Amazing Heroes

GW Thomas and David Bain

CONTENTS

CITY IN THE WILDERNESS By Junior Joe Elsass

THE CHILDREN OF PERUN By Joshua Reynolds

THE SEEKER By Carole Carmen

SNAKE-CHARMER By Mark Orr & Donna Royston

NO SHARP THING By Barry Hollander

THE ZOMBIE MASTER By Michael Arruda

WITH VORPAL SWORD IN HAND By G. W. Thomas

SECRET OF THE COLTAO By J. Alan Erwine

THE CRY OF A CHILD By Dana L. Solomon

PROFESSOR THOMPSON TANG GAO AND THE CREATURES FROM PLANET X By Robert Burke Richardson

THE GROTTO By Jack Mackenzie

UNNATURAL SELECTION By Laird Long

JAAJERN By Fredrick Obermeyer

ON THE ROOF By Paul Finch

THE MAPMAKER By Mark Sherony

A TAVERN ABOVE A WOOD By C. J. Burch

THE COWBOYS OF CTHULHU By David Bain

INTRODUCTION

THE PULPS, the cheap magazines of the 1920s-50s, were entertainment literature. And the heart of the Pulps were heroes. And heroines. (Though, these days “hero” can be applied to either sex.) Their names are legends: Conan the Cimmerian, Jirel of Joiry, Captain Future, Hawk Carse, Jules de Grandin, Fafhrd & Grey Mouser … The list goes on. The countless magazines of science fiction, horror, adventure, mystery and fantasy were filled to the brim with muscle-bulging, mind-blowing supermen and women. The closest thing we have to it today are comic books. And the occasional John Woo film.

Genres fiction has become more sophisticated under the guidance of editors like John W. Campbell, Anthony Boucher and many others. The tale of SF, fantasy or horror now has many literary aspects. More worthy as literature, but just a little less fun. This book, in its own small way, will attempt to rectify that change.

Amazing Heroes promises some of that excitement of yesteryear. These new stories are filled with heroes too, and adventure and—well, you get the idea. There are some familiar faces to those who collect RAGE m a c h i n e books: Jack Mackenzie’s Da Vinci is back, C. J. Burch’s fantastic Dumond and Hamerskjold as well as my own Mythos hero, The Book Collector. There are plenty of new faces too. Some are brave and honest and determined. Others are evil, wicked and powerful in their own way. Whether you cheer for them or not, they are all amazing characters. They may not dazzle you with their literary-ness or their deep philosophy (and some may at that.). But they won’t bore you. These are edge-of-the-seat folks. And what more can you ask for than that?

So sit back and imagine you are one of those readers who existed before the advent of television and you are settling down to a copy of Weird Tales or The Strand…

G. W. Thomas

CITY IN THE WILDERNESS By Junior Joe Elsass

October 23, the Year of our Lord, 1620-the morning

DAWN rose, icicles dangling from the hawsers. Dame Goodkin, carrying her newborn Praise God Barebones Goodkin, came to me a shiver with fever, pleading for something warmer to wear. I cast about for a solution, but could find nothing but a wool sweater that had belonged to my dearly departed dame to give to her; but that seemed to suffice, and the Goodkin woman is resting comfortably mid-ship now.

However, the crew of this ship gives me many an uneasy moment. One has the impression that they have wearied of our purposes and would sooner slit our throats, steal our provisions, and return to England now before the onset of winter, rather than continue our voyage of 69 days.

But, lo, God spoke favorably to us this very afternoon. Jonathan Aisles crawling aloft into the crow’s nest gave out a mighty cry, “Land ho!”

No greater music could have come to our ears. Within the hour we were drawing along a wooded coast that we judged to have been North America. As we remained a half-mile out to sea, restlessly, our eyes surveyed the shore, searching for signs of life. Then to our amazement, we were approached by a crew of dark men in what appeared to be a strange, paper shallop.

We halloed to them as they approached our vessel, but they gave no sign of comprehending our language. Then as we made anchor in eleven fathoms of water, we watched in amazement as they drew closer to the boat.

Dark-skinned and dark-bearded, they were clad in strange tunics that made us think of Aethiops, and we saw that they carried curved scimitars in the belts at their waist. There was much discussion aboard ship as to whether they were pirates, and Captain Miles Standish made as if to fire at them with his blunderbuss.

However, I stayed his hand, “Surely a crew of six men in an insubstantial raft would ne’er be so foolhardy as to attack an armed vessel,” I said. “Let them come aboard, and let us find out who and what they might be.”

A few minutes later the Aethiops clambered aboard our vessel. They were smaller men than us, but shiny, black as pitch and well built with glittering white teeth and dark beards; but, to our discouragement, they appeared to speak not a word of English. However, through their wild gesticulations it became clear that they wished us to follow them; and so after much palaver with the captain of the Mayflower, I induced him to follow the strangers in their small boat.

We did so, and after an hour of slow going at shallow draft, making to the west, we perceived a new shoreline, and then we saw a thing of amazement. Upon the shore, where a small river opened into the sea, a city stood. However, it was like no city we had ever seen before, neither London nor Amsterdam. For this city in the wilderness was marked by numerous delicate pink towers and many a lowlying domed building. However, the most imposing feature of the strange landscape was a huge pyramidal structure perched high on a hill above their village.

As the men in the paper shallop waved to us mightily to follow them ashore, I assembled a party of eight brave men, whom I instructed to wear armor and helmets and carry their blunderbusses, and we should go ashore.

October 23, 1620-the afternoon

AND so offering a prayer to our maker and instructing those remaining aboard the Mayflower to come to our rescue, should we not return within the hour, my companions and I rowed for shore. A chill wind greeted us as we came in clear sight of the strange city whose streets appeared to be crowded with dark men of various hues.

As we clambered up the beach through wet sand, we were amazed to be greeted by what appeared to be an oriental satrap or seneschal, clad in gilded robes and a huge, bejeweled, green turban. Accompanied by a party of perhaps forty warriors, he was a strange and impressive sight, for he was as black as the darkest midnight, and his shoulders were as huge as a wrestler.

“Fire if fired upon,” I instructed my men as cold sweat ran down my armpits, and I strode from our shallop towards their leader who extended his hand my direction.

“Welcome to our shores,” he said in halting, but perfect English, taking my hand gently in his. “You are not unexpected.”

I took the vizier’s hand. “My name is John Winthrop,” I said, “and aboard yon ship are 47 pilgrims come to this new land in search of a new home where they may worship the true faith and instruct others in God’s holy word.”

The emperor regarded me gravely. “My name is Amenhotep the 63rd,” he said, “ruler of the 63rd dynasty. My people have ventured here from the lower Nile, from which they were expelled many centuries ago. Because you come as uninvited intruders, you shall be subject to our will. However, trust, that we are a peaceable people, and you are welcome to live among us and share the treasures of our kingdom if certain conditions are met.”

“My good man,” I said, a little warmly. “You apparently don’t understand the situation. We are freeborn Englishmen, and have a contract from our king to establish a colony in this new world upon the site where your city now stands.”

“I am sure your king is a well-meaning man,” said Amenhotep gravely, “but a contract is merely a piece of paper without force of arms to back it up. Though we are peaceful people who mean you no harm, you have no doubt observed the pyramid at the top of yon hill.”

He pointed upwards to the imposing brick fortress looming above his city. “If you will observe closely,” he said, “you will see a battery of huge cannons directed towards your ship. Unfortunately, because you have blundered upon on and are now knowledgeable regarding our civilization and are apt to set thieves and pirates upon us, we can not allow you to depart. Therefore, I direct you to bring your remaining people ashore and to instruct them to accommodate themselves to my rule. Yet rest assured we mean you or your people no harm.”

A restless stirring among the brave men under my command made me aware that my men were all too willing to fight, but a cursory look at the gleaming weaponry of the Aethiops and the polished barrels of their cannons above us made it clear to me at once that to resist the order of Amenhotep was suicidal in the extreme. Therefore, with sinking heart I gave the order to my men to return to the ship and bring the remainder of our party to shore to begin our enslavement under the rule of Amenhotep.

“Surely you can’t mean this cowardly capitulation, sirrah?” cried Miles Standish in his usual irascible tone. “We are freeborn Englishmen of stout heart.”

“Only a fool fights in the face of obvious military superiority, Captain,” I answered. “I have no stomach for a slaughter of our good people. Bring the others to shore!”

“Your order will be obeyed but not willingly, sirrah,” groused Miles Standish as he clicked his heels and turned with an insulting thrust of his shoulder.

October 24, 1620—the morning

THAT evening my people were housed among the Aethiops while I was taken as a guest of Amenhotep. I awakened with a stiff neck after sleeping upon a strange neck-elevating device my host called a “weres.”

Thanks be to God, this race of black giants has so far treated my people with the utmost kindness, but one strange thing strikes me as odd. Where are the women of our captors? To this point, I had seen nothing but men, including a subject race of red-complexioned slaves whom they call “Atlanteans” (what we would call an “Indian”) and whom they hold in total subjugation.

That was explained several hours later when Amenhotep bid me stop reading the gospel and accompany him to meet his “family.”

As we Puritans venerate our women and children, I was only to happy to do as he suggested.

To my surprise he led me through an enclosed, dimly lit passageway, and a short time later we emerged into a large, mud brick structure with many fine paintings upon the wall. However, the amazing part was there were upwards of forty women, clad in black robes seated about the room, engaged in knitting.

“Are these the women of your colony?” I asked. “I had wondered where they might be.”

Amenhotep shook his head. “No, good Winthrop, these are my wives. Some are my chief wives, some are my secondary wives, and some are my pleasure wives. Between the forty of them I have over 100 children.

Suddenly there was a cry from inside a nearby large wooden box that resembled a sea-chest standing on end.

“What is that?” I said.

“Ah, that is a birthing box,” answered Amenhotep. “One of my secondary wives, Aleenola, is giving birth therein.”

“The poor woman is giving birth by herself?”

Amenhotep laughed. “Certainly not, she is assisted by a mid-wife.”

“I see,” I said in amazement, my head reeling at the viciously perverse nature of the vizier’s marital arrangements.

“And now since you are my guest, I would desire that you service one of my pleasure wives as a token of my hospitality.” He pointed to a nubile black girl whose breasts were wantonly exposed. “Looweenia will be happy to meet your needs.”

I spun around in a fury. “I have no intention of doing any such thing!” I barked. “We, English, regard such behavior as monstrous, an offense against God.”

Amenhotep roared with laughter. “What strange Gods you English have chosen to serve.”

I ground my teeth in rage and suggested we return along the passageway at once. The vizier acceded to my wishes, but insisted that I join him in a tour of the rest of his kingdom.

Though I was ill-inclined to deal more with this den of perversity, I had little choice but to accept his command. And so we walked the confines of his walled kingdom.

Soon, I was able to see the dimensions of their city. Generally speaking, its citizens lived in walled, three story houses constructed of dried brick. The upper stories of the houses were reached by stairs built to the outside of the dwelling.

On the other hand, their red slaves, who do all the physical work, live in huts to one squalid side of the city, adjacent to what are obviously rich agricultural tracts.

However, if I had been unnerved by a visit to the vizier’s harem, the thing I found most extraordinary about our captor was the strange underground chamber to which Amenhotep escorted me near the end of our tour.

“I see you have a wine cellar,” I said, as we worked our way down an elaborate labyrinth of twisting tunnels, stopping at last before a huge metal door.

“Not at all,” said my guide. “If you will allow me.” Drawing a key from his waist band, he opened the door to a darkened chamber in which a single candle guttered.

“I’m not familiar with a room such as this,” I said, troubled by a grave sense of foreboding.

“Of course not,” Amenhotep said, guiding me inward until I saw the carefully wrapped figure of what appeared to be a human corpse. It was a haunting sight I shall never forget. Bound all in white linen, the features of the body were quite evident. While all about the figure lay bowls of what was obviously food.

“And what might this be?” I said, suppressing a shiver.

“These are the embalmed remains of my predecessor; and his predecessor lies in the chamber beyond and so on for the three hundred centuries since my people, driven as outcasts from the lower reaches of the Nile, ventured across the ocean in small boats to settle this accursed wilderness.”

“Embalmed you say?” A chill shuddered up my spine.

“Yes, the brain and internal organs have been removed to keep the body intact for its long voyage through the devilish realm of Duat.”

“Duat?”

“Yes, one must answer many questions correctly to traverse Duat. The answers to these questions are found in the Book of the Dead.” I had never heard such pagan nonsense before. Stilling my outrage, I inquired further regarding these vain superstitions.

“Once one crosses the seven gates of Duat, one enters the realm of Ausar and the hall of Ma’at. It is here one’s heart is weighed. If the heart is pure and innocent of sin it shall balance against the feather of justice of Ma’at and will venture on to Ausar in Amenti, but if the heart is found wanting.”

“Yes?”

“It will be eaten by Amment, the devourer of souls.”

I trembled in revulsion at the heathen superstitions that drove these people to mutilate their own dead. Those believing such nonsense were little better than animals. And yet I was confused, for this Amenhotep, himself, seemed to be a fine fellow.

“And now if you will kneel with me in prayer, together we will the seven injunctions that Anpu, the mortuary priest, will touch the tongue and eyelids of the departed, thus speeding him onward to immortality in the sky with the gods.”

“My good man,” I cried. “I realize your intentions are good, but I kneel to none but the one God who created the universe and his divine son Jesus the Christ.”

Amenhotep stared at me in revulsion. “In that case, good John Winthrop, I regret that I have allowed you to view these secret orifices. We will go upwards at once.”

And so I was escorted to a back room in the cool, shadowy home of Amenhotep where I am held under what amounts to house arrest. Arriving there, allowed much time to think; and because I was much exhausted from the rigors of our voyage, I soon lay down for a nap.

But first I prayed heartily to the one true God that these heathen Aethiops of strangely advanced science will continue to treat our people as well as they did on our first day of contact.

An hour later I had barely awakened from a restless sleep plagued with strange dreams when Amenhotep, in a state of utter nakedness, entered the room where I had spent the night.

“I trust that you slept well,” he said.

“By the grace of God, I have.”

He smiled, then assuming a cross-legged position opposite me on a stool woven of animal skins and reeds, he crossed his arms magisterially and said, “There is an important matter which I must discuss with you at once.”

“I, too, have concerns on my mind, sire,” I said.

“Then first to mine if you please. Upon our initial encounter you alluded to religion. It is imperative that you understand that all those within the purview of my rule shall share the same religion.”

“That is exactly as we Pilgrims intended for our colony,” I said.

“The rub is this, John Winthrop. We of the kingdom of Amenhotep are not proponents of religious freedom. All those who dwell among us must swear an oath of allegiance to the many gods whose divine rule we subscribe to. This shall include Ra, Isis, Amen, and Ausar. Therefore, good Winthrop, I present you with this ultimatum. Your people will be required to swear an oath of allegiance to our deities by tonight at the stroke of midnight. When they have done so, they will be allowed to dwell among us in perpetuity, enjoying all the rank and privileges of my people. However, should they fail do so, it will be our unpleasant duty to obliterate your people from the face of the earth.”

A wave of righteous indignation swept through me at once. This man was utterly mad. Had we not just recently escaped the odious Test Act of King James the First and his insane attempt to impose his religion upon us? Did not Amenhotep understand that we would fight to the death any so foolish as to try to separate us from our divine creator?

“Sir,” I cried, “you have hitherto been a kind and generous host, but I find the proposition you have presented me with to be of such a monstrous character that it is beneath consideration.”

Amenhotep suddenly rose to his feet, towering above me in confident nakedness. “I have heard you, John Winthrop, but I refuse to accept your judgment. It is not wise to speak in haste. You shall, therefore, meet with your people, and I shall come for your decision at the stroke of midnight.”

I went to the oiled paper window and watched my captor depart as much to my amazement, he boarded a strange vehicle that moved without benefit of animal propulsion. How this was possible I can not say, but I have strong suspicions that somehow these people, despite their kind exteriors, are somehow in league with Satan himself.

October 24, 1620—the afternoon

AN air of palpable tension filled the log chamber where my compatriots and I met that afternoon to consider the ultimatum that Amenhotep had laid before us.

Having outlined with some asperity the conditions under which we were held captive, I made my recommendation.

“Given the circumstances in which we find ourselves, it is my judgment that it would be suicidal to resist the Aethiops militarily. As yet they have shown no inclination to wantonly harm us; thus, it would seem feasible for us to pretend to swear allegiance to their false gods while reserving our hearts for the Christian god of love. Are their any thoughts upon this subject?”

Captain Standish banged to his feet with a clatter of armor. Though he was but five feet four inches tall, there was a dread fierceness to his manner. As always his inner fire burned brighter than the average man’s; and this time his brown mustache was fairly ticking with anger.

“Good God,” cried Standish, “if there were ever a cowardly betrayal of our Christian principles, you have proposed it, John Winthrop. We have chosen you for our leader out of respect for your steadfast resolution and courage, and now you counsel us to behave like craven sheep in the care of Satan himself?”

I raised my hand to still the angry murmuring that accompanied Standish’s outburst.

“If I have counseled forbearance, it is in regard for the safety and survival of those good people who have ventured here with us. A battle against all odds is no battle in my mind.”

Standish thumped his fist on the oaken board that served us as table. “That is exactly the point, brother Winthrop. We have risked our lives on a three months sailing voyage into this new and untamed world out of dedication to our religious principles, and now you would have us throw them away out of cowardly want of resolution.”

“Here, here,” cried some of the men.

“That is not my intent at all,” I shouted. “Our allegiance to our maker shall not be compromised by pretending to worship the false gods of the Aethiops; and, given time, we shall find some way to escape in order to conduct our lives as we had originally planned.”

“Bah,” cried Standish. “A weak and womanly point of view. Does our leader realize what the dread cannons on the pyramidal fort amount to?”

“I have no such information,” I admitted.

“Well, while you our leader were hobnobbing with and being fed by the Nubian seneschal, I and a party of three climbed the slopes to the pyramid. Now listen closely, John Winthrop. The so-called cannon projecting from the fortress are nothing more than tar-covered logs. They have no shot or ball to strike us dead. And their sabers are mere wooden toys made to look fierce. Therefore, what I say is this. The military threat of these Aethiops is naught but a sham and a bluff. We twenty stout Englishmen with determination to fight can withstand a vast army of these pretend-to-be warriors.”

Miles Standish’s piece of information instantly cast everything into a new light. Perhaps it was as Standish said; these people had no more stomach for a fight than they did to be swallowed by a bear. Thinking rapidly of our next option, I said, “If what you say is true, Standish, everything is changed. Now my good comrades, lean your heads close for the sake of secrecy and let us develop a plan.”

“Aye!” said Miles Standish, laying a hand to the hilt of his sword. “Let us formulate a plan born of courage and steel.”

October 25—midnight and thereafter

AT the stroke of midnight, Amenhotep summoned me to the central courtyard at the heart of the city where important ceremonial affairs were always held. He was accompanied by a contingent of at least twenty sword-bearing men. As the preceding day he was dressed in a golden robe and was wearing a high green hat that reminded me at once of the pope’s disgusting miter.

For a long time as my people hid in the guardhouse where they had been quartered over night, I was forced to stand and observe a series of magical incantations and rituals that I found nauseating to say the least.

Finally after much hullabaloo, extending his huge black hand, Amenhotep said gravely, “And has the leader of the English decided to accommodate himself to our demands and worship our several gods?”

“That we shall never do,” I said, raising my arm in a signal to Captain Standish.

At once he and his men, weapons blazing, came raging from the house where they had taken cover. Obviously the Lord smiled upon our decision, for minutes later Amenhotep and the majority of his men lay in pools of blood at our feet. It was then easy work defeating the remainder of the Aethiops who showed no more stomach for a fight than a Royalist without his horse.

Within the hour, we took possession of the city, then, kneeling, offered prayers to our Lord for giving us such an easy victory.

The next morning we turned the women and children who had survived our uprising into the forest, but not without mercifully offering them a chance to dwell among us as loyal Christians.

The red slaves of the Aethiops were dealt with similarly. We then set fire to those dwellings and storerooms of Amenhotep’s people that pleased us not, determining, of course, to raze their sacred burial chambers as soon as possible.

And now, singularly blessed by the bounty of the Lord, we shall return to the ship for our provisions and then venture forth to built for ourselves, on this same bountiful tract of land, a city that may long endure, dedicated to the mercy of Christ, and built for the everlasting glory of He who made us. For thus is the will of our creator.

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THE CHILDREN OF PERUN By Joshua Reynolds

MOSCOW burned in the darkness, like a lone torch on a plain of crimson ice.

The Emperor’s carriage had rattled and shook as it rolled down the badly worn roads, long in need of repair. Around the gilded carriage, came the Grand Army. An ocean of blue and white, muted by snow and blood and dust, they came. Ninety five thousand of the world’s fiercest soldiers, and their God-Emperor.

Seventy-five miles of rough terrain, pitted roads, hellish weather, but they had arrived, leaving ruin and conquest behind them in Borodino, in Smolensk. But not so Moscow.

That, the jewel of Mother Russia, was ruined when they arrived on the fourteenth of September, 1812. Flames ate at her minarets greedily, and the weaker buildings toppled and collapsed under the weight of the heat and smoke. And lunatics and criminals prowled her streets, torches and knives in hand.

Michael Ney rode his exhausted horse through streets turned orange by the glare of flames and contemplated these things. As a stable nearby fell to a burning heap with a groan, the Marshal of France shook his soot stained head wearily. The Grand Armee would be fighting nothing more glorious than fires for the next several days if this kept up. His own men he had left fighting the blazes nearest the Czar’s palace, so that the Emperor could set up his headquarters without fear of smoke or fire.

The few would-be arsonists his men had captured earlier in the evening had been madmen covered in soiled linen and wild hair. Evidently the governor of this once proud city had taken the Czar’s scorched earth policy seriously, and before he marched south under the protection of Kutuzov, Rostopchin had ordered the release of all inmates in the city jails and asylums.

Then he had given them torches and told them to go play with the French invaders.

Ney brushed a lock of red hair out of his weather beaten face and sighed. He had come through hell and Germany to reach this point … a burnt-up hulk of a city inhabited only by madmen and merchants. That had been shocking. Merchants, mostly of French nationality lined up and waiting at the city gates to hawk their wares to tired soldiers, trying to separate them from their hard-earned Russian plunder.

Evidently not even a blighted hell such as this was safe from the depredations of the money-lender, more was the pity.

A scream caught Ney’s attention. A woman, somewhere in the night. He quieted his inner thoughts with a toss of his head and strained his ears into the night and flame-lit darkness. A scream was not unusual in a conquered city, especially that of a woman, but then, rarely was Ney in a position to reach the screamer in time. It went against his grain to leave a cry of distress unanswered.

It came again, shattering the stillness, ringing out over the crackling of flames. Digging his heels into his foam-lipped mount’s flanks, the Marshal rode towards a cramped and twisted alleyway several tens of yards distant. Shadows danced grotesquely on the walls of the cul-de-sac as Ney’s keen saber slid from its sheath. His horse leapt over a pile of burning wood and into the alley scattering sparks and ash as well as the trio of soldiers gathered about the limp form of a woman. Damascus steel flashed and blood sprayed the brick as one looter fell backwards, his face a mask of red, his eyes blind forevermore. The other two went for their knives as Ney turned his horse to block the alley. The sword in his hand glimmered wetly, the Egyptian sigils engraved on the blade highlighted by the blood staining the metal. It had been a gift, that blade. From a Caliph in the far away east to Napoleon, who in turn gave it to the man he felt worthy to bear it, the man he named ‘the Bravest of the Brave’. Only one other like it existed, in the hands of Murat, the Peacock Marshal. As such, it was Michael Ney’s most prized possession.

“Think carefully soldiers. Is it worth it?” The towering horseman asked in quiet voice, his eyes moving from one man to another. “The Emperor needs all the men he can get. Will you sell your lives so cheaply?” He gestured towards the sobbing woman. The fusiliers muttered and left their knives at their belts. Their eyes narrowed as they recognized him. “Good. Take up your fellow and go on your way.”

The troopers stooped and picked up the dead weight of their companion as Ney maneuvered his mount out of the tight alleyway. After they had disappeared in the smoke and shadows, Ney dismounted and knelt beside the woman.

“Madame? Are you hurt? What is your name?” He asked softly in halting Russian. Hearing her own language, the woman ceased moaning after a few moments and looked up. Her eyes went wide as trembling fingers touched Ney’s red hair. She gabbled softly, too fast for Ney to understand. He soothed her, allowing her to speak without interrupting until she had calmed somewhat. Then, and only then, did her tongue slow enough for him to understand her words.

“I-I am Illanya. Y-you are French? You saved me?”

“I am Ney. And yes, I saved you, Illanya. I could do no less, if it was in my power.” Ney smiled reassuringly and hauled the woman to her feet gently as her face paled with recognition of his name. She was quite lovely, though no match for his own dear wife. Young, no more than a girl really now that he got a good look at her. A blonde as well and dressed in a peasants tattered rags. Just one more refugee, probably from Smolensk or one of the outlying villages, looking for succor in the wrong place, like hundreds of others he had seen since Napoleon had begun his bid for empire. She was still crying, the tears cutting tiny tracks in her sooty features as she kissed his hand.

Ney jerked away embarrassedly, saying as he did, “This is not the night for idle walks. Do you have someplace to go until the fires are under control, and the men as well, for that matter?”

“Da. But I cannot go there yet! I must find my brother, he is lost and alone in this hell! He ran when the soldiers attacked and I must find him!” She sobbed, clutching at the brocade on Ney’s jacket as if it were a piece of driftwood and she, alone in the ocean. She sank to her knees before him crying out what he took to be her brother’s name. “I must find him!”

He had weathered famine and flood and shot and shell in his thirty years. He had ignored them all with the foolhardy courage that had earned him his nickname of ‘The Bravest of the Brave’ from the Emperor himself. But he could not ignore a woman’s tears. It was a weakness Murat and his other fellow-Marshals had often chided him about. “How many times,” old Davout had sighed over his cups in the evenings, looking pointedly at the younger Ney, “how many times have a woman’s tears led a man to death at the hands of guerillas in Spain? In Germany? Do you think Russia different? Perhaps the Cossack women will merely brain you and steal your horse? Hah!”

He looked down at her, kneeling before him, her sorrow and fear bending her where it could not break her. And once more, common sense lost its battle for control of Michael Ney. “And probably not for the last time I fear.” He muttered as he knelt beside the woman. “Come madam, let us seek out your brother. Then the both of you will be taken someplace safe.”

“Oh thank you! Thank you!” She whispered, wiping at her face.

“What direction did the boy flee in, Illanya? Do you remember?”

“T-towards the square. Y-yes, yes he must have gone there! Come, we must hurry!” She sprang to her feet and yanked at Ney’s coat sleeve. “He has a hiding place there, where he flees when he knows he is to be punished!”

“A hiding place? What kind?” Ney asked as he swung into his horse’s saddle. As he situated himself he held a hand out to Illanya, which she accepted tremblingly.

“A-a cellar. It is old, and papa has told him not to play there, but Piotr does not listen.”

“Piotr … your brother?”

“Yes. We must hurry!” She urged as she sat in front of Ney on the horse. “The fires … he could be hurt!”

“Do not worry Illanya. Ney has yet to fail.”

IT was like a journey out of Dante. Moscow, once possessed of a stark, unforgiving beauty, was now a shell, a corpse roasting on a pyre. As they rode, Ney became grim and silent, his dark eyes taking in the burnt forms lying black and shriveled in the ash covered streets.

His scouts, as well as those of the other marshals, had reported that the population of Moscow had fled. The presence of Illanya and the pitiful shapes lying still all around attested to the oversimplification of that statement. The still living fled.

The mad and the dead stayed.

Yet Illanya took in the gruesome scene with an Ã©lan that impressed even him. He wondered silently why she and her family had remained. When he pressed her for the names of her parents she merely shook her head and urged him to hurry, to hurry for Piotr’s sake.

Could her parents be criminals? Was her father one of those poor wretched beasts loosed by Rostopchin? Or even her mother?

These thoughts occupied Ney as they rode through a sudden wall of smoke, so that he made no notice of the sound of feet slapping cobblestone until the young woman tugged at his arm. “It is Piotr! He is there!”

Ney peered through the smoke and into the darkness beyond, his eyes tearing up in reflex. There. A slight shape moving through the deserted, ruined square.

Before he could stop her, Illanya slipped from his saddle and ran after calling the boy’s name. He cursed and slid down as well, intending to follow. He would not risk his horse’s legs in the rubble strewn spaces before him, so on foot it would have to be. “Damnation! Illanya! Stop!” He roared, stepping carefully after the light-footed girl, his hands on the hilt of his saber.

Her cries echoed from all around him it seemed as he made his way through the smoky night, his path lit only by the illumination provided by the fires off to the sides of the square. Her voice echoed from the buildings that loomed over the street.

“Piotr!”

“Piotr!”

“Piotr!”

And then, she screamed. Ney’s heart stopped cold as the girl began shrieking in a terrible voice. It was like all the devils of hell had suddenly appeared before her. He drew his blade as he began to run, heedless now of the rubble all around that threatened to bring him flat.

“Illanya! Where are you girl?” He bellowed, searching for her. He had had his eyes on her for awhile, and then … gone. “Where are you?”

As his cries bounced from stone to stone, he heard again the sound of feet against the cobblestones, slapping, rushing, coming nearer. Ney turned warily, trying to face every direction at once. “Illanya?”

They came at him then, out of the flames it seemed, out of flames and shadow, a ragged horde. Torn cloth covered their faces, and hung in strips from their arms and legs. No part of their forms went uncovered and bare. Ney shuddered as he remembered the lepers he had seen in his youth. These creatures reminded him much of those sad, living dead men. Guttural Russian dripped from muffled mouths as they slowly circled him, pieces of stone and wood in their hands.

“Come no closer. I wish no harm on you.” Ney grated, his voice silencing theirs. “Merely give me the girl, and her brother and we will leave.”

“Why would we wish to leave? After all, we are home, o’ Marshal of France.” Illanya’s voice suddenly came from somewhere beyond the ring of cloth and flesh. In that moment, she sounded older, much more so than she had seemed earlier. Ney narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“Illanya? Where are you, girl?”

“Right behind you, monsieur.” That disturbingly young-old voice purred. Ney whirled, sword flashing up as a sudden weight fell with a crashing force upon his temple. His vision blurred and he stumbled. Ragged figures launched themselves at him, grappling with him. The saber was pulled from his numb fingers as he fell down, down into unconsciousness, his last sight before oblivion took him, of Illanya, of her old eyes (so old, why hadn’t he noticed before?) flashing with mockery.

HE awoke to a ringing pain in his skull and a sheen of sweat covering his form. He was bound, his hands lashed behind him around a wooden post in a position that caused his shoulder muscles to scream in agony. His shirt and great coat were gone, yet he felt no chill. This was obviously due to the flames roaring out of the fire pit set into the hard dirt floor before him. From his perspective, it looked like nothing so much as the great maw of some hidden monster, belching writhing gouts of heat and fire. He was shocked to see that an immense carven block rose out from the center of the pit, its top portions scraping the ceiling of the room he found himself in. At the top of the block was a hunk of silver shaped into a forbidding, heavy browed face and below that hung a beard crafted from what looked to be the purest gold.

It was the very face of the devil.

Ney turned his eyes and took in the room around him. It was a cellar of some type, barren and empty but for a set of stairs leading up, the pit and its diabolical inhabitant. In the back of his mind he heard Illanya speak, … A-a cellar. It is old, and papa has told him not to play there, but Piotr does not listen … and he grimaced ruefully.

“You are awake. This is good.”

Illanya stepped out from behind the wall of flames pulsing out of the pit and circled towards Ney, a half smile on her lips. She had changed from peasant rags to a robe of silk. It was a deep sickly red, with golden threads woven through, to mimic the twisting shape of fire he guessed.

“The robe does not suit you. It makes you look like a priest.” Ney coughed, his voice raw. Illanya chuckled.

“Ah, but so I am. Or rather, a priestess. Perhaps the last of my order left in the entirety of the motherland. Sad, no? When I finally follow my god to the Burning Lands, there will be no one to take my place.”

“And what god would that be Illanya? Or do you have another name I might call you?” As Ney spoke, he carefully worked at the leather bindings around his wrists, trying to free himself. From hidden corners of the cellar, other figures began to appear, some dozen or so in all. The ragged horde that had disarmed him in the square. Now, safe in their den, they had removed their masks of cloth, revealing faces scarred by fire. Ney did not flinch as they glided closer, shuffling towards him to gawk as if he were a beast in a zoo. He had seen worse on battlefields far and near.

Illanya smiled at his mask of unconcern. “Illanya will do. Be honored Marshal of France. You are in the last temple of the followers of Perun … He who rides the lightning and sweats flame. The Battle-Lord and the father of us all. We are all children of Perun. And he will be your father as well…” The mob around them gave up a great sigh at mention of the being’s name.

“I think not girl. My father was a hard man, but I loved him well enough. I don’t fancy having another.” Ney sneered, still unobtrusively working at his bindings. “By the by, my sword? Where is it?”

Illanya narrowed her eyes at the general, her anger at his abrupt dismissal of her god narrowly held in check. “You will be fed to him, Frenchman! You will feel his teeth and become one with him! Perun feasts on brave men’s hearts! The Christian drove us out, hounded us into the dark places eight centuries ago, but we are still here and Perun still feasts on men like you!”

“So does the Emperor. If they are anything alike, Perun must get the winds something awful.”

Illanya seemed about to scream, then, abruptly, she calmed, as if something had occurred to her. “Bravery in the face of a god’s wrath. You are truly worth ten sacrifices o’ Bravest of the Brave. It was to Perun’s glory that you blundered into the trap we set for the more … unwary … among your countrymen. I would have led those three fools you chased off straight here after awhile, if you hadn’t galloped up to the rescue.”

“I was glad to be of service … but something yet confuses me. What of your brother?”

“A tale, made up on the spur of the moment. I outdid myself, if I do say so, yes? It helps that I look younger than my true years. It is the blood, you know. Perun takes the hearts, which I cut out and feed to him, and gifts me with the blood to keep my flesh white and smooth.”

“Fascinating. I suppose you bathe in it?” He had to keep her talking. At least until he gotten his hands free. Then, then it was another game entirely. He stifled a wince as the leather drew blood from his flesh. Illanya clapped her hands in delight.

“Of course! Only the Hun drinks a man’s blood. Perun is not worshipped by beasts!”

She crept closer to him, the edges of her robe revealed as frayed and stained as he got a closer look at them. She leaned into his face, her blond hair brushing his chest, her breath smelling of ash and meat. “I will relish your blood. I will savor in its warmth…”

“You flatter me. But really, I must decline, I’m afraid!” Ney said into her ear. Behind his back, the leather thongs sliced at his wrists as he pulled his hands through them, freeing himself with a heave of heavy shoulders. Illanya jerked back, but not quick enough as Ney’s arms encircled her and pulled her close. “My sword, woman. I want it.”

As Illanya kicked and struggled, shouting oaths, the worshippers, the children, of Perun closed in about them, murder in their eyes. Ney was loath to hurt a woman, even one intent on bathing in his blood, but needs must when the devil drives. He thrust the hellcat forward into the largest clot of the cultists, throwing several off balance and to the earthen floor of the cellar. Hands reached out for him, grasping, clawing.

Ney lashed out with his fists, driving them back. Not only a swordsman was Ney, he had been taught to fight in the brawling style of the militia, by members of the rough crew he had had as his first command. He knew how to disable a man with kicks and punches. And he displayed this, felling one foe with a fist to the throat, dropping the scarred wretch to the ground in a wheezing heap, and kicking the legs out from another.

But it was not enough. There were too many. Perhaps, with a weapon he might have a chance to fight his way clear. Ney staggered as a rag shrouded fist clouted him on the shoulder. His own shot out, sending his attacker to the ground. And then, he saw it. A flash of steel in the firelight.

His blade. In the hands of Illanya. She screamed and thrust clumsily for his stomach. Ney stumbled back from her mad rush, and grabbed her arm as she went past. He yanked the saber from her hands and slung her to the ground.

“Now, come see how a Marshal of France fights.” he growled, his back to the fire pit. Illanya rose to her feet, eyes blazing. Around her, the cultists gathered, some now drawing knives.

“We shall see how one dies at least,” she hissed, drawing a pistol from within her robe. Ney’s vision narrowed into a tunnel as he focused on the barrel. The shot would be the signal to take him. If the shot itself did not do the job that was. Ney smiled like a tiger as she cocked the pistol. It echoed loudly in the sudden silence.

“I take it the sacrifice is cancelled? We can end this girl, before it goes any further.”

“Oh no. Dead or alive, you will feed Perun,” Illanya said as she fired.

Ney felt time slow as he dove forward, blade outthrust, the heat of the fire pit at his back. He felt the ball pass close to his shoulder as he went low. He felt the saber pierce flesh and heard a woman’s pathetic scream and told himself there was no other way.

Illanya fell, the front of her red robe stained an even darker shade of crimson, the blade falling beside her. Ney rolled to his feet and squatted beside her as she gasped and gurgled. He caught one of her flailing hands and held it tightly. Her eyes gazed past him, towards the statue in the fire pit and her voice coughed weakly. “P-Perun s-save m—” And then, she fell limp.

“Damnation. I did not want it this way.”

Ney glanced up as the cultists and they fell back from his hot gaze. There seemed to be no fight left in them, no desire to continue with the attempt to feed him to Perun. He looked back at the dead woman-child in his arms.

There was a story there, hidden behind now opaque eyes. But it would not be told, now or ever. As he got to his feet, a sudden rush of heat at his back caused him to turn, an oath on his lips.

One by one, the cultists were walking into the fire pit. They made no sound as they plunged into it, no cry of pain. So shocked was Ney, that he could make no move to stop them.

And soon, they were gone, leaving only the stench of burning flesh in their wake. Ney staggered to the edge of the pit, gagging at the smell. He tried to peer in, but was driven back as the flames suddenly boiled up, licking at the ceiling. He leapt away as the fires began to spread, eating at the floor and walls.

Ney stumbled towards the stairs, sword in hand, and as he ascended towards the chill Moscow night. He gave a last glance back at the sad little corpse of the last priestess of Perun and muttered an oath as the flames seemed to circle her form without touching it. He looked again at the face of Perun, hulking over the fire pit and it seemed to shift and change before his disbelieving eyes, the expression going from stoic unfeeling, to an expression of the purest grief and rage. Ney murmured a prayer for the souls of pagans and dying gods and hurried out of the cellar as smoke and fire obscured the interior from mortal eyes.

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THE SEEKER By Carole Carmen

…. Yet that, after such age, (twenty-two) if a youth desired greatly to make the adventure, he should receive three lectures upon the dangers of which we had knowledge, and a strict account of the mutilatings and horrid deeds done to those who had so adventured. And if, after this had passed over him, he still desired, and if he were accounted healthful and sane; then should he be allowed to make the adventure; and it was accounted honour to the youth who should add to the knowledge of the Pyramid.

‘The Night Land’ by William Hope Hodgson

In recent years, a tall figure in shattered grey armour has been seen wandering the Road Where The Silent Ones Walk. It is not known if this is a True Human—scholars continue to debate. But he has become known to all as The Seeker.

The implications are considerable. If Human, then he alone has survived the Night Land. But why has he not returned, and why does he not send answer to the Master-Word? Most Scholars have reluctantly concluded that this person is no longer Human.

IN the year approaching my twenty-third birthday, I, Zarvi, an Officer Cadet of the Seventeenth Level Watch, began preparation for a trip into the Night Land.

My purpose was to gather samples and data on behalf of my guardian and tutor the Monstruwacan Hugh Gaspar, but also on my own behalf. For in truth I yearned to step outside the hallowed ‘Circle of Light’, if only for a short while, and regarded this as a fine opportunity, not given to many, to come of age and prove myself.

Also in memory of my father, a veritable bear of a man, as broad across as my uncle was long—a valiant soldier of the Watch.

I did not have the burden of kith and kin, being not yet betrothed and both parents being dead—my mother when I was but a child and my father not even a year passed.

Yet still—I found passing over the Circle a traumatic and bitter sweet choice. The glowing light shone on my face like the last breath of warmth I should have on this earth, and although clothed fully in the tough grey armour, and absolutely prepared mentally (if that was possible in this terrible place), stepping over that barrier was an act akin to stripping off not only my clothes but also flaying my own skin.

I had never felt so piteously vulnerable in all my life, and even the muscles of my back quivered, bracing themselves for possible attack. Never had I been so conscious of the eyes of the Watchers, which seemed to be like unseen lasers strafing the night.

Yet after several hours of walking I actually felt calmer within myself than I had for years. Too often I had experienced the soaring metallic walls of the Great Redoubt, as the walls of a prison, made for restriction rather than protection.

And once within the moss-bushes I felt safer, although I guarded myself carefully against possible ambush. I was lucky in that they were some distance separated so that I could easily arm the Diskos if necessary.

AFTER a few days, having survived several attacks, I was beginning to feel almost happy. Often they were so quick and fierce that I scarcely had time to glimpse the real nature of my attacker.

I found it incredible that here I was always potentially literally seconds from a ghastly death—yet never had I felt more alive. Difficult to believe that a scant week ago I was sitting at my studies in a stupor of boredom, or gazing fitfully out of embrasures like a miserable laboratory specimen, undergoing test after morbid test.

Here I could lengthen my stride to its fullest, without being hemmed in by narrow steel walkways, or worrying about bumping my head on every door lintel I entered. Most denizens of the Redoubt had grown small, like pygmies in a forest of dripping black metal.

I always carefully examined each carcass. This was in order to collect possible data, yet also in the grip of a morbid curiosity.

How like men and how like monsters? Of what intelligence exactly? What combination of humanity and beast could have spawned them?

Being strong, in good health and of great stature like my father, these attacks did not alarm me unduly. I was well practiced in the use of the Diskos, and had been more or less expecting them.

But the Night Land has little patience with complacency—when I heard the baying of a great pack of Night-Hounds not far to the East I began to panic. I actually felt the great muscles in my thighs shaking in fear of them.

I had heard this sound so many times before, echoing around the great walls of the Redoubt. It could only mean that the pack had caught the scent of an exciting prey and were preparing to run in pursuit. They could eat the miles with those long strides, each trying to best the other in the throes of their excitement.

What to do?

Standing like a miserable, frozen rabbit, I cast around frantically, looking for a possible hiding place. It gradually dawned on me that the only possible place in this barren wilderness, where I would be in plain view if they but caught sight of me, was the awful House of Silence, perched upon its great steep hill.

My heart began literally to pound.

It had always been said that those who entered the House of Silence never returned. But I had no intention of actually entering the house. To shelter within its walls would be adequate.

Passing very close to the house was the Road Where The Silent Ones Walk.

If I managed to get on the road, which had a relatively smooth surface, I could make good speed, and possibly find refuge there.

I must confess that the house had never frightened me as much as it should—

I had always been fascinated by what could possibly be within—and I would be as good as dead in a very short time unless I could reach it.

As I began to run, my stomach turned to lead in contemplation of what I was about to do.

Yet nevertheless, I managed to reach its portals in good time, and overcoming my sense of dread by an almost physical effort, stopped just outside those open, ever welcoming doors, my chest heaving.

In a matter of a few seconds the hounds had reached the house, baying and sniffing, turning round in circles trying to find the scent.

I looked down on their great multicoloured backs curiously, from my position high on the hill.

Arriving in a high dudgeon, they gradually became dispirited. A great gloom descended on them. Their tails began to droop. They became silent. A few of them began to shiver. They looked up at the house, as though seeing it properly for the first time.

Then, as one body, they turned tail and loped off through the bushes.

It had never occurred to me before that this evil place could in fact be a means of protection.

I resolved to use it for my own purposes.

OVER a period of several weeks I stayed near the house, collecting my samples and making notes.

I always avoided the entrance, yet could not resist glancing inside as I passed. I could see a wall of shimmering white mist, rich with the glowing lights within.

The lights were suspended, as though held on thin elastic filaments, and the hazy, silk-encrusted atmosphere reminded me of the lair of some monstrous spider—venture too far near those filaments and you would be hopelessly caught—sucked clean of anything that made you human.

Most other creatures avoided the place completely, yet the House of Silence extended the welcoming aura of a frosty kind of warmth and light.

The more I studied it the more I became sure that, like a waiting spider, the House of Silence was powerless to force a creature to enter—if it entered it had to do so of its own will.

Yet the house had become powerful in enticements, and I was later to believe that it always offered what the recipient most desired.

In my case the things I craved were thus: Knowledge and Identity.

Although I was always most careful to shield my mind from any influence—I stayed away most of the day, and avoided all thought or question about the house in my mind, nevertheless I felt its influence strongly pressing on me.

I always slept a little away from the walls, and far from the entrance. I did not have a receptive mind anyway—I had often been told that ‘the Master-Word was weak’ in me, and a lot of the time struggled to make myself heard.

In fact, things that a sentient person found unbearable, I barely noticed.

On reflection, the house must have gone through several different strategies that I was oblivious to, before settling on something that would affect me.

It began to impart knowledge to me.

At first it was as though a fine mist was slowly clearing in my head—I seemed able to see things properly for the first time. I made useful connections where none were before.

My work became easier to the point where I began to tire of it.

Without fully realising it, I began to take less interest in it, until I was spending much of the day sitting upon the great stone steps leading up to the entrance, deep in contemplation.

I had but to think of a question, and it was answered.

I learnt about the Ab-humans, the Giants. About their creation in the last days of the darkening.

But the information given was always pure—just the clean, hard facts. It took me a long time to work out why I always found it so shocking—until I worked out that the House of Silence was completely without a point of view.

It possessed a machine-like intelligence—it liked nothing more than to gather data from the creatures it consumed within—but was not of human origin, (although it was possible that its powers had once been harnessed successfully and used by humans). So it knew nothing of human sensibility or warmth. Apart from the necessity to gather food and data, both of equal importance, it was supremely neutral.

I learnt the full history of the Great Redoubt—but often found it disturbing, and at odds with the stories and legends I had been taught.

I saw how the elite of the community had arranged to build the Redoubt as a final refuge against the dying sun—how they had carefully screened all comers, looking for ‘taints of the blood’.

How all creatures, no matter how noble, had been Cast-Out to meet their fate, if they did not meet stringent criteria. And the criteria were, naturally, decided by those of the wealthy elite, who, naturally, were extremely conservative in their requirements.

How scientists had been experimenting with genetics for far too long and were in fact responsible for many of the monstrosities surrounding the Redoubt—besieged like Frankenstein by their own dreadful creations. Also the dreadful state of the land itself—made sterile by pollution and abuse.

And lastly, branded like cattle. The seal of approval. The Master-Word encoded.

I HAD studied extensively during my years in the Redoubt. Yet, due to its unique position, naturally what information that was available no doubt did have a certain slant, or point of view. Maybe it had been heavily censored. Who knows?

Yet now everything seemed crystal clear to me—the pieces of the jigsaw fit together effortlessly. Questions that I had asked myself for years were fully accounted for.

As layer after layer of information was imparted, skeins of delicate silk, my mind seemed to grow vastly in stature. I was able to see the millennia of history laid out clearly as in a game board.

Yet the strange thing was, I had always been so curiosity driven, so avid for knowledge of all kinds, that I did not stop to think if it was a good thing to get it.

I did not think where this was leading me.

No! I supped the information greedily—like an infant at a grotesque mother’s teat. Or a baby spider just learning to spin. Ream after ream of delicate, sticky milky data. Machinations and secrets revealed. Hidden agendas. Nothing was closed to me. Except what I was to become.

I would often cast my gaze back to the Great Redoubt

From this vantage point, I could see the vast slopes of the Mighty Pyramid soaring into heaven, yet at this distance, the guards of the Watch in their grey uniforms, who once had formed my entire world, looked like nothing except grey termites.

