Jim Baen’s Universe

Vol 1 Num 6: April 2007

Credits, Volume 1, Issue 6

Written by Jim Baen’s Universe! staff

Jim Baen’s Universe, Volume 1, Issue 6

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this magazine are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright (c) 2007 by Jim Baen’s Universe

A Baen Publishing Enterprises Publication

Jim Baen’s Universe

P. O. Box 7488

Moore, OK 73153-1488

ISSN: 1932-0930

“Crawlspace” Copyright (c) 2007 by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

“Newts” Copyright (c) 2007 by Kevin J. Anderson

“Chance of Storms” Copyright (c) 2007 by Ed Lerner

“Dinosaur Egg $6” Copyright (c) 2007 by Chet Gottfried

“The Ten Thousand Things” Copyright (c) 2007 by Mark L. Van Name

“Ser Hereward and Mister Fitz Go to War” Copyright (c) 2007 by Garth Nix

“Midnight at the Quantum Cafe” Copyright (c) 2007 by K. D. Wentworth

“The Redemption of Nephtheli” Copyright (c) 2007 by E. Sedia

“Slan Hunter, Part 3” Copyright (c) 2007 by A. E. van Vogt and Kevin J. Anderson

“Fish Story, Episode 6” Copyright (c) 2007 by Eric Flint, Andrew Dennis and Dave Freer

“Common Ground” Copyright (c) 2007 by Mackey Chandler

“New Moon” Copyright (c) 2007 by Michael Barretta

“Genre Getaways” Copyright (c) 2007 by Carol Pinchefsky

“The Gnarly Man” by L. Sprague de Camp was originally published in Unknown, June 1939

Crawlspace

Written by Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Illustrated by Ural Akyuz

Act 1, Scene 1: Enter rats, scampering through the darkness

In the narrow tunnels deep inside a nineteen by five mile asteroid, long pipes snaked endlessly into the blackness. At the tunnel junction a naked globe hung, plainly jury-rigged into the cable tacked to the low roof. A woman’s body lay there, sprawled, a little blood leaking from the retrousse nose. In the shadows, the light reflected off two sets of ferally red eyes, looking at the corpse.

“Well? What do we do with it?” asked Snout, not moving forward with her little barrow.

“It’s solid waste,” said Mercutio. “‘Tis what we do. Remove it.”

She always asked those sort of questions of him. Well: Just because one could think didn’t always mean one wanted to.

Snout sniffed critically. “Well, not that solid. Parts of her look positively malnourished. Especially around the waist.”

Mercutio shrugged. The Siamese-cat sized, long-nosed, rattish creature stepped forward and prodded the dead woman’s waistline. “Humans like to be like that. Anyway, ‘tis corsetry, Snout.”

“Of course ‘tis,” nodded the other cyber-uplifted elephant-shrew. “Not natural to be that thin around the middle.” She stalked forward while her companion methodically rifled the pockets in the blouse top and then investigated the dead woman’s purse. He was about to tuck what he found there into a pouch of his own when his companion hissed at him. He split the bundle of notes, roughly. She tucked her share of it into her own waist pouch.

“Wonder why she was killed, and yet they left the loot?” he asked, professionally.

“Probably done in because she’s not a very pretty sight. Short little nose,” Snout patted her own magnificent protuberance. “And no tail, poor thing. I don’t care what humans say, this,” she prodded the corpse’s well-rounded derriere, “is not a tail.”

A thought plainly crossed Snout’s mind. Mercutio pretended not to see her hasty glance at him. It would avoid a fight. She felt inside the corpse’s low neckline, brought out something that made a plastic crinkling sound to his carefully listening ear, and hastily tucked it into her bag. She kept talking, obviously in the hope that he wouldn’t notice. “What was she doing here?”

“Dying, I would guess,” said Mercutio, searching the lip of the corpse’s stockings to no avail.

“Do we tell someone?” Snout removed a sliver filigree butterfly shaped hair-grip and tucked it next to her ear. “One of the humans. She is a human, so they might want to know.”

Mercutio snorted. “Oh yes. And you know what they’d say: ‘Why did you rats do it?’ And then they’d put us into durance vile.”

“But we are in durance, at least while the siege holds. It is fairly vile. And you usually did do it, Mercutio,” she said, with that impeccable if twisted logic that comes from adding cybernetic memory and processing to an organic brain that hadn’t gone a long way beyond thinking of its next meal or mating.

Mercutio was uplifted far enough to know that it was irritating, even if he did it himself. “That’s not …”

Snout froze. “Hist,” she said in a sibilant whisper. “Something this way comes.”

Both rats ghosted away into the darkness as someone came climbing down the metal staples.

Act 1: Scene II. A sparsely furnished rock-hewn chamber, somewhere on the same large asteroid in the Olmert system.

Captain Rebecca Wuollet, HAR Marine Corps, was making a very credible effort to not tear off the head of Colonel De Darcy. First, because he was a superior officer and secondly because …

Well, technically he was right. You could see his point. If you walked around with blinkers on.

She made another attempt to use persuasion instead of violence, tempting though it was. That temptation was made easier to resist by the fact that the colonel was a combat vet himself. “Look Sir. I’m a combat demolitions specialist. I’ve been in the Corps for the whole of my adult life. I don’t do … civilians. Sir.”

De Darcy gave her the benefit of his famous crooked smile, complete with his famous crooked teeth. “I’m not a civilian liaison officer either, Captain. And this isn’t about liaison. This is about the fact that we have fifteen thousand humans, mostly civs, God knows how many rats, about three hundred bats, and some fifteen other liberated races on this rock, which is under military control for the duration of the siege. We need some sort of security, and you’re hard-assed enough to do it. Besides if I don’t give you something to do, you’ll lose that shiny new pip on your shoulder faster than you put it there.”

He raised his eyebrows and shifted the famous crooked smile to its normal nastiness. “Look on the bright side. I could have put you in charge of the militia. I could still change my mind and shift Major Gahamey off the job and give him security.”

“Um. Maybe security isn’t so bad, sir.” On this vast asteroid they only had a thousand seven hundred and thirty marines, who had been caught up in the mess when the attack on Epsilon Theta had gone ass-haywire. Stuck here with twenty times their number of civ refugees, and a bloody big rock to defend, they needed a militia. But the population of rock-rats, fortune-hunters, whores and sharp-dealing traders they had to draw from was going to drive Scotty Gahamey over the deep end. Well, maybe not. He was a real bastard and half over the deep end anyway. But it would certainly drive her there PDQ.

“I thought you might see it my way, Captain. Congratulations. You are now the chief of police for the duration, or until I decide otherwise. Not that I intended you to have any choice in the matter.”

The colonel emitted an evil chuckle. “You do realize that you’re only going to get the sick, lame and lazy from me to help you to do the job? You’ll need to draw in civs to run patrols, and keep fights and petty crime to a minimum, especially between soldiers and civs. We’re thin enough stretched just running a defense perimeter. But with all the trouble that’s cropped up, the civilian’s council sent a delegation to ask me to appoint someone to deal with the situation.”

Rebecca felt the short hairs on her neck rise. “What situation, sir?”

“Someone is killing the joy-girls from the Last Chance. The locals suspect that it’s one of us,” he said dryly.

“And is it, sir?” she asked, equally dryly.

The colonel tugged his moustache. “That’s for you to find out. It could be true. If it is, you’re going to have to stop it quietly and hard. Or the Korozhet won’t have to take this lump of rock by force. Oh, and there are some hard drugs circulating. Civs do what they please out here. It’s a long way from the law Earthside or on HAR. But I can’t afford addicts in the Corps. You’re as much law as this rock has. Stop the hard stuff.”

She gritted her teeth. “Anything else I ought to know, sir?”

He thrust his hands into his pockets. “A lot. But you’re going to have to find it out for yourself, Captain.” His expression softened slightly. “You’re a pain in the ass at times, Captain. But I chose you for this because you get results. I need them. I know that I can rely on you.”

“Sir.” It might be a lousy job, but De Darcy was always sparing with praise. She stood a little straighter.

He turned back to his desk and scooped up a datacube that he held out to her. “That’s what I’ve got from them. There is also a list of personnel available to you in a file marked ‘security personnel.’ They’re not all useless.”

She took the cube, warily, as if it could just turn and bite her. He gestured at the door. “Get to it, Captain.”

Rebecca saluted and turned.

As she did, De Darcy said, “One last thing, Captain. Try to use some of that tact you’re famous for not having.”

Act 1, Scene III: In a large Korozhet command ship among the myriad asteroids that make up the Olmert system

“Considering these reports it would seem that it is indeed essential that we recapture it. Although why the scientists could not have told us before the system was abandoned, I do not know. It would appear that laxity has taken place. That or resistance.” The deep purple reclined further into his saline bath.

“It may be that they were deceived by the scale of the object and its exterior, High Spine,” said the maroon.

“I trust they have been eaten,” said the purple.

“Difficult. They are the experts and training new ones takes time.”

The deep purple acknowledged the sad truth of this with a clack of his anterior spines. “Well, they must be suitably punished.”

“I believe this has occurred, High Spine.”

The Korozhet bent its eye-spines to peer at the report-screens. The data was not encouraging.

“The best option still appears to be a siege and our traditional means. And of course probing attacks, to take advantage of what we can. We have plenty of expendables.”

“Less than we used to have,” said another of the purple, humping up off her last meal.

“We may have to resort to more care in slave-handling, but things have not reached that point yet,” said the purple in charge of alien resources. “They still breed and we have taken steps to prevent their subversion ever happening again.”

“Maybe we need to see if we can insert some into the artifact,” said the maroon, risking an opinion in this high council of his elders.

It was a sign of just how worried the Korozhet were that he was not disciplined for this breach of hierarchy. “It would be difficult,” said one of the purple. “There may however be implanted escapees that could be turned to our purposes.”

“Investigate the possibilities.”

“It will be done, High Spine.”

Act I Scene IV: In the tunnels and cavernous tavern and house of ill repute

“Sergeant Holmes.”

The mountain of flesh saluted. So, despite appearances, it was human and alive. “Captain,” he said in a carefully neutral voice.

This just had to be De Darcy’s sense of humor, thought Rebecca sourly. He probably didn’t find anyone called “Watson” among the enlisted men. Well, the one thing going for this man was his size. He could intimidate just by being there.

“Did you volunteer for this billet, Sergeant?” she asked suspiciously.

“With my name, the study of the criminal mind has always been my interest, Captain,” said Sergeant Holmes calmly.

“Oh, and how do you do that?” She rocked on the balls of her feet, her hands clasped behind her.

Holmes lifted a meaty hand. “I knock it out of their ears and then look at it, Ma’am. It seems more effective than all this magnifying glass stuff I’ve read about.”

“I’m beginning to revise my initial opinions about you, Sergeant. I think you could be an asset to the criminal investigation section. Which is, as of now … you. Assisted by me if it goes as far as murder. I have your first case awaiting you, just as soon as I finish with the patrol briefing.”

“Maybe I should have chosen to go to brig after all, Captain,” said Holmes amiably, confirming her suspicions about the able-bodied men she’d been given. Well, set a thief to catch a thief, and a drunk, disorderly and assaulting-the-guard Marine to catch others of the same kind. If you could stop them joining them, that is.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, after the patrols made up of one civ volunteer and a Marine apiece having been dispatched, they set out. Her first ever criminal investigation, she thought, led straight to the Last Chance Saloon Bar. Anyway, it would be a good opportunity to see how many of her patrols ended up in the place. She had half an hour before her meeting with the civic authorities, whoever they might be, among this rabble of refugees.

The Last Chance was an eloquent testimony to the ingenuity of rockrats. They’d created a visual masterpiece to get blind drunk in. The murals painted and projected around the room made it an almost believable walled garden, visible through French doors. There was even an ivy hung garden door, and distant green vistas over the top of the painted mossy stone wall. By the time you’d had three of the overpriced drinks it probably would fool you. There was of course a full length polished stone bar on the other wall, and a number of stone tables and benches that probably defied the strongest drunk’s effort to use them for combat weapons.

The furniture was large. The proprietor was not. He was a tiny, soft-looking man.

“Honest Laguna at your service,” he said obsequiously, bobbing and rubbing his plump hands.

“I’m the new head of internal security for the rock,” explained the captain, absorbing the unlikely name.

Laguna his shook his head. “Big job. Make that huge and impossible job, Captain.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Well, the thing about this rock that most people just don’t get is just how big it is. When the first prospectors came into the system just after the Crotchets’ pull-back, they thought this place must be what the Crotchets and their bugs had been mining. Took a while, and a lot of boys getting lost in these here tunnels, to figure out that the diggings might even be older than the Crotchets. Who knows? Anyway, it’s a regular warren. I been here from the very beginning, taking advantage of that. Not mining, of course. It’s dug out of easy ores, even if there are still some heavy metals in the rock. There’s plenty more heavy-metal rocks out in the asteroid belt, some even bigger than this one. But this is the only mined-out one we’ve found. Still, it is a good place for the rock-rats to come and breathe something other than their own gas, and find out that easy ores ain’t always cheap.”

He gurgled like a drain at his own joke. “Before the Korozhet counter-attack there were maybe five hundred permanent residents on the rock. Some weird ones. Aliens. We kept getting them wandering in from deeper down for weeks after we set up here. The Crochets left in a hurry, you bet.”

This was news to Rebecca. Not that it had anything to do with murdered hookers. But she’d always thought that the Korozhet slaves had been all liberated at once … not showing up like a trickle of lost souls, hungry, thirsty and confused. She’d bet they’d not received the milk of human kindness from this little son-of-a-bitch with his false smile and laugh.

“What the hell did they live on?” asked Holmes, showing that thought processes did happen inside that huge form.

“Hell, boy, I don’t speak Crotchet and they didn’t speak human. They could mop floors and wash dishes okay, which is all I cared about. Now, you two wanted to talk to me about those two dead girls. I reckon that it’s one of your boys has got himself a twisted hate of the women. Like her.”

He pointed out of the windows—what the hell you needed windows for in a damn cave puzzled her—at the fluttering protestor outside. You could tell that the bat was a protestor by the sign she was carrying with her feet.

Pro life-choice!

End female subjugation now!

It seemed to be a one-bat protest. “You could start improving security by getting rid of her.” He scowled. “She’s always coming around and pestering the girls.”

It was unusual to see a civ bat. No bandoliers, no insignia … just a poster. The bats had taken the war against the Korozhet as a holy crusade, and joined almost to the last bat. The uplifted rats were a different matter. They were deadly fighters, if they wanted to be. But they were not soldiers by nature, and most of the time it took the prospect of lots of loot to inspire them at all. But the bats …

If Rebecca had learned anything in the military it was not to get involved in dealing with a single-minded bat. She’d seen better officers than her try it. She ignored the bat, and turned to Laguna. “I have been told that two women aged between twenty and thirty Terran years, who had been working here, were found dead in the tunnels.”

“And another one is missing,” said Laguna, lugubriously, wiping an eye. “Cindy-Jane.”

Sergeant Holmes cracked his knuckles. Looked at the captain. Looked at Laguna. “I think I’d better examine his mind,” he said. “Even if he is a bit on the small side.”

“Sergeant,” said Rebecca. The huge bar was relatively empty at this time of day. But “relative” only to what it could hold. There must be fifty miners in here, even now. The Marines were tough, but these rockrats, even the human ones, were almost certainly bar fight veterans. “As head of the serious crimes unit … Stick with asking questions for now, before you use your magnifying glass technique. Besides, think of what happened to the victims. It would take a fairly strong man.”

The girls had been raped, robbed, and then been beaten to death, and dropped up a shaft. Things were backwards here. You got dropped up a shaft not down one, because of the centrifugal spin. It was a pity the murders weren’t backwards, but this little shrimp would probably not be able to beat up a granny in a wheelchair, let alone a healthy young woman. He also would certainly never need to resort to rape. And robbery was something he was doing in the open here, on a grand scale, judging by his prices. It probably wouldn’t be worth his while to go in for petty larceny, let alone kill one of his sources of income.

Holmes blinked. And then nodded, and set to his new technique of questioning verbally. “Who saw them last?” he asked Laguna.

“Oh, they were good girls. Only ever slept with two clients.”

“Who?” asked Holmes, skeptically.

“The Marines and the rock-rats.” Laguna cackled and slapped his own thighs. “Boy, this isn’t the hick town you come from. This is the wild frontier, or it was until the Korozhet put the place under siege. These girls came here for one reason, and it wasn’t to powder their noses. You ain’t gonna trace their last movements, nohow. I can tell you it was probably up and down, though.”

Act II Scene I: Amid drunks, hookers, cutpurses and thieves and other municipal officials. In the presence of death and disorder.

The civic authorities, Rebecca discovered, included the bat she’d seen protesting outside the Last Chance. The council weren’t going to cut it in any big mayoral parades in more civilized parts. The mayor, dressed in patched holey coveralls and a vast beard, which covered more of him than the coveralls, looked like a rock-rat. It was what he had been until about two weeks ago, and would almost certainly be again as soon as the siege lifted. Still, after the initial chaos this unlikely group had put together some kind of election and got a roughly working civil system up and running. Good enough to at least see to a sewage system and get water and food rationing implemented. There were plenty of gold chained mayors who would have done worse.

“I don’t see why you don’t have your own policing,” she said directly.

The mayor scratched his bald head. A rat poked its long nose out from under his beard and whiffled its nostrils at her. “Well, it’s difficult, you know,” said the mayor. “Ain’t easy to get anyone to take orders from another rock-rat. And the problems that we don’t sort out for ourselves tend to come from when the Marines and locals clash. So we figured it might be best if we got you to take the blame, and do the work.”

It was pleasant to meet with honesty at least, but …

“There is a rat peeping out of your beard,” she said.

“Oh. That’s just Firkin.” The mayor reached under the giant beard and produced a sharp-nosed rat in an outfit that included fountaining flounces of lace. Or rather, flounces that included a little outfit. “My partner in prospecting. She’s not on the council but she’s kind of hard to keep out of the meetings. Firkin, meet Captain Wuollet.”

The rat bowed. “Nice uniform. You could use more lace, though.” She sat down on the table, produced a bottle of amber fluid from a sleeve and drank with lip-smacking appreciation.

Several councilors eyed the bottle with naked lust, even if they showed no suicidal desire to attempt to snatch it, or even the folly of trying to cadge a drink. Rats had a certain reputation. The tall, cadaverous one shook his head and said admiringly: “And she never seems to get any drunker than she is now.”

“Methinks I have a harder head than you,” said Firkin. “Which is not hard to imagine, Slim.”

The rest of council plainly could imagine it too, by the grins.

“Anyways we’d take it kindly if you’d find the marine behind these killings and string him up, before we do. There was talk last night of lynching the whole boiling lot of you,” said the tall skinny Slim, obviously keen to move the subject away from his tolerance of liquor. He was sitting next to a little man in a skull cap with long locks of hair next to each ear.

With a shock, Rebecca realized that she recognized the man. Well, she’d seen his picture, anyway. Without the side locks or the skull-cap, but definitely the same face. She never forgot a face. This one she had reason to remember—along with the entire board of Intersolar Mining and Minerals, arrayed behind him and his father.

“But we did stop it,” he said with a quiet smile. “Even though Slim here said it was undemocratic to put it to the vote.”

“But you only survived by a narrow margin,” said the bat. “And next time I might not vote with the entrenched exploiters.” She glared at the young man under the skull-cap. “And I am in charge of the portfolio for security and social upliftment.”

“Services. Social services, Zed,” corrected the mayor.

She stared down her nose at him, which is easy to do if you’re hanging upside down from the roof. “How many times do I have to say Ms? Ms. Davitta Ze …”

“I reckon putting ‘em down would be lot better than upliftment,” interrupted Slim, combatively. “Especially you lot.” This was addressed at the blue-furred Jampad swinging placidly from a roof-chain at the foot of the rock-table.

There was a grumble of agreement from one or two of the other council members, and a hiss of outrage from the bat.

The mayor slapped his hand down on the table. “Now you all hush up. Ain’t no one here who fought better than Meredeth and his friends in the fall-back on the Rock. Like with the marines, we might have come off second if they hadn’t taken a hand.”

“They were fighting for their own survival,” said the jowl-faced bull-dog of a woman at the end of the table.

“And so were we,” said the little man in the skull-cap. “Except for those who were running and hiding.”

“I was fetching more ammunition!” said Slim.

“In the Last Chance. Looking for Laggy’s bolt-hole, which you didn’t find,” said the bull-dog woman, with a derisive smile.

The mayor slapped both of his palms down on the stone table. “Now, you two. I’ll throw you both out, like last time. Captain, I reckon you’d better leave us to our work. Maybe you want to take Ms. Zed with you and talk to her. She knew one of the victims.”

“I had had a note from one of the victims. I did not know her,” said the bat.

“Anyway, methinks the place will be more tranquil without her,” said the flouncy rat snippily.

The bat grimaced at her, and shook a clenched foot. “Sellout,” she said, fluttering from her perch. “Let’s go, you imperialist lackeys,” she said to the two marines. “It’ll be to drinking and fighting they’ll fall without me, so I need to get back to it.” Her tone suggested she might just enjoy at least one of the activities, and felt that she was missing out.

In a chamber far enough away that they could only hear the occasional bull-like bellows of the mayor, they paused. The bat found a piece of roof to cling to and turned her gargoyle-like black face to them. “I really cannot stay away long. Firkin and Abe will do their best but they need my voice too. You have to find this killer, and find him fast,” she said seriously. “It’s little enough success I have had with Laggy’s exploited women. They’ll not even dare speak to me, normally. But right now they’re frightened to death. I was to be meeting Ms. Candy, the night that she was killed. And I had a message that the next woman killed needed to see me, urgently. They’re frightened indeed if they are prepared to risk Laggy’s wrath.”

“Laguna?” asked Rebecca sitting on one of the empty boxes that littered this part of the ‘Civic center’. “This is the ‘Laggy’ that you’re talking about? The little man at the Last Chance?”

“Indade,” said the bat, in the traditional fake Irish accent. She scowled. “He’d be my prime suspect.”

“Look, the guy is a cess-pit, but he’s too small to threaten anyone. I know that to you bats we humans all look large …”

“Ach bah,” the bat spat. “It’s not his strength they fear. He holds them in chemical bondage, Captain. He’ll withhold their drug supply if they dare to cross him.”

“Oho. So he’s the supplier, is he?” asked Rebecca, like a terrier scenting rats. She’d get him for something, at least. And solve another of her problems in the process.

The bat wrinkled her face, folding it even more than it was folded already. “Say rather that he supplies the women he holds in bondage. There are several purveyors of these things,” she admitted with reluctant honesty.

“It’s something else I’m supposed to investigate and put a stop to,” said Rebecca.

The bat shook her head. “You need to find the murderer first. The miners are indade close to a lynching. A marine badge was found at the last killing.”

“That we can follow up. Why wasn’t I told?”

The bat shrugged her wings. “It is all a little muddled, yet. Slim told us of it.”

“Both of these women wanted to see you,” said Holmes, taking the initiative and calmly treading it underfoot. “Why?”

The bat shrugged her wings. “I do not know …”

Rebecca’s communicator bleeped insistently. “Captain Wuollet,” she said, pressing the send button.

“Alpha 3 patrol here, Captain. We’ve found a dead body. A woman. It looks like she’s been raped and murdered.”

“Hell’s teeth. Where are you?”

“Punching the co-ords through to you, Captain,” said the Marine, his voice full of relief at the idea that it would soon be someone else’s problem.

“We’ll be right there. Don’t move her or touch anything.”

“And so will I,” said the bat. “Someone needs to report on the brutality of th’ polis,” she said self-righteously. “Polis I name you, and not a Garda of our own.”

They tramped through the rock-hewn corridors, away from the more settled level, where many rock-rats had taken up residence in some of the larger galleries. “The very least that they should give me for this job is a groundcar,” grumbled Rebecca. “Who ever heard of a police-chief walking to the scene of the crime?” There were vehicle tracks in the dust.

“Indade, there are a bare handful of such vehicles,” said the bat. “And those belong to the entrenched exploiters that had already settled on this den of vice. They have to repair them themselves, as no facilities are to be found here for doing that.

“Nasty smelly things,” she said with a lofty sniff. “The rock-rats scattered across the system had no need for wheels, or space for anything but ore-cargo. Besides, the price of importing such a thing was too expensive for any but the obscenely wealthy.”

“So we walk, except for those who can fly,” said Holmes, hunching to avoid hitting his head on the tunnel roof. “Why did they have to make these tunnels so low?”

The bat found this amusing. “There are many which are much lower. The ones the first two bodies were found in were narrower. And they were not built for human convenience.”

“Why the hell does anyone go into them then?” asked Rebecca, ducking.

“They often widen out into what were plainly ore-chambers,” explained the bat. “They make good rooms. You know, the prospectors had just found a similar rock, but without airlocks, in the second belt when the Korozhet attacked. It’s the way the Korozhet mined. They were not worried by their slaves’ comfort.”

They’d at least worried about their slaves air and had an amazing system of airlocks, reflected Rebecca. The asteroid siege would have been a short conquest, without those miles of corridors filled with air that contained too much oxygen and enough helium to alter the pitches of their voices. Inside the rock that air got scrubbed … in some place in the maze of internal passages as yet unmapped. The colonel had been doing some interesting swearing about that. They didn’t even know if they had all the airlocks located. There were enough of them. And the Marines’ supply of heavy weapons to defend those they’d found was very limited. How they’d hold off a major landing, heaven alone knew. But with strange gel-curtain airlocks every hundred yards or so, landing and capture would be two very different things. The miners didn’t have much in the way of missiles, but they did have a personal arsenal each, and a number of heavy-duty tripod-mounted mining lasers. The attacks—so far—had been on the main landing bay, now crowded with little miner-ships, and Marine landing craft. Quite a few of the miner-ships had had some external weapons. This had plainly been a rough neighborhood.

“We need to go down here, ” said the bat, pointing to a shaft. There were metal staples in the wall. Not very big staples and too close together for human climbers to have set them there.

“How do you know?” asked Sergeant Holmes, blinking, looking at the position co-ords on his palm-comm.

“I can hear the voices of several people, arguing. The word murder has been used.” The bat flew up into the hole. That was down—if you took the core of the asteroid as “down.” Centrifugal force provided an alternative to gravity here.

Bats did have hyper-keen hearing. Or she might just have known, concluded Captain Wuollet. Something about the black-faced bat activist smelled. Not necessarily of murder, but the bat knew more than she was telling. Rebecca reached up and began to climb. Better get there fast.

* * *

That was a good decision, it turned out, even if Holmes was not designed to run down a corridor this high or wide, complete with pipes to trip over. The scene was angry and heading to the point of shooting.

“The captain,” said a voice, uncertain and plainly tense, “is coming to look at the crime scene …”

“Screw your captain,” interrupted someone. “You just step aside and let us take the poor dead girl back to the Last Chance, and you don’t get hurt, see.”

Rebecca poked the burly speaker hard in the kidneys. Hard enough for him to turn and crack his head … and see the tunnel entirely full of Holmes behind her. “Your chances of screwing me are slightly lower than your chances of surviving beyond the next ten seconds. And those chances are not good, if you’re still here by the time I count to ten. One.”

“Now see here, Captain,” said an angry voice, from elbow height.

“And that means you too, Mr. Laguna,” she said icily. “We’ll return the body to the Last Chance when we’ve finished inspecting the crime scene. Two.”

“But …”

“Three.” One of the advantages of Holmes being outsize, besides sheer intimidation, was that it was impossible to see if there was a whole squad … or no-one, behind him in the narrow tunnel.

Grumbling, Laguna and his mini-mob retreated down the far passage. “You haven’t heard the last of this!” shouted someone.

“Alas, ‘tis probably true,” said the bat. “They’ll be back at the Last Chance drinking more courage. You’ll have trouble presently.”

The marine who had called her grinned. “Good thing you got here fast, Captain. And good thing Larry was here with me.” He put a hand on the shoulder of the stocky miner who had gone on patrol with him. It was not same marine who had left their base cave an hour before, looking like he’d been inflicted with a boil or a toothache for company. “That lot said I’d done it, and they were all for lynching me. Larry talked them out of it.” He looked at the tunnel. “If I was going to do that I’d choose somewhere where I could at least stand up.”

Rebecca was on her knees examining the corpse. It was at times like this it paid to be a combat vet. It still wasn’t a pretty sight. Someone had hit the victim very hard with a piece of rock. Hard enough to smash her skull. There wasn’t much blood. Odd for a head wound, that. She pulled the victim’s skirt down. The dead woman had little enough dignity left to her, and Rebecca could do nothing much about the ripped filmy blouse. There wasn’t a lot of spare material “What were you two doing in here anyway?”

“It’s a short-cut across to where they’re setting up the ag caves,” explained the miner. “The roof is a bit low, but if you follow the pipes it’ll save you ten minutes walk.”

It made a sort of sense, except that it did mean that this was not the quiet private spot the attacker must have assumed. That in itself suggested that the attacker was a marine. “I suppose there is nothing much else for us to see. Let’s get her out of here.”

“Captain,” said Holmes from his knees back in the tunnel. He was far too tall to stand there. “I need to show you this first.” He pointed to a hose-clamp on one of the pipes. A gossamer shred of material clung to it. A piece of blouse. “She got dragged in here.”

Rebecca looked intently at it. “So,” she said after some thought. “He must have knocked her down, dragged her in here, and then killed her with that rock. See if you can see any other signs of dragging.”

“I’ll have to go out backwards, Captain. There is not enough space for me to turn around.”

“Look as you crawl, Sergeant.”

The passage, however, was relatively dust-free. The rock-floor was not particularly even, but there were no other pieces of material snagged there - which, considering the filmy flimsy nature of the clothing was surprising. Even more surprising was the arrival of yet another visitor. In flounces. “I had to stop and eat, and follow you by scent,” said Firkin crossly. “You humans run too slowly and for far too long.”

Rats had speed, but not stamina.

The rat pushed past the sergeant. “This is your new method of advancing? Methinks you are showing your best features to the enemy.”

The rat looked at the corpse. “Cindy-Jane. A lot of miners will be mightily upset, and the Last Chance will lose a fair bit of turn-over. She was almost rattish in her appetites. Made up for the price with volume.”

Rats were not known for their sensitivity, thought Rebecca. It at least made them accidentally honest. “Well, let’s get her out of here. She was dragged in. I suppose we can drag her out.”

She took an arm, deciding by the look on the miner and young Marine’s faces, that it was a good time to lead by example. She was grateful that all her years in the service had at least taught her how to control squeamishness. As she pulled the body it rolled slightly, to reveal a brown billfold. She twitched it out from under the corpse with the other hand and opened it.

It revealed two things. The first was an Marine ID card. The second was even more puzzling.

Money.

Tucked inside the inner flap were three hundred C notes. Not a fortune, but surely enough to pay for a cheap tart.

“I want Private Samson, 4655573490.”

“Plooks?” said the Marine who’d called her to the scene. “He’s out on patrol, Captain.”

“He’s one of mine?” she asked, already knowing the answer. Wouldn’t this do the credibility of her fledgling force the world of good, she thought sourly.

The Marine looked uncomfortable. “It was you or staying in the brig, Captain.”

“He should have stayed in the brig,” she said coldly. She called her ops room, and told them to call Samson in, and place him under arrest.

As she put the comm device back in its pouch, she stood up and banged her head. She ground her teeth in irritation, feeling the bump. “Now can we get the body out of here,” she said, reaching down to take an arm again.

“Captain, I think you’d better come and have a look here,” called Sergeant Holmes. “I had a look in the next passage, while I was waiting for you to come out.”

“Inborn investigative urge overwhelming you, Sergeant?” she said, covering the fact that she’d banged her head yet again with sarcasm.

“Needed a leak, Captain,” said Holmes with innate honesty. “There is more of that blouse material back there. That’s where it happened, I reckon. The body has been moved.”

“Hell’s teeth!” said Rebecca when she looked into the dark passage that Holmes pointed out to her. “Why did he move her? They’d not have found her in there until she started to smell.”

“Indade,” said Ms. Zed, wrapping her wings around her and shivering. “Unless, as I’d be thinking, someone wanted her found.”

Captain Wuollet looked at the single electric bulb tacked into the cable at the intersection. She thought of those blissful days when she’d been a mere boot and only had to deal with grueling Marine drill, instead of coping with this mess. She was going to need a lot of things that she didn’t have to handle this, like an elementary knowledge of forensic practice for a start. All she knew about was shaped charges and detonators, not catching murderers. “Better search the other corridors too,” she said resignedly. “Next thing we know we’ll find more bodies.”

They didn’t. But they did find a small wheelbarrow and a shovel. A very small wheelbarrow. “Maybe a garden gnome did it,” said Holmes thoughtfully.

NCOs were of course allowed a sense of humor. Just not in public or with their superior officers. She decided to ignore the comment. “And moved her on the barrow, which is easier than dragging,” she said dryly. The barrow looked far too small to move a body. “Better have a look for wheel tracks,” she sighed.

Holmes shone a focused beam of light down the center of the dusty tunnel. Shook his head “It’s been wiped. There is one footprint, fairly small. And mine, of course. He must have carried her.”

“A man with small feet and a strong back,” said Rebecca rubbing her jaw. “So … what is the barrow doing here. Who does it belong to?”

“‘Tis a rat-miner’s barrow,” said Firkin. “I have such a one myself. We purchased it from Abe.” She eyed it speculatively. “As it is lying about, methinks the owner has no further need of it,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll have it.”

“Looter. Despoiler. Capitalist,” said the bat. “To take thus from those less fortunate than you.”

The rat jerked a thumb at the corpse that the miner and Marine had just carried out. “She doesn’t exactly need it any more. Besides, methinks Cindy-Jane would have been willing to try anything, but a position involving a small wheelbarrow taxes even my imagination.”

It taxed hers too, admitted the captain to herself. “It’s evidence. I’ll hold onto it,” was all that she said, however.

“Tch,” said the rat, producing her amber-fluid filled bottle and having a good chug. “Well, do tell me if you ever work out just what a hooker needed a rat miner’s barrow for. I’ve heard of fetishes, but …”

“Shut up, will you? Let’s get a blanket and carry the corpse out of here. Sergeant. Bring me that incriminating barrow. Let’s go and talk to Private Samson,” she said grimly.

* * *

Private Samson might actually not have had enough money in that wallet. He was an acne-cure advertiser’s dream, poor kid. And he was just a kid, thought Rebecca. A kid with a black eye, and a cut on his cheek. Maybe the girl had got a last few blows in. “This yours, Private?” She held out the wallet. He blinked. You could almost see the thoughts crossing his mind, using heavy levers to shift the expressions on the spotty face. He beamed. And reached for it. “Yeah! Thanks, Captain. I thought I was in trouble or something.”

She pulled the wallet back. “Not so fast, Marine.”

His expression turn woeful. “I guess my money’s gone then.”

“How much was there?” she asked speculatively.

“About twenty in front flap. But,” he said, doing his best attempt at a cunning expression. “I got some more in the secret place at the back. Three hundred.”

“You lost the twenty,” she said. “But the rest is still there. So, tell me when you last had your wallet.”

He was smiling again. “That’s the rest of my pay. I reckoned I’d lost it all.”

Either this kid was the best actor in the world, or he was a damn stupid young fool who nearly got strung up. “When did you last have it, Marine?” she asked again.

He looked wary. Something in her tone must have finally gotten through to him. “Me and a couple of the boys slipped off to the Last Chance last night. I don’t remember too well, but I didn’t have it this morning.”

“When you woke up in the brig,” she said, trying to keep her face expressionless.

He nodded. “They said if I volunteered for security duty I was off the hook, Captain.”

It looked like she had her murderer after all … or maybe more than one of them. “Just who was with you, Samson?”

He looked wary. “The colonel said we was all off the hook, Captain.” His voice said: You do not split on your mates. Not if you want to live.

She restrained herself from solving his pimple problem forever by starting to squeeze at the neck. “I’m not playing games now, Private Samson. I need to know. And I need to know now. I can look in the unit records if I have to. You’re wasting my time.”

Her answer came from another source, though. “Private Ogumba, Private Wilkins and Private Mikes,” said Sergeant Holmes. “It was Mikes who found the body, Captain. He’s still here. Shall I haul him in?”

“Body? I didn’t kill no one Captain … did I? I was in a fight … I think,” said the boy. He was now pale, beginning, finally, to realize that he might be in deep trouble.

Holmes brought Private Mikes through to her office-cave. The entire thing was obviously preying on Mikes’ mind so much that he barely managed to salute before he blurted out:

“I been thinking, Captain,” he said. “It can’t be Samson. Me and Gumbo only got separated from him once, just after the fight when we got thrown out. And we found him maybe fifteen minutes later. He was blind-drunk, Captain. Plooks can’t hold much. Gumbo and me, we took him back to camp. He couldn’t hardly stand when we got thrown out. And then he got into a fight with one of the Guard Commanders …”

“Me,” said Holmes, with a nod. “They were all in the brig at 22 hundred hours.” His expression said that he considered this a ridiculous time to be drunk and arrested by.

“That still gave him fifteen minutes.” Or them, she thought to herself.

“Indade,” said the bat, quietly from the corner. “Except that she was still alive at 22:30. I saw her then. I was doing my picket.”

“Are you sure?” asked Rebecca

“Sure as death,” said the bat. “I don’t get times wrong.”

Bats didn’t. Their soft-cyber chips had inbuilt clocks. She knew that well from dealing with bats on the demolitions course. Bats made up most of the sappers. They regarded humans a ludicrously vague about time and memory, as that part of them was cybernetic. She sighed. “We’ll have to try to confirm it, Private Samson. But it looks like you may just have got your wallet back, and escaped a hanging. That’s a lifetime’s ration of luck. Stay out of the Last Chance from now on, see.”

The youth nodded earnestly. “Yes, Captain. The drinks is cheaper in the Miner’s Rest anyway.”

Why did she feel she was better off talking to the rat, even it laughed at her? “Get out of my office, Private. Stay here at ops. And stay out of all of the bars,” she added, knowing that order was pointless.

“Can I have my wallet, Captain?”

In the grim certainty that only the absence of money would keep him out of the bars, she shook her head. “No. It’s still evidence in a robbery, rape and murder trial. You may get it back, if we ever find the culprit. You nearly got hanged for losing it last time, you brainless idiot.”

When he’d gone, saluting sheepishly, and accompanied by his fellow genius of the night before, Rebecca sat down on the makeshift desk and swore. She was not surprised to see the flouncy rat appear from under the desk and clap appreciatively.

She tossed the “evidence” wallet down. “Well. That’s the wallet. Stolen during or after the fight. The owner was locked up when the crime happened. Which leaves the damned wheelbarrow. And no, no matter what that rat says,” she said, pointing at Firkin, “I refuse to even consider it as a sex-toy.”

“What about the little shovel, then?” asked Firkin with her favorite evil laugh.

Rebecca decided it was best to just ignore her, if she could.

“It might have been there by accident, Captain,” said Holmes, keeping his face carefully expressionless.

“‘Tis likely,” said the rat. “Well, as you’ve no further use for that wallet …”

Wuollet slapped the reaching paw away. “Do you loot everything? Don’t answer that. I already know the answer.”

The rat shrugged. “‘Tis rattish nature, methinks. If it is not tied down one steals it.”

“And it had better be tied down very thoroughly.” Rebecca sighed. “How about if you do some asking about who has lost a barrow?”

Firkin yawned. “A waste of time, methinks. But I will ask about who is trying to steal one.”

The rat sauntered out. That was no guarantee that it had actually gone anywhere, of course. She could hope, though.

“Someone deliberately planted that wallet, Captain,” said the Sergeant.

“That much is elementary, Holmes. Someone wanted the Marines to take the rap. Colonel De Darcy didn’t realize what a live, pin-less grenade he’d handed me,” said Rebecca, wishing she had enough hair to pull out. “The big question is whether they were just letting us take the rap or whether they wanted to try and get rid of us. Whether we are dealing with murder, or treason.”

Act II, Scene II: An arras, or possibly a rattish bar.

“Thou hast the most unsavory similes,” said Snout loftily, returning—as rats would under pressure—to the Shakespearean downloads that had once made up their linguistic source. “To think that I would indulge in such things, sweet wag.”

“Ask, morelike, when you have ever done anything else,” said Firkin, yawning. “I know you were there, you and your paramour Mercutio. I smelled it at the time, but said nothing.”

“A good idea, my flouncy bit,” said Mercutio, from the shadows. “Keep it thus. We did a little looting, nothing else.”

“Methinks that was enough. You will need to tell her that,” said Firkin, knowing that this would be dangerous ground.

“And be put into durance vile. I think not,” said Mercutio. “Humans have odd ideas about property.”

Firkin had to admit that that much was true, even if it was unlikely anything else Mercutio volunteered would be. “Mayhap a deal can be arranged,” she said, heavily. Not likely. Humans should understand rats better, as they were so ratlike themselves.

Act II Scene III: Enter various gentlemen of Verona, Chicago, Dublin, Bangbanduc … heck. Miners and prospectors. Don’t ever ask where they come from.

“You could take the barrow to Abe,” suggested the bat. “Maybe he can tell you more about it.”

“This Abe is the one who sold it?” asked Holmes, examining the little barrow he held in one hand.

The bat scowled. “He is the entrenched capitalist exploiter of the downtrodden masses, or the miners at least, yes. He sits on the council. With his skull-cap and ear-locks.” Her innate sense of justice had a brief wrestling match with her conscience. “There are worse,” she conceded.

Coming from her that was probably high praise. “Let’s go, Ms. Zed,” Rebecca said, pulling aside the curtain that served the ops-cave as a door.

“That’s not actually my full name …”

She broke off. A large mob was marching down on them, led by Laggy and several of his search party from their earlier encounter. “We hear you got the man who done it, Captain. Hand him over to us. We’ll deal with him,” said Laguna.

Rebecca wished really hard for some nice shaped demolition charges—set in the tunnel just ahead of this lot. She stepped into the middle of the passage and spoke loudly and clearly. “That rot-gut of yours is making you hear things, Laguna. What I did catch was a set-up. Unfortunately, they set up a man who definitely couldn’t have done it, because at the time he was behind bars back at the camp. Now, you tell me who told you that we had the man. That must be the one who actually did this. And I’ll take him into custody. There’ll be no lynching.”

The mob stopped dead.

A beard came racing around the corner, followed somewhat later by the rest of the mayor. “Huh … huh—what’s going on here?” he panted. “Break it up now!”

“It was him,” said Laggy. “Or rather it was that rat of his. She told me.”

The worst of it was that it could possibly be perfectly true. Firkin had known about it. And she did seem to be a rat that was familiar with Laggy’s girls if nothing else. Anything that lacked virtue would attract a rat. And, looking at the Mayor and then his feet … if anyone was short enough to stand upright in the tunnels, was strong enough to carry a harem, let alone one woman, it would be him. It could be, after all. He might want complete control over the rock and have seen this as a way to get rid of the marines.

“Lynch him!” yelled one of the front-men of the mob. “The bastard has been killing our women!”

Rebecca stepped in front of the Mayor. “The first person to try any lynching on my watch is going to be dead.” Her voice could have cut across three parade grounds.

“There’s more of us than you,” said one of the mob, fingering the butt of his flechette-pistol.

“Yep,” said Holmes stepping out of the office cave, cradling a Mark 24 automatic flechette rifle. “But who will be first to die?”

The Mark 24 made an impression on the mob. It was normally tripod mounted.

“You said you’d arrest whoever told us,” said Laggy sulkily.

“I will take him in,” said Rebecca, wondering if the colonel had known just what a treasure he’d given her in Sergeant Holmes. “And that rat too, and hold them until I get some answers. But the rat was here when I found out that it was a set-up. So tell us what you heard?”

“That you had found a Marine’s wallet under her.” That was said by a gangling man with a planar face and an outsize nose.

Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “Oh? Full of money, no doubt.”

That got a laugh from the crowd. “Not likely!” said planar face.

“Well, you’ve told me all I needed to know,” she said, reflecting that they’d told her something anyway—that the information had come from someone who either hadn’t wanted to mention the money or hadn’t known about it. “Now get along with you. The mayor will stay right here with me.”

Act II Scene IV: In some shady hostelry, where you might the likes of Doll Tearsheat

“It took me long enough to find you,” said the bat crossly. “I should have known that you’d be off carousing, when Albert needs you!”

Firkin sniffed and raised her goblet. “Zed, methinks that there is very little that Albert cannot do for himself. I am his partner, not his nursemaid.”

“Ah. Even though they were after lynching him for those murders?”

“What!” Firkin leapt off her stool, spilling drink onto the bat, who spluttered, and swore and fluttered up to the ceiling, to shake off her wings with an expression of distaste. “Where have they taken him, Zed? Come here, you blasted winged teetotaler!”

“He’s with the polis,” Davitta answered, flying higher. “The captain kept him from the mob.”

It went against her socialist and revolutionary instincts but the authorities had been very welcome then. She’d been unsure what to do. Albert, for all that he was a reactionary sellout, was none too bad a mayor.

“Methinks it is the first time that I have heard of them being useful,” said Firkin, shaking out her ruffles. “I’d better go and find Mercutio.”

“That blackguard!” Davitta exclaimed. “What need do you have of him?”

Firkin yawned artfully. “Firstly, because he’s a blackguard, a weasand-slitter and a rogue. I’ve a feeling that I might have need of him to deal with this poxy mess that Albert has wandered into. Secondly, he has another property, more unusual in rats. He can think. And thirdly, he was there. I smelled his presence at the scene. He and that doxy of his, Snout. Officially, they traffic in ordure, and that makes them quite noxious.”

Davitta nearly fell out of the air “Why didn’t you say so to the captain?” she squawked.

“Why?” Firkin raised her nose. “We rats stand for ourselves, and the devil take the hindmost. I will not betray a rat to the constabulary. A policeman’s lot should not be a happy one, anyway.”

“And such is honor among rats,” said the bat, sardonically. “Well, let us find him without delay then, because the mob will be drinking themselves into courage for a second try.”

Act II, Scene V: Enter a merchant with all the perfumes of Arabia

“I’ve come to see the prisoner,” said the small man with the side locks and skull-cap. “You can call me his lawyer if you have to. I did train as one once, although I don’t usually admit to it.”

Rebecca studied him. Regrettably, he had large feet for a relatively small man. “He’s not strictly a prisoner,” she said. “I decided that he would be safer here than out there. At the moment I am using him as a tea-boy.”

Abe shook his head in mock horror. “A clear infringement of his rights. Tell him I take two sugars.” He lifted a heavy flechette rifle from his shoulder and leaned it against the wall. “They’ll be back, you know. That’s actually why I came with this. I can’t shoot very well, but at least I’m an extra man.”

With questionable motives, she thought. Everyone had questionable motives in this darned case! But all she said was: “Then leave the shooting to us. The passages are narrow and—”

He interrupted. “And you’re dealing with miners, Captain. According to your colonel, you know how to use explosives. So do they. They probably have even more experience than you do.”

That was true enough, she supposed. “So we need to take action first.”

“Perhaps by finding the murderer.”

“Or by laying mines in the passage,” said Rebecca sourly. Did everyone have to assume that she knew the first thing about detection? “Where is that rat when I need her? I need to know what, if anything, she said to Laggy. If it wasn’t for a lack of motive and his size I’d suspect him first. You couldn’t tell me anything about a little wheelbarrow, could you?”

“A miner’s barrow?” Rat-size? If it is one of mine—it will have a serial number. I guarantee them.”

“Let’s hope it is one of yours, then,” she said. The way this case was going it wouldn’t be.

He smiled with quiet confidence. “Bound to be. I’ve cornered the market. My competitors don’t understand that quality and a reasonable price almost always trumps them.”

“Besides, the rats all think that sooner or later they’ve got to put one over him,” said Albert, handing him a mug of tea. “The barrow is in the corner. It’s one of yours. Smells a bit.”

“Rats need something to hope for,” said Abe, going to look at the barrow. He took a mini-stylus-pad out of his pocket and tapped a number into it. “Here you are. Snout. She’s one of the supposed sewage maintenance team your Firkin recruited, Albert. They work in the narrow tunnels better than people.”

To Rebecca, he explained: “And sewage doesn’t offend them. People were just using empty passages at first, and something had to be done about it. Too much disease risk, apart from the smell, otherwise. Anything else you want to know?”

Rebecca looked carefully at that bland face. “Just one thing. What is the deputy chairman of Intersolar Mining and Minerals doing here?”

He hesitated. “You must be mistaken.”

She shook her head. “Not likely. I never forget a face. And yours takes some explaining. There might even be a motive for murder there.”

He looked at the puzzled face above the mayor’s beard, then sighed. “Well, if I can’t trust Albert, I can trust no-one. I was getting back to my roots, that’s all. It’s about an old leather suitcase, I suppose.”

He seemed to think he’d said enough. Rebecca looked at him, unblinking. “Explain.”

He laughed softly. “The inquisition had nothing on you. I am beginning to think you were well chosen for this job. Very well. I found an old leather suitcase, in what had been my grandfather’s office, when we were moving to the new corporate headquarters … well, rather the movers found it. It was a cheap thing, and one of them asked me what should be done with it. It was full of old papers and pictures, he said.”

He took mouthful of his tea. “I opened it. Looked inside—and found the life story of a man in there. My great-grandfather. Founder of the company, a few name changes back. It was his suitcase. I found out that we had not always been ultra-wealthy corporate moguls.”

“Most of us were something else before we got to be rock-rats,” said the mayor. “We don’t ask what a man’s family history was.”

Abe acknowledged this with a wry smile. “My great-grandfather had been a pack-peddler. He sold his wares across the Northern Cape, selling to diggers across the semi-desert that was the Kimberly diamond-fields. I started reading the letters in that case. Letters from his family in Poland, letters from the board of the synagogue he helped to found in Kimberly, letters from his wife, letters from miners, letters from farmers and suppliers. I got the picture of a man. He was devout, happy, and strangely, a much-loved man.”

Abe took a deep pull at his tea-mug. “I can’t say there are many people who loved Intersolar Mining’ and Minerals’ deputy chairman.”

“No,” said Rebecca, hoping that she was hiding her feelings on that subject.

Maybe she didn’t succeed. Or maybe he just read people well. He waved a placatory hand. “It’s a good thing I am not that any more.”

She had a job to do. Not payback time. Yet. “And the side locks and skullcap?” she asked.

He shrugged. “An affectation. A reminder that when great-grandfather went out there, blacks and Jews were everyone’s kicking boys. I didn’t mean to become a Korozhet target though. Is that enough?”

“Not really.” But she was impressed in spite of herself. It was too weird to make up. “It’s a pretty story, but unlikely.”

He allowed that faint smile back onto his face. “You really are suspicious enough to make a good detective. There was more to it all of course, but I don’t think that I need to waste your time with it.” There was a finality in his tone which suggested that torture wouldn’t work either. “Perhaps we need to go and look for the rattess Snout. Now.”

Act III Scene I: Enter the great detective

“She’s dead,” said Mercutio, quietly. “Snout is dead.” Davitta had had other brushes with Mercutio. He was normally urbane and slightly sinister, as befitted a prince of the underworld of ratly crimes. Now his voice shook.

A furry face precluded any sign of paleness, but the voice suggested that the rat was going to pitch face forward any moment. “Sit down,” said the bat, practically.

“And drink some of this and take heart,” said Firkin, producing a bottle from her sleeve flounces.

A slap would hardly have shocked Mercutio more. “You … giving out drink?” He hastily snatched the bottle and swigged. And spluttered. “It’s cold tea!” he said both incredulously and indignantly. “Not even some vile sack. Art trying to kill me?”

“And do the world a favor.” Firkin snatched the bottle back. “Why did you kill Snout?”

“T’was not I. I would have done the thing quietly and eaten the evidence. Methinks … she may have been murdered. Come.”

He led them to a chamber—which one might have passed ten times without finding it, as the door was so neatly hidden in a fold in the rock. There, within, was an Aladdin’s trove of loot. And a small female rat, sprawled. Dead.

“Out, brief candle,” said Firkin, quietly. “What killed her?”

“I don’t know. But I will find out,” said Mercutio with grim certainty.

“The polis …” said Davitta, fluttering her wings.

“Methinks I’ll solve my own problems.”

Firkin shook her head. “Nay, methinks that it is we, and they, who need you to solve theirs, Mercutio. They have Albert, accused of these murders. We need whoever did that. I was on my way to beg your help.”

Mercutio looked her in the eye. Nodded slowly. “‘T’was done by the same hand, methinks. Let us go to the Last Chance.”

“I am not very welcome there,” admitted Davitta, thinking, not for the first time, that even the heroes of the Easter Rising had it easier than a bat trying to follow her conscience. Doing so seemed to have unforeseen consequences, like discovering that your official worst enemies were your friends, and actually drank cold tea.

Mercutio snorted. “Methinks Laggy does not welcome any non-human. But there is another entrance, and I have connections.”

“Comrades in thievery, no doubt,” said Davitta.

“Naturally.” The rat led them off down a passage far too narrow for humans, and too narrow for comfortable flying either. It brought them out a few yards from the Last Chance, in time to see a drunk being ejected through the bat-wing doors. Davitta wondered, as she had many times before, if it was possible to sue the door-makers for slander.

The drunk must have truly believed he was seeing things, when the bat and two rats pushed stubby digits into four little holes on a low bit of wall, and then disappeared into the hole that appeared … and then the wall sealed up again.

“What’s this?” squawked Davitta. “Are we trapped?”

“Be still,” said Mercutio. “Methinks it is just a part of the air recycling system. We have found a few such ducts, but there are doubtless many.”

“But why have they hid it thus?” The bat fluttered down the dim passage filled with machines, some of which plainly were still working.

“Without intent, mayhap. It is just neatly cut, we think with a laser. The chamber Laggy has turned into the Last Chance was perhaps a machine room or a dormitory. Be careful of that machine over there. ‘Tis hot.”

“But … but where does the power come from?” asked Davitta. This was a whole world that she’d not known existed. It was a little alarming to think that they relied on this abandoned Korozhet machinery.

The rat shrugged. “Why should we care? I was interested for a while when I heard you say, some time back, that all power corrupts, but I stole several batteries and, as yet, I have seen nothing but decay, and not one single offer of a bribe.”

Mercutio sounded suitably disappointed in this further betrayal by the English language. “Ah. Here we are. The kitchens. The drains. Laggy used what was here. He plainly explored it well.”

“Ach, that old voyeur. He explores everything well. He has minicams concealed in the girls’ rooms, I have heard tell,” said Firkin.

“Hush,” said Mercutio. “We need to go up the stairs. Cookie is a friend of mine.”

Cookie was short and rotund. And brown. With pink sugar frosting. Well, it probably wasn’t sugar frosting, though with alien life forms you couldn’t be too sure. The alien must have had eyes somewhere, even if Davitta couldn’t see them, because it spoke to them. Or maybe it used some other way of detecting them.

It spoke in Korozhet, which was still the default language of the soft-cyber units which the Korozhet had used for uplift and enslavement. The enslavement module had been cracked in the rebellion on Harmony and Reason, but the language remained. Hearing it set Davitta’s sharp white teeth on edge.

“Tell it to speak a decent uncivilized language,” she snapped.

Mercutio shook his head. “Cookie can’t. That’s why he has to put up with working for Laggy. He was one of the left-behinds when the Korozhet cut and ran. He cleans here.”

“He is in bondage, you mean?” demanded the bat.

“Nay. Though a couple of the girls will do that, if the price is right.”

“I meant a slave,” she explained coldly.

Mercutio considered this. “I don’t think he is, in the strictest sense of the word. He just doesn’t speak anything but Korozhet and Laggy feeds him. At first there wasn’t anyone else, and I don’t know if he has figured out that he has any other options now.”

Davitta hissed angrily, despite knowing that it made her sound like an exploding kettle. “And I don’t suppose you saw fit to tell him.”

Mercutio blinked. “No. Never thought of it. We’ve got a bit of barter and exchange going with him. There is good loot around this place.”

“Rats!” she snarled. Mercutio was probably merely being truthful. Rats were the epitome of natural selfishness—not that they couldn’t rise above it, it just never occurred to them that there was any need to. “I will liberate him!”

“Good luck finding the words,” said Firkin. “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be solving a murder and saving Albert’s groats, seeing as us rats are too idle.”

The language was literally the problem. The word “liberty” was not in the Korozhet download. It might not even exist in the Korozhet language. It was very hard to think about something you had no word for. She sighed. Was nothing simple?

“Very well. But as soon as we have this sorted out, I’ll talk to the Jampad about this. They’ll free him even they have to blow the place up to do it.” The humans and even the rats would support that—or at least not prevent them from doing it. Slavery was something abhorrent, especially for the miners that had come from the Korozhet-invaded world of Harmony and Reason. Admittedly, the rats only worried about it happening to themselves, but they had been brought to think that if it were done to others, they just might be next.

“You will do what you will do,” said Mercutio, shrugging.

Act III, Scene II: Into a den of lyings

“Only a rat will ever get information out of another rat,” said Abe with a shrug. “If they have decided not to tell us where the rattess Snout can be found, we’re not going to find her.”

Rebecca shook her head. “That’s not why I said I’d be damned. It was that … bar.”

Abe snorted in amusement. “The pictures on the walls don’t leave much to the imagination, do they?”

“Not if you’re a lonely rat miner, no,” said Albert with perfect seriousness. “So what do we do now?”

“Sun Tzu,” said Rebecca.

“What?” said the mayor, puzzled. Military strategy was not one of his interests, obviously.

“We take the battle to them,” said Rebecca. “The center of all of this is the Last Chance. It’s not the only brothel around, is it?”

They both looked a little taken aback at the question. The mayor found his wits first. “No. There are nine such establishments and a fair number of freelancers,” he said.

Abe coughed and continued: “It’s a refugee colony now, but it was a miners R&R place. That’s what they wanted and they had the money to pay for it. Demand creates supply.”

“Yet all the murdered women came from just one of those places,” said Rebecca. “I smell a rat, and it isn’t just Firkin, or the missing Snout. Let’s go to the Last Chance and ask some awkward questions.”

“Man, but that’s a lynch mob brewing in there!” said the mayor uneasily.

“Exactly. Is there one place a guilty man wouldn’t go, as bold as brass?” asked Abe, grinning. “Besides, as the mayor, tasting the local brews is your civic duty.”

“That’s part of the problem,” said the mayor, tugging his beard nervously. “No one knows exactly where Laggy stashes his still. God alone knows what goes into the stuff. Evil bastard. He’s changed since the Epsilon III rush. I met him back then. He used to be a nice bloke. They called him ‘honest’ back then because he was too dumb to cheat even the local tax men. He’s learned a lot since then, that’s for sure.”

“Unusual for a man to learn to have brains,” said Abe, as they walked towards the flashing light outside the bar.

“He used to drink a lot,” explained the mayor. “Always had his own still. I reckon he drank some bad stuff. He’s given up. Or at least he barely drinks now.”

“Could happen, I suppose,” said Abe.

“Unlikely,” said Holmes, with a look that said he’d known a few serious drunks.

They walked through the bat-wing doors and into a sudden silence—from what had been a tumultuous racket moments before.

Laggy appeared from the midst of what had been the hubbub. “What do you want here, Captain?” he demanded, with a nasty edge to his voice.

“Just pursuing my enquiries, Mr. Laguna,” she said, evenly. “I have several lines of enquiry that lead me … here.”

“The girls weren’t killed anywhere near here!” protested Slim. The crowd stirred like an angry beehive.

“No,” said the captain, calmly, “but they all came from here. Unusual, I gather for them to even be out of your establishment—and it’s only women from this place who’ve been attacked, even though there are others working the corridors and tunnels. I’ve seen them.”

There was silence again. Some thoughtful looks.

“They were all lured out of here,” Laggy insisted. “By that bat.”

It was such a pity that he lacked the physique to have done the deed.

Laggy stuck his hand in his pocket. “I was just going to show the boys. I found this note from that bat in Cindy’s things.”

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “That bat lured them out to their deaths,” he said, as Rebecca untwisted the screw of paper.

“It sounds to me as if you have a grudge against the council,” said Abe evenly. “First the mayor and now Zed.”

“It’s obvious. They’re in it together. They want to destroy my enterprise.”

“Indade, not,” snapped the bat, fluttering out of an air-vent. “You’re a blackhearted vile exploiter.”

Laggy gaped at her. “I won’t have any non-humans in my bar!” he snapped.

“No, you’ll keep them as slaves and cleaners instead,” hissed the bat.

Laggy went white. “I … I …” He fumbled for his flechette pistol.

“That’s enough,” said Rebecca. “I’ll remove the bat once we have discussed a few matters. Firstly, would you like to clarify a few matters as concerns this wallet?”

“I heard that rat of his,” said Laggy, pointing at the mayor, “tell that it was found under the body.”

Act III, Scene III: Enter the element of surprise, possibly not Watson, but Mercutio

“I’faith you have mighty keen ears, to hear something I have not said,” said Firkin loftily, from the air-vent. “I bite my thumb at you, Sirrah. But Cookie tells me that he found the wallet here. It was, as is the custom with such items, placed in the container on the bar.”

There was a silence. Several people looked at the big glass jar on the end of the bar.

“Who are you going to believe? Me or some rat?” demanded Laguna.

“Knowing you, the rat, I reckon,” said one wag, grinning.

“They’re rogues and liars!” shouted the offended proprietor of the Last Chance saloon.

“Yes I am,” said Mercutio, appearing next to Firkin. “But who better to set to catch one?”

He leaped onto the table—a prodigious jump, but one he was easily capable of. “Attend!” he said to crowd. “Methinks, you have reached several wrong conclusions. Firstly, you assumed that because the victim was robbed, robbery was part of the motive for the killing.”

“But they were robbed. All of them,” said Slim. “Are you trying to tell us they were robbed before they were attacked? I might believe that happened once …”

“The bodies were robbed after death. After they had been murdered. Not by the murderer.”

“Who would do that kind of thing? Anyway, we found them,” said Slim, waving at several friends of his in the crowd.

The rat reached into his pouch and flung a rather distinctive silver filigree hair-grip on the table. Several people plainly recognized it by the gasps. “Ah, but methinks you did not find them first. Ask then of the captain. What artifact did she find at the last murder?”

“A rat barrow,” supplied the captain.

The rat nodded. “Rats move through the passages. They will loot. You all know that.”

The crowd laughed.

“Indade. As it happens a rattess named Snout did find the last body. She did rob it. And she too has been killed,” said the bat. “We seek her murderer.”

“Who cares if another bloody rat is dead? They’re scavengers and thieves. And what does it matter if they robbed the victims?” Laggy calmly reached for a bottle and began filling glasses, as if nothing could ever upset his equilibrium.

“Methinks it matters because if you are wrong about the sequence of events of one part of the crime, you could be wrong about another,” said Mercutio.

“No way that they were raped by rats,” said Slim dismissively, over the rim of his full glass. “Even if you all think you’re hung like Errol Flynn.”

Mercutio shook his head, looking thirstily at the glass. “‘Tis true that most rats are destined to be hung. But it was not a rat that killed them.”

“It was a bloody great rock that someone smashed their skulls with,” supplied another drinker. “Too big for a rat.”

“Indeed. And that too was not what killed them,” said Mercutio, grimly.

Laggy laughed. “You might live on as a bit of head-plastic after your brain gets smashed in. But the rest of us would be dead,” he said with a sneer.

“Oh, the rock would have killed them,” said Mercutio, digging in his pouch again, and producing a small cellophane packet of white powder. “But this already had.”

“What?” demanded Captain Wuollet.

Mercutio held the packet up. “This is what killed them. They were killed by the drug, the same one that killed Snout, when she tried to use what she’d stolen from the last victim. The rest was mere fakery to make it look like a crime of rapine. You did it.” He pointed at Laggy.

The proprietor of the Last Chance laughed again. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I kill them? Anyway, how can you prove it?”

“There was very little blood where we found the body,” said the captain, quietly. “And head wounds bleed. You all know that. What you may not know is that dead bodies don’t.”

Mercutio nodded. “Anyway. We—Snout and I—saw and robbed the body. There was no mark on her. She had not been violated. We heard someone approach and ran off lest we be caught. Methinks, if you offer sufficient reward and impunity, among the rats the looters of the other bodies will come forward. But you may be certain that the last victim was killed before her skull was broken. You had it all backwards.”

“Why didn’t you tell someone?” demanded Captain Wuollet.

“And be blamed? ‘Tis not our business.”

“It’s drivel,” said Laguna. “I mean yes, maybe the dust did come from the women, and might have overdosed your rat. But look, what reason do I have for killing them? They’re my business. They were raped and someone killed them to hide his ID. It had to be someone strong, that they knew or could recognize.”

He pointed at Holmes. “Someone like him. There is no other motive.”

Mercutio shook his head. “It is indeed a question of motive. But you have the motive. One of the women stumbled on your unpleasant secret, and thought she’d blackmail you. She threatened to tell Miz Zed. Even sent her a note. You killed her, and her friends, because, reviewing your disc of voyeurism, you saw that she’d talked.” Mercutio reached into his pouch yet again, this time holding up a recording-minidisc. “I have it here.”

“Give me that,” yelled Laggy, his face ashen. “Thief!”

“At least he is just a thief, not a murderer and slave-holder,” said the bat, grimly. “As you are. You also forgot that there was a witness. Or perhaps you thought you were safe as he was an alien who cannot speak English. You forgot that we too can speak Korozhet, although we choose not to.”

Captain Wuollet held up her hand. “Stop right there. Mr. Laguna told me that he didn’t speak Korozhet.”

“That is correct,” said Mercutio tugging his long whiskers. “Mr. Laguna does not. Unfortunately, Mr. Laguna is dead so what he speaks is of no matter.”

“What?” said Abe, just seconds ahead of several others.

Mercutio held up his stubby paws. “‘Tis, methinks, both simple and obvious.” He pointed at the short, plump proprietor. “This is not Mr. Laguna.”

Everybody still looked puzzled. “What?” said Slim finally. “This is my buddy Honest …”

“No,” said Mercutio, with the air of someone explaining to a simpleton—or a group of simpletons. “The man you call Honest Laguna is a former Korozhet slave who was found by the real Honest Laguna. Laguna was drunk, and trusting. This man—free now because the Korozhet had run off without their slaves—was found by the real Laguna. The slave he helped killed him, stole his clothes and possessions, including his still, and set up shop here. The act was witnessed by a fellow slave … one who is still here.”

“What?”

“It would appear to me that their brains are stuck on that word,” said Firkin. “Laggy here was slave. He’s got a few more slaves himself.”

“But slaves are totally forbidden in human space,” said the mayor.

“Methinks that you have a veritable nugget of fact there.” Mercutio fluffed his whiskers. “One that is motive for murder. He has not told them they’ve been liberated. He uses them in his drug manufacturing process, and to run his stills.” He gave his audience a ratty grin. “Just because you have been a slave yourself does not mean that you are a good man. According to Cookie, he was a Korozhet trusty. When the Korozhet fled … well, the two of them were found by Laguna, who was drunk. Laggy here was much the same size and build, and for reasons as yet unknown killed him.”

“You’ve just got this crazy rat’s word for all this,” said Laggy, backing against the bar. “How could I kill the girls? I’ve got alibis for my time. He lies.”

Mercutio regarded him askance. “We eat, perforce, rations. They are scarce, while the hydroponics are getting going. Methinks you will find scant witnesses to your presence during the dinner sittings.” He pointed with a stubby pawhand to the door in the painted mural. “Let us look behind the door then and ask the others if I lie.”

That gesture proved to be a mistake. All the eyes in the place followed, and people stopped looking, for an instant, at Laggy. Captain Wuollet was one of the first to realize it. And thus caught the full blinding force of the magnesium flare. And something hit her flak-jacket really hard.

* * *

There was, by the noise—she couldn’t see anything—a lot of chaos. Which included things like “after the bastard,” and “he went that-a-ways.” It sounded like Laggy’s well-oiled lynch mob was being put to excellent use, thought Rebecca, as she struggled to clear her vision.

By the time she could see again, Holmes had removed his large body from shielding his commanding officer. The bar was empty, with the exception of two rats, one with a large glass of cognac, and the other with her flouncy arms in the till, never mind her fingers. The bat was fluttering around the door in the wall-mural. And what was obviously a weird retinal after-burn shaped just like a cupcake was standing talking gibberish to the bat.

“What happened to Mayor and Abe?”

“The mayor was leading the pack. He might even stop it being an onsite lynching. And Abe was looking for some tools.” Sergeant Holmes closed the cash-register and narrowly missed making Firkin a little short-handed.

She sniffed irritably at him, and showed teeth. “Spoilsport.”

Abe returned with a small toolkit, and walked over to the mural door. Rebecca saw that the bat was pointing at some small holes she’d never noticed before. “At least you could help instead of indulging in petty larceny!”

Mercutio preened his whiskers. “I never indulge in petty larceny,” he said loftily. “This is hundred year old cognac. And you know as well as I that Cookie told us that Laggy has somehow locked that one. Methinks it will take explosives.”

Rebecca looked at the rat. “You have some explaining to do.”

He cocked his head. “Is Mercutio headed for durance vile?”

“I’ll settle for explanations,” said Rebecca. “And a glass of that loot. This time. If you stop Firkin trying to open the till again.”

Firkin sat down on the bar and pulled a bottle out of her sleeve and drank some of the amber fluid in it. She looked at Mercutio very intently as she did it.

“Art sure you would not have a stoup of this stuff?” he asked.

“Methinks I will stick to my own brew,” said the rattess. There seemed to be a hint of menace in that statement, although Rebecca could not put her finger on just why.

“I think,” said Mercutio, “That the largest part of my explanation is that things are always quite what they seem by first appearance. And if you can see motive … the picture gets clearer.”

“I’m still faint but pursuing as to what the picture actually is, and just how he was able to do it.” Rebecca took the cognac from the faintly sinister rat. “I assume you found the motive on the disc.”

Mercutio shook his head. “I did but deduce it. I know not what is on that disc. Probably the rutting of some miners and one of wenches. There must a hundred of them in his room. I guessed what his reaction would be. I was right.”

“Methinks they have great resale value,” said Firkin, snatching it up and dancing away.

“I’ll resell you,” said Rebecca. “Give it back.”

“No wonder no one likes the constabulary,” said Firkin, tossing it down. “So explain, Mercutio. How then did little Laggy kill the girls, if we grant him the motive?”

Mercutio savored the cognac. “It was a matter of arranging a rendezvous and waiting for the drug to kill them. The note, methinks you will find came from him, not the claw of Zed. I hath seen her script, which the girls had not. I caught a bare glimpse of the note when Laggy gave it to you, but it was neat and handwritten. Wingclaws or feet do a poor job of writing. Zed uses an electronic scripter, even for her picket signs. Did the note offer a great deal of money perchance?”

“Yes,” admitted Rebecca. He was too astute for his own good, this rat.

“So that is how he killed them,” said Holmes. “But how did he move them then? Mister rat?”

Mercutio shrugged. “He has a vehicle, and he repairs it. I think you’ll find he has a slider. Look carefully in the tunnel on the sides and you may see the tracks …”

“But we did. For the barrow,” said Holmes, shaking his head.

“With a narrow beam,” said Firkin. “I was there, I saw you do it. The tracks will be on the edges of the tunnel if they are there at all … not where a barrow would leave them, which was what you looked for.”

Holmes shook his head again. “God, what a sick bastard. You think he …”

It wasn’t something Rebecca wanted to think about, either. “Without a forensic expert we won’t know. I suspect he found the first body had been robbed, when he went to hide it, and saw a bright way of getting someone else to take the blame.”

“We’ll ask him, very politely, of course,” said Holmes. “When I examine his mind. If they haven’t killed him.”

Firkin snorted. “They’ll not catch him.”

“Then I will,” said Rebecca, grimly.

“Or the rats will find him. For a fee, of course,” said Mercutio.

“Got it!” said Abe. The painted door in the mural swung open to reveal a room full of lab paraphernalia, and a still. And three terrified looking aliens. Of course, expressions could be hard to read accurately on alien faces. But the cowering wasn’t. Cowering crossed the species and interplanetary divide.

Maybe the easy answer was just to pay the rats to bring the bastard in dead, thought Rebecca grimly. She turned to Mercutio. “I’m thinking of giving you a job in the police force.”

Mercutio seemed distinctly unwell, and looked around hastily for an exit. “Me? Art diseased in thy mind? My reputation, Iago …”

* * *

Eric Flint is the author of many novels and some short fiction. He has also edited a number of anthologies. Dave Freer has written a number of novels and short stories.

Newts

Written by Kevin J. Anderson

Illustrated by Lukasz Mrozek

During what should have been the ring colony’s Independence Day celebration, the mood in the family habitat was somber. Rex Hollings stared through the viewing window toward the pastel clouds of Saturn. Thanks to the mellowing influence of his implant, he wore a placid smile, aware of and yet immune to the misery and dread all around him. The others were incapable of being so stable in a time of crisis.

Rex admired the planet’s gentle beauty. The majestic ring arced up and caught sunlight, glittering with a spray of rocks where the tightly knit group of Worthies had built habitation modules, storage depots, greenhouse domes. All those artificial structures should have formed the backbone of a carefully engineered society. A magnificent colony. Standing alone, Rex considered the grand aspirations of visionary Ardet Hollings, who had founded the Worthies.

Now there were three empty seats at the dinner table. All families had suffered similar losses in the recent space battle.

As the emotional currents moved around him, Rex imagined himself as a rock in a fast-flowing stream, as in the library images he liked to view. Images of natural beauty were the only parts of Earth that Ardet had allowed them to see, claiming that everything else was too corrupt. He found the lovely landscape scenes very soothing, the rushing waters, the crashing ocean waves, the silvery waterfalls. Rex had never visited Earth, and he never would, especially not now.

Though he could not personally experience extreme moods, he still recognized the agitation from his mother and his two sisters-in-law. It was like learning a foreign language. Even little Max was affected by the tension; the boy clung fussily to his Uncle Rex, who was two years younger than his father. Rex picked up his unsettled nephew, whispering soft words that soothed him. Max stopped crying, giggled once, then played with his uncle’s hair. They both looked out the window. “See the planet? Isn’t it pretty?” As a first-born, Max would never be subjected to the implant, or the operation. If Rex hadn’t been so calm, he might have envied the little boy.

Mother emerged from the kitchen unit, forcing a bright smile. She looked wrung-out and pale, overworked, overwhelmed, but not willing to surrender any ground to Fate. She would keep doing what she must, regardless of the circumstances. As the wife of Ardet Hollings, she had always been an excellent example for other Worthy women to emulate, filling her role, doing her tasks, never overstepping the boundaries. Rex thought she was perfect. Even knowing the terrible things that had happened to the colony, and what they could expect from the Earth military forces, her job was to manage their home and keep the family unit intact. Mother would die before she gave up any of those tasks, no matter what outside threat might be coming their way.

“Today is our special day, so we have a feast. Twenty-one years ago today Ardet led us away from Earth and brought us here to form our model society.” She said the phrases she had memorized. Her husband had written the original Independence Day speech, and the words had become canon. “We came here to find peace, despite the hardships we knew we would have to face and without interference from outsiders.”

Rex intoned the benediction along with his two sisters-in-law, “Peace despite hardship.” He handed the now-happy toddler back to Ann, tapping Max on the nose and making him giggle one last time before the meal.

Mother brought out platters of fresh vegetables grown in the greenhouse domes. At the end of his shift that day, Rex had brought home the best from the harvest, far more than they really needed to eat. There were ears of bright yellow corn, bowls of green beans, leafy salads dressed with spicy herbed sauces. Tofumeat added extra protein.

With all greenhouse systems perfectly functional, at last, the productivity in the domes was enough to feed a population beyond even Ardet’s greatest dreams—and now that so many colonists had died, there was extra food for the table. Silver linings. Rex smiled at the thought. He served himself sliced tomatoes so red they made the eyes ache.

“There isn’t much reason to celebrate,” grumbled Ann as she took her seat next to one of the empty spots. When Max fussed, she set the toddler on her knee and absently shushed him. Rex offered to take the boy, but Ann shook her head.

Mother would not let anything derail her purpose. “It is still our Independence Day. We have always celebrated it, and we’ll do so again this year. Our men would want it that way.”

“Who knows what will happen next year?” Rex said, meaning to be optimistic. He let events flow toward him and accepted whatever came. He, like so many others of his generation, was kept on an even keel, cooperative, causing no trouble. Ardet had wanted it that way.

Instead, his comment stung the others there. Rex could see expressions fall and felt their turbulent anxiety: grief for lost husbands, fear of the inevitable end of their way of life, anger at the enemy that had robbed the Worthies of their future. No matter how brave their deaths had been while standing against the invaders, the men were still dead.

“I’m … sorry for what I said. It was insensitive.”

“That’s all right, Rex. You can’t help it,” Mother said.

Dark-eyed Jen, the widow of his brother Ian, took a seat across from Rex, moving as if in a daze. She had full lips, a lush figure, and a once-sparkling personality that had made her an extremely desirable mate. Ian had been the envy of many Worthies when she’d accepted his proposal of marriage, and Ardet himself had blessed the union. Rex had been very pleased for both of them, hoping they would have many children … but there hadn’t been time. He could sense Jen’s sorrow at that now, the suffocating weight of lost opportunities.

