rudeness."

Saul chuckled. "Kanzaki-Three, status?"

"Inimical nanomaterials yielding slowly to foam. Severe damage to Tunuvun of the Genasi and Saul Maginot. Current prognosis cautiously positive. You have had a very narrow escape, Commander, but data indicates you will not succumb to this attack."

"What I don't understand is how it happened at all. If there was inimical nanotech in my quarters the alarm should have sounded long before."

Much more subtle than that, Elizabeth said, her light, precise voice still shaken. It was a slow restructuring infection with a trigger tied to the decoding.

Holy Mother, Saul thought with horror. That explained what Tunuvun had described. Something had managed to cause a very subtle hidden change in top layers of elements of his apartment, which was then catalyzed to become active, lethal nanotech infectious elements when he unlocked the message. "But that would require nanotech, wouldn't it?"

Normally. But in theory there are ways to use electromagnetic and acoustic signals to rearrange structures appropriately . . . Kanzaki-Three, immediately quarantine and examine all automated cleaning systems.

"Already done," Kanzaki-Three replied. "Two systems non-responsive and not found within station. Backtrack analysis shows a very high likelihood that these cleaning systems self-disassembled and were converted for recycling."

Tracks have been covered, Saul thought. But such a subtle, complex, and nigh-untraceable trap could really only have come from one source. Elizabeth, we'll need to talk to Mentor.

Assuredly, Elizabeth said, her narrow face creased with worry and anger. One of his opposite numbers planned this. And if it was not Fairchild's doing, we need to know who was behind this, and swiftly. I will begin the process to contact him again; he will have made himself very scarce after our last contact.

Saul stood slowly, evaluating his balance and the overall function of his body as a new flood of foam, this tinted blue, entered the sealed chamber. Ah. Medical repair nanofoam. "I presume this means we are clean of inimical nanotech?" he asked. "And are you sure this will not harm our guest?"

"You appear free of the hostile nanotech now. The medical nanos will simply ignore Tunuvun for now; we do not quite know enough to do otherwise, at least using automated nanotech. Medical teams are on their way. We are examining maintenance and cleaning systems to prevent another such attempt."

"Were others intended?"

"Examination of quarters on board Kanzaki-Three showed two other such preparations. They had not been triggered and less drastic inerting procedures were needed."

"Targets?"

"Councilor Robert Fenelon and General Jill Esterhauer."

All too clearly logical, Elizabeth said grimly. Both of them—along with you—have been instrumental in making and stabilizing our current attempt at a government. And despite Esterhauer's caution, both are now working well with Captain Austin.

Saul nodded. "Good. Keep an eye out for similar approaches in future, and send the parameters to the defense and neutralization groups."

"Already underway."

He reached down and helped Tunuvun to stand. "Tunuvun, I don't know how to thank you."

"You are alive. It is enough."

Saul grinned. "I suppose it is." He extended a hand, and Tunuvun—who had obviously learned the gesture from humans in the Arena—took and gripped it. "It looks like I was wrong. Maybe I do need bodyguards."

"You and the others," Tunuvun said. "And that, Saul Maginot . . . that is something the Genasi can provide."

Saul laughed. "Deal, then. You keep us alive . . . and we'll teach you how to live on this side of the sky!"

Into Gonebeyond

Susan R. Matthews

Morning. Port Wilmot, just off the Sagreen vector and five days from Langsarik Station, where the freight courier ship Bammers was due in six or seven of them. Brachi Stildyne—not “Security Chief Warrant Officer” Stildyne any more, not missing it—stood with his back to the wall drinking stale over-strong cavene from a disposable pressed-cellulose cup. He took in the early morning light, trying to put a name to the sensations he was experiencing.

He was depressed. That was kind of funny, in its own way; Brachi Stildyne, depressed, just because after having turned down the offered promotion that was the career goal of any sane Security officer once “clock in for thirty and out” was discarded—First Officer, functionally second-in-command, of the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Sceppan—in order to cleave to his old boss Andrej Koscuisko, he’d then broken ties with Andrej Koscuisko, and would never see him again. Probably never. Rumor had it that Koscuisko was in Safehaven, Nurail quadrant, but Stildyne wasn’t sure he even wanted to see Kosciusko, these days.

As he watched the light change in the loading bay where freighter-courier Bammers was berthed he noted the cargo handler Wilmot Port Authority had sent coming down out of the ship and heading for him. Small ship, for something called a “freighter”; small enough to park on dirt, rather than in geosynchronous orbit, small enough to make escape velocity on its own power. Riggs wasn’t small. She was a tall woman, and something like in “Security shape” in her own right—tough, physical. Relatively junior, as cargo-handlers went, but she was in the right age-bracket, and ambitious.

“A word, Chief,” she said. She had a flat-file docket in one hand, doing a little jog across the tarmac. Yes. He knew he should be in the cargo hold, helping throw crates around. They needed all the crate-throwing they could get. You couldn’t take professional Security troops off their ship and condemn them to vacation for weeks and weeks and not expect a little twitchiness to develop. And there were special circumstances with these particular troops, of course. People. Crew. They weren’t troops any more.

But if she wanted him on shift, she didn’t say so, and he had time to finish his cavene, and it wasn’t easy to do that because Garrity had been at the brewer this morning and apparently relished the opportunity to have his cavene the way he liked it: the consistency of burnt tar, smelled that way, tasted that way.

“Waiting,” Stildyne said, and she came up close, speaking low.

“You’ve got termites.” No, they didn’t. Bammers was a clean ship; old, which could mean termites, but in this case it didn’t, because termite-hunting was another way to manage twitchiness. It was hard to take out fist-sized vermin whose normal diet contained so much stalloy contamination. Required determination, sometimes explosives. No, she meant something else: unauthorized personnel. “Three, I think. You lot must have noticed. But I can’t tell.”

Fifteen years, more, spent more-or-less on shipboard or in the safely enclosed spaces of military establishments; the light was always one thing or another, pre-sets, very limited degree of variation. Since he and the men who’d once been bond-involuntaries assigned to the JFS Ragnarok had come to Gonebeyond space he’d discovered a whole new world of ambient light, and it changed, it was different in the mornings than it was at mid-day and when the sun or suns went down.

He almost remembered that, from his childhood, what there’d been of it. Sometimes he found himself looking for a controller on the nearest wall to adjust the intensity before he realized that there weren’t any controls for natural lighting.

“We’ll be sweeping things out, once you’re happy with the loading.” No, she wouldn’t have been able to tell that the crew knew where three of Wilmot’s best sneak-thieves—and an apprentice—were hiding. They’d have passed finger-code between them. Yes, Koscuisko had pulled their governors, they could speak without being spoken to without fear of punishment. That didn’t mean any of them really knew that, yet, not on a visceral level. “Are we on schedule to clear?”

They had the Port Authority coming in six or seven hours from now to review Riggs’ estimate of value and commodity-class of goods in hull. Then they’d pay the fees and tariffs based on Riggs’ estimate and Port Wilmot’s commerce code, and shift hull for Langsarik Station.

“I’ll have to declare,” Riggs pointed out, neutral, professional. “Incidental passengers.”

That was additional traffic, personnel in transit. “Understood.” She’d be coming with them to Langsarik Station, to attest to her report when Bammers got there. So Bammers could unload. Stildyne didn’t think she’d have any trouble finding a skip back to Wilmot; or maybe she’d lay over for a while, or hop a hull for somewhere else. They were adaptable people, cargo handlers.

“If you’re done with your cavene, Chief,” she said, not quite making a point of it, because she was professionally polite and she’d clearly been able to read the relationship dynamics. He couldn’t stop them from calling him “Chief.” Six parts habit and one part stubbornness, or a subtle bond-involuntary joke, he didn’t know.

“Coming directly, Riggs,” he said, and tried not to smile, because—although he saw his face every day and didn’t have any particular feelings about it—he’d been told it scared people. He didn’t know what to call them, since they weren’t Fleet’s property any longer. They’d been defined by their Bonds all the time he’d known them. Former bond-involuntary Security assigned, Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok wasn’t fit to requirement, for a wide range of reasons.

He knew what to do with “depressed.” Ignore it. There was cargo to manage. Nothing he had to be depressed about could be compared to what any of the others had in their pasts. The fist, maybe, a cadre of enforcers. It would have to be a Versanger fist, six; and an extra, that was him. They knew things about him and they hadn’t beaten him to a bloody pulp for past behavior yet. He was finding out more about them every day. That was something to distract him from “depressed.”

If he didn’t hurry there wouldn’t be anything left for him to do, so he drank off the dregs of his cavene even knowing that he’d regret it and tossed the crumpled cup into the waste and got himself up into the cargo hold.

###

Medith Riggs stood in the cargo bay at the top of the loading ramp with her back to the men at work, doing her best imitation of someone scanning her flatfile docket and thinking hard. The clearance agent from the Port Authority—Esfrans today, she thought—would be here inside of two hours. Chief had as much as told her they knew about the hiders, but they were walled in behind cargo-cartons three ranks deep by now.

The only real clue she had that they were going to sweep up—as Chief had said—was that they’d deviated from her carefully calibrated loading sequences to the extent of facing the hidey-hold with lighter weight cargo cubes whose contents, if the tell-tales were telling the truth and she had no reason to doubt it, could be dropped from a more significant height than ship to tarmac without suffering any damage or loss of use.

So she hadn’t pointed that deviation out to them. Her load-levels were recommendations, part of the service, best balance for fit and trim, but nobody was required to comply with her schematics, not even though they should because she knew what she was doing better than they did. She could tell. They were a fit and capable crew, but they weren’t professional cargo management handlers.

One of them was coming up behind her, scuffing a boot-heel against the flooring to let her know he was there. Because they didn’t mean to sneak up on a person, but they moved quietly, especially for big men. “Cavene,” he said. Garrity. Blond, nice hair, nice cyborg augmentation in one eye; the kind that had cost somebody a lot of money. “Join me?”

Happening, then. And didn’t want her to be in the way. She didn’t want to be in the way either.

“Sure.”

The way he made it, she only needed about as much as would cover the bottom of the cup, and water to fill. She hoped he wasn’t going to be in charge of cavene en route. Five days would be a long time to face that. He angled past her and down the ramp, very careful body language, these were all very polite people.

She followed him. The brewer was on the inner wall of the main warehouse bay, now open, empty; she was inside the bay with Garrity between her and the outside almost before she realized he’d moved her to where he wanted her, smoothly, imperceptibly. Nothing wrong, no faint trace of a potential warning; maybe—Medith told herself—it was because she already knew what he was doing and was perfectly comfortable going along with it.

“Ran through the base issue early today, sorry,” Garrity said. Possibly more words all together than she’d heard him say during the previous day and this one combined. “It’ll be weak. Going to have to stretch it on our way to Langsarik Station.”

That was to cover why he was pouring hot water into the cup he’d set there on the brewer-assembly’s lip, she supposed. He was one of the broad-shouldered types, so he made one of the better sound-barriers. That Kerenko, he was a slightly more slender model. More noise would have leaked into the warehouse bay around Kerenko, although—if she was going to be fair—all of them made fairly convincing sound-buffers.

“I’ve never been to Langsarik Station,” Medith said, in her best bright-and-conversational style, reaching for the cup. Doing her part. “Have you been there often? If you don’t mind my asking, of course. None of my business, really.”

Garrity nodded, leaning casually against the wall between her and the outside. Looking relaxed. Swirling the cavene in his own cup, the mud in his cup, and why it needed to be swirled was a question since he drank it straight—so there was nothing to dissolve or mix. “Chief’s got someone to see, I guess. We’ve never been. Yet. But hey, recent arrivals, it hasn’t been but a few months. You?”

This was funny. She was enjoying it. “Born and bred, actually.” Her family had been lucky. They’d gotten out of Jurisdiction space before the Bench had really started to crack down on Nurail, before the clearances, before the relocations, an entire generation before the Domitt Prison. That was why she had as much family as she did. “Raised in Ilvers. It’s a nice place. But it’s quiet. I wanted to travel.”

She could hear vague sweeping sounds, coming in from outside. Moderately muted shouting, of the suddenly-interrupted kind. Maybe a few miscellaneous yells and crashes. Garrity grinned at her, and glanced back over his shoulder toward where Bammers stood with its cargo bay open. Suddenly she liked that. They weren’t trying to keep any secrets; they also credited her with knowing exactly what was going on.

“Done a little more traveling than I ever wanted to, really, but that’s life for you. Now I don’t know what I’d do if I had to sit in a boat and haul net all day. Any fishing in Ilvers? Sounds like “eelvers,” doesn’t it? My old people, they still dried eels. Called ’em ‘springsnakes.’ We’d eat them every year on the year-turning, whether we wanted to, or not.”

Nothing coming out of Bammers’ cargo bay sounded scared, from where she stood. Angry. Frustrated. Occasionally hurt, but of the quick sharp impact kind. Fist-fight. There was nothing wrong with a good brawl. She’d gotten into her share in her time, mostly in taverns, mostly of the “Didn’t you hear the lady? She said no” variety.

She wondered how much longer the rest of his crew was going to make Garrity stand there and make conversation, because it didn’t seem to come naturally to him. “There’s a troutlike thing,” she said. “So we call it a trout. They’re pretty. And they’re good eating. Especially on the lake-shore where you caught them.” She’d never actually tasted much more than butter and salt on the fish, so she’d been happy to let her brothers and sisters eat most of the catch.

“Cargo management,” Garrity said. That didn’t seem to follow directly, but Medith excused it. Garrity was clearly reaching for topics. “That loading diagram, thing of beauty. There are people at home who can do that in their heads, but mostly it’s just a stunt these days. Folklore competition week. It’s been a long time since people moved cargo on the old wooden hulls. Long time.”

Long long time, Medith thought, to encourage him; but he’d stopped. They were rapidly running out of things to talk about. “Nice climate at home,” she said. “At Ilvers, I mean. Ah, a problem some years with getting enough hot days for grain crops, but the season’s pretty long, so it works out, by and large. We’ve got a nice moon, too, pretty.”

She sounded as hopeless at conversation as he did, she thought. She wasn’t used to having to carry both ends. She never ran out of things to say to her sweetie, but that was different, and they didn’t always get much time on remote-link.

“Two seasons. Freezing and frying. Those houses people used to put up on the slopes? They only looked like they were falling down. Maximum ventilation.” But someone called to them from outside, and he straightened up with visible relief.

“Garrity,” someone said. Medith thought it was Pyotr. “You’re needed.” Garrity nodded to her with a sort of a come-if-you-want look to his original-issue non-cyborg eye, and went back out into the open air. So she followed him, stopping in mild perplexity as she took in the scene.

Three people sitting on the ground looking downcast, yes. But another person on the ground a little removed, that made four; she hadn’t expected that. And everybody was taking their shoes off. That was a little weird. Pyotr had stopped in front of the three men on the ground and folded his arms.

“Here’s the deal,” Pyotr said. She’d been told to report to “Chief” Stildyne, and “Chief” was clearly the coordinator, but it was more of a spokesman thing as far as she could tell. “You’ve been sitting in our cargo bay waiting for your chance. Port Authority says you’ve got somebody sneaking access to loading manifest, so you can steal the best stuff.”

Loading manifest? Her loading manifest? Riggs frowned. Nobody had any business with her documentation except her, and she took precautions. So her flat-file docket itself had been corrupted. That was bad. But Pyotr said he’d heard that from the Port Authority, so that was good. But nobody had told her: so that was bad, again.

Nobody on the ground was saying anything. One of them put his boots on the side at arm’s length, clearly in response to an instruction given before she’d gotten out here to hear it; “Yeah, down to the skin,” one of the crew said—Robert, she thought—and the man began to strip off his boot-stockings, reluctantly. What was that about?

“And Port Authority knows something you don’t know. About us. About me.” Pyotr clearly hadn’t expected any response, because he was still talking. Medith could appreciate that, though. Pyotr was a substantial piece of work, maximum intimidation in effect. Scaltskarmell. There weren’t any people with complexions that color among the Nurail lineages: he was as dark-skinned as hominids came.

“So let’s talk about me. My name’s Pyotr Micmac. Until recently, bond-involuntary Security assigned, Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok. Do any of you pathetic excuses for local muscle know what that means?”

This was a question direct. One of them answered. “So what?” he said. “Inquisitors, yeah. This is Gonebeyond. You’re saying we’re supposed to be scared, because you used to be with Andrej Koscuisko?”

There were some vague stirrings of recognition in the back of Medith’s mind, but they weren’t very well defined. Bond-involuntaries: Security slaves, with governors in their brains, because otherwise you couldn’t find enough people who’d serve an Inquisitor of their own free will. Thirty-year term of enslavement. Immediate and ferocious punishment for the slightest infraction. Andrej Koscuisko, and the Domitt Prison.

“No,” Pyotr said, leaning forward to loom over the speaker. Medith was impressed by the menace Pyotr communicated with just the word, and she wasn’t the one facing him. “I’m saying you should realize that we know how to hurt people. We know how to hurt people really, really convincingly. And we will, too, because you annoy us, ask me why.”

At this moment Medith almost would, just to take the edge off the apprehension she felt by proxy. Fortunately for her—she told herself—one of the three of them said it for her.

“Sure, Jack,” the man with the now-bare feet said. “Why?”

“Glad you asked.” Pyotr unfolded his arms, and he made it scary, too. Hands on hips, now. “I knew a man who was put under Bond for just this sort of stupid stuff. You’re not under Bond. Nobody’s torturing you to death. Nobody’s making you torture anybody, except maybe you, your breath could be weaponized. That makes me really, really angry. Because I remember Lipkie Bederico. We were under Captain Lowden together.”

Now the curly-headed one, standing together with the other two of them behind the three men on the ground, raised his voice. Hirsel, that was. She’d been introduced, but since none of them talked much they didn’t say each others’ names and she wasn’t as sure about that detail as she would’ve liked to have been.

“So me, I’d be perfectly happy to take it out on you,” Hirsel said. “Angry, that is. There’s only one reason you’re not leaving here in bitty bloody pieces. Nothing to do with the Port Authority. Don’t get me wrong.”

And now Godsalt. Garrity had talked himself out, clearly. He’d changed places with Chief, going to stand with—Robert?—guarding the single person who’d been pulled out, and was sitting alone. The one Medith hadn’t known about. The youngest of the bunch, she thought.

Chief when he joined Medith near the warehouse bay didn’t look much disarranged to Medith, hardly even breathing heavily. She didn’t think he’d as much as broken sweat.

“No, the Port Authority’s done you a favor,” Godsalt said. “Asked us to look out for people like you and turn you over. We’ve talked. We’ve decided. Maybe someone could have let Lipkie run. Then what happened to him wouldn’t have, maybe. So we’re letting you run. Except. Barefoot. We keep your shoes, just because we can. Maybe you cut your little pink feet. Maybe you think about what could happen next time. Especially if you get caught by the wrong crew. Yeah?”

Not what Chief had planned, Medith thought, suddenly. Chief would have turned them over. Chief was deferring. That was interesting. What did it mean? Had he been “Chief,” like “Security Chief?” She wasn’t sure she could see why he’d be here, if that was so. Bond-involuntaries in Gonebeyond, well, if they could get out, it’d be the only place they could really go, wouldn’t it?

But how could they have gotten out? Governors. Everybody had heard about them. Little spider-intelligences in a person’s brain, and if you even thought about violating your instructions, you’d be lucky if you never remembered the agony the governor would inflict in punishment.

“I’d rather go with the Port Authority than listen to you flap at me,” one of the others said, resentfully. Not getting the message, Medith thought. Or maybe just not liking it. None of the crew seemed to find it particularly worth noticing. “What about that kid? He’s nothing to do with us. So you should have no problem with him. He walks. With his shoes on.”

“That kid,” the one by himself. He’d taken off his shoes, but he had a kit back there, too. Beside him. Medith saw the crew look at each other, passing eye-contact; passing something else, maybe? She’d wondered if it was her imagination that people had twitchy fingers. Maybe it still was. Maybe there was some communication going on.

“Okay,” Pyotr said, one hand to his face now, fingers crooked over his mouth like people on the vids when they were supposed to be thoughtful people weighing arguments. “For that you get your shoes back. So long as you run out of here before you put them on. Get out. We don’t know when the port’s sending security, but we don’t think it’s very long now.”

It took a moment before the men on the ground appeared to grasp what Pyotr was saying, not because they weren’t as smart as the next sneak-thief, but because it was unexpected. Once the message sank in, though, nobody waited. Gone. There’d be no particular problem running across the tarmac, Medith supposed. But the pavement outside, that was all gravel. That would hurt.

And once they were gone Robert nudged the one that was left with his foot. “As for you,” Robert said. Robert looked Nurail to Medith, but that was maybe just because she was Nurail and had been raised in a Nurail community and people tended to look Nurail to her anyway. If he was Nurail he’d be Rabin, not Robert. If he was, if he’d been, bond-involuntary, though, Fleet could have called him Constanza or Stucco Wall or whatever they liked, and he’d have had to answer to it. “What’s your story?”

“I’ve got to get out,” the man on the ground said. Yes, young. Very. Maybe a boy yet, but what did that matter? “Thought I’d stow away. Almost made it, didn’t I? If the Port Authority takes me home, my da will kill me. If they don’t he’ll find me and kill me anyway.”

Well, that sort of talk was just what a person would expect from a kid, over-dramatizing, world revolving around him, and so forth. “So your dad did that to you,” Robert said, as Garrity pulled the man to his feet. Maybe there was something about it that Medith couldn’t see from this distance. “So you’re clearly not too young to find your own way around it. How old are you?”

“I’m legal.” That was a sullen insistence, but a little resigned, a little hopeless. “I’ve got papers to prove it. Let me go. I won’t try it again. I promise.”

Chief moved his feet. Just a little. Hardly more than taking a deep breath. But the others noticed, Medith was sure they did. “How do you plan to feed yourself at Langsarik Station?” Robert asked. “You’ve got money? I somehow didn’t think so, so, what’s your plan?” Robert glanced over to where Chief was standing with Medith. “Hopeless, Chief. Doomed to failure. Not our problem.”

He didn’t mean it. He was waiting. He was going to have Chief make the call. Medith recognized it, suddenly: Nurail humor. Serious humor, in this instance, but she could practically smell the joke in the air. Chief had been Security chief. What he was doing here Medith still didn’t know, but Chief was Chief Warrant Officer, these men were refugee bond-involuntary Security slaves, and Robert was going to make Chief Stildyne say the word, just because that had been his job.

“You’ll scrub the galley,” Chief said. “And the lavs. After the galley. Do a good job and maybe we cut you loose with scut-worker salary. Put your shoes on. Keep your mouth shut when you muster for the Port Authority, Riggs, let’s call it incidental labor, that’s about all it’s worth, isn’t it?”

For an instant she was tempted to say oh, we won’t call it anything, just this once. But she had her code of duty. And Chief was right: declaring an additional incidental laborer wouldn’t add enough to the total tariffs and fees to even almost notice. “I’m good,” she agreed. “Only we’d all look better if the cargo bay was back to schematic by the time the clearance agent gets here. I know who’s on shift, I think. The cleaner we look the less likely there’ll be any questions.”

But they knew that. And they were already heading back into the cargo hold. The would-be stowaway was fastening his shoes as quick as he could, and ran up after them as soon as he could manage—wanting to help, maybe. He’d just be in the way. Maybe they wouldn’t point that out to him.

“Was a time I had to get away,” Chief said. It was just the two of them, now, she and him. “Not like that kid, no. But I’m not in a position to tell anybody to clean the lavs.”

Nothing she’d seen of this crew would indicate that the galley, and the lavs, weren’t cleaner than many and completely up to code. Now she had a better idea why: these were professional military men, and maybe the standards of this particular crew had been set at higher than most.

She wasn’t going to argue. It wasn’t her place. Also, she kind of agreed with the group decision. “Wonder if he can make cavene,” Medith said. “And I’ll just be doing final inspection, when you’re ready.”

If Esfrans gave her any trouble she’d slap him silly, and the crew would pay the tariffs she established, and that would be all there was to it. If she never came back to Wilmot Station it’d be no particular loss.

###

Lek Kerenko was deeply grateful that someone else had made the cavene, because he was fairly sure his plumbing wouldn’t take many more days in a row of Garrity’s approach. The only thing that had saved him from a total collapse had been someone’s wrangling twice as much dairy as a growing boy would normally go through in a month, and it was good dairy, too, actual dairy dairy—not dairy equivalent.

It didn’t taste like good Sarvaw cow’s-milk, but there weren’t any Sarvaw cows in Gonebeyond that he knew of, and he’d been doing without the good stuff for years now anyway. It wasn’t standard issue on the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok. The officer’s household had served him the best of Aznir high-fat cream for his cavene when he’d accompanied Koscuisko home on holiday, the once; he’d been a little worried that it might give him hives—since he was Sarvaw—but he’d survived the experience. He’d forced himself to repeat it as often as he’d dared during that downstay, because he’d been fairly sure he’d never have a chance like that again.

Now he sipped his cavene carefully—he’d developed a conditioned protective reflex during their lay-over at Wilmot—and found himself a place on the bench in the narrow cramped common-room on the freighter-courier Bammers to take his mid-meal. Bammers hadn’t been built for a full crew of Security; the benches were just a little short, but Robert being youngest found himself a place sitting on a stores-locker and Chief just leaned up against the wall.

It was a good practice to take at least one meal together. He found himself getting a little anxious if he was too much alone. “So,” Pyotr said to his bread-fold, both elbows on the table. Complete violation of protocol, which was the point, of course. Also maybe Pyotr had just grown up putting his elbows on the table. “How old were you when you ran away from home, Chief?”

It was a personal question. They asked a lot of personal questions, these days; because they could. There were a lot of inquiries in queue, after all those years of never asking anything about each others’ personal lives, and what was the worst that could happen? A fist-fight. That hadn’t happened yet. All of those years under Bond they’d had each other, only each other, whether they liked each other or not; that part hadn’t changed.

“Nunya,” Chief said, after taking a contemplative moment to swallow. None of your business. “Trade you for the first hot shower, when we get to Langsarik Station.”

There were Malcontents at Langsarik Station, Dolgorukij slaves of the Saint, the secret service of the Holy Mother’s church, “cousins” one and all. The officer’s blood-cousin Stanoczk had arranged a Sarvaw pilot from Langsarik Station to take them from Emandis Station into Gonebeyond, and Malcontents at Langsarik Station had been their primary interface with life in the new world ever since. Chief—Stildyne—had an understanding with Cousin Stanoczk.

Pyotr nodded. Chief looked at the half-eaten bread-fold in his hand. Asking about peoples’ pasts was one of the biggest taboos there was, among bond-involuntaries. “Sixteen years Standard, I think,” Chief said. As old as Robert, then, Lek thought, startled. But they weren’t supposed to know that. “I was big for my age, and tough enough for Fleet. They marked me down for eighteen, no questions asked.”

He’d passed for older more successfully than the stowaway currently cleaning the lavs, then. That was what had put the question in Pyotr’s mind, naturally; it wasn’t that anybody was eavesdropping, not on purpose, but when your Chief said anything it was good survival practice to be sure you heard what he was saying. Even when you didn’t hear anything at all, not officially. “Same reason?” Godsalt asked. “You can have first crack at the laundry, too.”

In case he wanted to get pretty, in case Cousin Stanoczk was there. It had to be lonely for Stildyne, all these weeks without Koscuisko in the back of his mind. Not that Koscuisko wasn’t in the back of Stildyne’s mind, whether or not they’d ever see him again. Stildyne took another bite of his bread-fold and chewed it down before he answered.

“He never laid a hand on me,” Stildyne said. “Not once I got old enough to hit back. That’s when I went street. But someone came running to me about my sister, and I went back. After that. Stuffed some rags in a bag I stole from someone to make it look like I had something more than just the clothes on my back, and reported to the nearest recruiting office.”

And Lek was sorry Pyotr had asked. On a psychological trauma scale of zero to bond-involuntary it didn’t slide up much past half-way, though; and of course Stildyne owed them, for past misbehaviors. But that was just a technical issue.

He’d been no worse than many and maybe even a little better than most, because Stildyne had always been a practical man who took his responsibilities to keep the equipment in good working order seriously—that was them, bond-involuntaries, instruments of torture. Then Koscuisko had happened. That had been good for all them, the Bonds. For Stildyne there’d been challenges.

Pyotr looked down at his plate, the second—uneaten—bread-fold; and sighed. Picking it up in one hand he eased himself up and away from the table, which was one of Pyotr’s better tricks, close as the quarters were around here. “Well, all right, then,” he said, and tore the bread-fold in two between his fingers, holding out half for Stildyne to take. “I’d better go check the vector spins. Lek worries.”

But Pyotr didn’t leave. He waited, watching Stildyne examine the half-a-bread-fold in his hand. Stildyne took a bite, and a sip of cavene to wash it down. Then, and only then, Pyotr turned, and went away.

“Any chance of an invite to that Daigule’s house for dinner, Lek?” Robert asked, just to break the tension, Lek knew. “Because. Dumplings.”

Kazmer Daigule—their pilot from Emandis into Gonebeyond—was as Sarvaw as Lek was, and an important man in the Langsarik Port Authority. Married to the cousin of the Provost Marshall himself, Flag Captain Walton Agenis’ own niece. She made soft-curd sour cheese dumplings to dream on, and her not even Sarvaw at all, except by marriage.

“You’re dreaming,” Lek said. “That was a one-off.” Although if they were ever invited to the Modice Agenis household again he hoped they wouldn’t all sit there like bond-involuntary security troops assigned, incapable of all but the most rudimentary conversation. It had been too soon, the last time. A man could hope for a second chance, even if the only reason they’d had a first one was that Cousin Stanoczk and Kazmer Daigule knew each other. “Marry your own bride. Then you can ask for the recipe. Wedding-present.”

Things had gotten a little serious around here, and needed setting back to neutral. Stildyne was finishing the half-a-bread-fold Pyotr had given him, whether he wanted it or not. Lek got up. “Garrity will be missing his meal.” Riggs as well, and the stow-away. “I’ll go call them in for bread-folds.”

It was just part of the redefinition of relationships, after all. Because they had one. Stildyne, and the rest of them. On his own merits, whether or not Koscuisko had sent him out with them into Gonebeyond, to facilitate their transition from under Bond to normal human beings.

The sooner Stildyne could make up his mind to that, the better it would be for everybody.

###

Langsarik Station. It was a pretty place, though it lacked contour; Robert appreciated the fragrance of spring blossoms in the air, blowing in from the greenery that clothed the walls of the launch-lanes off in the middle distance. He remembered the Provost Marshal, Hilton Shires; and wondered, a little, what warranted the presence of the senior man in the Port Authority at the arrival of a freighter-courier like Bammers.

“You remember my friend Kaz?” Shires was asking Stildyne. Of course we do, Robert thought, but did his best to make his mental tone appropriately polite. It had been Kazmer Daigule who’d piloted the ship that had brought them here, after all, and it hadn’t been more than a few weeks. Three months. Maybe. “We might have to check his pockets. We might have to check my pockets. But our Malcontent cousins specified the crew, as a condition of access.”

Traffic Control had brought Bammers in next to a ship already on the tarmac, beautiful ship, heavy courier. Robert thought he’d seen it before. Stildyne was apparently sure, but Stildyne would know; Stildyne—and Lek—had been on board of the Kospodar thula when it had made its famous mid-vector intercept of the Ragnarok. Also when it had shot a way through the mine-field that Taisheki Station had been laying to trap the Ragnarok, and saved Ragnarok and its crew from prosecution to the fullest extent of the law for crimes they hadn’t committed.

“Ship’s Engineer would tell you he’s got first dibs,” Stildyne said. “Don’t say anything to him. He’ll come after us.” Ragnarok was in Gonebeyond Space too, that was so. Nobody had come looking for them yet, though. Robert wasn’t sure Captain ap Rhiannon really cared about chasing them down: but maybe it was just that the Ragnarok had other things on its mind, just now. Distracted.

“He’d have to fight my Aunt Walton for it,” Shires noted, mildly. “That would be something. We could sell tickets. But he’d lose.” The Provost Marshal’s “Aunt Walton” was the Flag Captain of the Langsarik fleet, the senior official—semi-retired—in all of the Langsarik quadrant of Gonebeyond space. She probably had experience, fighting with Ship’s Engineers.

Pulling a short stack of data wafers out of the bosom of his overblouse Shires passed them to Stildyne, with an expression of moderate regret on his face. “Here are your codes, Chief. I heard your crew would be wanting to move in right away, I’ve scheduled you for a briefing tomorrow midshift, come see me for ship’s next assignment. Please. We’d like Fisher Wolf’s help with station management out Perjuki way. Nowhere near the Ragnarok.”

“Fisher Wolf? Is that what it’s calling itself, now?” Stildyne asked, with that subsonic rumble of amusement he could get in his voice from time to time. Robert wasn’t quite sure he could parse the joke, but he knew what Dolgorukij men usually meant when they were talking about “fish” and there wasn’t a fried filet with chopped pickle on the side anywhere in sight. So there was a joke. He just wasn’t entirely in on it. “Robert. Call Lek out. Tell him his cousin Stanoczk’s brought him a present.”

The Kospodar thula. Fisher Wolf. Long and almost straight through the flanks, its forward sector bulging out like a tilted pitfruit. The wheelhouse’s clearscreens beneath the forward hood of the ship’s top skin took a rakish angle down to their thermal sills on the slant; six back stabilizers, two to a side, one dorsal, one ventral, and the dorsal stabilizer was at least twice the size of any of the others.

It reminded Robert of nothing so much as an aquatic predator, a famous monster out of the great ocean worlds of Tabyhee Allegate; he’d had seen pictures. Ancient beasts. Primitive, efficient, and beautiful in their savagery. Stildyne had been on board as one of its weaponers, at Taisheki; Koscuisko as well, as insurance against any potential conflicts between Lek and his governor. And Lek on pilot’s station. People had talked. People had said that Lek and the thula were beautiful together.

Their hot showers were maybe going to be delayed for a little bit, then, and their laundry besides. Whether Cousin Stanoczk—Stildyne’s lover—was actually here at Langsarik Station or not Robert didn’t know; and that was actually none of his business. There was the thula. Here were the security keys and the control authorizations. Holding out his hand Robert waited: Stildyne dropped them into Robert’s hand, one, two, five.

“Right away, Chief,” Robert said, and turned to trot up into the Bammers’ cargo bay to find Lek and tell him he had a girlfriend waiting. One with teeth. One with attitude. One with a Dolgorukij accent.

They’d get out to Safehaven to see the officer sooner or later, but in the meantime there were adventures waiting, and they were just the crew to meet anything head-on.

Cutting Corners

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

"Therny, you awake up there?"

That was Gwiver, his supposed assistant, and emergency back-up, just like in the rule book, with the exception that "assistant" and "emergency back-up" were supposed to be two separate bodies. Any wise, it was a silly question, even given Gwiver's standards, since he'd seen Therny Chirs squeeze his long and lanky self into the pallet lift maintenance bay a ship's hour ago, and it wasn't like there were two ways out.

An hour he'd been working on the double-dorfle-damned thing, not in the cargo master's job description, not by a long Jump, it wasn't. Ought to have a real mechanic at the job. Mechanic? Engineer! He slanted a look at the several pieces of metal that weren't suppose to come loose from the main housing. Horrifying as that discovery had been, it wasn't really surprising. Not having a proper mechanic on-board—just one more way that the line cut corners, and saved itself, so the story went, a goodly amount of money.

Therny Chirs shook his head, only half at himself and his jerry-rigged repair, then he punched the button that, in theory, cycled the lift door to full-open.

This time, for eighteen wonders, the door did open. To a point.

Chirs's helmeted head was pressing against the putative ceiling of the bin and his eyes a hands-width above deck level. He could, this time, actually see out, onto the dock, the slight breeze going past his ears letting him know that the ship’s proper over-pressure was at least functioning.

He watched as several pairs of legs passed close, pushing a cart, probably cutting corners across what was marked out as their private work area. Out on the dock’s main way, half a dozen pilots, arms and mouths in motion as was usually the case with pilots in a group, strode by with a will. Probably coming from the bar, or maybe from the regional cruise ship that taking up four gates at once and making the working ships crowd hard into the rest of Codrescu Station's ramps.

In the wake of the pilots came a smaller figure, small enough that Chirs's small window on the dock drew its attention. He thought it was a child, even as it bent closer and he saw its eyes—as knowing as any of the pilots’, those eyes, and looking at him with interest. It came closer, the shadows shifting over the oddly-shaped face—

He felt shock then, the eyes having fooled him, for his auditor was not a child, after all, but a . . . creature, with a fur-covered face, and—

"Hevelin!" shouted a voice.

The . . . creature turned, there was the sound of running steps, a pair of legs rapidly coming into Chirs's view, and a large pair of hands scooping the creature up, and away.

"Shoulda taken you right back to the garden!" The voice said, the tone somewhere between scolding and laughter. "Don't you gimme that sad—"

A loud BEEP BEEP BEEP drowned out the voice. The half-open hatch rumbled, the readout on his belt chimed, all telling the same story. Safety auto-close had kicked in.

The view went away, the breeze stopped. Therny Chirs did not swear.

"Therny, are you up there?" That was Gwiver, again. "Did I hear something working?"

He took a careful breath.

"Yeah, it was working. It’s not working right now, though. I’m . . ."

"Chirs, we got to make up some time here, you know. Get it moving!"

That was not Gwiver. That was the captain himself, the line's representative, and therefore the author of this particular set of problems.

Fringe Ranger should have had a major refit done five Standards ago. When Therny Chirs came aboard as cargo master, three Standard Years back, he'd been promised that the ship was in line for refit in two Standards. They'd promised other things, too, like apprentices for Cargo Master Chirs to train, who would then be promoted to cargo masters of their own ships, while more 'prentices came to the Ranger to learn. That had been the hook for Therny Chirs: Teaching. Students . . .

All dust and ice. Instead of doing anything they'd promised, or even following their own damn rule book, they kept saving the wrong credits and insisting that you got profit out of cutting corners, instead of good maintenance, full crews, training up the next generation, and delivering goods on time . . .

"Chirs, we’re almost on schedule. You're supposed to start unloading in three hours. You’ve got another half-hour to—"

He took a deep, deep breath, and let it, carefully, out.

"Captain Jad, this one can’t be hurried," he said, just stating facts. "It ought to be fixed if you expect to be carrying break freight handled through a cargo tube. Fixed, Captain, or maybe replaced entire."

"Replaced, at Codrescu Station's prices?" the captain said, outraged. "Just get it working!"

And that was the break point on the pullion screw, so there was no use crying about it or pushing past it. Down . . .

He took a particular breath, counted himself lucky he knew that relaxation technique, and moved things so down was possible.

It was shimmy, and bend, and back, and back, and watch the head, and pull the tub of tools around with him and down, and not drop them on the captain’s deserving head.

"My suggestion, Captain, is that you show an engineer what I’ve got here. I’m two hours past regulation shift end and that puts me in the redzone for safety—my light’s been flashing like a pulsar for the last hour! Just you—and an engineer—look at this!"

The final four feet wasn’t that bad, except that Captain Jad had no sense of self-preservation and had almost managed to get his shoulder shlagged by the tool tub anyway. Chirs was the skinniest man on the ship, but not weak, and that was a bonus for sure for the captain whose hat still had a place to sit.

Chirs pulled the work helmet off once the tub was settled safe, meaning the sweat was free to run down his neck now.

He pushed the dupe button, watched the amber lights flash three times, and pulled the duplicate chip out of the helmet control bar and tried to hand it to the captain, but ended up giving it to Gwiver since the captain was sucking on his trucafe like he did when he got nervous. Damnnnity well ought to be nervous!

"Take a look. And here, I brought ’em out because there was no way I was going to be able to put them back on."

Gwiver took them, too, after managing to hand off the recording to the captain.

"There’s metal missing, sir. There’s grooves in thing that oughtn’t be touching anything, sir. There’s a spot of something that’s flaking and several things that are bent. I’ve been measuring and checking and . . . I’m done with this until it gets fixed, sir."

Probably he’d been overdoing the sir, Chirs realized, but if worse came to worser and the captain put him on warning he had a lot of stuff to go against a complaint. In fact, for backup, he slipped a chip he owned into the slot, duped it while the captain watched him, and shoved that down into his personal work-wallet.

"The cargo master reports and certifies to the best of his abilities that the inner lift assembly is out of true and that he will not utilize it for any purpose until it is repaired by a technician fully pedigreed to fix and certify it right."

"We’ve got to move that . . ."

Chirs pulled a ’sorb sheet out of his pocket, and wiped his forehead. He nodded, rubbed his hair down past his ear, and threw a pilot’s “I can do it if we have to” hand-sign at the mechanism, at the captain, at Gwiver . . .

"When I come back on duty we can do an eval. That’s ten hours, regulation, before I can come back on duty. There’s a way to do it—open hold—with a rent-boat. It’ll take losing some air, and you’ll have to cut grav, but the ship will let me peel it out of there pretty quick as long as you get the pod-packs tethered and secured ahead of time. Gwiver can do that while I take my break."

"Open hold. That’s pilot work, Chirs."

"Yessir, and that’s why the line hired me, wasn’t it? I got a secure Pilot Third and you don’t have to void any of the contracts by having outside haulers involved. I’m good for it. That lift’s not good, and that’s a fact."

"I hear your suggestion, Chirs. I’ll take it under advisement if we can’t get the lift going while you’re on break. I’ll note the cargo master’s scheduling issues for later discussion."

The glare was so cold it was hot, but Chirs strode away, wondering if he could recall where his Third Class certificates were.

He lost a little bit of heat on his way across to the station, official IDs and records to hand, found right where he’d thought they should be. Doubts about things—Fringe Ranger was making him doubt what he was doing more each docking.

He was a very good cargo master all the time and just about a decent warehouse-grade in-system pilot, on an average day. He knew it and the pilot’s guild knew it . . . and his certificates were perhaps, maybe, just a little, on the wrong side of the re-up date. With luck, he could point to the routes they’d been on and sweet talk the rules and get this port done.

It would be a long walk from here to Skaller Three if he couldn’t.

The Pilot’s Guild office was bigger than he’d expected, given the overall size of the station. It was crowded, and it was also noisy. His plea went to the first person who recognized what he was saying. Not that his Trade-talk wasn’t good, but an on-going lament from someone claiming a stolen first class license and jacket had a couple of people’s attention, and there was some other ruckus to be heard through an open door to another room, some of it the lilting sound of Liadens speaking at speed. Doubtful ID seemed to be the gist of the situation, and he guessed he wasn’t supposed to know about it.

"Pilot, you have a date issue here . . ."

He’d caught the attention of a uniformed woman hurrying past the desk, who’d listened to him, looked at his info, and looked at him, suspiciously. Her name tag read “Sterna” and her rating was . . . First Class Provisional. A Jump pilot.

He nodded.

"I’m on Fringe Ranger." He jerked his head in the general direction of the docks, "and they don’t give me much time to . . ."

She looked up; her mouth was borderline grim.

"So why haven’t you taken this to Second?" she asked. "You’ve had ten years."

He grimaced, tucked his annoyance away where it wouldn’t show—it was a good question, after all. Not really her business but . . . there, straight was the best answer.

"No time for hobbies, Pilot. Started in with cargo twenty Standards ago—just exactly what I wanted to do. The third class, that was an afterthought; it'd be useful to me, in my work. Hard to carve out the time, truth said, but I did get it, and I was right—real useful to have."

She blinked, then, grudgingly, smiled.

"There's a reminder for me. Not everybody wants to be a master pilot!"

She waved at the noise around them.

"Here's our problem. You showed up here in the Guild Office in person. If you'd filed from your ship, I could've given you a flight-length extension, so you could get your cargo settled. Since you came in, that means a re-test to fresh up the ticket."

She frowned, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"You’re not looking for up-grade?"

He shook his head, and she nodded.

"You'd never know it, with all this drama going on, but we've got the resources available right now to do your physical, and the sim. Take a few hours. Then we’ll see what the boss wants to do about a ship-test. How’s that?"

It was fair, Chirs thought. More than fair, from her point of view. Unfortunately, he doubted Captain Jad would waste a day, waiting for his cargo master to freshen up his pilot's license.

"I was hoping to be able to rent a local to do some transfer that’s come up . . ." he said, omitting the potentially troublesome news that the ship at the dock couldn’t open the main internal hold.

Sterna sighed a real sigh then.

"Oh, dreamer, dreamer, dreamer. Codrescu Guild Hall is hosting the annual members meeting. You'll have noticed we're a little pilot-heavy, and they're all here on business. I doubt you could hire much more than a hand cart and a part-time handler right now."

Chirs sighed, and turned his hands palm up.

"Right," Sterna said. "Sometimes the route flies you.

"Let’s see what we can do about your first problem, then we'll know what we can do about the second. Can’t always cut corners, pilot."

He’d done well enough on the sim tests to see that he could pass a live-board test—and to see that he was rusty and ought to get more ship time. But there, the line’s officers had been promising ship time, too . . .

Chirs shook his head. Past was past. Right now, he needed to focus on the fact that, despite all the unruliness caused by pilots with too much off-board business to do, Sterna had managed to put together a live-board test for him.

"We've got a local switch-tug that can use some side-work, but isn’t certified for the higher class ships. We’ll give you a testing key and the captain will let you get your two hours in—enough for you to pick up another couple years of cert. You in?"

"I'm in," he said.

The switch-tug was called Beeslady, under the command of owner and Third Class Pilot Giodana Govans. She'd clearly been purpose-built to handle one project—now long done—then sold off to the scrap-yard, where it was duly bought and unscrapped by someone with more guts than gudgeons.

She was a serviceable ship, solid to Chirs's eye, but rough. There’d been no need to blast clean the welds and joins, so they hadn’t been; the work was thorough though, and the nameplate was neatly done in Terran and transliterated into both Trade and Liaden. The call letters were clear, the lights bright and accurately timed. A surprising array of antennas spider-webbed the hull.

Inside, the control deck was the tiny ship’s whole; two seats in front of the surprising dual control panel—one standard and one indecipherably custom— a berth to the left of the controls with a combination head and shower beside it, a galley of sorts to the right. He’d seen cabins with more room than this, and Captain Govans apparently lived aboard! That sense of a homeplace was reinforced with the scent of—must be coffeetoot, baked breads, and spiced yeast quite at odds with the transparent overhead canopy and front ports showing cold stars as gleaming as the ceramics of the station’s outer panels.

"We gets you some credit here, Mister Pilot. Beeslady done this kind of work for a bunch of folks, been thirny years and some."

The pilot—captain that would be—was small, skinnier than him, and barefoot when he was introduced at the freight gate. Her hair was short and colorless and her uniform the soft sheen of old cloth, long used. For all that she was Terran her diction was her own . . .

"Cargo master, good job that to be, and knowin’ what a pilot knows, that’s bonus for all an eny, I betcha, ain’t it?"

He’d agreed and she pointed him to the seat—

"In luck, that’s you are. ’at seat got less than ten hours in it, ought’n be fine and dandy—saved for two years for it! Sit, make it fit, and then we get you to stand up and start the test with a sit down. I don’t go easy on no one—this place out here’s nowhere to be easy ’boutn. We’re quick and tidy; I got all standard latchlocks and we’ll have you test a couple, like you’re ’sposed to. Don’ worry—if you’re up to it, you’re fine."

He sat, found the seat a high end fit and wondered if was one of those thing that were said to have dropped out of a hold . . .

"Mr. Chirs, here we go. Sit and do."

He’d seen the outside of the ship and the first fifteen minutes were taken up with checking gauges and comm lines, being sure of clearances, and he’d done that all in sim not two hours before so he was fresh. The pilot sat at her board and he saw that she wore it more than sat at it; there were pedals and switches in odd places and once away from the station’s light artificial gravity she clearly fit it perfectly. His own seat was comfortable, and the two screens good.

"First mission is to take us out to Yard Three; it’s netted so you gotta look sharp. Mind the cross-traffic; keep a special close eye on Flingwagon down there on the cruise docks."

Flingwagon was tied tight and going nowhere; the cross traffic consisted of a couple space suited figures attached to an antenna rig in and a two-person jitney. The netting, now, that was a new one to him, but the little ship’s manual controls were relaxing to operate after the broken lift work on his own ship, and he entered the area with no problems, the markers obvious and with plenty of clearance.

Captain Govans had him rotate the ship, pull it to a dock, leave the dock and rotate it again, lock to centered mass of metal stanchions, every bit of it copied to his test-key.

"Now take us out twice as fast, and go high on the station so the rotation’s under you, spinward."

Not as easy as it sounded; the net looked more like a tunnel at this speed, and he had to spin the ship and . . .

"That’s the slow way, but it’ll do. We’re looking for doin’ at all 'stead of best 'fficient, 'specially in the nets. Gotta know Beeslady got no big meteor shield, so we won’t bounce if you hit 'em."

He mentally allowed that she was right—all he wanted was the certificate. He listened in to the port chatter, some of it aimed good-naturedly at Beeslady.

"Hey 'Lady, you running in your sleep?" And . . . "Hain’t the way you showed it to me, slowship . . . "Gonna take you a long time to Jump Point that way, ain’t it?"

"Beeslady going to Codrescu azimuth, Pilot Third Class Chirs is PIC."

He’d switched that to a broader band than he ought maybe, but no one said anything and they all knew what he was doing.

After a few seconds, the chatter started again.

"You take care o’that ship, PIC Chirs—she still owes me a tow and a tug," and "That’ll do it, put some guy half her age in there and it’ll slow the whole yard down . . ." and "Don’t need amateurs in my space, Govans!"

The captain was quick over more chatter: "Don’ mind dem; most don mean nothin’ and some think dey’re better ’n dey are, as you kin hear. So’s everhead else hearnin’ too!"

Instructions then:

"Twenny clicks above station, then you gonna come down back along to the main arms and follow in over Flingwagon at ’spection speed and level, be so kind, headin’ hub to out."

"That’s pretty close, I’ll need to . . ."

"You told ’em you’re PIC, and so less’n I pop the switch das da plan I know. You do what you need, I do what I need."

And so what he did was rotate the craft when he’d hit the theoretical spot above the station. Next was to contact station Ops with the plan he’d been given, and with that go-ahead "You have any problem, you defer, PIC—Beeslady’s good close in but we don’t know you. Proceed."

"Fumfingers! Dint have no need to tell you dat—we doin' fine."

Govans muttered and he realized she wasn’t duplicating his screens now, instead, she was watching where he was supposed to go and . . .

"Flingwagon, PIC Chirs here on Beeslady, I’m on a recert test and need to do a flyby. Kindly keep your RF and shield low and I’ll do the same . . ."

He glanced away from his screen, saw Govans nodding in the near dark of her seat, "Thas good boy, thas how . . ."

"No permission here, Beeslady! Stay away. This is a passenger ship! You’ve got to stay fifteen seconds away and . . ."

"Docked!" Chirs knew those regs and once docked the distance regs were the same as for the station—maintain way as posted . . .

"Hold steady, boy! Steady steady steady steady steady on that course . . ."

Steady was easy enough—the craft was tiny and nimble to manual controls, with the cruise ship glowing in dock light in the artificial below. This side of the ship was a nearly blank wall of hatches, antennas, and working rigs that the passengers would never see.

"Das stupid! Shootin’ plastic whipline in a place this crowded."

Whipline was high tension restraint, printed with a bias that let it curl into a neat bundle when released but capable of being made into polarized nets and containment units. It was often used as a guideline to snake goods or tools across short gaps but had to be watched since it was invisible to most radar. Because of that bias to curl it could foul equipment and because of the high tension and near invisibility, it could slice a non-hardened spacesuit to pieces.

Nothing showed on his screen, but on the captain’s screen there were four bright lines . . .

"Gonna go where we was goin’, just twenny-fi meters ta port. 'Lady’ll go where you point her, so point her good. I got good visual on this, and we’re recording, ’cause of the test here, and so . . ."

Chirs muttered under his breath and Govans laughed out loud.

"We alweys is right dere, duckin the big shots. Too bad we ain’t got a really big boat in here right now—hardly get enny, so I guess he’s figuring he’s the big mass in da’ orbit. Listen at ’em plainin’ left and . . . sumbith! Half speed and ten meters off tha’ deck, now!"

The ether was full of complaints from Flingwagon, with the bridge, security, and hospitality all chiming in, but Chirs ignored the complaints in favor of live orders and his own screen. Govans’ screen now . . .

He dared not look at it again, one glance showing bright tangles and tiny bunched pods almost as bright; and there, space-suited figures with no beacons.

Chirs eased the throttle even more, felt the response in his guts as the little craft responded neatly. Even his sensors were showing minute reflections this close—it was like they were flying beneath a flock of ghostly birds.

"Hazard!"

Govans did something and he had an overlay on his screen of whatever she saw.

Indeed, hazard. A jumpship would never have made it, but the warning was sufficient for him to slow to walking pace and weave through a knot of strings and wires moving slowly away from the docks. The ship twanged once, twice, three times but he steadied the heading automatically. The hazard had vanished again from his screen, but there, some bits of wire flapped at the front screens and flipped across the canopy. Then they were past Flingwagon, the rest of the arm brightly lit by open ship bays.

"Beeslady," he said into the mic, "hazard nearport, hazard nearport. We’ve been struck by debris and are returning to dock for inspection."

"Sorry, Captain, I didn’t mean to . . ."

"Hush dat, boy. Smugglers not usual on dis test. Take us in an' I’ll sign for you, sure."

Chirs sat close to dozing in an inner office, momentarily forgotten in the rush of the guild office gone on alert. There were two screens here, no doubt sharing external feeds with the station, and every third view on one showed a twin of his initial sighting of Flingwagon, except now there were traveling lights and numerous small craft about—whatever the station could raise to study the issue and clear the whipline.

The other screen was quieter, showing Borjoan’s Repair and Salvage’s scaffold rig nearly enclosing Beeslady and beyond, accidentally in view, Fringe Ranger, no activity at all but the normal dock lights.

An intern brought him a meal and lots of real coffee, and Guildmaster Peltzer himself stopped by to shake his hand, promising to quickly sort everything out, and not keep him overlong . . .

The doze had deepened into sleep. He knew this because he was dreaming about the creature with the wise eyes that he'd seen on Ranger's dock, only that morning . . .

Here and now, in the dream, the creature was helping itself to the local vita-greens Chirs’d left untouched, all the while studying Chirs as if he’d been talking in his sleep. There seemed to be a matter of credentials to solve. He tried to explain that he had gotten that straightened around, but he was distracted by a flurry of pictures.

Pictures of faces.

Captain Govans he knew, and Sterna, and Guildmaster Peltzer, and the intern—Jon had been the name on his badge.

A man with a lean pirate's face and black eyes like ice picks was a stranger, as was the sandy-haired woman beside him. A woman with slanted blue eyes, and green hair; a child's liberally freckled face; a grey-haired man with an augmented eye; a—

Why was he dreaming the faces of strangers? Chirs wondered, and in the wondering woke up. Standing on the chair next to him, murbling over the greens with clear satisfaction was the creature from the docks.