And the Redoubt, a masterpiece of engineering by such tiny creatures—a veritable termite mound. How clever of those mindless insects to build such a one!

FINALLY, I began to ask questions about my own heritage, my own identity.

Why had I never been able to tolerate conditions in the Redoubt? Why had I felt so constricted, so out of place. Ridiculous as it may have seemed, I had always felt far more at home Outside, on Watch. I thought it was because I suffered from some kind of claustrophobia.

As usual, I received far more information that I could cope with, and learnt rather more than I wished to know.

There was my entire inheritance laid out before me.

A woman called Marni, the product of a breeding experiment between a giant and a human, had fallen in love with one of the technicians who worked around the great vats.

Looking fully human, and indeed spectacularly beautiful, she managed to entice him to smuggle her into the upper echelons of the Great Redoubt. She did not realise how very difficult this would be for him, and what risk he took. But her survival, and also the survival of the child she carried, and their future happiness depended on it.

Luckily, Technician Arvo Gaspar was so deeply smitten that he cleverly hatched a complicated deception, and they eventually married.

Something unusual (and very valuable) had occurred and virtually all the genes implanted for giantism had become recessive and dormant. Indeed they were not likely to be discovered by any but the most sensitive tests—and who would be looking? Those of the upper echelons rarely had doubt cast on their heritage. Marni also used her strong human genetic inheritance to become an adept of the Word, although it was always to remain very weak in her.

She became almost undetectable.

The child she carried, a boy, was also a beautiful child, but grew quite large in stature, and looked finally like a muscle-bound human god.

His potential as a soldier was soon exploited on the Watch, and the legend of the Great Gaspars began.

Yet some damage had occurred—those final and illegal breeding experiments raged uncontrolled in the underground vats until they were finally stopped.

The Gaspars rarely reached their fortieth birthday.

I learnt something else that disturbed me greatly.

Always, at every point in our history, in some part of the Redoubt, the experiments continued.

Now the goal was to find some means of integrating humanity with those creatures of the Outside who coped best with the Night Land—but only to strengthen humanity, not change it too greatly.

This was a necessary insurance policy. Maybe the Earth-Current would fail, or the Redoubt’s defences be infiltrated.

But they also took a long term view, and these experiments had been continuing for a long time.

I knew that I was doomed.

Return was now impossible.

I had collected far too much data.

FOR there would be no escape from the efficient mind scans of the Redoubt.

The most sensitive and able scans would be used—made to pick up minutiae. Sentients trained to pick up on nuances of behaviour would also be present.

I would not even be allowed in the Great Gate until the Watch were sure that I was ‘untainted’ by the Outside.

I had been changed by the House of Silence. I had developed into my true form.

If the information about my family leaked out, as it surely would if I returned, then they were doomed as surely as I was.

They would be Caste-Out, or used for the experiments.

A successful melding such as this was unheard of. In fact I was sure that in some way human/giant hybrids were a more natural phenomenon, and that there was much more to it.

PERCHED alone upon the green hill, I often surveyed the road below and gazed down upon the Silent Ones who traversed the road.

They drifted towards the house, tall, white robed ghostly figures, seeming to have an irresistible attraction to the grim House of Silence.

The road meandered in a wide arc, almost brushing the very walls, and here they seemed to linger.

They often looked up, but never acknowledged my presence. Inside the hoods of their robes lay dark shadows, and a seemingly infinite space. Yet I was always aware of the stern, dark face within.

I started to wonder about the origins of these people. As usual, as soon as I asked the question, I received the answer.

The House of Silence seemed unable to give answers unless directly asked—I would go in complete ignorance of something for weeks, then ask about it and get a full and all too frank answer.

I had a strange and growing suspicion about the Silent Ones.

They also seemed more aware of me the longer I stayed. Once I almost slipped down off the hill when one gave me a curt nod.

I discovered that they were the descendents of some of the Caste-Out. Although hybrids of all kinds had been used during the initial building period of the Redoubt, no doubt due to their strength, they simply were not considered good enough to actually dwell there. Many others were discovered hiding in the Redoubt during the years following and also Cast-Out.

The Silent Ones were all very tall, and I discovered that they also, carried the recessive giant gene. They were the result of natural crossbreeding between giants and humans, but also victims of a rare mutation.

It seems that in these cases of a recessive gene, where no real giant’s stature was conferred, a fault often developed within the brain. It went through a period of massive and abnormal growth, until it grew potentially huge, many thousand times larger than a normal brain, folded in on itself like a concertina and cramped within the skull.

These layers were capable of storing an immense field of knowledge. If given the opportunity to expand in this way, it would go on growing and developing over the years. It could constantly add on more and more data. Rather like the House of Silence.

The Silent Ones had nothing to fear from the House of Silence, for it protected those it recognised as being similar in structure to itself.

I wondered now how long I would have lasted if I had not possessed this ‘fault.’ Perhaps I would have been left hanging inside the House of Silence like a sucked out fly. Or maybe I would have been strong enough to survive. Who knows?

The Silent Ones used the House of Silence as an Oracle. And perhaps also as a recharging station—an energy boost.

I HAD it in my mind always to return to the Redoubt, but was not sure how to accomplish this.

If only I could contact my Uncle Hugh Gaspar privately or perhaps write a document and place it safely within the Circle without being seen.

Yet I now had difficulty in computing exactly what information to give, and what to withhold. To the House of Silence, all knowledge was of equal merit and value—but Humans could be upset by this. Why? I no longer really understood why, and this bothered me slightly.

I resolved to dwell more on this.

Also, I knew the way back would be troublesome and difficult. My armour was no longer in good repair, due to the ravages of many attacks, always sustained while working away from the House. Although many creatures were beginning to avoid me, I knew that all the most monstrous focussed their attentions on the Redoubt.

They were attracted like hideous great moths around a giant lampshade, glowing fiery red and black in the darkness.

Whereas most creatures avoided the twinkling white lights of the House of Silence.

Only the magnificent Silent Ones paid homage to the place.

This set off an interesting set of questions in my mind, as I clambered down from the hill, and took my place on the Road amongst my Brethren.

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SNAKE-CHARMER By Mark Orr & Donna Royston

THERE were invariably three signals whenever Major Jensen was about to share one of his improbable tales with us. First, he would emit a sort of cough-laugh combination. Then he would blurt out the name of some exotic locale or other. Finally he would lower his newspaper or book and fix his dark gray eyes on one of us.

So when I heard that odd bark of his, followed by the exclamation, “Casablanca!” I looked up. We all did, Moreland, Akers and the rest of the unit. Sure enough, the Major had allowed the newspaper to droop so I could see the upside-down headlines regarding the Allied landings in French Morocco the day before. I met his glare bravely, waiting for the inevitable.

“Have I ever mentioned that I once learned to capture cobras with my bare hands?” he began…

AFTER the last war I stayed on in France, hoping to raise the funds to bring the Spad I’d spent the last bit of the war flying to America. Thought it might be a treat for the folks back home to see a plane still bearing the scars of an encounter with the Red Baron. I found myself in Marseilles at the end of 1918, where I heard of some short-term work available as a bodyguard for a rich Tunisian businessman who was in Casablanca. I set sail for North Africa on a tramp steamer and eventually got there. Remind me to tell you some day of that particular adventure. Don’t you gents believe that the age of piracy is dead!

Anyway, I arrived and signed on with the Tunisian. My duties were light and the pay good so I often needed entertainment and had the means to obtain it. Casablanca was a wide-open town in those days, and I took full advantage of its attractions. Unfortunately this meant that I made little headway toward my goal of raising the funds for the plane, so I tried my hand at some of the more informal means of procuring cash.

I found a game of chance where my luck was improved by my good reflexes. I soon cleared the table. As this caused some resentment among my fellows, I decided to look for an alternate route back to my employer’s home.

While exploring the back alleys of Casablanca I came across a group of men practicing their craft. These were snake charmers, and coiled in the center of a circle of them was a huge king cobra, hood extended as it swayed in time to the sinuous movements of the charmers.

There was no music. Snakes are deaf. The flute playing done for show in the market places of North Africa is just that, a show. It’s the rhythmic motions of the charmer that entrances the snake. I hadn’t known this. I stopped to watch, as fascinated as the reptile.

Once the snake was put back into its basket I questioned the men as best I could in my halting Arabic. I found that sharing my new wealth helped encourage the charmers to share their wisdom. For the next several hours I learned all I could of the craft and before morning I was able to confront the deadly beast safely.

I asked where such snakes could be found and listened as the Arabs told me, resentfully, of a place teeming with cobras. Unfortunately, they couldn’t get to it. Outside of town was a vast plantation, a huge farm where sugar cane was raised. The owner, a Frenchman named LaCogue, allowed no Arabs to cross his land. Somewhere on the property there was a pool surrounded by large flat rocks. Around it was a nest of cobras that would supply the wants of every snake charmer in the Middle East for years.

LaCogue’s stranglehold on the source of their livelihood infuriated the street entertainers. Cobras could be obtained elsewhere, but they were getting scarce. If the Frenchman could be convinced to let someone enter his plantation, whoever did could reap enormous benefits. The tourists that had begun pouring into Casablanca after the war expected to see snake charmers, but there was this damned Frenchman in the way of so much profit.

I asked about the best means of capturing the snakes. Again the huge cobra was dumped from its basket and I was taught the movements that would enable a man to take the deadly animal with no harm to either. It took quick reflexes, but I soon mastered the technique, then bade my new friends a good night.

By the time I got home I had a plan formed. The next afternoon I would go riding. My horse just might happen to wander out of town and onto the plantation of M. LaCogue. I hoped the sugar grower would welcome a former member of the Lafayette Escadrille as his guest for the evening. Perhaps the subject of cobras would come up.

THE horse I borrowed from the Tunisian’s stable did find its way out of town and along the road leading to M. LaCogue’s plantation. By noon I was trotting between rows of sugar cane higher than my head. Rounding a curve, I saw the house down a side trail. An old Frenchman, a relic of the Franco-Prussian Wars of fifty years before, stood guard at the drive with an ancient and rusty Chassepot rifle.

I stopped to talk to the old campaigner and he confirmed that this was the property of M. Jacques LaCogue. Old Francois didn’t think his master would mind a visit from another white man, especially one who had served the cause of La Belle France.

I turned the horse’s head into the drive and in a few moments I dismounted before the house. A tall, heavy-set man stood on the veranda, eyeing me suspiciously. “May I help you?”

I glanced at the noonday sun. “Perhaps a bit of shade and a cool drink before I continue on my way, monsieur.”

LaCogue chuckled. “American, eh? Only an American or an Englishman would be out in this ungodly heat. Come inside, before you burst into flame.”

He led me into a large open room cooled by electric fans in the ceilings and arranged around the room on tall stands. From somewhere outside came the whine of a gasoline powered generator. LaCogue showed me to a seat, a large and very comfortable rattan chair. Drinks were brought on a tray by a woman in a type of garment I had never seen before. Not that I paid the sari much notice; it was the girl’s face I couldn’t tear my eyes from.

LaCogue chuckled again as I gaped at the stunning beauty of the woman. Her large almond-shaped eyes held my gaze, almost preventing me from even noting the surpassing perfection of the rest of her face or the sublime form suggested by the draping of her sari. She placed the tray on a table before us. As she stood her eyes met mine and I wondered if the cobras of Casablanca felt as I did at that moment.

She turned to go, showing the thick rope of hair that hung down her back almost to her knees. It was as black as the deepest night, except for a streak of white that twined through the braid from just below the crown of the woman’s head.

“The best investment I ever made was purchasing that woman in Kashwaribad.”

Freed at last of my fascination by her departure I took a long swig from the glass. “You purchased her? I didn’t think that was allowed anymore.”

LaCogue laughed heartily. “You Americans are so naive. You think your little Civil War put a halt to slavery. The buying and selling of human beings continues here in the East just as it has for millennia. Yes, I bought her from an old man when she was just a girl of thirteen. I was told that she was of the darkness, possessed by Shaitan himself and must leave her home or be killed by her male kinfolk. I had no idea what the old beggar meant, although I do have some notion now.”

“Her own kinfolk?”

LaCogue made a motion with his hands as of a garrote being looped and tightened. “The silken cord is the recommended cure for demonic possession and it must be administered by a relative or loved one or the possessed will return to haunt the region. Superstitious rot, of course, but it was through such idiocy that I obtained the greatest prize in my collection.”

“You have more of these … angels … wandering around?”

“My collection of Eastern artifacts, not Oriental women. She is the only sample I have of that not especially prized commodity.”

“I should think she would be of great value to any man.”

“You confuse the attitudes of the supposedly enlightened West for those of the mysterious East. Yes, we white men do place a high value on our womenfolk, or at least we pretend to. We place our mothers and sisters and sometimes our wives on pedestals and dare any other man to remove them from that safe and sanctified place. But how do we truly feel about the whore in the street, or the shop-girl or the dancer who exposes her legs for our amusement in the Folies Bergere? They are but things to be used and discarded. So it is in the East, but much more honestly, I think. Here, no woman is valued except as a commodity. And so, a man can purchase even so celestial an item as my own dear Fatima.”

I sat still, repulsed by this French pig who spoke so lightly of buying and selling beautiful women. “Fatima? An odd thing to name someone supposedly possessed by the devil.”

LaCogue smiled. “Isn’t it, though? A child named for the daughter of Mohammed himself, cast out for being allied with the Dark One. A bit of irony, eh?

“Fatima!” he called out. “More drinks!”

Again I was treated to the vision I found so enthralling. I was unable to take my eyes off hers and stared sadly at the door that closed behind her when she left the room again.

“I can see why you say she’s the best investment you ever made,” I said. I felt ill at the thought of this gross Frenchman possessing the lovely girl. “She must be … I mean … excuse me, I don’t know what I meant to say.”

LaCogue laughed again. “Of course you know exactly what you meant to say, my young friend. You were wanting to know if her performance in bed matches her appearance. The truth is, I have no idea. As far as I know she is as yet a virgin.”

I must have looked surprised. He said, “I know what you are thinking, M. Jensen. I assure you that I have the usual inclinations regarding the fair sex. Don’t think I haven’t considered calling her to my bed. I have no doubt that she would come willingly. The question is whether or not I should survive such an encounter.”

LaCogue set down his glass and leaned forward, tapping me on the knee. “The truth is, I am more than a little afraid of her. There is something dark and unholy about her. Haven’t you sensed it? Consider the fascination she inflicts on any man near her. Yes, she is undoubtedly beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman you or I will ever see in our lifetimes. But does that explain the way one cannot remove one’s gaze from her eyes?

“Aha, I perceive that you are as smitten with her eyes as I am. As every man who has ever seen her has been. And yet, if one can only tear one’s gaze from the perfect loveliness of her eyes, one would notice that there is much more to Fatima than that. Her shape is exquisite, her features of unearthly perfection. And yet, no man can see her without being drawn deep into her eyes, like a mouse caught in the gaze of a serpent.”

LaCogue leaned back. “I have seen much more of the world than you have, my dear American. Perhaps by the time you reach my age you will understand why it is I have lived with this gorgeous creature for more than ten years, and she is as yet unviolated.”

I saw fear in my host’s eyes, but there was something else as well. Pride? Avarice? I couldn’t tell. He continued, “However, she does have uses for which no other is suited. She is my most capable and valued assistant. It is she who makes the running of this plantation possible.” LaCogue drained his glass and called for more.

“Enough of this talk,” LaCogue said as Fatima re-entered the room with fresh drinks. Our eyes followed her around the room as she replaced the tray with a new one. As she turned to go LaCogue said to her, “Play for me, Fatima. Play for my new American friend.”

Fatima turned her gaze to her master’s. For a long she regarded him blankly but eventually she sighed and nodded. Placing the empty tray on a sideboard she turned and took down an exotic stringed instrument from a hook on the wall.

She arranged herself on a divan and began plinking at the strings. The tune was as alien to my ears as if it had been composed on the moon, yet it had a thread running through the pattern it wove in the air that was reminiscent of … what? I couldn’t decide. There was within the tune a recurrent theme that entranced with its just inaccessible familiarity.

As the sound drew me into its power, I became vaguely aware that Fatima was swaying to the music, her head moving sinuously atop her long neck, the one bared shoulder twitching to the rhythm, the graceful hands deftly manipulating the strings. How long she held me rapt I could never afterwards say. I only know that I sank further and further into the black depths of her eyes, searching in them for a sign that she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

The horrible remembrances of the war faded as I drifted further into the song of Fatima and fell deeper into the abyss of her eyes. Yes, I thought, I will devote my life to your service, my fair Fatima; yes, I will be your slave…

And then the spell was broken. With a start I saw that Fatima had stopped playing and was staring up at LaCogue. He stood over her, trembling. From his pocket he withdrew an object, I could not tell what. LaCogue held it before him so that only Fatima could see it. Her eyes widened and her breath caught as she stared at whatever it was LaCogue held out. Her gaze shifted back and forth between his hands and face until at length he finally put the object back in his pocket and turned to face me.

“Eh, a pleasant interlude, non?” LaCogue wiped his face with a dirty handkerchief. “Thank you, Fatima, for entertaining us so engagingly.” Fatima rose and replaced the instrument on the hook above the sideboard. She turned and bowed to me. And then she was gone.

LaCogue plopped heavily into his chair and ran a hand over his face. Recovering he sat forward. “So, M. Jensen, I hope you will do me the honor of staying with us tonight? I believe we can accommodate you, and you may continue on your way in the morning.”

I cleared my throat. “I really should be getting back to Casablanca…”

“Nonsense, monsieur. It’s already getting dark. The journey would be foolhardy. Come, it is settled. Allow me to show you to your rooms. You may refresh yourself and perhaps rest a bit before dinner. I’ll call for you at eight.”

I agreed to stay, for by morning I intended to possess myself of two things; the location of the cobra pool, and the heart of the lovely Fatima!

Dinner was very pleasant. LaCogue was an engaging and hospitable host and we swapped stories and jokes and snatches of songs until well after dark. I had to be assisted to my rooms by one of LaCogue’s servants, but not by Fatima. Much to my disappointment the exotic beauty was absent from the festivities.

The subject of cobras had come up as we talked. LaCogue told me that there was indeed a nest of the beasts on the property, but declined to offer its location. I did not pursue the issue.

After the servant left me I lay back under the mosquito netting. One of my goals was frustrated; the other was likely to be as well. There had been no sign of Fatima since that afternoon. I closed my eyes, hoping to dream of her.

I had no opportunity. A rustle at my side roused me. I looked out and saw Fatima slipping under the netting. She held her finger up to her lips.

I nodded in understanding and pulled aside the sheet. She smiled and let the sari slip away and fall to the floor.

AFTER Fatima left me I followed her as stealthily as I could. She went straight to the rear veranda where LaCogue stood waiting, smoking a cigar.

“Well? What does he want?” the Frenchman asked her.

“What you thought he did.”

“The cobras, eh? Well, perhaps we should give them to him.”

Fatima hissed and stepped forward. LaCogue turned and held out his hands. I couldn’t see what he had in them but Fatima recoiled as if burned.

“Remember this, my dear Fatima. As long as I have this you will do as I say. Now, get to your room. We have much to do tomorrow.”

I managed to get back to my own room unseen, but it was nearly morning before I fell asleep.

I WAS awakened by a servant dragging a tub into my room. After my bath I wandered into the dining room for breakfast. I saw my LaCogue at the table, sitting very still.

“Good morning,” I said cheerily as I circled the room. LaCogue said nothing, nor did he move a muscle.

Realizing that something was wrong I came around my host’s chair. The reason for LaCogue’s abnormal stiffness was coiled on the table before him. It was a cobra, head up and hood flared.

I moved slowly around the perimeter of the room until I was in LaCogue’s ten o’clock position, then very slowly advanced towards the table. As I did I moved my head from side to side. This caught the snake’s attention. It turned to face me as I writhed my way closer to it. It began to match my movements. I raised my hands out to the sides but kept the reptile focused on my head.

“LaCogue, scoot your chair back very, very slowly. Do not make any motions side to side. I have his attention but the wrong move on your part will distract him. You don’t want that and neither do I.”

“Won’t he hear me?”

“Snakes are deaf. He isn’t hearing you now, is he? Go on. If you move straight back you should be all right.”

I was almost face to face with the venomous creature. It was mimicking my every move now. Slowly, gradually I brought my hands around to either side of it.

Very few people realize that the human hand moves much faster than the striking head of a snake. Capturing a serpent is simply a matter of timing. I knew I had the speed; I hoped I had the skill.

I did. As the snake was entranced by my motions I reached over and grabbed it around the neck, just below the head. With a hiss the cobra wrapped the steely length of its body around my arm, but I had it. A burlap bag was brought and soon the cobra was unable to harm anyone.

LaCogue kissed me on both cheeks, a French habit I’ve always found a little off-putting. “M. Jensen, I owe you my life!”

“Think nothing of it, monsieur. I only wish I’d thought to carry my pistol.”

“You did well enough without it. I must be allowed to repay your kindness.”

“Please, there’s nothing I need. I owe you already for taking a stranger into your home yesterday. Let’s just call it even.”

“Mais, non, monsieur. I must insist. Please, whatever I own, you have but to ask for it. It will be yours.”

“No, no, I couldn’t dream of it.”

“I beg of you. Choose any one of my possessions. Just one. It would make an old man happy to repay so generous an act.”

I shrugged. There was no arguing with a Frenchman in the throes of grateful generosity. “Very well, M. LaCogue. Anything?”

“Anything at all.”

“Even Fatima?”

His eyes narrowed. “Fatima? Surely monsieur jests. Something else, perhaps. Anything else.”

“No, I can think of nothing else I desire so much as Fatima.”

“I thought you Yankees were opposed to slavery.”

“Perhaps I shall free her.”

“What will she do for herself, in that case?”

“Whatever she chooses, I imagine.”

He had the girl summoned. Wiping his brow he begged again for me to reconsider, but I declined.

“Monsieur,” LaCogue said, “I mentioned last night the cobra pool on my land.”

“Yes, I recall that the subject came up.”

“A man with quick hands like yours could do very well for himself. Live cobras are prized by many people.”

“Such as?”

He shrugged. “Zoos, collectors, snake charmers…”

“So, I give up my claim to the fair Fatima and you give me access to this pool and all the cobras therein?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe we should ask Fatima what she thinks about this.”

“As you value your life and mine, monsieur, do not put such a question to her. There is truth in what the old beggar who sold her to me said. There is a devil in her, and it shows itself whenever the subject of those cobras arises.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know. What I do know is that she is fanatical regarding the matter. Please. She’ll be here in a moment. Not a word, I beg of you!”

“Very well. For the time being I say nothing. I’ll consider the offer and let you know presently what I decide.”

At that moment Fatima entered the dining room and LaCogue excused himself. I sat beside her at the table and looked around to make sure we were alone. When I turned to face her she leaned over and kissed me. “I know the option you have been given. I hope you will make the right choice,” she said.

“You know what I came here to get.”

“Yes, but would it be so terrible to get me instead?”

“If I had my choice, I might take both you and the cobras.”

“If you truly knew me you wouldn’t even suggest such a thing.”

“You make it hard to come to a logical decision.”

“I don’t want you to make a logical decision. I want you to decide with your heart.”

Most people would think that any normal, healthy twenty-four year old male would accept her offer and run away with this beautiful, desirable woman. What kind of idiot would refuse a lifetime of living with and loving such a goddess in preference to a musty old plane or some snakes?

THIS kind of idiot would.

I left Fatima in the dining room and sought out my host. I had weighed the options carefully and decided that a woman was like an omnibus. If you miss one, another would be along shortly. Such a foolish young man I was.

At that moment all I could see was the money to be made by capturing and selling cobras. Once I’d accumulated enough wealth I could talk with LaCogue about purchasing Fatima’s freedom. That should fix it so I wound up with both the snakes and the girl.

LaCogue was, of course, delighted with my decision. The planter called Old Francois from the driveway and told the old man to show me the snake pond.

Francois led me down to the stables. “Here’s your horse, monsieur, and here’s mine. This should take most of the morning, so I hope you have had breakfast?”

“I’m fine. Lead on.”

“Very well, monsieur. Follow me, if you please.”

We set out on a long and winding path through the sugar cane. Eventually the cane fields gave way to desert and out into the Sahara we went. Not too far, however. Within an hour we reached an oasis and Francois dismounted. He checked over his ancient rifle and nodded at me to follow.

Down through some brush the old man forced his way until I could smell the water of the pool. Francois knelt and pushed aside a bit of tall grass and held it for me to see.

Beyond was a paradise in the midst of hell. A glorious pool of crystal clear water lay there, fed by a gurgling spring that leapt from a cleft in a large rock. All around were fig trees and date palms and beyond those the lifeless waste of the greatest desert on the planet. And nesting in this little version of Eden were hundreds of the deadliest snakes on Earth.

“Ah, we are in luck, monsieur. The Queen Bitch is not here.”

“The Queen Bitch?” I asked.

“Oui, monsieur. A great cobra of incredible length, twenty feet long if she’s an inch. A pale brown face and a hood as black as night. When she sees me she hisses and sends her children to bite me.” The old man chuckled. “For all the good it does them.”

“How do you mean?”

“Heh, heh, heh. Old Francois is immune to their venom. My mother was bitten by one of these devils while she carried me in her womb. Maman survived, and from the day I was born no cobra can harm me. These bastards have sunk fangs in me hundreds of times, and likely will hundreds more. The poison has no effect at all. I go to La Femme Noir to get the wounds tended because they might still fester. She only asks that if I can ever kill the Queen Bitch, I take the snake’s body to her to make potions with.”

“La Femme Noir?”

“Oui. She is an old woman of the South, black as the Heart of Satan, and almost as evil. She is of the Juju people, worshippers of Damballa. Her god is a snake, so she wants this great serpent to make communion with her god. That is what I think, anyway.”

“So, the Queen Bitch controls the others?”

“Mais, oui. When she is here, they obey her whims.”

“Where is she now?”

Francois shrugged. “Who can say? Many times I come here to watch the devils and she is gone. I do not know where.”

“Why don’t you just shoot her, and these others?”

“M. LaCogue forbids it. He says he prefers the great serpent alive. And as long as she is alive, I am forbidden to kill the others. But still I come here, and I tell them that someday I will kill them all.”

“Why would he want this snake alive?”

“I don’t know. He did say something once about a curse, but I know nothing of that.

“Come, monsieur. Here is a burlap bag. Let’s fill it with cobras before the Queen Bitch returns. See how sluggish they are in this heat. It should be easy to catch a good number.”

And so it was. Francois and I returned to the plantation well supplied with slithering livestock.

LaCogue met us on the veranda. “Ah, I see you had good hunting. I am delighted. How long before you can clear the beasts out entirely?”

I looked at him in astonishment. “Entirely? LaCogue, there must be hundreds of snakes at that pool. I can’t stay here forever. My employer is waiting for to return to Casablanca.”

“Forget that fat Tunisian. I have sent your resignation by messenger. From today forward, we are partners, you and I.”

We drank a toast a few minutes later and the snakes were crated and sent to Casablanca that evening. Some went to snake charmers, some to collectors of odd pets, many went to zoos all over the world. If you’ve seen a cobra in the reptile house of your local Zoological Gardens, it’s probably descended from that one I caught in 1919. I know for a fact there are several grandchildren of my snakes in the London Zoo. We can go visit them tomorrow, if you gentlemen like.

I saw very little of Fatima for the next few weeks. I was so busy amassing the money I would need to purchase the Spad I hardly noticed her absence. LaCogue did mention at dinner one night that she was doing some shopping in Casablanca. Another time she was sent to a distant part of the plantation to mediate some dispute among the hands. I was assured these were not unusual duties, but I was too busy to be concerned anyway. Soon enough she would come to my bed again, I thought. Soon enough we’d leave this place together and she would never again be LaCogue’s to order about.

The day came when Old Francois was careless enough to get bitten. I wrapped his hand in a handkerchief, then packed up the day’s catch and helped the old man onto his horse. We set out across the desert and soon reached the fringes of the plantation. Away from the huts of the field hands he guided me to a shack next to an open area, in the middle of which were the remains of a huge bonfire.

“This is where they have their ceremonies. Judging from the ashes last night must have been an unusually festive occasion. Madam!” he called out. “I need your assistance, s’il vous plais!”

“Come in,” an ancient voice said from within the hut. I helped Francois through the blanket-covered opening and into the smoky hovel.

The woman inside was as black as night and as old as the Atlas Mountains. There was not a tooth in her head, nor was there a hair on her scalp, although there was plenty on her chin. My stomach crawled at the sight and smell of her but I was there to help a friend and perhaps learn something.

“Ah, Francois, you old fool!” she cackled. “Give me your hand so I may cleanse the wound. Who’s your friend?”

I was introduced and she told me to take a seat while she dressed Francois’ injury. “So,” she said as she applied exotic herbs and ointments. “You lust after the master’s girl, eh?”

I couldn’t understand how the old woman knew that. I just nodded.

“You know nothing about her. Perhaps it would be best to leave her be.”

“I believe I love her.”

“Perhaps you think you do. Perhaps you think she loves you, too. Do you know what she is?”

“Maybe she is an Afghan princess, accidentally sold to a gross Frenchman.”

Madam cackled. “Perhaps, monsieur. Perhaps. And perhaps she is something else altogether.

“I understand you have gone into business with the master regarding the snakes at the pool in the desert.”

“Yes, I have.”

“You catch them, he sells them for you. You make money to buy your plane as well as your woman.”

“You know a great deal, Madam.”

She cackled again. “Yes, yes I do. How will you kill the Queen Bitch?”

“I had intended to capture her. She should bring a great price.”

“You will never capture that one. If you ever encounter her you will be fortunate to escape with your life. Only Old Francois could possibly survive a close meeting with that one, and that is questionable. He may be immune to her venom, but not her caress. She will give you a hug that will take your breath away, eh, Francois?” She cackled yet again.

“Mais, oui, Madam. M. Jensen, this snake is capable of crushing a man in her coils. It is true, I do not fear her bite. It is her embrace that worries me.”

“A wise man, Francois. You would do well to heed his warnings. And yet, should the time come Francois will have what he needs to kill the Queen Bitch.” She waved at the antiquated Chassepot. “I have provided the ammunition that can end her dire existence.”

“The bullets in that old thing?”

Francois raised his grizzled eyebrow. “Young sir, that weapon carried me through more than one campaign. I have lasted as long as I have because of her.”

“Sorry, Francois,” I said.

“I forgive you, because I was once as young and foolish as you. Merci, Madam.” She was finished fixing up his hand and went to put away the dressings and ointments. When she came back she handed me a single bullet in a brass casing.

“Here, monsieur. If you would deal with this Queen Bitch of a cobra, you will have to have one of these. Francois has one, although he might as well have never gotten it. It will kill that snake, and any other creature of its ilk. Any child of Satan is susceptible to its power. Go on, take it.

“Now go. I need my sleep.”

AS the job neared completion a few weeks later, Francois said to me, “I do not understand why it is that we’ve never seen the Queen Bitch. She is usually at the pool at least half the times when I have come, but we’ve never found her here yet. Very odd.”

“Well, I’m not complaining,” I said. “After today the pool will be rid of these monsters and I’ll have more than enough money to obtain clear title to my airplane. I must thank you, Francois, for your very kind assistance.”

“You are very welcome, young monsieur. There, that is the last of them. Shall we return?”

The trip back to the plantation was long and tiring. I put the last few cobras in the cages out by the stables and trudged to the house. I was about to retire when a noise attracted my attention. Something had fallen over and broken. Several more crashes echoed through the house and I rushed from my room to see what the matter was.

It was in the dining room that I found the cause of the commotion. My partner, M. LaCogue, was holding the beauteous Fatima across the dining room table as he strangled her with a silken cord!

I rushed forward and grasped his wrists. “Stop it!” I cried. “Stop!”

He shouldered me aside. “Get away from me, you fool!” Fatima struggled on the table, her head lying back over the edge, face darkening, heels striking the tabletop. She dug at the soft flesh of her throat, trying desperately to rip the cord loose. LaCogue had it pulled so tight it had almost sunk out of sight into the skin.

I pulled a knife from my boot and flashed it at the length of cord closest to LaCogue’s left hand. The burly Frenchman moved so that the blade sliced through his sleeve but didn’t cut him or, unfortunately, the cord. Once again he put his shoulder into my chest and the knife went skittering across the tiled floor.

I was at last desperate enough to pull my pistol. Fatima was lying limp on the table, her tongue protruding and eyes rolled back. In seconds she would die. I placed the Luger’s muzzle against LaCogue’s temple.

Sweat ran down the Frenchman’s face as he released his grip on the ends of the cord and stepped back. His eyes were dark and flat as he said, “Fool. You may have doomed us all.” He turned and ran from the room, calling for old Francois.

I loosened the cord from Fatima’s throat. I held the gasping girl and repeatedly kissed the tender bruised flesh as I carried her to my room and lay her on the bed. I stared helplessly as she coughed and gasped, rubbing her poor ravaged throat.

At length she calmed and her breathing became normal.

“My God,” I said hoarsely. “That was close. What was that idiot thinking about? He must have gone insane.”

She motioned for me to go, then held her hand up as if holding a cup. “You want something to drink?” She nodded. I patted her hand. “I’ll be right back.”

I ran to the kitchen and soon returned with a glass of wine. I was pleasantly surprised to see her sitting up in the bed, looking very little the worse for wear. I handed her the glass and she thanked me in her normal voice.

She must have sensed my amazement. She said, “My people are known for resssiliencccy. I take it you have cleared the pool of all itssss cobrasss?”

“Yes, Francois and I finished this afternoon. The last of them are caged outside. I don’t know what we’ll do with them, what with LaCogue having gone mad. He had the contacts to sell them.”

She fixed her large, black eyes on mine. “You will releassse them. Take them back to the pool.”

I couldn’t tear my eyes from hers. “No … no, I couldn’t do that…”

“Yessss, you can, Wilmer.” She rose straight up out of the bed and pressed herself to me. Her arms entwined sinuously around my neck. “If you do, you sssshall have me forever, Wilmer. I sssshall be yourssss, body and sssoul.”

“Yes, my love…” I stammered. “I must … return the snakes…” Somehow she managed to get her legs wrapped around my lower body all the way from my ankles to my waist. I swayed there in the bedroom, totally fascinated by her luminous and unblinking eyes.

“You will forget thissss desssire for thisss plane of yoursss … you will love only Fatima…”

“Yes … no … the plane … Fatima … forget … no … can’t forget … the plane…”

The face that floated before me changed. The nose elongated, the mouth spread out and the skin grew scaly. The eyes never wavered from mine as the pupils narrowed to vertical slits. The soft arms that embraced me shivered and became the coils of a huge cobra. The night-black hair became the hood of the Queen Bitch that Old Francois had talked about. I was helpless in the grasp of the immense cobra that seconds before had been the woman I loved.

“You have been a very bad boy, Wilmer. You ssstole my children…”

“Yes…”

“You musssst be punisssshed, Wilmer…”

The huge slavering jaws stretched wide as the head of the cobra descended towards my upturned face. Around my body the coils tightened, driving the breath from my body. I felt my ribs being forced in on my lungs, causing indescribable pain. The bones in my back creaked under the pressure. Venom dripped from the fangs and Fatima prepared to strike.

“Goodbye, Wilmer…”

The loud crack I heard next was not, as I expected, my spinal column, but a bullet from faithful Old Francois’ rifle. It entered the head of the great serpent through the open mouth poised away inches from my face. I was thrown across the room to fetch up by the door as the great serpent thrashed out the last seconds of its unnatural life. Before my wits had fully cleared the snake lay still.

“I should have let her have you,” Francois said as he and LaCogue helped me to my feet. “But, I suppose I cannot blame you. You thought Monsieur was killing the girl of your dreams. You couldn’t know what she really was. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I think so. What the hell happened?”

LaCogue said, “Fatima was a Naga, a half-human, half-serpent creature of the mysterious East. Let’s go into the other room and I will explain as best I understand.”

Francois and LaCogue helped me to the big rattan chair. I sat gingerly, still feeling the constricting embrace of the huge snake. Francois brought drinks.

“That was a close thing back there. I believe you really would have killed me.” He shrugged. “I knew I was playing a dangerous game but the hold Fatima had on me had to end tonight. With the last of the cobras captured she was helpless against me.” He turned to Francois. “Thank you, old friend, for staying your hand these many years. I know you cannot have understood, so I will try to explain.

“When I took Fatima from that beggar in Kashwaribad I had only a vague idea of what she was. The man had mentioned a word ‘Naga’ but it meant nothing to me. It was only as she grew into a beautiful young woman that I came to realize how strange she truly was. She always had an abnormal fascination for snakes. When she was eighteen I found her lying naked in a nest of cobras. In horror I strode in with a machete, but she stayed my hand. She warned me that if I dared harm any of her friends she would have the rest kill me. She also told me that if I ever harmed her, then ‘her children’, as she called them, would seek me out and destroy me.

“I brought her here to this place soon thereafter and she installed her ‘children’ in the pool that had once been such a favored spot. Only you, old friend, dared go near the place anymore. She went to them as often as possible, and it was indeed she who was the serpent you called the ‘Queen Bitch’. Look at the back of its hood, if you can stand to return to that room, M. Jensen. You will see a white stripe against the black scales. Remember that odd streak of white in her hair?”

“Yes, but, it’s all so insane. No human can become a snake!”

Francois refilled my glass. “We both saw the evidence that you are very much mistaken, monsieur.”

“Yes, I suppose we did.” I winced as I swallowed the liquor, but the pain was starting to fade.

LaCogue smiled at the old man. “Thank God you came to work for me, Francois. You were the one thing that saved me when she grew powerful enough to destroy me. She feared you as she feared no human. Your immunity became mine, for I convinced her that if anything should happen to me that you would kill her and all the other snakes. Luckily she believed that and for five years we lived with this uneasy truce between us.

“M. Jensen, it was your coming that tipped the balance of power our way, because of your ability to capture the cobras, her ‘children’, without killing them. She would have sensed their deaths, but as long as they lived we were safe, even if they were removed. I managed to keep her close to the house while you two worked but I believe she overheard you telling me this morning that the job was almost done. I knew we could expect her revenge on us all tonight for taking her ‘children’. But she forgot that I had the one weapon she had reason to fear, besides Francois’ rifle. The silken cord is proof against her kind in their human form, just as the old beggar told me.

“Unfortunately, M. Jensen, you did not understand what I was about, how desperate our situation truly was. However, you held your hand, which preserved not only my life but also for you the moneys earned for the snakes you and Francois captured. Had you killed me you’d never have seen any of that money. Only I can access those funds. I do apologize; had I known the situation would reach this crisis so soon I should have made other arrangements.” He smiled and raised his glass. “Thank God, monsieur, that such will not be necessary. You may return to France on the morrow, and your plane shall be redeemed.”

Francois delivered Fatima’s reptilian corpse to LaFemme Noir and I found my way back to Paris. Although I did fritter away some of the money, I eventually was able to buy the plane and get it to the States. There were a few other adventures, some rather mundane, some quite as exciting as the episode of the cobras. Remind me sometime to relate a few of them to you.

WITH that, Major Jensen flicked his wrist and the paper shot back up in front of his face. Moreland said, “Now, what about that bullet the old hag gave you, sir? Did you ever get to use it? Or do you still have it?”

From behind the paper the Major responded, “That’s another story, for a different time.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

NO SHARP THING By Barry Hollander

LITTLE Jamie drew the short stick, so I wiped dirt from his face, slicked down his hair. He looked at me with eyes that belonged on some stuffed animal and whispered low enough the others wouldn’t hear.

“Gant. I’m scared.”

It was bad enough being so hungry we had to mug a perv, but the worst was playing the bait. The little ones all took a turn, all except Dirty Red. Nothing would help that scar on his face. “Don’t worry. We’ve all done this. Just don’t get near the cars, okay? Later we’ll eat.”

That got his attention. We hadn’t had much of anything except what we scrounged from dumpsters. The kids scooped up bricks and rocks, then made like ghosts in the alley. Pervs trolled all night on Claiborne, cruising along in shiny cars in hopes of spotting a loner, some kid so desperate he’d do almost anything for a bite to eat. Dumpster diving was one thing, and so was rolling a perv when things got bad enough, but none of our kids sold themselves. Susie and I made sure of that.

“Remember,” I told him. “Lure the guy into the alley. We’ll be waiting.”

He nodded. Scared, but nodded. If it worked, we’d whack the guy until he fell and then a little more to be sure, take whatever we could find and run like hell. Later we’d get some food from one of the all-nighters, decent stuff rather than the thin soup and preaching they made you listen to down at the kitchen. Mugging a perv wasn’t something we tried every day, otherwise the cops got interested, but some of the little ones were looking at dirt like it was edible. They expected Susie and me to do something about it, even though we weren’t much older than them.

In this part of Claiborne the electricity didn’t work all that well and it was mostly gray buildings and gray streets, a few people pushing grocery carts and hoping for a handout. The big kid gangs didn’t like it much, the dark. Nothing worth stealing from people who had to start fires to push back the night.

Jamie walked out toward the street.

Headlights bounced off the buildings. Some of those cars were rolling tanks that rich people used to get from point A to point B and taking no chances between the two, arms with guns that could spray a street with rubber bullets. We never messed with them.

Jamie hesitated and I knew why. Last time he drew the short stick, a guy almost snagged him. Lucky that Susie ran up at the last second, smacked the perv in the head right there on the street in front of the passing cars, then dragged him to safety.

Headlights painted him with light, then moved on. A car slowed, dark glass sliding down so the driver could get a better peek. He must not have liked what he saw, cause the car never stopped. Another rolled by, stopped. The glass opened, a hand beckoned from the window. Jamie stood his ground. Good boy, I whispered to myself. Bring him to you. Back into the alley.

The guy drove away.

From behind I heard a stomach grumble.

Things went his way for a while until an old car squeaked to a stop. Instead of a hand motioning for Jamie to come closer, a flashlight beam stabbed out at his face. Jamie put a hand up to shield his eyes, but kept looking into the light.

“Daddy?”

Smart move. Pervs, they gobble that up.

The driver leaned out his window, said something I couldn’t make out. Jamie inched back, froze again. It’s like fishing, I told them. You toss out the bait, wait for a nibble, set the hook and reel them in. They all gave me funny looks I couldn’t figure out until Susie told me none of them knew what fishing was. Jamie backed another step, moving stiff like an old dog getting up from a long nap. One of the kids behind me shuffled, trying to get a comfortable spot. Or maybe it was just a rat. The car door opened and a hand motioned Jamie to come closer, but he stood there, body shaking.

Hold on, I told him in my mind. Bring the guy to us.

Like a fish on a hook, the man stepped out of his car.

Not your usual perv. A young guy in jeans and a dark shirt, tall and fit. The fat ones moved slower and even if they were strong you could usually nail them. This guy might be trouble. I had a whistle for times when things went wrong and we were to scatter. I had fingers to my mouth ready to blow when Jamie stumbled back another step.

The man edged closer, then stopped.

“A nice try,” he said loud enough for us to hear. “I may be a fool, but I’m not fool enough to walk into that alley.”

Damn. Dirty Red stiffened next to me. “Let’s go,” he whispered. I heard more shuffling, something heavy scrape over the pavement. Susie, probably. She was always protective of the little ones, the first to jump in if trouble brewed. She hadn’t taken any crap off anyone since the time one of the big boy gangs grabbed her for a while, until she finally got free and made it back to us. Never said what happened, just came back with her clothes ripped, bruises on her face and other places. Since then she always had something hard or sharp in her hands.

The man put his arms out. No weapon.

“I am not here to hurt anyone,” he said. “Not this child, not any of you. I want to talk.”

Little Jamie stood like a zombie. I felt Susie ease up next to me and tug at my shirt.

“Get him out of there,” she whispered. In her hand was a hunk of metal with a corner to it like a hook. Lord knows where she found it.

The perv just stood there, waiting.

“I want to talk,” he said again. “I am willing to pay. Money or food. Both.”

Susie gave me a look, then rolled her eyes.

“Jamie,” she said, loud enough for the perv to hear. “Come back.”

The kid just stood, his body shaking. Frozen stiff. The perv must have heard her, because he took another step and a passing car lit up the smile on his face. Nobody around here ever smiled, or if they did it was right before they stuck you, or just after they stole from you. Either way, a smile meant trouble.

If everyone scattered, Jamie would be dead meat. The guy would have him, or Susie would run out and try to take his head off and end up getting hurt as well. A cop would be good about now, but the odds of seeing a cop were about the same as seeing a nun.

“Stay,” I said to Susie, then stood.

“Talk about what?” I held my club next to my body so he couldn’t see it in the dark.

“Your young friend won’t move,” he said. “Not until I allow it. The spell I used is quite effective.”

“Right,” I said. “Not allow it.” Great, a nutcase, as if they weren’t all nutcases, but now we had one who claimed he did magic. Susie stood next to me, not even trying to hide what was in her hand. The perv could be the bogeyman and she wouldn’t care. The guy looked at us, put his hands out again.

“I am unarmed. I need your help. I want to talk to you about finding someone.” He hesitated. “Someone like me.”

Susie snorted. “Another creepy perv? Look out there and take your pick.”

He shook his head. “No girl,” he said. “Someone like me. Someone who uses magic.”

BRYCE, he called himself. We met later at Jim’s, an all-nighter with steel mesh over the windows, one narrow door, and this awful music he pumped out of two cheap speakers to keep customers from hanging around too long. People walked in with money or stuff they had stolen, walked out again with food or booze or smokes. Nobody robbed Jim, not since the time he nearly cut two guys in half with his shotgun. He didn’t keep the thing under the counter like any sane person, just held it in one hand while making change with the other.

The kids sat off to the side eating microwave burritos. Susie made sure everyone had a fair share.

Bryce hadn’t said much, just sipped a cup of coffee and watched as we organized the food and drink and spent his twenty bucks as fast as we could before he changed his mind. He made a face at the coffee and set it aside.

“You do a nice job, the two of you, keeping them together. Almost like a family.”

Susie sat down. “Yeah, he’s Ozzie and I’m Harriet.” Next to her was a rock. In her pocket I knew there was a small knife, and in her sock she kept a can of pepper spray. Probably she had other stuff even I didn’t know about.

Bryce was maybe in his 30s, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, a tanned face. Not the beach baby kind of tan, but the look of a guy who had worked a lot in the sun. Soft gray eyes. He had laughed when Susie positioned herself between him and Jamie like a bitch watching a pup, then his eyes showed something else; hurt, maybe, that someone would think he would prey on a little kid.

Well, looks don’t mean much. Soft eyes could still watch you bleed to death.

“I need help,” he finally said. “Someone who knows the streets in the part of town where the electricity hardly works.”

Susie picked at something in her burrito and flicked it away. “That narrows it down a lot.”

“It does.” He picked up his coffee again, made a face as he took a swallow. “I’ve looked around, checked the city records, spent some time accessing the right information. There’s a woman I’m looking for, one who will live as close as she can to people but as far away from electricity as she can manage.”

Susie stopped halfway into a bite of her burrito. I put up my hand to keep her quiet.

“Mister, how’d you keep Jamie from running away? He says he couldn’t move, like his feet were stuck in glue.”

Bryce crumpled the cup, looked as if he wanted a trash can. Like anyone ever used a can. Our bench was an island in a sea of plastic wrappers, cups, bags, the refuse of life this side of Canal Street. Bugs flew in thick clouds around the one big floodlight Jim kept trained on the lot. Bryce glanced around, shrugged and dropped the cup.

“I did it exactly as I said. Magic.”

Susie eased from her seat. She had one hand in her pocket, the other near her mouth like she wanted to barf back the burrito.

Magic.

