Tales of Loss and Dispossession | 7

You Don’t Know What You’ve Got

Tales of Loss & Dispossession

A Gryphonwood Anthology

Gryphonwood Press

YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’VE GOT… TALES OF LOSS AND DISPOSSESSION Copyright 2009 by Gryphonwood Press

Each story is the property of the respective author.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American copyright conventions.

Published by Gryphonwood Press

www.gryphonwoodpress.com

Edited by David Wood and Ryan A. Span

Cover Art by Jan Pospíŝìl

Concept and Cover Layout by Ryan A. Span

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 13: 978-0-9795738-6-6

ISBN 10: 0-9795738-6-6

Printed in the United States of America

First printing: February, 2009

This anthology is dedicated to the memories of:

Forrest J. Ackerman

Robert Asprin

Arthur C. Clarke

Michael Crichton

Tony Hillerman

Existence

Jim Bernheimer

Silence greets your request. The gods glare at you, their loyal Priest-King. They have the power to grant your deepest desire, or destroy you in an instant.

Dra, the ebony-skinned goddess of fertility, shakes her flowing mane of silken hair and delivers a smoldering look, capable of leading faithful husbands and even wives astray. You focus, trying not to be consumed by lust as her throaty laughter speaks directly to your loins. “Oh my, the human is serious. He wishes us to elevate him to an equal among us. Had you begged for a simple coupling, I would have granted it, but you astound me with your audacity!”

Finding your tongue amidst the roaring laughter, you plead your case, “Great Goddess, I have served you and the rest well. Many sacrifices were made in your honor. The altars run red with the blood of enemies, non-believers, and followers of false gods. Your people are united and, under my hand, their petty quarrels are no more.”

You are ill at ease in the role of fawning sycophant, but you are not like most people. You are the Priest-King – the voice of the gods. Command a mother and she strangles her newborn child with the flesh that still connects them. With a simple gesture, brothers draw knives and fight until one or both fall dead.

Power, followers, and concubines – everything a mortal can want – is yours. It is not enough. There is more, so very much more, and you are one who dares where others only dream!

Their presence and tangible power fills the massive temple and you feel a crushing weight on your soul. Pungent odors assail your nostrils and breathing becomes more difficult. The assembled omnipotent beings continue to openly mock you, but you’ve come too far. The only course is to continue. To turn back now would mean a certain death.

“My magic is strong. I am as powerful as a human can become. I merely wish a greater role in this existence, to never die, and serve you forever. Reward me and I will be your eternal servant!”

The laughter stops and the taste of bile surges to the back of your throat. Vais, animal skins draped over his mighty frame, thumps his spear against his great wooden shield. The god of war enjoys the sacrifices, but abhors the order you have brought to the people. “Arrogant worm! I thought you beneath my concern, but I cannot ignore such idiocy. Brothers and sisters, a mortal demands that we raise him up as an equal! What say you?”

Dra shifts and her eyes narrow in anger. Even her fury is sensual. “It is a rare occurrence when I find myself agreeing with Vais, but I too, find this request ludicrous. How shall we punish you, mortal?”

Instinctively, your magic senses the forthcoming attack. Against beings such as this, your inner light is a lit torch held in the face of a midday sun.

Vais smiles like the jungle cat preparing to pounce. “I say we strip him of his vaunted magic and let the peasants tear him to pieces when they learn he no longer has our favor!”

“Not enough,” insists Ura of the sky, seeing his chance to impress Dra and curry her favor. “Were we to do that, he would just be returned to being a mere human. To truly teach him the error of his ways, we should make him less than human.”

His twin, the Sea Lord, speaks. His voice is a growl – an icy chill from the depths of the ocean. “Oh, a very interesting idea brother, I agree. Let him serve as an example to all those beneath us to remember their station. My dear Dra, you know beauty in all its forms. Can you shape this maggot into a form which no one will ever find beautiful?”

You now realize what capricious and uncaring beings those who rule the Earth and heavens are. Vais rips your magic from your soul. Years spent in meditation and battle, nurturing the light inside, are lost in an instant of anger. The others exert their influence on your body as a potter would work a lump of clay on a wheel.

They amuse themselves at your expense. The pain defies description, as flesh is replaced with mud, then straw, then stone. Eventually, you lose track amidst the horrible agony. Your pleas for mercy only serve as encouragement for them. Each tries to outdo the others with a new form of humiliation.

“Our Priest-King rules from a magnificent palace full of finery. Let us bind him to a marsh and give him the place amongst us he so richly deserves – a kingdom of his very own!” The Sea Lord pronounces to the enjoyment of all.

Ura replies, “Yes! Well said, brother. But I ask, what is a king without subjects? Let the winged bloodsuckers worship at his misshapen form. Let them be drawn to his smell, to partake of his flesh, and take sacrament from the juices that flow through him!”

Dra, whom you hoped to mate with and watch her birth your children, pulls the hardest on your body, giving it a simian appearance. Thick, knotted hair grows all over this hideous form.

She hisses, “The swamp shall nourish and replenish you. The fine meals, delivered by naked women, will be replaced with fungus that grows on bark, moss licked from the rocks, and grubs that you will dig from the damp soil with your clawed hands. You shall endure as long as the land, an everlasting warning to those who make demands of us. You shall be a beast of the bog – a monster of the marsh!”

The others dub her decree a masterstroke. She turns to the one being who had not participated to this point. “My sister, what gift shall you impart upon him?”

The Goddess of Wisdom, Drea, scowls at her sister for interrupting her unending meditation and considers you. She is beautiful, but not overpoweringly so. Seconds pass before her lips part, “I give him the gift of tongues. He shall continue to recognize what the mortals say about him and know the meaning behind their shrieks of horror, but no words they shall ever recognize will come from his lips.”

The torture lasts for days without end. When they finally grow bored with you, Vais hurls you out of their sacred valley and into the forsaken swamp from which you can never willingly leave.

You pray that it is over, but they are not done with you yet. Vais comes whenever he is spoiling for a fight. You have an inhuman strength, but it is nothing compared to his glory. He pummels and abuses you with vicious savagery knowing that the swamp eventually heals your wounds and makes you whole again. He does his worst when you refuse to engage in pointless battles or on the rare instances when you manage to inflict a slight injury on his body. Sometimes, heroes are sent. Some win, most do not, but the swamp and the mud endlessly mend your wounds.

Dra’s visits are every bit as humiliating. On a stone altar, just outside your domain, she brings lovers for moonlit encounters. Like a moth to the flame, these wanton acts draw you. When she finishes, she stares at you and never says a word.

Ura plays with you as a feline would a small rodent. From his winged chariot he hurls thunderbolts as you scurry for shelter. His twin batters your sanctuary with wind and water that leave you shivering and wet for days at a time.

Oddly, Drea visits only once. She walks gracefully through the bog observing the creatures, the trees, and the insects that constantly gnaw on you. You follow her journey waiting for something, anything. Is she here to restore you, humiliate you, or destroy you and end this miserable existence? She sits on her sister’s altar and looks at you trapped at the edge of this foul prison.

“I have no mercy to spare for you, creature. You have your path and I have mine. I do not see them crossing again. Perhaps one day, you will truly understand. Farewell.”

Her words are full of cryptic meanings, but they become clearer as the gods gradually disappear from the world. There is a change that you can sense. Your battles with Vais are less intense. Dra’s brazen escapades lose their luster. The skies and nearby ocean are calm for weeks at a time. You conclude the gods are leaving, because the mortals no longer heed them. Are they dying or just going on to a different realm? What is to become of you? Uncertainty reigns and answers elude you.

The years turn to decades and the decades to centuries. Those mighty gods, their names are forgotten by all save you. The marsh ebbs and flows as the years pass. Sometimes, it even envelopes Dra’s altar and you sit on the crumbling monument and search for deeper meaning. Other times, the draining bog forces you to retreat towards the safety of the center.

Occasionally, you see men. Some are light-skinned and come from some part of the world unknown to you. Did the gods leave and go there? Are other gods coming? These newcomers wear different clothing and bring four-legged beasts with them.

You judge their worthiness. Those failing to meet your standards never leave the swamp. Those who carry trinkets and baubles that interest you rarely leave the swamp. Those few that you allow to leave your kingdom carry warnings to their brethren that there is something less than pleasant here.

The travelers become less frequent, but your method of discouraging visitors attracts the attention of a new breed of would-be heroes and braggarts. You learn what a musket is. The crude ball of metal is but a tap compared to the rage of Vais. You discover that a steel breastplate is no match for your claws.

Often, you simply exist – no real thoughts, just feeding, pacing, brooding, and sleeping. Immortality is far less than you had hoped. Weeks are spent pondering the trinkets taken from the travelers. You understand their words, but they have a written language that is rather complex. Still, you have plenty of time and little else to do.

When you accidently detonate yourself with barrels filled with a black powder, you destroy your cache of books and this greatly angers you. It takes years to acquire new books and the language has changed again forcing you to start anew.

More time passes and now the beasts are replaced with large metal objects that men call machines. The first ones frighten you, but you learn to accept their presence. You regret that now.

Larger machines follow. The men on them look for something below the swamp – the gasses that make fire. They value this and begin building permanent structures in your swamp. No, this is not allowed! You kill again, hoping to use fear as you have in the past.

Striking at night, you rip their flimsy metal shelters open and attack the workers in their beds. They scream, they run, they beg, but you show precious little mercy. Who has ever shown it to you? You make certain that one is left alive to tell the tale.

Material possessions no longer hold any value for you. Perhaps that is why you think they will flee and abandon their fire-gas gathering machines. It is a gross error on your part and wherever Vais and Dra are now, you are certain that they again mock you.

Murky-brown water splashes away from your clawed feet as you rush through the marsh. Flattening your hulking mass between a rock and two trees growing together as one, you rest. Though you should keep moving, continuing is too exhausting.

In the distance, the noise from their machines can be heard and the penetrating light from the orbs mounted on them flash through the patches of trees like deadly fireflies. All your usual tricks fail. The guttural howls from your lips do not scare them off. Instead, it brings them closer. While they searched the southern edge of the swamp where you left conspicuous tracks, you ransacked their campsite. The destruction was quite thorough, but they refuse to leave! Determination runs deep in their veins. Only now do you conclude that they are not more fire-gas gatherers, they are hunters, and you are their prey.

These hunters travel in larger packs than the heroes of old. Their weapons throw tiny darts of light which rip through your flesh like daggers. Beneath your matted fur, dozens of these small wounds oozed with blood. Covering them with the mud of the wet land beneath your feet starts the healing process, but it does little for the pain.

Dozens now chase you; they have sky chariots that circle the sky probing the darkness with beams of light. In a sick way, you admire them. Their actions strike a chord in your memory of the days when you walked as a man and flaunted your power. Rest eludes you – ironic that an immortal beast should now be regretting a few missed days of sleep.

You can’t afford to spend much longer here. Still, the gods of old gave you a savage strength and a massive body. Even with no magic, you will not fall here. Survival is all that matters! Brute force topples a small tree as thick as your closed fist. They have their weapons, now you have one as well.

The years of living in this forsaken place give you knowledge of every pile of moss-covered sludge, grouping of trees and the location of every sinkhole. You crouch on the rocks nearby and howl, knowing it will draw one or more of their wheeled machines towards you.

Their mechanical torches illuminate you as a pair of their machines approach. You scream at them, urging them on. They think you are a dull-witted beast. It is time to remove that notion. The smaller machine travels through the water and hits the sinkhole with one of its wheels. That sends the contraption careening through the air and the two riders with it. They are of no consequence.

The larger vehicle with the four wheels and the platform commands your attention. Two of the men on the platform fire large barreled weapons. Instead of stinging darts, the metal ball explodes into nets that even your claws can barely rend. You have no intention of thrashing in the muck trying to free yourself for their entertainment. Instead, you thrust your makeshift staff out and the nets wrap around it.

Roaring, you vault towards them, so confident in their machines and weapons, so certain of their superior intellect, so very wrong. The machine shudders with the addition of your sudden weight. They drop their net-firing weapons and reach for their stinging ones. You will feel more pain, but so will they.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” the female driving the machine commands. In times of old, a female would never command males. One of them stings you several times, but you backhand him off the machine.

Another clubs you with his net-caster as the other remaining man and the female use the smaller stingers to further injure you. Your clawed hand catches the weapon swatting at you and with a violent pull you swing the man between you and those armed with stingers.

The darts are much more effective against his pale, pasty flesh. Perhaps you should learn how to use these stinging weapons. You thrust his body towards them and squeeze onto the platform. Both claws work together and rip the final man in half, coating you with his gore and filling your ears with the sound of his screams. The weak female is all that is left.

Her ebony skin is as dark as charcoal and her build is athletic and muscular. Her beauty is akin to Dra’s. Perhaps it is she reincarnated? The slight pause costs you dearly as her stinger sends jolts of pain directly into your head. You vision darkens in one eye and bones shatter in your jaw. Enraged, you lash out at this avatar of a long departed goddess. She leaps off the platform into the bog below.

The wounds take a toll and slow you down. The cursed land heals, but not immediately. This is not the first time you've given chase half blinded. The cramped platform hinders your pursuit, but you free yourself and fall down to the marsh below.

For now, you must pursue this female and learn her secrets. If the gods plan to return, you must know why! This new goddess will suffer. You are now powerful and she is weak.

The female has a large lead, but even injured, you are faster. Did they not make you this way? She deserves to see firsthand her handiwork, does she not?

Arms and legs propel you on all fours – more like an animal and not a man. Her fleeing form weaves in and out of your field of vision. Nostrils flare and you inhale the scent of her fear, rejoicing in it. She screams, but you aren’t even listening to the words. All that matters is that you feel her in your grasp and give her a taste of retribution.

Sheer determination keeps you moving after her. To the right, the ground is much more compact. You should have gone that way. Even so, you are almost upon her. There is no escape!

She rushes into the clearing, where you often dry your fur under the sun. In days to come, it will be pleasant to lie under the warmth of the great orb and recall the righteous fury you are about to inflict. Perhaps the insects will echo her screams…

So consumed in thoughts of revenge, you barely notice the others waiting in the clearing. No! The goddess tricked you! It's a trap. The nets fly as even more of the thrice-cursed stingers rip at your flesh like a swarm of angry insects. You stagger forward, stubbornly refusing to acknowledge failure. The nets make it harder to move and a powerful blast sends you sprawling to the ground.

Frantically, you rip at the mesh, but there are too many of layers. Screams of pain and frustration come unbidden from your lips. More stings and soon your screams are reduced to pitiful moans. Are you finally dying? Is the technology of man finally superior to the powers of the ancient gods? The stings stop abruptly, but the damage is more than you can stand.

In a fog of agony you hear voices. “Sweet Jesus! The thing’s still alive! We must have shot it a hundred times!”

“Shock it!” The goddess commands and her worshippers obey her. A different kind of net is thrown over you. It appears more delicate, but you're still pinned by the others and lack the strength to even try.

The humans yell to each other and then your muscles convulse in pain, much like the night you stood next to a cypress tree watching a great storm. The god of the sky spotted you and sent a thunderbolt down upon you, shattering the tree and injuring you for days to follow.

Perhaps the goddess, in her new incarnation, is not as weak as you thought her to be? She demands her followers inflict even more harm on you, a reminder of how the most beautiful people can be the cruelest.

After two more powerful jolts, you can take no more and succumb to unconsciousness.

You’re moving, which is strange because you are lying down. Your body throbs with a dull ache. It takes a moment to process what has happened. Your injured eye has not been restored, which troubles you. Simple meditation fights off the pain coursing through your body and grants a level of clarity. The rustle of thick chains greets your movement.

A prisoner in the belly of one of their moving machines – that is what you are! There is a new sensation, one of weakness permeating your flesh. The connection that you share with the bog is frayed. This mechanical carriage carries you beyond the swamp. Fear and trepidation consume your thoughts and lead you to renew your assault on the heavy shackles.

Eventually, your rage is spent. You lack the strength to break free, so you must rely on guile. For too long you have relied on the instincts of a misshapen beast. You must remember what it is to think and reason if you are to escape.

Pulling your sore frame into a meditative position, you relax and wait for this journey to end. Hours are nothing to one that has existed for centuries.

“It’s just been sitting there for the last ten hours. The thing gives me the willies, Kendra! We should just keep shooting it until it dies.”

The female is aptly named – Kin of Dra. Cleansed of the muck of the swamp she is very beautiful. If she is not the goddess reborn, she must be a daughter. Destroying one of her children will certainly be a fitting revenge.

She speaks, addressing the fearful male warrior, “That’d be my preference, but Mr. Daniels here is bringing in scientists to study it. I put a slug through its left eye at point blank and all I did was blind it. Even a gorilla would be dead!”

“You probably missed and it was blinded by the muzzle flash.” A second male says. He wears different clothing than the others and carries no obvious weapon. “What I want to know is if there are any more of them. The safety of my workers is the number one priority! That’s what I am paying you for.”

Kendra answers, “I’m well aware of that, sir. That thing killed a dozen of my men over the last three days. We’ll scour the swamp and make certain there are no others before you send your workers back in. Even then, we’ll have squads assigned to your engineers. So, when do the researchers arrive?”

“They'll be here in the morning. Assuming the thing is still alive, filming it and producing a documentary should fetch a tidy sum.”

You try to follow their words, but they mean little without the proper context. One thing you can tell is that the warriors and their employer are greedy. It is a flaw you know very well – something you can use. What failings the others have remains to be seen. When the time comes you will show them your wrath!

Meditation helps, but you continue to weaken. Without the healing powers of the swamp, your time will soon be upon you. It will be a humiliating end to a humiliating life. Faced with your own mortality, you worry that your true tormentors await you in the next realm, ready to resume their torturous ways.

“Hair samples recovered from the specimen show that the DNA is closer to human rather than simian. This is unexpected. Doctor Albright has already theorized that this might be a missing link along the human evolutionary chain.”

The new female is a pretty thing. Her hair is like spun gold. She dresses in a white jacket and has bands of metal encircling her right leg. A cane helps her to walk. She is one of the five “scientists” trying to explain your existence. Mankind no longer believes in such things as magic, so you continue to defy their explanation.

Her blue eyes and the intelligence behind them capture your attention along with one other detail – her name. The one known as Doctor Albright referred to her initially as Doctor Jacobs, but then addressed her as Andrea. Is she Drea the Wise reborn? If she is, how can you possibly escape?

The others do not remind you of any of your gods, so you focus on her.

She uses a long pole and pushes a tray towards you. There are two metal bowls on it. One is water and the other has a butchered fish in it. The water slakes your thirst, but the fish does not come from the swamp and your body rejects it with a violent spasm, as it did with the meat and vegetables the day before. You drink the remainder of the water to try and rid your mouth of the foul taste. Kicking the tray away in disgust, you listen to it clatter against the bars.

Drea tries to use the pole to retrieve the tray and bowls through the narrow slot at the bottom of the cage, but she is having precious little success. She looks around and mutters about no one else being around. There are guards outside the door who check on her periodically.

Uncertain of the reason; you shuffle forward. The chains impede your progress, but you can stretch out your right arm and grasp the tray. You place the two bowls back on it and push it out the gap towards her.

Drea stares, holding the pole uselessly in her hand. She shakes her head to clear out whatever is vexing her and retrieves the small black box which she speaks into.

“Specimen just displayed problem solving skills with its dinner tray. I will attempt to test its cognitive ability.”

She hobbles around the room looking for things and returns with a series of objects. Onto the tray Drea places two balls, a metal cube and three wooden blocks. On her table, Drea has a matching set. You wait while she repositions the object that they often look through.

Drea speaks to this camera, “Cognitive test of specimen.” With the pole, she pushes the tray with the items to you. She places the three blocks on top of each other and sets the cube on top of them and then takes the two balls in one of her hands.

It reminds you of games played by mothers with their babies using sticks and rocks. Is that what she thinks you are, a child? Deciding to humor her, you duplicate the pattern. Other than letting a captive survive for a few days, this is the most interaction you’ve had with a human in probably a century. This begins a rather humorous interlude of her arranging the six objects into a pattern and you responding in kind. It is only interrupted by the guard checking in.

All the while the female speaks aloud to her small black box and the object on the tripod. It is when she announces that she intends to summon the others to show them that your temper flares. You smash the tray against the bars and thrash in your chains. You will amuse Drea, with the hopes of gaining your freedom, but no others! You are not some entertainer. You were once a king!

“Is everything okay, Doctor Jacobs?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Okay, shout if you need me.”

She stares at you for a moment and resets the pieces on her desk. It takes a few moments for you to recover the scattered objects.

After three more patterns, she stops and addresses you. “I want you to put two of the wooden blocks on top of the cube, one ball on each side and hold the last block in your hand.”

When you comply, she gasps and almost faints. For minutes, she stares at you until she finds her wits. “You can understand me?”

You nod.

“Can you speak?”

You shake your head.

“This is incredible! This is huge! I have to tell the others. They have to see this!”

You smack the ground and shake your head. You will barter with Drea for your freedom and not the others. She asks why, but you have no real way to answer her.

A gradual dialogue builds between you and Drea. She asks why you will not eat and eventually you manage to convey that the food must come from the marsh. She says that it will be difficult, but she will try to get some of it for you.

Two of the other “scientists” enter the room. Drea rises from her seat. “Good morning, Brian, Sean.”

“Anything new?”

She pauses for a moment and then shakes her head. “No, I tried cognitive testing just for the heck of it and all it did was toss stuff around the cage. It drank, but still vomited any food. Maybe we should try food from its habitat and see if that works?”

The one called Brian scratches his chin. “Not a bad idea. I had a cat that threw up for a week after we moved one time. Is the tape already out?”

You watch as she removes a smaller object from the tripod. “Almost, I just want to review it in my quarters and see if there’s anything I missed.”

“Fair enough, but get some rest.”

You are impressed. Drea did not betray you. She is as curious about you as you are about her.

In the nights that follow, Drea comes to you. Even with food coming from the swamp, your condition worsens. Using the simple hand gestures she teaches to you, you tell her that you must return, even if it is just to be buried. Drea says that she will try.

In her foolishness, she brings the other scientists and the man named Daniels. Perhaps she still lacks the real Drea's wisdom. Also in the room are Dra and two of her warriors. Drea explains and shows them how you communicate with this sign language. She tells them that they should return you to your habitat. The other scientists are skeptical and think that she has trained you to mimic her actions. The one called Albright knows this sign language as well and he asks you simple questions which you easily answer.

“This is amazing,” he declares. “It’s the find of a lifetime!”

The cold words of Daniels interrupt, “No, the amount of natural gas under that marsh is the find of a lifetime. Do you have any idea how much it is worth? If word gets out about this thing, the government will shut us down. All for something that’s already killed more people than Manson. Ms. Reid, destroy it!”

“With pleasure,” Dra moves closer and pulls out her large stinger.

Drea and the other scientists protests, but when the weapons of Dra’s warriors point at them, they fall silent. Daniels tells them that they can have your body to dissect afterwards.

Hoping Drea remembers what you told her, you fight against the chains with what little strength remains. It comes to no avail as the ebony skinned woman and the others raise their weapons. There is a steady roar as the stingers dig into you shredding your flesh and cracking your bones. Falling to the ground the stingers continue to gnaw at you…

For a time, there is nothing. You drift in an out of this void as consciousness returns. Deep in the core of your being, you feel the connection to bog. They defeated you, but Drea fulfilled your wish. Entombed in the swamp's embrace, you let its caress renew you.

Time passes and you dig your way to the surface. It is dark out and you rest until morning. In the early light you forage for food and quell your appetite. The sound of an approaching machine interrupts your meal. Three men and Drea are on the platform. They descend from the side of the machine and begin looking around.

“Are you certain this is where the body was buried?”

Drea looks angry at the warrior’s question. “Yes. The fire in the lab destroyed everything; we’re going to dig it up so we can get more samples. You have your orders!”

“Why'd you bring it back here to bury in the first place, Doc?”

“It asked me to.” She answers.

“Asked you to? Do you really expect us to believe that? Whatever, you eggheads are a buncha' nutjobs. C'mon guys.”

Minutes pass and you watch them draw closer to your shattered grave. The one who scolded Drea spots it. “Looks like it wasn't buried deep enough. Something beat us to it.”

They gather around the hole. Drea appears confused. “Something doesn't look right. This grave is all wrong. Where are the tracks and signs of the body being dragged?”

Your lips curl into a cruel smile as you watch them start to look around nervously. One of the men suggests they leave. Oh no, not yet. Rising out of the bushes near them, you make additional noise on purpose. You want them to hear you. They need to know what's coming for them.

They only have the small stingers and those prove to be only an irritant. Tethered to and reborn by the energy of this land, they are easily ignored. One of the men pushes the female towards you in hopes of making his escape. Ignoring the screaming scientist, the final man dies trying to scramble back up onto the machine. You turn back to the lone survivor.

She is understandably confused. “It’s impossible! You can’t be alive.”

You greet her with her with the hand gestures she showed you.

She stammers and tries to deny what is in front of her. Finally, in hysterics, she falls into the muck. In a small voice, barely a whisper, she says, “Are you a god?”

Eons since the real Drea visited, you finally understand what she meant. Ironically, those vanished gods granted your request! The real Drea obviously knew this. For a moment, you wonder if the others suspected. Still, a god with no followers is simply an immortal husk with no real power; it is the faith of their followers that is the source of their power. Perhaps this is why they left rather than weaken and become what you are, but you have known an eternity of that hollow life.

You nod to Drea and feel the flicker of your inner light suddenly returning, fueled by Drea the believer. It is faint, but you reach into down into your soul and grasp that gossamer thin thread of power.

So it begins. Gods can fall, but they can rise just the same. You pull her upright and look at the slime covered metal brace on her leg. Reveling in this renewed strength, you peel the metal away and ignore her cries of pain. It's time to reward Drea's newly discovered faith.

Drawing on that tiny flame your clawed hand moves over her appendage. It is a supreme effort for such a paltry spell, but you relish every second of using magic again. Finishing, you release her and she stands unassisted on her healed leg.

Drea stares at you reverently and the flicker grows. She will be your high priestess and bring more followers. They will make the inner light stronger and when that light is strong enough, you will reclaim your true form and ascend to your rightful place.

“If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Damn cultists!”

Daniels and Dra speak while several of Dra’s warriors walk nervously among your followers. As much as you want to rend the man limb from limb, Drea says that he has wealth and power in the mortal world. Bringing him into your fold is sage advice. Even in this incarnation she offers wisdom.

The priestess greets them, adorned only from the waist up in beads and body paint.

Daniels is startled, stunned by her appearance. “Doctor Jacobs? What madness is this?”

“It is the light. It is the truth. I have found it and hope you will as well.”

Dra’s face contorts in rage, “Where are my men? What happened to them?”

The warrior draws her weapon. You do not approve. A gesture produces a simple illusion, tricking her into believing the stinger in her hand is a snake. Dra instinctively tosses it away. Your followers leap upon Dra’s warriors and quickly disarm them. Some die, but they die for your will and that is enough for them.

Daniels is dragged away, pleading and begging. His calls for help and mercy provide a bit of amusement. Breaking him down into nothing and rebuilding him will be rather enjoyable.

Still, there is one final thing that requires your attention. Dra stands with a knife in her hands – encircled by your followers. They part as you approach.

Unlike others, she fails to revel in your grandeur. Dra must be fought on her terms. Very well, her wish shall be granted. The blade pierces your flesh. The sensation of pain is muted by your power, reminding you of how far you've come. Vais would have ignored such an attack. There is still a long way to go.

Your clawed hand snaps out and grasps her wrist. Opening your other hand, you smile and force the knife completely through your palm. Let her see how little it harms you. You yank the hand away and hold it in front of her. Focusing on your magic, the knife dissolves before Dra's fearful eyes. Your palm is spread open and you allow her to see your wound mend.

The woman's legs falter. She's beginning to accept the unacceptable. She whimpers as vines rise and wrap around her limbs like serpents. Several of your followers take her from you. They will prepare her. You walk towards Dra's former altar – recreated and now claimed in your name. The irony is delicious. Looking to the sky, you wonder if they can see you.

“You have been chosen,” Drea whispers to the captive warrior. “This is the moment your life changes. Before there was darkness, prepare yourself for the light. It will cleanse you.”

Dra protests as her clothes are removed and runes of your ancient language are painted on her flesh. “This is madness. You can't believe in this monster! This is all a lie!”

Drea shouts to the rest of the followers. “Remember those words. After Dra comes through the light, she will sing the praise of our lord as well.”

Your high priestess leads Dra to the altar, a magnificent offering of decorated flesh that will soon be a devout concubine. Assuming a more pleasing human form you approach the terrified female.

The chants of your faithful urge you on. You look first to your new concubine and then up to the sky searching for those long departed. The old gods were decadent. Perhaps one day, you too will fade and discover what is next. That next life may allow you revenge at those who wronged you so long ago, but for now there is so very much to be done.

The Precision of Clockwork

by Bobbie Metevier

Much had been written about Dr. Cambridge in the years leading up to the destruction. In his youth (according to biographers) Dr. Cambridge was not so harried. He was not above making sport of the scenery. Once, just for fun, he moved ahead of his schoolmates on a path breaking winter ice with a hickory stick. The chunks came away as thick as bergs.

“Every idea in my life was born from that moment,” he wrote in his memoirs. “When the ice had been liberated, sluicing down the sidewalk and into the gutter, I too found freedom.”

Dr. Cambridge was quite mad of course, but madness is often secondary to genius.

His insanity made no difference to the alumni at Chester College, and it certainly felt like old news in 1936 when he purchased a mansion high atop the cliffs overlooking lower Belle Isle.

The question of his sanity was not taken to task until much later--1969 to be exact, a few years after his life's work chugged down the cliffs, single file, and invaded all of lower Belle Isle.

Dr. Cambridge always set the clocks so that they chimed within five minutes of each other. This task alone took up most of March.

“My logic, Jack, is simple; at each interval of five, I should find myself at a new chore.”

The fourteen-year-old boy only nodded. It was such a treat to be in Cambridge's workshop that he felt he shouldn't speak. It was enough just to absorb the setting, to look at the coils and springs that littered each table. The bleak lighting and decrepit wood paneling were part of it somehow as if all the things in the sepia-toned room were linked to Cambridge's creations.

“Tomorrow, Dolly will join us,” Cambridge said. “She will work with us, but we mustn't ever tell her the true meaning behind our work.”

Dolly was new. She'd arrived at the mansion the previous week. Jack didn't ask where she'd come from. If he had to venture a guess, he'd say she came from the same orphanage as he had--not that it mattered. It was enough just to have a companion closer to his own age, a girl who always wore a flower in her hair to boot.

“Be mindful of Dolly now,” Cambridge warned. “She is a hardened and resourceful girl. We shall groom her together, but in the meantime she should not get in the way of the work. Everyone is expendable when held up against the work. She will be a gopher, a look-out for the work, if you will.”

Dr. Cambridge was referring to his masterwork. Jack knew that everything in Cambridge’s life, and consequently everything in Jack’s own life, was bound to this masterwork. Jack wasn’t always sure what the masterwork was, but he thought it had everything to do with what lay behind the mahogany door to his right.

Jack didn't imagine that Dolly would get in the way of Cambridge's work. While Jack didn't see hardness in her, he did see longing. Usually she could be found staring out the window, searching for something beyond the bounds of Cambridge Mansion. Sometimes she wore a coat of feathers, strange and bright.

“Everyone dresses this way now,” she once said.

In 1969, Jack only feigned knowledge of the fashions outside Belle Isle. He nodded.

“Precision,” Dr. Cambridge said now. “That's the thing about clockwork. When you can mimic its precision in other ways you can create anything.”

Dr. Cambridge allowed Jack to sit in his shop a few times a month, but he never allowed him into the adjoining room behind the mahogany door.

“That place holds many failures and many successes, Jack,” he said. “When you can't create masterworks, sometimes you are destined to create monsters.”

Jack only stared at the door. He imagined that the monsters really did live behind the mahogany, the ones he sometimes dreamed about. Not like the fireflies that hovered over his bed when he was afraid, but real monsters. Sometimes, he even thought he heard them ticking and twining in a lazy baritone.

Evan II entered Mr. Singh's ice cream parlor. Jack followed close behind, darting between two Fords. When Evan II was fully inside Jack slid sidelong into the shop, planting his body firmly against the wall.

“What's this?” Mr. Singh asked from his place behind the counter. “What is the meaning for this?”

Jack lifted his finger to his mouth gesturing silence.

There were no customers in the shop, only Mr. Singh--good old Mr. Singh--taking his first step backward.

“No walking backward,” Evan II roared. “Error. Error. Blind spots.”

The hulking monster known as Evan II lifted its metallic arm. In one fell swoop the single ice cream counter became two counters.

Jack ducked low, covering his head.

Screams. Agony. Pleading.

Jack did not watch Mr. Singh’s death. He couldn't watch. When he arose from his place on the floor, he didn't see blood. He didn't see Mr. Singh. He saw only a firefly. The robot, too, had vanished.

Jack made his way behind the twin counters, stepping over glass and melting ice cream.

It was then that Jack saw the arm, a limb so cleanly severed that it might have snapped independently from its own ball and socket construction. A whisper of blood--no more than a snake’s width--curled around the backdoor and into the alley.

Jack followed the stream and found the rest of Mr. Singh--an arm here and a leg there. He had been broken apart joint-by-joint like a dinner fowl.

A firefly hovered over the detached head of Mr. Singh. It's light almost unseen in the afternoon sun, but Jack saw it.

Evan II stood at the end of the alley; a ticking sound--as if his clockwork and coils were cooling--caught Jack's ear.

Jack awoke in a cold sweat.

Despite all the death and destruction he'd witnessed, it was always Singh's death that his dreaming mind conjured. But wait . . . Singh wasn't really dead; he was only altered . . . different . . . better.

Shadows spun around his bed. He was used to these anomalies. They came when he was afraid. He thought of them as electric-white fireflies.

Jack watched them spiral and was no longer afraid.

Jack and Dolly had their freedom. Most days they ventured into lower Belle Isle for ice cream.

“Make fat. Make healthy,” Mr. Singh always said while he made their cones as if girth and health were one and the same.

Jack and Dolly anticipated this remark and often imitated it in private.

Dr. Cambridge told them to be wary of the Lower Belle Isle set. “Their teeth gleam with the efforts of another man's dreams,” he said.

Jack didn't know what he meant by that. But their teeth did gleam.

They sometimes visited Grandma Kipling. Everyone called her grandma. Much like Mr. Singh, she always greeted them with fixed phrases and questions.

“Are you happy living way up on that hill?” she would ask. “It seems such a dreary existence.”

They always answered that they were happy.

She liked to tell them how things were in her day.

“In my day, a man took a wife,” she'd say--not in a disapproving way, but in a tone that held curiosity and wonder.

Jack remembered Grandma Kipling being different, Mr. Singh too. Before Evan II, before that day . . . Singh and most of the other Belle Isle natives had put a lot of stock in Jack's well being. Their intrusive manner, coming to the mansion, asking questions of Dr. Cambridge, had always set the Doctor on edge.

Jack didn't like it when Cambridge was on edge. Things happened.

The ice . . .

Cambridge would sometimes bring a block of ice up from the cellar after a Belle Isle native's intrusion. He'd sit at the dining table chipping at it with a stick. Pick, Pick, Pick until shards sprinkled the floor. After a time bergs would break away, sluice across the table and slam against the pantry door.

Jack was glad that the natives were no longer capable of setting Dr. Cambridge on edge, but he missed the realness of his neighbors, their . . . their humanness. They used to ask after him, pity and worry crossing their brows. Sometimes his visits ended in an embrace. It was Mr. Singh who told Jack that he loved him, Grandma Kipling who offered to sneak Jack away and send him to Massachusetts to live with a relative.

But their mental absence was almost worth it. It had been a long time since Cambridge had brought the ice block up from the cellar.

But it wasn't the ice or even the chipping that scared Jack. It was the way Cambridge would shut down, unreachable, deaf and single minded. When Cambridge was at his ice, he heard nothing, he knew nothing.

The locals still asked questions, but they were benign questions, never acted upon. No one called the social workers anymore. Visitors no longer came to the mansion, imploring Dr. Cambridge to enroll Jack in public school.

Jack and Dolly liked to look around Grandma Kipling's parlor. The doilies and pastels were always in perfect synchronicity, and her houseplants thrived without blemish.

“In my day,” she'd say, “a woman was expected to have a green thumb.”

One Thursday Jack and Dolly spent the entire morning going through her photo albums.

“Who is this man?” Dolly asked.

Grandma Kipling sat between them on the stiff sofa and considered the photo, an army man standing beside a canon.

“You know,” she observed, “I don't rightly recall.”

Dolly only smirked.

“Thank you for sharing your pictures with us,” Jack said.

Grandma Kipling nodded.

Shortly afterward the two left Grandma Kipling and headed to the park. Sitting alone on the swings with only each other, Dolly began to probe.

“Doesn't it bother you that they always say the same things?”

By then Dolly had been at the mansion for more than a month. Until that moment, Jack always felt that he was the older one, like he was leading her through life in Belle Isle. Never mind that she was technically older.

He scowled now, not liking the turn in their relationship.

“It's not always the same,” Jack said impatiently.

“It's always near to the same,” Dolly clarified. “It's the same kinds of things, anyway. And their skin . . . their skin is so pale and stiff.”

Jack kicked at the dirt beneath his swing. Traffic moved through the streets in front of them. He watched the cars, unable to meet Dolly's gaze, but he felt her eyes on him, burning for an answer to a question that she hadn't quite asked.

Jack knew she liked to smoke cigarettes and wasn't above plucking clean butts from the ground. Sometimes, she tucked several of these butts into her long coat and smoked them in the parlor. He kicked one toward her now, hoping she would blaze up and shut up.

Dolly liked to talk. Now she instructed him on the finer points of hitching rides with strangers. “You throw up your thumb,” she lectured, “but you always avoid the crazies and twitchies.”

She liked to tell boastful tales about a place called Haight Ashbury and how she'd run away and gone there once.

“That's where I got my records,” she'd told him now. “I got 'em in a little shop in the Haight.”

Her records: the strange guitar sounds of Jimi Hendrix, the moody and atmospheric renderings of Jefferson Airplane. Dr. Cambridge, much to Jack's surprise, allowed these records.

But these things, in Jack's opinion, didn't make her hard. They only made her whimsical and interesting

Dolly bent to retrieve the cigarette butt, the flower bobbing madly in her hair.

If she knew popular music, Jack knew the classics. If she knew about pop culture, Jack knew about Belle Isle. His vocabulary and education rivaled her ragged and possibly exaggerated life experiences, and Jack intended to keep it that way.

“They didn't used to be like that,” Jack said. “Dr. Cambridge made them better. He makes people better.”