He sat up fast as the door to his little private space opened.

"Oh, I’m sorry!" Sterna said. "Is Hevelin bothering you? Besides eating your dinner, I mean." She bent forward to address the creature.

"You have perfectly good fresh greens in your own garden!" she said sternly. "You don't have to steal from Pilot Chirs!"

There was a protest that Chirs felt more than heard, regarding both the greens and an exciting new friend.

"I don't eat much grass, myself," he told Sterna. "If he likes it, he can have it." He frowned. "Seems he just said it was good."

She laughed, lightly.

"Did he show you faces?"

He blinked.

"I thought that was a dream."

"It might have seemed like that," she allowed. "Especially if you're not used to talking with a norbear."

"Don't think I've ever . . . encountered a norbear, previously."

"Well, you have now. It's a pretty small club. I've only met two. Hevelin . . . travels with Guildmaster Peltzer, and helps him with guild business. They've been together for ten or twenty Standards, since back when the guildmaster rode circuit."

She sighed and shook her head.

"I wish I could figure out how he opens the doors. On the other hand, Hevelin more or less gets what he wants."

Chirs had the feeling that Captain Govans's face had come back to view, then faded into another, similar face, accompanying a sense of sadness.

"Yes, he was on Beeslady," said Sterna. "But he’s new here, Hevelin. This isn't his regular route. He wouldn’t have met Marg Addy—she lived here her whole life!"

The sense of sadness pervaded the room, radiating from the nearly expression-free face of the norbear.

"Yes, it is sad. I really don't think Pilot Chirs has met many of your friends. Now, I need his attention; maybe you can talk to him later."

Petulance? That was the feeling Chirs had as the norbear reached over, patted him on the knee, and jumped down, taking care to gather up the greens in their packing and carry them away with him, through the open door.

Chirs reached for the coffee mug and found enough to chug before it slurped empty. The room certainly felt as empty as the cup, now that the norbear was gone.

"So, pilot, I personally ran your route in sim, and talked to Captain Govans. Here’s your new docs, and a five year all ports certification, with a ten-year rider—so if you come through again we’ll recert up to that limit as long as your medical’s good."

He received his credentials gingerly, as if there might have been an error.

"Me aborting to the dock, that didn’t get me in trouble?"

She shook her head, Terran-style.

"Not here it didn’t. You ran most of the route and played the anomaly perfectly. No issue there at all."

His relief echoed through the room. Not only did he sigh, he felt as if the relief was palpable, affecting the pilot as much as him. He watched her face, feeling there was something more she was going to say about how glad she was.

Instead she turned toward the still-open door and snapped her fingers.

"Hevelin, if you’re going to listen at doors I’m going to put you in the garden alone for a week!"

The doorway seemed abruptly full of blustering norbear, but the thing was only pocket high. How could it—he—

Sterna laughed. The norbear sidled a half step into the room, shrinking his bluster, and radiating self-satisfaction.

"How’s he doing—whatever it is he's doing? I feel like—"

She smiled down at him.

"He’s an empath—all norbears are empaths. He can feel your emotions, and manipulate them, a little. He also collects—connections between people."

He found himself smiling up at her.

"The catalog of faces."

"Right."

Chirs looked to the norbear.

"He can manipulate emotions, you said. Does he always get his way?"

"No, he doesn’t. But that’s the problem. Some planets have banned them outright, some even send out hunters. Afraid they’ll take over. A little too much getting their way and they’re seen as dangerous."

She paused. He—wanted to stay in the chair and talk with her more, but—well, she had work to do, with all those pilots on-station, and the meeting. And he—needed to get back to his ship.

He put his hands on the arms of the chair, sent a last glance at the screens—and froze.

Beeslady had moved. She was clearly between the pod mounts now, engaging the pressure panels on Fringe Ranger’s hull. Exactly the idea that had gotten him into this long day that ended with empaths, good company, and a fresh ticket . . .

"What's going on?" he asked Sterna.

"Beeslady is moving those loads that were stuck—turns out there’s no one on station certified to work on those lifts. Captain Jad was raising a stink, I’m afraid, and says he can’t wait three weeks to get out of here."

"Three weeks?" he did quick math, though, and saw the chance of Jad paying for a technician at express rates was slim to none.

"Actually, I think that’s twenty-four days, going by Eylot’s week. We’re going to have an inquest, you see, and it’ll take at least that long for everything to be put together. So Jad’s worked out a deal to get his cargo off."

A chill went down his back about the same time the norbear pulled on Chirs knee and managed to climb onto his lap.

"I really ought to be out there. I’m cargo master! I’ll . . ."

Hevelin was a nearly immovable weight on his lap now. Sterna sighed.

"I’m afraid not, pilot. That inquest, that’s about smuggling, you see. You’re the principle witness. You’ll have to stay."

The inquest had been a joke, with no one being held entirely responsible: clearly that much effort would have taken more than one person, clearly the purser had not rigged all of those whipline ejectors nor connected those multi-kilos of super grade vya, nor fronted an operation of a scale that must have had multiple ships waiting, hidden in the confusion of ships at dock for the members' meeting.

A fine was imposed, and paid off. In due time, Flingwagon departed the station; the probable couriers for the vya no doubt slipping away, still covered by the crowd.

The hospitality of the pilots had not been a joke. They’d let him bunk in a unused pilot’s ready room, feeding him, and treating him as well as they did the First Class and Master pilots, for all of his lowly third class status. Several of the advanced pilots expressed appreciation for his run, the sim being available on station, and almost everyone sympathized with the slow grind of officialdom.

He’d managed, after several days, to relax. Yes, in effect he had quit Fringe Ranger when he’d walked out, if that's how the captain wanted it. Yes, he’d been paid full rate for the voyage, anyway, more than one new friend pointed out—the ship hadn't been safe. He's was better off away from it.

He had in his pocket a pilots guild chit good for one trip somewhere, practically anywhere, he wanted to go.

Probably that chit would stay in his pocket; it had no end date, after all.

Today, though, he would be gathering his effects and heading down to Eylot for the in-person interview of a job application he’d made. Angligdin Academy was expanding, and they’d wanted an experienced Cargo Master to teach a few courses. Apparently the fact that he spoke formal and colloquial planetary Terran was good, even if he wasn’t exactly from this region.

He heard a low voice, not amplified by Hevelin’s assistance. Hevelin had finally agreed to stay in the garden of a night.

"Therny, are you awake?"

He was still deciding the answer to that when Pilot Sterna asked again, this time with a nip of his ear included. Well, she was off today, too, for a year-long run. She was provisional First Class, flying for the leather jacket and all the glory of a Jump pilot.

And he? He was going to teach, after all.

He turned over, slowly, and she sighed.

"The pilot wakes," she acknowledged. "Let us perform a preflight check. No cutting corners."

A Fire on the Hill

Brendan DuBois

Belinda Craft of Gloversville, New York, was up before dawn, checking the eggs from their brood, happy to see that the new fence she and Grandpa had repaired was still holding fast. Foxes, fisher cats, wild dogs, coyotes . . . whatever had raided them last week were at least being blocked out now. There were a dozen chickens pecking and cackling at her, and she was pleased to find five warm eggs, which she carefully deposited in a basket lined with hay.

“See you later, gals,” she said, as she went out of the coop and started walking back to their farmhouse. There was the smell of farm animals, wet hay, feed, and . . .

A slight scent of cinnamon?

Something flickered in the distance.

She turned and with basket still in hand, looked off to the west, near the soft peaks of Peck Hill State Forest.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

Rising up above the wooded hills was the highest peak, the one with the fire tower, and there was a battle going on. She had seen plenty of battles over the years, usually at a distance, quick sharp things that didn’t take long, but as she stood there, she had a feeling this one had been going on for a while. There were the flickering flashes of laser beams from the alien Creepers, and the long tongues of flame, lancing out as well, and the faint sounds of human firearms being fired back.

A military unit, then, up on top of the hill.

Trapped.

And the fire tower wasn’t there either.

She turned and went up to the farmhouse.

On the porch was a locked refrigerator, and she undid the combination lock and opened the door. The light inside the refrigerator had burned out years ago but no mind. Belinda was able to put the eggs where they belonged by feel. Later this week a salesman from the nearby Price Chopper supermarket would pick them up, and she and Grandpa would have enough to live on for another couple of weeks.

Belinda went into the kitchen and saw Grandpa hunched over the stove, watching a kettle steam to life. She had been alone with Grandpa for nearly a year, after Mom and Dad got jobs out in Detroit, which was still rebuilding after the war began and was now making new steam-powered vehicles for the Army and the Marines.

Grandpa turned and said, “How many this morning, Bel?”

She liked Grandpa’s nickname for her. “Five, Grandpa.”

“Good, that’s very good.”

He said, “I thought I heard some noises outside. What’s going on?”

She went to the sink, washed her hands. “There’s a fight going on, over at the fire tower on Peck Hill.”

“How many Creepers?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Hunh. Let’s go take a look.”

Grandpa had on just a dark blue bathrobe and slippers. He slipped past her, taking a pair of binoculars hanging from the wall in his wrinkled hands. Belinda didn’t know much about Grandpa, and unlike other old folks, he didn’t spend a lot of time bitching and moaning about how much better everything was ten years back, before the Creepers invaded. She had asked lots of times over the years what things were like Before, and he would just shrug and say, “People were still the same. It was the shiny toys that was all different. The Creepers came and took our toys away. I got over it. Lots of others didn’t. Still, if it did something, it made us all realize that we had to work together to make things right. Our duty. Damn shame, though, millions had to die to get us there.”

Grandpa put on a long, worn coat over his bathrobe, held to the side of the wall as he slipped his big feet into boots, and he said, “Make two knapsacks, will you? Food, water, some bandages and such. That old tube of burn cream.”

Bel said, “Mom and Dad won’t like that.”

“Mom and Dad aren’t here,” he said, “I am. Meet you outside. Make sure to lock the doors and take the kettle off the stove.”

She had one more question. “Grandpa, why are we doing this?”

He looked surprised at her question. “It’s our duty, girl. Now, hurry along.”

It took longer than she expected, but Grandpa seemed patient. He stood near the porch, holding up binoculars, watching the battle up on Peck Hill. It was still dark and there were long lines of burning light overhead, as the cloud of orbital debris continued to reenter the atmosphere and burn up. The war had started when Belinda was only two, and since then, she only knew the night sky from the constant burning up of space debris, from that first day when the Creepers destroyed every man-made satellite in orbit, and then from a few weeks ago, when the Air Force finally managed to destroy the Creepers’ orbital base.

Once she had asked Grandpa how long it would take for all the wreckage up there to finally burn out so folks could see a clear night sky, and he had said, “Maybe when you’re my age, Bel. Maybe.”

She walked over to Grandpa, carrying the two knapsacks. He had binoculars up to his eyes and whispered, “Oh my, somebody’s getting burned hard up there.”

“Can you tell how many Creepers?” she asked.

“Too many,” he said. “Come along, hon. Let’s go to the small shed.”

There were four outbuildings for their farm, and the shed was the smallest. Grandpa unlocked the door with a key on a long chain that hung around his neck, and in the morning light, went in and came out with two bicycles.

“Here,” he said. “Beats walking, for a while, at least.”

She took the smaller bicycle and he went inside and came back out, this time, with a shotgun slung over his back. There were a number firearms secured in the main house and out buildings, and Belinda had learned to use them all. This was a very old Remington 12-gauge, single shot, but as Father would say, “It was better than nothing.”

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Where are we going, Grandpa?”

“Don’t you know,” he asked, smiling. “We’re riding to the sound of the guns.”

She followed him on a cracked and bumpy road, thinking, well, you really couldn’t hear the guns that well. When the wind shifted, there was the faint pow-pow-pow of automatic weapons, and a heavier thump that came from firing the Colt M-10, the only true weapon that could kill a Creeper, since it used some sort of chemical gas to kill the bugs.

The knapsack was firm but heavy on her back. Grandfather biked slow but steady, with his own knapsack on his back and the shotgun slung over as well. Belinda tried not to let the impatience get to her, though she didn’t know where Grandpa was taking them. He obviously knew where he was going, and as they rode along, she smiled.

If this went on for a while, no school today.

The sky was light enough now so she could make out the road better, and the setback farmhouses, most with gray smoke easing up into the sky. She knew this part of the countryside pretty well, including a wide rift in the forest to the left, where trees were struggling to grow back and there were gashes in the earth that were just starting to grow over. Years ago she had been told this was a haunted wood, that when the Creepers invaded when she was just a child, one of those jumbo jets that could carry hundreds of people crashed there when the nukes dropped by the Creepers fried all the electrical stuff and caused all the airplanes to fall out of the sky.

Twice—on a dare—she had snuck into the woods and found little bits of burnt metal, some old wiring, chunks of plastic, and a bone. She wasn’t sure if the bone had been human or animal, but she never went back after that.

Grandfather followed the curve of the road and up ahead was an intersection, and a roadblock.

It was made of sawhorses and planks, and a very old rusted pickup truck with white letters carefully painted on the side: FULTON COUNTY MILITIA.

Belinda followed Grandfather as he stopped the bicycle, got off with a sigh, and leaned the bike against a fallen telephone pole. Three men and a woman with fatigues, blue jeans, and carrying rifles or shotguns stood by the pickup truck, and they watched as she and Grandpa approached.

One of the men looked to be a reserve Army soldier, because he was wearing a full set of fatigues. He said, “Sorry, folks, this place is restricted. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a hell of a fight going on up at the fire tower.”

“We know,” Grandpa said. “We want to bring supplies up to the soldiers.”

“You won’t make it,” the man said.

“We’re going to try.”

The woman said, “This ain’t no place for an old man and young girl. Tell you what, you give us the supplies, we’ll pass ’em along to any regular Army unit that comes by.”

Grandpa said, “Ma’am, that’s one fair offer, but I’ve been on this Earth a long time. You and I both know what would happen to these supplies if a regular Army unit doesn’t come by.”

“You don’t trust us?” she asked.

“No, we just don’t know you,” Grandpa said.

The lead man said, “Old man, look, this is restricted area, we’re trying to keep it clear from civilians like you.”

Grandpa stepped forward. “But I’m not a civilian. Look.” Grandpa took out his wallet, fumbled through some cards and such, and pulled out a slim piece of plastic, which he passed over. “Look,” he said. “My Armed Forces identification card.”

The three men and woman huddled around as the lead guy held the card up to the light. They looked at Grandpa and the card once, and then twice. The woman said, “Sure is an old card.”

“I’m an old man.”

The lead guy said, “The expiration date . . . it’s been scratched off.”

Grandpa said, “The only expiration nowadays is the real one. Now. My granddaughter and I, we’re going to pass through. All right?”

The card was handed back. “Hell of a thing. Okay, you can go. But why bring the girl into it?”

Grandpa said, “She’s already into it.”

The lead guy got friendlier and gave them directions, and Grandpa and Belinda rode their bicycles for another fifteen minutes or so. They stopped where there was a rough trail visible off to the left, leading up the side of the hill that held the fire tower, and they hid their bicycles and started walking. By now it was dawn and the air was getting warmer, but Belinda shivered.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes, hon?”

“I don’t hear any birds,” she said. “Do you?”

“No, but that’s a good sign, trust me,” he said. “It means we’re close to the Creepers, and that means we’re close to the soldiers we’ve come here to help. Let’s go.”

Belinda was pretty sure that wasn’t a good sign at all, not hearing birds, but she followed her grandfather into the wide trail, into the woods.

At first the trail was easy, going up at a slight slope, and Grandpa set the pace. After some minutes passed Belinda stopped short, hearing a snap/sizzle sound, knowing it came from a Creeper firing a laser. She was going to say something to Grandpa, but he either didn’t hear it or ignored it, for he kept on pacing.

The brush and tree branches closed in tight on the trail, and then Grandpa had to pause for a break, and after a while, there was another pause, and then . . . a longer one.

“Well, well,” Grandpa said, sitting on a boulder, leaning his back and the knapsack against a tree trunk. Belinda didn’t like what she saw. His face was pale gray, lips had a shade of light blue, and his eyes were flickering. “Well, well,” he said again.

“How much longer do we have, Grandpa?”

“Mmm,” he said, and he glanced up and down the trail. “Not much longer. That nice fella back there . . . he said this trail meets up with the access road. From the road, it leads right up to the top . . . but . . . but. . . .”

Grandpa closed his eyes, his chest lifting up and down, and his breathing slowed, started rattling.

Belinda waited.

She reached over, touched his thin shoulder. Grandpa’s eyes opened. “Yes, child, what is it?”

“You said we should get to the road soon, but there was something else.”

“Ah, yes,” he said. “Sorry. Closed my eyes there for a moment. Just resting. Yes, the road. Clear path to the top. Which means the Creepers will know that, too. So you need to be careful.”

Belinda nodded, readjusted the straps on her knapsack. “Wait,” she said. “What do you mean I have to be careful. Aren’t you coming with me?”

Grandpa looked sad. “I can’t Bel. I wish I could. But I can’t. I’m all tuckered out. Here . . . ” He leaned forward, took off the knapsack, let it fall to the ground. “Go in there and rearrange stuff, as much as you can carry. And don’t forget the burn cream.”

She felt scared and warm as she went to work. Going up to the battle site, by herself . . . tears started trickling down her cheeks. She looked up. Grandpa was looking far, far away.

“Grandpa, I don’t want to go,” she said. “I’m scared . . . and I don’t want to leave you here.”

He didn’t say anything. Just kept on looking out to the woods.

Grandpa sighed. “We were all so scared, back then. . . . How could you not be? You trained and trained for all kinds of scenarios, all kind of engagements. . . . But nothing like this . . . Nothing like an invasion from the Creepers. . . . We eventually learned a lot, but, by God, what a steep learning curve, paid with blood, burns and cities . . . we were so very, very scared those first few weeks . . . ”

His words dribbled off and then he snapped around, looked at her. “Sorry,” he said, voice weak. “I must have dozed off . . . ”

Grandpa rubbed his hands together, picked up the single-shot Remington shotgun. “Here, take this. And this.” His hand went back into the coat, came out with two twelve-gauge shells.

She bit her lower lip, nodded, picked up the shotgun. Grandpa’s voice strengthened. “You go up there, child, all right? You help those soldiers. And you make sure you give your knapsack to a soldier, all right? In full uniform. No militiaman, no one pretending to be a militiaman.”

“Okay, Grandpa.”

“And be careful for the Creepers, but watch out for Coasties or any other sorts out there, like goddamn vampires, heading into a battlefield. You got those gangs that strip the dead, steal supplies, steal anything they can get their hands on, they hang around battle sites . . . and you know what to do if you have to use that shotgun.”

The shotgun was so heavy in her hands. “Yes, Grandpa. Don’t aim unless you aim to shoot, shoot to kill, and aim small, miss small.”

Grandpa nodded. “That’s right. With the shotgun, if you’re close up, you shouldn’t miss. But for God’s sake, you know what to do if you run into a Creeper.”

She said, “Yes. Freeze.”

“Good girl. Now. Get moving, okay?”

Gosh, his face was so white, she thought. Belinda turned and then went back, kissed her Grandpa on the cheek. His face was cold and bristly.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll be right here. Don’t fret.”

She started up the trail, and within a minute, could no longer see Grandpa.

The way got steeper and rougher, and she was breathing harder and harder with each step. She had to rest at least three times and she was hoping she was getting close to the road. The branches were hitting at her face, the knapsack—which was getting heavier with each step—was getting snagged on the brush and saplings as she pushed through.

She rested again.

Damn aliens, she thought. If they had attacked later, she would have missed this and she’d be in school today.

School.

Warm and safe, working on numbers and grammar, not out in the woods like this, carrying this big pack.

It wasn’t fair.

Belinda wiped at her eyes and kept on walking.

And another five or so minutes went by, and she could tell she was getting close. The light was clearer and the brush was thinner, and that meant the access road was pretty near.

Okay, she thought. At least on the road, it’ll be easier, much easier.

There.

There was the road.

She smiled.

And two men emerged from the brush, and stepped in front of her.

Belinda stepped back, nearly tripped over an exposed root. They were filthy, long dark beards, dirty faces, wearing faded baseball caps, worn canvas coats, old patched jeans and boots repaired by tape and string. The one on the left looked older than the other, but not by much.

“Hey, little girl,” he said. “Where you going?”

Belinda thought the man’s accent was off, was different, and she instantly knew he was a Coastie. When the Creepers invaded ten years back, they dropped asteroids into the oceans and big lakes around the globe, setting off tidal waves that drowned millions. Those who escaped into the inland, and who refused to stay in refugee camps, were called Coasties.

“Speak up!” the second said. “Where you going?”

Belinda said, “None of your business. Now, please, get out of the way. I want to get to the road.”

The one on the left shook his head. “To the road? Damn dangerous there, sweetie. Me and Skip, we saw a bug skitter up there not more than five minutes ago.” He took two more steps forward, and his voice got quiet. “What you got there in that satchel?”

Belinda stepped back. “None of your business.”

The one called Skip licked his lips. “Food. You got food in that there satchel?”

“Stay away!”

The other one said, in a crooning voice, “You a courier? You bringing that bag up to the soldiers? Ain’t that right nice of you. Very nice.” He stepped forward again. Belinda nearly stumbled again.

“C’mon, girly,” he went on. “Give the bag over. Give the bag over and we’ll bring it right up to those brave soldiers. Me and Skip . . . we just joined up the other day. Haven’t gotten our haircuts and uniforms yet, but we can take that satchel up, so’s you don’t have to worry.”

Skip said, “Ah, for Christ’s sake, Johnny, stop haggling, will ya? I’m gonna take that satchel . . . and whatever else I want.”

Belinda nearly yelled, “You stay away!”

Skip laughed, started toward her. “What, you gonna plug me with that shotgun?”

“Yes,” she said, and she pulled the trigger.

Even though she had fired all of the firearms back home during target practice, the flash of light, the boom, the hard recoil, all surprised Belinda so much that she nearly dropped the shotgun. Both men yelped and since Skip was closer, he caught most of the pellets and collapsed, rolling over, moaning, both hands across his gut. Johnny fell back as well, holding his right upper leg, and then Belinda started running, got past Skip and—

Fell.

Johnny’s hand on her ankle.

“You . . . you little bitch!”

Belinda scrambled away, got up, started fumbling in her pockets, wondering where she had put the two spare shells. She got up and Skip wasn’t moving any more, and Johnny was cursing at her, one hand on his bleeding leg, the other one going under his jacket, looking for something, maybe a revolver or a knife or something.

Belinda started crying. She dropped the shotgun, picked it up by the barrel, went forward and swung the shotgun like the softball bat she used at school, and slammed the wooden stock into the side of Johnny’s head. He fell back and his baseball cap flew off, and she started running again.

Belinda broke out onto the road.

She went left, started running up the road, still crying.

Now the smell of cinnamon was strong, the scent that Creepers were nearby. The gunfire from the troops up there had dribbled off, and now she was close enough so she could hear the firing of the lasers and the flame weapons from the Creepers. Belinda stayed close to the side of the road, walking slowly, taking her time.

She was also trying very, very hard not to think of the two Coasties back there.

And Grandpa’s voice came to her: “One of the few victories of this war,” he once said near the fireplace, “is how we’re still keeping civilization going. We still have farms, we still have factories, still have doctors and a government, weak as it is. Keep those things alive, Bel, and don’t worry about those who die trying to tear it down.”

She wiped at her nose and eyes again, and resumed walking, and then she stopped.

Somewhere to the right, across the road, a branch snapped.

And another.

“Hello? Is there somebody there?”

Then she remembered—dope!—that she hadn’t reloaded the shotgun since shooting those two Coasties back there.

Belinda started going through her pockets again, when the strong stench of cinnamon washed over here, a Creeper crashed through the woods and skidded to a halt next to her on the dirt road.

Click-click came from the Creeper.

Click-click.

She froze.

She dared not move.

She didn’t even want to blink her eyes, or turn away, as much as seeing the Creeper in front of her terrified her so.

Her heart was hammering so hard she thought she might faint.

No, she thought. Freeze. Remember what Grandpa said.

Freeze.

The Creeper looked like a Battle Creeper, not the Research or Transport version. At school they had to memorize flash cards that showed the three different kinds of Creepers, and this one was for sure a Battle version. It was about the size of the larger shed back at home, with eight legs and a segmented body in the center. The head was where the Creeper—a scary-looking insectlike creature sat—and it swerved and moved, and Belinda was so scared that it was staring right at her.

God, she wanted to close her eyes, but no, freeze.

Always freeze.

It had two larger legs—or arms—that also moved around, and those had weapons, either lasers or flames, and other versions of the Creeper, one of the arms had pincers, so it could pick up things and examine it.

The cinnamon scent was so thick it nearly made her choke.

Freeze.

Don’t move.

Just over two years ago, she was out picking apples in the far orchard, when she saw a Creeper attack the farmhouse of their neighbors, the Colemans, for no apparent reason. It skittered across a field, came up to the house, burned it with a flame weapon, and when the mom and dad and Billy, Tom and Jenny ran out, the flick-flick of its laser weapon killed them all, slicing off their heads.

She was so close to this Creeper she could hear the whirring and clicking of the machinery from inside. There was a spot in the center where it “breathed,” taking in Earth air and somehow converting it to its own atmosphere, and that was the only real vulnerable spot on the damn thing. The Army and Marines had the Colt M-10 one-shot weapon that fired a gas shell that if it exploded nearby, could kill a Creeper, and that—except for a nuke—was the only thing that could stop it.

Her shotgun was useless.

Freeze.

The sound inside whirred louder, and Belinda couldn’t help it, she closed her eyes, and she hoped it wouldn’t hurt that much, and—

A clattering noise.

She opened her eyes.

The Creeper was gone.

And she realized that she had peed herself.

Belinda waited, cried some, and then started up the road again, sticking to the side, and the sound of the fighting seemed to ease off, and she thought she was getting closer, just when a man hidden in the woods said, “Hold it right there.”

She froze again.

A slight rustle and a soldier came out, tired-looking, with helmet and dirty fatigues and heavy boots, carrying an M-4, and he said, “Mike, come look at this, will you.”

A second soldier limped out, carrying a heavy-looking weapon with a big tube at the end, and Belinda recognized it as the Colt M-10, and Mike said, “Crap on a cracker, girl, what the hell are you doing here?”

She pointed her thumb at her knapsack.

“I’m here to help.”

The two soldiers led her into the woods that were being used to conceal a foxhole. It was wide and deep enough for the three of them, and the first soldier—Brian—said, “You mean you came up all the way up here by yourself?”

“No,” Belinda said. “My Grandpa helped. But he got tired and he’s waiting for me down the hill.”

Mike said, “What’s in the knapsack?”

“Food, water, some first aid stuff. Burn cream.”

Mike wiped at his face. Belinda said, “Where are you soldiers from?”

Brian said, “K Company, 1st Battalion, 14th Army Regiment. ‘Kara’s Killers.’ And right now, we’re trapped and getting our butts scorched.”

Being in the foxhole with these two soldiers made her feel safe for the first time in a long time, and she said, “Can I leave the knapsack with you?”

The two soldiers exchanged looks and Mike said, “Hon, that’d be great, but the guys up at the top of the hill . . . they should get it. We could bring it up but we can’t leave our posts.”

Belinda said, “Please?”

Brian said, “Sorry, we can’t leave our posts. It’s not that far. Honest.”

Belinda bit her lip. “It’s just that I’m . . . I’m so scared.”

Mike said, “We all are, hon. We all are.”

Belinda then crept out of the foxhole, got back on the road, and started running. She couldn’t remember running so fast, even with the knapsack bouncing on her back and the heavy shotgun threatening to slip out of her hands.

The road widened and now she was at the top of the hill, which was shrouded with smoke. She had been up here at least twice with Mom, Dad, and Grandpa, for picnics on top of the fire tower, but the tower was down, a crumpled heap of metal and wood. There was a small wooden cabin near the fire tower, and a tarp was strung over by its side, and she felt queasy and a bit sick, seeing at least five lifeless shapes on the ground, wrapped in canvas.

Dead soldiers.

There were other foxholes and soldiers trotting back and forth, hunched over, and there was a dog barking, with a young soldier who seemed to be in charge of some of the foxholes. A girl about her age stopped and said, “What the hell are you doing up here?”

She gratefully shrugged off the knapsack and dropped it the ground.

“Here. Some food. Water. Medical supplies.”

The young soldier picked up the bag and smiled. Her face was smeared with soot and there was a sharp scratch on her left cheek. The helmet she wore seemed huge.

“Thanks,” she said. “We sure as hell need it.”

Belinda took a moment to look around. The cabin seemed to be the center of what was going on, and to the left and to the right, there were other foxholes and soldiers inside, staring down at the slopes of the hills. On one of the slopes were two dead Creepers.

The solider said, “Unless you plan on sticking around and enlisting, you better get a move on.” She picked up the knapsack and in a tone that was a mix of a laugh and a cry, “Because before the day is out, we’re all gonna be charcoal.”

Belinda ran down back the road, quicker since she didn’t have the weight of the pack on her, and then there was a shout out from the woods, “Hey, girl, can you come back over here?”

She didn’t want to do anything but keep on running down this hill, but she went over, and the soldier named Brian stepped out of the woods and said, “Wow. You made it.”

The other soldier came out and dug into his shirt, pulled out a creased and dirty folded over piece of paper. “Here, this is a letter to my folks. Will you see it gets delivered?”

Belinda said, “Sure,” and Brian did the same, and with the two warm letters in her hand, she resumed her race away from the hilltop battle.

A few minutes later she found the trail opening, and started down that, and remembering the two Coasties, she broke through some of the bramble and brush, and managed to pick up the trail below where the ambush had taken place.

She was feeling pretty good, excited and happy to be coming down the hill, and then she saw Grandpa sitting there, waiting for her, and she yelled out, “Grandpa! I made it! We did it! I got the supplies up there!”

Belinda skidded to a halt, smiling, breathing hard.

“Grandpa?”

His eyes were closed.

He wasn’t moving.

His face had grayed out.

“Oh, Grandpa,” she said.

It was near dusk when two other soldiers appeared, coming up the path. They were older than the ones at the top of the hill, and both were carrying knapsacks. She had moved Grandpa off from where he had been sitting and took a washcloth and put it over his face.

The soldiers paused and the shorter of the two said, “What happened here?”

Belinda sat on the ground, legs up, hugging her knees. She had stopped crying a few hours back.

She said, “Grandpa and me, we were going up to where the fight is, to bring them some supplies. He got tired and stayed behind. I went up by myself, and when I came back . . . he was gone.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” the soldier said. “Do you have any place to go?”

“We have a farmhouse a couple of miles back,” she said dully. “My parents have jobs in Detroit.”

The other soldier went over to Grandpa and knelt down, took the washcloth off his face, and then respectfully put it back down, and then came over.

“Miss . . . ” he said. “Is your Grandpa’s name, is it David Craft?”

“Unh-hunh.”

“Jesus . . . your Grandpa, he was General David Craft?”

“I guess so,” she said.

The squat soldier said, “Who was General Craft?”

The other one shook his head. “Man, don’t you know your history? He was a retired Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Top soldier in the country at the time. When the Creepers invaded . . . Christ, he must have been at least eighty years old, he came back and helped organize the first defenses in the Northeast. Without him . . . shit, who knows.”

Belinda sat still. Tears streaming down her face. Why oh why didn’t the damn bugs attack later or earlier. Grandpa would still be alive.

The two soldiers were staring at her. The one on the left said, “Girl . . . what the hell was he doing up here?”

Belinda looked at them both, surprised.

“His duty,” she said.

Feldspar

Philip A. Kramer

Grand Prize Winner of the Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award 2017

The soft Martian regolith shifted beneath the rover’s wheels. The automated systems detected the motion and ceased all forward progression. The rover compiled a diagnostic and sent the packet of data through its antennae to a satellite above the red planet, which relayed it to a distant blue dot.

Eight minutes later, within a studio apartment in San Francisco, a computer console beeped in warning. Blake caught sight of the flashing red light out of the corner of his eye, and his stomach sank. He sprang up from the futon and navigated through the piles of dirty laundry and pizza boxes to the opposite wall.

He sat down in his black ergonomic chair and considered the eighty-five inch screen in front of him. The status window in the lower left quadrant contained a new update.

<NAVIGATION INTERRUPTED_ 30 DEGREE TILT_ TOPPLING SEQUENCE INITIATED>

His eyes flicked to the rover’s camera feed in the upper half of the display. He let out a long breath upon seeing the desolate surface of Mars. The rover was still upright.

He rubbed at the stubble on his cheeks in thought as he skimmed through the attached diagnostic.

Feldspar, his rover, sat at the edge of a shallow depression. It wasn’t anything as natural as a crater, but a hole dug by one of a hundred identical rovers that roamed the surface of Mars. A kilometer distant, across the plane of Chryse Planitia, sat the squat shape of the MRS, the Martian Regolith Smelter, affectionately known as the Missus. The Missus didn’t allow any digging within a kilometer radius, so it was inevitable that the laziest of rover operators would travel just beyond the boundary to collect dirt. Here and there, larger holes were visible. Someone had even seen fit to print a flimsy-looking bridge across one such trench.

Project Regolith began four years ago when the MRS and its complement of one hundred rovers descended on a plume of exhaust to the Martian surface. At that moment, Mars became host to the largest sandbox game in human history.

TerraForm Games accomplished what the space industry could not by appealing to the most dedicated workforce on Earth: gamers. Gamers like Blake were willing to spend thousands of dollars on consoles and pay exorbitant monthly fees to perform tasks that others might have considered work. It may have been pocket change to some, but for Blake it had taken his entire savings to purchase the operating rights to one of the rovers.

He cracked his knuckles, and his fingers flickered across the armrest’s integrated touchpad. The sequence selector appeared on the monitor, and he scrolled through the list.

Due to the current position of Earth and Mars in their respective orbits, it took eight minutes for a transmission to reach Mars, and eight more minutes to return. The rover’s automated systems could detect, predict, and solve problems in real time, allowing the rover to operate on even the vaguest of commands from its operator.

Sixteen minutes and a slice of pizza later, Feldspar initiated the pre-programmed sequence. All six wheels spun at top speed, and with a plume of fine dust, the rover climbed free of the depression and was on the move again.

The MRS grew steadily in his field of view. It was a cylindrical structure constructed from pieces of the very booster that had brought them to the red planet.

Feldspar maneuvered up to one of the three vacant docks on either side of the structure.

Blake filtered some cloudy water from the tap in the kitchen and poured himself a glass as he watched Feldspar perform its transaction with the MRS.

When prompted, Feldspar soundlessly dumped a compartment full of rust-red dirt through a fine mesh screen and provided the coordinates of its collection. The MRS, equipped with an Alpha Particle X-ray Spectrometer, reported the content of iron oxide within the regolith a moment later.

The transaction was not over. The rover opened a second compartment, and a dust as black and fluid as ink poured out: pure, elemental carbon. It was a resource he quite literally pulled from thin air. Each rover’s AIR, Atmospheric Ionization and Recovery, module housed an ultraviolet laser within a chamber that pressurized the carbon dioxide-rich atmosphere. The laser reduced carbon dioxide into elemental carbon and oxygen gas. The carbon was an essential reducing agent in the smelting of iron, and the oxygen, if he chose to believe the propaganda, could eventually terraform the planet.

When the battery was fully charged, the MRS would heat the high-strength ceramic lining each of its chambers to 1300 degrees Celsius. After discarding the slag, the MRS would cast and form the metal into a spool of wire and exchange it for more regolith and carbon. The iron wire was the currency of Mars. With it, a rover could 3D print any structure its operator could conceive.

A few centimeters of wire jutted out of a port on the MRS. Feldspar’s manipulator arm, complete with pincers, latched onto it and guided the wire to a similar port in the rover’s side. After the wire was completely spooled within Feldspar, the rover backed away and waited for Blake’s command.

Blake directed Feldspar to the mountain of slag that had accumulated near the back of the smelter. The heap glittered in the sunlight. The slag consisted of many minerals, silicates and other components of Martian soil, which the MRS discarded after the smelting process. Most gamers considered it useless, but he always made a point to grab a few kilograms every time he visited the smelter.

The MRS didn’t allow any rover’s arms to descend lower than wheel level within the area in an effort to minimize digging in the kilometer radius, but the pile of slag stood much higher. The pincers at the end of Feldspar’s manipulator arm turned 90 degrees to expose a much flatter, shovel-like edge, and the small rover began to fill the regolith compartment with the flaky slag.

It took some time to fill the compartment, during which Blake scanned the various feeds he’d followed over the years. There was one missing from the list: NASA’s live feed of the Eos mission.

They’d probably found another vaguely bacteria-shaped formation and were preparing a press release, Blake thought as he rolled his eyes.

Six months ago, Blake had positioned his rover to watch the fireball entering the atmosphere as the Eos crew arrived. Watching the live feed had been surreal as humanity made its first footprint in the Martian dirt. The fascination soon wore off as they made their base and engaged in months of monotonous tests and maintenance. Part of his loss of interest was due to their repetition of things he had been experiencing for years. Yes, it was pretty during sunset, and yes, the regolith was annoyingly fine and clingy. He had been there long before they had.

Blake programmed Feldspar to return home once it completed its collection. At top speed, the rover could barely reach five and a half kilometers an hour. It was about fifty times faster than the first Martian rovers, but still barely walking speed. It would take just over five hours to cover the 28 kilometer distance. The route was anything but direct. The downside of a planet covered in soft regolith was the tracks the rover left by his passing. In order to keep his home hidden from other rovers with vandalism or theft in mind, he spent much of his free time backtracking and taking circuitous and misleading routes.

His secrecy and protectiveness left little room for friends on Mars, though he could say the same about Earth. He was pretty sure this made him the loneliest guy on two planets.

It was just after two in the morning in San Francisco, but it was only midday on Mars. His day was just getting started.

He shrank the rover feed to a small corner of his display and pulled up his design software. He was currently designing a parapet for a castle. Other rover operators were some of the biggest buyers of his designs, all eager to spend months printing structures that would serve no practical purpose on a lifeless planet. He was not so shortsighted.

Blake fully intended to live on Mars one day.

Hours later, the rover’s camera feed drew his eyes. Usually Feldspar was able to detect and navigate around any obstacle in its path, but it appeared as though the rover was headed straight for a series of rocks. When Blake maximized the feed, he saw that they weren’t rocks at all, but depressions in the soil. They were staggered, but spaced linearly.

It took a moment to realize what they were, and when he did, he froze.

Footprints.

He ordered the rover to stop, but the command didn’t register in the feed until sixteen minutes later, long after Feldspar had left the tracks behind. Blake, used to the delay, had already keyed in commands to backtrack for eight minutes and take a panorama.

During the transmission time, he’d begun to doubt what he’d seen. The Eos Base Camp was over 150 kilometers away in the mouth of Valles Marineris, a place of ancient glacial activity where astronauts had access to sub-surface water. Why would they come to the edge of their exploration zone? Chryse Planitia, where Project Regolith operated, was comparably barren and flat. There was also no logical reason to travel by foot. The vehicles they had at their disposal were many times Feldspar’s size and could easily outpace him.

Just as he convinced himself the footprints were instead a natural formation, the rover’s panorama arrived. Zooming in on the image, he saw the pristine impression of a boot. They were, without a doubt, footprints. It was impossible to say how long they’d been there.

Blake smiled and saved the panorama. It was not perfectly composed, but still breathtaking. He could probably sell it for a substantial sum.

He needed to move. The astronaut could return to his rover at any moment with samples, or whatever it was he had come all this way to collect.

Blake bit his lip in a moment’s consideration and then began to tap away at his touchpad. He programmed Feldspar to follow the tracks and take high-resolution panoramas every dozen meters. If a picture of some footprints was worth something, a picture of a member of the Mars expedition team doing field research would earn him a small fortune. With any luck, the astronaut would be just as surprised to see him and pose for a shot or two.

His hopes high, Blake sat glued to his chair and stared at the display. He hadn’t felt this much excitement in years.

As the tracks began to disappear beneath the rover, he wondered how far the astronaut had walked. He couldn’t see them or his vehicle in the panorama, despite the area being relatively flat.

Another detail drew his attention. The impression of the left foot was consistently shallower than the right, and was smeared in many cases, as if the astronaut had drawn his foot along the ground.

His grin faded and a chill prickled along his skin.

Was the astronaut injured?

This terrifying notion became all the more plausible when he recalled the NASA feed. Of course they would take the feed offline if one of the Eos crew was injured, he thought. The five other crewmembers were probably staging a rescue mission in a backup rover at that very moment.

He continued forward, unable to ignore such a crisis, yet petrified by the prospect of interfering with NASA in any way. Historically, TerraForm Games and NASA were on friendly terms. Much of the data the rovers collected had convinced NASA of the area’s suitability. But if one of Project Regolith’s rovers complicated an already life-threatening situation, Blake would incur the full wrath of everyone involved. The alternative was to let an astronaut go unaided in his time of need.

It soon became apparent that the astronaut was not as far away as he had feared. Feldspar climbed a very shallow incline and saw the tracks end at a large boulder in the distance. At second glance, it was no rock, but the astronaut sitting flat on the ground and facing away from him.

Blake’s stood from his chair and approached the display. Leaning close, he could see why he had mistaken the astronaut for a boulder. The red dirt clung to every surface of what had once been a pristine white spacesuit. The bulbous helmet was sagging forward, as if the astronaut had fallen asleep while sitting upright. A large pack, probably full of radio and life-support equipment, was lying on the ground next to them, a long crack running down its center. The sight did nothing to reassure him, and he bit his lip as Feldspar drew nearer.

When the rover detected the obstacle in its path, it slowed and began to circle. The wide-angle camera quickly brought the side and then front of the astronaut into view.

The astronaut was leaning forward and wrapping his calf with a roll of white tape. He had no way of hearing Feldspar’s approach. The astronaut’s helmet jerked up as the rover rolled to a stop, and he went rigid.

Blake could only guess at his expression. A gold, reflective surface covered the glass face of the helmet, blocking out all light.

The astronaut appeared to stare for a long moment and then looked around.

Feldspar’s camera turned in a slow circle, and momentarily, the astronaut disappeared from view.

A diagnostic, status update, and high-resolution panorama loaded on his screen within a few seconds of each other.

<NAVIGATION INTERRUPTED_ PATH LOST_ AWAITING OPERATOR INPUT>

The picture was something to behold: a member of the Eos crew, sitting alone and injured on the barren surface of Mars. It would appear on every news site in the world. It would make him rich.

His gut twisted into knots, and nauseated, Blake sat down and minimized the panorama. He opened his communication window, and a hiss of static issued from the speakers on either side of the display. Occasionally, the voices of distant rover operators would crackle into life and then fade. It was pointless; NASA would be using its own private channel.

Communication was going to be difficult.

His design software was still open in the background. He discarded his previous project and started another. His fingers danced across the touchpad. He typed in the text, converted it to a series of paths and vertices, and selected the plane of the sand nearest the rover. He disabled the print function and then sent the command.

The astronaut did not sit idle during the sixteen minutes it took for the signal to reach Mars and return. He finished wrapping his lower leg with tape and awkwardly came to his feet, testing his weight. He appeared to ignore the rover, perhaps disconcerted by its blank and prolonged stare.

The smaller, more fragile printing arm unfolded from the rover’s side and began to write in the sand. As soon as the arm began to move, the astronaut’s head swiveled to look. He took two hobbling steps forward to observe.

Frequency?

The astronaut considered the word for several moments then waved a hand as if to gesticulate some point. He was talking to someone on the radio, Blake realized.

Eventually, he knelt awkwardly to the ground a few yards in front of the camera, in an area of regolith that was undisturbed, and drew his finger through the dirt.

Here they were, two entities meeting on a distant world, drawing in the dirt in an effort to communicate. Had the circumstances not been so dire, he would have paused to appreciate it. Instead, he leaned forward and squinted at the display. He recognized the first number as the frequency, 403MHz. In much tighter spacing was a series of 32 numbers. It was a 32-bit encryption key, he realized. He guessed anything larger was pointless. Radio privacy was implied when on a barren rock currently 144 million kilometers from the rest of humanity.

He opened the channel and placed his finger over the transmit button. He paused. What would he say?

He tested his seldom-used voice in the quiet of his apartment and then pressed the button.

“This is the Project Regolith rover, designation Feldspar. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Shortly after opening the channel, voices began to emerge from the radio.

“Kate, be advised. NASA has informed me that giving a civilian access to a proprietary frequency is a federal crime.”

The astronaut shrugged, and then a woman’s voice sounded over the radio.

“Well, Ryan. Given the circumstances, I decided to take a risk. You can tell NASA to lock me up next time they see me.”

Blake’s eyes widened. The astronaut standing before him was Kate Winship, the Eos team’s geologist, and one of two women on the six-member crew.

“You really think it’ll help?” Ryan asked.

“These things are driving 3D printers, right?”

“It can’t exactly replace the rover you broke.”

Kate sighed.

“No, but I’d settle for a crutch.”

“That’s assuming he has the material. These things spend all day collecting dirt for a little over a kilogram of metal wire. I had a friend who used to play. It’s monotonous work.”

“It won’t hurt to ask. He’ll probably tune in soon, right? What’s the time delay? Eight minutes?”

His transmission, as premature as it was, was already speeding through space toward them. That didn’t mean he had to wait for her to ask politely.

His frayed nerves made his fingers shake as he pulled up Kate’s profile on the NASA website. She was a few years older than he and a good deal more attractive than the last woman he’d ever worked up the courage to speak to, with flashing blue eyes, high cheek bones, and short-cropped, blonde hair. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t see her face, or else he’d become a blabbering idiot.

The website listed her as 175 centimeters tall. He did a quick estimation and guessed a crutch length of about 130 centimeters should do. He sketched out a cylinder about 1cm in width. He knew the tensile strength of iron well, and that width would be more than suitable to support the weight of her and her suit in Martian gravity. It would even leave him with some wire to spare. He also attached a flat base to the cylinder to prevent it from sinking too far into the dirt. On the opposite end, he added an oblong piece to support her under the arm. He then set a small rod into the main shaft to serve as a handgrip.

He reviewed the design twice and then sent it.

A moment later, his voice crackled over the radio.

Kate, who’d sat down again to return the tape to her pack and reconnect some hoses, looked up.

“Feldspar, is it? I’m glad we crossed paths.” She paused. “Ryan, he can hear me, right?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“Well, Feldspar. I find myself in a bit of a situation,” she said. She lifted her left foot a few centimeters off the ground and waggled it in emphasis. “I think I sprained something when I crashed. I’m not used to sharing the land with you rovers, so didn’t think to keep an eye out for potholes. It turns out my rover is capable of some unique things too, like somersaults.”

“I told her not to go so fast,” Ryan interjected.

Ignoring him, Kate continued. “And with the battery drained and solar cells busted, I have a lot of ground to cover before dark, which is approximately when I will freeze to death or suffocate.”

“NASA predicts the former.”

“As my crewmate has so courteously informed me, I will turn into a giant, Mylar-covered popsicle in about five hours. Right now, my only chance is to meet the rescue rover somewhere along the way, which is somewhat hard to do when I can barely stand. If you have any printing capabilities, I’d really appreciate a crutch or cane of some kind.”

“A little more information than he needs at the moment. Talk about pressure,” Ryan said.

Blake’s heart was racing. These past few years, he had grown accustomed to having nothing but time on his hands, time to wait, think, and plan, but now his action or inaction could decide someone’s fate. Ryan was right; the pressure was too much. His fingers shook so badly he didn’t think he could design anything. He was grateful he’d already sent the crutch schematics.

When he tested his voice, it shuddered. He took a moment to regain his composure.

“The crutch should be printing now. I designed it to meet your height and weight parameters. It’s pretty minimalist, so don’t expect anything pretty. If it doesn’t quite work, I can add or cut off some bits. I estimate it will take about thirty minutes.” He paused. “I’m sorry if rovers like me were responsible for your situation. Please, let me know if there is anything else I can do.”

Blake sent the message.

A dozen minutes later, the 3D printer arm began to move again. Its tungsten tip became white hot. The thin wire he had collected at midday unspooled and fed into the printer arm. It began to construct the crutch at its base, building the flat disk layer by layer. When it was large enough, the rover’s manipulator arm took hold of it for support.

Kate finished reattaching her backpack and limped over to look.

Again, his voice came through the speakers. He cringed at the sound of it.

“That was fast,” Ryan said.

“Thank you, Feldspar. I don’t blame you for any of this. I’ve always had a thing for speed.”

“And going further than you’re supposed to?”

“Come on, Ryan. I was almost to the mouth of Maja Vallas, kilometers away from Dromore crater. The potential for ice plugs is huge. The so-called ‘exploration zone’ is a joke.”

“Doesn’t feel like a joke now, does it?”

The speakers on either side of his display went quiet. When the crutch was finished, Kate pulled it free from the small rover’s grip. She tested her weight on it and walked in circles around Feldspar, making the occasional sound of approval.

Ryan broke the silence.

“Kate, be advised. NASA informs me that they’ve pulled the crutch design from Feldspar’s server. After extensive review and analysis, they concede that it will support your weight.”

Kate laughed. “Thanks NASA. Way to be late to the game. I’ve already tested it.”

“There’s something else. They say they’ve received permission from TerraForm Games to scrap Feldspar if needed. These rovers are equipped with some pretty impressive hardware. The battery and solar panels can get you a couple more hours of heat.”

“That’s pretty cold, NASA.”

“They’ve assured me they’ll purchase him a replacement rover. They can also convert the atmosphere into oxygen; there’s a port on its right side.”

Kate hobbled over and disappeared from view as she examined his small rover.

“Even if I could somehow form a perfect seal with that port, how will the rover power it after I’ve ripped the battery out of him?”

Silence held the line for a moment.

“They’re running the numbers.”

“I don’t really care what they say. I won’t strip down his rover. He’s been here for several years more than we have. The amount of scientific data pouring in from this game has been infinitely more valuable than anything we’ve collected so far.”

“Don’t give me that ‘for the sake of science’ crap.”

“Listen to yourself. This entire mission is for the sake of science.”

“You mean so much more than that,” Ryan said. The words spilled out of her crewmate in a rush. Blake could hear the desperation in the man’s voice.

“Ryan, I . . .” Her voice was softer now, sympathetic. “Can you move us to a private channel?”

Blake didn’t hesitate.

“Don’t worry about me. Do what you need to do.”

While the message was flying through space toward the red planet, Kate and Ryan continued their private conversation. With her golden visor in place, he could not see her expression, but her body language was clear. She was trying to tell Ryan to let her go, to give her up.

Blake slouched forward in his chair, thinking. He was not thrilled about someone scrapping Feldspar for parts; in fact, it was a recurring nightmare of his. But he would sacrifice anything to give Kate a chance.

Even as the thought echoed through his head, he realized there was something else he could sacrifice, something worth far more than a few hours of heat and air. It would give her more than just a chance.

A surge of hope straightened his back, and he scrambled at the touchpads. He tried to keep the smile from his voice.

“Also, if it’s any help, I have an insulated shelter about seven kilometers from here with two fully charged batteries and a tank of compressed oxygen.”

She went completely still when his message arrived and then shook her head slowly and gave a small shrug. A second later, Ryan’s voice came back on the channel.

“Hey kid, are you serious?”

“I think we have to assume he is,” Kate said. “What other choice is there?”

“You can scrap him.”

“Fine, I’ll scrap him if he’s lying,” Kate said in exasperation. “But if he’s telling the truth, I could have a place to stay while Svetlana and Dave come for me.”

Ryan sighed. “What are the coordinates?”

Blake read them aloud. He’d never given them to anyone before, and he couldn’t help but feel like all of his secrecy these past few years was for nothing. After today, everyone will have heard of Feldspar’s hidden home.

When the transmission arrived, Kate laughed. “That’s near Dromore crater.”

“I guess you’ll have a chance to see it after all.”

Rather than wait for NASA’s approval, Kate began to hobble in that direction on her new crutch.

Blake reinitiated his previous navigation protocol as Kate took the lead, creating tracks for him to follow. While the crutch helped her maintain a steady pace, he could tell by her winded conversation with Ryan that the seven kilometer distance pushed her to her limits. The deepening drifts of sand and the slight increase in elevation as they approached the crater’s rim tested her endurance even further. Rocks were strewn across the barren ground, their size and proximity causing Feldspar to pause and adjust navigation on several occasions.

During the last leg of the journey, Kate made a dismayed sound.

“CO2 scrubber is maxed out. My suit’s gonna start purging air to keep the CO2 levels below one percent. That’ll only last as long as I have oxygen and nitrogen to replace it, and I don’t have much.”

“We’ll see you through this, Kate,” Ryan said soberly, and then his voice became businesslike. “Feldspar, how much oxygen do you have, precisely? And what kind of fitting does the regulator have? NASA will send you more questions any minute now so check your inbox. They’ve also sent you the specs for the suit’s hose fittings. If it won’t fit your tank, you’ll need to print a suitable adaptor.”

Sure enough, the specs were already in his inbox with a fancy NASA header and the word “confidential” in large, red letters. Someone had made the adaptor with compatible design software, and the message asked him to add the female end for his tank. Blake promptly replied to the message, stating that he would just weld it onto the tank’s outlet to save time and ensure a better seal.

Dozens of other messages and inquiries about his shelter arrived immediately after his response. Blake did his best to address them all, but soon gave up and sent all of his detailed schematics. He felt a little violated at the thought of dozens of techs pouring over the designs he’d spent years perfecting.

Blake put NASA out of his mind long enough to respond to Ryan.

“I received it. I should have enough metal to make adaptors for both the oxygen and nitrogen tanks. Both are about forty liters large and average one thousand PSI.”

When Blake’s transmission went through, Ryan sputtered in disbelief.

“Nitrogen? I’ll buy that you somehow managed to print a tank and that you’ve pressurized it with oxygen, but nitrogen? What is the concentration in the atmosphere? Two percent? How could you possibly separate it from the other gasses?”

“Zeolite,” Blake said. “And a few other aluminosilicates. At high pressures, nitrogen sticks to the mixture. When the oxygen moves into the second tank, the pressure drops, and nitrogen is all that remains. I repeated the process hundreds of times. It should all be pressurized nitrogen. The regulator is something I’ve had to build myself, but I salvaged the compressor from another rover’s AIR module.”

“He’s right,” Kate said when his response arrived. “We have a similar system at Base Camp. Space stations and hospitals have been using zeolite for decades to concentrate oxygen and capture nitrogen. It’s called pressure swing absorption.”

“Where the hell’d he get zeolite?”

“I suspect he did his research before Project Regolith started. That’s why he named his rover Feldspar,” Kate said. Blake smiled. No one had ever puzzled out the origin of his rover’s name before. The last person he’d told had assumed it was named after some dwarven hero in a fantasy game.

“I’m confused.”