It all flowed past him. He was a rock in a stream. That was as much as the implant, and his altered body, allowed him to be.

Since Rex was the only “man” there, Mother asked him to say a brief prayer for Lee and Ian, as well as their father and all of the fallen heroes. Rex mouthed the memorized words in his thin, piping voice. Then they all joined in an uninspired but adequate recitation of Ardet’s traditional Independence Day benediction. When he finished speaking, everyone murmured, “As Ardet said.”

Giving him a shy smile, Jen served Rex one of the ears of corn, took a smaller one for herself, then passed the plate down to where Ann was struggling with Max while scooping up some beans. Ann had a round face and curly brown hair. When her husband was still alive, she had kept herself beautiful for him, but in the months since Lee had fallen, she’d had little opportunity to do so, especially with caring for Max.

Rex knew that Ann struggled to be strong, to follow Mother’s example; Worthy women were groomed to be exceptionally competent in their well-defined areas of responsibility, and to rely on the men to fulfill their own duties. But not even Ardet, with his grand dreams and detailed societal models, had envisioned the possibility of an entire stratum vanishing practically overnight.

Ann asked, “How soon do you suppose the DPs will be here?” She spoke as if it were casual mealtime conversation, though Rex could hear the tension, like brittle glass in her voice.

“I’ll have no such talk at the table.” Mother passed the salad bowl around again and urged them to eat. “This isn’t the time for it.”

“I’m afraid,” Jen said in a small voice, looking directly at Rex. He glanced away, knowing what she wanted from him but unable to give it. He felt so sorry for her.

The Democratic Progressives had dispatched a retaliatory force to crush them, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time. The Worthies had already sacrificed all their fighting men against the first small exploratory force that had come to Saturn. Ardet, Lee, Ian, and the other men in the Worthy settlement had defeated the enemy that day, but at incredible cost to themselves. The remaining colonists would have no chance when Earth’s reinforcements arrived at Saturn. For months now, Rex had felt the uneasy panic wafting among the colony survivors like the wind from a laboring air recycler.

But he remained calm. All newts remained calm. Ardet had thought it for the best.

After the meal, his belly full, Rex helped out in the kitchen unit, cleaning dishes, recycling scraps. Though Worthy men did not do such work, newts were allowed to perform some duties traditionally reserved for women. Besides, Rex had designed or refined some of the household recycling systems himself, and he knew how to keep them functioning at peak efficiency.

Jen offered to help him while Ann and Mother played with Max in the main living area. One of Ardet’s old recorded speeches played on the screen; crowds of exuberant new colonists cheered, giddy with their recent separation from Earth and assured of a bright future if only they followed the rigid Worthy plan.

Jen stood uncomfortably close to Rex in the cramped kitchen unit. He used a squeegee to scrape food into a compost-recycler and stored the serving plates in the sanitizer, which used water reclaimed from the abundant ice in Saturn’s rings. For a while, she made light conversation, though he could hear a deep and desperate huskiness to her voice, a longing and a need. After a long pause, Jen said in a very low whisper, “Rex, I ache every time I see you. Do you know how much you remind me of Ian? You look so much like him.”

“I am his brother. We’ve always looked a lot alike.”

She slipped her arms around his waist. “Face me.”

He felt awkward, interrupted in his work, but he dutifully turned. He looked at Jen’s oval face, her delicate chin. Both of his brothers’ wives were beautiful women, yet Rex felt no desire for his sisters-in-law. Still, he loved them deeply. Jen must have seen it on his face. He stroked her hair, trying to calm her, as he had done with Max.

Growing bolder, she pressed her soft breasts against his chest, then tilted her face. She kissed him, at first tentatively, then ferociously. Her lips were moist and pleasant, warm, wanting more than he was capable of giving. “I miss him so much, Rex. I’m so lonely.”

“We’re all lonely.” He gently extricated himself, patted her on the shoulder, as a brother would, and reminded her of what she already knew. “I’m not entirely like Ian. I’m missing some of my parts.”

Though he had not intended to upset her in any way, he experienced her reaction like whitecaps crashing against a sea cliff. Another library image from Earth … Rebuffed, Jen backed to the door of the kitchen unit. He could not experience the same reactions, with all the highs and lows of passion clipped from him, but he very much wanted to understand. “I’m sorry,” he said automatically, hoping it would defuse the tension simmering in her. “Don’t be angry.”

Dark hair swirled around her as she tossed her head and looked at him with a flicker of … disgust? “How can you keep us safe from the DPs? They’re coming! You know what they’re like. They’ll destroy us all.”

Rex blinked at her, struggling to quell the situation. Yes, he had heard Ardet’s speeches on the evils of Earth, the manic greed and violence of the Democratic Progressives. Rex, born here in the new colony, had never experienced Earth except through his father’s harsh descriptions, but he believed the stories of a lawless society in which no member knew his or her place. After great struggle and persecution, the Worthies had broken away from that, coming far enough out here into unclaimed territory that they could achieve their potential, following Ardet’s social map. Rex was part of that; they all were.

“We all have our tasks, Jen. I’m a newt. You know that being a fighter—or a lover—is not one of my duties.” He offered a comforting smile. “I can do many things, Jen, just not what you’re looking for right now.” Rex squared his shoulders, as he had seen his brothers do. “But if we don’t stay the course in our darkest hour, then we dishonor Ardet. He gave us our instructions. If we cast them aside now, then we are no better than the people from Earth.”

It was an intellectual argument, the kind Rex was best at, and he could see that it did not convince Jen’s heart. After she left him in a swirl of anger and fear, he went back to finish the kitchen chores by himself.

* * *

The handful of intact Worthy men insisted they would go down fighting for their principles, their way of life. Rex was physically, and chemically, prevented from feeling the same passionate resolve, but he could admire their determination, their bravery, their refusal to give up. He was sure Ardet Hollings would have been proud.

Shortly after their independence day, Rex and a dozen newts were removed from their daily assignments and sent out into the space rubble field with Commander Joseph Heron. Heron was old, scarred, and impatient, one of only twenty-three male survivors of the initial battle against the Democratic Progressives. Listening to him rail against Fate, Rex wondered if Heron had spent the last several months wishing that he too had died in the conflict. But if he had, who would defend the Worthies against the decadent and despicable DPs?

From the time he was child, Rex had been trained how to suit up and how to perform outside functions. He was perfectly capable of performing tasks out in hard vacuum, as were his fellow newts. They were well-educated, even-tempered workers who remained unruffled in a crisis. They would complete their tasks as required, no matter how anxious and uptight Commander Heron and his desperate soldiers might be.

Scouts had already combed the space battlefield for any wreckage they could salvage, but Heron insisted on trying again and again. The vagaries of gravity in the rings churned up new discoveries, like repressed emotions coming to the surface. Rex was sure nothing remained to be found, but the commander had nothing to cling to but dogged optimism. Rex was surprised, and pleased, when the searches paid off: Far from where anyone expected gravity and momentum to have carried it, they discovered a nearly intact DC ship.

Leaving Heron in charge was yet another example of Ardet’s great wisdom: No newt would have bothered to keep searching.

“This is our greatest break yet, men,” the commander said over the suit intercom as their shuttle approached. Heron allowed only a small touch of irony when he said “men.” His voice held an edge, as if anger could inspire the newts to greater dedication, but the implants continued to keep them controlled, calm. It was the most reasonable way to get a tough job done. After the Worthies’ early years of near-starvation, Ardet had based much of his plan on that basic idea… .

Heron named the wreck Flying Dutchman after an old Earth ghost story. The Dutchman‘s hull had been breached in several places, venting its atmosphere and killing the small crew. When their shuttle circled the derelict, Rex studied the configuration, making mental notes about what needed to be repaired. Decades ago, when leaving their tainted planet behind, Ardet’s followers had purchased brute-force commercial vessels to haul people and equipment on a one-way trip to Saturn. This DC exploratory ship was faster, its lines sleeker, its potential greater than anything the colonists had used.

When the shuttle docked against the Dutchman‘s cold hull, Heron addressed his men and the newts. “Inside this wreck, there may be energy weapons, explosive projectiles, something we can use. It’s my aim to get this vessel up and running. Then we’ll have five ships, and we can make a good accounting of ourselves when the DPs come.”

“Can we even understand the systems, sir?” Rex asked. “This technology far surpasses what we’re used to.”

The older commander turned to him. Behind the reflected glimmer on the curved faceplate, Rex could see his frown. “Just because you don’t have any balls, doesn’t mean you don’t have any brains. I’m counting on you to figure this out, Rex. It’s the only way we can survive.”

Rex didn’t think they would survive in any case, but he made no further comment. The other newts waited to receive instructions.

After they broke into the Dutchman, the salvagers separated into teams and methodically moved from deck to deck. They discovered the iron-hard bodies of six DC soldiers, expressions frozen as if surprised that a tiny group of isolationists had fought so bitterly against their impressive ship. Two of Heron’s men let out defiant cries of triumph; the others were queasy and silent. The newts were put on corpse detail, gathering and ejecting the dead soldiers. They didn’t mind.

On the bridge, Commander Heron and his men studied the dead ship’s systems. Rex stepped up to the engine controls and navigation modules, and peered down to read the labels on each station. He knew how to fix familiar systems—recyclers, irrigators, and lighting—but these looked different.

“Don’t just stand there and make this place crowded,” Heron said. “Not much time left!” The other newts spread out and began to make repairs.

With so many unknown factors, the Worthies had no way of determining exactly when the retaliatory ships would arrive. After receiving distress signals from the battle in the rings six months ago, Earth should have taken at least a month to gather a new fleet, which would take five or more months in transit. But if the DC military had modified their engines, improved their speed or fuel efficiency, they could fly to Saturn more swiftly than expected.

By any calculation, the DPs could be here any day.

Rex used a circuit mapper and command-train isolator to check the station panels, one row after another. He documented which modules were functional and which needed to be routed around or replaced. Even if the Dutchman were completely repaired, though, the new DC ships were bound to be far superior.

That first engagement had been unintentional, at least on Earth’s part. The Democratic Progressives had sent an exploratory force through the solar system, mapping resources, choosing possible locations for new colonies and outposts.

“It’s what so-called ‘progressives’ do,” Ardet had said in a speech to every member of the Worthy colony. “They spread, and exploit, and take what they want. We cannot let them steal our homes! We dare not let them disrupt our grand experiment. We must prove the strength of our principles.” His voice grew deeper and more powerful; it had been so stirring that Rex found himself moved in spite of the implant. “The DPs are barbarians—they will pillage, and rape, and destroy everything we hold dear!”

The Worthy men had howled, the women had cringed, and the newts had listened carefully. The men gathered every possible ship, cobbled together anything that could be used as a weapon, then set an ambush in the rings to protect their way of life.

The DC exploratory force had come to Saturn with escort ships and scientific vessels, intending to use the plentiful ice in the rings to replenish their fuel and water supplies. Rex had studied the records of their arrival, and (as far as he could tell) the DPs had taken no aggressive action; it seemed possible that they hadn’t even known about the tiny hidden colony. But fiery-eyed Ardet called it an incursion, a criminal trespass by plunderers. After overcoming birth pains and terrible difficulties, the colony had begun to thrive, exactly according to the design. They wanted nothing to do with the people of Earth.

The DC scientists and pilots were astonished when the Worthy men attacked. Though the DC exploratory fleet was not a military force, they had fought back, killing most of the young men and Ardet Hollings himself before being destroyed themselves.

“Nothing here we can’t fix,” Commander Heron said, rapping on the arm of the captain’s chair. “We can get the Dutchman flying again!” He looked around the bridge as if expecting the newts to cheer, but they continued their tasks with silent efficiency. He turned to Rex. “You. You’re Ardet’s own son. Doesn’t anything get you riled up?”

Rex shrugged in his bulky suit. “That’s not possible, sir.” He reset a panel and was gratified to see that all systems were now functional. “But I do my job to the best of my abilities. Is there something inadequate about my performance?”

Discouraged, the commander let out a long sigh that was audible across the helmet radio. “We won’t be able to last five minutes against the forces from Earth.”

* * *

Back at his familiar work in the greenhouse domes, comfortable with the routine despite the imminent arrival of the DPs, Rex was glad to be doing something worthwhile. “There is no more glorious work than providing food for our people,” Ardet had said to all greenhouse workers. And since Rex also worked on the illumination and irrigation systems, he felt he was doing even more than his part. It gave him a warm satisfaction to know he fit in so well.

Overhead, bright stars and outlying ring fragments moved like fireflies. Some of the women harvesting produce looked up nervously, as if expecting them to be braking jets from Earth ships; Rex saw only lovely lights as bright as diamonds.

He hummed a tuneless song to relax himself, though the implant did most of the job. Crews of newts and women picked ripe vegetables and fruits, never letting anything go to waste. The recycled air smelled fresh, moist, mulchy. Overhead lamps poured out warm, buttery light to nourish the plants. Coming around the gauzy limb of Saturn, the sun also rose, adding its distant light and life. Bees transported from Earth buzzed around the flowers, sexless drones doing their work for the betterment of the hive.

Two years ago, encouraged by his father, Rex had improved the hydroponic trays and then the nutrient-delivery irrigators in the planted rows. Now he drew a deep breath and sighed as he looked out at the colorful patterns of growth, all the shades of green. Each species was planted in the proper order for optimal food production, everything in its place, everything productive. Ardet Hollings had been such a genius.

Rex ruffled his fingers through the velvety leaves of enhanced strawberries. Ripe and red, they would make a sweet dessert; perhaps Mother would serve some tonight. She had been more extravagant with her cooking in the past few weeks, as if to reassure everyone that nothing was wrong.

As he moved the leaves aside, Rex spotted a darting lizard. The original colonists had brought no large animals with them from Earth, but along with the bees they had released numerous small animals such as birds, shrews, and tiny lizards. The birds and rodents had died; only the lizards had survived, and thrived, finding an entire ecological niche for themselves.

Rex tried to catch it, but he wasn’t quick enough. The lizard vanished among the strawberry plants, showing only a flicker of a tail that was a different color—obviously broken off and then regrown. Lizards had that amazing regenerative ability. Rex went back to his work picking the berries.

In the beginning, Worthies had planted only the fastest growing and highest-energy-density foods, then used reprocessing chemistry to break down even the waste vegetation into edible mass. They’d had nothing else to eat. Because of Ardet’s innovative survival measures, that crisis had passed when Rex was just a child, and now the Worthies had the luxury and the inclination to plant decorative flowers and ornamental shrubs from stored genetic samples.

This place had become a home instead of just a subsistence colony. But it wouldn’t last.

In their fourth year away from Earth, one of the three primary greenhouses had failed; a piece of rogue stony debris thrown from an impact in the rings had sailed at high velocity into the armored dome, shattering several panes and hemorrhaging atmosphere. Most of the air was gone, the temperature plunged, the greenhouse sent into an unstable wobble. Seven people died, and all the plants perished—one third of the crops to feed the settlement. Adding to the disaster, a blight had swept through the corn crop in one of the other greenhouses, decimating that harvest as well.

On the relatively new colony, their survival had already been hanging by a thread. Most of their preserved supplies were already gone. Devastated by the loss, the Worthies watched their perfectly planned future crumble. Though workers scrambled to build another greenhouse dome and create subsidiary growing areas, they faced the very real prospect of dying—or returning, beaten, to repressive Earth.

Ardet rallied them. “Return is never an option! We have fought too hard to establish a perfect society. I have provided the road map. Do we dare take our children back to that hellhole? How could we betray them in such a way?” He had lifted his young son Rex for all his followers to see. Now, when Rex watched the tapes and studied his father’s words, he was glad that in his small way he had helped Ardet make his point. “We have given our citizens their places, defined their roles, offered them security instead of cultural pandemonium. Men and women fill the niches for which they were bred, without the confusion of too much freedom and too many pressures.” It was a famous speech that all students were required to memorize. In the recording, the people were bleak, gaunt and hollow-eyed—with fear, as much as from hunger.

After the greenhouse failure, knowing they would barely have enough to eat for the next few years, Ardet had assessed the big picture and repainted his grand social landscape. “As Worthies, we must watch ourselves. We did not ask for an easy life, nor will we ever have one. Our population must always be carefully controlled. We will grow, and we will triumph, but out here we must do it in a properly planned fashion. This is not Earth.”

“Peace, despite hardship,” the crowd had mumbled.

“Thus, for the time being, we must stabilize our population. We must shore up our society, keep our roles intact, keep our people happy. We cannot have strife, nor can we have uncontrolled breeding. Thus, as a gesture to strengthen all of us in our resolve, we must make sure that no more than two children in each family will reproduce.”

This announcement had been met with dismay, since Worthies had, until now, been encouraged to have large families in order to increase their numbers. The people muttered. “Most of us already have more children than that, Ardet. Do you … want us to kill them?” someone asked from the audience. Watching that interchange over and over, Rex was sure that the questioner would have done it, if Ardet had asked.

Their leader shook his head and gave a broad, paternal smile. “Of course not. We love our children. They are the building blocks of our great society. But, we must use them with great care, to a noble purpose.” Ardet had looked at them all with his intense visionary glare. “While I am confident we have the strength to survive, this crisis is only an example of our possible tribulations. By our own design, we are in a new situation here at Saturn. We came to escape the anarchy and gluttony of Earth, and to do that we must change ourselves … and that is a good thing, though it will be hard.

“For this generation, we must take interim measures. Difficult measures, but vital ones. After the first two children, our extra sons and daughters will remain important parts of our perfect society, but they will also make the sacrifice so that we can remain strong and stable.” He had looked at them all. Rex still felt a chill when he recalled the historical tapes. “They must be neutered.”

As an educated adult, when Rex considered the details of the solution, he didn’t think the mathematics worked out. Neutering the additional children had not decreased the number of mouths to feed. But, as became clear later, that had only been the first part of Ardet’s brilliant plan. Using the greenhouse accident as a springboard, he had led his people past another watershed, pushed his new society to an entirely new level.

Because he was their leader, because his followers would do anything he asked, they had not argued. To show his sincerity, Ardet had won their hearts by offering up his own young son as the first to be castrated. Rex was told again and again what a great thing he was doing, though being only four years old at the time he had understood nothing about what was really being taken from him.

After a large group of children was neutered and properly raised—girls as well as boys—Ardet had quietly revealed his deeper motivation to create an entire layer of society without aggression, without destructive competitiveness. Newts were cooperative and friendly, productive, and completely reliable, if not ambitious; the boys being the most prominently changed. The castration itself was not sufficient for Ardet’s purpose, though. With carefully metered implants, the newts remained on an even emotional footing, causing no trouble. Each family was allowed two viable children, and the rest became a new caste, the strong and stable foundation for a great Worthy civilization. Rex had listened to the rationales over and over. He thought it was breathtaking… .

Now, as Rex and the newts continued their work in the greenhouse, the women reacted to a signal piped in over the dissemination channel. The words were spoken in a crisp voice with just a tinge of fear. “An outpost on the fringe of the outer ring has picked up radio chatter, and long-distance sensors have just discovered the Earth military force on its way. The Democratic Progressives will arrive at the rings of Saturn within a week, two at the most.”

Hearing this, Rex missed his brothers more than ever. He had never understood them, but he loved them nevertheless. In their youth, Lee and Ian had fought and wrestled with each other, so full of life. Fairly bursting with energy, they had always exhausted their little brother. They had tried to include Rex in their roughhousing play, but even as a boy he had never enjoyed it—due more to the implant than the actual neutering. What if he had been more like them?

As he finished filling his container with strawberries, Rex looked up through the transparent dome. He thought about Jen, desperate for him to be something he wasn’t, then felt sorry for Ann and her little boy. For their sakes, he tried to imagine himself in a Worthy soldier’s uniform. What if it came down to that?

Would he grab a projectile repeater rifle and stand at the habitat doorway with Mother, Ann, and Jen behind him? Snarling, would he point the hot barrel of the weapon toward oncoming DC invaders, scream like a madman and blast away one enemy after another? Maybe he would use the weapon as a club if he ran out of ammunition. He would bare his teeth. He would claw at them with his hands. The women would treat Rex as a hero, a savior. Then he would hop aboard the Flying Dutchman and streak off into space, using the ship’s weapons to destroy more of the DC attackers. He would make them pay dearly… .

Rex wiped away the faint sweat that had broken out on his forehead, shaking his head at the strange ideas. The implant struggled to banish the thoughts as fast as they came into his head. None of it felt like something he could do, something he should do. Rex was a newt, with his specific role to play—just like every Worthy. Ardet would have been gravely disappointed to learn his son had even entertained such fantasies. It was not at all what the great leader had designed newts to do. They served another purpose.

Rex emptied his container of strawberries, then went to pick soybeans. Even after the women had rushed off, he and four newt companions stood together chatting. Their conversation didn’t touch on the approaching Democratic Progressives. Rex was confident that everything would work out for the best.

* * *

The family huddled together in the living quarters for their final hours. Rex held a squirming Max as he stood at the window, but even his uncle’s attentions could not calm the boy against the palpable storm of panic. Rex felt the boy’s misery and held him close, but they could not help each other.

Intellectually, he knew their dire straits, though the implant worked overtime to keep him quiet and anchored. Now he needed it more than ever. With a glance at the pale, wide-eyed faces of his mother, of Ann and Jen, Rex wondered if they envied him his calm.

With Max clinging to him, he pondered what it might have been like if he’d had a child of his own. If things had been different, would he have felt the longing to reproduce, the endless ticking of a biological clock?

Rex kissed the toddler’s cheek, then looked toward the upswept rings, where he could see the glimmers of inbound DC ships. Some families were using telescopes to watch the defensive measures Commander Heron was struggling to implement. Rex saw all he needed to see with his own eyes.

Each weapons launch, each explosion, was a tiny spark. The Earth forces had come with more than a hundred fully armed military vessels, more than enough to overwhelm any resistance the Worthies could mount. Even so, Heron had taken the Flying Dutchman into battle; the other intact men had a few ships, little more than tiny cargo shuttles loaded with explosives. They faced off against the DPs in a brave but hopeless last stand. Fifteen newts had been recruited to man some of the defensive posts, but the Worthies did not have enough weapons for them. Rex wondered if his neutered comrades were experiencing any fear in their extreme circumstances. Was this what Ardet would have wanted them to do?

As they approached, the DC ships issued numerous warnings—they sounded like pleas—for the Worthies to stand down. From listening to the battle chatter, it seemed to Rex that the enemy fired only after Commander Heron had launched his weapons. Once the battle began, however, the DPs quickly obliterated the resistance.

The Earth ships were visible now as distinct blips closing in on the isolated colony. There seemed to be as many hospital ships as armed military vessels. Decoys? With their superior forces, why would the DPs expect so many casualties? And if they meant to slaughter the Worthies, why bother with medical aid?

“We do not intend to harm you,” said a strangely accented but gentle-sounding voice over the dissemination channel. A female voice, in command. That startling fact alone demonstrated to Rex how different these invaders were.

“They’re lying,” Ann growled. Now she tried to take Max, but the boy clung to his uncle. Rex soothed him, and Ann withdrew to her terrified pacing.

As the DPs passed the outer supply depot, it exploded, booby-trapped with proximity bombs. Flying shrapnel tore open one of the Earth battleships. Rex knew that the depot had been manned by two newts assigned there by Commander Heron.

Tears streaked Jen’s lovely face. “That one was for Ian,” she whispered, her voice cold and bitter.

Mother sat grimly in her favorite chair. “At least the damned Capitalists won’t be able to take our supplies.”

“Cease your resistance!” The female commander’s voice sounded sterner now. “We cannot allow you to threaten peaceful ships. After you are disarmed, you will be given an opportunity to explain yourselves and air any grievances in world courts. But we must protect ourselves.”

“Then stay away!” Jen shouted. Her once-luxuriant dark brown hair was stringy; her eyes grew red as she kept crying. Rex was sure his brother would still have found her beautiful.

When the ships surrounded the habitation complex, there were no more flashes, no more desperate attempts to block them. The crackling accented voice continued, “Please stand down. We do not wish to hurt anyone else. We will not harm you. You have our word.”

Jen moaned from the other side of the room. “They’re going to kill us all! They’ll drag us back to Earth and make us their slaves.” Ardet had painted that picture many times, convinced his followers what monsters the DPs were. Rex couldn’t let himself believe that his father might have distorted the truth, exaggerated the threat.

Little Max continued to squirm, and Rex set him down. “It’s already over.”

Ann glared at him. “Don’t you even care? Don’t you realize what they’ll do to us?”

Reaching an impossible decision, Mother disappeared into the sleeping quarters, then returned holding a heavy pulse rifle. Both Ann and Jen saw the weapon and cringed. Even Rex could barely cope with his surprise.

Ardet Hollings had wanted a peaceful society. He had reconfigured the human structure to guarantee there would be no conflict, only order and productivity. By using his followers as human building materials, by creating the unshakeable and diligent newts to be the backbone of a strong and satisfying life, he had intended to make such weapons unnecessary. The pulse rifle had no purpose other than to shed blood.

“Mother, we can’t do that! It is forbidden,” Ann said, though her voice held a rough hunger. Rex could see the raw conflict in her mind.

“The men are our defenders,” Jen said.

“All our men are dead,” Mother said. “We have no choice. We have to defend ourselves.” She lifted the weapon, and it was obvious she already knew how to use it. Rex wondered where she had gotten the practice, why she had ever considered it necessary. “Unless Rex will do it.”

She held the pulse rifle forward, and Rex found that he was unable to move. “I can’t. I’m a newt. Our father made it so—”

“Do you believe in Ardet’s teachings? Do you truly trust his words?”

He shied away from the weapon, shaking his head. “The implant, the operation—our father forced me not to be a man. How can you demand it of me now?”

“Because times demand it.” Mother’s eyes were sharp and hard. “You know what you have to do.” She placed the rifle in his hands. It felt heavy and cold. He stared at the firing controls.

The DC ships clustered around the colony domes and locked themselves down. Rex’s family members all jumped upon hearing a loud thump as the invaders forced open the access airlocks. “They’re coming!” Ann said.

Rex stood with the rifle like a dead weight in his arms. Yes, he did believe what Ardet had told them. He had listened to all the speeches, enough to memorize most of them. He knew what the Worthies stood for. He accepted everything Ardet had claimed, though the actions of the DC invaders were not what he had expected.

The implant helped him to consider his thoughts, to see them objectively, without the disturbing backwaters and eddies of unruly emotions. He had no testosterone-induced distractions, no aggression, no wild mating drive. In this impossible situation, only the newts among the Worthies could remain solid and true to Ardet’s principles.

Yes, he believed. He knew what his father would have wanted of him. Ardet had made it plain in his teachings, in his speeches, and in his actions. How else could Rex accept what had been done to him?

Mother looked at her only remaining son, her face full of emptiness. Jen and Ann stared at him, perhaps seeing echoes of his brothers.

The female DC spokesman broadcast another message. “You will not be harmed. You will be taken care of. If some of you wish to come back to Earth, we will arrange safe passage.”

“Don’t believe them,” Jen cried. “They’re barbarians.”

Heavy footsteps came down the halls. Rex stood like a rock in a fast-moving stream, feeling the weight of great events all around him. He was a Worthy, a vital component of Ardet’s vision. He had his role, he was a newt. He believed in what they stood for.

The pulse rifle in his hands was armed. The DPs were coming closer.

He set the weapon aside. Behind him, someone moaned in fear or disappointment. Mother, perhaps?

If he truly believed in his father’s plan, then he had to accept what he was—and what he was supposed to do.

Newts were made to be teachers, listeners, faithful workers, a stable class without violent tendencies. If Ardet had wanted his son and all those like him to be heroes, he would never have cut them off at the … knees. Rex didn’t need the implant to tell him that this was for the best.

As the DC consolidation parties moved toward the family habitat, Rex faced them. He experienced no despair or panic, neither elation nor fear. Just an unending sense of calm …

* * *

Kevin Anderson is the author of many novels and short stories.

Chance of Storms

Written by Edward M. Lerner

Illustrated by David Maier

My cabin, its lapped wood siding faded to a pale gray, was the only human structure in sight. I was communing with nature, aka staring blankly into space from the front porch, my chair tipped back, my feet propped on the rickety railing, when motion caught my eye.

A plume of dust made its way slowly along a path that was more hinted-at than beaten. In time, a vehicle became visible. Watching the unexpected car bounce and sway, I wished upon it blown shocks, flat tires, and a snapped axle. Such a minor mishap would have been a blessing—for whoever was in the car.

No such luck.

The road became ever more rutted as it approached the cabin. My uninvited guest could not have been going more than twenty when he passed the Do Not Trespass sign. He ignored it.

I sighed.

The late-model Toyota, arguably metallic blue, but I couldn’t be certain due to the coating of dust, shuddered to a stop a good hundred feet from the cabin. There was an inaudible consultation among the three people inside, then the driver climbed out. He wore an expression that was simultaneously aggressive and anxious, a look with which I had become all too familiar: a reporter. “Mind if I come on up?” Mistaking silence for assent, he advanced to the foot of the porch.

He turned slowly, taking in the broad expanse of prairie that surrounded my humble home. “Nice view. I can see why you would like it out here.”

Who said I liked it? I continued my silence. Sometimes rudeness worked.

“I’m Harry Weidner.” He named the national newspaper he claimed to represent. I waved him off when he set foot on the lowest step to show me a press ID. He put away his wallet, then ostentatiously patted his shirt pocket. “I should tell you that I’m wearing a wire. The signal is broadcast to my peers in the car. Recorded there, too.” He gave an equally ostentatious shrug, and added, “I’m sure you’ll understand.”

It was my turn to shrug. “I don’t suppose you would consider getting back in your car and just leaving?”

“I don’t think so.” He flashed the reporter’s standard this-won’t-hurt-a-bit smile. “This is a story that should be told. I’ve done a lot of research about you, you know.”

It would do no good, but I felt obligated to make a disclaimer. I gestured at my, shall we say modest, surroundings. “Are your readers crying out for news of obscure failed writers?”

Weidner licked his lips. “Only the ones with paranormal mental powers.”

A storm had come up suddenly. Clouds were forming to the west; distant thunder rumbled. “Since you have researched me, what do you think my story is?”

He looked around for a seat, since I was already occupying the only chair on the porch. He settled for a tree stump back in the yard. “It seems clear that you have paranormal abilities—we’ll come back to which ones. As those talents matured, you’ve moved farther and farther into the country. Your former neighbors all attest to strange and unexplained events, especially just prior to each of your moves. Destructive events.”

Only the surviving neighbors attested, I assumed … unless Weidner had his own unusual skills. That thought brought on an unwelcome rush of memories. When I returned to the present, my uninvited guest was still droning on.

“… Recurrent incidents of mind reading. That would be consistent with your repeated moves, each time to a smaller and more rural community. To get away from the mental clamor of others,” he ended helpfully, as if I were too stupid to get the point.

Did telling obviously frightened people not to be scared constitute mind reading? Evidently. That was back in the days I deluded myself I had any control.

My guilt-in-advance kicked in. “May I offer you some water?” I retrieved a pitcher and glasses from inside the cabin. “Mr. Weidner, no human sense works that way. Our brain lets us tune out unwanted background noises, ignore unimportant visual detail, stop noticing unpleasant smells after a while. Why would a telepathic sense be any less practical?”

“So not a denial of telepathy—just a disclaimer that it would be a reason to move.” The reporter stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “What about your telekinesis?”

My cabin lacks electricity; the water was tepid. I took a long drink anyway. “If I could move things mentally, don’t you think I would have brought us some ice cubes?”

He rattled off several incidents from my past, odd occurrences of various kinds. Would I admit to having clairvoyance? Prescience? One might say these speculations were closer to the mark, but I didn’t bother. Any foreknowledge of doom I experienced was simply pattern recognition. My vague disclaimers continued to be, in turn, disbelieved.

I don’t know why Weidner finally left. Maybe he finally accepted that I wasn’t going to tell him anything. Maybe the approaching storm made him decide it was time to head back to town. Whatever the reason, his nattering finally wound down. He strolled back to the car. He pivoted to make one last attempt. “Fine, then—I’m all wrong. My research is all wrong. So what is your story?”

My only answer was a glower; he eventually got into the car. The vehicle turned in a tight circle to head back the way it had come. It had gone perhaps two hundred feet when a rut caught a front tire. The Toyota swerved into a roadside boulder and halted with a loud crunch. Airbags briefly filled the windows. Steam curled upward from the cracked radiator.

Although three people climbed out under their own power, the familiar pangs of guilt returned. With fear, or at least a too-late sense of doubt, now plain on his face, Weidner watched me step down from the porch. He slumped with relief as I turned away from the wreck.

Fat raindrops, harbingers of what would surely be a major downpour, flung themselves from a suddenly slate-gray sky. Coyotes howled in the distance. Thunder boomed, much closer now, as my uninvited callers began the slog to the main road.

Walking briskly in the opposite direction, I explained to no one in particular. “My story is … I have contagious bad luck.”

* * *

Edward M. Lerner is a physicist, computer scientist, and curmudgeon by training. Now writing full-time, he applies all three skill sets to his science fiction. His web site is www.sfwa.org/members/lerner/

Science Fiction Weekly says, “In his novel MOONSTRUCK, physicist Edward M. Lerner operates proudly in the classic hard-SF tradition of John W. Campbell and Robert A. Heinlein.” SFRevu writes of MOONSTRUCK, “This is a terrific book by an emerging talent.”

Baen Books recently re-released MOONSTRUCK, a unique first-contact tale, in mass-market paperback.

Dinosaur Egg $6

Written by Chet Gottfried

Illustrated by Alex Uphoff

Seeing the handwritten sign “Dinosaur Egg $6,” Ted Albright made a hard left and cut across the southbound traffic of Route 89. He parked his Mustang on the broad shoulder of the overlook. Navajos sat behind tables and sold jewelry and pots. Behind them the Colorado River meandered in the distance, a thin, dark streak on an endless plain.

Albright sighed. He had over 200 miles to drive before reaching Mesquite and his day at the slots. But fossil dino eggs intrigued him. The Chinese ones could be purchased via eBay. South American shell fragments were also available.

The sign hung on a large, faded-blue tent, which had a canvas flap over its entrance. In front, an old Navajo sat on a rickety folding chair.

Boots crunching on gravel, Albright strolled to the Indian. “Howdy.”

The Indian nodded.

Albright didn’t know whether the Indian was male or female. A very old man, he decided, despite having black hair. The Navajo wore a faded denim shirt and jeans, and his eyes were almost lost in the broad face.

“Six bucks to buy your dinosaur egg?”

The Indian shook his head. “To look.”

Albright laughed. “To look!? Why pay six dollars? We’re in the dinosaur triangle. There are museums and sites all over the southwest. Who’d pay six bucks to see a fossil egg?”

The Indian shrugged.

An old woman, Albright decided.

“Give me one reason,” he said. He wondered why he was talking to the woman when he wanted to gamble at the Oasis.

“Real egg.”

Not a Navajo, Albright guessed, but she’s crazy. Burned by the sun.

“Yeah, sure.” But Albright didn’t leave. He was held by the impossible dream of a live dinosaur egg.

“Six dollars,” the Indian said.

Albright got his wallet and selected a five and a one. “Here.”

The Indian took the bills and absentmindedly put them in a pocket. She had very fine if somewhat dusty hands. Standing up, the Indian was very short, her head not even reaching Albright’s shoulder. She opened the flap, and Albright followed her inside. Walking behind the Indian and seeing the broad shoulders and thin hips, Albright decided that the Indian must be a man.

The tent was dark. The only light came from the entrance and whatever filtered through the canvas. Albright took off his sunglasses. After his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a ring of chairs. In the center was a large ceramic planter filled with soil. Half buried in it was a dusky egg-shaped object, less than 6 inches across and partially covered by dry leaves.

It wasn’t a fossil.

“Can I touch it?”

The Indian shrugged, and Albright gingerly put his fingertips on the egg. It felt like shell.

“It’s a real egg?”

The Indian nodded.

“Maybe it came from an ostrich?”

“No.”

“Where did you get it?”

The Indian didn’t answer. He looked at Albright, who was desperately trying to think of anything to say. I better leave now, he thought. The Indian is crazy, no matter what the thing is. How could it be a dinosaur egg? This guy is old. But how old? Maybe a thousand years? That would make him an Anasazi. Or maybe as old as a Paleo-Indian? Whatever, dinosaurs were extinct long before then.

Albright put on his friendliest smile. “That’s one great egg. You must be proud. Well, I gotta go. Thanks for sharing.”

The Indian handed him a flyer. The paper described a contest: “Bet within five minutes the correct time of hatching. $100.”

“The egg is going to hatch?”

The Indian nodded.

“And I’m supposed to guess the right time?” He laughed. “The egg could hatch today, tomorrow, next week, next month, or never. Who’s going to be foolish enough to spend $100 for that?”

“It hatches tomorrow.”

“A dinosaur is going to hatch from your egg tomorrow? Okay, suppose I guess correctly. What do I win?”

“The dinosaur.”

Albright felt tempted despite knowing it was impossible. The same nemesis that had him driving to Mesquite had caught him again. He couldn’t resist a bet, any kind of bet. “And if the egg doesn’t hatch? Or if it hatches but a dinosaur doesn’t come out?”

“It hatches tomorrow. Between noon and six.”

“So you know?” A minute passed, and Albright said, “What if I win and it turns out to be an Allosaurus or some other flesh-eating monster? What would I do?”

The Indian shook his head vigorously. “Horned dinosaur. A very gentle one.”

“Very gentle, huh. It would have to be. Probably grow as large as a house.”

“Not very big. Okay if you have land.”

“I’ve a ranch and 20 acres,” Albright said, “north of Flagstaff. Forest mostly.” Albright thought, Why am I telling him this? I wonder if he’s a Hopi? They know some strange stuff.

Nodding with satisfaction, the Indian said, “That’s good. Got livestock to keep the dinosaur company?”

“I’ve a Shire. A bay mare seventeen hands high,” Albright said proudly. “She’s registered at the Shire Horse Association.”

“Good. You will place bet.”

Albright’s smile vanished. “Now wait a minute. Trying to guess when an unknown animal is going to hatch from an unknown egg is tough.”

“Spread your bet.” The Indian tapped at the paper. In smaller print at the bottom of the flyer, Albright read that reserving an hour was discounted to a thousand dollars.

“I don’t have a thousand dollars on me—unless you take credit cards.” Many roadside merchants took cards, but Albright doubted whether this Indian would accept plastic.

“Get the money. You’re lucky.”

“Yeah, I’ll get the money. Thanks. Good-bye!” Albright left the tent. Behind him, he heard the ancient voice say, “Tomorrow. Between noon and six.”

By the time Albright had his Mustang in gear and saw an opening through the traffic, a young couple was standing in front of the ancient Indian. Let them buy the chances, he thought, as he accelerated into the northbound lane.

The drive along 89 went quickly enough. After he switched to 59 to avoid the Zion tunnel, Albright thought about the old Indian and the dinosaur. By St. George, he saw a sign pointing to the Johnson Farm dinosaur site. On an impulse, he followed the signs into the city and found the place, which was a track collection. Between two condos and an industrial park, the track site consisted of a long awning over a hundred large blocks of stone. Each slab had one or more deep and well-defined footprints. Ground nearby was being broken for a permanent museum. A dapper gentleman with white hair and glasses gave a brief lecture to the several people who arrived at the same time as Albright. After looking at the tracks, he asked the dapper man, “Do you have any dinosaur eggs?”

“No, but our tracks are unique.”

Albright agreed but wanted to see dinosaur eggs.

The man shrugged. “Try Provo or Salt Lake.”

“Thanks.” Albright walked back to his car. Both cities were in the opposite direction.

It took another hour to reach Mesquite. Albright booked a room at the Oasis, grabbed a fast meal at the hotel cafe, and then played a slot machine. He promised himself a limit of 500 quarters. By eight o’clock he won over $300. He ate dinner and then continued gambling. He wandered around and tried machines at random. It wasn’t sensible. He didn’t want to be sensible.

By midnight he won $1200 and decided to stop testing his luck. He went to his room and dialed his home to retrieve any messages. There were two, both from his girlfriend Lillie. She was at a travel agent seminar in Phoenix. The first was recorded in the morning: “Hi Ted. How ya doing? Not too lonely? The conference should be over tomorrow. Love you!” The second was an hour ago: “Hi Ted. It’s me. Listen, you’re not doing anything foolish? Tell me that you’re not gambling. You promised. Remember? I’ll be home tomorrow for dinner.”

Albright took a long, slow shower, settled into bed, and thought about the morning, whether he’d have enough time for a decent session with the slots. It was a six-hour drive back home from Mesquite. Although he could cut an hour off if he drove through Las Vegas, Albright disliked the traffic and the temptation. He was well ahead and reasoned that gambling was okay as long as he won. Even Lillie would have to agree with that! But he knew she wouldn’t. He had no choice. He’d leave first thing in the morning to be home before Lillie and hide any traces of his Mesquite adventure.

Waking up early, he washed, dressed, and went out for breakfast in the hotel. Three cups of coffee, two scrambled eggs, and one steak later found him at the slot machines, where he quickly lost $100 on a three-spider machine. He was about to try a different one but noticed a web portal. The dinosaur egg leaped into his mind, and Albright decided to do a search. The word dinosaur returned over 3 million links. Filtering with the word horned reduced the links to twenty thousand. Triceratops was the most popular entry, and two facts about that dinosaur struck him: They were extinct and adults were 20 feet long. That’s way too big, thought Albright. What would I do with it? He checked his wristwatch: 9:30 a.m. He’d be lucky to be on the road before ten and equally lucky to have reached the Indian’s tent before two. He thought, I’m too late. The egg would have hatched. Nevertheless, Albright immediately went to his room, gathered his belongings, and checked out. After buying a full tank of gas, he got on the I-15.

The quirky traffic included road construction and slow campers trying to pass even slower campers. Leaving the interstate, he ran into more construction by Hurricane, but the worst occurred when he reached Route 89. Albright had the frustration of being behind a solid line of thirty vehicles. In front were two SUVs, each hauling a huge powerboat and each traveling well below the speed limit. The car immediately behind them was too nervous to use the oncoming traffic lane for passing. Albright got into the game with the other faster drivers: hopping in front of another car at each opportunity.

It took a half-hour to get past the boat-trailers, but then he had a clear run. A little after 2:30 he rounded a bend, and the overlook was in sight, along with the tables of wares and the all-important tent. The ancient Indian was sitting outside, as if waiting for him.

He parked and walked to the Indian. “The egg hasn’t hatched?”

The Indian shook his head.

“I’ve a thousand dollars. Give me from three to four.”

The Indian didn’t accept the money. “Three thirty is taken. Check the board inside.”

Albright was dumbfounded. “You mean other people are buying chances?”

Standing up, the Indian walked into the tent, and Albright followed. The top of the tent was open, bathing the egg in sunlight. He saw three men and a woman sitting on the folding chairs in a loose circle around the egg. Then he saw the board. Seventeen chances were taken: all the half-hour and hour marks and a few in between. By the number of names written down, he knew that the people who anticipated an early hatching had already left. Shrugging, Albright quickly filled in his name on the quarter hours, including the five-minute mark before and after. He paid the Indian $900, sat down, and said “Howdy.”

Only the middle-aged woman acknowledged his presence by smiling.

Albright said, “I’m Ted. Have you been here long?”

“Since one o’clock. My name’s Willa. I’m a schoolteacher on vacation from Idaho. I was curious about the Grand Canyon. I thought I might buy Indian jewelry for myself but came across this tent. Isn’t it silly? Who in their right mind would expect a dinosaur to hatch from an egg? It must be a fake. But if it has any chance of being true, wouldn’t it be wonderful to show my class?”

Regretting that he started the conversation, Albright agreed with her.

“You’ve placed many bets,” she prattled on, “I could only afford one. At three thirty. Teachers never earn enough, and we have to live with nothing during the summer—unless we take a second job. Not that I mind, no. But—”

Albright was very happy when 3:30 came and passed without any egg activity. Willa debated staying longer but decided that she had to reach Phoenix before nightfall.

After she left, one of the men, dressed in a dark-gray business suit, said, “That’s a relief. Waiting is hard enough, but her chatter got on my nerves.”

Smiling, Albright nodded but didn’t reply. He didn’t want to start another conversation.

The Indian occasionally walked into the tent, looked around, studied the egg, and walked out.

Shortly before 4 p.m., the egg moved. A burly man jumped up and came within arm’s length of the egg. Albright worried that the stranger might shake or push the egg, but the Indian materialized next to the man. The burly man remained standing, but there was no other egg motion.

Four o’clock passed without further incident. The burly man cursed and left. The man in the suit offered to share his bottle of water with Albright, who was very grateful.

“You’d think someone would sell drinks.”

At 4:10 p.m. a crack appeared. The next five minutes had Albright silently encouraging the creature, but it was as if the little guy took a nap after each accomplishment. At 4:18, a piece of shell was pushed aside, and they all caught a glimpse of a brown beak.

The Indian appeared. He said to Albright. “You won. Everyone else leave now.”

The suit quietly left, but the remaining stranger stayed sitting: “I want to see what hatches.”

The Indian walked up to him. “Please leave. His dinosaur must only see him. That is the way.” The man stood up, looked around forlornly, and exited. Albright wondered what it was that drove all of them to want the impossible. Even seeing the beak did not convince him of the reality. The Indian gave Albright a lettuce leaf. “When out of shell, eat the leaf. Then give it to your dinosaur. I will come back.”

Albright watched the beak slowly demolish more and more of the shell. At times he caught a glimpse of a bright yellow eye. Then a little creature covered in down tumbled out of the egg and onto the straw. Albright’s first impression included extreme disappointment: A bird. However, he then saw that the animal had four legs and a tail. His heart racing, Albright kneeled down next to it and murmured, “Why hello.”

All of about a foot long, the little dinosaur piped “Ezakjee” over and over again.

Albright bit a piece of lettuce and offered the remainder to the animal, who munched away with great appetite.

The Indian came in carrying a cardboard box that had holes punched through it. “For your dinosaur. Be very careful during the first two months. Feed it lettuce. Then let it graze.”

“It’s going to be 20 feet long,” Albright said.

”Zuniceratops is small. Maybe 10 feet,” said the Indian.

The little dinosaur, with its characteristic horns barely visible, did not want to be put into a box. It had already fought to get out of a dark place, but the two men got the Zuniceratops in and taped the top shut.

“Thanks!” said Albright happily. Outside the tent everyone else had left. Albright got into his Mustang. He considered what to tell Lillie. And he needed a name for his dinosaur.

* * *

The Indian took apart and packed the faded-blue tent. He heaved it onto the flatbed of his pickup. From his pocket he took a device which looked like a cell phone. No one else was nearby, and he pressed two buttons.

“I finished round 15a. Eighteen dinosaurs for the Flagstaff area.”

His language wasn’t English. It wasn’t Navajo or Hopi, either. For that matter, now that there was no one in the vicinity, his appearance would no longer have been confused with that of a Navajo or Hopi, of either sex. Or any other human.

The signal took four minutes to reach base camp, and another four minutes for the reply. He didn’t mind the wait, for he was patient by nature. The re-seeding would take many years, and there were bound to be setbacks along the way. But the project was developing an irresistible momentum. Soon enough, the evolutionary disaster his people had accidentally caused long ago would be reversed, and the planet’s rightful masters would return.

* * *

Chet Gottfried is the author of several short stories and a novel, “The Steel Eye.”

The Ten Thousand Things

Written by Mark L. Van Name

Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti

Yukio stared at the image of Matsushima Bay in the window that was one wall of his father’s office. Whitecaps freckled the nearer water. Pine-covered islands filled the distance, the trees gray in the dying light. The sounds of whistling wind carried off the occasional beep of the heart monitor as it tracked the death passage of his father.

His father had always loved the bay, had led the campaign that restored it to its natural beauty. It and the company, the twin passions of his life, had kept him constantly busy, constantly away. Matsushima Bay was the older brother Yukio had never had and could never match. His father would be buried there, beside the family temple on the far side of now-deserted Oshima Island. Yukio hated Matsushima.

When he realized he had not heard a beep in some time, Yukio released the breath he had been unconsciously holding and turned from the window.

His father lay curled in a fetal position in an open long metal cylinder the soft black of a switched-off video display. Tubes and wires ran from his body to the capsule’s lid, which rested on its hinges beside him. Yukio saw the device as a fusion of his father’s passion for ancient religion and modern tech, a burial barrel as re-imagined by a circuit designer. His father hated hospitals and had not wished to die in one. He wanted to die in one of the two centers of his world, his office or Oshima Island. When the stroke hit him, the office was closer.

Yukio’s mother sat beside the cylinder. She was doubled over, her head in her hands. Yukio thought she was crying and looked away in respect. Dr. Jippensha, the family’s long-time physician, leaned over his father. Yukio heard the murmurs of Jippensha’s mumbling but understood only “Hisato,” his father’s name.

Jippensha straightened, turned off the monitor, and bowed deeply. “I am sorry. He is dead.”

Yukio suppressed an irrational urge to run to the cylinder, check the reading himself, and find a setting the doctor had missed. Instead, he bent his head slightly in acknowledgment. “The capsule?”

“Yes, it’s working. His blood still flows; his brain still gets the oxygen it needs.” Jippensha paused. “But I think—”

Yukio was not going to change his mind now. “Thank you, Doctor. I understand and appreciate your feelings. Please close the capsule; then you may go.”

Jippensha started to speak once more but caught Yukio’s gaze and remained silent.

Yukio’s mother looked up. “Yukio—”

Yukio winced at the use of his familiar name in front of Jippensha. “Mother.”

He meant it more as a reprimand than a response, but she ignored his tone. “Doctor Jippensha is right. Let your father be. His memories aren’t what you need. You need—”

“Mother.” He stretched out the word, embarrassed even more.

She walked to him. “Hisato’s memories will teach you nothing you cannot learn in other ways.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Yukio, you can’t bring him back, so let him go. Let his spirit proceed on the forty-day journey. There is no need to desecrate his body—”

“Akako!”

She stopped instantly; he had never before used her first name. He had no desire to hurt her, but he was determined to get the knowledge that in life his father had never had time to impart. He stared at his mother, willing her to understand, then noticed the doctor was still there. “Jippensha.”

The doctor bowed once more and left.

Yukio’s mother turned to leave also, but he touched her shoulder and she hesitated.

“We will finish the first stage of the process in a day, at most two,” he said. “When that’s done, I will have him cremated, and I’ll take his ashes to the temple myself. Will that make you feel better?” It was more than he had wanted to offer; he had no desire to go to Matsushima ever again.

She stared at him for a moment, nodded, and left.

When Yukio heard the door shut, he walked to the desk and sat in the chair that was now his. At thirty, he was the youngest chairman ever of Fujiura Corp. But for the circumstances, perhaps, finally, he would have made his father proud. His father. Yukio rubbed his eyes, slid the keyboard and control panel from beneath the desktop, and turned off the projector and sound system.

Matsushima vanished. The room fell silent. Neon ads and multi-story video displays scorched the walls with the reds, pinks, oranges, and blazing whites of nighttime Tokyo. Yukio piped in the audio feed from outside and held down the volume control. The buzz of street life slammed into the room, bathed him in sounds he understood: cars and people and advertisements surging in a jangled torrent of life that surrounded him, affirmed his living status, and pushed back the death that filled the room. He walked to the window and stretched out his arms, willing the city’s life to flow over him, around him, into him. He craved its vitality, wanted that energy to carry him through this next step.

He wiped away a tear, disgusted at his lack of control, sure that even in death his father would be embarrassed by the display. He returned to the desk, shut off the speakers, and muted the window display. His assistant, Masataro, as calm and alert as always, appeared on the desk’s screen the moment he opened the intercom.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell the lab team it’s time.”

“They are waiting outside your office.”

Yukio was not sure whether he wanted to punish Masataro for his ghoulishness or praise him for his efficiency.

“Sir, I am sorry. Should I send them in?”

“Thank you, and yes.” Yukio did not know what else to say. The only thing to do was to move forward.

Four men quietly entered his office and began wheeling out his father’s body. The only one he recognized, Doctor Ishiwa, the project’s head, paused at the door.

“Yes,” Yukio said.

“I must tell you again,” Ishiwa said, “that we do not know how well this procedure will work, or even if it will work at all. We’ve never fully succeeded in any of the simpler tests, and this is an entire … memory set.”

Yukio stood for emphasis. “I understand, but we have no other options. You make it work, or we lose my … the chairman’s memories.”

Ishiwa bowed and left.

Yukio examined the list of pending items on his desk’s display. The moment called for mourning, but business had to continue. His father would have done the same, would have demanded he keep working. Yukio opened the one item that glowed red. “Masataro, get me Kensu.”

“He, too, is waiting,” his assistant replied.

Yukio rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had to hand it to Kensu; after losing the company’s top job to Yukio, the man had not slowed at all. “Send him in.”

As Kensu entered, he bowed deeply, then waited for Yukio to speak.

“I must focus on the Board and our investors, as well as on the new RAM technology, and, of course, the memory project,” Yukio said. “You must keep pushing on the Vladivostok deal.” Yukio watched closely to see if Kensu would react; the man had fought for months against this deal, and Yukio’s win of Board approval for it had cost Kensu his shot at the job Yukio now held. Kensu showed nothing, so Yukio continued. “TIOKO needs cash. Make sure they get it from us.” Acquiring the Vladivostok-based TIOKO, the Tikho-okeanskoye Morye shipping and services conglomerate, would give Fujiura control of its trade paths east and west, enlarge its service offerings, and ultimately attract new large customers in both the Americas and eastern Europe.

Yukio turned away from Kensu as the man bowed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Continuing to run the business was necessary, but it did not make Yukio happy. He swiveled his chair to face the window and pushed the volume control upward until the amplified sounds of the streets below filled the room, until he was bathing in the rush of life, and then he leaned back and closed his eyes.

* * *

Late the next afternoon, Masataro led Ishiwa into Yukio’s office.

“We have done all we can,” Ishiwa said. “The scan and download are complete, so we have captured all the … raw data we know how to capture.”

“So I may now access his memories?” Yukio asked.

Ishiwa stared at the floor before responding, “Not exactly.” He looked up at Yukio. “As I warned, we have never completely succeeded, even in partial scans.”

“Your past efforts do not matter now,” Yukio said. “What is the state of his memories?”

“We have downloaded from his brain all the information we know how to find. We believe we missed nothing, but we have no way to be sure. The bigger problem is assembling the mass of raw data into memories you can access. Our latest software is working on it, but progress is slow and unpredictable.”

“Do you have any complete memories?”

“We may,” Ishiwa said, “but we cannot be sure. Our assembly programs have yielded several files that pass the few filters we’ve been able to construct. Per your instructions, however, the files are in the private storage area we set up. Because no one but you is allowed to access them, we have no way of knowing for sure what the programs have produced.” Ishiwa cleared his throat and looked again at the floor. “Perhaps when it is convenient, you could—”

“Of course,” Yukio said. “Leave me. I’ll check now and let you know.”

Yukio pulled out of his bottom right desk drawer the special laptop Ishiwa’s team had prepared. A thick fiber cable snaked from its back into a network connection buried under the desk. A second, slightly thinner cable led to a thick pair of VR goggles that sat on the laptop. Yukio opened the laptop and let the retinal scanner verify his identity. He put on the goggles, which for the moment were clear and silent, and opened the first of the three memory files in the directory before him.

The goggles flashed into action, and sound poured from the integrated headphones. He was in his office, the Matsushima display playing on the window. Two men sat across from him: Yukio himself, but younger, and Kensu. Yukio felt strange, outside himself, as if he had split in two. He glanced at the keyboard beneath his—no, his father’s—fingers, heard the gentle click of the keys, and then looked at the center of the office window, where a chart of sales projections replaced Matsushima. The chart sloped gently downward in the enterprise services sector, the department Yukio was then running. Yukio flushed with the same shame he had felt at that time, at having to report that a department of his had lost money. His stomach knotted at the memory of the shame, and at the anger he had felt from his father. As his gaze—his father’s gaze—shifted to the younger Yukio in front of him, he realized how clearly his younger self had showed those same emotions, and he was even more embarrassed for himself. He shook his head: He could only imagine the shame and anger his father had felt.

Yukio stopped the memory playback. The goggles cleared. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, calming himself. That meeting had convinced him both that he hated his job and that those feelings were irrelevant, because he could not let his father down.

After a few minutes, he tried each of the other two memories available to him. They were useless, jumbles of flashing colors and discordant sounds.

He called Ishiwa. “The first in the list is real. The others are not; delete them.”

“Yes, sir,” Ishiwa said. “Should we continue to run the assembly programs?”

“Of course,” Yukio said. “We will hope they will yield more memories the company can use.” He broke the connection before Ishiwa could speak again.

* * *

When Kensu arrived, Yukio was studying the manufacturing plan for the new RAM module, whose flexed nano-tubes delivered the largest single-module memory capacity ever available—enough capacity, Yukio mused, that one module could hold the entire raw download of his father’s mind. The module and the new technology it embodied should vault Fujiura into the lead in that crucial market segment.

Kensu interrupted Yukio’s contemplation. “TIOKO refused our offer.” The man almost smiled as he told Yukio the news.

“How much did you offer?”

“I started low, of course,” Kensu said, “with the share price as of close of business yesterday.”

For a second Yukio wanted to hit Kensu, but he forced himself to lean back in his chair and reply calmly, “I thought we agreed on offering a premium.”

“Yes,” Kensu said, “and we will, but I saw no reason not to try a lower price first and perhaps save us a considerable amount.”

Yukio stared across his desk at Kensu until the man looked slightly downward. “The reason, as I believe we discussed, is that we are not the only ones pursuing them, and now we have risked offending their Board. Kensu,” he paused until the man looked at him, “though I appreciate your reservations about this deal, I am sure you also appreciate that I have committed to our Board that we will make it happen. If you would rather not work on it …”

“I will contact them again,” Kensu said, “and make our apologies, as well as a new offer.”

“Thank you.” Yukio stood and bowed to Kensu, remembering his father’s advice to always be most polite after a victory.

Kensu returned the bow and left.

Yukio’s phone flashed; his mother. He accepted the call and winced as he saw her slight smile; she had heard the news. Her information sources within the company had always amazed him.

“I’m sorry the procedure did not work,” she said, continuing to appear to be anything but sorry.

“On the contrary, mother, it did. I have already reviewed the beginning of one memory, and I am confident our software will assemble more.”

“Perhaps I misunderstood,” she said, “but—”

Yukio cut her off. “Some of the assembled memory files have proven to be worthless, but we are far from done.” He fought to stay quiet, but her happiness at the failed memories was more than he could take. “Aren’t you at all sorry about those memories we may lose? They are father’s memories, and now they may be gone.”

“No,” she said. “They were gone when he died, as they should be. His spirit must move on, and so must ours. We have our memories of him; that is enough.”

Maybe for you,thought Yukio, but not for me. You knew him for decades, even before Fujiura and Matsushima became his life. I never knew him, not really.

“So you insist on continuing?” she said.

Her question angered him further. “Yes. The software is running non-stop across the largest grid we can spare. I’m sure we’ll be able to restore more memories, maybe many, many more. Memories that will be very useful to the company.”

“To you, you mean.”

Yukio refused to rise to the bait. “Yes, to me, as the head of the company.”

His mother sighed and leaned forward until her face completely filled the display. “Let him go, Yukio. I know he gave you less than you wanted, but he’s gone, and whatever you have of him now is all you can ever have. I wish you two had been closer, but he was always so busy, so dedicated, so—” she smiled. “—so like you.”

I am not like him, Yukio thought. Not at all. I would never have a child I did not want and could not find the time to raise. This job is my duty; it was his love. Yukio shook his head. Not at all like him.

“You will keep your promise?” she asked.

He had almost forgotten she was there. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll pick up his ashes in the morning and take them to the temple.”

“Good. There are only thirty-eight days before the temple ceremony; let his spirit spend those days on Matsushima.”

Yukio reached to turn off the phone. “I will, Mother, I will.”

* * *

Yukio had considered driving to the red moon-crossing bridge that linked Oshima Island to the mainland and then walking to the island, but that felt wrong. His father would have taken the boat from Hon-Shiogama across Matsushima Bay, and he was carrying his father’s ashes, so in the end Yukio took the boat, too. The sky glowed a clear blue a shade lighter than the water. He kept the boat’s engine on full, anxious to be done with it. The hull bounced on the small waves of the bay and jarred his spine. The wind mussed his hair and made his eyes water. His skin was sticky from the salt in the air.

When he reached the small dock at the foot of the temple path, Yukio tied up the boat and removed the urn from the cabin safe. He followed the path that led from the water into the pines.

He reached the first torii gate in less than five minutes. Its cedar cross-piece was rough, worn and pocked by time. He considered going on to the temple himself, but he was in mourning and tradition forbade it. Besides, why risk angering the kami? Though he did not actually believe in those spirits, he also knew there was no point in taking such a risk. He would see the temple at the burial; no need to go there sooner. He put the urn at the gate’s base, clapped his hands three times to get the attention of the priests, and bowed deeply twice. Then he sat to wait.

The sun on his face was strong but not hot, its light filling the pines with a soft glow that scattered many shades of a single golden hue. The view provided a strange contrast to the arcing lines of color that filled the Tokyo nights; he was more comfortable in the neon. At first the island seemed silent, but as he sat longer he could hear the cries of gulls on the water and the sounds of other birds he did not recognize in the trees above him. The bushes and pine trees on either side of the path occasionally rustled in the wind. Despite himself he began to relax, the ancient rhythm of the place working its way into him. For a moment he almost touched the peace he had seen his father experience on their trips here, and in that moment he glimpsed why his father had fought for this place, why he had lavished so much time and love upon it. But did a man have room in his heart for only one love? Obviously not: His father clearly loved the company and, in his own way, his wife, too. Would one more love have been so hard? Yukio stared at the urn and wondered what he would say if the ashes became his father, magically reconstituted by the kami for a moment of temptation on his death journey. But the words would not come.

He looked up and saw the priest. He had not heard the man coming. Yukio stood and bowed deeply; the priest returned the bow. Yukio picked up the urn and handed it to the priest, who bowed once more and without a word turned and headed back up the path.

* * *

The mail icon flashing on his desk’s console was the only light in his office late that night. The room, which was huge by Tokyo standards, easily larger than the homes of many small families, now only hemmed him in, squeezed him, trapped him. The island wasn’t what he wanted, but he missed the sense of infinite possibility that beckoned from the hazy lines where horizon blurred into water and treetops faded into air. He had hoped to regain that sense by darkening the office and erasing its boundaries; instead, the faint light from the console made the space seem even smaller.

His father would never have wasted so much time. Yukio punched up the lights and turned to the display.

His mother’s request to know if he had delivered the urn sat atop the inbox. He sent her a simple typed message, unwilling to face her.

Masataro had forwarded him a note from the head of their Chinese manufacturing plant; Yukio would soon receive a prototype of the new RAM module.

Kensu wanted to discuss the latest developments in the TIOKO deal. Yukio called him at home and was pleased to see a ripple of surprise play over the man’s face as he realized Yukio was still at work. “What has happened that you would not e-mail me?” he said.

“The TIOKO Board is now open to our offer,” Kensu said, “but they have some requirements.”

“Of course.”

“Most are ones we anticipated, but the price remains a problem.” Kensu hesitated before continuing. “They want a ten percent premium over today’s closing price, which of course was already up on the rumor of their sale. Meeting that price in cash would leave our reserves below acceptable levels, and they are not interested in a share-swap deal. I do not see how we can continue.”

Yukio knew Fujiura Corp., understood the company better than he would ever understand the trees and plants of Oshima. Fujiura was an electronic and physical organism that he, like his father, nurtured and managed. TIOKO was a necessary addition to the chain that carried the material blood of Fujiura to the far-flung parts of its corporate body, as natural as the roots of the pines that spread through the soil at Oshima. He had spent months convincing the Board, including his father, of the importance of the acquisition for Fujiura’s long-term health. He was prepared in ways he had reviewed only with his father, whose final approval of the deal signaled one of the few times Yukio felt he had impressed the man.

“Our American services subsidiary has a high valuation and a shelf registration we can use for a quick offering to raise the cash. Get our brokers there to place the stock, and set a price with TIOKO now so we have a fixed target.”

Kensu bowed his head slightly. “I should have thought of that. I apologize for not doing so.” He looked intently at Yukio. “If you would prefer someone else finish this …”

You would have thought of it, Yukio wanted to say, if you had focused on completing the deal and not on avoiding it. Instead, he said, “I am confident you would have found this solution. I would have no one else complete the acquisition.” Kensu was a good man, Yukio thought, a man who genuinely loved the company and who probably should be running it—who would actually enjoy running it.

Kensu bowed again, deeper this time. “Thank you. I will not let you down.”

Yukio bowed, said, “Good night,” and hung up.

Most of the remaining messages were routine, except for the last, which was from Ishiwa. The memory-retrieval processing was proceeding, and the software had assembled three more files. From their sizes none of the memories were long, but all, to the best of the software’s very limited abilities to judge, were sufficiently complete to be worth saving. Yukio responded to the messages Masataro had not already handled, then locked his office.

He put on the goggles and started the first new memory in the directory.

He was again sitting in the office, but in an earlier version of it, a large PC filling the front right corner of the desk. An old, audio-only phone sat on his left. He watched his hands, his father’s hands, come to his eyes and rub gently. He called home and heard his mother’s voice, heard her initially happy greeting and then the subsequent resignation in her voice as he explained he would not be there for many hours, that he was in a pitched battle on the London exchange for a Yugoslavian manufacturing plant that would be a key element in his penetration of the rapidly growing Eastern European market.

He turned back to the screen, where columns of changing figures danced as madly as the lights in the darkening street below. The figures blurred. He walked to the office’s private bathroom and stared at himself, his father, in the mirror. His face sagged with fatigue, the whites of both eyes streaked with red. He splashed water on his face—Yukio flinching as the water came at him, for a moment lost and not realizing the water wasn’t there.

He looked again at himself in the mirror and slowly shook his head. “Akako, Yukio, I am so sorry,” his father said to the reflection. He dried his face and muttered, “No time to be tired.” He returned to the desk and stared at the display.

The goggles cleared, and Yukio was back in his office—his office, not his father’s. Yukio took off the goggles and leaned his head on the desk. The fatigue of the memory should have vanished, but he was still tired. He supposed he should have realized his father would have felt bad about working late and would get tired, that anyone would, but it had never occurred to him. He wondered why his father did not simply quit for the day and leave, but he realized instantly that in this job he, too, would never have left at such a crucial time.

He tried the other two memories, but both were worthless, incoherent jumbles of light and sound. When he finished checking them, his mail light was once again flashing. Yukio yielded to its summons.

* * *

For the next three weeks, the programs worked steadily but with little success. They emitted a few fragments daily, each of which Yukio tested in the evenings. All but two were the now commonplace failures.

One of the two real memories was a fleeting glimpse of the inside of one of the company’s planes, interior lights dim, his father staring at the ceiling and then closing his eyes. The other was a fifteen-second view of a menu in a second-rate Bangkok restaurant. Monkey brains were the special.

Late Friday night, Yukio sat in his office, as usual both desperate to go home and completely unwilling to do so. On Wednesday, Fujiura had begun sample production of the new RAM modules. Three night-black prototypes, Yukio’s showpieces for the board meeting earlier that day, sat still and empty in front of him, their darkness a pleasing contrast to the lighter cedar of his desk. By Monday, manufacturing would have yielded at least a few thousand modules, enough to seed the major Fujiura sites worldwide. Yukio was deciding how to allot the precious modules until more were ready. He played for a while with a simulation, watching stacks grow and shrink on his corporate map as he tried different distributions. Finally, he found one that gave the right mix to the shrinking but still vital American market and the constantly growing Chinese one. He mailed the simulation to Masataro with a brief explanatory note.

Kensu, still at work, called and asked to meet with him. Yukio agreed.

Kensu was flushed and obviously excited when he entered the office. “TIOKO has signed the deal, and we’ve privately placed the entire American shelf offering. It’s done. The more I met with the TIOKO people, the more I understood the fit. This is going to be a great deal for us.” He bowed deeply. “Thank you for making this happen, and for letting me finish it.”

“Thank you for the effort,” Yukio said. He had once seen the TIOKO deal and integration as his newest triumph, a sure way to finally impress his father. Now, the thought of working on the integration, as vital to Fujiura as it was, only wearied him. He looked carefully at Kensu, took in the man’s obvious joy in the deal, and thought yet again how much better suited for Yukio’s job Kensu was. “I was hoping,” he continued, “that you would be willing to add to your duties the task of leading the integration team. I can think of no one better to entrust with such a vital project.”

Kensu sat back, caught off guard for a moment, then recovered and bowed. “It would be my privilege. Thank you.”

“We’ll discuss it further on Monday,” Yukio said.

“I’ll be prepared,” Kensu said, as he left.

Yukio checked the log of the day’s memory reconstruction. Four new ones awaited him, but all proved to be failures. No new memory of consequence had appeared in several days. The only memory of any length was the first, the unpleasant one he had started but never finished. It was time to check the rest of it, to be done with it. He put on the goggles, an image flashed into place, and sound played through the headphones.

He was in his office, the Matsushima display on the window. Kensu and his younger self sat across from him. Seeing himself was a bit easier this time, though still unsettling. He glanced at the keyboard beneath his fingers, heard the click of the keys, and looked at the center of the office window, where a chart of sales projections replaced Matsushima. The chart sloped downward in the enterprise services sector, Yukio’s department. Yukio again relived the shame he had felt at that time, the feeling growing as his gaze—his father’s gaze—shifted to the younger Yukio in front of him and his younger self showed the same emotion.

He heard his father’s voice, which he now realized was oddly distorted through the man’s head, as his father had heard it himself. He had always found his father’s voice powerful, but the version the man himself heard was lighter, higher. “This trend must not continue. You—” Yukio noticed a hesitation he had not caught at the time “—we must do better. Your department is losing money; you must fix it.”

Yukio watched himself look briefly downward and nod. “Yes, sir.” He wanted to rip off the goggles, to wipe out the memory—and the past with it—but as the memory played on he forced himself to stay with it.

The window cleared, Matsushima reappeared, and his father continued, “That is all; you may go.” He watched as his younger self and Kensu stood, bowed, and left.

He was his father, alone. He looked at the window. Matsushima Bay sparkled in the sunlight. He heard his father’s breathing, slow and deep, the same sounds Yukio made when he fought for control. He opened a drawer and stared at the framed picture lying inside: Akako and Yukio, both smiling, stood together on Yukio’s university graduation day.

His father’s fingers gently touched the photo, and his voice again filled the headphones. “I am so sorry, Yukio. With all your talents, all your gifts, I have never understood why you stayed here. As long as you are here, though, I cannot show you any favoritism, or you will be ruined. I know you will succeed, but I hate making you pay the price for that success. I wish you could find happiness.”

As he put the photo back in the drawer, the memory ended.

Yukio opened the drawer where the photo had been, then remembered Masataro clearing and packing his father’s possessions. He closed the drawer, leaned back, and shut his eyes.

He had always assumed his father’s roughness came naturally, easily. He had not expected the awkwardness, the pain at hurting his son. Yukio could not fault his father for his behavior; he would have done the same thing to the head of a troubled department, had done similar things many times before.

He walked to the window and touched the image of the Bay. It was the same image his father had watched. He wished his father could have talked to him as he talked to the photo, but his father never had, and now he never would.

His father had found comfort in the preservation of Matsushima and in the company. Yukio had tried to find comfort in the company, in preserving what his father had built, but he had failed. In that moment he had no clear idea of what he needed, but he knew that whatever it was, it would not come from his father. He would have to keep what good he could remember of the man, and find the rest in himself.

He looked first at the memory directory and then at the module on his desk. He sent Ishiwa a message to meet with him first thing Monday morning, then headed home.

* * *

On the fortieth day after his father’s death, Yukio and his mother knelt behind a priest at the temple on Oshima Island. Matsushima Bay lay clear and placid at the edge of their view. Clouds dotted the sky, and light breezes played through the pines, the air rich with the tang of salt and pine. His father’s urn rested on the floor in front of the curtain that blocked the sacred view. The priest recited softly, his words barely intelligible.

Yukio turned his head slightly. The tall, slender grave marker, its polished teak reflecting the sun brightly, sat in the cemetery behind him and to his right. Running down its length was the Buddhist burial name his father had chosen: “He who is beyond the ten thousand things.”

The priest finished and motioned for Yukio to take the urn. Yukio picked up the case that sat at his feet and stepped to the urn. He opened the case and withdrew the memory module that held the only copy of his father’s download. He carefully snapped the gleaming black module in half, then dropped the pieces into the urn with his father’s ashes. He lightly sounded the gong beside the curtain, bowed deeply, picked up the urn, and backed slowly away.

Once out of the temple, he walked to the grave marker and set the urn at its base. The priest would bury the urn later.

Yukio returned to his mother. His father had moved beyond the ten thousand things, beyond the details and tangles of life, the commitments and losses, the pains and joys. Yukio was not yet beyond the ten thousand things that bound him to his father, but he was now making his own path. The Board had agreed to his plan to transition his job to Kensu; in six months he would leave Fujiura. He had no plan beyond that, but he was more at peace than he had been in years.

His father’s spirit was free to take the next step in its journey. So, too, was Yukio.

* * *

Mark L. Van Name, whom John Ringo has said is “going to be the guy to beat in the race to the top of SFdom,” has worked in the high-tech industry for over 30 years and today runs a technology assessment company in the Research Triangle area of North Carolina. A former Executive Vice President for Ziff Davis Media and national technology columnist, he’s published over a thousand computer-related articles and multiple science fiction stories in a variety of magazines and anthologies, including the Year’s Best Science Fiction. His Jon & Lobo story, “Slanted Jack,” appeared in the first issue of Jim Baen’s Universe, and two other Jon & Lobo stories have appeared in Baen original anthologies. His first Jon & Lobo novel, One Jump Ahead, appears in June, 2007, and the second in the series, Slanted Jack, will appear in 2008. With T.K.F. Weisskopf, he is the editor of the upcoming Baen original anthology, Transhuman, which also contains a new story of his.

Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz Go to War Again

Written by Garth Nix

Illustrated by Jessica Douglas

“Do you ever wonder about the nature of the world, Mister Fitz?” asked the foremost of the two riders, raising the three-barred visor of his helmet so that his words might more clearly cross the several feet of space that separated him from his companion, who rode not quite at his side.

“I take it much as it presents itself, for good or ill, Sir Hereward,” replied Mister Fitz. He had no need to raise a visor, for he wore a tall lacquered hat rather than a helmet. It had once been taller and had come to a peak, before encountering something sharp in the last battle but two the pair had found themselves engaged in. This did not particularly bother Mister Fitz, for he was not human. He was a wooden puppet given the semblance of life by an ancient sorcery. By dint of propinquity, over many centuries a considerable essence of humanity had been absorbed into his fine-grained body, but attention to his own appearance or indeed vanity of any sort was still not part of his persona.

Sir Hereward, for the other part, had a good measure of vanity and in fact the raising of the three-barred visor of his helmet almost certainly had more to do with an approaching apple seller of comely appearance than it did with a desire for clear communication to Mister Fitz.

The duo were riding south on a road that had once been paved and gloried in the name of the Southwest Toll Extension of the Lesser Trunk. But its heyday was long ago, the road being even older than Mister Fitz. Few paved stretches remained, but the tightly compacted understructure still provided a better surface than the rough soil of the fields to either side.

The political identification of these fallow pastures and the occasional once-coppiced wood they passed was not clear to either Sir Hereward or Mister Fitz, despite several attempts to ascertain said identification from the few travelers they had encountered since leaving the city of Rhool several days before. To all intents and purposes, the land appeared to be both uninhabited and untroubled by soldiery or tax collectors and was thus a void in the sociopolitical map that Hereward held uneasily, and Fitz exactly, in their respective heads.

A quick exchange with the apple seller provided only a little further information, and also lessened Hereward’s hope of some minor flirtation, for her physical beauty was sullied by a surly and depressive manner. In a voice as sullen as a three-day drizzle, the woman told them she was taking the apples to a large house that lay out of sight beyond the nearer overgrown wood. She had come from a town called Lettique or Letiki that was located beyond the lumpy ridge of blackish shale that they could see a mile or so to the south. The apples in question had come from farther south still, and were not in keeping with their carrier, being particularly fine examples of a variety Mister Fitz correctly identified as emerald brights. There was no call for local apples, the young woman reluctantly explained. The fruit and vegetables from the distant oasis of Shume were always preferred, if they could be obtained. Which, for the right price, they nearly always could be, regardless of season.

Hereward and Fitz rode in silence for a few minutes after parting company with the apple seller, the young knight looking back not once but twice as if he could not believe that such a vision of loveliness could house such an unfriendly soul. Finding that the young woman did not bother to look back at all, Hereward cleared his throat and, without raising his visor, spoke.