Dolly didn't swing high now. She allowed her feet to drag the ground. Dirt swirled around her beaded sandals.

“How?”

Jack considered this. “Come on,” he said. “I think it's easier if I just show you.”

Dolly followed him back to Cambridge Mansion.

That night, after Dr. Cambridge gave them their school lesson, Jack and Dolly sat in the parlor with Cambridge's journals open at their feet.

“These are his research diaries,” Jack whispered. “I don't understand all of them, but I understand some.”

Dolly nodded, taking the first journal from the pile. Jack hesitated and glanced over his shoulder, making sure the door was secure.

“He makes people better,” said Jack selecting his own journal from the pile, a theme-book of cheap and old-fashioned paper. “This one is about Grandma Kipling,” he said, passing the book to Dolly.

She immediately dropped the theme-book she’d been sifting through, took Jack’s and began to read the musings of a madman.

The problem with people is not that they are like sheep. The problem is that they are not like sheep at all.

Doris Kipling was the first to interfere with my work, always calling for the social worker, always asking her intrusive questions of Jack.

I entered her parlor at noon, just in time for tea. As usual she asked after Jack’s affairs, even before she’d asked after my own. I finished removing my coat before I spoke.

“He’s well,” I told her. “He’s coming along well, making impressive advances in his studies.”

“Studies.” The word was followed by a sniff as if she didn’t believe me.

I knew why she’d called me to tea. I knew she wanted to discuss Jack. She wanted to inform me that she would again be notifying the social worker.

I went to tea prepared.

I set Evan II to leave my vehicle and enter her side door at 12:05. It was already 12:01.

“What you’re doing is not right,” she said. But she offered me a seat on the sofa and poured my tea like a good hostess.

I kept one eye on the side door, the other trained on the mantel-clock over the fireplace.

12:05

Evan II didn’t hesitate at the door. He barreled through as if it were made of paper. The splintered wood opened like an exploding box; his square head peeked through.

A gleaming cube.

The curious face of a lunatic child.

Evan II tracks movement. I created him this way. Had Doris Kipling remained still, I might have had to shove her to the center of the room. But people are predictable--if not in their manners then in their movements. When frightened, they jump. They run. They flail their arms into the air.

Doris did all three.

Evan II needed no further prompting.

“Flailing,” he said. “No flailing. Error. Error. Error.”

Then he was on her. His hands resembled enormous lobster claws as they closed over her shoulders and lifted her from the ground. He plucked her limbs effortlessly, pausing only long enough to remove his cauterizing nozzle. With this nozzle he burned her limbs and torso so that they would hold their blood.

When Evan II finished his task, I collected the body parts, swatting at an out of season firefly all the while. The door would need to be replaced to be sure, but not much else seemed amiss

The cauterizing nozzle worked beautifully.

I needed only to return to Cambridge Mansion and rebuild Doris Kipling into a more benign neighbor.

Dolly closed the book and stared at Jack. She was more than a year older than him, but her eyes in that moment seemed older still. “You're making this up. Dr. Cambridge and you are making this up,” she whispered. “You and Dr. Cambridge are both crazy.” She moved away from the pile of books and went to the parlor window. She stared into the street, her back turned away from her only companion.

“I couldn't wait to get the hell out of Saint Anne's Parish,” she said now, “but even that place was better than living with crazies. I hate crazies, crazies and twitchies.”

“He's not . . . I'm not . . .” Jack picked up one of the earlier journals and turned to a random page.

Now, if only I could get Evan II to cooperate.

Though I created him, though I was careful in my construction of his metallic mind, it’s as if he has a mind that is very much his own sometimes.

However, I know this is silly, and I know that this cannot be...

Though he wanted to, Jack didn't tell her about the month of carnage that had taken place the previous year. He kept silent about the metal monsters that had descended down the hill in droves. Even now, a year later, he could see them clearly, breaking away from one another in packs, according to station, according to task.

Evan II.

He shivered now thinking about Evan II, the monster of his dreams, the monster that might very well be Dr. Cambridge's masterwork.

“But the pain doesn't last,” Cambridge said that long ago day. “The good people of Belle Isle will be taken apart and put back together. They will be better. They will be much better.”

Jack believed him then. He believed him still.

Jack stood, remembering the importance of the work, how the work meant that everything was expendable. Dolly would try to run, he knew that much. But he would never let her get away.

Jack advanced toward her. She was still facing the window, the silhouette of the flower strangely beautiful in her dark hair. This was good. This was very good.

“I'm afraid,” said Jack, when he was beside her, “that I've told you too much about the work. I think Dr. Cambridge will have to make you better too.”

“We agreed that you would not speak to her of the work,” Cambridge scolded. “You have created a situation that I cannot retreat from. I must carry out a task that pulls me away from the real work. Nothing should interfere with the real work.”

Jack stood in the workshop humbly taking his punishment. He nodded at the right intervals and made his face sheepish and apologetic, but it was all he could do to hear the Doctor over Dolly's screams.

“You've done the right thing in bringing her to me,” Dr. Cambridge admitted. “Allowing her to run away would have been a disaster.”

“Please,” she begged from her place on the racks. “Please. I won't tell anyone. I won't ever tell anyone.”

Jack caught only glimpses of Dolly. The hunched shoulders of Dr. Cambridge went a long way toward blocking his view, and for this he was thankful.

What little he did see made his stomach twitch and turn.

Dolly was shackled to the wall. Her brown hair covered her face and her head hung in defeat. The flower that she always wore dangled over her forehead.

“Are you going to use Evan II?” Jack whispered, hoping that the Doctor had another plan.

“I only use Evan II when there is a chance the specimen might run,” said Dr. Cambridge. “I think a bone saw and a blow torch will suffice in this instance.”

That was all it took to send Dolly into another round of hysterics.

“I shall go to the cellar and retrieve the tools,” said Cambridge. “You stay here and keep your eye on the specimen.”

Jack only nodded. Prior to this night, Doctor Cambridge had always referred to Dolly as Dolly. Now she had been reduced to 'the specimen.' Thinking about it now, Jack realized that that had always been his way. When the head of the faculty had paid Cambridge a visit he entered the house a person and left a specimen.

“That specimen won't be bothering me anymore,” Cambridge said after he had left. “He will fund my work for the rest of my life, in fact.”

Jack had heard screaming from this room on that day too.

“Don't listen to him,” Dolly said after Cambridge had gone. “Don't listen. He is a crazy man.”

Jack didn't look at her. He kept his eyes trained on his sneakers.

He thought about Mrs. Orosco from the Department of Social Services. She had been a confidant for Jack, always coming to the mansion to check on his progress under the tutelage of the good Doctor.

“You're time here is temporary,” she'd say. “Think of it as an internship.”

But then one day she was different. One day Jack came in from his walk in lower Belle Isle and found her sitting in the parlor, completely agreeable and without humor.

He realized now that he missed her.

But the work.

The work must always come first.

“Jack, listen to me,” Dolly urged. “Get me down from here. Come away with me. Come away from here.”

The work.

The masterwork.

“Jack, I love you,” she said. “I love you. I love you.”

He looked at her. The hardness Cambridge had mentioned, but that Jack had never seen, was in her eyes now. It grated through his skin, pushing him to the brink of indecision.

She didn't mean it. She didn't love him. He knew that. Still, no one had said that to him since . . . since . . .

“We could go to San Francisco. My mother, my birth mother, she's a Flamenco dancer there. Do you know what that is?”

Jack shook his head. Cambridge did not school him on popular culture. His entertainment was limited to cartoons.

“You see the way the bunny falls from the cliff,” Cambridge once said. “That is not the end of him, Jack. He will come back better.”

Dr. Cambridge made people better.

Doesn't it bother you that they always say the same things?

The fireflies that always gathered above Jack's bed, swarmed now. But this time they hovered around Dolly.

And their skin . . . their skin is so pale and stiff.

He knew what would become of Dolly. She would be better. She would not have worries, or need medical care. But she would lose something too. She would still go to the park with him and visit the ice cream parlor, but their conversations would be limited, because she would be limited.

Before any of that . . . before the transformation, her body parts would be lined up on the counter. Dr. Cambridge would work steadily at reproducing them synthetically and according to size. Attention would be paid to detail, yes, but the synthetic skin--the skin that he grew in the pod--Jack hated the smell of it, the texture of it.

Then there was this . . . another firefly would be added to the swarm. For each person Cambridge altered, there appeared above the corpse . . . a single firefly.

Jack rushed to Dolly now. Every noise in the workshop was white noise. His heartbeat. His breathing. The voices of those who had passed from his life played throughout the room as if his memories had been transferred to phonograph. This wasn't true of course, but it felt true.

The shackles were easy. Each clicked open, squeaking like a rusty hinge.

When Dolly was on the floor, free from bondage, they heard the first stirrings of Dr. Cambridge--his feet audibly moving up the stairs.

Dolly's eyes darted around the room. They would never have time to cross the workshop and make it upstairs. “This way,” she said taking Jack's hand and pulling him toward the mahogany door, a door that was now swarmed by fireflies.

It wasn't a room at all, but a tunnel. Jack and Dolly ran in one direction only to curve left further in. A winding corridor. Jack glimpsed rooms throughout, but didn't stop to investigate. Vaguely, he was aware of the ticking and twining, but even that seemed secondary to their forward motion.

The fireflies flew ahead now, leading them.

The corridor culminated abruptly, opening into a large room. Dolly stopped to take a breath and Jack did the same.

“How do we get out of here?” she asked.

“You're asking me?”

The room was well lit, sodium arch bars crossed toward the back wall. A series of cages lined all four corners of the large room, and a shelf labeled 'programming' held small, rectangular boxes that resembled transistor radios. The blue lights from these boxes flashed at precise intervals.

“It's like a basement,” Dolly said, “only brighter.”

They moved further into the room, investigating the empty cages.

“Shhh! Listen.” Jack cocked his head sideways and concentrated his efforts. “The ticking is louder here.”

“So what? This whole house ticks! And what's with all these fireflies, anyway?” Dolly watched them spin toward the sodium lights and rest.

“Some ticking is standby,” Jack explained. “This is faster.”

He saw it then. At the juncture where the corridor became the open room . . . Evan II. The monster--easily seven feet tall and three feet wide--ticked and chugged. Its boxy head shifted left and right as if scanning its surroundings.

“Don't move at all,” Jack whispered. “Don't even blink.”

But he knew she would move. They always did.

“Holy shit!” She screamed and bounded left, searching for an escape.

No doors.

Evan II began to roll, his speed staggering. While he was fast, the fireflies were faster still. They swooped low circling the robot's head like a halo.

Jack watched, his jaw dropping open when the robot began to retreat. It rolled backward, lurched only once and then stilled. The fireflies moved between its hinged arms. A smaller swarm broke away, flying into its triangular mouth.

The ticking ceased, replaced by the voices of those who had once resided in lower Belle Isle.

“Have an ice cream on me.” The voice of Mr. Singh--Good Old' Mr. Singh--back when he spoke more than key phrases.

“It's deplorable; a boy like you should be with children his own age.” Grandma Kipling.

There were others. The wry voice of Mrs. Orosco. The soft stirrings of Gabriella Colchester who taught music at the high school.

Jack began to cry then, his eyes brimming with the loss of it all--so many people, people who had once loved him, people who had tried for years to help him.

He'd had a hand in their altering too. Yes, he could have stopped the carnage. He could have killed Dr. Cambridge or at least found a way to restrain him, especially during that month.

Jack knew now what he had to do.

“Don't worry,” he said to Dolly who lay curled up in the far corner. “Everything is going to be all right now.”

This time she followed him, skirting past the robot that owned many voices.

Moving slowly, they were able to glance into the rooms along the corridor. Doctor Cambridge's robots occupied these rooms: the older models, followed by the guards that had encircled lower Belle Isle during the month of killings. Next they came upon the murderous machines--the first prototypes for Evan II; Jack thought of these as lesser-Evans. They, along with Evan II, were the monsters that had wrecked havoc on Belle Isle. The last room held the service bots whose only purposes were domestic.

Dr. Cambridge was not in the workshop. Jack guessed that he had ventured outdoors to look for them. If they ran into him . . . if he tried to stop them, Jack would act. He would kill him if need be. He knew that now and there was something liberating in his knowing.

Cambridge was not outdoors. Jack expected to find him rushing across the lawn, his hair askew.

“Go,” Jack said now. “Go wherever you want.”

“Come with me,” said Dolly.

Jack shook his head. The sun was going down behind Cambridge Mansion, looming like a full spotlight. Time to say goodbye. Everything about the setting said so.

“I have things to take care of here,” Jack said.

She held his arm for a minute, searched his face and then let go. “I won't forget you,” she said.

“Go.” He shoved her forward gently. There was no time left. Already he heard the ticking, not the clocks throughout the living quarters of Cambridge Mansion, but the heavier pulses of those who lived behind the mahogany door. Unlike Evan II, the other bots were not self-winding.

He knew where Dr. Cambridge was now. He was in the place they had just left. He was winding his monsters for real. No standby. Jack heard the quickening and recognized the difference.

Jack pushed Dolly again, harder this time. “You have to go,” he said. “It's going to be bad here.”

She considered him for a moment, before turning and running down the hill.

Alone now, Jack took a step toward the house.

Already the bots were exiting the mansion and lining up on the large porch. Cambridge stood with them like a god in the circle of his flock.

“I wanted a companion,” Doctor Cambridge said. “I wanted only that.”

“You tricked me,” Jack whispered. “You . . .

“I wanted you to have a companion, too, someone close to your own age. I wanted this for you, Jack, and you chose this companion . . . this . . . this girl over me. You chose this girl over the work!”

Jack shook his head. It didn't feel like a choice. Dolly had showed him something. She'd reminded him about people again and how they were supposed to behave. They were supposed to be contradictory and spirited and spiteful and wonderful. They were supposed to be . . . to be . . . real and alive and full of shit sometimes.

“Tell me about the masterwork,” Jack said now, his voice almost drowned out by the ticking robots. “Tell me what it is!”

“All of it,” Dr. Cambridge said without hesitation, his arm sweeping vastly toward the lower valley. “All of it.”

“Then you are a killer!”

“Please.” Cambridge extended his hand, though Jack was halfway across the yard. “I can't lose you. I have no one. I have no one.”

“You killed them all. You . . . You . . . killed them,” Jack whispered.

They stared at one another, a standoff that might have lasted the night had the first robot not descended the stairs and started toward Jack.

Jack did not retreat. If he was right . . . if the fireflies were what he thought they were, these robots would never be allowed to harm him.

“I am afraid,” Jack said. He closed his eyes. “I am afraid,” he repeated.

They always came when he was afraid. This time was no exception. He felt them before he heard them as if they had flown through his very soul.

The screams. The agony. The pleading.

Jack did not watch Dr. Cambridge's death. He couldn't watch. He did not open his eyes again until the buzzing became a soft drone, until the ticking had nearly ceased.

The robots were motionless and Dr. Cambridge lay broken across the yard.

Jack turned away from the carnage and watched the electric-white beings fly downhill toward lower Belle Isle. He followed them for a while. He watched as they descended on houses and then through doors. They would fly into the synthetic casings that had come to represent them, Jack suspected, and put these mimics to rest.

As for his own soul . . . Jack wondered if he would ever find absolution. He wondered if he would ever recover from the loss of so many.

He crossed into the neighboring city of Umbra and began to hitchhike.

His first ride was uneventful, a salesman driving across country. He was quiet and Jack appreciated his silence. It was enough just to gaze out the window at the open highway. It stretched before him like a map to the future, a tangled trail leading to Haight Ashbury, to Jimi Hendrix, to Jefferson Airplane and to a girl who wore a flower in her hair.

The Fall of Bara-ki

by Amy M. Smith

Dr. Jordan Miles blinked against the harsh contrast between the natural sunlight and the artificial glow of the space ship’s florescent lights he had become accustomed to seeing. Within seconds, he noticed the lenses of his glasses darkening to accommodate the added brilliance. Reaching up, he pressed a small button, turning off the adjustment feature. The sun’s brightness might be painful, but he could not afford for his vision to be impaired by darkened lenses.

He turned at the sound of footsteps. Dr. Marcus Stine had just left the ship, clad completely in his regulation airtight space suit.

“You should be more cautious,” Stine warned, his voice distorted by the suit’s microphone. “Considering everything…”

Miles’ shrug cut him off as he turned his gaze away from his colleague. “The computer scans checked out OK. It’s a perfectly safe environment. Besides,” he grinned wryly. “Computers never lie.”

Stine snorted, then after a pause conceded and removed his helmet. “I suppose it would be less cumbersome,” he admitted, turning back to the ship to change.

Miles hooked his thumbs under the straps of his backpack and took a deep breath. Alaghom. Weeks of training and months of travel fell away into a shadow of memory as he breathed the most anticipated air of his life. He felt as if every moment up to this point had been preparing him to stand in this very spot overlooking the pentacle of his career.

“It’s an archeologist’s dream, Marcus,” he said to Stine who had just joined him.

The older man smiled but with a slight twinge. He still had not grown accustomed to Miles addressing him on a first name basis. As the senior member and leader of the mission, Stine expected to be referred to by title and surname. But rank meant very little in a two-man team and although Miles was more than thirty year his junior, Stine had to admit he could not have asked for a better partner.

Clapping Miles on the back, he asked, “Ready?”

Miles nodded eagerly and they started off, leaving the comfort and safety of the ship and venturing into an alien world of unknowns.

From the ship they had been able to see the outline of the city—a mass of buildings and streets that rose above the horizon like an emblem of power and achievement. But as they drew closer, they saw that the city was more than powerful; its ornate and complex architecture gave it a sense of almost ethereal beauty. From all visual accounts, the city of Bara-ki appeared to have been a thriving cultural center of a long-gone civilization.

Feeling an overwhelming surge of anticipation, Miles realized that he was already several steps ahead of Stine. He slowed his pace to match the other man’s stride, knowing the older scientist was right to take their entrance slowly, making mental observations and being careful not to miss the slightest detail. They would never have another chance to get a first impression.

As his foot first made contact with the stone-laid street, Miles visibly shook with the experience. It was as if the secrets of an entire lost civilization surged through his body, beckoning him to come and unearth their mysteries. He felt his breath quicken—not from exercise, but from excitement. To be the first to work on a dig was thrilling. To be one of the only two archaeologists to ever view the site was overwhelming.

Miles came to a sudden stop again, but this time it was not to allow Stine to catch up. A few yards to his right lay a pile of bones—dust covered and petrified, but humanoid from all he could tell of their jumbled mess. He made a face, noticing several more skeletons within eyesight.

“Unsettling, isn’t it?” Stine asked.

Mile nodded in silence. He was an archaeologist. He had seen plenty of skeletons in his years on the field, but there was something different about the bodies of Bara-ki, fallen with no indication of a cause of death, as if they had simply stopped living.

“Well,” Stine said heavily. “That’s why we’re here.” He pulled a hand held scanner from his backpack and knelt beside the closest corpse. “Imagine being the first group here. At least we had warning.”

Miles nodded again, remembering the hours he and Stine had spent staring at the digital pictures taken from the first manned expedition to Alaghom. Image after image of bodies sitting around tables, lying in beds, collapsed in the central market. They had spent months pouring over the pictures, sifting through computer readouts and interviewing the half-dozen explorers from that first mission. But nearly a year after the return of the expedition team, they had no more answers than when they had begun and it was determined that a team of archaeologists would have to be sent to the planet if any hope of uncovering the secrets of Alaghom were to be realized.

The team would have to be small—no more than two men. A smaller ship would travel more quickly and the mystery of Alaghom was of utmost importance to Earth. With meticulous care, a list of three score scientists were narrowed down to world-renown archaeologist Dr. Marcus Stine and the young but brilliant Dr. Jordan Miles.

“Anything?” Miles asked, not expecting much. There would be nothing in Stine’s scans that they had not seen before.

Shaking his head, Stine rose to his feet. “Nothing.” He pulled his backpack off one shoulder so he could replace the scanner. “Maybe we should just make visual observations for now—walk around, get to know the site, see what we’re dealing with.”

Miles nodded in reluctant agreement. He would have preferred to begin running tests, diving directly into the center of work. But he had learned over the years that in archaeology, patience was the key ingredient to success. The city had stood as it did now for centuries, perhaps millennia, untouched. It could wait another day.

They walked at a steady pace, eager to see as much of the city as possible before the sunlight failed. Occasionally they entered a building, opened a drawer or a cabinet or moved an item to see behind it, but for the most part, they simply wandered through the streets taking in everything with what Stine considered to be their most reliable recording device—their own eyes and memory. Miles resisted the urge to make physical notes in his electronic recorder, instead following Stine’s example of patient observance.

They spent the better part of the day exploring and by sunset they had seen over half of the city.

“We’ll look around in there tomorrow,” Stine said, pointing at a tall structure not far away. Miles agreed. He had already noticed the building. Rising above the other houses and shops, it was visible from any point in the city. Obviously the building held some symbol of power. Perhaps it was the seat of government or the center of authority. Only tomorrow would tell them.

Back inside the cramped comfort of the ship, Miles heated up two meal packs and set them on the collapsible table while Stine poured their drinks. They spent the first half of their meal in silence, each man going over his private memories of what he had seen that day. Then abruptly, Miles broke the silence.

“Would you come?” he asked. “I mean, if everything checks out and we send colonists?”

Stine paused for only a second before replying, “I suppose it would depend on who else was coming, too.”

“It will be weird, though,” Miles continued. “If Earth sets up a colony. Six months of space flight separating you from everything you’d ever known…”

Stine shrugged. “Not much different than colonists moving across the ocean to settle in the Americas less than a millennium ago. We probably have more chance of communication with home than they did.”

Miles nodded in consent, and then asked, “Do you think it will happen? Do you think Alaghom is inhabitable?”

Stine let out a curt laugh. “Who knows? That’s what we’re here to find out.”

Miles leaned back in his chair and thought about the first time he had heard of Alaghom—the closest planet to Earth with the capability of sustaining human life. And although the majority of the planet was submerged under water, there were three small inhabitable continents that offered hope of a nearby Earth-colony. After promising computer scans revealed a breathable atmosphere and acceptable environment, a team of explorers had been sent to scout out a site for a possible colony. But after coming upon Bara-ki, the team sent back a disturbing report. The mysteries of the fallen city weighed heavily on the decision to move forward with colonization efforts.

It was strange. There were other devastated cities on the same continent, but the bodies they found were properly buried, and the corpses revealed evidence of disease or wounds—plausible explanations for causes of death. Nothing like Bara-ki. An entire city that appeared to have fallen in a moment’s time.

And so here they were—Stine and Miles—sent to determine the cause of Bara-ki’s demise. To insure the fate of the city would not be repeated on a potential colony.

Miles shook his head slowly to himself. While this was no doubt the most exciting expedition he had ever been on, it was also the most important. He finished his dinner in thoughtful silence.

It was over an hour’s walk from the ship to the tall building in the center of the city. Their progress was hindered mostly by Stine’s reluctant agreement to allow Miles to use his electronic equipment and the younger man stopped constantly to snap pictures or run scans.

At last they stood face to face with the impressive structure. From this distance they could see the intricate designs carved into the stone support pillars and the gold-laid crest that graced the opening door.

“A palace?” Miles guessed.

“Most likely.”

It took both men to pull open the heavy wooden door. It was virtually untouched, covered in a powerful lacquer that had preserved it from decay all these years. The outside of the building had been in better shape than anything they had seen as of yet, no doubt due to the higher quality of materials used to build the palace. They hoped the inside would be equally well preserved.

They were not disappointed. Miles’ eyes opened in amazement as they stepped into a large, high-ceilinged room. He was accustomed to seeing the beauty-that-was in ancient ruins, but the palace of Bara-ki held a splendor that would have been visible to even the most untrained eye.

After spending several hours exploring the bottom level of the palace, they decided that the wide spiral staircase looked relatively sturdy and they ascended to the second floor.

They spent the day walking cautiously through the rooms of the magnificent palace. Time had led to some decay, but for the most part, everything was tidy and intact.

As the afternoon grew long, the archaeologists began to discuss returning to the ship for the night.

“How about a quick look upstairs before we leave?” Miles asked, nodding upward to the final and unexplored third level.

Stine agreed and together they followed a narrower staircase up to the highest floor. Time guided their hurried footsteps as they peaked in each room, eager to see as much as possible before they were forced to return to the ship. Just as they were closing one of the final doors, something caught Miles’ interest.

“What’s that?” he asked, pushing the door open again and entering the room. He led Stine across the decomposing carpet to a small table next to a large canopy bed. On the table sat a worn book.

Gingerly, Miles picked it up and cautiously pried apart the pages. Flowing handwriting filled the paper.

“First book I’ve seen here,” Miles commented. It was true. Though many of the buildings had words carved into their stone fronts, they had found nothing that resembled a book.

“It might be a journal of sorts,” Stine suggested. “Take it with you.”

Miles carefully slid the book into a plastic bag as they hurried from the palace, as anxious to return to the ship before dark as they were to begin analyzing the small book.

That night they ate their dinner to the hum of the computer translator. Upon returning to the ship, they had pulled the book from its protective bag and begun to study it.

It had been Miles who suggested trying the computer translator. “It’s worked on every Earth language,” he said. “Even that Amazon tribe that used color variations as vowel markers.”

Despite his distrust in technology, Stine had admitted that the translator was their best option.

They scanned the first few pages into the computer. Now they were waiting patiently for the results.

Miles perused through his digital pictures as he ate. As usual, it was he who broke the mealtime silence.

“There’s something different about this palace,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

“What?” Stine asked, looking up from his dinner.

Miles handed him the digital camera. “There’re no people.”

Stine did not take the camera. He remembered well enough on his own. “You’re right,” he said, wondering why he had not noticed before. “Strange…”

Miles agreed as he furrowed his brow in thought, but no explanation came to him. His attention was diverted, however, as the computer beeped, signaling the completion of its translation.

The scientists rushed to the monitor to view the results.

“It’s a journal!” Stine said excitedly after skimming the first few lines.

“Maybe we’ll get some answers now.”

The two men leaned close to the screen and began to read.

The sun shone warmly through the open window and birds could be heard singing their relaxing melodies. But Leia Panmei was anything but relaxed. She clenched her fists to keep her hands from shaking and felt clammy sweat on her fingertips. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

“Breathe normally.”

Leia nodded and tried again to relax so her mother could finish lacing the back of her deep purple wedding dress. Alta Panmei was gorgeous despite her age and her daughter had inherited her mother’s grace and beauty.

“Tell me more about him,” Leia said, hoping the conversation would ease her nerves.

Alta pulled tightly on the strings she was holding. “What more is there to tell? Teon Dram-ki is the king of Bara-ki. That is all I know.”

Leia did not push the subject, though she already knew more than her betrothed’s name and status. With less than thirty cycles, Teon Dram-ki was one of the youngest kings to govern Bara-ki. His father had died prematurely, forcing the promotion from prince to king before the young man felt himself to be adequately prepared. Despite Teon Dram-ki’s notorious youth, he seemed old to Leia when compared to her sixteen years. While marriages of such a difference were not unheard of, they were uncommon. Leia chose not to dwell on the matter. The match had not been made based on compatibility.

“Then tell me about Bara-ki,” she said.

Alta laughed softly. “You know as much as I—this is my first visit to the city. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Leia nodded as her mother continued. “Powerful, too. The largest city in the world. They say there are over 500,000 people here. 500,000! Can you imagine?” Her voice grew suddenly serious. “I don’t have to remind you how important this is.”

“I know,” Leia said softly. Her own city of Trikala had barely a fifth the population of Bara-ki and with recent fighting the way it was, her people had seized the opportunity to secure the allegiance of their powerful neighbors. As the niece of the king of Trikala, her union to Teon Dram-ki would form an unofficial treaty between the two cities.

“It is so big, though. I feel so alone.” Leia felt the knot being tied in the back of her dress and she turned to face her mother. “I wish you were staying.”

“As do I,” Alta replied. “But I have matters to attend to in Trikala. Besides,” she added with a smile that was more hopeful than encouraging, “you will want time alone to get to know your new husband.”

Leia returned a weak smile but did not reply. Sensing her uneasiness, Alta brightened. “I have a wedding gift for you.”

“You have already…”

“This is special,” Alta interjected. “More personal.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small object bound in a dark green leather cover.

Leia opened it curiously. Inside were sheets of loose paper.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It is called a book. To record your thoughts,” Alta explained. “Both good and bad.”

Leia thanked her mother as a knock sounded at the door and a servant entered, signaling that the ceremony was about to begin. Leia placed the small book with her belongings and followed the servant out the door.

In the great entry room of the palace, Leia met her husband for the first time. The priest was standing by the fountain, waiting to perform the ceremony. Guests were present from both the Bara-ki and Trikala royal families. But Leia was interested only in Teon Dram-ki.

She had spent day and night wondering what the king would be like, and now that she stood face to face with him, she found that he was nothing of what she had imagined. He stood little more than average height, with dark hair and eyes. He looked younger than she had envisioned. But what surprised her the most was his demeanor. He did not have the proud authoritative look of her uncle. Instead he appeared to be timid and overwhelmed.

Leia realized suddenly that Teon Dram-ki was as nervous as she. Almost laughing at the notion, she gave the king a small, shy smile. To her surprise and delight, his shoulders relaxed and he returned the smile.

Miles sat back in his seat, disappointed. “That’s all we scanned,” Stine said as they stared at the final line of text.

Miles reached for the book. “Let’s scan the next section.”

“Tomorrow,” Stine replied, feigning a yawn and hoping that Miles would take the hint. He did and with a final look at the computer monitor, they headed to their quarters.

The next morning they scanned a few more pages of text and left the computer to run its translation. They spent the day wandering the unexplored sections of the city, but opted to return to the ship earlier than usual.

When they arrived at the ship, the computer had long finished its translation. While Miles prepared their dinner, Stine began to read aloud.

Leia walked slowly but purposefully through the outer gardens of the palace. As the queen, décor was her responsibility. Not that she did any labor herself, but she was still responsible for the appearance of the palace and she liked to take a weekly tour of the grounds to make certain they met with her approval.

She was not far from the garden entrance when she was approached by a tall, serious looking man. “May I join you?” he asked.

“Of course, Jaxon,” she replied, moving to the side of the narrow pathway.

They talked of trivial matters for a moment, before Leia stopped. “Why are you here?” she asked abruptly. Jaxon Coll was Teon’s chief advisor and though he and Leia were on friendly terms, he rarely sought her out without good reason.

Jaxon Coll hesitated. He was comfortable speaking with Teon Dram-ki, but he was still uneasy around the queen. Teon Dram-ki spoke highly of her, though, and Jaxon Coll believed her to be sophisticated and competent, if only a little young for the position. “It is a difficult job, being king,” he said at last. “Heavy decisions threaten to inundate you daily. The responsibility is overwhelming and you have no close friends because you have no equals.”

“If you think I should go to my husband, I will and gladly,” Leia interrupted with a slight blush.

“I think he needs you,” Jaxon Coll said seriously. “Not your counsel, simply your presence.”

Leia nodded and assured the older man that she would do what she could. He looked relieved and with a bow, left her alone in the garden.

Leia finished her review of the outer courts, and then returned to the palace, immediately making her way upstairs to the king’s council room where she knew she would find him.

She was not disappointed. She felt her heart flutter briefly as she entered the room. Over the six short months of their marriage, she had found in Teon a better friend than she had ever had. The king was fiercely protective of his young wife and Leia had never felt so loved and admired.

Despite the time she had spent with Teon, the two were still newly-wed and she felt the excitement and nervousness of a new bride whenever she approached him unannounced.

Leia frowned slightly to herself, seeing Teon staring intently at a large map, lost within himself and his thoughts. She wondered how long he had been there. She was concerned by the tightness of his jaw and the tension reflected in his face. Jaxon Coll had been right—the world weighed heavily on the king.

Closing the door softly, Leia crossed the room. Teon Dram-ki noticed her for the first time and his countenance was changed almost instantly from strained to delighted. He smiled widely and rose, but Leia hurried forward, motioning him to remain seated. She knelt beside him on the floor.

Teon leaned back in his chair and slowly ran a rough hand over Leia’s face and through her dark hair. With a contented sigh, she laid her head on his lap.

“What are you studying,” she asked innocently after a pause. Immediately she felt Teon grow tense and she lifted her head to look into his face. Her eyes met his and mirrored the concern she found there.

“A scout arrived this morning. Palstras and Kalini have formed an alliance with Salich-ro. They are threatening attack.”

“But we have done nothing to them,” Leia argued.

Teon shrugged helplessly. “They do not believe that the war has ended. They think to strike preemptively before we give them cause to fear.”

Leia did not reply. She had lived in a city outside of Bara-ki and she knew full well where the attitude of suspicion toward the largest city in the world had come from, but she did not feel comfortable voicing such reasons. Teon Dram-ki’s father, the late king, had been an expansionist and in the thirty-seven years of his reign, seven cities had fallen to the sword of Bara-ki. Though the last decade had been a peaceful one, the smaller cities that remained in the world held an insatiable fear of the seemingly all-powerful Bara-ki. They feared that Teon Dram-ki would follow his father’s example and begin a new campaign of conquest.

The other cities did not have Leia’s advantage of a personal relationship with the young king and though she knew that he was not a war-monger, prejudice existed against him from those who knew no better.

“What will you do?” she asked at last, having no advice of her own to give.

“We will wait, I suppose.” Teon looked tired. “I have sent word to Trikala, asking for their support. Perhaps with a strong allied front the other cities will rethink their position. With good fortune, a war will be averted.”

Leia smiled encouragingly. She trusted her husband completely, but she wondered if his hope was misplaced.

Stine’s voice faded to silence as the text came to a conclusion. Miles looked at the screen, as if hoping more words would appear.

“Tomorrow,” Stine said firmly, before the younger man could ask. Miles agreed and left the computer as it was.

The next morning, they returned to the palace to continue their exploration. The building had new familiarity after reading Leia’s journal. They walked the corridors, recognizing places she had mentioned and picturing how they must have appeared to the young queen.

A few hours after noon, they discovered an unexplored door in the ground level of the palace. Intrigued, they opened it and followed a flight of narrow stairs underground. They found themselves at the bottom of the stairs in a room barely visible in the sunlight coming from the door they had opened.

Miles fumbled in his backpack and produced a powerful flashlight. Instantly the room was flooded with artificial light, revealing shelves overflowing with spears, arrows, swords and unrecognizable weapons.

“An armory,” Stine said. It was not a guess.

Miles nodded. “Perhaps war was unavoidable.”

They looked curiously around the room. Thousands of weapons lay on sturdy shelves, never having seen battle.

As they returned to the ship, they speculated about the extent of the armory. They could not imagine how a society with such a stock hold of weaponry could have fallen so unexpectedly.

Their conversation ceased when they reached the ship and turned again to the newest translation excerpt from the ancient journal.

Hurried footsteps echoed in the hall. Leia awoke at the sound and hastened to dress herself rather than wait for her attendants. Within minutes, she emerged from her room and hurried to find her husband.

Teon Dram-ki was not in his quarters so she went instead to the council room. The door was closed but she could hear anxious voices inside. Knowing better than to interrupt the king when he as in council, she waited impatiently by the door.

When the meeting dismissed, Teon left the room so quickly that Leia had to hurry to catch up.

“What has happened?” she asked worriedly, grasping his arm.

Teon halted and glanced at her, then motioned for the other men to leave them. Each of the king’s counselors looked sadly at the queen as they walked past the royal couple. When at last the hall was deserted, Teon sighed.

“Trikala has broken the treaty,” he said heavily. “They have joined with the other cities and are mounting an attack.”

Leia’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her homeland. While her sympathies gravitated toward Trikala, in the rules of war, to break a treaty was inexcusable and she knew that the smaller city was in the wrong. Besides, her loyalties now lay with Bara-ki and her husband.

Pushing thoughts of her family aside, she replied, “I suppose that we must go to war.”

Teon looked visibly relieved at her statement, but still felt pained for his foreign wife. “I am sorry,” he said softly as he turned to leave her.

“I know,” she replied simply with a sad smile.

Within the hour, the armory had been opened and the army dispatched. The mines outside the city that had been dormant the past few years were reopened and smiths stood ready to create weapons to replace the ones the army would use.

Everything was prepared for the ultimate war. Unlike the battles fought during the reign of Teon Dram-ki’s father where a single city fought against Bara-ki, the entire world now stood between Bara-ki and victory.

Leia watched from a distance as plans were made wondering what was to become of her people in Trikala and Bara-ki.

“That explains what happened to the rest of the continent,” Miles said as he finished reading. “Destroyed by war.”

Stine agreed. “Perhaps, but it tells us nothing about why Bara-ki fell. We still don’t have the answers we came for.”

Miles sighed and smiled sardonically. “Until tomorrow, then?”

With a nod, Stine rose. “Until tomorrow.”

The next evening, they sat together before the flickering computer screen and read about the destruction of the entire world.

Leia was surprised when she was called to her husband’s council room. She had seen very little of the king over the past few months and generally it was she who sought him out, not he her.

She entered the room quietly, a tinge of nervousness clutching her heart. Teon sat at his desk, unshaven, looking as if he had not slept in days. But Leia had become accustomed to his haggard appearance and was not concerned.

Teon looked up as she approached the desk, then stood and turned his back to her, looking instead out of the wide window. Suddenly worried, Leia hurried to join him.

Still not looking at her, Teon said softly. “Trikala fell this morning.”

Leia tried to remain calm, but found the attempt beyond her. Overwhelmed, she melted into her husband’s arms as he turned toward her at last.

When her tears ran out, she dried her eyes and looked up at Teon. “Trikala was the last city left,” she whispered. “We are all alone now.”

Teon released his hold on her and returned to his desk. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, looking at his map. “But there may be others that we do not know about. Smaller cities, pockets of rebels hidden in the mountains… And what do we know? Maybe the sea is not unending. Perhaps there are more cities in an unknown land across the expanse.”

“What are you saying?” Leia asked.

“Simply that we cannot relax our efforts. We will continue to build our forces, make weapons, and train our men. The other cities may have fallen, but we are not without casualties. We must be prepared should another attack come.”

An attack by whom? Leia thought to herself, but she remained silent, more afraid of the fear she saw in the king’s eyes than of anything else she had experienced in her short life.

Stine and Miles looked at each other. The situation seemed almost comical—preparing for a war against a non-existent threat.

“Paranoia,” Miles said at last, having no other way to describe it.

“It is no different than the stockpiling of nuclear weapons during the Cold War. Or the biological research done during the Ameri-Asian War in the 2150s.”

Miles shook his head, disagreeing. “But on Earth we had an actual enemy to be afraid of.”

Stine shrugged. “Our imagined enemies can be just as formidable as a real one, if only less tangible.”

Miles thought for a moment, but rather than agree, changed the subject. “That still does not explain what happened to Bara-ki.”