“Feldspar is a family of minerals called aluminosilicates,” she explained. “Project Regolith only had their sights on the iron in the dirt, so he found a use for the rest, the stuff they were just throwing away. They call it slag.”

Ryan made a sound that Blake could only describe as grudging agreement.

“I suppose you’re right. NASA just forwarded the schematics for the shelter. Get this; he’s filled all of the walls with slag. According to NASA, it’s as good an insulator as you’ll find on this planet. He even filled a pit with the stuff because it’s porous and effective at leaching water from the ground.”

“Are all Project Regolith rovers this resourceful?” She sounded breathless.

“Hardly. That friend I mentioned? He went by the name Lugnut and spent years printing a vintage car that has no chance of running.”

“It’s as if our rover operator intended to live here one day,” Kate said.

“You should really look at this thing, Kate. The schematics are like nothing I’ve ever come across.”

“I think I do see it . . .”

Beside Dromore crater was a wide but shallow canyon created by one of many ancient waterways that crisscrossed this region of Chryse Planitia, an area called Maha Vallas. A unique feature stood out among the others as they descended into the canyon. Imbedded in the wall of the ancient waterway was a flat, circular door. Years of exposure to the elements had tarnished its surface, but it still glimmered in the fading sunlight.

“Yeah, that’s definitely it.”

“I shut down the camera feed to conserve power. What are you seeing?” Ryan asked.

“It looks like an airlock. It’s set into the side of a rock face. Feldspar, did you dig through the rock somehow?”

Blake leaned closer to the microphone at the base of the display, but Ryan already had the answer.

“From his notes, NASA thinks it was an old lava tube that was exposed by erosion. It might even be an old water plug that slowly sublimated and formed a cavern. He’s reinforced the whole thing and sealed it off.”

“How do I get in?”

“Leave the entry to me,” Blake said.

They had moved to the very base of the door by the time the transmission went through. Kate dropped her crutch and sat down, leaning her back against the edge of the door.

Feldspar initiated the entry sequence. It rolled to a stop beside the large door and extended its manipulator arm. The pincers spread apart and inserted into a recess that was perfectly shaped to receive it. A small hole between the pincers led straight to the rover’s AIR module. The purpose of this feature was to air-dust the clingy sand from joints and solar panels. Instead, Feldspar sent the compressed oxygen into the door, where it fed into a piston near the hinges. The pressure drove the piston outward, easing the large door open.

Kate let out a low whistle and stood to peer through the widening gap. She limped around Feldspar and took a step inside.

“There’s a type of rubber surrounding the door. It’s a gasket, I think.”

“According to the schematics, they’re from the wheels of several salvaged rovers,” Ryan supplied.

“Will I lose coms if I enter?”

“Don’t think so. He’s had to operate in there too, remember. It looks like he’s placed an antenna from a rover out the top of the enclosure, on the edge of the chasm. There are salvaged solar panels up there too. That’s how he’s able to charge the batteries. Damn, this kid’s thought of everything.”

Feldspar’s automated sequence led him into the enclosure after Kate and then to another port. The rover repeated the previous sequence, but this time the pressurized air drove the piston in the opposite direction, closing the door.

Darkness engulfed them for an instant until Feldspar’s night navigation sequence activated, and a light on his camera module switched on. The space was only about as large as the room Blake sat in, except that all the corners were rounded and shone with a dull, metallic gleam.

There was a second, inner door to the airlock, which Feldspar usually left open, but they needed all the insulation they could get.

As Feldspar closed the second airlock door, Kate explored the small room. Her breathing was becoming strained, and her teeth were chattering. She succeeded in locating the narrow shelf holding the batteries. Several spliced wires, harvested from broken-down rovers, led from the batteries and up to disappear into the ceiling.

She removed her pack, dropped her crutch, and sat down beside the narrow shelf. She pried open the outer covering of the pack to expose tanks, wires, and hoses. Several minutes passed as she tried to pick up the battery leads and press them in to her own battery. The thick gloves and her undoubtedly numb fingers made progress slow.

“I can take control of Feldspar from here and operate him in real time. I can help you connect the battery leads. I’ve already patched into his camera, and the controls seem pretty straightforward.” The tension in Ryan’s voice suggested he was just as concerned as Blake.

“No, Ryan. The delay is annoying, I know, but he’s the only one who knows what he’s doing. Now, what’s the plan to get me more air? My nitrogen and oxygen are almost depleted.”

“Working on it,” Ryan said, even as Feldspar’s next sequence arrived, steering the rover around and toward the opposite end of the room.

Blake lined up one of the tank’s regulators in the display and pulled the hose adapter design from his software. He oriented it on the surface of the tank’s outlet and finalized it.

Kate sighed in relief.

“All right. My heaters are back online.”

The tungsten tip of Feldspar’s 3D printing arm grew white hot and cast a dim light on the wall. It eased closer to the tank’s outlet nozzle and began to deposit a thin layer of molten iron. It continued in a circular motion, leaving a line of glowing metal in its wake.

“Bad news. I’m out of gas. The CO2 will build up rapidly now that I can’t purge it.”

“So soon?” put in Ryan. “That can’t be right.”

“I was thinking the same. I suspect the crash damaged one of the tubes connecting my suit to the oxygen and nitrogen tanks. I must have lost a little every time the suit filled during a purge.”

“Feldspar, what’s the time estimate for those adaptors?”

“Twenty minutes tops for the oxygen tank adaptor. That is, it will take another twelve minutes once this message reaches you. It’s a higher precision print than the crutch because of all the fine detail.”

Every few minutes, Kate updated them on the CO2 percentage. It rose from 0.4 percent to 1.5 percent before his transmission went through. At each update, he felt as if the hand of a large, unseen clock was counting down to Kate’s death. The delay was not helping. What he was seeing and hearing was happening eight minutes ago, and he was powerless to step in and intervene.

“CO2 is three point one percent. Oxygen . . . ten percent,” she said. Her words were lethargic.

“All right Kate. I’m gonna need you to head over to Feldspar, he’s almost done with the adaptor,” Ryan said after a short pause.

Blake leaned back and sighed. If those words left Mars eight minutes ago, it was likely Kate had already connected her line and was breathing oxygen. He had done it. He had come across an astronaut in the middle of Chryse Planitia and helped her stay alive.

“Kate? Do you read?”

Blake sat up, but he couldn’t hear anything except for the faint sounds of breathing.

“Damn it. Stay awake, Kate,” Ryan said.

Silence greeted the command.

The video feed continued to show a view of the oxygen tank as Feldspar printed the last section of the adaptor. A moment later, a red light flashed beside his status display.

<SEQUENCE INTERUPTED_ CONTROL OVERIDE_ OPERATOR UPLINK SUSPENDED.>

Then Feldspar was moving on its own. Blake tapped his touchpad, but the system was unresponsive.

Ryan had taken control of Feldspar.

Blake stared in rising horror as Ryan steered Feldspar back to the shelf holding the batteries. Kate remained slumped against the metal wall next to it, unmoving.

“Damn you, Kate. Wake up. I’ve seen you handle ten percent oxygen before. You can do this.”

Feldspar’s manipulator arm jerked upward and then back down before Ryan gained control. The pincers reached out and prodded Kate’s motionless form. When she didn’t respond, the pincers opened and gripped her pant leg and tugged.

She didn’t move.

Mind racing, Blake pressed the transmit button.

“Ryan, I have an idea. Give me control,” he said. He programmed a sequence, his fingers darting across the touchpad. He had no time to triple check, no time to double check. He sent the sequence.

Ryan continued to tug at Kate’s suit, but the rover was barely half her size and she didn’t move an inch. He let go of the suit and gripped a hose from her open pack. He was trying to stretch the hose all the way to the oxygen tank. He was desperate.

A message appeared on his display. NASA was politely requesting that he not take any recordings or pictures and “respect her family’s privacy” by not going public.

Blake gritted his teeth. They had already given her up for dead.

He keyed in another command sequence, letting his patience and better judgement fade into obscurity as he acted on impulse.

A few moments after his message reached Ryan, the rover continued to try to wake Kate, going so far as to press its pincers into her injured leg.

“Kate! Wake up!” Ryan screamed over the coms.

The radio was silent but for Ryan’s panting and sniffling, and Kate’s labored breathing.

“Take it.”

And then Feldspar was his.

His prepared sequence delivered, Feldspar wheeled around and drove back to the oxygen tank. It extended its arm and reached toward the regulator. Gripping it with its pincers, it lowered the lever with painful slowness. Gas rushed out of the tank. He couldn’t hear it, but the pressure of it escaping created a small cloud of water vapor at the mouth of the tank. Feldspar’s arm swiveled to the right and gripped another lever, and Feldspar repeated the process with the nitrogen tank.

A moment later, Blake’s next sequence arrived and the rover’s AIR module opened. It evacuated all of the oxygen within its tank into the enclosure. Rather than close the port, he left it open, exposing the module’s sensors to the ambient air. Oxygen and nitrogen, which had been at a measly two percent a moment ago, were steadily climbing in time with the PSI.

After a handful of readings came in, he programmed Feldspar to cut off the gas when the oxygen and nitrogen reached normal levels and the PSI reached 14.7. He then compiled his riskiest sequence yet. His finger hovered in the air for a minute, and then it mashed the send button.

The pressure in his enclosed shelter continued to rise.

“It’s hopeless,” Ryan said, his voice soft. “Her oxygen is down to eight percent and her carbon dioxide is up to six. She doesn’t have any time.”

Blake cursed. Even Ryan had given up on her.

When the pressure reached one atmosphere, Feldspar lowered the levers on the tanks’ regulators and spun to face Kate’s prone body. Its six wheels eased across the small room and stopped before her.

“Feldspar?” Ryan asked.

Once more, the tip of the 3D printing arm glowed with heat. It extended outward, toward the golden faceplate.

“Feldspar!”

The golden face-shield reflected the glowing point with clarity until it made contact. Seconds later, the glass cracked and began to glow red and warp around the probe.

Blake no longer touched his controls. He pressed his palms to his stubbled cheeks and stared through the narrow gaps of his fingers.

The only sound was a sudden hiss from the coms.

Then the glow stopped and the arm retracted.

A perfect hole, no more than a centimeter wide, was melted into the face-shield.

He checked the AIR module’s readings: 21% O2, 78%N2, and 1% CO2. 14.7 PSI

Kate was still.

A lump formed in his throat, and he held his breath.

A gloved finger twitched, and then an entire arm began to move. It lifted to the helmet, and fingers prodded the hole melted into the faceplate.

Kate searched the neck for small clasps and then lifted the helmet to reveal a narrow, pale face with short-cropped hair.

She blinked her eyes, breathed, and then stared straight into the camera.

“Thank you, Feldspar,” she said, her breath fogging in the cold air.

Blake leapt to his feet, and his relief left him in a victorious roar. He wiped away tears he hadn’t known were there and then sat down again, nearly breaking his chair.

“It’s good to see your face,” was all he could think to say.

Ryan’s words were much more poignant and passionate, succeeding in bringing Kate to tears and inspiring laughter. But when Blake’s words reached her, she pressed her lips to her gloved fingers and reached out to press them against the rover’s lens.

They talked after that. Ryan didn’t interrupt but for the occasional status update. Blake told her where he was from, what he did for a living, and how this game had become his entire life. He even told her his real name.

She loved San Francisco and told him of a time she went there with her father, saw the Golden Gate Bridge, and Alcatraz, and had a pastry from a shop in the Marina District. Of all that, she remembered the pastry the most.

She had lived a life he could only dream of, yet it was he who had saved her life. He had come across her tracks, guided her to shelter, and pressurized an untested airlock. He had proven that this was not just a game, that they could litter the entire surface of Mars with livable habitats without risking a single human life. She made him feel capable of anything.

“I look forward to meeting you in person, Blake. Perhaps on a future Eos mission.”

Eos, Goddess of the Dawn, who had once lain with Ares, the Greek God of War, and was cursed by Aphrodite to remain in a state of love and longing for the rest of eternity. He could sympathize. His passion for the red planet hadn’t wavered since his first glimpse of it through a telescope on a field trip far away from the smog and lights of the city. Now he had a real chance of going there, a chance to escape a polluted world and build a new one.

The batteries drained of power as Kate’s suit labored to heat the air of the larger enclosure. With another hour left before the rescue team arrived, Blake offered her Feldspar’s battery. It took some persuading from both him and Ryan to convince her to take it.

Then, for the first time in four years, the screen went black and a new status flashed across his screen

<COMMUNICATION LOST_ BATTERY FAILURE_UNABLE TO REESTABLISH LINK>

Blake rubbed his weary eyes and stood. He walked over to the door and slipped his bare feet into a pair of shoes.

He opened the door to the bright sun shining down onto the west coast and stepped over the threshold. It was morning, and he was suddenly in the mood for a pastry.

Bullet Catch

Stephen Lawson

First Runner Up in the Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award 2017

Part 1: Greed

"A rail gun? Why on God's red planet are you building a rail gun?" Patricia asks. She studies me with eyes that are never without mischief.

As much as I wish it would, I know my charm won't work on her. She made it quite clear that she was engaged when we started training for our one year rotation. As such, I made sure to get the requisition form signed by Mars2050's CFO and the outpost commander, Inigo. Patricia isn't handing out freebies from the supply stock.

"It's for meteors, Trish," I say. "There isn't enough atmospheric friction to burn them up like on Earth. I'm trying to ensure the survival of the hub."

She looks over the form, then back up at me with a raised eyebrow.

"We're in a lava tube, Vinny," she says.

"With solar panels and a rover parked on the upper surface."

"I mean, you've got approval, but when you use my stock for your projects, I can't sell it to the Chinese, or Russians, or whoever else wants it."

"Americans?"

"We're Americans, Vinny."

"We're mercenaries, Trish. Anyone who lands under a flag is a customer. Meteor protection is added value for transients. Anyway, that's what the supply rockets are for. The home office sends you more stuff, and you sell it."

"You're cutting into my margin."

"Our margin," I say. "We can't spend those bonuses if we're dead."

She shakes her head.

"Fine," she says, "but you'll have to build the capacitors from scratch. The only ones I have are for habitat circuitry. They wouldn't hold enough juice to launch anything bigger than a sewing needle."

"I don't think that'll be a problem," I say.

I've already got four of them in my storage closet.

"Why couldn't you use up some of this dang VapoResin?" she asks.

"Are they still sending that stuff?"

VapoResin is an aerosol glue. It's completely fluid and non-adhesive at any atmospheric pressure above 5 psi. Below that, though, the molecules rapidly expand and bind to anything around them.

"I guess they figured we were going to have a lot of holes to patch up in a big hurry," she says. "That's the problem with forecasting. We haven't used a single can. I ran out of room in storage, so there are stacked pallets of it sitting outside."

Eight sols later I make my way into Faith's Saloon. Its polished bar, leather seats, and low lighting allow a peaceful escape from the harsh realities of life on Mars. It's one of the other key money-makers for Mars2050. Liquor usually makes up half a percent of every supply shipment, and at least one flag-rider has gone home with much of his paycheck already spent.

They all bring a plastic bottle with them in their gear, but it runs out quick. That's when they meet Faith.

"I haven't seen you in a week, Vinny," Faith says.

"I've come to celebrate," I say, easing myself onto one of her bar stools. "I think I've solved two problems in one fell swoop."

"That's good to hear," she says. "How are you celebrating?"

"Bourbon probably," I say. "I'm guessing the Ruskies drank up all your cheap vodka again."

"Not yet," she says, as she pours a double shot into a tin cup, "but they're working on it."

The Korean exobotanists sit in the corner booth with the American agriculturalist, quietly discussing their craft.

More than one profound comparing-of-notes has happened in Faith's, and I sense that the problems America's been having growing kale in regolith are about to be solved. Korean astronauts already enjoy the Martian variant of kimchi, made from cabbage genetically optimized for the Martian soil.

"So were they company problems, or personal?" Faith asks.

"A bit of both," I say.

I sip the bourbon, and remember the fifth grade egg drop contest I won with Amos. It's probably what started me down this path. We'd been given four pieces of tape, a cardboard tube, two sheets of paper, a pencil, a rubber band, and twenty minutes. We're twins, so we've always been predisposed to load-sharing ideas.

While the other kids built elaborate variations on da Vinci's airscrew, Amos used the paper to do some basic trigonometry. Even before he finished making calculations, I'd mounted the cardboard tube at about the angle needed to get the egg into a snow drift. We couldn't throw it—that would be cheating—but no one said anything about redirecting gravity. Our teacher said we'd bent the rules by introducing a protractor, but excused us from that week's math test anyway. Our egg was the only one that survived the fall.

Later, we watched an old video of David Blaine catching a bullet in his mouth with a metal cup and a special mouthpiece. The precision involved with the feat was, I think, what inspired me to specialize in rocket guidance systems after Georgia Tech. That and a degree in electrical engineering got me a seat on the third rotation at Mars2050's trading hub.

Mars2050 rents habitat connections to flag-riders with free MOXIE usage inside the hub and cheap fission-generated electricity. Most of them only bring air generation equipment for their rovers and EVA suits at this point. All of them use our gym, infirmary, and bar.

"People are going to drink and screw," Mars2050's CEO told us during training. "Healthy people—and astronauts inherently want to be healthy—work out, too. When they're under stress, like on Mars, they'll do all those things more to cope. That's our business model, except for the screwing. We can't sell that, or the flag-riders will sanction us and we won't have any customers. The wild west ain't what it used to be."

The reactor got Patricia her ticket to Mars, but everyone has more than one skillset. Hers are running a store and splitting atoms. No nation wants to leave people on Mars indefinitely (on the taxpayer dime) any more than they want to deploy uniformed troops. That's what contractors are for.

The economy that's sprung up inside the hub, though—trading sweet potatoes for mushrooms between greenhouses—means Ricardo's Law of comparative advantage has started to take hold. The hub makes it a positive-sum game.

I open my laptop to send Amos an email.

I'll launch tomorrow, it says. Flight time will be roughly one month. Reconfirm that the landing strip is still viable. I'll send you a precise splash time after the launch.

We're currently eighty million kilometers from Earth.

The email will take about four and a half minutes to reach Amos, travelling at the speed of light.

The platinum ore I found will take longer, since my capacitors can only push the ceramic tube to about 30 km/s. For a rail gun, that's pretty good. In 2016, DARPA was still shooting tungsten rods at tanks at a tenth of that.

The second-best part about this is, I'm not using any hydrocarbons to do it. Solar fuel is free.

The best-best part is, I'm sending Amos ten kilograms of platinum, which is worth about four hundred grand. When the capacitors recharge from the solar array, I'll send more.

"I know what you're up to," Patricia says. She looks me up and down with a gaze that I might mistake for desire under other circumstances. Right now, she looks more like a tigress eying a rabbit.

I keep my composure, wondering if she hacked my email account or spied on my "test" launch.

"Is that so?" I ask.

"You're trying to get corporate to pay you a big fat bonus to stay on for another rotation—to work on 'planetary defense.' You're making a niche for yourself."

"I'm as eager to get back to Earth as you," I say, and it's true. I'll have a bigger bonus waiting for me there.

"Sure," she says. "We'll see what happens when our Hohmann transfer window opens."

"Faith and Inigo have each other," I say. "Money ain't enough to keep me on this rock when all the good-looking women are spoken for."

She snorts, batting away the compliment with a wave of her hand.

"If I was divorced," Trish says, "I'd stay as far from my ex as I could get. If they started pumping gas on Titan, I'd go there. I don't see how you can live in the same town as your ex-wife."

"Kids make you do that," I say.

She studies me for a moment before looking away.

"So what do you need today?" she asks finally. "You want parts to build your own private rover?"

"No," I say. "I need a thousand tons of aluminum powder."

"A thousand— For what?"

"Have you noticed all the red iron oxide outside, just lying around?"

"Yes . . .?"

"I'm going to drill a hole in the side of Olympus Mons and turn it into a giant thermite torch. It'll release oxygen and heat the atmosphere enough to melt the ice. We'll get the greenhouse effect—"

"Vinny, shut up."

"What? I could do it. It would only take me—"

"Just shut up and go away."

She's smiling again, though. I watch her walk back to her small-parts shelves. The way she moves makes me hate myself, just a little.

Three packages made it, Amos's email says. One missed the track and burned into the side of the mountain. I uploaded a video to RandomIP for you, big brother.

Amos started calling me "big brother" when he realized that Mars's reduced mass and relative orbital speed meant time would move a teensy bit faster than on Earth. When I see him again, I'll be about one second older.

I put on my auggles—augmented reality goggles, but really just glasses with a HUD in each lens—and pull out the fob that's synched to Amos's RandomIP fob. His video will stay on this webpage for three Earth-days or until I delete it. Then the IP address will be open to any other RandomIP subscriber. It's the best way to avoid detection on the darknet, and RandomIP's owners have come under legal scrutiny more than once.

I lie in my bunk and use the blank ceiling as a backdrop for the holographic image. I watch, through the auggles, as an object falls from Earth's sky toward a snow-covered mountain. Air resistance has slowed it somewhat by this point, but it's still travelling fast enough to leave a smoking crater if it impacts the ground directly. Amos's cameras are too far away to pick up the gas jets, but I discern a slight trajectory shift as it falls. Then the tube touches the snow-covered slope and rides the track a full kilometer to the ground below, turning its path from 90 degrees to 0 and reducing its velocity one meter at a time.

When it reaches ground level, the tube impacts the long snow bank that Amos piled up with a plow on his truck and finally comes to rest. He reaches into the snow and holds the tube, now cool to the touch, in front of the cameras. After glancing down at his watch, he turns the cameras back up to the sky and I watch the second tube come in.

Being the electrician and guidance repair-man at a Mars hub is a lot like being a firefighter. If something isn't broken or in a position to become so, you have a lot of free time to kill. Trish has the store, Faith has her bar, and Inigo has his greenhouse and an endless stream of emails from corporate. I have diagnostic checks and an endless imagination.

After I get done running my daily diagnostics on the hub's grid, I find myself back at Faith's polished bar.

"I got coffee today," Faith says. Coffee takes far too much soil to grow locally, so we still import it from Earth. Corporate is usually good about the resupply schedule, even though they have to forecast depletion a year in advance. Trish's VapoResin stockpile is the exception.

For us, there's no such thing as emergency resupply.

Faith opens her vacuum canister and holds it near my nose. Just the smell of fresh beans is enough to get my brain spinning in high gear.

"I'm sold," I say. "There was a time when I drank that stuff twice a day."

"There was a time when you ate meat, too," she says, as she scoops beans into a hand-crank grinder.

"Cricket patties aren't so bad," I say. "My palate adapted faster than I thought it would."

One of the South Korean astronauts—Li, I think—pulls out a stool and sits down. I smile, but she looks worried and barely notices me.

"Everything all right?" Faith asks, pausing in her coffee-grinding.

"I'm pregnant," Li says, oblivious to her audience. "I think—stupid birth control—"

That was sooner than expected. The over-under bet during training was 10 years from the time we started renting hab-hookups.

"Oh," Faith says. She turns the coffee crank several times as she processes this.

"I was hoping—" Li says.

"I can run an ultrasound and some basic tests," Faith says. "Let me start this coffee for Vincent, though."

She pauses to scoop more beans into the grinder.

"I think maybe we'll all want some," she says, and begins grinding again.

Part 2: Need

Thirty minutes later, I catch a glimpse of a red-eyed Li walking out through the side door. I hear Faith sigh as she puts her auggles back in their case.

"These are great for medicine," she says. "You can overlay scans and anatomical charts over the body in real-time. I wish I'd had auggles in the ER."

"I get the feeling they didn't show you anything good," I say.

"When NASA and corporate decided to up our allowable exposure to cosmic radiation, they didn't look at the effects on pregnant women. Li's the Korean geologist. She's been working on the surface four hours a sol for the last month."

"And radiation can mutate cells—"

"There's a neuroblastoma putting pressure on the fetus's spine," Faith says. "If she makes it as far as birth, there's a seventy-five percent likelihood that kid won't be able to walk, urinate, or defecate. Life will be short and miserable if it even gets that far. Right now I'm not sure it's creating enough amniotic fluid, so its lungs aren't going to develop properly."

"Ouch," I say. "Isn't there therapy for that kind of thing? Gene editing, or chemo, or—"

"We have some basic treatments here," Faith says, "but they're meant for fully-grown adults, and they only treat symptoms until the rotation's up. We're not set up for pediatrics. I was an ER surgeon, but even with some guidance through the auggles, I don't have the tools I'd need. She's three months along. Where we are now, it would take—"

Faith pulls her auggles back out, and places a finger on the side of the frame.

"—Hohmann transfer analysis—" she says to the auggles’s mic pickup, "—shipping from Earth, launch within twenty-four hours."

Green numbers project into her eye, unseen by me. While the auggles do their thing, I wonder how long it will be before everybody on Mars is in a cancer support group.

The Hawaiian test colony didn't have to deal with Galactic Cosmic Rays (GCRs), since Earth's magnetosphere acts as a radiation shield. Mars has no such field.

"It would take a year to get a supply rocket here if it launched tomorrow."

"What if they burned a straight line, outside of the Hohmann transfers?"

"Eight months," Faith says. The program always does an automatic comparison. "The kid will still probably be dead by then."

"Even if we could launch from Earth," Amos says, "how would you decelerate? If we add an engine and enough fuel to slow it down before it landed on Mars, it would require too much mass to launch from a rail gun."

I'm not a completely soulless platinum prospector. I know my shipping method is faster, but I can't exactly show corporate my proof-of-concept and ask for supplies. I sent Amos an encrypted message through RandomIP an hour ago, and now I'm staring at the ceiling in my room watching his reply.

"You could build a reverse coil gun, maybe—a series of fission-powered coils that would magnetically decelerate the tube as it fell through their center," Amos continues, "but the thing would have to be massive. It'd take more raw material and power than you have on that station. It'd take a year to build.

"Unless you're planning to change the entire atmosphere and put snow on Olympus Mons in the next six months, I think the Koreans are just going to have to hope for the best."

Wouldn't that be nice? It'd be another revenue stream for Mars2050: skiing the double black diamond down Olympus Mons for R&R.

I pull out a stylus and start writing on the wall. Though it will remain blank to anyone else, my auggles note the movements and record them as black text on the wall's surface. It's time to brainstorm.

1. Snow works on Earth for sustained deceleration. Can I make snow without abundant liquid water?

2. Mars has a lot of atmospheric CO_2. Could I make a dry ice slush? How fast would it sublimate?

3. I don't have a lot of water. What do I have a lot of, and how can I use it to slow down a projectile?

I stare at the augmented wall for several minutes, but nothing else comes to me. I put my finger to the auggles's frame.

"Save," I whisper. "Encrypt. Send to Amos."

The next day, Faith's Saloon is full of astronauts from all of the habs.

"Business is booming," I say.

"Dust storm," Faith says. "Nobody's going out. The Americans took off just in time. They even took their potato farmer with them."

I sit at the bar, away from the others. Faith sneaks away from her customers, knowing my propensity for conspiracy.

"If I could get emergency medical supplies here faster," I ask, "how much help could you give that kid in a ten kilogram package?"

Faith pulls a bar towel from her shoulder, and wipes out the coffee cup she just finished washing. She chews the inside of her lower lip, as I've seen her do countless times.

"If I sent corporate a DNA sequence," she says, "they could synthesize a CRISPR vial in a day or two. Personalized gene therapy's 97% effective with cancer. On Earth, this would be a non-issue. How fast are you talking?"

"A month—ish."

Faith laughs, but it's not derisive.

"With what, a teleporter?" she asks. "This isn't science fiction."

"A rail gun."

She cocks her head at me, wondering if I'm serious. She turns away and starts chewing her lower lip again.

"Inigo could sequence the fetal DNA," she says finally. "He's got a kit with his forensic gear. We could email it once it's digital."

Inigo, in addition to being our horticulturalist, is charged with keeping peace inside the hub.

"I mean, I know you're good with guidance systems," she says. "Your rail gun would probably work against a meteorite, but how on Earth would you stop the projectile if you weren't trying to destroy something? Even if you had a system to catch it, you'd need precision like—"

Can I trust her?

Does it matter?

She's the key to getting Inigo on board, and all the platinum on Mars won't help me sleep at night if I don't give this my best shot.

"I don't have all the bugs worked out on this end," I say, "but I absolutely have the precision to pull it off."

She raises her eyebrows.

I put my auggles on the bar, and nudge them toward her with my fingertips.

Five minutes later, she pulls them from her eyes. In those eyes is an unfathomable mix of contempt and awe.

"You can judge me," I say, "or we can save the first Martian baby. I can't do it on my own."

4. Dust. You have a lot of very fine dust on Mars. Dust can be the condensation nuclei for water droplets in snow, rain, or clouds to form around. If you could hold a dense dust cloud in place somehow, the combined mass could be used to slow a projectile.

Amos has updated our shared augmented-reality brainstorming session. Given that I'm literally inside a dust storm, I'm a tad embarrassed that I didn't think of this first, even though it isn't a full solution.

One of the main problems with using a fluid of any sort is the huge temperature variance between the day and night. We're close to the equator, in the lava tubes at the base of Olympus Mons. In the summer, it's about 70 degrees Fahrenheit (21° C) during the day, and minus 100 (-73° C) at night. That means that if we make a slush or snow out of any fluid that would freeze during the night, it will melt or sublimate during the day.

5. A slush like snow may not be ideal, since the fluid's state would be so temperature-dependent. There must be air bubbles or gaps integrated throughout the structure so that it can be crushed without damaging the projectile. Think about stunt men who fall into a pile of cardboard boxes. Something like soap bubbles, with strong surface tension, and adhesion to dust particles . . .

And then I have it. At least, I think I do. I don't want to jump for joy until I run some tests.

"Hey Trish," I say.

"Hey yourself," she says. "You look chipper."

"I want to buy a case of your surplus VapoResin."

Patricia's eyes widen.

"Is there a leak somewhere?"

"No," I say, "it's for a personal project."

"Sure," she says. "You want two? I can justify a buy one, get one discount to free up inventory space."

"If this works," I say, "I'm going to need everything you have."

I run my test. Then I build another, larger cloud.

I go back into the hab and email Amos.

"Tell me it's invested," I say.

"It's invested," Amos says an hour later. "Even if they come after you, you were prospecting in international 'waters' and not working for any government. I looked over your contract. Corporate wouldn't have any sort of claim just because you were working for them or used their parts to build the rail gun. I'd say you're good to go public."

"Bubble wrap," Mars2050's CEO says. He's looking into the camera, with the video I sent him playing on a loop in the background. Our CFO is sitting next to him in the board room. "Just so I understand what you're trying to do: you want us to launch a vial of prokaryotic DNA from a rail gun, eighty million kilometers, into a bubble wrap cloud you made from glue and Martian dust. Is that right? Please confirm that this is your plan when you reply."

Behind him, on the replaying video, I poke my finger into the squishy amber glue-cloud I made to test the principle. They don't seem to be as impressed as I was.

"Additionally, since Inigo briefed us on your 'proof-of-concept,' I'll say this: reimburse us for the rail gun—of which we will retain control, pay for the CRISPR work-up, and buy all but one case of the VapoResin we've sent so far."

I thought they'd be more understanding. It's what Amos expected, though.

Inigo laughs.

"Sounds like saving the day is going to be expensive," he says. "For what it's worth, I think you're doing the right thing. Faith does too. She just took you for more of an altruist before you started smuggling platinum ore."

"You didn't?"

"I was a cop for eight years before I went back to school," he says. "People don't surprise me. Altruism's a phase some folks go through, but hardly anyone stays there for long."

"Even with what the platinum's worth, I can't afford what they're asking."

"Korea might subsidize it," he says. "I wouldn't bank on it, though."

"Why's that?"

"Some folks believe that saving any life is worth any amount of money, because they don't understand what money does," he says. "Would you spend the entire GDP of the United States to rescue a downed pilot?"

"No. Everyone else would starve."

"Exactly," he says. "At some point you have to put a dollar value on human life. The question becomes: how much does Korea value a fetus with cancer? I'm guessing they'll tell her to abort."

"I can do this, dammit."

"Not on the company dime, apparently."

Li talks to Korean Mission Control. She explains the plan, and shows them my spongy glue cloud.

They tell her to abort.

Inigo sends a video to a contact at NASA, asking for help from one American to another.

His contact tells us to abort to prevent "serious psychological trauma" when the child dies slowly in the hub.

"Who's the father, Li?" Faith asks. "Is he part of your crew, or another? That baby would have dual citizenship."

I hadn't thought of that. It takes two to tango, unless this is the Martian messiah.

"Yulian," Li says finally. "Yulian Zaytsev."

"The Russians have been first at a lot of things in the space race," I offer. "Maybe they'd place more stock on claiming the first alien birth than Korea does."

Li nods slowly.

"I will talk to him," she says.

The next day, Li, Yulian, Inigo, Faith, and I huddle around a video screen.

"These are the conditions," a man says. Yulian identifies him as Leonid Grekov, the operations chief at Roscosmos. "They are nonnegotiable."

This doesn't sound good.

"First," Grekov says, "the mother will become a Russian citizen, and this child will be raised on Russian soil with allowances made to visit extended family in Korea twice a year."

Li's eyes widen, but she says nothing.

"Second," he continues, "the rail gun architect—Mister Vincent—will provide schematics of his guidance system, and detailed coordinates of his platinum mine. He will sign a nondisclosure agreement regarding this mine so that Roscosmos can further explore its potential."

Not as bad as I thought. I figured they'd at least want a kidney.

"Last," Grekov says, "all involved parties will participate in a press conference promoting the Russian space program and our role in saving the first child born on another world. We will await your response by midnight, Moscow time."

The video ends with Grekov giving the camera his best look of steely resolve.

All eyes go to Li. She has the most skin in the game.

Li looks to Yulian. He nods, urging her to accept.

Maybe this wasn't a fling after all.

"Okay," Li says, then looks to me. "That is, if you're—"

"It's not like I'm selling a state secret," I say. "I never worked for DARPA. The guidance is my design. As for the platinum, I took all I can spend in one lifetime. I'm not that creative when it comes to profligacy."

Yulian smiles, and claps me on the back a bit harder than I'd like.

"You're a good man, Vincent," he says in a heavy Russian accent. "We won't forget this."

"Don't thank me yet," I say. "We've got economics and politics on our side finally, but physics and biology are far less forgiving. There's more math and less BS."

After we waste half a sol driving a Russian dozer near the base of the mountain, I toss the last can from a case of VapoResin into the empty bag. My plan to fan dust from the surface and spray it while it's in the air only works on the small scale I used to make the model. When I try to make bigger shapes, they turn into a tangled mess and fall flat.

Nothing. We accomplished nothing.

Yulian notes my downcast expression, and smiles.

"I think maybe your snow-chute idea is more appropriate for Earth, and for snow," he says. "Perhaps we need to do something a little different here."

"Yeah, no kidding."

"The VapoResin molecules," he says, "they only expand and stick when atmospheric pressure drops below 5 psi, right?"

"Yeah."

"What if we mix the dust into the aerosol, and spray them together?"

"How would that help?"

"The expansion would happen with the dust mixed in. If you sprayed the mixture through fine jets over a wide area, it would solidify in the air a short distance from the nozzles. You wouldn't have to fan anything. You're not getting a stable structure because the condensation nuclei aren't mixed thoroughly. The glue is sticking in sheets, and falling apart."

"Interesting thought," I say.

"Perhaps," Yulian says, "we could also make it stronger by spraying it into something, rather than on the surface?"

"You mean like a crater?"

"I mean like a small, vertical-shaft lava tube with a horizontal access. We could walk in and cut through the glue to get the canister at the bottom."

For once, I'm not the crazy one.

"The trajectory would have to take it straight down the tube," I say. "If it hit the sides on the way down, it could destroy the canister. Getting more dust is no problem, but to have enough glue to fill a vertical shaft—"

"It would have to be fairly narrow, yes," Yulian says. "I have faith in your guidance system, though."

"Why?"

"I don't have many other options," he says. "This is my child's life, yet you're the one who didn't give up at the prognosis. God works through whomever He chooses."

"In that case, let's find a lava tube."

We take the rover back to the hub, and spend the rest of the sol poring over maps of known tubes. Our Goldilocks list of vertical shafts with access tunnels at the bottom is discouragingly short. Most of the ones that have been explored were studied for habitat sites, so they're massive—far too big to fill with glue and dust.

Inigo brings paper charts to supplement the auggle data sets, since not all of the hard copies were transcribed to digital.

"We could . . ." I start to say. I visualize what I'm thinking, though, and don't finish the thought.

"We could what?" Faith asks.

"Do we really need a horizontal access at the bottom? The tube's going to cut a narrow shaft through the cloud. Couldn't we just crawl in after it and grab it?"

"That shaft would be barely big enough for an adult in an EVA suit," Faith says, "and that's assuming that the friction from the canister burns a hole wider than its diameter."

"Trish has solvent in the supply room too," Inigo says. "VapoResin is meant to be temporary, so the hub doesn't turn into a block of glue after a decade of quick fixes."

His wife fixes him with a wilting gaze.

"You want to send someone down a near-vertical shaft," she says, "—half a kilometer to a kilometer deep depending on glue density—with a little spray bottle of solvent to make it wide enough?"

At least no one's laughing at the glue-cloud idea anymore.

"I will do this," Yulian says, "and if we have a little girl, we will name her after you, Faith. If I do not come out, spray more glue over me and place a marker."

Faith laughs, shakes her head, and walks away.

"You're going to be a great dad," Inigo says. "It's going to cost you enough to be one."

He holds up a paper chart with several red grease-pencil circles on it. I pull my auggles off and place them on the bar as Inigo outlines some of the first shafts the rovers explored when they were looking for liquid water.

An hour later, we've selected six that are far enough away from the hub to avoid turning it into a crater if the guidance system fails, but close enough that we don't have to set up a second camp when the canister flies in.

"This one, I think," Yulian says.

We've mounted a massive spotlight and a laser range-finder on a boom at the rim of a vertical shaft, and he's watching a readout on a tablet computer.

"How deep is it?" I ask.

"I'm getting some variance from the dust cloud at the bottom," he says, "but it's over 1,300 meters."

"That should work. We won't have enough VapoResin to fill it to the surface, but it's narrow enough to give us the depth we need. Help me load the probe onto the cable."

Over the next hour, we lower a laser-mapping probe into the shaft to make a virtual image for Amos. We've officially abandoned Mars2050's help on the project, and my brother is assisting Roscosmos with technical details at the cosmodrome in Amur Oblast.

6. Next time, big brother, let's use something other than glue on the Martian end. It defeats the purpose of free energy for a launch when you're using a ton of expendables on the other end. Magnetic particles, maybe? Nano machines? Yeast bubbles?

The next day, Yulian sits on a platform at the end of the cable with the new, improved spraying rig. We've dumped all the VapoResin into one tank on the surface, built an intake for the giant dust pile we shoveled together, and connected every bit of hose we had at the hub so that we wouldn't have to raise and lower him every fifteen minutes. Even so, it's going to take us a full week to fill the lava shaft.

"This is madness, isn't it?" Yulian says.

"No," I say, as I pull the lever to lower him into the shaft. "This is Sparta."

His helmet radio is voice activated, so I hear muted laughter as he disappears into the abyss.

Laughter wards off the Grim Reaper.

Since the kid's lung development isn't getting better with wasted time, Roscosmos accepts the risk and launches while we're still building the landing site.

Don't screw this up, Vinny.

The month ticks by, half of it spent under a dust storm.

Everyone at the hub follows the bullet-tracker that Faith posts above the bar.

As the tube hurtles closer, Li talks less and less as she visualizes the best and worst outcomes.

Yulian jokes, but I can tell he's just as worried.

The dust storm clears the day before the bullet arrives. Half the station puts on EVA suits to watch the thing as it flashes like lightning into the lava shaft.

Then the hard work begins again.

"I can't see anything at all," Yulian says. He's on a closed-circuit air supply instead of MOXIE since there won't be enough CO_2 to harvest inside the shaft. "Even with my lights on, it's just amber bubbles in front of my face. It's so—squishy."

"Keep talking to us, Yulian," Inigo says. He's sitting inside the rover while several other cosmonauts and I man the boom that will pull Yulian out feet-first.

"I think—" Yulian says, but the radio crackles with static.

"Yulian?" Inigo says.

Nothing.

"Yulian, we lost you on comms," he says.

"Some of the dust in the cloud is iron oxide," I say. "It's going to give you interference."

Several minutes pass in silence. The cable continues unspooling, so we know Yulian's alive.

Then it stops.

The cable is 1,400 meters long, and he's only 800 meters deep.

"Yulian?"

I try my radio too.

Nothing.

"—tube's cracked," he says finally. "It didn't go straight —ertical. —ull me up, and we'll —ave a look — it."

"Reel him in," Inigo says, and I throw the lever on the boom. Slowly, to avoid ripping his arms off in the shaft, we pull Yulian back the surface.

As the other cosmonauts help him to his feet, I see a long crack running down the side of the ceramic plating.

There, on the regolith, Yulian pulls open the projectile that hurtled through space for a million-to-one chance at saving a life. Even through his EVA suit, I can see his hands shaking.

A smile spreads across his face as he pulls the padding away from the CRISPR canister and holds it up in both hands.

It made it.

Biology proves to be the easiest hurdle of all, which I chock up to incentives. People with money have been dying from cancer for a long time, so a lot of money has been thrown at cancer. Researchers who want to feed their families have chosen to serve the public good in exchange for that money.

Mars colonization was underfunded for decades because the coolest thing people could think of to do there was look for bacteria. When I told the Russians I had a platinum mine, they doubled Roscosmos's budget overnight.

CIA figured out what was going on, and suddenly NASA's budget went up too. It's funny how people sit on their butts when you mention the survival of the species, but they jump up when you mention shiny rocks or hydrocarbons.

I shouldn't cast stones, of course. Those shiny rocks are the only reason I came up with "planetary defense."

I'm getting ahead of myself, though.

Faith Dejah Thoris Zaytsev is born with healthy lungs and without the tumor that threatened her in the womb. After a year on Mars for early development, Faith, Li, and Yulian prepare to board a Soyuz rocket bound for Earth.

Inigo officiates the first Martian wedding, and I'm honored to stand as Yulian's best man.

We celebrate with Faith's cheapest vodka in the saloon.

"Here's to a bunch of lunatics," Faith says, raising a shot glass.

After downing his shot, Yulian speaks up.

"It's ironic that you use this word," Yulian says, "since lunacy comes from luna. It refers to Earth's moon. It was hard when the Americans did it, of course, but now lunacy is as easy as crossing the street. We aren't lunatics, dear friend. We're far past that. We're Martians."

Force Multipliers Being What They Are

Travis S. Taylor

“Thomas, pull the stack back in, you’re spreading yourselves too freakin’ thin,” Captain Markus Sanchez subvocalized as he called up the direct-to-mind heads-up display of the blue force tracker and breathed a sigh of relief.

Had there been any red dots on the other side of the concrete wall separating Freeman’s team from the parking garage they were about to enter, the spread-out stack would have become targets in a kill box with little hope of offering each other any cover fire. To their advantage was the fact that the insurgents didn’t have the force-on-force identification system, the metamaterial powered armor, the level of nighttime imagery, or training the United States Army had. Force multipliers being what they were, overconfidence, and more importantly, stupid mistakes could still get you killed just as dead.

“Roger that, Captain. I got ’em,” the young butterbar replied.

Markus liked the new second team leader a lot and knew from his performance records that he was a competent soldier, but as far as officers were concerned the kid was green—very green. He hadn’t seen actual combat either. Green or not, very quickly, the second lieutenant took care of the situation. The five blue dots in the captain’s mindview heads-up display (HUD) quickly stacked up in proper formation.

Markus made a mental note of all the blue dots overlaid on the terrain maps in his head. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but he knew he was looking for a sore thumb—something that stuck out. That part of the city was on a slight incline and all the streets ran either north and south or east and west. The tallest building couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve stories high and most of them were old and worn-out-looking sandstone colored blocks.

The HUD used known daytime imagery to overlay color and tactile information on the three dimensional virtual map in front of his eyes. Electrical wires of all sorts stretched across the streets to the buildings looking like someone had taken a bowl of black and gray spaghetti and spread it out randomly between poles and buildings. He hoped they wouldn’t have to hack into any of them physically, because that might take forever to find the right noodle in the pasta bowl.

The processors in his suit quickly added the helmet-cam views of the wires onto the map and marked them for possible hazards for flight vehicles. The map was uplinked through the virtual network of unmanned aerial vehicles, high altitude balloons, and the nanosatellite constellation in low Earth orbit. The living map was continuously updated by all sensors in the field including radars, lidars, imagery, the global navigation satellite system and compass inputs from vehicles and other soldier systems, and even infantry helmet-cams. The mapping system also used purple data. If there was a commercial transmitter or internet device in the area available, data from that was input to the mapping system’s algorithm as well.

The intel showed that there had been three truck loads full of unfriendlies that somehow had managed to get past a spec ops team farther south in what must have been a heck of a firefight. Then they took refuge somewhere in the nearest three city blocks. That was, of course, unless they had found an uncharted tunnel or magically teleported out. The ground penetrating radar, wifi multi-path analyses, laser vibrometry from drones above, and all known city maps on record showed no other tunnels underneath and Markus didn’t believe in magic. No, they were still in there somewhere and in between his team and Second Lieutenant Thomas Freeman’s stack. And worst of all, they had a quantum key distribution box that was still entangled with the uplink to the FOB and the mobile net.

He looked up and could see the IR signature of one of the little hovering tacnet repeaters about a hundred meters over the tallest building and thought, “If they manage to get into that system . . .”

“Specialist Passer what d’ya got?” Markus whispered as he peeked with one eye around the corner of the ten-story apartment complex and perused the mental images of Specialist Passer’s data stream graphics with the other. Sort of.

The direct-to-mind imagery and interface had been the next big thing to hit the world. It had been as ground breaking as the introduction of the internet, smartphone, and the so-called “internet of things.” Once scientists and engineers had figured out how to control devices by thinking controls rather than touching controls it soon enabled an entirely new level of interfaces and efficiencies that mankind had never seen before. It also allowed for private communications between minds and devices. This wasn’t telepathy by any means. A radio system was still required to transmit the data, but instead of speakers and digital displays the data was directed through superconducting quantum interference devices in the soldier’s helmets directly to and from the brain. There was no longer any need for virtual reality glasses or actual HUDs.

“Yes sir. If you’ll pull up the connectivity overlay you can see what I think are the hotspots.” Passer replied.

Markus noted that the twenty-something E4 didn’t seem the least bit nervous. Rightfully so, the kid had just come from the serious mess in Chad and this tactical grab and go mission shouldn’t be nearly as hot. His orders had been absolutely clear. There was no way they could hold this city in its current state and with the manpower available presently. They were to find the box, take out the unfriendlies that stole it, gather intel, and get the Hell out. This mission shouldn’t get as bad as things had gotten in Chad. At least Markus kept telling himself that.

He looked at the map of the city and then overlaid the connectivity data on it. The large streams of data flowing in and out were clearly internet routers, hubs, and bank system connections like ATMs and credit card machines at retail stores. The smaller connections ranged from personal data implants on civilians, identification and tracking emitters for almost everything, and even old school cellular data phones, pads, and watches. There were also white lines representing power distribution systems. Markus thought that might come in handy if they needed to cut the power to the building.

“I’m gonna highlight some of them in red, Captain. Hold one.” The specialist spoke over the squad’s tacnet channel, even though Passer was only about three meters behind him. Markus noted how the kid’s blue dot brightened each time he spoke and decided then that he liked the new upgrades to the software on the HUD.

He checked the air quality sensor on the HUD. It was reading safe, so he popped his visor briefly and took in a whiff of the local air. It was very hot, dry, and it smelled like city. There had been no signs of chem/bio but protocol was protocol. Besides that he didn’t care to get shot in the face. He took one more whiff of the city air and then thought his visor back down while biting on his drinking tube. The cooled water shot into his mouth almost a little too forcefully, nearly causing him to choke.

“Gonna have to get that adjusted,” he muttered to himself as he continued to study the E4’s data. “Okay, Passer, what am I looking at?”

“Well, Cap’n, the blue streams are our secure datacoms. Purple ones are the general public which are mostly evac-ed out by now. If they’re bold they have hard encryption that we can’t undo here. The red ones, well, they are uncooperative and unaccounted for. You get the point. Look at these here.”

“All right, all right I see them. So what?” Markus wished the specialist would cut to the chase.

“Sir, zoom in,” Passer replied. “These red dots here about four stories up are in sets of thirty and there are many of those sets of thirty close to each other. And some of those sets of thirty are moving around.”

“Thirty? Wait, how do you know they are moving?”

“The algorithm that measures the data rates through all these streams watches for changes in data rate. If a router or internet device is moving about, this creates multipath echoes that cause the data rate to fluctuate. By monitoring the data rate changes the motion there can be determined by the processor here—” He tapped at the chest plate of his armored suit, then continued. “Several of them are sitting still, but two of them are pacing back and forth, sir.”

“Thirty red dots?”

“Yes sir. That’s important I think.”

Markus nodded in understanding.

“Thirty. Let me guess. You believe that if we could connect and talk to each of those thirty things they’d tell us that they were 7.62 x 39 millimeter rounds?”

“My guess sir. Everything has an inventory data tag these days.”

“Well, at least we know how many guns they have. And the two pacing about?”

“They keep tracing the same paths, sir.”

“Sentries.”

“Yes sir. And one of them has an insulin pump. You can see it here in purple, not secured. It keeps getting updates from its manufacturer and is sending sugar levels and such to the cloud like every five seconds or so.”

“Well, we know how many there are and how many are watching. And we know one of them has an unsecured weakness.”

“Yes sir, and where they are. I’d bet a round of beers for the squad that this is our target. The intel from the spec op guys said one of the targets was diabetic.” Passer looked confident but Markus could see the E4 was too seasoned to see the moment as a time to smile. He respected the specialist’s poise.

“All right, I might get in on that bet with you.” Markus thought for a second about what to do next. “Passer, do a scan about for other sets of thirty. I want to make sure there are no snipers waiting on top of a building somewhere nearby. And go ahead and get me a hack into that insulin pump. Don’t do anything yet, just get past the firewalls so we can if we want to.”

“Already did sir. No snipers found so far. And the insulin pump is at your disposal. I’m sending you the control app now.”

“All right then. Keep looking for snipers and booby-traps.” He looked at the data in his mindview once more and then thought to his processor to open a channel to the complete team and copy the FOB tacnet officer—as if she wasn’t listening anyway.

“Listen up! I’m forwarding the location and overlay of what we believe to be the objective. They are two alleyways over from you Freeman and three from us. The Marines and their autotanks have them blocked off to the north and the spec ops teams will keep them from backtracking south. They are boxed in here and are on the fourth floor of the highlighted building. Let the mapping system calculate the most likely ingress and egress routes and use mark-one eyeballs yourselves to identify a backup egress plan. I’m going to pop some skyballs and stream the images to everyone. Keep your lids and visors down as we don’t know if they have anything in there that bleach won’t wash off. There might still be some unconnected civvies in the area so let’s avoid any purple casualties if we can. Top priority though is that package. We have to recover that box and neutralize the targets. Can I get a Hooah?”

“Hooah,” in many voices echoed in his direct-to-mind audio.

“Great. Let’s move.”

Markus toggled the screen for the mini UAVs and the launch tube deployed from the back of his armored suit on the right side. The little tube about six centimeters in diameter thwoomped three times as the devices were launched from the air canon. The tube rescinded back into the suit and the compartment closed. The three skyballs whirred almost imperceptibly silent in front of him as he gave them flight instructions. Using a combination of GNSS, magnetic and gravitational mappings, internal compasses and inertial navigation chips, known map data, local known wifi and electromagnetic signals, and daytime commercial imagery, the guidance algorithm determined guided paths for each of the little quadcopters that would take them to the objective with different final vantage points. Their flight paths would be accurate to within centimeters barring any extreme winds, rain, or enemy fire.

The skyball video feeds started moving rapidly as the little UAVs zipped along at over fifty kilometers per hour. Once on station, they stabilized and gave Markus a full view of the building, the floor in question, and even thermal data showing exactly how many occupants were there. He ordered one of the skyballs to make a full three hundred sixty degree pan with the thermal imager to see if there were any unusual signatures on a rooftop nearby. There were none. His guess was that these guys rushed in here with such a panic after fighting free of the spec ops team that they hadn’t had time to slow down and think about better cover. Or maybe they weren’t planning to stay long.

“Passer, any pings from the box yet?” He asked after a couple minutes of bouncing. They finally reached the buildings adjacent to the objective.

“Sorry sir. If they have it then they must be shielding it from us,” Passer said.

“How are we certain it’s in there?” Staff Sergeant Jackson asked.

“What are they protecting with all those mags of thirty if not?” Markus said with a raised eyebrow that nobody could see inside his helmet.

“Could be random drug dealers, warlords, I dunno, sir.”

“Possible, but Passer hasn’t found other groups with AKs and we’ve verified one of them is diabetic.”

“Yes sir.”

“Captain Sanchez, FOB One, copy?”

“Sanchez here. Go Colonel.” Markus certainly wasn’t expecting the CO to be calling him at this point. He knew the QKD box was a big priority, but there were thousands of troops deployed about rural and outlier suburbs of this city in heavier fights and higher priorities. That thought alone made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and bristle against the inner layer of the armored neck plates.

“Captain, be advised that we have eyeball reports of three inbound choppers with two unmanned weapons platforms in formation headed your way. Do not depend on sensors as they appear to be spoofed at the moment. Use mark-one eyeballs for visual confirmation.”

“Sir, can we expect any air support of our own?”

“Not at this time, Captain.”

“Crap,” Markus whispered to himself.

“Repeat Captain. Didn’t copy last.”

“Uh, ETA on inbound?”

“Four minutes.”

“Understood sir. Permission to move in on target before they get here?”

“At your discretion, Captain.”

“Understood sir. We’re moving in now!”

“Good luck, Captain. FOB One out.”

“Staff Sergeant Jackson!” Markus toggled up the weapons list of all the squad in his mind and could see that the multifunction utility/logistics and equipment bot was carrying just what they needed.

“What can I do for you, Captain?” The NCO bounced to a stop just behind him dropping to one knee, his weapon at the ready.

“Top, call the MULE in and bring the AUAS-DEW online. Tie in to all radars you can find, but you also have to man it and eyeball it. We’ve got inbound automated gunbirds and three choppers. They’ll be in range in three minutes. Move!”

“Hooah,” the top sergeant replied with a nod as he turned and took a five-meter leap toward the back of the stack.

“Okay Freeman, take the stairwell on the east side and move quickly. Keep your exits covered. You have ninety seconds to reach the door. Then my team will be hitting the windows.”

“Affirmative!”

“All right, Team A, we are scaling this wall to the fourth floor and bursting into the rooms adjacent on each side. We’ll go in through the walls. Private Jones, get that Barrett up the wall across the street and keep us covered. You’ve got sixty seconds.”

