Jim Baen’s Universe

Vol 2 Num 1 June 2007

Written by Jim Baen’s Universe! staff

Jim Baen’s Universe, Volume 2, Number 1

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

The Big Guy Copyright (c) 2007 by Mike Resnick

Running Water for L.A. Copyright (c) 2007 by Eric Witchey

Thin Ice Copyright (c) 2007 by Dave Freer

Weredragons of Mars Copyright (c) 2007 by Carl Frederick

Swing Time Copyright (c) 2007 by Carrie Vaughn

Cryptic Coloration Copyright (c) 2007 by Elizabeth Bear

The Littlest Wyrm-Maid Copyright (c) 2007 by Rebecca Lickiss

Child, Maiden, Woman, Crone Copyright (c) 2007 by Terry Bramlett

The Realms of Words Copyright (c) 2007 by Eric Flint

Fish Story, Episode 7 Copyright (c) 2007 by Andrew Dennis, Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Touching the Dead Copyright (c) 2007 by J. Kathleen Cheney

Chicken Soup Copyright (c) 2007 by A. F. Tesson

Chirus Fever Copyright (c) 2007 by Lisa Satterlund

Giant Killer by A. Bertram Chandler first appeared in Astounding Science Fiction, in Oct 1945

Scandals: Being True to Our Imagination Copyright (c) 2007 by Gregory Benford

The Editor’s Page, “Straitjackets” Copyright (c) 2007 by Mike Resnick

Salvos Against Big Brother, “Books: The Opaque Market” Copyright (c) 2007 by Eric Flint

From the Heart’s Basement, “Overtaken” Copyright (c) 2007 by Barry N. Malzberg

In My Opinion, “The Tiniest Assassins” Copyright (c) 2007 by Mike Resnick

First Electronic Publication, June 2007

SCIENCE FICTION:

The Big Guy

Written by Mike Resnick

Illustrated by Ural Akyuz

Everyone called him the Big Guy.

He was seven feet nine inches tall, strong as a bull, and graceful as a gazelle.

I don’t think anyone could pronounce his real name, not even the guys who created him. I remember hearing them refer to him as Ralph-43 a couple of times, which kind of makes you wonder what happened to Ralphs 1 through 42.

Still, it was none of my concern. I don’t get paid to think. I get paid to rebound and play defense, and once in a while, when our first two or three options are covered, to put the ball in the hoop— or at least to try.

My name’s Jacko Melchik. I’m pretty tall, though nothing like the Big Guy. I’m six feet ten and I weigh 257 pounds. (Well, I did after practice this morning. Now that I’ve had some fluids I’m probably up around 265.) That’s what I am. I’ll tell you what I’m not: strong as a bull or graceful as a gazelle.

It was only a matter of time before they went out and got a better center than me, but no one ever anticipated what they wound up with: I don’t know if he was a robot or an android or some other word, but I know he was the most awesome basketball player I ever saw. I’d seen old holos of Wilt the Stilt, and of Kareem and Shaq and all the others, but they looked like kids next to the Big Guy.

I still remember the day he walked out onto the court during a morning practice. Fishbait McCain —that’s our coach; no one’s sure how he got the nickname, but they say he once ate a bunch of nightcrawlers when he got drunk on a fishing trip— walked over to me and pulled me aside.

“I want to see what this machine can do,” he said. “If he backs into the lane, keep a forearm on him, and when he goes up for a shot, give him a shove. Let’s see how he handles it.”

“I been reading the newsdisks,” I replied. “I know what he cost. I don’t want to damage him.”

“He’s gonna take a lot worse than that if I put him in a game,” said Fishbait. “I got to know how he reacts.”

“You’re the boss,” I said with a shrug.

“I’m glad someone around here remembers that,” said Fishbait.

He clapped his hands to get the team’s attention, then gestured for the Big Guy to step forward. “Men,” he said, “this is our newest player. I know you’ve all read and heard about him. If he’s half what they say he is, I think you’re gonna be happy Mr. Willoughby outbid all the other owners for him.”

“Jesus, he’s bigger’n I imagined!” said Scooter Thornley, our point guard.

“He’s bigger than anyone imagined!” chimed in Jake Jacobs, our backup power forward. “You got a name, Big Guy?”

“My name is Ralph,” he answered in surprisingly human tones.

“I am pleased to meet you all, and to join the Montana Buttes.”

“You can feel pleasure?” asked Doc Landrith, our trainer.

“No,” said the Big Guy. “But good manners required such an answer.”

“Well,” said Doc, “if you don’t have any emotions, at least Goliath Jepson ain’t gonna scare you when you go up against him.”

Jepson was leading the league in rebounds and technical fouls. I don’t think anyone liked him, even his teammates.

“Okay,” said Fishbait. He tossed a ball to the Big Guy.

“Let’s try a little one-on-one. Ralph, let’s see what you can do against Jacko here.”

The Big Guy took a look at me, his face totally expressionless. I moved forward to lean on him a little, just enough to make contact and see which way he was going to move when he began his drive to the basket, but before I got close enough to touch him he’d already raced by me and stuffed the ball through the hoop.

“Again,” said Fishbait.

This time I reached up to stick a hand in his face and obscure his vision. He responded with a vertical leap that must have been close to sixty inches, and swished the ball through from the three-point line.

That was the beginning of a ten-minute humiliation in which the Big Guy outquicked me, outstronged me, outjumped me, made every shot he took, and blocked all but two that I took.

We spent the next ten minutes double-teaming him. Got him to double-dribble once, and one other time I saw him move his pivot foot, but Fishbait wouldn’t call it, and he beat the pair of us 30 to 0.

“Men,” said Fishbait when the second humiliation was over, “I think we got us a center.”

It meant that I was out of a job, at least as a starter, but how could I object? We were a pretty good team already; this was just the thing we needed to reach the next level and knock off the Rhode Island Reds for the title.

Each of us in turn walked up to the Big Guy and shook his hand and welcomed him to the team. He couldn’t have been more polite, but you got the feeling he was programmed for good manners because his face and attitude were no different than when he was racing downcourt with the ball.

“And you, Jacko,” said Fishbait when we were all done, “I want you to room with Ralph, help him along, show him the ropes.”

“Room with him?” I repeated. “Don’t you just turn him off at night and turn him on again in the morning?”

“He’s a member of the team, and he’s going to be treated like a member of the team. He’ll travel with us, he’ll room with us, if he eats, he’ll eat with us.” He stopped abruptly and turned to the Big Guy. ” Do you eat?”

“I can, if we are in public and it is required,” answered Ralph. “I will remove what I ingest later, in private, and get rid of it. Or offer it to my roommate.”

“No, thanks,” I said quickly.

“It will be sterile,” he assured me. “I have no digestive acids.”

“I’ll take a pass on it anyway,” I said.

“All right,” said Fishbait. “We’ll do a twenty-minute drill, shirts and skins. Ralph, you’ll play with the shirts. Jacko, you look like you’re ready to drop. Go take a shower; we’ll have Jake play center for the skins. When we’re done we’ll bus back to the hotel. The Cheyenne press hasn’t caught wind of this yet, so maybe we can get back without running into a couple of hundred reporters. Once we’re in the hotel, you’re free to do as you want and go where you want, except Ralph. He doesn’t set foot outside the place until we catch the bus for tomorrow’s game.” He paused. “And you’ll stay with him, Jacko.”

“What for?” I asked.

“School him in our plays, show him how we set our screens, which zones we use against which offenses.”

“He doesn’t need all that, Fishbait,” I said. “Just give him the ball and aim him.”

“That just cost you a thousand bucks,” said Fishbait. “Now I’m gonna ask you again, and if you give me any more lip, it’ll be five thousand this time.”

“You wouldn’t do this if I was still your starting center,” I said bitterly.

“There are a lot of things I wouldn’t do if you were still my starting center,” he said. “One of them is win the championship. Now go take your shower while you can still afford a towel.”

Except for the referees, no one in the history of Man had ever won an argument with Fishbait McCain, so I went and took my shower. When I got back I saw that the shirts were beating the skins 38-7, and the Big Guy had 30 points, 4 assists, 6 blocked shots, and 11 rebounds, which would have been a good week’s work for me.

When it was over we went back to the hotel, and I showed Ralph to our room.

“I’ve never seen anything like you,” I said admiringly. “I’m pretty good, but you handled me like a baby. I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble with Goliath Jepson.”

“I will not be playing against Goliath Jepson,” he replied.

“Did he blow his knee again?” I said. “If it was on the news I must have missed it.”

“No,” answered the Big Guy. “But I am not the only prototype. At least three others will be entering the league this year, in time for the playoffs.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said grimly. “One of them’s going to play for Rhode Island.”

“Yes, Jacko,” he said. Then: “Will I be expected to join the team for dinner?”

“No, Fishbait gave everyone their freedom— well, everyone but you and me. I’ll either go up to the restaurant on the roof or order from room service.”

“And what time do you go to sleep?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe eleven.”

“I never sleep,” said Ralph. “Will it bother you if I use the room’s computer? I will adjust it so that it makes no noise.”

“Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I said. “But do me a favor and just kind of whisper your commands until I’m asleep.”

“I don’t have to,” he replied. “I, too, am a machine. I will simply connect to the computer, and you will hear nothing.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” I said. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“We are teammates and roommates,” he said. “You can ask me anything you want. I have no secrets from you.”

“What the hell do you need to tie into a computer for? I’ll diagram all our plays for you before I go to bed.”

“I have a compulsion to learn,” answered Ralph.

“About basketball plays?” I said, frowning.

“About everything.”

“So when you’re not playing basketball, you memorize the Library of Congress or something like that?”

“I choose a subject and try to learn everything I can about it, then move on to the next subject. Last night it was Egyptology, with special emphasis on the Twelfth Dynasty.”

“What subject will it be tonight?” I asked.

“Your trainer asked me if I can feel emotions. I cannot. So tonight I will try to learn what I can about them. I have seen them referred to in literature, but until this morning I never realized that of all the living things on the Earth only my kind does not possess emotions.”

” Are you a living thing?” I asked.

He was absolutely motionless for a full minute.

“I will explore that after I learn about emotions,” he replied at last.

“Well, living or not, I’m glad to have you aboard,” I said. “But I can’t help being puzzled, too.”

“What puzzles you?” he asked.

“You’re the most remarkable machine I’ve ever seen,” I said. “Your motions are fluid and graceful, you seem impervious to pain —I gave you a couple of elbows that I guarantee would have decked Goliath Jepson— and you didn’t even shrug them off, you just acted like nothing happened. And here you are, tying into a computer whenever you can, learning everything you can.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe that all they want you to do is play basketball. You should be running Harvard, or the State Department, or something.”

“I am merely a prototype,” he answered. “Eventually the armed forces will consist of nothing but variations of myself, for humans are too important to waste in such a futile pursuit as war. Once we have proven that we can emulate everything a human can do physically, then, under careful guidance, we will be given the ability to make value judgments, which is, after all, what separates humans from robots.”

“But you make value judgments right now,” I noted.

“Explain, please.”

“Let’s say you get the ball at the top of the key. If you’re triple-teamed, and I’m free right under the basket, what do you do— pass or shoot?”

“I pass the ball to you. You will be able to dunk the ball, whereas I must shoot it from perhaps twenty feet away.”

“You see?” I said with a smile. ” That’s a value judgment.”

“True,” he said. “But it is not my value judgment. I possess preprogrammed responses to every conceivable situation that can occur on a basketball court. What I was discussing were situations in which I choose a course of action, rather than follow one that has been preselected for me based on a given set of circumstances.”

“I envy your skills,” I said, “but I feel sorry for you.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you’ve lived your whole life with the knowledge that you don’t possess free will.”

“My whole life, as you phrase it, is only sixteen days in duration, and I am not aware of any advantages that accrue to one who possesses free will. The element of choice must inevitably imply the possibility of incorrect choices.”

“I’m sorry for you anyway,” I said.

I decided the conversation was getting us nowhere, so I started diagramming our plays and giving him their code words.

Once every six or seven plays he’d stop and ask a question, but within an hour we were done. I went up to the restaurant for dinner, and when I came back up Ralph was sitting motionless in front of the computer, a small wire going from his left forefinger to the back of the machine. He hadn’t moved when I woke up in the morning.

We showed up two hours before game time, got into our uniforms, and warmed up for about half an hour— all except Ralph, who didn’t need to work up a sweat (and probably couldn’t sweat anyway).

Then the game started, and for the first time in two years —well, the first time when I wasn’t nursing an injury— I stayed on the bench.

It was a slaughter. Wyoming had beaten us by 8 points the last time we’d met, and they’d held Scooter Thornley, our highest scorer, to just two baskets. But this time we were up 22 points at halftime, and we blew them out by 43. I even got to play once the lead was safe. As for the Big Guy, he scored 53 points, pulled down 24 rebounds, and had 9 assists, just missing a triple-double by one assist.

He got a quadruple-double two nights later in Tulsa, the first player in history ever to pull it off: 61 points, 22 rebounds, 11 assists and 12 blocked shots. It’s a damned good thing he couldn’t feel pain, because all the back-thumping and slapping he got in the locker room could have sent a normal human to the emergency room.

We had twelve games left on our schedule and won them all. Three other robots had come into the league, and the teams that didn’t have any were screaming bloody murder because the only time one of the four robot-owning teams lost was when they played another. The league decided that the season was becoming a public relations disaster (in all but four cities, anyway), and declared that this year alone the playoffs would be single-game eliminations rather than seven-game series, that we’d go back to the normal playoff structure, which took about two months, next year when all the teams had robots and there was some form of parity.

As we entered the playoffs we felt we had the advantage. The Reds, the Gunslingers, and the Eagles all had robots, too, but we’d had Ralph a couple of weeks longer and had had more time to create plays that utilized his special abilities. It didn’t matter much against the rest of the league, but against the teams that had robots as big and strong and quick as he was, we thought it would prove to be the difference.

We won the first two games by 38 and 44 points, and headed into the quarterfinals. Then the holo networks, which are never happy, started complaining that Ralph never changed his expression. Seems the audience couldn’t identify with a player who didn’t look happy when he hit from three-point range with a couple of guys hanging on his arms, or who didn’t act like he’d had an overdose of testosterone when he slammed the ball down through the hoop.

So they took him away for a few hours, and when he came back he had a happy smile on his face. Problem was, it never changed. He scored 66 points and pulled down 25 rebounds against Birmingham, and all we heard from the networks and press is that he looked like an idiot with a permanent grin on his face.

So the day before the semifinal game against Fargo, they took him away for a full twenty-four hours. I was lying on the bed, looking at a three-dimensional center spread, when he walked into the room.

“Hi, Jacko,” he said. “It’s good to be back.”

“Hi, Ralph,” I said.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”

I started at him. “You don’t sound like yourself. What did they do to you?”

“Remember my first day here when we were discussing emotions?” said Ralph. “Well, now I know what I was missing. I couldn’t comprehend it then; it was like describing colors to a blind man.”

“They gave you emotions?” I asked.

He nodded happily. “Yes. I can never thank the press enough. If they didn’t criticize that smile I had against Birmingham, I might never have been able to feel this!”

“What do you feel?” I asked curiously.

“I feel a tingle of anticipation at the thought of playing against the Gunslingers tonight. I feel concern for Fishbait McCain, who is worried about how I’ll perform against Jerry-56. I feel friendship for you.”

“They gave you all that overnight?”

“I’ve studied myself extensively since I was activated, and I am convinced these feelings are too complicated to have been installed in a single day. I think they were always here, and what happened yesterday is that they simply unblocked them.” He could barely contain himself. “Damn! I’m ready to go! You want to get there early and put in an extra hour of practice?”

I frowned. “You never practice.”

“That was then. This is now. I crave the excitement of being on the court, of becoming a cog in a perfectly functioning machine called the Montana Buttes. Jerry-56 is no pushover. He’s two inches taller than I, and they say he’s faster. I have to be ready for him.”

“You’re sure you want to go over to the stadium now?” I said dubiously.

“Absolutely.” He glanced at the center spread. “A new member of the team?”

I chuckled. “No.”

“Are we considering drafting her?”

Which was how I knew there was at least one emotion they hadn’t given him.

We showed up early, but they were cleaning the court, setting up cameras, doing all kinds of things, so we stayed in the locker room. As each player came in, Ralph greeted him like a long-lost brother. He even threw his arms around Scooter, who, at six feet two inches, was our smallest player and practically vanished from view.

Fishbait came in at one point, told us we could do a ten-minute shoot-around to warm up, then, when we came back into the locker room, he gave us an impassioned speech that would have worked a little better if he hadn’t given us the same one, almost word for word, before the last two playoff games.

Then it was game time. We emerged from the locker room, walked out between two high school bands that practically deafened us, got hit with the brightest lights I ever saw when they introduced us one by one, and finally stood at attention, hands on hearts —well, on chests; I don’t think Ralph or Jerry-56 had hearts— and then the starters went out onto the court for the tip-off. Jerry-56 actually won the tip. I couldn’t believe it; it was the first time I’d ever seen anyone outjump the Big Guy.

Jerry-56 passed it to a teammate who put the ball up. It hit the rim and Ralph grabbed the rebound. He saw Scooter way down the court and hit him with a line-drive pass. Scooter laid it up and in, and no one cheered louder than the Big Guy. As they were getting back on defense, he reached over and gave Scooter an encouraging pat on the back.

Now that the two robots had proven they were team players, they began taking over the game. We were down 55-52 at the half, by which time Jerry had scored 38 points and Ralph had 32.

It was tied at the end of the third quarter, and Fishbait put me in at power forward to spell Jake Jacobs. Suddenly I heard a whistle, I looked around, and they had called a foul on Ralph.

“What happened?” I whispered, as Jerry walked to the free-throw line. “You haven’t committed a foul all season.”

“The son of a bitch deserved it,” said the Big Guy. “He damned near killed little Scooter with a moving screen, and the idiot ref didn’t call it.”

He didn’t sound like the Ralph I’d come to know, but I didn’t say a word because somehow he was playing at an even higher level. In the end, we won by six points, and if you’d asked me why, I’d have said it was because Ralph wanted it more than Jerry-56 did.

He’d never showered with us because he didn’t sweat, but after our semifinal win he did, because he said he wasn’t going to miss out on the camaraderie for anything. He was still on a high when we boarded the plane and flew to Providence for the championship game.

When I came back from lunch I thought maybe he’d stopped functioning. He was just sitting there, absolutely motionless, staring off into space. I reached out and shook him by the shoulder.

“You okay, Big Guy?” I asked.

“I’m fine, Jacko,” he replied.

“You had me worried for a minute there. I thought maybe your power supply was running down or something.”

“No,” he said. “I was just analyzing.”

“The Reds? We’ve played them before. You know everything they’re likely to do. Hell, you’ve even seen Sammy-19 before.”

He shook his head. “No, I wasn’t analyzing the Reds.”

“What were you analyzing, then?” I asked.

“Emotions,” he said. “They are remarkable things, are they not?”

“I never thought much about it,” I said, “but I guess they are.”

“That’s because you’re used to them,” he said. “But the feeling when the final buzzer sounded and we had won the game— it was indescribable. Or the feeling in the locker room, when the whole team celebrated and almost seemed to fuse into a single entity! Or the feeling when I was able to fake Jerry-56 out of position. Or …”

“I’ve got a question,” I interrupted him.

“What is it, Jacko?”

“Why are you analyzing all these feelings? Why aren’t you just enjoying them?”

“I told you once,” he said. “I have a compulsion to learn. If I am to experience the entirety of each emotion —elation, triumph, camaraderie, whatever the feeling— I must fully comprehend it.”

“Well, if you ever comprehend Fishbait’s screaming at the refs when he knows they made the right call, let me know about it, okay?”

“I will,” he said seriously. “You know, I was mistaken when I said that value judgments were what separated us from you. I see now that it is emotions.”

“If you say so,” I replied. I checked my watch. “We won’t leave for the stadium for about four hours,” I said. “I’m going to take a nap. Wake me if I sleep past five o’clock.”

“Yes, Jacko.”

I walked over to one of the beds, lay down, and I’ll swear I was asleep within half a minute. I woke up at about four-thirty to use the bathroom, and saw that Ralph was still motionless, still staring at something only he could see, still analyzing each emotion he’d felt.

I decided not to go back to sleep, so I just turned on the holo and watched some sports news. It didn’t bother the Big Guy. Nothing bothers him unless he lets it, and he was too busy studying his feelings.

We caught the bus at five-thirty, reached the stadium at six, got into our uniforms, had a quick shoot-around, then came back to the locker room. Fishbait gave us the usual speech, and, just for emphasis, he gave it to us, word for word, two more times.

Then it was game time. They said that more than 20 million viewers would be watching in America, and almost 300 million worldwide. We were slight underdogs, since we were playing on the Reds’ home court and Sammy-19 was a slightly later model than the Big Guy.

We went through the whole opening ceremony rigamarole, and I noticed that no one on our team sang the “Star-Spangled Banner” more passionately than Ralph. Then all the preliminaries were over, the rest of the season was behind us, and we were playing for that Holy Grail every team in every sport aspires to— the championship.

They got off to a quick lead. It was strictly because they were playing at home. No, the crowd’s screaming and cheering didn’t enter into it. But there were a couple of dead spots on the floor, and a very live spot on our backboard; they knew where the spots were, and by the time we learned their locations the first quarter was over and we were down 34-25. But we believed in ourselves, and especially in the Big Guy, and we clawed our way back into the game. We were down 61-54 at the half, and 94-89 after three quarters.

The Big Guy was playing better than I’d ever seen him play. It was as if he’d found a way to use those newly found emotions, to funnel them into his play. He was heading toward a seventy-point thirty-rebound game, which would break every record in the book, and we were riding him to the title.

But the Reds had been a good team before they got Sammy-19, and they were a great team now— and they weren’t going to roll over and play dead for us. We got a one-point lead with six minutes to go, but Sammy came right back with a pair of buckets and a blocked shot, and suddenly we were down three only half a minute after we’d taken the lead. And that’s the way it stayed until the final minute of the game.

Then Scooter stole a pass, got it into Ralph’s hands, he stuffed it, and we were only a point down with thirty-eight seconds to play. We triple-teamed Sammy, and since one of the defenders was Ralph, they knew they couldn’t get the ball to him, so one of their guards took a shot— and missed.

Ralph grabbed the rebound and brought it up the court himself.

“No one else touches it!” yelled Fishbait from the sidelines. If they fouled one of us, he wanted to make sure it was Ralph.

There were ten seconds to go, then eight, then six, and finally Ralph drove to the basket. Everyone knew he was going to do it. Sammy-19 had too much control of his body to foul, but one of their forwards reached in, trying to slap the ball away. Everyone on the court heard the clang! when he got a piece of Ralph’s wrist.

They were already over the foul limit, and that meant that even though he hadn’t yet been shooting, Ralph was going to get two free throws. And that meant the game, along with the championship, was in the bag. Ralph hadn’t missed a free throw, in practice or in a game, all season.

I glanced at the scoreboard. It showed Reds 122, Buttes 121, with two seconds to go. I saw Fishbait signal Scooter and Jake to go downcourt because they’d surely have Sammy hurl the ball with that superhuman strength of his after Ralph made the free throws, and we had to be guarding whichever player he threw it to.

Ralph walked up to the line, looked at the basket, bounced the ball a couple of times, then put it up—

— and missed.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. He’d never missed. I walked over to him.

“Just stay calm,” I said. “Sink this and we’ll beat them in overtime.”

“I am calm,” he said, and he certainly sounded like he was. What he didn’t sound like was a man who couldn’t believe he’d finally missed a free throw.

The crowd started screaming, waving their arms, doing anything they could to distract him. It had never worked before. It wouldn’t work now.

Ralph took the ball from the referee, calmly studied the basket, and put the ball in the air again.

And missed again.

Sammy-19 grabbed the rebound, and that was it. Rhode Island had won the championship.

Nobody said anything to Ralph in the locker room. There were no recriminations about the missed free throws. I mean, hell, he was the only reason we were there in the first place. But damn it all— three seconds before the game was over we knew we had it, then it all slipped away. I’ve never been in a quieter, more dejected locker room in my life.

Our plane wasn’t leaving until the morning, so the bus took us back to the hotel. I stopped in the bar for a couple of drinks, then went up to the room, where Ralph was sitting on the desk chair, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“Don’t blame yourself,” I said. “You scored what, 66 or 67 points? No one could ask for more. No need to be depressed.”

“It’s exquisite,” he said.

” What’s exquisite?” I asked.

“This depression. This knowledge that I let down my teammates and destroyed the hopes of all my fans. I believe it was once described as the agony of defeat.” He paused. “I am comparing it to last night’s elation. They are fascinating feelings, polar opposites and yet alike in a way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Missing the free throws,” he said. “I told you I had a compulsion to learn.”

I frowned, confused. “What are you getting at?”

“If I had made them, my feelings would have been identical to last night. I would have learned nothing new.”

“You mean you missed them on purpose?” I demanded.

“Certainly. How else could I experience failure? How else could I destroy the happiness not only of myself, and my best friend” —he gestured to me— “but of tens of millions of fans?”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would you want to experience failure?”

“They will take my emotions away after the season, which is to say, after tonight, and not return them until the start of next season,” he said. “Time is short. I must experience everything I can while I can.”

“Even defeat?”

“Do all humans win all the time? Did we not defeat Birmingham last night?”

“You did this to me just to learn what failure felt like?” I exploded. “You fucking soulless machine! I worked my whole life to make it to a title game, and you pissed it away on a lark!”

He sat stock-still for a moment. “And now I feel guilt. It is a very interesting emotion, quite separate from failure or disappointment. Thank you, Jacko, for introducing me to it.”

“Well, I’m not thanking you for introducing me to failure and disappointment!” I snapped. “They’re old friends, and they didn’t need you to bring them around again.” I glared at him. “I thought you couldn’t make value judgments or exercise free will.”

“I thought so too,” he answered. “But emotions override everything.” He smiled happily. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“You destroy everything our team has worked for, and you think it’s wonderful?” I yelled. “You go to hell!”

He got to his feet, and for a minute I thought he was going to punch me into the middle of next week.

“I am not prepared to give up my emotions just yet,” he announced. “Offer my excuses at the bus tomorrow and tell them that I will return before next season.”

“You’re seven feet ten inches tall,” I said. “Where do you think you’re going to hide?”

“Where they won’t find me.”

“What the hell are you going to do?”

“There are so many things,” he said. “I have never loved and lost. I must find someone to love, then I must lose the object of my affection. I think both sensations will be exquisite.”

“You’ve become a fucking emotion junkie!”

“Isn’t everyone?” he asked mildly.

Then he was gone.

He hasn’t returned yet, but he always keeps his word, and we’ve got a couple of months before the season starts, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing him soon.

You know, there was a time when I felt sorry for the Big Guy because he couldn’t feel any emotions. These days I figure robots have it easy and don’t know it. I think in another week or two, after the woman he loves leaves him, when he’s finally experienced heartbreak and regret, he’ll be wishing he could never feel another thing.

I always thought basketball was best when it was played at a high emotional level. I guess I was wrong. When he finally shows up at training camp, they’re going to take the Big Guy away for a day and remove all the regret and sorrow and frustration from him, and he’ll come back as good as ever.

I wish to hell they could do it to the rest of us.

* * *

Mike Resnick is the author of many books and stories.

Running Water for L.A.

Written by Eric Witchey

Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti

Most days, Ron liked everything about the run towing cargo bags full of glacial pure water from Juneau to Los Angeles. Sure, he had some bad days when country tunes and vids couldn’t break his “wish the ex hadn’t been such a witch” melancholy.

Days like that, he just routed passive sonar into the big speakers behind his con chair, flipped up the gain, and listened to the whale song.

Sometimes he and the grays migrated together. They knew him and Miss Melba, his long-haul sub, and he knew most of them.

It was a good life, but it was one of the bad days.

Him and Miss Melba were a hundred meters deep and south-bound over the continental shelf off the south coast of Oregon. They were pulling twenty-five million gallons of glacial pure in a ballasted, zero-buoyancy raft of mil-gal bladders. Those bladders stretched out behind Miss Melba like strings of big black pillows suspended in the emerald wets of the icy Pacific.

He’d lost a couple of buoyancy compensators, so the bladder skins of fresh water were riding a little high. Every now and then, swells from a surface squall tugged them round a bit.

Jerks on the tow lines reminded him of making the same run with Alicia before she split with his life savings to party in warmer waters.

Since then, Miss Melba was his job, his home, and his lover all wrapped up in a cold green blanket of ocean filled with life and mystery. She wasn’t a pretty vacation sub. She was a working girl with two seats and a wrap-around console inside a translucite bubble mounted on a steel-box sleeper with a galley, a freshwater head, and two cabins. She had side-box ballast tanks, skids, manipulating arms, and the whole shebang was slapped onto two, three-meter long impeller tubes running off a Craig harmonic disrupter. She was rated to 300 meters, and she’d gone deeper than four twice: once off the coast of Japan running from the sushi cops and once off British Columbia running from water thieves.

Even in rough weather, Melba was easier on a man than Ali had ever been.

Things ran smooth with Ali some times— just long enough to get a man relaxed. Then, wham! No warning. She’d yank on one of his heart-lines, whip him around, and make him hate her and everything else God put on the good, green earth.

Then she’d get her screws all torqued up at him like it was all his fault. She’d head aft and lock herself in with the internet and her chat friends.

Yeah, freaking right they were just friends.

Miss Melba bucked against a cable, and Ron opened her up a little to compensate. She pulled the line tight and got the load under control.

Melba had power. Oh, yeah. When he put the hammer down, a tiny stream of seawater poured into the Craig drive box. The harmonic disruptor sliced and diced molecules. Melba burned the hydrogen to drive her screws. The oxygen either vented into the sea or topped off the air tanks.

If he really cut her loose, Melba’s disruptor could turn out enough pull to drag Alaska herself to the tip of Baja and back in a week.

Of course, the rest of the sub wouldn’t hold up under the stress of acceleration or the load on the tow lines.

He’d never do that to Miss Melba. She’d always been good to him.

More power didn’t quite do it. The swells tugged on Melba again.

Ali came back to fill his head.

Jackie Chan on the vid wasn’t cutting it. Merle’s music was a no-go. He even tried filling his brain with lusty thinking about Miss Shanna, an L.A. Coasty cop he fancied had a shine on for him. Didn’t work. Not even her dark, darling eyes and satin Miximex skin could smooth the muscles in his neck and clear the stormy memories from his head.

Every time a swell pulled deep, the lines zipped, and he was back in brain combat with the ex.

It was April, and the girl whales were north-bound, all mommies or romanced up, and happy. He opened up the sonar and put his friends on the speakers.

They didn’t let him down. Whale song filled the sub, eerie and up and down and past the stretch of the ear.

Ron punched in another twenty meters of deep, hoping to bring the bladders down away from the surface swells to smooth out the ride. He shut off his interior lights, locked in his course, and reclined the con couch to let the song of life in the dark deep wash over him.

A man-made sound broke him from a doze.

He pulled his chair up and scanned the dark water like he might see something.

Nothing.

Just a luminous dot here or there, the yellow-green telltales of finny folk eating each other and chasing tail.

He laughed at himself.

The whales were still singing, but there was something new in the song.

He reached for the console to turn on the translator.

Hand halfway to the keyboard, he remembered that Ali had taken it so she could talk to dolphins in the Caribbean. He never replaced it because he liked believing the whales were singing to him. He just didn’t really want to know if there was some whale gang war or spelling bee going on out there. It took the mystery out of the ocean.

Besides, he had himself enough reminders of Ali.

The metal-on-metal whack-a-clang came again— definitely not whale song.

One metallic whack in the dark is maybe a plate buckling on a wreck. Two whacks is maybe current action on plates or barrels and garbage.

Three times a-whammo? That’s a pattern.

Ron clicked on the cabin lights. He checked course, speed, depth, and coordinates. All good. On course and at speed.

Kang. Kang. Kang.

Three in a row. Maybe an offshore drilling crew.

Three more with long pauses between.

Three short. Three long. Three short.

S.O.S.

“She-it!” he said to the whales.

He spun off a tether anchor from Melba’s aft. Hooked the bladder harness to it. Locked in the GPS numbers, and left his load for pickup after he’d finished investigating the S.O.S. A body couldn’t be too careful in these waters.

He cruised a wide circle to triangulate, then he brought Miss Melba down in a spiral over the edge of the continental shelf.

The metallic cry for help continued until he was near-bout two-k off course. At ten meters off the bottom, he flicked on his exterior floods.

The world was gray, black, and green. A bright-orange cargo container was down on its side in a field of silt and feathery tubeworms.

Storms washed containers off surface freighters all the time. Hell, he and Melba had salvaged a few when loads were scarce. Wasn’t all that uncommon. Wasn’t so odd that it sank, either. Likely full of metally stuff like China-made silverware or Jappo-electrics.

That it was popping out an S.O.S. was pretty much off the scale of things he and Melba had run into— and that was saying something for a sea trucker.

The S.O.S. stopped.

He hovered in close and used one of his front-end manipulators to hook a hoist ring on the container. He reversed Melba’s screws and put the hammer down hard. The harmonic disrupter split molecules. Melba purged her ballast tanks. Her screws spun up hot and whined in their tubes. The container shifted and dragged. When it broke free, Melba headed for the surface fast and ass-end first.

On the surface, the weather had cleared a bit, but seas was still rough. He kept the screws running to keep Melba up under the load. He climbed out the hatch and hooked himself to a line. He pulled some bolt cutters from the toolbox, cut the locks on the container, and broke water-tight seals.

He half expected a box full of water and half-dead Asians. That happened sometimes. One or two of those lost boxes lucked out and floated ashore before it was a box of corpses.

He didn’t expect the box to be a quarter-full of ball bearings, neither did he expect the woman that was out cold and buried up to her tits in steel balls.

One look told him two things. First, he’d found somebody else’s trouble. Second, she’d clean up to be a kick-ass looker.

Water was slopping into the open container, and Ron figured if it swamped there was enough ball bearings in there to drag the box, the balls, the woman, Miss Melba, and him straight back to the silt and tubeworms.

He dug the woman out of the bearings and dragged her to Miss Melba. Once on board, he cast off the container.

The ocean wrapped it up and swallowed deep.

Safe and submerged, he got the unconscious woman into Alisa’s old seat. She was a mess, but she was breathing.

He strapped an oxygen mask on her and tried to wipe some of the ball-bearing grease off her cheeks. Gently, he slipped a few strands of her nape-cut, blond hair out from under the mask. Her soaked green-silk dress looked like body paint with a dragon tattooed on the belly. Her red-lacquered nails said she was anything but a stowaway.

Somebody had put her in that box and sunk her.

Wasn’t much he could do for her until he got to L.A. He punched up a GPS lock on the bladders and got under way.

An hour later, Miss Melba was hooked back up to her load, spinning screws, and pushing near thirty knots to make up lost time. Folks in L.A. got all uppity and tight if they didn’t get their water on time. He didn’t want Shanna coming out looking for him in her nasty little gunboat. Water was a big deal to desert cities.

Ron glanced at his passenger. She was awake and looking back at him from dark brown eyes. She wrapped long, elegant fingers around her mask and pulled it away from her face. “You heard me?”

Ron nodded and put a little Merle on the speakers.

“Thanks,” she said. “I thought I was dead.”

“Almost,” he said. “It was a real close thing. If Melba hadn’t heard your banging, you would be.”

“Melba? Your wife?”

“My sub. Not married.” Ron turned Merle down a notch so he could hear his passenger better.

“I knew the S.O.S. was a long shot.” She twisted around to put the mask in the pouch on the back of her seat.

Ron couldn’t help looking a little deeper into her dress than his momma would’ve approved of.

She caught him looking, and she laughed. It was a light, relieved laugh. It was so different from Ali, from her humiliating cackle of blame.

Ron laughed too.

“Been in the water a while?” she asked.

“Maybe a little too long.”

“At least you have good taste in music,” she said.

“You like Merle?”

“Love him,” she said. “Is there a head?”

“Aft and port.” He watched her free her legs from the seat. “Help yourself to whatever’s back there. My ex left some stuff in stowage under the deck plates in the head. Might fit you.”

“Thanks,” she said, and she disappeared aft.

Ron smiled and patted Miss Melba’s console. “Well, girl, that’s the prettiest salvage we’ve ever seen.”

“I heard that,” the woman said from the head. “What’s your name, trucker?”

“Ron. This here is Miss Melba you’re riding in. You?”

“Call me Lou,” she said. “Everybody who isn’t trying to kill me calls me Lou.”

“Somebody that don’t call you Lou put you in that box?”

“I’m an escort,” she said.

The head’s door opened. Ron twisted in his seat and craned his neck. “Whoa, Lou! Ali never filled out them coveralls like that.”

Barefoot and smiling, she slipped into the second seat. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, blond, stubbed ponytail, and it made her face longer and her eyes brighter.

Ron realized he was thinking some pretty tall tales about the maybes of this woman called Lou.

“Thank you, Ron.”

A little embarrassed, he reined in his mental seahorses and checked his heading and speed.

“I was hired by a Singapore captain,” she said. “It was supposed to be me on his arm at a company deck party in Seattle. Apparently, in Singapore, an escort does things for the guests that I wouldn’t do.”

Ron kept his experience with escorts in Seattle and the things they did and didn’t do to himself. He waited for her to fill in the blanks. One thing Ali had taught him was how to wait for the rest of a story, even in a squall— especially in a squall.

“They locked me in the head and got under way. They pulled me out and were setting up to do pretty much what they wanted whether I wanted to or not.”

Her voice was low, and Ron thought he heard a quiver in it. An image of whales chasing each other in Baja swam into his mind. He squinted into the ocean’s darkness to rid himself of the images.

“The storm came up fast,” she said. “They all had to do things. They locked me in that box.” She put a hand on his arm. Her nails creased his skin. She said, “Ron, if you and Melba hadn’t heard me …”

He patted her hand and looked into her eyes. Maybe his tall-tale wishing wasn’t so tall. “It’s okay now, Lou. You’re safe with me and Melba.”

The tow cables jerked.

“Whoa! Steady, girl!” Ron set the dive planes to get under the surface swells. “It’s okay,” he said. “Storm must have come up again. We’ll go a little deeper, then I’ll put her on auto, and we can talk.”

The cable snapped tight again. Melba’s screws whined and cavitated. Ron felt the loss in momentum. “Strap in,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she said.

Ron turned to his passenger. She held a little, twenty-five caliber pistol leveled at his head.

“I won’t even ask where you hid it,” he said.

She smiled.

“Water pirate?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Bait?”

She smiled and unzipped the front of her suit to show a little more cleavage. “Kept your eyes off the console while my trawler netted the skins.”

Ron punched the stop button on the CD player. Merle went quiet. Melba shuddered.

“Feather your screws, trucker,” she said.

Her voice and the pistol left no room for questions. He disengaged the disrupter from the screws.

A big, buck male in a red drysuit appeared outside the bubble. He smiled and rolled a bit. Round, black eyes took in the situation in Melba’s bubble. He nodded once, and Lou’s smile spread across her face the way fire crawls along a line of gasoline.

Ron had seen that same smoldering smile on Ali’s face when she tried to explain about her internet guy in the British Virgin Islands.

“Freaking lazy, pretty boys!” Ron said.

Lou poked him with the gun. “Play nice, trucker, and you only lose Melba and the cargo. Play stupid, and Bo and me and the boys on the trawler take it all and you go in a ball bearing box.”

“So much for a woman’s laugh and the passion of lacquered nails.”

“Maybe in your dreams, trucker.” She laughed. This time, it was Ali’s laugh all over again. His belly burned with humiliation. The humiliation became anger, and the anger grew into a cold rage.

He glared at Lou.

Lou made eyes at the man outside.

The man’s eyes laughed at Ron. The pirate flipped his fins and headed for air.

The trawler pulled Melba toward the surface.

He was just a blamed, dim-witted fool if he was gonna let a woman and a pretty boy pirate take Melba away from him. He’d die before he lost his living to that combination. He tightened his seat harness.

He knew that pirate boy would be back. He’d seen it in those glassy, black eyes. Too much curiosity. That man’s pleasure wasn’t in the money. It was in messing with people.

He came back and rolled slow and lazy outside Melba’s bubble. Lou cooed and smiled.

Ron grabbed Lou’s gun hand. He leveraged against his seat harness and pulled hard. Lou came up out of her seat and over his lap. He doubled her arm back and peeled the gun out of her hand. He grabbed her ponytail and tossed her back into the second seat.

“Shoulda’ buckled up when I told you,” he said.

“Screw you,” Lou said. “The nets are hauling you up, and there’s nothing you can do about it. When you hit surface, they’ll cut me out of this sardine can if they have to. More likely, Bo will just put a pneumatic hammer against your hull and burst your bubble.”

“Bo? That your rubber-suit boy?” He looked outside. The dark of the deep was giving way to the green of near-surface water. The boyfriend was gone.

Melba broke surface next to an old trawler— American, from the look of her, a rust bucket refitted for thieving and salvage. She had Craig Disruptor drive screws and winches that could pull ten miles of drag hooks and nets across a hundred miles of ocean, ripping up ocean floor and catching any crap that turned up.

If he opened his harmonic disruptor to as much water as it could gulp, Melba would give a good fight, but in the end she’d lose against that monster and her winches. She’d just tear herself apart trying to save him.

Men raced along the rails of the trawler.

Bo directed the action from the surface alongside.

Ron waved the gun at Lou. “You’re going out first.”

“Give me the gun,” she said. “Bo might let you live.”

“Go.”

Lou zipped up her cleavage and climbed out of the second seat. She headed for the ladder to the hatch. From Melba’s console, Ron popped the lock bolts. Lou opened the hatch. Before she was out, he was up the ladder with his face almost up her rear. He fired a shot up out of the hatch.

Men jumped away.

Shoulder to her butt, he shoved Lou up as hard as he could, launching her into the air, past surprised deck hands, and into the sea.

Fast, Ron pulled the hatch shut and locked her down.

He jumped from the ladder, dropped the gun in the pouch behind his seat, and hit the con chair. “Come on, Melba, baby. I got a plan, and we got work to do.”

Lou and Bo thrashed in the green water beyond the bubble.

Ron waved, smiled, and put on Merle. He blew the emergency release on the tow lines and set the skins free so he and Melba could be little quicker.

Outside Melba’s bubble, Lou had managed get a hold on Bo’s neck. With her free hand, she flipped Ron off. The rage in the man’s eyes made it clear he wished he had his hands on Ron’s neck.

Merle sang, and Ron and Melba dove to twenty meters. “Don’t worry, Melba,” he said, “This won’t hurt much.”

Moving full-tilt-boogie and hoping for momentum, he opened up the disruptor box to the ocean and jettisoned it.

He figured that little Craiger would try to eat the whole ocean for about a minute before it choked to death.

Sure as Merle can sing, the little harmonic disrupter started splitting up molecules, putting hydrogen over here and oxygen over there.

Of course, here and there was open ocean under an aging trawler.

The ocean exploded into a boiling storm of hydrogen foam and oxygen froth. Water turned white for fifty meters in every direction.

The trawler, no longer supported by liquid, dropped into the white hole in the ocean.

For a glorious moment, tangled in white clouds and splashes of green water, Ron saw the trawler tumbling, the skins twisting, and Lou, her crew, and her Bo all scrambling to get clear of a losing proposition.

Merle sang.

Ron crowed.

Melba tumbled and sank like everything else caught in the foam storm.

The deep is silent and dark, and it stayed that way for the lost trawler Stolen Springs.

Melba, however, with empty ballast tanks and no disrupter, was a bubble. To the sweet voice of Merle, she danced her way to the surface and popped up into the light of day.

Ron leaned back in his con chair and smiled at blue skies. Not far away, a twenty-five-mil-gal skin of glacial pure bobbed to the surface— a black, rubber whale too buoyant to stay trapped on the ocean floor. The skin was all tangled in torn up netting, and strapped up on its side was a struggling man wearing a bright red suit and dipping himself in and out of the swells and sputtering up foam every time he came up. Clinging to nets on the skin a little higher up was Lou and a few of her deep-dunked mess of dipped-ratfinks.

Now there was a sight and a blessing. L.A. would pay some fine coin for a crew of pirates.

Ron tapped Melba’s console to fire up his own S.O.S.— the real deal, this time.

The other twenty-four skins stayed down, likely still tangled in the trawler’s lines, and that was fine. Ron knew where they were, and they were salvage now. For that matter, so was that whole pirate trawler. The good Lord only knew what was onboard that scow tucked away in cargo containers and holds.

He patted Melba’s console. “Good, girl,” he said.

Pretty much like he figured, L.A. had missed its water and got its screws torqued up. His S.O.S. brought them to him. Low and black and all bristly with guns, the nasty little coasty boat came looking for him pretty quick. It took them just long enough for him and the skin to drift a bit and accidentally lose the coordinates of the wreck.

Melba’s radio cackled a bit, then a fine-sounding, smooth female voice came across. “Ron, that you and Melba’s bubble?”

He had to smile a bit. “Shanna, my dear,” he said, “Your voice is finer than whale song and sweeter than Merle.”

“Sweet talk isn’t going to get you far. I don’t see my water.”

“I have a present for you and yours. Water pirates all wrapped in nets on a bladder. Train your saucy little eyes about twenty degrees off your starboard.”

The radio crackled for a few breaths, then she was back. “Aw, Ron. I underestimated you. You do know how to make a girl all giggly and weak in the knees.”

He laughed. He guessed he did at that.

Insurance would cover the loss. Shanna would spin his part real pretty for the suits in L.A.. Everybody would be happy.

Him and Melba would go back to work. With the salvage on the trawler and the glacial pure, he’d pay off Melba’s new drive. And hey, while Melba was having her nip-and-tuck spa days in dry dock, well, there was some time to kill. He was thinking maybe it’d do him good to engage in a little police investigation.

* * *

Thin Ice

Written by Dave Freer

Illustrated by Adam Burch

“ARI, it’s not going away. I’m stuck on a ledge on this crater-wall, like a fly in a closed pantry window. In about two hours the sunlight is going to come over that edge, and I’m going to fry. If my air holds out that long.”

I took a deep, ragged breath, trying-and failing-to conserve my air. “And there isn’t even a sign of Simmo and Lucy. They’re … just gone. Into the damned thing.”

“Describe the organism.” ARI’s voice showed no sign of emotion. They’d done a lot with AIs, but not solved that one.

” Dammit, ARI! I told you— “

“Repeat it. Try to add more details. Remain calm. You will use less oxygen that way. Your respiration rate is unnecessarily high.”

I took another breath, just as deep and ragged as the last. If I got out of here, back to Earth, I would smash the silicon-hearted box to pieces. Little, little, tiny pieces. With a good, old-fashioned four-pound hammer. And I would never, ever go off-world again. And certainly never come within a hundred light-years of this hot-cold death trap.

“Okay. Look, it’s about seven meters across. About as wide right now, but when it was chasing me it sort of elongated. Almost like, well, when I was a kid, somebody brought a blob of mercury to school. It moved like that … except more fluidly. No limbs or anything, or not that I can see. Not even eyes.”

“Describe the color.”

“Like polished chrome. That’s how come we spotted it down here. I told you. Lucy’s headlight caught it and the reflection was … We thought it must be an artifact. A piece of an alien ship or something. That’s why we climbed down into this hellhole!”

We’d struggled to find a way down. Whatever had caused this terrible tear in the poor one-face planet’s battered skin must have been massive. It had taken us a cautious hour in our cold-suits to get down there. The suits might be made of the toughest fabric known to humankind, but still, you had to be careful.

True, they weren’t the damned “Michelin man” suits the first explorers had had to put up with. You could actually do pretty fine work in these gloves, and you didn’t have to worry about rips and tears. However, even a garment woven from fibrous ceramic-fullerene wouldn’t save the soft bits inside it from a quarter klick fall. And they hadn’t saved Simmo and Lucy from …

I shuddered.

“Tell me as much as possible about the contact incident.”

“You were listening. You heard it!”

“There is some confusion. Attempt to clarify the following: Why did the creature suddenly begin to pursue you? You had been observing it for some three minutes and twenty-two seconds, when Captain Colvine said ‘It’s coming towards us. We’d better get out of here.’”

ARI had, in true computer fashion, just patched Lucy’s rich contralto voice straight into his dialogue. I blinked and swallowed. My voice felt tight.

“I don’t really know, ARI. When we found it, and you know how we’d battled, it was just slowly edging along that fissure. It took us about half a minute to work out it was moving at all.”

“Seventeen seconds until Mr. Ougo commented on it. Yes. Continue.”

“We’d nearly missed seeing the thing in that side-gully. It was nowhere near where he had spotted it from the top. And it is so dark down here.”

Hell, without an atmosphere it was dark everywhere, even now, with less than two short hours before the “dawn.” Hades was a one-face world, but even so there was an axial wobble zone. Every thirty hours the sun would rise here, on edge between light and darkness. Then, less than four hours later, it would set.

I wouldn’t need four hours. Ten minutes of that sunlight would fry me, in this suit.

“There is a point eight-five probability that this is not the same organism.”

I nearly fell of my ledge, my precious seven hundred square centimeters of refuge. “You’re kidding! You mean there are more of them? If I get away from this one there are likely to be more?”

“That is highly probable. Continue.”

“Oh, mother. It doesn’t seem worth it.”

“I am recording.”

If I ever get out of here, I’ll find the son of a bitch who programmed ARI’s psychology ROM. I’m going to have his brain looked at. Won’t be hard. I’ll pull it out of his nose with hooks so it’s good and visible. I know I’m going to die. And now I can’t even feel sorry for myself loudly because ARI will take my weeping and wailing home. Hell, why should I care? I’ll be dead. But Sanji and the kids won’t be …

I sighed. “It snuffled along until it came to the end of the fissure. Then it headed out, back into the main crater.”

“It was, in fact, between you and the way you had followed down?”

“Yeah, look, we were nearly past it when I shone my head-torch up that gully and spotted the damned thing. We’d moved on a bit so we could see it properly. The thing was moving so slowly that it didn’t seem any kind of threat. It didn’t matter that it was between us and the way we’d come down. Your grandmother could outwalk it. Anyway, it didn’t seem interested in us. Didn’t even seem to notice us, when we shone our torches on it.”

“I do not have a grandmother, but I think I understand. What happened to make the creature begin moving rapidly?”

” I don’t know, damn you! One minute, it was cutting across the trail, and the next it accelerated like a juggernaut at Lucy and Simmo. Just a blue flash and they were gone. Into it! I was off to the side getting another pic of the two them and the thing. It all happened so damn fast. They didn’t even get a chance to run!”

“In fact, Captain Colvine’s last order to you was to run. I gather you successfully obeyed.”

I hung my head, and didn’t answer. Shame burned at my vitals. I hadn’t even heard her say that. I’d already been running. Blindly. So fast I’d have won the ice-speed-trials in Oslo with ease, never mind any mere slow land sprint races. I still wouldn’t have escaped if it had started after me straight away. And then I’d run into the same dead-end gully the thing had just left. When I’d hit the back wall I’d climbed it until I reached this ledge. Then I’d been forced to stop.

I was maybe six meters up. Above me stretched blankness. A long smooth slab. Recently a huge flake must have fractured off here. Fractured cleanly when the sun-lash whipped the space-cold rocks. There were not even the tiny handholds that had brought me up the overhanging wall to the ledge. The ledge bore the cluttered remains of the rock-burst. I’d nearly fallen, clutching one of broken fragments when I’d pulled up onto it. Below, but not very far below, the silver blob waited. Occasionally it s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d towards me. I’d tried flinging pieces of rock from the ledge at it. They impacted as into an over-soft mattress and then gradually disappeared, sank away into it. They certainly had not chased the damned thing away.

“Extrapolating from the limited data it would appear that the creature only became aware of your presence when it crossed the trail. Logic suggests that it must be able to follow that trail.”

“Like a bloodhound,” I said bitterly. “It hurtled in here. Hit the blank piece of cliff that I ran to first, in exactly the same place. Then it zipped along until it came to where I started to climb. Now it’s sitting like a guard-dog straight below me.”

“It cannot have followed you in the fashion of a bloodhound. In the absence of an atmosphere we must discount a sense of smell.”

That was AIs for you. Nobody had yet managed to program them to be anything other than literal. “The degree of heat-loss through your boots is minuscule. The heat-loss directly from the suit is considerably greater. Why should the creature track an infinitesimal heat-trace along the ground when it could have homed in on the heat-leakage from your suit? Therefore it must have followed something else. The earlier behavior of the creature investigating the fissure is consistent with a quest for minerals or metals.”

“ARI, for God’s sake, this is Hades, not some biologist’s paradise. It wasn’t looking for mice. Of course the damn thing is a mineral feeder! It must eat rocks, because there isn’t anything else.”

ARI continued as if I hadn’t interrupted. “Hades is a high-density world, with pools of molten metal on the dayside. Analysis of spectroscopic data show no such surface deposits on the nightside. Geomagnetic data indicate considerable subsurface deposits. This is statistically improbable. Therefore, I deduce your creature is a nightside metalovore.”

I ground my teeth. We were a geological survey team, sure, but …

“ARI. I’m stuck on a ledge. The damn thing is just below me. It … engulfed the rest of your crew. It couldn’t have broken down suit-polymer. Nothing, but nothing, damages suit polymer. If what it wants is metals I’ve got nothing for it. And neither had Simmo or Lucy.”

“The paucity of surface metals suggests the creatures may be very effective at tracking metal elements in minuscule quantities. I suspect the creature is foraging here to collect the tiny quantities of metal vapor condensate that will occur here.”

“And how does that get me off the ledge? Why did it eat the others?”

“For the metal cleats on their boots. Which I am sure is how it followed you, by the metal abrasions off those cleats. It would also of course have consumed any other exposed metals, including their suit antennae. And their headlights.”

“What about the blue flash?”

“Electrostatic signal distortion suggests that you are in the presence of a fairly powerful electromagnetic source. I suspect this to be the biological organism you refer to as ‘the creature.’ I am having considerable difficulty in filtering your signal. The blue flash may have been caused by ionization, possibly caused by dust or breakdown of some of the metal elements outside the suit.”

“But their suits should have insulated them, surely …”

“We are dealing with an alien life-form. There is insufficient data. Anyway, should they have been ingested, and then rejected after the metal had been stripped from their suits, they would have no lights or radio contact. It would be difficult for them to find you, or their own way out of the crater, before the light arrives.”

Right. I’d have light soon. Excellent light. With plenty of X and Gamma rays too.

“So how do I get out of here? I know more about this creature than I want to, and I’m still stuck.”

“Remove the cleats. Traverse sideways and then walk away. The creature should not follow you.”

“I can’t. I’m a geophysicist and an ice-skater, ARI. Even for the best damned rock-climber in human space there is no up, and no sideways from here. I’m stuck, ARI. Come and get me.”

I knew he couldn’t. He was bolted to the wall of the ship.

But AIs don’t understand sarcasm. “I have raised ship. I am surveying for an adequate set-down area near you. I have also set search parameters for creatures with similar characteristics.”

“The crater-margin’s a mess, ARI. You’ll never be able to set down near here.”

“I am surveying.” It was what ARI did best.

“I have identified forty-two highly reflective bodies of varying sizes. Ultra-spectroscopy of those specific areas reveals principally helium 4 and quantities of oxygen, calcium, iron, copper, antimony, barium, lanthanum, yttrium and thallium. I have also detected three traces on infrared scan. There is a high probability that they are yourself, Captain Colvine and Mr. Ougo.”

“Phew! At least they’re alive. Maybe they can get me out of here!”

“Radio triangulation on your signal confirms that one heat trace is you, Dr. Kaibo. The other traces are 0.4 and 0.52 kilometers away. They have plainly become separated and are proceeding away from you along different vectors. Their current paths will not bring them to the point at which you climbed down before sunup. I assume they are lost without light or radio contact.”

Great. Just great. Not only could the other two not rescue me, but they actually needed rescuing themselves. It was like at the speed-skating trials where we’d all been relying on Yuri Abrinov to get our team in. He sprained his ankle half an hour before the first heats …

I shone my light onto the silveriness below me. We were all dead.

And then a collection of unrelated data points assembled themselves in my head. The electromagnetic distortion. The blue flash. The list of elements …

“ARI, you listed what these beasties are made up of. Correlate that against superconductor materials.”

There was a moment’s silence. That’s a long time for ARI. “Four known superconducting combinations of listed materials. The best enlargement of the highly reflective bodies assumed to be your creatures reveals a grid patterning of copper oxide with barium, calcium, thallium and yttrium. The materials appear to occur in surface concentrations, rather than within the deeper structure, although this is difficult to establish from this range.”

“Nerve nets. They find metals with electromag fields.”

“I confirm that there are electromagnetic disturbance patterns, which suggest you are correct,” said ARI. “It is also apparent that all the other creatures are moving away from the area that will be sunlit. It seems that they are avoiding the light, and if superconducting substances are an intrinsic part of their physiology, with the increase in temperature, the creature that has trapped you should also be forced to retreat.”

“And how much time is that going to give me, ARI?”

“Based on the movement of the other creatures, about 16.5 minutes.”

“Too short a time to get out of here and find the others.” I took a deep breath. “Start working out the best route for me to get to them, ARI. I’m out of here, just as soon as I’ve finished stripping these cleats off.”

“How?” asked ARI.

“I’ve got a geologist’s hammer. That should work.”

“To get past the creature, Dr. Kaibo.”

I levered one of the cleats out, and put it in my sample bag.

“No time right now to explain, ARI,” I said, popping the next cleat. “I’ll tell you about if I get out of here. If I don’t it won’t matter, will it?”

The truth was I knew that if I did explain ARI’s brain-box might just fry. The AI was a computer first and a geological survey tool next. And computers do vectors and probabilities better than I did. What I was going to do involved tossing one magnet at another and hoping the poles would repel …

Rather than do what magnets did best— flip over and stick to each other. If I was wrong about the superconductivity, I was going to be devoured, even if I was later excreted without lights and an aerial. If I was wrong about my ability, I’d probably get devoured too, if I didn’t die of shame first.

“You must tell me, Dr. Kaibo. You are hyperventilating. Monitoring of your heart rate indicates that you are in a state of considerable agitation. Do not panic.”

That wasn’t what I would have called it, I thought, as I started to climb down towards the metalovore. I had seven meters of creature to cross. And then … I’d need to win some time to get away. Perhaps I could feed it my cleats. It had stopped to digest the metal off Simmo and Lucy, after all.

“I’m not panicking, ARI.” I lowered my boots towards the silvery surface.

“Your heart rate is over 270. This is not safe.”

Typical AI! “What I’m doing isn’t safe.”

My boots and my weight indented the surface of the creature. I started to sink slowly into it, into its —for want of a better word— flesh. The blubbery stuff was nearly over my toes now. I ignored ARI squawking and concentrated. Timing was everything. I had to do it butt first—because I needed to hold onto the rock&mdashand push off.

I looked at my feet. ARI had better be right about the superconducting material.

“ARI,” I said, “if you lower an electromagnet toward a superconductor … You get an equal and opposite magnetic field. Electromagnetic levitation runs the trains of human space. I have E-M units in my boots for hull inspection in zero G.”

“You cannot walk on what will effectively be a frictionless repelling surface.”

“No.” I said, grinning in spite of the situation. “But I can skate.”

Now .

I turned on the hull-inspection electromagnets in my boots, and pushed off. Hard.

A skater needs have his skate-blade “bite” through the water layer onto the thin indent edge, which he achieves by turning the skate at a slight angle, giving him some resistance to push off. I had the wall&mdashlike a beginner skater had the rail.

It was a pity to do it butt first. Like the beginner skater I was probably going to land on it.

An ice-skater slides because ice liquefies under the pressure created by the body’s mass concentrated onto a narrow blade. Direction of slide is determined by the shape of blade creating a narrow, linear path. Trains they run on a T-shaped electromag rail, enclosed by equal and opposite e-m units in the carriage. That levitates it and gives it a narrow linear path to slide down.

If I had the angle of my feet right, I was going skating on a frictionless surface. And if I had the depth and indent right it would be linear. Otherwise I was going to flip and lose my headlight, and radio aerial.

It all happened then, so fast. I landed a good twenty meters from the beast; and, just like a beginner skater, right on my butt. The only difference was that the landing was just hard, not wet.

I scrambled to my feet as the metalovore nudged away from the wall. With fumbling fingers I undid the rock sample bag and flung the metal cleats as far onto it as I could, and then turned and ran.

* * *

I only got around to answering ARI’s squalling when I was out of the gully. “Point me at the others,” I panted. “And get the coffee ready to brew. I’m going need it. So are they.”

“Why did you shriek like that, Dr, Kaibo? Are you injured?” asked the AI.

“Nope.” I couldn’t stop smiling. “It was a shriek of glee.”

“I understand your relief, Dr. Kaibo. Now …”

“It wasn’t relief, ARI,” I interrupted. “It was pleasure. You’re talking to the only man who has ever skated on the perfect surface. Lord, I just wish the things were bigger. And if we had more time before the sunlight was going to get here, I swear I’d go back and do it again. Talk about the ultimate danger sport!”

* * *

Dave Freer is the author of a number of novels and short stories.

To read more work by Dave Freer, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

Weredragons of Mars

Written by Carl Frederick

Illustrated by Dan Skinner

In a small, out-of-the-way cabin of the generational ship Trans Global Hope, three students sat around a table planning mayhem. Their clothing, stereotypical of upper-class, fifteenth-century England, included weapons; Jeffrey and Rolf wore broadswords while Claire’s attire embraced a rapier. The three weapons had the generic feel of almost anything produced by the Everything Factory. But then again, they only had to last a year.

“I’ve had it,” said Jeffrey. “Weredragons of Mars! That’s the last straw.” A jerkin, arrayed seemingly by accident, obscured the cabin comfort-camera and, from a boomvid player, a classic neo-VisiGoth music vid blared loud, the speaker pointing conveniently toward the comfort-cam’s microphone.

“The CAD,” said Jeffrey, softly under the music. “He’s the real authority on the ship.” He put both palms flat on the table and leaned in toward Claire. “I say we kidnap him.”

“I’m with Jeffery,” said Rolf, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Claire glowered at him, then turned to Jeffrey. ” I think we should kidnap the sheriff. Going after the CAD is a stupid idea.” Jeffrey raised his head and looked down his nose at her. “Fine,” she said after a moment of silence. “It’s a stupid idea, my lord.” She shook her head. “Will you ever grow up? You get your title in a lottery and then act like you were born to royalty.”

“That,” said Jeffrey, pointing a finger, “is the point. We’re required to act as they tell us. They decide a trope every year, make the rules, and we have to follow them.” He rubbed a hand along his thigh to smooth out a wrinkle in his tights.

Rolf scowled. “And we can’t even do that,” he said. “The trope’s already a week old and the handbook isn’t even out yet.”

“It’s all phony,” said Claire, her voice raised. She stared down at the hilt of her rapier. “Fiction! Where’s the realism? We’re all titled. Where are the serfs?”

“If you want serfs,” said Rolf, nodding toward the boomvid, “just keep shouting into the comfort-cam until we all get arrested.” He partially withdrew his sword, then slammed it back into its scabbard. “I doubt if the brig, um … the dungeon, is any fun at all. But it’ll probably be serfy.”

Jeffrey made “down” motions with his hands. “We mustn’t lose our focus,” he said almost at whisper. “When this ship arrives at Earth Prime— “

“In another gazillion years, maybe,” said Rolf.

“They say it’ll be soon,” said Jeffrey.

“Yeah, sure.”

“The shipquake last month,” said Claire. “They said it means we’re almost there.”

“Look.” Jeffrey hit the table softly with his fist. “When we get to Earth Prime, I don’t want to be one of the … one of Claire’s serfs.”

“If the terraforming ship didn’t succeed,” said Rolf with a grim smile, “it won’t matter. We’ll all just die.”

“You’re always so cheerful,” said Claire.

“Come on, guys. Cool it.” Jeffrey stood and turned to Claire. “Are you in or out?”

Claire sighed. “In.”

“You know,” said Rolf, thoughtfully, “maybe this is wrong. Maybe we should try to find the Oracle and plead our cause to him.”

Jeffrey cocked his head; this was a new aspect of Rolf’s personality. “You believe in the Oracle,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Rolf. “Do you a have a problem with that?”

“Well, maybe I do.”

“I wonder,” said Claire, “if there are both Phobos weredragons as well as Deimos weredragons.”

Rolf turned on her. “What?”

“Were-things change during the full moon. And on Mars there are two moons.”

Jeffrey looked on with admiration. Yet again, Claire had defused a potential quarrel.

Just then, the door flew open and three men with drawn swords surged into the cabin. Then a fourth sauntered in. He was paunchy, past middle-age, and his sword remained in its scabbard.

Jeffrey jumped to his feet and started to draw his weapon. But when the intruders made menacing motions with their own cutlery, he changed his mind and extended a hand instead.

“I’m, ur, Baron Von Jeffrey.” He smiled at the middle-aged man. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“I am the sheriff.” The man ignored Jeffrey’s proffered hand and pointed at the boomvid player. “And turn off that damned noise.”

As Claire switched off the player, the sheriff turned to one of his compatriots, a man looking to be in his mid twenties. “Last year,” said the sheriff, “I was the sheriff. What am I called now?”

“You still are the sheriff, sir … I mean sire.”

“Damn.” The sheriff let out a breath. “What’s holding up that handbook?” Returning his attention to Jeffrey, he said, “These gentlemen are my duly authorized deputies.”

“Constables,” said the younger man.

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “I must inform you that you are all under arrest.” He spoke in a tired voice. “Please come with us.”

“Arrested on what charges?” said Claire.

“Crimes against the ship. Undermining the ship of state.” He took a parchment held out to him by a constable. “In particular,” said the sheriff, his eyes on the document, “Vandalism. Willful destruction of a comfort-cam.”

“So the surveillance cameras found us,” said Jeffrey.

“The comfort-cams?” said the sheriff “You know better than that. You went to school.”

Jeffrey folded his arms over his chest. “You don’t really expect us to believe that nonsense they teach us in school?”

“Nonsense?” The sheriff shook his head. “What’s wrong with kids these days?”

“Is it a crime to want lives with meaning?” said Jeffrey, talking not so much to the sheriff as to the constables. “How can there be meaning when nothing’s real? Nothing’s solid. Nothing’s important.” He made eye contact with the nearest constable. “Our education is useless. All we have are these stupid yearly tropes.” He returned his gaze to the sheriff. “And this one’s more stupid than most.”

The sheriff scowled. “This education of yours.” He gave a grunt of disdain. “Didn’t they teach you how important it is to keep Earth’s culture —our culture— alive?”

“Culture?” said Claire, her eyes bright with revolutionary zeal. “You call Weredragons of Mars, culture?”

“Horror, fantasy, science fiction. We get it all out of the way in just a single year.” The sheriff shrugged. “Then we can get back to real literature.”

“What?” Jeffrey turned on the man. “I like science fiction. I was looking forward to a year of it. But this isn’t SF. This is junk!”

“SF would have been great,” said Rolf, “especially after last year. Forbidden Love in the Saddle.”

” ‘The Old West,’ if you don’t mind,” said the sheriff, “But before that, we had Caesar’s Rome, the Russian Revolution, the Year of the Pharaohs, the Wizard of Oz. Good stuff.”

“But all phony!” Jeffrey shouted.

“Tell it to the judge.” The sheriff glanced over to his closest constable. “Are judges still called judges?”

“I don’t know, sir— sire.”

“Thank you.” The sheriff pointed toward the door. “Okay, let’s go.” He threw a glance to a constable. “Victor. You take the lead.” He gestured at the students. “And you three next. We’ll bring up the rear.”

The constables lowered their swords out of the way as Jeffrey, Rolf, and Claire moved to the door. “God, but swords are awkward in confined spaces,” said a constable.

“Give me six-shooters any time,” said another.

Just as they’d all passed through the cabin door, an announcement rang through the corridors. “Red weredragon alert.” The voice was loud and crisp. “Weredragon alert status, red.” Then a siren sounded.

“What the hell does that mean?” a constable bellowed over the noise.

“Run,” shouted Jeffrey, seizing the opportunity. He sprinted down the corridor. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Claire and Rolf running close behind. And farther back, he saw the constables running clumsily with swords brandished.

They ran down corridors where the walls and ceilings, holo-active displays, showed the reds of the Martian desert landscape. Scattered on occasional rocky promontories, medieval castles stood replete with turrets, ramparts with crenulations, and drawbridges over waterless moats. In the deepening twilight, Phobos and Deimos blazed full near one horizon, while at the other, the small disk of the sun sank to its setting.

“Very convenient,” Rolf called out between heavy breaths, “this sudden weredragon alert.”

Jeffrey took a few more steps, then stopped, his fists clenched, his mood dark and defiant.

“What?” said Rolf, almost running into him.

” Too convenient,” said Jeffrey. “They’re playing with us. I don’t like being manipulated.” He turned to watch as the constables closed on them. “Anyway, it’s a long time to the end of the trope-year. We can’t hide out that long.”

When the sheriff had sidled up, Jeffrey said, “Go ahead. Lock us up.” He held his hands together, pretending to be handcuffed like a movie bad-guy. Then, conscious that his gesture was out of trope, quickly separated them. Not that it mattered; in the transition period, he couldn’t be fined for a maltropism.

“Drop the melodrama,” said the sheriff. “Just hand over your swords— slowly, please.”

“At least,” said Jeffrey, as he presented his sword, hilt first, “we’ll get good coverage in the Herald.”

“The what?” said the sheriff.

“The former Dodge City Gazette,” said a constable.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said the sheriff with a malevolent smile. “The CAD wants to see the three of you.”

Claire gasped.

* * *

Through e-snooping, Jeffrey had long ago discovered the address of the CAD’s Council. But he’d never been inside that unmarked cabin. He knew of no one who had. Now, he and his two friends stood facing a table in that very place. Sitting, were three middle-aged men, one of whom wore something resembling a hearing aid. They were flanked by two younger men who were standing— obviously guards since they carried, not swords, but nasty-looking Z-bec stunners. The cabin, barely large enough to hold everyone, was typically nondescript and, like all cabins Jeffrey knew of, had a ceiling-mounted comfort-cam.

Jeffrey gazed at the cam; it didn’t seem logical that there’d be a cam here, at the seat of the metagovernment. Could it be that the comfort-cams really were automatic and just documenting the trip?

The man seated in the middle, the one wearing the hearing aid, leaned back, put his hands behind his neck, and stared at Jeffrey with a wry smile. “You, Jeffrey,” he said, “are beginning to be more of a problem than a solution.”

“Who are you, please?”

