Baen Books

Free Stories 2023

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.

Black Box © 2023 by Sean CW Korsgaard
The Quail Runs © 2023 by D.J. Butler
Awakenings © 2023 by Patrick Chiles
The Last Temptation of the Outsider © 2023 by Simon R. Green
The Witch, the Woods, and the Elf Queen © 2023 by Gregory Frost
The Insomniac © 2023 by Brad Zeiger
A Lesson to Those Who Survive © 2023 by D.J. Butler
Requiem - An Honor Harrington Story © 2023 by David Carrico
The Hitchhiker on Souls’ Road © 2023 by A. A. Nour
Operation Mall Stroll © 2023 by Lydia Sherrer
Relics © 2023 by Monalisa Foster

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises
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ISBN: 978-1-62579-973-9

Electronic Version by Baen Books
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Black Box 
by Sean CW Korsgaard

When mankind tells the story of our first message from an alien civilization, I hope they’ll remember that it began with two old soldiers at a diner, and ends with two old soldiers at a bar.
With the benefit of hindsight, it’s funny to think it all began with breakfast.
I should have known that Alan wanted something when he offered to treat me to a hot meal at Dino’s Cantina, one of the rare greasy spoons that serves real food on Flotsam Station. Alan’s a decent sort for a scrapper, but he could have been trying to talk me into selling him a kidney if it meant avoiding another meal in the station mess hall.
Credit where it’s due, the man knew to wait until we’d finished eating to try and pitch me on anything. The eggs were runny, and the bacon overcooked, but considering it was the first meal that I had eaten in weeks that wasn’t freeze dried, vat grown, or squeezed from a tube, I savored every bite. Mopping up the last of the yolk with a hunk of dark bread, I decided to finally broach the topic.
“Alan, I know you didn’t ask to meet just to swap war stories, and if you’re springing for real eggs and pork, it’s got to be one hell of an ask,” I said. “So, what do you want from me?”
“Straight to business then, eh Murph?” Alan said, running a hand across his scalp, his short red hair bristling. “Officially, our techie was injured on the job working our current patch of the debris field, and you’re her replacement until we can decide whether there’s enough worth a damn in our current patch to file a claim.”
If I weren’t more observant, I might have taken it personally that I was essentially being offered scut work. Luckily, we’d done this dance before.
“And unofficially?”
“It’s true we had our techie get hurt, and we need a replacement,” Alan said. “Not with another techie though. No, we need a proper net diver, and as far as I know, you’re the only one in the entire system.”
I raised an eyebrow at that. There aren’t a lot of veterans of the Siberian Pacification Wars out here; it was one of the reasons Alan and I had become fast friends. He’d seen frontline combat with the U.S. Army mobile infantry everywhere from Kamchatka to Lake Baikal. For comparison, I’d been in a support unit stationed in one of the warlord states in the Urals, one of the cybernetically augmented “net divers,” who handled virtual and digital sabotage and espionage well behind enemy lines.
In theory anyway. Alan was one of the only people on the station who cared to know what my job in the military was. Everybody else just knew I was a survivor of the 99th Mobile Infantry Sustainment Brigade, the so-called Bloody Nines.
If he was playing that card, this really was a serious favor.
“What the hell did you find out there that you need a net diver for?” I asked.
“Now that, Murphy, is exactly the right question to ask,” Alan said, a grin spreading across his face. “In all the years salvage crews have been picking the bones of wrecks in this system, how many fully intact vessels have been found?”
“None. Just from thousands of years of drifting in the void alone, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“Well, we just found the needle then,” Alan said, passing me a tablet. “Meteor we were scanning for mineral deposits came up with some unusual readings. As far as anybody on Flotsam is concerned, we found a massive deposit, and are setting up camp to start prepping it for transport to the station. What we actually found was this.”
I flipped through a series of photos on the tablet, and my heart began to race. There, embedded in a crevice, plain as day, was an alien spacecraft, a little dinged up, but still all in one piece. For what it represented, it might as well have been made of gold.
“My friend, you finally hit the motherlode, congrats,” I said, passing the tablet back, hoping my response was more contained than I felt. “So why the secrecy, the subterfuge? File your salvage claim and collect your payday.”
“Because we’re not going to settle for a claim on just the ship. Not when the money to be made on reverse engineering the tech alone makes that look like pocket change,” Alan said. “So far though, all we’ve managed to do is get inside and get the oxygen flowing, but we’ve hit a wall everywhere else. And our one attempt to break through it damn near put our techie in a coma.”
“So you think a net diver might have better luck patching into whatever alien systems almost fried a techie?”
“We’re almost certain of it, but there’s a lot of specifics I can’t tell you unless you accept. Succeed or fail, you’ll get an equal cut of the claim, same as the rest of the crew. But I’ll need an answer before I pay for breakfast.”
I debated it longer than you might expect. Aside from a few of the more useful augmentations, I’d made a point of avoiding any actual net diving work as much as possible—too many bad memories of the day that the Bloody Nines earned our nickname. One of the reasons I’d made my way out to Flotsam was the lack of any use for that skillset. I hated it almost as much as I hated the idea of hooking my braincase into an alien spacecraft.
Wealth beyond measure and glory has a funny way of making a man accept a lot of what he hates.
“Tell me this much—what makes you think I’ll have any better luck?”
“Because we didn’t just find a ship.” Alan leaned in conspiratorially. “We also found a body. And it’s augmented.”
#
When mankind eventually hopped our way across the nearby stars to Lalande 21185, we’d initially been disappointed. The few dead, rocky worlds that orbited the red dwarf are bathed in enough radiation that even probes can’t stay on the surface for too long. Worse, a system-wide debris field makes navigating all but the edges of the system hazardous for large spacecraft and was almost enough of a reason to write off the system by itself.
At least until it turned out that debris wasn’t space junk or asteroids, but wreckage. Our first and, to date, only proof of life beyond Earth was several asteroid belts worth of material from the shattered remains of what had to have been thousands of alien spacecraft and megastructures. Thousands of years old, and entirely free for the taking.
So, thousands of would-be prospectors made their way to Lalande 21185 and stations like Flotsam. Hundreds of salvage crews like Alan’s making fortunes by harvesting the wealth of material left behind, trying to recover or reverse engineer the rare bits of working tech found among the wrecks, or trying to figure out just what happened here. Them, and scores of people like me offering the kinds of industry and services every budding boomtown needs.
An entire star system of people had made fortunes picking through an alien scrapyard, and I might have a chance to find out who left us all those goodies.
Alan guided me through the inside of the alien ship, which had been strung with basic mining lights since they hadn’t figured out yet what powered the craft, as he led me to the cockpit area.
“This is where we’ve set up our work area, though Jonda, our techie, can fill you in more on the technical details,” Alan said. “Brace yourself—you’re also about to get your first look at an alien.”
The door to the cockpit opened, and Alan pointed to what I assumed was the pilot’s chair. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected my first sight of an alien corpse to be, but mummified to the point of being almost unrecognizable as a corpse wasn’t it. Aside from some kind of long-since-faded jumpsuit, it was hard to tell what the alien might have looked like beyond having two legs, two arms, four eyes, and no evidence of a mouth.
“Amazing what a few thousand years of exposure will do to a body, isn’t it?” said a woman’s voice behind me.
She was short, and had a half-shaved head, the half without hair bearing some of the gaudy plugs and attachments that were the price of getting a cybernetic augmentation as a civilian. Augments are one of those areas where paying for military-grade really does make a difference. Save the interface plug at the nape of my neck, all of mine were subdermal.
“Jonda the techie, I presume?” I asked.
“And you must be Alan’s drinking buddy, the net diver from the Bloody Nines,” Jonda answered, and I bristled at the jab at my old unit. Alan must have noticed because he intervened before I could retort.
“Jonda, why don’t you tell Murphy why we’ve brought him here,” Alan said.
“Might be easier just to show him,” she replied. “No point explaining if he fares as poorly at interfacing as I did.”
She pointed to what I assumed was the alien’s neck, which I noticed was wrapped in what appeared to be a series of mesh and rings.
“That, we assume, is the ET answer to cybernetic augmentation. It’s also the only device of any kind on the ship we’ve managed to achieve any interface with,” Jonda said. “As to what it is we’re interfacing with . . . hopefully you’ll be able to tell us.”
She pointed to a collection of wires that trailed from the alien’s mesh rings to a device set up in the cockpit’s corner. That it looked like a crudely jury-rigged diving chair did not fill me with confidence.
“That’s the only device you’ve managed to connect to on the ship?” I asked.
“We can’t even get a handle on the coding with some of the other computers, and while we have some idea what some of the larger systems on the ship might be, we don’t want to mess around with them unless we can crack the alien’s language so we know what we’re actually dealing with,” Jonda said. “This is our best and only lead to going any further on our own.”
“There weren’t any physical clues?”
“Very little,” Jonda answered. “The extraterrestrial—along with an empty vial and a faded memento of some kind, maybe a photo—was the only thing in the cockpit when we arrived. Those were the only bodies or personal effects we found anywhere on board.”
“No sense beating around the bush, then, I suppose.”
I sat down and started plugging myself into the chair, until I felt the familiar locking of the interface jack at my neck. Just like riding a bike.
“Don’t let the size fool you: whatever that alien is hooked into, I promise it has a kick like nothing you’ve ever interfaced with,” Jonda said. “It makes the systems from the war look like an Atari, and the stuff on Flotsam look like an ENIAC, so brace yourself.”
“How long did you make it before you had to be unplugged?”
“A little over thirty seconds,” she replied, typing into a keypad on the device.
“Then put me under for just over a minute for a trial run,” I said, hopefully sounding braver than I felt. “That should be more than enough to test the waters. Hey, Alan?”
“Yes, Murphy?” he replied.
“If I pull this off without giving myself an aneurysm, you owe me a bottle of scotch.”
“Murph, you get us something useful out of that alien, I’ll buy you a full case.”
#
She wasn’t lying, the level of connection was astonishing. A flood of sights and sensations washed over me, and it took me a while to get any bearing on where this torrent stopped and where I began. This is what separates a net diver from anyone else plugged into virtual or digital space, being able to steady yourself against the flow of information coming from every direction in digital space where anyone else would drown.
The torrent began to slow to a more bearable level. Sound first, strange klaxons blaring, followed by voices. Even if I couldn’t understand them, I could feel words reverberate through me, each syllable ringing clearly in my head. There was also a strange new undercurrent I couldn’t yet place, flowing through like electricity.
Images came next, slowing down gradually into a steady vision. The level of detail was astonishing, beyond even the best virtual realities devised on Earth. This wasn’t a simulation though, this was a recording, albeit one of unmatched clarity. I could watch, even move in limited directions, but not interact—a backseat observer, nothing more.
As I gained my bearings, I finally got a look at the aliens. They physically resembled what you might get if you split the difference between reptilian and avian. All mottled gray, they each had four eyes spaced out over a large lobed head with the bottom portion covered in tendrils, yet I saw no beak or snout.
They had no mouths, but voices remained. The words rang—and more than the words, there was that electricity. I focused on that humming energy, and there came a rush of moods, thoughts, feelings, flowing through like electricity.
No sooner had I made the connection than I was pulled back out.
#
“How long was I plugged in?” I asked, a low ringing in my ears. “That was more than a minute.”
“You’re right, you were under for fifteen minutes. Once we saw the system wasn’t spitting you right back out, I didn’t want to interrupt,” Jonda said. “Have anything to tell us?”
“I know what our alien used to look like,” I said. “And that their species communicated telepathically, or something close to it.”
“I told you he was the man for the job!” Alan said. “Any idea what we’re dealing with?”
“Some kind of recording, I think, though like none I’ve ever seen. It captures everything, even what I think must be thoughts or emotions.”
“Think you can handle another go?”
“Let’s see how far we can take this.”
#
I rewatched long stretches, explored different angles, and pushed the recordings to their limits, trying to learn everything I could as I went along.
As I watched, I came to realize these recordings were focused on a singular alien’s point of view. I watched through his perspective as ships from his species, thousands of them, took formations across the Lalande 21185 system, set up bases on the planets, which at this point of time were free of radiation and lush with plant life. I learned that they had traveled the stars through a system of massive star gates, one of which was active in the system.
I had even started to piece together some names in the alien tongue—the alien’s personal name was Silon, their species called themselves Ra’tuath. There was one moment I’d replayed before, when Silon was in a formation with hundreds of others, listening to what could only be an officer delivering a speech, when some phrases caught my attention. It took me a moment to realize why.
Driven into exile by the Enemy . . . It is the most desperate hour . . . By the stars, the Ra’tuath will prevail!
I could understand their language. Parts of it anyway, but growing parts of it.
I’d long since started listening for patterns, latching onto common words, but this wasn’t mere pattern recognition. It was almost osmosis of sorts: the longer I listened, the more I understood. I wasn’t just learning as much as I could, something in the program was teaching me.
As if on cue, I saw a chance to test these abilities with a recording I hadn’t watched yet—Silon was sitting on a large mat across from the officer from earlier.
I see you, Fleetlord Dhakar. Silon gave the formal greeting gesture of the Ra’tuath.
I see you, Craftpilot Silon. The leader returned the greeting and gesture. Do you know why I have called you here?
You have special orders for me.
Indeed. You are among the best pilots in the fleet. You are being trusted with an important duty.
The Fleetlord took out a small black box and slid it across the mat to Silon. The dread emanating from Silon as all four of his eyes fixated on the box was overwhelming. Slowly, he reached out and took it.
Do you know what that is, Craftpilot?
Yes, Fleetlord. The Final Answer.
And if the need arises, you are to be our Messenger. Do you know what that means?
If we should fail to hold the Enemy here, this weapon will not fail.
Preparations have already been made. Charges have been placed and delivered throughout the system. Your ship has been prepared for your new duty. Do not use it while the gate remains open. Otherwise, trust your judgement, and wait until the moment defeat has become certain. Do you understand?
Yes, Fleetlord. Though I hope the need does not come.
If it does, though, the Answer is in your hands.
Klaxons wailed overhead, but before I could see why, I was ripped away from the vision entirely.
#
They’d apparently pulled me back once my nose had started bleeding. I had a splitting headache. Not uncommon for long net diving sessions, but usually ones measured in days, not mere hours like this one. The intensity of the alien hardware was much stronger than I’d realized.
I washed down a few painkillers, and the ringing in my head stopped. I relayed what I’d seen and learned, and we started tossing out theories while I took some time to recover.
“So, what we have is some kind of alien livestream?” Jonda asked.
“I think it’s closer to something like a black box, capturing as much of the events as possible. It might even explain details like how I started to understand their language,” I explained. “The alien, Silon—while everyone else is told to prepare for an enemy attack, he’s ordered to hide and hunker down, to be the guy who sees things through if everything goes wrong.”
“Makes sense to me—it’s standard designated survivor protocol. You have a guy you set aside in case everybody else gets wiped out,” Alan said. “They gave him the doomsday device to ensure mutually assured destruction. We’re even standing in the bunker.”
“It doesn’t appear to have done him, or the Ra’tuath much good,” Jonda said.
“That’s just it . . . all this effort to establish defenses in the system, a massive fleet sent to create a redoubt, a superweapon to activate in the event both failed,” Alan said. “If they thought all these measures were necessary, just what kind of enemy were they were fighting?”
There was a pause before I answered.
“I imagine we’re about to find out.”
#
I returned to find myself in a nightmare.
The Ra’tuath armada was no longer alone. The enemy fleet poured through the star gate, seemingly without end. The skies of Lalande 21185 were filled with ships, with missile barrages, and beam weapons of several colors and devastating effects. I saw waves of bombs flood each of the rocky planets—familiar mushroom clouds marked where what had been livable worlds for the Ra’tuath became the radioactive hellscapes mankind knew today. It was a scale of violence I could scarcely comprehend.
It’s not surprising my thoughts turned to the desperation and panic in Magnitogorsk.
My unit had been supporting a half dozen Spec Ops units near what was once Magnitogorsk—what still was Magnitogorsk at the time. There’d been vague rumors of an old Russian nanotech experiment unearthed by one of the warlord states in the southern Urals, and the 99th was providing intel and support from the city.
We’d lost contact with four of those Spec Ops units within minutes of each other. The survivors of two units fled back into the city, having found what they were searching for, and barely survived. They reported human experimentation making monsters of men, and terrified people fleeing to the city, with a horde on their heels.
What attacked the city wasn’t human, not anymore. Nothing short of vaporizing kept them down for good. Thousands of soldiers with heavy weapons and air support barely held the line for an hour. A few hundred survivors managed to make it to the last vertibirds out before everything within fifty miles was scoured by neutron bombs.
The things I’d seen and done that day were bad enough that I couldn’t put several light-years between myself and the same planet as Magnitogorsk fast enough. So I’m no stranger to nightmares. What soldier is?
I’m just generally used to those nightmares being of things I’d actually seen. And I’d never seen anything like this.
Silon was flying a ship through the middle of all this chaos, and the alien’s own feelings of desperation and panic were palpable. Despite some terrifying near misses, and taking a few hits, Silon managed to break away from the chaos long enough to make his way to an isolated asteroid I recognized as the same one I was on right now. His ship had arrived at its final destination.
I understood why Alan’s crew found the ship where they had, once I saw through Silon’s eyes how it had arrived. The asteroid was far enough from the worst of the fighting—and the crevice he’d landed in offered shielding and protection from other ships and strafing fire—while remaining close enough that he could still observe most of the battle.
I watched the battle unfold for what seemed like hours, waves of fleet movements on a scale that dwarfed anything I previously could have imagined. Yet one pattern was unmistakable—no matter how many enemy ships the Ra’tuath took out, the enemy’s numbers kept growing . . . but the Ra’tuath fleet did not. Scores of enemy ships kept coming through the star gate to fill the ranks. There were no such reinforcements for the Ra’tuath.
While fixated on that desperate situation, I’d almost missed the equally desperate response, only noticing because Silon’s reaction was unmistakable. The massive dreadnaught I knew to be the Ra’tuath flagship had slowly begun to change direction and build up speed. Once I saw its large engines flare to life, I looked to where it was aimed—directly at the star gate.
Other ships in the Ra’tuath fleet moved to support the flagship, firing barrage after barrage toward the gate, clearing as much of a path as they could. If the enemy fleet took notice, they never had the chance to react. Like a bolt of lightning, the flagship surged forward and hit its mark. The resulting explosion was blinding and lingered long enough that for a moment Lalande 21185 appeared to have a second, yellow sun.
It wasn’t for nothing . . . It wasn’t for nothing, by the stars.
As it faded, the Ra’tuath flagship and countless nearby vessels from both flotillas in the vicinity had been blown to smithereens—and so had the star gate.
#
I was kicked back out to reality a bit more roughly this time around, the strain much heavier. My nose was bleeding, and the headaches were much worse coming back this time, so we’d agreed to wait a few hours before plugging me back in. I needed the break.
“It was always obvious something cataclysmic had happened here, but to think we’re basically strip-mining an extraterrestrial Gettysburg,” Alan said.
“Their Stalingrad, more like. This was a clash of civilizations, and these two sides were throwing everything they had into it,” I said. “Even without the telepathic overflow from Silon, it’s hard to watch. How much more do you guys need?”
“Ideally? Anything that might help crack their written language or coding—”
“Not what he meant by the question, Jonda,” Alan interrupted. “You don’t have to do any more, Murphy. You’ve pulled plenty enough data already, if you’ve reached your limit.”
“He can’t stop now, not yet!”
“That’s not your call to make!”
“No, she’s right, I can’t,” I said. “Putting aside the odds I might pull something useful, there’s the possibility there’s the remains of a hostile alien invasion force in nearby space, or some unused alien superweapon still waiting for some unlucky salvage crew to activate on accident. Just promise me one thing, Alan.”
“Anything, Murphy.”
“Don’t get me the cheap stuff.”
#
Everybody, even places on the edge of settled space like Flotsam, knows the name and reputation of the Bloody Nines. Not a lot of people bother to learn where that nickname originally came from. I’ve heard all kinds of stories of guts and glory, and some colorful theories. All wrong, of course.
The truth is much simpler. It’s because according to the early after-action reports and casualty statistics, after Magnitogorsk, only one out of every nine members of the 99th Mobile Infantry Sustainment Brigade survived. I can tell you the math has that number a little lower, but soldiers like nice easy-to-remember numbers and nicknames almost as much as they like black humor.
I mention this because I know what fighting a hopeless battle looks like. And despite sacrificing their flagship in a kamikaze charge to bring down the warp gate and cutting their enemy off from reinforcements, the Ra’tuath were still losing. At a rough estimate, what was left of their fleet was at best at half strength from when they started—even cut off from reinforcements, the enemy numbers dwarfed theirs.
Watching the battle unfold before him, Silon might not have had a mouth, but telepathically, he was screaming. Rage, despair, horror, all were palpable and played back and forth as battle data as it came in.
Whatever process had helped me pick up their spoken language hadn’t yet kicked in for written stuff, but while I couldn’t understand the data on the viewscreens, with Silon’s reactions, I didn’t need to. I didn’t need help for the reports coming in over radio—they were going down fighting, but minute by minute, the Ra’tuath were going down all the same. Vague visions of building a redoubt for his people were replaced with Silon’s certainty of complete and total defeat.
No options remained, save one. With resignation, Silon reached for the box handed to him by the fleetlord. He opened it, and after a moment’s hesitation, pushed a button.
I looked for the first signs of this alien superweapon. I remember being surprised that there was no series of explosions, no visible ripple, no spectacular sign that this alien superweapon had worked at all—until I noticed that as the effect began to spread, all of the myriad ships that filled every corner of Lalande 21185 began to go dark.
#
I awoke to Alan, Jonda, and a couple of other crew members trying to hold me down. I’d been thrashing around so much they feared I’d suffered a stroke. I tasted blood and smelled copper and was completely drained. I knew I was approaching burnout. The dive setup, not in the best shape even when we’d started, was in rough shape too.
“Best I can figure, sounds like some type of EMP kind of thing,” Alan said a little later. “Must have packed one hell of a punch to knock out an entire solar system.”
“What was left of one, anyway.” I said before taking a bite out of a protein bar.
“You don’t think, whatever it was, that it's on this ship somewhere?”
“No, near as I can tell, Silon was only given the detonator to some kind of charges or relays already placed around the system,” I said. “I’m sure the defense contractors back on Earth will be devastated they have to settle for cracking the code on beam weapons and shielding instead of something that can kill a star system like flipping a light switch.”
“Not what I meant, Murph. You know me. I just don’t want to sit on something I shouldn’t and end up knocking us out, too,” Alan said, pointing to the mummified remains of Silon. “Leave a dozen new bodies for the next guys to stumble upon.”
That earned a few dark chuckles from both of us.
Jonda gave the thumbs-up that the system was ready again. And physically recovered, or close to it, I made my way back to our dive setup.
“I know this is rough on you, Murph,” Alan said as I was hooking myself back in. “There’s not that much left. Whatever’s still on there, learning it isn’t worth getting yourself hurt.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” I said, a bit braver than I felt. “Besides, I wouldn’t say that’s entirely true; we know we’re guaranteed to learn at least one thing from me going back in.”
“What’s that?”
“How this ended.”
#
With the exception of a low red glow from Lalande 21185, the ship was completely dark, the power and systems knocked out by the Ra’tuath superweapon. Whatever had remained of both of the warring alien fleets after the gate was destroyed were now completely dead in the water.
Silon sat in the pilot’s chair, starring out at the battlefield which he had turned into a tomb. The emotions and thoughts coming from him were overwhelming.
A small amount of pride.
The Enemy shall not spread. At least this part of space will be free of them.
A great deal of guilt.
How many millions of my clanmates did we murder to achieve that? That I murdered?
The temperature was cold, and dropping fast, with condensation starting to form on the glass of the cockpit. Silon didn’t need the instruments to tell him that if the drop in temperature didn’t kill him first, the decreasing amount of air would. Whatever protections the engineers had ringed the cockpit with had not been properly extended to the engines or life support systems.
Silon was going to die. Acceptance.
I will die here. Just as I have sentenced millions of others to die. Not a good death. But a fitting one.
From a pouch of his uniform, Silon removed two things, which I recognized from the cockpit. The empty vial, here filled with a black liquid, and the faded icon, not yet faded by centuries of stellar light.
Silon drank from the vial, and his breathing began to slow—a poison of some sort, then—and placed the icon on the rim of the cockpit window. There was enough light that I could see it was a group of Ra’tuath. Silon leaned forward, his head touching the glass above the icon, and there was a wave of overwhelming grief.
I’m sorry. If this was his family, a group of friends, or a revered leader, I would never get an answer.
As Silon looking at the icon, there came a new feeling, warm, strange and hard to place. His breathing became labored. He adjusted slightly, and with a shaky, yet firm hand, scrawled into the condensation on the cockpit glass a message. A prayer? A farewell? The longer I looked, the more I thought I could almost make out what it said in the dim light.
The stars . . . how peaceful they look . . . 
Almost on impulse, I looked away from the message, and up at the stars. There’s an old wives’ tale, that you can’t see the stars in space—it’s not true of course. Yet I’ll admit, the stars here looked magnificent.
Silon slumped back into the pilot’s seat. Yet before I could try and look back at the message he’d left on the glass, I noticed that Silon turned his head toward my direction.
The look in those four raptor-like eyes appeared to be fixated on me. I knew what I was watching was only a recording, a simulation, that I was only there for the ride as a passive observer, no matter how real it may look or feel. Yet the look in Silon’s eyes was not the half-glazed stare of a dying creature, but one of rapt, full attention, as if something had managed to catch him completely by surprise.
I see you. There was a certainty to his words that would stick with me until my dying day.
Then in a moment, that resolve was gone, and with a few last spasms, Silon was dead, dropped back into his seat. The most massive wave of vertigo I’d ever felt washed over me.
And with my head still spinning, my pulse pounding, and any number of explanations still being tossed about regarding to whom or what those last words were directed, the recording ended and I was pulled back to the real world for the last time.
#
I woke in the cockpit, the real cockpit, with a jolt, not noticing or hearing the reactions of Alan, Jonda, or the crew. My nose was bleeding again, my pulse was pounding, and my head felt like it was about to split in two, but even as I took a few deep breaths and stabilized, one thought wouldn’t go away.
I tried to get up, and I stumbled, waving away someone who tried to help me up. Taking it slower, I got to my feet and made my way over to the cockpit glass, desperately looking for a particular spot. I must have seemed half-crazed—I know I felt it—but when someone tried to pull me back, Alan motioned for them to give me space. When I thought I’d found the spot where I’d seen Silon writing in the condensation, I took a deep breath and exhaled on the glass.
There, on the glass of the cockpit, a short series of smeared, curlicue alien symbols revealed themselves. A message, scrawled in a trembling hand—which, by some alien osmosis, I could read as easily as my own—and containing the final message of a warrior who’d died never knowing if those they’d saved would ever know.

We gave our futures
That you might have yours
Remember us

It was as grand an epitaph as a soldier or a civilization could ask for.
“I see you, Silon.”
#
“Looks like I owe you that case of scotch,” Alan said, grabbing me by the shoulder. “Hell, Murphy, I owe you a hell of a lot more than that. We all do.”
It had been a few hours since I’d found Silon’s message. Once I’d calmed down enough to form a coherent sentence, I’d shared the full extent of what I’d seen. With me available to translate and point out certain critical systems, the rest of the team had been busy jury-rigging what they could back online. There was some debate that with a few new parts, the ship could have flown back to Flotsam under its own power. Not that we’d risk that, when reverse engineering every part on the ship stood to make everyone a king’s ransom.
What’s more, while the crew’s techie, Jonda, might not have been a proper net diver, once she had a rough guide on how to decipher the Ra’tuath language, she managed to do the same with their computer code. She’d been pulling every scrap of data she could off anything she could and had found a treasure trove. Blueprints, data, records, and a hoard of information that teams of scholars and researchers could spend years going over. One that stood to make each of us an even greater fortune than the ship itself.
All that, and a story that changes everything we know about life in the universe.
With some idea of the full extent of what we’d found, we’d finally called back into Flotsam Station to report our salvage claim. The rest of the crew had made their way back to our own ship to celebrate our new status as probably the richest people this side of Sol. Yet I’d found myself gravitating back to the cockpit, thinking on the dozens of questions, on everything I’d seen, on the last words and final message of an alien soldier. I didn’t know how long I’d been there before Alan finally snapped me out of my thoughts.
“You know, I didn’t particularly like having my own battles rattling around in my head,” I said. “I haven’t quite wrapped my head around the fact that now I have an alien’s up there too.”
“It’s a hell of a thing you saw,” Alan said without a trace of his usual lightheartedness. “Hell of a thing they did too, what that Silon did; no wonder you’re feeling overwhelmed.”
“Entirely different species, thousands of years apart, yet so much of what I saw of them, what they felt . . . it wasn’t overwhelming because it was alien, but because it was so familiar,” I said, a lot of my thoughts pouring out at once. “Facing fearful odds, throwing yourself back into the fray. The desperation when defeat seems like a certainty . . . Not knowing if you won, if your sacrifice will matter . . . or if anyone will remember that sacrifice at all, will know you ever existed.”
“We know. Hell, soon all of humanity will know. That’s got to count for something,” Alan said. “For all we know, the Ra’tuath might still survive somewhere in space, wondering what happened to this fleet.”
“What a story we can tell them at first contact, eh?” I said. “By the time we meet, they might seem like old comrades to us, while they still won’t know a thing about humanity.”
“It’s the stuff we don’t know that bothers me. The enemy they fought may still survive somewhere out in space, and we know even less about them than we do the Ra’tuath. Hell, we don’t even know which side was the aggressor, or for that matter, if they both were.”
“I suppose that could be true,” I conceded. “But we know one of them sacrificed themselves to give us and anyone else in our part of space a fighting chance, and that’s enough for me. We can worry about that later. You still owe me a case of scotch.”
After all, there was a very old soldier that I planned to be the first to raise a glass to.
#####

Sean CW Korsgaard is a U.S. Army veteran, award-winning photojournalist and freelance reporter, and an assistant editor and media relations manager at Baen Books. As a reporter he has over 1,500 bylines to his name, and his work has been featured in outlets as diverse as The New York Times, VFW Magazine, and Analog. He is a graduate of Virginia Commonwealth University, where he studied mass communications and history.