Years ago, a bunch of LA fruitcakes figured it all out, probably by accident after too many drugs. Magic, spells, the whole thing. They promised to solve the world’s problems, to cure disease, to take care of us all. Even the smallest of my kids knew what happened next, how they started churning out magic stuff, how the governments and churches freaked. Wizards, they called themselves, and they started training a few people. Did some good things, or so my old man told me before he died, then good turned to bad to just plain weird. Jobs disappeared, businesses closed, the economy crumbled. People blamed the wizards and things got real ugly. The magic people went into hiding.

He looked at me, at Susie. The kids were still caught up in their food and not paying any attention.

“I believe you,” I said.

He seemed surprised. “Really? Why?”

“Simple. Nobody would admit to something like that unless it was true.” Plus I had spoken to Jamie. Sure, he’d been scared, but not so scared he couldn’t move if he had to. Magic made as much sense as anything else, though I never thought I’d meet anyone who used it. I figured them for all being dead.

He nodded at my words. “Good point. Listen, it’s like this. A wizard is hiding here, a woman with black hair, about my age, pale skin and pretty. Real pretty. I need to find her.”

“Why?”

He sighed and his gray eyes had the same look in them as when Susie thought he was a perv.

“Simple,” he said. “I have to kill her.”

HE explained it all, some of which I knew, some of it I didn’t, especially that magic didn’t work near electricity.

“Magic doesn’t work in a vacuum,” he said. “You have to be around people because it steals the one thing humanity can’t afford to lose, but people can’t resist doing it, can’t resist having what it offers, the power, the rush. It’s an addiction.”

Big words, said Susie, but why ask us? Big kid gangs had more muscle, cops had more guns. Even the winos saw more than we did. He smiled like he’d seen her for the first time.

“You’re smart. You get around. And I’m in a hurry.”

“To kill someone,” Susie said. “You mentioned that.”

The kids were nearly finished eating. I motioned for Susie to check them one last time. She frowned at me, then shrugged.

She took the rock with her.

We cut a deal, the magic guy and me. First off, he’d pay us for what we already knew. He figured we might have seen the woman before, and he was right. Probably she kept to one building or had someone else run errands, buying food and gear. I’d tell him what we knew already for cash, then he’d pay us again if I found the exact place she lived. A sweet setup, with fifty bucks now, a hundred if we found her place, more money than we’d see in ten years.

“Gant,” he said. “This is important and dangerous. You’re older than the rest, smart too. That little hellcat might be tough, but it’s clear you’re the leader here. Don’t take any chances with your kids, but it’s like this: I’ve got to know where she’s hiding.”

I didn’t like him using my name like he knew me, and I didn’t like him thinking I’d risk one of my kids for his lousy money. Something had been bugging me through this whole mess. Well, a lot of things bugged me, like sitting and talking to some self-proclaimed wizard with an urge to kill somebody, but one thing bothered me more than most. How did he know to look here?

He grinned. “Professional secret. Let’s just say your city demonstrates a deplorable lack of wit, even when compared to its peers.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Plus, sections of the city being without electricity makes it a prime candidate. And something else.” He leaned close. “Sometimes one wizard can smell another one, like a dog sniffing a tree. She’s here, and close.”

I spilled what I knew for his fifty bucks and we arranged to meet in two nights back at Jim’s. He seemed okay with that, said he had something else to take care of before dealing with the woman. By then Susie had returned, hefting the rock for effect.

The next morning I split us into two groups. Susie headed out with her crew, me with mine. Moving around in daytime was dangerous. Night was dangerous too, but in a different way. Sure enough, after a few questions to the right winos, a little peeking in dirty corners and a little luck, we nailed the place by that night. There was this line of buildings full of broken windows and no electricity, except one building still had some glass and later, when it got dark, you could see yellow light sneaking out behind some curtains. Had to be the one.

Bryce showed up in the same clothes but his face tired, like he’d skipped a night or two of sleep. He drank coffee, gulped it. His hand shook and some of it spilled.

“Sorry,” he said. “Been busy.”

“Yeah? Us too. Found your gal.”

His shoulders sagged.

“What’s wrong? Thought you wanted us to find her.”

“Not so soon,” he said. “I lost someone last night, the guy who normally helps me. This woman, she wasn’t the only one in your fair city.”

Susie shrugged. “Then wait. She’s not going anywhere, not with her building and the guy out front keeping an eye on her front door. We still get paid.” She didn’t have a rock this time. Instead, she was picking at her nails with that knife of hers. He seemed to be thinking about it. You could see it in his eyes, that he’d rather be somewhere else, doing something else. The kids were giggling and munching on hotdogs. Two days in a row they had laughed. That was something.

He looked over and gave a little smile, like he’d noticed them for the first time. Or maybe he just didn’t see kids much.

“Listen, mister,” I said. “We tell you where she is, you pay us for our trouble. That’s the deal. What you do after or when you do it, that’s your business.”

He acted like he hadn’t listened.

“A guard? Damned trusting of her. I wouldn’t have thought it.”

He looked hard at me. “I have to move fast. She’ll figure out I dealt with another wizard. I don’t have time to find a shooter I can trust, someone to keep her preoccupied. You kids are all I have.”

He sighed. “I’ll pay you more, a lot more, if you two help me finish this job.”

NO electricity makes for one dark piece of downtown. A fire burned halfway down the street in a trash can, a couple of shapes sticking close for warmth. They weren’t our problem. A guy sat in a shadow, but when he lit a cigarette, we had him pegged. Bryce said he couldn’t use magic, otherwise it would tell the woman we were coming. That left it to us. He didn’t like the plan, but we’d used it before.

She strolled from one direction and did a little of her lost-little-girl routine. I had a tire iron in my hand. She’d get him to look one way, I’d come from the other. Worked like a charm, except that I missed his head and gave him a glancing blow on his shoulder instead.

“What the—”

He spun around, yanked out a knife. I was about to swing again when his eyes got all big and some spit came out of his mouth before he fell. Behind him stood Susie with something long and sharp in her hand.

Bryce ran up. He stared at the dark lump on the sidewalk.

“My God,” he said, shuddering. He looked at Susie, but she just shrugged back at him.

“Okay,” he said. “Let me look at the front door.”

I figured he must know something about locks. Instead, he peered above the door, lips moving like some of the old guys you see wandering the streets. We watched the guys hugging that fire.

“I see it,” he said, then waved his hands. Above the door, some writing turned blue, then faded, and I felt my stomach get heavy. Sure, he had said he was one of those magic guys, had frozen Jamie, but it hadn’t seemed true until now.

“Didn’t you just announce yourself?” I asked.

“No. It’s one thing to attack someone with a spell, it’s another to dismantle a trap. Or pick a lock.” He put his hand against the door knob and it flashed blue. Then he opened it.

Inside, Bryce mumbled some words and a faint ball of blue formed in the air, revealing a stairway. Susie reached it first, but as her foot came to the step Bryce jerked her back. That long sharp thing came up to his chest. It was metal and she had filed it sharp. Some blood still stained the metal. With a finger, Bryce touched the point and pushed it aside.

“Watch,” he whispered.

The ball painted the steps blue until it reached the third step, where red flashed. Another trap. He did something to the step and sent the ball climbing higher. Right then I almost grabbed Susie and ran, but a deal is a deal.

We reached the second story and from a door that had to overlook the street, a yellow glow showed from underneath. Bryce pulled us close.

“When I blow the door, we go in. Fast, like we planned.”

Susie and me bunched up. She had that long metal thing while I had dropped the tire iron and pulled the crappy old gun we kept hidden for emergencies. He waved his hands and all the air left the room, like it had been sucked out by a giant vacuum cleaner. He pointed at the door and, out of nowhere, came this flash of light and the door exploded.

Susie and I charged in, found a room plenty big but little furniture except a table with a bunch of papers spread across, a cot over to one side, a table against one wall with what looked to be a small cooking stove and some other stuff. Of course, Susie invented her own plan. She ran right at the woman inside who, for a second, seemed surprised but then stuck a hand out and sent all of Susie’s arms and legs crazy, like a doll being yanked in different directions.

“Susie!”

I had to sidestep her to get off a shot. The woman’s eyes widened and she pointed at me, said some words, and my body turned numb. For a second, one sick second, I thought Bryce had left us, then in he came all aglow. A bolt of blue shot out and enveloped the woman without touching her, a red light keeping it away. The sticky, numb feeling went away. Susie stumbled back into me and we both fell.

Bryce had his hands out like he was cupping something, trying to squeeze it closed, but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t do it. He was sweating. The woman seemed over the surprise, a calm expression on her face.

“You really should let me go Bryce,” she said. “Before you hurt yourself.”

He swallowed, kept trying to squeeze, so she smiled and put out her own hands, made the blue fade.

“Here you are, using the very thing you say we shouldn’t use. Hypocrite. Am I the last one in the city? Was it really you who killed the others? I can’t believe that, Bryce. You seem so weak. I taught you better than this.” The red grew brighter, pushing the blue back.

I looked at Susie. Our side wasn’t doing too well. The red had shoved the blue back a few feet, toward Bryce. His eyes looked as if they were about to pop and he swallowed, pushed, gained a little ground, but it seemed to have cost him something.

Susie crawled over to me. “Stick a fork in him,” she said. “He’s done.”

“Head for the door,” I whispered. “I’ll watch our back.”

We kept low, working our way out of the room. I felt the woman’s eyes on us, but she didn’t seem that interested now that we clearly had decided to retreat. We had to go around Bryce, but his focus was all on the woman. As Susie passed, she stopped.

“Sorry.”

Surprised the hell out of me, her saying that. Whatever it did, she got Bryce’s attention.

“Help me.” The red light inched closer, like blood about to touch him.

I put my mouth to her ear. “Get out. I’m going to hang back for a second, see if they cream each other. Might get us something out of it. Wait in the street.”

She was all eyes, like she can get sometimes when she looks at me funny. She put a hand on my shoulder.

“Careful.”

“Always.”

She disappeared out the door.

I counted to ten, watched the red gain ground. I checked the load in the gun.

Then I stood and fired at the woman.

The bang sounded more like a whimper, as if a pillow had been stuffed into the room and made everything sound less than it was. The stupid bullet hung in the air about three feet from the woman, inching along like it was in some bad martial arts movie, so I shifted to a different angle and fired. The slugs hung there.

The red faded, the blue inched closer to her body. He was winning. Another angle, another shot, same result.

“Boy!”

It was the woman. Her eyes were cold and black. Bryce had been right, she was pretty, but in a pale and cold sort of way. If she was mumbling some special kill-a-boy spell, I couldn’t see it, but I sure as hell could feel it in the air. I ran to the table and squeezed off another round. The slug got closer than the others, but still hung in the air.

“Again,” said Bryce, his blue light pushing closer to her.

I had two lousy shots left. I put the gun out in front of me, saw her complete attention swivel my direction. The red light faded, the blue stabbed at her like a knife but never quite made it through her shield. I aimed right at her face, her pretty face.

Was she sweating?

No. She was smiling.

“Oh crap,” I said.

She smiled. “What a wonderful idea.” I felt my gut lurch as if someone hit me in the stomach, felt everything inside go to water. It was as if I’d swallowed fire and was trying to crap it all out at the same time. I rolled, stuck the gun in the air and squeezed a wild shot that missed, saw the blue almost reach her, then saw how she began to push it away.

Bryce was going to lose.

A shape leaped over me. Susie.

She stabbed with that piece of sharpened black metal, right at where the red shield seemed the thinnest. Sparks flew and Susie was blown back into the table, scattering papers with diagrams and formulas and who knows what else. She whacked her head and fell into a heap. A ribbon of the blue magic slipped in where she had stabbed the shield, got the woman. I tried to sit up and get to Susie, but I slipped on my own puke that somehow I’d missed doing in all my other bowel explosions. Blue light licked at the woman’s skin and she screamed once, high like a cat does when it gets in a fight. Bryce’s hands were almost together. The woman pushed again, forced the blue back.

I still had a bullet.

I stood, stumbled close and pointed the gun right at her face. She blinked like she had never seen me or a gun before, like I’d become a magic guy myself and conjured the thing from thin air. Words formed on her lips, and it sure wasn’t a magic spell she was saying.

“What a wonderful idea,” I said. Then I lowered the gun to her gut and fired.

It was like in one of those movies where the bullet travels in slow motion. It kept moving, though slow, closer and closer to her body. She had plenty of time to dodge, but maybe inside that shell of hers she had to play by different rules. Who knows? The slug inched toward her stomach and she stared down at it, unable to do much more than watch. I turned away when she started screaming, then there was a flash of bright light, and the room smelled like burned meat.

BRYCE, he paid up with extra cash, enough that we were able to snag a room for a few months over near the soup kitchen, one that even had a bathroom that worked, though I had to explain how to use it to some of the kids. A lady who ran the place talked to Bryce. Maybe he paid her extra to keep an eye on us.

Susie and me met up with him at Jim’s one last time. He was drinking juice and looked rested.

“She was the last one in the city,” he said. “This city at least. Things should get a lot better around here now. Progress. Some life and energy.” He looked around.

“Well, as much as can be expected given the circumstance.”

Susie sat next to me. She smiled.

For once, she didn’t have something sharp in her hand.

[Back to Table of Contents]

THE ZOMBIE MASTER By Michael Arruda

A CENTIPEDE so large it cast a shadow climbed onto the girl’s bare foot and marched up her smooth long leg.

The girl was mortified but did not move. She eyed the raised stinger protruding from the arthropod’s rear a la a scorpion. Perspiration beaded upon her brow as the six inch invertebrate crawled up her thigh and headed for the inside of her shorts.

She was strapped down to the bare bed, the mattress battered and stained. Spread eagle, her arms stretched out above her head, her legs taut and wrenched wide, all four of her limbs tied securely to the bedposts with thick rope bindings.

Her body tightened, her chest heaved, pulling with it her white t-shirt which clung to her humid skin like a wet coat of paint, and the centipede entered her shorts.

She gasped, sucking in the putrid odor of urine that permeated the room.

A horde of flies was buzzing around her head. One set itself down upon her matted hair.

In the corner a curious creature that resembled a large black spider but possessed the enormous hind legs of a cricket raced across the floor over the toe of the man’s boot.

A fleshy thump, the sound of a man’s bare foot on hardwood.

The flies took flight. The centipede scurried from the girl’s shorts, and the spider-cricket leapt into a hole in the baseboard.

Silence.

Perfect and unadulterated. A complete absence of sound so pure it made the girl’s ears ring.

She swallowed. Then whispered, “No.”

She turned her head and closed her eyes as tight she could shut them. She began to cry as she felt her resolve weakening, her eyes opening.

From the darkness, two glowing bright dots, like miniature suns, two white eyes, burning a hole through her head and assaulting her brain.

KANE removed the sheet from the young man’s upper body.

His flesh was corpse pale, his lips blue, eyes shut, and he stank of rotten flesh. Yet he breathed.

“How long has he been this way?” Kane asked.

Stacey Reed, the boy’s father, a frail man in his sixties who looked at least a decade older than that, cleared his throat. “Two weeks.”

“And when did he die?”

“Three and half weeks ago,” Reed said, his voice cracking.

“What happened?”

“He died overseas. He was on some humanitarian mission in the Philippines. He was abducted by some extremist group. They tortured—. They killed my boy.”

“I’m sorry,” Kane said, and there was an understanding in his voice that told the father that this man had seen his share of tragedies. “Tell me what happened after you received his body.”

“We had a funeral service, and then we buried him,” Reed said, as he removed a handkerchief from his rear pocket and wiped his nose and eyes. “A week later, there was a knock at our back door. It was him. Marc! Standing there, in the doorway, covered with dirt. My wife and I were mortified! He came into the house, and he asked us to take care of him. I wanted no part of it. I knew it was all wrong. But Barbara, she fell on her knees and went hysterical. Going on and on about a miracle, that her baby had been returned to her. A miracle? That stinking body of dead flesh? That was no miracle! I wanted to call the police, but Barbara had a conniption and came at me with a butcher’s knife. I had no choice. I had to help her take care of Marc.

“But neither Barbara nor myself realized what that meant. That we’d be supplying him with bodies—bodies that he could eat! Oh my God! What have I done?”

He buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

“Help me! Help my son!”

“I will,” Kane nodded. “I’d like to examine your son further. To determine his origins.”

“His origins?”

“Yes. Your son is a zombie. Now, there are many different types of zombies because there are many different methods of changing a person into a zombie. By examining your son, I should be able to tell you where this happened and by whom.”

“You’ll be able to tell that?” Reed asked in disbelief.

“Yes. And then, with your permission, I will destroy him.”

Reed nodded. “Go ahead. Examine him.”

Kane stepped towards the bed. “How long does he usually sleep like this?”

“All day. He only moves about at night.”

Kane leaned over the sleeping body and began to scour the area of the neck and chest. He placed his fingers on the boy’s flesh, cold and clammy, as he expected, and turned him so that he was lying on his left shoulder. Deep jagged lacerations covered the entire expanse of the boy’s back.

“Those were there already when we got his body back from the Philippines,” Reed informed, trembling.

Kane continued his examination, poking, feeling, eyeing, every inch and crevice of the cold, foul smelling body.

“There doesn’t appear to be any puncture wounds.”

“Puncture wounds?”

“Yes, a modern day method of making one a zombie involves the use of intravenous drugs. But drugs were not used in this case.”

“No?”

Kane shook his head, then added, “It is my belief that your son’s condition is the work of a zombie master.”

A blank expression filled Reed’s face.

“A zombie master is a being who possesses the power to turn others into zombies,” Kane explained. “He is a most dangerous individual and can be responsible for controlling large numbers of zombies in any given area, sometimes in upwards of a hundred.”

“My God,” Reed said.

“Such a person is usually quite adept at voodoo and witchcraft, the preferred methods for changing a person into a zombie. The only prerequisite is that the victim must be already dead. You cannot change a living being into a zombie,” Kane said.

“If a zombie’s already dead, how do you destroy him?” Reed asked.

“A bullet to the head is the easiest, most efficient way,” Kane answered. “Without the brain, the body—even a supernaturally reanimated one—cannot function. This method, however, is not foolproof, especially in cases where one is dealing with a particularly powerful zombie master. In such cases, even with a damaged brain, the zombie still functions.”

“How?”

“By seeing and thinking through the eyes and brain of its zombie master. In effect, the zombie becomes an extension of the master himself. In these cases, the method of destruction is somewhat more complicated,” Kane continued. “The victim’s mouth must be stuffed with garlic, then sewed shut. After which, the head must be severed from the body.”

“That’s disgusting! Horrible!” Reed exclaimed.

“Nonetheless, necessary,” Kane said calmly. “Once these methods have been carried out, then the body can be buried again, or preferably, burned.”

“Why not just burn them in the first place?”

“You have to incapacitate them first,” Kane answered. “Your son is asleep now, but the second I raise even a finger to do him harm, I guarantee he’d awake in an instant. Besides, zombies don’t feel pain. A burning zombie can walk to the nearest source of water and extinguish the flames. Even with the severest of burns, a zombie can still function. It’s best to destroy their life spark first before destroying their bodies.

“Now, I’ve examined your son’s body carefully, and I haven’t been able to find any of the usual signature marks which indicate the work of a known zombie master. You see, even though these people don’t actually lay a hand on their victims, marks still occur. Often in the form of moles, black and blue marks, or red blotches, the results of irregular blood flow, changes in body temperature, that sort of thing. Your son doesn’t have any of these marks.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’re dealing with a very powerful and very talented zombie master. The closer a zombie is to his original living human condition is an indication of how much power the zombie master possesses. Like a portrait artist, the closer his work is to reality, the more talent he possesses.”

“That means that whoever did this to my son, is very powerful?”

“Yes. Absolutely! I’ve been doing this for ten years now. I’ve never encountered a zombie without a signature mark.”

“Oh, crap!” Reed groaned. “What have I done?”

“You’ve done what any loving parent might have done. People make all kinds of mistakes because of love,” Kane answered. “But you’ve made amends by calling me.”

“No I haven’t!” Reed said. “I didn’t call you!”

The zombie opened its eyes.

Reed screamed, and Kane whirled around just as Marc reached out and latched onto his wrist. Kane tried to pull away, but Marc possessed the grip of a vise.

“Quick, Reed, my case in the corner!”

The light brown briefcase that Kane had brought with him to the house and had set down in the corner of the room by the door, still sat there, less than two feet from Reed’s reach.

“No!” Reed cried. “I can’t!”

Kane frowned, then turned back towards Marc, and with his free right hand, made a fist and socked the young zombie smack in the face. Marc staggered backwards, releasing Kane’s wrist, and fell upon the bed.

Kane raced for the corner, his heavy boots scuffing the hardwood floor. He dove in front of his briefcase, opened it, and retrieved a handgun. Standing, he aimed the weapon at Marc, who had since returned to his feet and was meandering towards the two men with his arms outstretched.

“No! Don’t shoot him!” Reed shouted.

Kane threw the man an angry glance, but Reed was his client after all.

Grabbing Reed by the shoulder, Kane said, “Move! Quickly! Downstairs!” and he thrust him out the bedroom door.

Reed stumbled down the straight staircase, with Kane following quickly upon his heels, carrying his gun and his briefcase.

When they reached the bottom, Kane shoved Reed into the first room he saw, which happened to be the dining room.

“Now, explain yourself please. What the hell’s going on?” he asked, dropping his briefcase to the floor, but keeping the revolver firmly ensconced in his right hand. “And what did you mean when you said you didn’t call me? I spoke to you on the phone!”

“It was my son! He made me call! He asked for you by name!” Reed answered, again removing his handkerchief and this time wiping his entire sweaty face.

“Why?”

“It’s that person you were talking about. His zombie master. He wants to kill you! That’s why they made me call you here. They want you out of the way!”

“And you listened to them?”

“I had no choice! They have my daughter-in-law! And she’s pregnant with my son’s child!” Reed shrieked.

Kane felt the blood nose-dive from his face.

“Your daughter-in-law? I—I didn’t see a wedding ring on your son’s finger.”

“They’re not really married. They only live together, okay? But in my mind she’s still my daughter-in-law, and she’s still carrying my son’s child inside her!”

“Are you sure she’s pregnant?”

“Of course I’m sure! What the hell kind of a question—what are you talking about? Look, they’ve taken away my son, turned him into that thing upstairs. Now they’ve got Simone, and my unborn grandson! I wanted to stand up to them, but I’m an old man. I had no choice but to give in to their demands.”

“Of course, of course,” Kane muttered, suddenly seeming so distant, so preoccupied.

“What are we going to do?” Reed asked.

“Do?”

“Yes, do! What’s gotten into you?”

Kane looked past the anxious father and soon-to-be grandfather at a mirror hanging on the wall and saw first his own guilty face followed by the pale countenance of Marc, as the zombie reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to enter the dining room.

Kane pivoted his upper body and aimed the handgun at the head of the slow-footed zombie.

“No!” Reed shrieked. “Don’t do it! That fetus is all I have left of my son!”

Kane’s finger was itching to pull the trigger, to put an end to the threat and get them out of harm’s way. Instead, he placed the gun in his belt and stooped down to quickly open his briefcase. Reed watched anxiously as Kane removed a tiny bottle from the case, unscrewed the cap, and hurled its liquid contents into the zombie’s face.

Marc groaned, reached up to his face with his two hands, and stumbled backwards before collapsing unconscious onto the floor in front of the staircase.

“What did you do? What did you throw at him?”

“Garlic oil. It knocks them out,” Kane said. “Don’t worry it won’t kill him.”

The sound of breaking glass from somewhere in the house.

“What’s that?” Reed asked.

More breaking glass, from all around them, as if every window in the house was being smashed.

“I’d say the zombie cavalry has arrived,” Kane said.

“Please,” Reed begged. “Don’t destroy any of them. That child—.”

“I know,” Kane nodded. “But consider this—even if you and I escape from this house, which is very possible since these zombies are so damned slow, you said the zombie master wants me dead. I may spare your son for your progeny’s sake, but I’m not about to give up my life for it! Where does that go?” Kane asked, already walking towards the small door at the opposite end of the dining room.

“No!” Reed shouted. “Don’t go in there!”

Kane opened the door and the stench hit his nose like a baseball bat to the face.

“God, almighty!” Kane choked.

On the floor in front of his feet lay the half eaten corpse of a woman.

“Your son’s handiwork, I take it?”

“It’s my wife!” Reed screamed. Kane’s jaw dropped. “Marc killed her! He ate the flesh of his own mother! Jesus, forgive me!”

A door slammed behind them.

Kane and Reed turned to see about a dozen zombies in tattered clothes and various stages of decay, standing there in the hall just outside the dining room entrance, staring at them, drooling at them. Kane aimed his gun when to his surprise a man who looked like he had just stepped off a golf course strolled casually with his hands in his pockets into the dining room, making his way past the zombies. He was smiling. Wearing khaki pants, Loafers, and a white polo shirt, he was well tanned, especially around his face, which made his teeth seem even whiter than they were. His hair was dark and wavy. He was young, in his early thirties.

He stopped a few yards shy of Kane and Reed.

“Nice night for a get-together,” he smiled.

“Isn’t it?” Kane said. He looked over his shoulder at Reed. “Do you know this man?”

“No.”

“Of course he doesn’t know me,” the jovial man said with a grin. “You don’t know me, either, but I know you, Kane Cawthorn. All of us in this business know you.”

“I’m flattered,” Kane said.

“You should be. Your record speaks for itself. It’s perfect, isn’t it?—when dealing with the likes of me. But, everyone’s got to lose sometime. Even the Yankees. You’re due.”

Kane shook his head. “Nah. I like to think my record is like the sun. Sure, it’ll burn out some day, but not in this lifetime!”

“TouchÃ©! It’s been fun talking with you, Mr. Cawthorn, but my attention span, I’m afraid, is not very large. I’m of the remote control generation.”

“Meaning?” Kane asked.

“Meaning that I’m going to kill you now.”

The tan man in the comfortable sport clothes took a step forward, and for a split second, Kane felt his heart panic, for he knew that against a zombie master, neither his gun nor all the garlic oil in the world would do him any good, not at this close of a proximity. Zombie masters had to be taken by surprise. Unfortunately for Kane, it was himself who in this instance had been caught unawares.

But then the man stopped, and all of a sudden a most discomforting look overtook his face, and he began to sweat profusely.

“What is it?” Reed asked. “What’s happening?”

“Listen,” Kane said.

Reed paused, then added, “I don’t hear anything.”

“Exactly.”

A silence had overtaken the house. A most disconcerting lack of sound, as if all life both inside the house and out, as if the animals in the surrounding woods, the insects in the grass, the bugs crawling within the walls, as if the very innards of the house itself, its settling wood, the hum of the hot water heater and central air conditioner, as if all of these things had in that instant died.

The light went as well, and the room fell into darkness.

Behind the tan zombie master, at about eye level, two bright white spheres ignited.

Reed gasped.

The sound of bare feet on wood.

A man of moderate height, shoe-less, shirtless, wearing only white shorts and a necklace full of charms, looking as if he had just stepped into the house from a day on the beach in the Caribbean, slowly and steadily approached the now trembling zombie master. His olive skin was also well tanned, his body fleshy, looking anything but solid, yet there was no doubt that he possessed great strength. His arms, chest, and shoulders were all large. His eyes were blindingly white, like snow in sunshine.

He placed his beefy palm on the zombie master’s shoulder.

“No,” the young master said. “It’s not possible.”

The hand squeezed, and the well-dressed master winced. “Why? Why do you betray your own kind? Why do you side with him?” He pointed to Kane.

The man closed his bleached eyes, and the silence in the room was replaced by zombie footsteps. The dozen zombies who had entered the house closed in upon the young zombie master, grasping furiously at his body.

“I place a curse on you!” the attacked master exclaimed. “On all of you! May the demons of the underworld rip your flesh and tear out—!”

The zombies pounced upon their former master, and the young voodoo expert disappeared from view. A high-pitched wailing exploded from center of the circle, and as the Caribbean stranger stepped to the side, the zombie horde moved as one, dragging their screaming master with them, right out the front door.

The stranger opened his eyes, and once again the room was visited by the uncanny silence.

“What just happened?” Reed asked.

“The man who made your son a zombie is now dead,” Kane said.

“But—I don’t understand. Who the hell is he?” Reed shouted, pointing towards the olive-skinned man standing silently in front of them.

“His name is Rand, and he’s the zombie master. There’s none stronger,” Kane said.

“But, you said the zombie master who cursed my son—that man who was just here—you said he was powerful. Very powerful.”

“He was. But even the most vicious dog is no match for a T-Rex,” Kane answered.

“But, why? Why did he—?”

“—Help us? Because we have an agreement, he and I, which is why I’ve never lost a case. I help him stop those who are on the threshold of great power, thus keeping him at the top of the totem pole, so to speak, and he in turn helps me keep zombies out of the U.S. Sometimes you have to play both sides of the fence, Reed. It’s how the real world works.”

“What about my son? And my daughter-in-law?”

“Your son’s soul will be at peace. I will see to that,” Kane answered.

“And my daughter-in-law?”

Kane grimaced. “Hear me out, Reed, please, before you say anything. We—he, Rand, believed that Simone was your daughter, not your daughter-in-law, and he didn’t know she was pregnant.”

“So?” Reed asked, not seeing the relevance of Kane’s statement.

“Simone is no longer being held by the dead zombie master. She’s in Rand’s custody now.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?”

“Rand’s services don’t come for free,” Kane said.

“What are you saying?” Reed asked.

“He wants Simone. That’s his price for helping you,” Kane said.

“I don’t understand—what do you mean he wants Simone?”

“He’s not going to harm her, Reed. He wants to make her his wife.”

“What the hell is this?” Reed asked. “This is extortion! And you agree with this?

You’re supposed to be helping me! And if I say no, then what happens?”

“He’ll return Simone to you, but—he’ll prevent me from releasing Marc’s soul. Your son will remain a zombie.”

“So I’m supposed to choose between my son and—who would ever accept such terms? What father would give up one child for the return of another?”

“You’d be surprised. As I said, I’ve been doing this for ten years.”

“And you’re proud of yourself? Shame on you! Shame on you!”

“I told you, Reed, it’s the way of the world. Without Rand, this pestilence would be all over our cities. I mean it. Listen, Reed, consider this. Rand is not only capable of releasing your son’s soul, but he can return your son to life. The way he was before. And he can do the same for your wife. Think of it!”

“He possesses that kind of power?”

“Yes.”

“My wife and son, alive again, like before,” Reed muttered. His eyes bulged. “You’re a son of a bitch, Kane! You belong to the devil, the pair of you. I’m sick of being manipulated. I listened to my wife. I listened to my son. And where did that get me? To hell with all of you! Tell Mr. South Pacific over there, no deal! Did you hear me, medicine man? You can’t have my daughter-in-law! Now get out of my house! Both of you! And Kane—you take your agreement with this undesirable and stick it where the sun doesn’t shine!”

“CHEERS,” Kane said glumly to the woman sitting next to him at the bar. He lifted the shot glass and downed the whiskey. For a moment it tasted good, before burning his throat. He enjoyed it all the same.

“I watched that house for three days afterwards, you know,” Kane said, looking past the woman. “The son never showed. On the fourth day I was called back to Boston. That night, the son returned—. He killed them all. The father, the girl, and the unborn child. What a waste!

“Over the years, I’ve told myself that what I was doing was for the common good. That the good outweighed the evil. That the devil I knew was better than the devil I didn’t.

“I didn’t want any of them to die. And had I known the girl was pregnant, I never would have gone along with it. But that’s all water under the bridge now, isn’t it? They’re dead.”

Kane turned and made eye contact with the woman. “I want you to tell Rand that I’m through with him. Tell him that his prices have gone too high for my tastes. I also want you to warn him.”

“Warn him?”

“Yes, we had an agreement, that should one of us ever decide to hunt down the other, we’d give the other fair warning. Rand’s always been an honorable man. I owe him that much. I’m coming after him. I can’t with good conscience allow him to operate in this world any longer. You make sure he gets the message.

The woman smiled. “He already knows your intentions. Why do you think he allowed me to meet with you? He’s not honorable!”

The ice cubes in her glass rocked back and forth but did not jingle.

Kane leapt from his seat, as the bar was invaded by a perfect silence.

[Back to Table of Contents]

WITH VORPAL SWORD IN HAND By G. W. Thomas

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son,

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

—Through the Looking-Glass

7:50

I SAT in my Miata and looked at the stuff in the envelope. Telford hadn’t been around so I couldn’t ask him anything. The photo and notes would have to suffice.

I dumped out the contents on the seat beside me. I pushed a pile of books over to make room, spilling a stack of Piccirillis on to the floor. I picked up the card first. Standard brown card—on one side a name: Jose Marguiles. (I thought briefly of Leo Marguiles the pulp editor, then moved on.) The address was in the Pindar subdivision but Telford had crossed it out in red, writing in the margin: “Searched. Empty.”

On the other side of the card I saw only five little words, but they made my heart skip a beat: “Book of the Black Sun”.

So, it had gone astray again. No wonder Telford kept putting me off. I had wanted to read it again, to further my studies of that strange book from the future, but always an excuse. Now I knew why. It was gone.

Stuck to the card was a Garfield sticky note. It said: “Smith will give this to you at 7:45 exactly. The clock is ticking.”

I recalled Smith’s bland face. Telford employed three brothers named Smith, triplets, each as dull as the other. I had joked about they’re being clones, but the look Telford gave me said, “Leave it alone.”

There it was. The old challenge. If I returned the book by 7:45 tomorrow morning I’d receive half the original fee—a million dollars. Enough money to buy an entire month with that weird metallic volume, The Book of the Black Sun. Such a short time it would prove too. The last time I had only begun to skim the book’s depths when I returned it promptly on time. I didn’t need Telford’s goons playing xylophone on my rib cage.

And now I had another chance to possess it, if only for thirty days.

I picked up the photo that came with the card. A dark, Latin-esque face, handsome if over fifty. On the back was: Marguiles/5/17/00. Not the most recent picture but he couldn’t have changed that much. I studied it, placing it firmly in my memory, then threw it in the glove compartment.

There was only one other thing in the small pile on the rider’s seat: a newspaper clipping of an advertisement. “Bedroom Warehouse Price Sale.” Another address in Pindar. Again in the margin in red pen: “Business. Searched.”

So our customer had bolted—taken the book elsewhere. Where to begin then? I could search both the house and the store but the chances of finding much were not good. No, I’d do better than that. If the house was empty, that meant Marguiles had moved his stuff out. I’d start with moving van rentals.

I dug out the Yellow Pages from the back seat. There were twenty companies listed. I headed for a pay phone. I don’t carry a cellular phone anymore. Too dangerous. Not because of brain cancer which is bad enough. I had a phone ring in my pocket once, just as I was watching a certain Christmas festival in Kingsport. Only my trusty shotgun and a hand grenade saved my ass. Now, I use the public phone instead.

8:50

I HAD time to kill before I could phone around. Most of the businesses opened at 9:30 so I stopped off at IHOP, grabbed a stack of cakes and half a gallon of coffee. (In this biz, you grab your meals where and when you can.) I still had thirty minutes so I checked over my equipment in the trunk of the Mazda. Sawed off .12 Gauge, fifty rounds bird shot, fifty rounds arcane salt, fifty rounds bear slugs. I also had an ax, lock picks, road flares and signs, a box of costumes (including a policeman, a fireman, ambulance driver, gasman, priest, insurance agent and derelict bum), a first aid kit and a box of condoms. (Hey, you never know!)

I drove to a phone booth on George Street. I liked this one because it was close to an Armenian restaurant that played ethnic music over the sidewalk to entice customers. The tunes did a nice job of keeping skateboarders and bums away.

I got a fist full of quarters from the Armenians and started calling. Forty minutes later, I knew that three of the rental numbers were disconnected (out of business), two, no answer, (soon to be out of business), and the other fifteen open (still in business). I’d have to drive by and talk to somebody to learn more. The higher class of place I’d use the credit card inspector routine. In the dives, it would be a little something called a “black bill”. It’s a one dollar bill with the Sigil of Nath drawn inside the Illuminati’s Eye in gold ink. The spell is simple. When given to someone of a greedy nature it appears to be a hundred. Once touched, the subject, if simple-minded, will become quite malleable. I find it works well with people in long-term minimum wage jobs.

It was well-after lunchtime before I found Jose Marguiles. He had rented a small truck for twenty-hour hours. The rental agent, a dirty-looking fellow in a t-shirt said he had only driven fifty-two miles, there and back. So, it was a local move.

13:32

SUCKING down a chili dog and a coke, I leafed through the Yellow Pages again. Storage rentals were foremost on my mind. What I had to decide was: did Marguiles store his stuff in another house, a friend’s basement perhaps? Or did he rent a locker at some unit storage facility?

I’ve been in this business a few years now. And one thing I know about the men and women I have to find. They aren’t the trusting sort. Given the choice between a friend and an impartial business arrangement, they’d go with the money. So, I figure, it was likely a rental unit. Now, which one was twenty-six miles from Marguiles’ house?

I dug out a city map and a compass. A circle with a radius of twenty six miles enclosed three of the rental firms. The closest was on Hubert. The next was one of my “no answer” places, so probably out of business. The last was just on the line—exactly twenty-six miles. Did he drive straight there and back? If not, then Hubert Street. If so, then it was Delaware Avenue.

I looked at the arrangement of the streets. A main thoroughfare began only three blocks from Marguiles’ house, and passed right by Delaware. I was betting it all on Delaware. The name of the business: Rent-Rite. I was on my way.

14:43

THE office had the respectable image of success. New posters, clean chairs, good janitorial service, a franchise name and marketing. This would be the perfect place to use the credit card hustle.

“Can I speak to the manager?”

“He’s not in, said the bored twenty-year old woman watching the counter. Like the store, she had the same faÃ§ade of successful pleasantness: trim, attractive without any sluttiness, no earrings, tattoos or heavy make-up. A badge on one nicely formed breast said: Clarice. High-school, probably community college but no real direction. I bet on weekends she dressed up dirty and hit the bars.

“I’m Inspector Tull of American Master. We’ve been receiving fraudulent claims from this store. I’ll need to see your slips for the last three weeks.” I flashed a badge then waited impatiently.

“You’ll need to speak to Mr. Tandori. I’ll phone him—”

“You do that. Of course, you’ll tip him off and he’ll run. Gone, and you can forget about your paycheck.”

“What?” My bluff had her attention now. “What do you mean?”

“This is a typical case. The boss plays fast and loose with us, then disappears. The employees and A. M. get the dirty end of the stick.”

I let her panic for a few minutes. She rambled on about the payments on her new Fiesta.

“Of course, if I see the sheets for the last week or so I might be able to catch him in time. Make him pay up.”

Clarice started pulling stuff out of the drawers. I calmed her.

“Look for anyone using the name Marguiles. Or a business card: Bedroom Warehouse. He’s the front.”

“Here it is. From two days ago. Does this mean Mr. Tandori is guilty?”

“Quick. Get me the extra key for Number Thirty-Seven and we’ll see.”

Clarice opened a locked cabinet and extracted the key. I took it and ran.

16:03

THE cubicles were arranged by number, smallest to biggest. I ran from One to Thirty-Six, when I felt the first twinge of something unusual. I slowed down, drew the automatic from my jacket. Like the shotgun, this weapon bore special ammo, regular slugs with the Glyph of Glaaki cut into them. Not only does the sigil burn into eldritch critters but the slugs flatten out like a dum-dum on regular kinds of folks.

The lock of Number Thirty-Seven seemed normal enough until I tried it. It wasn’t locked, only closed to look shut. I pulled the padlock off and cracked the door.

The sense of power grew. The Tablet of Nargoth, which is sewn into the lining of my jacket, began to twitch. The tablet serves no purpose except to move when in the vicinity of strong currents of power. It was like a rabbit was having cardiac arrest in my coat.

I jerked the door open, gun ready. What confronted me then was both familiar and strangely new. Amongst the carelessly distributed boxes, was furniture. Unlike stacked furniture it was set up for use. Sitting on the sofa, still as the rest of the objects, was a man. Or more correctly, a man’s body. It was Jules Marguiles, dead and decomposing. Beside him was a camp light. The battery had burned down to almost nothing. It had been left on for several days.

Where the power emanated from was no secret either. Twirling in front of the dead man was a spinning, disk-shaped gate. The mandala-like opening gave off a weird green-brown light and was no doubt responsible for the clicker in my coat.

The first thing I did was get in and close the door. I didn’t need Clarice screaming her face off. Or her calling the cops—if she hadn’t already.

The second thing I did was checked Marguiles. Not for life signs. He was black around the eyes and had been so for a few days. Probably a heart attack from the look of his face and the spilled bottle of nitro tablets on the sofa beside him. Also next to him was The Book of the Black Sun. I reached over for the heavy wood box that Telford stores his books in.

It was empty.

I searched for another twenty minutes before I came to a terrible conclusion. The book had gone through the portal. And I would have to go too if I wanted to retrieve it.

17:33

I WASN’T about to dive in head long until I knew my ass was covered. I briefly thought of putting Clarice out of commission. The Sleeping Glyph would send her into a comatose state for twenty-four hours. But before I tried it, I’d have to check things out first.

I snuck back to the car. No sign of the cops yet. There was something going on inside the store—probably Tandori was giving Clarice major shit—Too late to deal with that. I opened the trunk, grabbed my case and ran back to Number Thirty-Seven. I wasn’t going to give up now—not with the book outside our reality. If the manager had the cops attack the gateway, it might seal up permanently. Bye-bye, book.

I decided instead on a safer course. I closed the door, forgetting about the padlock, and then took a tube from my coat. Inside was blood, which I smeared into six concentric circles. The spell would hold the door shut to everything short of a bazooka.

No longer worried about some schmuck sealing the portal with me on the opposite side, I turned my attention to what lie before me. I went through Marguiles’ pockets a second time, looking for notes or charms. Nada. The best I could figure was he had discovered something in The Book of the Black Sun and had run out of time. So he had fled here to try it, hoping to elude Telford and his goons. Only something had happened. A heart attack or stroke. At his age not unlikely.

Had Marguiles been through the portal? Or died before crossing over? The absence of the book said he had been on the other side. I had to go. There just wasn’t any other possibility.

I wasn’t stupid about it though. I tore into one of Marguiles’ boxes, pulling out a soup ladle. I threw it into the center of the spinning circle. It disappeared instantly. One second it was here. The next…

I had read about gateways like this in the book before. I had possessed it myself twice before. I knew only a little. I knew these mandalas could be portals, one-way or two, that terrible things might come out of them, that others were highly dangerous because of waves they gave off, and still others were completely unfathomable. I had seen actual spinning disks twice before. And each time it had changed my life.

I threw a couple more things, testing where I should jump. After six kitchen utensils I came to the conclusion that all things were pulled into the center no matter where they hit.

I opened my case. Food first. I checked my watch. Six PM. I filled my pockets with Trail Mix, crackers and a flask of water. I ate a cello-wrapped sandwich (not as easy as you think next to a guy who’s been rotting for two days), a coke and ate them while tossing more things into the vortex. When I got to the other side I wouldn’t be needing any cooking utensils.

Finishing the coke, I couldn’t put it off any longer. I filled a pack with the First Aid kit, ammo, a flashlight and picked up the shotgun. I was ready to go. Or die. Or whatever.

18:22

TWELVE hours and twenty-three minutes to Zero Hour. I had half a day to find the book. I was hoping it would just be lying there, covered in spoons, waiting for me. Wherever “there” was. I was to be disappointed.

I took a step back and threw myself into the center of the gateway. The sensation of crossing over its threshold was one of intense cold. For a second I thought I was landing at the North Pole. But the chill only lasted a brief moment. Then a loud roar like a waterfall, a blast of lemon-scented wind and finally the weird sensation of wet jelly.

I landed on solid ground. I was thankful for that. I got up, rubbing my hip. I had landed on a soup ladle.

Looking up I was amazed. Everywhere I turned was a color-rich paradise so unlike the smelly inside of a storage locker on Delaware. The only thing I recognized was the disk spinning behind me. I was glad it was there. Once I had the book I’d be right back.

It was daytime in this strange world (if they had day and night?) The ground was covered in a fine grass that looked like fur or hair. Tall trees, like old cottonwoods, broke the turf along a creek bed. But what trees! Pink, and moving, they looked more like sea anemone than pines. I saw one of them bend, grab and eat a small creature with the maw at the top of the trunk. The frond-like leaves were tentacles surrounding a vicious mouth. I’d be avoiding the trees here.

Beyond the row of pink killers ran the creek or small river, sluggish and brown. Beyond that, purple hills, leading up to black mountains, pointed like a moonscape, and finally that Maxfield Parrish sky. The entire effect was hard on the eyes, like a Ralph Bakshi flick. Examining this weird paradise, I realized the book could be anywhere. An infinite number of weird, killer miles in any direction! For a second I thought of turning around and telling Telford to politely stick his book. If he wanted it so bad let him come here and—But just as quickly I stopped because I saw something that might be a clue.

It was a flying creature, about the size of a small Indian elephant, though more slender. The wings were bat-like with lots of little scales that glinted in the weird sunshine. I had seen pictures of something like it once in a Medieval text by a French count. Shantacus, he’d called it. I had once heard a Coptic monk tell me of “shantaks” over a dying fire on the desert sands of Egypt. Perhaps this was a shantak?

Whatever it was called it flew over me like a massive pterodactyl. I freaked and almost shot at it. As I looked up I noticed the saddle. The animal was a mount. Somebody had ridden it—or had meant to. Marguiles? I followed at a hard run. I didn’t know what was dangerous and what wasn’t here so I kept the shotgun ready. For all I knew the stones themselves would eat me.

19:00

I FOLLOWED a stream to an outcropping of rock. Sitting on the high-most point was the creature. I got a good look at it now. I took binoculars from my pack and examined it slowly. Horse-like head crowned a snaky neck. The huge bat wings were covered in dirt and filth. The whole monstrosity had to weigh forty tons but moved with the speed and grace of a dragonfly. Strapped to the middle was an elephantine saddle, like something from a giant’s rodeo. Marguiles had been here. He had ridden this thing and survived. For a while.

Then I saw it. A bag hung from the saddle horn, holding something just about the right size to be the book. I could picture it all now. Marguiles had left the book on his mount, returned to our world, perhaps for his medicine. Unfortunately, he died before returning. I checked the leash strap running down from the saddle. It looked like it had been chewed through. The shantak had got tired of waiting for its master and had chewed its way to freedom.

So that explained what had happened. What it didn’t explain was why? Why had Marguiles come here to ride this creature? The answer was in the book. And I had to get it.

I started with the simplest solution. I stepped from the rock, shotgun in one hand, and called to the creature. “Here, boy. Come.” I must have sounded pretty lame. I don’t even have a dog.

The shantak squawked, like a giant chicken, flicked its wings but stayed.

I could just shoot it, but the book might be damaged.

I took a rope from my pack. This was going to be a Western after all. I made a lasso with a knot, and then moved closer a few inches at a time. The shotgun was left behind on a rock. I needed both hands.

The horse-head bobbed nervously as I approached, but the thing only gurgled a few times and didn’t bolt.

I drew within ten feet of the huge body and threw my lasso.

The creature jumped just a second ahead of me. The lariat slapped uselessly against its neck and fell to the ground. Six more tries came up with the same result. I began to think the shantak was playing with me.

As I got ready for the seventh try, a loud ruckus came from the distant weeds along the river. The creature croaked and then flew off in that direction. I had to hit the ground or be slammed with ten feet of thick tail.

“Shit!” I quickly grabbed my shotgun and headed in the same direction.

19:53

THE run was long and I had to stop once and rest. I could make out the spot along the river where the beast had fled. I counted to ten then ran on.

As I rose up the slight lip of the riverbank I was hit by several senses. My ears could hear what sounded like a million bullfrogs. My nose burned with the odor between dead fish and a reptile house. I gagged but fought it down as my eyes beheld the cause of the rankness. A flock of these elephantine creatures, each like the one I had been following. Their heads peeked from holes in the riverbank off to my left. The bank was steep for about ten feet then became more gradual for another thirty. At the bottom were the sluggish brown currents of the river. The shantaks beside me were largely young ones poking from nests, big holes cut into the sandy bank. Below adults drank and bathed at the water’s edge. I took the time to count, not including nesting babes, twenty in all.