“It appears we are on the right road, though she spoke of Shumey and not Shome.”

Fitz looked up at the sky, where the sun was beginning to lose its distinct shape and ooze red into the shabby grey clouds that covered the horizon.

“A minor variation in pronunciation,” he said. “Should we stop in Lettique for the night, or ride on?”

“Stop,” said Hereward. “My rear is not polished sandalwood, and it needs soaking in a very hot bath enhanced with several soothing essences … ah … that was one of your leading questions, wasn’t it?”

“The newspaper in Rhool spoke of an alliance against Shume,” said Mister Fitz carefully, in a manner that confirmed Hereward’s suspicion that didactic discourse had already begun. “It is likely that Lettique will be one of the towns arrayed against Shume. Should the townsfolk discover we ride to Shume in hope of employment, we might find ourselves wishing for the quiet of the fields in the night, the lack of mattresses, ale and roasted capons there notwithstanding.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Hereward, whose youth and temperament made him tend toward careless optimism. “Why should they suspect us of seeking to sign on with the burghers of Shume?”

Mister Fitz’s pumpkin-sized papier-mache head rotated on his spindly neck, and the blobs of blue paint that marked the pupils of his eyes looked up and down, taking in Sir Hereward from toe to head: from his gilt-spurred boots to his gold-chased helmet. In between boots and helm were Hereward’s second-best buff coat, the sleeves still embroidered with the complicated silver tracery that proclaimed him as the Master Artillerist of the city of Jeminero. Not that said city was any longer in existence, as for the past three years it had been no more than a mass grave sealed with the rubble of its once-famous walls. Around the coat was a frayed but still quite golden sash, over that a rare and expensive Carnithian leather baldric and belt with two beautifully ornamented (but no less functional for that) wheel-lock pistols thrust through said belt. Hereward’s longer-barreled and only slightly less ornamented cavalry pistols were holstered on either side of his saddle horn, his saber with its sharkskin grip and gleaming hilt of gilt brass hung in its scabbard from the rear left quarter of his saddle, and his sighting telescope was secured inside its leather case on the right rear quarter.

Mister Fitz’s mount, of course, carried all the more mundane items required by their travels. All three feet six and a half inches of him (four-foot-three with the hat) was perched upon a yoke across his mount’s back that secured the two large panniers that were needed to transport tent and bedding, washing and shaving gear and a large assortment of outdoor kitchen utensils. Not to mention the small but surprisingly expandable sewing desk that contained the tools and devices of Mister Fitz’s own peculiar art.

“Shume is a city, and rich,” said Fitz patiently. “The surrounding settlements are mere towns, both smaller and poorer, who are reportedly planning to go to war against their wealthy neighbor. You are obviously a soldier for hire, and a self-evidently expensive one at that. Therefore, you must be en route to Shume.”

Hereward did not answer immediately, as was his way, while he worked at overcoming his resentment at being told what to do. He worked at it because Mister Fitz had been telling him what to do since he was four years old and also because he knew that, as usual, Fitz was right. It would be foolish to stop in Lettique.

“I suppose that they might even attempt to hire us,” he said, as they topped the low ridge, shale crunching under their mounts’ talons.

Hereward looked down at a wasted valley of underperforming pastures filled either with sickly-looking crops or passive groups of too-thin cattle. A town—presumably Lettique—lay at the other end of the valley. It was not an impressive ville, being a collection of perhaps three or four hundred mostly timber and painted-plaster houses within the bounds of a broken-down wall to the west and a dry ravine, that might have once held a river, to the east. An imposing, dozen-spired temple in the middle of the town was the only indication that at some time Lettique had seen more provident days.

“Do you wish to take employment in a poor town?” asked Mister Fitz. One of his responsibilities was to advise and positively influence Hereward, but he did not make decisions for him.

“No, I don’t think so,” replied the knight slowly. “Though it does make me recall my thought … the one that was with me before we were interrupted by that dismal apple seller.”

“You asked if I ever wondered at the nature of the world,” prompted Fitz.

“I think what I actually intended to say,” said Hereward. “Is ‘do you ever wonder why we become involved in events that are rather more than less of importance to rather more than less people?’ as in the various significant battles, sieges, and so forth in which we have played no small part. I fully comprehend that in some cases the events have stemmed from the peculiar responsibilities we shoulder, but not in all cases. And that being so, and given my desire for a period of quiet, perhaps I should consider taking service with some poor town.”

“Do you really desire a period of quiet?” asked Mister Fitz.

“Sometimes I think so. I should certainly like a time where I might reflect upon what it is I do want. It would also be rather pleasant to meet women who are not witch-agents, fellow officers or enemies—or who have been pressed into service as powder monkeys or are soaked in blood from tending the wounded.”

“Perhaps Shume will offer some relative calm,” said Mister Fitz. “By all accounts it is a fine city, and even if war is in the offing, it could be soon finished if Shume’s opponents are of a standard that I can see in Lettique.”

“You observe troops?” asked Hereward. He drew his telescope, and carefully leaning on his mount’s neck to avoid discomfort from the bony ridges (which even though regularly filed-down and fitted with leather stocks were not to be ignored), looked through it at the town. “Ah, I see. Sixty pike and two dozen musketeers in the square by the temple, of no uniform equipment or harness. Under the instruction of a portly individual in a wine-dark tunic who appears as uncertain as his troops as to the drill.”

“I doubt that Shume has much to fear,” said Mister Fitz. “It is odd, however, that a town like Lettique would dare to strike against such a powerful neighbor. I wonder …”

“What?” asked Hereward as he replaced his telescope.

“I wonder if it is a matter of necessity. The river is dry. The wheat is very thin, too thin this close to harvest. The cattle show very little flesh on their ribs. I see no sign of any other economic activity. Fear and desperation may be driving this mooted war, not greed or rivalry. Also …”

Mister Fitz’s long, pale blue tongue darted out to taste the air, the ruby stud in the middle of what had once been a length of stippled leather catching the pallid sunlight.

“Their godlet is either asleep or … mmm … comatose in this dimension. Very strange.”

“Their god is dead?”

“Not dead,” said Mister Fitz. “When an other-dimensional entity dies, another always moves in quickly enough. No … definitely present, but quiescent.”

“Do you wish to make a closer inquiry?”

Hereward had not missed the puppet’s hand tapping the pannier that contained his sewing desk, an instinctive movement Mister Fitz made when contemplating sorcerous action.

“Not for the present,” said Mister Fitz, lifting his hand to grasp once again his mount’s steering chains.

“Then we will skirt the town and continue,” announced Hereward. “We’ll leave the road near those three dead trees.”

“There are many trees that might be fairly described as dead or dying,” remarked Fitz. “And several in clumps of three. Do you mean the somewhat orange-barked trio over yonder?”

“I do,” said Hereward.

They left the road at the clump of trees and rode in silence through the dry fields, most of which were not even under attempted cultivation. There were also several derelict farmhouses, barns, and cattle yards, the level of decay suggesting that the land had been abandoned only in recent years.

Halfway along the valley, where the land rose to a slight hill that might have its origin in a vast and ancient burial mound, Hereward reined in his mount and looked back at the town through his telescope.

“Still drilling,” he remarked. “I had half thought that they might dispatch some cavalry to bicker with us. But I see no mounts.”

“I doubt they can afford the meat for battlemounts,” said Mister Fitz. “Or grain for horses, for that matter.”

“There is an air gate in the northeastern temple spire,” said Hereward, rebalancing his telescope to get a steadier view. “There might be a moonshade roost behind it.”

“If their god is absent, none of the ancient weapons will serve them,” said Mister Fitz. “But it would be best to be careful, come nightfall. Lettique is reportedly not the only town arrayed against Shume. The others may be in a more vigorous condition, with wakeful gods.”

Hereward replaced his telescope and turned his mount to the north, Mister Fitz following his lead. They did not speak further, but rode on, mostly at the steady pace that Hereward’s Zowithian riding instructor had called “the lope,” occasionally urging their mounts to the faster “jag.” In this fashion, several miles passed quickly. As the sun’s last third began to slip beneath the horizon, they got back on the old road again, to climb out of the wasted valley of Lettique and across yet another of the shale ridges that erupted out of the land like powder-pitted keloid scars, all grey and humped.

The valley that lay beyond the second ridge was entirely different from the faded fields behind the two travelers. In the warm twilight, they saw a checkerboard of green and gold, full fields of wheat interspersed with meadows heavily stocked with fat cattle. A broad river wound through from the east, spilling its banks in several places into fecund wetlands that were rich with waterfowl. Several small hillocks in the valley were covered in apple trees, dark foliage heavily flecked with the bright green of vast quantities of emerald fruit. There were citrus groves too, stone-walled clumps of smaller trees laden with lemons or limes, and only a hundred yards away, a group of six trees bearing the rare and exquisite blue-skinned fruit known as serqa which was normally only found in drier climes.

“A most pleasant vista,” said Hereward. A small smile curled his lip and touched his eyes, the expression of a man who sees something that he likes.

Shume itself was a mile away, built on a rise in the ground in the northwestern corner of the valley, where the river spread into a broad lake that lapped the city’s western walls. From the number of deep-laden boats that were even now rowing home to the jetties that thronged the shore, the lake was as well stocked with fish as the valley was with livestock and produce.

Most of the city’s buildings were built of an attractively pale yellow stone, with far fewer timber constructions than was usual for a place that Hereward reckoned must hold at least five thousand citizens.

Shume was also walled in the same pale stone, but of greater interest to Hereward were the more recent earthworks that had been thrown up in front of the old wall. A zigzag line of revetments encircled the city, with respectably large bastions at each end on the lakeshore. A cursory telescopic examination showed several bronze demicannon on the bastions and various lesser pieces of ordnance clustered in groups at various strong points along the earthworks. Both bastions had small groups of soldiery in attendance on the cannon, and there were pairs of sentries every twenty or thirty yards along the earthen ramparts and a score or more walked the stone walls behind.

“There is certainly a professional in charge here,” observed Hereward. “I expect … yes … a cavalry piquet issues from yonder orchard. Twelve horse troopers under the notional command of a whey-faced cornet.”

“Not commonplace troopers,” added Mister Fitz. “Dercian keplars.”

“Ah,” said Hereward. He replaced his telescope, leaned back a little and across and, using his left hand, loosened his saber so that an inch of blade projected from the scabbard. “They are in employment, so they should give us the benefit of truce.”

“They should,” conceded Mister Fitz, but he reached inside his robe to grasp some small item concealed under the cloth. With his other hand he touched the brim of his hat, releasing a finely woven veil that covered his face. To casual inspection he now looked like a shrouded child, wearing peculiar papery gloves. Self-motivated puppets were not great objects of fear in most quarters of the world. They had once been numerous, and some few score still walked the earth, almost all of them entertainers, some of them long remembered in song and story.

Mister Fitz was not one of those entertainers.

“If it comes to it, spare the cornet,” said Hereward, who remembered well what it was like to be a very junior officer, whey-faced or not.

Mister Fitz did not answer. Hereward knew as well as he that if it came to fighting, and the arts the puppet employed, there would be no choosing who among those who opposed them lived or died.

The troop rode toward the duo at a canter, slowing to a walk as they drew nearer and their horses began to balk as they scented the battlemounts. Hereward raised his hand in greeting and the cornet shouted a command, the column extending to a line, then halting within an easy pistol shot. Hereward watched the troop sergeant, who rode forward beyond the line for a better look, then wheeled back at speed toward the cornet. If the Dercians were to break their oath, the sergeant would fell her officer first.

But the sergeant halted without drawing a weapon and spoke to the cornet quietly. Hereward felt a slight easing of his own breath, though he showed no outward sign of it and did not relax. Nor did Mister Fitz withdraw his hand from under his robes. Hereward knew that his companion’s molded papier-mache fingers held an esoteric needle, a sliver of some arcane stuff that no human hand could grasp with impunity.

The cornet listened and spoke quite sharply to the sergeant, turning his horse around so that he could make his point forcefully to the troopers as well. Hereward only caught some of the words, but it seemed that despite his youth, the officer was rather more commanding than he had expected, reminding the Dercians that their oaths of employment overrode any private or societal vendettas they might wish to undertake.

When he had finished, the cornet shouted, “Dismount! Sergeant, walk the horses!”

The officer remained mounted, wheeling back to approach Hereward. He saluted as he reined in a cautious distance from the battlemounts, evidently not trusting either the creatures’ blinkers and mouth-cages or his own horse’s fears.

“Welcome to Shume!” he called. “I am Cornet Misolu. May I ask your names and direction, if you please?”

“I am Sir Hereward of the High Pale, artillerist for hire.”

“And I am Fitz, also of the High Pale, aide de camp to Sir Hereward.”

“Welcome … uh … sirs,” said Misolu. “Be warned that war has been declared upon Shume, and all who pass through must declare their allegiances and enter certain … um …”

“I believe the usual term is ‘undertakings,’” said Mister Fitz.

“Undertakings,” echoed Misolu. He was very young. Two bright spots of embarrassment burned high on his cheekbones, just visible under the four bars of his lobster-tailed helmet, which was a little too large for him, even with the extra padding, some of which had come a little undone around the brow.

“We are free lances, and seek hire in Shume, Cornet Misolu,” said Hereward. “We will give the common undertakings if your city chooses to contract us. For the moment, we swear to hold our peace, reserving the right to defend ourselves should we be attacked.”

“Your word is accepted, Sir Hereward, and … um …”

“Mister Fitz,” said Hereward, as the puppet said merely, “Fitz.”

“Mister Fitz.”

The cornet chivvied his horse diagonally closer to Hereward, and added, “You may rest assured that my Dercians will remain true to their word, though Sergeant Xikoliz spoke of some feud their … er … entire people have with you.”

The curiosity in the cornet’s voice could not be easily denied, and spoke as much of the remoteness of Shume as it did of the young officer’s naivete.

“It is a matter arising from a campaign several years past,” said Hereward. “Mister Fitz and I were serving the Heriat of Jhaqa, who sought to redirect the Dercian spring migration elsewhere than through her own prime farmlands. In the last battle of that campaign, a small force penetrated to the Dercians’ rolling temple and … ah … blew it up with a specially made petard. Their godlet, thus discommoded, withdrew to its winter housing in the Dercian steppe, wreaking great destruction among its chosen people as it went.”

“I perceive you commanded that force, sir?”

Hereward shook his head.

“No, I am an artillerist. Captain Kasvik commanded. He was slain as we retreated—another few minutes and he would have won clear. However, I did make the petard, and … Mister Fitz assisted our entry to the temple and our escape. Hence the Dercians’ feud.”

Hereward looked sternly at Mister Fitz as he spoke, hoping to make it clear that this was not a time for the puppet to exhibit his tendency for exactitude and truthfulness. Captain Kasvik had in fact been killed before they even reached the rolling temple, but it had served his widow and family better for Kasvik to be a hero, so Hereward had made him one. Only Mister Fitz and one other survivor of the raid knew otherwise.

Not that Hereward and Fitz considered the rolling temple action a victory, as their intent had been to force the Dercian godlet to withdraw a distance unimaginably more vast than the mere five hundred leagues to its winter temple.

The ride to the city was uneventful, though Hereward could not help but notice that Cornet Misolu ordered his troop to remain in place and keep watch, while he alone escorted the visitors, indicating that the young officer was not absolutely certain the Dercians would hold to their vows.

There was a zigzag entry through the earthwork ramparts, where they were held up for several minutes in the business of passwords and responses (all told aside in quiet voices, Hereward noted with approval), their names being recorded in an enormous ledger and passes written out and sealed allowing them to enter the city proper.

These same passes were inspected closely under lanternlight, only twenty yards farther on by the guards outside the city gate—which was closed, as the sun had finally set. However, they were admitted through a sally port and here Misolu took his leave, after giving directions to an inn that met Hereward’s requirements: suitable stabling and food for the battlemounts; that it not be the favorite of the Dercians or any other of the mercenary troops who had signed on in preparation for Shume’s impending war; and fine food and wine, not just small beer and ale. The cornet also gave directions to the citadel, not that this was really necessary as its four towers were clearly visible, and advised Hereward and Fitz that there was no point going there until the morning, for the governing council was in session and so no one in authority could hire him until at least the third bell after sunrise.

The streets of Shume were paved and drained, and Hereward smiled again at the absence of the fetid stench so common to places where large numbers of people dwelt together. He was looking forward to a bath, a proper meal and a fine feather bed, with the prospect of well-paid and not too onerous employment commencing on the morrow.

“There is the inn,” remarked Mister Fitz, pointing down one of the narrower side streets, though it was still broad enough for the two battlemounts to stride abreast. “The sign of the golden barleycorn. Appropriate enough for a city with such fine farmland.”

They rode into the inn’s yard, which was clean and wide and did indeed boast several of the large iron-barred cages used to stable battlemounts complete with meat canisters and feeding chutes rigged in place above the cages. One of the four ostlers present ran ahead to open two cages and lower the chutes, and the other three assisted Hereward to unload the panniers. Mister Fitz took his sewing desk and stood aside, the small rosewood-and-silver box under his arm provoking neither recognition nor alarm. The ostlers were similarly incurious about Fitz himself, almost certainly evidence that self-motivated puppets still came to entertain the townsfolk from time to time.

Hereward led the way into the inn, but halted just before he entered as one of the battlemounts snorted at some annoyance. Glancing back, he saw that it was of no concern, and the gates were closed, but in halting he had kept hold of the door as someone else tried to open it from the other side. Hereward pushed to help and the door flung open, knocking the person on the inside back several paces against a table, knocking over an empty bottle that smashed upon the floor.

“Unfortunate,” muttered Mister Fitz, as he saw that the person so inconvenienced was not only a soldier, but wore the red sash of a junior officer, and was a woman.

“I do apolog—” Hereward began to say. He stopped, not only because the woman was talking, but because he had looked at her. She was as tall as he was, with ash-blond hair tied in a queue at the back, her hat in her left hand. She was also very beautiful, at least to Hereward, who had grown up with women who ritually cut their flesh. To others, her attractiveness might be considered marred by the scar that ran from the corner of her left eye out toward the ear and then cut back again toward the lower part of her nose.

“You are clumsy, sir!”

Hereward stared at her for just one second too long before attempting to speak again.

“I am most—”

“You see something you do not like, I think?” interrupted the woman. “Perhaps you have not served with females? Or is it my face you do not care for?”

“You are very beautiful,” said Hereward, even as he realized it was entirely the wrong thing to say, either to a woman he had just met or an officer he had just run into.

“You mock me!” swore the woman. Her blue eyes shone more fiercely, but her face paled, and the scar grew more livid. She clapped her broad-brimmed hat on her head and straightened to her full height, with the hat standing perhaps an inch over Hereward. “You shall answer for that!”

“I do not mock you,” said Hereward quietly. “I have served with men, women … and eunuchs, for that matter. Furthermore, tomorrow morning I shall be signing on as at least colonel of artillery, and a colonel may not fight a duel with a lieutenant. I am most happy to apologize, but I cannot meet you.”

“Cannot or will not?” sneered the woman. “You are not yet a colonel in Shume’s service, I believe, but just a mercenary braggart.”

Hereward sighed and looked around the common room. Misolu had spoken truly that the inn was not a mercenary favorite. But there were several officers of Shume’s regular service or militia, all of them looking on with great attention.

“Very well,” he snapped. “It is foolishness, for I intended no offence. When and where?”

“Immediately,” said the woman. “There is a garden a little way behind this inn. It is lit by lanterns in the trees, and has a lawn.”

“How pleasant,” said Hereward. “What is your name, madam?”

“I am Lieutenant Jessaye of the Temple Guard of Shume. And you are?”

“I am Sir Hereward of the High Pale.”

“And your friends, Sir Hereward?”

“I have only this moment arrived in Shume, Lieutenant, and so cannot yet name any friends. Perhaps someone in this room will stand by me, should you wish a second. My companion, whom I introduce to you now, is known as Mister Fitz. He is a surgeon—among other things—and I expect he will accompany us.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,” said Mister Fitz. He doffed his hat and veil, sending a momentary frisson of small twitches among all in the room save Hereward.

Jessaye nodded back but did not answer Fitz. Instead she spoke to Hereward.

“I need no second. Should you wish to employ sabers, I must send for mine.”

“I have a sword in my gear,” said Hereward. “If you will allow me a few minutes to fetch it?”

“The garden lies behind the stables,” said Jessaye. “I will await you there. Pray do not be too long.”

Inclining her head but not doffing her hat, she stalked past and out the door.

“An inauspicious beginning,” said Fitz.

“Very,” said Hereward gloomily. “On several counts. Where is the innkeeper? I must change and fetch my sword.”

* * *

The garden was very pretty. Railed in iron, it was not gated, and so accessible to all the citizens of Shume. A wandering path led through a grove of lantern-hung trees to the specified lawn, which was oval and easily fifty yards from end to end, making the center rather a long way from the lanternlight, and hence quite shadowed. A small crowd of persons who had previously been in the inn were gathered on one side of the lawn. Lieutenant Jessaye stood in the middle, naked blade in hand.

“Do be careful, Hereward,” said Fitz quietly, observing the woman flex her knees and practice a stamping attack ending in a lunge. “She looks to be very quick.”

“She is an officer of their temple guard,” said Hereward in a hoarse whisper. “Has their god imbued her with any particular vitality or puissance?”

“No, the godlet does not seem to be a martial entity,” said Fitz. “I shall have to undertake some investigations presently, as to exactly what it is—”

“Sir Hereward! Here at last.”

Hereward grimaced as Jessaye called out. He had changed as quickly as he could, into a very fine suit of split-sleeved white showing the yellow shirt beneath, with gold ribbons at the cuffs, shoulders and front lacing, with similarly cut bloomers of yellow showing white breeches, with silver ribbons at the knees, artfully displayed through the side-notches of his second-best boots.

Jessaye, in contrast, had merely removed her uniform coat and stood in her shirt, blue waistcoat, leather breeches and unadorned black thigh boots folded over below the knee. Had the circumstances been otherwise, Hereward would have paused to admire the sight she presented and perhaps offer a compliment.

Instead he suppressed a sigh, strode forward, drew his sword and threw the scabbard aside.

“I am here, Lieutenant, and I am ready. Incidentally, is this small matter to be concluded by one or perhaps both of us dying?”

“The city forbids duels to the death, Sir Hereward,” replied Jessaye. “Though accidents do occur.”

“What, then, is to be the sign for us to cease our remonstrance?”

“Blood,” said Jessaye. She flicked her sword towards the onlookers. “Visible to those watching.”

Hereward nodded slowly. In this light, there would need to be a lot of blood before the onlookers could see it. He bowed his head but did not lower his eyes, then raised his sword to the guard position.

Jessaye was fast. She immediately thrust at his neck, and though Hereward parried, he had to step back. She carried through to lunge in a different line, forcing him back again with a more awkward parry, removing all opportunity for Hereward to riposte or counter. For a minute they danced, their swords darting up, down and across, clashing together only to move again almost before the sound reached the audience.

In that minute, Hereward took stock of Jessaye’s style and action. She was very fast, but so was he, much faster than anyone would expect from his size and build, and, as always, he had not shown just how truly quick he could be. Jessaye’s wrist was strong and supple, and she could change both attacking and defensive lines with great ease. But her style was rigid, a variant of an old school Hereward had studied in his youth.

On her next lunge—which came exactly where he anticipated—Hereward didn’t parry but stepped aside and past the blade. He felt her sword whisper by his ribs as he angled his own blade over it and with the leading edge of the point, he cut Jessaye above the right elbow to make a long, very shallow slice that he intended should bleed copiously without inflicting any serious harm.

Jessaye stepped back but did not lower her guard. Hereward quickly called out, “Blood!”

Jessaye took a step forward and Hereward stood ready for another attack. Then the lieutenant bit her lip and stopped, holding her arm toward the lanternlight so she could more clearly see the wound. Blood was already soaking through the linen shirt, a dark and spreading stain upon the cloth.

“You have bested me,” she said, and thrust her sword point first into the grass before striding forward to offer her gloved hand to Hereward. He too grounded his blade, and took her hand as they bowed to each other.

A slight stinging low on his side caused Hereward to look down. There was a two-inch cut in his shirt, and small beads of blood were blossoming there. He did not let go Jessaye’s fingers, but pointed at his ribs with his left hand.

“I believe we are evenly matched. I hope we may have no cause to bicker further?”

“I trust not,” said Jessaye quietly. “I regret the incident. Were it not for the presence of some of my fellows, I should not have caviled at your apology, sir. But you understand … a reputation is not easily won, nor kept …”

“I do understand,” said Hereward. “Come, let Mister Fitz attend your cut. Perhaps you will then join me for small repast?”

Jessaye shook her head.

“I go on duty soon. A stitch or two and a bandage is all I have time for. Perhaps we shall meet again.”

“It is my earnest hope that we do,” said Hereward. Reluctantly, he opened his grasp. Jessaye’s hand lingered in his palm for several moments before she slowly raised it, stepped back and doffed her hat to offer a full bow. Hereward returned it, straightening up as Mister Fitz hurried over, carrying a large leather case as if it were almost too heavy for him, one of his standard acts of misdirection, for the puppet was at least as strong as Hereward, if not stronger.

“Attend to Lieutenant Jessaye, if you please, Mister Fitz,” said Hereward. “I am going back to the inn to have a cup … or two … of wine.”

“Your own wound needs no attention?” asked Fitz as he set his bag down and indicated to Jessaye to sit by him.

“A scratch,” said Hereward. He bowed to Jessaye again and walked away, ignoring the polite applause of the onlookers, who were drifting forward either to talk to Jessaye or gawp at the blood on her sleeve.

“I may take a stroll,” called out Mister Fitz after Hereward. “But I shan’t be longer than an hour.”

* * *

Mister Fitz was true to his word, returning a few minutes after the citadel bell had sounded the third hour of the evening. Hereward had bespoken a private chamber and was dining alone there, accompanied only by his thoughts.

“The god of Shume,” said Fitz, without preamble. “Have you heard anyone mention its name?”

Hereward shook his head and poured another measure from the silver jug with the swan’s beak spout. Like many things he had found in Shume, the knight liked the inn’s silverware.

“They call their godlet Tanesh,” said Fitz. “But its true name is Pralqornrah-Tanish-Kvaxixob.”

“As difficult to say or spell, I wager,” said Hereward. “I commend the short form, it shows common sense. What of it?”

“It is on the list,” said Fitz.

Hereward bit the edge of pewter cup and put it down too hard, slopping wine upon the table.

“You’re certain? There can be no question?”

Fitz shook his head. “After I had doctored the young woman, I went down to the lake and took a slide of the god’s essence—it was quite concentrated in the water, easily enough to yield a sample. You may compare it with the record, if you wish.”

He proffered a finger-long inch-wide strip of glass that was striated in many different bands of color. Hereward accepted it reluctantly, and with it a fat, square book that Fitz slid across the table. The book was open at a hand-tinted color plate, the illustration showing a sequence of color bands.

“It is the same,” agreed the knight, his voice heavy with regret. “I suppose it is fortunate we have not yet signed on, though I doubt they will see what we do as being purely a matter of defense.”

“They do not know what they harbor here,” said Fitz.

“It is a pleasant city.” said Hereward, taking up his cup again to take a large gulp of the slightly sweet wine. “In a pretty valley. I had thought I could grow more than accustomed to Shume—and its people.”

“The bounty of Shume, all its burgeoning crops, its healthy stock and people, is an unintended result of their godlet’s predation upon the surrounding lands,” said Fitz. “Pralqornrah is one of the class of cross-dimensional parasites that is most dangerous. Unchecked, in time it will suck the vital essence out of all the land beyond its immediate demesne. The deserts of Balkash are the work of a similar being, over six millennia. This one has only been embedded here for two hundred years—you have seen the results beyond this valley.”

“Six millennia is a long time,” said Hereward, taking yet another gulp. The wine was strong as well as sweet, and he felt the need of it. “A desert might arise in that time without the interference of the gods.”

“It is not just the fields and the river that Pralqornrah feeds upon,” said Fitz. “The people outside this valley suffer too. Babes unborn, strong men and women declining before their prime … this godlet slowly sucks the essence from all life.”

“They could leave,” said Hereward. The wine was making him feel both sleepy and mulish. “I expect many have already left to seek better lands. The rest could be resettled, the lands left uninhabited to feed the godlet. Shume could continue as an oasis. What if another desert grows around it? They occur in nature, do they not?”

“I do not think you fully comprehend the matter,” said Fitz. “Pralqornrah is a most comprehensive feeder. Its energistic threads will spread farther and faster the longer it exists here, and it in turn will grow more powerful and much more difficult to remove. A few millennia hence, it might be too strong to combat.”

“I am only talking,” said Hereward, not without some bitterness. “You need not waste your words to bend my reason. I do not even need to understand anything beyond the salient fact: this godlet is on the list.”

“Yes,” said Mister Fitz. “It is on the list.”

Hereward bent his head for a long, silent moment. Then he pushed his chair back and reached across for his saber. Drawing it, he placed the blade across his knees. Mister Fitz handed him a whetstone and a small flask of light, golden oil. The knight oiled the stone and began to hone the saber’s blade. A repetitive rasp was the only sound in the room for many minutes, till he finally put the stone aside and wiped the blade clean with a soft piece of deerskin.

“When?”

“Fourteen minutes past the midnight hour is optimum,” replied Mister Fitz. “Presuming I have calculated its intrusion density correctly.”

“It is manifest in the temple?”

Fitz nodded.

“Where is the temple, for that matter? Only the citadel stands out above the roofs of the city.”

“It is largely underground,” said Mister Fitz. “I have found a side entrance, which should not prove difficult. At some point beyond that there is some form of arcane barrier—I have not been able to ascertain its exact nature, but I hope to unpick it without trouble.”

“Is the side entrance guarded? And the interior?”

“Both,” said Fitz. Something about his tone made Hereward fix the puppet with a inquiring look.

“The side door has two guards,” continued Fitz. “The interior watch is of ten or eleven … led by the Lieutenant Jessaye you met earlier.”

Hereward stood up, the saber loose in his hand, and turned away from Fitz.

“Perhaps we shall not need to fight her … or her fellows.”

Fitz did not answer, which was answer enough.

* * *

The side door to the temple was unmarked and appeared no different than the other simple wooden doors that lined the empty street, most of them adorned with signs marking them as the shops of various tradesmen, with smoke-grimed night lamps burning dimly above the sign. The door Fitz indicated was painted a pale violet and had neither sign nor lamp.

“Time to don the brassards and make the declaration,” said the puppet. He looked up and down the street, making sure that all was quiet, before handing Hereward a broad silk armband five fingers wide. It was embroidered with sorcerous thread that shed only a little less light than the smoke-grimed lantern above the neighboring shop door. The symbol the threads wove was one that had once been familiar the world over but was now unlikely to be recognized by anyone save an historian … or a god.

Hereward slipped the brassard over his left glove and up his thick coat sleeve, spreading it out above the elbow. The suit of white and yellow was once again packed, and for this expedition the knight had chosen to augment his helmet and buff coat with a dented but still eminently serviceable back- and breastplate, the steel blackened by tannic acid to a dark grey. He had already primed, loaded and spanned his two wheel-lock pistols, which were thrust through his belt; his saber was sheathed at his side; and a lozenge-sectioned, armor-punching bodkin was in his left boot.

Mister Fitz wore his sewing desk upon his back, like a wooden backpack. He had already been through its numerous small drawers and containers and selected particular items that were now tucked into the inside pockets of his coat, ready for immediate use.

“I wonder why we bother with this mummery,” grumbled Hereward. But he stood at attention as Fitz put on his own brassard, and the knight carefully repeated the short phrase uttered by his companion. Though both had recited it many times, and it was clear as bright type in their minds, they spoke carefully and with great concentration, in sharp contrast to Hereward’s remark about mummery.

“In the name of the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World, acting under the authority granted by the Three Empires, the Seven Kingdoms, the Palatine Regency, the Jessar Republic and the Forty Lesser Realms, we declare ourselves agents of the Council. We identify the godlet manifested in this city of Shume as Pralqornrah-Tanish-Kvaxixob, a listed entity under the Treaty. Consequently, the said godlet and all those who assist it are deemed to be enemies of the World and the Council authorizes us to pursue any and all actions necessary to banish, repel or exterminate the said godlet.”

Neither felt it necessary to change this ancient text to reflect the fact that only one of the three empires was still extant in any fashion; that the seven kingdoms were now twenty or more small states; the Palatine Regency was a political fiction, its once broad lands under two fathoms of water; the Jessar Republic was now neither Jessar in ethnicity nor a republic; and perhaps only a handful of the Forty Lesser Realms resembled their antecedent polities in any respect. But for all that the states that had made it were vanished or diminished, the Treaty for the Safety of the World was still held to be in operation, if only by the Council that administered and enforced it.

“Are you ready?” asked Fitz.

Hereward drew his saber and moved into position to the left of the door. Mister Fitz reached into his coat and drew out an esoteric needle. Hereward knew better than to try to look at the needle directly, but in the reflection of his blade, he could see a four-inch line of something intensely violet writhe in Fitz’s hand. Even the reflection made him feel as if he might at any moment be unstitched from the world, so he angled the blade away.

At that moment, Fitz touched the door with the needle and made three short plucking motions. On the last motion, without any noise or fuss, the door wasn’t there anymore. There was only a wood-paneled corridor leading down into the ground and two very surprised temple guards, who were still leaning on their halberds.

Before Hereward could even begin to move, Fitz’s hand twitched across and up several times. The lanterns on their brass stands every six feet along the corridor flickered and flared violet for a fraction of a second. Hereward blinked, and the guards were gone, as were the closest three lanterns and their stands.

Only a single drop of molten brass, no bigger than a tear, remained. It sizzled on the floor for a second, then all was quiet.

The puppet stalked forward, cupping his left hand over the needle in his right, obscuring its troublesome sight behind his fingers. Hereward followed close behind, alert for any enemy that might be resistant to Fitz’s sorcery.

The corridor was a hundred yards long by Hereward’s estimation, and slanted sharply down, making him think about having to fight back up it, which would be no easy task, made more difficult as the floor and walls were damp, drops of water oozing out between the floorboards and dripping from the seams of the wall paneling. There was cold, wet stone behind the timber, Hereward knew. He could feel the cold air rippling off it, a chill that no amount of fine timber could cloak.

The corridor ended at what appeared from a distance to be a solid wall, but closer to was merely the dark back of a heavy tapestry. Fitz edged silently around it, had a look, and returned to beckon Hereward in.

There was a large antechamber or waiting room beyond, sparsely furnished with a slim desk and several well-upholstered armchairs. The desk and chairs each had six legs, the extra limbs arranged closely at the back, a fashion Hereward supposed was some homage to the godlet’s physical manifestation. The walls were hung with several tapestries depicting the city at various stages in its history.

Given the depth underground and the proximity of the lake, great efforts must have been made to waterproof and beautify the walls, floor and ceiling, but there was still an army of little dots of mold advancing from every corner, blackening the white plaster and tarnishing the gilded cornices and decorations.

Apart from the tapestry-covered exit, there were three doors. Two were of a usual size, though they were elaborately carved with obscure symbols and had brass, or perhaps even gold, handles. The one on the wall opposite the tapestry corridor was entirely different: it was a single ten-foot-by-six-foot slab of ancient marble veined with red lead, and it would have been better situated sitting on top of a significant memorial or some potentate’s coffin.

Mister Fitz went to each of the carved doors, his blue tongue flickering in and out, sampling the air.

“No one close,” he reported, before approaching the marble slab. He actually licked the gap between the stone and the floor, then sat for a few moments to think about what he had tasted.

Hereward kept clear, checking the other doors to see if they could be locked. Disappointed in that aim as they had neither bar nor keyhole, he sheathed his saber and carefully and quietly picked up a desk to push against the left door and several chairs to pile against the right. They wouldn’t hold, but they would give some warning of attempted ingress.

Fitz chuckled as Hereward finished his work, an unexpected noise that made the knight shiver, drop his hand to the hilt of his saber, and quickly look around to see what had made the puppet laugh. Fitz was not easily amused, and often not by anything Hereward would consider funny.

“There is a sorcerous barrier,” said Fitz. “It is immensely strong but has not perhaps been as well thought-out as it might have been. Fortuitously, I do not even need to unpick it.”

The puppet reached up with his left hand and pushed the marble slab. It slid back silently, revealing another corridor, this one of more honest bare, weeping stone, rapidly turning into rough-hewn steps only a little way along.

“I’m afraid you cannot follow, Hereward,” said Fitz. “The barrier is conditional, and you do not meet its requirements. It would forcibly—and perhaps harmfully—repel you if you tried to step over the lintel of this door. But I would ask you to stay here in any case, to secure our line of retreat. I should only be a short time if all goes well. You will, of course, know if all does not go well, and must save yourself as best you can. I have impressed the ostlers to rise at your command and load our gear, as I have impressed instructions into the dull minds of the battlemounts—”

“Enough, Fitz! I shall not leave without you.”

“Hereward, you know that in the event of my—”

“Fitz. The quicker it were done—”

“Indeed. Be careful, child.”

“Fitz!”

But the puppet had gone almost before that exasperated single word was out of Hereward’s mouth.

It quickly grew cold with the passage below open. Chill, wet gusts of wind blew up and followed the knight around the room, no matter where he stood. After a few minutes trying to find a spot where he could avoid the cold breeze, Hereward took to pacing by the doors as quietly as he could. Every dozen steps or so he stopped to listen, either for Fitz’s return or the sound of approaching guards.

In the event, he was midpace when he heard something. The sharp beat of hobnailed boots in step, approaching the left-hand door.

Hereward drew his two pistols and moved closer to the door. The handle rattled, the door began to move and encountered the desk he had pushed there. There was an exclamation and several voices spoke all at once. A heavier shove came immediately, toppling the desk as the door came partially open.

Hereward took a pace to the left and fired through the gap. The wheel locks whirred, sparks flew, then there were two deep, simultaneous booms, the resultant echoes flattening down the screams and shouts in the corridor beyond the door, just as the conjoining clouds of blue-white smoke obscured Hereward from the guards, who were already clambering over their wounded or slain companions.

The knight thrust his pistols back through his belt and drew his saber, to make an immediate sweeping cut at the neck of a guard who charged blindly through the smoke, his halberd thrust out in front like a blind man’s cane. Man and halberd clattered to the floor. Hereward ducked under a halberd swing and slashed the next guard behind the knees, at the same time picking up one edge of the desk and flipping it upright in the path of the next two guards. They tripped over it, and Hereward stabbed them both in the back of the neck as their helmets fell forward, left-right, three inches of saber point in and out in an instant.

A blade skidded off Hereward’s cuirass and would have scored his thigh but for a quick twist away. He parried the next thrust, rolled his wrist and slashed his attacker across the stomach, following it up with a kick as the guard reeled back, sword slack in his hand.

No attack—or any movement save for dulled writhing on the ground—followed. Hereward stepped back and surveyed the situation. Two guards were dead or dying just beyond the door. One was still to his left. Three lay around the desk. Another was hunched over by the wall, his hands pressed uselessly against the gaping wound in his gut, as he moaned the god’s name over and over.

None of the guards was Jessaye, but the sound of the pistol shots at the least would undoubtedly bring more defenders of the temple.

“Seven,” said Hereward. “Of a possible twelve.”

He laid his saber across a chair and reloaded his pistols, taking powder cartridges and shot from the pocket of his coat and a ramrod from under the barrel of one gun. Loaded, he wound their wheel-lock mechanisms with a small spanner that hung from a braided-leather loop on his left wrist.

Just as he replaced the pistols in his belt, the ground trembled beneath his feet, and an even colder wind came howling out of the sunken corridor, accompanied by a cloying but not unpleasant odor of exotic spices that also briefly made Hereward see strange bands of color move through the air, the visions fading as the scent also passed.

Tremors, scent and strange visions were all signs that Fitz had joined battle with Pralqornrah-Tanish-Kvaxixob below. There could well be other portents to come, stranger and more unpleasant to experience.

“Be quick, Fitz,” muttered Hereward, his attention momentarily focused on the downwards passage.

Even so, he caught the soft footfall of someone sneaking in, boots left behind in the passage. He turned, pistols in hand, as Jessaye stepped around the half-open door. Two guards came behind her, their own pistols raised.

Before they could aim, Hereward fired and, as the smoke and noise filled the room, threw the empty pistols at the trio, took up his saber and jumped aside.

Jessaye’s sword leapt into the space where he’d been. Hereward landed, turned and parried several frenzied stabs at his face, the swift movement of their blades sending the gun smoke eddying in wild roils and coils. Jessaye pushed him back almost to the other door. There, Hereward picked up a chair and used it to fend off several blows, at the same time beginning to make small, fast cuts at Jessaye’s sword arm.

Jessaye’s frenzied assault slackened as Hereward cut her badly on the shoulder near her neck, then immediately after that on the upper arm, across the wound he’d given her in the duel. She cried out in pain and rage and stepped back, her right arm useless, her sword point trailing on the floor.

Instead of pressing his attack, the knight took a moment to take stock of his situation.

The two pistol-bearing guards were dead or as good as, making the tally nine. That meant there should only be two more, in addition to Jessaye, and those two were not immediately in evidence.

“You may withdraw, if you wish,” said Hereward, his voice strangely loud and dull at the same time, a consequence of shooting in enclosed spaces. “I do not wish to kill you, and you cannot hold your sword.”

Jessaye transferred her sword to her left hand and took a shuddering breath.

“I fight equally well with my left hand,” she said, assuming the guard position as best she could, though her right arm hung at her side, and blood dripped from her fingers to the floor.

She thrust immediately, perhaps hoping for surprise. Hereward ferociously beat her blade down, then stamped on it, forcing it from her grasp. He then raised the point of his saber to her throat.

“No you don’t,” he said. “Very few people do. Go, while you still live.”

“I cannot,” whispered Jessaye. She shut her eyes. “I have failed in my duty. I shall die with my comrades. Strike quickly.”

Hereward raised his elbow and prepared to push the blade through the so-giving flesh, as he had done so many times before. But he did not, instead he lowered his saber and backed away around the wall.

“Quickly, I beg you,” said Jessaye. She was shivering, the blood flowing faster down her arm.

“I cannot,” muttered Hereward. “Or rather I do not wish to. I have killed enough today.”

Jessaye opened her eyes and slowly turned to him, her face paper white, the scar no brighter than the petal of a pink rose. For the first time, she saw that the stone door was open, and she gasped and looked wildly around at the bodies that littered the floor.

“The priestess came forth? You have slain her?”

“No,” said Hereward. He continued to watch Jessaye and listen for others, as he bent and picked up his pistols. They were a present from his mother, and he had not lost them yet. “My companion has gone within.”

“But that … that is not possible! The barrier—”

“Mister Fitz knew of the barrier,” said Hereward wearily. He was beginning to feel the aftereffects of violent combat, and strongly desired to be away from the visible signs of it littered around him. “He crossed it without difficulty.”

“But only the priestess can pass,” said Jessaye wildly. She was shaking more than just shivering now, as shock set in, though she still stood upright. “A woman with child! No one and nothing else! It cannot be …”

Her eyes rolled back in her head, she twisted sideways and fell to the floor. Hereward watched her lie there for a few seconds while he attempted to regain the cold temper in which he fought, but it would not return. He hesitated, then wiped his saber clean, sheathed it, then despite all better judgment, bent over Jessaye.

She whispered something and again, and he caught the god’s name, “Tanesh” and with it a sudden onslaught of cinnamon and cloves and ginger on his nose. He blinked, and in that blink, she turned and struck at him with a small dagger that had been concealed in her sleeve. Hereward had expected something, but not the god’s assistance, for the dagger was in her right hand, which he’d thought useless. He grabbed her wrist but could only slow rather than stop the blow. Jessaye struck true, the dagger entering the armhole of the cuirass, to bite deep into his chest.

Hereward left the dagger there and merely pushed Jessaye back. The smell of spices faded, and her arm was limp once more. She did not resist, but lay there quite still, only her eyes moving as she watched Hereward sit down next to her . He sighed heavily, a few flecks of blood already spraying out with his breath, evidence that her dagger was lodged in his lung though he already knew that from the pain that impaled him with every breath.

“There is no treasure below,” said Jessaye quietly. “Only the godlet, and his priestess.”

“We did not come for treasure,” said Hereward. He spat blood on the floor. “Indeed, I had thought we would winter here, in good employment. But your god is proscribed, and so …”

“Proscribed? I don’t … who …”

“By the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World,” said Hereward. “Not that anyone remembers that name. If we are remembered it is from the stories that tell of … god-slayers.”

“I know the stories,” whispered Jessaye. “And not just stories … we were taught to beware the god-slayers. But they are always women, barren women, with witch-scars on their faces. Not a man and a puppet. That is why the barrier … the barrier stops all but gravid women …”

Hereward paused to wipe a froth of blood from his mouth before he could answer.

“Fitz has been my companion since I was three years old. He was called Mistress Fitz then, as my nurse-bodyguard. When I turned ten, I wanted a male companion, and so I began to call him Mister Fitz. But whether called Mistress or Master, I believe Fitz is nurturing an offshoot of his spiritual essence in some form of pouch upon his person. In time he will make a body for it to inhabit. The process takes several hundred years.”

“But you …”

Jessaye’s whisper was almost too quiet to hear.

“I am a mistake … the witches of Har are not barren, that is just a useful tale. But they do only bear daughters … save the once. I am the only son of a witch born these thousand years. My mother is one of the Mysterious Three who rule the witches, last remnant of the Council. Fitz was made by that Council, long ago, as a weapon made to fight malignant gods. The more recent unwanted child became a weapon too, puppet and boy flung out to do our duty in the world. A duty that has carried me here … to my great regret.”

No answer came to this bubbling, blood-infused speech. Hereward looked across at Jessaye and saw that her chest no longer rose and fell, and that there was a dark puddle beneath her that was still spreading, a tide of blood advancing toward him.

He touched the hilt of the dagger in his side, and coughed, and the pain of both things was almost too much to bear; but he only screamed a little, and made it worse by standing up and staggering to the wall to place his back against it. There were still two guards somewhere, and Fitz was surprisingly vulnerable if he was surprised. Or he might be wounded too, from the struggle with the god.

Minutes or perhaps a longer time passed, and Hereward’s mind wandered and, in wandering, left his body too long. It slid down the wall to the ground and his blood began to mingle with that of Jessaye, and the others who lay on the floor of a god’s antechamber turned slaughterhouse.

Then there was pain again, and Hereward’s mind jolted back into his body, in time to make his mouth whimper and his eyes blink at a light that was a color he didn’t know, and there was Mister Fitz leaning over him and the dagger wasn’t in his side anymore and there was no bloody froth upon his lips. There was still pain. Constant, piercing pain, coming in waves and never subsiding. It stayed with him, uppermost in his thoughts, even as he became dimly aware that he was upright and walking, his legs moving under a direction not his own.

Except that very soon he was lying down again, and Fitz was cross.

“You have to get back up, Hereward.”

“I’m tired, Fitzie … can’t I rest for a little longer?”

“No. Get up.”

“Are we going home?”

“No, Hereward. You know we can’t go home. We must go onward.”

“Onward? Where?”

“Never mind now. Keep walking. Do you see our mounts?”

“Yes … but we will never … never make it out the gate …”

“We will, Hereward … leave it to me. Here, I will help you up. Are you steady enough?”

“I will … stay on. Fitz …”

“Yes, Hereward.”

“Don’t … don’t kill them all.”

If Fitz answered, Hereward didn’t hear, as he faded out of the world for a few seconds. When the world nauseatingly shivered back into sight and hearing, the puppet was nowhere in sight and the two battlemounts were already loping toward the gate, though the leading steed had no rider.

They did not pause at the wall. Though it was past midnight, the gate was open, and the guards who might have barred the way were nowhere to be seen, though there were strange splashes of color upon the earth where they might have stood. There were no guards beyond the gate, on the earthwork bastion either, the only sign of their prior existence a half-melted belt buckle still red with heat.

To Hereward’s dim eyes, the city’s defenses might as well be deserted, and nothing prevented the battlemounts continuing to lope, out into the warm autumn night.

The leading battlemount finally slowed and stopped a mile beyond the town, at the corner of a lemon grove, its hundreds of trees so laden with yellow fruit they scented the air with a sharp, clean tang that helped bring Hereward closer to full consciousness. Even so, he lacked the strength to shorten the chain of his own mount, but it stopped by its companion without urging.

Fitz swung down from the outlying branch of a lemon tree, onto his saddle, without spilling any of the fruit piled high in his upturned hat.

“We will ride on in a moment. But when we can, I shall make a lemon salve and a soothing drink.”

Hereward nodded, finding himself unable to speak. Despite Fitz’s repairing sorceries, the wound in his side was still very painful, and he was weak from loss of blood, but neither thing choked his voice. He was made quiet by a cold melancholy that held him tight, coupled with a feeling of terrible loss, the loss of some future, never-to-be happiness that had gone forever.

“I suppose we must head for Fort Yarz,” mused Fitz. “It is the closest likely place for employment. There is always some trouble there, though I believe the Gebrak tribes have been largely quiet this past year.”

Hereward tried to speak again, and at last found a croak that had some resemblance to a voice.

“No. I am tired of war. Find us somewhere peaceful, where I can rest.”

Fitz hopped across to perch on the neck of Hereward’s mount and faced the knight, his blue eyes brighter than the moonlight.

“I will try, Hereward. But as you ruminated earlier, the world is as it is, and we are what we were made to be. Even should we find somewhere that seems at peace, I suspect it will not stay so, should we remain. Remember Jeminero.”

“Aye.” Hereward sighed. He straightened up just a little and took up the chains, as Fitz jumped to his own saddle. “I remember.”

“Fort Yarz?” asked Fitz.

Hereward nodded, and slapped the chain, urging his battlemount forward. As it stretched into its stride, the lemons began to fall from the trees in the orchard, playing the soft drumbeat of a funerary march, the first sign of the passing from the world of the god of Shume.

* * *

Garth Nix is the author of many books and stories.

Midnight at the Quantum Cafe

Written by K. D. Wentworth

Illustrated by DT Yang

The torrid summer air tasted of industrial sludge as I stood ankle-deep in the rubble at the edge of the street and gazed into the darkness. A car rolled by, its occupants skittish and silent, then I caught the acrid stench of smoke. Somewhere, not too far away, Chicago was burning again.

My heart lifted. When this reality was at its nastiest, I always felt there was a slight edge in my favor. Foolish, I know. With each roll of the universe’s proverbial dice, the probability of any particular outcome remains the same, but a man grasps at whatever straw glimmers before him, and I thought if I went to the cafe often enough, I might find another Marissa, one just different enough from the one who left to still love me.

I hurried down into the nearest station, took the next train, its gang-marks worked in fanciful chartreuse, and got off two stops to the south where the air tasted of ketones and shimmered like a veil even a few feet away. I stepped out of the car, eyes stinging, shoved my hands in my pockets to create the illusion I was carrying, and waded through discarded paper wrappers and beer bottles up the stairs to the street.

No use hurrying, I tried to persuade myself as I turned my face east. Either it would be there, or it wouldn’t. No variable I could introduce would make any difference.

I rounded the corner and squinted down the block as I had so many times before. The haze refracted the glow of each street lamp into a nimbus of light so that I seemed to be standing inside a nebula and could make nothing out from more than ten feet away. Drops condensed on my cheeks. Tiny bursts of electricity tingled against my skin. The air trembled as though afraid.

Transition, I thought. The cafe was either coming or going.

From behind, a pair of brutish Otts shouldered me into the bricks as they passed. Their hide gleamed blue in the uncertain light; their eyes were black pits. Crimson jewels had been implanted into their elongated skulls, more scintillating than any mere ruby. They snarled as they passed, baring jagged yellow fangs, but did not strike. I had not been so fortunate on other nights. I rubbed a scar on my ribs through my shirt and slowed to let them get well ahead.

Otts hail from some other unimaginable Earth where evolution evidently took a hellish turn, or perhaps alien invasion repopulated the planet at some point. Either way, they disdain humans, whatever the variety. I could only hope enough of them hadn’t gotten through to crowd the rest of us out tonight.

It always seems to be midnight at the cafe. Why it doesn’t manifest anywhere during the day has been the subject of much discussion amongst the regular patrons, but Jaeko, the bartender, never volunteers any answers. Dressed in a worn leather jacket, he stumps back and forth behind the bar, reminiscent of a marmot crossed with an ape. His black eyes, bright with an old wisdom, blink in that hairy face of his and he serves another round of drinks, never what you ordered, but always some concoction that does what you need.

Electric pink gleamed through the haze, then I caught a green so bright, it seared an afterimage into the retina, neon lights spelling out letters in some language I’ve never been able to decipher. The cafe was within reach, at least for the moment. One can never be sure until it is observed. The act of conscious attention somehow opens a passageway when conditions are right. In hundreds of other locations on alternate Earths, the cafe also existed tonight because someone like me had looked up and seen it.

The double doors swung open at my approach and two women, eight feet or more tall, swept through. Their spiky hair was the gaudy pink of roses, their cheeks pierced with glittering brass symbols of rank. They walked arm in sinewy arm with long sleek weapons slung across their broad shoulders.

Rammats from a savage world of violent warrior cultures. I stepped aside and bowed my head and they let me live, one more time.

The air drifting out the double doors had a subtle spice I’d smelled before, familiar, though I couldn’t place it. I remembered how bewildered I’d been on my first encounter, the strangeness of the speech and dress, the bizarre foods, the predominance of nonhuman life-forms. I’d left my apartment earlier that evening, feeling restless and lonely, then caught sight of a woman who looked like my lost love, Marissa, and followed her down street after dark street, until we both turned a corner and suddenly the cafe was there, garish against the black night sky.

There was no sign of Marissa, if that was really who I’d been following, so thinking she’d gone in, I entered myself, then slunk into a shadowy corner and stared until Jaeko brought me a seething blue drink and patiently fit my trembling fingers around the glass. It had been hot, not cold, and tasted like sugared formaldehyde, but after a few sips I could string thoughts together again.

“Firs nigh?” Jaeko leaned on my table, propping one hairy arm over the other. His vocal apparatus, though capable of speech, has difficulty shaping final phonemes.

I nodded, still shaking, then let another sip burn down my throat.

“Jus keep you head down,” he said with a wink of his surprisingly humanlike eye. “No one ever bother a firs nighter unless he get out of line.” He raised a slim black rifle from its hiding place below the counter, then slid it back out of sight again. “Nex time, though, you got you own bac.”

With that sage advice, I watched the bewildering parade of customers in silks, leathers, naked blue hide, and armor, even a few who could have been from my own Earth, who glanced at me with indifferent eyes, then looked away.

I stayed for hours, but no Marissa appeared, not even someone who resembled her slightly. When I finally summoned the courage to try to leave, I’d feared I was trapped there forever, but then walked right back into the shabby, vandalized remnants of my own gang-ruled Chicago.

The next night I came back and found only a burned-out building that had once held a pharmacy. Broken glass crunched beneath my shoes as I walked up and down, looking for some sign the cafe had ever been here.

I stayed away for a month after that, convinced I’d hallucinated the whole episode, but then, on a glacial December evening, when ice crystals stung my face and the brutal wind sledgehammered out of the north across the lake, I walked that way again and saw the pink and green letters gleaming through the darkness like an overpriced strumpet on the stroll.

That was the night I first encountered Alont. I was sitting at the long curving black bar, staring down at the reflection of my face in a spill, when the noise died. I turned and a woman stood framed in the double arch of the doorway, taller than most men, straight in a way models only dreamed of being, her hair and eyes both an intense orange. I’d never seen anyone more different from my sweet wife, Marissa.

A raw, half-healed scar snaked down her temple and cheek. She wore silver-gray leather harness on her upper body that concealed nothing, along with a worn belt and knife sheath at her waist. Those audacious orange eyes flicked over me and moved on.

Jaeko nodded as she passed, drawing stares in her wake as a magnet draws iron. “Alont,” he said. “Big trouble. My advice: Fin a rock and bash you head in instea. Less painful.”

Hell, most of what walked in that door looked like trouble. I picked up my drink, something pungent and lukewarm, reminiscent of spoiled lemonade laced with antifreeze. A body slid onto the stool next to me and naked skin pressed against my trousered thigh. Heat pooled between us like a lava flow. I shivered.

“Hey there, Rafe,” she said, somehow knowing my name. “How’s it hanging?”

I looked up, startled. Orange eyes gleamed at me like twin suns. My mouth gaped as I tried to think of something to say, then a hand seized my coat from behind and jerked me off onto the tile floor. I hit my head and sprawled there, blinking up at the ceiling, while a kunj soldier in dull-brown combat gear stepped over me and sat in my place with the clank of metal.

“Hullo, Alont,” he said, his voice the deep subsonic rumble of a bull elephant. Black smudges gleamed beneath blue eyes.

“Shag off,” she said in what sounded vaguely like an Australian accent. “I got no time for hair-faces.”

“What about that?” He turned around and kicked me in the stomach. I gagged and belatedly crawled out of reach.

“That there’s fresh meat,” she said as I fought to breathe. “You, you’re just last week’s kill.”

“Not too dead for you,” he said, “as I recall.” He ran a hand over that creamy expanse of naked thigh.

She drew a rippled blade and sliced two of his fingers off with no more fuss than if she were swatting an insect. They dropped close to my face on the floor, curled like question marks. “I said, shag off.”

Blood fountained as, with a cry, he staggered away, staring at the stumps. She turned back to the bar and shoved three small black triangles at Jaeko.

He nodded and hobbled back to the rows of bottles to concoct something. Alont reached down with one hand and plucked me off the floor by my shirt. “I been to your world,” she said, settling me back on the stool as though I weighed nothing. “Couple a times.”

Something clicked in my left ear. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a snub-nosed gun aimed at Alont and jerked back.

She twitched, then her knife bloomed in the soldier’s right eye like a steel flower. He fell backwards and lay spread-eagled on the tile. Red pooled around his head like some hellish crimson lake and the coppery stink of blood filled the air. His mouth gaped open as though he wanted to ask something.

The hairy bartender was now wielding the slim black rifle he’d shown me on the my first night. I got a better look this time. It seemed to be made of ceramic. Two bright red jewels pulsed at its business end as though about to fire. “Tha wil be doubl, for the mess,” he said levelly. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Alont said and dumped a handful of black triangles on the bar. “Rules say I’m allowed to finish what someone else starts. Won’t go no further, boyo.” She turned back to me. “You ever slip into ‘nother world?” I noticed a bruise on her jaw and livid finger tracks on her throat.

“Uh, no,” I managed around the pain in my gut. “I didn’t know it was even possible.”

“Is,” she said. “All them other worlds is out there too, every time you leave, but you have to learn the trick of seeing them, ‘stead of your own.”

“It’s hard enough just to get here,” I said.

She wiped the bloody knife on my shirt, then slid it back into the sheath at her waist with an air of abstraction as though, like breathing, it required no attention. “I can show you.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I said as two salivating Otts dragged the carcass behind us away. What they were going to do with it, I didn’t want to know, any more than I wanted to see the brutish worlds my fellow customers hailed from.

Grinning, Alont seized the back of my coat and hustled me outside. The double doors swung closed behind us and I stood shivering in the bitter wind, tethered in her grip like an errant poodle. The night sky glittered above us, an river of dark-blue ice.

“You was beginning to look a bit soft around the edges,” she said. The biting wind whipped her orange hair across the scar on her cheek. “Means ‘nother you is close. Not good to hang out in there too long. Lots of you scattered through all them worlds. Spend too much time in that damned cafe, one comes along and—bam! The two of you might overlap like old Jaeko.”

I subtly tried to free myself without success. “He didn’t always look like that?”

She looked around, as though searching. “Used to be downright pretty. I danced him in the back room couple of times before he forgot to go home one night and got himself thoroughly spliced.”

Had Jaeko once been human, then? The nape of my neck prickled with dread.

“Now, you, you’re not pretty,” she said, “but I’d hate to see you spliced all the same.” She turned, looking over my head, her orange eyes intent. “There!”

I followed her gaze and saw a glimmer of white headlights in the murky air. “What?”

“‘Nother world,” she said. “Not mine. We don’t have them sort of groundcars. They’d get smashed inside a day, tops.”

As we watched, an elongated, glimmering green car swept toward us through the shadows. Judging by its sleek lines, it was not from my world either. Two passengers sat inside, but neither seemed to be driving. Their faces were illuminated pale blue by the interior lights. Absorbed in conversation, they didn’t seem to notice us.

“I recognize the clothes,” Alont said. “Soft sort of place. Been there a few times. They talk nice enough, but got no bottom.”

“What’s your world like?” Crystallized breath hung around us like a fog. Shivering overtook me and I fought to keep my teeth from chattering. Was it this cold on all the worlds tonight?

“Tough,” she said, then grinned so that the scar on her face stood out. “No one on my world takes guff off no one.” She stared up at the sky. “No one lives too long either. You just do what you want while you can.”

I tucked my rapidly numbing hands under my arms. “So why do you come here?”

“Why do you?” Her eyes mirrored the frosty stars above. “I always ask you that. Figure one of you might actually be able to tell me some night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “We’ve never met before.”

“Not this you and me,” she said.

Two Otts burst through the door and stared at us. Alont threw back her head and snarled, brandishing me like a weapon in her left hand, her knife in her right. Hanging there, I did my best to look fierce as well.

They hesitated, then dropped their eyes and moved on. She followed them with her savage gaze, bare breasts heaving. Her teeth gleamed pink and green in the light from the cafe’s neon. “Too bad,” she said as the pair disappeared into the darkness. “A tussle would’ve cleared my head right nice.”

“Yeah,” I said and this time did manage to extract my arm from her grip. My heart pounded as I backed away. “What fun.”

She stepped into the hazy night and was gone, as though between one step and the next, a light had been extinguished. I followed, but found myself instead in the smoldering rubble of my own Chicago.

Tonight, almost two years later, I didn’t see Alont when I pushed through the doors. After the suffocating summer heat of my world, it was cool inside, as though the depths of winter were just a few feet away. Jaeko’s hairy form was behind the bar, looking more human than usual.

“She’s not here,” he said, mopping at an invisible spill on the bar’s gleaming black surface. His words were much clearer too, in keeping with his improved appearance.

“I’m not looking for her, or anyone else, for that matter,” I said and slipped onto my usual bar stool. “I just want a drink.”

“Sure,” he said. His eyes, bright with some emotion, perhaps disbelief, flicked to the door, then back.

Did other versions of me come here sometimes, I wondered, looking for Alont, or fighting with Otts? Did I leave my blood as a scarlet offering on the floor some nights? Maybe in other worlds I was tougher or smarter. Maybe in other lives, I had something important to do and someone still to love.

Jaeko brought me a hot, bitter concoction, which reeked of sage like Thanksgiving dressing. I let a sip burn down my throat.

Then it seemed suddenly, as though I remembered another life, one without hostile, disinterested students and gangs and rubble, one in which a stainless-steel-and-glass Chicago gleamed under the sun and impeccably dressed people hurried to work. I was one of those people, confident and assured. I carried a briefcase, talked with an elegant woman who walked along on my arm, had friends … associations … prospects …

I blinked and shuddered, mired in someone else’s life. Where had that come from?

Jaeko seized the glass out of my hand. “Time to go,” he said briskly. “Pay up and hit the road.”

“But I’m not finished!” I said as he dumped the steaming contents of my glass down the sink.

Three Rammats strode past, their long dirty hair clicking with beads, the last one bleeding from the shoulder. Her blood was curiously dark, almost purple, but perhaps that was only the cafe’s lights. Over in the corner, someone, or something, sat down at an unfamiliar instrument, a bit like an oversized vacuum cleaner, and played music born of no tonal scale ever favored by humans. The raw notes battled with one another and scraped my already bruised nerves.

“Go!” Jaeko said and motioned an ungainly waiter with the face of a toad over to a side table with a tray of spoiled-looking food.

“I’m not ready,” I said and dug a few wrinkled bills out of my pocket. “Look, I haven’t been here for weeks. You can’t be tired of my company already.”

In the back, someone was smoking a substance that smelled like burning plastic. My eyes began to sting as the red smoke feathered along the ceiling.

“Terrible night,” Jaeko said without meeting my gaze. “Trouble all round. Come back some other time.”

“If I leave, I may not get back for months,” I said. “You know that.”

“Not exactly the worst that could happen.” His hairy ears twitched.

The black doors quivered, then Alont walked in, but she was different, her orange hair cropped short, her face unscarred. She wore long robes of flowing red, a hood pushed back on her shoulders. A kunj soldier took one look at her, then edged away as she flung herself into a chair at one of the tables and stared down at clenched hands.

“New look,” I said and slipped into the chair next to her.

“Shag off,” she said and her hand darted to the sheath on her belt.

“Whatever you say.” My chair scraped across the tile as I stood and retreated out of reach. The memory of severed fingers danced behind my eyes. “Have you been in one of those other worlds you were telling me about?”

She looked at me sharply. “You and me’ve talked before?”

“A bit.”

“Some of me do that sometimes,” she said, “talk to fricking strangers. Don’t know why.”

“Just friendly, I guess.” An Ott with blood on its face peeked out of the back room, grinned at me savagely, then withdrew.

“I shouldn’t waste time on hair-faces,” she said. “Got too much to do.”

I studied her weary face, the bloodshot orange eyes that gleamed in the dimness, maps of someplace I wouldn’t want to venture. “Like what?”

“You’re real nosey,” she said and drew her knife. At least it was the same, the metal rippled and evil looking.

“Sorry,” I said and found a small round table set back in the shadows. Maybe Jaeko was right and I should leave. Tonight wasn’t looking promising. Only the thought of my boring, cramped, empty apartment kept me from heading back.

Two Lobos burst through the doors, their faces painted gray and black to mimic wolves, their eyes as feral as anything that ever bayed at the moon. I looked away. In the way of the cafe, if I didn’t see them, then maybe they weren’t really here.

Feet shuffled, then a hand seized my shoulder and artificial claws bit through my shirt. I jerked to my feet, warm blood trickling down my ribs.

“Howl much, brother?” a voice rasped in my ear.

“Sure,” I said, rigid with pain, “every night, just like clockwork.”

The claws tightened and agony shimmered through my brain like sheet lightning, white and fierce. I tried to twist free, but the claws only tightened in my torn flesh.

“I don’t think so,” another voice said, higher, female, probably. “He don’t look to have the knack.”

Something cold sniffed the nape of my unprotected neck. My skin crawled. “L-look,” I said, “I don’t want trouble. Just tell me what you want!”

“A good hunt.” The female’s breath was hot and moist against my bare skin. “But you don’t look like the one as could give it to us.”

“Oh, that there fellow’s soft as mallow,” Alont said. “That all you’re up to?”

“You got something else in mind then?” The male cast me against the hard edge of a table, where I sank to the floor, winded and trembling.

Above, Alont’s rippled knife gleamed in the cafe’s dim lights. “Come ahead and find out!”

The three of them stared into one another’s eyes, hackles raised, noses twitching. The Lobos weren’t just painted fools, I suddenly realized. There was more of the true animal in them than I had ever credited. Obviously, I never looked closely enough all those times I’d encountered one here. I gathered my knees to my chest and shivered.

The Lobos glanced aside, then backed up in tandem until they reached the doors.

Alont crinkled her eyes and laughed until the pair turned and fled. “They always do that,” she said, reaching down to pull me to my feet. “Got no bottom, if you just stand up to them.”

“I guess I n-need to come armed, then,” I said, my teeth chattering with reaction. Cold sweat glued my shirt to my back. “I’ll do better next time.”

“What you need, bucko, is to stay out of here, if you can’t take care of yourself,” she said. “This here’s no playpen.”

Jaeko emerged from behind the bar long enough to shove a glass of something cold and blue into my hand. I threw back my head and downed half in a single gulp. Molten ice seeped into my shattered nerves and eased my shaking, chasing the pain of my clawed shoulder before it.

“Your world’s too soft,” she said. “Hell, you’re too soft. This place is not for the likes of you.”

“Then I’ll have to toughen up,” I said and sat down heavily at the bar, staring at my hands around the glass. Jaeko snorted and turned away to stock bottles out of surprisingly mundane-looking cardboard boxes on the floor. “I bet you didn’t have it so easy the first few times you found your way to the cafe either.”

“This? This here’s nothing,” she said and resheathed her knife. “Fact is folk from my world come here to relax.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” I said. “Your world is so terrible, much worse than this.” I tipped the last of my icy blue drink down my throat.

“You want to see bad?” she said and seized my arm.

“Hey!” I tried to pry her hand off.

“Come on, then. I’ll show you!” She dragged me backwards off the stool and out the double doors.

Outside, the black night sky shimmered red and gold, like some mad aurora borealis. I struggled to free myself, but Alont just laughed, her coarse orange hair flying in the wind, and marched me onward as though disciplining an errant child.

“It changes, you know,” she said, “every time one of you lot comes through the door. You bring the Lobos and the Otts, and even me, when you decide to see us. We don’t just come here on our own.”

My shoulder ached as I dug my heels in and managed to slow her down. “I do not!”

“It’s the nature of this fricking place.” She released my shirt and stood back, hands on her solid hips. “Everyone who walks in changes it.”

I looked around. The ruined buildings I’d expected to see were gone. The dark horizon was flat and remote, unimpeded by construction of any kind. Overhead, a black shape swept through the sky like a bird, but far too large. I shivered even though it was hot. We weren’t in my Chicago. Just a few steps beyond the cafe’s doors, she’d forced me into unknown country. How did she keep doing that? Overhead, rose and green streamers intertwined like snakes and danced across the sky. “Where are we?”

“In the place I made.” She blinked up at the unseen stars. “I didn’t mean to, anymore than you meant to make yours, but I didn’t know any better back when I started out.”

The black shape banked and turned toward us. Alont drew her knife and stared upwards with a fierce joy. “Nasty creatures about—got to be careful here.”

The air was cleaner than my world’s, filled with unfamiliar woody scents. My heart was racing as the eerie lights overhead reflected from her knife. “How do I get back?”

“Open your eyes and decide to see it,” she said, her own gaze fixed on the dark flyer. The wind picked up and swirled her tattered red robes around those long, bare legs.

“See what?”

“Whatever you want.” With a sharp screel, whatever-it-was angled its wings and plummeted toward us like a stone.

I swore and fell to my knees, arms over my head. “Get us the hell out of here!”

“Do it yourself,” she said. “Me, I fancy a good fight!”

The cafe still lay behind me, I realized. I lurched back onto my feet and fled toward its familiar face. Inside, a trio of Otts were quarreling over a bloodied body that looked a bit like Jaeko, but he was still unpacking bottles behind the bar.

He nodded his hairy head, his eyes gone red this time, where before they’d been black. His human aspect had faded. “Troubl, tha one,” he lisped. “Didn I tel you?”

I slid onto the stool and tucked my hands under my arms, unable to stop shaking. Jaeko was right. I really had to stop coming to this place. With a sudden strong pang, I wanted to go home, but feared what might lie beyond those swinging doors.

“Go hom, Raf,” Jaeko said. “Haven you had enough fo one nigh?”

The doors opened again and a man stood framed in the blackness of the night outside. He was of middle stature and clearly human with wavy brown hair tousled by the wind, puzzled hazel eyes, a deeply wrinkled brow. A battered briefcase was clasped under one arm. He turned to scan the room and I could see someone had scratched a gang sign into the black leather with the careless tip of a knife. I remembered that day, the briefcase lying on my desk, my back turned for just a second as I wrote on the board, then the burst of laughter that filled the classroom.

“Too lat.” Jaeko shook his head and reached for a damp cloth. “Shoul hav lef when I said.” He raised his voice and called out to the man, “She’s no here tonigh! Go hom!”

“Alont?” The stranger raised his briefcase with both hands before him like a shield. He took another step into the room and I felt him, as though he were trying to climb into my skin. Our eyes met and something leaped between us. For a second, we were one, he, standing in my shoes, I, in his. Our minds fused and I saw that he was still married to Marissa, while in my world she had left me over two years go.

Whatever was between us flared, so hot and bright, I could taste his essence, then we both fell back on our rumps. When I could see again, he was gone and I sat on the floor, while a newly arrived crowd of half-naked blue humanoids stepped around me.

Jaeko peered over the bar at me and shook his hairy head. “You would thin two of th same person woul neve com here at the sam tim, but it always happen. The more simila they are, the more likely to overlap.”

But all I could think of was that there were still worlds where Marissa still loved me. The knowledge soothed my mind like a sweet balm. Worlds where she still stretched out beside me at night, her skin warm and moist from the shower, fragrant with her favorite soap, worlds where she could still look at me with love.

Other Rafes. Other Marissas. The desire to live in one of those places twisted like a white hot poker in my gut. I pulled myself back onto my feet using the bar stool, trembling.

“Oh, sit dow,” Jaeko said and took me by the arm. His eyes stood out in his animal face.

“But I’ve got to go to her!” I passed a hand over my hair, finding it wild and disordered. “She’s out there, in his world. If I hurry, maybe the way is still open.”

“Idiot, you knocked him loose.” Enunciating with exaggerated care, Jaeko deposited me on the stool as though I weighed nothing, then shuffled back behind the bar, his motion rocking apelike side to side. “He won’t be going home, but it could have easily been you. Think about that.”

“She’s there.” The possibilities whirled through my mind. He’d had my briefcase, even down to the defaced side. He must have had my same job, many of the same details of my life. If I could just find my way into his world instead of my own—

Then I thought of what Jaeko had said and looked up as he placed a simmering orange concoction before me in a tall glass. “What did you mean—I `knocked him loose?’”

“When two similar bodies meet here, sometimes they overlap, like me, and you get the sum of their parts, and sometimes they collide and go their separate ways, with at least one of them knocked loose from his own world, sometimes both.”

We could have been merged then, like Jaeko, but instead we had repelled each other. “So where is he?” I said. “Did I somehow fling him back into his own world, with her?”

“You’re still here, so he must be the one who’s lost,” Jaeko said. “The poor bastard’s unstuck from everything he’s ever known, wandering.”

I took a drink of the orange liquid. It tasted like battery acid. I shuddered. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Yeah, righ,” Jaeko said, lapsing back into his lisp. “Forget it. No one ever listen anyway.” He ran the tips of his fingers over his muzzle. “I didn.”

“If he’s lost,” I whispered, “then she’ll be alone. She’ll need me.”

“It won be your she,” Jaeko said wearily, as though he’d given this warning many times. “And you’re no her man.”

“But I could be!”

Alont sauntered through the door, looked around the room, settled her gaze on me. Her hair was black with green highlights tonight, not orange, her face unscarred. Another Alont, just like there had been another me. So many worlds.

“You.” She headed in my direction.

I slid off the stool. I wanted Marissa, not this hulking amazon. “Got to go, Jaeko,” I said and shoved a handful of paper bills across the counter.

He nodded, then curled his fingers around the money and waved me off.

“I got a message for you.” Alont blocked my path.

“Some other night,” I said and ducked my head.

“No, now!” She seized a handful of my hair and nearly jerked me off my feet.

I wrenched free, leaving behind a sizable quantity of hair. My head stung and I was suddenly angry. “I don’t want to talk,” I said, “or dance, or fight, or any of the other things you think you do so well! I just want to—”

“Go to her!” she finished, her black eyes scornful. “Right?”

“Right!” I swung at her face.

She slipped aside easily, then struck me to the floor. “Well, the message is she don’t want to see you.”

My head reeled. I put the back of a knuckle to my split lip. “You don’t know that,” I said. “In fact, you have no idea who we’re even talking about.”

“I know,” she said, a thin crooked smile on her lips. “Marissa.”

I stared, at a loss for words.

“Now you done your part, she don’t want to see you no more. This here was her place first.”

“She’s been here before?”

“Every night, bucko, ‘til you started showing up. Now, she slips out the back door when you come in.”

“But I found this cafe on my own,” I said. All around us, creatures and humans and things that might have been human a long time ago were watching us, listening, more than a few with smirks on their insufferable faces. Bastards. I’d been here often enough to know how they loved a scandal.

“According to Marissa, you couldn’t find your arse with both hands and illuminated arrows,” she said. “How do you think a screwup like you could ever find your way across freaking worlds? She brought you here that first time, had to practically lead you by the blooming balls, by all accounts!”

“My Marissa?”

“Not yours, fathead, his.”

“The—other Rafe, the one in the doorway?”

“She wanted to be rid of him, just like your Marissa wanted to be rid of you, only he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she went looking for another, a close match to the original, so that the two of you would either repel or overlap one another. Either way, she’d be free.”

She’d set me up to knock him loose. I sank back onto the stool in stunned silence.

“So now you can get the hell out,” said a velvet voice behind me. “You’re not wanted here anymore.”

I looked up to see her, Marissa, both like and unlike the woman who had walked out on me two years ago. Small and dark, with shimmering black hair, she had a tiny mole on her cheek I’d never seen before, and her hair parted on the right, not the left. But it was her, down to the way her gray eyes glittered in the dimness and that unforgettable sinuous sway in her hips.

Alont reached out and put an arm around her, drawing Marissa’s pliant body close.