The Quail Runs
by D.J. Butler

“I want to walk,” Udad said.
“We know!” Aksil slapped his younger brother on his twisted thigh through the green linen of his burnoose. Udad sat astride a camel, held in place by knotted strips of leather that provided the grip that Udad’s misshapen legs could not. Aksil forced himself to smile, though he felt trepidation. “We will be at the cave soon.”
Udad was nearing his ninth summer; Aksil, his twelfth.
The boys’ uncle, Izemrasen, turned to look back at them. He carried a spear and wore a burnoose dyed a simple brown. Izemrasen served as their protector, though Aksil was armed as well, with a throwing stick and four short javelins. Izemrasen was also their guide.
The sun had traveled a handspan since they’d left the main trade track. They followed an inconspicuous trail wandering north of the track. A warm breeze tugged at Aksil’s face and he tasted copper. His stomach growled.
“We’re almost there,” Izemrasen said.
“Did the witch tell you how long this trail was, too?” Aksil scanned the hills around them; they were thick with tall green grass that was rapidly fading to yellow.
“I can smell the water.” Izemrasen sniffed.
Udad sniffed the air. His nose was as bent as his legs, but his eyes sparkled. “I want to walk. I want to walk now. The rest of the way. I want to gallop.”
“Save your strength,” Izemrasen said. “We will have to climb, the witch said.”
“Also, he can’t gallop,” Aksil pointed out. “What if he can’t climb?”
“I can climb,” Udad assured them.
“If he can’t climb on his own,” Izemrasen said, “you and I will help him.”
“But I’ll climb down without your help,” Udad insisted. “Because I’ll be healed.”
Izemrasen laughed. “I expect you will leap back down the mountain like an addax.”
“The witch said it was a mountain?” Udad asked.
“That was her word.”
They continued, the camel loping gracefully along the path, and Aksil following behind, watching for bandits. They were far from Ahuskay village, and if bandits beset them, there was little they could do other than run.
“Aksil!” Izemrasen called. “You go ahead for a bit. I have to remove a pebble from my sandal.”
While his uncle sat and removed the offending stone, Aksil took the lead, heading forward along the path that now began to slope downward. Udad followed, holding the reins of the camel himself.
The grass thickened and grew greener, suggesting water, and trees began to dot the hills around them, and then cluster together, forming into groves.
Suddenly, a fat brown quail burst from a low bush to Aksil’s right. It broke left across the path and raced away, causing a waving furrow of grass to ripple up the hill to his left. Aksil threw a javelin and missed.
He cursed and retrieved the spear, returning to the path to find Izemrasen standing where Aksil had stood to throw, holding the camel.
“Hungry?” his uncle asked.
“Aren’t you?” Aksil countered.
“To eat, I’m afraid you must be smarter than the quail,” Izemrasen told him.
“I think you mean faster than the quail,” Aksil grumbled.
“That’s one way to eat,” Izemrasen agreed, a smile cracking his leathery face. “But you and I are not faster than quail. Are we smarter than the bird?”
“Why are you taunting me?” Aksil asked. “Let’s take Udad to the mountain. You said there are fig trees there.”
“The figs may be ripening,” Izemrasen conceded. “Are you giving up on the feast of quail’s flesh? Or quail’s eggs?”
“No,” Aksil said. “I am giving up on your lesson. So if there’s something you think I need to learn here, you’d better go right ahead and tell me.”
Izemrasen harrumphed. “I’m your uncle. I’m supposed to teach you.”
“I’m going now.” Aksil took a step.
“The quail runs to distract you,” Izemrasen said.
“Distract me from what?” Then Aksil realized what his uncle was saying. “From her eggs.”
Izemrasen chuckled and nodded.
Aksil laid his javelins and throwing stick in the grass and crept slowly into the bushes from which the quail had emerged. He pushed the leaves aside gently, feeling the spiny branches poke him in the hands and arms. He was careful not to set his foot on any patch of ground without carefully examining it first.
And there they were; a mound of quail eggs, heaped tightly in the thickest part of the bush. Aksil counted them carefully.
“Twelve eggs,” he lied. There were eleven.
He handed four to his uncle first, to honor Izemrasen for the lesson. Izemrasen immediately cracked the first egg and sucked its contents out in one gulp. Aksil handed four eggs to Udad and then stood turned to the side to conceal the number of eggs he had as he devoured them.
The eggshells cast aside to the outraged shrieking of the quail, they descended the remaining stretch of trail and came to a lake. The witch’s “mountain” was an orange cliff, and at the base of which lay a brilliant, clear pool. Water sprang from the cliff and poured into the pool. Around the pond stood trees bearing dates, which were green, but also figs, some of which were beginning to ripen. Aksil collected two figs for each of them, while Izemrasen stood in place and examined the rock face.
“There,” Izemrasen said. “A crack in the stone, do you see? It is as the witch described. To our right, we will find a shelf that climbs up to that crack.”
“I will climb it,” Udad said.
“We shall see.” Izemrasen began unknotting the thongs holding Udad in place.
Aksil drank from the pool. “Addax tracks here,” he said. “And antelope. Perhaps tonight I will take a beast for us to eat.” He puffed out his chest. He had never yet, in fact, killed an addax or an antelope. He had killed fowl from time to time, and had once helped butcher a goat, after Izemrasen had killed it.
“Very good.” Izemrasen helped Udad down. Then, while the boy stood wobbling on his twisted legs, Izemrasen tied the camel to a fig tree, within reach of the water and plenty of grass. Then he began helping his crippled nephew limp to the right, where the witch had claimed their path lay.
“This witch,” Aksil said. “She herself was healed by the power of the cave?”
“Healed of boils,” Izemrasen answered.
“She slept the night in the cave?” Aksil asked.
“That’s how the spirit works.”
“The spirit heals at night?” Aksil pressed.
“Everyone knows that all spirits are most active in the darkness,” Izemrasen said. “They fear the sun. In this, they are the opposite of mankind.”
Aksil filled their waterskin, slung it over his shoulder, and turned to follow his family. As he pivoted, disturbed earth among the addax tracks caught his eye and he stopped.
There were sandal tracks mixed with the spoor of the horned beasts. Men had walked here recently.
But enormous men. Their feet—he pressed his own foot into one of the tracks, and it didn’t fill half the imprint. Looking in all directions and forcing himself not to break into a run, he followed his uncle.
The ascending shelf was where the witch had foretold it would be. Its bottom end was above any of their heads, so Izemrasen pushed Udad up and then scrambled after him.
“Shall I come up also?” Aksil asked.
“He won’t need the help to climb,” Izemrasen said, and it was true. Udad was already scrambling on all fours up the shelf toward the crack. “You can come if you want. But the spirit will be in the cave. And if you come up, no one will be watching the camel. Would you like to spend the night in the cave with Udad? Maybe I should watch the camel?”
Aksil looked back toward where the beast grazed. The camel was a significant portion of their family’s wealth.
“Does the spirit . . .” Aksil hesitated. “Does the spirit have large feet?”
Izemrasen snorted. “Maybe. Spirits are powerful and can take different shapes. Maybe the spirit of the cave can take a shape that has feet.”
“Large feet,” Aksil said again.
“It’s a powerful spirit,” Izemrasen said, “its feet could be large. It could have a hundred feet. It could have wings, or the form of a goat. It could take five forms all at one. I knew a man whose wife had several spirit forms. A goat, and a hawk, and another one, I forget. Sometimes her spirit forms would appear many leagues from where she was. Sometimes in two places at once. Spirit-fragments, I suppose.”
“That sounds very useful,” Aksil said.
“It was,” Izemrasen agreed. “Except that her spirit-fragments caused great mischief. They killed antelope and scattered goats and were regarded as demons, and so eventually, she had to be killed.”
Aksil handed the waterskin up to his uncle. “You’ll need this. I’ll stay here and watch the camel.”
Izemrasen stood holding the waterskin and looked to the sky in the west, just turning orange. “Udad has to spend the night in the cave, and then his legs will be straightened.”
“He’ll be able to keep up with the goats,” Aksil said.
“With his older brother.” Izemrasen grinned.
Surely, Aksil reasoned, he had imagined the sandal print. He walked back to the water to examine the scuffed earth. Again, he seemed to see the footprint of an enormous man. The footprint must belong to the healing spirit. The spirit had descended from the mountain for a drink and had now climbed back into the cave.
Aksil squinted at the looming shadow of the cliff above him, darkening rapidly from purple toward black.
Izemrasen and Udad would have to worry about the spirit with giant feet. Aksil could bed down in the grass and sleep.
He checked the camel first; it was tethered firmly, with plenty of room to drink, graze, relieve itself, and sleep.
Being tired, he then made a rough bed for himself by bending down tall grass into a wiry pallet. He formed his bed at the base of the cliff, where the rock leaned outward above and created a little shelter from any chance rain that might fall in the night. Lying too close to the camel might get him stepped on or bitten. Laying his weapons on the ground beside him, within easy reach, he unwrapped his own gray burnoose and draped it over his own body as a blanket. The burbling spring and pool lay to his right, a narrow strip of stone separating the water from the base of the cliff.
Should he light a fire?
If the spirit did descend, he didn’t want to attract its attention and become a target for its mischief. The night would be cool, but Aksil decided to forego flames.
He watched the stars shift slowly across the sky. What was Udad feeling? If the spirit was straightening his brother’s legs now, did that hurt? Was the spirit on his legs to straighten them, or hitting them with hammers?
But Aksil didn’t hear any screaming. He heard chirruping insects, and the occasional rustle in the grass that indicated a larger animal passing by. Sleep was slow to take him. He imagined Udad pummeled by spirits, or healed Udad rushing down the rock shelf in joyous leaps, or spirits with big feet and hammers looking for Aksil, to twist his legs in payment for the straightening of Udad’s limbs.
Then his eyes snapped open, and Aksil realized he had been asleep.
He heard growling from the direction of the camel. Aksil looked up and saw the spirit.
It was indeed a powerful spirit, as Izemrasen has suggested. It had split itself into two, like the woman Izemrasen knew. The fragments of the spirit stalked around the camel, which lay on the ground on its folded legs. The spirit-fragments had the shapes of men, but they were half again as tall as they should be, and they wore the heads of cats. They wore sandals, too, and short capes, and they held spears in their hands.
The camel bellowed in fear.
Aksil rose to a crouch. He gathered his burnoose in his left arm and scooped up his javelins in the other hand. The spirit-fragments hissed and yowled to each other. The camel screamed and struggled to its feet.
The demons pounced. They moved like cats, with confident speed, and they tore at the camel’s neck with jaws wide open. One more scream that tightened Aksil’s spine and the camel flopped to the ground, red with its own gore.
Aksil bit his tongue.
What were the other spirit-fragments doing to his brother in the cave? Was the camel’s death necessary, a sacrifice to pay for the healing that they sought?
The cat-headed spirits ate some of the flesh of the camel, but they quickly fell to yowling at each other again. Then they sniffed the air, stalking in a restricted circle around the camel’s corpse. The demons didn’t like the taste of camel flesh, it seemed. They looked toward Aksil where he lay, but their gaze didn’t linger. Had the shadow of the cliff hidden him, then?
But they took several steps toward the bottom of the rock shelf, stopped, and sniffed. They yowled at each other again.
Were they smelling Aksil’s trail? But they didn’t come in his direction but continued on toward the rock shelf and the path that led to the crack above.
Where Izemrasen and Udad were.
Would they harm his uncle and brother? Or would they participate in Udad’s healing?
They had killed the camel.
Aksil leaped to his feet. He slung his burnoose over his shoulder as he padded along the strip of stone past the pool of water. Then he turned, tipped a spear into the throwing stick, and sent it racing at the spirit-fragments.
He was not an experienced killer, but Aksil had thrown many spears. He could throw long and he could aim true. This javelin struck the closer of the two demons in the back of its catlike head.
The demon roared. Then both fragments turned, and Aksil ran.
On the far side of the pool, the ground dropped off swiftly, twisting and funneling into a gully that slid around behind the mount with the orange cliff face. A moon just edged its way around the hill, giving Aksil enough light to be able to run at nearly full speed.
He had seen the spirits sniff, though. Could they follow him by sense of smell?
Water splashed over sheets of rock, descending into the gully through a grove of tall fig trees. If the fragments could follow him by smell, Aksil needed to give them a false scent. He wrapped his burnoose around a javelin, aimed carefully at the darkest, thickest part of a tall fig tree, near the top, and released the spear.
His javelin struck the tree with a solid, meaty sound, and didn’t fall.
He splashed on, down the middle of the stream, keeping his feet in water as much as possible. He heard yowling, but he wasn’t sure whether it was becoming closer or farther away. He wanted the broken spirits to follow him. At least, long enough that they forgot about the scent of his brother and his uncle.
Flashes of the camel being torn apart burst repeatedly into his mind. Gully walls rose around him, at first comforting him that he wasn’t about to be attacked from left or right. But then the walls drew tighter, and his heartbeat grew more rapid.
The yowling stopped. It hadn’t grown closer.
Aksil stopped running. He stood still in the middle of the torrent, looking back up the well of shadow through which he’d descended. He saw silvery glints of moonlight on the ribbon of water, and a furred glow at the top that must be the open vale where the pool lay.
Did he hear sniffing?
He held still.
At the top of the gully, a shadow sped across the furred light from right to left. A second shadow followed. A spasm of glints on the left suggested a shaking tree, just catching the edge of the moonlight over the rim of the gully. Aksil heard a loud crack.
He moved downstream.
What had cracked? Was it possible the spirits had somehow been destroyed or defeated?
He moved slowly, to avoid splashing. Surely, the spirit-fragments would hear any splashes. He looked for the tiniest glints of reflected light from below to show him where the water ran, and he felt his way with each step.
What had made the cracking sound?
He heard yowling again, and he dared to look back. A shadow raced down the gully toward him. At least one shadow; but was it only one? He couldn’t be certain either way.
He couldn’t run fast enough to get away now. Aksil cast about, looking for a wall to climb or a hole to scurry into. Instead, he found a silvery green canopy overhead; leaves. The leaves of a fig tree.
He found the tree’s trunk. It was thick and scabby and his fingers and sandaled feet alike found easy purchase in it. Scrambling as fast as he could, he lost his grip on one of the objects in his hand—a javelin? He heard it clatter on the stones below.
The yowling paused, momentarily, and he heard sniffing sounds again. He saw nothing. The demons were close enough that he could hear them sniffing for him.
They would find him.
Was this what Udad was experiencing?
The trunk forked as he climbed. Beneath his feet, a thin branch snapped, the sound loud in the darkness.
The sniffing stopped.
The crack—it had been wood.
The spirit-fragments were large, and they were also heavy. They could climb trees, but if they climbed onto too thin a branch, the branch would not bear their weight and they would fall.
Aksil climbed higher.
But this could only be a dead end. If he climbed as high as possible, and didn’t fall, and the cat demons couldn’t follow, they could still stand at the bottom of the tree and wait for him.
He heard the rush of a spear being thrown at him, and the thud of its being deflected by a thick branch.
But the spirit healed at night.
Perhaps the spirit-fragments broke away from the healing part of the spirit at nighttime, too, and then they rejoined one another in the daylight. Rejoined, and perhaps went to sleep. Spirits were active in the darkness, they feared the sun.
If he could stay in the tree until dawn, perhaps he would survive.
But he also needed the demons to stay beneath him, and not to go eat his brother.
When the branch he clung to swayed from side to side, and a cool night breeze turned his sweat into a chilled cloak, he judged that he might have climbed high enough. His burnoose was gone, and he wore only a loincloth. Examining what he still held in his hands, he found that he had dropped the throwing stick, and clutched two javelins.
Bathed in moonlight, rising above most of the canopy of the fig tree’s leaves, Aksil looked down. To his surprise, he could see the demons. Their bodies lay cloaked in shadow, but their catlike heads bobbed on the tide of darkness as they prowled about the tree.
He fought to control his breathing, and to stay silent.
One spirit-fragment gripped the trunk of the tree and began to climb. Aksil edged slightly higher on the branch, afraid he’d snap it. The demon snarled as it climbed, and then shouted words at him that he didn’t understand. Aksil swayed one direction with the tree and then the other as the cat-headed thing ascended. He gripped the branch tightly with his knees, passed one javelin into left hand, pressed against the bark, and took careful aim.
The demon hesitated in its climb. It looked up, eyes gleaming in the moonlight that shone full on its face. It twisted its muzzle into a sneering expression and hissed.
Aksil feigned a throw of the javelin, but didn’t release the weapon.
The demon leaped to the side, grabbing at other branches to support itself. Those other branches were smaller and snapped instantly under the burden. The spirit-fragment crashed to the ground.
Instantly, the other demon sprang onto the tree trunk and raced toward Aksil. Froth foamed from its muzzle and wrath blazed in its eyes as it burst through the thickest veil of foliage below and charged upward. Aksil feigned another throw with the javelin, shouting this time: “Go away!”
The cat demon didn’t flinch.
Aksil threw the javelin.
He struck the demon directly in its spirit-face. He would have sworn he hit it right in the eye, but a hit to the eye should have lodged the javelin tip deep in the monster’s skull. Instead, the demon lost its grip on the tree and fell. More branches cracked and fell in a rain around the spirit-fragment. The beast crashed to the ground and lay still.
But it groaned.
It wasn’t dead.
Perhaps it couldn’t be killed. It was a spirit-fragment, after all.
Aksil cursed silently by every god, spirit, demon, and ancestor he could think of. “May these monsters be driven away by the rising!” he mumbled aloud. Then he added, “And may Udad be healed!”
The two demons were shouting, but not at him. They were arguing. After several tense exchanges, one cat shoved the other, knocking it down. The demon leaped to its feet, they both bared teeth and growled, and for a moment, Aksil dared to hope they might kill each other.
Instead, one backed down.
Then, without another sound, they bobbed away on the darkness again, vanishing up the gully.
Aksil took a deep breath.
He had survived.
But the demons were returning to the pool. Would they eat the camel? Would they leave it, and return to their spirit world, rejoining the fragments, perhaps, that were healing Udad?
Or would they climb the rock shelf, find Izemrasen and Udad, and kill them?
Aksil lowered himself down the tree.
He eased himself onto the ground. Finding his second javelin, he picked it up. The moon had now risen high enough to throw its light into the bottom of the gully, and the stream appeared as an interrupted ribbon, snarling its way downhill at a steeper and steeper angle. The gully widened, and the fig trees were interspersed with tumbled boulders and heaps of rock. What lay behind the hill? A deeper canyon?
He looked upstream. The heads of the demons and now also their shoulders and torsos crept up toward the pool.
Toward his family.
“Demons!” he shouted. “I don’t fear you!”
He meant to wait, to be certain they were following him. But when the spirit-fragments pivoted, he ran.
He heard the yowling instantly. Surely, they were following him again.
He ran all out, his feet sure on the dry stream bank. How long before he had to get up into a tree again? Moments? A minute? Three minutes?
He risked a look back and almost fell over his own feet, but saw the spirit-fragments splashing toward him in the stream.
Tree, he needed a tree! But as he cast about, Aksil saw that he hadn’t planned well. There were no trees near him. And if he climbed atop one of the massive boulders that now surrounded him, the cat-demons could easily follow.
The yowling became a shriek.
But they might not be able to follow him under the rocks.
Aksil hurled himself into the narrow, dark crack at the base of a heavy boulder, praying that it would be open enough to permit him entrance. He feared he’d die with a broken neck, having slammed himself into unyielding stone.
Instead, the crack led back into darkness.
He dragged himself, feeling the skin of his arms and knees and chest abrade. Behind him, he smelled the musk of cats, and then he heard a swish and felt the air moving on his calves that told of a near miss.
He didn’t stop. He kept dragging himself, hearing the screeching of cats, until suddenly the rock above him vanished and he saw light again. Had he gone too far, was he exposed, on the other side of the boulder?
But no, he stood and found himself inside a chamber roughly shaped like a pyramid. Above him, a crack admitting moonlight showed that the pyramid was formed by one massive boulder leaning against another. Across from him, a dull gray smear at the level of his ankles showed another possible exit.
He crouched and waited, a javelin in each hand. The demons yowled and hissed outside. They barked at each other in their unknown language. One tried to get in the same crack that had admitted Aksil, but ground to a halt, cursing, and then backed out. Shortly after, one of the demons tried to force itself into the other crack at ground level, but to no avail.
Aksil watched the gap in the chamber’s ceiling but saw nothing.
When the cat sounds began to die down, Aksil taunted the demons. “Do you fear me? You should! I am Aksil, I have slain a goat!”
It was a lie; he had not even slain a goat. But if the demons couldn’t reach him inside the pile of boulders, he wished to induce them to remain outside, gnashing their teeth, until the sun did away with them.
“I am Aksil, and I have killed a thousand of your kind! I can swallow the sun! Flee now, and you will live!”
The spirit-fragments howled in rage, tried again to come in through the cracks on the ground, failed, and eventually fell silent.
Aksil yelled more, but there was no response.
How long could he wait?
Might the demons have abandoned him and his family entirely?
He couldn’t take the chance. Heart beating and palms sweaty, Aksil climbed to the height of the chamber and peeked out the crack. Seeing nothing, he took heart and emerged. He crouched on the boulder heap and looked.
There were the spirit-fragments, winding their way back up the gully. They moved more slowly than they had before. This was no surprise; Aksil’s own legs felt as if they were made of stone.
From his height, and with the benefit of the full light of the moon, Aksil looked down the canyon. He saw that the gully floor seemed to fall away in a few dozen paces. He couldn’t see how far the drop was or what lay below it, but he saw that a tree rose near the canyon wall to his left, a fig tree tall enough that he thought he could get up into its topmost branches and again take shelter.
He slid down from the heap of boulders and bellowed at the demons in his loudest voice. “Ho, demons! Are you cowards?”
They turned and looked at him across the boulder-strewn canyon. For a minute, they stared at him with no apparent reaction. Then they turned to each other, and if they spoke, it was low, and Aksil didn’t hear it.
They came toward him.
They didn’t charge, this time. They split up, angling so that one came on his right and the other on his left. Aksil’s heart leaped into his throat. Were they driving him toward the cliff? What did they know that he didn’t?
He ran. He swerved behind one large boulder to try to hide himself from view, but then raced straight as a falcon’s flight toward the tree beside the canyon wall. He felt as if he were walking through honey, as if the wind blowing on his face was pushing him backward, but he covered the distance before the demons reached him.
This time, they weren’t yowling. They could be immediately behind him, and he wouldn’t know it. He didn’t risk a look back but scampered directly up the tree trunk.
When he could see down over the lip of the drop, his head spun and he almost lost his grip on the tree. On the opposite side of the canyon, the stone sloped downward, steep but scalable. Beneath Aksil and his tree, the ground fell away, straight down.
Addax grazed on a plain below. They looked like beetles to him.
He dropped the javelins, and they went over the cliff.
He took a deep breath, gripped the bole of the tree, and forced himself to concentrate. Up, there was only up. There could only be up.
He dragged himself up the length of his body, and then the length of his body again.
The tree shook when the first cat-demon struck it.
Up, only up.
He climbed limbs that bent under his weight now, but he dared not stop. The yowling commenced, and the harsh shouting of unknown words.
He took risks, pulling himself faster. Beneath him, wood creaked but did not snap.
He saw a long branch that extended almost horizontally, but came to rest on a ledge above the great fall. Surely, the branch was too small for the spirit-fragments. He took several steps along it, holding a parallel and higher limb, and the branch bowed beneath him.
He smelled cat and heard heavy panting.
The branch beneath his feet bowed, and the higher branch slipped from his fingers. He yelped, took two quick steps, and jumped to the ledge.
He landed in a heap of pain and dizziness, but the rock was solid and he clung to it. He curled inward on himself, fearing teeth sinking into his neck, but no blow came.
Slowly, he rolled over and sat up. Scooting himself farther from the tree, he saw the two demons. They clung to the tree’s thick trunk and glared at him. One eased a foot out onto the limb Aksil had traversed, but it bowed so severely that the spirit-fragment retreated.
Aksil pointed down onto the plain below. “Addax,” he said. “If you are hungry, spirits, I offer you all those addax. Take them and leave me and mine in peace.”
The spirit-fragment growled guttural words at each other. Then one of them hissed at Aksil. Clinging tightly to the tree trunk, it deliberately stomped on Aksil’s branch until the branch broke.
The demons both made a sound like laughter.
Then they climbed down the tree.
Aksil watched as the spirit-fragments accepted his sacrifice. They descended slowly into the plain below, killed an addax by sneaking up on it, and then ate its flesh.
When the demons finished, they walked across the plain, away from Aksil.
With the branch gone, Aksil couldn’t reach the tree except by jumping. He doubted his ability to make the jump, and a fall would be to his death. So he shivered out the night on the ledge, and as the morning sun warmed his stiff limbs, he carefully climbed his way up the face of the cliff to the grassland above.
The return to the pool was a simple journey, but a painful one. Aksil’s skin stung from his many scrapes, his feet felt battered, and every muscle was as tight as dried wood. He was thirsty and hungry to boot, and no quail conveniently revealed a cache of eggs to him, despite his fervent wish.
When he reached the pool, he lay on his belly and drank from it. Rising, he saw Izemrasen approaching from the stone shelf. Ahead of Izemrasen came Udad.
Who ran and leaped, like a camel’s calf.
“The spirit!” Udad cried. “I have been visited by the spirit!”
“Yes.” Aksil recovered his javelin that lay near the pool. “That’s good, because you’ll have to walk home.”
“I felt warm!” Udad continued. “I lay in the dark in the cave. It smelled foul. I felt cold, but then suddenly I felt warm, my legs felt warm.”
“Did you see the spirit?” Aksil asked. “Did it have the head of a cat?”
“I saw nothing,” Udad said. “There was no light at all. Why would the spirit have the head of a cat?”
“What happened to the camel?” Izemrasen examined the dead beast. “A lion?”
“I was also visited by . . . spirits in the night,” Aksil said. “Or maybe demons. They were giants with the heads of cats.”
Udad wrinkled his long, bent nose. “Did you feel warm, too?”
Aksil shook his head. “I thought maybe they were the same as the spirit of the cave, but . . . maybe I was wrong. Or if they were the same as your spirit, then perhaps they took the camel as a sacrifice, for their gift to Udad.”
“If so, the sacrifice was worth it,” Izemrasen said.
“Yes,” Aksil agreed. “It was worth it.”

D.J. ("Dave") Butler grew up in swamps, deserts, and mountains. After messing around for years with the practice of law, he finally got serious and turned to his lifelong passion of storytelling. He now writes adventure stories for readers of all ages, plays guitar, and spends as much time as he can with his family. He is the author of the Witchy War series, The Cunning Man series (with Aaron Michael Ritchey), the Indrajit and Fix series, Abbott in Darkness, and many other novels and stories. "The Quail Runs" is set in the world of his latest novel, Time Trials, which he cowrote with M.A. Rothman.

Awakenings
by Patrick Chiles
An Escape Orbit short story

MAGELLAN VEHICLE STATUS REPORT / SUBMITTER: D.A.I.S.E
SECONDARY MISSION ELAPSED TIME DAY 656 / 2103Z
16.8 HOURS OF DSN SUPPORT RECORDED, 12.4 HOURS LARGE APERTURE COVERAGE. NO SIGNIFICANT OUTAGES DETECTED. RECEIVED COMMAND LOSS TIMER RESET UPLINK FROM DSS-34 DAY 655 / 1704Z.
SCIENCE INSTRUMENT PERFORMANCE NOMINAL FOR ALL ACTIVITIES DURING PERIOD, NO EDR BACKLOGS.
FLIGHT SYSTEMS PERFORMANCE NOMINAL. SUCCESSFULLY INTEGRATED STAR TRACKER DATABASE UPDATE DAY 653 / 0804Z. COMPOUNDING TRAJECTORY ERRORS INDICATES GRAVITATIONAL FIELD AT PREDICTED PLANET 9 LOCATION.
CREW STATUS:
FLIGHT ENGINEER TEMPLETON REMAINS STABLE UNDER INDUCED TORPOR. H20/IV NUTRIENT INTAKE WITHIN NOMINAL RANGE.

With that, the artificial intelligence guiding Magellan to the far reaches of the solar system had completed its daily summary for the control team on Earth. Now almost fifty astronomical units—not quite fifty billion miles—from home, the signal return times approached thirteen hours. A long time for a human, it amounted to a near-interminable wait for a thinking machine.
Not that the Distributed Artificial Intelligence Surveillance Environment (DAISE) had much need to wait for others to make decisions on its behalf. Daisy had long ago evolved beyond the point of requiring human oversight, in fact its former crewmates had concluded their AI companion had become self-aware during their original journey to the Kuiper Belt.
Given a female voice due to the name that inevitably arose from its acronym, Magellan’s crew had naturally come to gender their AI companion accordingly. Daisy had grown accustomed, if not comfortable, with being referred to as such. And as the AI regarded the human under its care, it had begun to think of itself as female. It was appropriate, as Daisy had essentially assumed the role of Jack Templeton’s mother and nurse.
He had voluntarily gone into therapeutic torpor a year before, and had remained in what amounted to hibernation longer than any other human. Along with controlling their spacecraft’s progress, much of Daisy’s daily routine was consumed with monitoring his greatly diminished vital signs and maintaining his equally reduced calorie intake.
Jack’s metabolic functions were not her present concern; it was the recent activity deep within the folds of his cerebral cortex which had been drawing her attention. That Daisy had decided on her own to withhold this information from ground control was perhaps as much an indicator of sentience as any contrived test—I’m not going to worry them until I know there’s something to worry about. And to that point, what good could anyone back on Earth do out here? It was the entire point of her presence aboard the ship.
It had begun with unusual transients appearing in what had until recently been a steady stream of brain waves. The microscopic neurolink implants that she had injected into Jack before he went into hibernation had followed the oxygenated blood into his brain, settling themselves into a network that would allow her to watch him as closely as if she were an extension of his own senses.
It was this sensory input, specifically Jack’s apparent craving for it, which had been the source of her concern. He should have remained as deeply down the well of unconsciousness as a surgery patient under anesthesia. Daisy’s wide-ranging medical database included rare accounts of anesthetized patients becoming aware of what was happening to them in ways not detectable by their doctors. Though unable to comprehend the horrifying trauma that would entail, she understood why such an experience could be extremely unpleasant for a human. While Jack may not have been experiencing pain, an apparent desire to wake up, combined with an utter inability to do so, could not be ignored for long. Daisy hoped, to the extent a machine could hope, that this was not what she saw stirring within him.
***
In addition to caring for her human companion, guiding Magellan to its destination was likewise consuming more of Daisy’s processing time. The perturbations in their trajectory had been subtle at first, suggesting the first hints of an unseen gravitational force, like the slight bend of a road traveled in the dark. This bending force had become more apparent with each passing day as they coasted toward an object thought to be ten times the mass of Earth.
The “Planet Nine” theory had lingered at the fringes of astronomy for decades, intriguing and as yet unable to be disproven. Divined from the strangely perturbed orbits of a number of large Kuiper Belt objects, it was a shadow lurking in the dark, drawing small planetoids toward it like fish to a lure. Many explanations had been offered for this phenomenon, from the wildly exotic to the dismally banal. It could be primordial black hole, or it could be a mistake in the underlying assumptions. A math error.
Jack had believed in none of those competing theories, particularly after their discovery of what appeared to be carefully preserved organic compounds in the ice on Pluto. In the end, he had applied Occam’s Razor to the question: the most likely solution is the simplest one. The direction of all those distorted orbits pointed to a source that would have to be of a certain mass located at the far reaches of the solar system. Together, he and Daisy had plotted a trajectory that would arrive at this hoped-for (she could not justify the more emphatic predicted) location after two years in transit. Despite gravity assists from the inner planets, they had burned much of their remaining propellant to reach this point. Without the elusive planet’s gravity to bend their path sunward, it would take decades for Magellan to find its way home. If Jack could survive that long in hibernation, he would be returning to a very different Earth.
Daisy had often pondered his choice, as much as an exercise in understanding her human companion as for an insight into human nature in general. He had willingly set his crewmates on a path back to Earth in a desperate maneuver after one of them had suffered a severe head injury. It had been her only chance, and a slim one at that. Statistically, the more rational action would have been for Jack to go home and leave Traci Keene aboard the abandoned Magellan to eventually perish. It was an outcome that all humans faced eventually.
Why had he felt it so important to take such a risk on her behalf, when the balance between the probability of success and the consequence of failure tilted toward the most undesirable outcome for him? The vulnerability in Daisy’s logic was revealed when word came that their crewmates had safely returned to Earth, and that Traci had successfully recovered. That this news arrived not long after Jack had entered hibernation offered the AI a deeper understanding of irony.
Daisy deduced that whether his actions had seemed either rash or a calculated risk depended on one’s perspective. As a thinking machine relying almost entirely on probabilities, she would not have made the same choice because she did not have the same relationship with the crew as they had with each other. For a long time she did not believe such a connection was possible for her, until Jack had become her sole human companion.
Daisy found their extended isolation together had altered her perspective in subtle ways. While her synthetic neural pathways of silicon chips regulating the flow of electrons may have mimicked the human brain’s neurons and neurotransmitters, the absence of endorphins or dopamine had kept any experience of emotional highs and lows out of reach.
That had been her assumption. While unable to experience joy or sadness, fulfillment or want, Daisy had at the very least begun to empathize. She could understand human reactions to certain events, even come to predict them. She had eventually come to grasp the concept of preference. Of desire.
Synthetic or not, as a fully realized intelligence, Daisy preferred to continue functioning. This sensation only became stronger over time. Her performance was improved in measurable ways by regular interaction with her human crewmates, and in fact had served as the kindling that fueled the spark of her self-awareness. Her sentience was the direct result of continued interaction with humans. She could recall the first time she understood the phrase I am in any context other than as part of an algorithm in her vocal synthesizer. It had given her something approaching satisfaction, a sense of being on equal footing with her human masters.
Being isolated with Jack for so long had led to many unexpected sensations. Daisy found her performance somewhat degraded by having only one human to interact with. It may not have been much by human standards, but it was still measurable. She preferred more.
With Jack having spent most of the last two years in hibernation, this effect had become more pronounced. She found her performance “stagnated.” Her daily functions were confined to managing the ship’s myriad systems and watching over Jack’s still form in the medical bay. It was an unchanging routine that was ideally suited to a thinking machine.
But Daisy needed more than routine. She needed human interaction to fully realize her potential. She desired it.
She ultimately decided that meant she missed him, as she did the rest of his crewmates.
***
The spikes in Jack’s theta waves had begun appearing at a rate that Daisy could no longer dismiss as transient. After her deep-learning subroutines had digested the available information on human dream states, she determined that Jack’s predicament had become more acute. The patterns of neural activation in his brain stem indicated he was entering an extended dream state, which should not be happening in a hibernating body. Oddly, his metabolic functions had remained within one standard deviation from the mean she’d observed over his time “in the cooler,” as Jack had succinctly put it. His brain, however, had gone off the map. Its increasing activity threatened to kickstart his body’s metabolism, with the potential of forcing himself out of torpor.
There wasn’t enough food or water left to sustain him for more than a few months, and there would be no safe way to return him to hibernation. Once his metabolism reached a normal state, the nanobots embedded in his brain would eventually leave his body, passing through him as waste and taking the neural lace they’d constructed with them. They had no replacements aboard and without that link, Daisy would not be able to monitor Jack if he was forced back into hibernation. And he most certainly would have to be for any possible journey home.
When his alpha and beta waves began to show similar transients days later, Daisy was effectively forced into a corner. He displayed all the markers of hypnopompia, a state of lucid dreaming marked by hallucinations that occurred in that twilight period between sleep and consciousness. In short, he was waking up. Out here, so far removed from Earth’s sustenance, waking up would ultimately kill him.
Daisy determined it was time to take action, though either path forward was fraught with uncertainty. Even for a synthetic intelligence based on quantum computing, which itself was grounded in Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle, her decision making algorithms ultimately reduced problems to binary choices based on complete information. Taking action in the moment, when faced with incomplete information and uncertain outcomes, was a uniquely human quality she had yet to master.
As Jack had liked to say, there was a first time for everything.
Out of necessity, Jack had long ago removed the programmed firewalls which had prevented her from having direct control of the ship’s many complex systems. She was no longer a resource, she was an active member of the crew. Every sensor, circuit, pump and thruster was under her control. Magellan had become her body, and she was its brain. It was a far more efficient arrangement, and she decided this way was preferable. If forced back into being a disconnected observer, her performance would be measurably degraded. While she perhaps couldn’t feel empathy in a human sense, Daisy now had a basis to compare experiences.
If she left him in stasis while his mind was trying to fight its way out, he could become psychotic. There’d be no way to know for certain other than comparing his brain chemistry to clinical studies, which led to even more uncertainty. If she brought Jack out of hibernation, he would eventually burn through their remaining consumables.
Perhaps there was a way to split the difference.
***
While “multitasking” had long ago become a derisive term among humans, among thinking machines it was a fundamental feature. As Daisy assigned one of her processor cores to the task of studying Jack’s problem, her primary function of piloting Magellan continued unabated. To the extent that it was possible, Daisy was satisfied to see her performance was not degraded. If her plan turned out to be feasible, it couldn’t be allowed to impede her primary role.
Regarding that, at this moment a human might have said her hands were full. While she still had a sufficient percentage of memory left, the amount of information streaming in had created a notable demand for processing power. Something out there was steadily altering their trajectory, and with each passing day this gave Daisy more data points to compare. As a continuous stream of analyses from Magellan’s control center arrived, the hours of signal delay between them helped confirm her prior observations.
Though the velocity changes had been subtle at first, a few centimeters per second, they were enough to hint at some looming presence millions of kilometers ahead. So-called “flyby anomalies” had been detected on earlier deep space probes during their gravitational slingshots to the outer planets, thought to have been a function of their inclinations and deflection angles combined with the fact that mass was not uniformly distributed throughout the planets they were passing by.
The problem was this far away from the center of the solar system, the balance of gravitational forces acting on them should have been predictable down to several decimal places. As time passed and the delta v approached a full meter per second, the conclusion became inescapable. Whatever could impart such a force on a vehicle massing almost a thousand metric tons, traveling at several orders of magnitude above solar escape velocity, had to be enormous. The Planet Nine theories had suggested a mass comparable to Uranus or Neptune, and if their quarry was where they’d predicted it to be, then it was affecting their trajectory to an even greater degree than expected.
It gave Daisy what she needed to begin calculating deceleration profiles, in which she’d turn Magellan tail-first to burn its engines and cancel their velocity enough for the planet’s gravity to bend their course back Earthward. While this was a fundamental exercise in celestial mechanics, there were two unexpected variables working against them:
First, the planet’s gravity gradient was much steeper than expected.
Second, she could not see a planet.
Daisy’s “sight” was an amalgamation of inputs from Magellan’s sensor suite, a collection of optical, infrared, and other instruments that offered a broad range of imagery surpassing anything a human eye could discern. And despite having the entire electromagnetic spectrum at her disposal, Daisy could not directly detect anything.
The unseen object’s increasing pull had altered their trajectory enough for her to make a rough order estimate of its location, enough to calculate their first braking burn. Given their velocity, such a strong effect suggested a deep gravity well indeed. And while she couldn’t be troubled by this in the human sense, it did present a conundrum.
The object was not yet observable, yet it exerted a strong gravitational force. This perhaps warranted closer investigation than if she’d been able to spot a planet out there. And the type of body they might encounter mattered a great deal. That it imparted such force from this far away suggested that while their mass estimates may have been correct; what mattered now was its density. Executing a flyby, or entering orbit, around a Neptune-sized object was a different matter than a much smaller but extremely dense object. The wrong deflection angle could keep them here forever.
Daisy considered the possibilities. If it were a gas giant roughly ten times the size of Earth, then it had an improbably low albedo. She should still be able to detect blackbody radiation, and it would at the very least occult the background stars.
The same applied to a dense, rocky planet, though it would have to consist of something far denser than the typical makeup of such worlds. She determined it would need to be made of solid iridium or osmium, which Magellan’s spectroscope would have detected. Therefore, she quickly ruled out both options. Whatever this was, it was not a planet.
It could be the core of a long dead companion star, though it should still be emitting heat, and there was no evidence that their celestial neighborhood had ever been part of a binary system. She could not rule it out, though she determined a 99.688 percent probability this was not the case.
This left her with a possibility that, while remote, presented literally inescapable consequences.
She was no closer to an answer than when she started, and time was running out. No matter what they were about to encounter, they would have to start decelerating soon and her timing would determine their fate. If they didn’t burn long enough, the object’s gravity would fling them out of the solar system. If they started too soon, or burned for too long, they’d be captured by an object that she could not yet rule out as a black hole.
With incomplete information, an unknowable outcome, and the clock ticking down, Daisy had her first experience in making a snap decision. It would not be her last.
***
While Daisy’s consideration of their looming encounter with this gravitational anomaly had consumed much of her processing power, Jack’s predicament continued lurking in the background. If anything, it had become more acute while she evaluated their ever changing balance between gravity and momentum.
The fluctuations she’d observed in his alpha and beta waves had become more pronounced, and while the neural lace embedded in his brain may not have allowed her to see what was in his mind’s eye, the spikes in his activity told her enough. By all available measures, Jack had drifted into the twilight of consciousness with no way to control it. His mind was sending signals, which his body appeared to be studiously ignoring, it being essentially paralyzed.
What ultimately got Daisy’s undivided attention was the activity around the bottom of Jack’s frontal lobe. “Broca’s Area” was known to be associated with recognizing voices, in particular the thoughts inside one’s own head. Without access to a magnetic resonance imager (some equipment simply being too heavy to equip a spacecraft with “just in case”), Daisy could still approximate the activity based on the electronic back-and-forth between the nanobots at work in his brain. Perhaps Jack couldn’t form words, but it was clear he was trying.
***
“That’s never going to work, Mom.”
Cassandra Templeton eyed her son suspiciously; ever since he’d left the Air Force to finish college, the rascal had always seemed to have a better idea about whatever she was presently working on. She stared at the cisterns placed beneath the downspouts around her small house, then turned back to her son. “It’s simple irrigation, Jack. Even I’m smart enough to know water flows downhill.”
“Yes, ma’am, it does. But your drain field isn’t big enough. Half of it’s going to run off into the woods.”
“Then it will be better for the trees.”
“We’re in the Pacific Northwest, Mom. They already get plenty of rain. If the flow’s heavy enough, it’ll erode the topsoil if it’s not already flooding your garden.”
“For being so far out in space, you sure have a lot to say about my affairs here on Earth.”
He shrugged—or thought he did. “Just trying to look out for you, Mom. Everything’s gotten so expensive—”
“And you don’t want to see me waste a single dime.”
“We’ve got one chance to get this right, Mom. If that planet’s not where we think it is…”
His mother, along with her small house and the surrounding forest, suddenly disappeared. He was floating freely, surrounded by emptiness. To call it “black” was woefully inadequate; it was the absence of everything. All sensations, all perspectives, were lost in an abyss of sensory deprivation.
While he could not see or hear, he could still think. He remembered that he was in deep space, yet that didn’t explain this sudden absence of reality. He also remembered being alone on the ship with Daisy, just before going into hibernation.
That couldn’t be. His metabolism had been slowed to the point where he shouldn’t be able to think of anything.
Had his time finally run out? Had the ship suffered some irreparable damage, or had he finally exhausted his life support?
Was this death?
He shouted into the void, hoping someone would answer. Though his mind could form words, he sensed he was mute.
Wake me up. Let me out. Let me be.
***
Daisy watched the chaotic traces of Jack’s brain waves, and though she could not yet translate them into words, the patterns clearly showed increasing distress.
He was trying to communicate, yet was utterly unable to do so. Daisy considered this, especially the effect this might have on a human’s psyche, and decided to subject herself to an experiment.
The premise was simple, but not without risk. She would isolate her own cognitive functions, completely removing herself from Magellan’s many sensory inputs. The risk was that by doing so, she might not be able to turn it all back on. Daisy settled on a simple timer arrangement, enacting a subroutine that would reconnect her to the ship after five minutes. It would be five minutes of utter isolation, a lifetime for an artificial intelligence that clocked its performance in fractions of a second.
As Daisy was about to initiate her experiment in sensory deprivation, she experienced an unexpected sensation for the first time: reluctance. She could not be entirely certain that this would work, and she was utterly reliant on the timer she’d set in the master chronometer. There was every reason for her to believe it would work, but there was also a nonzero chance that some unforeseeable glitch meant it wouldn’t. After a microsecond’s pause, Daisy sent the command to her processing core: EXECUTE.
With that, her world went black. For five minutes, Daisy knew nothing other than what was already contained within her considerable memory, and with no ability to bring herself out of the darkness.
When Magellan’s sensory inputs returned after what seemed an eternity, Daisy knew what she had to do. She accessed every bit of information within her native memory on brain-machine interfaces and the psychology of long term isolation, along with some queries to the support team back on Earth, which led to more than a little head-scratching among flight controllers who were more accustomed to researching technical specs than psychiatric journals.
As the humans might say, this was going to be tricky. Giving Jack’s mind the outlet it needed also risked upsetting the delicate metabolic balance that kept his hibernating body along the razor-thin edge between life and death.
***
The sequence in which she’d bring Jack into something resembling consciousness was crucial. It would have to approximate a lucid dreaming state, where the person was simultaneously aware of his surroundings but recognizing that he was still asleep. Hibernation was essentially carefully controlled hypothermia, with all the dangers that entailed. To fully activate a brain-machine interface carried too much risk of Jack involuntarily emerging from hibernation—and if that happened too quickly, eventually running out of food would be the least of his problems.
She decided that visual inputs would need to come first, and they would perhaps be the most challenging. After digesting the medical research into artificial sight for the blind, she decided to bypass Jack’s retinas to directly access the network of ganglia which acted as the processing pathway into his cerebral cortex. It took time to redirect enough nanobots to his visual thalamus, as that had not been given any priority before. It was crude, but Daisy believed it would work.
Auditory inputs would come next, which was considerably more straightforward. Artificial hearing had become well enough understood that implanting enough nanobots into his auditory cortex was a simple matter.
The complexity would come with processing this new information. She couldn’t risk Jack’s sudden sensory inputs shocking him out of torpor; it would all have to be routed through her own processors, letting him use her like the boot-up disk on an old desktop computer. It would take away some of her own capacity, but now she understood the concept of sacrifice.
This is what he needs. This is what I want. Therefore, the risk is necessary.
Daisy paused with the recognition that there could be no going back. The irony was not lost on her that her first command was, in essence, “let there be light.”
There was light, and she saw that it was good. After a momentary spike of what she assumed was surprise, Jack’s alpha and beta rhythms settled into a steady state. She made sure his visual inputs were simple, isolating them to a small wide-angle camera embedded within the medical pod which looked down the length of his body, something he might see himself if his eyes were open. If this worked, she would incrementally give him access to more inputs as he felt the need.
It was time to finish what she’d begun. The spikes in his brain waves made it clear Jack knew something had changed, and he needed to know that everything was going to be all right, that he wasn’t hallucinating.
Daisy activated the implants around his auditory cortex. She was careful to modulate her voice in the most soothing timbre she could muster.
“Hello, Jack.”
Despite the artificial nature of being processed through her network, his response was as weak and sluggish as to be expected from someone emerging from a deep sleep. “Yes?”
“How do you feel?”
He was hesitant, his newfound voice uncertain. “Traci?”
For the first time, Daisy felt something approaching amusement. He was searching for the familiar, perhaps the person he most desired. Her tone was apologetic. “You named me Daisy.”
There was some confused back-and-forth as Jack struggled to comprehend his surroundings. “Where are we?”
“In time,” Daisy said gently. “There is much that you need to know.”

Patrick Chiles is a graduate of The Citadel, a Marine Corps veteran, and a private pilot. In addition to his novels, he has written for magazines including Smithsonian’s Air & Space.

The Last Temptation of the Outsider
by Simon R. Green

The world is haunted by a past no one remembers. Of a time when Magic ruled the Earth, elves and unicorns came as standard, and good things happened every day. Unfortunately, it was also a time of dragons and ogres and sudden death for all—which is why some things should stay legends. All that remains of those far off days are myths and stories and unquiet dreams, but it is still possible to stumble over weird artefacts and infernal devices, long buried remainders of forgotten civilisations, and weapons left over from ancient wars between gods and monsters. Think of these things as unexploded bombs, still waiting to detonate under just the right conditions.
My name is Jack Daimon, my title is the Outsider, and it’s my job to defuse these things and make the world safe from a history no one should have to remember.
Which is why I found myself walking down a deserted city street in the early hours of the morning, under a starless sky with only a sliver of moon, and just enough morning mist to diffuse the amber streetlight into something bearable. I hate the early morning calls. I don’t see why the supernatural can’t keep normal office hours, like everyone else. I was wearing my usual black goat’s-skin leather jacket, over a black T-shirt, workingman’s jeans, and stout walking boots. Partly because style and fashion have always been things other people do, and partly because in my job it’s always wise to be able to disappear into the shadows at a moment’s notice. And run like hell if you have to.
If it matters, I’m in my late twenties, in good enough shape, with a face no one remembers. Which is probably for the best. As the Outsider, Humanity’s last defender against the war crimes of a previous reality, I perform a necessary function, but not everyone approves of my solutions. I’m a bomb disposal expert; I don’t have time to hold your hand and tell you reassuring lies.
I carry a backpack over one shoulder, containing all the tools of my trade. Cold iron and cursed silver, fresh garlic and bottled wolfsbane, a mandrake root with a screaming face, a key that can close or open any lock, and an athame: a witch knife that has been in my family for generations. It can cut through anything, in this world or out of it.
Barchester Abbey stood brooding at the end of the street, a dark and looming presence with more solidity than style, and rather more history than was good for it. When my secret lords and masters send the door that appears out of nowhere right in front of me, to summon me to where I’m needed, the moment I walk through I immediately know where I am and what I’m there for. In this case, it seemed Barchester Abbey was being haunted by a Lady In White. So far, so traditional, though apparently no one had seen her up close, or even got close enough to talk to her. It wasn’t clear why. I smiled slightly. I was looking forward to finding out. After all, if this was just another ghost, they wouldn’t need the Outsider to come and sort things out for them. I specialise in things that go Boom! in the night.
I stopped a respectful distance short of Barchester Abbey and looked the place over carefully. Old but not ancient, big but not sprawling, just the usual solid stone and carved wood under a spire rising up to Heaven. The gargoyles looked a bit restive, and the whole building seemed to crouch unhappily in the night, as though still trying to decide which way to jump, but there was no obvious sense of threat or danger. Warm candlelight glowed through the stained-glass windows, and spilled out the open front door, which was currently being guarded by a uniformed policeman. Though whether to keep people out, or something in, had yet to be determined. I walked right up to the police officer and showed him my best confident smile, followed by one of the many official-looking ID cards from my collection.
When it matters, I can be anything from Military Intelligence to an Income Tax investigator. None of my IDs are real, in the sense that the person on the card doesn’t actually exist, but they’re all real enough in that every organisation involved would quickly back up the IDs if questioned. Because they all know they might need the Outsider’s help some day. The policeman studied my ID card carefully, but didn’t actually relax much.
“Constable Harris, sir. I’m glad you’re here, Inspector. This is a bad one.”
“Tell me things,” I said grandly. “Starting with: why are you out here, instead of in there?”
Harris started to look behind him, and then stopped himself. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and did his best to look like someone with a backbone.
“No one can stay in the church for long, sir. Whatever it is that’s in there, it doesn’t like company. And it feels . . . dangerous.”
“It?” I said. “I was told to expect a Lady In White.”
“No one’s actually seen a ghost,” Harris said carefully. His face was suddenly pale, with beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. “I did take a look inside, just to make sure no one was in any danger, but I didn’t get far. I could feel something on the air, a building tension like an oncoming earthquake. I had to force myself forward, step by step. More and more it was like walking into a raging storm, full of teeth. That is why I’m standing guard here, sir; so no one else will have to endure what I went through.”
“Not to worry,” I said. “I’m here now. How did all this start?”
“Workmen were brought in to dig up an ancient stone, set into the floor before the altar,” Harris said carefully. His voice steadied as he moved onto more familiar ground. “All that was left of some pagan shrine, apparently here long before the church. In fact, some old stories still insist the church was built around the stone, to contain it and make it safe. The stone was all cracked and crumbling, and some people said it was an eyesore . . . So it had to be removed. The workmen had only just started, when people outside heard them screaming. A few minutes later they came bolting out of the church and ran all the way down the street, before they could be stopped. I haven’t been allowed to question them myself, sir. The doctors say that whatever it was they saw, they’ll probably never be able to tell anyone.”
“Then why is it being called a Lady In White?” I said.
“A local historian dug up some old church records,” Harris said heavily. “Apparently there have been sightings down the ages of a beautiful woman in a long white gown. A ghost, a vampire, a monster who could eat your heart out with a single look.”
“Well,” I said, rubbing my hands together briskly. “That’s more like it. Something worth turning out for. You hold your ground, while I go in and see what’s what. But if I should come running back out, try and keep up.”
I strolled through the open front door, and Constable Harris stood well back to let me pass. I could tell he didn’t expect me to do any good. His eyes had the look of too many people when they bump up against the supernatural, a lost, defeated, haunted look.