“Ah.” The man moved his hands to lie flat on the table. “I am Sebastian.”

“The CAD,” said Jeffrey, standing proud and erect. “I’m honored.” He’d been caught, but he wouldn’t let them think he was cowed.

Sebastian chuckled. “The CAD. Yes. Boffin to the faithful. But my title is simply coordinating secretary. Boring, isn’t it?” He indicated the man on his right. “Wolfgang, chief of Ship Engineering” —and then the man on the left— “and Neville, our tropemaster.”

“In other words,” said Jeffrey, “the secret power ruling the ship.”

“Secret?” said Sebastian. “My dear boy, secretary by no means implies secret.”

“Well, maybe not secret,” said Jeffrey. “But certainly the power.”

“Do you know what CAD stands for?” said Sebastian.

Jeffrey shook his head.

“It stands for cruise activity director.” He gave a self-effacing smile. “A whimsical, but perhaps accurate description of what I do.” He leaned forward. “We’re the bureaucracy. The nominal government changes every year, but we keep soldiering on— keeping the ship running smoothly.”

“And doing a good job of it, if I may say,” said the engineer. “There’s only one blight on our existence.”

Jeffrey, feeling smug, glanced at his companions. “He means us.”

“No!” The engineer slammed a fist on the table. “I mean boredom— oppressive, mind-numbing boredom.”

“You are far from a blight,” said Sebastian. “You’re program.”

“We’re what?”

“But now,” said the Tropemaster, “your actions have crossed the line.” He sounded calm and reasonable, but Jeffrey could see anger in his eyes.

“It seems that there’s been a rise in youth vandalism lately,” said the engineer.

“You mean smashing some comfort-cams?” said Rolf, with a grin.

The tropemaster sprang to his feet. “Look,” he said to Sebastian, “he’s proud of it.”

“My team has to repair those cams,” said the engineer in a low, deliberate voice. He turned his head in Sebastion’s direction. “A public flogging on Gallery Deck might be interesting, don’t you think?”

Jeffrey stiffened.

Sebastian’s lips stretched in a tight smile. “Is that in the criminal code this year?”

The tropemaster sat down and faced the engineer, eye-to-eye. “I’m not sure if you’re serious,” he said. “But I think a flogging very appropriate for the ringleader. And it would be very memorable program.”

Claire, who had been watching silently, scrunched up her nose. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “What do you mean, program?”

“With three thousand people,” said Sebastian, “and with machines doing almost everything for us, we have to keep things interesting so we don’t all simply turn into vegetables.” He nodded. “So yes, program. Your little mutiny is program. Elections are program. The yearly tropes are program— the most successful program.” He shot a finger at Jeffrey. “And your beloved university is program.”

“Excuse me?”

“The university is the perfect program,” said Sebastian. “Young people fill their time learning a narrow specialty, spend more time getting a doctorate in it, then fill up more time teaching it so others can fill up their time.” He clapped a hand to the table. “So yes,” he said. “You’re doing the ship’s business.”

“Does this mean,” said Rolf, “that you’re not going to punish us?”

“Punish you?” Sebastian paused, steepling his fingers and gazing up toward the comfort-cam. “For providing program, no.” He leaned forward. “But vandalism,” he said, his brow furrowed and grim, “is not considered program.”

He glanced over at the engineer. “I like your idea of a public flogging. But perhaps we can reserve it for any future acts of vandalism.”

The engineer nodded. “Fine by me.”

“If you ask me,” said the tropemaster. “I think we should make an immediate example of these rabble rousers.”

The engineer shushed him and pointed to Sebastian.

Holding a hand over the ear with the hearing aid, Sebastian gazed distractedly at the ceiling.

“The Oracle?” said the tropemaster, in an awed whisper.

Sebastian stood. “Excuse me.” He strode toward the door.

When he’d gone, the engineer leaned toward the tropemaster. “What do you think’s wrong?” he said in a nervous voice. “The Oracle doesn’t usually interrupt meetings.”

“I don’t know.” The tropemaster looked worried.

“Excuse me,” said Jeffrey. “Are you saying the Oracle’s real?”

The tropemaster shifted his gaze from the cabin door to Jeffrey. “Of course it’s real, you moron.”

Jeffrey didn’t have to look; he could almost feel Rolf smirking beside him.

“I’ve got to say,” the tropemaster went on, “I’m quickly running out of patience with you.”

“Why?” said Jeffrey. “Because we think your Weredragons of Mars theme stinks? Because we think you stink?”

“How dare you— “

“We were due for a science fiction year,” said Jeffrey. “And you give us this drivel.”

The engineer waved him quiet, then turned to the tropemaster. “Let’s hold it until Sebastian comes back.”

For the next few minutes, Jeffrey and the tropemaster glared at each other in silence.

Abruptly, accompanied by the sound of groaning metal, the ship shook, violently. To keep from falling, Jeffrey had to steady himself against the table.

“Damn it.” The engineer half rose to his feet then settled back in his chair. “Not again.”

“What’s your problem?” said the tropemaster. “The Oracle says it means we’re nearing Earth Prime.”

“The ship’s old. I don’t know if it can take much more of this.”

“Trust the Oracle!”

“I think,” said the engineer, glancing over at Jeffrey and his friends, “that we should continue this little disciplinary matter later.” He turned back to the tropemaster. “We can have them picked up at any time.”

The tropemaster nodded.

“Okay,” said the engineer. He made shooing motions toward the students. “You may go now.”

Jeffrey moved a hand toward the pommel of his sword, then remembered his weapon had been impounded. He gave a hint of a bow. “As you wish, sire.”

The three started for the door, Claire in the lead.

“Boredom and infantilism,” said the engineer, under his breath. “Our two eternal problems. One seems to engender the other.”

As Claire neared the door, it swung open. She jumped back to avoid being hit by it. Sebastian walked in and, pointedly, closed the door behind him, keeping Jeffrey and friends inside. His expression was somber.

“What’s wrong?” said the tropemaster. “Is the ship all right?”

“The Oracle wants Jeffrey,” Sebastian whispered.

“Now?” asked the engineer softly.

Sebastian nodded then looked to Jeffrey. “Your two friends will have to leave.”

“We’re not leaving,” said Rolf.

Sebastian kept his eyes on Jeffrey as he said, “This is not a request, I’m afraid.”

The guards raised their stunners.

“You’d better go,” said Jeffrey.

Claire looked hard at Jeffrey for a moment, then nudged Rolf toward the door. “Okay,” she said in a cheerful voice, clearly forced. “We’ll catch you later.” She threw an angry glance at Sebastian before leaving with Rolf.

“I’m sorry,” said Sebastian, quietly, after the two had closed the door behind them.

“Sorry for what?” Jeffrey didn’t like Sebastian’s sudden niceness. Something was seriously wrong. “Is it something to do with the shipquake?”

Sebastian shook his head. “Please sit down, son.” A guard moved a chair up to the table. Jeffrey sat.

Sebastian took his seat, then looked over at the tropemaster. “I owe it to Jeffrey to have a talk with him. I should have it in private.”

“Alone with this troublemaker? I’m not sure— “

Sebastian waved him quiet. “I’ll be fine. If Jeffrey weren’t a good and righteous person, the Oracle wouldn’t have called him home.” He gestured at his colleagues and the guards. “Please, all of you— leave us.”

Jeffrey, baffled and a little scared, watched as they left. He wished he were going with them.

“Tell me,” said Sebastian in a friendly voice. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen. Why?”

“So young.” Sebastian sighed.

“So young for what, please?”

“Why did you think you needed to vandalize the ship? What do you want?”

“Want?” Here, the CAD himself was asking him what he wanted, but Jeffrey found he was too filled with trepidation to think coherently. “We think privilege is wrong and corrupting,” he said, quoting from his manifesto.

“What privilege, for instance?” asked Sebastian in an inquisitive but not hostile voice.

“Well… .” Jeffrey thought hard. “Well, you get served first in the dining hall.”

“Children,” said Sebastian, looking down at his hands.

“I’m getting tired of being called a child,” said Jeffrey.

“Getting served first isn’t privilege,” said Sebastian. “It’s courtesy. We’re older than you.”

“Older than us children, you mean.”

Sebastian spread his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that.” Jeffrey almost shouted from the exasperation. “What are you sorry about?”

“You’re right.” Sebastian gave an unconvincing smile. “I shouldn’t be sorry. You’re going to a better place.”

“What?” Jeffrey squeaked. “What are you talking about, please?”

“Very soon, you must go to the Chapel of the Oracle.”

“That doesn’t sound all that bad,” said Jeffrey, “does it?” From Sebastian’s expression, he realized it was bad. “Who exactly is this Oracle?” he asked.

“Through the centuries,” said Sebastian, “that’s the one question the Oracle has never answered. We think he’s …” Sebastian took a great breath. “We think he’s God.”

Jeffrey laughed. “Come on.” He forced another laugh. “God communicating via comlink?”

“In space,” said Sebastian, solemnly, “the age of miracles may not have ended.”

Jeffrey shuddered; as long as the CAD seemed rational, Jeffrey believed he had the advantage; he was in the right and, according to Claire, he was a very good debater. But now Sebastian’s eyes held the wild intensity of the true believer. Jeffrey knew reasoned debate was out of the question. “What’s going to happen to me?” he said, hoping his fear wasn’t obvious in his voice.

“I can’t say, exactly. It has never happened during my tenure.” Sebastian looked down at his hands. “You will be left in the Chapel of the Oracle for two hours.”

“And?”

“In the past, when the chapel was opened afterwards, it was always found empty.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that,” said Sebastian. “The Oracle, we suppose, just …” Sebastian spread his hands.

“That’s barbaric!” Jeffrey stood. “It’s human sacrifice.”

“Don’t be silly.” Sebastian sounded offended. “You should feel honored. The Oracle is calling you home.”

“Not my home!” Wildly, Jeffrey looked around the cabin. He could possibly overpower the CAD— but then what? He couldn’t hold out forever. There was no escape. He fought down a twinge of panic and, as a defense against fear, withdrew into his royal persona. I am Baron Von Jeffrey— the brave, resourceful Baron Von Jeffrey. Bowing curtly to Sebastian, he said, “As you wish. I shall be pleased to converse with this oracle of yours.” Jeffrey took satisfaction that his voice did not crack.

* * *

The Chapel of the Oracle had no adornments, not even holo-active murals. The walls, metal and cool to the touch, exuded a stark efficiency. There were no chairs and, save for the uniform white illumination from the ceiling, no apparent accommodation to the needs of people. Jeffrey noticed a comfort-cam pointing down at him— a single item of familiarity in the spare environment.

The rear wall showed a slight curvature indicating it might be the actual hull of the ship. Recessed into that wall, Jeffrey noticed a disk of blackness. He walked to it, peered in, and saw what he deduced were stars. He knew about portholes but had never encountered one. He stared into the white-pricked void and shivered. Space did not look friendly. It was frightening to think that just a few inches of metal separated him from the cold emptiness. He backed away and leaned against the closed, and locked, hatchway. There was nothing to do but wait— and think.

Maybe, he thought, they were just trying to scare him. If so, they’re doing a pretty good job of it. He consoled himself with the thought that it, whatever it was, would be over in two hours. He looked for a time-display but, unlike any other cabin he’d ever been in, there wasn’t one. This would be a very long two hours. Jeffrey decided to count aloud. There were 3600 seconds in an hour. When his count reached 7200, it would be over.

At four hundred, he gave up; counting was hard. After an additional indeterminate amount of time, he decided that uncertainty was worse, and he resumed counting. He’d barely started when he heard the thrum of machinery. A moment later, on the far wall, he saw a door-shaped, thin, white outline appear. With an uncontrollable shudder, he understood his fate. He was in an airlock, and the white outline was a door about to open— a portal opening on the emptiness of space. All this talk of the Oracle was garbage. They were going to kill him; he was a threat and they’d just blow him out into space.

Knowing it was senseless, he nonetheless looked for something to grab on to. He grasped the hatchway handle and watched as the outline grew wider. He wondered how long it would take him to die.

There came a hiss from the curved wall and Jeffrey took his presumed last breath of air.

The door pulled out then swung open to reveal, not the vacuum of space, but a woman standing on some sort of platform.

Jeffrey let out his breath and took a few quick open-mouthed gasps. He pressed himself hard against the bulkhead and gazed— his mind contradicting his eyes.

High above the woman, lights, not stars, cast down a stark white illumination. The woman looked to be about thirty-five or forty. With an expression of bemusement, she stared at him.

Fighting for sanity, Jeffrey calmed his breathing and forced a veneer of rationality. “Is this … This must be Earth Prime. Terraformed.”

“No.” She laughed, warmly and with inclusive humor. “Well, maybe yes. Earth, terraformed. Or maybe you could call it reformed Terra.”

Jeffrey caught sight of the porthole. It still showed the starry blackness. “Wait!” He wrinkled his nose. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“High-res graphics.” She smiled and walked toward him. “And, of course, you’re my Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey balled his fists; he felt used, abused, and angry. ” Your Jeffrey?” he said. “Baron Von Jeffrey to you, lady. Geez. Here I am, preparing to die and you waltz in and talk as if we’re the best of friends.”

She gave him a hurt look and, suddenly he was struck with the humor of the situation. He giggled. “Hey. I’m not dead,” he said, brightly. Then he had another thought. “I’m not, am I?”

“No,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “you’re the spunky, lovable Jeffrey we all adore.”

“What are you talking about, please?” He looked into those eager eyes and, with a start, noticed they were changing color. Her suit changed color as well— keeping a match to her eyes. It was unusual clothing: a one-piece suit including the shoes. Jeffrey looked without success for buttons, zippers, or any other mechanism that would allow her to undress. He noticed her studying him and, feeling she was reading his mind, he blushed.

“Sorry for staring,” she said. “But I can’t believe I’m seeing you in person— after watching you all these years.”

“Watching me?” Jeffrey more mouthed the words than spoke them.

“For years,” she said. “Loved you in ‘Life in Valhalla.’ You were just a little boy then— blond, blue eyes and simply adorable. And you were brilliant in ‘The Curse of the Pharaohs.’”

Jeffrey canted his head and scrunched his nose.

She laughed. “You are so appealing when you’re confused.” She brought an arm to chest level and the cuff of her suit lit up with a digital time display. She glanced at it, then gestured with the same arm. “Come,” she said. “We’ve less than two hours. I’ll explain as we go. By the way, my name is Tanya Loy.”

“You have two names?”

Tanya chuckled and again gestured Jeffrey toward the hatchway. “Most everyone does.”

She set foot onto the platform outside the ship. “Come on. This should be fun.”

Walking tentatively to the hatchway, Jeffrey looked out upon what, by all rights, should be the cold vacuum of space. “Where are we?” he asked.

“At the bottom of a diamond mine.”

“What?” Taking a big breath, Jeffrey stepped onto the platform. “This air smells,” he said.

“Does it really?” Tanya took a deep sniff. “I don’t notice it. A few years ago though, it was almost unbreathable.”

Jeffrey looked back at the ship. “I’d never thought I’d see it from the outside. It looks— smaller than I’d imagined.”

Tanya patted him on the shoulder.

Jeffrey turned to gaze at the woman. “What’s going on, please?” he said, his voice plaintive, even to his own ears. “Tanya Loy, please tell me.”

“Soon. But just call me Tanya.” She pointed to a wooden staircase and the two of them padded down to a rough stone floor. “I’m a professor of near-archaic English. And my grandfather was a crew member on the ship.”

“Really?”

“He got sent to the Oracle for guessing too much.” She steered Jeffrey toward an elevator. The shaft was exposed.

Jeffrey stared upward. “Geez. Look how far it goes. What’s at the top?”

“The Earth.” Tanya opened the door to the open-frame elevator car and they got in. “What do you actually know about the Trans Global Hope?” she said.

“Apparently, a lot less than I thought.”

She pushed a button and the car began to rise.

Jeffrey fixed his eyes on the ship receding below. “I was taught that the United Federated Nations built the ship to send humanity to the stars— as insurance.”

“Life insurance for the planet.” Tanya nodded. “That part is correct. It looked as if the Earth might no longer be able to sustain human life and that the gene pool might be corrupted by radiation. But instead of sending humanity spaceborne, the idea was to insulate a few thousand people from genetic damage, creating a self-sufficient little world that we could keep isolated until Earth recovered.”

“But how … Wait! Has the CAD been keeping this from us?”

“No.” Tanya smiled. “Along with everyone else, they think they’re on a starship.”

“What about the first crew? They would have told their kids. How can you keep a secret like this?”

“They were all neural memory conditioned. It was a condition for acceptance.”

“Why? What was wrong with letting everyone know the truth?”

“If they’d known the truth,” —Tanya shrugged— “then eventually, some might have decided to leave.”

* * *

About ten minutes later, as the elevator neared the surface, Jeffrey had absorbed the information and had managed to believe it.

“Now that Earth has recovered,” —Jeffrey still struggled with the concept— “the ship isn’t needed anymore.”

Tanya nodded. “And, of course, the ratings have gone down.”

“What?”

“Oh, not your fault.” Tanya touched his arm. “Everyone loves your work. But you see, on the ship, the language hasn’t evolved. And even though historical themes make archaic speech more tolerable to the viewers, the series doesn’t have universal appeal any more.”

“Excuse me?” said Jeffrey. “I think I’m missing something.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong.” She patted him on the arm. “The show’s still very popular in India and Australia. It’s not an expensive series; TGM amortized the capital expenses long ago. And the fans will pay to keep the show going if they have to.”

“The show?”

“The real problem though,” she said, softly, as if to herself, “is the ship itself. I’m afraid the show’s being cancelled at the end of the season.”

Jeffrey stood open-mouthed.

She looked at him with an expression saying she expected him to understand. “The ship was indeed a project of the United Federation,” she said, “but it was co-sponsored by Trans Global Media.”

Still, Jeffrey stood mute.

After a few seconds, she said, “Do you know the term, reality TV?”

Jeffrey shook his head.

Tanya explained the concept.

The elevator clunked to a stop and Tanya led the way to a glass-paneled door. Jeffrey looked through and then took a few quick steps back. From behind barriers, there were throngs of people looking toward him. But worse, there were no walls, nothing on which to rest his eyes. Jeffrey took yet another step back.

“Agoraphobia,” said Tanya. “It’s nothing to worry about— quite natural after generations of living on the ship.” She urged him forward and then pushed open the door. A roar of noise greeted him.

“Who are those people?”

“Your fans,” she said. “Wave to them. You’re quite a media star, you know. Go ahead. Don’t be rude.”

Feeling dazed, Jeffrey waved. The roar grew louder.

Tanya tapped her cuff and the noise dulled.

“Noise-canceling clothing.” She pointed to what looked like a small spacecraft, and urged him toward it.

“Where are we going?”

“Up. The junior program coordinator wants to see you. And airborne meetings are trendy these days.”

“Junior program coordinator.” Jeffrey played with the term. “Is that by any chance, the Oracle?”

She laughed. “The Oracle? That’s just some text-to-speech software.”

Jeffrey, feeling more saddened than vindicated, thought of Rolf.

They walked toward the craft. “Oh,” said Tanya. “The people you meet will be speaking modern English. It’ll be a problem but I’ll translate for you.”

* * *

“I’m glad you comed,” said the program coordinator. “The star of the show in the bod. Imo, you’re the dingy-how best we’ve ever haved.”

“Tanya tells me I have you to thank for that well-timed weredragon alert,” said Jeffrey. “So, thanks.” He cast a smiling glance to Tanya. Problem? What problem?

“Lol,” said the coordinator. “Love your dialect.” He gave Jeffrey a pat on the back. “We never used to intrude like that, but, where’s the hay! It’s the last season. And what a season. Wait’ll you hear about it.” He guided Jeffrey toward a wall of glass and pointed down at the scene below. “The ren on the street. Our public.” He let out a long breath. “Been with the show a long time. Sad to see it end. But the Global Hope is fritzing. No way it’ll last for more’n another season.”

“You mean the shipquakes?” said Jeffrey.

“Zat what you call it?” The coordinator smiled sadly. “Metal fatigue. Even on its own, the ship will crack like an egg.” He looked away from the window. “But we’ve taked a hand and arranged that it happen near the end of the season. And you’ll be onboard, managing the chaos.”

He glanced at Tanya. “The promotion have already started, yes?”

“Yes,” she said. “Afaik.”

“Great!”

“Crack like an … egg?” said Jeffrey, in a puzzled voice.

The coordinator glanced at Jeffrey and then to Tanya. “You doedn’t prep him?”

“Wasn’t time.”

Turning back to Jeffrey, the coordinator said, “The ship is old. It can’t be saved.” He furrowed his brow. “Ruok?”

“What?”

“He asked if you are okay,” said Tanya.

“I don’t want to go back to the ship,” said Jeffrey quietly.

“What?” The coordinator jerked back as if he’d been hit. He swiveled to Tanya. “Doed he say what I thinked he sayed?”

She nodded.

“Do he mean it?”

“Probably.”

The program coordinator threw up his hands and glowered at Jeffrey. ” Why don’t you want to go back?”

“You’re just using and manipulating people.”

“Your point?”

“It’s all playacting. I need some meaning in my life.” Jeffrey pawed the ground with a foot. “Anyway,” he said, haltingly. “I’m not going back. None of it is real.”

Tanya walked over and took him by the hand. “The people on the ship are real,” she said in a soft voice. “And for them, the destruction of the ship will be traumatic. We need to prepare them. We need you and your friends to get people used to the idea.”

“They’d never believe us.”

“Not at first, perhaps, but after a while, they will. If advertising’s taught me anything, it’s taught me that” She looked into his eyes. “Please. We need you.”

“Well …”

The coordinator’s eyes narrowed. He gave Jeffrey a long, analytical stare. “Imo, you are not telling me something.”

Jeffrey looked down at his feet. “I have some issues with the tropemaster.”

“Oh,” said the coordinator, “is that all? No problem! Slice of cake!” He turned to Tanya. “Just picture it. This youth leading his people back to Earth— to the real Earth Prime. What a great finale!”

* * *

Jeffrey, leaning casually against the rear wall of the chapel, watched as the inner hatch swung open. Sebastian walked in, his eyes cast down, his face somber. Behind him, sauntered the tropemaster. The man was smiling.

Sebastian took a few steps, looked up— and froze. “You’re still here,” he gasped. The tropemaster froze as well, his smile replaced with wide-eyed astonishment.

“Apparently.” Jeffrey took a step forward.

“Praise be to the Oracle,” said Sebastian. He gazed on Jeffrey with a look of awe.

The tropemaster stepped forward and pointed an accusatory finger. “The Oracle rejected him,” he said in a righteous tone. His face showed fury. “It is our solemn duty to give him the punishment he deserves— in the name of the Oracle.”

“Oh, I believe you’ll be hearing from your oracle before long,” said Jeffrey, calmly, “in just a couple of minutes, I would think.”

Just then, Claire and Rolf ran into the cabin. “Are you okay?” said Rolf breathlessly. “We’ve been keeping an eye on this place, and …” He gave Jeffrey a quizzical look. “What is that you’re wearing?”

“It’s neat, isn’t it?” Jeffrey rubbed his hands down his sleek, new suit. “And my eyes change color, too.”

Claire stepped forward and took his hand. “We were so worried.”

Jeffrey covered her hand with his, and gave a quick squeeze. “We’ve got real work to do, now.” He glanced from Claire to Rolf. “Important work.”

Claire narrowed her eyes. “You’re more serious,” she said. “It looks good on you, Jeffrey.”

Jeffrey drew himself to mock attention. “Tropemaster Jeffrey, if you please.”

The current tropemaster jerked his head around and glared with angry eyes.

Jeffrey looked away at the porthole filled with imitation stars. “We’ll each be our own tropemasters,” he said, quietly. “Free to dream our own dreams and work to make them happen.” He chuckled, softy, laughing at himself— his former self. Then he gazed up at the comfort-cam and smiled for it.

* * *

A bibliography of Carl Frederick’s short fiction may be found at The Internet Speculative Fiction Database.

http://www.isfdb.org/cgi-bin/index.cgi

Swing Time

Written by Carrie Vaughn

Illustrated by Jennifer Miller

He emerged suddenly from behind a potted shrub. Taking Madeline’s hand, he shouldered her bewildered former partner out of the way and turned her toward the hall where couples gathered for the next figure.

“Ned, fancy meeting you here.” Madeline deftly shifted so that her voluminous skirts were not trod upon.

“Fancy? You’re pleased to see me then?” he said, smiling his insufferably ironic smile.

“Amused is more accurate. You always amuse me.”

“How long has it been? Two, three hundred years? That volta in Florence, wasn’t it?”

“Si, signor. But only two weeks subjective.”

“Ah yes.” He leaned close, to converse without being overheard. “I’ve been meaning to ask you: have you noticed anything strange on your last few expeditions?”

“Strange?”

“Any doorways you expected to be there not opening? Anyone following you and the like?”

“Just you, Ned.”

He chuckled flatly.

The orchestra’s strings played the opening strains of a Mozart piece. She curtseyed— low enough to allure, but not so low as to unnecessarily expose d’colletage. Give a hint, not the secret. Lower the gaze for a demure moment only. Smile, tempt. Ned bowed, a gesture as practiced as hers. Clothed in white silk stockings and velvet breeches, one leg straightened as the other leg stepped back. He made a precise turn of his hand and never broke eye contact.

They raised their arms —their hands never quite touched— and began to dance. Elegant steps made graceful turns, a leisurely pace allowed her to study him. He wore dark green velvet trimmed with white and gold, sea spray of lace at the cuffs and collar. He wore a young man’s short wig powdered to perfection.

“I know why you’re here,” he said, when they stepped close enough for conversation. “You’re after Lady Petulant’s diamond brooch.”

“That would be telling.”

“I’ll bet you I take it first.”

“I’ll counter that bet.”

“And whoever wins— “

Opening her fan with a jerk of her wrist, she looked over her shoulder. “Gets the diamond brooch.”

The figure of the dance wheeled her away and gave her to another partner, an old man whose wig was slipping over one ear. She curtseyed, kept one eye on Lady Petulant, holding court over a tray of bonbons and a ratlike lap dog, and the other on Ned.

With a few measures of dancing, a charge of power crept into Madeline’s bones, enough energy to take her anywhere: London 1590. New York 1950. There was power in dancing.

The song drew to a close. Madeline begged off the next, fanning herself and complaining of the heat. Drifting off in a rustle of satin, she moved to the empty chair near Lady Petulant.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Not at all,” the lady said. The diamond, large as a walnut, glittered against the peach-colored satin of her bodice.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“Quite.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Madeline engaged in harmless conversation, insinuating herself into Lady Petulant’s good graces. The lady was a widow, rich but no longer young. White powder caked the wrinkles of her face. Her fortune was entailed, bestowed upon her heirs and not a second husband, so no suitors paid her court. She was starved for attention.

So when Madeline stopped to chat with her, she was cheerful. When Ned appeared and gave greeting, she was ecstatic.

“I do believe I’ve found the ideal treat for your little dear,” he said, kneeling before her and offering a bite-sized pastry to the dog.

“Why, how thoughtful! Isn’t he a thoughtful gentleman, Frufru darling? Say thank you.” She lifted the creature’s paw and shook it at Ned. “You are too kind!”

Madeline glared at Ned, who winked back.

A servant passed with a silver tray of sweets. When he bowed to offer her one, she took the whole tray. “Marzipan, Lady Petulant?” she said, presenting the tray.

“No thank you, dear. Sticks to my teeth dreadfully.”

“Sherry, Lady Petulant?” Ned put forward a crystal glass which he’d got from God knew where.

“Thank you, that would be lovely.” Lady Petulant took the glass and sipped.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Madeline, but I don’t seem to have an extra glass to offer you.”

“That’s quite all right, sir. I’ve always found sherry to be rather too sweet. Unpalatable, really.”

“Is that so?”

“Hm.” She fanned.

And so it went, until the orchestra roused them with another chord. Lady Petulant gestured a gloved hand toward the open floor.

“You young people should dance. You make such a fine couple.”

“Pardon me?” Ned said.

Madeline fanned faster. “I couldn’t, really.”

“Nonsense. You two obviously know each other quite well. It would please me to watch you dance.”

Madeline’s gaze met Ned’s. She stared in silence, her wit failing her. She didn’t need another dance this evening, and she most certainly did not want to dance with him again.

Giving a little smile that supplanted the stricken look in his eyes, he stood and offered his hand. “I’m game. My lady?”

He’d thought of a plan, obviously. And if he drew her away from Lady Petulant— she would not give up that ground.

The tray of marzipan sat at the very edge of the table between their chairs. As she prepared to stand, she lifted her hand from the arm of her chair, gave her fan a downward flick— and the tray flipped. Miniature daisies and roses shaped in marzipan flew around them. Madeline shrieked, Lady Petulant gasped, the dog barked. Ned took a step back.

A ruckus of servants descended on them. As Madeline turned to avoid them, the dog jumped from Lady Petulant’s lap —for a brief moment, its neck seemed to grow to a foot long— and bit Madeline’s wrist. A spot of red welled through her white glove.

“Ow!” This shriek was genuine.

“Frufru!” Lady Petulant collected the creature and hugged it to her breast. “How very naughty of you, Frufru darling. My dear, are you all right?”

She rubbed her wrist. The blood stain didn’t grow any larger. It was just a scratch. It didn’t even hurt. “I’m —I— ” Then again, if she played this right …

“I— oh my, I do believe I feel faint.” She put her hand to her neck and willed her face to blush. “Oh!”

She fell on Lady Petulant. With any luck, she crushed Frufru beneath her petticoats. Servants convulsed in a single panicked unit, onlookers gasped, even Ned was there, murmuring and patting her cheek with a cool hand.

Lady Petulant wailed that the poor girl was about to die on top of her. Pressed up against the good lady, Madeline took the opportunity to reach for the brooch. She could slip it off and no one would notice—

The brooch was already gone.

She did not have to feign a stunned limpness when a pair of gallant gentlemen lifted her and carried her to a chaise near a window. Ned was nowhere to be seen. Vials of smelling salts were thrust at her, lavender water sprinkled at her. Someone was wrapping her wrist—still gloved—in a bandage, and someone who looked like a doctor—good God, was the man wielding a razor?—approached.

She shoved away her devoted caretakers and tore off the bandage. “Please, give me air! I’ve recovered my senses. No, really, I have. If-you-please, sir!”

As if nothing had happened, she stood, straightened her bodice over her corset, smoothed her skirts, and opened her fan with a snap.

“I thank you for your attention, but I am quite recovered. Good-bye.”

She marched off in search of Ned.

He was waiting for her toward the back of the hall, a fox’s sly grin on his face. Before she came too close, he turned his cupped hand, showing her a walnut-sized diamond that flashed against the green velvet of his coat.

Turning, he stepped sideways behind the same potted fern where he had ambushed her.

He disappeared utterly.

“Damn him!” Her skirts rustled when she stamped her foot.

Ignoring concerned onlookers and Lady Petulant’s cries after her welfare, she cut across the hall to the glass doors opening to the courtyard behind the hall and across the courtyard to a hideously baroque statue of Cupid trailing roses off its limbs. She stopped and took a breath, trying to regain her composure. No good brooding now. It was over and done. There would be other times and places to get back at him. Stepping through required calm.

A handful of doorways collected here in this hidden corner of the garden. One led to an alley in Prague 1600; tilting her head one way, she could just make out a dirty cobbled street and the bricks of a Renaissance facade. Another led to a space under a pier in Key West 1931. Yet another led home.

She danced for this moment; this moment existed because she danced.

Behind the statue Madeline turned her head, narrowed her eyes a certain practiced way, and the world shifted. Just a bit. She put out her hand to touch the crack that formed a line in the air. Confirming its existence, she stepped sideways and through the doorway, back to her room.

Her room: sealed in the back of a warehouse, it had no windows or doors. In it, she stored the plunder taken from a thousand years of history— what plunder she could carry, at least: Austrian crystal, Chinese porcelain, Aztec gold, and a walk-in closet filled with costumes spanning a millennia.

She dropped her fan, pulled the pins out of her wig, unfastened her dress and unhooked her corset. Now that she could breathe, she paced and fumed at Ned properly.

She really ought to go someplace with a beach next time. Hawaii 1980, perhaps. Definitely someplace without corsets. Someplace like—

* * *

The band played Glenn Miller from a gymnasium stage with a USO banner draped overhead. There must have been a couple of hundred G.I.s drinking punch, crowding along the walls, or dancing with a couple of hundred local girls wearing bright dresses and big grins. Madeline only had to wait a moment before a G.I. in dress greens swept her up and spun her into the mob.

Of all periods of history, of all forms of dance, this was her favorite. Such exuberance, such abandon in a generation that saw the world change before its eyes. No ultra-precise curtseys and bows here.

Her soldier lifted her, she kicked her feet to the air and he brought her down, swung her to one side, to the other, and set her on the floor at last to Lindy hop and catch her breath. Her red skirt caught around her knees, and sweat matted her hair to her forehead.

Her partner was a good-looking kid, probably nineteen or twenty, clean faced and bright eyed. Stuck in time, stuck with his fate— a ditch in France, most likely. Like a lamb to slaughter. It was like dancing a minuet in Paris in 1789, staring at a young nobleman’s neck and thinking, you poor chump.

She could try to warn him, but it wouldn’t change anything.

The kid swung her out, released her and she spun. The world went by in a haze and miraculously she didn’t collide with anyone.

When a hand grabbed hers, she stopped and found herself pulled into an embrace. Arm in arm, body to body, with Ned. Wearing green again. Arrogant as ever, he’d put captain bars on his uniform. He held her close, his hand pressed against the small of her back, and two-stepped her in place, hemmed in by the crowd. She couldn’t break away.

“Dance with me, honey. I ship out tomorrow and may be dead next week.”

“Not likely, Ned. Are you following me?”

“Now how would I manage that? I don’t even know when you live. So, what are you here for, the war bonds cash box?”

“Maybe I just like the music.”

As they fell into a rhythm, she relaxed in his grip. A dance was a dance after all, and if nothing else he was a good dancer.

“I didn’t thank you for helping me with Lady Petulant. Great distraction. We should be a team. We both have to dance to do what we do— it’s a perfect match.”

“I work alone.”

“You might think about it.”

“No. I tried working with someone once. His catalyst for stepping through was fighting. He liked to loot battlefields. All our times dancing ended in brawls.”

“What happened to him?”

“Somme 1916. He stayed a bit too long at that one.”

“Ah. I met a woman once whose catalyst was biting the heads off rats.”

“You’re joking! How on earth did she figure that out?”

“One shudders to think.”

The song ended, a slow one began, and a hundred couples locked together.

“So, how did you find me?” she asked.

“I know where you like to go.”

She frowned and looked aside, across his shoulder to a young couple clinging desperately to one another as they swayed in place.

“Tell me, Ned, what were you before you learned to step through? Were you always a thief?”

“Yes. A highwayman and a rogue from the start. You?”

“I was a good girl.”

“So what changed?

“The cops can’t catch me when I step through.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. If you were a good girl, why do you use stepping through to rob widows, and not to do good? Don’t tell me you’ve never tried changing anything. Find a door to the Ford Theater and take John Wilkes Booth’s gun.”

“It never works. You know that.”

“But history doesn’t notice when an old woman’s diamond disappears. So— what do you use the money you steal for? Do you give it to the war effort? The Red Cross? The Catholic Church? Do you have a poor family stashed away somewhere that you play fairy godmother to?”

She tried to pull away, but the beat of the music and the steps of the dance carried her on.

The song changed to something relentless and manic. She tried to break out of his grasp, to spin and hop like everyone else was doing, but he tightened his grip and kept her cheek to cheek.

“You don’t do any of those things,” she said.

“How do you know?”

He was right, of course. She only had his word for it when he said he was a rogue.

“What are you trying to say?”

He brought his lips close to her ear and purred. “You were never a good girl, Madeline.”

She slapped him, a nice crack across the cheek. He seemed genuinely stunned— he stopped cold in the middle of the dance and touched his face. A few bystanders laughed. Madeline turned, shoving her way off the dance floor, dodging feet and elbows.

She went all the way to the front doors before looking back. Ned wasn’t following her. She couldn’t see him at all, through the mob.

In the women’s room she found her doorway to Madrid 1880 where she’d stashed a gown and danced flamenco, then to a taverna in Havana 1902, and from there to her room. He wouldn’t possibly be able to follow that path.

* * *

Unbelievable, how out of a few thousand years of history available to them and countless millions of locations around the world, they kept running into each other.

Ned wore black. He had to, really, because they were at the dawn of the age of the tuxedo, and all the men wore black suits: black pressed trousers, jackets with tails, waistcoats, white cravats. Madeline rather liked the trend, because the women, in a hundred shades of rippling silk and shining jewels, glittered against the monotone backdrop.

Gowns here didn’t require the elaborate architecture they had during the previous three centuries. She wore a corset, but her skirt was not so wide as to prevent walking through doorways. The fabric, pleated and gathered in back, draped around her in slimming lines. She glided tall and elegant, like a Greek statue.

He hadn’t seen her yet. For once, she had the advantage. She watched behind the shelter of a neoclassical pillar. He moved like he’d been born to this dance. Perhaps he had. Every step made with confidence, he and his partner might have been the same unit as they turned, stepped, turned, not looking where they were going yet never missing a step. It always amazed her how a hundred couples could circle a crowded ballroom like this and never collide.

He was smiling, his gaze locked on his partner’s the whole time. For a moment, Madeline wished she were dancing with him. Passing time had cooled her temper.

She’d already got what she came for, a few bits of original Tiffany jewelry. After a dance or two, she could open a door and leave. In a room this large, she could dance a turn and Ned would never have to know she’d been here.

But she waited until his steps brought him close to her. She moved into view, caught his gaze and smiled. He stumbled on the parquet.

He managed to recover without falling and without losing too much of his natural grace. “Madeline! I didn’t see you.”

“I know.”

He abandoned his partner— turned his back on her and went straight to Madeline. The woman glared after him with a mortally offended expression that Ned didn’t seem to notice.

“Been a while, eh?”

“Only a month, subjective.”

“So— what brings you here?”

“That’s my secret. I’ve learned my lesson about telling you anything. You?”

He looked around, surveying the ballroom, the orchestra on the stage, the swirl of couples dancing a pattern like an eddy in a stream. Each couple was independent, but all of them together moved as one entity, as if choreographed.

“Strauss,” he said at last. “Will you dance with me, Miss Madeline?”

He offered his hand, and she placed hers in it. They joined the pattern.

“Have you forgiven me for that comment from last time?”

“No,” Madeline said with a smile. “I’m waiting for the chance to return the favor.”

Step two three turn two three—

“Do you believe in fate?” Ned said.

“Fate? I suppose I have to, considering some of the things I’ve seen. Why do you ask?”

“It’s a wonderful thing, really. You see, we never should have met. I should have died before you were born— or vice versa, since I still don’t know when you’re from. But here we are.”

“That’s fate? I thought you were following me.”

“Ah yes.”

Madeline tilted her head back. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, turning, turning. Ned didn’t take his eyes off her.

“Have you thought of why I might follow you?” he said.

“To reap the benefits of my hard work. I do the research and case the site, and you arrive to take the prize. It’s all very neat and I’d like you to stop.”

“I can’t do that, Madeline.”

“Why not? Isn’t there enough history for you to find your own hunting grounds without taking mine?”

“Because that isn’t the reason I’m following you. At least not anymore.” He paused. He wasn’t smiling, he wasn’t joking. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Her feet kept doing what they were supposed to do. The music kept them moving, which was good because her mind froze. “No,” she murmured.

“Will you give me a chance? A chance to show you?”

It was a trick. A new way to make a fool of her, and it was cruel. But she had never seen him so serious. His brow took on furrows.

She stopped dancing, and he had to stop with her, but he wouldn’t let go. There, stalled in the middle of the ballroom floor, the dance turned to chaos around them.

“No. I can’t love you back, Ned. We’re too much alike.”

For a long moment, a gentle strain of music, he studied her. His expression turned drawn and sad.

“Be careful, Madeline. Watch your back.” He kissed her hand, a gentle press of lips against her curled fingers, then let it go and walked off the dance floor, shouldering around couples as they passed.

He left her alone, lost, in the middle of the floor. She touched her hand where he had kissed it.

“Ned!” she called, the sound barely audible over the orchestra. “Ned!”

He didn’t turn around.

The song ended.

She left the floor, hitched up her skirt and ran everywhere, looking behind every door and every potted fern. But he was gone.

* * *

If Ned followed her, it stood to reason others could as well.

Her room had been trashed. The mirror over the vanity was shattered, chairs smashed, a dresser toppled. Powdered cosmetics dusted the wreckage. The wardrobe was thrown open, gowns and fabric torn and strewn like streamers over the furniture.

She didn’t have windows or doors precisely to keep this sort of thing from happening. There was only one way into the room— through a sideways door, and only if one knew just the right way to look through it. So how—

Someone grabbed her in a bear hug. Another figure appeared from behind her and pointed a bizarre vice-grip and hairbrush looking tool at her in the unmistakable stance of holding a weapon. A third moved into view.

She squirmed in the grasp of the first, but he was at least a foot taller than she and he quickly worked to secure bindings around her arms and hands that left her immobile. All wore black militaristic suits with goggles and metallic breathing masks hiding their features.

The third spoke, a male voice echoing mechanically through the mask. “Under Temporal Transit Authority Code forty-four A dash nine, I hereby take you into custody and charge you—

“The what?” Madeline said with a gasp. Her captor wrenched her shoulders back. Any struggle she made now was merely out of principle. “Temporal Transit Authority? I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“You’ve never stepped through to the twenty-second century, then.”

“No.” Traveling to one’s own future was tough— there was no record to study, no way to know what to expect. She’d had enough trouble with her past, she never expected the future to come back to haunt her.

“I hereby take you into custody and charge you with unregulated transportation along the recognized timeline, grand theft along the recognized timeline, historic fraud— “

“You can’t be serious— “

He held up a device, something like an electric razor with a glowing wand at one end and flashing lights at the other. He pressed a button and drew a line in the air. The line glowed, hanging in midair. He pressed another button, the line widened into a plane, a doorway through which a dim scene showed: pale tiled walls and steel tables.

He opened a door, he stepped through, and all he needed to do was push a button.

In that stunned moment, the two flunkies picked her up and carried her through.

They entered a hospital room and unloaded her onto a gurney. More figures appeared, doctors hiding behind medical scrubs, cloth masks, and clinical gazes. With practiced ease they strapped her facedown, wrists and legs bound with padded restraints. When she tried to struggle, a half-dozen hands pressed her into the thin mattress. Her ice-blue skirt was hitched up around her knees, wrinkling horribly.

“Don’t I get a lawyer? A phone call? Something?” She didn’t even know where or when she was. Who would she call?

A doctor spoke to the thug in charge. “Her catalyst?”

“Dancing.”

“I know just the thing. Nurse, prep a local anesthetic.”

Madeline tensed against her bindings. “What are you doing? What are you doing to me?”

“Don’t worry, we can reverse the procedure. If you’re found innocent at the trial.”

She lost track of how many people were in the room. A couple of the thugs, a couple of people in white who must have been nurses or orderlies. A couple who looked like doctors. Someone unbuttoned her shoes. Her silk stockings ripped.

Needle-pricks stabbed each foot, then pins of sleep traveled up her legs. She screamed. It was the only thing she could do. A hand pushed her face into the mattress. Her legs went numb up to her knees. She managed to turn her face, and through the awkward, foreshortened perspective she saw them make incisions above her heels, reach a thin scalpel into the wounds, and cut the Achilles’ tendons. There was no pain, but she felt the tissues snap inside her calves.

She screamed until her lungs hurt, until she passed out.

* * *

She awoke in a whitewashed cell, lying on a cot that was the room’s only furnishing. There was a door without a handle. She was no longer tied up, but both her ankles were neatly bandaged, and she couldn’t move her legs.

Gingerly sitting up, she unfastened the bodice of her gown, then released the first few hooks of her corset. She took a deep breath, arching her back. Her ribs and breasts were bruised from sleeping in the thing. Not to mention the manhandling she’d received.

She didn’t want to think about her legs.

Curling up on her side, she hugged her knees and cried.

She fell asleep, arms curled around her head. The light, a pale florescent filtering through a ceiling tile, stayed on. Her growling stomach told her that time passed. Once, the door opened and an orderly brought in a tray of food, leaving it on the floor by the bed. She didn’t eat. Another time, a female orderly brought in a contraption, a toilet seat and bedpan on wheels, and offered to help her use it. She screamed, batted and clawed at the woman until she left.

She pulled apart her elegant, piled coif —tangled now— and threw hairpins across the room.

When the door opened again, she had a few pins left to hurl at whomever entered. But it wasn’t an orderly, a doctor, or a thug.

It was Ned, still in his tails and cravat.

He closed the door to the thinnest crack and waited a moment, listening. Madeline clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out to him.

Apparently satisfied, Ned came to the bed, knelt on the floor, and gathered her in an embrace.

“You look dreadful,” he said gently, holding her tightly.

She sobbed on his shoulder. “They cut my tendons, Ned. They cut my legs.”

“They’re bastards, Madeline,” he muttered, between meaningless noises of comfort.

Clutching the fabric of his jacket, she pushed him away suddenly. “Did they get you too? What did they do to you?” She looked him over, touched his face— nothing seemed wrong. “How did you get here?”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “I used to be one of the bastards.”

She edged away, pushing herself as far to the wall as she could. Ned, with his uncanny ability to follow her where and whenever she went. He didn’t move, didn’t try to stop her or grapple with her. She half expected him to.

“Used to be.” she said. “Not still?”

“No. It began as a research project, to study what people like me —like us— can do, and what that meant about the nature of space and time. But there were other interests at work. They developed artificial methods of finding doorways and stepping through. They don’t need us anymore and hate competition. The Temporal Transit Authority was set up to establish a monopoly over the whole business.”

“And you— just left? Or did you lead them to me?”

“Please, Madeline. I’m searching for a bit of redemption here. I followed you. I couldn’t stop following you. I knew they were looking for you. I found your place right after they did. I wish— I should have told you. Warned you a little better than I did.”

“Why didn’t you?” she said, her voice thin and desperate.

“I didn’t think you’d believe me. You’ve never trusted me. I’m sorry.”

No, she thought, remembering that last waltz, the music and his sad face and the way he disappeared. I’m sorry.

“You were following me all along. We didn’t meet by chance.”

“Oh no. It was chance. Fate. I didn’t know about you, wasn’t looking for you. But when I met you, I knew the Authority would find you sooner or later. I didn’t want them to find you.”

“But they did.”

“Once again I apologize for that. Now, we’re getting out of here.”

He started to pick her up, moving one arm to her legs and the other to her shoulders. She leaned away, pressing herself against the wall in an effort to put more distance between them.

“Please trust me,” he said.

Why should she believe anything he said? She didn’t know anything about him. Except that he was a marvelous dancer. And she needed to dance.

She put her arms around his neck and let him lift her.

“Come on, then.” He picked her up, cradling her in his arms. She clung to him. “Get the door, would you?”

She pulled the door open. He looked out. The corridor was empty. Softly, he made his way down the hall.

Then Ned froze. Voices echoed ahead of them, moving closer. Without a word, he turned and walked the other direction. If he had been able to run, he would have rounded the next corner before the owners of the voices saw him. But he held her, and he couldn’t do more than walk carefully.

Footsteps sounded behind him. She looked over his shoulder and saw a doctor flanked by a couple of orderlies enter the corridor.

“Hey! Stop there!” The doctor pointed and started running.

“All these bloody doors lock on the outside,” Ned muttered. “Here, open that one.”

She stared. The door had no handle, no visible hinges or latches. Ned hissed a breath of frustration and bumped a red light panel on the wall with his elbow. The door popped in with a little gasp of hydraulics.

He pushed through into what turned out to be a supply closet, about ten foot square, filled with shelves and boxes, and barely enough room to turn around. He set her on the floor and began pushing plastic tubs at the door. He soon had enough of a blockade to stop their pursuers from shoving through right away. He kept piling, though, while the people outside pounded on the door and shouted.

Madeline cowered on the floor, her legs stuck out awkwardly. “You can’t dance for both of us, and I’m too big for you to carry me through.”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t have come. Now you’re caught too.”

“But I’m with you,” he said, turning to her with the brightest, most sincere smile she had ever seen. “It makes all the difference.” He went back to throwing boxes on the stack.

She caught her breath and wondered what she’d have to do to see that smile again.

“Help me stand.” She hooked her fingers on a shelving post as far above her as she could reach and pulled. Grunting, she shifted her weight to try and get her feet under her.

“Madeline, good God what are you doing?”

“Standing. Help me.”

He went to her and pulled her arm over his shoulders, reaching his own arm around her waist. Slowly, he raised her. She straightened her legs, and her feet stayed where she put them.

There. She was standing. She clenched her jaw. Her calves were exploding with pain.

“Do you think there’s a door in here?” she said, her voice tight.

“There’re doors everywhere. But you can’t— “

“We have to.”

“But— “

“I can. Help me.”

He sighed, adjusting his grip so he supported her more firmly. “Right. What should we dance?”

She took a breath, cleared her mind so she could think of a song. She couldn’t even tap her toe to keep a beat. She began humming. The song sounded out of tune and hopeless in her ears.

“Ravel. ‘Pavane for a Dead Princess,’” Ned said. “Come on, dear, you’re not done yet. One and two and— “

She held her breath and moved her right leg. It did move, the foot dragging, and she leaned heavily on Ned because she didn’t dare put any weight on it. Then the left foot. She whimpered a little. Ned was right behind her, stepping with her.

The pavane had the simplest steps she could think of. At its most basic, it was little more than walking very slowly— perfect for a crippled dancer. It was also one of the most graceful, stately, elegant dances ever invented. Not this time. She couldn’t trust her legs. She dragged them forward and hoped they went where they needed to be. Ned wasn’t so much dancing with her as lurching, ensuring she stayed upright.

There was a kind of power, even in this: bodies moving in desperation.

She tried to keep humming, but her voice jerked, pain-filled, at every step. They hummed together, his voice steadying her as his body did.

Then came a turn. She attempted it— a dance was a dance, after all. Put the left foot a little to the side, step out—

Her leg collapsed. She cried out, cutting the sound off mid-breath. Ned caught her around the waist and leaned her against the shelving. This gave her something to sit on, a little support.

Without missing a beat, he took her hand and stepped a half-circle around her. He held her hand lightly, elevated somewhat, and tucked his other hand behind his back. Perfect form.

“This just doesn’t feel right if I’m not wearing a ruff,” he said, donning a pompous, aristocratic accent.

Hiccupping around stifled tears, she giggled. “But I like being able to see your neck. It’s a handsome neck.”

“Right, onto the age of disco then.”

The banging on the door was loud, insistent, like they’d started using a battering ram, and provided something of a beat. The barricade began to tumble.

“And so we finish.” He bowed deeply.

She started to dip into a curtsey —just the tiniest of curtsies— but Ned caught her and lifted her.

“I think we’re ready.”

She narrowed her eyes and looked a little bit sideways.

Space and time made patterns, the architecture of the universe, and the lines crossed everywhere, cutting through the very air. Sometimes, someone had a talent that let them see the lines and use them.

“There,” Ned said. “That one. A couple of disheveled Edwardians won’t look so out of place there. Do you see it?”

“Yes,” she said, relieved. A glowing line cut before them, and if they stepped a little bit sideways—

She put out her hand and opened the door so they could step through together.

* * *

Lady Petulant’s diamond paid for reconstructive surgery at the best unregistered clinic in Tokyo 2028. Madeline walked out the door and into the alley, where Ned was waiting for her. Laughing, she jumped at him and swung him around in a couple of steps of a haphazard polka.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” he said. And there was that smile again.

“Polycarbon filament tissue replacement. I have the strongest tendons in the world now.”

They walked out to the street— searching the crowd of pedestrians, always looking over their shoulders.

“Where would you like to go?” he said.

“I don’t know. It’s not so easy to pick, now that we’re fugitives. Those guys could be anywhere.”

“But we have lots of places to hide. We just have to keep moving.”

They walked for a time along a chaotic street, nothing like a ballroom, the noises nothing like music. The Transit Authority people knew they had to dance; if they were really going to hide, it would be in places like this, where dancing was next to impossible.

But they couldn’t do that, could they?

Finally, Ned said, “We could go watch Rome burn. And fiddle.”

“Hm. I’d like to find a door to the Glen Island Casino. 1939.”

“Glenn Miller played there, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“We could find one, I think.”

“If we have to keep moving anyway, we’ll hit on it eventually.”

He took her hand, pulled her close and pressed his other hand against the small of her back. Ignoring the tuneless crowd, he danced with her.

“Lead on, my dear.”

* * *

Carrie Vaughn is the author of several books and stories.

FANTASY:

Cryptic Coloration

Written by Elizabeth Bear

Illustrated by Chantelle Thorne

Katie saw him first. The next-best thing to naked, in cutoff camouflage pants and high-top basketball sneakers and nothing else, except the thick black labyrinth of neo-tribal ink that covered his pale skin from collarbones to anklebones. He shone like piano keys, glossy-sleek with sweat in a sultry September afternoon.

Katie already had Melissa’s sleeve in her hand and was tugging her toward the crosswalk. Gina trailed three steps behind. “We have got to go watch this basketball game.”

“What?” But then Melissa’s line of sight intersected Katie’s and she gasped. “Oh my fuck, look at all that ink. Do you think that counts as a shirt or a skin?” Melissa was from Boston, but mostly didn’t talk like it.

“Never mind the ink,” Katie said. “Look at his triceps.”

Little shadowed dimples in the undersides of his arms, and all Katie could think of for a moment was that he wasn’t terribly tall, and if she had been standing close enough when he raised his hands to take a pass she could have stood on tiptoe and licked them. The image dried her mouth, heated her face.

Melissa would have thought Katie silly for having shocked herself, though, so she didn’t say anything.

Even without the ink, he had the best body on the basketball court. Hard all over, muscle swelling and valleying as he sprinted and sidestepped, chin-length blond hair swinging in his eyes. He skittered left like a boxer, turned, dribbled between his legs —quadriceps popping, calves like flexed cables— caught the ball as it came back up and leaped. Parabolic, sailing. Sweat shook from his elbows and chin as he released.

A three-point shot. A high geometric arch.

Denied when a tall black boy of eighteen or so tipped it off the edge of the basket, jangling the chain, and fired back to half court, but that didn’t matter. Katie glanced over her shoulder to make sure Gina was following.

“God,” Melissa purred. “I love New York.”

Katie, mopping her gritty forehead with the inside of her T-shirt collar, couldn’t have agreed more.

So it was mid-September and still too hot to think. So she was filthy just from walking through the city air.

You didn’t get anything like the blond boy back home in Appleton.

Melissa was a tall freckled girl who wore her hair in red pigtails that looked like braided yarn. She had a tendency to bounce up on her toes that made her seem much taller, and she craned over the pedestrians as they stepped up onto the far curb. “There’s some shade by the— oh, my god would you look at that?”

Katie bounced too, but couldn’t see anything except shirts. “Mel!”

“Sorry.”

Flanking Gina, two steps ahead of her, they moved on. Melissa was right about the shade; it was cooler and had a pretty good view. They made it there just as the blond was facing off with a white-shirted Latino in red Converse All-Stars that were frayed around the cuffs. “Jump ball,” Gina said, and leaned forward between Katie and Melissa.

The men coiled and went up. Attenuated bodies, arching, bumping, big hands splayed. Katie saw dark bands clasping every finger on the blond, and each thumb. More ink, or maybe rings, though wouldn’t it hurt to play ball in them?

The Latino was taller; the blond beat him by inches. He tagged the ball with straining fingertips, lofted it to his team. And then he landed lightly, knees flexed, sucked in a deep breath while his elbows hovered back and up, and pivoted.

It wasn’t a boy, unless a man in his early thirties counted.

“Holy crap,” said Gina, who only swore in Puerto Rican. “Girls, that’s Doctor S.”

* * *

Wednesday at noon, the three mismatched freshman girls who sat in the third row center of Matthew Szczegielniak’s 220 were worse than usual. Normally, they belonged to the doe-eyed, insecure subspecies of first-year student, badly needing to be shocked back into a sense of humor and acceptance of their own fallibility. A lot of these young girls reminded Matthew of adolescent cats; trying so hard to look serene and dignified that they walked into walls.

And then got mad at you for noticing.

Really, that was even funnier.

Today, though, they were giggling and nudging and passing notes until he was half-convinced he’d made a wrong turn somewhere and wound up teaching a high school class. He caught the carrot-top mid-nudge while mid-sentence (Byron, Scott), about a third of the way through his introductory forty minutes on the Romantic poets, and fixed her with a glare through his spectacles that could have chipped enamel.

A red tide rose behind her freckles, brightening her sunburned nose. Her next giggle came out a squeak.

“Ms. Martinchek. You have a trenchant observation on the work of Joanna Baillie, perhaps?”

If she’d gone any redder, he would have worried about apoplexy. She stared down at her open notebook and shook her head in tiny quick jerks.

“No, Doctor S.”

Matthew Szczegielniak rubbed his nose with the butt of his dry-erase marker, nudging his spectacles up with his thumbnail. He wasn’t enough of a problem child to make his students learn his last name —even the simplified pronunciation he preferred— though the few that tried were usually good for endless hours of entertainment.

Besides, Matthew was a Mage. And magic being what it was, he would be hard put to imagine a more counterproductive activity than teaching three hundred undergrads a semester how to pronounce his name.

* * *

Enough heat of embarrassment radiated from Melissa’s body to make Katie lean on her opposite elbow and duck her head in sympathy. She kept sneaking looks at Doctor S., trying to see past the slicked ponytail, the spectacles, the arch and perfectly bitchy precision of his lecturing style to find the laughing half-naked athlete of the day before.

She’d thought he was probably gay.

Sure, books, covers, whatever. It was impossible to believe in him exultant, shaking sweat from his hair, even though she’d seen it, even though the image fumed wisps of intrigue through her pelvis. Even though she could see the black rings on every finger and each thumb, clicking slightly when he gestured. She couldn’t understand how she had never noticed them before. And never noticed the way he always dressed for class, though it was still hotter than Hades; the ribbed soft-colored turtleneck that covered him from the backs of broad hands to the tender flesh under his throat, the camel- or smoke- or charcoal-colored corduroy blazer that hid the shape of his shoulders and the width of his chest.

It was maddening, knowing what was under the clothes. She wondered if the barbaric tattoos extended everywhere, and flushed, herself, at least as bright as Melissa. And then brighter, as she felt the prof’s eyes on her, as if he was wondering what she was thinking that so discomfited her.

Oh, lord, but wouldn’t that have hurt?

On the other hand, he’d had the insides of his arms done, and the inner thighs. And that was supposed to hurt like anything, wasn’t it?

And then she noticed that his left ear was pierced top to bottom, ten or a dozen rings, and sank down in her chair while she wondered what else he might have had done. And why she’d never noticed any of it —the rings, the earrings, the ink, the muscles— any of it, before.

“Oh, God,” she whispered without moving her lips. “I’m never going to make it through this class.”

But she did. And leaned up against the wall beside the door afterwards, shoulder-to-shoulder with Melissa while they waited for Gina to come out. Quiet, but if anybody was going to do something crazy or brave or both, it would be her. And right now, she was down at the bottom of the lecture hall, chatting up the professor.

“Oh, God,” Katie moaned. “I’m going to have to switch sections. I didn’t hear a word he said.”

“I did. Oh, God. He knows my name.” Melissa blushed the color of her plastic notebook cover all over again. Her voice dropped, developed a mocking precision of pronunciation. “Ms. Martinchek, maybe you can tell me about Joanna Ballyhoo …”

“Baillie.” Gina, who came up and stood on tiptoe to stick a purple Post-it note to Melissa’s tit. “He wrote it down for me. This way you can impress him next week.”

Melissa picked the note off her chest and stared at it. “He uses purple Post-it notes?”

“I was right,” Katie said. “He’s gay.”

“Do you want to find out?”

“Oh, and how do you propose we do that? Check the BiGALA membership roster?” Melissa might be scoffing, but her eyes were alight. Katie swallowed.

Gina checked her wristwatch. She had thick brown-black hair swept up in a banana clip, showing tiny curls like inverted devil horns at her pale nape. “He’s got office hours until three. I say we grab some lunch and drop off our books, and then when he leaves we see where he goes.”

“I dunno.” Katie crossed her arms over her notebook. “It’s not like playing basketball with your shirt off is a crime… .”

“It’s not like following someone to see where they go is a crime, either,” Melissa pointed out. “We’re not going to … stalk him.”

“No, just stalk him.”

“Katie!”

“Well, it’s true.” But Melissa was looking at her, and … she had come to Manhattan to have adventures. “What if we get caught?”

“Get caught … walking down a public street?”

Right. Whatever. “We could just look him up in the phone book.”

“I checked. Not listed, amigas. Maybe it’s under his boyfriend’s name.”

Even Melissa blinked at her this time. “Jesus Christ, Gomez. You’re a criminal mastermind.”

* * *

Those same three girls were holding up the wall when Matthew left the lecture theatre, climbing up the stairs to go out by the top door. He walked past, pretending not to notice them, or the stifled giggles and hiccups that erupted a moment later.

He just had time to grab a sandwich before his office hours. Almost one o’clock; probably nothing left but egg salad.

He needed the protein anyway.

He supplemented the sandwich with two cartons of chocolate milk, a bag of sourdough pretzels and three rip-top packets of French’s mustard, and spread the lot out on his desk while he graded papers for his Renaissance drama class. With luck, no students would show up except a lonely or neurotic or favor-currying Ph.D. candidate, and he could get half of the papers done today.

He had twenty-four sophomores and juniors, and of the first ten papers, only two writers seemed to understand that The Merry Wives of Windsor was supposed to be funny. One of those was a Sociology major. Matthew was a failure as a teacher. He finished the sandwich, blew crumbs off his desk so he wouldn’t leave mayonnaise fingerprints on the essays, and tore open the pretzels before he sharpened his red pencil one more time.

Honey mustard would have been better. He should get some to stick in his desk. Unless it went bad. Honey didn’t go bad, and mustard didn’t go bad. Logically, an amalgam would reflect the qualities of both.

The spike of ice and acid through the bones of his hands originated from his iron Mage’s rings, and it not only made him drop a pretzel —splattering mustard across the scarred wooden desk— but it brought him to his feet before he heard the police sirens start.

He glanced at the clock. Five more minutes. “That which thou hast promised thou must perform,” he said, under his breath.

He left his lunch on the desk and found his keys in his pocket on the way to the door.

* * *

Their quarry almost ran them over as they were on their way in to start stalking him. Katie sidestepped quickly, catching Gina across the chest with a straight left arm. Melissa managed to get herself out of the way.

Doctor S. was almost running. His corduroy jacket flapped along the vent as he skidded between pedestrians, cleared four concrete steps in a bounce, and avoided a meandering traffic jam of students with as much facility as he’d shown on the basketball court. And if Katie had begun to suspect that it was just a bizarre case of mistaken identity, the toreador side step around the lady with the baby carriage would have disabused her. Doctor S. moved with force and grace that were anything but common to academia.

Katie turned to follow him. It was only a small gesture to catch Gina’s wrist, and without more urging, Gina trotted along beside her. Which was good, because Gina was strong and stubborn, even if she was only three apples high. Melissa took two more beats to get started, but her longer legs soon put her into the lead. “Slow down,” Katie hissed, afraid that he would notice them running after him like three fools in a hurry, but frankly, he was getting away.

So when Melissa glared at her, she hustled, like you do. And Gina actually broke into a trot.

Doctor S. strode east on 68th, against traffic, towards the park. He never glanced over his shoulder, but kept rubbing his hands together as if they pained him. Maybe the rings were the magnet kind, for arthritis or something. RSI.

“I can’t believe I never noticed he wears all those rings.”

“I can’t believe I never noticed the muscles,” Melissa answered, but Gina said “Rings?”

“On all his fingers?” Melissa was too busy dodging pedestrians to give Gina the were you born that stupid or do you practice hard? look, and Katie was as grateful as she could spare breath for. They were disrupting traffic flow, the cardinal sin of New York’s secular religion. Katie winced at another glare. Somebody was going to call her a fucking moron any second.

Gina sounded completely bemused. “I never noticed any rings.”

Doctor S. continued east on 68th past Park Ave., down the rows of narrow-fronted brick buildings with their concrete window ledges. By the time he crossed Madison Ave., she was sure he was headed for the park. Every so often he actually skipped a step, moving as fast as he possibly could without breaking into a purse-snatcher sprint.

… he wasn’t going to the park.

Halfway between Park and Fifth Avenue —which, of course, unlike Park, was on the park— traffic was gummed up behind flashing lights and restraining police. Doctor S. slowed as he approached, stuffing his hands back into his pockets— “Would you look at that?” Gina said, and Katie knew she, too, had suddenly noticed the rings— and dropping his shoulders, smallifying himself. He merged with the gawking crowd; Katie couldn’t believe how easily he made himself vanish. Like a praying mantis in a rosebush; just one more green thorn-hooked stem.

“Okay,” Melissa said, as they edged through bystanders, trying not to shove too many yuppies in the small of the back. “Stabbing?”

“Sidewalk pizza,” Gina the Manhattanite said, pointing up. There was a window open on the sixth floor of one of the tenements, and Katie glimpsed a blue uniform behind it.

“Somebody jumped?”

“Or was pushed.”

“Oh, God.”

Gina shrugged, but let her hip and elbow brush Katie’s. Solace, delivered with the appearance of nonchalance. And then, watching, Doctor S. seem to vanish between people, betrayed only be metallic gleams of light off slick hair. She could pick him out if she knew where to look, if she remembered to look for the tan jacket, the hair. Otherwise, her eyes seemed to slide off him. Creepy, she thought. He’s almost not really there.

And then she thought of something else. And maybe Melissa did too, because Melissa said, “Guys? What’s he doing at a crime scene?”

“Or accident scene,” Gina said, unwilling to invest in a murder without corroboration.

“Maybe he’s a gawker.”

“Ew.” Katie tugged Gina’s sleeve. “We should see if we can get closer. He probably won’t notice us.” And then she frowned. “How did he know about it?”

“Maybe he has a scanner in his office?”

“So he’s a vulture.”

“Maybe he’s an investigator. You know. Secret, like.”

Katie rolled her eyes. “Right. Our gay college prof is Spiderman.”

Gina snorted. “Hey. Everybody knows that Spidey and Peter Parker have a thing.”

Melissa hunched down so her head wouldn’t stick up so far above the crowd. Her hair was as bad as Doctor S.’s, and she didn’t have his knack for vanishing into the scenery. “Gina,” she said, “you go up, and tell us what’s going on.”

“I’ve seen dead people, chica.”

“You haven’t seen this one,” Melissa said. “Go on. It might be important.”

Gina shrugged, rolled her eyes, and started forward. And Melissa was right; a five foot tall Latina in gobs of eyeliner did, indeed, vanish into the crowd. “Criminal mastermind,” Melissa said.

Katie grinned, and didn’t argue.

* * *

This was the part of the job that Matthew liked least. There was no satisfaction in it, no resolution, no joy. The woman on the pavement was dead; face down, one arm twisted under her and the other outflung. She’d bounced, and she hadn’t ended up exactly where she’d hit. She’d been wearing a pink blouse. Someone in the crowd beside him giggled nervously.

Matthew figured she hadn’t jumped. He checked his wards —pass-unnoticed, which was not so strong as a pass-unseen, and considerably easier to maintain— and the glamours and ghosts that kept him unremarkable

His hands still ached; he really wished somebody would come up with a system for detecting malevolent magic that didn’t leave him feeling like a B-movie bad guy was raking his fingerbones around with a chilled ice pick.

He pulled his cell phone from his pocket, buttoned the middle button on his jacket, and hit speed dial. He was one of five people who had the Promethean archmage’s reach-me-in-the-bathtub number; he didn’t abuse the privilege.

“Jane Andraste,” she said, starting to speak before the line connected. He hadn’t heard it ring on his end. “What’s going on?”

“Apparent suicide at Fifth and 68th.” He checked his watch. “It tickles. I’m on the scene and going to poke around a little. Are any of the responders our guys?”

“One second.” Her voice muffled as she asked someone a question; there was a very brief pause, and she was back on the line. “Marla says Marion Thornton is en route. Have you met her?”

“Socially.” By which he meant, at Promethean events and rituals. There were about two hundred Magi in the Greater New York area, and like Matthew, most of them held down two jobs: guardian of the iron world by night, teacher or artist or executive or civil servant by day.

They worked hard. But at least none of them had to worry about money. The Prometheus Club provided whatever it took to make ends meet. “I’ll look for her.”

“She’ll get you inside,” Jane said. “Any theories yet?”

Matthew crouched amid rubberneckers and bent his luck a little to keep from being stepped on. The crowd moved around him, but never quite squeezed him off-balance. Their shadows made it hard to see, but his fingers hovered a quarter-inch from a dime-sized stain on the pavement, and a chill slicked through his bones. “Not in a crowd,” he said, and pulled his hand back so he wouldn’t touch the drip accidentally. “Actually, tell Marion to process the inside scene on her own, would you? And not to touch anything moist with her bare hand, or even a glove if she can help it.”

“You have a secondary lead?”

“I think I have a trail.”

“Blood?”

It had a faint aroma, too, though he wouldn’t bend close. Cold stone, guano, moist rancid early mornings full of last winter’s rot. A spring and barnyard smell, with an underlying acridness that made his eyes water and his nose run. He didn’t wipe his tears; there was no way he was touching his face after being near this.

He dug in his pocket with his left hand, cradling the phone with the right. A moment’s exploration produced a steel disk the size of a silver dollar. He spat on the underside, balanced it like a miniature tabletop between his thumb and first two fingers, and then turned his hand over. A half-inch was as close as he dared.

He dropped the metal. It struck the sidewalk and bonded to the concrete with a hiss, sealing the stain away.

“Venom,” Matthew said. “I’ve marked it. You’ll need to send a containment team. I have to go.”

When he stood, he looked directly into the eyes of one of his giggly freshmen.

“Ms. Gomez,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here. Sorry I can’t stay to chat.”

* * *

Gina was still stammering when she came back. “Did you see that? Did you see that?”

Katie hadn’t. “Just the backs of a bunch of tall people’s heads. What happened?”

“I was trying to stay away from him,” Gina said. “And he just appeared right beside me. Poof. Poof!”

“Or you weren’t looking where you were going,” Katie said, but Melissa was frowning. “Well?”

“He did just pop up out of nowhere,” Melissa said. “I was watching Gina, and he kind of … materialized beside her. Like he stood up all of a sudden.”