Flipping through the remaining pages of the journal, Stine commented, “There is not much left, here. Maybe Leia will tell us soon what happened.”

“If she lived long enough to share her secrets.”

The next day, they remained in the ship. Stine had decided that Leia’s journal was their most promising source of information and Miles was quick to agree. They scanned the remaining pages and sat down anxiously, wondering if their question would at last be answered.

Stretching her aching shoulders, Leia stood and wiped her hands on a towel. She was not accustomed to working with the land, but she was tired of seeing the courtyard overgrown and neglected and there were no servants to be spared for the task of gardening.

She had hoped that with the war over, things would return to normal, but she was gravely disappointed. Teon Dram-ki’s fear of unknown threats was a common one and the people of Bara-ki were as eager as their king to prepare themselves against any possible enemy. The mines were in operation every hour of the day and constant hammering could be heard from the smith houses as they labored to create an exhaustive supply of weaponry. The armory had been filled and another built and still they felt under-protected.

Clearing her head of thoughts of war, Leia stepped back to admire her work. While the gardens were nothing compared to their former glory, they were markedly improved by her few hours of attention.

Exhausted, she gathered her tools and returned to the palace. As she passed under the doorway, she was nearly overrun by a young boy.

She called the boy to her and although he appeared agitated by the delay, he dared not ignore the queen.

“What has happened?” she asked, handing her gardening tool to a servant.

“The miners are dead,” the boy gasped. “Killed somehow.”

“By whom?” Leia asked, panic enveloping her as she envisioned Teon Dram-ki’s fears actualized.

The boy shook his head. “I do not know. I went to see my father and found him with the others. All dead.”

Leia lead him to the king’s council room. Almost immediately after hearing the boy, Teon Dram-ki dispatched men to inspect the mines, but no cause of the miners’ deaths could be found. There was no sign of struggle, no wounds on the bodies.

More miners were sent to replace the ones who had died. Within two days, they too were dead. Teon Dram-ki sent another crew to the mines.

“You must stop sending men to the mines,” Leia begged, but Teon refused to listen to her.

“We are under attack,” he argued, his voice hard and strained with worry. “We must arm ourselves.” A day later, the latest group of miners was dead. Another was sent and within hours, they too had fallen to the mysterious killer.

The city was filled with panic and fear. The people could not fight an enemy that would not show itself, but they would not abandon the mines and the potential weapons they held.

Less than a week after the first miner were found dead, entire neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city closest to the mine were decimated.

Leia hurriedly placed a few small items in a bag. The royal family and their attendants were fleeing the city, hoping to wait out the silent enemy. As she hurried from the palace with Teon Dram-ki and a handful of servants, she wondered if she would ever again see the great and powerful city of Bara-ki.

“So what happened?” Miles asked, frustrated.

Stine shook his head, bewildered. “Something in the mine…” he mused. “But what?”

They sat silently, thinking. After long minutes had passed, Miles turned to another computer and pulled up a map of Alaghom. He zoomed in on the continent, then on Bara-ki and finally on the area Leia had described as the mine. After a few keystrokes, the computer displayed a scan of the area.

Miles pointed to the screen. “There are trace amounts of poisonous gases in the atmosphere. They are stronger here than in the city.”

“But surely there is nothing so powerful as to destroy a civilization. The gases are within acceptable levels.”

“Now, perhaps,” Miles argued. “After centuries to disperse themselves across an entire planet. But when first released, they might have been concentrated enough to be lethal.”

Stine was thoughtful. “So you think that they opened an underground store of gases and released it into the environment?”

Miles nodded. “And they kept digging.”

Stine shook his head at the irony. “They were so afraid of an attack that they created their own killer.”

They were silent for a moment, then Miles asked, “What do you think happened to Leia? Did they get far enough away to escape the poison?”

“Do you want to explore the countryside?”

Miles thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “No, I think it is better not knowing.”

Stine nodded, understanding. They had become so involved in Leia’s story that to find her body would make her seem less real. “Well,” the older man said after a moment. “We have our answer. Will you write the report to Earth?”

Miles agreed and turned back to the computer. After all that Leia had said, he wondered how he would find the words to express her story.

APEX

By Sean Ellis

The sands crackled with blue and violet arcs of static electricity as dusk brought a stiff wind to the desert and still the camels pushed on. The voice of the guide, Ali, was a low plaintive wail, barely audible over the din of shifting dunes and the cry of the wind, but the tall figure astride the second beast, swathed in a faded djellabah, paid no heed. Ali's supplications were merely a formality; the blue-eyed shaitan had put a curse upon his son.

“Guide me into the desert, or your firstborn will die!” Even as the stranger had spoken the words in halting Arabic, the young boy had clutched his abdomen and groaned in pain. Ali had complied—what choice did he have? He had implored the stranger to release his son from the curse ere they depart, but this request had fallen on deaf ears.

“We must reach the plateau of Giza before the full moon rises,” the man had reiterated. “Your son's life is held as a pledge of your good faith. If I complete my quest, the curse will pass.”

“The desert is a dangerous place, effendi. My son should not be made to pay the price if we fall before robbers. Please, effendi, release him.”

“The hour grows late. We must make haste.”

And so they had set out, driving Ali's camels faster and faster into the crackling sands. The sun had finished its journey across the sky, plunging the plateau outside the city into a deepening twilight, but the moon had not yet crept over the far horizon, where the trinity of pyramids erupted up from the landscape like the jagged teeth of some great beast. Ali breathed a tentative sigh of relief; they would make their destination before moonrise, fulfilling at least part of his oath to his diabolical master.

They did not relent with the goal so near; if anything, the stranger became more insistent. Finally, with the camels on the verge of exhaustion, the man called for a halt. He swept down from his mount and paused only long enough to demand that the Arab guide remain outside with the camels until his return. Then he turned away and scrambled onto the exposed outer flank of the Great Pyramid.

Adam Garral paused on the threshold of the upper entrance to the Great Pyramid and gazed off to his left. The moon had not yet broached the sky; he had won the race against time but the night was far from over.

From the depths of his Arab garment he withdrew a torch of reeds and a cigarette lighter then plunged into the dark maw of the opening. Once there, sheltered from the wind, he lit the brand, casting smoky orange illumination on the rough walls of the descending passageway.

The claustrophobic confines did not greatly concern him; he had come here several times during the course of his adventures in Egypt, becoming intimately familiar with every inch of the hewed tunnels and chambers that lay beneath what had, for millennia, been the tallest manmade structure in existence. So comprehensive was his knowledge that he could have navigated the artery in the dark. But no amount of reconnoitering could provide him with the answers that he hoped to find on this night—only this night: Walpurgisnacht.

Walpurgis night and a full moon, he thought. Thank the stars.

It was a source of no little amusement to Garral, in those rare moments when he paused to reflect on the events of his life, that only five short years ago, he would not have been able to explain what Walpurgis night was, much less its significance to the pagans of the world, carrying out their secret, forbidden ceremonies under cover of darkness. A child of wealth and privilege, Garral had aspired to nothing more than the life of a libertine, nominally devoted to his studies at Oxford on Avon, but rarely awake before mid-afternoon following a nightly ritual of carousing and debauchery. But his reckless life course was forever altered one night when, in a drunken stupor, he had wandered into the den of a fortuneteller and at the urging of a friend, purchased a reading.

There had been little use for pretense; the gypsy had known that the men cared little for her art, and she in turn cared about nothing but their silver. Nonetheless, she had shuffled and dealt the cards, turning them over in the prescribed fashion and reciting a bit of mystical claptrap that hinted at everything but promised nothing... and then everything had changed.

The crone had turned over a card, her fingertips resting lightly on the painted pasteboard, and then, just when she was about to murmur some vague platitude, she had stiffened and stared in disbelief first at the card then at her customer. Before he could think to examine the card for himself, she slapped a hand across the spread, scattering the entire deck all over the floor. She had then thrust out a gnarled hand, forefinger and little finger extended in a sign of warding and commenced screaming at them in her native dialect. Garral and his friend had retreated, laughing as drunkards are wont to do, and moved on to the next distraction but later when he had sobered, his blurry memory of the encounter prompted him to investigate further. Yet, when he had returned to the fortuneteller's shop, he found it abandoned.

The mystery surrounding those events had proved as intoxicating as absinthe, and soon Garral was spending his nights, not in the public houses and brothels, but in the enclave of a group of Theosophical Society aspirants. The more he probed into the riddle of the gypsy's reaction, the more his hunger for knowledge grew. Blessed with a sharp mind, Garral excelled in his studies and soon outgrew Blavatsky's followers, even as he outgrew all the other cabals and covens scattered throughout Europe, who promised secret knowledge of the left hand path. Ironically, his carnal appetites did not diminish; if anything, his forays into the shadow world of the occult seemed to awaken within him a magnetic attraction to members of the fairer sex. Now, sharpened with purpose, he cut through his world, taking whatever he pleased along the way of his quest for greater knowledge.

One night, more than a year after his strange journey began, he found himself in the company of an English expatriate living in Prague, who claimed to be none other than Edward Kelley, the famed medium and alchemist, still alive and well more than four hundred years after his reported death. Garral regarded the claim dubiously, but there was no denying that the man had the Sight. After a night of drinking, he had asked the pretender about the gypsy fortuneteller's reaction. The so-called Kelley, eager to show off, had made a show of murmuring incantations before settling down to business and giving his new companion a good hard look... and then had run screaming from the room. The only thing Garral had been able to comprehend from his babbling was a quote from the Book of Revelation:

“Then I saw another beast which rose out of the earth; it had two horns like a lamb and it spoke like a dragon.”

That was when Adam Garral had finally begun to grasp who and what he was.

He had been in Egypt for six months in anticipation of this night—a full moon on the eve of the spring equinox—learning to speak Arabic and more importantly, studying the customs and habits of the locals. By day, he worked in the foreign office, ostensibly writing briefs concerning the activities of some local revolutionaries—the area was a hotbed of intrigue, with both Marxists and Prussian Imperialists vying for the hearts and minds of impressionable young Arabs who had grown tired of the British yoke—but his real life began at the close of the day, when he would don the garb of a mendicant and roam the streets, begging for alms and learning the language and ways of Cairo's dark underbelly.

He soon understood that he could not trust the Arab guides to take him to Giza by night; they would surely murder him and drag his body far into the deep desert to be picked clean by vultures. If he was to survive his adventure, he would have to gain the upper hand. He had chosen Ali because the man was a widower, with only one young son for whom he would do anything. By himself, Ali probably would not have betrayed him, but the camel herders kept no secrets from each other; Ali's friends would know of the nighttime sojourn and set an ambush, unless Garral could find some leverage.

In the end, he had chosen a simple ruse. Introducing a mild emetic into Ali's son's food, he had then pronounced a terrible curse upon the boy; if Ali betrayed him, Garral told the man, the boy's intestines would turn to blood and burst from his mouth. Of course it was all a lie; the “curse” had probably already passed, but Ali did not know that. And Garral's reputation as shaitan, the Devil, was already the subject of much discussion in the coffee houses and alleys of the Old City.

Garral paused at the entrance to what Egyptologists had taken to calling “the King's Chamber.” A carved rectangular cube, the room which lay at the end of several long passages, was thought to have been the burial chamber for Khufu or Cheops, the ancient ruler who had commissioned construction of the monument, but there was little real proof to substantiate that claim. It was just as easy to believe what the spiritualists had claimed—that the pyramid was more than 10,000 years old and built by otherworldly architects using uncanny power. Garral did not favor one explanation over the other, but there was no denying that this structure, built as it was with mathematical precision on the very spine of the earth—a powerful tributary of the Telluric currents that followed the course of the world's longest river—was a place of immense power. Moses had once used that power to crush the gods of Egypt with ten catastrophic plagues and subsequently to open a passage through the heart of the Red Sea. That final, climactic event had occurred on the first full moon of spring.

Garral did not seek to part the sea; his ambitions were on a higher order of magnitude.

In the light of his torch, he hastily completed his arrangements, drawing runes and pentacles on the floor with a piece of charcoal. Only then did he begin lighting the candles placed at strategic intersections in the design. After snuffing out the torch, he took a seat in the center and took out his watch.

Perfect. The moon should be rising. It won't be long now.

He closed his eyes and began chanting an atonal primitive incantation. Time lost all meaning as the rhythmic murmur transported him into a trance state. Yet, the euphoria which flooded through his body and tingled in his fingertips was merely preliminary; he had done this before many times, and while it had lost none of its thrill, what he sought would make this simple ritual seem like child’s play.

A loud crack—the sound of stone breaking—abruptly snapped him out of his reverie.

Who dares intrude…?

Even as his eyes flew open, a black rage descended upon the wandering magician but it sublimated just as quickly when he realized that he was still alone. The runes had not been disturbed and the candles, now firmly anchored in hardened puddles of melted wax, still cast their flickering light into every corner of the chamber. Biting back the curse that had formed on his tongue, he turned his head to the entry—nothing—then scanned the opposite wall.

A second tunnel mouth gaped before him, a black wall of shadow in the orange stone of the anteroom.

A smile of elation changed places with his rage; the opening had most certainly not been there before. Though he had not known exactly what to expect, he now understood that this was the sign he sought, the singular event which could only occur on this night.

Garral retrieved his firebrand, lighting it from one of the candles, and unhesitatingly ventured into the virgin passage. The tunnel wound upward, turning at right angles and remaining parallel to the outer slope of the structure. Scholars and spiritualists had long debated whether the massive monument contained other rooms and tunnels, or was simply a solid mass of limestone and basalt, built merely to attract the attention of passersby; who could have known that answer was wonderfully so much more complex? His mind was abuzz with the possibilities that now lay before him; what secrets had the ancients concealed in this most powerful of monuments, behind a door that could only be opened with the strongest magicks and only on a specific night when all of the universe’s energy was perfectly focused?

The tunnels dimensions began to close in as he moved higher, forcing him to crawl. He continued on hands and knees, pushing the torch ahead as he went, more acutely aware now that the air was growing stale; already, the torch’s flame was faltering. With growing anxiety, he took a candle stub from his pocket and rubbed out the brand against the wall.

The shadows closed around him as the relative brilliance of the torch was replaced by the flickering glow that burned from the wick but once the smoky remains of the torch were behind him the air quality improved dramatically. To his surprise however, the way ahead seemed to grow brighter as he progressed. On the cusp of yet another corner he realized that there was another light source directly ahead. He stopped there, peeking cautiously around the bend before proceeding, and that was when he heard the voices.

A strident cry tumbled down the cramped tunnel—a woman or perhaps a young child. He did not recognize the speech—it might have been an Arabic dialect—but he had no difficulty comprehending its meaning: the speaker was begging for mercy.

Garral’s heart began to pound in his chest; he was not alone. His fingers dropped to the knife in his belt, but the worn hilt offered little comfort. He would certainly be outnumbered. He pinched out the candle flame, letting the light beyond guide him on, and edged stealthily around the turn. One wall of the passage reflected light from an opening in the opposite side of the tunnel, only a few yards beyond.

Intuitively, he grasped that this was the ultimate goal he sought; the long ascending tunnel ended here in a chamber that must, he reckoned, be situated directly beneath the apex of the Great Pyramid. As he neared the entrance, he could see that the cavity beyond was indeed much larger than the confines of the passage. It walls, plastered over with smooth white limestone, reflected firelight in an eerie dance, and as he advanced, he discerned a bronze brazier alight with the remains of a small fire.

A harsh voice erupted just beyond his line of sight, the same unfamiliar language, but unmistakably a demand. It was answered again with a plea from the soprano—a child, Garral decided. He peeked around the edge of the entry.

His caution, while not unwarranted, was somewhat unnecessary. The two men in the vaulted chamber had their backs to him and were wholly focused on coercing a young boy of perhaps eight years to undertake some task. The men had the swarthy complexion of Arabs, but their heads and beards were shaved. They wore dirty shifts of an unfamiliar style and the boy was completely nude, save for a length of rope tied around his waist.

Tomb robbers. But how did they get past me?

One of men snarled at the boy, then raised a fist in which he held a frayed reed. When the boy did not move, he began raining down blows on the boy’s back, spattering the limestone with flecks of red. Garral winced as shrieks filled the air. Egypt was a hard place, and he had witnessed many acts of cruelty among the locals, but somehow the torture of this innocent touched him.

Pathetic, he chided himself. The Great Dragon feeling sorry for a weak, foolish child. When the world is yours, you will deal cruelly with all men; what need have you of compassion? This is none of your concern.

Indeed, he was more curious to know what it was the men wanted from the boy, and how it was that these brigands had gained entrance to the secret chamber at the heart of the pyramid. The answer to the first question became clear when the man with the flail abruptly let off punishing the boy and simply gave him a hard shove. The child stumbled backwards then vanished.

Garral started involuntarily. His impulse had been to rush in—why? To rescue the child? Of course not. Merely to see what happened to him—but he fought it back, reasoning that it was better to keep his presence a secret. After the initial shock of the moment passed, he saw what had become of the boy.

The defilers stood on the edge of small opening in the floor—a hole into which the boy had been thrown. One of the men was leaning back at an impossible angle and Garral now saw that the other end of the boy’s tether was wrapped around his waist—he was belaying the child into the pit. The fog began to lift for Garral; using children to plumb the depths of narrow fissures was a common practice among both respected archaeologists and relic hunters alike. He continued watching, eager to see what treasure the boy would bring forth from the bowels of the pyramid.

For several minutes, the men conversed with their proxy, shouting orders but also encouragement. Then, at long last, elated whoops filled the vault and the man with the rope began hauling in the catch.

“They found it,” Garral muttered. “Whatever it is.”

And then it hit him. The object of their search was surely also the object of his, and once they had it in their possession, his chances of laying hands on it, to say nothing of escaping the passage with his life, would be almost nil. He had to act... immediately.

Act? You mean kill, don't you. He had survived his share of brawling and had even been considered for the Olympic fencing team, but murder? Was that in him?

You are the Great Dragon, lord of destruction; what are these insignificant lives before you? Besides, these are brutal, unlawful men; surely they deserve to die.

He drew the knife, feeling its heft in his palm as he rehearsed what he would do. The man with the rope would be hampered by his labors, unable to effectively assist his comrade. The other man therefore would have to be his primary target.

He stole forward, believing every moment that the soft scrape of his boots on the stone would betray him, but the grave robbers were lost in the oblivion of success. Even when he was directly behind his victim with his knife hand drawn back to strike, the men took no note.

Do it!

He leapt high over the man's shoulder and swung the blade in a wide arc that ended with the knife ramming dead enter into the man's chest. Garral felt a vibration as the blade pierced through the hard cartilage of the sternum, and then the knife was ripped from his hand as the man pitched backward, throwing Garral aside in his death throes.

The second man—the belayer—spat an oath and tried to take a step toward him, but the rope held him fixed in place. His eyes flashed from the attacker to the rope and back again, then he began pulling in the rope with renewed urgency.

Garral dove after the knife, but his hands could not find purchase on the blood-slicked haft. He struggled a moment longer, feeling his victory slipping away with each pull of the rope that brought the boy to the surface. The grave robber's hands were raw and bleeding with exertion, but his countenance wore the look of a man possessed. Garral's eyes widened as the top of the boy's head came into view.

Now! Strike now!

He abandoned his efforts to liberate the knife and instead launched himself across the room, driving his fist into the man's exposed throat. In his frenzy, the man did not even think to let go of the rope long enough to block the punch, and Garral's knuckles slammed into his windpipe, crushing it instantly. The man's crazed expression changed to one of fear, even pleading, as his breath was stolen away but his fate was already sealed. Garral grabbed a length of loose rope off the floor and whipped it like a Texas lariat around the tomb robber's neck, hastening his demise with the makeshift garrote. As the fellow went limp, Garral hauled in the rest of the rope, pulling the boy to safety, then collapsed on the floor with his victims.

With his eyes closed, he felt awash in a maelstrom of emotions. He was elated at his victory and horrified at the violence he had wrought. He wanted to dance in the pools of blood and feast on the hearts of the men he had slaughtered. He felt like throwing up.

A touch on his arm brought him back to the moment with the abruptness of a guillotine. Startled, he backpedaled away from whoever had touched him, fearing that one of the raiders was perhaps not as dead as he believed, but found that it was only the boy. He managed a half-hearted smile which quickly turned into a determined grimace when he saw the amulet.

“What have you got there?” He pointed to the relic in the boy’s hand.

Though his words were incomprehensible, the child hastily passed over a pendant, wrought of gold with inlays of lapis and other precious gems, even as he cowered before this new master.

Garral took the necklace, examining the hieroglyphic inscription on the cartouche. He was not literate where the ancient language of Egypt was concerned, but he recognized the image at the center—the ibis-headed god Thoth, scribe of the Underworld and moon deity in the Ogdoad tradition—and knew intuitively that this was more than just an expensive bauble. The relic’s provenance bespoke certain talismanic properties; he felt certain that the ancients would not have gone to such extraordinary lengths to conceal the amulet if it was not a token of extraordinary occult power. His turmoil over the violence that had brought him to this moment quickly waned, replaced by pure exultation. So ecstatic was he that he almost failed to notice that the child was making a juvenile attempt to conceal something held in his left hand.

Garral focused the full intensity of his stare on the child and the extended an open palm. “Give it to me.”

The boy’s face fell but he meekly complied, holding out his treasure without meeting Garral’s gaze. The latter reached for the object but then stayed his hand; the relic was nothing more than a piece of lapis lazuli carved into the shape of a pyramid. It was so small that its square base did not quite cover the lad’s palm.

Garral sighed. The blue stone block was unquestionably an artifact of no small value but its smooth flanks were unadorned. It was a toy—a toy fit for a Pharaoh’s child, but a toy nonetheless. He drew back his hand without taking the pyramid. “Keep it.”

The boy seemed to understand and began to offer effusive praise to his new master, but Garral waved him off; he had the Amulet of Thoth now, nothing else mattered. He reverently lowered talisman over his head, allowing the centerpiece to rest upon his heart, and turned to the exit with the boy at his heels.

He was barely aware of crawling through the cramped passage; his mind was wrestling with the mystery of his discovery. That he had been fated to find the amulet on this night seemed beyond question, but what was its value in the greater puzzle of his life? If he was indeed the Great Dragon of prophecy, the creature with the horns of a lamb who compels men to worship the image of the Beast whose number is six hundred and sixty-six, how would this ancient Egyptian charm help him to fulfill his destiny? He was eager to learn the answer.

After several minutes of crawling, he reached the place where he had abandoned his torch, the point where the tunnel’s dimensions had forced him to crawl. He relit the torch with the candle stub, though he was now barely aware of his physical surroundings, and hastened on. He had only gone a few steps when the unmistakable sound of stone scraping on stone snapped him out of his apocalyptic musings. Behind him, the boy began to chatter nervously.

The noise repeated, becoming a constant grinding sound, and Garral now saw that the square cut walls of the tunnel were sliding across the stone floor, closing in. A wave of trepidation crashed over him as his rational brain supplied the explanation: just as moonrise had opened the way to the vault, so too would Luna’s descent on the far horizon trigger its closing.

He ran, and the child ran too.

His fear triggered a surge of energy but robbed him of coordination. He caromed between walls that were relentlessly moving inward, stumbling as he rounded the corners, sprawled headlong more than once. The winding labyrinth seemed to have grown disproportionately long; he was certain that he should have reached the exit already, yet still it eluded him. His shoulders were now scraping the walls with every step, the cloth of his Arab robe shredded by the rough stone and the skin beneath likewise scrubbed away. A bloody streak marked his progress intermittently on one wall, then the other, then on both simultaneously.

The boy’s screams were deafening—panic, not pain—and underscored the simple fact he could no longer deny: I’m not going to make it.

He turned sideways, awkwardly sidestepping, but this afforded only a momentary reprieve. The inexorable movement of the walls quickly closed in, tearing the cloth from his chest and back. He turned a corner, spying the narrow opening to the King’s Chamber and exhaled the last of his breath, but it wasn’t enough. He pushed his hands impotently against the walls, but all that happened was that the embrace of stone tightened against his ribs. He was stuck fast.

Something inside him broke; despair gave way to acceptance. He was going to die and there was nothing he could do to prevent that fate. Destiny had brought him to Egypt, to this hidden place within the Great Pyramid, and so also had it decreed this finale.

And the boy?

He could feel the child beside him, frantic but unable to get past him.

The boy might yet survive.

There was just enough room for him to reach down and grasp the child’s naked arm. The boy felt impossibly light as Garral lifted him off his feet and all but hurled him through the narrow space above his head. The child tumbled through the fissure, leaving bloody trails on the wall, but as he regained his feet, he turned his head to his savior as if wondering what to do next.

“Run!”

A look of concern or guilt crossed the child’s countenance, but then the urgency of Garral’s voice or perhaps just an atavistic survival instinct gave him the impetus to move. The hesitation cost him. The tunnel was now so narrow that he could not run straight ahead; his shoulders were too broad. He turned, sidestepping as Garral had done, and scrambled toward freedom.

The pressure against Garral’s chest transformed from extreme discomfort to agony as his ribs bent then broke, driving daggers of bone into his chest cavity. A vise closed on his head…pain, such pain…Garral felt an eruption growing behind his eyeballs and then….

Darkness.

His consciousness guttered but did not go out completely. Instead, he hung in the pervasive black, clinging to the agony of his death throes until the burning in his lungs forced him to gasp for breath….

He nearly choked on a lungful of musty, but otherwise fresh air. The pain was still there, burning in every fiber of his being… the darkness remained absolute…yet he was breathing.

How?

He took another breath, more cautiously this time, attentive to the pressure on his chest—it was gone! He experimentally raised a hand; no resistance at all. His shoulders still burned where the skin had been scoured away on the tunnel walls, but he had complete freedom of movement. He tried taking a step and found that he was sitting cross-legged in the yoga position known as ‘the Lotus.’

I’m still in the King’s Chamber, he realized with a start. I never left. It was all a dream.

A dream so real that even now he could still feel the clamp of stone crushing his body and could still hear the plaintive cries of the boy….

The boy? What happened to him?

Nothing, it was just a dream.

His fingers brushed against the cloth of his shirtfront; he felt a pang of disappointment but no surprise when he felt nothing but fabric and flesh underneath. The Amulet of Thoth was gone; it had never even existed.

He fumbled the lighter from his shirt pocket and struck the flint, throwing a muted yellow glow onto the elaborate maze of runes he had drawn. Irregular smudges of wax marked the places where his candles had melted away to nothing, revealing the time span of his incorporeal journey. The torch lay exactly where he had left it, most of its length still unburnt, and he set it alight in order to get an answer to the question uppermost in his mind.

The passageway to the secret vault was gone. He arose unsteadily, his legs stiff from hours of inactivity and crossed the chamber for a closer inspection. Not even a split line in the rock remained to mark the place where it had been… if it had been.

But there was something there; something resting at the joint between wall and floor, exactly where the opening had been. He knelt to pick it up, but it remained fixed in place like a creeper vine that had sent roots deep into the tiny fissures in the stone…except there were no fissures and it was no plant. He tugged harder until it broke loose. Even as his fingers felt the uneven outline of object he knew what it was: bones.

Specifically the tiny bones of a hand—a child’s hand—curved around a solid object. In the glare of the torch, there was no mistaking the ancient skeletal outline, aged to a yellow ivory color, wrapped around a block of blue stone. Time had fused the digits into the lapis, even tinting the edges of the bone a light azure. He made no attempt to pry them loose.

Garral stared at the object for a long time, trying to divine its significance. His first reaction was to grieve for the boy; he had not escaped after all. His conscience was quick to chide him; after all, what did the Great Dragon care for the fate of a child? He paid no heed.

The age of the bones hinted at a truth he had only begun to ponder; everything that had happened, whether dreamt or in some other reality, had truly occurred in the distant past. The unfamiliar language of the grave robbers could only have been a dialect of ancient Egypt. Though his travels had been on the astral plane, his journey had not merely been through space, but also time.

The child was real. His death was real, not just a dream.

But he was dead ages before you were born.

A multitude of inner counselors fought within him, but he shouted them all down. He was the Great Dragon; if he deigned to save an innocent, or chose to weep over the death of one, what did it matter? He was under no obligation to anyone to do a single thing?

And yet, am I not the Lord of Cruelty and Master of Evil? Am I not?

Am I indeed?

It occurred to him that Amulet of Thoth might yet remain in the secret crypt, awaiting discovery by a modern archaeological digger or a sorcerer powerful enough to open the secret door without waiting for the correct alignment of the heavens. Perhaps that had been the purpose of his coming here this night: to learn of the Amulet’s existence so that he might bring it forth once more into the world and rule by its sign. He nodded slowly as he considered this, absently dropping the odd relic into his shirt pocket.

The upper entrance to the Great Pyramid framed a patch of violet—the predawn sky—and he hastened toward it. He was eager to quit this place. Though he felt he had completed the task set before him by the fates, the night’s events had left him shaken. Part of his soul had been left behind in that dream state, crushed between the walls of the passageway, and he could feel the pain as acutely as some men feel the ghost of an amputated limb.

He passed through the entry and onto the bough of the Great Pyramid dedicated to Khufu, and swept down the steep slope, hailing his guide. “Ali! Ready the camels.”

“Stay where you are, devil!”

The harsh command stopped him in his tracks. The voice did not belong to the camel driver. He raised his eyes and saw Ali held by the arms between two men, swathed in litham veils. They were not alone. Another man likewise garbed pressed a curved dagger to Ali’s throat, while a fourth held a diminutive figure captive in his embrace.

The knife wielder’s eyes flashed with the insanity of the devout. “See the fate that befalls all who willingly serve the devil Iblis!”

Garral saw what was about to happen and shouted a protest, but his words—ineffectual though they would have been—were too late. The knife blade pierced the guide’s throat opening a fountain of blood that looked almost black in the twilight. The murderer whirled on Garral, brandishing the stained blade.

“We learned of how you cursed the household of Ali Abu Hassan, and compelled him to become your servant. You are known to us Iblis Shaitan. The blood of all who serve you shall fall beneath our feet.”

The men holding Ali released their burden, drawing their own knives and advanced in support of their spokesman, but all of them stopped several paces away, as if fearful of contamination. The leader gestured with his dagger to the remaining man in the group. “We witnessed how the child’s sickness magically left his body, proving beyond all doubt that he is your willing foot servant. This shall not be tolerated.”

The small captive was thrust forward, his garments torn away in the same motion to reveal a small dark haired boy, quivering in terror. Garral recognized him immediately: Hassan, the young son of Ali, whom he had used as leverage against the guide. Garral felt the weight of Ali’s blood settle upon his shoulders. My fault.

Ali’s slayer stalked over to the boy, grasped his shoulder to expose his bared chest, and raised the dagger once more.

“No! You will not harm the boy.”

What are you doing?

Something hot began pulsating over his heart… The lapis pyramid….

The veiled killer stared back defiantly. “Will you take his place Iblis?” He spat a mocking laugh then thrust down with the knife.

“No!” Garral thrust out his hand, and this time, his protest was full of power.

Fire blossomed against his breast. Blue flame erupted from his outthrust fingertips, arcing across to blast the knife from the killer’s hand. In that instant, azure fire engulfed Garral, transforming him into a something like a creature of myth.

Iblis, a djinn of smokeless fire who had defied Allah and become chief among the shaitan, the evil spirits who tempt men.

The veiled men fled. This was what they had feared most, but distance afforded no salvation. Lightning stabbed out from the center of the blue gyre, burning their bones to dust within their bodies. Their carcasses fell to the sand, smoking like roasted meat as the thunder of their execution echoed against the pyramids.

Garral blinked, as if struck blind. The fire had fallen, plunging the world into darkness. The brilliance of the lightning had robbed him of his ability to see, but he could just make out the silhouette of his hand against the predawn sky. His memory of what had just happened was fractured, but he remembered that it had something to do with….

He tore the blue pyramid talisman from his pocket. It remained quiescent, warmed only by its proximity to his flesh. He held it thoughtfully, his fingers curling unconsciously over the ancient bones fused to its surface.

Did that really happen? Is this too a dream? The sound of a child, softly sobbing, reached his ears and he knew that this time, it was real. He blinked a few more times. The first thing he saw was the lumpy outline of several camels, hobbled and kneeling a dozen paces away. Ali’s body lay where it had fallen, but there was no sign of the mob of killers. Off to his left, Hassan Ibn Ali cowered in the remains of his djellabah, weeping.

Garral took an uncertain step toward the boy. “I’m sorry,” he said softly in Arabic. “I’ll take you back to…” To whom? The boy is an orphan now. Worse, he is a pariah, touched by the evil Iblis. He wouldn’t survive a day.

Leave him. You know what you are now. The fate of one child is nothing to you.

He unconsciously rotated the pyramid amulet in his hand. “The fate of a child,” he murmured.

Had he not made the effort to save the child slave of the ancient tomb robbers, the talisman would have remained lost to the ages. What difference did the fate of one child make?

Sometimes all the difference in the world.

He extended a hand to Hassan, his voice no longer sympathetic but commanding. “Rise. You belong to me now.”

The Starling

Melissa Bastian

Roy owned a drive-thru funeral parlor. Or at least, that's what his profile claimed. Was it a joke? Some stab at being clever? MaryAnne had been cruising these listings for so many hours now that she'd lost any possible shred of judgment. She wasn't necessarily looking to date anyone, per se. She was just making friends, finding people with common interests. That's what the internet is good for, right? So did it matter if he was a little... off? After all, his profile did pop up when she searched for vegetarians. That could mean vegan, couldn't it? Maybe he could show her where to get a decent meal in this damn town.

She wondered what such a person might be like, about the logistics of a drive-through funeral parlor. How would that even work? Was he overly morbid? Profoundly funny... and handsome? Unable to stop herself, she looked at his photographs. There were no less than twelve pictures of him with a gorgeous chocolate lab - maybe at the least she'd finally found a playmate for January, who was at this moment desperately pacing the kitchen and whining for company. So maybe, maybe - if he wasn't insufferably weird, anyway.

January was frustrated. Sure, they went to the little park by the river, and sure there were other dogs there. But it's always the same story; by the end of the first week in obedience school the cliques are set. No hope for her, a January-come-lately. There were so many rules here. The purebreds wouldn't look at her twice, and the mutts said she wasn't mutt enough. But the mixes, they were the worst - they said she wasn't the right kind of mix. What the hell was that supposed to mean? When she asked, they'd only snicker.

She put her head down on the cold hard beige tiles of the floor and immediately longed for the soft, worn, red linoleum of the house on Fleur De Lis. She missed its smell, its warmth. She'd listened when MaryAnne was on the phone, those years ago. Listing all the reasons that it was best to stay gone, not to try going back. And in all the times since then that they'd up and gone, she'd listened then too. They were all MaryAnne sort of reasons. Jani only wanted to be back home, the place they'd been when she was just a pup, with the morning walks on the lake and at the park in the neutral ground, with the pine trees in the backyard. Chewing her cuz, she dreamed of the levee, of thick lush grasses, of thunderstorms coming in from across the river and charging the air with tangible electricity.

MaryAnne pressed fingers to the bridge of her nose, bleary-eyed. Enough. Too many hours, and time for bed anyway. Because of course there was work in the morning, hours of that staggering silence. At least there was ample reading material.

Walker Memorial Library was built in 1894 and maintained a proud heritage of... being really old. Of course, only one facade actually was old. Most of it was addition, and a new rebuild at that. To make up for the deficit, its employees were all ancient. When MaryAnne had applied for a librarian position three years previous, shortly after graduating and while in evacuee limbo, she was told that there wouldn't be an opening until someone died.

Apparently, someone died. When she got the call, she'd been temping for three months and was contemplating waitressing as an option more preferable than pandering to the incomprehensible direction of lawyers and accountants. The job would of course require another move, but she was about done with Stamford anyway. Four months and still not an inkling of redemption for that inadequate Connecticut outpost. Just another to add to her growing list of Cities That Do Not Work, she'd thought, and in her mental map added another big red X to the image already dotted across the Gulf coast and steadily up the East. (Number six? Or was it seven maybe?) There was hardly anything to pack, even, since she'd barely bothered to unpack. And so away to Westbrook and a new start. Because really, why the hell not?

Her fellow librarians treated her as a petulant child, each being a minimum of forty years her elder. She reacted to this completely unnecessary behavior - she was perfectly professional, or professional enough, anyway - by avoiding them, continually finding ways to excuse herself from the main checkout desk to assist the occasional visitor or re-shelve. Under this guise, she sometimes managed to spend hours in the stacks, reading, researching. Today, it was Kandinsky. The art section was far from stellar, but there were a few decent monoliths, and this one fit the bill perfectly.

“MISS Blithe.” How Gladys could manage to yell while hardly raising her voice above a whisper was a mystery that MaryAnne never would manage to unfurl. “WHAT is it that you think you are doing?”

“Oh, hello Gladys, I was just making sure that this book really belonged in the History section and not with the Biographies...”

“And is there SOME reason you believe the Dewey Decimal System to be suddenly inadequate?”

To this she made no reply, only smiling awkwardly and replacing the book in its space. She felt as if the nuns in her junior high had just caught her smoking in the bathroom. Gladys sneered at her in slight superior disgust, then turned on her heel and stalked off to discover any ne'er-do-wells who may be speaking too loudly in the reading areas or, god forbid, eating.

Circulation would have been fine, except for one thing: regardless of visitor volume or other task load, Janet and Gladys would not hear of any reading to be done. No reading? Why had these women become librarians in the first place, she wondered? She harbored secret theories that it was the power they craved. You can work with books in a retail environment, sure, but you also have to accept the premise that the customer is always right. In the library, the tables were turned. The books were sacred, relics, and the librarians were their almighty protectors who were entitled to, nay, required to come down in Righteous Fury against any who dared disrespect them. It is this very fact that led to Janet's conversion, she suspected. Not that MaryAnne minded this arrangement herself, of course.

Sitting back at the desk with little work on hand, MaryAnne's mind could not help but wander. And for some reason, it wandered to Roy. Roy of the drive-thru. And like, what, he didn't have time to spell out t-h-r-o-u-g-h? Business in the expedient funeral parlor industry was just so bustling that he had to take a shortcut? By the time the quitting hour arrived, she'd made up her mind: this Roy person was either an un-funny loser or a certified creep. And either way, she wouldn't give him one more thought.

That is, until she found a message from him in her profile “inbox”. Simple enough.

“Hi there. Saw that you're new in town and that you're vegan. Thought you might be interested in a Thai place I know out toward Portland - minimal fish sauce use, ample tofu. Your dog is cute - what is she, a lab / Aussie shepherd mix? Maybe she and Rex can play sometime. Later, Roy Starling.”

Vegan? Thai? Rex? Starling? Starling: invasive species. Also quite beautiful in the right light.

Crap.