“Hooah,” Jones grunted and bounced to a second floor fire escape in the alleyway behind them.

“We’re on the clock people, let’s move!” Markus started a countdown timer clock on his HUD and had it transmitted to the team. He took two big steps and bounced his armored boots against the sidewalk. The brushless superconducting high torque servos in the ankles, knees, and hips of his suit sprang loose like a jackrabbit’s hind legs, throwing him upwards at least ten meters, taking him across the street and onto the second floor balcony. Passer landed next to him almost as soon as he hit the surface. The concrete balcony made a crunching and screeching sound underneath the armored soles of their boots.

Quickly, Passer dropped to cover stance at the edge of the balcony while Markus scanned the connected room for danger. So far so good. Two more of the squad bounced on and then up to the third floor. Markus kept up with his squad’s movement in the blue force tracker. Somehow PFC Jones had already made it to the top of the building across the street. The kid probably had them sighted in with the auto targeting functions on the ballistic optical computational ranging and targeting system. He half-heartedly prayed that the sniper’s blue-on-blue safety protocols were functioning properly.

“Twenty seconds . . .”

“Passer, command that insulin pump to start sounding the worst alarm it can and stay stuck on,” Markus ordered.

“Done, Cap’n.” Markus could suddenly hear the beeping in the distance.

“Maybe that’ll distract a couple of them.”

Markus was the last to make the leap to the fourth floor. The four of them, including himself, on the left side of the target room were ready and the four on the right side were in place. The tracker showed Freeman’s team just outside the door, stacked up in the hallway. The HUD still had no view of any inbound aircraft. Somehow their sensors were being jammed and that worried him. He came to the realization just how sophisticated these unfriendlies must be and was beginning to hope he hadn’t underestimated them.

“. . . three, two, one, go!”

The sound of the sniper rifle was unmistakable. There were three loud cracks from Jones’s Barrett across the street and then nothing for a few seconds. Markus burst through the window, firing a couple of rounds into the wall to soften it up before he punched through the drywall and studs. The armored gauntlets of his suit made fairly light work of the Third World construction materials. Several rounds of 7.62 by 39 mm plowed into his chest, stunning him lightly. But they were old school lead and steel jackets not modern armor piercing and had little effect on the powered metamaterial super dense long chain polymer coated polar aligned nanotubes the new suits were made of. He also noted that the red dots of thirty started counting down quite rapidly as the AK-47 fire rang loud in the room.

“Push in! Go!” Markus ordered as he forced himself through the hornets’ nest of enemy fire. Targeting Xs appeared in his HUD flashing red all around the large room. He returned single deadly shots at each of the Xs in his path as he pounded through.

Freeman’s team burst through almost simultaneously, dropping several men by the door. Passer dropped to a knee beside Markus, firing two shots to the left. Then he rotated like the hands on a clock, dropping a target at the two, four, and five o’clock positions.

There were two more cracks from the sniper rifle, two more of the unfriendlies fell, and then it was quiet.

“Captain Sanchez, I’m showing clear of red!” Freeman announced over the tacnet.

“Clear outside,” PFC Jones added.

Markus scanned the room and quickly out the window but there was nothing yet. He knew those birds were coming. They needed to hurry.

“All right, let’s spread out in here and find that box! Watch for booby-traps. We’ve got one minute and nineteen seconds. Passer, turn off that dang insulin pump. Move.”

Staff Sergeant Demarcus Jackson bounced to a stop as the MULE navigated itself about a bit of rubble in the middle of the street almost three blocks from the rest of the team. The “top” sergeant climbed up the runflat wheels onto the rearmost weapons rack where the dome covering the beam director for the Anti-Unmanned Aerial System Directed Energy Weapon was mounted and then ordered the vehicle to keep moving toward the captain’s present location at top speed.

It was a bit of a bumpy ride but the MULE and the high energy laser weapon were designed to take a beating. The DEW was also designed to take down most UASs in the Third World and, in a pinch, could be turned on auto for counter rockets, artillery, and mortars. That, however, required a link to at least two radars in theater. So far, the extremists and unfriendlies they’d encountered had shown no use for mortars, but they had used the occasional MANPADS or rocket propelled grenade.

Quickly, Jackson did the handshaking between his suit and the control system for the AUAS-DEW and the beam director turret spun halfway around clockwise and then up, down, and then back around to forward pointing. The window in his HUD told him that the system was online and awaiting further commands. It first asked if he wanted it to connect with two radar systems mounted on MULEs in two other units at separate locations on the outskirts of the city. Jackson told it to go ahead but to put the system on “fire when ready” and in “manual targeting” mode. As the MULE continued its bumpy ride over the potholed and bombed out street the sound of machine gun and sniper fire filled the air and echoed off the city buildings. Then it stopped abruptly.

“Hooah,” Top muttered to himself after checking the blue force tracker and seeing that all his men were still safe. Then he looked at the countdown timer in his mindview HUD and realized that he had better get his butt in gear or they wouldn’t be. He strapped himself into the “engineer’s cubby” at the back of the MULE and brought up the targeting system. “Now if I can just find something to shoot at . . .”

It hadn’t taken the team long to locate the QKD box. It was the only metal pelican box filled with paraffin in the room. Inside it was the system that could connect to the high data rate communications network of all the systems in the region. It had the passcode encryption key entangled and ready to go. Had the insurgent army had time to reverse engineer it, they could have brought the defense network across several countries in Africa down. Fortunately, it would have taken them several PhDs in advanced physics and engineering to do so without corrupting the entangled keycode. In any case, the Army certainly didn’t want the classified communications equipment to fall into enemy hands. It was more likely that the unfriendlies had intended to sell the system to China or Russia.

Markus packed the box back into the metal pelican case and then dropped a charge in with it. He closed the lid on the box and then bent the metal hasp together to hold it in place. After a second or two of handshaking with the explosive charge he readied it for detonation.

“Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole. Fire in the hole!” He shouted and then toggled the control in his weapons list to detonate the charge.

The case expanded and burped but didn’t fly apart. White smoke leaked from cracks in the seal around it. Markus dug his armored gauntlet fingers into the metal and ripped it open. There was nothing discernable left of the QKD box.

“Target destroyed. Let’s get out of here.” No sooner than the words had left his mouth than something that felt like a rocket powered sledge hammer pounded into the upper right side of his chest, knocking him backwards several meters and into the far wall, leaving an armor suited infantryman shaped indention.

Suddenly everything appeared to be moving in slow motion. Markus could see Passer spinning and dropping to prone position, firing rounds out the window of the balcony. Freeman’s left leg was taken out from under him and Markus could see bright red blood squirt from a hole in the armor for a brief second before the interior seal layer had time to close the armor damage and fill the wound with organic sealants, antibiotics, and pain killers. To the far left two more men were down and the others were taking cover. Passer seemed to be the only one reacting.

“Return fire!” He shouted as the image from one of his skyballs showed him two unmanned hexacopters with miniguns hovering just over the building across the street chewing away at the floor they were on. There were three helicopters with sixty caliber barrels pointing out each side and the ones on the side facing them were firing nonstop. The room buzzed like a hornet’s nest as chips of stone, wood, glass, and metal flew randomly in every direction all the while the heavy caliber rounds tore through his team.

Then there was the crack of the sniper rifle and one of the helicopter guns stopped briefly. Crack. Then another. Jones was hitting them back.

“Come on Top, where the Hell are you?”

Staff Sergeant Jackson finally managed to pull the MULE into a position where he could get a clear line of sight with his team. To his horror, the high caliber weapons fire he had been hearing was coming from three choppers and two UAV gunships. He used the direct-to-mind interface with the beam director and placed the targeting X directly on the nearest UAV and told the system to fire.

There was no beam of light like in the movies. Their training had taught them there would not be. The invisible infrared laser beam burned through the surface of the engine housing on the left side propeller. After a couple of seconds, bright orange and white sparks shot from the interior of the engine and then the propeller choked out. The hexacopter was suddenly a pentacopter and the guidance software couldn’t overcome the loss of the engine. The copter swayed and dipped to the left and bumped into the building across the street as it attempted to move backwards. One of the other propellers crashed into the building slinging the vehicle sideways and then it flung itself apart.

Crack. Crack.

The sniper rifle continued at the three manned helicopters but it looked as if Jones was getting himself pinned down and the other UAV gunship was still tearing into the captain and the squad. Jackson directed the targeting X of the DEW system onto the other UAV and fired. Two seconds later there was a repeat sequence of the previous crash.

“Hooah!” Jackson instinctually grunted.

“Enough of this!” Markus shouted as he lunged to his feet in the full speed the powered armored suit would allow and then jumped from the edge of the balcony directly into the nearest helicopter.

Two rounds passed so close to his head that he could hear them buzzing by. His feet came to a clanging stop onto the deck by the gunner as he bear-hugged the soldier manning the weapon. Spinning in an aikido style movement to absorb his momentum he tossed the guy out the other side of the helicopter.

The copilot turned with a hand gun and fired it several times into Markus’s helmet. This did little more than piss him off. Markus punched the guy in the head, likely killing him, and then he slapped the pilot sideways, rendering him unconscious. The bird started to list to the side and then banged into the adjacent helicopter. Blades enter tangled throwing twisted metal in all directions. Markus managed to bail out onto the top of the building below, almost landing on top of PFC Jones who was taking shots at the final manned helicopter. Then Markus noticed the tail rotor caught ablaze and black smoke started pouring from it. Top must have been lasing it.

“Don’t die on me, Freeman!” Markus yelled at him. The man had gone into cardiac arrest. Not only had he taken the hit to the leg that Markus had seen, but he’d also taken one in the chest. His suit was doing all it could to fill the holes with organic sealant but his heart also had to keep beating.

“Injecting epinephrine. Clear for defibrillation.” The suit’s automated voice said. “Three, two, one.”

Freeman’s suit sent a shock of electricity directly to his chest and then the blue force tracker showed his heart kick started and soon his blood pressure began to stabilize.

“Evac drones are here, sir,” Passer told him. “You should probably get on one, too.”

“Huh?”

“Looks like it hurts, sir.”

“Well crap!” Markus finally noticed the sealed hole on the right side of his chest where he’d taken a hit. He watched as the drones snapped onto the rigidized suits of the wounded soldiers and then picked them up and out the window they went. They were banged up, but they’d be all right.

“There’s another drone on the way, sir.”

“Nah, I’ll be fine till we get back to the FOB. Great work today Specialist Passer.” Markus wasn’t leaving his men. “Top, get the men on the MULE and let’s get out of here.”

The Powhatan

Tony Daniel

One

Wannas Kittamaquand placed nine arrows into his quiver. How many to carry was a toss of the bones. He needed to be able to run as fast as he possibly could, but he also needed protection from the Romans and Sandhaveners who would be trying to kill him. He considered for a moment, then took one arrow, an armor piercing bodkin, out.

Eight.

Okay, eight it was. Four bodkins. Four barbed.

That was about the right balance. Had to be.

He knew himself, and if he had more it would be hard to keep from using them instead of doing what he must: running away.

It would be really satisfying to have a straight shot at one of the soldiers who had been starving the people of his city for the past month. Really satisfying and deadly where he was about to go.

It would be a mistake unworthy of the task he had before him.

He almost ordered the others who would be with him on the breakout to pare down the number of arrows they were carrying. But no. He had chosen them, almost in the same way he’d picked his arrows. He had chosen the best from the warriors he knew. Some were friends. Some competitors in the city games he’d faced time and again.

Wannas didn’t like several of them one bit, especially those from the pan-Skraeling Anmik clan, who dripped with hatred for anyone who wanted to get along with the Kaltemen, much less the southern colonials.

He didn’t like them. But he trusted them to make the right decision about arrows. And how to die in the most effective way, if need be.

Should he take his knife? It was added weight.

Now he was getting fuzzy-headed.

If he lived, he still had over fifty leagues to travel. He must carry at least a knife.

Wannas picked up his knife and put it into the sheath just as his father came into the guardhouse armory.

His father stood silently while Wannas sheathed the knife and picked up his bow and arrow.

“No armor?” his father finally said.

“You know we can’t wear it.”

“Not even a mail shirt?”

“Nope.”

His father, Chogan Kittamaquand had had his children late in life. Wannas when he was forty. Wannas’s sister and brother at fifty and fifty-one. At almost sixty now, Chogan looked old. He looked like an ancient elder. To Wannas, who was seventeen, he appeared more like a wrinkled grandfather than a father. But looks could be deceiving. Chogan was still nimble.

And he still ran the Kittamaquand clan with an velvet touch and an iron hand.

“Not everyone in the family understands why I am letting you do this," his father said. “They say there's glory enough for the clan if you remain a warrior on the wall.”

“Let me guess," Wannas replied. "They want to send some boys from Atakaadjeiwan or Noahtactai to do the dirty work?”

“I won't lie to you," said his father. "If you die, it will weaken the clan’s position. We would probably lose the tobacco market.”

Wannas chuckled. "It's your own fault, Dad. After you had me, you and Mom should've gotten busy churning out some brothers and sisters for me. Who has babies at fifty years old, Dad?”

His father’s face wrinkled into a wry smile. “It wasn't for lack of trying,” he replied. “I don't know why the manitous played that little trick on us, giving us you so late to begin with, then putting ten years between you and your sister and brother." He shook his head. “Numees is seven and Kitchi is little more than a toddler. I know they'll grow up brave and smart like you, my son. But not everyone will be willing to wait.”

“I don't even know if I want to work at the market, much less be a factor in the pits. Much less run the pits. I don't even smoke, Dad!”

“We may have to correct that one day. You should at least take a few ritual puffs from the sacred pipe when it gets passed around.”

“But I can't stand tobacco," Wannas replied. "You know that. I never could, even when I was a kid.”

“You are a strange and sensitive boy," Chogan said. “I've never understood you. Fortunately that hasn't prevented me from loving you with all my heart and soul.”

“I love you too, Dad."

“Then you will run like the wind when you get outside these walls," his father murmured. Then the old man smiled crookedly.

“And the canoes will be there?”

“That is what we’re counting on.”

“You and the Elder Council.” His father was a member of the upper house of the city-state’s bicameral legislature. He’d been elected three times in the last eighteen years, following six years in the lower house. Not all of his winning was because he plied the tradespeople with free beer prior to every election. Wannas believed half the people who voted for Chogan Kittamaquand actually liked his father. It was that kind and wise grandfather look. Then you got to know him better, and see the steel underneath, Wannas thought. And the deviousness. “Think the smugglers can be trusted?”

“They’ve managed to get what small amount of extra food we have in past the Sandhaveners and Romans,” Chogan replied. “Those Shenandoah flatboat beavers are the most trustworthy men I know.”

“If you can even call them men.”

“Don’t take that attitude with you,” his father said. “I’ve taught you better than that.”

“I know, I know,” Wannas answered. “The Tier of Shenandoah are just as ‘real’ as us humans.”

“They are. For better or worse,” his father said. “And don’t you forget either. The beaver men are old acquaintances and business partners of this clan. They helped make us what we are today. I trust them. They say the canoes will be there, they’ll be there.”

“Then I trust them, too,” Wannas replied.

His father nodded. “Good,” he said. “One more thing you have to do. Promise me that you will speak with Wawetseka before you go. I told Aranck Pamisapan that you would.”

Wannas felt himself tense up at the mention of . . . his wife. Arranged at the age of seven by his parents.

They’d been married when he was twelve and Wawetseka Pamisapan was eleven.

“I’m going there now,” Wannas said.

“You might even . . . well, it wouldn't do any harm to get started on the babymaking. I know eighteen is the traditional age to do it, but nobody could blame you for getting a six-month’s start on it now. Particularly considering the danger you're about to face. It’s time she officially took our clan name."

Wannas swallowed and tried to smile. He figured it probably came out as a kind of grimace, but there wasn't anything he could do about that. He liked Wawe. She was perfect. She was also very beautiful. The flower of her clan.

And a powerful clan it was. The Pamisapans. Second only to the Kittamaquand clan in Powhatan influence and city-state politics. The marriage between Wannas and Wawetseka was looked upon by nearly everyone in Potomak as brilliant.

There was only one problem.

Wawetseka bored him nearly to tears every time he was around her.

There wasn’t a bit of mystery to her. She never did or said anything unexpected. Even her kindness and sweetness of temper seemed . . . boring.

He knew he was probably the one being incredibly stupid.

Most guys in Potomak would have killed to be married to Wawetseka. If there had been royalty or titles allowed in the city-state, Wawetseka would be a princess.

Wannas wanted to be in love with his wife. In Potomak, particularly in the more influential clans, arranged marriages were the way things were done. And they usually did work out.

He had seen many couples who had started out in arranged matches who were now inseparable, even in love. Divorce was allowed by the city constitution, but very few ever got one. In fact, it was usually the love matches that ended up breaking apart. That was really what the divorce laws were for. They were to allow those who made a reckless choice when they were young to back out of a foolish decision and bring in a matchmaker, or their parents, or both, to find the right person for them.

In any case, once he and Wawetseka had their first child, they would be expected to move in together. She would formally adopt his clan name.

And that would be that. His future would be decided.

His boring future.

“You think you're hiding it from me, Son, but I can see right through you. You are not thrilled with the match your mother and I made for you. But you have to trust that we may know more than you think we do.”

“You know I respect you, Dad.”

“You are the fastest runner I've ever seen. Even faster than me when I was your age. And you've seen my foot race belts.”

“How could I miss them?” Wannas replied wryly. “The entire family parlor is lined with those wampum belts you won back in the day.”

“Just don’t run away from your promises," his father said. "The manitous have a way of biting the heels of those who think they can outrun destiny.”

Sometimes Chogun merely played at being the wise old Skraeling elder. Sometimes, Wannas had to admit, his father simply was one.

Two

“You're going to do what?" said Wawetseka. “You’re going to get yourself killed is what you’ll do, Wannas!"

“We don't have any choice," Wannas replied. “The Sandhaveners and Romans are going to starve us out within weeks if we don't get help. Noahtactai District has already run out of meat.”

“The city may not have any choice, but you do,” Wawetseka said. “You said it yourself. They’re the ones who need it most. Why can’t it be some of the tough boys from the Noahtactai quarter? Or why not send slaves? They could be promised their freedom if they get through.”

Wannas shook his head. “Even if that was the right thing to do, which it's not, once they got through they would already be free. No need to obey anybody's orders after that.”

Wawetseka crossed her arms and pouted. “Then we should pick out honorable slaves. Slaves who would do what they’re told no matter what.”

Wannas reached over to her and took one of her hands in his.

If only there were some way I could look inside her and see if she really means it when she says things like that, he thought.

“You and I will never own slaves," he said. “My family has been against slaveholding for centuries, you know.”

“I'm still hoping that I can convince you to let me bring Ian and Gladys along when we move in together,” Wawetseka said with a quick smile. “They are practically family.”

“You know my answer to that," Wannas replied. "They can live with us, but only if you free them.”

“That would be a huge scandal. Ian and Gladys are Anglish, you know. Imagine sharing a house with freed Anglish, and them not even married.”

“Then they will have to live somewhere else. Nearby, maybe. Also, we would have to pay them wages, you know, if they kept being your servants.”

“What else would they do, silly? They’re house slaves. If you asked them to work outside at some trade they would be positively mortified.” Wawetseka withdrew her hand. “Wannas, I declare, sometimes you are as thick as a plug of that perique tobacco your people sell.”

“I guess so,” Wannas replied.

Wawetseka’s expression softened. “I know that you and I don't really understand each other very well, but I do care for you very much. I've known you for so long and you've always been very kind to me. Don't think that counts for nothing! It means the world to me.”

“I . . . appreciate that, Wawe. I care about you, too.”

“You think I’m a monster for owning slaves."

“I've seen how you treat them, and especially the children," Wannas said. “Kind. Considerate in your way. I don't think there's a mean bone in your body, Wawe. I respect that about you a lot, I do.”

Wawetseka took out a handkerchief. After a moment she dabbed it to her eyes. “Listen to us," she said. “Care. Respect. Just one word missing, isn't there, husband?”

“I guess so.”

“You know so. And so do I. What's missing . . .”

“You don't have to say it," Wannas replied. "We probably shouldn't say it out loud. It will just make things worse.”

Wawetseka daubed her nose with the handkerchief, and sniffed back her tears. “What are we going to do, Wannas?”

“We’ll have to give it a try when I get back. I guess. I would never shame you.”

“But you are! Right now, by doing this . . . this run. That’s the thing. I can't bear to think that you're putting yourself in this kind of danger just because you hate being married to me. That’s why you’re doing it really, isn’t it? And if you die, I'll spend the rest of my life hating myself because I drove you to it. Because I wasn’t a good wife.”

“You can't think that. It's not the truth.” Wannas pointed to his legs. “Wawe, I'm fast. For some reason, maybe for this, the Great Spirit made me really, really fast. I can outrun those tough guys from the Atakaadjeiwan district. I can outrun everybody.”

“So you're the natural choice to run for help?”

“I’m the best choice.”

“Even if you say so yourself.”

“The captain of the guard asked me to volunteer. Kadawash himself. That man doesn’t play favorites. He can’t afford to.”

“Prince of the City. That’s what they call you.”

“Who?”

“The others. The ones who are jealous of you.”

“They can go to the Underworld, for all I care.”

“No, no. They admire you. Even when they make fun of you. You’re perfect,” Wawetseka said. “None of my friends understand why I . . .” Wawetseka said with anguish, but also a trace of irritation that things weren’t going her way.

“What?”

Wawetseka shook her head. “Why I talk about getting divorced,” she muttered.

Wannas blinked. He shook his head to clear it.

Am I hearing this right?

“Wawe,” he said. “Is there someone else?”

The tears came freely now.

“It’s so awful,” she sobbed.

For the first time in a long time, Wannas laughed. Genuinely. Holding nothing back.

Wannas reached over, drew Wawetseka to him in a hug

“And the worst thing is,” she said, “he’s a miller.”

“Oh, there are even more terrible things than that,” Wannas replied, still chuckling.

“You don’t understand. His family just owns the one mill. They always have. Never less. Never more. For two hundred years.”

“I see.”

“If he was poor and clanless, that would be one thing. But he’s . . .

“Middle clan.”

“Right!”

Wannas gently let go of Wawetseka. He took her handkerchief and dried the remainder of her tears.

“Wawe, when I get back, we’re getting a divorce.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life.”

She nodded. “Okay. I guess.” She sighed. “Yes. We have to.”

“Can you wait?” Wannas asked. “I do have to go. At dawn. Keep it to yourself, but the arrangements are made. The city can’t hold much longer without help.”

“I can wait,” Wawetseka said. “I’ll wait for you.”

Wannas smiled. He took her hands into his, got down on one knee. “Wawetseka Pamisapan, I promise you that I’ll return.”

“To divorce me.”

“Yes, to divorce you.”

“And I promise to divorce you, Wannas Kittamaquand.” Wawetseka put a hand on Wannas’s head. His hair was cut in the traditional warrior’s crop. She ran her fingers through his Mohawk spike.

“I really do like you, Wannas.”

“I like you, too, Wawe.”

She withdrew her hand, kissed the fingers that had been touching him.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Wannas stood. He smiled.

For the first time, Wannas knew he might make it to Shenandoah.

His father was wrong.

The manitous weren’t angry with him for going against tradition.

Not at all.

They were having a good laugh.

Now if I can just keep them distracted while I make the run.

Three

Romans.

Why’d it have to be Romans?

It was a half watch before dawn. They’d gotten the signal that the canoes were ready. So Wannas and twenty-one others—some his friends, all his competitors in the races—descended the wall. All were champions in the most competitive city in the world.

It was said that if somebody scratched his butt and four or five Powhatans happened by at the same time, they would find a way to make it into a cut-throat contest, and then walk away once they’d determined the champion butt-scratcher.

The runners climbed silently down the western wall. They were tightening moccasins, getting ready for the run when—

Romans. Camped nearby.

And, just like Romans, up already. Pickets and scouts sent out.

Dressed. Getting their breakfast.

Curse that Roman efficiency.

The Sandhaveners were bad enough. There were great warriors, especially the Hundred, the royal guards of King Siggi von Krehennest. And now that they had begun taking the Talaia adder cake, they were even more brutal and effective.

The herb that, together with the blood of others combined with dark ritual, bound the Holy Roman Empire together in a chain of dominance and submission had been imported to the north lands with a vengeance. Generations of peaceful trade between the Skraeling city states and the Kalte lords of Krehennest had been shattered by the new mind-control.

King Siggi von Krehennest was determined to swallow the River Cities such as Potomak, Nottaway, and Choptank whole, and force his newly acquired Talaia faith, along with the blood-dipped herb, down the throats of the Powhatans and every other Algonquin clan. What was worse, Siggi now had the might of Rome to back him up.

It used to be that a Sandhavener king would much rather run the old “raid and trade” routine than ever ally with the Roman colonies. Those days were gone.

Now Sandhaven and Rome were bound in blood, and it was every Skraeling city-state for itself.

To prove it, King Siggi had allowed an entire Roman legion to row up the Chesapeake in their awkward boats and to debark at Krehennest. Sandhaven and that legion had journeyed overland to the Potomak, then upriver to the fall line.

To the Great Falls.

To the city-state of Potomak.

Which now lay under siege.

To mask Wannas’s run, Captain Kadawash had ordered a loud demonstration from the troops on the eastern wall of the city. This was to draw as many troops as possible away from the west side, where Wannas and his party were making their breakout attempt. Nobody was under the illusion that there would be no troops in the west. Just fewer. More spread out.

Maybe the runners would get lucky and avoid them entirely.

So much for that illusion.

Nope. There were Romans here. Stationed in the bottomlands among the rocky outcrops and riverbank that formed the fall line of the Potomak River was what looked to be an entire company of Romans, complete with a crusty and brutal looking centurion in a plumed helmet.

Wannas practically ran into the centurion moments after his feet touched ground.

Wannas had been coiling the knotted the rope he and the others had used to descend the outside of the city wall. He’d planned to hide it inside a stand of sweetgum saplings. Suddenly, a javelin sped within a hands-breath of Wannas’s head and sunk into the chest of the man standing next to him.

The stricken man—he was Shawaude from the Obotassaway clan—let out a cry that was more surprise than pain, but that was loud enough to alert anyone else nearby. He then collapsed holding to the javelin and bleeding out quickly among the stones in the dry moat at the base of the city wall. Wannas and several others quickly nocked arrows and fired, but the centurion had charged away from them and into brushy cover. Wannas heard him loudly calling for his men.

“Armate! Armate, canēs! Nunc! Nunc!!”

At least that's what Wannas supposed the man was shouting about. He did not speak or understand Latin.

Didn’t matter. The signal was clear.

It was time to make the run.

Now or never.

Wannas and his now twenty companions again scrambled through the river rocks that made up the shoreline in this area. This was the great rapids of the Potomac and was the reason that the city state had been built here in the distant past.

The Great Falls was the spot where the river traders had to take their goods out of the water and cart them around the rapids before putting them back into the water for the short trip the rest of the way down the river to the Chesapeake Bay.

The company of Romans must've been camped near the city wall, near the landing where the canoes were supposed to be hidden for the trip across the river. And the Romans had horses.

Although the ground was rocky, there were plenty of paths for horses made by the generations of mules plodding up and down the riverbank pulling wagonloads of goods.

Within moments five cavalry pickets on horseback drew near, followed by what looked like two dozen or more Imperial foot soldiers already in armor.

Roman efficiency.

Maybe that was the one chance they had, after all.

Even the Romans couldn’t run that fast in armor.

Of course, you didn’t need to if you were on a horse.

Wannas started the run.

And the Romans were right behind them.

Wannas glanced over his shoulder to see one of the Roman cavalrymen drawing his long, nasty looking spatha. Roman foot soldiers used short, squat—but deadly—Iberian swords. The cavalry saber was preferred by Romans on horseback. These blades were extra-long. They were excellent for sweeping near to the ground and chopping into heads, necks, and shoulders.

Wannas looked up into the cloudy sky. What seemed at first to be the black forms of sticks, or maybe even fire ashes, moving together and in a reverse direction from a ground fire, headed toward him.

No. The sticks headed for the Roman horsemen.

Even as they charged, Wannas understood the sticks for what they were.

Arrows. From longbows.

The best archers in the city had been gathered to cover their escape. Despite the drizzle and impending storm later in the day, bowstrings had been kept dry and careful measure had been made of bow shots.

The archers on the wall were good. Winners of as many wampum belts in shooting as Wannas’s group had in running.

Their arrows purposely fell short of Wannas and his men.

But not short of the Romans.

The Imperials wore scale mail, and most of the arrows glanced away. But these arrows were not tipped with barbed arrowheads. Their shafts ended in armor-punching bodkin tips.

Some did get through. At least ten Romans fell, some writhing, a couple stone-cold dead. Several others cried out in pain as they took wounds in arms and shoulders.

Every Roman hesitated a moment, glanced back at the walls to see if more were coming.

“Run!” Wannas shouted. “Run for the river!”

They were ahead of the Imperials who had confronted them.

Wannas and the other twenty pulled ahead.

These were the fastest men of the city. Winners of races. Handy shots with the bow, also. most men of the city were decent archers, no matter what their standing among the clans. It was a point of honor to a Powhatan man to be able to go outside the city walls at least once a year to hunt. They might not be professional archers, but most could also hit a moving target at twenty or so paces.

Obotassaway clan was in the rear. That was the plan. This was because they were the best archers among the runners. They kept up a harassing fire to the rear as the others charged onward.

This slowed the Romans down. But it also slowed the Obotassaway.

When the pursuing Romans caught an Obotassaway man, the result wasn't pretty. Romans were professional butchers. Their favorite meat to cut up effectively was man.

One by one, the men of the Obotassaway clan were caught and cut down. Their screams of fear and cries of agony pursued Wannas and the others. The sound echoed eerily among the rocky outcrops of the Great Falls shore line.

But the Obotassaway sacrifices served a purpose. Every man the Romans stopped to kill slowed them further.

We’re doing it. We’re going to reach the river, Wannas thought.

We’re going to win the race.

Then he saw the finish line, the river’s edge, and he realized it didn’t matter.

Four

The Roman centurion, the one hundred soldier commander, hadn’t needed to be fleet. He’d been smart instead.

And figured out where we were heading, Wannas thought. Curse it. Curse it to the Underworld and back again!

There were Romans in all the canoes. Just sitting there waiting.

Some were even smiling.

Curse them.

The other half was now done with the Obotassaway rear guard and was closing in from behind them.

The runners were caught. About to be smashed.

Or, worse, captured.

Tortured.

Maybe even forced to devour the Talaia herb along with the blood of the Roman commanders . . . and turned . . . into Talaia dominates. Bloodservants.

Slaves.

Both physically and mentally.

I’ll go down fighting, Wannas thought. I’m sorry, Wawetseka. So sorry. Looks like I’m going to leave you as a widow after all. No divorce. You’ll have to wait years to marry your miller. If they even let you marry him at all.

The manitous would have their fun with his human vanity. His father had been right all along.

Wannas took the strung bow from his shoulder. Its beau d’arc heartwood shone redly. His fingers deftly found an arrow in the quiver. He felt the fletching. A single notch in one feather. Not a bodkin, but a barbed point on this one.

All around messenger of death.

He nocked the arrow. Drew as he breathed in. Picked out a Roman running toward him. Released.

And missed.

Curse it.

The arrow had shanked off somewhere to Wannas’s right.

Should’ve picked the bodkin, Wannas thought.

He had another arrow nocked before he’d taken his next breath, and this one was a bodkin. He’d made sure.

The Imperial he’d sighted on before was now three paces away.

Three paces away from making it a very bad day for Wannas Kittamaquand.

Three paces and just a moment too late.

Wannas let fly.

As it happened, the arrow didn’t need to pierce armor. It caught the man under the chin and tore up and through, exiting out the back of his head. Somehow this didn’t stop the Roman’s motor function, but by the time he’d run up to Wannas, the Roman’s eyes were blank.

The intelligence was gone.

Wannas reached out and gave the man a vicious glancing blow with his fist and arm. The other collapsed. The arrow had done its work to the brain.

Before Wannas could think or even breathe again, another Roman crashed into him. The two of them tumbled into a heap. The Imperial warrior remained calm even as he fell and managed a half twist which left him on top of Wannas when they slammed into the ground. The weight of his soldier’s iron armor on Wannas’s chest, protected only by a deerskin shirt, was crushing. The Roman raised his sword for a fatal downward strike.

But Wannas had managed to get his own hand on the hilt of his knife. He drew it out, then stabbed upward, even while the other prepared to stab the Iberian blade through Wannas’s heart.

For an eyeblink, Wannas regretted the decision to go without armor. But it had been necessary. It was just a pity the Romans had caught up with the runners now.

Or had outwitted them.

However you wanted to look death in the face.

Wannas’s plunged his knife through a space between two layers of scale mail.

He felt the tip strike a rib, partially slice into it, then plunge deeper inside.

Wannas pushed. Twisted.

Deeper.

The knife blade was really stuck to the bone of the other man. In fact, it was stuck in too well. He wasn’t going to be able to get it out.

So he wouldn’t have his knife for the journey after all.

Another reason to curse the Romans.

After a long-drawn-out sigh punctuated by a bubble of blood, the Roman on Wannas dropped his gladius. He collapsed down upon Wannas, even as the Powhatan man pushed him to the side.

Men lay dead all around him. It had been a desperate battle. Only six of his runners were standing. The others were either dead or mortally wounded. But they had taken out the chasing Romans.

Now all they had left was dozens more. They’d pushed them out a few paces, since each canoe was tied by a rope painter to a rock on the shoreline.

For the moment, the Romans were unreachable in the canoes. But not for long.

At a signal from the centurion, the Romans began pulling themselves back to shore.

Those canoes are our only way across the river, Wannas thought. Our only chance to make it to Shenandoah. Now we have no choice. We’ll have to hug the northern shore of the river, and all they have to do is pursue and pick us off one by one.

They might make it for some distance upriver. But, in the end, the Romans, would get them all.

And it would be over. For Wannas. For the Kittamaquand clan.

For Powhatans. For the great city of Potomak, light of democracy in a world of tyranny.

An ancient and worthy nation-state conceived in liberty.

Slaughtered by the riverside.

The Romans in the canoes sensed victory. A soldier at the bow of each canoe grabbed a painter, and began to pull the canoes in.

Wannas wearily reached for an arrow.

And discovered his quiver was empty.

He’d shot them all without realizing it.

His knife was stuck in the breast bone of the Imperial he had killed.

Very well. He’d just have to fight tooth and nail.

The Romans were smiling as they drew nearer.

Those who didn’t pull had swords ready.

Nearer.

Some had bows nocked.

No one drew aim.

They’re not even bothering to shoot us, Wannas thought. They want to take us with swords. It’s a game for them now.

Closer. Almost in sword reach now.

Closer.

Wannas sighed in frustration.

Then, from behind the rocks of the riverbank, scuttled . . .

Not men.

Not human, at least.

Each was as big as a short human male, true. They wore human-looking clothes. Tunics. Straw hats.

They had human-shaped arms and legs, albeit covered with a pelt of brown hair.

But each also had a huge, flat, naked black tail that protruded through a hole cut in the rear of their tunics.

Each had the face of an animal. Beady yellow eyes. Whiskers. The blank, wild expression that only others of their kind could read.

They were beavers. Giant beavers.

They were also men.

Beaver men.

A kind of animal person, or Tier, as the north men called them.

Those tails were flapping about.

Slashing from side to side. Pounding the ground in rhythm.

The beaver men were dangerous.

And riled up.

They attacked. They attacked the painters attaching the canoes to the rocks of shore. With a swipe here and there with those massive teeth, the beaver men cut the ropes.

The canoes immediately began to drift downstream toward the rapids. The centurion realized what was happening.

“Utere remōs!” he shouted. “Remite, stultī!

Wannas couldn’t understand him, but he sounded both exasperated and desperate.

Several of the Romans found paddles in the canoe bottoms and began to row toward shore.

Those who made it were met by beaver men. The Romans stabbed at the beaver men, but they were unsteady in the canoes, and the beaver men had a way of halfway turning to give a hard swat with the tail that knocked swords to the side. And might very well break an arm, so hard was the blow.

The centurion and another soldier from his canoe did get close enough to leap back to shore. He came at what seemed like the leader of the beaver men with a sneer and a growl.

The centurion thrust his sword forward. And the beaver man, already low to the ground, ducked. The sword passed over him.

The beaver man wasted no time.

His mouth opened to reveal four orange incisors, top and bottom. They met in a straight line across the middle. Each tooth was wide as a hand, and over an elb long. The teeth parted.

And the beaver man bit into the Roman’s thigh. Deep.

He shifted once, gnawing even deeper.

Blood spurted.

The centurion screamed.

The beaver man twisted his head, and bit deep. Harder still. He gnawed.

The Roman slammed the Iberian sword’s pommel down on the beaver man’s back.

“Solve mē! Animal, solve mē!!” the centurion shouted.

The beaver man grunted, but did not let go.

Without releasing his teeth, the beaver man twisted again.

Found better purchase. Bit deeper.

Then with a ragged, meaty tearing gurgle . . .

The Roman’s right leg separated.

Sinew, muscle.

Bone.

The leg came off.

Leaving a ragged, bleeding stump, mid-thigh.

That beaver man just bit a man’s leg off, Wannas thought. Right in two. At the thickest part.

He would never look at beavers the same way again.

The centurion didn’t die from the bleeding. He stumbled away and managed to balance on his left leg for a moment, or tried to, while he applied a makeshift tourniquet. His left leg was standing knee deep in the water near the shore, however. This near the Great Falls, the Potomak current was quick everywhere.

The water pushed against his leg. The centurion swayed, fighting a losing battle for balance.

And toppled back into the water.

The Roman fumbled, grabbed the side of the canoe. But, unsecure, now the boat itself was drifting.

Out.

Away from shore.

As were the others.

Romans in full armor did not make good canoe men. They realized the danger they were in, but it was too late. Paddling seemed to do no good. The river was too strong. The canoes had drifted into the main current and were headed toward the Great Falls.

The last Wannas saw of the Roman centurion he was clinging to the gunwale of the birchbark canoe. His bloody half thigh thumped up and down in the water, as if he were trying to a swimming kick he would never be able to do again.

Where had that leg gone?

Wannas quickly scanned downriver.

There is was, among the rest of the canoes, drifting ahead. It almost seemed as if the severed leg were showing the way.

Downriver, boys! To the Chesapeake! To the sea! Follow me!

It floated toward rapids that had killed untold numbers of men foolish enough to try to run them. The other canoes followed close behind it. Then the flailing one-legged centurion took up the rear.

Soon they were all lost to sight.

Wannas shook his head.

Not a dream. Real.

To the east, the top edge of the sun rose. It lit the rain clouds above with a golden glow.

Wannas turned back to the beaver men.

The leader, the one who had bitten off the Roman’s leg, made a gargling sound.

Was the beaver man choking?

No, Wannas decided. The beaver man was washing his mouth out with river water, trying to get the taste of Roman leg out of his mouth.

He spat out a final mouthful of water, then turned to Wannas.

“Tried to tell ye folks,” he said in a gruff, wet voice. “Take it from an old river smuggler. Canoes are too cursed conspicuous.”

“But you’re the ones who provided them,” Wannas said.

The beaver man spat. “Like them Romans say. Caveat emptor. The customer is always right.”

Wannas chuckled. “Even I know that isn’t what caveat emptor means,” he said.

The beaver man glanced down river. “And neither does any of them Romans know what it means anymore neither,” he said with a low growl.

Five

The beaver men took them onto their flat boats. It was a laborious process, but slowly, steadily, with ten beaver men to a boat, they poled the flat boats upstream, hardly faster than a man could walk.

“I am Wannas Kittamaquand of Potomak,” Wannas told the man. “I think you know my father.”

The beaver man nodded. He didn’t seem very impressed.

“Aye, aye. Old Chogun’s boy. Well, whoever ye be, ye aren’t Romans, and ye don’t want us for our hides,” the beaver man said.

“Do Romans really take your skins from you?”

“Oh, aye. Aye, they do.”

“Curse them, then.”

“I do it every day.”

“My men are headed upriver, and then up the Shenandoah to Raukenrose.”

“And what do ye intend to do there?" asked the beaver man.

“It’s a secret mission. But if you must know, I’m going to insist that Duke Otto von Dunstig come to the city's aid and help us break the siege."

“Insist, are ye?" the beaver man said, “Now that’ll go over well at court, I’m sure. But if you do insist, you'll be insisting to the wrong von Dunstig, lad. It's Lord Wulf, the new heir, who is the chosen of the land-dragon these days. He's the one ye need to convince.”

“I don't know anything about these Kalte barbarian myths. Dragons under the ground, and gods and such. But it is in the Mark of Shenandoah’s interest to come to our aid. And we desperately need the Mark’s help.”

“It’s not gods, but divine beings we’re beholden to in Shenandoah. Different thing. I ain't never seen Sturmer or Regen or any of the other divine ones personally.” The beaver man scratched behind one ear with a paw nail. “But I can tell you there is a dragon. It does exist, as sure as there are beaver and bear men, fauns and buffalo people. Ye’ll see ’em all if you journey with us.”

“With you?”

“It’s your lucky day! We’re heading upriver, boy. We’ll take ye along if ye’ll do year part and keep a sharp lookout. Stay ready with them bows and arrows. This here’s dangerous country.”

“We can do that,” Wannas said. “And we would be greatly obliged for the ride.”

“Like I said. Going that way anyhow,” replied the beaver man gruffly. “We river smugglers need something to smuggle, now don’t we? Nothing like a barrel of good Shenandoah orinoco or perique to bring a nifty profit per stone’s weight—if ye can get it past the Romans and the ’Haveners and down to the Chesapeake blockade runners, that is.”

“Well, in any case, we’re grateful,” Wannas replied.

The beaver man nodded. Then he opened his mouth hugely to show the bright orange incisors again. Oddly, only the fronts of the teeth were covered with the orange protective coating. The sides and, Wannas supposed, the back parts of the teeth were white. A streamlet of Roman blood still stained the front of the beaver man’s left incisor, red on orange.

Wannas gasped at the sight, and took a step back. Too far. He almost toppled from the raft.

A strange sound erupted from the deep in the beaver man’s throat. It sounded like a cross between a donkey’s bray and frog’s croak. His man’s mouth stretched even wider. His nasty, hand-sized incisors grew more exposed. And frightening.

Wannas stared for another stunned moment before he realized that the beaver man was not threatening him.

The beaver man was grinning. And laughing.

Finally the gaping maw closed.

“Hold yerself steady, young Skraeling,” the beaver man said. “Else ye’ll find yerself following them cursed Romans down them falls. And then, by Sturmer, ye wouldn’t be insisting on nothing to Lord Wulf, would ye?”

Wannas nodded. He carefully stepped across the raft and grabbed hold of a pole alongside a beaver man. With a heave and a ho, they slowly worked their way against the current of the mighty Potomak.

The beaver man beside him smiled. At least, so Wannas thought.

“Only forty leagues to go, boy,” he said. “Keep it up, and ye’ll get some meat on those arms yet, I’ll wager.”

The beaver man began to hum a working song. It was a strange melody, and in the Kalte tongue, but somehow the tune made it just a bit easier to push again. And again.

Wannas gritted his teeth.

Pushed.

Pole up.

Pole down.

He pushed again.

Headed upriver.

To Shenandoah.

What We’re Made Of

Frank Chadwick

20 December 2133 (D Minus Two Days)

Aboard USS Peleliu (LAS-16), approaching K'tok orbit, over one hundred light years from Earth

Captain J. C. Merderet, USMC, had never heard anything as flat-out suicidal nuts as she had in the last twenty minutes, and she wasn't sure if her thinking that it just might work was evidence of audacity or mental illness. Preoccupied with that thought, she nearly collided with Major Tony Colloredo, the cohort executive officer.

"So what do you say, J. C., quite a mission, eh?" he said. "Can your company handle its part?"

"Should go just like we drilled, sir."

Colloredo's eyes flicked to the taller Ed Ka'uhane following behind her. "You agree with that, First Sergeant?"

"Yes, sir," he answered. "Just like the drills."

He nodded and didn’t bother to ask Lieutenant Gunderson, her company executive officer. "J. C., I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Abisogun Boniface, a feed head from Pan-African Infonet, assigned to us from the Nigerian pool." Colloredo gestured to a man in a nonmilitary brown shipsuit standing behind him, who stepped forward. He looked at J.C. directly but not the way many civilian embeds did, not as a challenge.

Feed head: a reporter who filed video feed with the news networks. J. C. looked the Nigerian over—tall and slender, very dark, so dark his skin shone with blue highlights instead of bronze, gentle eyes but without fear. That could mean brave or foolish, and J. C.'s money was on foolish.

"Mr. Boniface will be embedded with your company, Captain. He has a bio-recorder implant, so everything he sees and hears gets recorded. I would be careful about telling any off-color jokes."

"Mr. Boniface," she said by way of greeting and shook his hand. Firm grip. "We're going to be a little busy down there on the ground at first, but as soon as we have a secure perimeter I'll let cohort HQ know and they can arrange your transportation down to the surface."

The journalist frowned and turned to Colloredo.

"Major, my distribution service had a clear commitment from—"

Nodding in agreement, Colloredo held up his had to stop him. "Yes, I know." He turned to J. C. with another grin. "Captain, I am afraid I was not clear on the arrangement. Mr. Boniface is dropping with your assault wave."

"In a personal reentry capsule? The hell you say, sir."

Colloredo's smile got bigger. "Mr. Boniface has completed the Nigerian Navy's Special Boat Service meteoric insertion course at . . . where was that again, sir?"

"Apapa," Boniface answered, his face now an emotionless mask. He probably knew when he was being made light of. In his line of work, it must come with the territory.

"This is an order, Major?" J. C. asked for the record, although she knew the answer.

"This is an order, Captain," Colloredo confirmed, "straight from Brigade." That must be his way of ducking responsibility for the decision, which wasn't as stand-up as he usually was, especially as he seemed to be enjoying it so much.

"Navy's not gonna like reworking their drop capsule dispersion pattern, no sir."

"The Navy has not finalized the pattern yet. Besides, since when do you care what squids like or do not like?" He turned to the journalist. "Mr. Boniface, I do not think the captain sees the value of a feed head along on the drop. As for me, I think if we are going to make history, it would be good to have vid records of it, but then Captain Merderet does not really appreciate many of the finer things in life."

"Big talk," J. C. said, "for someone come from South Mex—San Squalido or something like that, ain't it?"

Major Antonio Carlos Rivera Colloredo turned back to her and his smile softened, became friendly. "Most would prefer it to Bayou Bunghole, Louisiana."

"Well, that ain't setting the bar real high," she said. "Don't worry, chère, I'll try to keep your feed head alive long enough to take flattering pictures of y'all when you get there, make you look like the conquering hero."

"I will keep my good side to him," Colloredo said.

"You ain't got a good side." She held out her hand. "Tony, you watch that long first step, you.".

"You too, J. C.," Colloredo said as they shook hands.

*****

Twenty minutes later, J. C. climbed up onto the impromptu stage made from pushed-together composite ammo cases. Her four lieutenants and four command NCOs stood behind her, and the one hundred twenty enlisted personnel of Delta Company, 24th Marine Expeditionary Unit, Meteoric Insertion Capable (MEU-MIC), stood before her in six ranks of khaki shipsuits. Actually, there were more than that today: another dozen Marines from Headquarters Company who would be attached for the mission, and the eight Navy medtechs spread through the ranks in blue shipsuits, still called corpsmen because of who they served with. Because the assembly area was a broad section of Peleliu's large habitat wheel, whose spin provided the equivalent of one gravity, the ranks seemed to rise up slightly to either side. The company came to attention.

"'Morning, Delta Company," she called out.

"Good Morning Ma'am!" they thundered back.

"Stand at ease. Good news, Delta," she said and then paused, grinning, enjoying the anticipation. "We drop in thirty-nine hours."

"OO-RAH!" they barked.

"Soon as we're done here, XO gonna data dump the cohort OPORD into y'all's data pads. This operation is code named Argent Lightning. Study it, get in squad and fireteam groups and talk it through. Make sure you understand your part of it, and then everyone else's, too. Combat drops been known to get . . . well, confused," she said, grinning again, and she got a good ripple of laughter at the understatement. "So wherever you come down, first priority is secure the objective where you land. Second priority is rejoin your unit. Look for a leader and follow their orders. If you can’t find a leader, you become one, you!

"All the details are in the OPORD, but I want to give you the big picture. We talked about bunch of possible missions, but task force commander went with the absolute pick of the litter: we are conducting a full-brigade meteoric assault on T'tokl-Heem Downstation. Ladies and gentlemen, for the first time in history, someone is bat-shit-crazy enough to assault a needle downstation from orbit, and that someone is us!"

"OO-RAH!" they shouted, even louder than before.

"Look in every manual ever written on meteoric combat insertions and you will never find a 'Lessons Learned' section on seizure of the downstation of an elevator to orbit, 'cause it never been done. But in six months, every one of them manuals gonna have to be re-writ, and folks reading 'em, when get to that 'Lesson Learned' section, they gonna see y'all's ugly faces grinning right back at 'em."

More laughter and nods.

"Okay, so much for the fun stuff. The drop itself ain't gonna be much fun at all. To minimize exposure to ground fire, we are going in with a straight ballistic descent, dropped from three hundred fifty kilometers, with an EDL duration of thirty-seven minutes and a max deceleration load of nine gees."

That prompted a chorus of groans and curses.

"Yeah, I know. I about swooned dead away myself when I heard. Fortunately, First Sergeant Ka'uhane had my smelling salts with him." That got them laughing again.

"Brigade mission is to seize the K'tok Needle intact. I will repeat that for the benefit of Private Thibodaux: in-tact."

Standing in the front row, Private Andre Thibodaux grinned and colored slightly, and the Marines to either side jostled him. Thibodaux was a really big man, full two meters tall and over one ten kilos, big enough to break most things, but never by accident. J. C. had never known a more graceful, coordinated man in her life.

"I am in deadly earnest," she continued. "Anyone flies their para-wing into that needle and dings it, they can walk home. That elevator to orbit will be our lifeline, only way we get back off that rock.

"Okay. Brigade mission: the two MIC cohorts will drop and secure the ground station and perimeter. The lateral east-west access road marked in your TACDAT as Tungsten is the boundary between the two cohorts, with the road inclusive to the southern zone. That's ours. Our cohort will secure the southern perimeter and the entire downstation complex. The other MIC cohort, Indian Army's Two-Four Gorkha, will secure the zone to our north.

"A cautionary word about our neighbors: do not call them Gurkhas. Only the Brits call them that, and I guess they got permission or something. But it's Gorkha in their language, and I am informed they'll like you more if you respect that.

"The brigade's third cohort, Forty-Second Royal Marine Commando—"

She was interrupted by another spontaneous "OO-RAH!" She laughed and then continued.

"As I was saying, Forty-Two ROMAC will conduct a zero-gee powered assault through vacuum and secure the needle's orbital highstation. They will then transit down the needle in serials to reinforce the ground troops. Any questions about the brigade assault plan?

"No? Excellent.

"Our cohort assault plan is to drop all four line companies. Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, in platoon strength in the first wave, will secure the perimeter on the east, south, and west sides respectively. Their main bodies will follow in the second wave. Delta gets the main complex in the center, and we will all be in the first wave. Once that station is secured and operational, we'll become the cohort reserve.

"Our company assault plan is a miniature version of the cohort assault. Three platoons drop: First, Second, and Third on the east, south, and west sides respectively. First and Third will enter through the main vehicle loading and discharge bays. Second will enter the south side through a VIP entrance, so naturally I'll drop with them." More laughter.

"We have one demolition squad chopped from Headquarters Company under Staff Sergeant Rodriguez to assist in entry to the complex and any secured areas inside. If you need to, y'all know how to blow a door. Rodriguez and his people know which ones not to blow. Remember, the needle is our supply line, so we want it operational as soon as we can manage. Clear and secure, that's Delta's job. Just like we've drilled, over and over.

"Any questions?

"Well then, laissez les bon temps rouler!"

22 December 2133 (D Minus Three Hours)

Aboard USS Peleliu (LAS-16), in K'tok orbit

J. C. floated in zero gee in the long, broad drop bay of USS Peleliu, watching two dozen Marines and the twenty or so blue-uniformed bosun's mates swarm around the honeycomb pattern of drop tubes, six rows of five tubes each, each tube two meters in diameter and each one with a "black betty" suspended over it, a dull black drop capsule, lozenge-shaped, two meters in diameter and three times as long. Conveyors running to the sides and then up into the prep room held more capsules, and today the conveyors snaked out into the docking bay as well. Five hundred drop capsules took a lot of space. All of the capsules had their "plugs pulled," the bottom third removed to allow a single Marine to mount, once they were in their armor. It was a lot easier in zero gee than it would have been on the ground.

The Nigerian journalist Boniface glided through the air and grabbed the stanchion on the bulkhead beside her.

"Your Marines?" he asked. "I do not recognize any of them."

"Not mine. The first serial is one squad each from Alpha and Bravo, and some decoy clusters. Once they're gone, conveyors bring in thirty more, load and drop, fire one capsule every second for eight or nine minutes, fill the sky with death, Mr. Boniface. Fill the sky with death. Our lead squad goes in the second serial, two more in the third, but they're staggered out after that, make landing easier."

"Captain Merderet, I have interviewed over a third of the men and women in your company but none of the ones I've spoken with have ever done a combat drop from orbit. Can you tell me which ones have? I would like to get their perspective as well."

"Well, you might see if you can talk to Staff Sergeant Wataski in Bravo Company," J. C. answered. "She not only did a combat drop, did it right here on K'tok, two years ago. Little late to be talking to her now, though. She'll be getting squared away for her drop. You might give that some thought as well."

Boniface looked at her and she saw the surprise on his face. "Nobody in Delta Company has done a combat drop before? Not even you?"

"Shit, fils, how many combat drops from orbit you think there been? Aside from all those Hong Kong adventure holo-vids, I mean? The Varoki have only done a half-dozen or so cohort-strength drops, and we ain't done that many. Command Sergeant Major Orsini up at brigade dropped on Nishtaka, over a dozen years ago, and he's looking at getting his second combat jump star today."

"But I've read about special insertions, many of them."

"Sure, a squad here or there, special operators. We ain't spooks, Mr. Boniface, we're honest grunts. Not a lot of call for dropping people in our occupation, so when something like this comes along, we're just happy for the work. Now I'm serious about getting ready. They show you how to pre-drop-check your capsule in that SBS school you went to?"

He nodded but he seemed distracted, looking at the swarms of Marines busy in Peleliu's drop bay, some going over the drop capsules before they were lowered into the discharge tubes, others already getting into their powered armor rigs.

"How abbreviated a course they run you through?" she asked.

"It was not abbreviated," he said, his attention still on the Marines. "I went the full course with SBS-MIC Class Two Seventeen. It helped that I am an excellent swimmer. I would not have made it through otherwise." He turned to her. "Very good for endurance, you know. The other four journalists in the course did not complete it. Two of them could have, I think, but they simply gave up."