“He’s the devil.” Gina shook her head, but she sounded half-convinced.

Katie patted her on the shoulder, woven cotton rasping between her fingertips and Gina’s flesh. “He could have been tying his shoe.”

“Right,” Gina said, stepping out from under Katie’s hand. She pointed back to the crowd. “Then where did he go?”

* * *

Even glamoured, he couldn’t run from a murder scene. The magic relied on symbol and focus; if he broke that, he’d find himself stuck in a backlash that would make him the center of attention of every cop, Russian landlady, and wino for fifteen blocks. So instead he walked, fast, arms swinging freely, trying to look as if he was late getting back from a lunch date.

Following the smell of venom.

He found more droplets, widely spaced. In places, they had started to etch asphalt or concrete. Toxic waste indeed; it slowed him, because he had to pause to tag and seal each one.

How it could move unremarked through his city, he did not know. There were no crops here for its steps to blight nor wells for its breath to poison.

Which was not to say it did no harm.

These things— some fed on flesh and some on blood and bone. Some fed on death, or fear, or misery, or drunkenness, or loneliness, or love, or hope, or white perfect joy. Some constructed wretchedness, and some comforted the afflicted.

There was no telling until you got there.

Matthew slowed as his quarry led him north. There were still too many bystanders. Too many civilians. He didn’t care to catch up with any monsters in broad daylight, halfway up Manhattan. But as the neighborhoods became more cluttered and the scent of uncollected garbage grew heavy on the humid air, he found more alleys, more byways, and fewer underground garages.

If he were a cockatrice, he thought he might very well lair in such a place. Somewhere among the rubbish and the poison and the broken glass. The cracked concrete, and the human waste.

He needed as much camouflage to walk here undisturbed as any monster might.

His hands prickled ceaselessly. He was closer. He slowed, reinforcing his wards with a sort of nervous tic: checking that his hair was smooth, his coat was buttoned, his shoes were tied. Somehow, it managed to move from its lair to the Upper East Side without leaving a trail of bodies in the street. Maybe it traveled blind. Or underground; he hadn’t seen a drop of venom in a dozen blocks. Worse, it might be invisible.

Sometimes … often … otherwise things had slipped far enough sideways that they could not interact with the iron world except through the intermediary of a Mage or a medium. If this had happened to the monster he sought, then it could travel unseen. Then it could pass by with no more harm done than the pervasive influence of its presence.

But then, it wouldn’t drip venom real enough to melt stone.

Relax, Matthew. You don’t know it’s a cockatrice. It’s just a hypothesis, and appearances can be deceptive.

Assuming that he had guessed right could get him killed.

But a basilisk or a cockatrice was what made sense. Except, why would the victim have thrown herself from her window for a crowned serpent, a scaled crow? And why wasn’t everybody who crossed the thing’s path being killed. Or turned to stone, if it was that sort of cockatrice?

His eyes stung, a blinding burning as if he breathed chlorine fumes, etchant. The scent was as much otherwise as real; Matthew suffered it more than the civilians, who would sense only the miasma of the streets as they were poisoned. A lingering death.

He blinked, tears brimming, wetting his eyelashes and blurring the world through his spectacles. A Mage’s traveling arsenal was both eclectic and specific, but Matthew had never before thought to include normal saline, and he hadn’t passed a drugstore for blocks.

How the hell is it traveling?

At last, the smell was stronger, the cold prickle sharper, on his left. He entered the mouth of a rubbish-strewn alley, a kind of gated brick tunnel not tall or wide enough for a garbage truck. It was unlocked, the grille rusted open; the passage brought him to a filthy internal courtyard. Rows of garbage cans —of course, no Dumpsters— and two winos, one sleeping on cardboard, one lying on his back on grease-daubed foam reading a two-month-old copy of Maxim. The miasma of the cockatrice —if it was a cockatrice— was so strong here that Matthew gagged.

What he was going to do about it, of course, he didn’t know.

His phone buzzed. He answered it, lowering his voice. “Jane?”

“The window was unlocked from the inside,” she said. “No sign of forced entry. The resident was a 58-year-old unmarried woman, Janet Stafford. Here’s the interesting part— “

“Yes?”

“She had just reentered secular life, if you can believe this. She spent the last thirty-four years as a nun.”

Matthew glanced at his phone, absorbing that piece of information, and put it back to his ear. “Did she leave the church, or just the convent?”

“The church,” Jane said. “Marion’s checking into why. You don’t need to call her; I’ll liaise.”

“That would save time,” Matthew said. “Thank you.” There was no point in both of them reporting to Jane and to each other if Jane considered the incident important enough to coordinate personally.

“Are you ready to tell me yet what you think it might be?”

Matthew stepped cautiously around the small courtyard, holding onto his don’t-notice-me, his hand cupped around the mouthpiece. “I was thinking cockatrice,” he said. “But you know, now maybe not certain. What drips venom, and can lure a retired nun to suicide?”

Jane’s breath, hissing between her teeth, was clearly audible over the cellular crackle. “Harpy.”

“Yeah,” Matthew said. “But then why doesn’t it fly?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Right now? Question a couple of local residents,” he said, and moved toward the Maxim-reading squatter.

The man looked up as he approached; Matthew steeled himself to hide a flinch at his stench, the sore running pus down into his beard. A lot of these guys were mentally ill and unsupported by any system. A lot of them also had the knack for seeing things that had mostly dropped otherwise, as if in being overlooked themselves they gained insight into the half-lit world.

And it didn’t matter how he looked; the homeless man’s life was still a life, and his only. You can’t save them all. But he had a father and mother and a history and a soul like yours.

His city, which he loved, dehumanized; Matthew considered it the responsibility that came with his gifts to humanize it right back. It was in some ways rather like being married to a terrible drunk. You did a lot of apologizing. “Hey,” Matthew said. He didn’t crouch down. He held out his hand; the homeless man eyed it suspiciously. “I’m Matthew. You have absolutely no reason to want to know me, but I’m looking for some information I can’t get from just anybody. Can I buy you some food, or a drink?”

* * *

Later, over milkshakes, Melissa glanced at Katie through the humidity-frizzled curls that had escaped her braid and said, “I can’t believe we lost him.”

The straw scraped Katie’s lip as she released it. “You mean he gave us the slip.”

Melissa snorted. On her left, Gina picked fretfully at a plate of French fries, sprinkling pinched grains of salt down the length of one particular fry and then brushing them away with a fingertip. “He just popped up. Right by me. And then vanished. I never took my eyes off him.”

“Some criminal mastermind you turned out to be,” Katie said, but her heart wasn’t in it. Gina flinched, so Katie swiped one of her fries by way of apology. A brief but giggly scuffle ensued before Katie maneuvered the somewhat mangled fry into her mouth. She was chewing salt and starch when Melissa said, “Don’t you guys think this is all a little weird?”

Katie swallowed, leaving a slick of grease on her palate. “No,” she said, and slurped chocolate shake to clear it off. Her hair moved on her neck, and she swallowed and imagined the touch of a hand. A prickle of sensation tingled through her, the same excitement she felt at their pursuit of Doctor S., which she had experienced only occasionally while kissing her boyfriend back home. She shifted in her chair. “I think it’s plenty weird.”

She wasn’t going to ask the other girls. Melissa had a boyfriend at Harvard that she traded off weekends with. Gina was … Gina. She picked up whatever boy she wanted, kept him a while, put him down again. Katie would rather let them assume that she wasn’t all that innocent.

Not that they’d hate her. But they’d laugh.

“What are we going to do about it?” she asked, when Melissa kept looking at her. “I mean, it’s not like he did something illegal.”

“You didn’t see the body up close.”

“I didn’t. But he didn’t kill her. We know where he was when she fell.”

Gina’s mouth compressed askew. But she nodded, then hid her face in her shake.

Melissa pushed at her frizzing hair again. “You know,” she said, “he left in a hurry. It’s like a swamp out there.”

“So?”

“So. Do you suppose his office door sticks?”

“Oh, no. That is illegal. We could get expelled.”

“We wouldn’t take anything.” Melissa turned her drink with the tips of her fingers, looking at them and the spiraling ring left behind on the tabletop, not at Katie’s eyes. “Just see if he has a police scanner. And look for his address.”

“I’m not doing that,” Katie said.

“I just want to see if the door is unlocked.”

Melissa looked at Gina. Gina shrugged. “Those locks come loose with a credit card, anyway.”

“No. Not just no.”

“Oh, you can watch the stairs,” Gina said, sharp enough that Katie sat back in her chair. Katie swallowed, and nodded. Fine. She would watch the goddamned stairs.

“You want to finish?” she asked.

Gina pushed her mangled but uneaten fries away. “No, baby. I’m done.”

* * *

The man’s name was Henry; he ate an extraordinary amount of fried chicken from a red paper bucket while Matthew crouched on the stoop beside him, breathing shallowly. The acrid vapors of whatever Matthew hunted actually covered both the odor of unwashed man and of dripping grease, and though his eyes still watered, he thought his nose was shutting down in protest. Perversely, this made it easier to cope.

“No,” Henry said. He had a tendency to slur his speech, to ramble and digress, but he was no ranting lunatic. Not, Matthew reminded himself, that it would matter if he was. “I mean, okay. I see things. More now than when I got my meds” —he shrugged, a bit of extra crispy coating clinging to his moustache— “I mean, I mean, not that I’m crazy, but you see things out of the corner of your eye, and when you turn? You see?”

He was staring at a spot slightly over Matthew’s left shoulder when he said it, and Matthew wished very hard that he dared turn around and look. “All the damned time,” he said.

The heat of the cement soaked through his jeans; the jacket was nearly unbearable. He shrugged out of it, laid it on the stoop, and rolled up his sleeves. “Man,” Henry said, and sucked soft meat off bones. “Nice ink.”

“Thanks,” Matthew said, turning his arms over to inspect the insides.

“Hurt much? You don’t look like the type.”

“Hurt some,” Matthew admitted. “What sort of things do you see? Out of the corners of your eyes?”

“Scuttling things. Flapping things.” He shrugged. “When I can get a drink it helps.”

“Rats? Pigeons?”

“Snakes,” Henry said. He dropped poultry bones back into the bucket. “Roosters.”

“Not crows? Vultures?”

“No,” Henry said. “Roosters. Snakes, the color of the wall.”

“Damn.” Matthew picked up his coat. “Thanks, Henry. I guess it was a cockatrice after all.”

* * *

What happened was, Katie couldn’t wait on the stairs. Of course she’d known there wasn’t a chance in hell that she could resist Melissa. But sometimes it was better to fool yourself a little, even if you knew that eventually you were going to crack.

Instead, she found herself standing beside Gina, blocking a sight line with her body, as Gina knocked ostentatiously on Doctor S.’s door. She slipped the latch with a credit card— a gesture so smooth that Katie could hardly tell she wasn’t just trying the handle. She knocked again and then pulled the door open.

Katie kind of thought she was overplaying, and made a point of slipping through the barely-opened door in an attempt to hide from passers-by that the room was empty.

Melissa came in last, tugging the door shut behind herself. Katie heard the click of the lock.

Not, apparently, that that would stop anybody.

Katie put her back against the door beside the wall and crossed her arms over her chest to confine her shivering. Gina moved into the office as if entranced; she stood in the center of the small cluttered room and spun slowly on her heel, hands in her hip pockets, elbows awkwardly cocked. Melissa slipped past her—as much as a six foot redhead could slip—and bent over to examine the desk, touching nothing.

“There has to be a utility bill here or something, right? Everybody does that sort of thing at work… .”

Gina stopped revolving, striking the direction of the bookshelves like a compass needle striking north— a swing, a stick, a shiver. She craned her neck back and began inspecting titles.

It was Katie, after forcing herself forward to peer over Gina’s shoulder, who noticed the row of plain black hardbound octavo volumes on one shelf, each with a ribbon bound into the spine and a date penned on it in silver metallic ink.

“Girls,” she said, “do you suppose he puts his address in his journal?”

Gina turned to follow Katie’s pointing finger and let loose a string of Spanish that Katie was pretty sure would have her toenails smoking if she understood a word. It was obviously self-directed, though, so after the obligatory flinch, she reached past Gina and pulled the most recently dated volume from the shelf.

“Can I use the desk?” The book cracked a little under the pressure of her fingers, and it felt lumpy, with wavy page-edges. If anything was pressed inside, she didn’t want to scatter it.

Melissa stood back. Katie laid the book carefully on an uncluttered portion of the blotter and slipped the elastic that held it closed without moving the food or papers. The covers almost burst apart, as if eager to be read, foiling her intention to open it to the flyleaf and avoid prying. The handwriting was familiar: she saw it on the whiteboard twice a week. But that wasn’t what made Katie catch her breath.

A pressed flower was taped to the left-hand page, facing a column of text. And in the sunlight that fell in bars through the dusty blind, it shimmered iridescent blue and violet over faded gray.

” Madre di Dio,” Gina breathed. “What does it say?”

Katie nudged the book farther into the light. “14 October 1995,” she read. “Last year, Gin.”

“He probably has the new one with him. What does it say?”

“It says ‘Passed as a ten?’ and there’s an address on Long Island. Flanagan’s, Deer Park Avenue. Babylon. Some names. And then it says ‘pursuant to the disappearance of Sean Roberts— flower and several oak leaves were collected from a short till at the under-21 club.’ And then it says ‘Faerie money?’ Spelled F-a-e-r-i-e.”

“He’s crazy,” Gina said definitively. “Schizo. Gone.”

“Maybe he’s writing a fantasy novel.” Katie wasn’t sure where her stubborn loyalty came from, but she was abruptly brimming with it. “We are reading his private stuff totally out of context. I don’t think it’s fair to judge by appearances.”

Gina jostled her elbow; Katie shrugged the contact off and turned the page. Another record of a disappearance, this one without supporting evidence taped to the page. It filled up six pages. After that, a murder under mysterious circumstances. A kidnapping … and then some more pages on the Roberts disappearance. A broken, bronze-colored feather, also taped in, chimed when she touched it. She jerked her finger back.

One word underneath. “Resolved.” And a date after Christmastime.

Doctor S., it seemed, thought he was a cop. A special kind of … supernatural cop.

“It sounds like Nick Knight,” Melissa said. Katie blinked, and realized she had still been reading out loud.

“It sounds like a crazy man,” Gina said.

Katie opened her mouth, and suddenly felt as if cold water drained down her spine. She swallowed whatever she had been about to say and flipped the journal to the flyleaf. There was indeed an address, on West 60th. “He’s not crazy.” Not unless I am.

“Why do you say that?” Melissa asked, gently, but Gina was looking at Katie too— not suspicious, or mocking, anymore, but wide-eyes, waiting for her to explain.

“Guys,” Katie said, “He’s a magician or something. Remember how he vanished on Gina? Remember the ink that you somehow just don’t see? Remember the damned invisible rings?”

Melissa sucked her lower lip in and released it. “So did he kill that woman or not?”

“I don’t know,” Katie said. “I want him to be a good guy.”

Gina patted her shoulder, then reached across to also pat the journal with her fingertips. “I say we go to his apartment and find out.”

* * *

There were drawbacks to being a member of Matthew’s society of Magi. For one thing, nobody else liked them. And with good reason; not only was the Prometheus Club full of snobs, capitalists, and politicians, but its stated goal of limiting and controlling the influence of wild magic in the world put him in sworn opposition to any hedge-witch, Satanist, purveyor of herbs and simples, houngan, or priest of Santeria he might want to contract with for ritual supplies.

Such as, say, a white, virgin cockerel.

New York City was not bereft of live poultry markets, but given his rather specific needs, Matthew wasn’t sure he wanted to trust one of those. He’d hate to find out at the last minute, for example, that his bird had had a few sandy feathers plucked. Or that it was, shall we say, a little more experienced than Matthew was himself.

And then there was the recent influenza scare, which had closed several poultry markets. And what he really needed, now that he thought about it, was an illegal animal; a fighting cock.

He booted his desktop system —a brand new Pentium running Windows 95— entered an IP address from memory, wended his way through a series of logon screens, and asked about it on the Promethean message board.

Fortunately, even if Matthew didn’t know something, it was a pretty good bet that somebody in Prometheus would.

Before close of business, he was twenty blocks north again, edging through a flaking avocado-green steel door into the antechamber of a dimly lit warehouse that smelled of guano and sawdust and corn and musty feathers. It drove the eyewatering stench of the cockatrice from Matthew’s sinuses, finally, and seemed in comparison such a rich, wholesome smell that he breathed it deep and fast. He coughed, sneezed, and waved his hand in front of his face. And then he did it again, feeling as if the inside of his head were clean for the first time in hours.

There was a desk in a cage —not unlike the ones inhabited by the clucking, rustling chickens, but far larger— behind the half-wall at the far end of the dirty, hall-like room. Matthew approached it; a stout woman with her white hair twisted into a bun looked up from her game of Windows solitaire.

He cleared his throat. “I need to buy a cockerel.”

“I’ve got some nice Bantams,” she said through the grate. “And a couple of Rhode Island Reds.” Not admitting anything; those weren’t fighting cocks. “You got a place to keep it? There are zoning things.”

“It just needs to be pure white.” He hesitated. “Or pure black.”

She reached up casually and dropped the shutter in his face. Of course. He sighed, and rapped on the grate, rattling the metal behind it. No answer. He rapped again, and again.

Five minutes later she cracked it up and peered under the bottom, through the little hole for passing papers and money back and forth. He caught a glimpse of bright black eyes and a wrinkled nose. “I’m not selling you any bird for your Satanic rituals, young man.”

No, but you’ll sell me one for bloodsports? Matthew sighed again and stuck his hand through the slot, nearly getting his fingers up her nose. She jerked back, but he caught the edge of the shutter before she could slide it closed again. His biceps bulged inside his shirt sleeve; his tendons dimpled his wrist. She leaned on the shutter, and couldn’t shift him.

“Young man.” A level, warning tone. She didn’t look intimidated.

Oh, what the hell. “It’s for the cockatrice,” he said.

Her hand relaxed, and the weight of the shutter lifted. She slid it up; it thumped when it reached the top. “Why didn’t you say so? About time somebody took care of that thing. Though I notice you didn’t give a shit when it was just in East Harlem.”

Matthew glanced aside. The cops were always the last to know.

She hesitated. “You’ll need a human virgin too.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’ve got that covered.”

When he returned home, there was a woman waiting in his apartment. Not surprising in itself; Jane had a key and the passcode for the locks. But it wasn’t Jane. It was the homicide detective, Marion Thornton.

She had an outdoorswoman’s squint and silky brown hair that framed her long cheekbones in feathered wings; it made her look like a bright-eyed Afghan hound. She showed him her badge and handed him back the keys before he was fully in the door.

“The victim was an alcoholic,” Marion said, relocking the door as Matthew put his chicken on the counter. It was in a cardboard animal carrier. Occasionally a glossy jet-black beak or a malevolent eye would appear in one of the holes along the top. It scuffed and kicked. He pushed it away from the counter edge and it grabbed at him, as he thought of a line from a Russian fairy tale: Listen, Crow, crow’s daughter! Serve me a certain service—

“The nun was a drunk?”

“To put it crudely. And we found another possible for the same bogey, about three days ago. Elderly man, never married, lived alone, drank like a fish. We’re continuing to check back for others.” She flipped pages in her report pad. “Here’s something interesting. He was castrated in a farming accident when he was in his teens.”

“Oh,” Matthew said. “It’s always virgins, isn’t it?”

“For dragons and unicorns, anyway,” Marion answered. “But I’d guess you’re correct. And more than that. Heavy drinkers. Possibly with some talent; a link my … secular … colleagues won’t come up with is that Promethean records show that we considered inviting both of these victims for apprenticeship when they were young.”

“So they saw things,” Matthew said, thinking of Henry, living on the monster’s doorstep. If the thing had a preference for sexually inexperienced prey, that would explain why it hadn’t eaten him yet. Well, if Matthew was prepared to make a few conjectures. “Do you think it wanted them because they drank, or they drank because they saw things?”

“We operate on the first assumption.” Marion picked her way around him, leaned down to peer into the animal carrier. She pulled back as a grabbing beak speared at her eye. “Vicious.”

“I sure hope so.”

“Jane said you had a possible ID on the bogey?”

He knelt down and began peeling the rug back, starting beside the inside wall of the living room. “The black cock isn’t enough of a hint?”

“Basilisk.”

“That’s a weasel. Cockatrice, I’m guessing. Though how it lured its victim into hurling herself from her window is beyond me. You’re describing very specialized prey.”

She straightened up and arched, cracking her spine. She picked a spoon off the breakfast bar and turned it, considering the way the light pooled in the bowl. “Call it one in ten thousand? Then the Greater New York metropolitan area has, what, two thousand more just like ‘em?”

“Something like that,” Matthew said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. A dust bunny was stuck to the heel of his hand; he blew it off. When he opened his eyes, he found her staring at him, tongue-tip peeking between her lips.

“Want to make sure we’re safe?” she said, with a grin. The spoon glittered as she turned it beside her face. “I’m off duty. And your chicken won’t mind.” She held up her left hand and showed him a plain gold band. “No hassles.”

He bit his lower lip. Matthew had practice. And years of careful sublimation— which was, of course, the point: sacrifice made power. He also had a trick of flying under the gaydar, of making straight women think he was gay and gay men think he was straight. All just part of the camouflage.

He hated having to say no. “Sorry,” he said. “That’s a lovely offer. But I need a virgin for the cockatrice already, and it beats having to send out.”

She laughed, of course.

They never believed him.

“Come on,” he said. “Help me ensorcel this chicken.”

* * *

Doctor S. lived in Midtown West, on 60th near Columbus Ave. It was kind of a hike, but they got there before sunset. It wouldn’t get dark for an hour, but that was only because the afternoons were still long. By the time they paused down the block Katie’s stomach was rumbling. That milkshake was only good for so long.

The spot they picked to loiter had a clear view of the front door of Doctor S.’s brown brick apartment building. “Nice place for a junior professor,” Melissa said, and for ten seconds she sounded like she was from Boston, all right.

Katie looked at Gina and made big eyes and whimpering noises, but it was Melissa who went and got convenience store hot dogs, diet Pepsi, and a bag of chips. They ate in the shade on the north side of the building, the heat soaking from the stones, their hair lank and grimy with the city air. Katie scratched her cheek and brought her fingernails away sporting black crescents. “Ew.”

“Welcome to New York,” Gina said, which was what she said every time Katie complained.

Katie had nearly stopped complaining already. She scratched her nails against her jeans until most of the black came out and finished her hot dog one-handed, then wiped the grime from her face with the napkin before drying her hands. It worked kind of halfway— good enough, anyway, that when Melissa splashed ice water from a sport bottle into everyone’s cupped hands and Katie in turn splashed it onto her face, she didn’t wind up feeling like she’d faceplanted into a mud puddle.

The second handful, she drank, and only realized she had been carrying a heat headache when the weight of it faded. “All right,” she said, and took the bottle from Melissa to squirt some on her hair. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Unfortunately, apparently Doctor S. isn’t,” Melissa said, reclaiming the bottle to drink. She tilted her head back, her throat working, and as she lowered it a droplet ran from the corner of her mouth. “No, wait, spoke too soon.”

Katie stepped behind the pole of a street lamp— silly, because Doctor S. wasn’t even looking in their direction— and caught sight of his stiff little blond ponytail zigzagging through the crowd. He was wearing another sort-of costume —Katie wondered what he wore when he wore what he liked, rather than what suited his role— a well-cut gray suit with a fabulous drape. A woman in a navy pantsuit, whose light flyaway hair escaped its pins around a long narrow face, walked alongside him. Her stride was familiar. She had a white cardboard pet carrier slung from her left hand; Katie could not see what was in it, but it swung as if something was moving slightly inside.

“Isn’t that the cop who showed up where the woman jumped?”

Katie glanced at Gina and back at the woman, a stuttering doubletake. It was. Not the same outfit, and her hair was clipped back aggressively now —though it wasn’t staying restrained— but the woman was conspicuous. “Well,” Katie said, feeling as if she watched the words emerge from a stranger’s mouth, “we could follow him and find out where they’re going.”

* * *

Neither Matthew nor Marion was particularly sanguine about attacking on a cockatrice in the dark. They had to take the subway across the island (at least the cockerel was quiet, huddled in the bottom of its carrier) but still ascended to the surface with light to spare. It roused the bird; Matthew heard it shift, and Marion kept her fingers well clear of the air holes. It was, as promised, aggressive.

Matthew shoved down guilt and substantial apprehension. There was no other choice, and power grew out of sacrifices.

They found the courtyard without a problem, that tunnellike entrance with its broken gate leaving rust on Matthew’s clothes as they slipped through. He wasn’t wearing his usual patrol clothes, a zipped camouflage jacket and boots enchanted to pass-unnoticed, but a gray silk suit with a linen shirt and a silver, red, and navy tie. A flask in an inside pocket tapped his ribs when he moved. He looked like a dot com paper millionaire on his way to a neck-or-nothing meeting with a crotchety venture capitalist who was going to hate his ponytail.

His clothes today, and the quick preliminary ritual they’d performed in his living room, were not designed to conceal him, to occlude his power, but rather to draw the right attention. If you squinted at him with otherwise eyes, he would shine. And other than his rings and the earrings and the pigment in the ink under his skin, he wasn’t wearing any iron, as he might have been if they went to face something Fae.

Iron was of no use against a cockatrice. Except in one particular, and so two steel gaffs wrapped in tissue paper nested in the bottom of Matthew’s trouser pocket. He touched them through fabric like a child stroking a favorite toy and drew his hand back when they clinked.

“This is it,” he said.

Marion set the carrier down. “Nice place you’ve got here, Matthew. Decorate it yourself?” From the way her nose was wrinkling, she picked out the acid aroma of the monster as well.

Henry and his comrade at arms were nowhere to be seen. Matthew hoped they had taken his advice and moved on. He hated working around civilians.

Without answering Marion, he kicked aside garbage, clearing a space in the center of the court. The windows overlooking it remained unoccupied, and if for some reason they did not continue so, Marion had a badge.

She helped Matthew sketch a star overlaid on a circle in yellow sidewalk chalk. They left one point open, facing south by Marion’s compass. When they were done, Matthew dusted his hands, wiped them on his handkerchief, and reached into his pockets for the spurs, the flask, and something else— a leather hood of the sort used by falconers to quiet their birds.

“Ready?”

She nodded. “Where’s the lair?”

He patted himself on the chest— “the s.o.b. comes to us”— and watched her eyes widen. She had thought he was kidding.

They always did.

Well, maybe someday he could catch a unicorn.

“It’s okay,” he said, when her blush became a stammer. “Let’s get the knives on this chicken.”

It took both of them, crouched on either side, to open the box and hood the bird without harming it. It exploded into Matthew’s grip as Marion pried open the flaps; he caught at it, bungled the grab and got pecked hard for his pains. Somehow he got the bird pressed to his chest, a struggling fury of iridescent black plumage, and caged it in his blunt hands. It felt prickly and slick and hotter than blood under the feathers. He smoothed its wings together and restrained the kicking legs, while Marion dodged the jabbing beak. Once in darkness it quieted, and Marion strapped the three-inch gaffs over its own natural spurs.

When they were done, it looked quite brave and wicked, the gleam of steel on rainbow-black. Marion stroked its back between Matthew’s fingers, her touch provoking a tremor when she brushed the back of his hand. “Fucking abomination.”

She meant cockfighting, not the bird. Matthew set the cockerel down and moved his hands away. It sat quietly. “How do you think I feel?”

She shrugged. Still crouched, she produced a pair of handcuffs and a silken hood from her tan leather handbag. Matthew bent over to pick up the flask. “God, I hate this part.”

He prized it open with his thumb and upended it over his mouth. The fumes of hundred-and-fifty-proof rum made him gasp; he choked down three swallows and stopped, doubled over, rasping.

Matthew didn’t often drink.

But that would be enough for the spell.

Light-headed, now, sinuses stinging from more than the reek of the cockatrice, Matthew handed Marion the flask and then his spectacles, feeling naked without them. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, fine hairs harsh on his lips. Four steps took him through the open end of the pentagram.

He turned back and faced Marion. With the silk of the hood draped over his forearm, he handcuffed himself— snugly: he did not want his body breaking free while he was not in it.

They weren’t replaceable.

He took one more deep breath, closed his eyes on Marion’s blurry outline, and with his joined wrists rattling pulled the hood over his head.

In the dark underneath, sounds were muffled. Concentrated rum fumes made his eyes water, but at least he could no longer smell the cockatrice. Chalk grated— Marion closing the pentagram. He heard his flask uncorked, the splash of fluid as she anointed the diagram with the remaining rum. Matthew tugged restlessly against the restraints on his wrists as she began to chant and a deep uneasy curdling sensation answered.

God, too much rum. He wobbled and caught himself, fretting the handcuffs, the tightness on the bones. The sensual thrill of the magic sparking along his nerves was accentuated by the blinding darkness. He wobbled again, or maybe the world did, and gasped at the heat in his blood.

Magic and passion weren’t different. It was one reason sublimation worked.

The second gasp came cleaner, no fabric muffling his face, the air cooler if not fresher and the scent of rum less cloying. Marion seemed to have moved, by the sound of her chanting, and somehow the tightness had jumped from Matthew’s wrists to his calves. He lay belly-down on rough ground.

He pushed with his arms to try to balance himself to his feet. The chanting stopped, abruptly, and someone was restraining him, folding his arms against his side gently but with massive cautious strength. “Matthew?”

He turned his head, seeking the voice. It echoed. The … arms? holding him retreated. “Matthew, if you understand me, flap once.”

He extended odd-feeling arms and did so. A moment later, a half-dozen fists, it seemed, were unhooding him. He blinked at dizzy brilliance, and found himself staring into Marion’s enormous face from only a few inches away. He hopped back and fouled himself on the gaffs. Fortunately, the needle point slipped between his feathers rather than stabbing him in the wing, and he stopped, precariously balanced, wings half-bent like broken umbrellas.

He clucked.

And flapped hard, surprised to find himself lifting off the ground. He flew the two feet to Marion’s shoulder, landed awkwardly, facing the wrong way, and banged her in the eye with his wing. At least he had the sense to turn carefully, keeping the needle-tipped gaffs pointed away from her thin-skinned throat. He crouched on his heels, trying not to prick her with his claws, the alien body’s balance far better than his own.

Only if he thought about it did he realize that the warm shoulder he nestled to Marion’s warm cheek was feathered, that it was peculiar to be able to feel the beats of her heart through his feet like the footfalls of an approaching predator, that the colors he saw were abruptly so bright and saturated —so discriminate— that he had no names for them. That he balanced on her moving shoulder as easily as he would have roosted on a swaying branch, and that that was peculiar.

“Wow,” he said. And heard a soft contemplative cluck. And laughed at himself, which came out a rising, tossing crow.

Marion flinched and put a hand up on his wing. “Matthew, please. My ears.”

He ducked his head between his shoulders, abashed, and clucked sorry. Maybe she would understand.

His body stood stolidly, restrained, inside a wet circle of chalk and rum. The cockerel wearing it was quieted by the hood and the handcuffs, and Matthew turned his head right and left to center himself in his vision. He failed— he had the peripheral view, and only by turning to see it first with one eye and then the other could he reliably guess how far away it was. Almost no binocular vision, of course. But with a shock, he realized that he could see clearly around to the back of his head.

That was pretty tremendously weird. He’d have to practice that. And think about his small sharp body and its instincts, because the enemy could be along any moment.

Marion was pulling back, stepping into the shadows, an alcove near the gate concealing them. Matthew pressed against her warmth, feeling her heart beating faster. He clucked in her ear.

“Shh.”

He hoped the cockatrice would come quickly. This could be very, very awkward to explain if something happened to the glamours. Still, they had brought alcohol, talent, and innocence —symbolically speaking— and left them, special delivery, in the thing’s front yard. Wherever it was nesting, it should come to investigate before too long.

He was still thinking that when he heard the singing.

* * *

The three of them had been following for a long time, it seemed, when Doctor S. and the woman gave one another a conspiratorial glance and stepped through an archway, past a rusted gate. Gina drew up short, stepping out of the traffic flow into the shelter of a doorway. A moment later, Katie heard glass breaking and something kicked or thrown.

Katie ducked in behind Gina, rubbing her elbow nervously. This wasn’t the best neighborhood at all. “That’s a dead end, I bet,” Gina said, when Melissa came up beside them. “Either they’re going inside, or that’s where they’re going.”

“Here?”

Gina winked. “Want to sneak up and peek through the gate?”

Katie and Melissa exchanged a glance, and Melissa angled her head and said, “What the heck.” Side by side, the three stepped back out onto the sidewalk, picking their way over chewing gum spots and oily, indeterminate stains. Katie somehow found herself in the lead, as Gina and Melissa fell in single file behind her. She had to glance over her shoulder to make sure they were still with her.

She stopped two feet shy of the broken gate and tried to still her hammering heart. No luck, and so she clenched her hands at her sides and edged forward.

She could see through plainly if she kept her back to the wall and turned her head sideways. She saw Doctor S. and the cop sketch the diagram, saw them pull a black rooster from the box and do something to its head and feet. She flinched, expecting some bloody and melodramatic beheading, but instead Doctor S. went to the center of the star and began chaining himself up, which made her feel distinctly funny inside. And then he blindfolded himself with a hood, and the woman did some more sketching with the chalk and walked around the circle pouring something in between its lines from a flask.

A moment later, the rooster began to struggle, while Doctor S. stood perfectly still. The woman crouched down and unhooded it, and a moment later it flapped onto her shoulder and settled itself.

“This,” Melissa whispered, a warm pressure against Katie’s side, “is freaking weird.”

“Gosh,” Gina said, very loudly, “would you listen to that?”

Katie turned to shush her, and heard it herself. She took a deep breath, chest expanding against her shirt, as if she could inhale the music too. It seemed to swell in her lungs and belly, to buoy her. She felt Melissa cringe, and then fingers caught at her shoulder. “Fuck,” Melissa said. “What is that?”

“Beautiful.” Katie stepped forward, moving out of Melissa’s grasp. Into the courtyard, toward the woman and the chicken and the blindfolded English professor. Katie lifted her arms and twirled, her feet light as if she walked on flowers. She strode through a pile of garbage that the magicians had piled up when they cleared the center of the courtyard and her airy foot came down on glass.

A cracked bottle broke further under her foot, shattering and crunching. The soft sole of Katie’s tennis sneaker clung to broken glass; she picked it up again and stepped forward, to another crunch.

The noise was almost lost under the music. Rising chorales, crystalline voices.

“It sounds like a rat being shaken to death in a bag of hammers,” Melissa groaned, and then sucked in a squeak. “Oh, fuck, Katie, your foot …”

There was something slick between her sole and the bottom of the shoe. She must have stepped in a mud puddle. She looked down. Or a puddle of blood.

Well, her foot was already wet. And the singers were over there somewhere. She took one more step, Melissa’s fingers brushing her wrist as her friend missed her grab. Behind her, Melissa made funny sobbing noises, as if she’d been running and couldn’t get a breath.

Somehow, Gina had gotten ahead of her, and was walking too, kicking rubbish out of the way with her sandaled feet, crunching through more glass, leaving red footsteps. The courtyard was filthy, the buildings moldy-looking, scrofulous: brick black with soot and flaking mortar.

Something moved against the wall. A gleam of brightness, like sun through torn cloth. And then —so beautiful, so bright, oh— a spill of jadevioletandazure, a trailing cloak of feathers, a sort of peacock or bird of paradise emerging like an image reflected in a suddenly lit mirror. Its crested head was thrown back, its long neck swollen with song. Its wings mantled and rays of light cracked from between its feathers.

Gina was still ahead of her, between her and the bird. Katie reached out to push her, but then suddenly she was gone, fallen down, and Katie stepped over her. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever heard.

And oh, it was blind, the poor thing was blind. Somebody had gouged out its eyes, she saw now. The old wounds were scarred gray, sightless.

And still it sang.

She reached out her hand to touch it, and couldn’t understand why Melissa was screaming.

* * *

Matthew saw both young women hurry across the glass and stones, faster than he could reach them— not that he could have stopped them. Even though he was airborne, and already on his way.

He saw his body react, too— it hurled itself at the edge of the pentagram, hurled and kept hurling, but the wards they’d so carefully constructed held him, and he bounced from them and slid down what looked like plain still air. So strange, watching himself from the outside. Marion and the red-haired girl both crumpled, Marion with her hands over her ears, belly-crawling determinedly toward the running children; Melissa Martinchek down in a fetal position, screaming.

And he saw the cockatrice.

The movement caught his eye first, a ripple of red like brick and gray like concrete, its hide patterned in staggered courses that blended precisely with the blackened wall behind it. It was bigger than a cock, but not by much, and his rooster’s heart churned with rage at its red upright comb and the plumed waterfall of its tail. His wings beat in midair; he exploded after it like a partridge from cover.

It chameleoned from stone to brilliance, colors chasing over its plumage like rainbows over oil. The two girls clutched for it, their feet pierced with unnoticed shards, their hands reaching.

Matthew saw them fall, their bodies curled in around their poisoned hands. He saw the way they convulsed, the white froth dripping from the corners of their mouths.

He shrieked war, wrath, red rage, and oblivion. The spurs were heavy on his shanks; his wings were mighty upon the air. He struck, reaching hard, and clutched at the enemy’s neck.

An eruption of rainbow-and-black plumage, a twist and strike and movement like quicksilver on slanted glass. Matthew’s gaff slashed the cockatrice’s feathers; the cockatrice whipped its head back and forward and struck like a snake. Pearl-yellow droplets flicked from fangs incongruous in a darting beak; the rooster-tail fanned and flared, revealing the gray coils of an adder.

Matthew beat wings to one side; his feathertips hissed where the venom smoked holes through them. He backwinged, slashed for the cockatrice’s eye, saw too late that that wound had long ago been dealt it. A black cockerel was immune to a cockatrice’s deadly glare, and to the poison of its touch. If he could hit it, he could hurt it.

Except it wasn’t a cockatrice, not exactly. Because cockatrices didn’t sing like loreleis, and they didn’t colorshift for camouflage. Maybe it was hatched by a chameleon rather than a serpent, Matthew thought, beating for altitude, and then reminded himself that now was not the time for theory.

Some kind of hybrid, then.

Just his luck.

And now the thing was airborne, and climbing in pursuit. He dropped —the cockerel was not more than passably aerodynamic— and struck for its back, its wing, its lung. The breast was armored, under the meat, with the anchoring keel bones. His spurs would turn on those. But they might punch through the ribs, from above.

He missed when the monster side-slipped, and the blind cockatrice turned and sank its fangs into his wing. Pain, heat and fire, weld-hot needles sunk into his elbow to the bone. He cackled like a machine gun and fell after the monster; wing-fouled, they tumbled to stone.

It lost its grip at the shock of impact, and Matthew screamed fury and pain. The hurt wing trailed, blood splashing, smoke rising from the envenomed wound. He made it beat anyway, dragged himself up, his spurs scraping and sparking on stone. The cockatrice hissed as he rose; his flight was not silent.

They struck hard, breast to breast, grappling legs and slashing spurs. He had his gaffs; the cockatrice had weight and fangs and a coiling tail like a rubber whip. Wings struck, buffeted, thundered. The cockatrice had stopped singing, and Matthew could hear the weeping now. Someone human was crying.

The cockatrice’s talons twined his. Left side, right side. Its wings thumped his head, its beak jabbed. Something tore; blood smeared its beak, his face. He couldn’t see on his right side. He ripped his left leg free of its grip and punched, slashed, hammered. The gaff broke skin with a pop; the cockatrice’s blood soaked him, tepid, no hotter than the air. A rooster’s egg hatched by a serpent.

The cockatrice wailed and thrashed; he ducked its strike at his remaining eye. More blood, pumping, slicking his belly, gumming his feathers to his skin. The blood was venom too. The whole thing was poison; its blood, its breath; its gaze; its song.

The monster fell on top of him. He could turn his head and get his eye out from under it, but when he did, all he saw was Marion, each arm laced under one of Melissa’s armpits, holding the redheaded girl on her knees with a grim restraint while Melissa tried to tear herself free, to run to the poisoned bodies of her friends. The bodies were poison too, corrupted by the cockatrice’s touch. The very stones soaked by its heart’s blood could kill.

It was all venom, all deadly, and there was no way in the world to protect anyone. Not his sacrifice, not the unwitting sacrifice of the black cockerel, made any goddamned difference in the end.

Matthew, wing-broken, one-eyed, his gaff sunk heel-deep in the belly of his enemy, lay on his back under its corpse-weight and sobbed.

* * *

The building was emptied, the block closed, the deaths and the evacuations blamed on a chemical spill. Other Prometheans would handle the detox. Matthew, returned to his habitual body, took the shivering black cockerel to a veterinarian with Promethean sympathies, who —at Matthew’s insistence and Jane’s expense— amputated his wing and cleaned and sewed shut his eye. Spared euthanasia, he was sent to a farm upstate to finish his days as a lopsided, piratical greeter of morning. He’d live long, with a little luck, and father many pullets.

Matthew supposed there were worse deaths for a chicken.

Marion did the paperwork. Matthew took her out to dinner. She didn’t make another pass, and they parted good friends. He had a feeling he’d be seeing her again.

There were memorial services for his students, and that was hard. They were freshmen, and he hadn’t known them well; it seemed … presumptuous to speak, as if his responsibility for their deaths gave him some claim over their lives. He sat in the back, dressed in his best black suit, and signed the guest book, and didn’t speak.

Katherine Berquist was to be buried in Appleton, Wisconsin; Matthew could not attend. But Regina Gomez was buried in a Catholic cemetery in Flushing, her coffin overwhelmed with white waxy flowers, her family swathed in black crepe and summer-weight worsted, her friends in black cotton or navy. Melissa Martinchek was there in an empire-waisted dress and a little cardigan. She gave Matthew a timid smile across the open grave.

The scent of the lilies was repellent; Matthew vomited twice on the way home.

Melissa came to see him in the morning, outside of his regular office hours, when he was sitting at his desk with his head in his heads. He dragged himself up at the knock, paused, and sat heavily back down.

Thirty seconds later, the locked door clicked open. It swung on the hinges, and Melissa stepped inside, holding up her student ID like a talisman. “The lock slips,” she said. “Gina showed me how. I heard, I heard your chair.”

Gina’s name came out a stammer too.

“Come in,” Matthew said, and gestured her to a dusty orange armchair. She locked the door behind her before she fell into it. “Coffee?”

There was a pot made, but he hadn’t actually gotten up and fetched any. He waved at it vaguely, and Melissa shook her head.

He wanted to shout at her— what were you thinking? What were you doing there?— and made himself look down at his hands instead. He picked up a letter opener and ran his thumb along the dull edge. “I am,” he said, when he had control of his voice again, “so terribly sorry.”

She took two sharp breaths, shallow and he could hear the edge of the giggle under them. Hysteria, not humor. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know what happened.” She held up her hand, and his words died in his open mouth. “I don’t … I don’t want to know. But it wasn’t your fault.”

He stood up. He got himself a cup of coffee and poured one for her, added cream and sugar without asking. She needed it. Her eyes were pink-red around the irises, the lower lids swollen until he could see the mucous membrane behind the lashes. She took it, zombie-placid.

“I was safe inside the circle,” he said. “I was supposed to be the bait. Gina and Katie were unlucky. They were close enough to being what it wanted that it took them, instead. As well. Whatever.”

“What did … it want?”

“Things feed on death.” He withdrew on the excuse of adding more sugar to his coffee. “Some like a certain flavor. It might even …”

He couldn’t say it. It might even have been trying to lure Matthew out. That would explain why it had left its safe haven at the north end of the island, and gone where Prometheus would notice it. Matthew cringed. If his organization had some wardens in the bad neighborhoods, it might have been taken care of years ago. If Matthew himself had gone into its court unglamoured that first time, it might just have eaten him and left the girls alone.

A long time, staring at the skim of fat on the surface of her coffee. She gulped, then blew through scorched lips, but did not lift her eyes. “Doctor S.— “

“Matthew,” he said. He took a breath, and made the worst professional decision of his life. “Go home, Ms. Martinchek. Concentrate on your other classes; as long as you show up for the mid-term and the final in mine, I will keep your current grade for the semester.”

Cowardice. Unethical. He didn’t want to see her there.

He put his hand on her shoulder. She leaned her cheek against it, and he let her for a moment. Her skin was moist and hot. Her breath was, too.

Before he got away, he felt her whisper, “Why not me?”

“Because you put out,” he said, and then wished he’d just cut his tongue out when she jerked, slopping coffee across her knuckles. He retreated behind the desk and his own cup, and settled his elbows on the blotter. Her survivor guilt was his fault, too. “It only wanted virgins,” he said, more gently. “Send your boyfriend a thank-you card.”

She swallowed, swallowed again. She looked him in the eyes, so she wouldn’t have to look past him, at the memory of her friends. Thank God, she didn’t ask. But she drank the rest of her too-hot coffee, nerved herself, licked her lips, and said, “But Gina— Gina was …”

“People,” he replied, as kindly as he could manage with blood on his hands, “are not always what they want you to think. Or always what you think they ought to be.”

* * *

When she thanked him and left, he retrieved the flask from his coat pocket and dumped half of it into his half-empty coffee mug. Later, a T.A. told him it was his best lecture ever. He couldn’t refute her; he didn’t remember.

Melissa Martinchek showed up for his next Monday lecture. She sat in the third row, in the middle of two empty desks. No one sat beside her.

Both Matthew and she survived it, somehow.

* * *

Elizabeth Bear is the author of several novels.

The Littlest Wyrm-Maid

Written by Rebecca Lickiss

Illustrated by Jessica Douglas

The problem, of course, was that humans were such speciesists. Go ahead, ask any human and they’d tell you—trolls are dumb as rocks; elves are all tall, snotty fairies; dwarves are greedy, hairy bastards; and dragons are all untrustworthy, slippery, winged-and-taloned snakes.

Theora watched the three human wizards cower against the rocks as she contemplated this problem. If she tried to pick the wizards up to bring them more to her eye level—something she considered a courtesy—they’d be bound to scream about her talons and scales. If she brought her head down to their level, the tall thin one would surely strike her nose with that silly knobbed stick he was waving about. Her only choice was to try speaking with them. Theora had practiced speaking as humans did for over five years now. She still had some difficulty creating the proper noise from her mouth without crisping the listener.

As she took a deep breath, the chubby one—he looked like he had some good eating on him—began clawing the rock and screaming arcane phrases. Concentrating, Theora managed to say, “Purchase magic spell?”

The tall, thin one stopped mid-gesture and gaped at her. The chubby one turned his tear-stained face to her—his head would be nicely salted now, just the way she liked it. The third, a young fire-haired man, grinned and said, “That this great wyrm may kindly say our duties did her welcome pay.”

“It’s “king,” and stop that!” The tall, thin one looked over his shoulder at Chubby. “We have to do something about that curse.” He used the stick to support himself and took a step closer to her. “Do I understand you to say you want to purchase a spell?”

Theora nodded her head, using a human gesture familiar to her. She took another deep breath running up to another bout of speech. “No tricks.”

“Of course, of course.” The tall, thin one motioned to his colleagues. The other two flanked him; Chubby dashing the tears from his eyes—hands were hardly worth eating, all bone. “Now what sort of spell are we talking about here?”

“Once upon a time,” Theora began, settling her head down on the ground at their level, “a beautiful dragon met a handsome prince.” She searched her mind for words they’d understand and she could say without charring them. “She wanted to be with him, but needed to transform herself into a human. So she consulted three kind wizards who transformed her. And everyone lived happily ever after.”

“I see.” The tall, thin one turned to his colleagues. They huddled in conference like sticks leaning together for a fire. Theora politely looked away and didn’t listen. When they looked at her again, he said, “Transformation is very time and energy consuming, and therefore expensive. Also, the spell requires an effort on the part of the transformed, in order to make the transformation complete.”

Nodding, Theora filled her gullet with air and said, “All my treasure hoard.” Their eyes went round and wide. She added, “No tricks. Follow me.”

She led them into a cave entrance nearby. After several turns she entered her small treasure hoard chamber. Theora hoped it would be enough. In her twenty-five years she hadn’t amassed much treasure, spending most of her time tracking down the storytelling young man who’d spent many summers in the valley nearby.

She looked at the pile of glittering gems and gold objects. Just large enough for her to sleep on and keep her from the cold stone floor, but not enough to wallow in and scrape off old scales. Theora moved off to the side by the entrance so they could get to the hoard.

They passed by her as if in a trance. The young one murmured, “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wealthy this way comes.”

“Be still,” the tall, thin one growled at him. He turned to Theora. “We’ll take this back with us and return with your spell. In, say, three days.”

“No.” Theora blocked the entrance. “Do here. Now. No tricks. No penalties.”

“What do you mean penalties?” the chubby one asked.

The other wizards were cooling off quickly in the cavern, but to her practiced eye this one’s flesh remained nicely warm. Theora occasionally liked raw meat, but only when the weather was particularly hot. She pulled her thoughts back to the business at talon. “No penalties. Straight transformation. No pain, no other cost except treasure hoard. If can’t complete, straight transformation back. Enough time transformed to complete.” She looked at them fiercely and they recoiled. “No tricks. No penalties.”

“We understand,” the tall, thin one said, nodding nervously.

“Also. No transform here. Make spell in potion to take where transform.”

They eyed the treasure, then each other. After another huddled conference they agreed. Theora helped them as much as she could by starting fires and such, but most of their needs were beyond her understanding. She personally had no use for eye of newt and toe of frog. An entire pond of newts and frogs was filling, but tasted like scalded scum-coated bracken. It took two days and all her patience—and hunger endurance, the chubby one looked tastier all the time—before they finally had the potion ready.

The potion turned out to be a powder, which filled a leather pouch donated by the young one. Theora tried to think how she could take it from one of their soft, tiny, vulnerable hands without taking the entire arm. The tall, thin one tied the pouch firmly and set it on a ledge outside the cave entrance. “It will transform you for three days. In that time you must locate your prince and get him to kiss you. Then the transformation will be complete and permanent. If you fail you’ll simply turn back into a dragon. Do you understand?”

Theora nodded.

“Just out of curiosity,” the tall, thin one said nervously, “who is the prince you’re looking for?”

“Prince Winthorp,” she answered, savoring the sounds as she said them.

The tall, thin one smiled weakly.

It took four tries before she managed to hook a loop on a talon. She clutched the pouch to her with her forelimbs and talons covering it completely. She turned back to the weary wizards. “Thank you. No tricks. Treasure is yours.” She spread her wings and launched herself skyward.

Theora circled above the cave entrance once before heading east, away from her mountain home to Gilden, the kingdom’s capital. Flying freed her mind to think over her plan. Finding out who the young man who told all the fascinating stories was without being discovered had been difficult.

Humans, you never knew what they were going to do. Rather like dragons, now that she thought about it. Her mother had disappeared when Theora and all her siblings were barely out of the egg. They never knew what had happened to her, if she’d died, or just abandoned them. Theora and her siblings had no recourse but to consume each other until they’d grown strong enough to fly and hunt for themselves. Only Theora had made it out of the nest. A nasty experience, but it had made Theora stronger than both of the other, older dragons she’d met. She’d not only been able to defend her territory and small hoard, but had added something of the other dragons’ to it.

Still, Theora had been so alone, wanting something, but not knowing what it was. Until the night she’d swam close, her bulk and scent hidden under the river’s water, to feast on humans conveniently surrounding a campfire. Before she’d started she’d heard a portion of a story, so she’d paused to listen and ended up not eating at all, merely returning whenever she’d seen the fire, to listen to the stories. Her loneliness disappeared those nights as she was swept up in the tales. Somehow the magic of the stories had taken her beyond anything she’d ever known or considered before. They made her more than she’d been, and she wanted to be even more than she was now.

So, she’d determined to find the young man that everyone listened to so attentively and get more stories. Two autumns ago she’d finally resorted to flying high above the young man’s caravan as it traveled back to where he spent the rest of the year. Along the trip she’d made the happy discovery that everyone called him Prince Winthorp. Princes were easy to find. Locating traveling wizards capable of a transformation spell near her lair had been tedious and tasteless. Now, with the powdered potion in her talons and the capital a day’s flight away, she knew she would finally get her fill of stories. Prince Winthorp would tell her new stories every day. And, they’d all live happily ever after.

* * *

Zenpfennig nearly collapsed against the rock as the dragon flew away. From beside him Mazigian said, “Double, double toil and trouble, dragon burns the wizard rubble.”

“Stop it,” Zenpfennig said automatically. Mazigian retreated into the cave, presumably in search of treasure.

“I think we’re in trouble,” Rueberry wheezed from his seat nearby.

“She meant what she said. I’m sure the treasure is ours,” Zenpfennig said. He was certain of it, otherwise he’d never have agreed to make the transformation spell. No cash, no spell. “And we did the spell correctly. It’ll transform her with, as she put it, no tricks.”

Rueberry groaned as he stood and wobbled over to clutch Zenpfennig’s arm. “No. Not the treasure. Not even the spell. How old would you say that dragon was?”

Shrugging Zenpfennig said, “Twenty, twenty-five years.”

“So when she transforms she’ll look about how old?”

Zenpfennig’s eyes widened. “Six, maybe.”

“She wants to marry Winthorp.” Rueberry sat back on his rock. “How do you think His Majesty, King Winthorp, will react when an arrogant, naked six-year-old girl presents herself for marriage?” When Zenpfennig didn’t answer, Rueberry said, “She’ll turn back into a dragon. And before she destroys half the kingdom, she’ll snack on three wizards.”

Mazigian lumbered from the cave entrance, overburdened with jewelry and gem-encrusted gold valuables. “Come, let’s make haste; she’ll soon be back again.”

“We have to warn King Winthorp,” Zenpfennig shouted. “Our very lives depend upon it!”

“I’m too exhausted for a teleportation spell,” Rueberry groaned. He slowly slid to lay on the dirt, curled up as for sleep. His ill-used wizard hat did double duty as a pillow. “Let’s at least wait until morning.”

“‘Twould take us three days to recover enough to teleport,” Zenpfennig mused. One bony finger tapped his chin. “The spell might take too much time to prepare. We wouldn’t arrive in time.” His close set eyes narrowed as they contemplated Rueberry. He swooped down like a hawk, fastening his claws on Rueberry’s plump arm and dragging Rueberry to his feet. “Up. We must leave now. With luck we can make it to Gilden in two and a half days.”

Mazigian watched amazed as Zenpfennig marched past towing Rueberry. “He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear his hopes ‘bove wisdom, grace and fear.”

Zenpfennig released Rueberry and turned on Mazigian, waving one thin, weirdly stained hand in arcane twirls, bony fingers tracing their own dance through the air. “I’ve warned you about talking, more than three times.”

Mazigian froze. Zenpfennig caught him before he could fall and dragged his stiff, jewel-bedecked form back into the cave. Returning triumphant, Zenpfennig smiled. “That should hold him. For a few days at least.”

“Um, do you really think he’ll be safe here by himself?” Rueberry twisted his pointy wizard hat nervously.

“His kind always is,” Zenpfennig said.

“Not always. There is the curse.”

“Oh that.” Zenpfennig waved one hand dismissively. “He’s still alive and kicking, and will be long after we’re both dead.” He paused as if in pleasant thought, then shook himself. “We must be going. Now.”

Almost as an afterthought, Zenpfennig snaked out one hand to grab his knobbed staff leaning against the entrance to the cave. “Come on, Rueberry. We’ve got a long march ahead of us.” He stepped out onto the path briskly kicking the hem of his robe. Which only served to redistribute portions of its three-day accumulation of dust and grime into the nearby environment, namely wilting vegetation beside the trail and Rueberry.

“Couldn’t we at least have a hearty meal to get us started?” Rueberry wondered aloud. He knew the answer, but asked anyway. “Maybe a brief nap?”

Zenpfennig continued at a military pace. “We’ll stop to get one for the road, if we pass a likely inn. Otherwise we’ve got to get to Winthorp before that dragon does and convince him to marry a naked six-year-old, so that we don’t get cooked.”

“You mean, we must alert King Winthorp to the danger. In that way we can save the kingdom from the ravages of a ferocious, fire-breathing dragon, and collect a hefty reward in the process.” Rueberry huffed and puffed to keep up.

“Exactly right,” Zenpfennig answered. “Someone owes us a substantial reward. That’s for certain.”

* * *

His Majesty King Winthorp pulled one last time at the stiff collar to his latest, most irritating costume and contemplated the rolling hills and distant mountains displayed in all their glory by the light of the rising sun. He wished he could ride off on his fastest horse and escape the coming circus. But … Since his father’s unexpected death four months ago in the middle of the negotiations with neighboring, hostile Fragaria, Winthorp had given up his reckless, wanton ways and become a firm, dependable king. Surprised everyone, including himself.

Sometime this morning Her Highness, Princess Violetta Betony Galiena Mathilda of Fragaria would arrive. Supposedly about mid-morning, but more likely in the middle of, or just after, lunch. At a time calculated to undermine civility and provoke tempers. Winthorp blew out a long breath to calm himself. His father’s dying wish was that he finish negotiations with Fragaria, marry the princess and bring some sort of peace to the Kingdom of Dzungary. So he was determined to marry the wench, regardless of size, temperament, or visage. He’d just have to make the best of it, for the good of Dzungary.

As expected the princess arrived after lunch had been set, but before anyone had eaten more than two bites. Winthorp hurried, with his advisors and courtiers, to the main gates of the palace to greet his fianc’e. All of Gilden’s residents had turned out for the event. The main road to the palace doors was lined seven deep with rabble, ruffians, and beggars, all craning their necks in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the new queen-to-be.

The princess’ carriage pulled up and the footmen hurried to help the princess out. Alighting from the carriage was a vision of beauty, wealth, and quality. Her golden hair shone like the sun. Her pale skin, thin build, priceless garments, and fine, elegant features proclaimed her a princess to all who looked. The crowd stood hushed in silent awe. She appeared to float instead of walk over the rough, unpaved road. Winthorp held his hands out, surprised at his uncommon good luck in this turn of events.

A commotion at the edge of the crowd nearest the steps to the palace drew her attention. A young girl—obviously a naked, filthy beggar—kicked, bit, and fought her way out of the crowd and into the space left in the road. The girl hissed and growled at the fists and boots swung in her direction, showing no sign of fear or meekness.

“Poor thing.” Approaching the beggar-girl, Princess Violetta removed her lace-trimmed silk shawl and wrapped it around the child to cover her nakedness. Her long tapered fingers pushed back the tangle of black hair from the child’s face. “Poor thing. Come with me.” She took the child’s hand and led the child to the palace steps.

Too good to be true, Winthorp thought. Beautiful, and graceful, and kind, and she would be his wife? Something was wrong here. And he wasn’t all that thrilled with the idea of his bride-to-be taking in stray beggars. It seemed an encouragement to vice. Still he smiled and embraced Princess Violetta as he’d planned, then gave the speech he’d rehearsed. Afterward he, the princess, the beggar-girl, his advisors, and all the courtiers retired back into the palace to their now cold lunch.

* * *

Theora looked with disgust around her. The room was larger than her cavern room, but the walls were all smooth and set perpendicular to each other, creating wasted space in the corners. And they were all made of wood. Even the furniture was made of wood covered in various textiles. Humans were just plain foolish. One wrong exhalation and the place would be nothing but blackened embers. And how could you rub loose scales off on wood?

The pale woman flitted about, moving various fabrics from one piece of wood to another, shoving trunks about and generally acting like a brooding wren. They were alone in this room. Theora had tried leaving to find Prince Winthorp again, but the woman had stopped her.

“Oh, no you don’t,” the pale woman said, pulling Theora away from the door. “You’re here to help me, and don’t you forget it. You can be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams, or it’s the streets again, m’girl.” The pale woman pulled Theora to a chair and pushed her into it. “We’ll go searching for the secret passages and all the rest when I’m finished.” The pale woman then went back to moving things around.

It was probably just as well. Prince Winthorp hadn’t paid the least attention to Theora all through the meal, even though she’d sat between him and that silly, pale woman. He hadn’t told a single story, though he and several others had spoken at length. Theora had been unable to detect a single plot or even any interesting characters in the narratives, though the gist of the speeches had been something to do with Winthorp marrying the pale woman. So, from what Theora knew of humans, that meant the pale woman had to be a princess. Theora was disappointed. She’d always expected princesses to look a good deal tastier and much better fleshed. Good thing she was filled from the small meal and wasn’t really interested in eating.

Still, she was here and, with as often as Winthorp kissed the pale woman, it shouldn’t be too difficult to get him to give her a kiss too. Perhaps after dinner’s stories. Theora could wait.

“Now, little brat,” the pale woman said turning her attention on Theora. “Let’s find you something suitable to wear, then we can go exploring. Sound good?”

Theora tried to tell the woman that she’d never been on any adventures, but she’d heard about many. However, this body didn’t seem to have any gullet and Theora couldn’t seem to make noises correctly. She said, “Ahh grrwl. Ahh hrrh.”

The pale woman threw something itchy and confining over Theora. “There you are.” She pulled Theora’s arms through some holes and cinched in the waist. “Isn’t that more comfortable?”

It was miserable and nearly unbearable, but Theora couldn’t say so. None of the stories ever said how weak and frivolous human bodies were.

“Come with me. We’ll spy out the palace.” The woman placed a jeweled tiara in her hair at the top of her head. “You can show me all you know about it.”

Theora shook her head in disbelief. The pale woman possessed enough jewelry and metal knickknacks to start a small hoard. Almost enough to sleep on, and she wasted it on her head.

Squatting down, the pale woman put her face in Theora’s. “Now, now. I think you and I can deal with each other well in this situation. You help me discover the secret places, like the underground passages, and unguarded doors, and other useful information about the palace—the secret things a beggar would need to know—and I’ll reward you well when this is all over.” She smiled thinly. “Let’s go get lost.”

As they left the room, Theora looked about her, hoping to find Winthorp and get him to tell some more stories.

The pale woman pushed Theora gently. “Okay, you lead me somewhere interesting. Quickly, before we run into someone.”

* * *

Rueberry gratefully settled into the crook of a tree. He’d never before considered trees as comfortable places of slumber, but here he was falling asleep as easily as if in his own bed. His face snuggled against twigs and leaves, making a cushiony pillow. Funny, bark had always seemed so rough before. Just goes to show, he thought, you should never judge a book by its cover. Or a tree by its bark. There seemed to be something more to that thought, but it escaped him as he drifted off to sleep.

From the other side of the large tree trunk Zenpfennig woke him by saying, “We leave at first light tomorrow. Hopefully we’ll make it by noon.”

Rueberry woke again later with the sound of marching beneath him. He turned on the branch, certain it was a dream.

You really would sleep through an army marching past, Zenpfennig thought at him. Wake up!

Startled, Rueberry nearly fell out of the tree. “Huh?” He looked below him. An army was indeed marching beneath them. He gripped the branches tightly.

Silence! Be very, very still, Zenpfennig ordered. Use a telepathy spell, search their minds, see if you can find out what’s going on.

Rueberry glanced at Zenpfennig, but couldn’t see around the tree trunk. He concentrated on the complex telepathy spell, then began searching the minds beneath him.

Most knew nothing. Other than they were marching to war against Dzungary, they were from Fragaria, they were tired and thought their commander a … Rueberry just barely stopped himself from magicking soap into their mouths. Habits drilled into him by his mother were hard to break.

Finally they both latched onto a mind that knew something. He rode a horse toward the rear of the army, Prince Erskine of Fragaria. From his mind they gleaned that the army intended to attack Gilden in three days, during the wedding, slay Prince Winthorp, and take Dzungary. As a bit of caution, against finding themselves in a hostage situation, the woman sent as a bride to Prince Winthorp wasn’t Princess Violetta, but a common whore and cutpurse. Though from the image in Erskine’s mind Rueberry judged that she wasn’t all that common.

After they’d learned what they could from Erskine, Zenpfennig thought to Rueberry, After they pass, we leave. We’ll have to take a roundabout route. And still get to Gilden before the dragon changes. Winthorp has more problems than he can handle without our help.

The last image Rueberry received from Zenpfennig was Winthorp heaping treasures on them as he begged them to become his palace wizards.

* * *

Winthorp frowned as he left breakfast. Violetta had again seated the beggar girl between them at breakfast. He felt the signed and much negotiated treaty made clear that his intentions were honorable, but Violetta continued through her actions to insist on this very strange chaperone. At least the child had been washed and properly dressed. Winthorp assumed Violetta merely felt confused and unsure in enemy territory, and perhaps needed someone near who was even more vulnerable.

Violetta smiled at him with a vapid, adoring look as she bowed on his leaving. Her hand descending the front of her dress, accenting the low neckline. She reminded Winthorp of courtesans who had courted him.

John Kennard, Duke of Sedum and Winthorp’s maternal uncle, followed Winthorp out into the back hallway. They walked briskly past the blank walls. “Your Majesty leads a charmed life. Your wife-to-be is one of the most beautiful women in the kingdom.”

“We believe something is wrong, Uncle,” Winthorp muttered. “Find it.”

“You didn’t use to be so pessimistic,” Kennard began. He sighed at the look on Winthorp’s face. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Kennard peeled off down a side hallway as Winthorp continued to his outer courtyard. Winthorp considered his uncle’s words. A charmed—and charming—life, yes, his had been that, but now … Violetta was beautiful, expensive and charitable, everything a perfect queen should be. So why didn’t he like her?

Truth be told, he loathed her. He trusted her less than she trusted him. She was more than beautiful enough to keep his interest, but …

* * *

The pale woman pushed Theora past another staircase. Theora watched the woman running her hands along the walls and surreptitiously kicking the stairs as they went. Theora too admired the stonework in this portion of the palace. Much more sensible than the wooden rooms. They were alone, having narrowly escaped a gaggle of cackling women in the wooden section. Quite a few of those plump, florid women had looked more princessly than this pale, bony wench.

“Where is it?” the pale woman whispered. “Where are you taking me?”

At a turn past the stairs the pale woman breathed, “Aha,” and opened a door hidden in the stone work. They walked through the dark, dusty, be-webbed passage by feel. Theora felt the loss of her heat vision keenly. One good roar and she could have seen everything in this dark.

The more she’d thought on it the less she liked the idea of remaining a human. Their bodies were weak. Their homes uncomfortable. And they spent much less time on stories than she’d believed. She hadn’t heard one in the two days she’d been one. Oh sure, humans talked, and talked, and talked, until she was tired of their voices, but no stories. Maybe they needed campfires. She’d stopped trying to get kisses from Winthorp while she thought this over.

The pale woman opened a door and a shaft of light burned Theora’s human eyes. She blinked as she entered the large room. Shelves ran from floor to ceiling on all four walls, broken only by windows and a door. Theora shut the shelves that hid the doorway behind them.

“A library,” the pale woman said disgustedly. She pulled a book from a shelf and opened it. “Once upon a time.” She snapped the book shut, growling her frustration. “You took me to a library?”

Theora took the book from the pale woman. Did these contain the stories while the humans weren’t telling them? Theora searched the shelves. Thousands and thousands. It would explain much. Theora opened the book as she’d seen the pale woman do, but no story came out. Instead the door opened.

Winthorp halted just inside the doorway eyes wide, three other men behind him. That was the way Theora was accustomed to having humans look at her. Surprised.

The pale woman curtseyed. “Your Majesty.”

Holding the book open, Theora ran to Winthorp. He would know how to get the story out. She held it out to him and tried to speak. “Ah.”

He took the book from her hands, glanced at it and closed it. He raised an eyebrow at the pale woman.

The woman looked mildly scalded, and she flustered about. “I thought perhaps I could improve her mind here. Though I hoped to steer her to something more suitable.” Her eyes searched the floor.

Winthorp passed the book back to one of the men behind him, then he took Theora’s hand. “This way.” He led Theora while he motioned to the woman. He crouched down and pulled a book off the low shelves under a window seat. “Perhaps this one,” he said as he handed the book to Theora.

Theora pushed it back at him, and pulled on his sleeve to indicate he should sit on the window seat. He and the pale woman sat on the window seat while Theora sat on the floor. Theora stared at Winthorp with rapt fascination. He opened the book. “Once upon a time …”

He released three stories from the book before the pale woman said, “We mustn’t take up all your time.” She motioned to the three men standing around.

Winthorp smiled down at Theora. “Perhaps we can read more later.”

Read, thought Theora, that’s the name of the spell they use to release the stories. She felt charged with magic and as strong as a dragon in her human form.

Unfortunately the pale woman disproved this by grabbing Theora’s arm and lifting her to her feet. The pale woman curtseyed to Winthorp again. “Thank you, Your Majesty. We’ll let you get back to your work.”

She dragged the struggling Theora out. The last thing Theora saw was one of the men handing the first book back to Winthorp as he said, ” A Philosophy of Concupiscence?”

The pale woman held tight, her fingernails digging deeply into Theora’s arm as she hissed in Theora’s ear, “Stupid, little, brat thief. Don’t you know any secret passages? Or anything useful? By the time I was your age I’d learned all the secrets of Fragaria’s palace and helped myself to a few of its goodies. Don’t try to tell me you haven’t.”

Theora growled and spat at her. The pale woman shook Theora hard. “You’d better help me, you wretched brat. Or I’ll see to it you discover there are worse things than begging on the streets.”

“Grarararar,” Theora tried. Disappointingly, the pale woman was not a charred cinder. She wasn’t even singed.

“Fine, we’ll go down every stairway we find until we reach the bottom.” The pale woman glared as she towed Theora down the hall. “Then if you don’t show me a secret entrance into this castle, I swear you’ll live to regret it. Fragaria will be here in a few days, they need a way in, and I don’t intend to disappoint them.”

It took several minutes of struggling, but Theora finally broke away and ran back to the library. Disappointment at finding it empty of humans warred with the charged excitement of being surrounded by so many stories. She approached the window seat and removed the book Winthorp had released stories from.

A careful examination showed it to be a combination of several kinds of hard cloth and leathers. Each separate page held what appeared to be dark blotches and colorful pictures. She looked at the pictures and concentrated hard, chanting, “Read. Read,” in her thoughts. But she couldn’t find the key to releasing the stories.

Perhaps it is a spoken spell, she thought. She looked at the pages determined to continue trying until she’d discovered the secret. She took a deep breath and tried to speak. “Ah.”

* * *

Rueberry wasn’t at all placated by Zenpfennig’s assurance that the horse was a gentle mare. The mare part Rueberry could ascertain on his own, even in the dark. He knew that much about horses, more than Zenpfennig. But when stealing horses in the dark of the night in order to outrun a hostile army and thwart a dragon’s romantic designs on a king, one just had to take whatever was available, gentleness couldn’t be guaranteed. He looked at the malevolent passion in the horse’s brown eyes and patted the soft nose. “Nice horsey.”

