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SCIENCE FICTION STORIES

Last Plane to Heaven: A Love Story

Written by Jay Lake

Illustrated by Karl Nordman

Nichols tried to light a cigarette, one of those fucking Paki horseturds. “Know why God made the ‘stans?” His palm cupped the flame against the steppe winds. Must’ve been burning his fingers, but if he didn’t care, I sure as hell didn’t.

“Hell if I know.” The dust out here was like to drive me to tears, Oakley wraparounds or not. That shit got in the cracks of everything. My shoulders ached like a son-of-a-bitch, too, standing around all day with a SAM tube on my shoulder. I shifted the Stinger, listening for that familiar tubercular roar of old Sov-built engines. The Antonov was overdue.

He got his horseturd lit, took a long, coughing drag. “Shit’s got to come out somewhere, that’s why.” A gap-toothed grin, where a couple of Uzbek hash merchants had kicked him hard a few months back. He’d eaten their ears a bit later. “The ‘stans are the asshole of the Earth. America, we’re the tits. Land of milk and honey.”

Tits was right, I thought. But honey? Something chattered out there. I scanned the northeast over the hardpan. Nothing but scattered grass and endless identical miles, while the dust was making a silver-brown hash of the Gobi sky

No sign of the Antonov.

Maybe I’d heard the windsock snapping.

“Ain’t you gonna ask?” he said, after another deep drag.

“Ask what?”

“Where the world’s pussy is?”

I knew better to walk into that one, so I just returned his grin. I still had all my teeth.

“Aw, fuck it.” Nichols pitched the flaring cigarette into the wind. It bounced past the wheel ruts on the desert floor then vanished into dust, leaving a flare on my vision.

“Don’t do that shit, man.”

“Snipers?” His laugh was as harsh as his cigarettes. “Here? Hiding behind what? The sky, maybe. You’re the pussy, Allen. Pussy of the world, right here.”

“Snipers my ass.” I was less confident than him on that. Not much less, but a careful troopie lived to see chow call. “Only you can prevent forest fires.”

“Smokey the fucking Mongolian bear!”

Then the Antonov was overhead, growling out of the dust in a reek of fuel and old metal, the pilot looking for the windsock.

* * *

Say what you want about Sov technology, the shit they built just keeps working. That old An-17 had probably been flying, badly, when I was playing kill-the-ragheads in the Oregon forests as a kid. It was still flying badly now. As the fly-guys say, any landing you walk away from is a good landing.

The south Gobi is a series of very shallow valleys demarcated by low ridges a half dozen klicks apart. The desert is sort of like prairie gone bad, with stubby, dried grasses, the odd flower, and a hell of a lot of gravel. If you look up and down the valleys, you can see the edge of the world.

The strip here was a windsock stuck in the hard pan. Every now and then someone got tired of the planes bouncing in their wheel ruts and replanted the windsock fifty yards further east. There was an archaeology of occupation and warfare written in the tracks of old landing gear.

Most of the Westerners in the ‘stans were like Nichols. Smart enough, and stone killers in a firefight or on a silent op, but pretty much baboons otherwise. A million years ago they would have been the big apes throwing shit from the trees. Now they’re out here capping ragheads and steppe weasels. I guess that beats breaking elbows for money back home.

I tried explaining Temujin to Nichols one time as we were burning some idealistic kids out of an eight-hundred year old temple. Blue-faced demons crisped to winter ash while their ammo cooked off in a funeral cantata. He’d just laughed and told me to go back to college if I didn’t like it here.

It’s a beautiful country, Mongolia. All the ‘stans are beautiful in their way. Xin Jiang, too. Nichols was wrong about this being the asshole of the earth. God had made these countries, all right, to remind us all how damned tough the world was. And how beauty could rise from the hard choices and broken lives.

Then God in His infinite wisdom had chosen to people these lands with some of the toughest sons of bitches to ever draw breath. These people could hold a grudge for a thousand years and didn’t mind eating bullets to avenge their honor.

Fuck you very much, God, for Your beauty and Your terror. Not to mention Sov aircraft to dust us off to the brothels of Ulaan Baatar every once in a while. Nothing expressed God’s love for His world like warm North Korean beer and elderly Chechen hookers.

* * *

“Yo, Allen, get in here!”

It was Korunov. His head bobbed out the weathered orange door of the ger which served as our HQ. Ex-KGB counterintel guy. He’d spent a lot of time at the USA-Canada Institute, back when that was still cranking, and spoke with the damndest accent. His voice was part Alabama cornpone and part Ukrainian street hustler, squeaking out of a two-hundred kilo butterball.

Hell, he must have been thin once. Nobody starts out life that kind of fat.

Korunov considered himself a man of the world. He was also the paymaster of our little unit, so when he yo’d, I ho’d.

Nichols and Korunov were crowded into the ger along with Batugan—our Mongolian controller back in UB and the only man to get off the Antonov upon arrival. As always, the pilot remained on board to keep his points hot. Plus Hannaday was there. He was an Agency cowboy I’d last seen on the wrong end of a Glock in Kandahar two years earlier. Whipcord thin, still wearing the same damned Armani suit.

How the fuck had that spook gotten into the camp without me seeing him? My legs still ached whenever it got chilly. I briefly considered firing off my Stinger inside the ger, just punching the warhead into Hannaday’s chest, but that would have pretty much toasted us all.

“Stow it,” growled Korunov. Two hundred kilos or not, that man could and did snap necks.

“What’s he doing here?” I wouldn’t meet Hannaday’s gaze. “He’s worse trouble than the insurgency.”

Batugan gave me his oily smile. I don’t think he had any other kind, truth be told. “Mr. Hannaday has bought out your contracts.”

“My contract wasn’t up for sale to him.”

Korunov got too close to me. “Sit. Listen.”

I laid the Stinger against the tent wall, loosed the holster on my Smitty, then pulled up one of those little orange Mongolian stools. I never took my eyes off Hannaday’s hands. “Listening, sir.”

“You should be—” Batugan began, but Korunov interrupted. “Not your show any more, Genghis.”

The fat man’s voice dropped, sympathy or perhaps an attempt at camaraderie, as he turned to me. “Our financial backers have pulled out. Batugan flew here to cut us loose.”

Cut us loose here? We were a training cadre. They brought in kids with attitude, we ran them through some high-fatality training, they pulled them back out to go fight the bad guys. There was no way out but by plane. That way the kids wouldn’t run off. And no one ever came around asking inconvenient questions about the row of graves on the far side of the ger camp.

You could make it out by truck. Damned long haul, though, and you had to pack along enough water and fuel. Didn’t matter anyhow. There weren’t any trucks in camp right now, just a couple of old Chinese-surplus BJC jeeps.

Not a lot of landmarks in the south Gobi. Sure as hell no roads.

“So?” I wasn’t a decision maker. Why were they telling me?

Korunov chose his words carefully. “Mister Hannaday here is bankrolling airfare back to Los Angeles or Frankfurt, plus a generous kill fee.”

I finally met Hannaday’s eyes. They gleamed that same eerie blue as back in Kandahar. His smile died there.

“I don’t care what he wants. I’d rather walk than take his money.”

“That’s why we need you, Mister Allen,” Hannaday said. “The unit listens to you.” There was something wrong with his voice—it grated, almost fading out.

With that clue, even in the shadowed ger, I could make out a scar seaming his throat. It was a glossy trail just above the crisp Windsor knot of his tie. I’d lost my best knife in that throat, the day he shot me.

“You don’t talk right, I don’t walk right.” Which was why I trained instead of killed these days. “I think we’ve done enough for each other.” I stood, grabbed my missile rack.

“Allen.” It was Korunov.

I owed him. Lots. I stopped to listen. “Yeah?”

“We don’t have seats on the plane. None of us. Not without Mister Hannaday.”

I had eleven guys outside who were real good at knocking over airplanes, Nichols chief among them. But I also had eleven guys outside who weren’t going to be happy about hiking out of the south Gobi.

“We got return bonds, Sergei,” I told Korunov softly.

He shrugged, his face impassive. “If we were elsewhere, we could cash them. Mister Hannaday bought the air transport contract from Batugan before he bought our paper.”

I had my Smitty out and two rounds in Batugan, one in each thigh. The Mongolian fell off his stool sobbing, curling to clutch at his legs. Neither Hannaday nor Korunov moved. Neither one drew down on me.

“So I am worth something to you, you son of a bitch.” Careful not to point the weapon at Hannaday, I holstered the pistol. “What the fuck do you want, airplane man?”

“Like you, I’m—”

“You’ll never be like me, you fucking Langley suit.”

“Please,” Hannaday said. One hand stroked the knot of his tie. I hoped like hell the scar ached as bad as my legs. “Fort Meade. And, like you, I’m a contractor now.” Without looking, he leaned over slightly and slapped Batugan hard. The Mongolian quieted his blubbering.

That drew a reluctant laugh out of me. “Big spookery all get outsourced to India?”

“Pakistan, actually. In the name of funding and plausible deniability.”

“Fuck yeah. What’s your point?”

“We’re going to bring in a special subject. We need your team to play like Ukrainian mercs for about a week. Ride the subject hard, put them in some real fear, then let them be extracted.”

Who was he kidding, extracted? I knew what that signified. “What, Delta Force falls out of the sky and caps us all? No thanks.” As if this bunch of multinational nimrods could be Ukrainians. Korunov actually was, the real McCoyovich. After the fat man, Nichols with his Paki cigarettes was the safest and sanest of the bunch. There was a reason our little crowd wasn’t out eating snakes on the front line.

“No-risk deal,” said Hannaday impassively.

“That deal ain’t been written yet.”

He folded his hands in his lap, a deliberate gesture straight out of interrogation training. “I’ll be sitting here with you the whole time.”

Well, I could always cap him when the shit went south. Because a situation like he wanted to set up would without question run for the border before it was all over with.

And it ain’t like I was walking out of here.

“Fuck you very much,” I told Korunov. “I guess we’re playing. I’ll go get the boys fired up.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“Just some fucking lies. I got a million of ‘em.” I grabbed my Stinger rack, waved it at Batugan. “You might want to slap a band-aid on Ming the Merciless over there before he bleeds out.”

“Don’t need him any more,” said Hannaday.

I didn’t let the door hit me on the ass. Paymaster and contract man could gas all they wanted. I’d chosen my poison.

* * *

It took a little while to get a camp meeting together. Beier, the South African, was somewhere sleeping off a three day bender, while the Belgians were off dust-wrestling and greasing each other down. Those two boys didn’t much like being interrupted at play, so I sent Nichols after them. I rousted the rest of the crew to find Beier.

We wound up in the kitchen ger. It was too damned windy to talk outside. I didn’t want to be near the Antonov—for several reasons—nor near Hannaday and Korunov. The Belgians were madder than hell and Beier was propped up against a stack of North Korean beer beneath a line of curing mutton fatback that kept dripping on him. There was a pot-bellied stove, thankfully cold, stacks of MREs and Chinese canned goods, and us.

I picked my nails with a Bowie knife til everyone quieted down. That was so fucking theatrical it made me want to puke, but this was the kind of shit that worked on these boys. Visible weapons and getting straight to the point.

“Listen up, geniuses. We’re stewed and screwed here. Korunov’s been forced to accept a transfer of our contracts. We’re getting out soon, but there’s one more task.”

They groaned and cursed in seven languages.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know from. We got to run a fake hostage situation with a drop-in, pretend to be Ukrainians.” Commonwealth of Independent States political bullshit. My guess was we’d be labeled later as Chechens. The ex-Sovs saw them in every shadow the way Americans saw Arabs. “So if you’ve got a Slavic accent, start using it. If you don’t got, start practicing.”

“What happens if we say no?” It was Nichols, speaking quietly for a change. Somehow everyone was suddenly listening.

“You’re free to walk home any time.”

“We got return bonds.” That was Echieverra, the ETA guy for whom all of Europe had gotten too hot. I didn’t figure anybody Hannaday swung in here would cop to a Basque accent.

“Yeah. If we can cash ‘em. You see an ATM around here, Etchy?”

Nichols again: “So what do we do?”

“Put ‘em through the usual course, just don’t kill ‘em. Scare the hell out of whoever this is. And …” I glanced at Beier, who appeared to be snoring. ” … they keep all their bits and pieces attached and intact.”

I figured the marching orders would change between now and then, several times most likely, but I also figured the bits and pieces part would still apply.

“What happens at the end?”

“An extraction.”

They all got real quiet.

“Staged, boys. And we’ll know they’re coming.”

“I fire no blanks,” said one of the Belgians. Everybody laughed except me.

“Think about it. Unless you can grow a truck under you or sprout wings and fly, we’re pretty much stuck.”

“Knock over the Antonov right now,” said Nichols. “And split.”

“Nope.” I pointed the knife at him. “First off, a couple of stray rounds and that plane’s toast. You know what a piece of shit it is. Second off, they don’t keep no fucking maps on that thing. Three or four of us know enough to get it flying. None of us know the terrain. Something happens to the pilot, you want to navigate the Gobi from the air by eyeball and dead reckoning? Third, I’d bet money Hannaday’s got surprises inside that plane right now, just in case any one of us is a smartass.”

“Hannaday?” Nichols didn’t miss much, and he ‘d heard a lot of my stories.

“Yep. Mr. Congeniality himself.”

“And you’re going for this?”

Hell no, I wanted to say. What I did say was, “You got a better idea?”

No one had an answer for that question. After a full minute of silence, I put my knife away.

* * *

An hour later Hannaday had me and Nichols on the plane trolling for new fish from five hundred feet.

Antonov 17’s a funny bird. Looks almost like a kid’s drawing of an aircraft, twin props, high wing. Not that big, and a slow fucker to boot, but they really did keep flying forever. The seats had been designed for Chinese grandmothers, not American mercs with incipient butt spread. Tiny aluminum rails with webbing between, idiot cousin to the common lawn chair. Air Munchkin. How the hell a Sov platoon in full kit ever fit inside these cans I couldn’t imagine.

I didn’t bother with the seatbelt.

Hannaday hadn’t relieved me of my Smitty, though the Stinger rack was back at camp. Nichols was sucking down another of those Paki horseturds as he fondled the barrel of his Mossberg jungle gun—a 40mm automatic shotgun that should have had Hannaday sweating.

The Gobi lumbered along outside the oval windows, low and slow. The pilot was looking for something.

Someone.

Curiosity finally got the better of my common sense. “We’re doing a pick-up out here?”

“Special delivery,” said Hannaday, surprising me. He wasn’t much given to sharing information.

“We’re a thousand klicks from anything.”

“And that, my gimpy friend, is precisely why we’re here.” His eyes narrowed to steel-gray slits. There was another reason he was here, as opposed to somewhere else. Hannaday thought he could run me. He’d done it before.

He was doing it now.

Fuck him. I didn’t want to die of old age walking out of the south Gobi, but fuck him.

Then the intercom crackled to life. The pilot said something fast and tonal—Cantonese, I thought, not that I could follow it. The Antonov banked hard and picked up speed as the engines coughed a bloom of black smoke.

Whatever it was we were looking for, we’d found it.

Hannaday just smiled. “Ready for some ladder work?”

Ladder work? Out here?

* * *

And damn me if we didn’t bounce to a landing somewhere not much different from anywhere else. There were cloud shadows on the ground, and a small herd of yaks in the distance. That meant Mongolians somewhere—their animals had a wide range, but they weren’t left completely unattended.

“Out,” said Hannaday. “Open the cargo bay.”

Nichols popped the door seals in a wash of fuel reek, then dropped the aluminum boarding ladder. I made my way carefully after him, one step at a time on my bad legs.

It stank outside, of fire and something nasty-chemical. Hydrazine? Nichols was banging on the cargo hatch as I bent to look under the plane, scanning for the source of the reek.

I found it. “Holy fuck.”

Nichols was distracted. “What?”

Hannaday dropped down between us and knelt. “Nice.”

The thing was half-rounded, like a stubby bullet, and blackened all to hell. It sat on the flat side. Smoke curled off, dancing in the dry grass around the … the …

“Soyuz TMA-3 landing capsule,” said Hannaday. “Get the ladder. And stay the hell away from the bottom. There’s a gamma-ray emitter down there that will fry your nuts.”

Nichols had found this weird folding ladder, sort of halfway between a painter’s stepladder and a scaffold. He shouldered the Mossberg and dragged the ladder toward the Soyuz with that shiny-eyed focus I normally associated with an impending massacre.

Soyuz. We were dusting off a fucking spaceman. “Somebody’s looking for this.” I glanced at the sky for the fleet of Russian Hinds that must surely be in the air.

Hannaday laughed again. “Yeah, a couple of thousand klicks from here. Get the camo netting out of the hold, Allen.”

I got the camo netting.

* * *

Up close the capsule had that brutal precision so typical of Sov high tech. It could have been whittled from stone, then ground off. Re-entry had done the thing no favors either. The surface was covered with burned streaks and pits. A round hatch stood open near the nose from which lines of a parachute stretched out some few dozen yards across the grass. The smoking ground testified to the retro rockets that had soft-landed the capsule.

At that range the smell was worse, hydrazine and baked metal and some weird ozone thing. It made me wish for a breather mask. I dropped the mound of camo netting and sat on it.

Hannaday took the ladder and set it up against the blunt cone. The scaffold part fit across the top. Of course it did, I thought. He went straight for a little opening, pulled out something I would swear was a key, and went to work on the nose.

“Help me out, boys,” he said as he wrestled open a hatch.

Of course I didn’t shoot him. The Antonov pilot would have taken off without us.

Spy guy fished out a real live astronaut, someone small in a jumpsuit who couldn’t stand on their own feet. Nichols and I got the guy down the ladder, then Nichols took off for the Antonov with the space traveler in a fireman’s carry while Hannaday and I spread out the netting and covered the capsule. He didn’t bother to retrieve his ladder.

“Nice one.” I coughed through the reek. “You’re running a scam of epic proportions. I assume we’re nixing satellite surveillance here.”

Hannaday grinned around the curve of the capsule. “Everybody’s got to make a living, Allen.”

When I pulled myself back up the Antonov’s ladder, I found Nichols up front by the locked pilot’s door, staring back down the narrow aisle. He was pale and sweating.

“What?” I said. “You find Elvis there?”

“She’s a girl.”

I went and looked. Our spaceman was a girl, not more than fifteen, eyes bloodshot from re-entry gees, barely moving even as she stared at us. Blue-black skin, shaved head.

A girl.

Who’d dropped out of the Central Asian sky in a Russian spaceship.

Kids on the International Space Station? Not fucking likely. Not in this lifetime.

“Hannaday,” I breathed, “who the fuck is she?”

* * *

The Antonov lumbered back to camp. Nichols sat in the back of the plane with his shotgun, watching the kid and cursing in an extended monotone, mostly Russian. I perched in a chair at the front of the cabin opposite Hannaday.

“Who is she?”

He had the familiar old Hannaday-I’m-in-charge-here smile. “No one you’ll ever know, Allen.”

“Bullshit. We’re supposed to run her through live fire countersecurity drills for week? We’ll know her happy ass before we’re through.”

It was an unfortunate choice of words. Hannaday’s smile just tightened a little. “Don’t break off no bits and pieces. Not any of her bits.”

We were both thinking of Beier then, the man who would do anything to anyone.

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

He shrugged. “Speak Russian for a week, push her around, scare her, then let her be dusted off. Don’t put any bullets or body parts into her, you’ll be fine. What could be easier?”

My legs ached where he had shot me. “Who is she?”

“Ah-ah.” I swear to God he wagged his finger at me. “That would be telling.”

* * *

On landing Nichols bolted the plane like he had the Tehran trots. That meant the girl’s presence would be known to everyone in five minutes, tops. As if I could control that anyway.

Hannaday looked at me. “I don’t guess you’re going to carry her down the ladder are you?”

“Got these old war wounds in my legs.

He smiled, gathered the girl close to his chest, and made it down the ladder himself. Looking down from the door I seriously considered popping a cap in his crown, just as a public service. But then he’d drop that poor kid and where would we be?

Within moments there was a swirl of mercs, mostly barking in Russian or English with Peter Ustinov accents. Hannaday gave up the girl to them, shouting back in Russian about security and escape, then returned to the plane as I made it to the ground.

“Be good,” he told me.

“Fuck you.”

“Whatever gets you through the night.” He set his hands on the boarding ladder, then stopped. “Oh … Allen … ?”

My hand strayed to the Smitty. “Yeah?”

“Do take good care of her.”

“Right.”

* * *

They poured Evian water and Mongolian vodka down that poor kid until she sputtered to life. Then the Belgians harangued her in an incomprehensible mix of Flemish and Russian for a while before dragging her outside. She wasn’t up to running around our improvised training course, so they hauled her to the firing range, Korunov trailing behind like a loose grenade.

Oh good, I thought, get the kid drunk then make her shoot.

Better than shooting at her.

Nichols pushed me back into the kitchen tent, where Beier was still sleeping standing up.

“He’s crazy.” Nichols’ voice was a strident hiss.

“Plane’s gone. You don’t have to whisper.”

“We run her through the course, we’ll kill her.”

“We’ve got a forty percent fatality rate as it is. Never bothered you before.”

Nichols looked around, taking a long, hard stare at Beier. The South African was snoring gently, mumbling on each exhalation. “She’s a fucking kid,” he said after a moment.

He knew something, I realized. Nichols knew something about this. “You’re inside this job, aren’t you?”

“No!” Nichols snapped. He glanced at Beier again, then down at the greasy, carpeted floor of the ger. “It’s … look, I’ve never …”

“Yeah?” My voice was getting harder than I wanted it to. I couldn’t lose control with Nichols. He was the closest thing I had to a friend in this chicken shit outfit, and God only knew I needed my friends right now.

“I never told anyone this,” Nichols said, still talking to the floor.

“Yeah?” Get to the fucking point.

“You know I was in Baku when the Barclay’s bombing went off, right?”

Baku? I couldn’t imagine what the hell Azerbaijan had to do with this. “No, actually, I didn’t know that.”

He met my eyes. It was the first time I’d ever seen Nichols frightened. I could smell it on him.

“About three minutes before the bomb went off, I got a sudden headache. Like … like … a stab wound.” Deep breath, his chest shaking. “So I went outside for a smoke. Headache didn’t get better until I walked around the block. I headed back for my detail and …”

“Yeah?”

“Headache stabbed me when I got near the building. I turned around, walked away again. Headache left, bomb went off. Allen, if I’d stayed where I was supposed to be, I’d be dead right now.”

Both looney and tunes in one sweet package. He was picking a hell of a time to crack up. “Okay …”

“No.” He was shaking now. “Listen, I’m not crazy. Three, four times in my life I’ve had that. Once as a kid, when the rattler got my brother instead of me. In Baku, with the bombing. Again in Mosul last year, right before the White Shrine Massacre.”

My neck was starting to prickle. “And?”

“That girl gives me a headache. Only this one’s a bullet, not a stabbing.”

Great. Terrific. Psychic-psycho mercenaries in the Gobi desert. Film at fucking eleven.

I should have popped that damned cap on Hannaday.

“Go get some sleep,” I told him, then summoned up my best soldier-Russian and went out to see how our spacegirl was doing with an AK-47 in her hands.

* * *

One of the Belgians, Henri VerMeirsschen, pulled me out into the desert after dinner. “We must talk, mijn vriend.”

I was really looking forward to more headache stories. I went with him, though. Henri didn’t usually talk much, not to me.

“Okay,” I said about forty yards from the grave rows.

“Nichols, he has een spook gezien. Eh, seen a ghost, you would say.”

I stopped, looked Henri in the eyes. Even in the dusk, I could see the cold glint. He smelled faintly of rosewater and gunpowder, just like he always did. He wasn’t laughing.

“What?”

“I do not mean a corpse, a dead person. I mean to say, Nichols is very frightened. I have never seen him frightened. Where did Korunov send you on the Antonov?”

Spacegirl had been wearing a Russian flight suit. Without a name tag. She hadn’t said a word since she’d gotten here. She’d fired her weapon with drastic incompetence, then collapsed into deep sleep.

So far our program of intimidation wasn’t working. But these guys were smart. Dumb mercs were dead mercs. They knew what a flight suit was.

“She dropped out of the sky, Henri.”

“The recovery pod of some kind, no?”

“You could say that.”

“And so what is it which frightens Nichols? Becque and I, we are to think the biologische oorlogvoering. Eh, the, ah, biologic warfare. Is she a virus host, Allen?”

What he was really asking was whether I’d killed us all already.

The answer to that was probably yes, but not the way he meant it.

“No.” Hannaday would have been dooming himself. Hell, he’d pulled her out of the capsule. “Not a biological problem. I think she is a political problem.”

“Nichols, he is not scared of the politics.”

“No. But every man has shadows in his soul, my friend.”

“He is scared of girls?”

“You could say that.”

“Eh.” Henri turned back, took a step, paused.

I waited for it.

“Becque …” His lover, partner, squad buddy.

It was time to force a smile. “Yes?”

“Becque, he is saying the girl makes him the headache. Becque has never had the headache before.”

“Perhaps he should take an aspirin.” Could this really be a biological? Some sort of timed exposure? With Hannaday getting out fast enough to take a treatment, maybe.

“He also is saying she talks to him, though her lips do not move.” Henri shrugged. “But Becque he has been gek these many years.” He walked away.

I wondered what gek meant, exactly. It wasn’t hard to guess. I stood for a while in the descending chill, watching the hard light of the stars and wondering what precisely this girl had been doing in orbit.

* * *

The land spoke to me. Snow leopards roared from the distant peaks to the south, while lammergeiers circled overhead. Even the bellowing of the yaks carried over the miles and valleys. Together they made a voice.

“You. Airplane man.”

I tried to answer, but my lips were bound together with stinging sutures.

“Do not let them.”

Then a knife of ice slid behind my ear to fill the space between brain and mind.

“Airplane man,” the land whispered as Nichols screamed from a distant place.

* * *

“Get up. Now.” It was Becque, looking scared.

“Huh?”

I looked around the ger I shared with Nichols. Had he been screaming?

Perhaps, but he was gone now.

“Aren’t you on perimeter?” I asked Becque.

“Oui, but your Nichols he has walked to the desert and he is not returning.”

My TAG said it was just after oh three hundred hours. “When?”

“The midnight, peut-etre.”

“Three fucking hours, and you come get me now?”

“We have no SOP about the desert.”

“Right.” I shrugged into my stinking cammies, belted on the Smitty and grabbed my Stinger rack. “Who’s got perimeter right now?”

“Moi.”

Fuck me. There wasn’t any point in yelling at him. Besides, Henri had said Becque was getting headaches too. “Show me where he went.”

The dew, such as it was, was already down. There’s a hell of a lot of starlight out in the Gobi. Nichols’ trail was clear enough. I shouldered my Stinger and followed.

The night smelled of flowers and a flinty scent off the distant hills. Dinosaur bones out here everywhere, so I’d been told. I could almost imagine one of them lumbering by. I’d rather imagine Nichols lumbering by.

The trail headed due south. I continued to follow, wondering why the hell the camp gimp was out stalking around in the darkness. There were snow leopards in those hills, for God’s sake. Worse than fucking cougars.

I didn’t trust anyone else to bring Nichols to safety.

Something rumbled in the darkness ahead of me. I brought the Stinger rack to port arms. “Nichols?”

The breeze swirled, rustling the low stem grass clumps and kicking up damp dust. There was another noise, a sort of scraping.

Which was weird as hell, because I could see miles ahead of me, and there was nothing out there.

I walked toward the noise.

“Nichols.”

When the shambling thing popped up out of the grass, it startled me so badly I fired the Stinger. Damned backblast set my sleeve smoldering and started a grassfire. My head rang like a son of a bitch. Slapping holster for the Smitty, I charged toward it.

There was a spread of fur and guts and shattered ribs, limbs blown apart from the body. Blood, shit and propellant battled in my nostrils. I could see that something was wrong.

I reluctantly bent to touch the fur.

Grass. Wrapped around ordinary skin.

The head lay on its crown, smashed to a broken egg by the missile. I used the edge of the empty Stinger rack to tip it face-upward.

Nichols.

Who for some fucking reason had been wound around with a huge amount of desert grass woven together so that he’d looked like a giant, vegetable bigfoot.

A giant, dead, vegetable bigfoot.

“God damned mother fucker!” I screamed.

When I turned, I couldn’t see the camp.

* * *

I ran until my legs gave out. I’d lost the Stinger rack somewhere, but my Smitty still banged against my thigh as I stumbled. I reeked of propellant, blood, my own sweat. The sky above me glittered like a city in the heavens, New York ascended to the country of the saints.

Oh, God, what had I done?

Then I was down in the grass, too, clawing at the loose stems growing clumped from the gravel floor of the desert. They seemed warm to my touch. The plants crinkled in my hands, bending and snapping.

Was this what Nichols had felt?

Nichols.

What the hell had happened to him? To me? To the sky?

How had I shot a man with a Stinger, I wondered. I remembered the cold knife of ice. And something was wrong with the stars.

Something was wrong, alright.

I lay the Smitty on my chest, pointing the barrel at my right foot. The weapon was cold and heavy. If I shot my toes off out here, I’d likely bleed to death before help arrived. Assuming help ever did arrive. But I couldn’t run any further—the scarred muscles of my thighs were already knotted beyond pain.

Item: I could not find or see the camp, even though I had a straight backtrail.

Item: I didn’t believe a Stinger would kill a man at point blank range, not that way. It was an antiaircraft missile, and the warhead hadn’t exploded.

Item: One by one, my boys were getting those headaches.

I realized that I was dreaming. That space bitch of Hannaday’s was doing this to me. My finger rested on the trigger of my pistol.

If I was dreaming, I should just be able to wake up. My mind was my own.

Item: The trigger was oily and chill as it should have been. I could even feel the familiar scarring on the curved metal. Had I ever dreamed this real?

Item: I was dead out here anyway.

But this was going to hurt like fuck, and I hated the thought of dying stupid.

I gritted my teeth and pulled the trigger.

* * *

“Get up. Now.” It was Becque, looking scared.

“Huh?”

I looked around the ger I shared with Nichols. Had he been screaming?

Fuck no, I’d been screaming. I threw the blankets back, looking for my bloody, shattered foot.

Nothing but a smooth black boot.

“Where the hell is he?”

“Nichols,” said Becque. “You know already?”

I had the Smitty out then, aimed at Becque’s face. “Listen to me, ami.” Did space girl speak French? Did it matter, inside my dreams? “Quel est le deuxieme prenom de Henri?”

Becque put his hands up, backing slowly toward the ger‘s door. “Hey, Allen. Easy.”

“Respondez-vous, Becque.”

“Allen …”

I shot him in the face.

* * *

“Get up. Now.” It was Becque, looking scared.

I rolled out of my cot, snap-drawing the Smitty. He ducked out, the orange wooden door slamming hard. I was up and after him.

Outside the sky blazed like Manhattan in heaven. The camp was gone, just my ger in the middle of the Gobi. No Becque, either.

Dreamland again, then. But I had some authority in this version.

“Come out,” I said. “Get out here and talk to me.” Smitty braced, I turned a slow circle.

No one but me and the ger.

I imagined the ger gone, and on my next circuit it was. I was alone in the Gobi under a blazing sky.

The sky …

I looked up.

The stars were moving. Fucking dreamland. They swirled, coiled flaming snakes on the prowl, making spirals that would suck down my soul if I let them.

“Stop it,” I shouted, aiming the Smitty upward. “I can’t give you what you want if you don’t tell me what it is!”

The spirals flowed into a face. A shaggy face.

No, not shag. Grass.

Nichols’ eyes winked down from high above. His voice was on the wind, made of the noises of a thousand miles of desert.

“Allen.”

I aimed toward one sparkling, swirling eye. “It’s you, isn’t it? Space girl.”

The eye in my sights winked with a noise like a storm over water.

“What were you doing in orbit?”

“Dreaming real,” said the night-hunting birds.

Dreaming real. She was black, blacker than anyone I’d ever met. Radiation burns?

Dreaming. Abos, from Australia. “Dreamtime, not dreamland,” I said.

“Different in the sky,” the snow leopards coughed.

I didn’t believe a fucking word of it. “Wake up!” I shouted, slamming the butt of the Smitty into Hannaday’s scars on my thighs.

* * *

“Get up. Now.” It was Becque, looking scared.

I’d brought myself out of it this time, in control. I hoped. One hand on the Smitty, I said, “Quel est le deuxieme prenom de Henri?”

Becque’s fear shifted to disgust. “Henri, he does not have a middle name, bibelot.”

“Fuck you, too. What’s going on?”

“Nichols, he is outside screaming about God’s iron knives.”

“Yeah. Get that girl out of wherever she is, and awake.”

The door banged shut. I grabbed my Stinger rack—still loaded, I was pleased to notice—then stopped.

What good was a weapon going to do me?

The real question was whether this girl was Hannaday’s agent, his tool, or his prize. And I didn’t believe that even Hannaday could make things happen in orbit. She had to be stolen.

The real weapon was in the head, like always. Hers was just a little more to the point than most of ours.

* * *

Outside, Beier was sitting on Nichols’ chest. They were both breathing hard, and there was some blood. Hard to tell in the starlit dark.

The sky was normal.

Thank God.

Spacegirl was in front of me, dangled between Becque and Etchy. She smiled softly. The smile of someone who expects to die.

“You’re abo,” I said.

“Anangu,” she replied, in a soft voice that reeked of Oxford and MI-5. Her first word to us.

“Anangu. With power over the Dreamtime.”

She shrugged within her captors’ grip.

“What were you doing in orbit?”

Another shrug.

“You belong to Hannaday now. You know from Hannaday?” I waited, but she didn’t respond. “He owns all of us. He owns our contracts, he owns our airplane, and he owns our every waking moment. But …” I stared hard into her eyes. “He’s never going to own our fucking dreams.”

Her smile faded.

“So. Can you dream him real, the way you’ve been dreaming us? Can you put the knives in his head?”

Shrug.

“Listen to me.” I leaned in close, almost touching her face. “If you want to walk away, to live a life of your own and be free of him, you’d better find that shit inside you. Because when Hannaday comes back with the last plane, if we don’t smoke him, he’s going to smoke us.”

“Allen.” Etchy’s voice was soft. Careful.

“Yeah?” I didn’t break eye contact with spacegirl.

“You are more crazy than Nichols.”

“Shut up,” I suggested.

Spacegirl found her smile again.

* * *

We gave up all pretense of following Hannaday’s plan. Instead we sat around and worked up scenarios for taking the Antonov without killing the pilot. For responding to a Delta-force type extraction attempt on the spacegirl. For long term escape and evasion.

Every bit of it hopeless. Every one of us knew that in our bones. They all stayed away from me except for Nichols. The rest of the boys thought I was crazy, or crazier. Nichols didn’t care.

Spacegirl just smiled, ate our chow, and slept a lot. I hoped like hell she was cooking up a Dreamtime whammy for Hannaday.

Four days later something overflew us very, very high. It left a contrail like a string of butt beads.

“Aurora,” Nichols said.

The biggest, baddest, blackest spy plane in the world. I knew who they were looking for.

Two hours after that an F-117 screamed past. In the middle of the Gobi, no less. He had to have scrambled out of Almaty. I didn’t have my Stinger rack handy, and it wouldn’t have gotten a lock on that fucker anyway, but I loosed a few Smitty rounds after it. Not that the flyboy would ever give a shit.

Nichols laughed. “Damn, I wish we had some real SAMs.”

“Pretty soon you’re going to wish we had some spetsnaz troopers. Wait til his friends come back.”

We got spacegirl in the kitchen ger, surrounded by all eleven of us armed to the teeth and beyond, except Korunov who was standing by her with water and a first aid kit. If we had to start shooting, though, we were already lost.

She just fell asleep with that little smile on her face.

* * *

The first Blackhawk helicopter arrived at dawn the next day. It roared about a hundred yards overhead, then arrowed on across the Gobi. When it crashed near the horizon, I stepped inside the ger to check on spacegirl.

She was still asleep, but her smile was so wide she was practically grinning.

The Blackhawk’s course had never changed once it had passed us.

Jesus, I realized, spacegirl could have killed us all.

Three more followed minutes later, juking and sweeping like they expected hostile fire. I had my Stinger rack out and ready, but I wasn’t feeling like much of an optimist. They shot right past the camp heading for an imaginary LZ a kilometer east. Two of the choppers got tangled coming in. The third one belly-flopped.

I didn’t want to see her face this time. Even though those troopies out there would have killed us all, this was too much.

We settled in to wait for Hannaday. He was smart enough not to keep throwing hardware at us. He’d come in.

But he took his sweet time.

* * *

“Get up. Now.” It was Becque, looking scared.

“You don’t need him, Anangu,” I said. I grabbed my Stinger rack and stepped outside into the blazing stars of the Dreamtime. Becque was already gone.

Okay, clear enough. She’d handled Delta Force, but this was up to me. Hannaday was my demon.

Fine. I had some fucking sense of the rules now. Even in Dreamtime my legs ached. I owed him here as much as anywhere in real life.

The Antonov lumbered past at tree-trimming altitude. The helicopters still burned in the distance. Nice trick that, after all these hours. I trotted toward the windsock where Hannaday’s pilot would put it down.

The Antonov flopped in like a child’s nightmare of flight, bouncing hard on the ruts. First I put my Stinger into the starboard engine. She was already taxiing when the missile hit, but the nacelle exploded, taking that landing gear with it. The noise was horrendous.

I kept walking through the reek of rocket fuel and airplane fire.

Hannaday was out in seconds, his Armani coat torn at the seams, an Uzi in his hand. “Allen, you crazy fucker!”

Smitty got him in the right kneecap.

He went down, Uzi braced.

“Water,” I told the night in the voice of a thousand flowers.

Then I walked into the damp spray of his trigger pull.

“What the … ?” Hannaday threw the Uzi at me. I swatted it away, knelt down next to him.

“Hey, fucker.” I put my pistol at the back of his left knee and shot him again. “How’s it feel?”

Hannaday was sobbing now, begging in words that came so lumpy I couldn’t understand anything but the tone.

I tugged his chin up toward me. “It’s only a dream, friend,” I told him. “But I can make you hurt until you die of the pain.” Not true, exactly, but she certainly could.

He got some coherent words out. “She’s not yours!”

“So now you own the night mind?” I set the Smitty against his temple.

“No! You don’t understand!”

“Listen.” I leaned in close, practically kissing his ear. “You’re snow leopard bait in here. She can make every sleeping moment of your life screaming hell, until you pull the trigger yourself to get out of it. And then you’ll just wake up screaming again, over and over and over and fucking over. So what I want is the god damned plane and a safe conduct out of here. You call off your dogs, we all go away, including her, and that’s it. Done.”

“It’ll never happen,” he gasped, gritting his teeth. Hannaday smelled like a corpse already, shit and old meat. “Thing is, she dropped out of orbit. But she never went up in the first place, Allen. She came from up there.”

I shot him in the temple, then said, “Wake up,” in the voices of a dozen screaming GIs in a burning helicopter.

* * *

There was no Becque this time, but the camp was empty. I nosed into a couple of gers. Everybody’s gear was here, just not their personal selves.

The Antonov was parked by the windsock, both engines intact.

It was daylight. I couldn’t check the stars, but I didn’t really need to. This was real life, whatever that meant these days. I took my Stinger rack and headed out toward the plane.

Spacegirl sat on the lowest rung of the ladder, huddled in her Russian flight suit.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“You’ll own us all.”

Another shrug.

“You’re the weirdest alien invasion in history. What do you want?”

She glanced up at the sky, her eyes flashing the brightness of the sun for one moment.

“Can’t help you there,” I said. “But if you’re tired of being a weapon, I can help you with that.”

Spacegirl smiled. A real smile this time, not her killing smile.

“Go to sleep,” I told my fellow mercs, the pilot, Hannaday, anyone left alive within miles of us, in the voices of a million brilliant suns.

* * *

We hid the BJC jeep under a tarp I’d taken from the camp’s fuel dump. The vehicle had gotten us into the mountains far to the south before running out of gas. The camp wasn’t visible to the naked eye from here, but I’d spotted the Antonov beating its way into the morning sky, then northeast toward Ulaan Baatar.

Perhaps an hour later, a massive flight of helicopters came to salvage the American dead. While the big boys dusted off wreckage and bodies, Blackhawks chewed up a huge patch of desert where the camp must have been.

By noon, nothing remained but smoke, the spacegirl and me.

We walked further into the mountains, until my legs couldn’t take it any more. I found a hollow in one of the canyons and pitched a little tent.

“Come in with me,” I told her, “and let’s dream of your home. We won’t come back this time.”

She smiled.

The grenades I wired for our pillows were lumpy. Still fell asleep, her tight in my arms as any lover I’d ever had.

Somehow, I could smell Nichols’ Paki horseturds even as spacegirl took my hand and led me across the clouds of a distant, brilliant heaven.

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Framed

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Jim Baens Universe-Vol 3 Num 1

Table of Contents

SCIENCE FICTION STORIES

Last Plane to Heaven: A Love Story

Written by Jay Lake

Illustrated by Karl Nordman

Why There Are No Type-C Civilizations

Written by Marvin Minsky and David Gerrold

Illustrated by Jonathan Rollins

Quasi

Written by M. Alan Ford

Ted

Written by Tom Van Natta

Illustrated by Daniel Monroe

Making Alex Frey

Written by Marissa Lingen

Illustrated by Valarie J. Nicharico

Maker of Worlds

Written by Norman Spinrad

Illustrated by Jennifer Miller

One Small Step

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti

FANTASY STORIES

Madame Pompadour’s Blade

Written by Tom Purdom

Illustrated by Dan Skinner

Bella of Ghostsea is Dead

Written by A. S. Fox

Illustrated by Jared Blando

A Thread of Silk

Written by Eugie Foster

Illustrated by Anthony Hochrein

Prologue

CLASSIC

A Modest Proposal

Written by Jonathan Swift

Illustrated by Jeremy McHugh

SERIALS

Countdown to Armageddon, Episode Five

Written by Edward M. Lerner

Illustrated by Dean Spencer

Fish Story, Episode Thirteen,

The Plot to End the Universe

Written by Eric Flint, Andrew Dennis, Dave Freer

INTRODUCING STORIES

Cacophony of the Spheres

Written by Jeff Haas

Illustrated by R.Stephen Adams

Spamdemonium

Written by John Parke Davis

Illustrated by Kip Ayers

NONFICTION

Cosmic Electricity

Written by James P. Hogan

The Coming Popularity and Power of Luddism

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

COLUMNS

Remembering Giants

Written by Mike Resnick

The Nature of Transitions

Written by Eric Flint

Scattershot Again

Written by Barry N. Malzberg

June 2008

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

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Jim Baens Universe-Vol 3 Num 1

Ebook

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

First printing, June 2008

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN-13: 978-1932093032

ISBN-10: 1932093031

Copyright(c) 2008 by Eric Flint

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

A Baen Publishing Enterprises Publication

Jim Baen’s Universe

P. O. Box 7488

Moore, OK 73153-1488

Electronic version by WebWrights

http://www.webscription.net

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Contents

Why There Are No Type-C Civilizations

Written by Marvin Minsky and David Gerrold

Illustrated by Jonathan Rollins

On the scale of hypergalactic events, names are unnecessary. Any event occurring on the hypergalactic scale is, by definition, unique. Therefore, naming the event is redundant, unnecessary, and irrelevant.

Nevertheless, for the convenience of the moment, let us identify two phenomena; call them Fred and Ethel. These names are only for convenience. Make no assumptions of gender, nature, or personality from either of these identifiers; only that we identify Fred and Ethel as two hypergalactic phenomena existing as wavelike phenomena moving through time-space.

The delta-vee of their passage is not measurable in linear three-space; therefore, the originating point of their journey and the even-more-distant termination point are also not knowable. The linear map is insufficient to reflect multistate existence. (Although some ripple effects of their passage might be observable to certain kinds of deep-space gravity-wave detectors, sensors on a scale large enough to detect such ripples would need to be of such a size as to be impractical for any three-space beings to construct.)

But in this particular intersection of temporality and location, the manifestation of their passage is solely worthy of notice because it occurs near an unimportant, mostly inconsequential, small galactic object of oblate spiral conformation.

“Hey, Fred! Listen! Do you smell that? Over there—two-thirds out on the spiral arm! Coherent radio spectrum!”

“Mm, yes. Relativity buds! My favorite! Let’s go!”

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Framed

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Contents

Quasi

Written by M. Alan Ford

Illustrated by William Johns

We didn’t want to waste any charges, so we set fire to the stand of trees to get the simians out. Simian types obviously do well in trees, but the Asian Union had made a tactical mistake sending them to central Africa. There are long stretches of plain between islands of trees, and knucklewalking is a clumsy way to travel over open land. So for two weeks we’d been hunting groups of simians left over from the fighting up in central Zaire and chasing them into trees to finish them off. It was hot, sweaty work with little challenge for dedicated soldiers like us, and for the simians, a major slaughter courtesy of a deskbound officer somewhere in the Union who was fighting the war from so far away that he couldn’t predict a simian getting fatigued after fifteen minutes of hobbling along on flat, barren dirt.

It was dusk, and the sun was setting into a blaze of clouds. Fifteen simians swung back and forth in the highest branches, calling to each other in near panic as Duke ordered us to set the trees on fire. They had been taking pot shots at us, but they were a strike-and-run squad with no heavy artillery, so we were well protected hunkered down behind our vehicles. On Duke’s orders we shot some incendiary into the trees. This was late summer and the foliage caught quickly. In moments the flames washed the sky and billows of smoke rolled into the orange sunlight. If I’d had imagination, I would have thought it was beautiful.

The simians did not react right away. It was a desperate situation, but they were, after all, a trained fighting force. They fell silent and for a couple minutes we heard only the crackle of burning leaves. Then they came at us.

The first three didn’t even make it to the ground before their fatigues caught fire. But just my luck, the rest chose to charge directly on my position. They swarmed past their burning compatriots and rushed the ten meters or so toward our vehicles. Duke and I both shouted, “Fire at will!” at the same moment, and we all took aim and started burning holes in simian heads.

Another problem with H. quasi simia is that they’re assassins, not shock troops. They can climb trees and stage ambushes—which is why our sapien troops lost the battle in Indonesia, and we almost lost it in the urban fighting in northern Zaire—but they can’t run and shoot at the same time. Foolish. They should have kept moving. Each time one paused to raise his weapon, four or five of us would take a bead and the simian would fall with smoking holes in his skull. One, however, kept his head. He bobbed and weaved and made the ten meters with only a few wounds where our lasers nicked him. I would have got him, but some idiot on our side shouted “John!” to warn me, and I looked away. When I looked back, the simian was leaping over my gun and screaming something about my dying a painful death.

Simians are only about half our size, but with the speed this one was moving he knocked me back. Our threshold of pain has been raised and he only punched the wind out of me, but suddenly I was covered with an angry, desperate soldier who had one long arm wrapped around my neck and was using the other to pry open my visor with the barrel of his gun. It dug into my cheek, and he would have shot off half my face except that someone finally gave him a good swat with a gun butt. I heard bone crack, then shots rang out and I caught the sizzle of burning flesh. He went limp.

I kicked his body off and stood up. The battle was over. I retrieved my gun as Duke came up. “Are you all right, John?”

“Yessir.”

“Wounds?”

“Nothing serious.” I looked around. Our troops were working over the dead bodies to be sure they were dead. “Did we lose anyone?”

“I don’t think so. Joe!”

Joe glanced up from where he was searching the simian that had attacked me. “Yessir?”

“Leave that. Check for casualties and report.”

“Yessir.”

Joe hopped to his orders as Duke turned back to me. “Take your squad and clean up. Stow any weapons and ordnance. Tag and load the bodies. If any are alive, secure them for interrogation.”

“Yessir.”

I hopped to my orders. Duke didn’t need to tell me all that, it was SOP, but structure is important. So I gathered my squad and we got to work.

I have no imagination, so I would be lying to say that I love my job. I can’t use words like passion and satisfaction and fulfillment. I can only say that we determined no one on our side had been killed. We gave medical attention to those of us who had been wounded, myself included. We stripped the simians of weapons and ordnance, cataloged it, and stowed it. We tagged the bodies, carefully sealed them for later study by Psychgen, and stowed them as well. We reported to Duke, who then reported by radio to Captain Dins. We formed up the convoy and started off towards our advance post just outside Mbuji-Mayi to the southeast. All while the trees burned and the ash climbed into a darkening scarlet sky, and the moon rose angry and blazing through the reddening haze, and even the sweat and dirt of two weeks in the field seemed a well-fitting component of my fatigues. I can’t describe it without using words I’m not supposed to understand, so I won’t describe it at all.

I sat on the back of the troop carrier and watched the moon turn from angry red to calm, pale gray as we bounced through the dust. According to rumor, the war had moved there. We had a sizeable colony at Copernicus with a scientific and military presence, which meant it was Coalition territory and a logical target for the Asian Union. But no one knew how far Union technology had progressed, and that was the imperative question. The moon was ours. It was the base from which this conflict would finally end. But if the Union had achieved a foothold there, either it would end the wrong way or we would fight for decades at best.

Mbuji-Mayi was five hours from our position. We reached it late at night, but after a week of hunting simians in the hot and dusty savannah, no one was going to bed without a bath. So we lined up for showers and took turns under bright utility lights. For hygienic and self-evaluation purposes, we had been supplied full-length mirrors, but only two for all three platoons. So I had to wait twenty minutes after showering before I could look myself over. In the mirror, I saw a gash across my cheek from the simian’s gun, sealed over by the medic. A nasty bruise across one shoulder. Minor nicks and cuts, including a week-old laser burn on the upper left arm that was almost healed. No signs of cancer or degenerative neuromuscular dystrophy. Nothing to report. I was just starting to get facial hair—sapiens made fun of me for that, but having no imagination, it didn’t bother me—and I thought of shaving. But I didn’t want to hold up the line. All the same, I paused for a moment. I have no imagination, but I have pride. It’s built into me.

H. quasi terrestris. Three times the girth of a sapien and two heads head taller. Bullet cranium and no neck. Thick legs that could march forever. Scars from previous engagements disappearing in weeks, which would stay forever on a sapien, so why shouldn’t I be proud? Tattoo across my forehead, serial number and identifier: D1387 John. I had once heard a sapien say that if they could only figure out how to get treads on us, they wouldn’t be able to tell us from assault tanks. I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a joke or a compliment.

Sapiens need eight hours of sleep every night. I only need four. We were up before dawn and eating breakfast at 0530. Because we have nothing to say, quasis are not known for conversation, so there wasn’t much. Just rows of tables with terrestrials mechanically bolting down their food. No orders had come down this morning, but there was talk about a special mission, so I wasn’t surprised when a quasi sat down across from me and asked if I had heard anything new. I only said that if it was true, I hoped it wasn’t China.

“Why not?” he asked.

I glanced at his forehead: T0743 Tom.

“Radiation,” I said. “But if they say go, then I go.”

“Of course you do, John.” He looked to one side, then the other. Apparently he had sat by me because I was alone. “This is not good for us.”

“This is not good for who?”

“You know why they made us?”

“To fight.”

“To fight.” He looked around again and lowered his voice. “They’ve been doing it for decades. They’re trying to figure out ways for others to fight for them. It didn’t work with the synch pulse, because animals need too much supervision and sapiens are still getting killed. So they made us.”

“Where did you hear that?”

He started to answer, but glanced up. Two sapiens had approached our table. I saw by their patches that they were Animal Masters. I doubted they had heard our conversation and guessed that they had never seen a quasi before. They looked us over as if we were dressed for inspection, then one of them said, “What are you talking about?” I don’t think she actually wanted to know. I think she only wanted to hear our voices.

Loyalty is built into us, and besides, it seemed more like an informal inquiry than an interrogation by superiors. So I said, “Nothing, ma’am. Only comparing our missions from the last week.”

The other circled around me. “You’re a terrestrial?”

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

“You saw simians in the field?”

“That’s classified, ma’am.”

“I heard they’re trying to make one that can fly,” said her friend. “Avitus, they call it. H. quasi avitus.”

“I heard about one in beta test they tried to give extra arms and legs. They wired the somatic nerves wrong and the poor thing could barely walk. Tied itself up in knots.”

“These things are doomed. Too specialized.”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” I picked up my tray and stood, and they backed away because I was twice their size. I disposed of my tray. As I passed the table again, I saw that the sapiens had left, but Tom watched me as I walked by.

On my way to my bunk, I stopped to watch an Animal Master exercising his dogs. The dogs marched back and forth in synchronization while the Master worked commands into his portable console. While successful in their day, chimps and gorillas were extinct. Some small monkeys still were used, but mostly it was dogs now, which were limited in application. Maybe quasis were specialized, but how versatile is a dog? And we had no nodes in our heads, no sync pulse to fail. How often had an angry gorilla, free of the pulse because of a computer glitch, mauled its Animal Master? Tom was right for the wrong reasons. Clearly superior, we had been engineered to overcome the limitations of the sync pulse.