"And you never give up, I suppose?"

"Well, not so far," he said with a smile, the first she had seen from him. He nodded toward the Marines. "They act as if they've done this many times."

"They have. It's just like the drills, Mr. Boniface. Just like the drills."

Boniface left to suit up but J. C. remained for a few minutes, watching the activity of these other Marines, not wanting to face her own troopers just yet. There was still time, and if she spent too much time with them before the drop, they might see her fear. Boniface was right to wonder about all these Marines who had never done a combat drop before, but wondering wouldn’t answer anyone's questions. To find out the answer you had to go through a two-meter tube and fall three hundred and fifty kilometers under fire, and keep your shit together enough to carry out a difficult clearing operation without fucking up anything important. Then they'd find out what they were really made of.

Just like the drills, she thought. Sure.

22 December 2133 (D Minus Two Minutes)

Aboard USS Peleliu (LAS-16), in K'tok orbit

It began with a simple movement to the left, no more than a few meters. The optics in her faceplate told her the drop had started, first serial was away, and her capsule had moved on the conveyor toward now-empty drop tubes. It wasn't exactly like the drills, was it? The drills placed you in a simulated version of the drop capsule that duplicated most of the sensations of the drop itself, but not the lead-up to it, not the pauses and then short moves along the conveyor toward those gaping holes with nothing under them for three hundred and fifty kilometers except increasingly dense atmosphere and then hard, hard ground. J. C. felt herself start to sweat and turned down the temperature in her suit.

Two minutes later she felt the capsule move "up" into the drop tube, heard the tube close behind her, and almost immediately she was slammed back into her acceleration rig. All system lights on her faceplate showed green—a clean separation—and she checked the chronometer: 0512. She felt a moment of dizziness as the capsule rotated through 180 degrees to enter the atmosphere "bottom" first. Within minutes she could feel the capsule slow, feel the gee force pushing her into the acceleration rig. She watched the monitors show the mounting exterior temperature, record the successive melting and flaking away of the ablative lower two thirds of the capsule. She watched until the deceleration crossed eight gees, forcing the oxygen from her lungs, pushing the blood into the back of her skull, starving the optic nerves in front, temporarily blinding her. She stopped thinking as well, the frontal lobes of her brain as starved of oxygen as were her eyes.

Her drogue chute and then main chute must have deployed because her vision returned and her thoughts began again, although sluggishly at first, and her first sensation was pain, the ache of being slammed against her acceleration rig at 90 meters per second. Then the stimulants and pain killers, the ones designed to overcome the deceleration shock, kicked in and her attention returned. A green light flashed in the center of her field of vision three times and then a burst of sunlight replaced the black of the capsule interior.

She fell away from the slowly descending capsule and parachute for two or three seconds and then her para-wing deployed above her, a canopy of pale gray making it almost invisible from the ground, and she saw the exterior of her combat armor's chameleon surface mimic the color. She oriented herself, saw the red, white, blue, and green top panels of the wings below her, the colors of the four companies of the cohort, and she saw the towering, impossibly endless golden cable of the needle to her left. The sun seemed to slip back below the horizon as she descended, because it was not yet dawn below. She looked down at the city sprawling away from the base of the needle, a mix of gray streets and sand-colored buildings. The faint greenish tint showed her optics had begun using thermal augmentation, and her helmet outlined her landing zone in green brackets. All of the green Delta Company para-wings she could see seemed lined up with their landing zones around the needle's base.

The wind velocity indicator on her faceplate flickered from yellow to red. Too much headwind would keep her aloft too long. At the same time, she saw a missile track rise from the outskirts of the city and head in her direction. She applied brake and accelerator at the same time and dropped down a fast hundred meters, then eased back and went into a circular dive, flattening out before she got too close to the canopies of the wings below her.

She lined up with the street she was due to land on, flared at two meters, came down in a slow trot and hit the release that sent her wing up and to the side before it collapsed in a heap of composite fabric. Her RAG-19 assault rifle was already in her hand and she continued her trot to get into a doorway and out of the way of whoever was coming next. Her muscles felt sluggish and weak, but the powered suit took up the slack. She turned and saw another armored Marine touch down and run out of his harness as it flopped to the side, run as lightly as a dancer, and she knew that was Andre Thibodaux.

She checked the chronometer in her faceplate: 0549. Had it really been that long? Thirty-seven minutes? From her right side, she heard the soft snapping of Marine RAGs—gauss rifles throwing smart-head flechettes—and she began her tactical breathing routine to lower her heart rate.

22 December 2133 (D Plus Forty Minutes)

T'tokl-Heem Downstation, on K'tok

J. C. ran the two blocks to the downstation, dashing from cover to cover—mostly recessed doorways—pausing in between to assess the situation, but at this point she figured surprise was still on her side. Any hostiles were trying to figure out what was going on and waiting for orders. That would change in a half hour or less, but for now she ended up having a clear run.

She paused at the corner of the building at the end of her street and looked across the broad boulevard between her and the open door to the downstation, saw a Marine helmet behind a gap in a low retaining wall. That should be second platoon's first squad. The door to the VIP entrance hung open crookedly from one hinge, a neat ten-centimeter hole blown where the lock mechanism had been. Above and behind it, the impossibly tall and thin golden needle rose in the pre-dawn gloom for several hundred meters, and then it caught the still-rising sun and shimmered in glaring brilliance, climbing on up until it disappeared into the clouds. She pulled up her helmet tac-tracker and saw IDs from two of her Marines near the doorway: Barenberg and Littlewood, the First Squad HAR gun team. She had a good line of sight to them so she commed them on tightbeam.

"Corporal Barenberg, I am across the street from your position. Is the street clear?"

She saw a head appear at the doorway and disappear quickly.

I see you, Cap'n, she heard inside her head from her surgically embedded commlink. There's a sniper about two hundred meters up the street to the west, your left, or there was five minutes ago. But he can’t shoot for shit, ma'am. If you haul ass you should be okay.

"Littlewood, can you give me some covering fire?"

Uh . . . not from here, ma'am. He's on the north side of the street, same as us, and I don't have a line of sight.

J. C. heard the thump-thump-thump of running feet behind her, the heavy footfalls of Marines in composite powered armor. Her helmet display showed the four Marines from the platoon's second squad, white fire team: Zahala, Liu, Thibodaux, and DeYoung.

"Two-Two-White, on me," she commed them, and waved her hand to show her position, make her stand out from the building background color which her armor now duplicated. Their helmet optics would have shown her position as well, but redundancy never hurt. She stepped back from the corner of the building, turned to them, and lifted her faceplate.

"There's a sniper supposed to be two hundred meters up the street to the west, left as you face the complex, far side, probably second story. Reportedly a bad shot. I am crossing. I want two shooters on this corner, one high and one low. Sergeant Zahala, your call. If he shoots, try to take him out but at least get eyes on him. He's actually in Charlie Company's AO, so if we can’t put him down we'll hand him off to them."

Zahala turned to his fireteam. "Thibodaux high, DeYoung low, Liu, you're with me. We'll cross with the captain and if we take fire we'll return it from the center of the street, cover the captain's crossing, and take the sniper's attention off our two concealed shooters." He turned back to J. C. "With the Captain's permission."

"Sounds like a plan to me, Sergeant, but don't hang around out there very long. We got a job to do and it ain't getting that one sniper. Now get your shooters in place and let's go."

22 December 2133 (D Plus One Hour)

T'tokl-Heem Downstation, on K'tok

They took fire, they returned fire, and if anyone was hurt, it was the sniper, but no one thought they hit him. Fighting the Varoki, it was always a him, never a her. J. C. passed the contact off to Charlie Company, left Zahala's fire team at the door to alert the next group, and went to find the rest of Second Platoon's first squad, taking Barenberg and Littlewood with her. The path was easy to follow from the trail of explosively breached doors. She saw only three bodies of the vaguely lizardlike Varoki along the way, all uniformed security guards. They had carried only pistols, the dismantled parts of which were spread across the floor along with their blood.

She found Staff Sergeant Hank Schleef about thirty meters into the complex, hunkered down in a room off the access corridor but opening into a much larger receiving area. His face brightened when he saw her and his squaddies.

"Captain. Good to see you. We've cleared up to this open area. No casualties. I held up to assess our crossing plan. Having the HAR team for covering fire helps."

She scanned the group of armored figures. All eight members of Schleef's squad, other than his HAR team, were present, so he'd had a good drop. Two demolition engineers and one Navy medtech were with him as well. Only one person was missing.

"Where's Lieutenant Stillbower?" Stillbower was the platoon leader for Second Platoon and had dropped with the first serial to lead the early breach-and-clear actions.

Schleef shook his head. "Don't know ma'am. Hope she just landed in the wrong spot, but we got some missile fire down close to the LZ. Couple green chutes got hit and went down hard, but those might have been from one of the other platoons."

J. C. nodded and checked the floor plan of the open area—about ten meters of open ground, with chest-high counters and workstations along two walls, the ones to either side from their position. Two doors on each of those walls with the workstations, a broad corridor exiting from the far wall.

"What's your plan, Schleef?"

"Door's ajar so we don’t have to breach it. breach the wall low right here," he pointed to the wall three meters to the right of the door, "and use it as the loophole for Littlewood's HAR. That's our base of fire. Blow the wall and the squad assaults in two stacks through the door, red team right, white team left. It there's no resistance in the main room, they clear those side rooms and join up at the corridor."

J. C. nodded and turned to Littlewood. His HAR was the squad's support weapon, an HAR-7 15mm cassette-fed heavy magnetic accelerator rifle firing explosive rounds, capable of low-velocity rapid fire or very high velocity single shots, making it a powerful squad automatic, an excellent sniper rifle, and an anti-armor weapon in a pinch.

"Lance Corporal Littlewood, we got the needle down-range from us, when and if you start firing, so you set your weapon on low velocity rapid fire, HE warheads to explode on contact. I don’t want no high velocity AP rounds fucking up my elevator." That was in the OPORD as well, the stated SOP for the clearing squads, but redundancy never hurt. If they dinged the elevator, the whole trip might end up being for nothing.

*****

They cleared the open area without resistance but heard the distant sound of small arms fire from farther in the complex. J. C.'s tac-tracker couldn't make sense of it: too much metal and electronics between her and her other platoons and too much overhead crap to get a good satellite signal. There might be some jamming going on, too. She got some partial data packets—grainy and heavily pixilated—that looked as if Third Platoon was running into some resistance.

She kept Schleef's squad moving forward and before long they were joined by Gunnery Sergeant Klaus Helzberg, the platoon sergeant for Second. He brought along Staff Sergeant Ann Pohlod's Second Squad, missing one trooper from her own Red Fire Team but otherwise intact. She had another demolition specialist with her who turned his breaching charges over to the two with J. C. and then filled the empty slot in Red Team. Boniface, the Nigerian journalist was with them as well.

J. C. turned the platoon over to Helzberg and watched him take it through its paces, just like the drills, alternating squads, breaching and clearing, closing in on the core of the complex. After fifteen minutes, J. C. began to get nervous. This was taking too much time. Lord knew what the Varoki security people had available to stop them, but whatever surprise the Marines had had was gone by now. About then Major Colloredo showed up.

"What's the situation, Captain?"

"South complex is cleared except this big cargo holding area and then a last suite of offices right up against the needle retaining wall. Five hostiles dispatched, two prisoners taken and sent back for Third Squad to hold at the complex entrance, no casualties."

"Yeah, saw the prisoners. Pretty sorry-looking leatherheads, and they pretended not to speak aBakaa."

"Might not be pretending, sir. This part of the colony was all uZmataanki before the uBakai took over. I think most of the ones we've seen are Sammies. not Oo-Baks. Intel fucked up only loading aBakaa autotrans in our commlinks."

Colloredo shrugged, which was especially eloquent in powered armor. "A leatherhead by any other name, J. C. One's as lethal as another. What we need to do is fucking ándale and get this area secured."

J. C. had been thinking the same thing. She commed Gunnery Sergeant Helzberg and Staff Sergeants Schleef and Pohlod on the tacnet. "Gunny, you stay here with Schleef's squad and clear this cargo area. I'm taking Pohlod's squad forward with the two demo guys to breach and clear that last office suite. Back us up when you're done here."

Aye, aye, ma'am.

J. C. and the twelve Marines set off across the cargo bay at the trot, Major Colloredo and the embed Boniface following them, although the major did not assert command. This was still J. C.'s show. A fair-sized electric cargo mover was parked about four meters from the door and to its right, and a large structural support pillar stood to the left of it. J. C. waved Pohlod to the pillar while she moved to the cover of the cargo mover, with Colloredo, Boniface, and the demo specialists in tow.

"Pohlod, one fire team assaults, one in reserve. Send your HAR team over here. It can shoot through this wall if we need to. Demo, set up your breaching charge on the door. Go."

The demo specialist set his charge and returned to cover as Corporal Jones and Lance Corporal Chaubanse, the HAR gunner, took their place beside her. Chaubanse set up his HAR-7 to fire over the engine housing of the parked vehicle as Jones pulled another ammunition cassette out of his bandolier.

"Rapid fire HE, explode on contact," J. C. said to Chaubanse, who nodded and double-checked the settings. The actual needle cable was about ten meters past the wall they faced, with a sturdy protective barrier wall surrounding it, but not so sturdy it would stop a 15mm AP round at peak velocity. "Remember, Chaubanse, no armor piercing."

"Roger that, ma'am. No AP."

How stupid would it be to get this close to securing the needle and then break it by accident?

Pohlod's Red Team stacked up with her in the lead, behind the pillar and out of the direct line of fire of the door, ready to charge, Zahala's White Team crouched to their left and rear in reserve. Pohlod signaled the demo specialist with three quick nods. The specialist blew the door, the stack stepped out from behind the pillar, moved quickly toward the now-open doorway, and suddenly there was a loud CRACK! and a softer thud—no, several thuds almost simultaneously. The four Marines in the stack jerked backwards against each other and then collapsed in a tangled heap, and a calm part of J. C.'s brain recognized the soft thuds as the sound of a single heavy, high velocity slug passing through the armor and torsos of all four of them.

"Fire!" Jones shouted to Chaubanse, and the first three-round burst of 15mm HE blew masonry fragments back toward them but did not open the wall to the room beyond.

"CORPSMAN!" J. C. heard from behind her, Sergeant Zahala's voice a study in anguish. As if in slow motion, J. C. turned and saw Zahala kneeling, reaching out to pull back the still-twitching body of the fourth member of Red Team. There was a lot of blood. Thibodaux stood by the pillar, leaned around it, fired two three-flechette bursts from his assault rifle through the open door, then a 3cm grenade from his under-barrel launcher. He leaned back and away, rifle up, just before a second loud crack sounded and took a wedge of masonry from the column. J. C. looked at him and he at her, and his eyes were calm and detached.

"We're not getting penetration!" Major Colloredo shouted, his voice rising in desperation. "Gunner, AP, peak velocity. Take that fucker out!"

"No!" J. C. shouted.

The weapon from the far side cracked again and J. C. heard the clang of the AP round as it cut through the engine housing of the cargo shifter, deflecting up and to the side in a streak of sparks as it passed by her head. More rounds, smaller caliber, exploded through the wall and she hit the deck and pulled Chaubanse down with her.

Gunfire. Plaster dust. Small arms rounds slamming against the metal body of the vehicle like a deafening anvil chorus. Confused and angry shouts. And then Major Colloredo was down, screaming in agony and holding his leg. The bone was clearly broken and the leg bled a steady, dark stream.

"Corpsman!" she commed. "Major's down. Helzberg, get the hell up here!"

She put her hand on Colloredo's shoulder and already had the autoinjector from her medkit in her other hand. "You'll be okay, Tony. We'll get you out of this." She pulled open the drug port on the neck of his suit and hit him with the anti-shock drug. Then she turned to Chaubanse. Small arms fire was coming through the wall from the other side, so the wall might be thick but it wasn't armored.

"Set your HE for delayed detonation, staggered from one to five meters, and give me rapid continuous fire. Traverse right to left and then left to right." She switched to the platoon comm tacnet. "Thibodaux, keep up the suppressing fire. Zahala, once Chaubanse lays two long bursts of HE into the room interior, assault with your team. We’ll be right behind you. Helzberg, on me, back us up."

23 December 2133 (D Plus One Day)

T'tokl-Heem Downstation, on K'tok

It was winter here, just like back home, and although winter on K'tok's equator was hot, the sky still looked like a winter sky to J. C.—a uniform blue-gray that reminded her of polished steel. An unforgiving sky. She heard distant thunder, but there were no clouds in sight. Orbital bombardment munitions, pounding the hostile heavy lift cavalry units the uBakai would probably try to shift back from the frontier. The Navy called the bombardment munitions Thuds. Good name.

The cohort's heavy weapons platoons were coming down the needle now, the whirring, clanking four-meter walkers mounted with gun and missile packs negotiating the streets out from downstation to reinforce the perimeter posts. There hadn’t been a serious counterattack yet, but whatever the uBakai could scratch together here in the city would probably hit them after dark. Those lift cavalry gunsleds would come at them later, would be hard to stop unless the Thuds could keep them away.

J. C. walked to the aid station, feeling the deep ache in her muscles from the insertion and gee shock, but also feeling the strength returning to her limbs. The too-tall door and too-low-ceilinged interior of the requisitioned building reminding her she was the invader on this world. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim interior light.

She soon found Tony Colloredo's cot. His right leg was in a pressure cast and elevated. He looked depressed, but hid it as soon as he saw her. They exchanged greetings and she brought him up to date on the operation: mission accomplished, and the needle was bringing down their heavy stuff and the first contingents from Forty-Two ROMAC. Her company had taken seven fatal casualties, three coming down and four on the ground—Pohlod's fire team. Seventeen wounded, most of them light wounds. Five of them had gone back on the line as soon as their wounds had been dressed. He listened thoughtfully, nodding as she talked.

"Alice Stillbower died coming down? Who's running your second platoon?"

"Gunny Helzberg still is. Skipper goes down, the gunny takes over. Not the first time, sir."

"Not the first time," he repeated, and he looked out the window.

"You okay, sir?" she asked.

"Yes, I'm fine. Had a little pain but got a happy drip. I've been wondering, though, did you do an ammo count after the fight? Rounds expended?"

"Yes, sir, every weapon. Already restocked from cohort and they sent the report up the needle to get resupplied from brigade. All squared away."

"How many rounds did you fire?"

"The company?"

"No, you, J. C. What did your shot counter read? How many flechettes did you put through your assault rifle? I can look it up if I have to."

She looked at him, looked him in the eyes.

"One round, sir."

Colloredo nodded, looked out the window at the building across the alley, its sandstone wall turning blood red in the setting sun.

"I lost it in there, J. C. I could have broken the goddamned needle, put an AP round right through it. I don’t know what happened, but I lost it. It wasn't fear, at least I don't believe it was, but I stopped thinking. Never figured that would happen, but you never know until you know. Now I know."

"Bullshit," she said. "When things get crazy, the training takes over. You know that, and all them drills we did was never with a big, fragile needle in our fire lanes. Hey, you got a million-dollar wound, you're going up-needle this evening to Peleliu's sickbay and then home a hero, and you got nothing to be ashamed of. I mean that, chère. Don't let five seconds of confusion eat on you. Nobody died but Pohlod's fireteam, and that weren't on you. Got nothing to be ashamed of, you."

"I might have had, if I had not caught that stray bullet. Medtech says it looks like a forty-five thirty smart-head flechette. Friendly fire. Well, there was a lot of stuff flying around in there. Hey, you better get back to your company. I appreciate the visit and . . . everything. Vaya con Dios, Gunny."

"You too, Skipper. Be good to yourself, you."

She offered her hand and he only hesitated a moment before shaking it.

She walked out of the aid station into the hard, bronze metallic light of the late afternoon and found herself facing the Nigerian journalist Boniface, his body armor glowing golden-orange in the setting sun, but because of the chameleon feature it glowed on the side which should have been in shadow, making the moment surreal and other-worldly. She nodded a greeting.

"Visiting Major Colloredo?" he asked and she nodded again, although it wasn't really his business. "Will he be all right?"

"Mr. Boniface, as a young brown-bar second lieutenant, Tony Colloredo led a rifle platoon on the Spratly Islands when everything went to hell, come away with a silver star and a purple heart. He's a tough, brave, big-hearted Marine, him. He'll be fine. Just needs to mend some."

Boniface nodded and looked down the street at a light combat walker moving from the downstation toward the perimeter, the whine of its turbines clearly audible. J. C. followed his gaze and the dust raised by the walker's foot pads seemed to sparkle like flakes of gold floating above the gathering shadows.

"I am a diligent researcher, Captain. I am aware of your previous service with then-Lieutenant Colloredo." Boniface shifted his weight and his eyes lost focus. "I went back to review my visual and audio captures during the firefight, the one where your four Marines were killed and Major Colloredo was wounded. I must have done something wrong in the confusion. There is no recording. Perhaps I recorded over it by mistake. These things happen."

He turned and walked slowly back toward the downstation. J. C. watched the sun until it touched the horizon and then she followed him.

29 December 2133 (D Plus Seven Days)

T'tokl-Heem Downstation, on K'tok

Six days later J. C. stood in the blackness of the broad street code-named Tungsten and she looked up at the night sky, watching the occasional streaks of light. As a child she'd been told to make a wish on a falling star, but these falling stars were bits of wreckage from their own task force, still entering atmosphere and burning up five days after they had taken a terrible beating from the uBakai Star Navy. Lieutenant Colonel Mazanadarani, the cohort commander, walked over to her and she nodded to him. Too many snipers still at large for saluting.

"Evening, J. C." He looked up as two streaks of light crossed the sky, one brighter and longer than the other. "They took a hell of a shellacking up there."

"Do we know the real numbers, sir? Been hearing rumors sound pretty bad."

"Bad enough. Over two thousand dead. Nine ships totally destroyed—half the cruiser force. Peleliu and that Indian transport are okay but the Brit transport, HMS Furious, is gone, Forty-Two ROMAC's whole support and supply echelon with it. It's a real mess. Say, how's Lieutenant Gunderson working out?"

J. C. squinted at him, taken off-guard by the subject change. "My company XO? He's fine, sir. He'll appreciate you asking."

"He ready to run Delta? I want to move Major Banerjee over from Ops Boss to the cohort XO slot, but I need someone with a good tactical head to fill in behind him. You want the job?"

J. C. felt her face flush followed by a wave of gratitude it wouldn’t show in the darkness. It was a good step up, especially for a mustang officer like herself, who'd risen from the ranks. A lot of senior officers didn’t think of mustangs when it came to filling staff slots. But the opportunity would never have been there if Tony Colloredo hadn't been wounded, and that complicated things. It surely did. Overhead she saw another shooting star.

"Let me put it another way, Captain," Mazanadarani said. "You are the new S-3 Ops Boss, so let me hear an aye, aye, sir."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"We've had it pretty easy so far, but it's going to get bad, J. C., real bad. The Navy's pulling out, most of it is anyway, leaving us here to hold this planethead: our brigade down here and five destroyers in orbit."

"Five destroyers? That's all?"

"That's all," Mazanadarani said. "We've got to hunker down and hold, hold until the brass figures out how to get us out of this tiger pit. Here's where we find out what we're made of."

J. C. looked up again, as if she could see into orbit. "Shoot, sir, already know that. Now we find out what them tin can sailors is made of, them."

The Blue Widow

J.P. Sullivan

It was good tea, all things considered, and I really did admire his efforts at being a good host—but the fact was, I was there to kill him. This was, unfortunately, something of a trend in the profession.

He spoke with the confidence of his kind. “You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“You’ve poisoned me,” I agreed.

That gave him pause. “You knew?”

“It was a necessary professional consideration,” I told him.

He didn’t have much to say to that. A clock ticked somewhere in the back of the parlor. A very fashionable parlor, full of the most fashionable things. Flock wallpaper, teakwood furniture, a sideboard from somewhere in the unpronounceable east. Beyond the damask curtains I heard carts and voices echo over widening streets. Master Zaleski was a well-heeled fellow.

He was also a monster.

“I’ve made a good life for myself here,” he said. “I’m an upstanding member of the community.”

I set the teacup down. “You ate that choir boy.” I’d found his bones in a church-side grotto. “Do you even remember?”

Dark streaks bloomed like ink at the corners of his clear, blue eyes. “Do you remember all your loaves of bread?”

Well, I suppose he had a point.

“This was my week,” he went on. “My year. My work’s in the most exclusive salons.” His skin, at first too pale, turned now to charcoal grey. “But you.” The voice now grated like grinding stone. “You’d ruin it all. I know what you are.” Claws extended from his fingertips, one at a time. The flesh split audibly. “You’re a Blue Widow.”

My order has a reputation among creatures like him. Not a vampire—some kind of striga, I thought. “I suppose this means finishing my fitting is out of the question?”

“You’ll be dead in three minutes.”

On the table I placed my very particular sword. “How fortunate. I only need two.”

I drew ancient steel.

Two howls filled the room: The cry of the striga, and the keening of a King’s Blade.

The striga struck first. He came fast as bowshot, low and hunched and hungry. I pivoted; claws caught; the bustle of my dress shredded in their wake. Pain bloomed where one claw’s edge lanced my thigh.

I liked that skirt, I thought, then cursed myself for indulging the complaint. The striga was coming back again. Even with the sword’s power, an unfocused moment could be deadly. Even an armiger, even a Widow, would die to a striga’s bite. I’d seen it happen.

So I urged the sword for power. Reluctantly, it yielded. I felt the thrill of it, the seductive heat. Time slowed, ever so subtly, as I watched the striga lunge. Thin and bloodless lips revealed his razored maw.

My sword caught his claws. Light flashed at the impact. We both screamed defiance.

I twisted in, pushing for leverage. I felt resistance as my blade bit slowly through the hard flesh of a grasping palm.

Howling, he twisted back, spine agile as a cat’s.

My steel was stained with black, but I did not relent. My boot took his chest before another claw could catch. I near cried for pain—the cut I’d already suffered split wider with the effort. Blood ran warm along my leg. A leg that gave out.

Stupid. Every woman should know her limits. I fell to a knee and tangled against an expensive chair.

Then I noticed the tingling in my fingers. The slow numbness creeping up my arms.

“I can see it in your veins,” the striga taunted me.

“Two minutes,” I reminded him, one corner of my mouth turned down.

“Just lie there.” He smiled a fanged smile. “Let it happen. I can see it—the thing you did, all those years ago. This will be a mercy.”

His words were all the motivation I needed. Leg aching, veins burning, I pushed to my feet. Overhead, I held my sword, both hands to the pommel.

The striga widened his stance. Our eyes met. He jumped.

My sword howled loud and then louder, wind and light awhirl around the blade. My elbows shuddered. My knuckles ached. And closer, closer came the claws.

Then I struck.

Steel and power and anger caught the striga’s brow. I shattered leathern flesh and iron bone.

When he hit the ground, he had nothing left that you could call a face.

Two minutes, surely.

Fingers trembling, I fetched a powder from my purse. I would not falter. Would not gasp. These were not luxuries allowed a Widow, and tears the least of all. I poured the powder in the monster’s tea and drank it.

The antidote took time to settle.

I looked around the ruins of the shop and wondered who might finish my dress.

#

Striga:

The risen and hungry dead. Strigoi are sometimes born of those who die with their life’s work unfulfilled, but more often from dark magic. Concealed behind a pleasing mask of skin, they secretly hunger for the flesh of mortals, the sole thing that can sustain their accursed body. Strigoi have been known to resume their mortal lives and hide for years, only to suddenly snap and devour their own kin.

(From Astronarius’ ‘Monsters of Molovia’)

#

“You killed a tailor,” said the Mother Superior.

“He was a striga.”

“You killed the most popular tailor in the entire country.”

I couldn’t really fault the popularity. I was wearing one of his dresses; it was top work. Did I derive a certain satisfaction from knowing it was the very last one he’d ever put together? Maybe a little.

Somewhere in the Temple the bells were tolling. Services progressed out beyond the office’s echoing stone.

The Mother Superior struck the desk. Her teacup rattled in its saucer. “We have procedures. There should have been an investigation.”

“And by then,” I said, dipping my tea-bag beneath warm water, “He’d have been halfway to the next county, snacking on toddlers all the way. This wasn’t a tessin or a kikimora. Strigoi are clever.”

“You took a hunt without a letter of marque. There was no bounty, Teresa.”

Ah. And there it was.

“You’re one of the better hunters in the Order. But you don’t understand economy. You don’t understand our code!”

“No marque is necessary,” I said, “When a Widow acts in self-defense.” The poison, I mentioned, was a professional consideration.

“I imagine you think antivenin of that caliber grows on trees.” The Mother exhaled.

It’s not that I didn’t understand her position. But I hoped I never sat a desk so long that I forgot what the real work was. Ledgers, balances—who had any use for that when people were dying? Besides which, I’d look positively awful in a nun’s habit. I was lucky that I got sent to a lay order; the Order of the Blue Cross had little patience for clerical vows.

“I knew you would be trouble the moment you were chosen by that sword,” the Mother groused. “Everyone who’s ever carried it has been trouble.”

Without children, without a trade or a fortune, joining the clergy seemed really the only sensible choice. They let widows remarry in the south, I’m told, but in the Temple marriage is eternal, binding beyond death. Better a sister than a spinster, I figured.

Of course, every clerical novice is tested for possible sympathy to relics. I was no exception. It was my lot to be chosen by a Blade’s whim. I tried to insist on the convent regardless; they wouldn’t let me go. You can’t hurt monsters with common steel, they told me. They needed every Blade. I must wear the Blue.

I was not a killer, I’d insisted, not a hunter.

But the first time I spilled blood, something awakened in my own.

“So give me a contract,” I said. “A proper one. Marqued.”

Just like that, I’d fallen for the Mother’s trap. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, I have just the thing.” She handed a letter of marque to me, already stamped with my personal seal.

I looked at it. It spoke of disappearances, deaths, mysterious circumstances. A hamlet in need of an expert investigator and monster hunter. Exactly the sort of thing to excite my imagination and occupy my mind. So why, then, was the Mother’s smile so cruel?

“It’s in Molovia. Bit of a trip, but we already had your things packed.”

My stomach sank. “Molovia?”

“East Molovia, as a matter of fact.” Oh, no. “A little village called Elik. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“I have some familiarity.” I hadn’t been for seven years. I’d resolved never to go back.

It was where my family lived. It was where my husband died. It was home.

I couldn’t think of any place worse.

“Your train leaves in fifteen minutes,” said the Mother, smiling as she produced my ticket.

#

Molovia is an entire country in the sky. In the City that’s romantic; in Molovia it is necessary. Ten months of twelve, the land is swallowed up by a single storm, a tempest as mysterious as it is reliable. Clouds choke the hollows and the valleys. Thunder tears at anyone who journeys on the roads. Were there not so many buttes, no one could ever have lived in such a dreary land. Each village, each farm, becomes an island built on high—full of people who might spy one another through a telescope, but never speak face-to-face.

It wasn’t until I left that I realized how queer that was. The storm broke but once a year, and all the times between seemed like dreaming. Every Storm’s End brought fevered excess in travel and trade and romance. My marriage came of an End. My husband’s death came of a Storm. As I peered out the window, I dreaded what might come of this one.

Someone spoke. “I can’t believe they’re sending us to this inbred hamlet.”

The train shook as it traveled down the tracks, chunk-chunk, chunk-chunk, like the beating of an iron heart. I let it beat a while longer before I looked for the speaker.

The car’s only other occupant was a balding priest.

“I was born there,” I told him.

Others might have been chastised. This priest only groaned. “Good God! And you have to go back. What a dreadful business.” He leaned in his seat. “Miserable place, the stormlands. Though I heard it’s not really the storm that’s the trouble, but the women.”

I gave him a look.

He grinned knowingly. “Not ones like yourself. The shades. Likho, Poludnica. Jealous, white-gowned Vila. Born of the storm, doomed to pull men down to it.”

“Creatures to put fear in your heart,” I told him, having killed their kind before.

He produced a flask. “I have just the cure for fear.”

I took it and drank. I scarcely felt the burning.

The priest looked me over. “I’ve read about Blue Widows in the paper. You couldn’t make up stories like that—no one would believe them if they weren’t real.” He leaned in, too interested. “Does the sword speak to you?”

“No,” I said.

But if it does, the Mother warned me once, Then you’ll know it’s time to give it up.

A particular mesa grew steadily larger in the window, looming over buttes and a line of windswept pines. Little lights and homes dotted its flattened peak. There was home: There was Elik.

The Storm was no more than a week away. Perhaps the Mother hoped I’d get stranded in it.

That was the thought I had in mind when the first of the strangeness happened.

The lights atop the mesa caught my eye. I figured them candles inside of houses, torches alighting fields. And yet they rose. They rose like sparks from a fire, glittering golden yellow in the sky above country dark. And then I saw a butterfly.

It was much like any butterfly. Yet I saw it clearly in the night. Gold was its color, aglow like a lantern, and I swear by the stars that I heard it speak.

Don’t come home.

I noticed I was gripping my sword most tightly. For a time I only stared, flask in hand.

Then I asked the priest: “Do you see that?”

He blinked, as though awakening from a stupor. “See what?”

I pointed. But there was nothing there.

“Never mind,” I said. There was no point worrying him.

The priest shrugged and took back his flask. We were quiet for a while.

“You know,” he finally said. “That’s a very fine dress.”

“Thank you.”

“Bespoke, I’d wager. City work.”

“That’s right.”

He leaned in, conspiratorial. “Is it a Zaleski?”

I stared at him until he moved to a different chair.

#

“We sent for a monster hunter. Not an old lady.”

A woman does not discuss her age, but rest assured that I am not an old lady. There was no point telling the militiaman so; that would only be accepting the premise as meriting a response.

The station lay in the very shadow of the mesa, cut halfway into rock. Steps spiraled up the mesa’s entire exterior, their edges rounded by the wind and rain of years. Two guards’ crossed spears barred the way. Men I recognized, older now. They did not recognize me. The priest, of course, they let up without a second glance.

I laid my hand upon the pommel of my particular sword. “Do you know what this is?”

He looked at me like I was daft. “Letter opener?”

“It’s a King’s Blade.”

“Horseshit. You’re trying to trick us into giving you shelter when the Storm hits. Well, we’ve got our food squared, and we don’t need another mouth.”

The other fellow looked more nervous. There I sensed my advantage. “My name is Teresa Kowalczyk. I come in the name of God with a weapon of God. Any who would keep me from Elik are an enemy of God.”

The two sotted fools who passed for a local militia were not immune to invocations of religion. They moved.

My feet made dull clacks on the stone stairs. Everything was of stone, here. The thrusting cliffs, the leaning buildings, the walls, the wells; everything was dark, everything grey. Folk tilled terraced fields, beating hoes into unyielding earth. The adjoining buttes were shorter than the mesa, narrower; fields had been worked into their tops and rope bridges connected them all to one another.

It was a very long drop. I possessed a native’s appreciation for the danger of a sudden breeze.

“You are late,” said a bearded man I did not recognize.

I held a hand to my hat, to keep the brim from whipping. “I took a bloody train,” I told him, ascending the final steps. “Do you suppose I could have flown?”

That was a mistake. He hadn’t been angry with me before, but now he had a reason. “A man died last night. Died while you were sipping vodka in a cabin.” He added, “We wanted a knight.”

I produced my letter of marque. “You got a Widow.”

A monocle enlarged his eye while he studied the contract. I doubted he even knew how to tell a fake.

I had ideas about how my homecoming would play out, all of them by now inaccurate. Aside from a few farmers, I saw not a soul in town. All the windows were shuttered. The doors were painted with the moon-and-star, to ward off evil.

“Seems a little sleepy for noon,” I said.

That set him off more. “Sleepy,” he all but cursed. “You don’t know the half of it.”

“Where’s the mayor?”

“I’m the mayor. As of last week.”

I looked at the man, then. Really looked at him. “Lazarevic?”

“Welcome back, Teresa.”

“You’ve aged.”

“A not-unusual side effect of seven years passing,” said Lazarevic, scratching at that voluminous beard. When I left he could scarcely grow one; he’d hoped to marry some woman from the mountain to the east. Had he? “If you read the letters your parents sent you—“

“Show me where he died. Bring anyone who saw anything.”

“There may be a slight difficulty,” said Lazarevic. “They’re all asleep.”

“I’ll be happy to wake them.”

“I’ll be happy if you can.”

Normal practice was to get to know the people first, see who could be trusted. I had an advantage in that I already knew the locals—and held a corresponding desire to see as few of them as possible.

I didn’t get my wish. The town slowly came alive. Some came out to meet the priest, since Elik had no priest of its own and was surely in need of one to witness marriages. But I was the greater spectacle. Folk slowly opened their doors to peer at the woman returned from the capital, to murmur disapproval, not for the dress or the sword but for the memory of scandal. Few dared come outside. Was the monster so bad as that?

Lazarevic led me to one of the buttes, across a rope bridge. Somehow it seemed sturdier when I was a child. On the other side was a two-story building, inelegant and wide. It passed locally for an inn.

“We moved the afflicted in here,” he said. “All the Storm’s End visitors already went home.”

Scratch marks were visible on the floor where beds had been unceremoniously dragged. A half-dozen souls drowsed upon those beds, all scarcely breathing.

“The mayor was the first,” said Lazarevic. “He fell asleep, murmuring about seeing his wife again, and couldn’t be raised for days. When he died, we didn’t think twice, since he was old. But then went the miller, and then the clerk, and now these farmers.”

I pricked two of the sleepers with a needle. Not a stir. “How many dead?”

“Four.”

I didn’t need to test with hazelwood to see that a curse was in effect. The question instead was what kind of curse.

“I don’t see the latest body.”

“He’s out back.”

We went out back. There, in a disturbed circle of grass, lay a corpse with windblown hair.

“You left him on the ground,” I said, approving.

Lazarevic misapprehended my intent. “We didn’t want to interfere with the investigation.”

I kneeled, as well as Zaleski’s dress allowed. I looked for bites, for trauma. I found none. I touched a stick of hazel to his extremities. Sure enough it blackened, crisping at the edges, like it had been thrown into a fire. So then I turned the man over to inspect his face.

The eyes were gone. Burned out of his skull, seemingly from within, if the burn patterns told true. I felt a sudden nausea. That was ridiculous, I told myself; I’d seen death before and in far nastier flavors. Why should it get to me now?

Perhaps because this was a familiar face. “It’s Karol,” I said. “The miller’s son.”

“It figures you’d recognize him, and not me.”

I didn’t take the bait. “When’s the last time someone saw Karol alive?”

There were plenty of people to ask by then; at least a dozen onlookers clustered around the door. “Just after sundown, the innkeep went to bed. Come the morning we woke up and here Karol was.” He added, “Now the innkeep’s sleeping, too.”

I weighed options. Lots of monsters manifest in Molovia. A noon-maid’s touch could strike a man dead in seconds, if he said the wrong things. But a noon-maid rarely came out in autumn, and never at night. A Vila was possible, but no one had seen one for years. “Might be a Polevik,” I decided. “Karol always had a drinking problem.”

That drew a few ungrateful mutters from the thickening crowd. Which told me Karol’s habits hadn’t much improved in the years I was gone. I didn’t blame him; there wasn’t much else to do in Molovia but drink, when the storm was up. An especially vindictive Polevik might have cursed the whole town as punishment.

This is your fault, I heard, on the wind. My fingers twitched and my eyes searched, but I found nothing.

I asked the crowd, “Who’s the biggest drinker in town?”

No one spoke. A lot of them looked a certain way. I noticed the priest standing there and sighed.

“I suppose you’ll do,” I told him.

“For what?”

“You catch a monster the same way you catch anything else. With bait.” I told the priest, “You’re going to sit out here all night and drink.”

The priest smiled, flask already in hand. “Onerous. But I’ll try to soldier through.”

My bait caught worse things than I bargained for.

#

Polevik:

These grass-haired dwarfs appear promptly at noon or night, dressed only in white and black. Born from the passing of a bitter spendthrift, they loathe the lazy and the indolent. A farmer asleep on the job or a drunkard lazing in the field might find themselves cruelly murdered by a Polevik’s hand. They are, however, often propitiated by gifts.

(From Astronarius’ ‘Monsters of Molovia’)

#

Waiting for the night I dozed. The dream was vivid.

My husband Serafin stood on the highest of our town’s high peaks. Scaling it is perilous, but from the top the whole of Molovia reveals itself. On clear days we could see the next town over, clouds roiling in the lowlands in between. On those nights we watched the stars. I sat cross-legged beside him of an evening while he showed me the constellations, and spoke the stories of their naming. I am not sure at what point my interest shifted from the stories to the man who told them. The change was gradual, too slow to notice, as water wears down stone. Only by weeks and months did my heart’s armor erode. Serafin was a clerk, but he dreamed, I think, of navigating the ocean.

In the dream, Serafin spoke. I listened. My sister Agata joined us halfway through, with a bright laugh that warmed my heart. I spoke some question, when it was all done, and we moved to descend the steps, near as steep as ladders.

My foot slipped. I fell. Farther, and farther, through mist and wind and fog . . .

#

I startled awake.

Wind stirred my hair. I was sure I’d left the inn room’s window closed, but it was open. I might have worried, but a knock interrupted.

“There’s an old couple here to see you.”

Lazarevic’s voice, from the hallway. “I’m getting dressed,” I lied. Then realized it was a good idea.

I fixated on the mirror. Not for reasons of vanity, but because I never had much luck with the lacing on my hunter’s coat without being able to see it. Unfortunately, this forced me to reflect on just how many scars I’d accumulated over the years, and why I always insisted on hats.

Finally the coat button caught. “Did they give names?”

Lazarevic recounted them. My parents’ names.

I’d wondered, of course, whose will would break first, mine or theirs. I had imagined a wintry spell of disregard, them not noticing me, my not noticing them, and finally some kind of halfhearted apology upon my leaving that I would deign to halfheartedly accept. I hadn’t been ready for an earnest and open greeting.

I peered through the window and there he was waiting, my old father, marginally older, silver hair turned white and eyes drooping deeper beneath a wrinkled brow. My mother, severe in a church-approved dress that surely choked around the collar. No sign of my sister, which would have been the only pleasant detail; had she finally been married off? Bad enough that father kept sending letters that I ignored; far worse that my sister Agata never sent anything at all.

There was no way to leave without running into them. I stepped out.

“Teresa,” he started.

“Father,” I answered.

“We were hoping you’d come to dinner.”

They were my family. Would it be so bad, I wondered, to give them a second chance? I studied the lines of my father’s face, waiting, though for what I could not say.

Then I remembered the old words, exchanged in anger. I stepped right past him.

I was on the hunt, I consoled my conscience. Family could come later.

#

The priest passed out sooner than I expected. Liquor spilled from the flask and stained his trousers. I did not help. I waited to see if a spirit took offense.

An important quality in my profession is the ability to forgo sleep. Much that is ill can only be met by moonlight. I waited until dark settled deeply. Fingers of mist slithered in silence beneath the bridge. My knees creaked temperamentally, but I kept the vigil all the same. Kept it until the sky turned and the pole-star rose. Briefly I wondered if the locals were deluded, if there was no monster, and whether the Mother sent me just to illustrate her point about thoroughness in investigation.

Then came the butterfly.

Gold were its wings and gold its eyes. The same color as the lights I saw on the train. Entranced, I watched it alight upon the priest. Its wings beat once, twice. Then, ever so slowly, it dissolved—turned to faintest crumbling dust.

The sleeping priest shed his own body. As a soul might detach from flesh, a golden spirit stood up from the chair, leaving skin behind. The spirit was younger, head full of hair, waist bereft of paunch. Yet it was unmistakably the same priest.

Eyes unseeing, the spirit rose, expressionless. Up into the sky it drifted, until it looked like a glittering star. More lights lifted from the houses of the town. Dozens, at least. I suspected they all took the shape of men.

Could I intervene? Would it make things worse or better? Surely no Polevik did this.

A hand seized my wrist. My eyes widened and I nearly drew my sword. But I held back.

I was, after all, looking at my sister.

“You didn’t come to dinner,” Agata whispered, crouched behind a tree.

“I’m busy,” I whispered back, which was true, but also made me feel about twelve.

I looked back to the sky. The moment had passed. The shades were gone. The only stir was a murder of crows dozing in the trees nearby, moonlight catching off their silvered beaks.

Agata had scarcely aged. I suppose she’d been living here, in a land perpetually shaded and idle, whilst I’d hunted across two continents. Perhaps she hadn’t even had children. Her eyes were the green of damp moss, her dress blue and loose and simple.

“Mum and Da waited hours for you,” she said. “They love you, you know.”

“They have a strange way of showing it.”

“It’s been seven years, Teresa.”

“I don’t have the patience to sit and hear about how my absence ruined harvests, or how I could have been schoolmarm for the village children, or how I was responsible for—”

“You couldn’t have known you’d get Serafin killed,” Agata murmured, quieter than a whisper.

“I did not kill him,” I told her, hands so tense they hurt. Yes, it was a tragedy. Yes, he wouldn’t have died if he’d married her, instead. But this was not the time. “We’ll talk. Later. I’m busy trying to save your fucking lives.”

“Our lives don’t need saving.”

I might have said more. But then came the butterflies.

They came over the edge of the butte, a glittering golden cloud. Dozens. Hundreds. They did not hurry. Tiny wings beat steadily; it would have been stately, had I not seen the priest before.

I dreaded what might happen at their touch.

“Teresa,” my sister started.

“Go,” I told her, stepping forward. “Go home and close the door.”

While she fled I drew the Blade.

On the butte’s edge I stood, weapon held on high. My eyes narrowed with focus. Wind began to howl about the steel. Moment by moment, it built more thickly, more violently. I held until my wrists ached, until a tempest wreathed the sword.

Then I cut.

The wind soared through night-dark air, a distortion visible to the eye. It slammed into the wall of butterflies. Their flight turned erratic.

My throat caught in a moment’s surprise. They did not simply turn aside. They turned to pieces. The butterflies disintegrated into a cloud of golden, dusty pollen.

Distantly, something shrieked.

The pollen fell about the nearby trees. It dusted the wings and beaks of crows.

One by one, golden light blossomed in their eyes. The whole murder twisted their heads in unison. They stared at me, unmoving, unblinking. A faint wind ruffled their feathers. Intellect glimmered cruelly in their gaze.

One bird is a nuisance, I reflected. A murder is named so for a reason.

From the tree, they dived. My leg was near fully recovered from the striga’s claw, so I was quick on my feet, in trousers instead of skirts. I danced backwards as I cut. One stroke severed two birds from breast to wing.

The golden color vanished from their eyes, snuffed like a silent candle. Diminutive bodies hit the earth, bleeding, unmoving. I darted behind a tree.

Claws tore skin and bark alike. I couldn’t afford to hold back.

The Blade sparked and the night brightened as from lightning. I swung. Black wings parted before me, cleaved in twain.

I immediately felt an ache, bone-deep. I let the Blade ease the pain, knowing that would eventually make it worse. All power has a price.

Birds wheeled, above and below. More caws echoed from distant buttes; they’d surely be here soon. I needed to be inside.

I darted for the nearest bridge.

But I didn’t make it across.

In the sky hung the shape of a woman. Her skin was white like statuary, bloodless. Her eyes were the green of hard-cut jewels. A drape of gauze hung about her shoulders, insubstantial, halfway wrought from the wind and mist itself. Her toes blurred in the breeze.

Hatred smoldered in her eyes.

Definitely a Vila, I remember thinking.

Her drapery flared and fluttered. Wind whipped the grasses of the mesa and rattled shutters in the village. She gathered air about herself like armor—then pointed at me with a solitary finger.

The wind hit me like a carriage. A wall of pressure flattened my coat against my body. My cheeks rippled. My eyes screwed shut. Slowly, I gave ground, step by painful step, until I teetered at the very edge of the bridge, clutching desperately to rope.

The Vila clenched her fist. Currents wrenched my fingers, one by one, until my grip on the Blade slipped. It fell into the abyss, down into midnight dark. Weakness hit me instantly, harder than the storm.

Wind howled. Bridge-ropes flailed. I reached for them—reached until they popped from their moorings.

The bridge fell, and me with it.

So here we are, I thought. I was afraid to die, surely. But even more, I was angry. Bad enough that I’d failed. Worse that everyone at home would see me fail. They’d all been proven right. Teresa’s bad judgment killed her man, and now it killed her. A bitter draught to swallow.

I struck the earth.

#

But I didn’t die.

I lay in a cemetery, built on the low ground far beneath the mesa. The constellations were fading, but I saw the sign of the Hierophant, whose eye gleams bluest of all stars. I remembered the way Serafin told that story. His grave lay down there, somewhere.

I figured my spine shattered, my limbs immobile. But I soon realized I’d moved my neck to gaze upon the headstones.

A breeze breathed into my ear. Go back to the city.

Spared. I’d been spared by the Vila. A monster had looked upon me, taken my measure, and found me not worth killing.

I was definitely not including that in my report.

Everything hurt. Her wind had softened my fall, it was the only explanation, but “soften” is a relative word, falling from such a height.

Only by sunrise did I find my feet. One of the dead crows brushed my time-scuffed boots. I picked it up and trudged for the station.

The militiamen barely tried to stop me. They stared, agape.

Step by step I trudged the stairs, to the very peak of the mesa. Morning’s light had not yet burned away the dew that clung to grassy earth. I stepped past the houses, all the way to the far end, to an old blacksmith’s abode. He’d be up by now, the old workhorse, probably complaining about breakfast. I did not knock when I opened the door.

And sure enough, my father puttered about the kitchen, the sun coming in sideways through the windows.

I thrust a bloody, beheaded crow upon the table. “I brought dinner.”

I allowed myself to faint.

#

Vila:

Wrought of air and magic, the Vila dwells in the narrow space between life and after-life. Beautiful and terrible, she is marked by capricious jealousy, born from the passing of frivolous or love-struck ladies. No two are fully alike. Some change shape, some intoxicate the mind, some dance upon the wind. To possess her hair or flesh is to command her. To burn it is to slay her. Vila are among the most powerful monsters, often obsessed with worthy men.

(From Astronarius’ ‘Monsters of Molovia’)

#

“I had the strangest dream,” I heard my mother say, before I managed to open my eyes. The grandfather clock, our one luxury, quietly clicked.

“You’re not the only one,” said Lazarevic. Who’d invited him?

“I remembered being young again, with Jakub. Lovely days. But then I became a bird. Can you imagine? Teresa was there, but when I saw her, I tried to eat her. She fought me. Hurt me.”

I heard the familiar sound of my father pouring ale. “Dreadful dream.”

“I had the same one,” said Lazarevic. “Half the village did. Were you even asleep?”

“No,” my father admitted. “Thought of my girl out there with whatever-it-was kept me awake. I should have gone after her.”

“That wouldn’t have helped,” I spoke, my voice rasping.

The three of them all descended to fuss over me. They prodded scrapes and cuts and dirt-marred hair. They ignored my complaints. My mother ran her fingers across my scalp, sighing out sympathies.

I quailed with irrational fear. They’d taken my hat away. I tried to push them off, but I couldn’t manage.

My mother’s fingers traced the three deep furrows that run across my skull, the wide claw-marked scars where hair will never grow again. Pink-colored ruts, carved through twisted and half-burned flesh. My vanity could scarcely endure it.

Serafin, I suddenly remembered, bought my very first hat. When I caught onto the wide-brimmed hats of city ladies, he made it his mission to see that I would have the best of their kind in Elik.

“It’s not so bad,” my father lied, not unkindly. “You don’t need to cry.”

“I don’t have the time to cry.” Seven years hadn’t been enough. I didn’t mean to slow down, now.

“Goodness,” said my mother. “I’m going to get all misty. You’d better pour me an ale, too.”

“And me,” I croaked.

“Not for you,” father said. “This instead.”

He put tea in my hands. He must have brewed it a while ago. It was still warm and I was glad to have it.

“Look, this is all very touching,” said Lazarevic. “But what is it? Did you kill it, or not?”

I asked, “Where’s Agata?”

My father stared at me. Mother inhaled sharply.

“Teresa,” father said quietly, “You never read the letters, did you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Agata died six years ago.”

For a time I only heard the clock.

“It happened the winter after you left.”

But I’d just seen her, part of me wanted to say. What a tasteless joke, another part wished to believe. But in the twilit places between City society and the wild country, the truth was often bitter.

“She’s the monster,” I told myself, as much as them.

They all thought I’d killed my husband. Now I knew I’d have to kill my sister.

“I’ll not hear it spoken,” said Father, stern as on church-day.

“And I won’t say it again. But the truth won’t change.” I looked at Lazarevic. “Help me up.”

“You’re in no state,” he told me, helping all the same. Enough to sit, at least. “And you don’t have your sword.”

“It’s down there, somewhere.” Not that it’d do me any good. Finding it could take a week or more, and the Storm would come sooner than that.

Lazarevic tried to stop me when I stood. “You can’t kill a monster without proper tools,” he said. “Anybody knows that. We’ve not got any.”

“She’ll be weaker in the day,” I said, looking through shelves for a hat. “And a Vila has weaknesses.” I found a battered and sweat-stained tricorn, a hundred years unfashionable. I shoved it on my head and already felt halfway recovered.

“She could be anywhere,” said Lazarevic. “You’ll never find her.”

I buttoned my coat in silence. I allowed my mother to help with the trickiest button. Then I turned up the tricorn’s brim and rotated it to a rakish angle. “I know exactly where she’ll be.”

#

Worse than a nightmare is the hallucination born of fever. I touched my brow, but it was cold. This hallucination, I wagered, was Agata’s doing. Or at least, the creature who held that name in life.

In front of me, on the steps to the town’s highest peak, I saw myself. Young, unscarred. Arm-in-arm with Serafin.

“If anyone finds out,” my image told him, grinning with the energy of youth, “We’ll be in the worst kind of trouble.”

I watched him sweep me off my feet, one arm around my back, one beneath my knees. I laughed with the thrill of danger, the potential of a drop, even as I trusted in his strength. How did a clerk keep so fit, anyhow?

“I don’t care,” Serafin said. “They’re going to find out eventually, anyway. I’m not going to marry Agata.”

“You’ll have to break the betrothal,” I told him, finger at his chin.

“It’ll be a mess,” he agreed, uncaring. It was not our first tryst.

It all made me ill. I stepped through the image. It dissolved. Step by step I rose higher, until at last I attained the peak. The butte towered over all the others, too narrow for homes or fields. I braced against wind and trudged ahead.

There slept Agata, half-human in her aspect, yet still with dress and hair of white. Around her glittered golden shades. Six in all, one each for the villagers caught in unnatural slumber. When I looked at them, more delusions shimmered.

A farmer, traveling down a stormless road, in company of his friends. A spinster, remembering the passions of her youth. A militiaman, imagining past adventures, embellished beyond all reason. And somewhere, in the depths of those dreams, there was Agata. A passing happenstance, a chance meeting, or even as friend and lover. I am not sure how long I gazed. The images were half real, half in the mind. All moved with the irregular time of dreams.