“He was so damned possessive,” Marissa said, “swore we were made for each other, that he’d never let me go.”

“I thought of saying that,” I said, “but I didn’t think you—she’d—go for it.”

“Smart boy,” Marissa said, “smarter than you know. You were a good puppy. Your Marissa was never forced to get rid of you.”

“So now,” I said, “what happens? You two go off into the sunset and that poor schmook just wanders forever looking for his way home?”

“Maybe,” she said, gazing up at Alont. “Maybe not. It’s not my problem anymore.”

“You used me!” I could feel the heat rise in my face. “If it weren’t for me, the other Rafe would still be okay!”

“Oh, don’t give yourself too much credit,” Marissa said as Alont stepped between us, rippled knife already gleaming in her hand. “It took a helluva lot of work to use you. You really are incredibly dense, you know.”

“Go hom,” Jaeko said. “Show’s ove. What’s done is done. No goin back now.”

Someone laughed in the back of the room. The band took up its demented music again. A bottle fell off a nearby table and rolled across the floor until it fetched up at my foot, its bright label fanciful and utterly foreign. I felt impotent and useless, like chaff blown before the leading edge of a storm.

“He’s gon,” Jaeko said, too weary evidently to speak clearly. “Tha can’t be change.”

“Because encountering me severed his tie to his own world.” I couldn’t bear to look at Marissa, and yet couldn’t look away.

“Righ,” Jaeko said. “Nothin to be don.”

“But we can cross over into other worlds,” I said. “Alont showed me.”

“Takes stamina,” Alont said with a feral grin. “Takes hair on your chest and grit in your gizzard. I don’t see the likes of you stalking from world to world anytime soon now.”

“He’s out there somewhere,” I said, trying to get a picture of it clear in my mind, “waiting for someone to see him so he knows where he is, just like the cafe.”

“Can’t be you,” Jaeko said. “Next tim you two mee, if you eve do, coul be you’ll overla, like all those othe me, or perhap you’ll both be knock loose, so then there’s two wanderin foreve lost, instea of jus one. Of all those who coul go and look, it can’t neve be you.”

My mind whirled. There had been a moment when we were close enough to sense one another, but not repel. If I could find him and come just that close and no further …

“Yes, pobrecito, go!” Marissa’s laugh was low and throaty, achingly familiar. “Then, if you look hard enough, beg long enough, maybe someone will see you too and you’ll both finally know where you are.”

For a second, her gray eyes shimmered green, then hazel, and I glimpsed countless Marissas crowded in behind them. She had come here often, almost “every night,” Alont had said, so she must have met herself many times. My Marissa was probably in there, along with so many others that counting them would be like trying to number the recursive images of one mirror reflecting in another.

“Was it worth it?” I asked, my face burning. “Just to be rid of me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “You were the least of my worries.”

“Gives her strength,” Alont said with a broken-toothed grin. “With each new self, she absorbs what they know, picks up their resolve.”

“But you can never go home again,” I said. “Not like that.”

“Idiot, like this, I’m at home wherever I go.” Marissa turned to Alont and gazed up at the taller woman.

“And the next time you meet one of your selves, she might knock you loose,” I said. “Then you’ll all be wandering lost.”

“Never happen.” She smiled ferally. “Never met one I couldn’t absorb.”

The cafe’s mellow light played along the bridge of her nose, the black curls of her hair. She was like a spider, spinning her web here every night, preying on herself over and over. Even worse, she liked what she was doing, perhaps even needed it in some sick way, and she would go on, night after night, either absorbing her other selves like waves or repelling them into the darkness to wander across all the possible worlds, forever lost.

I turned to Jaeko. “And what about you? Are you just waiting for another Jaeko to show up and undo what you’ve already done to yourself?”

His nose wrinkled. “Already happen a couple dozen time, then one comes in and overlap me and we star all ove again.”

“Why do you do this to yourself?”

He lowered his eyes and rubbed industriously on a smudge on the bar’s gleaming black surface. “Keep life from gettin dull.”

It was his own personal version of roulette, I thought numbly, the Russian variety.

A bevy of creatures came in, small and spindly with ridges along their backbones. They flocked across the floor like birds, their scales gleaming silver in the low light, swarmed over the back tables and settled there gazing about with quick, nervous blinks.

Jaeko sighed and emerged from behind the bar to get their order.

I turned back to Alont and Marissa. “You can’t do this anymore.”

“And who’s going to make us stop, bucko?” Alont’s hand crept to her knife sheath.

“Besides, they like it,” Marissa said, “if it’s any of your business, which it’s not.”

Her face was tilted up to the light so that deep red highlights glinted in her black hair, highlights I’d never suspected were there. I couldn’t see any hint of the woman I’d once known. “Did you ever love me at all?”

”She did, once,” she said, “before she met the rest of me. They don’t love you a bit.”

“Go home,” Alont said.

My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands. Yes, go home, I told myself, teach bored and hostile children things they don’t want to know and live with the knowledge of Marissa and the cafe and what she was doing to countless other Marissas, ones who maybe still loved someone at the moment, but who wouldn’t after she was done with them.

“I can’t do that,” I said.

“I’m bored,” Marissa said to Alont. She stretched, arching her back like a leopardess. “Kill him and then we’ll go.”

Alont drew her gleaming knife as Jaeko hobbled past with the newcomers’ order. The hairy bartender looked at the knife with disdain. “Not in here,” he said severely, “unless you goin to clean up the mess you self.”

She seized the back of my shirt and dragged me flailing through the doors out into the dull black night. My heart was hammering as I struggled to free myself. “How many Alonts are in you?” I asked. “How many of yourself have you murdered?”

“None,” she said with a savage grin. “Seems Alonts don’t mix well. Whenever I meet another, we both just go spinning off. Sometimes I have a helluva tough trek finding my way back, but I always do. And, those times when I stay lost, it don’t matter. Marissa here hooks up as well with one Alont as another. It seems we’re all of a like mind.”

I twisted in her grip. “And that doesn’t bother you, when some other Alont takes your place?”

“Hell, no!” she said. “They’s all me, more or less. This way I can be lots of places at the same time, have lots of adventures, never be bored or tied down.”

I slumped. It was all too alien, too far outside what I’d been led to expect from the universe. “You don’t have to kill me,” I said. “Just let me go. I won’t come back to the cafe again. There’s nothing here for me.”

“But I want to,” she said, tightening her grip. The knife gleamed green and pink in the cafe’s neon glare.

“Let him go, Alont!” The male voice rang out of the darkness beyond the front walk.

Alont peered into the night. “Who says you have any say in what happens here?”

“This gun says.” A hand waggled and the sign’s garish lights reflected off metal.

It wasn’t yet another version of me. The voice was too low, underlain by an almost familiar gravelly bass.

Her fingers loosened marginally and I wrenched myself free.

“Now,” said the unseen figure. “Do what you said: Go home and don’t come back.”

“All right,” I said, “just as soon as I can find my way out. I can’t see my Chicago from here.”

“You aren’t knocked loose, are you?” A man stepped out of the darkness so that the neon played green and pink over his hair and he and Alont’s knife seemed made of the same stuff. He had shaggy brown hair dusted with silver and eyes almost lost in shadow and looked reassuringly human.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“Hell, I’ll knock you loose—permanently!” Alont lunged at me, knife extended like an offering. “Then you won’t never need to go home again!”

The man raised his arm and fired one shot from a pistol he’d been holding down at his side. Alont screamed and fell short so that the knife only drew a liquid line of white-hot fire along my ribs. She collapsed against my legs, trapping my feet with her weight.

“I always hate killing her,” my rescuer said. “But she’s rather apt to insist.”

One hand clasped my bleeding side. The breath sobbed in and out of my lungs. My throat had constricted to the size of a toothpick. I stared down at the fallen woman. What was I doing here? How had I let this sick game get so far along?

Alont’s hand twitched, then she was still. “Marissa will be angry,” I said inanely and lurched backwards to free my feet.

“Her?” the man said, then tucked the pistol inside his waistband. He was wearing dark fatigues in mottled blues that looked vaguely like a uniform and a beret that drooped over one ear. “She won’t care. There are plenty of other Alonts. It just thins the herd when you pick one off.”

He moved closer so that I could see his eyes, dark brown, full of compassion and mysteries, ancient almost …

“Jaeko!” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “One of them anyway.” He looked up at the flat blackness overhead, devoid of stars, familiar or unfamiliar. “I’ll go around to the back so that you can concentrate and bring up the path to your world.”

I glanced at the cafe. “Aren’t you going in?”

His mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. “What for?”

“To knock the other Jaekos loose,” I said. “So they can go home.”

“Don’t you get it?” he said. “This is what the cafe is all about. They are home, just like Marissa and the Otts and the rest of the demented puppies in there, like you too, if you don’t turn your back on all this.”

“Did you?” I said.

He shrugged. “I’ve been away so long, I don’t remember where home is anymore, or what it was like.”

“But you’re not going in?”

“Not—tonight.” His brow creased and I could see the hint of other Jaekos lurking within. “Some other night, I’ll be too bored, so I’ll roll the dice, go in and see what happens, overlap or blast myself out into the farthest reaches. Tonight, I just dropped by to have a peek.”

Someone laughed inside, shrill and nasty. It wasn’t Marissa, maybe even wasn’t human, but it cut through me. “You know what Marissa does,” I said, “and Alont.”

“They’re not the only ones,” he said. “Don’t let it get under your skin. Go home, while you’ve still got one.”

The breeze surged, then I felt the electric tingle against my face. Hot, fetid air, humid as some distant jungle, filled my lungs. Transition. Someone, or something, was coming up the walk. The air danced, once again alive with possibilities. I could almost see other universes crowding in, waiting for someone to notice and bring one of them into being.

Blueness flashed, then Jaeko moved aside as a trio of women approached. Their cheeks were shaded a deep violet, their foreheads inset with fire opals. Chains of tiny silver bells chimed on their bare ankles and they carried the scent of some heady perfume with them, a bit like rum laced with cinnamon. They glanced at me with knowing eyes, as though we had met before, then swept past.

Relief swept over me. At least none of them were Marissa. “What she’s doing is wrong,” I said, turning back to Jaeko as the doors swung closed. “I just can’t get past that.”

“You think that’s the only nasty party game going on in there?” He shook his head, a thin smile on his face. “Hers is quite tame by some standards and none of it’s got anything to do with you.”

I turned to him. “Then what’s it got to do with you?”

He grinned. “Nothing.”

I felt as though something slimy had just crawled across my neck. “And yet here you stand, night after night?”

“Not every night,” he said, rocking on his heels like a young man about to go out on his first date. “Sometimes I go in and enjoy the show.”

Jaeko inside knew what was going on here, just like this one outside knew. Everyone who came here knew, it seemed, except me. A fury that had been on low boil suddenly exploded through me, igniting each atom in my body until I was aglow with white-hot, incandescent anger.

I kicked the gun he was still holding loosely in his left hand, so that it went spinning off into the night, then jumped him as he scrambled after it.

“Hey, what you do want?” he said, then grunted as I kneed the small of his back. His arm flailed back at me, but missed. “What’s your problem?”

“I want it all to stop!” I shouted in his ear. “I want the universe—the universes—to be a better place than this! I want it all to mean something and not be just some crummy crapshoot where anyone can do anything to anyone else and it doesn’t goddamn matter!”

“Oh, man,” he said, “you are so stupid!”

I seized a handful of his hair and jerked his head back, then was shocked to find him laughing.

“You wouldn’t get it,” he said, “would you, if you came here every night for a thousand years!”

I horsed him onto his feet. “Shut up!”

“You’re pathetic!” He slumped against me, hot and sweaty, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “I’ve never seen anything like it! Thank God I stayed outside. This is so much better than anything I’d see in there!”

“Shut up!” I backhanded him across the face and felt the skin on my knuckles split. “You don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about!”

He kept laughing though, and my hand ached, and the lurid green and pink of the sign kept flashing on/off, on/off. I didn’t know what to do. A strain of music began inside. Someone broke into an off-tune song, then I seized his collar and marched him through the doors.

Jaeko-at-the-bar looked up, his animal face creased in what was probably surprise. And Marissa looked up from where she sat in a stout blue figure’s lap, face-to-face, her shirt torn open to the waist. And no less than three Alonts, of varying coloration, looked up, all of them skulking around the periphery of the room.

Marissa smiled a lazy cat-smile and stretched. “My,” she said and winked at me. “Unsuspected depths here, I see.”

There was another blue flash, so bright, I could taste it on the back of my throat. The Jaeko-in-my-hands throbbed with light, the pulsations coming faster and faster. Jaeko-at-the-bar shimmered as well, his frequency approaching, then matching the other’s so that they were momentarily in phase.

And then my hands closed, suddenly empty. The two Jaekos were somewhere else, both quite lost for the moment. I staggered as air rushed in from all sides to fill the vacuum where the two had been.

“Pity,” said Marissa. She trailed red nails down the column of her throat. “But one of him will be back. He always is. Maybe the next time it will be the good-looking one instead of the hairy little bugger.”

With an incoherent cry, one of the three Alonts suddenly rushed another and both flared out with a flash equal to Jaeko’s. Someone screamed as I glanced around the dining room, but no one else even looked up. What I could see of their eyes was blank and disinterested.

They all knew what I was just beginning to understand. Those who were knocked “loose” would either be back, or they wouldn’t, and either way it didn’t matter. There were always plenty more Alonts, just as there were plenty more Jaekos, Rafes, and Marissas. We were none of us unique, but strangely in abundance across all of creation, infinitely varied and yet distressingly the same at heart. Strike down one, and two or four or eight would spring back up. In this playground, nothing was ever lost and certainly nothing ever gained. Conservation of energy after all. How—comforting.

I threaded through the tables, noting the odor of spilled drinks, the cloying oversweetness of one balanced by the astringency of the next. Conversation resumed its constant low buzz as I picked up Jaeko’s cloth and edged behind the bar. The colored rows of half-filled bottles fanned out across the glass shelves, the condiments, both familiar and alien. And on the other side, another shelf below the bar itself, hidden from customers’ eyes, weapons of every sort imaginable, most of which I had no idea how to operate. But with time, I thought, with time, I would figure it all out. At least I recognized Jaeko’s familiar black ceramic rifle. I picked it up and it felt warm to my fingers, ready to go.

Someone leaned over the bar and ordered. Without conscious thought, my hands went to work. Perhaps other versions of myself had worked at this craft from time to time, or perhaps in some other universe I had always done this.

“Enjoy yourself, sweetums, while you can,” Marissa said over her shoulder as she left arm in arm with a burly green-haired soldier. “There’s always tomorrow when Jaeko or one of your own twins will come back and, before you know it, you’ll be the one out wandering in some godawful backwater or seeing life from three levels down inside your own skin.”

I picked up a fluted glass and polished it with the soft white towel as the doors swung shut behind her, watching the Otts in the other room, the nameless soldiers, the deformed children, all the restless shifty eyes. Hides gleamed, bright with alien texture, skulls nodded and dipped, teeth of varying sizes flashed. Someone shouted and threw an opponent across the room. Glassware shattered over by the wall as three rammats faced off. A pair of eyeless patrons swept in and threw me a condescending sneer.

Marissa was wrong. The cafe has never seen a “tomorrow,” and it never will. Even I have come to understand that much. It’s always the cusp of midnight in this out-of-the-way pocketverse, that pregnant instant when night flashes over into day and reality eats its own tail yet again, when everything and everyone is on the knife-edge of becoming.

That first night, I thought I came here to find my lost love, but now I know better. I came here, as do we all, to find myself, only to learn there is no one true Marissa, Alont, or Rafe, just as there is no tomorrow or yesterday, only endless branching possibilities and now, that enduring moment before what might be is forcibly shaped by someone’s conscious attention.

Voices rise. Arguments twine through one another like vines fighting for purchase on a sheer glass wall rising up forever. A rammat snarls. A kunj soldier breaks a table over his mate’s head and splinters bounce like freed electrons off the walls and corners. It’s midnight again, or still, or always, and we all drink up as we wait for someone to come through those doors and observe us into existence yet one more time.

* * *

K. D. Wentworth is the author of several novels and short stories.

Redemption of Nepheli

Written by E. Sedia

Illustrated by Gulcim Akyuz

There were fires outside the Tavrid city wall, and they crackled day and night, their glow sinister, and their smell putrid. Dark shapes moved among the fires, stirring the embers. Their chants carried all the way to the city wall, where Mayor Shai stood, sick in his heart.

He could not tear his gaze away from the fires and their tenders, from the grey wisps of smoke, just a shade paler than the night, stretching their broken fingers toward the city. Shai knew what they cooked: misery and disease, heartache and broken spirit. The quiet unease that seeped into the city and robbed its inhabitants of their will to live, the malaise that lodged in their hearts, making them heavy and sluggish, were the makings of the shadowy figures and their smoke.

Shai turned and descended the worn-out steps carved in the city wall. The sandstone crumbled beneath his feet. As soon as he was concealed from sight by the wall, he lit a lantern. It swung with every step as he walked to the manor house of Tavrid, sending his shadow across the pavement and up the adobe walls of the artisan hovels.

Shai entered the rich part of town. The spires of pale stone did not fill his heart with joy; they seemed mere ghosts hovering in the dark desolation of the sky, reaching for the moon like white, dead hands of lepers. The sweet smells of the gardens did not renew him; the soft babbling of the fountains did not heal his discontent. His city was dying before the enemy took it. Worse, he knew what he must do.

In the morning, Shai called the captain of the guards. The captain, a dour man with mistrustful eyes and a face lined with fatigue, entered the mayor’s chambers, his sandals clicking on the tiles of the floor.

Shai greeted him. “What news?”

The captain’s shoulders sagged. “The same. They’re biding their time, Mayor. If their curses won’t finish us, the famine will.”

Shai guessed that the captain avoided sleep, lest the enemy magic enter his dreams and rob him of his spirit. Shai himself had stayed awake for the past three nights, chewing ephedra stems that dispelled sleep. “There’s hope yet, Captain. Our allies from Semet may break through the siege.”

“Too far, Mayor. We could’ve lasted until the relief arrived, but not with the sorcerers brewing our doom. How do you fight such a thing?”

Shai sighed. “With sorcery, I suppose. Bring Nepheli to see me.”

The captain’s listless demeanor disappeared—his eyes bulged, and he gasped. “But Mayor … he’s the worst of them all.”

“That is why I threw him into the crypt,” Shai said. “Now he’s the only one we have. I didn’t plan it that way, but I suppose it was a farsighted move.” He did not say it out loud, but his hatred for the warlock, more personal than Shai would ever admit, had prevented Shai from sending him into exile like the rest of his coven; even death seemed too good for him then. Shai did not count on gaining an advantage from his hatred for the man who broke his family.

“He won’t help you.”

“Even if it means seeing the sun again?” Shai waved his hand. “Go, bring him.”

* * *

Shai did not expect to pity the warlock. Yet, as he looked at the ruin of a man that stood in front of him, swaying, squinting with his single eye at the diagonal slats of sun that filtered between the shutters, he could not force himself into the burning loathing he used to feel twenty years ago.

The captain stood by the door, his mouth set in a straight, bloodless line, as if he were expecting the prisoner to bolt. He remembered Nepheli, and did not trust the warlock out of sight even with a twelve-foot chain looped around both ankles and wrists.

Nepheli recognized Shai. “Mayor now, are you? Not a constable anymore?”

Shai ignored the jab. “Nepheli, I give you a chance to earn your freedom.”

Nepheli shifted on his feet and tossed his matted, waist-long hair away from his face. “I could’ve been interested in it ten, even five years ago, Mayor. Not now.”

“I need your help, Nepheli.” Shai’s fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, carved from a single sandalwood slab. “I’ll give you whatever you want for it.”

The warlock’s face, mercifully concealed by a layer of grime, cracked in a smile, showing gaping black holes among his surviving teeth. “I want my eye back, Shai. I want my life back. Can you give them to me?”

Shai looked away. “No. But I can give you a chance to redeem yourself.”

“Twenty years underground was not enough?”

“I’m not talking of punishment, Nepheli, but forgiveness.”

Nepheli’s single eye studied the floor tiles under his dirty bare feet. “I don’t need your forgiveness, Shai. I owe nothing to you.”

Shai tried to reconcile his memory of Nepheli twenty years ago with the twitching, stooped, grey-haired creature in front of him. He remembered a tall, commanding young man who never flinched as the pommel of Shai’s sword broke every bone in his hands—Shai had feared him then and cringed as he ripped the red crystal, the source of the warlock’s power, out of his left eye socket and shattered it upon the stones of the guild’s hall. That terrible red glow of the warlock’s eye had fallen across Shai’s sister’s face, like a bloody streak on her white skin, and claimed her. It still chased Shai in his nightmares.

Nepheli’s voice dispelled the memory. His eye socket was empty, harmless. “You expect me to forget everything you took from me and help you?”

“It’s not about me. It’s about the city. Would you let it perish just to spite an enemy from twenty years ago?”

Nepheli gave a thin, crooked smile. “I wonder at you, Shai. Twenty years ago, you thought I was a murderer, and now you suddenly believe I would care about people’s lives?”

“I still think you’re a murderer, but I have no other choice,” Shai said. Yet, deep in his heart, he doubted his words. He was certain then that he was right; but with the passing of time, his certainty waned. “Besides, wouldn’t you like to practice magic again? To seek out your former allies?”

Neither of them said it, but Shai was certain that Nepheli thought the same thing he did: Shai’s sister was among the warlock guild. He prayed that this offer of hope would be enough for Nepheli.

“What do you need me to do?”

Shai told him about the siege and their malignant sorcery. “They are from the north, Suora. Many cities have fallen to them … I fear for Tavrid. Have you heard of anything like this?”

“No. Have you asked any of the others?”

“There are no others,” Shai said. “After you were put away, the warlock guild asked for your freedom. They threatened me, threatened the city. They wanted to continue what you were doing. I could not abide, and I had to exile them. Some would not leave.”

“So you killed them,” Nepheli interrupted. “Is that when you became the mayor?”

Shai nodded. “But that wasn’t what I was trying to do. I wanted the city safe. I wanted my people safe. With your guild around, it was impossible.”

Nepheli smiled. “And without it, you’re defenseless against magic.”

“Not if you’ll help.”

* * *

Shai and Nepheli crossed the market square, heading for the jewelers’ district. The streets were empty, as most of the inhabitants stayed home, too ill or too dispirited to venture outside. As they passed a narrow street on their left, neither could help glancing at its cobbled hump. The street led uphill, to the abandoned building of the warlock guild that stared down at the city with empty sockets of its dark windows. Shai’s shoulders stiffened at the sight of it, just as they had twenty years ago, when he ran up that street to demand his sister back.

Apparently, Nepheli’s mind was on the same track. “Jenara,” he said. “Is she still alive?”

“I don’t know. She left with the rest of the guild. I pleaded with her, but …” Shai’s voice broke. When he spoke again, he stared into the warlock’s face. “You’ve charmed her, haven’t you? She was under a spell.”

Nepheli shook his newly shaven head. “I never did. I only showed her that there was a different life. I taught her to open doors to other realms.”

Shai shuddered at the memory. “You sacrificed people.”

“Magic has a price.” Nepheli sighed. “Remember that when you ask for my help.”

They stood in front of a jeweler’s workshop. It was daytime, but the shop was closed, like almost every other business in the city. Shai knocked on the door, and, receiving no response, put his shoulder to the wood. Despite his fifty years, he was still a strong man, and the door gave.

Making no comment, Nepheli followed Shai inside. There, glittering in the dusk, lay the gemstones—some polished, some still rough, but all of them beautiful. They littered the low table by the window like pebbles on the riverbank.

Nepheli scooped a handful and let them fall back on the table through his fingers. He sifted through the stones, his hands as awkward as rakes, and Shai felt a stirring of guilt. He had crippled Nepheli all those years back, to make sure that his magic never harmed another soul, that his hands would never regain their former dexterity.

Nepheli picked an emerald out of the pile—a large, rough stone the hue of sea grass. He fitted it into his eye socket and turned to Shai. The stone seemed dull for a while; then, a glimmer started in its depth, the power of the warlock awaking and focusing it. When an even, soft shaft of light sliced through the darkness of the workshop, Nepheli smiled.

Shai fought back his fear. The warlock would not turn on him, he kept telling himself; Nepheli had no desire for revenge—it had dried up in the intervening years, just like Shai’s hatred for the warlock had dulled and trickled away. “What about your hands?” he said. “Can you make spells?”

“Simple ones,” Nepheli said. “Let’s go to the wall and see what magic they’ve got.”

* * *

The multicolored tents bloomed on the trampled grass, like leprous flowers. The soldiers had been waiting for the sorcerers to finish their work so that the northerners could enter the city with only the clanking of weapons, encountering no resistance. Their wait was nearing an end.

The fires burned; the shadows moved among them. Even in the warm sunlight, the shadows seemed indistinct, as if they were mere smudges on the face of reality. Nepheli listened to the sorcerous chants, his head tilted to the shoulder.

“What are they doing?” Shai glanced at Nepheli anxiously. “What are these spells?”

An irritated emerald flame shot from Nepheli’s eye. “How should I know?” His voice sounded bitter.

“You are a great sorcerer,” Shai said.

“I used to be. For twenty years, you kept me away from everything … I could not learn, I could not practice.” He turned away from Shai, his gemstone eye tracing the movement of the shadows. “Now, I suspect any apprentice would leave me in the dust. Magic always grows, always changes. One can’t catch up after twenty years.”

Shai’s heart felt cold. “Is there anything you can do?”

“I can’t combat their spells.” Nepheli’s twisted, awkward hand gestured toward the fires. “But it seems to me that the smoke carries them into the city. And wind blows the smoke.”

“Yes,” Shai said. “Every time the wind changes direction, they chant, and the smoke blows back at us.”

“Well,” Nepheli said. “Let’s see if we can do something about the wind.”

His knotted, deformed fingers moved through the air, as if plucking invisible threads from it and spinning them together. Shai couldn’t help but think of a spider binding a fly with a complex and mechanical movement.

The air around them shimmered and thickened. A wall of heat rose from the top of the battlement where they stood, enveloping Shai, covering the exposed skin of his neck and wrists with a film of sweat. The air undulated, and a weak gust of wind issued forth. The tendrils of smoke trembled and flowed upward, like ivy climbing a fence.

“It’s working!” His gnarled fingers still kneading the air, Nepheli did not answer. His face, pale as a ghost’s, trembled with suppressed tension, and rivulets of sweat trickled down his hollow cheeks.

The figures by the fires stopped. Shai had never seen them break their constant motion, and their sudden stillness filled him with dread. The shadows turned toward the wall, and Shai felt exposed, outlined against the blue sky and the tall white spires. They clustered together and chanted, softly at first. Their voices rose, and Shai fought back a spell of dizziness. He looked down, at the green expanse of the meadows outside the city wall, and wondered briefly if it would be a long way to fall. His vision blurred, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the shimmering wall of air undulate, then disappear, letting the thick smoke pour over the wall. The spells enveloped Shai, and then it was dark.

* * *

Shai found himself suspended in a shimmering sea of light, and wondered absently if he had died in his city, on the wall. The recollection brought forth its form, and tall spires and a thick, low wall stood in silhouette against the glimmer of air. There was no sign of their enemy, and Shai recognized with gratitude that the vision he had conjured harked back to happier times. Fervently, he hoped that he would see his sister again.

Obediently, she appeared far below, and yet Shai could see every fold of her dress, every shining auburn hair on her head. He could also see himself—much younger, with no grey in his hair—walking in step with his sister, their twin footsteps ringing on the cobbles with assurance of youth. Her cheeks, still healthy and bright, dimpled in a smile.

The disembodied Shai recognized a dream—the earth turned under their feet, leading them where they wanted to go, and the market sprang up before them, like it was meant to be there.

He saw his sister turn to the young Shai and whisper in his ear. With just a bit of concentration, he could make out her words. “Who’s that?” The flick of her eyebrows indicated the subject of her query.

The young Shai tracked the direction of her gaze. “One of the new ones at the warlock guild,” he said. “My captain says we better keep an eye on the warlocks. They’ve got some kind of new magic going on.”

Jenara smiled. “Oh? I thought they just made talismans and ointments.”

“Not anymore.” Shai’s gaze remained glued to the tall man in plain dark clothes who lingered by the apple stand, studying the fruit with great attention. “Look at his eye.”

Jenara did, and exhaled a gasp. “What is it?”

“Some sort of stone. I heard that …” The young Shai turned around abruptly. “What was that?”

At the far end of the marketplace there seemed to be a disturbance—voices rose in anger, and the sound of a breaking clay jug echoed through the square.

“Go,” Jenara said. “Do what you have to. I’ll start shopping.”

His young apparition took off running in the direction of the ruckus, and Jenara headed toward the fruit stand.

The older Shai smiled bitterly—how blind he used to be, how trusting. Not for a moment did he suspect then that his sister would act so brazenly, despite what he had just told her about the warlocks. Like a foolish mosquito attracted by the glitter of the sundew, Jenara was helpless to resist the red glow that flowed from the warlock’s eye socket and spilled across his pale cheek, coloring it as red as the apples in front of him.

The hovering Shai could barely make out their words. Jenara asked about magic, with the expression of keen intensity he rarely observed in her before. Nepheli answered, patiently, without condescending.

Oh, how he wished he could swoop down and warn her of her impending doom, of the dangers the warlock portended. How he wished that he hadn’t been so blind in his youth, that he had paid more attention when he came back from apprehending a thief, to find his sister smiling, her basket empty, that he had noticed the tall frame of the warlock walking away at a brisk pace.

* * *

The shards of stone and brick dug into Shai’s cheek. He sat up, clutching his pounding head. Nepheli lay next to him, a slow trickle of blood seeping from a cut on his shaven head. His confusion gone, Shai grabbed the warlock’s shoulder. “Nepheli, wake up.”

The man shifted and moaned, and sat up.

“What was that?”

“We were knocked out,” Nepheli said. “Oldie but goodie. I guess they are not going to let me stand here diverting their spells.”

“Why didn’t they kill us?”

Nepheli chuckled. “Because it is impossible to kill a man with mere will.” He pushed himself up and stood. He was weak, his legs unsteady from disuse. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t be alive today.”

Shai stood too. “I dreamt of Jenara,” he said.

Nepheli’s expression did not change. “I imagine that your guilt at her exile is great.”

Shai glared. “You broke her heart.”

“No. You broke her heart.”

Shai was about to argue but couldn’t find the words or the desire for a retort. He gestured toward the outside of the wall. “What do we do now?”

“Now we need blood,” Nepheli said.

“Not this again.” Shai felt bile burning his throat. “I can’t let you do this.”

“I told you magic had a price.”

Shai thought about his city. He wanted nothing more than to save it. Just a few lives for the welfare of all … and he had already sacrificed what was most dear to him. “How much blood do you need?”

Nepheli cupped both of his hands together. “This much … to start with.”

Shai reached for the scabbard on his hip and pulled out the short blade of his cutlass, standard constable issue. The blade glinted briefly, but dulled the moment a tendril of smoke wrapped around it, coating the steel with black grime. He handed the cutlass to Nepheli, hilt first.

Nepheli hefted the weapon in his hand, his good eye looking at Shai quizzically. “You love this city that much?”

Shai nodded.

Nepheli motioned for Shai to follow him. They walked along the wall until Nepheli stopped at the wider part of it, near one of the unmanned guard towers. The guards had been the first to fall victim to the spells.

Shai rolled up the sleeve of his tunic, exposing a forearm wrapped in ropy veins. He looked at the empty embrasures and held out his arm. The blade was so sharp that he did not feel it slice through his skin. Warm blood flowed, hitting the bricks under their feet.

Nepheli cupped his hands, and the dark blood dripped, slow and thick, filling them. Nepheli walked in a circle, drizzling the blood as he went. The dust soaked up the blood, and soon Shai felt light-headed.

Nepheli wiped his hands on his tunic and examined the cut in Shai’s arm. It was closing already, shallow as it was. “That’s enough for now,” the warlock said. “How are you feeling?”

“All right,” Shai said. “A bit dizzy.”

“Sit down then.”

Shai sat, the bricks of the guard tower rough on his back. Light-headed, he thought about Jenara and wished that he could fall back into the dream, to ask her the things he wanted to know. Why did she run from home, to the warlock guild, to Nepheli? If he didn’t enchant her, did she really love him? Was the magic he offered so much better than a normal life?

Nepheli whispered under his breath, and his hands traced a complicated arabesque through the air over the blood circle. His movements seemed to leave glowing traces in the still air. They zigzagged and flared briefly, then disappeared, like fireflies on the summer night.

The blood circle shone—with a gentle yellow glow at first, changing to orange and then red, as if it was heating up. The smell of molten iron filled the air, and the bricks under Shai shook and crackled. The circumference of the circle grew brighter and hotter still, separating the brick enclosed within it from the rest of the wall, and lifting it.

The stone creaked and moaned, and contorted, shaped by an invisible force. The glow faded. Nepheli ceased his spell-casting and rubbed his face as a man just coming awake.

“What is it?” Shai whispered, looking at the man-sized, oblong, smooth stone that stood upon the wall.

“What does it look like?” Nepheli spat. “It’s an egg.”

Stray sparks flitted across the surface of the egg. Shai did not need to ask to know the otherworldly origin of it. Whatever rift Nepheli had opened, the egg had come through it.

“What’s inside?”

Nepheli scoffed. “A baby bird, I imagine. But let’s see.”

The sparks moved with greater agitation, and cracks snaked across the surface of the stone egg. With a deafening crack, the egg opened. The fragments of the stone shell fell away and tumbled from the wall.

Shai had to clap his hands over his ears as an unearthly screech tore through the air, setting the bricks of the tower atremble. He dared to look up only when the scream had died down. There, among the shattered eggshells, sat a giant hatchling. It looked much like a house wren—naked pink skin with bits of fluff, gangly wings, and giant black eyes visible through the still-closed membranes of the eyelids. But the bird was at least six feet in height. Its beak, trimmed with yellow, opened, and Shai covered his ears again. The bird screeched, stretching its neck, as if it expected to be fed.

Nepheli picked up the cutlass and cut his own hand across the palm. The bird smelled the blood and craned its neck. Nepheli held his closed fist up to the bird’s mouth and squeezed fat, lazy drops of blood into its beak.

The bird stopped screeching and seemed to fall asleep, content. As it slept, it grew, and new feathers poked through its goose-bumps-covered skin. Shai watched, enthralled, as the gigantic baby bird, ten feet tall, with a wingspan of fifteen feet, developed in its sleep.

Nepheli laughed softly. “Look at those wings,” he said. “They’ll be able to blow all of that smoke away from the city.”

“What if the sorcerers hurt the bird?” Shai said.

“Can’t burn fire with fire,” Nepheli said. “Can’t hurt magic with magic.”

* * *

A week had passed since Nepheli’s creation had first screeched its discontent over Tavrid. The bird continued to grow. When it was awake, it begged for food, its cries reverberating over the market squares and the streets, and it flapped its wings. The sorcerous smoke could not overcome the wind the bird was creating, and fell apart, briefly clouded the air, and was gone.

Whether it was the cessation of the magical assault or the rousing cries of the bird, people started coming out of their houses. The towers were manned again, and the market thronged with the disheveled, thin, and hungry-eyed populace. Even though no food had been delivered from the farms in months, the city’s granary still had some grain. But the supplies dwindled.

Nepheli spent most of his time tending to the bird. He fed it as before and refused Shai’s offering of blood.

“Magical creatures need magical blood.” Scorn was audible in his voice. “Not yours.”

Shai worried about Nepheli. Ill fed and frail to begin with, he had grown weaker as the bird had grown stronger. Still, he stayed by its side and slept on top of the wall, sheltered by an enormous wing.

As people around him came to life, Shai felt as if a great hand that had been clenching at his heart had finally relaxed and let him breathe with a full chest. Even a threat of famine seemed more bearable than the previous disease of the spirit. He gathered the guards and the constables who had reported back to duty and planned an offensive against the enemy camped outside the city gates.

His plans became more urgent as Nepheli started to unravel. He barely spoke, and his emerald eye seemed dull. His skin, always pale, acquired an alarming transparency that reminded Shai of Jenara. His good eye grew glassy and shone with a weak reflection of the emerald, and pale green vapor issued forth from his mouth with every ragged breath. Everything but the bird escaped his notice.

Worse, the city seemed to unravel as well. The air crackled with magic, and the strong smell of an impending thunderstorm hung in the air. Tiny rifts opened everywhere—in the walls of the buildings, between the stones of the pavement, and in the eyes of his people. The rifts pulsed with a pallid green glow. Sometimes they disappeared almost immediately, and sometimes they persisted. Strange, sickly creatures tumbled out occasionally—diseased mice, eyeballs on eight hairy spider legs, and skeletal flowers.

“What’s going on?” Shai asked Nepheli.

Nepheli jerked his shoulder. “What? That?” He pointed at a tiny green half moth half hedgehog that crawled from a thin fissure by their feet. “This, my friend, is a rip. It leads to another world.”

“A portal,” Shai said. “Jenara told me about them.”

The warlock smiled. “Yes. They are hard to control, and I’m not as strong as I used to be. Twenty years of solitude with only rats and spiders for company weaken a man.”

“Can you close them?”

“Yes, but my friend here will be gone too.” He gestured at the gigantic bird. “And we need him.”

“What will happen if it’s not closed soon?”

“It’ll get worse. The portals grow and merge. In a few weeks, there’ll be nothing but one giant portal, and the whole city will tumble into it.” Nepheli’s voice was even, indifferent. “Where to I don’t know, but I assure you that it won’t survive the trip. I’ll hold on as long as I can, but …”

Shai nodded. “My soldiers are back on their feet. We can try to open the gates and fight them outside the city.”

“It’s a good idea,” Nepheli said.

Shai realized that he was not indifferent but exhausted. Beyond exhausted—every day, Nepheli lost a little more blood and a little more magic. A few more days, and he would be bled dry, leaving the city with no defense against the intrusion of the enemy outside of the gates, and the unknown realm—within them.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Shai decided.

* * *

Shai spent the night before the battle sleepless, lost in the memories. He still remembered the first time he’d seen the inside of the warlock guild. He bashed down the double doors held together by a flimsy iron clasp, and rushed into the narrow hallway, fringed with two rows of wooden columns. He expected the place to be grander, more decadent, and he was taken aback by its simplicity and the faint scent of cinnamon that permeated the building. He looked around to get his bearings, and headed for a passage in the end of the hallway; before he could reach it, Nepheli stood in front of him.

“Where’s my sister?” Shai spat.

Nepheli’s gaze flicked to the dark space behind him, and Shai pushed him out of the way, intent on turning the guild inside out if need be, to get Jenara back. From the darkness of the passage, the guild members filed into the hallway. They observed in silence as Shai yelled and threatened and demanded that they give her back to him.

Jenara, previously hidden in the group, stepped forth, her face pale, her eyes too large for it. Normally she would’ve been embarrassed at his making a scene, but not that time. “I’m staying here, Shai,” she said. “There’s no reason to be concerned for me.” She smiled at Nepheli. “Right?”

He nodded. “Your sister is a grown woman, Constable. I understand your distress, but let me remind you that you have no jurisdiction here. You will be welcome to visit after you’ve cooled off.”

“Jeni,” Shai pleaded. “Come home with me. These people … you don’t know what they are. They’ve charmed you, haven’t they?”

Jenara frowned and shook her head. “No, they haven’t. I wonder at you, brother. Is it so hard for you to believe that I could love on my own?”

Shai’s wrath turned his vision dark, blood-filled. “Does your family mean anything to you?”

Jenara bit her lip and turned away, and Shai directed his anger at Nepheli. “It’s all your fault,” he said, as he grabbed for the scabbard at his side. His hands shook.

“Please, Constable, do not do anything you would regret later.”

The condescension in Nepheli’s voice stung him more than the veiled threat, and he finally managed to rip his weapon from the scabbard. Nepheli stepped back, raising his hand, and Shai remembered what he had heard about the warlock’s powers. Shai advanced, half-expecting the lightning bolt or a wall of fire to turn him to cinders.

“Stop it!” Jenara flung herself at Nepheli, pulling down his raised arm with all her weight. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I apologize,” Nepheli told her. “I wasn’t going to kill him.”

“You can’t hurt my brother,” she said. “Ever. Promise me.”

He did; he promised her to never raise his hand against Shai.

Jenara nodded and turned to Shai. “Brother,” she said, “please don’t make me choose.” With that, she threaded her arm under Nepheli’s, and the two of them turned, swallowed by the throng of their compatriots and the darkness of the interior, leaving Shai alone in the entryway, his weapon still bare, his heart in ashes.

* * *

Shai ordered the ranks and listened to the bugle. Another green fissure opened by the soldiers’ feet, and they stepped away, breaking the ranks, simultaneously awed and peeved. Shai stared into the rift, forgetting to give the signal.

Doorways, his sister used to call them. Portals. Rends. Shai remembered her deathly-pale face, her porcelain skin grown translucent from the blood loss.

“Nepheli is killing you,” Shai had told her.

She smiled. “He’s teaching me. The other worlds are so beautiful, and he’s showing them to me.” Her eyes turned dreamlike, dark. “All men promise the sky and the moon, but there’s only one who can give them to me—a multitude of skies and moons and suns, an infinity of doorways and worlds.”

He refused to listen. “It’s not that! He enthralled you. Honestly, what do you see in him?”

“No one else kisses as sweetly.”

He used to believe that she was charmed; now, he looked at the pale flames that came out of the cracks and thought that the other worlds must be exquisite, that the rift Nepheli had opened as well as the bird that came out of it possessed a fascinating, if dangerous, beauty.

“Mayor.”

Shai looked up, and his gaze met the captain’s.

“We’re ready, Mayor,” he said. “And we better do something quick.”

The spiderweb of hair-thin fractures crisscrossed the paved yard in front of the city gates. The lines flickered, disappeared, and appeared again, contorting. The air crackled with tiny sparks.

Shai commanded the gatekeeper to open the latches, and his men spilled through the gates.

Even the air seemed different outside of the city wall—it smelled of wet dust, green grass, and woodsmoke. Shai raised his cutlass and charged toward the camp, where the enemy soldiers scrambled for their weapons and armor.

Even with surprise on their side, the Tavrid guards were outnumbered. The northerners recovered from their hesitation and met Tavrid ranks with bristling spears and a solid wall of shields.

The shadows by the fires paused and realigned in a single file. Shai noticed it just as his soldiers entered the melee. The battle was chaotic, and the initial formation fell apart. Everywhere Shai looked, the northerners and the guards were locked in hand-to-hand combat.

He ducked a spear thrust and heard the air sigh above his head. He straightened, wedging his sword between the attacker’s chest and his shield, and pushed away the man’s spear arm.

Another spear whistled past his head, and Shai spun. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the fires burned brighter, and the clouds of foul smoke had now enveloped many of the fighting men. A twisting tendril of smoke wrapped about Shai’s throat, and he coughed at the thick, acrid smell. His hand felt weak and useless, and his fingers released their grip on the hilt.

The smoke did not seem to affect the northerners, but Shai’s men coughed and thrashed in the grip of the multitentacled, writhing cloud.

A sharp stab set Shai’s shoulder afire. He watched as the tall northerner, stout and golden-faced, hefted his short spear.

The screeching of the giant bird on the wall distracted the soldier, and he turned.

The bird cry was so terrible, so full of ancient, mindless, unarticulated fury, that even the spell-casters paused. Even the foul smoke they had conjured seemed to shrink, lightening its grip on the victims.

Shai fell to his knees and felt around for his blade. His hand closed around the familiar hilt and he thrust upward, cutting through the northerner’s belly. Only then did he look at the wall.

The bird, fully feathered in sparkling emerald and gold, flapped its wings as it had been doing for days. Its cries grew stronger, until the very city wall shook and crumbled, large fragments of sandstone and brick falling away from it. Nepheli was nowhere to be seen, and Shai guessed that his absence had caused the bird’s distress. Or perhaps it smelled blood.

The bird strained now, its wings whipping up a storm of such strength that the cloud suffocating Shai’s men flattened and fell apart, slithering away in thin wisps hugging the ground. With the next wing beat, the bird lifted off the wall.

Its wings were wide and long enough to cast a shadow over the fighting men; the wind they raised extinguished the fires. Shai felt the warm gust of air hit him in the face and almost knock him over. He braced against the wind.

The northerners froze at the sight of the giant bird flying low, barreling down on them. It targeted the shadows first, and they scattered away from their dying fires, keeping low to the ground.

“Men, attack!” Shai called out. He intended to use the enemy’s surprise to his advantage.

The guards picked up their weapons and charged the northerners closest to them. As the bird chased and tore at the shadows, Shai and his soldiers turned on the enemy. The northerners, horrified by the attacking bird and the loss of their magical allies, fought furiously but without conviction.

The bird circled, its feathers flashing in the sun like emeralds set in gold. It swooped down, the tip of its wing brushing against the top of Shai’s head. It was then that he saw Nepheli.

The warlock’s skin had the color of tallow, and the green light shining out of both his eyes gave his gaunt features a ghostly look. He sat astride the bird’s neck, his clawlike hands gripping at the green feathers. The air surrounding them crackled and shimmered, and Shai thought of the dying campfires all around them. Nepheli’s fire was dying as well.

The earth shook; Shai lost his footing and fell. He lifted his head and looked around, at the dying men on the ground, at the backs of the running northerners. Then at the city. A part of the wall had fallen, and where the town gates used to be there opened a swirling, shimmering portal, green as grass. Shai’s heart pounded, and a wave of frustration washed over him. Just as the enemy had been turned away, another danger was about to claim the city.

“Nepheli,” he yelled. “Close it! Now!”

The bird, which was chasing after the running soldiers, turned. Its wings beat faster as it approached the wall. Shai thought that to the bird the poisonous green light was not a threat but a sight of home. Before he could cry out again, warning Nepheli of the danger, the bird entered the portal and disappeared within, taking Nepheli with it.

The rift closed, and only the crumbling wall remained. The crackling of the air and the smell of approaching thunder were gone. The weeping and moaning of the wounded remained the only sound.

Shai stood and sheathed his cutlass. He surveyed the battlefield. Pitifully few of his men had survived—perhaps two-thirds of the original thousand were still standing, and many bled.

The captain approached him. “Looks like the battle is ours, Mayor.” Blood streamed from his torn flank, but he grinned.

Shai shrugged and cringed at the jolt of pain that seized his left arm and shoulder. “Let’s go get help. We have wounded here.”

The two of them walked through the breach that used to be the city gates. Shai did not speak, but thought of the green world he had glimpsed through the portal. It was beautiful, and Shai hoped that Nepheli had survived the journey. He also thought of the last words his sister had said to him.

“I’m leaving.” The words fell from her bloodless lips like hailstones, freezing Shai’s heart. “There’s no place here for me.”

“Where would you go?” Shai said, too devastated for tears.

“There are many worlds out there.” She smiled a little. “Nepheli says, maybe in other worlds things work out better. Maybe there I can have him again.”

Shai hoped that she was right. For his own sake.

* * *

E. Sedia is the author of several short stories.

The Gnarly Man

Written by L. Sprague de Camp

Illustrated by Alexandra Dawe

Dr. Matilda Saddler first saw the gnarly man on the evening of June 14th , 1956, at Coney Island. The spring meeting of the Eastern Section of the American Anthropological Association had broken up, and Dr. Saddler had had dinner with two of her professional colleagues, Blue of Columbia and Jeffcott of Yale. She mentioned that she had never visited Coney and meant to go there that evening. She urged Blue and Jeffcott to come along, but they begged off.

Watching Dr. Saddler’s retreating back, Blue of Columbia crackled: “The Wild Woman from Wichita. Wonder if she’s hunting another husband?” He was a thin man with a small gray beard and a who-the-Hell-are-you-Sir expression.

“How many has she had?” asked Jeffcott of Yale.

“Three to date. Don’t know why anthropologists lead the most disorderly private lives of any scientists. Must be that they study the customs and morals of all these different peoples, and asked themselves, ‘If the Eskimos can do it why can’t we?’ I’m old enough to be safe, thank God.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” said Jeffcott. He was in his early forties and looked like a farmer uneasy in store-bought clothes. “I’m so very thoroughly married.”

“Yeah? Ought to have been at Stanford a few years ago, when she was there. It wasn’t safe to walk across the campus, with Tuthill chasing all the females and Saddler all the males.”

* * *

Dr. Saddler had to fight her way off the subway train, as the adolescents who infest the platform of the B.M.T.’s Stillwell Avenue Station are probably the worst-mannered people on earth, possibly excepting the Dobu Islanders of the Western Pacific. She didn’t much mind. She was a tall, strongly built woman in her late thirties, who had been kept in trim by the outdoor rigors of her profession. Besides, some of the inane remarks in Swift’s paper on occulturation among the Arapaho Indians had gotten her fighting blood up.

Walking down Surf Avenue toward Brighton Beach, she looked at the concessions without trying them, preferring to watch the human types that did and the other human types that took their money. She did try a shooting gallery, but found knocking tin owls off their perch with a .22 too easy to be much fun. Long-range work with an army rifle was her idea of shooting.

The concession next to the shooting gallery would have been called a sideshow if there had been a main show for it to be a sideshow to. The usual lurid banner proclaimed the uniqueness of the two-headed calf, the bearded woman, Arachne the spider-girl, and other marvels. The piece de resistance was Ungo-Bungo the ferocious ape-man, captured in the Congo at a cost of twenty-seven lives. The picture showed an enormous Ungo-Bungo squeezing a hapless Negro in each hand, while others sought to throw a net over him.

Although Dr. Saddler knew perfectly well that the ferocious ape-man would turn out to be an ordinary Caucasian with false hair on his chest, a streak of whimsicality impelled her to go in. Perhaps, she thought, she could have some fun with her colleagues about it.

The spieler went through his leather-lunged harangue. Dr. Saddler guessed from his expression that his feet hurt. The tattooed lady didn’t interest her, as her decorations obviously had no cultural significance, as they have among the Polynesians. As for the ancient Mayan, Dr. Saddler thought it in questionable taste to exhibit a poor microcephalic idiot that way. Professor Yogi’s legerdemain and fire-eating weren’t bad.

A curtain hung in front of Ungo-Bungo’s cage. At the appropriate moment there were growls and the sound of a length of chain being slapped against a metal plate. The spieler wound up on a high note: “… ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Ungo-Bungo!” The curtain dropped.

The ape-man was squatting at the back of his cage. He dropped his chain, got up, and shuffled forward. He grasped two of the bars and shook them. They were appropriately loose and rattled alarmingly. Ungo-Bungo snarled at the patrons, showing his even yellow teeth.

Dr. Saddler stared hard. This was something new in the ape-man line. Ungo-Bungo was about five feet three, but very massive, with enormous hunched shoulders. Above and below his blue swimming trunks, thick grizzled hair covered him from crown to ankle. His short stout-muscled arms ended in big hands with thick gnarled fingers. His neck projected slightly forward, so that from the front he seemed to have little neck at all.

His face—Well, thought Dr. Saddler, she knew all the living races of men, and all the types of freaks brought about by glandular maladjustment, and none of them had a face like that. It was deeply lined. The forehead between the short scalp hair and the brows on the huge supraorbital ridges receded sharply. The nose, though wide, was not apelike; it was a shortened version of the thick hooked Armenoid or “Jewish” nose. The face ended in a long upper lip and a retreating chin. And the yellowish skin apparently belonged to Ungo-Bungo.

The curtain was whisked up again.

Dr. Saddler went out with the others, but paid another dime, and soon was back inside. She paid no attention to the spieler, but got a good position in front of Ungo-Bungo’s cage before the rest of the crowd arrived.

Ungo-Bungo repeated his performance with mechanical precision. Dr. Saddler noticed that he limped a little as he came forward to rattle the bars, and that the skin under his mat of hair bore several big whitish scars. The last joint of his left ring finger was missing. She noted certain things about the proportions of his shin and thigh, of his forearm and upper arm, and his big splay feet.

Dr. Saddler paid a third dime. An idea was knocking at her mind somewhere, trying to get in; either she was crazy or physical anthropology was haywire or—something. But she knew that if she did the sensible thing, which was to go home, the idea would plague her from now on.

After the third performance she spoke to the spieler. “I think your Mr. Ungo-Bungo used to be a friend of mine. Could you arrange for me to see him after he finishes?”

The spieler checked his sarcasm. His questioner was so obviously not a—not the sort of dame who asks to see guys after they finish.

“Oh, him,” he said. “Calls himself Gaffney—Clarence Aloysius Gaffney. That the guy you want?”

“Why, yes.”

“Guess you can.” He looked at his watch. “He’s got four more turns to do before we close. I’ll have to asked the boss.” He popped through a curtain and called, “Hey, Morrie!” Then he was back. “It’s okay. Morrie says you can wait in his office. Foist door to the right.”

Morrie was stout, bald, and hospitable. “Sure, sure,” he said, waving his cigar. “Glad to be of soivice, Miss Saddler. Chust a min while I talk to Gaffney’s manager.” He stuck his head out. “Hey, Pappas! Lady wants to talk to your ape-man later. I meant lady. Okay.” He returned to orate on the difficulties besetting the freak business. “You take this Gaffney, now. He’s the best damn ape-man in the business; all that hair really grows outa him. And the poor guy really has a face like that. But do people believe it? No! I hear ‘em going out, saying about how the hair is pasted on, and the whole thing is a fake. It’s mortifying.” He cocked his head, listening. “That rumble wasn’t no rolly-coaster; it’s gonna rain. Hope it’s over by tomorrow. You wouldn’t believe the way a rain can knock ya receipts off. If you drew a coive, it would be like this.” He drew his finger horizontally through space, jerking it down sharply to indicate the effect of rain. “But as I said, people don’t appreciate what you try to do for ‘em. It’s not just the money; I think of myself as an ottist. A creative ottist. A show like this got to have balance and proportion, like any other ott—”

It must have been an hour later when a slow, deep voice at the door said, “Did somebody want to see me?”

The gnarly man was in the doorway. In street clothes, with the collar of his raincoat turned up and his hat brim pulled down, he looked more or less human, though the coat fitted his great sloping shoulders badly. He had a thick knobby walking stick with a leather loop near the end. A small dark man fidgeted behind him.

“Yeah,” said Morrie, interrupting his lecture. “Clarence, this is Miss Saddler, Miss Saddler, this is our Mister Gaffney, one of our outstanding creative ottists.”

“Pleased to meetcha,” said the gnarly man. “This is my manager, Mr. Pappas.”

Dr. Saddler explained, and said she’d like to talk to Mr. Gaffney if she might. She was tactful; you had to be to pry into the private affairs of Naga headhunters, for instance. The gnarly man said he’d be glad to have a cup of coffee with Miss Saddler; there was a place around the corner that they could reach without getting wet.

As they started out, Pappas followed, fidgeting more and more. The gnarly man said, “Oh, go home to bed, John. Don’t worry about me.” He grinned at Dr. Saddler. The effect would have been unnerving to anyone but an anthropologist. “Every time he sees me talking to anybody, he thinks it’s some other manager trying to steal me.” He spoke General American, with a suggestion of Irish brogue in the lowering of the vowels in words like “man” and “talk.” “I made the lawyer who drew up our contract fix it so it can be ended on short notice.”

Pappas departed, still looking suspicious. The rain had practically ceased. The gnarly man stepped along smartly despite his limp. A woman passed with a fox terrier on a leash. The dog sniffed in the direction of the gnarly man, and then to all appearances went crazy, yelping and slavering. The gnarly man shifted his grip on the massive stick and said quietly, “Better hang on to him, ma’am.” The woman departed hastily. “They just don’t like me,” commented Gaffney. “Dogs, that is.”

They found a table and ordered their coffee. When the gnarly man took off his raincoat, Dr. Saddler became aware of a strong smell of cheap perfume. He got out a pipe with a big knobbly bowl. It suited him, just as the walking stick did. Dr. Saddler noticed that the deep-sunk eyes under the beetling arches were light hazel.

“Well?” he said in his rumbling drawl.

She began her questions.

“My parents were Irish,” he answered. “But I was born in South Boston—let’s see—forty-six years ago. I can get you a copy of my birth certificate. Clarence Aloysius Gaffney, May 2, 1910.” He seemed to get some secret amusement out of that statement.

“Were either of your parents of your somewhat unusual physical type?”

He paused before answering. He always did, it seemed. “Uh-huh. Both of ‘em. Glands, I suppose.”

“Were they both born in Ireland?”

“Yep. County Sligo.” Again that mysterious twinkle.

She paused. “Mr. Gaffney, you wouldn’t mind having some photographs and measurements made, would you? You could use the photographs in your business.”

“Maybe.” He took a sip. “Ouch! Gazooks, that’s hot!”

”What?”

“I said the coffee’s hot.”

“I mean, before that.”

The gnarly man looked a little embarrassed. “Oh, you mean the ‘gazooks’? Well, I—uh—once knew a man who used to say that.”

“Mr. Gaffney, I’m a scientist, and I’m not trying to get anything out of you for my own sake. You can be frank with me.”

There was something remote and impersonal in his stare that gave her a slight spinal chill. “Meaning that I haven’t been so far?”

“Yes. When I saw you I decided that there was something extraordinary in your background. I still think there is. Now, if you think I’m crazy, say so and we’ll drop the subject. But I want to get to the bottom of this.”

He took his time about answering. “That would depend.” There was another pause. Then he said, “With your connections, do you know any really first-class surgeons?”

“But—yes, I know Dunbar.”

“The guy who wears a purple gown when he operates? The guy who wrote a book on God, Man, and the Universe?”

“Yes. He’s a good man, in spite of his theatrical mannerisms. Why? What would you want of him?”

“Not what you’re thinking. I’m satisfied with my—uh—unusual physical type. But I have some old injuries—broken bones that didn’t knit properly—that I want fixed up. He’d have to be a good man, though. I have a couple of thousand in the savings bank, but I know the sort of fees those guys charge. If you could make the necessary arrangements—”

“Why, yes, I’m sure I could. In fact I could guarantee it. Then I was right? And you’ll—” She hesitated.

“Come clean? Uh-huh. But remember, I can still prove I’m Clarence Aloysius if I have to.”

“Who are you, then?”

Again there was a long pause. Then the gnarly man said, “Might as well tell you. As soon as you repeat any of it, you’ll have put your professional reputation in my hands, remember.

“First off, I wasn’t born in Massachusetts. I was born on the upper Rhine, near Mommenheim, and as nearly as I can figure out, about the year 50,000 B.C.”

Dr. Saddler wondered whether she’d stumbled on the biggest thing in anthropology or whether this bizarre man was making Baron Munchausen look like a piker.

He seemed to guess her thoughts. “I can’t prove that, of course. But so long as you arrange about that operation, I don’t care whether you believe me or not.”

“But—but—how?”

“I think the lightning did it. We were out trying to drive some bison into a pit. Well, this big thunderstorm came up, and the bison bolted in the wrong direction. So we gave up and tried to find shelter. And the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground with the rain running over me, and the rest of the clan standing around wailing about what had they done to get the storm-god sore at them, so he made a bull’s-eye on one of their best hunters. They’d never said that about me before. It’s funny how you’re never appreciated while you’re alive.

“But I was alive, all right. My nerves were pretty well shot for a few weeks, but otherwise I was all right except for some burns on the soles of my feet. I don’t know just what happened, except I was reading a couple of years ago that scientists had located the machinery that controls the replacement of tissue in the medulla oblongata. I think maybe the lightning did something to my medulla to speed it up. Anyway I never got any older after that. Physically, that is. And except for those broken bones I told you about. I was thirty-three at the time, more or less. We didn’t keep track of ages. I look older now, because the lines in your face are bound to get sort of set after a few thousand years, and because our hair was always gray at the ends. But I can still tie an ordinary Homo sapiens in a knot if I want to.”

“Then you’re—you mean to say you’re—you’re trying to tell me you’re—”

“A Neanderthal man? Homo neanderthalensis? That’s right.”

* * *

Matilda Saddler’s hotel room was a bit crowded, with the gnarly man, the frosty Blue, the rustic Jeffcott, Dr. Saddler herself, and Harold McGannon the historian. This McGannon was a small man, very neat and pink-skinned. He looked more like a New York Central director than a professor. Just now his expression was one of fascination. Dr. Saddler looked full of pride; Professor Jeffcott looked interested but puzzled; Dr. Blue looked bored. (He hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.) The gnarly man, stretched out in the most comfortable chair and puffing his overgrown pipe, seemed to be enjoying himself.

McGannon was asking a question. “Well, Mr.—Gaffney? I suppose that’s your name as much as any.”

“You might say so,” said the gnarly man. “My original name was something like Shining Hawk. But I’ve gone under hundreds of names since then. If you register in a hotel as ‘Shining Hawk’ it’s apt to attract attention. And I try to avoid that.”

“Why?” asked McGannon.

The gnarly man looked at his audience as one might look at willfully stupid children. “I don’t like trouble. The best way to keep out of trouble is not to attract attention. That’s why I have to pull up stakes and move every ten or fifteen years. People might get curious as to why I never got any older.”

“Pathological liar,” murmured Blue. The words were barely audible, but the gnarly man heard them.

“You’re entitled to your opinion, Dr. Blue,” he said affably. “Dr. Saddler’s doing me a favor, so in return I’m letting you all shoot questions at me. And I’m answering. I don’t give a damn whether you believe me or not.”

McGannon hastily threw in another question. “How is it that you have a birth certificate, as you say you have?”

“Oh, I knew a man named Clarence Gaffney once. He got killed by an automobile, and I took his name.”

“Was there any reason for picking this Irish background?”

“Are you Irish, Dr. McGannon?”

“Not enough to matter.”

“Okay. I didn’t want to hurt any feelings. It’s my best bet. There are real Irishmen with upper lips like mine.”

Dr. Saddler broke in. “I meant to ask you, Clarence.” She put a lot of warmth into his name. “There’s an argument as to whether your people interbred with mine, when mine overran Europe at the end of the Mousterian. It’s been thought that the ‘old black breed’ of the west coast of Ireland might have a little Neanderthal blood.”

He grinned slightly. “Well—yes and no. There never was any back in the Stone Age, as far as I know. But these long-lipped Irish are my fault.”

“How?”

“Believe it or not, but in the last fifty centuries there have been some women of your species that didn’t find me too repulsive. Usually there were no offspring. But in the Sixteenth Century I went to Ireland to live. They were burning too many people for witchcraft in the rest of Europe to suit me at that time. And there was a woman. The result this time was a flock of hybrids—cute little devils they were. So the ‘old black breed’ are my descendants.”

“What did happen to your people?” asked McGannon. “Were they killed off?”

The gnarly man shrugged. “Some of them. We weren’t at all warlike. But then the tall ones, as we called them, weren’t either. Some of the tribes of the tall ones looked on us as legitimate prey, but most of them let us severely alone. I guess they were almost as scared of us as we were of them. Savages as primitive as that are really pretty peaceable people. You have to work so hard, and there are so few of you, that there’s no object in fighting wars. That comes later, when you get agriculture and livestock, so you have something worth stealing.

“I remember that a hundred years after the tall ones had come, there were still Neanderthalers living in my part of the country. But they died out. I think it was that they lost their ambition. The tall ones were pretty crude, but they were so far ahead of us that our things and our customs seemed silly. Finally we just sat around and lived on what scraps we could beg from the tall ones’ camps. You might say we died of an inferiority complex.”

“What happened to you?” asked McGannon.

“Oh, I was a god among my own people by then, and naturally I represented them in dealings with the tall ones. I got to know the tall ones pretty well, and they were willing to put up with me after all my own clan were dead. Then in a couple of hundred years they’d forgotten all about my people, and took me for a hunchback or something. I got to be pretty good at flintworking, so I could earn my keep. When metal came in I went into that, and finally into blacksmithing. If you put all the horseshoes I’ve made in a pile, they’d—well, you’d have a damn big pile of horseshoes anyway.”

“Did you limp at that time?” asked McGannon.

“Uh-huh. I busted my leg back in the Neolithic. Fell out of a tree, and had to set it myself, because there wasn’t anybody around. Why?”

“Vulcan,” said McGannon softly.

“Vulcan?” repeated the gnarly man. “Wasn’t he a Greek god or something?”

“Yes. He was the lame blacksmith of the gods.”

“You mean you think that maybe somebody got the idea from me? That’s an interesting idea. Little late to check up on it, though.”

Blue leaned forward, and said crisply, “Mr. Gaffney, no real Neanderthal man could talk as entertainingly as you do. That’s shown by the poor development of the frontal lobes of the brain and the attachments of the tongue muscles.”

The gnarly man shrugged again. “You can believe what you like. My own clan considered me pretty smart, and then you’re bound to learn something in fifty thousand years.”

Dr. Saddler said, “Tell them about your teeth, Clarence.”

The gnarly man grinned. “They’re false, of course. My own lasted a long time, but they still wore out somewhere back in the Paleolithic. I grew a third set, and they wore out too. So I had to invent soup.”

“You what?” It was the usually taciturn Jeffcott.

“I had to invent soup, to keep alive. You know, the bark-dish-and-hot-stones method. My gums got pretty tough after a while, but they still weren’t much good for chewing hard stuff. So after a few thousand years I got pretty sick of soup and mushy foods generally. And when metal came in I began experimenting with false teeth. I finally made some pretty good ones. Amber teeth in copper plates. You might say I invented them too. I tried often to sell them, but they never really caught on until around 1750 A.D. I was living in Paris then, and I built up quite a little business before I moved on.” He pulled the handkerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe his forehead; Blue made a face as the wave of perfume reached him.

“Well, Mr. Caveman,” snapped Blue sarcastically, “how do you like our machine age?”

The gnarly man ignored the tone of the question. “It’s not bad. Lots of interesting things happen. The main trouble is the shirts.”

“Shirts?”

“Uh-huh. Just try to buy a shirt with a 20 neck and a 29 sleeve. I have to order ‘em special. It’s almost as bad with hats and shoes. I wear an 8-1/2 and a 13 shoe.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get back to Coney to work.”

McGannon jumped up. “Where can I get in touch with you again, Mr. Gaffney? There’s lots of things I’d like to ask you.”

The gnarly man told him. “I’m free mornings. My working hours are two to midnight on weekdays, with a couple of hours off for dinner. Union rules, you know.”

“You mean there’s a union for you show people?”

“Sure. Only they call it a guild. They think they’re artists, you know.”

* * *

Blue and Jeffcott watched the gnarly man and the historian walking slowly toward the subway together. Blue said, “Poor old Mac! I always thought he had sense. Looks like he’s swallowed this Gaffney’s ravings hook, line, and sinker.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Jeffcott, frowning. “There’s something funny about the business.”

“What?” barked Blue. “Don’t tell me that you believe this story of being alive fifty thousand years? A caveman who uses perfume? Good God!”

“N-no,” said Jeffcott. “Not the fifty thousand part. But I don’t think it’s a simple case of paranoia or plain lying either. And the perfume’s quite logical, if he were telling the truth.”

“Huh?”

“Body odor. Saddler told us how dogs hate him. He’d have a smell different from ours. We’re so used to ours that we don’t even know we have one, unless somebody goes without a bath for a couple of months. But we might notice his if he didn’t disguise it.”

Blue snorted. “You’ll be believing him yourself in a minute. It’s an obvious glandular case, and he’s made up this story to fit. All that talk about not caring whether we believe him or not is just bluff. Come on, let’s get some lunch. Say, did you see the way Saddler looked at him every time she said ‘Clarence’? Wonder what she thinks she’s going to do with him?”

Jeffcott thought. “I can guess. And if he is telling the truth, I think there’s something in Deuteronomy against it.”

* * *

The great surgeon made a point of looking like a great surgeon, to pince-nez and Vandyke. He waved the X-ray negatives at the gnarly man, pointing out this and that.

“We’d better take the leg first,” he said. “Suppose we do that next Tuesday. When you’ve recovered from that we can tackle the shoulder.”

The gnarly man agreed, and shuffled out of the little private hospital to where McGannon awaited him in his car. The gnarly man described the tentative schedule of operations, and mentioned that he had made arrangements to quit his job at the last minute. “Those two are the main things,” he said. “I’d like to try professional wrestling again some day, and I can’t unless I get this shoulder fixed so I can raise my left arm over my head.”

“What happened to it?” asked McGannon.

The gnarly man closed his eyes, thinking. “Let me see. I get things mixed up sometimes. People do when they’re only fifty years old, so you can imagine what it’s like for me.

“In 42 B.C. I was living with the Bituriges in Gaul. You remember that Caesar shut up Werkinghetorich—Vercingetorix to you—in Alesia, and the confederacy raised an army of relief under Caswallon.”

“Caswallon?”

The gnarly man laughed shortly. “I meant Wercaswallon. Caswallon was a Briton, wasn’t he? I’m always getting those two mixed up.

“Anyhow, I got drafted. That’s all you can call it; I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t exactly my war. But they wanted me because I could pull twice as heavy a bow as anybody else.

“When the final attack on Caesar’s ring of fortifications came, they sent me forward with some other archers to provide a covering fire for their infantry. At least that was the plan. Actually I never saw such a hopeless muddle in my life. And before I even got within bow-shot, I fell into one of the Romans’ covered pits. I didn’t land on the point of the stake, but I fetched up against the side of it and busted my shoulder. There wasn’t any help, because the Gauls were too busy running away from Caesar’s German cavalry to bother about wounded men.”

* * *

The author of God, Man, and the Universe gazed after his departing patient. He spoke to his head assistant. “What do you think of him?”

“I think it’s so,” said the assistant. “I looked over those X-rays pretty closely. That skeleton never belonged to a human being.”

“Hmm. Hmm,” said Dunbar. “That’s right, he wouldn’t be human, would he? Hmm. You know, if anything happened to him—”

The assistant grinned understandingly. “Of course there’s the S.P.C.A.”

“We needn’t worry about them. Hmm.” He thought, you’ve been slipping: nothing big in the papers for a year. But if you published a complete anatomical description of a Neanderthal man—or if you found out why his medulla functions the way it does—hmm—of course it would have to be managed properly—

* * *

“Let’s have some lunch at the Natural History Museum,” said McGannon. “Some of the people there ought to know you.”

“Okay,” drawled the gnarly man. “Only I’ve still got to get back to Coney afterward. This is my last day. Tomorrow Pappas and I are going up to see our lawyer about ending our contract. It’s a dirty trick on poor old John, but I warned him at the start that this might happen.”

“I suppose we can come up to interview you while you’re—ah—convalescing? Fine. Have you ever been to the Museum, by the way?”

“Sure,” said the gnarly man. “I get around.”

“What did you—ah—think of their stuff in the Hall of the Age of Man?”

“Pretty good. There’s a little mistake in one of those big wall paintings. The second horn on the woolly rhinoceros ought to slant forward more. I thought about writing them a letter. But you know how it is. They say ‘Were you there?’ and I say ‘Uh-huh’ and they say ‘Another nut.’”

“How about the pictures and busts of Paleolithic men?”

“Pretty good. But they have some funny ideas. They always show us with skins wrapped around our middles. In summer we didn’t wear skins, and in winter we hung them around our shoulders where they’d do some good.

“And then they show those tall ones that you call Cro-Magnon men clean shaven. As I remember they all had whiskers. What would they shave with?”

“I think,” said McGannon, “that they leave the beards off the busts to—ah—show the shape of the chins. With the beards they’d all look too much alike.”

“Is that the reason? They might say so on the labels.” The gnarly man rubbed his own chin, such as it was. “I wish beards would come back into style. I look much more human with a beard. I got along fine in the Sixteenth Century when everybody had whiskers.

“That’s one of the ways I remember when things happened, by the haircuts and whiskers that people had. I remember when a wagon I was driving in Milan lost a wheel and spilled flour bags from hell to breakfast. That must have been in the Sixteenth Century, before I went to Ireland, because I remember that most of the men in the crowd that collected had beards. Now—wait a minute—maybe that was the Fourteenth. There were a lot of beards then too.”

“Why, why didn’t you keep a diary?” asked McGannon with a groan of exasperation.

The gnarly man shrugged characteristically. “And pack around six trunks full of paper every time I moved? No, thanks.”

“I—ah—don’t suppose you could give me the real story of Richard III and the princes in the Tower?”

“Why should I? I was just a poor blacksmith or farmer or something most of the time. I didn’t go around with the big shots. I gave up all my ideas of ambition a long time before that. I had to, being so different from other people. As far as I can remember, the only real king I ever got a good look at was Charlemagne, when he made a speech in Paris one day. He was just a big tall man with Santa Claus whiskers and a squeaky voice.”

* * *

Next morning McGannon and the gnarly man had a session with Svedberg at the Museum, after which McGannon drove Gaffney around to the lawyer’s office, on the third floor of a seedy old office building in the West Fifties. James Robinette looked something like a movie actor and something like a chipmunk. He glanced at his watch and said to McGannon: “This won’t take long. If you’d like to stick around I’d be glad to have lunch with you.” The fact was that he was feeling just a trifle queasy about being left with this damn queer client, this circus freak or whatever he was, with his barrel body and his funny slow drawl.

When the business had been completed, and the gnarly man had gone off with his manager to wind up his affairs at Coney, Robinette said, “Whew! I thought he was a halfwit, from his looks. But there was nothing halfwitted about the way he went over those clauses. You’d have thought the damn contract was for building a subway system. What is he, anyhow?”

McGannon told him what he knew.

The lawyer’s eyebrows went up. “Do you believe his yarn?”

“I do. So does Saddler. So does Svedberg up at the Museum. They’re both topnotchers in their respective fields. Saddler and I have interviewed him, and Svedberg’s examined him physically. But it’s just opinion. Fred Blue still swears it’s a hoax or a case of some sort of dementia. Neither of us can prove anything.”

“Why not?”

“Well—ah—how are you going to prove that he was or was not alive a hundred years ago? Take one case: Clarence says he ran a sawmill in Fairbanks, Alaska, in 1906 and ‘07, under the name of Michael Shawn. How are you going to find out whether there was a sawmill operator in Fairbanks at that time? And if you did stumble on a record of a Michael Shawn, how would you know whether he and Clarence were the same? There’s not a chance in a thousand that there’d be a photograph or a detailed description you could check with. And you’d have an awful time trying to find anybody who remembered him at this late date.

“Then, Svedberg poked around Clarence’s face, and said that no human being ever had a pair of zygomatic arches like that. But when I told Blue that, he offered to produce photographs of a human skull that did. I know what’ll happen: Blue will say that the arches are practically the same, and Svedberg will say that they’re obviously different. So there we’ll be.”

Robinette mused, “He does seem damned intelligent for an ape-man.”

“He’s not an ape-man really. The Neanderthal race was a separate branch of the human stock; they were more primitive in some ways and more advanced in others than we are. Clarence may be slow, but he usually grinds out the right answer. I imagine that he was—ah—brilliant, for one of his kind, to begin with. And he’s had the benefit of so much experience. He knows us; he sees through us and our motives.” The little pink man puckered up his forehead. “I do hope nothing happens to him. He’s carrying around a lot of priceless information in that big head of his. Simply priceless. Not much about war and politics; he kept clear of those as a matter of self-preservation. But little things, about how people lived and how they thought thousands of years ago. He gets his periods mixed up sometimes, but he gets them straightened out if you give him time.

“I’ll have to get hold of Pell, the linguist. Clarence knows dozens of ancient languages, such as Gothic and Gaulish. I was able to check him on some of them, like vulgar Latin; that was one of the things that convinced me. And there are archeologists and psychologists … .

“If only something doesn’t happen to scare him off. We’d never find him. I don’t know. Between a man-crazy female scientist and a publicity-mad surgeon—I wonder how it’ll work out.”

* * *

The gnarly man innocently entered the waiting room of Dunbar’s hospital. He as usual spotted the most comfortable chair and settled luxuriously into it.

Dunbar stood before him. His keen eyes gleamed with anticipation behind their pince-nez. “There’ll be a wait of about half an hour, Mr. Gaffney,” he said. “We’re all tied up now, you know. I’ll send Mahler in; he’ll see that you have anything you want.” Dunbar’s eyes ran lovingly over the gnarly man’s stumpy frame. What fascinating secrets mightn’t he discover once he got inside it?

Mahler appeared, a healthy-looking youngster. Was there anything Mr. Gaffney would like? The gnarly man paused as usual to let his massive mental machinery grind. A vagrant impulse moved him to ask to see the instruments that were to be used on him.

Mahler had his orders, but this seemed a harmless enough request. He went and returned with a tray full of gleaming steel. “You see,” he said, “these are called scalpels.”

Presently the gnarly man asked, “What’s this?” He picked up a peculiar-looking instrument.

“Oh, that’s the boss’s own invention. For getting at the midbrain.”

“Midbrain? What’s that doing here?”

“Why, that’s for getting at your—that must be there by mistake—”

Little lines tightened around the queer hazel eyes. “Yeah?” He remembered the look Dunbar had given him, and Dunbar’s general reputation. “Say, could I use your phone a minute?”

“Why—I suppose—what do you want to phone for?”

“I want to call my lawyer. Any objections?”

“No, of course not. But there isn’t any phone here.”