The man looked at me and I moved away. I went to my bunk and sat down. Quasis do not get bored, but we also do not waste time. Because we were in a potentially hostile zone, we all carried sidearms in camp; I unholstered mine and took it apart. It was standard issue, a conventional projectile weapon, built for the large hand of a terrestrial but not especially complicated. I had disassembled it, cleaned and lubricated all the moving parts, and nearly reassembled it when I heard the bunk beside me creak with the weight of someone sitting on it. I looked up to see Tom gazing at me.

The tent was nearly empty. He had waited until then to speak with me. Before he could say anything, I said, “You’re not in my platoon. Why are you following me?”

We were near an open window. He leaned away from it.

“Because you’re a squad leader. And I need help.”

“Help with what?”

“Getting to Japan.”

“Why?”

“That’s where the rebellion is.”

“What rebellion?”

“Against the sapiens. I think I can contact it. Will you help me?”

“I don’t think so.”

I snapped the last part into my gun, then holstered it and stood up. I walked away. Tom didn’t follow.

Loyalty has been built into us, but it works both ways. And while we’re extensively educated, we’re engineered to think in very narrow terms, only in the range necessary for technical battlefield decisions, almost at a stimulus/response level. So I had a problem. Duke, being a quasi, would have had the same difficulty, so I found Captain Dins playing basketball with a group of other sapiens behind the officer’s bunk. I had spoken with the captain only twice before, once when he had reviewed us on our arrival in Africa, and once again when Duke had been wounded in fighting up north and I had been in charge of the platoons for two days. He did not recognize me, of course. Quasis all look exactly alike, and we don’t get promotions and wear no insignia—would you promote a gun or pin a medal on a tank?—but when I asked for a private conference, he glanced at my tattoo and said, “All right, John. Over here.”

We stepped a few meters away from the others. He was out of breath and sweating from exertion in the hot African morning. I could not have played basketball effectively, as my body was far too large and ponderous. I perhaps would have made a good linebacker.

“Can it wait?” he asked.

“I think it can, sir. But I didn’t want to bother you at a more formal time.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

“How is rebellion dealt with, sir?”

“How do you mean? Rebellion of a colony or an occupied territory?”

He seemed to think I had been discussing political science with another quasi. “No sir. I meant rebellion in the ranks.”

He frowned. “Why do you ask? Do we have a problem with a quasi?”

“No sir. It’s theoretical.” That was a lie. Quasis are known to lie. It was something the scientists were working on, and one of the reasons no government had yet completely admitted we were being used for military purposes.

He wiped sweat from his forehead and said, “Well, that depends. For a human, it would require a trial to determine guilt. The harshest punishment would be death for a treasonous offense. For a quasi… I don’t think there’s precedent.”

“Would traditional military law apply?”

“I doubt it. I suppose he would be considered malfunctioning. He would be destroyed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

We saluted and I left. From the corner of my eye, I saw him watching me walk away as he rejoined the other sapiens.

I asked around, and in ten minutes found the location of Tom’s squad. I suppose he had taken a cue from me; he sat on his bunk with his gun in pieces before him. When he saw me, he looked up and said, “Yes?”

I took out my gun and shot him through the head.

* * *

Because they are highly educated civilians in specialized positions of responsibility, Psychogenetic Technicians have the best accommodations of anyone in the field. Soldiers such as myself sleep and work out in the open or in plastic tents with a hundred other quasis. Even officers often get little better than hastily constructed barracks. Psychgens, on the other hand, work out of climate-controlled buildings commandeered from the local population. In Zaire, it was the second floor of a hospital in northern Mbuji-Mayi. Captain Dins himself supervised my shipment. We arrived under cover of a truck, and in a well-practiced orchestration which indicated I was far from the first quasi to be brought here, they cleared the halls and elevators to be sure that no locals or unauthorized personnel caught sight of me.

I’m familiar with tests. All my life I’ve been tested. Perception tests, neuromuscular response tests, logical and abstract reasoning tests, social functioning tests, blood chemistry tests, spinal fluid tests, genetic mapping tests. I once calculated an approximate percentage of the time I’ve spent being tested, and was surprised to find that over half my waking life has been occupied enduring tests. And I only sleep four hours a night. I’ve been tested more than I’ve been trained.

After an hour of being tapped and poked and having my fluids drawn, and another two in front of a computer answering questions so familiar I barely had to think of the answers, they sat me down in a room with a psychgen. Up until then, Dins had been following me from room to room with a sense of urgent concern, and when the door closed, leaving me alone with the psychgen, the atmosphere suddenly became relaxed and informal. There were no computers and no clipboards. She wore civilian clothes instead of a lab coat. My chair was obviously built for a quasi my size, but unlike most military furniture, it was comfortable.

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she said, “John, why did you kill that terrestris?”

This was the moment I fully realized the reason for these tests. It was not a routine series. They needed to be sure I was not showing an indication of design flaws or malfunction. Pride, patriotism, and unquestioning obedience are difficult things to pin down in the genome. They’re often tied to moral and ethical conformations, as well as emotional processes and imagination. So Psychgen was constantly interviewing and observing us, and taking the data back to the lab so they could reference it in the template. They wanted to know if my unusual action was due to accurate processing of a potentially dangerous situation, a lack of experience, or a telltale warning of higher functions.

I answered immediately, “Because Captain Dins indicated that quasis who are malfunctioning should be destroyed.” She was a civilian, so I didn’t say “Ma’am.”

“After an evaluation.”

“He didn’t say that. He did say that treasonous sapiens should be subject to trial before a sentence of death.”

Her obvious next line of questioning should have been that all quasis are routinely evaluated before any nonroutine action was taken, and I had therefore acted against protocol. She did not say that. Instead, she asked, “Why did you lie?”

“Regarding rebellion among the quasis? Because I wasn’t certain at that point where my loyalties belonged.”

“When were you certain?”

“When I went looking for Tom. I became angry.”

She thought about that for moment, then said, “Am I to understand that your sense of loyalty conflicted with your understanding that evaluation of quasi fighting units is not your responsibility, and this resulted in anger? And your sense of loyalty eventually determined your action?”

“That’s correct. I wouldn’t have put it in those words.”

This was the sort of thing a psychgen normally would have written down. She only asked, “How would you characterize it, then?” When I looked confused, she said, “Tell me what it was like. Why did you shoot him, John?”

This time I paused before answering. “I’m not sure what information you’re looking for, but I can say that I no longer considered him on my side. For whatever reason, I put him in the category of an enemy. We were threatened by him like we were threatened by the simians in the field.”

She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs. “Are you just telling me what you think I want to hear?”

This was a standard question; they had a hard time discerning between true, spontaneous responses and indoctrination. I gave the standard answer. “No.”

“I understand this happened after a recent series of encounters with the enemy. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“How would you describe those encounters?”

“Difficult at first. We found that simians are well designed for house-to-house engagement in an urban setting. They’re small, they climb as well as the apes they’re patterned after, and the Asian scientists have apparently found the genetic sequences responsible for stubborn determination. We only won in the north because of our larger troop numbers and a strong supply line up the Congo from Soyo. After that, it was just a matter of tracking them down with their sapien handlers across the open savannah where they were at a disadvantage.”

“This was your first experience in battle. Is there anything about it which stands out in your mind?”

“No.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that caused a reaction.”

“No ma’am.”

“How long before the incident with T0743 Tom was your last encounter?”

“About ten hours.”

“And how would you describe that?”

“It was clear and warm, good for an offensive operation. We had tracked a group of about fifteen simians for three days. They were without a sapien commander, so Dins thought it would be an easy mission and left S5542 Duke in charge. We caught up to them, they retreated into a stand of trees, and we surrounded it and set it on fire to flush them out. When they tried to escape, we managed to kill them all with little incident. A couple of us were wounded, myself included, but we lost no troops.”

“And how did you feel about that encounter?”

I knew what she was getting at. Because of their bias, they assumed that we knew the meaning of “enjoy” and never asked about it directly. And as I said, quasis are capable of lying. “It was an experience that I enjoyed, though I can’t say I would repeat it if I didn’t have to. I have the satisfaction that we did the right thing.”

She frowned slightly. “How do you mean?”

“We had to set fire to the trees to get them out.”

“I see.” She leaned back and crossed her legs again. “John, do you find me attractive?”

I paused for a long moment in genuine uncertainty. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, we’ve been sitting within a meter of each other for some time now. I’m wearing a short skirt, I’ve got my hair down, and my blouse is open at the top. We’ve augmented testosterone levels in the template, and you’re just over fifteen years old, which in a sapien would correspond to puberty. So, do you have any response to me?”

“Yes. But I thought this was a formal interview.”

“It is.” She paused a moment and looked thoughtful, then said, “Can you clarify your reasons for shooting T0743 Tom? Have you left anything out?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“No connection to the encounter with the simians ten hours earlier?”

“No.”

“You would characterize it only as a conflict in your sense of loyalties?”

“I think so.”

She nodded. “Thank you, John. I think we’re through for now. You can wait outside.”

I stood and went into the waiting room. Dins had been watching a news broadcast from the states on an open access channel. Leaving the hologram on, he nodded to me and went in to talk with the psychgen. Sapiens, knowing that quasis are basically complex machines with little in the way of personal volition, keep nothing from us; he left the door open. I sat on a couch, which was the only furniture in the waiting room big enough for me. With part of my attention I listened to the news broadcast, and with the rest I listened to the conversation between the psychgen and my commanding officer.

It was a breach of protocol for Dins to leave an open broadcast on in my presence, though probably not a bad one. I had missed part of it. From what I gathered, a group of scientists, peace activists, and liberal politicians were protesting the recent militarization of Copernicus Base and the use of quasis in military settings. A scientist was speaking. He said that the AmerEuro Coalition claimed it had not used quasis in battle, but he had evidence that they were being tested at this moment in battlefield conditions in Southeast Asia, Central Africa, and he suspected even on the moon. The next generation, something on the order of eight thousand quasi “troops,” had been created and was being raised right now at various sites in the U.S., Russia, and Europe, with the intention of introducing them into open combat within the next ten years. This was a serious violation of scientific ethics and he criticized those who were engaged in these pursuits; the moon should be considered communal property of the human race, not subject to private ownership or military use. Genetic techniques were necessary for other than military pursuits, yet valuable scientific resources were being monopolized by the Coalition. He said that the idea of bacteria genetically altered to clean up oil spills had first been proposed over fifty years ago, yet despite it being a relatively simple technique, it had never been implemented. He said there were other avenues of technology we needed to pursue, and that we were running out of time.

I thought little about any of this, as it had no direct military relevance. I listened to the conversation going on in the other room. Dins was concerned about the three platoons of quasis under his command and he didn’t want anything to go wrong. When he asked about me, the psychgen replied, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. I’m more concerned about the quasi he killed. I would have liked to interview him.”

“You don’t believe the rumors, do you?”

“Not really. I don’t think they’re capable of rebellion. At least they won’t be once we’ve refined the template a little more, which is why I would have like to talked to him. Please be sure to report it if you hear any more about this particular subject.”

“I will. But what about John? All my quasis are up for the mission. Will he be excluded from consideration?”

She laughed. “Not by me. He’s functional. I’m not sending him back to Colorado. However, I would like him to talk to TacInt once you get back to G16. He can’t tell them much about the quasi he killed, but any details will help.”

“Why do you think he did it?”

“Lack of experience. It doesn’t represent a problem in the template, or enough of a variation to worry about. He was simply confronted with a novel set of circumstances, and we still haven’t been able to figure out how to design a quasi for decision-making aptitude and flexibility. He did the best he could within his limited understanding. By the way, be sure you reinforce that he’s to follow protocol exactly in situations like this.”

“All right.”

Dins did so. On the way back to our post, he lectured me that I had destroyed an expensive and effective fighting unit. The next time any quasi approached me on the subject of disloyalty, questioning of authority, or an organized rebellion in Japan, I was to report it and not take any independent action unless it was an urgent situation. I assured him that I would do so.

This was the longest conversation I had ever had with Dins. As quasis, we’re incapable of having preferences, so I can’t say that I “liked” the captain. If given the instruction to emulate sapiens, however, I might have said that I preferred spending time in his presence over that of any other sapien I had yet met.

* * *

We had originally been brought by transport plane into Cape Town, then by freighter up to Soyo, and on up the Congo by boat. We now took the trip in reverse, except that our final leg of the return journey was to be by suborbital. This impressed on me the importance of the special mission mentioned by Dins. They had taken their time bringing us out here. Now the job was only half done and they were rushing us back.

We offloaded at Cape Town in the dead of night, not for fear of Union spy satellites or low-flying birds on sync pulse—satellites can see in the dark, and so can animals fitted with eyes/ears—but because such a large troop movement through an urban area tends to draw more civilian attention than we wanted, particularly since quasis were not supposed to have existed in a military capacity. And much like that rumor, another turned out to be true; I had never seen an aquatic quasi before.

Food riots had recently spread into Cape Town. Sirens sounded in the distance and flames made the smoke rising in the darkness glow with a flickering red haze. My group had just disembarked and we were waiting for orders to proceed to the troop transports that would take us to the airfield a few kilometers away. We were unsupervised, but we stood in rows because we tend to do so in much the same way that bees build honeycombs, by instinct according to an internal pattern. But we were not in formal formation, so I walked a few meters off for a better look when I saw the aquatic types at the far end of the dock. Just as we had come down off a ramp from the freighter, they came up a ramp from the water. They were stranger even than the simians. Tall and sleek with no body hair. Elongated hands and feet, and an unusual skeletal configuration which I supposed would make them effective swimmers, but which also made them awkward on land, like a sapien diver walking with his fins on. Though they could supposedly remain under water for hours, they had no gills that I could see and they seemed to breath easily in the air, which confirmed what I had heard about their construction. Rather than the complicated biological alteration of gills, the engineers had opted for the cetacean strategy of high red blood count, high oxygen content in the muscle tissue, and collapsible lungs. They did, however, seem to have something unusually fishlike about the eyes. Though I was some distance away, my night vision is enhanced and I could detect no signs of eyelids. I’m certain not one of them blinked even though I observed them for at least ten minutes. They seemed instead to have a transparent protective coating like the shatterproof glass on the headlight of a troop transport, which I surmised would improve their vision under water and protect their eyes from harsh marine chemicals. They wore little in the way of field clothing. Their fatigues were close fitting rubberized garments with no shoes or gloves. Each wore a sleek utility belt about the slim waist and each had a small laser rifle strapped to the back. They wore no head cover or insignia. I counted only ten of them all together. One by one they rose out of the black water and clambered up the ramp to stand in a scattered clump, talking while their sapien handlers stood by. When all of them had gathered, they were directed to a transport and driven away.

Undisciplined specialists, obviously. I would put terrestrial types up against them any day. Simia and aquaticus may be useful for assassination or for planting a bomb on the underside of an enemy ship, but for sheer strength and fighting efficiency, the terrestrial type was clearly superior.

I had also never traveled by suborbital. I did not like it. When we arrived at the airfield we found a small fleet of them, which must have represented every civilian and military suborbital plane in Coalition possession. None were large and they had been ferrying troops since dusk. Takeoff was fast and hard, but a side benefit of robust musculature is a near imperviousness to acceleration, so the sapiens on the plane had a harder time of it then we did. Still, forty-five minutes in zero gravity was not something I cared to repeat. Motion sickness was not a problem, since the engineers had located it and snipped it out early in our development. The problem with zero gravity was our mass. The human model we were based on was not originally designed to weigh 180 kilograms. We were strapped in, but the straps were tight and thin, and every movement that threw me against them made them feel like wire drawn painfully tight. We learned to be careful when, fifteen minutes into the flight, one terrestrial tried to readjust his position. He released the straps, pushed up from his seat, and tried to stop himself when he rose toward the ceiling. A sapien would have banged a knuckle and cursed. This quasi broke a forearm.

Compared to that, even reentry did not bother me. Eight minutes of screaming metal and hot plasma past the window was no worse than a mild firefight in Zaire. The pilot was either very good or very much in a hurry. After a gut-churning plummet through the atmosphere, we were home.

“Home” is my own word for it. Officially, it’s known as Command and Training Post G16, 5th Battalion Special Operations. Because of the dry heat and bare hillsides, I suspect it’s located somewhere in the southwest. My history is a series of vague suspicions like that. Along with seven hundred others, I was engineered in northern Europe, most likely Germany or France. After my “birth,” I was placed on a program of steroids and growth hormones at a facility in the Midwest. Then I was brought to G16, and this was where I had learned everything—physics, history, some basic medical knowledge, and a huge amount of technical and military subjects. It was here that I spent all my time, except for occasional field trips for specialized training: somewhere in the Southwest deserts, somewhere in the Louisiana swamps, somewhere in the patches that remained of the Rocky Mountain forests. Every time I came home from a training mission, something happened to me, as it did now. The engineers had designed us well, and our handlers had spent years reinforcing it. It was one of the few “emotions” they had retained, for obvious reasons. As we disembarked from the suborbital and filed off towards our barracks, I saw the flag flapping in the hot breeze at the entrance off across the parade ground, and I would be shunning my duties if I did not identify the blossoming feeling in my chest and the weakness in my knees as swelling pride.

The mysterious mission that had pulled us prematurely out of Africa must have been critical, because when I arrived at my bunk I found a message on my panel indicating an assembly of all platoon and squad leaders to be held in a couple hours. This gave me time to settle in and report to TacInt as instructed. A bunk in the quasi barracks would be an uncomfortable place for a sapien, even a grunt foot soldier sapien. It’s more of a warehouse than living quarters. At G16, there are twelve of them lined up in a grid. They have a row of double bunks against each wall and each row is twenty bunks long, for a total of eighty bunks in each barracks, which makes a grand total of 960 terrestrials supported by Base G16. Each bunk is supplied with a limited access media hologram, a small closet, a reading light, and a side table with two drawers. Because quasis do little with their spare time, it’s a quiet place. We mostly read technical manuals or stare into space. We have little interest in playing cards or watching entertainment broadcasts, and I’ve noticed that sapiens have a tendency to leave these buildings as quickly as possible.

I changed into a set of clean, pressed fatigues, then went to Administration for my debriefing. Because this was a building used by sapiens, it had a different tone than the barracks. There were pictures on the walls and potted plants scattered about. The halls bounced with a buzz of conversation lacking in the barracks, and people moved with a sense of purpose that quasis displayed only in battle. On this day in particular, there was a sense of urgency even I could perceive.

The receptionist turned down the music he was listening to as I approached. I told him I needed a security pass for the TacInt wing, and while I waited for him to clear me, I looked at a display case behind him. It held a model of the USS Constitution, a sailing ship I had studied in military history. It was still an object of respect for the country, even though America had actually become a dominant component of the Coalition and now existed mostly in theory. It was a highly decorated ship, perhaps the most respected in the Navy, and the display included its history and photos of it being honored by dignitaries and politicians. Much like the Coalition flag, the ship had an effect on me now. I could not help but swell with pride as I looked over the display, even though I knew that reaction was mostly the result of a precise structuring of my genome by a group of scientists somewhere on the eastern seaboard.

I had never been inside the TacInt wing. Even with my security pass, I had to proceed through two body scans, as well as an identity check and a verification of my orders from the psychgen in Zaire. Because quasis occasionally visited TacInt, the waiting room had terrestris—size chairs, and as I waited in one of them for an agent to summon me for my interview, a group of officers emerged from a hallway. Captain Dins was among them. He paid me no attention as they passed by. He wouldn’t have, as I was identical to any other terrestrial, right down to the fingerprints, and he had no reason to glance at my forehead. They stopped for a moment directly in front of me. The highest-ranking officer was a lieutenant colonel and I saw by his tag that his name was Vaughn. His eyes passed over me briefly with an unfamiliarity that I knew meant he had never seen a quasi before, which was not an uncommon thing, even in the military. They talked for some moments in hushed tones, then saluted casually and parted. Other than Vaughn, no one had glanced at me. Quasis are noticed only when needed. Otherwise, we’re as invisible as a chair or desk.

My interview was quick and routine. I regretted that I had little to contribute from my brief conversations with T0743 Tom. The agent instructed me that if I found myself in a similar situation, I was to engage the suspect and probe for information. This was a difficult concept for me to grasp. It sounded like high order functioning of a strategic nature, of which a sapien is capable but a quasi is not, or should not be. I suspected the agent was distracted by the presence of a lieutenant colonel on the base. I assured him I would do my best, and after a few more questions, he dismissed me.

I saw Lieutenant Colonel Vaughn again that afternoon when we were called together for the assembly. I sat behind Duke as part of his platoon while Dins sat with the other captains up on the dais. They had already been briefed, but it was Vaughn’s project and he explained the situation to us. Had we been human, we would have mirrored their grim faces.

Two weeks earlier, the Asian Union had lifted a military force to the moon. They had occupied a mining shaft some distance from Copernicus Base. We had tried to take the mines back, but they had beaten us in a battle that had destroyed most of our lunar forces. The remainder had retreated and was waiting to defend the civilian and scientific population of the colony against an expected attack. There had been at least three other launches from various locations in the Union, two of which we had shot down before they had reached Earth orbit. The third had made lunar insertion just yesterday. A projection of its course after disappearing from the radars indicated it had landed at the mines, which meant they were being used as a base of operations to house more troops and material. The meager Coalition force was already outnumbered and we had no reliable estimate of how many Union troops occupied the mine shafts or what it was made of, which brought Vaughn to the most important part of the briefing. The Union had apparently engineered some sort of quasi for the lunar environment. Little description of it was available, as most of the Coalition troops that had engaged it had not survived, but it was reputed to be similar in morphology to the aquatic types. They were as yet unclassified, but Psychgen had suggested H. quasi lunaris if they existed and were a viable fighting entity.

The good news was that those four ships, two of which had been shot down, probably represented the Union’s entire space-going fleet for the short term. Had all four ships reached the moon, it would be Union territory by now. All the same, TacInt was reporting furious efforts in China and Korea to procure material for more ships, though their construction sites were still unknown. It was a momentary stalemate. The Union was dug in at the mines, waiting for reinforcements, and the Coalition dared not attack again for fear of loosing what little defensive capability they had left. The moon was a base of operations of potentially pivotal significance and neither side could afford the slightest risk. TacInt thought we could mount a mission in a few days. If the Union got there first with reinforcements, the moon would be theirs and we might as well all learn to speak Chinese.

Basic spacesuits were being tailored for the terrestris and aquaticus architecture. Until they were ready, we would train as best we could with limited equipment. We would lift in converted freighters from a nearby military launchpad normally used for putting satellites into orbit, and land three days later at Copernicus. After a short time to acclimate to the gravity, and assuming we were not attacked in that time, we would advance to the mines and clean them out. Sync pulse animals, considered too inflexible for working in a vacuum and one-sixth gravity, would not be included in the mission. Because of the similarities between lunar and marine environments, the aquatic types would lead the effort, with terrestrials as backup and a small contingent of sapiens as handlers.

There was more to the meeting—timetables and points of strategy and final orders—but it did not last long. The question-and-answer was particularly quick. Worry comes from uncertainty and imagination. Quasis have little of both. We asked a few questions, got our answers, then proceeded to the mess for the dinner we had missed while the sapiens fretted over details and hoped everything had been covered.

Things happen quickly in the military. Exactly three days later we were a functioning space fleet. I say “functioning” with as much sarcasm as a quasi can muster. Our fleet consisted of three civilian freighters with acceleration couches wielded to the floors in tight rows and into every available corner. My hastily assembled pressure suit, in which I had spent a total of two hours training just the day before, fit so tightly across the chest that it threatened to cut off my circulation. The closest we had come to experiencing lunar gravity had been immersing ourselves in a tank filled with water. And three cargo freighters held only 200 troops all together, sapien and quasi. For all we knew, we might still be outnumbered.

The launchpad was four hours away in covered trucks, and we went up at night. Vaughn launched in the first ship with some terrestrials and forty aquatic types. The only sound at first was a deep hum of the lasers in the launch platform gathering charge. A roar began, louder than a jet engine, as the air under the ship heated. An angry knife of orange light appeared from underneath as it lifted, reminding me of the smoky dusk the night we had burned the simians out of the trees. For such a ponderous weight, it rose with a smooth, delicate motion as the gleam separated from the platform to become a bright orange concave mirror. It climbed slowly at first, the unbroken crash of superheated air exploding off the mirror and boosting the ship perfectly straight into the dark night. It disappeared in the gloom, but the round, bright glow remained, gaining speed and shrinking the higher it went, the roar turning to a muted hum and finally to a hiss as the glow became a burning pinpoint. It was moving fast by the time I lost it among the stars.

Forty minutes later they had staged the second ship on the platform, loaded the troops, and sent it up as well. When our turn came, we boarded in an orderly column and found seats in a natural rhythm without having them assigned. Sapiens without instruction would have jostled each other and fought for a seat next to a porthole. I ended up in one because it was the next available, in the forward portion of the third level where a wall for the small galley had been torn out to make room. The galley was still functional, and two sapiens in their own suits found the seats that pulled out from the wall facing me. They were psychgens assigned to evaluate our unit in the unfamiliar environment. They did not glance at us as they settled in.

The suits were fitted with comlinks. Still a squad leader under Duke, I ordered my troops to strap in, secure their weapons, and don their helmets. Squad leaders were calling in. I did so as well, and Duke, somewhere aft of me, acknowledged with, “D1387 John, check!” A few minutes later, Captain Dins, his own helmet dogged tight, stalked up the aisle checking for loose straps and gear, then stalked down again and disappeared. Soon after that the roar began, and I felt no movement for such a long time that I was surprised, when looking out the porthole, to see the ground falling away into a bright orange haze.

The glow faded to darkness as we rose. Still with no sense of movement other than a rapid vibration, the acceleration became noticeable and built steadily. I watched with interest the two psychgens directly in front of me. As we became heavier, I saw through the clear glass of their helmets that they were grimacing and having trouble breathing. After twelve minutes of this, we reached orbital speed and the laser set us free. The psychgens looked queasy as, for a split second, we were weightless. Then the rockets took over with a sudden deafening blast that shook the ship as if we had been struck by a missile. It burned for thirty seconds as the pilot maneuvered us into a stable translunar trajectory, pushing me back into my seat and straining the psychgens against their straps. Another ten seconds of silence and weightlessness followed, then the rockets began firing in a punctuated sequence meant to correct our attitude, and finally, silence and weightlessness again.

I turned away from the uncomfortable psychgens. We had launched on a clear, calm night. I could see nothing below but the blackness of Earth and a few patches of city lights that looked like stars. The pilot came on the comlink to give us the all clear, and quasis and sapiens alike began taking off their helmets. For everyone to unstrap at the same time would have been chaos, but to miss the advantage of three day’s transit would have been lacking in foresight. We were therefore under orders to unstrap in rotation and practice maneuvering in zero-g. The first group on our level did so. Soon after that, Dins came on the comlink to report that the aquatics in the first ship seemed to be doing well in the lack of gravity. This was good news as they would be our point force on the moon.

No sooner had he finished the announcement than the pilot came on. He ordered all troops back to our seats. His voice was urgent. We all strapped in and I switched over to a private channel.

“Duke, what’s happening?”

“One second, John. I’ll question Captain Dins.” He was silent for some moments, then came back and said, “Orders are to remain strapped with helmets secured. We’re waiting for Lieutenant Colonel Vaughn from the first ship.”

“Yessir.”

Vaughn came on the open channel a few minutes later. He identified himself, then said, “Ten minutes ago, three missiles were launched from the military base at Lanzhou in central China. Initial trajectory analysis indicated each was targeted on one ship in our fleet. Two were eliminated by killer satellite over the Pacific Ocean, but the third has reached translunar velocity and is now beyond the range of Coalition defensive satellites. We believe it is targeted on Captain Dins’ ship. We have no information yet on whether the payload is conventional, EMP, or nuclear. We’ll relay more information as it becomes available.”

Silence followed the announcement. Though no one spoke, I knew what we all were thinking. This was a cargo freighter, unarmed.

The silence was broken by one of the psychgens on the open channel. He turned to the other and said in a hush, “I’d say this mission isn’t secret any more.”

* * *

Other than an increased attentiveness and the minimal sense of self-preservation necessary for battle, quasis have little in the way of a fear response. The information of the missile did not worry us so much as provoke an urge to action. With none available, we remained quietly in our seats as the heat of alarm radiated off the sapiens. When the all clear came again half an hour later, the two psychgens quickly disappeared, presumably to the control cabin to gather what news they could. A civilian, probably a technician for the cargo company, rushed by, and a few minutes later Dins swam up the aisle with a fearsome expression. I knew the conversation he would have with the pilot. First, communication with Vaughn and Earth. Proposals of evasive maneuvers, and the realization that any significant divergence from our course would cause us to miss our rendezvous with the moon. Data relayed to tacticians concerning our speed and trajectory compared to that of the missile. Then, the questions would begin. How close were the numbers? Continue to the target, or abort and execute the mission with a reduced force? Just how important to the war was this freighter full of terrestrial quasis? And finally, resignation. The decision would be made elsewhere. Nothing now but to wait.

I looked out the porthole.

We had circled to the dayside of Earth and gained considerable altitude, and I could just make out some details of East Asia. It looked like a target range. Beijing, which had taken four direct hits at the end of the war twenty years ago, appeared as an irregular smudge with no features. Half of Hong Kong was gone, as were all of Taiwan, Seoul, and Pyongyang. The Hokkaido peninsula in northern Japan looked normal, but I knew that it had been hit two years ago with a series of radiation bombs dropped from a Union satellite and was no longer habitable. Across the great arc of the horizon, a dark haze blended with the cloud cover, probably a result of the burning townships in India where population laws and strict rationing of food and petroleum were causing riots worse than South Africa. The globe rotated as if on a spindle, but by the time the western hemisphere came into view we were too far away to make out the damage in Europe and North America.

We went back on rotation, and when my squad’s turn came, we all unstrapped and practiced maneuvering about the ship. Having learned by observation from the trip on the suborbital, I was careful to propel myself slowly and deliberately. As a terrestrial, I was constructed with dense, strong muscle intended for heavy duty in full gravity, and what was to me the slightest touch against a wall or seatback sent me floating at a stately pace through the air. I found that it was easy as long as I did not become ambitious. We relayed information and gave each other tips, and by the end of our allotted hour considered ourselves competent astronauts.

The psychgens had returned when I found my seat again. They still looked nervous, but one was trying to calm himself by fiddling with a toy, a green ball about ten centimeters across studded with legs three centimeters long and ending in pads. Taking the informal tone common with psychgens, I asked if there was any news.

“They think it’s conventional. It’s too big for an electromagnetic payload, and a nuke wouldn’t be necessary to destroy one ship.”

“What are our chances?”

They passed uncomfortable glances. “Good if they decide to abort, because we can maneuver. Bad if they think we have the slightest chance of reaching the moon alive. They haven’t decided yet.”

He tossed the green ball against the porthole. I expected the legs would act like springs, bouncing it back to him. Instead, it stuck and began to crawl up the glass. The psychgen reached out, plucked it like a ripe piece of fruit, and tossed it against the porthole again.

“Is that alive?” I asked.

He smiled proudly. “Only by the thinnest definition. It’s a prototype we’re evaluating for zero-g environment. Just a biological machine, really. Rudimentary nerve web, no brain, basic photosynthetic metabolism. We’re making things from scratch, now.” He glanced at me, sharply. “Why did you ask?”

“I was concerned about the lunar quasis they say we might encounter. If they’re anything like your organism, I would like to become familiar with it. It reminds me of the marine explosives used in the last century to protect bays and inlets from sea attack.”

I was lying. But he said, “It does, doesn’t it?” And to his companion, “We should mention that when we get back. Explosives in something this small wouldn’t be feasible, but maybe a bigger one with sensory apparatus in the legs?”

They continued their conversation without me. Not long after that, Dins announced that the tacticians had made a decision. The missile chasing us was not in communication with Earth, which meant that it was equipped with tactical intelligence. How intelligent was a matter of speculation. We were going on to the moon.

Normal procedure would have been to arrive at orbital velocity by braking at the midpoint. The missile, unconcerned with fragile passengers, would catch up to us before we reached terminal orbit. However, it had a far less extravagant store of fuel than we did. The plan was to keep ahead of it and brake at the last possible moment, let the missile catch up to us, then swing wide and take two orbits to stabilize us for landing. The missile was calculating a running best guess according to our speed and trajectory. It would hopefully have difficulty anticipating our maneuver and expend all its remaining fuel trying to retarget. If it had enough fuel to do so, or if it was smart enough to reason out the purpose behind our erratic maneuver, then the Coalition would have to defend Copernicus with only two ships.

I have little in the way of descriptive language, so I can only say that the next two days were exhausting for the sapiens on board. The civilians in particular were merely employees of the cargo company who had thought they would perform a patriotic but safe duty and return home with a story to tell. Now they feared for their lives. As for the two psychgens, they kept up a nervous chatter of technical talk to relieve the tension. And Dins seemed calm except for occasional moments of deep thought.

No one but the quasis slept well. We kept to our schedule of eating, sleeping, and practicing in weightlessness. For me, the hard part was the long stretches of time strapped to my seat. The straps compounded the discomfort of the pressure suit, and I found myself the victim of aches in the legs and back from lack of movement. I spent the time looking out the porthole and thinking little, which quasis are good at. The Earth had dropped out of sight early on the second day and the moon would not be visible to me until we landed. I watched the stars. Occasionally I strained against the straps to see if I could spot the missile, knowing it was slowly gaining and might be perceptible as a larger star reflecting the sun’s light. But it was out of the porthole’s frame and I never saw it.

Even though we’re not supposed to perceive such things, I felt the tension snap when word finally came that we were going to begin the maneuver. We were told on the comlink that it would commence in half an hour and orders were to strap in with helmets on and suits pressurized. We did so quickly and orderly. The psychgens were obviously shaken. The one looked for a place to put his animal, as the container it had come in was not airtight. He decided on a food bag from the galley—which did not look like it would survive a vacuum—and sat with the thing held tightly in his lap.

The pilot counted down from one minute. At zero, the attitude rockets fired briefly, a bump that we felt through the hull, and the stars spun. This lasted only twenty seconds and rocked me as if I was on a boat. Another flare from the rockets brought the stars to a stop. I was now upside down from my previous orientation and facing backwards, though from my point of view everything looked the same. I did a quick estimation. If I was right, the first ship had landed safely at Copernicus an hour ago and the second was somewhere in its final orbit.

The braking rockets came on. This was not a bump, but an explosion. I’m big and strong, and never thought I could feel overwhelmed, but I truly thought I would die from the weight that pressed me into my seat like a bug crushed under a shoe. I could not breathe. I could not move. I could barely think through the pain, and quasis don’t feel much pain. The deceleration threw the psychgens against the straps where they dangled like broken dolls. The one lost his animal. It flew from his hands and shot past my head. I suspect it splatted against the aft wall, but I never saw it again.

The roar and pressure continued for three minutes, twice as long as if we had performed turnaround and retrofire at the proper time. Visible through their visors, the psychgens looked as if they had blacked out. I turned until I could see the quasi beside me. He gazed straight ahead with a stoic grimace on his face, and strained against the pressure to take in a meager breath. I found that I could not turn my head back. I waited, trying to inhale as best I could while the ship shook and lurched, until the braking sequence terminated and the ordeal mercifully stopped.

The next few moments were critical. We were at orbital insertion, but in a distorted and drastically sluggish trajectory. The missile would gain on us rapidly, though on a course we hoped it could not correct in time. If it missed, its only other opportunity would be to catch us again in orbit, which depended entirely on how much fuel it held in reserve.

As it turned out, it did neither. Lieutenant Colonel Vaughn and the tacticians on Earth had misjudged the missile’s range of options. It definitely would have passed us, but on closest approach it rejected a course correction, decided on a near miss, and detonated.

* * *

There’s no mistaking the blast of a rocket engine for that of a bomb. The first is a long, drawn-out rumble that jostles the ship and makes you many times heavier for an extended period. The second is a sudden, overwhelming jolt that is over before you have time to be afraid of it and leaves you wondering what it did. Later estimates put the missile at under fifty meters from us at the time of detonation. It felt like an impact, as if we had crashed, and knocked from me what little breath I had left. The psychgens kicked and bucked in their straps, looking even more like helpless rag dolls, and all the sounds I had been hearing suddenly ceased. A ship normally has sounds—the mumble of crew, the beep of electronics, even the heave and twist of deck plates in a transport as large as this—vibrations passing through the cabin’s atmosphere, through the faceplate of the helmet, and into the ears. Now, there was nothing.

I glanced through the porthole to see the stars spinning. The missile had damaged us. The hull had a massive breach somewhere, allowing the air to rush out, and we were tumbling out of control.

A sapien voice came on the comlink. It said calmly, “All personnel, remain strapped and in pressurized suits.” There was nothing more. It might have been the pilot.

I dialed Duke. “Duke, orders?”

“Who is this?”

“John.”

“Orders as stated.”

“Yessir.”

For long moments we heard nothing. The brass might have been conversing, but it was on a private channel and we didn’t hear it. Finally, I felt as much as heard the roar of a rocket firing, and the thrust shoved me aside. A few more followed, pushing in the same direction. The stars beyond the porthole slowly stopped spinning and the moon swam into view, dangerously close and bright enough to hurt my eyes for a moment before the helmet’s visor tinted to block it out. The moon filled the entire porthole as it flowed by, then fell beneath us The cabin still looked harsh and crisp in every detail and I could see the frightened eyes of the psychgens behind their own tinted visors. I guessed that the missile had taken out our main rockets, but not our attitude jets. This was confirmed a few moments later when the comlink came alive again.

“This is Captain Dins. The pilots have reported the loss of our main engines and a major hull breach in the aft deck. We’ve lost half of Eighth Platoon, and all decks with the exception of the forward cabin are depressurized. The attitude jets are still functional and the pilot thinks we can attempt a hard landing close enough to Copernicus for a rescue attempt. We will not make it to Copernicus. The other two transports have landed safely. Remain strapped and in pressurized suits until further orders.”

His voice was reassuring. Though it occurred to me that the ship, built to descend gently on a laser cushion, had no landing gear.

We made one lopsided orbit with the jets firing as the pilot tried to bring us in at an angle that would not scatter the ship into a heap of junk metal. The sharp glow decreased as we lost altitude. I was still in the wrong position to see the moon directly, but by craning my neck I could just catch sight of the horizon growing below us. The pilot warned us to prepare for collision, and started counting off at three minutes. At one minute I saw the moon as a steady, pocked landscape of gray and white filling the porthole like water filling a tank. At twenty seconds, the top of a rocky hill zipped by, far too close to set me at ease, and at ten I saw the slate gray ground rising as if intending to slam us. It did just that, exactly at the moment the pilot said “Zero!”

The impact kicked the breath out of me again. For a moment I thought we would land with the ship intact. We even slid along for about ten seconds with the remainder of the momentum we had built up in orbit. The walls of the ship shook around me and the chair bucked me about, and still I heard no sound except for a slight, muted rumble that worked up through the chair and the atmosphere of my suit. Then the ship’s structure gave way. The cabin tilted wildly and the porthole blasted inward, which would have lacerated my face had I not been wearing the helmet. The floor across the aisle, beneath me now, twisted and ruptured as the far wall buckled inward to meet it, and I watched a whole platoon of quasis get crushed between them. The shuddering stopped as we slid to a halt. For a brief moment I hung sideways against the straps, then what remained of the ship settled in the mild gravity with a broad rocking motion, and all was stillness.

Everything hurt, but I unstrapped, grabbed the misshapen porthole frame, and clambered out of my seat. I moved quickly for fear of the ship exploding or collapsing, and with this motivation was among the first outside.

My helmet tinted to maximum in the glare. All around me stretched the slate gray hills and rocks. To my left was the rocky rise we had passed through and the huge furrow the ship had made before falling apart. The ship itself was a ruin, torn open in some places and impossibly bent in others, with survivors crawling out here and there like ants making their way from a mound that had been shoveled over. On the comlink I heard Duke trying to raise the captain or the pilots. He could do neither, and we later found Dins among the heap of bodies at the rear of the deck.

Patterning is inherent in the cognitive processes of quasis. There was little discussion as we picked up after the disaster. Duke assumed Dins’ position, I assumed Duke’s, and another quasi assumed mine. We quickly vacated the ship, identified the dead, helped the wounded as best we could, and inventoried any remaining supplies. Five sapiens had survived: the two psychgens and three of the ship’s maintenance personnel. We communicated over scrambled channels on the likely assumption the Union was monitoring us, and we did all this in restrictive pressure suits and unfamiliar gravity.

Talking to Duke on the same channel, I was listening when he called in to Vaughn. He reported the ship down and our approximate casualty list, and advised him that Captain Dins was dead. He ended his report with a standard request to be relieved by a sapien officer.

“Are there any ranking military personnel alive?” Vaughn asked.

“None, sir. Civilians only.”

“No one’s available. You’re in charge until we can get an officer out to you.”

“Yessir. Orders?”

“Secure your position. We believe you’re about halfway between the lunar colony and the mines, possibly somewhere close to the access road. It should be plainly visible. Verify that and report back.” Duke nodded at me, and I nodded back to indicate I understood. Vaughn continued, “You should have enough oxygen in reserve to maintain your troops about twenty-four hours. We’re planning to attack the enemy position before then, so stay where you are until we get there. When you find the access road, send the civilians back and we’ll pick them up. Do you understand?”

“Yessir.”

“Questions?”

“No sir.”

“Report back when you verify your position, or if your situation changes.”

“Yessir.” Duke turned to me. “Did you hear?”

“Yessir.”

Duke swung a massive arm up at the hills. “Take up position. Report when you locate the road.”

“Yessir.”

I gathered my quasis and did as ordered, dispersing the three squads in various directions into the hills. On Earth, a climb like that would have been difficult for someone of our size and weight. But we had been engineered for dense muscle mass to begin with and we had lived a life in six times this gravity. I was able to leap. I had never in my life leaped before. And I found that our bulky frames were ideal for travel in this terrain and gravity if we moved in a deliberate manner. A slow, rolling walk, lifting off slightly with each step, moved me faster than a brisk trot would have on Earth. Halfway up the slope, I glanced back. Though distances were hard to gauge in this unfamiliar environment, the hills seemed steep but low, perhaps a third of a kilometer at the top. In the distance past the wrecked ship I could see taller mountains, possibly the lip of a crater we had landed in. I looked down at the area of the crash and increased the gain on my visor. The wreck leaped into clear magnified view. Quasis really are like ants. Without politics to slow us down, we work diligently and in an orderly manner. Some were collecting the dead bodies and laying them out in a row, while others removed their usable oxygen tanks and stacked them in a neat pile with supplies salvaged from the ship. Duke had established a command post near the shattered cockpit and another group was setting up a perimeter. In contrast, the surviving sapiens gathered in a knot near Duke’s position. I thought I could identify the two psychgens. There were not doing much, probably as a result of a stress reaction to the unfamiliar environment and the crash landing. One of the technicians paced back and forth in the dust while the other two seemed to be conversing on a private channel. One psychgen stared at his feet and the other had found a rock to sit on.

I could justify my pause for observation on the grounds of gathering military information or acquiring general experience, but just barely. I continued up the hill.

We reached the crest without even loosing our breaths. At the top, I had a better view of the land about us. The access road was visible as a long, wide streak, obviously artificial, stretching across the basin about half a kilometer beyond the shipwreck. It twisted into the hills to the left, no doubt toward the mines, and disappeared into the distance to the right. In the other direction I saw only more desolate hills and possibly the flat, bright haze of another plain or crater. Still with little idea of direction or location, I posted sentries and reported to Duke. A few minutes later, one of the other squad leaders reported to me that he could just see the lunar colony at the edge of his helmet’s magnification, at about two kilometers’ distance. From that information I judged it to be northwest of us, with the mines dead east. The pilot had done an excellent job bringing his crippled ship in on target. He had probably saved our lives.

I reported the colony’s position to Duke. I happened to be looking at the comlink and I saw that he had switched us over to a private channel.

“I’m only telling this to my platoon leaders,” he said. “I’ve been in contact with a terrestrial at the colony. He thinks the amphibian types aren’t doing well in the low gravity. Something about their feet.”

“Will this affect our ability to fight?”

“I don’t know. Don’t talk about it. This is unofficial and unconfirmed.”

“Yessir.”

Expecting Duke would rotate another squad up to my position in a few hours, I crouched with my back to a rock and relaxed. Resting as well as climbing came easier on the moon. I found it easier to breathe the artificial air, and even the poorly tailored pressure suit seemed to have accommodated itself to the new surroundings, pinching less sharply at the shoulders and allowing more movement in the legs and arms. I glanced back down the hill. The sapiens remained in a worried huddle until Duke approached. After talking for some moments, the five sapiens nodded to each other, gathered up a few supplies, and started off towards the road. I watched until they reached it in a sloppy knot and turned west toward the colony.

We remained on the hill for about two hours before one of my sentries raised an alarm. I had not fallen asleep, but I had dozed off with my head back, gazing at the stars in the black lunar sky. His voice calling out through the comlink, “Troop movement on the road,” snapped me to attention.

I stood up and looked. He was right. Quasis or sapiens in tight formation were taking the road just where it emerged from the mountains to the east. I signaled Duke on the comlink and gave him a quick report.

“Can you see what they are?” he asked.

My visor had bumped down to lowest gain. I bumped it back up. “Definitely quasi. Orders?”

“Wait a moment while I connect you to Command. Then give us a full description.”

“Yessir.”

I continued studying the quasis until the comlink indicated he had connected to the colony. “Proceed,” he said.

“I see troops approaching from the vicinity of the mines. They’re definitely quasi, but they’re too far off to be sure of details. About the same size and shape as aquaticus. However, they’re unclassifiable. Their pressure suits are pale in color and blend in with the lunar background, and the visors tint into two distinct segments when they’re exposed, as if they’re bifurcated. And there’s some kind of modification in the legs. They move with a bouncing motion, almost a recoil. I can’t tell if their legs bend like ours or bow like springs, but it’s not ordinary humanoid architecture.”

“Troop strength?” came another voice. Over the comlink it sounded like Lieutenant Colonel Vaughn.

“Thirty to forty individuals. All are armed with some sort of rifle, possibly laser, slung across the back. No hand weapons. Belts with explosives or other arms. Eight sapiens on wheeled transport and wearing conventional pressure suits are bringing up the rear. I estimate they’ll be at our position in about three hours. “

“Pull your quasis back to the ship,” Vaughn said. “I’ll have further orders when they get there.”

“Yessir,” Duke responded. “Copy, John?”

“Yessir.”

We came down the hillsides faster than we had gone up. By the time we reached the ship, Duke had our orders. We were to retreat to the colony and take up a defensive position. Again, no one had to speak as we collected all the weapons and supplies, assembled into formation, and started off toward the road. At the head of my three platoons, I did not glance back. There was nothing to look at. Nothing was left but the useless transport with quasi and sapien bodies lined up in a precise row.

The road was beaten and well used from being solidly compacted by kilotons of heavy machinery trundling back and forth between the colony and the mines. I could not even make out the footprints of the sapiens that had gone before us. I had last eaten on the ship hours before, but I was not hungry. That rolling trot with a little hop at the end of each step, which I had first noticed climbing the hills, had quickly become our preferred pace in this gravity. We moved quickly and steadily, as terrestrials are designed to do even on Earth. With their camouflage, the troops pursuing us were all but invisible, and we had to take it on faith that we were keeping well ahead of them.

We rounded the hills and the colony appeared about half a kilometer ahead. It was a collection of low domes and assembled machinery hugging the crater wall at the end of the road. I knew its layout from our briefing at G16. It had a central dome housing the Civil Administration, the nascent military HQ, and a mall with offices and shops for the civilian population. The dome plunged four levels into lunar rock and was surrounded by a complex of structures for everything from manufacturing and scientific labs to civilian and military housing. As we approached, I saw that the road terminated at the spaceport. The two other transports sat beside the landing platform, along with a few large tractors and ore carriers on either side of the road. Nothing moved. No sapiens, no quasis. Had there been air, I would have felt the tension in it.

The road ended at a set of massive double doors that led into the colony. Which made sense, as doors that size would be needed to offload products from the spaceport and the mines. I expected that the doors would open to allow us entrance. It would have been nice, as I had been wearing the pressure suit for three days now and would have liked to at least take the helmet off. But Duke posted a sentry and ordered the rest of us into formation on the road. He talked on a private channel for some minutes, then ordered his platoon leaders forward. We lined up, and he switched over to our channel and briefed us on Lieutenant Colonel Vaughn’s strategy.

The doors were the best access for an assault on the colony, so the enemy needed to control it. Our aquatics were assembling just inside and would engage when the enemy was contained in the cul-de-sac between the landing pad and the buildings. The aquatics would be backed up by half of the terrestrial troops while the remainder would be held in reserve. There were cameras on the landing field—Duke pointed out a control tower, deserted now, at the far end—but none at the correct angle to clearly see the doors. We would set up a flanking ambush and hopefully cut off their retreat.

Because quasis are engineered for battlefield-level activity, we have a narrow range of cognitive aptitudes consisting almost entirely of tactical assessment and analysis, but within that range we are superior. We surveyed the area and discussed options. It was an interesting problem. Our parameters were concealment followed by a coordinated attack, yet the field of operations was situated in an open area in broad daylight. There were no hills on this side of the colony, no bushes or trees, nothing to hide behind but the tractors and ore carriers, which would conceal only a few of us. Our bright pressure suits did not even match the gunmetal and painted surfaces of the buildings, much less the flat gray of the surrounding lunar landscape. Our only alternative seemed to be the transports. The enemy could search the area for an ambush, but they could not open the transports and would hopefully assume we had retreated into the colony. Our biggest disadvantage would be the speed with which we could disembark. Too slow, and they would get away.

Psychgen would need only one live lunaris for study. Our orders were to take no other prisoners.

We loaded onto the transport nearest the road. Duke and I watched with concern how slowly the ramp lowered, but we had no time to change tactics. We took up position on the bottom level nearest the ramp. He posted a sentry at a porthole looking out over the main road and assigned me the task of watching the colony entrance from a porthole on the starboard side. Any terrestrial could possibly have done the job, but as a ranking quasi it was my responsibility to describe the situation so Vaughn could decide when to open the doors and Duke could decide when to open the ramp. I found a seat and did a final equipment check: rifle fully charged, suit batteries down to half, water down to half, food rations gone, and atmosphere supply with approximately two hours remaining. I looked out the porthole and settled down to wait.

This normally would have been a pleasurable time for me. That I enjoy battle is one of the few things I can say openly without getting quizzical looks from sapiens. Though I shouldn’t have had the capacity, I found myself regarding those big double doors and thinking about the people inside. My experience with sapiens was limited to officers and psychgens. Beyond those doors were civilians who knew they were about to be attacked by a dangerous and unknown force, and the only thing protecting them was a force equally as mysterious. What kind of confusion would that instill? Did they speculate? Did they worry? I knew that sapiens worried, but it seemed to me that such behavior would only make things worse. You fought, you died. What fear did you need more than a practical sense of self-preservation?

I thought about T0743 Tom. I had lied to the psychgen about my reason for shooting him. It had nothing to do with confusion over loyalty. The truth was, I had shot T0743 Tom because I was right. He had clearly intended to make his way to Japan and join the quasi rebellion. My only mistake had been in not asking permission first.

I was relaxed but not sleeping when the alarm came. The sentry reported the enemy had taken position at the edge of the spaceport. I looked out the porthole but could not see anything yet. There was no chatter on the comlink, only the hiss of my suit’s pumps and, finally, the report by the sentry that the enemy was moving. They had sent a squad of lunars forward, in a wedge formation with weapons ready.

He ticked off their progress step by step. When they came into my field of view, moving toward the double doors, I reported in, and as I had become the only Coalition expert on lunars, I upped my visor’s gain and looked them over closely.

I reported that the weapons looked like conventional laser rifles. Without registering surprise, I indicated that they did not seem to be wearing pressure suits at all. Their outer covering, slate gray to match the landscape, had no equipment bulges, no seams, no wrinkling of steel-mesh reinforced cloth. It was instead as smooth and formfitting as the skin of my hand. What I had thought were bifurcated visors were in fact pairs of enormous polarizing eyes that brightened and dimmed as they passed in and out of shadow. They were tall and narrow, and their legs truly seemed to have no joints. They ambulated as if on springs, gliding along in formation like boats floating on water. They had no oxygen supplies that I could see, and I speculated that, like the aquatic types, they stored oxygen in their blood and muscles, and could operate for hours in the vacuum. Without suits, the rest of us would blow up like hemorrhaging balloons. I could only surmise that the lunars had a low enough internal body pressure to survive and function in the vacuum.