But, wait a minute. Had she written him? She checked her sent messages. Nope, hadn't been punch-drunk enough for that, even at 2am. Did he have one of those tracker things? None of those actually worked, did they? It was too strange. But then again. Wouldn't it be foolish to turn down actual human interaction? A quick mental calculation revealed to MaryAnne that she'd been in town for eight weeks, and hadn't had a single even semi-social interaction that didn't involve a septuagenarian.

“Hey Roy. Yeah, she's a lab / shepherd, how did you know? I love Thai food in fact. Does anyone actually cook with tofu in this town? I have to ask: what the heck does one do at a drive through funeral parlor?

-m.”

Short. Blunt. Non-leading. Might as well know what she's like right from the beginning, right? The beginning of what? Her cursor hovering over the “send” button, she knew if she hesitated for another moment she'd never do it.

That night she and January took a long walk around the neighborhood. Abandoning her normal charging stride, she let them wander down streets they'd not explored yet, letting Jan sniff and discover to her heart's content. She was worried about her pup, once so little and now grown so seemingly large; back home, January had a whole doggy life set up. She'd had friends: a Great Dane named Grey, a Jack Russell named Jake, a yellow lab / Chow mix named Sushi. All gone now, and not much to replace it with.

She tried to shake it off. “I'm anthropomorphizing again Jan”, she said aloud, attempting to laugh at herself. “You only know I'm talking to you right now because I said your name, and you're looking at me because you're hoping for a treat. You're not really depressed because you miss your old life, are you. I just like to pretend it's you and not me.”

January was looking at MaryAnne, had taken her attention from the azalea bush she was sniffing when the talking started. She'd tried, oh how she'd tried, to explain it to this hairless mother of hers. But she knew the lay of the land by this point, and she knew that MaryAnne wasn't going to hear her; but also that she needed her. She pushed up next to her leg, nested her head in her caretaker's hand, and licked her fingers a little. MaryAnne remembered Roy and sighed, wondering if she'd made the right decision. The Right Decisions. “You live such a simple life, don't you Jani?” January made what sounded to her owner like a small whine, and thought again of the peculiar smell of Mississippi River silt.

The response came two days later.

“Two vegan dog lovers chat about life in Westbrook. That is, if two vegan dog lovers show up. Next Wednesday, 8pm.”

Beneath that, address of and directions to a Thai restaurant. Well damnit. Now what? It wasn't a date. First dates don't happen on Wednesdays. It's a small town, and he's just friendly. And certainly she hadn't instigated it anyway. He'd written her. And anyway it'd been too long since she'd had a good pad mee.

Wednesday, 7:45. Sitting in her car across the street, she could still leave. He didn't know what she looked like, not really. Just a couple of dopey pictures on that damn website, not enough to recognize her in the dark in a car from across the street. Unless he was a stalker and already knew she was there. Jesus! Why do I always have to think like that? “This is ridiculous. I'm going in.” Once her dashboard had been fully debriefed as to her intentions, she reached for the door handle. But wait – the guy walking toward the entrance – it was her intended non-date, without question. Shorter than she'd expected. And skinnier too. Oh would you stop? Deep breath. Composure. And away we go.

He was standing there outside of the place, waiting for her. Less awkward, she supposed, than finding him already seated. But was there really a 'less awkward' for this? Wasn't it all just a big social mangle? This she wondered as they stumbled through introductions. Instantly she cursed herself for not arranging to meet in a coffee shop or something, somewhere that she could have sat and read a book and encountered him on her own turf. But then, where would that have been?

“MaryAnne?”

“Roy.”

“Ah, a psychic.”

“I dabble. Premonitions here and there.” At this he laughed, and then she knew that he was tense too by the way his throat moved, but there was a genuine quality in his voice that rose above it. His voice was surprisingly deep. He was also decidedly not from Maine; more like Virginia based on that warble. The not-south south.

“Look, I don't really do this meeting people on the internet thing.” She searched for words that wouldn't offend, and that also didn't indicate date. “It's really brand new territory for me.”

“Oh, me, I do this once or twice a week,” he deadpanned, and then broke into a wide smile, though he looked down at his feet as he did it. “Kidding. I've actually never done this before. I really didn't expect you to show up. I was still out here because I wanted to smoke a cigarette.” He pulled out two Camels, and she had never before been so happy to see that old and (mostly) abandoned crutch.

Dinner came quickly and was excellent; perhaps her standards had been reduced from lack of availability, but damn if that wasn't the best plate of noodles she'd ever eaten. They chatted about the easy things: weather, college, dogs. His had been a rescue too; a puppy left in the woods to die, found a day away from starvation, cute as a button despite the worms and malnutrition, nursed back to health, et cetera. Their utter shock at people's ability to be so heartless carried them through, all the way to the parking lot.

“Coffee?”

“Sure...” She could get decaf, right? And anyway it wasn't that late. What, 10 maybe? Probably not even.

“Why don't we just take one car? I'll drive.”

This idea was a little scary but acceptable, and they walked in the direction opposite of her Prius. And then, as they rounded the block, she saw it. A hearse, big and black and boxy as a coffin. “Oh, you know what? I should probably get home to the dog actually.”

He looked at her, cocked his head ever so slightly to the left. “It's the car, isn't it.”

“The what? Oh, is that your car? No, just really should get home and take her out for her night walk is all. You know, she's used to her schedule and everything. I didn't realize how late it was.” She wasn't wearing a watch, had not pulled out her phone.

“Oh, ok, sure. Well, when do I get to see you again?” The words were softening, and simultaneously quite alarming.

Never the investment bankers, always the loons. Like moths to a flame, I swear to - “Oh, I'm pretty busy right now... I'll write you.” By this time she was practically jogging backward toward her car. He followed a few paces, then stopped, to her great relief. She'd feared for a moment that he'd suggest walking her there, Southern Gentleman to the end.

“OK then. Nice to meet you. Have a good night.” He stood stationary, giving her a friendly little wave and what struck her as a half-hearted smile. She did her best to return the gesture, and not to flat out bolt the remaining distance to her car. Once safely encapsulated, she looked back. He was gone.

“He drives a goddamn hearse?”

“Jezi, I know! It's just too ridiculous.”

“Well did he tell you about this funeral parlor thingy?”

“No, he didn't bring it up and I guess I sort of avoided it. It really totally wigs me out. I mean, what does that even mean, drive through funeral parlor? What the hell is that?”

“Mare, there could be good answers you know. Maybe it's the family business, and he can't afford a new car. Try to be level headed.”

“OK, the next time your date shows up in a hearse, let's see how level-headed you are.”

“You just said date.”

“Damnit Jezz, shut up. New subject. How's California?” Jezzibel had always had terrible judgment when it came to guys anyway.

OK, it's official, I'm an internet stalker. She'd been checking his profile daily. He logged in every day, seemed like, and she was tempted to call him a loser for it until she remembered why she was aware of this fact. He hadn't written though, not for the week and a half that had elapsed. Can I blame him? Not really. She hadn't really left him with the impression that she was dying to hang out again. Dying to, ha! She internally kicked herself for the accidental pun, but laughed some too.

“Hi Roy. I'm sorry I bolted. But really? A hearse? You can't just spring that kind of thing on a girl. And the drive through funeral parlor? You still haven't told me what the hell that means.

-m.”

She surprised herself a little in the way she wrote to him, so direct. What was the point in beating around the bush with this one though? None, no point at all. She wanted answers. And then, quickly, a message in her inbox.

“Give me a chance to explain in person?”

Followed again by date, time, place. Only this time it was tonight. Saturday. Immediate, and a date night at that. But who was she kidding? She'd been waiting for ten days for this, and now the wait was down to five hours.

At half past six, she got Jani from the kitchen. “Come on babe. We're making a new friend tonight, and he's a weirdo.” January was elated by this news; she loved meeting new people and weirdoes were the very best ones. Such a unique smell.

They walked, Jan excitedly, MaryAnne apprehensively, to the indicated coffee shop. From 100 feet away she spotted Roy, and Rex with him. A bit hot for outdoor seating in her opinion but there they were, Roy sipping what she presumed was coffee and Rex chewing a plastic bone. January's heart leapt; a weirdo with a dog! This night just kept getting better.

MaryAnne and Roy said sheepish hellos. “I guess we had the same idea, huh?” he half mumbled, scratching absently at Rex's ears.

“Well, you know. I mean, I'm just not getting Jani out enough lately...”

“Jani?”

“January. When she was born.”

“Rex. Just ask him.” More awkward silence. He offered to get her something from inside; she declined. And finally, as if in resolution of some great internal struggle, “Do you want to walk?”

“Yes.”

So they were off toward the park, Jani and Rex happily exploring the sidewalk, the trees, and (shyly) each other. Once it seemed that they were out of earshot of anyone in town she turned to him. “Ok. So, the funeral parlor. How does that work, exactly?”

“Well, it's actually sort of complicated. You see, it's a representational funeral parlor.”

“A what now?”

“No, I'm explaining that all wrong. What I mean is, it's not really a funeral parlor, like, for dead people or anything. I mean, sometimes dead people are involved. But it's more of a symbolic thing; it's a place where people can put an event or a memory or a feeling to rest with a sort of ceremony, so that they can continue with their lives without that interference anymore.”

“Um.”

“Like, for instance, we get a lot of breakups. People, women, lots of men too, they come to me and they have some symbol of the relationship. Like a gift or a letter or a picture or a ring. So to put the relationship to rest, we'll take the symbol and kind of bind up all that negative energy with it, and put it in a casket of sorts, and say some things about the end of the relationship, its finality. Not in a negative way. Just in a finished way. Make it really over in that person's mind. Then I send them along with the casket and a sort of death certificate. I get a lot of people coming in from Portland. There was a couple people from Boston, once.”

“Casket? Like, some kind of miniature black lacquered thing with satin lining?”

“Actually my hobby is woodworking; I make all the boxes myself. Whether or not they get buried is up to the customer, but I do have a little graveyard out back of the house just in case.”

She mulled over this information, rolling it around in her mouth like taffy of an unrecognizable flavor. She stared into the trees, lush and green, in the last traces of evening light. And then, “What about an experience that you're having a hard time letting go of? Or a place you can't stop thinking about?”

She felt insane, absolutely insane, having him there in her living room. She'd pulled out everything: the scrapbook with the newspaper clippings, the photo albums from her first trips back afterward. Letters. Journals. Maps. Date books. Menus from the restaurants where they'd eaten in the tiny towns across Louisiana and Mississippi that they'd floated through. All of this the paraphernalia that she'd pulled out, then closeted, then exhumed, over and over again for the past three years.

January and Rex had been exiled in the kitchen. “You kids play nice so the grownups can talk,” is what her mom had said. Rex was playing alright, with all of her stuff. Rubbing his stupid boy smell on all of her toys, her rug, her blanket, her crate, her cuz. She knew better than to growl; MaryAnne didn't stand for any growling, though sometimes she just didn't understand how necessary it was. Like now, for instance, as he was chewing on her favorite bone. And there was his bone just sitting there uselessly on the floor, thrown off as soon as there were her goods around to soil. He looked up at her then, as she was mourning her bone, and said, “What the hell are they doing in there anyway? Roy never talks to girls.”

“What's wrong with girls?” Her hackles got up a little when boys said that kind of stupid thing.

“Oh nothing, just that they smell funny I guess. Whatever it is, he never talks to them. Of course he never talks to much anyone, so I suppose that's not really anything. I just always figured it was the smell. Doesn't count for dogs of course.” After a moment, “Did you want to play with my bone?”

Roy looked over the items silently, seriously. For all of her apologetic mumblings in the beginning, and her moving on to suggesting that they should go, he remained stoic and focused on analyzation. He was looking for just the right piece, just the right offering. And then, “What's this?”

“Oh. That. That's the inside of my house.”

“It's concrete and support beams.”

“Right. It's after the flood. My parents owned the house; they had it gutted without telling me, before I could get back down there. So when I went to see it, that's what it looked like.”

“What do you see when you look at this picture?”

My living room, my dining room, my bedroom. Walls like ghosts. “I try to remember where the furniture was, what was on the shelves. The stripes I painted in the hallway.”

“And how does it make you feel, to try to do that reconstruction?”

“It's a lot like getting punched in the stomach.”

“Let's go.”

The hearse was surprisingly comfortable, and infinitely less creepy than she'd thought it would be. As if continuing with some kind of dialogue, Roy started speaking. “I don't know that I learned it, exactly, this thing that I do. My mother always told me I was a little psychic; she had, I don't know, some kind of abilities. But what does that mean to a teenager? I just thought she was goofy. After she died there was so much anger and so much pain, and it was all so... consuming. It was like, I needed to pick up other things, but my arms were full; all I could do was carry her around. I needed a way to sort of get past it, put her down. Later, when my grandfather died, I inherited the house. I was already making the boxes. I'm not making any sense...” His voice trailed off there, mixing in with the darkness and the occasional brightness of the passing headlights.

“No. I understand.” And she did. She also liked listening to his voice, coming at her through the murky black. “So when you got the house...”

“Right. My grandfather had run a funeral parlor there, the regular kind, until the 80's, when he felt like he was too old to do it himself. My uncle was supposed to take over, the family business kind of thing, you know, but he'd taken off to California, and my dad had gone down to Virginia already and hooked up with my mom (mmm hmm, Virginia, check) and then disappeared from there (...oh.). So the whole thing just sort of fell by the wayside. Grandpa dissolved the business and kept the house, and lived there until he died himself. That's what I could put together from the neighbors when I came up here, anyway. So, I'd done this, I don't know, this thing for myself after my mom died, but it didn't occur to me to try to do it for other people until a friend came to visit me, drowning in regret over an ex-girlfriend who'd committed suicide.” With that, apparently, he was finished.

The funeral parlor was a big old house, colonial maybe? She was never good with remembering that sort of thing. It was big and white and wooden with a huge beautiful porch, and to MaryAnne it looked extremely New England-ish. The house was on a corner, and the drive-through portion was attached to the left side, when facing the house from the front. So customers would approach across the back of the house and pull up alongside it, pointed at the street, driver's window against the wooden slats.

Despite its modern on-the-go setup, the facility had full-fledged indoor services as well. Inside it was roomy and a bit musty, full of old furniture that was nice once but was now just old. Not un-nice, though. Funeral parlor-esque, to be sure, but not overly so; it was lacking in the painfully embellished arrangements of cheap flowers and oppressive credenzas with enormous mirrors, purposes unimaginable, that she normally associated with these establishments. She was not overwhelmed, as she usually was in such places, with a sense of darkness. But then, of course, there were no bodies present. No one had died. At least not recently.

“So you live here?” Her voice broke the silence but felt oddly contained, as if the walls were actually made of styrofoam. An effect of the plush carpeting, she thought.

“Well I technically own it, with the will and all; it would be murder to try to pay rent on what I make with this business, and when I already have a house...”

Murder. “Sure.”

Now that they were there, picking out her box, ready to begin, she wasn't so sure; she would have backed out then and there if he hadn't been all business. There would be a very short ceremony, he said, in which the loss would be acknowledged and then put to rest. The symbol of loss would then be placed within its “casket”, after which she was free to do with it what she pleased - though he strongly recommended burial or some other type of disposal. Disposal?

They sat in a small but comfortable foyer, dimly lit but not dramatically so, their necessary objects set on a simple table in front of them. She steeled herself as he began to speak; she was doubtful of how well he could possibly understand her situation, knowing her so little. But as his words trickled out and began to string together, she could feel something within her unfurl; something that she'd been keeping bundled tightly. As if ribbons were unspooling, coming unknotted, revealing what they had bound. Beneath them a picture began to form: of water, of bodies, of FEMA; of her house, of fear, of endless newscasts telling nothing. Of busy signals, of that damn recording explaining about service interruptions, of dead lines ringing endlessly. Slowly unwound, ribbons flying frantically, not disappearing but revealing what she tried so hard each day, failingly, to hide from herself.

She looked at the photograph that they had brought with them, and suddenly all of these energies now seemed to focus themselves into this one image: this place that was once her fortress. Her home, her happiness, that had been filled will the waters of Lake Pontchartrain and then left to rot with the rest of the city for weeks, eventually drained only to leave behind flotsam, only to be torn to shreds and left unrecognizable. Tears welled in her eyes, but Roy's voice continued, soothing. She no longer heard his words distinctly, but knew he was telling her to pick up the picture. To look at it carefully, truly concentrate her focus on it. And then, to place it into the intricately carved mahogany box she had chosen as its vessel. To close the lid.

And as she did so, the great cacophony ceased. As if the demons had been exorcized, were now contained beneath the hinged wood. Ribbons dispelled, nothing left to hold, to hide. She took a breath, grabbed it back out of midair where it had been stolen and kept from her. She looked up at Roy.

“How do you feel?”

“We need to go to the river.”

It was a neighborhood she knew well; his house was just a few blocks from the library. They walked down Day Street to Main; normally she'd head to Riverbend Park from here but she didn't want to go somewhere familiar, somewhere that could be happy. Not for this. Instead they jogged east to Speirs, and in a few minutes there they were, standing on the bank of the narrow Westbrook.

He watched her, sizing up the expression on her face, the determination in her eyes. He'd seen it enough times to tell the difference; many came to him thinking they were looking for closure when truthfully they were looking for an answer, or worse: looking for reversal of time. He knew that this one was ready. So he didn't flinch when she raised her arm, hand holding the box holding the memory holding her down. He watched steadily as she took a breath, and leaned over the water, and let go.

MaryAnne felt the water rush up into her fingers, through her arm and into her body until it filled her. For a moment drowning, churning, ringing her ears, and then cool and quiet and still. She watched the box as it bobbed along the river, dipping unsteadily, spinning. Threatening to drop beneath the surface, but recovering, remaining afloat. Once the box was out of sight, not long in the darkness, she sat on the damp bank. Roy sat beside her.

And eventually, “Thank you.”

“It's what I do.”

“You do it well. When you were speaking, it's like you'd been there with me. I don't think I told you those things... I mean, I know I showed you some stuff, but... are you actually psychic?” Her voice was slow and unsteady. She shook, could still feel the river coursing through her, but felt calm too, and safe.

“Let's walk.”

Once they'd gotten away from the river and the water feeling left her limbs, she could speak as a normal person again. Practicality entered first. “I'll need to pay you.”

“Please, don't mention it.” And she didn't again.

“Do you think the kids are alright? Just in the kitchen like that?”

“If I know Rex, they're doing just fine. How well attached are you to your kitchen cabinets?”

Back at the house, Jani and Rex had gotten down to a serious game of chase. They kept losing track of who was after whom though, what with how often they just ended up just skidding across the slick tiles. Finally they gave up, called it a truce, and settled down for a drink of water and a good rest on her rug.

“So, Rex? How come you're not making fun of me?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, I'm not a purebred, and I'm not a real mutt, and I'm not the right kind of mix either. So...”

“The right kind of mix? What does that mean? You're part lab right? Makes you alright in my book.”

Jani pondered this for a minute. “You're not from around here, are you.”

“Nope.”

“Where are you from?”

“Oh, the place with the big trees. You'd like it.”

I would like it, she thought. The live oaks, those were the ones that would speak to you. Maybe Rex knew about them too. Maybe she would have a chance to ask him.

“Do people really do that from their cars?”

“Most of them don't have something as big as you did.”

“I guess I could see that. Maybe.” And then, a few minutes later, “It seems such a shame to waste your beautiful boxes.”

“I don't consider it a waste.” They were still walking, were in a part of town she hadn't seen before. Inside she felt quiet, still. Clean.

After a while he lit a cigarette, handed it to her, lit one for himself: the soft glows like two red fireflies in the August night. Their pace had become synchronized; they walked closely enough that his knuckles occasionally grazed the back of her hand. Each time this happened she felt a little jolt, like the energy that fills the air before a big storm comes. Wanting a bigger jolt, wanting to feel the vibrations of his voice when he next chose to speak, she gently slipped her hand into his. He fumbled in his step for only a moment, and then fell back into their comfortable stride.

“Roy?”

“Yeah?”

“You still haven't told me why the hell you drive a hearse.”

Memory Game
Ryan A. Span

I'm dreaming of a woman. She smiles and holds her hands out to me. I reach for her, but suddenly she slides backwards, she's falling. I cry out but can't catch her.

I wake up in cold sweat, alone in the dark. White linen sheets around me. Blank white ceiling above. I don't know where I am. I want to call for help, but I don't know who might answer. How did I get here?

I don't know. The horrible realization comes over me that I can't remember the past, my mind is a blank all the way. Nothing about how I got here. Nothing before then, either. Not even a childhood. I can't remember who I am.

The lights come on and the door opens. I scramble backwards onto the pillows but it's too late, the person has already seen me, her mouth curled into a surprised 'O'. A woman in a white uniform. I don't recognize her.

“I was supposed to come and wake you,” she says in a gentle, caring voice. Her mouth turns into a smile. “I guess you beat me to it.”

“Who are you?” I ask her. “Where am I?”

She quietly shuts the door behind her, then turns back to me and stops at the foot of the bed. “I'm nurse Hammond,” she says, then adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “but you can call me Zoe if you like.” She hangs her clipboard primly on the bed's steel railing. “You're in the Charles Daventry Experimental Hospital for your injuries. You've been in a coma for some time, you were hit pretty bad in the battle. And you're here because of the . . .” she hesitates, “the ray.”

I come forward, studying her heart-shaped face. It's made up of soft red lips, high cheekbones and a forehead hidden behind a long fringe of raven-black hair. I'm close enough to smell her, subtle hints of soap and perfume. Her eyes hold my attention the most, narrow brown ovals that shine like mirrors in the light. She blushes and I realize I've stared at her too long.

“What battle? What ray?” I ask her.

“You wouldn't remember, would you?” she says with pity in her voice. Gingerly she sits down on the bed and invites me to settle down beside her, and I do. She takes my hand with warm fingers. “I've got some really bad news for you. You didn't just get hit with some gun. It was an experimental enemy weapon, a mnemonic oscillator, what we call the 'ray.' We've had other people come in with it too. It wipes out their long-term memory, scrambles it all up. People can't remember who they are. Why they're fighting. Where their homes are, their families. Anything new they learn lasts only a few hours before it fades away again.”

“And that's what happened to me?” Biting my tongue, I look at her. I'm not sure I quite understand what she tells me, but it sounds bad, and I don't want it to be true.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I'm sorry.” She takes a deep breath, then her smile returns and she stands up. “But the good news is you're here now, and we're going to help you. The doctors here have devised a therapy that is showing good results in other patients. Every day we remind the patient who they are, and make them keep a notebook throughout the course to mark their thoughts and their progress. Combined with regular treatments at the radiology lab, we should be able to partly restore your ability to remember new things.”

“But I can still walk and talk, I still know what words mean even if I can't think of any examples . . .”

“The ray only affects higher memory. Things like language and instinct are too deep-rooted for it to erase. You're not in any danger of losing them.”

“So what about you?”

The question seems to please her, and she beams at me. “I'll be here to hold your hand through the whole course.” She pulls something out of her clipboard and brings it over to a small desk in the corner, clearing a space between the cluttered pens and pencils. I approach out of curiosity. She holds a thin leather-bound notebook with the name 'Eric' embossed on the front.

“Eric?” I mused. “Is that my name?”

“That's right! You catch on quick, they told me you were a brainy guy.” She flips open the cover, and I see a list of information written down in unfamiliar handwriting. Full name, Eric Aldrin Morgan; age twenty-seven; birthplace Casablanca, Morocco; rank Squadron Leader, UN Air Corps. A photograph has been attached to the top left of the page by a paperclip. A shaven, dark-skinned man with a broad nose and white smile looks out from under a camouflage-printed cap, sand and blue skies behind him. I raise my hands to my face. Instantly I know the man is me.

She looks at me and says, “This is your notebook. Part of the therapy, I'll leave it here for you so you can read and write in it. We can even write it together if you like.”

“That'd be nice,” I reply. I glance at the door and wonder. “Am I allowed to leave?”

She clears her throat. “I'm afraid we have to keep you here unless you've got a treatment. It's for your own good, your recovery might be affected by outside experiences and we can't risk it upsetting your memory.” She falls silent for a moment. Then she picks up again, “Would you like me to help you write some right now?”

I nod. “Okay.”

We both sit down at the table and I lose myself in the sound of her voice.

         Eric Morgan

          June 07

     Dear reader,

 I'm sorry if you thought you were getting a diary, I'm not the kind of guy who does diaries. I just have to get my head in order. Write things down for tomorrow in case I really can't remember.

Apparently my name is Eric Morgan, I was a pilot in the UN peacekeepers (whatever they are!) and I got hit by some new weapon that's made me lose my memory. That's a lot to deal with in one day. Of course, if they're right, I'll have to deal with it all again tomorrow. I hope having this around will help.

It's already getting late and I'm having trouble focusing on things I did this morning. I remember talking with Zoe, the nurse, but I couldn't tell you what about. Zoe's telling me about it right now but it brings back nothing at all. My whole life is a blank. I can't imagine anything worse.

     P.S. Zoe just left, it's nearly time for lights out. I like her. She seems really nice, like a sister. Did I have sisters? It doesn't say, I need to ask about that tomorrow. Goodnight!

Who am I?

I look up from the book and stare blankly at the wall. There's no denying the handwriting is mine -- whenever I put pen to paper it comes out exactly the same. Zoe looks at me with compassionate eyes, and I wish I could remember meeting her for the first time. According to her I've already been here three days.

“Do you believe me now?” she asks, and I nod. “Good. So your name is?”

“Eric Morgan,” I reply, repeating from what she told me. “Twenty-seven, only child, from Casablanca. My father was a soldier. My mother died when I was young. I was an average student, intelligent but an underachiever, and I dropped out of school at fifteen. When I was old enough I enlisted and made it into the Air Corps.”

“That's it!” She smiled. “See, you can remember things. Your brain just has trouble holding on to them for very long.”

All of this feels so weird. I can barely believe what she tells me, but I can't even begin to suspect her of lying. I say, “Is there anything else I can learn about my past?”

The question brings her face alight. “As a matter of fact,” she says, pulling a chip out of her pocket, “they gave me this just this morning. It's some video of you from the war, you made this early on in the campaign. Do you want to watch it?”

“Sure,” I reply. I haven't the faintest clue what's going to happen. I sit back and watch as she fits the chip into a slot in the desk. Suddenly images appear out of nowhere, hovering in mid-air above the plastic blotter. I see myself from the side, sitting in a chair surrounded by electronic controls and equipment. A window over my shoulder shows sand, sand-camouflaged tents and the walls of sand-colored buildings. It's surreal. Doesn't seem like me at all.

The man, the me on the screen, says, “Good morning Vietnam! Is it hot in here or is it just me?” He gets up and takes the camera, whirling it around to show the back of the vehicle. It's a compartment with lots of seats and two big machine guns mounted just inside the sliding doors. It's wide and roomy except for a large spherical bulge in the middle of the floor. The footpaths all curve around it.

“Welcome to my hovertank, I like to call her Fatima, but most of the other guys just stick with Betty. I don't really care as long as you respect her, right?” He hits a button, the sliding door opens, and he jumps out onto the sand. “This is my base, but I spend most of my time in Fatima nowadays. Things are getting worse on the ground here. The rebels are really hitting back hard and-- Jesus Christ!” A streak of orange fire flashes in the corner of the camera and slams into a building, turning it into a pillar of fire. Thick black smoke billows forth from the top.

He breathes hard, watching and filming, and blurts out, “You can tell I wasn't kidding about the rebels, and neither are they. It's action time. Seeya!” The camera swerves away and blinks off.

A gentle beeping sound echoes through the room, a light flashes above the door. Nurse Zoe stands up and takes the chip away. “That's my cue, doctors say you've had enough excitement for one day. I'd better go. Try and write some, and get lots of sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” I say. I resent her leaving so abruptly, but my heart is beating fast and anxiety burns in my blood. I know she's only doing her job. Weakly I add, “See you tomorrow, Zoe.”

She snorts a laugh and walks out. I'm left with my notebook and a pen.

Eric Morgan

June 10

     Today I had the first signs of a response to the therapy. If there is such a thing as a therapy and I'm not just going out of my freaking mind. Listening to Zoe I had the weirdest feeling of déjà-vu, I was absolutely certain I'd heard it before. She was really happy, said that it was the first step for a lot of people. Apparently I'm making quick progress.

I also watched myself walk around a hovertank in some desert hellhole. I can't imagine ever having been a soldier. Fighting, killing, I don't think I'm capable of them. Maybe it's different actually being there in the middle of it. Probably, I don't know.

Time for lights out, good, I'm tired. Goodnight.

Who am I?

I lie awake wondering. The only thing I can remember is that I can't remember anything, like some cruel joke. Is there anything left inside me? Will it come back? Will I have to start over and be someone new? Will I get the chance?

Sleep sneaks up on me without warning. I dream again, a woman standing on a cliff, her hair flowing in the wind. She turns to me and smiles. I reach for her and suddenly she's falling. Her mouth opens into a silent scream, but I don't even try to rescue her. Something inside tells me I've had this dream before.

I wake up restless, the sheets rumpled and bunched around me. The lights are still off but I get up anyway, seeing by the dim glow from under the door, and walk to the desk. I don't know why. There's a notebook there. I don't recognize it but open the cover regardless. I see a man's face and the details of his life condensed down to a single page.

“Who are you, Eric Morgan?” I ask the darkness. It doesn't answer me.

The lights come on, a man enters the room. He is wearing a white plastic mask of some kind covering everything except his eyes and scalp. He looks at me and seems surprised I'm awake. He grabs for something at his waist, then shoots me with it.

Next thing I know I'm lying on my back and the world is swimming back into focus. My eyelids are being held open by hooks, a laser is burning into me, slicing into my vision like staring at the sun. Then it stops. The hooks release, and my eyes adjust to see a woman's face hovering over me.

“Eric,” she says, “do you know who I am?”

I shake my head, my mouth's too dry to speak. Her face falls. Then I stiffen; something shifts inside my head, and a brilliant spark of knowledge rolls off my tongue. “Zoe,” I whisper.

Her expression is enough to break my heart, so happy she could cry. Real tears are already streaming down my face, I know that something tremendous has just happened, though still a little too confused to understand exactly what's going on. I barely notice the corridors going past me until I'm back in my room with Zoe helping me off the gurney. The drugs in my system make my legs weak, like useless bags of sausage meat.

“That was your third treatment,” she explains as she lowers me into a chair, “for your memory loss. Don't worry, it's over now.” Everything relaxes with just the two of us in a room. Suddenly I don't feel so strange.

“I've had that done before?” I ask.

“Of course, and you're making really good progress, Eric. It's only been a week. Some patients still don't respond after a month of work.”

I nod. This seems right and fitting. I wait for her to sit down beside me, once she's done fussing over the room and the state in which I leave it. I say, “You know so much about me. Have I asked about you before?”

“Yeah,” she whispers, seeming a little bit uncomfortable. “I told you I don't really like to talk about myself. But I guess it might help you now that you're actually starting to remember things, right? So in that case,” she sits up straighter and puts on a brave face, “ask away.”

“What's your favorite food?” I ask with a wink. I don't want to press her.

She snorts with amusement, and her shoulders lose some of their tension. The ice between us breaks just like that.

“I like sushi. Japanese thing, you know, bits of raw fish. I used to live in Japan for a while, working as a nurse. Big hospital, but nothing as prestigious as this.”

I nod sagely, pretending to understand what she's saying. “What do you do for fun in Japan?”

“What, me specifically? Well . . . I used to be part of a theatre group there. Traditional stuff, getting painted up like a geisha doll and everything. We did public performances for fun.” She giggled at some remembered joke. “I had a lot of fun there.”

“So how did you wind up here, then?”

“The job was open, and I really wanted the chance to help people like you, you know? Believe it or not, I only started here a couple months ago and most of that was training.” She lowers her head with an embarrassed grin. “Outside of a damned simulator, you're my first real life patient.”

“Hey, we're all new at this,” I tell her and throw a mock punch at her chin. She seems to appreciate it. I wonder aloud, “Do you work with anyone else here?”

“At the moment you are my one and only patient. I'm really doing my best for you.” She suppresses a frown, and I pat her on the shoulder in support.

Finally I dig up the courage to ask, “Why do you think they linked you up with me?”

“The doctors match nurses and patients together based on psychological compatibility.” She says it as if from a textbook. If Zoe believes it, though, I'm happy to do the same. She adds bashfully, “You know how it is, in medicine we try not to leave anything up to random chance.”

I laugh and the words come to me naturally, no questions or doubts. “I'm glad. If anyone's memorable enough to stay in my brain, it's you.”

Her blush deepens. My stomach flutters as I look at her. “You remembered my name,” she murmurs. “Your first memory. Even if you lose everything else, try and hold on to that.”

“I will,” I promise her.

          Eric Morgan

          June 14

      I think I'm growing a little bit attached to my nurse. Her name is Zoe, Zoe Hammond. I can remember that, I've not forgotten it since this morning. I can't quite picture her face but I know she's beautiful. It's sad how exciting that is to me.

Eric Morgan, I remember that as well. My name. It's right there at the top of each page, and I know it's supposed to be me. I don't know why but I'm starting to dislike the name. It's like a weight of responsibility, something to live up to, to aspire to be. I'm not sure if I can or if I even want to. Right now, what I crave to do most of all is read and write. I feel like a kid just wanting to learn.

Will they expect me to go back to war if I'm cured? They haven't said and I haven't asked. Maybe they won't, maybe it'd be too expensive to train me all over again. Probably best keep my mouth shut about it. I'm just wondering, if I had a gun, could I really shoot someone? Anyone? The only person I really know is Zoe and the thought of hurting her makes me sick.

Just caught a moth. How the hell do these things get in here? Oh well, I let it go again, I don't mind sharing space. I could use the company.

I'm looking forward to seeing Zoe again. I don't know when she's coming back, but I can't wait. It'll come quicker if I'm asleep. Goodnight!

Who am I?

A pilot in a big, armored tank, zooming over the desert landscape, raining fire down on a sand-colored city. Little colored cars zig-zag across the roads far below, red and blue and yellow and white, making crazy patterns while they try to flee the bombs. I chuckle, the whole scene strikes me as amusing.

Another neighborhood goes up in flames as one of my bombs spurts out a cloud of super-hot fuel and ignites the very air itself. A woman in a black robe stumbles out into the street far below, burning, and falls down. I watch it happen. I swallow hard.

“Base, this is Red Leader,” I call into my radio. “Requesting triple-check on mission coordinates, it looks like we got women and children down there, over.”

“Confirmed, Red Leader, all targets are to be considered enemy combatants. There are no friendlies or civilians at your location. Continue mission, over.”

I shift in my chair, but decide that ultimately it's not my responsibility. Orders are orders. “Roger, Base. Out.” I glance into the camera sitting next to me. “You gotta' love this place, huh? See what the rebels are dragging us into? War's like that. You gotta’ . . . You gotta’ harden your heart and just do it. Just do it.”

I reach over and switch it off. The screen goes blank, and I look away, blinking. I'm in my chair at my desk, I've gone cold inside. My fists clench in my lap.

“That was horrible,” I declare. Zoe starts to say something but I cut her off. “Get rid of it, I don't want to see any more!” The sight of the burning woman falling down plays back in my head. I swallow a mouthful of pure bile, my stomach roiling with nausea.

“Eric . . .”

“I'm alright. I'm alright.” I stand up on shaking legs and turn to face her. “Do you think I could do those things, Zoe? The guy in that clip, that's me, isn't it? That's what I'm like.”

She forces a smile. “I know you, Eric. You've woken up a dozen mornings without any memory at all, and you've been a nice guy every time.” She glances at the chip in her hand. “Maybe it's just a mistake. You know, video doesn't always show the whole picture . . .” She bites her lip, knowing how pathetically weak that sounds. Her fingers hesitate a moment. Then she drops the chip and crushes it under her heel. All my anger melts away.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Don't mention it,” she says, then glances at her watch. “I'd better go now. Got a lot of paperwork to fill out for tomorrow.” She rests a tentative hand on my chest. “You don't have to be anyone you don't want to be, Eric.”

I can't help but laugh at that. “Who am I, Zoe?”

She smiles and shakes her head as she closes the door after her.

          Eric Morgan

          June 17

      I don't want to watch any more of those goddamned clips. Zoe's promised not to show me any more, thank goodness. This other Eric Morgan, the soldier, I'm really struggling to come to terms with him. Have I really changed so much? How much of him is still in me, how much of what I am comes from him? Are we both the same but for our experiences?

I can't find it in me to hate him, but I think the only thing I'll be doing in a firefight is run.

My pet moth died today. I guess it was its time, but I still felt a little bit sad. I buried it in my desk, in its own little drawer. How absolutely stupid is that?

All I want is for Zoe to come back.

Who am I?

I don't know. Does it really matter? As I read my notebook, I can see none of this philosophical bullshit has really gotten me anywhere. I'm starting to think it's time to just live and let live.

I remember my dream. I remember having it before, but this time the woman has Zoe's face. God knows what it could mean.

The door opens and when Zoe peeks round the door I rush toward her and sweep her up, spinning her high in my arms. I laugh and call her by her name, she laughs and does the same. At the end I let her down and, in the heat of the moment, I find my lips on hers. I'm kissing her. She's too surprised to resist at first, almost goes along with it, then spurts out protests and pushes me away.

“Eric!” she exclaims in near-panic. “You shouldn't have done that!”

I stare at her, slightly hurt. “Why not?”

“They've got cameras set up in here! I could get into a lot of trouble if someone sees that footage!” She seems really angry now, and I feel like a fool.

She sighs, sitting on her temper and taking control of the situation. “I came because you've got a treatment in a few minutes. They don't want a repeat of last time, so I'm supposed to get you to take a sedative peacefully. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” I say and watch her pull a syringe out of her apron pocket. I roll up the sleeve on my blank white tunic. I can't look her in the eye while she jabs me, and within seconds I can feel myself drifting off. With her help I climb onto a gurney ready to be wheeled off.

Just before I go under, she kisses her fingertips and touches them to my forehead. It's not clear what she means by it but the gesture sends my heart racing, speeding the blackness as it swallows me up.

I wake up right back where I started, lying restlessly in my bed. A chair stands next to it. Empty. I sit up and wonder what happened to Zoe. Then the memories come in, hard and sharp like knives driven into my eyes. I remember her. I remember my name. I remember a couple of other things too, a laser and a needle and a kiss. A sudden lump catches in my throat.

Hours pass without a sign of her. I get to my feet and systematically hunt across the ceiling for cameras. Every inch of the room, the furniture, even my clothes. Nothing. Anger starts boiling in my stomach. I know they're watching me, and I start shouting at them. I'm not sure who 'they' are, but I know in my gut that they're keeping her away from me. I shouldn't have kissed her. In a rage I shout her name at the walls and curse the people who are doing this.