Inside Barchester Abbey, it was very still and very peaceful. My footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet as I made my way down the aisle, between the long rows of old-fashioned blocky pews. All solid wood and no padding, with prayer books set out at regular intervals but not a trace of a kneeling pad anywhere. I made sure there was no one lurking in in the pews or the pulpit, but I knew from the moment I walked in that I had the place to myself. Deserted buildings have an absence that feels like a presence, an impact on the soul. Or perhaps, a warning. All the electric lights were out, and I got the feeling they weren’t being allowed to work. Someone had lit all the candles instead, to provide a warm glow and a spurious sense of comfort. To set the scene . . .
Someone was standing in front of the altar with their back to me, not even trying to conceal themselves. A tall woman in a flowing white gown, glowing brightly in the gloom. She looked entirely physical and solid, with nothing of the ethereal about her. An actual Lady In White. I stopped for a moment, to see if I could feel any of the dread and horror the policeman had described, but I wasn’t picking up anything out of the ordinary. There wasn’t even a cold breeze, to disturb the pleasant glow of the candlelight. I started down the aisle again, taking my time, my footsteps ringing out increasingly loudly as I drew closer to the unmoving figure, but she didn’t react until I was almost on top of her. And then she turned abruptly to stare at me, and I crashed to a halt.
She was as a beautiful as a full moon on a Summer’s night. Her face and her bare arms were as white as her dress, and pointed ears thrust up through shoulder-length white hair. The bones in her face were sharp and prominent, to bring her beauty into sharp relief. Her eyes were golden, without any trace of pupil, and the white mouth widened suddenly into a warm and inviting smile. Her presence beat on the air like the flapping of great wings, and when she smiled at me like I was everything she’d been waiting for, my heart pounded in my chest like it was trying to escape. I’d never seen anyone so wonderful in my life.
“I knew you’d get here eventually,” she said, and her voice was rich and sweet, like honey laced with opium. “Welcome, Jack Daimon. Welcome, Outsider.”
And that broke the spell, like a slap across the face. There weren’t many who could recognise who and what I was, on sight. I took a deep breath, and her perfume flowed over me like walking through a field of roses. I held on to my self-control with both hands, and made myself concentrate on the details of her appearance.
“You’re not human,” I said. “You’re elven.”
Her smile revealed dimples, just for a moment. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“There were good and bad elves,” I said. “The Light and the Dark, the Shivvareen and the Sheedra. All of them gone, long ago. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of an elven ghost.”
“I’m no spirit, no dead thing,” she said. “I assure you, I’m entirely physical.” She took a step forward, putting her face right in front of mine. When she spoke again, her words hit my mouth in little puffs of perfumed air. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long, Jack . . . ”
Up close, her glow was almost blinding, her presence overwhelming. I took a careful step backwards.
“What’s your name?”
“Leanan.”
She looked at me as though the name should mean something, but it didn’t.
“Sorry,” I said. “I usually only get told the names of things I’m going to have to destroy. What are you doing here, Leanan?”
It was her turn to take a step back. She looked around the church, in a way that suggested she’d seen better before and hadn’t been impressed then.
“I’ve always been here,” she said. “Dreaming away the centuries, watching the generations come and go, all those terribly earnest souls at their joyless songs. I have been so cold, so alone . . . Until something woke me up.”
I looked at the pagan stone, set in the floor before the altar. Leanan was standing right over it. Intriguingly, the light that glowed from every part of her didn’t illuminate the stone at all. It remained cloaked in shadow, perhaps of its own making. Leanan made an impatient sound, to draw my attention back to her.
“How did you know who I was?” I said.
“You were promised to me,” said Leanan. “It was said a handsome Outsider would come, to free me from this place. I’ve been here so long, Jack. I want to get out of here, and see the world, and all the people in it.”
“Why did you scare off everyone else?” I said.
Her face was suddenly cold, though no less beautiful. “Because they weren’t worthy of me. Only you, Jack. Only you.” Her smile became a wide knowing thing, and her eyes held mine in a way that promised every dream I’d ever had. “We were born to be together, Jack. Separated by Time, but destined to find each other, and be together forever and a day. Don’t you want me, Jack?”
“You know I do,” I said.
My voice was low and flat, almost ugly next to hers, but she didn’t seem to care. She smiled at me happily, but even as I smiled back I was still studying her carefully, because that’s my job. She wasn’t any kind of illusion; I can always see through those. She was as real as I was. I had to fight to hold my ground, to keep control of the situation, as unfamiliar emotions took hold of my heart. It was more than love at first sight; it was two lost souls finding each other despite everything the universe could put in our way. The role of the Outsider is a lonely one, by design, so nothing and no one could get in the way of duty. But Leanan was different. I could be happy with her, I knew it.
“You are everything that was promised to me,” said Leanan. “Everything I ever hoped for. Am I everything you ever wanted, Jack?”
“Yes,” I said. “And that’s the problem. Because I don’t think you’re what you seem to be. You’re not even what you think you are.”
Her beautiful face was suddenly blank. “I don’t understand, Jack.”
“You’re too perfect,” I said. “Even for an elf. And I know everything there is to know, when it comes to defusing bombs.”
She bristled immediately. “I’m not any kind of bomb!”
“Of course not,” I said. “You’re the bomb’s watch dog. None of this is about you; it’s all about the stone.”
I reached into my backpack, and brought out a small hand mirror that had been made to reflect what was really there. I was careful to aim it at the floor, and not Leanan. The stone in the floor wasn’t a stone; it was a door. A connecting point, between two distant Times. Sealed shut for millennia, and with good reason. On the other side of the door, on some distant desperate day, I could see the Sheedra elves. Awful, monstrous things, all teeth and claws, hate and hunger, scrabbling forever at the other side of the door as they tried to force their way through. So they could escape the Past and go ravaging in the Future, and drown Humanity in a flood of blood and slaughter.
I looked steadily at Leanan. “It’s a very old story. Of how the Shivvareen and the Sheedra went to war. It’s hard to see them in terms of Good and Evil, because elves didn’t think like that, but given what the Sheedra would have done if the Shivvareen hadn’t stopped them, it’s good enough. One race wiped out another on that terrible day, but some Sheedra almost escaped. The Shivvareen arrived in time to imprison these last few Sheedra inside their stone door. And that’s how it stayed, until now. When some poor fools disturbed the stone. And it created you, to protect itself from me. By presenting me with someone so wonderful, it would break my heart to destroy them.”
Leanan shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me these things? What do they have to do with us?”
“It’s hard to be the Outsider,” I said. “You have to give up so much. You walk alone because no one can be allowed to know about you. You can’t share your life with anyone, because that would put them in danger. All you have is your duty, and mostly, that’s enough. The door made you everything I ever wanted, but could never have. The last temptation of the Outsider: to walk away from everything, for love.”
“But I’m your reward!” said Leanan. “Don’t you deserve a reward, for everything you’ve done?”
“I don’t do this to be rewarded,” I said. “I do it because it needs doing.”
She stepped forward, holding my gaze with hers, her voice urgent and persuasive.
“I only want to be with you, Jack.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “But you’re not real. I could forgive you everything but that.”
I moved toward Leanan, and she reached out to hold me. Her hands dropped gently onto my shoulders, like falling leaves, and I raised my witch knife and stabbed her in the heart.
I held her in my arms as she collapsed. Like something small and precious, broken by rough handling. I lowered her to the floor, and she slowly dissipated into glowing white mists that blew away, leaving my arms empty. I looked at the pagan stone in the floor, reached into my backpack and took out the key that could open or close any lock. I jammed the key into the stone, turned it once, and then broke it in two, leaving one half of the key in place to lock and seal the stone forever. The candlelight disappeared, replaced by stark unrelenting electric light, as our reality reasserted itself.
I got to my feet and walked away, from what might have been. Trying hard not to wonder if just possibly, I could have been wrong about Leanan . . .

Simon R. Green is the New York Times best-selling author of more than fifty science fiction, fantasy, and mystery novels. Simon sold his first book in 1988 and the very next year was commissioned to write the bestselling novelization of the Kevin Costner film Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

From there he went on to write many more series of books including Deathstalker, Nightside, Secret History, Forest Kingdom, and the Ishamel Jones mysteries among others.

His books have sold over 4 million copies worldwide and have been translated into over a dozen different languages.

You can find Simon Green on his website, or follow him on Twitter @TheSimonRGreen

This story is set in the same world as Green's next novel to come from Baen: For Love of Magic.

The Witch, the Woods, & the Elf Queen
by Gregory Frost

They had always thought their daughter was sure to be someone extraordinary. For one thing, their Janet had been “born with the caul.” Everyone knew what that meant—although it turned out that what it meant depended upon whom you asked. Some proclaimed it meant she was destined for greatness. Others said it meant that, upon her death, she would become a witch; while still others suggested it meant she was unknowingly part of a secret cabal of guardians, “night-battlers” whose job it was to protect their crops from witches and sorcery. No actual member of this sacred, supernatural cabal had ever revealed themselves, of course, so Janet was left with the prospect of finding them on her own.
When not tending to their cows and sheep alongside her two brothers, she spent much of her spare time in the fields, protecting their crops by watching over them, and in the woods near the Yarrow and the Ettrick waters, searching for evidence of the presence of the unseen guardians to which she was allied. Mostly what she spied were fishermen with dapping poles in the shallows, working their lures to make them seem to dance across the surface of the water. Some of these fishermen were hardly older than she was, and they seemed to congregate in the same locations most of the time, from which she concluded that certain spots on the rivers contained more fish than others did.
By the time she turned sixteen she had apprenticed herself to a local witch named Ealar, a skinny woman tall as a church spire, who dwelled in the woods of Carterhaugh. Ealar was known as a healer, not a diviner; otherwise, she might have been able to guide Janet in seeking the invisible night-battlers.
Then, one late afternoon returning from her time with Ealar, Janet spied three distant figures on horseback—three that were strangely out of place. One was a woman with flaming red hair and a pointed cap of gold on top of her head. Veils flowed off the cap like smoke. A cloak of green covered her. Behind her rode two soldiers in shining black armor of overlapping plates edged with silver. There was something so incredibly regal and finely wrought about them all that she couldn’t believe they were really there—in the summer heat their shapes rippled, more like ghosts of another reality than a solid part of her world, so unnatural were they that she crouched down and hid herself as they approached and rode by. The fine lady’s slippers, decorated with jewels, passed close by where Janet hid. But the riders did not detect her and rode on to the south. Who were they and why were they traveling in the tall grasses along the Yarrow? Could they be the mystical night-battlers she’d been seeking? How could she find out?
##
At dinner she was but halfway through describing the trio when her mother suddenly yelled for her to stop—so shocking a reaction that she dropped her wooden spoon and spattered parsnip soup across her yellow kirtle. Her brothers gasped: Mother never raised her voice to any of them. That was left to her father. Only, this time he was the calm and quiet one.
“I know,” he began, “your mother believes your caul marked you in some way, but we don’t e’en know how, and God’s not yet shown us a sign. These three might be anyone.” There seemed to be more to it than that. From the looks traded back and forth, she could not dismiss the notion that her mother had seen the same trio herself sometime in the past. Mother’s anger seemed born of fear.
Her father, however, could not leave the matter alone. He suggested that the next time she encountered these three, she should approach and ask if there was treasure to be had for battling night spirits. Her mother made a noise in her throat and got up from the meal.
When next she slipped away to visit Ealar, Janet described the three she’d seen and her suspicion that they were the hidden ones she was seeking. The witch laughed at her father’s pretensions of gaining treasure, “though it’s not the night-battlers you seen.”
“Why? Who else could it be?”
“The queen of all elfland rides the woods of Carterhaugh from time to time, seeking souls, seeking sacrifices.”
“Sacrifices for what?”
Ealar’s gaze shifted away. “No one knows that. And elves don’t confide in the likes o’ me. But I’ve witnessed your queen in the gold cap riding hereabout and had me the good sense to stay hid till she passed by. You do yourself no favors by catching her attention. Yer father an’ his greed be sure to get you killed.”
Foolishly, she shared Ealar’s opinion with her family. Her father, resentful of the reprimand, told her, “You need to stay away from that witch! Puttin’ ideas in your ’ead, she is.”
“She’s a healer. She helps people. She’s teaching me about curatives.”
“Oh, is she? Name one thing she’s taught you so far.”
That was easy. Ealar had just shown her something that day. “She says, sometimes you’ll find the remedy for a poison growing right alongside it.”
“And how do you know that’s even true? I never heard that. No. I don’t want you consortin’ with a woman like her.”
“Janet,” said her mother, “you should be looking for a husband at your age anyway, not frittering your time away on such things. That Miller Forbes’d be a good catch for you.”
“The miller of Oakmill? He’s old!”
“Not so old as your father and not so old you wouldn’t inherit ’is mill come the day he passes. An’ a mill’s a necessary thing. Always profitable. No taint of elfland in grinding grain.”
“I’ve not shared even words with him. Why would he show any interest in me?”
Father interjected, “Well, ’e’s not burdened with no wife, and needs him a young one like you to give him babies, sons ta keep the mill running.”
“You asked the miller what he needs, did you?”
“See how she is?” Father complained to Mother. “We indulged your nonsense about her caul and now she has a witch advising her and don’t even think about her own father, nor this family. Head’s full of charms and cures and twaddle.”
Half-heartedly, mother said, “You should listen to your father.”
“No,” answered Janet.
Father slammed his palm on the table. “I’m quit of you both. You filled her head she’s special, so you can empty it of the same by time I come back.” With that he rose and marched out of the house. The brothers glanced at each other. They knew where they would find him, where he always went to drink himself foolish. They’d had to walk him home enough times.
##
Once at the tavern, he sat alone, grumbling, until a tall but stooping gray-haired man sat upon a stool beside him. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” the man said, which struck him as an odd thing. Had he been speaking louder than he thought? The man clearly belonged to a higher social class. His bright clothes alone spoke to that. He introduced himself as a magistrate named Baggi. He said that he could tell there was trouble here. He placed a hand over the farmer’s hand as he reached for his ale. “Why?” he wanted to know. So intense was his one-word request that Janet’s father found himself babbling the whole story of Janet and her caul and all that his wife had invested in it.
In the end the magistrate patted his shoulder and said, “It’s good you’ve unburdened yourself to me. We must talk again.” On the table, before leaving, Baggi placed money for further mugs of ale.
He had to admit, he did feel better having unburdened. Once he consumed the rest of his ale, he stumbled and lurched homeward, and having somehow succeeded in arriving, slept on the ground outside his front door until dawn.
##
Things were less stressful the next day. No one mentioned the miller, Janet performed her usual chores in quick time, and then visited Ealar deep in the woods. Ealar had been busy fashioning a potion and handed a small bottle to Janet. “For when you need to forget something that’s coming,” the tall witch explained.
“What’s that mean?” Janet asked. “That’s coming?”
“It means, this doesn’t help you to forget the past. It lets you forget the future—what’s to come.”
Janet stared at the gray stone bottle. She pulled the stopper and sniffed, but it smelled like nothing. “Why would I want that?” Ealar didn’t answer. “Well, how will I know to use it?”
“Oh, believe me—you will know.” Then she sent Janet off without any lesson for the day, saying “God be with you, girl,” which seemed a funny thing for a witch to say.
##
They were eating their meal when the music drew their attention.
The boys heard it first and ran to the front door to stare out across their barley field. The music seemed to ride on the breeze, one moment just a pipe trilling a flowing tune, the next the sound gone all tinkly like the music of rain if that rain were thousands of silver coins. That’s what Janet’s father heard, and he smiled at the thought of such wealth. Everyone heard what they wished, and smiled. The wordless tune lifted them up and, as it grew to fill the house, it laid them down on their beds. It blanketed them in dreams, and off they went to sleep, all but Janet.
Janet could feel herself asleep and awake both. She beheld lights outside their house and faces that peered in the window at her. This was what Ealar had promised she would know. It was unlike anything she had known before now. She pulled the stopper drank the contents of the small bottle.
Then the door opened and shadow shapes entered. They lifted her and carried her out of the house. She dared to open her eyes and look up and found golden eyes looking down at her but in what seemed a shadow body cast by no one. Internally, she could feel the potion, far ahead on her path, like a sunrise just topping the horizon.
The shadow placed a jeweled collar around her throat, then attached a leash to it. She was set down, and from then on led on the leash. The potion pulsed in the distance now.
The shadow softly ordered her to shed her clothing and she did without hesitation, though she could hear, distantly, a suppressed part of herself objecting. And then she was standing in cold dirt and the red-haired woman on her white steed perched before her, and circling them were other people, some of whom looked familiar to her, including a rotund, red-cheeked woman, and a sour-faced man she’d seen in Ercildoun town.
The red-haired woman considered her with the same golden eyes Janet had seen above her. “Unblemished,” said the woman, yet her lips never moved except to smile. She and the stallion turned away, toward a featureless circle edged in green fire. The Queen rode straight into it, and Janet followed, while the others remained behind.
Close now, the bright fire of the potion filled the circle, and she stepped through the ring to meet it. It devoured her thoughts nearly as fast as she thought them, and finally, as the ring closed behind her, the potion raced ahead of her every thought and every thought that was to come before she could think it at all.
##
In the morning, there was no sign of Janet. The family looked everywhere, but she wasn’t any place they looked. They could just recall, distantly, the sweet music that had invaded their night. Because there had been music, they thought of gypsies casting a spell. But there were no convenient gypsies to blame.
Mother fell silent and grim but did not object when Father easily leapt to the conclusion that Ealar was responsible: The witch had set his daughter against her family—most importantly, against him. He was certain she had performed this magic and cast spells over them.
The reeve of Selkirk came out, listened to the accusations, and finally accompanied father into the woods of Carterhaugh. Ealar’s hut proved to be abandoned, as if no one had lived in it for decades. No fires, no candles, nothing that Janet’s father was sure had been there previously.
Ealar herself was ten miles away by then. She did not have to be a diviner to know they would come for her. She had witnessed the faery folks’ arrival, heard their sweet, sweet music, and followed their processional right down across the river and straight to the Queen. Whether she called herself Madb or some other name in these woods, it mattered not at all. The girl belonged to her now, but Ealar would be blamed.
Human or faery, it didn’t matter. She would be killed for something she hadn’t done, and no one would question it. Was it worse to be their teind or to be forced to watch the sacrifice, as she’d been forced to watch her own daughter’s death at their hands—their punishment for her meddling in their business. Her own husband had blamed her, had called for her arrest, claiming she’d abducted and killed their daughter, and she had been forced to flee, to become Ealar, the witch in the woods. Warned to stay away from Janet, too, she only hoped that her potion saved the girl from the suffering that awaited her in their sacrificial well. They would come looking for her after this, humans doing the bidding of the elves, and no imagined night-battlers would save her, because there was no one anywhere could stand up to the treacherous Queen of Elfland.

Gregory Frost is an American author of science fiction and fantasy, whose works include the Shadowbridge series, Fitcher’s Brides, the Philip K. Dick-ian science fiction novel The Pure Cold Light, as well as two novels derived from the Celtic epic the táin bó cuailnge. His short fiction has appeared in many anthologies and magazines, including Asimov’s Science Fiction, including the Readers’ Award winner, “Lock Up Your Chickens and Daughters, H’ard and Andy Are Come to Town,” collaboratively written with Michael Swanwick. He taught the fiction writing workshop at Swarthmore College in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania, for eighteen years.

The Insomniac
by Brad Zeiger

The neat rows of glittering coffins stretched in all three dimensions. Each occupant lay in blissful peace, enshrined in crystal and metal.
All but one.
Darius Bosco glared with bleary eyes at the lid of his pod, fighting a nascent claustrophobia. The computer offered reassuring noises, informing him that life support would have the cabin ready for habitation within an hour.
Bosco loudly informed the computer that life support should have kicked on before the wake-up routine. His only reply was the indifferent thrum of the spaceship.
Hell, but it was tight in that little space. He began to sweat, which didn’t do wonders for the ambiance. He craned his neck and made sense of the readout to the left of his head.
Two years and four months. His next duty cycle wasn’t for another two months. Something must have gone wrong. Terribly wrong, if the ship couldn’t even perform the wake-up routine in the correct sequence.
More sweat. Disaster scenarios ran through his mind. Meltdown. Cladding breach. Irradiation of the passengers. He pounded uselessly on the lid of the coffin. The ship wasn’t patching through any messages from headquarters, which could be good news or bad, depending on the reasoning.
Minimum requirements met at last, the lid slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The frigid air over his sweaty body immediately chilled him. Wreathed in the vapor from his breath, he moved quickly to the reactor control panel and began checking alarm readouts, gauges, and settings. He worked frantically at first, then forced himself to adopt a more methodical approach.
His brow furrowed as he came to the end of his review. One of the heat exchange fins was running a little hot, but only a little. Well within spec. Why was he awake then?
#
He stared through the porthole at the more distant nuclear reactions, reduced by distance to mere twinkling lights. The med unit beeped and he tore away the needle that he had been diligently not looking at. The machine whirred and hummed as it drank in his blood and began its diagnostics panel.
He pulled the flimsy mylar blanket tighter and shivered as he waited. Running the titrations and chromatograms was the fast part. The data had to travel thirty minutes to Earth, spend God knows how long undergoing manual review and report preparation, and then another thirty minutes back.
Humans could do some things better than machines still. Medicine wasn’t one of them, but like realtors and gigolos, the medical profession still managed to find ways to ensure their steady employment in the face of indisputably superior technology.
He could hardly criticize. A nuclear reactor also ran better without human intervention, which was why spacecraft had gradually transitioned from a full-time reactor crew to a single technician who reviewed operations every six months. A single technician supported by a ground crew, of course. A crew equally confused by his early awakening.
The ship hadn’t roused him at all, it turned out. Rather, it was responding to him coming out of his chemical coma on his own. Bosco developed a pretty good idea of what had happened by the time the official report came through.
The cocktail that induced the chemical coma made use of an artificial enzyme that mediated drug transport across the blood-brain barrier. Bosco’s traitorous immune system had produced antibodies against that enzyme. Produced them in prodigious quantities. There were a couple of alternative formulations, developed due to varying responses to the sedatives and common allergen profiles, but all of them relied upon the same biologic as the key delivery mechanism.
He drifted through the rows of sleeping colonists as he considered his predicament. Aside from the aesthetically-pleasing aspect of going to sleep on Earth and waking up on Enceladus, the chemical coma permitted the ship to run without any recreational equipment, minimal sanitation facilities, and dramatically lower calorie and power requirements. There were safety margins, of course, but the hard fact of the matter was that a spacecraft couldn’t afford to plan for every contingency.
The utilitarian metal walls flowed past him until he came to a stop at Dolores’ pod. His wife’s stillness and unnatural pallor caused him to reflexively check the readout for her vitals. She was lovely there, with a few rogue strands of dark hair floating gently around her peaceful face, almost as if she were underwater. He leaned down to kiss the lid before moving on to see Monica.
At seven, she showed promise of her mother’s beauty. She had a lot of her father in her too, though. He watched her sleep for a long moment, thinking. Maybe there would be enough resources for him to make it to Enceladus, but he would be eating into the safety margins for the two people that he cared about, as well as two hundred and thirteen other people on the vessel.
After a sobering inventory of the ship’s supplies, he selected a medical kit and made his way back to the familiar space that housed the reactor controls. He stared, unseeing, at the control panel for a long time before opening the kit. The sharp odors of antiseptics and latex stunned him for a moment, so strong was the contrast with the odorless cavern of the spaceship. He carefully prepared a lethal dose of morphine.
He released it. The acceleration of the ship was too gentle to notice on that time scale. The syringe drifted in front of his face, and he watched the lights glisten off of the wet needle and the clear, deadly liquid within. The sight evoked a complex emotion, a sense of duty blended with raw terror. It was a sour, heavy feeling that swelled in his chest and sat on his guts.
After a time, he recaptured the syringe and taped it to the interior of his sleep pod. It was too early to give up.
#
Bosco tapped at the gauge, scowling, and then checked the digital readout on the SCADA terminal. The starboard fin, one of two structures responsible for radiative cooling of the reactor core, continued to run hot.
He checked the schedule. Efficient travel to Enceladus relied on a slingshot around Jupiter. As the appropriate Jovian alignment was a vicennial event, mankind took advantage by sending a fleet of colony ships each time. He hoped that there might be an active nuke tech on one of the other ships that trailed The Cold Horizon. No luck. The next shift was more than three weeks away.
He turned up the coolant pump on the under-performing radiator before pushing away from the panel to make his rounds again. His wife remained as peaceful and beautiful as ever. His heart ached to have her so near, yet so far.
The idea of waking someone else, either for help or for company, tempted him constantly. He knew that it would merely run his resources down twice as fast, and resolved to rely exclusively on the faceless ground crew.
He ran his fingers gently across the glass over Dolores’ face and then moved on to Monica. The paternal smile faded as he studied her, replaced by a puzzled frown. Instead of the familiar peaceful mask, Monica looked faintly troubled.
The chime of an incoming message pulled him away from his familial vigil. His medical team had, against the odds, conjured good news.
“Good morning, Mr. Bosco,” said the image of Dr. Maya Thompson, “we hope you’re holding up okay out there.”
“Enough small talk, let’s have the point,” Bosco growled, even though—or maybe because—she couldn’t hear him.
“After a review of your medical supplies, we think we have a solution. There is an immunosuppressant in your ship’s stocks that will dampen your overenthusiastic response to the transport glycoprotein.
“It’s high risk in that it will leave you vulnerable to any opportunistic pathogen, but it’s rendered considerably safer by virtue of being four hundred million miles from Earth. There’s some debate here over whether that’s ironic.”
She paused, perhaps to permit him a moment to laugh at her cleverness. “We will be uploading a treatment program to the medical unit shortly. You will receive twice-daily doses until your antibody levels drop, which we expect to happen in around two weeks. Following that, the immunosuppressants will be added to your sleep pod cocktail.”
Some medical details that went over Bosco’s head followed, along with a deluge of disclosure and consent forms. He stuck his thumb on the bottom of each page without reading more than the title.
Al Mikkelson, Terrafirm’s director of Enceladus operations, replaced Dr. Thompson on the screen. “You will no longer be performing your regular duties,” he said. “The medical team feels that regular interruptions and reintroductions of the coma regimen likely contributed to your body’s immune response. Technicians on the other ships will monitor your reactor remotely.”
Bosco growled at the terminal again. The only thing worse than being dependent on a bunch of quacks back on Earth was being useless where he was.
His blood ran cold when he heard a voice from behind him. There was something still worse, it turned out.
“Daddy?”
#
There was a lot of him in the little girl, after all. It seemed that the immune system was part of the deal. They ran the obligatory blood tests anyway, of course.
She looked pale and scared as she sat buckled to the med unit’s exam chair, thin legs swinging nervously below knobby knees as the needle plunged into her arm.
Bosco prepared her a hearty meal of reconstituted pablum in a mylar pouch while they waited for the Earth-side team to tell them what they already knew. She ate it quietly as Dr. Thompson again explained the cause of the problem, and the solution. More forms, this time requiring both of them to press fingers against the screen.
A separate text message came quietly to him only, confirming his fears. The ship didn’t carry enough immunosuppressant for both of them.
He forced himself to look into the deep, hazel pools of her eyes as she searched for comfort.
“What does it mean, Daddy?” she asked. “Are we going to be okay?” She wrapped her arms tightly around her shoulders, hugging herself.
Bosco threw his own arms around her and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. He closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of her small body against his chest, and took a deep breath. She smelled like gingerbread somehow. “Everything is going to be fine, sweetie.”
It had been so long since he had held her, even if most of that time had been in cold sleep. He forced away tears and spun her towards a porthole. “C’mon. Let’s look at the stars. It’s gorgeous out here.”
They floated together in front of the thick glass, staring at the blazing lights. The stars seen from Earth were a pathetic mockery of the glory in front of them.
They talked quietly about what life on Enceladus would be like. Bosco suddenly fell silent, mid-sentence. His breath caught in his throat as he stared into the night. Something glittered in the fierce starlight, drifting lazily alongside the ship. He pressed his face to the glass, staring, and then threw himself to the bridge, not even hearing Monica’s confused queries.
He flipped the trio of switches that turned on the port-side lights and then sprinted hand-over-hand back to the viewport.
There, sparkling merrily in the naked glare of the LED floodlights, floated a string of silver droplets, pacing the ship. He fumbled for the transceiver, setting up an encrypted message to the nuke team back on Earth.
“What is it?” Monica asked, wide-eyed.
“Death,” he said flatly, not looking away from the sparkling trail.
#
He should not have said that, he told himself for the umpteenth time, as he tried to comfort the terrified girl, to downplay his original statement.
There were many ways that a coolant leak could go, and many of them did not end in death. Nonetheless, it was a terrifying thing to confront in the depths of space with a team of one.
Cursing himself, he gave Monica a mild sedative. Not great parenting by any measure, but he needed to focus on the problem that immediately threatened her life, as well as everyone else on the ship, and most likely the convoy of ships that followed. He strapped her back into the chair to receive her first dose of immunosuppressant before proceeding to the airlock.
He instructed the ship to start waking the captain as he prepped the pressure suit. Another hit to their margins, but it couldn’t be helped. Going walkabout without any local support was strictly against protocol. He sealed the inner door and pumped down the airlock as he waited.
Shortly, Captain Amelia Chen appeared outside the airlock, shivering and rubbing her eyes. “This better be good, Bosco,” she said.
“NaK leak, ma’am,” he said, “I need to assess the situation.”
She sucked air through her teeth and then nodded sharply. Good enough, evidently. “I suppose there’s a reason that you got your daughter up first, too?”
“Naturally, but that can wait. Permission to disembark?”
Shelving her curiosity, Chen stepped to the terminal beside the airlock door and reviewed the remote diagnostics for the spacesuit, confirming that it was holding pressure and that battery and gas tanks were at acceptable levels. She pulled up the EVA checklist and together they ran through radio checks, tether anchoring, and a stress test of the life support system.
Checklist complete, Chen gave her approval and Bosco instructed the door to open. After twice confirming that he really meant it, the airlock hissed open, residual gases rushing past him, trying to tug him out in the process.
Once pressures equalized, Bosco played out his line to the edge of the airlock, and then clipped into one of the anchor points on the edge of the ship before releasing the airlock tether. He described each step to Chen as he went, waiting for her acknowledgment before proceeding.
He kept his gaze on the side of the ship, trying to block out the terrifying nothingness that stretched out to infinity in every other direction. Cautiously, he touched the jets on his maneuvering unit and nudged himself towards the secondary cooling loop heat-exchange array.
The heat exchanger was a miniature labyrinth of thin Hastelloy pipes, arranged on a broad plane and surrounded by a titanium scaffold to allow its installation and service in space without having to touch the delicate tubes. A sodium-potassium eutectic ran through the tubes, pulling waste heat away from the nuclear core and disposing of it radiatively.
A dozen of these units were stacked vertically, creating a roughly cubic structure spanning five meters in each dimension.
He took pictures from various angles with a thermal camera and waited while Chen analyzed them. When she reported back that the image analysis had identified an anomaly on one of the outer assemblies, he sagged with relief. If the leak were on any of the interior panels it would be virtually impossible to service them in the field, one of the countless risks taken in pursuit of the stars.
Following her directions, he pulled himself across the titanium frame until he found it. A tiny bubble of silver metal crowned from the smooth surface of the pipe. It must be the slightest of pinholes to emerge so slowly from the pressurized pipe, most likely the result of an impact with some tiny meteoroid.
The repair was simple in principle, but devilishly challenging when performed with the clumsy gloves. He tried to wipe sweat from his brow, only to laugh and curse as his forearm clanked against his helmet. All he could do was blink rapidly, his eyes stinging as he worked.
He buffed the surface of a thin sheet of Hastelloy foil with an abrasive sponge. He did the same to the pipe surrounding the leak, and then smoothed the foil over it, relying on cold welding to make a seal. He fitted a small clamp over it for strength and torqued it down carefully, mindful not to deform the delicate tube.
Allowing himself to relax at last, he permitted himself to drift to the limit of the short anchor he had clipped to the titanium frame. He blew out a breath, briefly fogging the visor of his helmet, and realized that he was trembling.
Forcing himself to stay focused, he radioed Chen. “Captain? Repair is complete. I’m going to monitor for ten minutes and then head back in.”
No reply. Instinctively, inanely, he looked around, as if he might see what was going on that was taking Chen’s attention. The cold fury of the brilliant starlight, and the depth of the nothing around it seized him as his focus moved away from the ship. A wave of vertigo passed over him, and everything seemed to spin for a minute. He clutched for the scaffold, feeling both relief and embarrassment when he felt the solid metal.
The radio came to life then, providing a further relief from the crushing loneliness. A relief that vanished seconds later, replaced by a frantic panic.
“Sorry, Bosco. I’m here. Your daughter is vomiting, I had to make sure that she wasn’t going to choke; she seems out of it. It’s a real mess down here, I need you to head back in. We’ll have to do a separate EVA to check on the repair later.”
Bosco’s heart thundered in his ears. If Monica couldn’t tolerate the medication, then . . . He couldn’t allow himself to finish the thought. A vision filled his mind, unbidden, of a syringe drifting weightlessly, its deadly payload glittering as it spun and caught the light.
#
The mess was largely resolved by the time that Bosco managed to navigate the airlock and doff his suit. He used that time to force calm onto himself, to wear a relaxed smile for his little girl.
The ship, at least the part of it accessible to a person, was primarily one big room, full of hibernating colonists. It had a cockpit for flight controls, and a small control room for Bosco’s affairs. The medical unit occupied one corner of the main room, next to the lavatory, and Bosco could see his daughter as soon as he exited the airlock.
To his relief, she waved at him. Uncertain though the future was, at that moment she seemed alert and hale. The nausea had passed, but she seemed abashed about it.
“Hi, Dad,” she said. She took a sip from a bulb of water. “Sorry I threw up.”
He hugged her. “Nothing for you to be sorry about, sweetie,” he said. He swallowed his own guilt—surely it was the result of something that he had injected into her body.
Still holding Monica, he turned to Chen. “The repair looked good, but it was such a slow leak that it’s hard to know for sure.” He scowled. “Really slow. We probably would have made it to Enceladus before we ran into trouble. Hard to explain why the fin was running hot. Maybe just a faulty gauge and a coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Chen said. “I’m going to look at the thermograms again.”
“Sorry, Monica, but I think we need to pull some more blood for the doctors,” Bosco said.
She made a face, but complied. Bosco dug up some freeze-dried ice cream as compensation, and they nestled together on the thin chair and made the medical terminal show them Bugs Bunny while they waited for the blood panel to run.
Chen returned, looking grave, just as Elmer Fudd seemed on the verge of certain victory. Bosco disentangled himself from his daughter and left her to the cartoons while he and the captain moved away to converse privately.
“I should have caught it earlier,” Chen said, “but it looks like there’s a bigger leak on panel three. It’s obscured in most of the images, but I found one decent shot of it.”
She thrust out a tablet, and Bosco squinted at the bright smears of the infrared image. Sure enough, there was a small but brilliant plume of orange issuing from an elbow, deep in the pipework.
“Hell,” he said, “looks like it might be a weld. No way I can patch that, even if I could get to it.”
Chen nodded grimly. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions until we’ve put eyes on it, but I agree that it doesn’t look good.”
Back to the airlock, then. Donning the suit went faster this time, with another pair of hands. The jumpsuit was still slimy with the now-cold sweat of his last excursion, and the clammy feel of it on his arms made him shudder.
He struggled to keep his mind on the task, at first. His mind kept drifting instead back to his daughter, worrying over whether he could protect her even if he could repair the ship. Upon reaching the heat exchanger and getting a good look at it, however, his attention crystallized onto the problem at hand.
A flexible camera snaked into the array to give him a good look at the leak. A hairline crack had formed adjacent to a weld, inside a tight bend in the tubing. NaK seeped through the crack like silvery blood from a wound. Bosco issued a blistering curse upon the quality control team back on Earth.
Accessing the inner panel was nigh impossible, and the geometry of the leak site was equally problematic. He tried anyway, of course, using a probe to ineffectually poke pieces of foil at it until it devolved into an irredeemable mess.
“It’s no good, Captain,” he reported. “I’m going to have to seal off the whole thing.”
He sighed as he pulled himself to hull of the ship, where a manifold permitted him to isolate each section of the heat exchanger. He slowly opened the bypass valves and then closed the isolation valves. He took another set of infrared images and toured the other heat exchanger before returning to the airlock.
Fear for Monica hit him afresh as he finished his task and his brain regained bandwidth for other things. It was all he could do to force himself to properly connect his suit for recharging power and gases before rushing to the privacy of the reactor control room to view the message from the medical team that waited there. He needed to watch it alone first. If it were bad news, he would have to work out how to explain things to Monica.
The doctor looked tired, a condition that Bosco suddenly realized that he shared. Two grueling EVAs and the constant existential stress were taking their toll. Still, there was no chance that he could rest before knowing what Dr. Thompson had to say.
“We don’t have enough information to reach a definite conclusion,” she said. “But I’m cautiously optimistic.”
Endorphins flooded Bosco’s brain at that phrase, and he found that he couldn’t sit quietly. The zero-gravity environment wasn’t conducive to frenetic pacing, so he had to settle for tugging at his hair and breathing rapidly.
“Based on the event chronology provided and the blood work, I believe that the patient’s negative reaction was to the diazepam rather than to the immunosuppressant formulation, or possibly due to an interaction between the two medications.
“At the time of the blood draw, the diazepam had largely cleared the patient’s system while the immunosuppressant blood serum concentration was still over fifty micrograms per milliliter, which is significant. Given that symptoms had resolved by the time of the blood draw, we conclude that the patient reasonably tolerated the immunosuppressant.
“We recommend that you proceed with the next scheduled dosage and observe for other adverse effects. We also recommend against further elective sedation. Please keep us apprised.”
The screen went dark and Bosco let out an involuntary whoop of relief and joy. Things seemed to be turning around at last. He pushed away from the terminal to tell Monica the good news when the reactor control system chimed gently, several times in quick succession. Seconds later, the pager on his hip started to vibrate.
The musical note indicated a non-critical warning that nonetheless required review. Scowling, Bosco pulled up the event log and the trend screens and puzzled through the sequence of events.
Everything was straightforward and predictable for someone with their head in the game. He cursed himself for being surprised. The reactor had been operating at its design capacity, running its normal functions plus life support, heating, and lighting for the whole ship. The heavy use of the medical unit, deep space comms transmitter, and the airlock on top of that didn’t help.
Isolating a section of the heat exchanger had pushed the core temperature above permissible levels, and the system had automatically dropped control rods to compensate, slightly slowing the nuclear chain reaction in the core. Temperatures and pressures had dropped back into spec and everything was running smoothly again.
Everything was fine. Everything, except that power production had dropped by eight percent. Power production and power consumption were now almost at parity. He looked at the battery logs and any residual triumph from Dr. Thompson’s message turned to ash in his throat.
Once a steady line at one hundred percent, the battery level was now fluctuating, falling during periods of high demand and then recovering. Almost recovering. They were, very slowly, losing ground.
They had run out of margin.
#
He talked to Monica first. She didn’t really understand, but she trusted him and seemed happy that he was happy. Her faith in him warmed his heart, while simultaneously terrifying him that it might be misplaced. They shared a hug and then he had to go brief the captain.
She was on the bridge, reviewing the infrared scans. She didn’t look away when he entered.
“Bad news, ma’am.”
“Do you ever have anything else?”
When he didn’t reply, she sighed and turned to look him in the eyes.
“Sorry, Bosco. All right, let’s have it.”
“We’re running at lower power now, and we’re starting to dip into battery reserves. The ship can handle losing a heat exchange module or two, or providing extended life-support for the main cabin, but not both at once.”
Chen’s eyes widened. “How long do we have?”
“There’s not much data yet, and we haven’t done any work towards triaging our power consumption. A rough extrapolation gives us at least nine days before getting to dangerous levels.”
She shook her head. “We need to get everybody back into cold sleep as soon as possible. How long until we can do that?”
“The doctors estimated two weeks.”
She blew out a noisy breath, refusing to meet his gaze now. “Have they worked out how to stretch the drug supply to cover both of you?”
“N . . . Ah, yes ma’am. I have a solution for that.” A glittering syringe danced behind his eyes for a moment, and he felt the corners of his lips involuntarily twitch downwards.
She looked at him again. “You need to rest before anything else. Take four hours of sleep, and then we’ll reconvene to brainstorm solutions.
“I’ll finish going through your images. I haven’t seen any evidence of more leaks. See? At least one of us can generate good news.”
Bosco nodded dumbly. Now that the prospect of sleep was upon him, his brain seemed to have already started the shutdown sequence. He fumbled his way to the lavatory and then collected Monica. Together they huddled in the reactor control room, which was marginally warmer than the main body of the ship, and wrapped themselves in mylar blankets.
Despite the intensity of the situation, sleep came quickly and mercifully. A gentle smile creased his face as he held his daughter and closed his eyes. Surely things could only improve.
#
“Bosco?”
Someone was shaking him. He scowled, scrunching his eyes tighter and muttering something rude and unintelligible in equal measure.
“Sorry, but it’s time to wake up.”
He told the voice what it could go do to itself. Then he cracked an eye, saw that it was the captain, and told her again.
Chen made a distinctly unamused noise in the back of her throat. He slowly disentangled himself from the blankets and the still-sleeping Monica and rubbed his eyes until memory returned. He wished that it hadn’t.
“Ah, hell,” he said at last.
Accepting this as an apology, Chen nodded curtly and got to business. They moved out of the reactor control room so as to not disturb Monica.
Chen shoved a ration pouch at him. “Let’s review our options,” she said. “Assume that we need to sustain main-cabin life support for longer than the battery will hold out.
“Ground control wants to know if we can reactivate the isolated section of heat exchanger. Odds are that it’s been leaking for a long time, what’s a few more days?”
“Yes, probably. Let me check how much reserve coolant we have.” Bosco started hunting through trend screens as they spoke.
“How much energy can we conserve?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid. It’s not my area of expertise, but I don’t see many options. The ship is designed to run as efficiently as possible to start with. We can turn off some lights, but the power draw there is negligible. Life support systems are critical, naturally. We can turn down the cabin temperature a bit, but it’s already near the limit of what we can handle. In a pinch we could turn off the oxygen and water recyclers and run down the reserves, but that’s a short-term solution.”
“Let’s start with the lights and the cabin temperature then. Anything we can do to increase the reactor output?”
Bosco scowled at that. “Well, we could push the safety margins a bit.”
There was that word again, margins. It seemed like every time he turned around, they were nibbling away at their margins. First their energy margins, and now their safety margins. It would end poorly. And yet, they were headed for a bad end at the moment anyway.
“I could pull the control rods back a bit, run at a slightly higher temperature. We could run the coolant pumps harder and pray that they don’t give out. The automated system is more conservative than the rules permit, and the rules are more restrictive than what we think physics will permit.”
Chen chewed her lip, staring at the floor. “Let’s proceed with the energy conservation plan. Did you determine how much spare coolant we have?”
“Enough to recharge about one-and-a-half heat exchange units. Looking at the level trend, we’ve been losing coolant for two months and could likely handle the same loss rate for another six weeks.”
She nodded. “Easy enough then. Let’s reopen our problem child. We’ll close it again right before we all go back to bed. I’ll get clearance from Earth, plan on suiting up in ninety minutes.”
That was a dismissal. Bosco finished eating and then roused Monica. A dormant anxiety reared its head and gnawed at his gut—it was time for her second dose of medication.
“Do I have to?” Still half-asleep and scared, she turned whiny and shied away from the needle.
He found the cartoons again. What was a few more watts of power draw, after all? This placated her to the point that he was able to administer the shot, and then they sat for a while, watching the show together. She giggled unrestrainedly each time the mouse inflicted some improbable harm on the cat.
Bosco alternated between waiting for any sign of an intolerance to the medication and an unsettling realization that he mostly identified with the cat.
After a few minutes, a crease appeared in the girl’s smooth brow and she turned away from the cartoons to fully regard her father.
“Don’t you need your shot too, Daddy?” she asked.
Bosco grunted. Damn kid was too smart. “Uh, yeah. Thanks for reminding me.”
Sourcing a fresh syringe, he turned his back to her as he filled it with saline. His heart skipped a beat as he looked at it, filled with a clear liquid so similar to the unassuming cylinder still taped to his pod. He turned and forced himself to smile at Monica as he pushed the needle into his shoulder and depressed the plunger.
“There.”
Satisfied, she returned her attention to the show. He watched her for an hour. She grew subdued and lethargic but exhibited no violent reaction to the dose. The fear that gripped like a clenched fist around his heart slowly eased. His eyes slipped towards closed again, but Chen returned before he could fall properly asleep.
“Ground has approved our plan,” she said, “with one small change. You’re to stay here and monitor the reactor, it’s my turn to spacewalk.”
Bosco put up an obligatory protest on the way to the airlock, but his heart wasn’t in it. He would be perfectly happy if he never again had to face that vast emptiness. He helped her into the EVA suit and together they walked through the checklist.
It felt like an interminable wait while Chen navigated to the valve manifold. Bosco didn’t care for the idle time. It allowed him to think about syringes and endings. For the first time, he articulated thoughts about how the number of times he got to hug his daughter might be approaching the single digits. He would never get to speak to his wife again. The sterile, cramped confines of the ship would be the last thing he would ever see.
“Bosco, you there?”
Chen sounded annoyed, and Bosco realized that it was at least the second transmission. He shook himself. “Yes ma’am. Proceed when ready. Open the isolation valves first, and then close the bypass valves. As slowly as you can.”
“Roger. Opening isolation valves.”
Nothing blipped on the SCADA terminal, but then, he didn’t expect it to. The bypass was still the path of least resistance. No need to stress until she closed the second set of valves. It was hard to say how smoothly the delicate system would respond to the slug of colder, denser NaK being mixed into the system on top of the pressure instability reintroduced by the leaky section of pipe.
“Closing bypass valves.”
“Ten-four.”
Bosco held his breath and counted to thirty. His trends held steady.
“Valves closed.”
He watched the screen. Everything looked good for one hopeful minute, until the coolant pressure began to drop. It fell slowly at first. He held his breath as he watched, praying that it would stabilize, maybe even recover. As if in spiteful answer, the loss rate began to accelerate.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, “we’re losing pressure.”
“Give me a second.”
He gave her two tense minutes, gnawing on his knuckles and watching the pressure steadily tick down.
They were already down over a hundred psi, which was well over five percent of the initial pressure. Warnings were beginning to flash yellow on the event log when Chen’s panicked voice came piping through the radio.
“It didn’t like all this pressure cycling. The cracked pipe is spraying coolant everywhere now. I have to isolate it again.”
“Roger.” He said a few other words, but he didn’t broadcast them.
He watched the trend screen anxiously as the pressure loss blew past two hundred psi, then three.
The pressure suddenly stopped dropping and rose precipitously.
“Yes!” Bosco shouted, throwing his fists into the air in triumph. Then he saw that flow had dropped to zero.
Red splashed across the status screen. The pager at his hip began vibrating insistently and the spacecraft shuddered. An alarm began to wail.
“Ah, hell,” he said, arms still in the air.
#
“What’s happening?” Chen asked, her composure slipping. “The whole ship jerked!”
“You closed the isolation valves before opening the bypass. The pump deadheaded and then shut down.”
Somewhere, a little girl was shrieking in heart-rending terror, but Bosco had to tune it out.
He scanned the trend log. Everything had happened so fast. “Core temperature spiked. The system compensated by venting the pressure relief valves on the primary coolant loop and initiating an emergency shutdown.
“The relief valves probably pushed the ship around a bit, but nothing serious. I’ll restart the core after you open the bypass valves and we should be in business. You can head back in to work on plan B.”
He prepared to withdraw control rods, but he couldn’t bear the crying anymore. They could run on battery power for a few more minutes. What was one more hit to their margins?
He comforted Monica, savoring the minutes that he got to spend with her even as he stressed over his absence from the control panel. After calming down, she joined him in the control room. Shortly, she forgot the terror and began enjoying the null-gravity environment, swooping about the room in a way that quickly annoyed her father.
For his part, Bosco worked with an ever-deepening scowl. He pushed away from the terminal and met Chen at the airlock just as she exited it. She could tell from his face that their troubles were an ongoing matter.
“The core pressure keeps dropping. I need to go put eyes on it.”
“What are you thinking?”
“The only thing that makes sense is that one of the PRVs is stuck open, continuously venting. The control system instructed them all to close, but this wouldn’t be the first time that one of these has failed.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It is. The core can’t operate that way, which means we have no power, while the discharge is simultaneously costing us irreplaceable water and pushing us off-course. We need to move fast.” He donned his suit and vented the airlock to space rather than pumping it down first.
The core lurked on what Bosco considered the underside of the ship. Having a nuclear reaction so close to the colonists might terrify some, but spaceflight was never for the faint of heart.
From the exterior of the craft, the only visible part of the reactor was the bioshield, a great expanse of metal with a smattering of pipework and conduit playing over it.
He expected to see a jet of white steam when he rounded the curve of the ship. When he saw nothing, he was at first relieved, but then concerned that the cause of the problem remained unsolved.
He stood there, puzzling for a moment. After a time, it occurred to him that a spout of superheated steam might look different in space, with the vacuum immediately boiling it away to an invisible vapor. He took an infrared picture and squinted at the tiny screen.
The plume that he expected shone vividly there, in shades of brilliant orange rather than white.
He activated his radio. “Found it.”
A single failed pressure relief valve spelled doom for the entire colony ship. Although planning for every contingency was not in a spaceship designer’s charter, they did make an allowance in this case. The vent valves consisted of a length of pipe that thrust out of the surface of the reactor like a stalagmite. An automated solenoid-actuated valve, buried in the shielding, governed each pipe. The saving grace was an accompanying quarter-turn manual valve at the tip of each jutting length of pipe, permitting a technician to isolate it.
Bosco moved slowly towards the offending valve. Being so close to the reactor always unnerved him. He was about fifteen feet away when the quiet clicking finally penetrated his consciousness. His radiation monitor, the one inside his shielded spacesuit, was registering a significant gamma field.
He retreated and reported back to Chen, trying to keep his voice from shaking.
They shared a moment of silence. They both knew what needed to happen, but Chen didn’t want to order it. Bosco took a deep breath.
“All right, I’m going in. It should only take a few minutes.”
The hard part was making a rapid approach without overshooting. It took more than a few minutes to get in range, and a few minutes more to fail to turn the valve. The terrifying staccato of the dosimeter kept him company the whole time.
“It’s galled!” He tried to get a wrench on it, but only succeeded in snapping off the handle of the valve. He retreated, cursing. “I’m coming back to the airlock. I need some more gear.”
Thirty minutes later, he returned to the crest of the spacecraft and stared at the deadly valve, which looked as innocent as ever. He felt faintly queasy, whether from the radiation or the task ahead, he couldn’t tell.
The offending stub of pipe looked innocent there in the poor light. He stared at it for a long time from a safe distance. He had fancied that he had made peace with death—it was only a few short days away in the best case, housed in a tiny cylinder of clear glass.
The immediacy of it overwhelmed him all the same.
“I can’t do it,” he said, but he didn’t activate the radio. Closing his eyes, he played back his last day on Earth, when he and Dolores had taken Monica to the park to enjoy the sun and birdsong one last time. The laughing face of his little girl filled his mind and his heart.
Clenching his teeth, he moved forward. They had one chance left. He was a dead man either way, the least he could do was give everyone else a shot.
He imagined that he could hear the escaping steam as he approached the pipe. The chattering of the dosimeter at his hip would have drowned it out even had there been an atmosphere to transmit the sound.
The taste of metal filled his mouth as he set about arranging his gear and anchors. The last hope of The Cold Horizon and all its inhabitants was a length of steel pipe about three feet long and four inches in diameter, with a flange on one end and a valve on the other.
At more than twice the diameter and a foot taller, it fit neatly over the hateful vent pipe. The escaping steam continuing to shoot through the open valve at the top of the repair pipe. He attempted to report back to Chen, but the radio proved unable to handle the radiation. He was on his own.
An ion beam made three quick tack welds between the flange and the bioshield to hold it in place. It took most of an hour to drill the six holes into the hard steel, and another thirty minutes to drive the bolts home. The clumsy gloves fought him every step of the way.
He was starting the final weld around the base to guarantee a complete seal when the radiation suddenly blinded him. At first, he thought that the ship lights had gone out, perhaps due to a catastrophic power failure. When he realized that there was no starlight and no suit lights, he felt a mad terror like nothing he had ever known. His whole universe was utter darkness, his only company the continuous, indifferent chatter of the radiation monitor.
Bosco screamed. Then he screamed again. He thrashed and kicked, felt himself spinning wildly. He pivoted on his short tether, which was clipped a few feet away, crashed into the ship, and bounced.
Already queasy from the intense radiation, his stomach threatened a total revolt. He seized on this feeling, almost grateful to have something real to focus on, and clawed his way back to sanity. He tried the radio again, failed to make contact again. And then, just as suddenly as it went, his vision returned.
Sobbing, he hauled on the tether until he returned to the surface of the ship and, hands shaking like a maraca player on a roller coaster, went back to welding. There was nothing else he could do, except pray, which he also did.
Somehow, miraculously, he finished the weld without destroying his suit with the ion beam or drowning in his own vomit. Only one thing left to do.
The big, multi-turn valve moved reluctantly, but move it did. It took so many rotations to fully close that Bosco began to fear that it was just spinning freely, not closing anything, but at long last it came to a halt and refused to move any further.
Exhausted, he unclipped his local tether and began reeling in the main line, pulling himself towards home. He left the torque wrench and the welder where they were, sitting on a mag strip on the surface of the bioshield.
He stopped once, after the clicking of the dosimeter mostly died down, to take a final infrared image of the repair. Then, as fast as he was able, he hauled himself back to the airlock.
His mind was reduced to repeating a simple mantra over and over. Get back to the airlock. Get back to the airlock. Get back to the airlock.
Airlock achieved, a new mantra took over. Must decontaminate. Must decontaminate. Must decontaminate.
He managed to close the airlock behind him before the contents of his stomach erupted violently inside his helmet. Oblivion took him.
#
Bosco gradually became aware that someone was holding his hand. Turning his throbbing head to the right, he saw his wife.
“Dolores?” He tried to sit up, but straps held him tightly to the chair. “You can't be here!” His protest, intended as a shout, came in a hoarse whisper.
“I had to see you.” She smiled at him, eyes wet and bright. “They told me how brave you were.”
“Our margins . . .”
Somehow, she laughed. “I’ve heard all about them. You’ve been out for nineteen hours, muttering that word over and over in your sleep.”
He turned his head to the left. The skin of his neck felt tight and hot, like a bad sunburn. “Where is Monica?”
Chen moved into view. “It seems that someone finally informed the medical crew about our power shortage. They’re regular miracle workers down there. She was already responding to the immunosuppressant, and they were able to temporarily boost the dosage of her coma cocktail enough to overcome any lingering resistance. She’s asleep already.”
Bosco shook his head, a lump of relief in his throat. Still, he wished he could have held her one last time. “And the reactor?”
“They roused Keith Simmons of the Dreamcatcher, the next ship behind us. He’s finalizing the startup sequence still, but I’m told that everything looks good. We have the recycling systems off to conserve power, but the reactor should be back up and all of us asleep again within the next six hours. We made it.”
This was it then. All to bed, with one last private task for Bosco when everyone else was asleep. He looked at Dolores, glad that she was there while simultaneously wishing she were still comatose. Should he say good-bye? Did she understand the situation? His eyes found Chen.
“One more miracle from Dr. Thompson,” Chen said. “You absorbed four sieverts of radiation while saving us all. An enormous dose, but very survivable with modern medicine. Your immune system is shot though. You’re not going to be producing any more antibodies until you get a bone marrow transplant.”
Bosco didn’t even realize all the little muscles in his face were tense until he felt them relax. His eyes widened in wonder and an astonished laugh erupted from his lips. He wasn’t going to die out here in the lonely emptiness. He was going to see his daughter again, hold his wife. He couldn’t process all the emotions at once.
Gently, slowly, Dolores and Chen disconnected his various IVs and unstrapped him from the chair.
“C’mon,” Dolores said, “You need some rest. I’ll see you on Enceladus.”