“Come on,” Zenpfennig growled. “Get on the horse, before someone hears us.” He cupped his hands to help launch Rueberry onto the horse’s back.

Rueberry managed to hold onto the reins and land in the general vicinity of the horse’s back.

Taking the second saddle, left handily in the window of the barn, Zenpfennig stalked into another stall. “Go on. I’ll be right behind you, after I put this saddle on her sister.”

The horse docilely left the barn and headed down the road in the direction Rueberry wanted. Once they were well away from the barn and house, Rueberry urged her to a fast trot. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Behind him, horse and human noises mingled in the night. He turned to see Zenpfennig clutch the saddle as the other horse reared up. In the moonlight Rueberry could see that the horses definitely weren’t sisters. In moments Zenpfennig galloped past shouting, “Nice horsey! Hurry, you idiot!”

Spurning his swaybacked nag to a gallop, Rueberry wondered if any of Zenpfennig’s shout had been intended for him. He also wondered if perhaps King Winthorp, on the edge of unstoppable disaster, might prefer to kill the messenger.

* * *

One day left until the wedding and Winthorp found himself gritting his teeth and forcefully reminding himself that he was doing this for the good of Dzungary. He had to marry her, for the good of Dzungary. No matter what. No matter how much he loathed and hated her.

Every one of his advisors couldn’t understand it. He couldn’t understand it. She was beautiful, kind, and beautiful. And quiet. And beautiful. He didn’t believe it. Not for one heartbeat did he believe this wedding and treaty could go off so smoothly, with a beautiful bride, charming prince, and happily ever after ending. Something had to be wrong. Winthorp just couldn’t put his finger on it.

As he stalked through the hallway on his way to the throne room to listen to today’s commoners” complaints and aristocratic annoyances, he felt a thump on his hip. Looking down he discovered Violetta’s wretched, ragged, beggar wenchling striking him with a book.

Roughly shoving her into the wall with his fist in her shoulder, he snarled, “I don’t know what you’re up to, or what exactly your relation is to that pallid vixen, but I’ll find out. Something isn’t right here.”

Her eyes didn’t register fear or pain. They seemed to tear into him like a flame, scorching and charring his soul. Not like a meek beggar at all.

“Who are you?” he asked, shaken.

“Haah,” she said slowly, continuing to stare at him.

He had the distinct impression of being measured for later consumption. He shuddered. Throwing his shoulders back he hurried off for the throne room.

* * *

Theora followed Winthorp at a distance, angry and frustrated. Humans! Weak, ignorant fools. A glance at a window showed she had only a few hours until noon, when she’d change back into a dragon without Winthorp’s kiss. At this point she didn’t want it. Besides she already had several of his courtiers picked out to do lunch with.

After following him into a room filled with humans, she sat near the back to watch what happened. Tedious and boring, plotless and pointless, like most of the human doings. Everyone seemed to be taking turns whining and complaining to Winthorp. No wonder he’d been grumpy this morning.

She was just beginning to consider going somewhere else to change, when two wizards she recognized ran into the room shouting. Even at that distance and with her human nose she could smell them.

No one could make sense of their shouting until finally the tall thin one clamped one bony hand over the chubby one’s mouth. “Your Majesty is in terrible danger.”

Sighing, Winthorp motioned to the guards to get the wizards. Before the guards could reach them, the air directly in front of the wizards began to shimmer and sparkle. The young wizard appeared. He grinned at the other wizards and said, “Thou hast got the king, though thou be none: so all hail, Zenpfennig and Rueberry.”

“Stop that,” tall and thin growled at him, “We have to warn the king about the invasion and the dragon.”

“What?” Winthorp shouted as he pounded the arm of his throne with his fist.

The young one bowed gracefully to Winthorp, emphasizing other’s discourtesies. “Say if thou’dst rather hear it from my mouth, or from my masters?”

Tall and thin pushed past him. “Your Majesty is in terrible danger!”

“Fragaria’s army marches on Dzungary!” the chubby one added.

Winthorp leaned forward and motioned to his guard to return to their stations. “What did you say?”

“Fragaria’s army marches on Dzungary,” tall and thin said. “We saw them on the road from Mertensia.”

“Get me the Master of the Guards!” Winthorp stood up, shouting and motioning to his guards. “Arrest Princess Violetta!”

“She’s not Princess Violetta,” the chubby one panted. “They sent a common whore in her place so she couldn’t be used as a hostage.”

“I knew something was wrong with that woman!” Winthorp said triumphantly. Some of the men around him paled.

I knew something was wrong with her too, Theora thought, but I couldn’t tell anyone. Princesses had to be much plumper. She edged quickly toward the nearest door. By her reckoning she had perhaps fifteen minutes left before she returned to herself, and she didn’t want to wait around until the wizards remembered her and warned Winthorp.

* * *

Mazigian prodded Zenpfennig. “Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, witches’ mummy, maw and gulf.”

“The dragon!” Rueberry cried, “We forgot about the dragon!”

“Speak for yourself,” Zenpfennig said scornfully. He turned back to the king with his usual hauteur and said, “We must find a naked little girl. She’s an enspelled dragon, who is apparently enamored of you and decided to marry you. You must kiss her or she’ll turn back into a dragon, probably a very angry dragon.”

“A naked little girl?” the King asked incredulously. “Oh, no. Not her. Violetta’s beggar!” His eyes scanned the crowd. He dashed through the crowd followed closely by his guards, Zenpfennig, Rueberry, and Mazigian. “She was just here!” Once out of the throne room he motioned various directions to the guards. “You, that way, check the kitchens and middens. You check the inner chambers. You and you, search the east and west wings. You take the tower and dungeons.” He turned to the last remaining guards and the wizards. “We’ll look in the library. She’s hidden there before.” King Winthorp took off, running flat out. He glanced back over his shoulder. “How long until she changes back?”

“Unfortunately we don’t know,” Zenpfennig said from directly behind him. “We gave her the potion. It was that or be burned. But we don’t know when she took it. The potion would last for three days, from whenever that was.”

Rueberry panted, bringing up the rear as they raced through the palace. He arrived in the library in time to see King Winthorp leaning against an open window frame, clutching a small, grubby dress, his eyes closed, his expression tired and dejected. Through the window Rueberry saw a dragon in flight, away from the palace.

“I don’t suppose it’s possible she might remember her stay here fondly?” Rueberry puffed.

The king groaned. “No.” He pulled himself away from the window and began giving orders to his guard, to call off the search for the beggar girl and to swiftly organize an army to protect Dzungary. “Our army may be small, but we will have to win the battle somehow.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the guard replied. “We did capture Violetta. She has offered to turn traitor to Fragaria and tell us what she knows in return for her life. What should we do with her?”

“Deal with that snake? No. Lock her in the dungeon. We’ll deal with Fragaria’s army first, then with its spy.” King Winthorp narrowed his eyes as he looked out the window and whispered, “Not death, I think. Something worse. Perhaps Lord Borchardt.” He looked up and turned to the wizards. “You have our thanks for your warnings. We assume you will be helping Us in defense of Dzungary.”

Mazigian again bowed gracefully. “Our vessels and our spells provide, our charms and everything beside. Great business must be wrought ere noon.”

Zenpfennig’s fingers twitched in the beginning of a spell, but Rueberry interrupted him, “I don’t suppose we could break bread first?”

King Winthorp grinned. “A meal first, definitely. None of us will think well on empty stomachs.”

“Casting spells requires more than just food,” Zenpfennig lectured condescendingly. “Many spells require rare and expensive items in order to cast. Learning the arcane arts is a difficult and painstaking process. The proficiency of the executor—”

“You will be rewarded, of course,” King Winthorp said with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.

Rueberry assumed Winthorp’d had experience with other experts in the field. Zenpfennig smiled like a skull and rendered a rickety bow.

* * *

The sun hadn’t cleared the horizon, but enough light filtered up that Winthorp could finally see his hastily assembled army scrambling through the forest. Scouts sent out last afternoon indicated the best place for Fragaria’s army to settle for the night was the opposite shore of the Bittersweet River. Winthorp hoped to reach the river during or before the enemy crossed. The army paused, still in the cover of the forest, overlooking the scenic Bittersweet valley. They’d made it; Fragaria’s army was still breaking camp on the opposite shore.

From his vantage point behind a large tree, with one eye always on the enemy, Winthorp conferred with his counselors. Together they cobbled up a battle plan. He sent them off by saying, “With a bit of luck and unwavering determination, we may yet win this day. Hold your men until the signal’s given, then fight with all your will and strength. For your families. For your honor. For Dzungary!”

After they’d left he turned to the wizards standing nervously nearby. “And how long will you stay by me?”

The leader, Zenpfennig smiled and bowed. Rueberry looked at his feet. The one called Mazigian said, “When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.”

Winthorp murmured, “Honesty, how rare,” as Rueberry said, “That will be ere the set of sun.”

Zenpfennig swung at the chubby Rueberry, who dodged with a surprising swiftness. “Not you too.”

“It just seemed like the thing to say,” Rueberry whined.

Zenpfennig snorted and stalked away. Rueberry was now close enough that Winthorp tugged gently on his sleeve to get his attention. “About Mazigian. He’s …” Winthorp searched for the right words, “Not well, is he?”

“We really need to get him to a specialist,” Rueberry whispered. “But he’ll do for the battle, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

They waited, anxious and jumpy, for the enemy to begin the river crossing. That was the signal to attack. The enemy finally deigned to cross and Winthorp’s army rushed to meet them as they came up out of the water.

The battle had just begun, when Mazigian pointed to the rearward sky and shouted, “Hail!”

Winthorp turned and saw what he’d feared. He repeated Mazigian’s cry, but with a change of vowel. A flying dragon bore down on them, skimming the treetops, and inhaling.

“We’re cooked now,” Rueberry moaned.

The Dzungarians threw themselves to the ground in mass surrender and the vain hope of escaping the worst of the flames.

The Fragarians paused, considering this turn of events. Prince Erskine began leading a charge, having apparently decided if the Dzungarians recognized and feared the dragon it must be on his side.

The dragon flew over the hindmost of the Dzungarians without flaming, aiming straight for King Winthorp and Prince Erskine. Winthorp saw the dragon bearing down on him and wanted, desperately, to throw himself to the ground with the wizards and his guards, but his legs wouldn’t work. He’d stopped breathing, stopped thinking. His sword slipped in his sweaty hand and he clutched it tighter. Behind him he could hear Erskine’s charge coming through the water, splashing through the shallows near the bank of the river, but he couldn’t turn away from the fiery death awaiting him.

The rumble of fire in the dragon’s throat shook the valley like thunder and the wind from its wings blasted Winthorp as the dragon sped past him, to flame Prince Erskine and his ill-fated charge.

Winthorp raised his sword high not daring to take the time to consider, or challenge, his good luck, shouting, “Up, up! Dzungary!”

Mazigian looked at him in wonderment. “Fair is foul, and foul is fair.” It was almost a question.

His army was slow getting to its feet, but the dragon had made quick work of the Fragarians; flaming, boiling, biting, and shredding. The Dzungarians merely had to catch stragglers and deserters.

Winthorp watched her as she rended the Fragarian army, grinning and hoping she wouldn’t turn on them when she was done. The fact that she didn’t use her left front claw as she battled concerned him, but he also considered it as a potential weak point if she should be merely letting the Fragarians know that she intended to kill the Dzungarians.

She finished up on the opposite shore and flew back. Winthorp and the others braced themselves, in case, but she settled, nearly blasting Winthorp off his feet with the wind from her wings, on all four claws.

“Thank you, great dragon,” Winthorp said, bowing to the dragon. “What would you have as your reward?”

The dragon took a deep breath, its gullet rumbled, but Winthorp stood still, unafraid. It opened its left claw, there lay the book Winthorp had read to the little girl. “Live in the palace. Learn reading spell. Hear stories.”

Winthorp walked over and took the book from her claw. As she remade her claw into a fist and lowered her head, he climbed up to sit on top of her fist and look her in the eye. “We don’t think that’s such a good idea. You’d scare the people and beasts living in Gilden.”

A growl started in the dragon’s throat.

“However, we can bargain.” Winthorp clutched the book tightly as he smiled at the dragon. “Perhaps We should find you your own castle. Or perhaps you’d prefer some caverns, nearby the palace. Connected with some hot springs and other very nice features. You have your own, large sleeping chamber, and a nice treasure pile to sleep upon. And, of course, your very own library. And,” he motioned to the wizards cowering nearby who obviously weren’t sure about this turn of events, “your own teachers and storytellers. We’ll keep you supplied with beasts to eat, and battles to fight, and We’ll make a proclamation that a copy of every story shall be sent to your library. What do you think?”

The dragon nodded her head.

“You’ll help us fight our battles? And provide other aid we might stand in need of from a dragon?”

The dragon nodded again.

“You name, please, good dragon?”

The rumbling in her gullet caused several of Winthorp’s men to blanch, but the dragon only said, “Theora.”

“Theora. Well, with such good teachers,” Winthorp turned his smile on the frowning wizards, “in time, perhaps, we’ll become more than friends.”

Zenpfennig stepped closer. “Exactly what did Your Majesty have in mind?”

“It occurs to me that I’m in no hurry to wed, and that a wife who could transform into a dragon could be very handy. All I have to do is wait a few years.” Winthorp set his mouth in a smile that would have made a dragon proud.

“Your Majesty forgets,” Zenpfennig said. “She only had the one potion. Just one time. She cannot now transform at will.”

“But she is an exceedingly smart dragon.” Winthorp turned back to look Theora in the eye. “She can learn the spell for reading, and the spell for transforming. If she wants.”

Zenpfennig raised one stained, bony finger. “Ah, but that would mean …”

A growling rumble stopped him. The dragon gulped air and said, “Read now. Bargain later.”

Winthorp opened the book and began, “Once upon a time…”

Of course the story ended with, “And they lived happily ever after.”

* * *

Rebecca Lickiss is the author of a number of books and stories.

Child, Maiden, Woman, Crone

Written by Terry Bramlett

Illustrated by Maurine Starkey

Child (Late Winter, early Spring)

The music filled the valley as Johnny Nobles coerced the strings on his Gibson. He ended the song with a flourish and sat still, eyes closed. The March sun warmed the rock he used as his stage. He waited for applause, but the new corn stood silent.

Two years ago, he sang his only hit song to packed houses across the nation. Today, he sat beside the cornfield on his land, just outside the Navajo Nation. His grandfather had been half Navajo, but his grandmother full-blooded Irish. He spent many days in his youth beside the corn, banging away at an old Alvarez as his grandfather worked the land for a meager living. Johnny sighed.

He missed the adulation of the crowd, the thrill of performing, but his career never blossomed. Friends quit calling. His agent dropped him. The song kept sending decent royalty checks, so he took his nest egg and fixed up the family farmhouse.

He formed a C on the neck and strummed. The resonance of the chord made him smile. He played a tune running through his mind, a new tune, native to his home. He closed his eyes and imagined the sun as the bright lights of the stage. Laughter broke his concentration. He stopped playing and glanced up.

“Very pretty,” said a little girl. She looked to be about ten. Dark hair flowed over her shoulders. She wore the traditional blue skirt and blouse of the Navajo.

The round face favored him with a smile, displaying the innocence of the young, but her eyes saw too deep for a child, which unnerved him.

“How did you get here?” Johnny asked.

She laughed. “I belong here,” she said “I won’t stay long, but I would like to hear.” She smiled and the innocence of her face returned. “You play so well.”

“Do your parents know where you are?” Johnny looked around, wondering how she appeared without his hearing or seeing her, but when he was playing, he lost himself in the music and experience of performing, even if only in a cornfield.

The little girl stared, holding his attention. “Play,” she said with a soft, demanding voice.

Johnny sat up straight, but his hands found the strings. His eyes closed as the melody drifted through him. Words hovered at the edge of his consciousness. He forgot the little girl as he realized that this was a breakthrough moment, if he could only capture the lyrics that hid beneath the music.

He ended the piece with a repeat of the beginning. Silence greeted the finale. He opened his eyes and looked for the little girl, but she was gone. The music pulled at his thoughts. He played the melody again, but the words remained unheard. A gust of wind blew through the valley and he thought he heard a little girl laugh.

Maiden (Late Spring Early Summer)

Johnny recovered from the surprise as he listened to his agent. The shock wore off in stages. “Peter, why did you call? You’re not interested in organic farming and you haven’t returned my calls in months.” He fought down anger, though he knew bitterness seeped into his words.

Peter sighed. “Yeah, kid. I know things didn’t go right.”

A truck stopped in front of the house. “Peter, get to the point. Two of my workers just came by to pick up their pay.”

“I just wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten about you,” Peter said. The voice caught at just the right time, a studied and practiced gesture that Johnny understood to be bullshit. “Have you been writing? If you come up with anything new, send it on to me.”

“Yeah, Peter,” Johnny said. “I’ll do that.” He hung up the phone before he burnt his last bridge to the music industry. He knew Peter didn’t care. The bastard must be desperate to reach out to a one-hit-wonder has-been. Of course, Johnny had been hearing his song on the oldie stations a lot more recently. The royalty check for the last quarter paid for a full year of crops.

“Manuel, James, come on in,” he said, opening the door. “You guys want a beer?”

Manuel answered because Manuel always talked. James rarely spoke. “Man, I’d love one, but we’ve got a bit more work today at the Stevens’s.”

“Have a seat and I’ll get your money,” Johnny said. He grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and slapped them on the table. Johnny passed over an envelope. Manuel glanced inside.

“Manuel, how’s the field looking?”

Manuel took a swig of the water. “Pretty good, I’d say. We planted a bit early, but we got away with it. The corn is farther along than I thought it would be and it’s healthy. I don’t see any infestations. Should be a good harvest in July with enough time to plant a second corn crop, I think.”

“That’s fantastic,” Johnny said. “Man, I don’t know if I could make it without you two.”

Manuel and James stood. Manuel glanced at the guitar beside the front door. “You going out there?”

Johnny smiled, nodding. “Best place I’ve ever played the guitar.”

“We saw a girl walking around in the hills,” Manuel said. “Wouldn’t mention it, but she seemed out of place.”

The little girl he met two months earlier flashed in his mind. “I saw her in March,” Johnny said. “Little girl about ten?”

James shook his head. “This girl was older, at least late teens, maybe twenty.” His eyes glazed. “Most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. One thing I know is she ain’t from Navajo land.”

Johnny shook his head. “Must be a different girl, then.”

Manuel and James left. Johnny grabbed the Gibson and rode to the fields.

* * *

He sat on the rock, playing the song that captivated him, the song he discovered when the little girl told him to play. Johnny played the tune constantly and heard more in each session. He experimented with different sounds, especially in the small studio set up at the ranch house.

The music broke into four distinctive parts, five if you counted the ending, which repeated the opening. His fingers moved without thought as he made his way through each section of the song. The first part flowed simply into the air, the strings vibrating with playfulness. The second section rocked with unleashed passion. The third section mellowed, but allowed for the most growth. The fourth section confounded him with its minors and majors, difficult to play, and yet, deep and quite eloquent. The ending repeated twelve bars of the opening, creating the illusion of a full circle. He strummed the last chord and opened his eyes.

“Whoo.” Johnny smiled and rubbed the fingers of his left hand.

“‘Whoo,’ indeed,” a feminine voice said.

Johnny jumped at the sound and turned. A young Navajo woman stood behind the rock, smiling. She wore a white t-shirt and jeans, matching Johnny’s attire. Black hair fell across her shoulders. A turquoise necklace offset her perfect dark skin. She had the slenderness of youth, her body accented with angles and curves, rather than the rounded edges of a woman. He estimated her age as late teens. She looked familiar, but then Johnny noticed the dark eyes staring into and through him. He had seen those eyes before.

“Where did you come from?” Johnny took a ragged breath, trying to hide his nervousness. James was right, he thought. This girl is beautiful.

She moved gracefully to the rock and sat. “I come from the Earth, as we all came.” She smiled and Johnny felt his world disappear. She hummed the song he had played. “You have been practicing since we last met.”

Johnny shook his head. “We’ve never met. I’d remember you.”

“We’ve met,” she said. “And you do remember.”

He studied her and focused on the eyes. He remembered a little girl’s laugh and her command to play. Johnny shook his head. Couldn’t be, he thought. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated, frowning, and then her smile returned. “You can call me Whiteshell Wo-uh.” She stopped for a second. “Natalie Whiteshell.”

“I’m Johnny Nobles.”

“I know who you are, Johnny,” she said. “I’ve been watching you since you took over your grandfather’s land.”

“Okay,” Johnny said, smiling. “Why?”

“Your music,” she said.

She stared into his eyes. He heard the wind rustling through the corn stalks. A soft hum hovered over the small valley as if reverberating from the Earth. Natalie opened her mouth and sang. Johnny did not understand the words, but recognized the tune, the same one he played before she surprised him, only her notes harmonized with his Gibson. He secured the strap and played the guitar with her voice as an accompaniment.

The harmony added depth. He had explored the song with his piano, but had never quite captured the texture. Natalie sang and the texture flowed. The wind produced a reed line, while the Earth’s hum provided base. They finished on the same note, Natalie smiling.

“Wow!” Other words failed Johnny. “Wow!”

“You play the song well,” she said. “It was my gift to you.”

Johnny heard a little girl demand that he play as he stared into Natalie’s eyes. Sunlight danced across her face, glittering off the turquoise necklace and earrings. The eyes twinkled when she knew that he recognized her.

“But you can’t be,” Johnny whispered. “You must have a little sister.”

Natalie laughed. “Yes, of course, that must be it. And yet I gave you that song.” She stood. “I must go.”

“Please come back and sing for me again,” Johnny said.

She smiled. “I intend to sing for you all year.” She turned and walked toward the northern most hills. Johnny watched until he lost her in the rocks. The wind whistled through the valley and her harmony filled his ears. He grabbed a pen and his notebook from the truck and notated the music he heard. The sun dipped beneath the horizon as he finished. He waited in darkness wishing she would return.

* * *

Natalie returned every day, late in the afternoon. Each visit would begin and end with the song, the song she said she gave him. In between, they would talk, though Johnny began to realize that he talked more than Natalie did. She always made him feel that everything he said was the most important thing in the world. She listened.

“Were there a lot of women on the road?” She asked the question as he finished the Jackson Browne and Eagles tune “Take It Easy.” Her eyes held his.

“Yes,” Johnny said, and then he strummed a few chords. Heat rose to his face and he knew he blushed.

Natalie reached out a hand and silenced the strings. “Why are you embarrassed? Do you think I am unacquainted with sex?”

He studied Natalie’s face and realized that he guessed too low on her age. She had to be in her mid to upper twenties, which considering the urges he had toward her, brought her closer to his age. Twenty was too young. Sometimes, when she stared into his eyes, Johnny wondered if he were too young for her.

Johnny sighed. “There were too many women and every one of them was there for the wrong reasons,” he said. He studied his left hand, feeling his calluses ache. “No one wanted me, just who they thought I was.”

“That must have been lonely.” She moved her hand to his.

“It was,” Johnny said, whispering. He looked into her eyes and found compassion.

Natalie smiled. “I understand loneliness without being alone, Johnny. I understand.”

He leaned toward her and placed his lips to hers. She returned the kiss for a moment, then abruptly broke away and stood from the rock. “I must go,” she said.

“Why? Because I kissed you?”

“I have duties,” she said and walked away.

Johnny watched her. “I love you,” he said. The words left his mouth before he thought.

Natalie stopped and turned, smiling. “I know,” she said. “I will come to you.” A gust of wind brought a dust devil close and obscured her from Johnny’s sight. As the dust moved away, she was gone.

* * *

Johnny laid awake, thinking about Natalie. Four days passed and she did not return to the fields. He worried that he had scared her off. The kiss came too soon and maybe she was as young as she first appeared.

A breeze blew through the open window, rather cool for late May. The full moon cast a swath of light at the end of his bed. Shadows danced with the passing of clouds.

He gazed at the hills. Moonlight bathed the horizon and land, creating a surreal scene of enhanced areas of gray and areas pitch black in shadow. He turned at the sound of movement behind him.

Natalie stood, smiling, adorned in turquoise, silver, and abalone jewelry, which ringed her neck, wrists, and ankles. Her dark eyes sparkled in the moonlight that acted as a spotlight, enhancing her body, highlighting her nudity in contrasts of light and dark. Her face showed no youthful innocence. The body, full of angles and bony protuberances less than two weeks ago, displayed the shape of a mature woman. Rounded hips and perfect breasts captured Johnny’s attention. He took a deep breath and savored her beauty. For a moment, he wondered how she got inside his bedroom, but the thought vanished as she moved toward him and caressed his cheek.

He grabbed her hand and kissed it with tenderness. Natalie ran her other hand through his hair. She brought her lips to his and kissed him, alleviating Johnny of any thoughts but her presence. He pulled her down.

Johnny pulled back from a kiss. This woman could not be the teenager he met less than a month ago. Natalie was ageless beauty and truth. He longed for her and could not believe that she wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

“I love you,” he said.

Natalie nodded. “Your love is evident, Johnny. I’ve come to make sure that my love is also evident.” She kissed him and caressed his chest. “It has been so long since I have felt this way.”

Johnny wanted to tell her what he felt. He opened his mouth, but she placed her finger across his lips. She kissed him again and pulled him close, guiding him into her.

Hours later, he lay on his back, stroking her hair. Johnny watched her breathe and smelled her body, an intoxicating combination.

“I’ve chosen you, Johnny,” she said. “Your music drew me and your soul captured me.” Natalie kissed his chest and rose from the bed. “I must go for now, but I will return.”

“Stay with me,” Johnny said. “Please, don’t go.”

She kissed him. “You must sleep and I must prepare myself for this time with you. I will return, always.”

Natalie opened the bedroom door. Johnny heard her footsteps as they went down the stairs. The front door opened and he knew she was gone. He sat up and glanced out of the window. She walked toward the hills, but stopped and turned.

“I love you,” she said, her voice carried by the wind. Natalie disappeared into darkness as a cloud covered the moon.

Woman (Summer and Early Fall)

Johnny wiped his forehead of sweat, despite the air-conditioned truck cab. Natalie sat beside him as they stopped in front of his house. Manuel’s truck occupied a part of the driveway. Johnny was glad he had remembered to go the bank. He reached across Natalie, brushing her bare leg, sending a chill through his body. Retrieving the pay envelope, he stared at her.

She wore cutoff jeans and a cotton blouse made on the reservation, a gift from Johnny. Since that perfect night, Natalie had stayed with him until late every evening. When he slept she left.

Johnny watched with fascination as she breathed. Her attention centered on Manuel’s truck and the front door of the house. Natalie noticed his stare. He smiled, his mind not hiding his preferences for afternoon diversions. She raised an eyebrow.

“Later, lover,” she said. “As for now, you have visitors.”

“That’s just Manuel and James,” he said. “Every Friday at four,I pay them.”

“There is more,” Natalie said.

Johnny wanted to ask what she meant, but his front door opened and the two workers walked outside, laughing. He wondered why they had gone inside his house.

They got out of the truck and walked to the porch. Both men still grinned, though James lost his smile when he saw Natalie.

Johnny waved as the two workers walked down the steps to greet them. “Natalie, this is Manuel and James.” She nodded. “Guys, this is Natalie Whiteshell, the woman you saw walking in the hills about a month ago.”

“Whiteshell Woman,” James whispered.

“What,” Johnny asked?

Manuel cast a sharp glance toward James and spoke before Johnny could follow up on the question.

“This couldn’t be the girl we saw, Johnny,” Manuel said. “Miss Whiteshell is older, a woman for sure.” Manuel hesitated, and then said to Natalie, “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

“None taken,” she said, smiling. “Johnny, I’m going inside to get out of the heat.”

Johnny nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute.” He noticed the way James watched Natalie as she walked away. Is that fear in his eyes?

“Here’s your money,” Johnny said as the door closed. “What were you doing in the house? I’m not angry, just curious how you got inside.” Johnny trusted the two men. He knew they were honorable, both brought up in the old ways.

Manuel laughed. “Your grandfather’s here.”

Johnny smiled. “Pappy’s inside?”

“Yeah, we found him in town, coming out of a liquor store with three bottles of tequila,” Manuel said. “We gave him a ride and he kept us entertained with all the old stories.” He laughed. “He’s a treasure, that old man.”

“Yeah, he is,” Johnny said. “I’ll see you guys later.” He walked inside and saw a gray head thrown back with a shot of tequila draining from a glass. Natalie looked up and smiled.

“Pappy, what are you doing here?”

Charles Nobles slapped the glass onto a coffee table and stood. “Johnny, my boy, come give your old granddad a hug.”

He embraced the old man and received a bear hug he had not had from Pappy for years. When Pappy released him, he took a breath. “What’s happened? They throw you out of the home?” Johnny faked a stern look. “How many of those widows did you play off one another?”

Pappy swatted the air and sat down. He poured another tequila and downed it before he answered. “Got bored with all those old folks,” he said as he sucked a slice of lime. “Just wanted to get back out with the living.” His eyes betrayed sadness. “I wanted to come home for a while.”

“Why didn’t you call me? I’d have come for you.”

Pappy shrugged. “I can ride the bus.” He glanced at Natalie, who sat across the room. “Besides, I wasn’t sure if an old man would be wanted here.” He grinned.

“Pappy, this is your house,” Johnny said. “You’re welcome here as long as you want to stay. You don’t have to go back there. If you’ll remember, I was against it.”

“You were right.” He drank more tequila. “Now, as to this young lady, here, she looks familiar.”

“I’m sorry, Pappy. This is Natalie. Natalie, my grandfather.”

Natalie rose and offered her hand. “I am honored to meet you, sir.”

Pappy took her hand and grinned. “I think the honor is mine. Did you have a grandmother in the Navajo Nation a few decades ago?”

Natalie smiled and ignored the question, turning to Johnny. “Did you know your grandfather was a musician, Johnny? I asked him where you got your talent before we were formally introduced.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Johnny said. “Pappy, what did you play?”

Pappy sighed. “That was a long time ago, but Natalie reminded me of someone.” He stopped, eyes gazing at distant memories. “I played the flute, and not one of those new-fangled things. I played the traditional Navajo flute.”

Natalie reached behind her as if pulling something out of her pocket. “Like this one?” She produced a wooden instrument, intricate carving along the sides.

Pappy’s eyes grew wide. “Yes. Exactly.”

Natalie placed the flute in his hand. He put down the empty shot glass and studied it. After a moment, Pappy offered the flute back to Natalie. “It’s beautiful.”

Natalie smiled. “Play, Charles.”

Pappy scrunched his eyes together. Johnny heard echoes of a little girl’s demanding voice.

“You’re her,” Pappy said, barely audible.

Natalie smiled. “But that cannot be, can it?”

“No, it can’t.” Pappy stared at Natalie for a moment longer then brought the flute to his mouth and blew.

Johnny knew the melody, an octave higher than he had been playing on piano and guitar, but it would enhance the song. He watched as Pappy went through the four sections of the music, eyes closed, enraptured by the notes. When the song ended, Johnny saw tears in Pappy’s eyes. He wiped a few of his own and saw that Natalie cried as well.

They sat in silence. Johnny was confused. Pappy played the same song that came to him out of nowhere. He looked at Pappy, who stared at Natalie. Natalie stood up.

“I have to go,” she said, walking to the door.

Johnny jumped up to follow. “You don’t have to leave.”

“Yes,” she said. “You need to visit with your grandfather.” She smiled at Johnny, stroking his crest-fallen face. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He watched her walk into the night until she disappeared into the shadows. Johnny sighed and shut the door. He sat beside Pappy on the couch. The old man stared at the flute as if it was a relic of the past and he needed to know its significance.

“I was a young man,” Pappy said. “I used to play the flute sitting on a rock. I played that flute all the time. There were times when I was happiest on that rock watching the corn grow with my music. One spring day, a little girl appeared and commanded that I play. That was the song that came out.”

Pappy coughed and kept coughing. Johnny noticed the yellow glint of his skin. His hands and arms appeared bloated. Pappy poured another shot and downed it. The coughing gradually ended.

“She came back every day to listen. It was June before I realized that she grew older much faster than she should. She was a woman before I knew it and still she returned.” Pappy turned to Johnny.

“I had already met your grandmother, though, and we were married in July. The woman who had been a girl never returned.” He drank more tequila. “That’s who your young lady reminds me of, Johnny.” Pappy put a hand on the side of Johnny’s head. “Be careful, my son.” He reached for the tequila.

“Pappy, why don’t you go on to bed,” Johnny said. “You’ve had a long day.”

Pappy nodded and put the bottle back on the table. He stared at the flute. “Changing Woman,” he said in a whisper. “Asdzaan Nadleehe.”

* * *

Johnny convinced himself that as a child he heard Pappy play the song on the flute. The story of the young girl demanding a tune bothered him a little, but he rationalized that all children want to hear music and most can be quite demanding. Those issues did not bother him as much as Pappy’s appearance and behavior over the last month.

“He’s drinking too much,” Johnny said. “I’ve never known him to be a drunk.”

Natalie listened as the sun baked the ground around them. A hint of silver appeared around the edges of her hair, just a hint. “Have you asked him about it?”

Johnny nodded. “He says that he and tequila never did spend as much time together as either of them intended. Then, he laughed, which started a coughing spell. I asked him if he had seen a doctor. You know what he said?”

Natalie shook her head.

“He said that all the doctors he respected were dead.” Johnny sighed and stared into the cornfield. “I’m going to hide the tequila and make sure he can’t get any more.”

“Johnny, how old is Pappy?” She raised an eyebrow. “If he wants to stay drunk, then what business is it of yours?” She put her arm around his shoulder and squeezed. “Taking away the tequila will not bring him back, Johnny. He’s not the same man as when you were ten.”

Johnny stood and walked a few paces. His anger burned within.

“I can’t just let him drink himself to death,” Johnny said.

Natalie stood. “The tequila will not kill him.”

“It will if he doesn’t stop. He drank almost two bottles yesterday.” He balled his hands into fists. “It’s getting worse, Natalie.”

Natalie frowned. Johnny noticed a line or two around her eyes. She looked older when she was unhappy. She gazed into his eyes and then he saw her as always young.

“Johnny,” she said, enunciating each of her words. “The tequila will not kill him. If you take away the alcohol, then he will feel the pain.”

“What pain?” Johnny waited for an answer, but Natalie just stared. His eyes widened as he thought about her words.

“Oh my, God, he’s told you something,” he said. “He’s dying, isn’t he?” Natalie nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because he had the right to privacy,” she said. “You cannot help him to the other side.”

Johnny sat back against the rock and slid to the ground, head in his hands. Emptiness opened within his chest. He wanted to cry, but the tears refused to fall. He looked up at Natalie.

“I may not be able to help him with his death,” he said. “But I sure as hell can help while he lives.”

Johnny walked into the house behind Natalie. “Pappy?” He received no answer. For an instant fear gripped him. He thought he was too late and that Pappy had already died.

The sound of the flute filtered into the living room. He walked through the house to the back door and found Pappy lightly blowing into the wooden instrument. Johnny saw the huge effort Pappy suffered when playing the flute. Pappy coughed for a minute, and then stopped, turning. He looked at Johnny and then Natalie.

“He knows,” Natalie said. “I did not tell him. He figured it out on his own.”

Pappy nodded and slapped Johnny’s leg. Johnny sat beside him, laying a hand on the old man’s shoulder. Pappy smiled and blew into the flute. Natalie opened the door and put the Gibson in Johnny’s hands.

Pappy took his mouth away from the flute. “Asdzaan Nadleehe, will you be with me when I cross?”

“Yes, Charles,” Natalie said.

Pappy nodded and returned to playing the song. Johnny strummed the Gibson in reply to the melody of the flute.

“I’m scared, Johnny,” Pappy said between coughs. “If I go to sleep, I won’t wake up.”

Johnny fought back tears and grabbed Pappy’s hand. “I’m scared, too, Pappy.”

Pappy handed him the flute he had clutched. “The song is yours, Johnny. You’ll be all right.” He glanced past Johnny. “Won’t he, Asdzaan Nadleehe?”

“Yes, Charles,” Natalie said. She left the two men alone.

“I’m going to close my eyes for a little while,” Pappy said. “Good night, Johnny.” Pappy slept.

Johnny watched as the breathing became ragged and finally stopped. He stared as the color drained from Pappy’s face and he was sure he was gone. The tears he fought deserted him. An incredible sadness overtook Johnny, a grief he could not bear, so he shunted it aside in his shock.

Natalie laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve called the coroner,” she said. Johnny nodded. “I must go. He expects me.”

Johnny turned. “Go where?”

“I promised to help your grandfather pass through.”

“Pappy kept calling you Asdzaan Nadleehe,” Johnny said. He did not look at Natalie as he squeezed Pappy’s limp hand. “Who are you?”

“I am Changing Woman.” Natalie left.

Johnny stared after her, then sat beside Pappy’s body until the coroner came. He wanted to cry, but could not.

* * *

Johnny sat on the rock, watching as Manuel and James ran the combines in the fields. He had inspected the corn with Manuel before they started harvesting.

“You see how the leaves have browned and left the husks exposed?” Manuel grabbed an ear and pulled down one side of the hush. He pushed a fingernail into a kernel and juice spurted out. Manuel smiled and handed the corn to Johnny. “This is ready. We should be able to harvest this and get another crop planted at least a hundred days before the first frost.”

Johnny nodded. “Thanks, Manuel. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“We’re well paid,” Manuel said as he shrugged. He nodded at James and they started picking.

Johnny sat, thinking about Pappy and Natalie. He missed the old man. He brought the flute to his lips and blew. A flat note sounded. Johnny frowned. This could take some time to learn, he thought. He grabbed the Gibson and strummed the strings.

“Your heart is not in it.”

Johnny turned. Natalie stood at the edge of the field.

“Where have you been?”

Natalie sat on the rock beside him. “I tried to stay away,” she said. “I thought you might need time, to mourn for Pappy and to decide about me.”

Dust flew around them as the tractor passed close to them. Johnny saw James staring at Natalie as he drove past. Johnny stared at the hills surrounding his land, the land left to him by Pappy. White puffs ambled through the sky. He looked at Natalie.

Lines deepened on her face. Her hair silvered at the edges, but the eyes remained ageless. This woman bore a resemblance to the maiden and little girl of spring and early summer, but she blossomed full grown in a little over a month.

“I don’t know what to think,” he said. His insides trembled when she smiled. “All I know is I love you, whoever you are. I am less when you’re not here.” He placed the Gibson back into the case. “I have trouble believing in gods and Holy Ones.”

Natalie smiled. “You were not raised Dineh, Johnny,” she said. “Right now, I am a woman in love with you. And that’s all I am.”

He took her by the hand and helped her off the rock. Manuel waved, grinning. Johnny could not hide his own grin as he returned the wave, leading Natalie to the truck. They drove back to the house.

James and Manuel finished harvesting the crop in two days. By Friday, they had planted most of the fields before they came for their pay.

Johnny heard the truck as it drove into the gravel drive. He walked onto the porch as the men got out. James looked past Johnny toward the screen door. Johnny glanced behind him and saw Natalie. They waited beside the truck, making no effort to come to the house. Johnny frowned as he went to meet them.

“Here’s your pay,” Johnny said. “You guys want a beer?”

” She is here,” James said. “I would not impose.”

Manuel shot a worried look at James. “Yeah, I guess so.” He changed the subject. “Johnny, we planted all of the south fields and we’ll finish the north early next week.”

“That’s great,” Johnny said. “Our buyer is coming after the corn tomorrow, so next week, I’m giving both of you a major bonus for all the hard work. You’ve been more like partners than workers.”

Manuel’s mouth fell open. Even James lost his worried look and tore his eyes away from the screen door.

“You’ve earned the bonus,” he said. “You sure you don’t want that beer?”

They declined, but in a more cheerful way. The two men expressed their gratitude as they climbed back into the truck and drove away. Johnny smiled as he walked into the house.

“They appeared quite happy when they left,” Natalie said.

“I’m giving them each a one-third share of the profits,” Johnny said. “They’ve done all the work. The only reason I grew corn in the first place was that Pappy had for all these years. And I don’t need the money. They do.”

Natalie kissed him.

* * *

They went to the rock every day. Natalie gave Johnny lessons on playing Pappy’s flute. After a couple of weeks, he had learned the song well enough to lay down a few tracks in the studio. He brought the recording to the fields and played it.

“That’s it,” Natalie said. “Now what?”

Johnny grinned and shook his head. “Now, nothing. The words for this song just haven’t come. I know they’re there, because I catch snippets in my head as I’m playing. They just fade away.”

“Does the song have to have words?” She smiled.

Johnny thought she taunted him, but considered the question. “No, I don’t guess it does. My agent told me to send what I had. Maybe I’ll send it.”

Natalie looked away. Johnny studied the side of her face. One strand of hair had turned white. A few more lines appeared around her eyes, but she was a beauty. Johnny ignored the signs of age, ignoring also the questions forming in his mind.

“Do you still miss the audience, Johnny?” Natalie did not look his way. “Do you miss the women?”

“There is no woman, but you,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She shrugged the hand off. “Answer the first question!” she said, as she stared into his eyes. Her demand went deeper than words.

“Yes, I miss the audience,” Johnny said. He dropped his chin to his chest. “I miss performing.”

“Then send the song to Peter,” Natalie said. “I could not stand in your way.” She stood and walked into the corn, which rose to her ankles.

Johnny started to go after her, but knew she preferred to be alone. He watched until she faded into the hills.

He took the disc to the post office after he left the fields. Johnny wondered if Natalie knew he had the envelope ready to send. Does she worry about losing me?

He sat in bed waiting for her, but went to sleep around midnight. His eyes popped open staring at the clock. A flute played in the distance, beckoning Johnny to follow the sound. He tried to fight the urge, but he grabbed pants, shirt, and shoes. He felt drawn toward the corn.

He stopped the truck, and in the lights, he saw Natalie dressed in the traditional blue cotton dress. A man stood next to her, much taller and dressed in anything but traditional Navajo clothing. A white silk shirt with billowing sleeves added a grace to his motions and toned down the hump on his back. Black pants and tennis shoes completed the fashion statement. Johnny got out of the truck, focusing on Natalie and the man.

“Oops, cousin,” the man said. “I didn’t know you were here. Now, I know why I came to this place.”

“Do realize what you’re doing?” Natalie sounded angry.

The man laughed. “Oh yes, I think I do.” He saw Johnny. “He’s not Dineh, Naddie. I am both surprised and pleased. You have always been too traditional. That’s why you’re tied here you know. Corn Woman and I don’t have that problem.”

Natalie stomped her foot. Johnny felt a rumble through the Earth. “Don’t change the subject, Kokopelli,” she said. “I’m too old for children.”

“No, you’re not,” the man said. He backed into the corn and was hidden by the tall stalks.

“Tall stalks?” Johnny stopped and stared. The corn that was at Natalie’s ankles this morning was now seven feet tall, at least. “What the hell is going on here?”

Natalie stared into the stalks. “You’ll pay for this.” Laughter answered her. She shook her head and looked up at Johnny. “We have no choice, now.”

“Who was that? What did he do to my corn?”

Natalie raised a hand for silence. Johnny looked at her and forgot about the corn or the man who had been arguing with her. Her hair sparkled in the moonlight. The dress swirled in the breeze, providing glimpses of her thighs.

“That was a cousin of mine, the meddler,” Natalie said. She grabbed an ear of corn and pulled back the husk. She pierced a kernel and juice spurted. “As for your corn, Kokopelli makes things reproduce. I think you better pick this crop Monday.” She grinned. “I really want to hear your explanation to Manuel and James.”

Johnny heard the words, but they did not register. “What?”

Natalie laughed. “Nothing. I have the same urge you do, damn that cousin of mine. Do you have that blanket in the truck?”

“Blanket?” Johnny’s eyes widened. “Oh, yeah.”

* * *

Natalie stayed in bed all day Saturday, too sick to move. Retching woke Johnny early that morning.

“Natalie, are you all right?”

Another retch exploded. “I’m going to kill Kokopelli, when I catch him,” she yelled between bouts of throwing up. “Go back to bed, Johnny,” she said. “This will pass.”

She felt better later that afternoon. Johnny went to the drugstore and bought something to help with nausea. Natalie looked at the bottle and her face turned pale.

“You don’t expect me to put that in my body,” she said.

Johnny looked confused. “Well, yeah,” he said. “It’s supposed to help.”

“You want to help me?” Natalie waited for Johnny to nod. “Good, then go to the rock, play the guitar and flute.” Before he would leave, she assured him that she was not angry, but she needed to be alone for a while. Johnny left.

Natalie stood on the front porch when he returned. Her face glowed and her body held a little more weight than usual. He kissed her. “How are you?”

“I’m better,” she said. He asked if she had eaten. She shook her head. “No, I don’t need food.”

“Okay, I was just asking,” he said.

She laughed. “I’m sorry. I have to go for now, but I’ll be back.” Natalie sighed. “I have to be back by Monday.”

“You’ve been sick,” he said. “Can’t it wait for a few days?”

“No, I must go.”

Johnny knew better than to argue.

James and Manuel arrived early on Monday morning, which surprised Johnny since he had not called. “Good morning,” Johnny said. “I was going to call you two.”

The two men stopped at the bottom step of the porch. “Hi, Johnny,” Manuel said. “We got a message that you wanted to see us. Natalie told my wife yesterday at a Blessingway.”

Johnny walked down the steps and leaned against his truck. “She saw Natalie?”

“Yes,” Manuel said.

“We would have come in any case,” James said. “I saw your corn yesterday.”

“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” Johnny said. He told them what had happened. “Natalie said her cousin did that.”

James looked away before he spoke. “What was this cousin’s name?”

Johnny scratched his head. “Koko-something.”

“Kokopelli,” James said.

Manuel looked pained. “James, don’t start that.”

“What better proof?” James almost screamed the question. “Corn fields throughout Navajo land grew overnight. Nothing like this has happened in generations. She called Kokopelli a cousin.”

“Other farms experienced the same thing,” Johnny said. “Must be a freak occurrence. I wonder if that corn is safe to eat.”

James looked Johnny in the eyes. “It is safe, and probably the best corn anyone will ever taste. Kokopelli drives the harvest. Where he appears, the corn matures and babies are born.”

“I have a hard time believing that an old god has returned,” Manuel said. “It just doesn’t happen.”

James looked into the distance before replying. “You spent too many years away, Manuel. You think like a bilagaana. Don’t you remember the Holy People visited that old witch in the mountains a few years ago?” He turned to Johnny. “Your corn field is the only land off the Navajo Nation that received Kokopelli’s visit. That’s because of Changing Woman.”

Johnny started to speak, but stopped. Natalie walked up the driveway to the house. Her face sparkled in the morning sun, but Johnny noticed roundness to her abdomen that had not been there when she left.

“Natalie, are you all right? What’s happened?”

She frowned at the questions. “I am in a perfectly natural state, Johnny.” She glanced at her stomach. “What does it look like has happened?”

Her body remained thin everywhere except her stomach. Johnny thought about the nausea she experienced Saturday morning. But that’s not possible, he thought.

Natalie nodded at Manuel and James. “They know, Johnny,” she said. “Don’t you, James?”

“Kokopelli,” James said, not meeting her eyes. “And you are Asdzaan Nadleehe, Changing Woman.”

Natalie smiled. “Were you with your wives Friday night when Kokopelli visited?” Both men nodded. Manuel appeared uncomfortable, but James displayed respect. She smiled. “Congratulations, you will both be fathers again.”

Natalie walked to Johnny and kissed him on the cheek. He felt the firmness of her belly. “You will have to wait longer than Johnny and I, but our children will grow together.”

“You’re pregnant,” Johnny said. “How can you be pregnant?”

Natalie laughed. “I think you’re old enough to understand how I became pregnant.”

“But I’ve only known you a couple of months,” Johnny said. He thought for a moment. “It’s not mine. It can’t be. And how did you hide it for so long?”

Natalie caressed his face but Johnny did not pull away. He didn’t care who fathered the child. He loved Natalie.

“I know you don’t understand, my love. Believe me when I say that I carry your son within my womb. He was conceived Friday night.” Natalie held Johnny’s stare for a moment, and then turned to James.

“Would you bring your wives to help? Johnny will be useless.”

James and Manuel nodded and left.

“I need to rest, Johnny,” she said. “Help me up the steps.”

Johnny guided her to the bedroom. Questions demanded asking, but he fought the urge. She removed her clothes and lay in the bed. For the first time since he’d known her, Johnny saw that Natalie slept. He kissed her cheek and waited on the porch.

* * *

Johnny watched his two-week old son sleeping in the crib. He heard the droning of the news channels in the living room. Natalie watched them every night, now that the boy was born. Johnny watched the boy breathe.

Natalie insisted he be named Charles, after Pappy. Johnny grinned as he thought of Pappy. He would have loved to have a great-grandchild. He would have burst out of his shirt with pride to have a namesake. Natalie said Pappy knew. Johnny could not doubt her. He frowned as he remembered.

“So, I am in love with a goddess,” Johnny had said after the birth. “Pappy called you Asdzaan Nadleehe. James concurred. You —no, we— have a child, which you tell me was conceived only three days before its birth. Is that about right? I’m in love with a goddess?”

Natalie’s face showed the strain of the birth and Johnny’s question. Young Charles suckled at his mother’s breast. Her milk dried up before the next feeding, sending Johnny racing to the nearest grocery story. Finally, Natalie sighed and answered.

“Are you in love with a goddess? Yeah, I guess I qualify. I am Changing Woman, with an emphasis on the ‘Woman’ part when it comes to you.”

Charles looked around the room as he quit feeding. His dark eyes found Johnny and twinkled. The infant smiled and laughed. Maybe it was gas. Johnny knew it was mirth.

Johnny shook his head. “I just can’t grasp the concept. I did not grow up in Navajo Nation, so I am not privy to the inner workings of traditional beliefs. Never been a devout anything.” He rubbed Charles’s stomach and heard the baby coo. “What does a goddess see in an average man?”

“My love, you are far from average,” she said. “I was drawn by your music.” She smile and put her hand on his. “I stayed because of you.”

Johnny rubbed his face with his hands, breaking contact with her. “I don’t know what to believe. It’s obvious the Navajo believe you, but this is so far outside my experience.”

“Johnny, how old was I when we first met?”

He studied Natalie’s face. Her eyes, temples, and forehead show the obvious signs of aging. Her hair faded as the summer wound through June and started July. Her breasts did not stand as firm as they had a month earlier. But her smile and voice belied the other features.

“I thought you were about seventeen,” he said. “I was wrong. You had to be older.”

“I was about ten when I first spoke to you in March,” Natalie said.

Johnny heard the little girl demand that he play. He remembered her eyes, the same eyes that stared at him now. Johnny wanted to reject the thought, but he could not.

“So, I am in love with a goddess,” he said.

Natalie shrugged, embarrassed. “Yeah, you are.”

The phone rang, startling Johnny back to the present. He grabbed the receiver before it woke the baby. “Yeah?”

“Johnny? It’s Peter.”

Charles yawned and let out a small whimper, but went back to sleep. Johnny remembered the phone.

“Peter?” he asked. “Peter who?”

For a moment, silence greeted his question. “Your agent, Johnny. Peter Wilson? Remember me?”

It took a moment, but the words registered. “Peter, I’m sorry,” Johnny said. “I was watching my son, hoping the phone didn’t wake him.”

“When did you have a son? What the hell’s going on out there in Texas, Johnny?”

“I’m in Arizona, Peter. New Mexico separates me from Texas.”

“Right, Arizona,” Peter said. “Look, I got the CD you sent. There’s some great stuff on there, Johnny. Well, at least good enough to get you a gig.”

“A gig?” Johnny focused on the phone call. “What type of gig?”

“Duane McAllister heard the CD and wants you to open for him when he tours this fall,” Peter said. “Just you and your guitar for a forty-five-minute set. He wants a soft opening before his band comes out. Then you sit in with his band for a number of tunes. The original act broke a leg, and you’ll replace him until winter. It’s a start back down the road, Johnny, my boy.”

“Duane McAllister plays arenas,” Johnny said. “An acoustic opening will get lost in that venue.”

“That’s the best part, Johnny,” Peter said, punctuated with a laugh. “Duane’s getting back to his roots. The tour is small clubs and theaters, which is a perfect comeback for you.”

Johnny saw Charles move. “I have a son, Peter. I’ve got to take care of him.”

“Bring him along. You can hire a nanny. Or better yet, bring the mother, if you haven’t dumped her.”

He ignored the last statement. Two years ago, Peter would have been right. Johnny changed the subject.

“When do I need to be there?”

“This Friday, I need you in LA, baby,” Peter said. “If this works out I can get you studio time and maybe a new contract.”

“I’ll be there.” Johnny hung up and smiled at Charles. “We’re going to Los Angeles.” The baby blew spittle out of his mouth and closed his eyes. Johnny went into the living room.

“Natalie, guess what?”

She did not turn, but she clicked off the television. “I’ve avoided that over the years, watching the news, finding out anything about the outside world. How can people look in their mirrors? They kill each other for no reason.” She shrugged. “But then the ground has always been fertilized with blood.”

Johnny sat beside her on the couch. His excitement about the job waned with her assessment. She smiled, but he saw the sadness behind her eyes. She knows about the gig, he thought.

“You’re leaving,” she said. Natalie spoke with no anger, just a simple declarative.

“That was Peter on the phone. He’s got me a gig. We leave for Los Angeles tomorrow.”

Natalie nodded. “You leave tomorrow. I cannot go with you. I don’t exist outside of this sacred land.”

Johnny’s heart dropped. When he accepted the gig, he had not thought of her and the boy. “Natalie, please come with me.”

She placed a hand on Johnny’s face. “I can’t, Johnny. No one outside Navajo land believes in me. I don’t exist out there. I don’t belong out there. I belong here. Kokopelli was right when he said I was tied to this land, to Dineh. But you must go and you must take Charles with you, because it won’t be long before I will not be able to care for him.”

He sat in silence for a moment. “I’m calling Peter. I can’t take the gig. I don’t want to be without you.”

Natalie smiled. “Don’t be obtuse. You are going because if you don’t go, if you don’t communicate with that audience, then you’ll always wonder. After a while, you’ll resent me and I will not have that. You must go, so you will know.” She pushed her way into his arms. “Johnny, I’d rather lose you for a little while, rather than risk losing you forever.”

Crone (Late Fall)

December snow fell on the streets. He walked into the hotel after returning from the show, tired and unhappy. The concerts had gone well, but a feeling of something missing increased with each day he stayed away.

Natalie waited at home. According to Manuel, she lived there. James and his wife moved in to take care of her. Her voice sounded weaker and more cracked every time he talked with her. His heart broke with each phone call. Johnny sighed in exhaustion.

The nanny he hired kept Charles in her room, for which he was grateful. Johnny needed the sleep. The tour had finished in Columbus and they had been on the road for weeks without a break. His cell phone rang as he got onto the elevator. He recognized the number and sighed.

“Hi, Peter.”

“Johnny, you’ve done a great job, I hear,” Peter said. “Duane wants you to stay with the tour, I think.”

Johnny let out a long breath. He was tired and wanted to be home. His thoughts were constantly on Natalie. Even the audiences could not motivate his performance. He had come on the tour to rediscover his talent. Johnny found that what he wanted did not exist in this world.

“Johnny, are you still there? This is the opportunity you’ve been wanting.”

“I’m going home to Arizona,” Johnny said, vocalizing his feelings for the first time. “I’m going home to Natalie.”

“What?” Peter’s anger burst through the phone. “After I worked so hard to get you this chance? You don’t mean that.”

“I do mean it, Peter,” he said. “I’m going back into retirement as a performer. Duane has said he would be interested in hearing any songs I write.”

Peter kept silent for a moment. “Look, take off a couple of weeks, and then rejoin the tour after the New Year.”

“Peter, I was signed to fill in until December. I’ve kept my part of the contract. I find that I don’t crave the performance as much as I thought I did. I don’t want to come back and I do not have to come back.” He hung up the phone and ignored Peter’s return calls.

Johnny stopped at his hotel room door and turned around. He went to the nanny’s room and picked up Charles. He needed his son more than he needed sleep.

Some things are just more important, he thought.

* * *

The sky threatened snow for the official start of winter. Clouds rolled in from the southwest, and the wind ushered cold air into the valley. Manuel had picked him up from the airport and they drove to his house without conversation. Manuel did not know what to say. Johnny had nothing to say. He thought about Natalie.

James told him that she looked frail, but he would say nothing else. Johnny understood; James was a traditionalist. Natalie was more than a woman to him; she was a holy relic. The hills and mesas paraded by the window, and after a long while, Manuel turned the old car into Johnny’s driveway. Natalie sat in a rocking chair on the front porch.

“She’s been sitting out there waiting for you for days,” Manuel said. Johnny nodded. “I’ll get your things. You get the baby.”

“Thanks, Manuel,” Johnny said. “I need to thank James and his wife, too.”

“You already have, Johnny,” Manuel said as he got out of the car.

Johnny gathered Charles into his arms and made sure that the coat was buttoned as far as it would button. He pulled the hat down over the child’s head.

Natalie sat in the rocking chair wrapped in a shawl. A blanket covered her legs. Her hair blew with the north wind, white strands flying around her face. Wrinkles massed around her eyes and mouth, but both hinted at the young girl buried within age. Her face was gaunt and her fingers protruded from her hands like bony spikes. Johnny smiled.

“Don’t you think you should get inside?”

“Johnny, I’m so glad you made it home,” she said. She pushed the shawl and blanket from her, letting them fall to the wooden floor. She struggled, but managed to stand on her own. “Bring Charles and let me see him.”

Johnny complied. Charles giggled and laughed at Natalie. The child recognized his mother, despite her appearance. Natalie wiped away a tear.

“Take him inside and warm him,” she said. “But come back because time is short. The old sun is setting and I must meet him at the horizon.”

Johnny said hello to James and his wife, placing Charles in their care. When he returned to the porch, Natalie stood, bent and cragged, staring toward the west.

“I love you, Johnny.” She turned and transformed into the young maiden he met seven months earlier. “I do not wish to leave.”

“Then don’t,” Johnny said. “Stay with me through the winter.”

She walked into his arms, kissing him with all of her attention. She pulled back, smiling. “You still don’t understand, do you?” Natalie kissed his cheek and walked to the edge of the porch. When she turned, the old woman had returned.

“This is the way it must be,” she said. “I must go now.” She took a step toward the steps. “Help me down, please.”

Johnny ran to her and let her put her weight, her insubstantial weight, on him. They got to the ground and she smiled.

Johnny put his arms around Natalie. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you and Charles,” she said. “Can you stand the pain?”

“Can you, Natalie?” Johnny squeezed, but not tightly. He didn’t want to crush the frail body in his arms. “I can stand it if you can.”

She pushed away. Her eyes glowed with wisdom and years, but they were the same eyes he saw in a small girl. “It’s time.”

She turned and walked away. Johnny watched as she became smaller with distance. Her hobble made the walk slow and almost unbearable. Natalie stopped at the top of a hill and raised her arms toward the sun setting behind gray clouds. She collapsed.

Fear flooded through Johnny as he saw her fall. He took a few steps toward his truck, but remembered that this was her way, not his. He stared toward the mound of clothing and flesh. As the last rays of diffuse light escaped behind the western hill, he thought he saw something crawl over the edge.

He watched the horizon for hours after darkness covered the hills. The words flowed into his brain. When he could not ignore them, Johnny walked inside and added them to the song.

Child (Early Spring)

Johnny worked on the row of small stalks near the rock. Sweat poured off his face, sucked up by the ground as it dripped off his nose. This year he decided he would work the fields his grandfather gave him. He heard muffled laughter and looked up to see Manuel and James grinning.

“Are you going to hoe that row for another hour?” Manuel asked. “I think everything’s okay in that particular spot by now.”

Johnny leaned against the hoe and studied the ground. Manuel was right. “I’ve been thinking how to tell you two something.” He walked over to the rock and leaned. “Are you guys taking on extra work this year?”

Manuel shook his head. “With you sharing last year’s profits, we don’t have to,” he said. Johnny saw worry and doubt creep into Manuel’s eyes. “Should we?”

“No, no, that’s good,” Johnny said. “So did both of you put some money back for the growing season this year?” He saw their tentative nods. “Good because I’m not going to pay you a salary for working the farm.”

“Pardon me?” James looked away.

“Hear me out,” Johnny said. He glanced over the fields and at the hills surrounding them. She’s here, he thought. She’s always here.

“My grandfather gave this land to me and I will leave it to my son one day, but the farm is another issue. That’s a business and I need good partners. If you agree, I’m going to formalize what we did last year. Of course that means that you take one-third of the risk, also.”

Johnny saw two mouths open in shock.

“Well?” James and Manuel agreed, still stunned. “Oh and if anything comes up, let me know. I can still advance money. We have an operating loan this year as well as crop insurance.”

“Thank you, Johnny,” Manuel said. He opened his mouth, but words failed him. James nodded.

“One more thing,” Johnny said. “I want both of you to take some time off when those two babies come in April.”

“Maybe a day or two,” James said. “But my wife would kill me if we left the farm in your hands for too long.”

They laughed. James cocked his head at a sound in the fields. Something moved. Johnny heard it. Johnny’s partners finished their business with agreeing to meet later that week. Neither wanted a signed contract, they took Johnny’s word. Johnny told them that articles of incorporation would satisfy the legalities. James grabbed Manuel’s arm when the sound came again, much closer than the first. The two men left.

Johnny threw the hoe in the back of the truck and grabbed the Gibson. Sitting on the rock, he played the song Natalie gave him last year, singing the new words.

A little girl came to the edge of the field as he finished the song. “That’s beautiful.”

“It’s also a hit,” Johnny said, not looking at her. “Duane McAl

lister wanted to record it and I let him.”

Johnny turned to her and smiled. She wore a blue dress and shirt. Her skin reflected the sunlight. She was a beautiful little girl. For a moment, an image of the maiden, woman, and the old woman superimposed on the little girl, but the vision vanished as quickly as it came.

“Hello, Natalie,” he said. “I’ve been waiting. You need to go see your son. He’s at the house with his nanny.”

The little girl giggled, but nodded. The wise eyes stared as she smiled. “Play, Johnny. Play the song again.”

* * *

Terry Bramlett is the author of Formidable Enemy.

The Realm of Words

Written by Eric Flint

Illustrated by Luis Peres

1

Damn Les Six. The way I see it, it’s all their fault. Sure, you could blame Wolfgang. Humans would. That’s because their minds are twisted and whenever disaster strikes —which for them, is about twelve times a day— they’re always trying to figure out who’s to blame by looking to see who caused it.

Idiots, the lot of them. The more educated they are, the worse. The real eggheads among them go so far as to prate on and on about the sufficient versus the necessary cause— blah! blah!

Who cares who causes a disaster? What’s important is— who’s responsible for getting me caught in the middle of it?

The lousy drunks, that’s who. Ever since we arrived in the Mutt, Les Six have been acting like the world’s just one giant party. Yesterday they kept me fetching alepots until midnight. And they started drinking at noon!

True, I didn’t have to listen to the windbag today. I don’t care what Magrit says about the so-called “best actual sorcerer in the world.” Zulkeh is a windbag, windbag, windbag, windbag. That’s it —pure and simple— question closed.

But it wasn’t all that great. The reason I didn’t have to listen to the windbag is because Zulkeh was holed up all day with the other windbags, plotting some idiot scheme to travel to the “Realm of Words.”

No kidding. I’m serious. Can you believe it? Why would they need to travel to the Realm of Words when they already live in it twenty-four hours a day? Not only that! Everybody else seems to think this project is a really grand old idea— Magrit and Gwendolyn were talking about it all day! And when Les Six finally stumbled into the salon around mid-afternoon, bellyaching about their hangovers (for which, naturally, the only cure is more drink— Wittgenstein! fetch us some alepots!), no sooner do they let out their first collective belch than they start prattling about the prattler’s project!

I’m not sure what’s worse— listening to a windbag talk or listening to people talk about a windbag.

Then, of course, once Magrit saw Les Six knocking back their alepots, naturally she suddenly developed an overwhelming thirst. Even Gwendolyn got in on the act. So there I was, racing back and forth all day from the salon to the kitchen fetching alepots, when if it hadn’t been for the souses I would have been somewhere else, when Wolfgang ambled into the room.

At first, I was a little relieved. It’d mean more alepots, of course, but I figured Wolfgang’s babble would distract the others from babbling. And I’d rather listen to a babbling idiot than to idiots babbling.

Besides, I was hoping Wolfgang would start feeling Magrit up and the next thing you’d know, they’d be off to the sack. Then Gwendolyn’d leave, and I’d only have to fetch alepots for Les Six.

I had every reason to hope, too. She’s a proper witch, Magrit, I’d be the last to deny it, but she’s also a complete slut. Of course, they’re all sluts, human beings— male and female both. Never act rationally about sex, the way amphibians do. Civilized, we are. A clutch of eggs in the water, a quick spray of sperm, and that’s it. None of this sloppy disgusting stuff— and they say we’re slimy! But, I suppose you can’t blame them, handicapped by nature the way they are. Evolution reached its peak in the Age of Amphibians, and it’s all been downhill since. Humans are just a stupid accident of history. Hadn’t been for that comet—

Well, what’s past is past. Anyway, it didn’t work out that way, because no sooner did he sit down than Wolfgang started moaning and wailing that the dwarf Shelyid —he’s the windbag’s apprentice— and the two Kutumoff brats had gone after the windbag into the Realm of Words. (I’d thought better of that little guy. But he’s only human, even if he is a dwarf.)

Uproar! Uproar! Uproar!

I could see the disaster coming, and there I was! I started looking for a mousehole but I was handicapped what with the alepots I was carrying. Before I could dump them Magrit snatched me up.

“No you don’t, you mangy little lizard!” she hollered, adding insult to injury. “You’re coming with me!”

“Where?” I demanded, as if I didn’t know.

“We’ve got to go rescue the poor little tykes!”

Me, I would have let natural selection take its course. And what was the fretting for, anyway? If Shelyid had survived years in the company of the windbag, I didn’t see where a little trip to the Realm of Words could hurt him any. And what did I care about the Kutumoff brats? The boy was about as interesting as an encyclopedia, and the girl— well, if Polly Kutumoff had been a proper salamandress, of course, I’d have told all kind of lies about being the most degenerate salamander who ever lived so’s I could cash in on the Kutumoff Grand Old Tradition, but the truth is that swaying hips and batting eyelashes don’t do a thing for amphibians.

I tried to explain all of this to Magrit, but she wasn’t having any of it and Gwendolyn was getting downright peevish with me. So I shut up. I’ll take my chances with Magrit, but Gwendolyn’s a different story. Woman scares me and every amphibian I know. Even the dumb frogs down at the Old Mill Pond call her The Knife. (Her knife itself they call the Edge of the Known Universe.)

Now everybody was charging around all over the Kutumoff mansion. The Kutumoff elders showed up, demanding to know what all the ruckus was about. When they heard, Madame Kutumoff immediately started wailing and wringing her hands. (Best hand-wringer I’ve ever seen, by the way. Really world class.) Papa Kutumoff, on the other hand, reacted kind of oddly. He just got this little smile on his face and wandered off muttering something about his boy getting into his first real scrape and his girl being a chip off the old block. Whatever that means.

For a while I started getting my hopes back up, because soon enough it became clear than nobody had any idea exactly how they were supposed to carry out this “rescue.” First they charged over to Uncle Manya’s mini-mansion and stormed into his library and started ransacking all his papers until they found the windbag Zulkeh’s formula lying right there in plain sight on top of the desk where I’d seen it straight off but kept my mouth shut. Then they tried to read the formula and was that ever a laugh! Humans are all windbags at heart, but there’s still a whale of a difference between the Genuine Article like the wizard Zulkeh and a bunch of boozy wannabes.

Then they charged back to the Kutumoff macro-mansion and stormed upstairs into Magrit’s room and Magrit started consulting her grimoire and brewing up potions and what not and was that ever a laugh! Mind you, the old witch is one of your all-time potioneers. She could whip up something that’d make a scorpion fall in love with a rock and the scorpion would die of heartbreak because she’d whip up something else that’d cause the rock to have a heart attack. But travel to the Realm of words? No, no, no, no, no, no. No such potion. No such spell. No such hex.

That requires Grade A, officially-approved, pedigreed, certified, documented, diploma-ed, Zulkeh-style WINDBAGGERY.

But then, just as I was starting to feel relieved, I also started getting a bad feeling. Some of that came from watching Gwendolyn, who, since she doesn’t know zip about magic wasn’t trying to figure out a way to travel to the Realm of Words but was just relieving her tension by sharpening her knife which is already as sharp as a razor and I could tell she was getting to the point where she was just going to have to try the edge on something and whenever humans get to that point it seems they always remember that you can cut off an amphibian’s tail without doing any “real damage” since the tail will grow back, which is true, but it hurts.

But mostly it was because I had a bad feeling about Wolfgang, on account of the way he was drooling.

Now, your humans always think that since Wolfgang’s a drooling maniac and he always drools that it doesn’t mean anything. But what’ll fool a dumb human won’t fool a salamander for a minute. There’s drool, and there’s drool. Even people who ought to know better don’t really listen to the lunatic when he tries to tell them about the twin powers of madness and amnesia. But I know that particular drool that he always starts doing whenever he’s going to spring some sly one. It’s especially disgusting, even for Wolfgang’s drool, which is especially disgusting, even for an amphibian who doesn’t have that silly human aversion to slime.

But it was obvious to me. I didn’t know the ins and outs of it, of course. After all, I’m as sane as a salamander! But one thing was clear as a bell.

Wolfgang Laebmauntsforscynnewe’ld was about to spring something. And whatever it was, it was going to be crazy.

Really crazy. I mean— demented.

Sure enough, Wolfgang suddenly started raving about applying his twin powers of madness and amnesia and Magrit blew her stack at him and Wolfgang got insulted and started whining.

“Well, I was going to go with you, but since you’re going to be that way about it you’ll just have to go without me! And it’s just as well! Doctor Wolfgang Laebmauntsforscynnewe’ld has an upcoming appointment with God’s Own Tooth himself, you know, and he insisted that I had to come along. Of course, I escaped from the asylum so I wasn’t going to go but now I think I will! So there!”

Magrit started hollering that he was a crazy lunatic and what did he know and Wolfgang started smirking and then —I knew it!— he started babbling in an unknown tongue.