I stopped, caught my breath and thought things over. Where was the shantak wearing the saddle? There. Not far, only four individuals in. My beast played with what looked like a squid, pulling it apart with sharp teeth. I hadn’t noticed those before. Could I sneak in and lasso it here? I’d have to try. I took off my pack and placed it beside the shotgun on the bank.

I pulled my pistol out. I had an idea. I put the silencer on it. Taking aim at the closest shantak, I fired into its eye. The animal fell over, giving out only a mild gurgle. Its fellows ignored it. Perhaps they thought it was sleeping?

I put the gun in my waistband. I might need it quickly if everything turned to shit. Then I lowered myself slowly down the bank and away from the nests. A short, rocky track led me in the direction of the dead beast. I made the first large rock. Stopped and waited. In this way I found myself beside the dead creature in less than five minutes.

I quickly examined the animal. It weighed well over thirty tons, too heavy to lift and use as camouflage. (I thought briefly of using a ploy from an Edgar Rice Burroughs novel but I was dealing with a much larger animal than David Innes.) Instead I used my commando knife to cut off a piece of one of the brilliantly sequined wings. I chopped a piece about as big as an opened sleeping bag. The slippery material was still warm but light. Using this like a blanket I proceeded to move toward the saddled shantak, who was now fighting with another of its race, using those savage jaws to bite out chunks the size of dinner plates.

Inching along, the wing covering me, I by-passed two more of the horse-heads. They hissed at me, moving slightly to the left but little else. I was careful of anything looking like a nest. I suspected they’d defend these viciously.

I was now within lassoing distance. If I got closer, the saddled beast might attack me as it had the other shantak. That other defeated rival had wandered off down the beach, unaware of its injuries.

I took the lasso from my jacket, opened the loop, started to spin it. The cast was good, landing around the creature’s small head. I was just about to pull the rope tight when something completely unexpected happened. A loud explosion of filth and death erupted from the river below. A creature as long and thin as a telephone pole smashed into the flock drinking by the shore. Its massive jaws crunched down on one of the horse-heads, killing it instantly. I was well away from the river but the entire flock was airborne!

The lasso tightened instantly. The shantak leap into the air, taking me with it. The rope was wrapped around my left hand. I expected the creature would flee quickly, smashing me to bits on some rocks far away. But the rope around its head must have acted like a bridle, forcing the creature to dive. We bumped down only ten feet from where we had started. The beast turned suddenly, following the thread of the rope down to me! It bared its teeth and charged!

It was automatic. I drew the pistol. I wasn’t sure what it could do against anything this big but I fired three shots into its eyes. The horsey head exploded as the dum-dums ripped through it. The shantak was dead before it reached me though it didn’t seem to know it. Like the proverbial chicken-with-its head-cut-off it ran down the beach in all directions, taking me with it. Old telephone pole was waiting with open jaws.

All I could do was hang on. I shot three more slugs into the dead thing but it only stopped in a red pile ten feet from the Crocodile-from-Hell. I quickly switched from shooting to untangling the rope from my wrist. I pulled the cord away and threw myself up the side of the dead shantak. The book hung only six feet from my grasp. I had the bag. The creature under me disappeared in only seconds. Crocodile boy had him down about as fast as I had the book in hand and was heading for the riverbank.

I could feel the river rise up behind me. Crocodile boy was right behind me. I ignored him, instead, concentrated on running and avoiding the large cow pies the shantaks had left everywhere. I turned only for a second as I made the top of the bank. I figured the crocodile thing would stay near the water. I wanted my shotgun but left it when I saw the long black thing coming up the bank on stubby little legs. Despite his shortcomings, he still moved faster than the average bicycle.

I wished I had the grenades from the abandoned pack, but by the time I would have opened the sack, I’d have been inside him. So, I just ran.

And it just followed.

I pushed myself to the limit. The only extra weight was the book, which flapped back and forth inside the sack. It weighted a good fifteen pounds but I wasn’t going home without it. I could have dropped it, hoped he didn’t eat it by mistake, circle back and get it. Only I wasn’t out-distancing him. Croc was gaining. I had about three minutes.

I found the strength somewhere to go faster. It was an all-out sprint for the gateway. I tried to formulate a plan, either escaping in the cracks between the boulders or leading it to one of those killer trees … No time. There was the disk, spinning in the distance like a shiny new dime. Faster!

I ran for that gateway with all I had left. I just thought to myself: get home. And never come back!

I could feel Croc’s breath on me now, fishy and hot. Once, its tongue touched the back of my neck, like a hot sponge. Suddenly, I had a little more juice…

And then the disk. I didn’t know if it would be the same, or if I would even survive the passage back to my world. Still, it beat ending up as a crocodile turd. I ran right into the gateway with a prayer and a curse.

I landed on the sofa next to Marguiles. I was so happy I could have almost kissed him. Almost. I turned around and pointed at the gateway. “Fuck you, asshole!” I yelled over and over. I got up and picked up the bag off the floor. Inside, I saw the metallic cover of The Book of the Black Sun.

I went to the door. The concentric circles held it shut. Using my own saliva, I drew circles within the circles going the other way. I pulled the aluminum door open only to find a gun in my face.

“All right, buddy. Hands up!”

My hands went up, the book swaying in an arc, smashing the gun aside. There were three more policeman who leaned in to shoot me but they quickly changed their minds as the gateway opened its widest, snaky jaws spilling out. The entire creature couldn’t fit through but enough of it did to snap up the dead Marguiles and swallow him.

The cops opened up and I crawled away. Getting back to the Miata was nothing. I got in and drove away. My watch was broken at 10:10 PM. My car clock said it was 1:27 AM.

I drove directly to Telford’s. Smith was there. He took the book and told me to come back at exactly 7:30 in the morning. I nodded, stumbled back to my car and slept right there.

7:30

I WOKE when Telford tapped on my window. “Wake up, asshole. It’s almost Seven Thirty.”

I got up, followed him inside. I felt like shit.

“What’s the big rush? I got the book back in plenty of time.”

“Shut up. This isn’t going to be easy,” Telford said, showing me the computer screen on the cash register. “What time is it?”

“Seven Thirty-One.”

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday, July—no, wait, that’s yesterday’s date. Today’s—”

“Tuesday.”

“But I—”

“Somehow reversed time. I don’t know where you’ve been but wherever it was, time didn’t flow in the same direction.”

“But—”

“In fifteen minutes you’re going to arrive through that door to get this envelope from Smith here.” I looked at the envelope. It looked just like the one I had got yesterday.

“Yah?”

“Nah. You won’t show. Here’s the book. You get thirty days, starting now.”

I felt sick all of a sudden. “What?”

“Here’s the book.”

“Why would you just give me the book? I didn’t earn it.”

Telford was looking at the computer screen. It said 7:45. “You earned it, kid. You earned it.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

SECRET OF THE COLTAO By J. Alan Erwine

I WAS forced to sit through the lecture again, and I hated it as much as I’d hated it every other orbit. The same thing happens every time our planet slows in its highly elliptical orbit as it approaches aphelion; the adults force us to listen to them warning us about the dangers of visiting the Coltao. Of course, they don’t know what the dangers are, but that doesn’t matter. The dangers are still there.

It’s been the same thing for each of the last ten orbits, or sixteen Earth years…

“When the colony ships crashed here more than thirty orbits ago, the Coltao made it clear that they would help us settle down, but they forbid us to visit them in the winter…”

From there, the lecturers droned on about our town, Glistenheath, being far enough away from the Coltao’s closest city that it would be crazy to walk in the sub-zero temperatures. They also talked about the dangerous winter animals that were native to Nerthus, especially the fenris, but by then I was usually only half-listening. This time was no different.

“My brain’s numb,” my best friend Dag said as we were leaving the lecture hall.

“Tell me about it.” I was only half-listening to him. I was mostly paying attention to the young blonde walking in front of me. I’d seen her before, but I wasn’t sure of her name.

“Finn,” Dag was saying. “Nerthus to Finn.”

I smiled. Dag had caught me staring at parts of the girl’s anatomy I had no business staring at.

“Forget about her,” he said. “She’s as cold as a Nerthusian glacier.”

I was hurt by the statement. I thought about arguing with him, but decided against it. He was probably right. Dag was only half an orbit older than me, but he seemed to have an understanding of people that went far beyond his years. I hit him in the arm and laughed.

He rubbed the arm with his big meaty hand in mock pain. His deep blue eyes stared at me with an intensity I’d never seen before. “Did you hear what I asked you earlier?”

“No.”

“I said, why do you think the Coltao don’t want us around in the winter?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, even though I had my suspicions, most of which I dismissed as adolescent fantasy.

Dag stared at me with those same intense eyes. I stared up at him and couldn’t pull my eyes away from him. I’d never seen him like this. “I’ve heard they practice blood sacrifices.”

I laughed. I could tell it was a nervous laugh. I’d heard the same rumors. “Or maybe they go through some bizarre mutation,” I said with another laugh.

“Maybe.” His tone of voice was too calm. He wasn’t joking with me. “I think somebody needs to find out.”

I was silent for several seconds. I couldn’t believe what I knew he was suggesting. Dag never said anything unless he was serious. Jokes weren’t his style. “What about Thorston?” I asked. Two orbits earlier a kid by the name of Thorston had tried to walk to the Coltao city. They found his environmental suit frozen solid seven miles from Glistenheath. It had malfunctioned. I can still remember the pictures they showed us after they’d recovered him. It’s amazing the kind of damage -60 degrees C temperatures can do.

“Thorston was a wimp,” Dag said. “I’m talking about you and me going together.”

“You’re nuts. The suits can’t take it, and what about the fenris?”

“Six-legged wolves don’t scare me, and we can improve the heaters in the suits. I’m telling you, it can be done.”

“You’re nuts.”

He grabbed me by the arm and stopped me in my tracks. His grip was like what I imagined the grip of the jaws of a fenris would be like. “Are you a coward?”

“Of course not.” I could feel my knees beginning to give out, and my bladder felt like it was ready to explode.”

“Meet me at the north lift at eight tomorrow morning. We’ll take the elevator up to the surface and head for the Coltao city.”

I looked up at the solid dome of rock above my head. More than a mile above that dome was the surface. A surface I knew would already be covered by more than two feet of snow. A surface that would have a daytime high of a balmy -30 degrees C. A surface I had no desire to go to.

“Finn,” Dag was saying. “Don’t disappoint me.” For some stupid reason, I knew I wouldn’t.

I MET Dag the next morning at the north lift. I’d left a memo on my parent’s system telling them I’d gone to the library to work on a quantum physics project with Dag. I’d instructed my AI to tell them of my true whereabouts in four days. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to reach the Coltao city, but I figured four days would be sufficient to cover the fifty miles. We just had to hope that the emergency beacons that lined what was the road in the other seasons would still be visible beneath all the snow.

Dag already had his suit taken apart and was fiddling with the heating unit. I tossed him mine so he could work on both of them at the same time. “This is nuts, you know,” I told him again.

“Maybe,” he said with a grin. It was a grin I didn’t think belonged on his normally stoic face.

“How long will the repairs take?”

“Just a few minutes. The suits are designed to accept this repair. Sometimes people have to go out on the surface for long periods of time in the winter. They just make sure they aren’t normally durable enough, to deter people from doing what we’re about to do.”

I nodded. Dag’s father was an environmental tech. If Dag said the suits could be modified, they could be modified. His few minutes turned out to be closer to fifteen. I knew that at any time, someone was going to come into the room and catch us. How would I explain that to my parents? For that matter, how was I going to explain what we were doing when we came back? If we came back?

“All set,” Dag said.

I nodded my understanding. I didn’t trust myself enough to try and speak. Before I knew what was going on, Dag was helping me into my suit. I was quite dismayed to see that I was assisting him. What was I thinking?

We suited up and checked each others work, and then we double checked. We weren’t afraid of breathing the air. It was safe for us, but it was the cold. We had to make sure there was no place in our suits where that terrible, biting, numbing cold could get us. More than a few minutes exposure and we’d be corpsesicles.

I could tell by looking at Dag that we didn’t share the same thoughts. While I was busy thinking about our almost certain deaths, Dag seemed to be thinking about the fun adventure we were about to have. It was written across his face in his wry grin. I smiled back. At least, I think I did.

The elevator ride through the mile of solid rock that separated Glistenheath from the surface was much quicker than I’d expected. I know for a fact that it was quicker than the times I’d taken the ride during the other seasons. Dag just kept smiling. I was already starting to get sick of that grin.

We again checked our faceplates to make sure they were sealed and then the doors of the elevator opened. A howling burst of cold air cut through me. It only took a few seconds for my suit’s heaters to kick on, but it was a painful few seconds. I mean that literally. I experienced physical pain until I felt the warm air finally rushing around my limbs.

“Invigorating, isn’t it?” Dag’s voice said over the radio.

Let’s get this over with, I thought to myself. I still wasn’t sure why I’d come with him.

The surface was covered by at least two feet of heavy bluish-white snow. In some places, the drifts piled themselves to more than fifteen feet. As amazing as the snow was, it was nothing compared to the intense, biting wind. I could hear it whipping around my helmet. Even worse, I could feel it pushing against me with a force I didn’t think wind was capable of.

“Which way do we go?” I yelled.

“You don’t have to yell. We’re using communicators,” Dag said with a laugh.

I nodded and then realized Dag wouldn’t be able to see the gesture. “Right,” I said. “So, which way do we go?”

He pointed. I wasn’t happy to see that he was pointing directly into the wind. I looked around trying to figure out how Dag knew what he was talking about. I’d been on the surface before, but any landmarks I knew from the warmer seasons were completely covered. “How can you be sure?”

“Bite down on the control next to your mouth four times.”

I did as he told me, and was rewarded with a compass display. Using that, we could figure out exactly where the Coltao city would be. I nodded again. This time I didn’t care whether Dag could see the gesture or not.

SNOW swirled and eddied around us like the tempest of an angry god. Angry that two of his precious creatures would try to commit suicide by walking across the surface of a frozen, hostile planet. We had to continually consult our compasses as the wind twisted us around and knocked us down. First Dag would fall, and then I would. Each time we were buried in the snow. Each time I heard the heater fans crank up an extra notch as the cold of the snow tried to bite through the suit. And each time I could feel the cold seeping through. It seemed to get worse with every fall, but I was sure that was my imagination. The suit’s heating units could last for weeks out here, in theory at least, and that was a theory I didn’t want to test.

After more than a day of trudging through the snow and against the wind in silence, I heard Dag’s communicator click as he got ready to speak. “I don’t know about you Finn, but I’m exhausted. Why don’t we head up to the rock face there and try to find a cave or someplace to get out of the snow?”

I eyed the rock face skeptically. “What about fenris? Those caves could be crawling with them.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t gone stupid yet.”

“Finn, we’ve got to get out of the snow for a while.”

“Dag, don’t tell me what we need to do. I didn’t want to come with you on this stupid hike.”

“But you’re here.” Even though I couldn’t see his face, I could imagine the stupid grin plastered across it. He was right. I was here, and I was tired. But I didn’t like the idea of climbing into caves that might be home to some very nasty beasts.

“I’ve got my dad’s plasma rifle with me,” Dag suddenly said.

“What? How’d you get that?”

“Finn,” he said with a laugh. “I can’t tell you all of my secrets, can I? I have my way of getting the things I want.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Dag laughed. “Now come on. It’ll be safe.”

Having a rifle didn’t make this fool’s errand seem any safer. In fact, it made me think that one of us would probably get shot. Unfortunately, Dag was the one carrying the rifle at the moment.

The climb up the rock face was more difficult than I’d expected. Our suits didn’t weigh enough to really notice when we were walking, but as soon as we started climbing over rocks on a near vertical surface, they seemed to weigh as much as some of the rocks we were climbing over.

As we approached the caves, I noticed the stunning absence of snow. The ground was also quite muddy. As we neared the caves, I could also feel great drafts of heat bursting from them.

“They’re steam vents,” Dag said unnecessarily. “They release heat from deep below the surface.”

“Thanks. I probably could have guessed that.”

We stepped into the nearest cave and Dag began to pull his helmet off.

“Is that smart?”

“Look at your temperature gauge. It’s 45 degrees C in here.”

“What about the steam?”

“There won’t be any bursts while we’re here. I just want to sit down for a few minutes, rest my feet, and breathe some real air.”

I nodded, even though I knew he still wouldn’t be able to see the gesture. I wasn’t sure about the safety of pulling off my helmet, so I shut down my air supply and opened the visor. The fresh air, as Dag called it, didn’t feel good. It was much too warm and had a horrible sulfur smell and taste to it.

“Won’t be much longer,” Dag said.

I didn’t say anything. I had grown tired of the cold, and the walking, and now I was getting tired of the heat of the cave. More than anything, I’d grown tired of Dag. He was a pompous jerk. It wasn’t that I hadn’t known this before we began our little trek, but I’d always managed to ignore it. I usually only saw him for a few hours at a time. This was quite different.

“What’s that noise?” I asked. It sounded like some giant creature allowing its lungs to fill up before it let out a ghastly shriek.

“It’s just steam building up in one of the tunnels.”

I looked at Dag. He was so nonchalant about everything. Didn’t he realize that the steam might be building up near us? “Is it getting warmer?”

Dag sniffed the air. I don’t know why, but it’s what he did. “Yeah, I think it is.” He didn’t seem concerned. Suddenly, we both felt it warming up quickly.

“Seal your helmet,” Dag shouted as he grasped frantically at his own. I pulled the visor down and sealed it. I knew what was coming. I counted to three once my helmet was sealed before I was knocked to the ground by a blast of hot air. I heard the fans in my suit suddenly kick on as they tried to cool me. My instruments were reading an external temperature of 120 degrees C, but I barely noticed. My gaze was frozen on the visor of my helmet, which was covered by water. I was also frozen where I was by Dag’s scream over the communications system. It was a horrible shrill tone that sounded completely inhuman.

Once the noise of the steam and Dag’s screaming had subsided, I called hesitantly over to Dag. “Are you still alive?”

I heard a groan in response. Forcing myself to sit up, I examined the cave. Water dripped from the ceiling and the walls. There was also at least half -a-foot of water on the floor of the cave. Dag was curled up in a ball against the far wall. He had his helmet on, but he was lying face down in the water. I approached him cautiously. “Dag?”

“What?” I heard him mutter.

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

I reached down and pulled him into a sitting position. His helmet was on and the visor was down, but two of the latches weren’t sealed. I released the seals on the other four latches and pulled his helmet off. His neck and face had steam burns on the right side where his helmet hadn’t been sealed completely.

“Use the burn cream in the medpak,” Dag said. I was beginning to get very irritated with his condescending attitude. I reached into the medpak and pulled out the burn cream. I was a little rougher on him than I needed to be. I hate to admit it, but I enjoyed it.

Once Dag was feeling a little better, although no more humble, we checked our suits again and headed for the Coltao city. With a little luck, we’d be there in just over a day.

It was six hours later that I found myself walking ahead of Dag. The burns might have done more damage than I thought. Every time I asked him how he was doing, he just muttered that he was fine. This time I was more than fifteen meters ahead of him, and with the snow blowing the way it was, I knew I wanted to stop and let him catch up. I stopped and watched his dragging steps. He was obviously in pain of some kind, but he wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.

I was so focused on him, I didn’t see the movement. Dag didn’t see it either. A nine-foot-long, six legged creature hurled itself out of the snow right onto Dag. He let out a brief scream as the heavy weight crashed into him. His plasma rifle discharged, but the shot was nowhere near the creature. The fenris bit and clawed at him. I could hear the horrible sounds of Dag’s suit ripping and of his flesh being torn from the bone. The worst sound though was Dag’s screaming. It only lasted for six seconds, but those six seconds seemed like six hours. Then there was no noise. The fenris had destroyed the suit’s radio.

I ran. It was the only thing I could think to do. I ran as fast as I could, and for as long as my legs would carry me. My visor steamed up until I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear anything over the noise of the overworked cooling systems trying to keep me alive. Looking back, I don’t know if I did the right thing. Maybe I should have helped Dag. He might have still been alive when I ran, but I doubt it. Nothing survives a fenris attack.

I stopped to catch my breath. I was sure I heard the sound of fenris all around me, but it was only the sound of my suit trying to cool me off, while it tried to keep the cold air from penetrating the suit. As my faceplate cleared, I had a sudden realization. I was alone on the surface of Nerthus now. As I saw it, I had two options; go home, or go on to the Coltao city. Going home would have been safer, but I was so close to the Coltao now that I couldn’t turn back. I had to know what they did in the winter that they didn’t want us to know about. I had to go on.

THE Coltao city was almost exactly like I remembered it, except for the three feet of snow that climbed up the spires that seemed to emerge from the ground as they were a part of the natural geological structures of the planet. It had been two orbits since I last came here, but not much had changed. The crystalline structures still reflected the stars’ light throughout the town, although the light was more diffuse now. One thing that was different from the other seasons was that there were no Coltao.

As I walked through the streets of the city, listening to the wind howl just beyond my suit, I searched for the Coltao, but they were nowhere to be found. I even became bold enough to begin opening doors to buildings, listening to the crystals slide perfectly against one another, but I found no sign of the creatures, even though I knew there were more than one hundred thousand living in the city.

My search brought me to an elevator shaft that led down to the scientific sector of the city just as the sun was beginning to set. Even though I was in a city belonging to a highly advanced species, I didn’t feel comfortable on the surface. Without the Coltao around, there was no telling whether or not fenris might come into town. I descended into the bowels of the city. What other choice did I have?

I searched the lower labyrinth that was the Coltao underground looking for a sign of life, but instead of finding the Coltao, I became hopelessly lost. I finally found my way to a large crystalline door that looked too important for me to ignore. I opened it. I was young and foolish, what can I say? The door slid aside and I found myself staring into the most amazing sight I think any human has ever seen. It far surpassed Waldman’s first close-up view of a black hole, or Kovalev’s first look at star birth.

What I saw was the inside of a mammoth crystal. It seemed to have an infinite number of facets. Even today, I still don’t know how many. The crystal was actually the chamber I had walked into. It stretched hundreds of meters in every direction.

Suspended throughout the room on spider web steel were the Coltao. There were thousands of them, each attached to the crystal and each other by an infinite number of tiny threads of super-strong steel. Their six limbs were spread wide. Both pairs of arms arched towards the top of the crystal as only five jointed limbs could. Their legs all faced the floor at what looked like precisely 45 degree angles to one another.

I don’t know how long I stared at the amazing sight. It may have only been seconds, but it might have been hours. It was only when I felt something touch my shoulder that I remembered where I really was. I spun around quickly and found myself staring up at a seven-foot tall creature with blue skin and six limbs.

“What are you doing here, human?” the Coltao asked.

I stammered, trying to respond, but nothing came out.

It grabbed me by the arms. “Have we not told you that we don’t want you visiting our city in the winter?”

“What is this room?” I asked. At the time, I didn’t really realize that I was ignoring the creature’s direct question.

It stared at me for several seconds with its lidless eyes. I watched as a translucent membrane covered the eye several times. I had never noticed it before, but of course, I had never actually spoken to a Coltao. It had always been one of my parents that was doing the talking. It let go of me. “They call you Finn,” it finally said.

I nodded.

“You’ve come on your own,” it said. “No. You were with someone else, but he was killed.”

I knew the creature was reading my mind and I didn’t need to say anything, but I felt I had to. “His name was Dag.”

The creature nodded, obviously a gesture it had picked up from us. “I understand your mind,” the creature said. “I will tell you of what you are seeing only because I know you will not tell anyone else until you are dead.”

The words struck me as strangely morbid. This creature was talking about my death, even though I knew I had many orbits left in my life. At least, I hoped I did.

“Fifteen orbits before your ship crashed,” the creature began. “Our scientists realized we were nearing the Omega Point in our development.”

I stared at the creature, and it immediately understood that I didn’t understand what it was saying. “We are nearing the point where we could not know what our mental and technological development would bring us in the future. We therefore decided it was time to control our own futures. We began to hone our mental abilities. We developed this chamber, and others like it. The crystalline structure allows us to interlock with the other minds of our species. Together, we hope to evolve into a state of pure consciousness. A state where we will no longer need our technology or our bodies.”

The creature was speaking simply enough for me to understand, but the thought of what I heard still seemed difficult to comprehend. “You only do this in the winter?”

“Some of us work towards our goal throughout the entire orbit, but we all work together in the winter. Our distance from our sun in winter allows us to avoid more of the radiation and neutrino emissions that distort the natural wavelengths in which this crystal vibrates.”

“Why didn’t you want us to know?”

“Although we like your species, we don’t entirely trust you. We know that you have a very bloody history, and the truth is, we’re vulnerable at this time of year. You alone could walk into this chamber and kill more than a hundred of us before we’d become aware of your presence. Only twenty of us stay outside the crystals during winter, and we can’t be everywhere.”

“Do you really think we’d come and kill your species?”

“Probably not,” it said with several quick head bobs. “We also know what your species is capable of, even if your species doesn’t.”

I stared at it through squinted eyes. It was starting to make even less sense.

“Your species is nearing the point where these chambers could help them.”

“You mean to evolve like you’re trying to do?”

“Yes.” That seemed impossible to me. We were nothing like the Coltao. “You are like us in more ways than you know,” the creature said. “Now, Finn, it is time to return you to your home. Someday your species will embrace this idea, but I doubt that you will lie to see it. Perhaps you can be instrumental in bringing about the change that is necessary for your species.”

THAT was more than forty orbits ago. The Coltao disappeared from the planet five orbits ago. No one knows what happened to them. No one, that is, except me. Now, as I lie here dying, I know that Nerthus must know of my experiences. That is why I have set these words down. It is my hope, that as the Coltao said, I will be instrumental in brining about change. Therefore, I give you the truth about the secret of the Coltao, so that you may grow, and understand, and change. They are still with us, maybe even watching over us. I don’t know.

Now, my only wish is that I could see the change you’ll bring. I wish I could see what the human race will become, but I’m afraid my time on Nerthus has expired. So, as you each begin your new journey, I begin my own. Maybe we will meet again someday.

[Back to Table of Contents]

THE CRY OF A CHILD By Dana L. Solomon

“LOOK into the face of a monster.” Wheeler pointed across the tiny courtroom at LeClaire’s forehead and waited while the jury followed the line of his forefinger. “The face of evil on a human body.”

He stared into LeClaire’s eyes, cold and dead in the gas lamps’ flicker. Outside the windows, the brief noonday twilight had already faded over the snow that covered Baffin Island like a still, gray ocean. The last sun had set over Rangnisting six weeks ago, after a day that lasted half an hour. It wouldn’t rise until March.

“It would be unjust to call him an animal,” Wheeler continued. “Animals kill for food, to defend themselves or their young, with no malice, out of simple instinct for survival.

“Nor is he a common murderer. Murderers kill for revenge, for gain, out of rage or hatred. This man killed purely for pleasure. And who did he choose as his victim?” Wheeler stopped again and let out a heavy breath.

“A little girl. Not a Christian, as his lawyer has pointed out, but a little girl nonetheless.” He punctuated this sentence with a contemptuous glance at the barrister on LeClaire’s right. “Her name was Naja. She was ten years old.

“All this morning, you heard the medical examiner, come all the way up from Yellowknife, just to tell you, in vivid detail, what this man did to her. For hours. For pleasure. Just to hear the cry of a child.

“The cry of a child,” Wheeler repeated. “A sound designed by God and Nature to trouble the human heart, inspiring it to assuage the suffering of the most vulnerable among us.” Again he pointed at LeClaire. “That same sound inspired in him only joy, sheer delight at her terror and her suffering.

“Now that child cries out again. Her father cries out with her.” He scanned the far rear left section of the courtroom, reserved for the Esquimaux, for Juat’s pudgy form. “For Justice.

“We may live at the furthest reaches of civilization, the northernmost boundaries of Christendom, but we are still civilized, still Christians. This child’s life was no less worthy than a Christian’s, and her murder no less terrible. And her murderer deserves no less punishment.”

Wheeler stepped back to his desk and sat down, looking impassively at the floor while the judge charged the jury. The usher escorted them out the back door of the courtroom to the small Inn that served as the deliberation chamber. Two Mounties fastened irons around LeClaire’s wrists and started leading him out to the jail.

“You wrong about one t’ing, boss,” said a voice behind him. Wheeler turned and looked up into Juat’s flat face.

“What’s that?”

“De polar bear. Especially de old one. He like to give pain, give fear. Sometimes more den to eat.” Juat sat down next to him.

“I once seen de polar bear find a caribou. He could kill it, one wap of his paw. Instead, he just break de back leg. But he no kill it. He make it run. I seen him chase dat poor caribou five miles, on de cripple leg, bleeding all across de snow. Once, twice he hang back, he hide, make de caribou t’ink it finally get away, then he come hit it again. After dat, he keep hit it, give it more pain, every time it slow up, but he no kill it. When it finally fall down and die, he almost look sad, you know?”

“I didn’t know that. I thought we were the only animals that tortured.”

“Nah. You get a polar bear on you tail, you in for a world of pain.”

“Fortunately, I never had the pleasure. Have you?”

“Once. Wid de qamutik, de dog sled, all the way nort’, to Nanisivik. He track me for miles. De dogs, dey don’t outrun him, he go easy faster than dey go hard. I no got de rifle, I lose my spear and all I had were de skinning knife.”

“How did you get away?”

“I leave him de offering.”

“Offering?”

Juat nodded. “I stop de qamutik and take one of de dogs—de oldest. I hate like anyt’ing to do it, he been wid me for years. I take him a few feet away where de oder dogs don’ see, and I cut him throat. I leave him as de offering and de bear he eat de dead dog and stop chasing me and de rest.”

“Helluva story.” Wheeler shuddered. “Good thing I never go outside without my hunting rifle.”

“De rifle, dat’s best. You got de rifle when you meet de polar bear, you get de good skin and a lot of meat to bring to de family. De knife, it don’t help.”

“What if that’s all you have?”

“Dat’s when you die. Slow and painful. Better you cut you own t’roat and save you de misery.”

Both waited in silence, staring out the window at the blackness of the day. “Since my wife die, my daughter been de most precious t’ing in my life, Juat said at last. “Dey no convict him, no?”

“They might.” Wheeler tried to make his voice sound reassuring.

Juat shook his head. “De French trappers, dey no convict another French trapper, not for killing de Inuk kid.”

“We’ll just have to hope they’re people, not polar bears.”

LECLAIRE rubbed his wrists where the shackles had chafed him and glared back at the courthouse. The whole business had been a lot of trouble. He’d lost at least a hundred pounds sterling worth of skins from spending six weeks in jail instead of tending his traps, and he’d had to pay the barrister another fifty.

No matter. They’d given everything back, his knife, his keys, his hunting rifle. He could make up most of his losses in one good fur season. He just had to wait, a good long while before the next kid. Either that or move again. Folk’d told of good trapping over at Igloolik, across the Foxe Basin. He’d moved so many times in the past ten years, he’d lost track.

He turned his snow shoes in a careful maneuver and stomped along the roadway, barely visible beneath five feet of snow, toward his shack on the outskirts of town.

Was it worth it? He shrugged. It had certainly been a delicious night. Wheeler, that bastard who tried to get him hung, was right. There was something he loved about that sound, the cry of a child. The pain and fear on the little ‘nuk brat’s face had made it even sweeter. He’d certainly felt enough pain and fear, enough times in his life, starting when he was no older than she was. Now it was over, and he was still free. Maybe there was a greater justice at work.

A dozen dogs yelped behind him and a sled whooshed past. It slowed for a moment and the ‘nuk on the back turned and stared at him. LeClaire flipped his rifle into his hands, and the sled sped up and disappeared over the next rise. He slung his rifle back over his shoulder. Maybe it was the father, maybe a friend of his, but who cared. And who could tell them apart, even in sunlight?

The moonrise eased the darkness of the day, a bright sickle riding low on the horizon, and by its light, he made his way over the snow fields. Wherever he’d lived, starting in the old days on the St. Lawrence River, just north of Quebec, he always had his place far outside the city, the town, the settlement, far away from the nearest neighbor, white, redskin or ‘nuk. He liked privacy. And those few special times, he’d been lucky there was no one around to hear the screams.

He reached the upper door to his shack, since the lower had been buried since November, unlocked it and stepped inside, steering by memory rather than sight toward the oil lamp on the back table. The matches were still dry, and he struck one and lit the lamp.

The snow had blown in past the threshold, leaving a powdery layer across the floor, like frozen dust, and even with sealskins over the clapboards to break the wind it felt colder inside than out.

He shut the door, slipped off his snowshoes and lay down on his cot. One more fur season, then it was definitely time to move again.

He started at a sudden crash, an ice chunk smashing through his one window. He snatched up his rifle and threw the door open, but all he could see was the moon’s reflection on the snow. He fired a round into the cold air, and over the echo, a dozen dogs yelped in answer.

Before he could reload, a bola whizzed through the night and smashed the rifle from his hands. Short, squat shadows appeared as if rising from the snow. Another whizz and the three bones of a second bola wrapped around his wrists. One of the shadows closed in from his right side and he turned in time to see a club lower onto his head. His eyes closed and the moonlight and shadows faded.

LECLAIRE woke up flat on his back in the snow. He sat up and looked around in a panic. A cloud bank had passed overhead, and he could see only an endless darkness. It was two months until next sunrise. He could be minutes or miles away from town, and with nothing to guide him, he might wander in the wrong direction, toward the uninhabited heart of Baffin Island or off an ice sheet into the freezing waters of the Cumberland Sound.

Then the clouds parted and the sickle moon shone down on a familiar landscape, the hills overlooking the Pangnirtung Fjord. The lazy little bastards had only taken him a few miles South along its banks. He felt around him. He had on his heavy coat, hat and gloves, all caribou skin lined with thick fur, and his scarf was tied around his nose and mouth. His mucklucks were laced above his knees, his hunting knife hung from his belt, and his snowshoes lay underneath him, keeping him from sinking down into the five foot drifts.

Alone this far from Rangnisting, a prissy Brit like Wheeler would be frozen dead by morning, even with a crate of gear and supplies. To an old trapper like him, the nuks’ idea of revenge was no more than a school-boy’s prank. With a steady pace, the North Star ahead of him, and enough moon and starlight, he could make it back to town before the darkness of the next day. He’d lay low for a few months, then get a dozen trappers into a little posse, and what he did to the ‘nuk girl’d be nothing compared to he’d do to papa. Then he smelled the blood.

His coat, gloves and mucklucks were covered in frozen blood, and a light stench hovered around him like a salty soup, faint to his senses, but a dinner bell to every polar bear within twenty miles.

He dived into a snowbank and rolled in it until his hands and feet felt numb. He pulled himself upright, and in the dim light he could see dark stains on the white powder, and the scent was almost gone. The air was still, and if he made it down to the fjord, fifty feet below the surrounding snow fields, the scent would stay low, and he might get back to town before a bear got wind of him. He slipped his feet into the snowshoes and headed west.

Another cloud bank moved overhead, dimming the moonlight. He shrugged off a flash of fear. As long as he kept moving, he wouldn’t freeze, and as long as he stayed straight, he’d hit the fjord sooner or later. Then a sharp right, and an easy walk to town across the ice.

The clouds thickened and the white panorama darkened to gray. A light snowfall danced around him. He looked back over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t turned off course. A year after he first came to Rangnisting, a French trapper named Chapelin had gotten lost in the same terrain. When they’d found his body, his tracks showed he’d been about to close a circle five miles wide. He was kneeling in the snow and his hands were frozen together in prayer.

LeClaire started forward again, squinting against the sting of the snowflakes. The phantom image of a silent bear danced in front of him. It charged, then disappeared just before it struck.

LeClaire kept walking. By the angle of his showshoes and the outline of the hills rising ahead he could tell he was moving downwards, and he remembered the shallow valley just before the last bluff overlooking the fjord.

Another image, a shadow the same gray as the snow, flashed in the corner of his eye, this time leaving the sound of a low rumble as it vanished.

He pulled out his knife, no weapon against a polar bear, but better than nothing. He tried to walk faster, but the clumsy snowshoes kept him at a slow waddle. The growl sounded closer, louder, first behind him, then right, then left. He brandished his knife and slashed at the whirling snow. Suddenly, it was quiet. The terrain turned upward again, the falling snow tapered off and his steady footfalls brought him within a few yards of the rise.

In a thin sliver of a second, before he could breathe to scream, the shadow flashed again. A paw whipped out and slashed through his breeches above his left muckluck, into the flesh of his thigh.

A new sound echoed across the wasteland, ringing for a full five seconds before he realized it was his own voice, howling in agony. He lashed out with the knife, but the shadow slipped away. Twin coals glowed in the distance, the ghosts of two black eyes, and the growl sounded like laughter.

LeClaire bit off his glove and reached his hand down to the wound. It came back up cold, red and sticky with slushy, freezing blood. The bear charged again, a big boar male, lashing out at the same leg and this strike cut clear through to the bone.

Almost blind with agony, LeClaire tried to stab back, but bear pulled away as easily as a child playing tag and the knife glance off its shoulder. With a predator’s easy calm, it cut an arc at a lazy trot, then turned to face LeClaire, a flash of moonlight glinting off its white teeth. Panic overpowering pain, LeClaire pulled himself to the top of the rise. The bear padded behind him at an easy pace like a giant, faithful dog, not charging, not falling back, pausing only to lap up the droplets of blood that spattered on the snow.

Keeping the creature at bay with the knife and ignoring the agony from his left leg, LeClaire slipped off his snow shoes, picked them up and cradled them to his chest. He knelt down in the snow to keep himself from sinking in, while the bear dropped to his haunches for a third charge. Before it could strike again, LeClaire hurled himself sideways off the bluff. His momentum sent him rolling faster than the bear could follow, shoulder over shoulder down the embankment, faster and faster until the slope leveled off and dumped him with a crunch on the ice of the Pangnirtung Fjord.

He crawled back to the snow bank by the side of the fjord, hoisted himself upright with one of the snowshoes, and glanced up at the bluff. At full gallop, the bear could make up the half a furlong between them in seconds. Blind as a bat, deaf as a post, it could still track him by the smell of his blood from many times that distance.

He untied his scarf, a yard long and half again as wide, and lay it down on the ice. Biting his lip to keep from screaming, he bent down, scooped up a few handfuls of snow and poured them into the scarf, then tied the frozen bandage around the gash in his leg.

The pain subsided to numbness. He cut the ends off the knot and used them to staunch the blood flow, then picked up another handful of snow, rolled the bloody cloths into a snowball and hurled it twenty yards southward.

He tested his left leg with a ginger step. It buckled beneath him and he pitched forward face first. He pulled himself upright again, this time using both snowshoes, and tested the footing. A twelve-mile inlet from the Cumberland Sound, the fjord had frozen late, and only a thin layer of snow coated the ice sheet. He took another step with his right leg, then caught himself on both snowshoes, like twin crutches. The snow compacted on the ice beneath him, and after a few careful steps, he fell into a steady rhythm.

An easy hundred yard hobble north toward Rangnisting allowed the hope that the bear had not followed him down the bank. Perhaps he had even lost the scent, or the bloody snowball had sent him in the wrong direction.

A distant sound reached his ears, a low growl, the purr of a giant contented cat. Without glancing back, LeClaire forced himself to hobble faster.

The growl sounded again. Suddenly, LeClaire’s head snapped toward another sound, a thrashing noise coming from the snow-covered hills above him. He dropped one snowshoe and pulled out his knife.

The thrashing continued, not closing on him, not pulling away. He held his breath and hobbled on one crutch to the edge of the bank. On a low rise just above him, at the base of a snow-cliff, he saw a dark circle of metal, a trap, black against the gray snow. He drew closer until he could make out a flash of gray fur inside it.

His knife in his teeth, LeClaire threw himself on the bank and belly-crawled up to the trap. It was tied with thin rope to the top of a pole, and its jagged metal jaws held the left hind leg of an arctic hare.

“Ah, my friend,” he told it. “I’d be happy to see you any time but especially tonight. I’d cook your meat and get two shillings for your skin. Now, you save my life.”

The hare stared up at him, its eyes begging rescue, respite from its pain. In answer, LeClaire took the knife and cut a gash down its back, deep into the fur. He pinched the sides of the cut together and sipped at the blood that seeped from the wound.

“My friend, you give me strength, you keep me going,” he said. “Now, maybe you save me another way.”

LeClaire wrapped the rope in two loops around the hare’s neck. With his knife, he pried the trap open, enough to pull out the hare’s leg, and let the empty jaws snap shut again.

He rubbed the hare’s clean sides against his own bloody leg, and squeezed the cut on its back again. When the gray fur was soaked with red frost, he unlooped the rope from its neck.

Instead of running, the hare sat, motionless, trembling. LeClaire stabbed its wounded hind leg with the tip of his knife and the hare limped off through the snow, leaving a bloody trail.

On an instinct, LeClaire took the top of the pole and shook it. It felt loose in his hand, not buried in the permafrost but stuck into the snow just far enough to keep a small animal from escaping with the trap still around its leg. With two more shakes and a sharp tug, it came out in his hand, a wooden dowel the length and heft of a heavy broom handle.

He knelt down and, using the snowshoes as a shovel, dug a snow cave into the side of the cliff. He dumped in the snow shoes, the pole, the rope and trap, then eased himself in feet first.

He waited, ignoring the biting, burning cold. The shadow of the bear approached, and LeCalire held his breath. It stood on its hind legs, almost ten feet high and sniffed at the air while LecLaire whispered silent curses. Finally, it turned and galloped away, following the scent of the hare.

Numb with cold, LeClaire clawed out of the cave and rubbed at himself frantically, trying to bring the life back to his freezing limbs and body. He crawled back to the flat surface of the fjord and pulled himself back upright on his makeshift crutches. Then he cut the pole and trap off the rope, and cut the rope into three lengths to tie the pole around his left leg, at the ankle, knee, and hip.

Again, he tested his left leg with a single step. The pole held long enough for him to swing his right around and catch his weight. He tied the short length of rope still attached to the trap around his belt in a slip knot. A good trap would always come in handy. With a whispered blessing, he thanked the trapper who had left it, for the hare, the rope and especially the pole. Once he reached Rangnisting, he could limp the last mile from the fjord to town on the pole and his snowshoes. In the clear sky, the North star beckoned, an inviting twinkle, and he headed for it at a good clip toward Rangnisting. Then he saw the second shadow.

He blinked at the ice and it was gone—perhaps no more than a sliver of cloud eclipsing the moonlight. It appeared again, the tapered silhouette of a ghost flitting beneath him, more than eight feet long.

In six weeks, the ice would be thick enough to hold a horse and wagon, but now only three inches separated him from the water. He started for the shoreline where the ice was thickest.

The shadow flew past him and with a crunch and a crackle, the head of a hooded seal punched its way through the ice and let out a welcoming roar—a happy hunter greeting his meal just before the kill.

It disappeared back into the water, then rammed up again until its full body squeezed through the hole. Sliding, slithering like a fat brown snake, the seal made up the distance between them in a second.

LeClaire braced himself on his right leg and swung his left snowshoe full force, connecting with the creature’s head. For a moment, the seal backed off, then it lunged forward with fangs bared. Again, LeClaire struck out with the snowshoe, this time striking the fleshy hood of its nose. The creature turned and dived back under the ice.

LeClaire started forward a few more paces. Another crunch and he hurled himself forward to keep from sinking into the water as the seal punched a hole up under his feet. For a hundred yards they continued this frantic dance, LeClaire hobbling serpentine on his crutches while the seal broke hole after hole in the ice, trying to pitch him into waters cold enough to suck the heart’s warmth from his body in a second.

In a sudden variation, LeClaire curved out twenty yards from the shore and the seal followed. With a pivot, he doubled back as quickly as he could, slipped on the snowshoes and hobbled on his splinted leg, up onto the bank, a curving hill of deep snow where a seal was too clumsy too fight a man with snowshoes and a knife.

The seal’s head popped out of one of the holes, black eyes fixed on him. “Good hunter,” LeClaire called over his shoulder. “But not clever like the bear. No patience, no memory. I go away a few minutes and you forget all about me. Then some day we meet again, maybe you, maybe some babies, and I have my rifle and a good heavy club.” The seal answered with a single roar. Suddenly, its gaze shifted to the crest of the hill, just above LeClaire’s head. It roared again, then vanished under the ice.

The black inside of a paw flashed in the corner of LeClaire’s eye. Before he could turn or duck, the bear struck him in a full body blow. The heavy coat turned the claws, but the force sent him reeling back down onto the ice, where he landed on the side of his face. He tried to pull himself up, but the instant’s contact froze his cheek to the surface. Will all his strength he ripped it free, leaving behind a layer of beard and flesh. He hand clutched what felt like a broken jaw and he spat out a wad of blood and teeth.

His head spun around in a quick scan. The seal was staring at him from a hole some forty yards away, yielding the field to the stronger predator. The bear stood looking down at him from the top of the hill and if it had a human face, LeClaire would’ve thought it was smiling.

“Batard,” LeClaire shouted up at it. “Just like me, you go for the pain, the fear before the kill. But maybe I’m smarter, maybe I have a little trick you don’t know.”

He reached down with his knife and cut the rope that bound the dowel to his leg and lashed the knife by its handle to the end of the dowel, wrapping a length of rope around it three times to secure it in place. Then he drew himself upright with the makeshift spear. The snow inside the scarf had blended with the sheath of blood, freezing into a cast around his leg, and it felt stronger beneath him.

The bear began moving toward him down the hill in a slow, stalking prowl. LeClaire stood his ground. The bear stopped for a moment, its smile darkening to a puzzled look.

“Ah, not so sure now, you wonder why LeClaire just stands here,” said LeClaire. “You like your prey to run. If I don’t move, maybe you back away, wait and when I expect nothing, then you strike. No, better for me you come now.”

LeClaire turned away and started along the ice at his fastest limp, his head cocked back to watch the bear. With an angry snarl, it charged forward. LeClaire pivoted and fixed the base of the spear against the ice with the knife pointed at the bear’s heart.

It reached him in six galloping strides and LeClaire tensed every muscle in his face, neck, shoulders and torso. At the last second, a flash of moonlight caught the knife-point. The bear veered off at a slight angle, and the knife caught him in the side, not full in the chest, but still straight enough to cut through the heavy fur and into the flesh.

The force cracked the dowel in half and sent LeClaire flying back onto the ice. The bear let out a strangled shriek, higher pitched than it customary growl and it backed off in a writhing three-legged lope, its front paw trying to bat away the half-spear still sticking out of its body.

Another bat, another writhe and it came free, landing point down in the snow. Still shrieking in pain, the bear galloped away and vanished behind the hill.

Painfully, tentatively, LeClaire climbed to his feet. The seal’s head disappeared beneath the ice and the shadow of its body started moving toward him at a slow, purposeful swim. LeClaire started limping toward the bank, but the seal sped forward and cut him off just before he reached it. He heard a crunch, and felt a shudder as its head rammed upwards underneath his feet. The thicker ice at the edge of the fjord resisted the impact and an angry growl sounded from the freezing water.

The seal doubled thirty yards back and punched its way up onto the ice. LeClaire glanced around him. The shattered end of the broken spear jutted up from a white hillock some twenty yards above him. The snowshoes lay scattered across the ice. Again, the seal started slithering toward him, and he collapsed into a mound of snow. For a moment, he thought of Chapelin, and for another moment, he tried to remember a prayer.

Instead, he let out an angry curse, reached under his coat, and pulled out the trap. Ignoring the pain of the metal teeth that gouged his hands through the gloves, he pressed the steel jaws apart. With a last agonizing shove, it clicked open, just as the seal reached him, teeth bared under its hooded nose. LeClaire lifted up his left arm and the seal’s mouth closed around it. The skin and fur of his coat sleeve resisted the bite for the single second it took him to swing the trap around with all his strength and snap it closed around the creature’s throat. The seal began thrashing and rolling over the ice, its growling roar strangled low in its chest. Finally, its death throes eased, its head flopped over like a rag doll’s and its body stretched out, wriggling and twitching on the ice.