“What do you call that?” The gnarly man rose and walked toward the instrument in plain sight on a table. But Mahler was there before him, standing in front of it.

“This one doesn’t work. It’s being fixed.”

“Can’t I try it?”

“No, not till it’s fixed. It doesn’t work, I tell you.”

The gnarly man studied the young physician for a few seconds. “Okay, then I’ll find one that does.” He started for the door.

“Hey, you can’t go out now!” cried Mahler.

“Can’t I? Just watch me!”

“Hey!” It was a full-throated yell. Like magic more men in white coats appeared. Behind them was the great surgeon. “Be reasonable, Mr. Gaffney,” he said. “There’s no reason why you should go out now, you know. We’ll be ready for you in a little while.”

“Any reason why I shouldn’t?” The gnarly man’s big face swung on his thick neck, and his hazel eyes swiveled. All the exits were blocked. “I’m going.”

“Grab him!” said Dunbar.

The white coats moved. The gnarly man got his hands on the back of a chair. The chair whirled, and became a dissolving blur as the men closed on him. Pieces of chair flew about the room, to fall with the dry sharp pink of short lengths of wood. When the gnarly man stopped swinging, having only a short piece of the chair back left in each fist, one assistant was out cold. Another leaned whitely against the wall and nursed a broken arm.

“Go on!” shouted Dunbar when he could make himself heard. The white wave closed over the gnarly man, then broke. The gnarly man was on his feet, and held young Mahler by the ankles. He spread his feet and swung the shrieking Mahler like a club, clearing the way to the door. He turned, whirled Mahler around his head like a hammer thrower, and let the now mercifully unconscious body fly. His assailants went down in a yammering tangle.

One was still up. Under Dunbar’s urging he sprang after the gnarly man. The latter had gotten his stick out of the umbrella stand in the vestibule. The knobby upper end went whoowh past the assistant’s nose. The assistant jumped back and fell over one of the casualties. The front door slammed, and there was a deep roar of “Taxi!”

“Come on!” shrieked Dunbar. “Get the ambulance out!”

* * *

James Robinette sat in his office on the third floor of a seedy old office building in the West Fifties, thinking the thoughts that lawyers do in moments of relaxation.

He wondered about that damn queer client, that circus freak or whatever he was, who had been in a couple of days before with his manager. A barrel-bodied man who looked like a halfwit and talked in a funny slow drawl. Though there had been nothing halfwitted about the acute way he had gone over those clauses. You’d think the damn contract had been for building a subway system.

There was a pounding of large feet in the corridor, a startled protest from Miss Spevak in the outer office, and the strange customer was before Robinette’s desk, breathing hard.

“I’m Gaffney,” he growled between gasps. “Remember me? I think they followed me down here. They’ll be up any minute. I want your help.”

“They? Who’s they?” Robinette winced at the impact of that damned perfume.

The gnarly man launched into his misfortunes. He was going well when there were more protests from Miss Spevak, and Dr. Dunbar and four assistants burst into the office.

“He’s ours,” said Dunbar, his glasses agleam.

“He’s an ape-man,” said the assistant with the black eye.

“He’s a dangerous lunatic,” said the assistant with the cut lip.

“We’ve come to take him away,” said the assistant with the torn pants.

The gnarly man spread his feet and gripped his stick like a baseball bat.

Robinette opened a desk drawer and got out a large pistol. “One move toward him and I’ll use this. The use of extreme violence is justified to prevent commission of a felony, to wit, kidnapping.”

The five men backed up a little. Dunbar said, “This isn’t kidnapping. You can only kidnap a person, you know. He isn’t a human being, and I can prove it.”

The assistant with the black eye snickered. “If he wants protection, he better see a game warden instead of a lawyer.”

“Maybe that’s what you think,” said Robinette. “You aren’t a lawyer. According to the law he’s human. Even corporations, idiots, and unborn children are legally persons, and he’s a damn sight more human than they are.”

“Then he’s a dangerous lunatic,” said Dunbar.

“Yeah? Where’s your commitment order? The only persons who can apply for one are (a) close relatives and (b) public officials charged with the maintenance of order. You’re neither.”

Dunbar continued stubbornly. “He ran amuck in my hospital and nearly killed a couple of my men, you know. I guess that gives us some rights.”

“Sure,” said Robinette. “You can step down to the nearest station and swear out a warrant.” He turned to the gnarly man. “Shall we slap a civil suit on ‘em, Gaffney?”

“I’m all right,” said the individual, his speech returning to its normal slowness. “I just want to make sure these guys don’t pester me anymore.”

“Okay. Now listen, Dunbar. One hostile move out of you and we’ll have a warrant out for you for false arrest, assault and battery, attempted kidnapping, criminal conspiracy, and disorderly conduct. We’ll throw the book at you. And there’ll be a suit for damages for sundry torts, to wit, assault, deprivation of civil rights, placing in jeopardy of life and limb, menace, and a few more I may think of later.”

“You’ll never make that stick,” snarled Dunbar. We have all the witnesses.”

“Yeah? And wouldn’t the great Evan Dunbar look sweet defending such actions? Some of the ladies who gush over your books might suspect that maybe you weren’t such a damn knight in shining armor. We can make a prize monkey of you, and you know it.”

“You’re destroying the possibility of a great scientific discovery, you know, Robinette.”

“To hell with that. My duty is to protect my client. Now beat it, all of you, before I call a cop.” His left hand moved suggestively to the telephone.

Dunbar grasped at a last straw. “Hmm. Have you got a permit for that gun?”

“Damn right. Want to see it?”

Dunbar sighed. “Never mind. You would have.” His greatest opportunity for fame was slipping out of his fingers. He drooped toward the door.

The gnarly man spoke up. “If you don’t mind, Dr. Dunbar. I left my hat at your place. I wish you’d send it to Mr. Robinette here. I have a hard time getting hats to fit me.”

Dunbar looked at him silently and left with his cohorts.

The gnarly man was giving the lawyer further details when the telephone rang. Robinette answered: “Yes … Saddler? Yes, he’s here … Your Dr. Dunbar was going to murder him so he could dissect him … Okay.” He turned to the gnarly man. “Your friend Dr. Saddler is looking for you. She’s on her way up here.”

“Herakles!” said Gaffney. “I’m going.”

“Don’t you want to see her? She was phoning from around the corner. If you go out now you’ll run into her. How did she know where to call?”

“I gave her your number. I suppose she called the hospital and my boarding house, and tried you as a last resort. This door goes into the hall, doesn’t it? Well, when she comes in the regular door I’m going out this one. And I don’t want you saying where I’ve gone. Nice to have known you, Mr. Robinette.”

“Why? What’s the matter? You’re not going to run out now, are you? Dunbar’s harmless, and you’ve got friends. I’m your friend.”

“You’re durn tootin’ I’m gonna run out. There’s too much trouble. I’ve kept alive all these centuries by staying away from trouble. I let down my guard with Dr. Saddler, and went to the surgeon she recommended. First he plots to take me apart to see what makes me tick. If that brain instrument hadn’t made me suspicious I’d have been on my way to the alcohol jars by now. Then there’s a fight, and it’s just pure luck I didn’t kill a couple of those internes or whatever they are and get sent up for manslaughter. Now Matilda’s after me with a more than friendly interest. I know what it means when a woman looks at you that way and calls you ‘dear.’ I wouldn’t mind if she weren’t a prominent person of the kind that’s always in some sort of garboil. That would mean more trouble sooner or later. You don’t suppose I like trouble, do you?”

“But look here, Gaffney, you’re getting steamed up over a lot of damn—”

“Ssst!” The gnarly man took his stick and tiptoed over to the private entrance. As Dr. Saddler’s clear voice sounded in the outer office, he sneaked out. He was closing the door behind him when the scientist entered the inner office.

Matilda Saddler was a quick thinker. Robinette hardly had time to open his mouth when she flung herself at and through the private door with a cry of “Clarence!”

Robinette heard the clatter of feet on the stairs. Neither the pursued nor the pursuer had waited for the creaky elevator. Looking out the window he saw Gaffney leap into a taxi. Matilda Saddler sprinted after the cab, calling, “Clarence! Come back!” But the traffic was light and the chase correspondingly hopeless.

* * *

They did hear from the gnarly man once more. Three months later Robinette got a letter whose envelope contained, to his vast astonishment, ten ten-dollar bills. The single sheet was typed even to the signature.

Dear Mr. Robinette:

I do not know what your regular fees are, but I hope that the enclosed will cover your services to me of last July.

Since leaving New York I have had several jobs. I pushed a hack (as we say) in Chicago, and I tried out as pitcher on a bush-league baseball team. Once I made my living by knocking over rabbits and things with stones, and I can still throw fairly well. Nor am I bad at swinging a club like a baseball bat. But my lameness makes me too slow for a baseball career.

I now have a job whose nature I cannot disclose because I do not wish to be traced. You need pay no attention to the postmark; I am not living in Kansas City, but had a friend post this letter there.

Ambition would be foolish for one in my peculiar position. I am satisfied with a job that furnishes me with the essentials and allows me to go to an occasional movie, and a few friends with whom I can drink beer and talk.

I was sorry to leave New York without saying good-bye to Dr. Harold McGannon, who treated me very nicely. I wish you would explain to him why I had to leave as I did. You can get in touch with him through Columbia University.

If Dunbar sent you my hat as I requested, please mail it to me, General Delivery, Kansas City, Mo. My friend will pick it up. There is not a hat store in this town where I live that can fit me.

With best wishes, I remain,

Yours sincerely,

Shining Hawk

alias Clarence Aloysius Gaffney

* * *

L. Sprague de Camp is the author of over 120 science fiction and fantasy books, as well as hundreds of short stories.

Slan Hunter, Part 3

Written by A. E. van Vogt and Kevin J. Anderson

Illustrated by Jennifer Miller

CHAPTER 29

On the sheer edge of the red-stone balcony overlooking the glassed-over canyons of Mars, Jem Lorry stood with his old father. The head of the Tendrilless Authority had a calm smile on his face, as if content just to be next to his ambitious son before Jem’s departure to meet with President Kier Gray. He was glad of his son’s apparent change of heart. To an outside observer, it might have looked like a tender father-son moment.

Jem wanted to kill him.

Even with the urgent need to cement their victory on Earth, the old man did not seem inclined to hurry. Altus was calm and confident that everything would work out exactly as it should. Jem, however, understood that things worked out only when someone with drive and vision took charge of the reins of history.

“A beautiful view, is it not, my son?” Altus said. “Look at the white rocks, the rusty cliffs, the red dust. We tendrilless have been here in Cimmerium so long, I think the need to see red has supplanted my desire for lush greenery.”

Jem had always wanted to see red. Blood red.

Even though the wide Martian canyon was covered over with a transparent roof, the enclosed space was vast enough that breezes wafted up from side canyons, air currents moving about from the exchangers, filters, and processing machinery. Far below lay a bone-dry riverbed from ancient days, a ribbon of broken rocks. It seemed a very long way to fall.

“I would be happy to let the humans have this place instead of us. Let Mars be their new Botany Bay. Since you don’t want me to kill them all, that seems a perfect alternative. Exile the few surviving humans here and have them scrabble tooth-and-nail for an existence.”

Mildly, the old man looked at his son. “Come now, Jem, when have you ever had to fight ‘tooth-and-nail’ to survive? You had a comfortable life. You don’t fool me with your imagined hardships.”

“Imagined? I know what those people are really like. Primitive, prejudiced, easily led by propaganda. They’re a danger to themselves, and they deserve the punishment that we’ll impose on them. I don’t know what else Kier Gray expects.”

Altus seemed troubled. “You are supposed to arrange a peace, negotiate acceptable terms.”

“Negotiate? Father, they are broken and defeated. They have very little leverage. We should be able to get what we want, for the good of the tendrilless.”

The older man heaved a long sigh. “Perhaps you aren’t the best choice to go to this summit meeting after all, Jem. I’m afraid you may not approach the matter with the same goals as the Authority.”

He felt a moment of panic. “No, Father, you can count on me. You know I have the bright future of our race in my heart. I will do what’s best for all of us.”

Altus considered. “Maybe we should wait until we hear from Joanna Hillory before we make any brash decisions. She’ll have reached Earth by now. If she’s found Cross, then the strategic balance has changed.”

Jem tried to control his impatience and temper. “If you were going to kill Cross, I should have been the one to go there. In fact, I can make that my priority, after I’ve dealt with Kier Gray and his summit.”

Altus scratched his beard, pursing his lips. “The more I think about it, maybe I should be the one to go talk with President Gray personally. He and I can resolve this war.”

“The war is over, Father, even before our occupation ships arrive. Someday you’ll recognize what I have accomplished and grant me the reward I deserve.”

The old man patted him condescendingly on the shoulder. “Now, Jem, don’t feel bad. Of course I am proud of you. You’re my son. But right now I can do a better job. I’ll suggest it to the Authority. I’m very sorry, son.”

Jem lashed out. “If you had spent years on assignment there, cut off from your heritage, living in their squalor, you’d think differently about humans. You can’t know what it was like to be among them.”

The old man remained silent for a long moment. He clutched the decorative rail with his sinewy hands and leaned over the drop-off. Like a playful child, Altus worked up a mouthful of spit and let the droplet fall, watching it drift downward in the low gravity, bounced along in the air currents until finally it disappeared. Smiling, he turned back to his impatient son. “Actually, I can, Jem. You see, in my younger years I, too, served on Earth. I was part of the initial spy organization that helped set up and infiltrate the humans’ Air Center.”

Jem reeled backward. “You were on Earth? Impossible.”

“Why is that impossible? You think me so incompetent?”

“I just didn’t think you had ever set foot away from Mars. That you would—” He cut himself off before he finished his sentence. That you would ever leave your comfortable council chair and do anything active with your life.

“My experiences were not quite so horrific as you make yours out to be.” Altus continued to gaze out at the stark cliffs, reminiscing. He actually had a smile on his wrinkled face. Jem wanted to strike him, to wipe off that beatific expression, but he held himself silent to hear what his father would say. “I worked among them, lived among them, talked to them. It was very difficult at first, pretending to be a mere human and knowing their unreasonable prejudices against the slans. I had to parrot their words so no one would suspect me.”

“Of course you did, Father. We tendrilless hate the slans as well.”

“The humans don’t even know of the existence of tendrilless. I felt sorry for them in their ignorance. But life there wasn’t so bad. We made great progress setting up newspapers and radio stations, silently taking over their communications so that we could manipulate their fears. It was easy for us to help them because we did everything so much better than a mere human could. They thought we were geniuses. The hardest part was never letting on how smart we really were.”

“That’s what I did,” Jem said. “That’s how I became the President’s chief advisor.”

“Yes, yes.” Altus didn’t sound interested at all. “I wonder if it’s possible that President Gray knew who you were all along and simply didn’t let on. Your mental shields are some of the best I’ve ever seen, but he’s a smart man. Gray may have figured it out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! It was because of my talent and skill that no one suspected.”

“Even so, you were with him all that time—did you ever suspect Gray is a slan, even a rogue tendrilless? Or were his mental shields even better than your own?”

Jem scowled but didn’t answer.

“At any rate, I found some things quite admirable about human society—their music, their congenial friendship, ah, and some of their gourmet foods. Nothing like what we have here on Mars. You blinded yourself with hate, and that is not the mark of a good diplomat.” Again, that annoying paternal pat on his shoulder. “You see, Earth is where I met your mother. She was another worker in the communications towers. Oh, she was beautiful, had such a musical laugh. She had chestnut-brown hair and large blue eyes, a delicate chin. Your features remind me of her very much.”

Jem tried to grasp what his father was saying. “My mother was also part of the operation? She was one of the tendrilless slans sent to infiltrate the cities?”

“No, no.” Altus chuckled. “She was one of them, a human. She was very sweet. I wish you could have met her.”

Jem choked. “You’re lying. That can’t be.”

“Your mother was the best thing I found on Earth, kind and caring. She played a musical instrument, a stringed device they called a guitar, and her voice was like gold. She and I liked to dance. We must have spent three or four nights a week out in clubs and ballrooms. We even won a prize once. Hmm, I think I’ve still got the ribbon in my quarters somewhere. I took it with me when I left Earth after your mother died.”

“This can’t be!” Jem searched inside himself as if he could suddenly discover a fatal flaw, a hitherto-unsuspected weakness in his genes.

“Oh, it is, Jem. You’re only half-slan, you see.”

“That means I’m half-human.” His stomach roiled and he felt as if he was going to vomit. “I’m half-human!”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my boy. You can’t help who you are. In fact, we can use it to our advantage after I go to Earth. Don’t worry, I’ll bring you there in due time. We would seem the perfect go-betweens in creating a new world order. You could have a good deal of interim power. Ah, your mother would have been proud—”

In a fury, Jem whirled and struck his father in the face, making the old man snap backward in stunned surprise. A large red mark stood out on his left cheek. “Calm yourself! I won’t stand for this sort of behavior.”

Jem roared and grabbed his father by the collar, screaming in his face with such force that spittle flew onto his cheeks. “You betrayed our race. You fell in love with a weakling human. You slept with the enemy.”

“She was your mother, Jem.”

“I will never accept that.” He felt cold steel within him. “And you are no longer my father. You’re a traitor. I will never let you go to Earth in my place.”

With strength fueled by adrenaline and anger, he lifted the old man. Altus seemed no more than a large rag doll in the low Martian gravity. Without taking time to think, merely following his instincts, Jem hurled his father over the guard rail and sent him falling into his beloved Martian canyon. His thin terrified wail vanished into the background breezes.

Jem stared for a long moment, shaking after what he had just done, not from horror or grief, but merely surprised at how he had reacted. The old man had certainly deserved it; he would have ruined everything. Worse, if the news got out that Jem was half human …

He silently vowed to keep his heritage a secret. Certainly his father would never have told such an embarrassing fact to any of his peers. No one need ever know about his tainted blood.

He leaned over the deep, breathless drop, gathered a mouthful of saliva, and then he, too, let a long droplet of spit drop into the void. He was just full of impulsive decisions today.

Jem made his way back to the Authority chambers. It would be a long time before anyone discovered what had happened to old Altus, and by that time he would be long gone to Earth, where he would have consolidated his rule.

Inside the crystalline meeting chamber, all alone, he climbed to his father’s traditional seat and lounged in the comfortable chair behind the impressive bench. Then he rang the prominent summoning tone, knowing the other Authority members would rush to the emergency meeting.

The group of old men arrived, hastily straightening their robes, donning their ceremonial caps. They looked up to see Jem Lorry sitting in the middle of their high bench and no sign of Altus anywhere. From his high position, the younger man looked down upon the other council members. “I am prepared to depart for Earth. I just wanted you to know that I’m on my way.”

After today, all the tendrilless would be willing if not eager to follow him, despite the blood on his hands. The proof would be in his strength of rule. “I am going to meet with President Gray—and I will accept his surrender.”

CHAPTER 30

The pain and emptiness did not go away, but after an infinite falling moment Jommy found the strength to endure. Even as he heard the humming engines of the tendrilless scout combing the wreckage for him, searching for him, Jommy discovered a lifeline within himself: He thought of Kathleen, beautiful Kathleen, and somehow he found the resolve to raise his head up. To survive.

Sharp agony was like a spear in the back of his head. He gasped and let himself collapse breathlessly onto the rubble, struggling to hide in a dim hole. The scout ship had driven away the murderous scavengers, but he did not dare let himself fall into the hands of the tendrilless.

He could feel the biting scrape of rough stone on his cheek, discovered raw skin and a bit of blood marring the concrete debris, but that was a mere distraction, a tiny whisper compared to the bellow of hurt inside his head.

The mob had slashed his tendrils off! It was as if they had lopped the wings off a bird or pulled the fins from a fish.

When the sounds of the enemy ship finally faded, giving up the search, he got to his hands and knees and coughed, but each jarring motion, each inhaled breath, sent more thunder through his brain. He fought against passing out, and then he retched, squeezing his eyes shut. His body was wracked with tremendous waves, but he crashed through them like a small boat against a hurricane.

With the mental silence yelling inside him, he could hear the blood rushing behind his ears. But he strained to hear something else, anything else, afraid he might pick up the noises of laughing scavengers returning for him, knife-wielding Deacon and his brutal gang. How long would the tendrilless ship frighten them off? They had left him alive, but maybe he was better off dead.

Jommy bit back a moan and forced himself not to follow that line of thought. He was still alive. He was still himself, with or without his tendrils.

He opened his eyes into the fading light of dusk. The sky was a darkening blue with a scudding of clouds and finger-paint smears of smoke from the burning buildings. All of his senses—even the normal ones—were different now, blunted. He felt shut off. When he got to his feet, his balance was gone. Jommy reeled like a drunken man and then stumbled once more. He fell back onto his scraped hands, then with a grunt of effort, he stood up again, swaying but managing to remain erect.

Weaving, he made his way through the rubble, barely able to see, hoping the scout ship wouldn’t return. He accidentally found shelter, the corner of a collapsed room, and he curled up behind a fallen block of structural stone, shuddering. And night fell.

He had been born a slan. All his life he had unconsciously depended on his tendrils, like a cat used its tail for balance. Every waking moment the slender fibers in the back of his head had picked up the signals of thoughts, the endless droning babble of other people, other minds. It was like the background noise of the ocean in a coastal village, always there, soothing and comforting. He hadn’t even noticed it—and now it was entirely gone.

His dreams and thoughts were like fever visions, recollections and hallucinations. Jommy remembered going to sleep when he was just a little boy. His mother had sung him lullabies, but she did more than just give him the soothing music of her voice; her comforting thoughts wove a nest around him, letting him know he was protected, that she would always be there for him. Everything had changed when he was nine years old—and now he was faced with an even greater shift, a handicap.

Without his tendrils, Jommy felt both blind and deaf.

After fearing it for so long, he gingerly touched the back of his head and felt the raw stumps. The nerve endings sent a rocket of pain through him. He drew his fingertips away, saw only tiny specks of red. Though Deacon had sliced him, Jommy’s slan healing powers had halted the bleeding. He was in no danger from the injury, at least.

But now what was he to do?

Next morning, after a dizzying and pain-wracked night without sleep, he picked his way forward, stumbling again. The palace wreckage shifted with an ominous patter of falling stones and sliding rubble, and he knew he could fall through at any moment.

“I am not helpless,” he said aloud, then repeated it to reinforce the thought.

He blinked and looked around, trying to see in the growing dawn light. All of his senses and impressions seemed muffled, muted … useless. But he reminded himself that this was how normal human beings lived every day, and they managed to survive without enhanced senses or telepathic powers. Yes, he could smell rock dust and old sooty smoke. With his ears he could hear the sounds of distant aircraft cruising overhead.

But he no longer had the ability to sense Kathleen in his head. He had lost that connection with her. Forever.

He staggered through the rubble. The secure vault containing his disintegrator weapon was sealed again, and he had no way of defending himself. Another failure! He had come so close, but he couldn’t find any means to retrieve the disintegrator now. He was too weak. He didn’t know what he could do.

In all of the desperate situations he had encountered, Jommy had never felt so powerless. Previously, he had been so cocky, so sure of himself, never doubting that he would find a way out of any trouble he might encounter. Now all he could think of was to get back to the serenity of Granny’s ranch, where he could be with Kathleen, where he could heal … though he would never be what he was before.

Disoriented and still in great pain, he could barely remember where he had hidden his car. He paused in a bombed-out street, holding onto a twisted iron girder. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to concentrate, dragging the memory to the front of his mind, until he knew which direction to go. He slumped against a scarred wall, his knees trembling.

He felt dull and listless, unaware … and when the sharp-edged shadow fell over him from a descending tendrilless scout ship, he leaped to his feet. He hadn’t even heard it coming! The enemy had found him! Jommy was entirely exposed, out in the open. He looked around, but could find no place to hide.

The tendrilless craft’s hot landing jets blasted up gravel in the debris-filled street. Jommy began to run, but he overcompensated. He didn’t see a broken cinderblock at his feet and he tripped, sprawling into the sharp shards. He got to his knees, crawled along, then lurched up so he could run again. The tendrilless scout landed directly in front of him, blocking the street.

Jommy fell backward, turned about, and tried to scramble away in the other direction. The scout ship had weapons mounted in its nose. He was surprised the pilot didn’t just open fire on him. Panic yammered through him as he heard the door open. Someone stepped out.

“Jommy,” a woman’s voice called. “Jommy Cross. I know that’s you.”

He recognized something in the timbre, the tone, though he could feel nothing, pick up no vibrations or thoughts. He turned to find a woman running down the ship’s ramp, rushing toward him. Joanna Hillory.

When she reached him, her face was angry, relieved, anxious. “I’ve been looking for you! I drove away that mob in the palace, but then I lost you. I was just thrilled to know you were alive. I’ve been searching—”

He faced her, trying to look strong and brave. He thought he had already convinced her that true slans did not have to be the mortal enemies of the tendrilless, but she had been unable to stop the devastating attack. “What do you want, Joanna? Your tendrilless have followed through on their threats. Look what they’ve done. Look at what’s happened to Earth. Are you proud?”

“I didn’t want to be part of that, Jommy, and you know it.” She took his arm, helped him forward. “I couldn’t stop the initial attack, but we can still do something. We can still work together.”

“Good,” he said bitterly, bowing his head to show her the small bloody stumps on the back of his skull. “Because I’m one of you now. I’m a tendrilless.”

* * *

She led him aboard her ship, where she cleaned and bandaged his wounds, gave him metabolism enhancers, and applied healing ointments so he could recover. From her expression and her movements, Jommy could tell that she was revolted by what the mob had done to him. Though the tendrilless were perfectly happy to kill slans, this sort of abominable torture was beyond her comprehension. “Jommy, I’m so sorry.”

He lay on the cot in the tiny medical alcove of her scout craft. “There’s nothing you can do.” Her medical packs could not grow back his tendrils. “Why did you come here after me? You should have stayed on Mars, stopped their plans.”

“The Tendrilless Authority sent me to search for you. They’re afraid of you, Jommy. They say you’re the most dangerous man alive.”

“I don’t have any powers, not any more.”

“I was happy to accept the mission, Jommy. I knew I could track you down. I picked up a tiny slan signal from the area. I wasn’t surprised that you came back to the ruins of the palace—otherwise I would never have found you.”

“I should have stayed with my friends, helped the President.”

“Do you know what they’re planning? Kier Gray has requested a summit meeting, trying to put an end to the hostilities.” She explained the message she had received en route. “The Authority is going to send a representative, and it’s Jem Lorry. I don’t trust him. He’s going to set a trap, somehow.”

“Lorry? I don’t trust him, either,” Jommy said.

Jommy sat up, deciding he had rested enough. Driving away the remnants of his shocked sadness, he reached a brave conclusion and looked at Joanna, wondering if he could count on her, if she would support his work. Even without his tendrils, he had his mind, he had his physical strength, he had his “normal” senses.

“I am still a true slan—and I have work to do.”

CHAPTER 31

With her link to Jommy brutally severed, Kathleen felt as if she had fallen into a black hole. Grief was like tar all around her. Now she understood all too well how much pain and misery Jommy must have gone through after she’d been shot, after he had spent years believing she was dead.

Her whole body felt numb. She wasn’t cold: just empty, lifeless, as if someone had cut a huge hole in her heart.

In Granny’s ranch house, she sat at the kitchen table, and her father took a chair across from her, angry at what had happened, sympathizing with his daughter. With a clatter of dishes, the old woman rummaged in her cupboards and brought out a small china plate adorned with a goldenrod flower design. She scooped up a piece of the still-warm apple pie, added a dollop of ice cream from her icebox, and presented it to Kathleen.

Despite the delicious smells, she looked up at Granny. “I’m not hungry.”

“Of course you’re not. But this pie is soooo good, Granny knows you’ll want to taste it. Be the first, and tell us if it’s good enough to serve to those important dignitaries who are on their way.”

“Jommy’s dead. A piece of pie isn’t going to solve my problems.”

The old woman cackled. “Good food often makes things seem a whole lot better. Just like money does.” She grinned. Her teeth were crooked.

Petty lounged against the kitchen wall, completely unsympathetic. “We’re going to have to do another load of laundry if that girl keeps going through handkerchiefs.” He sidled over, got himself a plate from the cupboard, and moved to the freshly cut pie.

Granny yanked it away from him. “Don’t you dare.” She put the pie on a high shelf.

Because her father was also a slan, even without tendrils, Kathleen could sense his thoughts and his presence, but the connection was not the same as what she’d shared with Jommy.

“I know how you feel, Kathleen. I lost my wife—your mother,” he said. “Though we kept our relationship a secret. There’s so much you don’t know about me.”

She blinked at him. “But you raised me. I know all about you. I’ve read your biography.”

“That was just a manufactured biography. President Kier Gray had to have a completely clean slate, an untarnished reputation. The truth about me was the most classified secret in my government. I had to make sure people like him,” he jabbed an elbow in the direction of Petty, “would never discover who you really were. If they used that information against me, everything I was secretly working toward would fail.”

“If you were so good at covering up embarrassing details, Mr. Slan President, how come you didn’t just hide your brat?” Petty said.

Gray ignored him, focusing only on Kathleen. He reached out to wipe the tears from her face. “I was born without tendrils, though my parents explained my heritage. I knew about the tendrilless, knew what they were, and they prepared me for the future. They taught me how to have an absolutely impenetrable mind shield. Not even another tendrilless could sense me, unless I wanted them to.

“But when I was thirteen, my mother and father disappeared—I assumed they’d been caught, so I ran. I changed my identity and made a new life for myself … exactly as they had taught me to do.

“Years later, when I was a young man, I met your mother. It was an accident, but for slans there are no real accidents. I’d spent my life covering up my identity, and so had your mother. She was a true slan, with many ways of using wigs and hats and scarves. The old days of shaved heads and the Human Purity League were far behind us, and slans could get away with it now.”

“Obviously we’ve grown too lax,” Petty said.

“I met her in a flower shop. Your mother loved flowers. Her name was Rose.” He smiled wistfully. “She worked there, taking care of the blossoms, removing the wilted ones, watering the plants on the shelves, using a mister on the ferns. I came in to get some flowers … tulips, I think, or maybe daffodils. It was springtime, and I wanted to cheer up the old widow who lived in an apartment down the hall from me.”

“How sweet,” Granny said.

“Fortunately, there were no other customers. When I walked in through the door and the bell jangled, your mother looked up at me. It was like an electric current passed between us. She didn’t have her mind shields in place, expecting nothing. I must have been careless, too. We … clicked.”

“Love at first sight?” Though she didn’t realize what she was doing, Kathleen took a bite of the apple pie, letting the spicy sweetness fill her mouth.

“More than that. You know what it was like when you first encountered Jommy. Even though I was normal in all external appearances, a slan can know another unshielded slan—even a tendrilless one—instantly and instinctively. Your mother and I recognized each other for what we were. I don’t think either of us breathed for a full minute. She came around the counter, setting down the flowers she’d been arranging in a vase. She went to the door of the shop, turned the lock, and drew the shade.” He took a long breath. “We were married two days later.”

Slans rarely needed to go through a long courtship process; they clicked like a key in a lock. “Jommy and I should have gotten married,” Kathleen said.

“Rose and I lived quietly together for several years, drawing no attention to ourselves. We taught each other many things, but we didn’t have other slans to interact with. We were just by ourselves. She worked in her flower shop, and I took a position in the information archives in the Ministry of Communication.

“Those were the happiest times of my life. When Rose finally got pregnant with you, we were content and satisfied. Unfortunately, because we were both slans, we couldn’t risk seeking medical attention. I could pass for a normal human, but not Rose. If she went to a doctor during her pregnancy, they might run some kind of test. They might discover that the baby had tendrils. They might find out that Rose was a slan.”

“So you did it all yourselves?” Kathleen asked.

“These days, home delivery using a midwife is as common as a hospital birth, especially out in the country. Because my Rose was strong, we were sure we could handle it. We read everything we could. We were ready.”

His shoulders slumped. “What I didn’t know, though, was that my poor Rose had terminal cancer. In retrospect, I now see a thousand little signs that I should have noticed, but we were too focused on her pregnancy. She gave birth to you, a perfectly healthy little girl, but the delivery was difficult for Rose. She barely recovered, and that was when I realized something else was terribly wrong with her. But she wouldn’t let me take her to a doctor. I tended her at home, and I took care of you.”

“You must have been exhausted,” Kathleen said.

“I needed every ounce of my slan strength. Poor Rose lasted longer than any human would have, considering the severity of the cancer. I knew from my own diagnosis and some medical equipment that I purchased through anonymous sources that her tumors were growing and that they were inoperable. Even bringing her to a hospital would have done no good at that point. Rose would have been exposed, and surgeons aren’t inclined to do their best work with a slan patient—unless they’re curious and wanted to do a few experiments.” Bitterness edged his tone.

“You were eighteen months old by the time your mother was near death. I begged Rose to let me take her to the hospital. There had to be some chance, though I knew in my heart there wasn’t anything we could do. Finally when the pain became unbearable, she acquiesced—but she forced me into a bargain first. I dropped her off at night in the emergency room. I never gave my name or hers. She was just a ‘Jane Doe.’ You weren’t even with me, Kathleen. They had no reason to suspect that we had a little girl.

“Over the years, Rose and I had met many kind and wonderful humans. I prayed now that whoever tended my dying wife might be a kindly nurse or an altruistic doctor, someone who would recognize her pain and help her. Though I had to go, to stay out of sight, Rose remained connected to me through her tendrils. I could sense her with our special bond. I could feel what was happening to her, though she herself had dulled her mind and body with painkillers. When the medical professionals in the emergency room discovered that she was a slan, there was quite an uproar.”

“I’ll bet,” Petty said. “They should have called my secret police right away.”

“One doctor did,” Gray continued, his voice like a razor. “They gave Rose a bed, realized there was nothing they could do for her except to alleviate her pain, and so that’s what they did. The secret police came, prodding her, interrogating her, attempting to rip information from her brain in her last moments of life. But she clung to the promise I’d made, and she found her own sort of peace.”

“What did she make you promise?” Kathleen asked.

Gray fell silent for a long moment and swallowed twice, gathering his thoughts. “I knew she didn’t have long. I took you to a conservatory, a large greenhouse filled with flowers. That was what she wanted.

“Rose regained consciousness before she died. Even without tendrils, I could sense her in my mind. I held you in my arms, little girl, and we stood among the roses, the tropical plants, the beautiful orchids. She could see them through my eyes. Despite what the secret police were doing to her, she could share my thoughts. Those were her favorite things in all the world, and even though I longed to be with my darling in her last moments, I gave her something better. I smelled the flowers, the sweet perfume that she loved so much. It’s the last thing she experienced. When Rose died, it felt like a cold wind passing through my soul, and I held onto you very tightly.”

In the moment of openness, Kathleen could sense that her father had lowered part of his impenetrable shield, letting her inside for the very first time. She picked up on his emotions, his bright memories, his love for her. And some of the distant, blurred recollections overlapped with her own vague memories.

Kathleen was crying. “I remember that. I remember the flowers, but I wasn’t sure what they meant. It was when I was just a baby.”

“It wasn’t until long after that I tracked down her body. I wanted to give her a proper funeral, but the secret police had already taken her for dissection. After that day, everything changed.” Gray’s voice became hard now. “I decided I had to make a difference. I couldn’t just allow slans like Rose, like you, to live like rats in hiding.

“Since I had discovered Rose, I knew there must be more slans, though no one guessed where they might be hiding. After I lost my parents, I had no further connection with any of the organized tendrilless. So I went to work with grim determination, all by myself. With my job in the communications ministry and with full access to the informational archives, I built a detailed and impressive history for myself. It was masterful. No one could find any flaws or mistakes. And then I launched my political career.

“I did find other slans, eventually. We arranged meetings, extended our influence, and made our plans. Because I could pass so easily among the normals, they wanted me as their champion. I built my network, manipulating, strengthening, growing. Using slan skills, nudging the thoughts of certain followers, I built a campaign organization—but I kept my personal life intensely private. No one knew about you, Kathleen.

“I won my first three elections by landslides. My career was meteoric. When many of my supporters, and even several defeated rivals (whose minds I had manipulated), supported me as a dark-horse candidate to be the next President, I felt sure I could accomplish what I needed to do.”

“But what about me?” Kathleen said. “I remember someone taking care of me, an … uncle?”

“A kindly blind man watched over you. I paid him well,” Gray said. “Either he never knew you had tendrils, or he didn’t mind. You were smart enough to take care of yourself. I thought everything was set.

“But on the day of the election, in my finest hour after I had won the office of President, secret police raided the old man’s home. Someone had tipped them off that he had a slan girl there. The blind man couldn’t defend himself. He didn’t know very much about me, but he could probably have revealed enough. Fortunately for us, I suppose, the secret police thugs killed him before they could interrogate him. They captured you—and then I had to act. It risked my political career, my best chance for changing the whole world, but I had to find a way to do both. You are my daughter, Kathleen. I had to take the chance and save you.

“As the newly sworn President, I issued a decree, announcing that in order to understand the slans and whatever threat they might pose, we needed to study them, not just react with automatic fear. I insisted that you be kept in the palace with me, where you would be safe and where, unfortunately, you would be scrutinized every moment of your life.”

“Then why did you originally agree to let her be executed on her eleventh birthday?” Petty asked. “It makes no sense.”

“That was a concession I had to make at the time. I had many years to work around that loophole, and as you can see, it didn’t cause a problem, ultimately. But now look where we are. See how much has changed?” He reached over, picked up the fork, and took a bite of pie. Granny looked on, as if hoping for a compliment.

“I still miss my Rose. Sometimes I can hardly bear it. Even with my power as President, I’d gladly surrender it all just to have a quiet, normal life with my wife and daughter.”

Petty, still pouting at the flaky pie that Granny had denied him, grumbled. “Sentimental crap.”

With a swift movement, the old woman swatted him again on the back of his head.

CHAPTER 32

Alone inside the secret slan redoubt, Anthea counted eleven skeletons. Three were sprawled on the floor; others had collapsed into piles of bones beside desks and laboratory tables. Sensing her disappointment, confusion, and uneasiness, the baby boy squirmed and began to whimper.

Anthea picked her way among the skeletons, looked at the grinning teeth, the empty eye sockets. Several of the rib cages were broken, the bones shattered and blackened. All around, she found discarded weapons, bullet casings, and empty charge packs. Black marks stained the tables, floor, and walls. Chunks had been blasted from the high rock ceiling, and bullet holes stitched a zig-zag pattern across a chalkboard that hung askew.

A terrific battle had occurred here, a shootout—but with whom? And how long ago? Was there some sort of civil war among the slans, or had the secret police discovered this place and ambushed the hiding slans? She doubted she would ever know the answers.

She strained her ears, as if there might still be fading echoes, but she heard only the hum of buried generators. The lights were strong and steady, never flickering. The air smelled clean, though with a faint metallic odor and thankfully without any residue of the decaying bodies.

Had the skeletons been here since the days of the Slan Wars, centuries ago? She looked down at the sprawled figures, wondering if they might be the last remains of the children of Dr. Lann. She didn’t think so.

She picked up one of the unusual energy weapons on the floor—a stunner?—and saw that it had been completely discharged. She couldn’t use it for her own protection, should slan hunters threaten her here.

After her initial surprise, Anthea cautiously explored the large chambers, calling out, but finding no one else there. The redoubt was completely empty, completely silent.

She found fresh running water and sanitary facilities, several rooms with comfortable beds, clean clothes. In a dining area she discovered a wealth of preserved packaged food. After recognizing slightly old-fashioned brands and label designs, she concluded that someone had occupied this place within the last few decades. The food was still good, and she ravenously ate a wrapped chocolate bar. If necessary, she could stay here a long time.

At last feeling a warmth and contentment she hadn’t experienced since Davis had rushed her to the hospital—on what she thought would be the happiest day of her life—Anthea realized how utterly exhausted she was. She sat in a chair and kept herself awake long enough to nurse the baby, who sucked greedily. He must have been starving as well.

Barely able to stay awake, Anthea chose one of the soft beds and took just enough time to pull out a blanket and a pillow. She lay back, cradling the baby against her, and fell asleep within moments.

* * *

Later, rested and refreshed at last, she arranged a makeshift crib for the baby and then turned to the first order of business: removing the grim reminder of the skeletons. These bones weren’t just random garbage that she could sweep up and toss in a trash bin. Every one had been a person, probably an unjustly persecuted slan. She imagined that they must have died fighting, as heroes.

Finding a pair of gloves and some empty boxes, she gathered each of the remains and reverently put them in separate containers, like makeshift coffins. She didn’t know what else to do. Someday, there might be a way to identify these people and bury them properly so they could rest in peace. After she had quietly tucked away each of the boxes and cleaned the dark stains, she felt drained.

Now, she could devote her full attention to investigating the place that would be her refuge during the war above. The buried complex was quite remarkable with laboratory equipment that far surpassed anything she had seen in the library archives. The tall, blocky units with spinning tape feeds and blinking lights were obviously powerful computers. Thick electrical conduits ran through the walls, distributing power from generators that must have been located in a deeper grotto.

In a separate control room, she found a throbbing device studded with crystal rods and vacuum tubes. It glowed blue-white with energy, crackling as tiny sparks discharged across electrodes and thrummed through conduits into the ceiling. A signal generator? It seemed to be sending out a pulsing message—but to whom? The system itself must have been designed by those long-ago slans, perhaps the original children of Samuel Lann, or maybe the more recent inhabitants who had died in the shootout. Either way, was there anyone left who could receive such a transmission? Were there still slans out in the wreckage of Centropolis? Staring at the machinery, she didn’t know how to respond to the signal, how to listen to what it might be saying.

As she continued her explorations, Anthea realized that the whole underground facility had been steadily changing ever since she and the baby had arrived—powering up, awakening. When the Porgrave sensors had recognized the arrival of a slan, dormant systems began to come online again.

The slan scientists in this base, whoever they were, had created technology capable of detecting members of their race. Anthea realized that if such sensors had fallen into the hands of the secret police, then no slan would ever be safe. The inhabitants of this base would have given their lives to protect that invention.

In the laboratory rooms, she found neatly stacked notebooks, records signed by a slan scientist named Peter Cross. In addition to the hand-written logs, she also found a recording loop and a viewer similar to the one she had used in the library archives. She installed the reel and played it, seeing Peter Cross in person. He was a handsome man with bright eyes, dark curly hair cut short, and a high brow. He made no effort to hide the fine slan tendrils that dangled at the base of his neck.

Cross spoke at length into the recorder about complex technical matters, describing how slans were again using this ancient base, though he feared the war was over and lost, for all intents and purposes. Cross described the treasure-trove of forgotten discoveries he had found here upon reopening the underground redoubt, including a series of Samuel Lann’s investigations about “original memory transference” and “baseline life-recording technology.”

Then Peter Cross looked directly into the imager. His blue eyes seemed to stare right out at her, and Anthea felt his words tug at her heart. “I will never stop my work,” he vowed. “Not until I succeed in making a better world so that my wife and baby son no longer have to live in fear.”

When the recording ended, Anthea nodded silently and solemnly to herself. “That’s something we can all wish for.”

CHAPTER 33

Inside the sleek spacecraft, Jommy recovered, sleeping as if in a coma, then feeling weak and disoriented when he woke. Counting on Joanna’s help, he tried to think of a way they could save Earth and prevent the extinction of both humans and slans. Both of them felt a sense of urgency, knowing that Jem Lorry would be meeting with President Gray soon. Worse, Joanna told him the ominous main occupation fleet from Mars would arrive within days.

As she checked her systems, Joanna glanced up to see a flash of fire as an explosive projectile came flying toward her ship. “Jommy! Someone’s shooting at—” She didn’t have time to complete her warning before the explosion struck the side hull. The metal plates buckled inward, and fire tore open the wall.

Jommy staggered to his feet, feeling angry and helpless. He saw the ragged scavengers outside, coming closer. “They didn’t take long to creep out of their hiding holes.” The looters had scavenged firearms from civil defense armories and from the cold, dead hands of civilians who had tried to defend themselves. Now they closed in on the landed tendrilless craft.

Joanna ran to her cockpit systems, struggling to power up and fire her small battery of defensive guns. Three brief shots rang out, and the bright bursts scattered the attackers outside, giving them a brief respite. Joanna got her engines activated, and the damaged ship shuddered. With a blast of rockets, the scout heaved itself a few feet off the ground.

The angry scavengers shot whatever weapons they had managed to cobble together. Before she could lift the ship out of reach, a thrown grenade took out her rear engine, causing the ship to spin. The spacecraft’s rear smashed into the wall of a nearby building, bending one of her guidance fins.

Jommy gripped the back of Joanna’s pilot seat for balance as the ship collapsed back to the ground, raking the street with a flare of screeching sparks. Oily black smoke poured in from the engine compartment. Joanna looked at him, stricken. “Looks like we’re not taking this ship anywhere.”

Though broad spiderweb cracks obscured the cockpit window, he could see tattered-looking people closing in from all sides. He recognized some of them, saw their scrapes and bruises, the angry expressions on their faces—in particular one man with sharply squared shoulders and a fresh cut on one cheek. Deacon. He must have recognized the scout ship that had attacked them before he and his people could finish with Jommy… .

Jommy reacted with instinctive loathing, and a red undertone of anger suffused his face. “That’s the man who cut off my tendrils.”

Deacon’s gang seemed to realize that they had snared themselves big prey. Jommy imagined how the scarred gang lord would use the captured enemy craft to consolidate his power, swooping along the streets and assassinating rivals. At the front of the advancing crowd, Deacon waved his dagger in the air as he ran forward. He seemed to think nothing could harm him.

The spacecraft’s remaining engine groaned and whirred. Smoke polluted the air in the compartment. “If that man wants to capture my vessel intact, he’s not showing much restraint.” Joanna flashed a grin as smooth as broken glass. “And I plan to show even less restraint.” She opened fire with the ship’s energy weapons.

The dazzling beams struck Deacon squarely in the chest, turning his entire body into a cloud of reddish mist, shattered bone, and greasy smoke. He disappeared in mid-shout.

The other scavengers scrambled to a halt. Four of them dropped their makeshift weapons and ran away in a panic. Another hurled an empty pistol at the side of the tendrilless ship; it struck the hull with a harmless clang. Then the whole mob vanished into the shadowy streets like cockroaches fleeing a bright light.

“They won’t cause us any more trouble.” A faint undertone of disappointment rode on the tendrilless woman’s words.

Jommy lurched back to the engine compartment and used flame extinguishers to smother the crackling fire. Joining him to inspect the damage, Joanna shook her head. “The energy cells are cracked. The ship’s ruined, completely ruined.”

His brow furrowed with concern. “We can’t stay here. Exposure to those cracked cells can be more hazardous than facing a desperate gang.” He pulled on Joanna’s arm. “I hope you didn’t intend on going back to Mars any time soon.”

The woman’s face showed a mixture of conflicting emotions. “I’m not returning there until we’ve got a viable resolution to this unnecessary war. I’m staying at your side, Jommy.”

Earlier, when she had helped him escape from Cimmerium and grudgingly admitted the possibilities of his idealism, he hadn’t been sure how to read her. Like many of her race, Joanna had developed tight mental blocks that kept him from sensing her innermost thoughts. But he suspected that she was more than intrigued by him, more than perplexed by his strange optimism. Even though she was aware of his bond with Kathleen, Joanna actually seemed to be in love with him… .

“Jommy, what were you doing at the palace? What were you searching for when that gang found you, when they cut—?” She stopped herself.

“I came to the city to find something—something vital.” He reminded her of his father’s disintegrator weapon, which she had previously seen him use to great effect. “I know exactly where it is. I found it. I had my hands on it—then those scavengers came.” He lowered his head, then drew strength from his resolve. “Come on. We’ve got to retrieve it. I’m not going back to the ranch empty-handed—especially if Jem Lorry’s going to pull one of his tricks.”

Before abandoning the wrecked scout ship, he and Joanna stuffed supplies into a pack, though they found it difficult to see and breathe in the thickening smoke. Since he had already activated the locking mechanism on the door to the vault that held his disintegrator, he knew exactly what sort of equipment he would need. Joanna also packed two small hand weapons. Though they had once been on different sides of this conflict, he was glad to have the tendrilless woman at his side.

“Joanna, if we don’t get out of this, if we can’t end the tendrilless war, then I am at your mercy. You can claim me as your prize and take whatever reward or promotion that’s your due. At that point, it won’t matter anymore.”

“It’ll always matter, Jommy. You said it yourself.” He answered with a faint smile. Perhaps he truly had gotten through to her after all.

They exited the smoldering wreck and trudged away, never looking back. The scavengers could have the broken hulk with its poisonous smoke and radiation that leaked from the destroyed engines.

As sunset threw long shadows across the streets, bonfires began to blaze in cul-de-sacs and alleys. A few candles and kerosene lanterns shone behind broken windows, where people huddled around the light and warmth. It would be another dangerous and harrowing night for the survivors in Centropolis.

He and Joanna stalked toward the site of the palace, both of them sensing that unseen eyes were watching them. They clambered over stones, dodged girders and broken glass.

In twilight, they finally reached the battered vault that lay like an egg in a nest of shattered debris. When he saw dark bloodstains spattering the stones, Jommy wondered how much of it was his own.

Joanna found the discarded bottom half of the man Thompkins, who had been severed in two by the slamming vault door. Untroubled, she kicked the loose legs, knocking them aside with a wet ripping sound so she could reach the vault door controls. “I wish people would pick up after themselves,” she muttered.

Jommy was pleased to see that his dismantled tracking device still dangled to the controls by a few loose wires. “We better open the vault door, retrieve the disintegrator, and get out of here as fast as we can. It’ll be dangerous negotiating our way out of this crater in the dark.”

“Especially if we have company again.” She peered warily into the shadows.

Struggling to function without his tendrils, realizing now how much he had relied on them, Jommy removed the necessary equipment from his pack and installed a new power source to run the vault’s pistons. His fingers felt thick and clumsy, but he managed to rig the mechanism and charge up the weary motors of the security door. Once again, the pistons hummed, and the tilted door groaned partway open until the hinges jammed.

From inside, they heard a sliding, wet thump, and Jommy realized it was the top half of Thompkins dropping the rest of the way into the vault.

Suddenly, all around them in the dimness, hundreds of bright torches appeared, surrounding the crater. In the thrown firelight, the people looked like scarecrowish trolls, a wild tribe closing in on two victims. Without saying a word, Joanna dug in her pack and withdrew her hand weapons. Gunshots rang out from the scavengers, and bullets ricocheted off the rocks next to Jommy and Joanna. One pinged off the partly opened vault door.

“This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought,” she said.

Painfully aware of his lost tendrils, Jommy said, “Those are either Deacon’s men, or a new gang’s already moved into town.”

“It seems I created a job opportunity for a potential new leader.” Joanna slowly turned around, took aim at one of the capering figures, and shot him dead. Her moment of triumph was short-lived as a volley of responding shots peppered the rubble around them. She ducked behind a large chunk of concrete. “Maybe we should come back at a better time.”

“Never. Not while we’re this close.”

A rocket-launched explosive detonated nearby, sending a spray of rock splinters and clattering pipes and broken glass. Jommy hunched behind the tilted wall of the displaced vault chamber.

Joanna looked for another target and coolly took a second shot, which sent one of the torch bearers scrambling away, his bobbing light like a drunken firefly in the darkness. She snapped at Jommy, “Get inside the vault, find what you need to find, and then climb back out. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

“Not good enough. There’s no time.” With his shoulder, he knocked Joanna backward through the partly opened door. She fell into the vault, and he heard her clatter among the broken shelves and scattered debris.

“What are you doing? It’s dark in here!” He heard her trip and let out a gasp. “Hey, how many bodies did you leave lying around?”

Another grenade hit, exploding against the back of the vault. He heard shouting and screaming, more gunfire. A swarm of angry scavengers boiled over the rubble, coming closer. He could see their snarling faces in the torchlight.

Jommy scrambled in through the gap, hoping the door’s pistons would hold just a few more seconds. Before he dropped inside, he seized the blinking device attached to the locking mechanism, then yanked it free. As he dropped down, the immensely heavy door slammed shut with a hissing groan, sealing them inside the impregnable vault in total blackness.

Next to him, he heard Joanna breathing hard. >From outside, the scavengers’ banging and pummeling sounded oddly distant through the thick walls.

“Well, we’re safe now. We can spend the night here.” His voice seemed disembodied in the rich darkness. “There’s just one problem. We can’t open the door from the inside.”

CHAPTER 34

As commander of the victorious tendrilless forces, Jem Lorry had no need to disguise who he truly was. Not anymore. Now that his meddling father was out of the way, now that Jem had command of all the invading armies, he returned among the lowly humans like a conquering hero.

He came alone to the summit meeting; it was his way of showing that he did not consider President Gray or his pathetic resistance cell to be a threat. And he did not intend any “peaceful negotiations,” as Altus Lorry and the Tendrilless Authority had suggested.

While his swift expedition was on its way, John Petty had transmitted a subsidiary message. “I’ll guarantee your safety, Lorry. You and I both want this meeting to go the same way. Once Gray and the slans are out of the way, we can divide up the spoils.”

The secret police chief was a fool to believe that, but Jem allowed him to be a fool. Petty was so good at it.

He landed his solo ship in front of Granny’s ranch house, ruining part of her vegetable garden. Jem wore a full formal uniform of the tendrilless army, a dark blue shirt fastened with crystalline buttons, trousers with gold piping and crisp creases. Raising his chin, he stepped away from his ship and looked coolly at those who came to meet him. He did not bother to offer a gesture of respect to the deposed President. He had spent too many years serving Kier Gray, offering his counsel and biting back anger when his own plans were ignored. “So, Gray? I’ve come representing the slans.”

“The tendrilless slans,” Gray said.

Jem looked down his pointed nose. “It seems we are the only slans left.”

Petty came out on the porch to stand beside the President. He looked meaningfully at Jem, who gave a slight nod, as the slan hunter seemed to expect.

When Jem spotted Kathleen Layton, he assessed her with his hungry eyes. At one time he had desired her greatly, but the shine was gone. The slan girl looked much less attractive than he remembered—her skin was pale, her cheeks sunken, her eyes red from crying. He wondered how he could ever have found her to be beautiful. Perhaps he had wanted her primarily because she was forbidden. It must have been just a passing and meaningless physical attraction.

When Granny ushered them inside her home, Jem looked around for the others he expected to be there. He could easily handle John Petty, as well as President Gray himself. But even his foolish father had recognized that Jommy Cross was one of the greatest threats. “Where’s Cross?” It was a pity; he had wanted to catch all the rats in one trap.

“Jommy’s dead.” Kathleen used her bitter tone to slash at him, as if she blamed Jem for whatever trouble the young slan had gotten into. He wouldn’t believe the death of Jommy Cross, however, until he saw the troublemaker’s body with his own eyes.

Granny had set up her formal dining table, complete with a checked cloth and a vase of fresh flowers. With a clatter of dishes, she brought out small dessert plates. “My best china, for the special occasion.” Granny frowned at Lorry as she served apple pie, scooping out flaky slices onto the dessert plates. “This was Jommy’s favorite.” She hesitated a moment, then busied herself. “I’ve got a pot of fresh coffee percolating. It’ll be ready in a few minutes.” Before she left the room, she added in a stern voice, “Mr. Lorry, I don’t care how powerful you think you are, but you are a guest in Granny’s house, and you will behave with respect. I don’t trust anyone who invades my planet.”

Lorry could barely hide his amusement. “A conqueror of a world can do whatever he likes, ma’am.”

“Granny’s got a shotgun in the closet if you get out of hand. Don’t you forget that.” She walked off into the kitchen.

Petty quickly sat down, as eager for the pie as he was for the anticipated double-cross. President Gray took a formal chair at the head of the table and gestured for Jem to sit on the opposite end.

The President still wore the same rumpled suit he’d been wearing during his imprisonment and escape. For this important conference, his protocol attendees consisted of an old woman and his daughter. Kathleen picked up a pen and pad of paper to document any treaty or agreement they negotiated. Jem found it very amusing.

Before Gray could say anything, Jem abruptly began. “We tendrilless have already conquered Earth. I agreed to come here, Mister Gray—” he intentionally refused to used the title of President “—in order to accept your surrender. There’s little I can do to save your life now, but perhaps if you cooperate, I can take Kathleen Layton under my special protection.” He smiled at her; she glared back.

“The tendrilless have demonstrated superior military strength,” Gray admitted. “You worked secretly for years, made your plans, and then launched a surprise attack. No doubt if tendrilless write the history books, you’ll portray it as a heroic effort. But there is no need for the violence and bloodshed to continue.”

Jem let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe you should review the history books, Gray—the unwritten history. Refresh your memory about what true slans did to humans during the wars, and then what they did to the tendrilless.”

“I already explained it to the Tendrilless Authority,” Gray said in a brittle voice. “Even the tendrilless will soon begin to give birth to true slan babies again. Must you eradicate us all just for your petty vengeance?”

Thinking he had heard his name, Petty looked up and wiped pie crust crumbs from his mouth.

Jem steepled his fingers. “My father repeated some of your silly fairy tales, but I don’t believe any of it. I’m sorry he couldn’t be with us.” He hadn’t touched his pie, thinking it might be poisoned, but then he realized these people would never try such devious means. This pathetic attempt at diplomacy was their only chance. He took a bite and had to admit it was delicious.

“It sounds like you came here to argue rather than negotiate,” Gray said sadly.

“I never came here to negotiate. I just wanted to look you in the face one last time before I destroyed you and took over the Earth.”

Granny walked in, holding a silver pot. “Coffee, anyone?”

Jem stood, checking the time on his wrist chronometer. “Come with me outside. There’s something I want you to see.”

Petty jumped to his feet. He thought this was all part of the plan, but the slan hunter would soon learn differently. They would all learn.

Jem had agreed to come in a solo craft, but he had gathered a full squadron of attack ships that would even now be streaking in over this valley. He had no interest in compromises. He didn’t need to make any.

As they all stepped out onto the porch, looking up in the open air, Jem could already hear the drone of approaching engines and the arrival of heavy military craft.

CHAPTER 35

Trapped inside the sealed vault in the palace ruins, Jommy leaned back in darkness so thick that he seemed to breathe pitch black each time he inhaled. He could still hear the muffled noises from outside along with Joanna’s increasingly urgent questions. “What were you thinking? How are we going to get out of here?”

“Would you rather have let them tear us to pieces?” he asked.

“We had a few weapons, not to mention superior physical strength. We could have made it quite a battle. Those scavengers are cowards at heart.”

“We could have killed dozens of them. This way is better. Less bloodshed.”

Their voices bounced back and forth in the blackness. “Do you know how many stone-cold corpses I bumped into after you knocked me in here?”

“Two.”

“Two and a half. I found the top portion of Mr. Legs out there. I felt his shoulders, ran my hand down his back, and then he just … stopped. Like one of those matinee adventure movie serials—to be continued.”

“At least you’re finding humor in the situation.”

“I’d find more humor if I could have a little light and some clean rags to wipe off my hands.”

Jommy worked his fingers blindly, fiddling with the small tracker device he still held in his hands. The indicator lights were like the tiny bright eyes of a green lizard. “Considering how dark it is, this is as good as a flashlight.”

The first thing he could make out in the faint glow were the pale forms of the dead bodies. Joanna saw them too. “Oh, yes—much better.” Her voice was sarcastic.

They sat together listening as the noises outside gradually faded, the scavengers giving up. Jommy had known the gang members would not stay long, realizing they had no way to break into the shielded laboratory vault. Once he was sure they had gone on to search for other prey, he used the minimal light of his device and his sharp eyesight to rummage around on the floor. He pushed one of the metal shelves aside, moved scattered papers, and rolled an empty chemical bottle away.

“Looking for a deck of playing cards?” Joanna asked. “I’m pretty good at gin rummy.”

As he continued to crawl on his hands and knees, he cut his palm on a shard of glass. He had to delay his search while he picked the sharp pieces from his bleeding hand and dabbed it with a rag he found. The bleeding stopped quickly. “Remind me to use your medical pack when we get out of here. No telling what toxic chemicals the secret police might have stored in this laboratory.”

Joanna just groaned. “Right. When we get out of here.”

Jommy finally found what he was looking for in the corner where the steel wall met the steel floor. His hands wrapped around a smooth cylinder that fit so familiarly within his palm. “Ah, here it is.” He felt a rush of pleasure because he had succeeded without relying on his slan powers.

“Did you find a deck of cards?”

“Better. It’s what we came here for in the first place. Move our packs out of the way and get behind me. I don’t want you in the line of fire.”

She moved up behind him, leaning close, perhaps too close. Her voice was right in his ear. “Now I see what you were thinking of all along. Does the weapon ricochet?”

“No.” At least he didn’t think so. He depressed the firing stud.

A misty white light lunged out like a shout of destruction. A wide chunk of the thick vault simply vanished into vapor, leaving a gaping hole. “There, I made us another door.”

He gathered his pack and walked through the gap into the night, barely needing to duck his head. Outside, even the stars seemed to be hiding behind a veil of clouds, but after the utter blackness of the vault, the two of them could see perfectly well. Far off in the wreckage, he could make out a few fires. The largest bonfire looked to be where Joanna’s ship had crashed. No doubt the scavengers had stripped it down to a bare hulk and now used it as their camp, oblivious to the toxic fumes.

“Shall we take my car?” Jommy asked, hefting the disintegrator tube.

He unerringly led her back to the obscure alley and the half-collapsed shed under which he had camouflaged his vehicle. He and Joanna cleared the debris from the car, and she looked at its battered appearance. “Looks like you’ve been through some rough driving.”

“I didn’t have time to get a wash.” Using the special thumb lock he had installed, he opened the access door.

“I’ll be happy enough to get out of Centropolis,” Joanna said. “I had quite a head start on Jem Lorry. We should be able to get to the ranch before he tries anything.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. And we’re going to have to do some quick explaining about you—as a tendrilless spy, you won’t exactly be welcome at Granny’s ranch with President Gray and John Petty.”

When he sat in the driver’s seat to check out the systems, a persistent droning blip caught his attention. It was part of the instrument panel he rarely used, and now he saw that the car had picked up an unexpected signal. An emergency signal.

As Joanna loaded their packs into the back, he focused the scanners, scrolling across his screen and trying to pinpoint the source. Long ago when searching for slan hideouts, he had installed specially designed systems to detect important slan broadcasts, coded Porgrave messages beyond the range of any human or tendrilless technology.

Joanna leaned in, curious about what he was doing.

Now his systems had locked onto a loud beacon. He had not heard the signal when he first drove into the city two days earlier, but now the pulsing was strong and undeniable. Some hidden slans were sending out a distress call or an announcement.

“It’s the location of a slan enclave. An active one!” Tracking it, he compared the pinpoint with the car’s stored guidance maps as well as the details in his own memories. Jommy grinned when he realized that the signal originated from the same place his father had marked on the secret-ink maps.

Then the astonishing signal came through the car’s analytical systems, broadcasting to both Joanna and himself, a voice that Jommy vaguely recognized from his distant past. “My name is Peter Cross, a slan scientist. If you are receiving this signal, you have been identified as bearing slan characteristics in your genetic profile. We need you. Your race needs you. Please follow this signal. I hope you will find us.”

Jommy swallowed hard. He knew his father had been killed when he was only six years old, but the clear voice, the encouraging words … “We have to go there first.”

“What about the summit meeting? Jem Lorry is bound to lay a trap.”

He felt an ache in his heart, thinking of Kathleen … and then imagining the large slan enclave, perhaps people who had known his father. “I don’t think President Gray or John Petty will let their guard down for an instant.” And, even with the disintegrator, he felt weak and ineffective without his tendrils.

But if he could bring back a full army of hidden slans, other weapons or technologies—then they would have a fighting chance. And the slan hideout was right here, while Granny’s ranch was almost a day’s dangerous journey away.

He turned to Joanna. “Help me mount the disintegrator in the nose of the car. We’re going to have to do some tunneling, take the direct route.”

After he and Joanna installed the disintegrator, they strapped themselves into their seats. Jommy activated the engines, turned the weapon’s beam downward, then burned a glassy hole through the ground in front of him. Considering the location of the signal, he would have to go deep.

He drove forward, carving a direct passage toward the secret slan base.

CHAPTER 36

Standing on the porch, eyes wide with betrayal, Kathleen watched the hornet shapes of deadly aircraft swoop over the line of mountains. The military ships were heavily armed, their wings steeply angled, their engines roaring. The armada looked sufficient to obliterate the entire valley.

“As I said, these negotiations are over.” Jem Lorry sounded very smug, not even bothering to look at the oncoming ships. He activated a signaling device on his wrist. “I can’t afford to leave you alive, Gray, to become a rallying point for any annoying resistance movement.” He smiled at Petty. “And the great slan hunter is as helpless as the rest.”

The ships closed the gap in seconds. Granny had already bolted back inside the ranch house, but Kathleen couldn’t tear her eyes from the oncoming squadron. Projectile launchers clicked into place, and the black hollow eyes of gun barrels turned toward them.

John Petty seemed to consider the whole thing a joke. “That’s not exactly true, Lorry. I knew you would try to trick me, so I played both sides against the other.” He shaded his eyes, then pointed to the sky. “Look at the insignia closely. Those aren’t your ships after all.”

Standing close to her father, Kathleen recognized the ominous symbol of a scarlet hammer against a web. “It’s a secret police strike force!”

“Yes, I used the wireless to contact them while you were all asleep. I arranged for this ambush.” Petty whipped out a large-caliber pistol he had hidden inside his black jacket. “Lorry, you’re as dead as the rest of these people.”

Jem’s face contorted in disbelief as Petty’s ambush force dropped a flurry of explosive bombs that pattered around the perimeter of Granny’s property.

“That’s just for practice. Call it an opening move.” Petty held the gun steady as he backed out into the middle of the wide-open yard, where one of the smaller ships could find a landing spot and pick him up. The secret police squadron circled back, coming in for their full attack run. Petty raised his hand, signaling the pilots overhead.

Kathleen turned to her father, trying to drag him back into the house. “We can get underground. Jommy armored the house, reinforced the tunnels—”

“That won’t save you. None of you has a chance against the tendrilless.” Lorry began to grin. “Ah, here we are.”

Over the western line of hills streaked a second swarm of ships that headed straight toward the secret police squadron. The new ships purred rather than roared, using different propulsion technology, but they looked just as deadly.

Before the secret police could retrieve Petty, the squadron spun about at the last minute to defend themselves against the oncoming enemy ships. Their large-caliber guns blasted lead projectiles through the air, stitching fiery impacts against the tendrilless attackers. One of the new ships spun out of control, its fuel tanks in flames, and crashed like a meteor into the ground.

Petty dodged out of the way of the explosion, looking just like one of Granny’s panicked chickens. Angrily, the slan hunter pointed his pistol toward Jem Lorry and began taking potshots at his arch-enemy, who bolted for the corner of Granny’s house, crashing through her rose bushes.

Flying in tight formation, the newly arrived tendrilless engaged the secret police ships. The invaders’ weapons were hot cutting beams that gutted Petty’s squadron. More explosions blasted the ground. Two secret police ships erupted in a cloud of smoke and metal debris.

Flown expertly, both sets of dogfighting ships raced and dodged like swordsmen in a deadly duel. A near miss blew off the corner of Granny’s roof and mangled one of her gutters.

Kathleen grabbed her father’s arm. “Come on! To the hangar shed before it’s destroyed. Jommy’s rocket-plane!”

Gray immediately understood. “There’s no better time to learn how to fly than right now.”

“Granny! Come with us!” Kathleen shouted back at the house.

Petty shot twice at them as they ran to the hangar shed, but then he ran out of bullets. He cursed at his gun, then gestured wildly in the air, trying to direct his own ships to bombard the house. Instead, one of the tendrilless craft began strafing the ground, kicking up hot divots around him. The secret police chief ran for his life toward the split-rail fence, cursing over the roar of battle.

As Kathleen and her father raced to the hangar, she saw a defiant Granny emerge from her home. The old woman stood on the doorstep holding her shotgun, then she marched down the sidewalk, pointed the shotgun up at the attacking ships in the air, and unloaded both barrels. She didn’t seem to care which side she was aiming at. “Who said you could bomb Granny’s property?”

Her blast peppered the underbelly of one low-flying ship, and smoke began to boil from its engines. Granny busily plugged more shells into her shotgun while the two sides in the dogfight circled and dropped their bombs. She fired another round at the oncoming ships before the whole yard exploded around her. The crotchety old woman vanished in a splash of flames and dirt.

Gray yanked Kathleen’s arm, dragging her along. “Come on! We couldn’t save her.” He shoved aside the rolling metal door of the hangar shed.

Jommy’s sleek rocket-plane looked like a bird of prey, fully fueled and ready to go. Kathleen scrambled up the metal-runged ladder into the cockpit while her father operated the motor that ground open the corrugated metal roof. By the time he swung up beside her into the cockpit, she was already scanning the controls.

The engines coughed to life, then simmered, building up power. Exhaust shot out in expanding conical plumes that boiled white inside the hangar. She studied the gauges. “Warming up. Another five seconds.”

Gray disengaged the landing clamps, and the rocket-plane began to move forward, unable to contain its own energy. “We’re ready to launch.” He looked up from the readings. “I wish I had coordinates to tell you, Kathleen. I wish I had an idea of a safe place we could go.”

“I know where to go.” Another gift from Jommy. She reminded him about the secret slan hideout that Peter Cross had described in his notebooks. The exact directions and coordinates were burned indelibly in her mind. “Jommy would want us to go there.”

She hit the launch button, and the rocket plane burst like an arrow out of the hangar shed. They streaked away, startling the opposing squadrons of tendrilless and secret police. Below, the bombardment of the ranch continued. Over half of the ships were now knocked out of the skies and lay in smoking wreckage amid the burning conflagration of Granny’s house. Even the armored walls and roof couldn’t withstand it all. She saw no one alive down there.

Before any of the ships could target them, the rocket-plane raced toward freedom across the sky.

CHAPTER 37

Anthea held her baby on the comfortable cot, alone but at peace. She tucked one of the dark gray blankets around her, then drifted off to sleep, dreaming about her husband.

She smiled as she dozed, wanting to stay with Davis and his infectious grin, wanting to forget all the things that had happened. She could never get the echoes of those final gunshots out of her head. With some part of her, she knew that the tiny boy had joined her like an eavesdropper in the dreams, getting to know his own father… .

She awoke restless. With the bright, steady lights in the underground chamber, she couldn’t tell whether it was day or night outside. Maybe she would never see open daylight or breathe fresh air again.

Anthea showered and dressed, putting on a new set of clean clothes she’d found stored in bins. After being on the run, dirty and weary, she finally began to feel refreshed, able to consider the future. She and her baby might have to spend years here, live out their lives in an unknown hideout. This complex had all the necessities she and the baby could ever ask for. Except for a real life. She couldn’t just surrender like that.

She found a communications monitoring room full of visiplates and speakers tuned to numerous channels. Anthea listened to emergency reports, gathering background on the attack. In the past couple of days, she had been so frantic to save her baby, on the run from slan hunters and looters, that she’d never received explanations about the unexpected war that had engulfed the Earth.

The base’s sensors and radar systems had detected a much larger occupation fleet approaching from Mars. Panicked-sounding broadcasters railed about the impending slan attack, an insidious plot that had been brewing for decades if not centuries.

With all she had learned from the library archives, however, Anthea couldn’t believe that the surviving slans would choose that course of action. There had to be something more behind this devastating conflict.

When she came back into the sleeping area and saw the contented baby among his blankets, she felt an odd thought echo in her mind, a soothing confidence. Though the infant didn’t even know his name, he somehow assured her that he was the key. Even a child, the right child, could solve such dire problems, given time. Anthea didn’t know what to think, but she smiled down at her little son.

Suddenly, proximity alarms began to ring, warning systems coming alive. A grating noise ratcheted like a washboard on her nerves. Anthea didn’t know what to do. The deep hideout had been discovered! Someone had hunted them down.

She turned away from the deafening alarms, only to see something even more incomprehensible. One of the hideout’s steel-armored walls began to shimmer and grow hot, and then it melted in front of her.

With the baby safe in the other room, Anthea ran to grab one of the strange stunner weapons that she had taken from the skeletal bodies. After experimentation, she had found only one of them that still had any charge left—but she would use it to make a good accounting of herself. A last stand.

She stood bravely, holding the weapon in her trembling hands as the rest of the wall dissolved into a curtain of boiling rock and metal steam. Something large and dark came rumbling through.

CHAPTER 38

With the disintegrator beam playing ahead of the car, Jommy drove into dense strata through new tunnels of his own making. A straight line down into the secret base, where he hoped to rally hundreds of surviving slans.

They followed the beacon signal, listening to the repeated recording of his father’s voice. The car rumbled along fused rock, going deeper and deeper. Jommy was eager to find the underground slan society, to reunite with a whole settlement of his people and convince them to help save the Earth.

If necessary, he would act as their leader, convince them to gather their weapons—maybe they all had disintegrator tubes, like his own. Together they could rush back to the summit meeting at Granny’s ranch and make a show of strength that Jem Lorry would never suspect. With sufficient persuasion, they could make the tendrilless come to terms that would allow survival for all the races of humanity.

Rarely in his life had he known so precisely where he was supposed to go. The first slan hideout he’d discovered, years ago, was full of wonders, heavy machinery, and stored records, but it was empty of the people he so desperately sought. Somebody had to be in the tremendous complex up ahead, since someone had activated the distress beacon. He counted on finding new allies who could help him and explain what had happened to the rest of the slan race.

Jommy broke through a thick curved wall and drove his car forward, switching off the front-mounted disintegrator weapon. If necessary, he could always collapse the tunnel behind him to seal and protect the buried redoubt again. For now, he felt this was the only way he could get to the hideout swiftly enough.

Once he drove the car into the giant underground complex, melting through the steel plates, he brought the vehicle to a halt. He and Joanna emerged from the car filled with a sense of wonder, expecting to find a large greeting party.

Instead, he faced a haggard-looking woman pointing a weapon at them. One woman. The rest of the facility seemed deserted.

Jommy stepped forward, raising his hands, trying to be calm. “You have nothing to fear from us.” He took a gamble. “We’re slans. This is a slan place.”

The woman had hard blue eyes and an intelligent expression. Her hair was strawberry blonde, her cheekbones high, and her nose pointed. Her lips barely moved as she spoke. “Prove to me who you are.”

But Jommy no longer had tendrils, and Joanna had not been born with them. “I understand your fear. My parents were both slans, and both of them were killed by the secret police. I know what it’s like, whatever happened to you.”

Joanna remained at his side. “Tell us what you’re doing here. How did you find this place?”

Her grip on the weapon was unwavering. “I received … instructions. An ancient beacon calling me here.”

“And so did we. I followed the signal, a homing message that comes from here. It originated with my father.” He saw her expression change. “His name was Peter Cross.”

“Peter Cross?” Her shoulders slumped, and she finally lowered her weapon. “And I’m Anthea … Anthea Stewart. I have a baby, a newborn. He’s got tendrils. I don’t know how, because neither my husband nor myself are slans. I don’t understand it.”

Jommy felt his heart swell. He stepped forward, looking at the amazing expanse of the underground complex. “I had hoped to discover other slans here, but maybe I’ll find what I need regardless.”

* * *

After they had introduced themselves and briefly told their stories, Joanna busied herself in the communications room to study the progress of the approaching occupation fleet. Meanwhile, Jommy explored the remarkable base. Each step he took through the amazing chambers and laboratory rooms filled him with awe and anticipation. He felt he could learn something important from each document or piece of machinery. Though he was disappointed to find no large settlement of hidden slans, the other wealth of information was significant.

Anthea came up behind him, standing at a doorway. “I have something to show you. Something from Peter Cross.”

He hadn’t even noticed her watching him. He felt so helpless and blind without his tendrils. “Yes!”

She led him to the table where she had arranged a video viewer and a stack of old film loops. She activated the player and stepped back while Peter Cross gave his moving speech. Jommy listened with tears in his eyes, looking again and again at the image of a man he barely remembered. His mother had told him that her husband had been killed when Jommy was only six. Fortunately, she and the boy hadn’t been with him. On the projected image, Jommy could see echoes of himself in the older man’s handsome face.

The recorded voice sounded achingly familiar, much clearer than in the Porgrave transmission. “I will never stop my work,” Dr. Cross said. The words struck directly at Jommy’s heart. “Not until I succeed in making a better world so that my wife and baby son no longer have to live in fear.”

He played each one of the recordings three times, though he had instantly memorized them. He found his father’s voice and his image to be strangely comforting and compelling.

Marshalling his courage and his determination, Jommy went to the boxes of bones that Anthea had gathered. She had been careful to mark the location of each body and noted any details. Jommy could only imagine the battle that had occurred here.

He stopped in front of the box that, as far as he could tell, contained what was left of his father. He looked down at the skull, trying to imagine the man’s features. After all his searching, Jommy was finally at home, but this wasn’t the home he had been looking for.

CHAPTER 39

The pulse beacon continued to send out its insistent signal, calling any slans, but Jommy had begun to lose hope that more of his comrades would arrive. It would be up to them.