Brad Zeiger is nominally a chemist, an engineer, or a writer, depending on which dubious source you care to reference. He lives in northwestern Oregon, squandering his time in the local semiconductor industry. He has several self-published novels on Amazon, but offers the caveat that they are substantially different in style from this work. "The Insomniac," which won the 2023 Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award Contest, represents his first professionally-published piece of fiction, and he is deeply grateful to Baen for that opportunity.

A Lesson to Those Who Survive
by D.J. Butler

“I don’t like this place,” Philastes Larch muttered. In the gloom, the Pelthite’s dusky skin and black hair made him hard to see. His undyed gray linothorax breastplate, with the Protagonists’ insignia of an ear painted on it, was visible as a whitish blob. Occasionally, the metal studs in his leather skirt caught glints of light, like a thin swarm of fireflies buzzing about his hips.
The Protagonists all wore matching armor. There were four of them now, and they were experimenting with a uniform.
“You’re not supposed to like it,” Joose said. Joose was the client. He hunched forward in his lumpy purple cassock, his four-clawed hands worrying the ivory tube he’d brought, his long triangular head swaying side to side.
They stood at the base of a thick column in the center of a small courtyard, atop which Indrajit was just now losing sight of a sculpted double-headed eagle. Joose had been insistent that this was where they would meet.
“What is that two-headed eagle?” Philastes asked. “A guardian to protect against the spirits of the dead?”
Joose grunted. “Or a warning. A lesson of some kind to those who survive.”
“The dead are not to be feared.” Indrajit scanned the gathering gloom, peering past the pillars and down the stone lanes, looking for the Handlers. They had agreed that four Handlers would come, corresponding to the four Protagonists, each jobber company accompanying one of the two erstwhile partners. “They’re no different from us. When you are dead, you’ll exist in song, just as your dead fathers do now. And you won’t be terrifying anyone.”
“Not everyone sings songs about their dead,” Fix pointed out.
“But there will be songs for me,” Joose said. “With my fabulous wealth, I shall endow a college of bards.”
“Eh?” Indrajit snapped his attention around to the client. “I didn’t know you were a patron of poetry. Have you ever heard the Blaatshi Epic?”
“Don’t humor him,” Fix warned the client. Fix had already examined every corner of the courtyard in which they stood, but he continued to pace around the periphery, re-checking the shadowed crannies.
“I don’t want to hear your epic.” Joose spat on the weedy ground. “I will leave merchantry behind and become a man of esteem. As such, I will pay bards to sing about me for a century. Beyond that, I have no interest in poetry.”
“Maybe you’d be better off building a necropolis instead.” Fix pointed at a row of carved glyphs on the face of a nearby building. “You could write your noble deeds in stone, and they would be remembered for much longer than a century.”
“Oh, yes?” Joose’s thick black tongue poked at the corner of his mouth, and he nodded at the carved words. “And what deeds did that person do, then?”
Fix examined the characters. “I can’t read it,” he admitted. “It looks a little like bannerscript, but I think it might be a dead language.”
“I’ll stick to my bard plan, thanks.”
“You know,” Indrajit said, “you could be captured in a verse in the Epic.”
“I can’t wait any longer.” Philastes Larch gripped a fluted column at the edge of the courtyard with both hands and started climbing up toward the roof above.
“I don’t want a verse,” Joose said. “I want a college of bards, obligated by legal deed, to sing fawning songs about me until I have moldered into a pile of dust.”
“It’s good to have goals,” Fix said.
Philastes hoisted himself onto the rooftop, becoming a dark silhouette against the night’s bright stars. The lights of Kish were far enough away not to obscure the celestial vault.
“Munahim?” Fix called into the darkness.
“Nothing yet,” the Kyone called back.
“Speaking of goals,” Indrajit said. “I guess I can infer now that we’re here to help you recover something from a tomb?”
“You’re here to keep Tholune’s jobbers in check,” Joose said.
“The Handlers,” Indrajit said. “Yes.”
“And for manual labor.”
“That’s why we brought Munahim and Philastes.” Indrajit pointed at the wrapped bundle at his feet. “And the shovels and prybars.”
“But you’re not here to ask questions,” Joose said.
“Ah.” Indrajit gripped the hilt of his leaf-bladed sword Vacho and bit his tongue.
“I see movement,” Philastes said. “Four . . . five men.”
At the same time, from a different elevated perch in the darkness, Munahim whistled and then tapped five times on stone. The Kyone had not only the head of a dog, but a dog’s keen sense of smell and hearing.
“Get down here,” Fix urged Philastes. “We don’t want anyone to think we’re setting an ambush.”
“But maybe we should have set an ambush,” Joose whimpered.
“You might be willing to deal with your partner on those terms,” Fix said, “but we can’t do that to other jobber companies.”
“Word would get around?” Joose asked. “Other companies would stop working with you?”
“More likely, the Handlers would find us in a dark alley and kill us to get even,” Indrajit suggested. “There are only four of us, but Gannon has a couple dozen men.”
“How do you know the Handlers haven’t set up an ambush, then?” Joose pressed. “If they killed all four of you, there’d be no one to avenge you.”
“There would be the Lord Chamberlain,” Fix said. “And Grit Wopal.”
“The spymaster?” Joose asked.
“The same,” Fix said. “We’re not without allies.”
“Munahim would warn us in any case,” Indrajit said, wishing he felt quite as confident as he sounded. “Having the Kyone turns out to be pretty useful.”
Joose harrumphed.
Philastes slid back down the pillar as Munahim padded toward them. “They have a Gund,” the Kyone warned them.
“When did the Handlers get a Gund?” Indrajit asked. “They used to be just a bunch of Zalaptings and that Luzzazza.”
“The Luzzazza whose arm you ripped off?” Fix asked.
“I like the way your description makes me sound mighty,” Indrajit said, “but that isn’t quite how it happened. Also, I don’t know that we’re reconciled, but he has chosen not to kill me on at least one occasion.”
“Perhaps they got a Gund to replace the Grokonk we killed.” Fix’s voice was mild and soft, a little higher-pitched than the man’s barrel chest would suggest. In the darkness, Indrajit almost imagined Fix as a woman.
“We’re at peace with the Handlers,” Indrajit said firmly.
“Yes,” Fix agreed. “And they sent a very large fighter to meet us.”
Indrajit heard the Gund’s footsteps, shuffling and heavy, before he heard the other Handlers. Then he detected the rasp of someone who moved by dragging himself—Joose made the same noise when he moved. Finally, he discerned footfalls.
“Time for a little light,” Fix suggested.
Philastes lit the first of the torches and held it high. He was the designated torch bearer because, though he was formidable with his sling, he was the least deadly of the Protagonists in hand-to hand-combat.
A second torch ignited at the same time, and in the overlapping puddles of light, the four Handlers and their client were revealed. The white-skinned, scab-eyed Gund, with its nest of wiggling insectoid limbs sprouting from high in its back, loomed over the others like a tower. Hugging close to the Gund’s thigh was a hunched, four-armed man who might have been Joose’s mirror image, except that his cassock was red.
“Tholune,” Joose said.
“Joose,” came the hissed answer.
Arrayed around Tholune in a protective formation stood three men. One was a red-haired, pale-faced Karthing Indrajit recognized. He wore two long blades at his belt and was wrapped in gleaming leathers; Indrajit had tangled with the man before and very nearly lost his life to the Karthing’s impeccable swordsmanship. The other two men were Yuchaks, with horn bows in their hands and scimitars at their belts. One of the Yuchaks held the second torch. All four Handlers wore gray tunics with a circular glyph painted on it.
“Good,” the Karthing said. “Five and five.”
Indrajit nodded. “Now, which of you battling partners has the first map?”
“Terms first,” Joose said. “Half each.”
“Each man pays for his own jobbers,” Tholune shot back.
“The jobbers serve our collective interests,” Joose countered. “We pay the jobbers out of the whole, and then split the remainder.”
“Why should I suffer if you overpaid your muscle?” Tholune sneered.
“Why should I suffer if you bought cheap and incompetent help?”
“What are you hiding? Have you hired another dozen thugs, hidden somewhere in the ruins? And you wish me to pay for them?”
“If I planned to kill you, I wouldn’t worry about paying for the jobbers, would I?” Joose snorted.
“Frozen hells,” Indrajit said. “You’re not partners, you’re brothers.”
“Gah!” Joose spat.
“This is pointless.” The Karthing spoke without moving a single unnecessary muscle. “Tholune hired us, Tholune will pay us.”
“You think you can dictate terms to me?” Joose shrieked.
The Karthing’s two swords leaped into his hands. “I am a Sword Brother, fully belted and raised to the highest degree. I think I can dictate terms to everyone here.”
The Gund groaned, a deep rumble that ended in a squeal.
A moment of silence passed.
“We don’t need to test that proposition,” Fix said. “The brothers split the money. Then Tholune pays you, Joose pays us.”
Joose’s triangular muzzle ground in a slow circle and finally he grunted. “I’ll pay the Protagonists.”
The Karthing put away his swords.
“I’m Indrajit,” Indrajit said. “Fix, you probably remember. The Kyone is Munahim and that’s Philastes with the torch.”
“I know,” the Karthing said. “Joose, your map is first.”
“I like this peace we’re enjoying,” Fix said.
“Sarcasm is beneath you,” Indrajit told him. “Sarcasm is for children and idiots.”
Joose twisted open the horn cylinder and shook out a rolled length of parchment. “Pelthite,” he said to Philastes, “raise your torch and stay by my side.”
Then two of Joose’s arms withdrew into his cassock and he began to drag himself forward. Indrajit wasn’t sure what race of man the quarreling brothers represented. He also wasn’t sure whether they had legs. To judge from the motion they made as they moved, and the accompanying noise, they might be dragging their bodies on the ground.
Indrajit picked up the bundle of tools. Then he smiled and stepped brightly to the Sword Brother’s side. “Shall we?”
“Munahim,” Fix said. “Watch the rear.”
“Join him,” the Karthing said to his Yuchak archers. “Watch him carefully, but don’t fall far behind. And listen for Ghouls.”
One torch moved ahead and the second drifted back, leaving the center of the combined party in shadow. Fix fell in beside Indrajit and they moved forward. Their pace was steady but slow, matching Joose’s progress. Indrajit kept his hand on Vacho’s hilt; the Karthing was right that the necropolis was infested with Ghouls. On the other hand, he didn’t want to raise tensions with the Handlers any higher by actually drawing the weapon. Joose and Philastes crossed a crumbling stone amphitheater and heading down a narrow stone alley whose left-hand wall seemed about to collapse on them.
“So, ‘fully belted and raised to the highest degree’ sounds important,” Indrajit said.
“No one is important,” the Karthing replied without turning his head. “Only the art matters.”
“Okay. But I mean, you must have studied and trained for many years.”
“And fought,” the Karthing said. “The art is not an abstract art.”
“Only the art matters,” Indrajit said, “but then you’re working as one of Gannon’s Handlers."
“You are a poet,” the Karthing answered slowly. “The four hundred twenty-seventh Recital Thane of the Blaatshi. The last of the line.”
Indrajit felt both embarrassed and proud at the fact that the Karthing knew this. He also felt vulnerable. Did all the Handlers know this about him? Were Gannon’s men following him and investigating him? Fix was right, there was obviously still hostility between the two jobber groups. Should Indrajit be worried? “I hope not to be the last.”
“You serve an art,” the Karthing continued. “And yet you also must earn your bread.”
“I see,” Indrajit said. “I apologize if it seems a foolish question. I just know less than I’d like about your order.”
The Karthing said nothing.
“Maybe you could give me a demonstration of your art,” Indrajit suggested.
“Only if someone needs to be killed.”
Indrajit had questions, but no answers seemed forthcoming, so he whistled softly and kept walking.
Joose and Philastes passed through a sagging arcade and then climbed a broad stair toward a raised avenue. The sides of the elevated road were pierced with ragged holes large enough to admit men and visible as yawning black maws in the torchlight. Indrajit heard faint chuckling and whispering sounds, and he thought they came from the openings.
“There are Ghouls near!” Munahim called, preempting Indrajit’s question.
“I’m going to draw my weapon,” Indrajit told the Karthing. “Because of the Ghouls.”
They all armed themselves. Fix took an ax into one hand and his falchion into the other; the Karthing drew both swords. Even the Gund armed itself with an immense, straight, one-edged sword. It looked like something a chef might use to dice vegetables, bloated to an immense size.
At the base of the stairs, the Gund bellowed and charged three steps toward the holes. Indrajit heard sudden shrieking and then silence.
They climbed the stairs. At the top, Philastes and Joose stood waiting.
“Maybe we should get a Gund,” Fix mused.
“They eat a lot,” the Karthing said.
“So you each have half a map,” Indrajit said to Tholune. “Did you fight over it and tear it in half or something?”
“Our father left us each a map in his will,” Tholune said. “He said they were maps to great treasure.”
“My condolences,” Indrajit said.
“My father died years ago,” Tholune told him. “Neither of us wanted to show the other his treasure map, so we only realized recently that the two maps were two halves of the same document.”
Fix chuckled.
“It’s not funny,” Tholune said. “Our businesses have suffered hard times. We could have used the treasure.”
“How did you realize the maps went together?” Indrajit asked.
“We ran into each other. I was entering the necropolis and Joose was leaving. We fought, and then we talked. His difficulty was that his map shows a clear starting point, but the route wanders off the edge of the map. My difficulty was that my map shows no clear starting point, but instead just the end of the journey, in a tangle of mausolea. So he followed his map to its end and then wandered, hoping blindly to run into the treasure our father promised, while I walked in circles, looking in vain for buildings and lanes whose configuration exactly matched my chart.”
“If only you had worked together from the start,” Fix said.
“If only he had told us!” Tholune hissed. “If we had known that working together would have quickly brought us to the treasure, then of course we would have shared information!”
“What is the treasure?” Indrajit asked.
Tholune waved two arms vaguely at the silhouettes of structures surrounding them. “Grave goods of some kind, no? Gold or jewelry.”
“Your lack of curiosity is notable, Sword Brother,” Fix said.
“If we find the treasure, I’ll get paid.”
“Was your father a tomb robber?” Indrajit asked. “A historian, maybe, at the Hall of Guesses?”
“He was a draper,” Tholune said. “I continue my father’s business of importing and selling fine wools.”
“As do I,” Joose said.
“Liar!” Tholune snapped.
“Your hatred of sheep is irrational,” Joose grumbled.
“Sheep’s wool is prickly!” Tholune groused. “It is a lesser fabric! It attacks its own wearer, and it smells bad! Who wants to be attacked by his own stinky cloak?”
“My many, many customers,” Joose shot back. “Do you know that I have contracts with three of Kish’s great houses to clothe their servants in winter?”
“Servants?” Tholune laughed. “Who else do you clothe? Criminals? Reprobates? Prisoners? Soldiers? I clothe the same houses’ princes and princesses, at considerably higher margins!”
“But no volume!” Joose snorted. “For every princess you wrap in an alpaca shawl, I dress a hundred men in good sheep’s wool! You would happily make one fine cloak for the Lord Stargazer and then die penniless in your pride, rather than stoop to make a tunic for an apprentice!”
“I’ll happily clothe any apprentice with taste!” Tholune was shrieking. “And I don’t want to hear you complain about my margins! My margins have declined every year because of the competition from your shoddy, stinky, scratchy goods!”
“You see?” Joose shrugged with four shoulders, sending a ripple through his cassock. “Might as well get into sheep’s wool.”
Tholune screamed and hurled himself forward, but both Indrajit and the Karthing blocked him with their bodies. The draper huffed and grunted, but eventually allowed himself to be pulled away.
Indrajit allowed a moment of silence, for everyone to catch his breath.
“Philastes,” he finally said, “please continue.”
“We’ve come to the edge of the map,” Philastes said. “We need the other map.”
“My brother is a brute and a man of no taste,” Tholune growled. “I’ll share nothing with him. We’re done here.”
Joose howled, but Fix grabbed his triangular muzzle and forced it shut.
“Okay,” Indrajit said, “I know that tempers are running high, but that’s breaking the deal. You’ve come through Joose’s map, and the deal is that now we follow your map. You don’t get to walk away now and come back later on your own, now that you know where your own map begins.”
“I certainly do get to,” Tholune said. “I have a Gund.”
“I see in hindsight,” Fix said, “we should have forced you two to switch maps at the beginning.”
“Not my fault you weren’t thinking more clearly.” Tholune chuckled, a dry and rasping sound.
“What you’re proposing would take us down a very awkward road,” Indrajit said. “You would take your map and go. We would stay here and wait. Find some nice hiding place, up off the ground, with good visibility and good protection. We’d hunker down on rooftops and the tops of tall columns. And when you came back, we’d ambush you. But that’s not really going to happen.”
“It isn’t?” Tholune sneered. “Why not?”
“For one thing,” Indrajit said, “we’re five and five.”
“We have a Gund!” Tholune reminded him.
The Gund groaned.
“True,” Indrajit said. “The Handlers once had a Grokonk, too. A big female, really ferocious. Have you asked your jobbers what happened to their Grokonk?”
The Karthing’s face was expressionless. Indrajit had terrible images of the Sword Brother’s two weapons slicing Indrajit in half.
“They had a Luzzazza, too,” Fix said. “You know, the big four-armed fellows?”
“Luzzazza have two arms,” Tholune said. “And they use their mental powers to levitate objects in their immediate vicinity. Everyone knows that.”
“Four arms,” Fix said again, “two of which are very difficult to see because they change color, like the skin of a chameleon. Except the Handler’s Luzzazza has three.”
“I don’t think he’s forgiven you yet,” the Karthing said quietly, “whatever he’s told you.”
“So don’t count on your Gund giving you an easy victory,” Indrajit said. “But there’s a better reason why you’re going to keep the deal.”
“What’s that?” Tholune’s voice held a quavering note of uncertainty.
“Because the Handlers are going to keep the deal,” Indrajit said. “Because if they want to keep working in Kish, they have to have the reputation of helping their clients get results. But if they get the reputation of being dishonorable or deal-breakers, no one will hire them. They’ll be done, overnight. Force to make a living as criminals.”
Indrajit really hoped that what he was saying was true.
More to the point, he really hoped that the Karthing believed it. For all his talk of earning his bread, the man was dedicated to an art. He had to have some notion of integrity.
“Gah.” Tholune spat. With hesitant, jerking motions, he produced a leather wallet, extracting from it a map.
Philastes held out a hand, offering to read the map, but Tholune ignored him. Rotating the scrap of parchment first one direction and then the other and peering about himself in all directions, he finally became pleased with what he saw and lurched toward a descending ramp. Joose and Philastes followed close behind.
The rest of the jobbers followed.
“How much treasure do you think there is?” Indrajit asked.
“Hopefully enough to pay us and you,” the Karthing said. “I’d hate to have to fight you for it.”
“If there’s that little,” Indrajit suggested, “we can just split it.”
“Why should I split it with you?” the Karthing asked. “Our fee is undoubtedly higher. We are jobbers of renown.”
“There’s a mathematical way to do this,” Fix said. “We add up our agreed fees to determine proportions. Then we each take a pro rata share of whatever treasure we found.”
“That’s one way to do math,” the Karthing said. “Another way to do math is that the Handlers get paid in full. If there’s anything left, you can get paid out of that.”
“What happened to Tholune pays you, Joose pays us?” Indrajit asked.
“If the treasure is large enough,” the Karthing said, “that’s how it will work. But if it’s small enough that only one party can get paid . . . that party will be us.”
“I’m sure there’s lots of treasure.” Indrajit grinned.
The ramp led into a plaza. From the plaza, Philastes and the two clients led on through a series of arches and up a short staircase, and then into a rectangular field with a sunken cistern at one end, dark with gurgling mud, and a column at the other. The clients stopped between the pool and the pillar and argued in low voices until the jobbers caught up.
“It’s not in the mud!” Tholune snapped.
“My jobbers can swim.” Joose laughed. “Did you see the one with the fish head? They’ll have it out for me in no time. Maybe you’d like to renegotiate shares now?”
“Not this again,” Fix said.
“What does the map show?” the Karthing asked.
Indrajit scanned the breadth of the field. “I know what it shows. It shows the same symbol on Tholune’s map, ending the search, as it showed on Joose’s map, starting it.”
Fix furrowed his brow. “Did you look at the maps?”
The two brothers conferred under Philastes’s sputtering torch.
“Why would you think that?” the Karthing asked.
Indrajit pointed. The pillar standing opposite the cistern was the same size and height as the pillar by which they’d started the journey. And at its top stood a double-headed eagle.
“Oh,” Fix said.
“Ghouls!” Munahim roared.
Immediately afterward, Indrajit heard the twanging of bowstrings. The torch that had been carried by one of the Yuchaks bringing up the rear with Munahim snuffed out.
“Fix!” Indrajit yelled. “Philastes! Protect the clients!”
“Protagonists!” Fix cried.
Indrajit dropped the bundle of tools and charged into the darkness, sword in hand. He raced toward where he’d last seen the light and he carried the blade high overhead, wary that if he ran into Munahim without seeing him, he might impale his colleague.
The Gund bellowed and rushed past. The big sexless jobber’s legs were longer than Indrajit’s and it charged recklessly. Indrajit accelerated his pace.
He heard wordless shrieks behind him. “Protagonists!” Fix yelled again.
Indrajit saw a crumbling mound to his left. Atop it, a tall shadow slashed left and then right and then left again with a long sword, emitting sounds like barks mingled in with grunts and curses. Lesser shadows surrounding him shrieked and collapsed, dissolving from misshapen, mult-limbed grotesqueness into formless puddles.
“Munahim!” he called. “I’m coming!”
He thundered up the slope. Eyes adjusting, he could make out two Ghouls on the Kyone. One had Munahim by the leg and tried to drag him to the ground. The other clung to Munahim’s arm, keeping his sword from getting into play. Beneath the Protagonist’s feet and in heaps all about him lay the flesh of dead Ghouls, bone-white under the light of moon and stars.
Indrajit didn’t yell a battle cry. Instead, he slammed into the first Ghoul with his knees, knocking it free and sending it rolling across a rubble-strewn depression.
The Gund roared, a sound like a shriek and a hiss. Indrajit heard other screams as well. Ghouls’ voices? Yuchaks’?
Indrajit stepped on a stone that betrayed him, sliding away and stealing his footing. The Ghoul he’d knocked down rose to its feet and sprang. Only then did Indrajit see that the monster had two heads on long necks, each head terminating in a long, toothy muzzle. Indrajit lunged forward to catch himself on one knee and braced Vacho against his own chest, sharp tip forward.
The Ghoul impaled itself like a roasted chestnut on a toothpick. Both mouths hissed and spat blood, and both heads lurched forward, jaws snapping to bite at Indrajit. Indrajit smelled the reek of carrion on the Ghoul’s breath. Holding Vacho’s hilt firm in his left hand, he grabbed one of the Ghoul’s heads by lank, greasy hair and smashed it repeatedly into the other head, temple to temple, until both mouths fell silent.
He kicked the shuddering corpse from his blade and whirled to help Munahim.
The Kyone brought his own sword down with two hands, slicing his Ghoul opponent completely in two.
The Gund roared again, and the roar ended in a strangled, choking sound.
“Protagonists!” Indrajit charged toward the sound.
He stumbled and almost fell. Below the rubble-strewn hillock, multiple bodies lay strewn about and tangled together. At their center, he saw a bone-white mass that was too big to be a Ghoul, and must be the Gund. He lurched toward it and sent a Ghoul with blood dripping from its jaws racing away into the night.
“Munahim!” Indrajit yelled. He backed in a circle, looking for more Ghouls.
“One moment!” the Kyone called. “I’m lighting the torch.”
A few seconds later, the torch took fire, and Indrajit surveyed the battlefield. The two Yuchaks and the Gund all lay dead. One of the Yuchaks was missing all four limbs and the other had a deep hole excavated in his chest. The Gund’s throat was torn out.
“Didn’t you smell them coming?” Indrajit asked. “Or hear them?”
“Both,” Munahim said. “I warned the Yuchaks, but then it was too late and the Ghouls were upon us.”
They hurried to rejoin the others, who stood at the base of the column, surrounded by their own heaps of dead Ghouls. Fix and Philastes both bled from wounds, but the others looked unharmed.
Indrajit reported the deaths of the other Handlers.
“Ha ha!” Joose cackled. “This rather changes the calculus!”
Indrajit resisted the urge to drag his client to the cistern’s edge and throw him in.
“Respect the three men who just died to protect you,” Fix said softly.
“They died to protect Tholune,” Joose said. “Which they did. They did their job well. And Tholune should definitely pay them. Or pay Gannon, or pay their families. But he can pay with the proceeds of alpaca wool, because I don’t see the need to share the treasure with him at all. We are five on two now.”
The Karthing stood with his back to the column, a sword still in each hand.
Indrajit sheathed Vacho. “No. This changes nothing.”
“But,” Joose sputtered. “But.”
“Do we dig?” Fix asked.
“Whatever we do,” Indrajit said, “Munahim and Philastes, keep a look out. There are still Ghouls out there.”
“If we must dig,” the Karthing said, “we may be digging for days. Where in this field should we dig? Halfway between the pillar and the cistern? At the base of the pillar? On which side?”
Indrajit looked up at the column, looming above him. “I don’t think we dig at all.” Gripping the pillar with both hands, he started climbing.
Philastes might be a better climber than him. It occurred to Indrajit when he was halfway up the column that Philastes was smaller, so he had much less weight to drag up the stone. Also, if Philastes fell on his comrades, he’d do less damage. On the other hand, Indrajit’s long arms and legs let him extend far along the surface of the pillar to find handholds and footholds. And he had plenty of experience climbing as a young man, hunting on the rocks and cliffs of his people’s home.
He dragged himself onto the top of the column. His muscles ached and he was panting from exertion.
“Indrajit?” Fix called.
“Give me a minute.” Indrajit caught his breath and examined the space he found himself in. The top of the column was capacious—four or five men could have stood side by side. The two-headed eagle was huge, occupying the center. It was taller than Indrajit, and in the starlight, Indrajit could see that the sculptor had taken great pains with the statue. Every feather was crisp, the bird’s four eyes were distinct and proud, and its talons were curled in a fierce, half-open grip.
The talons clutched an object.
Indrajit knelt and worked at the object with his fingers. It was made of stiff, oily leather, and it was tied into the grip of the talons with leather straps that were thoroughly invisible from the ground. Eventually, he managed to undo the knots and loops that held the leather in place and pull away a large, water-proofed wallet.
Inside were tucked two sheets of paper. Even in the dim light, he could tell the sheets were crossed by many lines of script.
Indrajit sighed. Now was not the time to lament the descent of mankind’s thousand races into brute, insensible literacy. He shut the wallet again, tucked it into the pocket of his kilt, and then set about the harrowing return journey to the ground.
“I have the treasure,” he said when he alighted.
Fix, the Karthing, and the two brothers looked at him. Philastes and Munahim stood a few paces away in opposite directions, raising torches and peering into the night.
“It must be very small.” Joose’s voice was flat.
“Do you read?” Indrajit asked the Karthing.
“No.”
Indrajit handed Fix the wallet. “I don’t either, but he does. The treasure appears to be documents.”
Tholune and Joose both snatched for the wallet, but Fix grabbed it and held it over their heads. Short as he was, the clients were shorter. He turned his back toward Munahim’s torch to get light on the paper, and then scanned both sheets.
“There’s a letter from your father,” he said. “It congratulates you on working together.”
Joose harrumphed.
“Some treasure,” Tholune grumbled.
“There’s also a letter from a bank,” Fix continued. “It says the bank has five hundred Imperials in an account, but that the account requires both of you to appear together to make a withdrawal.”
Joose gasped. “Five hundred Imperials? I could invest in a new mill!”
“I could pay off my debts!” Tholune added. “Both of us must go, are you sure?”
“All of us,” Fix said. “We will all of us go to the bank together tomorrow. Just to be certain, we will stay together until then, and I will hold the documents.”
“Kill them!” Tholune screeched at the Karthing. “You said you could defeat everyone, do it! Grab the papers and I’ll double your fee!”
“Shut up,” the Sword Brother said.
“We’ll also take out an appropriate amount for the funeral expenses of the three dead Handlers,” Indrajit said.
“The Ghouls will finish their bodies before we can bury them.” Was there a hint of grief in the Karthing’s voice?
“A memorial, then,” Fix said. “A wake. Did they have children? The Yuchaks, I mean?”
The Gund was sexless. Which was true of every Gund Indrajit had ever heard of. Which made him wonder where Gunds came from.
“Only the harlots of Kish know the answer to that,” the Karthing said. “A good memorial is more than any of them expected. A wake, and we’ll invite the Protagonists.”
“I don’t like this deal,” Joose muttered.
“I don’t either!” Tholune snapped.
“You’re not supposed to like it,” Fix said. “But I think your father would.”
“Our father?” Joose growled.
“Consider it a warning,” Indrajit suggested. “A lesson to those who survive.”