LeClaire staggered across the ice to retrieve the snowshoes, then limped up the bank for the shattered shards of his spear. He doubled back to the seal, pressed down with knife blade and lashed open the creature’s belly while it still twitched and writhed. A fountain of stinking steam billowed up from the carcass, and he reached through it cut out the gall bladder. He pierced it with a single thrust and held the dripping organ over his head, fighting the urge to vomit while the bile poured over him.

He set out at a slow walk while his nose adjusted to his own stench. The ice trembled under his feet and he glanced back. The bear was standing on its hind legs over the seal, flailing its forepaws at him.

LeClaire turned and held up the front half of the spear. “What do you choose, Monsieur Bear?” he whispered. “Me, stinking with bile, still with the spear that cut you? No, better you take the fresh-killed seal I leave you.”

The bear sniffed the air, glanced back and forth from LeClaire to the seal, then lowered his head into the open belly to enjoy the offering.

THE moon began its slow descent. LeClaire stopped to tie the broken bottom of the pole around his leg, then started walking on his snowshoes, up the bank toward Rangnisting. The lights of the city broke through the darkness of the new day, the hunters and trappers up early to start work. At this pace, he would be back inside an hour. First, he’d find a doctor to save his leg and some of his teeth. Then he’d get his rifle and pay papa a little visit.

The wind picked up again. Snowflakes swirled around him and ghost bears menaced him on every side. A sound echoed from over a small rise of snow. LeClaire only quickened his pace. The sound repeated, first a soft sob, then growing louder, into a delicious wail of fear and helplessness, the plaintive whimper of a child crying in terror. For a moment, he resisted, then he turned, lured by the siren song to a small ditch just beyond the rise.

The last of the moonlight shined on a flash of movement in the ditch, a flicker around two weeping eyes. Before his own eyes could focus, the claws of a padded paw snaked out and ripped them from his face. He screamed out into the blind darkness, and kept screaming even as he felt the hot breath on his bloody cheek and the massive jaws, twice the size and many times the power of the steel trap, close around his neck, severing his jugular and spine in a single snap.

JUAT stopped the qamutik a dozen yards from the scene. The mother bear eyed him and the dogs suspiciously and the cub ran behind her. With a quick command, he pulled the sled a few yards away.

“No, mama bear,” he called out in a soothing voice. “I no here to hurt you or you bebe. But I no understand. Ol’ French trapper, so smart he make it all de way back home covered wid blood, wid all de bears around. Still he don’ know, or maybe he no remember. When de bear cub calls out to him mama, it sound just like de cry of a child.”

At the sound of Juat’s voice, the bear looked up and snarled at him in answer. He let out another cry and the dogs steered the qamutik in a quick half circle toward town, and after a few mistrustful sniffs, she lowered her head back to the body to enjoy the rest of her meal.

[Back to Table of Contents]

PROFESSOR THOMPSON TANG GAO AND THE CREATURES FROM PLANET X By Robert Burke Richardson

PROFESSOR Thompson Tang Gao, rationalist, adjusted his telescope and glanced at the grandfather clock that stood against the wall of his well-appointed sitting room: he still had a few minutes. A large part of the view had become obscured when the other space vessels arrived but the patch of stars Gao wanted remained clear. Free of the obscuring effects of a planetary atmosphere, Neptune was just visible as a blurred gray disc. It was the twinkling vastness beyond Neptune, however, that had so powerfully captured his imagination. Could there, he wondered again, be a ninth planet?

Reluctantly, Gao placed the telescope in its case, wiping its gleaming surfaces and taking special care with the lenses. He removed his bifocals and searched his desk drawer for reading glasses and a pen. An ornate bottle, its supply of india ink nearly extinguished, was deemed harmless enough to be placed on the antique desk: even rationalists could be clumsy, from time to time.

He dated an entry February first, 1895 and began, in flowing letters, to write:

The ninth planet-Planet X-must be extremely cold, owing to its great distance from the sun. Another consequence of this distance would be the appearance of the sun itself: Planet Xers should see it as only the size of an average star, though exceedingly bright.

Biological peculiarities will correspond, principally, to eyesight (because of the lack of light) and a heightened ability to retain heat. Technological diverseness would probably stem from the landscape, which I imagine to be snowy and windswept, like the highest peaks of Olympus Mons.

The grandfather clock chimed, signaling the change of the hour, and Morovan entered with a tray of tea, a Venutian, and two Martians. Morovan was a moon-man and a freak of eugenics, as his four-foot stature revealed. He was, quite probably, the tallest moon-man who had ever lived. Gao concentrated for a moment on the special glasses he had constructed for Morovan: living underground, as moon-men were wont to do, he had exceptionally poor eyesight. Like a planet Xer, Gao thought, before chiding himself and pulling his mind back to the moment.

It wasn’t Morovan’s glasses or his small pink eyes that Gao should have noticed, but rather their concerned expression. “It’s alright,” the professor said softly as Morovan poured his tea. The moon-man poured tea for the three guests as well and then retreated to the back of the room, but did not exit. He was too suspicious, by nature, to leave his master unattended.

“Chancellor Varantus,” Gao acknowledged the Venutian first, for they had been previously acquainted.

The chancellor spared Gao a nod of his head and returned the greeting. “Hello, Thompson.” Tall and slender, Varantus had very delicate features and golden skin and although it was somewhat uncommon for a Venutian male to hold such a high post, he had performed his duties with distinction. “Allow me to introduce the Martian ambassador and his aide, Brassen.”

Gao examined the Martians much more openly than would have been polite with a Venutian or another human. The ambassador had long white hair, which complemented his pale green skin, and a long white beard. One hand clutched a ceremonial spear, replete with feathers, but the other three rested comfortably in his lap. A thinker, Gao noted.

Brassen, the aide, contrasted his companion markedly. His muscled skin was a much deeper green and bones and feathers decorated his long spear. He had twisted his black hair into a well-oiled queue, a brash statement considering the extremely flammable nature of Martian hair-oil. The point of greatest departure, however, was the aide’s expression: everything about his demeanor showed that he considered their presence there a mistake.

“I presume,” Gao said amiably, “that this is not just a social visit?”

“We have need of your awesome power,” the ambassador said without preamble. Gao suppressed a smile: the Martians were a formidable people but their faith in certain myths was misplaced.

He looked to Varantus for explanation. “We were holding a secret, interplanetary conference on an asteroid,” explained the chancellor. “There have been some complications.” Well known as the peacekeepers of the solar system, the Venutians had arranged the “secret” meetings. Gao, and anyone else in the know, had heard about the conference weeks earlier.

“So,” said Gao. “You have need of the Liebniz machine.” The Liebniz machine was the source of much of Gao’s reputation and much of the reason that a lone Earthman often had a say in interplanetary politics. The machine had been created by the philosopher Gottfried Von Liebniz and passed down through the generations by a secret society. It was, essentially, a reasoning machine, drawing logically necessary conclusions from available facts at an astonishing rate.

To the obvious annoyance of his aide, the Martian ambassador asked, “Will you help us, Professor Gao?”

To the big Martian’s further annoyance, Gao replied in the affirmative.

Gao walked the diplomats to the sitting room door but let Morovan guide them the rest of the way. Taking the great key from his pocket, Gao walked to a room down the hall and unlocked a door. Here stood the Leibniz machine, the small chair and desk before it dwarfed by its daunting size. Gleaming chrome with wooden levers, the machine covered an entire wall and occupied half the floor space.

Gao sat at the desk and stared at the rows of knobs and levers. He knew he should begin developing formulas to help him with the peace conference problem but his mind became suddenly and uncharacteristically unfocused.

This is all wrong. The thought came unbidden to his mind, an echo of a dream he’d had almost two weeks before. Since that time he had been plagued with the feeling that reality itself had become other than what it should have been. In moments like this-when the uncanny mood of the dream imposed itself on Gao’s waking mind-even human reasoning and intuition felt suspect, as if Descartes’ disturbing vision of an all-powerful evil will distorting, truth and perception, had come to pass.

Gao shook his head, took up the pencil, and began setting the knobs. He needed to focus on cold hard logic and the derivations of the machine. He needed to find answers to the vague puzzle Varantus had presented him with-for his own peace of mind, as much as for the solar community.

THE trip to the asteroid would have taken the Monadic Universe days and would have required constant stoking of the fire. The Venutia, on which Gao now stood, would make the journey in an hour and-thanks to its perpetual motion machines-expend no fuel. Gao had once, with the help of the Liebniz machine, tried to model the engine by inserting random numbers for the variables. He developed a huge system of balanced equations (3+5 balanced by a symmetrical 10-2, for instance) joined in the center by 2=1. Gao had never unraveled this particular mystery, and the Venutians seemed unable to explain it.

The chime sounded and the door to Gao’s quarters slid open revealing Vivan, the chancellor’s daughter. On Earth, with her elf-like features, golden skin, and seven-foot frame, she would surely have been thought an angel.

Gao moved to the kettle, just now coming to a boil, switched off the heating element, and poured a pot of tea.

“The usual arrangement?” she asked.

Gao nodded, preparing two cups with cream and honey while the tea steeped. As the daughter of a Venutian chancellor, Vivan had access to certain information; as the lone Earthman in space, Gao had English Breakfast tea: sometimes, interspecies relationships were just that easy.

“What’s the situation?” he asked, handing her a cup.

“Well,” she said after sipping her tea. “It’s pretty bad. Murder. One of our clerks was found dead.”

As a humanist-if that term had meaning in an interplanetary community-Gao valued life very highly, but he also knew that killing could be a very effective monkey wrench to throw into the machinery of an interplanetary peace-conference. The death might even provoke a resumption of hostilities between Mars and Venus. No wonder they desired outside council.

“And,” Vivan continued, “no one knows how it was done. A large part of the asteroid is enclosed and contains the universal atmospheric simulator, but only parts of it are heated. Somehow, someone must have traveled through the unheated sections.”

“Or so it may seem,” the professor counseled his young friend. “Please refrain from adding your own-or others’-suppositions.”

Vivan nodded. “Right. I always forget that part.”

Gao nodded and removed a box of tea from the small chest he had brought over from the Monadic Universe. Vivan accepted the box, completing the transaction.

“Thank you, Professor,” she said, moving to the door and sliding it open. “And be careful.”

Gao smiled. “I always am.”

Vivan rolled her purple-flecked eyes. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, removing two small stone figures from a pouch on the front of her gown. “For your collection.” She handed the figures to Gao.

“Thank you,” he said as she left. Ancient Venutian carvings were a hobby of his, and the two she handed him now were quite a find. One resembled a hearth, the other the Venutian goddess of light. They appeared to be comprised of a flint-like material.

Anxious to analyze the new data, Gao slipped the figures into his pocket and went immediately to his notebook to begin translating the information into symbols. He had run several simulations on the Leibniz machine before leaving and decided to use the traveling time that remained to fine-tune his equations.

THE heated section of the asteroid was one large, enclosed space. An iron door at the opposite end marked the room in which the murder took place. Vivan was right, thought Gao. It would be very hard indeed for someone to enter that room unnoticed.

Intimate circles of stuffed chairs had been set up as well as longer conference tables, giving delegates relaxed, informal areas in which to work. Checking the ceiling, Gao noticed elaborate perches, presumably for the Europan delegates. He found the chairs tempting but didn’t want to appear weak in front of the Martians, whose gravity-intensive planet bred extremely strong people.

“This is the only heated area?” asked Gao, directing his question to both Varantus and the Martian ambassador.

“I’ll summon our experts,” said Varantus, his body lengthening. Venutians had a looser bone structure than most humanoids, allowing them to increase or decrease their body surface in order to regulate temperature. It also provided them a unique way to get each other’s attention.

A beautiful Venutian, taller even than Varantus, came striding over with a very small Martian. Gao cast a glance at Varantus, thinking he had perhaps misjudged the chancellor’s political cunning. Martians valued physical prowess, so pairing this physically striking Venutian with such an uncharacteristically puny Martian gave the Venutian expert the advantage.

“You must be Professor Gao,” said the little Martian, taking the professor’s hand in two of his own. “I’m Yelm.” He carried no spear and wore spectacles thicker than Morovan’s. “My colleague and I are more than happy to answer any technical questions you might have.”

Contrary to Gao’s expectations, Yelm seemed to be the dominant expert, so he addressed his next question to him. “Is this room the only heated area?”

Yelm glanced at his Venutian counterpart, giving her the option of answering, then looked back to Gao. “The atmospheric simulator covers half the asteroid. But this room, and the small room beyond,” he indicated the iron door with a nod of his head, “are the only heated sections.”

“And what would happen,” Gao asked, “if we shut down the life-support system?”

Yelm and his colleague exchanged dubious glances. “We would be unable to start it up again,” said the Venutian, her voice lovely and lilting. “The generator would have to be reset, and it is too large to keep within the heated sections.”

“And do you have heat-suits, in case of emergencies?”

“No,” said Yelm. “For security purposes, we allowed no heat-suits.”

“Then what would happen if the life-support failed?”

Yelm turned his gaze to Brassen, and so did Gao. The big Martian sneered as if being addressed by Yelm were an insult to his status. “There are heat-suits and technicians on both the Venutia and the Crimson Storm. And both ships watch each other to protect against unauthorized access to the asteroid.”

“But you both just left to fetch me,” Gao pointed-out. “What if there had been an emergency in that time?”

“The atmosphere would last several hours, even if the generator failed,” said Yelm. “We would have been growing rather cold by the time the ships returned, but we would have survived.”

“Why all this interest in such minutia, Thompson?” asked Varantus.

“I want to shut down the life-support,” said Gao. Even Brassen looked surprised at that.

“I must recommend the greatest caution,” said the Venutian expert. “You’ll endanger us all.”

“I too must protest this extreme measure,” said Varantus. “It is reckless.”

“Not so,” said Gao. “You believe no one here has the power to move about in the unheated sections. We must test this hypothesis. If someone has the ability, they will surely act to repair the generator.”

“I support the move,” said the Ambassador, thumping the ground with his spear. “Is it the will of the machine?”

The Leibniz machine never yielded such specific information, but Gao wasn’t about to alienate his only advocate. “It is the will of the Leibniz Machine,” he lied.

The Ambassador turned to Yelm. “Shut off the life-support.”

Yelm frowned. “Alright. But I have to warn you, there will be a few moments of darkness before the back-up lights kick in. We should warn the delegates.”

“No,” said Gao. “No warnings.”

The party began to move forwards but Gao stepped in front of Brassen. The big Martian stopped and glared, contempt in his eyes. Gao’s heart beat a little faster.

“When the lights go off,” he said, trying to keep the squeak out of his voice, “I want you to see how each of the delegates reacts.”

“I can’t watch them all,” said Brassen.

“No. But I want you to help me see who comports themselves the best in the dark.”

“Find another,” said Brassen. “You are a charlatan and I wish only to see you fail.” He turned to rejoin the party, which had already traveled some distance.

“That’s why no other will do,” Gao said loudly. Brassen turned, responding to the challenge in his tone. “I need someone who will be critical of my findings. For veracity’s sake.”

Brassen nodded curtly and stalked off.

Gao sat heavily in one of the comfortable chairs. When dealing with Martians-Martians like Brassen, particularly-one had to back up words with an implicit threat of violence. With Gao, this position was always a bluff and he was very glad Brassen hadn’t called it. Something dug into his thigh and Gao forced a hand into his pocket. In his excitement, he had forgotten to remove the stone carvings.

Varantus’ party stood on the other end of the room now, Yelm’s hand on a lever. Brassen stood a little ways off, studying delegates. Frowning his disapproval, Yelm pulled the lever and darkness descended.

Gao heard squawks, roars, and astonished shouts. Malicious eyes sought Gao in the dark and the disquiet of his dream threatened to overtake him. He remembered then that his interest in Planet X had been sparked by the dream-though he couldn’t say why-and he imagined the planet, drifting in the frozen ether, shadowy beings beaming hate at him.

But he shook off the troubling imaginings. He felt guilty for the surprise he had caused, and probably projected that emotion into the unseen crowd. Gao hoped no one would be hurt, but a theory had formed in the back of his mind, and he needed to test it.

Lights flickered on, dim and gray. Varantus addressed the delegates, telling them that an accident had occurred but that everything was now under control. Everyone but Brassen and Varantus’ party, who had known what to expect, had been thoroughly discombobulated. One or two of the Europans had even fallen from their perches.

Gao headed towards Varantus. It had been a silly notion, he realized now, but he had hoped the momentary darkness might reveal an individual-disguised, of course-who could see in the dark. And an individual who could see in the dark and withstand the cold beyond the conference-room would be an interesting find indeed.

Brassen caught Gao’s eye, his expression indicating he had seen nothing out of the ordinary. Gao nodded.

“What now?” Varantus asked.

“Now we hope someone gets the generator working. Whoever does that is the killer.”

“And if no one does?”

“Then you contact your ship and have someone get things in order before we freeze to death. I’d like to examine the room now.”

The party moved towards the iron door, Varantus explaining that only he and the Martian ambassador held keys to it. He opened the door and Gao entered alone.

Searching for the switch by the pale illumination that came through the partially open door, Gao noticed that colder air filled the room. It made sense: the multiplicity of bodies in the large conference area provided heat and most of the heating elements would be located there as well. Gao switched the light on and saw another reason for the cold: a small door stood at the back of the office, leading out to the unheated sections.

The room held a desk and a great many canvas-draped filing cabinets. Gao imagined a poor Venutian clerk working through the voluminous paper work, killed in order to stall the peace-process. “Your killer will be caught,” Gao promised.

Moving a hand near the outer door, Gao felt intense cold. The door had no lock. Intent on finding out just how cold the unheated sections were, Gao slipped a canvas cover off one of the filing cabinets and wrapped it around his shoulders. With some difficulty, the door opened.

Frost covered the rocky area beyond, formed probably from moisture escaping the conference room. Gao took a tentative step, crunching frost under his shoe. Diaphanous mist, his breath lingered in the gloomy cavern, obscuring the boulders and shadowy passages.

“Treachery!” came a shout from directly behind him. His heart leaped in his chest and he spun around to see Brassen, frowning in the twilight.

“Idiot!” Gao yelled, shoving the big Martian. “You scared me half to death.”

Rocks tumbled in the distance and Gao snapped his head around, seeking the source. “What is that?” Brassen asked. “I thought I saw a shape. A figure in the darkness.”

The door slammed shut, a booming that reverberated in the cavernous gloom. Gao and Brassen exchanged concerned looks. “There’s no lock,” said Gao. “Try the door.” Brassen gripped the handle with two strong hands. When it didn’t budge, he tried three.

Gao stepped towards the door. Some heat bled through from the inside. Toes numbing already, he shuffled his feet as close as possible. “How long will it take them to look for us?” he asked. “Did they send you in?”

“I snuck in,” said Brassen. He had relinquished his hold on the door and rubbed two of his arms with the other two. “To keep an eye on you.”

Gao snorted. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas for getting back inside?”

A blood-curdling shriek cut Brassen’s response short. Crouching low, he raised his spear, quick eyes studying the distance. Gao found himself suddenly grateful for the Martian’s company.

“I don’t think it’s nearby,” Gao said. “Judging by the amount of echo.”

Brassen made a shushing sound, his attention focused on the area where the rocks had spilled. Another shriek sounded, much closer. A response, thought Gao.

“There are two,” Brassen said quietly. “The farther one has come from inside.”

“How do you know that?” Gao asked.

Brassen glared at him. “I will kill you if you don’t remain silent.”

Gao shuffled behind Brassen, wiping frost from his pant legs as quietly as possible. Another blood-curdling shriek sounded, answered a moment later by an earsplitting screech. They wanted to kill me, Gao surmised. Trapping Brassen was just bad luck. Now, they’re deciding how to proceed.

Gao wouldn’t be much help in a physical confrontation so he quieted his mind, focusing it on the creatures, hoping he could deduce something that would be of use to Brassen. The exaggerated lung and vocal capacity of the Shriekers, as Gao had come to think of them, suggested a reliance on sound not only for communication, but also for location. This in turn suggested that eyesight played a lesser role in their biology. Gao wanted to tell Brassen, but feared another rebuke.

Two more shrieks sounded, both farther away. “They’re retreating,” said Gao.

Grim and brooding, Brassen nodded. “To let the cold do the killing for them.”

Gao opened the front of his canvas cover and motioned for Brassen to move closer. When he didn’t respond, Gao said, “We need to rely on body heat to survive.”

“You’ll die first, old man.”

“Yes,” Gao allowed. “Then you’ll die. Then the other delegates, along with your ambassador. You don’t think these Shriekers will leave anyone alive, do you? They’ve had to alter their plans now and my guess is they’re moving to destroy everything.”

Brassen came closer, stooping, and Gao draped the canvas over the Martian’s head. “Now move around,” he said. “Generate heat.”

“This is pointless,” said Brassen. “We need to get back inside.”

“Where is the nearest entrance?”

“Where we entered when we arrived.”

It was too far. Gao could no longer feel his extremities and he feared frost-bight. “How do the Shriekers get in and out? They must have a secret way.”

“But we do not know it,” Brassen pointed out. “You are renowned for your reasoning abilities. Find a way in.”

Gao bit his lip, partially to help him concentrate, partially to confirm that it was still there. He had considered knocking, but no one would hear, unless they had entered the administrative room. The fact that no one had come to check on them suggested they either hadn’t heard the door slam shut, or that it couldn’t be opened from the inside either.

Gao’s mind raced. A sublime pain entered his body, a ticklish warmth that lulled him to stillness. We are freezing to death, he realized. Worse than that, he could think of no way to prevent it.

A solution to every puzzle, he told himself. An answer to every problem. But no solution came to his mind. He met Brassen’s gaze, shamed by the hope he saw there. He had failed him. He had failed them all.

A click. The door swung open, a mist of warm air visible in the dim cavern light. Gao willed his sluggish limbs to move and headed through the door.

The room was pitch black when the door clanged shut. “What’s going on?” Gao asked.

“The lights went off,” he heard Varantus say. “It took us a little while to find the room in all the chaos, and longer still to get the door open. The Ambassador had to cut a sticky substance off it with his spear.”

Symbols danced before Gao’s eyes, his thoughts organizing themselves. Darkness was the key after all: the Shriekers had cut the lights to give themselves an advantage. And one of them had been inside, all along. The only people unaffected by the first blackout were the members of Varantus’ party, so one of them must have been the creature, in disguise. But which one?

“Has anyone had contact with Yelm since the blackout?” he asked.

“Not since before the blackout,” came the lilt of the Venutian expert. “He went to check on the communications array, in case we needed to contact the ships.”

“Yelm is the killer,” said Gao, hoping Yelm had only sabotaged the lights, and not their ability to contact the ships. “Or one of the killers, at least.”

“You must be mistaken,” came the voice of the ambassador. “Why would Yelm betray us?”

“Because,” Gao said simply. “He is not who he appears to be. He comes from the ninth planet: Planet X.”

A shriek sounded, very near. “I’m giving away their secret!” said Gao, knowing that while the Shrieker focused on him, it couldn’t cause any other mischief. He sensed movement and heard a spear slice the air. Something crashed into the filing cabinets. Brassen must have batted the thing away, mid-leap.

“Everyone drop!” yelled Gao. “Take cover!” At least five people crowded the small room, and Brassen needed space to swing his spear. Gao dropped to the floor, the stone figures in his pocket digging into his half-frozen hip.

More movement. Brassen cried out. Gao wanted to ask how badly he was hurt, but he knew the Martian warrior concentrated deeply, each sound a clue to the whereabouts of his enemy.

Shuffling and a shriek. Brassen cried out again. In the dark, the Shrieker had too much of an advantage.

Brassen planted a brawny leg in front of Gao, cold still radiating from it, and inspiration sparked. Grabbing Brassen’s pants, Gao pulled himself to his feet and withdrew the stone figures.

Two shrieks sounded simultaneously and something tore a gash in Gao’s half-frozen arm. Both Shriekers, he thought. Brassen trembled, staggered by a blow. They’re toying with us.

Gao raised the stone figures and struck them together. A tiny spark burst into existence and vanished just as quickly. He did it again. On the third try, Brassen’s oil-soaked queue burst into flame and his assailants became partially visible in the flickering green light. They reminded Gao of Earth penguins, but with sharp cone-shaped talons instead of hands, and terrible sunken eyes.

Brassen skewered the nearest one in the leg, then hefted his spear, dragging the Shrieker with it, and batted the other one out into the conference room. Gao watched both creatures fly into the darkness, then smothered the flame on Brassen’s head with his canvas cover.

“Kreenk-face!” yelled the Martian. “They’ll escape now!”

“Let them,” said Gao. “We have to contact the ships. Tell them to stop any vessel trying to leave. And have them get the generator working again.”

A communicator beeped. “I have the Venutia,” said Varantus, and Gao sighed relief: Yelm hadn’t sabotaged their communications after all. “A small ship disguised as an asteroid just departed. Should they pursue?”

Gao considered it. “No,” he said finally. He had accomplished what he had come here to do. And there was no telling what other mischief the Shriekers had caused. “Getting the generator up and running is the ship’s first priority. And tell them to watch out for booby-traps.”

Shivering, Gao felt for the charred canvas sheet and wrapped it over his shoulders again.

“What now?” asked Brassen. Breath rasped in his lungs and his voice trembled slightly, a testament to the wounds he had endured.

“Now?” repeated Gao. “We wait.”

“TEA,” said Gao, stepping through the air lock and back onto the Monadic Universe. Morovan stiffened slightly at Gao’s bandaged arm but nodded curtly and left to perform his task.

“Have the ambassador meet us in my sitting room, please,” Gao said as Varantus stepped through. He knew it would be most proper to accompany the chancellor himself, but Varantus knew the way and Gao had been fantasizing about the beaver-pelt coat hanging in his closet. He had been unable to raise his core temperature since his misadventures in the unheated sections of the asteroid.

Gao changed all of his clothes, wrapped himself in the luxurious coat, and found his guests waiting patiently in his sitting room. He waved a quick hello, then put the teacup to his lips. The liquid warmed him but did little to stop the shivers that periodically trembled his hands.

He caught a look of disdain from Brassen, who had not only stopped shivering but had almost completely recovered from his battle wounds. Gao shrugged slightly, as if to say “I’m only human,” but Brassen appeared unmoved. Gao had believed he had forged a certain bond with the big Martian. He corrected this perception now.

Varantus smiled weakly. Despite the fact that they had safely evacuated all of the diplomats, he continued to consider his peace conference an unqualified disaster.

“Buck up, man!” said Gao. “The conference was a resounding success.” Both Varantus and the Martian ambassador looked skeptical, but Brassen nodded. “Not only did the Planet Xers fail to drive a wedge between the people’s of the inner solar system, but the conference allowed us to uncover the existence of their threat.”

Gao poured himself another cup and turned to Morovan, who waited patiently. “Please draw a bath,” he said. “A hot one.”

Gao looked at his guests-his friends-sizing them up. Their motivations, he realized, were the same as his. Each had inner demons, and each strove to make the universe a safer place to quell them. Knowing that his friends shared a burden similar to his own, and that human reasoning had solved an important problem, made living with the strange dream less debilitating.

“The Martian ambassador is a man of peace,” said Gao. “And he can use the threat of Planet X to convince his people to continue to ally with yours, Chancellor.”

Varantus stood up, as did the ambassador. Clasping one of his counterpart’s hands, Varantus said, “It was an honor serving with you and I hope we will meet again soon.”

The ambassador bowed formally, then turned to Gao. “The Martian people are in your debt,” he said.

Gao accompanied his guests to the sitting room’s exit and watched the chancellor and ambassador leave. “Brassen,” he called, and the Martian turned back. “I just wanted to tell you that I consider myself in your debt.”

Brassen stared down at him for a long moment. “I will remember that,” he said. He turned and left.

Gao moved to the picture window, taking in the great black spaces and twinkling lights, not knowing which one might be home to the Shriekers. Despite the solidarity the attack had engendered, the stars had become a lot less friendly.

A hint of steam fogged the window and Gao turned away from it, ready to trade his fears for soap and warm water.

[Back to Table of Contents]

THE GROTTO By Jack Mackenzie

I WAS impressed by the sight of the mansion as I carefully maneuvered the Buick up the curving driveway. DaVinci merely grunted as he looked out the passenger window. It was a classic example of gothic stone architecture with dark wood accents surrounded by verdant greenery.

Our client was waiting for us at the foot of a stone staircase, which led up to an ornate entranceway. He wore a casual, loose-fitting outfit made of silk. He had his trademark pipe clenched in his teeth and he was flanked by two nymphs in mini-skirts.

“You must be DaVinci,” he said, coming forward with his hand outstretched as DaVinci pulled his lanky frame out of the car. “I’m Rusty Steppner.”

DaVinci shook his hand and nodded. He gestured back towards me. “My assistant, Jimmy Dupont.”

Steppner favoured me with a brittle smile, which I returned. My attention was distracted by the nymphs.

They were beautiful and they seemed somewhat unearthly. They were tall and statuesque and, despite the ubiquitous bangles and peace symbols, they were elegantly coifed, which was a pleasure for me to see. There was so little elegance around these days. They were beaming bright smiles at us and had alert, accommodating expressions.

They were exactly the kind of women that had made Rusty Steppner a wealthy man.

Steppner introduced them. The blonde was Candy and the brunette was Paula. DaVinci gave them a perfunctory nod and moved off into the house with Steppner. I smiled and held out my arms. Candy and Paula each grabbed one and we ascended the stairs together.

I was going to enjoy this case.

We were ushered into a plush salon with a high ceiling. One wall had large picture windows, which looked out onto the grounds.

Steppner offered us a drink. It was ten in the morning so DaVinci opted for tea. Steppner had a whiskey.

He sat back with his glass and looked out the window. “It’s going to be a wonderful place, Mr. DaVinci,” he said. “I’m going to close up my Chicago operation and move it all out here and I’ll spend the rest of my days basking in California sunshine.”

DaVinci nodded. “That sounds pleasant enough.” he said. “Exactly where is the problem?”

Steppner gave DaVinci a piercing look, then sighed. “It’s my fucking grotto,” he said, draining his glass.

STEPPNER led us out of the building and into the large expanse of back lawn. The whole space was surrounded by trees and shrubs for privacy, but Steppner had other plans for it.

“I’m going to plant all sorts of things,” he said as we walked down the gently sloping yard. “I want to have a kind of a maze—like a mini jungle. And I want to import animals from all over; monkeys, tropical birds, that sort of thing.”

Finally we came to the grotto.

It was a shallow pool in front of what almost looked like a naturally jutting rock. I say almost, because it was built in front of an obviously man-made hill of cement. Most of the cement structure was covered in a dark, loamy soil, but there were still bare patches here and there. The front facade looked like a natural rock formation with two cave mouths on either side of the rock face that jutted into the pool.

“It’s not much to look at right now,” Steppner said. “When it’s finished it’s going to be remarkable. If it gets finished.”

“What is the exact nature of the problem?” DaVinci asked.

Steppner shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “I was hoping you could tell me that. All I know is that the workmen refuse to go in there any more. I had almost a dozen men—stoneworkers, artisans, and others—working on this project. The contractor was a fellow named Dooley. When one of his men went missing…”

“Went missing?” I asked.

Steppner shrugged again. “That’s what they said. The other fellows swore that the man went into the grotto and never came out.”

Paula shuddered beside me. I looked at the half completed grotto. It seemed perfectly prosaic here in the warm sun.

“Curious,” DaVinci said. “What else?”

“After that there were a number of strange incidents. The workers claimed that they could hear moaning noises inside the structure. They claimed that they heard voices whispering and odd banging sounds.”

DaVinci pursed his lips. “Banging is not an uncommon sound at a construction site.”

“That’s what I said,” Steppner agreed. “The cave itself resonates. Sound from outside comes in and bounces around, especially when it’s filled with water.”

“Did you witness anything unusual?” DaVinci asked.

Steppner hesitated the briefest second before answering. “No,” he shook his head.

“Anything else?” DaVinci asked.

“Some of the workers claimed that one of my girls kept coming around and watching. They’d tell her to go, that it wasn’t safe to lounge around. They said she’d go, but then she’d show up again a few hours later.”

“Did you talk to her?”

Steppner shook his head. “That’s just it. None of them had been anywhere near the place.”

“Are you certain?”

“Most certain,” Steppner said. “We’ve had shoots going on all week involving all of the girls. I’m going to have a big feature in the next issue showcasing the house. They were all busy inside with the photographer. None of them went anywhere near the grotto.”

DaVinci nodded briefly and looked back towards the unfinished grotto, a thoughtful expression on his face. He let out a breath then turned to Steppner. “I’ll have to stay close to the structure for a while,” he said.

“You can stay at the house,” Steppner said. “There’s plenty of guest rooms.”

DaVinci nodded. “We’ll have to settle the money first.”

Steppner glanced at me, then back to DaVinci. “Money is no object. This place is going to be a landmark one day, but more than that, it’s going to be my home. I’ll pay whatever it takes to make that happen.”

DaVinci nodded and named a figure that made me blink in surprise. Steppner didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll have my bank issue you a cheque in the morning.”

I tried not to goggle. Even with DaVinci and I now living in separate places, I in my apartment in Brooklyn and he in his old house in the country with his daughter, the money would be enough to keep both of us going for several years.

“I won’t cash it until you are satisfied that I have achieved the desired results,” DaVinci said. “Although there may be expenses along the way.”

“That’s fine,” Steppner said as he moved back up to the house. “Spare no expense, Mr. DaVinci. Just help me get my grotto built.” He and the girls walked back up the slope, leaving DaVinci and I alone.

I edged closer to DaVinci. “Can you do it?” I asked.

“I believe so,” he said. He didn’t take his eyes off the grotto. “Steppner’s not being completely candid with us.”

“I noticed that,” I said.

“I need more information. Stroll around the grounds. Talk to people. If you can talk to the contractor or any of the workers, all the better.”

I nodded. “And you?”

“I need to get some history on the grounds,” he said.

BACK up at the house we found Steppner greeting more visitors at the door. More ladies had arrived along with two gentlemen carrying camera equipment.

DaVinci approached Steppner and pulled him aside. Steppner nodded, made his apologies and he and DaVinci ascended the grand staircase.

The four ladies who arrived were all as beautiful and statuesque as Candy and Paula. “Rusty wants to finish the shoots today,” Paula said, coming up beside me. “We’ve been doing sessions all week over the house. Rusty wanted to finish with a photo essay of the grotto. He’s very disappointed.”

I nodded. “What exactly happened to make work stop?”

Paula gave me an uncomfortable look. She watched as the photographers and the other girls dissipated to various rooms in the house, then moved over to the couch and sat down. “Mr. Steppner told you about the worker that went missing and the noises.”

“I know,” I said, sitting down beside her. “But I want to hear your perspective. Were you here when it all happened?”

Paula nodded, clearly uncomfortable now. “I remember the workers. They were all right. Candy and I would sunbathe around them … in the buff, you know. We thought we’d give them a bit of a thrill. Everything was fine except for one guy—Seamus Flannigan. He was Dooley’s young cousin, I think.”

“How young?”

Paula shrugged. “Eighteen, maybe.”

“This place would have been quite an education for him,” I said.

She shook her head. “He didn’t like it. He’d been raised in Dublin by a strict Catholic aunt, or something, so us being naked offended him. He came over with the stones.”

“Stones?”

Paula nodded. “The stones they used to build the grotto. They were imported from some abbey in Ireland. Dooley arranged it and Seamus traveled with them on the ship. Dooley was going to take him back to Ireland when they were done, but then…” she gazed out the picture window, a wistful expression clouding her features.

“Do you suppose he just wandered off?” I suggested. “Perhaps the conflict between his Catholic upbringing and this…” I stopped myself before I said what I was going to say. “…Xanadu—for lack of a better word—became too much for him.”

Paula frowned. “I could believe that except … Candy and I saw him go into the grotto. Once you’re in that tunnel there’s no way out—no back door. So did most of the other workers. We all saw him go in and none of us saw him go out.”

“When did they realize he was missing?” I asked.

“Almost right away. One of the workers went in to check on him and he was gone. They searched everywhere. Dooley became really upset and had a big argument with Rusty. That’s when they all left.”

“They didn’t come back?”

“Dooley came back a few times. He’d check out the grotto, but he wouldn’t go back to work on it. Except for one night, but Rusty had to stop him.”

“Stop him? Why?”

Paula shrugged. “I don’t really know. It was late and I was asleep when it happened. I gather Dooley was trying to tear the thing down. Rusty said he was drunk.”

“What else did Rusty say about that?”

“Not much. He was pretty shaken up after that. He wouldn’t go near the grotto for days afterward. I don’t know what Dooley said … threatened him, maybe … but it was soon after that Rusty called in Mister DaVinci.”

I nodded. I was about to ask another question when I was distracted by Candy coming into the room. She was in her birthday suit and was followed by one of the photographers. “Sorry to interrupt you, man” the fellow said. “I wanna make use of the light in this room. You wanna get in on this, Paula?”

“Sure,” Paula said as she stood up from the couch. As casually as you please she started taking off her clothes right there.

I’m not a prude, and no one appreciates the female form more than I do, but somehow, after sitting with her, talking to her like I had, I felt uncomfortable with the idea of suddenly seeing Paula naked. It just seemed kind of empty without dinner and some dancing beforehand. Besides, with Candy and the photographer in the room as well, it felt a little crowded. I casually wandered out of the room.

Outside in the entranceway I saw Steppner coming down the staircase. “Your Mr. DaVinci is quite a unique individual,” he said when he saw me.

“He certainly is,” I smiled.

“I’ve just left him in the library with all of my records about the house. Sales documents, assessments. He wanted to see everything.”

I nodded. “He’s very thorough. I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?”

Steppner shrugged. “Fire away.”

“Dooley,” I managed. As soon as I said it a sour expression stole over his face. “I take it you’re not pleased with the man.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” he said, darkly. “Miles Dooley was recommended to me as a fine contractor. He seemed very competent at first. Then his young cousin ran off and he just fell apart.”

“You say his cousin ran off…”

“Of course he did,” Steppner said, rather adamantly. “He was a young kid from a very strict religious background. He was a long way from home and didn’t agree with our beliefs over here. I don’t think he liked America much. He called it the ‘Land of the Dead’.”

I nodded and made a non-committal noise. Many young people didn’t seem to like America much these days, and they didn’t have to be from Ireland. “Tell me about the night Dooley tried to tear down the grotto.”

Steppner’s expression darkened. He shrugged. “Dooley was drunk. He was angry and he blamed me for his cousin’s disappearance. He came over and tried to tear apart the grotto.”

“You confronted him?”

Steppner heaved a sigh. “Mr. Dupont, I have paid a lot for this house and I paid Dooley a lot to build my grotto. I wasn’t about to let him tear it down. Yes, I confronted him.”

“And what happened?”

Here Steppner hesitated as he had done before when DaVinci asked him if he had witnessed any of the odd events. “Dooley took off,” he replied flatly. “I haven’t seen him since.”

“You haven’t tried to get him to come back to finish the job?” I asked.

“No.” Steppner said, turning away abruptly. “I’m a busy man, Mister Dupont.” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve got a magazine to put out.” and with that he was gone.

I stood in the entranceway for a moment, then headed up the stairs. The house was labyrinthine, but I eventually managed to find the library. DaVinci was sitting at a round mahogany table with a single Tiffany lamp for illumination. He was surrounded by Steppner’s records.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Better than you,” DaVinci replied without looking up.

“How do you know I’m doing poorly?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t be up here talking to me if you were actually making progress.” he said.

He was right, of course. If I were making progress I’d be following leads and not bothering him while he was conducting a paper hunt. “Maybe I’m getting too old for this.” I said.

“I should think so,” DaVinci said, still poring over the exhaustive mound of documents. “Time was when a pretty girl was enough to keep you moving until you stumbled across some useful information. Now you have a whole house full of naked nymphs running around and you don’t know what to do with yourself. You’re slipping.”

I grunted. Maybe he was right. I shrugged. “It’s just no fun without the foreplay. It’s like the steak without the sizzle. Besides, Steppner keeps clamming up when I press him about Dooley.”

“Supernatural denial,” DaVinci muttered. “You and I see it all the time. It’s cost us a few paycheques as well.”

“Hopefully not this one. Where did Steppner get a hold of Dooley?”

DaVinci furrowed his brows and began digging through a pile he’d set aside. He pulled out a dog-eared and stained contract. “Miles Dooley lists his address as an establishment called O’Roark’s. It’s a pub. Dooley rents rooms above it.”

I took the contract and jotted down the address. “Thanks Harlan,” I said and left him alone in Steppner’s library.

DOWNTOWN Los Angeles is almost all freeway, so navigating my way to O’Roark’s with the Buick was a bit of a challenge. Eventually I found the place and made my way inside.

At the long oak bar I sat on one of the stools in front of a bowl of pretzels and ordered a beer. The place was quiet and dark and there were few other patrons. It was late afternoon and the overhead speaker was playing Let It Be.

The bartender was an older black man who wore a shirt like a barber’s. I laid down a buck for my beer and asked him about Miles Dooley. He took the bill and pointed to a corner booth.

Dooley looked like he’d started drinking three days ago and hadn’t got around to stopping yet. He wore a ratty old blue sweater on his skinny frame and three days’ worth of rustred stubble on his chin. He looked blearily up at me as I approached.

“I hope what you build is steadier than you are,” I said as I sat down opposite.

“Who the hell are you?” Dooley slurred, his Irish lilt as thick as a T-bone steak.

“Name’s Dupont,” I said. “I wanted to ask you about your cousin, Seamus Flannigan.”

I felt a presence suddenly looming behind me. I stiffened and got ready to slide out of the booth. Before I could do anything a giant hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned and looked at an incredibly tall black man standing beside me.

“This honky buggin’ you, Miles?” the man’s baritone rolled down at us.

Dooley blinked at the black man, then waved him off. “It’s alright, Leroy” Dooley said. “Let him talk.”

The hand let go of my shoulder and Leroy sat down beside me in the booth, pushing me over into the corner. I tried my best to smile disarmingly at the newcomer, but he seemed unimpressed by my winsome grin.

“You a cop?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m not a cop.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m an assistant paranormal investigator,” I said, deciding to confuse the fellow with the truth. “I’m an associate of the Inner Circle, an adept of the second level, as well as a licensed thaumaturge.” So I lied about the thaumaturge. How was he going to know?

He blinked at me, now completely uncertain of how to continue, which was what I wanted.

“What did you want to know about Seamus for?” Dooley asked me.

“The folks at Rusty Steppner’s house seem to think he ran off. The prevailing opinion is that the rampant hedonism at Steppner’s mansion offended his deep seated catholic sensibilities.”

“That’s a lie,” Dooley spat. “Seamus didn’t run off. He wouldn’t ha’ run off. Where would he go?”

I shrugged. “You tell me, Dooley. Where did he go?”

Dooley made a face and drained his glass. He gave his companion a pleading look. The fellow snapped at the bartender and two beers were brought over.

“Seamus wasn’t bothered by it,” Dooley finally said after a healthy swig of his fresh brew. “Not religiously, anyway.. Seamus was Catholic, yes, but he’d lapsed. He’d seen the troubles first hand. His parents, my aunt and uncle, were killed by a bomb in Belfast.”

“Victims of the IRA?,” I asked.

Dooley shook his head. “Victims of their own carelessness. They were setting the bomb in a protestant school when it went off prematurely. Seamus arrived at the scene in time to see them wiping what was left of them off the walls.” Dooley shook his head and took a healthy swallow. “He’d seen the horror and turned his back on it. Catholic, Protestant, he didn’t care. He just wanted away from the violence.

“When I invited him to come to America, he jumped at the chance. I hired him to supervise the transport of the stone from Drohgheda, just north o’ Dublin, from an old ruin. I told him if he brought me the stone I’d keep him on.”

“So he came over with the stone and started working on Rusty Steppner’s grotto with you?”

Dooley nodded. “He was young. The naked birds … they confused him. He was a teenager … they’ve got urges, you know.”

I nodded. I knew.

“So these birds are teasin’ him. Teasin’ us all, really, but we know how to handle it. Seamus doesn’t. He’s just come from Ireland where his parents were blown to bits and now he’s in America and it’s confusin’ to him. He goes inside the grotto, just to get away from it, you know? Leroy made a joke.”

“I wish to God I’d kep’ my mouth shut,” Leroy said, shaking his head.

“It’s alright,” Dooley said to his friend, then he turned back to me. “We all saw him go into the grotto. We’d built the bloody thing, so we know there’s no other way out. When he didn’t come out Leroy went to check on him. He was gone.”

“Like he’d vanished into thin air,” Leroy said. “Damndest thing.”

I nodded. “What about the woman that wouldn’t go away?”

Leroy grunted. “Carrot top,” he said. “Red haired girl. She wore a gold headband and hippie clothes—Sandals and some sort of robe. You’d be workin’ inside the grotto and suddenly she’d be there behind you. Bitch gave me a heart attack more than once. I told her to fuck off, but she wouldn’t say a thing, just stared like she was high or somethin’.”

Dooley nodded grimly. “She was there that night when Steppner took a swing at me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Steppner tried to hit you? Was that the night you came back to the grotto to tear it apart?”

Dooley made a face. “I was drunk, but I didn’t go back to tear it down. After Seamus disappeared I swore I could hear him callin’ to me. The others heard it too. That’s why they wouldn’t go back inside. I called to him, asked him where he was, but it was like he couldn’t hear me.”

“Are you sure you weren’t just … imagining?” I asked.

Leroy shook his head. “I heard it, too. It was as real as I’m sittin’ here. It sounded like it was comin’ from inside the rock.”

“It was,” Dooley said. “I admit I was pretty cut, but I know I heard his voice comin’ from inside the stone, and Steppner heard it, too.”

“Steppner came out to the grotto?”

“He was already there when I arrived. So was the red-haired woman. At first I though she was one o’ his bitches—that they were havin’ it off in the cave—but he was just talkin’ to her. Then we heard Seamus’ voice cry out from inside the stone.”

“How did Steppner react?” I asked.

“He damn near pissed himself,” Dooley said. “He was terrified. He ran outside, leavin’ me alone with the red-haired woman. Then she vanished.”

“She ran outside with him?”

Dooley shook his head. “She vanished right in front o’ me eyes,” he said. “Like smoke. I ran outside and grabbed Steppner. He was wailin’ like a schoolgirl. I tried to ask him who the woman was. He swung his fist and just missed catchin’ me on the chin. I went down and he ran back into his house.”

“What did you do?” I asked.

Dooley finished his second beer. “I came back here. I started drinkin’ and I ain’t stopped. I won’t stop, neither. Not now that I’ seen me one o’ the good people.”

I blinked. “Good people?”

“The fey folk,” Dooley said. “The fairies.”

Leroy let out a breath. “Man’” he said. “You are one fuckin’ drunk Irishman.”

Dooley looked at Leroy then began to laugh. It wasn’t a happy kind of laughter. It was the kind of laughter that you knew wouldn’t stop, not even when the boys in the white jackets came to take you away.

AFTER that Leroy dragged Dooley upstairs. I got back into the Buick and braved the freeway again. By the time I pulled up to Steppner’s mansion it was fully dark.

Inside the lights were bright and the stereo was playing some lively jazz. Dinner was being served, buffet style. The girls, the photographers and Steppner were all enjoying the food, the music and some free-flowing champagne.

I was more than a little shocked to see DaVinci amongst the revelers, but there he was in his old tweed suit, sitting on a low stool, balancing a plate of food on his bony knees. He was in what looked like earnest conversation with Candy, Steppner’s blonde companion, while he picked at his beef Wellington.