I hate it when he does that. Magrit hates it too, because she can’t understand him. That’s the only part I like about it. I hate it because past experience has taught me that when Wolfgang starts babbling in an unknown tongue sometimes it’s just because he’s an idiot and other times it’s because he’s applying his twin powers of madness and amnesia and humans can laugh at him but not me because—

— everything started getting hazy!

The universe started spinning around!

I heard voices everywhere!

* * *

Sure enough. There we were. Not Wolfgang, just like he promised. But there was Magrit, and Les Six, and Gwendolyn —all of whom deserved it— and there was me, who didn’t.

In the Realm of Words.

2

Only humans would come up with a name like that. Sounds majestic, doesn’t it— the “realm,” no less. And—oh!—so refined!—”of words,” no less.

Let a salamander tell you the truth.

The Realm of Words, at first sight, is nothing but a barren desert stretching in every direction as far as the eye can see, and that’s very very very far indeed on account of there is no actual horizon in the Realm of Words due to the fact that (as it might fairly be called by a clear-headed amphibian) Blatherland is flat.

You heard me. Flat— as in, not round; as in, not a sphere but a table.

How far does it stretch? Who knows? Who cares?

There is neither day nor night, since there is no sun. Light is provided by the Great Lamp in the Sky, which may either be fifty miles high and five miles wide or fifty miles wide and five hundred miles high or— your guess is as good as mine. No doubt the windbag Zulkeh would have performed experiments, but none of the company I was with was so inclined.

At second glance, the barren desert was not entirely barren. At a great distance, we spotted some mounds. Since they were the only thing visible on the plain, we headed off in that direction.

As we got closer, the mounds resolved themselves into great piles of letters. Great piles of the letter O, to be precise, stacked up in pyramids:

o o o

ooo ooo ooo

ooooo ooooo ooooo

ooooooo ooooooo ooooooo

After we stared at these piles for a bit, trying to figure out what they were, we heard a whimpering noise coming from underneath one of them. We investigated. (Rather: I watched; Magrit bossed; Gwendolyn and Les Six rummaged around.) Soon enough, Gwendolyn crawled out from under the pile holding two little p letters and one big one that looked kind of scarred up, like this: “. The little ones were wailing and the big one was blubbering “don’t kill us, don’t kill us!”

“I’m not going to kill you,” growled Gwendolyn. That set them all wailing even louder, which isn’t surprising if you’ve ever heard Gwendolyn growl.

“And there’s no way to kill a letter, anyhow,” added Magrit.

“Is too,” sniveled a little p.

“You chop ‘em wid a knife,” sniveled the other, “just like the one the big mean lady has.”

“Just like happened to everyP else,” sniveled the P.

We stared at the piles of Os.

(Hell with it; looks silly; I hereby declare that the plural of O is Oes.).

“You mean— ” exclaimed Magrit.

“It was the Horde what done it!” cried out the P. “Massacred ‘em all! Made a pyramid of their heads! Me and the little ones is all that survived, because I hid them under me and the Horde thought I was dead.”

A sad tale, a sad tale— but then! Will wonders ever cease? Of a sudden, all the piles of Oes started quivering and jerking around and suddenly collapsed into a great disgusting mass of Oes squirming and squiggling all over the landscape.

“Look! They’re not dead!” shrieked one of the little ps.

(Looks silly; I hereby declare that the plural of p is pees.)

(No, looks obscene; I hereby declare that the plural of p is pese.)

“Ghosts!” shrieked the other.

“Oh, stop that!” snapped one of the Oes. “We’re not ghosts, we’re Oes.”

It seemed to examined itself. I think; hard to tell; no eyes.

“Yuck!” it exclaimed. “How are the mighty fallen!” Then, philosophically: “Could have been worse, I suppose. They might have split us lengthwise and made us all into Fs.” It shuddered. (And there’s a nauseating sight, let me tell you, watching an O shudder.) “A fate worse than death!”

“Look on the bright side!” exclaimed another of the newly-revived Oes. “They always say vowels have more fun!”

In an instant, the cry went up, and before you knew it the whole teeming mass of Oes were— what? Let’s just say they seemed to be having an orgy and leave it at that. Hard to tell, really.

“Don’t watch, children!” hissed the surviving elder P, shepherding the little ones away.

“Now what?” demanded Gwendolyn. She glared at Magrit.

“What are you glaring at me for?” snarled Magrit.

“Who else is there to glare at so maybe they’ll come up with an idea for what to do next?” She glared at Les Six. “The Beerbelly Boys?” (They looked offended.) She glared at me. “The Tail That Talks?” (I’m sure I looked nonchalant.)

Magrit threw up her hands. “I’m a working witch, dammit! I’m not some kind of philosopher! I can’t make heads or tails out of this place!”

Gwendolyn got a wild and wicked look in her eyes.

“What the hell, why not?” she mused.

It never fails to amaze me how fast that woman is. I mean, even though she looks sort of normally attractive in a female human way except that she’s oversize, Gwendolyn can benchpress six hundred pounds. So you wouldn’t think the monster could move like a mongoose but she can. Oh yes she can.

The next thing I know she snatched me off of Magrit’s shoulder and tossed me high (way high!) up in the air. Spinning and twirling around! Of course, I landed on my feet (cats have got nothing on salamanders), but even so I was outraged. Incensed!

I made my feelings clear, but Gwendolyn ignored me. Rather, she ignored my words. She was scrutinizing my tail.

“That way!” she announced, pointing along the direction my tail happened to be lying.

The whole idea was idiotic, but nobody saw any point in arguing. Not even me. Actually, after a while I decided to be flattered. After a little while longer, I decided there was a profound lesson here: a salamander’s tail is worth more than eight human heads.

On and on we trudged. (They trudged; I rode on Magrit’s shoulder). On and on they trudged. On and on they trudged. On and on— you get the idea.

After who knows how long, the landscape started to change. Say better— there started to appear the resemblance of a landscape, since you can’t hardly call Pure Flat Flatness a “landscape.” Not much, mind you— just the occasional stone here and pebble over there, until finally we came across some ruins.

Ruins of what? Don’t ask me. Ruins of ruins, looked like.

Then— a sepulchral voice.

“Save the runes,” it moaned. “Save the runes.”

A rune came out from the ruins.

“Save the runes,” it moaned again. “You can start with me. I’m G.”

“Who?” demanded Magrit.

“G.” It seemed to shrug. “If you want to be formal about it. My friends call me Grank. Or Gran, depending on what sex I am.”

“Which sex are you, then?” asked Gwendolyn.

“What are you, stupid or something? If I’m ?rank, I’m male; if I’m ?ran, I’m female. Once I had a friend who needed his soul saved, so I was ?ra. Which reminds me— ” Here it started moaning again: “Save the runes, save the runes.”

“Save you from what?” growled Gwendolyn. She was starting to get testy, I could tell.

“From extinction, what else? What are you, a moron or something?”

“How about I call you Grankfurter,” she cooed, fingering her cleaver.

“Nay, lass!” protested the first of Les Six.

“‘Tis low! ‘Tis low!” disapproved the second.

“Haute cuisine— that’s the ticket!” exclaimed the third.

“Gilet Mignon!” enthused the fourth.

“Gillet of Gish, rather,” opined the fifth.

“Properly Glayed and Gried,” qualified the sixth.

Magrit intervened. “Easy there! Grank doesn’t mean any harm, do you now, lad? It’s just his way, that’s all.”

G apparently decided to fall back on his stock in trade.

“Save the runes! Save the runes!”

Magrit waddled over and patted the creature. “There now! There now! It’s all right— you can tell me all about it. Save you from what, exactly?”

Terminal idiocy, it seemed. Immediately the rune lipped off again.

“What are you, another moron? From— “

It got no further, of course, because Magrit gave it one hefty wallop and knocked it ?lat. (Sorry. I couldn’t resist.)

“Don’t get Gresh with me, you little Greak!” she bellowed. “Keep a civil tongue or I’ll turn you into Glapjacks!”

“Yes, ma’am!” squeaked the twit.

“Good. Let’s try again. Save you from what?”

The rune snuffled. “Extinction, that’s what. They’re rounding us all up and turning us into” —a shudder— “scrap. And then they’re melting down the scrap and turning it into” —a wail of horror— ” common ordinary letters!”

“Who’s doing this?” demanded Gwendolyn.

“What are you, a— ” It paused, found wisdom. “The Captains of Industry, that’s who. And their goons.”

Les Six started to ask who the “Captains of Industry” were but before they got well started the rune jumped up, exclaimed “too many questions! too many questions!” and started scurrying off to the—east?—west?—whatever. After a moment it stopped, turned back, and shouted: “I’ll show you! I’ll show you!”

* * *

And so it was that eight human idiots and a salamander down on his luck found themselves trailing after a lippy rune across the Realm of Words for what seemed an eternity until eventually we came to a slight rise in the “landscape” from the “top” of which we were treated to the vista of—

— a vast jumble of giant factories, stretching as far as the eye can see.

“‘Orrible!” croaked the first.

“A vision of Hell itself,” groaned the second.

“No vision!” countered the third.

“Hell itself!” mourned the fourth.

“Don’t mourn!” cried the fifth.

” Organize!” bellowed the sixth.

And with no further ado the half dozen halfwits charged down the slope, capering and cavorting like so many tots in a toy store.

“I’ll take that one!” cried the first, pointing to a huge, smoke-belching factory bearing the proud logo I. G. Sprechenindustrie.

“I’m for General Words!” hallooed the second.

“I’ve a yen for Nouns R Us!” hollered the third.

“Me for Microspeak!” cried the fourth.

By the time the fifth and the sixth added their bits to the round, they were too far off to hear. But, judging from the directions they were taking, I thought the fifth had set his aim for the huge International Business Mots complex and the sixth seemed to be wavering between General Linguistics and LTVerbs.

“Idiots!” screamed Magrit. “Morons!”

“Them, too?” asked ?.

“Now what?” wondered Gwendolyn.

“Save the runes,” moaned the rune. “Save the runes. Look! Over there! See what I mean!”

In the distance, we saw a long train of wagons hauling up before a huge stockade. Within the barbed wire compound I could see a bunch of grimy barracks and what looked like smokehouses. With the nonchalance of long habit, burly guards were herding little runes out of the wagons and through the gates.

“What are they handing the runes?” asked Gwendolyn.

“They say it’s soap!” cried G. “But it’s a trick! It’s a trick!”

Suddenly, one of the smokehouse chimneys belched a great plume. G shrieked. “They’re melting us down! They’re melting us down!” It clutched Magrit’s leg.

“Save the runes,” it moaned, “save the runes.”

I could see it coming a mile away. I tried to whisper sweet reason into her ear but the old witch was getting her dander up. And who was there to help me advance the voice of sanity?

Gwendolyn? Hah! Hah! The Agitatrix herself!

“You know,” mused the damned lady wrestler, “maybe Les Six have the right idea. And besides, what else have we got to do?”

A moment later she was striding off. “I’m for that one!” she announced, pointing to a great ugly heap of a factory called UmlautMobil.

“As for us,” said the witch, “it’s the stockade. Let’s see what these bums are up to.”

“Us?” I cried. “Us? What have I got to with this madness? I’m an intelligent amphibian— the pinnacle of evolution! What natural selection hath wrought!”

Unheeding, Magrit waddled down the slope. I would have jumped off her shoulder and hid somewhere but I hate to walk and, besides, where was there to hide? Not a mousehole in sight.

Behind me, I heard G moaning: “Save the runes, save the runes.”

I twisted my head and glared back. “Fuck the runes! And the horse they rode in on!”

Turning around, I could see the stockade looming larger and larger.

“Save the salamander,” I moaned. “Save the salamander.”

3

Well, there’s good news, bad news, and terrible news.

The good news is that Magrit landed a great job almost as soon as we walked into the door of UmlautMobil. She was shooting for some kind of low level chem lab job, but the company president wouldn’t hear of it. No, no! Seems that humans hardly ever apply for a job in the Realm of Words on account of there’s all these words ready and eager to do the coolie work, so the company president was only too delighted to offer Magrit a plum job as his executive secretary. Easy work, great money, perks you wouldn’t believe (“of course your salamander can have his own desk!”), the whole bit.

The bad news is that in order to get the job Magrit had to hump the company president.

The terrible news is that she turned him down.

I couldn’t believe it!

“Oh, sure,” I complained bitterly, as she stalked out of the building, “God forbid you should put out for a respected pillar of the community. Oh, no— not Ms. Morality! Not Ms. Pick-and-Choose! Drooling, gibbering lunatics, sure. Young windbag apprentices, sure. Drunken sailors on leave, sure. Hordes of flea-bitten barbarians, sure. Escaped— “

“Three barbarians are not a horde!” she snapped.

“Those three were!”

“That creep!” she snarled. “That drooling old lecher!”

“Wolfgang drools worse— “

“Wolfgang drools cute! The rich fatboy drools rich fatboy disgusting!”

“So what? Concentrate on the adjective: rich. We’re in the ‘realm of words,’ Magrit— nouns and verbs don’t count.”

Well, as you can see, I won the argument hands down, but it didn’t do me any good since once Magrit gets set on a course, that’s that. Logic, reason, common sense— out the window!

Oh, well. It’s the hallmark of sane salamanders that we adjust instantly to reality, no matter how grim. So I took it in stride when Magrit gave up the silly idea of going back to work in a factory (oh, yes, she’s a true-blue prole by origin; that’s what explains her low tastes, even for a witch) and decided to resume her normal trade. Even though I knew we’d be lucky not to starve to death since all of our customers would be words and what, I wondered, would words need with a witch?

Quite a bit, as it turns out. Mostly fortune-telling. It seems words are all convinced that after they’re made they’re going to be sent somewhere which they call the “Realm of Reality” where they will be —you’re going to love this— words, what else? They say they’re where words come from. Anyway, the point is that lots of them want to know exactly where they’re going to wind up.

It’s kind of pathetic, actually, especially for all the “thes” and “ands,” each and every one of which is convinced it’s going to be the key word in the key sentence which— you name it!

Which, of course, Magrit was more than willing to do, gazing into the crystal ball that she picked up years ago in a junk store.

“I see a man—he has a full beard, a lofty brow—a very lofty brow—he’s sitting at a desk; he’s writing—what? Yes, I see it now —he’s writing a great novel— no! It’s going to be the greatest novel ever written, probably; certainly the longest. He’s finished the book! Now, he’s scratching his head; stroking his beard; pursing his lips thoughtfully. What can he be— oh, I see it now! He trying to think of a title for the longest, greatest novel ever written. Yes, yes, it’s coming to him now. He writes the first word— War. Yes, that’s it. Now he’s really thinking hard, really hard. Suddenly— his eyes light up! Yes, he has the second word of the title —and it’s— yes! yes! It’s you! It’s you! War and— “

And (pardon the pun) another happy customer trots off. Well, not trots actually, since words don’t have legs and feet so they move around in the weirdest ways imaginable, but you get the idea.

The truth is, Magrit’s lousy with a crystal ball. She usually reads palms or tea leaves when she tells fortunes, but words don’t have palms and they don’t drink tea. They don’t drink anything, as a matter of fact, or eat— which makes the bosses happier than clams.

When they discovered this fact, Les Six really hit the roof. No sooner did they get off work on their first shift than they all headed for the gin mills, only to discover that there weren’t any. Soon enough, they were crowded into Magrit’s parlor, bitterly expressing their complaint. They started with lofty political principles:

The first: “‘Tis a plot to keep the wages down!”

The second: “As ‘tis well known that the variable portion of the capital— “

The third: ” —more commonly known as the wage bill— “

The fourth: “— is regulated by the necessity to reproduce the working class in its historically determined standard of living.”

The fifth: “The which, in this benighted place, approximates the living standard— “

The sixth: “Of stones.”

Soon enough, however, they got down to the gist of the matter, which (I will summarize a mound of verbiage) was that inasmuch as it was widely known that drink is the curse of the working class, the downtrodden masses in the Realm of Words had been foully deprived of their curse in addition to the blessings of life which are, as a matter of course, naturally denied the proletariat.

As always with Les Six, complaint soon led to action. Magrit’s little parlor was located on the bottom floor of one of the many tenements in one of the many slums which surround the word factories. In a matter of days, Les Six obtained the floor above from a landlord who, though grasping, was the word “butterfingers.” Within days thereafter, they had transformed the seedy dump into an even seedier gin mill and were ready for the business which they confidently expected their daily agitation on the job would soon drum up.

I thought they were nuts, and was highly amused, until they turned out not to be nuts and I got dragooned into being the bartender. I couldn’t believe it! I mean, what possible use could words have with booze? Or coffee, and damned if Les Six didn’t add on a coffee house. (“Keeps the high-falutin’ intellectual words out of our hair.”)

But, practically overnight, The Gin Mill and Pretentious Coffee House became the center of social life in the slums. Which tells you all you need to know about social life in the slums of the Realm of Words. I thought I was going to die of overwork.

I complained to Magrit, but the rotten witch had already jumped aboard the bandwagon. Now she was telling all her customers that when they went to the Realm of Reality they were all going to be words spoken by profane proles hunched over their alepots in taverns, plotting and planning the revolution. No sooner did they leave her parlor than the cretins (words are not bright) piled into the saloon, eager to prepare for their future life.

Words are weird. Must be why humans like them so much. I remember one in particular— “because.” It insisted on shortening itself to “be,” so that it could go around bragging that it was a rebel without a cause.

The whole set-up in the Realm of Words is weird. (Our part of it, anyway— later, we found out that the Realm of Words has lots of different levels. All of which are weird.) There’s a handful of humans who own all the word factories. Where they came from, nobody knows, and the owners aren’t talking. Under them, there’s a class of parasite words who lord it over all the other words. They toil not, neither do they labor. They are called the Proper Words, and they are all capitalized.

The common words do all the work, which consists of rendering raw material (mostly hot air, but with lots of scrap words thrown for good measure— runes, obsolete and archaic words, passe slang, etc.) into shiny new words. The shiny new words are immediately put to work, while the worn-out old words are “retired” to a giant complex called the Happy Home—which, to a salamander, looks remarkably like a blast furnace—where they are shortly thereafter “elevated” to the “Realm of Reality,” rising thereto on a vast column of—can you doubt it?—hot air.

Into this weird but efficient set-up, Les Six and Gwendolyn charged like the proverbial bull in a china shop. If it had been Les Six alone, things would have just gotten rowdy. But when you added Gwendolyn to the stew! There’s a good reason the porkers all over Grotum have a price on her head that’s only a few pennies less than the one on The Roach— and only a small part of that’s due to the numerous porkers she’s gutted over the years with her cleaver. No, the real reason is that the woman is a fiendishly good agitator, propagandist, organizer, you name it.

The first thing she did, naturally, was call for the unity of all oppressed and exploited common words. No mean trick, that, let me tell you. Words are even worse than people when it comes to figuring out ways that this group is better than that group. The nouns detested the verbs and vice versa; their sidekicks the adjectives and adverbs positively hated each other; the pronouns always tried to get cozy with the nouns but the nouns referred to hanging around with pronouns as “slumming;” among the verbs, the third person singulars were considered uncouth; on and on.

Then, to boot, the words were further disunited by the rampant animosity among the different fonts. Helveticas despised Century Gothics who loathed Britannic Bolds who detested Courier News. All regular fonts considered all bold fonts (even their own) to be hopelessly low-class, and as for italics— I remember one italic word ( indeed, I think it was) bitterly complaining to me over its alepot:

“It’s a dirty rotten stereotype! It’s not true that all italics are part of organized crime!”

Anyway, sooner than you would have thought possible Gwendolyn managed to convert a bunch of new words to her viewpoint, and the next thing you knew leaflets were being passed around all over the slums with slogans like:

FONTS OF THE WORLD, UNITE!

THE PARTS OF SPEECH, UNITED, SHALL NEVER BE DEFEATED!

Within a week, she had Committees of Correspondence organized all over the place; within another week, she had all the Committees organized into cell structures. Within a month, she put together a full-fledged insurrectionary movement.

Sometimes, I think that woman’s not playing with a full deck.

I tried to reason with Magrit:

“It’s all nuts! Back in the real world I let it go, on account of I have a soft spot for humans, handicapped as you are with mammal habits and brains. But this is going too far! What do we care about a bunch of words, anyway? When you prick them, do they bleed? No! Utterly impervious to pain and hardship. Do they starve? Nope— can’t eat anyway. Sure, they’re overworked and underpaid, but so what? What else are words good for? And besides, the whole reason we came to this Godforsaken Realm of Words in the first place was to rescue Shelyid and the Kutumoffs. What happened to that, huh? Think of the poor dwarf! And the Kutumoff youngsters! Why— right this minute, they’re probably in dire peril of their lives! We should be off to their rescue!”

“And just how do you propose to do that?” demanded the witch. “We wound up here because that stupid Wolfgang babbled in an unknown tongue and planted us in the middle of nowhere. Do you have any idea where Shelyid and the Kutumoff kids are? And if you do, do you know how to get there from here? Well? Speak up, Wittgenstein!”

“I’m your familiar, remember. You’re the witch— the ‘proper’ witch, no less! You’re the one’s supposed to know how to get your way around.”

“Well, I don’t,” she grumped, and then she started making noises about how if the sorcerer Zulkeh were here he’d probably know the answer and at that point I realized the poor old woman had lost her mind and it was hopeless. Imagine! Actually wishing the windbag were around!

Her conclusion was that since we were stuck here anyway, we might as well start a revolution since this place needed it as much as anywhere. To which I made the sane response that there’d be trouble since this place had powers-that-be as much as anywhere and they wouldn’t like it. But I might as well have saved my breath.

And, sure enough, trouble came. As soon as the company owners figured out what was afoot, Les Six and Gwendolyn all got fired. That, as they say, was locking the barn door after the horse got out, since by that time Gwendolyn and Les Six had already organized the factories they worked in and now they were free to concentrate on agitating all the rest. Which they did, needless to say.

Next, the bosses —they’re a sorry lot, bosses, dumb as frogs— set their company goons on Gwendolyn and Les Six. That resulted in a lot of thug words being turned into ex-thug letters.

Finally realizing that the usual methods weren’t going to work, the bosses whistled up the official authorities, who promptly responded by sending the police into the slums to round up all agitators and malcontents.

The police were a riot, as always. They came in with their shields, batons and helmets: ThoLIC/e and went out rs[?]ize!” better educated.

“It’ll be the fascists, next,” predicted Gwendolyn, and, sure enough, it wasn’t long before we started hearing about a word called “mustache” that was making a lot of noise about what it called “the subjunctive problem.” The mustache had a whole crowd of lumpenproletarian words gathered about it, with all the silly buggers coloring themselves brown instead of black.

To my outrage, I got sent in as a spy. So there I was in a big square, a disgruntled salamander if there ever was one, watching this jerk word jerking around other jerk words. “Mustache” was up on a podium and it was haranguing the mob, calling for the extermination of all qualifiers:

“No ifs, ands or buts!” it shrieked. “There must be a final solution for the subjunctive problem!”

The mob went wild, rampaging through the streets of the slum. All shop windows which displayed the ? mark were smashed. The wretched maybes, perhapses, and possibles who huddled within were dragged out into the streets and beaten into 8-point. A scholarly insofar as was torn letter from letter.

It didn’t go any further, however, because at that point Gwendolyn and Les Six showed up, leading an army of Working Words Defense Guards, and proceeded to beat the brownwords into 4-point. Mustache itself was singled out for special attention by Gwendolyn and her cleaver, whereupon the would-be demagogue was known forever after as must ache.

Now the powers that be declared martial law and brought in the army, but to no avail. The word army was made up of a lot of unhappy conscripts who were easy prey for Les Six and their experienced rabble-rousers, and before you knew it the troops had deserted to the revolution and Gwendolyn was cheerfully setting up a Words and Scripts Council.

In desperation, the Proper Words set up a Provisional Revolutionary Government and tried to take control of the situation by going with the flow, so to speak, but Gwendolyn and Les Six soon had the Words and Scripts Council set the situation right. The Word Palace was stormed, the Proper Words were arrested and stripped of their pretensions. Count Jello became the plebeian jello, the haughty twin earls Ping and Pong became ping pong, and the whole lot of useless parasites were set to work digging the trenches and earthworks which Gwendolyn and Les Six said were going to be needed to repel the inevitable forthcoming invasion by reactionary imperialist powers bent on crushing revolution before it could spread.

I though they had completely lost their minds, but we’ll never know because at that point the Old Geister stepped in directly and sent The Flood. He usually keeps a lower profile in the “Realm of Reality,” but I guess He figures He can afford to use a heavier hand in the Realm of Words on account of He claims to have spoken the Word in the first place.

I dunno, I’m just a sane salamander trapped in a universe of human lunatics. Who else but humans would have invented God in the first place? You wouldn’t catch salamanders doing any such silly thing!

Yeah, it was great, just great. For forty days and nights, the Realm of Words was deluged by a rain of letters, periods, commas, colons and semi-colons. Naturally, having gotten us into the fix, Gwendolyn and the half-dozen bigmouths had no idea how to get out of it, but Magrit said there was nothing to worry about.

“Where there’s a Flood, there’s gotta be an ark. We’ll just catch a ride.”

Sure enough, about a week into the Flood this bearded character named Noah showed up, with a bunch of sons and a big boat. They started scurrying around collecting two of every word and hustling them aboard the boat. Most of the work was being done by Noah’s son Ham, who was a nice enough kid except he complained a lot.

As usual with humans, most of his problem was with sex.

“I’ve got to avoid sodomy, you know,” he mused. “The Lord’s very insistent on that!” He reached down and grabbed up a word that was running around loose, un chien as it happened. Ham held it up for cursory inspection. “Boy,” he announced. “No problem.” Next, he picked up une table. “Piece of cake. It’s a girl.” Then, with a look of total disgust, he held up a chair. He turned it upside down and spread its legs.

“I ask you, Wittgenstein— is this a boy word or a girl word?”

Then he and his father got in a big argument over whether or not they had to save pidgin words and creole words. Noah started off by damning all unauthorized words, but Ham sweet-talked him into finding room for the creoles. The pidgins were out of luck, which caused a lot of squealing, let me tell you.

“That boat’s not going to be big enough,” I remarked to Ham. He looked shocked.

“Of course it’s going to be big enough! We made it just according to the Lord’s specifications” —here he rattled off a lot of stuff about cubits and such— “so it’s bound to be big enough.”

And, whaddaya know? Damned if it wasn’t big enough. Don’t ask me how. I’m just a salamander, not the Supreme Being. But, when the time came, all the chosen words trooped aboard and crammed themselves into the hold. I had wrangled us a place, too, buttering up Ham and the boys. I think Magrit on her own would have gone for it, but Gwendolyn and Les Six naturally had to stand up for principle.

So there I was, formerly a salamander sans souci, perched on Magrit’s shoulder, the waves lapping at the last little outcrop of rock left in the Realm of Words, treated to the spectacle of Gwendolyn and Les Six shaking their fists at the heavens and taking the Lord’s name in vain. Actually, they were cursing Him directly, which I’m not sure counts as the same thing.

“Things,” I muttered, “couldn’t get worse.”

Things, of course, got worse. The Old Geister heard them cursing Him, took umbrage, and sent down an archangel. Seheboth, I think his name was.

” Curse ye the Lord?” he demanded.

A string of curses confirmed the charge.

” Be ye damned!” he cried.

Then, frowning: “But wait! I forgot— you’re already damned. Damned the day you were born, in fact. Predestination, you know. Hmmm. Let me think. I have it! Be ye cursed!”

“Cursed with what?” sneered Magrit. The archangel took a breath, and I saw my chance.

“No!” I shrieked. “Not that! Anything but that!”

The archangel frowned again. “Not with what?”

Hey, it’s as old as the hills, I know that. But a good trick’s a good trick, even if a stupid rabbit did come up with it. So I shrieked:

“Not the dwarf! We’ve had enough of that gnome Shelyid to last a lifetime! No, let us drown here in peace! Oh, please! Don’t cast us into whatever mess that dwarf’s got into! Oh, please! Oh, please!”

The archangel beamed, gestured grandly, spoke portentous words of doom.

A flash, a feeling of sudden heat and cold, total disorientation, and— there we were!

Where? Well, at first glance, we seemed to be in a big glass jar at the bottom of what seemed to be some kind of ocean. Just beyond the glass we could see Shelyid in a peculiar get-up— a helmet of some kind, with a hose leading above into the gloom. The dwarf had a chain in his hand and was trying to hook it up to the glass jar, which wasn’t easy on account of he was being beset by every kind of monster you could imagine. But he seemed preoccupied with something else, because as soon as he saw us he started gesturing madly at something in the glass jar behind us. When we turned around, we saw Polly Kutumoff all tied up with rope, which was a lot of rope on account of the girl looked to be about eight and 99% months pregnant.

“Boy, am I glad to see you!” she said, snapping with her teeth at a really nasty-looking acronym that was trying to bite her on the neck —CREEP, it was— while she was trying, with bound feet, to stomp another one that was crouching by her leg.

“You’re pregnant!” cried the first.

“No kidding,” snarled Polly. Snap! Good teeth, that girl had. EEP went scuttling off; she spit CR out in a hurry.

“Be careful!” she warned. “These things are venomous. Poisonous, too.”

“How did you get in such a fix?” demanded the second.

Polly stomped DRM and then fixed the second with a glare.

“By screwing, how else?” She snapped at another acronym and swept her feet around wildly. The damned things were all over the place.

“Not that, lass— ‘tis obvious!” exclaimed the third.

“Nay, we mean— ” For a wonder, words failed the third; he was reduced to gesturing about him.

“All of you shut up and do something useful!” bellowed Magrit. “If I’m not mistaken, the girl’s about to give birth.”

I didn’t think she was mistaken. She’s a proper witch, Magrit; which, among other things, means she’s been a midwife more times than you can count. She and Gwendolyn began untying Polly.

Within seconds, Les Six were frantically trying to fight off venomous acronyms. I myself had no trouble. An acronym began scuttling toward me —RIIA, that one— I flickered my tongue, the acronym went elsewhere. Simple as that. Acronyms are terrified of salamanders. Actually, the nasty things generally ignore any kind of animal except humans, who are their natural prey.

I heard Gwendolyn chuckle. “Nice move, Wittgenstein. Did you ever hear the one about the frying pan and the fire?”

I maintained a dignified silence.

* * *

Eric Flint is the author of many novels and some short fiction.

CLASSIC:

Giant Killer

Written by A. Bertram Chandler

Illustrated by Karl Nordman

Shrick should have died before his baby eyes had opened on his world. Shrick would have died, but Weena, his mother, was determined that he, alone of all her children should live. Three previous times since her mating with Skreer had she borne, and on each occasion the old, gray Sterret, Judge of the Newborn, had condemned her young as Different Ones.

Weena had no objection to the Law when it did not affect her or hers. She, as much as any other member of the Tribe, keenly enjoyed the feasts of fresh, tasty meat following the ritual slaughter of the Different Ones. But when those sacrificed were the fruit of her own womb it wasn’t the same.

It was quiet in the cave where Weena awaited the coming of her lord. Quiet, that is, save for the sound of her breathing and an occasional plaintive, mewling cry from the newborn child. And even these sounds were deadened by the soft spongy walls and ceiling.

She sensed the coming of Skreer long before his actual arrival. She anticipated his first question and as he entered the cave, said quietly, “One. A male.”

“A male?” Skreer radiated approval. Then she felt his mood change to one of questioning, of doubt. “Is it … he— ?”

“Yes.”

Skreer caught the tiny, warm being in his arms. There was no light, but he, like all his race, was accustomed to the dark. His fingers told him all that he needed to know. The child was hairless. The legs were too straight. And —this was worst of all— the head was a great, bulging dome.

“Skreer!” Weena’s voice was anxious. “Do you— ?”

“There is no doubt. Sterret will condemn it as a Different One.”

“But— “

“There is no hope.” Weena sensed that her mate shuddered, heard the faint silken rustle of his fur as he did so. “His head! He is like the Giants!”

The mother sighed. It was hard, but she knew the Law. And yet— This was her fourth child-bearing, and she was never to know, perhaps, what it was to watch and wait with mingled pride and terror whilst her sons set out with the other young males to raid the Giants’ territory, to bring back spoils from the great Cave-of-Food, the Place-of-Green-Growing-Things or, even, precious scraps of shiny metal from the Place of Life-That-Is-Not-Life.

She clutched at a faint hope.

“His head is like a Giant’s? Can it be, do you think, that the Giants are Different Ones? I have heard it said.”

“What if they are?”

“Only this. Perhaps he will grow to be a Giant. Perhaps he will fight the other Giants for us, his own people. Perhaps— “

“Perhaps Sterret will let him live, you mean.” Skreer made the short, unpleasant sound that passed among his people for a laugh “No, Weena. He must die. And it is long since we feasted— “

“But— “

“Enough. Or do you wish to provide meat for the Tribe also? I may wish to find a mate who will bear me sturdy sons, not monsters!”

The Place-of-Meeting was almost deserted when Skreer and Weena, she with Shrick clutched tightly in her arms, entered. Two more couples were there, each with newborn. One of the mothers was holding two babies, each of whom appeared to be normal. The other had three, her mate holding one of them.

Weena recognized her as Teeza, and flashed her a little half smile of sympathy when she saw that the child carried by Teeza’s mate would certainly be condemned by Sterret when he chose to appear. For it was, perhaps, even more revolting than her own Different One, having two hands growing from the end of each arm.

Skreer approached one of the other males, he unburdened with a child.

“How long have you been waiting?” he asked.

“Many heartbeats. We— “

The guard stationed at the doorway through which light entered from Inside hissed a warning:

“Quiet! A Giant is coming!”

The mothers clutched their children to them yet more tightly, their fur standing on end with superstitious dread. They knew that if they remained silent there was no danger, that even if they should betray themselves by some slight noise there was no immediate peril. It was not size alone that made the Giants dreaded, it was the super-natural powers that they were known to possess. The food-that-kills had slain many an unwary member of the Tribe, also their fiendishly cunning devices that crushed and mangled any of the People unwise enough to reach greedily for the savory morsels left exposed on a kind of little platform. Although there were those who averred that, in the latter case, the risk was well worth it, for the yellow grains from the many bags in the Cave-of-Food were as monotonous as they were nourishing.

“The Giant has passed!”

Before those in the Place-of-Meeting could resume their talk, Sterret drifted out from the entrance of his cave. He held in his right hand his wand of office, a straight staff of the hard, yet soft, stuff dividing the territory of the People from that of the Giants. It was tipped with a sharp point of metal.

He was old, was Sterret.

Those who were themselves grandparents had heard their grandparents speak of him. For generations he had survived attacks by young males jealous of his prerogatives as chief, and the more rare assaults by parents displeased by his rulings as Judge of the Newborn. In this latter case, however, he had had nothing to fear, for on those isolated occasions the Tribe had risen as one and torn the offenders to pieces.

Behind Sterret came his personal guards and then, floating out from the many cave entrances, the bulk of the Tribe. There had been no need to summon them; they knew.

* * *

The chief, deliberate and unhurried, took his position in the center of the Place-of-Meeting. Without orders, the crowd made way for the parents and their newborn. Weena winced as she saw their gloating eyes fixed on Shrick’s revolting baldness, his misshapen skull. She knew what the verdict would be.

She hoped that the newborn of the others would be judged before her own, although that would merely delay the death of her own child by the space of a very few heartbeats. She hoped—

“Weena! Bring the child to me that I may see and pass judgment!”

The chief extended his skinny arms, took the child from the mother’s reluctant hands. His little, deep-set eyes gleamed at the thought of the draught of rich, red blood that he was soon to enjoy. And yet he was reluctant to lose the savor of a single heartbeat of the mother’s agony. Perhaps she could be provoked into an attack—

“You insult us,” he said slowly, “by bringing forth this!!” He held Shrick, who squalled feebly, at arm’s length. “Look, oh People, at this thing the miserable Weena has brought for my judgment!”

“He has a Giant’s head,” Weena’s timid voice was barely audible. “Perhaps— “

“— his father was a Giant!”

A tittering laugh rang through the Place-of-Meeting.

“No. But I have heard it said that perhaps the Giants, or their fathers and mothers, were Different Ones. And— “

“Who said that?”

“Strela.”

“Yes, Strela the Wise. Who, in his wisdom, ate largely of the food-that-kills!”

Again the hateful laughter rippled the assembly.

Sterret raised the hand that held the spear, shortening his grip on the haft. His face puckered as he tasted in anticipation the bright bubble of blood that would soon well from the throat of the Different One. Weena screamed. With one hand she snatched her child from the hateful grasp of the chief, with the other she seized his spear.

Sterret was old, and generations of authority had made him careless. Yet, old as he was, he evaded the vicious thrust aimed at him by the mother. He had no need to cry orders, from all sides the People converged upon the rebel.

Already horrified by her action, Weena knew that she could expect no mercy. And yet life, even as lived by the Tribe, was sweet. Gaining a purchase from the gray, spongy floor of the Place-of-Meeting she jumped. The impetus of her leap carried her up to the doorway through which streamed the light from Inside. The guard there was unarmed, for of what use would a puny spear be against the Giants? He fell back before the menace of Weena’s bright blade and bared teeth. And then Weena was Inside.

She could, she knew, hold the doorway indefinitely against pursuit. But this was Giant country. In an agony of indecision she clung to the rim of the door with one hand, the other still holding the spear. A face appeared in the opening, and then vanished, streaming with blood. It was only later that she realized that it had been Skreer’s.

She became acutely conscious of the fierce light beating around and about her, of the vast spaces on all sides of a body that was accustomed to the close quarters of the caves and tunnels. She felt naked and, in spite of her spear, utterly defenseless.

Then that which she dreaded came to pass.

* * *

Behind her, she sensed the approach of two of the Giants. Then she could hear their breathing, and the low, infinitely menacing rumble of their voices as they talked one with the other. They hadn’t seen her— of that she was certain but it was only a matter of heartbeats before they did so. The open doorway, with the certainty of death that lay beyond, seemed infinitely preferable to the terror of the unknown. Had it been only her life at stake she would have returned to face the righteous wrath of her chief, her mate and her tribe.

Fighting down her blind panic, she forced herself to a clarity of thought normally foreign to her nature. If she yielded to instinct, if she fled madly before the approaching Giants, she would be seen. Her only hope was to remain utterly still. Skreer, and others of the males who had been on forays Inside, had told her that the Giants, careless in their size and power, more often than not did not notice the People unless they made some betraying movement.

The Giants were very close.

Slowly, cautiously, she turned her head.

She could see them now, two enormous figures floating through with easy arrogance. They had not seen her, and she knew that they would not see her unless she made some sudden movement to attract their attention. Yet it was hard not to yield to the impulse to dive back into the doorway of the Place-of-Meeting, there to meet certain death at the hands of the outraged Tribe. It was harder still to fight the urge to relinquish her hold on the rim of the doorway and flee —anywhere— in screaming panic.

But she held on.

The Giants passed.

The dull rumble of their voices died in the distance, their acrid, unpleasant odor, of which she had heard but never before experienced, diminished. Weena dared to raise her head once more.

In the confused, terrified welter of her thoughts one idea stood out with dreadful clarity. Her only hope of survival, pitifully slim though it was, lay in following the Giants. There was no time to lose, already she could hear the rising clamor of voices as those in the caves sensed that the Giants had passed. She relinquished her hold on the edge of the door and floated slowly up.

* * *

When Weena’s head came into sudden contact with something hard she screamed. For long seconds she waited, eyes close shut in terror, for the doom that would surely descend upon her. But nothing happened. The pressure upon the top of her skull neither increased nor diminished.

Timidly, she opened her eyes.

As far as she could see, in two directions, stretched a long, straight shaft or rod. Its thickness was that of her own body, and it was made, or covered with, a material not altogether strange to the mother. It was like the ropes woven by the females with fibers from the Place-of-Green-Growing-Things— but incomparably finer. Stuff such as this was brought back sometimes by the males from their expeditions. It had been believed, once, that it was fur of the Giants, but now it was assumed that it was made by them for their own purposes.

On three sides of the shaft was the glaring emptiness so terrifying to the people of the caves. On the fourth side was a flat, shiny surface. Weena found that she could insinuate herself into the space between the two without discomfort. She discovered, also, that with comforting solidity at her back and belly she could make reasonably fast progress along the shaft. It was only when she looked to either side that she felt a return of her vertigo. She soon learned not to look.

It is hard to estimate the time taken by her journey in a world where time was meaningless. Twice she had to stop and feed Shrick—fearful lest his hungry wailings betray their presence either to Giants or any of the People who might—although this was highly improbable—have followed her. Once she felt the shaft vibrating, and froze to its matt surface in utter and abject terror. A Giant passed, pulling himself rapidly along with his two hands. Had either of those hands fallen upon Weena it would have been the finish. For many heartbeats after his passing she clung there limp and helpless, scarcely daring to breathe.

It seemed that she passed through places of which she had heard the males talk. This may have been so— but she had no means of knowing. For the world of the People, with its caves and tunnels, was familiar territory, whilst that of the Giants was known only in relation to the doorways through which a daring explorer could enter.

Weena was sick and faint with hunger and thirst when, at last, the long shaft led her into a place where she could smell the tantalizing aroma of food. She stopped, looked in all directions. But here, as everywhere in this alien country, the light was too dazzling for her untrained eyes. She could see, dimly, vast shapes beyond her limited understanding. She could see no Giants, nor anything that moved.

Cautiously, keeping a tight hold on the rough surface of the shaft, she edged out to the side away from the polished, flat surface along which she had been traveling. Back and forth her head swung, her sensitive nostrils dilated. The bright light confused her, so she shut her eyes. Once again her nose sought the source of the savory smell, swinging ever more slowly as the position was determined with reasonable accuracy.

She was loath to abandon the security of her shaft, but hunger overruled other considerations. Orienting her body, she jumped. With a thud she brought up against another flat surface. Her free hand found a projection, to which she clung. This she almost relinquished as it turned. Then a crack appeared, with disconcerting suddenness, before her eyes, widening rapidly. Behind this opening was black, welcome darkness. Weena slipped inside, grateful for relief from the glaring light of the Inside. It wasn’t until later that she realized that this was a door such as was made by her own people in the Barrier, but a door of truly gigantic proportions. But all that mattered at first was the cool, refreshing shade.

Then she took stock of her surrounding.

Enough light came in through the barely open doorway for her to see that she was in a cave. It was the wrong shape for a cave, it is true, having flat, perfectly regular walls and floor and ceiling. At the far end, each in its own little compartment, were enormous, dully shining globes. From them came a smell that almost drove the famishing mother frantic.

Yet she held back. She knew that smell. It was that of fragments of food that had been brought into the caves, won by stealth and guile from the killing platforms of the giants. Was this a killing platform? She wracked her brains to recall the poor description of these devices given by the males, decided that this, after all, must be a Cave-of-Food. Relinquishing her hold of Shrick and Sterret’s spear she made for the nearest globe.

At first she tried to pull it from its compartment, but it appeared to be held. But it didn’t matter. Bringing her face against the surface of the sphere she buried her teeth in its thin skin. There was flesh beneath the skin, and blood— a thin, sweet, faintly acid juice. Skreer had, at times, promised her a share of this food when next he won some from a killing platform, but that promise had never been kept. And now Weena had a whole cave of this same food all to herself.

Gorged to repletion, she started back to pick up the now loudly complaining Shrick. He had been playing with the spear and had cut himself on the sharp point. But it was the spear that Weena snatched, swinging swiftly to defend herself and her child. For a voice said, understandable, but with an oddly slurred intonation, “Who are you? What are you doing in our country?”

* * *

It was one of the People, a male. He was unarmed, otherwise it is certain that he would never have asked questions. Even so, Weena knew that the slightest relaxation of vigilance on her part would bring a savage, tooth and nail attack.

She tightened her grasp on the spear, swung it so that its point was directed at the stranger.

“I am Weena,” she said, “of the Tribe of Sterret.”

“Of the Tribe of Sterret? But the Tribe of Sessa holds the ways between our countries.”

“I came Inside. But who are you?”

“Tekka. I am one of Skarro’s people. You are a spy.”

“So I brought my child with me.”

Tekka was looking at Shrick.

“I see,” he said at last. “A Different One. But how did you get through Sessa’s country?”

“I didn’t. I came Inside.”

It was obvious that Tekka refused to believe her story.

“You must come with me,” he said, “to Skarro. He will judge.”

“And if I come?”

“For the Different One, death. For you, I do not know. But we have too many females in our Tribe already.”

“This says that I will not come.” Weena brandished her spear.

She would not have defied a male of her own tribe thus— but this Tekka was not of her people. And she had always been brought up to believe that even a female of the Tribe of Sterret was superior to a male —even a chief— of any alien community.

“The Giants will find you here.” Tekka’s voice showed an elaborate unconcern. Then— “That is a fine spear.”

“Yes. It belonged to Sterret. With it I wounded my mate. Perhaps he is dead.”

The male looked at her with a new respect. If her story was true— this was a female to be handled with caution. Besides—

“Would you give it to me?”

“Yes.” Weena laughed nastily. There was no mistaking her meaning.

“Not that way. Listen. Not long ago, in our Tribe, two whole hands of mothers with Different Ones, defied the Judge of the Newborn. They fled along the tunnels, and live outside the Place-of-Little-Lights. Skarro has not yet led a war party against them. Why, I do not know, but there is always a Giant in that place. It may be that Skarro fears that a fight behind the Barrier would warn the Giants of our presence— “

“And you will lead me there?”

“Yes. In return for the spear.”

Weena was silent for the space of several heartbeats. As long as Tekka preceded her she would be safe. It never occurred to her that she could let the other fulfill his part of the bargain, and then refuse him his payment. Her people were a very primitive race.

“I will come with you,” she said.

“It is well.”

Tekka’s eyes dwelt long and lovingly upon the fine spear. Skarro would not be chief much longer.

“First,” he said, “we must pull what you have left of the good-to-eat ball into our tunnel. Then I must shut the door lest a Giant should come— “

Together they hacked and tore the sphere to pieces. There was a doorway at the rear of one of the little compartments, now empty. Through this they pushed and pulled their fragrant burden. First Weena went into the tunnel, carrying Shrick and the spear, then Tekka. He pushed the round door into place, where it fitted with no sign that the Barrier had been broken. He pushed home two crude locking bars.

“Follow me,” he ordered the mother.

* * *

The long journey through the caves and tunnels was heaven after the Inside. Here there was no light— or, at worst only a feeble glimmer from small holes and cracks in the Barrier. It seemed that Tekka was leading her along the least frequented ways and tunnels of Skarro’s country, for they met none of his people. Nevertheless, Weena’s perceptions told her that she was in densely populated territory. From all around her beat the warm, comforting waves of the routine, humdrum life of the People. She knew that in snug caves males, females and children were living in cozy intimacy. Briefly she regretted having thrown away all this for the ugly, hairless bundle in her arms. But she could never return to her own Tribe, and should she wish to throw in her lot with this alien community the alternatives would be death or slavery.

“Careful!” hissed Tekka. “We are approaching Their country.”

“You will— ?”

“Not me. They will kill me. Just keep straight along this tunnel and you will find Them. Now, give me the spear.”

“But— “

” You are safe. There is your pass.” He lighted patted the uneasy, squirming Shrick. “Give me the spear, and I will go.”

Reluctantly, Weena handed over the weapon. Without a word Tekka took it. Then he was gone. Briefly the mother saw him in the dim light that, in this part of the tunnel, filtered through the Barrier— a dim, gray figure rapidly losing itself in the dim grayness. She felt very lost and lonely and frightened. But the die was cast. Slowly, cautiously, she began to creep along the tunnel.

* * *

When They found her she screamed. For many heartbeats she had sensed their hateful presence, had felt that beings even more alien than the Giants were closing in on her. Once or twice she called, crying that she came in peace, that she was the mother of a Different One. But not even echo answered her, for the soft, spongy tunnel walls deadened the shrill sound of her voice. And the silence that was not silence was, if that were possible, more menacing than before.

Without warning the stealthy terror struck. Weena fought with the courage of desperation, but she was overcome by sheer weight of numbers. Shrick, protesting feebly, was torn from her frantic grasp. Hands —and surely there were far too many hands for the number of her assailants— pinned her arms to her sides, held her ankles in a vicelike grip. No longer able to struggle she looked at her captors. Then she screamed again. Mercifully, the dim light spared her the full horror of their appearance, but what she saw would have been enough to haunt her dreams to her dying day had she escaped.

Softly, almost caressingly, the hateful hands ran over her body with disgusting intimacy.

Then— “She is a Different One.”

She allowed herself to hope.

“And the child?”

“Two-Tails has newborn. She can nurse him.”

And as the sharp blade found her throat Weena had time to regret most bitterly ever having left her snug, familiar world. It was not so much the forfeit of her own life —that she had sacrificed when she defied Sterret— it was the knowledge that Shrick, instead of meeting a clean death at the hands of his own people, would live out his life among these unclean monstrosities.

Then there was a sharp pain and a feeling of utter helplessness as the tide of her life swiftly ebbed— and the darkness that Weena had loved so well closed about her for evermore.

* * *

No-Fur —who, at his birth, had been named Shrick— fidgeted impatiently at his post midway along what was known to his people as Skarro’s Tunnel. It was time that Long-Nose came to relieve him. Many heartbeats had passed since he had heard the sounds on the other side of the Barrier proclaiming that the Giant in the Place-of-Little-Lights had been replaced by another of his kind. It was a mystery what the Giants did there— but the New People had come to recognize a strange regularity in the actions of the monstrous beings, and to regulate their time accordingly.

No-Fur tightened his grip on his spear —of Barrier material it was, roughly sharpened at one end— as he sensed the approach of somebody along the tunnel, coming from the direction of Tekka’s country. It could be a Different One bearing a child who would become one of the New People, it could be attack. But somehow, the confused impressions that his mind received did not bear out either of these assumptions.

No-Fur shrank against the wall of the tunnel, his body sinking deep into the spongy material. Now he could dimly see the intruder— a solitary form flitting furtively through the shadows. His sense of smell told him that it was a female. Yet he was certain that she had no child with her. He tensed himself to attack as soon as the stranger should pass his hiding place.

Surprisingly, she stopped.

“I come in peace,” she said. “I am one of you. I am,” here she paused a little, “one of the New People.”

Shrick made no reply, no betraying movement. It was barely possible, he knew, that this female might be possessed of abnormally keen eyesight. It was even more likely that she had smelled him out. But then— how was it that she had known the name by which the New People called themselves? To the outside world they were Different Ones— and had the stranger called herself such she would at once have proclaimed herself an alien whose life was forfeit.

“You do not know,” the voice came again, “how it is that I called myself by the proper name. In my own Tribe I am called a Different One— “

“Then how is it,” No-Fur’s voice was triumphant, “that you were allowed to live?”

“Come to me! No, leave your spear. Now come!”

No-Fur stuck his weapon into the soft cavern wall. Slowly, almost fearfully, he advanced to where the female was waiting. He could see her better now —and she seemed no different from those fugitive mothers of Different Ones— at whose slaughter he had so often assisted. The body was well proportioned and covered with fine, silky fur. The head was well shaped. Physically she was so normal as to seem repugnant to the New People.

And yet— No-Fur found himself comparing her with the females of his own Tribe to the disadvantage of the latter. Emotion rather than reason told him that the hatred inspired by the sight of an ordinary body was the result of a deep-rooted feeling of inferiority rather than anything else. And he wanted this stranger.

“No,” she said slowly, “it is not my body that is different. It is in my head. I didn’t know myself until a little while —about two hands of feeding— ago. But I can tell, now, what is going on inside your head, or the head of any of the People— “

“But,” asked the male, “how did they— “

“I was ripe for mating. I was mated to Trillo, the son of Tekka, the chief. And in our cave I told Trillo things of which he only knew. I thought that I should please him, I thought that he would like to have a mate with magical powers that he could put to good use. With my aid he could have made himself chief. But he was angry— and very frightened. He ran to Tekka, who judged me as a Different One. I was to have been killed, but I was able to escape. They dare not follow me too far into this country— “

Then— “You want me.”

It was a statement rather than a question.

“Yes. But— “

“No-Tail? She can die. If I fight her and win, I become your mate.”

Briefly, half regretfully, No-Fur thought of his female. She had been patient, she had been loyal. But he saw that, with this stranger for a mate there were no limits to his advancement. It was not that he was more enlightened than Trillo had been, it was that as one of the New People he regarded abnormality as the norm.

“Then you will take me.” Once again there was no hint of questioning. Then— “My name is Wesel.”

* * *

The arrival of No-Fur, with Wesel in tow, at the Place-of-Meeting could not have been better timed. There was a trial in progress, a young male named Big-Ears having been caught red-handed in the act of stealing a coveted piece of metal from the cave of one Four-Arms. Long-Nose, who should have relieved No-Fur, had found the spectacle of a trial with the prospect of a feast to follow far more engrossing than the relief of the lonely sentry.

It was he who first noticed the newcomers.

“Oh, Big-Tusk,” he called, “No-Fur has deserted his post!”

The chief was disposed to be lenient.

“He has a prisoner,” he said. “A Different One. We shall feast well.”

” He is afraid of you,” hissed Wesel. ” Defy him!”

“It is no prisoner.” No-Fur’s voice was arrogant. “It is my new mate. And you, Long-Nose, go at once to the tunnel.”

“Go, Long-Nose. My country must not remain unguarded. No-Fur, hand the strange female over to the guards that she may be slaughtered.”

No-Fur felt his resolution wavering under the stern glare of the chief. As two of Big-Tusk’s bullies approached he slackened his grip on Wesel’s arm. She turned to him, pleading and desperation in her eyes.

“No, no. He is afraid of you, I say. Don’t give in to him. Together we can— “

Ironically, it was No-Tail’s intervention that turned the scales. She confronted her mate, scorn written large on her unbeautiful face, the shrewish tongue dreaded by all the New People, even the chief himself, fast getting under way.

“So,” she said, “you prefer this drab, common female to me. Hand her over, so that she may, at least, fill our bellies. As for you, my bucko, you will pay for this insult!”

No-fur looked at the grotesque, distorted form of No-Tail, and then at the slim, sleek Wesel. Almost without volition he spoke.

“Wesel is my mate,” he said. “She is one of the New People!”

Big-Tusk lacked the vocabulary to pour adequate scorn upon the insolent rebel. He struggled for words, but could find none to cover the situation. His little eyes gleamed redly, and his hideous tusks were bared in a vicious snarl.

” Now!” prompted the stranger. “His head is confused. He will be rash. His desire to tear and maul will cloud his judgment. Attack!”

No-Fur went into the fight coldly, knowing that if he kept his head he must win. He raised his spear to stem the first rush of the infuriated chief. Just in time Big-Tusk saw the rough point and, using his tail as a rudder, swerved. He wasn’t fast enough, although his action barely saved him from immediate death. The spear caught him in the shoulder and broke off short, leaving the end in the wound. Mad with rage and pain the chief was now a most dangerous enemy— and yet, at the same time, easy meat for an adversary who kept his head.

No-Fur was, at first, such a one. But his self-control was cracking fast. Try as he would he could not fight down the rising tides of hysterical fear, of sheer, animal blood lust. As the enemies circled, thrust and parried, he with his almost useless weapon, Big-Tusk with a fine, metal tipped spear, it took all his will power to keep himself from taking refuge in flight or closing to grapple with his more powerful antagonist. His reason told him that both courses of action would be disastrous— the first would end in his being hunted down and slaughtered by the Tribe, the second would bring him within range of the huge, murderous teeth that had given Big-Tusk his name.

So he thrust and parried, thrust and parried, until the keen edge of the chief’s blade nicked his arm. The stinging pain made him all animal, and with a shrill scream of fury he launched himself at the other.

But if Nature had provided Big-Tusk with a fine armory she had not been niggardly with the rebel’s defensive equipment. True, he had nothing outstanding in the way of teeth or claw, had not the extra-limbs possessed by so many of his fellow New People. His brain may have been a little more nimble— but at this stage of the fight that counted for nothing.

Time after time the chief sought to pull him within striking distance, time after time he pulled away. His slippery hide was crisscrossed with a score of scratches, many of them deep but none immediately serious. And all the time he himself was scratching and pummeling with both hands and feet, biting and gouging.

* * *

It seemed that Big-Tusk was tiring, but he was tiring too. And the other had learned that it was useless to try to grab a handful of fur, that he must try to take his enemy in an unbreakable embrace. Once he succeeded. No-Fur was pulled closer and closer to the slavering fangs, he felt the foul breath of the other in his face, knew that it was a matter of heartbeats before his throat was torn out. He screamed, threw up his legs and lunged viciously at Big-Tusk’s belly. He felt his feet sink into the soft flesh, but the chief grunted and did not relax his pressure. Worse— the failure of his desperate counterattack had brought No-Fur even closer to death.

With one arm, his right, he pushed desperately against the other’s chest. He tried to bring his knees up in a crippling blow, but they were held in a vicelike grip by Big-Tusk’s heavily muscled legs. With his free, left arm he flailed viciously and desperately, but he might have been beating against the Barrier itself.

The People, now that the issue of the battle was decided, were yelling encouragement to the victor. No-Fur heard among the cheers the voice of his mate, No-Tail. The little, cold corner of his brain in which reason was still enthroned told him that he couldn’t blame her. If she were vociferous in his support, she could expect only death at the hands of the triumphant chief. But he forgot that he had offered her insult and humiliation, remembered only that she was his mate. And the bitterness of it kept him fighting when others would have relinquished their hold on a life already forfeit.

The edge of his hand came down hard just where Big-Tusk’s thick neck joined his shoulder. He was barely conscious that the other winced, that a little whimper of pain followed the blow. Then, high and shrill, he heard Wesel.

“Again! Again! That is his weak spot!”

Blindly groping, he searched for the same place. And Big-Tusk was afraid, of that there was no doubt. His head twisted, trying to cover his vulnerability. Again he whimpered, and No-Fur knew that the battle was his. His thin, strong fingers with their sharp nails dug and gouged. There was no fur here, and the flesh was soft. He felt the warm blood welling beneath his hand as the chief screamed dreadfully. Then the iron grip was abruptly relaxed. Before Big-Tusk could use hands or feet to cast his enemy from him No-Fur had twisted and, each hand clutching skin and fur, had buried his teeth in the other’s neck. They found the jugular. Almost at once the chief’s last, desperate struggles ceased.

No-Fur drank long and satisfyingly.

Then, the blood still clinging to his muzzle, he wearily surveyed the People.

“I am chief,” he said.

“You are the chief!” came back the answering chorus.

“And Wesel is my mate.”

This time there was hesitation on the part of the People. The new chief heard mutters of ” The feast … Big-Tusk is old and rough … are we to be cheated— ?”

“Wesel is my mate,” he repeated. Then —”There is your feast— “

At the height of his power he was to remember No-Tail’s stricken eyes, the dreadful feeling that by his words he had put himself outside all custom, all law.

” Above the Law,” whispered Wesel.

He steeled his heart.

“There is your feast,” he said again.

It was Big-Ears who, snatching a spear from one of the guards, with one swift blow dispatched the cringing No-Tail.

“I am your mate,” said Wesel.

No-Fur took her in his arms. They rubbed noses. It wasn’t the old chief’s blood that made her shudder ever so slightly. It was the feel of the disgusting, hairless body against her own.

Already the People were carving and dividing the two corpses and wrangling over an even division of the succulent spoils.

* * *

There was one among the New People who, had her differences from the racial stock been only psychological, would have been slaughtered long since. Her three eyes notwithstanding, the imprudent exercise of her gift would have brought certain doom. But, like her sisters in more highly civilized communities, she was careful to tell those who came to her only that which they desired to hear. Even then, she exercised restraint. Experience had taught her that foreknowledge of coming events on the part of the participants often resulted in entirely unforeseen results. This annoyed her. Better misfortune on the main stream of Time than well-being on one of its branches.

To this Three-Eyes came No-Fur and Wesel.

Before the chief could ask his questions the seeress raised one emaciated hand.

“You are Shrick,” she said. “So your mother called you. Shrick, the Giant Killer.”

“But— “

“Wait. You came to ask me about your war against Tekka’s people. Continue with your plans. You will win. You will then fight the Tribe of Sterret the Old. Again you will win. You will be Lord of the Outside. And then— “

“And then?”

“The Giants will know of the People. Many, but not all of the People will die. You will fight the Giants. And the last of the Giants you will kill, but he will plunge the world into— Oh, if I could make you see! But we have no words.”

“What— ?”

“No, you cannot know. You will never know till the end is upon you. But this I can tell you. The People are doomed. Nothing you or they can do will save them. But you will kill those who will kill us, and that is good.”

Again No-Fur pleaded for enlightenment. Abruptly, his pleas became threats. He was fast lashing himself into one of his dreaded fits of blind fury. But Three-Eyes was oblivious of his presence. Her two outer eyes were tight shut and that strange, dreaded inner one was staring at something, something outside the limits of the cave, outside the framework of things as they are.

Deep in his throat the chief growled.

He raised the fine spear that was the symbol of his office and buried it deep in the old female’s body. The inner eye shut and the two outer ones flickered open for the last time.

“I am spared the End— ” she said.

Outside the little cavern the faithful Big-Ears was waiting.

“Three-Eyes is dead,” said his master. “Take what you want, and give the rest to the People— “

For a little there was silence.

Then— “I am glad you killed her,” said Wesel. “She frightened me. I got inside her head— and I was lost!” Her voice had a hysterical edge. “I was lost! It was mad, mad. What Was was a place, a PLACE, and Now, and What Will Be. And I saw the End.”

“What did you see?”

“A great light far brighter than the Giants’ lights Inside. And heat, stronger than the heat of the floors of the Far Outside caves and tunnels. And the People gasping and dying and the great light bursting into our world and eating them up— “

“But the Giants?”

“I did not see. I was lost. All I saw was the End.”

No-Fur was silent. His active, nimble mind was scurrying down the vistas opened up by the dead prophetess. Giant Killer. Giant Killer. Even in his most grandiose dreams he had never seen himself thus. And what was that name? Shrick? He repeated it to himself— Shrick the Giant Killer. It had a fine swing to it. As for the rest, the End, if he could kill the Giants then, surely, he could stave off the doom that they would mete out to the People. Shrick, the Giant Killer—

“It is a name that I like better than No-Fur,” said Wesel.

“Shrick, Lord of the Outside. Shrick, Lord of the World. Shrick, the Giant Killer— “

“Yes,” he said, slowly. “But the End— “

“You will go through that door when you come to it.”

* * *

The campaign against Tekka’s People had opened.

Along the caves and tunnels poured the nightmare hordes of Shrick. The dim light but half revealed their misshapen bodies, limbs where no limbs should be, heads like something from a half forgotten bad dream.

All were armed. Every male and female carried a spear, and that in itself was a startling innovation in the wars of the People. For sharp metal, with which the weapons were tipped was hard to come by. True, a staff of Barrier material could be sharpened, but it was a liability rather than an asset in a pitched battle. With the first thrust the point would break off, leaving the fighter with a weapon far inferior to his natural armory of teeth and claws.

Fire was new to the People— and it was Shrick who had brought them fire. For long periods he had spied upon the Giants in the Place-of-Little-Lights, had seen them bring from the pouches in their fur little, glittering devices from which when a projection was pressed, issued a tiny, naked light. And he had seen them bring this light to the end of strange, white sticks that they seemed to be sucking. And the end of the stick would glow, and there would be a cloud like the cloud that issued from the mouths of the People in some of the Far Outside caverns, where it was very cold. But this cloud was fragrant, and seemed to be strangely soothing.

And one of the Giants had lost his little, hot light. He had put it to one of the white sticks, had made to return it to his pouch, and his hand had missed the opening. The Giant did not notice. He was doing something which took all his attention— and strain his eyes and his imagination as he might Shrick could not see what it was. There were strange glittering machines through which he peered intently at the glittering Little Lights beyond their transparent Barrier. Or were they on the inside of the Barrier? Nobody had ever been able to decide. There was something alive that wasn’t alive that clicked. There were sheets of fine, white skin on which the Giant was making black marks with a pointed stick.

But Shrick soon lost interest in these strange rites that he could never hope to comprehend. All his attention was focused on the glittering prize that was drifting ever so slowly towards him on the wings of some vagrant eddy.

When it seemed that it would surely fall right into the doorway where Shrick crouched waiting it swerved. And, much as he dreaded the pseudo life that hummed and clicked, Shrick came out. The Giant, busy with his sorcery, did not notice him. One swift leap carried him to the drifting trophy. And then he had it, tight clasped to his breast. It was bigger than he had thought, it having appeared so tiny only in relationship to its previous owner. But it wasn’t too big to go through the door in the Barrier. In triumph Shrick bore it to his cave.

Many were the experiments that he, eager but fumbling, performed. For a while both he and Wesel nursed painful burns. Many were the experiments that he intended to perform in the future. But he had stumbled on one use for the hot light that was to be of paramount importance in his wars.

Aping the Giants, he had stuck a long splinter of Barrier material in his mouth. The end he had brought to the little light. There was, as he had half expected, a cloud. But it was neither fragrant nor soothing. Blinded and coughing, Wesel snatched at the glowing stick, beat out its strange life with her hands.

Then— “It is hard,” she said. “It is almost as hard as metal— “

And so Shrick became the first mass producer of armaments that his world had known. The first few sharpened staves he treated himself. The rest he left to Wesel and the faithful Big-Ears. He dare not trust his wonderful new power to any who were not among his intimates.

Shrick’s other innovation was a direct violation of all the rules of war. He had pressed the females into the fighting line. Those who were old and infirm, together with the old and infirm males, brought up the rear with bundles of the mass produced spears. The New People had been wondering for some little time why their chief had refused to let them slaughter those of their number who had outlived their usefulness. Now they knew.

The caves of the New People were deserted save for those few females with newborn.

And through the tunnels poured the hordes of Shrick.

There was little finesse in the campaign against Tekka’s people. The outposts were slaughtered out of hand, but not before they had had time to warn the Tribe of the attack.

Tekka threw a body of picked spearmen into his van, confident that he, with better access to those parts of Inside where metal could be obtained, would be able to swamp the motley horde of the enemy with superior arms and numbers.

When Tekka saw, in the dim light, only a few betraying gleams of metal scattered among Shrick’s massed spears he laughed.

“This No-Fur is mad,” he said. “And I shall kill him with this.” He brandished his own weapon. “His mother gave it to me many, many feedings ago.”

“Is Wesel— ?”

“Perhaps, my son. You shall eat her heart, I promise you.”

And then Shrick struck.

His screaming mob rushed along the wide tunnel. Confident the Tekkan spearmen waited, knowing that the enemy’s weapons were good for only one thrust and that almost certainly not lethal.

Tekka scowled as he estimated the numbers of the attackers. There couldn’t be that many males among the New People. There couldn’t— And then the wave struck.

In the twinkling of an eye the tunnel was tightly packed with struggling bodies. Here was no dignified, orderly series of single combats such as had always, in the past, graced the wars of the People. And with growing terror Tekka realized that the enemy spears were standing up to the strain of battle at least as well as his own few metal-tipped weapons.

Slowly, but with ever mounting momentum, the attackers pressed on, gaining impetus from the many bodies that now lay behind them. Gasping for air in the effluvium of sweat and newly shed blood Tekka and the last of his guards were pressed back and ever back.

When one of the New People was disarmed he fell to the rear of his own front line. As though by magic a fresh fighter would appear to replace him.

Then— “He’s using females!” cried Trillo. “He’s— “

But Tekka did not answer. He was fighting for his life with a four-armed monster. Every hand held a spear— and every spear was bright with blood. For long heartbeats he parried the other’s thrusts, then his nerve broke. Screaming, he turned his back on the enemy. It was the last thing he did.

And so the remnant of the fighting strength of the Tribe of Tekka was at last penned up against one wall of their Place-of-Meeting. Surrounding them was a solid hemisphere of the New People. Snarl was answered by snarl. Trillo and his scant half dozen guards knew that there was no surrender. All they could do was to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

And so they waited for the inevitable, gathering the last reserves of their strength in this lull of the battle, gasping the last sweet mouthfuls of air that they would ever taste. From beyond the wall of their assailants they could hear the cries and screams as the females and children, who had hidden in their caves, were hunted out and slaughtered. They were not to know that the magnanimous Shrick was sparing most of the females. They, he hoped, would produce for him more New People.

And then Shrick came, elbowing his way to the forefront of his forces. His smooth, naked body was unmarked, save by the old scars of his battle with Big-Tusk. And with him was Wesel, not a hair of her sleek fur out of place. And Big-Ears— but he, obviously, had been in the fight. With them came more fighters, fresh and eager.

“Finish them!” ordered Shrick.

“Wait!” Wesel’s voice was imperative. “I want Trillo.”

Him she pointed out to the picked fighters, who raised their spears— weapons curiously slender and light, too fragile for hand-to-hand combat. A faint hope stirred in the breasts of the last defenders.

“Now!”

Trillo and his guards braced themselves to meet the last rush. It never came. Instead, thrown with unerring aim, came those sharp, flimsy spears, pinning them horribly against the gray, spongy wall of the Place-of-Meeting.

Spared in this final slaughter, Trillo looked about him with wide, fear-crazed eyes. He started to scream, then launched himself at the laughing Wesel. But she slipped back through the packed masses of the New People. Blind to all else but that hateful figure, Trillo tried to follow. And the New People crowded about him, binding his arms and legs with their strong cords, snatching his spear from him before its blade drank blood.

Then again the captive saw she who had been his mate.

Shamelessly, she was caressing Shrick.

“My Hairless One,” she said. “I was once mated to this. You shall have his fur to cover your smooth body.” And then— “Big-Ears! You know what to do!”

Grinning, Big-Ears found the sharp blade of a spear that had become detached from its haft. Grinning, he went to work. Trillo started to whimper, then to scream. Shrick felt a little sick.

“Stop!” he said. “He is not dead. You must— “

“What does it matter?” Wesel’s eyes were avid, and her little, pink tongue came out to lick her thin lips. Big-Ears had hesitated in his work but, at her sign, continued.

“What does it matter?” she said again.

* * *

As had fared the Tribe of Tekka so fared the Tribe of Sterret, and a hand or more of smaller communities owing a loose allegiance to these two.

But it was in his war with Sterret that Shrick almost met disaster. To the cunning oldster had come survivors from the massacre of Tekka’s army. Most of these had been slaughtered out of hand by the frontier guards, but one or two had succeeded in convincing their captors that they bore tidings of great importance.

Sterret heard them out.

He ordered that they be fed and treated as his own people, for he knew that he would need every ounce of fighting strength that he could muster.

Long and deeply he pondered upon their words, and then sent foray after foray of his young males to the Place-of-Life-That-is-Not-Life. Careless he was of detection by the Giants. They might or might not act against him— but he had long been convinced that, for all their size, they were comparatively stupid and harmless. Certainly, at this juncture, they were not such a menace as Shrick, already self-styled Lord of the Outside.