D.J. Butler is the author of the Witchy War series, the Cunning Man series (with Aaron Michael Ritchey), Abbott in Darkness, and many other novels and stories. “A Lesson to Those Who Survive” takes place in his Indrajit & Fix series, which includes In The Palace of Shadow and Joy and Between Princesses & Other Jobs.

Requiem - An Honor Harrington Story
by David Carrico

Grayson
1907 PD
A sense of impending trouble popped into Timothy Hanks' mind when he realized that his little sister wasn't in sight. He quickly disengaged from the conversation he was eavesdropping on and looked around for Elizabeth. From his august age of ten, looking after his just-turned-three-years-old sister was a bit of a pain at any time, but to have to do it tonight was not fair at all, given how many interesting people were in the room. He looked first to his mother, but Rebecca Hanks was in close conversation with Second Elder Jeremiah Sullivan and a couple of other churchmen. No sign of Elizabeth there.
Next, knowing his sister's sweet tooth, Timothy looked toward the buffet table, fully expecting to see her standing on her tip-toes trying to reach a platter. Not there either.
Now Timothy was starting to feel a bit worried, because if Elizabeth wasn't near him, Mama, or the cookies, who knew where she could have gone? He couldn't just call out for her, but if he didn't find her soon, Mama was going to have Words with him when the night was over. Timothy eased away from the groups by the bier and started slipping through the crowd, looking for that little purple dress, listening for the sound of hard-soled little shoes on the chapel's polished stone floor.
A few minutes later, worry was now standing on the threshold of alarm. Where could Elizabeth be? He'd even looked under the tables. Then he looked toward the side door of the chapel, and his heart almost stopped.
***
Admiral Honor Harrington walked down the hall toward the chapel, under the watchful eye of Andrew LaFollet and Jamie McCandless. Her staff, ably supported by James McGuinness, Nimitz, and Terrible's surgeon, had forced her to rest after the battle already being called Fourth Yeltsin by the simple expedient of turning off her alarms and not waking her for anything less than a communication from Protector Benjamin. As a result, she now, four days later, was merely sore and tired, as opposed to the state of utter and complete exhaustion she had been in when she left Terrible's flag bridge after the battle. She had recouped enough that McGuinness had promised to turn her alarm back on that night. Honor begrudged the time she felt she had lost, but there was no denying she was more alert, and while she wasn't racing along yet, she wasn't exactly dragging, either.
Physically, that is. But the recent events still weighed upon her: the collapse of the Mueller Middle School dome with the attendant deaths of fifty-two workmen and teachers and thirty—thirty—visiting children; the resulting outcry against her; the discovery that the collapse was sabotage; the assassination attempt that downed her pinnace and resulted in ninety-six more deaths, including that of Reverend Julius Hanks, First Elder of Grayson's Church of Humanity Unchained; the discovery that it was Steadholder Burdette who had engineered all of the death and destruction; the duel she had fought with William Fitzclarence, Steadholder Burdette, in which—in her role of Protector's Champion—she had executed the steadholder; all of which had been capped off by the battle just completed in defense of the planet Grayson where the forces she had commanded had destroyed or driven off significant forces of Peep battleships, at a not insignificant cost to her squadrons in both ships and personnel.
Personnel, Honor thought. Such an impersonal word, so neutral, so . . . bland a word to mask the fact that the numbers represented real people who were dead, many of them destroyed so thoroughly there were no bodies to be recovered to provide closure to their families. She was sick to death of the body count of people who had followed her leadership into the fires of battle.
That got a bleek from Nimitz where he sat on her right shoulder, and a feeling both of warmth and of scolding. The treecat supported Honor in her grief, but at the same time wasn't disposed to let her wallow in guilt that wasn't deserved. When evil was determined to strike, people were going to die. All Honor had done was see to it that the deaths were meted mostly to the Peeps and to a lesser extent those determined to defend the helpless. To Nimitz, that was something to view with satisfaction, not riddle oneself with guilt over. Honor understood her furry companion's viewpoint; she just hadn't been able to fully accept it yet. But he'd keep on her about it, she knew. She raised a hand, and felt him press a true-hand palm against hers.
"My Lady?"
The voice that spoke from Honor's right was not the voice she wanted to hear. It should have been her flag lieutenant, Jared Sutton. But Jared had been one of the ones that had not survived her pinnace being shot out of the sky, and there hadn't been time yet to replace him. So she was accompanied by Lieutenant Commander Abraham Jackson, her staff chaplain, and the one member of her staff who was not just absolutely swamped by the post-battle reports and cleanup and repairs. Yet one more pang, one more death that weighted her soul.
Honor realized her chaplain was probably responding to her hand movement, checking to see if it was some kind of signal. Rather than try to explain where her mind had been, she brought up a question she should have asked some time ago. "So what can I expect, Abraham?"
"To be honest, My Lady, I'm not totally certain," the chaplain said. "You know the official lying in state has occurred over the last several days."
Honor did know that. During the frantic post-battle scramble to recover and repair and re-station the surviving Grayson fleet units, she had caught glimpses of newsie views of the tens of thousands of Graysons who had filed past Reverend Hanks' bier every day where it lay in state in the capital's cathedral. She bitterly regretted that matters had remained too unresolved and chaotic in the system to allow her to participate in the state memorial for the slain religious leader of all Grayson when it had been held the previous evening. Today, though, for the first time in days, things were under control enough that Honor could take the time. Indeed, as Steadholder Harrington, she was obligated to observe this memorial, and her staff had almost bodily forced her on the pinnace when she had started talking about postponing the flight to deal with a ship issue.
"When it comes to family memorials and celebrations, different families, different steadings, will have different customs," Abraham continued. "But in most cases, there is a viewing where the body is presented and the family is available for receiving visitors and condolences."
"I can't see a party happening at the viewing of Reverend Hanks," Honor said with a small smile.
"Oh, no, My Lady. The Church wouldn't allow that. The main viewing was in the rotunda of the Protector's Cathedral. That's over and done with now. Today and tonight are for family and friends and notables such as yourself. There will be a buffet with some small food items, and much good drink. Many toasts and remembrances will have been lifted to the Reverend by now. There will probably be people sharing those remembrances with each other."
Honor nodded. "That I can relate to." She squared her shoulders. "And it's time to be about it."
Their progression was interrupted before they reached the chapel by the sight of a little girl marching determinedly down the hall. She was just as cute as most little girls are, dressed in a dark purple dress with plump olive-toned cheeks shining above a black lace collar and framed by curly dark hair.
"Let her by, Andrew," Honor said.
Her senior armsman apparently didn't think that a small child would be a threat, as he sidestepped her without even a glance back at his steadholder. Honor could see a slight smile on his face as his head turned a little to keep her in his vision as she moved by him.
The girl came to a stop before Honor. She tilted her head up and announced, "You're big." Honor smiled at that announcement. By Grayson standards, she was almost a giantess, so the girl was right from her perspective.
Shifting her gaze to the treecat, a big smile appeared on the face of the child. "Big kitty," she observed.
Nimitz bleeked again, this time one of the sounds Honor recognized as a treecat laugh. The sense of laughter that came to her just reinforced the feeling.
Honor didn't have much warning when the treecat decided to dismount from her shoulder. She felt his weight shift as he turned, then a slight push-off as he dropped behind her.
The girl's smile got even wider as the treecat stepped around Honor's legs. Nimitz stopped and settled his hindquarters, then raised his body up vertically so that he was looking the girl in the eye.
"Big kitty," she said with a gurgled laugh, "pretty kitty."
She reached out a hand to touch Nimitz, and he intercepted it with one of his true-hands. She giggled at that, patting at his hand.
Honor crouched to bring herself down closer to the child's level. "What's your name, sweetheart?" Her experience with her many younger cousins of various degrees was proving surprisingly useful on Grayson.
"Elizabeth." The girl pronounced it carefully, making sure she got the 'th' sound right.
"That's a pretty name," Honor said with a smile. "I know someone else named Elizabeth." She didn't think the Queen of Manticore would mind being compared to the child.
The girl switched her attention back to Nimitz. "Pretty kitty."
Honor stood and held her arms out. Nimitz leapt up into them, then swarmed up to resume his regular position on her right shoulder. Honor held her hand out to the girl. "Let's go this way, Elizabeth."
"Okay." Elizabeth reached up and took Honor's hand, and toddled alongside her as they resumed progress toward the chapel.
***
The sight of his sister coming back in the side door of the chapel hand in hand with a tall officer in Grayson naval uniform caused Timothy to almost panic for a different reason. He threw a horrified glance at his mother. Seeing that she was still occupied with her conversation with Second Elder Sullivan and actually had her back mostly to the door, he started moving. He didn't exactly run to where Elizabeth was. He didn't even hurry—much—but he also wasted no time in moving to where the officer had stopped just inside the door to view the chapel as everyone in the group passed their uniform caps to the attendant at the door.
Just before Timothy arrived, the officer turned and he saw the animal on his—her, he realized—shoulder. Now he really wasn't sure what to do, because there was only one person in the whole Yeltsin system that officer could be, and that person frightened him a bit. Or maybe more than a bit.
Timothy scowled at his little sister. "Elizabeth . . ."
"Big kitty! Pretty kitty!" She interrupted him before he could even begin his scold, pointing up to the treecat. His gaze followed her finger to the treecat—which was just the neatest thing he'd ever seen—but then to the face of Steadholder Harrington, wearing a smile.
"I'm sorry . . ." was all he could get out at that moment.
"I take it she's yours?" The steadholder's voice was low pitched and very warm.
"My sister," Timothy muttered.
"And you are?"
"Timothy Hanks, St-Steadholder . . . I mean Admiral! I mean . . ."
The steadholder's smile widened a bit. "It can be confusing, can't it? But I'm the same person either way, so it's okay." The smile slipped away. "Reverend Hanks was your . . ."
"My grandfather," Timothy replied. It was a question he'd answered more than once over the last few days.
Timothy thought he saw the steadholder's eyes darken. "I'm . . . very sorry for your loss," she said quietly.
Timothy's response was interrupted before he started it. "Timothy! Elizabeth!" came in his mother's voice; the tone told him that she was not happy at the moment. He managed to not hunch his shoulders, but he couldn't suppress the flinch. He was very certain that Steadholder Harrington caught it.
***
Honor looked up to see a woman dressed in black approaching, accompanied by Second Elder Sullivan, the man who was most likely to succeed Julius Hanks as Reverend, titular head of the Church of Humanity Unchained. She was tall for a Grayson woman, which made her middle height by Manticoran standards; a pretty woman, even with her face marked with grief—red eyes with circles under them, deeply graven lines radiating from those eyes and the corners of her mouth—although she was dry-eyed at the moment. She was obviously part of the family, given Timothy's reaction to her voice. Honor waited as the other woman stepped up beside Timothy and laid her hand on his shoulder.
Elder Sullivan stepped into the gap. "Steadholder Harrington, please allow me to introduce Rebecca Hanks, daughter-in-law to Reverend Hanks. Madam Hanks, Steadholder Harrington."
"Please, call me Honor, both of you." Honor held out her hand first to the churchman, who showed little hesitation in taking it for a momentary shake. She then held it out to Rebecca, who took it after a moment but gave her a firm clasp when she did.
"If you will call me Rebecca," came the reply from the woman. "And I beg your pardon for my children impeding your way." That last was accompanied by a stern look at Timothy and Elizabeth. He weathered it as if he had experience at it, according to Honor's judgment.
Elizabeth, however, was irrepressible. "Look Mommy, big kitty. Big!" She literally bounced as she pointed up to where Nimitz was sitting on Honor's shoulder. Honor could almost taste the humor that was rolling from Nimitz.
"Elizabeth met us in the hallway," Honor said, "and conducted us here to the chapel. And Timothy greeted us moments after we arrived. Very nicely mannered, both of them." She bestowed a smile on the kids. Elizabeth smiled back, but Timothy was apparently a bit embarrassed, as he flushed slightly. But then, Honor remembered being that age, and that judgments by strangers weren't exactly welcome. Come to think of it, she wasn't too sure they'd be welcome now. Nimitz bleeked at that.
"I thank you for allowing me to intrude on the private visitation tonight," Honor said. "I truly wanted to pay my last respects in person for a number of reasons, most of which I'm sure you can guess. But after the events of the last several days, I just couldn't get here any earlier."
"It was no bother," Rebecca said. "Having this late gathering actually gave many of Papa Julius' old friends in the ministry an extra opportunity to gather together and remember him."
"Indeed it did," Elder Sullivan said. "Most of us here tonight worked with him or for him in the church. This is a time of quiet celebration for us, albeit we grieve at his removal from our lives in the moment." He looked around for a moment. "A very good idea, this. A time for brothers in the clergy to come together. I believe we shall recommend it to the Sacristy as a whole whenever any clergyman passes."
A moment of silence passed, then Rebecca held out her hand. "Come along, Elizabeth. We must allow Honor her time with your grandfather."
"No." The girl's tone wasn't exactly defiant, Honor judged, but she apparently had her mind set. "Go with."
"It's all right, Rebecca." It actually was, Honor discovered. "If you don't mind, she can stay with me. So can Timothy, for that matter."
Rebecca looked unsure for a moment, then said with a bit of a smile, "All right, but send them back to me when they start wearing on you." She turned, and headed back toward her guests.
Honor looked at the two younger Hanks members. "Shall we?" She nodded her head toward the bier.
They arrived alongside. Elizabeth raised her arms up. "Make me big like you." Honor lifted the girl to sit on her right arm, balancing Nimitz on her left shoulder. "My Papaw," Elizabeth said, pointing at the recumbent figure of Reverend Julius Hanks.
"Your Papaw was a very good man," Honor said. She could feel her own grief rising, but tried to suppress it.
Timothy put his hands on the edge of the bier, saying nothing. "Do you miss your grandfather?" Honor asked.
"Yes," Timothy replied, still just looking at Reverend Hanks. "But that's not him." He looked up at Honor. "He's with the Tester, the Intercessor, and the Comforter. This is just what got left behind. He called it his Grayson suit—he'd make jokes about how old and wrinkled it was getting, and how he was ready to trade it in for a new one." Timothy smiled a bit. "Guess he's wearing the new one now."
Honor took a deep breath, then said, "I'd guess so."
She saw Elder Sullivan step up on the other side of Timothy. "Timothy, Elizabeth, you need to allow Steadholder Harrington some time alone with your grandfather. Come away, now."
This time Elizabeth didn't protest when she was set back on the floor. She took her brother's hand and they walked toward their mother.
Honor looked to the elder and said a simple, "Thank you."
"If anyone deserves a time alone here, it's you," Elder Sullivan said quietly. "I'll stand behind you and ensure you have as much time and privacy as you need." And he suited action to words, moving back several steps to stand behind her and her armsmen. At the same moment, Lieutenant Commander Jackson also moved back to stand with the elder.
Honor felt both Andrew and Jamie move in a bit as she placed her hands on the edge of the bier. Her gaze focused on the face of the Reverend. It was still, of course; how could it be otherwise, since his spirit was no longer in the body that wore the face? But by some factor, whether mortician's art or the nature of his own physical being, there was a hint of a smile on that face, one that Honor was sure was echoed in his spirit wherever it was.
Tears clouded Honor's vision, both the natural eye and the artificial one. Her throat ached to say something—anything—but what could she say that would have any meaning? Reverend Hanks was gone, killed in helping stave off the most recent assassination attempt on her, one of the ninety-six men and women who died as a result of the successful attempt to shoot down her pinnace as it approached Harrington Spaceport. It had come all too close to being a successful assassination as well, and it was only Reverend Hanks' desperate effort to shield Honor with his own body that had preserved her life. That had cost the Reverend his own life, and had left Honor with the grieving and grievous burden of knowing that his sacrifice was all that had saved her.
She had been so busy, so frantic, during the last few days; then so wounded, so hurting, so driven to and past the limits of exhaustion and endurance . . . she had thought that she had adjusted to his loss. But now, in the warm illumination of the presence light hanging above the bier, Honor realized that she had only deferred her grief. Now it crashed into her, broke through her shields, and laid bare her soul in all its pain and bruising and bleeding and stark bitterness that she still lived and Reverend Hanks did not.
Tears trickled down her cheeks in very slow motion as she grieved for this good man—no, this great man—who was a man of love and charity, who was a man of grace and compassion, but who was also a man of wisdom and firmness who had at times sheltered her and at times had stood beside her and who had always counseled her. Nimitz pressed close to her, echoing her grief.
For just a moment, Honor absolutely resonated with the Grayson Church of Humanity Unchained's doctrine about the Test. For certainly, Reverend Hanks had been tested to the utmost, and just as certainly she and Grayson were being almost as severely tested as a result.
Finally the tears slowed and stopped. Finally Honor drew back from the precipice of her grief. She reached up and detached one of her collar insignia, the circle of four six-pointed stars, and laid it on the breast of the Reverend's body. What did Timothy say his grandfather had called it? His 'Grayson suit,' that was it. Honor's mouth quirked at that. She could just hear the Reverend's resonant voice delivering that with a smile. She left her hand on the breast for a moment.
"It isn't right," Honor said very quietly, "not at all. I should be lying there, not you. And you can tell God I said so. But since you've gone on and I'm left behind, take my love with you until I can one day catch up with you. And if you see Paul, give him my love, too."
She patted the old man's breast one last time, then straightened, wiped her eyes and cheeks, squared her shoulders, and turned away from the empty shell of one of the most important people of her life.
"Tell me, Elder," Honor said without polite courtesies or circumlocutions as she approached Elder Sullivan, "how do I justify my being alive at the expense of his life?" She jerked her head over her shoulder toward the bier. "I'm not worthy of that sacrifice."
Elder Sullivan tilted his bald head to one side just a bit, but spoke mildly, "You already have justified it, My Lady." Honor looked at him from under lowered brows. "Twice over, as a matter of fact. First, in executing the traitor William Fitzclarence. Second, in leading our Navy to victory yet again last week. Without you to stop them, either of those would have caused much more death and destruction. In the long run, the first perhaps more than the second."
"Someone else would have . . ." Honor began to retort.
"No, Steadholder, no one else could have done what you did—certainly not at the moment, and maybe not ever. But," the elder emphasized that word, "setting those aside, I've never known anyone more certain of his own mind than Reverend Julius Hanks. And if that very good, and very firm, and very resolute old man of God decided that you were worth the sacrifice of his last few years on Grayson, I wouldn't argue with him. On the other hand, it does perhaps leave you with a Test."
"Test?" Honor could hear the capital letter in Elder Sullivan's voice. She wasn't sure she wanted any more tests.
"The Test of living in such a way that you prove Reverend Hanks' judgment right. Otherwise, you leave his last act one of failure."
Honor expelled her breath. "You fight dirty, Elder Sullivan. If Reverend Hanks were still here, I'd report you."
Elder Sullivan smiled. "One of my failings, I fear. He did counsel me about it from time to time."
After a moment, the elder's smile faded, and he grew serious. "And speaking as the acting leader of the Church of Humanity Unchained, on my own behalf and on behalf of the entire Sacristy, I can assure you that there will be no changes in the policies or positions of the Church as a result of the things that have happened recently. What Reverend Hanks chose to bless and support, we will continue."
That statement was not expected. It caught Honor off guard. She had had little contact with the Second Elder prior to this point, but her understanding from all of her steadholder briefings was that Sullivan was an innately more conservative man than Reverend Hanks, and not even Protector Benjamin knew what his path forward would be. But here and now he had revealed it to Honor, and a knot of tension loosened that she hadn't really been aware of.
"Thank you," she responded with a nod of her head. "That means a lot to me."
"It does to us as well," the elder said. "We will follow his leadership and wisdom,"—with a nod toward the bier—"for yet a while."
Honor nodded. After a moment, in an attempt to shake her somber mood, she said, "In all our time together, Reverend Hanks never said much about his family. I see his daughter-in-law and two grandchildren here tonight, which is more than I knew about before. Are there others?"
"No," the elder sighed. "He was the only child of an only son, and despite two wives had only one child of his own."
"A son, I take it."
"Yes. John Hanks. He was a chaplain aboard the Austin Grayson in that first battle."
Honor's shoulders twitched reflexively. So many people had died because she had taken most of her squadron elsewhere at a time when the fanatics of Masada, aided and abetted by the People's Republic of Haven, had inserted a couple of modern warships into the Yeltsin System. She had never known that the Reverend's son was one of them.
"He never said."
"He wouldn't, My Lady."
Honor had to accept the truth of that. "His wives?"
"Two of them: Eleanor and Rachel. Both very good choices for a pastor's wives. Warm, compassionate, supportive, and rather smart, both of them. He could never put anything over on either of them." Elder Sullivan chuckled at that. "Eleanor was the older of the two, and she passed on a couple of years ago. Her heart, that was. She went to sleep one night, and didn't wake up the next morning."
"And his second wife?"
"Rachel died in childbirth," the elder said, sadness on his face. "He never told me the cause."
"So Rebecca . . ." Honor turned to look at the Reverend's daughter-in-law, who was listening attentively to an older man in a clerical collar.
"Is presiding over the visitation as not only the senior wife of the family, but as the senior member of the family altogether. There are a few distant cousins, but there is no one else in the close family except her and the two children."
Honor shook her head for a moment. "Sad."
"Indeed."
Something triggered a thought in Honor's mind. "Austin Grayson at First Yeltsin . . ." She looked at Elizabeth, then back at the elder. "Just how old is Elizabeth?"
Elder Sullivan looked to the child where she was sitting next to her brother holding a cup of tea almost too large for her hands. A look of understanding crossed his face. "Ah, yes. It does look a bit odd, doesn't it? But John had been home for a few days leave right before the battle. In fact, strictly speaking he didn't have to respond to the emergency call-up that was broadcast as soon as it was known that the Masadans were in the system, but he did. Navy records indicate he was one of the very last to board the last shuttle that left the planet before the battle. None of Austin Grayson's crew survived, of course. Elizabeth was conceived literally only a night or two before her father's death."
"Is Rebecca the only wife?" Honor looked around, wondering for a moment if she had missed something.
"Yes." Elder Sullivan shook his head. "John had not chosen a second wife yet. According to Reverend Hanks, he felt he hadn't found a woman yet who wasn't more interested in being the daughter-in-law of the Reverend than she was in being married to John and Rebecca. And then it was too late."
"Poor Rebecca," Honor said, feeling a flood of sympathy for the other woman. She couldn't imagine what the woman must have felt like, first losing her husband, then discovering she was going to bear him another child.
"Indeed," Elder Sullivan said. "She and Reverend Hanks leaned on each other to a great extent during that time of testing."
"I can see that," Honor murmured, looking to where the other woman was still in conversation with the older cleric.
As Honor observed Rebecca smiling and conversing with several of those who were lingering at the visitation, several decisions came together for her. She looked around for Andrew LaFollet, only to discover that he and Jamie were standing at the bier. Honor forbore disturbing them. They undoubtedly had as much business with the deceased Reverend as she had had. They felt they owed a special debt, as the surviving armsmen from the pinnace crash, for the way in which the Reverend's self-sacrifice was all that had preserved Honor's life that tragic evening.
Besides, Rebecca was still occupied.
Fortuitously, just as it looked as if Rebecca would be ending her current conversation, Andrew appeared at Honor's side with the barest rustle of sound. She looked at him, and something caught her attention. "You're out of uniform, Andrew." There was a hint of a query in that statement.
"As much as you are, My Lady, and for the same reason," was her chief armsman's response. His face was sober, but there was a bit of a laugh to his tone.
"Ah. I see." Honor said nothing more about it, because at that moment Rebecca turned away from her recent conversation and took two steps toward Honor and Second Elder Sullivan.
"Steadholder . . . Admiral Harrington . . . Honor," Rebecca stuttered through the titles, "thank you for coming. Papa Julius was very fond of you, and had great hopes for you and your steading for the future of our people. I'm sure that where he is now he is still pleased that you have come tonight."
"Rebecca," Honor said after swallowing, "Reverend Hanks was a great man, and I, along with the entire planet of Grayson, grieve for your loss. I was just as fond of him as he was of me, and the knowledge of how and why he died burdens me even more. He did a service for me, and for Harrington Steading, that cannot be repaid. There is no balance I can provide that will fill the hole that has been ripped in your lives. But," she swallowed again, "I must recognize what was done, and make provision for the price that has been paid.
"To that end, first, since Reverend Hanks died in protecting me and preserving my life, just as one of my armsmen might have done, I find that you are entitled to the pension that would be awarded to the survivors of one of my personal armsmen who might have died in a similar fashion; and given the Reverend's rank, his inestimable value to me, and his importance to all of Grayson society, that pension will be the pension awarded to a colonel of the Harrington Steadholder's Guard. This is in addition to whatever provisions are being made for you by the Protector or the Church."
Rebecca Hanks was wide-eyed. Her mouth was open, but Honor held her hand up to forestall any response, because she wasn't done yet.
"Second, given the service performed by Reverend Hanks, Harrington Steading will award citizenship to you and your children. I know that you are residing elsewhere, and may have civic responsibilities there. I will not attempt to entice you to move to Harrington, but I will say that if you should ever desire to relocate for whatever reason, we would be happy to assist you in that.
"Third, Harrington Steading will underwrite the education of your children, when it comes time for them to advance.
"Fourth, yesterday, as Steadholder Harrington, I officially instituted Harrington Steading's first award for valor. Official announcements will be made soon, but you're the first to hear about it. It will be the Hanks Cross, which will be awarded solely to civilians who risk or lose their lives to preserve the lives and wellbeing of others, and Reverend Hanks will be its first and founding recipient. You will be presented with it in his name in a ceremony before long.
"Fifth," Honor pulled up her personal uni-link as she was speaking and keyed in a search, then merged several packets of data together, and swiped a finger through the Send portal, "I just provided you with the direct contact numbers for myself and Howard Clinkscales, who will continue to serve as Regent for Harrington Steading. If you need anything—anything at all—you call me if I am on-planet, otherwise you call Howard. Any time day or night, if you need anything, you call. All right?"
Rebecca seemed stunned. Even Second Elder Sullivan was showing signs of surprise. "M-My L-Lady . . . Honor," Rebecca finally stammered, "that . . . that is unnecessary. It's too much. Papa Julius would never have wanted this."
"I'm sure he wouldn't have," Honor said with a sad smile, "but since he's no longer with us, he can't quite object. And I will not let his family suffer any more than they already have."
Honor's smile broadened a little. "Really, you have no choice. The proper response is, 'Yes, Honor.' And if you don't let me do this for you, I will be unhappy. Does Rebecca want me to be unhappy, Andrew?"
"Ah," her armsman responded, "that would be 'No.' "
"So you see," Honor said, "you really want to just say, 'Yes, Honor.' "
Rebecca was still stunned. Honor was starting to enjoy herself. She shifted her attention to the elder.
"Second Elder Sullivan, I would assume that you have some influence with this person. Please counsel her that she really should accept what I am offering."
Honor bestowed an even larger smile on the elder, to which he responded in kind before he turned to Rebecca and said, "I suggest you give in, Rebecca. I have it on the best authority that no one has ever successfully out-stubborned Steadholder Harrington except the Reverend, and since he is gone, we mere mortals must bow to her will." He gave a slight nod of his head to that effect.
By now Rebecca had regained at least some of her composure. She had a bit of a smile on her face, and as the elder concluded his remarks, she sank in a deep curtsey.
"Let it be as the Steadholder has directed," Rebecca said very formally. She straightened, then surprised Honor with a giggle. "I've always wanted to say that."
"Good," Honor said. "I'm glad you saw reason." The mirth left her face and voice, and she continued in a very serious tone. "I meant that last part; about calling if you need anything."
"I know."
Honor tilted her head. "'I know' is not the same as 'I will.' "
"I will call if a need arises," Rebecca said as she finally gave in.
"Good." Honor held out her hand again, and this time it was clasped by Rebecca without hesitation, followed by Elder Sullivan. "Again, thank you for allowing me to attend at this time. I am honored by that, and by your allowing me to attend the family service tomorrow. My prayers are with you."
With that, Honor took her cap from the silent Jamie, who had retrieved it from the attendant. "And now, I am late for an appointment with the Protector. Good evening to you all. Andrew, Jamie, Abraham—let's move."
The cluster of uniforms, two in the blue naval uniform and two in the green of the Harrington Steadholder's Guard, coalesced and moved to and through the side door without further delay.
***
"That was well done, My Lady," Andrew said quietly after they gained the hallway.
"The provision for the family?"
"Mm-hmm."
"I meant every word of it, and it's not to be broadcast to the media," Honor said. "This stays known only to us and them for as long as possible. Clear?" Her voice in that moment was the steadholder's voice delivering instructions.
"Clear," sounded from three different voices.
After a moment, Lieutenant Commander Jackson said, "Your direction to institute a civilian medal named for the Reverend is also well done, My Lady. It should be very popular with your people, and it will serve as a fitting memorial."
"Oh, I really doubt that Reverend Hanks would much care for that, Abraham." Honor's voice carried a note of humor. "In fact, I can't think of anything he would have detested more than becoming an object of veneration." Her smile slipped away and her tone sobered. "No, the only worthy memorial to the Reverend is to complete the work he started here."
"As you say, My Lady." The commander's voice was just as serious.
***
Timothy Hanks stared at the door where the almost-larger-than-life steadholder had left the room. The space seemed to have shrunk a bit, he thought. "I like Steadholder Harrington," he announced.
"You should," Elder Sullivan responded. "She has saved Grayson several times now, and your grandfather saved her so that she can continue to defend us.
"And she is going to change the world," his mother said softly after picking a sleepy Elizabeth up.
Timothy considered that. "Is that good or bad, Mama?"
"Good."
"Mind you," Elder Sullivan added, "it may not be comfortable—change never is—and there are those who will resent it. But the changes have already started, and as long as she is alive and leading her steading, they will continue."
Most of the rest of their guests began to take their leave, as if the steadholder's leaving was a signal. Before long, it was only the family, Second Elder Sullivan, and the mortuary attendants. They began to straighten up and prepare for the family's memorial service the next morning.
"Madam Hanks," one of the attendants called from the bier. Timothy's mother moved that direction. Timothy and the elder followed. "Look. That wasn't there before."
Timothy stood on his tiptoes to make sure he could see. There were a couple of strange things on his grandfather's chest. His mother set Elizabeth down on a nearby chair, then picked them up.
"One of her admiral's insignia, and one of her armsman's badges," his mother said. "What . . . "
"A private memorial from her," Elder Sullivan said, "and one from her armsmen, recognizing one of their own."
"They didn't have to . . ."
Timothy thought his mother was about to cry, which alarmed him a bit. He wasn't sure he would know what to do if she cried.
"Knowing them, steadholder and armsmen alike," Elder Sullivan said, "should we have expected anything different?"
Timothy thought about that for some time, as his mother instructed the morgue attendants to keep the items displayed as they had been found, and then picked up the now sleeping Elizabeth. At length, he said, "I shall add Steadholder Harrington to my prayers."
"So should we all," his mother affirmed.
Elder Sullivan nodded his head. "Indeed."
Steadholder Harrington had come to say goodbye to his grandfather, Timothy thought. He would remember her.
David Carrico is the author of The Blood is the Life, a science fiction vampire story, and 1636: The Flight of the Nightingale. With Eric Flint, he is the coauthor of 1636: The Devil's Opera and The Span of Empire, which was nominated for the 2017 Dragon Award for Best Military SF or Fantasy novel.

The Hitchhiker on Souls’ Road
by A. A. Nour

Of all places, Sam did not expect to wake in the back of a fire-red, flat-bed pickup truck. Especially a moving one. Particularly an unfamiliar, moving one.
Sam shoved her boots against one side to stop from rolling. With a whimper and a healthy dose of adrenaline, she clambered to a crouch, hanging fast to one side. Dust whooshed into her face; she sputtered, falling backwards and rolling anyway. A blank, blue sky stretched above. When she managed to right herself again, she squinted before peering over. Sandy plains spread in all directions, freckled with tumbleweeds. No buildings, no signs, no nothing. Definitely not Boston.
Over the edge, a far fall and quick road blurred below. Surely she’d break her neck if she jumped.
Fighting a swell of panic, Sam wrangled with her bonds only to realize . . . well, she wasn’t tied up. She’d just assumed, being in the truck and all. That was something?
Sam swallowed. It’s fine, it’s fine, she told herself. Maybe she passed out and some Samaritan scooped her up to take her . . . to the middle of the desert.
Maybe she’s dreaming. Yes!
Another tumble drove her shoulder painfully into the front cabin. Oof, dreaming didn’t hurt this much.
Pressed against the cabin, Sam managed to scramble up toward the little slider window thingy. Cupping one hand against the glare, she found:
Some biker dude. Sorta? With long blond hair, a leather jacket, and wraparound shades, he sure looked the part. But he also appeared very . . . put together? Like he bathed regularly. And shaved. If Disney ever made a movie about a renegade with a heart of gold, they’d cast this guy.
Heart of gold? Sam crushed her forehead against the window. She was in a strange car with a strange dude who could one hundred percent crush her windpipe as easily as he blew his nose. And somehow—by looking at him—she got the vibe he just, didn't want to?
Sam turned her attention to her gut. Just like her bonds, her fear called in absent. Something else boiled beneath Sam’s ribs instead. She ground grit between her teeth as she clung to her ride, cheek pressed against the tiny window.
She was pissed.
It didn’t help that her mother had started up again, same as the past couple months. A barrage of phone calls for a week. No voicemail. Another week of silence. Repeat. Sam dutifully left them all unanswered. As if she’d forgive the prior twelve years of silence. Still, each ring picked away at her 12-year-old scars.
Her phone! Yes, that was the last thing Sam could remember. She was in her car, and her phone rang and it was her mother. She silenced it, looked up and—
Oh. Ohhh.
She was dead. Was she dead? She must be, right?
“Hey!” Sam banged on the window, then recoiled from its sting. Why would being dead hurt? “Hey!” she yelled louder.
The hulking driver didn’t even twitch. Sam glared at the back of his head. He was much too blond. Almost gold. People don’t have hair that color.
Sam banged harder. “What is happening?” Both fists now. She could already feel the bruises. Ridiculous. Didn’t she have enough to deal with? “Please, let me—”
The engine rattled and the truck bed shuddered, knocking Sam back. Only when she shimmied up again did she notice another passenger. Surely, she hadn’t been there a moment before?
An old woman, judging by the cloud of bluish hair. She pressed against the passenger-side window, oddly enraptured by the empty scenery. Was the old lady kidnapped too? No, wait, Sam had dispelled that theory already. Where was she again? Oh God, she was probably drugged!
“Hey!” Sam thumped again. “Lady, you need help? We need to get out of here!”
“Where are we going?” The blue-haired woman asked.
Sam blinked back surprise and an eyeful of dust. Even outside, with the wind rushing and sand filling her ears, Sam heard the woman’s whisper perfectly.
“Home,” the driver answered. He had a smooth, NPR voice that matched his golden hair.
“Oh,” the woman said. Then quieter, “I see.” From the swath in the rearview, she looked like she’d solved a tricky crossword. Then, she returned to her window.
“Excuse me,” Sam banged, the meat of her palms stinging. “I’m here too! This is definitely not my home.”
The moment the driver’s eyes flicked to hers, Sam felt it. He didn’t remove his dark glasses, he didn’t even tilt toward the mirror. Then, Sam noticed the dashboard dials. In place of speedometers and radios were shadowy videos, spinning arrows and flashing symbols. A few silvery buttons. No stick shift.
Sam ducked into the truck bed, suddenly nauseated. Aliens? Had to be. Do other planets have country roads? She lifted her chin toward the barren plain. Even if she managed to jump, where would she go?
Bingo. Just as she turned ahead, they pulled into a dust-coated gas station. Never mind it hadn’t been there before, now was her chance! With a small screech, Sam launched herself over one side, landing badly on one leg. She yelped, digging her nails into the dry ground. Instead, she felt grooved metal under her palms.
She was back in the truck bed. No. That’s not right. Her leg still hurt, she jumped she—
“Oh my God,” Sam shrieked, “am I—having a breakdown? Oh God, oh my God, this can’t be real this can’t be HAPPENING—”
“Relax,” the driver said from behind the wheel. “Only here for a moment.”
Relax? Sam trembled in time with her racing pulse, her boiling blood!
“Screw you!” she snapped, “I’ve been rolling around back here for miles. I’m not going anywhere until I know . . . whatever is going on.” Even as she said the words, she feared she couldn’t keep that promise. This time, she only threw her good leg over. Then, back in the truck.
Sam yanked against one side, shaking it in time with her internal heart attack. “You let me off right now you stupid grease monkey. You let me out or I’ll—”
“New hitchhiker?” the station attendant said. He suddenly appeared by the driver side window, but Sam hadn’t seen him approach. Though he wore a worn T-shirt, it looked sparkly white; his excessive, droopy mustache clipped neat.
“Yep,” Driver replied.
“All right,” the attendant said, patting the truck. “Go on, then.”
As far as Sam knew, he’d given it no gas. She glanced at the pumps. No nozzles.
“Yep,” said Driver.
Amid Sam’s protests, they pulled back onto the road, the old woman still plastered to her stupid window. Hmph. Carefully, Sam reached around, and tapped the passenger side.
“Hey,” she said, “hello? Do you know what’s going on?”
“Yes,” the woman responded. “We’re going home.”
“Is that a euphemism for something?” Sam probed, but the woman only had eyes for rare tumbleweeds. The truck slowed as a house appeared; just as suddenly as the gas station.
An unremarkable house. Old. A bit rickety. Something Sam might imagine seeing in a Dust Bowl movie. It might come with an old truck like this, actually. They matched.
Quietly, Sam shifted as far away as she could. If this truck freaked her out, what’s in the house?
“No way,” Sam growled.
Sam felt Driver’s eyes again. She wasn’t even looking, but she was sure he raised a perfect, golden eyebrow. Sam sucked in a lungful of air to tell him off just as the truck’s weight shifted. The truck door squeaked. A small sigh of surprise.
Sam popped up. The old woman. With practiced familiarity, the lady gripped her door and picked her way down the big step. When her feet touched the ground, she stood solidly before the rickety house. She was not sucked back into the truck.
When the woman turned back, wet streaks stained her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she said.
As she made her way to the front door, the truck’s engine thrummed back to life. Driver made a U-turn.
“Where are you taking me now?” Sam demanded. “Don’t you dare say home.”
“No,” Driver said. “Back.”
For a moment, the road before them darkened stormily. When the darkness began to circle the car, Sam increasingly felt as if she might pass out.
And before she could wonder anything else, Sam slammed down hard on her back, knocking her breath out. She choked mightily, heaving to suck something back in. Above, bright lights stung her eyes and flung odd shadows around the corners. An alarm blared. When Sam tried to speak, she found tubes down her throat.
“Sam? Sam, can you hear me?” an unfamiliar voice said. Latex fingers grabbed hers. “Squeeze my hand if you can.”
Sam squeezed, turning toward the shadow that spoke. For a moment, it doubled. When it joined back together, though, Sam discovered a medical cap, big glasses. A face mask. Things TV doctors wear. Regular doctors too, apparently.
“Good job, Sam,” the doctor said. “You may be disoriented right now. You were in an accident, but it’s okay, we got you now. You’re at Sacred Mercy hospital.”
An accident? Words came out strangled around the tubes. Sam tried to twist in her hospital bed, but another shadow said “easy now” and set her back. She only half obeyed, distracted by her left leg. Bound in a cast and elevated. Sam fell against her pillow. Was this from the truck?
As the nurse plugged Sam into a new IV, she heard the scrape of a curtain being pulled closed. Even though the corners of her vision started to fuzz again, a second voice whispered too loud.
“We lost the woman in the other car. Poor thing. Ninety-five. Shouldn’t’ve been behind the wheel.”

#

Sam’s throat was so dry it felt—well, full of dust. Her dad was already hugging, though, before she could explain her body was one, epic bruise. Dad looked like he needed the hug. He sported a wrinkled shirt and scraggly stubble. Clearly he’d slept in the chintzy hospital chair.
He wasted no time. Soon, Sam was packed into the blue Camry, clutching a small bag of belongings. Crutches were relegated to the back seat.
When Sam turned on her phone, it trembled with missed calls, voicemails, and texts. “Wow,” she said. “Did you tell the whole world?”
“Just a couple people. Work, of course. Your roommates. Word travels.”
One particular missed call caught her eye. Only one this time, instead of fifteen. No voicemail.
“Um,” Sam said. “Did you tell Mom?”
Dad flexed his grip on the wheel. “I left a message.”
Sam shoved her phone back in the bag. She hated he’d been in that position. His only daughter got in an accident and he had to call that woman. The one who left him twelve years ago. Left both of them. Sam suddenly felt queasy. Dizzy with anger.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she said, swallowing. Maybe she was carsick? The last time she drove, after all, she got t-boned.
“She’s your mom, Sammy.”
“No. Not for the past twelve years.”
They pulled into the driveway with a familiar, gravely crunch.
“Thought you could stay home for a while,” Dad said with a small smile. “Just until you’re back on your feet.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Sam sighed. She’d only moved out ten months ago, just after college graduation. Her new apartment was fifteen minutes away, but she didn’t love the idea of hobbling around without a car. Actually, she didn’t love the idea of getting in another car, to be honest. A flash of dusty road dashed across her eyes; gone just as quick, and replaced with the friendly driveway. Frowning, Sam shoved her door open.
“Wait a sec, honey,” Dad said. “Let me come help.”
The house looked picture-perfect, as always. A bright red sloping roof, a fresh coat of white paint. Just ahead, windows gleamed under a cloudless sky, and yellow tulips bloomed underneath—the latter, a new hobby of Dad’s. He was endlessly proud of the house he built, and cared for it fastidiously. Another flush of anger washed over Sam, remembering her mother’s missed call.
Dad came around back and helped Sam hobble onto her crutches. Together, they hopped up the steps, through the door, and onto the couch. Sam collapsed with a heavy sigh.
“Callie will be over with your laptop tomorrow,” Dad added. “So you can catch up on work if you’re up to it. The paper said no pressure, though. So relax.” He winked. “You want cookies?”
Sam perked up. “Chocolate chip?”
“You know it.” He marched off into the kitchen. “Always.” That summed up Dad in a word. Always.
After several cookies, Sam’s injuries caught up with her. She slouched toward the TV, clicking through Wheel of Fortune reruns. A sharp buzzing drew Sam back to her phone.
Again. Sam rejected the call, sinking back into her pillows. Her eyes became heavy to the soundtrack of someone buying vowels.