Before he could plan his next step, he and Joanna needed to assess all the equipment and weapons available in the redoubt. How could it help President Gray? He couldn’t begin to understand the large banks of twirling discs and blinking lights, the powerful generators and the purported “life imprint” machinery that dated back to the days of the first slans. He studied his father’s notes again, thought about the single disintegrator tube he possessed. Though it was a formidable weapon, it wasn’t enough to take back an entire conquered planet. He needed far more help than that.

But where were all the slans?

Together, the three of them listened to the staccato radio reports and wireless bursts from small groups of survivors. They told horrific stories of human renegades and tendrilless squadrons who shot humans for the mere sport of it. As usual, everything was blamed on the “evil slans.” Anthea wept, as much for her murdered husband as for the future of her baby.

Joanna tried to comfort her. “I wouldn’t believe all those reports, Miss. For years the tendrilless distorted and manufactured news reports. They’re doing the same thing now. Notice nobody is reporting about the tendrilless? Not a single broadcast.”

Jommy called them over to a large set of external screens in the monitoring room. The slow-moving force of enormous wheel-shaped battleships cruised inexorably closer, atomic-powered disks filled with armaments and tendrilless soldiers. The images were crystal clear, disturbingly close to the approaching armada. It was enough to strike cold fear into any observer.

Anthea’s face was gray with dismay. “You mean the fleet that attacked us in the first place was just a … a warmup exercise?”

Joanna’s lips formed a bitter smile. “The tendrilless have been planning this takeover for a very long time. They didn’t just want to win the battle, but to exterminate every one of their enemies.” She spoke as if she no longer considered herself part of her race.

Jommy was puzzled by another question, though. “Where are these images coming from? The tendrilless wouldn’t be broadcasting this, and it’s certainly not a news broadcast from out in space—” He turned dials, scanned through the available visiplates, then he smiled. “These are our own satellites, watchdog probes. The true slans must have put up a monitoring network as well! Look, these pictures are from sentry probes beyond the orbit of the Moon.”

The great slow ships cruised by, filling the view, not knowing—or else not caring—that they were observed. Each vessel looked large enough to swallow a building. The decks were marked by twinkling lights.

Joanna measured the speed and finished her calculations. “They should be here within two days. That’s what the Authority projected.”

“Then that’s how much time we have.” Anthea sounded determined rather than panicked. “What are we going to do?”

Jommy decided he would scour through all of his father’s laboratory notes, maybe race back to Granny’s ranch to get the rest of the journals—and bring Kathleen and President Gray with him. Perhaps all together …

Suddenly new alarms screeched through speakers in the underground base. He and Joanna scoured the numerous visiplates, switching to local scanners and trying to discover the source of the warning. In the past when this underground base had been fully occupied by slans, whole groups must have monitored these stations, constantly manning the hideout’s defenses.

Joanna finally discovered the reason for the alarm. “It’s another ship approaching, Jommy … high-technology configuration, an advanced model that I’ve never seen before.”

“A secret tendrilless weapon? Another air raid?”

“It doesn’t look like something the Cimmerium shipyards would build.” She worked with the visiplates, trying to switch through any still-functioning cameras implanted in the city buildings, though many of the lenses were now dark, buried under the rubble of collapsed skyscrapers. “Ah, here it is!”

Finally, she locked on and increased the magnification as a silver and red ship streaked in, burning hot like a spear point just taken out of a forge. “Looks dangerous—and it’s homing in on our location—no doubt about it!”

Anthea’s face was both frightened and angry. “Have we been discovered?”

The image sharpened as the ship turned about and fired blazing orange retrorockets to slow its descent. As it lowered upon a pillar of fire into the ruins of the city very close to the base’s access point, Jommy laughed with blessed relief. “We’re not under attack! That’s a rocket-plane—my rocket-plane. I left it in a hangar at Granny’s ranch.”

On the screen, the rocket-plane had landed and, as it cooled, the hatch opened. A thousand questions filled Jommy’s mind as his heart swelled. He saw Kathleen and the President emerge and immediately guessed that something terrible had happened at the summit. He didn’t know why they had come here, or what they had been through, but now they had two more allies.

He was already sprinting toward the hidden lift and its controls. “I’m going up there myself to meet them.”

* * *

Safe again deep below ground, Jommy held Kathleen in his arms. The girl felt wonderful. “I thought you were dead, Jommy! Oh, I was sure of it—your thoughts were cut off. The last image was pain, such agony that I couldn’t stand it! And then nothing.”

When Kathleen had seen that his tendrils were sheared off, she began to sob and clung to him even more tightly. He squeezed her and tried to calm her shudders. Her tendrils were alert, able to pick up any thoughts—but he was a blank to her. He would always be a blank from now on. She still felt the emptiness, though he was right there in front of her.

But then she had looked at him with her beautiful eyes, and she kissed him. “At least you’re alive, Jommy. That’s better than anything I’d hoped.”

Down in the redoubt, Joanna watched the reunion with proud resignation. Jommy could tell she still had deep feelings for him, but the tendrilless woman knew he would never love anyone but Kathleen.

President Gray had shadows under his eyes. He looked more defeated now than at any time since John Petty had exposed him as a slan. At least the slan hunter was no longer with them.

“I’m glad to see you alive, Jommy, but this is a bittersweet reunion, to say the least. The summit meeting was a disaster. I had hoped to find some common ground, but the tendrilless had no interest in common ground. I explained about the tendrilless slans and how all of our babies born within the next few generations will have their tendrils again.”

Both Jommy and Joanna listened eagerly to the story. Anthea also responded with amazement to hear the truth about the tendrilless, that she and Davis had been among them, entirely unknowing.

“I take it Jem Lorry didn’t believe you, then?” Joanna said with a smirk. “I’m not surprised—there’s a man who embodies the worst of tendrilless prejudice. A long time ago, he and I were matched.”

“What does that mean?” Kathleen asked.

“We were genetically programmed to marry each other. The Tendrilless Authority had studied our parentage, and they selected me for him, and him for me. Fortunately, we both had to complete many years of service before we were approved. While Jem infiltrated the government here, I worked with tendrilless operations in the Air Center. Fortunately, I got to know the man well enough to abhor him. Even though we supposedly had the same goals, if we’d been married, I would have killed him on our wedding night. I could not stomach Jem Lorry.”

“Not many of us could,” Kathleen said. “He wanted to … to breed with me as well.”

“I would say he’s inhuman, but he’d take that as a compliment,” Gray said. He explained about Jem Lorry’s treachery, and Petty’s double cross, and the attacking squadrons of tendrilless and secret police ships. “It was a massacre. We barely escaped with our lives.”

“Granny’s dead, Jommy.” Kathleen lowered her gaze. “She went out trying to defend her home. She used her shotgun—”

Jommy hung his head. The twisted old woman had forced him to do many terrible things, but she had also saved him in her own warped way. In the last few years, as he had guided her away from corruption, she had begun to redeem herself.

Gray continued, “If you hadn’t left your rocket-plane in the hangar, we would have been part of the rubble there, too. The whole ranch is destroyed. There was nothing left but burning wreckage when we flew out of there.”

When Kathleen lifted her chin, she looked very brave and Jommy loved her more than ever. “At least Lorry was killed, a victim of his own treachery—and Petty, too.”

Jommy could find no sadness in his heart upon hearing that news. “One less slan hunter to worry about.”

Then, from outside the main chamber, they heard a rumble and a crash. Jommy spun toward the large-bore tunnel that his disintegrator had burned through the ground. A small armored vehicle with thick tires rumbled down the passage and crashed out into the middle of the base. Jommy and his companions scrambled for safety as the armored vehicle fishtailed to a halt. Jommy saw the hammer-and-web insignia of the secret police on its side.

A battered-looking John Petty kicked open the vehicle’s door and barged out. He stood up, his black jacket torn and bloodied, his face smeared with soot, his hair wild. He glared at Gray and Kathleen, and when he spotted Jommy, his expression became an even more twisted look of displeasure. “Doesn’t anyone ever stay dead?”

“Speak for yourself,” Kathleen said.

The slan hunter reached inside the vehicle and dragged out another body, dumping it unceremoniously on the sealed stone floor of the hideout. As the body flopped face down, arms sprawled out, Jommy could see that the man had been shot in the back.

It was Jem Lorry. Joanna looked at the body, but without grief.

“No, he’s not a present for you,” Petty said. “He’s a trophy for me. Maybe I’ll have him stuffed and mounted in my own base from which I’ll guide the recapture of Earth—for humans.

“I killed Lorry while the tendrilless continued to attack the ranch. I shot him just to spite them! I grabbed one of the secret police vehicles that had already been deployed, but its driver was shot in the crossfire.”

“So you just drove off?” Jommy asked.

Petty shrugged. “I expect the fighting’s mostly done there, now, though I don’t know who would have emerged as the winner.”

“Secret police traitors or tendrilless invaders—I’m not sure I prefer either side,” Gray said.

Jommy glared at the slan hunter. “How did you know to come to this base?”

Kathleen turned quickly to Jommy. “I didn’t tell him. And he couldn’t have read your father’s notes or translated the code.”

Petty seemed amused. “Why go through so much trouble? I’ve always known about this base. In fact, my secret police and I extracted plenty of useful things from right under your nose, President Gray.”

Jommy marched toward the slan hunter, who ducked back into his armored vehicle and emerged holding a powerful pistol. “Not one step closer, Cross. I’ve been aware of your mind tricks all along.”

“Mind tricks? You don’t have to worry about those anymore,” Jommy said.

Petty noticed his severed tendrils at last and let out a loud guffaw. “Well, there’s a bit of poetic justice!”

Jommy would not be swayed, though. “This was my father’s lab, and we learned about it from his notes and records. So how did you know about this base?”

Holding his weapon, the slan hunter looked at them coldly. “Yes, it was your father’s lab, and that’s how I know about it. I killed your father.”

CHAPTER 40

The revelation came louder than a gunshot in Jommy’s ears. A crimson static formed around his vision, closing in like thunder clouds made of boiling blood. He finally forced words out of his tight throat. “I already had plenty of reasons to hate you, John Petty, but now you’ve given me more than enough rationale to kill you.” He stalked forward, consumed with a sick rage.

Jommy had never learned the exact circumstances of his father’s death. His mother had said that he was shot in the back, but she refused to speak more of it. Jommy just remembered being on the run with her for three years as she tried to keep her little boy alive at all costs. Peter Cross had made it possible for them to survive.

“Yes, I killed him.” The slan hunter swung the pistol in his right hand, aiming directly between Jommy’s eyes. He found the young man’s reaction to the revelation hilarious, as well as his current inability to fight back. “My secret police and I massacred all the slans in this secret base. It was one of the last mutant nests that we had to eradicate. Why do you think you found only empty enclaves in all your searches? Because my secret police knew about them all and wiped them out! We ransacked them, left a few of them as bait. Believe me, any slans still left alive after the raids—like you and your mother—were basically irrelevant to us.”

Jommy took another step closer, as if Petty’s weapon couldn’t harm him.

Gray was cooler, spoke in a harder voice. “And how exactly did you manage this, Mr. Petty? As chief of the secret police, you were working for me. Why did you not give reports to your president?”

“Oh, it must have been in a memo somewhere … or maybe I just forgot.” He grinned. “Peter Cross knew he was hunted. All slans knew they were hunted, and we spent years trying to track their movements. We managed to kill the occasional slan loner, which gave us great publicity, but we just couldn’t seem to capture one alive for a suitable interrogation.” He looked at Jommy. “But we got wind of your father’s movements and staged an elaborate trap. We set up an ambush with more than a hundred secret police, because we knew what a challenge he would be.” Petty’s eyes took on a far-off gaze as he remembered his glory days.

“When we finally spotted him, we closed in, cutting off what we thought were all of his routes of escape. Finally, when we had a good shot, I ordered one of my snipers to take him out. But you slans are fiendishly difficult to kill.” He shook his head. “Cross took the bullet in his shoulder. He was bleeding badly, but he made his way into one of the tall buildings. We followed him, but he somehow got into the basement levels, then took a lift to a high floor, then ran back a dozen flights of stairs, found a fire escape.

“At first the blood droplets made him easy to track, but his gunshot wound healed so swiftly we lost that advantage. Three of my secret police cornered him in a garage just before he was about to dash into the streets. Cross killed all three of them, broke the necks of two, stole their weapons, and shot the third. Quite impressive, actually.”

“So my father got away,” Jommy said, grimly pleased.

“In a sense, yes. But that was part of the plan. I was never so gullible as to believe we would actually catch him so easily.”

“Easily?” Anthea cried. To a woman who had lived a normal life in Centropolis, the brutal tactics of the secret police were a revelation. “Against a hundred fully armed men?”

“Yes, easily. These are slans we’re talking about, lady. That’s why they’re such a threat to our way of life.”

”Your way of life,” Joanna said with a sniff. She still looked willing to fight for Jommy, even if he did love someone else.

“What do you mean it was part of the plan?” Kathleen pressed.

Still seething, Jommy maintained his silence, looking for an opportunity to spring upon the slan hunter and disarm him.

“The sniper’s bullet contained a micro-tracer. I intended for him to escape, because as wounded and frightened as he was, Cross fled to the protection of his other slans. Oh, he dodged us for more than a day, leaving false leads, eluding the obvious trackers that I allowed him to see. All the while, though, we had the signal so we could follow him. He went right to this laboratory base.”

“Even so,” Gray said, “this is a fortress. The slans held it for centuries out of the view of normal humans. You couldn’t just have walked in.”

Petty smiled again, waving his pistol. “That was when the second fortuitous event happened. I had decided to make a full frontal assault, even if it cost me a few hundred men. A small price to pay for eradicating the last slan nest.” He shrugged. “But we didn’t have to do that. Once we knew where Cross had gone underground, we were able to set up careful surveillance. After weeks of constant monitoring, a young slan, barely thirteen years old, slipped away from the hideout late one night. We’d been waiting for an opportunity exactly like that. We sprang our trap.

“We exploded a canister of sleep gas directly in front of the kid. It would have knocked out an elephant, but it barely slowed him down. His reflexes were dulled, but still he fought. We dropped electrified nets on him. More than a dozen of my slan hunters piled on to the fight. It took three more anesthetic darts to bring him down. A thirteen year old! We whisked the kid away to our interrogation chambers. Armored vaults, sealed self-contained rooms inside the grand palace where my scientists could do their classified work. Even President Gray didn’t know about them.” Petty smiled.

“Yes, we discovered one of the vaults in the rubble.” Joanna Hillory gave him a cold smile. “We even found people still inside—two-and-a-half of them, to be exact. They weren’t in very good shape.”

“And what did you do with this captive?” Gray demanded, getting back to the discussion.

“We tortured him, of course. We used every extreme interrogation technique we knew, and finally we broke the kid’s will. Your father and his fellow slans didn’t even know they had a traitor in their midst.”

“How … how did you break him?” Kathleen asked. “What did you do to the poor young man?”

“We used drugs and sleep deprivation. We tested sonic pain-amplifiers. But the most effective thing was to apply raw electrical wires to his tendrils. The shock proved quite excruciating. After two days of that, the slan boy was a puddle of jelly, willing to do anything we demanded, ready to believe anything we promised him.”

“You’re a monster,” Anthea growled.

“I’m a success story. That was exactly what my job entailed—wasn’t it, Mr. President? You always turned a blind eye when it served your purposes.”

Gray didn’t answer.

“The traitor provided us with the access routes and security codes we needed. We staged our great assault, fifty of my most trusted slan hunters, fully armed and ready. I also had a backup plan, five hundred officers ready to come charging in the event we started to fail. But that wasn’t necessary. Our young traitor did his job perfectly, opening the way for us. The slans thought they were safe, cozy in their beds, when we barged in. Ah, it was wonderful!”

Jommy didn’t take his eyes from Petty, but Anthea looked around the large chamber, the burn marks and bullet holes on the walls and floor. “So you just killed them all,” she said, barely a whisper.

“I won’t say that it was easy. The slans put up one hell of a fight—I lost twenty of my men—but gunfire eventually brought them down.” The slan hunter turned his grin toward Jommy. “I remember your father. He was hard at work in his laboratory trying to understand the antique machinery of Samuel Lann. Demonic machinery. Who knows what strange apparatus that is?” He indicated the tall humming equipment. “Cross was one of the last to fall, and I was quite impressed at how well he fought, considering he had a bullet lodged in his shoulder.”

Gray crossed his arms over his chest. “Quite an operation, Mr. Petty. How come I never heard about it?”

“I’d intended to make a grand announcement, to show the world how the slans were still hiding among us, but then I realized how much I could learn from this underground base, so I kept the operation under wraps. We removed the bodies of my men, but left the dead slans where they were. Bait. We knew the slans would come back, eventually.”

“But you left all this technology here,” Gray said. “Why didn’t you report it?”

“We had already found plenty of slan redoubts—like the place where Jommy met Kathleen.”

“Where you shot her dead,” Jommy said.

“Oh, stop complaining about that. She’s fine now. The truth is, my teams had already analyzed so many of the hideouts, we knew what to expect. My experts spent days down here studying notes, copying technology, but most of it was incomprehensible. Just like all the other places. Eventually I just left this place behind. The slan bodies were beginning to smell, and it was hard to concentrate on the work.” His face contorted in a grimace.

“You just left them here to rot?” Kathleen was appalled.

“It helped maintain the veracity of the scene. I maintained a careful watch on the base. It was like a piece of cheese in a mousetrap, and I knew that sooner or later more slans would come.” He gestured to all of them standing there. “Now look at the mice I caught! I just didn’t expect that the world would end in the meantime.”

Even without his tendrils, Jommy had been tempered by his ordeals, like fine steel. He squared his shoulders and looked the slan hunter in the eye. “Using traitors, and torture, and overwhelming weapons—you seem to be extremely good at beating people when you have an unfair advantage.”

“I’m extremely good at winning. That’s what counts.”

“So you can’t win in a fair fight, that’s what you’re saying?”

“It’s never a fair fight against slans.”

“It’s a fair fight now.” Jommy pressed forward so close that Petty had to step back, still holding up his gun. “My tendrils have been cut off. I have none of the mind powers you’re so afraid of. It’s just me and you. Your secret police killed both of my parents. You shot Kathleen, the woman I love.” He raised his fists. “Will you fight me now?”

Petty laughed yet again, but this time it had a nervous undertone. “Why on Earth should I do that? I’ve already won.”

Joanna let out a sarcastic snort. “A strange way to define victory—your planet taken over, your government disbanded, your cities destroyed, and your secret police force wiped out, while you hide here, underground. Yes, Petty, it sure sounds like you’ve won.”

With a defensive snarl, Petty set the pistol down on a lab table next to his armored vehicle. He turned back to face Jommy. “She’s right, you know, much as I hate to admit it. There isn’t really a point anymore. I killed Lorry, but the tendrilless are still coming. We can’t fight them, and we’re all going to be wiped out before long—but I’ll do this for my own satisfaction.” He lifted his fists, too. “I don’t need anything but my bare hands to put an end to you once and for all, Jommy Cross.”

Jommy held the slan hunter’s gaze. “Whenever you’re ready.”

They slowly circled each other. Joanna and Kathleen stepped back toward the armored car. Anthea watched warily next to Kier Gray.

Jommy knew that the chief of secret police had thorough practice in hand-to-hand fighting, while he himself had never been formally trained. However, Granny had turned him into a scrappy young man who could take care of himself. Right now he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around Petty’s throat.

He punched, ducked as the other man swung back, then withdrew to hold up his guard. With a sneer, the slan hunter said, “Why so fancy? This isn’t some formal boxing contest.” Then he threw himself headlong into Jommy’s abdomen, butting with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

Straining to catch his breath, Jommy pummeled him on the back. The two men grappled, broke apart again, then flung themselves upon each other. Jommy didn’t have his tendrils, no way of using his abilities to read Petty’s thoughts for a hint as to the moves his opponent might be planning. He defended himself with animal fury.

Petty crashed a fist into Jommy’s left eye, and an explosion of pain made him reel backward. He shook his head to clear his vision, but his eyelid began to swell, puffing shut.

Petty slashed with an open hand and curled fingers, trying to use his nails to jab the other eye, but Jommy caught his wrist. He pulled, practically wrenching his opponent’s arm out of its socket, and tumbled the other man to the floor. Shaking his head again, Jommy regained his balance. He stood back and allowed Petty to get to his feet again.

The slan hunter stood up, flexing his sore arm, and gave Jommy a curious look. “Following rules and niceties? What’s your game, Cross?”

“You think fighting fair and being honorable is a game? I feel sorry for you, Mr. Petty.”

That angered the slan hunter, who flung himself upon Jommy again in a flurry of pummeling fists. Several hard blows caught the young man on the shoulder, in the chest. One even glanced off his chin, but Jommy struck back, a quick rabbit punch to the middle of the man’s chest, another to his abdomen. Then, as Petty tried to recover, Jommy hit him again squarely on the jaw.

The slan hunter staggered backward—and tripped on Jem Lorry’s body. With his feet knocked out from under him, he sprawled flat on his back, cracking his head on the hard floor.

Jommy pounced, putting one foot on the fallen man’s chest, glaring down at him. “I should just kill you, Petty. You deserve it. But I’ve defeated you—that’s worse. It doesn’t matter how long any of us lives now, because you know you’ve been bested by me.”

The slan hunter worked his jaws as if looking for words to spit. Jommy glared at him one last time, then took his foot off the man’s chest. “It’s over. Nothing will bring back my parents or undo all the harm you’ve done, but I’ve had my revenge.”

Petty glowered as he struggled to get up, to gather his dignity. Then, moving with the swiftness of a striking rattlesnake, he reached into the lining of his tattered black jacket and yanked out a second pistol, one of the weapons favored by the secret police. “Maybe none of us will survive—but I’ll certainly survive longer than you.”

Only a few feet from the slan hunter and his pistol, Jommy tried to dive out of the way. The sound of gunfire was deafening inside the underground slan hideout. Kathleen screamed, rushing forward.

Then John Petty twitched, spasmed, and slumped face-first to the stone floor. His gun clattered on the ground, and his head lolled to one side. He blinked his eyes in shock. A great wound on the side of his chest pumped blood. He gasped and gurgled.

Kathleen set his other weapon back on the table. “It’s what he deserved,” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s what he did to me.”

She ran up to Jommy, throwing her arms around him and gave him a hug nearly strong enough to knock the breath out of him again.

CHAPTER 41

The gigantic tendrilless occupation fleet was still on its way. Earth didn’t have a chance.

Jommy and his four companions gathered in the surveillance room to study images from small slan sentry probes that drifted in space beyond the Moon. The bright lunar backdrop filled most of the visiplates, its barren landscape reflecting golden sunlight. The mountains and craters were scorched by unfiltered solar radiation during the half-month of day and frozen by impenetrable cold the rest of the time.

As Joanna worked to adjust the views on the visiplates, he marveled at the extreme resolution of the pictures being transmitted from so far away. It only made the heavily armed enemy fleet seem more terrifying.

“They’re passing the Moon now.” Joanna looked up at her companions. “That means they’re ahead of schedule. They’ll be here in less than a day.”

“How can we possibly stop them?” Kathleen said. Gray, Anthea, and Joanna all looked just as hopeless.

Jommy wracked his brain, hoping to pull a miracle out of his hat. Even slan technology wouldn’t help them now. If his father or any of the surviving slans had been capable of stopping a force so powerful, then they would never have needed to hide underground for so many years.

As rank upon rank of attack ships cruised by, huge atomic-powered wheels, Anthea was more intent on the round, dark lunar craters. She leaned closer to one of the large viewing plates. “Look, something’s happening on the Moon.”

Jommy saw that, indeed, as the armada cruised over the stark lunar landscape, the circular gouges scooped out by ancient meteor impacts began to shift and change. Unexpected lines of orange sliced across the crater bottoms, as if the rocky floor were cracking … splitting open.

Then craters all across the surface of the Moon began to glow and open. Joanna exclaimed, “The crater floors are artificial!” The neat fissures widened, spreading apart as camouflaged doorways to reveal a huge and mysterious complex beneath.

“Those aren’t craters at all,” Kathleen said. “They look like—”

“They’re hangars,” Jommy cried. “Hidden hangars.”

The tendrilless occupation force reacted in a flurry to the remarkable and unexpected changes below. Their formal ranks broke apart as the gigantic atomic-powered ships took evasive action.

After the artificial crater floors yawned open, enormous warships climbed out like moray eels hidden in a coral reef. A few tendrilless ships opened fire without further provocation—and without effect. The strange vessels continued to launch by the hundreds, thousands, then tens of thousands.

Kathleen was frantic and confused. “What are those ships? Who are they?”

“This is not possible,” Gray said in barely a whisper. “I never suspected!”

Jommy couldn’t keep his grin hidden. “You know who they are, Kathleen. It’s no wonder even John Petty couldn’t find them. No one could find them! They chose the most unexpected, the best possible hiding place. That’s where they’ve been all these years—the true slans!”

After being defeated in the centuries of war, the bulk of the true slans had simply vanished. Everyone assumed that the defeated race had been wiped out, with only a few stragglers living in fear of their lives. But in reality, they had fled to the Moon, using their knowledge and ingenuity to tunnel deep underground. Looking at all the open craters, Jommy could barely comprehend the scope of their vast civilization.

“They’ve been busy all this time,” Jommy said with admiration in his voice.

Warship after warship launched out of the huge crater hangars, arced gracefully around in lunar orbit, and utterly overwhelmed the occupation force from Mars.

Several of the panicked tendrilless ships continued to fire, but their weapons had no effect on the exotic armor of the lunar fleet. Instead of retaliating, the true slan warships simply blocked off the invaders and prevented them from proceeding to Earth.

Joanna was both amazed and agitated. “Those slan ships can easily wipe out the tendrilless fleet. They should remove the threat. It’s the obvious thing to do.”

“Obvious perhaps … but maybe not the correct action,” Gray said. “The true slans know that the tendrilless are our brothers, too.”

“More like prodigal sons,” Kathleen pointed out.

The lunar warships sent out energy bursts that dampened the power fields of the invading fleet, shutting down the tendrilless ships and deactivating their weapons. The entire invasion force hung silent and helpless in space. To Jommy, it seemed like a patient parent dealing with a child having a tantrum.

While the true slan ships corralled the defeated occupation fleet, several warships from the Moon streaked off at incredible speed toward Earth. The true slans’ engines were obviously far superior to anything the tendrilless had used.

Even before the emissaries arrived, the leader of the true slans commandeered all transmission bands. He broadcast stern words across every radio, every communication line, every wireless set. The words boomed out, clear and final. “We demand a cessation of all hostilities. We will allow no more of this destructive war between tendrilless slans and humans. We are all bound by our common humanity, regardless of our genetic differences.”

On one of the visiplates an image resolved to show a distinguished older gentleman with a silvery gray beard, a high brow, and neat hair. He stood on the command deck of one of the lunar warships. Distinctive tendrils were plain from the back of his neck, fine fleshy threads that extended longer than his hair. Jommy thought he looked strangely familiar, though he was sure he’d never seen the man before in his life.

“I have detected a clear signal transmitted from a primary slan base, and I will go there immediately. I wish to speak to any government representatives, any leaders who have survived this unfortunate conflict.” The man leaned forward and introduced himself. “I am Commander Andrew Cross.”

CHAPTER 42

While President Kier Gray prepared to face the slan delegation from the Moon, Jommy felt a knot in his stomach. He was about to meet his own grandfather.

With Jem Lorry dead on the floor, Joanna volunteered to speak for the Tendrilless Authority. President Gray was ready to tackle the rest of the negotiations himself, deciding to deal with the remnants of Petty’s secret police later.

Commander Cross arrived in the underground base with ten slan emissaries. Cross wore a black military uniform with gold piping, crisp creases, and a panoply of complex awards and badges. The other delegates were a mixture of politicians, scientists, medical staff, and tactical experts. All the true slans had long, healthy looking tendrils; secure beneath the craters of the Moon, they had never needed to hide what they were. Jommy knew instinctively that a flurry of silent thoughts must be flashing back and forth between them, but he was cut off from them all.

Commander Cross’s eyes flicked from side to side, inspecting the underground laboratory and base. He extended his hand toward Gray. “Mr. President, it’s a pleasure to meet you in person, at last.”

Gray smiled. “Occasional messages and secret couriers aren’t good enough any more. I’m glad your people finally decided to come out in the open.”

“You knew where they were?” Kathleen asked, surprised. “You knew the slan civilization existed all along? I thought all those widely publicized slan messages and the unmanned drones were fake!”

“Not all of them. I was aware that someone spoke for the true slans, but I didn’t know any concrete information until now. The main populace of slans remained in hiding. I was only aware of a few solitary slans, some of whom worked with me in the grand palace. Others accomplished quite a bit all by themselves.” Gray shot an encouraging glance toward Jommy. “Like this young man.”

Jommy drew a deep breath and stepped forward. “Commander Cross, it’s my pleasure to meet you. My name is Jommy.”

The older man’s eyes lit up. “Jommy Cross? You’re Peter’s son. You’re alive!” Throwing aside his military reserve, Cross wrapped his arms around the young man and clapped him hard on the back. “But why can’t I sense you? You’re a true slan, just like your mother and father—” He turned Jommy around, then looked with a sick horror at where his tendrils had been cut off. “What have they done to you? Oh, Jommy!”

As Jommy explained in a halting voice, he felt great emotions bubbling up within him, both excitement and sadness, hard determination and total exhaustion.

Cross stepped back and looked appraisingly at his grandson. “You’re safe now, Jommy. You’re all safe.” His lips quirked in a smile. “As you might have noticed, we’ve brought enough reinforcements to see that everyone behaves. Our ships will root out any last tendrilless resistance and stop the continued destruction.”

“But what took you so long?” Kathleen asked. “The tendrilless attacked days ago. Most of our cities are already ruined.”

Andrew Cross hung his head. “I am ashamed that we didn’t take action sooner. We slans are much longer-lived than normal humans, and after so many generations, so many centuries, hiding had unfortunately become a habit for us.

“Centuries ago, after the great breach between the tendrilless and true slans, we went underground in our complex on the Moon. We faced many difficulties in those first few years. Lunar resources are scarce. We had to manufacture water and air, scavenge metal from meteorites beneath the craters. While the original wars had knocked Earth’s civilization back to a level from many centuries before, we were able to build our base and develop our technology. If the humans had known we were hiding on the Moon, they would have devoted every resource to a space program. Nothing like an enemy to focus the attention of a government! So we maintained a low profile.

“Recently, when the tendrilless war started, we watched by tapping into news broadcasts and wireless transmissions. We had known for some time that the tendrilless were infiltrating your political systems and your communications, but still we did not act.

“Some true slans insisted on letting the factions hammer it out for themselves. They insisted that we shouldn’t get involved, that we had no debt to either side. When the great air-strikes began and your cities fell, those same isolationist slans wanted to let you all destroy yourselves while we remained safe on the Moon. They were willing to abandon any true slans remaining on Earth.” He hung his head. “I knew that my son Peter and his wife had been killed long ago. We thought the same thing had happened to you, too, Jommy.”

Jommy felt a lump in his throat.

“A large group of dissenters—including myself—demanded that we take measures to save our human and tendrilless step-brothers. Sadly, we were out-voted. But when we detected the clear distress signal emanating from the base here, I had the leverage I needed. I showed the proof, called for another vote, and my isolationist opponents backed down. That was when we launched our raids.”

“What distress signal?” Anthea asked, carrying her infant in her arms. His tendrils waved in the air, as if he could sense the other slans in the chamber. “Is that what my baby and I triggered when we found this empty place?”

“It was just you and your baby? The base was empty?” Commander Cross said, amazed. “You did it yourselves? Only two of you?” The slan delegates, the scientists and politicians, looked up at her. Cross’s disbelief began as a chuckle, then grew to full laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Anthea asked.

“I argued that there must be a whole enclave of true slans. Hundreds if not thousands! I convinced the isolationists that we’d have an entire resistance movement here, ready to go.”

“You do have a resistance movement,” Jommy said. “The five of us.”

The commander grinned. “And if you’re anything like your father, Jommy, I should not underestimate you.”

* * *

Gray motioned for the slan emissaries to sit at a long conference table in the underground chamber. Anthea, who was the most familiar with the layout and the stored items in the secret base, found food and drinks for them, then went to nurse her baby.

“Now this is the way a summit meeting is supposed to be,” Kathleen said with a bittersweet smile. “I miss Granny and her apple pie, though.”

Jommy felt a pang, trying not to keep a score of how much he had lost in recent days.

Commander Cross laid out his plans, which were already set in motion. “We will certainly encounter hot spots of tendrilless activity for some time yet, even without Jem Lorry to provoke them. Some of the invaders will still fight, but it’s a lost cause. They will realize that eventually. I just hope we can impose peace before too many others die.”

“We’ll be a long time counting all the casualties,” Gray said. “The people—slans, tendrilless, and humans—require strong leadership. They need to see that we are united and intent on rebuilding.”

“The tendrilless will never stop fighting,” Joanna pointed out. “They can hide so easily among humans.”

Cross gave a mysterious smile. “After this day is over, they shouldn’t be much of a problem. I guarantee they won’t have any further interest in killing slans. They’ll have nothing to complain about.” To his astonished audience, he and the slan scientists explained what was at that moment happening in Cimmerium.

A squadron of advanced technological vessels had already launched from the Moon toward Mars—research probes bearing a new sort of transmitter, a ray generator developed by slan geneticists.

“What kind of rays?” Kathleen asked.

One scientist, a man named Dr. Philcroft, said in an awed whisper, “Mutation rays!”

Anthea was the one who piped up. “Mutation rays? Like the ones Dr. Lann supposedly used to create the first slans? But that was just propaganda—no truth to it at all. I’ve studied the tapes and records in the archives. Slans were a natural mutation.”

“We know, but it doesn’t have to be that way. In our lunar base we had many centuries to expand our medical science. What was originally imagined as a wild rumor, we were able to turn into reality. Slan geneticists did indeed create a device that would do exactly what the ignorant mobs accused Dr. Lann of doing. Recall that the tendrilless hated us in the first place because they felt we had denied them their rightful powers. Thus, we found a means to activate the latent genetics frozen in the tendrilless slans. They always had the potential within them, but it was masked. Within a few generations their children would be born with tendrils anyway. So, we just accelerated that schedule.”

Commander Cross picked up the story. “We fitted our scientific ships with transmitters to disperse those mutation rays widely, and those vessels are flying over the glass ceilings of Cimmerium even now. Every tendrilless soldier in the occupation ships has already been exposed.” He grinned. “The results should be quite readily apparent.”

“You mean the tendrilless on Mars are even now—?” Jommy tried to fit all the pieces together.

“Yes. The mutation rays are engendering the growth of tendrils. The Tendrilless Authority and all the people remaining in Cimmerium are rubbing the backs of their heads and finding quite a surprise. Everyone aboard the occupation ships is doing the same. They’re all true slans now.”

Jommy pictured what must be happening in the Martian city and aboard the giant wheel-shaped vessels. Tiny strands would emerge from the backs of their heads, growing like fine antennas. They would suddenly be able to pick up each other’s thoughts—and what chaos that would cause! But the newly awakened tendrilless wouldn’t know how to use their new skills. It would be a cacophony in their heads and an uproar in Cimmerium.

Kathleen shook her head wryly. “If Jem Lorry were still alive, I can just imagine the expression on his face as he transformed into one of his most hated enemies.”

“And he would suddenly know just what everyone else thought of him,” Joanna added.

“So, you see, there is no longer any need for conflict because the two parties can’t tell each other apart,” Cross concluded.

Jommy touched the back of his head, gathered the courage to ask his question. “And what about me? Can you regrow my tendrils? Can I be a normal slan again?”

His grandfather shook his head sadly. “Alas, it isn’t the latent genetics to be triggered in you, Jommy. The mutation rays won’t do anything to you, or to humans.”

“We don’t know how to convert humans yet, but the key is at hand, I’m sure.” Philcroft looked at one of the other slan doctors, who nodded.

Kier Gray responded with a tired smile. “People can always find a reason for conflict, Commander, but you’ve just removed one of the largest ones.”

Joanna looked from the military commander to the slan scientist. “You mean … I won’t have to be tendrilless anymore, either? You can transform me as well?” She scratched the back of her head as if searching for delicate tendrils there. “I’ll know what it’s like?”

“You have the genes,” Dr. Philcroft said. “All tendrilless slans do.”

Anthea was also intrigued, holding up her baby. “Even those of us who didn’t know we were tendrilless slans.”

* * *

While the political delegates worked with President Gray to hammer out the details of an interim government, Commander Cross sat with Jommy and Kathleen.

“I miss your father terribly,” the older man said. “He was such a brave and brilliant young man. Peter and your mother insisted on staying on Earth even though we could have brought them—and you—to safety on the Moon. But Peter was too dedicated to his work, and your mother refused to leave him. She clung to her hope. They both wanted to make a better world for you.” Commander Cross shook his head. “I’m so sorry that I couldn’t keep them safe, that I couldn’t protect you, Jommy. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose your tendrils.” His voice quavered.

“I survived,” Jommy said, sitting straight, “and I’ll continue to survive. Those tendrils defined what other people thought of me, but they didn’t define me.”

“What was Jommy’s father working on that was so important down here?” Kathleen asked. “We have his disintegrator weapon, and we read many of his journals and lab notes.”

“Peter was laying the groundwork for the return of the real slans and the conversion of the tendrilless, but he knew it wouldn’t be easy. He understood that slans had to defend themselves in the meantime, which is why he invented that horribly destructive disintegrator. He was a good man, Jommy.”

Jommy smiled. “I remember that much.”

Anthea walked in holding the baby boy. Commander Cross looked at her, his tendrils raised and waving; he seemed to be in contact with the infant.

“That child is a sign that the waiting is over. More and more true slan children will be born again. This is the start of a new order, a new hope.” His brow furrowed. “But that baby is so young, what psychologists call a tabula rasa—a blank slate or empty vessel, just waiting to be filled.”

Anthea kissed the baby’s pink forehead. “Maybe he’s waiting for a safe and happy life.”

Suddenly the scientists shouted from across the underground chamber. Dr. Philcroft’s voice rang out clearly. “Commander Cross, come quickly! And Jommy, you too—this is important. You’ll never believe what we found!”

CHAPTER 43

Inside one of the underground medical labs, the slan scientists had discovered equipment they had not expected to find away from the lunar complex.

“This is some of the best slan medical technology that we’ve developed,” said Philcroft. “Peter Cross, or someone with him, must have built them according to our designs from the Moon. And the machines are still operational.”

Kier Gray had also come running, hearing the urgency in the scientists’ voices. “That’s the same sort of technology we used to save my daughter.” He gave Kathleen’s shoulder a warm squeeze. “Otherwise she would never have survived the bullet wound in her head. But with a slan miracle device like this, we brought her back. I was sure the only such machine on Earth was destroyed when the tendrilless leveled the palace.”

“I saw the tendrilless use that technology in Cimmerium, too. They reconstructed a woman with a severe head injury.” Jommy looked at Dr. Philcroft. “But why the sense of urgency? You called us in here—”

Philcroft blinked his eyes. “Don’t you see? It’s a reconstruction device.” Clinically, the doctor touched Jommy’s head, turned him around to inspect the scabbed-over ends of his severed tendrils. “We can use it to grow your tendrils back.” The other slan doctors agreed. “Given this equipment, it should be a simple-enough procedure.”

Kathleen threw her arms around Jommy. He had not dared to hope, not even imagined a miraculous solution. “I’m ready right now,” he said. “Let’s not delay.”

The reclining medical chair had armrests and an array of probes, mirrors, crystals, and a dishlike metal cap that lowered over Jommy’s skull. It looked like a bizarre torture device that John Petty might have created.

Dr. Philcroft adjusted the equipment. “Just lean back. We’ve already run diagnostics, so there’s nothing to worry about. You’ll hear a pulsing sound and feel a tingling. I doubt it’ll hurt … much.”

“It could never hurt as much as when they cut my tendrils off.” He closed his eyes, and Kathleen took his hand.

The slan medical specialists discussed the various settings and readings; the machine was already powered up. Lights blinked furiously, and the crystals glimmered. Jommy could indeed feel throbbing transmission pulses like tiny electric ants crawling over the back of his head and inside his brain. He imagined his cells dividing furiously, healing, growing. The reconstruction device worked with incredible speed.

“I see them!” Kathleen cried. “It’s working.”

As the seconds passed, the room illumination seemed to grow brighter to Jommy, and every background noise became clearer and sharper. Moment by moment, his senses increased by orders of magnitude. The new-grown tendrils spread out, questing, drinking in impressions.

Philcroft and his companions clucked excitedly amongst themselves. Then a shift happened in Jommy’s mind, and he felt his primary sensory input starting to come from the back of his head. Suddenly, beginning as a whisper that grew to a roar, he could hear other thoughts, fresh impressions.

And there, like a bright light at the end of the tunnel, he found Kathleen’s mind and her heart. They were connected again, mentally reunited at last. He felt a surge of love.

Philcroft switched off the machines, and Jommy sat up, breathless. He was healed—aware, and alive, and intact. He gingerly touched his tendrils, then Kathleen’s. He climbed out of the chair and drew a deep breath. “For all the misery and prejudice I experienced because of these tendrils, I’m certainly glad to have them back!”

* * *

For the rest of the day, President Gray, Commander Cross, and Joanna Hillory made joint announcements to the public at large. The three of them worked carefully to reassure the survivors in the cities. They described their plans for rebuilding Earth and creating a bright future for everyone, with peace among the races.

Meanwhile, now that Jommy’s tendrils had been healed, the slan scientists were intrigued by the rest of Dr. Lann’s ancient equipment, which had been installed so long ago down here in the secret base. They devoted their studies to understanding the brain-pattern records and mental storage devices, mounting intact dataspools on the bulky generators. “Even we haven’t concocted innovations like this.” Dr. Philcroft ran his finger along the transparent covering that shielded a set of spinning information disks.

Anthea Stewart, feeling safe but somewhat lost, took care of her baby and tried to plan ahead. She entered the research room, watching Philcroft and his unsuccessful attempts to activate the strange, ancient device. When Anthea brought the infant close to the great machine’s embedded detectors, though, the datadisks began spinning faster, lights flashed. The machinery hummed with furious energy.

Philcroft cried out to his partners. “Did you do that?”

“I didn’t touch a single switch! It responded by itself.”

“It can’t activate spontaneously—there must have been some trigger.” Then the men looked over at Anthea.

“I didn’t do anything!” She set the baby down in his blanket to keep him safe from the machinery. His tiny tendrils were questing in the air as the old machinery spun and buzzed.

“The sensors detected a new presence,” Philcroft said. “It’s the baby.”

Anthea remembered how the Porgrave signal in the library archives had activated because of her baby, how the whole underground base and its locator beacon had awakened from dormancy when she had carried the child inside.

The pulsing continued. The slan doctors rubbed their own heads. “Can you feel it? A targeted transmission, but I can’t understand it.”

Suddenly, the machinery stopped, the datadisks halted, the lights went dark on the control panels.

“Did it short out?” Philcroft said.

“No, I think … I think it was just finished.”

Anthea glanced back down at her baby—and to her astonishment he lifted his head and looked around with hungry curiosity. Using his small hands, he propped himself up, sitting in his blankets. His tiny lips curved in an amazingly adult smile.

Then, in a perfect voice, he said, “The memory storage and transference worked perfectly. I am Samuel Lann!”

* * *

Kevin J. Anderson is the author of many books and stories. A. E. van Vogt died in 2000 and was the author of Slan as well as many other books and stories.

The Ancient Ones, Episode 4

Written by David Brin

Illustrated by Chantelle Thorne

Again and again, during my years of service, I have reflected upon the high likelihood that I must be insane.

Perhaps it is a job requirement. For, among the inhabitants of Earth and all her colonies, only completely out-there optimists are qualified to be assigned as Human Advisors, dispatched to live in full-time contact with our beloved allies, rubbing elbows and other close-packed parts amid the mostly-Demmie crew of some mighty Alliance starship.

They take this trait very seriously at the Academy, testing for it rigorously, by hooking candidates up to a Voltaire meter. In order to be accepted for advisor-training, you must view reality through rose-colored VR specs. Taste life’s candide-coating. Perceive this as the best of all possible universes.

Still, on this occasion, it was hard even for me to look at the bright side. What cause had I for optimism? Zooming just above alien rooftops that positively glittered with pikes, broken glass and countless other implements of paranoia, suspended in mid-air by a mere slender cable that thrummed and jerked and vibrated unnervingly as I slid along—while singing at the top of my lungs—plunging through the night toward a great, dark pyramid, where awaited (almost certainly) many, varied monsters who shared one common trait …

… a ravenous taste for blood.

Any sensible person might lapse into silence at such a moment, perhaps curling into a quivering ball. But I could not. For it was the singing itself that made the cable dance and hum, thrusting me across the night. A sonic-amplifying wire of impressive technological sophistication, it responded to just the right melody, exactly the way a laser does, when an excited medium is provoked by specific frequencies and patterns of light. And if the ditty that I had to bellow was coarse and immature? One fit for boobs? Well, I’ve been corseted in tight situations before. There was nothing new about having to use a brazen gambit, in order to bust out of a breathless predicament. Anyway, I work with Demmies.

No, that wasn’t what forced me to re-evaluate my sanity. Nor was I much daunted by two days of loneliness, or several near-death pummelings by a planet of the danged. Look, our service isn’t called SNAFU for nothing.

There are always times like this, when you ship out on one of the Alliance Star Cruisers assigned to the great unknown. Like when the drives are out and you’re plummeting toward some deadly black hole, and singularity tides have stretched your vocal chords so much that you sound like a thirteen-year old chanting yotzer on helium, or a castrati screeching Salieri on speed. Or when you’re swerving through teeth-rattling evasive maneuvers, with plasmonic disruptor explosions bursting on all sides, struggling to escape some nefarious Spertin ambush. At such moments, it is important to stay positive and composed around Demmies, maintaining their favored image of us humans as stout fellows, wise and steady, if stereotypically priggish and stiff.

Even in the middle of a crisis, Demmies do love their stereotypes.

Only now, were Captain Olm and the crew of Clever Gamble even still alive? Or had they fallen prey to the many kinds of garish monsters that roamed this strange world? In order to find out, I must plunge through eerie darkness, skimming just above the rooftops of a metropolis that had every good reason to cower in fear—racing toward certain danger, while bellowing vulgar lyrics that were written (long ago) specifically to undermine solemnity. As if the force propelling me forward were distilledanti-gravitas.

As I grew hoarse, inventing new lyrics to the theme song from The Road to Transylvania, it occurred to me that—if truth be told—I was rather tired of playing The Role. That of a mature and dignified human. Straight man to all the Demmie punch lines.

An “ancient one.”

In all of our ancestral legends about space travel, didn’t old-time authors envision humanity as the brash young upstarts? Intrepidly setting forth into the unknown, facing dire threats and deadly foes, making countless mistakes, but always persevering, brilliantly, against the odds? Moreover, in myth, weren’t we often assisted by some wise elder race? Admirable, patient beings, unresentful of our success and irreverent gumption. In those early romances, movies and threevees, from Roddenberry space operas to Tolkien fantasies, there were always kindly older brothers, unjealous and dependable; perhaps a bit stuffy and exasperated, but always sagacious, forebearing and kind.

What those ancient authors never pictured was a horrible possibility … that we might have to fill that role! That Homo sapiens should lumber along, responsibly, while someone else seized the destiny we thought ours: the privilege of Peter Pan—to stay forever young.

Oh, it isn’t hard to comprehend the driving motive of our foes, the Spertins—why they do terrible, misguided things. You have only to steep yourself in those ancient tales, our oldest dreams, and imagine a universe without Demmies.

But then, of course, it could have been worse.

This may not be the best of all possible worlds. But Voltaire never met Murphy. And things could have been very much worse, indeed.

* * *

The pyramid loomed ahead, separated by a broad river from the main part of an alien metropolis that had once been named Cal’mari, but henceforth would likely be called “Squid.” Behind me, city towers and apartment blocks glittered farewell, their protective frosting of spikes and nets and broken glass shimmering under a small, pale moon, as the humming cable propelled me beyond a quayside wall and across open water. I doubted that any of the living denizens—the “standard” humanoids shuddering inside their homes behind bolted doors—would miss my bellowing chorus of Fangs for the Mammaries. No one would demand an encore.

Now, beyond the clutter of buildings, I could tell that mine was not the only sky-thread converging in this direction. From many angles, dozens of ropey strands began to intersect toward the titanic structure up ahead, bigger than the mighty monuments of Giza. Moreover, for the first time, I could make out signs of life ahead.

Well. “Life” is a loaded word, here on Oxytocin 41, I thought.

Activity might be a better word.

Indeed, so far on this planet, dead people had been the most active ones I’d seen.

Adjusting to the darkness—and making liberal use of the adaptive optics in my left eye—I soon realized that I was not the only traveler using spiderlike sonic cables to zoom along, a few dozen meters above the rolling river. Dark figures could be seen cruising in one direction or the other, ebony capes flapping in their wake. And soon, I caught snatches of song—melodies that each night-voyager crooned in order to control a particular, vibrating string. Using music to coax pent-up sound waves, hurtling them onward, like ants riding an obliging snake.

Across the shadowy separation, as various night-travelers flitted past, I picked up a few, brief snatches of lyric.

“… if I only had a pulse …”

“… red, red veins, I’ll suck from you …”

“… I feel batty … oh so batty …”

Of course, I had learned the hard way, ever since arriving on this world, that my translator nanos weren’t to be trusted. Some Demmie programmer badly needed to be hunted down and … well, at minimum have his library of show tunes confiscated.

“… storm crows that hide the sun with their wings, these are a few of my favorite things!”

“… I am the very model of a modern major corpuscle …”

Ooog.

Still, at one level, I really had to hand it to these monsters, who were crisscrossing the star-flecked evening, propelled by palpable verse. It’s rare to find a community of individuals so enthusiastic to sink their teeth into their work. On the other hand, it was distracting—and frightening—to realize how many undead predators were cruising nearby, each of them on a private, predatory mission. Part of a veritable economy—or ecology—of eager parasitism.

I found my own will to sing was faltering. Soon, no amount of mental urging could bring it back. Fortunately, by that time the cable that I was riding seemed to have built its own momentum. A bulging standing-wave pushed me forward without any more apparent need for coaxing from my raw, over-used voice. Almost as if the thing could sense our destination drawing near, and a chance to get rid of my sub-standard croaking.

Whatever. Everybody’s a critic. I lapsed into silence gratefully. Thanks, Bing. Thanks, Bob and Dorothy.

Ahead, what had seemed a foreboding pyramid now revealed itself as a huge, slant-sided building that gleamed darkly, covered by a myriad panes of smoky glass, some of them dimly lit from within, revealing glimpses of an occasional, passing silhouette. Lower down, I spied several wide portals where the network of sky-wires seemed to converge. Indeed, there were cables of various sizes. Some of the thickest, coursing down by the riverside, conveyed bulbous passenger cars—evidently part of a complex public transportation system.

The far riverbank approached, and now I could glimpse a more brightly-lit zone, just beyond the great pyramid. Streets that glittered with illuminated displays and gaudy, flashing banners. Closer, right up next to my destination, there seemed to be some kind of commotion going on. A raucous crowd of noisy figures had gathered near one of the ground-level entrances, amid a tumult of shouts and low, rhythmic chanting. At first I suspected a riot … then realized that many of the figures carried signs and placards. A demonstration, then. As yet, I could not tell what the picketers were shouting.

Anyway, with one of those wide reception portals looming closer, I had other things on my mind. Preparing for arrival, I nervously gathered the collar of the black cloak that I had snatched away from Lieutenant Gala Morrell—the one-time Demmie security officer turned seductive vampire, who had tried to drain me just a little while ago, only to be foiled by one of the oldest human tricks in the book. By itself, the cloak would not make a very good disguise, especially if this giant pyramid turned out to be a stronghold of the nomort caste, the topmost variety of undead creature on this unnatural world.

Keep your mouth closed and your head down, I told myself, wishing, for once, that my teeth were pointy, like a Demmie’s. I hope the local vampires can’t smell a person’s condition. On this world, it can be a real handicap to be alive.

Now I saw shapes moving within the wide portal, as arriving figures leaped off of sky ropes while those departing latched themselves aboard and set forth into the night, bursting into song. Meanwhile, cable-cars and funiculars disgorged passengers, who passed like shadows in front of a more brightly lit chamber some distance beyond. Rhythmic, jangling sounds flowed out of the building, pulsing not only my eardrums but my very skin, setting it vibrating to a driving beat.

Get ready …

There were glaring pinpoints of light ahead, penetrating the reception chamber’s overall darkness. It made for a confusing visual maze, as I studied the visitors arriving just ahead of me, trying to copy their motions, as they prepared for touch-down. Hurriedly, I loosened the makeshift harness that held me upon the sonic cable. Would breaking the link to my battered Alliance uniform halt me in mid-air, leaving me dangling?

But the wire, as if anxious to get rid of me, gave a final hard pulse and tossed me forward. I landed hard and stumbled—

—into the arms of an immensely large figure, who loomed suddenly out of the shadows, whirled me around and set me on my unsteady feet.

“Welcome to the Golden Palace,” slurped a voice that seemed impossibly deep, even for a creature the size of six grown men.

“Make yourself at home. Please keep moving.”

Still swaying a bit, I found the courage to speak.

“But … Where …”

“Please keep moving,” the massive humanoid repeated, with more emphasis. Getting used to the sharply angled spotlights, I saw that he more than resembled a fabled ogre or troll, gnarly claws and all. Only an ogre wearing livery—a costume of rich red velour, with yellow piping. The giant pointed with a giant, meaty paw down an avenue defined by velvet ropes, toward a wide tunnel entrance underneath a glowing symbol—a gilded, fairy-tale castle with at least a dozen sparkling towers. From the wave of pulses slamming into my ears, that was apparently where the rhythmic, jangling sound was coming from.

”Please keep—”

“Moving. I get it,” I said, hurrying backward till I was stopped by the rope, then sliding along it toward the light. Anyway, more dark figures were arriving all the time, leaping off of sonic wires or stepping out of cable cars. The last thing I wanted was to call attention to myself. So I swiveled with what I hoped was a confident, Dracula-like flourish of my cape and headed for the ramp-tunnel leading into the “Golden Palace.”

* * *

The sloping tunnel was carpeted and rather ornate, lined with colorful statuary and display cases containing a melange of artifacts that no-doubt held cultural significance to the locals. Some items looked like ancient archaeological relics, while others resembled emblems or trophies As for the waxy, humanoid effigies, no doubt they were historical characters, from early, violent phases of civilization on this planet—a suspicion that seemed confirmed as I headed briskly up the long ramp. Many of them bore ancient-looking weapons, portrayed in a variety of valiant poses.

While other new arrivals hurried past me—heading up the ramp toward the Golden Palace—I slowed down, increasingly fascinated by the exhibits, wishing I had a full-scan quadcorder and could share all of this with experts aboard the Gamble. Evidently, these displays were laid out as a journey forward in time; as I moved ahead, the heroic figures carried increasingly sophisticated utensils, generally for dealing out death. Crude swords and spears gradually gave way to firearms, as technology advanced toward ever-more powerful means of destruction.

Then, abruptly, the series of martial figures gave way to a completely different class of heroes, bearing implements of another sort—tools that seemed designed for either making noise or for pounding the heck out of innocent-looking balls.

Musicians and athletes. I’m witnessing a classic shift in the heroic image, from warriors to entertainers. Typical for a civilization passing through adolescent stages sixteen and seventeen. A common sign of racial puberty.

Sure enough, in addition to music-makers and sportsmen, I passed other figures who seemed to have no other purpose than posing in as little clothing as possible. Cinema stars, fashion models, sex-symbols. Or the equivalent, here on Oxytocin 41, during their transition age.

All very illuminating. Only, something bothered me. And all at once, I realized what it was.

There are only standard-looking humanoids! I’ve seen no undead creatures or mutant varieties on display—no werewolves or trolls or zombies. Were they purposely excluded?

Or could it be that they did not exist during these earlier eras?

That suggests … that there might have occurred some kind of sudden change—

My suspicion seemed to be confirmed, just as the technology on display tipped toward Level Eighteen, the crisis level that so many promising species never survive. Suddenly, I confronted a figure dressed in what seemed to be a competition track suit, carrying some kind of baton. The mannequin stood frozen—though apparently mid-stride—in a pose of frenetic speed. Instantly you could tell that this specimen was far hairier than any of the earlier heroes. And from his hirsute jaw, there sprouted an impressive array of tusks.

Lycan-Thorpe the nanos in my left eye translated a caption below. Champion of the 5732 Games. Hero of the Movement for Nonstandard Rights.

The expression on that furry face was anything but bestial. In fact, the visage seemed to look serenely beyond his moment of personal triumph, at some inspiring vista. Perhaps a panorama of tolerance and justice, rather than paranoia. Alas, as I now knew, any optimistic vision for this world was doomed to disillusionment. I wonder if Thorpe lived to see it all come apart.

Still, this was important information. Apparently, once upon a time, the population of “normal” people must have not only been much more numerous, but also dominant. Things certainly had changed on Oxytocin. But when? And how?

While cloaked figures swept by behind me on the ramp, I moved more slowly past displays that now showed a period of adjustment. A mix of humanoid types, ranging from standard to monstrous, were portrayed interacting in complex ways, ranging from diffidence to confrontation to solidarity. There were even some dramatic poses that conveyed a sense of, well, kinky accommodation. For example, in one waxy scene, a scantily clad starlet was biting the neck of a handsome vampire, who seemed both surprised and delighted. Perhaps a scene from some holovideo that had affectionate renown on this world.

Back in better days, I thought.

“The past doesn’t interest many people.” A voice seemed to agree, interrupting my thoughts. “Few stop to look at the exhibits anymore.”

I made myself turn around slowly, faking an air of blithe confidence that I certainly lacked inside. Facing me, a slender scarecrow of a man—gaunt-looking with a bald pate that was flecked with age-spots—conveyed far more assurance than I felt.

“A pity,” I answered, in a manner that kept my mouth mostly closed, not revealing my standard-looking teeth. “Because the presentation is quite fascinating.”

The bald man seemed pleased by my interest. “Glad you like it. I am Dr. Katske. They let me act as a sort of part-time curator.” His hands shook each other in the Chinese manner as he bowed. I imitated the gesture.

“Alvin Montessori. But if no one cares, why maintain the display?” I glanced at the visitors hurrying past us in both directions. None of them seemed at all interested in the artifacts lining the passageway.

“Management keeps all of this here in order to lend the place a little class. Like a lower-billing show that still has nostalgia appeal. For those few traditionalists who recall the importance of history.”

“Hm,” I ventured. “Those who ignore the mistakes of the past—”

“—are doomed to watch them in syndication or remakes,” he finished. Apparently the aphorism was a bit different here. But close enough. We turned together to finish ascending the long ramp, toward the low, insistent, jangling sound. While my guide pointed to this or that figure of Level Eighteen prominence, I grunted and nodded, trying to give an impression that it was all very familiar. As if I were, at most, visiting from another city on the same planet. But in fact, what I really wanted was one thing in particular.

This fellow may be what passes for a scholar in this ruined culture. If I can come up with some excuse to gain access to a library, an archive, perhaps a computer network, even if it is just a vestige of the plant’s glory days, it might teach me enough to help search for the Captain … or make contact with the Clever Gamble …

While I was pondering ways to put my request, we came upon a final row of exhibits—and I saw that they were empty.

REMOVED FOR MAINTENANCE AND SERVICE, said a placard in one of the glass cases. THANKS FOR YOUR PATIENCE.

“Been that way for ages,” my companion clucked, without breaking stride, keeping our momentum up the final portion of the ramp. “In fact, you can’t blame our latter day lords for glossing over the Big Transition. Those on top seldom want to be reminded how they got there.”

It sounded like a perfect opening for my request. Only, before I could speak, Simplicio stretched one of his skeletal-thin arms.

“And here you are, at the Great Atrium, where I must leave you. May the bones roll in your favor.”

We had, indeed, arrived in an impressive expanse, even by Alliance standards; a vast opening many stories high, with sloping walls that reiterated the pyramidal motif of the massive building itself. Here, the low jangling seemed to come from many directions at once, while throngs hurried through a number of broad portals, each of them marked with flashing signage.

“If I could just bother you for one more—” I began, turning to implore a favor of the curator. But my jaw snapped shut when I saw that it was too late. He was already gone, vanished amid the host of people hurrying about.

For that matter, to my surprise, I saw that not all of those nearby were members of the “nomort” caste. I had figured this to be a stronghold of the bloodsucking undead, since the transformed Gala Morrell came from here, on her mission to dine upon me. Likewise I had seen many other undead creatures emerge from the pyramid, crossing the night propelled by song. Only, now that I was in the citadel’s heart, I saw that it drew a far more eclectic assembly. For example, a dozen shaggy members of the lican order stomped past as I watched—a cluster of muscular and be-fanged bipeds leaving puffs of drifting fur in their wake. Several of them wore pullover shirts, emblazoned with local lettering that my eye-nanos translated:

Wolf-ware!

Party Animal

My Kid Ate Your Honor Student

… and …

Looking for Loose Ghouls

Another lican, this one blatantly female, seemed on the verge of bursting out of a gothic-black, pushup style garment that proclaimed the word Booters… perhaps because of her hip-high leather footware. Or maybe the whip she carried at her narrow waist, caressing the ebony-handle with the silky fur of the back of one paw-hand. The male licans, in contrast, pounded along heavily laden with whole-butchered animal carcasses and kegs of skunky beer.

“Damn corpie strike,” one of them muttered as I stepped out of the way, trying to keep from trembling. “I didn’t pay forty cormans a night to carry my own furshlugginer luggage.”

And there were others crisscrossing the great atrium. For example, a covey of short-limbed figures stomped by, laden in chainmail and bearing double-sided axes, refused to give ground to a pair of willowy types, with flaxen hair and albino features—pointy-of-ear and smug of expression. I hadn’t seen variety like this since my last visit to an Alliance headquarters planet.

Most surprising were all the standards—normal humanoids of both sexes, sometimes accompanied by children—who crossed the busy expanse pulling wheeled suitcases, while gawking at lavish neon displays.

Casino Evil flashed one large banner above a broad entrance, accompanied by a glittering animation—a neon monkey covered both eyes, then peeked out from behind one hand, repeating the sly motion, over and over again. Underneath his swishing tail, a rotating marquee touted several entertainments.

The headline act—Pomp & Cirque Du Stance!—apparently featured scantily clad acrobats, holding each other in rigid poses. Reviewer comments deemed this “The Greatest Show Unearthed.”

Below the headliner, in smaller letters, another flashing sign blared: Also Appearing! Erica Tile performs her arousing Rigor-More Tease!

And, in still-smaller type at the bottom …

Returning from their Millennium Tour …

Penn & Teller.

I let out a sigh of realization.

Of course. Casinos. Gambling.

No wonder standards were made to feel welcome here, safe from the more overt kinds of blood-sucking that they faced back in the city. This giant emporium of excess featured a more subtle style of predation, one that had been outlawed on most civilized worlds. But it seemed quite fitting, here on Oxytocin 41.

Well, well. If this really was a truce zone—or neutral ground—then I needn’t walk in complete terror of being discovered with warm blood and a beating heart. My pulse slowed just a little.

I turned around. Apparently this giant pyramid—the Golden Palace—housed a variety of specialty establishments, each with its own overdecorated entranceway. Aside from Casino Evil, they ranged from the Bellalugosio with lavish, crimson fountains, to the retro-looking StratosFear. From Geronimo’s, featuring a gilded parachute motif, all the way to the lower-priced Motel Styx, which—despite a cadaverous-looking doorman—tried to brighten its drab portal with a cheery light over the door.

Wondering which way to go, I kept turning till at last I spotted one gateway that bore a simple logo—a shimmering, jeweled coronet—a glowing, tiara—fit to be worn by royalty. And suddenly, I recalled the words spoken by our erstwhile guide, Earl Dragonlord, the first denizen of this world that our landing party came upon, a few days ago, just after we slurried down to this strange planet.

”Come along, cousins,” he had said to Captain Olm and my other Demmie comrades, no-doubt thinking that their pointy teeth made them fellow nomorts. “Sunshine is bad enough, but we definitely should not be out by moonlight! I’ll get you appropriate clothes. Then we can go to the Crown.”

It was about the last thing I remembered, before getting jumped and separated from the others on that awful evening, when everything went suddenly wrong.

And, well, this looked like a “Crown” to me.

As I headed toward that broad entryway, I gradually realized that the throng of Standard tourists was thinning and the proportion of cape-clad individuals went up. Some establishments apparently specialized in catering to the predatory castes. So much for any opportunity to relax.

But this was where I needed to go. I straightened my posture and gathered my borrowed cloak, keeping my mouth closed in a feral scowl and hoping for a look of confidence and panache as I passed between a pair of greeters dressed in black livery with yellow trim. Bowing courteously, one of them pushed aside a paneled door for me and I had to lean forward against a fresh wave of that low, jangling sound that had been with me ever since I crossed the river.

Ahead of me stretched row upon row of ornate, garish machines, flashing and chiming while clients dropped coins and tokens into slots, or eagerly scooped up rewards that tumbled noisily into trays. Gambling devices, I realized, recognizing the basic idea from museum exhibits, back home. One-armed bandits. Robotic shears for sheep. During Earth’s wild and woolly twenty-first century, tremendous ingenuity and energy had gone into creating gadgets that could read a person’s iris dilation, flush tones, heartbeat, electrical tension and even neuronal reactions, finely tuning the rate of winning-rewards—along with sound and light—in order to condition users, keeping them transfixed, hopeful, reluctant to leave, even while their wallets lightened.

Only now, imagine it happening on a planet where predation is the rule of daily life? Something felt deeply compelling about the rhythms, drawing me toward the labyrinth of seductive, glittering lights—a seductive pull that felt eerily related to the hypnotic glitter that the undead-Demmie, Gala Morrell, had aimed at me, a while ago. Only here I was immersed, submerged in a spell cast by relentless, remorseless machinery.

A little numbly, I recalled how things went during the similar phase back in my own species history, a few centuries ago. When laws and regulation and moral appeals proved useless, it took a wave of medical interventions—mass inoculations—to overcome this commercial variant of mind-suasion. As the throbbing sensory enticement pulled at me, I couldn’t help wondering if those booster shots I had taken at the Academy were still any good.

Nearby, a fellow with slicked hair and a widow’s peak dropped coin after coin, as if hypnotized, into a machine that rewarded him with bloops and beeps and whirling flashes … and an occasional trickle of change.

Who’d have figured. Vampires and the undead … just as vulnerable to this sort of thing as the living. I guess some things transcend even life and death.

Tearing my gaze away, I turned around, trying to focus my thoughts.

Aha, that looks like a hotel front desk or information booth. Maybe I can simply ask where to find Earl Dragonlord.

It sounded risky. I had no way of knowing whether that fellow had been part of the ambush, guiding me and my comrades into a trap. And yet, I was feeling as impatient as a Demmie who had missed lunch. Sometimes the direct approach is exactly what’s called for.

I approached the desk, where several liveried clerks were checking in guests. There was a queue, so I took my place in line, behind a pair of exotic-looking vodouns and a businessvamp carrying a heavy sample case that clinked as if it held glass bottles. A dusty and travel-weary hunchback leaned against a wheeled coffin that bore decals and stickers from faraway cities. “Just a little while longer!” I heard him whisper through a crack in the sarcophagus.

One member of the the hotel staff smiled ingratiatingly, with pointy canines, at a rather vexed-looking customer. “I’m sorry about the delays with your luggage. As you may have observed, our regular crew of corpambulist servants has gone on strike. We’ll all just have to be patient with the replacements.”

It was the same at all the other check-in stations. So I shifted my weight as the line crept forward. Reading announcements on a nearby notice board, I noted (for example) that the pre-dawn Die-Chi class had been canceled on account of daylight savings time and tonight’s buffet would feature Brain Drain Special. Idly, I wondered why the menu proudly avowed that “no wine will be served.”

… when, abruptly, I felt a hand on my shoulder and sharp pressure between two of my ribs.

“Don’t make a move,” growled a gravelly voice, close behind my left ear. “I have a stake-shooter that’s aimed straight at your heart.”

“I’m … I’m not moving,” I managed to murmur, with a suddenly dry mouth.

“That’s good. Now turn to the left, slowly. Start walking toward that exit. Easy pace. Keep it natural.”

I did as I was told, making sure that none of my movements were jerky or sudden. Though I did wonder. On this world, if you shot a normal-alive person in the heart and killed him, would the same stake-propelling method work when he was undead?

I must be really, really tired, I realized, for my thoughts to wander so, in a tense situation. I had been battered, knocked unconscious (three times), harried, threatened … and now worse seemed to be in the offing.

Yet, as my captor propelled me forward with pointy jabs, I couldn’t help suddenly noticing a pair of hotel workers in drab bellboy uniforms, pushing an overloaded luggage cart nearby. They seemed clumsy and inexperienced. They also seemed to be glancing my way, I noticed. In fact, one of them even jerked her head a little, as if to draw my eye.

Sully?

I barely recognized the recently-deceased young zombie who had befriended and protected me in the Cal’mari graveyard, the evening of that haunting cemetery serenade. Now she wore coats of heavy makeup that seemed aimed at making her look more hideously postmortem, rather than less. Nearby, helping with the cart, was a male figure who—missing one eye and part of his cranium—seemed quite scabrous and at home in the role as a strike-breaking undead luggage handler.

Moulder?

Sully seemed about to say something. She mouthed a couple of words …

… but the man or creature behind me gave a hard push and I stumbled forward, moving toward the portal he had indicated, an exit that would take me out of an emporium of blood-sucking monsters, toward some place that would, presumably, be far worse.

* * *

To be continued

Comments? Complaints? Wretched-awful ideas? Send them to d_brin99@yahoo.com.

David Brin is the author of many novels and short stories.

Fish Story, Episode 6

Written by Andrew Dennis, Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Where we left matters in the last installment was a little ways up Bifrost. I was there; it actually happened. You can call me all the kinds of drunk you want, but I’d had nothing but American beer for hours, so we can rule that nonsense right out. Had I been at the Old Tom I’d be the first to hold my hand up to a charge of delirium. Riggwelter would cause me, indeed, to question my own veracity, and if it could be proven to my entire satisfaction that I’d been at the brandy, island single malt or any of the other ardent spirits I’m partial to, I’d be a very relieved man. Because it would mean none of this ever happened. Alas, while I was definitely under the influence, I wasn’t anywhere near the edges of reality and certainly not off hunting the white-eared elephant (don’t ask, or at least don’t ask me when I’m drunk. I’m apt to show you.)

Existential musings aside, the next bit was beyond the most arrantly peculiar hallucination. There was a tollbooth. On Bifrost.

Thor began patting his pockets and rummaging in the capacious nail pockets on his tool belt. “Change, change,” he murmured.

“I’ve a few nuggets,” Sheila said, brightly. I kept mum—humorous protestations notwithstanding, I don’t mind getting a few drinks in, but paying the toll on a ride I’d never have agreed to go on without being chased into it by a giant and frankly mythical serpent was a bit steep—and peered ahead at this altogether unlikely cash sieve. The usual barrier and booth was present, manned by the standard-issue elderly bloke who looked like he’d lost ten bob and found a farthing, and other time-honoured metaphors for tight-mouthed miserygutsitude.

“Very Norse, he looks,” Sheila remarked.

“Danelaw,” said Thor, shrugging. “Yorkshire. One of our cultural remnants. Side effect of being gods.”

Never one to miss a point of experimental theology, I wondered aloud how that worked. “Is this the old trope about gods existing because of belief?” I asked, after a brief, but not presently germane, disquisition on the Gnostic heresies and the works of Fritz Leiber.

“Not … quite,” Thor averred, as he finally cracked and produced coin for Heimdall, who was sat in his booth apparently enjoying the aftertaste of the multitude of lemons he’d just sucked.

“Exact change only,” Heimdall snapped. “And I’m this way because I got the Danelaw. You think I like being a mean-spirited Yorkshireman? Or, for that matter, spending eternity on stage here?”

Thor handed over change . “Give it a rest,” he said to his fellow Aesir, “rank has its privileges, and I was ahead of you and got Minnesota.”

“And can still follow the Vikings, even if they’re playing that poncey American football stuff. What’s my choice? Sheffield Wednesday or Leeds United.” Heimdall harrumphed and gave us the most peevish beady eye I, for one, have ever seen.

I shuddered in sympathy. There was a certain amount of logic to it, if by “certain amount” you mean “completely demented and insane.” The Danelaw, the north and east of England, was settled by assorted Scandihoovian nut cases—and if you think that culture didn’t survive, bear in mind that one of the most notorious football hooligan gangs was the Leeds Wrecking Crew. Which meant that a sports-minded Aesir was stuck with what was, in those days, two of the most deadly dull premiership teams to follow. Oh, certainly, Liverpool and Manchester—hack, spit—United were in the technical Danelaw, but the east side had been counter-invaded by the Celts from the other direction.

“Don’t get started on football,” Sheila snapped, this being in the days before the likes of Beckham—and their massive salaries, but that’s a darkly cynical rant for another time—got ladies interested in football.

“That’s right, don’t,” Thor said, “and it’s soccer, anyway. Girls’ game.”

Both Heimdall and I bristled. “Take a hacking in the six-yard box and say that,” Heimdall snapped.

“Right!” I said, “and no fairy armour to keep you from messing up your nails, either.” They’d tried to get American football going in the UK at about the time this was going on, to widespread derision.

“Both games for great wet wendies,” Sheila snapped. “Rugby, that’s a proper game.”

I contented myself with harrumphing. If I was going to make remarks about sports for outsize specimens with no pain centres, teeth and muscles between the ears, my voce would have to be pretty damned sotto to avoid getting my head kicked in. Besides, when it came to following sports, it was cricket first and last, for me. Now there’s a sport for people with attention spans.

Even Thor could see it was time to move swiftly on. “Quit whining,” he told Heimdall. “You could’ve gotten Swedish Lutherans. Or Danish Hippies.”

Both Aesir and I shuddered at that last.

“Who got the Norwegian Death Metal fans?” I asked, unable to resist.

“Modi and Magni,” Heimdall said, a wry smile of schadenfreude ghosting over his prune-like features. “Only consolation of being out here on Bifrost at all hours. Can’t hear that racket.”

“Don’t ask,” Thor sighed, “those boys are a disappointment in so many ways.”

I wasn’t terribly well informed on Norse mythology, beyond a vague sense that Kirk Douglas was involved somewhere, but I could recognize the sound of parental disappointment from long experience of being on the receiving end. And it wasn’t like the whole purposes of thrash metal wasn’t to piss off your dad in any event. Not hard to do with my own father, whose tastes ran to the Carpenters of all things. To this day he thinks the Beatles were a bit racy.

As our conveyance moved off, Spivey sighed loudly. “You know, you sidestepped the subject rather neatly there, big fella. You’re going to lose that reputation for lunkheadedness you worked on.”

“Since we’re headed for Asgard anyway we ought to let the old man fill them in,” Thor said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead, “You know how he hates to miss an opportunity to lecture.”

“We’re going to meet Odin?” Sheila asked, more than a hint of the fangirl creeping in to her voice. Now I thought about it, she’d seemed a tad shiny-eyed since she’d learned that she’d shared a round of drinks with Thor. One of the more elaborate tattoos was a Valkyrie, and given enough drink she’d flex her back muscles to make the horse’s wings flap while singing Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries—the Apocalypse Now tune, for those of you not paying attention at the back there. As for Sheila’s singing voice, all I can say is that Wagner has had that coming a long time.

Sheila’s sudden perkiness of manner caused me to mutter an unkind remark, which earned me a withering look. “A lady,” she said, rime-frost condensing around her, “does not ask to see anyone’s horn on first meeting, let alone Heimdall’s.”

“Lady,” said Watters, “if I took all the cheap shots …”

But he didn’t. Without looking, she straight-armed him in the side of the head. His eyes rolled up white and he slumped in his seat to trouble us no further for the rest of the journey.

“Nice,” Thor remarked.

What to say of Asgard? All of the mythological stuff was there—Gimli, plain of Idavoll, Yggdrasil clearly visible. Looking it up after, I see that it’s supposed to be the most beautiful place imaginable, but bear in mind that in Sweden “Adequate” is considered high praise. It was very nice, if you like bland. I found my self—north of England boy that I am—longing for a few Dark Satanic Mills to liven up the landscape. There’s something about a massive rectangular pile of mid-Victorian brickwork with a huge chimney stack that makes me feel right at home. And before you start scrambling teams of world-class Freudians to shoot down the remark about big chimneys, I know, alright? Mill-owners used to compete as to who had the biggest ahem chimney. There’s one still standing in Blackburn—yes, the place from the Sergeant Pepper album, and take it from me, there’s no need to count the holes, the place is one big one—with a big bulge at the top end. The owner said he was styling it to look like the Campanile of Venice, but really, there is such a thing as overdoing it.