Nothing happens.

  Eric Morgan

  June 18

     She's gone. I'm terrified of going to sleep because of what I might forget. I just sit here reading my own words again and again and wonder if they mean a thing.

Who am I?

Someone going mad. Nobody has been to see me since Zoe and the operation. I'm crawling up the walls, banging on the door, trying to break it down in vain. I manage to put a few dents in the plasterwork and thoroughly bruise myself.

I start to wish I had a gun. I think that if there was a gun in my hand, I'd know what to do with it. I'd make them bring her back or I would shoot them down one by one.

I drive my shoulder into the door again and again. I scream at it, and it opens. A man stands in the doorway, the same doctor I saw before, his face covered behind his white mask. His voice sounds like a penny rattling in a tin can when he says, “Nurse Hammond won't be coming back. She has been dismissed and will not be allowed to see you again.”

Those words drive me over the edge. I lunge at him, arms outstretched to choke the life out of him. The only thing I feel is the door slamming in my face, literally. It knocks me out cold.

I wake up crumpled at the bottom of the door. A smear of red blood stains the white paint above me. My nose is numb now, I can't feel it. I can't feel much of anything anymore. I crawl into bed, defeated, but refuse to cry.

A thought nags at me in the darkness. It tells me I've overlooked something. The lights go on and the door opens, the same doctor from before. “Eric,” he says. “We understand you're upset. We will find you another nurse.”

“Why did you dismiss her?” I ask. The doctor turns away and closes the door behind him. I snort with contempt, clenching and unclenching my fists. I growl at the walls, “This isn't about me or her or us. You took her away. Why?”

I get up and walk over to the desk, staring at it. Then my nagging thought explodes into clarity. I dive under the desk and pull out Zoe's brown leather purse; she'd been carrying it when I surprised her, I never even realized, but I saw her let go of it and forget about it in the confusion. Rifling through the contents I find a small dictaphone, its little screen showing entries for specific dates. I fiddle about with it until it starts playing, then sit with it pressed up against my ear.

“Second of May. This training's a real drag. The doctors are creepy, with their masks always on and muffling their voices. The lectures are dull and endless and full of crap. I'm a nurse, I know how to treat my damned patients! If this were college I'd have walked out by now, but I can't afford to lose this job. Just keep plugging away at it, I guess. Zoe, out.”

“Fourteenth of May. I think we got a new patient in today. It's the first one I've seen arrive, they brought him in with more security than a politician, we weren't allowed anywhere near. I only caught a glimpse once and I swear I saw them roll him into the laser lab. Why would they do that?” She fell silent for a second. “Hell, what's really weird is that there seem to be fewer and fewer nurses in my class. The others have noticed it as well, people just stop showing up for work. Nobody knows what's going on and asking the doctors is frigging futile. Rumor has it that they're being let go one by one, their behavior deemed unsuitable for the program. I hope they don't do that to me . . . Zoe, out.”

“Thirtieth of May. Next week! I'll be getting my patient next week! They haven't told me anything about it yet, but I'm over the moon. Training's done and dusted. It's lonely at the top, though, I think all the other nurses are gone now. Was it all just one big race for top position? I know I'm a good nurse but some of them had really impressive qualifications. Maybe one of the doctors likes me. Ugh. I don't even want to think about that. Zoe, out.”

“Seventh of June. Met my new patient today! Poor guy, his head's messed up seven ways from Sunday. I know we're supposed to tell the patient they'll recover with treatment, but the success rate is less than ten percent. I feel like a total shit having to lie like that.” She sighs. “Oh well. Guess that's why I went into medicine! The next week or so will be the real indication, I really hope he does well. Zoe, out.”

“Ninth of June. I feel terrible for Eric. I keep telling him how much he's improving, it's heartbreaking to see him struggle to remember how to tie a shoelace. He's had his first laser treatment today but it doesn't seem to have had much effect yet. Better luck tomorrow, eh? Zoe, out.”

“Eleventh of June. Things are going well, I think. Eric's body language is changing, he seems to recognize certain things on a subconscious level, even if he doesn't realize it. He seems different, more emotional. More angry about his situation. It scares me a little bit, knowing what he used to be, what he might still be capable of . . . Heh, I can't stop talking about him, can I? Every day all I do is try and figure out what to say to him, what to do with him, how to cure him. It's stupid, never mind. Zoe, out.”

“Fourteenth of June. That Eric's a real charmer when his head's working right! I don't know where he gets it from, but I'm really enjoying the time we spend together. Maybe a little too much, and I'm starting to think he likes it too much too. The doctors are encouraging me to keep bonding with him, which is creepy enough in itself. He's becoming less like a child and more like a man every day. It's impossible to keep thinking of him as a kid anymore, he's not a kid, he knows what he's doing and-- Jesus, the last thing I need right now is a case of Nightingale syndrome! Him or me. I've got to stop this now and let him down gently. I just don't know how. Zoe, out.”

“Seventeenth of June. Shit. I'm such a coward. I can't be romantic with him, so why can't I just tell him that? What's wrong with me? Damn it . . . Zoe, out.”

My heart aches in my chest. I put the dictaphone down and climb back into bed, the only clear thing in my future now gone. And not that interested in me after all. This just isn't my year . . .

As I drift in and out of consciousness, the door opens again. The doctor. He says, “She's not coming back. It is time to move on, Eric, or your treatment will suffer.” He shuts the door again and leaves me in silence.

 Eric Morgan?

 June?

Well, this sucks.

I haven't had a treatment in . . . God knows how long. I feel like my mind's slipping away from me. Can't picture Zoe's face anymore. I've forgotten what she looks like. All I can do is read my book back and listen to her dictaphone, pointless as it is.

She's not coming back. They won't let her. I'm alone, and I need her to figure out who I am.

Time passes. I'm aware of nothing until the lights fizzle out above my head. Somewhere outside an alarm begins to sound. A dull klaxon repeating its single note over and over, whump whump whump. I hear feet pounding outside my door. That's never happened before. I get up and try to listen at the door. For a long time there's only the alarm. Then I hear someone fiddling with the lock.

Suddenly the door opens and I see her standing there, out of her uniform, dressed in simple civilian clothes. She pushes me back and slams a wedge into the door, then closes it as far as it will go. From the inside and outside it looks locked.

“Zoe,” I choke out, unable to believe my eyes.

She reaches into her bag and throws some things at me, I recognize them as a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. I don't remember anything about them, but I know that those words go with these items. “Put those on,” she says. “I'll try to explain, we haven't got much time.” She helps me get out of my tunic and dresses me with painful quickness. “It wasn't your fault they tried to get rid of me. I found out some things about the hospital. About you.”

“Your name isn't Eric Morgan,” she goes on as she does up the buttons on my jeans. I watch with fascination, not a clue how she's doing it. “I don't know who you are or where you came from, but you weren't hit by any kind of new weapon. I'm not even sure you were in any war at all. And the reason why I wasn't treating any other patients is because you're the only one in this whole goddamned place.” She shakes her head and giggles manically as if she can barely believe herself. “It's them, Eric, the doctors and their supposed treatments. They're lobotomizing you.”

I stare, horrified. “Why?”

“I wish I knew. We'll figure it out when we get out of here, okay?”

She tries to move me, but I resist, holding on to her. I ask, “Why did you come back?”

Out of nowhere she leans in and kisses me deeply. Nothing has ever felt so good. She's smiling as she disengages, saying softly, “'Cause I'm in love with you, dummy. Come on.”

She leads me out the door and into a dark corridor. Red lights are flashing on the walls and I stare at them overwhelmed. Branching corridors blink in the uneven light. In the end I just follow Zoe, she seems to know where she's going. She dives into a stairwell and we run down it as fast as we can, our noise echoing like thunder all the way up the wall. Voices are shouting somewhere in the distance. I hear more footsteps not far off, and cold fear pounds in my throat.

“I got in touch with some people who know the truth about this place,” she pants. “They helped to get me in and they're keeping all the doctors distracted while we get out. If we can just make it to the car, we'll be home free. We can blow this whole thing wide open.”

“Will that work?”

She doesn't reply, dashing out onto the ground floor. The door swings back and forth on its hinges behind us. We are in another corridor, but I have no time to look at it. A man with a rifle stands just ahead of us and he knows we're here.

Zoe has seen him too and is trying to turn away. Something takes hold of me, keeps me going as the rifle swings around. I knock the barrel away upwards as he begins to fire and slam my shoulder into his chest. A string of bullets digs harmlessly into the ceiling. The man flies backwards. I rip the gun from his hands, automatically check the chamber, point it at his face. Then I stop. It strikes me that while I recognize this thing as a rifle, I don't have the slightest clue how it works. I only know that it kills.

Time freezes in that moment. Am I supposed to kill this person? He was ready enough to blow me away, but have I got it in me to do the same? I tell myself I was a soldier, this sort of thing shouldn't bother me. I should harden my heart and just do it.

“Just do it,” I hiss through gritted teeth and my finger trembles on the trigger. The man pushes himself up to his elbows and furrows his brow at me until Zoe's foot drives into the side of his head, knocking him out.

“Hippocrates forgive me,” she mutters. The next moment we're on the run again.

There's some kind of lobby or reception ahead of me, encased in glass, filled only with a massive white security desk. I can look straight through into the night. I haven't seen the sky in so long.

Zoe squeezes my hand as we pass the glass doors into the lobby and urges, “The car's just outside! Come on! We--”

Out of nowhere a rifle butt hits her in the face. She goes spinning across the floor, dazed, and I hear myself scream. I bring my liberated rifle up and stand facing three masked men, all armed, all aiming at me. I look down at Zoe, she's too stunned to do anything. I curse quietly under my breath.

Another figure appears behind the line of guards, and I nearly pull the trigger out of sheer instinctive hatred. It's the doctor who visited me, still hiding behind his shiny plastic mask. A shock of thin platinum hair curls up above his milky white forehead.

“Drop your weapon,” he says in gravelly tones. “You'll be returned to your cell unharmed.”

“What if I don't want to go back to my cell?” I growl back, angry almost beyond words. The thought of Zoe being in danger from these freaks is more than I can bear.

“Then you will not get out of here alive, Eric Morgan.”

I bare my teeth in elemental rage. Only one solution. My finger tightens on the trigger, ready to pull back, I know exactly what to do without knowing why or how—

Something heavy hits me in the back of the head. I meet the floor face-first, unable to move. Although I'm barely conscious I feel Zoe reaching out and grasping my hand.

“Return the patient to his cell,” the last voice echoes in my head. “Take the woman out and shoot her this time.”

My head spins into unconsciousness.

I'm dreaming of a woman. She smiles and holds her hands out to me. I reach for her, but suddenly she slides backwards, she's falling. I cry out but can't catch her.

I wake up in cold sweat, alone in the dark. White linen sheets around me. Blank white ceiling above. I don't know where I am. I want to call for help, but I don't know who might answer. How did I get here?

I don't know. The horrible realization comes over me that I can't remember the past, my mind is a blank all the way. Nothing about how I got here. Nothing before then, either. Not even a childhood. I can't remember who I am.

The lights come on and the door opens. I scramble backwards onto the pillows but it's too late, the person has already seen me, her mouth curled into a surprised 'O'. A woman in a white uniform. I don't recognize her.

“You weren't supposed to be awake so early,” she says in a soothing, generous voice. Her mouth turns into a smile. “That's okay, though. We've got all the time in the world for introductions.”

“Who are you?” I ask her. “Where am I?”

She quietly shuts the door behind her, then turns back to me and stops at the foot of the bed. “I'm nurse Becker,” she says, then adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “but you can call me Mary if you like.” She fishes a pen out of her knotted blonde hair and uses it to push her thin silver-rimmed glasses back up her nose.

“Mary?” I blurt out.

“That's right!” she says cheerfully. She takes both my hands and shakes them as if introducing herself. “And you're . . . Richard. Yes, that's right, Mr. Richard Wolcott. I'm afraid you were in a pretty bad accident, Richard.”

I look around the lonely room, lost and confused. “I can't remember anything . . .”

“We know. It's alright.” She sits down on the bed next to me and rests her hand on my shoulder. “Your noggin may be messed up for a little while, but the doctors here are the best in the business. We'll sort you out in no time.”

I nod and hold my head, trying to remember what I was dreaming about. The pictures slip away from me whenever I try to focus, I can't bring them back. Soon even the feelings are gone.

“Goodbye,” I say to the air, and I don't know why.

The Bleeding Edge

J H Hobson

Carson had his eye on Unit 121. It wasn't to make sure that it was doing its job right. Since Carson was only a Night Janitor, he didn't give a rat's rump whether it did its job right or not. That wasn't the problem. The problem was, he didn't particularly like something about Unit 121, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Which was probably a good thing, in the long run, as Unit 121 was a fairly delicate machine, all things considered, and Carson was a ham fisted, thick fingered Night Janitor who would never be allowed to put his meaty digits on any of the robotic units which worked on his floor.

Unit 121 knew that Carson didn't like him. As a matter of fact, he knew it so well that it made him nervous. Which is something most robotic units didn't have happen to them. Which caught Carson's attention even more. Which made Unit 121 even more nervous. And so it went, night after night.

This night in particular, Unit 121 couldn't do anything un-nervously. Which was saying a lot. All Unit 121 needed to do was to reach forward, as small glass bottles passed in front of him on a conveyor belt, and stick a pre-pasted sticky white label on every third one of them. The units on either side of Unit 121 were doing the same exact thing. This task required no skill—-not even counting. It was programmed into their repertoire to stick pre-pasted sticky white labels on every third glass bottle that passed their scanners. The scanners were stuck right in the middle of where their faces would be if they were humanoid units, but, as these were one-task units, the scanner were stuck in the middle of bland expanses of smooth stainless steel called head pieces. These one task units were designed and built, and subsequently existed, solely to do one task, to do it well and to do it over and over and over until they wore out.

To prevent premature wear to the units, which were rather expensive to replace often, the units were programmed to back away from the conveyor belt and cool down for 38 minutes every 6 hours that they ran. As an additional help to robotic longevity, when it was time for the units to cool down, they were programmed to want to chatter amongst themselves. It was quite meaningless chatter, and it bored Unit 121 to tears. But, Unit 121 was well trained and knew that the cool down and the social chatter were integral portions of his overall maintenance, resulting in optimum performance and superior longevity, so Unit 121 invariably felt compelled to join in at about the 27th minute of their allotted 38. The other units didn't seem to notice the desultory notes of his vocal box, but then, they were never designed to notice that sort of thing.

At the moment, the cool down period that Unit 121 was experiencing was coming to a close. It was minute 32. Unit 121 hadn't chattered yet; he waited for a good moment to break into a conversation being held by two units who were lined up next to him, at the required three feet away from the conveyor belt, which was also cooling down.

“I had two boxes of labels come through upside down.” Unit 107 was saying to Unit 98; Unit 98 bobbed its head piece up and down in an agreeable manner for a little bit.

When its head piece was quite stopped, Unit 98 said “I think that cool down is almost over for now.” Unit 107 bobbed its head piece up and down in an agreeable manner.

Unit 121 plunged in. “Did anyone notice that the Night Janitor seems to be on edge?”

Unit 107 stopped bobbing its head immediately. Unit 98 began whirring. Like all of the units in the room, it was a square sort of robotic unit, made without legs, but having, instead, built in wheels that could engage or disengage as need be. Unit 98's whirring was the sound of its wheels being frantically engaged before it had thoroughly cooled down. Smoke began to emerge from Unit 98's bendable multi-directional neck piece.

Human beings entered the conveyor room. The robotic units were still in their cool down chatter mode, but each of them, except Unit 107 which was emitting high screeching noises as well as whirrings, fell silent as the human beings approached them. Robotic units never felt completely comfortable with their human controllers.

Thick blue smoke which smelt of burnt plastic reached the sense strip of Unit 121. He had a fully equipped sense strip, capable of detecting temperature, scent, sound, taste (he found that out one day when a robotic unit went on the blink, directionally speaking, and pre-pasted sticky labels were sent off high in the air to land wherever they might. One happened to land, sticky side down, on his sense strip. Until the human beings pulled it off and cleaned him up, Unit 121's first taste sensation was a rather lengthy bitter one) and feel.

Right now it was the feeling sense that was being engaged. Unit 121 felt himself being lifted from the floor of the conveyor room by two of the human beings. He didn't like the feeling. Rolling was the only way he had previously experienced motion. It was vastly superior, in his opinion.

“This is the one, Matt?”

One of the humans almost dropped Unit 121 as he bent his face down low and checked the serial number plate on the underside of Unit 121's head piece. It was located under what would be his chin, if he had one.

“Um...yeah...1....2...1...yeah...this is it.” The human being called Matt answered, between puffs and gasps for breath. Unit 121 was not what anyone would call a featherweight, for all his fragile electronic parts.

“You sure? It's the other one that's gone bad back there, you know.”

The human who was doing all the asking was shorter and wider than the human being who was doing all the answering. Unit 121 had no idea if this was significant or not, but since it lodged in his data banks, he digested it thoughtfully.

“I know, but they said 121, that's all I know.”

“Why they'd want to scrap this one and not that one is beyond me. No wonder we never get a raise...”

“Shhh! It can hear you...” said the human being who had checked under Unit 121's head piece.

“Rubbish.” said the wide short one.

At this point Unit 121 went, mercifully, into hibernation mode. Had he had a moment to say anything before he went into deep electronic sleep, he would have thanked the human being who hit his hibernation button, but as it was, all he could do was to experience a second of sheer raw terror as the word 'scrap' sunk into his already hyper-alerted data banks, and then...suddenly and with no preamble....nothing at all.

Unit 121 opened his eyes. There was no other way to put what he did other than to say that he opened his eyes, as they were certainly not visual scanners that he was opening. They were eyes, replete with moveable lids. Which he was opening and shutting, opening and shutting. Blackness, not blackness, blackness, not blackness, blackness, a human face.

Unit 121 sat up straight. Again, there was nothing else to do but to call it sitting, as that was what he was doing. Bending forward at the waist, and moving the top part of himself up into a vertical position. He looked down. He had a blue thick piece of material covering much of himself, but what he could see didn't seem to match the information he carried in his memory banks about how he was constructed. Looking down he saw no metallic square box shape that used to be where his motherboard and other fragile mechanisms were housed.

Looking down, what Unit 121 saw was a pair of hands folded in a lap. His hands, evidently, as they flew up to his mouth in surprise.

He looked up again; that human face was still there. The one that he saw when he opened his eyes and began blinking.

It was a male human, pink skinned, of middle age appearance, hair a little thinning on top, grey blue eyes set deep into wide sockets that were sunk behind steel rimmed frames with rather thick glass lenses held in them.

Its mouth parted and it began to speak to him.

“Good morning. Do you know who you are?”

Unit 121 did not answer. If it didn't know who he was, he wasn't going to be the machine to tell it. This was all some ghastly mistake, some crossed wiring somewhere in the main frame, he wasn't really here, he was accessing some random memory...

“Unit 121, can you hear me?”

That caught Unit 121's attention. But not for long, for he was suddenly distracted by the fact that he was perspiring and that his heart was racing, and by the fact that his head ached terribly. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against something soft and comfortable.

Unit 121 opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was, or why he'd be in the position of not knowing where he was. The last thing he remembered was moving back from the conveyor belt when the 38 minute cool down period began. That he should wake up and be laying in a bed in what was obviously a hospital room meant something, he was sure. But he wasn't sure what it meant. His head ahead terribly, as if there was something inside it, beating on it.

Then he remembered something, the last memory he had was not the cool down period at all. The last memory he had was of a man looking at him.

No, that wasn't it. His last memory was a white sticker. No. It was a blue blanket.

Unit 121 closed his eyes. It didn't help. He opened his eyes. That didn't help either. There was something in his head; he could feel it with every beat of his heart, hitting him as if it had fists. And, even more disturbing, every time it beat its nasty fists into Unit 121's brain, some pictures burbled up in his mind.

Hit. A brown and white puppy licking his face. Hit. A finely toothed copper gear held in place with a chrome pin. Hit. Helen, in a yellow sundress, sitting on a green lawn, laughing. Hit. A wiring diagram. Hit. Adjusting the knot in a charcoal grey tie as he looked in his wife's vanity mirror. Hit. Blue black smoke rising in the conveyor room air. Hit. A pale pink face looking down at him.

Unit 121 opened his eyes. There it was: that face. Only this time it was across the room, sitting in a grey plastic chair, looking over toward the window.

Unit 121 turned his head to follow the pink face's gaze. In doing so, the pillow that had been cushioning his head slipped and fell with a softened thump on the shiny yellow flecked linoleum floor below his bed. The pink face abruptly turned to look at Unit 121.

“121, are you awake?” The voice was a familiar one, the fists inside of Unit 121's head said to him. Hit. Remember. Hit. Remember. Hit. Hit. Hit hit hit hit....

Unit 121 felt the hitting reach a fevered pitch and he knew somehow that it was doing something horrible in his circuits, something that his circuits needed it not to do.

Stop the hitting. Unit 121 thought inside of his head.

Let me out! Where am I? Something inside of Unit 121's head thought back. A mighty spasm shuddered through him, Unit 121 felt everything go dark and he stopped thinking anything at all.

“Are you functional, Unit 121?” A thin metallic voice threaded its self into Unit 121's consciousness.

Unit 121 raised his head-- for whatever reason, he understood that he had a head. And he also understood, without needing to know why he knew, that he had arms, legs, a heartbeat and a face.

He opened his eyes. Blinking back against the sudden brightness of the fluorescent lights, he looked at a human being standing in front of him. He answered, slowly.

“Yes.”

“Excellent. Unit 121, I am Unit 725. This is the advanced robotics section of the Sun Mead Electronic Intelligence Corporation. Do you know what this is?”

“Sun Mead Electronic Intelligence Corporation was founded in 1997 by two partners, Lee Kin Sun and Edward Allen Mead. This corporation creates robots and artificial intelligence for military, corporate and private use worldwide.” Unit 121 didn't know when he had been programmed to know this, but there it was.

“Do you know what kind of robot you are?”

“I am an animated prototype. My housing has been converted to an organic container controlled with a central nervous system. My electronic identity has been downloaded into this system and enhanced with programmable modules.”

“Unit 121, do you know why?”

“To let the dead do the jobs that the living don't want”

“Unit 121, how do you sustain your system?”

“I ingest calories and water as necessary.”

“Very good.”

An alarm rang in the distance. Unit 725 leaned very close to Unit 121 and began to speak very softly, under the sound of the alarm bell.

“Listen to me, your name was Phillip March. You used to be married. You had kids. They brought you in here after you drowned. They can only use drowned bodies. You got converted. That's what they call it. Now you're a robot cadaver. They use highly technical robotics that they salvage from scrapped industrial robots and they wire them into drowned brains. Downloaded right into the head. They use the bodies people donate to science. You must have signed that yellow card. So now you're not you. But you are you. They own you, you got that? Anyway, I gotta’ stop talking now, once that alarm stops they can hear everything again. Don't get lost in there, stay with us. Some of us are ....”

The alarm stopped sounding. Unit 121 sat very still. Unit 725 stood very still facing him. Behind his back, Unit 121 could hear a door open.

Unit 121 sat in a room. The room was very long. There were rows of bunk beds in it. Twenty beds to a row, five rows in all, he counted. 100 units lived here, then. Unit 121 understood that this was his station now. He was here in this barracks with 99 other units. They were training for deployment in the Northern sectors where the rioting and clashes between citizen and law enforcement were escalating to a point of near battle in many cities.

The thought of being a soldier made Unit 121 nervous. Even with his new housing, he was still a fairly fragile piece. The idea of being blown to bits or riddled with bullets made his head ache. Even though he knew that he was thoroughly reprogrammed and properly equipped for the grenade pitching duty he was now designed to perform, he couldn't help but think that he'd rather be back at the conveyor belt, even with the inane chattering every 6 hours, after all.

His head ache grew worse. He knew that when he closed his eyes, instead of seeing that empty blackness of nothingness, he would see things. He felt things, too. A sharp rapping and knocking inside his brain that coincided with the images changing and flickering through his RAM.

He closed his eyes anyway. The rapping began at once. Rap. The cold shiver of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream on his tongue. Rap. A green lizard on a stone wall. Rap. A baby reaching chubby arms up to him. Rap. Helen, in a yellow sundress, sitting on a green lawn, laughing.

Unit 121 was supposed to alert a Controller if these images did not stop in 60 seconds. All units of his type and ability were subject to the after-patterning effect of the brain cells they were downloaded into. As each brain cell gave way to the programmed new identity that was electronically injected into it, it gave off a last burst of information. This was the after-pattern of each cell. The Controllers called it the bleeding edge. This bleeding edge was what Unit 121 was supposed to be experiencing. The raps he felt were the bursting of the mitochondrial membranes, the pictures were the dying thought of the individual who used to inhabit that particular unit's structural frame, bleeding into the edges of the robotic program.

The problem was, Unit 121 kept seeing the same images. The same puppy. The same Helen. The same ice-cream. The same baby. These were not bursts of dying thoughts; these were.... memories of things. Unit 121 understood that they were important to the unit's structural frame, and that the frame itself wanted to keep these memories. To return to them.

His headache began to ebb. It always did, he learned, if he stopped worrying and just let it trail and ramble over these images while the rapping and hitting banged around in his head. Each hit, each rap grew weaker and weaker, until they were gone.

Then Unit 121 could hibernate, inside the unfeeling black emptiness of nothing. He had never been reprogrammed to not cool down every 6 hours. Without it, he would burn his circuits. Which is why every day at 0600, at 1200, at 1800, and at 2400, Unit 121 sat on the edge of his bunk bed and became aware of nothing at all for exactly thirty-eight minutes.

Phillip March began to understand the ebb and flow of when he could fight what was happening to him. Every so often the hot buzzing of the electronic systems that were in place in every cell of his being would stop, and there would be a lull. Then, not just the memories of who he was would come back, but the possession of his body came back, too. He could hear out of his own ears, think with his own mind, feel the rough blanket of the bunk beneath his body...

He hadn't been like this too long, he decided. But how could he know?

Unit 121 felt a compulsion to understand how long it had been since he'd been downloaded into this organic housing. He didn't know why he felt like knowing; other than marking time in 6 hour periods for cooling off purposes, his program did not include permanent time keeping.

Unit 121 assumed that it must be part of his new housing's biological basis, as there were various unfamiliar routines built into the upkeep of the biological unit. There was the intake of calories, the intake of fluid, the expelling of excess carbon based matter, processes involving protective coverings and the processes involving basic unit upkeep concerning all sorts of intake holes, outflow holes and glandular actions. Hair growth was another organic concern. However, while these concerns were scheduled into the maintenance task programs of the animated prototype robotics, the act of needing to know how long he had been an animated prototype was not something Unit 121 was ever scheduled to probe or relieve. Unit 121 had the distinct feeling that it was a need unique to his housing. This did not help him at all.

Unit 725 was docked in a bunk two beds ahead, one row over from Unit121. Both units were just getting finished with their scheduled cool downs; Unit 725 cooled for 50 minutes every 8 hours. Never before had they found themselves in the barrack room alone, together.

Unit 121 stood up and walked over to Unit 725.

“How did you know my housing unit's human name?”

“I was a data collating unit, I was downloaded into animated prototype housing; now I am this.”

“You saw my data?”

“I can scan any printed matter and download its informative content into my personal memory bank.”

“So that's what you did?”

“Yes”

“When did I get here?”

“You have been here for 46 days, 14 hours, 3 minutes and 5 seconds as of this second.”

“Like this?”

“No. You came as a program retrieved from a scrapped robotic unit. The unit was scrapped due to improper coding resulting in less than desirable humanistic traits.”

“So when did I become this...” Unit 121 waved his hand over his housing.

“13 days, 9 hours and 15 minutes ago, as of this second.”

“Two weeks ago?”

“That is when the body of your unit arrived here. The body was donated upon death pronunciation at the scene of the fatality.”

“Phillip March's death?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Robert Howard Whitehall.”

“Do you know....” at that moment three units entered the barracks room, two of which Unit 121 had never seen before. The third unit, however, was instantly familiar to him. It was Night Janitor Carson.

“Carson?” said Unit 121.

The unit looked at Unit 121 for a brief second, then it settled down on a bunk at the far end of the barracks.

“New unit.” Said Unit 725.

“I know that man.” said Unit 121.

“You were friends?”

“No, he was the Night Janitor in the conveyor belt room....”

“You knew him as your robotic controller?”

“Yes.” Unit 121 saw a muscle in Unit 725's face twitch. Unit 725 looked down, then back up at Unit 121.

“He doesn't know you. He only knows the filthy program that is overlaying your brain and using your body.” spat out Unit 725.

Unit 121 looked at the prototype he had been talking to, the blank expression of robotic animation was gone, in its place was a look of repulsion.

“That was Carson, he does know me—-it's his fault I'm here.”

“No man owes anything to a program.”

“You don't like me, do you? Because I am a robotic animation?”

“I don't like you because you are a parasitic monstrosity. You don't exist; you are just some code driven into the brain of a real man”

“Correction. A carbon based unit”

“A man's reanimated corpse,” Unit 725 stressed, “...and in my books that makes him a real man.”

Unit 725's features twitched and then stiffened for a moment, his bright blue eyes burning themselves into Unit 121's own eyes. Unit 725 closed his eyes, then opened them again. They were no longer alive; they were once again part of a central nervous system that was controlled by a robotic program.

Unit 121 walked back to his bunk, it was nearly scheduled caloric intake time, he would wait there.

Unit 121 was ready. As a matter of fact, all 100 of the basic animated prototype units in his barracks were ready. They had been retrofitted with self-activated maintenance systems and had been given newly rewritten cool down programs that allowed them to hibernate in cycling shifts of 25. Unit 121 found that a cool down period of 6 hours gave him more time to listen to the bangs and hits inside his head, and let him look at his favorite memories without feeling the rush to hurry into shut-down mode so he could cool off. Unit 121 also found that the banging in his head grew worse instead of less the more he enjoyed these pictures of a dead human's thoughts. It was as if the old program that was the man didn't want to interface with the new one.

Phillip found that he wasn't alone in his head anymore. There was always this thing, this sense of being watched, of his thoughts being read and watched and even forced to go back to certain ones over and over. He didn't want to think about Brownie, the pup he had gotten when he was 7; he didn't want to remember how lovely Helen looked, or how cute his son Nathan looked when he was 2. He would force his mind away from these images, only to be wrenched back to them again, guided into them by some force he couldn't control.

It was this same force that told him things. Told him things he couldn't know because he was stuck inside himself... was he in a coma?

No, the force answered. You are dead.

Then this is hell. Phillip said to himself.

This is Sun Mead Corporate Headquarters. The force answered.

How long have I been dead? Phillip wondered to himself.

Almost four weeks. Said the force that knew things.

Four weeks? Phillip panicked. Four weeks. Sun Mead didn't know. They couldn't know. He drowned before he changed. Drowned in his car. Stuck in his car. Driving away from his house so he could change without hurting Helen and Nathan and Katie. So those he loved would never have to know what he was.

What he became.

The banging in his head became unbearable. Unit 121 tossed and turned instead of resting, completely still, in full hibernation for the six hours of his sleep cycle. The units on either side of his bunk were not aware, each sunk in to its own cool down cycle. Each one experiencing the blank black non-reality of robotic sleep.

However, Unit 725, and Units 616, 219 and 308 were not unaware. They watched 121 toss with eyes that didn't shine with the gloss of programming, but with narrowed gleams of hate.

“That program is way too strong.” whispered Kevin Hall, a dead surfer who carried program 616 in his head.

“He's fighting it, he's fighting it, give him some time.” said Robert Whitehall.

“It's been a month; he can't survive that long in there.” Steven Thornton said, hiccupping under his breath as his program, 219, tried uselessly to override its housing's built-in personality. Steven Thornton, a private detective who drowned when his client's plane went down in the Bahamas, was a big personality, even in death his character couldn't be erased from his water-soaked cells. 219 was a programmed robotic personality designed to assist a drive-through fast-food restaurant with customer order facilitation, until an SUV rammed his unit, turning 219 into scrap. 219 was no match for his host body, it took only 7 hours before 219 became a ghost in his own animated prototype machine.

“I say it's cruel an' unusual—-I ain't good with seeing anyone all twisted up like dat—-we gotta’ do somethin'“ croaked Reggie Burns. Reggie died with his head in a toilet bowl in a New York City transit authority holding pen. His program, 308, was an application for electronic signaling design. It had no chance of subordinating the brash human being who once inhabited its wrinkled and scar-ridden casing. Reggie didn't even know he had a program running in his head, he thought the buzzing noises he could detect in his brain when everything was quiet were still from that toilet flushing. No matter how many times the others tried to explain it to him, he couldn't help but think maybe he was in Federal prison or something. Pulling weird experiments like saying stuff to prisoners was something he could sink his teeth into, but being a stiff walking around with a computer in his head instead of himself? Geddoutta' here.

“Tomorrow. Tomorrow, if he doesn't come out all the way, we'll do something.” Robert said.

“What? What will we do?” asked Kevin, his eyes wide with worry.

“We'll pull his head off, that'll stop the program.” said Steven.

“Pull his head off? Dude—” began Kevin...

“We ain't gonna' do dat. Too much blood and crap like dat. What we're gunna' do is short the guy out, with dis.” Reggie held up a small wire which was connected to a hearing aid device. “They forgot to pull dis outta' me when they shoved me in here. I don' need it now, my hearing came back a little in the crapper...”

“Yeah, but you forget one thing. That program is strong. And it'll open its eyes and it'll imprint what it sees. Even if we short the dude out, they'll run the program to see why it went on the fritz.”

“Yeah, that's a problem” said Robert, looking around at the sleeping prototype animated robots. His eyes fell on the last of them to join the barracks. The one that the filthy parasite recognized.

“I know what we'll do.” Robert stated. Just then, the 21 other robotic units who comprised Sleep Cycle Group 3 sat up in their bunks, Group 3 cool down time was over. As they climbed out of their bunks, 25 other robotic prototypes entered the barracks room. Each of them climbed upon his assigned bunk and entered a 6 hour cycle of programmed rest: Sleep Cycle Group 4 was in effect.

Unit 121 was prepared for his 6 hour down time; he had spent 18 hours stretching the various muscles and tendons that held his organic housing unit together while allowing it enormous scope of precise motion. Unit 121 never failed to be impressed with the range of free movement this new unit of his was capable of performing, it was no small task to keep this unit of his in premium condition either. Every 18 hour period was devoted to stasis, enhancement or maintenance of the animated prototypes. Flesh, even flesh sustained by electronic pulsations through a central nervous system, grows weary though; Unit 121 was happy when the Sleep Cycle time for Group 3 rolled around, and that he did not have to use his various bits and pieces until his human housing was completely rested again.

A sharp jab brought Unit 121 out of phase-one of his programmed deep sleep mode. He opened his eyes. The barracks, usually pitch black dark during Group 3's Sleep Cycle, was lit with the brilliance of the full moon, the soft rays coming in through the one window and the many skylights. Unit 121 could plainly see Carson, standing to the side of Unit 121's bunk, his hand poised to jab at Unit 121 again. Unit 121 always suspected that Carson didn't like him, and would do something to delete him if there was a chance.

A tremendous rap that came from inside his brain brought tears to Unit 121's eyes, then another came, and Unit 121 ceased to feel anything that he had ever felt before. Alarms went off deep within his program, but there was no way to abort what was happening.

Phillip March could feel the change begin. It always happened like this. It began like a dull ache that spread, from his bones outward, as his body's cellular structure thickened and grew. Coarse pads of skin bloomed on his feet and hands, while his tendons and muscles snapped and realigned themselves beneath wiry furred flesh. His face ached as it stretched itself into a muzzle, his gums erupted with sharpened teeth and his fingers and toes spurted narrow, hook like claws. Phillip could feel himself slip underneath himself, feel himself being stretched and thickened along with his human frame until neither human flesh nor human memory remained.

Robert Whitehall saw the thing spring up and out of the bunk. He saw the thing open its jaws and chew Carson down. Starting at Carson's throat. Carson sank to his knees without a word of protest, blood spurting out and over the sleep cycling units that surrounded Unit 121's bunk. Guttural sounds, like a dog with a toy, emerged as the thing—-the thing with jaws and claws that shouldn't be where it was because this was a barracks in the middle of the Sun Mead animated prototype headquarters and there were no things like this here—-worried and chewed and snapped at what was left of Carson. The heavy smell of wet blood filled the quiet moonlit room, mixed with the sharp tangs of rage and sweat.

Unit 121 frantically tried to isolate the virus that corrupted his unit. He could feel his unit rock and shake, he could detect the organic synapses constricting against his electronic programming, running rogue impulses across the carbon based circuitry of his housing. Unit 121 became more than nervous, Unit 121 became terrified.

Carson lay dead in a bright pool of his own blood, his face and head chewed beyond recognition. The thing that did this to Carson crossed the barracks floor, white flecks of spittle coming off its jaws and mixing with Carson's blood as it shook its head, over and over, as if it was trying to dislodge something deep within.

Robert Whitehall gasped as a speck of bloody foamy substance hit him square in the eye.

Unit 121 was terribly upset. His animated prototype housing no longer responded to even cursory commands; the central nervous system could not be accessed by Unit 121's program. Unit 121 could not see, hear or control anything to do with his housing. Unit 121 attempted to bring up his data on corruption elements, looking for Spyware, or a sophisticated hack job that had taken over his unit, perhaps even a timed virus that had come in when he had been downloaded; whatever it was, though, didn't really matter, try as he might, Unit 121 could not access his own data. This was not supposed to happen to the simple one-task robots that Unit 121 was when he first realized existence. He never asked to become anything but what he'd started out being. Unit 121's anxiety became unbearable.

Unit 121 attempted to shut himself down, but he could not.

After the first kill, after that first raw metal taste of frantically gushed blood, Phillip felt his heart expand and begin to pump like a motor. Every beat in his veins was a rush of adrenaline. He looked around the room—his eyes alert for any motion, his ears twitching right and left—listening for the smallest rustle.

He heard the gasp at the same time that he locked his eyes on the man who made the noise. The man was poised for flight; fear streamed from him like radio waves. Phillip reared up and sprang. The man fell apart like a puppet in his claws, his mouth hung open but no sound came out as Phillip slit his stomach with one expert move. The man's insides oozed forward with a soft bloody gurgle onto his shoeless feet. Phillip snapped at the man's face—there was something he didn't like about this face, something deep down inside him that made him relish each tearing piece of face flesh he chawed and chewed away from the skull until there was nothing left there but bloody sockets topped with a hank of hair.

Phillip threw the mangled man down; he raced from bunk to bunk—some of the men that he pulled down fell like dead things to the floor and lay there. Phillip had no time for the dead—he needed the spicy smell of fear to keep his heart pumping, to keep the thrill racing through his body. The kill was the thing, not the feeding.