Agata slept upon the grass. It grew unnaturally tall around her, as if spurred on by magic. All I needed, I consoled myself, was a single hair. And there were so many. Closer, I crept. I became aware of the creaking of my bones, the faint nose made by leather.

She did not wake. Delicately, I kneeled behind her. With my teeth, I removed my glove. I reached for the hair, plucked for a single strand.

Nails dug bloody furrows in my wrist. “I told you,” whispered Agata, “To go home.” Green eyes opened.

One after another, the shades winked out, faces twisted in alarm.

“You’re killing them,” I told her. “Slowly, but all the same.”

Agata stood, then. No—floated. “Yes, there have been accidents,” she admitted. “Dream-weaving isn’t easy. But they’re all miserable. Everyone is miserable, Teresa.” She twisted a perfect mouth, face more beautiful than I remembered. “Lives of dirt and dust and nothing. When they sleep, I give them dreams. Dreams of wonder. Dreams of love. They love me. I love them.”

“I loved you, too.”

Agata’s face stretched. Her lips curled unnaturally wide, a ghoulish sneer. Her skin split along the edges of her mouth. Cracks and furrows marred her face like brittle porcelain, the skull as white beneath. “Then why did you come here?” She howled with the gale of a Storm. I struggled not to tumble.

“I left my sword behind,” I told her, heart thudding. “I didn’t know it was you, before.”

Agata’s eyes softened. Translucent mist filled the graven hollows in her face. “You killed him, Teresa.”

I could not argue. Agata had emptied the air from my lungs.

“You killed him. You killed me.” About her hands glittered golden dust. Dust like that of the butterflies. “Remember it.” She blew, and the dust took my eyes.

#

“You said it was the only day like it in a hundred years. The only day anyone could see the comet.”

“That’s right,” said Serafin, bleary-eyed. “But if I don’t finish this copy by tomorrow, I’ll have nothing to sell at market, which means another hard Storm season.”

“There’ll be other market days. Other market years. This is your only chance to see a . . . what did you call it?”

“A star unmoored,” he muttered, self-conscious about his poetry. He fussed over his quill.

“Well, you’re not the only one who sells things at market.” Goodness knows it had been effort hiding my piecework from him. I laid the product of that labor on the table. Its brass body made a solid, satisfying clunk.

“Is that . . . ?”

I unwrapped a cloth from around the telescope. “We’re using it tonight. You do not get to disagree.”

He wore a crooked, white-toothed grin. “Maybe I could take a break for a couple hours.”

But the Storm was unkind. By nightfall, the wind howled enough to shake every rope and mooring. One of the militiamen, just sober enough to intervene, barred the path to the highest peak.

“Sorry,” said he. “It’s too dangerous. Wind’s up too high. Couldn’t conscience it in safety.”

“We can try from down here,” suggested Serafin. He didn’t look optimistic—there was far too much fog. We couldn’t see fifteen feet ahead, much less the stars.

“Nonsense,” I told him. “I’ve got an idea.”

The piecework, of course, was herbal. If Molovia has one thing in excess, it is herbs. Things grow beneath the cover of the Storm that thrive nowhere else. I knew which to grind and which to brew to make an especially potent emetic. I knew how to add it to a drink to hide the flavor. And I knew a certain militiaman who would not turn down a drink.

So while he spent the night divesting himself, I grasped Serafin by the hand, and let him up that accursed peak. When the wind struck us, I laughed, full of the invincibility of youth.

Cross-winds came. Earth slid like gravel. Serafin tumbled, the telescope with him, and I could but crouch and watch, lest I die the same.

Come Storm’s End we found him broken and bloated, gnawed upon by beasts.

The story came out, of course. Weeping, I admitted to the crime of poisoning, if not to culpability in death. They certainly could not prove me responsible, said the militiaman, but then, the only witness had conveniently tumbled off a cliff. Who knew what lurked in the heart of woman.

You bring misery to everyone you love, my father told me.

I didn’t push him, I swore, and they believed me.

But you’re still the one that killed him, said my mother. I thought my infidelity absolved by marriage. Apparently I’d been the only one so fooled. This is God’s punishment, make no mistake.

I left to join the clergy, blaming everyone but myself.

Agata tried to follow, but knew not the way I traveled. Down the high road she wandered, until the Storm forced her home. There she dwelled in melancholy, deeper by the day. None dared draw her close, lest they be tainted by association.

One day she slipped from a precipice. No one knew how intentional the death, but everyone had their own idea. Really, said the mayor, it was inevitable.

#

Agata looked upon me contemptuously, toes not quite touching ground. “Now he would see me. Now he wouldn’t dwell on you. I’m as beautiful as I always deserved to be.”

Light passed through her beautiful face, translucent, to reveal bone and socket.

“It’s a striking look,” I told her.

She wrenched me up by my hair. “Oh, isn’t that just like you, Teresa. Always the jest, to hide what you really think. So tell me! Tell me what you really think.”

“You were right,” I told her.

She hadn’t expected that. The color slowly returned to her face, to her hair. She looked again like Agata, the woman. Agata my sister.

“I seduced your fiancé,” I confessed, believing it. How long had I resisted the desire? I’d relished surrendering to it. “I stole your marriage. I pushed Serafin into danger. I never spared you a thought.”

Agata grasped my shoulders. “As long as you understand. You have to understand, Teresa.” She put her arms around me and hugged. My stomach fluttered, as I put a hand to the back of her head, to hold it against my shoulder. Her touch was cold, like marble. “This is . . . who I am, now. What I am. I can’t change it.”

“Which is why,” I said, fingers coiling at the nape of her neck, “I have to take responsibility.”

My fingers wrenched. Hair came free.

Agata shrieked like the siren. She fell backwards, all at once transformed into the thing with eyes of green. I saw it on her face: The hurt. The betrayal.

My ears rang. When I spoke, I could not hear my own voice. “Hear me!”

She lay seized in stillness, bone-white.

“Go, now,” I told her. “Leave here. And do not come back!”

Nothing happened, for a moment.

And then all that remained of her was a vanishing breeze.

I fell to my knees. For a while, that was all. But soon I remembered my duty. I remembered the hunt. No marque was complete until the monster was well and truly slain.

There was brush enough to make a campfire. I’d learned how ages ago; the Mother had shown me, before her promotion. There was comfort in the ritual, the friction of sticks and branch. Just enough to take my mind off what I must do.

I held a single wisp of hair above the flame. White strands drifted in the fire’s rising heat, as I bent down to stir the embers. Fire warmed my hands.

It wasn’t her, I told myself. It was a beast, born of her passing.

I tried to believe it.

#

Come the morning I sat on the edge of the precipice, boots dangling in open air. Storm-clouds roiled in the distance. Townsfolk had come, words were spoken, marque papers stamped to satisfaction. There would be more marques waiting in the city. There was always more monstrosity born from the hearts of men.

“The train leaves in ten minutes,” said the priest, behind me.

“I can’t go back yet,” I said. “Have to find the sword.” I hadn’t bothered looking.

The priest set down the Blade, somehow reunited with its scabbard. “Your father found it by a grave. Someone your mother recognized.”

He waited a moment, hoping I might say something.

Eventually he left.

On my smallest finger lay a knot, tied from strands of hair. I watched it stir, while the Storm drew closer.

Sufficient Unto the Day

Tim Powers

Everybody agreed that Nana Coldharp, well up in her eighties now, was at last clearly too old to manage the family Thanksgiving get-together anymore, so this year her late-in-life daughter Hibiscus, known as Biscuit, was to be in charge. Biscuit was the youngest of the Coldharps by more than twenty years, and there weren’t likely to be any more of them, since her brother David still hadn’t married—and, considering that he was now fifty and seldom left the house, he didn’t seem likely to. Everybody called him Shortstack. The family, living and dead, was mostly Hoffmans now, since Biscuit’s older sister Judith had married Hanky Hoffman in 1982. He had died fifteen years ago, but Biscuit still hadn’t warmed to him.

At 4 PM on Thanksgiving afternoon she had put on an apron and tied her chestnut hair back in a ponytail and was preparing the accommodation water for certain of the expected guests. Under the sink was a board that swung up, and from the recess underneath she carefully lifted out the original bottle and unlooped the ribbon that held the glass stopper in place.

She poured half of it into a saucepan, restoppered the bottle and set it back where she’d got it, then filled the saucepan with water from the tap. It would warm gradually on an unlit burner as the turkey was finishing up in the oven.

While it worked at changing the ordinary water, she crossed the stone tile floor and looked out the window and down the long dirt driveway, streaked now with the shadows of a descending line of bearded palm trees. No guests yet, though six crystal prisms were hung on strings at the dining room’s western window.

The house was a big old three-story neo-Victorian at the top of a hill in Moscone, an unincorporated little town only an hour east of Los Angeles by mapbooks but much farther away in demeanor. Grandpa Coldharp had built the house in the 1920s, and two generations of Coldharps had labored to keep the place from collapsing in the years since.

The kitchen was warm, and smelled of the roasting turkey and the bacon strips she’d laid over it for basting, and Biscuit walked out into the cooler living room and stood by the fireplace, where a couple of logs had been laid ready on the grate. The one-drop rhythm of reggae music was faintly audible from Shortstack’s room down the hall, and she could hear Nana thumping around upstairs.

Through the screen door at the far end of the room now came the whirring rattle of a Volkswagen laboring up the driveway in too high a gear. That would be Amelia and her two kids, Jasper and Jackalyn. Biscuit sighed and lifted from the mantel the glass box with Grandpa Coldharp’s oracular penny in it. It was an Indian head penny, minted in 1909, and when the box was shaken the penny bounced around inside but always came up heads; the family tradition was that you could ask it any question, as long as the answer was yes.

“Will this dinner turn out the way it should?” she asked in a whisper.

She shook the box, and when the penny stopped rattling around, it had come up heads for yes.

Biscuit put the box back on the mantel and returned to the kitchen. A couple of big pasta pots, already nearly filled with tap water, had been set on the Formica counter, and now she lifted the saucepan from the stove and carefully poured the contents into the pasta pots. The saucepan was completely dry afterward, and she clanked it away into a cupboard beside the sink.

From the living room came the bang of the screen door and fast thumping on the carpet, and then ten-year-old Jasper was in the kitchen, pulling open the stove door and reaching in to break off a piece of the crisp bacon on the turkey.

Biscuit grabbed the back of the boy’s T-shirt and yanked him away. “You go wait in the living room,” she told him.

He shook his head. “I’m liable to upset Jackalyn.” Jackalyn was thirteen, and things tended to break and fly around when she became agitated. “She’s already in a bad temper because of her parakeet—Mom’s hair got all tied up in knots on the drive here.” He looked around the kitchen. “Does Uncle Shortstack still have his gun?”

“None of your business.” Biscuit closed the oven door. “And don’t upset me, either.” She was sixteen years older than Jasper, but was often intimidated by him.

The boy dragged a stool to the counter and stood on it, and a moment later he had fetched a coffee cup down from a cupboard and dipped it into one of the pots of accommodation water.

“Pea brain!” exclaimed Biscuit, slapping his hand so that he let go of the cup. “You don’t drink that! You want to look like your grandfather’s radiator that time?” Jasper just stared at her blankly, for in fact he hadn’t even been born yet when Hanky Hoffman had blown a radiator hose in the driveway one Christmas morning and all the water had come gushing out of the bottom of the car.

“Never mind,” Biscuit went on, “look, it’s not ordinary water.” She reached into the pot and fished out the coffee cup, and when she raised her arm out of the water her hand was dry and the cuff of her shirt was loose and undarkened. “And the cup’s dry too.”

Jasper’s eyes were wide, and he immediately tore a paper towel off a roll on the counter and dipped the sheet into the liquid; and when he lifted it out, it was still bright and dry.

“That’s what goes in the fishbowls?” he said.

“They’re not fishbowls tonight, and get out of here. If you’ve got to upset your sister, see that you don’t do it in the dining room.” We don’t need the Haviland china plates broken, she thought.

As he slouched out of the kitchen, she stirred the accommodation water with one finger; it was like stirring very fine fluffy sand, and her finger was dry and uncooling when she pulled her hand back. At least we know the seed water worked, she thought. And now we’ll once again have a fresh batch to top up the original bottle with.

The bottle, replenished with newly extended substance every year at Thanksgiving, had reputedly been in the Coldharp family since the sixteenth or seventeenth century, and the story was that the original quantity of otherworldly water had been wrung from Dante Alighieri’s cloak after he returned from his comedy.

Biscuit could hear Jasper in the living room complaining to his mother about her, and then Amelia telling him, “Be quiet or I’ll give you something to be quiet about!”

A moment later Amelia stepped into the kitchen, carrying a Saran Wrap-covered pot of mashed potatoes and shaking her head. “You slapped him?”

“No. Pulled him away from the stove by his shirt, and then—oh yes, I did, I slapped his hand. He wanted to drink some of that.” She nodded toward the pasta pots.

Amelia nodded and set her pot on the stove. To Biscuit she always looked as if she had just got out of bed in spite of having a bad cold—her nose and eyes looked as if she’d been rubbing them, and her lips seemed stretched to cover her prominent teeth. And today her thin blonde hair did look as if someone had been tying it in knots. As always, she was wearing a sweater that hung down to her knees.

“I wish you’d let him,” she said. “He wouldn’t be able to watch that damned TV if he spent the evening in the bathroom.”

The TV set in the living room was analog, and when broadcasting switched to digital in 2009, Shortstack had taken the aerial antenna down from the roof and sunk it into the ground in the yard. Now the TV worked, but only got grotesque black-and-white cartoons with characters nobody ever heard of.

Biscuit shrugged. “It’s just for one night a year.”

“But he dreams about it for months after.” Amelia looked at the two big pots on the counter. “We should get the accommodations out; the sun’s going down. Oh—does Shortstack still have his gun?”

“Your son asked me that. Why?”

“Jackalyn’s parakeet starved to death, and she won’t admit it—she insists it’s just real sick, and she wants your brother to put it out of its misery.”

Biscuit opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, “Its nonexistent misery. With a .44 magnum.”

“Whatever it is. Better than beating the thing with a shovel. Let’s get the accommodations.”

The door to the garage was on the other side of the stove, and Biscuit crossed to it and pulled it open. Six boxes were stacked on the cement floor by her Chevy Blazer, and Amelia opened one and lifted out a two-gallon fishbowl on her spread-fingered hand.

“Heavy,” she said.

“Ten bucks each on Amazon,” said Biscuit, hoisting another box. “But you remember a couple of the cheap ones broke last year when . . . everybody got too excited.”

“You mean Jackalyn. She’s better now.” Amelia touched her tangled hair with her free hand. “Mostly.”

Biscuit nodded dubiously and stepped back into the kitchen.

Amelia hefted the fishbowl in both hands and followed her. “Oof,” she said, adjusting her grip. “Where are all the cats? I’d think the smell would have ’em all in here.”

“Out in the yard, on the roof. They’ll be back in tomorrow, but they’re scared of the accommodation water.” Biscuit set her box on the floor, lifted out the fishbowl and slid it onto the counter beside the big pots. “Sometimes I think the cats are smarter than we are.”

She dipped the fishbowl into the strange water and lifted it out full. “Jasper!” she called. “Jackalyn!”

Jasper came running in and Biscuit handed the bowl to him. “Put this on the dining room table, and do not play with it,” she said firmly, and when he had shuffled out of the kitchen she went to the garage to fetch another box as Amelia was handing her filled bowl to young Jackalyn.

Biscuit heard Amelia say, “Oh, that’s nice, that’s mature. I just hope somebody spits in your accommodation one day, young lady.”

They had finally got all six of the fishbowls filled and arranged at various places on the long dining room table, and Biscuit had shed her apron and was uncorking the last of four bottles of Zinfandel wine, when she heard a car pull up outside; it roared in neutral for a moment, and then went silent.

“That’ll be Judith,” Biscuit said. She set down the bottle and hurried through the living room to the front door. Peering through the screen, she saw her older sister, Amelia’s mother, unfolding her lean frame from a middle-aged Honda and looking closely at Amelia’s Volkswagen. She must have known that it was her daughter’s car, but Judith had had a Volkswagen of her own stolen years ago, and, on the assumption that the thieves had changed the look of the car, had ever since viewed every Volkswagen with suspicion.

Biscuit was dismayed to see that Judith was now opening the trunk of her car and lifting out a foil-covered casserole dish, even though Biscuit had called her earlier and told her not to bother. Looking over her shoulder, back into the living room, she called, “Everybody remember the napkin routine!”

Various voices from the dining room acknowledged her.

Shortstack was just now shambling into the living room from the hall, his gray hair slicked down and, even from across the room, smelling sharply of Vitalis. He was wearing shorts and buttoning a long-sleeve shirt. “One day,” he said, pausing to yawn, “I’m going to actually eat one of Judith’s casseroles.”

“Better you should drink the accommodation water,” said Biscuit. “Jackalyn wants you to shoot her parakeet with your magnum, by the way.”

“Good, good. You noticed a cushion missing from the back porch sofa? I cut it up and made a silencer with the foam rubber. Nobody’ll hear a thing.”

Biscuit shook her head tiredly. “That’s swell. Judith!” she added then, for her burdened older sister had kicked open the screen door. “We’ve already got the accommodations set out, and the turkey should be ready any minute.”

“Excuse me for not being here to help,” snapped Judith. “I had a colitis attack.”

Shortstack nodded. “I daresay. When is Nana likely to—”

“People arriving!” came a nervous call from young Jasper.

Biscuit left Judith to take her casserole to the kitchen and hurried into the dining room.

The prisms hanging at the western window were revolving on their strings, casting spots of colored light across the walls and over the tense faces of Amelia and her two children, and the water in the fishbowls was glowing pink. As Biscuit watched, grimacing faces formed in the bowls, and she tried to identify them.

There was Uncle Scuttle, who Amelia refused to sit next to because he had wrecked her Barbie town when she was eight; and across the table two emerging faces were recognizable as Judith’s husband Hanky and his sister Anemone.

Down the table a face was rapidly opening and closing its mouth in another of the fishbowls, and Biscuit guessed it was her father, John, called Papa by everyone. He had died only three years ago, at the age of eighty-seven, and even though he had been increasingly vague during his last years, it was still disturbing for her to see him like this. She walked slowly down the room, hesitated, and then set her cell phone on the tablecloth next to him, marking her seat.

By the window a gray face with enormous eyes coagulated into view in another fishbowl, and even from the far end of the room Biscuit recognized Grandpa Coldharp. He had died more than a decade before she was born, and though everybody said he had been a fine man, his ghost was able and inclined to remotely goose and pinch women, and Biscuit was glad she’d be seated far away from him. She saw that Amelia apparently felt the same way, for she had set her purse on a chair at this end of the table.

“Jackalyn too,” said Biscuit. “We don’t need that.”

Amelia nodded, her closed lips looking tighter than usual. “Old beast.”

“I cast a horoscope today,” announced Judith from the living room doorway, her narrow hands twisting the front of her long black dress. “The stars are all in an uproar.”

“They’ll have to wait,” said Biscuit, hurrying back to the kitchen to turn on the microwave oven. She punched in two minutes, which ought to be enough time to reheat the rolls and gravy, and then she pulled open the oven door.

Shortstack wandered into the kitchen then, and he obligingly lifted the wide aluminum pan with the turkey in it onto a table against the wall. He opened his mouth, but whatever he intended to say was forgotten when a loud metallic clattering echoed from down the hall.

Nana’s stair-traverse wheelchair platform was evidently misbehaving. Biscuit ran down the hall to the base of the stairs just in time to see the platform clank to an abrupt halt at the bottom of its track, throwing her mother forward against the restraining bar. The whole apparatus shook for a few seconds, then fell still.

“Don’t tell me,” gasped the old woman, “they’re here, aren’t they?” When Biscuit nodded, her mother went on, “All of them together radiate—over-amp the damn motor.”

Shortstack had followed Biscuit down the hall, and he wrestled the restraining bar up as Biscuit pulled the wheelchair forward.

“Your father too?” growled Nana. “Tell him to leave the silverware alone.”

Biscuit nodded, and rolled her eyes at Shortstack as she got behind the wheelchair and began pushing it down the hall. Their father had liked to demonstrate his psychokinetic ability to bend spoons without touching them, though to be fair he had not done it since his death.

Shortstack veered off to the kitchen to bring in the turkey as Biscuit wheeled her mother straight down the hall into the dining room. Young Jackalyn was agitated, muttering to herself about the absence of ice-cream this year, and Biscuit warily eyed the plates on the table, ready to hustle the girl out of the room if they started rattling.

Judith was still standing in the doorway. “The stars indicate that we won’t all be here next year,” she said, speaking more loudly, for Jasper had turned on the TV in the living room behind her.

The surfaces of several of the accommodation bowls vibrated into conflicting rings, producing faint voices that said, “What, what?”

“I said we won’t all be here next year!” said Judith, more loudly still.

Amelia had fetched the rolls and set them on the table, and Judith told her, “Not by my chair, please! I’m gluten intolerant.”

“What, what?” piped a couple of the ghosts, and another answered, “She says she’s hootin’ and hollerin’.”

“My illnesses,” Judith went on determinedly, “make me wonder if it’s me whose chair will be empty. But we’re all together tonight. I—”

“She sure is,” agreed another of the ghosts. “Who are these people?”

Shortstack had found a platter to slide the turkey onto, and now he shuffled in and clanked it down on the table.

“I pray for you every night,” Nana told Judith. “You should pray.”

“I say affirmations,” Judith told her.

“Half of ’em are Asians!” exclaimed another of the ghosts.

Biscuit had heard some of Judith’s affirmations, on occasions when her older sister had spent the night at the house—I am overflowing with joy, and I live in balance and harmony—and Biscuit was tempted to suggest one or two new ones for her.

She pushed her mother’s wheelchair to a place on the other side of Papa Coldharp’s fishbowl.

“Oh,” said Nana, glancing up and down the table, “not my good napkins!”

Judith was looking elsewhere, so Biscuit gave her mother a sympathetic look, then said, “I’ll go get Jasper,” and stepped away.

The lights hadn’t been turned on in the living room, and Jasper was sitting only a yard from the television screen, his face white in the glow.

Biscuit paused to look at the screen. Awkwardly drawn figures with exaggerated heads and triangular bodies that diminished down to tiny feet waved and moved their heads repetitively; the only sounds, at the moment, anyway, were grunts and an occasional giggle.

Behind her, Judith strode into the kitchen, her footsteps sounding angry.

“Jasper,” Biscuit said, “come on, we’re going to start eating.”

The boy looked up at her; his mouth sagged open and a giggle exactly like the one from the television shook out of it.

“Stop it!” she said, louder than she had meant to, and she barely stopped her raised hand from slapping him.

He laughed in his normal voice then, and said, “Aunt Biscuit’s scared of the cartoons!”

“Get in there,” she said, bending down to shake his arm. He got to his feet, still laughing at her, and she pushed him ahead of her into the dining room. Judith was right behind them, and when Biscuit crossed to her place beside Papa Coldharp’s fishbowl she saw that Judith was carrying the casserole she’d brought.

Beside Biscuit, Papa Coldharp’s bowl vibrated softly, and she heard his voice say, “Hi, Biscus.” It had been his jocular greeting to her for years, before he had forgotten everything.

Surprised at this evidence of alertness, she turned to blink at his fishbowl. “Hi, Dad,” she said.

Shortstack had hacked the turkey into uneven pieces with a butter knife. Amelia had brought in her bowl of mashed potatoes, and she helped herself to a big spoonful and passed the bowl to Jackalyn, who pushed it across the table toward Biscuit without taking any.

“What was the yelling in there?” Amelia asked Biscuit.

“Aunt Biscuit’s scared of the cartoons!” said Jasper again, then popped a whole roll into his mouth and made grunting noises.

“I wish you wouldn’t watch that junk,” Amelia said to him, and Nana shook her head in stern agreement.

“Moron dreams of buried people,” she said. “David should shoot that TV set.”

Shortstack raised a glass of wine. “Right after I shoot a parakeet, Ma!”

Biscuit glanced anxiously at Jackalyn—the girl was frowning at Shortstack, but the dishes were still motionless.

Amelia and Shortstack and Nana had served themselves spoonfuls of Judith’s casserole, and Biscuit gave each of them a meaningful glance as she took a serving of it herself and then ostentatiously unfolded her napkin and laid it in her lap. She sighed, remembering her mother’s exclamation: not my good napkins!

“Ulna’s not here!” said her mother then, staring at a fishbowl on the other side of the table from her; its accommodation water was clear, with no face in it. Ulna was her younger sister, who had died six years ago at the age of sixty-eight.

“And the sun’s down,” noted Judith. “She’s not coming.”

Biscuit bit her lip and reached across her father’s fishbowl to touch her mother’s hand in condolence. Sometimes the relatives just stopped being able to come back, and there wasn’t really any consolation in the customary statement that the person had moved on.

“She’s moved on,” spoke the water in her father’s fishbowl.

Uncle Scuttle’s fishbowl jittered wordlessly, and Shortstack got up and crossed to the telephone. When he had returned to his seat and sat down, he leaned back and closed his eyes, his right hand holding a pen over the message pad. After a few seconds his hand began moving, dragging the pen over the pad, though he still had his head against the back of his chair and his eyes were still closed. Uncle Scuttle’s bowl went on churning.

“Are you going to put my parakeet out of its misery,” said Jackalyn in a low voice, “or shoot the TV?”

Without moving or opening his eyes, Shortstack said, “We’ll dispatch your bird right after dinner, sweetie. I made a silencer for the gun, it’ll be very quiet.”

Jackalyn’s fist was white on her fork. Biscuit guessed that she didn’t like being called sweetie.

Judith was frowning down the table at the girl, and Biscuit saw Nana sigh and then surreptitiously slide half of her serving of the casserole off her plate and into her lap. Aromatherapy was one of Judith’s enthusiasms, and she was so devoted to it that she used the aromatic oils in her cooking, which, Shortstack had once observed, was like cooking with transmission fluid. Biscuit had taught her relatives how to make noise with cutlery and then, when Judith wasn’t looking, slide half of whatever she had cooked into the napkins on their laps, and presently do it again with the other half. Later on they could ball up the napkins and one by one make some excuse to leave the table briefly, and step outside and toss the napkins onto the roof. Every year Shortstack had to climb up on a ladder and take them down.

“So what does my brother say?” Nana asked Shortstack. Uncle Scuttle had been mute since his death, never having got the trick of vibrating the water surface like a speaker diaphragm, and could only communicate by way of Shortstack’s automatic writing.

Shortstack lowered his head and opened his eyes. “Uh . . . make a shrine for Ulna,” he read off the pad. “Forgive and forget, bygones be bygones.”

Amelia scowled down the table at Scuttle’s fishbowl, and Biscuit knew she was remembering how Scuttle, Nana’s younger brother, had wrecked her Barbie town more than a quarter of a century ago and to this day had never apologized.

Judith too was now looking toward Uncle Scuttle’s fishbowl, possibly holding a grudge about the Barbie town debacle on her daughter’s behalf, so Biscuit slid half of her own serving of the casserole off her plate onto her lap. Immediately the fishbowl of Judith’s husband, Hanky, began vibrating.

“Hibiscus!” came his frail voice, “what do you—what do you think you’re—Judy, she—”

Judith’s head whipped around. “What did you do?”

“I—spilled some food,” Biscuit said, “is all.”

“Judith,” began Nana, “Don’t—” but Jasper interrupted her.

“They all do it!” the boy said. “They all dump your casserole into their napkins!”

Judith shoved Amelia’s shoulder back and peered at the napkin on her lap.

“I’m sorry, Mom, I—” Amelia began, but Judith silenced her with a wave.

“Don’t try to apologize unless you’ve got a lot of time,” she said. She looked past her daughter at Jackalyn. “Has your brat done it too?” Turning her glare back on Amelia, she added, “Where did you get that Volkswagen?”

“Don’t call me a brat,” said Jackalyn in a dangerously low growl.

Judith swung her attention to Jackalyn again, and she pointed at the scraps of casserole that had not yet gone into the girl’s napkin. “You will eat that, young lady.”

“I won’t,” said Jackalyn.

“Judith,” said Biscuit hastily, “it was my fault, I told—”

Judith didn’t look away from Amelia’s daughter. “Do I have to pry your mouth open and shove it in, like I used to with your mother? Eat it!”

“I won’t!” repeated Jackalyn, and with a loud crack her plate sprang into several pieces that spun across the table, knocking over a couple of wine glasses.

Biscuit jumped, but it was because she had felt a sudden cold pressure slide up her ribs, under her shirt. Across from her, Amelia had squeaked at the same moment and now looked away from her embattled mother and daughter to glare down the table.

“Touch me again,” she yelled at Grandpa Coldharp’s fishbowl, “and I’ll pour you down the toilet!” The water in Uncle Scuttle’s bowl was jittering again, and Amelia picked up a roll and tossed it at him. “And when are you going to apologize for wrecking my Barbie town?”

Hanky, not having followed developments, was still repeating in his birdlike voice, “Hibiscus, what do you think you’re doing? Hibiscus, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Shut up,” Biscuit yelled at him, “you . . . you dead busybody!”

Jackalyn covered her face with both hands. “Everybody shut up!” she yelled.

And with a staccato series of cracks and thuds, all the plates on the table broke, the bowl of mashed potatoes split and spilled its contents, and the ragged turkey rose spinning from the platter and fell heavily onto the tablecloth, knocking over two more wineglasses and one of the bottles. Red wine began glugging out of the neck. With the pop of an exploding lightbulb the illumination in the room diminished by half.

Beside Biscuit, the surface of the water in her father’s fishbowl was high concentric rings. “Stop, stop!” piped her father’s voice, overriding Hanky’s broken-record droning. “Dad, Judy—ah—”

He seemed to sneeze, and Biscuit jumped again as all the silverware on the table leaped into the air in twisted shapes. Nana just sighed and flicked her husband’s fishbowl with her fingers. From down the hall came the noise of her stair-traversing wheelchair platform banging to the top of its track and down and back up again.

Hanky was still monotonously asking Biscuit what she was doing, and Jackalyn had pushed her chair back and fled from the room in tears, closely followed by her brother; but now she had returned and was standing in the living room doorway, holding a shoe box and glaring at Shortstack.

“You put my parakeet out of its misery now,” she said loudly.

Shortstack looked up and down the devastated half-lit table, then smiled at the girl. “Dinner does seem to be over.” He pushed his chair back, lifted his balled-up napkin from his lap and got to his feet. “I’ll meet you out back.”

“Oh God,” said Biscuit. She balled up her own napkin, but since Judith was glaring at her, she just dropped it on the floor under the table. “May I be excused?” she asked the room at large, and, getting no answer except a somewhat anxious wave from her mother and the repeating question from Hanky’s fishbowl, hurried down the hall to pull the plug on the stair-traversing wheelchair platform motor.

The platform had come entirely free of its track and was canted against the wall across the hall from the stairs, and several framed pictures lay on the floor with their glass broken. Biscuit stepped over the platform and unplugged the smoking motor.

Shortstack came up the hall behind her and pulled open his bedroom door. “My napkin’s on the roof,” he said, looking at her empty hands.

“Mine’s under the table.” Biscuit stepped into the doorway and said, “Jackalyn’s bird is dead already.”

Shortstack’s tiny room had one window facing out onto the backyard slope, but he had long ago boarded it up to make room for more bookshelves. The Murphy bed he had built for himself was folded into the wall, and he was just straightening up from a chest he kept beside his old white-painted desk.

“Oh,” he said. “Then I won’t need this.”

He was holding what looked like an oversized metal megaphone, but when she looked at it more closely she saw that it was a broad foot-and-a-half-long cone wrapped in aluminum foil, with the walnut grip of a pistol sticking out at the narrow end.

“What the hell,” she said.

“It’s my .44,” he told her, “but the big extension is a silencer. My own design. Usually you can’t silence revolvers, since there’s a gap where noise comes out between the cylinder and the barrel, but the foam rubber from the sofa covers everything.”

He bent to put it back, but Biscuit said, “No, you still need to shoot the bird. She let it starve, is what happened, so she’s pretending it’s still alive, but sick.”

Shortstack blinked, then nodded. “Right. Okay. I can participate in her delusion.”

“Wonderful.” Biscuit sank into a chair by the door. “Some Thanksgiving dinner, huh?”

“Shorter than usual, but memorable,” he agreed. “What did Scuttle do to Amelia’s Barbie town? In fact, what was her Barbie town?”

“Oh—do you remember that desert tortoise we used to have? Smudge?”

“Sure. Big as a truck tire.”

“Well, Amelia—this was in '93—Amelia was eight and I was two, and she had set up a little village with all her Barbie and Ken and Skipper dolls, with toy cars, and houses with little kitchens and closets full of doll clothes, you know, and one afternoon Uncle Scuttle was drunk, wandering around in the yard, and he saw Smudge and took it in his head that it would be nice for Smudge to visit Barbie town.” She leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. “So he held Smudge upright and walked him over across the grass to the Barbie colony—but just as Smudge got there, maybe because Scuttle tilted him ninety degrees, Smudge started pissing. Like a firehose. It wiped out Barbie town, bodies flying everywhere, cars turning over . . . I had bad dreams about it. Amelia has never got over it. We had to wear latex gloves to bury all the Barbies and Kens and Skippers.”

“Really!” Shortstack stepped past her into the hall, carrying his gun. “I’d have been twenty-six—same age you are now, I believe. How did I miss all this?”

“I don’t know. Weren’t you and Judith all astronomical then?”

Shortstack preceded her down the hall toward the dining room, and he nodded and looked back. “Sleep all day, watch the stars all night. And then Judy decided they were alive or something.”

“Hard to tell what is and isn’t sometimes.”

She followed him out onto the back porch and down the steps to the yard, shivering in the early evening breeze and wishing she’d grabbed a sweater.

Jackalyn was crouched on the grass a few yards in front of her, and in the yellow glow from the back porch light her taut, tear-streaked face hung over the opened shoe box and, nearby, a pale lump with two twiglike feet.

“That your bird?” Shortstack asked her.

The girl looked up at him and nodded.

“You can fill a shot glass for him at dinner next year,” Shortstack said, not unsympathetically.

He set his feet widely and lowered the barrel, holding the grip firmly in both hands. With one thumb he pulled back the hammer, and there seemed to be a lot of solid clicks as it went back to full cock.

He pointed the wide cone down at the lifeless parakeet, though Biscuit didn’t see how he could aim, and for several seconds the wind in the mesquite trees was the only sound. Then he sighed, and Biscuit saw his trigger finger tighten.

But, no doubt due to some error in his acoustical calculations, instead of muting the explosion of the gunshot, his foam-and-foil apparatus monstrously magnified the sound. A wall of compressed air punched Biscuit off her feet and she sat down on the grass; she could hear nothing over the ringing in her ears, but she saw Jackalyn spring away, and Shortstack had dropped the encumbered gun, which was now on fire. Bits of foil and foam rubber spun in the air, and where the dead parakeet had lain was a wide, raised hole in the lawn. Biscuit turned toward the house and saw that all the windows on this side were now missing their glass.

It’s a mercy, she thought, that the nearest neighbor is half a mile away.

She was still staring at the house when Amelia and Judith came running out onto the porch, their mouths working, and Biscuit waved to show them that no one was hurt; but the two women came hurrying down the steps, still visibly speaking and now gesturing back toward the house.

Biscuit got shakily to her feet, pointing a finger at her left ear and shaking her head; and she waved toward the house and raised her eyebrows.

Amelia grabbed her elbow and pulled her in that direction. Biscuit couldn’t hear her own footsteps on the boards as she was marched up the steps and across the porch. She looked back over her shoulder and, before she was hurried through the dining room, saw Jackalyn laughing at Shortstack, who was stamping on his flaming gun.

Amelia tugged her into the dim living room, where Biscuit saw that Jasper was again sitting cross-legged in front of the television. She glanced at the screen, where several of the same, or similar, sketchy figures moved their limbs mechanically. The cartoon mouths changed shape, but she couldn’t hear if they were producing words now or just giggling and grunting as before.

Amelia bent down and shook her son’s shoulder. The boy spared her a glance devoid of recognition and quickly looked back to the screen. Amelia turned to Biscuit, her mouth opening and closing with obvious urgency; then, seeing that Biscuit couldn’t hear her, she crouched and touched the screen, her trembling finger following one of the cartoon figures.

Biscuit peered bewilderedly at the figure, which was gesticulating more than the couple of others. Unlike the others, it seemed to be “looking at the camera”—addressing the viewers.

Amelia pointed at her distracted son and then again at the cartoon figure, nodding wide-eyed at Biscuit as if to ask if she understood; as if pleading that she understand.

The arms of the sketchy character on the screen were now bent so that its squiggle hands were at the sides of its oval head, and it was rocking back and forth—in distress, Biscuit thought.

Again Amelia pointed at her son and then at the cartoon character.

Suddenly the ringing in Biscuit’s ears seemed louder, and her chest felt hollow and terribly cold. She reared back away from the television, pressing her fist against her open mouth.

She nodded at Amelia to show that she understood at last, and then she pushed past Judith and rushed back through the dining room—catching a glimpse of her alarmed mother still at the table—and leaped clear over the back steps. The ringing in her ears had abated enough so that she heard her shoes hit the grass.

Jackalyn was crouched over the ripped-up hole in the dirt, flicking at it, apparently hoping to find some fragment of her parakeet that she might bury, and Shortstack had gingerly picked up his gun and was tossing it from hand to hand. It appeared to be just a smoking bundle of exploded foil and blackened foam rubber.

“Shortstack!” Biscuit yelled, but he didn’t look up. She stepped forward and waved her hand in front of his face, and when he turned to her she pointed across the yard and beckoned.

She had to wave in that direction again, with a frown and exaggerated nod, before he shrugged and followed her.

A cable hung from the roof-peak of the house to the dirt by the back fence, where Shortstack had buried the detached aerial television antenna, and Biscuit mimed shooting a gun at the spot where it entered the soil. This end of the yard was only dimly lit by the porch light, and Shortstack shook his head uncomprehendingly, so with both hands Biscuit pointed an imaginary gun at the cable and then jerked them up as if in recoil.

“Shoot the cable!” she shouted.

He raised his eyebrows and nodded, then tilted his head as if to ask if she were sure. She nodded, emphatically.

Shortstack held up a hand, then crouched and laid the gun on the grass so that he could firmly set one shoe on it. He dragged the gun out, scraping it against the sole of his shoe, and most of the mess of foam rubber and foil came off.

He straightened up, cocking the revolver and then pulling the trigger while his thumb let the hammer down gently; satisfied that the mechanism still worked, he gave Biscuit a puzzled half-smile and then cocked the gun again and aimed it at the point where the cable entered the dirt.

“Fingers in your ears!” he said loudly, and when Biscuit had hurriedly complied, he pulled the trigger. Biscuit heard the report as no more than a solid but muffled thump, but this time there was a blinding flare as flame leaped a yard out of the muzzle and burst from the gap between the cylinder and the barrel.

Unable to see past the smear of retinal glare in her vision, Biscuit took her fingers out of her ears and waved her arms out in front of herself until her hand brushed against the cable. It swung freely, no longer moored to the dirt.

She gave her brother a thumbs-up, then turned and hurried back into the house, her eyes raised so that she could see where she was going by peripheral vision. This time she heard her feet hit the boards of the steps and the porch, and she heard her mother call from her wheelchair, “Will someone tell me what’s going on?” as she ran past the table and into the living room.

“In a minute, Mom!” she called back.

Her vision had cleared enough to see that the television screen showed only snow now, and she didn’t hear any voices from the speaker. She blinked around the darkened room—Judith, she saw, was standing by the front door, her wide eyes glittering in the television screen’s glow; and Amelia was sitting on the floor cradling Jasper, who was sobbing.

Biscuit crouched beside them, and was able to hear Amelia saying, “You’re okay now. Never mind. You’re okay.”

Jasper hitchingly caught his breath and said, “They pulled me in! Mom! I—didn’t know how to get out!” He noticed Biscuit then, and said gruffly, “What’re you looking at?”

Amelia looked up at Biscuit and said, “You did something?”

“Shortstack shot the TV cable,” said Biscuit, still panting.

“And Jackalyn?”

“Trying to find pieces of her parakeet.”

Amelia nodded.

“I think it’s time we called it a night,” she said.

“Glad you could come,” said Biscuit emptily.

“Thanks for having us,” replied Amelia in the same tone.

Judith pushed away from the door and walked unsteadily toward the dining room. “I need to get my casserole dish.”

“I’m sorry about . . . that,” Biscuit called after her, but her sister just waved without looking back.

“Maybe we should all have just eaten the damn stuff,” said Amelia quietly as she got to her feet and helped her son stand up.

“I don’t think it would have helped much,” said Biscuit, straightening up, “to have us all vomiting, in addition to everything else.”

“I suppose not, on the whole. Come on, Jasper, let’s fetch your demented sister.” She took hold of his shoulder and led him out of the living room into the somewhat brighter dining room.

Biscuit sighed and twisted the television’s on-off knob till it clicked, and the screen’s glow shrank to a bright dot that slowly faded. She turned and peered at the shadowed objects on the mantel till she identified the glass box with Grandpa Coldharp’s oracular penny in it, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it down and carried it with her into the dining room, where Judith had picked up her dish and stepped wordlessly past her. A few seconds later the front door slammed.

Biscuit sat down at her place and set the glass box in front of her on the tablecloth. Some sounds like throat-clearing came from the fishbowls, but none of them ventured to comment.

Biscuit’s mother was looking at her with raised eyebrows, and her father’s accommodation water stirred uneasily.

Biscuit saw that her wine glass was one of the few that had not been spilled, and she picked it up. “Shortstack shot Jackalyn’s dead bird,” she said, “and Jasper got possessed by the cartoons in the TV, but Shortstack shot out the cable and Jasper came back.” She tipped up the glass and drained it. From outside came the sound of Judith’s Honda starting and shifting into gear.

“I’m glad of that,” said her mother. “Don’t let him hook the TV up again.” She looked around at the broken windows and dishes and the spilled food and wine. “Another rout.”

Biscuit shrugged and nodded.

Amelia came in from the backyard, herding Jasper and Jackalyn in front of her. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Nana,” she said, and after a nod to Biscuit she pushed her children on through the living room.

After a few seconds of silence, Biscuit gave her mother a cautious glance and said, “I’m sure Shortstack can carry you up and down the stairs till we get the machine working again.”

“It’s wrecked?” her mother asked, and Biscuit nodded glumly. Between them, Papa Coldharp’s fishbowl stirred, and rings formed on the surface of the accommodation water. Biscuit saw that a crumb of stuffing from the abused turkey was floating in it.

The front door closed again, and shortly Biscuit heard the whir of the Volkswagen engine.

“Odd kids she’s got,” she observed.

Her mother shook her head. “God help us, every one.”

Shortstack shambled in from the back porch, picking bits of blackened rubber from the barrel of his .44. He sat down and nodded to his mother and sister and his father’s fishbowl.

“Good,” came her father’s frail voice from the water, “to have spent some—time with you all again.”

“Yes,” said Biscuit, and “Likewise,” said Shortstack, and their mother closed her eyes and nodded.

“I believe,” the water in the fishbowl went on, “it’s time now, to—go gentle!—into that good night. Not rage, rage.”

Her father had always liked Dylan Thomas’ poetry. “You really think?” asked Biscuit. Shortstack had paused in prying at a black blob on the muzzle of his revolver.

“Dump us all,” her father’s voice said. “The—original bottle too.”

Biscuit looked across his fishbowl at her mother. The old woman’s eyes were still closed, but she nodded and reached out to touch her husband’s fishbowl. “Go gentle, dear,” she whispered.

Biscuit picked up the glass box and shook it, and as always the penny came up heads, for yes.

Her mother leaned over to look at it, then sat back and nodded again. “It’ll be strange to have only a few people at Thanksgiving.”

“They’re enough,” said Biscuit.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

There’s always some elderly relative at family gatherings who misbehaves or says the wrong thing—before long it’ll be me, if it isn’t already—and it could only be worse if they still attended after their deaths.

In the first sentence of Anna Karenina, Tolstoy famously said, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” He didn’t comment on haunted families, and I figured that such families would be uniquely weird—with domestic difficulties only exacerbated by the necessities of dealing with eccentric family members both living and dead.

This is as close as I’ll probably ever get to writing a James Thurber story like “The Night the Bed Fell on Father”—“The Night Shortstack Killed Amelia’s Parakeet.”

On-Site for the Apocalypse

Ryk E. Spoor

Chapter 1.

The screaming alarm cut through the soothing hiss of the shower like a bucket of razor-sharp shards of glacial ice. Dana Kisaragi jumped, cursed, yanked the curtain aside while blinking through a trickling mask of stinging shampoo, grabbed a towel to get the worst of the water off one hand, and then snatched up the phone that—per regulations—had to be within ten feet of her person at all times. "Kisaragi."

"Conference with Central, five minutes," said the coldly anonymous voice of Directives. The line immediately went dead.

For several precious seconds, Dana stared uncomprehendingly at the phone. Five minutes? With Central?

Then the time limit registered and she cursed. She leapt back into the shower and scrubbed the suds out of her hair. Dammit, dammit, no time for conditioner really, just rinse off!

A minute and a half gone, and she was toweling herself furiously. Jesus. Central? The last time she'd been at OSC Central (formally, Obtain, Secure and Counter Central Control and Command) had been three, four years back, and aside from routine reports every month, she hadn't had—or expected—any communication with Central ever again. She was a local field agent and director; any assignments would come to her through her state, regional, or national offices—in that order.

Two minutes left. Hurry, hurry! You did not keep Central waiting. Not ever. And the idea that whatever it was had leapfrogged three full levels of control and command? To her? "I'm either winning the lottery, or I'm in it so deep I'll need goddamn scuba gear," she muttered as she yanked on a shirt and grabbed a suit coat. They'll only see me from about the stomach up . . . I hope. No time for anything fancy, she snatched up her pajama bottoms, pulled them on, and dashed for the basement.

She reached the blank wall, touched the fourth brick from the left and stared into what looked like an old nail hole. For an instant she thought the automatic ID system had crashed, and wouldn't that be just peachy, being locked out of the secure area so that she couldn't respond to an emergency alert? But then the hidden door unlocked, the wall slid back and aside, and she dashed in, sliding into her seat and slamming her hand down on the scanning pad that would verify her access to the system.

The screen lit up almost instantly, and she felt an inward shudder of trepidation. There were no fewer than five people looking at her, one of them Sir John Covenant, the Head, the Big Boss himself, and the other known members of the Board.

She tried to show no emotion. "Agent Dana Kisaragi, reporting as directed." The words came out slightly breathy; all that scrambling had left her just a bit winded.

"Agent Kisaragi." Covenant's photographs had shown the long, handsome, darkly-tanned face and graying black hair, but couldn't convey the sharp, deadly calm of his gaze. Dana felt as though she was being dissected as his eyes flicked from one point to another, surveying her image.

The controlled, expressionless face creased in a sudden smile so shocking that it was nearly as startling as the alarm had been. "So sorry to disturb you in the bath."

Well, I don't think he'd be saying anything so light if I was in trouble. "No problem, sir. I assume it is very urgent if Central is calling me."

The smile was gone. The other four shifted uneasily, looking at something out of frame; she could see Director Pitt biting her lip in unconscious worry, and that brought the fear back, though not for herself.

"Extremely urgent, Agent. You have a situation in your territory; a Class Seven manifestation, with a Breach Factor of at least seven."

She nodded, felt her mouth open and heard her voice say, "Details, sir? I will deploy at once but I need anything Central has," while inside she was wrestling with the implications of those words. Class SEVEN? There hadn't been a paranormal manifestation over five since she'd joined the OSC (or, more accurately, been recruited by them) twelve years ago. The scale only went to ten! And a BF of seven was terrible—it meant it might be uncontainable, multiple groups of witnesses, first responders on site, the whole nine yards.

Of course, now she understood why Central had called her. Class Seven meant something that posed a direct and grave threat to the public on a city-wide scale.

"Location is at Twin Pines Strip Mall, approximately seven miles from your current location," Covenant said. "As for details, all we have is what we have managed to glean from the ongoing local reports and some camera footage we could access due to our ongoing Omniscience initiative. Before you head into the field, I want you to watch this."

The screen flickered, shifted to a grayscale camera view of a mall parking lot, obviously from one of the increasingly ubiquitous security cameras. For a moment, nothing happened; then she saw the pavement buckling, rising in the center, and suddenly something tore its way free of the earth and rose, a writhing column of living stone a dozen feet across.

"Christ on a crutch," she murmured. "What the hell is that?"

"Dhole," answered the voice of Jacob Thorndyke. "From our older records—no recorded sightings of them in modern times, though Lumley referred to them as ‘chthonians.’ He presented a rather distorted version of them in a few of his stories. It's assumed they had subconscious contact through metawave entanglement, as with other similar correspondences between fiction and reality."

"Can it be dealt with by conventional means?"

"Generally, yes, though deploying appropriate firepower in an urban or suburban area is problematic. They're generally considered a Class Six to Seven threat by themselves."

"So, wait, the problem isn't the dhole?" Dana felt her train of thought derail. "Are you–"

"Watch," John Covenant said.

The giant rock-worm was turning and twisting, as though searching for something. Then, as it began moving towards one end of the parking lot, a brilliant light shone from the opposite side of the screen, and the creature halted and curled around.

"What. . . ?"

The light faded, and for a moment the rock-worm was still. Then without warning it lunged.

Something became visible then for an instant, jumping out of the way of the creature's attack, and again, as the monster slewed around, trying to catch the whatever-it-was. Dana had the general impression of a human figure, but one moving far too fast and leaping impossible distances.

The next sequence of events was unclear; whatever the newcomer was, it was out of the frame, high up or otherwise out of sight. Then the dhole was hammered down, armor shattering like glass under an impossibly powerful blow. It gave a mighty convulsion and juddered into stillness.

That tiny figure—too blurred and indistinct in the grainy security footage to make out in detail—stood atop the immense body, then appeared to give a bow or salute and . . . disappeared.

The screen blanked, and returned to the view of Central. For a moment, everyone was silent.

"What the hell did I just see?" Dana said finally.

Sir John Covenant's smile was chill, devoid of any but the slightest touch of humor. "That, Agent Kisaragi," he said quietly, "is what we want you to find out."

Chapter 2.

"Gilbert! Hughes! Talk to me!" she said, as she entered the office.

Warren Gilbert looked up from the multiple-screen displays on his desk, the glow from the screens emphasizing the premature gray at his temples; other than that, his hair was still solidly dark brown, just one shade darker than his skin. Alan Hughes, tall, slender, and distracted-looking behind his glasses, shook his head.

"It's a disaster," he said, a combination of relish and resignation in his voice. "Completely without precedent, at least in the files we have clear access to."

"I just finished a call from Central; they don't know anything about it either."

"Holy crap," Gilbert said. "Central? Seriously?"

"With Sir John C in the front seat."

"That'll get you up in the morning," Hughes said wryly, a glint of humor in his green eyes.

"Enough chit-chat, what are we dealing with?"

"Well, the worm-thing—dhole, if I searched the records right—is bad enough. There's no way to cover this one."

God, it's already worse than I thought. "No way at all? We've got full authority, if we have to we can go to air-dispersed amnesia and mnemorphic agents . . ."

"Absolutely none," Gilbert said flatly. "Twenty, thirty years ago, maybe, but today we've got the problem that everyone, everywhere, is connected. There's already at least four separate independent videos of most of the event, and two of those were up on video-sharing sites before we even got the full alert details. We can probably obscure some of the details of the event, including our real unknown, but even that's iffy."

Boy, I am not looking forward to my next debrief. "All right, enough of that, we're not going to waste time talking about what we can't do. What about the dhole? Did you get the wheels turning on that?"

"Josephine?" Hughes asked, looking at Agent Morales, who had just put down her phone.

Josephine gave a thumbs-up. "All under control, Agent Kisaragi," she said. "We've got authorization through our local assets in the military and intelligence communities, so we'll be able to take possession of the remains and get them sent to the nearest containment facility. Though it seems pretty dead."

"Seems could be the most important word there," Dana said, with an inward shudder. She'd seen more than one OSC agent torn apart by something that seemed dead. "Make sure the team on-site understands the priority is that it stays dead, or at least inactive, until it's contained. If they have to they're authorized to use any force necessary."

Josephine nodded and picked up the phone. Dana turned back to Gilbert. "All right, now, our 'real unknown' as you put it. Brief me. What are we dealing with?"

He and Hughes exchanged glances and despite the seriousness of the situation they were grinning. "Oh, chief, you are so going to love this one." He touched a button and swung one of his screens to face her.

A video came on, this one in full color, though shaky. "Wow, I've never been in an earthquake before," came the high-pitched voice of the owner, a girl from the sound of it. "That was a—whoa!"

Another jolt caused the camera to swing wildly, but even in the blurred images Dana Kisaragi could see the pavement of the parking lot buckling. "What . . . Oh my GOD!"

The rock-worm erupted from the lot as in the prior video. What most impressed Dana was that the girl who owned the phone kept filming. Really, did people have no sense of self-preservation? Dana was damn sure she would have been running for shelter as soon as the monster popped up. Apparently the immortality of youth was just as insulating today as it had been when she was young.

But this time, unlike the prior grainy footage from the security camera, the camera swung around to look at the blaze of light. A figure appeared—jumped? Ran? Stepped? The light didn't make it possible to tell how it had gotten there—and Dana found herself gaping, even as the shaky cam view steadied and zeroed in.

It was a girl—no more than sixteen, maybe younger—dressed in one of the most outlandish outfits Dana had ever seen, something like a cross between a suit of armor and a wedding gown, if both the gown and armor had been designed by a fantasy artist with a love for cheesecake.

"STOP!" the girl shouted, in a voice so loud that it drowned out the grinding noise of the rock-worm and silenced the screams throughout the mall. She extended her hand and pointed at the dhole. "I am the one you seek, monster! Mystic Galaxy Defender, Apocalypse Maiden the First, Princess Holy Aura, reborn as sword and shield, weapon and wielder, mistress of souls and stars! You have threatened innocents and brought fear to this world," she continued, "and for that, this Apocalypse Maiden says that you," the extended hand pointed, and then turned to a fist with the thumb outthrust, turning until it pointed to the ground, "are going down!"

"Pause," Dana heard herself say. She stared at the screen in disbelief. "I did not just hear that. I am not seeing this. I am going to close my eyes, and then I will wake up, and I will be at home."

But when she opened her eyes, the same enigma—impossibly beautiful and equally incomprehensible—glowed on the screen before her.

"I know how you feel, Agent," Hughes said. "Believe me, when we first saw this vid we did a full search for movie companies, pranksters, any way this could possibly be fake, but it's real."

"Can you lock down all the good video?"