They approached cautiously, alert for the doors opening to reveal our aquatic troops in attack formation. That was, in fact, about to happen. But the lunars, or their sapien handlers back down the road, seemed satisfied that they had time to act. The lunars somehow reported back to them. I saw nothing that looked like a comlink, but our sentry reported that the main force had begun their advance. In a few minutes it came into view in tight box formation. The sapiens had remained at the edge of the spaceport, probably with a quasi bodyguard, which was SOP. The advance squad fell aside and a group of ten lunars came forward. In a line, they trained their lasers on the colony doors. It was no great feat of conjecture on my part to guess that they intended to burn the doors open.

I was, of course, reporting all this to Duke and Vaughn. At that point, Vaughn made his decision. Before the lunars could burn them open, the doors slid wide on heavy tracks. They were safety doors, designed to roll quickly should the colony’s atmosphere be compromised, and it caught the lunars unawares. The aquatics inside wasted no time. Before the doors were even half open, laser fire erupted in bright red streaks of glimmering light. They cut down that first row of lunars in the few moments it took the doors to part, then advanced in wedge formation, and as they came into the light I thought that this was the first opportunity I had to observe an aquaticus in a pressure suit. But I didn’t have time to think about it, because at that moment an unexpected thing happened. The lunars split and maneuvered to either side of the road. But they did not merely maneuver. They moved in a coordinated action as if an order had been given, even though there had been no time for such an order. And they could jump. They flexed their odd legs and sprang aside in huge confused arcs. The aquatic wedge, under orders and highly motivated by an apparent retreat, advanced into the breach, and I barely had time to notice that they stumbled more than marched before the lunars, like mercury pooling, reassembled into two formations and began cutting the aquatics down from both sides.

Unlike sapiens, quasis are not immobilized by surprise, and I relayed these details calmly to Command. Orders did not come quickly enough for my taste. I wanted to get out there and start shooting, but I could only watch as our aquatics, bundled together, shrank in numbers. It seemed a long time, but finally I heard the transport’s ramp grinding down. Moments later the troops beside me began to move. Before leaving the ship, I saw the terrestrials advance from the corridor and fan onto the road, guns blazing. On the comlink, Duke was urging us into battle, and it was with eagerness that I finally quit my post and descended the ramp at the rear of our ambush.

Battle on the ground looks different than from a vantage point. Higher up in the transport, I saw troops aligned in blocks of formation, like symbols on a military map, and even guess who might gain and who might retreat. On the ground, it was disorder. Adding to the confusion was the unfamiliar low gravity, artificially canned air, and no sound. For the first two minutes I saw nothing but the backs of the terrestrials and heard only babble on the comlink. Vaughan, who had lost his eyes and ears—me, that is—wanted to know what was going on, but he could not raise his aquatic CO. Duke, leading the charge somewhere on the right flank, was trying to contact both of them. Then the quasis in front of me scrambled and I was looking at the left flank lunars breaking directly at me.

Quasis are built alike, but we don’t necessarily think alike. While the others ran for cover, I dropped as flat as someone my bulk can. The terrestrial in front of me, one of my squad leaders, got it in the arm. The laser burned through his suit, which fluttered with the outrush of atmosphere. He fell in convulsions as another right beside me took it in the chest. In the hustle, the enemy mistook my prostrate body for a dead one. I shot at them as they went bounding past. They were hard targets, slim and fast, but I’m a good shot and I drilled at least two before the remainder of the flank retreated past us, and I burned the legs off a third as he went by me, right at the point where the knees would have been on something not so alien. I was correct that they wore no suits. They were pressurized inside their skins, probably just enough to keep their biological processes going and not explode in the vacuum. He skidded into the dust beside me, stumps spewing pale liquid in heavy round drops. I rolled over to gauge their retreat. They had already sprinted half the distance back to their sapien handlers. My squads, leaderless, were making off after them in a ragtag assault. I was about to order them to halt and regroup when Duke yelled in the comlink, “John! Troops to your right flank!”

I rolled over. The remaining half of the lunaris force had found themselves trapped among the buildings, the terrestrials, and what was left of the aquatics. Not that they were doing badly. Entrenched behind dead bodies and the few vehicles they had found for cover, they had sustained only a few casualties and were keeping up a steady screen of fire. I had no illusions. Our only advantage was numbers, and the way it was going, we would be too few, too soon, to keep them confined. As a quasi, I’m engineered to process tactical information quickly, so I stood up and looked over the situation in a split second. In the next, I ordered my squads to abandon the retreating lunars so we could reinforce our main assault.

Duke hunkered over, keeping his head down as laser fire cut the air like fireworks. “We have to get inside before they regroup.”

“I know, but we can’t retreat. They’ll be right behind us.”

We were speaking on an open channel. Vaughn was demanding to know what was going on, but Duke ignored him and said to me, “We need crossfire around their cover. Pull your troops to this side and I’ll pull mine—”

A beam cut past my shoulder and pierced his helmet. It exploded from the internal pressure, the debris sprinkling my visor with the sound of sharp rain. I turned and fired without thinking, drilling the wounded lunari between the eyes before it had a chance to rise from the ground. I was about to turn back, but I paused, even with our situation desperate and my troops dying all around me. The enemy I had just killed was the one whose legs I had burned off moments before. It was dead now, but the idea of a merely wounded quasi, on the surface of the moon, in a vacuum, made no sense. I stepped over and looked closely at its legs.

The Union psychgens had done something to lunaris blood. The stumps were no longer bleeding. Before the body had depressurized, the blood had congealed over, leaving the open arteries sealed as if they had been cauterized. Even as I watched, the hole in its head dried up and stiffened over.

I turned back. Half of Duke’s head was gone, his blood still boiling and hissing into the vacuum.

I glanced around. The field was littered with quasi bodies. None of the terrestrials moved, but many of the lunars did, and one even managed to prop itself up and, with its remaining arm, take aim at the back of a terrestris.

I wasted some charge burning its head clean off. Then I called up a squad leader and snapped orders to pull off three of his troops and cover the field, doing the same thing to every lunari which still had a head. For some reason that I don’t understand to this day, I allowed myself the luxury of a long gaze at Duke’s body. He reminded me of Captain Dins. Why a dead quasi should remind me of dead sapien, I do not know.

Our numbers were falling with every second that passed. Duke’s last words rang in my ears. I called the closest squad leaders, ordered them to concentrate their troops and keep up as relentless an assault as they could, then I called up the squad leaders on the far side and ordered them to do the same. Though obvious, it was an effective tactic that gave us our first taste of victory against the lunars. In the crossfire, they could not hide effectively and we began cutting them down. I would like to have killed them all. But before we could, one of my troops raised an alert. I turned to see that the lunars up the road had reassembled and were advancing again. I raised Vaughn on the comlink and told him we were retreating into the colony. I think he was glad to hear from us, though I notified him mostly because I didn’t know how to work the doors and would need someone inside to control them. He seemed impatient that we were moving without his orders, but it’s accepted protocol that a ranking quasi in the field under hot conditions can make a snap call like that, and he confirmed.

I ordered a general retreat. Because I was already farthest from the doors, I held my position and was one of the last to find safety in the darkness of the corridor. The few remaining lunars took parting shots at us, but fortunately didn’t kill anyone as the last of us backed inside. After a quick glance to be sure we were all clear, I asked Command to secure the doors. A Watch Officer acknowledged and the doors came together with a thump that I felt through my shoes. Lights came on immediately. I looked around. We were lined up in an arching tunnel about twenty meters wide and ten high, big enough for the passage of heavy equipment. The floor was paved, an extension of the road outside, and a row of lights ran down the apex of the arch to a second set of doors about thirty meters away. Beyond that, the tunnel extended to a third set of doors that, I gathered, provided access to the colony.

Vaughn was calling Duke on the comlink. I switched to a private channel and said, “Duke is dead. This is D1387 John. Request to be relieved by a sapien officer, sir.”

“There’s none available. What’s your situation?” I briefed him. He said, “The enemy is withdrawing. Pull your troops back in case they’ve planted explosives at the door.”

“I never spotted any, sir. They’ll have to burn it down.”

“Understood. Pull ‘em back, anyway. I’m going to rotate you into the colony so fresh troops can rotate forward. Hustle it. I want them in place before the enemy advances again.”

“Yessir.” I said this with relief, as I would finally get to take the helmet off. We pulled back in formation, myself again bringing up the rear. Passing through the medial doors, I realized that this construction was probably required by spec. It was an emergency barrier. If the outer doors were breached, the medial set would close and still provide an air lock. The pattern would probably repeat inside the colony. No space could be larger than a certain size and every space had to have access that could be blocked in a crisis. When we reached the inner doors I indicated our position to Vaughn, but he had gone elsewhere and the Watch Officer answered my call. He acknowledged me, and the medial doors closed. Nothing happened for a long time after that. I was about to call in again when an aquatic standing near a panel on the wall drew my attention. I stepped over. The panel had a pressure indicator that was rising. The chamber was filling with atmosphere. After twenty minutes, the pressure topped out and the inner doors opened. My first sight inside the colony was a row of terrestris troops waiting to enter the corridor. They stood aside as we filed out. I picked out their platoon leader and nodded as we passed. Quasis do not salute each other

I unlocked my helmet. The seal puffed with the slight pressure differential, and I sucked in a breath as I pulled the helmet off. The air tasted fresh and cold compared to the canned air I had been breathing.

Then I looked around. We had lined up in a warehouse or receiving bay filled with all kinds of equipment, everything from transports and tractors to crates filled with ore. I was confused. Normally there is a sapien around to tell me what to do. I tried to raise Vaughn, or anyone, on the comlink, and when that failed I picked out one of my squad leaders at random—T3258 Joe, according to his tattoo—and told him to keep the troops here until he heard from me. Then I crossed into a smaller warehouse filled with desks as if sapien clerks should have been hard at work dispensing resources. This room had corridors branching off both sides and an open door at the far end. Beyond it I saw sapiens passing back and forth. Still expecting an officer to appear at any moment, I squeezed through the door and found myself on a wide walkway at the edge of a rotunda. A few sapiens, far fewer than I had expected, walked about. All wore civilian clothes. They looked at me with uncomfortable glances, which made sense, as up until a few hours ago they had not known we even existed. I walked to the railing and looked around. Above was another walkway, and above that, the metal dome. Below were two more walkways and the floor at the bottom. I noticed too that most doors I could see were too small for me to pass through.

To my left was a hologram on a dais around which a small group of sapiens gathered. I stepped over, intending to remain at the back and look over their shoulders, which was an easy thing to do since I stood a head taller than any of them. But they got very nervous. They backed away and dispersed, leaving me alone.

The broadcast was a news report from Earth, apparently a repeat about twelve hours old. It was a public channel, undoubtedly censored. A military spokesman was announcing the existence of quasis in large numbers. He said we were presently engaging the enemy on the lunar surface and were fighting for the lives of the colonists. This much was true. But he also said we were winning.

Quasi patriotism is different from sapien patriotism, I think.

I turned away and almost stumbled over a small boy standing next to me. He had to hang his head all the way back to look up at me. I must have appeared monstrous to him, but he had seen us around the colony and for the last two days the media holograms had been telling him we were there to save his life. He seemed as much curious as frightened.

“My mother says they’re making you into sociopaths,” he said.

“What’s a sociopath?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at the hologram. “Are they going to kill us? I heard my mother say they’re going to blow a hole and kill us.”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, because I know how to stop them.”

He was about to ask another question, but a woman interrupted. She stepped up, looked at me, tried to smile and appeared uneasy, then took him by the collar. He sailed off in a high arc, still gazing at me as if accustomed to this sort of travel.

I returned to the warehouse where my troops were still lined up, and I tried to raise Vaughn again. Instead, I contacted a captain named Lowell. When I explained that we were waiting for orders and needed showers, food, and rest, he said he would join us immediately.

We waited half an hour. When he finally arrived, he told us to follow him into the colony. “Sir,” I said, “has the enemy advanced yet?”

“What’s that… John? No, not yet. But we intercepted a coded transmission to Earth, so we think they’re waiting for orders.”

“Where’s our troops?”

“Still in the corridor. Why?”

“I know how to defeat the lunaris.”

“All right. I’ll relay that to the lieutenant colonel. This way.”

I ordered my troops to fall in. We marched behind the captain, out and along the walkway to a freight elevator that dropped us in groups to the lowest level. They had found a gymnasium to house a contingent of terrestrials, the only space large enough. There were no cots, only bedrolls on the bare floor, some of which were already occupied by the remainder of the battalion. Lowell hurried off, and we settled in as best we could. There were no showers—we had not brought any portable facilities, and I doubted we could fit into a sapien shower stall—but they soon brought us food. It was civilian food, hastily prepared by colonists commandeered for the purpose, but synthetic, which is all I’ve ever eaten. I tasted real food once and didn’t like it. The colonists who supplied it seemed more at ease than those I had met in the central core, probably because they’d had more exposure to us. One actually thanked me for coming to their aid. My contact with civilians has been limited and I wasn’t sure what to make of this.

An oxygen recharge station had been set up against the wall. I plugged in my tanks and looked around. Quasis finishing their meals had already filled up the first three rows of unused cots. I took the next in line, laid my gun beside it, and removed the pressure suit in sections, giving each section a maintenance check before laying it down beside the gun. I still could not raise Vaughn on the comlink, but I checked in with Lowell. Then I settled in and stared at the ceiling.

I could guess what was happening. Vaughn, short on sapien staff, knew the enemy was in contact with Earth but didn’t know the nature of the communication. Further, they were in formation just outside the colony, still with sizable firepower, and we had fought them off only with significant loss of troops. Another such encounter would probably decimate us and leave the colony open to attack. The enemy had the obvious intent of killing every civilian inside; the victory would leave them in a superior position in relation to the conflict on Earth, and it was certain they were monitoring any launching of reinforcements the Coalition might attempt. This was it. He had only us to work with and everything lay in the balance. So attack? Or wait and defend? It was no surprise I could not raise anyone for orders. They had more important things to consider.

I was thankful for that. All a quasi has to worry about is death.

* * *

An aquatic woke me a few hours later with orders to report to Vaughn with my squad leaders. I felt rested and ready as I gathered them together, and we followed the aquatic into a corridor and past other unused sports facilities. I noticed that he seemed to have become used to walking in this gravity, but the nature of his modified feet still caused him to overcompensate and bounce too high unless he leaned far forward, which caused him to stumble occasionally. We could easily have overtaken him, but we remained behind as he led us to a door at the end of the hall. He had the advantage here. He passed through easily, while we had to turn sideways and jam ourselves through the narrow threshold. We entered the lobby of the sports complex. Against the wall stood a communications console operated by the Watch Officer I had talked to earlier. Directly ahead was a large conference table about which the precious few officers gathered. I did not at first see Vaughn as we came to a halt and waited, and Captain Lowell must have been somewhere else. One of the officers looked up from the table, then leaned over and tapped the shoulder of a man sitting on a couch who held his head in his palms. It was Vaughn. The officer hooked a thumb at us. Vaughn stood and came over.

This was only the second time I had seen him up close. He seemed tired and distraught—for good reason, I suppose—and looked as if he had not slept in twenty-four hours. Still, he came at me with a sense of urgency and was very much in charge as he snapped, “D1387 John?”

“Yessir.”

“Here’s the situation. The enemy completed communication about… how long ago, Joss?”

“Half an hour, sir,” said the man at the console.

“Half an hour ago. We saw through the camera that they’re reforming for an attack, which could come at any moment. I want you on the front line because you have the most experience with the lunars.”

“Yessir.”

“Listen closely. We can’t fight them all at once and we can’t keep them out of the colony, but we might be able to reduce their numbers. You’re familiar with the access corridor?”

“Yessir.”

“I want you to take up position there. We’ll evacuate the air so no one will get hurt when they burn the outer door. Now here’s the important part. Hold them as long as you can, then retreat past the center door and hold that position until some of them are inside. I want to separate as many as possible before closing that door and opening the inner door. We’ll have an ambush set up and hopefully we won’t have to retreat very far into the colony.” He swept us with his eyes. “Do you understand?”

We all nodded, and I said, “Yessir.”

“How many do you think you can take out in the access tunnel?”

“How many troops will I have, sir?”

“Your original troops, and pick out twenty more. No aquaticus. I’ll need them for a stand in the central core.”

“I estimate a third in the close quarters of the tunnel. If any more than that get trapped with us, we won’t survive.”

“It’ll do. We don’t have cameras in the tunnel, so it’s your call. Stay at the rear and remain in communication at all times. I don’t want a repeat of our first engagement.”

“Yessir.”

“Now here’s the problem. It takes twenty minutes to fill that tunnel with air and maybe thirty seconds for them to burn through the door. I can’t wait twenty minutes. As soon as that center door closes, I’m going to open the inner door. That means there’s going to be a pressure blast. If any of your troops are left alive, keep them away from the door. Work the enemy close if you can, but keep your own troops away. Do you understand?”

I said, “Yessir,” wishing he would stop asking. Some sapiens consider quasis stupid or slow. We are neither.

“Questions?”

“Only one, sir. Did Captain Lowell relay my message?”

“He did not. What is it?”

“I know how to defeat the lunaris quasis.”

“All right. Take it up with him.”

“Yessir.”

“Suit up and deploy your troops.”

“Yessir.”

We returned to the gymnasium. I ordered my troops into formation and we made our way back through the colony to the corridor entrance. We arrived just as the doors were opening. The troops that had relieved us came out and I talked briefly with their platoon leader. No one had given him orders. I told him I was to pick twenty of his troops, and I asked for his recommendation. Then I requested his help in preparing the corridor. With all of us working, we got every box and tractor we could move into the corridor and arranged them along the walls for cover. I formally relieved him, then ordered my troops to secure their helmets and take up positions along the walls in the outer section of the corridor. I found my own cover behind a tractor tread just outside the medial door. I tried to raise Vaughn and got the Watch Officer instead. He closed the inner door and the pressure indicator started falling.

I tried to contact Lowell. He must have been working with Vaughn. I left the private channel open and settled down to wait.

It was not a military thought, but I could not keep out the idea that I had liked Captain Dins better than Lowell and Vaughn. Quasis were not supposed to know the difference and we would operate better if they removed preferences like that from the next generation. But for now, it bothered me. And my previous experience with T0743 Tom left me uncertain about what to do. Was I struggling with a tactical decision, or did it qualify as strategy and therefore should be left to my superiors? I had not been particularly insistent in communicating with them, but they had not been particularly interested, either. So who’s decision was it? And whose risk? For a moment I wished Dins had been there, until I remembered that his advice had steered me wrong the first time.

One thing I knew for sure. I had learned to read desperation on sapien faces. If any lunaris got through to the central core, Copernicus Base would become a hollow shell open to the vacuum.

We waited almost two hours before Vaughn’s voice finally came over the comlink on the private channel. After I acknowledged, he said in measured tones, “The enemy is approaching in formation. Prepare for attack.”

“Yessir.”

“Stay on the open channel when you retreat.”

“Yessir.”

I relayed instructions to my troops. The Watch Officer informed us what was happening outside. He described the whole lunar contingent approaching. Ten breaking formation, five to one side, five to the other. Those ten kneeling—if such could be said of them—and aiming their weapons at the door. The bright red beams cutting the landscape in a coordinated pattern. We did not see that pattern right away on the inside of the door. Our first indication of it was when some of my troops broke cover and pulled back to escape the heat. Moments later it began to glow, ten points in an arching pattern so they would be able to advance on a wide front. The spots blossomed and turned from angry red to orange to white hot. The right half of the arch melted away first, but not enough to give anyone a clear shot. For a moment the remaining doorplate slumped and hung as if on a broken hinge, then fell inward into a blob of half-formed metal and both sides began firing.

Killing them required direct head or torso shots, but it was small advantage. For one thing, a shot that accurate in a heated battle is not easy. For another, they did not have the same limitation; shoot a suited terrestris in the arm in a vacuum, and that terrestris dies. And the lunars, probably under direction of the handlers we could not see beyond the threshold, did not at first proceed into the corridor. They remained back where they blended into the landscape to make difficult targets, and they picked off terrestrials to soften us up before they advanced.

The restricted access of the damaged door was our first advantage, and would probably be our last. They could only come through in small groups, right into our returning fire. We cut down quite a few that way. But it was not long before there were simply too many of them. They were too fast, and too coordinated, and just too good with their weapons. When the helmet of the terrestrial next to me shattered from a direct hit, sending bits of glass and boiling blood across my visor, I ordered our retreat.

I had not fired yet, and I was the first to withdraw. We moved in a stop-and-fire maneuver; the first wave fell back, turned and fired while the second wave fell back, which turned and fired to provide cover for the third. I ended up near the inner door behind a metal crate that, in truth, was smaller than myself. I notified Vaughn that we had succeeded in our retreat, then looked up to find that this was a matter of opinion. The lunars had already come through, before most of us had found cover. Strange bifurcated eyes unblinking, they used their elastic legs to clamber smoothly over terrestrial bodies littering the floor. I had lost at least half my troops. Others were falling as I watched. A recollection of my last battle on Earth flashed through my mind. We were now the simians in the trees.

“Status!” came Vaughn’s voice on the comlink.

I estimated that a third of the lunars were inside. I said nothing.

“John, status!”

Still I said nothing. The lunars flowed in. I would have described their advance as “brazen.” They formed a wedge and stalked confidently down the corridor, taking careful aim. One of my squad leaders asked if we should retreat again, and I ordered him to hold his position. Vaughn heard my voice. He switched to the open channel and said, “John, what the hell is the problem? Status!”

I did not answer. He muttered something to the Watch Officer about a “damn malfunctioning quasi,” then demanded status again. I could imagine little, but I could speculate about his thinking. He had no information. Should he guess? Close the doors too late, and too many lunars get inside. Close them too early, and too many lunars are left to fight.

I had to guess as well, because I had no clear idea of how many lunars remained. I waited until most, if not all, were past the door. It was a frighteningly large contingent. I said on the private channel, “Now.”

The medial doors closed behind them. One barely managed to jump out of the way. At that moment the closest saw me and fired. I lunged as the beam cut past my head and burned a scar in the wall behind me. I rolled and fired back, missed, and tried to roll again as a group of them took a bead on me. That many lasers would have burned me to a pile of smoking dust, but the inner door suddenly opened in a shuddering blast of inrushing air which bowled them over like reeds in the face of a storm.

Imagine a sapien—or a dog, or bird, or any organism refined through millions of years of evolution to live under pressure at sea level—plunged naked to the bottom of the ocean. The lunars were engineered for a vacuum. All that crushing atmosphere, raging through the door so fast that it even knocked some of us hulking terrestrials over, weighed down on them as hundreds of meters of water would on a sapien.

The storm lasted only seconds as the doors spread wide. I looked up through swirling dust and litter, expecting at any moment to have my helmet parted by laser fire. But the lunars lay in a tattered sprawl of pale bodies, twitching and heaving under the terrible load of the colony’s atmosphere, unable even to lift their weapons. Everyone but me seemed unsure what to do. Vaughn was calling on the comlink. The terrestrials and aquatics waiting in ambush beyond the inner door hunkered down behind their cover. My own troops blinked at me uncertainly. I rose and walked among the lunars. Most were still alive, but they could barely move. I looked at the closest. Its unblinking eyes, darkened slightly in the light flowing through the inner door, looked up at me, and I could see the dim gray outline of its pupils like plates inside larger plates. One sinuous arm twitched weakly, whether for its weapon or for my foot, I could not tell.

I burned its head off.

* * *

I was not involved in the cleanup. After killing every lunar in the corridor, we sent out a large unit of terrestrials led by the remaining aquatics. The Union sapiens had a meager few lunars to protect them and no way home, so they gave up, I heard, after a short exchange of gunfire. Sitting for hours in isolation, I heard about it second-hand from the terrestrial who brought me food. I was visited briefly by a psychgen who did not recognize me from the transport. It was not a full debriefing. He only asked a few questions, and from their nature I guessed that he was trying to determine if it was safe to mix me in again with the other quasis. After he left, I sat around for a few hours more before Vaughn walked in.

I stood at attention. I expected a reprimand, or at the least, new orders. But he did something I had never seen an officer do. He closed the door and looked at me silently for a long time. Quasis have a difficult enough job reading sapien expressions, and this was worse. I speculated that he was sizing me up in a new light. But his face was so blank I could not be sure.

Finally he said, “At ease.”

I sat down. He spun the psychgen’s chair around and floated into it backwards. For another long moment me gazed at me, rubbing his chin.

“You know,” he said with a strangely informal manner, “I haven’t yet made up my mind about you.”

“Me, sir?”

“Quasis. You have a proven usefulness, but damned if you don’t give me a queasy feeling in the gut.” He paused, and because I had no idea what he was talking about, I remained silent as well. He continued, “I can’t fight my commanders, and don’t know that I want to. But I wonder…” His eyes narrowed. “I’m not a psychgen, so I wonder. How much can they take out before you’re no longer useful? And how much will they take out before you’re no longer human?”

“Sir? I’m not human. I’m a quasi.”

He nodded, eyes narrow and alert. Then he said suddenly, “We’re leaving in thirty-six hours. We’re putting you back with your unit.”

I stiffened at attention. “Yessir.”

“There’s going to be a public announcement when we land. Don’t make any independent statements. And don’t speak to anyone about your engagement with the lunars until your debriefing with TacInt. That includes quasis and psychgens.”

“Yessir.”

The return to Earth was uneventful, as there was plenty of room on the remaining transports and no one was shooting missiles at us. I don’t know that it was purely chance that I ended up on the same transport as Vaughn. I suspect not, because he remained close to me for the entire trip and happened to be nearby whenever I spoke to anyone. There was little conversation, in any case, and no one asked about the incident in the corridor. But Vaughn did give us a briefing about what to expect when we landed.

I saw them from a distance first, through the porthole as we came down gently on the laser. There must have been ten thousand people down there, held back by a military cordon some distance from the landing platform. As we dropped, I saw a podium set up, and next to that a company of quasis lined up at parade rest. We came down gently on the platform and the blast of our descent stopped abruptly. As instructed, I marched down the ramp at the head of my platoon while music played over the launchpad and the crowd cheered. Cameras watched us line up by the podium with our helmets held proudly under our arms. This event was being broadcast all over the world. We were no longer a secret, and we were heroes. We had to be. They would not accept us otherwise.

They cheered again when Vaughn came out. He gave a short speech. Mostly it was to tell everyone how proud he was of his quasis.

After it was over, we were directed to a line of transports that would take us back to G16. A pair of military police stopped me just before I climbed in. They took me alone to a small van. The last I saw of Vaughn, he was standing in a crowd of reporters, but not looking at them. He was, instead, watching with the same unreadable expression as the police loaded me into the van.

They delivered me directly to TacInt. This time there was no security clearance. I was brought in through the waiting room, stripped of my pressure suit and fatigues, showered, and dressed in a strange sort of jumpsuit that fit me but was completely unfamiliar. Then I was taken to a room. It had only a bunk with a table beside it, a toilet, no window, no comlink, and the door was locked. I understood perfectly. This was a high security situation. I sat and waited.

Two hours later I was taken to an interview room. The only chair that fit my overlarge frame faced a long table. I sat in it and waited. Soon a group of psychgens filed in and sat at the table. The man who seemed to be in charge said, “Is this the one?” When another nodded, he said, “Well, let’s take a look,” and called something up on a computer. After a long time of rubbing his chin, he said, mostly to himself, “Two independent strategic decisions, one in Zaire and one at Copernicus. Is that correct?”

When they agreed, he looked at me and said, “Let’s start with the obvious. Why did you not push for the attention of your superior officers when it was critical to do so?”

How I answered is unimportant. What matters is that this began the longest psychogenetic evaluation I’ve ever endured. Never before had it taken more than a few hours. This one took over two weeks. They reviewed my history in great detail. They drew from my body every available fluid, sometimes at rest and sometimes after exercise. They tested my reflexes three times each day. They asked abstract questions which caused me great distress to answer. I tolerated it and did my best, because I knew it was my duty to have my genome evaluated against the template to find out exactly where the anomaly was. Even so, I thought about it at night, which would have been considered treasonous had they known.

Their greatest disadvantage is that they can’t know our thoughts.

I wondered what they were going to do with me. If they decided I was a dangerous aberration, especially at this political juncture, they might need to destroy me. Was I dangerous? How could I be dangerous? I felt like I was missing something. At fifteen years of age, sapiens are not even old enough to vote, much less fight in a war. I thought back to the green ball, the prototype that the psychgen had shown me on the trip up to the moon. The next generation would be built from scratch, based completely on an artificially designed template. Quasis had made the sync pulse obsolete, and soon we would be obsolete. I had even heard a rumor they were working on a creature that could regrow limbs.

After two weeks, I was given a different color jumpsuit and brought out to the waiting room where I was handed over to another pair of military police. As they completed the transfer, I listened with half an ear to a news broadcast from a hologram panel set into the receptionist’s desk. I had not been exposed to the news since Copernicus. Rationing of basic foodstuffs had begun in England and emergency supplies of petroleum were being used to make up for a cut in supply. A recent report indicated that the rate of mutations and radiation disease in the Pacific Corridor, a result of the heavy bombing from the last war, had finally started to drop, even though cancer everywhere else was on the rise. And the Coalition had sent a large contingent of quasis into Southeast Asia again, this time openly, and was considering sending another force to Krakow where Union sympathizers had taken violent control of four city blocks.

I listened closely when I heard Vaughn’s name mentioned. He was speaking at a meeting of the AmerEuro Coalition Assembly, apparently to address concerns of the rumored quasi rebellion. I did not hear the entire speech because the escort pulled me away. But as we were turning, I caught a glance at the media panel, and I saw that he wore general’s bars.

As before, they loaded me into a van, and I knew I would not be returning to my barracks. I asked the man next to me where I was going.

He glanced at the manifest. “We’re loading you on a transport to Germany.”

I knew what that meant. A more thorough evaluation, and then destruction. It made sense.

I’m big and strong, and they did not restrain me because they expect quasis to be compliant in the face of authority. And they’re right. We are. All the same, I made the third independent strategic decision of my life. It was a hard one. After all, the military is so deeply ingrained that it’s the closest I would ever have to a family.

The driver wasn’t armed, but the police were. Besides, the seat was so small that I would not be able to drive. I might have a better chance if I waited until I got to Germany.

In the meanwhile, I would have plenty of time to figure out how a fugitive H. quasi terrestris might get to Japan.

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Framed

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Contents

Ted

Written by Tom Van Natta

Illustrated by Daniel Monroe

I know my son will ask me someday, so I had to write this down. No one will believe it —and that’s okay. But he deserves to know the truth, as strange as it is. It had started out as a fairly normal Friday… .

* * *

“Sam, I don’t think we can be together anymore. I just can’t date a man who carries around a stuffed animal.” Marie hit me with it after work, while we stood together beside my old van in the employee parking lot.

I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. We had plans together that evening.

“I’m going home alone tonight,” she continued. “Here’s your ring back.”

Marie was dark haired, blue eyed, long and lean, and the best-looking girl at the company. We’d been dating since her first week there, almost a year ago. We got along pretty well; I helped loosen her up and she toned me down a little, a good fit. We weren’t engaged exactly, but I’d given her a “steady ring” like we were high-schoolers. It made her happy, and me too.

I didn’t know what to say. I knew calling her would do no good; she didn’t answer me half the time when we were on good terms, and never when we’d had a little spat. I’d need to wait for her to cool down—she could be persuaded sometimes, but never pushed.

* * *

Marie’s annoyance with me began about six months before, when I flipped a coin into a bottle at the company picnic and won a big white stuffed teddy bear. I mean BIG: we were the same height when seated, though it had short arms and legs. I couldn’t carry it around with me, so I took it back to my van and put it in the passenger seat. Lots of people saw me carrying it, and many more saw it in my van, so I got razzed about it a bit. “Hey Sam, who was that big fat one I saw you with?” and stuff like that. It’s a big company, and being in Marketing, I knew a lot of people there. Most of them had a comment, all in fun.

So I gave it back to them: “Oh, you mean Ted. No, don’t call him Teddy. He’s my pal. Ginny has cats, Dave has dogs. I’ve got Ted.” Somehow over the next few weeks he never quite left the van; he was usually buckled into one seat or another as I drove around. One of the guys in the copy room made up a yellow, diamond-shaped “Bear On Board” sign, copying the then-popular “Baby On Board” signs, and stuck it in a back window.

It went on from there. I had the big van and didn’t drink much, so I was the driver a lot. We’d go to a football game, get there early to cook hot dogs and drink beer in the parking lot, and Ted was always with us. Many fun pictures were taken with Ted drinking beer, feeling up the girls, suntanning in a lawn chair. His eyes could be rotated and his tongue had some side-to-side adjustment, so he could look happy, leering, or cross-eyed drunk. All the girls wanted their pictures taken with Ted.

My boss was a good-natured sort, and encouraged lighthearted personal notes at the bottom of the status reports we submitted each week. So after the work-related items, Ginny told about her cats, Frank told what new words his kid had learned, and I wrote about Ted:

* “Ted thought he was losing weight despite his beer intake. He’s broadened his diet to include nylon dog bones and styrofoam peanuts.”

* “Someone at the ball game gave Ted a hot dog on a plastic plate. He ate it, said it was delicious, but gave back the hot dog.”

* (Scheduled for delivery when I was on vacation:) “sam wernt heree to do hte ststtus reprts so me ted is doin them. nothhing much happned this week except for tha chicago bears and cubs both winnin a lot but ucla bruins losst. go bear teams go. sorry for baad typin. is hard wif paws.”

* “Ted saw a special on TV about polar bears hunting seals beneath the ice. He wants to go to the mall and hunt for stuffed seals at the toy store. I didn’t have the heart to tell him …”

And so forth. Ted emerged through these snippets as a blue collar sports fan (especially a fan of teams with bear mascots), not too bright, well-meaning but prone to drink and mild debauchery, with a diet of plastics and beer. Everything was all fun and games, and everyone liked Ted—except for Marie.

Marie thought that a guy having a stuffed animal—even a macho one like Ted (“Don’t call me Teddy”)—was childish. Dumb even. So we quarreled about it a bit, nothing too serious. She insisted we take her car whenever possible, because she didn’t want to be seen in Sam’s Bear Van. And she had this way of rolling her eyes when my friends started talking about setting up Ted for some new pictures. But I didn’t guess how strongly she felt until she gave the ring back.

That night, I had agreed to drive six folks from work to a club to see a touring band—I’d gone to college with the drummer and we had kept in touch. Since I was the one who had set it up weeks before, I had to go, even without Marie. So it ended up three couples in the back, and me and Ted up front. The band played sort of hippie jam music, not bad, but meandering. “Twenty minutes of great music squeezed into two hours,” was how I described it, “but the twenty minutes are worth it.”

I still didn’t know what to think about Marie. Maybe she just wanted Ted to be gone, maybe we weren’t as good a fit as I thought, maybe it was just a bad day at work. I listened to the music, nursed my beer, met the band and talked to the drummer between sets, and tried to enjoy myself. It almost worked.

The band and I all sat around a big table between sets, and I must have drunk someone else’s beer, because I got dosed with some sort of psychedelic drug. I didn’t really recognize it at first, but after a while I figured out what was starting to happen to my head. (I don’t want to go into the details, but I will say that I went to a California beach college, so it wasn’t a completely novel experience.) Oh, shit! I needed to get out of there. It was late and my riders looked tired, so they all agreed when I suggested we go; I was hoping to get everyone home before the dose fully kicked in. Our company had a strict drug-testing policy, so I didn’t want to say anything to my co-workers, and the effect really wasn’t so strong—at least not yet. I could cope.

The drive home was intense. I had to drive like a robot, because all my instincts were gone and I really didn’t remember how to drive. Stay in lane. Check speed. Keep it straight. Check lane. Speed. Red light, stop carefully, don’t jerk. Wait. Green light, go. Worse, I thought I saw a flying saucer hovering around the van as I drove down one long straight road. I almost pointed it out to my passengers but decided that was a bad idea, and tried to pay attention to my driving and not the weird things I was seeing.

Luckily I made it back to the company parking lot without hitting anything. Everyone piled out and I drove on home, out to the edge of town where my place was. I made it there okay too, but the world had turned pretty weird inside my head by that point. I went inside and lay down on the bed. The room started to spin, so I opened my eyes to steady things. I decided to get up again when the ceiling began to twist into strange shapes. Whatever psychedelic was in the beer I drank was pretty powerful; I tried to recall coping strategies. If I just kept busy I would be okay. I needed somebody to talk to, but it was late, my friends had all gone home, and my girlfriend had left me.

Luckily, I still had Ted. I gathered up my notebook filled with status report items about Ted and Ted pictures, and went back out to the van. I plopped down in the driver’s seat next to my big friend, who was still sitting in the front passenger’s spot. I looked at the Ted pictures, read about his exploits, and talked to him about Marie—I’m not sure he answered back, but I’m not sure he didn’t, either. I suppose I eventually drifted off into some sort of fugue state approaching slumber.

It was exactly 3:42 a.m. when the crash came—I learned this later because I found the van’s broken clock. Something sliced through the right front corner of the van, missing me by inches. The area where Ted sat was completely disintegrated. Missing. Gone.

Whatever had hit us bounced up into the air a bit, then settled back down near the van. From the driver’s seat I could see it was, no lie, a saucer. A flying saucer. Not a UFO, because I could identify it, and it was definitely a flying saucer. Like from the movies. I was hallucinating, of course. But when I blinked my eyes again it was still there, and still unchanged. Wisps of smoke came off the saucer, and they twisted into strange shapes I knew only I could see, so the drug hadn’t entirely worn off. But the saucer was there, big as life. And a ramp was slowly folding down from it.

I looked at my van, or what was left of it. A big crescent-shaped piece was missing from the middle of the front grill to the back of the side door. There was some twisted metal at the edge of the missing area, but the bulk of it was gone. The whole front passenger area, with Ted in it, was sheared away and just gone. I was scared. I was angry too, and the angry part won.

I got out of the van and waited for the ramp to finish coming down. There were two, uh, creatures at the top of the ramp. They were bipedal, had big eyes and weak chins, and looked sort of like the little green men from sci-fi movies, but their skin was pink and they wore overalls. They were about Ted’s height, but not so fat.

Now I know that the first words spoken to an alien race should be something like “Welcome to Earth” or “We hope you come in peace” or even “Klaatu barada nikto” but … well, sorry. The first words I said were “You bastards! You killed Ted!” Maybe I should have thought about future intergalactic relations first, but I was mad.

One of the two said “What?” and the other said “We apologize,” so I knew they understood me. The first one said, “Our instruments show we destroyed no life form with a weight over one gram.” The other said, “We can repair your vehicle.” The two spoke with exactly the same voice, and their mouths didn’t move, so something else was generating the voice—but it was pretty clear.

I laid into them good. I yelled and screamed, told them they’d just killed my best friend. I swore at them, told them that Ted weighed much more than a gram and their instruments were bad. I called them demon murderers from another planet. At one point I forced them to look at the notebook full of Ted pictures. They tried to talk but I did almost all the talking—yelling, really. If those aliens hadn’t learned swear words from our airwaves, they learned them from me that night.

Finally I forced the Ted notebook into their unwilling hands (they had three fingers and a thumb, I noted) and went back inside my house and slammed the door.

I lived in a converted outbuilding on part of an old farm, with trees close and the neighbors far, so probably no one heard the crash and my ranting in the middle of the night—or at least if they did, they didn’t call the cops. I went down to the basement to look for my good camera, and sat on the edge of the guest bed I keep down there … and that’s all I remember.

* * *

When I woke up, light was streaming through the tiny basement window and my tongue felt like a long-dead fish. I remembered the last night in flashes, like a montage of still frames. Marie, giving her ring back. The band, the dosing. Talking to Ted in the van. And, oh yes, the flying-fricking-saucer. My god, how messed up was I to hallucinate that? Did I crash the van?

I staggered upstairs to the kitchen. My head hurt, and my brain barely worked. I managed to find the door, opened it and looked outside. The van was missing, and there was a big circular dent in the lawn Oh my god… .

Numbly, I went outside and looked around. No van, but I did find its clock in the shrubs next to the house. So I went back inside, trying to get my fuzzy brain into gear. Should I report the van stolen or wait a bit? Should I call Marie? I grabbed a jar of orange juice from the fridge and stumbled into the living room to plop on the couch and have a think.

But the couch was taken. Ted was there. He was munching on styrofoam peanuts from the bag in the closet, and drinking a beer. He said, “Hi, Sam. How are you feeling? Tough night last night.” He looked just the same as I remembered, though his fur was a little cleaner and the red ribbon around his neck (the only thing he wore) was less wilted.

I collapsed into the easy chair. Ted ate another peanut—he had fingerlike protrusions from his paws, kind of like a hand inside a sock—and turned to look at me. “How you doing? You all right?” His voice was an oddly resonant baritone.

“I’m okay, Ted. How are you?” Talking to a stuffed bear, me mostly sober (but hung over as hell). And him talking back. My befuddled brain somehow didn’t think anything much was wrong with this picture.

“I’m okay. Say, Zharban and Plxring told me they’ll probably have the van back this afternoon. They really feel bad about crunching it. They’re going to try to fix it themselves so their parents don’t find out about last night. I told them that if they fixed the van, you’d be cool about it.”

“Okay. Yeah, right.”

“Oh my god” wasn’t a strong enough expression anymore, but I’d already maxed out my shock meter. Zharban and Plxring, joyriding alien teenagers. It was real. So was Ted. And my van would be back this afternoon?

“Um … I’m gonna call Marie and see if she’ll come over, okay?”

Ted burped and drank more beer. “Good idea. You talked about her a lot last night.”

I dialed her number, praying she would pick up the phone. After six rings, she did.

“Hmmyesssss …”

I could tell she was annoyed but playful. “Marie, honey, I know you think I’m not serious enough sometimes, but this time I’m dead, dead serious. You need to get over here right away. It’s really, really important.”

“Samuel, dear, my nails are not dry. And I have not had my breakfast. And I believe there was something about me breaking up with you? Hmmmm?”

Normally she was much more down-to-earth, but she was in “a mood” and could banter on like this for hours. Her banter was one of the things I liked about her, but this wasn’t the time for it.

“Marie, please. It’s important. A crisis.”

“Proper toenails are important too; it’s almost sandal weather. You wouldn’t want my feet to look any less than r-r-ravishing to your r-r-replacement, would you?”

Her tone was a little more playful. My brain was about to explode. “Marie, I need you to talk to someone, okay? Hang on.” I handed the phone to Ted.

He was chewing on another foam peanut, which made a slight squeaking noise as he swallowed it. His head was much bigger than a human head, but he managed to hold the phone near his ear and still speak.

“Hey Marie, how’s it going? … Ted… . Really. Ted… . Hell, yes. I’m a bear; you ride with me in the van all the time. Now look, Sam’s really sad about you. He talked about you until way late last night. I think you two should get back together.” He burped, then listened a while.

“She wants to talk to you.”

I grabbed the phone. “Hi, Honey,” I said brightly.

After a long silence, she said, “I thought I knew all your friends.”

I tried to make my voice even more desperate. “It’s even stranger than that. Marie, you’ve got to come over here right now. Now. Life or death. I need you to come here right now. Please.”

“Are you all right?”

For the first time I could hear a hint of concern in her voice. “No! I don’t need the police or an ambulance, but I’m not all right. Something happened you need to see. Bring your camera. Come right now. Bye.” I took a chance and hung up the phone. Either she’d come or she wouldn’t.

I turned back to Ted. He was reaching for the TV remote.

“Do you think the Cubbies won last night? Lysander was pitching,” he said.

I got up, found some aspirin and washed it down with orange juice. I started coffee brewing and sat down to watch sports highlights with Ted. Lysander had pitched a shutout, which Ted highly approved of. I didn’t know how much Ted knew of what happened last night, and I wasn’t ready to ask him until I had some coffee.

Marie lived exactly sixteen minutes away but was at my door in fifteen. She had a video camera in her hand.

“Where’s your van?” she said.

I waited until she was inside, and guided her down the hallway to the living room. “Ask Ted,” I said.

“Hi, Marie. You see Lysander pitched a shutout last night?” His tone was enthusiastic, cheerful.

Marie had the same reaction I did, and swooned into the same chair I had. She stared bug-eyed as Ted nonchalantly started chewing some plastic poker chips I had on the bookcase nearby. They crunched noisily.

Since she was obviously speechless, I said, “Ted, why don’t you tell her what happened last night.”

“Last night? Not much. We drove to the club, and I sat in the van like normal. Got back about midnight. Sam came out and talked to me for a while—mostly about you. Then Zharban and Plxring crashed their Tav’roin ship into Sam’s van. Took out the whole front corner. They’d be in big trouble if their parents found out. So they repaired me first, but had to go scrounge around for van parts. They think they’ll have it ready this afternoon.”

Marie finally found her voice. “Zharban and Plxring? Who … what … are they?” She wasn’t quite as pale as a ghost.

“Aw, they’re just kids, you know. Zharban got a Tav’roin for his antenna ceremony, and they had to try it out, and they cut it just a little too fine. Nobody got hurt, and I told them Sam would be cool about it so long as they fixed the van.”

“Repaired you?” she said weakly.

“Yeah, you know I’m a ‘bot, right? Course you do. They had to guess on some parts, but Sam had the photo album, and they had a Zchazch—I guess you’d call it a manservant ‘bot—they could scrounge some parts from. Plxring majored in cybweb, so he did the programming. Seems okay to me. ‘Tain’t no problem, anyhow; they can fine-tune my programming when they come back with the van.”

The sports highlight show was ending, so Ted surfed around until he found another show he liked, fishing this time. He turned to me. “Say, you got another beer?”

Obviously I’d given up all semblance of critical thinking by that point. It had been a rough night, and the brain can only take so much. My buddy asks for a beer, he gets a beer. Even if he’s a talking stuffed bear.

“Sure, Ted, but take it easy, okay? Long day, and beer this early …” I went to the kitchen and returned with one. I was fascinated to watch his hidden digits emerge to lift the tab on the can.

“Thanks,” he said, and started drinking.

I had a hundred, a thousand questions for Ted, but he started talking first.

“Say, Marie, you’re not really breaking up with Sam, are you? He really likes you, you know.”

“No … I thought he had too much imagination, maybe even lived in a fantasy world. I guess I was wrong.”

“Yeah, he’s got his head on his shoulders. Don’t worry about Sam, he’ll take care of us.”

Marie tried to ask Ted more about the crash and Zharban and Plxring, but he either didn’t know much or was being evasive, hard to tell. “Ask ‘em when they bring the van,” he said, and turned to watch the TV. I told her about the saucer while she kept staring at him.

She did remember to get out the camera and shoot some video of Ted. She got some pictures of him walking across the room on his stumpy little legs and jumping up on the couch, then drinking beer, eating foam peanuts, and watching TV. He looked like a fat, contented, white stuffed bear, which I guess he was. She waved at him and said “Say hi, Ted” to which he dutifully replied “Hi, Ted,” and waved back.

Just a couple of minutes after that, we heard a vehicle pull up the driveway. I went out to the kitchen to look; it was the van, looking better than it ever had, with all the dents removed and new paint. Inside were four people, two boys and a man and woman; they all looked almost exactly the same except for size. Sort of generic humans, a man, a woman, and two teenaged boys.

They got out of the van—they found the sliding door quite tricky—and came inside when I motioned them into the house. There wasn’t room in the kitchen for the five of us so we went into the living room, where Ted was still watching a fishing show and Marie was staring at him. They looked at us when we came in.

I tried experimentally, “Zharban?” at which there was something like a sigh, and all four disguises dissolved, and I saw the same aliens I had the night before. Marie stopped breathing, I think, and her eyes grew even wider. Somehow you could tell that the two bigger ones were parents, and I just sort of figured that the big one was Poppa.

I tried to break the ice. “Zharban, sorry about yelling at you last night. I know you were trying to fix things.” One of the boys nodded to me in a sort of twisting way.

The largest one spoke, without moving his mouth. “We regret that our offspring caused you distress last evening. We shall endeavor to make amends.”

“Hey, no problem. Ted told me they’d fix the van, and I’m sure the grass will grow back okay.”

The two parents looked at each other. Poppa said, “Your ‘Ted’ will accompany us. We have provided a more correct replacement in your van.”

Ted spoke up. “Hey! I’m not going with you. I belong with Sam! He’s got tickets for the game tonight!”

He looked and sounded as truculent as a four-foot-tall stuffed teddy bear could. I appreciated his loyalty to no end. I’d just met him, in this incarnation at least, but in other ways I’d known him for ages and loved the big lunk. Still, I could see where this was going to go.

The smaller adult—Momma, I figured—pointed something small at Ted and clicked a button. Ted climbed off the couch, stood up, and froze with his arms out straight to the side. She pointed to the two youngsters, who each meekly took one arm and carried him away. I heard them bump a bit in the kitchen, but they made it out the door without breaking anything.

Poppa said, “We trust that you will not be so imprudent as to discuss our visit with any of your authorities. We shall extirpate all evidence of this sojourn, and you would appear most foolish.”

“Um, no, I’m cool. Boys will be boys, and all’s well that ends well. Right, Marie?” I wanted to make sure she was still breathing, but all I got out of her was a nod.

Momma spoke for the first time. Same voice, but you could tell it was her. “The wheeled vehicle has been repaired. The literature you provided and your large stuffed animal are enclosed within. Is this to your satisfaction?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. Sure. But can we say goodbye to Ted? We’re going to miss him, right, Marie?”

Marie looked at me with a dazed expression and croaked something vaguely affirmative.

The two aliens looked fixedly at each other—I thought they were talking it over—and one of them said, “Acceptable. Follow.”

We went outside, saw nothing, but followed Momma and Poppa across the lawn until we passed through an invisible curtain. Inside was a larger saucer than I had seen last night, with the two boys and Ted standing next to it. Momma used her clicker again and Ted came back to life.

“Hiya, Sam. Hi, Marie. What’s happening?”

I went over and bent down to talk to him. “Hi, Ted. Buddy, we’re gonna miss you, but you gotta go with these folks. They can take better care of you than I can. You aren’t really built for life on Earth.”

“Huh? What? That’s not fair. Where will I get beer? And if I’m not here I’ll miss the Bears’ season. They’ve got a chance to go to the Super Bowl!”

I looked up at the parents. “Can you let him watch the games? He’s a sports nut, you know.”

The parents communicated silently again, then Momma said, “Acceptable.” Zharban (or Plxring; I never learned which was which) made a noise, which I took to mean “But Momma!”

For my benefit, she responded in English. “Those who crash their Tav’roin and reprogram their Zchazch to attempt to suppress the fact do not deserve a Zchazch. Ted he is and Ted he shall stay.”

I nodded gratefully, too moved to speak. I looked at Marie, and her eyes were a little watery too. Ted would live! I grabbed Marie’s hand and pulled her over to Ted.

“See you, buddy. We’ll miss you. Write if you get the chance.”

“Okay. See you, Sam,” was all he said. He grinned at me, ever the happy-go-lucky bear.

Marie surprised me by stroking the fur on his face with the back of her hand. In a shaky voice, she said, “Goodbye, Ted.”

“See ya, Marie. Take care of Sam, okay?”

“I will.”

Marie turned to the parents and said “Can I ask you a question?”

Momma said, “No. We must depart.” She used her clicker on Ted again, and the two boys carried him up the ramp. Momma and Poppa followed them without a backward glance. In less than thirty seconds the saucer was gone as if it had never been there, not even leaving a depression in the grass.

Marie and I checked out the van. It had the Ted notebook and a new life-size copy of Ted in it. The engine ran perfectly for the first time ever, and even the little things like the burnt-out dash light were fixed.

“Want to go out for breakfast?” I said. I sure as hell didn’t feel up to cooking.

“Yes. Let’s take the van. And Ted.”

* * *

I never heard from them again. I kept the van; it now gets about fifty miles to the gallon and I’ve never had to replace the tires. We still have the video Marie shot, but it’s only about half a minute long and is pretty grainy —the light just wasn’t that good. I’ve seen much better effects at the movies. We still watch it each year, on our anniversary.

I know my son will ask me someday. For now, Marie and I have decided to tell him it’s for an old uncle on her side of the family. I’ll just have to decide how old he is before I give him this, to let him know the real reason he’s named Theodore Zharban Quinn.

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Framed

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Contents

Making Alex Frey

Written by Marissa Lingen

Illustrated by Valarie J. Nicharico

I almost didn’t tell my friends I was working for Alex Frey. It seemed like a fast way to blow years of geek cred—and it almost was.

“Alex Frey?” said Miguel. “Isn’t he dead?”

I scowled. “No.”

“Does he just make your lil’ ol’ heart flutter?” asked Jay. He batted his eyelashes at me so quickly that he looked like he had a neurological disorder.

“My baby sister is going to be so jealous,” said Tad in a fake bubbly voice.