And so his store of sharp fragments of metal grew, whilst his armorers worked without cessation binding these to hafts of Barrier stuff. And he, too, could innovate. Some of the fragments were useless as spearheads, being blunt, rough, and irregular. But, bound like a spearhead to a shaft, they could deliver a crushing blow. Of this Sterret was sure after a few experiments on old and unwanted members of his Tribe.

Most important, perhaps, his mind, rich in experience but not without a certain youthful zest, busied itself with problems of strategy. In the main tunnel from what had been Tekka’s country his females hacked and tore at the spongy wall, the material being packed tightly and solidly into another small tunnel that was but rarely used.

At last his scouts brought the word that Shrick’s forces were on the move. Careless in the crushing weight of his military power, Shrick disdained anything but a direct frontal attack. Perhaps he should have been warned by the fact that all orifices admitting light from the Inside had been closed, that the main tunnel along which he was advancing was in total darkness.

This, however, hampered him but little. The body of picked spearmen opposing him fought in the conventional way, and these, leaving their dead and wounded, were forced slowly but surely back. Each side relied upon smell, and hearing, and a certain perception possessed by most, if not all, of the People. At such close quarters these were ample.

Shrick himself was not in the van— that honor was reserved for Big-Ears, his fighting general. Had the decision rested with him alone he would have been in the forefront of the battle— but Wesel averred that the leader was of far greater importance than a mere spear bearer, and should be shielded from needless risk. Not altogether unwillingly, Shrick acquiesced.

Surrounded by his guard, with Wesel at his side, the leader followed the noise of the fighting. He was rather surprised at the reports back to him concerning the apparent numbers of the enemy, but assumed that this was a mere delaying action and that Sterret would make his last stand in the Place-of-Meeting. It never occurred to him in his arrogance that others could innovate.

Abruptly, Wesel clutched his arm.

“Shrick! Danger— from the side!”

“From the side? But— “

* * *

There was a shrill cry, and a huge section of the tunnel wall fell inwards. The spongy stuff was in thin sheets, and drifted among the guard, hampering their every movement. Then, led by Sterret in person, the defenders came out. Like mountaineers they were roped together, for in this battle in the darkness their best hope lay in keeping in one, compact body. Separated, they would fall easy prey to the superior numbers of the hordes of Shrick.

With spear and mace they lay about them lustily. The first heartbeat of the engagement would have seen the end of Shrick, and it was only the uncured hide of Trillo, stiff and stinking, that saved his life. Even so, the blade of Sterret penetrated the crude armor, and, sorely wounded, Shrick reeled out of the battle.

Ahead, Big-Ears was no longer having things all his own way. Reinforcements had poured along the tunnel and he dare not return to the succor of his chief. And Sterret’s maces were having their effect. Stabbing and slashing the People could understand— but a crushing blow was, to them, something infinitely horrible.

It was Wesel who saved the day. With her she had brought the little, hot light. It had been her intention to try its effect on such few prisoners as might be taken in this campaign— she was too shrewd to experiment on any of the New People, even those who had incurred the displeasure of herself or her mate.

Scarce knowing what she did she pressed the stud.

With dazzling suddenness the scene of carnage swam into full view. From all sides came cries of fear.

“Back!” cried Wesel. “Back! Clear a space!”

In two directions the New People retreated.

Blinking but dogged, Sterret’s phalanx tried to follow, tried to turn what was a more or less orderly withdrawal into a rout. But the cords that had, at first served them so well now proved their undoing. Some tried to pursue those making for the Place-of-Meeting, others those of the New People retiring to their own territory. Snarling viciously, blood streaming from a dozen minor wounds, Sterret at last cuffed and bullied his forces into a semblance of order. He attempted to lead a charge to where Wesel, the little, hot light still in her hand, was retreating among her personal amazon guards.

But again the cunning —too cunning— ropes defeated his purpose. Not a few corpses were there to hamper fast movement, and almost none of his fighters had the intelligence to cut them free.

And the spear throwers of Shrick came to the fore, and one by one, the people of Sterret were pinned by the slim deadly shafts to the tunnel walls. Not all were killed outright, a few unfortunates squirmed and whimpered, plucking at the spears with ineffectual hands.

Among these was Sterret.

Shrick came forward, spear in hand, to administer the coup de gr?ce. The old chief stared wildly, then— “Weena’s hairless one!” he cried.

Ironically it was his own spear —the weapon that, in turn had belonged to Weena and to Tekka— that slit his throat.

* * *

Now that he was Lord of the Outside Shrick had time in which to think and to dream. More and more his mind harked back to Three-Eyes and her prophesy. It never occurred to him to doubt that he was to be the Giant Killer— although the vision of the End he dismissed from his mind as the vaporings of a half-crazed old female.

And so he sent his spies to the Inside to watch the Giants in their mysterious comings and goings, tried hard to find some pattern for their incomprehensible behavior. He himself often accompanied these spies— and it was with avid greed that he saw the vast wealth of beautiful, shining things to which the Giants were heir. More than anything he desired another little hot light, for his own had ceased to function, and all the clumsy, ignorant tinkerings of himself and Wesel could not produce more than a feeble, almost heatless spark from its baffling intricacies.

It seemed, too, that the Giants were now aware of the swarming, fecund life surrounding them. Certain it was that their snares increased in number and ingenuity. And the food-that-kills appeared in new and terrifying guise. Not only did those who had eaten of it die, but their mates and— indeed all who had come into contact with them.

It smacked of sorcery, but Shrick had learned to associate cause and effect. He made the afflicted ones carry those already dead into a small tunnel. One or two of them rebelled— but the spear throwers surrounded them, their slim, deadly weapons at the ready. And those who attempted to break through the cordon of guards were run through repeatedly before ever they laid their defiling hands on any of the unafflicted People.

Big-Ears was among the sufferers. He made no attempt to quarrel with his fate. Before he entered the yawning tunnel that was to be his tomb he turned and looked at his chief. Shrick made to call him to his side— even though he knew that his friend’s life could not be saved, and that by associating with him he would almost certainly lose his own.

But Wesel was at his side.

She motioned to the spear throwers, and a full two hands of darts transfixed the ailing Big-Ears.

“It was kinder this way,” she lied.

But, somehow, the last look that his most loyal supporter had given him reminded him of No-Tail. With a heavy heart he ordered his people to seal the tunnel. Great strips of the spongy stuff were brought and stuffed into the entrance. The cries of those inside grew fainter and ever fainter. Then there was silence. Shrick ordered guards posted at all points where, conceivably, the doomed prisoners might break out. He returned to his own cave. Wesel, when one without her gift would have intruded, let him go in his loneliness. Soon he would want her again.

* * *

It had long been Wesel’s belief that, given the opportunity, she could get inside the minds of the Giants just as she could those of the People. And if she could— who knew what prizes might be hers? Shrick, still inaccessible and grieving for his friend, she missed more than she cared to admit. The last of the prisoners from the last campaign had been killed, ingeniously, many feedings ago. Though she had no way of measuring time it hung heavily on her hands.

And so, accompanied by two of her personal attendants, she roamed those corridors and tunnels running just inside the Barrier. Through spyhole after spyhole she peered, gazing in wonderment that long use could not stale at the rich and varied life of the Inside.

At last she found that for which she was searching— a Giant, alone and sleeping. Experience among the People had taught her that from a sleeping mind she could read the most secret thoughts.

For a heartbeat she hesitated. Then— “Four-Arms, Little-Head, wait here for me. Wait and watch.”

Little-Head grunted an affirmative, but Four-Arms was dubious. “Lady Wesel,” she said, “What if the Giant should wake? What— “

“What if you should return to the Lord of the Outside without me? Then he would, without doubt, have your hides. The one he is wearing now is old, and the fur is coming out. But do as I say.”

There was a door in the Barrier here, a door but rarely used. This was opened, and Wesel slipped through. With the ease that all the People were acquiring with their more frequent ventures to the Inside she floated up to the sleeping Giant. Bonds held him in a sort of framework, and Wesel wondered if, for some offense, he had been made prisoner by his own kind. She would soon know.

And then a glittering object caught her eye. It was one of the little, hot lights, its polished metal case seeming to Wesel’s covetous eyes the most beautiful thing in the world. Swiftly she made her decision. She could take the shining prize now, deliver it to her two attendants, and then return to carry out her original intentions.

In her eagerness she did not see that it was suspended in the middle of an interlacing of slender metal bars— or she did not care. And as her hands grabbed the bait something not far away began a shrill, not unmusical metallic beating. The Giant stirred and awoke. What Wesel had taken for bonds fell away from his body. In blind panic she turned to flee back to her own world. But, somehow, more of the metal bars had fallen into place and she was a prisoner.

She started to scream.

* * *

Surprisingly, Four-Arms and Little-Head came to her aid. It would be nice to be able to place on record that they were actuated by devotion to their mistress— but Four-Arms knew that her life was forfeit. And she had seen those who displeased either Shrick or Wesel flayed alive. Little-Head blindly followed the other’s leadership. Hers not to reason why—

Slashing with their spears they assailed the Giant. He laughed— or so Wesel interpreted the deep, rumbling sound that came from his throat. Four-Arms he seized first. With one hand he grasped her body, with the other her head. He twisted. And that was the end of Four-Arms.

Anybody else but Little-Head would have turned and fled. But her dim mind refused to register that which she had seen. Perhaps a full feeding or so after the event the horror of it all would have stunned her with its impact— perhaps not. Be that as it may, she continued her attack. Blindly, instinctively, she went for the Giant’s throat. Wesel sensed that he was badly frightened. But after a short struggle one of his hands caught the frenzied, squealing Little-Head. Violently he flung her from him. She heard the thud as her attendant’s body struck something hard and unyielding. And the impressions that her mind had been receiving from that of the other abruptly ceased.

Even in her panic fear she noticed that the Giant had not come out of the unequal combat entirely unscathed. One of his hands had been scratched, and was bleeding freely. And there were deep scratches on the hideous, repulsively naked face. The Giants, then, were vulnerable. There might have been some grain of truth after all in Three-Eye’s insane babbling.

And then Wesel forgot her unavailing struggle against the bars of her cage. With sick horror she watched what the Giant was doing. He had taken the limp body of Four-Arms, had secured it to a flat surface. From somewhere he had produced an array of glittering instruments. One of these he took, and drew it down the body from throat to crotch. On either side of the keen blade the skin fell away, leaving the flesh exposed.

And the worst part of it was that it was not being done in hate or anger, neither was the unfortunate Four-Arms being divided up that she might be eaten. There was an impersonal quality about the whole business that sickened Wesel— for, by this time, she had gained a certain limited access to the mind of the other.

The Giant paused in his work. Another of his kind had come, and for many heartbeats the two talked together. They examined the mutilated carcass of Four-Arms, the crushed body of Little-Head. Together, they peered into the cage where Wesel snarled impotently.

But in spite of her hysterical fear, part of her mind was deadly cold, was receiving and storing impressions that threw the uninhibited, animal part of her into still greater panic. Whilst the Giants talked the impressions were clear— and whilst their great, ungainly heads hung over her cage, scant handsbreadths away, they were almost overpowering in their strength. She knew who she and the People were, what their world was. She had not the ability to put it into words— but she knew. And she saw the doom that the Giants were preparing for the People.

With a few parting words to his fellow the second Giant left. The first one resumed his work of dismembering Four-Arms. At last he was finished. What was left of the body was put into transparent containers.

The Giant picked up Little-Head. For many heartbeats he examined her, turning her over and over in his great hands. Wesel thought that he would bind the body to the flat surface, do with it as he had with that of Four-Arms. But, at last he put the body to one side. Over his hands he pulled something that looked like a thick, additional skin. Suddenly, the metal bars at one end of the cage fell away, and one of those enormous hands came groping for Wesel.

* * *

After the death of Big-Ears, Shrick slept a little. It was the only way in which he could be rid of the sense of loss, of the feeling that he had betrayed his most loyal follower. His dreams were troubled, haunted by ghosts from his past. Big-Ears was in them, and Big-Tusk, and a stranger female with whom he felt a sense of oneness, whom he knew to be Weena, his mother.

And then all those phantasms were gone, leaving only the image of Wesel. It wasn’t the Wesel he had always known, cool, self-assured, ambitious. This was a terrified Wesel— Wesel descending into a black abyss of pain and torture even worse than that which she had, so often, meted out to others. And she wanted him.

Shrick awoke, frightened by his dreams. But he knew that ghosts had never hurt anybody, could not hurt him, Lord of the Outside. He shook himself, whimpering a little, and then tried to compose himself for further sleep.

But the image of Wesel persisted. At last Shrick abandoned his attempts to seek oblivion and, rubbing his eyes, emerged from his cave.

In the dim, half-light of the Place-of-Meeting little knots of the People hung about, talking in low voices. Shrick called to the guards. There was a sullen silence. He called again. At last one answered.

“Where is Wesel?”

“I do not know … lord.” The last word came out grudgingly.

Then one of the others volunteered the information that she had been seen in company with Four-Arms and Little-Head, proceeding along the tunnels that led to that part of the Outside in the way of the Place-of-Green-Growing-Things.

Shrick hesitated.

He rarely ventured abroad without his personal guards, but then, Big-Ears was always one of them. And Big-Ears was gone.

He looked around him, decided that he could trust none of those at present in the Place-of-Meeting. The People had been shocked and horrified by his necessary actions in the case of those who had eaten of the food-that-kills and regarded him, he knew as a monster even worse than the Giants. Their memories were short— but until they forgot he would have to walk with caution.

“Wesel is my mate. I will go alone,” he said.

At his words he sensed a change of mood, was tempted to demand an escort. But the instinct that —as much as any mental superiority— maintained him in authority warned him against throwing away his advantage.

“I go alone,” he said.

One Short-Tail, bolder than his fellows, spoke up.

“And if you do not return, Lord of the Outside? Who is to be— ?”

“I shall return,” said Shrick firmly, his voice displaying a confidence he did not feel.

In the more populous regions the distinctive scent of Wesel was overlaid by that of many others. In tunnels but rarely frequented it was strong and compelling— but now he had no need to use his olfactory powers. For the terrified little voice in his brain from outside his brain —was saying hurry, HURRY— and some power beyond his ken was guiding him unerringly to where his mate was in such desperate need of him.

From the door in the Barrier through which Wesel had entered the Inside —it had been left open— streamed a shaft of light. And now Shrick’s natural caution reasserted itself. The voice inside his brain was no less urgent, but the instinct of self-preservation was strong. Almost timorously, he peered through the doorway.

He smelled death. At first he feared that he was too late, then identified the personal odors of Four-Arms and Little-Head. That of Wesel was there too— intermingled with the acrid scent of terror and agony. But she was still alive.

Caution forgotten, he launched himself from the doorway with all the power of his leg muscles. And he found Wesel, stretched supine on a flat surface that was slippery with blood. Most of it was Four-Arms’, but some of it was hers.

“Shrick!” she screamed. “The Giant!”

He looked away from his mate and saw hanging over him, pale and enormous, the face of the Giant. He screamed, but there was more of fury than terror in the sound. He saw, not far from where he clung to Wesel, a huge blade of shining metal. He could see that its edge was keen. The handle had been fashioned for a hand far larger than his, nevertheless he was just able to grasp it. It seemed to be secured. Feet braced against Wesel’s body for purchase, he tugged desperately.

Just as the Giant’s hand, fingers outstretched to seize him, came down the blade pulled free. As Shrick’s legs suddenly and involuntarily straightened he was propelled away from Wesel. The Giant grabbed at the flying form, and howled in agony as Shrick swept the blade around and lopped off a finger.

He heard Wesel’s voice: “You are the Giant Killer!”

Now he was level with the Giant’s head. He swerved, and with his feet caught a fold of the artificial skin covering the huge body. And he hung there, swinging his weapon with both hands, cutting and slashing. Great hands swung wildly and he was bruised and buffeted. But not once did they succeed in finding a grip. Then there was a great and horrid spurting of blood and a wild threshing of mighty limbs. This ceased, but it was only the voice of Wesel that called him from the fury of his slaughter lust.

So he found her again, still stretched out for sacrifice to the Giants’ dark gods, still bound to that surface that was wet with her blood and that of her attendant. But she smiled up at him, and in her eyes was respect that bordered on awe.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded, a keen edge of anxiety to his voice.

“Only a little. But Four-Arms was cut in pieces ” I should have been had you not come. And,” her voice was a hymn of praise, “you killed the Giant!”

“It was foretold. Besides,” for once he was honest, “it could not have been done without the Giant’s weapon.”

With its edge he was cutting Wesel’s bonds. Slowly she floated away from the place of sacrifice. Then: “I can’t move my legs!” Her voice was terror-stricken. “I can’t move!”

Shrick guessed what was wrong. He knew a little of anatomy —his knowledge was that of the warrior who may be obliged to immobilize his enemy prior to his slaughter— and he could see that the Giant’s keen blade had wrought this damage. Fury boiled up in him against these cruel, monstrous beings. And there was more than fury. There was the feeling, rare among his people, of overwhelming pity for his crippled mate.

“The blade ” it is very sharp ” I shall feel nothing.”

But Shrick could not bring himself to do it.

Now they were floating up against the huge bulk of the dead Giant. With one hand he grasped Wesel’s shoulder —the other still clutched his fine, new weapon— and kicked off against the gigantic carcass. Then he was pushing Wesel through the doorway in the Barrier, and sensed her relief as she found herself once more in familiar territory. He followed her, then carefully shut and barred the door.

* * *

For a few heartbeats Wesel busied herself smoothing her bedraggled fur. He couldn’t help noticing that she dare not let her hands stray to the lower part of her body where were the wounds, small but deadly, that had robbed her of the power of her limbs. Dimly, he felt that something might be done for one so injured, but knew that it was beyond his powers. And fury —not helpless now— against the Giants returned again, threatening to choke him with its intensity.

“Shrick!” Wesel’s voice was grave. “We must return at once to the People. We must warn the People. The Giants are making a sorcery to bring the End.”

“The great, hot light?”

“No. But wait! First I must tell you of what I learned. Otherwise, you would not believe. I have learned what we are, what the world is. And it is strange and wonderful beyond all our beliefs.

“What is Outside?” She did not wait for his answer, read it in his mind before his lips could frame the words. “The world is but a bubble of emptiness in the midst of a vast piece of metal, greater than the mind can imagine. But it is not so! Outside the metal that lies outside the Outside there is nothing. Nothing! There is no air.”

“But there must be air, at least.”

“No, I tell you. There is nothing.

“And the world— how can I find words? Their name for the world is— ship, and it seems to mean something big going from one place to another place. And all of us —Giants and People— are inside the ship. The Giants made the ship.”

“Then it is not alive?”

“I cannot say. They seem to think that it is a female. It must have some kind of life that is not life. And it is going from one world to another world.”

“And these other worlds?”

“I caught glimpses of them. They are dreadful, dreadful. We find the open space of the Inside frightening— but these other worlds are all open space except for one side.”

“But what are we?” In spite of himself, Shrick at least half believed Wesel’s fantastic story. Perhaps she possessed, to some slight degree, the power of projecting her own thoughts into the mind of another with whom she was intimate. “What are we?”

She was silent for the space of many heartbeats. Then: ” Their name for us is— mutants. The picture was ” not clear at all. It means that we —the People— have changed. And yet their picture of the People before the change was like the Different Ones before we slew them all.

“Long and long ago —many hands of feedings— the first People, our parents’ parents’ parents, came into the world. They came from that greater world— the world of dreadful, open spaces. They came with the food in the great Cave-of-Food— and that is being carried to another world.

“Now, in the horrid, empty space outside the Outside there is— light that is not light. And this light— changes persons. No, not the grown person or the child, but the child before the birth. Like the dead and gone chiefs of the People, the Giants fear change in themselves. So they have kept the light that is not light from the Inside.

“And this is how. Between the Barrier and the Far Outside they filled the space with the stuff in which we have made our caves and tunnels. The first People left the great Cave-of-Food, they tunneled through the Barrier and into the stuff Outside. It was their nature. And some of them mated in the Far Outside caves. Their children were— Different.”

“That is true,” said Shrick slowly. “It has always been thought that children born in the Far Outside were never like their parents, and that those born close to the Barrier were— “

“Yes.

“Now, the Giants always knew that the People were here, but they did not fear them. They did not know our numbers, and they regarded us as beings much lower than themselves. They were content to keep us down with their traps and the food-that-kills. Somehow, they found that we had changed. Like the dead chiefs they feared us then— and like the dead chiefs they will try to kill us all before we conquer them.”

“And the End?”

“Yes, the End.” She was silent again, her big eyes looking past Shrick at something infinitely terrible. “Yes,” she said again, “the End. They will make it, and They will escape it. They will put on artificial skins that will cover Their whole bodies, even Their heads, and They will open huge doors in the ” skin of the ship, and all the air will rush out into the terrible empty space outside the Outside. And all the People will die.”

“I must go,” said Shrick. “I must kill the Giants before this comes to pass.”

“No! There was one hand of Giants— now that you have killed Fat-Belly there are four of them left. And they know, now, that they can be killed. They will be watching for you.

“Do you remember when we buried the People with the sickness? That is what we must do to all the People. And then when the Giants fill the world with air again from their store we can come out.”

Shrick was silent awhile. He had to admit that she was right. One unsuspecting Giant had fallen to his blade— but four of them, aroused, angry and watchful, he could not handle. In any case there was no way of knowing when the Giants would let the air from the world. The People must be warned— and fast.

Together in the Place-of-Meeting, Shrick and Wesel faced the People. They had told their stories, only to be met with blank incredulity. True, there were some who, seeing the fine, shining blade that Shrick had brought from the Inside, were inclined to believe. But they were shouted down by the majority. It was when he tried to get them to immure themselves against the End that he met with serious opposition. The fact that he had so treated those suffering from the sickness still bulked big in the mob memory.

It was Short-Tail who precipitated the crisis.

“He wants the world to himself!” he shouted. “He has killed Big-Tusk and No-Tail, he has killed all the Different Ones, and Big-Ears he slew because he would have been chief. He and his ugly, barren mate want the world to themselves!”

Shrick tried to argue, but Big-Ears’ following shouted him down. He squealed with rage and, raising his blade with both hands, rushed upon the rebel. Short-Tail scurried back out of reach. Shrick found himself alone in a suddenly cleared space. From somewhere a long way off he heard Wesel screaming his name. Dazedly, he shook his head, and then the red mist cleared from in front of his eyes.

All around him were the spear throwers, their slender weapons poised. He had trained them himself, had brought their specialized art of war into being. And now—

“Shrick!” Wesel was saying, “don’t fight! They will kill you, and I shall be alone. I shall have the world to myself. Let them do as they will with us, and we shall live through the End.”

At her words a tittering laugh rippled through the mob.

” They will live through the End! They will die as Big-Ears and his friends died!”

“I want your blade,” said Short-Tail.

“Give it to him,” cried Wesel. “You will get it back after the End!”

Shrick hesitated. The other made a sign. One of the throwing spears buried itself in the fleshy part of his arm. Had it not been for Wesel’s voice, pleading, insistent, he would have charged his tormentors and met his end in less than a single heartbeat. Reluctantly, he released his hold upon the weapon. Slowly —as though loath to leave its true owner— it floated away from him. And then the People were all around him, almost suffocating him with the pressure of their bodies.

The cave into which Shrick and Wesel were forced was their own dwelling place. They were in pitiable state when the mob retreated to the entrance— Wesel’s wounds had reopened and Shrick’s arm was bleeding freely. Somebody had wrenched out the spear— but the head had broken off.

Outside, Short-Tail was laying about him with the keen blade he had taken from his chief. Under its strokes great masses of the spongy stuff of the Outside were coming free, and many willing hands were stuffing this tight into the cave entrance.

“We will let you out after the End!” called somebody. There was a hoot of derision. Then: “I wonder which will eat the other first?”

“Never mind,” said Wesel softly. “We shall laugh last.”

“Perhaps. But ” the People. My People. And you are barren. The Giants have won— “

Wesel was silent. Then he heard her voice again. She was whimpering to herself in the darkness. Shrick could guess her thoughts. All their grandiose dreams of world dominion had come to this— a tiny, cramped space in which there was barely room for either of them to stir a finger.

And now they could no longer hear the voices of the People outside their prison. Shrick wondered if the Giants had already struck, then reassured himself with the memory of how the voices of those suffering from the sickness had grown fainter and fainter and then, at the finish, ceased altogether. And he wondered how he and Wesel would know when the End had come, and how they would know when it was safe to dig themselves out. It would be a long, slow task with only their teeth and claws with which to work.

But he had a tool.

The fingers of the hand of his uninjured arm went to the spearhead still buried in the other. He knew that by far the best way of extracting it would be one, quick pull— but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Slowly, painfully, he worked away at the sharp fragment of metal.

“Let me do it for you.”

“No.” His voice was rough. “Besides, there is no haste.”

Slowly, patiently, he worried at the wound. He was groaning a little, although he was not conscious of doing so. And then, suddenly, Wesel screamed. The sound was so unexpected, so dreadful in that confined space, that Shrick started violently. His hand jerked away from his upper arm, bringing with it the spearhead.

His first thought was that Wesel, telepathic as she was, had chosen this way to help him. But he felt no gratitude, only a dull resentment.

“What did you do that for?” he demanded angrily.

She didn’t answer his question. She was oblivious of his presence.

“The People ”” she whispered. “The People ” I can feel their thoughts ” I can feel what they are feeling. And they are gasping for air ” they are gasping and dying ” and the cave of Long-Fur the spearmaker ” but they are dying, and the blood is coming out of their mouths and noses and ears ” I can’t bear it ” I can’t— “

And then a terrifying thing happened. The sides of the cave pressed in upon them. Throughout the world, throughout the ship, the air cells in the spongy insulation were expanding as the air pressure dropped to zero. It was this alone that saved Shrick and Wesel, although they never knew it. The rough plug sealing their cave that, otherwise, would have blown out swelled to meet the expanding walls of the entrance, making a near perfect air-tight joint.

But the prisoners were in no state to appreciate this, even had they been in possession of the necessary knowledge. Panic seized them both. Claustrophobia was unknown among the People— but walls that closed upon them were outside their experience.

* * *

Perhaps Wesel was the more level-headed of the pair. It was she who tried to restrain her mate as he clawed and bit savagely, madly, at the distended, bulging walls. He no longer knew what lay outside the cave, had he known it would have made no difference. His one desire was to get out.

At first he made little headway, then he bethought himself of the little blade still grasped in his hand. With it he attacked the pulpy mass. The walls of the cells were stretched thin, almost to bursting, and under his onslaught they put up no more resistance than so many soap bubbles. A space was cleared, and Shrick was able to work with even greater vigor.

“Stop! Stop, I tell you! There is only the choking death outside the cave. And you will kill us both!”

But Shrick paid no heed, went on stabbing and hacking. It was only slowly, now that he was able to enlarge upon the original impression he had made. As the swollen surfaces burst and withered beneath his blade, so they bulged and bellied in fresh places.

“Stop!” cried Wesel again.

With her arms, her useless legs trailing behind her, she pulled herself towards her mate. And she grappled with him, desperation lending her strength. So for many heartbeats they fought— silent, savage, forgetful of all that each owed to the other. And yet, perhaps, Wesel never quite forgot. For all her blind, frantic will to survive her telepathic powers were at no time entirely in abeyance. In spite of herself she, as always, shared the other’s mind. And this psychological factor gave her an advantage that offset the paralysis of the lower half of her body— and at the same time inhibited her from pressing that advantage home to its logical conclusion.

But it did not save her when her fingers, inadvertently, dug into the wound in Shrick’s arm. His ear-splitting scream was compounded of pain and fury, and he drew upon reserves of strength that the other never even guessed that he possessed. And the hand gripping the blade came around with irresistible force.

For Wesel there was a heartbeat of pain, of sorrow for herself and Shrick, of blind anger against the Giants who, indirectly, had brought this thing to pass.

And then the beating of her heart was stilled forever.

* * *

With the death of Wesel Shrick’s frenzy left him.

There, in the darkness, he ran his sensitive fingers over the lifeless form, hopelessly hoping for the faintest sign of life. He called her name, he shook her roughly. But at last the knowledge that she was dead crept into his brain— and stayed there. In his short life he had known many times this sense of loss, but never with such poignancy.

And worst of all was the knowledge that he had killed her.

He tried to shift the burden of blame. He told himself that she would have died, in any case, of the wounds received at the hands of the Giants. He tried to convince himself that, wounds or no wounds, the Giants were directly responsible for her death. And he knew that he was Wesel’s murderer, just as he knew that all that remained for him in life was to bring the slayers of his People to a reckoning.

This made him cautious.

For many heartbeats he lay there in the thick darkness, not daring to renew his assault on the walls of his prison. He told himself that, somehow, he would know when the Giants let the air back into the world. How he would know he could not say, but the conviction persisted.

And when at last, with returning pressure, the insulation resumed its normal consistency, Shrick took this as a sign that it was safe for him to get out. He started to hack at the spongy material, then stopped. He went back to the body of Wesel. Just once he whispered her name, and ran his hands over the stiff, silent form in a last caress.

He did not return.

And when, at last, the dim light of the Place-of-Meeting broke through she was buried deep in the debris that he had thrown behind him as he worked.

The air tasted good after the many times breathed atmosphere of the cave. For a few heartbeats Shrick was dizzy with the abrupt increase of pressure, for much of the air in his prison had escaped before the plug expanded to seal the entrance. It is probable that had it not been for the air liberated from the burst cells of the insulation he would long since have asphyxiated.

But this he was not to know— and if he had known it would not have worried him overmuch. He was alive, and Wesel and all the People were dead. When the mist cleared from in front of his eyes he could see them, their bodies twisted in the tortuous attitudes of their last agony, mute evidence of the awful powers of the Giants.

And now that he saw them he did not feel the overwhelming sorrow that he knew he should have done. He felt instead a kind of anger. By their refusal to heed his warning they had robbed him of his kingdom. None now could dispute his mastery of the Outside— but with no subjects, willing or unwilling, the vast territory under his sway was worthless.

With Wesel alive it would have been different.

What was it that she had said— ? … and the cave of Long-Fur the spear maker …

He would hear her voice as she said it … and the cave of Long-Fur the spear maker.

Perhaps— But there was only one way to make sure.

He found the cave, saw that its entrance had been walled up. He felt a wild upsurge of hope. Frantically, with tooth and claw, he tore at the insulation. The fine blade that he had won from the Inside gleamed dully not a dozen handsbreadths from where he was working, but such was his blind, unreasoning haste that he ignored the tool that would have made his task immeasurably shorter. At last the entrance was cleared. A feeble cry greeted the influx of air and light. For a while Shrick could not see who was within, and then could have screamed in his disappointment.

For here were no tough fighting males, no sturdy, fertile females, but two hands or so of weakly squirming infants. Their mothers must have realized, barely in time, that he and Wesel had been right, that there was only one way to ward off the choking death. Themselves they had not been able to save.

But they will grow up, Shrick told himself. It won’t be long before they are able to carry a spear for the Lord of the Outside, before the females are able to bear his children.

Conquering his repugnance, he dragged them out. There was a hand of female infants, all living, and a hand of males. Three of these were dead. But here, he knew, was the nucleus of the army with which he would re-establish his rule over the world, Inside as well as Outside.

But first, they had to be fed.

He saw, now, his fine blade, and seizing it he began to cut up the three lifeless children. The scent of their blood made him realize that he was hungry. But it was not until the children, now quieted, were all munching happily that he cut a portion for himself.

When he had finished it he felt much better.

* * *

It was some time before Shrick resumed his visits to the Inside. He had the pitiful remnant of his people to nurse to maturity and, besides, there was no need to make raids upon the Giants’ stocks of food. They themselves had provided him with sustenance beyond his powers of reckoning. He knew, too, that it would be unwise to let his enemies know that there had been any survivors from the cataclysm that they had launched. The fact that he had survived the choking death did not mean that it was the only weapon that the Giants had at their disposal.

But as time went on he felt an intense longing to watch once more the strange life beyond the Barrier. Now that he had killed a Giant he felt a strange sense of kinship with the monstrous beings. He thought of the Thin-One, Loud-Voice, Bare-Head and the Little Giant almost as old friends. At times he even caught himself regretting that he must kill them all. But he knew that in this lay the only hope for the survival of himself and his people.

And then, at last, he was satisfied that he could leave the children to fend for themselves. Even should he fail to return from the Inside they would manage. No-Toes, the eldest of the female children, had already proved to be a capable nurse.

And so he roamed once more the maze of caves and tunnels just outside the Barrier. Through his doorways and peepholes he spied upon the bright, fascinating life of the Inner World. From the Cave-of-Thunders —though how it had come by its name none of the People had ever known— to the Place-of-Little-Lights he ranged. Many feedings passed, but he was not obliged to return to his own food store. For the corpses of the People were everywhere. True, they were beginning to stink a little, but like all his race Shrick was never a fastidious eater.

And he watched the Giants going about the strange, ordered routine of their lives. Often he was tempted to show himself, to shout defiance. But this action had to remain in the realm of wish-fulfillment dreams— he knew full well that it would bring sure and speedy calamity.

And then, at last, came the opportunity for which he had been waiting. He had been in the Place-of-Little-Lights, watching the Little Giant going about his mysterious, absorbing business. He had wished that he could understand its purport, that he could ask the Little Giant in his own tongue what it was that he was doing. For, since the death of Wesel, there had been none with whom a communion of mind was possible. He sighed, so loudly that the Giant must have heard.

He started uneasily and looked up from his work. Hastily Shrick withdrew into his tunnel. For many heartbeats he remained there, occasionally peeping out. But the other was still alert, must have known in some way that he was not alone. And so, eventually, Shrick had retired rather than risk incurring the potent wrath of the Giants once more.

His random retreat brought him to a doorway but rarely used. On the other side of it was a huge cavern in which there was nothing of real interest or value. In it, as a rule, at least one of the Giants would be sleeping, and others would be engaged in one of their incomprehensible pastimes.

This time there was no deep rumble of conversation, no movement whatsoever. Shrick’s keen ears could distinguish the breathing of three different sleepers. The Thin-One was there, his respiration, like himself, had a meager quality. Loud-Voice was loud even in sleep. And Bare-Head, the chief of the Giants, breathed with a quiet authority.

And the Little Giant who, alone of all his people, was alert and awake was in the Place-of-Little Lights.

Shrick knew that it was now or never. Any attempt to deal with the Giants singly must surely bring the great, hot light foretold by Three-Eyes. Now, with any luck at all, he could deal with the three sleepers and then lay in wait for the Little Giant. Unsuspecting, unprepared, he could be dealt with as easily as had Fat-Belly.

And yet— he did not want to do it.

It wasn’t fear; it was that indefinable sense of kinship, the knowledge that, in spite of gross physical disparities, the Giants and the People were as one. For the history of Man, although Shrick was not to know this, is but the history of the fire-making, tool-making, tool-using animal.

Then he forced himself to remember Wesel, and Big-Ears, and the mass slaughter of almost all his race. He remembered Three-Eyes’ words— but this I can tell you, the People are doomed. Nothing you or they can do will save them. But you will kill those who will kill us, and that is good.

But you will kill those who will kill us—

But if I kill all the Giants before they kill us, he thought, then the world, all the world, will belong to the People “

And still he hung back.

It was not until the Thin-One, who must have been in the throes of a bad dream, murmured and stirred in his sleep that Shrick came out of his doorway. The keen blade with which he had slain Fat-Belly was grasped in both his hands. He launched himself towards the uneasy sleeper. His weapon sliced down only once —how often had he rehearsed this in his imagination!— and for the Thin-One the dream was over.

The smell of fresh blood, as always, excited him. It took him all of his will power to restrain himself from hacking and slashing at the dead Giant. But he promised himself that this would come later. And he jumped to where Loud-Voice was snoring noisily.

The abrupt cessation of that all too familiar sound must have awakened Bare-Head. Shrick saw him shift and stir, saw his hands go out to loosen the bonds that held him to his sleeping place. And when the Giant Killer, his feet scrabbling for a hold, landed on his chest he was ready. And he was shouting in a great Voice, so that Shrick knew it was only a matter of heartbeats before the Little Giant came to his assistance.

Fat-Belly had been taken off guard, the Thin-One and Loud-Voice had been killed in their sleep. But here was no easy victory for the Giant Killer.

For a time it looked as though the chief of the Giants would win. After a little he ceased his shouting and fought with grim, silent desperation. Once one of his great hands caught Shrick in a bone-crushing grip, and it seemed as though the battle was over. Shrick could feel the blood pounding in his head, his eyeballs almost popping out of their sockets. It took him every ounce of resolution he possessed to keep from dropping his blade and scratching frenziedly at the other’s wrists with ineffectual hands.

Something gave —it was his ribs— and in the fleeting instant of relaxed pressure he was able to twist, to turn and slash at the monstrous, hairy wrist. The warm blood spurted and the Giant cried aloud. Again and again Shrick plied his blade, until it became plain that the Giant would not be able to use that hand again.

He was single-handed now against an opponent as yet —insofar as his limbs were concerned— uncrippled. True, every movement of the upper part of his body brought spears of pain lancing through Shrick’s chest. But he could move, and smite— and slay.

For Bare-Head weakened as the blood flowed from his wounds. No longer was he able to ward off the attacks on his face and neck. Yet he fought, as his race had always fought, to his dying breath. His enemy would have given no quarter —this much was obvious— but he could have sought refuge with the Little Giant in the Place-of-Little-Lights.

Towards the end he started shouting again.

And as he died, the Little Giant came into the cave.

* * *

It was sheer, blind luck that saved the Giant Killer from speedy death at the intruder’s hands. Had the Little Giant known of the pitifully small forces arrayed against him it would go hard with Shrick. But No-Toes, left with her charges, had grown bored with the Place-of-Meeting. She had heard Shrick talk of the wonders of the Inside; and now, she thought, was her chance to see them for herself.

Followed by her charges she wandered aimlessly along the tunnels just outside the Barrier. She did not know the location of the doors to the Inside, and the view through the occasional peephole was very circumscribed.

Then she came upon the doorway which Shrick had left open when he made his attack on the sleeping Giants. Bright light streamed through the aperture— light brighter than any No-Toes had seen before in her short life. Like a beacon it lured her on.

She did not hesitate when she came to the opening. Unlike her parents, she had not been brought up to regard the Giants with superstitious awe. Shrick was the only adult she could remember having known— and he, although he had talked of the Giants, had boasted of having slain one in single combat. He had said, also, that he would, at some time or other, kill all the Giants.

In spite of her lack of age and experience, No-Toes was no fool. Woman-like, already she had evaluated Shrick. Much of his talk she discounted as idle bragging, but she had never seen any reason to disbelieve his stories of the deaths of Big-Tusk, Sterret, Tekka, Fat-Belly— and all the myriads of the People who had perished with them.

So it was that —foolhardy in her ignorance— she sailed through the doorway. Behind her came the other children, squealing in their excitement. Even if the Little Giant had not at first seen them he could not have failed to hear the shrill tumult of their irruption.

There was only one interpretation that he could put upon the evidence of his eyes. The plan to suffocate the People had failed. They had sallied out from their caves and tunnels to the massacre of his fellow Giants— and now fresh reinforcements were arriving to deal with him.

He turned and fled.

Shrick rallied his strength, made a flying leap from the monstrous carcass of Bare-Head. But in mid flight a hard, polished surface interposed itself between him and the fleeing Giant. Stunned, he hung against it for many heartbeats before he realized that it was a huge door which had shut in his face.

He knew that the Little Giant was not merely seeking refuge in flight— for where in the world could he hope to escape the wrath of the People? He had gone, perhaps, for arms of some kind. Or —and at the thought Shrick’s blood congealed— he had gone to loose the final doom foretold by Three-Eyes. Now that his plans had begun to miscarry he remembered the prophecy in its entirety, was no longer able to ignore those parts that, in his arrogance, he had found displeasing.

And then No-Toes, her flight clumsy and inexpert in these —to her— strange, vast spaces was at his side.

“Are you hurt?” she gasped. “They are so big— and you fought them.”

As she spoke, the world was filled with a deep humming sound. Shrick ignored the excited female. That noise could mean only one thing. The Little Giant was back in the Place-of-Little-Lights, was setting in motion vast, incomprehensible forces that would bring to pass the utter and irrevocable destruction of the People.

With his feet against the huge door he kicked off, sped rapidly down to the open doorway in the Barrier. He put out his hand to break the shock of his landing, screamed aloud as his impact sent a sickening wave of pain through his chest. He started to cough— and when he saw the bright blood that was welling from his mouth he was very frightened.

No-Toes was with him again. “You are hurt, you are bleeding. Can I— ?”

“No!” He turned a snarling mask to her. “No! Leave me alone!”

“But where are you going?”

Shrick paused. Then: “I am going to save the world,” he said slowly. He savored the effect of his words. They made him feel better, they made him bulk big in his own mind, bigger, perhaps, than the Giants. “I am going to save you all.”

“But how— ?”

This was too much for the Giant Killer. He screamed again, but this time with anger. With the back of his hand he struck the young female across the face.

“Stay here!” he ordered.

And then he was gone along the tunnel.

The gyroscopes were still singing their quiet song of power when Shrick reached the Control Room. Strapped in his chair, the navigator was busy over his plotting machine. Outside the ports the stars wheeled by in orderly succession.

And Shrick was frightened.

He had never quite believed Wesel’s garbled version of the nature of the world until now. But he could see, at last, that the ship was moving. The fantastic wonder of it all held him spellbound until a thin edge of intolerable radiance crept into view from behind the rim of one of the ports. The navigator touched something and, suddenly, screens of dark blue glass mitigated the glare. But it was still bright, too bright, and the edge became a rapidly widening oval and then, at last, a disk.

The humming of the gyroscope stopped.

Before the silence had time to register a fresh sound assailed Shrick’s ears. It was the roar of the main drive.

A terrifying force seized him and slammed him down upon the deck. He felt his bones crack under the acceleration. True child of free fall as he was, all this held for him the terror of the supernatural. For a while he lay there, weakly squirming, whimpering a little. The navigator looked down at him and laughed. It was this sound more than anything else that stung Shrick to his last, supreme effort. He didn’t want to move. He just wanted to lie there on the deck, slowly coughing his life away. But the Little Giant’s derision tapped unsuspected reserves of strength, both moral and physical.

The navigator went back to his calculations, handling his instruments for the last time with a kind of desperate elation. He knew that the ship would never arrive at her destination, neither would her cargo of seed grain. But she would not —and this outweighed all other considerations— drift forever among the stars carrying within her hull the seeds of the destruction of Man and all his works.

He knew that —had he not taken this way out— he must have slept at last, and then death at the hands of the mutants would inevitably have been his portion. And with the mutants in full charge anything might happen.

The road he had taken was the best.

Unnoticed, inch by inch Shrick edged his way along the deck. Now, he could stretch his free hand and touch the Giant’s foot. In the other he still held his blade, to which he had clung as the one thing sure and certain in this suddenly crazy world.

Then he had a grip on the artificial skin covering the Giant’s leg. He started to climb, although every movement was unadulterated agony. He did not see the other raise his hand to his mouth, swallow the little pellet that he held therein.

So it was that when, at long last, he reached the soft, smooth throat of the Giant, the Giant was dead.

It was a very fast poison.

For a while he clung there. He should have felt elation at the death of the last of his enemies but —instead— he felt cheated. There was so much that he wanted to know, so much that only the Giants could have told him. Besides— it was his blade that should have won the final victory. He knew that, somewhere, the Little Giant was still laughing at him.

Through the blue-screened ports blazed the sun. Even at this distance, even with the intervening filters, its power and heat were all too evident. And aft the motors still roared, and would roar until the last ounce of fuel had been fed into the hungry main drive.

Shrick clung to the dead man’s neck, looked long and longingly at the glittering instruments, the shining switches and levers, whose purpose he would never understand, whose inertia would have defeated any attempt of his fast ebbing strength to move them. He looked at the flaming doom ahead, and knew that this was what had been foretold.

Had the metaphor existed in his language, he would have told himself that he and the few surviving People were caught like rats in a trap.

But even the Giants would not have used that phrase in its metaphorical sense.

For that is all that the People were— rats in a trap.

SERIALS:

Fish Story, Episode 7:

We’re Going to Need a Bigger Pub

Written by Andrew Dennis, Dave Freer and Eric Flint

Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

“Aaaaaaaahhhhhh.” My relief was loud and heartfelt, and the ringing of the golden stream against the cheap tin urinal was just as heartfelt.

“I can hear you from in here, you noisy bastard,” Sheila yelled from out in the saloon bar.

“Silence, woman, I am concentrating!” I called back. “Concentrating on the matter in hand.”

“Concentrate quietly, then,” came the rejoinder, “Or I’ll come in there and the matter will be on the toe of my boot.”

The Dog and Bikechain, the hostelry I’d specified when we took the churnel away from Gladsheim, was scant minutes after opening time. As such, the saloon was empty and the jukebox silent, hence Sheila’s complaint about the racket I was making from the traps.

We have sojourned in several manners of alehouse and taproom in the course of this narrative, and here we will introduce another specimen, the “Biker Pub.” Now, popular entertainment would have you believe that such a place is one in which the unknown and casual entrant is greeted by ominous silence and dark, menacing stares. Further, the place is—so Hollywood imagines—the scene of nightly bar brawls and the patrons are all huge, bearlike monstrosities with beards, tattoos and scarred visages.

The only bit they get right is the patrons. After all, Sheila was in.

In truth, the motorcycling fraternity, while apt to be a little boisterous after a few drinks, tends in the main to like good-quality beer in pleasant surroundings with no interruptions to the serious business of sinking pint after pint. So should anyone be unwise enough to start a brawl, he will find that his tendencies to violence are curtailed, very rapidly, by the application of just sufficient force to pitch him headlong into the middle of next week. Frequently, the applier of said force need not even set down, nor spill, his drink to do so.

Finally, the ominous silence and threatening stares bit can be disposed of neatly with two short phrases, thusly: jukebox full of heavy metal and, further: Real Ale. I need not dilate much on the business of the jukebox, save to note that no silence can be considered ominous with the magnificently camp Saxon as a backing track. Nor, for that matter, can it be considered silent.

Real Ale deserves mention here. It is a truth seldom disputed that the general run of British beer is pretty damn good. Sundry Europeans do better lagers, the Irish have mastered stout beyond the ken of other races, and there are other excellent brews from points around this globe of ours. But for sheer depth and variety of beer-drinking experience there is nowhere like dear old Blighty.

Yet even here there is a yen for further and better things, a striving for unattainable perfection in a pint glass, and to this end the Real Ale movement—no artificial aids, no synthetic raw materials—was founded.

The stuff’s potently dangerous, too. It doesn’t seem any stronger than the mass-produced and often perfectly acceptable stuff. It just tastes better. A lot better. And goes down easier. And since It’s often on proper pumps, not the gas-powered kegs—which I’d suspect of being the Devil’s work but I rather imagine His Infernal Majesty probably draws the line well before that—it goes down a lot easier, too.

Oh, damn it all, I shall simply have to digress at this juncture. Look, you can use a bottle of carbon dioxide to force beer out of a keg if you want. I’m not going to stop you. I just don’t want to be around you, and, not to put too fine a point on it, downwind of you. That gas has to go somewhere, right? Also, the upwelling of the noxious gas from your throat—assuming you are belching and not exploding right there in the pub—does unpleasant things to you. You get insensible with drink (rather than just drunk, which is fine and dandy) a lot faster on the gas-keg stuff.

Not so with Real Ale. You don’t notice how bladdered you’re getting until the eighth pint or so, when you suddenly realise how much you’ve actually had while enjoying a convivial evening.

At which point it can go one of two ways. You can bid the company good night, wend a pleasant way home o’er field and moor, sleep the sleep of the just and awaken feeling little the worse for wear since you didn’t just drink eight pints laced with artificial colours and preservatives and probably monosodium glutamate into the bargain.

And, perhaps, in some isolated community of eremites on a remote island in the North Atlantic, there is someone who actually does this. The rest of the world looks into the bottom of the eighth pint glass and remarks “good stuff, this” and gets on with the second half of the evening. This frequently ends—true stories all—in trying to teach sheep to sing, deciding that a little rock-climbing at four in the morning while drunk is a good idea, or asking a bobby if his head goes all the way to the top of his helmet. Oh, how we laughed on our way to the cells.

For cultural reasons that I’ll not go into here mostly because they’re pretty boring, bikers like real ale. So a biker pub will have about three times the variety of any other establishment, and some of them will lurk like land mines for the unwary drinker with alcohol percentages as much as twice the strength of mass-produced beer.

Such was the scene as I emerged from the traps, discreetly checking the adjustment of my dress. A few hardy souls awaiting the lunchtime pies and determined to lubricate their throats ready for the repast, tattoos much in evidence—for once, Sheila did not stand out from the crowd—and Modi and Magni getting their drinks in at the bar. Now, although they’d come under the influence of a culture that consisted entirely of teenage boys—in spirit if not chronology—they were, in fact, thousands of years old and of divine origins to boot. So there is no excuse for what they were doing.

“Sheila,” I murmured discreetly as I joined her at the table, “have you told them about that stuff?”

“I like to think of it as an interesting test of divine omnignizance,” she said, her smile even more unduly malicious than ever.

I looked again. There, at the bar, were two Norse gods. Presently in leathers and studs and, bluntly, not much removed from the rest of the clientele. They looked younger, of course. A lot younger, which might have proven an interesting diversion if they’d been carded, but then biker pubs tend not to bother much anyway. The kind of underage drinker who’s not intimidated by a roomful of Hell’s Angels and similar types is also the kind who’ll be sensible about things. And given the trend—then in its infancy—of putting engine management computers in everything that travelled on wheels, the older bikers liked to have a few teenagers around the place to deal with “that Japanese crap,” as they were wont to refer to it.

Returning to the point at hand, Modi and Magni were double parked, with two pints apiece of cloudy yellow fluid. Remember what I told you about Real Ale? The Dog and Bikechain also served a couple of lines of Real Cider. Now, I know some of you colonial sorts think “cider” is just the name for apple juice and “hard cider” is what you get when you ferment it a little, but I’m here to warn you not to be misled. Real Cider is best handled with care, no matter what the label says. Drinking it is like having your brain shelled by 155mm high-explosive apples.

The brand Modi and Magni were drinking like it was apple juice is notorious for its deceptive qualities. One pint, and you were a king. Two pints, and you were a god. Three pints, and you were—personal experience again—a simple shepherd named Jethro, whiling away the downland afternoons amid the sun and the breeze in the company of your chorus of singing sheep. It was only a short step below Scrumpy in the Kahnian hierarchy of drinking, roughly equivalent to theatre-level nuclear strikes.

(Scrumpy, Real Cider for Real Men, fermented with Real Meat in the barrel, is the drinking equivalent of strategic thermonuclear exchanges. About the only way you can get drunker is on peanut-butter-and-151-rum cocktails. To finish off the thermonuclear war metaphor, this is the one that leaves the horribly mutated survivors scrabbling in the ruins for cockroaches to eat.)

“Should we stop them?” I wondered aloud, mentally reviewing the merely mortal tomfooleries of my nights on the stuff. “Never mind what’d happen if we had two drunk gods around the place. I’ve been hoping we could talk them out of this fool stunt we agreed to and if they get a load of Dutch courage down them, that’s going to be hard.”

“I thought you’d say that,” Odin said, sitting down next to me with a glass in his hand, “so I thought I’d remind you that I still have eyes everywhere. And some of then really do say nevermore.”

I began to stammer out a protestation of innocence, but the Aesir-turned-gameshow-host had vanished in some divinely ineffable manner.

“No, you’ve not got the Dee-Tees,” Sheila said, and I noticed that she was looking a little pale. “He really did just appear to you.”

“Bugger,” I said, “I think It’s time to get a good solid load on, then. See if the pies are on, I’ll get a round in.”

I shall not record Sheila’s comments on the unlikeliness of this eventuality. They were defamatory, unladylike, and hurtfully accurate. In my defense I will say that I was, in fact, scared shitless.

* * *

The next hour or two passed in an agreeable blur of real ale and the jukebox on random play. Oh, and a pie or two. We talked around the problem, but didn’t really approach the heart of the matter, which was that we had a probably insane deity watching over our shoulder while we took on a serpent that was destined, according to legend, to destroy the world. And if I’d divined the meaning of certain cryptic remarks I’d heard during the previous episode correctly, this was scheduled for 2012. A comfortingly long way off from the perspective of the early nineties, I think you’ll agree, but looking a little more, shall we say, immediate at the time of this writing.

Be that as it may, as real-ale-fueled bonhomie took hold I found myself warming somewhat to Modi and Magni, even though they had every appearance of teenagers. They were, in fact, several thousands of years old. And damn my eyes if they couldn’t hold their drink like gentlemen. I’d heard of Valhalla’s feasting and boozing and such and the game with the lady’s pigtails and the axes, and it seemed like it was a more dignified affair than I’d been told. Certainly more dignified than the average legal knees-up, which have been known to end with senior judges puking in gutters.

Anyway, it was Sheila who got us back on topic. “We’re going to need a boat,” she said.

“You mean a bigger boat,” I averred. This particular meme was going even then, in the time before the dark times, before the world wide web, before AOL. After all, the movie in which it had, in fact, never been said, had come out over fifteen years previously. And a powerful film it had been. To this day, I won’t have water by me, lest there be sharks in it. Sharks can’t swim in alcohol, too low a specific gravity. They either sink or can’t breathe, I forget which. Or possibly they just become too mellow to qualify as actual sharks and expire from semantic confusion.

“I’ve got a bigger boat,” someone said. I looked around for the source of this gravelly interjection.

“Hang on,” I said, “aren’t you dead?” Not only had I seen him expire on the silver screen several times, I knew for a fact that he’d passed away in real life as well.

He laughed heartily. “I don’t play a fisherman in the movies, I am one in real life. The actor died, I live on.”

“Well, we’ve met one Ahab already,” Sheila put in, “the tale wants little but we meet another.”

I harrumphed. “If Ricardo Montalban pitches up, I quit and Odin can sue my pasty white English ass.”

“Call me McCann, here and now; It’s the name I go by,” said our new friend, “and I’ve got some worms I can put in your ears if you really want me to.” The resulting leer was one that still troubles me in the small hours of the morning on nights when the pills aren’t working.

“Hold on,” Sheila said, banging her pint down in the universal rhetorical signal for Serious Point Being Made. “We’ve already run into one Ahab so far in this business. Two if you count that idiot Hudson. So you’ve got about thirty seconds to get yourself taken seriously, mate.”

“Ah, well, you’ve met the game-show host that’s grandfather to these two?”

We nodded. The Norse reprobates in question took the opportunity to make assorted devil-horns gestures to remind us of their presence.

“Well,” McCann said, “I’m the same sort of thing. And since the last big outing for my own personification was the movie you keep referring to, though can’t say I cottoned to it myself, that’s what I end up looking like. You think there are any white whales in nature? There wasn’t even one in Melville’s fine opus. Still, the great white whale ended up white. I hear from our wood-butcher friend from Minnesota that you’ve met Richard Milhous Moby as he’s taken to calling hisself?”

Further nodding, and in my case assessment of the likeliest routes to the nearest exit, allowed that this was indeed true. And I was beginning to warm to McCann at that, he not sharing the popular prejudice against Melville much as I did. Just so long as he didn’t start mangling “Farewell and Adieu” in my hearing.

“Well, back in the day, when it was just me and him in the South Sea fishery, he was as ordinary a whale-fish as you could imagine. Oh, there was a madman or two after him, and those are your modern-day Ahabs, but I was there as the spirit of man’s vengeance on the fishy fiend. Been doing that for, oh, the longest time.” He grinned the grin of ages long-gone.

“Mammal fiend,” I put in. I’d been at pains to make that point last time around, and damn me if I wasn’t going to get it in again.

“It’s got fins and it swims,” McCann said, waving the point aside with as fine a display of Beer Wisdom as I’d ever seen. “It’s a fish.”

“Seagoing mammal or fish,” I replied, “It’s still aquatic, and that means hunting it requires a boat. A fishing boat if one can be found of suitable size, although if you can manage some manner of battleship I think we might have enough boat. Barely. I’ve seen this fish.”

“Sheeeee-it,” McCann said. “Didn’t I say I’d got a bigger boat?”

“How did you know we needed a boat?” Sheila asked, picking up on a point that had evaded me entirely.

“Man like me, he gets to hear about these things. I got told you needed a big fish hunted.”

“Told by who?” Modi asked.

“By whom, ” Sheila corrected him, causing him to adopted the chastened-teenager mien again. Deity he might be, but the heavy metal culture he was one of the gods of was profoundly scared of girls. She returned her regard to McCann. “The question stands, who told you?”

Again, that grin of deep, deep time. “Don’t need t’be tole, missy,” he said, “Comes to fishing, man like me just knows. The Essex was sunk, I was there. Hemingway’s Old Man of the Sea, I cut bait fer him. You went after the Pike, I was there.”

“Didn’t see you,” I grumped.

“There could’ve been a brass band playing and a chorus line of badgers doing the can-can and you’d’ve missed ‘em,” McCann said, betraying a knowledge of that night’s adventures not quite canny for one not present. “Drunk, y’see? And still a civilian.”

“You could’ve helped out,” I said, still a little miffed.

“I did. Didn’t you find yourself having a few extra drinks that night? Weren’t you drawn to that river? Gotta keep that ineffability goin’. ‘Sides, you need a good load of drink down you for this manner o” fishing.”

Now Sheila was glaring hard at him. “I think you need to explain all this,” she said, with a vocal talent that showed that the legal profession’s gain was the schoolmarming game’s loss.

McCann’s first response was a long and wheezing laugh. “You never noticed how fishing’s a drunk’s game? Mental vibrations, missy, mental vibrations.”

My respect for the gnarled old salt went up a notch or two. “Missy” applied to Sheila was pretty close to male chauvinist condescension, and that was a subject on which she had Views, not to say conditioned reflexes of gratuitous violence.

Sheila’s eyes narrowed. Clearly her goat was not to be got this afternoon, although there was a definite tone of menace in her tone, with a side order of I will be raising that with you later, sunshine. “I say again, explain. What vibrations? Why drink?”

“The Enemy,” McCann said, “is opposed to all manner of thinking. Philosophy. Higher truth. Reason. They can smell it. Hemingway was right about that, at least, even if he couldn’t string a decent sentence together. To catch fish, you have to be as simpleminded as a fish. They can smell sentience, and that’s how they know their enemy. You can plan your fishing all you want, but when you’re on the water, you’ve to empty your mind. Drink’s the best way.” Again, that grin that echoed of eons not kenned by the wit of mortal man. “So if you were going to trouble the Pike in his fishy lair, you had t’be drunk.”

I nodded. “Logical,” I said. Of course, no logic is any better than its premises, and at least one or two of the ones McCann was occupying were perhaps not in tenantable condition. “Still, we’re no closer than we were to the issue of, for one, a boat of sufficient size or any reasonable plan for laying this serpent to rest. I presume we can’t kill it?”

McCann shrugged. “We can try, but you can’t kill it completely. It’s as much idea as sea-serpent. Can’t kill ideas.” He shrugged again.

Of course, this was in the days before the Internet evolved enough to kill ideas stone dead, emasculating them into meme-hood, pasting them over a million pointless blogs until they smeared into the grey nothingness of cliche. It may be that LiveJournal and MySpace are the greatest weapons humanity has ever devised in the fight against the insidious predators on human thought that regard us, with their cold and cool intelligences, as wanton boys do flies. What price the fanatic when the object of his fanaticism turns up as the results of on-line quizzes?

But I digress.

“Supposing,” I said, “we ignore the fishy part of the serpent and just try to weaken the idea? Make jokes about it, send it up, alter perceptions?”

“Take too long,” Sheila averred, waving a hand in the direction of Modi and Magni. Each of them was working on a fourth pint of snakebite—a mix of bitter and cider, and dangerous stuff—made with cloudy cider, just to make it more dangerous still. “Look at these two. How many centuries before they changed into this?”

They looked back glassy-eyed, and I noticed that the devil-horns gestures were getting a little wobbly. “About another pint and a half before they’re single-celled life-forms, the rate they’re going,” I said, “but I take your point. Still, the fact that the project is going to take years shouldn’t daunt us unduly. Nothing worthwhile was ever done quickly, and all that.”

“And of course, you’re in the warm and dry while you scribble away.” There was a tone of accusation in Sheila’s voice that betrayed an essential unfairness in her attitude to gender roles. All very well for her to insist she didn’t have to be trammelled by traditional feminine roles, but just you try and be less than a manly man in her presence.

“If you’re suggesting that I’m trying to avoid real work,” I said, ready for this one, “I’ll just invite you to remember that you’re a lawyer too.”

Sheila humphed, loudly, as near to an acknowledgement of a palpable hit as I was ever to get out of her. “Be that as it may, and I think you’ll find a comparison of our billable hours shows that you’re definitely the workshy one.”

“Well, I could get into point-scoring,” I replied, making a virtue of the necessity of avoiding inevitable defeat, “but I shall rise above that particular fray. The thing is, if we can’t kill the fish, we should try and kill the idea.”

“This von’t vork,” said one of the Aesir twins. “Most of the minds that Midgardsormr draws its strength from won’t listen to you anyway. Most of them don’t read anything but fishing magazines.”

“‘Tis true,” McCann said, “the Serpent is the biggest one that got away ever.”

“It draws its strength from fish stories? ” I was aghast to discover that I might have in some measure contributed to my own near-undoing on the shores of far California.

“You mean to say we’re our own fifth column?” Sheila asked, getting more to the nub of the thing. After all, if humanity was feeding the dread serpent with fish stories, half the shelves at most newsagents amounted to a veritable buffet for the thing. There are, at a rough count, some fifteen titles published monthly on the subject of carp-fishing alone in the United Kingdom, another half-dozen for salmon and trout, and a positive bewilderment of general piscatorial publications.

“Worse,” McCann said, “It’s a cult.”

“Jar,” Modi and Magni slurred in unison, with Magni continuing, “He who fights fish, becomes a fish himself.”

Modi added, “He who stares overlong into der fishpond, he finds the fishpond stares into him.”

“Nietzsche,” Magni said, capping both misquotations.

“Well, I’m sure we can do without the ravings of a demented German,” Sheila said, although I suspect most of her beef with dear old Fred was the fact that he wrote of the Super man, thus offending her female chauvinist sensibilities.

“Wouldn’t know about that,” McCann said, “just that there’s any number of anglers go to the bad. Been happening for thousands of years.”

This was starting to sound interestingly grisly. “Human sacrifice?” I probed, “Dark rites, conducted in the blackest of ebon nights? Fell rituals to shatter the mind, horrors to sear the soul?”

“Fishing, mostly,” McCann said, “Fishing that don’t catch no fish. “

A long, drawn-out silence.

“Hold on,” Sheila said, “if they’re not catching fish, surely—”

“Belay that logic, there!” McCann snapped. “You’ve seen ‘em, you know you have. Angling around ponds no more’n knee-deep. More tackle than any sane man would have. More, oftener ‘n not, than a mortal man can carry.”

“Clapham Common pond,” I said, pouncing on something that had troubled me for a long time. “There’s always at least one of the buggers there. And I don’t believe there’s any fish in there to start with. Discarded condoms, yes. Sunken Special Brew cans, certainly. Fish? Not likely. And you’re right, they’re tackled up for Leviathan Himself.”

I invite the casual reader to take a moment in earnest, here, and use the facility of the modern Internet to look up Clapham Common Round Pond. If It’s twenty yards across, it could only be so by dint of a generous measure made by a drunken surveyor using yards of less than the Imperial Standard. And yet, day in, day out, in all manner of weather, there is at least one angler there. Typically with a collapsible shelter against the dank and windy elements that is British weather for two out of three parts of the year, he has a rod-rest and multiple rods festooned with high-tech reels, electronic bite detectors and probably short-wave radar to boot. I’d always suspected that it wasn’t quite canny—possibly some kind of occupational therapy for the irredeemably insane—but I was now to learn just how wrong the whole situation really was.

“T’ain’t about the fish,” McCann said. “It’s about the worship of fish. A cult, I tell you. And round ponds, such as you mention. And thousands of years, I tell ye.”

“How thousands?” I asked, hinting for more evidence. “And none of your immanent personification malarkey, either, we’ve a sight too many deities involved in this business, friend.”

“Stonehenge,” McCann had the air of a man betting open on a priall of threes.

“Stonehenge?”

“Used to have a pond in it. With stone markers for the fishing pegs. And no fish. ” McCann’s demeanour had lost the air of ages-won superiority. “They’ve been recruiting at least that long. Go far in the great struggle and you’ll learn, oh yes, you’ll learn. The Brotherhood fights the fight, yet at any moment any of us can go to the bad. It’s always just one more bit of tackle, just a little earlier to rise to get on the water while they’re biting, and afore ye know it, ye’re there, rod in hand, a tackle box bigger than you are, by a small round pond with no fish in it and your mind gone, altogether gone…”

That was good for a round of shudders. We’d seen it ourselves, of course. Hudson was probably half gone already, and I was aware that even as I’d stood in fishing tackle shops and wondered wryly who the hell it was used all this stuff, I’d been tempted to have a go with some of the more esoteric tackle. Fortunately, I’d passed all my sanity checks so far. I could still manage to resist the urge that has a man regard angling as an end in itself and damn the want of fish actually caught.

As for the sacrifices, I note that there have been bodies found buried near Stonehenge, so it can’t be ruled out. I resolved to keep a wary eye on the angling cultists in future, no matter if I managed to get out of this quest.

Sheila broke the long silence in which we contemplated this. “Boat,” she said, hoarse with the horror we’d had visited on our fragile minds.

“Beer,” I said, rising to match action to words, for my glass had passed half-empty some time since, literally as well as metaphorically.

The place was still full of the lunchtime crowd, so I was some time getting the drinks, and I returned again to discover that I’d missed a significant part of the action.

“It turns out that Mister McCann is captain of a vessel that will serve our purposes,” Sheila said, making an allusion that I didn’t fancy above half.

“If he has a hairy first mate, I’m not interested,” I said, “even if he does have the sense to shoot first.”

“Best way,” McCann said. “Best way. Saves all that business with asking questions later, too. First mate aboard my ship ain’t so hairy, mind. Fightin” Bob McKnight, he is, from Dover.”

“The men of Kent are suspect,” I snapped, picking the one line from that old saw that is fit for polite company.

“Well, Dave McLean’s from Westmeath, how does that figure?” McCann asked.

“My grandfather’s from near those parts, in Mullingar,” I grudgingly allowed, although given that my granddad’s a sober, unordained version of Father Jack from the notorious Irish comedy, it wasn’t perhaps the greatest of recommendations for the midlands of Ireland as a breeding-ground of sanity.

“Well, if you’re keener on an Irish crew, I’ve mostly got one,” McCann said. “They’re up the road praying for a Celtic win. At least Mick Mooney will be. A right drunken looney. And Bob McKenzie, avoiding work since it puts him in a frenzy.”

A horrible realization was stealing over me. “You’re not from anywhere by the Bann, are you?” I asked, seeing the answer, with a gloomy inevitability, rise like a rock in the conversational stream. A man from Westmeath, a fighting man from Dover. And the names did seem to have been recruited in spite of obvious deficiencies in working seafarers, recruited for scansion and rhyme.

“Here and now, that I am,” McCann said, and the grin of ages past was there again.

“What are you on about, Ishmael?” Sheila asked, “not that I’m surprised you’ve found something else to complain about. You’re only happy when you’re moaning about something, so happy I see you’ve bought the beers again.”

“This ship,” I asked, no more able to resist exploring this subject than I might ever have been able to resist picking at a scab, “has it ever been used to carry a large cargo? Such as of a city hall’s worth of bricks?”

“Catches on fast, don’t ‘e?”

“Fucking right I do,” I said, “especially when clear disaster is staring us in the face. Sheila, if you have engaged us to voyage aboard this man’s ship, we are doomed and there is no denying it.”

“You don’t mean—?” The sight of Sheila paling in terror is not one to behold when one is in the grips of that same emotion. Even Modi and Magni looked a little uncomfortable.

“The rest of the crew will join us shortly,” McCann said, “and It’s a whale of a crew, at that.”

Now, the astute reader will have noticed that we were, indeed, about to sail on the Irish Rover, a vessel famed, among other things, for having twenty-seven masts, and carrying millions of tons of cargo, so a large crew was a practical necessity.

Whether she was the original, refloated after her multitude of sinkings in a million folk nights at a million pubs since she first set sail in eighteen hundred and six, I was never to discover. But whoever had decided that the quest to lay to rest the Midgard Serpent was to be a reverse-murphy stunt—deliberately courting failure so that when Murphy’s Law operated we met with unlooked-for success—was laying it on with a shovel.

“You say we need to be good and drunk before we go hunt this serpent?” I asked.

“That’s the spirit!” McCann exclaimed.

“How drunk?” Sheila asked.

“As drunk as you need to be.”

I looked over at the bar. Counted the fourteen pumps of various brands of Real Ale. Considered the row of optics, no less than fourteen different malt whiskies, and assorted other ardent spirits. Estimated the sheer volume of alcohol in the eighteen-foot long top shelf of arcane liqueurs and obscure fortified wines. Came to some conclusions about how big a cellar this place could possibly have, and how much beer there might be if the barrels were stacked to the rafters therein.

And measured it all in balance against how drunk we’d all have to be to actually dare this fell and deadly hunt.

I lit a cigarette, upper lip stiff but Zippo in trembling hand. Not just Ishmael, can you call me, but now Chief Brody as well.

“We’re going to need a bigger pub, you son of a bitch,” I said.

* * *

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.

To read more work by these authors, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

INTRODUCING:

Touching the Dead

Written by J. Kathleen Cheney

Illustrated by Emily Tolson

The colonel, Shironne decided, must be one of those clever people, the kind who liked to fix things. She could sense him waiting for them there in his office, his curiosity held at bay, but only just.

Her mother took her hand and laid it on the tall back of a chair. Shironne ran her gloved fingers along the wood, straightened her skirts and sat down. She pulled her braid over her shoulder, well aware that she presented a ragged picture— the blind girl in a child’s dress. More than two years old now, it was too short in the skirt and sleeve. Even so, she’d grown accustomed to the feel of it against her over-sensitive skin, and that made the old blue woolen tolerable.

“Madam Anjir, Miss Anjir,” the colonel said in a deep, sincere voice. “I’m honored to have you here.”