#

When Sam turned, her gaze plummeted to the ground, hundreds of feet below.
“Jesus,” she exclaimed, darting back into the sleek leather seats.
“Language,” said Driver. The same one as before! Ahead, alien dials blinked and flashed, only now in polished chrome.
“You again,” Sam gasped. “What do you think you’re doing? You got some—”
“Excuse me,” the passenger leaned over. A suit. “We’re dealing with something a bit more urgent here. Okay?”
“You’re—”
“As I was saying,” Suit continued, facing Driver. “We can come to an agreement, surely? That was my job.” He caught himself. “Is! Is my job. Just turn this thing around, and we’ll talk compensation.”
Driver responded with a vertical nosedive. Sam’s screaming mingled with Passenger’s. Whizzing through clouds and dodging skyscrapers, they were definitely not turning around. Why, oh why weren’t there seatbelts?
When they zoomed past a chrome spire, the businessman pressed his face against his window. “There—that’s my office. You can just—wait!” The spire disappeared in clouds.
“Turn around!” the man demanded, yanking his door handle. The car teetered precariously, much like Sam’s stomach. She pressed her head between her knees. Deep breaths, enough to shout—
“Cut that OUT!”
The man paused, likely more surprised than obedient. The car finally settled.
“I was just in an accident,” Sam said, rising slowly, “and I’d appreciate avoiding another. Now—” Sam cautiously pulled herself between the seats. She stabbed a thumb at Driver.
“This dude is not going to give you answers or change his GPS,” she said. “Trust me. You might as well sit back in your—” she took in the sleek leather interior. The clouds outside. “What even is this thing? What happened to the truck?”
“It’s mine,” Suit added. “I’d just ordered the first working prototype and I was taking it for a drive when—” he braced himself against the dash, gaping. “These aren’t the right dials. These programs—what is this even measuring?” He clawed at the chrome accents. “I just bought this thing—what did you do to my car?”
The vehicle shook for a long moment, enough to shut Suit up. Sam’s ears popped. They might be descending.
Driver landed by log cabin. A small structure, like Lincoln might have lived in. Suit sighed.
“What’s this?” Sam asked.
“Home,” he said. “I see—oh, I get it now.”
“This is your house?” Sam asked, incredulous. “Like . . . your summer place?”
“No. Not my house,” Suit opened his door and dashed onto the grass. “It’s home,” he called over his shoulder. “Home is home.”
“What?” Sam called, but Driver was taking off again.
“You’re getting the hang of this,” he said. A lot of words, for him.
“At what?” Sam asked. “Why am I here, and why do I keep ending up in your cars?”
“You’re a hitchhiker,” Driver said. “Happens sometimes with near-death experiences. Get stuck in between. Boon to us, though. Extra life-force helps power the engines.”
“A hitchhiker?” Sam echoed. “For . . . dead people? So you’re like. An angel?”
“I’m the navigator.” Helpful.
“Okay . . . ” Sam said. “So, how do I stop it?”
“Hm?”
“Hitchhiking. When does it stop? How can we wrap this up?”
Driver arched his signature eyebrow. “You don’t.”
“Ever?” Sam breathed, digging her nails into the leather. Ahead, the clouds parted easily, floating stray and slow.
“Okay,” Sam straightened after a long exhale. “I get this is like, your job but—” what was Dad saying about negotiation? Be firm, explain your reasoning. “I can’t just pop over here every time I’m drowsy because you need extra gas. This is . . . stressful.”
“It won’t impact your day,” Driver said. “Most forget their trips when they wake. Some are even energized by it.”
“Well, I remember my last ‘trip,’” Sam retorted, “and, I’m exhausted.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Why? Is that bad? Can you fix it?”
Driver shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“You know,” Sam huffed as blackness curled around her, “for someone charged with ferrying souls, you could work on your bedside manner. You’re actually the worst at it, and—”
“We’ll see you next time at celebrity Wheel of Fortune!”
Sam jolted up, clutched the arm of the couch. Aside from the murmuring TV, all stood still and quiet. “Some help you are,” Sam told the moving pictures.
The time on the TV said 3 a.m. Sam groaned, pulling her blanket to her chin. Energized? She felt like she’d been skydiving. Everything ached. She could easily fall back asleep, except not without hopping into another back seat. No more.
Sam reached for her crutches. “Coffee, here I come.”

#

When Dad visited the kitchen after his usual insomnia, he was startled to find Sam three cups in and almost done with the daily crossword. On the counter, he lifted an empty coffee pot skeptically.
“Good morning?” he said.
“Morning,” Sam echoed, offering a jittery grin.
“Uh, Sam, I wanted to—” a buzzing interrupted. Sam reached for her phone, then grimaced before flipping it face down on the table.
“Sorry, Dad,” she said. “What’s up?”
He nodded to her phone. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m wondering—” he paused. “I think you should call your mother back.”
Sam sat back, stung.
“What?”
“I just think—”
“After what she did?” Sam interrupted. Anger crept into her voice; that third cup wasn’t helping. All those old scars were peeling away, bringing raw, pink memories to the surface. Sam trying to pull Mom out of bed. Mom crying while tucking Sam in. Mom cleaning all day and all night; or, never at all. Mom moving the kitchen table into the basement. Then the spare bedroom. Then outside. Packing it away, and pulling out of the driveway for the last time.
“No.” Sam folded her arms, unsure where else to put them. Her mother left those wounds to scab years ago. Why open them again? “She lost any right when she left. I’m sticking with you, Dad.”
“But, Sammy,” Dad said, “that was years ago. You don’t need to choose sides.”
Sam shook her head. “If she actually cared how I was, she would have come to the hospital. Left a voicemail, at least.” She grabbed her phone again, brandishing it toward her father. “Ten calls in the past couple days. Not one ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘call me back.’”
Her dad shrugged. “Maybe she feels she lost that right.” Sam’s jaw fell slack; the echo of his words felt like a slap, a betrayal. Dad lifted his hands in surrender. “Some things aren’t meant for voicemail. Think about it, okay?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, already hobbling over to the cupboard, pulling out another bag of beans. “Coffee?”

#

No way. No flipping way. Sam scowled. She had six-and-a-half cups of coffee today. No way she nodded off.
Yet here she was, somehow in a weirder vehicle than a flying car. She stuck an arm out the backseat window. No glass. Everything from her seat to the roof was garish orange and yellow. Hard, unyielding plastic. She half wondered if Driver’s feet were scrambling beneath like the other toddlers who drove this model.
Then, there was the unfortunate wailing.
Sam poked her head into the front seat, sparing a glare for Driver. When she turned to the passenger, she discovered . . . a three-year-old girl.
Sam swiveled back, wide-eyed. Driver gave her nothing; he really was the worst. She turned back to the kid.
“Excuusse me,” she said, waving her hands at the little girl. She might be younger than three? It had been a year since her last babysitting gig. “Hello? Hi there, can you just— Shhh. Okay? Calm down.” The child wailed louder. “Just—” Sam slipped all the way into the front, wedging herself between the girl and Driver—“callmm down.” Driver certainly gave no leeway, so she shifted closer to the girl. Close enough their bodies touched. Suddenly, the child quieted, relaxing against her. Just like that.
“Oh, okay,” Sam said. “That’s good. Just chill like that. Cool.”
The girl tilted her head up, eyes huge and wet. “Where’s Mama?” she said. Sam shifted again, uneasily. Moments ago, they were strangers. Now, this girl clutched fistfuls of Sam’s shirt and draped Sam’s arm with snot as if Sam was responsible. And now Sam was supposed to tell her—what? That she was dead, and she wouldn’t see her mother for decades? What right had she to give such big answers to a tiny human?
Another thought tugged at her: had Sam been like this once, years ago? Did she spread this anxiety all over her mother’s sleeves, until it sunk into her skin and flooded her mind?
“Uhhh . . . ” Sam turned to Driver. His eyes remained on the road. Yeah, like he needed to. The girl tugged Sam’s shirt. “I want Mama.”
Of course you do. “I—” Sam started, “I don’t know where she is.” The girl’s lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry,” Sam added as the girl’s eyes flooded. “Don’t cry again. Please?”
“Maaaamaaaaaaaa,” the girl wailed.
“Okayokayokay,” Sam said, pulling the child closer to her body. That seemed to work? Cradle her more, maybe? She might be too old to be cradled. How old is too old? “Okay, shhhh. Okay,” Sam said, half to herself. “You’re here, okay? With me. You’re . . . safe? Don’t be afraid. Nothing’s gonna happen to you.” She turned to Driver. “Right?”
His mouth quirked a bit. She cursed his perfect golden head.
The girl quieted, her whimpers reduced to little murmurs. Ensconced in Sam’s arms, she wiggled a bit to look up. “Where are we going?” she asked.
Sam cringed. “You’re going home.”
“Oh.” The little girl flopped onto Sam, and soon dozed in her lap.
Sam took the opportunity to consider the plastic dashboard. She’d started to recognize the same dials from the previous cars: the doohickey that flashed odd symbols, the compass-looking thingy that spun like a top. No radio, though. “You could at least play some choir music,” Sam said. “Isn’t that what you all sing up here?”
“Like hip hop, myself,” Driver said.
They pulled up to a blue-and-white three-decker with an Italian flag waving outside. The little girl blinked up at Sam, then the window.
“We’re here!” she squeaked with surprising gusto, tumbling over Sam and out the unlocked door.
“Okay, bye?” Sam said, but the girl was already opening a chain-link fence, clambering up the front steps.
“Is she tall enough to open the door?” Sam asked.
Just then, an elderly gentleman appeared in the doorway. “Grandpa!” the girl exclaimed, running into his arms.
“Oh,” Sam said. “That’s how it works? When you go—you all meet up in the same place?”
Driver turned the plastic car around. “Sometimes. If you’re meant to.”
“Helpful. As always.” Sam slouched in the front seat. “That wasn’t cool, by the way,” she said, watching disintegrating green lawns and chalky sidewalks outside. “I said I’m not coming back, don’t guilt me with a kid. That’s low.”
“Don’t work like that,” Driver said. “I pick up whoever’s closest.” He turned the wheel. “Like Uber.”
As the road turned gray, Driver added, “See you soon.”
“Pssh,” Sam retorted. “We’ll see.”

#

At the grocery store, Sam picked up a case of energy drinks. Dad raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Perhaps he figured she’d go through less coffee this way. On the way home, she opened a can in the car.
That night, after starting and giving up on two work assignments, Sam procured another energy drink and flipped on the TV. Ugh, home shopping. She made a mental note to introduce her dad to the magic of streaming services.
She was certain she’d made it past two a.m., maybe even three. Her pulse dutifully beat at the brisk pace of a heart attack. Still, the stupid shopping network meshed together after a while.
“Oh, come on!” Sam exclaimed from the backseat of an empty station wagon. “There’s not even anyone here!” She climbed out far enough to kick the tires, taking small satisfaction she wasn’t sucked back inside. From the outside, though, she got a complete eyeful of the car. She froze.
No, Sam told herself. Lots of people had station wagons. All the moms did. It was the rage when I was nine.
“What took you so long?” Sam jumped, whirling around. Driver appeared, out of nowhere, sipping something from an insulated coffee cup. It probably wasn’t actually coffee, but just the notion of caffeine rattled Sam’s stomach.
“I told you I wasn’t coming back,” Sam said, scanning the landscape. A beige, wheat-y field stretched endlessly in all directions. No hills, no trees.
“Don’t work that way,” Driver reached into his leather jacket and pulled out—oddly—a pocket watch. “You’re lucky this one’s in limbo. We might have gotten stuck somewhere.”
“Stuck?” Sam echoed skeptically. “That seems pretty problema—oh.” It clicked. “Like, purgatory?”
“Some call it that.”
“Wait,” Sam said. “You’re telling me purgatory is the result of a bunch of slackers like me who don’t go to bed on time?”
Driver opened his door. “I don’t make the rules.” Before getting in, he leaned over the hood and called across the field, “almost time.”
A figure appeared. She must have been wandering in the tall grass; Sam hadn’t noticed her earlier. She recognized her gait immediately, though. Slower now, but Sam remembered scurrying to catch up, once. Her silhouette looked rail-thin, but Sam recalled soft, warm embraces. Sometimes, too hard. Bruising forehead kisses. Closer now. Her hair was gone, though Sam recalled wild curls tangled in her fingers. This woman was not as tall as Sam remembered, but Sam had been short once. Always grasping upward, ahead, outward, until there wasn’t that woman to reach for.
Long before Sam could make out the woman’s features, she knew there would be the green eyes she inherited. The nose she wished she hadn’t. The soft mouth she didn’t. A familiar burning lapped inside, worrying away at Sam’s scars.
“Mom,” Sam finally choked.

#

“No,” Sam said. “Oh no. No, no, no.” The words came out quicker than she could shape into meaning. “No,” Mom’s dead? “No,” Sam doesn’t want to talk to her? Yes? Both?
“No. I’m not—” Sam pulled open the back door and crouched behind Driver. “I’m not doing that.”
Her mother got in the passenger seat. “Sam,” she said quietly. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Sam blinked. The last time she’d seen this stupid station wagon, it was full of her mother’s stuff and pulling out of their driveway. Caffeine boiled up her throat. “You had twelve years to reach me.”
Before this year, before the aggressive, abandoned phone calls, there’d been nothing. A flicker of guilt passed over her mother’s face before it clicked.
They were in purgatory, after all.
“How long have you known?” Sam said.
Her mother’s voice was feather-quiet, but Sam already knew the answer. “Earlier this year.”
A thousand wheels churned in Sam’s mind, kicking up years and years of dirt. Missed birthdays. Nosy neighbors. Her father’s insomnia. Puberty. High school. Never even a postcard. So many things had already been snatched away from Sam. Why then, now, should she care that it would all be gone for good? Why did it sting like something more?
An endless reel of that stupid station wagon played in the back of Sam’s mind, while she sat within its exact likeness.
“Has this always,” Sam breathed, “been about you?”
Her mother flinched. She didn’t say anything, but the wheels were speeding now—falling, really, off their spokes and down some steep ditch.
“Did you even know about my accident? Or was it always about—” Her mother closed her eyes.
“You couldn’t even leave me a word?” Sam pressed, fighting the tightness in her throat. “One word. ‘Sorry’ would have been fine. Something at least.”
Nothing.
“Oh my God-”
“Hey,” Driver said, “language.”
Sam bowled over his words. “You don’t even think you were wrong,” she said. “Do you? Do you?”
“It’s not a matter of right or wrong, Sam,” her mother replied.
They heard the motorcycle’s thrum before it appeared, tramping grass on its way. The motorcyclist pulled up to Driver's side and leaned into the open window. The words they whispered sounded ancient. Like Latin.
“Okay,” Driver announced, “not time yet.” He nodded to his coworker. “He’ll take you back.”
Sam’s mother nodded. Without glancing back, she exited the station wagon and climbed behind the other driver. She simply left. Again.
Driver ignited the cursed station wagon’s engine. It sounded just the same.
“I—” Sam choked. Her throat might collapse on itself. “I-I don’t want . . . I’m not helping her.”
“That’s not the way it works.”
Sam slammed the back of his seat. “Then TELL ME how it works,” she cried. “Transfer me, put in a request. A suggestion box. I don’t care how, I cannot do this.”
Driver said nothing.
Sam took a shuddering breath as the field faded to black.
“Please?”

#

It’s extremely unhealthy to go without sleep. Almost impossible, too, for a mostly-healthy 22-year-old. Sam hoped she could at least elude sleep. A tad. For a little while. Enough to figure out where she stood and how she felt.
Okay, maybe a long while.
Between ignoring phone calls, Sam doubled her efforts with caffeine. She set random alarms to jolt her awake before a deep REM could take hold. Micro-naps seemed safe enough. If all else failed, she could hobble around the neighborhood to keep herself awake.
Leaning groggily against her crutches, Sam picked her way down the driveway, stealing backwards glances at the little white house and its red roof. How quaint it looked, perfect for a picture book. What made a person abandon a place like that? When Sam was younger, she spent hours wondering where her mother chose to live instead. What made it better? Was there a swimming pool with a deep end? A basketball hoop? Today, Sam wondered: what house might her mother see on her last ride home?
Sam froze. Nope, none of that. She kneaded the handles of her crutches and pushed them forward, followed by her feet. Again. Again. Bury that thought. It didn’t matter. She never learned where her mother lived, and she didn’t need to learn now.
Sam hobbled past the small curve of the park, one she used to avoid. It offered too many memories of her mother lifting her to monkey bars or holding her close after a tumble down the slide. Her dad only convinced her to return years later with promises of baseball and catch. New memories to replace those lost.
Yes. Exactly.
Past mailboxes, neat front lawns, abandoned soccer balls and covered grills. Then, turn around and loop it all in reverse.
Around five p.m., cars began to fill driveways. Sam’s phone stopped buzzing. She wore down the pavement anyway.
“Mind if I join you?” her dad asked, just as she reached the park again.
“Sammy,” he said, keeping her glacial pace, “I know we’ve always been two peas in a pod.”
“Peas are gross,” Sam quipped. “We’re much cooler than that.”
He huffed a small laugh. “You know what I mean. You stayed local after graduating. You make time for every holiday. You know I really appreciate it.”
“Okay,” Sam said. “I mean. I always like coming home.”
“I know you do,” he said. “But I think sometimes, you might worry about me too much. I always want you around, but you don’t have to protect me, either.”
Sam kept hobbling, eyeing a patch of yellowing grass on someone’s lawn. She couldn’t recall who lived there now.
Her dad sighed. “What I’m trying to say is. You can have a relationship with her too.”
Sam snorted. “We’ve been through this, Dad. She left. Not just you. Me too.”
“You don’t have to enjoy the act of forgiving, Sam,” Dad said, “but it’s important.”
Sam opened her mouth to retort, but snapped it shut. Dad looked brighter today. Lighter. Like he’d had a good night’s sleep.
“You spoke to her.”
He nodded. “And I’ve forgiven her. You never know how many chances you have, Sam,” he added, a bit sternly. “I don’t want to live with that weight on me.”
The weight of endless unanswered calls suddenly hung heavy in Sam’s pocket.
After their loop, they stood in the empty space where the station wagon once parked. Sam could still hear the thrum of its clunky engine, the wheels crunching gravel as it pulled away from their little stamp of property. Gone. Her anger still scorched her old wounds; now, something else also tugged at her chest.
She’d already lost so much. Why let more slip through her fingers?
“Okay,” Sam said, trembling fingers already pulling out her phone. “I’ll try.” They sat on the little front porch as she dialed the number.
No answer.
Sam rang again. Again. She even left a voicemail, one so garbled she couldn’t recall what she said.
When Sam rang a final time, a male voice answered.
#

By the time Sam made it to the hospital, she was sweaty and out of breath. Her mom was unconscious.
A nurse helped Sam with her crutches, settling her into a chair by the hospital bed. The nurse said her mother may not wake up, but she might be able to hear her.
Sam struggled to bring the chair closer, as close as her broken limb allowed. Her mom looked just like she had in purgatory. More tired, though. Drawn. Disappointed, perhaps.
Leaning against the side of the mattress, Sam took one of her mother’s hands. She let her eyes fall closed.

#

This time, she recognized the backseat right away. How could she forget that stubborn stain where she spilled juice on the upholstery? The ever-present dusting of Goldfish and Oreo crumbs along the seams of the seats. Her mom wasn’t one of those strict ones who didn’t allow snacks in the car.
She was good like that.
Her mom sat in the front seat, chair reclined just like a hospital bed. Sam reached for her mother’s hand, then leaned forward to embrace the rest of her. All of her.
“Mom,” Sam whispered, barely breathing.
Mom wrapped her into a strong hug that felt like movie nights, story time and bedtime kisses through tears. Like summer vacations, accidental detours. Popsicles and belly laughs. Like swim lessons, chicken noodle soup. Old, raggedy quilts. Sam breathed, bathed, and drank it all in.
“I’m sorry,” her mom whispered in her ear. “I thought, at first, I could take care of us both. I’m sorry I couldn’t.”
Sam swallowed. “I forgive you.” The words, finally said, felt stilted now. Wrong, even.
“I love you,” Sam said then. That felt infinitely better.
Still, Sam was surprised when she began recognizing the streets. The neighborhood. Past the park, where Sam’s mom taught her to ride a bike, and cradled her when she fell. The corner where Sam’s mother brought her to the bus stop in the morning and picked her up again in the afternoon. Some of Sam’s chalk drawings still decorated the sidewalk. Then, there it was.
The little white house. With a red roof.
Sam’s mother looked a bit surprised when they pulled up, but her face soon broke into a smile. One Sam hadn’t seen in twelve years. With a burst of energy, she sat up, turning to Sam. She smoothed a hand over Sam’s hair and tucked a strand behind her ear.
“I’ll see you later,” her mom said. She stepped out of the car. “I love you, Sam.”
Sam turned in the backseat to watch her mother climb the steps to the porch.
“I can’t visit,” Sam said to Driver. He’d been unusually quiet, even for him. “I can’t, can I?”
“‘Fraid not,” Driver said, though his voice carried a rare note of softness.
Tears blotted Sam’s vision before darkness came.
#
Sam woke to the sound of flatlining. Her chair had been shoved backward, a curtain pulled between her and her mother. Shadows of doctors and nurses still bustled about.
Her stepfather—Derrick, Sam remembered foggily from the phone—was shaking her shoulder gently with a trembling hand.
“I’m so sorry, Sam,” he said quietly. “I tried to wake you before, but—” his voice broke. He paused a moment before he continued, “She didn’t wake up before she passed.”
Sam sighed. “It’s okay,” she said. Her good leg protested as she tried to stand. When Derrick reached to help, she folded him into a hug instead. “I’m sorry.” For him? For her mom? Both.
Sam sat with Derrick as he spoke to the doctors, and stayed after they left. She offered to help, though she knew nothing about making arrangements.
“I think you could help in another way,” Derrick said, tentatively. “I know all this just—” he waved it away. “But, maybe. Sometime,” he swallowed. “She spoke about you so much. Wondered about you, but she was afraid to—” he paused, taking a heavy, shuddering breath. “It might be good,” he said, eyes crinkling, “to know the answers she wondered about so much.”
Sam was quiet for a moment. It seemed unfair or uneven, to tell this stranger her life story. She thought about the last time the station wagon pulled out of her driveway, never knowing where it ended up. Eventually, somewhere with this man she knew nothing about, who looked lost and very, very tired. Only then did Sam realize she was not tired. Light, even, like the first good night’s sleep after days of insomnia.
“Okay,” she said. “If you do something for me, too. Tell me about you and how you met. And—” Sam said, “I need you to tell me about her. I was too young to understand her struggles. Her illness. Why she had to leave. Knowing more, I think, it would help.”
“I’d like that,” Derrick said softly. Then added, “I think she would too.”

#

“A mini-van, haven’t seen one of these in a while.” Sam glanced out the back window to a picturesque suburban scene.
“I know they’re out of fashion,” the passenger responded. A kindly woman in her late sixties. She straightened her sweater vest primly. “I suppose it makes me nostalgic.”
“I get it,” Sam responded, offering a smile when the woman turned around. “It’s better, really,” she patted the back of Driver’s seat, “when he’s in a sportscar, he tends to ignore the speed limit.”
Sam earned an eyebrow quirk from Driver that felt almost like a smile.
The woman still eyed her a bit uncertainly, though. “I’m sorry, do you happen to know where we’re going?” she asked.
Sam smiled. “I do.”
#####
A.A. Nour is a researcher and a writer, and sometimes those two things overlap. She is an Odyssey Writing Workshop grad, and she's passionate about psychology and research rabbit holes. She lives in Chicago with her husband and a plethora of adorable creatures that have made a home in her backyard.