Paula spied me and came over. She grabbed my arm and led me to the table. I loaded a plate and Paula grabbed two glasses of champagne. I sat on a chair next to DaVinci. Paula sat next to me.

“I see you’re making progress,” I said, leaning towards DaVinci. “Though I must admit, it’s not usually the kind of progress you make.”

DaVinci narrowed his eyes at me. He was genuinely confused and had not picked up on my insinuation, which was reassuringly like DaVinci. “Candy’s been telling me about the red-haired woman,” DaVinci said. I nodded. I should have known better than to assume that DaVinci was chatting with a pretty girl for the mere enjoyment of it, yet I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Since Eloise’s death he had become more taciturn and misanthropic than ever. “There have apparently been several sightings of this mysterious woman,” he said.

“I know,” I said. “I’ve gathered a few stories about her today as well.”

“Did you see Dooley?”

“Yes,” I said. “He’ll be moving soon—into a padded room. He was raving about the fairy folk.”

DaVinci gave me a sharp look. “He may not be as insane as you think. Tell me everything that happened to you today. When we’re done you and I will examine the grotto.”

I nodded and began telling him about my day. When I was done we dispensed with our plates and excused ourselves. In the entrance hall he took my arm and guided me to the front door. “We need to make a stop at the car,” he explained.

Outside the front of the mansion DaVinci asked me to open the trunk. I did and waited while he rummaged amongst our suitcases and bags.

DaVinci emerged from the trunk with a red cloth bag tied with a white drawstring and his cane with the griffin handle. Before I closed the trunk I grabbed a large flashlight and so armed we walked around the mansion to the back and the grotto.

“Steppner’s records were most illuminating,” DaVinci said as we walked. “This house was the former home of a wealthy industrialist named Flannigan.”

“Flannigan?” I said, looking sharply at DaVinci. “That was the name of our missing Irish boy.”

“Exactly. Flannigan built the house in the early 1900’s and his family lived in it until the late 1950’s. After that they fled their adopted land and returned to Ireland. The house was left to run down until Steppner bought it and restored it.”

“The Flannigans,” I said. “Were they Catholic or Protestant?”

“Neither. As far as I can tell Flannigan practiced a strange form of pagan religion derived from early Celtic mythology. It’s the main reason he left Ireland. He believed that America was the mythical ‘Land of the Dead’.”

“That’s what Seamus called it,” I said.

DaVinci nodded. “It’s also known as the ‘Land of Youth’. These are names for the mythical Celtic Fairyland—the Home of the Fey folk. Traditionally it was believed to be located west of Ireland, across the ocean.”

“Well, you can’t get much farther west of Ireland than California,” I said.

“The Fairy folk were also known as the Danan,” DaVinci went on. “The children of a goddess named Dana. Their stories go far back into Irish history, long before there was any form of writing.”

“So they weren’t like Tinkerbell?”

“No,” DaVinci scowled. “The modern conception of the fairy is a bastardized version of the original idea. In Irish myth unwary travelers would encounter the Danan, be seduced by their music and become trapped in their world. Entrances to the Danan’s land would invariably be found in close proximity to some sort of mound.”

We were at the grotto now. It loomed in front of us in the darkness. I could see the moonlight reflected on the surface of the water. The twin cave mouths yawned darkly at us.

I shone the flashlight at one of the mouths. The water continued on into the cave, but there was a stone walkway leading in. DaVinci and I followed the walkway.

The inside of the grotto was a large space built to look like a natural cave. The pool inside was almost as big as the one outside, but there was also a large open lounge area made up of flat, smooth stone. Sounds from outside came in through the cave mouth and echoed eerily throughout the chamber.

Almost immediately we began to hear something. It began as a formless noise, like a vibrating string that would slacken and then tighten again. Then it began to change and it coalesced into a voice.

“Miles…” the voice moaned. “…where are you…?”

I glanced sharply at DaVinci who seemed unsurprised. He wore a mask of concentration as he tried to pinpoint the voice’s location.

“…Miles…” the voice spoke again, this time stronger. It was clearly the voice of a young man. It could only be Seamus Flannigan.

DaVinci listened intently, moving around the grotto, trying to discern the location of the voice amongst all the echoes. As he moved he tapped the end of his cane against the stones, listening to the sound as it bounced around inside the cave.

“…Miles…” the voice moaned. “…where are you? I’m cold…”

I felt a shiver run down my spine at the far away sound of the voice.

DaVinci merely kept moving around, tapping the stone.

Suddenly she was there. The red headed woman that Leroy had described. One minute I was looking at a stone wall, the next she was standing in front of it, tall and regal. She glared at DaVinci.

“Harlan,” I warned. DaVinci turned and looked her in the eye. He pointed his cane towards her.

“We’ve come to get the young man back,” DaVinci said, boldly.

The woman flashed her eyes at us, and I could see the signs of a sharp Irish temper.

“The young man is blood of our blood,” the woman said in an accent that sounded old—almost Germanic. “He will take his rightful place beside the high seats of kings.”

DaVinci slowly advanced towards the woman, his cane still outstretched. “The man is mortal,” DaVinci said. “He is blood of a mortal family.”

“He has Danan blood. He is the son of the son of Ecne.”

“The son of Ecne knew a mortal woman,” DaVinci said to her. “The issue from that tryst turned her back on the people of Danan.”

The woman drew herself up to her full height. “Do not trifle with me. I am Brigantia, daughter of Dagda, mother of Ecne. The young mortal shall be mortal no more, so long as he is with us.”

DaVinci shook his head and continued his advance pointing his cane in front of him. “The young man must be returned.”

I noticed that the woman would not leave a certain spot on the floor. She was clearly uncomfortable with DaVinci’s cane, but the would not back away from the flagstone upon which she stood.

DaVinci seemed to sense that as well. He got as close as he could. Her eyes blazed with anger, but she stood tall and defiant, never lifting a foot from the stone.

Suddenly there was a splash from behind me. I turned and saw Rusty Steppner running through the shallow water of the grotto. He was wearing a robe and silk pajamas. His arms flailed as he ran to the far wall where DaVinci and Brigantia stood eye-to-eye.

“Take me with you!” Steppner shouted as he splashed.

DaVinci took immediate advantage of the distraction. He had hold of his cane by the griffin head. Now he tossed it upwards. As it came down he grasped it by the haft and turned it so that the griffin head was facing down. He raised it up, then drove it straight down onto the flagstone between the woman’s feet.

I winced in anticipation of the cane shattering on the stone, but it didn’t. The moment the griffin head touched the stone the grotto was suffused with a harsh, white light. A roaring sound echoed round the chamber and I could feel a blast of hot air move past me.

Suddenly we were not in the grotto anymore. We were on an open field under an overpowering dark sky. Steppner suddenly let out a great shout of joy. He was lying on the ground; his robe and pajamas still soaked from the water.

I could hear the sounds of horses racing across the field. The riders all had long, flowing hair. I saw other figures surrounding us. All of them were tall, young and beautiful.

“Now you see,” Brigantia said, her voice a booming noise that rolled over the wide plain. “Look upon the land of the Danan. See the paradise that we can make of your mortal lands. Worship us! Worship us again and live in peace. Or turn from us into chaos despair. The choice is yours.”

“I want to stay!” Steppner shouted.

Among the figures surrounding us I saw a young man with short fair hair. He was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and workboots and an expression of fear and misery. It could only have been Seamus Flannigan.

DaVinci still held his cane with the griffin head intact. He held it in front of him now, as if it could ward off these beautiful youths. The Danan seemed to have a respect for it and kept their distance.

“You can stay,” Brigantia continued. “But if you return, once you set foot upon your own soil, you will be trapped in your own world forever. You will be unable to return to the land of youth.”

“Jimmy,” DaVinci shouted over his shoulder at me. “Grab hold of Seamus. Quickly!”

I did not hesitate. I ran to where the young man was standing and grabbed his arm. He gave me a worried look, but seemed to sense that I was not someone to fear.

As I grabbed Seamus, DaVinci pulled out the red cloth bag and reached inside. He pulled out a fist filled with a white substance and flung it through the air.

It hung briefly in the air before falling to the ground, but the effect was remarkable. The Danan scattered as if they were suddenly under napalm attack. I felt some of the stuff hit me and Seamus and I saw a great clump of it fall onto Steppner who was just climbing to his feet.

It was salt. DaVinci had filled the red cloth bag with common table salt.

“Jimmy! To me!” DaVinci shouted.

Keeping my grip on Seamus I sprinted to DaVinci. DaVinci grabbed me around the shoulders with his free hand and I held Seamus tightly.

“No!” Steppner screamed. He seemed to realize that something was about to happen. He reached up and grabbed the back of DaVinci’s coat. “Stop! No!” he screamed.

But it was too late. DaVinci struck the ground with the griffin head again. I felt a sudden and violent sense of vertigo, as if I were suddenly on a maddeningly spinning merry-go-round, then with a violent lurch we were all four back inside Steppner’s grotto.

“NO!” Steppner cried. He fell back into the water, his body suddenly wracked with heaving sobs.

WE managed to get Steppner out of the water. His raving and shouting very quickly turned into an incoherent babble. We dragged him out of the grotto and I managed to get him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and lumped up the lawn with him.

He was lighter than I’d expected him to be. I suddenly got a sense of frailty and age from him that I had not noticed before.

The girls crowded around us as soon as I was close to the house. They took him from me and helped him inside, handling him with genuine concern and tenderness.

I found DaVinci speaking quietly with Seamus. He was giving the young man his standard ‘Encounter with Supernatural Forces debriefing’. Seamus had the a wide-eyed, shell-shocked look that we’d seen many times before.

I stood apart, waiting for DaVinci to finish. I looked up at the stars. They were reassuringly real. They were distant and cold, but, just like all of us mortals, they would eventually grow old and die.

DAVINCI and I were in the Buick driving north. I would spend a week with him and his daughter before driving back to New York.

We had stayed at Steppner’s until the morning, just to make sure he was alright. He slept fitfully until about noon the next day when he woke grumbling and complaining about a hangover. He did not remember the events of the night before and DaVinci and I said nothing, save to inform him that his Grotto was clean of all supernatural influences.

It had become clear to us that, far from wanting his grotto exorcised, Steppner had used DaVinci to open the door to the realm of the Danan. Because of that we didn’t feel comfortable at the mansion anymore so we spent the night in a hotel and hit the road early the next day.

DaVinci was showing me the still-intact griffin headed cane. “It’s made from pure iron,” DaVinci explained. “That and the salt were enough to keep the Fey folk at bay. The red cloth of the bag would have done it as well.”

“Why?” I asked.

DaVinci shrugged. “It’s metaphorical. Iron represents the passing from Stone Age to iron age. Salt used to be employed as a preservative to stop meat from aging, something unheard of in the Danan’s world. The red cloth is simply a non-natural colour. All of these things were intrusions into the Danan’s universe.”

I nodded. “So young Seamus was the offspring of a Danan and one of Flannigan’s daughters?”

“Yes,” DaVinci replied. “It seems that was the apex of the Flannigan family’s history of Celtic worship. The experienced seems to have frightened the young couple back to Ireland.”

“Right back into the arms of the Catholic Church as well as into league with the IRA.” I supplied. “Poor Seamus. I hope his return will pull Dooley back from the brink. But what about Steppner? He wanted to stay with the Danan, but now he doesn’t remember a thing.”

“The memory of being there and not being allowed to stay was too traumatic. He’s blocking it out,” DaVinci said, staring out the window at the rolling countryside. “Steppner worships youth and beauty. You’ve seen his magazine. He is sitting on the pulse of America and helping to foment a cult of youth and beauty.”

“Would that be so bad?” I asked. I was thinking about the beauty of the Danan world. “What if the earth became like the Danan’s world?”

“Where would there be room for you and I?” DaVinci asked. He shook his head. “Age and wisdom have their places just as youth does. If we praise one to the detriment of the other we will end up in a world out of balance.”

As I watched the road I spied a small cluster of young people on the road, hitchhiking. Their hair was long, their clothes were loose and colourful. They wore beads and symbols and bright, smiling expressions.

But they would age. “‘Youth’s the stuff t’will not endure’” I quoted.

DaVinci nodded and smiled sadly.

[Back to Table of Contents]

UNNATURAL SELECTION By Laird Long

MALCOLM and I were basking in the warm afterglow of a fine dinner at his secluded country estate. Yet, I sensed a certain degree of uneasiness on the part of my friend of many, many years. He stared at me across the table, swirled coffee around in his fine, bone-china cup, and then announced abruptly, “Let’s go into the study.”

I gulped down the last of my port, and we left behind the carcasses of Cornish game hens, a pair of empty wine bottles, and other assorted shells and husks of culinary delights, and retired to the book-lined study that served as my friend’s office-away-from-office. He carefully closed the huge, oak-paneled door behind me, and then took the unusual step of locking it securely.

“Thank you again for the excellent meal,” I remarked cheerfully, taking a seat in one of the overstuffed Victorian leather chairs that fronted Malcolm’s massive, mahogany desk.

“Yes, yes…” he replied absently, walking around the desk and seating himself behind it. He gazed at me intently across the vast, gleaming expanse of the desktop. His long, narrow face seemed even paler than usual, and perspiration stood out on his broad forehead. It took a good deal to get Malcolm flustered, as years as a barrister had only served to reinforce his naturally calm and collected demeanor.

“I say, old boy, what’s the matter? It looks like you’ve seen a ghost,” I joked.

He gave a start and fumbled with his hands, his long, thin fingers interlacing and then breaking apart to harshly drum the surface of the desk. “You’re close, David. Bloody close, at that. But I haven’t seen a ghost … I’ve heard from one.”

“What!?”

He thrust a trembling hand through his lank, black hair, and a heavy silence fell over the night-shadowed room. “You’re familiar with my great-uncle, Sebastian Moore?” he finally asked.

It seemed a foolish question, given that the two of us had discussed the man on several occasions in the past. “Indeed I am. An adventurer of some renown,” I replied. “Disappeared in the jungles of Rho—… Zimbabwe back in the ‘30’s, if I recall correctly.”

“You do. And now he has reappeared.”

I sat there stunned.

Malcolm opened a finely-crafted cigar box and pushed it towards me. I shook my head, and he picked out a cigar for himself, put it to his lips, and lit it with some difficulty. “I mean to say,” he continued in a nervous voice, “that his diary has reappeared, and with it, an explanation for his disappearance; and his father’s disappearance, for that matter. A bizarre and unsettling explanation.”

I opened my mouth to question him when he held up his hand and stopped me.

“Better you read it yourself,” he said, and unlocked one of the desk drawers and carefully removed from it a dirty, leather-bound journal. He placed the battered tome on the desk and slid it over to me. “Read that,” he said abruptly, before clenching his cigar between his teeth and puffing determinedly.

The journal was old, its pages yellow and brittle to the touch. “Where did you get this?” I asked.

“I recently recovered it from an antiquarian book dealer in Harare.”

“But whose—”

“Read it!”

I flipped the volume open to the first page.

‘October 3, 1925—Anticipation! I have finally arrived in Salisbury with Professor Ernst and his four-man team of researchers. We will very shortly begin our trek into the jungles of Rhodesia in search of the archeological ruins abandoned by my father twenty years earlier. Simply put, we are seeking the origins of man. And, for myself personally, I am seeking an answer to the mystery of my father’s disappearance.’

Malcolm interrupted my reading by saying, “Skip to December 2.”

I nodded and turned the tattered pages until I reached the correct date. I glanced up and noticed that Malcolm was watching me intently, then I bent my head back down to the diary.

‘December 2, 1925—An unsettling day. Our native guides fled back down the trail. They have been frightened by strange noises emanating from the jungle for some time now, and by the tales, described by wide-eyed local tribesmen, of unnatural and obscene acts taking place in the uncharted region towards which we are steadily pushing; the region where my father vanished from the face of the Earth.

The loss of the guides is an ominous sign, to be sure, and the hot, sticky atmosphere is thick with foreboding, but we are pressing on. We have not come this far to be deterred by native superstitions.

December 3, 1925—More laborious hiking through the jungle. We continue to make fair progress, but the heat and humidity have been even more oppressive than usual today. We saw no animals, birds, or reptiles of any kind, and the sky is a distant memory above the suffocating green canopy of uncommonly huge vegetation. It is as if we have entered a world not of this world—a place cut off from man, and God’s creatures. One or two of the members of the research team are alarmed by these phenomena, but not the Professor; on the contrary, he is quite excited—he feels that we are on the verge of an enormous discovery.

I curse the wet blanket of heat and sleep with my rifle.

December 4, 1925—Breakthrough! Today, after hacking our way through jungle so dense that it actually seemed a living thing intent on bodily holding us back, we stumbled upon a group of mammals the likes of which I have never seen before. It happened just before dusk, when we cut our way into a slight clearing in the steaming jungle.

“Stop!” Professor Ernst whispered fiercely to the five of us following behind him.

We stopped dead in our tracks as we saw what the Professor had observed first. On a grassy plateau directly ahead of us, a group of apes were frolicking, a semi-circle of disheveled, grass huts visible behind the apes.

“There must have been a village here at one time,” I remarked to the Professor, unimpressed by the scene. Anyone who has been to Africa before, as I have, has seen plenty of apes and plenty of huts.

The Professor doffed his pith helmet and mopped the perspiration from his florid face, his pale blue eyes looking even larger than normal behind his steel-rimmed glasses. “There is a village here now,” he said breathlessly, and pointed at the apes. “Look at those creatures closely, Moore; they have the unmistakable characteristics of…”

The Professor’s voice, subdued though it was, reached the apes and whipped them into a frenzy. They vigorously thumped their chests and wildly shook their clenched fists at us. Then one of them seemed to voice some sort of command that sent them charging towards us as a group, moving with incredible speed. A few of them, the smaller ones, came forward with the bent-over, loping gait of the gorilla or chimpanzee, but most of them ran, actually ran—on two legs, like men would run!

“…humans,” the Professor completed his statement, then beat a hasty retreat with the rest of the party into the enveloping jungle.

I stood my ground, unslung my rifle, and fired a warning shot into the air. That stopped the on-rushing apes in their tracks, and brought the Professor and his men back out of the bush.

And indeed, as we more closely examined the strange creatures, and they examined us, many were the visible characteristics that they shared with us. They walked upright, or only slightly crouched over, and their bodies were fur-covered, but not as fur-covered as the normal ape, and their craniums were undeniably human in shape, with high foreheads and only a slight ridging above the eyebrows.

We spent the remains of the day observing the animals from a good, safe distance. Our presence disturbed them greatly, as theirs did us—or, at least, me. Fortunately, however, common to both animal and man, they had a healthy respect for my carbine. When night fell, we lit a large fire, despite the dense heat, and set up camp. I shared a tent with the Professor, and his excitement precluded sleep.

“Don’t you see, Moore, we are on the cusp of history here! I believe that these creatures are the missing links!” He stared into my face, but his gaze went well beyond my tired visage. “They represent the final proof of evolution! I would venture to say, even after our very brief examination tonight, that these animals are perhaps at the mid-point between ape and human on the evolutionary scale.”

I was forced to listen to that sort of talk all night. Although I share a great deal of the Professor’s scientific curiosity and exuberance, my purpose for the journey has always been more personal than professional, and, therefore, for me, these half-ape, half-human creatures which I fear my father may have encountered with perhaps tragic consequences, are abominations of nature. So, the Professor’s equal-part enthusiasm was mixed with my equal-part horror.

December 5, 1925—More disturbing discoveries. Our party spent the day discreetly studying the ape-men and their village (if that’s what it can be called). Only a few shots from my rifle, fired both into the air and the ground, kept the beasts from attacking us on a number of occasions. They are extremely aggressive brutes, both towards us and with each other—not the kind of behavior I have encountered with apes in the past.

We entered their crude village—really nothing more than a collection of crumbling huts almost entirely overgrown with jungle vegetation—and I secured the perimeter while the Professor and his men made a quick but thorough sweep through the huts. As I maintained my vigil, I observed a group of the larger ape-men off in the distance, as they ran down and trapped a wild pig—and then fell on it and tore it apart and ate it raw!

Now, my expertise on primates is far from superlative, but I know enough about them to know that they are not carnivores. So, to see the ape-men eating meat was a shock indeed, and my consternation was only increased when the Professor made another startling discovery later in the afternoon.

He jogged up to me as I was polishing my rifle in full view of a handful of the ape-men, sincerely hoping that they understood the message I was not-so-subtly sending them. “Moore, I must talk to you!” he wheezed, out of breath.

“Go right ahead,” I replied, scowling at the restless group of monstrosities. They imitated my facial expression in a chillingly realistic manner.

“No, no, in our tent!”

We crowded into the small tent and the Professor dropped the canvas flap over the opening. The air was absolutely stifling, clotted with the fetid stench of jungle decay, and the Professor and I were drenched in perspiration. We could have been squatting in the very bowels of hell.

“What is it, Professor?”

“I have spoken to one of the ape-men!”

“What!?”

“Yes, yes. I found an old, gray-furred creature in one of the abandoned huts who definitely addressed me in some sort of dialect!”

“You mean to say that he actually spoke … a language?”

“Yes, of some sort. I’m not familiar with it, and he seemed to have a great deal of trouble forming some of the words, but it was definitely a language.”

I sat there staring at the Professor’s red face, the queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach worsening. My head was dizzy from the towering heat and humidity, and from the odd, disturbing notion that suddenly occurred to me. “Professor, have you noticed how old and dilapidated these creatures’ huts are?”

He stroked his chin and regarded me thoughtfully. “Yes, it does seem strange…”

“And why, as you say, does one of the oldest of the group have the ability to speak, if we can call it that?”

We discussed those, and other difficult, disturbing questions, well into the night.

December 6, 1925—Trouble! I woke to find my rifle missing! I searched the entire camp but could not find it. My misgivings about the grotesque creatures we have discovered are intensifying. As we watched them forage for food in the morning, my yearning for discovery and knowledge was overwhelmed by a primitive, primordial desire to bash in the skulls of those lumbering ape-men—to rid the world of their ugly, mutated blasphemy.

Instead, myself and the Professor and his team held an impromptu conference to consider our next move. We were all equipped with machetes, of course, but my opinion was that those crude weapons would not be enough to hold off the ape-men if they suddenly charged us—or learned to use the rifle they had almost certainly stolen. The argument, therefore, was whether to retreat and re-arm, or stay and study the creatures further.

Our disagreement was rendered mute, however, when my worst fears were realized and a gang of the ape-men materialized out of the jungle and rushed us. I managed to draw my machete out of its sheath and was about to bring it down blade-first on one of the hellions when another seized my arm and twisted it behind my back. His strength was enormous, and he easily plucked the machete out of my hand. He proceeded to wield the weapon in a most threatening manner, giving me the impression that he knew how to use it.

The brutes quickly subdued us, and then performed an obscene victory celebration that was a truly horrific sight to behold. Their ugly faces were alternately contorted into masks of violent, insane joy, and intense pain—a veritable roiling sea of excruciating emotional expressions unlike any I had ever seen on the face of ape or man. They stank as unearthed bodies left to rot under a blazing sun stink, and they shook as if with disease.

The bile rose in my throat as I watched their disgusting capering. I managed to shake off the creature who held me and was about to attack him with my hands when he brought the machete down on my head, and all became black.

December 7, 1925—Desperation! The ape-men have thrown us in a pit, the top of which is a good fifteen feet above our heads, and the bottom of which is strewn with the bones of animals … and humans!

The Professor and the members of his team have conversed at length and are in unanimous agreement as to the origin and ultimate destiny of these ape-men. And even I have to admit the unthinkable and agree with their findings. The crumbling conditions of the huts, the oldest member of the group having the ability to speak; all of this evidence points to the inescapable conclusion that these creatures are not, in fact, evolving, but rather, devolving! They were most certainly once a tribe of human beings!

OUR own fate is uncertain, but the fate of mankind, I fear, is sealed.’

I dropped the musty journal in horror and stared at Malcolm with the terrified eyes of one who has just witnessed the end of the world.

[Back to Table of Contents]

JAAJERN By Fredrick Obermeyer

“I FORBID you to go to Jaajern,” Elizabeth Inestra said.

Brian Seams heard Elizabeth’s decree and clenched the armrests of his seat. He was sitting in her tan-walled office at the Institute, expecting her to let him go to the planet Jaajern without any hassle. For many years he had considered Elizabeth to be more than just his adopted mother and usually he respected her decisions. But this time he couldn’t mask the anger that burned on his face.

“Why not?” Brian said. “I made a legitimate request.”

“And I denied it,” Elizabeth said. “You will remain here on Levonia to complete your training and—”

“Why you won’t let me go there?”

Elizabeth frowned. Even with anti-geriatric therapies, her face still looked wrinkled and her black hair was beginning to turn gray. Almost nobody at the Institute knew her true age, though, and the ones who did know kept quiet about it.

“Because I don’t want you remembering your parents’ memories,” Elizabeth said.

Brian frowned. Jaajern was his last hope. On the planet’s surface, normal humans could remember the memories of their biological parents, but they couldn’t remember their own memories. Scientists called it the Jaajern effect.

“Why not?” Brian said.

“I can’t tell you the specific reasons.” Her cheek twitched.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Both.”

“Look, I just want to know who they were and how they died. Were they orphans like me? Did the Institution adopt them and train them to be agents? Were they lost on some classified mission? Were they even named Seams for that matter?” Brian sighed and shifted in his seat. “I already checked gene-identification records and all I keep getting are dead ends. It’s like my parents never even existed at all.”

“I’m only keeping you in the dark to keep you safe. If you found out anything about them, your life and the future of the Institution could be at stake.”

“How so?” Brian said.

“I’m not telling you.”

“That’s not good enough. I want a reason.”

“You want a reason? Well, how would like me to terminate all of your course work right now and ship you off to the nearest labor camp on some godforsaken asteroid belt? Is that a good enough reason for you?”

Brian swallowed hard, struggling to control his temper.

“I want to serve the Institution to the best of my abilities.” Deep down Brian did want to serve it as he said, yet he couldn’t bear the thought of giving up the last link to knowing who his parents were.

“Then let it go. I don’t want to see a future career as brilliant as yours wasted on this futile endeavor.” Her cheek twitched again. “Will you promise me that you’ll never go to Jaajern?”

Brian hesitated a second before he said, “Yes, I promise.” Even as he made the promise, he knew he couldn’t keep it. He didn’t care what the risks were. He would reach Jaajern and remember his parents’ memories no matter what it took.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Elizabeth said. “You may return to your class now. You’re dismissed.”

BRIAN skipped class and planned how he would get to Jaajern as he walked across the Institute’s main plaza back to his dormitory. By the time he arrived back there, he had an idea how to do it.

Inside his dorm room, he shrink-packed all of his belongings down into a micro-bag, then grabbed his solid credit chits and slipped them into his jacket. He didn’t want to be caught using e-money.

When he finished packing, he looked around the room. His roommates were currently in classes and wouldn’t be back until late. Still, he didn’t want to waste any time, figuring that the quicker he moved the less chance they’d have of catching him.

He dialed up his Covert Monitoring professor and subordinate overseer, Terence Henniger, on his dermaphone. He appeared in a holographic screen in front of him. He was a fat man with bushy red hair.

“Professor, I was wondering if I could talk with you about my next semester’s classes,” Brian said.

“I don’t have anything scheduled then. Sure, why not? If you come to my office—”

“Actually, I was kind of busy with work and not feeling so good today. How about my dorm room?”

“All right. In a half hour then.”

“Thanks.”

He hung up, then reached under his desk and pulled out a gene swapper pad he had hidden there. Some students stole overseers’ genetic identities and used them to get through genelocked intergalactic travel gates without paying student rates. Any student caught with one could be expelled from the Institution. Yet many students risked it and only a few got caught, so long as they didn’t abuse the system too much.

Brian also took out a tranq patch that helped him sleep some of the more restless nights, set it to the maximum dosage and then waited for the professor to arrive. When he did, Brian slapped the patch on the back of his neck.

“What are you do—” Henniger said, and then fell unconscious to the floor.

Brian’s heart raced with fear as he dragged Henniger over to the gelbed, flopped him onto it and took out his gene swapper pad. He scanned Henniger’s genetic pattern, then transferred it to a flesh glove that he slipped over his right hand. Afterwards he tucked Henniger in, stuck a large hat on his head and slipped out of the room with his bag.

THE travel gates stood on a transit platform on the north side of the Institute, their white and lavender portals flashing on and off as commuters passed through them. Human security guards and holocameras watched over everything.

Brian looked straight ahead as he walked towards the platform, trying not to draw any suspicion. He planned two trips through the gates. One three-quarters of the way to Farlight Space Station and then another trip straight through to Preskan Port on Jaajern’s surface. He figured that direct travel from Levonia to Jaajern would need prior approval from Elizabeth, even from other overseers. But he thought he could circumvent that problem by travelling to Farlight and then back around to Jaajern.

He smiled at the thought. He would be on Jaajern in less than five minutes and there wasn’t anything Elizabeth could do about it.

His heart raced as he climbed up the platform steps and walked towards the first vacant gate, hoping that nobody would recognize him. Nobody did, apparently. Still his muscles tightened with fear. At the gate, he pressed his flesh glove against the pad. It scanned the gene pattern and then said, “Henniger, Terence B, access granted. Please input destination.”

He pressed the button for Farlight Station and the computer said, “Destination approved. Please step through the gate.”

He walked through the gate. Blue and white light slashed through his eyes and his body rippled as he traveled eighty thousand light-years across the galaxy to Farlight Station in just two seconds. He emerged on the other side of the gate seconds later and shook his head, seeing double for a moment. Travelling across the galaxy didn’t always agree with him.

He smiled, though, when he saw the departure gates across from him. Just one more gate and he would be on Jaajern. Feeling confident, he strode across the T-shaped terminal to the departure gates on the other side. There was a small line in front of them. Brian waited his turn and then placed his hand on the pad.

“Henniger, Terence B., access denied,” the pad said. “Unauthorized transfer attempted. Initiating lockdown on all gates and alerting security personnel. Please remain where you are.”

Brian’s heart leaped into his throat as the gates began closing up around him. Some of the commuters gasped and cried out and backed away from him while a few of the approved commuters panicked and rushed through the gates. Deep down Brian cursed himself for thinking it would be easy.

Security officers with sonic pistols raced around the corner of the T and shouted for him to stop. He dropped his bag, ran to the nearest approved commuters trying to flee through the closing gate, hugged him tight and dove through with him.

Stuck with two people close together, one confirmed and one not, the gate was forced to pass them to insure the integrity of both bodies. When they emerged, he dropped the commuter and found himself surrounded by a massive cityscape with cylindrical chrome towers and silver obelisks rising high into the pink and blue skies.

He was standing on a transit platform. It was located on the roof of a building several hundred stories above the city floor. Millions of vehicles raced back and forth across the city skies along with blimps and suicide prevention drones. The air reeked from a blanket of smog that covered the city.

The gates finished closing and security officers rushed in to arrest him. Trembling with fear, Brian turned and saw the railing at the edge of the platform across from him. He ran over there, vaulted over the side, hung on to the railing and then looked down. Just a foot below him was a steelglass roof that slanted downward at an angle and ended in a long drop. A hovertrain flew towards the building and he figured that if he let go and slid down at the right second, he could fall right onto the roof of the train and ride it to safety.

When he faced forward, though, the security police were almost on them, one of them shouting, “Hang on, kid.”

He glanced back. The train was almost in range.

He looked forward and the first security officer reached for his hand, but Brian let go and fell. He hit the roof on his back and drove pain through his spine, but it hardly mattered to him since he slid down the roof and tumbled off the edge. He missed the last car of the hovertrain and fell screaming to the streets below.

Ten suicide prevention drones rushed in and fired anti-gravity beams at him. The beams surrounded his body and slowly reduced his rate of descent until he hung motionless in the air. Then one of the drones reeled him in, dropped him into a net and slipped into one of the traffic lanes.

“Please do not risk your life any further,” the drone said. “You are a valuable member of society and can continue to lead a long and productive life full of happiness and prosperity. Please do not risk your life any further…” The drone continued on with its suicide prevention spiel and Brian wondered if these drones didn’t contribute to as many suicides as they prevented. But at least he was happy to be alive.

But his happiness soon faded when he saw their destination: one of the local hospitals. Once they arrived in the psych ward, they’d gene-identify him and that would be the end of his escape attempt.

Brian struggled to pull out of the way of the netting, but he was tangled up in it. After some wiggling, though, he slipped out of the net and climbed on top of the drone. Its multi-fingered manipulator arms tried to grab him, but he dodged them, saw a passing blimp floating below him and dove off the drone’s edge.

He hit the roof of the blimp on his feet and spread his arms out to keep his balance. The drones raced down to retrieve him again.

Do they ever quit? Brian wondered.

Gasping for breath, he ran across to the edge of the blimp and looked for some way out. In the distance more drones flew towards him. But the blimp was cruising towards the rooftop platform on a trapezoid-shaped building and there were hovertaxis there.

When the blimp rose up to the edge of the roof, he jumped onto the platform and landed on his feet. By now his knees were killing him from all the jumping and falling. He staggered to the first available taxi and slipped inside before the drones closed in.

The driver was human, thankfully. He didn’t want to haggle with a machine.

“Let’s go,” Brian said.

“Yes, sir.”

The taxi took off and left the drones behind on the platform.

“Where are you heading?” the driver said.

“Where’s the nearest spaceport?” Brian said.

“Aurora Fields.”

“Then that’s where I’m heading.”

“Yes, sir.”

The hovertaxi took off and he looked back. No drone or cops were following them. He sighed with relief.

“By the way, what planet is this?”

“Vaore. Why, did you get lost someplace?”

“Yeah. Gate lag, I guess.” He recalled the planet’s location. It was only three days there on a spaceship with an FTL drive. Although he’d lost his bag, he still had his chits. He just hoped it was enough to buy passage on a private spaceship.

As he relaxed in his seat, his dermaphone tingled under his skin, indicating an incoming call. The caller ID said it was Elizabeth. He activated the phone with a thought and adjusted its frequencies, so they couldn’t use it to track him.

A holographic screen appeared in front of him.

“Found me, huh?” Brian said.

“I called to try and talk some sense into you, Brian,” Elizabeth said.

“How’d you stop me back at Farlight anyway?”

“Do you think I’d be stupid enough to let you just waltz right through the gates to Jaajern? Henniger and the other overseers weren’t allowed to go to Jaajern without my prior authorization. I had Institution agents genelock our people out of all the gates I thought you might try as a safety precaution.”

“Funny, I thought you wouldn’t lock out Farlight. I guess I was wrong.”

“Yes, you were. But it’s not too late for you to stop. Brian, I want to turn yourself over to the authorities immediately. I can get you a brief sentence in a camp. It won’t be pleasant, but at least—”

“I don’t care what you want, I’m getting on Jaajern no matter what.”

“How? The Institution has already posted guards around every gate on and around Jaajern, so even if you try to swap another gene-identity, they’ll kill you as soon as you arrive there. And they’ve already posted spaceships in orbit under the planet and they are under orders to fire on any ship which doesn’t stop for an inspection. Plus we’re displaying your image and gene pattern on every colonized world.”

“So I take it you’re not laying out the red carpet for me.”

“Very perceptive.” Elizabeth folded her arms. “If you want to stay alive, I suggest you accept my proposal.”

Brian frowned. He knew how far the Institution would go to stop him, but he couldn’t afford to back down now.

“I have a counterproposal,” Brian said. “You tell me everything I want to know about my parents, and maybe then I’ll surrender.”

“No.”

“What are you hiding, Elizabeth?”

“I’m not telling you and you won’t reach Jaajern to find out. Your only chance for survival is to give up.”

“I’d rather die than live the rest of my life without knowing about my parents.”

“That’s it then? You won’t listen to reason?”

“What you offer isn’t reasonable. All I want is the truth and all you’re giving me is lies. And I’m not going to settle for that.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Goodbye, Elizabeth.”

“Brian—”

He ended the call. If she had just told him what he wanted to know in the first place, then none of this would have been necessary. Yet here he was. And he knew that he didn’t have much time before they spread his face and gene pattern across the interplanetary network. He had to disguise himself before he bought passage onto a ship.

“Driver, do you know any nearby shops that carry any nano-cosmetics?”

“Yes, I do. Do you want me to go there?”

“Yes.” He leaned back in his seat. “I’m thinking about giving myself a new look.”

AFTER Brian altered his appearance, he continued on to the Aurora Fields and bought passage on a private spaceship called the Enduring Glory with the rest of his chits. He made sure that it was one that didn’t require registering one’s genetic pattern before he boarded, and he gave a false name, Shawn Mayford.

The pilot’s name was Captain Ian Thane. Ian was a tall, old man with a grizzled white hair and beard. He had medals of honor on his jacket and tattoos on his arms, indicating the combat tours that he had served in. His body looked pitted and scarred, like one of the battlefields he must have fought on.

“Why did you bother to my ship, kid?” Ian asked him as they approached the ship. “From the money here, looks like you could have afforded first class passage on one of them luxury ships. And I can tell you right now, my ship ain’t nearly as comfortable.”

“I had to run away from my parents,” Brian said.

“Oh. You sure it was the right choice?”

“I hope so.”

“I don’t blame you. I ran away from my home when I was seventeen to join the Service. My parents didn’t approve, but hell, I figured they didn’t have the right to tell me how to live my life.” He clapped Brian on the back as he led him through the airlock and into the ship. “So where are we going again?”

“Jaajern.”

“I haven’t been there before. It ought to be an interesting trip.”

Brian smiled.

AN hour later the Enduring Glory flew away from the planet Vaore and then slipped into hyperspace.

Brian was nervous throughout the whole three-day trip, trying to decide whether or not to tell the truth to Ian as well as thinking of ways to slip past the blockade around Jaajern. Even though Ian was friendly, he wasn’t sure the old man would risk his ship against the Institution. With their political influence, not many would.

After two days travel, he must have seen something on the newsnets and figured out that something was amiss. Yet he remained silent and so Brian didn’t bring it up.

On the third day Brian was sitting alone in his cabin when the door creaked open. Brian expected Ian to bring in lunch as he had the other days. Instead he brought an old e-pistol into the cabin.

“I have to turn you in when we reach Jaajern,” Ian said.

Brian stood up from his bunk.

“You know?” Brian said.

“I saw the newsnets the day after we left. It wasn’t hard to figure out, seeing your age and your destination.”

“Couldn’t you have said something sooner?”

“I thought about dumping you on another world, but they’d find out.”

“Why are you turning me in now? Is the reward that big?”

“No.” He shook his head. “At my age, I can’t afford to go against the Institution.”

“You’re a soldier, though. You fought for—”

“Was, a soldier. Now I’m just an old man. Besides, if I go against them, they’d go after my daughter and her boy. And I can’t let that happen.” He lowered his head a bit. “I’m sorry.”

Brian glanced around and saw a heavy metal tray on the nearby table.

“Don’t even try it, son,” Ian said. “I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I’ll drop you if you make any sudden moves.”

Brian relaxed his guard. Ian frowned, reached behind him and pulled out a pair of energy cuffs from his back pocket. “I’ll have to lock you in for the—”

Brian dove for the tray. Ian caught him in mid-sentence and fired. Brian threw himself down on the floor and the shot struck the hull just above his head. He rolled to his right, snatched the tray up and flung it at Ian’s face before he fired another shot. It struck him in the nose and he tumbled to the floor, dropping the gun as he fell.

Brian ran over, snatched the pistol off the floor and aimed it, but Ian kicked him in the stomach and knocked him back against the floor. Ian stood on shaky legs, his nose broken, blood dripping down his chin. He laughed and wiped the blood away with the back of his hand.

“Reflexes ain’t what they used to be,” Ian said as he walked towards him. “Twenty years ago, you’d have never gotten the drop on me like that. Now hand over the gun.”

Pain burned through Brian’s gut and he curled up into a ball, struggling to regain his breath. Boy, could that old man kick.

“Come on, hand it over!”

Ian stopped next to him and flipped him onto his back with one foot. As he fell sideways, he raised the gun and fired. The electric charge struck Ian in the chest and dropped him. After the initial shock passed, Brian checked the pistol’s setting. It was at minimal charge. He felt angry at Ian’s betrayal, yet he could sympathize with him. The man was only trying to keep his family safe.

He pulled the cuffs out of Ian’s hands, dragged his body over to the bulkhead and cuffed him to the wall. Then he stepped over the body, tucked the e-pistol in his waistband, walked out of the cabin and sealed the door behind him.

LESS than three hours later, the Glory came within range of Jaajern. It was a large amber-colored planet. When Brian came onto the bridge and saw it, he smiled. He was wearing a spaceskin with magnetic pads and an air-recycling mask. He walked over to the pilot’s chair and sat.

The Glory‘s long range scanners indicated over fifty-three Institution ships orbiting the planet. By now he knew that they had scanned him and were expecting him to signal them and stand by for an inspection.

Heading straight for the planet’s surface was suicide, but he had another idea. He stopped the ship less than five thousand kilometers from the blockade and stayed there. On the Glory‘s comline, an officer requested his status. Brian left the comline on, but he didn’t respond. He hoped that Institution officers wouldn’t fire on his ship unless he ran for the planet.

He left the bridge and headed downship, his heart racing.

On the fifth deck, he slipped out through the starboard airlock, crawled under the belly of the ship with the help of the magnetic pads, slipped passed the emergency escape shuttle attached to the ship, hid within a dark niche in the hull and waited. His heart raced in his chest and sweat made his spaceskin stick to his real skin. He hoped that the boarding party would think the ship was a decoy or that he was still on it. They’d find Ian and question him, but he’d know nothing. He only hoped they weren’t too rough on the old man. As a decorated veteran, he deserved better.

Brian would have gone into the emergency shuttle to begin with, but he knew that would be one of the first places they would look for him.

So he stayed outship.

Sometime later the ship began to move again. When he peered out of his niche, he saw one of the larger spaceships pulling the Glory back to the planet with grappling cables, right through the heart of the blockade. He crawled out from the niche, back across the underbelly of the ship, onto the shuttle and inside its airlock.

The shuttle was deserted.

Once Brian entered the cockpit, he waited until he was within the blockade. Then he activated the shuttle’s engines, released the docking clamps and raced down to the planet through the atmosphere. Flames licked the shuttle’s hull as it hurtled towards the surface. The ship shuddered and thrashed like a dying beast. An EM blast came from one of the orbiting ships and struck the shuttle, burning out the consoles and controls. Sparks burst out from the failing machines. His stomach slammed into his throat as he struggled to regain control of the craft. But it was useless.

Before he knew it, he had blacked out.

BRIAN remembered dying twice, yet it was not his death that he remembered. When Brian awoke, he was covered in safety foam. He kicked it off, struggled out of his chair, tore open his spaceskin and threw away his air mask. The shuttle had crashed on Jaajern. Tall lavender grasses swayed on the plains in front of him.

He shook his head, feeling strange. He still had his own thoughts of Brian Seams, and yet he remembered with the memories of his parents, Alexander and Julianne Crailmere.

He ran out of the cockpit and to the shuttle airlock, struggling with the fusion from two different and yet connected lives. His parents’ memories flooded through his mind like water from a swollen river. They came so fast that it was almost impossible for him to comprehend. Yet one part of their memories remained clear.

Elizabeth had killed his parents on the surface of the vacation world Mervanua seventeen years ago, far away from the prying eyes of the Institution. He remembered sitting together on the grass amidst the buzzing bees. It had been a warm, sunny day. They were enjoying a family picnic, the first with their year-old son. Then came a sharp, black end to his father’s memories when someone shot him from behind.

Julianne screamed as her beloved husband slumped forward onto the checkered blanket. Alexander lay dead next to his cooing infant son, the back of his skull blasted open. She looked back and faced Elizabeth, who held the gun right in Julianne’s face.

“You…” Julianne whispered.

It was the last word his mother ever said.

Elizabeth shot her in the face and everything slammed to black in his mind.

It was all so overwhelming that Brian could hardly even think with his own thoughts. He stumbled out of the airlock and onto the grass, in a field that was almost identical to the one where his parents had been murdered. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he collapsed in the grass.

He thrashed in the grass for a while, the memories of their deaths playing repeatedly in his mind in an endless, terrible loop. They had never known why their former best friend had killed them. It came too suddenly for them to ever ask questions. But Brian had a suspicion as to why Elizabeth had done it.

Later on his dermaphone tingled under his skin. He knew who it would be before he answered it.

“Why?” Brian whispered to Elizabeth. “Why did you kill us?” He spoke not only with his voice, but the voice of his dead parents as well. Thus he used ‘us.’

“You must remember.”

“We want to hear you tell our son yourself.”

“Because I loved Brian and I wanted him for myself,” Elizabeth said. “Brian, I carried you as a favor to your mother when we were close friends, after she had the accident in the hovertrain and couldn’t bear children in her own womb. I carried you for her and took care of you while you were inside me. I was your mother for a time.”

He closed his eyes, pushed back the memories of their deaths and recalled Elizabeth carrying him for his parents. Yet he never recalled any of Elizabeth’s memories.

“You weren’t my real mother,” Brian said. “If you were, I’d be genetically linked to your memories through the Jaajern effect.”

“Julianne may have given me one of her ova, but I was the one who actually gave birth to you, and I was the one who wanted to help them raise you. But they took me away from you soon after you were born. They stole you from me just because I wanted to bring you into the Institution and give you a real future. And they kept me from seeing you!” She gritted her teeth. “I had to kill them and have the Institution wipe away all traces of their existence so I could raise you and mold you into the man I wanted you to become, rather than what they wanted you to be.”

They had been archaeologists and pacifists, unlike Elizabeth. Yet Julianne had become friends when she briefly joined the Institution. They had remained so even after she had quit and went to college back on her home planet, until the birth of Julianne’s son came between their longstanding friendship.

“And that’s why you never wanted me to come here?” Brian said. “Not because of the fate of the Institution. That was just a lie, wasn’t it?”

“I had to tell you something to stop you,” Elizabeth said. “I had to threaten you with something important so that you would stay away. But I guess it didn’t work.”

“You said you were going to kill me.”

“I’d never do anything to hurt you, Brian. I’ve always loved you and I only want what’s best for you.”

Brian stood up, shaking with rage. If he could have reached through the screen and strangled her, then he would have.

“We have sent Institution drones down to retrieve you,” Elizabeth said. “Once you’re offworld, the Jaajern effect will pass and we can be together again—”

“No.” Brian clenched his fists. “Someday soon I’m going to catch up with you and I’m going to kill you.”

“Brian…”

He turned off his dermaphone with a thought and headed back to the shuttle with a new purpose in his life. No matter what it took, he’d get revenge for his parents’ deaths.

It was only a matter of time.

[Back to Table of Contents]

ON THE ROOF By Paul Finch

THE thug with the red beard put his Beretta Automatic against Charlie’s head and pulled the trigger.

Charlie fell to the train floor with a shriek. He clutched his skull—miraculously, it was still intact. After a moment, he looked up. The thug watched him dispassionately. For a minute, Charlie lay where he’d fallen, the steel floor vibrating beneath him. They were running through open country, but all he could see through the small, fogged windows were billowing snowflakes. Then the door to the brake-van opened, and Fargas came in, in tuxedo and bow-tie. Behind him, in the next carriage, the party was in full swing.

He slammed the door, then took a sip from his tumbler of brandy. “You know, Charlie, usually in this situation, that gun wouldn’t be empty.”

Charlie didn’t say anything. Fargas gazed down at him, a huge, foursquare man, with a squat, bull-like head and thick moustache. “But with it being Christmas Eve and all, I might be inclined to be generous. Get up!”

Charlie scrambled painfully to his feet. He was already hurting in several places. They’d roughed him up a little when they’d dragged him out of the nightclub and bundled him into the boot of the car. His white silk jacket was torn, his patent shoes scuffed.

“Do you think I’m wealthy?” Fargas asked.

“I know you are, Mr Fargas.”