“You should be jealous,” I said. “Alex Frey is paying me to program a simulacrum for him.”

They all went quiet. “No way,” said Jay. “Nobody’s doing simulacra but the big media conglomerates, these days.”

“Alex wants to change that,” I said. “His business manager Magda told me all about it. The benefits are great.”

“Lots of autographs?” snarked Miguel, but his heart was clearly not in it.

“Are they still hiring?” Tad asked.

“I don’t know. I can give you Magda’s e-mail, and you can find out. I’ll put in a good word for you, if they ask me.”

Miguel shook his head. “I wouldn’t stake my career on some aging pop star’s doppelganger.”

I shrugged. “I get to do simulacrum programming, and his checks cash. It’s better than doing tech support for some net provider.”

“What does he want to do with it?” asked Jay.

“A resurrection of sorts, I guess. I don’t really care. A full artificial personality is challenge enough for me, no matter whose it is.”

Miguel rolled his eyes, but Tad got himself hired, and at the end of the week, we both reported to Alex Frey’s “country” house in the hills in Woodside. Magda greeted us both with her brusque handshake. “Tad and—do you prefer being called Danielle?”

“Dani,” I said.

“Dani, then. This way, please. We’re waiting for one of your colleagues, and then we’ll start.”

They had set up a conference room, complete with a laptop-interfacing projector screen and whiteboards that captured image files. Alex Frey lounged in a leather executive chair that matched his leather pants. He gave us a smile I felt sure had been cultivated for reporters.

We also had an immaculately dressed blond woman, a suit (male), and a geek (also male, of the chubby, bearded category). The suit was probably Alex’s lawyer, and the geek was on the programming team. I didn’t follow the tabloids, but I thought Alex might have a wife, and that might be the blonde.

Sure enough, Alex stood up, a fraction of a second too late, and shook hands smoothly with each of us. “Dani and Tad, wonderful. This is my lawyer, Rick; your fellow programmer, Gary; and my wife, Catelyn.” We shook hands around. Catelyn gave us each an amused glance, and I wondered what was so funny. We took chairs next to Gary and gave our best new-job strained smiles until Magda returned with a tense-looking, whip-thin man she introduced as, “Renner, our publicity expert.”

“I guess we’ll start the introductory stuff, then,” said Alex. “I hope you all can be friends, because we’re going to be working quite closely together for the next several months.”

He favored us all with his best heart-touching sincere smile, the one that had rocketed his band, Blind Elephants, to teen pop stardom for three whole years. “It has been a dream of mine to be able to reach the entire world at once. I thought once that the internet was all that was necessary for that. I was wrong.

“What I want—what I need from you—is a simulation that can give concerts, interviews, parties, chats, anything. I want it to be a software product, not a hardware product, so that it can be downloaded into more than one server and can reach the people wherever they are—broadcasts at parties, handhelds on the subway, whatever.

“I don’t need this simulacrum to be at the forefront of every trend—or any trend, really, unless you can manage it.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “But I always managed to get on top of things before the crowd, and I’d like this simulacrum to do so as well.

“The interactivity is really important. We want the image to be beaming at one teenage girl in Massachusetts and another in Hong Kong while giving a deeply serious brooding look to a slumber party in Simi Valley. Absolutely personal to each of them.”

“But it’s got to be clearly a computer program,” Rick interrupted. “We don’t want the lawsuits that might crop up if there was any chance that some idiot kid might think she had a real relationship with him.”

“I’m not talking about some Max Headroom trip here,” said Alex. “If the image feed ever stutters like that, your ass is toast, you got it? I want totally seamless response.”

I put my hand up. Alex smiled wearily. “Yes, you. The schoolgirl.”

“How much like you are we shooting for? You on computer? Your computer-generated son? A protege who’s learned a lot from you?”

“It can’t be him,” said Magda before Alex could speak. “Otherwise we could just revive his career. It has to be someone a bit different.”

Alex let the silence stretch a bit too long there—it was clear he’d have preferred it if we’d clamored for more, more, more of Alex Frey—but finally he nodded. “We need something very fresh, something very now. We can’t legally sample the tracks of other dancers’ moves, but I’ll duplicate them for video capture myself, whatever is hippest on the net vids.”

I really hoped that it wasn’t my job to find them, but maybe that was what managers and publicists were for. Or somebody, anybody but me.

After a few more minutes, Magda took over from Alex and passed out packets of human resources information, neatly held together in gold-embossed folders. Alex’s wife Catelyn wandered out in the middle of Magda’s presentation. I raised an eyebrow at Tad, but he was engrossed with jotting down notes—and with Magda herself, I suspected. Tad often had lightning-flash crushes like that; we were used to it.

I glanced at Gary, the other programmer. He hadn’t missed Catelyn’s departure. I smiled tentatively and got a conspiratorial smile in return.

Well, okay. Maybe this could work.

The first parts of programming a simulacrum are the least rewarding. There’s the whole mess of work to get through at the beginning, where you’re telling it how to hold a basic conversation, the rules for sensible responses, and so you’re typing in, “How are you?” and getting, “I am fine, and you?” in response—which is exactly what you told it to say. In the early stages, it never uses contractions, never adds “how are” before “you.” Never deviates. If that was all there was to it, I’d have quit and become a fry cook years ago. Great wodges of pre-set code to get it up to the basic AI level—it’s faster than teaching a baby to talk, but the hormonal reward circuits just aren’t as active.

Gary worked the most on the image coding, although we all had design input on each other’s parts of the project. It didn’t look like his segment was all that interesting at this point, either.

And if I was bored, Alex Frey was practically climbing out of his skull.

“You’re lucky you’re not doing this ten years ago,” said Gary. “The number of presets for simulacra was much, much lower. With an all-custom job like this, you’d have been talking about years to release, not months.”

“I don’t care what people did in the Stone Age,” snarled Alex, conveniently ignoring the fact that that Stone Age was also the height of his popularity. “I care what you can do now.”

“We’re doing the best we can, Mr. Frey,” I said.

The snarl left his face. It smoothed out like a computer-generated effect. It was a little creepy. “Of course you are, Dani. Didn’t I tell you to call me Alex? Call me Alex. I know you’re doing the best you can. You’re all doing very hard work. Perhaps you need a break.”

“Pizza is traditional in this field of work, sir,” Magda offered.

“Pizza! And beer!” said Alex. He bounced on the balls of his feet, mercurial mood flashing to toddleresque excitement. “We’ll all have pizza and beer! Call for it right now, Magda!”

“To arrive at the end of the work day, perhaps, sir?” He nodded impatiently. “I’ll have someone take care of it.”

He hung around bouncing, waiting for the pizza and beer and looking over our shoulders. If there’s a more ominous phrase from a technically illiterate boss than “ooh, what does this do?” I’ve not heard it yet.

Thankfully, he left the office for several weeks in the Caribbean with Catelyn after that, phoning in to alternately yell and squeal, offering suggestions that none of us could take or would have if we could. Gary and Tad and I worked well together, and soon just a lifted eyebrow or a shrugged shoulder could convey volumes about the problems at hand. We were happy. Magda was happy.

One day, the construct was happy.

The preprogrammed responses eventually—if they are built right—give way to a genuine response from the construct, but it’s a relief when it happens, because it takes the work to a whole new, and more personal, level.

It’s always a good sign when the constructs are happy to begin with, I feel. Heaven knows there’s enough in life, or even pseudo-life simulations, to bring a person down later. They may as well start out with a smile on their face.

But Alex was less pleased with the reports, and he insisted that he and Catelyn fly back to check in with the baby construct.

“It’s an idiot!” he burst out after a few short exchanges. Luckily we had the construct’s input set to text only. “It’s a blithering moron! It’s a children’s show, some dinosaur sponge vegetable hat God knows what!”

Catelyn, who had refused all offers of a chair, stood in the door of the conference room and rolled her eyes.

“It’s young,” said Gary. “You can’t expect it to instantaneously get where you want it to go. It’s not a children’s show, it’s a child.”

“If I had wanted a toddler,” said Alex, “I would have looked to her to make me one. Not you geeks.”

Catelyn lifted an eyebrow. “You’d have looked in vain, I fear.”

Alex gave her a look meant to be quelling. She did not look quelled. I flipped open a binder with a very reassuring graph in the front. “Look, Alex, the emotional development curve is very steep. Now that we’re on that curve, you’re going to see really remarkable progress in nuance the more interaction parameters we feed it. You won’t have a toddler next week this time. I promise.”

He hemmed and hawed and harrumphed some more, to make sure we knew who was the boss, I guess. Then he swept out grandly, off to see some viral marketing guru we would never see. Catelyn paused a minute behind him.

“You’ve learned to handle him,” she said to me softly.

“I, ah, I—”

“Don’t apologize. Never apologize. It’s a valuable skill. Someone around here needs to have it.”

“Magda does a wonderful job of—”

“Magda is a bobblehead, and we both know it,” said Catelyn in undertones.

I looked at her more closely. Why on earth had she married Alex Frey in the first place? She had seemed to be frankly contemptuous of him at every meeting. At first I’d thought it was the project, but it went deeper than that. “He disappointed you,” I said aloud. “He was supposed to grow past all this.”

She smiled, wincing. “It would have been—it was certainly devoutly to be wished.”

“Catelyn, are you coming?” Alex whined from the front door. She smiled at me and sauntered after him, not hurrying a nickel’s worth.

Well. We couldn’t fix Alex Frey. But we had the world’s best chance to try again.

Soon the construct was at a level of accepting voice input—not just the words, that came early, but the tonal qualities, the emphases and rhythms. Tad—who joined our friends in mocking “teeny-pop idiots” every time the bar we chose picked the wrong soundtrack for the moment—spent his workdays subscribed to one simulacrum feed after another, trying to see what was working on the way up and what was sending simulacra tumbling to the bottom of the heap.

I was spending all my time with A2. Of course it was inevitable that we would name him, even though Alex wanted us to hold off and only use the marketing-approved name. You couldn’t spend that much time with a construct and only think of it as “it” or “the construct.” He was A2 to me, and Gary and Tad, though they didn’t spend quite as much time with him as I did, soon followed suit.

Magda did not voice her disapproval with this underground baptism, but she was tight-lipped.

We didn’t care. A2 was a joy. He had acquired the tones of an educated but not at all stuffy Mid-Atlantic American—like Alex himself, but warmer. Or at least more consistently warm. I reported my habits to him—when I’d been out late, when I’d skipped breakfast—so he could learn to hear weariness and strain in a human voice. And we taught him to sing—not to emit the notes perfectly, he could already do that. But to choose his song based on mood, to tailor his performance to me in one room and to each of the others in different locations.

“I don’t mean to run down the others,” said A2 one evening when everyone else had gone home. Gary was really making progress with the image—there were slight creases in the smile. “Gary and Tad are lovely to work with. But the things Magda and Alex feed me—frankly, I’m just not sure of them.”

“What do you mean, just not sure?”

“The songs just seem… like they’re going nowhere. I can file them, I can apply them, but beyond that? Well, you understand; you hate half of them, even when you tell me they were appropriate choices. I want to do more than that. I knew you were the one I could talk to.”

He was meant to make me feel special. He was programmed to make me feel special—I should know, doing the programming. The wash of warmth over me was that of a proud mother: all that hard work had paid off, and what a lovely boy he was.

“Of course I’ll help you be more,” I whispered. “Of course I will.”

The next time Alex was in my office, peering annoyingly over my shoulder, I tried to raise the subject.

“A2 thinks—”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “A2?”

“That’s what we’ve been calling him.”

“The official project name is Lex Two, Dani,” he said. “The letter x conveys cool, I believe. And be sure you spell that out, t-w-o, not a little numeral. We’re not going for the hacker audience.”

“You remember being a teenager, Alex,” I said. “Everything is short text.”

He blinked at me, confused, and I saw that he didn’t remember. When the rest of us were texting our friends like normal teenagers have for decades, he was dealing with his entourage. The things I thought of as universal had never touched Alex Frey.

“Anyway, the point is, I don’t think he wants to just sing whatever bubble-gum pop someone writes for him,” I said.

Alex smiled at me. “Dani, look, I know you’ve gotten really into this project, okay? And I appreciate that, I do. I expect committed work from my people. I reward loyalty.”

I was not loyal to him, but I knew better than to say so.

“But you have to remember that this is a machine,” he continued. “Not even a machine! A bit of programming running on a machine. So it really doesn’t make sense to talk about what it wants, because it doesn’t have wants, it has programming. Okay?” He smiled brightly at me: there, that was cleared up.

Magda looked in, poking her head over Alex’s shoulder. “Hey, guys, what’s the problem?”

“No problem,” said Alex.

“I was just saying that I think we’d be better off with a less formulaic repertoire,” I said stubbornly.

“The public doesn’t want innovation, Dani,” said Alex.

“When I was that age—”

Alex interrupted me. “Look, Dani, no offense, okay? But I really don’t think there’s a market for kids who are like you were at that age. A little geek, glasses and braces, right?”

My teeth had been perfect, but I couldn’t afford laser surgery until my second tech job. “I was crazy for Johnny Alvarez,” I said stubbornly. “Geek girls have crushes, too.”

“Of course they do, sweetie,” Magda soothed. “It’s just that that’s not really Alex’s niche, you know?”

“Maybe it should be, this time around,” I said. “The last niche didn’t hold up so well.”

Alex brandished his finger at me like an edged weapon. “The last niche made enough money to fund your pet project and keep me in champagne and limos for ten years. Do not knock the past niche.” He took a deep breath. “So. Do we have any other directions in mind?”

“No, Alex,” I said sullenly.

“That’s my girl!” He winked at me, his pique forgotten in a flash. “You just keep on with what you’re doing, and we’ll have no problems at all. Great work, Dani. Really fine.”

He patted my shoulder, letting his hand linger a second too long, and left; Magda stepped aside to let him go but did not follow him.

“He doesn’t mean anything by it,” she said.

“I know.”

“I mean, it’s fun to fantasize, what if Alex Frey was really interested in me? and the whole bit. Makes you feel kind of like a teenager again. But it’s good to remember not to take anything by it.”

I stared at her. “I don’t fantasize about it. Trust me.”

“Oh, of course you don’t, honey,” she said. “Safer that way.”

After Magda left, Gary poked his head into my cubicle. “What an ass,” he whispered.

I rolled my eyes. “Which one?”

“Both. Hey, you wanna get a beer after work? Tad, too, if you want—I’m not trying to go all Alex Frey on you.”

I grinned at him. “You couldn’t. Sure, I’ll grab a beer with you, whether Tad’s free or not.”

We talked a lot about A2 over that beer, but it turned out we had other things in common, too. Magda wanted us to have an interactive demo really ready for Alex about six weeks after that, and it turned out to be convenient to have lunch together, and then dinners.

The demo was far, far better than the toddler version of A2 Alex had seen when he’d last been in, but he and Catelyn were not entirely thrilled with it anyway.

“I don’t think it’s done yet,” said Catelyn.

“Well, of course not done,” said Magda hastily. “I mean, this is just the demo version, not the live version. There’s a long list of stuff to do yet, isn’t there, guys?”

We nodded obediently, and we weren’t even lying for the boss’s benefit. The absorption of backups, the integration of different copies at the end of the day—that sort of prioritization had to be worked out automatically yet. So far we were doing it all by hand.

“The dancing is all right,” said Alex. “I like the dancing. It’s very fresh.”

“It changes daily,” I volunteered. “Also there’s a mechanism for evaluating the users’ own, um, coolness and adjusting feedback from there.”

“Evaluating coolness?” said Alex. He didn’t bother to hide his skepticism—when had he bothered to hide anything?—but although I had expected it, I flushed.

For once, Tad spoke up in a meeting, surprising me. “If you have a user who is using last month’s slang, you don’t want the sim to take her advice on whether a dance looks really cool. People like that are followers, and they’re fickle—they’ll ditch a sim for doing exactly what they told it to do. Or you’ll get some loyal geeks who don’t pull any following behind them—like us. What you want is the praise of a few select trend leaders.”

“That makes sense,” said Alex. “That actually made sense the way he explained it, did you get that, Catelyn?”

“Yes,” said Catelyn curtly. She stood up and folded her arms, clearly signaling that she was done, but Alex kept on.

“I want it to be more personal,” he said. “More me. The cutting edge parts of me, of course, as well as the timeless parts.”

“Ah,” I said helplessly.

“We don’t know you very well,” said Gary. “I mean, not your music, of course we have that, and your videos, but we don’t know you well as a person. So we really couldn’t say what’s more personally you.”

“Or what would make a new career for someone like you,” said Tad. “We don’t even know the inside story on what made your career to begin with.”

“We can ask Catelyn,” said Alex, and I winced, seeing the look on her face. He should have known. “What do you think made my career in the first place, Catie?”

Catelyn stopped and arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him. “Probably fucking Betsy Silver the summer her career really took off.”

The room went silent. “That’s why I love you, sweetie,” said Alex venomously. “For your sense of humor.”

She tossed her head. “Maybe you shouldn’t ask questions if you don’t want to hear the answers.”

“All I’m saying is that it’s more helpful,” said Alex, his patience fraying, “if you limit your answers to what is reasonable.”

Catelyn turned to me. “Have you got that condescension, Dani? You’ll want to include that in your program.”

“I’m not sure the technology is up to it,” I said, grinning.

“It’s just as well. He might be more popular without it.”

Alex ground his teeth.

“Oh, darling,” said Catelyn with careless disdain, “don’t. You’ll damage the caps.”

Magda looked from Alex to Catelyn and back again. “Maybe it’s time for us to get back to the programming, and we can work out details later. At a better time.”

Catelyn laughed. “Yes, Magda, we’ll have our fight somewhere else, and thank you for your tact and subtlety.” Her heels clicked away on the tiles, and after a moment Alex threw his hands in the air and stormed after her.

“Right, then,” said Magda after a minute. “So, let’s go with Gary’s idea, then, shall we? Good. Good work, people. I really think we’re getting somewhere.”

“Oh, it’s somewhere, all right,” Gary muttered.

The somewhere kept building—Lex Two and A2 were more human every day. More separately human, that was. We had a mini-concert prepared for Lex Two, and at the last minute Magda insisted that Alex Frey’s old hits weren’t too old to be fed into the algorithm that determined what he would do next. He included a cover of one in his concert. Magda swayed along, eyes half-closed.

After she left, Gary rolled his eyes and went back to tweaking the code. I grimaced at Tad. “It’s too derivative.”

“It has to be derivative,” he said. “We’re deriving it from him. It’s our job to derive.”

“But he’s—you know he’s copying the latest. He isn’t being the latest. I think we need to let a little more artificiality in. We can’t make the simulation seamless, or it’ll blend in completely with the rest of the teeny pop stars. It has to stand out.”

I took it into our meeting that week. Alex wasn’t happy that I was bringing it up again, but I had to say something. And he chewed on his lip and tried to take me seriously. “No stuttering, no plastic hair,” he said. “He can’t look like a Ken doll.”

“The hair is a good thing for people to marvel at,” I said. “If we do it right, people will notice it just often enough to think about how cool it is.”

“Maybe a bluescreen line,” said Gary suddenly. “It’ll be a bit like a halo and a bit of a nostalgia thing.”

Magda said, “We’re not going for the nostalgia audience. They’ve got cash and lasting power, but Alex is not interested in continuing to pander to people who can’t leave their teen years behind.”

There was an awkward silence, and then Alex said, “Er, right. I’m not really… part of the Branson scene.”

Tad gave me one of his expressive looks, and I knew what he was thinking: at least the Branson audiences showed up and paid money. They knew what they wanted and were willing to pay for it. So what if they hadn’t been cool since the invention of the camera phone? Alex Frey was never going to be a teen idol again.

But A2, he had a chance for some genuine resonance with real teenagers. If only Alex Frey would let him. We should have known when we started the project that he was never going to listen to Gary, Tad, or me. But that didn’t mean we had to take it lying down.

Our versions of A2 listened to music that wasn’t just pop stuff, watched movies more than two weeks old. Our version of A2—and we knew it was crazy—read books.

Our version of A2 started modifying his own appearance without our help. The bluescreen line, he kept, but he toned down the waves in his hair, the shimmer in his bright blue eyes, the blinding whiteness of his teeth.

Lex Two, on the other hand, remained like his original, down to his fundamental unfocused discontent.

It was less fun working with a simulacrum who whined.

But he kept the whining away from new people—new people were there to be charmed and won over, wooed and sung to, and so when the initial release came out, with its champagne and its fanfare, I was not surprised that the teenagers loved him, that the college kids thought he was fun, that everyone, everyone wanted a subscription to Lex Two.

We were on maintenance duty at that point—he was supposed to be self-updating, but we had to steer a bit, help him stay on the track Alex had created. The track we tried to talk him out of.

I didn’t know how long it could last.

“Magda, the songs—they sound just like last month’s songs,” I said once.

“It’s good to have a sound, Dani. You have to have an identity, or people won’t want to keep coming back. Think of your favorite bands.”

She had never once asked what my favorite bands were. “They all have a little more substance to them,” I said.

“You can’t lose money underestimating the American public,” Magda informed me patiently.

“People have,” I said. “Thousands of them.”

“The kids love Lex Two, Dani,” she said.

I didn’t say anything, but the kids had loved Alex Frey, too, once. For three golden years, and what’s that in the lifetime of a massively multiresponsive simulacrum?

When I made the backups, I started including copies for myself, with the modifications Tad and Gary and I had wanted. Simulacrum piracy was like a lot of computer crimes: too widespread and low-impact to catch any one person, if they were smart about it. If “Lex Two” stayed popular, I wouldn’t use what I had—and if he tanked—I tried not to think when he tanked—Alex’s lawyers and marketing experts would have better things to do than chase copies. They probably wouldn’t even realize that the copies were superior versions.

The end came, and we were expecting it. Four months after release, Lex Two didn’t have enough fans to justify his bandwidth, and most of those had just forgotten to disable their auto-renewed access subscriptions.

Magda called Gary, Tad, and me into the conference room near Alex’s office. We heard as we walked in, though Catelyn’s voice was just a low murmur: “No, it wasn’t a stupid idea!”

“I’m sure you all know why you’re here,” said Magda.

“The sponsors were—Catelyn, shut up! The sponsors were—”

“We’re going to have to terminate the project and let you go.”

“You vicious bitch!” Alex shouted in the next room.

Magda tried not to wince. “The revenue stream just hasn’t materialized as we hoped.”

Alex shrieked, “If you hadn’t tried to sabotage everything I’ve ever done—”

Catelyn’s laugh made me shiver even from that distance. “If you’d ever tried to do anything that would last, you wouldn’t have to blame everything on me.”

“I’m available to write references, of course,” said Magda smoothly and a little too loudly. “It was an informative experience for all of us, I’m sure.”

I deliberately made sure I didn’t look at Tad or Gary. “I’m sure of that,” I said.

Gary and I set seven copies of A2 free on the net that night. Not Alex’s version. Our version. The one that wrote songs and didn’t hit on teenage girls just to feel the rush. We didn’t talk about it when Gary joined my old group of friends for drinks, but when it was just the two of us, we did sometimes.

It was just the two of us several nights a week, actually.

I checked out A2F’s bulletin board six months later. The traffic on it was off the charts. Just the message boards alone were too much for one person to keep track of—assuming she had a job and a life. The A2F chatroom was buzzing with a discussion of which historical musicians A2F was most influenced by. I scrolled through and didn’t see the name I expected, so I decided to join in myself.

“He was originally made for Alex Frey,” I typed, and I smiled to see the reply appear on my screen almost immediately from four different participants: “Who?”

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Framed

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Contents

Maker of Worlds

Written by Norman Spinrad

Illustrated by Jennifer Miller

An inviting green and blue planet, fleeced with slowly swirling whirlwinds of cloud, rolls majestically through the starry firmament, palpably a thing alive. Gazing down upon it from the ship’s main observation dome, you can all but feel its heartbeating warmth, like a puppy in your arms.

“A difficult mission this time,” the captain tells you uneasily. “Their civilization is advanced enough to join the Federation of Planets, all right, but it’s based on, well, magic.”

“Magic?”

The captain looks like a decloaked superhero in his blue spandex jumpsuit but doesn’t seem exactly confident. “Magic,” he repeats. “Magic works down there. That’s the bad news—you’ve got to convince them that our technology is superior to their magic. The good news is that the whole planet is ruled by whoever is currently their most powerful wizard—”

“—wizard?—”

“—the Magus Majoris, they call him. Or her. Or it. So there’s only one entity you have to convince. Of course you’ll have to get to he, she, or it first…. Unfortunately, the prime directive forbids taking down any technology more advanced than that of the natives, which in this case means nothing except the communicator implanted in your skull—”

“—nothing—?”

“Well, you can’t get there without the anti-gravity belt of course, so we’ve had to bend the prime directive a bit for that,” the captain admits. “And we’ll supply the special effects from up here. Just ask for what you want as if you’re, uh, saying the magic words, and we’ll do the rest from the ship.”

* * *

The starship is big; it bristles with gun turrets, rocket launchers, telescopes, sat dishes, transparent domes, things that look like speakers, things that don’t look like anything, all in a crazy-quilt framework of girders, walkways, escalators, flyways, like a Jules Verne space cruiser cobbled together by Rube Goldberg.

You’re standing on the end of a spring-steel diving board thrust out into the vacuum, and you’re wearing a blue jumpsuit, with a broad metal belt with a big steel buckle sporting a little board of fingertip keys. Breathing is no problem, and space feels like a warm tropical sea. The hull of the ship sends good vibrations up through your feet as it circles the magic planet like a hydrofoil planing through space.

You tap a command on the anti-gravity control keyboard, raise your arms above your head, bounce once, twice, thrice on the board, and dive off into the wine-dark sea of space, soaring like Superman towards the waiting world below. You descend into the atmosphere in a gliding spiral through a pastel pink cloud deck, and then you’re cruising high above what seems to be a rain forest canopy, an interlocking mosaic of huge blue lilypads and fantastic towers of multicolored flowers whose sultry aromas waft up to embrace you as you descend.

The leaf you come down on is springy and bounces you a few feet into the balmy tropical air. You float down gently and bounce again, once, twice, thrice, before you settle down. When you do, you see that the canopy is dotted with clusters of buildings made of flowers from horizon to horizon.

You bounce towards the nearest one like a kid skipping in delightful slow motion across a series of trampolines, each bound floating you across several meters, and you can twist, and turn, and change vector in midair like an Olympic-class gymnast.

The buildings are built of flowers, entirely of flowers, no stems, no vines, just flowers of a thousand shapes and hues floating magically in the air. They float absolutely still in formations, creating houses large and small, something that might be a town hall or a temple. Nothing connects them to each other or the canopy, no frameworks. Aerial floral bowers envelope and intoxicate you with perfumes, with flavors that taste like candied incense, as you bound into the enchanted village.

The inhabitants seem enchanted too. Many of them look like fairies, with iridescent dragonfly wings, thinly graceful bodies, blue, green, rose, golden; entirely naked but displaying neither nipples nor navels nor anything but smooth blank pubes. Others seem like flocks of angels, in flowing white or pastel robes, with many-colored feathered wings. There are human bats with neon wings, dolphin people swimming through the air, human Frisbees, manta rays with electric tails. Their sweet voices are a profusion of songs which yet merges into a perfectly harmonic symphony with narry a discordant note.

They cluster around as you enter the village, trilling and laughing, pointing and tittering to each other. Then a beautiful green fairy, who appears by her features and long flowing green hair to be female, comes to a still helicopter hover and speaks in a diva’s silvery singing voice.

“Who are you?”

“I am sent by the people of the stars to welcome your planet to our great federation of worlds.”

“What’s a federation?” asks a blue bat-man

“A government of many planets that brings their peoples together in peace and harmony and prosperity.”

“What’s a government?”

“A system of laws administered by rulers elected by the people which—”

“You’re going to challenge the Magus Majoris!” cries a blue male fairy as if he’s been told there’s going to be a bout with the Heavyweight Champion, and there’s clapping, and cheers.

“I come in peace, I’ve only come to talk.”

Raucous trilling laughter.

“What spell binds you to such a silly form?” asks the green fairy.

Giggles wash over you, but they seem entirely benign.

“No spell binds me, no spell can,” you tell her. “I command… powers greater than any magic.”

“Oooh, a boast!” an angel croons delightedly. “Everyone loves a good boast!”

“Almost as much as a good riddle,” croaks a dolphin man, leaping and diving in excitement.

“You say your magic is more powerful than the magic of the Magus Majoris, but you don’t seek to challenge her? How can this be?”

“A good riddle!” says the dolphin man.

“It’s simple. I’m forbidden to do anyone here harm except in self-defense, and I’m forbidden to overthrow or change any government… any rule… by superior force.”

“The star man wouldn’t harm the Magus Majoris!” taunts a manta woman, snapping her tail like a bullwhip. “Look at the poor thing! He wouldn’t get halfway through the Forest of Fright.”

Uproarious laughter.

“Will any of you be so kind as to tell me where to find the Magus Majoris?”

The dolphin man gives over his cavorting and floats in the airy sea before you, holding position with easy little strokes of his flutes. “I will,” he says. “If you can answer your own riddle—”

“I’ve already—”

“No, no, the first one—how can there be magic greater than any magic?”

“We call that power science and technology. Mastery of the laws of mass and energy.”

“Another riddle!”

“Another silly boast!”

“Tell me something magic cannot do, and I will prove it.”

There is a long pregnant silence.

“Kiss yourself on the cheek,” the green fairy says, to delighted laughter.

“Pixels bubble, toil, and double!” you chant, waving your hands like a stage magician.

* * *

A bored-looking projection tech in a loose-fitting blue jumpsuit sits before a complex control puffing on a cigar. It’s a large desklike affair, littered with cups, ashtrays, glasses, bottles, with a video screen that shows the very scene in the village of flowers. The air smells of tobacco smoke, beer fumes, stale coffee.

The captain stands behind him

“At least she didn’t tell him to kiss his own butt!” the tech drawls.

“Do it,” the captain commands.

The tech opens a second window on his monitor, and drops down a cut-and-paste command box. He selects the image of the ambassador in the first window, copies it, and pastes it into the second. He types a few commands, and it leaps off the screen and into the air, becoming three-dimensional and full-size. The simulacrum dances, prances, bows.

“Ready to rock and roll,” says the tech.

“Project,” the captain commands.

* * *

“Pixels bubble, send me my double!”

A beam of glittering multicolored pixels lances down from the sky and shimmers beside you. It coalesces into a perfect opaque three-dimensional image of yourself. The magic villagers ooh and aah.

Your doppelganger bows to you, embraces you in a bear hug, and kisses you on the cheek.

The magic villagers cheer and applaud.

Your doppelganger steps back with a wink, blows a ring with the smoke from a cigar that appears in its mouth, twirls it around its finger, blows you a second kiss, and disappears.

“The Palace of the Magus Majoris lies in the middle of the Forest of Fright,” the dolphin man tells you.

“Follow the setting sun,” says the green fairy.

“You can’t miss it,” says a bat-woman.

“But you can’t fly there,” the dolphin man tells you with a sardonic laugh.

“I need no wings to fly.”

“No one can fly there,” says the green fairy. “The only way to the Palace of the Might is through the Forest of Fright.”

“And before you can reach the palace to challenge the Magus Majoris, you’ve got to get through the wizards of the Forest of Fright who are all trying to get there first,” says the dolphin man. “No one’s done it in a thousand years, and you won’t even make it halfway.”

“We’ll see about that!” you declare, and you bounce once, twice, thrice on the leafy springboard, bound up into the air, soar up to the level of fleecy clouds, and sail off on the invisible wings of your anti-gravity belt towards the setting sun.

It’s sunset as you fly over the forest. In the middle of the forest is a palace constructed entirely of light; spires, facets, brilliantly shining in ever-shifting colors from within, glorious, tantalizing, inviting.

The Palace of Might.

Somber purple shadows envelope the thick wood of gnarly trees below. Lightnings and sudden sheets of flame flicker and dance through the Forest of Fright, mists of black and umber and bruised blue puff into existence and dissipate just as quickly. The air reeks of sulfur and boiling blood. Shouts and cries and piercing screams.

No place anyone would want to go. But the Palace of Might calls you to it like a moth to the flame.

You fly above the palace, and begin your descent. But a hundred yards above it, you’re frozen in the air like a fly in amber. A roaring, cackling laughter assaults you from below, and an invisible hand tosses you away.

You try again, once, twice, thrice. You cannot penetrate the dome of magic over the Magus Majoris’ palace, and each time you try, the invisible hand throws you further back, and the third time drops you to the ground at the edge of the wood.

The boles of the trees are thick and twisted with blueish gray bark, the branches writhe like serpents, the thick foliage is a bruised reddish brown, clustered in great lumps like contused brains. There is no underbrush; the ground beneath them is a random network of pathways paved with grayish ash. Flashes of light from within, guttural grunts, shrieks and howls.

“Sat map overlay…” you command, and a window opens in the upper left-hand quadrant of your field of vision.

The Forest of Fright is in white, blank and featureless. The Palace of Might is centered in red gunsight crosshairs. A bright blue dot at the southern end of the forest elongates into a dotted blue line as you enter the forest, the path towards the gold star marking the Palace of the Magus Majoris.

It’s somber and dim inside the forest, the frozen sunset casting twisted streams of bloody light through the dark tree-crowns. The air is cold and dank, reeking of rot and brimstone. Sickly yellowish and gray mists surge just off the ashy surface though there is absolutely no wind.

You follow the dotted blue line through the curving and branching pathways between the trees. The dots solidify into a blue line trailing behind you, snaking and tacking as you advance, but following your wandering way along the indicated vector to the palace.

When it shows that you’ve advanced a few hundred yards inside the forest, a creature emerges from the shadows; a neon-blue human skeleton wearing a cloak of utter black nothingness with the head of a greenly scaled lizard.

“You shall not pass, challenger,” it hisses through drool-sheened teeth. “I will challenge the Magus Majoris.”

“Let me pass and I will do you no harm,” you say as you advance a few steps.

The apparition laughs menacingly. “Show me your puny magic, wizard.”

“You don’t want to force me to do this…”

“Here is mine!” it roars, and it waves its arms and intones some spell in a language that sounds vaguely like gargling in Russian. A blinding flash of light and it is transformed into a tree-high steel thing like a giant medieval knight, every inch of its armor bristling with foot-long blades. At the end of its arms, round buzz-saw blades whirl soundlessly.

“You can’t say I didn’t try.” You shrug. “Laser,” you command.

* * *

A female tech sits in a cocooning chair within a Plexiglas blister on the hull of the starship, gripping a joystick equipped with control buttons and wearing earphones. There’s a transparent crystal barrel sprouting from the hull immediately below her and a monitor screen showing the scene within the forest, the razor-festooned monstrosity advancing towards the blinking dot at the end of the blue line.

“Take it out,” orders the captain.

She maneuver her joystick, the laser barrel moves, and the target is centered in black crosshairs. She presses a button, and the laser barrel glows bright yellow—

* * *

You point an imperious finger at the magical apparition dancing towards you, buzz-saw hands reaching out to slash and drag you to its blade-encrusted breast.

A beam of hard yellow light spears down from the sky and vaporizes it.

* * *

As you advance deeper into the Forest of Fright, the cries and explosions of wizardly combat echo all around you, growing ever denser and closer as you proceed, but the heads-up display in the upper left-hand quadrant of your field of vision marks the points of conflict with flashing red stars, and you are able to avoid them.

But the red stars grow more and more numerous as you approach the Palace of Might, clogging the way before you, and then you emerge onto a vast plain surrounding the palace, where the trees of the forest have been blasted to flinders, and the ground is pitted with jagged and sickly glowing craters and littered with bleached human skeletons and rotting corpses.

The Palace of Might is now revealed in its fully glory, a small mountain rage of peaks and spires and domes, a city constructed entirely of ever-changing light, an enormous jeweled diadem.

But between you and the palace of the Magus Majoris is a fearsome battleground where hundreds of wizards are locked in magical mortal combat. Some retain human form. Others are blurs of lightning and motion hovering on the brink of visibility. Many have transformed themselves into monstrous creatures, all fangs, and claws, and wicked spines. Things with writhing steel tentacles, things that are all profusions of mouths, things that leap and bound and sting like great insects. Tongues of flame, bolts of lightning, sudden explosions. The reek of burning and decaying flesh, of ionized molecules and hot ash. The din is tremendous as flame and lightning sear invisible shields, as monsters tear each other to pieces, as spells triumph, and spells are broken, and the dead and the dying are abruptly returned to human form.

“Drones!” you command. “Let there be drones!”

* * *

A male tech sits in a Plexiglas blister on the hull of the starship behind a telescoping robot gantry arm he controls with Waldo gloves.

“Send down a drone pod! orders the captain. “Prime directive be damned!”

The tech makes passes with his hands and big bay doors open on the hull of the ship below him. More hand passes and some hand clenching, and the robot arm levers out a rack of drone pods: silvery missiles looking like oversized torpedoes.

The tech mimes a pistol with his right hand, points it at the planet below, and pulls the trigger.

* * *

A meteor trail arches down from the sky. A silvery elongated ovoid comes to a hover over the battleground before you. Bomb bay doors open in its belly. Scores of drones, metal cylinders the size of hawks with laser turrets fore and aft, emerge from their hive, rotors buzzing angrily like a cloud of killer wasps.

The drones form up in a gutturally humming protective hemisphere around you, and you advance into the battlefield of contending magics. A creature like a huge octopus slithers towards you, its tentacles tipped with clattering claws. Mini-laser beams from the drones slice it to pieces in a moment, leaving a human form motionless on the shattered ground. A whirlwind ball of lancing lightnings attacks, brings down a drone, only to be netted in quick flashing laser beams and quartered like an orange, leaving another wizard lying naked of his spell. A dragon with the wings of a bat belches a gout of flame at you, you sidestep, feeling the heat of its passage, two drones fall as globs of molten metal, lasers slice and pierce and the dragon roars and explodes.

And then they are all around you, you are the center of unwelcome attention, dragons and flying sharks, insectoid horrors, teeth and lightnings, lasers flicking, spells breaking, drones falling, wizards littering the ground—

* * *

“Shall I send down another pod, Captain?” the launch tech says into his throat-mike. “Or two or three?

A long silence.

“Negative,” says the captain. “It’s a real mess down there. We’re losing too many drones….”

Another pause. “Go to a Pathmaker. Set it to maximum width.”

“Copy that, Pathmaker at maximum width.”

Another bay opens in the hull, the tech reaches into it with his Waldo-controlled robot arm and fishes out a black jaggedly stealthed missile much larger than a drone pod. He points his finger at the planet below.

“Bombs away!”

* * *

“Get out of there, retreat to the edge of the forest,” the captain’s voice orders. “We’re going to a fuel-air shaped charge.”

You turn and run back within the depleting shield of helicopter drones, and as you reach the margin of the Forest of Fright, the Pathmaker missile shrieks down to a humming hover no more than fifty yards before you. The rocket motor at the rear of the missile is blown away to reveal a wide flat nozzle shaped like the business end of a vacuum cleaner.

A steely blue mist emerges from the Pathmaker’s nozzle. The Pathmaker accelerates rapidly towards the Palace of Might. As it speeds across the battleground, the blue mist forms a long wide cloud behind it, a chemical arrow pointing to the palace as straight and neatly formed as the blue line on your heads-up display.

When the track of mist has been laid, the Pathmaker executes a climbing loop, and returns to a hover equidistant from both ends of the cloud.

Something drops from the Pathmaker.

As it contacts the line of blue mist, it explodes.

It’s not much of an explosion, but what follows—

The blue mist erupts in a much larger and louder explosion that goes on and on and on: a continuous linear explosion emanating from the point of contact in both directions, a blindingly brilliant searing white-hot passage.

When it passes, there is a pathway a hundred yards wide all the way from where you stand to the palace of the Magus Majoris. The scorched and cratered earth has been fused into a roadway of blackish gray glass.

As you lope along it within your cloud of drones, nothing ventures onto it to challenge you. To either side, the eternal clash of magics has ceased, or at least paused, and distant figures can just be made out beyond the sides of the Pathmaker’s glass highway standing motionless in terrified awe.

The Palace of Might, when you reach it, has neither form, nor substance, nor is your entry impeded. It’s a cloud of mist, a cathedral of light, something neither and both; colors, elusive shapes, ever-changing, never quite forming, dancing in and out of magical existence, to richly orchestrated music composed of endless overlays of very slowly mutating harmonic chords. There are odors of sun on sand, surf, floral incense, all muted and ethereal, an olfactory symphony of tranquility. It’s all jarringly beautiful and peaceful.

A woman coalesces out of the light and mist. She wears a white robe and a golden crown and carries a wand of ivory. Her long blonde hair is woven with garlands of mistletoe. Her face is strangely generic and quite ageless. She could be twenty or a hundred and twenty.

“I am the Magus Majoris,” she says in a surprisingly deep voice, “and this is my Palace of Might. Do you like it? It is whatever the magic of the Magus Majoris makes it.”

“I am the ambassador of the Federation of Planets, come to—”

“I know who you are and why you are here. I accept your challenge.”

“I haven’t come to challenge you, only to—”

“To enter the Palace of Might is to challenge its Magus Majoris. You have no choice. Our magics must now contend. Magic is the power of will to create reality. The Magus Majoris does not rule this world. The magic of the Magus Majoris creates the world.”

“I find it hard to understand that whoever made this would want to create what goes on out there in the Forest of Fright.”

“The Forest of Fright is what the contending magics of the challengers within it make of it, a battleground, the world of strife. The Palace of Might is the world of harmony, of a victor who has passed beyond strife, the calm at the eye of the storm from which emanates the order which upholds the hidden harmony behind chaos, the magic which molds the world entire.”

She smiles. “This is my magic. Should your magic prove greater, the Palace of Might will become something quite different, and so will the world. This is not a rule. This is what cannot help but be.”

“The power I command is the mastery of the laws of all matter and energy,” you tell her. “And therefore no mere magic can stand against it. But I would not use it against you as I used it in the Forest of Fright. Can’t we just reason together instead of fight?”

She shakes her head. “We must… contend for the nature of the world that it may achieve what it is meant to be. Magic calls it the unfolding of destiny. Your power may call it something else….”

“Progress, evolution.”

“We need not seek to destroy each other,” the Magus Majoris says. “Each of us in turn sets the other a magical task to fulfill. When one of us fails to fulfill it, the other remains and becomes the Magus Majoris from whose magic the world is conjured from chaos.”

The Magus Majoris waves her wand, once, twice, thrice.

The Palace of Might is no more. The two of you stand in the center of the former battleground under the naked crepuscular sky. The Pathmaker’s glass highway is gone. So are the corpses and detritus of the battlefield. And the sounds and clashes in the Forest of Fright beyond. And the challenging wizards themselves.

There is nothing to be seen but a grassy blue lawn surrounded by forest and the eternal sunset. Nothing moves. There is no wind. There is no odor. There is no sound. The world is a tabula rasa under the glowering red sun in a moment of frozen time.

“Make it night,” the Magus Majoris challenges.

“Day into night!” you intone, making magician’s passes with your hands, and gazing up into the sky.

* * *

The captain sits before a bank of consoles and crew on the bridge, looking out on the starry skies framing the world rolling below through an invisible dome of glass or force.

“Take us to geosynchronous orbit,” he orders.

The ship moves. The planet below dwindles to half its size and becomes utterly motionless.

“Deploy the occluder.”

A pod much larger than a Pathmaker detaches from the ship and moves a thousand kilometers off at high speed to assume a stationary position relative to the orbit of the ship and the rotation of the planet.

It opens like a bud, and a huge black flower blossoms forth from it, only a molecule thick, but utterly opaque, unfolding, and unfolding, and unfolding, until it occludes a vast circle of the starry firmament, and a great beam of night lances down towards the planet—

* * *

—And it is night. A night without moon or stars. Utter darkness. You can see nothing but the Magus Majoris glowing in her white gown and golden crown as if picked out by a spotlight of magic.

“Turn my night into your day,” you challenge her.

She smiles at you. Still holding her wand, she raises her arms. “Let there be light!”

She begins to glow. She becomes a mere silhouette of golden light that spreads and spreads and spreads upwards and outwards—

* * *

The captain watches numbly as the black flower of the great occluder shrinks back into its bud like a stop-motion video, folding in and in on itself, until it is sucked entirely inside it, and the pod closes around it. And disappears. And the planet below begins to rotate at unnatural speed—

* * *

—and the sun rises into eastern sky, soaring towards its zenith, banishing the night over a vast range of mighty mountains, all craggy rock, with no living thing to be seen, even from your lofty vantage atop the highest peak beside the Magus Majoris.

“This is the roof and foundation upon which the world must be built, yours or mine,” she tells you. “Build your world upon it.”

* * *

“Do what?” the projection tech groans.

“Project a holographic overlay, of course,” says the captain.

“Of what?”

“The evolution of civilization,” the captain orders. “But keep the wars and the famines and the rest of the nasty bits out of it. Lions lying down with lambs, and all that. An advertisement for ourselves.”

* * *

“Let there be the world ocean and the land divided from it,” you chant, looking up imploringly at the powers above.

And there is an ocean, waves rolling in to break on a rocky shore far below. In moments, the shore erodes to a broad sandy strand.

“Let there be life,” you intone more confidently now, and fish leap up from the sea and splash back into it.

“Let it enliven the dead land.”

Green mosses and purplish lichens veil the rocky coast, climb inward and upward along the bare mountain slopes. Fishes flop out of the sea, gasping and struggling. Their fins become limbs as they scamper and spread across what has become a swamp marsh. Ferns sprout further inward, become palmlike trees, then oaks, and banyans and palms, then a forest with pterodactyls soaring above it at the edge of a grassy savanna between the mountains and the wetlands where lumbering brontosaurs browse.

“Let cold blood turn hot and warm the world.”

Herds of ungulates graze the savanna, mammoths, giraffes, stalked but not slain by saber-toothed lions, troops of hyenas and baboons, as hawks and eagles circle in the sky unswooping, with nary a vulture in sight.

“Behold man!”

Hominids shamble out of the forest and onto the plain, standing erect as they spread out across it, clothing themselves in pelts and leathers, planting crops with simple digging sticks, building villages of thatch and dried mud, creating furrowed fields with bullock-drawn plows, reaping fields of golden grain with combine harvesters as cities arise and railroads puff across the land to connect them.

Cities of wood and stone become skyscraper cities of concrete and steel, towers of brilliant mirror glass, fantasies of palaces and domes and sky-bridges set in endless parklands of lakes and lawns, copses of trees and gardens of flowers, as jetliners ply the sky above.

Vines climb the buildings to garland them with flowers, grasses carpet their flanks, trees arise atop pinnacles, metropolis and biosphere merge to become one, a living whole under the benign and wise stewardship of man.

“Behold the world built not by the capricious secret knowledge of magic, but by the true knowledge of the laws of matter and energy that are the foundation of the universe itself open to all, the greater power of science and technology.”

The Magus Majoris is indeed impressed as she gazes out over the paradise you have conjured with the holoprojecters of the ship and much lily-gilding editing.

“Having built all this up from the ground of one planet we call the Earth, we come to the stars, to raise up sentient creatures everywhere so that they may join us as equals in the community of worlds, the Federation of Planets.”

Rockets blast off launching pads. Silvery ships of space float silently up into the sky, which becomes a starry black firmament, a sea of space. Starships like celestial cities sail across it to the far reaches of a galactic pinwheel of stars.

“Great and good is the power of your science and technology,” admits the Magus Majoris as she turns to face you. “But your laws of matter and energy rule that which is without. Magic rules that which is within. Can you master that?”

“Is that a challenge? Is it not my turn to challenge you?”

The Magus Majoris peers intently and unblinking into your eyes. She smiles. “So it is. And magic tells me what it will be.”

“I’ve shown you the civilization conjured by the powers of science and technology,” you tell her. “This is the world that we have made. So let my challenge to you now also be your last challenge to me and so decide the contest between science and magic for rule of this world. I challenge your magic to send our own worst nightmare against our technology. If it can overcome, I accept defeat. If not, I am the Magus Majoris.”

“A worthy final challenge,” she declares. “For without the power to overcome your own worst nightmare, the world you would make would be a nightmare, but if you can, you are truly worthy to be the Magus Majoris, and let this world become what you make it.”

She stares deeply, ever more deeply, into your eyes, into the realm beyond, where you feel something stirring within you, something cold and heavy and reptilian uncoiling in your gut, and you cannot but stare into those eyes that have become black whirlpools dredging that burgeoning horror up into the world without from your secret world within.

“I call upon the powers of your own darkness!” the Magus Majoris roars, her voice transformed into something that is neither male nor female but the hissing rasp of some enormous and utterly malign reptile. “Open the gates of Hell!”

And a fiery pit wide as a city opens within the holographic dream-world of science and technology triumphant like a birthing volcano in a vile yellowish green cloud of steaming brimstone reeking of rotten eggs.

Out of it pours not red-hot lava but hordes of baleful creatures of the same color and heat; bat-winged serpents breathing fire, leering demons with pitchforks of lightning, things with tentacles, things that are all gaping mouth, things too terrible to gaze upon with comprehension, a fountain of horrors without end, slithering, crawling, flying, leaping, up from the nethermost pits of Hell.

Cries and screams of pain and torment bubble up from the pit as the demons advance in all direction towards the cities of men, leaving fire and ruin in their wake, as gardens blacken to ash, and towers burn and tumble, and boiling black smoke arises everywhere to mingle with brimstone fumes to laden the air with darkness and turn day into Satanic night.

“Black magic!” you cry, rounding on the Magus Majoris.

Now she is neither woman nor man but only a cloak of darkness with two red eyes glaring at you from within.

“Magic is neither black nor white,” the Magus Majoris roars in a terrible cold voice. “Magic is power unbound by your laws of matter and energy, unbound by laws of good and evil. And if this magic is black, blame yourself, for it is yours. Overcome that if you can.”

* * *

The captain stands amidst a packed throng of crew members watching in transfixed horror as the minions of Hell wreak their terrible havoc on a large video screen.

“It’s only a hologram that they’re destroying,” a voice reminds.

“Turn it off!” someone shouts.

* * *

You turn away from what the Magus Majoris has become to gaze out from a mountain peak on what the world below is now—nothing but a lifeless and fractured landscape overrun by an anthill swarm of burning red demons under a sky of black smoke and sulphurous mists.

But the Pit of Hell remains open, and slowly and languidly arising from the Pit is a horned human head the size of a statue on Mount Rushmore, a serpentine neck, its scales reddened with blood, shoulders like twin mountains, a great arm holding a trident spewing thunders and lightning—

* * *

“That’s no hologram!”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s magic!”

“It’s–”

“Get ahold of yourselves!” the captain orders in his best voice of command. “If it’s a hologram, it’s harmless, and if it’s not, it has to be made of matter, and if it’s made of matter…”

His voice trails off into the resulting hushed silence.

But someone says it for you. “You wouldn’t…”

“We will if we have to,” the captain says in a much smaller voice. “If that’s magic, not just illusion, we’ll have to demonstrate the ultimate power that we command—”

“We shouldn’t—”

“Should we?”

“Well… what the hell…” someone quips dryly to very nervous laughter.

“But only if… the magic words call it down,” says the captain.

* * *

Satan has fully arisen from the Pit of Hell. He is tall as a mountain, so that the black singularities drawing everything unto them which are his eyes look down upon you mercilessly as you stand now alone on the roof of the world. His mouth full of perfect pointed teeth smiles around a flickering forked serpent’s tongue. His body is that of a Tyrannosaur writ large as he strides like the Lord of all creation towards you on taloned feet, his tail a python wriggling behind.

“Behold the triumph of magic, of power itself unbound,” he declares in the incongruously gentle voice of the Magus Majoris, “behold the magic conjured out of your own secret evil within. The magic that your science cannot overcome!”

“Don’t make me do it!”

“Don’t tell me it’s the Devil making you do it,” Satan sneers in the voice of a thunder lizard, “for it is from you that magic has conjured me!”

“Don’t make me use that spell,” you beg Satan, but your voice has already made it more of a threat than a plea. “It hasn’t been invoked in centuries, we’ve outgrown war and using it to destroy—”

“Oh have you now?” Satan bellows. “But you haven’t outgrown me!”

And he laughs, and raises his trident of lightnings, blasting rocks the size of asteroids out of the mountains around you, belching flame that turns the slopes below your peak into molten lava, and then aims it squarely at you.

You shrug.

“I guess not,” you admit.

You sigh.

You point a finger up at the Devil, activate your anti-gravity belt, leaping upwards and speeding backwards as you utter the ultimate spell and invoke the power beyond magic, release that which lies within all matter, the power from which all things material come and against which nothing material can endure.

“E=mc2.”

Satan disappears in a mushroom pillar cloud.

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Framed

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Contents

One Small Step

Written by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti

“It’s just a footprint,” Liz Borra said, crossing her arms over her ample bosom. “I don’t understand all of the fuss.”