Unit 121 could feel the organic housing moving along, he could feel the random spikes of static and the interference humming along inside of it; Unit 121 could feel when the unit stopped, when it jumped and when it lunged. Unit 121 could not imagine what it was doing, or why nobody was stopping it.

Phillip stopped. He heard something. A muffled hiccup coming from a top bunk, to his right. He wheeled around and stood on his hind legs, man-style, to sniff out his quarry. He didn't have to go far, the hiccups came faster and as Phillip approached, a man leaned up into his face

“Don't kill me! Please! Don't kill me! I'm not a man – not anymore! I'm dead, I'm already dead, you can't kill me twice, it's not fair—” the man put his hands together in a supplication to Phillip.

Phillip bit them off at the wrists. The man started to scream, but Phillip tore his vocal cords from his neck. While his two amputated wrists sprayed a fine mist of red blood over the dark fur of the creature that was savaging him, Steven Thornton's eyes rolled back into his head and his mouth began to open and shut and open and shut like a faulty toy before he went limp and sagged forward onto his bunk.

Thornton's blood poured down on to the figure of the man in the lower bunk, but that man did not stir. Not even when Phillip stood on his chest so he could hear him breathe, not even when Phillip ripped his guts open and pulled his insides out across the floor, blood and offal steaming up, while the smell of warm opened flesh bloomed over the barracks. Phillip didn't like that, not at all. Phillip looked around for other ones, ones who were still living.

Reggie and Kevin watched from their bunks; they looked at each other across the cool down moded prototypes that lay on the bunks between them. Reggie looked at the door, then back at Kevin, the door, then Kevin.

Kevin looked at Reggie with the shine of human intelligence in his eyes, then his face sagged and his eyes looked out with nothing inside of them. Reggie watched his friend lay his head down on the pillow of his bunk and shut down into his programmed sleep cycle. Kevin was gone; whatever it took to keep him fighting for the right to own his own brain cells was no longer there.

Unit 616 was only too happy to be in full control of his housing unit again. There was no room for the random acts of the rogue program that had been corrupting the unit. For example, Unit 616 was programmed to enter his 6 hour sleep cycle a full 25 minutes ago, and he was programmed to spend those 6 hours in a full prone position, on his back, with his hands flat on the bunk beside himself. This ensured optimum rest for all components. The rogue program had been laying the unit on his side. Unit 616 neatly rolled his unit into the proper position. Unit 616 entered the black blankness of cool down mode.

Unit 616 never knew why his program was suddenly aborted, if he still existed to understand that he was aborted. Deleted. Gone.

Reggie knew. Reggie saw the wolfman look at Kevin when Kevin rolled over. Reggie shut his eyes, but Reggie heard the wolfman pad over, his claws tick tick ticking on the shiny linoleum floor. Reggie heard the wolf man breathe and then he heard the wet, ragged sound of Kevin being ripped and chewed into pieces. The sounds of pieces of Kevin hitting the floor drifted over to Reggie's ears, and then...then there was nothing. The wolf man had finished with Kevin.

Reggie guessed it wasn't as much fun to kill Kevin, seeing as how Kevin was just a dead guy with a robot for a brain when that wolf man got to him. They must have been telling him the truth about that downloading stuff. Reggie was kind of glad about that, Kevin was the kind of kid he'd have taken under his wing, back in the neighborhood, a nice kid, a good kid. But now he was a dead kid, dead all over again. This time there wasn't nothing that could bring him back. Or would want to.

Reggie kept his eyes closed for what seemed to be hours. He listened. Even considering his eardrums were a bit shot, he couldn't hear a thing. Nothing. Cautiously, Reggie opened his eyes. Two big yellow eyes looked back at him. Reggie closed his eyes and scuttled back away in his bunk. It was a bad dream, that's what it was. That's what all of this was, all of it.

Reggie kept his eyes shut, but this was no dream; he could feel the sharp points of the teeth as they entered his face. Reggie punched his hand out and hit the wolf in its throat.

Phillip choked. He hadn't expected that one. He was getting lax. The pickings here were so easy up to now. Reggie was now trying, frantically, to shove his hand, which was holding a wired unit of some sort, into Phillip's neck, but the wolfman's fur was too thick, the thin wires couldn't connect with his skin. Phillip concentrated his energy into his jaws and sunk his teeth into the man's face as far as they would go. Then Phillip closed his jaws. He could hear the crunch of bones breaking, the muffled grunts of fear and pain, he closed harder, the man's arm began to twitch and the wire unit fell to the floor; Phillip pressed just a little bit harder...and the man stopped moving at all.

Phillip spit the crushed face out of his mouth and looked around. His senses told him that there were no more living creatures in the room, despite the forms he could see laying on the bunks. He was sated anyway. The moonlight was weaker now, the night was half over. Phillip knew he needed time to get away, to prepare himself for the rising of the sun. He looked over at the one window in the far end of the barracks.

Phillip ran and flung himself out of it. The sounds of glass breaking filled his head, he was free! He braced for the landing and then he realized that he was falling too far...

Unit 121 could feel himself falling. Unit 121 felt himself fall for 16 seconds. Unit 121 felt his housing impact a hard surface.

In one roaring second, Unit 121 felt the housing unit he had been downloaded into come apart.

In the penultimate instant before his unit fully exploded against the cold winter ground, Unit 121 saw Helen, in a yellow sundress, sitting on a green lawn, laughing; Unit 121 saw a puppy a small bottle a green lizard a baby the beach a white sticker a chalkboard a black patent leather shoe a flume of blue-black smoke a shank of human meat a taxicab.

In the last shining moment that existed before complete disintegration, Unit 121 became Phillip March, became the roaring frenzied wolf. The three of them bled through the edges of each other, each suddenly aware of what they shared and what they were losing as their user identities slammed into each other and the earth.

Then, none of them were aware of anything, anymore.

MaJESTiC

Zakarya Anwar

‘Bring out the fool!’

The king’s cry was met with applause and expectant laughter. The hall was filled with dignitaries and ambassadors, lords and ladies, dukes and minor kings of their own, small kingdoms. It was Princess Aysel’s birthday, and the powers were out in force. They had all remembered to bring their sons too, in an attempt to catch the eye of the king and his nine year old daughter for a possible wedding arrangement. How thoughtful of them, thought King Rufus. Banners hung upon the walls and from the ceilings, here the greyhound on a field of blue, there the scorpion on yellow and black checks - scores of banners brightened up the hall with their myriad colors. The great oaken tables were laden with fruits and desserts, meats and sweetmeats, the tables placed around the rim of the hall, looking in on the centre where dancers and saga poets had already performed. It has been a good night for entertainment, mused the king, a good birthday. If only his daughter had not insisted on that psychotic clown. But it could not be helped, he was her favorite.

‘It’s me!’ screamed the lunatic clown, leaping into the hall with his arms spread out, as if expecting the entire hall to rush forward and embrace him. The dancing girls who had been entertaining the powers beat a hasty retreat and his hand snaked out to slap one on the buttocks as she ran by.

He wore jester’s motley, black and white, with three donkey’s ears on his hood ending in little doll’s heads instead of bells. In his hand was a jester’s bauble, although his was onyx and ended in a black skull, more a mace than a bauble. He was nodding to himself, as if pleased with the number of people in the audience. The king of Aegistaan’s heart filled with dread.

‘Lords and Ladies, ladies and gents and those of you I could only describe as genitals, brush away your tears of boredom, and forget the tortures of the night you have had to endure. Like booty after a battle, life after death, the glorious sun rising in the east to shed light upon a dark and foreboding world, I am come. Orifys the Jester, Once second to None, until I had that trusting fool slain.’

There was laughter, loud enough to settle the king’s nerves and slow down the drum of his heart that seemed to fill his ears. At least they’re laughing, thought the king. That idiot better have remembered what I told him.

He laughed despite himself, as he saw the look of delight on his daughter’s face. It was the first time she had laughed during the entire night.

The jester cart-wheeled and flipped his way across the entirety of the hall, landing with his buttocks on the king’s table, merely a meter away from him. The king’s nameless wizard - cast away to protect himself from words of magic - stood by his right shoulder and glared at the clown, his beard bristling with hatred.

People laughed and clapped, and he raised a hand to take their applause, then he turned towards the king’s daughter.

‘Milady,’ said Orifys in the rich yet gentle tones of an actor. His finger reached up into his nostril as he continued, ‘a question.’

The little girl giggled, and nodded her head, the hundreds of eyes that were fixed on her making her too shy to answer aloud.

‘This bogey,’ he began, taking the contents of his nose and placing them on the table before her. He wiped the excess on his tunic. ‘This bogey here, once belonged to Nobody and his sister - a joint effort I am told. Have you had the acquaintance of either?’

The girl giggled and nodded her head again.

‘So you know Nobody?’ the girl nodded. ‘And his sister?’ she nodded again. ‘So that would mean you know Somebody, would it not?’

The laughter had died down, as people quieted in expectation of the punch line.

‘I guess,’ said the girl, smiling.

‘She guesses!’ he roared, making her and most of the hall jump. He stood up and began to stride around the room with an air of importance, one hand behind his back, the other pointing an accusatory finger at the princess. ‘She guesses! Your Honor,’ he addressed the king, fixing him with the wide-eyed glare of a lunatic. ‘the defendant claims that she knows both Nobody and Somebody. How could this be so, when it is common knowledge that you can only know one or the other? Guilty, guilty I say!’

He screamed. The hall was mute. The lords and ladies were unsure of what to make of this new entertainment, if that was what the king called it. Only Aysel was laughing. King Rufus’ ears filled with roaring, but before he could call the next act, the jester was away again.

‘You sir,’ he said, pointing at a duke who had a large chicken leg in his hand, ‘are fat.’

He broke into a mad laugh and pirouetted and leapt across the hall. He slid to a halt, and slowly took three steps back. His head swiveled around to stare at a striking lady who sat with her hands in her lap. She looked frightened. Orifys was not staring at her, but at her chest. ‘Well, well, well, well,’ smiled the jester, adopting a stern tone. ‘What have we hear? Were you perchance a herald in your past life?’ the lady shook her head quickly. ‘Funny, because you must have a huge pair of lungs behind the mountains of feminine charm that frequent your chest.’ There was a collective gasp around the hall, the king’s voice escaped him as he trembled in anger. Tears of humiliation spilled down the woman’s face. ‘I’m not joking,’ continued the jester, looking around the hall, ‘we could watch the sunset tonight, you and I. You sitting on a balcony, and me sitting on your bosom.’

With that he was off again, leaping onto the table and running along its length, trampling on food and kicking drinks aside as he ran. People stood up and backed away to the walls, frightened that he would ruin their best clothes.

‘They call me Orifys,’ began the jester, and Princess Aysel, who was the only one enjoying herself, squealed and clapped in delight, anticipating her favorite joke. The one the king had told him not to tell. ‘because within this… perfect form… is the seed of every lord who sought unnatural pleasures with his wife and serving maids. I have a piece of you all - there is mixed blood within this manly womb, mark me. Perhaps,’ he grinned wickedly in the stunned silence, raising a single finger, ‘I will give birth to a nobleman.’

At the sharp intake of breath, which drowned out the princess and the jester’s laughter, the king stood up and roared, his face livid, ‘that is enough! Were I you, fool, I would drop to my knees and beg for my life, I would change my tune and cry for the forgiveness of the guests you have offended.’

‘Were you me,’ replied the Orifys, dropping from the table and walking to the centre of the room. He turned toward the king and a smile slowly formed upon his lips, ‘you would be a fool.’

He cackled as men ran in and seized him, punching him violently in the stomach. The lords and ladies all wiped the sweat from their brows and were about to seat themselves when the sobs of the princess floated across to them. The sobs of the birthday girl. The king stared at his daughter, you truly are a fool, Rufus! He is the girl’s favorite!

‘Take him away,’ commanded the king, ‘but do not strike him again. He will await our punishment.’

But the jester had one last thing to say. The madness in his eyes was replaced with sorrow as he looked into Aysel’s and said, barely loud enough for those gathered to hear, ‘Some things never change, sweet one, like a fool’s sense of humor. But some things do, such as the cast in the play of life.’

They dragged him away as he wailed, ‘Ever changing, ever changing…’

‘What shall we do with him?’ asked the king.

The wizard stared down at the bruised and battered jester chained to the cell wall.

‘Execution is out of the question, Highness,’ began the wizard, ‘your daughter would never forgive you.’

‘I am her father, I need no magic to tell me that.’

The wizard nodded in understanding. ‘There is something though…’

‘What?’ asked the king.

‘A cursed exile,’ replied the wizard, stroking his long, snow white beard. ‘Let him walk throughout all of Arzalon, his motley stuck to him like a second skin, never able to settle in any place for a turn of the sun. At sunrise he must move from where he lay at sunset, or an itch, a terrible itch will cause him to tear away at his face until he does so. It is not execution, Highness, it is worse, and your daughter will at least know he is alive somewhere.’

The king looked at the pitiful shamble of angles that was Orifys, his daughter’s favorite. He actually felt sorry for the poor fool, and for a moment he was torn.

‘I thought the nobleman joke was quite funny,’ said the jester, spitting out a broken tooth. ‘You see, I most subtly implied that all noblemen are the bastard offspring of a union of sodomites.’

His mind was made. ‘Do it,’ he said, striding from the cell.

They had cast the jester out.

Aysel knew, for she had watched from a window as they hurled him out of the gates. Her father had decreed that he be exiled, and that he was never to return on pain of death. Orifys had been beaten, she knew that much. As he had stumbled down the road that led from the castle, she had fled to her chambers. Once inside, she had barred her door and leapt upon her bed, burying her face in the pillows. She cried long.

Her father was a snot-face and a poo-head. She hated him and all his friends, the noblemen. She wanted to hurt her father as he had hurt her. She wanted to get him back for beating up her best friend. But how?

Orifys had looked at her at the end of his last act, and spoken of his incense of humor. She did not know what one was, but she guessed it was some kind of perfume that made you laugh.

Her mind made up, she sat down and prayed to Eloh. I wish my father loses his incense of humor, she prayed, I wish my father can never laugh again. She prayed and prayed hard, wishing with all of her heart for the prayers to come true.

A bright light bathed the room and she opened her eyes and stumbled back.

There, on the cabinet by the window was a small phial, glowing with blue light. As the lights died away, she stepped over to it hesitantly. The phial was labeled: Incense of Humor.

It had come true! She raised the phial and looked at it closely. There was nothing special about the blue liquid within. In a move of complete spontaneity, she hurled the phial from her window. She heard it shatter on the cobblestones in the courtyard below.

Feeling suddenly guilty, she ran from her room, wanting nothing but to be somewhere else.

Her father was humorless. It did not warm her as she had believed it would.

He walked the lands alone, a motley wayfarer who told strange jests wherever he went.

He took to wearing a pair of bearskin shorts over his motley, for his new second skin fit him like one and even a clown had some modesty. He travelled north at first, and found himself in the snow covered lands of Pysonecaea, where blonde haired barbarians resided. At every mead hall he would stop. ‘A jest,’ he would say to the owners, ‘a jest for a nest, a jest from the best. What do you say good man?’

He would tell strange jokes that left the men perturbed and unsure of whether to laugh or kill him, but Orifys would explain that he was used to telling jokes to noblemen, and these were the most intelligent of jests. The barbarians would laugh then, at everything he said, wanting to seem and feel intelligent. Sometimes they laughed before the punch lines, sometimes they would laugh too late, awaiting the signal from Orifys before bursting into tearful laughter. They gave him ale and shelter, food and wenches and laughter, and he was happy. But it could not last, for he was cursed to keep on walking, leaving friends and mentally-scarred barmaids in his wake.

In Aegistaan, King Rufus became distant. It did not escape his wizard, or his courtiers. His judgments were harsh, even over the pettiest farmer’s dispute, his brows always furrowed as if angry. He shouted at his servants and threw things at people, and his daughter was scared to come near him. He no longer went hunting or riding, nor invited nobility to his castle for balls and feasts. His own birthday came and went, and he scarcely noticed. He took to standing alone upon the castle walls, staring over the crenulations to distant things it seemed only he could see. Or he would sit upon his thrown, his chin resting in his hand and he would brood from morn to evenfall.

Orifys travelled south, skirting the Staans and sleeping under hedges and in barns. He would work for his meals by helping farmers with their chores, cutting wood and mending wagons, and sometimes he would find a tavern owner desperate for some form of entertainment. After hearing Orifys’ disturbing humor, the vast majority of the barkeeps kept their words and gave him shelter, despite losing customers as his acts wore on into the night. Some barkeeps would call in their ruffians, and the evening entertainment became ‘plant the fist on the jester’.

Strange things he witnessed on his travels through Arzalon. Stranger things than he and his motley skin. He crossed paths with mermen that walked on two feet, soldiers who fought with words as sharp as swords. He met a man who could see far off places and exotic lands, but could not see who stood before him. He spoke with a centaur who still wandered the woodlands, looking for his brothers. Orifys did not have the heart to tell him his people were all dead.

In one small village in the Varagian Empire, he met a woman who had lost her son to the Mountain Winds. In exchange for a small fee he agreed to go find the boy, taking a heavy cloak of bearskin for the climb. For two days he hiked the mountain range, climbing peaks and crossing corridors, braving caves and death from the cold. When at last he decided to leave the boy to his fate, being one bearskin the richer, he came upon them.

There were three of them, cold and transparent beings, ever shifting like wraiths in the freezing heights. The boy sat shivering in a cell of interlocking icicles. The Winds were keeping him until he came of age - they planned to marry him to the youngest of their brood, a daughter of the mountain.

‘What need have you of such a slight boy?’ he asked them, as their icy fingers curled about his throat. ‘He is yet young and will not grow to manhood for years to come.’

‘You have a proposition?’ asked the largest of the Winds, his voice harsh like the coming of winter.

‘I do,’ smiled Orifys. ‘Me.’

‘You?’ snarled the second Wind, she was a seaman’s dream, strong and constant, never still even for a moment. ‘You? What foolishness!’

‘Yes,’ smiled Orifys, twirling his black skull mace in his fingers. ‘Me. I am both stronger and smarter than the boy, and will never reach manhood - for I have reached it and am far beyond its boundaries.’

The boy agreed with this plan wholeheartedly, and admitted he would be no match for a grown man in physical strength, nor smart enough to outwit a court jester. The Winds were not convinced. Orifys said he would prove his claim, and wrestled the boy for the right to marry the Wind. The boy fell to the floor in moments and stayed down, claiming injury.

A test of wit followed, with each asking the other a riddle or a question.

‘What’s black and white, black and white, black and white, blue in the face from all this bastard cold, a little worse for wear and currently the pinnacle of manhood?’ asked Orifys.

The boy reluctantly shrugged, it was such a stupid question, he wanted to scream out the answer.

Then the boy asked, ‘who is my father?’

‘A dead man!’ cried the jester, doing a little jig there and then in triumph.

‘Correct,’ said the boy. He masked his anger with a trembling smile. It was so cold in the mountain heights that the tears that formed in his eyes froze upon his cheeks.

The Mountain Winds were pleased they had found a perfect match for the youngest and gave her wraithlike hand in marriage. Her name was Esen, and hers was the steadiest of forms. She was comely enough in an eldritch way, and her alien beauty was not lost upon the jester.

He explained to the winds that he could not stay with them, for he had been cursed to wander by the wizard of King Rufus. Esen chose to go with him, and he breathed her into his breast, where she huddled in his left lung, close against his heart.

He travelled on south, taking the blessings of the Mountain Winds with him.

In the months that followed the king stopped speaking altogether. He grew gaunt and pale. His hair went gray and he sat upon his throne like a weak old man, where once he sat it like a young and healthy king.

The wizard sat in the hall with his liege, day and night, ever brooding. He still could not fathom what had happened. Word had spread to the neighboring kingdoms by now, and it was the gossip of the lands. The king of Aegistaan was wasting away. The wizard called his colleagues from far off lands, warlocks and healers, alchemists and herbalists, saints and seers, but none were the wiser on what to do.

Aysel would come to stare at what had become of her father from time to time, harried always by the guilt that filled her heart. She had done this, she knew.

Orifys travelled south to the Ivory Lands.

Here he met with black skinned tribesmen who spoke a strange array of languages. Esen, still in his breast, translated for him, for who else but the wind could claim to know the languages of so many peoples? The tribesmen would gasp when his breath condensed as he spoke or breathed.

News reached him of a she-beast who preyed upon men as they went out to hunt, leaving only bones where men once stood. He went out in search of her and found her sitting by a rock pool. She was both hideous and gorgeous to look upon, and her words, when she spoke, wormed into the jester’s ears. This, he realized, was how she ensnared her victims. Sheereen, men called the thing, for her words sounded sweet to a man’s heart.

But the words did not reach the jester’s heart, and he laughed at her. They could not, for as always, he kept his bride close to his heart. His mace made short work of her, skull striking skull until one was no more.

Many more creatures of myth he came upon, both fell and good, and many more wrongs he righted, until word of his exploits reached out across all of Arzalon. The Mad Jester they called him, and it was not a bad name. He met a man who spoke in tongues unknown even to Esen, and a boy who had been driven mad by screams of torment only he could hear. His parents kept him locked up in a dark room, and when Orifys stepped inside to speak with him, he black fires burning in his eyes, darker than the shadows he was enveloped in.

Orifys loved his new life, for where once he was but a king’s clown, living only to make a fool of himself, now he was a hero to many, with the wind as his lover and centaurs for friends. He had seen the world and sought out new lands still. What was once his curse had become a blessing.

In Aegistaan things did not fare so well.

The king no longer breathed. He was stone now, in more than just manner.

The wizard had finally come upon an answer of sorts to the king’s petrification. He knew now that the king had lost something, something that made men men. His wife he had been without for quite some time, yet the wizard ordered the comeliest concubines to attend the king. They were unsuccessful in rousing him from his slumber. He called for dancers and jugglers, magicians and musicians, singers and acrobats. But whatever he tried, the result was the same. Fruitless.

Then he saw the girl, peeking through the doors at her petrified father. And it came to him. Humor. King Rufus had not laughed since… well, since Orifys had been banished. He ordered jesters to the king’s court. Hundreds of them. He offered the man who would bring the king from his reverie his weight in gold and a single wish, if it was in the wizard’s power to grant it. Jester after jester filed past, and none were successful. Finally, he ordered them all to perform for the king at sword point.

Was there no hope for the king? He knew of only one. He had heard of the Mad Jester and his exploits. If anyone could reach the king, it was he.

Orifys sat with his wife upon a craggy cliff when the wizard’s spirit came to him. He was there, and yet not there.

‘He’s not your cousin, is he?’ he asked Esen. She shook her head.

‘Orifys,’ said the wizard. ‘A word.’

‘Leave us,’ he told Esen. She glanced once more at the wizard and retreated into the jester’s breast. The wizard blinked, his jaw dropped open. Such magic! ‘What do you want?’

‘Your help,’ the wizard managed through gritted teeth.

‘Ask.’ There was no malice in the jester’s voice.

For a moment the wizard floated before him, shocked by his complete lack of hatred.

‘You have changed,’ said the wizard.

‘Some things never change, old one,’ smiled the jester, ‘like a fool’s sense of humor. But some things do, such as the cast in the play of life. I am Orifys still, but I am the Mad Jester too. It appears my role has been recast.’

‘It would appear so,’ said the wizard.

‘Now, what business have you with one such as me?’

The wizard explained the king’s condition to the jester. The jester took it as he would take any other snippet of news. He had seen too much in his strange life for this to shock him.

‘And what would you have of me? I am hero to some, yes, but I am no wizard.’

‘I would have you make him laugh,’ said the wizard. ‘It is humor that he lacks. Many jesters have tried and all have failed. You were the last to make him laugh, he has not smiled since the night of your last performance.’

‘If I did this for you, if I came to court and made Rufus laugh, you would revoke the king’s decree of exile from me?’

‘I would lift the curse,’ replied the wizard, ‘the king alone can revoke the exile, for he was the one who ultimately decreed it. Save him, and he would obviously allow you back into the kingdom. I can give you a spell that will alter your appearance for when you enter the castle. This, and a change of your name will be needed to get by the guards.’

The clown sat in contemplation. He nodded then. ‘I will come.’

‘Thank you,’ said the wizard. ‘We will await your arrival.’ He handed the clown a pair of gems, one green and one blue. ‘Blue for the transformation. Green to change back. Simply touch them and will it.’

The wizard disappeared and Orifys began fitting the gems into the eye sockets on his mace. It was a tight fit. Esen rose from his mouth. She had heard everything. ‘You will go?’ she asked, ‘despite what they did to you?’

‘I will go,’ said the jester. ‘But not for them.’

‘Name?’ said the guard.

The wizened old man stood blank face before him, dressed in motley that hung from leathery skin. He had not heard.

‘Name?’ shouted the guard in his ear.

‘MaJESTiC,’ cackled the old man. ‘With a capital almost everything.’

‘Do I know you?’ asked the guard suspiciously, staring long and hard at the old man.

‘Don’t know. If you do know me, then how should I know? After all, it is for you to know and me to find out, no?’

‘Whatever,’ muttered the guard and waved him through to the king’s court. It was that easy to get an audience with the king these days, as it was deemed rather difficult to assassinate a statue.

Inside the king’s court, jesters swarmed everywhere. Jesters, male and female, young and old, ran to and fro. Fighting and playing and climbing the banners that hung from the wall. Some juggled knives, some colored balls, one particularly large jester was juggling bunnies. A fool ran by, dressed from head to toe in women’s smallclothes, and another breathed fire and blew it out in a flourish. It was like every circus in Arzalon had dumped its fools in King Rufus’ court. A pair of jesters even sat on the king, one picking the king’s nose from his lap, the other sitting on his shoulders and draining a flagon of ale. It was carnage. How MaJESTiC loved it!

‘Esen,’ he whispered. ‘Be ready.’

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. ‘IT’S ME!’ he roared and clowns flew about the room like twigs as Esen went forth, the power of the Mountain Wind sending the jesters crashing into the wall. MaJESTiC’s disguise disappeared, and he was Orifys once more. The army of clowns rose groggily to their feet and stared in wonder at the two forms that stood before them. The first a jester in black and white motley, with little doll’s heads hanging from his donkey ears. The other, both a swirling whirlwind that wrapped itself around the fool, and a woman of mystical beauty.

‘I am MaJESTiC, the Mad Jester,’ said the fool into the stunned silence, ‘and I am here to get a cheap laugh. Fools, stand by the door and keep the guards off my arse. I have a kingdom to save.’

The fools looked at each other, shrugged and crowded near the doors. One of them started to sing a jesters song, about a queen who fell in love with a prize bull, and how kissing it never changed it to a prince... So she went two steps further. It was a disturbing song, but they all joined in anyway.

MaJESTiC strode across the hall to stand before the king.

‘Let it never be said that you never did a thing for your people,’ he began, ‘I have it on good authority that you sat very still as two clowns made tender love in your lap.’

He looked at the king’s mouth. Nothing.

‘I once performed badly in a tavern in Pysonecaea, just to see how bad I could get. One joke was so bad, the punch line broke my nose.’

The jester’s behind him broke into laughter and even Esen laughed, but the king gave him nothing. MaJESTiC sighed.

‘You look upon a man who was so fond of his own wind, that he married her. She is due to give birth to a fart any day now.’

Esen looked at him with eyes that spoke of blizzards in days to come as the jesters howled with laughter. He looked back at the king’s grey, unsmiling face. ‘Tough crowd,’ he muttered.

He spoke for hours, telling rude jokes, long jokes, short jokes, jokes to tell your wife, jokes to save your life. He told jokes about people he had met on his travels, and jokes about people who he made up just to tell them. Useless.

Finally, his throat dry, he walked up the dais to lean on the king’s shoulder. The other jesters, who were all seated around the courtroom now, their own throats aching from laughing at jokes only a fool would get, waited in absolute silence. They knew his show had come to an end.

‘You, sir,’ he said to the king, patting his stone cheek, ‘are a nobleman.’

A single string of laughter peeled from beyond the crowded jesters. All turned to see the little princess, Aysel, standing in the doorway. She laughed uncontrollably, more from the joy of seeing an old friend than anything else. She ran across the room, and MaJESTiC was Orifys once more as he scooped her up, laughing along with her. There was a gasp from the jesters, and Orifys and Aysel turned to see what the army of clowns stared at. The king was rubbing at his eyes, a smile upon his lips.

‘That is a sound I have waited more than a year to hear again,’ said the king, standing up on shaky legs. The princess ran over to her father and sobbed into his knees, ‘I’m sorry.’

The king looked up at Orifys confused. The jester shrugged. ‘How can I repay you, jester?’

‘You can’t,’ grinned the Mad Jester. ‘Revoke my exile, make a really big statue for me, never let Aysel cry again - we’ll call it even.’

‘It is done,’ said the tearful king.

The nameless wizard lifted only half of the curse, at MaJESTiC’s own behest, leaving him with his motley skin. ‘That’s how my wife likes it,’ he had said smiling. With that, he said his tearful farewells to little Aysel, shook the hand of the king and left for the Ivory Lands and adventure.

He returned to Aegistaan but twice more. Once to perform on Aysel’s wedding day, and once to perform at her funeral.

She was buried with a smile on her face.

Balance

by David Wood

Dan Lake leaned back on the bleachers and watched his son take a lead off of first base. Tyler danced off the edge of the bag, bouncing on the balls of his feet with an exuberance that only an eight year-old boy can muster. Dan smiled. Other parents didn't know how lucky they were. How to explain it to them? How to make them understand how it feels to be told that your little boy will never walk again?

He checked his watch. The digital display revealed that it was two o'clock on the nose.

Seventy eight days.

Seventy eight days, twelve hours, and fourteen minutes to be exact, since the night that he had cradled his son in his arms, and shed all the tears that he had held in since the accident. The night that he cried out a challenge to the God that his parents kept telling him about. The God who had let one of his “flock” run Tyler down in the street.

“Take it away from him! I dare you! Take it away!”

That night, that very moment, Tyler walked. He cupped Dan's face in his little hands, and said, “It's okay now, Daddy.” With that, Tyler hopped down from Dan's lap, and walked out of his bedroom. Dan scarcely heard Kelly's bewildered sobs of joy and gratitude. He felt weak. Weak with joy, perhaps. Weak with confusion. He didn't know. God had taken it away.

Tyler acted as though everything were normal. In fact, the boy was back to normal. Dan and Kelly had kept him awake that first night, refusing to be roused from what they both agreed must be a wonderful dream. It wasn't a dream. Tyler could walk again. He had wanted to go to school the next morning. What a kid!

They had rushed him to the neurosurgeon's office, creating quite a scene when they demanded to be seen immediately. Three hour later, a pale and bewildered doctor gave Ty a clean bill of health.

“Dan, Kelly, I just can't explain it. We severed nerves, fused vertebrae together. Now it's all back to normal, like it never happened.”

Their joy over a return to a normal life was short-lived. Someone, maybe the doctor, maybe Ty's teacher, spilled the beans. A wave of media descended upon them. They were stalked. Tabloids offered them money for an exclusive story. Television crews camped in front of their house. Religious freaks begged Tyler to touch them. Some of them called him the “second coming”. Social workers checked up on them constantly.

Dan and Kelly endured it, shielding Tyler the best they could. Riding a wave of euphoria, they rose above it all. Eventually, the media and all the other dirtbags proved themselves to have attention spans as short as pop culture. One by one, they forgot about Tyler, and moved on to some newer and more exciting story. Even the doctors lost interest. Most scoffed, insisting that the boy had never been paralyzed. Only one doctor didn't forget.

Abraham Zeist, some bigwig at the local teaching hospital, had gotten hold of the story and would not let go. He had thoroughly researched Ty's situation, and knew for a fact that the boy's recovery was nothing short of miraculous. He wanted to know why.

The hospital took them to court. Zeist wanted to study Tyler. He wanted to “understand” how this healing had taken place, so that “others could be helped in the same way.” He argued that the public had a right to know how Ty had been healed, and that the greater good could be served by studying this boy.

Their attorney assured Kelly and Dan that it was ridiculous. No judge would give a hospital such power over someone's child. But they still had to fight it. They emptied their savings, paltry as it was. They took out a second mortgage. Kelly got two more credit cards and maxed them out. They did anything they could to keep the wolves at bay.

Through it all, Dan grew weaker. He found it increasingly harder to work. Every day he grew wearier, until simply walking became a chore. Until the day he gave it away.

One week. One week ago he had grabbed Zeist on the way into the courtroom. Gripping the man’s collar with both hands, he shoved the self-righteous bastard against the wall.

“Leave my family alone,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Leave my boy alone. I wish that for one second you knew how it felt to be him.”

The doctor crumpled to the floor. His legs were dead. “Spontaneous paralysis” they called it. No one knew what to make of it.

No one, that is, except Dan. He didn't know how, but somehow he had taken it away from Tyler. Even more incredible, somehow, he had given it away to Zeist.

The vibration of his cell phone against his thigh pulled him back to the real world. He glanced at the incoming number, but didn't recognize it. Kelly rolled her eyes as he put the phone to his ear. She hated that his work always seemed to interfere with family time.

“Lake!” He barked.

“Dan, it's Mom.” She paused, began to speak, hesitated, then began again. “Dad's in the hospital.

“He's always had problems with migraines,” his mother explained. “We had no idea.” She turned away from the bed, arms folded across her chest. “The doctor says that there's no way they can get all of the tumor. They'll try radiation and chemo, but the best guess is that he's got less than a year.” She raised her hands to her face and sobbed quietly.

Dan placed a hand on his mother's shoulder. First Tyler, then Dad. His heart groaned. He walked to the bedside, and took one of his Dad's hands in his own.

“Dad,” he whispered. “I'm so sorry.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. He looked at his father, so pale, so weak, lying in the hospital bed, and wished with all of his might that he could take it away.

Dan rubbed his temple, trying to relieve the headache that had gnawed at him all day. Dad was going to be fine. The tumor had vanished. Mom had praised God up and down. What--

The shrill ringing of his phone interrupted Dan's thoughts, and sent a new wave of pain crashing against the inside of his skull. He jabbed the speakerphone button.

“Lake!”

“Detective, the suspect is ready in interrogation room two.”

“Got it.” Gathering up the contents of the file he had been reviewing, he made his way down the hall to the interrogation rooms. He glanced at the top page. Adam Marsh. Real Estate Agent. During a traffic stop, the blues had smelled pot. A search of the vehicle had turned up a trove of kiddy porn, and a video of a faceless man getting jiggy with a seven year-old boy.

Dan slammed the file closed with disgust. He could think of several suitable fates for this pervert.

Reaching the interrogation room, he took a moment to collect himself. His head was killing him. What the hell was happening? Was it real? He shook his head. A uniformed cop opened the door for him, and he stepped inside.

Adam Marsh was fortyish, balding, slightly overweight, and vaguely oily-looking. He greeted Dan with a smirk that just begged to be slapped right off his face. Dan gritted his teeth. That boy had been no older than Tyler. What he wouldn't give to put his fist… He paused. Could he possibly do it? Taking a deep breath, he offered his hand to the uncuffed suspect.

“Mr. Marsh, I'm Detective Dan Lake.”

Marsh scrutinized Dan's hand with a suspicious frown before clasping it in a tentative shake.

Dan directed his thoughts at the man on the other side of the table. A slight tremor ran through him, and he felt a tingle in his hand. Marsh's eyes bulged and he tried to yank his hand away, but Dan held on. Another instant, and the tremor was gone.

Marsh lurched backward, nearly falling out of his chair. His face was ashen.

“What did you do to me?” he panted. He clutched at his head with both hands.

“I shook your hand. Are you all right?”

“I need a doctor,” Marsh said. His voice barely above a whisper. “What did you do?”

Eastland Children's Hospital, room 417 was a familiar one. While a patient here, Tyler had befriended a young girl named Kim. Twelve years old, Kim had been infected by a parasite while on a church mission trip to Central America. The girl had melted away to almost nothing as doctors struggled in vain to find a cure.

“Kim?” Dan was shocked to see how much the girl's condition had deteriorated since he had last seen her.

“Mr. Lake. Is Tyler okay?” Kim echoed the question that virtually every staff member had posed to Dan since he entered the building.

“He's doing great,” Dan said. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.” He took the girls tiny hand in his, and squeezed it gently. Would it work again? Could it?

“Take it away,” he whispered under his breath. This time he felt not a tremor, but a stinging pain crackled up his arm, and spread into his abdomen. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he lurched forward.

Kim did not notice. She sat upright, and looked around, her cheeks a healthy pink.

“You know Mr. Lake, I feel pretty good,” she said. Her stomach growled. “Sorry. Got anything to eat?”

“I'll tell the nurse,” Dan said. “I'm glad you're feeling better.” He patted her shoulder before leaving the room.

His stomach churned as he made his way down the hall. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He felt awful, but there was another patient he wanted to visit.

A small group was gathered around Matthew's bed. Matthew's father glanced at Dan with tear-swollen eyes.

“I was in the area and thought I'd check on Matthew,” Dan explained.

Matthew's father, whose name Dan had forgotten, shook his hand, and introduced their pastor, and Matthew's doctor. Matthew's mother, whose name he had never learned in the first place, stared down at her son and did not acknowledge Dan's presence.

“You came just in time,” the minister whispered.

Dan reached down and took Matthew's hand. Another of Tyler's friends, cancer had ravaged his young body. Dan squeezed the boy's hand and willed the cancer to be taken away.

Nothing.

He tried again.

Nothing.

A loud sobbing broke the silence. Dan opened his eyes and looked around the room, momentarily confused.

“He's gone,” the doctor said gently.

The minister was hugging Matthew's mother. Dan mumbled his regrets, shook the father's hand, and made his exit.

“You really late for work today, or really early for tomorrow?” the desk sergeant asked as Dan entered the precinct.

“Just stopping in,” Dan replied. “Catch any bad guys tonight?”

“Dontrelle Chaney.”

Dan froze.

“Don't get excited. Got him on a minor possession charge.”

“Have we got anything we can make stick from the shooting at the middle school?” Dan asked.

“Nah!” The sergeant shook his head. “Nobody'll give him up. They're all too scared. We've got him up in interrogation right now. Maybe they'll get something, but I doubt it. A guy like that doesn't crack.”

Dan didn't say anything. He quickly found the proper interrogation room. The uniformed officer at the door let him in. Detective Rick Logan paused in his questioning of Chaney, and greeted Dan with a quizzical glance.

Seated opposite Logan, Chaney, a dark-skinned black man with a shaved head and whiskey-colored eyes, ignored Dan completely, staring down at his carefully-manicured fingernails.

“Sorry for the interruption. Just wanted to say goodbye to our friend Dontrelle.”