“I am wealthy,” the gang-boss assured him. “I have a private railway, for one thing. I own three steam locomotives, and I run them … as a hobby. That’s how wealthy I am. No doubt you feel all this an over-reaction for ten grand? That must be a drop in the ocean to me?”

Charlie shrugged. “I’ll pay you back Mr. Fargas, I promise…”

“No you won’t, Charlie, no you won’t.” Fargas shook his head sadly. “Your sort never do. Now shut up and listen. I can lose ten grand when I sneeze. But it’s the principle.” His flinty eyes narrowed. “What would my associates think if I was to let you off the hook?”

He stuck a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the party he’d just left. Sounds of raucous celebration came through the tinted glass panel. “Those are my associates, Charlie. Some of them. The ones who matter … wining and dining at my expense. I don’t mind. I throw this little party every year. It’s when someone like you does it, that I mind.” He turned to the thug. “Tonker … take his clothes off!”

“Mr Fargas, please…”

Charlie’s appeals were ignored. With systematic expertise, Tonker tore off his jacket and shirt, then knocked him to the floor, ripping off socks, shoes and trousers. The gang-boss drank his brandy as he watched. When the prisoner got to his feet again, he was naked, the metal floor icy under his bare feet.

“I call the locomotive that’s pulling this train Black Bess,” said Fargas. “She’s the pride of my fleet. An LNER Pacific A4. These four carriages are preserved from the original Mark 1 stock. They’ve seen fifty years service, Charlie, and they’re still in mint condition. I had them refurbished at massive expense. Cold, are you?”

Charlie nodded dumbly. A terrible fear had now gripped him.

“You’ll be a lot colder in a minute,” the gang-boss said. “You see … I want you up on the roof, Charlie.”

For a moment, the prisoner thought he’d misheard.

The gangster’s eyes bored into him. “I reckoned the only way for both of us to make good on your debt was to start taking bets on you.” He thumbed the compartment door again. “Right now, Charlie, my people are giving odds on your chances of getting from here—this is the back, by the way—to the footplate at the front. Over the roof.”

Charlie couldn’t speak. He ran a hand though his lank hair. He should shout, scream … start fighting, anything. But he sensed the inevitability of the situation. He’d always known he’d have to pay for bumming around the verges of Britain’s criminal underworld. It wasn’t as if gophering was even worth it. All it had really secured him was access to the tables, and what a mistake that had been. Of course, going to ground had made things worse. Some people could reach you wherever you were. The thought of what had happened to others in his predicament sent a chill through him—he’d heard about the blowtorches, the nutcrackers, the concrete coffins.

“It’s twenty miles to my lodge at Tarnbrook,” Fargas added. “Which is where my associates get off to continue the party. If you’ve made it by then, you can sit down here for the ride back. We might even fix you up with a turkey supper. In the mean time, my driver’s been instructed to stay at fifty miles an hour all the way.” He glanced at the window. “That’s roughly what we’re doing now. Should give you about twenty-five minutes.”

Then he nodded to Tonker. The thug grabbed Charlie by his arm and turned him round. Before him, a single steel door was set into the rear wall, portholes to either side of it. The reality of what was happening dashed over Charlie. He began shaking violently. His stomach was turning to water.

“A quick word of warning,” Fargas said. “Don’t believe the cowboy films. Try and jump off at fifty, you won’t make it. Even if you did, the nearest town’s Lancaster, and we’re fifteen miles from it. A long walk in the nuddy, at minus-three!”

Then Tonker opened the door. The roar was shocking. Wind seized Charlie—it was numbingly cold. Feather-sized flakes danced against his flesh. Instinctively, he backed away, but a muzzle was pressed into his lower spine. “This one is loaded,” Tonker hissed.

Charlie still couldn’t speak. He gazed into the awesome blackness. Swiftly receding tracks were faintly visible. Finally, he allowed himself to be edged out onto the narrow stoop.

“And by the way!” Fargas shouted. “Do your best to get to the footplate. If, by some miracle, you’re still on the roof when we reach Tarnbrook, my lads’ll blow you away. If it’s any consolation though, Charlie … my money’s on you.” And he barked with laughter.

Charlie could hardly breathe, he was so cold. The wind lashed his naked body mercilessly. He wanted to crouch down and curl up in a ball, but he knew that he couldn’t. To his left, there was a vertical ladder. Tonker, bracing himself in the doorway, nudged Charlie towards it and waggled his Beretta, indicating that he should climb.

Charlie started, hand over hand. Fortunately the rungs were of wood—if they’d been metal he’d have left lumps of flesh on them. That was his first piece of good luck—he wondered if it would be his last. He continued slowly up. It seemed like the train was speeding down a passage—to either side of him were solid walls of rushing darkness. The rattling and crashing was terrifying in its volume. The wind was picking up, the higher he got. He was having to use all his strength to hang on. That was a hideous thought—he wasn’t even in the head-wind yet, and by the time he was, he’d have no hand-holds.

He glanced down. Tonker was squinting up at him along the barrel of his Beretta. Gritting his teeth, Charlie continued to the top, where the ladder abruptly terminated.

He glanced over the lip of the roof … and thought he was in a hurricane. The wind was like a torrent of icy water pouring over him. Twenty-five minutes was his limit, but good God, could he last five? He stared ahead, tears misting his vision—he was supposed to make it to the footplate, but he couldn’t even see it. The carriage rooftops curved away into darkness. Snowflakes came at him like bullets.

Surely this was impossible? Beyond anyone’s ability or endurance. He’d seen the stunt men in the movies, but that was with dummy trains and mattresses. A world away from this. Below, however, a madman still aimed a gun at him. He didn’t have any option. Slowly, he slid himself forwards onto the roof. It was made of stainless steel, but thankfully, had been weather-proofed with bitumen paint. Unfortunately, that meant it held the snow.

Never in Charlie’s life had he imagined what it meant to lower yourself full-length into snow while you were naked. For a moment he thought he was going to blackout, but miraculously, he resisted. The walls of rushing darkness on either side threatened to suck him into oblivion the moment his strength ebbed.

He began to slither forwards, snake-like, pushing himself away from the top of the ladder with his feet. His hands clutched only loose snow, however. His whole body was now burning with what could only be fast-approaching frostbite. He screamed aloud, but it was lost in the storm. He couldn’t make it. He knew he couldn’t. Wouldn’t it just be easier to drift off into the darkness and end it in an instant? But then, would it be an instant? Would he not be left broken and torn on frozen wasteland or hung upside-down in a tree? What kind of death would he have to endure, then?

Charlie continued to crawl. He wondered how far he’d come, but looking back, saw that it was no distance at all. He dared to rise up on all fours, but felt himself shift alarmingly—the bouncing and rocking of the train threatened to dislodge him. He flopped to his belly again, scrabbling forwards, keeping as close to the centre of the roof as he could.

Then the train lurched violently, and Charlie felt himself start to slide. The carpet of snow beneath him had broken loose and was suddenly creeping. He grabbed out wildly, but found nothing to grip. His eyes widened as he felt himself being carried towards the edge … good God, was this it? Only the thought of Fargas gloating over his cigars and brandy, gave him the spirit to fight back. Fargas who’d never done a day’s work in his life! Who’d started out screwing motors in the Salford back-streets, the arse hanging out of his pants. He could just hear the bastard: “Wimp didn’t even get off the first car.”

Frantically, Charlie scrabbled his way back towards the centre of the roof. It was easier than he’d expected, partly because his hands and feet were so numb.

More determined now, he pushed himself on towards the first break between carriages. He lay full-length and peered down. He’d expected a horrendous drop to rushing gravel and sleepers, but instead found the top of a rubberised gangway, only a couple of feet below. He lay there for a few seconds, trying to steady his nerve, then brought his knees forward, tensed and sprang. For a breathless second he was in mid-air. Then he landed … again on soft snow. He burrowed his fingers into it, found the bitumen beneath and steadied himself.

Ahead, a whistle tooted. Charlie glanced up. A distant glow indicated the footplate. That gave him new heart. He’d done the most difficult bit, he told himself. Now it was only a matter of endurance. If he could resist the cold for another few minutes.

He set off again, slow and careful, riding every jolt, and reached the next break with minimum trouble. Again, he crossed it successfully. The glow now seemed nearer. He could recognize it as sparks from the funnel. There was something else he recognized, as well. A wafting pall of smoke hung over the front of the train like a gigantic sail.

Charlie watched it warily for a moment, but knew that he had to carry on. He was getting used to the dimensions of the roof, and the precariousness of the surface. His earlier conviction that he wasn’t going to make it had turned to conviction that he was … if he kept his nerve. Horrible pains were starting to nag his fingers and toes, though. Unless he got a move on, he’d lose them all.

He was on the verge of crossing to the fourth carriage, however, when something quite unexpected happened. The first Charlie knew of it was a rattling, scrabbling sound, like cat’s claws on tin; then he was suddenly enmeshed in branches. He hadn’t even seen them come. One whacked him in the mouth. Others lashed across his body, then tangled and tightened. Suddenly he was bouncing backwards along the roof, thorns ripping his flesh, turning him over and over. He shrieked madly…

And then he was through it, lying stunned. The sense that he was sliding again brought him back to full consciousness—one leg was already hanging in nothingness. The rushing darkness roared in anticipation … ?

Jesus God … he was right on the edge!

A frantic battle to survive followed.

Again snow tore loose in his hands, but with agonised efforts his tortured body could hardly muster, Charlie managed to haul himself forward to relative safety. He lay flat for a moment, gasping for breath. And was suddenly enveloped in smoke. It stung his eyes, filled his throat and nose. Still he clung on, coughing madly. It rolled over him incessantly. Charlie could only close his eyes and lie there. At least it was warm … that was something. And it must mean he was almost at the front. With that thought in mind, he lowered his head and endured, and a moment later, the hot billows had moved leftwards on the breeze. Fleetingly, the coast was again clear.

Through sheer fatigue, Charlie’s leap to the final carriage was the hardest. He landed heavily, knocking the air from his lungs. His limbs were now dead weights, but he was close enough to see the individual sparks shooting from the funnel.

He raised himself up onto all fours, and pushed wearily on, finally reaching the end of the fourth carriage. He peered over the edge. Before him lay the footplate—in the glow from the firebox, Charlie could make out the shape of the driver, in a peaked cap and blue boiler-suit, operating a mass of controls. Someone with a broad back was beside him, thrusting a shovel into the furnace. Between them and Charlie however, lay a mound of coal in a cast-iron tub. Its highest point was eight feet down, at least. And there was no ladder.

Charlie gazed at it through bleary eyes. He couldn’t fail to reach it with a jump. It was almost directly beneath him. Hell, if he fell off, he’d probably land in it. But would he survive the blow? … a heap of coal was like a heap of rocks. The wind was still howling over him, of course. The fact that he could hardly feel it was no relief. He knew he was already half-dead. So what did it matter?

Almost nonchalantly, Charlie tipped himself forward. The world turned over, and he crashed into the coal on his back. It felt like a dozen heavy-weight boxers had all landed one on him at the same time. For seconds, he was too dazed to do anything. Fargas’s boys couldn’t have done him better.

When he finally glanced up, he saw that one of them was waiting on the footplate, gun in hand. Charlie crawled slowly towards him through the shifting debris.

“Come on, arsehole!” the bloke shouted. He was burly and blonde, with shoulders like a gorilla’s. Charlie recognized him as the man with the shovel. Funny they weren’t using a real fireman. But who cared? He’d made it.

He slid down onto the steel floor of the footplate, and crumpled into a heap. With fire roaring only a couple of feet away, it was much warmer, but Charlie could hardly feel his limbs, let alone the reviving heat. The smell of sulphur and roasted oil was overpowering, sleep-inducing even. But he couldn’t sleep; the relief that he’d survived was too great. He looked up. The driver, a stocky man with a ginger beard, was staring at him in morbid fascination. Charlie wondered what he must look like. Glancing down at himself, he saw a body blackened by smoke, blue with cold, and streaked with blood from countless lacerations.

“Yeah, Mr. Fargas … he’s made it.”

The blonde thug was standing to the right, speaking into a mobile phone. His revolver was still trained on the prisoner, though he wasn’t watching him. “Yeah, right,” the man said, nodding. “Yeah … I understand.”

Charlie felt sudden fear. Why had Fargas’s goon had to act as fireman? There was room for six men on the footplate at least! It couldn’t be anything to do with having as few witnesses as possible, could it? His fear became terror. The thug turned slowly to face him … Charlie heard the click of a safety-catch being released.

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d jumped up and hit the guy in the midriff with both hands. The goon staggered backwards, then toppled. His eyes widened and he gave a terrified shriek. There was a muzzle-flash and a deafening report … but for once Charlie’s luck was in. He felt the slug flick past him. And then the hoodlum was gone.

Charlie gaped at empty air for what seemed like minutes, before he sensed the driver behind him. He looked sideways and saw the heavy shovel propped up. Grabbing it and raising it like a club, he turned quickly. The driver had made no move towards him, though, but stared, waxy-faced.

“Alright,” Charlie began, his voice shaking. “You stop this crate and let me off. That’s all I want. Just let me the hell off.”

The driver did nothing. Charlie was about to repeat the order, when a crimson trickle ran down over the man’s face. Then another, and another. Only then did Charlie notice the smoking bullet-hole in the front of the driver’s cap. A second later, the man dropped.

It took seconds for what had happened to sink in. Charlie gazed at the corpse. Then at the meaningless mass of oil-black controls—he didn’t have a clue how operate them. Where was the brake? Did it even have a brake? Good Lord, what was he supposed to do now? How long before they reached Tarnbrook? At this speed, probably less than a minute. He wondered what kind of buffers Fargas used. Cast-iron? Steel? What about a solid brick wall, with a shed full of rolling stock behind it? What kind of earth-shaking collision would that cause?

Charlie was the best-placed person on board to find out, of course.

A dull sense of horror descended on him. He’d had it. He’d be killed, crushed to pulp. And there was no escape. None at all. Unless … unless…

Trembling, soaked with sweat, he looked slowly sideways … at the endless, rushing darkness.

[Back to Table of Contents]

THE MAPMAKER By Mark Sherony

I SUPPOSE the thing I remember most about the day I met Illya was the video camera watching the door. Probably a lot of other things should come to mind, considering I was beaten with an electronic whip that morning. But the camera sticks in my head.

The soldiers marched me in through the door to his laboratory and home, and it eyed me from its mount in the ceiling. I guess it surprised me because only the military have them. I’ve heard that everyday people bought them in stores before the big one. But, you hear lots of stories about how things were before the big one … mostly from the old ones.

I just remember looking up at it, and saying to myself, where the hell did he get that? And why do they let him keep it?

His name was odd too; Illya. I’d never heard it before, and I’ve come to learn he is of Russian descent, whatever that is … or was.

Illya is a mapmaker. Maybe I should clarify that. Illya is the Mapmaker. He’s one of the few that exist, and certainly the most talented. He’s a short little man, with a long, scraggly, graying beard, which matches his unkempt, long, scraggly hair. He’s got these round eyeglasses that he calls spectacles, and he’s always wearing white coats that he calls lab coats. Like the pictures you see in medical magazines from before the big one. He’s really a good sport, though. I’ve grown to like him a lot.

The soldiers told me to assist him … my punishment. Overall, it wasn’t bad. I actually liked it better than regular soldiering.

His main lab is in the front of the building. It’s a giant room, with parched murals of hand-sketched terrain and glossy colorized prints hanging on every inch of every wall. They’re maps of course.

He is the mapmaker.

After the soldiers finally left, he talked to me for a while. He seemed like a real congenial sort and was really nice to me. Then he started showing me around his labs, pointing out all of the maps. They were orgasmic. The ones on the walls were pretty cool, especially some of the antiques from before the big one. There was a giant framed one that showed Yousa. He said it used to be the united something or other back before the big one. He told me it had been a nation, whatever that is.

After awhile he took me to one of the back rooms where his scale models are. The guy’s a genius. I mean, there were these big old tables with landscapes on them. They were complete with hills, rivers, trees, wrecked buildings, and the whole shebang, I was most impressed. As we toured his labs, and he gave me the show, he explained to me that my function was to assist him in making maps for Pasquel.

Pasquel was the leader of the organized military. You know, the soldiers who escorted me in. Our function was to help Pasquel defeat the enemy. Whoever the hell they are.

After leaving the table room, he took me to a third lab. This one contained electronic boxes. Kind of like the ones you see when roaming the ruins, only these were all intact and working. I guess there were a lot of electronic things before the big one. I bet that would have been cool.

Illya has a ton of them. That first day, he showed me one that you could draw on a screen, and then push a button, and it would print out the drawing on paper. It even did colors. From there, he took it over to another one that made the picture even bigger. He called it an enlarger.

The most impressive one was what he called a video processor. He’d pop a DVD in, scan through the action, and then freeze the picture. From there, he could zoom around the screen and focus in on anything. Then the screen would enlarge the item to the full screen size, and when he pushed the right buttons, it made a life size replica of the thing.

Neat shit.

Finally, he showed me to a little room in the back with a bed. That’s still my room today, though I don’t know for how much longer.

At first, Illya only had me doing errands. I’d run up to the Military camp with papers, go to the appropriate building, then cart back big boxes to his lab. I didn’t know then what was in them, and didn’t care. He’d have me sweep and mop and change the beds and shit, but I didn’t mind. As I said, it was better than soldiering.

Eventually, he started to trust me, and let me do some stuff with the machines. They needed chemicals put in and chemicals took out all the time, and once he trained me how to do it, he had more time for his projects.

Every couple of days a soldier with stripes would stop by and pick up a couple of his maps (I learned later that they were also picking up electronic devices). It seemed they always told him that Pasquel wanted to know about Colossus. And Illya would say, “It’s coming along fine. Tell him it will be done soon.” Of course, he would say it with that accent of his. Finally one night, after the errand soldier left, I asked him what Colossus was.

He paused for a long time, and then said, “A Trojan horse.” I still today don’t know what a Trojan horse is, but I have an idea. It was that night that we had our first significant conversation.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

I said nothing, only shrugged my shoulders.

“Do you know who this man is? This Pasquel?” he’d asked.

I shook my head. “The leader,” I replied.

“Of what?” he inquired.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I only do what I’m told.”

He mumbled something, and then said, “Pasquel is the leader of the Devil’s army. He intends to lead us all to hell. And I will help him get there. But I will not follow him.”

He walked to the cabinet that held his whiskey and removed a fresh bottle. “Would you like to join me?” he asked.

Though my experiences with alcohol were as limited as its availability, I enthusiastically agreed. Most times when I got drugged, it was on synthetic stuff. Real alcohol (not the stilled stuff that makes you blind) is a delight.

“You have any family?” he asked, as he set our drinks before us.

“No. Never met my mother or father,” I said.

Who has?

“How old are you?” he inquired.

“Nineteen.”

“Ever been in love?”

Love, I thought. I don’t even know what it is.

“Never,” I said.

He slugged down the contents of his glass, and then refilled it.

“I was in love once,” he said. “It was before the war. Before your time. I was married … which is when a man and woman agree to be with each other only … and we had a child. A lovely girl named Clarisse.

“She’s a little bit older than you now, but not much.”

“Where is she?” I asked.

The question obviously pained him. “Pasquel has her. That is why I do work for him. You see, before the war I was a scientist. I was renowned for my work. I was praised as brilliant. And these days, when education no longer really exists, men of my talent are rare. Obviously my knowledge has value, especially to the men in power. Men like Pasquel.”

He finished his second glass, then poured a third. “Would you like another?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

“I have tried always to live my life as closely to the ways and ideals I was raised with. After the big one, my wife and daughter and I tried our best to maintain a family unit. I did what I could to help people, but it was all in vain.”

He paused, staring into his glass.

“The animal that is within all men grows strong in a society without rules,” he said.

“But alas, my wife was killed. And then, when Pasquel and his madness took us captive, he demanded that I work for him. I tried desperately to project the image of a simple old man, but my reputation gave me away.

“Without even asking me if I would use my talents for him, they came and took Clarisse away, and said I must do as I was told or she would be killed.”

A tear slowly dripped from the corner of his eye.

“And now, I work for him. I have not seen Clarisse in nearly a year. And last time I did see her, it hurt me deeply. I fear she is one of the enslaved. I am almost certain of it.”

His words opened new doors of awareness in me. I had never realized that people actually had feelings the way he described them. I knew of the enslaved. Mostly, they are the women which we used for sex. Sex is a basic need of all men, and therefore Pasquel has provided them for us. Of course their use is preserved only to those within his circle of trusted, a position from which I have fallen. But it never dawned on me that those women were anything more than bodies for us to use. That they were actually people who someone might care about.

“Come with me,” he said. I stood and followed him into the back.

He led me in through a door that I had never passed through before. It was a room where I knew he spent much of his time, but one which I was told never to enter on my first day. He flipped on the overhead light, and I was awed at what lay before me.

It was the most magnificent map in the world.

The first thing I noticed was that the river actually flowed real water. Upon further examination, the details were astounding. The city had streetlights that really lit up. The fact that they were even there suggested that it was a military camp. Fences had barbwire on them. Roads had wrecked vehicles and toppled street signs beside them. Rail cars sat upon the tracks. Leaves speckled the tops of the trees.

It was almost real.

“This is Colossus,” Illya said to me.

“It’s incredible,” I said.

He explained to me what the map was. The military complex with lighted streets was the headquarters of Pasquel’s enemy. He told me the man in charge of it was named Dixon. He said that Dixon was as useless a man as Pasquel, and he hoped the two of them burned together in hell. The area before the camp was the colony, which Dixon ruled, and the barracks of his soldiers; then beyond that, the ruins.

The river was massive. It obviously was torrential to cross if it had truly been made to scale. A guarded bridge appeared to be the only access to Dixon’s domain.

“Pasquel believes that Colossus will solve his problem. He wants to get into Dixon’s domain, kill him, and take charge of the colony,” Illya said.

I looked up at him. “Is Dixon the one whom Pasquel is waging war on?” I asked.

“Today,” Illya said. “Pasquel wages war on all things. Dixon is the defiant one who embattles him now. When he is conquered, he will seek out another. There is no end to it. There is no reason either.”

I knew the name Dixon. It was that name Pasquel had cursed when he sent us into battle when I was a soldier.

“Have there been others?” I asked.

“Yes … and there will be more,” Illya replied.

He slammed his whiskey down, and then refilled both of our glasses from the bottle he had brought with him.

“Colossus is Pasquel’s answer, my boy. If you look at my most detailed map, you can see that Dixon is quite safe because of the river. As long as he protects his bridge, no one can touch him. Sometimes I wonder why he does not destroy the bridge, but that is likely because he is infected with the same disease that demented Pasquel’s mind.”

I was totally infatuated with the conversation.

“Very soon now,” he said. “I will place this … over the river here.” His hand held a miniature bridge. His finger pointed to a spot along the river, well north of the bridge Dixon’s men protected.

“You see, my boy. Pasquel believes that Colossus is a living map. One that I can create scale model objects on and then they become reality. I have him convinced of it.”

He slammed the whiskey again.

“But that’s impossible,” I said disbelieving.

“Is it?” Illya asked.

I could say nothing.

“So when I place the bridge over the river, Pasquel’s troops can invade Dixon secretly from the north. Pasquel’s army is significantly stronger than Dixon’s, and utilizing the element of surprise, he will certainly be victorious in his quest.”

Illya smiled. “Then he will have his conquest, and I will be allowed to see my daughter again, provided she is still alive.”

“I’m sure she is,” I said. “If you can really do what you’re saying, Pasquel would be a fool to harm her. How else can he get you to cooperate with him?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Illya said. “If she is still alive, I wonder if she might not be better off dead. What kind of a life is that for a young girl?” he asked.

I thought about every female I’d ever known. What’s the difference who she was being used for sex by? That’s the way of the world. Women really have no other significant purpose. Granted they can cook and clean. But men can do that, as evidenced by my own tasks as Illya’s helper. I thought maybe if Illya really cared so much for her, he should be glad if she was even alive at all.

“I see what you’re saying,” I replied sympathetically.

“Actually, you probably don’t. But that is no fault of yours.”

He finished his whiskey.

“So, can you really do these things … with the map?” I asked.

He gazed around the room for a while, and then said, “Only if you believe.”

IT was a few weeks later that the big event took place. I knew it would be happening that night, because a regiment of soldiers, accompanied by Pasquel himself, had gathered in the Colossus room for hours beforehand. I waited outside while they tended to their business. But I knew that Illya was launching Colossus, and his Trojan horse. When they finally did leave, Illya came out, and headed straight to the whiskey cabinet. Without offering, he poured us both a glass, and then grabbed the bottle.

“Come on, come on,” he said brightly, motioning with a windmill movement of his arm. He was in incredibly good spirits, and he reminded me of a child in wonderment over a new discovery.

I followed him into the Colossus room.

“There it is, there it is, there it is,” he said giddily.

It was as he had told me. The bridge sat over the miniature river that flowed murky water. Illya sat on one of the small stools that surrounded the map-table. He slammed his whiskey down, poured another, then looked at me and smiled.

He raised his glass into the air. “My boy. Today is the kind of day dreams are made of. Today is the day of Colossus. I think maybe even Pasquel is as excited as I am at this moment. But that won’t last for long. No, that, for certain, will not last for long.”

There was such sparkle in his eyes that I thought for a moment he was drugged on alcohol, but I was certain that he had not been drinking in the presence of Pasquel.

“But what now?” I asked. “What are you going to do when Pasquel’s troops arrive at the river and the bridge is not there?”

“Ah … but it will be, my boy. It will be.”

Needless to say, judging by the childish euphoria of my companion, I was really concerned about his mental state.

Then Illya said, “I know you don’t believe me, but please … just watch.”

He stared at the map, focusing on the edge of the table where the barren trail that led to his fictitious bridge began. We both sat, eyes fixed on the spot, for nearly ten minutes. Illya in his silent bliss, and I worried about him.

He poured another whiskey, and then the most amazing thing occurred. Like they materialized out of nowhere, suddenly, a caravan appeared on the path on Illya’s map. First there was a tiny tank, only it was moving; just rolling along on the miniature road like it was real. Then, a jeep, a truck with canvas sides, another tank, an auto with six men in it, and then more. The minute men inside the vehicles twisted and twitched. At first I assumed they were motorized creations of Illya, but then I heard the sounds of voices coming from the little caravan.

They were real. Somehow, the man had actually done it. We were seeing on his map what was really happening out north of the Dixon colony.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it!” he exclaimed.

I was in total awe. I kept trying to tell myself that he was fooling me somehow, but it seemed so very, very real.

“The radio,” he said.

He stood, crossed to the opposite side of the room, and flipped switches on a little electronic box. It filled the room with static at first, and then voices came out of it.

“This radio monitors the secret transmissions between Pasquel and his troops,” Illya said. “He thinks no one can hear him, but he is a fool. I am the one that built the communication link he depends so heavily on.”

“We can see the bridge,” an unfamiliar voice squawked through the electronic box. “It is there, sir. It is there.”

“Marvelous,” the voice of Pasquel responded.

“This is my most glorious moment,” Illya said.

Dumbfounded, I said, “Illya … how did you do it? I mean … this is all impossible!”

“Nothing is impossible,” he replied. “Sit with me boy. Enjoy the show.”

We waited. Neither of us spoke. The caravan slowly advanced towards the bridge on the map, while its leader and Pasquel conversed through the electronic box on the shelf.

As the lead tank of the caravan reached the bridge, Illya looked at me and said, “You can map anything … ANYTHING. The entire universe is made of maps.”

It was eerie, yet intriguing at the same time.

The lead tank crawled slowly up the miniature bridge to its peak, and then started to descend. By the time it was nearly at the shore of Dixon’s side of the river, more than half the caravan was positioned on Illya’s bridge.

“And now for the moment of truth,” Illya said.

With that, he popped open a panel on the surface of the map. The compartment was obviously secret, as its door was part of the simulated ruins. Within it, a control panel of several colored lights flickered. Illya’s stubby finger pushed one that flashed red.

Amazingly, the bridge on the map-table began to discolor, and then completely dissolved. As if they were in slow motion, the vehicles that had been on the bridge slowly fell into his manufactured river. I could see microscopic men leaping from the vehicles. I could hear their tiny screams. I could hear their life-size screams from the black electronic box on the shelf. And I could hear Pasquel screaming, “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON. RENDO. RENDO! DO YOU READ ME? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?”

And Illya only smiled, then slammed down the whiskey, and poured another.

The miniature men in the vehicles that were not on the bridge when it vanished scurried to the river side. They tried in vain to help their comrades, but the current was swift and strong. By the time the tiny bodies reached the end of Illya’s map, where the water funneled down under the map-table, they were gone.

I thought I saw one dissolve the way the bridge had, but it’s hard to tell.

The radio reported the shouting conversation between Pasquel and his men who survived. They explained the events that I had just witnessed in detail to their leader.

Pasquel’s intentions became clear. He blamed Illya for the destruction, and was headed towards us heavily armed with weapons and soldiers to execute the mapmaker.

“What do we do now?” I asked.

“Have another drink,” Illya replied.

He downed his glass, and then refilled us both. I was certain that his whole plan was a death wish, and that I would be a casualty of his madness, but I was wrong. He is much too resourceful.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the grand finale,” Illya said.

I’m sure grand finale is a word like Trojan horse, something that was common before the war. Based on what happened next, I bet a grand finale was something special.

His finger pushed the flickering blue light in the control panel of the map, and the map began to rise slowly into the air, propelled by silver poles at the corners that had been the table’s legs.

Beneath it lay something that is difficult to describe. It was shaped like a human body lying on its back. But within the shape was a map.

When I was a child, I at one time spent a few years in what they called a mission. There was a female there who tried to educate us orphans. She spent some time teaching us about what’s inside of us. And Illya’s map was just that.

In the center of the chest was the heart. It was pumping rapidly. It moved fluids through a series of vessels, half red liquid, the other half blue.

The stomach and intestines wriggled slightly, and the breathing devices moved slowly up and down.

It was a mechanical replica of the internal organ pictures I had studied in that mission.

“Holy shit, Illya. What is it?” I said.

“It’s a map, my boy. It’s a glorious map. As I’ve told you, the universe is made of maps. I can make you a map of the stars, or I can make you a map of Dixon’s camp, or I can make you a map of the continent, or anything. This is simply a map of the internal parts of the human anatomy. I could go even further; I could map the molecular structure of its parts, or the atoms for that matter. But this divine masterpiece is what suits my purpose.”

He smiled intently. Then he polished off the remaining contents of his glass of whiskey.

“Let’s have a little fun, shall we,” Illya said.

He reached under the table and slid out a cardboard box. He flipped open the covers and removed a plastic bag. The thing inside of the bag was obviously manufactured on the video processor.

It was a replica of the head of Pasquel.

“Good evening, my friend,” he said to the head. “You look tired. Perhaps you would like to rest your head for awhile?”

He laid the bust in the opening of the body-map, where the head belonged. It was the only portion of the creation that did not contain any vessels, organs, or other apparatus.

“There. That’s better now, isn’t it?” Illya said to the inanimate object. “Yes. I’m sure it is.”

The radio confirmed the raged Pasquel was in hot pursuit of the mapmaker, as he cursed his name in vain.

Illya reached under the table again, withdrew an ice pick, raised it over his head, and then pummeled it down with all his strength into the heart of the map.

“AHHHHHHHHH!” bellowed from the radio speaker. “Oh god.

What’s … ha … ha … ha … happeniggg…”

Illya looked at me and smirked. “Don’t worry. I can repair the map’s heart.”

Chaotic sounds filtered through the electronic box, as Pasquel’s men rushed to his aid. Soon the groans and coughing of Pasquel himself slowly decreased in volume until they were silent. The heart on the map spurted liquid high into the air, painting the ceiling with splatters of dark red.

Within moments, the heart stopped pumping.

As the radio speaker confirmed that Pasquel’s comrades worried their leader was dead, Illya reached into his cardboard box again. He removed another head. I recognized it to be Bregin; the man who was closest to Pasquel, second in command, and certainly traveling with the monstrous leader as they headed in our direction.

Illya replaced the head of Pasquel with Bregin on his map. He removed the ice pick from the heart.

A poke of another light on the control panel shuddered the heart pumping again.

“Let’s try the lungs this time,” he said with a gleam in his eyes.

He raised the ice pick above his head.

I DON’T know how many weeks ago that happened, because time seems so irrelevant. But the moon has cycled since then, and things have changed dramatically.

At first Illya was only concerned with destroying those who were close to the top of Pasquel’s regime. The leaders. He had them all on video, and used the video processor to create images of them for the body-map.

The video camera watching the door has served Illya well.

Because of these executions, his reputation again spread through the colony we occupy. He has become feared. So feared, that he is now the one in command.

He’s done nothing to wage war on Dixon, but I sense that will come eventually.

Once he gained power, the next matter of business was to find his daughter. He commanded a great search, and interviewed a multitude of people.

Clarisse is dead. She was executed by one of Pasquel’s soldiers while enslaved. Apparently Pasquel thought he could get Illya to cooperate in other ways, or maybe he figured he didn’t need him anymore once Colossus was complete.

But now that Illya knows she’s dead, his mind has turned to other matters. He’s been drinking an awful lot of whiskey too.

I guess I’m sort of a celebrity now, being that I’m the right hand man of the leader. But it worries me. You see, now Illya is obsessed with finding the murderer of his daughter. He knows Pasquel ordered it, but that’s not enough.

Pasquel was obsessed with recording on video all kinds of things that took place within his complex. Illya has discovered hundreds of DVD’s. Some of them contain executions. Some document sex sessions with the enslaved.

He’s already found several videos where the female being fornicated was Clarisse. Needless to say, the men in those videos are now dead. He uses the video processor to create images of them, plugs them into the body-map, and does what he pleases. He’s also gotten creative in his tortures. The map today has eyes. And a penis.

It’s the videos that worry me. You see, I recognized Clarisse. I fornicated her myself. I even recognized the room which she was recorded in, as the one in which I used her.

But that’s not the worst of it.

I never told you why I fell from grace with Pasquel. It was because I botched an assassination I was ordered to perform. I shot the victim, but failed to terminate the life.

The one I shot was Clarisse.

I’ve thought about running. But, I’ve nowhere to go, and, like I said, I’m sort of a celebrity here. Life has never been this good.

Illya is in the other room right now watching videos. There’s hundreds of them he still hasn’t seen.

I sure hope he tires of watching them soon.

[Back to Table of Contents]

A TAVERN ABOVE A WOOD By C. J. Burch

THE tavern was constructed of wood, save for its foundation, which was made of stone. It was low and long. It hugged a curve in a mountain pass, and used a huge grey cliff for its north wall.

It hung at the edge of a valley rimmed by snowy peaks. Beneath it stood a forest of pine, juniper and birch. Beyond that was another pass, and beyond that pass another valley ringed by more peaks still.

The day, which had been cool, had slipped away into darkness, and the snow shone silver beneath the light of the big moon and her daughter.

Inside, the smell of tobacco and roasting deer filled the common room. A fire crackled in a fire place on its western wall, and a motley collection of travelers, traders, warriors and hunters ringed a bar a few paces from the fire.

Beyond the bar the tavern’s lone table was occupied by four men and a single woman. The men were all burly red faced sorts who had seen more of desolation than civilization. The woman was lovely, but at ease among the men all the same. Her name was Tiana Dumond.

She was a child of the warm seas to the south who had been blessed with dark hair, olive skin and gentle curves. All these things were misleading, though, for onto the body of a dancing girl she had grafted the sinew of a warrior. Over both she had pulled a chain mail shirt and a pair of leather breeches.

On her belt hung a dangerous looking dagger, and leaned against her left thigh was the handle of a nasty looking double bladed axe. In her hands she held five cards. At her elbow lay a half finished tankard of dark ale.

She studied the cards she held with the same feral gaze she had shown foes for twenty six years. The men about her studied their own cards as intently, and though their eyes occasionally dallied upon on the curve of her breast, none reached for her. It was just as well, if they had they would have been left a stump where once they possessed a limb.

Dumond’s partner, Krystyn Hamerskjold sat at the bar a few paces from Dumond, carefully positioned so that her back faced the game. Not because she was a devotee of fair play, though for the most part she was, but because she did not wish her presence to lead to nasty accusations and blood shed.

Like Dumond she was lean and strong, and perhaps a few inches taller, but her shoulders were not quite so broad. Unlike Dumond she was blonde with blue eyes, and carried a broad sword instead of an axe. Her skill with the sword matched Dumond’s skill with the axe. That made her a dangerous thing.

Next to Hamerskjold a hard bitten old man with a red nose and a white beard wrapped gnarled fingers around a mug. Then he nodded towards the barkeep. “The fiend will roam the night.”

The barkeep, a beefy man with big hands and a red beard, shook his head almost imperceptibly.

The old man persisted. “It is true.”

Had their roles been reversed and Hamerskjold been at the table clutching a hand of cards while Dumond sat at the bar only silence would have followed the old man’s assertion. Soon the subject would have passed away to be forgotten.

Hamerskjold was not Tiana Dumond, though. Silence did not become her. She turned to the old man. He seemed ready to talk. She didn’t suppose he needed much encouragement, “Fiend?”

The old man nodded viciously, but another on the other side of the bar stole the tale from him. “Aye, it travels with the moons searching for those it can slay. When it catches them it slits their throat and writes messages in their blood all over the forest.”

Hamerskjold sipped her ale. “What sort of messages?”

The old man laughed. “‘I am Gyyrkhan,’ is all he has ever written, and some say all he ever shall.”

Hamerskjold raised an eyebrow at the barkeep. “What does that mean?”

The barkeep shrugged. “It means my customers gossip like washer women.”

The old man finished his ale. “All that find themselves out doors this night will be food for Gyyrkhan’s belly by day break.”

“Gyyrkhan?” again Hamerskjold contributed but a word to the conversation.

“Gyyrkhan,” the man on the other side of the bar nodded. “The soul stealer, the blood writer, they say it is the product of demon and human.”

“Don’t scare the paying customers,” the barkeep laid a meaty paw on the handle of a club that lay across the bar. “Lest you see what sort of monster I can become.”

The man on the other side of the bar finished his drink. “Try to start a bit of conversation.” He muttered. “You’re becoming a nasty bore, Thentan.”

“Better than a poverty stricken bore,” the barkeep replied through clenched teeth. “Off to bed with you, Farand. You’ve had more than your fill.”

Farand grimaced, but did not tempt the barkeep’s club. He pushed himself out of his chair and staggered off towards the guest rooms. The old man put another coin on the bar and handed the barkeep his empty tankard.

The barkeep took the coin and refilled the tankard. He added a bit of venom when he served it. “And you,” he said, “have not paid to stay in this house. When I tire of you I’ll toss you into the snow.”

The old man cackled. “Won’t be the first time you turned me out in the cold you fat bastard. I’ll survive. I know the places to hide. I know the paths the monster takes.”

The barkeep laughed. “So you must. You always find your way back here, and with money to boot.”

The old man tapped a gnarled finger against the side of his head. “I am feeble, and I am poor, but, but I am no one’s fool.”

“A matter of some debate,” The barkeep replied.

Hamerskjold frowned. In their travels she and Dumond had stumbled across all manner of legends. Most had been laughably false. Those that had been true still made her scream in the night. “What does this fiend look like?”

“No one that sees him keeps his soul.” The old man spat.

Hamerskjold turned to the barkeep. The barkeep shrugged. “There are those that disappear in the forest, but it is haunted by thieves and wolves as much as it’s haunted by monsters. Whether those that vanish have been dragged away to Gyyrkhan’s lair or died upon a brigand’s sword no one knows.” He pointed towards the old man, “Least of all this one.”

The old man snorted indignantly. Then he took his ale, staggered to the fireplace, and stood before it on unsteady legs.

Hamerskjold watched him go. “You don’t believe him.”

The barkeep shrugged his shoulders. “I do not know. I never travel the woods by night.” Then he leaned closer. “I know this, though. There are some people that cannot be helped.”

Hamerskjold frowned. “Your house is full to night?”

“That it is.”

“Surely you could find a place for a man grown old and tired.”

The barkeep shook his head. “You do not understand.”

But Hamerskjold did understand. She understood perfectly. An old and feeble man was going to be chased into the cold when the tavern closed its doors for the evening. That was a thing she could not abide. “Perhaps he could share our room.”

“Others have asked. He hasn’t accepted the offer.” The barkeep carefully eyed Hamerskjold’s form. “Though none have looked like you.”

Hamerskjold did not reply, but promised herself she would ask the old man into her room before the night was through. The old man could sleep in the bed. She and Dumond would curl up on the floor in blankets. Certainly they had slept in harder places.

ONE of the players, a dark eyed man who smoked a pipe, fancied himself a philosopher. He talked constantly. Tiana Dumond was a woman that enjoyed silence. The man displeased her.

She would have said as much but the tavern keeper had announced the last round and told them to finish their game. There was no point in saying much now. Around the table the wagers had been met and raised. Calls had been issued.

The philosopher threw a pair of coins into the pile at the table’s center. “What do you suppose is man’s most dangerous quality?” He smiled broadly. No doubt he liked his hand and wished to make some point before he displayed it.

Dumond examined her cards and weighed her chances. Another player replied. “I have always trusted my sword and my right arm.” Then he tossed his cards upon the table. Two others groaned and folded their hand.

The dark eyed man laughed. “No, friend,” He said. “The most dangerous thing a man possesses is his intellect. Any fool can find the strength to swing a sword. It takes cunning to know when to use it and when to leave it sheathed. Or for that matter,” his smile turned unctuous. “When to fold,” he tossed his cards upon the table, and the swordsman cursed. Then their eyes turned to Dumond.

Dumond offered the first words other than “call,” and “deal” she had spoken that night. “The most dangerous thing a man has is his illusions.”

The dark eyed man frowned. “No, no, some are deluded by the things they see, but most of us grasp reality well enough. All but you have noticed that I have won this hand.”

Dumond cocked an eyebrow. “It is not the illusions around him that are dangerous. It is the illusions that a man holds about himself that wreck him.” Dumond threw her cards upon the pile of coins. It was filled to bursting with brightly colored face cards. “You have deluded yourself into believing you are a gambler.” She swept the coins towards her with one hand, “Much to your regret.”

The dark haired man’s brow furrowed. Losing to a woman was bad, losing to woman who had made him a fool a thousand times worse. He skipped the obligatory accusation of foul play and reached for his dagger.

Without removing her hand from the coins Dumond drove her left fist into his chin. The blow struck him flush and toppled backwards over his chair and too the floor.

Hamerskjold stepped from her place at the bar before he could recover and kicked his dagger from his grasp. She laid her hand on the pommel of her sword. “Money can be replaced.”

The dark eyed man wiped a touch of crimson from his lips, “A comforting sentiment for those who are rich.”

Dumond pulled a pair of coins from the pile and tossed them to him. “That will feed you until you find work.” Then she slid her hand to the handle of the axe that leaned against her leg. “Be glad money is all you have lost.”

The man caught the coins. Then he pushed himself to his feet. After making a show of brushing himself off he turned for the guest rooms and strode away with as much dignity as he could muster.

Dumond watched him go with a sly smile. “This should see us through the mountains and into Klynaraad.”

“That it should,” Hamerskjold agreed. Behind her the barkeep shooed the rest of the patrons away from the bar. The old man had turned away from the fire and shuffled towards the door. There was a forlornness about him that moved her. “Tiana,” she tried to make her voice as pleasing. “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

“NO,” the old man shook his head so vehemently he nearly toppled onto his bony ass.

Tiana Dumond almost smiled. “Strange, I had the same reaction, myself. Yet here I stand. I can only hope the force of your argument is stronger than mine own.”

Krystyn Hamerskjold barely resisted the urge to drive the heel of her boot onto Dumond’s instep. “Listen to me, man. The night is cold. You will not survive a trip into the valley.”

“I have walked into that valley since before either of you were born and will walk into it for years to come. I appreciate your kindness. You have done as the gods would wish, but I do not need charity.”

Hamerskjold shook her head. “It is not charity. You are entitled. The time you have lived has earned you a bit of kindness. We would be honored if you accepted our offer.”

Hamerskjold turned to Dumond. Dumond said nothing. Hamerskjold elbowed her in the ribs.

Dumond sighed. “I can honestly say I would not extend the invitation you have received to royalty, or to anyone else.”

Hamerskjold elbowed Dumond again. “It is as Tiana says. You should stay in our room tonight.” Dumond gave Hamerskjold a stare that would have killed a warrior less stout.

The old man looked upon his gnarled hands. When he faced them again tears had filled his eyes. “I have never been subject to such kindness.” For a moment Hamerskjold thought he might relent, “but it cannot be. I am old, but still I have things I must do. I should go now.”

He reached for the door and found Tiana Dumond’s hand on his wrist. Her voice, which had been hard before, had turned dewy. “Old one, there is nothing to be accomplished on a night like this. Stay near the fire, be at peace.”

Hamerskjold’s reply hung in her throat and tears came to her eyes. She beamed upon Dumond like a sun rise after a long night. Dumond shrugged. “I have never been able to abide a man’s tears.”

The old man fell back a step, covered his mouth and trembled all over. “You are sent by the gods,” he whispered, “Sent by the gods.”

“That’s enough,” the barkeep’s voice was as coarse as the braying of a donkey. “Either drag him to your room or leave him be. I am closed and ready for sleep. All of you will be awake with the crack of dawn demanding I fill you stomach’s before you leave.”

Hamerskjold’s other wise even temper frayed. She stepped towards the barkeep and gave him a look he would have been wise to fear. “A moment’s less sleep and a penny’s less profit will not slay you.”

The barkeep nodded caustically. “The two of you won enough money to eat for a week, and will be asleep when I rise to prepare your breakfasts.”

Hamerskjold, despite the fairness of her form, had lived a hard existence. It had taught her to tolerate most of the ills men had visited upon the world. Still, she could not abide cruelty or those who practiced it.

“It is said that every soul’s deeds are weighed good against bad when it passes into the next life.” Her teeth clenched. “This will be a moment you remember through all eternity.”

Tiana Dumond had known Hamerskjold many years. She understood her moods and her mind. At this moment the barkeep, without realizing it was treading up thin ice crusted over abysmal deeps.

Hamerskjold was kind to a fault, but she was not a woman without temper. Igniting it was a dangerous thing.

“Krys,” Dumond stepped away from the door and hooked a hand about Hamerskjold’s elbow. “The old one shall stay. That is all that matters. You have acquired what you wanted over stead fast opposition from all parties concerned. You should be happy.”

Hamerskjold looked at Dumond’s hand. Then she turned a dangerous stare back towards the barkeep. Dumond squeezed her arm. “The world is filled with fat men with big mouths.”

Hamerskjold took a deep breath and released it. When she turned back to Dumond her face was warm. “A pity,” she turned to the barkeep, “you have been paid. If you require more money for the old man you will be paid again.”

The barkeep shook his head. “He’s not staying.”

Hamerskjold’s mouth became a hard straight line. “You try my patience, man.”

“Why?” Dumond struggled to place herself between Hamerskjold and the barkeep.

The barkeep pointed towards the door. “Not my choice, yours either.”

Hamerskjold and Dumond wheeled about. The door was open. The old man was no where to be found.

Hamerskjold pushed past Dumond and peered into the night. All she saw before her were tracks. They led to a narrow path. Then they sunk below the shelf the inn rested upon.

Tiana Dumond stood at her shoulder. “How can one that old move so quickly?”

Hamerskjold ignored the question. Instead, she turned on the barkeep. “You,” she searched for a term loathsome enough to express all she felt, “you wretched thing.”

The barkeep, not a man gifted with intuition, finally understood the peril he had courted. “See here,” he stammered. “I’ve seen this before. He never stays, no matter the inducement offered him. It is his way.”

“I am not concerned with his way.” Hamerskjold spat. “I am concerned with yours.”