Gladsheim looked, much as a lot of Scandinavia does, like the architect had been given a budget for nothing but concrete and light pine wood and told to knock himself out. And, indeed, concussion would probably have produced something less account for the breathtaking display of anodyne. Inside was another matter. All was dark. Bright lights illuminated a great hall with audience seating. A spotlight picked out Odin himself, at a desk. It also picked out a chair clearly meant for whoever was there for an audience with the chief of the Aesir himself. A black, leather-and-chrome, swivel chair.

I looked from the chair to Odin. If this was Nordic influence, the old boy was taking it a bit too far, I thought.

“Your name is Thor, your occupation is Aesir Section Chief, and your specialist subject …” Odin began.

“You!” I cried in astonished recognition.

“It makes perfect sense!” Sheila cried in glee.

“Dad, do we have to go through this crap?” Thor asked, wearily.

“I’ve started so I’ll finish,” Odin went on, in a style familiar to British TV viewers for twenty-five years.

I should explain. Wherever connoisseurs of TV quiz shows—not their boorish cousins, the game shows, mind, I’m talking about the serious stuff here—foregather, the recognised leader, the doyenne, the heavyweight, is the BBC’s “Mastermind.” Two minutes of questions on a chosen specialist subject—and no cop-outs were accepted in those days, there was one poltroon on last year’s series answering questions on comic-books, showing how far downhill it’s gone—and two minutes on general knowledge. The show’s format was based on Nazi POW interrogation techniques, the questions were fiendish and there were no cash prizes. Contestants competed to get on and win purely for the honour. It was hosted for twenty-five years by a piercing-eyed Icelander, name of Magnus Magnusson, who was the very antithesis of the charming, smooth game-show host. Brusque, no-nonsense and, apparently, avatar of a major Norse deity. Odin, minus the eye-patch, was the living spit of the Deadliest Quizmaster Who Ever Lived.

Or actually a Norse deity. “It all fits!” Sheila exclaimed. “All that knowledge, constantly testing the wits of mankind. I watch every show!” It was still on back then, and Odin hadn’t left the world under cover of a tragically early death.

Please, I silently prayed, not at the time wondering about the irony of offering up prayers in another religion’s notion of heaven, let her not ask for Odin’s autograph.

“Can I have—”

Me and my big mouth—

“I said,” Odin said, apparently growing testy in ways one does not want to see in a deity at close quarters, “I’ve started so I’ll finish. Two minutes on what in Asgard do you want this time, Thor?”

“The serpent is active again,” Thor said, easing himself into the contestants’ hot-seat with an air of reluctance.

“Where?”

“Los Angeles.”

“What provoked it to rise?”

“I don’t know—”

Odin cut Thor off with a glare.

Thor sighed. “Pass, but—”

“Were any of the whales involved?”

“Yes—” The familiar end-of-round beeper sounded. A little early, I thought, but perhaps time ran differently here.

“At the end of that round, Thor, you scored three points with one pass.” Odin laid down his question-cards.

Thor rolled his eyes. “Perhaps we could do this without the TV rigmarole?”

“Humour your father, eh?” Odin said, with the avuncular twinkle with which he addressed contestants between rounds. “You know it’s the only interaction I get with Midgard these days. Disguise was so much easier when I wasn’t a television personality. Autograph hunters are murder.” This last with a hairy eyeball of understandably godlike proportions in Sheila’s direction.

Thor muttered something.

“I heard that,” Odin barked, suddenly all quizmaster again, “and you know I can’t be gallivanting about doing fieldwork any more. It’s this ineffability business, it’s all the rage in theology this last millennium. A bloody nuisance, but if was pure gravy being a god everyone would want in.”

Well, I was a bit shell-shocked what with discovering that a major figure in my homeland’s mythology was also a Norse god, but I couldn’t let that one lie. “Isn’t that the wrong theology?” I asked, “I mean, the Christian god’s supposed to be ineffable, but you’ve got all manner of myths about you, and ineffability’s supposed to mean—”

I’ve been given quelling looks by all manner of folks, being as I am a forthright and outspoken sort, and the one I was getting from both of the deities present was a classic of the “shut up now” genre. Definitely more withering than the ones you get from High Court judges—and the wig gives them a certain presence in this regard, so this is no mean feat—and approaching the ones my mother dishes out. Not that I’m suggesting my mother is out of the ordinary in this regard, it’s all mothers. Prenatal classes aren’t all about how to breathe while giving birth. Apparently it takes weeks to learn how to clean a child’s face with spit and a hankie in the most embarrassing way possible.

I digress. “The correct answer,” Odin went on, “is that our shapes, identities, and what we can do in the real world is constrained by human belief and culture, and we are tied to the cultures we were first adopted by, however they grow and adapt. Which is why the boy here—” He gestured at Thor, who scowled as any grown man will. “—has to go incognito as a carpenter from the Northern Tier and I raise the standard of television when in Midgard. It makes our sponsorship of the Brotherhood difficult. I’m not going to mention what my grandsons get up to—”

“What’s Loki doing?” I had to ask.

“Writing assembly instruction leaflets for IKEA,” Sheila said.

“Correct,” Odin said.

“How did you know?” Thor asked.

“Logic,” Sheila said, “I could probably make some guesses about the rest of the Aesir and Vanir.”

“Keep them to yourself,” Thor admonished, and whatever his other divine powers, I could tell he would make an abysmal poker player. His feelings on the subject—clearly miffed—were written all over his divine countenance. I could take his point. If he’d been shaped by a culture that gave the world the Vikings, having to make do with the memes of a culture that gave the world Bjork and the Volvo would almost certainly be a let-down.

“What about Jehovah?” I asked, willing to risk another quelling look.

“Sad case,” both divinities averred, in unison, exchanging a Significant Look.

“About which nothing further,” Odin added.

I could, regrettably, guess. I averred as much, and was about to offer some speculations, when Sheila elbowed me in the ribs. Quite lightly, for her, so I was only wheezing and watching flashing lights dance across my vision for five minutes or so.

“Shut up and pay attention,” Sheila said. “We’re here to learn.”

“We’re here because a mythical sea-serpent chased us here,” I countered, realising as I said so that I had just uttered sentence that in any other context would lead my listeners to assume I’d been turning the inside of my head funny colours again. “Anything further is a bonus, and I’m not about to rule out having been hit over the head. We’re here with two Norse gods, one of whom turns out to be a TV personality. What about the eye, by the way?”

“Prosthesis,” Odin said.

“Glass eye,” Thor clarified.

There was a sudden and overpowering smell of nuts. And cheap tobacco.

“Ah, assistance comes upon us,” Odin said.

We’d left Watters in the care of Spivey in the goat-drawn cart, outside Gladsheim. Now Watters, still unconscious, was being brought in, borne between Spivey and—I rubbed my eyes.

It was still there. “How hard did you hit me?” I stage-whispered at Sheila.

“Ratatosk,” Sheila said.

“‘S me name. Don’t wear it aht, darlin’,” the squirrel said around the soggy end of a hand-rolled cigarette. That’s right, squirrel. A seven-foot-tall squirrel in a helmet. At that time I didn’t know about the squirrel who carried messages up and down the tree of Yggdrasil. This squirrel looked the part, with a leather cycle courier’s helmet, goggles pushed up on to his forehead. Apart from the deformed handmade coffin-nail he looked like—

“Don’t say it,” Thor bellowed, as soon as I opened my mouth.

The squirrel lowered his end of Watter’s snoozing form and sighed. “Firs’ fing any of the new bugs say, innit? Gerrit aht o’ your system.” At first I thought it was the effect of the rodent teeth that mad him speak so, but then I realised I was hearing as pure an Estuary English accent as ever I had heard. East End of London to be precise, and indeed that part of the world had been colonised by Saxons. Essex, the historic county of the East End in the times before Greater London was invented, meant “county of the East Saxons,” Norse-god worshipers all. And since he was a messenger, that meant the City of London. A cockney Ratatosk. Got up uncannily like Rocky The Flying Squirrel. I began to giggle. “I think I’ll have that drink now.”

All faces present immediately grew grim.

Except for the Squirrel, who sucked air through his front teeth in the dreaded reverse whistle invariably followed by “that’ll cost you” and other phrases of fell import. “You shouldn’t ort to’ve arsked that, squire,” Ratatosk said, “Gonna cost yer.”

Sheila moaned. “I should’ve remembered. Scandinavia. Dearest drinks in the world. Beer at a fiver a pint.”

I shuddered. This was getting grim. I was one potty-break from sobriety. I resolved to hold it in. If we were in drought conditions, I had to try and conserve alcohol.

Ratatosk dropped his end of Watters, and after a moment Spivey shrugged and let the rest of the insensate barman fall to the floor. “Wotcha want doin’ wiv this ‘un, chief?” the squirrel asked.

“I’ll drop him off at his own bar later,” Thor said. “The important thing is what we do about the Serpent. The Brotherhood will have to be mobilised. I think it’s codeword Bloodworm time.”

“Not that!” Spivey gasped.

“What?” Sheila and I both demanded, “Bloodworm?” I went on. I didn’t like the sounds of this. The point about bloodworm—genus Glycera, a polychaete or bristle worm sold by the pint as fishing bait—is that it is utterly and totally banned at many commercial sport fisheries. It is a scarily effective bait, many species of coarse fish absolutely loving the stuff, and it is a rare angling match that permits the things to be used. They are also, in some species, capable of inflicting a painful bite on the user.

Now, if the operation that Thor was talking about was named after Glycera for a reason, I think we had reason to worry. Effective, but unlawful and likely to bite the angler? That sounded like a strategy to view from the safety of as rear an area as could be found.

I could see that Ratatosk was looking as worried as a man-size squirrel could, rolling a new cigarette with shaking paws, concentrating furiously on his plastic pouch of malodorous tobacco and glaring at the cigarette paper. Spivey had assumed a deathly pallor. Sheila wasn’t as clued in on the implications of the code-name, but was taking her cue from the other two conscious mortals present.

“No.” Odin’s word was soft yet commanding. “The Brotherhood is entirely agreed on this, your get-a-bigger-hammer leanings notwithstanding. Bloodworm is only to be unleashed for Case Nightmare Green, and that is not even going to start until 2012 if that boffin in Edinburgh has got his sums right. We do not employ bloodworm until then, and until then that bait is banned.”

“Aw, come on, Pop,” Thor said, an unmistakable filial whine in his voice, “that guy’s first career was as a drug dealer—”

“Enough!” Odin said, quietly and firmly and as good as roaring and slamming his fist on his desk for the effect it had on Thor.

“Then what do you think we should do?” Spivey asked, relief flooding his features. He was mopping his brow with the tail-end of his still-disarrayed turban. Why he bothered with the thing I still don’t know. I’m not even sure he knew any better than I did how to tie it properly.

“We have two new recruits, and we can provide assistance. The Serpent can be subdued, and raw recruits might succeed where more experienced operators might fail.” Odin’s manner was getting more and more didactic, and I found myself reliving every moment I’d ever spent called on the carpet in the headmaster’s office. More than a few, I having been an inventively malicious youth with a taste for practical jokes and the kind of public tomfoolery that earns a spirited lad a three-way bollocking by his father, his headmaster, and a uniformed police officer. With the rank of Chief Inspector, as the high point of my juvenile offending.

“You’re relying on beginner’s luck?” Sheila asked, incredulous. Awe at being in the presence of the Aesir was clearly beginning to fade from the mind of South London’s famous tattooed Valkyrie.

“If it’s stupid but it works, it’s not stupid,” Thor said, quoting the eminent sage.

“On the whole I’d rather not be part of a reverse Murphy stunt,” I averred. I’d played minor ones, of course. Going for a tea break to cause the overdue client to arrive for his meeting, taking along a spare so the primary machine doesn’t break down, that sort of thing. Relying on the phenomenon whereby the unskilled neophyte causes experts to gnash their teeth in frustration was something I’d rather not be doing when the consequences included my own personal digestion by a giant snake.

“Nonsense,”Odin said. “Can’t fail. Besides, you’re on a mission from a god, now.”

“But it’s broad daylight and I don’t even own a pair of sunglasses.” I was looking for any excuse, and continuing a pattern that has become only too wearisome over the years, I added, “and besides, Sheila’s a girl.”

Doomed. Utterly, utterly doomed. Say what you will about the relative capabilities of the two genders of the human race, there are always and everywhere exceptions to every generalisation and far ends to every distribution curve. Sheila was the exception to the far end of the curve, and while my memory of the ensuing spittle-spewing profanity-laced rant is sketchy—sufficiently potent swearing can cause disruption of vital regions of the brain at ground zero, among its many effects in smoothing the proper operation of machinery, alleviating pain and making traffic signals change from red to green the faster—I do recall it ended with me agreeing, on pain of pain, that not only was Sheila entirely not disqualified by reason of her gender, she was probably better qualified than anyone present, deities included, and furthermore was entirely justified in taking on the mission proposed to prove this to the entire satisfaction of the universe at large and me in particular.

I’m not proud. I caved in entirely. A man may face terrible, terrible risks in the interests of country, faith, pride or beer-sodden machismo. It is a rare soul, not to say a stone-cold psychopath, who can maintain stiffness of the upper lip in the face of the absolute certainty of total obliteration. I account myself a man of my hands in the specific arena of the drunken brawl, indeed my reputation as a taproom duelist passes large among the clientele of several hostelries and the annals of the Police National Computer, but I had seen Sheila take a full-force blow with a barstool and not even flinch.

Astute and gentlemanly readers may note here that perhaps I am alluding to nights spent in the lowest of the low dives if they are the kind of place where the patrons might actually stoop to strike a lady. I am indeed, but I can assure you that anyone who, in the course of a bar fight, shows Sheila the consideration otherwise due the fairer sex is only making things worse for himself. She’ll give as good as she gets unless and until you make the mistake of waking the Feminist Militant that slumbers beneath her easygoing exterior, at which point she gives considerably better, right where it hurts. And when she’s wearing heels, that’s no laughing matter.

My capitulations and concessions only ended the tirade when I was backed against the wall of Gladsheim attempting to hide in the cracks in the panelling.

“Berserkergang,” Odin remarked, in his dispassionate way.

“All right,” Thor breathed in apparent wonder. “There’s life left in Midgard yet, eh, Pop?”

“Indeed,” Odin smiled. “It only remains to give them assistance commensurate with their talents. Next contestant, please.”

Sheila turned, panting after her exertions. Whatever demonic energy came over her drained away in an instant when we saw who was to assist us.

“We’re fucked,” I moaned.

“Magni and Modi,” Sheila said, in almost the same tone of voice.

“ROCK!” those two worthies cried, waving heavy-metal devil-horn signs in the air, their long and greasy hairdos bobbing as they headbanged their way into the room. They both struck guitar-hero poses and air-guitared briefly. I could all but hear the Wild Stallions solos. Bill and Ted, Aesir death-metal style, without the intelligence and social graces.

“Beginner’s luck and the special providence for fools is all very well,” Spivey said, “but isn’t this laying it on a bit thick?”

Reader, I despaired.

“Ve are here to drink blood and fuck chicks!” screamed Magni, or possibly Modi.

“Ve vant to burn churches and piss on ze rotting corpse of order!” cried Modi, or possibly Magni.

“You’ll listen to your grandfather and do as he tells you or I’ll tan your hides for you, you pair of disappointments,” Thor rumbled.

“Yes, Papa,” they both chorused, suddenly shuffling into contrite-schoolboy poses from the attitudes of moody menace they’d been affecting only moments before.

Metal fans to the life. At first glance, like they’re studying hard to be the main attraction in a horror show, all violence and nastiness. On closer examination, smart sensible middle-class boys who do as their dads tell them, resent it though they may. A similar phenomenon is found among the youth wings of radical organisations, and, approaching it from the other end as it were, in the statistics relating to how many children of hippy households end up serving a term in the armed forces and voting a straight conservative ticket until well into their thirties. These things get to be cliches because they’re true. And mindsets that prevalent have to affect gods, who I was rapidly learning were—whatever their other powers—canaries in the coalmine of the cultural zeitgeist. And if I was capable of thinking a thought like that with a straight face, I was clearly in need of a very strong drink.

“We’d better get back to Midgard as soon as possible,” I said. “Preferably by way of a bar. We’ll pick up leads when we’re there, eh?”

I doubt I could have made my intention to shirk any clearer. Remember, I was only a junior lawyer at that time and my skills of obfuscation and delay were not yet complete.

“Certainly,” Odin said. “Mister Spivey, see them to a churnel. Thor, take Mister Watters to a bar as you promised. I will see that you are fully briefed as soon as you’ve steadied your nerves. You have a dangerous mission ahead of you, and you must gird your livers and loins appropriately.”

Looking back, I should have taken more notice of that smug little smile on the Allfather’s face. As it was, I just wanted to get on the outside of some real beer, get trashed, and chuckle over a narrow escape through the mists of tomorrow morning’s hangover.

Besides, I was desperate for a pee.

* * *

To be continued

Eric Flint is the author of many novels and some short fiction. He has also edited a number of anthologies.

Dave Freer has written a number of novels and short stories.

Andrew Dennis has co-authored books with Eric Flint. This is the first time the three have worked together.

Common Ground

Written by Mackey Chandler

Illustrated by Mike Rooth

After years of patiently straining to catch a cosmic whisper, the first alien radio signal heard by humanity was blasted at the com dish on the International Space Station from meters away.

Sergei Vasilevich Dvoinikov had finished the official traffic for the day and was speaking with his wife when he was cut off and the speaker spewed a burst of strange tones. The pattern to the noise didn’t register the first time at all. It was odd, like somebody attempting a turkey call on a clarinet. His tour with the two Americans was making him comfortably bilingual, so he carefully grabbed the pull handle for removing the radio unit from the rack with his left hand and firmly smacked it with his right fist, repeating the magic restorative phrase—”useless piece of crap”—between each thump. When the English incantation failed, he sighed and pressed the button that would run the self-diagnostic program for the unit. In seconds it informed him that the radio and supporting systems were in perfect condition with no failures or errors despite the abuse. That left nothing to do but call Jed Yoho the American, who was not sleeping and conveniently the most experienced with electronics, to ask his help.

“Cowboy!” Sergei yelled. “Is Japanese radio. Is not supposed to bust. Help me figure out what’s wrong with friggin’ hunk of junk.” The mic was still open.

Jed’s voice came through the open hatch. “Maybe it isn’t tracking. Have you checked that the dish is pointed at a ground station, Sergei?”

“Diagnostic checks that, too. Lying piece of shit says all is well.”

“Let me pop in the observation blister. Maybe the miserable thing finally fell off.” The sounds of Jed moving around were audible through the open hatch over the steady drone of cooling fans and ventilation that never let up. Sergei gave the unit another half-hearted smack, more to pass the time than with any real hope.

Jed’s voice came loudly from the other module with a hollow ring like from the end of a great pipe. “Holy shit!”

That didn’t worry Sergei. The silence that followed did.

“You okay, Jed?” There was no reply. “Talk to me, cowboy!” He was more worried about the continued silence than any radio trouble. He twisted around on his left-handed grip and lined up for a quick jump for the hatch.

“Get me a camera, now!” Jed roared from the next module. Jed was commander, but Sergei had never heard such a tone of voice from the easygoing American. He switched objectives and instead jumped over to the equipment cabinets and withdrew a case with a Canon digital SLR. Turning it on, he pressed a button and checked the battery strength in the viewfinder. The bar showed almost a full charge.

Just then the radio put forth a fresh batch of the odd tones.

“Oh my God, that’s him on the radio!” Jed yelled, which left Sergei puzzled. Allen was sleeping and there wasn’t anyone else on board. “Turn it up, turn it up, and where’s that camera?”

“Coming,” Sergei yelled, rushing back to turn the volume up to full, then to the hatch edge to pull himself through. In the space beyond, Jed’s torso and legs dangled through the grab hold ring surrounding the observation bubble. He was stuffed into the clear bubble just short of his elbows. One arm reached down blindly with his hand spread wide anxious for the camera. Sergei pushed it into his hand and Jed pulled it up into the blister without a word of thanks. His body hanging out twisted around as Jed positioned himself and worked the camera. Sergei heard several faint beeps as the camera took still frames. Then Jed emerged and swung aside, his face still showing he was deeply shocked by something.

“Wake Allen up. Tell him to hustle. If he tries to take time for more than a piss, grab him and drag him here.”

“Yes, sir,” Sergei acknowledged, and fled for the sleeping module. If Jed was so shook up he thought both of them together could drag Allen anywhere he didn’t want to go while half awake, Sergei wasn’t about to argue. It was shear fantasy. Allen was big and fast, and grumpy when he woke up. But when Sergei shook Allen awake, it was the look on Sergei’s face that made Allen peel out of his sleep sack and hurry without argument.

Jed was still verifying he had good files in the camera when they returned. “Get in there,” he ordered, pointing at the observation bubble. “You were designated mission specialist for this contingency.”

“For what?” Allen asked, still foggy.

“Alien contact.”

Allen searched Jed’s face, and then Sergei’s, to see if it was a joke. There was no humor on Jed’s face, and a glance told him Sergei was shocked too, so he grabbed the hold ring and swung into the bubble without any more protests. Allen’s eyes focused to look for something in the distance. Instead, there was a huge mass blocking almost the entire view of the Earth. He blinked a couple times, brain working to grasp the proper perspective. The sucker was big and close. Too close to be comfortable. Rock-throwing distance. In the middle was a clear bubble a bit bigger than his own with someone looking back. He had no doubt that it was a someone not a something. The large intelligent eyes were looking back at him with interest. It looked birdlike at first glance, patterned in bright colors like a parrot. No, he thought, looking at the head—more like an owl, with both big eyes looking forward instead of on each side like a parrot. His hand come up unbidden and, abandoning all the planned protocols for first contact, he waved. In zero G you don’t wave like a dog wagging its tail. That sort of motion whips your attached body back and forth in an unpleasant reaction. Instead he held his hand palm out and wiggled all his fingers in a rippling motion. The cute sort of wave a four-year-old might do. It was stupidly dangerous. There was no telling what any gesture might mean to an alien culture. The alien held up a big but delicate hand and rotated it back and forth like a radar dish sweeping. Allen laughed out loud and got a concerned, “What’s going on?” from Jed.

“You know the funny little twisty wave the Queen does in England? The sort of wave you do to keep from hurting your wrist?”

“Yeah?”

“Our buddy does the same thing.”

“You wave back?”

“Uh, I sort of started it.”

“Nooo, Allen, you can’t do that. It could mean anything. You might have just surrendered the station or insulted his momma. We’re supposed to start with abstracts. Numbers first.”

“Jed, the instructions we got were very general. They didn’t know if an alien would be anything like us. I mean, it could have been something like a giant clam. This guy has hands and eyes. He talks and he’s symmetrical like us. We should be able to understand each other,” he insisted.

The radio gave another burst of sound. This time Allen saw the alien open its beak. It wasn’t any seed eater, that was for sure. It had the hooked powerful bill of a raptor. There were big nostrils at the back of the beak, with a slight ridge around the openings and a ring of fluffy fur or feathers around the base that looked soft, and another big ruff of contrasting feathers ringed the neck like a collar. His blast of sound getting no response, the alien started repeating back what Sergei had transmitted unthinking on the radio, unaware it had been listening—”useless piece of crap”—then it visibly strained, beak opening wide, to do a passable imitation of a fist smacking into the radio housing. It was clearly coming from the alien’s beak, but it sounded like a recording.

“Uh-oh. This is going to get really confusing if we don’t straighten it out fast,” the big American muttered. Allen held both hands up flat and interrupted: “Wait!” The alien stopped and blinked solemnly at him.

Allen pointed at himself. “Allen,” he said. Would the alien understand?

The alien pointed across at him. “Allen,” it said with Allen’s exact voice and inflection. It was clearly speaking, his beak moving, not a recording. The creature was a perfect mimic.

“This is too easy,” he mumbled. The alien cocked his head.

“Finger,” Allen continued, holding his right index finger up. Then he turned his hand around hiding his thumb and wiggled all his fingers. “Fingers.”

The alien started to lift a hand and seemed to think better of it.

Allen made a fist and wiggled a solitary thumb. “Thumb.”

The alien curled its three fingers down on a palm and extended a hand, wiggling a thumb on either side of the single hand.

“Thumbsss,” it declared, clearly excited. A collar of yellow swelled against the green body. There were bits of blue and red around the head, too. The big eyes were bright with other mixed colors.

“Thumbs,” Allen agreed, waving both of his.

“You can’t just take it upon yourself to do a first contact without any help,” Jed protested from outside the dome, tugging on Allen’s ankle. “We have a procedures manual you’re supposed to follow and the first thing is to contact control.”

“I have a big-assed starship right in front of my dish blocking me from asking for any help. What do you want me to do? Wave him away? Tell him to move it or get a parking ticket?”

Jed sighed. “I’ll get my laptop and keep track of what you’re doing.” By the time Jed came back with Sergei, they had gone beyond one finger, two fingers, and the alien held up three fingers in anticipation of the next numeral. After that it just held up one more digit in succession until Allen had counted off ten for it.

The alien held up a thumb. “Thumb.”

“Thumb,” Allen agreed, lifting one of his.

“Finger,” the alien spoke like a challenge, holding the thumb out again. Allen felt a thrill at the brilliant ploy. It was a deliberate error, he was sure.

“No,” he refuted, lifting a thumb and naming it.

“Thumb.” The alien changed its statement, holding the correct one up this time.

“Yes, thumb.”

“Finger,” it tested, holding a single middle digit up. It gave a whole new meaning to being flipped the bird.

“Yes,” Allen agreed without elaboration.

“Finger,” the alien asserted, holding up a thumb.

“No,” Allen corrected, waiting for it to expand on the idea.

“No finger?” asked the alien, holding up a thumb.

”Not finger,” Allen explained holding up a thumb. “Is finger,” he added holding up the proper digit.

This progressed until Allen put his hands up again and went back to the first word the alien should know: “Wait,” and held very still for a moment. Then he ducked out and discovered Jed and Sergei sharing a laptop and a take-hold strap. They had a voice recognition program running and a vocabulary list in another window.

“I want you both to introduce yourselves. Just point at yourself and say your name. It might think Allen is our word for human.”

At a gesture from his commander, Sergei went first and told his name. He hesitated, trying to engrave the sight of the alien in his memory, but he knew he wasn’t the right person to be giving it English lessons, so he ducked back out and deferred to Jed.

After Jed named himself, the alien pointed at itself and let out a warble that sounded like a cell phone ringing. Jed ducked his head down and asked Allen, “Get me my micro-recorder off my desk, will you?”

The alien was fairly patient, just cocking it’s head now and then while they waited. When Allen returned he pressed the small recorder into Jed’s hand. The commander cleared it to use, finger poised to start it recording.

“Jed,” he reminded the alien, pointing at himself. Then he pointed across at the other and hit Record. The alien pointed at itself and repeated the warble.

Jed hit Stop and held the recorder up, making sure the volume was turned up. He pointed to the alien and pressed Play. The machine repeated the warble. The beak opened and then closed without a sound. Then the big eyes blinked twice. “Yes,” it agreed. “Wait,” it added with the appropriate gesture. When he returned he had a laptop computer that could have been from Radio Shack if the keys had only been a bit bigger and fewer. He stuck a finger in his beak, wiping it on the end of a small cylinder and pressing the cylinder on the inside of his clear bubble. It stuck. With a little fiddling he soon had a video feed of himself on the screen from the little camera.

“Guys, pass the laptop up. You won’t believe this shit, but he has one over there that looks so much like ours it’s scary. If it had a Toshiba logo on it, you’d never look at it twice.”

The laptop was a tight fit. He didn’t have as much room in his bubble as the alien, and he suspected Allen couldn’t have fit with the computer. When he got the computer up where it could be seen, the alien got visibly excited. Jamming his head against the dome, he finally managed to get the computer open with the screen tucked under his chin and the corners against the clear dome. Reaching in awkwardly from the side, he got the cam above the screen activated When the picture facing him showed his ship and his own image looking back at him, the alien used more of its own speech. It pointed at its screen and then back across at the humans.

“I think it wants to send us video,” Jed called out to his mates. “Can you scan and see if it’s transmitting anything that might be video?”

“Why don’t you turn the wireless on?” Allen suggested. “Maybe it could detect that.”

“Come on. What are the chances it’d have a compatible system?” Jed asked.

“Hey, if its people have a lot of experience at meeting strangers, the computer might be set up to scan and configure itself. But hold on a minute until Sergei shuts off the wireless node on our onboard system. I’d let it in the laptop’s files, but I sure as hell don’t want it messing with our environmental or attitude controls. Crap, I don’t even want it snooping through my e-mails. Bad enough Houston can look at ‘em.”

“Okay,” Sergei called from the connector. “I pulled network card to be sure. Go ahead and fire her up, Jed.”

Jed folded the computer shut and struggled to turn it around for the alien to see the screen. It was tight against his chest and he had to reach in from the sides to peck with a single finger at the keyboard and mouse. He clicked on the network icon and activated the wireless. It showed a dead connection. He looked over the top of the screen, wondering if the alien would understand he was being invited to make a connection. The alien made the gesture for “wait”. About thirty seconds went by and the icon came up on the screen showing they had a connection. It was slow, just a gig a second, but data was flowing in steadily. A cartoon figure very much like their visitor appeared on screen and started to go quickly through the words they had already established. The real visitor in the other bubble seemed satisfied with its cartoon version taking over and withdrew from the dome into his ship. “Well, that was easy,” Jed told his shipmates.

Jed backed out of the bubble, joining Allen and Sergei with the laptop, but stayed right under the dome, scared he’d lose the signal. “It went back into its ship. I wish I had enough words to ask it to move it out of the way. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking to his avatar here,” he gestured at the screen, “until we can. It may take a while, so I think we should get back into a routine covering our essential duties and keep one of us working with the computer.” Jed was commander, so his assessment was more than a suggestion. “Allen, you lost the last bit of your sleep period. Do you need more to function, or can I send Sergei off to sleep?”

“I couldn’t sleep unless you knocked me out. I’m up for taking a turn at the computer if you’ll let me.”

“Fine, and I’ll get some pix of the ship out there. As much as I can, without going EV. Then I have some environmental maintenance that shouldn’t wait. You call us if anything really scary comes up in this program.”

“Like what?”

“Well, if it wants us to surrender Earth to the Galactic Union or something. Anything involving it coming on board or moving the station. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Allen replied with unusual formality.

Halfway through the work shift, the computer started interrupting the training program with questions about English words and phrases from radio and television. It was obviously multitasking, sampling all sorts of transmissions from Earth below to understand words and phrases. Some of the samples it asked about sounded suspiciously like cell phone intercepts. The questions kept getting more reasonable and detailed with unbelievable rapidity. By the end of the shift it was attempting slang and asking questions about regional dialects and use of foreign words. At some point the alien program stopped using their voices; Allen hadn’t noticed right away. When Jed came back, Allen was exhausted and happy to have him take over. Right away the program asked, “Y’all from da South, ain’t ya, cracker?” Allen then had to detail the depth of differences both linguistic and cultural between the Southwest and the Deep South.

With the conversation getting very extemporaneous, and the number of stops to clarify meanings much fewer, Jed made something clear.

“You know, I don’t mean to offend, but it’s impossible for us to say your name. I mean, there might be somebody on Earth who’s really good at bird calls and can copy it, because that’s what it sounds like, but the average human doesn’t stand a chance of making a sound like that.”

“Yes, I figured that out as soon as you used a recorder instead of repeating back from your own beak, er … mouth, that is. I’d be happy to give you a database of our language, but I’m guessing the only way you’ll ever speak it is using a computer to translate for you. Why don’t you just call me George? And when you say anything to me, figure you are talking to the alien not the computer program. For all practical purposes that’s true. George seems to be a fairly innocuous name that doesn’t carry any negative thoughts. I don’t see it being used as a joke or a curse on the net or in broadcast right now.”

“Oh, you got online okay from orbit? Gee, there’s a lot of crap there that might be real confusing to you. I see some sites while surfing that look like they were made by another species instead of humans. How’d you hack in? Off satellite?”

“No, I put a drone down and am online with free public wireless in Ann Arbor. I understand hacking in is frowned upon. No point pissing somebody off before I even set talon on the planet. So now I’m GeorgeA@Michtel.com. I applied for a bank account online. When my MasterCard comes I’m going to pay for more bandwidth than the free pipe.”

“Your MasterCard? You’re really adapting quickly. What did you do for a Social Security Number? And, uh—where are you having it sent? We don’t get mail delivery up here—very often.”

“It’s going to George Alien. I thought about sending it to a homeless shelter but worried that might look bad. I hope you don’t mind. I had it sent to your address. You were in the white pages and Sergei and Allen weren’t. You’ll have to help me make a deposit and activate the account. The Social Security number I got from a website that helps people from the Mexican nation adopt to living in your country. There was a whole list of usable numbers. Do you think that will work okay?” When Jed didn’t reply for a while, George sounded worried. “I didn’t insult you somehow, did I?”

“That’s okay. What the hell, why not, George?” Allen decided the complexities of illegal immigrants and green cards were more than he wanted to explain right now. At the rate George was drinking in data, he’d figure it out himself within a few days. “My vet thinks it’s cute to send his bill out in my dog’s name, so now I get credit card offers addressed to my terrier. I guess there’s room in the mailbox for you, too. I’ll warn you, though, you can’t get rid of these people once they start sending you garbage. Wait and see.”

“Well, when I go down I really would appreciate some help dealing with things. I’m also going to have to go to the courthouse to register a DBA, or form a corporation. That’s a real strange concept to me. I see a lot of places I want to visit. You know—play the tourist a bit. Were any of you planning on going down to the planet soon?”

“Well, no. We were going to be up here another four months or so. They don’t have a supply and crew launch scheduled before then. But I imagine you showing up is going to change things. There’s going to be a lot of excitement about your visit, you know. That brings up something we have been waiting to ask you. You’re parked right in front of our antennas, and they are probably going nuts down below not hearing from us. Do you think we could keep this link active, but maybe scoot your ship out of the way a tad, so we could talk to our people? We’re going to have to do that if we’re to arrange a visit like you’re asking. If we stay out of contact too long, some of the idiots down below may think something bad is going on.”

“I’m glad that won’t be a surprise. I’m monitoring the traffic, and they already are getting a little excited down there. They’ve seen my ship with telescopes, and some of their conclusions are just crazy. I was hoping we could do a conference call and you guys could introduce me and let them know I haven’t eaten anyone or implanted brain-devouring parasites in your bodies. If maybe one of you would volunteer to go down with me, I’d be happy to pay you to be my guide. I can tell you how to make some neat stuff worth a lot of your money. I think the phrase is ‘you’d be set.’ I can run you down and lift a new crew on my shuttle if you’re not ready to bring one up. I’ve got an empty shuttle hold big enough to lift one of your spaceships, if you’d like.”

“That’s really nice, but the way our rules work it will be very hard for us personally to profit from meeting you. It would be considered part of our job—our duty as officers in our service. I’m not even sure they will want to allow you to just wander around out in public. They may be scared that you’ll have some disease that will spread. For that matter, aren’t you afraid you might catch something of ours?”

“Jed, give me some credit for not being stupid. I’ve visited dozens of worlds and met lots of aliens. You’d stand a better chance of trading disease with a lobster. If they get all huffy about it, we’ll just tell them we’ll ask the Swiss if I can visit there. From what I’ve been reading, they seem like a very practical people. I need to stock up on some things before I leave and it doesn’t really matter where I buy them. I’d have thought since your people had the only station in orbit you’d be more—progressive. But the offer still stands to be my tour guide even if I have to deal with somebody other than the Americans. I’d hate to take another day or two to learn German or French. Wouldn’t you consider working for me if I can offer opportunities your current position can’t?”

“Okay, George, let me talk it over with Allen and Sergei. Sergei is Russian, you know. There are other partners besides Americans in this station, but he probably won’t recommend dealing with Russians. It can get complicated traveling there, even for a simple foreigner. Allen is married with kids, so he might pass on showing you around. Just being up here is a difficult separation from his family. I’m single and wouldn’t have any problem having you as a houseguest if you don’t need some fancy environmental stuff. I won’t even worry if you ruin the carpets.”

“Are you scared I’ll frighten his kids? I’ve seen your cartoons. I mean, how threatening can I be next to those monsters or a purple dinosaur? I’m much prettier colors,” he insisted, fluffing the ruff of yellow around his neck.

* * *

The computer screen at NASA-Houston showed a conference call, the three astronauts on one side and the feathered alien on the other. The screen at the space station displayed the alien on one side and the head of NASA, Bernard Sepulveda, on the other. Nobody called him Bernie. He usually insisted on being called Doctor Sepulveda. He didn’t look happy.

“How do you come to speak English, Mr. George?”

“Just George. We don’t do mister. I guess you could call me Mr. Alien, if you must. Your—” he hesitated, “—associates here have coached me for almost two full days. And I have a very versatile computer that could talk with them and listen to a number of radio sources and compare everything and assemble a vocabulary and grammar and feed it to me. I haven’t memorized most of the words yet. When we talk the computer runs ahead, whispering in my ear, making suggestions and correcting me after I speak. That’s even though my brain is wired, as I have read you people say as a metaphor, to remember sounds. No biggie. You have your own talents. I have mine. Your language is fairly straightforward. Although it about drove me ape-shit batty that you say eleven, twelve, thirteen, instead of ten-one, ten-two, ten-three, or even tensy-one, tensy-two, ya know? It’s a wonder your youth will accept it without rebelling.”

“Oh, they rebel sure enough, but they tend to favor other causes.” Jed grinned.

“I’m sure we’ll have many quirks and customs that will amuse you,” Bernard agreed, grinding his teeth. It was obvious he didn’t like George very much, or Jed for that matter. “I don’t believe anyone can learn a language in a couple of days. You must have been listening much longer. But leaving aside why you’d deceive us about that for other agencies to pursue, right now let’s consider your status as a visitor. I’ve consulted with my counterpoint administrator at Citizenship and Naturalization, and we are both confident that all the rules and legal provisions already exist to properly handle your case. Once you appear before a court and seek entry, we’ll start processing your plea to have your political entity recognized for visa application purposes. That is, assuming you aren’t seeking refugee status?” Getting no response, he hurried along. “Considering the biological isolation problems, we can do that by a video link. We used to release aliens whose status was undetermined pending a hearing, but that had so many problems we discontinued the practice. In your case that seems especially prudent given the public health questions your unique status brings to the table. We’ll require you remain in Level Five isolation in a remote area, with a very limited number of volunteers having contact. However the President has expressed an interest in having a video conference with you once we have clear communications with no danger of misunderstandings or cultural offense. Most of the people aware of you are not yet appraised of your facility with languages.” He smiled, a wry little disbelieving smile. “Once we have a full workup of biologicals and allergy hazards, both ways, we can consider allowing you contact with various academics and researchers who have an interest.”

“Take me to your leader,” George deadpanned.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have no further wish to converse with you, Sepulveda. It’s obvious you are a maladjusted bureaucratic asshole. You’re already offensive with your smug conviction that I’ve lied to you. All I really want from you now is to connect me to President Rice. If she won’t agree to treat me like a tourist instead of a lab specimen, and a disease vector, maybe the Swiss will welcome me. I’m starting to see why this quaint little planet isn’t a famous tourist destination surrounded by clouds of spaceships dropping happy vacationers off. I’m guessing your sort would welcome us with a huge orbital parking fee and a full body cavity search on landing to make sure we don’t have any Nova bombs.”

“You can call her yourself since you’re so sure of our culture and language after two days,” Sepulveda raged, with his face bright red. “I’ll resign my position and go to the press before I’ll be responsible for you spreading plague among the population.” He shared his glare with the astronauts’ and paused as if he expected an argument. “Besides questionable motives, it’s obvious your kind have no concept of public order and proper decorum.” He reached forward and stabbed the connection off.

“Was that last part directed to you or me?” Jed asked. Everybody shrugged, even George.

“Is there really such a thing as a Nova bomb?” Allen asked.

“Shit, yeah. Heinlein wrote about them in Starship Troopers—would I make something like that up?” George sounded offended. “Hey, you guys have Rice’s number?”

* * *

Within six hours they were sitting with the President. Whatever other qualities she lacked, decisiveness was not one of them. Their meeting was going so smoothly, President Rice felt free to offer, “If you’ll be here long enough, I’d love to have a State Dinner for you.” She seemed to mean it, not as a duty, but looking forward to it. Sepulveda would have choked to hear that.

George’s landing shuttle was sitting at Andrews, and he’d promised to run a new crew up to the station after meeting the President. Leaving the station crewless for a few hours without an elaborate shutdown had NASA sweating, but a direct order from the President had ended that controversy. If the Russians wanted another astronaut to go up with them, they’d better hustle.

Sergei’s inclusion tonight had already upset both White House security and the Russians, who had expected he would return home directly. He had made clear he now had other plans. President Rice seemed totally unconcerned about anyone who wanted to be upset. “That includes you three,” she made clear to the astronauts upon her decisive invitation. On the way down, Jed had pictured them all seated in the Oval Office. Instead they were all in a much more intimate setting, in the private quarters, on comfortable upholstered seats surrounding a low table with a coffee service. He knew for sure that was special, because when Rice had informed the staff to serve them upstairs, after greeting them in the public rooms, here three pairs of eyebrows had climbed in genuine surprise. It was better than good—it was vindication when they’d wondered if their careers were ruined.

George was wearing a big pair of slightly tinted glasses like computer gamer spex. Instead of looking bizarre, it somehow made him seem less alien. He was a fellow artifact user. He handled a cup and saucer like a pro, which was very interesting with a beak. The alien’s lower body was more massive than they had expected, tapering out in a counter balance that suggested he would be a strong runner. The legs were not the bare thin form of a modern bird, but more like movies had depicted for a Velociraptor.

“As long as you don’t want me dressed in Colonel Sander’s secret recipe,” George joked. “I’ve already been roasted once today.”

The President stopped smiling and frowned. “What am I going to do about that man?” she asked seriously. When President Rice frowned with those electric eyes, even George showed signs of discomfort. Please don’t do anything for me,” George urged her. “If you start firing people who offend me, then we’ll be creating a group of people who hate me and perhaps have a grudge against my people if more should happen along. One thing my people are pretty good at, besides remembering sounds, is getting along. And I’m sure the less I stick my beak in your business, the better we’ll get along. Honestly, your system put Sepulveda there. If you put his number two man in his job, isn’t it just a crap shoot whether the guy will be any better? You don’t really have time to get to know the fellow, do you? I mean, for one agency head you couldn’t invite him to hang around you for weeks or months and really get to know what he’s like, could you?”

“God, no. There aren’t enough hours in the day. I’d never get through interviewing all the agency heads before my term was over. Nothing would ever get done. Is that what your people do?” she asked perceptively. “Do all your executives know their subordinates intimately? Are you birdlike by being flock creatures, too?”

George made a little squawk, which he turned into a laugh. “No, we’re more like hawks. Territorial, and given to enjoying solitude like I am, traveling alone now. But all sapients share certain basic qualities we don’t see vary much. Especially bisexual ones. I—uh, guess I haven’t mentioned that. I’m male, otherwise I’d be Georgette or something. Anyway, we’re so solitary we didn’t develop big organizations until we developed com. And when we have a team running something, we tend to hire a whole team that has been together for a long time. We rarely assemble a new team for something important. And we’d consider four years not long enough to tell if they were going to do a decent job or not. If we had a team running a company or a mine, or designing software, we’d give them the equivalent of twenty of your years before we started bugging them about a performance review.”

The President’s eyes jerked wider. “Then you live a hell of a lot longer than us.”

“Damn, I can see how you got your job,” George admitted. “You jump way ahead from a datum. I was going to tell you, but I didn’t want to quite yet.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing that’s all you’re really going to want to talk about now, until you’re sure you know enough to master the technology—right?”

The President looked like she wanted to deny it, but then dropped the innocent face and admitted, “Yeah, but wouldn’t you do the same?”

“Probably. Anybody with a brain would. So you get some researchers, your best guys who know both nuclear and mitochondrial DNA as much as anybody does on this world, and I’ll spend a couple days talking to them. I can tell them enough in one day that they could piece it out themselves from there. But in another day I can show them the how-to. It’s going to be a matter of making the tools to make the tools you need. You’re still pretty far away from the big facts you need, so don’t think it’s going to happen in a week. I’m guessing you’re another seventy or eighty years from when you would see clearly which development road to take if you didn’t get any help.”

“We’re that close? That’s not bad. It could have been thousands of years. How much more are we talking about? How long can other races like us live?” Allen asked.

“Other races with mitochondria and similar intercellular bodies, like me, anywhere from five hundred to a couple thousand years. Races with only nuclear DNA, a lot longer. Races that don’t use DNA, and there are a few, tend to be so strange that we can’t talk with them anyhow. There’s one race we know lived thousands of years before they got any bio-tech. Now we’re still waiting to see how long they live with artificial help. If you count being a slug going up and down a giant tree a zillion times as living. I wanted to wait to speak to you about this because no matter how hard you try this is going to be a major disruption. It’s going to screw up your economy as people panic and run around trying to dump old investments they figure will do poorly and pump money into harebrained schemes they hope will work. There will probably be some nuts that refuse it on principle, maybe even some wackos who’ll try to kill off people using the tech. I’d have rather been well on my way before you started to even talk about it.”

“How old are you?” President Rice asked pointedly.

“Allowing for all kinds of adjustments for star flight, about twelve hundred years on my own clock.”

“Wow, you’ve seen so much then… .” Sergei seemed awestruck.

George gave a human snort of derision. “As if you don’t see the same things over and over again. Anyway, how accurately do you remember when you were twelve? How much do you remember that isn’t clouded by what you have thought in the last couple of years? We have had some races who learned to store memories and then in a few centuries play them back to refresh what was forgotten. The service is never popular. You don’t want to go back and have to relive with fresh horror the cruelty of hatchlings and how damn green you were as you were growing up. Plenty of things are better remembered in a haze of time distance. Growing old is not for looking back; its advantage is you can keep looking forward. You get another chance to get it right.”

The audience, and that’s how they all felt about meeting President Rice, wound down and promises were made. Rice finally asked about sharing information about the motive power of his ship and George casually informed her that he’d promised that secret to Jed as payment for being his tour guide, as well as minor gifts to the other two astronauts for their help.

“He tells me he’ll have to resign to do this, but he figures if he’s selling starship drives he can get back into space on his own.”

That stunned her. She’d been steeling herself, willing to pay anything he could name as a price, and the human race was getting it almost as a tip. Nothing Jed would charge as a businessman could compare to what George could have demanded. George had a written finding from her to go in public at his own risk, and security from her own people to draw on when he wanted. There was a huge list of scholars and businessmen, religious leaders and plain interested citizens who wanted to chat with him or sell him something. More than he could ever talk to if he spent years on Earth, but he indicated he wanted to leave in weeks.

At the end, President Rice shook their hands and let the guards show them out. In the hall George quietly informed the guards that he wanted to use the restroom. That produced a quick little conference, with a lot of appraising glances. Especially gauging his overhang in the rear. “The Truman bathroom?” one muttered. “No, the one with the bidet!” a marine guard insisted, pleased with himself. The humans waited while they hustled George down the hall. It was one of the strangest problems ever thrown at the staff. They left the White House in a Hummer with darkened windows and watched the reporters swarm over the limo behind that they seemed to be escorting. Jed noticed George had learned to roll his eyes as an expression from President Rice. He was well suited to it.

* * *

Four days later they were at Jed’s home in New Mexico. Three generations back it had been a ranch house, but the land wasn’t able to support them in a modern economy. Now his family kept the land while seeking other careers. The property was edged with a ten-foot chain-link fence with razor wire on top. That had cost more than his five generations removed grandfather had paid for the land. Electronic sensors told them of any attempted trespass. The fence was a necessity given liability case law, because empty land was an attractive nuisance, and only fenced in could Jed freely stock and hunt on his own land and make some money off various lease arrangements. The fence made it easy for a Secret Service helicopter to patrol the area, and they had a very low signature platform that could not be heard at the house. At least, he couldn’t hear it. George could when they were outside. Jed left his dog at the kennel, worried how he’d react to a four-hundred-pound bird. He wasn’t the friendliest dog.

But they didn’t hole up there. George went into town with him to get groceries, the house having been empty for months, riding in the pickup bed because the cab was unbearably cramped. His legs bent the wrong way at the wrong distances, and his head ended up almost against the windshield. He enjoyed riding with his head poked through the sliding window so they could talk, and he kept up a barrage of questions as he net-surfed through his ship with his computer link spex. Yet he had questions about the land, too, as they drove along. George seemed to multitask like that well.

The Secret Service liaison told George he was nuts to not send them out for supplies, but didn’t try to stop him. He didn’t think it was any of their business that they’d be visiting Jed’s lawyer also. There was the business deal between them to work out and things George needed done for himself. The idea of power of attorney was a powerful new tool George wanted to introduce at home.

It was a small town and Jed wore his big pistol ‘open carry’, as permited by state law . Many of the three hundred residents were independent rustics, an increasingly rare breed. They minded their own business to the point of nodding hello as if you didn’t have a huge taloned alien walking with you, or politely asking your friend’s acquaintance while ignoring the unimportant detail he had feathers. That’s not to say a few eyebrows didn’t nearly climb under their owner’s hat.

The wave of excitement they generated in the store, with children pointing open mouthed, was so entertaining they decided to have lunch in town. The local restaurant had a lunch counter and George was comfortable leaning on a stool while Jed sat. Jed got a cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate malt. George knew already that a burgers, fries, and coffee were safe, and ordered doubles. Regardless of previous experience, he used what looked like a diabetic’s testing machine to sample everything. Then, curious, he dipped the probe in the edge of Jed’s malt. The tester flashed a blue light and buzzed.

“I take it that’s a ‘no’?”

“Well,” he said, reading the tiny screen, “it probably wouldn’t kill me. But for sure you’d have to hose out the back of the pickup when we got home and keep me out on the porch for a couple days.”

“Keep that in mind if you ever need medicine to get things moving.”

“No thanks, we have medicines with a much more measured response.”

They were on the end of the counter, and somehow, without them seeing him approach, there was a boy of perhaps eight or nine years standing staring at George with wide eyes. Jed had never before seen George twitch with surprise, but then he’d never seen anyone manage to sneak up on him either.

“Sorry, sir.” The little fellow apologized when he realized he’d startled the big alien. He was in very worn jeans with empty belt loops, tennis shoes, and a faded plaid shirt with a white triangle of undershirt at the neck. His face and hair identified him as Native American, and he stood about eye to eye with Jed seated, which meant he still had to look up at George.

“Humph, you’re awfully quiet, you know that?” George asked.

“Yes, sir. My grandpa takes me hunting and he’d send me home if I scared things off.”

“Well, you could have bagged me.”

The boy opened his mouth like he wanted to object, and hesitated. “May I touch you?” the boy asked instead.

“Bobby, come away and stop pestering that, uh … man,” the waitress scolded him.

“I don’t mind,” George assured her. “The little ones are refreshing. See? I’m real,” George showed him, taking Bobby’s small hand in his big one. The boy grasped with both hands, feeling first the fingers and then squeezing the middle of a thumb until a black talon popped out involuntarily. Jed hadn’t seen that before. He wasn’t sure if anyone had. The boy reached up clear to the root of George’s beak where his spex perched and ran a hand down the beak fearlessly. If George was getting a bit uncomfortable at the close examination, he didn’t protest. He’d asked for it, after all. He’d only balked at two things so far, giving biological samples and telling how to find his home world.

The kid sank fingers into the yellow ruff around his neck feeling the feathers. George returned the favor, amused, tousling the boy’s black hair. When Bobby stepped back, there was a wisp of yellow on the floor. He scooped it up delighted and dashed out the door nimble as a deer before anybody could spoil his find.

“Somebody will give him a million bucks for that if they see it,” Jed predicted. “I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“It’s not that I have any big secrets, it’s just if I start giving blood and tissue and feathers to the biologists, the ghouls will have me bald and half bled to death in a week. Him, though—he means no harm at all. I like kids. I hope nobody takes it away from him.”

“Nobody here will tell,” the waitress told him, refilling his coffee. By her dark looks she might be related. More of an age for a sister than mother. “But one thing I can tell you for sure, he’s going to be insufferable,” she predicted, shaking her head at the thought of it. “He’ll be showing all the other kids he’s got an actual Thunderbird feather.”

By the time they went to the truck, word had spread already. A few youngsters peeked at him around corners. When George waved they ran away. He seemed to think it was funny. None were as bold as Bobby; he should have celebrity status among his peers if he played his cards right.

* * *

The next morning Jed got up, and as usual George was awake. He didn’t seem to sleep much and he’d made a pot of coffee already. Of course if Jed drank that much coffee, he wouldn’t sleep much either. George was rooting around in the fridge. He had a big handful of habanero peppers and was eating them without cutting the stems off. Jed reflected it was too bad he wouldn’t be here for the chili cook-off in the fall.

“Okay, I’ll cook a real breakfast now,” Jed announced. “A mushroom omelet with hash browns and my world-famous blue cornmeal pancakes with genuine maple syrup.” George seemed to be able to pack in about three times as much food as Jed.

“Sounds good.” George got out of the way and perched on a stool. Jed laid out the things on the stone-topped kitchen island and rolled a mushroom across to the alien. “Try that and make sure it’s not going to kill you,” he asked.

George ran it past the tester then tossed it the air, scooping it up in his beak with a snap. “Interesting flavor.”

Jed dropped some butter in the pan, sloshed a dash of milk in a mixing bowl. “I’d like to go for a walk and maybe shoot a few jack rabbits today,” he suggested to George. He pulled an egg out of the carton and cracked it across the edge of the bowl.

George made a noise Jed hadn’t heard yet and ran down to the end of the work counter. He grabbed the tall plastic waste can and, bending, jammed his head in clear past the yellow ruff, making just about the same sound Jed would have made doing the same.

“Hey, hey, hey, buddy. Get that bad stuff out. You need any help? You gonna be okay? I guess we can skip the mushrooms. Your little machine didn’t catch that one, huh?”

George retrieved his coffee and washed his maw out, spitting it in the trashcan, too. “No, the mushrooms are fine. It was these,” he explained, resting a hand gently on the eggs. “The image …” He shuddered.

“Oh, shit. I never thought. It must look as bad as a roasted baby on a platter would to me.”

“Not your fault,” George insisted. “I am a rational being. I know these are not”—he warbled a word of his own—”people.”

“Yeah, sure you do—you should see the look on your face. I think we’ll skip the omelet and go right to the pancakes. I’ll cook up some hot sausage patties, too.”

“You shouldn’t be able to read the expressions on my face. It takes a great deal of time, or being raised around the other race, to have such an understanding.”

“Well, maybe something subtle. But I know unreserved horror when I see it.”

“Pancakes do sound—better.”

* * *

After breakfast they walked outside. Jed had his pistol and carried a box of extra cartridges in case George wanted to try it. George had his spex on again, but tinted darker. Jed picked the radio off his belt and squeezed it to talk to the Secret Service.

“George and I are going to walk north. We’re going to plink a bit and maybe shoot a rabbit or two. Don’t freak out when you hear shots.” He waited for the acknowledgment, then clipped the radio back on his belt.

“Watch out for rattlers,” Jed warned. “You know what they look like?”

“I’m accessing it on the net right now,” George said, tapping his glasses to explain their function. “It’s not as easy to read as a screen, but the portability is great.”

“You gotta be careful stepping over rocks or logs where you can’t see where you’re putting your foot down. Rattlers have a venom they inject. Don’t know what it would do to you, but it will make me real sick or even kill me.”

“This is something many people stop doing when they realize they can live for a thousand years.”

“What? Walking around where there might be rattlers?”

“Taking chances. They stay at home, don’t go out in a car or plane because it might crash. Don’t go where they can’t get to medical help within minutes. Have a cellar to duck into for storms or whatever. Reduce risk every way possible.”

“What about you?” Jed asked. “Flying between stars and stopping to hobnob with crazy violent natives. Doesn’t sound like any way to make it to your second millennium to me.” He stopped at a clump of bushes and gave a half-hearted kick at the base. Most of the ground was visible with single small bushes and clumps of low-growing cacti, but an occasion thick bunch of bushes formed islands of dense cover for rabbits to hide in.

“I’m not entirely unprotected. My ship has armaments, and it’s a very smart ship, been in the family for years.” He picked up a rock as they walked along and tossed it high in the air. As it slowed down near the top of its trajectory, a small snout like a fountain pen appeared between George’s fingers as he extended a hand. The rock shattered with a pock of thermal shock, leaving a shimmery line of hot air briefly and then it was quickly gone.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Jed drawled, “but the Secret Service would have puppies. I assume you had that when we chatted with Rice?”

“Of course. Your turn,” George challenged him, and tossed a similar target into the air.

Jed drew his gun with deceptive casualness, thumbing the hammer back as he extended. The rock reached the top of its arch as his arm was fully extended, and at the same instant the 10mm spoke and the rock burst as a single sound.

“Not bad for a primitive native weapon, huh?”

“Noisy, but powerful. I have serious doubts my armor would stop it. So I’m glad you’re friendly.”

“You don’t appear to wear any clothing, so how can you have armor?” He kicked the base of a new clump of bushes and tossed a fair-sized rock in the middle for good measure. George was watching intently but didn’t ask what he was doing.

“For serious armor, I do have to put it on, but I have some grown in my skin that’s enough to give me an edge over my natural body. It could be made stronger, but it would start to get stiff and I’d be conscious of it. I don’t look like I have pockets, either, but I have someplace grown to tuck my pistol away.”

“Yeah, but you have some pretty thick feathers on you, too. I don’t think the Secret Service wanted to grope the first interstellar ambassador. I guarantee you didn’t get patted down as well as I did, fella.”

“Ambassador, my butt. I’m just a tourist. Oh, I’ll do what you’d call trading as I go along. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m not going to clutter the ship up with bulky junk. Maybe some coffee, but not for trade, for myself.”

“So what else is worth taking from Earth?”

For answer George stopped and threw back his head and burst forth with the opening to Mozart’s fifth violin concerto. The fidelity was fantastic. Even out in the open the volume was respectable.

“I’ve collected thousands of pieces. For your limited vocal range your people have an amazing ability at composition. Musical instruments are not unknown elsewhere, but when I saw the variety in one of your symphony orchestras, I couldn’t believe it.”

“Aren’t there going to be copyright issues?”

“I’ll tell you a deep dark secret. We know the history of hundreds of races who invented all sorts of recording technologies. Out among the galaxies, copyright and patents and guild rights for performing are dead. Your people might as well get over it now, because I can tell you your future does not include them. Can you imagine telling me I can’t sing? Do that on my world and they will nail you to your home tree to die of exposure. Nope—doesn’t work,” he assured Jed, and started walking again.

” Galaxies, you say, not stars?”

“Yes, when you build the drive I’m leaving you, it will soon be apparent it’s as easy to go a very long distance as a shorter one. Life is rare—intelligence more so. There are whole galaxies without a sentient race. But there are a lot of galaxies. You should find plenty of worlds that are usable in your own galaxy without bothering others. Be warned: some races like their privacy. If you nose around in other galaxies, make sure you’re welcome before you start making colonies in what someone regards as their backyard. How would you feel if we got across this rise,” he indicated it with a wave of his hand, “and somebody had put a cabin by your creek?”

“How’d you know there was a creek down there?”

“I have a drone overhead that gives me views in my spex, as well as my ship and your Internet all linked together, but from this close I can smell it.”

Jed tilted his head back and his nostrils flared. “So can I, now that you mention it. But I knew it was there, so I wasn’t thinking about it.”

As they came near where the land dropped off, Jed gave another clump of bushes a kick. A big rabbit burst from the vegetation and ran in an arc back away from the slope. Jed drew and tracked it. George was starting to wonder if he was going to shoot, and then the rabbit made a little turn about thirty meters out and looked back like it was checking to see if they were pursuing. The pistol spoke and the rabbit rolled over a few times, headless now.

When they walked up, the ears were lying there seperately from the body. Jed pulled a knife out and trimmed what little of the head remained and lifted the rabbit by its rear legs. “I’ll clean it back at the house. It won’t be long enough for it to get tainted,” he assured George. “Next one’s yours.”

George produced his tester and touched it to the raw flesh of the rabbit. No blue light or buzzer sounded, just a pale yellow with no sound, so it must be edible, Jed thought.

They descended into the arroyo, cautious on the treacherous footing. Both of them had flat rocks slide under their feet. At the edge of the stream, they stopped. It was a mere trickle in the middle of a wide gravel bed with occasional sand flats. There were tumbled brush and bits of branches and such all across and a meter up the slope on each side.

“Seasonal?”

“That and the ground doesn’t drink up an occasional cloud burst. If you have a big storm clear over the horizon upstream, you can have a wall of water come through here an hour later tall as I am. If you hear a deep rumbling you can’t figure out when you’re in an arroyo like this, you want to run like hell for high ground.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

They worked along the stream, Jed’s boots crunching in the gravel. George’s feet were a lot quieter. Jed pointed overhead. There was a hawk turning lazy circles on the thermals coming off the hill where the stream disappeared around to their left. George kept glancing up at the hawk.

“Jed,” George called to get his attention and pointed. Jed had already seen it on his own. The hawk made a sudden turn and made a tighter circle on a new center, then it made one small jink to line up and, folding its wings, dropped like a rock. George made a long deep trill of appreciation as it fell unchecked. It was completely out of sight in the sage before the fwoomp of its wings opening echoed down the draw.

“What does he do? Just drop on his pray like a hammer and strike them dead?”

“Sometimes they do hit other birds with their breast and knock them right out of the sky,” Jed admitted. “But he likely opened his wings about this high,” he demonstrated, hand horizontal at his waist. “That’s the noise you heard when he caught air and decelerated. That’s a treat for you. I’ve only seen a hawk drop on something a few times in my life.” The hawk appeared, grabbing air to climb, and disappeared around the shoulder of the hill. There was the dark silhouette of a rat or ground squirrel in its claws.

“I’ve got to see that again,” George marveled, stopping. The spex projection made a blue dot on his eyeballs. “Cameras,” he explained at Jed’s questioning look. “See the little dot on each corner?” He pointed to the outside edge of the spex. Jed had thought they were screws in the frames.

They reversed course and climbed the bank before they got back to where they’d entered the arroyo. George was messing with the bushes now too, but he’d grab the base in his talons and give a shake. They were almost back to the house before George was rewarded with a Jackrabbit running from under a bush he shook. Jed expected the small weapon to come out again, but to his astonishment George took off in a spray of gravel, digging dark divots in the loose soil so fast he pulled ahead of the rabbit on the left. The rabbit jinked right, and George crossed him behind and put on a burst of speed. When he jinked left, George passed over him. It happened so fast, Jed couldn’t separate the strike from his running steps, but the rabbit tumbled end over end a couple times with a looseness that said it was already dead. George picked it up by the back legs like Jed, and he could see the taloned thumbs go around the neck from each side. He nipped off the head much as Jed had, the details hidden by the distance. “We birds are doing pretty good today,” he bragged when he rejoined Jed.

Supper was rabbit stew. George loved the gravy, but they found out it gave him raging gas. That lead to a lot of stories about hunting camps and suppers of beer and beans or cabbage rolls, leading to a story of a cabin where an open spark would have been an invitation to disaster. Jed was off to bed early, worn out from the day.

* * *

That night Jed got up to go to the bathroom. The flickering light down the hall told him George was up. He walked down and found him using the computer, looking at pictures of galaxies with several pages of astronomy sites open. “Anything I can help you find?”

“No, I was trying to see what sort of a cataloging scheme you use. But I don’t think it’s compatible with ours at all. Everybody has been asking me to show them where I live, but I don’t think it’s even visible to your instruments from here.”

“George, do you think anyone will come see us again after you tell them about us? Or are contacts like us a dime a dozen?”

“I’m not sure.” For the first time he seemed evasive. “There’re a lot of variables. Don’t count on anyone coming soon. In fact, I might stop back this way before I head home. I’ve been ordering supplies and I think I’ll be gone in a another week.”

“Want some company?” Jed probed gently.

“It would take months to set a ship cabin up for a human. I really don’t want to wait. But if I did, I’d chose you.”

Jed took it as intended for a compliment. But he’d rather have heard “yes.”

* * *

George laid in enough water and supplies that it took three trips with his shuttle to lift them all to his ship. The original three astronauts who met him came to see him go. All of them had resigned to private life in order to take advantage of the generous gifts he’d made them. President Rice was there to see him off with a good two dozen VIPs hanging back, instructed with more severity than they were used to hearing to not press in on George.. He took the time to shake hands and speak with each of them despite his obvious desire to depart; he really did know how to get along with others. When his shuttle floated off, there was a deep sense of sadness his visit was over. The only bright spot was they’d be joining him with their own ships soon enough. And they were getting that technology far cheaper than anyone could believe.

* * *

When the next starship came into Earth orbit just six months later, they were keeping a much better watch and saw it well beyond the moon. It was bigger; it ignored the ISS and parked in a geostationary orbit over the east coast of the U.S.

“Anybody down there speak my lingo?” warbled a slightly smaller and less colorful version of George.

Her communicator immediately displayed the video feed properly configured and a native spoke to her in their own language, but it was immediately followed by a passable machine translation in her tongue. “Welcome, we have met your race and are familiar with your language.” The speaker trilled , ” ~ ~ ~, who we know as ‘George’ was here one hundred and eighty-three rotations of our planet ago. You are welcome if you want to visit, and we have food we know is safe for your kind. If you’d like a dictionary and grammar of our language, English, we have it available.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. I just missed him. I’d like to meet the folks who already know George and provision up. I’m his sometimes mate and business partner.”

* * *

She firmly rejected Georgette as a name, but she liked the sound of Maria. Especially how it sounded sung. Jed quickly saw a huge difference in personality. George had refused the researchers trying to get samples, but never got upset over it. The second day a scientist had called and insisted on speaking to Maria about an appointment to draw blood and take tissue samples. “And I can take some samples of my own in turn?” she asked, raising a smaller hand to the camera that seemed to have bigger talons than George’s—especially when she crossed them in front of her palm and made a sharpening motion, so they sounded, snick snick, across each other.

“Certainly, though we’d have to discuss the sampling protocols,” the fellow hedged, eyes following the shiny, black gut rippers.

“Well, then, perhaps a ton of indium, instead? We find that useful stuff. Seems like a fair trade.”

The scientist paused to work his computer, undoubtedly checking the price of the metal. When he found it, his face paled worse than from the sight of her talons.

“I’m not even sure there’s a ton of it on the world market,” the man protested.

“You think about it, and see what you can offer tomorrow. I can use iridium and scandium or even tungsten or iodine, which I know you must have in quantity, but I’d want a shitload of the commoner stuff for a piece of my body.” She exited the call visibly irritated.

“What they are asking is offensive in your culture, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It lacks dignity to be treated like a specimen. I know they are not deliberately insulting, but I don’t even like to be touched.”

“George didn’t want them with their grubby little hands on him either, yet he let a kid have one of his feathers when he turned the scientists down. He seems to have a soft spot for children,” he observed.

“Yes, he’s sweet as can be for kids. Whereas I think they’re a royal pain in the butt as soon as they break the shell. Cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep, cheep until it drives you bonkers,” she mimicked shrilly. “Yet George would tell me it’s the nesting instinct making me save every twig I can find. He’s too laid-back about it, though generous to a fault. I’d have extracted a whole lot more from you for a star drive plan. He’d tell me all he really needs is a tree, thee, and me.” She stopped astonished at the pretty rhyme. “Damn that male. He hid that in the translation program,” she accused. “He knows I’m a sucker for romantic stuff, and he hides sweet little things like that for me to find. How can I stay mad at him?”

Just then the com lit back up with a call. It was Allen, all excited. “Hey, guess what?” he rushed on without giving them time to guess. “George is coming back. He’ll be in orbit in a few hours.”

* * *

George was happy to see Maria, but reading his body language, he seemed restrained. He went up and rubbed beaks, but he didn’t seem his usual bubbly self.

“I need to go back,” he told Jed that evening.

“That doesn’t surprise us. We didn’t think she tracked you down just to see if you were enjoying yourself.”

“Yeah, I was a bit overdue, and she wants me back to work. Anyway, here. I decided to give you the directions to get to our home.” He offered a memory module to Jed almost apologetically.

“I thought you couldn’t see it from here?”

“No, but Maria is a wiz at that sort of thing. She suggested doing it in way-points, and you can do it in a couple jumps instead of one. In fact, she wrote this for you off her log. When you start using the drive, you’ll find that’s the safer way to travel. If you start doing jumps that are too big, you can get past where you can still identify the area you left.”

“Thanks, George. I feel better about this. I was scared you found us too uncouth and didn’t want us to know where to find you. We’ll visit, buddy.” Jed smiled, offering his hand.

* * *

After George’s shuttle floated off, he walked over to where Maria’s was still being loaded. There were skids of ingots and what appeared to be big bundles of rough-cut walnut and boxwood.

“George was lost, wasn’t he?” he asked Maria bluntly.

“Well, of course. You think I have time to chase all over half the universe? He jumps about ten times as far as anybody in their right mind does in that old piece of junk he won’t let go, and then it can’t backtrack the emissions trail he leaves behind.”

“So, why didn’t he just tell us that and get some help instead of searching our sky catalogs and saying there was no problem?”

Maria turned her big eyes away from the loading and gave Jed a fresh examination that was unnerving. “Hey, all sapients have similarities. Especially bisexual ones. I know George talked to you about that. He has a soft spot for chicks, which helps the race survive. I have a feminine talent for—acquisition—call it shopping,” she explained, nodding at the goods being loaded. “It varies—both our sexes happen to have a talent for language, as you saw. I see female humans use language a little better, and your males seem to have a talent at linear reasoning instead of grasping for the gestalt. But tell me the truth. If any of your males, you proud tracking hunters of the mated pair, get lost and can’t read a map or find your trail—would any of your males stop and ask for directions?”

* * *

New Moon

Written by Mike Barretta

“Neil’s dead.”

Buzz Aldrin looked across the crisp lunar landscape. An uneven terrain of dust and boulders rolled away from the Lunar Module in gentle undulations. His fatigued eyes scanned the foreshortened horizon. The gunpowder smell of lunar dust, trapped in his suit when he had removed his helmet in the module, burned his nose. With a muttered curse, he bit down on his frustration and anger, bringing it under control. Silently, he damned the machine that had killed him. Buzz stifled the impulse to take a wild careless leap off of the LM.

He pivoted on the Eagle’s porch and stepped down the ladder feeling a bit foolish to take such care in these circumstances. He paused after each step, checked his footing, and reaffirmed his grip on the ladder. The pressurized gloves splayed his fingers apart. It was tiring to grasp anything. He repeated the process until the final step into the gray dust. The heavy lunar overshoes lay on their sides at the base of the gold foiled foot pads of the LM. Despite the ferocious magnitude of the cold, he was too tired to retrieve them and it wouldn’t matter for much longer anyway. Buzz looked down at the myriad overlapping footprints, each one sharp and perfect. Unless someone came and destroyed the ridges of gray and black shadow they would be there for a millennium.

“I said, Neil is dead.”

“We know, Buzz. We’re sorry,” replied Ron Evans, Capsule Communicator. It took 2.6 seconds for a message to make a round trip. Words were precious. “Okay, Buzz. Ah … Do you want to talk to Joan again?”

“No … please, no. I’ve said good bye already. I don’t want her to hear anymore. I think we said everything we needed to say.” Any more words and he would ruin his final moments like an artist adding one brushstroke too many.

Buzz looked about the Tranquility site, turned away from the ungainly LM and felt disgust at its failure. It should have been the most amazing flying machine conceived. Instead, it would be a grotesque and frighteningly expensive grave marker.

He turned towards Neil’s boulder and hop-stepped to it. The half-step, half-hop form of locomotion in one sixth gee felt perfectly natural. From this angle he could see only the dust covered legs of Neil’s suit. With his air supply all but exhausted, Neil had sat on the bright side of a boulder and said, “We’re screwed, Buzz.” Buzz figured those words would become the most famous of the mission. A warm surge of adrenaline filled his chest and stomach. His air was becoming foul.

The Oxygen Purge System threatened to overbalance him. Normally, the OPS would mount on his back above the Portable Life Support System. Buzz wore the OPS strapped across his abdomen in an emergency configuration that he had trained for, though never really expected to perform. When fully charged the OPS carried thirty minutes worth of air. Ten minutes remained of the last air on the moon. He hop-stepped to Neil.

“It’s so beautiful, Ron. You should see it. Not a cloud in the sky.” He smiled at his joke and imagined how it should have been: a glorious Earthrise bathing the Tranquility landing site, turning dead monochrome into a chiaroscuro of lavender, pale blue, and pink. His feet crunched through pristine dust as if it were a thin coat of ice over snow. “This view and eighteen thousand dollars a year. It just doesn’t get any better.” He formed the words around fast shallow breaths. His voice sounded weak.

* * *

“They pay you that much? I’ll ask for a raise.” Ron looked over at the duty flight surgeon as if he could do something. The flight surgeon, a U.S. Navy Commander, traced his fingers over the medical telemetry. Heart and breathing rate line traces indicated advancing hypoxia.

The flight surgeon covered up his boom microphone with his left hand and said, “Soon.”

Ron turned away from him.

“We did our best. We really did. Tom and his engineers tried to find a way.” The signal tone beeped again.

“I know. It doesn’t matter any more, not without Mike anyway. Is he doing okay?”

“Mike is doing fine, Buzz.” Mike Collins orbited until there was insufficient air for the Eagle to make rendezvous. Armstrong ordered the Trans-Earth injection burn and Collins pressed the “proceed” button under protest. Hypergolic fuel exploded into soundless fury and vibration and the Columbia accelerated out of orbit, leaving Neil and Buzz behind.

* * *

“It hurts to breathe and I have a headache. I feel a little dizzy. I’m gonna sit next to Neil.” His fingers tingled. He looked at the seated suit with its gold mirrored visor. “Neil, you bastard,” said Buzz, “first man to die on the moon.”

Buzz sprawled in the dust next to his Mission Commander. He rested his left hand on Neil’s right. The suit’s many layers made human contact merely symbolic. A gold olive branch brought from earth lay in the three billion year old dust. He thought of the Lunar samples stowed on the ascent portion of the Lunar Module that would never see Earth. He bet his life for the opportunity to bring back ancient dust and rock, and lost.

With his right hand Buzz pulled up a handful of lifeless lunar regolith. Translucent crystals and shiny metallic blebs sparkled in his hands. He brought his hand to his face and watched it spill from his palm.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

“Say again, Buzz. We didn’t copy you.”

* * *

His lungs burned and fireflies swarmed his graying vision. His heart raced.

“Tom” he gasped, “Neil and I want to stay here. Okay? Do you hear me, Ron? We talked about it.”

“Okay, Buzz. I’ll make sure they know. I’m sorry”

“We talked about it. It’s okay.” Buzz fought panic and thought of his wife and children, warm spring nights, the feel of grass under bare feet. “Not gonna be easy,” he gasped weakly. “It’s not …” He felt an ugly panic rise up and fill his body. He wanted to take the helmet off and breathe crisp lunar air. He wanted to feel summer on the moon.

Buzz forced his hands away from the ring collar. His legs drew involuntarily towards his burning chest. He felt warm tears on his face and thought that odd. He hadn’t cried in such a long time. A thin whine escaped from his lips, vision tunneled to a darkening gray cone and the pain in his chest rose to a startling crescendo. His heart pounded, pumping empty blood through his body.

After an eternity, the pain ebbed and Buzz relaxed into the dark. He slumped onto Neil. His eyes fixed open over the magnificently desolate lunar plain. The surface of the moon became a graveyard.

* * *

Ron Evans looked over at the navy flight surgeon.

The man pulled his headset off and placed it on his console. He wiped the exhaustion from his face and sipped stale water from a softening paper cup. He returned Ron’s gaze and said, “It’s over.”

Ron looked away.

No, Buzz, it’s not easy. It never is. Ron mimicked the flight surgeon and wiped fatigue from his face with a brief brush of his hands. Air conditioning kept the Texas heat at bay. Chilled fingers rasped over a forty-eight hour old beard. Mission control was nowhere near as cold as the surface of the moon.

Ron pulled his headset off and dropped it to the floor with a clatter. The Lunar Module’s signal beeped forlornly. It would continue to do so until the battery died.

The flight surgeon stood up from his console and stepped towards Ron, leaving one set of active traces behind. “Ron? You okay?”

“Back to your station. Mind your console. I’m fine. Thanks.”

The flight surgeon wiped his black plastic framed glasses with a folded linen handkerchief and sat back down.

Ron tried to drown out the echo of Buzz Aldrin’s dying gasps. He bent over and picked up his headset. He untwisted the cable and swung the boom mike away from his mouth as he set it back on his head. “Oh, sweet Jesus, we killed them. Forgive us.”

He looked over the ranks of men, uniformed in rumpled white short-sleeved shirts, dark ties, and near military haircuts. “People.”