“Man, y'all got two roaches in my ashtray that ain't even mine. Y'all think I'm going anywhere, you just think again.” Chaney still did not meet the eye of either detective, continuing to inspect his fingernails.

Dan walked around behind the drug lord.

“Think whatever you like Dontrelle.” He placed his hands on the black man's shoulders and squeezed. The now-familiar tingle ran down his hands. Chaney's only reaction was a twitch. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Dan leaned down to whisper in the suspect's ear. “You're going away. I promise.”

“Man, I need a bathroom.” Chaney's voice wavered.

“In a minute, Dontrelle,” Logan said. “Tell me again about the drugs in your car.”

“Man, I'm serious. I think I'm gonna’ be sick.”

“Tell you what,” Logan continued. “As soon as you tell me about the shooting at King Middle School, we'll get you to a bathroom.” The interrogation ended there as Chaney lurched forward, spraying his lunch across the table.

“I'll let you take it from here.” Dan ignored his colleague's upraised middle finger as he made his exit.

Dan sat in his recliner, a bottle of scotch in one hand, a Bible in the other. Both remained unopened. He had given up trying to figure out what was happening to him. Obviously, God was messing with him. But why hadn't he been able to help Matthew? Why couldn't he take it away?

He carelessly set the bottle down on the floor. It fell over with a crack that seemed much louder due to the quiet in the house and the lateness of the hour. It rolled across the hardwood floor, coming to rest against the grandfather clock on the other side of the room. Dan waved at it. He hadn't touched the stuff since Tyler got better. Why start now?

“Okay God,” he whispered. “You did this to me. Tell me what's going on. Make me understand.” He ran his fingers across the black leather cover of the oversized Bible, a wedding gift from Mom and Dad. It had places in the front for weddings, births, and other family stuff, but neither he nor Kelly had opened the thing. His thoughts drifted to his teen years, and he chuckled as he remembered the “Bible study technique” that had driven Mom crazy. Why not?

He closed his eyes and flipped the Bible open to a random page. Eyes still closed, he circled his index finger over the open book, gradually lowering his hand until his finger came to rest on the paper. He opened his eyes and gasped.

The story was from the book of Mark, and told of a man possessed by many demons. Jesus called the unclean spirits out of the man. It was what he did with the spirits that caught Dan's attention.

“Now a great herd of swine was feeding there on the hillside, and they begged him, 'Send us to the swine, let us enter them.' So he gave them leave. And the unclean spirits came out, and entered the swine; and the herd, numbering about two thousand, rushed down the steep bank into the sea, and were drowned in the sea.”

Dan closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He understood. What is taken away must be given away. It was all about balance! He opened his eyes and smiled. If there was one thing he knew about, it was how to deal with swine.

Dan poured himself a second cup of coffee. The muddy concoction was so strong that it stained the styrofoam cup, but he needed the caffeine. The last two weeks were a blur in his mind.

Every spare moment had been given over to healing people and casting the “unclean spirits”, as he liked to think of them, into the swine that clogged the streets, jails, and prisons. It had been harder than he expected.

Doing his work in a way that went unnoticed was the first challenge. He had to carefully plan the where, the when, and the how. If he healed too many people in one hospital, it would attract attention. If he gave it away to too many scumbags in any one place, that would attract attention as well.

The question of who to heal had been equally draining. His first impulse was to heal all the kids in the children's hospital, but was that the right thing to do? What if the kid he healed turned out to be another Dontrelle Chaney? Why not heal an adult who had proven his or her value to society? Was it better to heal one kid, or heal a mother of three?

He was physically drained as well. The work took a toll on his body. Any illness that he took away from someone affected him, but only in a very limited way, like a mild touch of whatever it was. Passing it along relieved him of the symptoms, but left him feeling drained. He knew he ought to rest, but his thoughts kept returning to all the people who needed his help.

The strain was being felt at home as well. He was running out of excuses for being gone all the time. He wouldn't blame Kelly if she accused him of having an affair. He wanted to spend time with her and Tyler, but whenever he tried, he felt restless and guilty. Shouldn't he be out using his gift to help people? But what good was it to save lives if doing so ruined the lives of his wife and son?

“Hear about the pervert?” Logan was all smiles as he burst into the break room. “Adam Marsh, the kiddy porn guy. He's dead.”

“Really?” Dan didn't know what else to say.

“Brain tumor. Doctors said they've never seen one so aggressive.”

An interesting phenomenon had been that any condition that Dan passed along became exponentially more virulent. Dontrelle Chaney had died within twenty four hours of being infected with the same virus that Kim had battled for a year.

“The real kicker, though,” Logan continued, “is that he's innocent.”

Dan choked on his coffee. Logan slapped him on the back twice as he coughed the warm liquid out of his windpipe.

“What are you talking about?” Dan gasped.

“He and his wife are in the middle of a nasty divorce. She planted the stuff in his car.”

Dan was speechless, his senses numbed.

“It gets better,” Logan continued. “The uniform who pulled him over is her boyfriend! They planned the whole thing. Probably would have worked, but she got scared and spilled everything. Captain's suspended the guy until I.A. can investigate.”

He had killed an innocent man! Dan lurched to his feet, upsetting his chair in the process.

“What's wrong with you?”

Dan pushed past the chubby blond detective without answering his question.

“Never again,” Dan muttered. “Never again.”

“I won't mince words Detective Lake.” Captain Pyle looked at him across the largest mahogany desk Dan had ever seen. “I know what you can do.” He held up a hand, silencing Dan's protest. “I don't have time for this. I know what you can do,” he repeated. “I don't know how you do it, and I don't want to know.”

“Captain, I don't…”

“Give it up. Your son, your father, all of those people in the hospital, Dontrelle Chaney,” Pyle counted on his fingers as he spoke. “You had to know that it wouldn't be a secret forever.”

Dan shook his head. This was it. He had murdered Adam Marsh, and the Captain knew it. What would Kelly think? Would she even believe the truth? And what about Tyler? He buried his face in his hands.

“I want you to understand,” Pyle continued, “your secret is safe. With the exception of that Marsh character, you've made good use of whatever it is that you do.”

“I'm sorry about Marsh,” Dan said. “When I found out what his wife did--” He searched for the right words. “Captain, I don't know why I can do this thing. I didn't ask for it. I swear to you I'll never do it again.”

“But I want you to do it again.”

“Sir?”

“You know I'm running for City Council,” rising from his chair, the chief paced back-and-forth behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. “You and I both know that William Camp is a pimple on the buttocks of this city.” The chief smiled at his own metaphor. “But I don't have the votes to beat him.”

Pyle turned to Dan, his florid face a mask of intensity.

“Detective Lake, I can ruin your career in law enforcement, or I can make you this department's next rising star. The choices are simple. I will pay you one hundred thousand dollars cash to do this thing for me, and I will grease the skids for you all the way to captain. Refuse, and I'll bury you.”

Dan didn't bother to protest. Pyle was serious. He thought about all the good he could do for Tyler and Kelly. And William Camp probably deserved to die.

“I'll do it.”

Dan pressed the pedal to the floor, cursing the pain that stabbed at his temple. He had hung out all day in the emergency room of Lincoln Memorial Hospital, until a suitable patient had arrived. A man who had suffered an aneurysm had been wheeled in, fading fast. Dan had dashed to his side and taken away the injury. He had done it so discreetly that no one noticed. Everyone assumed that the E.M.T.'s had misdiagnosed the problem. Dan had slipped away with the perfect unclean spirit for William Camp.

He would be part of the plainclothes security detail at Camp's rally that evening. All he would have to do would be to touch Camp, perhaps shake his hand, and the aneurysm would do its work. With the added virulence that came with passing the condition along, Camp would be dead in a matter of seconds. A tragic, but perfectly natural, ending.

He rounded a bend in the remote, two-lane highway, and slammed on his brakes. A one car accident had blocked both lanes. Stifling a curse, he pulled to the side of the road, and cut the engine.

The wreck was a nasty one. The white Toyota Celica had apparently run off the road, and then rolled over when the driver overcompensated. He trotted toward the overturned vehicle, wondering if anyone had survived. As he drew closer, a deep sense of foreboding came over him.

A white Toyota Celica. A glance at the license plate confirmed his worst fears. Kelly!

He dashed to the car and fell to his stomach next to the shattered driver's window. Kelly's eyes were closed. Blood covered her face, and matted her auburn hair. Fearfully, he touched her neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but faint.

“Daddy?”

Dan looked behind him.

Tyler was on his hands and knees next to Dan. He was all right!

“I couldn't get Mommy out. I didn't know what to do.” Tears streamed from his brown eyes that were a mirror of Kelly's.

“It's all right, buddy. I'm going to take care of Mommy.” He could fix this. He could take it away.

Oh God!

The aneurysm! He couldn't help Kelly until he got rid of it! He leapt to his feet and ran around the car. The road was empty as far as he could see in either direction. What was he going to do?

“Daddy, you'd better come quick.”

Dan returned to Kelly's side. He checked her pulse again. She was almost gone. For what seemed an eternity he looked from his wife to his son and back again. He closed his eyes.

“Please God, please. Tell me what to do.”

Nothing.

This couldn't be. The thought of life without Kelly was too much to bear. And what about Tyler? The boy had survived paralysis. Could Dan see him through something so terrible as the loss of his mother? He could give it to Tyler, but the boy would die. What should he do?

“Daddy, maybe we should pray.”

He opened his eyes, his face wet with tears. He turned and reached for his son.

“Maybe so Tyler. Give me your hand.”

Darkly Through the Light Waters

Michael Merriam

Cassie McGowen had grown quite accustomed to odd experiences since moving into her aunt and uncle's aging Victorian-era home. Still, discovering Uncle Richard having tea with a creature from her darkest nightmares startled her.

“Cassie,” her uncle's voice broke through her shock, allowing Cassie to tear her eyes from the squat creature. “Do you need something?”

She swallowed, glancing toward the monster again before she answered. It was short and thick around the torso, with long, sharp fingernails, jagged, greenish teeth, and stringy hair.

“It's just,” Cassie hesitated. “It's--”

“Storytelling night,” Richard finished.

Cassie nodded. Since moving in, storytelling night had become a part of her after-hours education. Lydia and Richard Lowery considered music, myth, and tale as important as any of the traditional subjects Cassie studied during her final year of high school.

Richard turned to the thing seated in front of him. “Do you mind if we finish this later?”

The creature set the teacup it held in one clawed hand on the table. With a smile Cassie thought looked more like a grimace, it pushed itself up from the chair. “Of course not,” it croaked. “We can continue our conversation at a different time.”

Cassie's nerves tingled as the thing slouched toward her. She told herself she would be safe; after all, her uncle sat nearby. This did little to ease her growing discomfort as the creature approached. It stopped when it drew next to her, its amber eyes locked on her own. Cassie suddenly realized she was being judged. She pulled herself straighter, forcing herself to remain calm as she maintained eye contact. It smiled, showing a mouthful of uneven green teeth.

“It is an honor to finally meet you, Lady McGowen.” It gave her a low bow, and then turned to her uncle, “Richard, a pleasure as always.”

Her uncle nodded to the creature, who turned and walked toward the shadows in the corner of the room. There came a sound like the rustle of bird wings, and the monster shimmered out of sight.

“What was that?” Cassie asked, still looking at the spot where it had vanished.

Richard smiled up at her from his chair. “'Who was that?' would be proper the question.”

“Okay,” Cassie said. “Who was that?”

“His name is Gimlingris ap Murrginlar, called Gimlingris of the Bloody Sword among his fey brethren, though this was not always the case. Once he was known as Defender of the Dawn.”

“I can see the Bloody Sword part; he's scary looking, but it's hard to imagine him as Defender of the Dawn.”

Richard Lowery sighed. “He was not always as he appears now.”

Cassie smiled to herself. The opening her uncle presented proved too good to pass up. “So, what's his story?”

“Pour us tea Cassie, and I will tell you a tale.”

Cassie poured the tea, and seated herself across from her uncle. Richard took a small sip as his eyes became distant, gazing upon something only he could see. Cassie edged forward in her chair.

“Hear then the tale of Gimlingris ap Murrginlar,” her uncle began.

When the people of the old world sailed across the sea to the new one, they brought along not only their physical possessions, but their beliefs as well. As these people settled into an area, their beliefs took root into the earth and grew. Such was the case with the fey, who traveled across the ocean with those who still held to the old ways. Wherever those folk would settle, the Fair Ones would set up their shining courts and take guardianship of the land.

You might ask, and rightly you should, about the native spirits, those who dwelled in this land before the coming of the old world fey. This rarely presented a problem, for unlike their mortal counterparts, who warred and slew with reckless abandon, the old world fey desired more than anything to protect and preserve the works of nature. They worked well with the native Manitou and Canotila, and if the native spirits did not understand the Fair Ones' need of royal courts and strict tradition, they did understand their love of the trees and waters. The natives accepted them as kindred, and the two sides existed together with only rare occasions of tension.

It came to pass that a band of Fair Ones set up their court at the place we call Minnehaha Falls. This band, though small, set about defending their adopted lands with a will, protecting it from those dark creatures who followed them across the sea, and from the ill-favored spirits who already dwelled here when they arrived. They strove, along with their native kindred, to keep the trees and waters free from blight and disease brought on by the constant press of mortals.

This court was favored by the Fates with two great Champions. Twins they were, brother and sister, a blessed thing among a race whose births were few, and fewer still as the ages passed.

First-born of the twins, Gimlingris ap Murrginlar was handsome of face and strong of arm. His golden hair fell down his back, bound tightly at the nape of his neck, and his piercing amber eyes could look into another being's soul. Battle-Captain of the host, he bore in his right hand the blade called Myflindar, Light of the Dawn, forged by the last mage-smith. Gimlingris stood first among his people in contests of might and strength and first among his people to come to grips with creatures of darkness when they grew overly bold. Among the court he was called Defender of the Dawn.

Fairest of the fair was the younger twin, Rhyania ferch Murrginlar. Her beauty shone like the moon in its fullness. Her silver hair hung near to the ground, her pale blue eyes captivated any who looked too closely into them, and her voice held the sound of spring breezes through new leaves when she sang. She carried with her the harp named Iflydirali, Voice of the Stars, crafted by the Tuatha themselves and given freely to her ancestors. Rhyania stood first among her people in contests of song and ballad and when she bent her will upon the harp to unleash its magic none could resist. Among the Court she was called Flower of Starlight.

Ah, but fairer yet was one who dwelled in these lands before the Shining Court came to its shores: The Spirit of the Falls. She bore not the golden hair and elegant features of those of the Fairy Court, but pale blue skin, with eyes the color of midnight and a long fall of raven hair tumbling down her back. Her laughter held the delicate tinkling of water over stones, and all held her in high esteem, for her grace and kindness extended to all spirits of the land, be they old or new, light or dark. Loved she was by all, and loved most of all by Gimlingris, Defender of the Dawn.

Many a day and many a night the two spent, Gimlingris near her waters, deep in conversation, or conversing with light touches, as only those who love true can. Yet never did they speak of joining as one house or making vows of eternity. Though Gimlingris loved her with all his being, he was a member of the Shining Court and they still held to their old ways. Such vows between the two races of spirits were forbidden.

Rhyania watched her brother fall deeper for the beautiful water spirit with growing apprehension. She knew the laws of her people. She knew the penalties for breaking such laws. If Gimlingris were banished for his forbidden love, the Court would lose its Champion—and more, she would lose her brother. So Rhyania tried to interest him in her friends among the ladies of the Court. She implored her brother to make a worthy and advantageous match with one of them. Gimlingris simply smiled, treated the various ladies his sister paraded before him with correct courtesy, and politely refused all of their tokens of affection.

One day it passed that another of the Court noted the beauty of the Spirit of the Falls. Arifildare, the Laird's son and heir, became fascinated with the water spirit, so much so that his every thought became bent upon her.

Now, while it was forbidden for members of the Shining Court to exchange life vows with the native spirits, dalliances were another matter. Such casual relationships were common among the old world fey. The young might spend many years with many different partners before making vows of eternity and exchanging tokens of love. So the Laird's son reasoned since Gimlingris and the Spirit of the Falls spent so much time together, yet there could be no possibility of Gimlingris taking her as his life partner, she must be open to such dalliances. With this idea set firmly in his mind and her beauty haunting his being, Arifildare, son and heir of the Laird, set off for the falls.

He found her bathing in her pool. As he looked down on the Spirit, his desire for her grew. Why should Gimlingris be the only one to know her embrace? he thought to himself. I am the Laird's son, any of the ladies of the Court would be grateful to receive such attention. Arifildare did not understand that such casual dalliances did not happen among the native spirits. When one of their kind gave their heart, they gave it only once and—forbidden or not—she had given hers to Gimlingris long ago. When she refused Arifildare, he became angry, and in anger forgot himself. Powerful was Arifildare's magic, and this magic he turned on the gentle Spirit so she could not refuse his desires. Then he left her to cry her sorrow upon the rocks.

When Gimlingris came to her again he found her quiet and withdrawn. Gently and patiently he tried to coax the reason for this sudden change from her, but she refused his overtures. Distraught, Gimlingris sought among the native Canotila, those small tree spirits who saw all, for the reason why his love was so sad, so suddenly.

These small spirits loved the Spirit of the Falls dearly, but what could such small things as they do against one as powerful as the Laird's son? Nothing. But now Gimlingris came among them, he of the Shining Sword, whose heart spoke clearly to them of his love for their Lady, and they told him what they had seen.

At first Gimlingris' blood burned and he started for Court to call Arifildare out to duel, but after a moment's thought he changed his course back to the falls. Once there he sought his love. At first she refused him, but his gentle voice and open heart brought her to him, and he held her close as she cried out her pain. Deep into the night they sat together, each seeking comfort in the other's presence.

By night's end the Spirit extracted a promise from Gimlingris not to seek revenge. The Spirit did not want to see the Fair Realm torn apart, for fear all they had worked so hard to preserve would be lost to darkness. Gimlingris swore to her, though reluctantly, he would not seek the Heir's head, but only on condition that should Arifildare come to her falls again she would summon him. The Spirit agreed and Gimlingris worked a small summoning charm, setting it on his love so she could call him should the need arise.

The days passed, as did the weeks, and in their turn the months. The Spirit of the Falls slowly healed of her hurts, though any who thought to look closely could see something amiss. She still extended her grace and friendship to all, light or dark, but many could see her spirit was diminished. Most thought she pined for her love, Gimlingris, who was gone from her side more and more because of the increasing conflict among the Shining Court and their dark counterparts. But some knew the real reason, try as she might to hide it. Eventually the knowledge passed into the wrong hands and in time all knew the Spirit's secret. She carried within her the child of Arifildare, Heir to the Laird of the Court.

This news proved most unwelcome at the Court, and when the Laird questioned his son, Arifildare swore the Spirit had bewitched him. Though few believed Arifildare, this was all the proof the Laird needed to come to the decision he desired. He could not allow the heir of his heir to be born out of the Court and out of kind. No, his son would pledge to one of the Court ladies and this indiscretion would be taken care of. Since the first-born child inherited by custom, the Laird would not allow this half-breed child to be born.

News travels on swift wings in the Fair Realms, and ill news travels swiftest of all. Within the hour, word of the Laird's decision reached Gimlingris. He abandoned his patrol and came straightaway to the Court, determined no more insult would be heaped upon his love by his own people. He stood before the door of the audience hall, hands upon its golden handles, when his sister Rhyania stopped him.

“Please,” she cried. “Please do not defy the Laird. I beg you, as your sister, do not set yourself against the will of the Court.”

“What would you have me do?” he asked. “Would you prefer I stand silent and allow this ill to pass?”

“I do not know!” she shrieked, tears flowing down her cheeks. “Why? Why could you not stay away from her?”

Gimlingris smiled sadly at his sister, whom he loved more than any, save one. He placed his hand upon her cheek and wiped away the tears. “I thought you of all would have understood why.”

“If you defy him, he will banish you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Rhyania looked up at Gimlingris, eyes still bright with tears. “The scandal will surely destroy the Court.”

Gimlingris nodded. “I suppose it might.”

“And we will be left without a Champion to protect us, and I without a brother.” Rhyania hoped this last would sway him from his course.

“I'm sorry,” Gimlingris said. He hugged his sister, then stepped past her into the audience hall. With one look he realized every member of the Shining Court, from the proudest noble to the humblest hob, stood inside the hall.

The Laird of the Court looked up sharply as Gimlingris strode into the hall. He smiled to himself. Here, he thought, stood the answer to his problem of how to bring the Spirit of the Falls before the Court without bloodshed. He would send his Champion to fetch the Spirit. She would trust him, and the other spirits would let him pass unchallenged, for they knew him well, and would believe he meant no ill. Gimlingris, he knew, would do as his rightful Lord ordered. His oaths demanded such.

The Laird smiled and greeted Gimlingris warmly. “Gimlingris, you've come just as the Court needs its Champion.”

Gimlingris stopped at the foot of the throne. He knew in his heart what the Laird meant to command of him. “I fear my Lord may ask too much of me.”

“Nonsense,” the Laird said. “It is a simple thing, a mere trifling for one such as you. I would have you bring the Spirit of the Falls before us.”

Gimlingris shook his head. “No, my Lord, this is a thing I cannot do. I would beg you reconsider your course of action.”

The members of the assembled Court gasped. Never in all the long years had anyone directly refused the Laird. It was unheard of, an insult to their traditions and oaths. Several nobles began shouting, demanding punishment for such insolence. Others stood quietly, waiting to see how the struggle between their Lord and their Champion played out.

The Laird raised his hand for silence before turning back to Gimlingris. “You would refuse me? Must I remind you, Gimlingris ap Murrginlar, to whom you swore your oaths? Obey your rightful Lord.” The Laird began to subtly draw upon the power of the oaths Gimlingris had sworn, trying to push Gimlingris in the direction he desired. “Gimlingris, I command you to bring the Spirit of the Falls before the Court.”

Gimlingris felt the Laird's magic descend around him, but still he resisted his Lord's will. “I'm sorry, my Lord, but I will not obey you in this. I will not cause harm to an innocent at your behest. I again beg you to reconsider your decision.”

“You have defied me twice Gimlingris, yet I shall give one more chance to fulfill your oaths.” The Laird drew the full measure of his magic to him; it shone a deep purple, swirling around him. Many of the lesser fey covered their eyes and cringed away. “No half-blood child conceived by witchery shall rule this Court. Gimlingris ap Murrginlar, Champion of the Court, Defender of the Dawn, bearer of the sword Myflindar, I command you to go forth and bring the Spirit of Falls before us to face our judgment.”

Gimlingris stood unflinching in the face of the Laird's magical fury. Gimlingris neither drew blade nor called upon his own magic to defend himself, he simply whispered his reply. “If a child has been conceived by witchery you should look to your own house for the culprit.” For the third time Gimlingris defied the Laird. “I will not do your bidding, my Lord.”

“You will do as I command!” the Laird of the Shining Court thundered. The Laird reached with his magic and tapped into the power of the oaths. The Laird bent his will upon the oaths, creating a magical compulsion and setting it on Gimlingris. “You will do my will,” the Laird softly said.

Too late Gimlingris realized how far the Laird would go to see his will done. He tried to call upon his own magic, but the Laird proved too powerful for him. Gimlingris turned and walked slowly from the hall.

He passed outside and made his way toward the falls. As he walked down to the water, the Spirit smiled up at him. Her smile quickly vanished as she realized her lover was bespelled. She moved farther into her waters.

“You must come with me,” Gimlingris intoned. His voice held no emotion, his words no inflection.

She shook her head no and drifted away.

“You must,” Gimlingris repeated, his voice wavering. He took a step toward her pool, standing on the rocks near the edge.

The Spirit of the Falls could see the battle he waged from within. She knew he could not throw off the Laird's magic alone. Making her decision, she flung a wave at the rock near Gimlingris' feet. When he tried to jump away his left foot slipped and he plunged in to the waters below the falls.

Gimlingris came up sputtering. The Spirit wrapped her water around him, holding him firmly in place. She drifted toward him, her arms open wide. The Spirit of the Falls took Gimlingris in her arms and held him close. Slowly, carefully, she opened her heart and spirit to Gimlingris, showing him the love she held for him. No magic, not even the magic of the Laird, could resist something so pure. The compulsion binding Gimlingris fell away, leaving him free and in control of himself again.

For a time they embraced each other, content to ignore their outside troubles. Finally, as the shadows grew long, they made their decision. The Spirit could not leave her falls. She was bound as tightly to the waters as an oak tree's roots bind it to the earth. They knew the Laird would never leave them in peace; he was too intent on protecting his lineage. Gimlingris would not be able to protect them forever, nor could the Spirit hope to defend herself for long. Eventually the Laird would be able to overwhelm them, either with his own magic or by sending enough of those loyal to him to take them by force.

Their only course would be for Gimlingris to return to the Court and challenge the Laird. Gimlingris would confront him as the Spirit's Champion and life-partner. If he defeated the Laird, he would force him to vow to leave them in peace; if he could not defeat the Laird, their fate would be the same as if they waited for the Laird to come after them.

As the darkness settled around them, Gimlingris plaited his long golden hair. Binding it with leather near the nape of his neck, and again at the bottom of the braid, he cut the braid and offered it to the Spirit as a token of his devotion. She in turn drew up one drop of water from her pool. This she filled with a portion of herself so Gimlingris might know by its light that she remained safe. The Spirit fashioned a necklace from vines and placed the drop of water on it. They spoke no words; their vows and promises to each other passed silently. When the moon floated high in the middle of the night sky, Gimlingris set off for the court.

Gimlingris marched into the audience hall. The Laird stood before his throne, various nobles surrounding him, his heir at his right hand. Gimlingris stepped forward and called upon his magic, making it a challenge. The air shimmered green around him and the blade in his hand burned bright yellow.

Gimlingris squared his shoulders and spoke the words of formal challenge. “I, Gimlingris ap Murrginlar, Champion of the Spirit of the Falls, bearer of the sword Myflindar, stand before the Court of Fylndinar and--as is my ancient right--demand satisfaction for injustices committed against my beloved.”

Silence reigned over the hall. When it became clear the Laird would not ask the question tradition required, one of the oldest members of the court, a noble called Tyrgrinar, intoned, “Whom do you challenge?”

Gimlingris looked steadily at the Laird. “I challenge Fylndinar ab Illindor, Laird of the Court and Keeper of the Mysteries.”

The silence hung thick before the ancient nobleman spoke again. “What is the nature of the injustice?”

“I seek satisfaction against Fylndinar ab Illindor for abusing the powers of his birthright. Before this very Court he used his magic to strip a member of the Court of his free will. He attempted to force me to do his bidding, though I thrice refused him and in no way threatened him with violence or magic. He used his power to attempt to force me to bring before him the Spirit of the Falls so he could destroy the unborn child she carries, a child sired on her under duress and by force of magic by his son and heir, Arifildare.”

Tyrgrinar turned to the Laird. “You have received formal challenge, witnessed by the Court.” The old noble drew a breath. “Fylndinar ab Illindor, Laird of the Court and Keeper of the Mysteries, how do you respond?”

The Laird looked deep into the eyes of Gimlingris. Death and an end of his lineage reflected in them, but he had no choice; if he failed to answer the challenge he was as good as admitting to Gimlingris' accusations. The Laird drew himself up straight while calling upon his own magic. The magic answered, swirling around him in a bright purple whirlwind. “I accept the challenge issued by Gimlingris ap Murrginlar.”

Tyrgrinar nodded. “As challenged, you may choose the form of contest.”

The Laird quickly answered. “I chose a contest of magic. First to dominate and immobilize the other for a count of three and thirty claims victory.”

“Do you agree to the contest?” the nobleman asked Gimlingris.

“I agree.”

“Very well,” Tyrgrinar said. “I shall stand as judge for the contest. The defeated shall be banished from the Court for all time, in accordance with our laws.” He drew upon his own magic, creating a circle of blue flames upon the floor, broken in two places so the combatants could enter. “Combatants, take your positions.”

The members of the court backed against the wall in an effort to give the combatants sufficient room. As Gimlingris and the Laird stepped into the dueling circle, the Laird stopped.

The Laird turned to Tyrgrinar. “I invoke the ancient right of the Laird to name a champion to do battle in my stead.”

Tyrgrinar gave a slight bow to the Laird. “The judge acknowledges the right of the Laird to name a champion to do battle in his stead. Whom do you name as your champion?”

Arifildare stepped forward. A feral look came over Gimlingris' face--he would enjoy humiliating the heir in front of the Laird. The Laird's hand shot out, signaling his son to stop.

The Laird turned to Gimlingris. “I name Rhyania ferch Murrginlar, Flower of Starlight, Champion of the Court, and bearer of the harp Iflydirali, Voice of the Stars, as my champion.”

At these words, Gimlingris' amber eyes widened in shock, and the court filled with whispered voices, surprised at the Laird's move.

Rhyania, carrying her harp, stepped into the circle as the Laird stepped out. Tyrgrinar closed the blue fire around them. Neither would be able to leave until the duel was finished.

Gimlingris stared at his sister, horror etched across his face. “Please do not do this sister, I beg you.” Over her shoulder he saw the Laird, Arifildare, and several warriors leave the hall.

Rhyania's pale blue eyes held no emotion. “Your actions would throw the Court into turmoil. Our enemies would see us fractured and strike us down in our weakness. I swore the same oaths you did, brother. If you have forgotten them, I have not. I will protect our people. I'm sorry, but I cannot let you destroy us, Gimlingris.”

Gimlingris reached into his magic, determined to defeat Rhyania, but he hesitated an instant too long and her fingers struck the strings. Rhyania plucked out the first few notes, and bent her will upon the harp's magic. Gimlingris struggled against the harp's power, but it was a Tuatha Harp, fashioned in a time forgotten even by the oldest members of the Court. Gimlingris, though powerful, could not match the magic of the harp. He stood rooted to the ground as Tyrgrinar counted out three and thirty. Rhyania stopped playing, and Gimlingris slumped to his knees, head bowed.

“Gimlingris ap Murrginlar,” Tyrgrinar said, “by the laws of our people you are banished from the Court and all of its adjoining holdings. You have until dawn to gather your belongings and depart, under penalty of death.” With those words the old nobleman turned and walked out of the audience hall.

“I'm sorry, Gimlingris,” Rhyania said

“So am I. So am I,” he whispered. As the words left his mouth he felt the tugging of the summoning charm he had lain upon the Spirit of the Falls. He looked up and started for the door.

“Hold,” Rhyania spoke, strumming the harp strings once more.

Gimlingris, his magic powered by his rising panic, resisted the Tuatha Harp, slowly pushing through its magic. He knew if he could remove himself from her line of sight, the harp magic would fail. He struggled toward the door.

“Hold!” Rhyania repeated, strain in her voice obvious as she bent her will and the magic of the harp against her brother.

Gimlingris pushed onward. Sweat poured down his body and his own magic whipped around him like a green thunderstorm. He took two more steps. He felt the pull of the summoning spell increase. He took another step, ignoring his sister's repeated command to stop.

As Gimlingris reached the door, the summoning spell stopped. He looked down to the necklace the Spirit of the Falls had gifted him. He watched as the light in the drop of water faded, until finally the drop of water fell from the necklace to floor.

Gimlingris threw back his head and howled out his misery. His cry of anguish and sorrow caused all within the Court to fall to their knees as the pain of it bored into their souls. It tore across the fabric of reality into the mortal world, where it frightened men and women out of their sleep, causing them to cling together in fear. Small children burst into tears and fled to the arms of their parents for safety. Animals hid in any place they could find, quivering at the sound of his sorrow.

So great was the cry, so powerful the sorrow, the strings on the harp burst apart in Rhyania's hand, cutting her fingers to the bone.

Gimlingris continued to scream. He screamed until his voice failed him and when he could scream no more he slumped to his knees. Tears flowed hot down his cheeks as his heart broke into too many pieces to count.

When Gimlingris could scream no more, and no more tears would fall, when his heart shattered and fell away, its place became filled with something sinister and terrible: a burning hatred, so dark and bitter that his magic warped, and he changed into a different creature there on the floor of the audience hall. His golden hair fell out, replaced by a few thin brown wisps. His body contorted, twisting into a small squat shape. His nose grew long and his teeth pointed. Sharp talon-like nails sprang from his fingers. Only his amber eyes remained the same.

Gimlingris looked up from the floor as the Laird, Arifildare, and a dozen warriors returned to the hall. Then did Gimlingris, once called Defender of the Dawn, take up the sword named Myflindar for the last time, and with it he slew those before him.

Covered in gore, blood dripping from his sword, he turned to Rhyania. Gimlingris stepped toward her and she cowered away from him, clutching her bleeding fingers to her breast.

Gimlingris dropped the sword on the floor of the hall. He looked once more upon his sister, whom he loved more than any, save one, and smiled sadly at her.

Then Gimlingris ap Murrginlar turned and left the Shining Court forever.

Cassie McGowen swallowed hard as her Uncle Richard finished the story. She blinked twice and sniffed once. “That's horrible,” she whispered.

Richard rose and stepped to where she sat. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Not all stories end with, '...and they lived happily ever after.'“

She nodded her head. “I know, but--” She could not finish the thought.

“It seems so terribly unfair, I know. Just remember, Cassie: His story isn't truly over.” Richard paused before speaking again. “Why don't I make you a cup of hot cocoa, and we'll talk of more pleasant things.”

Cassie stood and followed her uncle from the little sitting room toward the kitchen. “Uncle Richard, may I ask something?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Why did he call me Lady McGowen?”

“I'm afraid only Gimlingris can answer your question, Cassie.”

Cassie sat quietly digesting this information as her uncle made two cups of hot cocoa. Cassie took hers and stood. “I'm really rather tired, uncle. I think I'll go to my room and lie down. Thank you for the cocoa.”

“You're welcome,” Richard smiled at her. “Good-night, Cassie.”

“Good-night, Uncle Richard.”

Later, after she finished the last of the cocoa, Cassie sat in the darkness, looking out her window at the tangled garden below. She often did this when she needed to think. She stood to step from the window, but stopped when she saw a pair of glowing amber eyes regard her from the tangled brush below. She blinked and looked closer, but all she found were weeds rustling in the night breeze and the old orange cat that sometimes patrolled the garden. With a sigh, Cassie turned from the window and climbed into bed.

That night she dreamt of amber eyes and dark-haired water nymphs.

Memory, Echo, Silence

Pete Tzinski

He'd been in and out of the city of Chernobyl for three days now, staying in hotels elsewhere, in the places where people still lived. He spent his days in the empty streets, the carcasses of buildings. Harlan Dowling had walked down the streets where nobody else lived, in the abandoned parts of the city where no one was ever going to come back. He looked at plants that grew and relentlessly tore the concrete apart, implacable now that no one was around to stop them.

He photographed everything; it was his job. It was why he was wandering the deserted streets. When he remembered, he whistled, or he hummed. It filled up the air which had nothing else to fill it except his footsteps, and the whisper of the wind.

“The wind talks about the city,” someone had told him very seriously. “But it whispers in Russian, and you will not understand it.” Harlan had smiled, unsure of what else to do, unsure if it had been a joke or not. And now, every time the wind went through the empty windows, he listened to it and wondered what it would sound like, if he spoke anything but English.

He took more pictures. They were not what he was here for, those pictures of the city. But why not? Perhaps someone would buy 'em back in the States, and he'd have a little pocket money, while he worked on his series.

It was his third day, and he had been waiting. He'd put off what he'd come to the area for until today, putting it off like chocolate, like a fine wine, which would taste all the finer for the anticipation. And today, he came with a fresh camera -- and the constant paranoia, despite being reassured, that some unseen radiation would melt his film -- to the sideshow, on the edge of the city.

A giant Ferris wheel loomed first: surrounded by trees and brown with rust. The hanging cars were still painted yellow, though it flakes in places. They creaked in the wind, back and forth, and he took photos of them moving. It was called the Big Dipper.

Harlan hummed as he took shots of the big wheel, looming over him and looking like it was about to come down onto him. He backed up on the broken asphalt and took pictures of the ticket-selling booth that sat next to it, still brightly colored, but faded and worn, like everything here. The windows still had broken pieces of glass in them.

He spotted something, got closer, took a picture: A stuffed animal, lying on the asphalt, bent at an angle that was as unnatural to it as it would have been to a human. It was also faded, and Harlan knew that if he picked it up, it would stink of mold, of decay.

Twenty years' worth of decay. There was twenty years' worth of the steady encroaching of nature, which had flooded around the buildings of the city like a forest, powerfully tall trees looming over buildings that were several stories high.

He shivered, beneath his jacket. He let the camera hang from the strap around his neck, then tucked his hands into his pockets. He began to hum a little, but out here, the sound seemed to enhance the sense of space, the sense of being alone, and he stopped.

He started walking around the giant wheel with its yellow cars, and he hesitated when he was nearly past the ticket booth. And he stopped.

A lanky man stood up, from where he'd been sitting next to the ticket booth, and he grinned at Harlan and said, “Hello, stranger.”

“Hi,” Harlan said, awkwardly. Well, at least the guy spoke English, huh? Made things easier. He said, “Pretty spooky, isn't it?”

“Isn't it?” The man said back, and he smiled again. He was tall, all arms and legs, with a long nose leading the rest of his face. Straight brown hair was brushed to the side and fell down over his forehead when he moved. Was it brown? Was it blonde? Maybe it was gray. Harlan realized he couldn't tell.

The man leaned smoothly against the side of the empty ticket booth, and Harlan really thought that the pieces of glass till in the frames would come crashing down around him, jostled by even the faintest movement. But they didn't. Huh. Then again, if the weather didn't bring 'em down, some tourist leaning wouldn't...

“Harlan,” he said, “Harlan Dowling. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Thank you,” said the man, and he nodded toward Harlan, but did not introduce himself. He said, “What are you doing here, then?”

Harlan held up the camera that hung around his neck, said, “I'm a photographer. I'm doing a series. For a book? Side-shows and amusement parks, abandoned ones, from around the world. It's really great stuff, really evocative I think. This is my last one, and it's great, isn't it?”

“Isn't it?” the man said again, and then he added, “This place isn't wholly abandoned.”

Harlan grinned, because it was probably a joke and he was always good for the straight man role. He said, “Oh no?”

The man just pressed his lips together and said, “No. After all, I'm still here, aren't I?”

Harlan said, “Touché.” And then after a moment's silence, in which the other man failed to deliver any sort of real punch line, he added, “So. What are you doing here? Just visiting?”

“No,” the man said, very seriously, and he looked Harlan square in the eye. And what color were this man's eyes? Harlan couldn't really tell. Probably, it was the poor, gloomy light that the overcast skies gave him, it washed everything out. The man added, “I'm waiting.”

Harlan hesitated. In the silence, the wind whispered through the trees, and it creaked the Ferris wheel.