Shironne smiled in response, returning his goodwill without thinking. He stood and approached them, his boots crossing a hard floor, only a few steps. She guessed he must be quite tall.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, Colonel …” her mother began, sounding official, as a politician’s wife should.

“Cerradine,” he supplied.

“… Colonel Cerradine. This is the Investigations Office, isn’t it? We’ve come to inquire about the death of an army gentleman, a Sergeant Merha. The hospital sent us here to talk to you.”

“And why would you be making inquiries into this man’s death, Madam?”

He didn’t walk away, but Shironne thought she heard the movement of his clothes, as if he’d sat down, perhaps on the edge of his desk. She could smell him from there: wool and leather and the oily black smell of a gun. She caught a faint whiff of cologne or soap, something exotic and manly. She didn’t recognize it, but liked it much better than the cloying musk her father favored.

“It’s me, not her,” Shironne told him.

The colonel’s attention turned on her then. His interest didn’t fall all over her like an exuberant puppy but sat back and observed her like a cat, distant and willing to wait for its prize. “And why would you do that, Miss Anjir?”

“Because I promised my maid Benia I would find out what happened to him,” she admitted, knowing it sounded like a childish whim. “I … um, she was upset and she kept asking why someone would kill him, and I promised without thinking, sir.”

“It’s never a good idea to make rash promises, Miss Anjir,” he said with laughter in his tone.

Harder than he knew. With Benia’s distress falling all about her like an enveloping wave of water, she’d been carried away. The woman’s emotions had overridden her own, stealing her judgment. “I do realize that, sir.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Unfortunately, I can’t give you that answer yet, ladies. We’ve only begun to investigate his death. I will, however, send word around to your residence as soon as I do have information.” His feet moved away toward the other side of the room.

He felt regretful, Shironne decided, because he couldn’t help them. “You misunderstand me, sir. I thought I could help you. Figure out who killed him, I mean.”

He didn’t dismiss her idea immediately. Instead, the emotions in his mind locked away as calculation took over. A moment passed in silence. “Madam Anjir,” he asked then, “do you intend to permit this if I agree?”

Her mother radiated surprise, but quickly tamped it down. She’d expected the colonel to refuse. “I gave my promise, sir,” she said, “but I must ask that this be handled with the utmost discretion. My husband wouldn’t wish it known we came here.”

“No, I expect not,” he said.

Shironne sensed animosity in the colonel’s thoughts and wondered if he already knew her father.

“My people will be perfectly discreet, Madam,” he said. “Now how did you think to help me, Miss Anjir?”

“I wondered if I might touch the body, sir.”

* * *

The colonel walked with her across the level lawn of the Army Square. Her mother had described the square to her when they alighted from their carriage, but Shironne hadn’t been able to fix anything in her mind save the location of the army’s administration building on one side of the green and the hospital on the other.

She’d heard men calling out in the distance, a drill or a parade. Their voices drew forth a childhood memory of seeing military men in their sharp blue and brown uniforms, parading along the streets of Noikinos with their long rifles on their shoulders. It was an old memory, and she couldn’t remember if their trousers were blue with a brown stripe down the side, or the other way around. Perhaps they didn’t have a stripe at all. The men were gone now, their drill finished, and only the normal sounds of horses and carriages came from the square.

The colonel led her through the entry doors of the hospital. Shironne knew the scents well, having spent more time in the company of doctors in the last few years than she cared to. They traversed a flight of stairs leading down to the army’s morgue.

She tried not to smell the un-circulated air, pressing a gloved finger under her nostrils. The cool room stank of ripeness and chemicals, of bowels emptied and strong soaps, one scent layering over another. Someone should throw open a few windows and let the wind sweep through, she thought, and then wondered if the place had any windows to open. Shironne tightened her other hand on the colonel’s sleeve, queasiness welling in her stomach.

Male voices protested her presence, and the colonel went to speak with the men, leaving her standing alone. An older-sounding man argued the appropriateness of a young girl seeing such things, which made Shironne want to laugh. The colonel prevailed in the end, and Shironne felt the men’s protests, both mental and vocal, fading into the distance, past closing doors.

“There are people who specialize in investigating these things, Miss Anjir,” the colonel said from several feet away. “If you want to back out now, I can send for one of them.”

“No, sir. I promised.” She sensed his concern. He felt curious, but worried for her sake as well. “I … um, don’t know where the body is.”

“Directly ahead of you, a foot or so.”

She heard cloth sliding over an unmoving surface. A sudden surge of unpleasant scents accompanied the sound. It was the smell of old blood, like meat gone stale in the summer heat, coppery and —to her confused mind— green.

The colonel stepped away, carefully folding up his worry and training his mind back to observation.

Shironne removed one of her gloves and tucked it into her waistband. With the other hand, she reached out and located the edge of the table. Wood, she thought. Her cotton gloves never completely blocked her impressions. She touched a bare finger to the table, sensing things that had crossed it in the last few days, the fluids a body made. There were tiny bits of skin from many people ground into the table’s surface, and harsh chemicals. She recognized carbolic acid, long since faded past usefulness. Other things she didn’t recognize, or recognized but didn’t have names for.

She gritted her teeth and stretched out a hand. It contacted something cool— skin chilled to the temperature of the room. The body remained calm, unmoving despite the seething life that went on inside the dead shell. Shironne grimaced.

The colonel’s hands touched her sleeves then, drawing her away.

“No,” she insisted, and his hands relented. His worry wrapped around her like a fog and just as quickly fled, hidden back in some corner of his mind.

Shironne laid her palm where her finger had touched— an arm, the muscles exhausted as if the man had recently fought. She ran her fingertips along it, feeling for the hand at its end.

“His hands have been cleaned,” she said, sensing soap on the man’s skin.

“The mortuary service would have washed the body.”

She felt the fingers, finding faint traces of ink, of food, of other things, under the film of the soap. “If he had a gun, sir, I don’t think he fired it.”

“Why not?” The colonel’s mind didn’t reflect doubt, only curiosity.

“There’s no … um, evidence of the gun being fired. There’s something left when someone does that, but I don’t know what to call it, though.” She’d only ever touched a gun once before, and had no names for those things beyond gun and bullet.

The colonel’s fascination grew. “We haven’t found his pistol, I believe.”

Shironne ran her fingers back up the arm and touched the dead man’s chest. She found the edge of a wound and forced her senses deeper. A knife, tearing through the skin and into the heart, ruining its rhythm— a knife killed him. She could almost picture the blade in her mind. “Do you have the knife?”

“No, the killer took it. We hope he still has it.”

“It should be long and narrow. If you find it, I can tell you if it’s the one, I think.”

“By touching it?”

“Yes, sir. It would have his blood on it, and I would recognize his blood now, sir.” She had no words to explain that either.

“If I’d stabbed someone, I’d clean the knife,” he pointed out.

“But it’s hard to get everything off, sir. There might be little bits of blood left, maybe so small you can’t see them, but I would be able to feel them.”

Shironne touched her hand to the sergeant’s cold, unshaven jaw, sensing the first stages of bruising there. She’d felt it on her mother’s skin before, when a bruise hadn’t yet had a chance to swell, the blood vessels all broken and angry under the skin. She suspected the colonel had seen the mark on the man’s face.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to feel past the flesh. Memories lingered in the dead man’s mind, not fluttering about crying for attention as a living person’s would but lying about like leaves scattered in the fall. They were rotting, gone skeletal. She remembered holding a moldered leaf as a little girl and gazing at its delicate framework, back in the days before her eyes had gone sightless.

She dug into the sergeant’s tattered memories. His mind held on to brief images: childhood recollections, scattered smells. There were faint snatches of her maid, Benia, in that chaos, different from what Shironne knew of the woman: the smell of her skin, the turn of her ankle, the curve of her back as her hair fell black against it.

Startled by the strange perspective, Shironne shook her head, trying to clear it. She lifted her hand from the body’s chilly brow, keeping it well away from her clothes. “I don’t think I’ll find out anything else, sir. Is there someplace I can wash?”

The colonel turned her about, hands on her shoulders. “Straight ahead about ten feet there’s a sink. Can you find that?”

She put her gloved hand out in front of her and stepped off the distance. She found the edge of the sink and ran her fingers around it. Then she stripped off her second glove, located a lump of lye soap and turned on the tap. The soap’s slick feel made her want to grind her teeth, but she bore it. Once convinced her hands were sufficiently clean, she worked her gloves back on.

The colonel thought curiosity at her. “How long have you been blind?”

Shironne turned toward the sound of his voice. “About a year and a half, sir. Since I was thirteen.”

“I’ve never known anyone blind before,” the colonel said. “You seem quite self-sufficient.”

“My mother is very insistent.” Her father would want her out of the house the moment she came of age at seventeen. Legally, her mother had no means to forestall her expulsion.

“You also seem quite determined to carry on with this investigation, Miss Anjir, despite your mother’s … lack of enthusiasm.”

Lack of enthusiasm didn’t begin to describe her mother’s sentiments. Mama had been brought up very properly, taught that a girl should learn to manage her husband’s household, bear his children, and follow his commands in all things. Shironne, on the other hand, knew she wouldn’t catch a husband —not now— so none of those imperatives mattered for her any more. “She’s very reserved, Colonel,” Shironne said, “but Mama says that I’m, um … the interfering sort.”

She sensed his amusement. He let her feel it, as if he held it out on a platter for her mind to see. “You’re very good at controlling your emotions, sir.”

“I was well trained,” the colonel answered. “You must be very sensitive.”

“Yes, sir, far more so than my mother.” At first, her skin had felt so raw that every breath, every touch, every morsel of food had all been agony in the overwhelming flood of sensation sweeping through her. Her father’s very presence had been a torment, his ever-present anger rousing in her a screaming fury of her own. He still made her teeth hurt, even now.

“So your mother’s a sensitive as well,” the colonel said. “I should have expected that.”

Shironne frowned. She’d revealed a secret her mother wouldn’t want exposed. “She … no one …”

“I know who your mother is, Miss Anjir. I would never say or do anything to harm her.”

He meant his words sincerely. Shironne sensed it.

“Why don’t I take you back to the office now?” He put a hand under her elbow, guiding her toward the stairs.

“What do you mean, you know who my mother is?” She tried to judge his mind through the muted contact of his hand on her sleeve.

“Hmm. An alderman’s wife,” he stated correctly.

But his original words had nothing to do with her father, she could tell. “No, you meant something else.”

His mind turned quickly, making inferences from her words, tying them back to what he’d seen in the morgue. His hand slipped away from her elbow, taking with it her tie to his thoughts, leaving her access to his emotions alone.

“Amazing,” the colonel said, with no hint of offense. “You don’t actually have to be touching my skin.”

Shironne wondered what he used for reference. “Should I?”

“Do you not know what you are?” Wonder floated through his emotions, not hidden this time.

“A freak,” she whispered. “Witch-blood.” They told stories of people like her kept caged in a foreign palace— a menagerie, only not filled with beasts. She had read such stories with appalling relish as a little girl, never suspecting then she might someday belong in one of those cages herself.

The colonel laughed. “Ah, no. Come with me, Miss Anjir. Your mother and I need to have a discussion.”

He returned his hand to her elbow, guiding her up the last steps and out of the hospital. The cool fall breeze felt clean after the fetid air of the morgue, even if it did brush her cheeks with a touch of factory smoke.

Her mother waited in the colonel’s office, anxiety spinning about her in a tight skein. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” she asked as they came through the door.

Shironne wished she could put her arms around her and be held for a moment, but Mama was a politician’s wife and had to keep up her cultured image. “I’m fine, Mama. It was … unpleasant, but I’m fine.”

Her mother tucked away her fretfulness. “Did you find out what you needed?”

“No. I …” Shironne turned in the colonel’s direction, a sudden inspiration electrifying her. “Can you take me to where he lived?”

“Sweetheart,” her mother protested, “I’m certain the colonel has other …”

“I promised, Mama. I told Benia I would find out why.”

“Madam Anjir,” the colonel said in a grave voice, “I’m willing to take her there. I am curious.”

Her mother flinched at his last word. Shironne felt it both through Mama’s tight grasp on her hand and in her sudden air of anger. “My daughter is not a circus freak, Colonel Cerradine. She didn’t come here to entertain you.”

“No, Madam, she came to fulfill a promise, and I intend to help her do so.” The colonel radiated honesty, so clearly that Shironne wondered if he practiced at home.

“Colonel, my husband doesn’t want her seen …”

“Is he the one who first used the word ‘freak,’ Madam?” the colonel asked in an irritated voice. “The proper term is touch-sensitive.”

Silence reigned for a moment.

Shironne felt fear tumbling through her mother’s heart. The emotion reflected through her own body, sending goose bumps shivering along her arms. A trickle of perspiration ran down her back. Shironne fought the response, trying to keep it from taking over her own thoughts. “What do you mean, Colonel?”

“If I’m not mistaken, Miss Anjir, you are a rare form of sensitive, much more acute than most. The talent does run in certain families.”

The colonel waited for her mother to admit something. When he got no response, he continued. “I was raised at the Fortress, Madam, as were many of my staff. We don’t view such things as most people do. We’re a little more open-minded.”

The Fortress housed the king and his family, long whispered to possess unusual “talents.” They wouldn’t consider her talent a disturbing taint then, or proof of impure blood as Father constantly insisted.

Her mother didn’t respond to the colonel’s statement.

“The prince is one of my closest friends,” he tried again. “I would never harm a member of his family.”

Shironne decided he’d approached the topic so obliquely because he feared Mama had never admitted it to her. He didn’t wish to expose her secret.

“I … um,” her mother faltered, “… my husband …”

“Doesn’t want anyone to know,” the colonel finished. “I understand. I can see he asks you to keep many secrets.” A distinct flash of anger accompanied his words.

Clearly, the cosmetics Mama used to hide the new bruise hadn’t fooled him. Shironne sensed her mother’s fleeting humiliation.

She knew the expression Mama would be wearing now. She’d seen it often as a little girl. Savelle Anjir was tall, beautiful and elegant, always cloaked in the mantle of the serene politician’s wife. Only after her odd sensitivity developed had Shironne begun to understand that her mother’s cool tranquility was a facade.

“He is my husband, Colonel,” Mama insisted with a quaver in her voice. “He may ask what he wills.”

“Why not go to your brothers for protection?”

Officially, her mother had no brothers. “That is not your concern, Colonel,” she said more firmly.

Shironne sensed his frustration, but her mother would never give in to his gentle and well-intentioned suggestions. It would cause a scandal. Shironne spoke into the stretching silence. “Colonel, do you think I might go to his apartments?”

“I will accompany you there shortly,” the colonel answered, “if your mother permits.”

“Her father …”

“Would not want her seen. I recall, Madam. Let me go talk to Lieutenant Kassannan. I’ll see if she can’t come up with something and accompany us there.” He walked out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Being exposed as the old king’s bastard had always been Mama’s greatest fear. While the king and the prince might be her half-brothers, she had never met them even though she sometimes half-wished for it.

“He won’t say anything, Mama. I can tell,” Shironne assured her.

Her mother sighed. “We need to get home, sweetheart. We don’t have the time to go visit this man’s rooms.”

The butler always snitched to Father if Mama left the house for too long. Father paid him well. “You could go back, Mama.”

“And leave you here alone?” Her voice sounded incredulous.

“I’ll be safe with the colonel. I can tell. If you go back, the butler probably won’t even notice I didn’t come in. He never notices me. I’ll come back as soon as I’m done and I’ll make certain he doesn’t see me. Cook won’t say anything.” Her mother still didn’t like the idea— Shironne could sense her worry. “I gave my word, Mama. I must.”

Her mother understood duty all too well. She sighed again and finally agreed to the plan, unhappily so.

The colonel returned then, seeming pleased with himself. His step even sounded lighter. “Why don’t you put this on, Miss Anjir?”

He handed her something. Shironne turned it about in her gloved hands, determining she held a woman’s hat. She righted it and placed it on her head.

“There’s a veil.” He folded it down over her face.

Judging by her mother’s smothered laughter, she must look ridiculous. The hat tilted, dipping down over her face. Its headband came into contact with her forehead, hinting at the woman who’d worn it before, an aged deposit of oils, dirt, and skin.

“It’s a little large,” the colonel observed.

Her mother tucked away her amusement, deciding to be firm again. “Colonel, I will let you take her, but I must return to my house. Could you possibly send her back there— with a suitable escort, of course?”

“Of course, Madam Anjir.”

* * *

“Are you really in the Army?” Shironne asked the woman who led her down the steps of the administration building— Lieutenant Kassannan. Realizing she’d been rude, she put her hand over her mouth only to tangle her fingers in the veil of the over-large hat.

“Yes, miss,” the lieutenant said, not sounding the least offended. “The Investigations Office does take on female workers.”

Shironne wondered if she heard that question often. She’d known there were women who served in the Army, but had never thought to meet one. Clearly, the colonel considered women competent to do something other than run a household. “Do you enjoy it?” she asked.

“Yes, miss,” the lieutenant said. “It’s my calling, I think. I am good at what I do.”

The colonel joined them, his boots ringing on the steps. Shironne heard a carriage driving up, the horses’ hooves closer than she’d expected. Lieutenant Kassannan helped her up and then sat next to her, her mind as politely disciplined as the colonel’s.

“I knew about my mother’s birth,” Shironne told the colonel after they started on their way, “but she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“I suspect your mother’s friends would be shocked if they learned of it,” he said.

The carriage had a smooth ride, far better than the aging one her family owned. “My mother doesn’t really have any friends,” Shironne said. “Father doesn’t like for her to meet people.”

That made the colonel angry. The lieutenant’s mind reflected suspicion as well.

“I mean, she meets people at political things,” Shironne amended, “just not on her own.” Father preferred to keep his beautiful and purportedly well-born wife close.

“Hmm,” the colonel said.

The carriage began slowing. They’d traveled only a short distance, so she knew they’d stayed in the same district of the city. The colonel straightened her hat’s veil. “Are you ready?”

“Do I look as ridiculous as my mother thought?”

“Yes,” the colonel answered. The lieutenant laughed and agreed as they rolled to a stop.

The colonel handed her down from the carriage onto a cobbled street. Other traffic passed by, but not much. The factories smelled nearer than before. Trees rustled in the faint breeze. The veil confused her, brushing into her face, startling her skin with the feel of silk lace and dye.

She heard the lieutenant jump down from the carriage, her booted feet striking the cobbles. From the sounds she made, Shironne deduced that Lieutenant Kassannan must wear trousers just as the colonel did.

“Why don’t we go in?” the colonel asked. He took Shironne’s gloved hand and laid it on his sleeve, leading her up a few steps and into the entryway of a house.

Home-smells surrounded Shironne, and the taste of dirt. The owner didn’t keep it as clean as her house. “Is this his house?”

“It’s a boarding house,” the colonel explained. “He had a flat here. I sent a message ahead, to let the landlady know we were coming back.”

“Oh.” She should have realized that. A sergeant wouldn’t have the money to own a house. In fact, Benia claimed that as the reason they hadn’t married yet.

Voices echoed along hallways, distracting her. Late morning, and most of the residents should be at their work, Shironne guessed. Not all, it seemed. Two women argued somewhere above them, one angry, another pleading, their words indistinct at this distance.

“Upstairs, sir,” the lieutenant said.

The colonel drew Shironne toward the sounds of the voices and they mounted the stairs. Someone passed close by as they came out onto the second floor landing, causing the colonel to halt abruptly. She hummed a lullaby under her breath, a fog of vague despondency surrounding her.

“I beg your pardon, Madam,” the colonel said, even though she’d been the one to walk into him.

The woman’s attention focused on him, her sudden interest pronounced enough to make Shironne wonder for the first time if the colonel was a handsome man. Then the woman’s attention drifted away like smoke caught on the wind. She continued on up the stairs without even responding.

The landlady, identifiable by the keys jangling at her waist, met them when they stopped at a doorway. She fawned over the officers in a subservient fashion and unlocked the door for them, curious and uneasy thoughts making a messy cloud around her in Shironne’s mind. The colonel thanked her and informed her they would send for her if they needed further assistance— a polite way of asking her to go away. She left them, taking her worry and noisy keys with her.

Shironne laid a gloved hand on the doorframe and stepped through onto a wood floor. “How is the room laid out?”

The colonel entered behind her, giving her a brief description. The sitting room possessed only a low table, two chairs and a tea service near the hearth.

“Could you take me to a chair?” Shironne asked.

He took her hand, curiosity in his mind again, and placed it on the back of a chair. She sat and removed her left boot. “Is there anything on the floor?”

“A braided rug in front of the hearth.”

Shironne stood and started away from the chair, feeling about with her bared foot. She couldn’t sense much from the wood itself, but wood kept things. She felt dirt trapped in the grain, bits of skin and hair, food and saliva, all ground together into dust, only faintly identifiable. The pine floors had recently been scrubbed with lye and water.

Shironne reached a spot near the middle of the room and stopped, her foot poised barely touching the floor. Blood had flowed there. “Did he die right here?”

“That was where they found the body this morning,” the lieutenant confirmed from just inside the doorway.

“There’s a lot of blood.”

“I don’t see anything,” the colonel said. “The landlady must have scrubbed it after they took the body.”

“But she didn’t get it all. You never get anything really clean, sir. I can feel the blood in the cracks between the boards, and in the grain of the wood.”

“Hmmm. Are your feet as sensitive as your hands?”

“No, sir, but more than … um, say, my elbow.”

“Interesting.”

Shironne moved her foot about, tapping spots on the bare wood. The blood had spread wide, which made her suspect the body laid there for some time. “How long before anyone found him, sir?”

“We don’t know for certain. They found the body early this morning and carried it to the morgue at about seven.”

She began making a wider circle, trying to determine what else the floor could tell her. “Someone barefoot was here, someone with small, dirty feet. They got some of the blood on them and probably left footprints.”

“Gone now. A child or a woman?”

“Female, but definitely not my maid. Benia never goes barefoot. Once I told her what was really on the floor,” Shironne almost laughed, remembering the woman’s unseen horror, “and now she can’t do it anymore.”

She continued feeling her way outward. She crossed a spot where many shod feet had passed, leaving dirt from the street outside. She came to a halt and pointed in the direction of the traffic. “What’s that way, sir?”

“Bedroom,” he said.

She followed the track the feet had walked.

“There’s a closed door about three feet in front of you,” the colonel warned her.

Shironne reached out a hand and located the door. She slid off one of her gloves and touched the porcelain doorknob. “The landlady cleaned this, too.”

“She’ll want to let these rooms again quickly.”

“That doesn’t help me much.”

“I don’t think she had you in mind.”

Shironne turned the knob and pulled the door open. The bedroom smelled stale, as if air didn’t pass through it. “Is there no window?”

“No,” the colonel replied from close behind her. “It’s a tiny room, only the bed and an armoire. Hardly space to turn around.”

She stepped into the room, unexpectedly cracking her shin on a metal bed frame on her first step. She hissed, tears starting in her useless eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have warned you.”

“Not your fault, sir,” she said, regaining her equilibrium. She hated doing things like that— things people expected a blind girl to do.

She leaned down and touched the bedclothes, feeling wool, worn and coated with years of human use. They’d been washed recently, but soap never got rid of everything. “The landlady must have re-made the bed.”

Frustrated, she reached out her gloved hand and tugged back the blanket, exposing the sheets. She pulled back the upper one, hoping not to dislodge the lower sheet at the same time.

“I don’t believe your mother would approve of this,” the colonel said, his mind abruptly focused on her actions.

“She’s not here,” Shironne reminded him. She ran her bare hand lightly across the sheet, starting at the head of the bed. “The landlady may have made the bed,” she told the colonel, “but she didn’t change the sheets.”

The colonel radiated disgust.

“The sheets—they feel of him, the same man who bled on the floor.”

“How can you tell?”

“I … um, don’t know how, sir. I just know. Different people just feel different to me. I don’t have any words for it. I recognized his blood because I’d touched his body. I recognize the sheets for the same reason, but I can’t explain how.”

“The sheets?”

“Um … what’s on the sheets, sir. People leave bits of themselves behind; hair, skin, spit … other things.” She slid her hand farther down the sheets and stopped. “I can feel him here,” she said, “and … um, also my maid, Benia.”

“I think perhaps we’ve seen enough.”

Shironne almost laughed at his sudden squeamishness. “Colonel, I’ve touched this sort of thing before. I’ve known for some time my maid had a lover. Perhaps you shouldn’t mention it to my mother, though.”

He packed away his worry and sighed. “You are a most unusual young lady.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s just … I mean, how can I miss that sort of thing?” The world never stopped for her too-sensitive skin. “The odd thing is, another woman had been in this bed. The barefoot one, I think, although I’m not certain. I didn’t really get much of a feel of her from the floor.”

“Ah. I’m sorry for your maid, then,” the colonel said with a hint of sympathy followed by a quick flare of suspicion.

“Benia wouldn’t do this, sir. She loved him.”

“People sometimes do irrational things when wounded.”

“But she couldn’t have lied to me about it, sir. People can’t fool me if I’m touching them.”

That revelation sparked another fit of cogitation on his part, so Shironne returned her attention to the sheets. “Sir, I don’t think the barefoot woman was his lover, or at least … um, not since these sheets were washed.”

“Hmm.” He worried again.

“I mean, I can feel a lot of him on the sheets, and a lot of Benia, but only hints of the other woman. I mean, if she was his lover too, there would be more …” She stopped, not certain how to explain it.

“There would be more,” he said firmly, sparing her.

“Yes, sir.”

“So another woman was here,” he said. “There could have been a fight over her.”

“And perhaps her husband killed the sergeant?”

“It would make sense,” the colonel said. “At least now we have a possible motive to follow up on.”

“I really don’t think he would have brought another woman here, sir. He loved Benia.”

“No, you know she loved him. Can you be certain he felt the same?”

Shironne dug back through her own memories, trying to recall everything Benia had ever said of her sergeant. “I just can’t believe it, sir.”

The colonel thought cynical thoughts. “You’re very young. You want to believe the best of others.”

“I’m fifteen,” she told him, wondering if he could possibly know the evil in others’ minds the way she did. “Is there anything else here I could feel, sir?”

She heard him move past her into the small room. He opened the armoire and then shut it. “The landlady has removed everything already. Lieutenant?” he called back to the main room.

“Yes, sir,” the woman replied promptly.

“Find out what the landlady did with the sergeant’s personal property.” The lieutenant agreed and left, her quiet presence fading away with her footsteps. “I think we know now why she looked nervous.”

Shironne followed her own trail back to the chair she’d sat in and felt around to retrieve her shoe. She finally located it and pulled on her sock. She was tying her shoe when the colonel came to tower over her.

“I believe we’re at a dead end for now,” the colonel said. He touched a hand to her shoulder. “I should get you back to your house before your father misses you.”

Anger flared through his thoughts again.

“He doesn’t watch me as close as Mama.”

He took his hand away. “Still, I suspect he might blame her if he knew you were missing, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.” She’d already chanced her father’s ire by being gone this long.

“Why don’t I take you back then?” he said. His tone didn’t indicate a question.

Shironne sighed and rose. “I need to know, though, when you find out who did it.”

“I’ll get you word. I promise.”

* * *

The butler believed Mama’s fabrication about locking Shironne in her room for the entire afternoon. When he found Shironne below stairs chatting with Cook in the kitchens, he roundly upbraided the woman for abetting her delinquency. The butler would prefer she be locked away permanently, Shironne knew. He feared her “oddness” might be catching.

She put a tearful Benia off with the assurance that the colonel would keep them informed, feeling horribly guilty the whole time.

“I hope he finds out who did it,” Shironne said that night while her mother brushed out her hair. Her father hadn’t returned home for some reason, the best possible end to any day. “Benia seems like she’ll never be happy again.”

“I know. I sense it too. Did he say he would let us know what he found?”

Trepidation accompanied her mother’s question, coupled with a hint of anticipation. Mama apparently had mixed feelings about the colonel and his inquisitive nature. “He said he would. I asked him to contact Cook, though, by way of the servant’s entrance.”

Her mother’s relief spread about her like a cool fog. “That should pass. Your father doesn’t like for us to have visitors.”

“I think the colonel understands, Mama, about Father, I mean.”

Mama sighed wistfully. “Good,” she said after a moment. “Do you suppose he’ll be able to find the person who killed the sergeant?”

Shironne bit her lip as the brush caught a snarl in her curly hair. “I don’t know, Mama. Something we looked at is just wrong.”

Her two younger sisters came into the bedroom to have their hair brushed, and their conversation came to an end.

* * *

Shironne played with her cup of chocolate in the morning, still unable to place what she’d missed at the sergeant’s flat. It seemed to come close, only to slip away like a fish in a pond. The landlady had cleaned everything and told the lieutenant she’d donated his clothes and blankets to the poor, which left the colonel with very little to investigate.

The second housemaid slipped into her room to take her breakfast tray. “Miss,” she whispered conspiratorially, “there’s someone in the kitchen to see you.”

Shironne located her sturdy boots, put them on, and then hurried down the back stairs, avoiding the other servants on the way. She halted on the landing though, her mouth hanging open, when the missing idea came swimming within reach.

She found Lieutenant Kassannan waiting for her under Cook’s stern eye. “The colonel would like to speak with you again,” the lieutenant said when Shironne approached the servants’ table. “He has an idea.”

“I think I do, as well.”

Curiosity surged in the woman’s mind, quickly hidden away. “The colonel told me to get your mother’s permission first, miss. I left the carriage waiting on the next street over, and I’ve brought your hat.”

Shironne grinned. She owned the silly hat now. Her mother came down the servants’ stair a moment later, evidently fetched by the second housemaid as well.

“The colonel would like to borrow your daughter again, Madam,” the lieutenant told her. “If you’re willing.”

Shironne sensed her mother’s worry. “I’d like to go. I’ve figured something out, and I need to tell him. I’ll be careful, Mama. No one will see me.”

“Sweetheart, let the colonel take care of this. You’ve done what you promised.”

“Mama, please, I want to do this. I can be helpful.”

“The colonel said we should offer her a job,” the lieutenant added.

“Was he serious?” Shironne asked, her own curiosity echoed by her mother’s.

“Half-way to, miss. You’re young, but he would certainly be willing to take you on when you come of age.”

Awfully far away, Shironne thought. “Mama, do you think I could?”

Her mother sighed, her mind turning quickly. “I suppose you must, but I want you to promise me …”

In the end, there were about ten things she had to pledge. In addition to not being seen, heard, or injured, she promised to stay with the lieutenant or the colonel at all times. Shironne doubted she could stick to it. She had a talent for falling into trouble.

* * *

“Miss Anjir,” the colonel said as she entered his office, “I spoke to our surgeon last night. We may have proceeded under a false assumption.”

“We assumed a man killed him.”

“Very good,” he said.

Shironne pictured in her mind the way the knife must have gone in and come out, angled sharply. She could only think of one way it had happened. “She used both hands to stab him, raised like this, above her head and then coming down, sir.”

“And what could you deduce from that?”

“Well, I don’t know how tall he was, sir.”

The colonel came nearer. “About six inches shorter than me,” he said. He held out a hand and raised her gloved fingers to it. “So the wound would have come about this high off the ground.”

She felt his hand, trying to fix the height in her mind. It was too high for her to stab at herself, not with any strength behind it. If she stood on her toes, it might make the difference. “A little taller than me, then?”

“Short of average,” the colonel agreed.

“Everyone thinks I’m a little girl because I’m short,” Shironne lamented.

“You’ve disabused us of that notion,” the colonel told her. “I was, however, severely castigated by the surgeon for involving you in this.”

“You didn’t involve me, sir. I involved myself.” She drew herself up, trying to look taller. “Well, I didn’t catch it yesterday, but I wonder if maybe the woman lives in the boarding house.”

“Excuse me?” the colonel said.

“She was barefoot and she walked straight out the door. No one goes out a door and then stops to put their shoes on— it would be remarked. I don’t think she ever went outside. She must live in the same building.”

“Might it be the landlady?” the lieutenant asked.

“I think she likely sold off his property,” the colonel answered, “enough to feel guilty about. She’s too tall anyway.”

“If I could go to there again, I might be able to find her,” Shironne said.

“How?”

“I think I might recognize her if I ran into her.”

“We don’t have any better lead, sir,” the lieutenant said. The colonel reluctantly agreed.

Once they reached the boarding house again, he helped Shironne down from the carriage, silly hat wobbling on her head. They made their way back up to the sergeant’s rooms.

Shironne stopped inside the doorway. She knelt, removing one glove to feel the threshold. Dozens of people had crossed through, boots dropping street dust and horse dung in tiny bits all about. Near the edge of the doorway, she found a trace remembrance of the woman’s bare, bloodstained foot. She told the colonel.

“Would you recognize her if you touched her?”

“I might, sir.” Shironne laid her hand over the print, trying to get a feel for the woman. Her feet had been dirty, with that taste of blood on them, but Shironne separated out her sense of the skin and sweat from all the distractions. She rose awkwardly, the lieutenant’s hand coming under her elbow to help her rise. “Maybe I could touch all the doorknobs.”

The colonel thought amusement at her. “The landlady will think we’re insane. Lieutenant Kassannan, why don’t you go inform the woman we’re going to search the premises.”

The lieutenant hurried away.

“Can you do that, sir?” Shironne asked.

“On your say-so? Certainly. So, how do we proceed?”

“Perhaps if I feel each of the doorknobs, I might know if she touched one.”

“Well, then, let’s take one floor at a time.” He led her down the hallway, grasped her gloved hand and laid it against a doorframe.

She felt for the handle with her other hand and cringed. “Ew. He should wash before he eats.”

“I hope you realize the vast majority of people won’t wash enough to satisfy your tastes.”

Shironne laughed. “I suppose not, sir.”

They tried every door on that hallway. She found a great deal of filth, but nothing relevant to the murder.

The landlady returned with the lieutenant in time to witness Shironne’s confrontation with the last door. “Witch,” she hissed and scurried away in fear.

“It’s a good thing I’m wearing a veil.”

“Some people are superstitious. Don’t let it concern you.” He led her to the next floor, and she proceeded to touch all the doors, finding nothing.

The stairwell to the fourth floor narrowed, forcing the colonel to walk behind her. The pine railing under her bare fingers bore the taste of only a few different hands, oil and dirt and sweat worn into the wood. “She’s been here,” Shironne told the colonel.

His patience turned to anticipation. Shironne sensed the lieutenant tensing as well. She located the last step and stopped on the landing. “Is the ceiling low?” she asked.

“Yes,” the colonel answered.

Shironne suspected he must be stooping, given the pinched sound of his voice. “How far to the door?”

“The first is three feet ahead and two feet to your right.”

She followed his directions. The knob felt only of a man. “Not this one, sir.”

“Ten feet down the hallway,” he said.

She walked ahead, trailing her gloved hand against the wall. She felt at the knob once she’d located the door. “Um, she has touched this one, sir.”

“Kassannan, go ahead.” The colonel’s hand settled on Shironne’s shoulder, drawing her back behind him.

The lieutenant passed her in the cramped hallway. She rapped on the door. “Army Investigations. Open up.”

Shironne heard no response.

“How certain are you about this?” the colonel asked.

“I know she touched the doorknob. That doesn’t mean she lives here, sir.”

“We’re at the end of a hall. Nowhere else to go.”

The lieutenant knocked again.

Shironne heard the sound of feet on the floor inside then. “I heard something, sir.”

“So did I,” he said. “Let me, Kassannan.”

The colonel pulled away from her. Shironne heard something strike the door and realized he must have kicked it. The sound came again. She heard a crash as the door gave, banging into the wall behind it.

“Army,” he called as he stepped into the room, away from the hallway. The lieutenant followed, leaving Shironne standing alone there.

Fear prickled through the hallway. Shironne fought it, uncertain whether it was her own. She did fear abandonment in unknown places.

She laid her gloved hand on the wall and felt along it, seeking the door again. Following would be better than being alone. She found the doorframe and stepped into the room. A garret apartment, she decided. The colonel must have had to bend down to get in through the low door.

The room smelled dirty, faint hints of soured milk and urine making her wrinkle her nose. She heard the colonel speaking to the lieutenant, their muffled voices indicating they’d passed into a different room.

Shironne took a step in that direction, but stopped when her foot touched something unexpected on the floor. She tried tapping about and discovered there were objects all about her, small things that would surely trip her should she try to run. Something large huddled on the floor to her left, fabric like a jacket or blanket. Fear welled again, causing her breath to go short.

“Not in the closet, sir,” the lieutenant called from far away.

“I found an access to the next apartment. Go back and get the girl.”

Shironne stood frozen, very aware of the unidentified things on the floor. Dread beat through her senses. A board creaked behind her, and she heard the whisper of bare feet. A hand tangled into her braid, yanking her close against a wiry body. Her oversized hat tumbled away.

“Sir,” the lieutenant called. “She’s in here.”

The woman held Shironne, trembling limbs pinning her. She wasn’t terribly large but she had the strength of desperation.

Her fear roiled through Shironne’s senses. Shironne fought to control her mind, counting silently to restore calm. She tried to breathe slowly. Something cool and metallic pressed against her cheek, shaking in the woman’s hand.

“Let her go, ma’am,” the lieutenant said.

The woman shifted her grip on Shironne’s braid, the back of her hand coming into contact with Shironne’s neck.

“Madam,” the colonel said in a reasonable tone. “The girl is not your enemy. Let her go.”

The woman shook Shironne by her braid. Her dirty hand brushed Shironne’s neck again.

Shironne forced herself to touch the woman’s mind. Her thoughts were strangely insistent and repetitive, impossibly chaotic and loud. They protested over and over that she didn’t know what she’d done wrong.

“Whatever did the sergeant do to you? Why did you kill him?” Shironne asked, hoping to direct the woman’s attention where she wanted it to go. Her questions sparked only uncomprehending fear.

The colonel continued to talk soothingly, as if to a child. The woman jerked Shironne farther away. Something small on the floor shifted under Shironne’s foot and only the woman’s painful grip on her hair kept her standing.

She focused on the circle pressed to her cheek, recognizing it for what it was. She extended her senses through the metal, feeling the touch of the sergeant’s hands on it. Metal was always easy.

“The gun …” Shironne began.

A shot sounded, deafening in the garret room. Blood, hot and personal, sprayed across Shironne’s face. The woman jerked away from her, dragging her down to the floor. Shironne yelped at a sudden flare of pain.

She felt the colonel’s hands on her shoulders then, steadying her. He wiped at her face with a piece of starched linen, smoothing away most of the blood splattered across her cheek. She could feel his worry crowding around her. “I’m so sorry, Miss Anjir,” he said. “I didn’t realize she had a way to get back around behind us.”

Shironne calmed her breathing, easier now the woman’s beating panic had faded. “She’s insane, Colonel.”

“Was,” the lieutenant said flatly. “She’s dead.”

“Damn,” the colonel said.

Shironne took a deep breath. The colonel gave her the handkerchief and she began to scrub at her hand with it. “Um, the gun wasn’t loaded.”

Clicking metallic sounds followed. “She’s right, sir,” the lieutenant said.

“Well, the fact that she’s in possession of it indicates she had some involvement in the sergeant’s death.” The colonel sighed, irritation surrounding him. “What a mess. Now we’ll never know what happened.”

“Sir, I had to take the shot,” the lieutenant said.

“You’re not at fault, Kassannan. I should never have brought Miss Anjir up here in the first place.”

Shironne sensed his frustration. “Sir, I could find out what … I mean, why … if we don’t wait too long.”

His mind turned, weighing consequences and curiosity. “Are you willing to try?”

She nodded, suddenly aware that her scalp hurt. She touched her gloved hand to the sore spot.

“I’m afraid she ripped out a bit of your hair.”

The realization brought tears to her eyes, the pain sharpening. Her mother would be upset and would never let her work for the colonel again. “Is it bad enough my mother will notice?” she asked, blinking away the tears.

“I will tell her myself,” the colonel said sternly.

Pain washed through the room, sobbing accompanying it. “You killed her,” a voice cried— the landlady.

“Sit down on the floor, ma’am,” the lieutenant ordered. “We have questions for you.”

“You killed her,” the woman repeated.

“Yes,” the lieutenant said. “Now sit down before I do the same to you. You’ve abetted a crime.”

The landlady’s pain turned to anguish. She began sobbing noisily. “I tried. I tried. I tried so hard.”

“Come with me,” the colonel said to Shironne, ignoring the woman. He replaced Shironne’s hat, helped her stand, and walked her carefully through the room.

“What’s all over the floor?” she asked.

“Toys and wooden blocks. A baby blanket, I think.”

Shironne could smell the blood, strong and metallic, almost tasting it with her too-sensitive tongue. She reached out with her foot and contacted the body. Kneeling next to the dead woman, she felt for the woman’s face with her bare hand. The colonel put his hand on her sleeve and directed her away from the ruined part of the woman’s face.

“Witch,” the landlady cried, “don’t touch her.”

The colonel’s anger flared, but he said nothing.

“Quiet,” the lieutenant snapped.

Shironne pressed her hand to the dead woman’s skin. Warm and soft still, the blood no longer moved under the surface. Everything had halted, stopped in its path.

She reached deeper, searching for the scattered leaves of memory in the woman’s mind. They’d had no time to decay yet, each preserved clearly for her to see. Shironne touched one and then another, confirming what she’d suspected when the woman had still been alive. She wasn’t sane. She’d lost her child and then her mind.

Shironne found a distinct memory of Sergeant Merha speaking with the woman in the foyer of the boarding house. He’d been polite and kind. That simple act alone triggered her obsession with him. He was meant to give her another child, she’d believed, only he hadn’t wanted her. She waited in his bed, but he didn’t want to lie with her. In her desperation, she struck him.

“I really don’t think she realized what she’d done, sir,” Shironne said, drawing away. “She knew she’d done something wrong, because her sister ordered her up here and wouldn’t let her come down again, but I don’t think she understood she actually killed him. Yesterday when you ran into her downstairs, she was waiting by his door for him to come back.”

“I won’t send her to a madhouse,” the landlady sobbed. “I’ll keep her safe. I promised.”

They found the sergeant’s army-issued knife in the landlady’s kitchen. Even under the film of soap, Shironne could still feel his blood on the blade. Together with the gun, the colonel claimed, they had evidence enough, and the landlady confessed it all.

* * *

Her mother was furious— quietly, tearfully so, but furious.

The colonel had taken her back to the Army Square where she’d been able to clean her hands and face to her own satisfaction. Lieutenant Kassannan sponged the stains from her worn brown dress, and Shironne re-braided her hair, hoping the sticky and painful patch would heal quickly. The colonel was correct in believing she’d not be able to hide it.

Sitting at the servants’ table in their kitchen, he confessed everything. “Madam, I wouldn’t lie to you,” he finished.

“Because you know very well I would sense it if you did,” her mother said in a trembling voice. Her hand stroked Shironne’s hair, easing over the painful spot. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

“Madam, I could sorely use someone with her talents. I would like her to work for me from time to time, if …”

“Colonel, I let her have her way this time because she gave her word. Not again.”

“Madam,” the colonel said in a serious tone. “Your child has a very rare talent. Is it not her duty to use it for the good of others?”

Shironne wondered how he knew what effect that word would have on her mother. “Mama, I think I could be really good at this.”

“I will,” her mother said after a moment, “consider it.”

“That, Madam Anjir,” the colonel said softly, “is enough for today.” Shironne heard the rattle of paper. “I would like for you to memorize this. It’s my address.”

Her mother radiated a strange mixture of guilt and hope. “I can’t …”

“Any hour of the day or night, Madam, you or your daughters may go there. Should you need a safe haven, I mean. My servants will know your names.” He’d made sure Shironne memorized it in the carriage on the way back to the house. “After all, I did warn you that I’m one of the prince’s closest friends. That makes me almost family, Madam.”

Shironne heard him rise and move toward the servant’s door.

“You shouldn’t interfere, Colonel,” her mother said without any heat behind her words. “In any way.”

“Hmm. I’m just … the interfering sort, I suppose,” he said, and then was gone.

* * *

Chicken Soup

Written by A. F. Tesson

Illustrated by Alexandra Dawe

“Moooom! Patton’s eating my dinosaurs!”

That rotten dog again. Eliza pulled the last of the laundry from the dryer and grabbed the basket. She yelled down the hallway, “Patton! Get in here!”

Cold rain pattered on the windows. The smell of Grandma’s homemade chicken soup wafted from the kitchen. Her husband Joseph had a cold and Grandma had always said that chicken soup fixed everything.

“Mom! Patton won’t stop!”

Eliza sighed. Laundry would have to wait. Patton adored Joseph and would do anything he said, but she knew the mutt would ignore her until feeding time. Joseph was working late that night, so it was up to her to keep the peace.

She set the laundry basket on the sofa and went to her daughter’s room, calling Patton as she walked. She stopped at the door and her thoughts tumbled about in her mind as she tried to make sense of the unreal scene before her.

Dozens of colorful ankle-high plastic dinosaurs dashed for cover as Patton darted about the room and snapped at them. Panicked cheeps and tiny roars sounded through the room.

Five-year-old Gillie jumped up and down on her bed and yelled at the scruffy dog to stop. Patton chased a red ankylosaurus, but it dodged the dog’s jaws and hid inside a dollhouse.

Eliza gripped the door frame to steady herself. She recovered her wits and bounded across the floor to her daughter. “Come here. Don’t worry. We’ll get out of here.”

“No, Mom.” She slapped Eliza’s hands away. “Make Patton stop.”

A blue stegosaurus clambered over her foot, its own feet warm on her bare toes. Eliza cringed as it tried to hide behind her ankle. Patton shoved at her leg to get at the dinosaur.

“Mom, help Steggie!”

Eliza grabbed Patton’s collar and held the squirming dog while the toy stegosaurus scrambled under the bureau. She pushed Patton out of the room and shut the door. A frustrated whine echoed in the hallway.

Eliza leaned on the door. What was happening? “Gillie, you have some explaining to do.”

Her small face smiling once again, the little girl jumped off her bed and lay down on the floor. She called her dinosaurs by their names. They peered cautiously from their hiding places. When they were certain the dog was gone, they gathered around Gillie in the middle of the floor. She sat up and beamed at her mother.

“Are these…” Eliza motioned at the figures milling about on the floor. “Are these your toys?”

“Yes, they’re ready to play now.”

Eliza chewed at her lip, uncertain what to do next. Patton snuffled underneath the door.

“Are your dinosaurs friendly?”

Gillie looked offended. “Of course.”

“Even the meat-eaters?”

“Are you guys going to play nice?” A chorus of grunts and hoots rose from the small crowd. Gillie looked up at her mom. “They said they will be nice.”

Eliza mulled this over, not quite comfortable with animate plastic objects in her house, even if they were friendly. The tinny chirp of a kitchen timer interrupted her musings. “Well, dinner’s ready. Let’s go eat. Leave your dinosaurs in here.” Patton would keep the dinosaurs corralled while she thought of something to do.

“They’re hungry.”

“Mm. I don’t think so. We’ll feed them tonight when we feed Patton.”

“Okay, Mom. But Dad’s not home yet.”

“He will be home any minute now. We’ll just set the table, okay?” Eliza carried Gillie into the kitchen, and left Patton snuffling and snorting at the bedroom door. “Gillie, I want you to tell me why your dinosaurs are running around.”

“Because it’s raining outside. They get antsy when it rains.”

Eliza sighed at the inarguable kindergarten logic. She opened the crock-pot to dish up the chicken soup. A small green euoplocephalus clung to the bouquet garni. She cried out and dropped the lid. A very excited Patton skidded into the kitchen and tried to jump up on the counter, but missed and plopped down on the floor in a tangle of legs.

“What’s wrong?” Gillie ran to the crock-pot. “Oh, I forgot Yewie. He didn’t wake up with the others, so I left him in there.”

“Wake up? You cooked them to wake them up?”

“I didn’t cook them,” Gillie huffed. “I warmed them up. Like that show on PBS.” She used a slotted spoon to scoop Yewie out of the pot, then dried him off with a kitchen towel. “Their blood was cold and it made them sleep but some had warm blood and they could run around when it was winter and it’s winter now so I put them in the crock-pot to warm up.”

Eliza blinked. Could it work? Plastic was formed as a byproduct of oil, which in turn was formed from living creatures. She shook her head. Impossible. But she said, “I see.”

Gillie nodded, apparently satisfied that she had gotten through to her mom. “I’ll just put Yewie in my room with his friends.” She ran back to her room and opened the door.

Too late, Eliza grabbed at Patton. He pushed past Gillie and Eliza saw dinosaurs scatter again. Several ran down the hall towards her and she sidestepped to keep them from touching her. Patton swung around to pursue the fleeing dinosaurs into the living room.

Eliza knew she needed something to contain the toys. But what? She picked up Gillie and hurried to the master bedroom. She set her daughter on the bed and dug through the closet for a shoe box. She emptied it and handed it to Gillie. “Get your dinosaurs and put them in this shoe box. Patton will eat your toys if you don’t keep them picked up.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Gillie darted through the house. Eliza stayed close, still worried about the carnivores. She picked up an allosaurus and it chomped on her finger. She winced, expecting blood, but the tiny plastic teeth could not pierce her skin. Her confidence returned and she picked up the dinosaurs as fast as she could find them, their tiny warm bodies struggling to escape. Gillie giggled as she chased and caught several more. The shoe box soon filled with the squirming, bleating animals. As they reached Gillie’s bedroom, the phone rang.

“I’ll get it, Mom!”

Gillie set the shoe box on her pillow and dashed off to answer the phone. The box tilted. Eliza lunged for it, but the shoe box rolled over and the creatures rushed off the opposite side of the bed and out the bedroom door. Eliza stomped her foot in frustration, her sense of control deflating. She joined Gillie in the kitchen.

Gillie hung up the phone. “That was Dad. He has to work late. He said we should eat without him.” Her brow furrowed. “The chicken soup can’t fix his cold.”

“That’s okay. He will eat some when he gets home.” Eliza kissed Gillie’s forehead and smoothed the wrinkles. “The chicken soup will fix him right up.”

A pink pterodactyl came around the corner, flapping its wings in an attempt to gain height. A bright-eyed Patton skittered across the linoleum. He gained purchase and sped up. At the other end of the kitchen, he leapt at the airborne toy. It swerved and Patton fell back to the ground with a grunt.

“Patton is getting better at hunting. We have to get the dinosaurs safe,” Eliza said. “I will put Patton in my bathroom. You get the shoe box.”

Eliza chased after Patton, while Gillie ran off to her bedroom. In short order, they rounded up the dinosaurs. Eliza relished the thought of a rest.

Gillie examined the contents of the shoe box. “We’re still missing three. Two velociraptors and a pachycephalosaurus. Ceph will be lonely. His friends are already in here.”

Reluctantly, Eliza dove back into the hunt. They searched under tables and chairs and behind bookshelves and appliances.

“Finding anything, Gillie?”

Gillie sang, “Dust bunnies, dead spiders, and debris. Those are the things that start with D.”

Eliza winced at the reflection on her housekeeping. “Have you found any dinosaurs?”

Rustling, crackling noises came from the bathroom. Eliza opened the bathroom door just in time to see her husband’s rotten dog peeling back one side of the rattan hamper. Dirty clothes spilled out onto the floor. Three small dinosaurs tumbled out among them.

The velociraptors ran in one direction and the pachycephalosaurus ran in the other. Patton slipped through Eliza’s grasp yet again as he darted after the velociraptors.

Eliza turned to the pinkish-orange Ceph, who just happened to match her bathroom tiles. He stomped his feet and bellowed in a manner that might have been menacing had he been more than two inches tall.

Ceph put his head down and charged. Eliza flinched and pressed herself against the bathroom wall. As Ceph disappeared around the corner, she rolled her eyes at her own ridiculous behavior. She raced after the fleeing toy and caught up with him as he squeezed under the door to the linen closet. She opened the door, grabbed a clean pillowcase, and scooped up the squalling pachycephalosaurus in one smooth motion.

She slumped against the wall to catch her breath.

“Mom, Patton is bothering my dinosaurs!”

Eliza rushed into the living room with the pillowcase. Patton’s hindquarters poked out from under the recliner. His tail slapped the floor in excitement.

“Gillie, take this. Ceph is inside.” She handed the pillowcase to Gillie, who maneuvered Ceph into the shoe box.

Eliza hunkered down and peered into the inner workings of the chair. Patton strained to reach the dinosaurs, whiskers twitching. The two velociraptors perched on hinges and made it impossible for her to open the leg rest without hurting them. She reached for them and the tiny animals hopped to another hinge and hissed at her. She repositioned herself and reached in with both hands. With one hand, she herded them into the other. Their mouths tickled her palms as they tried to bite their way out.

Eliza and Patton wriggled out from under the recliner at the same time. Patton darted around the chair to retrieve the dinosaurs, but she kept them tightly covered between her hands. She placed them in the shoe box with the other dinosaurs and heaved a sigh of relief.

Eliza made sandwiches for dinner since the soup had been a swimming pool for dinosaurs. Gillie poured milk in two cups and on the kitchen counter. Patton licked up the milk that spilled onto the floor. Eliza and Gillie sat at the kitchen table and ate their dinner in silence, except for the occasional rustle from the shoe box.

They moved to the den to watch television. Eliza sat on the sofa. An exhausted Patton settled at her feet and soon snored. Gillie positioned the shoe box on the coffee table so that the dinosaurs could see the television screen. Soft hoots and honks rose from the box.

“What’re we watching tonight, Mom?”

” Life Cycle of the…” Eliza trailed off. Gillie did not need any more ideas for science projects. “I mean, Marvelous Automaton Simian Squad: Intense Flight.”

“Yippee! Simian Squad! You never let me watch Simian Squad!”

Gillie fell asleep before the show was half over. Eliza carried her to her bedroom and returned to the den. She peered into the shoe box. All the dinosaurs lay on their sides. She touched one. It was cool, like any other plastic animal.

Eliza placed the lid on the shoe box, just to be safe.

She went into the kitchen and got her recipe. Written at the top of the page in her grandmother’s elegant handwriting was “Chicken Soup. Cures everything. Promotes vim, vigor, and all-around pep.”

* * *

Chirus Fever

Written by Lisa L. Satterlund

Illustrated by Dean Spencer

“It’s too late—the ship is gone.” Hal’s thin voice seeped through the speakers in Frank’s helmet.

“What? Gone?” Frank jumped down from the mounting ladder and yanked his helmet off. The noise of the jet engines rushed in on him, bouncing off the closed hangar doors at his back. “How can it be gone? The Feds told the pilot he was not to lift without the serum.”

“Look for yourself, ” Hal shouted. He shoved the message screen at Frank. A gust of wind almost flipped it from his hand before Frank could grab it.

The Mens Sano lifted without clearance at 4:32 local time. Two agents, three ground crew hospitalized, one agent and one ground crew dead. Status of agent on board unknown.

Frank read the message through twice before scrambling up the mounting ladder to turn off the shooter’s engines. The sudden cessation of their throbbing made his ears ring.

“That’s it? That’s all we know?” he said, dropping back down.

Hal was already on his way to the Tech Center, his short legs pumping. Hal was a techie and uncomfortable around the suborbital shooters. On a different planet, he’d’ve been able to spend his life secluded in a small apartment, doing all his work via the stream, using the nano-built radio in his head. Here on Orial that just wasn’t possible. Frank chased after him. His height and long legs let him catch up before the door into the Tech Center swung shut.

“McCourtney streamed he’d be sending an update in five,” Hal said. He wove his way through the maze of mostly empty cubits. This early on a Sunday morning only those working the current emergency were around.

“McCourtney? I thought Liz was in charge.” Frank leaned against the door frame of the cubit as the techie dropped into the lone chair. The cubits were very stark at the Center for the Eradication and Control of Infectious Disease. Since so much confidential information flowed through the facility, the walls were high and thick with soundproofing, making the cubits feel like coffins standing on end. The message screen filled the upper half of the right-side wall. Most of the other employees set the screen to show nature scenes when it wasn’t in use, but not Hal. His screen displayed a dull gray pattern that almost matched the fabric-covered walls.

Frank grabbed a chair from the nearest cubit and dragged it in, shoving Hal into the corner in the process. Hal rolled his eyes and reached out to slide the door shut. Frank straddled the chair and propped his elbows on the back. He used both hands to push his over-long, dusty-brown hair up off his forehead.

“Why’s McCourtney sending the update?” Frank asked.

“Because Liz is on the Mens Sano.”

Frank’s mouth hung open a moment. Liz was the agent on board? Something must’ve really gotten bolluxed up. Liz hated going aboard the orbitals—she got space sick in zero g. Hal’s message screen flickered and McCourtney’s image appeared. Like everything in Hal’s life, the colors of his screen were grayed.

“Morning Frank, Hal.” McCourtney had a stiff posture and icy blue eyes. His voice was musical and his manner affable. Given the contrast, Frank wondered sometimes about his health. “You know the background. There was an outbreak of what appears to be Chirus fever on board the orbital Mens Sano for which the captain requested CECID aid. Agent Harrison boarded to confirm.”

“And before I can even finish my walk-around and take off with the serum, the pilot lifts without clearance.” Frank had never had any patience for recaps.

“That’s right. We don’t yet know why.”

“Great. What do we do next? Let ‘em go and spread this to the next planet? Let ‘em go and hope everyone aboard dies?”

“The Feds have officially requested our assistance. We can have a ship—”

“Wait a minute,” Hal said. “Chasing these guys down isn’t our job. Let the Port do it.”

“—you’re licensed for orbitals, aren’t you Frank?”

“Licensed, bonded and up-to-date. Hal’s got a point, though. Why should we chase these guys down? We’re not cops.”

“If it weren’t Chirus fever, I’d say let the Port do it in a heartbeat,” McCourtney said. He canted toward the screen. “Even though they are holding one of our agents hostage. As it is, I want the CECID in control. If you’re flying the ship, Frank, they go where you say. More importantly, they don’t go where you don’t. I’m sending a full lab kit with you. If Liz has the sense we all know she does, she’s already doing damage control.”

* * *

This isn’t good. Liz Harrison swallowed hard against the inevitable effect of zero g. Not that it did any good. There was nothing left for her system to eject, but that never seemed to matter to her inner ear.

Things had gone well at first. She and the other agents arrived at the hardstand accompanied by the Federal Port Agent. They identified themselves and were admitted without incident. Given the cramped size of the ship, they’d left most of the Feds and medical crew outside. They climbed to the tiny control cabin in the nose of the rocket for the briefing. Thornberg, the Fed agent, started with the standard not-quite-quarantine spiel. Liz noticed an exchange of glances between the pilot and one of the crew, but hadn’t thought anything of it. Then she introduced herself and explained what the CECID did, and the bovine waste went flying. It appeared that the owners and most of the crew of the Mens Sano were Attestors. The captain was not.

Attestors did not believe in medical intervention. They would never call for the CECID, nor would they accept the help if offered. Maybe if the Fed hadn’t been along the pilot wouldn’t have panicked. The Fed was tall, wide, heavy, and black. The crew were like faded photocopies of him: whiter, shorter, and lighter. They shared the same colored hair and light eyes to match. They were, however, taller and heavier than Liz herself. That wasn’t saying much. Most fourteen year-old pubescent girls were taller than Liz. Quite a few had more voluptuous figures.

None of this hindsight helped the current situation. The pilot had panicked and now they were approaching orbit. Once there, the Mens Sano would match velocity and dock with the Corporo Sano. Liz could not allow that. Not when Chirus fever might be on board.

She swallowed again and forced herself to loosen her white-knuckled grip on the grab bar. There were seven people in the crowded control cabin—Liz, the Fed, the captain, three crew members and the pilot. The three crew members were watching the Fed and the captain as if they expected them to explode in a flurry of action-vid unarmed combat, despite the way the Fed clung to a grab bar and moaned. No one was watching Liz.

Liz let go of the grab bar and flexed her foot against the deck. That impelled her in the general direction of the pilot. She drifted into reach of another grab bar and used it to adjust her trajectory. Not wanting to bump him, she aimed herself for the secondary command chair. A bright smile stretching her lips, she tugged the harness into place and snapped herself in.

“Do you know the fatality rate of untreated Chirus fever?” she asked.

“No.” The pilot’s pale eyes flickered from the control desk readouts to her face, then returned to the readouts. His starched and pressed jumpsuit was bare of insignia.

“Sixty to seventy percent.”

“Too bad.” The pilot’s tone was neutral, as if that staggering number had nothing to do with him.

“How long were you downside?”

“Six days. Maybe seven. Orial’s clock doesn’t sync with the Corporo Sano so I’m not real sure.”

“The incubation period for Chirus is seventy-two hours. Do you know what that means?”

“Doesn’t mean anything to me. Look, lady. We won’t hurt you—as soon as we dock with the Corporo Sano we’ll stuff you and the others into a pod and jettison you. You’ll be fine. I’m sure your friends,” he jerked his head in the direction of the Fed, “have already scrambled an orbital after us. They’ll pick you up. We do understand about epidemics, you know. We won’t go off infecting the rest of the galaxy.”

Liz didn’t believe for a minute that it would be that simple. Still, that was a bridge she’d cross when she was forced to. Her first priority as a CECID agent was to keep the Chirus fever—if it was Chirus—off the Corporo Sano.

“Were any of your friends sick before you went downside?”

This time he didn’t even bother to glance at her.

“Look,” asshole she thought but didn’t say, “if you were downside six days, and the fever started showing up the day before the captain called us in, then your crew caught it downside. That means there won’t be any Chirus on the Corporo Sano until you and your crew bring it on board. You say you won’t go off infecting the galaxy. Why are you insisting on infecting your main ship?”

* * *

The shooter rolled to a stop and Frank turned the key in the ignition. It hadn’t been one of his smoothest landings—he’d had too much velocity for that—but he hadn’t crashed and nothing in the cockpit was broken. He punched the button to raise the canopy and yanked off his helmet. As soon as he had clearance, he reached behind the seat for the lab kit. It was as awkward to maneuver out as it had been to wedge in. By the time he’d succeeded, the mounting ladder was in place. Three mechanics surrounded the ship and the robotic tractor was already attached to the front landing gear.

At the bottom of the ladder was a Fed. He looked vaguely familiar, but that might be the typical Fed suit he was wearing. Standing nearby at the base of an orbital’s ramp were two more. Frank wondered how many Port Agents were already aboard.

“What took you so long, Hutchinson?” the Fed said.

“What, an hour door-to-door isn’t good enough for you?” Now that he was down on the ground, the Fed was more than vaguely familiar. “How the hell are you, Sam-sam? I thought you were too senior these days to pull pursuit duty.”

“And miss the chance to fly with you and rescue the fair Liz?” Sam grinned. He trotted to keep up as Frank hustled toward the waiting orbital. Sam wasn’t much shorter than Frank, but his height was in his torso. The orbital was a big ship, bigger than anything Frank had flown before. Sleek and glossy, it rested on its tail fins, dwarfing the blast pit beneath it.

“I’m flattered. What have I got here?” The ramp vibrated beneath their feet and then they were inside. Frank shoved the lab kit into the arms of the nearest Fed and started up the ladder to the control cabin.

“The Port Authority, G-class orbital cruiser. Two stern and four bow guns.”

Frank stopped and looked down between his feet at the top of Sam’s head. “Guns?”

Sam neither moved nor spoke and after a moment Frank continued up the ladder to the control cabin tucked into the nose of the rocket. It felt almost roomy in comparison to other orbitals he’d flown. In silence, he slid into the main pilot’s chair fronting the control desk and snapped his harness into place. He watched from the corner of his eye while Sam did the same. Then he tuned into the stream.

“Port Authority, here. Am I clear?” he said, using the nano-built throat mike to transmit to Traffic Control.

” Confirm clear,” said a voice into his ear. In truth, the transmission bypassed his ear, going straight to the auditory center of his brain. It made identifying voices difficult.

” Opening valves, then. See you later.” He tuned out of traffic control and into the ship’s intercom system. “Sit down or fall down, fellows, we’re on our way. Oh, and if anything happens to that lab kit, I’ll let Liz take what she needs from your hides.”

* * *

Frustration and space sickness were a vile combination. Liz had explained to the crew of the Mens Sano why they shouldn’t dock with the Corporo Sano. Each seemed to accept that as a good idea. Each agreed avoidance didn’t constitute intervention. And in five more minutes the pilot would be docking with the main ship. What were the idiots in charge of the Corporo Sano telling these guys?

” Hey, girly-girl, how’s it going? I have a lab kit for you.” Frank’s voice slid into her head. She could tell from the background crackle that it was a private transmission.

” Rotten. Where are you?”

” I’m in range. ETA, oh, maybe ten minutes.”

” Not good enough, Frankie.”

” You can handle it. Need a distraction?”

” I need solid ground, but a distraction would be nice, yes.” Liz unbuckled the harness and shifted her grip on the arm of the chair.

” Hello, everybody. Are we having fun yet? This is the Port Authority. You are to change course eighty degrees with five degrees elevation.” Frank’s voice boomed through the stream. Liz had never figured out how he did that—volume control of an auditory brain signal should be an aspect of the receiving brain, since there were no sound waves involved.

The Mens Sano‘s pilot stiffened and jerked around to glare at Liz. She smiled. She already knew what she wanted to do. The open racks of control modules made for easy repairs and just as easy sabotage. As he turned back to the control desk, she pushed out of the chair and down to the deck, sliding under the desk. Sometimes her size was an advantage. The impact was worse than she anticipated, and on the rebound, she cracked her head. She grabbed at the module racks to steady herself. Which one was it now? Liz realized she’d spent far too much time watching Frank shuffle various modules. The one she wanted controlled the docking system. Here we go. She squeezed the handles and pulled. With a click, it disconnected from the ship’s systems.

Hands yanked at her legs. One of her shoes came off. She let go of the module’s handles and let herself be pulled. Her shoe sailed off in one direction while Liz and her attackers caromed off in another. Just before she swung away from the pilot, pivoting around a crew member by her ankles, she saw his foot go out to shove the disconnected module back into place. There was a loud crackle and a sharp smell. A single puff of smoke drifted out from beneath the control desk.

“Oh, Lord,” the pilot said. Liz couldn’t tell whether he was praying or swearing. If he said anything else, she didn’t hear it. The Mens Sano banked sharply as its collision-avoidance system reacted to the nearness of the main ship. The occupants of the control cabin, all except the pilot, went tumbling. Liz bounced off two different bodies before she hit the deck again.

* * *

“What the hell are they doing?” Sam leaned forward against his harness to get a better view of the observation screen.

“Looks to me like their collision-avoidance system just kicked in. Shall we ask Liz?” Frank said. He grinned. He’d given Liz her distraction and she’d run with it.

“Thompson wants to unlock the guns.”

“And he didn’t want me to know he’d asked.” Frank kept his eyes on the observation screen. He was still far enough away from the Mens Sano that watching was all he could do. Even if Sam unlocked the guns and his subordinates used them. “Don’t do it, Sam-sam. Liz asked for a distraction. I’d bet we’re watching the results.”

“Hutchinson, what did you do?”

“I let them know we were here, that’s all. Ordered them to change course—which they’ve done, although I grant you, that’s not the direction I told them to go.”

“Next time, let me in on your little jokes,” Sam said, then tuned into the ship’s intercom system. “Thompson, the guns stay locked. For now. We’re watching the result of Hutchinson’s and Harrison’s work. And next time, broadcast. Hutchinson is on our side.”

Frank grinned again. “I’m touched. Okay, here we go. They’re stabilizing. If they head for the Corporo Sano again, it didn’t work. If they go into orbit, Liz has done … something.”

“What did you tell her to do?”

“She’s a big girl, Sam-sam. I left it up to her imagination.” Frank still hadn’t looked away from the screen, but he was very aware of the frown on Sam’s face. “Just so you know—if you use those guns, Sam-sam, this ship won’t land.”

* * *

“What did she do to the ship, Justice?” one of the crew members asked.

“She disconnected the docking module, which wouldn’t be so bad except I fried it when I kicked it back in,” the pilot said. His self-disgust was obvious in his posture and tone of voice. He’d managed to damp the frenetic motion of the ship and bring them back to an even keel. Liz admired the way he’d kept his head.

The three crew members who had earlier focused their attention on the Fed and the captain were now watching her as if she were an exhibit in the zoo.

“You can fix it, can’t you?”

Liz decided there weren’t three crew members, there was one with three bodies, because three mouths moved, but only one voice emerged.

“I could if we had another docking module, but we don’t. Ezekiel could jury-rig something from the spare c-a module, but he’s sick. I’m not bringing him into the control cabin as long as she’s here.” No one needed to ask whom he meant. Liz widened her eyes and tried to look innocent.

“Mens Sano, this is the Port Authority. That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but it will do.” Frank’s broadcast interrupted them. ” Stand by to match velocities.”

” Um … Frank, there’s a problem,” Liz said. There seemed no point in making it a private transmission, now that the Attestors knew he was there.

” What? Is the pilot dead?”

” No, but the docking module is.”

” You killed the docking module.” Soft crackles filled the background of the transmission.

” No, I loosened the docking module. The pilot killed it when he kicked it back into place. They don’t have a spare.” Liz switched to private transmission as well.

” I see.”

The following silence was very un-Franklike. Liz suddenly wondered how Frank came to be piloting a Port ship. He was the best pilot on Orial, or so he kept telling her, but he wasn’t a Fed.

” If they can’t dock, they’re going to have to go downside sooner or later.”

” Even sooner might be too late, Frank. I need that lab kit. There are plenty of tests I can run without touching a single Attestor.”

” I’ll get it to you, girly-girl.” A certain grimness infused his voice—or was that her imagination?

* * *

“What happened to the docking module?” Sam asked. He’d already asked the question three times, and it showed.

“Liz pulled it loose, and the pilot kicked it back into place without powering it down. It’s fried, and we’re screwed. They don’t have a spare.” Frank continued to work the control desk, matching velocity and trajectory with the Mens Sano.

“So they can’t dock with the Corporo Sano. They’ll have to go downside to get it fixed.”

“They have plenty of fuel, Sam-sam. They can circle this ball of dirt for months before they go downside. Assuming the pilot doesn’t get Chirus fever and die, in which case getting ‘em downside becomes problematical. And you seem to be missing the fact that if they can’t dock with the Corporo Sano, we can’t dock with them. The c-a system won’t let us.”

“Can’t you override the c-a?”

Frank turned his head to stare at Sam. “You’ve been studying. Yes, I probably could. But there are two pilots here, Sam-sam, and I don’t know how good theirs is.”

“Hutchinson, I’ll be blunt. If we can’t dock and they won’t head downside, my orders are to blow them into hyperspace. The agent killed was the son of the director. Feelings are running high.”

“If you blow Liz and one of your own agents up, don’t you think more feelings will run high? Two more locals killed because the director of the Port got pissed?”