They turned to look at him. “People, we still have a man out there. He’s a long way from home and we need to bring him back.” He consulted the mission clock. “Turnover is at the top of the hour with your counterparts. Thank you for staying.”

The defeated LM launch team began the turnover process with the Trans-Earth team. Gene Kranz talked quietly with some high level observers in the gallery. The observers had clustered into tight little knots no longer paying any attention to the mission control room. The drama was over, all that remained was details. Air conditioning and fluorescents hummed and only necessary voices spoke.

* * *

“I copy, Houston.” Mike Collins breathed slowly and deliberately, each breath sacred and fragile. His private terror had been realized. Zero-G tears filled his eyes and blurred his vision, refusing to roll down his stubbled cheeks.

A vicious headache, compounded by dry sinuses, throbbed behind his eyes. He opened a foil packet of aspirin and swallowed the bitter medicine with a sip of warm water. The foil spun like a silver snowflake till he captured and stowed it.

Every two hours of his twenty-two hour orbit of the moon he searched the shadowed Sea of Tranquility with the twenty-eight power sextant. He thought that if he could only see the fragile craft he could make it launch by force of will alone. Neil described the area and Houston provided rough landing site coordinates but Columbia flew far too fast and high.

After the Trans-Earth injection, Mike checked and rechecked the course correction calculations. Satisfied with their accuracy, he retreated into silence. Houston’s attempts at light conversation were met by clipped affirmatives or negatives. The cramped Command Module’s silence was as vast as an empty cathedral. Mike Collins closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the air circulation fans. The cabin flashed with reflected sunlight synchronous with the CSM’s slow thermal control roll.

At 190,000 miles from Earth, Michael Collins dreamed of towering craggy peaks and sleek silver finned spaceships. He dreamed of brilliant flashes of light from the Aristarchus plateau and an overwhelming sense of wonder. Ghosts reclined in the seats next to him. Michael Collins, so far from home, was the loneliest man in the universe.

* * *

Tom Kelly, principal designer of the Lunar Module, hung his head and placed the black plastic phone receiver back onto the dialed cradle. Mike Collins had left lunar orbit, any more launch attempts would be pointless. Tom examined his conscience and did not feel fear. An investigation would find nothing negligent. A circuit completed, bolts fired, valves opened, and pressurized hypergolic fuels flowed through injectors to the engine bell to ignite on contact. 3,500 lbs of thrust should have lifted the ascent portion of the module to a graceful rendezvous.

The design was robust and reliable. Somehow, the fuel never made it to the engine bell and he could not figure out why. Perhaps it was ice plugs in the lines, cold welding of the valves, lunar dust fouling the electronics or perhaps punishment for sheer hubris that prevented the launch.

He swept the pile of technical schematics off his desk and began to write a letter of apology and resignation. He thought about a delicate gold and silver module guarding lunar graves for an eternity. His army of engineers sorted through reams of schematics and he thought briefly to tell them to stop looking. The solution had evaded him. He searched for a reason.

* * *

Steven turned on the television to catch the news. Asbestos fibers from the brake pad assembly line fell from his coveralls. He paced back to the kitchen to get a beer while the set warmed up. The spring on the kitchen screen door creaked and Jeremy joined him in the kitchen. The door slammed shut and Steven winced. Steven frowned at his son but said nothing. Sweaty hair clung to Jeremy’s face. Steven smiled, forgetting the slammed door.

“Hey kiddo. Where’s mom?”

“Hey Dad, store,” said Jeremy.

Steven, cued by Walter Cronkite’s voice, walked back to the television. He didn’t want to see the mess his son was about to make. Steven Owens settled into the couch and listened to his son clanging silverware in the kitchen.

The grainy image of Walter Cronkite focused out of the ether and reported that Neil Armstrong and Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin, after multiple attempts to launch from the surface of the moon, died July 22, 1969 at 4:45 and 5:17 Eastern Daylight Time respectively. Steven Owens looked over his shoulder at his son. Jeremy stood at the threshold of the living room not daring to drop crumbs on the living room carpet.

“I’m sorry, Jeremy. I really am,” Steven said. Tears filled his brown eyes. He squeezed them shut and wiped them with thumb and forefinger. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn allergies.”

Jeremy swallowed and gave his father a confused look. “Sorry for what, Dad?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Steven Owens stood and brushed stubborn asbestos fibers from his khaki coveralls. He bent to pick up the orange crate next to his recliner. It contained his entire collection of Astounding Stories and Amazing. He brushed past Jeremy and brought them outside through the creaking kitchen screen door. The door slammed on its spring without a restraining hand.

“Hey Jeremy, I’m gonna take a walk around the block, clear the head a bit,” Steven yelled from the back door. Put some things into perspective. Get practical.

“Tell your mom if she gets back before I do, okay,” he yelled again.

* * *

“Okay Dad.” The last bit of Jeremy’s sandwich vanished in a single bite.

Walter Cronkite talked and pointed to a model of the Lunar Module on his desk. Jeremy walked to the front door and stepped through in time to see his father round the corner. With his Dad out of sight, he ran around the house to the garbage can by the back door.

He removed the lid and let it fall on the concrete drive, then hauled out his Dad’s magazines and set them on the concrete drive. He replaced the lid and picked up the stack of magazines. Popular Mechanics and Reader’s Digest camouflaged the Astoundings and Amazings.

Jeremy waddled under the weight of magazines to the loft stairs behind the detached garage. The rain softened stairs, slick with algae and furry moss, sagged with each step. He set the box down to open the door that was never locked. He picked the box up and walked through the doorway and kicked it closed.

Dry dust motes danced in the evening light streaming through the window overlooking the driveway. He carried the crate through the motes, setting them spinning furiously in his wake. He set the crate down in the small space carved out from amongst items too old to use yet too good to give away. He sat, pulled each magazine out and studied the cover pictures. Popular Mechanics went in the keeper pile; Reader’s Digests were tossed aside.

He picked one Astounding out at random and gazed at its garish cover. A razor edged flying saucer shot death-beams into a city of impossibly tall blue, red, and green towers. An orange suspension bridge melted under the assault. A dark-haired square-jawed man with a fishbowl over his head clutched a ray gun in his right hand and a wilting woman in his left. A diaphanous gown outlined her breasts perfectly. The gauzy material clung perilously to her shoulder. If the man took another step it would pull right off her body. It looked like the man was going to take a lot of steps.

Intrigued, Jeremy leafed through the magazine. He stopped at a story called “Starsmashers of Mars”. He read alone, dust whorls spinning like galaxies above his head.

* * *

William Safire waited for the President to get off the phone.

Nixon frowned, said thank you, and hung up the private line. “Do you have something for me, Bill?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” William Safire handed the folder across the President’s desk and took a seat uninvited.

Nixon opened the manila folder and read silently for a few moments. He looked up at Bill. “When did you prepare this speech?”

“Before they launched. I though it prudent to address all contingencies.”

“Bad luck,” said Nixon.

“I’ve outlined some notes on the last page. Some things we should do before the press conference.”

Nixon slid the folder across the desk. “No changes, Bill. I like it. On your way out, ask Bob Haldeman to come in. I need to arrange a meeting with Paine.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll send Bob in.” Safire rose from the stuffed chair, spun on his heels, and departed without comment. The door shut silently.

As he walked back to his office, Safire sketched the speech that would end Apollo. An immense amount of political and industrial inertia would grind the project on for a few more years, enough to get to the moon in 71 or 72, but without any long term backing, Apollo would be little more than a withering technical achievement.

* * *

Alone, Richard Nixon spun the chair away from his desk and gazed out over the lawn. He wondered how the situation would play out. After a string of successes, the first attempt at landing men on the moon had failed. Cobbling together a new policy direction would be difficult. Apollo was to have been, at best, a modest feather in his cap, at worst, a neutral national accomplishment. Currently, it appeared to be a liability.

He kept Kennedy’s program going out of a perverse degree of respect for the slain President’s promise to the nation. With the monetary drain imposed by the Vietnam War straining the nation’s wealth and patience, luxury items like NASA were difficult to justify. Too bad, he thought. He really loved those astronauts. He waited for his Chief of Staff.

* * *

“Five minute warning, five minutes.” Technicians continued to adjust the televising equipment. Nixon’s tirades at any technical difficulty were infamous. A makeup technician powdered his forehead gently. Nixon smiled at the pretty blonde. The chief of staff hired her, knowing that the President would give her a minimum of grief. What man could complain about a pretty woman’s touch?

“One minute. One minute.” Unnecessary personnel shepherded themselves out of the Oval Office, much to the Secret Service’s delight. The harried agents watched carefully.

“Ten seconds, Mister President. Eight, seven, six, five, four.” The technician pantomimed the remaining three seconds decrementing his fingers to zero. At zero he pointed to the President and then to the big camera indicator light. He whispered, “You’re on.”

Nixon paused for a moment and then read from the prompter. “My fellow Americans:

“Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace. These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, knew that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also knew that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice.

“These two men laid down their lives in mankind’s most noble goal; the search for truth and understanding. They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by their nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared to send two of her sons into the unknown.

“In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man.

“In ancient days, men looked to the stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood. Others will follow, and surely find their way home. Man’s search will not be denied. But these men were the first, and they will remain the foremost in our hearts.

“For every human being who looks up at the moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.

“Godspeed, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin. Good night, America.”

* * *

The camera’s on light extinguished and Nixon rose from the desk, stepped over the cables and around the cameramen. He went to his private office without a word to the media crew and staff members. The Chief of Staff waited for him with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. As soon as the door shut and the noise silenced, he handed the President a tumbler of scotch.

“Have you seen the public opinion polls?” asked Bob Haldeman.

The President exhaled forcefully. He swirled the tumbler half full of scotch and melting ice and settled into his leather chair. A TV screen built into the bookcase showed Tom Paine, NASA’s administrator, reassuring reporters that Michael Collins was doing fine. “Yeah, Bob, I have.” Nixon drained the glass with a swift flick of his wrist. The ice cubes tinkled softly.

“Americans don’t like failure, Mister President.”

“No, they don’t. We have some difficult choices to make.” He swirled the rounded ice cubes in his glass tumbler.

“We could back pedal and make a statement about letting the technology mature.”

“The technology is sufficient, we all know that. So now we have a choice to make,” said Nixon.

“Vietnam or the Moon?”

“It’s not quite that simple,” said Nixon.

“Which way are you leaning?”

“Vietnam is a pissant jungle hole. The moon is, well, the moon is the moon. That bitch has only killed two people. How many has Vietnam taken?”

“Too many,” said Bob.

“Anyway, if we cut NASA’s budget even further and offer up some excuse as to how we need some time to review the program the public will see right through our cowardice. They’ll crucify us at the polls. The Democrats are fools if they don’t use this as an issue.”

“They’ll make it an issue either way you go. Incremental reductions in the NASA budget over a period of years and maybe increased funding for social programs could make it more palatable.”

Nixon grunted in agreement.

“Not to mention the Russians.”

Nixon grimaced. The muscles in his jaw worked side to side. “Those damn Russians, even worse than Democrats. Have they said anything?”

“Empty condolences followed by the announcement that they are increasing their space budget and that they will put a man on the moon and return him before we do.”

“Do they have any credibility?”

“Some. Our failure seems to have re-energized their program on a political level. The CIA is revising their ‘67 National Intelligence Estimate. I don’t know all the particular details. But their lander has reached a preliminary hardware stage and they have resumed production of another N-1 booster.”

“Determined bastards, aren’t they? How long will it take us to get back in the game?”

“It will take us … uh … I don’t know … maybe twelve to eighteen months to put another Saturn on the pad, after the special committees, internal reviews, and mishap investigation. The Russians could make an attempt in about the same time frame if they go all out. It is entirely possible that they could scoop us.” Bob Haldeman drained the remainder of his glass. “What are you thinking, Mister President?”

“I’m thinking we can’t afford to give the damn moon to the communists. I’m wishing that they made it back. It would have been glorious.” Nixon paused for a moment and looked into his own cut crystal tumbler before setting it down. “Bob, I’m inclined to finish what we started and show some backbone. I’m wondering what the hell went wrong.”

* * *

The capsule buffeted violently. Caris and Tevin looked at each other briefly in response to the turbulence and then back to their consoles. Soft metal fiber straps cut into their shoulders as the ship boosted hard along a steep probability curve. An ephemeral slurry of white hot chronoton foam boiled from the hull pulling away fibrous swaths of spun clever metal and honeycombed power cells. Silvered scorch marks from weapons fired seven hundred years uptime scarred the outer hull.

The ship emerged into local time with a shrieking vibration that fogged their thoughts. Both men slammed hard against their harnesses as probability reached infinite. The chronographic turbulence abated. Caris, the module pilot, took a moment to make sense of the display. His head felt slow and thick. He wiped blood from his nose with the back of his sleeve. His vision blurred and then focused as his thoughts caught up to him. “Are you okay, Tevin?”

“Yes, yes I think so,” responded Tevin.

Caris glanced at the holographic displays. They indicated sufficient energy to reach the surface and adequate hull integrity. He smiled and muttered a prayer. They had successfully broken the seven hundred year quarantine of man. Both men looked through the single open window. The lunar surface, three thousand meters below, scrolled past. A cursory ESM sweep indicated that they were clear of uptime scanning beams from the aliens or the vastly more primitive current time sensors.

“Switching to AI control,” said Caris. The limited capacity of the machine intelligence could handle the touchdown far better than he could. Both men adjusted themselves in their couches. The Eagle II pirouetted opposite its orbital flight path and braked with a spine bending firing of its engine. The module descended towards the Aristarchus plateau.

Tevin, the tactical officer, looked down at the empty moon. A pristine gray surface untouched by man, or the hated invaders, coursed through the window. This new moon was wild and unclaimed and startling in its desolation. A vast frightening emptiness stretched to the curved horizon. He marveled briefly at the monochromatic frontier and wondered how his ancestors missed the very first rung of the ladder and ceded it to the unnamed beings that constrained humanity to its own thin biosphere. He pulled himself from distraction and checked his tactical display. “We’re shedding nuetrinos and tachyons at 140% nominal.”

“Enough to trace?”

“No … No, I don’t think so. No one left to follow anyway.” Tevin reached to clear the last recorded images of Earth from the secondary screen.

“Wait, let me see.” Caris unlocked his harness and stretched forward to peer at the tactical officer’s secondary screen. A continent sized bulls-eye of molten crust, surrounded by super storms of vaporized ocean, glowed malevolently. A dim outline of a stretched European landmass could be seen falling into the same gravitic abyss that launched the Eagle II across probability paths of folded time and space. The image panned out to include the shattered moon and the bright fusion flares of alien vessels attempting to escape the ferocious gravitic maelstrom.

Tevin stabbed at the holographic space with a gloved hand and the horrific image changed to power readings and ship status displays. Neither man mourned a family.

Caris sat back and locked his harness. “One thousand meters, standby for touchdown.”

The only survivors of the human race braced for landing. A surge of vertigo accompanied the landing as the engine twisted local gravity. The empty moon rushed towards them and the engine fired again in a sustained vibration that blurred his vision.

“Lunar contact,” said Caris as the module settled gently. Its struts compressed as the engine hum faded to a dull infrasonic buzz. The module powered down to standby mode. She would never lift from the surface again.

“Congratulations. We’re the first men on the moon in over seven hundred years,” said Tevin. “Or we’re the first on the moon ever. It really depends on your point of view.”

Caris did not care. He did not worry over paradox theory and split time ramifications. “What is the status of your system?”

“Preheat sequence initiated. Once it’s warm, I’ll leave it in hot standby and passive acquisition mode.” The AI spoke its soft machine language through the consensus link.

Tevin checked a display. “We are picking up S-band transmissions. Our target is local.”

“That’s good. We’re on profile then, right?”

“Yes, on profile. We have about six hours. You might as well get comfortable.” Tevin lay down on the narrow bunk and directed the AI to wake him in two hours. With his index finger he traced a window into the bulkhead. The programmable matter became transparent. He gazed out at the pristine lunar surface and marveled unrestrained by the fatigue he felt. He breathed in a slow and measured cadence. His body and mind relaxed. He closed his eyes.

Caris traced a circle on the hull interior and it became transparent. He did not share Tevin’s ability to seize opportunistic sleep. He pushed his head against the window he had made and it bulged outward far enough so that he could see the scarring traceries left on the hull from the assault of time and exotic alien weaponry.

The silver reflective scars of near hits, the last shots fired in the coldest war, raked the hull from bow to stern. He turned his eyes back to a lunar surface wondrously devoid of light and activity. The invaders claimed the moon and used it as a staging area for the rest of the system. Mined helium 3 powered their occupation of the solar system and quarantine of man. They had cleared Venus of its clouds and the seasonal blooming of Mars, an ancient Earthly notion, had become reality. He pulled his head back into the module and touched the center of the window and it became opaque. He busied himself with pointless housekeeping chores.

* * *

“Caris, I have target acquisition,” said Tevin.

A raw image of the Apollo 11 Command Service Module and Lunar Module tracked across a holographic targeting window. The image of the primitive vessel froze on the screen as the actual vanished over the sensor horizon. Tactical symbols that detailed orbital parameters and target attitude floated beneath the spacecraft image.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Caris.

“Yes. Enough power for one shot.” Tevin ran an integrity check on the AI to insure it had adapted to the temporal discontinuity. The machine had. He configured the weapon for automatic tracking and manual firing.

* * *

“Two minutes till target acquisition. Weapons hot,” said the AI. The particle beam projector extruded and traversed to the horizon where the Columbia and Eagle would appear.

The view zoomed into the ascent portion of the Lunar Module and Tevin sub-vocalized commands to the AI. Targeting icons tracked and Tevin activated the trigger. The holographic sliding bar display turned from green to amber and red as the bar diminished.

An invisible beam lanced the sky, bored through the thin hull, and struck the Eagle’s ascent engine fuel injectors. The beam tracked momentarily. The fuel injectors fused solid under the particle onslaught. The AI reported success.

“It’s done,” said Caris. The cabin lights dimmed.

“So are we,” replied Tevin. The cabin grew colder as he spoke the words. He called up the systems display. Ship power registered at two percent. The weapon drained almost all of their reserves. When the power cell’s energy dwindled to nothing the clever metals would die and rapidly decay to dust and gas and blow away in the solar wind.

“Our fate was sealed the moment those guys got their ticker tape parade,” said Caris.

“What’s a ticker tape?”

“Never mind. Do you want a drink?” Caris pulled out a bottle of wine and pulled away the soft aerogels wrapped around the bottle. “Look.” He held the bottle out label forward. The date read 1969. “It’s not very old, but it’s a good year.” He smiled at his joke and turned the label back towards him.

“The best,” said Tevin.

“Do you want the drink or not?” Caris pulled the cork out and dropped it to the deck.

“Of course.”

Caris poured the red wine to the brim of the cut crystal wine glass and handed it to Tevin. He poured his own and they both touched their glasses gently. “To the moon.”

“To Armstrong and Aldrin.” Tevin raised his glass.

“Armstrong and Aldrin,” repeated Caris, with a smile. They sipped the wine in silence.

“It’s coming. Can you feel it?”

Caris felt the approaching inevitability. The sound of thunder filled his ears. He smiled anyway. He reached into a compartment and pulled out a polished rock from a compartment and cradled it close to his chest. “Good bye, Tevin.” Caris closed his eyes as the vibration grew stronger. He could see a liquid pattern of color and light through his own eyelids. The time wave raced across centuries realigning the local chronography in response to the new stimulus. Established patterns dissolved into a miasma of quantum foam and a new organization emerged from nothing. The capsule’s clever metals disintegrated to dust, and vanished under chronoton tides. The quantum AI computer’s mind sublimated. I feel, thought the mind, as it vanished. The new moon inherited four bodies.

* * *

Ken Mattingly and Fred Haise sweated profusely in their second generation suits. They had been digging the shallow graves for the better part of a day. The lunar regolith was unreasonably stubborn. Earthbound scientists complained briefly and bitterly over the marginalization of the Apollo 20 mission.

The high endurance LM carried the most scientific equipment of any lunar mission and so far not a single experiment had been set up or sample collected. The only mission objectives accomplished had been the retrieval of the Hasselblad camera that had documented the first two hours of the first two men on the surface of the moon and re-erecting the U.S. flag with a custom made stand.

Mattingly paused and leaned on the hideously expensive shovel. A complicated assemblage of tension bands and wires assisted his grasp on the tool. He wondered briefly about the unknown astronauts discovered by Anders at the Aristarchus plateau during the Apollo 19 mission.

He turned his thoughts back to the men he knew and resumed digging, careful not to throw the hard soil onto the original footprints, which were just as crisp as the day they were made six years ago. Some scientists argued for the return of the bodies but not a single astronaut agreed to that particular mission objective. Mattingly hoped the Tranquility site would be the most sacred of lunar graveyards.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Jeremy Owens ran through the module fueling checklist on the Mars Lander One vehicle. Three Landers clung to a seven hundred foot long open lattice spine just behind the crew and flight modules of the spacecraft Aries. Far aft, the blunt cylinder of the nuclear thermo-electric engine idled with radioactive decay. Fully fueled upper stages of Nova transports filled the space between the engine and the landers.

Major Ivana Tevenko, the first woman on the moon, tucked a stray wisp of blond hair beneath her skull cap. She sat next to him monitoring the fuel transfer operation.

Jeremy stopped his checklist when the collision alarm sounded. He keyed the intercom mike. “Leslie … Leslie, what’s the alarm?” He glanced at Ivana who looked just as confused.

“I don’t know Jer,” replied Leslie’s voice through his headset. She sat far forward in the flight module running her own checklist. “The proximity alarm detected an object off our bow.”

“A NORAD registered object?” he asked.

“No, it was traveling at thirteen million miles per hour. Nothing goes that fast. It must be a glitch,” she replied. Leslie Nakagawa, ships navigator, and third in command, cleared the alarm and looked out at the Nova fuel transport drifting into view.

Ivana Tevenko smiled at Jeremy. “This is the third time we have this glitch. It is another mystery, like our poor lost cosmonauts.” Her accented English was sensual and her breath was sweet. Good hygiene was polite in space. She enjoyed teasing the American by claiming that the Russians had made it to the moon first.

“How exactly did they get there? Did they walk? If they walked, where are their footprints? Where is their spaceship and what the hell were they doing with a bottle of wine?”

Apollo 19 was a military mission designed to survey the first Russian landing site on the Aristarchus plateau. After evaluating the Russian equipment, Anders had discovered two bodies, one of which clutched a polished sphere of rock carved into a relief map of Mars. Six stars marked positions on the sphere. Aries was going to one of those sites.

“Their lander left without them on automatic pilot and they tread lightly so they would not defile the scenery.”

“Well, if that’s the case …”

She leaned over and kissed him to end the debate. Their mouths parted. He pulled away refusing to be distracted. “So tell me how your cosmonaut was found with a Martian map,” he continued. He couldn’t surrender with just a kiss for a prize. Detente required a bit more.

“When we get to Mars we will be welcomed by our Martian socialist brothers and then we can ask them.”

It was his turn to kiss her.

* * *

The Colony Commander read the data from his sacrificial probes and consulted the ship’s mind. The imaged infrastructure was primitive and limited to the third planet and its moon but it was a clear indication of audacity and intelligence that met the criteria for sentience.

With reluctance, he negated the ship’s braking sequence and targeted another star to investigate. An opposed system colonization was immoral and dangerous. He made a notation in the ship’s logs and transmitted orders to the other ships’ commanders. The computer calculated a new course on the selected star and transmitted instructions to the other ships.

He pressed the “Proceed” button and prepared to cycle himself back into stasis.

* * *

Genre Getaways on Earth

Written by Carol Pinchefsky

Science fiction and fantasy films have some fabulous locations: the United Federation of Planets, a galaxy far, far away, and Middle Earth, to name a few. But because these worlds exist only in the imagination—and a studio lot—you can’t get there from here.

You may be surprised to learn that some of these places actually do exist on planet Earth. With a little time and financial planning, you can visit them yourself and have a terrific day trip, or entire vacation. And you don’t even need an FTL drive.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade—Petra, Jordan

Indiana Jones’s exploits led him to many exotic destinations, but none so breathtaking as the city of Petra, Jordan, the stand-in site of the Canyon of the Crescent Moon. Built within a valley and cut into a 100-meter deep gorge around 200 BCE, Petra is a history buff’s delight, with its Greek, Egyptian, Assyrian, and Roman influences.

You need a minimum of four days to explore the spread-out city, which contains such ancient necessities as churches, a theater, a treasury, and “The High Place of Sacrifice.” The Nabataeans who built Petra even cut channels into the rocks to drain away the blood of sacrificed animals.

There are no hotels within several miles of Petra, but the better ones provide shuttle service to the city. Local Bedouins act as tour guides, and they can point out Petra’s treasures in English. Exploring the city involves steep climbs, some of which can be alleviated by renting a donkey, camel, or horse.

Jordan is a moderate Muslim country, so women can wear their Western clothes (no tight shorts or bikini tops, however). Dress comfortably and wear sensible shoes because you can expect a lot of walking. But more importantly, expect a sense of wonder imparted by the remnants of ancient civilization.

As far as we know, there are no wizened Crusaders guarding the Holy Grail. Still, you would choose wisely to vacation in Petra.

For more information:

http://www.visitjordan.com/

Star Wars II: Attack of the Clones—Villa Balbianello, Tremezzo, Italy

According to my tour guide, who acted as liaison between the town of Tremezzo and the Star Wars film crew, a visiting George Lucas was so taken with Villa Balbianello that he wrote the love scenes between Anakin and Padme specifically with the villa in mind.

The villa is a half-day destination, but the surrounding towns on the lake, including Bellagio, make this vacation well worth a three-day journey. Built in late 18th century, Balbianello was the second home of a wealthy cardinal. However, its interiors were informed by its last owner, Guido Monzino. Monzino, a wealthy explorer who climbed Mount Everest in 1973, had an entire room dedicated to his maps and research material.

Balbianello’s exteriors are limited by its sloping promontory, but what is there makes an impact: cherubs carved into banisters, a loggia decorated with interwoven vines. But Villa Balbianello’s biggest pull is its view of Lake Como, a lake so beautiful it’s practically ethereal.

My husband and I rented a paddleboat in a nearby village and paddled out to the middle of the lake. Surrounded by blue water and snow-capped mountains, we didn’t need a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. We had right then, right there.

For more information:

http://www.fondoambiente.it/english/Properties/Balbianell/index.htm

Star Trek: The Original Series—Vasquez Rocks Natural Area Park, California

Star Trek was mostly shot on set, but the crew occasionally ventured outside the Paramount lot. For the episode “Arena,” they chose to film in the Vasquez Rocks Natural Area Park for its jagged red terrain and geometric beauty. And despite its seemingly remote location, it’s a mere forty-five minutes away from Los Angeles.

The episode, with its hissing alien Gorn, became a cult classic. (The silhouette of the rocks became so iconic, it was even lampooned in Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey.) Now fans flock to “Gorn rock.” But what do they see when they get there?

The park is best enjoyed by people who like a rugged environment and all of the activity it requires. Hiking and biking are great draws here. No need to bring a picnic basket, as the park has an American cafe, a Mexican restaurant, and a pizzeria.

The park is a day-trip for visiting fans, but its most appealing activities take place at night: the Astronomy Club of Santa Clara occasionally sets up telescopes for public viewings, and every other month a park ranger leads a one-hour nature hike by the light of the full moon.

Visitors also have to take the necessary precautions against heat, dehydration, and rattlesnakes (and presumably, alien gladiators). But that doesn’t stop some people from climbing the mountain in full-body Gorn gear. “We have a lot of Trekkies, and they’ll take pictures of one another and reenact the episode,” says Sandy Dininger, Los Angeles County Department of Parks and Recreation.

For more information:

Vasquez Rocks Natural Area Park

661-268-0840

The Prisoner—Portmeirion, Wales

Who is Number One? I don’t know, but I know where I’m staying when I visit Wales: Portmeirion, the film site of the cult classic TV show, The Prisoner. Number Six, a spy who had given up the service, found himself trapped in an eerily pleasant village. With flower gardens and a view of Cardigan Bay, this is a wonderful place for people to escape to, not from.

Portmeirion, a small Italian-influenced resort, consists of greenery not native to the British Isles, along with salvaged statuary and masonry. The estate is assembled in sucha way that a pink pavilion, a shrine to Buddha, and a building that is half Spanish villa/half log cabin look surprisingly perfect together. The result isa fanciful jigsaw puzzle.

The architect, Sir Clough Williams-Ellis, obviously reveled in a sense of whimsy. He scattered trompe l’oiel, such as a boat moored into stone, among perfectly real objects. Try to spot them as you wend your way to the beach or the nearby woods. You will need a day or two to enjoy Portmeirion and its charms.

Activities include tennis and golf (at a nearby green), but no human chessboard. An exception is made in March, when the board comes out for the annual Prisoner convention. Swimming is restricted to an indoor pool (mid-May through September only); unless you’re an Estonian bronze-medal Olympic swimmer, the currents are too strong to swim in the sea.

When you enter Portmeirion, a statue of St. Peter greets you at the gate. But unlike the entrants of heaven and poor Number Six, you can leave the village whenever you want. But with such a delight to the eyes, why would you?

For more information:

http://www.portmeirion-village.com/

Lord of the Rings—various locations, New Zealand

One Ring to Bring Them All? You betcha. Lord of the Rings tourism brings visitors to New Zealand from all over the world; it may actually be responsible for a staggering 40% increase of tourists since December 1999. So you wouldn’t be alone if you decided to spend your vacation passing through Hobbiton, known locally as Matamata. Seventeen of the original thirty-seven hobbit holes still remain, tucked into a picturesque valley.

With over 150 shooting locations, Peter Jackson made use of New Zealand’s North and South Islands, and there are over a dozen package tours to prove it. In fact, you can have a Lord of the Rings driving tour, a helicopter tour, and a horse-riding tour—one of which allows you to meet the horses used in the movie..

You can talk with the locals, too. According to Bruce La Hood, regional manager of Tourism New Zealand, the best source of Lord of the Rings information comes from the Kiwis themselves. “With so many years in the making, so many horsemen and extras were needed that everyone has a little story.”

You will need at least five days to follow in the hobbits’ furry footsteps, but take ten or more to enjoy the cities and countryside. Eighty percent of all New Zealand flora do not exist elsewhere; there, it really is simple to imagine yourself in another world.

“Middle Earth is a real place,” says Sir Ian McKellan on the Lord of the Rings tourism website, “and it’s New Zealand.”

For more information:

http://www.newzealand.com/travel/about-nz/culture/lotr-2003/introduction.cfm

* * *

Thanks to Linda Bushyager and Michael Willems.

Photography credits:

New Zealand photo by Ian Brodie. Reprinted with the permission of Tourism New Zealand

Villa Balbaniello photo by Carol Pinchefsky

Portmeirion picture is reprinted with the permission of Portmeirion Hotel

Petra, Jordan photo by Michael Willems

Gorn Rock photo by Sandra Dininger. Reprinted with the permission of the Los Angeles County Department of Parks and Recreation.

* * *

My Father’s Watch

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

If you thumb through a new and freshly printed physics textbook from any university on Earth, you will be looking at the culmination of centuries of careful work by thousands of dedicated scientists; such a book is a treasure beyond description, easily comparable to the lost library of Alexandria. If you doubt this valuation, imagine what price it would bring if you could take it back in time a hundred years. Or conversely, what would the large governments of the world pay right now for a similar book published a hundred years in the future?

But as wonderful as is the information in a new physics textbook, someday it will all have to be rewritten. Some chapters will be rewritten within decades, some may take millennia, but all will require change.

This is because every scientific explanation of the physical world, whether we call it a theory or a law, eventually has to be modified to remain accurate under conditions that were not foreseen by its original creator. Newton’s laws of motion were correct until we applied them to velocities near that of light or within a powerful gravitational field. Under those conditions, Newton’s laws are now superseded by Relativity. And Relativity also was correct, until we discovered such things as the wave nature of particles and instantaneous action at a distance which is where quantum mechanics now supersedes Relativity.

Because we are continually applying them to new and untested situations, every law and every theory must eventually be adjusted. So while it would be comforting to pretend, for example, that the laws of thermodynamics are greater than the laws of Isaac Newton and will never need adjustment as his did, it would also be naive. Eventually we will discover places and situations where they do not apply as we understand them today.

* * *

When I was in my early twenties, during the second half of the nineteen seventies, my father got a new watch and gave me his old one. Thrift is a concept that runs strong in my family. An item no longer needed is not thrown away; instead, you look around and find someone who can use it and you give it to them. I suppose this is a form of recycling, but that’s not the point.

The point is that old watch, with its two tiny bits of welding spatter melted permanently into the glass which covered its dial, never needed winding. The natural movements of the wearer’s wrist during the course of a day would wind the mainspring.

This was done by a simple device hidden inside: just a little weight mounted on a rocker arm. When the rocker arm pivoted to the left a spur caught one of the gears of the mainspring and rotated it, tightening the mainspring a very tiny amount. When it pivoted in the opposite direction the spur slid across the gear without catching and so did not rotate it in the opposite direction which would have loosened the mainspring.

That these ratcheted back-and-forth pivotings of the rocker arm occurred at random did not matter. By pivoting thousands of times during a day, the rocker arm tightened the mainspring to its limit and kept it there.

For centuries, simple devices like that have sparked the minds of naive inventors with the dream of designing a magical machine that would run forever. Usually this dream machine was powered by the very same momentum which it produced. Technically, this would make it the mechanical equivalent of an audio feedback loop, a physical manifestation of a vicious circle.

The designer’s naivety was, of course, displayed in the failure to understand that all machines are subject to friction. Usually this friction is created as surfaces rub against one another in bearings or gears, and sometimes it is a product of electromagnetic induction, in which the free electrons (those not bound in atoms) within wires or other metal parts are shoved around within those wires and metal parts and, by being shoved, rub against the substance of the metal itself, producing the form of friction we call electrical resistance. In cases where metal parts have an irregular geometry, free electrons are sometimes shoved into a corner or narrow place within the part from which they cannot escape, and by being squeezed together, produce a static electric resistance as well.

Friction is universal. Human beings have never made any device that was not subject to friction.

Even on the nanoscale, friction is universal. But while some things are the same down there, some things are very different.

For example, on the scale at which we human beings experience things—sometimes called the macroscale—”temperature” is a mysterious quality of substances that we can feel, but which usually remains invisible. If, however, you could see things on the nanoscale “temperature” would be neither invisible nor mysterious. On that scale it is the obvious and random physical motion of individual objects and/or the vibration of their parts.

Only by reducing temperature to absolute zero will things actually stop moving and vibrating. This is because temperature is defined as the amount of movement or vibration on a molecular, atomic or subatomic level. Temperature and movement are not similar or somehow related; they are the same thing exactly.

On the nanoscale, random motion and vibration are universal and unending. On this scale there is never a pause and never a rest; which brings me back to my father’s old watch. If it could be shrunk so small that it too was of the nanoscale—so small that its component gears and screws and housing might each be composed of a single large molecule—I wouldn’t have to wear it for it to wind itself. Its molecular-sized rocker arm would rock of its own. Not with a uniform beat, of course, but with a frequency both random and perpetual, driven by the thermal vibrations within the rocker arm itself.

Yes, you read that correctly. And yes, you know what it means. There may be thousands of ways to design a patentable machine on the nanoscale which will convert the endless parade of random vibrations which we call “room temperature” into usable energy: not just nano-spring winders, but nano-fluid pumps or even nano-piezoelectric generators coupled to nano-diodes for shoving electricity along a wire or squeezing it tightly into a battery. (Piezoelectrics are those materials which produce an electrical voltage when squeezed or flexed. And diodes are a type of resistor with a high electrical resistance in one direction and a low electrical resistance in the other—thus allowing electrons to flow in only one direction.)

I suppose all this is analogous to extracting energy from the random up and down movement of ocean waves. They too are random, universal and never stop. The difference being that ocean waves are large while the vibrations within molecules are small. (There are those who might protest that waves are driven by wind, but it seems unlikely that a rocker arm will care if it is rocked by big wind-driven waves or by tiny heat-driven molecular vibrations.)

Imagine, if you will, an integrated circuit chip which, instead of containing a CPU or the circuits for random access memory, contains nano-piezoelectric generators driven by their individual molecular vibrations and arranged in a thousand layers of a million generators per layer. Or imagine a grid work of nano-fluid pumps driven by their molecular vibrations built into a sheet of Mylar plastic making it a self-powered filter through which fluids could pass in only one direction. Or maybe build these pumps into the rubber of toy balloons: you buy them at the store, take them out of the bag, set them on the table and watch as they inflate themselves, sucking air straight in through the rubber—or toss them in the tub and let them become water balloons.

Do you fancy yourself an inventor? With very little effort you can probably work out three or four much better designs in an hour. Now, multiply yourself by thousands of other people who will also read this article. Feeling crowded? It gets worse.

U.S. patent law has a clause which states that no patent may be granted for a device described in any publication which has been publicly available for more than one year. Thus the publication of this article has set a deadline for all those who wish to patent a device based on the description I have just provided you. This means you’d better get moving. You have less than one year.

During the next decade or two we will enter a new era of endless, nonpolluting energy. Welcome to the future. Tag. You’re it.

* * *

While I first thought these thoughts in the late seventies, others have from time to time thought them too. Unfortunately, because so much enthusiastic quackery has been put forth by those who mean well but who are, shall we say, innocent of any rigorous scientific understanding, there rests upon this subject a terrible stigma. Snake oil is given greater credence.

Change to this situation will not come slowly. It will be sudden, or never. Only by demonstration will it receive credence, and only when that demonstration is replicated by others will it be accepted by scientists in general. And this is the way it should be. Science is based on experiments conducted in the real world, not theories we find pleasing to the ear.

But we must also remember that resistance to change in science is powerful because it is based partly on science and partly on emotion. Einstein, brilliant as he was and in spite of all evidence, argued against quantum mechanics for decades; and to his dying day never accepted it as real. We humans are, after all, only human.

I have waited thirty years to write this article. And through those thirty years have held my tongue, describing these ideas to no one. Mostly this was because of the hideous (and justifiable) stigma attached to the subject; but also because never before has human technology reached a level where these ideas might reasonably be expected to bear fruit. With our first but increasing forays into the realm of nanotechnology, that day is now upon us, and I feel that it is time to speak.

If you would like to read more on this subject, without wading through the ocean of quackery from which it must extricate itself, here are a few recent scientific reports. But I must warn you: the ocean is out there and it is waiting to swallow you.

Royal Society of Chemistry

Science Daily

Nanotechnology Today

* * *

You can learn more about Stephen Euin Cobb here.

Or about his podcast here or here.

* * *

Eric Flint —There Ain’t No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

Written by Eric Flint

I ended my last essay as follows:

Is it true that modern electronic devices have made copyright infringement “so effortless” that it has become—or threatens to become—a serious menace to legitimate copyright owners?

The answer is “no.” In the next issue, I’ll explain why.

The reason the answer is “no,” in a nutshell, is encapsulated in the subtitle of this essay: There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.

That colloquial expression captures a fundamental economic truth. Nothing that requires labor to be performed is really “free.” You’re going to pay for it, one way or other. Either by performing unpaid labor yourself, or by paying someone else for it. If not directly, then indirectly.

The real difference between a toll road and a “freeway” is not that a toll road costs you money and a freeway is “free.” It most certainly is not “free.” That freeway was built and is maintained by the taxpayers’ money. The only difference, from the standpoint of cost, is how the money is collected. In the case of toll roads, it’s collected directly from the users in the form of tolls. In the case of a freeway, it’s collected from the entire population in the form of taxes.

Let’s now apply that economic principle to crime. Whatever else it is, crime is also labor. In some cases—what are often called “crimes of passion”—that fact is simply irrelevant. But it is not irrelevant at all when the crime involved is one that is either motivated by a desire for profit, or simply profit’s poor second cousin, the desire to eliminate a cost to yourself.

To give an example, most shoplifters do not steal in order to resell at a profit. They steal for their own use—but it’s worth the risk to them because they eliminate the cost of paying for the stolen item. The thief’s equivalent of the old saw, “a penny saved is a penny earned.”

And that’s what drives most—not all—electronic copyright infringement. People do not generally “pirate” an electronic text in order to sell it for a profit. They do it in order to get the text itself, for their own use.

There is one major exception to this rule. But that involves people who can operate openly on a mass-production scale in countries that do not enforce international intellectual property rights. And the only thing I’ll say about that here is that all the arguments advanced by DRM advocates are silly when you’re dealing with this one (and only) instance of mass-scale piracy. For the obvious reason that the only conceivable way to enforce the law is to somehow cajole or coerce the authorities in a foreign country to do it. You might or might not be able to do that, but, if you can, it certainly won’t be through the use of DRM laws, which are such a burden to the population in countries that do respect intellectual property rights.

I said “not all” electronic copyright infringement is due to the motive named above, because there is a peculiar variety of a “crime of passion” that you do encounter in this area. There are some people out there, possessed by the firm delusion that “information wants to be free”—as if bits of data had legs and went walking about on their own—who see the deliberate violation of copyright as striking a blow for freedom.

But there aren’t many of them, and, taken by themselves, their actions don’t amount to more than a social nuisance. Yes, it’s irritating to authors to see their work posted up on the Internet without their permission, especially when the deed is accompanied by a virtual raspberry from a superannuated juvenile delinquent bragging about it. But the fact remains that the material damage done to authors by such activity is so minimal that it can barely be distinguished from zero—if there’s any material damage at all, which I doubt.

I am not guessing about this. The reason I initially put up my first novel for free online was because I got fed up reading the hysterical howls of some authors in online discussion groups, shrieking that their livelihood was being mortally threatened.

To prove that was nonsense, as graphically as I could, I put up one of my own novels for free. “Pirated myself,” if you’ll allow me the absurd expression. That novel, Mother of Demons, has been available online for free for almost seven years now. And …

It’s still in print, and still keeps selling.

Soon thereafter, with Jim Baen’s cooperation, we set up the Baen Free Library on Baen Books’ Web site, which now has dozens of titles from many authors available at no cost to anyone who wants them. (If you’re not familiar with the Library, you can find it by going to Baen Books Web site—www.baen.com—and selecting “Free Library” from the left side of the menu across the top.

The titles are not only made available free, they are completely unencrypted—in fact, we’ll provide you, free of charge, whatever software you’d prefer to download the texts. We make them available in five different formats.

And …

The sky did not fall. To the contrary, many of those books have remained in print and continued to be profitable for the publishers and paying royalties to the authors. For years, now, in some cases. Included among them is my own most popular title, 1632. I put that novel up in the Baen Library back in 2001—six years ago. At the time, the novel had sold about 30,000 copies in paperback.

Today, six years after I “pirated” myself, the novel has sold over 100,000 copies.

In the face of examples like this—and this is but one example—all arguments that “online piracy” guts legitimate sales are exposed as pure and simple blather. In point of fact, the exact opposite is true. The real effect of making books available at no cost in electronic format is that it keeps stimulating sales of the paper editions—which is where 95% of the money is, anyway, from an author or a publisher’s standpoint.

I’ll deal in a later essay with the issue of what would happen if electronic reading became the dominant or even exclusive form of book reading. But we’re a long way from that point today. Despite the continually rosy projections regarding electronic books, the fact is that the reading public has stubbornly resisted them and, year after year, continues to demonstrate its great preference for “obsolete” paper books. That’s because book-buyers are not morons, as I’ll discuss below.

The reason that Baen’s policy regarding electronic publishing works goes back to the economic principle in the subtitle: There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch. We start off by recognizing that—and recognizing it from both sides of the equation.

Here’s one side of the economic equation. Our Captain Morgan wannabe “pirate,” when he sets out to swipe an electronic book by downloading an illegal edition rather than paying for a legal one, has to do the same thing any criminal does, except people engaged in crimes of passion. He has to consider whether the amount of labor involved for him is worth the end gain.

One of the things I find genuinely bizarre about this debate is the constant assumption of my opponents that people will do anything just in order to get something for nothing. It’s incredible—since that proposition is tested every single day in America by millions of people, and proved wrong over and over again.

Don’t believe me? What do you think sustains toll roads, to name just one example? If people were willing to do anything—expend any effort, for any length of time—just in order to avoid paying a few dollars for something, then why does anyone ever use a toll road in the first place? With the exception of a few places—an island, for instance, that can only be driven to across a toll bridge—it is perfectly possible to drive anywhere in the United States without ever paying a thin dime in the form of road tolls.

But, generally, doing so takes more time—and time is money. On some instinctual level, if nothing else, most people understand that. Every extra hour you spend behind the wheel of a car going from Point A to Point B is an hour you’ve lost either from paying labor or simply from your life span. Unless you have another motive for spending that time—sightseeing, for instance—you’re generally quite willing to pay a modest toll in order to get where you’re going a little sooner.

Now apply that toll-road principle to the problem of electronic copy infringement. It is absolute nonsense to claim that “pirating” an electronic text means that you got it for “free.” Uh, no, you didn’t. You may have saved some money—but you did it at the expense of spending time and labor to circumvent the legal process. Your time and labor—not the victim’s.

In the real world, criminals do not do everything in a criminal manner. Whatever you or I think of their morals, they are just as capable as anyone else of gauging an enterprise from the standpoint of its cost-effectiveness.

Bank robbers do indeed rob banks. But here’s what they don’t do, or do very, very rarely:

They don’t illegally siphon gas from a neighbor’s car to fuel the getaway vehicle. Instead, they buy the gasoline.

They might steal the gun they’re planning to use to rob the banks, because guns are expensive. But they’re not likely to steal the ammunition—much less try to make the ammunition themselves. Why bother? They’re not planning to fight a war, they simply need enough ammunition to load a gun. So they buy the ammunition.

I would think the point is obvious. Pirates rob bullion ships, they don’t rob grain ships. Electronic copyright infringement is something that can only become an “economic epidemic” under certain conditions. Any one of the following:

1) The products they want—electronic texts—are hard to find, and thus valuable.

2) The products they want are high-priced, so there’s a fair amount of money to be saved by stealing them.

3) The legal products come with so many added-on nuisances that the illegal version is better to begin with.

Those are the three conditions that will create widespread electronic copyright infringement, especially in combination. Why? Because they’re the same three general conditions that create all large-scale smuggling enterprises.

And …

Guess what? It’s precisely those three conditions that DRM creates in the first place. So far from being an impediment to so-called online piracy, it’s DRM itself that keeps fueling it and driving it forward.

Let’s start with the third point. A DRM-crippled text is a royal pain in the ass for legitimate customers. First of all, because you have to have the right software (and often hardware) to use Product A as opposed to Product B—since the publishing and software industries can’t agree on a common standard. And, secondly, because you have absolutely no guarantee that next year those same industries won’t make the software you purchased from them obsolete and thereby make the books you bought unreadable.

Can we say “eight-track tape?” “Beta-Max?” “Vinyl LPs?”

The buying public, by now, has long and bitter memories of the way the entertainment industries have shafted them over and over again, by introducing one technology, forcing everyone to adopt it—then scrapping that technology in favor of yet another.

It’s no wonder the reading public had so stubbornly resisted electronic reading. As I said above, they are not morons. Contrast the ridiculous demands that the publishing industry tries to place on their electronic text customers to the joys and splendors of buying a paper book:

You do not need an “end user license.” Nope. Just buy the book with legal currency and you own it outright.

You do not need to buy separate software or hardware to read it. Nope. The only “software” you need is a pair of functioning eyes and a knowledge of the language the book is written in. Thazzit.

You now own a product that you can do any damn thing you want with. You can lend it to a friend, donate it to a library, use it for a doorstop or to swat a fly.

And, finally, you are in possession of a product whose technological durability and reliability has been tested and proved billions of times, and for centuries. Even a cheap paperback, with any degree of reasonable care, will still be readable half a century after you bought it—whereas not one piece of software has yet demonstrated that it can last much more than a few years.

Now let’s move to the second point. Precisely because DRM has made electronic reading such a distasteful idea for most of the reading public—even a loathsome one, for many—it has strangled the market in its crib. Despite all the rosy projections and predictions, year after year after year, the electronic reading industry has remained miniscule compared to the paper book industry. Is it any wonder?

But certain things go along with that. If you can only sell a few units of a product, you will have to charge more per unit to cover your operating costs and hope to make a profit. So …

We now have the grotesque phenomenon that publishers typically charge more for an electronic book than they do for a paper book—even though everyone knows perfectly well that electronic texts are far cheaper to produce and distribute. That’s mostly because the distribution costs that typically swallow about half of all income generated by paper books sales—and a higher percentage for paper magazines—is relatively tiny for an electronic publication.

And, so, dragged by the inexorable logic of this DRM lunacy, we arrive back at point one. Because electronic books are disliked by most of the public, and are then further constricted in terms of the market by being overpriced, they also become relatively rare. And it’s probably rarity more than anything that fuels most book-stealing, whether of paper or electronic editions.

The truth is this. Books simply aren’t that valuable—in any format—that they’ll ever serve as a major target for criminal enterprises. That’s especially so because, with a very few exceptions, books don’t have the advantage of being sellable in large numbers. There’s a logic to criminals’ hijacking a truck loaded with cartons of cigarettes, even though any single carton isn’t worth much more than a book. But the sheer volume of the cigarettes involved makes up the difference—because there just aren’t that many brands of cigarettes to begin with, so they’re easy to sell. Whereas books …

There are literally hundreds of thousands—no, millions—of “brands” of books. No gangster with the brains of a squirrel is going to hijack a truck full of books. To whom and how would he sell them? Two books over here, one book over there, week after week… .

The main reason people swipe books—or do the equivalent, like buying a paperback with a stripped cover that they probably know is not a legitimate copy—is simply because they can’t find a legal copy. Not, at least, for anything they consider a reasonable price or in a format they find acceptable. But if they could, they would, ninety-nine times out of a hundred.

On a cold-blooded economic level, it is the understanding I’ve laid out above that guided Jim Baen from the beginning of the electronic publishing era. Jim always understood all this. (In fact, I learned a lot myself from watching him and talking to him.)

From the beginning, Baen Books has always consistently followed a course of action that is diametrically opposed to the one advocated by DRM enthusiasts.

Baen’s policy can be summed up using the same three points I enumerated above:

1) Electronic editions of Baen’s titles are not rare. In fact, they’re almost ubiquitous. With less than a handful of exceptions—those usually involve contractual restrictions on electronic publication insisted on by a few estates—all Baen titles will be produced in an electronic edition as well as a paper edition.

2) The books are priced cheaply. Where most publishers insist on selling e-books at a higher price than paperbacks, Baen sells them at a lower price—and a much lower price if you take advantage of their monthly Webscription service. You can buy a Baen title in electronic format for as little as $2.50—and almost no title is priced higher than $5.

3) Finally, the books are designed to be as user-friendly as possible. Baen will provide the text in any one of five popular formats, some of which are completely unencrypted. No restrictions are placed on the customers’ use of the books thereafter. They can do whatever they want with them, just as they can with paper books.

Given all that, who is going to bother to steal a Baen title? How many people with enough intelligence to read a book in the first place are going to go through the time and effort to find a pirated edition of something that they could have obtained legally—very easily and quickly, at a stable and well-known Web site—for five dollars or less? An edition, furthermore, which has been professionally prepared and doesn’t carry the same sort of frequent OCR-scanning errors that most pirated editions do?

Some, sure. There are always a few fruitcakes here and there. But not enough ever to be anything more than a minor nuisance, at worst.

The kind of thing you run across—very occasionally—is exemplified by a case that happened about four years ago. A well-meaning person sent me and Jim Baen a somewhat breathless e-mail warning us that some rascal had taken one of the free CDs containing many electronic texts that Baen often distributes in hardcover editions and had put it up for sale on eBay for $100.

I called Jim on the phone to see if he wanted to do anything about it. Not to my surprise, however, his reaction was the same as mine. “Why the hell should I waste my valuable time trying to prevent someone from earning the Darwin award? If somebody out there is stupid enough to pay $100 to get an illegal copy of something they could have gotten perfectly legally by buying a $25 hardcover, let ‘em and be damned.”

My attitude toward so-called electronic pirates—these virtual Bluebeard wannabes—is one of cheerful contempt. Contempt, because they’re jerks. Cheerful, because their periodic vainglorious boasts about “destroying copyright” are the equivalent of so many mice chittering at an elephant.

Don’t bother pirating my books, you pipsqueaks. I automatically put all of them up for free online about three months after the paperback edition comes out anyway. Because I know perfectly well that I’m generating far more sales from the wonderful—and dirt-cheap—promotional value than I’m losing to so-called pirates.

That’s the key to the whole thing—as we will see, again and again, in the essays that follow. The way you deal with the problem of electronic copyright infringement is not by a futile—and politically dangerous—attempt to place greater and greater legal restrictions on the public’s access to reading material. The way you do it is by recognizing, cold-bloodedly, certain fundamental economic principles and guiding yourself accordingly. By doing so, you cut the ground right out from under the problem.

Two other things will happen if you do so. The first is that, in purely and immediately financial terms, you will generate a lot more income than you will by following the Pied Pipers of DRM. It is a fact that Baen’s way of selling e-books generates more income per unit sold for the publisher—and royalties for the authors—than the DRM methods used by other publishers. Those profits and royalties are still small, of course, compared to the profits and royalties earned by paper editions. But that’s inevitable, so long as the electronic market as a whole remains stunted and tiny.

The second thing is that you will generate a lot of goodwill among your customers, where DRM policies infuriate those same customers. And while it’s not easy to assign a precise value to “goodwill” in a balance sheet, no one with any sense doubts that it’s a very real—and major—asset for any business.

We couldn’t have launched this magazine without that asset. We knew from the beginning that we’d have an uphill struggle, trying to create a successful online science fiction magazine that paid better rates to authors than any other magazine, given the small size of the electronic market. But we also gauged that Baen Books had, over the years, generated enough goodwill and trust among its core customers that we could get the support we needed for the Universe Club—given that we’d be publishing the magazine along the same well-established anti-DRM principles that Baen has always followed.

And so it proved. About half the income the magazine receives comes from the Club, with the other half being provided by subscriptions. That’s what has so far enabled us to weather this very hard initial period in the magazine’s existence—and the reason we’re confident we’re going to be successful in the long run.

Everyone should understand one thing, if nothing else. The only reason this debate over DRM as it applies to electronic text is still going on is simply because our opponents have what amounts to a quasi-religious and sometimes downright hysterical blind faith in the magic powers of DRM. As a test of competing business strategies in the real world of economic intercourse, the debate is over.

Finished. Done.

We won, they lost—and it was a rout.

In my next essay, I’m going to pursue this question further—by “question,” meaning the whole issue of how electronic publishing should be used. In this essay, I only dealt with it negatively, so to speak, by exposing the logical absurdities of the arguments advanced in favor of DRM. What I want to do next is look at the positive ways in which electronic publishing can—if you follow the right strategy—serve as a counterbalance to many of the difficult economic problems that are today facing the publishing industry and its authors and readers.

Barry N. Malzberg —Arias & Barcarolles

Written by Barry N. Malzberg

From its inception as a category of publishing in this country (the first issue being Gernsback’s April, 1926 Amazing Stories), science fiction was a literature of ideas. Just ask the idea people. Consider the founding editors: for Gernsback it was a literature of scientific advance, which would encourage young boys to become engineers. For Orlin Tremaine it was the thought variant, stories that would redefine or expand reality. For John Campbell it was a literature of technology’s effect on human emotions, progress, way of life. For Anthony Boucher, a quaint quality old Curiosity Shoppe incorporating societal or technological change. For Horace L. Gold, the bitter comedy of it all, the expansion of the practice of human folly, stupidity, and exploitation on a twisted, multihued background. For Donald A. Wollheim, a means to show the corruption and hypocrisy of capitalist culture.

And the writers. Lots of writers. “Variegate” is the word; a tumble of writers. Engineers, sociologists, comedians, pratfall artists, feminists, masculinists, satirists, parodists, tragedians, sexual crusaders. The magazine stories and eventually the novels were filled with ideas, trembled with concepts. The prose and characterization might have often been distressingly unachieved, but this bothered the editors as little as it seemed to concern the readers. (Of course even in these early decades much was achieved. What Kuttner and Sturgeon, for instance, were able to accomplish within a span of two decades from the origination of the category is still an astonishment.)

Of course there were some anti-idea editors as well. Raymond Palmer, William Hamling, James Quinn. “Just a good story, please.” Or, in Palmer’s case the Shaver stories of the late 1940s, pre-von Danikin replete with cave-dwelling deteroriated robots. But in the grim joylessness with which the agenda was stated (“Just entertain us,” Hamling would write in editorials, biting his lip), it could be theorized that the anti-ideas were themselves ideas. Most light or humorous science fiction had the dedicated, desiccated aspect of children’s entertainment night at the 195l New York Lumber Trade Association annual. (Tip of the Hatlo Hat to my old man. That year my party favor was a chemistry set. That and trips to the Gilbert Hall of Science convinced me that I was underqualified to reassemble the universe.) A literature of ideas, all right. That was science fiction at the creation, and we still live, read, and write under that penumbra. A dreadful Young Laborer’s League earnestness still pervades; Sheckley’s silliness is endured and sometimes admired (although it was not admired by James Blish), but even in its time was often marginalized or dismissed as peripheral, as an indulgence. That silliness—or Horace Gold’s acidity or Boucher’s literature of (Mark Clifton’s phrase) “wine and decadence”—were never part of the Grand Plan, not even for Gold, Boucher, or their writers. These were stories that worked the margins, that made extrapolation more a matter of technique and cleverness (The Demolished Man is an elegant and formulative novel, but its telepathic-dominated corporate future has never been argued as a plausible projection. No less than Pohl’s “The Midas Plague” or Tenn’s “Firewater,” gaudy social satires both, it is a product of pyrotechnic as opposed to the rigors of Mission of Gravity—and Bester’s later commentary well shows that he knew it.)

What was the real Grand Plan? (Practical as opposed to showing off in Bester’s fashion.) Clearly, it was to reorganize the present in light of a dominating future. If the present was important, it was only because it foreshadowed the future, implied aspects of that gleaming future in situ. Science fiction—a rank generalization—regarded present technology or social formulation as transient, important only for the signals it would give in that transience. It was the present that would make the future go but it was only the future that would eventually explain or justify the present.

The effect all of this cogitation and programmatic insistence had upon the personalities of the writers and the social life of science fiction was, of course, profound. Could be argued that it was inevitable. From Slan Shacks to the Hydra Club, from the Futurians to Dianetics, from the evolving and ever-more-complex bylaws of the World Science Fiction Convention to the convulsions of The Immortal Storm, many of our writers, editors, fans, readers dwelt within increasingly baroque social and psychological struggles and also exhibited—in their public if not private lives—megalomania , self-fixation, pomposity, an insistence upon the arcane. If science fiction was not the world in 1926, in 1945 the world became science fiction. Steam engine time. “Suddenly,” Asimov wrote in retrospect, many years later, “science fiction was no longer a bunch of crazy stories for kids, it was the only medium which could explain what was happening.” Science fiction, to the mainstream critics who came to the Healy & McComas Adventures in Time and Space, was to be seen as a candle to light us to bed or breakfast.

There has always been a struggle amongst the idea, the anti-idea, and the gadflies for the terrain of science fiction; it is, of course, irresolute and from that struggle and irresolution has come not only the tension but much of the achievement of science fiction. Like no other, this is a conflated genre, perhaps one that was always more improvised than evolved. And we can see its consequence now throughout this shrinking terrain, these ravaged borders:

Conceptually and in terms of definition we are just about out of ideas.

Leave to the mainstream a literature of exhaustion. What we have—call it sired by Campbell, pranked by Gold—is an agenda of exhaustion. After shock and fury: home there is no returning.

Mike Resnick —April 2007

Written by Mike Resnick

Okay, I hear you ask, how the hell can Jim Baen’s Universe pay such phenomenal word rates? Are we just a loss leader for Baen Books?

The answer is that we’re not a loss leader for anybody. We intend to make a profit, and I’ll show you exactly how. But first let me tell you a little story about the sex industry. (Yeah, I could explain it just as easily without sex, but Topic Number One does tend to capture the attention.)

Move the clock back to 1965 (and how I wish we could - at least when I look in the mirror). I’m a 23-year-old kid, and I’ve landed my first job in Chicago’s publishing industry. None of the legitimate papers or magazines had any openings, so suddenly I find myself editing The National Insider, which is just like The National Enquirer only worse. The first thing I learn is that the only number that matters in my little universe is 41. That’s the break-even point. For the Insider to stay out of the red, we have to sell 41% of our print run … which is to say that the cost of printing, shipping, distributing, editorial, overhead, everything added together, gets covered only if we sell 41% of our print run, which was about 400,000 back then. (Don’t drool; we only sold for 15 cents an issue.)

We were selling about 38% when I took over. I figured that if one naked lady was good, six were better; if one silly story about saucers flying off with Jackie Kennedy was good, four were better; if one Hollywood gossip column filled with innuendo was good, lots were better. And I was right. Suddenly the paper was regularly selling between 70% and 75% every week.

Okay, move the calendar ahead to 1969. I’ve quit my job and gone freelance. Doing what? Same damned thing. I’m packaging four monthly (and later bi-weekly) tabloids out of my house in Libertyville, Illinois. But there is a huge difference. Now my magic number is 9.

You see, now I am working for Reuben Sturman, the true kingpin of the American porn industry (though my tabloids are his one non-porn publication. We’re just sexy, thank you very much.) Now, Reuben wasn’t born the kingpin of porn; he was a self-made smut king. He’d been a comic-book jobber in Cleveland in the 1950s. Then one day the major distributors decided they wouldn’t handle a bunch of “muscle books”—we’d call them bottom-level body-building magazines today—and Reuben volunteered to distribute them, You know how the New York Times prints “all the news that’s fit to print” and the National Enquirer prints the rest? Well, the major distributors handled all the material that was fit to display on your local newsstand or in your local supermarket, and Reuben handled all the rest, especially those with (*sigh*) naked ladies.

And got rich. And started a whole chain of what were known as secondary distribution agencies. When the dust cleared in the early 1960s, there were 65 secondary agencies nationwide, and Reuben, under various corporate veils, owned 59 of them. He figured if it would work for distribution, it would work for retail outlets, and soon, of the 800 adult book stores in the country—I haven’t been to one in thirty years, but they were the kind where men in raincoats paid a dollar to browse and got it back if they bought something—Reuben owned over 600. He also invested in a printing plant.

Back to the new magic number: 9. My break-even point for Reuben’s tabloids was 9%. That’s right; we could pulp 90% of our print run and still show a profit.

How? Simple. He got rid of the costs that others had to pay. (Remember that: we’ll come back to it later). He didn’t pay a printer anything but the cost of paper, because he was the printer. He didn’t pay a national distributor because he was the national distributor. He didn’t pay the local distributor (the equivalent of Charles Levy in Chicago, or Long Island News Agency in New York) because he was the local distributor. He didn’t have to give the bookstore its usual percentage, because he was the bookstore.

9%. Simple. And then he made sure of his profit by forbidding any of the 600 bookstores, or any of the 59 secondary agencies, to sell a single copy of a rival tabloid—all of which had to use his services—before we’d sold half of our own print run.

(Sound familiar? If you’re a Resnick reader it should. The protagonist of my 1984 science fiction novel, The Branch—which is being reprinted by Pyr in 2008, hint, hint—was based on Reuben, and his business was lifted lock stock and naked ladies from Reuben’s.)

We’re going to talk about science fiction magazines now. I’m inclined to say something flip, like “Back to the real world,” except the point of all this is that what I just related to you was the real world. My first publisher went belly-up a few years after I left because the expenses whelmed him over; Reuben stayed profitably in business until the Feds finally nailed him for tax evasion. (He died in jail.)

The way I see it, the great printzines—Asimov’s, Analog, F&SF—are my old Chicago publisher, and Jim Baen’s Universe is Reuben Sturman.

Let’s see if I can explain—and please understand, I love those three magazines. I’ve been reading two of them all my life, and the third since its inaugural issue thirty years ago. I’ve sold to all of them. I have won five Hugos, and each winner was from one of them. I will never refuse a request from one of their editors, and will write for them right up to the end. I will weep bitter tears when they die—but die they will, and for much the same reason my Chicago tabloid publisher died.

And Jim Baen’s Universe, or some as-yet-unborn JBU clones, will live and prosper, for the same reason Reuben Sturman’s publishing empire lived and prospered.

Consider: what does it take to get a copy of Asimov’s or one of the others into your hands?

Well, there’s an office, which means an overhead.

There’s an editor, a top-notcher, who has to get a salary commensurate with his or her talent.

There’s paper for the magazines to be printed on.

There are color separations for the covers.

There is the cost of printing tens of thousands (formerly a couple of hundred thousand) of copies of the magazine.

There are shipping costs. The subscribers don’t drive to the printing plant to pick their copies up. Neither do the distributors. Neither do the stores.

There are the distribution costs, both for the national and local distributors. They’re good guys, but they don’t place the magazines in the stores for free.

There are the stores themselves. If they sell a $5.00 magazine, most of them are going to want $1.50 or thereabouts for their troubles.

There are warehouse costs for those magazines that are neither sold nor pulped.

And a month later, every copy has vanished from the newsstands and bookstores, to be replaced by the next month’s issue.

Now let’s take a look at how these expenses effect Jim Baen’s Universe:

There is no office expense and no overhead, because Eric, Paula, me, all of us, work out of our houses.

There are no editorial salaries for Eric, Paula or me. We’re so confident that the magazine’s going to make money that we each opted to get a piece of the profits.

There are no paper expenses, because the magazine doesn’t appear on paper.

There are no color separations, because we simply post the artwork right on the screen.

There are no printing expenses, because the magazine is not printed.

There are no shipping costs, because the magazine is not shipped.

There are no national or local distribution costs, because JBU is not distributed. It’s right here, and we don’t have to pay anyone to put it in your physical proximity.

There is no cut for the bookstores, because we are not sold in bookstores. Or newsstands. Or supermarkets. We’re right here on line. You pay us, and we give you the magazine, and there are no middle men. (You might think about that. You pay $4.95 for a digest magazine, they might wind up with about $1.85 of it; you pay us $5.00, we keep $5.00.)

There are no warehouse costs, because the magazine exists in electronic phosphors, not paper pages. We’ll post another issue in a couple of months, but this one won’t be through earning us money, because it will always be available for anyone who wants it. It just won’t be the new issue on the website.

Do you begin to see where the print magazines are at a bit of a disadvantage?

Now, there is one expense that they and we both have, and that’s content, which is to say, the stories that are our reason for existence.

The three digest magazines pay seven to eight cents a word. It seems reasonable. Hell, when you look at their expenses and their diminishing print runs and sales, it seems positively generous, almost philanthropic. How can JBU possibly compete with that?

Easy. By paying our major writers three times as much, and by paying every writer, even our rank beginners, at least as much as the digests.

Remember: they’re paying overhead, color separations, editorial salaries, paper, printing, shipping, national distributors, local distributors, bookstores, warehouses, and authors.

And us? We’re paying … authors and artists. Period. And we won’t be happy until our best authors are getting 50 cents a word, and all of our authors are getting at least twenty cents. Give us three years; we’re working on it.

Next question: is there enough of a cyber audience to keep an e-zine in business?

I didn’t know until a couple of months ago. Now I do.

Let me tell you about that. There’s a young man named Steve Eley who runs a podcast site called EscapePod. Last year he asked me for a story. At the time I didn’t pay much attention to it. I mean, who the hell listens to podcasts? Then a French producer/director who had never been able to get the magazine my story appeared in heard the podcast and optioned the story for maybe 75 times what Steve had paid for it. So of course I instantly became a huge supporter of podcasting, sent a bunch of top writers to Steve, sold him a bunch more stories, gave out podcast interviews all the hell over … and couldn’t help wondering if anyone except the occasional French movie producer actually listened to these things.

So I asked Steve if he had any figures. He said yes, that “Travels With My Cats,” my second Escape Pod story, had 22,000 hits in its first month.

22,000 hits? I couldn’t believe it. It had appeared in Asimov’s. If every single person who bought that issue read the story—and my guess is that probably a quarter of them didn’t—that was still only 18,556 readers according to this month’s Locus.

More people heard the story online in one month—and of course it’s still being heard months later—than read it!

Okay, I said to myself, the story was a Hugo winner and Steve advertised it as such. For whatever reasons—its content, its awards—it touched all the right buttons. But surely not every story on this one little web page could do that.

So this month he posted another of my stories. It’s a tongue-in-cheek fairy tale. It won no awards. It was written for teenagers. It has nothing in common with the other story.

I couldn’t even wait for an entire month. I e-mailed Steve after two weeks to ask how many people had downloaded it. (Hold onto your hats.)

14,000!

14,000? This is me. Not Anne McCaffrey. Not Kevin Anderson. Not Mercedes Lackey. Not Robert Jordan.

Are the readers out there in the ether?

You betcha. In vast quantities.

Are we positioned to find them?

We think so. We hope so. And if we’re wrong, then the next e-zine to come along will find them (or be found by them), or the one after that.

The one thing you can be sure of is that JBU and its electronic imitators will bring you the very best writers and artists around.

After all, we’ve got nothing else to spend it on.

—Mike Resnick

Stephen Euin Cobb—April 2007

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

Listen as David Drake, Alan Dean Foster, Dave Freer, Ginjer Buchanan, Paul Levinson and Lucienne Diver describe many of the technological and social changes which will alter your life during the next few years.

The Future And You is an award-winning audio podcast about the future which may be downloaded and enjoyed, or even copied and shared, for free. Every episode contains many interviews which reveal a wide variety of ideas and opinion from a wide variety of people.

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The April 1, 2007 episode includes all of the following and more:

Apartheid ended thirteen years ago, so what are the trends within South Africa today? And what misconceptions do outsiders have about South Africa? Dave Freer, who was born and raised in South Africa, talks of this as well as his scientific profession: ichthyology (the study of fish), and the thousands of times he has been scuba diving, and one dive in particular when he got his arm caught in a shellfish tunnel and very nearly drowned.

With half the Japanese populous reading eBooks on their cell phones and Steve Jobs intent on combining cell phones with iPods for computerless downloading of music, podcasts and audio books, just how fast are the changes coming? Ginjer Buchanan (Senior Executive Editor and Marketing Director of Ace and ROC books) talks of this as well as: why William Gibson is a national hero in Japan, the increasing feminization of America, the Vatican’s website, why young editors must create for themselves a niche, and her fear that unemployment is the fate of all those who create, transport and sell physical books: from press operators and truck drivers to clerks in the giant chain bookstores.

Less-than-lethal weapons will soon take their place on the battlefield, but will they actually change anything? No, says Alan Dean Foster, and he explains why. He also addresses the probability of the world entering a new dark age, and he disagrees with the host’s notion that New Orleans can be used as a miniature example of the fall of civilization.

Are SF writers really trying to predict the future? Hugo Gernsback thought he was predicting, but were H.G. Wells or Jules Verne also trying to be predictors? Many people think so but David Drake says no and backs it up with specific examples.

Have audio book downloads become a bigger trend than eBook downloads? What about giving away free eBooks? Lucienne Diver, one of America’s top literary agents, talks of this as well as her frustration with the large pharmaceutical companies and her skepticism over whether or not future medicine will ever provide a cure for the cryonics process.

Does the world need more people rather than less? Paul Levinson suggests that, since intelligence is our best resource then more people will produce more intelligence, more innovation and a more rapid improvement to the human condition. He also addresses other questions: Is another dark age unlikely because (unlike in the ancient world) today there are so many copies of humanity’s collected knowledge? And is the fall of New Orleans (due to hurricane Katrina) a good example of how civilizations fall? And if so what can we learn from it?

We also include another installment in our serialization of the Hard SF novel, Bones Burnt Black; and Walt Boyes (The Bananaslug) & Stoney Compton do their bit to let the world at large know what’s in the current issue of Jim Baen’s Universe.

News items in the April 1, 2007 episode include: (a) TV channels from around the globe may be watched online for free by going to MyEasyTV.com; (b) your humble host proposes his fix for the confusion produced by dropped cell phone calls; (c) your host’s latest, and shortest, test for social equality; and (d) your host will appear at RavenCon in Richmond VA, USA (April 20-22, 2007) and at ConCarolinas in Charlotte NC, USA (June 1-3, 2007).

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And if the current episode’s ideas and opinion are not enough to satisfy your curiosity about the future check out the previous month’s episode which contains John Barnes, Kim Stanley Robinson, Elizabeth Bear, L.E. Modesitt, Jr., Stoney Compton and Ginjer Buchanan discussing all the following and more:

Everyone agrees that Generation Y is the most connected Generation ever, but are its members so obsessed with being in complete consensus on everything that they are horrified of being in open disagreement? And if so, how will this alter America ten years from now when “Generation Y” will comprise 40% of all American consumers? John Barnes is a consulting semiotician and has done a great deal of study on this subject.

What if everyone hypertexted within all their conversations? What if you never had to define your terms because those not familiar with them could look them up faster than you could have provided the explanation. Might those people hypertext-enabled become frustrated at the slowness of your conversational data rate if you did pause to define them? Elizabeth Bear thinks so, and has many other ideas about the future and the Singularity.

What if Russia still owned Alaska? What if Lennon and Trotsky had remained nobodies and the Czar and Czarina ruled to this very day? Understanding how history pivots on trivial occurrences can provide insights into the changes we will all face in the future. Stoney Compton, a life-long student of history and alternate history, talks of both and shares a few personal anecdotes about Alaska and its native Athabaskan Indians.

Imagine you’re standing in line in a cafeteria but federal regulations will not allow you to buy any kind of soft drink or any kind of fried food. Now imagine that there are tens of thousands of similarly restrictive cafeterias all across America. How can this be? Simple, these are the cafeterias in public schools. To learn the trends our future wage earners are experiencing I spoke with Ricki Dean, manager of a high school cafeteria in Columbia County Georgia.

Many full-time authors saw their careers come to an abrupt end when sales of horror books collapsed in the 1980’s. Could this happen all over again to one of the other genres? Ginjer Buchanan, Senior Executive Editor and Marketing Director of Ace and ROC books, talks of this as well as the rapidly growing popularity of audio books: a trend the big houses have spotted and are making a serious effort not to be left out of.

What would you do differently today if you knew for certain that your generation would live three hundred years? Kim Stanley Robinson tackles this question and its social ramifications since he sees it as a genuine possibility based on what he has been hearing from his friends within the field of biotechnology. He also covers cryonics, SETI and our next earth.

Stores and shops are filled with every variety of goods, but does this variety give us only the “Illusion of Choice?” L.E. Modesitt Jr. suggests that it does. He also talks of his concern that we will be forced to rely on fossil fuels much farther into the future than anyone would like to admit.

We also include another installment in our serialization of the Hard SF novel, Bones Burnt Black; as well as the official segment from Jim Baen’s Universe in which Walt Boyes (The Bananaslug) & Stoney Compton take us inside the greatest online science fiction and fantasy magazine in the world, this time by presenting a reading by Louise Marley of the opening scenes of her short story The Spiral Road which is in the February 1, 2007 issue of Jim Baen’s Universe magazine.

News items in this episode include: (a) your host will appear at RavenCon in Richmond VA, USA the weekend of April 20-22, 2007; (b) a new version of Death Stacks which you may play online for free and which requires no download; (c) how you may prove for yourself that there’s no such thing as a Chinese Journalist; and (d) why there is a 15 percent probability that Al Gore will be the next US president.

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Here’s a bit more detail on two of the news items from these two episodes:

You may now play Death Stacks online (without downloading anything). A web based version of this strategy board game—which was invented by the host of The Future And You, Stephen Euin Cobb—has been created by the same artificial intelligence programmer who released a downloadable version (which is still available). Those who wish to may read more about Death Stacks in the Wikipedia article. No word yet if the programmer intends to enter his heuristic software to compete in the—so far, human-dominated—Annual Death Stacks Tournament which is only a few months away and will be held at the Marriott Executive Hotel in Charlotte NC as part of the SF&F convention ConCarolinas.

Listeners may visit with the host of The Future And You at any of the following SF&F conventions: RavenCon in Richmond VA (April 20-22, 2007), ConCarolinas in Charlotte NC (June 1-3, 2007), LibertyCon in Chattanooga TN (July 27-29, 2007) or DragonCon in Atlanta GA (August 31-September 3, 2007).

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And finally, here’s a little throwaway idea I came up with on March 16, 2007.

Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of TV commercials about cell phones in which the signal is lost and the call is dropped which causes terrible misunderstandings such as failed romances or someone losing their job. Obsessive problem solver that I am, this started me thinking of how the problem could be fixed. After two minutes of thought the solution became obvious: cell phone software should be redesigned to let every user choose their own personal background music which will play softly and constantly throughout every phone call they make and will be transmitted in the same signal that carries their voice. This way, if the connection is lost, even for a fraction of a second and even if they are not talking during the loss, the other person will know instantly that the connection was lost because the music was not transmitted and fell silent. Never again need anyone spend thirty seconds talking to dead air.

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You can learn more about this podcast here, or here or even here.

Or learn more about its host here or here.

THE END

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