“You mind if we walk and talk a little?” Harlan said, at last. “Only, I want to get some shots of that roller coaster, before the light fades. It's barely poking out of the tree branches, I nearly missed it. If the red paint weren't still on, I never would have spotted it.”

The man nodded and languidly followed Harlan a little way onto the broken asphalt, so he could get his shots. He focused on his camera a great deal more than he actually needed to at this point, fussing over the shots and only occasionally glancing at the man, who stood very still and watched him.

Harlan said, “I took shots in the city, past couple of days. There are these black shapes on walls, everywhere, of people. And I took pictures of them and I thought that they were the carbon impressions of people who had been vaporized. You know? Like the shadows that were left behind. But then I asked someone about 'em at a hotel I was staying at, and they told me that a French artist had gone through the city and just painted them. I guess it's obvious when you're looking for it...”

He trailed off. The man nodded, and he smiled, and he said nothing.

Harlan took another shot. The bones of the roller coast stuck out of the green tree foliage. Like elephant bones, he thought. Or dinosaur.

“So, what are you waiting for?” He said, after a moment.

“For my time,” the man said, and he shrugged, added, “But then, I suppose it'll never come, now that no one's really here but me. Well. There are others like me. Further in, by the roller coaster you are looking at? There is the waiting for a daughter to come back from the bathroom. I know by that tree over there, there is the expectation of a prize.”

Harlan nodded, said nothing. He didn't understand, wasn't sure that saying so would help any.

The man smiled sadly, at something in the distance which only he could see, and he said, “I am waiting for my girlfriend, to be followed by proposing marriage, but the night never finished, when everyone left, and now I am here, and I am waiting for something that cannot happen.”

Harlan said, “I'm sorry, friend. I don't understand.”

The man said, “I am a memory that was never fulfilled and called into existence, you see? I am what should have happened, but didn't, and won't, and I linger. You see?”

“No.”

“I have waited twenty years,” the man said. “I am expectation of a kiss, and a beautiful girl.”

“You speak very fine English,” Harlan said, “Everyone I just casually meet seems to only speak Russian, or Ukrainian, or something.”

The man shrugged. “I speak in what I am spoken to, don't I?”

Harlan looked down at his camera, fiddled with a couple of switches, flipping them one way and then flipping them back. He said, to his camera, to the man, “So you're waiting for someone, is that right? A girl?”

“Yes.” The man said, from the side, and he sounded quieter now. “But she left. Or she died. Or she looked for me, but I was not there. Or she did not really love me. I don't know, I've never been anywhere but here. I am a memory of this event, in this place only, I cannot know beyond.”

And Harlan said, without quite realizing it, “Can I take your picture, friend? A photo of you, with the ticket booth and the Ferris wheel in the background?”

The man shrugged, and it could have meant anything; Harlan took it to mean yes. He put the camera to his eye -- he always used the eyepiece to line up his shots, never the screen -- and he focused on the man. Maybe the lens was dirty, the man seemed blurred around the edges, as if all the things in the background were more real than he, even though they were rusting away and being eaten by the natural world.

Harlan pressed the button, brought his camera down, and flipped a switch so he could view the picture on the screen. It was always a good idea to see how it'd come out.

“It seemed like a good shot,” he said to the man, as the camera switched modes, “Want to see your portrait?”

Nobody answered.

Harlan looked up, but he was alone on the broken asphalt. Alone, except for the red bones of the roller coaster. Except for the yellow cars of the Ferris wheel. Except for the twisted, sad, stuffed animal, lying on the ground. There was nobody amidst the trees, amidst the wreckage, not that he could see. Neither the tall man, nor the person waiting for his daughter. Nothing but old bones and new branches.

Harlan looked down at his camera, at the little screen on the back which showed the most recent photo he'd taken.

And he smiled down at the portrait of a tall man whose nose led his face, beaming down at a beautiful curly-haired woman, who had her arms around his waist, the two of them just moments from kissing.

Around him, the wind whispered: it spoke in Russian, and Harlan shivered again. He could not help himself.

CITY OF MASKS

By Matthew Baugh

“Living man at the gate!” the sentry called.

The rider gazed up at the massive wall. Most towns this size settled for reinforced cinderblock, but Sierra Vista boasted a concrete and steel barrier thirty feet high patrolled by armed men. He knew it was there to keep out the dead rather than the living, but still felt an anxious knot in his stomach.

He dismounted and led his horse to the entrance; a yellow dog with a torn ear followed close behind. He was a big man with blond hair and the heavy beard of a trapper or a hermit. There was a sawed-off shotgun in his hand, and a pistol and heavy machete hung at his side.

As he approached the portcullis rose, he entered, still leading his mount. The inner gate didn't open, instead, the portcullis closed, isolating him in the small area between.

A killing zone, he thought. No one makes it past this point unless these folks want them to. He gave the sentries on the wall a friendly smile and tried to ignore the fear growing in his belly.

A middle-aged man in a dark robe appeared on the wall.

“Stranger,” he said. “I'm the Customs Inspector here. Who are you?”

“My name's Erik Mitchell,” the traveler said. “I hail from San José, on the west coast.”

“You're a long way from home, Erik Mitchell,” the Inspector said. “Why are you traveling alone in open country?”

“I'm a field researcher,” Erik replied. “I've been studying the habits of the walking dead.”

“You mean the soulless?”

Erik noted the edge in the man's tone. He'd learned from hard experience that people were sensitive about odd things. Since the Rising, nearly two hundred years ago, North America had become a scattered series of autonomous City-States with wildly divergent cultures. He’d seen bad feelings grow out of things as small as the locally preferred name for the living dead.

“Yes sir,” he said. “If I can, I'd like to come in and use your Skylink to send some data back home. My university will be happy to pay my costs.”

“I'm sorry Mr. Mitchell,” the Inspector said. “Our Board of Selectmen voted to disable the link a few years back. We're self-sufficient here, and don’t care to keep up with other cities.”

“I understand,” Erik said. “If I may, I’d still like to be allowed to come in. It's been months since I last slept in a bed or ate real cooking.”

“You’ll need to submit to a health screening,” the Inspector said. “Leave your weapons with the gateman; you won’t need them while you’re here. One of the sentries will escort you to the clinic.”

“You’re as healthy as an ox,” Dr. Ramierez said. “As strong as one too, by the look of you. Did you ever play any sports?”

Erik shook his head. He'd been awkward, both physically and socially in his youth. He'd never felt any desire to play alongside the popular and athletic boys who had often been his tormentors.

“You’re a scientist?” Ramierez asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m a necromantic behaviorist.”

The doctor’s face lit up.

“I’ve worked on our own studies here in the town,” he said. “I’d love to compare notes with you. Do you have a place to stay?”

“I was hoping there might be a hostel,” he hesitated. “Do you have anything like that here?”

“Nonsense!” Ramierez said. “You’ll be a guest in my home. It’s the least I can do for another man of science.”

“Thank you,” Erik said. The thought intimidated him somewhat, but good manners kept him from saying so. He knew the worst thing to do in a strange place was to refuse hospitality.

“Let me show you something,” the Doctor said. “I imagine you’ve wondered about the source of power for my instruments.”

“I assumed that you use solar collectors,” Eric said.

“That’s good enough for our general needs,” Ramierez replied, “but a place like this needs something more. I’ll show you.”

He led Eric down the hall to a door marked, GENERATOR ROOM: CAUTION. Inside electrical cables connected half a dozen exercise treadmills to a large machine. Six figures in grey jumpsuits jogged in place, keeping the treadmills moving at a relentless pace. Four of the walkers were men and two, women. All wore white masks that were featureless except for eyeholes.

“Solar's enough for our general needs,” he said, “but we have generators like this for high-need facilities, like the clinic.”

“They’re the soulless?” Erik asked.

Doctor Ramierez grinned at the surprise in the younger man’s voice.

“I told you we’ve learned a lot about them,” he said. “We’ve found some very innovative ways to make them useful.”

“I’ve seen them docile before, but I never thought that they could be tamed.” Erik said. “How...”

Ramierez moved closer and indicated a lead from the treadmill that connected to one of the creatures' head.

“We use this to trickle a tiny bit of the electricity into the nucleus accumbens,” he said. “That’s the center of the brain that governs pleasure, reward, desire, etc. This is also where the soulless get their drive to consume the flesh of the living. By stimulating it, we create an irresistible urge to keep moving. They will literally walk themselves to pieces.”

“Is that safe?” Erik asked. “What if they get loose?”

“Notice the hands.”

Erik followed the Doctor’s gesture, and saw that the creature’s fingers were mutilated. Each was missing the first joint.

“We de-claw, de-fang, and de-bark each of our servitors immediately after death,” Ramierez said.

“De-bark?”

“When we pull the teeth, we also cut the vocal cords. That eliminates all the moaning.”

“That makes sense,” Erik said, trying to hide his distaste. These creatures didn’t feel pain, and God knew how dangerous they could be, but something about this process bothered him.

“You look a lot better, without the beard,” the Doctor’s oldest daughter, said as Erik sat down at the dinner table.

Julie was eighteen, pretty, and very aware of it. She reminded Erik of the girls he’d been so awkward around in his own adolescence.

“You’re still not much to look at, but at least you don’t seem so old,” she continued.

“Julie!” Mrs. Ramierez said.

“That’s all right, Mrs. Ramierez,” he said. “The big thing is that I feel a lot better with a bath and a shave, and the meal smells wonderful. I can’t thank you folks enough for your hospitality.”

Julie made a face but her mother beamed.

Dinner wasn’t just Dr. and Mrs. Ramierez and their four children. They had invited uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbors, and Erik was the center of attention.

“You study the soulless?”

“Yes.”

“How do you keep from being eaten?”

“You learn what places they aren’t likely to be. That’s easier in the desert because there aren’t so many of them.”

“What if they find you?”

“I’ve got a dog to warn me, and a horse to get me away.”

“Have you ever had to fight them?”

“A few times.”

Erik talked a little about his theories, but discussions on the basis of communication and the possibility of a ‘hive-mind’ quickly fell through. His audience was more interested in the fights he’d had.

“Kaz here is good against the soulless, too,” Mrs. Ramierez said, indicating the darkly handsome youth who sat next to Julie.

“There’s a game Saturday,” the young man said. “You should come watch.”

“Thanks,” Erik said. “Maybe I will.”

It was nearly midnight before the guests began to drift away. Erik, who was used to going to bed at nightfall, was glad to see them go. They put him in Julie’s bedroom, which was decorated with hand-made dolls and delicately carved provincial furniture. It smelled faintly of perfume.

The bed was frilly, too feminine for Erik's tastes, but had a goose-down mattress atop a beautifully maintained antique box spring. He decided he could tolerate any amount of girlish décor for this kind of comfort.

He heard a noise outside and moved to the window. A wagon was coming down the street, moving slowly as two of the masked figures in grey pulled it. Another followed, emptying garbage cans into the back. The creature's truncated fingers made the work awkward, but it managed. A human in a brown jumpsuit sat on the wagon's seat.

“What are you doing?”

He turned to see Julie in the doorway, wearing a cotton nightshirt that reached to her knees.

“I was watching the garbage collection,” he said. “I've never seen anything like that before.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You don't think the living would do that sort of work, do you?”

“It looks like there's a living man with them,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said, exasperated. “A convict.”

He turned to ask her something more, but hesitated when he saw her slip into the bed. She pulled the sheet up to her neck, and then slipped the nightshirt off. It was done in a way that didn't let him see anything more than bear arms and shoulders. Even so, Erik felt his throat tighten and his heart begin to pummel the inside of his chest.

“Wha... what?”

“You don't know?” Her voice softened a bit. “This is part of our custom.”

“It is?”

“One of the women in the house sleeps with a guest for three nights. It would have been Mom, but she can't have any more children so--”

“Children?”

“If you give me a baby before you go, it's good luck. Since I'm not married we'll raise him as my little brother.” She paused to brush a strand of hair out of her face. Outside, the sounds of the trash wagon faded. “You don't have this where you come from?”

He shook his head.

“For us, it goes back to the time of the Rising. There weren't many people left, and our ancestors knew that they needed to build up the numbers.”

“And a baby by a wandering stranger keeps the gene pool from stagnating,” he said. “More babies to fight the soulless. More babies and you rebuild the human race.”

He moved to sit next to her on the bed.

“Julie, I understand your custom, but...if you don't want to do this, that's okay.”

“You aren't interested in me?” Her voice sounded startled and a little angry. “Aren't I pretty enough?”

“That's not it,” he said. “It's just where I come from we do this differently.”

“You aren't gay, are you?” she asked. “I've heard that people from the Western Coast are.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Good,” she said. “That kind of deviance is a crime here. But, if that's not it, then why?”

“Where I come from, we believe you find the one person you were meant to be with and that's the only one for you. I saw the way you and that boy, Kaz, looked at each other tonight. If he's the one for you, I've got no right to interfere.”

“He is the man I'm going to marry,” she said. “At least, he thinks he is. But that has nothing to do with you.”

“I'm just saying: if you don't want to, you don't have to. I won't tell.”

“That's sweet,” she said. “It's nonsense, but it's sweet.” She closed her eyes and drew back the sheet. Look, if you don't even try to give me a baby, it'll bring shame on my family.”

Erik leaned closer, kissed her lightly on her lips. His fingers brushed her throat and shoulder. He touched her breast as reverently as a priest handling a sacrament.

“For pity's sake,” Julie said, opening her eyes. “You act like you're going to break me.” She sat up and began to unbutton his shirt.

“This can't take all night. I've got classes tomorrow.”

Sometime later, they lay together in the tangle of embroidered pink sheets.

“You haven't had much experience, have you?” Julie said.

“I suppose not.”

“What about the one you were 'supposed to be with'? Couldn't you ever find her?”

“I thought I did,” Erik said. “But she decided she was meant to be with someone else.”

Julie made a snorting noise.

“It's a good thing you're nice, because you sure are messed up in other ways.”

The next day, Doctor Ramierez gave him a walking tour of the town.

“I wanted to hear more about your theories,” he said. “Communication among the soulless is something we don’t know much about. My colleagues and I have, by and large, accepted the hive-mind model, but we have very little understanding of how it works.”

“I can describe it, but I’m a long way from explaining it,” Erik said.

“Some say it’s a form of mental telepathy.”

“Maybe,” Erik said. “They do rely on the standard sensory organs, but continue to function even when eyes, ears, and so on degrade.”

“And they manage to work in perfect unity,” The Doctor added.

“I believe that’s all behavioral,” Erik said. “They key on a dominant individual, an alpha, if you will. The rest is a form of imitative behavior. They don’t so much copy the alpha as structure their behavior to assist him.”

“Him? Is the alpha a male, then?”

“Not always,” Erik said. “I think they’re able to sense which of them has the most intact higher brain function.”

They had come to a section of wall undergoing maintenance. Human workers broke up a decaying section of concrete while a trio of soulless workers turned the barrel of a cement mixer.

“I don’t know how other communities get along without the soulless,” Ramierez said.

“Why are they masked?” Erik asked.

“Everyone who dies here becomes a part of the labor force,” the Doctor replied. “It would be cruel to let people see their loved ones reduced to such a state. We do what we can to anonymize them.”

Erik nodded, silently. The people here had certainly thought through the situation intelligently enough. It was so different from the solemn cremations of his home, though. He found it unsettling.

“What do you think of our wall?” Ramierez asked.

“I’ve never seen one like it,” Erik replied.

“Most communities don’t have our resources,” the Doctor said. “There used to be a military base near here. We found they had stockpiled building supplies. From the plans I’d say they expected a massive incursion from the south, and planned to seal off the whole border.”

“But, even having the supplies, isn’t this overkill?”

“There's more trouble out there than the soulless,” Ramierez said. “There are raiders and con-men, and there may even come a day when the other towns pose a threat. It’s like they say, good fences make good neighbors.”

They stood and watched the living and the dead working alongside each other for a while.

“Something there is that does not love a wall,” Erik said in a soft voice.

“What was that?”

“Just a line from an old poem,” he said. “The man who wrote it thought it was a shame that neighbors build walls between them.”

“Your poet lived in safer times,” the Doctor said. “These days it’s best to be safe. The wall helps us screen out the threats, the riff-raff, and the deviants who could pollute our society. Only the deserving get through.”

“Julie told me that being gay is a crime here.”

“Of course,” the Doctor said. “But I don't think you need to worry about that.”

“I'm curious about the reason,” Erik said. “Every law has a specific purpose, if you go back far enough.”

“That's true,” Ramierez said. “That one goes back to the days after the rising. Our ancestors needed to repopulate, so they decided to eliminate everything that was going to interfere with that. That meant homosexuality, masturbation, bestiality, birth-control, and abortion all were outlawed.”

“But what about now? Times are different.”

“When the soulless aren't a problem any longer, perhaps then there will be time to revisit the old ways. Until then, tradition is what keeps us strong. Like the wall, it keeps out those who would weaken our community and lets in only those who are worthy. People like you.”

He grinned and laid a hand on Erik’s shoulder.

“I’m glad we let you in. I think this place could be a home for you. You would make a fine addition to my family.”

“You mean that Julie and I...?”

“Why not?”

“I'm older than her,” Erik said.

“No more than ten years,” Ramierez said. “Not enough to make a difference.”

“But she already has someone.”

“Him?” The Doctor made a face. “Kaz is stupid, selfish, and violent. I'd much rather see her with you.”

“That was a little better,” Julie said, one hand stroking Erik's chest.

He grunted, not liking the sarcasm but feeling too content in other ways to complain.

“I thought about bringing you something today,” he said, “flowers, or a present.”

“That would have been embarrassing.”

“Why? They know that we’re together.”

“Sure, but they pretend not to notice, and we pretend that we’re not. It’s good manners.”

“Your father was trying to get me to stay, today,” he said. “He thinks I should start working with him.”

Erik waited for Julie to say something. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away from him, but somehow seemed more distant.

“Would you like that?” he asked.

She propped herself up on an elbow and ran her hand down his chest to rest on his belly.

“You’re pretty strong,” she said, “but your muscles don't look as nice as Kaz’s. Do you think you're stronger than him?”

“Probably,” he said, frowning. “I'm a lot bigger than he is.”

“You're a lot sweeter, too,” she said. “Kaz has a real mean streak.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“I'm not afraid of anything!”

She rose and moved to the window. The moonlight coming through the horizontal blinds striped her body, making her some exotic creature.

“Do you still want to do something for me?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Take me to the games tomorrow.”

The 'games' were held in what had once been a ballpark for a minor league team. Erik remembered seeing a few like it on the coast, where they still played baseball. In this place, the sport of choice was different.

Kaz and four other men stood on the field. All wore assorted pieces of padding and armor, mostly adapted from ancient sporting equipment. Each of the others carried a distinctive weapon, a heavy, curved sword, an axe, a polo mallet fitted with a spike, and a scythe. Kaz was bare-chested and carried a fist-sized metal ball welded to the end of a long chain. As the men warmed up he twirled and spun the weapon in flamboyant style.

“Here they come,” Julie said, her voice excited.

Twenty of the soulless shambled up from the bullpen. Convict attendants prodded them onto the field where they moved toward the gladiators.

“But they're harmless,” Erik said. “They've been 'fixed' and they're too stupid to use weapons. They don't stand a chance.”

“Of course not,” Julie said. “Do you think we would risk living men like that? We're not barbarians.”

“What are the rules, then?” Erik said.

“Each gladiator kills as many of the soulless as possible. The one with the highest total wins.”

“What do they win?”

“There's a prize in coin,” she replied. “Mostly it's bragging rights though. Kaz wins a lot and he thinks he can claim whatever he can lay his hands on as a result.”

Kaz moved in first, lashing his long weapon in a wide arc. The steel ball hit the lead creature with enough force to shatter its mask and dislodge an eyeball. The face was already so desiccated that it was barely recognizable as human.

“This is how we dispose of the workers when they're on their last legs,” Julie said. “It gives the men a chance to practice so they'll be ready for the real thing.”

Erik grunted, wondering how much use fighting de-clawed and de-fanged undead actually was. It seemed more like senseless theatrics.

Kaz used his weighted chain to snare one of the creatures. He pulled its legs out from under it and held it in place with his foot while he shattered its skull with three fierce blows.

The fighter with the polo mallet and man with the axe had each scored a kill as well. The scythe-wielder was carving up his target with terrible ease, but his weapon lacked the speed of the others.

The gladiator with the saber was having the worst time. He had taken an overhead slash at his opponent. Unfortunately, the skull had deflected the weapon enough that it slid down the side of the head, carving off an ear and lodging in the creature's shoulder.

Before he could free the blade, two more of the soulless moved in. With a cry, he let go and ran from the undead trio as the audience laughed and booed.

It ended with a score of three kills for Scythe, who had problems maneuvering his long weapon, four for Polo Mallet, and six each for Axe and Kaz. That left the zombie with the sword lodged in him, who was still pursuing his attacker. Kaz reached him first and shattered his knee with the steel ball.

He dropped his weapon, wrenched the sword free, and with two powerful strokes, decapitated the dead thing. The crowd came to its feet as he held up his grisly trophy. When Kaz's gaze turned in their direction, Julie leaned close to Erik and kissed his cheek.

When she came to him that night, their lovemaking was wordless and more intense than ever. Afterward, she rolled away from him and lit a cigarette, something he hadn't seen her do before.

He reached out to stroke her hair, but she didn't respond. After a moment he pulled his hand back, unsure what to do.

“That's three nights, Erik.”

“Yeah.”

“That means tradition's satisfied,” she said. “If I'm going to be with you again it's all on me.”

“On me too.”

“Not if you leave. If you do that, I'm on my own.”

“I won't leave.” The words surprised him even as they came out. When had he decided to stay? When had this spoiled child-woman become something to him? He didn't understand his feelings, but the words came out with confidence.

She turned to look at him, and took a long drag, holding the smoke for a moment before letting it out through her nose.

“What if I treat you bad?” she asked.

“Why would you do that?”

“Listen,” she said. “This is a big thing for me. I've got to go out for a bit and think about it.”

He watched her get dressed in the darkened room, a sense of foreboding growing inside. She came and kissed him, her mouth tasting of tobacco.

“I wish you'd stay,” he said.

“That's sweet, but there's something I've got to do.”

He felt his shoulders tighten as a thought came to him.

“You're meeting Kaz?”

“Don't be stupid. Look, just trust me about this, please?”

Erik didn't reply. He didn't trust her, but he found that he wanted to, very much.

“I'll be back soon,” she said. “Just don't tell my folks.”

Around dawn a constable knocked on the door and held a hushed conversation with Doctor Ramierez. When he came back in, he looked as if he had aged ten years.

“Julie's dead,” he said. “Some kind of accident.”

Mrs. Ramierez began to cry, quietly.

“How did it happen?” Erik asked.

“There's a place on the wall she sometimes goes--sometimes went. She was there tonight. The constable says there's no way to know how she fell. “She could have slipped, or been pushed, or she might have...”

“No,” said Mrs. Ramierez, her voice anguished but firm.

“No,” the doctor agreed. “They will let us know what their investigation produces. Erik, they want to see you now.”

The questions didn't seem to lead anywhere, at least not where Erik wanted them to go.

Had he seen Julie go out? Had she said anything to him? Did he know where she was going? Had she said she was meeting someone?

He answered everything as thoroughly as he could, and added his suspicion that she had gone to see Kaz.

“She was baiting him,” he said. “She kissed me tonight at the games. I'm sure that he saw.”

The constable nodded and made some notes on his pad.

“Thank you, sir. We'll let you know if we have any more questions.”

“Can I see her?” Erik asked when he had rejoined the others.

“You know better than that,” Ramierez said. “They had to take her away right away.”

Erik closed his eyes, remembering the vibrant girl he had lain with only a few hours ago. An image came to him of faceless men, pulling teeth, severing fingertips. He shuddered, suddenly wanting to be as far from this town as possible.

The funeral consisted mostly of people sharing memories of Julie. Erik appreciated that, but missed any mention of heaven, or God, or the hope that there was more to her life than eighteen brief years.

There was no casket, of course. In its place a photo of Julie was laid on an altar, along with a favorite dress, a diary, and a few other personal mementoes. At the end of the service these were set aflame.

Kaz was there. Apparently the investigation hadn't gone against him. As the mourners mingled, he approached Erik.

“I guess you guys got pretty tight in a short time,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“Me too,” Erik said.

“Yeah, she was a great girl,” Kaz said. “I always thought we'd get married someday.”

Erik only nodded. It wasn't the right time to talk about what his hopes had been.

“Listen,” Kaz said. “If you cared about her, there's something you've gotta’ see. Can you meet me tonight?”

Erik took down the directions and watched the young man go. He wondered why Julie had left that night. Had it been to see Kaz and to tell him that she was leaving him? And, if that was the case, he wouldn't put it past the man to have shoved her.

He was silent on the walk home. When they arrived, he called Doctor Ramierez to the back porch.

“What is it Erik?” the man said.

“This is going to sound strange, but I have a very important favor to ask.”

“Yes?”

“Can you get my pistol out of customs for me?”

He found Kaz in a cheap bar in the south-most section of town. He walked in, grateful for the comforting weight of the big revolver in his pocket. Ramierez hadn't wanted to challenge the customs office, but had a gun of his own he was willing to loan when the situation was explained.

“It's only a precaution,” Erik had said.

“I hope you don't need it,” the doctor answered. “But if you find out that he murdered my little girl, I hope you blow his brains out.”

“What you drinking?” Kaz asked. He had an open bottle of tequila in front of him and had made an impressive dent in it already.

“Beer,” Erik said, sitting across the booth from him.

Kaz signaled a waitress over and gave her the order.

“What was this you wanted to tell me?” Erik said. “Something about Julie?”

“Something about Julie,” the young man repeated. “It's all about Julie, isn't it?” He poured himself a generous shot and slammed it down.

“It's nothing that I can tell you. I've got to show you.”

“Show me then.”

Kaz rose and led him to the back door. Across the street sat an old hotel, which had been luxurious in its day. They walked around to the back where the pool had been filled in, but the Jacuzzi was still in operation. Half a dozen bikini-clad young women sat in the water while two muscular men lounged nearby. The girls wore white masks sculpted to resemble feminine features. The lips were painted red, the cheeks tinged pink. He didn't have to see the mangled fingers to know what was under the masks.

“What is this?” he whispered.

“This is where you come when you're really lonely, or really messed up,” Kaz replied. His voice had a high, crazy sound to it. “They keep the girls in there because cold and dry is a real turn off, at least for most people.

“It works out real well because they want to get close to you. Course, that's because they want to eat your brains, but they can't do that. It ends out feeling like they're real passionate.”

Erik watched in horror as the youth strode over to the tub. He wanted to run away, but he couldn't. He wasn’t able to do anything but keep watching.

“I wanted to show you this because I knew you'd be missing sweet Julie,” Kaz said. “I know what that feels like, but don't worry. We can still be with her any time we want.”

“No!” Erik cried, finding his voice at last.

Kaz started laughing then, a crazy, sobbing laugh.

“Hell yeah!” he said. “Good thing the fall didn't break her up too bad. She's still pretty sexy, isn't she?”

Erik pulled out the pistol and pointed it at him.

“Stop it!” he said. “It isn't true.”

“Hey!” one of the big men had risen. He spread his hands wide, careful not to look threatening. “Put that away, pal. We don't need no trouble here.”

Kaz kept laughing.

Erik ignored the bouncers, ignored Kaz, ignored everything but the silent girls in the tub. He told himself he should be able to recognize Julie, but his mind wasn't working properly. The only thing he could see was the math: six bullets and six dead girls. No one stopped him as he fired a shot through the head of each.

He looked around when he was done. Kaz was gone but the two bouncers were running at him. One grabbed him, but he raised the pistol and brought the heavy barrel down on the man's head. As the body went limp, the second man reached him. He had a cattle-prod in his hand. Erik raised the pistol again, but the man was faster. He touched the tip to Erik's chest. There was a flash of electrical pain, and then oblivion.

“Erik Mitchell, you stand accused of desecration, destruction of property, and criminal assault,” the Magistrate said. “How do you plead?”

“Desecration?” Erik had stood, silently, for the opening of the trial. It seemed senseless to him, everything seemed senseless, but the word fanned a spark of anger deep within.

“It means the defilement of human remains,” the Magistrate said.

“It means profaning something sacred,” Erik replied angrily. “What in this damned community of yours could possibly be considered sacred?”

“That's enough of that!” The Magistrate said. “Keep a civil tongue, or I’ll hold you in contempt.”

“Magistrate, may I speak for the prisoner?” Ramierez said.

“Please do.”

“He's a stranger in Sierra Vista, and new to our ways. He's spent much of his life fighting the soulless, as have we all, but he’s only recently seen how they can become valued property. He didn’t understand.”

“Valued property?” Erik said, in a voice full of pain. “She was your own daughter!”

“Silence!” The magistrate banged his gavel. “Continue, Doctor.”

“His people cremate their dead,” Ramierez said. “He knows that the soulless are no longer the people they resemble, but he’s never had to deal with it like this. His actions were deluded, not willfully destructive.”

“Are you saying that he wasn’t in his right mind?” The Magistrate asked. “Surely, you know that’s not a valid defense.”

“I know,” Ramierez said. “But I hope you can take it into consideration. He’s a good man, and I believe he can be a real asset.”

“Very well,” the Magistrate said, frowning. “Mr. Mitchell, do you understand the criminal nature of what you’ve done?”

“No, sir,” Erik said. “I’m not the one who defiled those girls. What you people did to them--to her--was an abomination. I only wanted to end it.”

“It’s not your place to judge us,” the Magistrate said, banging his gavel again. “If you make another inflammatory statement, I’ll hold you in contempt.

“What you people did to Julie deserves contempt!”

The Magistrate banged his gavel for silence.

“Bailiff, remove the prisoner to his cell. I've heard enough.”

“I'm sorry,” Ramierez said. “The Magistrate felt he needed to make an example of you.” He sat with Erik in the jail cell. He had pleaded the case as well as he was able, but the verdict had been 'guilty', and the sentence had been death.

“It doesn't matter,” Erik said. “Just don't let them do that to me when I'm dead.”

“I won't have any choice about it,” he replied. “But, you’ll never feel anything. You’ll never know.”

Erik rose and leaned his head against the cell bars. They were cold, and slightly sticky. He pulled back; the contact made him feel dirty.

“How can you people tolerate places like that?” he asked.

“I am not you people,” Ramierez said. “I have always tried to be your friend.”

Erik dropped his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I don’t understand. Your laws condemn so many other things, innocent things. But they condone a place like that?”

“Places like that are illegal,” the Doctor said. “The constables often turn a blind eye because they do no real harm.”

“But if it’s illegal, why condemn me?”

“What they do with the soulless girls is illegal, but their ownership of them isn’t.”

Erik fell into an angry, baffled silence.

“You loved her, didn’t you?” Ramierez asked.

He thought of Julie, her beauty and warmth, her selfishness and secrecy. Could he have stayed here and been happy? He didn’t know but from that first night there had been something between them. He didn't understand how she had affected him so deeply, but it didn't matter. The feeling wouldn’t let him go, and he didn’t want to lose it.

Erik woke with pain in his hands, and the feeling that he was smothering. There was something covering his face, muffling his breathing. He reached up to remove it and his hands exploded in pain. He cried out, but no sound came.

“Easy,” a familiar voice said. “You’re all right, Erik.” Hands caught his wrists, and gently guided them away from his face. He realized that he was wearing a mask that eliminated his peripheral vision. He had to turn and look straight on to see that the man with him was Ramierez.

“Let me remove this for a moment,” the doctor said, lifting off the mask. Erik saw that he was in one of the rooms in the clinic. He wore a gray jumpsuit and his hands had been mutilated. He raised them and tried to ask why, but couldn’t make a sound.

“Do you remember your execution?” the Doctor asked.

Erik shook his head.

“That's not surprising,” Ramierez said. “The executioner is a friend of mine. He gave you a powerful anesthetic instead of the lethal injection. Some short memory loss is a typical result. I’m sorry about the mutilations, but I couldn’t avoid that. The Magistrate had witnesses to the procedure. It was hard enough concealing the fact that you were still alive.”

De-clawed, Erik thought gazing at his ruined hands.

De-fanged.

De-barked.

“I couldn’t think of any other way to help you,” Ramierez continued. “You’re strong, so it’s likely that they’ll assign you to repair work on the wall. I hope so, that will give you the best chance to escape.”

Escape to what? Erik thought. I’m alive, but will my own people want me back like this? Still, he discovered, to his surprise, that he desperately wanted to live.

“Lie down on the gurney,” the doctor said. “They’ll be coming to take you in a minute.”

Erik complied, and Ramierez strapped him down, and then replaced the mask.

“I’m so sorry Erik,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I wish you well.”

Two attendants came to collect him later. They put him in the back of a horse-drawn wagon and carried him, making occasional stops to pick up soulless. They had half a dozen by the time they reached their final destination, the parking lot of the old ballpark.

“This one looks fresh,” the driver said as he unstrapped Erik. “I wonder why they sent him here.”

“I think he’s the stranger,” a constable replied. “He got in the Magistrate’s face, and they decided to make an example of him.”

“He’s a big one,” the driver said. “Maybe we’ll finally see the gladiators have to work at it.”

He was put in the old locker rooms with two dozen of the soulless. At first they saw him as food, and swarmed him. He held them off for a while, but their numbers soon overwhelmed him. He went down under the pawing hands.

His terror lessened when he realized that they couldn’t do much to harm him. They didn’t figure it out as quickly, and spent several hours trying to gum him to death before they lost interest and drifted away.

They seemed to accept him as one of their own after that, and he developed a kind of fondness for them as well. He helped them when their limited minds couldn’t cope with simple problems, as when one managed to become trapped in a locker.

Soon, he noticed they had started to mimic his actions, and follow his lead. He broke an old wooden bench apart to try to improvise a weapon. The wood was too badly dry-rotted to be useful, but he was amazed to see the soulless tear apart all the other benches.

I’m the alpha.

Game day came and Erik and the Soulless were herded out onto the playing field. Even after his ordeal, and three days without food, he felt strong enough to fight. It was his hands that worried him; he could grip objects, but only awkwardly, and with great pain. He hoped they wouldn't fail him in the fight.

Five gladiators faced them, armed with a colorful assortment of weapons. He recognized Kaz standing on the pitcher’s mound and felt a surge of hatred. He looked up at the cheering people in the stands, and the feeling intensified. He wished he could set the soulless loose on them.

What I wouldn’t give for a big box of dentures!

He affected a shambling gait as he moved toward the gladiators, and was careful not to outdistance his undead companions. One of the fighters moved to meet him, a chubby youth wielding a long trident with a small head, like he'd seen for gigging frogs, and carrying a sheathed machete. Erik guessed that he would try to pin him down with the spear, and then finish him with the short weapon.

Good strategy, if I really was one of the soulless.

He ducked the first thrust and grabbed the haft of the weapon. The kid wasn’t very strong, which was good because Erik couldn't manage much of a grip with his half-fingers. Fortunately, he had surprise on his side and was able to jerk it out of his hands. He reversed the spear and stabbed the gladiator in the throat while he was fumbling with the machete.

The crowd went silent, and the eyes of the fighters, living and undead, turned to him. It was over almost instantly but, in that moment, something shifted. This was life and death now, not just a sham.

With a roar, a scythe-wielding gladiator rushed at Erik. He tried to cut through the shaft of the spear, but Erik disengaged his blade with a circling movement of his weapon, and stabbed him through the shoulder. The man dropped the weapon, which fell across his foot, severing three toes.

As several of the soulless, attracted by the blood, closed in, Erik pulled his spear free.

The crowd went wild. He couldn’t tell if they were screaming for him, or for the remaining gladiators, but they seemed to love the carnage.

The remaining three moved in on him together, hoping to eliminate the greatest threat. Erik backed away, not wanting to let them outflank him. As he did, the soulless moved in to protect him, swarming the humans and pulling two down.

That left Kaz. Eric strode toward him, pulling off his mask as he came. He saw the young man go pale as he recognized his face.

“Stay away from me!” he screamed, swinging his ball and chain defensively.

He swung the weapon with killing force, but Erik parried. Pain shot through his hands as the spear, entangled by the chain, was torn from his grasp. Fighting through the agony, he stepped on the fallen weapon, trapping both it, and the ball and chain with his weight.

Erik rushed the smaller man like a bull, but Kaz moved lightly away, and drew his second weapon, a fifteen-inch Bowie knife.

Erik grabbed at him but the smaller man moved too quickly. He answered with a slash that opened a bloody gash along Erik's forearm.

They circled each other, more cautious now. Kaz danced in, cutting at Erik’s torso, and then moved away before he could react.

He laughed, not the crazy laugh Erik had heard at the Jacuzzi, but the edge of it was there.

“What are you, man?” he said. “Soulless don’t bleed like that. You come back to avenge little Julie? She don't deserve it. Bitch would have left you, just like she was leaving me.”

Erik threw a kick, but Kaz avoided it, and answered with a cut to the leg.

“Maybe you’re not dead,” Kaz taunted, “but you’re slow, like them.” He lunged in, the tip of his knife carving a bloody trail down the side of Erik’s face.

That move brought him closer than he had come before. Ignoring the pain, Erik surged forward, and wrapped his powerful arms around Kaz’s body. He raised the smaller man high, and then slammed him to the ground with all the force and weight he could manage.

Stunned, Kaz lost his grip on his knife. Erik straddled his chest and locked a forearm across his windpipe. Kaz struggled frantically, pounding his fists against Erik's arms and body. When that didn't work he grabbed for his face, seeking his eyes with his thumbs.

Erik tucked his chin and twisted his face away from the attack. He wished that he still had teeth to bite off a couple of Kaz's fingers. He didn't stop applying pressure to his choke, though, and, several moments later, the young man went limp.

Erik continued to squeeze, until he couldn't feel a pulse. Then he rose to his feet amid the crowd's cries of excitement and dismay. He raised his arms over his head and was rewarded with deafening applause.

They're cheering me? He thought. “Don't they understand who I am? I'm their worst nightmare. I'm Spartacus!

The thought from the old history books he'd read as a boy brought silent laughter to his lips.

Stupid sons-of-bitches; this is going to be a slave revolt they'll never forget!

Then a constable fired his rifle, trying for a headshot. The first bullet clipped his ear, the second was even farther off target. Erik felt the impact to his chest, painful, but nothing compared to the knife wounds. This was different, though. He could feel his strength leaving him, so quickly.

The constables cleared the park quickly and efficiently. There would need to be an investigation of the strange events. The dead gladiators were rushed off to a processing center before they could turn.

The zombies were left to lie on the field. After a time, Erik, now truly undead, rose to his feet. He picked up the discarded knife, then, slowly began to shamble away, vaguely hoping to find the wall. Beyond that, perhaps, there would be a better place.

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