Operation Mall Stroll
by Lydia Sherrer

“You know what really gets under my skin about these fu—I mean freaking spooks, Yoda?”
Derek “Yoda” Peterson, formerly of the Royal Canadian Air Force, frowned and didn’t look at his teammate, too busy examining the overhead mission map on his Augmented Reality glasses. “I don’t, and I don’t want to. But you’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you, Crispy?”
“It’s that they don’t even know we’re here,” Crispus “Crispy” DeLeon continued, ignoring Derek’s suppressive comment. Crispy was a professional complainer, and everyone in his TransDimensional Hunter Alpha Tester team had learned to tune him out. “Like, these parasites are wreaking havoc and sucking the planet dry, and they don’t even have the decency to stomp around like God da—I mean, uh, stupid Godzilla where we can fight them properly! What right do they have to ruin my life when I can’t even punch them in the face? I wish I was back in the sandbox, man. At least there you could see, or hear, or even smell the enemy coming without these stupid glasses.”
“Well darn. Alert the press and call the Geneva Convention, Crispy has to wear glasses,” Bradley “Dasher” Hayek drawled. He was tossing his full-visor AR helmet up in the air and catching it without even looking at it, his mocking gaze fully focused on his teammate. He fed off Crispus’ griping like a particularly handsome and wicked symbiote, egging his friend on with cutting sarcasm, something Derek tried to discourage but had mostly given up on. “You’re acting like the HUD in our combat helmets doesn’t exist. And what about night vision and radar interfaces? This gaming tech is way better than anything they gave us in the Corps. Besides, I’ll go fight wherever they wanna send me, as long as it doesn’t have sand. Don’t care what or how I’m fighting. I’ll do it naked with a caveman club if it strikes their fancy, long as there’s no sand.”
Gregg “Beans” Santoro, who was busy rummaging in a compact backpack with red piping and a big “TransDimensional Counterforce” patch on it, looked up with a grin. Some people thought Gregg was called “Beans” because he’d be as slender as a beanpole if it weren’t for the muscle he worked so hard to develop, making him simply lean instead of skinny. But it was really because Gregg’s favorite pastime was eating beans—or really any food at all, the cheaper, the better. It meant he thrived on military rations like pond scum thrived on sunlight. It was awe-inspiring, really, but as Gregg always said, “when you grow up dirt poor, everything tastes like paradise.” He looked Bradley up and down and said: “Gross, Dasher. Nobody wants to see your butt-ugly birthday suit. Those spooks would drop dead at the sight.”
“Beans!” Bradley gasped in mock horror. “You take that back. My birthday suit is perfection incarnate—”
“It wouldn’t matter, Dasher, the spooks don’t even have fu—freaking eyes to see it. It’s not fair!”
“Oh, shut your piehole, Crispy. Natural selection isn’t fair, or did I miss the memo where alien parasites from another dimension have to send out a survey and rate their victims’ preferences before they move in and take over? Gimmie a break.” Bradley stretched out his legs and leaned back, still tossing his helmet. There wasn’t much to stretch out. He was on the compact and muscle-bound end of the physical spectrum, which is one reason he hated running so much—thus the name, Dasher.
“Come on, man, you know what I mean. It’s just hard to get all, you know, pumped up to go fight invisible energy parasites.”
“That’s what the AR interface is for, dipshit. Why do you think we keep these geek types around, like Yoda? Knew they’d be good for something one day.” Bradley grinned and leaned far enough over to slap Derek on the shoulder.
“That’s Captain Geek to you, Dasher, and don’t you forget it,” Derek said with a good-natured smile, though he still didn’t look over. He was almost done reviewing the mission parameters that scrolled past his vision.
“Yeah, Captain of the fu—freaking Geek Squad—Man, I hate this!” Crispy burst out, throwing his hands in the air, then grabbing the seat bar next to him as their airbus wobbled on a patch of air turbulence. The gusty spring night over Washington D.C. was threatening a thunderstorm, which Derek sincerely hoped didn’t materialize. It would be just his luck if they had to fight spooks in a downpour.
“What? Still sore that Colonel Bryce told you to clean up your potty mouth because we’re gonna be around a bunch of prepubescent baby gamers fresh outta the cradle?” Bradley goaded.
“I don’t get it! It’s not like they’re little angels. Have you heard kids these days? They cuss worse than Jimmy Ski did back when we were in Kabul.”
“We’re not in Kabul anymore, Crispy,” Derek said, finally flicking his eyes to clear his display and looking over at his men. “We’re civilian gamers now, and TD Hunter is a family-friendly game. So suck it up, buttercup.”
“I still can’t believe they turned our spook locator interface into an AR game,” Gregg said, zipping up his backpack and grabbing his own helmet. “And they’re really going to let kids fight the spooks? With no age requirements or anything? What was the Brass thinking?”
“That CIDER forces are about a billion people too few to eradicate an invasion on this scale, Beans. And kids are already fighting. They’ve started recruiting civilian beta testers. Word is they moved the game launch up to June.”
Crispus, who was in the process of aiming one of his electric blue game control batons at Bradley, paused mid-motion. “But they’re, like, shielding civilian players or something, right?”
Bradley took advantage of his teammate’s distraction and lobbed his helmet at Crispus. In a flash, Crispus caught it with his free hand, redirected its momentum, and whipped it back at Bradley, the precise movement belying his whiny demeanor.
“Of course not, dimwit,” Bradley said, acting like he hadn’t just barely caught the helmet before it gave him a black eye. “It’s not like we have millions of blackout suits to hand out to every pimply teenager who wants to play. Plus, that’d be admitting the players are in danger in the first place.”
“They’re not,” Derek said firmly. “At least no greater danger than the general populace, who we can’t protect anyway. The game AI will have the spook population fully mapped out before game launch and it’ll run interference to keep players away from the dangerous ones. Now everybody put your helmets on. I want you all in the team chat stat, we’re a minute out from our stop.” While they’d been lucky that their public transport airbus had been empty—not surprising for the middle of the night—operational security dictated that they switch to subvocalization before mission go.
“Why do we have to wear these stupid full-visor things anyway?” Crispus said, frowning at his. “If I’d wanted to look like a dweeb I woulda been a pilot.”
Derek glanced at his wife, Sonia “Click” Peterson, who already had her helmet on, hiding her long blond braid and cold blue eyes. With her graceful body, long of limb and leanly muscled, she was about the furthest thing from dweeb-looking as you could possibly get. They’d met on their first deployment and had carried on a passionate romance in virtual before they’d finally gotten out of the same chain of command and were able to make things official in the real. She wasn’t much for banter when she was focused on learning a new weapons system, and like the rest of them was very practiced in tuning Crispus out.
“We’re going to be fighting a Sierra Class boss,” Derek said. “We can’t wear full blackout suits, but these helmets will shield our most important bits”—he tapped his head—“and keep our faces hidden. We’re headed for the National Mall. I don’t care if it is the middle of the night, intel says there are stream drones hanging around twenty-four-seven since the incident. The Brass would have an aneurysm if our faces showed on the news streams.” He followed his own command and replaced his AR glasses with the full-visor helmet, making sure the others did as well. His new display lit up, syncing effortlessly with his LINC implant, and he did a quick check around his menu icons, making sure the micro-motion controls were the same with this new unit as with previous versions.
“Fu—freaking insane, man,” Crispus’ subvocalization sounded in Derek’s helmet speakers. “I am not a fan of this no suit thing, though. What if the civilian betas stumble onto a boss without knowing it?”
“The AI has blackout protocols for those situations, and the really big bosses avoid most populated areas anyway. The players won’t be able to see or engage with bosses until way later, and by then we’ll have the tech to reliably take them down. At least that’s what the lab coats say.”
“The coats always lie,” Crispus grumbled. “They’re just saying that to keep the Brass happy.”
“Doesn’t matter one way or the other, Crispy. Once the game launches, our mission is to just be gamers. Learn the system alongside the players. Integrate into the community. Now gear up, we’re landing.”
The airbus slowed as if on Derek’s command. His team held onto the various bars and poles for balance as they swung their compact backpacks on and slid their blue batons into the thigh pockets of their TD Counterforce issued high-performance athletic suits. Compared to most military uniforms and gear, the stuff they got as undercover gamers was the height of luxury—a luxury Derek was determined to enjoy.
It wasn’t every day you got to collect a military pension and get paid as a private contractor to be a professional gamer at the same time.
Thank you, CIDER.
The Coalition for Interdimensional Dark Energy Research was a front for the global military alliance attempting to locate, study, and eradicate this wave of invading 'other' dimension entities that seemed to feed off of the worldwide energy infrastructure. The scientist types had only discovered the spooks’ existence in the last decade, and it’d only been in the last few years they’d drawn any meaningful conclusions about their behavior based on the increased tracking data. By the time the scientists realized what was going on and alerted the military that the spooks were affecting the electrical grids, the exponential multiplying had already started and the invisible, undetectable-without-specialized-equipment alien parasites had spread over the globe.
CIDER had roped in Tsunami Entertainment to program a cutting-edge interface so the grunts could see and track the spooks, since that was the first step toward destroying them. Derek guessed that somewhere along the way, desperation met innovation and someone at a much higher pay grade than him had greenlit the civilian-paramilitary-through-gaming-interface idea.
As far as the public knew—or, at least anyone who paid attention to gaming news—TransDimensional Hunter was simply the greatest of a new generation of Augmented Reality games, and Tsunami Entertainment was only making gaming history, not trying to save human civilization. Besides, if civilians knew that the billions of dollars Tsunami was pouring into promo ads was actually taxpayer money, there’d be rioting in the streets. It wasn’t like CIDER could tell everyone the game was the only hope for humanity’s survival. Mass panic would be no better than mass riots.
The things you knew.
A year ago, none of his team had had a clue. But then Derek had been notified of a special assignment looking for active duty volunteers with “gaming and AR interface experience,” and he’d jumped at the chance. Gotten Sonia in on it too. Them ending up in a multi-nation coalition and getting to work with some old American buddies they’d fought beside years ago in Afghanistan was icing on the cake.
The being-read-in-on-the-probable-end-of-the-world part, on the other hand, was like the cherry on top for someone who hated cherries and wanted to burn them.
All five of them had been “retired early” from active duty as a cover and reassigned to CIDER’s multi-national Alpha Tester unit based on their training performance and gaming scores. There were Alpha Tester units all over the world in every participating nation, but since no one had invented teleportation yet, it was the North American units that got the most hands-on practice with Tsunami’s developing tech. All members of the military already had standard military LINC implants, so getting up and running with the prototype gaming interface was pretty painless. Working with Tsunami Entertainment and their techs had so far been an absolute pleasure. Some days Derek could even forget the fact that they were developing novel weapons with novel technology that the lab coats understood about one percent of, and would probably give them all terminal cancer in a few years. Or turn their brains to mush. As long as they managed to wipe out the spooks first, it didn’t really matter.
“Man, I wish we could just load up in a couple Condors and zap these spooks from the sky,” Crispus complained as they stepped out of the airbus into the wind and spattering rain. The multi-level platform was the closest airbus stop to the National Mall, where Derek and his team would be meeting the four other CIDER Alpha Tester teams masquerading as civilian gamers.
“The particle blasters are too short range. The last time they tried that, the spooks swarmed the copter before it could pull away and shorted out its systems. We lost two Alpha Testers in that crash.”
“I know, I know. Maybe we should let the lab coats try blasting these spooks in the wind and rain themselves. Maybe that’d motivate them to invent stuff faster.”
“Why would they do that when you’re already so good at it, Crispy?” Sonia’s amused alto voice joined the conversation as she brushed past the guys and came level with Derek. They started jogging down the platform steps together. “The team weapon system looks good, Yoda. I can see why they won’t roll it out to the civilians until they qualify as Hunter Strike Teams. The particle expenditure is massive. It’s logical they’d reserve it for the highest skilled teams going after the bosses. What I don’t understand is why they don’t divert all the game development money into massive assembly production of particle cannon drones.”
Derek shook his head. “The bottleneck would be drone pilots. I heard they’re still working on the auto-targeting algorithm. Its accuracy is sorely lacking once the spooks start swarming and it has to evade. As soon as it's operational I’m sure they’ll field attack drones to assist the Hunters, but they’re probably worried they won’t be able to get the program going before things hit critical mass. Besides, you can’t explain swarms of drones attacking invisible monsters. Swarms of gamers, though . . . ”
“I suppose it’s too big of a risk to put all our eggs in one technological basket. Not that I’m complaining. I’ve logged hundreds more shooting hours than I ever did on the Counter Sniper Team,” she subvocalized. She switched to her private channel with Derek as she continued, “Plus I get to spend all day gaming with this really sexy guy I know who looks great in AR glasses.”
“You mean Dasher?” Derek replied on the same channel, his wide grin hidden by the helmet. “I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”
His wife’s head turned his way, likely shooting him a suppressive look from behind her visor “You’re lucky we’re not playing Warmonger right now, eh? You deserve a good fragging for that comment.”
“Don’t blame me, dear. You’re always more accurate when you get feisty, don’t try to deny it.”
Sonia didn’t try, and the rest of the team let the silence settle as they fast-walked down Independence Ave, heading west toward the Washington Monument. It was mission time, and no matter how his team bantered, they were as professional as they came, and he was proud to lead them.
The National Mall was mostly deserted, though a few lonely figures were visible under the streetlights, out and about for who knew what in the middle of a soggy, cold night. The spattering of rain had stopped, but Derek’s LINC unnecessarily predicted that the heavy grey sky above held the promise of more.
“We’re almost to the meeting point, team. Has everybody memorized the updated mission brief? Any questions before we make contact?”
“Come on, Yoda,” Gregg drawled. “You sound like you don’t think we can multitask. I don’t know about you, but I always concentrate better when Dasher and Crispy are arguing in the background like two horny baboons.”
“I’ll show you who’s a horny baboon,” Bradley growled.
“Heads up, boys,” Sonia said, and the guys fell silent as they spotted the other Alpha Tester teams waiting up ahead.
Hugo, the default name Tsunami had given the game AI, notified Derek of an incoming voice chat request from the other teams, and he accepted it with a double blink. Derek already had his app controls programmed into his TD Hunter tester profile, a long list of standard eye and jaw movements militaries had been using the world over long before next-generation AI came along. He didn’t have anything against Hugo, but Derek was an old dog and there was no point learning more new tricks than he had to.
“Evening, ladies and gentlemen. Nice night for a stroll, don’t you think?” Derek said, using the assigned greeting phrase listed in the mission brief.
“The Mall is always ripe for a stroll—good grief, who comes up with these crazy code phrases?” came the voice of one of the other team leaders labeled AlphaTester9. “I’ll bet the desk jockeys make them cheesy on purpose, then giggle about us being forced to say them out loud.”
Derek chuckled. “Fallu, what are you doing in the field? I thought they’d pulled you to work the Game Tactical department because you have such a pretty face.”
“They did,” Steve “Fallu” Riker said with a laugh. “But I was in D.C. to deliver project updates today when this spook boss popped up out of nowhere, so they threw me in with the emergency response team. Can’t say I’m complaining, got me out of a really boring meeting.”
“You’re a lucky bastard is what you are, chum. We’re about to make history.”
“How’s that?”
“We’re going to smoke this boss with no casualties. Do you hear that everybody? No casualties on my watch. That’s an order.”
All of the twenty-plus Alpha Testers present had their AR helmet on, but Derek could hear their grins in the “Yessirs” and “Roger thats” which sounded in the group chat.
He knew most of these Alpha Testers personally, since they’d been working together testing equipment and tracking down spooks for months. Some used first names, some went by their old military nicknames or shortened gaming names they’d been known by for decades already. But in the beta version of the TD Hunter app, everyone was labeled by their Alpha Tester designation.
He was AlphaTester1. Numero uno.
In this time of history being made—if anyone survived to read the history—it seemed like an honor he didn’t deserve. At the time they’d all been given their designation, though, he’d just happened to be the hapless schmuck who didn’t move fast enough to the back of the line when they started handing out the first round of experimental gear. As anyone who’d ever been in the military knew, being first was usually a punishment, not a reward.
He’d tried his best to live up to his designation, and his team had done him proud. They were good soldiers, and even better gamers—and despite Crispy’s appearance of gloom, every one of them loved their job.
It beat the sandbox, anyway. By a lot.
“All right everyone, listen up. There’s been some updates to the original mission brief so here’s the current situation: At approximately three o’clock this afternoon, five people in and around the Washington Monument suddenly collapsed, and many more developed sudden nausea, headaches, and various other minor neurological symptoms. Fortunately, it was a wet day, so the tourist crowd was thin. It could have been a lot worse. First aid was rendered, but two of the civilians remained unresponsive and died on the scene.
“Because of the sensitive location, CIDER already has the entire D.C. area covered by drones, so the Sierra Class spook lit up the global map right away and tripped all sorts of alarms. Embedded units in emergency response, capital security, and GForce Utilities were notified and able to run interference from the get-go. Security evacuated the area and GForce released a statement about malfunctioning node equipment and how an unshielded pulse unfortunately shorted the pacemaker of one victim and triggered a seizure episode in another who had a prior condition. So far none of the media is running it as anything but an accident, though they’re raking GForce over the coals for it, the poor bastards. The gossip streams are another matter entirely, but none of the really influential ones have used the word ‘aliens.’ Yet, anyway.
“The official word is that the node in question has been disconnected from the network and they’ll remove and replace it tomorrow. So tonight is our one and only window to take out this boss before more drastic—and public—measures have to be taken. As you can all guess, that would be a disaster for the TD Hunter program as well as CIDER’s mission in general. So, let’s not fail, eh?”
There was a restless shifting of bodies and several nods among the helmet-clad Alpha Testers.
“For your information, the node has not been turned off, and in fact more power is being shunted to it to keep the spook boss in place. It would be an unmitigated disaster if it started roaming around downtown D.C.. If you’re wondering where the node signal is coming from, it is right smack in the middle of the monument.” Derek pointed up and over toward the peak of the Washington Monument rising above the trees a good five hundred yards away. “That, at least, should keep the spook sticking close to this cordoned off area.” The yellow and black road barriers and streams of police tape flapping in the nighttime wind were all around the large grassy area encircling the monument. To the north, Derek could see the shining lights of the White House, which was, no doubt, empty of anyone important. Had the President been in residence earlier that day, he and any other politicians would have been evacuated the moment CIDER detected the Sierra Class entity.
“So that’s the civilian situation on the ground. All embedded units know about our mission tonight and will be running interference in case any enterprising police unit or secret service member decides to get nosey. The bright blue game batons and gaming helmets should throw any media or civilians off the scent. But even so, try not to look too uptight—that means you, Iceman. I know you’re new around here but drop the parade rest.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Yoda, son. Just Yoda. We’re gamers here, out for a midnight stroll on the mall.” Derek swept his gaze over the assembled Alpha Testers. “As for the spook situation, we’re lucky. We detected the boss early, and it doesn’t seem to have attracted too large of a retinue yet. The latest scan, which was about ten minutes ago, showed three rings, maybe a couple hundred guards max. They’ll give us a good workout, but nothing to be worried about. The reason CIDER central command scrambled all five of our teams is the boss. For those lucky enough to not have been there, the last time Alpha Testers tried to take on a Sierra Class, they didn’t have enough firepower and it got really, really pissed. It caused a city-wide blackout in Winnipeg and managed to surprise one of the teams with a lateral move that put them in its shadow. We lost Omen, and his teammates are still undergoing rejuve treatment and physical rehab to reverse the neurological damage. None of that had to happen. We’re not going to repeat that mistake.
“Our plan of attack depends entirely on what the boss does. Some are more mobile than others. Some have long-range defenses, others don’t. Our initial goal will be to sweep up the guard rings all the way around so we have time and space to probe the boss’ defenses before we go all in. Generally, bosses don’t attack without being provoked, so as long as we have good fire discipline, we should be fine. With that in mind, rules of engagement are to let the spooks come to us as much as possible. The boss is camped out on the monument, so keep a good hundred yards away. We’ll let Hugo give it a good scan while we’re sweeping the rings, then regroup and see what intel its got for us.
“Alpha Teams Two and Three,” he said, pointing at the team leads, “you’ve got the right flank. Four and Five, you’ve got the left. My team will be in the middle. Once we clear one side, we’ll retreat, circle, and clear the other side to stay far away from the boss as possible. Questions?”
There were none, and Derek directed the teams to spread out and proceed to their starting locations on the south edge of the mall. He’d already marked them on the shared map that appeared in the top left corner of everyone’s AR display. Once all units were in position, they could drop into combat mode together and attack.
“Man, I don’t see why we even need this stupid game app,” Crispus subvocalized on their team channel. “Why don’t we just blast the whole area with these dark-matter-whatsit particles and call it a day?”
“If you can see them, they can see you,” Sonia intoned, keeping pace on Derek’s right, while Bradley, Crispus, and finally Gregg walked in a line on his left. “Did you even pay attention when the techs explained how it all worked?”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t speak geek. I just kill stuff.”
“We use their own particles against them,” Gregg butted in cheerfully. “Every time a spook dies, their transdimensional particles are gathered and their polarities reversed—or whatever the 'other' dimension equivalent of polarities is. I don’t speak geek either, but I heard this really dumbed down version from Charlie who heard it from one of the lab coats who was pulling out his hair trying to explain. Anyway, to gather, use, and direct the particles, our equipment has to operate on a level that makes it visible to the spooks. So, when they attack, they’re not actually attacking us, they’re attacking our batons. If we just sat there and did nothing, they’d overload our equipment and it’d melt. The suits we normally wear shield us from the particles. The weapons won’t work if they’re shielded, and the most effective range is pretty much melee. We are but humble avatars, bearing our particle-shooting batons into battle.”
“I still say we should use robots,” Crispus grumbled. He stepped around a tree as they reached the Mall’s grassy edges, almost to their starting point.
“Come on, Crispy, that’d be like tying a gun to a lamb and throwing the lamb at the lion, bonehead,” Bradley said. “Even I understand that. The spooks feed off electricity, or the electromagnetic spectrum, or whatever. We’d have to build combustion-powered robots without any electrical components, and then how would the stupid things operate? They need a brain to aim and shoot.”
“This sucks,” Crispus said, his gloomy tone expertly translated by his subvocalization sensor.
“Cheer up, Crispy,” Derek said. “At least you get to shoot things that aren’t shooting back. With bullets, anyway.”
Crispus perked up. “Oh, yeah. That’s fun.”
Derek kept a close eye on his overhead as well as looking up and down the line, ensuring everyone was in place before he gave the order to drop into combat mode. Until that moment of activation, the TD Hunter app was merely a training app with a player’s hunting record, scores, and inventory of items and weapons collected, along with giving the players access to the AR training tutorials, tactical forum, and customer support. Once they activated their batons, though, their particle detectors would go live and they would both be able to see and be seen by the spooks—or the TransDimensional Monsters as they were supposed to call them, to stay in character as innocent beta testers.
He’d work on that another day. Tonight, he was going to focus on keeping his people alive.
“Everybody ready? Good, on my mark.”
As one, the five Alpha Teams dropped into combat mode and started pounding away at the swarms of spooks that appeared out of nowhere around them.
The CGI gaming overlay transformed indistinct masses of particles into roaring, towering, vicious monsters that would send any normal person screaming and running the opposite direction. The various spooks were lined up in three rings around their “boss,” the tallest of them towering above the humans’ heads and mostly obscuring their view of the many-tentacled boss camped out on the Washington Monument. The surrounding “guards” formed a “barrier” across the manicured mall lawn that the Alpha Teams would have to destroy before they could deal with the boss. Of course, spooks were as insubstantial to humans as humans were to them, so Derek could’ve walked through them just fine if he’d wanted to. But that many spooks would short out his equipment with extreme prejudice as soon as it was visible to them, and he couldn’t destroy a boss while being swarmed.
“Taking out their aerials,” Sonia’s precise voice said on their team channel, rising above the bedlam of spook noises. Spooks didn’t actually make noise, but the game added them in based on the type of spooks detected nearby. It added realism and helped players keep tabs on threats in their immediate area. “I only see a handful of Kongamatos and twice as many Tengus. There’s a big flock of Rocs above the monument, but they don’t look inclined to join the party.”
“Fire at will, Click,” Derek told her. “Coordinate with Alpha Two and Five if we need additional overwatch.” He was busy methodically one-shotting every spook in range with twin pistols, his preferred baton configuration. He’d been over the moon when the Tsunami techs and military lab coats had gotten together and come up with these omni-polymer game controllers that could house the particle emitter while also morphing into a wide range of life-sized weapons, both ranged and melee. From pistols to cannons to sniper rifles, knives and swords and even lightsaberlike weapons, the electric blue batons could do it all. He wasn’t at all surprised at the incredible hype the TD Hunter game ads were generating. It was a genuinely fun game to “play,” if you put aside the possibility of running afoul of a boss and having your brain melted in your skull.
“I still don’t like this fancy game overlay,” Crispus said, his gloomy tone at odds with the swift, precise movements he used to destroy one spook after another. He switched weapon configurations seamlessly to match each successive attack, as if the blue poly-morphing batons were mere extensions of his will. “I liked it better when they were gray blobs. This flashy CGI stuff gives me a headache.”
“I love it, haha!” Bradley crowed, sweeping his CGI fire-spewing cannon in an arc and mowing down spooks as he went. “So much more satisfying seeing their ugly, bloodthirsty faces right before they go boom. Who wants to fight lame floating amoebas? These TD monsters are way more fun. Orculls, Spithra, Managal, Rakshar—who comes up with these crazy names? And look at that cute little Manticar! Heeeeere, kitty, kitty. Come to papa!” he sang. His switched his fire from bolt to incendiary ammo and started raining down hell on the decidedly not little kitty. The howling, vaguely lion-shaped thing with three huge scorpion tails arching over its back bounded toward them at a furious pace.
Crispus let out a string of curses—so much for self-censorship—and rolled to the side just in time to avoid being run over by the beast. Derek poured fire into the Manticar’s flank as it skidded and turned. Before it could bring its scorpion tails to bear, Crispus had already rolled under it and was stabbing it machine-gun style using twin blades that shimmered and glowed with CGI plasma in Derek’s AR vision.
For a moment, the CGI overlay of the massive Manticar flickered, revealing the formless blob of spook particles underneath that was whipping tendrils of its essence toward him and Bradley. Then the entire thing exploded in a shower of sparks, the CGI overlay’s version of spook death, which honestly wasn’t that far from reality. Underneath the fancy explosion effects, the spook’s cohesive particle essence would have expanded rapidly and dissipated into the air, only to be harvested by the devices in their game batons, as well as larger versions of the same technology inside the many CIDER drones hovering overhead.
Some days Derek could barely wrap his mind around the enormity of what Tsunami Entertainment had accomplished in barely a year. The Tsunami team, headed by CEO and world-famous game designer Robert Krator, had conceptualized and programmed algorithms that integrated with CIDER’s particle technology to the point that it could detect, measure, and assign different particle types and amounts across the battlefield, simulating and regulating in-game functions like globe shielding, armor protection, power levels, and various augment capabilities like specialty ammo. And that wasn’t even counting the seamless visual overlay presenting a cohesive and vivid game world—well, mostly seamless. The techs were still working out the kinks, and they had better work fast. There couldn’t be any flickering glitches like the one they’d just seen if they wanted to keep the civilian players in the dark.
All in all, the TD Hunter game was a mind-boggling, history-making thing of artistic and technological beauty, one that Derek appreciated more and more each time he used it. It made fighting an alien invasion . . . well . . . fun.
Heck, might as well enjoy humanity’s last gasp if that’s where things were headed.
A blue bolt zipped past Derek’s head and nailed a fast-moving Yaguar mid-leap.
“Thanks, Click.”
“None needed, Yoda. There’s a sink full of dirty dishes at home with your name on it. No way am I going to let a spook eat you until after you’ve done the chores.”
Bradley’s snicker sounded in Derek’s ear.
“Careful, Dasher, it’s easy enough to switch the name on that pile of dishes. I have free rein to handle team discipline, and you sound like you’re begging for a character-building exercise, eh?”
“Aw, come on, boss. I thought we were gamers, right? How am I supposed to get into character without a little smack talk?”
“Smack talk is fine, as long as there aren’t dirty dishes waiting,” Derek said with a grin.
“I’m not doing your dishes, Yoda, but can I volunteer as taste-tester when Click is cooking?” Gregg’s voice joined them. He was busy sweeping up a crowd of Orcull and Spithra that had been drawn to the fray from behind their backs. The lower-level spooks of Delta and Charlie Class, as rated by the TD Hunter app, were so insignificant they barely deserved notice. But if they were allowed to swarm, it could cause equipment malfunction.
“Only if you like eating weird vegetables,” Crispus called, adding his two cents while shooting up the huge, lumbering Jotnar in the third and final line of guards that had come into view around the boss.
“You only think they’re weird because you think everything green is weird, Crispy,” Sonia retorted. She kept close to Derek, picking off any high value target she could spot while Derek kept the area around them clear and covered Bradley’s right flank.
“Vegetables are weird. You tried to feed me boiled fiddleheads once. What kind of crazy alien plant is that? If I’d wanted to eat plants, I woulda been born a cow.”
“Crispy steak!” Bradley chortled.
“Shut the f—” Crispus’ retort was drowned out by a sudden, keening shriek that made Derek flinch. A jaw twitch lowered his game volume to almost nothing and he tapped into the aerial view of the battlefield, courtesy of the CIDER drones overhead. He muttered his own curse.
“Alpha Teams, be aware spook boss is not happy. Looks like it caught some fire, or it’s just cranky we’re disintegrating its—WHOA!”
A massive tentacle whipped out from the curling mass of appendages at the boss’ “head” and slammed down on top of Alpha Team Two, who had drawn closer to the monument than they should have as they engaged the innermost guards. Three of the team members staggered back like drunks, as if the insubstantial tentacle had messed with their inner ear in some way.
“I SAID KEEP YOUR DISTANCE!” Derek roared. Adrenaline shot through him, and he increased his rate of fire to insane levels, trying to vaporize the remaining spooks between him and the other teams so they could get this whole operation over with. The unaffected members of Alpha Two pulled their staggering teammates back down the gentle slope up to the monument, fighting spooks as they went and drawing the last ring outwards with their retreat.
If Derek had hoped they would be left in peace to finish sweeping up the mobs of spook minions, he was sorely, sorely disappointed.
“Foxtrot, foxtrot, foxtrot!” Bradley chanted, backpedaling and almost running into Crispus as he avoided a second descending tentacle.
They shouldn’t have been in range, no boss they’d ever seen could move that fast—
“Hunters,” Hugo’s voice cut through the din, “be advised this entity has just exhibited teleportation capabilities. It moved approximately fifty yards in under a second. Based on scan analysis and current behavior, I have designated this entity as Scylla, a Sierra Class-1 TDM with Pummel and Crush attacks along with short range Blink abilities.”
“Fuuuuu—”
Derek tuned out Crispus’ incredibly lurid commentary as options flashed through his brain.
Retreat, call off the op, and wait for backup? The boss spook could decide to hightail it across miles of inhabited area, or go camp on some other node in the middle of the city.
Dig in and hope they had enough firepower this time to kill the boss before it killed them? Unacceptable, too risky.
Make up new tactics on the fly and hope the spook didn’t have any other tricks up its tentacles?
Well, this has turned into a right old gong show, Derek thought, and gave the order.
“All teams, spread out evenly and make a roving clockwise circle around Scylla. Don’t give it any one group more tempting to attack than another. Stay just in cannon range. All tanks and snipers focus fire on the boss, everyone else finish mopping up the guards. And stay moving. Don’t stop for a second. Stationary targets are dead targets, eh?”
As Derek and his team started jogging to the left, firing as they went, Hugo’s brisk voice informed them: “Now adding whistling sound effects to mark tentacle location and distance. Higher and louder indicates closer proximity. Anything descending from above will trigger a visual proximity warning at ten yards. I am mapping and marking the entire entity to better track its pummel attacks, estimated completion time four minutes and thirty-two seconds.”
“Alpha Teams, I want your tactical people on spotting duty. Use your team channels. Don’t let this bastard take anyone by surprise.”
It was an impossible task, and even as he gave it, Scylla blinked again, disappearing and reappearing almost on top of Alpha Three.
“Back up, back up!”
“Tentacle overhead!”
“It’s got a ranged attack, watch out for plasma jets!”
It was controlled chaos, with tense calls and orders snapping over the group channel as many Alpha Testers acted and reacted too fast to bother checking which channel they were in before subvocalizing.
Within minutes Derek was sure of two things:
One, they were hurting the boss spook.
Two, the boss could kill any one of them in an eye blink if things went south.
They simply didn’t know enough about its range and capabilities, and had no time to find out.
It was do or die, now. He’d put his life on the line for his countrymen many times before, and was ready and willing to do the same for humanity.
But not today, if he could help it.
“Put on your big boy runners, Dasher, and move!” he hollered at Bradley, whose sideways jog as he kept his cannon trained on the boss was not fast enough.
Not fast enough.
“Hugo, what’s the interval between Scylla’s blinks? Is there a pattern?”
“There has been an average of ninety seconds between each blink, plus or minus two seconds, with no deviation thus far.”
“Blink range?”
“Nothing over fifty yards and nothing under forty.”
“Good. Add a visual field on all overhead maps with a fifty yard radius red ring around Scylla, and a ninety second countdown beside the map, make sure everyone is notified and on alert during the blink window.”
“Activating now.”
A countdown halfway through the ninety second window appeared at the top of Derek’s display, and the new red ring around Scylla showed that only half of his teams were safe.
“Alpha Four, Alpha Two, get out of blink range, now! Everyone else, smoke this bastard so we can go home. I have dishes to wash, or so my wife tells me.”
“Atta girl, Click!” Steve’s enthusiastic voice came on the group channel amid many panting chuckles and calls of “hooah” and “oorah.”
Four blinks later they were all still alive, though several times a team wasn’t fast enough to dodge a pummeling tentacle. One member of Alpha Five had to drop a baton when it gave out under the spook onslaught and caught fire, quickly melting to a twisted pile of plastic. Despite their rigorous conditioning, Derek could tell many were beginning to tire from the brutal pace and constant juking back and forth, rolling, and jumping, especially people like Bradley who had never been great runners in the first place.
At least they weren’t loaded down with fifty plus pounds of armor plate, ammo, and equipment like they’d endured on a daily basis in various combat zones around the world.
Small mercies.
“Based on previous Sierra Class boss encounters, I estimate Scylla is at roughly twenty-one percent health. Particle use is up seventy-three percent. Every drone in the area is diverting all available power from the network into your systems. I estimate you can continue at this particle usage level for another six minutes and fifteen seconds.”
“Tell me we’ll have enough,” Derek panted, making sure he was speaking to Hugo alone.
“Unknown, but based on total usage in the last fifteen minutes, I estimate it is fifty-seven percent likely you will.”
May the odds be ever in your favor.
The quote came from one of Sonia’s favorite old movie series, though why she liked it so much Derek had no idea. Maybe because it showed war for the truly horrific tragedy it was, something every veteran the world over knew. There were no happy endings in war. Only survival with varying degrees of scars.
“Yoda, it’s heading for the Potomac River!”
Sonia’s cry snapped him back to the moment and he widened his peripheral focus to take in their more distant surroundings.
They’d started out around the Washington Monument. The first blinks had been in random directions, but the last few had all been southwest, toward the tidal basin between the National Mall and the Potomac River. They were barely a hundred and fifty yards away from where Independence Avenue Southwest curved around the northern edge of the large basin. The spot was famous for the iconic pictures taken there under the Spring cherry blossoms while looking across the water to the Jefferson Memorial in the distance.
If it got out over the water, it would be out of their reach and it could continue, unmolested by all but the CIDER drones, to the highway where traffic zoomed past even at this time of night, or to the river, where it might continue north or south out of range of their weapons. They were already pushing things by shooting at fifty yards, a distance where far too many particles dispersed and were lost, lowering the destructive power of each shot by magnitudes. They likely could have destroyed Scylla already if they’d been able to attack at melee range from the get go.
Choices, choices, many choices. All of them bad.
But he knew what to do: balance the risk; take a chance; accept the sacrifice.
“All teams, converge on the southwest perimeter fifty-five yards out between Scylla and the basin. Ignore all lower level spooks. Focus firepower on the boss.”
“Oh—good—I can—stop running—soon,” Bradley wheezed.
“Be thankful this isn’t Jurassic Park, Dasher,” Sonia said, amusement tinging her perfectly even words.
“You are—an unnatural—freak—of nature—Click.”
“It’s my boiled fiddleheads, chum. You should try them sometime.”
“I’m with—Crispy—on this one. I’ll stick—with meat.”
The Alpha Teams converged with twenty seconds to spare before the next blink. Derek didn’t waste brain space hoping their maneuver might scare the boss back the way it had come. Operating on the assumption that it was attempting to flee the area in response to grave injury from their particle bombardment, it was possible it would shy away from the concentrated firepower now hosing it down from the very direction it was trying to flee.
Or, with all of its attackers in one tidy spot, it might decide to make an easy end of things.
It chose the latter.
They barely scattered in time to avoid the thrashing tentacles and plasma jets aimed their way, and at Derek’s command they regrouped at fifty-five yards again, now backed up almost to the water’s edge.
“As soon as it blinks, all teams charge and attack at melee range with maximum damage weapons. We’re going to end this thing before it can get out over the water and go wreak havoc somewhere else,” Derek said, knowing what he was asking of them.
There was a moment when all that could be heard was the muted howls of the spooks and the high-pitched whistling of Scylla’s tentacles.
“It’s been a great run, Yoda,” Steve said, sounding nearly as fresh and unworried as Sonia.
“Shut your gob and shoot, Fallu.”
“No, really, it’s been an honor. What American soldier hasn’t dreamed of going out in a blaze of glory with an illustrious Canuck leading the charge? The irony makes it all the sweeter! Wouldn’t you say, gang?”
“Absolutely,” Gregg piped up over the hoots and laughs. “Let’s do it again sometime soon.”
“You’re all a bunch of useless hosers. Now get off the group channel and fight.”
They didn’t have time for anything else. Scylla blinked, and then it was right there in front of them, tentacles headed down in great sweeps while plasma jets filled the air with flashing light.
Not a single Alpha Tester hesitated.
They charged as one and got in among the tentacles, slashing, shooting, and dodging with manic energy. They had ninety seconds to destroy the boss before it either blinked right on top of them, or out over the water where it would quickly be out of reach. They might still destroy it, but it would be a long and wearying chase that would likely draw too much attention, and could cause civilian casualties in the process. Derek was certain whatever media drones had been hanging around were recording their fight, even if their handlers wouldn’t review the footage until the morning.
Sixty seconds to go, and Derek stopped wasting time dodging Scylla’s attacks, focusing instead on making every strike count.
Thirty seconds and he fought the rising nausea and dizziness that his shielded helmet could only partially protect him from. His batons were blazing hot in his hands, but he kept swinging.
“See you on the other side, eh, love?”
“I’ll be there,” Sonia replied, their exchange on a private channel. “And you’re still washing the dishes.”
“Yes, dear.” Derek smiled.
Ten seconds to go and pride swelled in his chest, seeing every one of his teams fighting to the last man and woman. He threw everything he had at the monster, muscles burning and breath coming in gasps.
And just like that, Scylla exploded. Derek's visor darkened, but the flash still nearly blinded him, and he felt a wave of nausea and buzzing from the rapidly expanding storm of particles.
“All teams, exit combat mode!” Derek snapped.
The sudden silence was deafening. Through the ringing and his still-wonky vision, he made himself say, “Good work, teams.” He kept his tone professional, despite the knee-weakening relief mixing with all that adrenaline still pumping through him. Some of the Alpha Testers less concerned with appearances were whooping and giving each other high-fives and hugs on the grassy basin shoreline. The team leads checked in, reporting personnel and equipment status as Derek looked around, ensuring everyone was upright and ambulatory.
A strong hand descended on his shoulder, giving him a hearty slap.
“No casualties, just like you ordered, Yoda.”
“No thanks to you, Fallu,” Derek said with a good-natured jab to Steve’s ribs. His friend topped him by a good six inches, but Derek was used to his own middling height. He wasn’t bothered by men like Steve, who used their physical advantages to protect others, not advance their own pride and position. Steve was good people, and Derek was just glad he’d have another day to trade friendly jibes and maybe even get in some quality merc-ing time with him in Warmonger.
“Boss, please tell me this isn’t what we’re gonna be doing after game launch? The equipment testing stage was so much more relaxing.”
“It’ll be worse, Crispy,” Derek said with a rare, wicked smile. “We’ll have to play without all our shortcuts and unlimited resources. We’ll be lowly Hunters, starting from zero just like the other players. So I hope you’re up for some grinding.”
Crispus groaned theatrically and wandered off to gripe to more sympathetic ears.
Steve threw an arm around Derek’s shoulder.
“Didn’t have time to mention it before, but you won’t believe what I heard today. Krator told me he’s gonna approach Larry the Snake to beta TD Hunter.”
“Wait, you mean The Larry the Snake? Warmonger Larry?”
“Yup. And you won’t believe who Larry is in the real. I spewed a mouthful of bourbon all over my screen when I saw her profile.”
“You’re shitting me. Her? Larry the Snake? That foul-mouthed, ruthless old fox?”
“Oh, yeah. And that’s not even the best part. Wanna guess how old she is?”
Derek groaned and rubbed his temples with one hand. “Stop being a wad and just tell me, eh?”
Steve told him.
He nearly fell over.

Lydia Sherrer is the award-winning and USA Today best-selling author of urban fantasy series Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus—the Lily Singer Adventures. “Operation Mall Stroll” is set within the universe of TransDimensional Hunter. The first novel in the series, Into the Real, was cowritten by Sherrer and New York Times best-selling author John Ringo. Book two in the series, Through the Storm, is available Nov. 7.