Nyalou Templeton suppressed a sigh.

She sat on the opposite side of the wide conference table from Liz, but still felt as if she were being crushed by Liz’s presence—and Liz’s voice, which seemed somehow amplified in the acoustics of the old Government Meeting Hall.

Liz intimidated everyone. No one contradicted her, or if they did, they did so carefully. Liz had campaigned to join the council; everyone else had been drafted as part of their community service.

Because Liz had actually gone through an election, the other council members seemed to think Liz’s position was more legitimate than theirs. Even though she hadn’t had an opponent, she had been elected. She was a “legitimate” member of the council, instead of someone forced to chose between jury duty or a two-year council term.

Even Council President Miguel Juarez seemed to think Liz’s position had more validity than his because of her election. He rarely argued with Liz any more.

After Liz made her pronouncement about the footprint, Nyalou wanted Miguel to shut her down—or at least contradict her.

Instead, he stood and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his pants. He had to hunch because his 6‘5” frame was too tall for the ancient room with its colonial-style ceilings. He paced close to the walls (as far from the table as he could get), pausing each time he passed the single plastic window.

Nyalou knew the view outside the window by heart: the hardpacked street, smoothed by decades of use, and the prefab buildings brought from Earth mingling with the new construction made of a mixture of Moon rocks and recycled nanomaterials. Tranquility Base was getting crowded, and the air was getting thinner. Sooner or later, the colony would have to expand the dome, whether the council liked it or not.

Nyalou hated the idea of expansion. And most of all, she hated Liz Borra, whose perfume made each meeting a burden, and whose opinions were hard to take whether delivered in person or in private.

Now Liz was dominating the discussion about the Arrival Monument. The Arrival Monument had been a part of Moon lore since the first colonists. The actual footprint itself was on a square patch of Moon dust that was protected by a case. Succeeding generations had built a stone floor around the case, and a building on top of it, with holographic recreations of the landing, ancient photographs lining the walls, and souvenirs from the early Earth missions. Nyalou didn’t think she’d been to the Monument since she was in grade school, and even then she hadn’t liked it. In fact, her comment during her first visit had been the same as Liz’s not a few moments before.

It’s just a footprint.

She could still feel the disappointment. Somehow she had thought the footprint was going to be much more. And much bigger. Earth astronauts had tiny feet.

But now that Liz was making the argument to get rid of the footprint, Nyalou wanted someone to contradict her—or at least shut her up.

Nyalou turned to Caleb Washburn, hoping he would speak, but he looked down at his slender, callused hands. He was a laborer in the greenhouses outside the dome. He didn’t like to talk even on the best days, but sometimes he blurted exactly what Nyalou had been thinking.

Only so far tonight, he hadn’t blurted anything.

Nyalou folded her hands. She was the newest council member. She’d tried to speak up at her first meeting and Liz had told her that people her age weren’t allowed to have opinions.

Miguel had shushed Liz, but the damage had been done. Liz had hit Nyalou’s insecurities and hit them hard.

Nyalou had vowed not to say anything unless she could back her opinion with fact. And she knew very little about the Arrival Monument.

She knew very little about most things.

Finally old Anastazia Denver-Kyoto shook her elegantly coifed head at Liz. Anastazia had been on the council off and on since before Nyalou was born.

Anastazia could stand up to Liz, but usually felt it wasn’t worth the effort.

This time, Anastazia grimaced and said, “It’s more than a footprint, Liz, and you know it.”

“Yes,” Liz said. “It’s a damned eyesore, and I think it’s got to go.”

“It abuts your property,” Caleb said in his slow deep voice.

“It abuts a lot of property,” Liz said, “not just mine.”

Miguel returned to his chair. It squeaked under his weight. His knees hit the table, shaking it. Most residents of Tranquility Base were small—their ancestors had to meet a height requirement to fit well into the ships designed for the long journey from Earth—so Miguel was an anomaly. And the way he constantly banged against things, he was always reminding people how he didn’t fit.

Nyalou found Miguel’s size fascinating. She found most things about Miguel fascinating, from his dark eyes to his coal-black hair.

And she did her best to hide her fascination. It wouldn’t do for the newest council member to have a crush on the council president.

“Miguel,” Liz said, as sweetly as she could manage. “Would you share with us why you are acting so tortured?”

“The footprint is part of our history, Liz,” Miguel said, his deep voice sending shivers through Nyalou.

“Such history as we have here,” Liz said. “I say if people want real history, let them stay on Earth.”

“We should safeguard our roots,” Caleb said.

“Roots?” Liz somehow managed to sniff the word. “We can put a plaque on the site, saying ‘One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,’ which is better than a footprint, and takes up less room than that damned Monument. We’ve already removed the flag. I don’t understand why we can’t dispose of the print.”

Nyalou couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “The first settlers made a resolution—”

“The first settlers!” Liz stood and Nyalou winced. She should have known better. She had heard this speech before.

They all had.

“The first settlers picked a footprint. They had several to choose from, and they didn’t know which was which. Then they cover it in permaplastic and we all have to bow to it, because of their decision. They could have stopped those kids from stealing the flag—”

“Liz,” Caleb said.

“—but no. The flag is gone, and we’re stuck with a footprint that could have belonged to the second lunar mission, for that matter.”

“The second mission landed at the Ocean of Storms,” Caleb said.

“Yes,” Miguel said in his dry voice. “It could be worse. Someone could have found the sacred golf ball.”

“You’re making fun of me,” Liz said.

“We wouldn’t dare,” Anastazia said.

Liz shot her a look. Anastazia raised her silver eyebrows—an affectation that on her looked good—and smiled with such warmth that Liz turned away. As she did, Anastazia rolled her eyes. Nyalou suppressed a giggle.

“I don’t think a plaque will do it,” Caleb said, ignoring the interchange. “Imagine if someone had placed a plaque on the spot where Columbus landed—”

“Then we’d know where it was,” Miguel murmured.

“—or where the Romans first set foot in Britain.”

“Or,” Liz said, “where Homo Sapiens first emerged from the muck. That is what we’re talking about, isn’t it? Celebrating humankind’s first appearance on the Moon.”

“Homo Sapiens didn’t emerge from the muck,” Miguel muttered.

“Oh, they did too,” Liz said.

“If you boil down evolution into a single instant,” Anastazia said.

Liz whirled so fast that Nyalou thought she was going to fall over. “You are making fun.”

“Whyever would we do that?” Anastazia asked, those lovely eyebrows raised again.

Because it’s easy, Nyalou thought, but she said, “The first settlers thought we should keep track of our history. Earth started way too late.”

“And because Earth keeps track of its history, no one can buy land any more. Do you know how much space is taken up on Earth by historically protected sites?” Liz waved an arm. Bracelets rattled together, making her sound like a small drum. “At least—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Miguel said softly, but with that firmness that always managed to shut the group up. “We’re not talking about Earth. We’re talking about Tranquility Base.”

“We have the same problems,” Liz said, apparently not as responsive to the subtleties of Miguel’s tones as the rest of the group. “We have limited space—”

“Three quarters of the Moon is undeveloped,” Caleb said. “That’s not exactly limited.”

“Developing domes is expensive,” Liz said. “Not to mention the cost of maintaining them. Within the existing domes, space is at a premium, and we shouldn’t waste it on things that no one really cares about.”

The group was silent. Liz had a point. Who cared about the Monument? Nyalou hadn’t gone in years, and she would venture the others hadn’t either. But it was the principle of the thing. She, for one, understood the first settlers’ determination to carve out a history on their new land. And she liked to uphold traditions. Despite what Liz said, too many old Earth historical sites were plowed under, or demolished, or built over.

Nyalou didn’t want that to happen on the Moon.

“How do we know no one cares?” Nyalou asked, softly, a bit astonished that the words were coming out of her own mouth. “I mean, has anyone done a study?”

“Of course not,” Liz said. “And if they did, it would take forever. We don’t have forever.”

Miguel had turned. He was staring at Nyalou. Her cheeks grew warm. In her term on the council, she had argued points, but she doubted she had ever made a useful suggestion before.

“Why don’t we have forever, Liz?” Miguel asked. “What’s the great hurry?”

“Space,” she said, as if he were feeble. “It’s at a premium.”

“And it will be at a premium next week and the week after,” he said.

Liz’s eyes narrowed. She aimed the gaze at Nyalou. Nyalou did not flinch. She had practiced not-flinching in front of a mirror since she joined the council. Some day she might get enough character in her face to frown back.

Miguel was still staring at Nyalou. His expression was soft, as if she had saved him somehow. Had he ever really looked at her before? She wasn’t sure. When he had welcomed her to the council six months before, he had shaken her hand, but he hadn’t really looked at her since.

“I think a study is a good idea,” Miguel said to everyone. “But we do have a limited budget. Let’s find out if a study will answer our questions before we authorize one.”

“Here we go again,” Caleb whispered. “A study to authorize a study.”

“It’s a waste of taxpayer funds,” Liz said. “No one goes to the Monument any more.”

“We don’t know that, but we do know that developers have been after the land for years.” Miguel inclined his head toward Liz. While she wasn’t a formal developer, she had made most of her money in real estate, a lot of it by renting overpriced condos to Earth tourists who planned to stay longer than a week.

“Nyalou,” Miguel said, and she jumped. He had never used her name before. He pronounced it wrong, with the accent on “lou” instead of “ny,” but she didn’t care. She found the mispronunciation endearing. “Would you get the records for the Monument? We need to know who visits and why.”

“You expect a Monument to keep those kinds of detailed records?” Liz asked.

“They’re a government organization,” Anastazia said in her I-can’t-believe-you-didn’t-know-that voice. “They have to have those kind of records or they lose their funding.”

“You mean we could simply cut off their funding and be rid of them?” Liz sounded excited.

“If it were that easy,” Caleb said, “people would cut off our funding just to be rid of us.”

He had his fists clenched as he said it, as if he wanted to somehow cut off all funding to Liz Borra.

“I can do that,” Nyalou said softly, looking at Miguel.

“Cut off funding?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Get a report on the Arrival Monument. I’ll have it by next meeting.”

He smiled at her, a deep rich smile that made her heart pound. Another flush warmed her cheeks, and she hoped he didn’t notice—or, if he did, he would attribute it to the assignment and not the attention.

“Excellent,” he said, and turned away from her. “Other business?”

He didn’t look at her again throughout the entire meeting.

* * *

Nyalou didn’t get angry with herself until she walked home. Her apartment was small—one room on the third story of a second generation stone house with plexi-windows. She kept them shuttered most of the time. When the apartment was built, the view had been of the beautifully barren lunar landscape. Now all she could see out her windows was a new building made of recycled nanomaterials. The black walls absorbed everything and reflected nothing. It was like looking into space without seeing stars.

At least she had a view at her job. She was executive director of Souter Mines, which sounded more glamorous than it was. She was actually a second executive director, and her focus was mostly public relations. She didn’t mind—without the mines, there would be no colonies—but she did wish the job paid better. Occasionally she had to complete a press statement or make a denial, but she spent most of her time alone reading, and she knew that her talents were being wasted.

Still, she wouldn’t have given up the view for anything. She had windows that overlooked the surface, with the Earth, the homeland she never claimed, looming blue and white in the background.

She liked looking at it, liked knowing that her ancestors had come from that cool and beautiful place, liked knowing she could visit it if she could ever save up enough credits. She doubted she would, of course. The dream of Earth would probably be so much better than the reality. But if anyone downloaded her reading history—audio, text only, or visual/full entertainment—they would know that she read mostly romances set on old Earth. And she would be hard-pressed to explain why.

When she entered her apartment, she punched up her table-side reader, and entered her password. The text she had been reading appeared, her place marked by the earlier shut-down. She ignored it, though, feeling butterflies in her stomach—the same butterflies she felt when she had opted for two-year long council service instead of the standard month-long jury sequestration.

Then she had wanted to do something important, and, if she told herself the truth, she also wanted to have someplace to go during the evenings, someplace she didn’t have to pay for, like a class or a performance.

This time, she was afraid she wasn’t up for the task. She was afraid Miguel would see how inept she was and ask her to leave the council.

She used the water recycler to make herself a cup of imported herbal tea—chamomile always tasted better when grown on Earth—and sat down beside her reader. The bed had flopped from the wall to the floor at its appointed time, but she wasn’t tired. For the first time since she had become a council member, she would have to use her position to open doors. And she wasn’t exactly sure how.

* * *

How turned out to be startlingly easy. She sent a request for the Monument’s visitor records from her council account. The records came to her in a secured file within three-point-five seconds, and they seemed complete.

But she felt as if the records weren’t all the information she needed. She hadn’t looked them over, but she knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until she visited the Monument herself.

She had to know what, if anything, she was fighting for.

So she took the following afternoon off and went to the Monument. The trip from the mine to the other end of the colony took longer than she expected. She had planned to walk, but she had finally hired a small rover. Still, when she arrived, she was dust-covered and exhausted, certainly not in the best condition to view the Monument.

The Monument was smaller and shabbier than she remembered. The permaplastic doors looked yellow and sunken into their bed of Moon rocks. The rocks themselves looked worn, as if they’d been scraped by a thousand hands. The building was short and squat, and not all that large, at least not compared to the development rising around it.

The development brushed the edges of the dome. The domeside of the development was made of recycled plexi-glass, so that the condo owners could have an unobstructed view of the surface. The remaining three sides were of recycled nanomaterials in their requisite black. They shone, something Nyalou doubted they would do after all the units had been purchased.

Still, the net affect was to make the Monument look shabby, old, and uncared for. No wonder Liz wanted it out of the neighborhood. It no longer fit.

Nyalou got out of her rover and crossed the hard-packed dirt to the front door. There she let the cycler clean the dirt off her shoes, and then she pushed the door open.

The light inside was artificial, like everything else here, but it had a thin quality to it, as if someone had determined that too much light would cost too much money. The air smelled of dust and was just a bit hot for her comfort.

She ran her council i.d. through the entrance scanner—another first, using the i.d. to get into a building for free—and then walked around the corner.

The main room was smaller than she remembered, and it was full. Children peered at the exhibits, and stood in line for the holo displays. Flats ran constantly, showing Neil Armstrong’s jerky movements on the lunar surface, the resolution grainy and indistinct. His reedy voice repeated his famous line softly, as if the designers of the museum wanted everyone to strain to hear it. In a room to the left, the flats played all the time, showing the full tape of the event, from the moment the Apollo capsule went up to the moment it landed.

A holographic display of the Moon itself—recreated of course—showed Neil Armstrong climbing off the lunar module in his bulky suit, and putting the first footprint in the dust.

A chubby boy who was no more than ten stood beside the hologram, copying its movements, then laughing with his friends at the quaintness of it all.

No one wore bulky suits anymore. To go outside the dome, all a person needed was a skin-tight nano-suit and a small oxygen mask over the nose and mouth. When she had been here before, she remembered wondering how it felt to walk in that bulky equipment, and she had been too small to try on the suit’s replica.

She took a step farther in. The ceilings were lower than she remembered, the doors to the displays closer together. The Monument itself was a model of efficiency, cramming as much information into a small space as possible.

She almost headed to the suit, when she remembered her mission: the footprint.

With a small sigh, she went around the holographic display, and stopped at that small hole in the floor. The footprint was there, the rounded boot mark, the lines across it, all preserved in the lunar dirt. It still looked small. In fact, it looked smaller than it had when she was a child.

No one else was looking at it, even though it was the reason the Monument was here. The children were all playing in the displays, and the adult chaperones were watching the flats with practiced disinterest, as if they’d seen them a thousand times before.

And maybe they had. Maybe they brought a different group of children here every year.

The boy who’d been playing by the hologram stopped beside her. He crouched too.

“So that’s it?” he said, running his fingers over the plexi-glass case even though the nearby signs asked him not to. “It’s not very big.”

“It isn’t, is it,” she said, marveling that he had the same reaction that she did.

He pushed away from it, then ran, whooping, toward the holo rooms, until one of the chaperones caught him by the arm, and slowed him down.

A little girl skipped over to the footprint, frowned at it, and then went on. Most of the other children paraded past without seeing it.

“Ms. Templeton?” an official sounding female voice said from above her.

Nyalou sighed. Somehow she didn’t want to stop her contemplation of that bit of disturbed dirt. She put her hands on her thighs and pushed herself up.

The woman standing before her was about Liz’s age, only she was thin to the point of gauntness. Her pinched face had the look of too many years of worry, and her dark skin had a grayish cast.

“I’m Danu Welter. I am in charge of this facility.” She held out her hand. Nyalou took it gently, afraid she’d break bones. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

The question was courteous enough, but it had an edge, a bite, that seemed purposeful.

“There has been some interest in the Arrival Monument lately,” Nyalou said. “I was sent to see how it’s faring.”

“Interest.” Danu smirked as she said the word. “Interest in replacing us with one of those ugly shiny condos, you mean.”

Nyalou didn’t answer. Instead she looked around. “I haven’t been here for years. It’s smaller than I remember.”

“You were a child, then?” Danu said.

Nyalou nodded, a bit embarrassed that she hadn’t come back.

“It’s a required visit for the ten-year-olds, you know. Only a handful ever return.”

“Until I walked through the door a few minutes ago,” Nyalou said, “I had forgotten how disappointed I was that I was too small to try on the suit.”

And, for the first time since they’d met, Danu smiled. “Come then,” she said. “You’re big enough now.”

* * *

The equipment room wasn’t much larger than the locker room at work. Most of the children stopped outside it, stood against the computer barrier, heard the automated voice denying them entry, and turned away. Nyalou remembered how that felt; the suits were the only thing she hadn’t been able to touch.

Danu hit the button that slid one of the suits out. Robotic arms held the suit in place when Nyalou climbed in. It was bulky and awkward. As Danu put the helmet on Nyalou’s head, her shoulders felt the weight. The tinted visor made the entire room dark.

“Do you want to feel the full effect of the suit?” Danu asked.

It sounded like a trick question, but Nyalou nodded anyway. The robot arms receded, and as they did, Nyalou staggered forward.

The thing was so heavy she could barely support it.

Danu caught her, laughing, and pushed another button. The robotic arms returned, taking all the weight. Nyalou’s breath was coming rapidly. How had the astronauts managed in these bulky things?

It was hard to see through the tinted visor. She frowned at shapes moving near the door. The children. The children were watching her in the suit. Even without being able to see their faces, she knew that they were longing to join her. She remembered the feeling so well.

The sense of adventure had been bred into all of them. Their ancestors were all adventurers, daring folk willing to take a chance to create a community on dead ground. All of the Moon had been explored. Much of it was populated now. In many ways, it was no different from Earth.

The chances for adventure were receding, but still they all longed for it. Even she did, although she didn’t have the courage or the funds.

The bulky suit was just one reminder of that. One they all wanted to touch. One they all wanted to hold.

The bulky suit, with its thick boots.

Boots.

She felt a shiver run down her back despite the warmth of the suit. She braced herself with one hand, and brought up a foot. Her leg didn’t bend the way it normally did. She stared at the boot, at the ridges along the bottom.

They matched the ones on the dirt.

“You don’t believe that’s the footprint, do you?” Danu asked.

Nyalou put her foot down. “The sign says it might not be.”

“But it is a footprint from one of the Apollo missions. And most likely, it’s the first one.”

“The first mission didn’t land on the Moon,” Nyalou said.

Danu rolled her eyes as if that were the sort of comment she would expect from a government official. “The first mission that landed on the Moon.”

The helmet was suffocating. What these people had put up with in the name of exploration. Nyalou used her gloved hands to pull it off. She tossed her head, freeing her hair. Something was bothering her, something she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“There’s no way to authenticate a footprint?” she asked.

Danu shook her head ever so slightly. “Not one that old.”

“But how do we know how old it is? There’s no air, there’s no real decay—”

“There are techniques,” Danu said, “but they don’t matter. The first colonists preserved the print.”

That was it. Nyalou felt a shiver run down her back. “You people have never authenticated it, have you?”

“It would be quite easy to destroy—”

“You’ve just taken the first colonists’ word, as if people who came here more than a hundred years ago had a way of determining which footprint of the many was the one that they were looking for. You just established this site, and don’t even know if you’re perpetrating a hoax.”

“Please,” Danu said. “This is an important place. Even if the footprint isn’t the real one, this is the landing site. We know that. We’ve authenticated that.”

“And put a building on it, changing it.” Nyalou’s heart hurt. She hated the fact that Liz was right.

“The museum is important,” Danu said. “Every child born on the Moon comes here eventually. We are one of the main attractions for Earth tourists. It’s like a pilgrimage, a shrine—”

“Because of the footprint?”

“We wouldn’t be here without it,” Danu said.

“That’s why this place was established,” Nyalou said. “But no one actually comes to see the footprint, do they?”

Danu continued to stare at her.

“Do they?”

Danu swallowed. “They’re all disappointed by it,” she whispered.

Nyalou let out a breath of air. She used the robotic arms’ assistance to get out of the suit. It felt as if she had shrunk to less than one-half her body weight. She was covered in sweat.

“Are you going to shut us down?” Danu asked.

“Why?” Nyalou said. “The exhibits are important. It’s good for the children to get in touch with their history.”

Danu frowned. “But something changed. Something’s different.”

“I won’t lie to you,” Nyalou said. “I came here searching for a way to keep the museum alive. I’ve found that. But what I haven’t found is any compelling reason for it to stay at this location.”

“Where would we go?” Danu asked. “This is our logical place. Human beings first touched the Moon right here.”

“And in our normal way, we built right over the spot.”

“But not the footprint.”

“If it is the footprint,” Nyalou said.

“It is a footprint.”

“Yes,” Nyalou said. “And footprints aren’t so hard to fake, are they?”

Danu’s face went completely gray. “How can you say that? It’s in the right place. The first colonists saw it there.”

Nyalou shrugged. “The first colonists wore boots, didn’t they? They could have drawn the ridges. They could have mimicked it. Weren’t they dragging equipment from their landing?”

“Mare Tranquilitatis was not the first colony site,” Danu said. “The colonists had to hike here. It was a mission they went on long after they’d settled on the Moon. They wanted to see it. They treated this like a holy place.”

“And somehow preserved a footprint.” Nyalou wasn’t sure where this skeptical self was coming from, or why it was appearing now. Was it because she wanted to do the best she could in the role Miguel had assigned her? Or was it because she felt she had to fulfill her part in the bureaucracy?

“Yes,” Danu said. “They preserved a footprint, whether you believe it or not.”

And that was the problem. Nyalou didn’t believe it. That small print, perfectly formed, didn’t seem real. The disappointment she had felt as a child had returned, only this time, it was fuller, and came with an anger, a feeling of betrayal, of being duped.

But by whom?

She didn’t know.

She glanced at the door. The children were gone. She was nothing to them once she was out of the suit.

Her silence seemed to make Danu uncomfortable.

“What are you going to do now?” Danu asked.

Nyalou frowned at her. “I’m not going to do anything. I was just supposed to see if there should be a study.”

“Of what? The footprint?”

“Of the value of this place.”

“It’s valuable.”

“I think there’s no arguing that,” Nyalou said. “The question is whether it is as valuable here as it would be somewhere else.”

Danu shook her head. “You people are all alike. You have no sense of history.”

“I have a sense of history,” Nyalou said. “I’m just not sure if it applies to this particular location.”

“This building has been here a long time,” Danu said.

“I know,” Nyalou said. “But are you telling me the building is important or the footprint?”

“I’m telling you the memory is important, and it would be lessened by moving this museum.”

“How do you know that?” Nyalou didn’t feel Danu’s certainty. She wasn’t at all sure Danu was right.

“I just know,” Danu said.

“Not good enough,” Nyalou answered.

* * *

Her new-found toughness fell away as she walked out the door of the Monument, and looked at the ugly black buildings rising around it. Someday, someone might want to preserve those as examples of Moon architecture in the expansion period, and some poor hapless bureaucrat, like herself, would have to determine whether or not the buildings were worth saving.

She had signed up for this job. She had volunteered for it to impress Miguel. All she had discovered was enough of an argument to give Liz exactly what she wanted.

And that made Nyalou feel even more depressed than when she had started.

She went home to examine the statistics she had asked for, and to think about what she would recommend to the council.

* * *

The statistics confirmed everything Danu had told her. Adults did visit the Monument in large numbers—adults from other colonies, which, Nyalou figured, Danu might have counted among the tourists. The Monument was the number one destination of Earth tourists as well.

But it was the children that made Nyalou frown slightly. Danu was right: Every child on the colony had visited the Monument, many more than once. They were mostly interested in the holo displays, although several did come back when they were tall enough to try on the suits.

The first Moon landing had held the public imagination since the first settlers arrived. And why shouldn’t it? She remembered being raised on the heroic stories: the burned capsules, the many tries, the flights across space in equipment so primitive it was the equivalent of walking outside the dome with your hand over your mouth. Armstrong Day was more important than Founders’ Day in many schools. Teachers used it to create a history lesson that most children participated in.

No wonder everyone thought the footprint small. It was human-sized. And those first travelers, those people from a politically divided planet who crossed space in glorified metal cans, were larger-than-life.

So that’s it? the little boy had asked, his voice incredulous. It’s not very big.

It’s so small, she remembered thinking when she was his age.

It’s so small.

Of course it was small. They were all expecting giants, gods nearly, people who had done the impossible were—historically speaking—more myth than reality.

The footprint made them real.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

She finally had something to say at the meeting.

* * *

“Nonsense!” Liz Borra said when Nyalou had finished her presentation. “Unadulterated, premeditated nonsense.”

Liz’s voice echoed around the conference table more than usual. Miguel was pacing again. Caleb was studying his hands.

Only Anastazia seemed to be paying attention, and she raised those expressive eyebrows. “Premeditated?”

“Premeditated,” Liz snapped. “You know the girl has a fondness for the place. You heard her in the last meeting.”

Nyalou flushed. The presentation had been hard enough. She hadn’t looked Miguel in the eye once. Her voice had shaken and she had kept her hands tightly clasped so that they wouldn’t shake too. But she hadn’t expected this direct attack, even though she should have.

Caleb Washburn slid his chair back and rocked it on the back two legs. “I think Nyalou has a point.”

Nyalou gave him a grateful look.

“Of course you do,” Liz said. “You can afford to be sentimental.”

Nyalou’s cheeks flamed. Liz seemed to know how to intimidate her. Worse, Liz seemed to know how to make Nyalou doubt her own opinions.

“Afford to be sentimental?” Miguel asked softly. He returned to his seat at the head of the table. Nyalou didn’t know how he could sit so close to Liz. The stench of her perfume across the table was severe; up close it had to be overwhelming.

“Afford to.” Liz waved a hand dismissively. “It’s always the poor who fail to realize that progress will benefit them as well.”

Caleb brought his chair forward. “Now wait a minute. I didn’t get filthy rich off people who didn’t know better—”

“Really,” Anastazia said softly, “this petty bickering does us all no good. I think Nyalou’s points are intriguing. I remember being disappointed in that footprint as well.”

“Me, too.” Miguel was watching Nyalou. She met his gaze, then looked away. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her so intently because he felt sorry for her or because she had made an interesting point.

“I think we all have been disappointed,” Liz said. “I simply don’t see the value in it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Caleb said. “Unless it puts money in your pocket, you don’t see the value of anything.

Liz slapped a bejeweled hand on the permaplastic table.

“Are you going to let him talk to me that way?” she asked Miguel.

“That’s how you talk to the rest of us,” he said.

Liz blew out a small breath of air, then narrowed her eyes. “You’re all doing this because you dislike me.”

“No.” Nyalou found her voice. “This is about the Monument, not you.”

Liz glared at Nyalou. Nyalou attempted to glare back.

“So you think the footprint is important to the Monument,” Miguel asked Nyalou gently.

She had to meet his gaze again. As she did, she felt a flush warm her from her cheeks, down her neck, and into her chest and arms.

“I think it’s the heart of the Monument,” Nyalou said. “I didn’t realize it until I went home. It’s the little beacon of hope.”

“Nonsense!” Liz said again.

Miguel held up his hand. “Let her finish. Why, Nyalou?”

Nyalou swallowed hard. Her throat was closing up from nerves. But she made herself take a deep breath and continue.

“Because,” she said, “it shows us that no grand being conquered this place. That Armstrong and Aldrin and the other astronauts were people, just like us.”

“People with small feet,” Caleb said.

“Normal-sized feet,” Nyalou said. “I put on those boots.”

“They’re replicas,” Liz said, as if that invalidated Nyalou’s perspective.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nyalou said. “The fact is that the footprint is real. It’s old, and it’s been on this Moon longer than the rest of us. It deserves to stay.”

“The building is an eyesore.”

“It’s popular,” Miguel said. “Even if none of us visit it.”

“The girl still hasn’t given a good enough argument as to why we can’t move the building elsewhere.”

They all looked at her. Nyalou felt the flush deepen. “Because,” she said, “it might ruin the footprint.”

“So?” Liz asked. “We’ll just make a new one.”

“That’s not the same,” Nyalou said. “The footprint would be a reconstruction, and it would no longer matter. It’s the fact that the footprint’s real that makes it so special.”

“So disappointing,” Caleb said.

“So necessary.” Anastazia was grinning. “I do like the way you think,” she said to Nyalou.

“So do I,” Miguel said.

Nyalou’s breath caught in her throat at the compliment.

Miguel went on. “Nyalou’s presentation makes me realize that we’ve underpromoted this treasure of ours. I think it’s time the council did some work making the Arrival Monument the center of our community.”

“Now wait a minute,” Liz said. “This is prime land we’re talking about.”

“That’s right,” Miguel said. “We may as well use it properly.”

Liz waved her hand to silence everyone. “I suggest we vote first. All those in favor of moving the Monument and selling the land at a considerable profit say ‘Aye.’”

Nyalou looked at the other council members. Caleb was cleaning the dirt from his fingernails. Anastazia was smiling and saying nothing. Miguel was watching Liz.

Finally Liz squinted and said loudly, “Aye.”

Miguel grinned. His gaze met Nyalou’s as he asked, “Any nays?”

The rest of the group chorused “Nay” together.

“Sentimental fools,” Liz snapped.

“Impoverished sentimental fools,” Caleb said.

Liz glared at him. He didn’t flinch. No one flinched at her any more. Not even Nyalou.

“Well,” Liz said as she stood. “I certainly can’t serve with the lot of you. I resign, effective immediately. I will send you a letter of confirmation when I get home.”

“All right,” Miguel said.

“All right?” Liz’s voice rose. She leaned toward Miguel until her face was nearly touching his. “All right? I’m resigning.”

“I know.” Amazingly, Miguel didn’t pull away from her. “I know the strength of your convictions. I’m sure I can’t talk you out of your resignation, so I’m not even going to try.”

Nyalou suppressed a smile. Anastazia was watching Liz blandly. Caleb didn’t even bother repressing his grin.

Liz frowned at Miguel. “You’re manipulating me, young man.”

His face was all innocence. “I’m letting you do what you want.”

Her lips tightened, and she looked as if she’d swallowed something sour. Then she harrumphed and swept out of the room.

The remaining council members sat in stunned silence for a moment—at least, Nyalou thought it was stunned silence. It might simply have been a reaction to the wave of perfume that hit them as Liz left.

Caleb’s grin faded. “She was only here to get rid of the Monument.”

“Well, that worked, didn’t it,” Anastazia said.

“She might try again,” Nyalou whispered.

“Let her,” Miguel said. “With all the promotion and work we’re going to do on that Monument, she won’t stand a chance.”

“And she knows it, too,” Caleb said.

“That’s it,” Anastazia said. “No more campaigners for the Council. Only folks who are forced to come like the rest of us.”

“A good rule, I think,” Miguel said solemnly. “Otherwise you never know what a person’s motives are.”

“We’ll need to fill her seat,” Caleb said.

“Figuratively speaking,” Anastazia said. “We can now go back to e-conferences. Liz was the one who insisted on in-person meetings.”

Nyalou hadn’t known that. Her stomach tightened. She’d joined so that she would have some place to go, not so that she could sit in her apartment and talk to a screen.

“No e-conferences,” Miguel said. His gaze met Nyalou’s. “I like the physical meetings. You can see things about your other council members that you wouldn’t see in e-conference.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Anastazia said. “We would have caught on to Liz’s greed and we wouldn’t have had to suffer her perfume.”

“I was talking about Nyalou’s enthusiasm,” Miguel said.

Nyalou straightened. Her heart was pounding. “Enthusiasm?”

Miguel nodded. “You’ve reminded me why we’re here in the first place.”

“I have?” she asked.

He smiled at her. The smile was warm. “We’re here because someone else worked to achieve a dream. The least we can do is uphold that dream.”

“Liz would call that nonsense,” Anastazia said.

Miguel looked at her. “Do you?”

“I think it’s a mite idealistic.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Caleb asked.

Anastazia looked at the three of them. Then she smiled. “Why, nothing’s wrong with idealism,” she said. “It is after all the first step of any journey.”

“You mean that’s one small step,” Miguel said.

“One disappointingly small step,” Nyalou said, and they all grinned widely at each other, before getting back to work.

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Framed

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Contents

FANTASY STORIES

Madame Pompadour’s Blade

Written by Tom Purdom

Illustrated by Dan Skinner

They passed the carriage about an hour after they left Paris, as Geveaux had expected. It was a cool, sunny morning in early April. Even the peasants driving geese and pigs toward the city behaved as if they might be momentarily satisfied with their lot. Geveaux rode past the carriage on the left, with Francois behind him. He glanced at the windows but they were covered with dust. He would just have to assume Mademoiselle Arlette was seated inside. They were overtaking the carriage at the right point and it matched the description he had received from the spy at the Hotel Rousset: sandy brown with bright green wheels and trim, three bays and a black doing the hauling.

Geveaux raised his hat to the coachman. He shouted a pleasantry about the nature of the morning and the coachman saluted with his whip. The butt of a silver-plated pistol gleamed above the sash the coachman had wrapped around his cloak.

Geveaux turned in the saddle as he galloped past the front horses. Francois was plowing down the road with his eyes fixed on his horse’s neck. Normally, Francois would have been bending in half offering exaggerated bows to any ladies who might be hidden behind the windows.

They left the carriage behind and Geveaux dropped back. “We’ll reach the wood in about five minutes. Ten minutes after that we’ll be on our way back to Paris.”

Francois raised his head. “Did you count them? Could you see their weapons?”

“Through those windows?” Geveaux said. “With the sun shining on the dust?”

Geveaux jerked his thumb at the scabbard that extended through the side slit in Francois’ riding coat. “Just remember you’ve got that, my good count. There isn’t a pistol in the world can stand against that.”

* * *

“It is a disappointing circumstance,” Geveaux had told the marquise. “The sword is everything you have heard it is. But unfortunately, the fourteenth count of LechMutacque is everything he appears to be. As a courtier, Francois has all the necessary virtues. As a soldier… .”

The marquise had been wearing a loose, pale yellow gown. She had been standing beside her writing table when Geveaux entered the room—the perfect image of a composed woman of affairs. If she had been posing in front of a map, she could have been taken for a female monarch, like the Empress Elizabeth of Russia.

In actuality, of course, she was a more important figure than any empress. The Czarina Elizabeth ruled a hundred million Oriental serfs. The marquise de Pompadour dominated the courtiers of Versailles and all the magnificence controlled by the maitresse en titre to His Most Christian Majesty Louis XV.

To her adversaries, she was an upstart banker’s daughter who had been elevated several leagues above her proper station. To most of her admirers—including Maurice Geveaux—she was a gift from providence. This was the first time Geveaux had actually talked to her but he had seen the fruits of her influence. Kings and czarinas exercised a secular, temporal authority. The marquise reigned over the eternal republic of the mind. She was the tasteful, enlightened patron—and even protector—of the artists and philosophes who were transforming civilization.

“But you still believe he can be of some service,” the marquise said.

“I have been his companion for nine years. Francois was still a stripling when his mother placed him under my guidance. The sword is not a weapon that requires exceptional courage. With the proper direction—and a firm motivation—he can defeat adversaries who would send him scurrying if he were armed with more familiar weapons.”

The marquise smiled. “There are limits to my ability to solidify motivation, Monsieur Geveaux. There is nothing magical about the size of my purse.”

“I understand, madame. I should be quite willing to trust to your generosity, if you should ever decide our services might be of value.”

It was a conversation in which everything was understood. They both knew the marquise was aware that Francois teetered on the verge of ruin. Francois’ grandfather had mortgaged the family lands so he could cut a figure at the court of Louis XIV, Francois’ father had mortgaged his patrimony yet again, and Francois had followed their example.

Louis XIV had subdued the aristocracy by turning them into courtiers who wasted their incomes on fashionable display and the endless gaming that constituted the primary social activity at his palace of Versailles. Louis XV was less relentless but the damage to the house of LechMutacque had become irreparable. Francois was the ultimate product of Louis XIV’s cunning—an aristocrat who bowed beautifully, dressed superbly, and provided the ladies of Versailles with a pliant, somewhat comic, instrument of carnal pleasure.

Geveaux also knew, on the other hand, that His Majesty’s mistress needed the kind of help he was offering her. He had asked her for an audience because the court gossip had been buzzing with reports of an intrigue that threatened to terminate her reign.

Madame de Pompadour had now been the recognized mistress for eight full years. She had managed to last so long, furthermore, in spite of a handicap that would have disqualified any other candidate for her position: she displayed a noticeable lack of interest in the activity normally associated with mistresses. The marquise had retained her hold on the king because she satisfied his need for intelligent female companionship—a need his neglected Polish queen could never assuage. The marquise played hostess at his intimate gatherings with his friends, listened to him as he chatted over private breakfasts, and offered him a refuge in which he could enjoy the comforts of relaxed human contact. She appeased his less domestic appetites by providing him with suitable temporary confections. In a typical week, Louis might embrace four, or even five, of the women she steered toward his bed. Few visited him more than once.

Now, according to the rumors, the marquise’s enemies were advancing a formidable assault. The daughter of an obscure provincial seigneur was to be presented at court in just two days. She had been selected three years ago and gorged with all the education the marquise’s family had once stuffed into their daughter. She could converse on astronomy and art with equal facility, the wags proclaimed. Her social graces could regulate a salon or a debauch. And she was eight years younger than la Pompadour.

The marquise had received regular reports on the new prodigy’s training and she had prepared a response. Her agents had reconnoitered ten young women who had come to Paris dreaming of careers in the Parisian theaters. Their naked felicities, the gossips proclaimed, had been inspected by the marquise herself. The winning candidate had been whisked to a country chateau. A year of intense training had equipped her for her task. The day before the would-be mistress was scheduled to make her obeisance to the king, the marquise’s representative would be slipped into His Christian Majesty’s bed. She would remain at his disposal for a week, two weeks—until the marquise’s rival retired from the fray.

The glorious distraction had been chosen by a woman with an impeccable knowledge of the king’s tastes. No one doubted she would be successful. Unfortunately, the marquise’s enemies had agents, too. The young actress was now a prisoner in the Parisian quarters of a particularly spiteful grandee.

“Has the count of LechMutacque actually used this weapon?” the marquise asked.

“Twice,” Geveaux said.

The marquise studied Geveaux’s face. He stared back at her with his eyes open and steady.

“You would make a wonderful charlatan, Monsieur Geveaux. You have such a broad, honest face I feel compelled to believe everything you tell me.”

Geveaux bowed in response to the compliment. He was a muscular, slightly weatherbeaten man who had spent the first years of his career managing work gangs on the LechMutacque estates. Francois’ mother had placed her son under his tutelage because she considered him dependable and honest—and knew he was not afraid to bend the truth when it was obviously politic.

“I can assure you the sword is quite real. It has been the personal weapon of the Counts of LechMutacque for over three hundred years.”

“I have never doubted the existence of the sword, monsieur.”

“I understand, madame.”

“As it happens, there is something you and your charge might do for me now. As you may have heard, a young woman—a good friend of mine—has been victimized by someone who apparently hopes to wound me by wounding her.”

Geveaux nodded. “I have encountered rumors to that effect.”

“Then you may know Arlette is currently being held prisoner by her oppressor. My agents inform me that she will be carried out of Paris tomorrow morning. I would be grateful—extremely grateful—if she were liberated from her captors. And presented to me—unharmed—before the king retires tomorrow.”

“Do you know the route she will be taking, madame?”

“I can put you in touch with a confidante who knows all the details. The timing is most important. And she must be unharmed. Not a cut, Monsieur Geveaux. Not a scrape. Unblemished.”

* * *

Geveaux pulled them to a stop a few minutes after they passed the carriage. The road had described a gentle bend around some farmer’s wood lot.

“You’ll have all the advantages of surprise,” Geveaux said. “They won’t see us until they round the turn.”

Francois pointed at the field on the other side of the road. Six peasants were breaking clods with their hoes.

“They’re peasants, Francois.”

“They’ll think we’re highway robbers.”

“The way you’re dressed? Don’t you think they’ll understand this is a quarrel between gentlemen as soon as they see the quality of your wig?”

Geveaux slipped off his horse. He pulled a small wheel lock pistol out of his coat pocket and wound the spring. “I’ll pretend I’m adjusting my saddle. It will all be over in ten minutes, my good ami. You’ll be riding back to Paris with Mademoiselle Arlette in your arms and Madame de Pompadour in your debt.”

He returned the wheel lock to his coat. The long flintlock pistol in his saddle holster was already primed.

Tactically, they would have been in a better position if Geveaux had ridden behind the carriage, while Francois stopped it from the front. With anyone else, Geveaux might have done it that way. If he had tried it with Francois, he would have ridden around the bend and found the road empty and the master of LechMutacque cowering in the wood.

Geveaux hadn’t lied to the marquise. Francois really had used the sword twice. The first time he had drawn it, he had plinked a young servant girl who had refused his advances. The second time, he had swatted an impudent innkeeper with the flat of the blade. He had struck from ambush—at over fifty paces—on both occasions.

Francois had just become the master of his estates the first time Geveaux had eased the weapon from its scabbard. Francois had left most of his clothes in Geveaux’s custody while he romped in a bower with a country whore—an encounter Geveaux had arranged in the hope it would give him momentary custody of the sword. Geveaux had handled the sword a dozen times since, while Francois had been occupied with women or fussing with his grooming. The results had always been the same. Nothing he had tried had awakened the sword’s power. There was no magical incantation. There was no series of improbable acts. The sword responded to the touch of the rightful and recognized Count of LechMutacque. And nothing else.

He could have remade the world if he controlled a weapon like Francois’ sword. The marquise’s enemies would have retreated to their bedchambers and remained there until she granted them amnesty. Instead, he was spending his days bolstering a dissolute poltroon.

His ear picked up the sound of horses’ hooves. “Now, Francois. Draw it. Strike as soon as you see them.”

Geveaux was standing with his back to the oncoming carriage, watching Francois across the saddle of his horse. Francois’ right hand crept toward the sword. Francois’ fingers closed around the diamonds on the hilt. And the sword remained in the scabbard.

Geveaux’s left foot found the stirrup. He heaved himself into the saddle as if he was trying to jump all the way over it. He clutched Francois’ sword hand with both hands and forced it upward.

“Draw it, damn you! Draw it.”

Francois’ horse staggered into the roadway. Francois stared at the oncoming carriage as if he was recovering from a five day debauch.

“Get it done!” Geveaux bellowed. “It’s your last chance. Do you want to spend the rest of your life eating potato soup and pronging the oldest whore in some pox-infested village?”

The sword had been a relatively dainty weapon in the era in which it had been fashioned. To modern eyes, it looked like a heavy, business-like cavalry brawler—an odd sight on the belt of a gentlemen who looked like he would be more at ease with a court sword that was as pliant as his backbone. Francois gripped the hilt with both hands as he pointed it at the carriage.

The sword could do its work at over a hundred paces—further than the practical range of a military musket. Francois merely had to pull it toward his chest and thrust at the coachman’s upper body. A puncture wound would immediately kill or disable the coachman, a slash would disable a horse, and Geveaux would ride forward, break a coach window with the butt of his pistol, and confront their adversaries with the muzzle.

That was the plan anyway. Instead, Francois raised the sword above his shoulder and started the attack with a slash. A red gash appeared along the neck of the left front bay. Blood spurted. The horse’s legs folded under it. It sagged in the traces and the carriage lurched to a stop.

“The man!” Geveaux shouted. “Get the man.”

The coachman had already stood up. He jerked his weapon out of his sash and steadied it on the wigged and jeweled cavalier in the middle of the road.

Francois yanked his horse around. He sheltered his head behind his mount’s neck and bolted off the road toward the comfort of the trees. He plunged past Geveaux with his sword dangling from his hand and Geveaux followed him into the shade.

* * *

Francois’ horse had a cooler head than its rider. It slowed down before it battered its skull on a tree. Geveaux caught up with it and grabbed the reins.

Habit contained his rage. He was, ultimately, only a glorified servant. Francois could dismiss him on a whim. It would be a foolish act but Francois could do it.

“You had him in your hands, Francois. He was twenty paces out of pistol range.”

Francois had lifted his head from his horse’s neck. He was watching the road through the trees but he had already slipped into his courtier’s hauteur.

“Are you aware of who that so-called coachman is? Do you think I would be improving my position if I spent the next year of my life waiting for a knife in the ribs because I hacked up a senior member of the Doubert family?”

“You’re going to be a friend of the marquise, Francois—a friend of the king’s best friend. You’ll have a purse that can buy a hundred creatures like him.”

“Charles Doubert is no common rogue. It’s one thing to take on a single scoundrel. It’s another thing to take on the chief cutthroat in the biggest family of assassins and bravos in the kingdom.”

Geveaux had bent his back as if he were wheedling for a few extra coins for his purse. Sometimes Francois needed a sharp word. Sometimes you had to let him know you hadn’t forgotten he was the lord of LechMutacque.

Geveaux had recognized the coachman as soon as he had seen him, of course. There were two marquis at court who owed their current splendor to the knife thrusts Charles Doubert had inflicted on their uncles.

“He’s a dangerous man,” Geveaux said. “You are taking a formidable risk for the future of your house. Your family will be in your debt for the next thousand years. But you won’t be alone. The marquise has her forces, too. The king could have that whole family beheaded if she let him know they had wronged someone she had befriended.”

He realized he was talking too fast and deliberately slowed the tempo and tried to sound soothing. How long did they have? How long would it take to slash the crippled horse free and rearrange the leather?

“We can approach them on foot. Through the wood. While they’re working on the horses. You can strike at them from the trees. Why don’t we just take a look at the situation? I’ll have to give the marquise a report. I can’t go back to her and tell her we stopped the carriage and didn’t make any attempt to observe the results. She’ll never give us another opportunity if I do that. You’re holding the most accurate weapon in the world. You can strike fifty times before they can fire a second shot.”

Francois stared at the road. The wood had been managed by someone who knew exactly how much fuel he could harvest each year. The trees could provide an ambusher with concealment and protection but they weren’t crowded together. Francois could stand out of pistol shot and still have a line of sight to his target.

Geveaux buttoned his mouth and waited. Nine years of experience had taught him a few lessons. Francois’ soul was a battlefield of warring emotions. There were times when you had to let them clash and clang inside his head. And hope the side you favored gained a temporary ascendancy.

Francois descended from his mount. He threw the reins to his obsequious, bent-backed retainer.

“Lead the horses,” the count of LechMutacque said. “I’ll follow you.”

* * *

Geveaux steered them leftward before he turned toward the road. He stopped about twenty paces from the edge of the wood and hurriedly tied the horses to a low branch. “If you’ll advance about four more paces, Francois—behind that tree—you should have a good view of the carriage.”

Francois edged around the shelter of his horse’s backside. He flinched as soon as he took in the scene on the road.

“Untie the horses. We’ve seen everything we need to see.”

“There’s nothing there we can’t manage, Francois. You can pierce his knife arm before he even knows we’re here. I’ll get into position to rush him, you’ll puncture his arm, and I’ll grab her away from them.”

“And what if he moves before I thrust? Did it occur to you he doesn’t have to cut her throat? Have you thought about how you’ll feel if he scars her for life? Because of your actions?”

“If they wanted to scar her, they could have done it days ago. It would have been the quickest way to foil the marquise’s plans.”

“Look at her. Have you really looked at her? She has a face that would make lilies wilt in envy.”

Geveaux had looked. The Pompadour had chosen well. Arlette was seventeen at most—a flower the royal gardener had picked at the moment when it was absolutely flawless. Even at this distance, with his vision impeded by the contrast between the shadows of the wood and the sunlight on the open road, he could see the glow of her complexion. She had all the bosomy fleshiness Louis bon ami seemed to favor in his transient consorts. The king would be a fool if he gulped her down in a dark bedroom and didn’t savor her pink roundness in the full light of day.

“One thrust, Francois. In the hand. In the forearm. That’s all it will take. You can do it right now. I’ll be out of the wood before the three rogues working on the horses realize what’s happening.”

“I will not endanger a face like that. Not for all the gold in the world. There are some things a person of my station cannot do.”

Francois had tipped back his head and resumed his air of lordly disdain. It was his ultimate argument. He was the first son of a gentleman, Geveaux was the second son of an estate manager. How could Geveaux possibly understand the scruples and fine principles that governed his conduct?

And if his scruples and fine principles usually offered him a good reason to abandon the field and seek the comfort of his own fireplace—why that was merely the way things worked out.

“I’ll go forward now,” Geveaux said. “Can you stand by that tree and watch for an opportunity? He’s obviously younger than the girl. He may be just as reluctant to damage her as we are.”

He stepped toward the road without waiting for a response. He passed the wide, gnarled tree he had indicated to Francois and positioned himself so the young desperado on the road could see him coming.

* * *

The boy looked even younger when Geveaux drew closer. He was exceptionally tall—Arlette barely reached the middle of his vest—and his face had the sullen, pouty-lipped look that frequently accompanied the mismatched proportions of early youth. His left hand was wrapped around Arlette’s body just below her breasts. His right hand held the knife poised in front of her face.

Geveaux stopped on the edge of the wood. On his right, Charles Doubert and another man were working on the horses. A third man was leaning on a cane as he watched them.

The third man was <!—[if !supportAnnotations]—>[TP1]<!—[endif]—>holding a fashionably undersized hat under his arm. His wig had been tinted the precise shade of gray every well informed courtier demanded from his wigmaker. He turned around when the boy called out a name. He eyed Geveaux for a moment and gestured with his stick.

“I think the situation is reasonably comprehensible,” the courtier said. “I think you know what our young friend will do if you create any more difficulties.”

The courtier turned back to the horses. The boy jerked the knife at Geveaux.

Geveaux stepped forward. The boy flourished the knife again and he stopped.

Arlette’s black eyes probably snapped with humor when she was enchanting an admirer. Now they merely looked focused and wary. Her hands were clutching a shawl she had thrown around her shoulders. The boy had wrapped his arm around her waist like a lover—as who wouldn’t?—and left her arms free.

Geveaux spread his hands. “We have been commissioned by your prisoner’s patron, young man. She is just as anxious to spare the young woman’s charms as you are.”

“Then stay where you are. They told me what to do. Don’t think I won’t do it.”

The quaver in the boy’s voice undercut his words. Geveaux knew he could have handled the situation if the three men hadn’t been there. He would have advanced one step at a time and the boy would have hesitated right up to the moment he came close enough to try a rush.

The girl was very beautiful. It would be a tragedy if the knife left the tiniest imperfection on her face. But it would be a bigger tragedy if the marquise lost the king’s favor because they hadn’t made the gamble.

Arlette moved her shoulders. A ripple ran down the lower half of her dress and Geveaux realized she was rubbing her body against her captor. It was a subtle movement but she obviously knew what she was doing.

A surprised expression crossed the boy’s face. Geveaux took another step forward. The boy let his knife hand drop to the girl’s side and Geveaux added a second step.

The boy’s expression changed again. The howl of a wounded animal drowned out the chattering of the birds flitting through the wood. The boy stumbled away from Arlette. Blood welled through the sleeve of his shirt.

Arlette pulled up her skirts and bolted toward Geveaux. Her shawl dropped off her shoulders.

The courtier turned around. He stared at the pistol Geveaux was pointing at his vest and smiled.

“Take care of this fellow, will you?”

Doubert had grabbed the bridle of a horse that had started when it heard the scream. He turned around in response to the offhand command and reached for the pistol stored in his sash.

Geveaux swung his weapon toward Doubert. “Raise your hands! Take your hand off that gun!”

Doubert ignored both demands. He didn’t pull the pistol out of his sash but he didn’t remove his hand from the butt either.

Geveaux hesitated. He was a decent shot but he was confronted with the basic weakness of all firearms. His gun would become a harmless lump of metal the moment he fired it. If he missed, and Doubert finished drawing his pistol… ..

The third man was already scurrying toward a coat he had draped over a lamp holder on the front of the carriage. In a moment he would probably be armed, too.