"Maybe. We're trying, Agent, don't think we waited for you, but hell, you know how easy it is for someone to download something and copy it. Even if we think it's locked down, it might pop up again a week later."

"Do the best you can. All right, show me the rest."

The girl—"Princess Holy Aura", and who the hell comes up with a name like that?—leapt aside as the rock-worm charged, jumped with superhuman speed and strength that allowed her to easily evade the creature's strikes. Then there was another glow of light, and something materialized in the girl's hands.

"Pause." Dana studied the image. "Naginata, or with that design might be called a bisento. Interesting. Continue."

The ending was as abrupt in this video as in the first, except this time it was clear that the girl had—somehow—delivered a single blow hard enough to take the creature down. Jesus, how strong would you have to be to hit something that hard?

"That's pretty much it," Gilbert said. "She does that little salute, as you see, and then just zips off."

"Track her. I want to know where she went. We don't know how she got there, but if she ran off, even that fast, someone will have seen where she went."

"Already on it. We're tapped into the local police, got special agents out looking. That'll take a little time, though, since a lot of our witnesses might have seen nothing more than a blur or movement; she's going way too fast for anyone to get a good look at, and she's bouncing over rooftops in the last few frames, so most security cameras haven't got a prayer of catching her."

She nodded, frowning. "Thoughts?"

"Well . . . she's clearly trying to help, not menace, the population. At least so far," Hughes said.

"Yeah, but the whole thing could be a setup," Gilbert countered. "Remember the 1982 San Diego Vampire case."

"You mean she, or her associates, could have set up the dhole situation as a way of making this Princess character look good," Dana said. "Very possible. There's a lot more examples than 1982 in the files. One of the more common gambits of high-level threats, in fact; most of them aren't stupid, they'd rather have the society protecting them rather than attacking them, at least until they're ready to strike. Anything else?"

"She wasn't as confident as she looked," Josephine said from her desk.

"Elaborate."

"Run it back and watch. Her hand shakes a little when she's doing her monologue and gesture, and when that weapon pops into her hand, her body language shows she's pretty startled. And she doesn't strike her pose and bow right after taking the worm down; if you watch, she's clearly startled by how fast it fell."

"Well," said Hughes, "That'd kinda fit if this is her first outing. You said even Central didn't know what was going on, right?"

"Either they don't, or they want everyone to think they don't," Dana said. She was quite conscious of just how far Central might go to manipulate things. "But for what it's worth, no, I don't think they've got any more clue than we do."

"Crap," said Owen Marsters, the fourth member of her team; he'd been quietly working on something in the corner. "Then that means we're dealing with complete unknowns. Which means if she doesn't make another appearance on her own, we've got jack-all chance of finding her, unless someone recognizes her from the vids. But the right wig and makeup, you can change a lot."

"That's more than just makeup, though," Hughes said. "There's something about her, even in video. I wonder what it was like, seeing all that in person?"

Dana Kisaragi shrugged, then took a breath. "Well, we may not be able to see that ourselves, at least not yet," she said, "but we'd better get on the scene. Gilbert, Hughes, come with me."

She looked at the screen. "Time to do a postmortem on an abomination."

Chapter 3.

The giant rock-worm's corpse stank already, though not merely of ordinary decay; there was a sulfurous, metallic reek that emanated from it and sent creeping shivers up Dana Kisaragi's spine. She tried to push the memories it triggered back down into the past where they belonged. This had better not have any connection to . . . that.

But that smell, and the eerie sense of wrongness that pervaded the entire area around the thing, argued otherwise. She might have to go back and ask . . .

She repressed a shudder. No. This is not even close to bad enough to justify that.

She focused on the activity around them. The major problem was that the thing was just too big. It wasn't going to fit on a flatbed trailer; hell, it was so big that even if they could get it to a train they'd need special variances just to transport it. "We're going to need a dispensation from Central," she said to Hughes.

"Don't see any way around it, Agent," he said, nose wrinkled but otherwise acting as nonchalantly as though he was looking at nothing more than a rather large boulder. "Unless they're willing to take the specimen in pieces. I figure we could transport it in about eight, ten sections."

"I'll find out what they want. I'll recommend we go that route, though Thorndyke will undoubtedly scream about it. He wants his samples as intact as possible."

"Then he'll need to pull one of our little miracles out, and you know the rest of Central won't like that."

"I'm glad it won't be my decision on that." She went towards the scaffolding that had been hastily erected around the body and went up the ladder to the top. "Gilbert, Marsters, you got anything?"

The two investigators were wearing full-coverage body suits with padded feet, to minimize their effect on, or exposure to, the dhole corpse. Gilbert, hearing her question, rose carefully from his position near the bottom of the craterlike wound in the thing's head, and made his way up to her before pushing back his helmet.

"Well, we have something," he said, "but nothing that will lead us directly to our pretty little enigma." He gestured at the wound. "The implement doing the damage was an edged weapon, as we saw. But."

She repressed a roll of her eyes. Warren Gilbert liked his dramatics, and that was a flaw she could tolerate as long as he got the job done—which, so far, he had. "But?" she asked, as he obviously expected.

"But look at this wound. It's an impact wound, though there's definite signs of that blade cutting into the thing at the bottom. Still, if it was just the blade doing the job, you'd expect that she'd have just stabbed that oversized spear right into the thing, doing a regular Ahab on it. Right?"

The implications were frightening. "Instead it hit more like . . . what, a wrecking ball?"

"A wrecking ball with an edge, yes. An immaterial wrecking ball, based on the visuals. You could get something like this if you had just the right kind of detonation at the point of near-impact, but then I'd expect more fracturing over the interior surface than I'm seeing. Right, Owen?"

"Best as I can make out, yeah," Owen replied, his voice somewhat muffled by the suit. "That little girl didn't just smack it with her silver stick; somehow she hit it as though she had a fist the size of a minivan."

"You got any trace from the wound?"

"A little. A very little. But yeah, some, Agent. I think it's actually silver, which again doesn't make much sense. Silver's a really great metal for a lot of things, but as a weapon? It sucks balls."

"Make sure you put that down in your report," Kisaragi said. "I'm sure Central will be impressed with your technical description."

"Sorry, Agent. I know, be proper and formal whenever possible. This is just such a crazy situation . . ."

"Understood. Just make sure you write this all up right. We've got no chance of containment—seeing this site pretty much put the nail in that coffin—so we've absolutely got to convince Central that we're doing the best we can otherwise."

Gilbert and Marsters nodded soberly. Gilbert glanced around cautiously, then said in a very low voice, "Is it . . . true? What they say about what they do with the really bad failures?"

It's not true . . . in some ways it's worse. But you're not going to hear that from me. "The really bad failures don't usually get a chance to find out what Central will do with them," she said casually. "Anyway, get those samples analyzed ASAP. I need anything and everything we can get out of—what is it?"

Investigator Marsters had stiffened, staring at something. Then he slowly straightened up, and she could see his grin even through the foggy faceplate. He pointed down.

At first she just saw an expanse of cracked stonelike exoskeleton, covered and blotched with multicolored ichor from within the thing. But then she became aware there was a pattern within the material, two patches that looked different.

"Well hello there," Gilbert said. "Our friend left some footprints, it looks like."

"Yes. That's about where the video seemed to show her standing. Can we get a cast of that, or just photos?"

"I think I can spray-cast them pretty well; she landed with a fair force, looks like," Marsters said.

A motion caught her eye. Looking down, she saw Josephine Morales waving at her. "Sounds good. Keep at it. It'll be a bit before we get the word on how they're going to remove this thing."

She slid down the ladder, using her hands to control the drop. "What've you got, Investigator?"

"Made some progress on the tracing," Morales said. She hooked a thumb at one of the patrol cars behind her. "Local police had the same idea, and they got lucky. Several witnesses saw something going by over the rooftops, really fast. Eventually the sightings drop off, but they were generally in a straight line." She held up her phone, which displayed a dotted line extending from the strip mall. "I'm guessing since the sightings ended, that our mysterious friend lives somewhere in this area, a couple miles from the mall." She tapped a several-block region of the city.

Dana repressed a sigh. This was, after all, considerable progress. "Start working on that area immediately. We need to find reasonable candidates for this . . . Princess Holy Aura."

"Exclude commercial stuff?"

"No," said Dana, after a moment's consideration. "I know that would make it a lot easier, but I have to presume that she could be either using a commercial setting as a base of operations, or could actually have a direct connection to one of the commercial enterprises present."

"It'll be quicker if I can use full authority to force my way in and check things out, and then just memwipe them afterwards if it's needed," Morales pointed out.

"I really don't like doing that . . . but we do have full authority." Dana considered pros and cons. Ultimately, speed won out. This was a hot trail, and it wasn't going to get any warmer if they took too long. "Do it if you have to. Try more conventional approaches first."

"Yes, Agent."

A faint buzzing noise became audible. She looked around, then glanced up.

A small object was drifting around in the sky, circling the site.  Remote-controlled drone?

She swore. "Take that goddamned thing down!" She was tempted to shoot it herself, but it had been a while since she'd been to the range, and missing in the middle of a heavily inhabited area could have all sorts of not-fun consequences.

One of the black-armored locals—a riot cop, she thought—raised their modified shotgun and fired. Struck by the "beanbag" round, one rotor of the drone shattered and the craft spiraled down to crash on the blacktop a short distance away.

"Morales, get that drone and track it. I want to know who was sticking their nose in." She turned to the cop and nodded. "The drone must have been almost fifty feet up. That was a hell of a shot with a beanbag, Officer . . . Rogers?"

He smiled from under his helmet. "Thank you, ma'am. Done a lot of practice with it."

"Paid off, obviously. Good work."

Inside, she was less cheerful. Technology's advancement kept throwing curveballs at anyone trying to control the spread of information. First it was radio, then it was television, then the Internet, and now independent, high-resolution camera drones affordable by the man on the street. Ah well, we'd already accepted this wasn't really containable.

Things seemed as well under control as she could have expected, and getting answers was going to take time. She took out her phone and dialed a secret and very secure number.

Time to find out just how Central wanted their giant rock-worm shipped.

Chapter 4.

Dana leaned back in her chair, feeling a combination of relief and frustration. "So, in summary, we've got nothing."

Hughes shrugged. "Not nothing. The dhole was shipped without incident. We actually managed to obscure the more detailed information about our unknown. We narrowed Holy Aura's last-seen location to within several blocks. We verified that the metawave spike seen by the local monitors coincided with that flare of light and Holy Aura's appearance. We've got a really good description of her from the various videos and some idea of her capabilities."

He raised his hand placatingly as she began to speak. "But yes, nothing new. It's been a couple of months. The trail's pretty much cold now."

"We had three possible matches to Holy Aura," Josephine said. "But none of them panned out."

Dana nodded. They'd actually interrogated the three girls, then used combined amnesia and mnemorphic treatments to make them forget the interrogation and replace the time with more mundane memories. None of them had had the faintest idea of who Holy Aura was, and all their movements before, during, and after the event were accounted for.

"There have been a few minor metawave spikes in the region since, but they've been way down compared to the first, and they haven't lasted long enough to localize," Gilbert said, touching a couple of charts. "And nowhere near enough of them to get a signature that we can compare, so we don't even know if these spikes have anything to do with our sparkly enigma."

"Anyone else have ideas? Central seems to have accepted we couldn't possibly have managed containment, but I still hate coming back to them for the two-month report and saying that we've gotten effectively nowhere."

Her team looked at each other, then Marsters shrugged, spreading his hands. "Sorry, boss, but there's only so much we can do without new data. Last time a dhole showed up was like a hundred and fourteen years ago, so if it takes something like that to get our Princess to show up, we've got a lot longer than a few months to—"

The alert chime rang, loud enough to make them all jump. "Metawave spike," the calm, automated voice said. "Current metawave reading five thousand, two hundred twenty seven and rising."

Christ Almighty, Dana thought. The automated alert's threshold was only twelve hundred, and the manifestation two months ago had peaked at less than two thousand five hundred. "Speak of the devil. Gilbert, Hughes, talk to me, can we get a bearing and location?"

The two had leapt up from the table and dashed to their stations. "If it keeps up, we'll have it nailed down," Gilbert said with certainty. "Amplitude graphing now. Hughes, I'm getting a concentration in Block Twelve, do you match?"

"Twelve, roger. Getting vectors with the tuned antennas . . ."

"Got it," said Josephine Morales. "Emergency calls are spiking from Palonia Mall."

"Verified," Hughes said. "Palonia Mall's near the center of Block Twelve, and the vectors intersect there."

"Grab and go, people, grab and go!" Dana snatched up her field case and sprinted for the door. "Maybe we can catch this one before it ends!"

*****

"Stand back!" Dana made sure both her people and the locals were clear, then took the proper stance and fired three times at the clear glass door.

The bullets did not ricochet, but nor did they do what they should have, which was blow the door to a mass of safety-glass cubes. Instead, Dana saw three faintly-smoking blobs lying just before the door; the slugs had been simply stopped, as though they'd hit three feet of ballistic gel compressed into an inch.

She stepped forward, then jumped back with a curse. She heard her people swear, and actual screams from a couple of the locals.

For just an instant, something had plastered itself to the entire glass front of Palonia Mall's entrance, something huge and glistening and black. Evilly-glinting eyes, venomous green or blood-red or gangrene-yellow, opened across the surface, accompanied by a myriad of drooling, fanged mouths that leered and champed and gnawed at the glass, leaving white-scraped marks on the smooth windows before whipping back into the depths of the Mall.

"Holy Jesus. Hughes, did you get that?"

"Got it. Not sure I wanted to, but got it. Transmitting over secured line now."

"What the hell was that?" Masters demanded, voice shaking. "The metawave meter went nuts."

"I don't know," Dana admitted, trying not to look as frightened as she felt. The sheer malevolence of that momentary appearance was terrifying. "Have we got confirmation of Holy Aura?"

There was a concussion that shook the ground, making the glass ripple across the mall front. "Confirmed," Morales said. "Images sent match our prior manifestation."

"Holy shit," Masters said, staring at his portable instruments. "Metawave readings are nine thousand twenty!"

Dana almost said that was impossible; only one manifestation in the modern era had ever reached that level.

But she'd never heard of anything like this, either.

Without warning, brilliant white light erupted from within Palonia Mall, so bright and pure that it erased color, leaving only sketches in charcoal and mist. For an instant—just an instant—Dana thought she heard a note of music, inexpressibly vibrant, triumphant, joyous, and felt a thrill go down her spine. It was light and music that eradicated the horror and vileness of the prior manifestation, that denied that monstrous power and stood against it, that called to a part of her that desperately needed to hear that Song, to embrace that Light.

Then it was gone; the Mall was once again just a structure of glass and steel and concrete, filled neither with terror nor transcendence. There was a click, and the doors burst open, people stumbling, fleeing outward, crying or staring in wonder or horror.

Her training said they needed to control the exodus, get the people into proper debriefing conditions. Even if there was no way to contain this breach, understanding what had happened here required that they interview everyone they could.

But this was a flood. Normally a breach might have one, two, or up to half a dozen witnesses. How many people were in a mall like this at peak? Thousands? She had five, including herself, plus the local first responders. OSC had sent her reinforcements after the first incident, but they'd left after a month. Look for key witnesses and get hard data, she decided. This was beyond normal practices.

"Listen up, everyone," she said, gathering her people to the side of the exodus. "We're never going to get interviews with everyone. Hughes, Morales, I want you to get security camera footage from every angle you can, plus anything our witnesses upload to the Net. Marsters, Gilbert, you come with me." She looked at the mass of terrified people and shook her head. "This is not going to be fun."

Chapter 5.

Dana cradled her head in her hands. God, I'm exhausted.

The aroma of hot, fresh coffee wafted to her. She looked up to see Hughes standing there, holding out a cup.

"Hughes, I could marry you."

"Marie would probably object," he said with a smile. The circles under his eyes showed that he wasn't really any better off than she was. "Though we'd probably see more of each other than Marie and I do."

She took a sip, then another, and sighed. "OSC and marriage isn't usually a great combo unless both of you are in the same division."

He shrugged. "I didn't have much of a choice. You?"

She looked around. Gilbert was hunched over, studying a screen with bloodshot eyes. Owen Marsters was still seated at his desk, but his head had lolled back and he was snoring. Josephine was in the interview room with the who-knew-how-manyth interviewee.

"No," she said finally. "I was . . ." She snorted. "I was a would-be private investigator. Stuck my nose into something that looked interesting and damn near lost my head. And I can't talk details because no one but me's cleared for what happened."

"Tell me about it. Or rather, don't, because same here. Well, I was a cop myself, but other than that, yeah."

She gestured for him to sit; his glasses flashed opaquely as he did. "So what've we got, anything?"

"Central's being damn quiet, for one thing. We sent them the initial data and I haven't heard a peep out of them in, what, sixteen hours?"

That wasn't good. They should at least have gotten info on whether that thing they'd seen had been in the database or not. "Great. I'm betting they're sending in State or even Regional forces now. Take over the whole thing."

"Heh. I say let them have this one. It's wayyy too hot for us." He glanced down at his notes. "That thing we saw was huge. Witnesses are unreliable and all, but combining the testimony we're looking at something that had to be whale-sized or bigger, but with no fixed shape. Fully sapient, it spoke, and every single witness agrees the thing wasn't just threatening physically; they all felt the thing's hostility."

"Residual metawave survey get anything?"

"We got some signatures out of it, since we were on-scene, but like I said, Central's given us zip-squat."

"That 'Princess Holy Aura' beat it?"

"As far as anyone can tell. Witnesses say she led it quite a running battle, then seemed to get caught—and then blew it into mist with pure light."

"Timing fit with the high metawave spike, right?"

"Yep. The spike peaked at ten thousand four hundred twenty-seven, averaged among the three meters we have."

"Ten thousand. Mother of . . . I don't think we have any readings in the modern era that went that high." Except one, but he's not cleared for that.

"None that I know of, anyway. Though we both could be not-cleared for anything like that."

"She must have been on-site. Did anyone get anything out of the security cams?"

"No dice," Gilbert's voice said. He plopped into another chair, running a hand shakily through his curly hair. "Well, I can say that she appeared somewhere in the north wing of the mall, because she didn't show up from the others. But something blew all the monitor cameras in the north wing and even scrambled the data for up to an hour before the manifestation."

"What? Are you saying it was deliberate?"

"Based on timing, it happened no more than a couple of minutes after that black thing first showed up, and only affected cameras and their storage. So yeah, deliberate."

She frowned. "So this Princess Holy Aura—or, possibly, an ally of hers—is capable of delicate manipulation of metawave forces? Was there a metawave spike linked to that event?"

"Good guess, Agent. A small one, would've been impossible to pull out of the noise if we didn't have good timing data to work from. Maybe two, three hundred."

"That's not all that small, Gilbert," Hughes said.

"Well, no, not for our normal stuff, but compared to the rock-worm, our magical princess, or that monster, it's way down in the noise."

"Interesting. Can you show me a profile of all the spikes?"

"Here, let's take a look at them on your terminal." He brought up the graphs. "As you can see—"

Her phone buzzed; her hand yanked it out automatically. "Kisaragi."

"Agent Kisaragi," came John Covenant's cultured, even tones, and she straightened to ramrod stiffness, eyes widening. He's calling me direct? What the hell?

"Yes, sir?"

"We have a . . . situation."

"A . . . situation, sir?"

"Yes. At the time you experienced your latest incident, multiple of our secure lockdowns simultaneously attempted containment breach. That is why we have not had time to respond to your queries."

Lord. That can't be coincidence. "Understood, sir."

"However, that's a minor issue."

"Multiple simultaneous breach attempts are a minor issue?" She was so stunned by this that she omitted the usually-reflexive "sir" at the end.

"In this case . . . yes." Covenant's voice was grim. "He wishes to speak with you."

It felt as though a vise of spiked ice had just enclosed her chest. "Him? You mean—"

"Subject 10-2197."

She swallowed. She was vaguely aware that both Gilbert and Hughes were staring at her with concern. "I . . . no, Sir John, I will not."

John Covenant did not reply for a moment. It was possible, she thought, that it had been literally years since anyone had so bluntly refused an obvious request.

When he did speak, his voice was sympathetic . . . but edged in iron. "Agent Kisaragi, I understand your reluctance. I, myself, would prefer not to have any contact with 2197, nor allow anyone else to do so. But he insists that it is vital. And he will speak with no one else."

"Did you ask to whom it was vital, sir?"

"I'm afraid we did, yes. His response was 'oh, to her, of course. And perhaps a few billion others.'"

She swallowed. "It will take me—"

"We're authorizing special transport. You'll be here at Central within the hour."

As she lowered the phone, Gilbert touched her shoulder. "Agent? Dana, you look terrible. Are you all right?"

"Central's sending special transport," she whispered. "For me."

"What? Oh, crap, they can't be blaming you for—"

"Blaming?" She stared at them, and suddenly realized what they were thinking. "Oh, no, I'm not in trouble. No. Or  . . . well, I am, but not like that." She took a breath, then picked up the cup of coffee and drained it. "I'm just suddenly in much more demand."

Hughes' glasses glinted again, the eyes narrowed, and he suddenly nodded. "Something happened at Central. Something you're cleared for and we aren't."

"Got it in one."

"Son of a . . ." Gilbert grimaced. "So we proceed without you?"

"And hope I come back. This might not be safe." It won't be. It never is.

"You'll come back. This group of misfits would never work for anyone else," Gilbert said; she could see the worry in the fine lines between his brows.

"I'll try. Look, just keep up the investigation. No matter what happens at Central, we still need answers. See if anyone saw Holy Aura depart, see if we can trace her. I'm a little more convinced she's on the side of the angels, but that doesn't change the mission. She's an unknown and we need info."

"Count on us, Agent."

"Now I'd better go down and get ready. Special transport doesn't wait."

Chapter 6.

"This is far as we come with you, Agent," Captain Eneru of Special Containment Force 6 said.

She stared up at the huge black metal door. It was composed of an alloy that only OSC knew how to manufacture, and was emblazoned with a series of warning symbols that, if she hadn't known what lay beyond the door, would have looked like someone had simply thrown every possible hazard up at random, from the radiation trefoil to the eye-in-triangle that indicated metawave-mediated telepathic threats.

Then the words penetrated. "What? But no one's allowed inside containment alone—"

"Sir John's orders, Agent." Eneru's long face seemed to lengthen with disapproval under his visor. "I protested, ma'am, but he refused to change the directives. We're to stand guard outside and be ready to act if something untoward occurs."

Meaning that if I come out and they have the slightest doubt about me in any way, they'll gun me down with everything they have. She noted with trepidation that SCF-6 wasn't armed solely with conventional or even super-advanced weaponry; one of them, Sergeant Collins if she remembered right, was holding the unmistakable silvery blowdryer-crossed-with bazooka shape of OSC-SE-231, a squat handled globe with cooling ports on the side and a massive barrel. SE-231 was the most powerful hand-carried weapon OSC had ever recovered and put back into service; she had no real idea where it came from, but she did know she'd seen a practice firing of it a few years ago. She wasn't even sure the isolation barrier she was facing would stand up to it.

Oddly, the sight of it was a tiny bit more reassuring than it was terrifying. They're taking this seriously.

But still . . . "Sir John?" she spoke to empty air. "Are you certain about this?"

John Covenant's voice answered immediately from the grille near the isolation barrier; the associated small screen showed his image clearly. "Agent Kisaragi, I sincerely wish I was not. However, 2197 has initiated contact only three times previously, as you know, and the one time his request was refused we lost Installation Seventeen—with no survivors. I understand we cannot trust anything he says or does—"

"No, you're right," she said, feeling her mouth going dry even as she said it. "You're right."

"He said he must speak to you alone. No witnesses. No recordings of any kind by OSC. He permits you to bring your phone in and did not forbid you from making a record of your visit." The lean, dark face was tense, and she thought he somehow looked older than he had even two months ago, when this had all started. "I will not order you to do so. I will leave that to your discretion. Just remember what you are facing."

"I have never forgotten that, sir. I don't think I ever will."

His eyes met hers, and for a moment she felt a true shock of understanding in that gaze. "No, Agent; we never do." He nodded. "Carry on, Agent."

She nodded, and turned.

There was a hum and a rumbling clank as the door seals disengaged. The immense doors slid open with the heavy deliberation of armor plate, leaving a space just wide enough for her to walk through. She entered, passing the two-meter thickness of the doors, into the five-foot wide gap between the inner and outer isolation doors. Only when the outer doors had completely shut and the massive lock had re-engaged did the inner seal release and allow the inner isolation door—fully as thick as the outer—to open.

Even now, she hesitated. With that door open, she could sense something ahead of her, a presence that was already alert to her own.

"Please, Miss Kisaragi, come in. You have nothing to fear," a calm, low voice said from the dimness beyond. "I'm so glad you've come."

Hearing that voice again sent a chill down her entire body. She remembered the scene again . . . the distorted, half-destroyed bodies, the warped beams and floor, the sulfurous, metallic tang in the air…

With a tremendous effort, Dana Kisaragi took hold of her fear and controlled it, stepping briskly through the inner portal, halting a few feet past to allow it, too, to seal. It would not open now until she directed it to in the appropriate fashion.

He was seated in a massive chair, almost a throne, behind the triple-layered isolation crystal. His voice could not pass directly through those layers; it was transmitted through a series of microphones and speakers, with multiple types of filters—regular and metawave-based—between the source and the output. The isolation crystal had defenses built into it as well. Within the enclosure, which was a full hundred feet across inside, were various amenities from a high-end bathroom to a well-stocked kitchen . . . all with completely transparent walls.

She did not look directly at him; she didn't need to to know what she would see. Subject 10-2197 was humanoid—very humanoid—but not human, standing well over seven feet tall, built like a superlative swimmer—deep chest, strong arms, straight, lean contours—with a semi-tamed mane of white hair partially covering a crest or crown of red-striped white horns with seven points; his skin was smooth, shiny, and deeply tanned with a faint gray or purplish undertone, and from direct experience she knew was slightly warmer than human . . . and despite its apparent softness and flexibility could shrug off high-caliber rifle rounds without damage.

2197 rose with the precision of a machine as she approached, and gave a bow. "Welcome to my home, Miss Kisaragi," he said. There was the slightest of shifts in the way he said the word home, and she shuddered. In that minuscule delay and emphasis she could sense a rage and hostility that might have matched the malevolence of the black thing at the mall. "How kind of you to answer my summons so quickly."

"Sir John arranged it, not me."

"Yes, he's been wise thus far. Only one serious mistake, and it cost him a mere two hundred fifty-seven lives, plus a few hundred disposables."

"Disposables?"

His head tilted, and he smiled. The smile was not comforting; it was the sort of smile you might expect on a robot that had seen the expression but had no idea of what it was supposed to convey. "Ah. So little you know of your own allies, Miss Kisaragi. And yet you chose them over me, though you knew at least as much about me."

She shook her head; that voice was in her head again, even with the filters. She concentrated and let the nonsense mantras flow through her head; the pressure slowly ebbed. "What I knew about you was enough. Stop trying to mess with me or I'm walking out no matter what you say."

This smile wasn't robotic, but it was no more comforting. "How quickly you have learned, Miss Kisaragi. Though that puerile method of mental protection would do you little good against any opponent of substance."

"I have others. And I am Agent Kisaragi, 2197."

"Tsk, tsk. You insist on a specific form of address and give me a number?"

"I'm not saying your name."

"No." He was somber for a moment. "No, you would not do that. You are no fool. More's the pity."

"What did you want me for?"

A glint of actual humor. "Oh, dear, Dana, that could be taken so amiss."

"If I'd wanted that I could have had it," she said, deciding to throw caution to the wind. She was sick of this fencing, and sick of being afraid of this . . . thing.

He gave a laugh, a quick barking sound that ended almost as it began. "Ha! Yes, you could. But instead you proved more than I had expected. Do you realize how fortunate the OSC was that day, Miss . . . Agent Kisaragi? How few people could have done what you did? I suspect Sir John does. That's why you've never been promoted, after all."

"What? That makes no sense."

"It makes all the sense in the world, Agent. Oh, all the sense in the world. You are necessary for him. To hold me." He extended his hand, and the inner barrier trembled. "Oh, you are not quite what you were, but not quite not what you were. Letting you become an Agent was a terrible risk for dear John, but he had little choice. He's running out of time."

What the hell is he . . . She shoved the question out of her mind with difficulty. This was how 2197 worked. That damnable voice—and if he was out, something much worse—wormed into your head, made you question everything around you, listen to him more, and pretty soon black was white and night was day. "Back on topic. Last warning. You said this was vital."

"Ahh." He sighed then sank back into his chair and steepled his fingers. "Business, then. About eighteen or nineteen of your hours ago, I sensed  . . . something. There was a manifestation of considerable power, yes?"

She considered, but if she didn't go along to some extent her visit was wasted. "Yes. Considerable."

"And what was this manifestation?"

"I think you already know," she said. "Or why demand I come?"

He considered that. "Fair enough as a guess, Agent Kisaragi. Not quite to the mark, but fair. I have an idea of . . . shall we say, the type, or nature, of this manifestation but I know, at least now, nothing of the specifics and I need some sort of objective point to start with. Have you any data—any at all—you could share with me that might allow me to recognize this manifestation?"

She glanced at him. "All right." With a few touches on her phone, she accessed the presentation screen. "Here."

The screen lit up and played the stored clip of the monstrosity in the mall.

Breath hissed from 2197, a sibilant sound of tension and revelation.

"Sounds like you know something."

"A shoggoth," he said finally. "That was a shoggoth."

"What? But—"

"Oh, yes, 'a shapeless congeries of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming,' as Lovecraft once said?" The mouth sneered, revealing sharp fangs. "Human minds touching upon the terror-filled Infinite, brushing the edges of horrors so alien to their world that their very presence can deform and twist nature to their needs, and you think they could even grasp the words necessary to describe this? That is the reality of a shoggoth, the living darkness that watches and hungers, the reason all life that has ever reached sapience throughout your plenum fears the shadows."

His head came up. "But you survived this sight. You were there, Agent. Something stopped the Night-hunger. Something . . . unexpected, yes? A girl-child, not even of an age for a profession or wedding, yes?"

How . . . ?

Her expression must have given it away. He nodded. "Oh, my, my, my. I was right. Agent, you are in grave danger. As is everyone else on this world."

"Except you?"

He chuckled. "Oh, no, no. I assure you, just because I am something you think of as an adversary, do not make the mistake of thinking that means that all adversaries are my friends. Or that those which might be your allies or enemies would be either to me."

He leaned forward in his thronelike chair. "Agent Kisaragi, you must be exceedingly careful. Far more careful than you have been, more than you imagine. The wrong move—in either direction—could spell the literal end."

She was taken aback, a twist of her gut sending acid nausea through her. I think he means it. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that your OSC itself can be a terrible factor in your own world's destruction. It has a mission, and one that it views as good. Perhaps, even, it is good, in some ways, though your judgments of good and evil would rather differ from mine." He smiled again briefly, a true if cynical expression. "But if you simply proceed as their ideal Agent, Miss Kisaragi, you will risk not just you, not just me, not just your team or the OSC, but the entirety of this world."

"Why should I believe you, of all people? You don't even care about this world!"

"Oh, not true, not true. I care a great deal about this world, for reasons you do not yet comprehend—and I have at the moment no need to reveal them to you. But more importantly, I care about myself quite a bit, thank you. Your OSC has, I absolutely confess, managed a superlative job with this little containment facility. It suppresses me rather effectively. Which, if you can follow, means that it makes me defenseless against any threat that is of any significance."

"You mean, if this . . . force you're worried about shows up, even if it broke the OSC, you might not recover fast enough to save yourself."

"Precisely, Agent." He leaned forward, and while his voice was intense and earnest, she—to her surprise—heard none of the usual semi-hypnotic undertones. He was simply speaking to her, with no attempt to influence. "Miss Kisaragi, you are . . . not unique in the world, but possibly so in the OSC. You are the right person in the right position, but you know so little of what you face, or could face. You will be forced to decide how to deal with these forces, and what you do may tip the balance . . . and the obvious actions, or those that come Agency-recommended, may not be the right ones."

"What the hell am I dealing with?"

He closed his eyes and gave a faint smile. "Agent, I have my own agenda here, and of course I can be served by your own actions as well. So there are things I simply won't tell you. But I assure you that what I have said is literally true, and that if you turn this over to other Agents—if you let dear Sir John out there assign someone with more, shall we say, seniority over you? There is not the slightest chance that your world will survive."

Dana Kisaragi met that eerie glowing gaze momentarily, and the chill through her body intensified. He was using none of his powers, overt or subtle; he was talking to her, not playing, and that meant . . . "You really mean it. The whole world. We're dealing with a Class Ten threat."

The head came up, and he looked down at her as though she were a child. "You are dealing with magic, Agent. Let us dispense with the voodoo comfort of your 'metawave' terminology, your belief that since you have found a way to measure it, and to a minuscule extent contain it, you understand it. You understand nothing. This is magic, ancient and powerful beyond your knowledge, and there is Something coming for your world. The girl-child and her adversaries are only the beginning."

"For people who understand nothing we've done well enough securing and countering you."

2197 shook his head. "Because magic is so weak here, yes. The only manifestations you have seen are those supportable by the remaining . . . ambient field, I suppose you might say, or those—like myself—who carry our power within, at least until we can create a link to the world we have entered and draw upon what strength it has."

"That's why we can contain you?"

"Certainly. You—by good procedure, no little talent, and a quite startling amount of luck—prevented me from establishing that link, and thus this," he gestured about him," can restrain me, turn my power back, prevent me from reaching beyond these walls except in the most trivial ways.

"What is coming may throw the gates wide, Agent. Magic may flood back into your world like a destroying cataract, and even if not, the beings that are coming are already linked to a world, one whispered only in your most ancient legends and secret nightmares. It has tried this before; it was one of those attempts, indeed, that made it possible for me to have the potential to manifest.

"But it is not my ally, nor that of any other."

"So you're saying we should be helping the other one. The girl."

"The girl? Ah, yes, Prinkípissa Ierí Ávra, Gōngzhǔ Shèngjié Guānghuán, Alii Pomaikai Uhane, the Ruler-Child of the Sacred Spirit. Or, perhaps, the Child who Rules the Sacred Spirit—translations are so difficult, are they not? Help her, you say? Perhaps, but you know not how delicate the situation is. There is a way of these things, Agent, and if you attempt to change it—in either direction—you could cause the very cataclysm you seek to prevent."

She heard her own frustrated snort. "So what? Are you saying do nothing?"

"Have you not been listening, Agent? I have given you the advice you need. I advocate neither a given action nor inaction. I have counseled you to use wisdom and caution—and given you some quite specific warnings." He leaned slowly back in the chair. "And that, Agent Kisaragi, is all you need to know."

"Dammit, no! What are these forces that are coming? Why are they so powerful they would threaten you? Who's this Princess Holy Aura, and where'd she come from? You can't just . . ."

But 2197 was simply sitting there, eyes closed, the faintest of smiles playing about his lips as she shouted at him. She knew he was quite capable of sitting exactly like that for hours.

With a curse she wheeled around and marched towards the exit. She wasn't sure if the low, mocking laugh echoed from behind her, or only in her head, but she refused to look back.

It was a genuine relief to face the entirety of SCF-6 pointing every possible weapon of destruction at her as the exterior door opened. Eneru was studying readouts as she stood, absolutely frozen, on the threshold.

"Clear," he said, finally, and the whispering sound of collectively released breaths sighed through the corridor. "Come through, Agent. Sir John said you were to be brought to him immediately after the interview, if all went well."

She knew that "well" meant "if Agent Kisaragi was not killed or suborned," not anything about what she might have learned. "Lead on, Captain."

Chapter 7.

Sir John stood as she entered, and then came around to shake her hand. "Agent, thank you. I know how difficult that must have been for you."

She nodded, studying him. She had never been in Sir John Covenant's physical presence before, and she was struck by the strange mixture of predatory confidence and empathy he radiated. He was probably older than he looked, and he looked to be a good fifty-five to sixty, though still very fit—slender, strong, graying-black hair that showed no sign of thinning, with one lock that seemed difficult for him to control just over his forehead. That dangerous, dissecting gaze from piercingly blue eyes both attracted and chilled her.

"Please, sit down. A drink, perhaps?"

"I'm on duty, Sir John."

"Humph. In my day that made no difference. And this isn't a mission at the moment, more a debrief."

She found herself accepting a martini, poured from the shaker by John Covenant himself before he sat down with his own. Dana took a sip and raised her eyebrow. "That's . . . good. Different than any I've had before, somehow. Bitter, but not in a bad way."

He nodded. "You have excellent senses. Not unusual in an agent, of course. Cocchi Aperitivo Americano added to the mix; many decades back it would have been Kina Lillet, but that's been gone a long time. It's the quinine, mostly." He gazed at her across the glass rim. "This could be quite quick, Agent; is there anything you're willing to tell me? Any recordings? Or will we finish our drinks and return to our duties, with myself none the wiser?"

"Just like that?"

"Exactly like that, yes. Highly against procedure and regs, of course, but anything touching on 2197 lies somewhat beyond the pale. So?"

She hesitated. But if she was going to work for the OSC at all, Sir John at least deserved something. "I made a recording. I'll be keeping it sealed for a while, though. In case."

"Your privilege, Agent. But I am gratified you made one. Anything else?"

Agent Kisaragi, you must be exceedingly careful, the voice whispered from memory. She weighed her options. "He wasn't joking or tricking us. He sincerely believes we're dealing with a Class Ten threat."

Sir John sucked in his breath with a hiss that was unpleasantly reminiscent of the being she'd just left. "Indeed. That's most unwelcome news."

"And he says I am . . . somehow . . . involved. I have to be careful, he says." She saw Sir John's steady gaze and decided to be straightforward. "He said . . . if I act as the ideal Agent, I could cause the disaster."

He pursed his lips, gazing at her, then granted her the narrowest of smiles. "You're facing a Class Ten threat and he thinks I'd be unwise to send in larger and more experienced teams, leaving it to a local Agent and her small response force. No, more; leaving it to the judgment and decisions of one person. The one that caught him."

"I didn't catch him. I just helped."

"Really." The word was filled with dry doubt and curiosity. "Well, we can discuss that another time." He leaned back, sipping at his drink; she took one of her own and waited.

Finally he smiled, with a sad edge to the expression. "He gave no guarantees."

"No. Not even many specifics. He knows a lot about what's happening but he's hoping to make use of it. I think he wants me to save the world for him, though."

"What was it from some recent movie . . . ah yes, can't the world stay saved for, oh, ten minutes?" He chuckled, looking into a distance she couldn't see. "You'd be amazed how often the world—at least as we ordinary humans understand it—is in peril."

She swallowed. The OSC existed to protect the world, and she'd heard hints that it was much older than ordinary intelligence agencies, but the way Sir John was talking, she suspected the agency's history was even grimmer than she'd guessed . . . and she'd guessed an awful lot.

"One special Agent to save the world, eh?" Sir John went on, smiling. "Or destroy it, if she guesses wrong. And on the word of a monster trying to protect itself from another monster."

"Something like that, I guess." She squirmed inwardly at the thought of saving the world. It was too big a responsibility. Too big a thought.

Again Sir John sat quietly, gazing into his glass. "I was not so different from you, Agent Kisaragi. Well, yes. I was. But we had the same . . . eye-opening experience, entering a case expecting that we knew what we were dealing with, and suddenly seeing the world as we knew it erased forever, replaced with something . . . awful and terrifying and wondrous and monstrous. Then using all the pathetic skills we had and finding that it was, perhaps, just barely enough. This time. And then being recruited. Yes, I remember that myself, though it was years ago."

"He said I didn't really know the OSC," she said, with a thrill of trepidation.

Sir John sighed. "In many ways, no, you do not. It has not been necessary. May not be, even now." He tossed back the last of his martini and stood. "Very well, Agent. I'm sending you back. I'll get you more resources to work with, but I will leave you in charge."

She felt a rising sense of both elation and panic at this gesture, and took his hand. "Thank you, Sir John."

"Not at all. Just try not to get the entire planet killed." He smiled coldly. "Won't look good on your annual review."

Chapter 8.

"Agent Kisaragi! You're back!"

She found herself unexpectedly warmed by the looks of relief and welcome on all four of her team—Hughes, Gilbert, Morales, Marsters. All of them had stood, smiling, taking a step or two towards her as she entered. I guess working together, especially on this case, has connected us more than I'd expected.

That was of course something not always to be encouraged; the more you were connected to people, the more you were likely to make choices based, not on the mission and rationality, but on the value you placed on those people. The OSC preferred to keep things rational and professional.

Screw that. I don't have time to worry about being professional when I'm dealing with a Class Ten. She smiled back. "Yes, I am, and in one piece."

"So? Anything you can tell us, or is all of it 'die before thinking' kind of stuff?" Morales asked.

"There's a lot of hush-hush, but I can say that Central's sending out ten response teams—and they'll be under our direction, not the other way around."

"WELL now," Hughes said in an impressed voice. "You must have knocked them dead on your visit; that's a promotion for sure."

She displayed her ID case. "Crisis Directorship, full Regional authority, no less."

"Holy crap." Gilbert's salt-and-pepper beard quivered then showed the white of teeth. "And we're your Directorial staff? Promotions all around!"

"Which will last about five minutes if we don’t get results," she reminded them. "They took me out of here on the fast transport but I came back the regular way, so what've you learned in the last day or so?"

The smiles faded. Owen Marsters sighed. "Not much, boss. Agent. That Holy Aura girl zipped out of the mall real fast, and she went high. Not many security cams on the top of the building and most of them were out anyway. Can say that she wasn't going the same direction that she was on her prior appearance."

"So either no stable base of operations, or she's smart enough to never take a direct route."

"I'm betting on the second."

"Safest that way. Anything else at all?"

"Thing was definitely after our Princess," Hughes said. "Witnesses and what recordings we have agree on that. And she worked hard to keep its attention, so there were no civilian casualties—at least no physical ones."

"Psychological damage? Or something else?"

Gilbert pointed to a stack of thumb drives. "Data on there says it's both. I mean, being the witness to a manifestation on that scale is trauma, no matter how you slice it, and the metawave effects . . . that thing was radiating in the psychoaffective bands a lot. We figure two, three hundred cases of metawave-mediated PTSD, at least, and at least a few of those are going to be untreatable in the short term, maybe in the long term."

Dana cursed under her breath. "So a true horror; Lovecraft-type mental damage."

"Makes sense; while you were on your way back, Central tentatively identified that thing as a shoggoth, though it's sure not what I thought a shoggoth was supposed to be like."

She nodded, sat down and sipped at the coffee she'd picked up on the way in. At least Central knew that much. Finally she looked up at the four, who were watching her expectantly. "Thoughts?"

They looked at each other. Finally, Hughes shrugged. "I'm more convinced that this Princess is a potential ally. Sure, it could still be a trick, but . . . hell, if that thing was a throwaway trick, what kind of a disaster are we being set up for?"

She held a quick internal debate. "I can answer you that, anyway. We've got good information that whatever's behind all this rates a Class Ten."

Even Josephine Morales' face went pale; the others looked like ghosts for a moment. "Ten?"

"Ten."

"Fuck me," Owen said distinctly. "And we're the point on this?"

"Exactly."

"Holy Blessed Mother of God."

After a moment of silence, Hughes shook himself. "Well, then, we'd better get to work. Orders, Agent?"

She'd been thinking about that for a while. "Two manifestations within a few miles of each other, both extremely high power and connected by the Princess—that argues that at least for the moment there is a local connection. Concur?"

The others looked thoughtful, then nodded. "Works as a hypothesis," Morales said. "There's an awful lot more of the country they could have appeared in."

"Right. And we were seeing small metawave spikes in the interim, yes?"

"Several, but they were very short and hard to pull out of the noise." Gilbert gave an apologetic shrug. "Without a signature on them we can't even guarantee they're connected, though."

"I'm willing to bet that they are, or most of them are. There wasn't much activity in this area at all until this whole thing started."

Hughes looked up. "Ahh, I see your idea. Since we're getting all the extra teams—"

"Yes. We'll distribute the response teams through the entire local district. Assume the next manifestation's going to happen somewhere close by—maybe another shopping area, a store, a school, something like that." She paused, and thought. "In fact, I've got a real good idea where to concentrate. More on that later. I'll requisition more metawave sensors and we'll saturate the area with them, as much as we can. That way if and when something happens we'll have bearing and distance, at least."

"What about defenses?" Owen asked. "Either of those monsters would've wiped out our entire group if they'd come after us. Can't bet that our princess would get there first."

"Well, the response teams are already well armed and protected. But I'll also requisition some combat-level metawave shielding matrices and anything else you think we need. Give me a list ASAP."

"Will do."

She looked out the window; the summer sun shone, deceptively peaceful. "Next time our monsters poke their noses out of the darkness, we'll have a god-damned spotlight for them!"

Chapter 9.

Dana looked up from her desk as her new office door opened. The fact that it had opened without a knock told her who it had to be, and her gut was already tightening with annoyance before she actually saw the well-trimmed blond hair and square-jawed face of Agent John T. Miller, Special Response Team Commander, multiply-decorated Agent, and major pain in her ass.

"Agent Kisaragi—" he began, with the subtly-impatient drawl that he seemed to feel made him sound both reasonable and superior.

"Agent Miller, are you incapable of knocking when entering your Director's office?" she cut him off.

His lips tightened. "My apologies . . . Director Kisaragi."

"Better." She repressed a sigh. "What can I do for you, Miller?"

"My teams are getting restless, Director. We haven't gotten a decent response alert in all the weeks we've been here."

This isn't really his concern. He's just using this as a lead-up to something much more important. "Miller, the interval between our first manifestation and the second was months. We have to assume it could be the same with the third. We assume there will be a third. There are still metawave spikes seen in the area—but we can't localize them."

"Yes. There's a reason for that, Director."

Ouch. If he knows something and my team hasn't caught it . . . "And that is?"

"Well, to keep my teams from being completely bored, I've had them doing on-the-ground metawave scans—covert, of course—and they started noticing some odd patterns." He gestured at her terminal. "If the Director permits?"

She nodded and stood up; Miller spun the chair out, sat in it, and rolled back to the desk in one smooth economic motion. He quickly accessed a project folder under his team command and pulled up a graphic. "See anything, Director?"

She studied the image. It was an overlay of metawave survey scans on the city surrounding their assumed target area. At first glance, she saw nothing amiss; there were areas of higher and lower metawave concentration, though none of them of any significant level, scattered through the city. This was normal, since there was always a "background radiation level" of metawave energies, usually somewhat higher in heavily-populated areas, and it wasn't evenly distributed, for reasons that the theoreticians were still arguing over.

However, the not-quite-concealed smirk on Miller's face told her there was something out of the ordinary in this image. After a few more moments, she thought she had it. "These areas. Here, here, here, others like them. It's . . . smoother distribution. Looks superficially the same taken in isolation . . ."

"Right," Miller said. "If you had just one or two guys walking around doing a survey, or even if you were a class four or five metawave manifestation looking around for targets, you'd probably never notice anything. The combination of us having installed a huge network of metawave sensors and my having a large number of agents doing active survey sweeps so we could track the shifts is the reason we could catch this."

She noticed the date on the image. Two weeks ago. The son of a bitch has been sitting on this for two weeks? Probably working out what it meant. Probably in his own reports and not in mine, making me look out of touch.

A part of her was grinning at her cynically, saying oh, you expected this kind of politics to stop just because the world might be in danger? The rest of her was just coldly angry.

But expressing that anger wouldn't help right now; she'd deal with Miller's clumsy maneuvering later. "Do we have any idea what it means?"

Miller grinned, the self-satisfied expression of someone getting to show off. "Metawave shielding. Very, very sophisticated, subtle metawave shielding."

"You mean like our wards?"

"Asked Keldering the same question—you know Keldering, he's my resident big brain on metawave stuff?" At her nod, he went on, "anyway, Keldering laughed at that. Seems that our stuff is pretty straightforward, blunt-instrument. Way he put it, we build big walls and cover them with guns, but these things are more like someone built a giant maze and no matter where you enter, you just come out the other side without ever finding the center."

She thought about that a moment. "You mean if there's a metawave spike inside one of those, it's . . . spread out. Distributed over a larger area."

"And maybe even to other separated areas like this, that were built by the same people. So you'll pick up a general metawave spike over the whole region, but it'll be so defocused that you can't localize it."

"I see." She gestured for him to get out of her chair, and sat down when he had done so. Then she looked up at him and let her face go cold. "And you've known this for two weeks?"

"You just had us on standby, Director. You didn't give us this assignment. We did it on our own—"

"I am the Crisis Director for this entire situation, Agent Miller." She rose slowly and glared into his eyes—which were on a level with her own. "We are dealing with a threat of at least Class Seven, and we have reason to believe a Class TEN is behind this. Any information of substance is to be given to the Crisis Director immediately upon receipt of that information."

Miller's expression wasn't apologetic—he wasn't even showing the oh crap that someone should when they'd been caught out. He looked defiant.

"What, Miller? You thought if you came to me with this, I'd be so happy to see some kind of progress that I wouldn't notice? Or I'd leave it aside because I didn't want to get in a pissing contest with you and whoever your supporters up the line are?"

"Your people haven't found anything, Director. Mine, who you just had sitting around on their thumbs, were able to figure this out."

"You know, I'll give you that one point. I should have asked what other things I could have them do, but honestly? The last thing I would have wanted to do is break them up and spread them out doing this kind of work. What if we had had a manifestation while your teams were playing survey crew?"

He opened his mouth and she cut him off with a savage slash of her hand. "But the rest of it? That's pure office-politics bullshit, Miller, and you're playing with this when the world could end up burning? What was the worst thing you ever faced, Agent? Class three? Four? Maybe even a Five? I've had two Sevens, maybe a Seven and Eight, right here, and I don't have time for your crap."

Now his expression was ugly—there was a hint of fear there, awareness that he might have gone too far, but there was also defiance and arrogance and contempt. "What? Listen, Kisaragi, I've been out there face-to-face with things that'd suck your brain out of your eye sockets, psychoactive threats that'd turn you into an automaton, metawave manifestations that didn't even have a physical body to shoot at. I've seen your file, and I know –"

"Shut the hell up." She said it quietly but with such vehemence that Miller cut off. "You haven't seen my whole file, and you're not cleared for that. You haven't the faintest idea of what I've seen 'out there,' so just shut up. You've been going around subtly dismissing me ever since you got here, Miller, and I've had it. You're going to straighten up and fly right, starting right now, or I am picking up that phone and so help me God I will call Sir John Covenant direct about you."

It was interesting to see the shifts in expression that passed over Miller's face. But to his credit, it took only a moment before he had it under control, and there was now very little sign of anger or contempt. "Sir John? Seriously?"

"He put you under my command explicitly, Agent Miller. He wants me in charge. I'm not sure I want it, but I have it, and I'll be damned if people who are supposed to be on my side are going to be a problem. Are you going to be a problem, Agent Miller?"

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them. "No, ma'am. No, Director Kisaragi, I will not be a problem. My apologies, Director."

She nodded. He's still pissed, probably doesn't really respect me much, but he does respect Sir John Covenant, and if he's smart he's probably scared of him. Time to see if I can make this work out better. "Good. I'll ignore the delay, then. Thank you for bringing this to my attention now. This is very good work. I'll note that in my report and give you and your team credit. Anyone besides you and Keldering I should single out?"

A flicker of his eyes showed a hint of surprise, but Miller then switched to a thoughtful expression. "Umm . . . Maybe Agent Harshaw; she noticed the blurring first."

"Think about it and get back to me if there's any others; my next report goes out in, um, two days, so there's a little time. Do you have any more on this? How many places are affected? Anything on their distribution?"

"We're working on that . . . I'll send all the data to your people so they can help out; maybe they'll have some ideas." It was an obvious concession, a peace offering. Not much of one, of course, because she would've just ordered that kind of sharing, but still, he was being proactive.

"Sounds good."

"But . . . we think it's still ongoing. We're pretty sure that there were new areas added in the last couple of weeks."

Ah. "Damn. Someone involved is going around and deliberately making it difficult to impossible to localize them. They're thinking way ahead."

"Either that," Miller said, "Or they already knew they had an adversary that might track them down."

"You're probably right. Okay, Agent, I—"

The scream of the metawave alert sent her out her door and into the main office without a pause. "Talk to me, everyone, what've we got?"

"Major spike, Director!" Owen Marsters was bent over the computer. "Backtracking shows there was a slow rise to high metawave readings preceding it, but then it really took off just now. Metawave sensors pinpoint it at Target One!" He looked up, as did the others, and they were grinning.

"Well, hot damn, Director," Hughes said. "You nailed it!"

"Grab up your stuff and go, people!" she said, but felt her own smile spreading. "That means it's just a couple hundred yards from our door!"

As she dragged her field kit out, Miller asked, "What's Target One, and what did they mean by 'nailing' it?"

"I made a guess—gut instinct, I guess you'd call it. Our 'Princess Holy Aura' is a mid-teen, near as we can tell. The two prior manifestations were shopping malls—one outdoor strip mall, one indoor." She yanked on the armor, made sure the metaseals were secure as she locked it in place.

"So?"

"So I guessed that Holy Aura was going to be at the center, near most of these manifestations. And now that we're into the fall, where are you going to find a fifteen or sixteen year old girl most often?"

Miller was not slow; Agents couldn't afford to be. "A school," he said almost instantly, and his smile held a new note of appreciation. "Thus where you chose your new headquarters."

"We are a couple of hundred yards from Whitney High School, which was the closest high school to Twin Pines and one of two close to Palonia Mall."

She checked her sidearm, then strode towards the door. "Maybe—just maybe—we'll get to catch our target!"

The alarm howled again. "Holy shit," Owen said. "Second spike, as big as the first, and the levels are holding."

"What's the level at?"

"Total metawave levels at . . . holy crap . . . twenty-two thousand."

Miller's eyes were wide as they met hers.

"I'll have my teams there pronto," he said, and his cell was in his hand even before he sprinted out the door.

Her own team was frozen for a moment, staring at her.

She took a breath and waved them forward. "Come on, people," she said. "It's time for us to save the world!"

The End (for now…)

Block Party

Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

The lights were on at the Wayhouse, which was still enough of a novelty that Algaina paused after she'd unlocked the shop door to look at it. Wasn't many got up as early in the day as she did, an' the Wayhouse . . . well, it was a wayhouse, wasn't it? Always had been, back to when the Gilmour Agency ran Surebleak. Wasn't meant but to give a newbie on the street someplace in outta the snow to sleep while they got themselves sorted an' settled.

This new batch of folks'd been in maybe four, five days, an' every morning, when Gaina opened the shop, there was the light. Made her feel a kinda warm pleasureableness, that she wasn't awake alone in the dark.

Well.

She shook herself and turned back to the shop, her thoughts still half on the Wayhouse. According to the neighbors, there were at least four kids living there, but not one of 'em come in to her shop for sweets. Might be they was shy. She wondered if she oughta take a plate o'cookies up, whatever was left over, when the shop closed. Introduce herself. Find out who was awake so early, every day, and what they did in the dark hours.