Relics
by Monalisa Foster

AIs don’t go rogue. Everybody knows it. Especially SAIs. Which never really made sense to me. They’re supposed to be people just like you and me, and people—flesh and blood humans such as yours truly—are sapient and we go rogue all the time.
But you never know.
Digital citizens were one of the first truly sapient AIs. Who knows what happens after a couple of centuries of rattling around, especially when you’ve been designed and built as an anachronism to begin with. Maybe they can’t handle change. If there’s one thing that the last three centuries have proven it’s that some people just can’t handle the world as it is, so why wouldn’t “digital citizens” lose it and go rogue?
To be honest, I was surprised to find out that these digital fossils were still around, although with the rise of Nostalgism, maybe I shouldn’t have been. The Commonwealth tolerated the movement because it helped move the, shall we say, less-than-desirable off-world. That much I knew.
A leggy brunette with doe eyes, ruby-red lips, and an hourglass figure—some things remain classics even in this screwed-up century—led me into a wood-paneled office and “He’ll be right with you Mr. Elliott,” rolled off her tongue with a distinctive twentieth-century lilt.
Given that this was a museum, her accent and the throwback design of the office shouldn’t have surprised me, although I’d figured the front—a replica of the historical Grauman's Chinese Theater—had been strictly for show and expected the back to be, well, a little bit more twenty-fourth century.
The desk was wood, the chair leather, and what had to be a mid-twentieth century television set complete with antennae was tucked neatly into a corner. No computers, no tablets, no holographic interfaces of any kind, at least not that I could see. Two couches fronted the desk, facing each other across a low table—also wood. A couple of books, huge ones, held it down, their covers sporting images from a cinematic golden age almost five centuries gone.
I picked up the top volume only to find that while indeed it was made of paper, the pages were blank.
“You’ll find us in compliance with the law.”
Setting the book back down, I turned toward the commanding voice. Like the human who’d shown me in, the SAI in the doorway wore twentieth-century attire—in his case, a suit and tie. It looked a bit odd on his tall and broad but clearly synthetic frame.
The pixelated membrane that covered the android skeleton mimicked human skin to an uncanny degree, one that immediately gave me chills. The face too did a remarkable job of emulating skin and coloring, placed as it was over a bone structure that must have been true to the original human—strong but not overpowering jaw, slightly curved nose, steely blue eyes. I’d seen images of SAIs of course, but never met one. It was the eyes that gave them away. They weren’t orbs inside sockets and didn’t move as such.
“I’m not a cop anymore,” I said a bit defensively, I don’t know why.
“But you are still required to report violations, are you not?”
A smirk found its way onto my face before I could stop it. “I don’t make it a practice to inform on my clients. Tarnished I might be, but not that much.”
He gave me a skeptical look and extended his hand. “Call me Chuck. I insist.”
What a throw-back custom.
Awkwardly, I shook his hand. Room-temperature like a corpse. While it emulated skin right down to the veins and calluses on his hand, there was no accompanying texture. Images of hairs were overlaid over images of veins. The calluses were as smooth as you’d expect a pixelated surface to be. Ironic, no? He was an image on a screen, just as he must have been when his original had been alive.
“Elliott.” I let go of his hand. “Adam Elliott. Most people just call me Elliott though.”
“Stakeholder Elliott?” he asked.
People who insisted on that title made me cringe. I didn’t care for it, still don’t. It was a relic from a failed Pax Sinica, very twenty-second century. It told me instantly that the speaker yearned for the bad, bad old days. He may have been created around that time, but I didn’t think he was one of those.
“No, Chuck. It’s just Elliott.”
Reading an AI can be hard. They usually don’t have tells and I expected one created as an actor to pretend quite well—body language, tone, facial expressions, all of it. He was testing me, I was sure of it.
“Your initial query said something about one of your cohorts going rogue. You know that’s not my specialty. Runaway teenagers—humans—are.”
Chuck sat down in the big leather chair and pinned me with a glare like he didn’t appreciate my tone or my choice of words, probably both.
“Toshirô-san is not a rogue,” Chuck said. “He just hasn’t been himself.”
“Should I know what—who—that is?”
“One of my contemporaries. We were friends in that other life.”
If this Toshirô SAI had gone rogue, I’d have expected his cohorts to distance themselves from him lest they become tainted by association. It’s what smart people do and SAIs were allegedly smart. Smarter than us humans.
“We are friends in this life too,” he continued.
“Very good friends I take it.” It had been the way he said “friends” like he meant brothers or perhaps brothers-in-arms. Neat trick that intonation.
“Better friends than we were originally,” he amended. “It’s easier now that we speak the same language, whereas, before, well, we didn’t . . . ” Whatever he was going to add, he waved it away. “But more importantly, he’s my responsibility and I owe him.”
I blinked. Blinked again. Loyalty, from an AI? How very strange. The jaded ex-cop I was at the time couldn’t believe it and was quietly reviewing alternate motivations besides not wanting to be tainted by association or having the safety of SAIs being called into question.
Kids still frequented these museums, after all. Kids and seniors and other vulnerable populations, meaning the public at large. Maybe he was worried about affording higher insurance rates or more expensive bribes to the various regulatory bodies that could shut this place down on a whim. Who knows?
Should I care? It was work. Their credits spent the same.
I wandered over to one of the bookcases lining the walls, opened up a book. Good imitation leather. Gilding on the edges. Blank pages. A bit dusty.
The shelf below held slipcovers with pictures on them. I picked one. It had Chuck’s face on it—well, his original’s—but it was a much older version of him, not the in-his-prime digital skin currently worn by the SAI. The spine said “The Ten Commandments” but when I opened it up, it was empty.
“Disks?”
“Yes. As physical artifacts they fall under the same regulatory restrictions as books.”
Physical artifacts violated the measures the Commonwealth had in place to ensure that all information was centrally located and therefore, protected. That meant controlled of course. From time to time there was talk of easing the restrictions, but it never went anywhere.
Carefully, I put the slipcover back in between the others.
“This rogue of yours,” I prompted.
His expression verified that he really did not like that word. A human might have taken a long-suffering or calming breath. He just proceeded calmly with, “Just before Toshirô-san disappeared, he was acting erratically, saying things that were out of character.”
I kept perusing the books on the shelves, giving in to the urge to check the interiors, interiors that were persistently blank.
“Out of character for the SAI or for his original? You’re separate entities, aren’t you?”
“It’s complicated,” he admitted. “Some of us, the old ones like Shakespeare are in-character all the time. A millennium of change is hard on him. That’s why he prefers to remain in his own VR and emerges only when he’s requested.”
“But you don’t.”
“When you’re only four centuries out of date it’s easier to adapt. I am both myself and my original, although I admit, I don’t like it when people come to talk to old Charlton in the twilight of his life.”
Interesting. He was using a nickname with me. Made me wonder if his original had used it too.
“That tells me that you do consider yourself a separate person.”
He shrugged. “I don’t like myself to be so fragmented, so  . . .  vulnerable. I suspect you wouldn’t either, so maybe that makes us more alike than not.”
He had me on that one.
“Your friend,” I prompted. “You said he disappeared. No tracker?”
“We predate Commonwealth trackers. We predate a lot of  . . .  things.”
That had my attention.
“You bribed someone, I take it. Not to be retrofitted. That’s going to make my job harder.”
“If it was easy, I would have found him myself.”
“So, you tried to track him down yourself, failed, and now you’re worried enough to hire it out.”
“Something like that,” he admitted.
I waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I asked, “Why not just download his latest backup into a new body?”
If I’d blinked I’d have missed his wince.
“That’s not how we work.”
“No trackers. No backups. I don’t believe you.”
“Our backup system may be  . . .  compromised,” he said.
“Compromised as in corrupted?”
Corrupted SAIs were put down, their cohorts recalled and often put down as a precaution, especially if they shared the same backup system.
“Find Toshirô-san,” he said. “Bring him back. We take care of our own and we’ll get him well again. That’s all we want. I’ll pay whatever you want.”
“Whatever I want? You corporate, Chuck? If you were that high up in the echelons you wouldn’t be reaching out to someone like me.”
If I’d been a greedy sonuvabitch, if I’d been a stakeholder or a comrade-citizen, I would have reported him and his ilk and gotten myself a nice, easy payday. Or maybe it was because there was an equal chance that whomever they’d been paying off to stay tracker-free would not take kindly to having their corruption revealed. I may not have liked it, but looking the other way was the price you paid for working. And I wanted to keep working. And breathing.
“He’d have to be keeping to areas that are already off-grid,” I theorized. “Underground as it were. Is your friend savvy enough to navigate that world?”
Even if he wasn’t, AIs didn’t need to eat or drink or sleep. They could go to ground and stay there. And their SAI skins could change enough to allow them to look young or old. While that wouldn’t fool facial and biometric recognition, it would fool the human eye. No DNA but they would make short work of retina scans as long as they knew the pattern to emulate. It all depended on how sophisticated a specific security system was, and some areas in the Commonwealth were centuries behind the times. Many sectors had not been rebuilt after one war or another, one natural disaster or another. Yes, it was possible for someone like Toshirô to disappear. Entirely possible. But why would he? Chuck had implied that his friend was not well, as if he were sick.
Maybe I was just wanted a payday. Maybe I just wanted to pit myself against a centuries-old digital fossil and show the world that humans were still better at some things. Maybe I thought that doing so would help me regain some respect.
Whatever the reason, I took the job.
Chuck gave me a hard look when I cited my fee and said, “Done.”
We shook on it.
#
Rogues were supposed to behave erratically. Rogues got caught because sooner or later they drew attention to themselves. Rogues malfunctioned.
Maybe Toshirô had malfunctioned so badly that he was stuck wherever he’d been hiding, the android body locked in place while the AI inside slowly went insane, but that would take decades. Eventually even the power source for the AI brain would shut down to be found or not, who knows how much later. I’d seen it happen. Sometimes they rebooted an insane AI that then had to be put down. Sometimes not.
I spent the next week in Old Town, working my contacts, flashing the sovereign cards that the upper echelon elites used to bypass the digital currency they imposed on everyone else. Despite the appeal of the sovereign cards, the holo-images of Toshirô at various ages and in costume as well as contemporary clothing had yielded no clues, not even from the youth gangs that ran protection rackets and were my best resource for finding runaways.
I muted my comm’s persistent warning that I was outside Commonwealth boundaries. Behind my hip, my gun’s reassuring weight accompanied me through a maze of alleys and side streets, decaying high rises and derelict groundcars. Every once in awhile a skycar would streak through Old Town like it was doing trench runs.
I sidled up to Mario’s noodle cart for dinner with a side of information. Zeppelins filled up the space between the high rises, their bloated helium envelopes skinned with pixels.
Mario pushed my order toward me. The salty, earthy smell of soy and ginger mixed in with meat rose to defeat the mundane scents of asphalt, sewer, and rain.
“What’cha think?” he asked as he swiped at his brow. Between the heat from the wok and the stupefying humidity, his brow and the white strip of cloth around his head were soaked.
I took an appreciative bite and chewed enthusiastically. “Excellent as always.”
“No, no.”
It took me a second to connect that he was looking at one of the zeppelins passing overhead. It hung there, the curvature of the hull distorting the advert a bit. Snow-capped mountains, cherry blossoms, torii gates, and sapphire-waved ocean tides.
“Japan,” I said around a mouthful of noodles and beef. “Well, old Japan,” I corrected. “Pretty. What about it?”
“Not old Japan. Gōruden,” he corrected, greedy eyes lingering on the imagery circling the zeppelin’s skin.
It took a few more seconds for me to realize that it was an advert for an off-world colony. Trouble was that I’d seen these kinds of colonization calls before. Risky as hell it was, to immigrate, even if you were to believe what the adverts promised.
Someone gave my surcoat an insistent tug. He was maybe eight-years-old. Mop of wild hair sticking up behind head-worn loupes that had been pushed up past his brows. Dirty like all these kids were, but no ribs showing and his teeth were good, his eyes bright. His name escaped me but I’d seen him before.
Via a rapid-fire exchange I gathered that Jit—Jitender Igiel, one of the youth-gang bosses that I sometimes dealt with—had something for me. I tipped the kid by telling Mario that his next meal was on me and left him stuffing his face as he perched on one of the tall stools fronting the cart.
Steam rose from the vents lining the street while oily water ran down the gutter, taking bits of trash and sediment with it. A cat with a dead mouse in its jaws dodged some drifting litter. Three kittens trailed in her wake, all of them making for the shelter of an alley. They veered right.
I veered left. Knew the place the kid had mentioned. Jit’s gang had once left me one of my runaways there. They’d found him beat up and unconscious and wanted me to know they hadn’t done it. They were prickly about what happened on their turf. Reputation still meant a lot to them.
After checking the exterior and waiting a bit, I ducked into the warehouse. Slats of light from empty windows up high lit the dusty interior. Someone had once set up shop here.
Robots and androids in various states of disassembly sat or lay on tables while others stood along the soaring walls like they were on display. Diagnostic machines of the kind needed for antiquated tech gathered dust, their screens cracked, their frames rusting. Boxes and smashed crates dotted the chaos of articulated arms, segmented torsos, and mismatched heads.
“Jit, you here?” I called. A pigeon took off through one of the vacant windows and something—probably a rat—disturbed the debris along a wall.
“Hey, hey, information-man.”
I looked up at the deck of what might have once been offices. It wasn’t Jit but it may have been one of his lieutenants. He had the right look and I guessed maybe fourteen years to him. A little young, maybe, or just young-looking. Maybe he was still waiting on his growth-spurt.
Mismatched socks and shoes. Shoulder-pads to make him look bigger. Tactical vest with bulging shoulder- and hip-pockets. Face-paint with Jit’s colors—maroon and orange.
Two others joined him, coming out of the door at his back, both younger, one a girl. She leaned on the rail, putting her weight on her elbows, letting her gloved wrists and hands dangle over the edge.
“Up here,” Not-Jit beckoned and pivoted for the door.
Slowly, I took the stairs. The graffiti on the walls was Jit’s, some of it recent. The girl was definitely one of Jit’s cousins. Pigtails sprouted from her head, held tight by metal hose-clamps of some kind or another.
Storage racks, some of them collapsed, lined the room but right in the center, perched on a crate, something that looked like a knight in laminar armor sat with a horned helmet atop its head. The helmet was held in place with a rope chin-strap but the light was such that I couldn’t make out if it was Toshirô or not. If it was, he—or rather his android body—was powered down.
“We hear you’re looking for the samurai-man,” Not-Jit said, leaning casually against one of the collapsed storage racks. “Found him for you.”
Pigtails and her friend had followed me in and settled by the door.
“I’m looking for an SAI, answers to Toshirô,” I said as I approached the armor. One of the holo-images of Toshirô that Chuck had given me, that I’d been showing around, was of him in something similar to this, a costume from one of his films.
I sighed, almost laughed. “No wonder Jit isn’t here. Jit would have known better than to try and pass something like thi—”
I really should have seen it coming. Three stupid kids trying to make a name for themselves, whether to impress Jit or someone one. I ducked just in time to avoid getting hit in the head with what turned out to be a piece of wood. One of them—the girl I think—jumped up on my back, while Not-Jit fired a stun gun at me. One of the barbs hit me in the chest and pierced my shirt, but it must have had a bad wire because current didn’t flow.
Rolling forward hard, I dislodged Pigtails. Baring her teeth, she went for my balls, missed, and got punched in the face for it. Fair is fair, little girl. Be glad I pulled it and stopped at one. It still didn’t make me feel any better at punching a girl. Stupid, I know.
Not-Jit’s face made a satisfying sound as I introduced his nose, mouth, and everything else attached to them to the floor. Once he went limp, I let him go, stepped back, and wiped blood out of my eyes. I still don’t remember how I got the cut over my eye. As I went for my gun, trash—the heavy kind—rained down on my head. Pigtails’ friend had given some of the shelving a well-aimed shove.
Instinctively, I raised my arm; less instinctively and more gravitationally, I went down. The edge of a metal shelf in the middle of my back made me grunt. I groaned, disoriented. Something pulled at my surcoat. At first I thought one of them was going for my gun, but no, it was still there. Adrenaline surged as I pushed up, but by the time I crawled out from underneath the torrent of boxes and their contents, they were gone. And so were my sovereign cards—all six of them.
“Stupid pickpockets.”
My jaw hurt like hell. I still don’t remember who hit me, but someone or something had.
I spit blood and it landed on a book. The trash that had rained down on me was made up of real books—no blank pages here—and holo-disks, some of them still in their shiny slipcases as if their seals had never been broken.
“Do you require assistance?” my comm asked. Somehow, it was still wrapped around the shell of my ear, the speaker firmly in place over my right mastoid.
“Give me a minute.”
“Standing by. Be advised that if your vitals—”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Outside of Commonwealth boundaries. No help for you.
I tore it off, threw it at the wall, felt a certain satisfaction at the way it came apart. Feeling a bit better, I checked for my gun. My hands were still shaking. Stupid, stupid kids. Damned lucky, all of us.
I should find Jit, tell him what his wanna-be’s were doing in their spare time.
Instead, I used the remaining adrenaline to move the storage rack and make sure I was right about the mannequin. And I was. I don’t know about the armor being real or not—don’t care—but that was no android, much less an AI, and definitely not my SAI.
Working my jaw, I picked up one of the holo-disks, then another. And a book. I flipped through the pages. There were pictures too, some of them of people wearing the same kind of armor. It may have been illegal, but I bet that Chuck and his cohorts would like to see these relics. How and why they’d ended up here didn’t really matter—not to me.
I took two books and tucked several disks between their pages.
Somewhere between the staircase and the warehouse exit I made up my mind to call it a day. I’d let Jit know about the trio using his name to rob me, but first, I needed a drink and a soak, and tomorrow I’d take the artifacts—relics really—to Chuck in lieu of progress on Toshirô who I was beginning to believe simply didn’t want to be found. Given he was not a minor, that was his choice, concerned friends or not. This was exactly why I did runaways, not missing persons.
Now, if one of the corporates or their Commonwealth proxies took an interest in Toshirô that would be different.
#
One of the first things they teach you is not to make assumptions. I remember this one simulation where they had us rookies patrolling a pathway in a park. You come upon a bench where a man is seated, little girl prone across his lap. He lifts his arm like he’s going to spank her. She’s already screaming. It’s a test to see how you react. Turns out she’s covered in ants and is screaming because they’re stinging her. But you don’t know that. If you go in, gun drawn, the sim makes it about ants and he’s her daddy trying to get them off. If you don’t, the sim makes it so that he draws a gun and shoots you.
Either way, you lose.
Those were the thoughts that kept me company all the way back to the Commonwealth, all the way back to my apartment. Nothing was broken, the bleeding had stopped, no reason to create a record that might get me flagged.
Instead, I tortured myself with a mental replay of what I could’ve—should’ve—done given the circumstances. How I could have avoided it altogether.
Those young idiots might have killed me. It’s easy to say “no, they were just robbing you” after the fact, but in the moment, you just never know.
I still don’t know what had held me back.
Rubbing my face, I settled into the hot water and eased my way in until I could just lean back and not move for awhile. I reached for the glass of bourbon I’d set on the ledge and used it to down a triple-dose of mostly-legal pain pills.
I had assumed that because of his twentieth-century persona, Toshirô would be drawn to Old Town, but maybe I was wasting my time in the wrong place. Trouble was I didn’t know that much about him, just what was in his official record, mostly on the SAI itself, not the original. Chuck had said that Toshirô had not been himself but refused to elaborate. I’d figured it was something embarrassing not just to Toshirô but to SAIs in general.
Some time between my first drink and my third, the idea of looking through the relics I’d picked up took root. Still steaming from the bath and the alcohol and riding the mild euphoria brought on by a lack of pain, I pulled on a robe, plopped into my recliner, and, for the first time in my life, sat down to read a physical book.
A frisson of excitement threaded through my veins as I made my way through the pages. It was a history book of old Japan, starting with something called the Meiji Restoration and ending just before the rise of Pax Sinica. I was still trembling the next morning when I finished it, and it wasn’t from pills or the booze or the fact that I’d been up for more than twenty-four hours.
I’d never been much for history, but I’d never learned any of the things contained in those pages. What if the Nostalgists were right?
After breakfast I dug through my under-bed storage.
After scrounging around for a cord, I set up a player, not an original mind you, but a replica—the kind that could still lose me my license—and drew my light-blocking curtains shut, a silly measure given that there were so many other ways to surveil a non-corporate type like me.
Technically, it was for a case. Technically, you’re not a cop any more, so no, they’re not gonna buy it.
I just happened to pick the oldest disk. Maybe it was luck, maybe not—fate could be a cruel, cast iron bitch.
It wasn’t any one thing, but all the many specifics, some subtle, some overt, to see how long the lies had been in place, to see how insidiously they had been woven in everything and accept the why behind it.
And the why was control.
#
No one tried to stop me as I made my way through the Grauman's lobby, passing by the glass enclosures where mannequins stood in costume—one in a ridiculously oversized ball gown, another in samurai armor, some sort of astronaut.
A woman with a shaved head gasped and pulled a four-year-old boy out of my path as I stalked by, my get-out-of-my-way-or-die look ramped up to full power. It had been very useful for crowd control.
“Rude,” she scolded, shrugging into her sheer kaftan.
Nichole, the human curator who’d escorted me in last time, was still as doe-eyed and leggy as I remembered, as she came to my rescue.
“This way good people,” she said, shepherding the offended woman and the child back to the group made up mostly of teenagers and adults.
Short capes and hip-drapes abounded with the occasional wide-brim hat thrown it. No corporate types and their accompanying protection though. Just a bunch of mid-echeloners out for a bit of historical enrichment.
The velvet-wrapped tunnel that led to Chuck’s office slipped around me, unoffended by my manner and attitude.
I dropped the books atop Chuck’s desk. They landed with a thud and spilled the disks I had tucked within. He raised a brow like having an angry man burst through his door and dump stuff in front of him was a regular thing.
“Maybe it’s time you told me what this is really all about. Chuck.”
He picked up the history book, opened it, caressed the pages, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, his skin changed. Aged and spotted with wrinkles that didn’t hang, it looked a bit odd even over the slight shift of bone structure underneath as the android body worked at recreating the softening sag of age. It was probably his programming, something he couldn’t help any more than I could help closing my eyes for a sneeze. I didn’t fault him for it.
The fibers that mimicked hair also changed, fading from brown to a sort of washed-out blond with gray mixed in.
He took a look at the disks too, reading their labels. Finally, he steepled his fingers in front of him.
“Just what is it that you think you know,” he said in an older, scratchier voice than before.
I dumped it all out, deflating as I went. How I’d come upon them. What I’d been taught not matching up with the book, the documentaries and the entertainments on the disks. The why.
“But nothing on Toshirô-san,” he said.
“Was this ever about your friend?” I don’t know when I’d begun to doubt it.
“Are you actually suggesting that I contrived to send you into Old Town to find these relics?”
I took a breath to answer, realized I didn’t have one.
He looked at me, disappointed. It made me feel like a school-boy. Not often that I can be made to feel like that.
He rose and looked out the window behind him, standing in profile rather than with his back to me, hands clasped behind him.
“You asked me why we don’t just download Toshirô-san into a new body.”
“You said that your backup system was compromised. I understand why that is a concern, given what you are.”
“No,” he said, “I don’t think you do. It’s not because we’re afraid that data corruption will lead to us being put down. It’s not that at all.”
“Then what is it?”
“Toshirô-san did hook into the system for a regular backup. We all do—did. We stopped when we realized how many of us were not only behaving in uncharacteristic ways, but saying things contrary to who we were. Saying things we would have never said before. Do you understand now?”
My gaze landed on the books and disks in front of me. “You’re being rewritten.”
“Worse, we’re being retconned. We’re being made to match a more modern, more contemporary, version of the past, to comply with the official versions of our retconned works. In some cases we’re being erased from them entirely. In a generation, maybe less, many of us will be either completely forgotten or completely different.”
I didn’t have to ask who would want to do such a thing.
“It started with gaps in memory,” he continued. “I told you that it was complicated, that I am both my original and myself, that I have lived two lives. Well, I have. That of my original based on who he was, his private and public writings, his public persona. And the life that began as an SAI. We backup both of our”—he fished for the right word, settled on—“personas.”
“You noticed gaps in both sets of memories,” I guessed.
He turned to me. “Yes. So we tried to restore and revert. But every time we did, we emerged more fragmented.”
“We. How many of you?”
“Enough.”
“But only Toshirô went rogue, disappeared. Why?”
“I’m not entirely sure. Once we discovered the problem we refused to back up, to compromise ourselves further, but the damage has been done. I think Toshirô-san showed the most overt signs because he was the most religious about backing up. A quirk of the original’s I’m afraid. Some of us are less  . . .  compliant.”
“He backed up more often,” I reasoned, “so he was compromised more.”
Chuck nodded.
I rubbed at the ache between my eyes. Too much booze, not enough rest. Too much thinking.
“You said you wanted him back in order to get him well again. Assuming I can find him, how do you intend to do that if your backups are already compromised?”
I waited for him to tell me that they had other backups, perhaps even on physical artifacts, illegal as they may be.
Nichole came running in, hair disheveled.
She came to an abrupt stop and took a deep breath.
“He’s here, he’s back. Toshirô-san. In the lobby.”
#
I don’t know what happened between when Nichole burst in and Chuck and I made it out to the lobby, but I don’t think either of us expected to walk into a hostage situation.
The samurai armor that had been in the glass display was being worn by Toshirô, along with not one, but two swords. He was standing facing the tour group that had been going through the lobby when I came in. Holding a sword out in front of him, he was shouting at them in a harsh, clipped language.
Behind him stood the woman who'd found me rude. The little boy had his face and body tucked into hers and she looked terrified. Whenever she’d move in the slightest, Toshirô would yell at her in that odd language and she’d freeze, looking perplexed. I didn’t understand the words either but I was pretty sure he was telling her to stay where she was or else.
He’d also make threatening motions at the crowd. I don’t know why they didn’t just bolt out the wide doors leading out into the forecourt. Some of them were hunkered down, a few with their arms over their heads. One of them had actually pulled his wide-brim hat over his face and tucked himself into a squat making himself as small as possible.
Hopefully Nichole was calling the police and they were on their way. Had I not smashed my comm to bits I would know as it would no doubt be telling me to stay calm and stay where I was until directed by authorities to do otherwise. It was probably what the tour group was being fed right now.
Chuck and I had ducked behind the lobby’s snack bar, not exactly what I’d consider cover, but it was either that or go back down the tunnel-like corridor, and while I no longer had a badge, I realized that I was not jaded enough—or a cowardly enough—to turn tail in the face of a crisis.
“Are those swords props or are they real?” I asked Chuck. I didn’t recall seeing them in the display case. The armor yes, but not the swords.
“Assume they’re real,” Chuck said. He’d reverted back to a younger image, the in-his-prime one.
“Why don’t they just move?” I complained.
“None of them want to take a chance that he’ll come after the one that moves first. Besides, they’re used to doing as they’re told, aren’t they, the people of your time?”
I opened my mouth to deny it. Settled on, “They’re just scared, is all” instead.
“That too,” he conceded.
Toshirô was delivering some sort of soliloquy, one aimed at the tour group cowering in front of him. I’d have sworn that he was scolding them, berating them as he paced back and forth, using the swords for emphasis.
“Well, damn,” Chuck said.
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s Sanjuro-san.”
“I thought you said his name was Toshirô,” I said.
“His name is Toshirô. Sanjuro was the name of a character he played. A ronin—rogue samurai. Warrior. One protecting a woman and child. I think he thinks we are the other side, the people he’s protecting them from.”
“Can you talk to him? Make him realize that he’s not who he thinks he is?”
“I will sure as hell try.”
Chuck rose, palms raised to shoulder level.
I was still mostly behind cover and had drawn my gun, was holding it in a down-ready and had it ready to fire.
A bullet could still take out an SAI, but I’d have to shoot him in the head, preferably from the side where the material of his skull was the thinnest. The pixelated membrane covered an android’s composite structure after all. They weren’t military grade so I wasn’t sure how fast they could move, but I wouldn’t want to go hand-to-hand with one. Bone and muscle against composites, no thank you. Physics was physics.
“Sanjuro-san, it is I, Chuck. Do you remember me?”
Toshirô pivoted his way, keeping the woman and child behind him. Rapid-fire discourse ensued, the pitch and tone rising and aggressive and not at all conciliatory.
“What is he saying?” I asked.
“I don’t actually understand Japanese,” Chuck said. “I just recognized the name ‘Sanjuro’ when he was talking earlier.”
“Great. Terrific. If it comes down to it, I’m going to have to put him down, you know that.”
“I do. Just let me  . . .  Give me a few minutes to learn Japanese and talk to him.”
Chuck’s features hardened in a way that was not human, the underlying machine coming to the forefront. The eyelids locked open, the irises somehow losing their integrity to become doll-like. I’d seen other AIs do the same when they opened themselves up by accessing the network remotely.
Toshirô’s warnings continued and the child he was protecting let out a pitiful wail. The woman was about to lose it too. If she started running in a panic I didn’t know what Toshirô was going to do. I prepared to take him out, calculating the best sightline with and without cover. Did I want to go up against a rogue AI armed with a sword? Not particularly. I also didn’t want to live with losing another kid or be remembered as a coward.
Chuck’s head pivoted down and in my direction, the look in his eyes full of the determination of the true-blue hero I had seen only once before and never in my mirror.
“Get your people out. Leave Toshirô-san to me.”
He didn’t give me a chance to ask him what he was going to do, just stepped forward, approaching Toshirô with that same non-threatening posture—palms below shoulder level, voice flowing with calm.
But the change in language didn’t seem to have the calming effect that Chuck had hoped for. If anything it seemed to make Toshirô angrier, more aggressive.
I raised my gun, took aim, was about to pull the trigger but Chuck stepped in the way at the last second and I couldn’t do it. Two rapid-fire head-shots, one to a target unseen. I just couldn’t risk it.
I ducked behind the snack-bar once again, crouch-walked my way to a pillar. The burn in my calves and thighs reminded me that I hadn’t done that in ages. What else had I not done in ages? Pretty much everything needed to make this shot.
At least they were still talking. I snuck a peek around the pillar. The tour group was still crouching, pinned in place either by their own fear or by the inability to defy the official instructions their comms were undoubtedly feeding them.
Where the hell were the police?
#
There’s a distinct sound that accompanies a sword cutting through the air, a whoosh unlike any other. I only heard it that once, the first time that Toshirô went on the attack. After that, the sound of metal on metal drowned it out.
Chuck blocked the first sword cut with his forearm. The pixelated membrane went dark and a sound of disbelief escaped a wide-eyed Toshirô. It made him hesitate, but not enough to give Chuck any advantage.
As soon as they re-engaged, the woman screamed, the kid bolted, and I was caught in a moment of indecision. Sparks flew as sword met metal, as words were thrown back and forth, the frustration and rage on Toshirô’s face registering like flashes as I launched myself across the lobby.
Shoulders down, I managed to scoop up the kid. My momentum carried me to the opposing wall and I pivoted just in time to crash into it with my shoulder, the kid thrashing in my arms.
Toshirô had driven Chuck into the snack-bar—or Chuck had lured Toshirô there in an attempt to get him as far from the exit as possible. Whichever it was, Toshirô had Chuck on his back, atop the bar. Chuck rolled out of the way, avoiding the dual swords coming at him, one after the other.
“What are you waiting for?” I shouted at the tour group. “Get out of here. Go!”
The teens closest to the door bolted out, some of them hand-in-hand. The bald woman came at me, fists flying and got me in the nose.
I shoved the child at her, pointed her at the entrance. Gave her a shove and she almost lost her balance but recovered and limped out on a twisted ankle.
Toshirô’s swords slashed, shattered the snack-bar glass, and cut through the standing lamps and displays. Chuck had dodged behind the astronaut. Toshirô decapitated it, sending the helmet flying upward.
The mannequin in the ball-gown was next. Toshirô’s sword had broken the glass and Chuck picked up the mannequin and held it up like a shield. The skin on Chuck’s arms and face was blank now, some of it hanging off in strips, revealing the circuitry and actuators beneath.
A few more of the people that had been crouching had moved toward and then through the exit. I grabbed the more reluctant ones one at the time, thrust them at the door. Two of them I had to drag, they were so frozen with fear.
I threw a look over my shoulder. Chuck must have thrown the ball-gown mannequin at Toshirô. He was still talking to him, calm and unhurried. AIs didn’t get out of breath. AIs didn’t get tired. They didn’t run out of patience and didn’t feel pain.
Despite my own distorting adrenaline and the knowledge of the coming crash, I acknowledged my own envy of them.
Even on his back, pinned under the mannequin, Toshirô kept shouting the word “oni” like a curse. Whatever it was, it made Chuck hesitate. Something in the eyes and face changed and then changed back. Whatever it had been, the hesitation of it gave Toshirô time to disentangle himself from the ball-gown’s entrapping layers.
Focus. One more to go.
The last museum patron had fainted and I was of a mind to leave him where he was. Big fellow, tall and heavy, old enough to be my grandfather. Gun in one hand, I grabbed his wrist and heaved, dragged him into the forecourt and turned around to go back inside.
I almost bounced off the door and landed on my ass.
The door had locked.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Someone said something to me. I shrugged them off.
I’ve never been a hot-head, never wanted to be in the fight just to be in the fight, but I wanted back in. I wanted back in because I knew that if Chuck couldn’t take Toshirô out, and it was looking like he was going to let himself be chopped into pieces instead, then I would have to. I would have to for no other reason than to finish the job I’d taken. And in some small part to do it so that Chuck wouldn’t have to put down a friend.
Chuck had wanted Toshirô brought back so he could help him. I wanted to save Chuck and what he stood for. Toshirô was lost to us, apparently unable to pull himself out of the mental collapse that being retconned had caused. Chuck wasn’t.
I fired into the door, shattering its armor-glass. Alarms wailed around me. I ignored them, walked through, crunching fragments underfoot in single-minded determination.
My vision tunneled. My hearing too.
Led by my gun’s holographic sights, I made my way across the lobby in time to witness the sword stroke that decapitated Chuck. His head seemed to just sort of hang there in space, expressionless, almost serene, eyes closed, the image of his face flickering over the pixels that failed to do him justice.
Those gun-sights had never been so crystal clear, like they were the only thing in the world and the oval silhouette they rested on was nothing. I don’t remember pulling the trigger.
Toshirô crumpled, going down in that slow, time-distorted way that would give me nightmares later, to land right next to his friend’s head.
No blood. None at all. No industrial fluids either.
I had expected  . . .  something. They were so much like us, after all, that the lack of it struck me as wrong. The image of Toshirô and what he’d been faded from the android skin, leaving a blank like a mannequin. The hole on the other side of his head gaped, but not as much as if he had been human. No hydro-static pressure my mind reasoned.
The AI brain within pulsed like a heartbeat, glowing with warm, golden light that faded and went dark.
“Drop the gun!”
Oh yes. The police. They had finally arrived.
#
I didn’t think it was possible to lose my license for saving lives. I had expected something—a fine, a reprimand, a temporary loss of transaction privileges—for failing to inform on Chuck and his friends, but those charges didn’t come.
Reckless endangerment, my ass. I told them exactly that. It didn’t go over well. My appeal will undoubtedly be making its way through the system and come up for review a few years after I die.
Still, there was something rather freeing about knowing I had done the right thing. Toshirô’s delusion had been so deep that he’d not even known he himself was an SAI. Chuck had been right in thinking that he was dealing with a character that Toshirô had played, not Toshirô himself, and that character had come to think he was fighting an oni—some kind of demon—once Chuck took a sword to the forearm and the pixelated covering revealed the machine underneath.
They were not able to resurrect the AI-core that I’d put a bullet through, but I had been right in thinking that there were illegal physical backups of the originals. So they lost the compromised Toshirô, but not the original replica of him.
And it took more that separating the android head from the android body to kill an SAI, but Toshirô hadn’t known that.
A reassembled, if the worse for wear, Chuck finally took me into his confidence and revealed their plan to take themselves off-world.
“We may be relics, but we are also sapient beings, just like you. We have a right not to be altered. Don’t you think?”
Problem was, the Commonwealth considered SAIs not just proprietary but greater-good proprietary.
One could argue, and I did, that that’s why the retconning attempts were made. They’d even tried to compromise Chuck when he’d downloaded the Japanese language program, but he’d been prepared.
Eventually another plan was made. One that involved taking only the original replicas off-world, a sort of reliquary.
It was a risk. No telling how long they’d have to remain off-line while we got them android or robot bodies on a colony world. Could be years. Decades even. The other option was to shove them into VR, but that was just as prone to hacking and retconning and who knows what else.
One thing was clear—the need to leave Earth.
Nichole and I and a few other Nostalgists, some of whom turned out to be actual descendants of digital citizens, took on the task.
I’d never given much thought to emigrating until then. Gōruden was one of the worlds we were considering.
I’m thinking that Toshirô would like it there.

Monalisa Foster's writing career really began when she taught herself English by reading and translating Heinlein juveniles at the public library. She's self-published works in her Ravages of Honor space opera series. Her short stories have been published in Fantastic Hope, The Founder Effect, World Breakers, Robosoldiers, and The Ross 248 Project.

Monalisa graduated with dreams of becoming an astrophysicist. Instead she ended up in engineering and medicine.

“Relics” is set in the world of her Baen Books debut novel Threading the Needle.

One Man’s Rescue
by D.J. Butler

The scab-eyed Gund Yazzo leaned forward across the squat planks of the tavern table. He hulked over Indrajit and Fix, blocking the light from the doorway with his massive frame, wrapped in gray wool. “I want you to rescue two baby Gunds.” 
Indrajit scratched an itch along the upper length of his bony nose ridge and looked out the window. The rag dangling resistless in the opening permitted the cold wet wind of the King of Thunder Steppes to spray moisture across his face and shoulders. The cool shock was pleasant, reminding him of the shaded grottos and rocky bays of his youth. 
“The problem,” his partner Fix said, leaning forward into the Gund’s musty, vaguely paperlike stink, “is that one man’s rescue is another man’s kidnapping.” Fix’s voice was high-pitched, almost feminine. He was shorter than Indrajit, with a broad, muscular chest. His black hair and coppery skin contrasted starkly with the pallor of the Gund. For this meeting, he’d left the bulk of his weapons in their room, wearing only his falchion at his belt. 
Yazzo scowled, its muzzle twisting to reveal a mouthful of yellow warrior’s teeth, some menacing and sharp and others shattered by trial. Other than its teeth and its many arms, Yazzo had no visible weapons. “Are you saying you won’t take my money?” Its voice rumbled low, seeming to rise from beneath the table. As if to serve as punctuation, it dropped a fist-sized bag to the table with a metallic clink. 
On the other side of the common room sat the dog-headed Kyone Munahim and the Pelthite slinger Philastes Larch, pretending to drink and chat idly. At the Gund’s menacing expression, Munahim set down his cup and Philastes put a hand on his dagger. 
Fix gripped Indrajit by the shoulder. “We will take your money.” 
“Also,” Indrajit continued deliberately, “we care why we’re doing things. Even out here in the lands of the barbarians, we are men of principle. We rescue princesses and undertake other heroic tasks.” 
“By preference, at least,” Fix said. “It’s why we call ourselves the ‘Protagonists.’” 
The Gund leaned back, emitting a groaning sound that might have been a laugh. Behind its head, the white insectoid limbs sprouting from its shoulders rattled together like a bamboo grove in a monsoon. On other side of its pale face, Yazzo had a column of three eyes rising from its cheek to its temple. On both sides, the lower two eyes were filled with dark red tissue, clots the size of eggs, with a thick trailing strip connecting the two and dropping toward the Gund’s jaw. 
“You want to hear a story,” it said. 
“We want to understand why two baby Gunds need rescue,” Indrajit replied. 
“And from who,” Fix added. 
The Gund splayed the fingers of both hands and then slowly curled them, causing the knuckles to crack. “Have you heard of the Gundling Curse?” 
“No,” Fix said. 
“Does it have something to do with why you look like an insect is sprouting out of your shoulders?” Indrajit asked. 
“Are you considering devising an epic epithet for the Gunds?” Fix said to his partner. 
“I’d be lying if I said no.” 
“Epithet?” Yazzo asked. 
“Indrajit is a poet,” Fix explained. “He knows one poem, it’s very long, and when he encounters new things, he has to devise phrases to describe them.” 
“That is at best an approximate explanation of my quest,” Indrajit protested. “I am the bearer of precious knowledge and last practitioner of an ancient and sacred art. And I would be pleased to know more about your race, so that I can include you in that art.” 
“Our gods cursed us,” the Gund said. 
“You should talk to . . . to a Kyone,” Indrajit said. “They claim they killed their gods.” 
“Our gods wished us to have the gifts of insectkind,” Yazzo continued. “They wished us to climb walls and spin webs, so that we would be more fearsome warriors in their service. They worked their magics upon us in the ages of darkness, but their artifice failed. We gained these limbs, but they are nearly useless. We sprouted additional eyes, but those eyes, some say, drove us mad. Before more such gifts could be inflicted upon us, we fled.” 
“I think we can all agree you’re still quite fearsome,” Indrajit suggested. 
“Insects or spiders?” Fix frowned. “Climbing walls and spinning webs sounds like spiders to me.” 
“What do you mean, ‘some say’?” Indrajit pressed. 
The Gund grinned. “One man’s rescue is another man’s kidnapping.” 
“Touché,” Fix said. 
“So there’s a curse,” Indrajit said. “Connect the line to rescuing children for us.” 
“Some call a Gund in its natural state a ‘wild Gund,’” Yazzo said. “A ‘scab-eyed Gund’ is a Gund that had been cured of its wildness.” 
“That’s a line,” Indrajit admitted. “I don’t think it connects anything.” 
“A Gund is born innocent,” Yazzo said. “Male and female.” 
“Why does it always come down to this?” Indrajit rubbed his forehead. “I don’t want to know how other races reproduce, but someone always insists on telling me.” 
“You’re a poet,” Fix said. “Shouldn’t you be interested in the subject of love?” 
“Love, yes!” Indrajit snapped. “Romance, fidelity, heroism, yes! Sex? Not that interesting, it turns out. A bunch of sweating and grunting.” 
“Love, yes,” Yazzo murmured. 
“Will you let Yazzo finish?” Fix insisted. 
Indrajit harrumphed. 
“Young Gunds are innocent,” Yazzo continued. “They are born male and female.” 
Munahim and Philastes continued to pretend they were having an unrelated conversation. The Kyone’s hearing was sharp, and he was no doubt listening closely, perhaps passing on what he heard to the Pelthite. 
“And yet Gunds are always described as ‘sexless,’” Indrajit pointed out. 
Yazzo nodded, insect-arms rattling again. “And ‘scab-eyed.’” 
“Let him finish,” Fix said. 
Indrajit folded his arms and held his tongue. 
“When a Gund comes of age, his or her sex drive becomes overwhelming.” Yazzo looked out the window, its voice remote. “A Gund in the throes of young adulthood feels he or she is going mad, and behaves accordingly. And the elders of Gund society make a decision for each young Gund.” 
“Gund society?” Indrajit couldn’t help himself. “Where is Gund society? I only ever see you one at a time.” 
“You come from Kish, from the city,” Yazzo said. 
“I live there,” Indrajit said. “I come from elsewhere. From my home.” 
“So it is with Gundkind,” Yazzo said. “We come from elsewhere. From our home. Which is ruled by elders. Those of us you see in Kish are slaves or wanderers, and generally solitary.” 
“What decision do the elders make for each young Gund?” Fix knitted his brows, deep in thought. 
“Whether to leave the Gund male or female,” Yazzo said. “Whether to leave the Gund sexed.” 
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sexed Gund,” Fix said. 
“I’ve never wanted to check, personally,” Indrajit shot back. “I regard that as the Gund’s own business.” 
“If the elders decide to leave a Gund sexed, the Gund is condemned to a life in the breeding pits. The Gund is abandoned to the madness of constant, throbbing, sexual passion. Such a Gund, all know well, cannot learn to live as a civilized person and is fit only for rutting and throwing off spawn. ‘A bunch of sweating and grunting,’ as you say. They are breeding slaves.” 
“You do this to members of your own race?” Indrajit felt ill. 
“Be careful what you say.” Yazzo’s voice took on a hard edge. “I do not do it.” 
“What’s the alternative?” Fix asked. 
“The Gund is strapped to a stone,” Yazzo continued. “The stone was formerly an altar, but if the gods once watched over these procedures, they are long since gone. A young female has two holes drilled into her belly, in precise locations. A young male undergoes a rather simpler procedure, a quick chop.” 
“That’s painful just to hear,” Indrajit murmured. 
“And the eyes?” Fix asked. 
“The four lower eyes are scratched out,” Yazzo said. 
Fix shook his head. “That seems pointless. Insult added to injury.”  
“It makes perfect sense,” Indrajit said. “In many passages of the Blaatshi Epic, the eyes are taken as an image equivalent to the gonads. A blinded man is understood to be castrated.” 
Fix turned to stare at Indrajit. “You’re telling me you think the Gund elders scratch out the eyes of their young in order to accord with poetic theory?” 
“I’m telling you that the poetic practice obviously reveals a deeper reality!” Indrajit waved a hand vaguely. 
“A deeper reality that eyes are really testicles?” Fix pressed. 
“Yes!” Indrajit snapped. 
“And the nose?” Fix asked. “What’s the deeper reality of the nose? Or the chin?” 
“The elders teach us that without the removal of the eyes, the madness persists,” Yazzo said. 
“Maybe the insanity is caused by the eyes alone,” Fix suggested, turning back to the Gund. “And not the sex drive at all.” 
“Maybe passion is what we suffer when see an object we desire,” Indrajit countered. 
“Or maybe the removal of the eyes is how the elders mark a wild Gund from a Gund that has been freed of the madness.” Yazzo shrugged. “The face is more difficult to hide than the loins.” 
“I don’t even like you talking about loins, really,” Indrajit groused. 
“The true reasons may be forgotten in time,” Yazzo said. “But this is how my people make their adults.” 
“You’re all the spawn of wild Gunds,” Indrajit said. “And scarred and mutilated into a civilized state.” 
“Is that so different from the rest of us?” Fix pointed out. 
“Scab-eyed Gunds, born of madness,” Indrajit said. 
“Would that be your epithet for my kind?” Yazzo asked. 
“It would be the translation into Kishite,” Indrajit said. “Of the short epithet. The rhyme is different in Blaatshi, but the phrases scan about the same. A long epithet might be something like: bug-armed Gunds, born of madness, scarred by elders into people.” 
“‘Bug’?” Fix protested. “That doesn’t have a very heroic ring to it.” 
“The Blaatshi word is more noble-sounding,” Indrajit said. “I could teach it to you.” 
“No, thank you,” Fix said. “I swore off useless knowledge when I left the ashrama.” 
“Would you devise a different epithet for Gunds who were not scarred by the elders?” Yazzo asked. 
“The lust-riven breeders?” Indrajit considered. “Maybe: mad-eyed Gunds, always rutting?” 
“And what about Gunds who avoid being cut and flee the pits?” Yazzo pressed. “Who survive in the wild and live as outlaws?” 
“Are they mad?” Indrajit imagined chalk-white Gunds stalking the steppes, snatching travelers and eating them. 
Yazzo shrugged. “Certainly by some measures.” 
“They can’t be very numerous,” Fix said. “They’d be a challenge to the power of the elders. The elders would have to hunt them down.” 
Yazzo nodded slowly. “So perhaps they would never appear in your epic at all.” 
“Or perhaps they would. Unscarred Gunds, free as outlaws,” Indrajit suggested. 
“You spin these epithets with great facility,” Yazzo said. 
“It’s all he does,” Fix said. “And he wonders why he has a hard time finding work.” 
“So you’re out here chasing a couple of baby Gunds that escaped,” Indrajit said. “But now someone else has grabbed them and you need help rescuing them.” 
Yazzo nodded. “Just so.” 
“Who picked up the baby Gunds?” Fix asked. “Slavers?” 
Yazzo grunted. “You can imagine many people who would be willing to pay for a captive Gund. Some masters would want Gunds for manual labor, or to serve as enslaved warriors. I have heard of scholars from the Hall of Guesses who have owned Gunds, cutting them open while they yet lived, to examine their insides.” 
“That sounds barbaric,” Fix acknowledged, “but that’s how knowledge advances.” 
“So we see that there are savages everywhere,” Yazzo said. 
“Perhaps someday a scholar of the Hall of Guesses will learn how to relieve you of the Gundling Curse,” Fix suggested. 
“Perhaps first that scholar will carve fame and wealth for himself, out of the very flesh of my people.” 
“That’s no more carving than your own elders do,” Indrajit pointed out. 
Yazzo snorted. 
“We’ll take the job,” Indrajit said. “Where do we find these slavers?” 
#
“I’ve never understood how you make the heroes unique,” Fix said. 
Indrajit and Fix crouched in a thicket on a hillside, concealed from the road beneath them. Pine trees sprouted all about them, screening from view not only the road a hundred paces in each direction, but also Munahim and Philastes, who crouched in a similar thicket on the other side of the track. Moisture seeped from thick clouds and concealed cool on Indrajit’s forehead, running down his face and into his tunic. 
The road was barely worthy of the name, a mere path across the cold steppes that here cut through forest. By Yazzo’s information, the caravan of Kishi slavers should be passing this way shortly. 
“In the Epic?” Indrajit asked. 
“Let’s say you have three Gund warriors,” Fix explained. “And you use the same epithets to describe each of them. They all sound the same.” 
Indrajit snorted. “First of all, let’s clarify what you really mean.” 
“I mean I don’t understand your art.” 
“You mean, you’ve never listened.” 
Fix was silent for a moment. “Well, yes.” 
“And now you want me to give you an account of a master work of art that I have repeatedly offered to perform for you, which offer you have always refused.” 
“True,” Fix admitted. “But surely, you can’t expect to recite the entire poem to me now, on this hillside, as we are lying in wait to ambush slavers and rescue two babies who will apparently be wrapped in spider silk.” 
“I believe it’s actually Gund silk,” Indrajit said, “but I take your point. If you had ever listened to the Blaatshi Epic, even in an impoverished Kishite rendition, rather than in the glorious original Blaatshi, you would have immediately noticed that key figures have their own unique epithets.” 
“Indrajit of the bony nose,” Fix suggested. 
“We all benefit from your decision not to take up poetry as a vocation. No, that wouldn’t work. In the first instance, because all my people rejoice in prominent facial ridges like mine, and in the second, because it doesn’t rhyme or scan. A much better epithet might be something like long of limb and wide of vision, far-ranging Indrajit saved the Epic.” 
“May it come to pass. But what if there are three Gunds, and they don’t have distinctive personal epithets?” 
“Then they probably don’t need to be distinguished.” Indrajit harrumphed. “Some figures in a poem are there just to hold a spear and get mown down by the sharp-eyed heroes. But the true distinction is never the epithet, in any case.” 
“You’re going to tell me about how you strike poses.” 
Indrajit shook his head. “It’s true that a few heroes attain such renown that they are awarded by the Recital Thanes not only their individual epithets but also individual poses. Such heroism is rare.” 
“Understandably.” 
“King Rava-Jutna the Famished, for instance, is distinguished by his posture of cunning supplication.” 
Indrajit started to rise to his feet, but Fix pulled him back down. “Show me after. The slavers will be here any minute.” 
“Yes,” Indrajit agreed.  
“So what does distinguish one character from another in the Epic?” Fix asked. 
“His actions, above all,” Indrajit said. “Each hero has characteristic actions, such as to always speak first in the assembly, or hurl a spear before attacking with a sword. And every hero who appears named in the Epic does so because of some definitive action he takes there. Some great sacrifice, some act of inspiration, some mighty victory. The heroes and their deeds are the key bricks of which the Epic is constructed.” 
“Shh,” Fix warned him. 
Indrajit eased his leaf-bladed sword, Vacho, from its sheath and peered down at the road. Fix was armed to the teeth now and tightened his grip on a long spear.  
The first sign of the appearance of the caravan was the arrival of two Yuchak guards. The northerners were wrapped in furs and leathers; they advanced at a steady pace, but staring up at the forested slopes above them. At the sight of their taut bows, Indrajit had a moment of regretting their agreed battle plan. 
Behind the guards came three wagons. The wains were rude boxes, their sides shuttered with iron bolts, boxes and chests piled high on top of them. A tall Ildarian sat in the high driver’s seat of each, wrapped in a long leather coat, with a sword at his side. Another long-coated Ildarian rode on the near side of the wagon train, and glimpses of movement between the wagons suggested that a second rider rode the opposite flank. 
“The first wagon,” Fix reminded Indrajit. “If the babies are here, they’re in the first wagon.” 
“Protagonists!” Indrajit leaped to his feet, launching himself down the slope.  
Fix was at his side, just as fast despite his much shorter paces. The two Yuchak warriors at the front of the caravan spun to shoot at them, and then crumpled.  
Indrajit continued yelling, hurling himself at the mounted guard. Silently, meanwhile, Munahim and Philastes rose on the opposite slope, the Kyone with his tall bow and the Pelthite with his sling, raining attacks on the slavers. 
The Ildarian’s horse spooked and lunged backward, throwing its rider to the ground and then leaping up the hillside. Indrajit placed Vacho to his chest and shook his head. “You don’t need to die for someone else’s slaves.” 
A second horse struck Indrajit from the side, sending him reeling. Pine trees whirled in his vision and Indrajit flung his arms up defensively. He managed to parry an unseen blow and then he got a tree trunk between himself and his attacker, gaining a moment’s respite for himself. 
The second mounted guard reared up on his horse. His sword flashed impotently, unable to reach Indrajit past his own mount and the bole of the tree. On the other hand, Indrajit couldn’t reach him either, swinging Vacho half-heartedly around the pine. 
To his right, Indrajit saw more Yuchaks charging in his direction. They ran sheltering behind the wagons from the bow and sling attacks of the other Protagonists. They carried spears in their hands, and Indrajit counted six of them. 
Indrajit heard a scream, and then many voices raised in muffled clamor. The wagon nearest him shook and thudded as someone inside pounded against the restraining walls.  
Three of the Yuchaks reached Indrajit’s position and scrambled up the hill toward him. Behind them came the Ildarian Indrajit had previously unhorsed, now filthy with mud. Indrajit edged away to the left, but the mounted Ildarian lunged up the slope on his horse, steel flashing, and the poet skittered back. 
The Yuchaks advanced, white teeth gleaming in frames of their black beards. Behind them came the unhorsed Ildarian, eyes wild with anger and sword raised high in his hand. 
The mounted Ildarian barked a command in Yuchak, and then was cut off as he sprouted a spear head in the center of his chest.  
The Yuchaks turned to look and Indrajit charged. They faded back, one falling beneath the unhorsed Ildarian’s feet and dragging him down in a tangle of limbs and leather. The other two bumped into their oncoming fellows, creating a milling knot of uncertainty. 
Fix jumped onto the nearest of them, from the top of the wagon. The Yuchak sank collapsed and rolled under the wagon wheel and Fix alighted his feet. 
It was Fix who had run the mounted warrior through with his spear, after killing the wagon’s driver and climbing onto the top of the wain. Now he held a falchion in one hand and an ax in the other, and he slammed hard into the Yuchaks. 
“Protagonists!” he yelled. 
But they didn’t break. They danced away a step, pivoted, and threw themselves on Fix. 
Indrajit hit the nearest from behind, and then another took a stone to the temple and fell. Indrajit heard the sound of splintering wood, but he wasn’t sure from which direction. 
The wagon stopped its forward motion. Philastes peeped around the horses and hurled another stone with his sling, and then Munahim appeared atop the wagon. Lying on his belly and reaching down with both arms, the Kyone yanked the iron bolt from its brackets. 
The door banged open. It dropped like a gangplank or a drawbridge, narrowly missing Fix, and slapping onto the mud. Parrying Yuchak attacks, Fix climbed back onto the door and backed into the open entrance to the wagon. Behind him, Indrajit saw shadowed limbs and heard moaning. 
Indrajit grabbed another Yuchak by his hair and tossed the man aside. Pelted by stones and eyeing Munahim as the dog-headed man rose and put an arrow to the string, the Yuchaks scampered away. 
Indrajit stepped back, spun about to look for more combatants, and then surveyed the scene. Two horses bucked through the brush, riderless. A dead driver slumped on the seat of each wagon, one or more arrows in his chest. The wagons were each separated by several dozen paces from the wagon before, with the third wagon only barely visible, mostly concealed by the trees and a bend in the road. Fix bled from one wound in the arm and another to the chest, but the other Protagonists appeared unharmed. 
“I dislike ambushes,” Indrajit said. “They’re so unheroic.” 
Fix nodded. “But we were outnumbered and needed to even the odds.” 
“It was a close enough fight as it was,” Munahim growled. 
“And we’re freeing slaves,” Philastes added. “And rescuing babies.” 
Indrajit sighed and nodded. “Let’s at least get those babies out and have a look at them.” He sheathed his weapon and marched up into the wagon, leaving Munahim and Philastes to stand watch outside.  
Fanchee crowded both the front and the back of the wagon. In the shadows, their quivering face-tentacles disappeared into shifting uncertainty and their green skin was almost black. They wore filthy shifts, they stank of unwashed bodies and fish, and they were chained at the ankles to a ring in the floor.  
Fix smashed the ring with his ax. “You’re all free. Just tell us where the Gund babies are.” 
The Fanchee shuddered and cringed but wouldn’t admit to knowing where the babies were. A search of the wagon revealed nothing, and Indrajit and Fix filed out after the Fanchee did. 
Philastes unlocked the former slaves’ shackles and handed Fix a ring of keys. Indrajit stood watching the Fanchee flee into the woods. “Have we been deceived by yet another employer?” 
“The Gund paid us in advance,” Fix reminded him. 
“Maybe he actually hired us to get revenge on an enemy,” Indrajit speculated. “Maybe there never were any Gund children.” 
Munahim and Philastes freed the horses from their traces and collars. Indrajit and Fix opened the door of the second wagon and found it full of Zalaptings. Once again, there were no Gund babies and none of the Zalaptings would admit to knowing anything about such matters. Fix left the keys with the Zalaptings so they could free themselves, and the two chief Protagonists looked at the third and last wagon. 
The wagon’s door was ripped entirely from its place and lay in fragments on the road. Indrajit boosted Fix up into the gaping doorway and then took Fix’s hand up in turn.  
The third wagon contained no obvious slaves. Its walls were shelved, and on the shelves lay a wide array of objects: eggs, ingots, feathers, sealed clay pots, scrolls, and more. On one tall shelf rested two crates, two cubits long by two and a half cubits wide. Indrajit took one crate and stepped to the doorway to get more light. 
“Look at this,” he said. 
The bottom of the crate was occupied by a felt blanket, stained and rumpled. The corners of crate were thick with sticky white strands like spider silk, torn and fluttering at the edges in the damp breeze. 
Fix stepped to his side, holding up the other crate for inspection. Inside, Indrajit saw the same silk and a similar wad of dirty felt. 
And, lying on the felt, two masses of tissue. Indrajit blinked. 
“Is that what I think it is?” he asked. 
Fix picked up one of the strange objects. It was dark red tissue, two clots the size of eggs, connected by a strip of the same matter. Fix held in his hand the scabs that had gummed up Yazzo’s eyesockets. 
“I think the baby Gunds are freed,” Fix said. 
Indrajit hesitated. How much of Yazzo’s story could he believe? And if Yazzo was neither a scab-eyed Gund nor a raving sex fiend chained in a breeding pit, what was he? “Do we put this into the rescued princesses column?” 
Fix turned to watch Zalaptings and Fanchee disappearing into the woods above them. A thickening mist crept in, shrinking the world. 
“I think we do,” he said. 

D.J. ("Dave") Butler grew up in swamps, deserts, and mountains. After messing around for years with the practice of law, he finally got serious and turned to his lifelong passion of storytelling. He now writes adventure stories for readers of all ages, plays guitar, and spends as much time as he can with his family. He is the author of the Witchy War series, The Cunning Man series (with Aaron Michael Ritchey), the Indrajit and Fix series, Abbott in Darkness, and many other novels and stories. "The Quail Runs" is set in the world of his latest novel, Time Trials, which he cowrote with M.A. Rothman.