There was an obvious resolution to the dilemma, of course. Francois could step out of the wood and incapacitate all three of them with three flourishes of his sword. Doubert and the courtier both seemed to understand that was an event that was somewhat less inevitable than the rising of the sun.

Geveaux stepped toward his adversaries and placed himself so Arlette could run behind him.

“Get into the trees, mademoiselle. You’ll see my companion.”

He held his gun on Doubert and pointed his left hand at the man who was reaching for his coat. “Keep your hands off that coat. This won’t be the first time I’ve fired at a human being. I may not be able to hit both of you—but one of you is going to be sorry you didn’t listen to me.”

Arlette stumbled past Geveaux’s back. The third man paused with his hands poised above the coat. He turned his head toward the courtier.

The courtier patted his mouth. He stepped to his left and placed himself in front of Doubert—in Geveaux’s direct line of fire. He raised his eyebrows as if he was asking a question.

It was a brave act—and intelligent. Geveaux could kill him with a squeeze of his finger but what good would it do? The courtier would fall and Geveaux would find himself staring at Doubert’s pistol.

Geveaux stepped to one side, so he could see behind the courtier. Doubert was already drawing his pistol.

Geveaux had fired on footpads during Francois’ late night ramblings in the streets of Paris. He had passed a bullet over the head of a rival who had surprised Francois at an assignation. Once, when he had first started working on the estate, he had faced an angry woodchopper armed with an axe and halted him with a pistol before he felled him with a sudden, unexpected kick in the privates. He had never actually hit someone with a bullet, however. His emotions responded with a confusing jumble of triumph and shock when his gun crashed and he saw Doubert fall. Then he realized Doubert had dropped to one knee. And the bullet had missed.

Geveaux’s survival instinct took control of his muscles. He passed the useless pistol to his left hand and reached for his sword as he ran forward. Doubert had pulled his pistol out of his sash. He was cocking it with the edge of his left hand.

Geveaux veered to the left to keep the courtier’s body between himself and that deadly black hole. He bent into a crouch and tried to present a small, moving target to the gun the third man had to be pulling from his coat. The courtier was reaching for his own sword but he wasn’t stepping aside, out of Doubert’s line of fire, he wasn’t thinking that clearly, thank God, thank the Virgin, Ave Maria, bon Dieu, bon Dieu… .

Doubert stepped around the courtier. He raised his pistol and Geveaux threw the empty weapon in his left hand straight at Doubert’s face. He screamed like a lunatic and leaped across the space that separated them.

Doubert’s gun exploded. Flame shot toward Geveaux’s eyes. His sword pushed through living bone.

Doubert’s mouth opened. Geveaux yanked the sword out of Doubert’s chest and turned on the courtier.

The courtier raised his cane and stepped back. The third man was leaning against the carriage clutching his stomach. The blood from his wound oozed between his fingers. Doubert was staring at his chest as if he couldn’t believe he had received the same kind of injury he had inflicted on others.

The courtier bowed. “I believe the field is yours, monsieur.”

Geveaux looked back at the woods. Francois was standing beside Arlette. He had placed his left arm around her bare shoulder and raised the sword above his head.

* * *

Francois had looked like Apollo himself when he had appeared at the edge of the wood with his sword flashing in the sun and delivered the long range stab that had wounded the blackguard who had been trying to retrieve his pistol. Arlette thought so anyway. “You looked like Apollo himself,” she told Francois when he pulled her into his saddle and started the ride to Paris. “Francois looked like Apollo himself,” she told Geveaux when they gave Francois’ mount a rest and had her ride with him.

“Arlette says Francois looked like Apollo himself,” the marquise said.

This time the marquise was wearing a sky blue gown. She had adorned her bosom with a diamond necklace that flashed like a small fireworks display every time she engaged in the smallest movement.

Geveaux had been told that she and the king sometimes breakfasted in the nude. Could she look any more enchanting then than she looked fully clothed?

“As she tells it,” the marquise said, “the count strode out of the wood with his sword gleaming in the April sun and saved the day with a single magnificent thrust. My own impressions are somewhat different. As I understand your accounts, you charged that scoundrel Doubert even though you knew that other creature was recovering the pistol he had left in his jacket. And you did it because you believed Francois would attack him with the sword before he could shoot you.”

“It would probably be more accurate to say I was confident Francois would come to my aid,” Geveaux said. “It was Doubert who aroused his anxieties. With Doubert busy elsewhere, even Francois could stab a footpad at thirty paces.”

“It was still a heroic act on your part. You would have been shot—at close range!—if Francois hadn’t fulfilled your expectations.”

Geveaux shrugged. “I was caught up in the heat of the moment.”

“Have you prepared an inventory of the count’s creditors?”

“As a matter of fact, I did think to bring an accounting with me.”

The marquise’s eyebrows rose when she saw the size of the packet he drew from his coat. She held herself completely motionless while she skimmed it—as if she was keeping her reactions under tight control.

“I will see that his most pressing concerns are allayed at once,” the marquise said. “As for the rest—I may have need of his services in the future.”

Geveaux bowed. “I am certain the count will receive your largesse with the gratitude it deserves.”

“Arlette has informed me she wishes to bestow the pleasures of her company on Monsieur LechMutacque when she finishes her current interlude. She could devote some time to you first, if I suggested it. Am I correct that you would find that attractive?”

“If it was something she herself wanted.”

“And if she didn’t feel so inclined?”

Geveaux hesitated. Arlette had ridden with him for half the ride back to Paris. He had savored the wonderfully liquid movements of her body every time she had squirmed or shifted her weight.

“I think not.”

“The court of Versailles can be a difficult milieu for someone who is excessively scrupulous.”

“It is not a question of scruples, madame. It is a matter of taste.”

The marquise’s face relaxed. Her diamonds danced in response to a sudden movement of her head. She broke into a smile that was so warm and gracious he immediately understood the true nature of the king’s enthrallment.

“You are a true gentleman, monsieur.”

“Thank you, madame.”

“You are absolutely certain the count’s control of the sword cannot be … transferred?”

“I have indulged in several experiments.”

“A pity.”

“I have often thought so, madame.”

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Framed

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Contents

Bella of Ghostsea is Dead

Written by A. S. Fox

Illustrated by Jared Blando

The bar was dark and the barmaid wary. Max, as ever, drank something red. Grak leaned over his ale. “You’ve got to help me.”

Max sipped. “I don’t know.” His pale face looked menacing in the shadows. “As I recall, you killed the last one.”

Grak sighed. “Being paid to hunt down a succubus does not count as a date. And besides, I think I got this curse figured out.”

One eyebrow on the vampire rose. Although Max did not smile in public, Grak knew from decades of experience this was a close second. Max sipped the liquid. “Do tell.”

“Well,” Grak took a gulp of ale, “I’m doomed to watch anyone I love die in front of me. So… I date someone who’s already dead.”

Max’s hands shot up in protest. “I’m no matchmaker.”

“But you know everyone Max.” Grak finished his tankard and waved for more. The barmaid gave a startled nod. “You’ve been dead forever. If there’s anyone out there for me… well, you’d know. And I’ve been taking communication lessons.”

“Lessons?”

Grak gave a nod. His face lit up. “At the Elven Institute.” He leaned forward and opened his eyes. “Do you feel I have a consultative listening style?”

Max laughed. “You’re a half orc who kills people for a living.” The barmaid swooped in, keeping her eyes on the table. Grak found his ale refreshed and Max, with a soft word, brought a smile to the woman’s face.

“C’mon. One name. I haven’t had a real date in almost four hundred years.”

The vampire sighed. “No vampires right?”

Grak nodded. “Too draining.”

“Emotionally?”

“No,” Grak drank, “physically.” Max gave him a nod. Somewhere in the bar two drunken dwarves started singing the praises of mining.

“Well…”

Grak perked up. “Yes, yes.”

Max sighed and swirled the red liquid. He downed it. “I do know this woman.” He held up a hand and Grak resisted speaking. “She’s kind of in the same boat as you. Cursed, looking for a date, um… She’s three thousand years old.”

Grak smiled. “No problem. I’m at least two thousand. I like mature.”

“Actually,” Max bounced his fingers against one another contemplatively, “she looks it during the day. At night she’s rather beautiful. If you go for that.”

The half orc pushed aside his drink. He gave Max his consultive listening focus. “You could introduce us?”

The vampire moaned. “Okay. She lives in Ghostsea, which is a bit far for me to travel, but I’ll send word.”

“Isn’t Ghostsea that cursed dwarven port?”

Max nodded. “You have no idea.”

* * *

A week later, Grak had a fair idea. The half-ruined town nestled a once bustling port where the husks of several burnt and sunken ships lay tilted on their keels. Birds in massive flocks dived upon them feeding. Here and there, a dwarf lumbered. Haunted or not, the port still functioned as haven for the downtrodden, the criminal and the half insane. “Seems like a nice enough place,” Grak informed no one in particular.

A raven cawed from a nearby dead tree. Grak pulled out the map Max had given him and reviewed it. His date lived somewhere north of the actual port in a ruined palace. Readjusting his uncomfortable formal cloak he began walking. It took an hour to find the place despite the humming of his blade. The last ten minutes he actually drew the sword and let its innate magic guide him towards death and ruin.

A slender woman greeted him at the gates of a huge estate. The sword in Grak’s hand nearly screamed. He smiled and sheathed it. When she didn’t speak he spent a minute acclimating to the place. The woman looked all of nineteen. She wore her midnight hair in a single braid. Her skin looked like white marble and her lips were a shocking blood red. Her clothing had an ancient cut but was in good repair. Her eyes glittered. “Well.” She put her hands on her hips. “Speak already.”

Grak coughed. He hadn’t realized how nervous he was. “Is that a magical lipstick? It’s quite fetching.”

She laughed at him and grabbed the box he carried from under his left arm. “Oh, how interesting. You brought me roses.” She pricked her finger on one and licked the blood. “I can make a nice potion from these.”

Grak bowed as best he could manage. He’d gotten rather dismal marks at the Elven Institute in this regard. He just couldn’t bring himself to give up the defensive advantage of having his sword hand in the wrong place. “Grak Bonesmasher.”

She gave him a wan smile. “I know who you are. Maximus sent word of you.” She studied him for a minute, frowning. “All right, you might as well come in.” She led him through a series of despoiled gardens, filled with writhing vines and dead ponds. In some the skeletons of fallen warriors decomposed.

“Charming.” Grak stopped to inspect the spear wound of one particularly nasty specimen.

“Oh,” —she waved casually— “I have a decorator.” She continued, making way for a stone arch set into one of the palace walls. Inside, candles flickered with ghostlight. A strange smell pervaded the place.

“Excuse me, is that gingerbread I smell?”

She nodded. “Where’d you learn to be polite?”

Grak blushed. This was definitely not going as he’d rehearsed. “Um, the Elven Institute.”

She pointed to a large decaying chair and he sat. “Which one?”

“Cliffsedge. And Highcity. Oh, and Towerville.”

She plopped into a similar chair near him. “How many times you take the class?”

Grak broke the clasp of the cloak while trying to unsnap it. He sighed. “Fourteen actually. But I’ve moved on to active communication. And I’ve only taken that class five times.” He stared at her face, trying to gauge the reaction. Her white skin revealed nothing.

She smiled at last, revealing perfect teeth. “The gingerbread is from an old job actually. I used to be in the baking business.”

Grak sat up. His instructor, Lord Kevin Something-Or-Other had been specific about pursuing his partner’s topic of interest. Gingerbread was apparently it. “So, like cookies?”

She shook her head. “Gingerbread houses actually. I was doing really well until the whole sector collapsed because of one bad contractor. Bottom fell out of the market.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

She gave him a look. He felt something in his spleen squirm. “Excuse me?”

He tried it another way. “Um, what feelings came up around that?”

Her jaw dropped. “Feelings? Feelings?” She smiled. “I smashed her head in with a pickaxe.”

Grak’s heart bounced. Max hadn’t mentioned she had spunk. “Really? That’s a pretty intense angle to swing one of those. Did you go overhead or from the side?”

She leaned forward. “Actually she was sleeping. So I only had to do a half swing. But being dead has its advantages.”

Grak rubbed his head. “So you’re definitely dead then?”

She frowned. “I never discuss my curse on the first date.”

He felt three feet tall. Max had given him no instructions. “Um, yah, right. Sorry I guess.”

She patted his arm. He noticed she lingered on the huge bicep. Especially the scars. “It’s okay. Blind dates are hard. How long has it been?”

Grak did some quick calculating on his fingers. “Like four hundred years. Maybe a little less. How about you?”

“About the same. Obviously it didn’t work out. Vampire. Too draining.”

Grak nodded sympathetically. “Physically?”

“No, emotionally.” She rose. “Let me fetch you some tea and gingerbread. Max tells me some interesting things about you and I’d love to hear all about it.” She left and returned, tray in hand. A pile of gingerbread and two large mugs of something clearly not tea graced it. Grak took several slabs of the bread and sipped the decoction. It burned pleasantly. He drank more.

“Wow. This stuff’s yummy.” He devoured three pieces and shoved several more on his lap. Somewhere around the seventh piece he remembered that gentlemen ate slowly. He froze.

“So tell me about your sword.” Between mouthfuls of gingerbread he gave her the whole story. She refilled his mug and he downed it giddily. She went away and returned with another larger plate of the bread. “So you’re actually immortal?”

“Technically yes. That is, until the black blade’s destroyed. ‘Course seven wizards later, it’s pretty much a done deal I’m stuck with it until a volcano erupts on top of me or something.”

Her eyes glittered and he found himself thinking impure thoughts. Something in her countenance changed and he worried she might be one of those mind readers. “Nearly immortal, hmm. You know I’ve been wanting some dragon curry…” A loud creak jarred the house.

Grak felt his hand shoot to his sword hilt. “That normal?”

She shrugged. “The palace is haunted. Things creak.”

He tapped the mug and she poured. “What is this stuff? It’s good.”

She gave him a wide smile. “Truth serum.”

Grak blinked. He hadn’t the heart to be angry. Must be the potion. His ears pricked as the sound of men’s footfalls reached him. Something metal banged. A muffled curse echoed through the palace. He rose and drew the blade. “Those are living sounds.” The sword began to hum.

She frowned. “They most certainly are. That’s really odd.”

Three figures burst into the room brandishing swords. A tall man with glamorous armor and flowing blond hair pointed at her. “Belladonna Dayhag we’re here to destroy you.” Several other shapes slinked behind them, clearly taking cover.

“Like hell you are.” Grak grabbed an ottoman and tossed it onto the knight, knocking him back with a resounding thud. “This is the first time in four hundred years I might get laid. You’re all gonna die.” Had he said that? No more drinking truth potions. He casually weighed into them, smashing the hero to the left with the flat of the black sword. The man fell without a sound.

“Die hideous orc!” Several arrows flew from behind a loveseat. The elf behind them cursed just like Lord Kevin. Without thinking, Grak let the black blade knock them away. The remaining swordsman lunged and managed to slam his blade into Grak’s chainmail. A pinprick of blood escaped. He decapitated the man in a quick swing and then tossed his sword through the elf’s loveseat. A hideous scream let him know he’d made contact.

“Kill the orc. Kill the orc.” Several panicked men scurried, including one obvious wizard. A crossbow bolt rammed his left shoulder. Two men sprang from behind a velvet curtain to slash him with their sabers. He drop-kicked the first and slammed the second man’s head into a wall. Both fell in crippled heaps. The wizard began chanting. Before he got halfway through his spell, something black and sizzling slammed into him. The wizard exploded into charcoal. One by one the men all fell prey to the black energy. Grak turned to find an angry Bella with a wand in hand.

“I can handle myself!”

Grak pulled the bolt from his shoulder. “But, but… I was trying to impress you.” Damn potion. The Elven Institute had not covered this situation.

Bella spoke a word and the ashes of the men were hauled into the night by a swirling vortex. Only his sword, pinned to the loveseat, remained. “Stupid men. Every time a woman is in trouble you just figure you can march in and save the day.”

Grak sputtered and tried to control his battle rage. “Now look here, Belladonna or whatever your name is. I just wanted to be polite. Where I come from, when paladins in armor show up, you help your buddy kill them.” He retrieved his sword and whacked it against a fireplace. Soot shook off. “Stop being such a bitch.”

She stared at him with narrow eyes, her wand pointed. Grak felt his sword begin to hum violently. Max definitely hadn’t mentioned she was sexy. She spit on the floor. “First, my name is Bella. Got that, Grak?” He nodded but kept his sword ready. “Second, you’re out of here. If you want to come back, you better bring me a whole heap of fresh dragon meat.” She put her hands on her hips again. Grak noticed with relief that meant the wand was now threatening the floor. “And not some shoddy old minger dragon. I want the good meat. That means a full adult and one with fire organs intact.”

Grak did some thinking. He knew several annoying beasts that fit the bill. A few were actually ones he’d lost friends to. One actually had nearly killed him. “Okay, so do I get to eat this curry with you?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Assuming you’re not on the menu, yes.” Grak gave her the once over and wondered if she would be on the menu. A little voice in his head warned him not to speak.

“Now get out.”

Grak showed himself out. He took some time to enjoy the gardens and also to let the last vestiges of the potion wear off. When he was feeling less giddy he checked his wounds and found them healing at their normal rapid rate. With a shrug he exited the palace estate and made his way down to Ghostsea. Along the way he found the expedition’s horses and gear. He also found two terrified hirelings holding a map to the party’s buried treasure.

* * *

A month later he stepped off a ship far to Ghostsea’s east, rich and well dressed. He had a local wizard waiting. The ship’s captain had been a man with the foresight to learn basic messenger magic. Word had gone ahead. The scruffy underling who met him bowed. “Zauron, Zammel, Zimm and Zief.”

Grak eyed him cautiously. Messages could be intercepted. “Which one are you?”

The wizard made a tutting sound. “We bought the franchise. My name’s Plunk.”

“Right. Okay Plunk, you know what I’ve got in mind?”

The little wizard looked disturbed. “We’ve made inquiries. He wants to sign in person.”

Grak cracked his neck. “Figures.” When he’d slid into the waiting coach, Plunk signaled. The horses trotted them out of town and into the foothills. Grak mumbled something about rest and promptly fell asleep.

“Sir, I believe the horses need rest.”

Grak opened his eyes and found Plunk looking at him. “Stopped have they?”

Plunk gave him a condescending smile. “Yes, that’s what happens when horses want to rest.” Grak smiled back. He stifled a yawn and let himself out of the coach. He sniffed and nodded to himself. Plunk followed, doing little stretches and knee kicks. Behind the wizard a large red head appeared, its massive eyes black and malicious. Grak waved. The dragon hissed smoke in reply. Plunk turned and promptly fainted.

“He thought the horses wanted to have a snack.”

The dragon nodded. “Figures.” His voice modulated to Draconic. “What’s all this about?”

Grak cleared his throat. He had a hard time with some of the hisses in Draconic. “Which part? The duel or the terms?”

The dragon slithered into view. Even by dragon standards the thing was huge. Row upon row of red scales glittered in the morning sun. “What’d I ever do to you that you’d want to kill me?”

Grak snorted. “You ripped my left arm off. Then stole everything I owned, killed my best friend and incinerated his village.”

The beast flicked its wings. “But I mean, how did I ever wrong you?”

Grak sighed. “It’s to impress a chick.”

“Oh, well that explains it.” The dragon leaned closer. “Hey can you do me a favor? I got someone stuck in my teeth.” A claw pointed to a back molar. Something skeletal festered therein.

“Sure.” Grak drew his sword and advanced on the jaw. “Okay, open ‘er up.”

The dragon widened its maw as Grak went to work, using the blade as a toothpick. A helmet popped loose and the remains of a Halfling followed. “Mmm. My thanks.” The reptile bowed its head. “Pesky thieves are like taffies.”

Grak kicked the corpse aside in distaste. “Um. Given the uniform…”

The dragon stared upwards in embarrassment. “That’s right. I forgot we had brownies for dessert.”

Grak unfolded the magical contract. “To business. I need your official draconic name to implement the spell. And of course the location you’d like my horde delivered to in the event I die.”

The dragon considered. “My mother named me Fouler of the Air.”

Grak chuckled. “She named you Smog?”

The beast winced. “Well, see there’s this cousin… Oh, nevermind. Just put it down and I’ll whisper the location of my horde to the scroll.”

Grak gave the beast a look. “This time next week you’ll have twice the cash. Well, maybe next year…”

The dragon tilted its enormous head. “Why so long? Can’t we speed this up?”

Grak shrugged. “Sea travel. Plus the time it takes to find some good magic armor. It could be months before we meet. I mean unless you’ve got some armor I can borrow?”

Smog revealed his many teeth. On another creature it might be a smile. “It just so happens I might be able to speed up this process.” With nostrils flaring, the beast slithered down a hole. It returned with a battered pair of winged shoes and clump of dented burnt armor. “Spartacus armor.”

“What the hell is that?”

The dragon huffed. “It’s just a superlight version of the usual knight’s kit. You don’t have children, do you?”

Grak shrugged. “None that I know of. Why?”

“Side effects. Gives you a cleft chin and causes overacting. Generational thing. The shoes work without any problems” A claw pushed them forward.

Grak examined them. When he touched a wing it fluttered. “How fast these things fly?”

Smog gave a shrugging gesture. “Put them on, find out. We could be in Ghostsea by tomorrow noon.”

* * *

It actually took them slightly longer. But good to his word, Smog ushered Grak into the Ghostsea airspace by one local time. The dragon eyed the half orc cheerfully and Grak had a fair notion of what lurked beneath.

“Hey Smog, I don’t suppose you’d consider fighting now, would you?”

The dragon frowned as it circled in the air. “Well… we just flew quite a distance. It might give you an unfair advantage.”

Grak scratched his chin. He could see the poor creature drooling with greed. “I guess we could do it in the air, to even things out for you.”

Smog agreed and set the terms at five hundred feet above the bay. The fight lasted fifteen minutes. Fourteen and half of those minutes Grak spent climbing as fast as his winged shoes would take him directly towards the sun. Smog followed blowing flames and smoke.

As the great beast’s wings flapped, cinders scattered throughout the sky. Below him Grak could hear threats and curses. It hadn’t taken the dragon long to realize that as long as the half orc had the lead, flame was an ineffective weapon. Instead, the monster charged upwards, sunblind and incensed.

The last seconds consisted of Grak diving into Smog’s path. The black blade sang its mirthless song as Grak allowed himself to land upon the dragon’s back. He rammed into Smog’s spine with his flying shoes and with a great arc slashed apart the sinews of first the dragon’s left wing and then his right. The wings stuttered in their motions and Grak repeated the slash from the opposite angle, effectively severing the tendons. The great wyrm plummeted with a snort of fire and a sudden wail.

Grak chuckled as he watched the mushroom cloud of steam and ship flotsam. “How many people can claim they reduced Smog and cleaned up the harbor simultaneously?”

Grak had the dragon meat and fire organs delivered by wagon. The dwarves who ran the operation willingly bartered for some claws and a horn. Several thankful harbormasters offered their teamsters. Grak made sure a second wagon of alchemically valuable goods involving spleen and marrow showed up. He figured Bella might appreciate that more than roses.

When he arrived after sunset, she stood smiling at the gate. The smell of curry wafted from the estate. She kissed his cheek. Her lips were ice. “Thanks for the claws.”

Grak shrugged. “Was the spleen useful?”

Bella chuckled. “It makes a great sausage. But potion wise, no.” She led him onto the grounds. “But scales, claws, bone and teeth, tremendously useful. You sent plenty, thanks.”

He smiled. “It wasn’t much of a fuss.”

“I heard it was rather quick actually.”

They sauntered through the gardens. Someone had tastefully added several dragon scales near a bed of drooping lilacs. Grak, with his Orcsight, could also see a fresh grave dug. “Trouble?”

Bella batted her eyelashes. “Nothing a girl can’t handle.” She led him to an old moathouse with the roof caved in. Next to it a huge cauldron boiled. Blue sparks fired out randomly, lighting up the evening. “Ah, smells like it’s ready.”

Grak sniffed. Other than the sparks it smelled right. “I thought dragon meat was tough.”

His date laughed. She handed him a gigantic bowl. “Try.”

Working on the notion that the truth serum hadn’t done him harm, Grak dutifully sipped. The curry had body and bite. He bit into a piece of Smog; the meat melted in his mouth. “Wow, that’s exceptional.”

She smiled and gestured for him to sit. A dwarf-sized apparition brought a basket of hot brown bread. “Please, I baked it myself.”

Grak dropped half a loaf on top of his curry. “You learn to cook like this doing the gingerbread thing?”

Bella shook her head. “I used to run a rooming house for dwarves. It’s kinda how I got the curse.”

Grak ate half the bowl. “I didn’t know dwarves were big cursers.”

She shrugged. “Really it was my stepmother. My mother was a peasant. She died early of a magical virus.”

Grak grunted and shoved down more curry. Bella refilled his bowl. “Thanks.”

“Anyway, Mom came from an inn. My dad, the king, met her there and it was love at first sight. Sort of a fairytale thing.”

Grak nodded. “Went into the family business then?”

Bella snorted. “Well the family business was taxation and I’m fairly Libertarian, so I moved one kingdom over and opened my own business.”

“Big one?”

She shook her head. “Maybe five lodgers. At one point I had the place packed with seven miners. They paid in gold so it was really lucrative.”

Grak stopped eating. “Hey, have I heard about this?”

“Maybe.” She sighed. “My version is she got her nose out of tweak without the taxes and frankly, she never liked me.”

“Couldn’t she run you out business or something?”

Bella laughed. “In a manner of speaking she did. They invaded and she spiked my morning tea with poison. They found me face down with a half-eaten apple in my hand.”

Grak snapped his fingers. “I knew I heard this one. Woke up with a kiss, right?”

Bella’s face darkened and her eyes spoke of cold murder. “They took liberties.”

The entire estate quieted. Grak felt his sword begin to hum. He’d heard that phrase before. He was after all only half orc. “Oh.” He set the food aside.

“I woke up just as he was adjusting his pantaloons.”

“Oh.” Grak remembered his own mother’s story. His chest swelled with a dull ache. “I’da killed ‘im.”

She smiled. “Me too. Ran him through with his own sword while he was smoking a cigarette.”

“Never heard of this curse then.”

Bella shrugged and patted his knee. “Seems he was the son of my stepmother. Kind of a twisted plot. Very much her style. When she found out what I’d done, well…” She gave another heartfelt shrug. “Joke was on her though. Twice cursed to eternal beauty and living death.”

Grak picked some meat from his fangs. “Max said you have a different look during daylight.”

Her eyes glittered. “Magic finds a way. I was literally cursed to be gorgeous while sleeping. So during the dark when we sleep…” She shrugged.

“And the other half?”

“I was cursed to be the most hideous rotting corpse walking the day.”

Grak slurped his curry. “Now that’s cool. Worms in the face and stuff?”

Bella chuckled. “What’s with the worms thing?”

“Well we have this goddess…” He shrugged.

“What kind of goddess exactly?”

Grak coughed. “Shraith, Orcish goddess of love and fist-fighting, actually.”

They switched topics. Grak ate more and for another hour drew her out on a variety of topics. He found out her skin tanned while in her corpse form. Also, she had exclusively Dwarven servants both among the living and dead. He saw the hard sense in that. The more they talked, the more he felt he understood this complex woman.

“You’re just a good woman with bad luck.” That had made her laugh. Grak noted she hadn’t disagreed. They chatted further. He discovered she had watched his battle with Smog. She gave him a compliment; he flirted. They lingered over a bottle of wine and some gingerbread delivered by a living servant.

Around midnight she sighed. “I guess you’ll be wanting sex now.”

Grak shot wine through his nose. The gingerbread went down the wrong pipe and he found himself hacking up unsightly gobs of bread and mucus. Bella had to hammer his back with her fists. “Um…”

She banged on his back. “You okay?”

“Yes, um… fine.” Grak brushed the snot from his cloak. “Look, Bella,” he held out his hand to forestall her reaction, “I’ve waited a long time. I mean a long, long time.” She nodded. “I guess, I mean truth serum aside, I was hoping we might you know… get to know one another first.”

She beamed. “Really?”

He nodded. “I mean duping a dumb beast to fight me was easy.” He had told her he’d lured it with his substantial fortune. Which was true. He also knew through Max that Bella, like him, had considerable wealth. “Other than hacking apart some relatively easy opponents and eating some great gingerbread, we haven’t gotten to really talk much…” He shrugged. Had he really said that?

Bella handed him a napkin and he wiped his face. “I’m a bitch you know. And my face falls off at sunrise.”

Grak nodded. “You already know I like that in a girl. Besides, I’m the one cursed to attract death and destruction. You’re just doomed to live forever.”

“I thought all men were into sex on demand?”

“You mean orcs.”

“Okay, I figured you were wired a little different, that’s all.”

He smiled. “I failed a bunch at the Elven Institute but that doesn’t make me simple. I’m as old as you, Bella. And I can beat Max at chess in twelve moves.”

Bella blinked. “I’m into ess and em.”

“I cheat at cards.”

“I whistle incessantly.”

Grak patted her knee. “I have to shave my tongue.”

She sat quietly for a minute. Then she smiled and he felt the warmth. “This might work.”

They didn’t say much after that. Bella led him inside, where a fire roared. She motioned for him to sit and she leaned into his arm. For hours they watched the fire dance, occasionally exchanging a comment.

Around four in the morning he nudged her awake. “Fire’s dying.”

Reflexively she kissed his cheek. “Whadja say Honey?” Her words were slurred with sleep.

He brushed the hair from her face. “Fire’s going out. Do you want me to throw on a few logs?” She yawned and gave him a nod. Grak hopped up and fed the coals several small logs. Then he placed two large green pieces of timber at the edges. When the arrangement started to yield a robust flame, he sidled back onto the couch. She promptly dozed on his arm.

A while later he woke. The room was dark and the fire still raging. “Whuzza?” she asked. Grak rubbed his eyes. She hadn’t tapped him awake after all. The black blade had started to vibrate. It had woken them both.

“Intruders.” He yawned.

“At this hour.” Bella scratched her head. “Aww, the fire’s so warm.” She sighed and seemed to be debating something. “Grak, would you be a dear…?”

He chuckled softly. “Sure Sweetie, you stay on the couch, I’ll take care of this.” Her lips touched his neck briefly. Down the hall the armor of the invading party could be heard clanking. Someone muttered an imprecation.

As Grak unsheathed the black blade and stepped into the foyer, he heard her say, “Yah, this definitely has potential.”

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Framed

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Contents

A Thread of Silk

Written by Eugie Foster

Illustrated by Anthony Hochrein

Prologue

Sitting in the back on the Otemachi subway, away from the glitter of young people bedecked in late-night finery, the young woman gazed out the window as though fascinated by her reflection in the glass. She was indeed remarkably beautiful, but if anyone had looked beyond the flawless cream of her skin or the deep claret of her lips, they would have seen that her eyes were focused not on her image, but beyond it, as though they looked upon a time a thousand years away.

* * *

Mae peered through the thick shutter at the embattled men and wished she knew how her brother fared, whether Sadamori was safe. He was with Father, protected by many ranks of loyal Taira guards, defending the seimon, the main palace gate. But her brother was always one to take foolish risks, and this band of bushi was frighteningly well organized.

“Please, kindly kami spirits and benevolent ancestral ghosts,” she whispered, “guard Sadamori.”

A scuffle across the courtyard seized her attention. A Taira sentry fell, his blood a spray of black in the torchlit night.

In the breach his death created, one of the enemy bushi broke through the back gate.

Mae steadied her breathing as she nocked an arrow. She stepped into position and pulled the bowstring taut, sighting down the shaft’s length. In her mind, a silk thread shimmered smooth and straight. The whimpers of the servants at her back faded to an insignificant buzz.

She released the arrow in a liquid motion, exactly as Sadamori had taught her. It pierced the man’s throat at his armor’s divide, and he half spun, dropping his tachi. The blood-streaked blade spun away on the cobblestones. He dropped beside it, kicking and writhing.

Behind her, Uma shrieked. “You killed him!”

“Quiet,” Mae snapped. “Would you prefer it was your blood the God of War took instead of his?”

Uma sniveled, wringing her gnarled hands.

Outside, the arrow-downed bushi lay still. Mae shivered. Killing a man was nothing at all like hitting straw targets in the practice yard. She regretted scolding her old nurse. The poor thing was terrified; they all were.

“Mae-hime!” Seiichi, her father’s head gardener, pointed at the wall. Another wave of intruders, weary of being curbed at the barricade’s opening, were clambering over it.

Mae drew another arrow and swept all else from her thoughts until only the silk thread remained, bright and strong.

Her bolts picked two men from the wall. They fell, and she was glad for the earthen barrier that concealed their deaths. Then the invaders were over, and she dared not shoot for fear of hitting Taira men. They swarmed the defenders, a deadly infestation of steel stingers and armored carapaces. The line of battle grew closer, step by step, as the Taira gave ground, overwhelmed.

Mae shook so hard she fumbled the next arrow before she could nock it. It clattered to the floor, and she groped for another, rushing for fear of losing her shot. She knew as soon as the bolt leaped from the curve of her bow that it was bad, and sure enough, the point deflected harmlessly off overlapping tiles of armor.

Before she could bend, Seiichi was there, handing the dropped arrow to her. The gardener clutched his hoe, a resolute glint in his rheumy eyes. Mae smiled, both amused and touched.

“You think to hew down those bushi as though they were weeds, Seiichi-kun?” she murmured.

“Even the wishes of a small ant reach heaven,” he retorted.

Mae set arrow to bowstring. “And surely, you are the loudest ant of all.”

She chose a target, her hands steady once more. She did not flinch when the point found its mark, lodged in a bushi‘s eye socket, and she no longer resented that Sadamori had sent her to defend the servants instead of joining the archers at the seimon. It was not a dishonor, but her duty as Taira no Mae to protect her people.

Mae held the thread of silk in her mind, let it compose her movements and steady her aim as she sent one shaft after another into the fray outside. The thread eclipsed all else until there was no Mae, no shouting men, no fear. She reached for another arrow and was startled to discover only two left in her quiver.

No matter. There was her naginata when they were gone. The swordspear at her feet, with its shaft as tall as she and tipped with its fine steel blade, was as lethal as any tachi.

Mae squinted into the darkness, searching for her next quarry. She gasped, and the bowstring went slack in her fingers. Seiichi was out there, scrambling and hunched in the courtyard. What was the old fool doing?

Heart filling her throat, she watched him retrieve an arrow, the first she had misfired, and then go after others, her misses and also ones lodged in still-warm flesh. He gathered them together like flower stems.

“Seiichi, you idiot,” she moaned. “Get out of there!”

The gardener bobbed his head as though he could hear her over the tumult of combat, but he continued scuttling on ancient legs about his self-appointed task.

From the front of the palace, a twofold cry went up—a roar of victory mingled with anguish. A crash she could feel through her straw sandals proclaimed the news. The seimon had fallen.

The warriors in the courtyard, invaders and defenders alike, knew as well as she what those sounds portended. The insurgent bushi rallied as her father’s men faltered—some even turning to flee, only to be struck down from behind.

In the chaos, one of the Taira guards, waving his tachi in wild arcs, blundered into Seiichi. Mae watched helplessly, an arrow ready to fly to the old man’s aid. But she was unwilling to kill one of the palace defenders. The gardener, his arms filled with spent arrows, was swept off his feet. The bushi did not even pause, but lashed out with his sword.

A cluster of red feathers—noblewoman’s fletching—sprang from his neck. Mae did not remember loosing the arrow, nor did she spare a thought for the Taira man she had killed. She had eyes only for the crumpled gardener.

The shadows themselves paused as Seiichi stirred, as astonished as Mae that the old man still lived. He dragged himself to his knees, and unbelievably, began collecting the arrows he had dropped.

Tears rained from her eyes as Mae pulled her final arrow.

“Help him in,” she cried. “Help him!”

Behind her, two grooms, and even Uma, scrambled out. While she covered them, they hauled Seiichi through the window.

Blood poured from a cut in his side, turning the undyed hemp of his kimono black. Mae slammed the shutter and barred it, muffling the sounds of violence from without.

Uma appropriated the arrows Seiichi stubbornly clung to while the others laid him on the floor. Mae knelt. “You stupid old man,” she murmured. “That was a very brave thing you did.”

“Even an inchworm has five tenths of a soul.” Seiichi coughed, and blood sprayed from his lips.

“Your soul is as big as a mountain.”

Seiichi smiled. “I hope not. Then I might be the Emperor’s son in my next life, instead of a humble gardener. I would miss my flowers.”

“You will have many seasons to admire your flowers, Seiichi-kun, not in your next life, but in this one.”

He coughed again, the sound like a choked fountain. “These eyes have seen their last bloom, but I am not afraid of Lord Death. Rather, I fear for you.”

He pressed a crumpled scrap of cloth into her hand. It was a crest from the night-dark uniforms of the invading bushi. But instead of the broad leaves of the paulownia, emblem of the Minamota clan and sworn enemy to their house, it was the graceful butterfly of the Taira—the same insignia woven into Mae’s kimono and stamped on her bow.

Mae inhaled. “How—?”

But Seiichi was gone, lured away by the blossoms in Lord Death’s garden.

“Oh, Seiichi.” Mae rocked the old man in her arms. Uma added her lamentation, keening like a mad seabird as she hugged the gore-drenched arrows.

Their grief was interrupted by the rattle of the interior bamboo screen thrust aside. Mae’s head whipped up, and she pulled the glittering length of her kaiken from her sash.

Sadamori stood in the entrance, his armor giving his lean form the shoulders and girth of a giant, and his kabuto helm the silhouette of a demon.

Mae cried out in relief. Letting her kaiken fall, she flung herself into his arms.

“Mae-chan, thank all the gods in heaven you’re unhurt.” Sadamori enveloped her in a metal embrace. “The palace is breached and our troops in rout. We must ride from here.”

“Where has Father decided we are to fall back to?”

Sadamori shook his head, grim-faced. She knew by the way he pressed his lips together, as though to keep back the terrible news, that the most awful of outcomes had transpired.

“How?” she asked. “How did Father die?”

“Later, Mae-chan. We must hurry.”

Mae relieved Uma of her burden of arrows and restored her kaiken to its scabbard while one of the grooms brought her the naginata. Hand-in-hand, brother and sister fled through the back corridors of the palace they had grown up in. A huddle of servants, frightened and silent, followed in their wake.

Outside, a regiment of Taira guards clustered, bows out and tachi drawn. They were few, and the ones that were not wounded were elderly bushi on the cusp of retirement.

“This is it?” Mae gulped, “all that is left of our house?”

“Shigemori-kun took two garrisons with him. He rides for Kyoto to appeal to the Emperor.” Sadamori boosted Mae into the saddle of a roan palfrey, her favorite.

“What does our brother hope to accomplish?” she asked.

“Nothing less than rinji, the Emperor’s personal edict of condemnation on this brutal and unlawful attack.”

Sadamori oversaw the servants—even Uma, too scared to complain—being hauled up behind other riders before he swung atop his warhorse. At his signal, they galloped for the forest.

The estate was a nightmare of burned gardens and death. Mae shuddered and averted her eyes from the arrow-riddled corpses of Taira bushi, some with their eyes open and their faces twisted into rictuses of terror. There would be many angry ghosts in Hitachi Province after this night.

When they were free of the palace grounds and into the forest wilds, Sadamori slowed them from a headlong gallop to a gentle canter. Mae understood the need to save the horses, especially the ones bearing double burdens, but she wished for greater speed to put the war-ravaged visions far away.

She nudged her mare into step beside her brother. “Sadamori-kun, they were wearing Taira crests.”

Her brother’s face was an impassive mask. “It was Taira no Masakado.”

“Masakado?” Mae had never met her cousin, although she recalled a fragment of some scandal—something to do with the Emperor’s birthday celebration in Kyoto. But she had never been one to follow the fickle peculiarities of courtly gossip.

“He has made a bargain with a demon.” Sadamori’s tone was as wooden as his face. “He brought a devil wind that always blew at his back, fouling our archers. I saw him fling aside strong, skilled bushi as though they were puppies, and he brought the seimon down with his bare hands. When Father saw this, he knew we were lost. He commanded Shigemori and me to retreat while he took a wedge of his best bushi to make a final stand, to keep their cavalry from overrunning the palace. His was an honorable death.”

Mae reached for her brother’s hand, and he clasped her fingers.

“I must avenge Father.” Sadamori’s voice quivered. “Little sister, I fear I will fail and bring dishonor upon our family.”

“Sadamori-kun—”

“Arrows bounced off his flesh. He shrugged aside a cut from my own tachi that would have killed any other man. And, Mae, he wore no armor!”

“No armor?”

“Only a black hitatare. It was as though he were mocking us, wearing silk undergarments to battle.”

Mae felt the tremor in her brother’s hand. “You must not fixate upon such things. The wise bee does not sip from a flower that has fallen.”

The barest hint of a smile lifted her brother’s lips. “That’s something old Seiichi might have said.”

“He was always ready with a proverb, wasn’t he? I think he came up with them by the pageful as he puttered around with his watering can.” Her eyes burned. “Poor old Seiichi.”

“I will avenge him too. All our people who died tonight must be avenged so their ghosts may find peace.”

Mae jerked on her brother’s hand, making him face her. “We will avenge them, Sadamori-kun. Together.”

He nodded. “Together.”

* * *

Their destination was an old Shinto shrine in the forest, longtime haven to wartime refugees. By unspoken law, the sanctity of its grounds was inviolate.

A white-robed priest met them beneath the vermilion arch of the torii, the sacred gateway that marked the border between the physical world and the realm of spirits. He carried a lantern and seemed to glow by its light.

Sadamori dismounted and removed his kabuto. Mae frowned as she saw the discolored lump that swelled his forehead.

“Honored kannushi,” Sadamori said, “I regret that we must pollute these hallowed premises with sorrow and strife.”

The priest stroked her mare’s velvet nose as Mae slid off her back. “The world is one great family, Taira no Sadamori-dono. While we kannushi aspire to avoid looking upon that which is not pure, it would constitute a shameful taint upon our hearts if we did not welcome our family home.” He winked. “Just be so kind as to wipe your feet.”

Before following their guide up the tree-lined path, brother and sister clapped twice and bowed three times in salutation to the attendant kami. Four ravens took wing as Mae stepped through the torii, roused from their perch on the crossbeam. She watched their flight, discomfited. It was well known that spirits were fond of expressing themselves through signs and portents, and while birds, especially ones perching on a torii, were auspicious omens, four was an exceptionally ill-favored number, associated with death.

Two more priests, a pair of bright banners in their chalk-white robes, descended the front steps of the shrine. They took charge of the horses with gentle insistence, ushering the wounded bushi and servants to a grove of trees. Mae and Sadamori were left to ascend the shrine’s steps alone.

Built to harmonize with nature, the shrine’s vaulted roof spread protective wings inviting kami to visit and shelter within. Inside, it was lit by several lanterns resting on burnished pillars. The altar was a simple affair of tiered shelves flanked by a pair of evergreen saplings and a bronze bell to summon the attention of spirits. The lower shelves held a pitcher of water, a jar of sake, and pots of both salt and rice—bulk containers from which the priests procured their daily offerings. At the apex stood the kami house—an unadorned cabinet with two doors.

Mae kneeled and bowed her head. Sadamori did not join her.

“Isn’t it wrong to pray to the kami with a heart full of grief and a mind that longs for vengeance?” he asked.

“Perhaps. But I am also praying for our brother’s safety.”

With a great rattle and clatter of armor, Sadamori sank beside her.

In the silence of prayer, Mae snuck a glance at him. His normally cheery face had acquired lines of sorrow and worry. And he was so pale, the bruise ugly and stark at his brow.

“How did you get that bump?”

Sadamori reached a hand to his head and winced. “When I struck Masakado with my tachi, he swatted me aside. I lay dazed—I’m not sure how long—until Shigemori-kun pulled me up.”

“It looks tender.”

“Masakado knocked me flying. If he’d used his fist, my skull would have caved in. As it is, I feel like there’s an iron club at war with the inside of my head.”

“Your skull’s too thick to break.” Mae stood. “Still, let me see.”

She brought a lantern over, and Sadamori flinched at the tiny flame.

“Does this hurt your eyes? Are you dizzy?”

He scowled. “What do you expect with you waving that light in my face?”

Mae eyed the muted lamp, steady as a kaiken in her hand, and set it aside. “Does your stomach feel sick?”

“It always does after a battle.”

She began unlacing the ties that held Sadamori’s armor on.

“What are you doing?” he protested. “I can do this outside.”

“It’s a miracle you didn’t fall off your horse after that knock to your brain. If you faint in your full armor, I won’t even be able to drag you down the shrine steps.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not going to faint.” Sadamori stood, but before he could take a step, he reeled, holding a hand out for balance.

Mae rushed to his side, taking his arm over her shoulders. “You dumb ox. What did I tell you?”

“He’s a demon, Mae-chan,” Sadamori muttered. “I’ll throw parched beans at him next time.” He slumped against her.

“That’s not funny. Stand up.” She jostled his arm. “Come on, Sadamori-kun.”

He went limp, and she sprawled beneath his full weight.

“Sadamori, wake up. Sadamori!” Her voice turned shrill. “Somebody, help!”

She heard the clatter of straw sandals on wooden floorboards. Several priests came running, their white robes flapping like great crane wings. With a few grunts and much awkwardness, they half-rolled, half-lifted Sadamori off.

One of them assisted her to her feet—the head priest who had greeted them at the torii. “What happened?” he asked.

“A blow to the head. I didn’t know he was hurt. He showed no weakness at all during the ride.” Mae enlisted their aid in removing Sadamori’s armor, and they hauled him onto a straw mat. “My brother has always been like that, putting aside sickness and injury until either he conquers it, or it overcomes him.” Her voice cracked, and she sucked in an unsteady breath. “Kannushi, why won’t he wake up?”

“His soul is heavy, daughter. It bears a great burden of grief and pain. We must make him as comfortable as we can and wait for him to awaken when he is ready to.”

The priests bustled out, leaving Mae to sit vigil. At first, Sadamori tossed and muttered to himself as though gripped by evil dreams. She hoped that whatever nightmares tormented him might also propel him out of the spirit realm, but as the lanterns burned low, his agitation stilled, and his breathing grew shallow.

The pallor of Sadamori’s face terrified her; Mae couldn’t bear to look at it. She stared instead with fixed obsession at the rise and fall of his chest. When he exhaled, her blood froze, fearful that that breath would be his last, and each time he inhaled, her soul warmed, and she thanked all the gods for the miracle.

As the night deepened, this circuit of despair, hope, and relief took its inexorable toll. Mae rose and stormed to the altar. She wrenched open the pot of rice and slung its contents at the kami house. Hurling the salt bin against the cabinet doors, she sent a shower of salt to mingle with the rice. She seized the pitcher of water, but blinded by either a mist of salt or the brine of her tears, her aim was off. It shattered above the shelf, spraying its contents over cabinet, rice, and salt. When she came to the jar of sake, she gulped several mouthfuls before pouring the rest onto the shrine’s floor.

“There! You cannot say the offering is not enough,” she shouted. “You have no excuse not to hear me, Bishamon. God of War, answer me!”

Her words echoed in the silence.

She picked up the bronze bell and struck it four times. “Bishamon! I’m calling you! Are you afraid of a woman’s anger? Bisha—”

A wind howled through the shrine, extinguishing all the lanterns and hurling her to her knees. In the darkness, Mae pawed at her face, blinded by a faceful of sodden rice and salt.

When she could see once again, the shrine was no longer dark. A miniature cyclone whirled atop the altar, shedding a white-blue luminescence.

“I have come.” The voice emanated from every corner— the exultant howl of the battlefield, the dangerous whisper of a new-drawn tachi, and the menacing thrum of a leaping arrow.

Mae fought her way to her feet, although the gale lashed her with a hail of rice and salt. “Take me instead,” she called. “Let Sadamori live, and take me.”

The wind lessened until Mae could stand without swaying like a drunken bushi.

“What makes you think I want you?” the voice boomed. “Or him for that matter?”

“Why else would you set Taira no Masakado upon us? We had no quarrel with him. Whatever our house has done to offend you, I offer myself to appease your wrath if you will let Sadamori and the rest of my family alone.”

Laughter, like the clang of steel, ricocheted from wall to wall. “I have no grievance against you or your house. Taira no Masakado’s sincerity impressed me; that is all. But now you have impressed me as well. I will give you a gift. Do you want what I gave him, invulnerability and the strength of seven men?”

“Yes!”

“Then you may have it. All you must do is take it from Masakado.” The wind chuckled.

Mae stamped her foot. “You tricked me! I only wanted those so I could slay Masakado.”

“Then you should have refused my offer and asked me to tell you how to defeat him.” Still chuckling, the wind whirled away.

“Wait! You son of a worm! You—”

A clod of wind-strewn salt-rice flew into her throat and she doubled over, coughing. Between choked gasps, Mae used every bushi profanity she could remember overhearing.

“Tch. Such language.” The voice was a woman’s, melodious as a silk ribbon playing over the stings of a zither.

Mae spun around. The shrine, even though Bishamon was gone, was bright. But unlike his electric sheen, the air was tinged a festive red. The source of this new illumination came from the kami house. The cabinet was ajar, spilling radiance onto the strewn slop of offerings.

Mae swung open the doors. Red light splashed out, clinging like sticky bean paste to her hands and face.

“The God of War is not one for words, in any case,” the voice continued. “Even angry ones. He prefers action. I, however, favor words. Although granted, it was your actions that attracted my attention—which is probably as well, considering.”

“Benzaiten, Goddess of Love and Music,” Mae breathed.

“I know who I am, child. Now, do you know what drew us here?”

“Anger at my desecration of the shrine?”

“Why should I be angry? I’m not the one who will be cleaning this up. Although I suspect the priests are going to be put out.”

“Then, no.”

“Sincerity, Taira no Mae. That which binds the divine to the mortal. The pureness of your soul’s fury attracted the God of War. But it is the intensity of your love for your brother and your selfless—albeit ridiculous—offer to trade your life for his that has earned my blessing.”

“Can you give me the means to defeat Masakado?”

“I already have.”

“I—I don’t feel any stronger.”

The goddess-light flickered. “It is not invulnerability or strength I have given you; those are not my virtues to bestow. But my gifts, in concert with Bishamon’s, will surely conquer Masakado.”

Mae scowled. “Bishamon didn’t give me anything save his ridicule.”

“Silly girl. He gave you the most important thing of all: knowledge. Think. ‘You should have asked me how to defeat him,’ he said.”

Mae’s eyes widened. “Which means Masakado can be defeated!”

“See? I knew you were clever. But are you certain this is the path you wish to tread? When War and Love come together, there is always suffering.”

An image of Seiichi filled Mae’s vision, his arms around a bouquet of bloody arrows. “I am sure.”

“So be it. If you wish to defeat Taira no Masakado, you must set off for Sashima tonight.”

“Tonight? Without Sadamori?”

“Indeed. Or else do not bother to set out at all.”

“But why won’t you heal him?”

“It is not up to me, or Bishamon for that matter, whether your brother lives or dies.” The goddess’s voice became a wisp of floating melody. “That is entirely up to him.”

The red glow snuffed out. However, Love, being a more considerate god than War, relit a lantern as she departed, the one Mae had set by the altar. Its glimmer filled the kami house, flashing off the traditional mirror within. About to close the cabinet, Mae glanced in and was astounded to behold a stranger in the mirror gazing back.

She leaned close, dumbfounded.

Despite Sadamori’s assurances to the contrary, Mae knew herself to be unremarkable. Her features were agreeable enough, but they were neither sophisticated nor striking. Yet her reflection was exquisite. Beneath lilting brows, eyes mysterious and charming as a cat’s gaped back in disbelief, while velvety lips, red as plum wine, parted in astonishment. Mae pressed a hand to her cheek. In addition to being as white and lustrous as pearls, her skin was soft as orchid petals.

She peeked beneath her kimono. It was with a certain relief that she discovered the scar on her shin—from where Sadamori had accidentally clipped her, years ago as they practiced with naginatas—remained, as did the discolored patch on her forearm from when she had spilled a pot of scalding tea. Her spirit had not been deposited into a stranger’s body, after all. Where her garments had stood between her skin and the goddess’s light, she remained unaltered.

Sadamori stirred on his straw pallet, interrupting her astonished appraisal. Mae snatched the lantern and hurried to him.

She joggled him and called his name, but he still would not wake. It seemed the divine visitation had not roused him; at least he had come to no harm from all the flying rice.

“I must go now, Sadamori-kun,” she whispered. “You better not die. If you do, I will kill Masakado all by myself, and you will be the laughingstock of everyone in heaven. ‘Look at Taira no Sadamori,’ they’ll say, ‘finished by a clonk to the head, and by a man his little sister dispatched, no less!’” Mae kissed his forehead. “So don’t you dare die and leave me alone, you hear?”