Finding no mercy in Hamerskjold’s stare the barkeep turned to Dumond. “He only comes on the worst nights. Then he complains of his wretchedness and his poverty. Then he leaves. When the night is stormy or frozen he returns with money and more complaints. It is what makes him happy.”

“Freezing to death does not make for happiness, oaf.” Hamerskjold replied, “And I do not recall seeing him sing for joy.”

Dumond wrapped her arms about Hamerskjold. Then she did something she was not accustomed too. She provided the voice of reason. “The old man is retreating into the snow. While you slit the fat man’s throat he will move farther from our reach. There is no point to this.”

Hamerskjold forgot about the barkeep entirely. “Oderkuul’s beard, you are right, come.” She wriggled away from Dumond, sprinted to the rack near the door and removed their cloaks. “We must hurry.”

Dumond gave the barkeep a baleful glare of her own. “You will never fully comprehend just how much you owe me, man.”

The barkeep nodded and wiped his brow with a meaty hand. “Perhaps, but I shall repay you what I can all the same.”

Dumond shook her head. “You do not possess the wealth.”

“Not with money, with advice.”

Dumond grimaced. “I have often filled my belly with that.”

“I have seen men rush into the darkness after him. Most return wondering how they could be out distanced so easily. The rest never return at all.”

Hamerskjold tossed Dumond a cloak. Then she nodded towards the Tavern keeper. “His kindness, meager as it is, dwarfs his courage.”

Dumond pulled the cloak about her and turned to the barkeep again. “We will return. When we do we shall knock at the door. You will open it.”

The barkeep shrugged. “If you return, you will not be accompanied by that old man.”

“THIS is beyond madness. It is a folly I cannot fathom or condone, but still I follow.” The charity Dumond shown the old man had long since faded in the cold and dark. It had been replaced by something that was not quite fear, but close enough to it to make the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Before her Krystyn Hamerskjold had paused and run a hand across her face. When she turned to Dumond she was confused, “How can he move like this? We have followed him out of the mountains and into the valley. We can smell the forest’s scent, but still he has not appeared. We are no nearer him than we were when we stepped out of the tavern.”

Dumond stepped to Hamerskjold’s side. A hundred yards before them the narrow track opened into a broad meadow filled with trees. The forest was twisted and deep, and for lack of a better word malevolent. “His home is in the valley. We can safely say he has returned to it, I think.”

“I think,” Hamerskjold’s resolve, normally a thing of iron, had weakened. “Could we return to the tavern with clear conscience?”

Dumond wanted to nod, but she didn’t. “It is possible, but you will not allow it.”

“I won’t?” Hamerskjold’s confusion deepened.

Dumond said nothing. She crossed her arms and waited for Hamerskjold’s nature to take its inevitable course.

“If he was this fast, this strong, he was never in any real danger.” Hamerskjold began logically, “or fearful of his prospects in the cold.” Her eyes narrowed. “He has lured us here.”

Dumond had thought the same a hundred paces back. “Perhaps, though without knowing more we cannot be certain.”

“What could he possibly want?”

Dumond smiled coldly. “I won a king’s ransom at the table Krys. It was no secret.”

“But we would have given him money if he had asked.”

Dumond shook her head, “Not all of it. And there is of course that which all men seek.”

Hamerskjold grimaced, “At his age?”

“An old wolf is a wolf all the same.”

Hamerskjold let the reply hang in the air. Then she sighed. Her breath condensed before her and faded on the breeze. “The barkeep said there had been others that followed him.”

“Some returned, some did not,” Dumond agreed.

“It could be nothing more than it appears to be on the surface, Tiana. He could be a man whose countenance, exposed to harsh wind and inclement weather, is more withered than his body.”

Dumond nodded. “The woods are dark. Those that followed him in became lost and perished, nothing more.”

Hamerskjold read Dumond’s voice the way a scholar perused a scroll. “You do not believe that.”

“Do you?”

Hamerskjold laid her hand on the hilt of her sword. “Of all the men I have despised. I hated the ones who thought me a fool and simpleton the most. I want to know what this man is about, and if he thinks me a fool.”

Dumond smiled. This time genuinely. “As I said…”

HIS track was not hard to follow even in the depths of the forest, but that was not so surprising. There was snow on the ground, and no reason for him to hide his path. Still, she was uneasy.

The forest was wrapped in darkness and quiet save for the screech of the white owl and the call of wolves. Its trees were ancient and untouched by axe or saw.

Above them, where there should have been stars, knotted bows had grown together. Before them lay the spot where the old man’s tracks ended. It added to her unease.

It had once been a home made of logs and topped by a thatched roof, but it had been large. The roof had long since died and slid away into nothing, but most of the walls remained. Shattered windows that had once been covered by rough shutters lit its upper and lower floors.

Tiana Dumond leaned against her axe. “It is built rough, but it is large.” She sounded uneasy as well.

Hamerskjold nodded. Before she could reply a speck of moonlight freed from the canopy by the clearing about the house knifed to the ground and split asunder, separating into a brilliant rainbow. Hamerskjold leaned towards it. “What can it be?”

Dumond took a series of careful steps towards the house. “It is glass, a pane from the windows. It is stained.”

“Stained glass,” Hamerskjold joined Dumond. “No poor man can afford that.”

“No,” Dumond forced her eyes from the house and into the clearing about it. Trees had reclaimed it, but they were small, immature, nothing like the gnarled giants they had passed beneath. “The trees are smaller here.”

Hamerskjold had noticed. “It was a farm.” Her eyes followed the curve of the clearing where the young trees stood. “A big farm, and well tended I would wager. The people that lived here owned land quite a lot of it, cattle and pigs as well.”

Dumond frowned. “Are you certain?”

“I was raised on a farm.” Hamerskjold remembered times long past with a smile, “but I can show you if you like.”

“Show me what? It is all a ruin.”

Hamerskjold pointed off into the distance towards the smaller trees. “See how they are divided into regular plots?”

They were. The new growth was in clumps, each distinct from the next. There were dozens upon dozens of them. “Yes.”

“If it were daylight you would see the remains of old fence rows between each stand of timber. Those were once fields.” Hamerskjold turned towards a broken shadow on the house’s other side. “That was a barn. If we searched we would find more, root cellars, smoke houses, stables, wells. This was a large and productive farm.”

Dumond frowned. “Now it is a wreck. What happened?”

Hamerskjold took another step towards the ruined house. “We will not find the answer out here.”

Dumond followed her, “But wouldn’t it be pleasant if just this once we did? If the answer to each of our questions appeared from the darkness and laid itself bare without causing us harm or fright. Wouldn’t that be a strange and wondrous thing?”

Hamerskjold smiled. “It would. Now be silent. If the old man is asleep we should not disturb him.”

“And if he awaits us we should not alert him.” Dumond whispered.

Hamerskjold did not reply. Instead she edged past the broken door that had stood at the big house’s entrance. It was broad and thick, though worn, and still bore the imprint of elaborate carvings. Some were runes, most were animals of the field and the wood. They danced when passing clouds flicked moonlight across them.

Inside, the floor was of oak. It was stained now by wind and rain, but in the house’s depths, near the big fire place were still traces of lacquer.

“There is no oak in this wood.” Dumond whispered from the darkness. “The floor was brought here from the south.”

She was right. Hamerskjold laid one hand against the fire place. It was polished river stone, and though moss had slithered into its cracks, was beautiful still.

Above them a breeze blew a cloud aside. A beam of pale moonlight slithered through a hole in the second floor and onto the fire place. The result startled Hamerskjold so badly she nearly gasped.

Quite involuntarily she took a step backwards and stumbled into Dumond. The two of them knotted together like rope poorly wrapped and slipped to the floor. Dumond took a sharp breath. Then she saw clearly what the light revealed. “Krys, it is a painting.”

It was. Hanging above the fireplace was a huge canvas bound by a rotten frame. Three people were painted upon it. The first was a broad man with a strong, imperious and unforgiving face. He reminded them of the old man they had followed without quite capturing him.

The second was a slim, demur and attractive woman. The third was a boy no more than five seated in his mother’s lap.

A huge tear in the painting had destroyed the boy’s face.

Hamerskjold pulled herself off Dumond and approached the painting, “A squire and his loving family.”

Dumond climbed to her feet and suppressed a shudder. There was something in the man’s gaze she recognized. Something she despised. “I think so. But where is the old man. How does he fit here? Why has it all passed away into nothing?”

Hamerskjold turned about. “I do not know. Perhaps we should look up stairs.”

“Up stairs,” Dumond sounded dubious. “The roof has been torn away. The upper floor is exposed. How could any thing live up there?”

“I do not…” Hamerskjold never finished the sentence.

He emerged from a small, ramshackle door way hidden by shadows and charged towards Dumond’s back like a frenzied demon. Hamerskjold took a step forward and screamed a warning.

Dumond paid it no mind. She had heard the commotion behind her and assumed the worst before Hamerskjold had reacted. While her partner called to her, she thrust the handle of her axe behind her and pivoted.

There was a groan and an impact that nearly sprawled her on the floor. Still, she regained her balance, finished her turn, and found the old man. He lay on the floor where he had fallen. In his right hand he clutched a rusted dagger. In his left he clutched a magician’s kindle stone.

Dumond hefted her axe and stepped towards him. He hissed at her in a language she did not understand and thrust a finger towards her. The kindle stone shimmered, and power stored in the ground eons ago surged through the floor and into him. He focused it and poured it from his finger and into Dumond.

Dumond cursed. The old bastard was a thrice damned wizard. Then the bolt struck her and set every nerve in her afire. She fell to the floor groaning.

Behind her Hamerskjold drew her sword. He hissed another incantation as vile as the last and waved an arm at her. An unseen fist as sold as stone slammed into her side and tumbled her across the floor and into a ruined table.

Hamerskjold rolled onto her side groaning and tried to sit up, but she could not. Her head ached. The world spun about her. She reached up and touched the side of her face. It was wet and sticky.

Before her, Dumond lay flat of her back where she had fallen. Steam rose from her armor where the magician’s charm had stuck her. The old man leaned over her and grabbed at her hair. Then he pulled her head from the floor and thrust his dagger towards her throat.

Dumond’s eyes fluttered. She groaned, but still she did not move. Hamerskjold cursed and reached for her own dagger. Then she threw it towards the wizard with all her strength.

The dagger hissed through streaks of pale, freezing moonlight and slid into he old man’s shoulder.

He cried out and dropped Dumond. Hamerskjold rolled onto all fours and reached for her sword, but it was not there. She had dropped it when his magic stuck her. It had slipped away into shadow.

The wizard turned to face her. “You think you have hurt me, but you have not. I cannot be harmed. I am Gyyrkhan.”

Hamerskjold gathered her feet beneath her and dove for his chest but the old man hissed and another fist, just like the first, struck her and drove her to the floor.

When she rolled onto her back her back her thoughts were jumbled and incomplete. She did not know where she was…

When Tiana Dumond came to her senses the old man had moved past her. Before him lay Krystyn Hamerskjold, she did not move.

Dumond turned towards her axe. It lay ten feet from her, the old man practically straddled Hamerskjold. There was no time. Dumond threw herself from the floor and into the wizard’s back.

She struck him before he realized she was there and drove him to the floor. Then she reached about him and fastened her hands upon the handle of his dagger.

The old man wriggled against her like a snake trying to free itself of a mongoose, but Dumond was strong, stronger than most men.

She clenched her teeth and pulled the dagger towards her. It slammed into the old man’s chest and cleaved the through flesh and bone. The old man jerked. The he went limp.

Dumond let him fall onto his side and crawled to Hamerskjold. Behind her the old man whispered. “I am Gyyrkhan. I cannot die.” Then he died.

Dumond wrapped her arms about Hamerskjold. “Krys,” she whispered urgently, “Krys.”

Hamerskjold’s eyes were all ready open and beginning to clear. She placed a hand on Dumond’s shoulder. “Is he dead?”

“He is that.”

Hamerskjold sat up and dabbed at the cut on her cheek. It was not deep. “We should be ashamed, letting an old man surprise us and nearly kill us.”

Dumond studied Hamerskjold’s eyes. “Are you well?”

“It is nothing. I was unbalanced for a moment that is all.” As if to prove her point she clambered to her feet. “He called himself Gyyrkhan.”

Dumond turned towards the spot where the old man appeared. There was an open door. Inside that was a faint light, like a camp fire dying. She pushed herself to her feet. “What’s this?”

Hamerskjold followed her to the door way. Dumond leaned inside. It was a closet. So small she could not straighten to her full height. In its center the floor was broken away. Below that was dirt. Atop the dirt, inside a ring of stone, was a small fire. Near the fire were tomes covered with arcane runes. Next to that was a collection of bones, scattered atop them laid human skulls.

Dumond grimaced. “We have found those who chased him I think.” She whispered. Then she settled into the closet. There was an unkempt bed roll; a stash of coins lay beneath it. On the wall there were strange and rough marks. Dumond frowned. “I need light, Krys.”

Hamerskjold knocked about within the house until she found a desiccated piece of wood as long as her forearm. She handed it to Dumond.

Dumond buried the wood in the old man’s fire until it ignited. Then she turned to the wall once more.

Upon it there were marks, at first just lines and squiggles, then above that crude letters as if rendered by a child. Above that there were simple untidy sentences. “I am Greer.” They said, over and over again, more times than either woman could count.

Hamerskjold frowned. “Why are the sentences so uneven? They are cockeyed as if written by a blind man, and who is Greer?”

“They are uneven because they were written in the dark.” Dumond followed the sentences one after another towards the roof of the closet. Finally, she found the last three scrawled in huge, bloody letters. “I am evil. I am a monster. I am Gyyrkhan.”

Hamerskjold shook her head. “I do not understand.”

Dumond said nothing. Instead she closed her eyes and groaned as if a wound long forgotten had troubled her. So it had.

It was a memory locked away and unexamined for years, a memory of her childhood, and her father. He had been a drunk of prodigious temper who fancied himself hard but fair. In truth what he had been was vile.

When she misbehaved or they disagreed he would beat her. Then he would banish her to a small and unused closet near their front hall, and leave her there for hours. She remembered her time in the dark with nothing but her fear and her father’s scorn to accompany her with a shudder.

For the sake of her own sanity she had struck out into the world as soon as she could leaving her father far behind. Somewhere along the way she had discovered that she had been only a child, certainly not always right, but never evil. Her father, on the other hand, had been wrong. Wrong in nearly everything he had done to her. In the end that had made all the difference.

She finally opened her eyes once more and allowed them to dwell upon the sentences. They made her think of the old man, the old man who had been but a boy in the painting.

Of course that was leap of intuition that most would not willingly make, but she knew it to be true as certainly as she knew her own name.

His name had been Greer, and he had been left in this closet with his own dark thoughts and his father’s disapproval far too long. Unlike her, he had decided his father was right.

[Back to Table of Contents]

THE COWBOYS OF CTHULHU By David Bain

CHAPTER XIII: THE COWBOYS OF CTHULHU

or THE BANDITS FROM BEYOND

-

(BEING THE LOST CHAPTER

OF T. H. THOMASMA’S

WORLD-FAMOUS BIOGRAPHY,

“GENTLEMAN JOHN BRODIE a.k.a. ‘THE DEMON DUELIST’”)

—

IN WHICH WE MAY LEARN

THE TRUE REASONS WHY OUR HERO-

THE FAMED FORMER OUTLAW

WHO DIED A PEACE-BRINGING LAWMAN,

BELOVED OF HIS COMMUNITY

AND ALL THE LAND-

TURNED TRUE OF HEART

AND LARGE OF SOUL

1. Jesse James meets the Curious Caravan

of Darke Dee-lites

—

AND so it came to pass that, fleeing at full gallop from the Murphy Gang, our hero, The Demon Duelist John Dunsworth Brodie, astride his trusty stolen Appaloosa—known to the natives as “A Fury of Wings”—galloped toward the peaceable town of Riley’s Rock in the Utah Territory.

His heart near exploded when, as he raced into the town proper, he heard a gunshot crack the very air.

Brodie ducked his head close to Fury’s fluttering mane. Had the shot come from behind? Brodie glanced back at the desert behind him, spurring Fury to fly into town at a speed only that horse could achieve.

No Murphys behind, so Brodie spurred Fury around a corner—and saw he was plowing directly into a gathered throng of townspeople, only now turning from the spectacle before them to the one behind—namely him.

They were gathered to watch none other than the famed Dr. Darius Darke’s Shootist Show & Curious Caravan of Darke Dee-lites.

Indeed, our hero had interrupted the stylishly dressed Dr. Darke in the act of squeezing all but the last pound of pressure on a trigger of a Colt, poised to shoot an apple off the head of a buckskin-clad squaw.

Darke’s infamous gaze—which could paralyze an ordinary man—was aimed at Brodie, but his gun was still aimed at the injun gal. The two infamous gunslingers stared each other down for several tense heartbeats.

Then, without ever breaking eye contact with Brodie, Darke fired.

A thin spray of pulp revealed a clean hole in the apple, which did not even tumble off the squaw’s head.

A half-second later Brodie whipped his rifle out of his saddle holster. He fired at the squaw before the crowd could even hit the dirt.

The squaw shrieked and ducked.

The apple blew to smithereens in mid-air as her head dropped out from beneath it.

“Now Darius,” Brodie said, “didn’t you tell these here kind folks that the one and only Jesse James was ridin’ in late to join the show?”

With a communal gasp, the crowd looked up at him in sudden wide-eyed disbelief.

Dr. Darke, whose eyes had never left Brodie’s, raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You know, Jess,” he said, “I plum forgot to mention you, you were so late.”

There was a glint in the man’s eyes that Brodie recognized. Darn it all. The man was going to challenge “Jesse James” to a showdown. And if there was anyone in the West who could outdraw The Demon Duelist, it was Darke.

At least one legend, maybe two, would have fallen in Riley’s Rock that afternoon, had the sheriff not immediately intervened.

2. “Them Bastards Ate My Husband’s Brains!”

BEFORE either Darke or Brodie could speak, Sheriff Joe Hollis was at Brodie.

“First of all,” the sheriff said, pointing a finger in Brodie’s face, “you ain’t no Jesse James. I seen the posters in Salt Lake City, and you ain’t him. By God, I remember the face attached to a $10,000 reward. But that don’t matter today. Whoever you are, point is, you can shoot.”

He turned to the stage and addressed Darke, his voice suddenly much more respectful. “You give us some good fun today, Doc, and we thank ye for it. But we hear, sir, that you sometimes take on, shall we say, special work.”

Darke nodded slowly, cautiously, suddenly all business, his new rivalry with the stranger instantly forgotten. “If the price is right,” Darke said.

“Three thousand dollars, guaranteed by the governor hisself, to bring us the heads of three men—at least, we think they’re men.”

“Them bastards ate my husband’s brains!” a woman in the crowd suddenly shrieked, then broke into wretched sobbing. Other onlookers quickly moved to comfort her.

“Now, now. We don’t know they ate it, Loretta,” Hollis said. “But yeah, these bandits, they’ve been … takin’ off the faces, peelin’ off the skin, takin’ out the brains. And strangest of all, they leave the gosh-durned money. They been takin’ just the guns, the clothes, the horses. The cattle, they mutilate them too.”

“Tell ‘em about Carter and the posse!” yelled a man in the audience.

“Yup. And then there’s Carter,” Hollis said. “After the first attacks out on the trail between here and Needle Bottom, we sent out a posse of a full score of men. Only Randy Carter come back, and he wasn’t long for this earth. And I might add ol’ Randy didn’t make a lick of sense after he come back. We sent twenty men, mind you, against what Carter said was only three, and the sole survivor come back nuts. When he spoke what sounded like American at all, he mostly babbled. Things like, ‘the haunted canyon,’ ‘masked bandits spittin’ bullets,’ he said. ‘Silent, creeping fish men ate their faces’ and ‘eyes burning in my brain.’ Said ‘Doom waits deep in the earth.’ To be completely fair, I guess some of that claptrap did sound a little like American, but random words was still all they was. Cat hoodoo fat hag hen!’ was one thing he said almost constant.”

“Desert heat can do a mean number on a man’s brain, ‘less he’s got a load of gumption,” Brodie said.

“Yes, especially when a man’s seen his provincial posse slaughtered by seasoned professionals, as these bandits surely are,” Darke added. “Sheriff, you have my guarantee. Your town shall be free of this scourge within a week, be it by my gun or its mere reputation.”

The sheriff nodded. “Good,” he said, then turned to Brodie. “You gonna say who you really are, ‘Jesse James?’”

“Not today, Sheriff,” he answered. “But I think I get where this is goin’. How ‘bout I volunteer to go off into the desert and hunt me down some alleged fish people banditos. Meanwhile, I’d be much obliged if you could keep the town mum should a certain notorious gang come through here askin’ for a certain legendary young pistolero.”

“Done,” Hollis said. “Dr. Darke, looks like Jesse James hisself gonna help you hunt down them bandits.”

3. Guarded Secrets of Dr. Darke and

General Kang Revealed

BRODIE, astride Fury, and the caravan left that very afternoon, heading east, to scout the bandit-haunted trail between Riley’s Rock and Needle Bottom. All Brodie cared was that the Murphys were to the west.

The Caravan, consisting of three wagons, was indeed a curious one. In the first rode Dr. Darke and the squaw, a young, lovely and exceedingly quiet Chippewa named Doe Song. Winking, Darke told Brodie she was the best he’d ever encountered with a man’s pistol, and that she wasn’t a bad shot, either.

In the stinking rear wagon was One-Eyed Jack, the animal keeper, a scraggly-bearded former mountain man who looked more like a pirate with his stained and faded frilly shirt, cheap bandanna and tattered eye patch. Jack cursed with every other word, and his parrot, Hester, apparently had no ear for the finer half of Jack’s verbiage.

Although Jack’s whiskey-laden breath was responsible for a good portion of the wagon’s foul odor, most of it came from his other companion, Orson. Orson was a bear.

“Yargh! Ya ****ing missed that **** Orson ****ing takin’ target practice, Jesse **** James,” One-Eyed Jack growled.

“We only let him shoot blanks, but it makes the yokels laugh, watching a bear shoot a shotgun,” Darke explained.

Driving the center wagon, which housed the Darke Dee-lites, was Norman the Idiot Boy. Darke said Norman was only good for two things, driving and shooting. To get him to drive, you simply stated a compass point and the ever-silent Norman would forever push the horses in that direction until you told him otherwise. “Same thing with shooting,” Darke told Brodie. “You line up two dozen tin cans and say ‘Norman, shoot cans!’ and he’ll shoot and reload, shoot and reload until all the cans are gone. He won’t miss a single one, either.”

The center wagon, in which a blanket for the night awaited “Jesse James,” was also home to, in Darke’s words, “the curator of the caravan’s arcana—General Kang, The Mystic Mercenary, Supreme Warlord of the Heathen Chinee.

“He’s meditating right now—sort of like sleeping while sitting up,” Darke said. “He really is an impressive person—err, for a Chinaman, that is. Just go on in and make yourself comfortable—but don’t disturb him.”

In the center of the wagon, sitting Indian style on a strangely patterned rug with his arms folded, was a short, bald, skinny—but wiry-muscled—Oriental chap. He wore only what looked to Brodie to be a sort of thick diaper. In a jar near him was what looked to be a small, pickled octopus with a rather odd label: “The Madness from the Sea.” Next to that was a taxidermical nightmare, a creature labeled “The Ferocious Bavarian Wolpertinger.” It looked like a jackrabbit posed rampant with duck’s feet, vampire fangs, deer antlers, bat wings, badger’s claws and a hound dog’s tail. In a glass case was a collection of alleged “Unicorn Horns.”

Amidst a vast array of similar displays, Brodie saw several large, crumbling, leather-bound books. Or was that leather? And what kind of writing was that? He’d spent a couple days with a Chinese gal in a bordello up in Frisco. He woke once to find her reading, and they’d cuddled as she’d tried to teach him a few of the convoluted characters. This here writing looked even more confusing than Chinese.

But suddenly it came clear. It had been English letters all along. Must have been the muted light of the wagon. First he made out a word: NECK. Then a name came clear: RON. The name proved to be an Irish one: O’MICK. Then a reference to a man in prison: CON.

NECK RON O’MICK CON. Something about Ron O’Mick the con’s neck. Was it about a hanged man? Maybe the title was all mixed up. He remembered the Chinese whore had read her book backwards.

Brodie found himself reaching out to pull the book from the shelf.

General Kang’s amazingly strong hand was suddenly clamped on his arm. Brodie turned to him and saw the man’s slanted eyes remained closed. “Most items in this wagon, you may look, but not touch. At this dread book, I suggest you not even look.”

Kang released him, his eyes still shut. Brodie turned his back on all the strangeness and tried to clear his head by looking out the rear of the wagon. His best friend, Fury, was tied there, and out there beyond his brave steed, the golden disk of the sun was setting purple and fiery red in the west.

ONE-EYED Jack gave them all some stringy jackrabbit stew he’d wrangled up. Brodie thought of the Wolpertinger and shuddered—then shuddered even worse, watching Jack eat from the same long wooden spoon with which he was feeding Orson. Meanwhile, Hester sat on Jack’s shoulder, occassionally squawking random nastiness. Darke, Doe Song, Norman and Kang—who was using chopsticks—ate silently, oblivious to the bird.

When he finished, the General stood and faced Darke, who was still eating. “Listen to me, Darius. I believe there something here only I see before. I think it … most strange … quite dangerous. More than dangerous, but … there no other words. I instruct more tomorrow. Tonight, no fear. Tonight, we sleep safe.”

Darke nodded.

With that, General Kang strode back to his wagon, his hands folded inside his robes.

Brodie hastened to Darke’s side. “You gonna let him talk to you like that? Like he’s givin’ the orders? Using your first name? You gonna take that from a heathen Chinee?” he asked. “For Pete’s sake, man, you let him talk like he owns this here caravan!”

The piercing gaze of Dr. Darius Darke gripped Brodie like an iron fist.

“There are more things in heaven and on earth than you could hope to understand, boy!” Darke said. He turned away, was silent a moment, sighed. “I know, I know. I must control my anger. Okay, listen to me, kid. The general is a great, learned man. He has expanded my mind and can do the same for you. It’s been said that he sees into men’s hearts, but that’s wrong. He sees into men’s minds—a great and terrible burden.” Now he fixed his fiercest gaze on Brodie again. “And if you tell this to another white man, it would be a race between him and me to see who’d kill you first—but for your information, he does own this caravan.”

Darke set down his bowl and Doe Song came and laid her head on his shoulder. Brodie was spouting questions, but Darke would say no more, only staring into the fire.

BRODIE stood at the rear entrance to General Kang’s wagon, his sandlewood-handled Colt drawn and pointed at the Oriental man, who was back to meditating. “You hypnotized Dr. Darius Darke, you heathen.”

“I don’t hypnotize nobody,” Kang said, his eyes remaining shut. “The doc think he need to know secrets of the universe. Hah! I tell him things every Hindoo in diapers know and he think he enlightened.”

“Dr. Darke’s a legend! He was a hero of mine when I was just a boy! Open your eyes and fight like a man!”

The General opened his eyes, but didn’t move from his sitting position. “I tell you something, ‘Jesse James’—that squaw just a squaw and Norman just Norman, but otherwise we all showmen here, you, me, Dr. Darke. We hide reality beneath. I kick through board or use big men’s own strength against them and everyone think I ‘one mean dawg.’ Hah! That stuff taught to babies where I come from. And no, I not Chinese. And you not Jesse James—but you still a boy—and I never been in no army. And the doc, he never study in Persia or Peru like he tell all the people. Hell, he never even been to Mexico. I study in Persia and Peru and Paris, too. I been places you think only fairy tales. I study lots, you bet! There ways to use your mind most men never dream. We probably get big lesson in that tomorrow.”

“The hell you talkin’ about?” Brodie said. “And what about One-Eyed Jack? What’s he got to hide?”

Kang chuckled “****! I always ****ing forgetting that ****. No, that ****ing **** for ****ing real. So his ****ing bear.”

Brodie chuckled in spite of himself. “Okay, General. I ain’t gonna shoot you. But what’s all this fooforaw about tomorrow? What’s up with these here bandits?”

The general grew strangely serious. “Problem is, I not know exactly. They not ordinary, though, I tell you that. I got to meditate and read all night, give instruction at high noon.”

“See here, General, what good’s all this here … meditaytin doin’ us anyway?”

“I explain tomorrow, Jesse James. Maybe I not even need to explain, if I right about these bandits. You sleep now, big Mr. Outlaw. I think you gonna need it.”

BRODIE woke only once before morning. His eyes fluttered open and—maybe it was just a dream—he thought he saw General Kang reading the NECK RON O’MICK CON book by the flickering light of a dim oil lamp. His bald head was covered with sweat, fists clenched to his temples, teeth gritted, every facial muscle strained. He looked for all the world, Brodie thought, like a man trying desperately to keep his brains from exploding.

IV. Blazing Bullets and Desert Death Songs at The Canyon of Cthulhu

BRODIE spent the morning in silence, rolling cigarettes and sitting with Norman, who was driving the second wagon. Kang was inside, meditating.

Brodie had woke up that morning and saw the man was still reading the weird book. He didn’t look quite as intense anymore, though.

“My God, man. Don’t you never sleep?” Brodie asked.

“I sleep while reading,” Kang had replied. “Is, in fact, requirement to be sleep while read parts of this book.”

Brodie had just shaken his head and stumbled outside to make water and tend to Fury before the caravan got going.

KANG had called it near perfect. Darke called a halt to the caravan at five minutes before high noon.

“I presume that’s our destination, General?” Darke said, pointing to a far-off box canyon, roughly straight ahead on the horizon. There were other hills, buttes and arroyos to be seen, but that particular canyon looked different. The walls of the canyon appeared to be roughly perpendicular to the ground—but then again they didn’t. You looked at them a minute and it looked like the tops of the canyon walls nearly met—or did they form a “V”?

Kang nodded. “They know we coming. They … smell me in the night.”

“What are these dang bandits? Coyotes?” Brodie asked.

“His mind, you rube,” Darke said. “They smelled his mind.”

“Yeah. And they never smell anything like it before. That why they hiding, waiting in ambush.”

“They didn’t really smell it, right?” Brodie said. “It was that meditatin’ stuff.”

“You one smart cookie, Jessie James,” Kang said.

BRODIE was assigned by the General to watch the rear of the caravan. Standing in the back of One-Eyed Jack’s stinking wagon, he began to notice two things. The first was that it was taking too long to get to the canyon. The second was that the caravan was weaving, leaving a winding trail behind it.

“Hey Jack, you share that whiskey with the other drivers or something? This caravan’s tracks got more curves than a rattlesnake’s.”

“****, no!” One-Eyed Jack barked. “I ain’t ****in’ sharin’ my ****in’ whiskey with ****ing nobody! **** it! That ****ing canyon’s ****ing movin’ on us! I’ll be ****ed! First the ****er’s to the ****ing left, then the ****‘s to the ****ed right! ****! ****! ****! And the ****ing more we ****ing drive, the further the it ****ing gets from us! *** ***ing ****!”

Hester bawled out the final word of her master’s rant, as if for added emphasis.

Orson the bear groaned. He was pacing as best he could in the tight space of his cage.

Brodie tightened his grip on his pistol.

AND suddenly, without warning, they were in the canyon.

Too fast. Too suddenly.

And suddenly the air didn’t feel right.

And suddenly there was something in Brodie’s mind. It was a heat and a hurt and a sudden lack of sense. It was a babble and a burning. It was a fuzzy blue light in the center of the brain that lit nothing and felt black.

And suddenly blazing through it like a white-hot but short-lived shooting star was the General’s voice: Pick one thing and think of it only. Something holy to you. Brodie had the sense that Kang had simultaneously spoken those same words to everyone in the caravan.

Orson roared and reared up on his hind legs, his great head and shoulders clanging against the ceiling of his cage.

Brodie tried to think only of the smell of his poor murdered mother’s fresh baked bread—and for a moment the burning became less and the blue-black light diminished.

But then he realized that, while his beloved mama’s bread was indeed special to him, it wasn’t exactly holy.

And then Hester started squawking a blue streak.

And Orson began roaring and actively throwing himself against the walls of his cage.

Somewhere, Doe Song screamed and shouted something. It sounded far away, on the other side of the desert.

And then the shooting began.

THERE was no way that hail of gunfire came from only three enemy guns. Brodie hunkered down beneath the sideboards of the wagon—ready to cut a hole in the canvas to shoot through if he had to—when One-Eyed Jack and a horse screamed simultaneously and he was sent flying butt over wagon wheels. Brodie missed being crushed by the bear’s cage by only a few inches, and he swore a string of oaths that, had she been capable, would have made Hester blush—and it was in that string of curse words he found what he considered holy.

His rage.

His rage at injustice. His rage for his murdered family. His rage at being constantly on the run.

His rage at being alone in the world.

And rage was how he kept his sanity when he crawled out of the overturned wagon and saw what was shooting at him from behind some rocks up on the canyon wall.

It was a monster dressed in cowboy duds.

As if in confirmation, Brodie heard Darke yell, “Norman! Shoot monsters!” from somewhere on the other side of the Utah Territory.

The beast, Brodie saw, was like a man, with two arms and two legs—it was maybe even slightly smaller than an average man—but where its head should have been was … something like an octopus, or a squid. He caught glimpses of boots and dusty jeans and a regular button-up shirt. There was a blue bandanna around its neck and an honest-to-goodness 10-gallon hat on its head.

But its eyes were large and bulbous, all pupil, and its skin was purple and it had no mouth or nose that he could see. Instead, where the lower half of its face should be, it had at least six long, snaky tentacles.

And in every other tentacle was a blazing six-shooter.

The free tentacles were working the hammers, and, working from ammunition belts slung around its shoulders, the humanoid hands were busy reloading a fourth pistol.

Brodie quickly noted one important thing. The monster was a terrible shot. Apparently it couldn’t quell or compensate for a slight undulation in its tentacles.

In other words, he could take a second to aim.

And his first well-aimed shot went a mile wide of the abomination, despite his holy rage, dust flying off the rock to the far right of the thing, which kept up its steady rain of bullets.

Dang! Now Brodie remembered the way the canyon’s dimensions had distorted like a mirage from a distance. He and all the other guns in the Curious Caravan’s employ would be worse shots than the monsters here in the canyon.

Brodie scrambled to take cover, the wagon to his back and a heap of rocks in front of him. From here, while taking potshots at the monster, he could see that there were indeed only two other monsters, but each was armed same as the first. As the bullets flew, he noted that the others in the caravan had taken on defensive positions similar to his own—except he couldn’t see the General.

“Yaaargh!” came a cry from nearby—One-Eyed Jack had been hit. In the shoulder. But it was the shoulder opposite the one bracing his shotgun, and the mountain man quickly started firing doubletime, hollering out a series of extended barbaric yawps.

General Kang—magnificent in red robes bearing strange symbols outlined in black—was suddenly standing atop a huge rock.

“Get down you danged fool!” Brodie yelled.

But the General put his hands to his temples and, scrunching up his face, did something that Brodie felt in his mind. It was like a push—that was the only word he could come up with for it.

And suddenly his mind was filled with a silent scream from the three monsters—and from something deep within the earth?

And for the slightest instant the monsters stopped shooting and the geometry of the canyon was normal again.

Brodie seized the opportunity an instant too late—his shot missed just by an inch. But another—from the squaw’s shotgun?—hit the mark. Down went one monster, its head exploding into purple cheese.

But in the next instant everything was worse than before. Whatever was in the earth roared in Brodie’s brain. The others grabbed their temples as well. The fever thrashed against Brodie’s holy rage—strange thoughts (Ai! Ai! Cthulhu fhtagn!) trying to bloom—and the geometry got downright unfathomable.

Brodie’s aim remained square and true, but the bullets seemed to take a whirlwind course, hitting left, then far right, then in the ground in front of him.

Norman grunted hard and Brodie could see he was bleeding from the head—he’d probably just been grazed. The boy fought on tirelessly with his six-gun barking out shot after shot.

Suddenly Hester changed her tune from English cuss words to gibberish that made a strange kind of sense to the section of Brodie’s mind where the fever seethed. “Ph-nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!” the bird squawked. “N’gai, n’gha’ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y’hah; Yog-Sothoth!” it screeched. “H’yuh! Ygnaiih! Thflthkh’ngha! Y’bthnk h’ehye-n’grkdl’lh!”

The bird then came flying out of the overturned wagon and presently exploded in a bright burst of feathers—whether from a monster’s bullet or from the abominations in its brain and beak, Brodie would never be sure.

And then, as if to avenge his fellow fallen critter, Orson the bear lumbered out of the back of the wagon, his cage apparently broken when the wagon overturned. The great grizzly stood on his hind legs, bellowed—and raised a Henry rifle. It was said of a Henry rifle that you could load it on Sunday and shoot it all week—it held 15 shots. The bear blasted away.

The gun had not been loaded with blanks—the first shot kicked dust only a few inches over the head of the monster with which Brodie had been engaged.

And Orson’s second shot hit Dr. Darius Darke full in the face.

The squaw let out a cry of shock and grief and so did Brodie and One-Eyed Jack. Brodie knew that the other two had felt it in their brains as well—although they hadn’t been aware that they could feel each other’s presences in their minds, they felt Darke’s life extinguished like a bright candle blown out in a room of infinite night.

A whisper, from General Kang: “Fight on, my warriors. I am preparing.”

Brodie and the others instantly knew even that message was more than the General should have been able to afford.

In the next second, One-Eyed Jack roared with vengeful delight when he hit Brodie’s monster in the shoulder—but the thing only fired faster.

And in the next instant, One-Eyed Jack got shot directly through his good eye.

He twitched briefly on the ground but didn’t get up.

Orson dropped the rifle, ran to him and howled, an awful, primal sound. He was taking a number of shots from the monster’s gun—but that only seemed to make the bear more angry.

Kang was suddenly up on the rock again—for a moment Brodie thought the General had flown there, and perhaps that was even true—and this time there seemed to be physical light brighter than the sun’s emanating from the small Oriental man.

“Norman, shoot monsters!” Brodie cried, totally prepared this time. Both their bullets hit home. Norman’s monster’s head exploded into purple pulp, and Brodie saw the ten-gallon hat go sailing off his quarry’s head as the monster dropped behind the rocks.

The survivors sprinted over to Kang, who lay prone on the big rock. The weird reality of the canyon was swimming in and out, making it take longer for them to reach him.

Kang’s eyes flickered back and forth somewhere far back in his head. His eyelids fluttered.

“Not … dead,” Kang managed once Brodie was looking down at him.

“I can see that,” Brodie said. “And I feel it in my head. Your presence is strong. But we gotta get you outta the sun.”

“No … fool,” Kang said. “It … not … dead!”

And suddenly Brodie felt in his mind where the monster was squatting, hiding, but too late—it rose up from behind its rock and shot him in the leg. With other pistols it missed the squaw—who had dropped her weapon to reach Kang—but hit Norman in the shoulder.

Brodie fought to remain upright, but collapsed on his leg, feeling helpless—and then Orson, who had led himself to the monster by sense of smell, not dimension-skewed vision, rose up and enveloped the horror in a brutal bear hug. The bear’s muzzle quickly became a mess of purple foam as it ate.

V. The Gentleman on Wings

AND so it came to pass that our hero and his surviving friends gave Darius Darke and One-Eyed Jack decent burials. Then, collecting Fury and the remaining wagons, he took Norman and the squaw and Orson the bear away from that haunted land.

They rode back into Riley’s Rock to the sight of the Murphy gang swinging from the gallows. Seems they had blundered up a bank robbery, shooting the bank manager.

As for Brodie, he collected his reward and told the tale as most of us know it—that Darius Darke, a worthy brother-in-arms if ever Brodie had one, had fought valiantly against a horde of thirty or more bandits and had gone down after killing almost all of them single-handed.

Brodie and his charges then headed west, toward California, and then along the coast up to San Francisco, eventually winding up in the Oregon Territory where he changed Fury’s name to Wings and founded Grizzly Gulch, which he served as sheriff or mayor until his dying days.

Doe Song became his wife and Norman became his son, and Orson, who had perpetually loose and gassy bowels after eating the monster, became his best friend—after Wings, of course.

Along the Oregon trail, Gentleman John sold the wagons and the various artifacts, but to General Kang he kept a promise. In many different locales, so its ashes couldn’t come together, he burned that nefarious book, The Necronomicon, page by infernal page. He did this only after the others were asleep, for in those flames and in that smoke he saw many strange and awful things which he would not repeat to anyone, not for the rest of his long, long life.

Ah, but what of the General?

AFTER resting and after Brodie benefitted from some of the native healing arts known to Doe Song, Brodie and Kang found a deep cavern from which the monsters had surely emerged. Though Brodie offered to accompany him, Kang (whose real name, he revealed, was simply Hui Sang, a very common name) said he had to go on into the cave alone, that his mission was too strange and secret—and too urgent—for the untrained mind.

Although he wouldn’t go into detail, Hui Sang said he’d seen this before. In places deep across this earth, he said, there slept Elder Gods who had arrived when this desert was still a sea. Most likley these bandits were of a race which was long ago human, he said, but they were long hence corrupted by What Sleeps Below. “These three we kill be only scouts,” he said. “Only this Mad God’s monkeys. They see humans and try to make war our way. More of them surely coming. Unless I do now as my teachers before me do. I now try to enter this Insane God’s infinite dreams. Is a strange kind of warfare, what I must do. Make most men crazy—will make me crazy before ending—yet even if I win, the One I war with hardly care, barely notice. If I win, I only help it sleep a few more generations of man.”

Then the little Oriental man disappeared, empty-handed, into the bowels of the earth.

Although he never heard from Hui Sang again, John Brodie and Wings did indeed return alone one day, years later, to what he had come to think of as The Canyon of Cthulhu—that weird word haunted his dreams always. But the canyon, he said, was now “just more regular ol’ desert.” The remains of the abandoned overturned wagon were still there, and so were the graves of One-Eyed Jack and Darius Darke, but the cave they’d found was sealed—be that by natural means or other, he was unable (or unwilling) to say.

As we shall see in future chapters of this book, folks looked at Brodie differently after his time in the desert. Many said he had a way of seeing into a man’s soul, and when asked for advice on living righteously with one’s fellow man, Brodie always said the same phrase, though he told only a select few of its origin.

BEFORE Hui Sang disappeared completely, Brodie thought to ask his friend what wisdom he could impart.

Hui Sang considered a moment, then said this: “Whatever you do in this life, it not very important—but it very important that you do it.”

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CONTRIBUTORS

MICHAEL ARRUDA is the author of numerous published short stories. His work has appeared in such print anthologies as Death Grip: Legacy of Terror, and Be Very Afraid!, and in such online publications as The Eternal Light Chronicles and Horrorfind.com. Michael is an Active Member of the HWA.

DAVID BAIN is a writer, poet and editor working mostly in the speculative genres. He lives in Indiana with his family, including two cats, but no horses and not nearly enough guns. He compensates by reading a few Westerns every year, with Gorman, Pronzini, Lansdale and Leonard among his favorites.

CAROLE CARMEN is from Kent, England. Her dark fantasy stories have appeared in Legend, Quietus Gothic Literary Magazine, Horror Express, Sutekh’s Gift and Eggplant Literary Productions. She has also done various book covers and magazine illustrations, and her work is in the gallery at Strange Horizons.

JUNIOR JOE ELSASS delivers: mail by day, pizza by night. When he’s not pulverizing softballs, he writes words down on the back of envelopes and hopes a story results. Sometimes he gets lucky.

J ALAN ERWINE is a prize winning science fiction author living outside of Denver with a crazed cat, and a million ideas just screaming to get out. He works as an editor for Sam’s Dot Publishing. A complete publishing history for J is available at his website at www.jalanerwine.com

PAUL FINCH is a full-time writer, who works primarily in TV and film, but who is no stranger to short story markets. His first collection, After Shocks, won the British Fantasy Award for Best Collection of 2001, and he has had stories in such recent anthologies as Children of Cthulhu and Quietly Now.

BARRY HOLLANDER writes dark fiction, drinks far too much coffee, and helps run an online medieval fantasy world. His day job is teaching journalism at the University of Georgia. He is perhaps the only member of both the Horror Writers Association and the Society of Professional Journalists.

LAIRD LONG pounds out fiction in all genres. Big guy, sense of humor. Writing credits include many magazines, a few anthologies, and even a couple of awards. His story, “Sioux City Express”, was listed as one of the top 50 mystery stories of the year in the anthology The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

JACK MacKENZIE was born in Lethbridge, Alberta in 1955. Since then he has worked as a fishing guide, a used car salesman, a repo man, and he plays bass guitar. He has lived in Edmonton and Spokane, Washington and currently resides with his wife in Vancouver, British Columbia.

FREDERICK OBERMEYER lives in Cooperstown, NY and is a recent graduate from the State University of New York at Albany. He enjoys writing science-fiction, horror, crime and fantasy and has had stories published in the Dead Inn, Alternate Realities, Planet Relish, Fedora, SDO Fantasy, the Fifth Di and Midnight Rose.

MARK ORR is a native Southerner, residing in Middle Tennessee with his wife and three daughters. He has a BA in history from the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, the only use for which he has been able to find is to write stories such as “Snake-Charmer”. By day, he works for as a vocational rehabilitation counselor. By night, is the Senior Mystery Editor of FUTURES Mysterious Anthology Magazine. Somewhere in between he finds time to write and sleep.

JOSHUA REYNOLDS is a graduate of the University of South Carolina with degrees of some kind which are pretty much useless as far as daily life is concerned, but hey, they were fun to get. He lives in the South Carolina and is currently writing stuff. And other stuff.

ROBERT BURKE RICHARDSON’s story “Eye, Urreal” appears in Kings of the Night II, also from RAGE m a c h i n e ; his novella, “Jack Nimble and the Platypus: the Dead God’s Destiny” can be read online at ElysianFiction.com (in issue #5), and “Little Hamsa and the Dragon” is slated to appear in an upcoming historical fantasy anthology edited by Megan Powell.

DONNA ROYSTON is a writer of fantastic fiction, and pays the mortgage by working as an editor and communications associate for a science association in Washington, DC. She also teaches English as an adjunct faculty member at the local community college. The rest of her time is spent entertaining her Jack Russell terrier, Toby.

MARK SHERONY has written more than 30 short stories, two novellas and two novels. He has also had papers and articles published in journals and newspapers. “The Mapmaker” is the sixth story he’s had accepted for publication. He lives in St. Louis where he’s a business owner involved with warehousing solutions.

DANA L. SOLOMON first began to write in Edgar Doctorow’s narrative literature class at Sarah Lawrence, and has since published short stories in numerous dark fantasy and horror magazines. Sales this year include the Bucks County Writer, Pegasus Review, Horror Garage, Scrybe Press, and Hotter Blood.

G. W. THOMAS has published over 300 pieces in books, magazines and zines. He lives in the Cariboo district of British Columbia. His website is gwauthor21.tripod.com

Table of Contents

CITY IN THE WILDERNESS By Junior Joe Elsass

THE CHILDREN OF PERUN By Joshua Reynolds

THE SEEKER By Carole Carmen

SNAKE-CHARMER By Mark Orr & Donna Royston

NO SHARP THING By Barry Hollander

THE ZOMBIE MASTER By Michael Arruda

WITH VORPAL SWORD IN HAND By G. W. Thomas

SECRET OF THE COLTAO By J. Alan Erwine

THE CRY OF A CHILD By Dana L. Solomon

PROFESSOR THOMPSON TANG GAO AND THE CREATURES FROM PLANET X By Robert Burke Richardson

THE GROTTO By Jack Mackenzie

UNNATURAL SELECTION By Laird Long

JAAJERN By Fredrick Obermeyer

ON THE ROOF By Paul Finch

THE MAPMAKER By Mark Sherony

A TAVERN ABOVE A WOOD By C. J. Burch

THE COWBOYS OF CTHULHU By David Bain

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