* * *

Algaina was in the back, getting the batch of sparemint cookies outta the oven, when she heard the bell on the front door ring out, which would be Luzeal, comin' in for her hot 'toot and warm roll before headin' down to Boss Conrad's territory an' the archive project. Luzee was always her first customer, ever since the first day she opened up.

"Be right out!" she called. "Got somethin' I want you to taste."

Wasn't no answer from the front room, which was typical; Luzee needed a cup o'toot to make her civilized.

Algaina closed the oven door, and stepped back into the shop, sliding the tray onto the counter, and looking 'round.

It wasn't Luzee who was her first customer this morning; it was Roe Yingling, who wasn't zackly a stranger—she let him run a ticket, after all—but nowhere near a reg'lar.

Algaina wasn't that fond of Roe, but he was a neighbor, and aside from having loud opinions at inconvenient times, he didn't stint the street.

"Mornin'," she said, giving him a nod. He'd already drawn himself a cup and was sipping it gingerly, wanting the warmth against the cold, but not wanting to burn his tongue. "You're up early."

He nodded around a sip from the cup.

"Word on the street's they're hiring over Boss Kalhoon's territory, long-term labor. Gonna go over an' see what I can get."

"Hadn't heard that," Algaina said; "good luck with it."

"Need it all, an' then some," Roe said, leaning over the pot and topping off his cup. "Body's gotta be quick if they wanna grab a job before a newbie gets it."

That was Roe's biggest and most frequent complaint, right there, Algaina knew. Not that there'd been that much work, the way things'd been fixed before Boss Conrad showed up to sort Surebleak out, which it—and they—surely had needed. Breaking up the old ways hadn't made work so much as it made time and room for 'bleakers to be able to roll up their sleeves and get on with what needed doin'.

The newbies, they'd followed the Boss to Surebleak, and they were a point of contention. So far's Algaina knew or saw, they was just as willing to work as any 'bleaker, an' somewhat more'n others. They come in with off-world skills, certain enough, but they wasn't 'bleakers. They didn't know what work needed done before that other piece o'work could get done, or necessarily how the weather played in—stuff that 'bleakers knew by instinct. Mostly, the work was team-based, 'bleaker and newbie, and plenty too much for everybody.

Still, there was a certain class of streeter, of which Roe Yingling was one, who wanted to have it that the newbies was taking work away from them, an' there wasn't nothing could convince 'em otherwise.

All of which was worth hopin' that Roe got work today.

"You better get movin," Algaina said. "Early worker 'presses the boss."

Roe nodded at her.

"Zackly what I'm thinkin'. Need a couple rolls to have in m'pocket for lunch," he said. "What was that you wanted me to taste?"

Well, she hadn't wanted Roe tastin' her sparemint, she'd wanted Luzee. Still, she'd said the words and he'd heard 'em—an' it couldn't hurt to have another opinion.

"Here go," she said, holding out the tray. "Take one o'them and let me know what you think. Something new I'm thinking about adding in."

He took a cookie—not quite the biggest—and bit into it, eyes narrowed.

While he was chewing, she got his two rolls, and wrapped 'em up in paper against the probable condition of the inside of his coat pocket. He took another bite, and was ruminatin' over it, when the bell rang, and a kid scooted in, let the door bang closed behind her—and stopped, big-eyed, and shivering, taking stock.

Algaina considered her: too young to be out by herself before the sun was up. She was wearing a good warm sweater, pants and boots, but no coat or hat. Her hair was reddish brown and hung in long tangles down below her shoulders.

"Sleet," muttered Roe, not nearly quiet enough for a kid's ears to miss; "it's one a them."

Algaina frowned at him, but he was staring at the kid, cold as she was, an' tryin' to decide if she liked where she found herself.

Of a sudden, a big grin lit up her thin face. She rushed up to the counter, dodging under Roe's elbow, and addressed herself at length to Algaina in a high, sweet voice.

Algaina frowned and held up a hand.

"Slow down, now, missy. My ears ain't as young as your tongue."

The girl frowned, reddish brows drawing together 'til there was a crease 'tween 'em, her head tipped to one side. Finally, she raised her right hand palm out, like Algaina had raised hers, and said, "Slow down."

"That's right," Algaina told her with a nod. "Now whyn't you tell me what you just said—slow enough so I can hear it."

"Goomorn," the girl said obediently; "beyou manake—baneken—cookies!"

The last word came out as a triumphant shout, like it was the only one she was sure of, thought Algaina. On the other hand, if you only had one word, it was pretty smart to be sure it paid out profits right away.

"That's right," she said. "I bake cookies. You want one?"

"You gonna feed it?" Roe asked, still not botherin' to keep his voice down.

Algaina glared at him.

"Feedin' you, ain't I?"

He opened his mouth, and she shook her finger at him.

"You finish that cookie, Roe Yingling, and get yourself goin' or you'll miss all the good jobs!"

He blinked—and shoved the rest of his cookie into his mouth.

Algaina turned back to the kid. Out from the Wayhouse, sure enough. Looked like somebody at home'd moved their eyes for a half-second, and she decided to go splorin'. Algaina's kid had done the same when he'd been what she guessed was this one's age. Scared her to death, so it had, until she found him wandering the street, or a neighbor brought him back.

Best thing to do, really, was to keep her 'til whoever was prolly already looking for her came by.

So.

Algaina bent forward some and caught her eye.

"You want a cookie?" she asked again.

The girl blinked.

"Cookie," she asserted.

"Comin' right up," Algaina said, and chose a nice big sparemint from the tray. She held it down across the counter. "You try that and tell me how you like it."

The girl took the cookie from her hand with a solemn little bow, and bit into it, her eyes squinched in concentration.

"Gaina," Roe began, low-voiced.

"Later," Algaina told him.

Roe took a hard breath, an amount of stubborn coming into his face, and who knows what he might've said next, except the bell rang again, and in come a boy wearing an oversized flannel shirt over a high-neck sweater, good tough pants, and worn-in boots, carrying a bright red coat over one arm. He caught the door, and eased it closed, the while his eyes were on the kid.

"Elaytha."

She spun on a heel, and threw up her arms, nibbled cookie still in one hand.

"Donnnee!" she cried, rushing toward him.

He didn't bend down to take her hug, nor even smiled, just stood there with his arms folded, and a frown on his face.

She stopped, arms falling to her sides, cookie still gripped tight.

"Elaytha," he said again, and held out the coat. "It is cold. You wear this when you go out. Also, you frightened your sister."

His voice was level; his accent marked, but understandable.

The response to this was a burst of words as musical as they were unintelligible—which was cut off by a sharp movement of the boy—no, Algaina thought; not a boy. A man grown, only a little short and scrawny, like they was.

"In Terran, Elaytha," he said, still in that stern, solemn voice. "We speak Terran here."

"Pah," the girl said, comprehensively. She advanced upon her—brother, at a guess, Algaina thought—cookie extended.

"You try that," she said, her inflection and accent Algaina's own; "and tell me how you like it."

"Yes, very well." He took the cookie, and thrust the coat forward. "You will put this coat on," he said sternly. "Now, Elaytha."

She sighed from the soles of her boots, but she took the coat and shoved first one arm, then the other into the sleeves.

"Seal it," her brother—Donnie—said in that same tone.

Another sigh, but she bent her head, and began to work on the fastenings.

He watched her for a moment to be sure she was in earnest, then raised his head to meet Algaina's eyes. His were dark brown, like his hair.

"We watch her," he said, in his careful Terran, "but she is very quick."

She grinned at him.

"I remember what it was like, raising my boy," she said. "Yours looks like another handful."

He tipped his head, eyes narrowing, then nodded slightly.

"A handful. Indeed. I am happy that she came no further, and hope you will forgive this disturbance of your peace."

"No disturbing done. Bakery's open for bidness. I'm glad she come inside. It's cold this morning, even for born streeters like us." She nodded at Roe, who hissed lightly, and turned away to pick up the wrapped rolls.

"Thanks, Gaina," he said. "On my ticket, right?"

"Right," she told him, and watched him push past the girl and the man without a nod or a glance, goin' out the door into the lightening day.

"You have a taste of that cookie and lemme know what you think," Algaina said brightly, to take attention away from Roe bein' so rude. "New recipe; just trying it out the first time."

Donnie gave her a particular look, and a nod.

"I am honored," he said, and took a bite, chewing as solemnly as the child.

"Donnnee," Elaytha said.

He held up a hand, and closed his eyes.

After a moment, he opened his eyes.

"The texture," he said slowly. "It wants some—" He frowned, looked down at the kid, and held out what was left of the cookie. She took it and had it gone in two bites.

"It wants—" he said again, and stopped with a sigh.

"Your forgiveness; I have not the word. I will demonstrate. Elaytha, make your bow to the baker."

She turned and did so, smiling sunnily, the red coat meant for a taller, wider child. Like her brother's shirt had been made for somebody Terran sized.

Straightening, she added a rapid sentence, that Gaina guessed was some order of thank you.

"You're welcome," she said. "You come again, anytime you like. But you don't get no cookies unless you're wearing your coat, unnerstan me?"

She pouted, damn if she didn't, but answered, "Unnerstan."

"Good," she said, and turned her head, eye drawn by a movement.

Donnie was making his own bow.

"Thank you," he said. "I will demonstrate. For the moment, we are wanted at home." He held out a hand.

"Come, Elaytha."

She took his hand. They turned to the door—and paused, as it opened to admit Luzeal.

"'Morning," she said, giving the two of them a nod and a smile before passing on. "Gaina, I'm starving! Got any mint rolls?"

"When don't I got mint rolls?" she asked, as Donnie and Elaytha exited the shop. "Got something else, too—want you to give it a try."

* * *

Luzee was carrying a three-ring binder under one arm like she'd taken to doin' ever since the call came out from the Lady and the Perfessor for old records, old letters, old books—all and anything.

Luzeal's family, they'd been in the way of managing the Office of the Boss, 'way back when the Agency was still on-world, and the Boss—the really big Boss, who oversaw it all—was called The Chairman. Even though they'd left her just like they left everybody, Luzeal's great-grandma'd organized a rescue operation, and moved all The Chairman's papers, and files, and memory sticks and, well—everything, down the basement of their own house, so it'd all be safe.

Which, Algaina admitted, it had been, all this time. Safe as houses, like they said. Safer'n most people'd been, includin' Luzee's grandma, who'd got herself retired by standin' in front of The Chairman's front door and tellin' the mob of Low Grades they couldn't come in.

Luzeal headed right for the hot-pot. She drank the first cup down straight, just like every morning, and brought the second over to the little table in the corner, so her and Algaina could talk while one et her breakfast and t'other minded the oven.

Algaina set the roll out on a plate, and ducked into the back to take the next batch out. More rolls, this was; rolls was the best she could do, not havin' a mother-of-bread, like grandpa'd wrote about in his card file. That was all right; her rolls were good an' hot for breakfast, and she was best at making cookies and simple sweets. Sometimes, though . . . she shook her head as she brought the tray out into the shop.

Just as good to wish for flowers in a blizzard, Algaina, she told herself.

Luzee had broken her roll in half, and was busy at breakfast. Algaina slid the fresh tray into the case, then went down to the end of the counter to pour herself a cup of 'toot.

"Was that the Wayhousers, just now leaving?" Luzee asked.

"Couple of 'em, anyhow. Little girl give 'er sister the slip an' gone splorin'. Big brother come lookin' for 'er. Too bad it was Roe Yingling in here when they come."

Luzee frowned.

"He didn't get ugly with a kid?"

"He coulda been less rude, but nothin' past talking too loud."

Luzeal sighed, and picked up her cup.

"He's a neighbor, but sleet, I wish that man would learn not to say everything jumps into his head."

"Day that happens, I'll make a cake for the whole street," Algaina said, and nodded at the binder on the table. Most of Luzee's binders had seen work, but this one looked downright rough. There were bits o'paper hanging out the edges, including a strip of ragged red cloth, and its edges were banged up like somebody'd thrown it up against a wall—or a head—more times than twice.

"Looks like that one's seen some fun," Algaina said.

"This?" Luzee put her hand on the old binder. "Now, this is the Human Resources manual, all the rules about how the company and the employees was s'posed to act in just about every situation you can think of, an' a couple more you can't. Got lists, pay grades, holidays, memos—I 'spect the Lady's gonna be real glad to get the one—I was up all night reading it and more'n half a mind not to let it go!"

"Agency's long gone," Algaina pointed out. "An' I'm not sure we need a rule book that don't say, right up at Number One: Don't desert your people to die, f'all you ever knew or cared."

There was a small silence while Luzee finished her roll.

"Actually," she said, putting her hands around her mug and meeting Algaina's eye. "It does say that. There's a whole evac procedure. They coulda done it—they coulda took everybody offa here, there wasn't no disaster nor any reason they had to make hard decisions. They was s'posed to've took everybody."

Algaina stared at her.

"Why?" she asked. "Why'd they leave us? My grandad always said there wasn't room . . . "

"Turns out," Luzee said; "there's room, and then there's room."

She took a long swallow from her mug and pushed back from the table, heading for the hot-pot. Algaina picked up one of the sparemint cookies and bit into it, chewing slowly, trying to figure out what Donnie Wayhouse had found missing . . .

"What they did," Luzee said, coming back to put the mug on the table, "was a cost-benefit analysis. And it come out that it was more . . . well, fiscally responsible's bidness-talk for it. Means they figured it'd be cheaper to leave everybody below Grade Six right here on Surebleak, and declare a loss on the equipment. Woulda put 'em in the red for years, an' given 'em a disadvantage with Corporate, if they'd brung all of us away."

She took a hard breath, and put her hand on the beat-up binder. "It's all in here—the original policies, and notes and the votes from the meetin's that rescinded 'em. Dates, names . . . "

She shook her head.

"That's what made me decide the Lady needs this more'n I do."

Names and dates. The way Luzeal told it, the Surebleak Historical Search and Archival Liberry din't think there was nothin' better'n names and dates.

"What're those?" Luzee asked, nodding down at the sparemint cookies.

"Hermits. Had the receipt in my granddad's box, but couldn't never get raisins, is what they're called. Always wondered what they'd taste like—the raisins and the cookies. Yesterday, I was at market, and freeze me if there weren't a whole bin o'raisins just come in."

She grinned.

"Couldn't just let 'em set there, could I?"

"Not you!" Luzee said, grinning back. "That what you want me to taste?"

"If you got time. Try one and see what you think."

Luzee chewed thoughtfully.

"s'good," she said eventually. "Crunchy. You gonna be able to do these reg'lar?"

"I'll talk to the grocer next time I'm in; see what we can and can't do. I got a couple receipts in that box wantin' raisins. I'll look 'em out. In the meanwhile, we'll find does anybody else like 'em."

"Hard to think anybody wouldn't," Luzee said, finishing hers and eyeing the tray.

Algaina handed her another cookie.

"Thank'ee. I tell you what, Gaina—you oughta take that box down to the archive."

"That box is my livelihood! 'sides what's a buncha receipts gonna tell the Lady—or anybody else?"

"Well, this one right here'd tell 'em raisins used to be usual 'nough they got put in cookies—more'n one kind of cookie—and here you never seen 'em your whole life until just now—nor me, neither!"

"Still—giving away my receipts! I don't got 'em all by heart, now do I?"

"See, now, if you tell 'em you're bringing a working document, they'll make a copy and give you the original back. You take 'em in a plate o'these cookies and tell 'em how they was last made in your grandad's day, they'll see the importance o'them receipts.

"Anyways, it's what I'm planning on doin' with this book here."

"You want a copy of all the old rules the old bosses voted out when they wasn't convenient? For what?"

"Well, I ain't finished reading it, for one! For t'other, there's maybe things in here we could adapt for the Surebleak Code, like the Lady talks about. It was the Human Resources manual, after all, an' far's I know 'bleakers and newbies is all human."

A bell pinged in the back, and Algaina went to bring out the next batch. When she came back out, Luzee'd finished her coffeetoot, an' was pulling her hat down over her ears.

"Gotta get goin'. You wanna take that box to the archive, I'll come with you, whenever you decide."

"I'll think about it," Algaina said, and watched her out the door.

* * *

Kevan had a nightmare again.

Don Eyr woke him, and sat at his bedside, holding his hand until he stopped shaking, and answered the questions that kept him awake most nights; answered them to soothe and heal. Not lies; he did not lie to the children, and less so to a comrade. But where there were no facts, there a heart might build light and airy palaces of hope.

So, for Kevan, and for himself, he answered—no, there had not yet been word from Serana; not from Ail Den nor Cisco nor Fireyn. Yes, it was worrisome. But only recall how confused and dangerous it had been in Low Port when Korval's mercenaries arrived.

So four of their house's defenders had gone to show the mercs the alleys and back ways, that they might flank the approaching forces and deny them Low Port.

Don Eyr might have been with them—Jax Ton and Kevan, too. They had the right, and just as much knowledge of the streets as the others. But head of house security—Serana herself—had counted them off; three to go with her to guide the mercs; three to keep the children safe.

Serana had more lives than a cat; she said it herself, and certainly she had survived—they had both survived—desperate situations before they had arrived in Low Port, and became the defenders of youth.

Surely, Serana was alive. Was well. Don Eyr did not accept a universe in which these things were not facts.

No more than Kevan might come to terms with a universe that lacked the living presence of Ail Den.

And so, in that small space of uncertainty, where the truth was not yet known, they had each built a palace of hope.

Kevan was nodding off, his grip softening; Don Eyr heard a soft step behind and turned his head as Ashti came to his side, holding a cup of tea and a book.

"I'll stay with him," she said, the low light waking sparks of red along her cropped hair.

He slipped his hand free, and stood, flexing his fingers, looking down at the boy.

Ashti put her hand on his arm.

"Sleep, Don Eyr," she murmured. "We need you."

Not for much longer would they two, at least, need him, he thought, though he did not say so to her. She and Kevan were old enough, able enough; the younger ones trusted them. He might leave, and have no fear for any of them—but he would not leave. Not yet; not while there still remained some hope that Serana, and the others, would find them.

He left Kevan in Ashti's care, but he did not seek his own bed.

Instead, he walked through the crowded rooms, checking on each sleeper, straightening merc-issue blankets, picking up fallen pillows, smoothing the hair of those who moved uneasily on their narrow cots; and once stopping to murmur a few words in Liaden.

Their daytime language might now be Terran, but Liaden was the language of home, no matter how little they had been cherished there, and it soothed the fretful back to sleep.

Satisfied that all was well with the children, he descended to the kitchen, where he found the teapot warm and a cup set by. He smiled, recognizing Ashti's hand, and poured himself a cup, which he carried to the window.

The street was a short one, sparsely lit by what a daylight inspection had revealed to be self-adhesive emergency dims. One might wonder who had put them up, and who replaced them, but in that Surebleak was like the Low Port: Someone had taken up the task, for reasons known to themselves, which might or might not have anything to do with the common good.

Halfway down the street, a brighter light flared, and he stepped back against the wall before his laggard brain realized that it was not muzzle-flare, but only the light coming on in the sweet-bake shop.

He sighed and shook his head. This place . . .

The unit commander charged with seeing them to safety had chosen to interpret her orders liberally, the children having quickly become favorites, and the mercs having no opinion of Low Port. Thus, their eventual arrival at Surebleak, deemed a damned sight safer'n where we found you. No offense. Sir. The mercs had seen them generously provisioned, and brought them to the attention of the proper civilian authorities, who took their application and the character reference provided by the unit commander, settled them into transitional housing, and located a 'prenticeship for Jax Ton.

Don Eyr sighed. He was, indeed, grateful to the mercs for their care, which had included putting messages through their internal networks, for Ail Den, Cisco, Fireyn, and Serana.

He closed his eyes, and sipped his tea, deliberately turning his thoughts toward the future.

They would need to find larger quarters within three local months. That was the limit of the local authority's charity, and more generosity than Liad had shown any one of them. He hoped to hear of opportunities, when Jax Ton came to them for his day off.

For now, then, they were well-fixed. Locating a more suitable establishment and employment were high on the list of things to be done. The most urgent item on that list, however, was Elaytha.

Elaytha had been theirs from a babe, pulled from a pile of wreckage that had once been an apartment house; the only survivor of the collapse. She had been odd from the first, and remained odd as she grew. Her mind was good; she could read, and cipher, and follow directions. She could speak—Liaden, Terran, and Trade—though she preferred her own tongue, which she shared with no one else they had ever found. She was sweet-natured, and her ability to mime was nothing short of astonishing.

She also had a tendency to wander, heedless of hour or weather, and was afflicted with odd terrors. Lately, she had achieved a horror of food, and would cower away from a bowl of cereal as if from an assassin.

Perhaps worse, she had since arriving in this place, become convinced that there were…shintai, as it was said in her tongue, which he understood to be akin to ghosts, upon the street, who required her care. The others tried to dismiss it as play, but, if so, it was like no other play in which she had previously indulged.

Ashti suggested that Elaytha was merely framing the strangeness of their new situation in her own terms. For himself, he feared that she was delusional.

Don Eyr left the window to pour himself another cup of tea.

Elaytha needed a Healer, he thought, carefully.

On Liad, that thought would not have been possible. In Low Port, the situation would have been hopeless. The Healers did not administer to the clanless.

He could not have said why he thought the Healers who had come to Surebleak might deal differently, unless it was merely that, Surebleak had dealt them a hand, when Liad had refused even to sell them a deck.

He would ask Jax Ton to also find them information regarding the Healers of Surebleak. He sighed. Perhaps, instead, he ought to send one of the elder children to bear Jax Ton company, and to find the answers to all of Don Eyr's questions . . . .

He carried his tea back to the window. The sky was brightening; the emergency lights a fading reflection. Down the street, the window of the sweet-bake shop blazed like a sun, which brought to mind the fact that he had not fulfilled his promise to the baker. One needed to deal fairly with one's neighbors. Neighbors were important, for those who had neither kin nor clan to shield them.

Ashti would scold him for not going back to bed, but, truly, baking was every bit as restful as sleep. Moreso, now that he slept alone.

Turning away from the windows, he set the tea cup aside, and began to assemble his ingredients.

* * *

The bell rang while she was in the back, and Algaina called over her shoulder.

"Make yourself at home; just gotta get this batch in the oven!"

There was no answer, but Luzeal was prolly more'n half-asleep still, at this hour. Algaina glanced at the clock. It was some early for Luzee, but—sleet, it was early for her, if it come to that. It'd been one of them nights where bad memories come slipping into your sleep, pretending like they was dreams.

Just as good—better—to be baking, than laying flat in the bed staring up the ceiling, and afraid to close your eyes. So, she'd gotten dressed and come downstairs, started the oven up and pulled a recipe out from the old box without looking at it.

Turned out it was a cake she hadn't made but once before, on account it was so fussy. Well, good. Fussy was just what she needed.

She slid the pans in, closed the oven and set the timer.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped out into the shop.

"You're early for the rolls—" she started to tell Luzeal . . .

'Cept it wasn't Luzeal in the shop at this early hour of the day.

Standin' all solemn right in front of the counter was the little girl from yesterday—Elaytha. Her hair'd been combed and braided, and her red coat was buttoned up against the cold. She was holding a covered plate in two ungloved hands, and smiling to beat the sun.

Just behind her was an older girl, with a good knit cap pulled down over her ears, hands tucked into the pockets of her short jacket—no gloves there, either, Algaina was willing to say. Well, that was easy 'nough to fix. She had the kids' old gloves an' mittens that they'd outgrown. Might as well they got some use. If you didn't look out for your neighbors, who'd look out for you?

"You coulda set that down, got yourselfs a cup of something hot," she said now, looking from one to the other of 'em. "That's what make yourself at home means."

She looked pointedly at the younger girl, who opened her wide eyes even wider.

"We will remember," the older girl said, her voice unexpectedly deep. "We are grateful for the information."

"You're welcome," Algaina said, gruffer than she meant to. She cleared her throat. "Either one of you want a cup of something hot?"

She nodded at the hot pot, steam gently rising from its spout.

"Thank you," the older kid said politely, "but not this time. We are to deliver Don Eyr's cookies. They come with this message."

She gave the younger girl a slight nudge with her foot.

"Try it!" that one said, loudly, holding the plate high. "And tell him what you think!"

"That is correct, Elaytha. Well done."

Algaina took the plate and set it in the center of the counter.

"I'm obliged," she said. "I ain't got anything out yet, but if you—"

"Thank you, no," the older girl said, with a small bow. She held out her hand.

"Come, Elaytha."

"Yes!" said the child, and that quick they were gone, the bell ringing over the closed door.

Algaina shook her head, and lifted the towel from the plate. A warm breath of spice delighted her nose, and she smiled as she picked up one of the dainty little rectangles, and bit into it carefully.

Still warm, and it fair melted in the mouth, soft and sweet, with just a bite of something tangy on the back of the tongue.

She had another bite, analyzing the taste, working out the spices, wondering how he'd gotten it so soft . . .

The bell jangled, jerking her out of her reverie. She opened her eyes as Luzeal stepped into the shop, shaking her head from the cold.

"Mornin’," she said, moving over to the hot pot.

"Mornin'," Algaina answered. She pushed the plate down the counter.

"Try one o' those and tell me what you think."

Luzee picked up a cookie and bit into it, eyebrows rising.

" 'Nother new receipt outta the box?" she asked.

"This," said Algaina, "is what Donnie Wayhouse thinks those cookies I made yesterday oughta be." She took another bite; sighed. "He had a bite o'one of mine, and I asked him to tell me what he thought—and he did think something, but he run outta words. Promised to send a demonstration."

She nodded at the half-cookie still in Luzee hand. "That's his demo, right there."

Luzee took another bite, pure satisfaction on her face.

"I tell you what, Gaina," she said. "You know I don't like to meddle in other people's bidness—" That just wasn't so, but let it go; they all meddled in each other's bidness, that's how the street had stayed more or less peaceful, even in the baddest of the bad ol' days.

"I'm thinking you'd do worse'n go partners with that boy, if he don't got other work. Be good for both of you."

"We're thinking along the same lines," Algaina assured her, picking up another of the dark, soft cookies. "I'll return his plate proper after I close up this afternoon. Can't hurt to ask, can it?"

"Not one bit," said Luzee, and reached for another cookie.

* * *

It was snowing, but only enough to make an old woman wish she'd remembered put on her flap-hat, 'stead of the one that just covered the top of her head.

She knocked on the door of the Wayhouse.

It snowed a little more before the door opened, and she looked down into a pair of bright blue eyes under a shock of bright red hair.

"Yes?" the kid said. "Please say what you want."

Well, that was one way to answer the door, Algaina thought. Right to the point, anyhoot.

"I'd like to see Donnie," she said, and hefted the plate she was carrying covered over with the same cloth. "Wanna return his plate."

L'il Red took a bit to chew that over, then stepped briskly back and raised a hand to wave her in.

She crossed into the tiny hall, and stood to one side so the kid could shut the door and throw a series of bolts.

"This way," was her next instruction, and off the kid went, turning right into the hallway, and Algaina barely able to keep up.

It wasn't a long hall, but they passed four kids, and then a couple, three more on the stairway before the one she was following cut right again, through a swing-door and into a cramped, too-warm kitchen.

There were another two kids at the stove—older kids, Algaina thought, though none of 'em was tall enough to look like anything but a kid to her.

Not even the one standing at the table, working with a spoon in one hand and something else in the other, a plate set before him, and a couple small bowls.

"Donnie, there's a lady," the red-haired mite said, and turned to look up at her. "Here you are, lady."

And was gone.

Donnie looked 'round from his work, eyebrows lifting slightly on seeing her, his face a study in unsmiling politeness.

"Baker Algaina. It is good to see you. Did the cookies please?"

"The cookies more than pleased, which is something I'd like to talk with you about, when you're less busy. In the meanwhile, I brung your plate back, with a little something to say thank you . . . "

She glanced around. There didn't seem to be any room on the work table. There didn't seem to be any room, anywhere. Every surface was full, and there were kids underfoot, and . . .

"Kevan," Donnie murmured, and one of the kids at the stove turned, gave her a frank smile, and slid the plate out of her hands.

"I'll take care of that," he said, and his Terran was good—not 'bleaker, but not sounding half-learned, like Donnie's Terran. "Thanks very much, Miz—?"

"Now, no Miz called for. I'm Algaina from the bake shop down the street, like your brother here says."

Dark eyes flicked to Donnie, back to her.

"Miz Algaina, then. Thank you; we always appreciate something extra with dinner." He turned back to the stove, uncovering the plate, and showing it to his partner there.

Dinner, she thought. They was cooking dinner, with all these pots 'n pans. Dinner for—

"How many kids you got here?" she asked Donnie, before she had a chance to work out if that was the kind of question he was likely to answer.

Turns out, it wasn't.

His eyelids flickered.

"Some few," he said quietly. "If you do not . . . mind, we may talk now." Another quick glance at her before he said over his shoulder.

"Velix, take Miz Algaina's coat and hat to dry. Cal Dir, bring her a cup of tea. Ashti—"

A stool appeared even as her coat and hat were whisked away to hang on a peg near the stove, and steam that smelled like flowers rising from the mug that was put in her hand.

She took a careful sip, just enough to discover that the tea tasted like the steam. Then, she put both hands around the mug, and watched Donnie make another one of . . . whatever it was it was he was making.

Flowers, birds, leaves . . . all somehow fashioned from one scoop of whatever was in the bowls, and him working with a spoon.

He put the latest creation—a fish—on the plate with the others, and she sighed in mingled pleasure and frustration, which caused her host to look straight at her.

"There is a problem? The tea does not please? We have—"

She held up a hand.

"The tea's wonderful, thank you. It's only—I just watched you make that, and I can't figure out how you did it."

He smiled then—she could tell more by the way the corners of his eyes crinkled up than from his mouth curving, and it come to her then that Donnie wasn't as young as she'd taken him, even on second look. In fact, now she was close, she could see there were some few threads of silver mixed in the dark brown hair, and lines worn in 'round his eyes and mouth.

Still might be the older brother, she thought, at least to some of the kids. An' he wasn't gonna tell her nothin' about 'em at all. Well, she thought, taking a sip of tea, why should he? He didn't know anything 'bout her; and the kids had to come first.

'Course they did.

"Once you have made a few dozen, it comes without thought," he was saying. "These are chernubia. Small sweets, to have with mid-morning tea, after the first work of the day is done."

She watched him make two big wings connected at the center; she didn't think it was a bird. Something from his home, prolly. Way she'd heard it, there were a lot of things on his homeworld that never'd quite made it to Surebleak, nor weren't likely to ever arrive.

"I tell you what," she started, and then stopped, turning on her stool to discover the reason for the sudden ruckus out in the hall.

The mob in the kitchen shifted, one kid going out the door with a big bowl held in both hands, calling out what might've been names. She'd scarcely cleared the room when another took her place—older, though younger still than Donnie. This one was wearing a tool-belt and a couple shirts, Surebleak style, heavy over lighter, and a knit cap on his head.

"Jax Ton!" Kevan called from the stove. "I don't think we made enough food!"

"All is well, little brother; I will be satisfied with your dinner, only."

That was greeted with laughter, and a little one came running into the room, arms working, yelling, "Jax Ton! Jax Ton!"

"Kae Nor!" the newcomer called back, and swooped the kid up into his arms, spinning in the tight space like he had the whole street to dance in. The child screamed with laughter; and was still laughing as he was transferred to another pair of arms, to be toted out of the kitchen.

"Jax Ton," Donnie said quietly, and here he was, slipped in close, right between her stool and the table, like it was all the room anybody needed.

"Don Eyr," he said, quietly, and paused, his eye drawn to the plate of fanciful shapes.

"Chernubia in cheese and vegetables?" he asked. "I do not think this is one of your better ideas, brother."

"Elaytha has become afraid of her dinner," Donnie—no, Algaina corrected herself, Don Eyr said levelly.

Jax Ton looked solemn.

"Badly?"

"Very badly."

"Will this cast work, do you think?"

"It is all that I can think," Don Eyr said, sounding suddenly weary. They'd forgotten she was there, Algaina thought, and sat very still while they talked family around her.

"I am happy you came tonight," Don Eyr continued. "She needs a Healer. Can you find if they will they see her at the hall here?"

"They see Terrans at the hall here," Jax Ton said. "They train Terrans at the hall here. I will take her with me when I go back to work."

"We cannot leave her alone among strangers . . . "

"Which is why Kevan will accompany us. He will bide with her, and I will join them after the boss is done with me. They will neither be bereft."

Don Eyr took a breath, sighed it out.

"The cost?"

"If the child needs a Healer, that is where we begin. We do not count cost against need." Jax Ton extended a hand and gripped the other's shoulder. "So you yourself taught us."

Don Eyr half-laughed.

"Did I? A poor influence on soft minds, I fear."

"Never that," said Jax Ton.

He removed his hand, and seemed to see her for the first time.

"My apology," he said. "I—"

"Jax Ton, this is Miz Algaina from the sweet bake shop. Our neighbor."

"Ah!" Jax Ton smiled like he'd been born on Surebleak. "Welcome, neighbor. I am Jax Ton tel'Ofong—or Jack O'Fong, according to my boss."

"Pleasure," Algaina assured him. "You live here, too?"

"I am 'prenticed to Electrician Varn Jilzink, in Boss Torin's territory. It is too far to travel every day, but I come home here for my day off."

"It's good to be with family," she said.

"That is truth," Jax Ton said solemnly, and turned back to his brother, who was holding out a plate full of fanciful shapes.

"Do you think that you might try?"

"Of course, I will try, though it likely means I will have to eat a carrot chernubia myself."

"The carrot chernubia are very good," Don Eyr told him gravely.

"Everything you bake is very good. Where is she?"

"Upstairs. In the tent."

Jax Ton's smile faded somewhat.

"Ah, is she? Well, as I said—I will try. Miz Algaina, I hope we will meet again soon."

He was gone, bearing the plate, and it came to Algaina that the kitchen was empty now, save for herself and Don Eyr. There were still voices to be heard, but down the hall, in another part of the house.

"Well." Don Eyr turned to her. "Now, at last we may address your topic."

"I don't wanna be keeping you from your supper," she said, "so I'll be quick. I'd like it if you made cookies like you sent down to me this morning, an' some of those shernoobias—sweet ones at first, then we'll try and see if the veggies'll sell—"

There was the smile again—easy to see now she knew what to look for.

"I figure the split to be seventy for you, thirty for me. I buy flours and other supplies wholesale, you can buy from me at my cost, if that'll suit. Anything special you need . . . "

She let it run off and waited, taking a sip of her tea, which had gone cold, but was still tasty.

"I will like that," Don Eyr said slowly. "When do you wish the first baking, and how many?"

Algaina smiled, and leaned forward.

"Okay," she said. "Now, here's what I'm thinking . . . "

* * *

Don Eyr had gotten up early, to see Jax Ton and Kevan and Elaytha on their way, with two pails packed with food and chernubia. Elaytha had been so excited to be going with Jax Ton that she scarcely had time to give him a hug. It pained him to let her go, but that was foolish. Jax Ton and Kevan would keep her safe; both knew her moods and her foibles, and Kevan understood—or seemed to—a good deal of the language she had created for her own use.

He hoped the Healers would see her.

He hoped the Healers would effect wonders.

He hoped . . .

Well.

In the end, it was good that he had the baking to do; it kept him aside of worry, even as he was reminded of other days—better days—when he was up early to bake for the shop in Low Port, and Serana would slip in, cat-foot, to make tea, and sit on a stool to watch him. The early morning had been their time, when they reaffirmed their bond, and their curious orbit, each around the other.

He had expected her to leave many times over the years.

Serana had a warrior's heart; she had been born a hero, fashioned for feats of valor. Caring for children—for gormless bakers—wasted her.

And yet, she had stayed . . .

. . . until that moment when her skills were at last called for, and she had not hesitated to take the lead.

He took out the first batch of spice bars, and slipped the second into the oven. He had a brief moment of nostalgia for his ovens, then shook his head. What was, was. This oven, this kitchen, was perfectly adequate for the baking of a few batches of sweet things.

At . . . home, he had made loaves, cheese rolls, protein muffins—sweet things—those, too. But it had been the bread that drew customers in, and provided the household income.

He had spoken of bread to Miz Algaina. Her kitchen was also too small to accommodate large baking, nor, she confided, did she have the knack of yeast things.

He had the knack, but his bread-heart was lost in the shambles of Low Port, with his ovens, and the library, and the homey things they had amassed over the years. Algaina had spoken of a larger house at the far end of the street, beyond the gate. It had been part of the former boss's estate. There were ovens, she said, and quarters above that were more spacious than those of the Wayhouse.

They might, so he understood, petition the Council of Bosses Circuit Rider to relocate to this other house. He would have to show that the property would be put to "use and profit," so it was even more important that this venture with Algaina prove successful.

He also understood that the granting of the petition would go easier, if he secured the support of the rest of the neighbors—and here, too, Algaina had offered her aid. All the street came into her shop, and she would talk about the idea. It would also be useful, she said, if he worked the counter a couple hours every day to show the world his face.

This made sense, and was something he could easily accommodate. Without the shop, now that they were settled again, together, he found himself with few duties. The elder children taught and cared for those who were younger, with any disputes brought to Ashti, who now stood as his second. It would be good, to have work, and to meet their new neighbors.

The timer chimed, and he removed the second batch of spice bars from the oven.

While they cooled, he looked in the coldbox where the chernubia prettily adorned their plates. He glanced at the clock and did a quick calculation. Yes, he did have time to make a batch of quick cheese rolls—not real bread, but satisfying enough. Perhaps Algaina's customers—his new neighbors—would find them pleasant.

* * *

Well, that might not've been the best decision she'd ever made in her life, Algaina thought, but it'd sure do for now.

She waved day's done to Don Eyr and Velix, and locked the door behind them. He'd taken to bringing one of the kids with him on-shift, so the neighbors would get to know all of them.

Don Eyr taught her his way with the hermits—spice cookies, according to him—so that baking came back into her shop, while he continued to provide chernubia, and day-rolls. She'd shown him the receipt for flaky pastries, and the sorry result of her efforts. He took it away and brought back a plate of buttery crescents so light she feared they'd float out the door and into the sky.

An' more than his baking improved the shop. He'd brought in two more hot-pots, each with a different kind of tea—one fruity and light, and the other grey and energizing. Her pride was piqued at that, and she ordered in a better grade of coffeetoot, for them that had the preference.

Luzee saw that people wanted to linger over their sweet and their cup, so her and Binni Bodyne went together to get some old tables from down the cellars up into the street, then wheedled a hand o'kids, including one of the Wayhousers, to scrub 'em clean.

Erb Fliar come down to see what all the commotion was about, went back inside his place, an' a half-hour later reappeared, holding a bolt of red-and-white checkerboard cloth.

Well, Pan Jonderitz knew just what to do with that, din't he just? An' while he was doin' that, Luzee organized another hand o'kids to clean the windows and wash the walls, and by the time it was all done . . . din't it just look fine?

Better'n the place lookin' fine, and bidness bein' up, Don Eyr was making a good impression on the neighbors, and the kids were, too.

The best sign she saw, though, was the afternoon she walked to the door to close up for the day, and there was a confusion of kids running 'round the street, armed with snowballs—street kids, Wayhouse kids—all of 'em shouting with laughter.

The only oil on the ice was Roe Yingling.

If he came into the shop while Don Eyr was on counter, he turned on his heel and left. He quizzed her on each roll, cookie, and cupcake to find which'd been made by them and flatly refused to try any of it—even when a sample was offered for free, which was just unheard of.

Worse, he didn't see any reason why they should move into the old catering house. If they needed more space, they could find some other street to live on. Sleet, they oughta buy their own damn place up on a hill somewhere; everybody knew the newbies was rich. Look at the Road Boss, bringing his own damn house with him, on account of nothing on Surebleak was good enough!

Well, fine, they could do what they wanted—somewhere else. Chairman Court hadn't asked for 'em, Chairman Court didn't need 'em, Chairman Court was better off without 'em—and that, by sleet, was exactly what he was gonna tell the council's circuit rider, next time she was by.

Algaina shook her head.

Roe was only one voice, after all, she told herself. There was still the whole rest of the street who liked Don Eyr and his kids just fine. All they had to do was say so.

Everything would be fine.

* * *

The house was noisy when he and Velix entered, having done their shift at Algaina's shop. Not merely noisy, thought Don Eyr, stopping with his hand on the lock, head tipped to one side—jubilant.

He stood, listening, Velix at his side, until one voice rose above all the others Velix was off, running down the hall toward the gather-room, shouting, "Fireyn!"

Hope flared in his breast, so fiercely he could scarcely breathe, yet somehow his feet were moving, not quite Velix's headlong flight, but quickly enough that he was in the room before his heart had settled; sweeping in, gripping an arm, wringing a hand, taking in the familiar faces of his kindred-in-arms, those who guarded the children with him—

"Ail Den," he murmured; "Cisco. Fireyn—"

He stopped, searching faces gone suddenly still. It was Fireyn who gripped his hand, and Ail Den who caught him 'round the shoulders, even as he whispered—

"Serana?"

"No," Cisco said, voice rough, his face thinner, worn, and wet. "Old friend, no. We were separated. We searched, we checked; the mercs counted out their wounded, and the dead . . . Serana . . . "

"We lost her," Fireyn finished. “We had hoped . . . she was already with you . . . ”

He took a hard breath, ears roaring; an edge of darkness to his vision. All three of them closed 'round him in a comrade's embrace, while he gasped, trembling, and saw . . .

. . . the bright palace of his hopes crumble beneath the weight of truth. Crumble, flicker, and die.

* * *

"So, that inflatable tent we found in the cellar when we went down to get the tables?" Binder cuddled against her chest, Luzee was talking to the crowd pushed in as tight at they could be, some sitting at tables, some standing 'round the walls.

"Well, that tent was special made for the year-end block party. I got all the information right here!" She raised the binder over her head and shook it like a bell.

"Happens that The Chairman threw a party for all the Grade Six an' belows, at the end of the fiscal year. It was s'posed to increase morale and team-buildin'. I showed this to the Lady and to the Perfessor, and they both said that one of the things that pulls people together is a shared holiday. They was wonderin' if us here on Chairman Court wouldn't like to follow the directions in this Human Relations manual, and throw a block party. The Bosses'll be invited, to see how it works out, and might be next year, Surebleak entire'll have a block party, and  . . . "

Algaina went into the back and pulled out a tray of cookies. Spice cookies, they were. She'd made an extra batch for the meetin', which was good, because there wasn't nobody, always exceptin' Roe Yingling, who didn't like the spice cookies.

But it was also a bad thing, because they reminded her of Don Eyr . . . who hadn't been in to the shop for more'n a week, which was bad enough. Worse was the notion that he wasn't baking, neither.

"Don Eyr is . . . ill," Ashti had told her. "He will come again when he is able. In the meanwhile, two of us will come to you every day, to give you rest, as we have been doing. We do not wish to stint a neighbor."

Stint a neighbor? Algaina thought, and—

"How sick is he? Can he bake?"

"He . . . " Ashti had closed her eyes and taken a deep breath. "I regret, not at the moment. None of us has his touch with chernubia or the other small sweets. We may continue to provide rolls; several of us are proficient."

"Rolls, yes; that would be good—people like the cheese rolls. But—I don't want to meddle—should he see a medic? Or I could come and take a look—"

"Our medic has rejoined us," Ashti said. "She is watching Don Eyr very closely."

She'd managed a smile then, shaky, but true.

"He is dear to all of us, as to you. We will not lose him."

* * *

He ought to stand, he thought, for the dozen dozenth time that day. He ought to leave this room, and be sure that all, and everyone, was well. The children needed—but no.

Ail Den, and Cisco, and Fireyn were home. The children had no further need of him. He was free to leave, to strike out again alone, as he had wished so often to do, when they had first come into Low Port, on a day-job.

Day-job. What use was he on a day-job? But, there, his delm had called him home, the least of the clan's children, to fulfill a debt owed to Clan Abra. The terms of settlement required an agent of Clan Serat to hold himself ready at all times to fulfill those tasks Abra required of him.

Serana had come with him; his bodyguard, as she explained herself, which Abra found to be a very fine joke, and so it had been the two of them, sent down to clear a newly-inherited parcel in the Low Port.

Clear it of debris.

They had not understood the nature of the debris until they arrived at the corner they were to clear.

Eight children and one barely past halfling; their leader, who had promised them safety, and, judging by his grip on the piece of pipe he had chosen for a weapon, was prepared to die for his word.

Together, the three of them cleared the area. He and Serana, they had thought they would establish the children safely, give their protector advice, and such small funds as they held between them—a few days spent, only that.

They had been fools.

Over time, they had gathered to themselves, to their service, other fools, and so the children were kept safe.

Serana had died, to ensure their safety, and he—

He heard the door open; raised his head, and took a breath. It was Ashti, perhaps, come to tempt his appetite, or—

"Donnee?" came a high, sweet voice, followed by Elaytha herself, unruly hair braided; cheeks plump; eyes wide and bright.

"Ah, shintai. Donnee zabastra kai."

"Elaytha," he murmured. "Welcome home, child."

"Welcome home," she repeated in a tired, flat voice, and climbed into his lap, putting her arms around his neck, and leaning her forehead against his.

"Donnee is filled with light," she said, in a voice he did not recognize. "Shintai goventa."

* * *

Jax Ton was in the kitchen, eating soup. Velix, at the stove, immediately filled another bowl, brought it to the table with a mug of tea, and slipped away, leaving them alone.

"Ail Den told me," Jax Ton said softly, rising. "Al'bresh venat'i, brother."

They embraced, cheek to damp cheek.

"The child is a Healer?" Don Eyr asked, when they sat again to the soup.

"The child will be a Healer," Jax Ton corrected him. "She shows some early ability, which, while unusual, is no cause for alarm. She has received instruction in controlling her gift, and also in its best use."

He cocked his head.

"I would say that, so far, her training has been adequate."

"Indeed. However—trained in best use, young as she is?"

"As I understand it, once a gift has manifested, it cannot be denied. So, yes. As young as she is."

He spooned soup; looked up.

"The Healers will want her back with them for a full evaluation and training on her twelfth name day. In the meanwhile, they have Healed her of most, if not all, of her terrors. My challenge lately has been to feed her enough."

Don Eyr smiled.

"They did not Heal her of talking nonsense."

Jax Ton moved his shoulders.

"It is, according to the Healers, not an affliction; it causes her no distress; and creates no impediments for her in daily life."

"Ah," said Don Eyr, and pushed his empty bowl aside.

"What other news do you bring me?"

"Boss Jilzink's associate has taken Kevan to 'prentice. He will learn the art of resource reclamation from Esser Kane, who has several teams working for him, and sees in Kevan a future leader of a new team. Master Kane is well and favorably known to the Employment Office. Kevan will tell you all, when he comes home on his day off."

"Soon, we will be scattered all over Surebleak," Don Eyr said, not without dismay.

"Children grow up," Jax Ton said, and reached to catch his shoulder in an affectionate embrace. "This is what you set yourself to do, brother, and I will tell you that there is not a morning that I wake in which I do not thank the gods, should they exist, that it was you and Serana who came that day. I had promised to keep them safe, but you—you kept my honor for me."

"You do me too much—"

"That is not possible," Jax Ton said firmly, letting him go.

"I have one more piece of news, which may not be so delightful as I had hoped, as Ashti informs me that you have given over baking."

Don Eyr looked at him.

"Perhaps I shall begin again, if the news is of interest."

"Well, then, I bring it forward at once! There is a baker in Boss Conrad's territory, with an established shop, who is interested in adding Liaden delicacies to her offerings. I may have shared one or two of your chernubia with her. If you would be willing to provide these to her, nonexclusively, she will pay you a percentage of the profit, and will seal the contract with a portion of her mother-of-bread.”

* * *

The block party hadn't been much of a 'spense to The Chairman, Algaina thought grumpily. Management provided the tent, and some prizes, and—all right, bought the beer and the desserts. Most everything else, though, was made and brought by the guests. Eating each other's food and trading receipts was s'posed to be good for morale and team-building.

There were games set out in Luzeal's binder, and a timeline of how things were s'posed to go. F'rinstance, there was a space o'time put aside where everybody said what their best accomplishment had been in the last year. An' another space o'time when the year's just-borns were called by name.

An' a space o'time right at the beginning of the party where everybody stood in a circle, and said outloud the names of those who'd died during the year.

Algaina'd made a batch of almost everything in grandpa's receipt book, and had the neighbor kids moving them out of the shop the second the tables went up inside the tent. For drinks, Erb Fliar'd promised to put out tea, 'toot, juice, an' beer—light beer, he'd added. No sense anybody getting stupid.

Algaina was pulling on her bright green sweater, which was too good to wear in the bake shop, when the bell over the door rang.

She turned around, and there was Ashti, and Elaytha, and Jax Ton, and Velix, all carrying a tray of chernubia, each one looking different.

She looked at Jax Ton.

"He's better?"

"Better, yes." Jax Ton smiled and nodded at Elaytha. "He said to tell you that the chernubia on that tray are made from carrot, and kale, and cheese."

She laughed, in equal parts relief and fun.

"Well, that's just fine. You come with me and we'll get them set up in the tent." She looked at each of them, sharply, in turn.

"You're all comin' to the party, now?"

"Yes," Ashti said. "All of us are coming to the party. We are sent ahead with the trays."

"Good," said Algaina, and added, believing it for the first time since Luzeal had decided on having a block party; "it's gonna be fun."

* * *

Don Eyr closed the sack, and crossed the kitchen for his coat. The others had gone ahead, leaving him to pack his contribution to the shared meal alone.

His offering—his personal offering—to the goodwill of their neighbors was bread—a small loaf for each. He had also made a loaf—one loaf only—of Serana's favorite: a crusty, chewy round, with a dense, nutty crumb.

Coat on, he shouldered the sack and left the wayhouse. It was snowing, densely, diffusing the tent's glow into an iridescent fog.

The street was filled with the sound of voices, and laughter, and for a moment, he stood, frozen in the snow, every nerve in his body marking Serana's absence.

A deep breath; a memory of the light Elaytha had given him. Serana was here, because he was here; her memory, as her life, a benediction.

Centered, he walked the short distance down the street, then out of the snow, into the bright warmth of the tent.

"I ain't sitting here with them!"

Roe Yingling's voice soared over the pleased chatter of those gathered.

"They invaded our planet! They took our jobs! They ain't really people! Sure, they want a party, let 'em have their own party, and let us real 'bleakers alone!"

Carefully, Don Eyr put the sack and on the table by the door, and moved across the room, toward the man confronting Jax Ton, with Ail Den and Cisco flanking him, and the others spread behind.

"Roe," that was Luzeal, moving between the angry man and the children. "These are our neighbors. They don't stint the street, an' nor do you, nor anybody here! We're neighbors, we depend on each other."

The man threw his hand out, pointing at Elaytha, who had stepped out from behind Jax Ton.

"It ain't bad enough that they don't belong here, but they're broken, too! That one can't even talk!"

That brought a hush, shortly broken by a quiet voice.

"I can talk," Elaytha told him, evading Jax Ton's hand, and walking forward until she stood before the man in all his anger. She glanced at Don Eyr as he arrived, near enough to kick the man's legs out from under him, if he dared try to—

Elaytha smiled and looked up at Roe Yingling.

"You can be more happy," she said. "You don’t need to be angry. You don’t need to always want to be mad."

"Why you—" Roe Yingling began—and stopped, a perplexed look on his face.

“What do you know about what I want?" he said, at a somewhat lesser volume. "Newbie can’t know what I want. Strangers can’t  . . .  How can I tell you what I want?”

“Don’t you want to be more happy? You came to the party to be more happy. Have a chernubia, or a cookie. What do you want? Which?”

The crowd closed, listening. Elaytha leaned toward him, hands in a gentle gesture of request, eyes locked on his.

“What I want is  . . . ”

It seemed to Don Eyr as if he swayed.

"Roe?"

A woman came out of the crowd, glanced at Elaytha, and took the man's hand.

"I'm sorry, missy," she began; "he's a good man, but sometimes he don't think before—"

“What I want is,” he tried again, his face losing tension, “is a reason to be happy. Can you understand that?”

Ashti stepped around Jax Ton, bearing a tray of chernubia. She paused at Elaytha's side.

"A reason, yes," Elaytha said. "Please, take a sweet. Be happy with the day. Be happy with your neighbors. You will feel better—"

Don Eyr, felt that last strike hard against his chest; the child was performing a healing, here and now? He held his breath as she plucked a flower from the tray, and offered it to the man on upraised palm.

“This is very good, made by my brother. Please, take it. Be pleased with it. Do not be mad at everything, and you will not hurt so much! Look, we have a party. The neighbors have a party. Better is now. For your friends, be happy.”

He stared down into her face, then, like a man in a dream, he took the chernubia from her hand, and ate it. A long sigh escaped him; there was no other sound in the room.

"Roe?" his wife asked, putting her hand on his arm. She looked down at Elaytha, eyes wide, and Don Eyr tensed, even as Luzeal stepped up, taking each by an elbow, and turning them toward a table at the side of the room, where two children were watching, eyes wide.

"She's right, Marie," Roe Yingling said suddenly. He stopped and looked around the tent as if he had just woken to the realization of the gathering.

"She's right," he said, more loudly. "I don't hurt . . . "

"Well, who could hurt," Luzeal said practically, "with one of them good sweet things inside you? Now, you just come on over here and have a sit-down, Roe Yingling . . . "

In the back corner of the tent, someone said something, and someone else laughed. Don Eyr felt a small hand slide into his, and looked down into Elaytha's smile.

"Will that last?" he asked her.

She frowned slightly.

"Maybe?" she said, and moved her shoulders. "Kai zabastra, kai?"

A sound, then, of quiet engines, and someone near the entrance called out that the Bosses were here.

Most people moved further into the tent, finding chairs and tables. Luzeal and Algaina were heading for the entrance—the hosts, Don Eyr understood, coming to greet the Bosses.

He stepped back to let them pass, and Algaina reached out to catch his free hand.

"You, too!" she said; so he and Elaytha joined the reception line, just as a dark haired man—Boss Conrad himself, he heard someone whisper, loudly—stepped into the tent, shaking the snow from his hat. He paused, turning back to the entrance, one hand extended to the woman who followed, leaning heavily on a crutch, snow dusting her cropped red hair like sugar.

She paused, just short of the Boss's hand, and threw out the arm unencumbered by the crutch, but Don Eyr was already moving.

He caught her in an embrace perhaps too fierce. She was thin, so thin, and the crutch . . .

"I said I would come back to you," she whispered roughly into his ear.

"Even a cat comes to her last life," he answered. "Cisco, Fireyn, Ail Den—they lost you in the fighting; the mercs had no records."

"All true. But not dead. Quite."

"I'm a fool," he answered, and, even softer, "What happened?"

"I will tell you everything, my small. But, for tonight—you must introduce me to our neighbors."