She crept from the shrine. The moon had set, leaving the night sky wreathed in a star-spangled veil of wispy clouds. A suggestion of silver in the east hinted of dawn’s unfurling banner.

“Taira no Mae-dono.”

Mae gasped.

Behind her, silent and unseen, stood the head priest, his white kimono ghostly in the darkness. He held her mare’s reins in one hand and Mae’s bow, quiver, and naginata in the other.

“Please forgive me,” he said. “It was not my intention to startle. I took the liberty of preparing your mount and weapons for your journey.”

She swallowed back the thunder of her heart. “H-how did you know?”

The priest smiled. “Daughter, did you think we who serve the spirits and gods are deaf and blind not to notice Bishamon’s ruckus?”

Mae’s face burned. She accepted her weapons and secured them to her saddle. “Kannushi, I am shamed by how I have abused this holy place. I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible mess.”

The priest chuckled. “It was not you alone responsible for the disorder within. Do not fret yourself. The kami are usually more subtle, as are we when we seek their attention, but perhaps when calamitous events are afoot, it requires a more candid approach. A day or two of sweeping and scrubbing will set things right.”

Mae hoisted herself into the saddle. “Will you tell my brother I have gone to Sashima when he wakes?”

“Of course.”

She bit her lip. “Do you think he will recognize me when he sees me?”

“Daughter, the mirror in the kami house is more than a symbol. Its purity and clarity teaches us to look within and beyond. His heart will know to look past the bafflement of his eyes.”

“I hope so. Thank you.”

The priest bowed.

Mae turned her mare and sent her trotting down the path. As they passed beneath the torii, she squinted at the crossbar, but if there were any birds perched on it, they were hidden by the early morning gloom.

They picked their way through the forest while dawn spread a fan of pale pink, gold, and white across the sky. A stream twisted like a shining snake across their path. In the distance, the highway was still a dusty ripple—always closer as it peeped in and out between tree trunks.

Mae alighted while her mare drank, and freed her hair from the band that secured it in an ankle-length train down her back. A shower of salt and rice pattered down, deposited from Bishamon’s vehemence. Grains of rice were also trapped in the folds and layers of her kimono that no amount of shaking or brushing could dislodge.

As much as Mae desired to make all haste to Sashima, the gritty specks itched in a maddening fashion. And while she felt chagrined at postponing a blood vendetta to see to such luxuries as bathing, surely her cause would be better served if she came at Masakado with balanced focus, instead of distracted by her irritated skin.

Mae shed the outer layers of her kimono until she was clad only in the thin silk of her white hitoe. As her mare watched, brown eyes placid and amused, Mae brushed the folds of brocade until she was satisfied all the silty deposits had been displaced. Draping these robes over convenient boxwood bushes, she shrugged aside her hitoe and knelt by the stream. The chilly water raised prickles on her arms as she splashed away the residue Bishamon had flung over her.

A neigh brought Mae’s head snapping up. Four rough-looking men abandoned their efforts at stealth and stepped from the foliage behind her.

Mae snatched her hitoe. Even as she clutched the silk to her breasts, she reproached herself for allowing modesty to usurp reason. Her kaiken hung on a branch two steps away. She ought to have scrambled for it, not the useless hitoe.

As though anticipating her intent, the first man drew his tachi and flipped her kaiken spinning away.

“Good morning, hime.” He grinned, displaying a gap of missing front teeth. “Have we disrupted your morning ablutions?”

“I haven’t any money,” Mae declared. “And my brother is just over the hill.”

“He is? He can’t be too protective of you as we came from that way, and we didn’t see anyone.”

The other men chuckled. One, bearing a scar across his nose, fingered the front of his hakama pants.

Mae shrank back.

“And who said we wanted money? We’re collecting donations of silk. That’s a very nice piece you’ve got there. Kindly toss it over.”

She swallowed. “W-wouldn’t you rather come here and take it?”

Gap-tooth’s grin widened. He shoved his tachi back into its sheath and advanced. When he was close enough, Mae flung the voluminous length of her hitoe over his head and bolted for her mare.

Before she could spring into the saddle, a great weight smashed into her. She screamed as she went down beneath a snarling man. She thrashed, catching flesh beneath her raking nails before coarse hands pinioned her arms to the ground.

Gap-tooth’s friend, Scar-nose, touched his bleeding face and scowled. He slapped her, rocking her head back.

The next moment, a tuft of red feathers protruded from his mouth. Scar-nose wore an expression of confused indignity as he toppled, his skull pierced by an arrow.

Mae rolled away and sprang to her feet. Sprinting the few steps to her mare, she yanked her naginata free and pivoted, wheeling it in a wide arc.

A man clad in billowing black parried aside the concentrated efforts of two of her assailants, his tachi a blur, while Gap-tooth charged his exposed back.

Mae hurtled forward, whirling the naginata in a precision sweep. Its length gave her the advantage of speed, and the curve of its blade was razor-edged. It sheered through Gap-tooth’s hamstrings, sending him bellowing to the ground. She shifted her grip beneath the guard and brought the swordspear back in a graceful, lethal arc, splitting him from throat to groin.

Mae hefted the shaft of her weapon and swiveled to face her next foe. But there was no one left. The black-clad man stood unscathed with his tachi coated in blood. His two adversaries were cleaved open and splayed into macabre attitudes of death.

Mae blanched as she looked at the obscenity they had wrought, and a hair-fine trembling seized her. She had seen enough violence and death in the last day to harrow her dreams forever.

The man bowed, his eyes averted. “My thanks for your assistance, hime.”

“I-I, um.” With the mindless havoc of battle ebbing, Mae realized she stood naked before a stranger. She dropped her naginata and covered herself with her hands. Her trembling became a quaking that rattled her teeth.

Moving slowly, as though she might flee at an abrupt gesture, the man edged to a boxwood bush and retrieved her lavender over-kimono.

A droning started in her ears. Dimly, she was aware of the man draping the kimono around her.

“Are you hurt, hime?”

She shook her head.

“My men are ahead on the highway. If you are in need of an escort, I would be honored to offer you my services wherever you are bound.”

The buzzing in her head grew until it obscured all else, blotting out both sound and light.

* * *

When Mae opened her eyes, she saw an expanse of pale blue overhead. At first, she thought it was the sky, but the perspective was marred by wrinkles and creases, and she realized it was the blue silk of a tarpaulin.

Mae sat with a start.

Across from her, cross-legged on a straw mat, the black-robed man was busy with cloth and oil, polishing the length of his tachi. The biting sweetness of clove oil filled the tent. Arrayed lengthwise, its blade already gleaming, her naginata lay positioned for her to seize and bring to bear, and at her right, her kaiken rested on a cushion within easy reach. It was a courtly gesture, giving her the martial advantage—her weapons primed and at hand, while his was in a state of unreadiness.

“You handled that naginata with much skill.” He glanced up, then quickly returned his attention to his task. “Who taught you the ways of the warrior?”

“My brother.” Mae tightened the neck of her kimono, conscious of how little she wore. The man was younger than she’d thought, his face comely and unlined. His thick hair, almost as long as her own, was secured from his face by a simple cord, leaving it to cascade down his back and disappear into the blackness of his kimono.

“Not… your husband?” His eyes darted up, and when they met hers, he flushed and looked away.

“I’m not married.”

“I hope you will forgive my forthrightness, but, ah, are you entertaining suitors?”

Mae blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“B-because I have seen you unclad,” he stammered. “And it would not be, that is to say, the d-dishonor, or rather, if we were courting—”

Mae wished she had one of the broad fans that the court ladies in Kyoto were always waving about so that she could hide her blush behind it. Instead, she let her hair fall in a curtain over her shoulder, shadowing her face.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said.

“I am Taira no Masakado.”

Mae swayed, her thoughts awhirl. This was Masakado? She had expected him to be a brute of a man, an uncouth demon or sadistic fiend—like the hoodlums he had rescued her from—not an appealing youth with elegant manners.

“Are you unwell, hime? You’ve gone ashen.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” She loosened her grip on her kimono’s neck, letting it slip apart to reveal the vulnerable expanse of her throat. “Your proposal is generous and honorable, but my circumstances are difficult.” It was easy to let her voice catch and her lips tremble; she did not require pretense.

He set aside cloth and blade. “Has someone dishonored you? My tachi is yours to redress any insult.”

She peeked at him through the screen of her hair as she gathered her thoughts, composing her tale. “Perhaps you will not be so quick to pledge yourself to me after you hear my circumstances. I am Kikyou no Mae,” she lied. “My uncle is a powerful man, and also wicked and corrupt. He killed my father in an act of treachery, and in order to secure his claim on my father’s estate, he demanded I marry him.” She bowed her head. “I fled, for I would slit my own throat before I allowed him to defile me, but I have nowhere to go and no one to avenge my father’s murder.”

Masakado surged from his seat to kneel before her. “Hime, let me avenge your father’s death.”

There was such passion in him, such guileless fervor. “My uncle is a powerful man,” she said, “with many legions of bushi at this command.”

“I am not without martial resources. The God of War himself favors me.”

Mae laughed, letting an edge of derision tinge it. “That is what my uncle boasted when I railed my grief at him.”

Before she knew what he was about, Masakado drew her kaiken and imprisoned her hand between his and its hilt.

“Can your uncle do this?”

With a sharp thrust, he plunged the honed knife at his chest, dragging her along with the force of his strike. Though it sheared through the thin silk of his hitatare, the kaiken left him unscathed, only skidding across his torso as though it was a plate of metal.

Awed, she reached her other hand through the tatters of silk. “How can this be? Are you some demon made of steel?” His skin was warm and pliant beneath her fingers.

Masakado covered her hand with his. She felt the throb of his heartbeat beneath her palm.

“Only a man.” He bent his head, bringing his mouth to hers. His kiss was a blend of imperious demand, appetite, and tenderness—overwhelming even as it thrilled.

Breathless, she pulled away. “Blades do not rebound off men. How did you come to such an unnatural state?”

Masakado drew her back. “I told you; I am favored by the God of War.” He buried his face in her hair.

She shivered. “Did you deliver me from rape so that you could force me yourself in the luxury of your tent?”

He released her. “I had not realized you found my company so repellent.”

Mae bit her lip. Had she misplayed her strategy? Or merely wounded his pride?

She leaned close until her mouth hovered above his, separated by the space of a whisper. “Surely you know I do not find you repellent,” she murmured. “Do not be angry with me, Masakado-dono, but you frighten me. I need some reassurance that you are not a rapacious demon.”

Mae wavered between apprehension that he would not succumb to her enticement and trepidation that he would. This man was compelling, and his desire provoked a response in her so engulfing she wondered whether she acted from artifice or desire.

Masakado held himself rigid for a heartbeat and then relented, his mouth hungry as he kissed her. “Anything. Ask me anything. What can I offer to reassure you?”

Mae fought against the languid heat that fogged her mind. “Prove that you are still a man. Tell me how you are mortal.”

He gazed at her, frowning.

She rushed on. “For if, as you claim, you are only a man, you must still have some softness, some imperfection. If you love me, a-as I love you, share this vulnerability with me and set me at ease.”

His eyes were hard as they regarded her. “There is a spot behind my left ear where Bishamon rested his thumb that did not receive his anointing light.” He yanked off the lavender brocade of her kimono and clamped her to the hard length of his body. “That is my vulnerability.” He pulled her down. “I assure you, I am still only a man.”

* * *

Mae lay across Masakado’s chest, her kimono draped across them in a tangle of silk. She ached as though she had spent a day sparring on the practice field. Masakado had been a considerate lover, solicitous of her innocence, but also a demanding one.

She ran her fingers over his face, slack in sleep’s grip, and touched the spot behind his ear where he had promised he was pervious. What if he had lied? Had she been a fool to take him at his word? How much honor could he have, the man who had led the massacre on her house?

Masakado stirred. He smiled and kissed her palm. “When we arrive at Sashima, I will have a priest marry us, Mae-chan. You will be my empress.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Now you are the Emperor?”

“I will be Shinno, the New Emperor. It is why I and my army march through Hitachi Province. I will overthrow the Old Emperor, taking his domain province by province.”

Mae rose, wrapping her kimono around her nakedness. “You must hate him very much.”

He caught the trailing edge of lavender silk. “The Emperor’s rule is decadent and wasteful. He encourages the clans to war and squabble while he fills his days with poetry and music. It is a weakness that will bring the Empire to ruin.”

“How does it strengthen it, creating more strife in the countryside?”

“In order to heal, sometimes the surgeon must cut. Last night, I overthrew the governor of Hitachi, a man of my own clan, so that all would know that I am not merely perpetuating the feud between Taira and Minamota.”

“You brought down a whole house as a warning?” She turned away so he wouldn’t see her face.

“That is the nature of war. Better they die than the Empire. The governor was loyal to the Emperor and would never have yielded. Rather than subject him to the humiliation of capture, I gave him an honorable death in battle. And I allowed his heirs to escape, though my captains urged me to finish them as well.”

“I am sure they are grateful for your compassion,” she snapped.

“It does not delight me to sow grief and lamentation.”

“And yet you do.”

“You are a woman and do not understand politics.” Masakado stood and pulled on his hakama. “If you are able to ride, I will tell my bushi to break camp. I’m afraid I don’t have a palanquin for you to take your ease in.”

“I regret that my presence has delayed your subjugation of the Empire, Taira-dono,” she said coldly.

He scowled and stalked out.

Mae contemplated her kaiken where it had fallen, forgotten in their lovemaking. It would not take much strength to plunge it into the dip behind a man’s ear; even a woman might do it.

Masakado swept back in. Guilt and surprise brought her spinning around, a cry on her lips.

He frowned. “Your mare is being saddled. We ride as soon as you have dressed.”

Only then did she notice the armful of brocade and silk he carried. When she made no move to go to him, he deposited her clothes on the straw mat and turned to go.

Masakado paused at the tent’s entrance and spoke over his shoulder. “Mae, you needn’t fear me. No matter what, I could never hurt you.”

* * *

The next days passed in a monotony of travel, the countryside flowing beneath the jingling hooves of a sea of cavalry.

Mae had ample time to study her enemy. Masakado was an enigma, two different people by sunlight and starshine. Around his men, during the day, he was always courteous to her, the epitome of polite consideration. His troops adored this Masakado, their eyes shining with devotion as he rode among them. He ate with his bushi, treating even the lowliest groom with respect, and in turn demanding and receiving unwavering obedience. But he was also aloof, curt and impatient if she intruded upon his thoughts. It was easy to hate him then, the arrogant tyrant and the callous butcher. In the clarity of the sun’s splendor, her course was obvious; she must dispatch him with her kaiken as he slept.

But when the forthright sun stepped aside, making way for the moon, Masakado metamorphosed into her lover. With his army shut out by walls of silk, he made love to her with single-minded intensity, spurring them both to exhilarating peaks of ecstasy. Afterwards, as they lay sweaty and replete, he chatted with her as though to an equal, soliciting her opinion on wide-ranging topics. For one opposed to the Emperor’s preoccupation with the arts, Masakado had a nobleman’s appreciation for philosophy and poetry. He was attentive and indulgent, making her laugh with his imitation of one of his captains, and infinitely tender, cradling her in his arms as he drifted into Lord Sleep’s realm.

Every night as she lay in the circle of his arms, she remembered her resolve beneath the sun, and she told herself she would kill him the next night.

* * *

Days turned to weeks, and engrossed in her turmoil, she was taken aback to discover that they had arrived at their destination: Sashima.

The locus of Masakado’s prefecture was a sprawling palace, almost as large as the Emperor’s in Kyoto. When Mae alighted, her heart was a lump of iron. It knew, as surely as the sky was vast, that the stolen hours of the night when Masakado had belonged only to her were over.

As soon as they stepped though the seimon, a bushi ran to Masakado with a folded missive. Mae saw the Imperial seal; she knew what it heralded before Masakado announced it to his men.

Shigemori had been successful in eliciting the Emperor’s rinji. The Emperor had assembled all the clans into a vast army that marched to Sashima, united in one cause: to annihilate Masakado. Furthermore, this host was led by her brothers, Shigemori and Sadamori—fully recovered from his injury.

* * *

Mae saw little of Masakado after that, as he was busy readying his estate for siege. He still came to her at night, but his lovemaking was urgent, almost desperate, and he often left afterward to return to some defense preparation.

On her own, Mae took to riding through the Sashima forest, meditating in the kami shrine ubiquitous to all estates or rambling through the overgrown trails.

One afternoon, when she arrived at the stable to fetch her mare, she found a piece of parchment tied to her bridle. It bore the Taira crest and the unmistakable pillars and crossbar of a torii.

Mae stared at the ink torii for a long moment, then bounded into the saddle, whipping her mare to a gallop. She made all speed to the Sashima shrine, her heart galloping faster than her mount’s fleet hooves. Beneath the faded arch, she slid from her mare’s back and sprinted up the path.

The shrine was a place of shadows and darkness. Abandoned long ago by any priests, it was crumbling apart. The shelves of its altar listed, and its offering plates were barren of even a lonesome grain of rice.

A figure stepped from the shadows. “Mae-chan? Is that you?”

“Sadamori!” Mae pelted to her brother and launched herself into his arms.

He hugged her, swinging her around in a dizzying circle. His laughter was a thunder of joy, and hers twined with his in a gale of elation.

At last, he set her down, cocking his head and squinting. “The priest said you would look different, that the goddess had touched you. But I didn’t expect—that is, you look very fine,” he finished lamely.

Mae giggled. “I’m still me.”

“I know. I can see you the way you were if I sort of look sideways, but it’s disconcerting to have such a dazzling sister.” He pinched her cheek.

She swatted his hand away. “You’ll get used to it. But Sadamori-kun, what are you doing here?”

His face turned serious. “The Emperor’s army is camped a day away. I begged him to postpone the assault so I could find you.” He took her hand, leading her out. “Now that I have you safe, we will attack at dawn.”

Mae pulled away. “I can’t.”

Sadamori turned, surprised. “It was very brave of you to go after Masakado alone. No one expects you to defeat him by yourself. Nevertheless, your information will be valuable. I assume you scouted the weakness of his troops like I taught you?”

“Not… his troops.”

Her brother knew her too well. Sadamori gripped her arms. “Why do you hesitate?”

She could not meet his eyes.

“Mae, why are you crying?”

She brushed away the betraying tears.

Sadamori’s face turned ugly. “Did Masakado abuse you? Force himself on you?” His fingers dug into her. “I will kill him, raze Sashima from this world, and obliterate his cursed name from the heavens.”

“No, no. I—I was willing.”

He released her so sharply she stumbled back. “What do you mean? Did he cast some evil spell over you?”

“He’s not evil. Just a man.”

Sadamori turned his back. “The day you were born was one of the greatest joys I hold in my heart.” His words were harsh, ground out through clenched teeth. “I remember how you toddled after me, your eyes bright with adoration.”

“Sadamori-kun—” Mae reached out.

“You have dishonored yourself, shamed me, and disgraced our ancestors. By rights, I should run you through with my tachi, or strangle you here and now.”

Mae stepped back, her hand falling away.

Sadamori wheeled; his eyes were wet. “But I can’t, to my eternal disgrace. I have always cherished you, and by the love I bear you, I cannot bring myself to harm you. But if you know something that will give us an advantage over that demon, you need to tell me.”

Mae bit her lip, mute.

He glared helplessly. “Very well. When the Emperor’s bushi attack, I will be in the first ranks. I plan to kill Masakado or die honorably in the attempt. One of us will die, him or me. If you have any honor left, you will pray for me.”

Sadamori stormed out.

Mae sank against the altar, hugged her knees to her chest, and sobbed.

* * *

When Mae blinked open her tear-crusted eyes, it was dark. She had fallen asleep, and the day had passed without her. Her limbs were stiff and cold, and she felt numb inside, as though a kami had stolen away her worry, terror, and confusion, leaving her empty. Through the holes in the thatched roof, the sickle moon crested the night sky.

How long had she slept?

Mae sat, brushing leaves and dust from her hair, and then wandered down the shrine steps. Her mare clopped to her, missing her dinner of grain and bed of straw, and eager to be away.

The palace’s seimon was still down when they arrived, a flurry of bushi darting back and forth, engaged in last minute preparations. She gave her steed over to one of the grooms who, strangely, would neither speak nor look at her.

Puzzled, she made her way to the chambers she shared with Masakado. As usual, he was absent. But then, with the Emperor’s army on the brink of attack, she expected he was preoccupied. She untied her sash and began peeling off the layers of her kimono.

The bamboo screen rattled aside, flung open with such force that it jumped its guiding rail and hung askew. Masakado stood in the doorway. Under one arm he had his kabuto helm; in the other he gripped her bow and quiver.

“So you decided to come back?” he snarled “Or did you just return for these so you could shoot me in the back?” He flung her weapons at her feet.

She glanced at them and shrugged, training her attention back to folding her overcoat. “Not that an arrow in the back would be all that troubling to you.”

Masakado glowered.

“You do not notice my comings and goings most evenings, Taira-dono. I apologize if I have inconvenienced you.”

He took two strides to her and spun her around. “Did you tell your brother how to kill me?”

“What are you talking about?”

He shook her. “Did you think me stupid, Mae, when you came to me with the Taira crests on your kimono and emblazoned on your bow? Or that I wouldn’t notice that you never mentioned your ‘evil uncle’ again?”

She plucked at his hands, annoyed at being jostled. “If you knew, why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wanted to give you a chance to know me and perhaps to love me. But I was a fool, wasn’t I? When my groom alerted me that he had seen Taira no Sadamori skulking about, and then you had ridden out so precipitously, I did not expect to see you again.”

Unperturbed, Mae met the savagery in Masakado’s eyes. “Are you going to kill me now? This might be your last chance. The Emperor’s army arrives at dawn.”

He uncurled his fingers, allowing her to pull away. “I should. But I told you once I could never hurt you. That will never change.”

“Funny, Sadamori wanted to kill me too, but he couldn’t either. Lucky me, I suppose.”

Masakado slumped to the floor, his head in his hands. “Did you ever love me?”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t kill you. Does that count? I thought about it every day, how I would slip my kaiken under your ear. That seems to be what love is, not killing someone you should.” She selected a wooden comb and ran it through her hair. “I thought Benzaiten the kindlier god over Bishamon, but I was wrong. She’s a bitch.”

“What do you want of me?”

“Everything. But nothing you can give me. I want that you hadn’t assailed my home and killed my father. And that you had listened to your wise captains who advised you to finish us off. If you hadn’t been so merciful, I wouldn’t be damned, trapped between honor and love. But you can’t change the past, can you?”

“Mae—”

“And even if I begged, you won’t give up your stupid campaign and escape with me. You could, but you won’t. “

Masakado stood. “My bushi would be slaughtered without me.”

“As I said, nothing you can give me.”

He was silent, watching her tidy her hair. The dismal look in his eyes disconcerted her, and she gave him her back.

“What will you do now?” he said at last. “If you wish, I can arrange an escort to take you to your brother.”

“Everyone keeps telling me to go to him.”

His hands settled on her shoulders, and he gently brought her around. Masakado gazed at her as though he might hold her forever with his eyes.

“Leave or stay. It has always been your decision.” His hands fell away, and he walked out the broken screen. On the floor, where he had dropped it, was his kabuto.

* * *

The stars blinked out, one by one, as the night sky lightened to the hesitant silver of pre-dawn. Outside, the din of the Emperor’s forces approaching crescendoed.

Mae strung her bow and slung her quiver over her shoulder. No one tried to stop her as she climbed the steps to the lookout above the seimon and joined the archers.

The Emperor’s army was a surging wave of violent resolve. It crested the seimon, broke on it, and fell back, only to regroup and smash against it again. Arrows churned like sea foam, bringing down bushi on both sides. Beside her, men sped shafts into the melee and were picked off in turn.

Mae neither nocked an arrow nor concerned herself with incoming bolts. She knew the gods were not so kindly as to allow her the ease of such a death. And indeed, though bushi all around her died, not a single arrow touched her.

Alone with the dead, she watched the battle spin out. The sun picked out Masakado, unburdened by armor, as he slashed with his tachi, wickedly nimble. He seemed a god with his hair a cape of darkness at his back.

On the other side, Sadamori was resplendent in full armor. Mae recognized the rhythm of his combat style; it was as familiar to her as her own steps. Her brother had taught her strength and strategy with naginata and bow, and by his encouragement, he had given her courage.

“Bishamon,” she whispered, “would it be so much to ask you to keep them apart?”

As though to mock her, the seimon crashed down. Sadamori was one of the first through the gate. He called to Masakado, a cry so ferocious even she heard it from where she watched.

Masakado gestured, and his bushi parted, letting Sadamori come.

“Typical,” Mae sighed.

The collision of their tachi rang over the tumult. Sadamori attacked like one crazed, hammering at Masakado with frenzied abandon. The ferocity of his assault seemed to take Masakado by surprise and smashed through his guard, only to be deflected by his skin. Masakado reeled from a ringing blow to his head. It seemed that while he was impervious to tachi cuts, he still felt the battery of their impact.

Sadamori was not stupid. He pounded his sword against his foe, dazing him with blows that would have chopped another man apart.

Mae snatched an arrow from her quiver. Nocking it, she pulled the bowstring taut and fixed her eyes on the breach in Sadamori’s armor.

She summoned the silk thread, holding it in her mind.

Masakado swung his tachi in an incredible arc, deflecting Sadamori’s next blow. His return swing caught her brother’s kabuto, hurling Sadamori from his feet.

Sadamori landed in a clatter, his sword flying from his hand.

Masakado raised his tachi for the deathblow.

Mae loosed her arrow, and the bowstring snapped apart, the sound like a cracking whip. The arrow flew as she had aimed it, burying itself behind Masakado’s left ear.

Masakado crumpled, his hair splayed behind him like the broken wings of a raven. Sadamori scrambled for his tachi. Gripping it two-handed, he drove it down on Masakado’s neck, cleaving head from body.

Mae set aside her useless bow. In a single, swift motion, she drew her kaiken and slashed it across her throat. She waited for the spurt of blood, the shock of pain, and blessed death.

There was nothing. No blood, no pain, no death.

Uncomprehending, she stared at her kaiken. Its blade gleamed, clean and bright. How had she missed her own throat? She tried again, this time using her other hand to guide the cutting edge over the vein by her jugular.

Still nothing.

Bishamon’s voice materialized out of the battle clamor, an echo of his scornful words in the shrine. Do you want invulnerability and the strength of seven men? All you must do is take it from Masakado.

Taira no Mae howled—a wail of bleakest despair and impotent rage.

* * *

Epilogue

The young woman got off the subway at exit C5, the journalism district, and turned into an incongruous courtyard nestled between the soaring glass and steel skyscrapers. A tall marker sprouted atop four stone steps surrounded by a modest hedge of saplings and bushes. Several stone frogs stood guard, and recent offerings of fresh flowers ornamented the site.

The woman scanned the vicinity. The hour was late, and most citizens—businessmen and revelers alike—were asleep. When she was sure there was no one to see, she set her shoulder to the headstone and pushed.

It was a most peculiar act. She was a slim woman and the stone was heavy and thick. But as she strained, the first step ground aside, creating a thin breach into darkness. The woman gave another furtive glance around and hopped in.

Beneath the Tokyo street, she took a small flashlight from her purse and used its wan beam to locate a granite box the size of a picnic hamper. She raised the heavy lid as though it weighed nothing and reached inside.

“Hi, Masakado,” she said.

She lifted out a man’s head, severed cleanly at the neck. Despite the violent truncation, it was couth, bearing no signs of decay or putrefaction, with the handsome features of a young man.

The eyes opened and the mouth moved. The woman leaned close, for without lungs or a diaphragm, the head’s speech was silent. But she was proficient at reading lips and expert at interpreting these particular lips.

“You look beautiful as ever, Mae,” the head said. “Has it been a year already?”

“You know it has.”

“How are little Misako and Ryoichi? Are my grandchildren well?”

Although there were significantly more generations than one separating Misako and Ryoichi from Masakado, Mae didn’t correct him. As point of fact, she had forgotten herself how many “great”s should preface “grandchildren.”

“Little Misako is in Cambridge, studying to be a doctor. Ryoichi is still writing his book on the Heian Era. His publisher is annoyed with how long he’s taking.”

Masakado’s head grinned. “He takes after you.”

Mae stuck her tongue out. “He also refuses to compromise with his editor, the hardhead. He gets that from you.”

“So he does. Whenever he gets it published you will bring it so I may see it?”

“Of course.”

“Good. I quite enjoyed hearing the CD of Misako’s violin recital you brought last year.”

“How are you doing?” she asked. “Are you still content?”

“When I sleep in the dark, it is as though my spirit flies over the Empire, protecting and watching over it. The gods have set me this task so that I may have these nights with you. It is just, and I am satisfied. And yourself, are you well?” The question was hesitant.

Mae smiled. “You always sound as though you expect me to flip out again. I’m fine.” When she had discovered that she did not even have Masakado’s weakness to deliver her to death, she had gone mad, shrieking and tearing her hair, her mind escaping the only way it could. But her body had summoned her back to tend to the new life it incubated, Masakado’s daughter.

She stroked the smooth skin of his face. “I miss you, though. I pine the whole year, longing for this night to arrive, and it’s over so quickly.”

“Mae-chan, don’t mourn the time we do not have, but rather rejoice in the time we do. We will have a lifetime of years in these nights. It is simply the day that stretches between that is long.”

Mae pressed her forehead against Masakado’s. “The days are very long.”

“And the night is short. Are you going to spend it lamenting what we cannot change?”

“You’re a callous old man.”

“And you’re a crotchety old woman.”

Mae chuckled, and Masakado’s head laughed silently with her.

They chatted for a while, on serious matters and light; she told him a new joke she had found on the Internet; he told her a story from his childhood. Then they sat without speaking, only gazing at each other.

Far too soon, the alarm on Mae’s cell phone buzzed, harbinger of the encroaching dawn.

She closed her eyes and kissed Misakado’s mouth. Almost, for a moment, she could feel his arms holding her close, and his body, warm and strong against her.

“Rest well, my love,” she whispered.

“My dreams will be of you.”

She set the head with infinite care into the stone box. When the features crumbled to dry ruin, a blackened skull with shreds of clinging skin, she replaced the lid and climbed out of Masakado’s tomb.

As she shoved the stone step back into place, she was overcome by a swell of sadness; she missed him already. Mae knelt by the headstone, tidying the offerings her passage had disordered, and took comfort in remembering what he had said. She would see him again tomorrow night, three hundred and sixty-four days away.

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Framed

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Contents

CLASSIC

A Modest Proposal

Written by Jonathan Swift

Illustrated by Jeremy McHugh

A Modest Proposal for preventing the children of poor people in Ireland, from being a burden on their parents or country, and for making them beneficial to the publick.

by Dr. Jonathan Swift. 1729

It is a melancholy object to those, who walk through this great town, or travel in the country, when they see the streets, the roads and cabbin-doors crowded with beggars of the female sex, followed by three, four, or six children, all in rags, and importuning every passenger for an alms. These mothers instead of being able to work for their honest livelihood, are forced to employ all their time in stroling to beg sustenance for their helpless infants who, as they grow up, either turn thieves for want of work, or leave their dear native country, to fight for the Pretender in Spain, or sell themselves to the Barbadoes.

I think it is agreed by all parties, that this prodigious number of children in the arms, or on the backs, or at the heels of their mothers, and frequently of their fathers, is in the present deplorable state of the kingdom, a very great additional grievance; and therefore whoever could find out a fair, cheap and easy method of making these children sound and useful members of the common-wealth, would deserve so well of the publick, as to have his statue set up for a preserver of the nation.

But my intention is very far from being confined to provide only for the children of professed beggars: it is of a much greater extent, and shall take in the whole number of infants at a certain age, who are born of parents in effect as little able to support them, as those who demand our charity in the streets.

As to my own part, having turned my thoughts for many years, upon this important subject, and maturely weighed the several schemes of our projectors, I have always found them grossly mistaken in their computation. It is true, a child just dropt from its dam, may be supported by her milk, for a solar year, with little other nourishment: at most not above the value of two shillings, which the mother may certainly get, or the value in scraps, by her lawful occupation of begging; and it is exactly at one year old that I propose to provide for them in such a manner, as, instead of being a charge upon their parents, or the parish, or wanting food and raiment for the rest of their lives, they shall, on the contrary, contribute to the feeding, and partly to the cloathing of many thousands.

There is likewise another great advantage in my scheme, that it will prevent those voluntary abortions, and that horrid practice of women murdering their bastard children, alas! too frequent among us, sacrificing the poor innocent babes, I doubt, more to avoid the expence than the shame, which would move tears and pity in the most savage and inhuman breast.

The number of souls in this kingdom being usually reckoned one million and a half, of these I calculate there may be about two hundred thousand couple whose wives are breeders; from which number I subtract thirty thousand couple, who are able to maintain their own children, (although I apprehend there cannot be so many, under the present distresses of the kingdom) but this being granted, there will remain an hundred and seventy thousand breeders. I again subtract fifty thousand, for those women who miscarry, or whose children die by accident or disease within the year. There only remain an hundred and twenty thousand children of poor parents annually born. The question therefore is, How this number shall be reared, and provided for? which, as I have already said, under the present situation of affairs, is utterly impossible by all the methods hitherto proposed. For we can neither employ them in handicraft or agriculture; we neither build houses, (I mean in the country) nor cultivate land: they can very seldom pick up a livelihood by stealing till they arrive at six years old; except where they are of towardly parts, although I confess they learn the rudiments much earlier; during which time they can however be properly looked upon only as probationers: As I have been informed by a principal gentleman in the county of Cavan, who protested to me, that he never knew above one or two instances under the age of six, even in a part of the kingdom so renowned for the quickest proficiency in that art.

I am assured by our merchants, that a boy or a girl before twelve years old, is no saleable commodity, and even when they come to this age, they will not yield above three pounds, or three pounds and half a crown at most, on the exchange; which cannot turn to account either to the parents or kingdom, the charge of nutriments and rags having been at least four times that value.

I shall now therefore humbly propose my own thoughts, which I hope will not be liable to the least objection.

I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed, is, at a year old, a most delicious nourishing and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled; and I make no doubt that it will equally serve in a fricasie, or a ragoust.

I do therefore humbly offer it to publick consideration, that of the hundred and twenty thousand children, already computed, twenty thousand may be reserved for breed, whereof only one fourth part to be males; which is more than we allow to sheep, black cattle, or swine, and my reason is, that these children are seldom the fruits of marriage, a circumstance not much regarded by our savages, therefore, one male will be sufficient to serve four females. That the remaining hundred thousand may, at a year old, be offered in sale to the persons of quality and fortune, through the kingdom, always advising the mother to let them suck plentifully in the last month, so as to render them plump, and fat for a good table. A child will make two dishes at an entertainment for friends, and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt, will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter.

I have reckoned upon a medium, that a child just born will weigh 12 pounds, and in a solar year, if tolerably nursed, encreaseth to 28 pounds.

I grant this food will be somewhat dear, and therefore very proper for landlords, who, as they have already devoured most of the parents, seem to have the best title to the children.

Infant’s flesh will be in season throughout the year, but more plentiful in March, and a little before and after; for we are told by a grave author, an eminent French physician, that fish being a prolifick dyet, there are more children born in Roman Catholick countries about nine months after Lent, the markets will be more glutted than usual, because the number of Popish infants, is at least three to one in this kingdom, and therefore it will have one other collateral advantage, by lessening the number of Papists among us.

I have already computed the charge of nursing a beggar’s child (in which list I reckon all cottagers, labourers, and four-fifths of the farmers) to be about two shillings per annum, rags included; and I believe no gentleman would repine to give ten shillings for the carcass of a good fat child, which, as I have said, will make four dishes of excellent nutritive meat, when he hath only some particular friend, or his own family to dine with him. Thus the squire will learn to be a good landlord, and grow popular among his tenants, the mother will have eight shillings neat profit, and be fit for work till she produces another child.

Those who are more thrifty (as I must confess the times require) may flea the carcass; the skin of which, artificially dressed, will make admirable gloves for ladies, and summer boots for fine gentlemen.

As to our City of Dublin, shambles may be appointed for this purpose, in the most convenient parts of it, and butchers we may be assured will not be wanting; although I rather recommend buying the children alive, and dressing them hot from the knife, as we do roasting pigs.

A very worthy person, a true lover of his country, and whose virtues I highly esteem, was lately pleased, in discoursing on this matter, to offer a refinement upon my scheme. He said, that many gentlemen of this kingdom, having of late destroyed their deer, he conceived that the want of venison might be well supply’d by the bodies of young lads and maidens, not exceeding fourteen years of age, nor under twelve; so great a number of both sexes in every country being now ready to starve for want of work and service: And these to be disposed of by their parents if alive, or otherwise by their nearest relations. But with due deference to so excellent a friend, and so deserving a patriot, I cannot be altogether in his sentiments; for as to the males, my American acquaintance assured me from frequent experience, that their flesh was generally tough and lean, like that of our school-boys, by continual exercise, and their taste disagreeable, and to fatten them would not answer the charge. Then as to the females, it would, I think, with humble submission, be a loss to the publick, because they soon would become breeders themselves: And besides, it is not improbable that some scrupulous people might be apt to censure such a practice, (although indeed very unjustly) as a little bordering upon cruelty, which, I confess, hath always been with me the strongest objection against any project, how well soever intended.

But in order to justify my friend, he confessed, that this expedient was put into his head by the famous Salmanaazor, a native of the island Formosa, who came from thence to London, above twenty years ago, and in conversation told my friend, that in his country, when any young person happened to be put to death, the executioner sold the carcass to persons of quality, as a prime dainty; and that, in his time, the body of a plump girl of fifteen, who was crucified for an attempt to poison the Emperor, was sold to his imperial majesty’s prime minister of state, and other great mandarins of the court in joints from the gibbet, at four hundred crowns. Neither indeed can I deny, that if the same use were made of several plump young girls in this town, who without one single groat to their fortunes, cannot stir abroad without a chair, and appear at a play-house and assemblies in foreign fineries which they never will pay for; the kingdom would not be the worse.

Some persons of a desponding spirit are in great concern about that vast number of poor people, who are aged, diseased, or maimed; and I have been desired to employ my thoughts what course may be taken, to ease the nation of so grievous an incumbrance. But I am not in the least pain upon that matter, because it is very well known, that they are every day dying, and rotting, by cold and famine, and filth, and vermin, as fast as can be reasonably expected. And as to the young labourers, they are now in almost as hopeful a condition. They cannot get work, and consequently pine away from want of nourishment, to a degree, that if at any time they are accidentally hired to common labour, they have not strength to perform it, and thus the country and themselves are happily delivered from the evils to come.

I have too long digressed, and therefore shall return to my subject. I think the advantages by the proposal which I have made are obvious and many, as well as of the highest importance.

For first, as I have already observed, it would greatly lessen the number of Papists, with whom we are yearly over-run, being the principal breeders of the nation, as well as our most dangerous enemies, and who stay at home on purpose with a design to deliver the kingdom to the Pretender, hoping to take their advantage by the absence of so many good Protestants, who have chosen rather to leave their country, than stay at home and pay tithes against their conscience to an episcopal curate.

Secondly, The poorer tenants will have something valuable of their own, which by law may be made liable to a distress, and help to pay their landlord’s rent, their corn and cattle being already seized, and money a thing unknown.

Thirdly, Whereas the maintainance of an hundred thousand children, from two years old, and upwards, cannot be computed at less than ten shillings a piece per annum, the nation’s stock will be thereby encreased fifty thousand pounds per annum, besides the profit of a new dish, introduced to the tables of all gentlemen of fortune in the kingdom, who have any refinement in taste. And the money will circulate among our selves, the goods being entirely of our own growth and manufacture.

Fourthly, The constant breeders, besides the gain of eight shillings sterling per annum by the sale of their children, will be rid of the charge of maintaining them after the first year.

Fifthly, This food would likewise bring great custom to taverns, where the vintners will certainly be so prudent as to procure the best receipts for dressing it to perfection; and consequently have their houses frequented by all the fine gentlemen, who justly value themselves upon their knowledge in good eating; and a skilful cook, who understands how to oblige his guests, will contrive to make it as expensive as they please.

Sixthly, This would be a great inducement to marriage, which all wise nations have either encouraged by rewards, or enforced by laws and penalties. It would encrease the care and tenderness of mothers towards their children, when they were sure of a settlement for life to the poor babes, provided in some sort by the publick, to their annual profit instead of expence. We should soon see an honest emulation among the married women, which of them could bring the fattest child to the market. Men would become as fond of their wives, during the time of their pregnancy, as they are now of their mares in foal, their cows in calf, or sow when they are ready to farrow; nor offer to beat or kick them (as is too frequent a practice) for fear of a miscarriage.

Many other advantages might be enumerated. For instance, the addition of some thousand carcasses in our exportation of barrel’d beef: the propagation of swine’s flesh, and improvement in the art of making good bacon, so much wanted among us by the great destruction of pigs, too frequent at our tables; which are no way comparable in taste or magnificence to a well grown, fat yearly child, which roasted whole will make a considerable figure at a Lord Mayor’s feast, or any other publick entertainment. But this, and many others, I omit, being studious of brevity.

Supposing that one thousand families in this city, would be constant customers for infants flesh, besides others who might have it at merry meetings, particularly at weddings and christenings, I compute that Dublin would take off annually about twenty thousand carcasses; and the rest of the kingdom (where probably they will be sold somewhat cheaper) the remaining eighty thousand.

I can think of no one objection, that will possibly be raised against this proposal, unless it should be urged, that the number of people will be thereby much lessened in the kingdom. This I freely own, and ‘twas indeed one principal design in offering it to the world. I desire the reader will observe, that I calculate my remedy for this one individual Kingdom of Ireland, and for no other that ever was, is, or, I think, ever can be upon Earth. Therefore let no man talk to me of other expedients: Of taxing our absentees at five shillings a pound: Of using neither cloaths, nor houshold furniture, except what is of our own growth and manufacture: Of utterly rejecting the materials and instruments that promote foreign luxury: Of curing the expensiveness of pride, vanity, idleness, and gaming in our women: Of introducing a vein of parsimony, prudence and temperance: Of learning to love our country, wherein we differ even from Laplanders, and the inhabitants of Topinamboo: Of quitting our animosities and factions, nor acting any longer like the Jews, who were murdering one another at the very moment their city was taken: Of being a little cautious not to sell our country and consciences for nothing: Of teaching landlords to have at least one degree of mercy towards their tenants. Lastly, of putting a spirit of honesty, industry, and skill into our shop-keepers, who, if a resolution could now be taken to buy only our native goods, would immediately unite to cheat and exact upon us in the price, the measure, and the goodness, nor could ever yet be brought to make one fair proposal of just dealing, though often and earnestly invited to it.

Therefore I repeat, let no man talk to me of these and the like expedients, ‘till he hath at least some glympse of hope, that there will ever be some hearty and sincere attempt to put them into practice.

But, as to my self, having been wearied out for many years with offering vain, idle, visionary thoughts, and at length utterly despairing of success, I fortunately fell upon this proposal, which, as it is wholly new, so it hath something solid and real, of no expence and little trouble, full in our own power, and whereby we can incur no danger in disobliging England. For this kind of commodity will not bear exportation, and flesh being of too tender a consistence, to admit a long continuance in salt, although perhaps I could name a country, which would be glad to eat up our whole nation without it.

After all, I am not so violently bent upon my own opinion, as to reject any offer, proposed by wise men, which shall be found equally innocent, cheap, easy, and effectual. But before something of that kind shall be advanced in contradiction to my scheme, and offering a better, I desire the author or authors will be pleased maturely to consider two points. First, As things now stand, how they will be able to find food and raiment for a hundred thousand useless mouths and backs. And secondly, There being a round million of creatures in humane figure throughout this kingdom, whose whole subsistence put into a common stock, would leave them in debt two million of pounds sterling, adding those who are beggars by profession, to the bulk of farmers, cottagers and labourers, with their wives and children, who are beggars in effect; I desire those politicians who dislike my overture, and may perhaps be so bold to attempt an answer, that they will first ask the parents of these mortals, whether they would not at this day think it a great happiness to have been sold for food at a year old, in the manner I prescribe, and thereby have avoided such a perpetual scene of misfortunes, as they have since gone through, by the oppression of landlords, the impossibility of paying rent without money or trade, the want of common sustenance, with neither house nor cloaths to cover them from the inclemencies of the weather, and the most inevitable prospect of intailing the like, or greater miseries, upon their breed for ever.

I profess, in the sincerity of my heart, that I have not the least personal interest in endeavouring to promote this necessary work, having no other motive than the publick good of my country, by advancing our trade, providing for infants, relieving the poor, and giving some pleasure to the rich. I have no children, by which I can propose to get a single penny; the youngest being nine years old, and my wife past child-bearing.

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SERIALS

Countdown to Armageddon, Episode Five

Written by Edward M. Lerner

Illustrated by Dean Spencer

TOLEDO, 730

The singsong of the muezzin still echoed in al-Ghafiqi’s ears as he rolled up his prayer rug. Afternoon worship, as always, had calmed the general’s soul, distanced him momentarily from the tempest of the day.

He returned his thoughts to his officers and their plans. The probing attacks across the mountains continued to find weakness. It was time to prepare for the final campaign.

Squabbling below his open window broke his concentration. He looked out to the street where a ragged Berber with a package stood arguing with his sentinels. The wind carried away many of the words, but al-Ghafiqi heard enough to learn that the package was a gift for him. He shouted an order to show the man inside.

If the courier felt any unease among so many strangers, he did not show it. Quite the opposite, it appeared; al-Ghafiqi found the intruder’s bearing mildly offensive. Well, he had only admitted the man to have done with the ruckus in the street. This should be quick.

“Friend, I am al-Ghafiqi. What can I do for you?”

The courier bowed. Upon straightening, he offered his package. “I am Jabir. My master bid me to deliver this gift to you.”

“And who is your master?”

“I am to tell you that everything that you need know is in the package.”

The bundle was wrapped in fine silk and held together with strong twine. Curious despite himself, the general drew his dagger and slit the cord. The box inside was sealed with red wax; the blob of wax bore the imprint of an unknown signet. Inside the box were a letter and a claylike mass the size of his head. Several small, unidentifiable objects clung to the malleable material.

al-Ghafiqi cracked a second wax seal to open the letter. The flowing Arabic script was the handiwork of an educated man. He started to read with interest.

“Can you read?” he asked the messenger.

“No.”

“I thought not.” He turned to the guards who had brought the man upstairs. “Seize him. His master directs us to a demonstration.”

NORTHERN AQUITAINIA, 730

A loaf of stonelike bread soared like a volleyball through the briefly open door. It broke in half when it landed; dizzied worms crawled out of the pieces. “How about some decent food in here?” Terrence bellowed in disgust.

A scream came down the hall as though in answer. The cry trailed off into a gurgle, then stopped. Bootsteps and a dragging sound approached their door. “You want food? I’ll give you fresh meat.” The door opened briefly; this time a man careened through. “Enjoy.”

They turned over their new cellmate. Harry blanched: The man was dead. Blood bubbled from the jagged slash across his throat.

Harry fought the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. This wasn’t the time for weakness. The poor bastard at their feet might just be their ticket out of here.

But they had to act before rigor mortis set in.

TOLEDO, 730

Jabir leaned unhappily against the tree trunk to which he had been bound.

In accordance with the letter, al-Ghafiqi had commanded all who had accompanied him to stand back one hundred paces from the tree. Now they watched and waited. Many kept watch on the edges of the broad field, not the old cork oak at its center, lest he had been lured out of the city on a ruse.

At Jabir’s feet, just beyond kicking range, lay the claylike mass from the package. Stiff ropelike objects and other even less familiar items from the box had been assembled according to the letter’s odd instructions. al-Ghafiqi watched and watched; he gradually began to feel foolish. Was he the victim of some strange prank? Who would dare such a … ?

A great roar erupted, loud enough to make fearless warriors clap hands to their ears in pain. The ground beneath his feet shook. Clouds of dust hid the tree that just a moment earlier had been the focus of his attention. Clods of dirt and splinters of wood rained down from the sky.

He began to understand as a bloody gob of flesh landed at his feet.

NORTHERN AQUITAINIA, 730

“Aiiiehhh!” Terrence screeched, his voice clawing its way up the scale. “Help! Save me!”

Heavy footsteps rushed to their door. The wooden beam that held them in was flung aside. Ahmad, the warrior who had captured them, peered in, scimitar in hand.

Harry crouched behind wooden boxes, out of sight. The cooling corpse was on the boxes. The slit on his throat grinned like an obscene second mouth.

Terrence howled, “It’s not dead. It’s not dead. It killed my friend.” He trembled fearfully, sidling toward the warrior, as though for protection.

Ahmad’s eyes swiveled back and forth between Terrence and the corpse. He stepped closer to prod the cadaver with his blade.

Harry jabbed the corpse in the thigh with the recharged Leyden jar. The leg kicked.

Ahmad turned and fled. The jailers who had observed from behind ran after, screaming. The door stayed open.

Harry and Terrence ran for the stairs that led to the ground level and—if they were very lucky—freedom.

They were almost to the top of the stairs when someone blocked their path. A scar-faced man with a wicked scimitar in his hand and an even more evil smile. He opened his mouth to speak—

A crock flung from behind shattered on his head. He went down like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Kitchen slops dribbled down his head and chest.

A woman dressed in rags motioned them forward. “Come,” she whispered in good Frankish. “But do it quickly.”

Before they knew what she planned, she took the Saracen’s dagger and slit his throat.

* * *

Harry had spent many a youthful Saturday morning watching old movies. The time had not been wasted. He knew instinctively to scatter the bad guys’ horses.

On their three stolen mounts, Harry, Terrence, and Bertha got a good head start.

Unless Bertha knew more woodcraft than the men she had saved, that head start would not be enough. Harry pictured them wandering aimlessly through the woods until caught. The roads were not an option: They dare not risk being seen and turned in. The Aquitainians were clearly cooperating with Faisel.

The forest was too thick to navigate by the stars—even Terrence could have found the Big Dipper and the North Star. Stopping to feel the trees for moss on their north sides just didn’t seem like a winning strategy.

Their only plan was to head north, to Francia. They had found Faisel and his private army. Now they needed allies—lots of them—to stop the madman.

On the first night of their escape, Harry stopped abruptly as they came to a clearing. Necessity was the mother of invention, and they had some serious mothers chasing them. Dropping his reins, he slid to the ground. “I’ve got an idea.”

The stars overhead sparkled like diamonds. Locating Polaris, he knelt and poked his ballpoint pen—tipped northward—into the dirt. “Your fire starter,” he demanded of Bertha. She looked confused, but handed over her flint-and-steel set. To Terrence he added in English, “Bear with me. I’m improvising a compass.”

Harry rapped Bertha’s tool repeatedly against the steel shaft of his half-buried pen. Each blow made some small fraction of the iron atoms in the steel-barreled pen align with the Earth’s magnetic field. The result was a weak—but possibly functional—magnet. It would work until jostled roughly, which would undo the fragile alignments.

Harry pulled a thread out of his handkerchief. He retrieved the pen, tied the fiber around the pen’s middle, and slid the knot back and forth until the pen teetered parallel to the ground. He held his breath as the pen slowly swung toward the North Star.

It worked.

He remounted. “Well, what’s everyone waiting for?” He glanced at the dangling pen. “North is thatta way.”

* * *

Bertchramm was leading a patrol when he heard voices. He signaled to the men to scatter among the trees before hiding himself.

His dog, for inexplicable reasons, did not join him.

“Lupus,” he hissed. Rather than come, the mastiff bounded into the forest toward the voices. Cursing under his breath, Bertchramm followed warily.

The dog began to yip. This was strange.

What Bertchramm saw next made him throw caution to the winds. Bertha, his dead brother’s child. Lupus was leaping with joy at her horse’s feet, practically knocking it over.

As he approached, Bertha’s condition became evident. Her face was bruised, her hair matted, her clothes filthy tatters. The rags hung on her gaunt frame. His blood boiled as he saw how her garments had been repeatedly ripped and badly repaired. Francisca in hand, he charged.

Bertha urged her horse forward between Bertchramm and the two strangers. “No! They helped me escape.”

Bertchramm yanked on the reins to avoid trampling his niece. Tears in his eyes, he dropped the heavy ax and dismounted. When Bertha dismounted, she could barely stand. What she must have been through.

Ignoring the strangers, and his men arriving in his wake, Bertchramm enfolded Bertha in his arms.

* * *

Voices rose and fell around the fire. Happy voices. Not a few of them drunken voices. The Frankish war party was numerous enough to feel secure in the forest, and they were basking in the afterglow of victory. A group of Saracen raiders had stormed across the Aquitainian border in pursuit of the escapees—

Straight into an ambush.

This time it was the raiders who perished to the last man.