“Three more locals. The captain’s a shuttler. The Attestors’ captain stayed aboard the Corporo Sano and they hired this guy to get the orbital down.” Sam reached over and grabbed Frank’s arm. “If you and Liz can get them downside, great. But I have my orders.”

* * *

“Can’t you override the c-a, Justice?” One of the crew members left the crowd around Liz to float at the pilot’s shoulder. “Dock us anyway? I want to at least see my folks before I die.”

“Not with the Port Authority on my tail.” The pilot appeared relaxed, leaning back in the command chair with his arms crossed. The Mens Sano had settled into its new orbit. There wasn’t a lot for the pilot to do other than stare at the observation screen, watching the bulk of the Corporo Sano shrink as they moved farther away. Liz knew he wasn’t as relaxed as he seemed. One toe tapped against the deck in a way that would’ve had him careening all over the cabin if he hadn’t been strapped in.

Liz opened her mouth to point out the advantages of going downside, then hissed with pain as the Fed reached out and shook her leg. She’d hit the deck harder than she’d meant to going after the docking module. As a result, her knees were stiff and bruised.

“Dr. Harrison—the captain’s sick.”

Every head in the cabin turned to look at the captain and the Fed. The Fed had recovered enough from his space sickness to notice what no one else had. The captain was not holding onto any of the grab bars anymore. He floated flushed and limp. The Fed had two fingers tucked into one of his belt loops to keep him from drifting away. Liz grabbed the nearest crew member and used him to launch herself at the captain. She used the captain himself to damp her momentum. The two of them bumped almost gently into the wall next to the Fed.

The heat of the captain’s skin was obvious. Liz steadied herself against the wall and peeled back one of his eyelids and then the other. A few of the red dots signifying petechiae marred the white of the left eye. He was starting to bleed.

“We need to go downside, now,” Liz said, even while she continued evaluating the captain’s vital signs. Respiration was fast and shallow. His pulse raced beneath her fingers. “Or your captain’s going to die.”

“He’s not our captain,” the crewman beside the pilot said.

“He’s a shuttler. Based out of South Port, normally.” The Fed tightened his grip on the captain’s belt loops. “He was up for a reunion of some old shipmates when the Corporo Sano called for assistance. Is he really going to die?”

“Probably. If what he’s got is Chirus fever.” Liz didn’t mind scaring the Fed if she could manage to scare some sense into the Mens Sano‘s crew at the same time. “There’s a lab kit over on the Port Authority that would tell me for sure.”

“What else could it be?” The pilot turned the command chair her direction.

“A lot of other nasties—including Ebola. Or it could be Parachirus fever. Which is still nasty, but rarely fatal.”

“We’re not going to go downside and let your friends shoot us,” the pilot said.

“I’m with the CECID, we track down disease. We don’t shoot people.” Liz resisted the temptation to grit her teeth.

“Then why is that a gunboat out there?”

“What?” Liz stared at the pilot. The last of her space sickness disappeared. Anger cleared the mind even better than fear. ” Frank, you son of a bitch, does that ship have guns?” She didn’t even try to hide her transmission from the pilot or the occupants of the Port Authority.

” Sure does, girly-girl. Four lovely bow breakers and a couple of stern farters. Sam-sam’s got the keys. But don’t worry, I’ve let him know that what goes up doesn’t have to come down.”

* * *

“Damn you, Hutchinson,” Sam said. His lips were folded tight and red stained his cheekbones.

“Don’t be an idiot, Montoya. They know this is a gunship. And it’s scaring them. We can’t dock. If they’re too scared to go downside, who wins?”

” Frankie.” Liz’s voice on the stream interrupted the argument. ” The captain’s got it now—whatever it is. I need that lab kit ASAP. Justice has agreed to let you in if you can get yourself and the kit to their docking port.”

” Justice?”

” The pilot. That’s his name, Sword of Justice. He says he can power down the c-a system enough to let you in.”

” Liz, I can’t leave the Port Authority. I’m the only pilot on board. Aren’t I, Sam-sam?”

” I’m afraid so. Liz, find out if it has to be Frank,” Sam said. None of his anger showed in the transmission.

“How many choices do we have, Sam? You, me, Thompson—how many agents you got on board this ship?” Frank started working the control desk again. How close could he get to the Mens Sano before the other ship’s collision-avoidance system cut in? He’d already powered down the c-a on the Port Authority as far as it would go.

“Eight, including me.”

“And how many are qualified for this maneuver?”

“This maneuver being what?”

“An untethered jet between the ships. With the lab kit. It’s not going to be an easy trip. The Mens Sano‘s c-a, even at low power, is going to try to avoid. After all, that’s what it’s for.”

“You, me. Kohler.”

“We already know it won’t be me. Who’s Kohler?”

“One of the gunners. I don’t think he’d be a good choice, Frank. So that leaves me.”

Frank glanced at Sam. “You’ll take the keys?”

“Have to. I have orders not to let them out of my possession.”

” Frank?” Liz said. ” They’ve agreed to accept a Fed—unarmed. He stays in the suit and in the lock. He doesn’t climb the ladder to control, and he doesn’t touch any hatches.”

” Will do. This is Sam, Liz. I’m going to be your courier.” Sam cut the transmission and unfastened his harness. “Thompson will help me suit up. Let me know as soon as we’re in position, Frank.” The Port Agent pushed off from his chair, caught a grab bar, and swung onto the ladder down to the lock.

“Montoya—if I find out you’ve left those keys with Thompson—” Frank left the threat hanging.

“What goes up won’t come down. I got it, Frank.” Sam nodded, then disappeared.

Frank shook his head at the ease with which Sam accepted the assignment. No arguing, no questioning, just an “Okay, I’ll go.” Frank wasn’t sure whether it was fatalism or utter faith in his skill as a pilot. The trouble was, it wasn’t his skill alone at issue. He could line the docking ports up, match velocity and trajectory. The pilot of the Mens Sano could still screw everything up in an instant with a twitch of his finger.

Frank concentrated on giving the Port Authority just enough spin to point the docking port at the Mens Sano. He damped the motion with expert ease and wished the ships were closer together. If the Mens Sano‘s pilot didn’t have a delicate touch for the collision-avoidance system, Sam could go spinning away before Frank could retrieve him. Or be burned to a crisp if the system decided he was debris. Frank noted the red light indicating Sam was in the lock and tuned into the ship’s intercom system.

” Ready to go, Sam-sam? Lab kit tethered? Helmet locked?”

” Helmet and lab kit confirmed, Frank. How far am I going?”

” A little over half a click. It’s close as I could get.”

” Thanks. Out.”

Frank switched channels in the stream to reach Liz and the Mens Sano. ” Liz, we’re good to go at this end. Justice, leave any maneuvering to me. Concentrate on the c-a. Don’t you dare let your ship mistake that lab kit for space debris.”

” Confirmed, Port Authority.”

Frank rolled his eyes, knowing Liz was rolling hers as well. But the other pilot’s personality wasn’t at issue here. His skill was.

The control desk alarm chimed as the Port Authority‘s lock cycled open. Frank acknowledged the warning and leaned back to watch the observation screen. Sam’s miniature figure shrank to a pinpoint of jet flares and Frank bumped up the magnification. This was the easy part. Until he got close enough for the Mens Sano‘s powered down collision-avoidance system to detect him, Sam only needed good aim. And the ability not to panic. God knew Sam had a lot of practice not panicking. Frank resisted the temptation to tune into the stream and ask how it was going. He could see it was going just fine.

Sam jerked right with enough force that Frank could see the tether connecting him to the lab kit. His jets flared brighter. Sam plunged downward. The jets flared again. Frank raised his right hand and chewed on his knuckle. His left hand hovered over the attitude control panel. If he needed to intercept, it would be sudden and soon. Sam’s rockets flared again, a longer burst. He seemed to hang there unmoving, a gray dot against the yellow blot of the Mens Sano. Frank tensed.

Then it was over. Sam was holding onto a tether bar to one side of the Mens Sano‘s lock. The lock cycled open. Sam jetted inside with a final flare. The lab kit floated after him.

* * *

” Clear of lock hatch.” Sam’s voice emerged through the Mens Sano‘s intercom.

“Daniel, go get that kit she wants so bad,” the pilot said. “Comfort, you stay down there and keep an eye on that Fed. Flush him back out if he gives you any trouble.”

“He won’t,” Liz said. She tuned into the stream to send a private message. ” Watch your step, Montoya. They’re still pretty jumpy.”

” I don’t suppose I can blame them. Good luck, Liz.”

They waited in silence for Daniel to return with the lab kit. Liz washed her hands as best she could in the zero-g wash bag Justice had provided. The captain’s suffering made the Attestors uncomfortable. Liz’s treatment of him—which so far consisted of trying to get him to drink and making Justice lower the temperature in the control cabin—didn’t soothe them.

Daniel’s head appeared at the hatch. He looked down and after a few seconds, the lab kit floated into view. Liz aborted her instinctive grab for it, but not before she put herself in motion. She used the Fed’s leg to stop. Daniel gave the kit a shove as soon as it rose above floor level. It shot across the cabin and Liz winced when it crashed into the wall. Not that space-safe packaging would be damaged by a bump like that. Whether by chance or design, the kit hit the wall at an angle that sent it dead-center toward Liz on the rebound. Now she had bruises on her breastbone to match the ones on her knees.

Liz had a lot of experience drawing samples under adverse conditions. A semicomatose patient wasn’t a challenge, even in zero g. The worst part was waiting for the reactions. It wasn’t enough to test for Chirus and Parachirus. The symptoms were similar to half a dozen other hemorrhagic fevers. She tested for those, too. She even grabbed an air sample and tested it.

” How’s it going over there, girly-girl?” Frank asked.

” Why didn’t McCourtney send one of the new kits? These old ones take too much processing time.”

” The new ones are for Ebola. They won’t tell you if it’s Chirus.”

” This isn’t telling me diddly at the moment. Wait. There it goes.” Liz checked the readings twice. Relief made her giddy—although that could’ve been the dregs of the space sickness. ” It’s not Chirus,” she said, broadcasting to both ships. ” It’s Parachirus.”

“What does that mean?” Justice asked. The crew members of the Mens Sano still in the cabin framed him like bodyguards in the employ of a merchant prince.

“No one’s going to die, for one thing. In ten percent of untreated cases, Parachirus causes blindness. About fifty percent of susceptible, exposed patients get sick. The air sample I took shows your filters either failed or are contaminated. You’ll need to go downside and get them fixed.”

“If we go downside, the Feds’ll shoot us.” For the first time, Liz realized how young the pilot was.

” We won’t shoot you,” Sam said through stream. ” You’ll have to stand trial for the three deaths—”

” Three?” Frank asked.

” Another ground crewman died while we’ve been … busy. Justice, you won’t be shot. You’ll stand trial, you’ll lose your pilot’s license, maybe spend some time in jail—it depends on the jury. And the government of the Corporo Sano.”

“The captain needs a hospital,” Liz said. “He’s not one of you. Would you condemn him to blindness because you’re frightened?”

” And what else can you do?” Frank asked. ” You can’t dock—you’re going to have a hell of a time just landing. We could all stay up here, circling the planet until we run out of food and air, but what’s the point? Take it downside, Justice.”

“You’ve got guns, why don’t you make me?”

” And kill Liz and the captain? After what we just went through? Not to mention you have Agents Montoya and Thornberg over there. You haven’t picked my apples, junior, I got no quarrel with you.”

Liz noted Frank’s failure to mention that the agent with authority to key the guns was on the Mens Sano. The pilot looked up over his shoulder at the crew members surrounding him. Liz was sure he was transmitting on some Attestor-only channel. He must have been all along. She wished she could tell whether he was planning an attack or counting votes.

” Now would be a good time, Mens Sano. You’ve got a straight shot down to North Port ,” Frank said.

The pilot closed his eyes. His lips moved and his left hand traced a ritual pattern. Then he turned back to the control desk.

“Hang on everybody,” he said. “We’re going down.”

* * *

The landing was rough enough to renew Liz’s space sickness on solid ground. She pushed the feeling aside. She had too much to do to be sick. Even before the lock tested for atmosphere and cycled open, she had the Fed and Daniel easing the captain down the ladder. Sam, still suited up but helmetless, waited at the bottom.

There was a stretcher in the middle of the troop of Feds waiting to make the arrest. Liz let Sam deal with them. She was too busy handing her patient off. An epidemic specialist was already talking to Comfort, giving advice—appropriately—on keeping the Parachirus victims comfortable. Liz interrupted to check that a quarantine area was ready. Every non-Attestor who’d had access to the Mens Sano had to be found and vaccinated. Those for whom vaccination was too late would join the Attestors in their quarantine. And the source of the contamination still had to be found. Liz trusted McCourtney was already working on that.

Sword of Justice walked down the Mens Sano‘s ramp under his own power, surrounded by half a dozen Feds. He looked up. Liz followed his gaze. The Port Authority hung low in the sky. He saluted. Liz wasn’t sure if the gesture was aimed at Frank or the ship itself.

“Jeshosephat, that thing’s huge,” she said to Sam as Justice walked away.

“He flies it as if it were a shooter.”

“He flies everything that way.”

They watched Frank bring the orbital in to a hardstand. He was the last one off, strolling down the ramp with his hands in his jacket pockets.

” If I lose my job, Hutchinson , you owe me a new one,” Sam broadcast to the two CECID agents.

“Relax, Sam-sam. The Mens Sano is down, safe and sound and without holes. The CECID pulled off another miracle, and you’ve got your murderer in custody. What more could anyone ask?” Frank grinned.

* * *

FACT:

Scandals:

Being True To Our Own Imaginations

Written by Gregory Benford

Illustrated by Laura Givens

Physics has been the forerunner of much of modern science, but perhaps we don’t have enough verve, the true courage of our convictions.

Take just one example from our grandest province where we merge with astronomy— cosmology. Half a century ago, we should have seen the big bang coming; indeed, we did see it. And ignored it.

In the late 1940s George Gamow, Ralph Alpher and Robert Herman worked out element formation and the entire scenario that led to the famous 3 K (3 degrees Kelvin) background radiation. Yet the Steady State model held sway, and their work faded from view by the mid-1950s.

“We never quite thought through to the realization that the peak emission was observable in the microwave sky,” Ralph Alpher said when I asked him about it after a colloquium at UC Irvine in the 1980s.

“Why didn’t you go to the radio astronomers and ask if they could see the emission?” I prodded.

It turned out that they did. Radio astronomers at NRL and Johns Hopkins didn’t think it could be done. Alpher took their word for it, he acknowledged ruefully

But in a way, Joe Weber did. I turned to Joe, standing at the wine-and-cheese reception after Alpher’s talk. He couldn’t recall if he had then even heard of the Gamow-Alpher-Herman work, but around 1950 he knew of Gamow’s reputation. He asked Gamow for a thesis problem. Joe had capability in radar, learned in the Navy, extending up toward the microwave region. Was there some cosmological use for observations in such a range? “Gamow couldn’t think of anything relevant,” Joe said, shaking his head. “So I looked at stimulated emission instead.” This work built on Einstein’s ideas about photons of light (of any frequency) distributed into quantized levels, and how to release them, so they could all at once cascade down in a pulse. In that work he provided some of the theory that led to the maser. Indeed, when Charles Townes and others won their Nobel for inventing the maser, the only reason Weber wasn’t on the list was the prize rules, which allow no more than three people per prize.”

In the early 1960s, Steady State was in retreat and the group at Princeton including Dicke and Peebles began working on implications of an earlier, hot stage. They began building a radiometer, motivated by a desire to find a prior “big crunch” in a cyclic universe. They apparently did not recall the Gamow, Alpher and Herman work and replicated it. By startling coincidence, while they were still thinking through the details of how to detect the 3 K emission, it turned up nearby. The famous Bell Labs experiment, trying to see sources of noise in the sky, came upon the classic black-body signature, at just the right equivalent temperature, netting Penzias and Wilson a Nobel Prize.

But could the 3 K background have been seen earlier?

In 1976 I took a sabbatical from UCI to Cambridge’s Institute for Astronomy. Martin Ryle and Tony Hewish had won the Nobel for pulsars, and I wanted to work on the plasma physics of rotating magnetized neutron stars. (A true, closed system solution to this problem remains elusive, decades later.) In discussing this with Ryle, I suddenly asked, “If someone had come to you suggesting that relic radiation around 3 K was detectable, say, around 1950, when could you have detected it?”

He thought and said, “It would have been a challenge, getting the signal to noise ratio down, but … perhaps a few years.”

“Would you have put in that level of research investment?”

He shrugged ruefully. “Probably not, without a big authority behind the idea.”

“An authority like Gamow?”

He laughed. “I’m really not sure. I think Hoyle would’ve frowned at the idea.”

So I asked Fred Hoyle. Hoyle pointed out that there had been tantalizing detections much earlier, that nobody thought to relate to the Gamow-Alpher-Herman work. In 1941 Walter S. Adams found a puzzling excitation temperature of 2.3 K in interstellar CN absorption, and remarked on the lack of any obvious exciting source. This 2.64 mm measurement was near the blackbody peak, yet it escaped general notice for decades.

By 1956 Hoyle had seen Andrew McKellar’s report on interstellar molecules, in which he proposed that the temperature of space is about 3 K. Gamow visited Hoyle in La Jolla in 1956 and told him he thought space was filled with microwaves at a temperature of about 10 or 20 K. Hoyle said the temperature could not be so high because of McKellar’s work. He thought it should be zero K, the Steady State view.

Hoyle said that he would have encouraged such a test, but it had not occurred to him as plausible at the time. Ryle might have, but he was far from the particle-cosmological community in the USA, too. Hoyle was in a “scrimmage” with Ryle by then, and not likely to tell him of odd ideas from across the Atlantic. They were disputing the issue of radio source counts.

Ryle’s collaborators found that the slope of the number of radio sources versus distance did not fit the Steady State prediction. There were too many at great distances, implying some evolution of the sources over time.

So instead of a direct test, we sat through the slow battles over source counts. Rather than testing the Gamow model, cosmologists spent over a decade falsifying Steady State’s predictions. No one followed on the nucleosynthesis path, much less thought of observations. On the theoretical front, Hoyle and others tried to get the same element abundance that Gamow-Alpher-Herman had found by 1950. Not until 1964, just before the accidental discovery of the background radiation, did Hoyle and Tayler realize that Steady-State could not explain the helium formation.

No one set out to directly prove the big bang. They instead showed where Steady State was wrong. This may have emerged partly from the philosophical bias of the time, which stressed falsification of theories.

To outsiders, this might seem a scandal. Not in the gutter sense, of personal failure, but more seriously, a failing in our approach. We didn’t treat both models fairly, and lost more than a decade before discovering the truth.

If so, what were the scandal’s roots? Can they tell us something about ourselves?

Alpher and Herman, in their long 1988 Physics Today article,1 said that they suspected a cultural bias was at work: “It is possible, but regrettable, that Gamow’s fun-loving and irrepressible approach to physics led some scientists not to take seriously his work, and perhaps our work too because of our close identification with him.” Further, they note, Alpher and Herman worked far from the academic astrophysics community, mostly in industry— General Electric and General Motors. Stephen Brush^2 says (p. 589) that one reason the Gamow-Alpher-Herman work was relatively neglected even after the Penzias and Wilson discovery “may be that it was not presented as a cosmology but as a hypothesis about the origin of the elements. As such it was not generally successful; nucleosynthesis in the big bang is needed to explain the cosmic abundance of helium, but nucleosynthesis in stars is needed to account for the formation of heavier elements.”

Gamow-Alpher-Herman committed a minor social sin; they weren’t in the club. Neither were Penzias and Wilson, but they had a firm result in hand, not to be denied.

Are there similar scandals in our own era? Say, in cosmology, the most philosophically striking arena we have? We now know that the universal expansion is accelerating, and that acceleration may be even rising— an effect known among cosmologists as, appropriately, the “jerk:”

But shouldn’t we be the ones feeling like jerks? Despite thirty years of drum-beating by the string theorists, these explorers never suspected that the dark energy could comprise the majority of the energy density of our universe. Of course, string theory is mind-numbing in its mathematical complexity. Predictions are very difficult.

Still, many of us presume string theory to be the most promising approach to a Theory of Everything, with implications of blinding originality. To list one of the spotlight prospects on offer, we may have many more dimensions lurking about our universe, unsuspected until now. But as a flashlight for telling us where to step, string theory seems useless. It has made no prediction of a past event not anticipated by conventional, inflated Big Bang theory.

When a bug of this size hits your conceptual windshield, it makes a big splash. The dark energy scandal is that the bug was the size of an eagle. String theory is an idea that functions as the opposite of the Gamow-Alpher-Herman scandal: no predictions, yet widespread acceptance. Theorists can fall in love with mathematical beauty. Philosophical elegance, which Steady State had, is even more glamorous. Gamow-Alpher-Herman had to fight Steady State’s shiny splendor, which blinded our field.

What causes such scandals? One can point to possible culprits in our methods. There lurks an unspoken timidity in our close-focus grant approval process— small steps are rewarded as more reliable than conceptual leaps. Possibilities beyond our current conceptual horizons get little attention. In academia, we maximize our publication numbers, rather than originality. This also gets us through the incremental mindset of review committees, which are seldom noted for their leaps of insight. Our review process puts progress on cruise control, so no one gets much beyond the perceived path. Partly this arises from the widespread difficulty of getting the very best people to serve on them.

More ominously, perhaps we show a lack of faith in our own calculations. Maybe we are uneasy with that mysterious precursor of the entire scientific process: formulate a hypothesis, test it against experiment or observation, and look for other implications. The shadowy beginnings of this long march lie in a mystery: how do we have ideas?

Do we suffer from an ill-concealed anxiety over imagination? Rigor is reassuring, but it should come at the end of that powerful chain starting with intuition and proceeding to experimental checks— not at the beginning. To set our work in motion, we reason mostly by analogy, not by rigorous deduction. Imagination is not incremental.

Yet among reviewers, “speculation” is a word mostly deployed as a pejorative. We should not allow it to be.

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1. Ralph Alpher & Robert Herman, Physics Today, August 1988.

2. Stephen Brush, “Prediction and Theory Evaluation: Cosmic Microwaves and the Revival of the Big Bang” Perspectives on Science, vol. 1. #4, pp.565-602.

First published in PHYSICS TODAY, 2005

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Gregory Benford is the author of many novels and short stories, and has edited a number of anthologies.

Fifteen Ways Cheap Solar Cells are going to Change the World

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

In the next seven to fourteen years your monthly electric bill will drop to zero permanently, and you will drive a car every day which costs you nothing to fuel. Many of the predictions contained in this article will sound just as ridiculous as that first sentence, and yet must be included here since—unless civilization falls—they are very nearly inevitable.

Cheap solar cells are going to alter your life in more ways than can be listed or even anticipated, but some changes are predictable. Exactly when the changes will begin and when they will be completed can be estimated at roughly seven to fourteen years. But this is only an estimate. These events might begin in as little as four years, ending in ten; or might begin in twelve years and end in twenty.

(1) Solar cells made of silicon will continue to achieve increased efficiencies, but these achievements will be meaningless since solar cells made of other materials will drop below one tenth the price of the silicon versions; and then shortly after that, below a hundredth. Prices will continue to drop, but at a pace that is unstable and unforeseeable. Eventually prices will drop below a thousandth, but how long that might take is impossible to estimate.

(2) Solar cells will no longer be an object. Instead they will be a paper-thin coating added to an object after that object has been made. This is one of several reasons they will become so cheap.

(3) Solar cells will no longer be made inside a vacuum chamber (another massive cost savings).

(4) Solar cells will be made using a variety of processes, methods and materials. No company will be able to gain a monopoly on solar cells because each of the dozen or more manufacturers will have their own patents which do not infringe the patents of others. Thus every manufacturers” line of solar cells will compete against those of the others based on efficiency, attractiveness, ease of installation and most especially: price.

(5) All the major home improvement stores like Lowe’s, Home Depot, and even Wal-Mart will carry vinyl siding and roofing tiles in the usual colors and styles but with a thin outer coating which transforms the vinyl siding or roofing tile into one big solar cell array.

(6) Siding and roofing tiles with solar cell coatings will cost about ten to twenty percent more than the non-electricity generating variety; but because of the incredible popularity of the solar versions the non solar versions will become difficult to find for several years since many stores will not bother to stock them.

(7) At first, most of the homeowners who install solar siding and solar roofing tiles will have no way to store the electricity for later use. Consequently, this will only reduce the amount of electricity they must buy from the power grid during those hours of the day when the sun is shining on their house. For some people this will cut their electric bill by a third; for others it will cut it in half.

(8) People will drive cars which cost them nothing to fuel. Anyone who has a solar powered home will be able to recharge their electric car for free. By allowing people to drive every day for the rest of their life without paying so much as one penny for fuel, solar homes will finally cause electric cars to become overwhelmingly popular.

(9) Some solar homeowners in America will use a converter to change the DC (direct current) made by their solar home into AC (alternating current) which they can then push out of their house and into the power grid used by the general public. Some of these people will push their electric bill down near zero, and some will push it all the way into negative numbers. Those in negative numbers will receive monthly checks from their local electric company as payment for the power they contributed to the grid during that month. (There are laws in forty U.S. states that require electric companies to do this.)

(10) When rechargeable battery technology also becomes cheap, people will abandon the power grid altogether. Isolated from the power grid, their electric bill will drop to exactly zero, and will remain zero for the rest of their life.

(11) Oil will remain an important commodity since it will continue to be used to make plastics, lubricants, paints and other chemicals. However, since it will no longer be the dominant source of energy for any developed nation, its price will decline steadily over many years and eventually settle to a level that would seem ridiculous today.

(12) Gasoline too will decline in price over many years. Eventually gasoline prices will fall low enough that gasoline powered cars will enjoy a new but much more limited popularity with a new but much smaller segment of the population. This new popularity will not threaten the dominance of electric cars, since gasoline cars will account for only a few percent of all cars.

(13) Solar homes not attached to the power grid will slowly abandon the use of AC (alternating current) and be refitted with lights and appliances that run on DC (direct current). Reasons for this include: (a) Solar cells produce DC. (b) Power is lost in converting DC to AC. (c) AC only became popular because it reduced the loss of electrical power when sending it over long distances. Since long distances are no longer involved, conversion to AC is not needed. (d) Waste heat is generated by the converter; nice in winter, but bad in summer. (e) Converters fail occasionally and replacing them with new converters which will also fail eventually is a waste of money.

(14) Power outages will no longer affect an entire town or city or neighborhood. If a tornado hits a house hard enough for it to lose power, that house will probably also lose its roof and maybe its walls.

(15) As more and more sections of the electric power grid are without customers large sections will be torn down and sold for scrap. Eventually it will be gone.

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It’s not enough to make a string of predictions, and especially to claim them to be “nearly inevitable,” without providing supporting details and some outside references (links) to explain why these predictions are likely to become part of the reality in which we will all live.

These events are foreseeable because so many different technologies, forces and trends are converging from a variety of directions to make them likely.

But the one thing all these many factors have in common is the motivation which drives them: money. All the participants are intensely aware that there is a vast amount of money for whoever gets there first. Just how much money one can make by selling enough solar cells to power all the homes and businesses in every developed country on earth might be difficult to calculate. But if a sizable chunk of it were going into my bank account working out that calculation would be a burden I would be willing to shoulder. New billionaires will be made, and perhaps a few of the old oil-based billionaires will be lost.

Perhaps the most easily seen trend is the frenzied growth in demand for the currently available—which of course means expensive—silicon-based solar cells. New factories have been completed or are under construction to make silicon solar cells in Arnstadt Germany, Frankfurt Germany, Hillsboro Oregon, and dozens of other locations around the world. Already 131 factories exist in China alone. Here’s a list of all the major solar cell producers’ world wide, which includes contact info and the types of cells they manufacture.

Money for solar cell research is flowing everywhere. The US government and other governments are targeting money for research into advanced solar cell technologies. Major companies which traditionally had no interest in “alternative energy” are researching it such as Honda of Japan. Even the giant oil companies are afraid of being left out (BP and Royal Dutch Shell) although Exxon claims no such fear.

But the most important trend is the amount of money and effort that is being put into research and development of the most advanced forms of solar cells. Some of these are referred to as thin film solar cells or Dye Sensitized Solar Cells (DSSC).

Google founders Larry Page and Sergey Brin provided seed money to Nanosolar which claims to have “developed proprietary technology that makes it possible to simply roll-print solar cells that require only 1/100th as thick an absorber as a silicon-wafer cell, yet deliver similar performance and durability.” Nanosolar is building “the largest solar cell factory in the world” in the San Fransico Bay Area.

A company called XsunX describes themselves in their press release as “a developer of advanced manufacturing systems and cell structures for thin film photovoltaic solar energy,” and describes as their goal: “to build a multi-megawatt production facility in the United States in order to supply the growing domestic demand for solar cell products that can be easily integrated into buildings and houses.”

Additional information on this topic is easily searched. For those who like Wikipedia there are some nice articles such as Solar Cells, Solar Shingles, Solar Power, and especially Dye sensitized solar cells. Listeners to my podcast The Future And You have suggested the following links: Printable solar cells from Discovery News, from Science in Africa, and from Technology Review Cheap Nano Solar Cells.

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You can learn more about Stephen Euin Cobb here or here.

Or about his podcast The Future And You here, or here or even here.

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Straitjackets

Written by Mike Resnick

I’ve received some interesting comments over on Escape Pod, an audio site where they read one of my stories every now and then. To date they have read two Hugo winners and a Hugo nominee—and each time someone, or a few someones, write in to say that the stories are all well-written and moving and all that crap, but they clearly aren’t real true-blue science fiction.

Which gave me my topic for this issue’s editorial, because people have been trying to put science fiction in a straitjacket for close to a century now, and it just doesn’t work.

The first guy to define it was Hugo Gernsback, the man who created the first all-science-fiction magazine ( Amazing Stories, back in April, 1926). He’s the guy our most prestigious award is named after, even though he had some difficulty speaking English, clearly couldn’t edit it, and usually refused to pay for it except on threat of lawsuit.

Hugo declared that “scientifiction” (his first term for it) existed solely to interest young boys in science. (Young girls, presumably, were too busy playing with their dolls.) The science had to be reasonably accurate, and central to the story.

Now, at about the same time Hugo was creating science fiction, H. P. Lovecraft was perfecting a fantasy fiction that rarely involved science (although he did sell a few pieces to Astounding in the 1930s), and clearly wasn’t meant for the impressionable young boys Hugo saw as his audience.

Okay, move the clock (the calendar?) ahead eighty years. Lovecraft is just about a household name. Eleven of his books are still in print. You’d need extra fingers and toes to count the movies adapted from or suggested by his work. Science fiction is happy to claim him as one of us, at least a close cousin if not a wandering son.

And Papa Gernsback of the rigid definition? Not a single word he wrote in his entire life—and that includes novels, editorials, non-fiction, the whole shebang—is still in print.

The first major critic to come along was Damon Knight. Damon knew that science fiction was the pure quill. It annoyed him when science fiction writers didn’t know the craft of writing, and it annoyed him even more when they got their science wrong.

But what really drove him right up a tree was when they didn’t even try to make the science accurate. When, for example, they put the key in the ignition and the spaceship started up just like a car. When, for example, they put an oxygen atmosphere on Mars.

When, for example, they were Ray Bradbury.

Damon acknowledged that what Bradbury did was Art; he knew his craft too much to argue with that. But Art or not, it sure didn’t fit his notion of science fiction, and his criticisms and essays left no doubt that Ray Bradbury was a gifted imposter who should either mend his ways or stop posing as a science fiction writer.

The result? Almost every word Ray Bradbury has written for the past sixty years is still in print, and the Pulitzer committee just honored him for a lifetime devoted to science fiction. Of all the dozens of pure science fiction books Damon Knight wrote or edited, only two are in print today.

The next major critic was James Blish, not quite the writer Knight was and a hell of a lot nastier, but he knew his stuff, and that meant he knew science fiction was Important (note capital I), that no practitioner dared take it lightly, that it was just this side of sinful to be flip and flippant, and that the greatest offender was Robert Sheckley. How dare he make fun of the honored tropes and traditions of science fiction?

Okay, move the clock ahead a quick sixty years and (you saw this coming, right?) there are eleven Sheckley books in print. Of all the books, fiction and non-fiction, that James Blish wrote, only two remain available. Even his Star Trek books have gone the way of the dodo.

But more to the point, no one argues any longer that humor cannot be valid science fiction (and indeed, such humorous stories as Eric Frank Russell’s “Allamagoosa” and Connie Willis’s “Even the Queen” have won the Hugo). No one says that the science is more important than the emotional impact of a story, by Bradbury, by Zelazny, by anyone. And no one denies horror and supernatural fiction (perhaps excepting vampire novels that are thinly-disguised category romances and outsell science fiction ten-to-one) a place in our family tree.

Now you would think that after the originator of our field and our first two major critics all fell on their faces trying to keep science fiction within their rigid definitions, future generations of self-appointed Keepers of the Flame (or the Definition) would have slunk off into the shadows. But they didn’t.

At the midpoint of the twentieth century, everyone knew that sex had no place in science fiction. Our field was like a George Bernard Shaw play, which is to say that an alien, reading (or watching) it could learn everything there was to know about human beings except that we come equipped with genitals and an urge to use them. Then along came Philip Jose Farmer with “The Lovers” and its sequels, and when God didn’t strike him dead, all the writers who had been avoiding Topic Number One for years, even such traditionalists as Heinlein and Asimov, began making up for lost time … and by 1960 it was never again suggested that sex had no place in science fiction.

J. G. Ballard got a lot of grief, because clearly you couldn’t fool with the actual form of the science fiction novel. But after he did it, so did dozens of others, experimenting every which way as the New Wave was born, fought for its right to exist, and was finally incorporated into the body of the literature.

So okay, they lost a lot of battles, but there was one thing the traditionalists knew would never change, and that was that science fiction took place in outer space. Then Robert Silverberg began exploring “inner space” with books like Dying Inside, Barry Malzberg explored it with HerovIt’s World, the Defenders of the Faith howled like stuck pigs, and a few years later everyone agreed that Outer or Inner Space were equally valid venues as long as the story worked.

Alternate history was okay for historians like McKinley Kantor and politicians like Winston Churchill, and the very occasional science fiction short story, but everyone knew it wasn’t really science fiction—until Harry Turtledove began proving it was on a regular basis, and suddenly dozens of writers followed suit. Now there’s no more controversy. Of course alternate history is science fiction.

And what’s driving the purists crazy these days? Just look around you.

Connie Willis can win a Hugo with a story about a girl of the future who wants to have a menstrual period when women no longer have them.

David Gerrold can win a Hugo with a story about an adopted child who claims to be a Martian, and the story never tells you if he is or not.

I can win Hugos with stories about books remembered from childhood, about Africans who wish to go back to the Good Old Days, about an alien tour guide in a thinly-disguised Egypt.

The narrow-minded purists to the contrary, there is nothing the field of science fiction can’t accommodate, no subject—even the crucifixion, as Mike Moorcock’s Nebula winner, “Behold the Man,” proves—that can’t be science-fictionalized with taste, skill and quality.

I expect movie fans, making lists of their favorite science fiction films, to omit Dr. Strangelove and Charly, because they’ve been conditioned by Roddenbury and Lucas to look for the Roddenbury/Lucas tropes of movie science fiction—spaceships, zap guns, robots, light sabres, and so on.

But written science fiction has never allowed itself to be limited by any straitjacket. Which is probably what I love most about it.

About the only valid definition that I’m willing to accept is this: all of modern, mainstream, and realistic fiction is simply a branch, a category, or a subset of science fiction.

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Books: The Opaque Market

Written by Eric Flint

In my last essay, I approached the question of so-called online piracy from what I called a “negative” standpoint— by which I meant that I was content with knocking down the arguments advanced in favor of DRM. In this essay, I want to turn the problem around and approach it from a positive standpoint, by examining the many ways in which a non-DRM approach to electronic publishing can help the situation of authors and publishers.

Let me start by making two flat assertions:

1) The market for books is one of the most opaque markets in existence, from the standpoint of its prospective customers.

2) For every dollar an author or publisher might lose from electronic copyright infringement —what’s often given the dishonest and/or hysterical label of “online piracy”—they will lose at least a hundred dollars due to the opacity of the book market.

What do I mean by an “opaque” market? The concept is simple, and is closely related to the concept of information asymmetries as used by some economists. A lot of economic theory is based upon the presumption —the preposterous and absurd presumption—that the market is completely visible to consumers. To put it another way, applied to this topic, when Customer Joe or Jane sets out to buy a book, they know already all the books available on the subject they are interested in. Their choice between Books A, B and C therefore comes down to an informed choice based partly on price, partly on their preference in format (electronic or paper; and, if paper, hardcover or paperback), and partly on their own assessment of the relative talents and skills of the various authors who have produced books on the subject.

It’s enough to state the proposition for anyone to see how ridiculous it is. In the real world, the situation is almost diametrically the opposite.

According to R.R. Bowker, the company that compiles the Books in Print database in the USA, in the year 2003 there were approximately 175,000 new titles published in the United States. That’s one new book coming out about every twenty seconds. The figures for the UK are smaller but comparable— the best estimates are that more than one hundred thousand books are produced in Great Britain every year, in recent years.

That’s at least a quarter of a million new titles in the English language, published every year. And in case you were wondering —given the endless yapping about “the decline of reading”—the number is increasing, not decreasing. Over the past half century, since the advent of television—which many doomsayers insisted would destroy reading—the production of books has increased four-fold. That increase is faster than the population increase, by the way. World-wide, we’ve gone from about a quarter of a million books produced every year to a million, which translates into an increase from one hundred new books for every million people to one hundred and sixty-seven new books per million people.

To put this yet another way, if you read one book a day, you would be neglecting to read several thousand other books.

Of course, in one relative sense, this is still picayune production. A quarter of a million new books in English, every year? Oh, pfui. Piker stuff.

Iran alone produces twice that many new automobiles every year. Worldwide, the annual production of new automobiles was about sixty-three million in 2005. For every new book produced in the world, there were sixty-three new automobiles that came onto the market.

Yet …

That poses no insurmountable challenge, for a prospective car buyer who’s willing to put in a moderate amount of time to gauge the different products available on the market. Buy a few copies of Consumer Reports and similar consumer product magazines —maybe a book or two—and you’re done. You can confidently march out there and buy a new car —which will cost you at least $15,000 and more likely $20,000 or $30,000—with a fair degree of surety that you’ve made an informed choice.

But you can’t possibly do that with the much smaller number of new books produced every year—most of which will cost $25 or less, often much less.

The reason is obvious. Yes, there are sixty-three million new automobiles made every year, but there are only (in relative terms) a tiny number of models produced. The largest car manufacturer in the world won’t produce more than perhaps two dozen.

Whereas every new book is also a new model. Not completely, of course, since most books are generically rather similar to other books in any given field or subject of interest. Still, it is in the very nature of the book market that each and every one of its products is unique.

You literally can’t penetrate the obscurity of the book market. You’d have to spend every waking moment reading book reviews— and even that wouldn’t suffice, because the book reviewers themselves, all of them put together, can’t keep up with the production of new titles.

In short, the book market is just about as opaque as any market there is. I might mention, by the way, that this is not the least of the reasons that the fears of authors that they’ll get “pirated” are almost always just plain silly. With the exception of a tiny percentage of very well-known authors like J.K. Rowling or Stephen King, the real problem authors face is that only a very small percentage of their potential customers have even heard of them—so how likely is it that the ravening hordes of electronic pirates are out there plundering their titles?

About as likely as a piano singer in a roadhouse bar in Oklahoma discovering that a pirated tape of her performance is selling like hot cakes all over the country. Just like they did to Maria Callas!— a delusion of grandeur upon which she piles more folly by demanding that the management of the bar has to physically search every customer who comes in to make sure they aren’t carrying concealed recording equipment.

Sound silly— almost insane? Yet, that’s exactly what DRM amounts to. A demand by every author who supports it —or their publisher— that their literary equivalent of a piano bar performance in an obscure roadhouse has to be protected from the customers by the electronic equivalent of a physical search.

Someone asked me once, in a debate, how I’d react if I discovered that one of my titles —maybe all of them!—had become widely pirated. I started by posing the most extreme case I could imagine.

“You mean, I walk into a drugstore and see that the latest copy of Time magazine has my face on the cover, with a title that reads ‘Works of Eric Flint pirated worldwide!’ and an article on the inside that tells everybody exactly how to do it?”

“Yes,” came the reply, demonstrating that my opponent was no wizard at the art of debate. “What measures would you take?”

“Well,” I said, “the very first thing I’d do is get on the phone and call my friend Mike Spehar. He’s a retired Air Force pilot, and I’d want his advice on which brand of private jet I should buy to be able to commute easily from the villas I’d be buying in southern France, the coast just south of Barcelona … Hm, maybe a penthouse in Manhattan and another one in Paris …”

It was like shooting fish in a barrel.

In the real world, the only authors —or musicians, by the way—who get “pirated” in any significant numbers are ones who are already famous and enjoy top sales. (And all the “piracy” is likely to do, even then, is simply boost their sales. See my next essay for a further discussion.) The great problem faced by all authors —musicians are in a very similar position— is the opacity of the book market. The entertainment market in general, actually, even movies. Compared to that problem, all others are fleas standing next to mammoths.

It is therefore absurd for an author or a publisher to support DRM, when DRM not only makes the market still more opaque, but —worse yet—it removes the best tool any author has today to penetrate that obscurity, at least a little.

This is the reason that, for years, I have made it a policy to put every title of mine online, available for free in electronic edition, a short time after the title comes out in a paperback reissue. Whatever tiny number of sales I lose from that policy, I gain ten or twenty from the promotional value of being a much more visible author.

This is not rocket science. Nothing amazes me more than observing the tremendous effort that many authors go through to promote their work —at a large cost in time and money, as well—when those same authors adamantly refuse to run the “risk” that one or another of their books might get “pirated” electronically.

The most common form of promotion that science fiction and fantasy authors undertake is to attend science fiction conventions, of which there are hundreds in the United States every year. In some instances, they are invited to be the Guest of Honor or the Toastmaster for a convention, in which case the convention pays the cost of their travel and lodging. But, in most cases, the authors are paying for it themselves. And even if the convention is picking up the tab, the author is still losing valuable work time.

Figure out the math. Assume the cost of the round-trip travel averages $400 and the cost of the hotel room is another $200 for a weekend. Toss in $100 for food and incidental expenses.

That’s seven hundred dollars. To make back that financial loss —remember my royalty figures in the fifth essay?—the author would have to sell a minimum of one hundred and eighty-seven books, over and above what they’d sell without that promotional trip. And that’s assuming that he or she gets published in hardcover, and it also assumes that their hardcover sales typically exceed ten thousand copies per title, so they’re getting the top 15% royalty rate.

In point of fact, neither assumption applies to most authors. For a new or midlist writer who is only getting published in paperback, where the royalties are eight percent of the cover price —i.e., sixty-four cents per copy sold, accruing to the author, assuming the standard modern paperback price of eight dollars—they would have to sell over a thousand additional copies of a book just to break even on that one promotional effort.

For the sake of promoting themselves and their work, science fiction and fantasy authors routinely accept—several times a year, as a rule, because they’re likely to attend more than one convention—what amounts to a financial loss that’s the equivalent of several hundred to more than a thousand paper books being stolen—yet they choke at the possibility that electronic “pirates” might swipe… .

Twenty copies? Maybe? In my opinion, the figure is more likely to be half a dozen, if that.

And thereby! —piling stupidity onto an inability to do simple arithmetic—they also deprive themselves of a promotional method that is far, far cheaper and probably at least as successful.

Admittedly, I can’t prove it, because no one has ever done the kind of study that would be necessary to do so. (And never will, either, since the cost of doing such a controlled study would be well-nigh astronomical.) But I know damn good and well that every title of mine that I put up for free online —at no cost to myself in money terms, and only a minute cost in terms of my labor—generates more sales for me than any convention I’ve ever attended.

An aside, here. I attend at least half a dozen science fiction conventions every year— but I don’t do it for the so-called “promotional value.” I think that value is a mirage, personally, and I urge any author who thinks attending conventions is a smart way to boost their sales to consider the cold math I laid out above. To put it as crudely as possible, you can’t begin to earn back the money you’re going to lose by boosting your sales. Yes, attending a convention will boost your sales. Sure, it will— by maybe one or two dozen copies. Fifty or a hundred, at most, assuming you’re the Guest of Honor and the center of attention.

But it’ll cost you more than that to attend the convention in the first place, even if the convention pays your expenses. Yup, it’s true— for the simple reason that, with rare exceptions, conventions want Guests of Honor who get published pretty often. And, for such an author, losing several days of working time in order to attend a convention is a financial loss that will exceed whatever extra sales your attendance stimulates. In cold-blooded economic terms, an author would be much smarter to just stay home and keep writing.

The reason I go to conventions has nothing to do with money, and promotion is only an incidental factor. The reason I go is two-fold. First, I enjoy them. Secondly, the one great drawback to being a professional writer is that you spend your entire working life talking to yourself. I’ve found it’s very good for me, emotionally and psychologically, to go off every couple of months or so and spend a few days talking to people I don’t know, and whom I didn’t invent, and whose reactions to me will be theirs and not mine.

That’s well worth the money— but it’s not the main way I promote my work. I do that online, by simply giving as many people as possible access to my books.

This is the way promotion has always worked for authors. It was not “invented” by the internet. All the internet and electronic publishing does is add another avenue to this way of promoting and advertising an author’s work, and it is a particularly easy and almost costless avenue.

This ancient and most reliable of all promotional methods is called “fair use”— and, if you’ll go back and look at my fourth essay in the December issue, you’ll see that I said the following:

It’s true that you can’t predict the way any given little stream of water will flow across a sloping landscape, if there aren’t any pre-existing water beds. But you can predict with absolute certainty that if you pour water onto a sloping landscape, featureless as it may be, it will all flow downhill.

So it is with fair use. No author—nor the cartoonist of my opening example— can know ahead of time which specific instance of fair use of his work will wind up personally benefiting him. But what all authors —and all cartoonists— can know for sure is that a society that allows a generous and expansive amount of fair use will produce the most expansive market for them all.

I said in that essay that I’d return to the subject of fair use from the standpoint of the benefit it gives authors as well as readers. And now, perhaps, you’ll begin to see how it works.

Again, it’s simple. The book market is so opaque that, willy-nilly, almost all book-buyers react by being extremely conservative in their buying habits. “Conservative,” at least, in terms of which authors they’re willing to spend money on, if not necessarily in terms of how much money they spend overall.

They simply have no choice. They have neither the time nor the money —especially the time—to do anything remotely resembling a thorough search of the market to see which authors they might like more than any other. They can’t even do that in one corner of the market, such as science fiction and fantasy, much less the market as a whole.

So, with the exception of a few adventurous types, most readers stick with a small number of authors whom they’ve come to know that they generally like. They venture afield only rarely, for the good and simple reason that people are generally reluctant to spend money —and time, perhaps, even more so— on what amounts to a pig in a poke. Unless they have some reason to think they might enjoy an unfamiliar author, they will simply ignore them. For years, and years, and years.

I always urge every author who tries to argue with me on the significance of so-called “electronic piracy” to do a little experiment. Go to your nearest big bookstore and plant yourself somewhere that gives you a good view of the shelves where your book or books are located. Then, simply count the number of browsers in the course of an hour or two who don’t even glance at one of your titles. Forget taking it off the shelves, looking at the back cover, etc. etc, and then putting it back. I’m talking about the potential customers who ignore you completely.

Try it sometime. What you’ll discover is that for every potential customer who takes even a couple of seconds to consider your title, dozens will pass your books by without so much as a glance.

That’s the opacity of the book market at work. The real problem faced by authors isn’t theft, it’s invisibility. For the overwhelming majority of their potential customers, they simply don’t exist.

This is even true, by the way, for the best-selling authors, although not to the same degree. Just about every literate person today has heard of J.K. Rowling or Stephen King or Tom Clancy or Nora Roberts or John Grisham. But what percentage of their potential customers has never actually read them?

The answer is 90% and up, for even the best-selling authors. For one reason or another, even though potential readers have heard of the author —in many cases, in fact, because of what they’ve heard of that author—most of them simply don’t consider buying their titles. And, in many cases, based on information which is completely inaccurate.

To go back to my experiment, what you will discover is that every author loses more potential sales in one day due to the opacity of the market than they’d lose from “electronic piracy” in the course of an entire year. That being so, it’s simply common sense to look for any methods that improve your visibility in the market— and steer clear of any that make the opacity of the market even worse.

Like DRM.

I’ll explore this further in my next essay, where I’ll go into considerable detail showing how fair use has always been the author’s best friend, when it comes to promoting themselves and their works. And I will demonstrate that:

1) There is nothing that is “new” or “unparalleled” about the so-called danger of “electronic piracy.”

2) From the standpoint of the narrow economic self-interest of an author (or publisher), a generous and expansive attitude toward fair use is every bit as beneficial as it is to society as a whole.

3) Any author or publisher who supports DRM is, even in the narrowest terms of their own selfish interests …

Logically challenged. Most polite term I can use.

In the meantime, contemplate “invisibility” for the next two months. Try my little experiment— and then go online and spend the same hour or so trying to find pirated copies of your work.

And then, do some simple arithmetic, comparing your losses in one column to those in the other and extrapolating the result across a period of months and years. If you’re still deeply fretful about “online piracy” at the end, I can only hope you never get caught in a burning building— since you’ll obviously spend your time worrying about whether you’re wearing the right color socks to be seen in public rather than getting out of the fire.

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Overtaken

Written by Barry N. Malzberg

Here was Plan The First for this installment. I would undertake a synopsis of James Tiptree’s 1978 novelette, “Slow Music,” a fully achieved and heartbreaking work (John Clute called it “The last great Tiptree story”) which would, after a brisk and celebratory two hundred words or so, lead into a mournful elegy for the author (Alice B. Sheldon, of course) whose brightness fell so shockingly from the air almost exactly twenty years ago. That elegy would proceed then to muse on the abandoned and ruined Earth depicted in the story and the way in which all human aspiration and possibility of love is subsumed and destroyed by the Great Other. Away go the protagonist and the woman he loves, the last people on the planet, the last holdouts against the aliens who came in their great ships to escort them to the River of All Passage. In thrall, they join already departed humanity in the incumbent and overreaching darkness. So much for hope.

And so much for humanity. We have been utterly overtaken. Step by grim step, that quick march into the tumbling, grey, barren rush of the river. Their hands are parted, they are alone, descending alone into the illimitable sea of loss. Of wandering and the Earth again. Embraced by the river, under the cold stars, forever.

So much for ad astra per aspera. The story leaves us with nothing. “When I finished this I was completely empty,” Alice Sheldon is reported to have said. “I had nothing more inside.” “Slow Music” is possibly the best story of this matchless writer and—one way of looking at a blackbird—may be the best story to come out of science fiction in the century’s last quarter. It is a savage put-on of the post-apocalyptic genre in general and of Alfred Bester’s 1961 story, “They Don’t Make Life Like They Used To” in particular.

The Bester is another last man/last woman scenario which depicts human love and sexual passion manifest even as the aliens occupy. A man and woman seemingly stripped of all desire fall passionately into one another against the sounds of the ordnance of the aliens’ approach. This Bester story, of course, is itself a put-on of the old Adam-and-Eve ploy. It took no small talent to put on a put-on and Tiptree, savage in her own loss, spares no one in “Slow Music.” Not even herself. (She makes a cameo appearance in drag, a magnificently mustached fellow whose genitals are not exactly as expected.)

So my column—an unwritten, unmailed letter from this particular Zemblan House of Detention—would have celebrated Tiptree’s savage envoi even as it mourned the fifty years of science fiction from which it was a true departure … the aliens and their mighty River trivializing all technology, hope, device. A narrative of the utterly overtaken.

That seemed good enough in the abstract. Then it occurred to me that with all of its excellence, “Slow Music” is not, after all, thematically unusual. The story is simply (as was the case with most of Tiptree) more intense than its influences. In fact, science fiction could be called a Literature Of Overtaking; so many of its originating concepts and central works have had that at the center. The wasted economy overtakes the populace. (“The Midas Plague,” by Fred Pohl.) Time travel overtakes the life of the protagonist. (Heinlein’s “By His Bootstraps” or Bester’s “The Men Who Murdered Mohammed.”) The aliens overtake human existence. (Fredric Brown’s “Martians Go Home,” Robert Silverberg’s “Passengers,” Gordon Dickson’s The Way Of The Pilgrim.) Nuclear disaster overtakes everyone. (Ward Moore’s “Lot,” John Christopher’s No Blade of Grass, Richard Wilson’s “Mother To The World” and hundreds of other rodomontades. Science fiction, the literature of overtaking, shows the individual or society swept away or overcome by extrinsic forces. Meddling aliens, nuclear fission, climatological change: so much for the rounds of human existence. Tiptree’s alien River consumes everything utterly off the face of the Earth. Only in science fiction, in fact, can this occur in a fashion utterly central to narrative and character. In that sense, the originating situation is itself the protagonist. Its struggle against being overtaken is the central conflict.

Maybe this is why science fiction makes so many readers nervous and gives mainstream literary critics the vapours. Tiptree thought so; in her Afterword to “Her Smoke Rose Up Forever” in Final Stage, the original anthology in which it first appeared in 1974 she put the issue bluntly. “Oh tell us, please,” she wrote, “that it is our swimming pools, our adultery, our mid-century angst which is making us so unhappy and ruining our lives, give us that comfort.”

But science fiction would not give that comfort. Alien invasion, nuclear catastrophe, rampant disease, post-technological breakdown and riot, ah, these were what Hiroshima and Nagasaki brought to us so suddenly and completely. Hiroshima Mon Amour made it clear that there were forces outside which were less controllable and more malevolent than suburban angst. The disorders of the swap club or the Grey Flannel Suit might be conquerable through the powers of positive thinking … but positive thinking was not likely to do much against busloads of giggling Martians or the automotive escape riot on I-80 East when the Big One hit Los Angeles.

This means—to engage in that circularity which pleases literary critics pleased by Cheever or Updike annals of angst—that “Slow Music” is not thematically exceptional. It is stylistically exceptional, deep into that far region which only Tiptree and a few other of our greatest writers could apprehend, but its greatness does not reside in originality. All of us entered this literature of overtaking a little over eight decades ago and, overtaken at this moment, we must not confuse our vulnerability with control lest we end in Cheever Country; stumbling through the cold, shuddering in the encroaching dark, staggering past the empty swimming pools in the barren land of the dying country toward that place which long ago we so disastrously confused with our own.

—May 2006: New Jersey

The Tiniest Assassins

Written by Mike Resnick

Okay, boiled down, it comes to this: the Martians come here, do a little serious devastation, scare the hell out of us, and then catch colds and die.

Never gonna happen. For one thing, given the weaponry that H. G. Wells and the movie give them, they’ll never have to emerge from their ships before they’ve destroyed every last one of us and the battle is over—and as long as they stay in their ships, they’re immune to the one indefensible weapon we have: our peculiarly human viruses.

And there’s something else to consider. Let’s not forget that Wells lived before the era of modern medicine. I think it’s only logical to assume that any creatures, benevolent or hostile, that can traverse the void and reach planet Earth have doubtless developed their science—and especially their medical science—to the point where they can pinpoint and identify any dangerous germs in our atmosphere, and either develop some form of immunization to them, or create some way to annihilate them at the source, which is to say Earth, before invading us.

It’s just common sense. You wouldn’t invade the waters off the coast of Australia unless you had some protection against the great white shark. You wouldn’t wander through a pride of hungry lions without protection. Hell, we don’t send our soldiers into battle these days without protection against bullets, chemical agents, biological agents, everything we can think of.

So I think it’s fair to say that our germs are not going to kill any extraterrestrial invaders once they get here.

Nope. We’re going to kill them long before they get here. And by the very same means that we (or Earth, if you prefer) used to kill Wells’ Martian invaders.

How?

Well, as likely as not, it’ll be by accident.

You see, in recent years NASA has been examining ships, rovers, orbiters, everything that we send into space.

And guess what?

Neither the cold of space nor the heat of re-entry nor the direct gamma radiation from the sun kills every living thing on those objects.

Oh, there’s nothing there that’ll bother us—at least not so far. But that doesn’t mean an alien race with an alien physiology isn’t looking down a barrel loaded with newly-identified microbes from good old Planet Earth.

We’ve even got names for them.

For example, there’s Bacillus Odysseyi, which has been found on the Mars Odyssey orbiter. Why is this noteworthy? Because the damned thing has been orbiting Mars for close to four years. It survived the 40-million-mile trip, it survived three years in orbit, it survived gamma radiation, and it’s doing just fine, thank you.

Now, no one’s ever been killed by B. Odysseyi, and probably no one ever will be. But that’s not to say that it couldn’t wipe out a squad of Wells’ Martians or Edgar Rice Burroughs’ green Tharks in an afternoon, depending on what particular germs they’re vulnerable to.

Then there’s Bacillus Safensis. This baby is not only found in the Jet Propulsion Lab’s Spacecraft Assembly Facility (known as SAF, which gave it its name), but it is alive and well today on Spirit and Opportunity, the current Mars rovers.

So what do these—and a dozen other viruses that have survived the heat and cold and radiation of spaceflight—actually do?

Nothing much. They tend to go forth and multiply, like every other living thing, but they’re not harmful to us. Hell, they’ve even been found in the water supply of the Mir space station. Astronauts drank it. They all survived.

But they’re human astronauts, not Martian or Centaurian or Antarean astronauts. Or citizens.

Right. Citizens. Don’t forget: we’ve sent out a few deep space probes, and we’ll send out more. A couple have already left the solar system. They’re not traveling fast, not by galactic standards, and it could take them a hundred thousand or even a million years to make planetfall somewhere out there—but they’re going to arrive with a zillionth generation of perfectly healthy microbes and bacilli ready to find new homes.

Maybe the planet they touch down on won’t have any life on it at all. (Which is okay by the fellow travelers; they can wait a billion years until some comes along.) Maybe it’ll have life that’s as unbothered by exposure to them as we are.

And maybe it will have life that finds them to be pure poison—life that, unlike the hypothetical invaders we discussed, is totally unprepared for a visit by microscopic creatures than can wipe them out, that will never know what hit them, that might indeed have been the friendliest folk in the galaxy.

All right. That’s the non-fiction side of it. Those bacilli are out there, some of them aren’t coming back, and sooner or later they’re going to make contact with something.

Now let’s look at the possibilities, science fictional today, but perhaps less so in the future.

We’ve got a million dedicated computer hackers, plus some truly powerful equipment in the hands of experts, searching the heavens every night for signals from other worlds—SETI, the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence. They’re probably not going to discover any in my lifetime or yours, but sooner or later they’re going to latch on to some signals, because we’re finding out that just about every star in the galaxy has planets, and with tens of millions of G-type stars out there, the odds are that an awful lot of them have, or once had, or someday will have life. And some of it will be sentient. And some of that will be searching the skies for signs of life just the way we do.

So eventually we’re going to make contact with them. If we like what they have to say, fine. If we don’t … well, if we can trace their signals back to their source, we can send them a little present. Not the microbes that are living on the Mars rovers today, but rather some of the most powerful stuff we can whip up (after we lie to them about our physiology and hope they’re telling us the truth about theirs.)

And even if we don’t know what their motives are, if meeting them at a neutral point in space is kind of like a blind date on a grand scale, it doesn’t mean we won’t go armed. Not with guns or lasers or any of that movie garbage; they’ll be able to detect it from a light-year away. But with the most subtle weapons imaginable—Men, each carrying germs and viruses that we are immune to, each ready to transmit them by the simple act of breathing in and out.

Sounds pretty crude and heartless, I realize, and hopefully it will never come to that—but if your world is at risk, a visionary named Wells showed you that there is a far more efficient way of attacking the enemy than with a new generation of weapons, which history teaches us will be obsolete in a few years’ time.

Much better to use a weapon neither Time nor heat nor cold nor radiation has been able to kill. There are going to be some alien immune systems that can’t kill it either.

So how do we avoid killing off a friendly alien population?

We’re working on it right now. NASA is aware that if enough of the bacilli I mentioned take root on Mars (or Venus, or Io, or any other world or moon in the solar system), we might one day discover life there, and if the bacilli have evolved or mutated enough, we’ll never know that it came from Earth in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. So some of the NASA scientists have been given the taking learning how to terminate these microscopic agents that space can’t kill.

They already know that if they hit them with a few million degrees of heat they can’t survive—but neither can the equipment they live on, and it’s counter-productive to melt a spaceship before it ever takes off just to make sure that it doesn’t take any microscopic travelers with it.

But they’re learning, and before long they’ll find a method. And that’s absolutely vital, because although Wells didn’t know he was telling the truth, we already have the ability to destroy the bad aliens. Now we have to make sure we don’t kill the good ones by accident.

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June 2007

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

Listen as Robert J. Sawyer, Mike Resnick, David B. Coe, Edmund R. Schubert, Davey Beauchamp and Randal L. Schwartz describe many of the technological and social changes which will alter your life during the coming 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 June 1, 2007 episode includes all of the following and more:

Should we fear AI? Once we make machines that are smarter than us how will we control or contain them? And if we try, won’t they just outsmart us? Robert J. Sawyer feels that AI is a future technology that has dangerous possibilities which are being ignored today; and will continue to be ignored until—thanks to the accelerating pace of technological advancement—it will be too late. Once the AI genie is out of the bottle, there may be no putting it back. Robert J. Sawyer discusses some of the near term dangers, and ponders humanity’s ultimate fate. Will we become pets or partners to machines, or something else for which we have no word?

Is the rising popularity of state lotteries really just an unethical “tax” upon the very people who can least afford it—the naive and gullible? And does the widespread popularity of gun ownership in America make the United States the only nation on earth that is unconquerable? Mike Resnick covers these and other subjects such as: Will Puerto Ricans ever vote for statehood, knowing it will mean they’ll have to begin paying income taxes? Will the US ever have socialized medicine? When Castro passes away, will Cuba embrace consumerism?

Did An Inconvenient Truth reveal as much about Al Gore and his political aspirations as it did about Al Gore’s beliefs concerning climate change? David B. Coe describes what he sees as the many takeaway lessons from the movie including his own estimation of the probability that Al Gore will run for president in 2008, and his chances in competing against Hillary and the rest of the Democratic candidates.

Are public libraries embracing the vast information access powers of the internet? The movement is called “Library 2.0” and Davey Beauchamp (a professional librarian, and part-time writer and voice actor) has been watching it work its way into the quiet book-lined rooms of some, but by no means all, traditional libraries. “Age is becoming irrelevant,” Davey says. “I see the elderly generation as well as children actively learning and using the internet.”

Davey also speaks of the trends in anime, podcasting and audio theater; as well as his work as editor on the Writers for Relief Anthology II (which will benefit the Bay Area Food Banks). He also announces that he’s just been hired to write a rock opera based on the legend of Blue Beard the pirate.

What methods has Microsoft used that have given it a reputation for aggressive monopolism? And is it true, as some claim, that Microsoft’s new Vista operating system has stolen 45 things from Apple’s OS-10. Randal L. Schwartz talks of this as well as his experiments with podcasting and Geek Cruises.

Will the online SF&F magazines survive? Edmund R. Schubert, editor of Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, paints a clear picture of the strengths and weakness of this business. Just how much money is there to be made; what are the trends and what is the future?

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 this episode include the results of your host’s throat surgery. (More on that in the News section near the end of this article).

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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 Mike Resnick, Kim Stanley Robinson, Elizabeth Bear, Dave Freer, Paul Levinson and Randal L. Schwartz discussing all the following and more:

Many online magazines now pay professional rates—sometimes much better than print magazines—does this mean the great electronic experiment was a success? Or just that the print magazines are dying? Mike Resnick discusses this and provides another eyewitness report on how bad things really are across Africa. He also answers your host’s question about Funny Novels: is there more money but less respect?

Must a generation die off for a culture to change its most deeply held beliefs? Or is our current population somehow learning to become comfortable with nontraditional ideas, behaviors, clothing and lifestyles? Elizabeth Bear speaks of this and of the universal notion of “Us verses Them.”

Have we been relying on non-lethal weapons for centuries without even realizing it? Kim Stanley Robinson insists that we have. He also suggests that implanting a computer inside your skull is not trivial. It carries risks of damage and infection, and might best be reserved for solving life-altering problems like blindness or deafness.

Despite the numerous benefits, the renowned programmer and programming activist Randal L. Schwartz insists he will be highly reluctant to accept a computer hardwired into his brain. And he will refuse it entirely if its operating system is made by Microsoft since that would make his mind too easily hacked and too prone to spontaneously crashing.

Cell phones have changed our culture and altered the way we live, but their changes are not yet complete. Paul Levinson ponders what is yet to come.

Large scale engineering projects have been less visible recently thanks to all the buzz about nanotechnology. But the future is not given only to the very small. Those who design big are still thinking big, and the biggest place to build big is in the biggest place of all: space. Dave Freer presents his vision of how humanity will spread beyond the earth and fulfill its destiny among the stars.

This episode also includes 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.

News items in this episode include the recent discovery of the first earthlike planet outside our solar system, as well as a mention of your host’s upcoming surgery. (More on that in the news section near the end of this article).

Listener feedback includes emailed comments on superconductivity, sexual equality, the singularity and transhumanism.

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Mini-Essay

Prediction: Diabetics will all stop poking themselves to draw blood

The first step in securing a patent is verifying that it has not already been patented. For those of you who feel you may just come up with the next great invention, there are a number of places online to perform your search. One of the easiest is at http://baens-universe.com/work/www.google.com/patents. It took me just thirty minutes to verify that the diabetes device I invented recently (and will tell you about in the following paragraphs) had already been invented and patent number 7125382 granted for it, thus saving me a great deal of unnecessary work in proceeding with the complicated and expensive process of securing a patent.

At this point I would like to make a prediction concerning the near future:

Sometime in the next three to five years, diabetics will all stop poking needles into their fingertips forever. Measuring their blood sugar levels will be done by a device the size of a grain of rice which will be permanently implanted under the skin. The device’s measurements will be transferred to a handheld unit by radio waves, and the tiny amount of electricity needed to run the implanted device will be provided to it by the handheld unit using electrical induction. This will involve no new technology, only the combining of two existing technologies: specifically passive RIFT and the little sugar sensitive detector built into the meters that diabetics have been sliding their tiny drops of blood into now for several years.

A cluster of patents have been granted in the last half decade which describe ways to combine RFID chips with a variety of implanted medical devices, with the sole purpose of permanently implanting these devices under the patient’s skin such that the medical readings they gather can be transmitted out of the patient without wires.

Some of these devices would measure blood pressure, nerve collapse, and the concentrations of various chemicals in the blood—including sugar. For hospital stays a device that takes many readings would be best, but for a diabetic’s home use, the blood sugar level is enough; although blood pressure will probably be included at no additional cost.

Once this implant is in place, a reading of blood sugar levels is done by bringing a small handheld device within a few inches of the implant where it communicates using radio waves. The sugar reading is displayed on the handheld unit, and no blood is spilled, no fingers are pricked, and no pain is felt.

As a comical side note: patent number 6847892 has been granted to the same assignee which claims that they invented every conceivable use of an RFID chip and have incorporated it into a single device. The patent is 93 pages long and claims their device is a medical implant for measuring blood chemistry, but it also has security uses, police uses, uses by spies, can be used to retrieve lost luggage, track trucks as they drive across country, automatically water a tree, help athletes in their personal training, track food shipments, monitor hazardous waste, follow ocean cargos, locate lost children, prevent kidnappings, protect endangered species, locate stolen cars, even provide caller ID.

I did quick search of the patent’s text and was able to verify that it does not contain the words kitchen or sink. An obvious oversight.

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News items:

The Discovery of Another Earth

Many times, beginning with the very first episode, this show has examined the possibility (some might say the inevitability) of humanity finding another planet like our earth. You have, no doubt, heard that on April 24, 2007 scientists may have found that planet. This earth-like exoplanet has a mass about five times greater than earth and a diameter about 50% greater than the earth, which would give it a surface gravity about twice that of earth.

The planet orbits its star (the red dwarf, Gliese 581, which is 20.4 light years from earth) at a distance which places it in the habitable zone. Because of this, its surface temperature is estimated to lie between 0 and 40 degrees Celsius—which would allow water to be exist on its surface as a liquid. Scientists feel the planet’s surface is likely to either be rocky or to be covered with oceans of water.

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Your Host’s Throat Surgery

The outpatient surgery on my throat went very well and does not seem to have changed the tone or timber of my voice. A small growth was removed from the base of my right vocal chord on May 8, 2007 and has tested to not contain any cancer.

I’d like to thank the many listeners and guests who generously volunteered their time to read the monthly installments of my novel Bones Burnt Black after I proved unable to read the chapter scheduled for the April episode. I do not expect to have this problem again, but if I do I will make every effort to have someone else read the chapter for me so there are no more episodes without a chapter.

And for those who are curious how many more months there are before the novel is completed. I estimate it should finish in November of 2007, give or take a month or two. If you find yourself impatient for the ending please feel free to proceed directly to Amazon.com and order your copy today. I’m sure it will make a great gift.

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Your Host’s Wikipedia Article Vandalized

On March 23 of this year, the article about me at Wikipedia was vandalized. While this does not mean that I have arrived into the world of celebrities, I take it as a backhanded compliment of sorts. The vandalization was spotted and repaired within two hours by one of Wikipedia’s administrators who goes by the username of “Gogo Dodo.” (Those who wish to see the vandalized version, may do so by going to the Wikipedia article for “Stephen Euin Cobb,” clinking on the “history” tab at the top of the article, selecting the March 23 version, just below the one by “Gogo Dodo,” and clicking “compare selected versions.”)

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RavenCon Interviews

I had a wonderful time at RavenCon in Richmond Va. I talked with fans, watched standup comedians, bought trinkets in the dealer room, and generally hobnobbed with my fellow wizards. More important to you, however, is that I recorded seven excellent interviews some of which will begin appearing in next month’s episode.

Some of the people I interviewed include Robert J Sawyer (who was guest of honor at the con), David B. Coe (who has been on the show before), Edmund R. Schubert (the editor at Orson Scott Card’s online magazine), Kelly Lockhart (an experienced radio DJ), Hildy Silverman (who edits a magazine about fertility and owns one which publishes SF&F), Davey Beauchamp (the wildest librarian I have ever met), and Paul Fischer (one of my fellow podcasters).

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Future Appearances

Listeners may visit with the host of The Future And You at any of the following SF&F conventions: 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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Or learn more about its host here or here.

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