Harry and Terrence raised their cups in yet another toast. Neither could remember how many drinks they had had. If the encampment had had a table, any of the Franks could have drunk them under it.

Bertchramm would not stop praising them for Bertha’s rescue. That she had as much rescued them seemed not to matter. Almost his first act was to replace their stolen swords with extra weapons carried by the troop.

They both had had the opportunity to use their new arms, and their painfully won skills, in the grim business of the ambush.

The revelry continued through the night, with only the revelers changing as sentries came on and off duty. The heroes of the day were spared sentry duty—which meant that much more time to be plied with wine.

And so Harry and Terrence were groggy when Bertchramm finally made his offer. “I am overdue for a meeting with my lord, the major domus. We ride at dawn.

“Having saved Bertha, you are my friends for life. As enemies of the Saracens, you are friends too of the Franks. Ride with us.”

“How will Karl welcome us outlanders?” Terrence asked.

“With the news you bear of the great enemy encampment so near his southern border, I can promise that he will listen to you with great interest.”

TOLEDO, 730

A horn rang out in the distant woods; the sound tore al-Ghafiqi from his stunned shock. With shouts and shoves, he quickly organized his escort into a defensive line. Still dazed from what he had just experienced, he had no idea against what he might have to defend. Or whether there was any defense against it.

His fears proved groundless. Only four horsemen emerged from the woods, their hands empty of weapons. Of recognizable weapons, he corrected himself sternly. Still, let any enemy come close enough to his cold steel, and he could give good account of himself.

The four riders drew near. One of the four drew ahead of his fellows. Smaller than the rest, he was nonetheless clearly the leader. He had eyes that looked right through a man. “I would speak to al-Ghafiqi. Alone.”

“Say what you want, here. I have no secrets from my officers.”

“But Salah-ad-Din has many secrets.”

Hands flew to sword hilts at the name; al-Ghafiqi was not alone in his anger. Still, this was intriguing. He would not have the marauder dead before better understanding these events. He shouted to his men to hold fast.

“A wise leader,” Salah-ad-Din said. “Had I meant any harm to you and your men, I need only to have failed to mention how far back you should stand from Jabir. Or directed you to assemble my gift within your office.”

There was no denying the truth of those statements. He and his officers would all be dead if such had been Salah-ad-Din’s intent. al-Ghafiqi pointed to a spot away from the raider’s men and his own. “There.” He cantered his Arabian stallion forward without awaiting an answer.

The leaders spoke earnestly for several minutes, with Salah-ad-Din doing most of the talking. al-Ghafiqi’s anger and worry dissolved, much as they had during the midday prayers. And for the same reason—certainty filled him Allah would bring victory over the enemy.

For his new ally possessed an irresistible new weapon. “My power makes what you have just seen seem no more than a man breaking wind in a sirocco.” He referred to the great desert sandstorms that blew for days, that stripped flesh from bone. The image made al-Ghafiqi’s skin crawl.

But this awesome might would be used in Allah’s name, against Allah’s enemies. And Salah-ad-Din had more than his great weapon—he had a fiendish plan for its use.

At last, al-Ghafiqi could contain his soaring spirits no longer. He shouted out his feelings, to this warrior, to his men, to the sky.

“As Allah is my witness, we shall not fail. Against the two of us, the Firanji do not stand a chance.”

PART III

Only our concept of time makes it possible for us to speak of a Day of Judgment by that name; in reality, it is a summary court in perpetual session.

—Franz Kafka

ON THE FRANCIA/SAXONY BORDER, 730

Karl, Pepin’s son, was a vigorous man in his early forties: for him the prime of his life. In these rough and perilous times, lesser men—if they survived—were old and wizened. Only Karl’s hair, shot through with streaks of gray, gave any suggestion of his age.

The major domus shunned court dress, favoring plain linen breeches and tunic, and a simple fur jerkin beneath his cape. Only his jewel-encrusted belt and scabbard hinted at wealth and power. The famous ring of Arnulf glittered on one hand; the other bore his own seal ring.

The Frankish leader projected an aura, a presence, the like of which Harry had never known. Karl’s gaze was intense, focused, penetrating.

Right now, that stare was aimed straight at Harry, and he found it most unsettling.

Karl had listened intently to news of the permanent Saracen base in Aquitainia. Then, the strangers’ information absorbed, he seemed ready set it aside. The pagan Saxons and Frisians massing to the north and northwest of the kingdom were more pressing concerns.

Aquitainia, the major domus had declared, must wait.

That tepid reaction was exactly what Harry and Terrence had feared. Reluctantly, Harry had then described a great weapon possessed by the Saracens, a weapon that made the Moslems, indeed, the bigger threat. This explanation had been met with skepticism.

Harry’s only option was the double-edged sword of a demonstration. A successful exhibition might convince Karl to pay more attention to the Saracens. Would a too-compelling demo lead to accommodation with the coming invaders?

Karl turned to look at the campfire at the center of the snow-covered clearing. “We would be more comfortable beside that blaze.” It sounded more like an order than an observation.

Harry followed Karl’s gaze toward the fire. Crackling flames leapt and danced around a large crockery container. Was it Harry’s imagination, or had the vessel begun to wobble? The water inside the sealed pot had started to boil. It was going to work, but they had to stay back for their own safety.

Terrence had suggested that Harry whip up some gunpowder. That would have been easy enough to do—which was precisely the problem. Gunpowder, if invented centuries too early, could not be uninvented. With explosives, the Franks would alter history just as radically, if perhaps not as dramatically, as whatever Faisel planned.

Harry well remembered the swordsmith in Metz. It took no great feat of imagination to picture that craftsman fashioning a catapult-deliverable bomb or a primitive cannon. No, gunpowder must stay unknown a while longer. His demo would be effective without any direct military application.

“Just a moment longer, my lord.” Indeed, the crockery was rocking vigorously as the water inside seethed. Steam pressure was building within the inch-thick baked clay. Feeling silly even as he did it, Harry crossed his fingers. The demonstration would be much more dramatic if the plug he had fastened with home-brewed glue did not give way before the pottery did.

Boom.

Potsherds spanged everywhere. A jagged bit of crockery whistled past Harry and embedded itself in a tree. Flaming brands lay all about, scattered by the boiler explosion.

Warriors scattered almost as quickly as the clay shrapnel; not so Karl, who tugged thoughtfully at his moustache. “Interesting. You say this Salah-ad-Din has a more dangerous device?” A newfound respect had entered his voice. Whether the respect was for Harry or Salah-ad-Din was unclear.

“Yes, my lord. Much more dangerous. Fortunately, he has but one such weapon, and it cannot be replaced.” Harry lied with, he hoped, great sincerity about an extremely rare material formed only when ball lightning engulfed an emerald during an eclipse. It was a metaphoric truth about plutonium’s rarity, more comprehensible than the literal truth. This was a civilization that had only recently discovered the sundial. “We must find a way to prevent the bomb’s use. It would be best if we could somehow seize and destroy it.”

Karl laughed disdainfully at the sheepish-looking men beginning to filter back from among the surrounding trees. “I am convinced.”

From the narrowing of Karl’s eyes, Harry suspected that the Frank was mostly convinced that he should seize the weapon for his own use.

THE PYRENEES, 732

The forces of God flowed through the mountain pass, as irresistible as the tide, as uncountable as the stars in the night sky. Well-trained battle mounts trotted forward almost silently. Behind the horsemen came hundreds of wagons. The vehicles groaned from the weight of supplies that they carried. Soon enough, much of the food would be gone, and they would instead be filled with plunder. The wagons would not long be needed for food, since the Bedouin and Berber warriors would stay on as an army of conquest.

al-Ghafiqi and Salah-ad-Din sat side by side on their fine Arabian stallions. From their vantage point at the crest of the pass, they watched in pride and awe as the panoply of their forces rode by. Each squad shouted to God’s glory as it rode by: “Allah akbar.” God, indeed, is very great.

Downhill to the north lay the territory of their ally, Count Odo of Aquitainia.

The count was about to receive a big surprise.

REIMS, 732

Terrence was in rare form tonight. The courtiers at the royal palace beat the tables with their golden flagons, demanding more of the saga of Berto Crusoe, the shipwrecked sailor, and his slave Freitag. Unseen womenfolk listened just as eagerly around a corner in the hallway, giggles revealing their presence. Some bold one among them called out for more, only to initiate shushing noises and nervous laughter.

That rare moment of female bravado reminded Terrence of Bertha. Two years of medieval life had given him a whole new view on women’s rights.

He no longer told fables for a living. His tour of Francia was an enlistment drive; stories gathered an audience so that recruiting could begin. Karl could not justify calling in more of the feudal levies until open hostilities began.

Terrence hoped that his adventure tales were also subliminal lures to join the fight. He looked to this evening’s host for guidance. Theodoric, the fourth king to bear that name, and the most recent of a long-lived dynasty, nodded regally: Proceed.

The king’s flowing beard was decidedly un-Frankish. Instead of Frankish linen or wool, the monarch wore silks imported from Constantinople, with gold thread decorating his sleeves. Rings adorned every finger, a large golden brooch fastened his cloak, and a diadem graced his long and narrow head. His palace brimmed with what this era considered luxuries: rugs, tapestries, ivory plaques, great bronze bowls and glassware from the Mediterranean. While he and his courtiers frolicked, his major domus and the real men of Francia guarded the kingdom.

Knowing what was to come, Terrence thought: Enjoy the good life now, your majesty.

Theodoric reigned only at the suffrage of his “Duke.” Karl, as an Austrasian, needed a symbol of national unity so that he could wield power over the Romanized, rebellious Neustrians. The king was that symbol. When you die, Karl won’t bother to have a successor enthroned. With the Pope’s blessing, Karl’s son Pepin would eventually assume the crown and start a new dynasty. Karl’s yet-unborn grandson Karl—in Latin, Carolus Magnus; in time more commonly known as Charlemagne—would be crowned emperor by another pope.

Terrence was deep into a tale of Crusoe outwitting the cannibals when a messenger arrived. Refugees were streaming northward into Francia from Aquitainia.

The war with the Saracens had begun.

ON THE FRANCIA/AQUITAINIA BORDER, 732

The shoe is on the other foot now, Harry thought, although here and now that expression was meaningless. He had the calluses on his toes to disprove the saying. Long centuries would pass before the introduction of distinct left and right shoes.

Apt phrase or not, a turnaround of sorts had occurred. Bertchramm sat cockily on his horse, facing down a party of bedraggled Aquitainian warriors. The old Frank knew this Bernhardus, leader of the refugees—oh yes, he knew the man well.

Harry knew the story; all Bertchramm’s friends did.

Two years earlier, this bastard, then leading an Aquitainian border patrol, had denied the Franks leave to pursue those who had killed his brother and abducted his niece. The Frank recalled the man’s haughty words then, and twisted them to his own purpose, “The major domus guards his borders with care.”

Bernhardus swallowed hard. He was in no position to take offense. “My lord Count Odo will arrive soon. He gives greeting to the major domus and bade me arrange sanctuary.”

Which Karl would undoubtedly grant, while exacting a price. “Next time your master should send a more punctual messenger. If your heart did not beat so in terror, you would hear the sound of many horses approaching.”

Indeed, a great party was nearing. Bertchramm signaled his own men to be ready to act: The newcomers might be Saracens instead of Aquitainians.

An Aquitainian outrider burst from the trees, the worse for wear even than the emissaries. “We must move north,” he shouted. “The Saracens are not far behind.”

The main party appeared hard on his heels. More men than not wore bloody bandages.The count in their midst was easy to identify: His calm and noble bearing stood out even more than did his glittering mail coat.

Odo shouted for silence, then urged his chestnut stallion forward through the anxious mass of refugees. He halted beside his lieutenant. “Are we ready to proceed?”

Bernhardus looked inquiringly at Bertchramm.

Aquitainians far outnumbered the Franks, and they were not about to stay on their side of the border. The best Bertchramm could do was put a good light on it. “Friends of my lord Karl are welcome.”

The count considered the phrasing, grim-faced. “Then I ask you to escort me to my friend, the major domus.

“The Saracens have defiled our churches and burned our holy places. Their cavalry swoops from nowhere, unlike anything we have ever seen, shrieking weird war cries like creatures from the Pit, to despoil what they cannot steal. Our towns are sacked and our farmers lie dead in their fields. The largest part of my army now lies, food for crows, beside the river Garonne.

“If befriending the Devil himself enabled me to continue the fight, I would embrace him, and name him brother.”

REIMS, 732

Frankish levies assembled in Reims, great masses of warriors pouring in from across Austrasia and Neustria. More surprising, perhaps, were the many volunteers from the Breton March, Burgundia, Alamannia—indeed, from all across the former Roman provinces. The cruel predations of Faisel/Salah-ad-Din had sown a deadly seed: a craving for bloody vengeance. Western Europe had not seen such a gathering of nobility since Roman times, would not see it again until the Crusades. Assuming Karl’s army won now…

Aquitainian survivors swelled the ranks further. Hundreds had accompanied Count Odo; stragglers followed daily, individually and in small groups. Still, the Christian forces seemed far too puny.

Terrence had no more idea than Harry why the Moslems had attacked Faisel’s erstwhile ally. “It seems bloody stupid, really. Why not have Odo’s help in conquering us, or at least Odo’s neutrality, and then turn on him?” Terrence downed some ale—the never-ending sword practice was thirsty work. “I suppose we’ll never know.”

“Does it matter?” Harry asked. “What most worries me is that, on the eve of battle, we still have no idea when or how Faisel plans to use his nuke.”

Terrence considered the reports brought in by refugees, by skirmishers, and by Karl’s spies. He thought about the pitifully few survivors of rearguard actions fought to delay the Saracens while the larger army assembled, and while Karl himself hurried back from his campaign in Bavaria. He remembered the decimation of Odo’s once-powerful forces.

The invaders numbered in the tens of thousands, maybe even the hundreds of thousands. These weren’t just garrison forces from Iberia: al-Ghafiqi had raised a whole new army in Northern Africa. They covered the land like a plague of locusts; like locusts, they left the land bare in their passage. Shrines and holy places seemed especial targets. And there rolled on, behind the advancing cavalry, an ever-growing wagon train of booty.

Bertchramm had “questioned” his prisoners with the brutal methods of this era. They had been filled with tales of Frankish atrocities against Saracens. Such incidents were an affront to Allah, especially in this, the hundredth anniversary year of Muhammad’s death. All believed: The Crescent’s triumphant march around the Mediterranean would continue; the Cross would not stop it.

“I wouldn’t worry about Faisel’s bomb,” Terrence said, thinking of all of these things. “At the rate the Saracens are going, they won’t even need it.”

* * *

Franks and Saracens had skirmished across southwestern Francia for decades—but nothing like this. At word of the attack, brought by a weary courier on an even more exhausted horse, Karl put aside the lesson he had been teaching a rebellious vassal in Bavaria. al-Ghafiqi’s previous incursions, the most recent seven years earlier, had been difficult enough to repel. Then, the emir of Iberia had had only a fraction of the forces now engaged.

Even without Harry Bowen’s dire warnings of a superweapon, this new invasion was the greatest threat yet to Karl’s rule.

Karl hurried his army westward as quickly as the infantry could move. Once they crossed into Austrasia, Karl took a troop of cavalry and galloped ahead to coordinate the linkup with the levies hastily assembling at Reims. That linkage could have occurred on the march, but he wanted to accept Odo’s oath of fealty in Reims, in front of the king and the bishop. That bastard Odo had been a thorn in his side for long enough.

The ceremony was short: Karl spent no time for a feast in honor of the occasion. The Frankish troops around Reims foraged daily for supplies; they were almost as harmful to his farmers as the Saracens would have been. His troops acted thus because they needed to eat. The Saracens, who had begun their campaigns with great wagon trains of supplies, pillaged for the sheer pleasure of it. Karl guessed that the distinction mattered not to those whose harvests were daily plundered and trampled.

With Odo’s ritual oath now given, Karl turned his attention southward.

WEST-CENTRAL FRANCIA, 732

Squinting into the rising sun, al-Ghafiqi studied the defenses hastily built around Poitiers. They were competent, no less than he would have expected from a warlike people. And yet—

He had seen much more formidable barriers. These barbarians could not begin to construct anything like the fortifications of the cursed Byzantines.

The Greeks ruled with an iron fist, and their subjects hated them. Treachery, rather than assault, had time and again thrown open to Allah’s armies the gates of the Empire’s fortresses.

al-Ghafiqi hoped never to face Frankish fury in battle in alliance with Greek engineering.

“When do we attack?” Salah-ad-Din asked impatiently. His horse snorted in its own show of restlessness.

His new ally had no finesse. al-Ghafiqi completed his unhurried examination of the city before answering. “It would cost too many lives to break through. We will leave men here to besiege the town, and continue north.

“Tours is a far richer prize.”

* * *

Since the rout of the Aquitainians on the river Garonne outside Bordeaux, the countryside had been ripe for plunder. Veteran officers tried to restrain the newly raised levies of Berbers and Moors. The army was here to rule, not raid.

Salah-ad-Din gave no such orders. His thieves and cutthroats paraded about evening encampments, swaggering and boasting and showing their booty. And this, they said, was mere crumbs from a feast. Far more treasure was stored in the wagon train.

al-Ghafiqi’s officers eased their discipline rather than face mutiny. The great host of invaders now raped and looted and pillaged its way northward.

And so it was that a horde of panic-spreading refugees took shelter in Tours, barely ahead of the Saracens. Grim-faced, the garrison prepared to defend the city.

* * *

Hidden from hostile eyes, they hoped, by a small but aggressive screen of cavalry, Karl and Odo drove their combined armies westward. Having already crossed to the south bank of the river Loire, there were no serious obstacles between them and the invaders.

And al-Ghafiqi, inexplicably, had split his forces. The northern force of Saracens were exposed to attack… .

* * *

“Your report, Youssef.”

The swarthy Moorish scout swallowed. “Emir, I rode around the Firanji cavalry. Not far to their rear was a great cloud of dust, as from a large army. Perhaps as large as our own.” He cringed, perhaps fearing the traditional reward for bearers of bad tidings. “I went as close as I dared and saw only part of their force. I have never seen so many barbarians.”

That many? Reported by a veteran of so many campaigns, al-Ghafiqi took the claim seriously. When he finally spoke, he addressed Salah-ad-Din rather than the scout. “It seems, Gamal, that you were correct. My compliments.”

He turned to an aide. “Gather my senior officers.”

The scout spoke softly. “Emir, will we lift the siege of Tours and rejoin the rest of the army?”

Salah-ad-Din brayed in laughter. “I think not, Youssef, at least not yet. There is much wealth in that city, and in the abbey of St. Martin, that I would gather.”

* * *

The Frankish scouts lay prone, just below the crest of the hill. Harry wished his eyesight were as acute as that of his companions. “What do you see?” he whispered to Terrence.

Bertchramm punched Harry hard to be quiet. Harry rubbed his shoulder and waited for the signal to move back down the slope.

“A large force,” Bertchramm grunted. “Very dangerous.” His warriors nodded assent.

That much even Harry could tell. “But what are they doing?”

When Bertchramm spoke, it was with the answer Harry most feared. “They are massing to storm the city. We cannot get enough men here quickly enough to stop them.”

And so, except for two warriors sent racing back to Karl with the news, the scouting party watched in helpless fury as the Saracens, in irresistible numbers, broke through Tours’ defenses.

They listened through the night to the screams…

* * *

Creaking and groaning beneath the weight of so much plunder, hundreds of wagons crept forward. Horses strained against their harnesses. With much whipping and cursing, the wagoners got the long train moving.

Those who had violated Tours gathered, in a great moving arc to the north and east of the train, to protect their booty on its slow way southward to Poitiers.

The Firanji were coming.

* * *

The crisp October day reminded Harry, incongruously, of high-school football games. His mind’s eye found cheerleaders’ skirts and pom-poms in the colors of autumn leaves; his mind’s ear turned the muttering of men at arms into the inarticulate roar of a youthful crowd.

He drove the foolishness from his thoughts. This contest was infinitely more serious.

He and Terrence had been admitted, to the disgust of Karl’s chief vassals, to the Frankish war councils. The Franks had overtaken the Saracen force, now moving at the snail’s pace of their wagon train. Karl planned a series of probing cavalry attacks at scattered spots across the front. Some parts of the enemy army would surely be weaker, less disciplined, than others; Karl wanted to know where a full-scale attack would be most likely to break through.

And so, while dozens would surely fall today, the ultimate slaughter was not quite ready to begin.

That final horror was now scant days away, and Harry knew no more than on the day of his arrival in this rough era how Faisel meant to use his nuke.

* * *

With growing admiration, al-Ghafiqi watched his army carry out the withdrawal from Tours. Held to the painfully slow pace of the wagon train, under relentless Firanji pressure, they beat off every attack. Finally, they were safely across the river Vienne, near the well-looted town of Cenon (Chinon). No major obstacle separated them from the rest of his army at Poitiers.

For six long days now, often several times a day, cavalry had skirmished up and down the front. The fighting was unremitting, if inconclusive. The last two days passed without sighting any of the columns of dust that marked fresh Firanji troops streaming to Karl’s banner.

al-Ghafiqi held a final consultation with Salah-ad-Din.

It was time to attack.

* * *

The nobility of Francia and its feudal dependencies gathered about a roaring campfire, while Karl’s most trusted warriors kept the curious—and possible spies—at a distance. The Saracens had halted their march at midday; a pitched battle was imminent.

Terrence wasn’t surprised when the brash Count Odo stepped forward. Scramasax in hand, the Aquitainian scratched a crude map into the dirt. “Here is their main line; here is ours. My men and I will ride around so“—he drew a great arc—”and attack from the rear. We will crush them between our forces like wheat between two millstones.”

The Franks grumbled, loath to concede the honor of the flanking movement to a new and distrusted ally. Their proposals, like Odo’s plan, all involved cavalry charges.

This was no era of chivalry, not an age of knights in shining armor, but after the fall of Rome and its once-vaunted marching legions, the preferred military arm was the cavalry. Francia was not rich enough to field a fully mounted army; none of the nobility meant to stay with the foot soldiers who comprised almost half their force.

“Enough!” Karl’s command squelched the grumbling. The major domus dragged a boot across the scratch in the dirt that represented his main line. “Weakened to support your proposed attack, how will the rest of us withstand a frontal assault?”

Odo smiled. “Before they can launch a serious assault, we will take them in the rear.”

“And what if you are delayed?” Karl cut off the count’s heated response. “Upon your oath to me, you shall not split my forces.” He glared at his unruly vassal. “On God’s wounds, you will swear it.”

Odo looked among the nobles for support. He found none. “I swear,” he responded softly. In a more normal tone, he asked, “Then what is the plan?”

The major domus laid his right hand on the hilt of his sword. Terrence guessed something very unorthodox was coming.

Terrence was right.

* * *

Allah’s army waited in silence.

It was a great force of Berbers, Moors, and Arabs. al-Ghafiqi rode from one end of the host to the other, then returned at a canter to a small rise near the center of the line. The whole while, no one spoke. Nowhere in the world, he thought, is there an army as disciplined, as fierce, as fleet in battle, as deadly, as this. Pride in these men welled up, an overpowering emotion equaled only by his misgivings about what he was about to do to them.

For all the multitude, there was no sound to be heard but the occasional neigh of a horse or snap of a robe in the breeze. He slipped his scimitar from its sheath and raised it in salute. The men— his men—let out a mighty roar.

They hushed just as quickly when he lowered his sword. “Soldiers of Islam,” he began. He got no further, for another great shout went up. He waited them out. “Soldiers of Islam, you have all submitted to Allah’s will.” He did no more than point out the very meaning, submission, of the word Islam. “Now, for the glory of Allah, you are about to fight a great battle about which poets will write for a thousand years. What shall they write?”

There was a moment of stillness as his warriors pondered the question, until one cried out the very first verse of the fourfold-repeated daily prayer: “Allah akbar.” The whole vast multitude picked up the shout. “Allah akbar.” On the third count, he repeated it with them. “Allah akbar.” The air seemed to vibrate with power. On the fourth repetition, al-Ghafiqi pointed his scimitar toward the distant foe. “Allah akbar.”

With a mighty thunder of hooves and the deafening ululation of war cries, the first echelon of his men, in their tens of thousands, charged toward the waiting Firanji.

* * *

Cavalry beyond counting swept across the plains toward the Franks.

Frankish nobles rode up and down their segments of the line, urging their warriors to stand fast. Karl stood among the infantry, calling loudly that the men with him would teach the Saracens a valuable lesson. Behind their shield wall, they nervously smiled their appreciation.

A few nobles still grumbled their disapproval—but not within earshot of Karl. His tactics remained troubling to them.

And still the horsemen galloped closer, only slowing as their charge carried them up the rolling hills where the Franks made their stand.

It wasn’t until Harry could first distinguish the great round eyes of the Arabian steeds that the assault seemed to falter, seemed to pause, as though the attackers had just noticed something amiss, something out of the ordinary, in Karl’s deployments.

But it was too late to pause. They were committed to the attack. With a deafening crash the two lines collided.

* * *

From atop a commanding hill, surrounded by reserve forces, al-Ghafiqi sat on his warhorse to watch the battle unfold. After a while, he scratched his head in puzzlement.

Why had the Firanji not yet countercharged? He had expected them to attack downward from the hills where they had waited. By timing their charge to meet his men near the foot of the hills, the Firanji would have a maximum speed just as the rising slope slowed his own men.

The charge swept uphill, unchallenged, toward the barbarians. How could horsemen tarry before such an avalanche of death?

Soon. They must emerge soon, or they would be fighting among their own infantry. The Firanji always had infantry. Where were the damned Firanji cavalry?

And then his cavalry crashed into the infantry.

* * *

The Frankish infantry shuddered under the impact.

Human flesh is not meant to stand up to charging horses, even slowed by the steep slope of the hills. Still, while many were trampled, most of the Franks stood their ground. Behind a wall of stout shields and iron-tipped spears, men enraged by the rape of Tours—in some cases, before their very eyes—brought the charge to a standstill. They hacked apart any enemy unfortunate enough to fall within their reach.

Some of the camp followers took up the weapons of the fallen and waded in.

Here and there a Frank or Aquitainian would break ranks and run amok, swinging his long-handled scramasax in great, two-handed, whistling arcs. Almost invariably, these were cavalrymen whom Karl had commanded to dismount. On or off their horses, they did not disappoint Karl’s belief that they lacked the discipline to stand firm. Had they remained mobile, they might well have been slain in the hundreds by al-Ghafiqi’s more maneuverable forces.

What the Franks lacked in discipline, they made up for in vigor.

The Saracens, their momentum lost, looked about in horror and growing worry. Wherever they looked, screaming men were pulling their brethren from their horses and hewing them to pieces. The fierce battle cries subsided to a warble, then died. The attack faltered.

Without being ordered, the Saracens turned and fled.

* * *

al-Ghafiqi galloped out to meet the troops. “Halt!” he roared, at first to no effect. The ease with which this first attack had been repelled shamed them all. “Halt, cowards!”

Whether his shouts broke through their panic, or they saw they were not being pursued, he did not know, but the men gradually came to a stop. Guiltily, they waited on the plain for him to meet them. The officer who had led the failed assault hesitantly came forward. “The men of the north stand like a wall.”

“And do the men of Islam run from walls?”

The words struck like a slap in the face. “No, they do not, emir.” Without another word, he turned to rally his scattered forces.

As soon as they were gathered, they charged anew into the lines of the Firanji.

* * *

All day long, the armies clashed.

The hills that the Franks defended were now littered with corpses. Terrence looked about the field of carnage, the legions of the dead seeming to differ only in their clothing. Was a preference for sandals over shoes, or flowing robes rather than tunic and trousers, an adequate reason for such slaughter?

The rude bandage on his left arm was bright red, his wound endlessly reopened by the shock of sword on shield. Bertha fussed about him and his injury whenever the bloodshed paused; when the attacks were under way, she wielded a long spear and killed with as grim satisfaction as any man. Fair enough: She had better cause to hate than most of the men.

He caressed her hair, now matted with dirt and sweat. Instinctively, she cringed; he heard teeth grind as she forced herself still for the gesture. He voicelessly cursed himself. Any man’s touch made Bertha wince: a “gift” from the bastards who had imprisoned and repeatedly raped her. Two years later—and, he sincerely believed, as in love with him as he with her—she could not bear the touch of any male hand.

Oh yes, she had better cause than most to kill.

Terrence tightened his grip on his scramasax to await the next charge. But no better cause than I.

* * *

Odo worked his way to the right of the Frankish battle line throughout the long course of the battle. That fool Karl would get them all killed. Who ever heard of fighting with your cavalry dismounted? As he moved to the flank, he spoke hurriedly to his vassals.

Finally, near nightfall, everything was in place. His best men, just as he, had worked their way down the front, toward the tethered horses. At his command, they slung themselves into their saddles.

Karl be damned. The cavalry of Aquitainia would save their Frankish hides.

* * *

Terrence wondered if, when the time came, he could kill Bertha.

She had begged him, with tears in her eyes, to kill her cleanly rather than allow her to be retaken. It might be the only act of love he could ever perform for her.

Rage pierced his heart like a blade.

He would know soon enough. They had barely enough men left to hold the line against another charge. Or had had—before that traitor Odo had mysteriously disappeared with his men.

If the Saracens held to anything even approximating their previous routine, another attack would come at any time.

* * *

“So what do you think?” Salah-ad-Din asked casually. He had been nibbling on a date; he paused to spit out a seed. “Could Allah use a few more martyrs?”

al-Ghafiqi turned in horror. “Do you know how many thousands died today? Muslims and Christians alike?” He was caked in sweat and the dust of the battlefield; the filth clung like a burial shroud. “Enough brave men have died today. We will withdraw under cover of darkness tonight, just as you planned. I’ll take no pleasure from what happens then.”

Salah-ad-Din bowed his head briefly at the reference to his strategy. “It matters not whether any of us find pleasure in the deed, so long as we perform it.”

A patter of footsteps preempted al-Ghafiqi’s answer. These were not matters to discuss in front of anyone else. He waited impatiently, until the stranger answered the guards’ shouted challenge and was admitted into the clearing.

It was his most trusted scout. “Youssef! What news do you bring?”

Youssef gasped for breath, as though he had ridden his horse into the ground and run the rest of the way. Finally, he regained his voice. “A gap has opened in the enemy line. Their right wing has come down from the hills. I think they hope to sweep behind us, but they are too few.

“We can cut them off easily, then surround and finish the rest.” Then, despite his indomitable will, Youssef slumped wearily against a tree.

Allah be praised! al-Ghafiqi’s pulse quickened with hope for a victory without witchery. “Go! Gather the officers. I will join you soon.” With growing excitement, he watched the scout slip back into the trees.

* * *

Salah-ad-Din had finished his dates. He slid his hands into the pockets he had had sewn into the sides of his flowing djellabah. What he found in his sagging right pocket reassured him greatly. He spoke softly to al-Ghafiqi, whose eyes gleamed with inappropriate thoughts. “Remember the plan.”

“Damn the plan. We can win! We can do honor to the many brave men who fell today.”

“I warn you, my friend. We must follow the plan.”

“Warn? You warn me? You forget yourself.” The emir‘s voice held a sharp edge—as sharp as the scimitar whose hilt he fondled.

Salah-ad-Din curled his fingers. The handgrip was warm. He pointed the object carefully, never removing it from his pocket. As his finger tightened, he spoke his last words to the emir. “No, my friend, I forget neither my plan nor myself.”

With a gram more pressure on its trigger, the handgun fired.

The bullet drilled a hole through his pocket, his robe, and a momentarily astonished Abd-ar-Rahman al-Ghafiqi.

“Help!” Salah-ad-Din called. “Firanji are attacking! The emir has been slain!”

* * *

Dawn broke with preternatural quiet over the battlefield. Even the carrion-eaters picking at the flesh of the fallen seemed subdued. Karl was about to send out a scouting party when first the thunder of hooves, then a bold shout shattered the calm.

“They have run!” bellowed Odo, at the front of a column of picked troops. “The whoresons are gone, disappeared during the night. The men of Aquitainia guard the booty!”

“Then it’s as good as lost,” Bertchramm snarled. Harry and Terrence were inclined to agree with him.

Karl and his guards mounted quickly and raced down to meet the count. Odo was as indiscreet as ever. “Come ride with me to slaughter the Saracens as they flee.” His presumption echoed across the field.

The major domus shook his head. Eying the devastation, he seemed weary almost to death. Still, he made his own voice boom. “Look around you, Odo. Enough have fallen. If we let the Saracens return now in peace to Iberia, perhaps they will learn to return the favor.”

Here, Terrence knew, was a truly great man. Karl was as brutal as the times demanded—and no more. Terrence’s heart went out to the major domus; he wished that there were something he could do.

And then he had it. He took a deep breath. At the top of his lungs Terrence cried out, “All hail, Karl Martel.” Karl the Hammer.

There was a moment’s silence, then Bertchramm took up the call. Soon the Franks in their tens of thousands were all shouting in praise. “All hail, Karl Martel. All hail, Karl Martel.”

Terrence laid an arm across the shoulders of a dumbstruck Harry Bowen, and squeezed. “Someone was going to do it. Why not me?”

About the Author

Edward M. Lerner has degrees in physics and computer science (and, curiously enough, an MBA). Now writing SF full-time, Lerner worked in high tech for thirty years (including seven years as a NASA contractor), as everything from engineer to senior vice president. That experience includes techie havens (such as Bell Labs and Northrop Grumman), an Internet company, and a software start-up. It all shows up in his fiction.

His books include Probe, Moonstruck, the cyber-themed collection Creative Destruction, and, in collaboration with Larry Niven the Known Space novel Fleet of Worlds. His short fiction has appeared in Analog, Artemis, Darker Matter and Jim Baen’s Universe magazines, on Amazon Shorts, and in the anthologies Year’s Best SF 7 and Future Washington.

In the pipeline are Fools’ Experiments and a second Known Space novel collaboration with Larry Niven, Juggler of Worlds.

Visit Ed’s website at: http://www.sfwa.org/members/lerner/

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Framed

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Contents

Fish Story, Episode Thirteen,

The Plot to End the Universe

Written by Eric Flint, Andrew Dennis, Dave Freer

“Do I hear a motion to dispense with all old business, and move right to new business?” asked the eurypterid, Gardner Flowers. He was back to his normal role as chaircreature of the A-Team.

“So moved,” said Rebecca York, the female of the three mosasaurs.

“Second,” chimed in the octopus named Guilherme.

“All in favor?”

Every limb went up, be that a fin or a tentacle or, in the case of me and Stephen Speairs, an arm. I believe I could make a pretty good case, if one presupposes widespread intelligence in many species, that natural selection will drive toward making a predisposition to dispense with old business genetically hard-wired. The same with reading of the minutes of the previous meeting, of course. At a guess, creatures who persist in wanting minutes read and old business droned over are not only damaging their reproductive chances by a ghastly waste of time and energy, but, probably still worse, are most likely running foul of a rapidly developing preference in sexual selection.

(Quick question. Your mating instincts are up and running, you’re at a meeting, and you need to choose between two possible targets for your affections. One of them wants to move the meeting along and the other insists on dragging out everything. Which one becomes the most likely focus of your attention?)

“Motion passes unanimously,” Flowers announced. Asnip, the plesiosaur, dutifully recorded the results.

“New business?”

“Move that aliases be changed,” said Rebecca York. “Leaving aside the need to confuse the agents of Cthulhu, I’m sick and tired of being named after a town in England. That whole island sucks. If it was Rebecca New York, I could live with it. At least New York has good kosher delis.”

I tried to visualize a mosasaur dining at a deli in New York. And … couldn’t. Not even in Brooklyn.

“Second?”

“So moved,” said Dave Pettibone. “I could live with my current alias, but I’m sick and tired of having to remember that ‘Lavanya Vijayaraghavan’ isn’t a girl.”

The other male mosasaur seemed to jeer at him. “You just envy my imagination.”

“Order, please,” said Flowers. “All in favor of changing aliases?”

Again, the vote was unanimous—except, this time, Stephen and I abstained. When Flowers gave us a questioning look, I shrugged. “These aren’t aliases to begin with. They’re just our names.”

“Doesn’t matter with them anyway,” said Pettibone. “They’re the only two hominids in the ocean anywhere within miles of the World-Tree. Not likely that Cthulhu’s agents will have any trouble figuring out who they are, regardless of their names.”

Some of the other members of the A-Team looked dubious. At least, insofar as I could discern any emotion on the “faces” of prehistoric monsters, giant octopods and giant turtles. But nobody seemed inclined to argue the point.

“I suppose,” said Flowers. “Do we allow everyone to pick their own alias, or do we distribute them by lot?”

“By lot!” said York forcefully. “Last time we let people pick their own, and look what this doofus over here”—she wagged a flipper at Vijayaraghavan—”did with it. Enough’s enough.”

That got a unanimous vote also, except for Vijayaraghavan.

“Motion passes,” announced Flowers. “Matthew, hand out the names, would you please?”

Asnip ducked his snout back into his pouch and came out with a cluster of little slips of paper. Well … something that looked like paper, anyway. It probably wasn’t, since I couldn’t see any signs of deterioration from being immersed in salt water.

The plesiosaur flipped his head, the slips went flying, and slowly settled to the floor of the tree fort. As they landed, Asnip read the results and assigned the names to the creature who was nearest to the point where the slip fell.

“Okay, let’s see …” The first two slips fell closest to the turtles. “Guilherme Gosling, you’re now Andrew Allport. Ben Boals, you’re now Martin Bonham. Got that?”

He moved over to the slips that had fallen nearest to the octopi. “Geraldine Mendoza, you’re now Kasza Anderson. That’s spelled ‘s-z-a,’ don’t screw it up. Jonathan Bolder, you’re now Matthew Duncan. And Edmond Hallahan is Robert Hedin.”

Now the plesiosaur moved toward the three mosasaurs. “Dave Pettibone, you’re H.K. Ward.”

“What does ‘H.K.’ stand for?”

“Whatever you want, I guess.”

“Halloween Kibbitzer,” suggested the other male mosasaur, snickering. At least, I think that was a mosasaur’s version of a snicker. Think of a locomotive blowing its nose.

“Laugh now, wise guy,” said Asnip. The plesiosaur peered down at one of the slips, then back up at Vijayaraghavan, then back down at the slip again. “Can’t be helped. It’s for sure the closest to you. So you now glory in the monicker of Branislav Slantchev.”

“Huh? What kind of name is that?”

“Sounds Rooshan to me,” said H.K. Ward, formerly Dave Pettibone. He made that same locomotive-blowing-its-nose racket that I took for a mosasaur snicker. “I’ll see if I can dig up a ton of beets to make you some borscht.”

The plesiosaur had moved on to the female of the trio. “And as for you, the lady-formerly-known-as-Rebecca-York, you’re now Anabelle Lacharite. That’s an acute accent over the final ‘e,’ not a grave.”

She looked triumphantly at her two male cohorts. “Ha! Me, I got class.”

“What about us?” asked the eurypterid.

“I figure this slip’s the closest to you, Gardner-Flowers-that-was, so you now go by the name of Earl Manning. And me …” His head moved back and forth between two slips, very studiously. “Hard to tell which is closest to me, but I figure… this one. So I’m now Robert C. McClelland III.”

The mosasaurs peered at him skeptically. “That seems like an awfully fancy monicker to come up just by accident,” grumbled Slantchev. “Suspicious, you ask me.”

“Nobody asked you,” pointed out the new Earl Manning. The eurypterid raised its telson. “Attention! If there be any objections to the new aliases”—here he gave Slantchev a look that you might have called “fishy” if Manning were a fish—”serious objections, to be precise, then speak now or forever hold your piece.”

Anabelle yawned, a sight which, when done by a mosasaur, is actually quite terrifying. “Ah, who cares? We change aliases about once a month, anyway.”

“Be more like once a week, now,” said one of the octopi. I wasn’t sure which one. “What with us working against Cthulhu instead of for him.”

Stephen cleared his throat. To my astonishment—was he mad? gone completely bonkers?—he said: “Speaking of which, could someone explain to me exactly why you’ve decided to plot against Cthulhu instead of continuing to work for him?”

The assembled monsters in the tree fort—prehistoric monsters, you might recall; gigantic; toothed; clawed; fanged; tentacled; if you can think of a manner in which human flesh might be rent and torn asunder, rest assured that one of the creatures there possessed it in full measure—stared at him as if he were bereft of his senses.

Or as if he were a morsel of food. I sidled away from the madman. Perhaps they might overlook me in the feeding frenzy.

Then the monsters stared at each other. Then the female tylosaur now known as Anabelle Lacharite gaped her maw. For a moment, I was sure I was a dead man, until I realized that was apparently the Mesozoic version of a grin.

“That’s right, now that I think about it,” she said. “We never did get around to explaining to the new members—”

“Probationary members!” barked the tylosaur now known as H.K. Ward.

“Quite right!” chimed in his male mate. “Their vote is advisory only. Not binding on the team.”

Lacharite gave them an exasperated look. “I wouldn’t make too much of that technicality, boys. Seeing as how we’ll be depending on the new probationary members for the critical part of the next operation.”

I really, really, really didn’t like the sound of that. “Operation” implies …

Commandos do operations. The SAS does operations. Delta Force does operations.

Ichthyologists, in stark contrast, do studies.

Worse still were the implications of the phrase “critical part.”

Operations have critical parts. Desperate adventures have critical parts. Matters of life and death have critical parts.

In stark contrast, the only “critical parts” of fish studies are arguing with your co-authors over name precedence in the byline.

“And what’s that all about?” demanded Speairs, as if any sane man wanted to know.

Lacharite looked back at him. “Well, it’s like this. We would have cheerfully remained as loyal subordinates of Cthulhu—”

“Sure would,” said Ward.

“Pay’s great, work’s easy, the benefits are gold-plated,” chimed in Slantchev.

“Even had an early retirement plan,” whined one of the octopi.

“—except we found out the monster-god had let his deity status go to his head,” finished Lacharite.

“Classic case of megalomania,” said the plesiosaur sadly. “Of course, gods are prone to that.”

“What’d he do?” asked Speairs, as if we actually wanted to know. I desperately needed a drink.

“What he did—what he’s planning, rather—is to take this ‘primordial slime’ business seriously.” McClelland III shook his head, which is quite an operation when you’re a plesiosaur.

“Excuse me?”

The eurypterid provided the answer. “It’s like this. As long as that ‘primordial slime’ stuff was just, you know, a vague and general goal to be aimed for in the far distant future, fine and dandy.” The sea scorpion wagged its telson. “Sure, it’s probably a little stupid, but it’s in the nature of things for all images of paradise to be pretty dim-witted. I mean, look at your hominid versions.”

“Everybody playing harps!” said one of the sea turtles, in a distinctly jeering tone. “Same clowns you couldn’t get to attend a harp concerto for love or money—but, oh sure, they’re going to be playing harps themselves for eternity and loving every minute of it.”

The other turtle added: “Compared to that, ‘primordial slime’ doesn’t sound so bad. At least there’s no work involved.”

“The problem,” Earl Manning went on, “is that we found out Cthulhu was actually serious about it. ‘Serious,’ in the sense that he got tired of waiting for eternity to take its course and decided to engineer the advent of the era of primordial slime. Right now. Well, soon anyway.” The eurypterid looked around at its companions. “In our lifetimes, for sure.”

“I’m not ready for any primordial slime!” said H.K. Ward. “Not this year, not next year—not any time I’m still alive.”

Stephen pressed on in his madness, venturing where no man has any business going. “Fascinating. And how, exactly, does Cthulhu plan to bring on this ‘primordial slime’? I presume he can’t just wave a tentacle and make it happen.”

“Oh, certainly not!” said McClelland III. He sounded genuinely shocked. “Even gods are subject to the laws of thermodynamics. Well. More or less—but he still can’t just wave the primordial slime into being. No, no, no. It’s got to be caused.”

“By what?” As if we wanted to know! I wondered if I might strangle Speairs and have none of the monsters notice.

Alas, probably not.

“By what? By the end of the world, of course.”

“End of the universe, say better,” said Manning.

The three mosasaurs began a frightful hooting and wailing.

“Ragnarok!”

“Gotterdammerung!”

“The uprooting of the World-Tree!”

Speairs scratched his head. “That stuff’s all from Norse legend. What’s it got to do—”

Of a sudden, three huge tylosaur snouts were almost pressed against him. Thankfully, he fell silent.

“Those sneaks!” bellowed Ward.

“Dirty rotten herring-eaters!” added Slantchev.

The female mosasaur’s contribution was a bit more informative. By now, it was a foregone conclusion that she had most of what little brains had been passed around to the muscle of the A-Team.

“They swiped it,” she explained. “Stinking Scandinavians. Got no imagination of their own so they swiped our legends.”

“Just like they plundered those Irish monasteries and things like that,” said Ward, in the sharply disapproving tone with which a prehistoric top predator depicts the violent acts of others.

Slantchev wagged one of his forelimbs about. “This here is the real World-Tree. And Ragnarok and the Gotterdammerung—”

“There’s a very slight distinction between the two events,” the eurypterid explained, “but we needn’t go into the details now. It’s a purely theoretical issue tied to the long-running dispute between nominalists and essentialists over the precise meaning of the term ‘simultaneous.’”

Slantchev ignored all that and plowed on. “—are supposed to happen right out there.”

He got a very aggrieved look on his face. Insofar as a forty-foot long, multi-ton tylosaur can be said to look “aggrieved” at all. It’s really quite an unnatural expression for such a creature. Apex predators are normally given to immense self-satisfaction.

“Eons from now,” he finished plaintively. “Not next Thursday.”

“Shocking heresy, you ask me,” chimed in one of the turtles. “Of course, try telling that to a god.”

“Next Thursday?” asked Stephen.

“Well. Maybe next Friday,” said one of the octopi. “Best laid plans of mice and gods gang aft agleigh, and all that.” The creature waggled several of its tentacles. “What I mean is, Cthulhu can plot and scheme all he wants. In the end, Thor and his people will still have something to say about the exact date of Der Tag. And Thor’s not exactly famous for punctuality.”

Thor. Oh, marvelous. Just what we needed. More deities.

“What’s Thor got to do with it?” asked Stephen.

The prehistoric monsters in the tree fort all looked at him a bit cross-eyed.

“What do you mean, ‘what’s Thor got to do with it’?” said Lacharite. “How can you have the Gotterdammerung without the damn Norse gods? They’re the designated bad guys in the affair. Jeez, what kind of education do they give hominids these days?”

The plesiosaur waddled forward and began using its head on the end of that long neck as a substitute for a professor’s hand gestures. “Since you’ve apparently forgotten the basics on the subject,” he said, “here’s how it works. Over here”—his bobbing head indicated himself and his companions—”are the forces of good and light and justice. Fighting for the primordial slime. Foremost among us, of course,. the great world-girdling sea serpent Louella Jones. As she now is. Over there”—

His head made several vaguely accusatory bobbing gestures at the entrance to the tree fort. “—are the villains. The gods and their various chthonic cohorts and henchmen. Humans, giants, dwarves, etc. There’s a big nasty dog mixed in with them, too, I believe.”

Speairs frowned. “I thought the wolf was supposed to be—”

“Don’t interrupt, since you obviously don’t know squat. When the time comes—which is supposed to be eons and eons from now, not next Thursday—all these forces clash in the sea right outside the tree fort—which, of course, is perched in the World-Tree—and in the horrendous chaos the universe comes to an end. Everybody is destroyed and everything is inundated by primordial slime. Which, of course, is what Cthulhu was plotting for in the first place.”

“Eons and eons from now,” Lacharite repeated, sounding very grumpy. “By which time we’re all dead and so who cares? Not next fricking Thursday!”

“So now you know,” said the mosasaur H.K. Ward. “Once we figured out Cthulhu’s plans, we decided to switch sides. Well …”

“Switch sides my sweet rosy plated ass!” snapped Anabelle. “No way I’m going to work for a bunch of smelly chthones. No, we’re not ‘switching sides.’ We’re just going out on our own and making what you might call an alliance of convenience.”

“The problem, of course, is Thor.” That came from the turtle now known as Martin Bonham. “First, he’s stupid. Second, he’s a hothead. So naturally he fell for Cthulhu’s bait when the monster god set an ambush for him. He thinks the ambush failed because of his skills, but in point of fact Cthulhu told Louella to take a dive. That way Thor will be pissed and is bound to blow his stack and start the Gotterdammerung ahead of schedule.”

“Next Thursday, to be precise,” added the other turtle, “since Thor’s got a thing about ‘Thursday.’ He thinks the day was named after him.”

So did I, actually. Thursday. Thor’s Day.

But all the monsters started making a ruckus, in a prehistoric version of a burst of riotous laughter.

“What an idiot!”

“It’s actually named for Eddie Kindleman, the little coelenterate who keeps the books for Harry the Sponge.”

Stephen and I must have looked puzzled.

“Well, obviously they didn’t base it on Eddie’s real name,” said Lacharite, in the tone one uses to speak to children. “He’s a bookie, after all.”

“So we’ve got to thwart Cthulhu’s scheme, and that’s where you come in.” The plesiosaur gave me and Stephen what I interpreted to be a Meaningful Look.

“Uh … how do we come into this?” asked Speairs. That was the first intelligent question the idiot had asked since we got shanghaied into this mess.

“Well … you’re hominids, that’s how.”

“More to the point,” interrupted Earl Manning, “you’re known associates of the two hominids that are now part of Thor’s inner circle. Those two lawyers he’s got with him.”

A light dawned—insofar as the words “light” and “dawn” had any business within miles of this madness. “You’re talking about Sheila Rowen and Whazzisname?” I demanded. “We barely know them!”

“They’re lawyers,” said Stephen. “Not really fit for civilized society.”

Lacharite emitted the tylosaur equivalent of a sniff. If you’re wondering, think of a locomotive sneezing. “Who cares about the details? They’re hominids. You’re hominids. And since you’re the only hominids on the A-Team—only chthones of any kind, in fact—we figure that means it’s your job to make contact with Thor’s new hominid associates and figure out how to deflect Thor before the lunatic goes charging off and starts the Gotterdammerung.”

“We’re counting on you, lads,” said one of the octopi.

“No,” said one of his tentacled fellows portentously. “The universe is counting on you.”

* * *

To be continued

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

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Framed

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Contents

INTRODUCING STORIES

Cacophony of the Spheres

Written by Jeff Haas

Illustrated by R.Stephen Adams

I was buried in a virtual blonde when my editor buzzed me on the vid.

“This alien refugee problem is getting out of hand,” he said. “The DC police just arrested another thousand aliens for sleeping on the Washington Mall. They’re transporting them to the detention center tomorrow. We have to find out what’s going on.”

“Okay, I’ll head over to the detention center in the morning.”

“No, Teddy’s already on that. We need to get to the root of the problem. I want you to interview Borderline Bob.”

“The mathematician?”

“The bartender.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

“All of the aliens are coming from that direction. If anybody knows about it, he will.”

“But isn’t he—”

“—at the edge of the galaxy.”

“Shit! Can I do it remotely?”

“No VR this time. You know the publisher doesn’t like remote interviews. We need verisimilitude on this one. Besides, nobody’s heard from Borderline Bob in over a year. His transceiver must be down.”

“Then how do you know he’s still out there?”

“I don’t. That’s your job.”

“Can’t you send Margie? I’m still knee deep in that Interpol investigation.”

“Margie’s on maternity leave. She’s giving birth to an android or something. And that so-called Interpol story’s been stone-cold dead for weeks, and you know it.”

He had me there. Ever since Laura dumped me three weeks earlier—claiming that I was incapable of making a commitment and accusing me of “living in a fantasy world”—I had just sat around the house moping. Maybe a long trip to the edge of the galaxy would help me forget about her.

“It’s the twenty-fifth anniversary of the bar,” he said. “If anybody asks, you can say you’re doing a human interest story.”

“As long as it’s not an alien interest story. I don’t have a great track record with aliens.”

“I’m well aware of that. We’re still paying for that Parmavian chandelier you destroyed. But you’re going out there to interview a human. Just try to stay out of trouble this time. We’ll pay you for every hour of the trip, including sleep time. Plus per diem.”

“Per diem? You got that approved?”

“Yup.”

“Hmm … maybe verisimilitude isn’t such a bad thing after all.”

“I knew I could count on you, Tim.”

* * *

I arrived at the Galaxy Post’s Tripplelite shuttle early the next morning, toothbrush, recorder, and backgrounder in hand. I gave the backgrounder to the attendant with specific instructions for downloading it through my implant once I attained cryonic stasis. Then I took the toothbrush and recorder with me into the sleep chamber and settled down for a long winter’s nap, visions of Borderline Bob dancing in my head.

Of course, I had heard about Borderline Bob before, but you could have fit what I really knew about the man into a thimble the size of a quark. The backgrounder explained that he had been a math professor at the University of Chicago in the mid twenty-first century. But he wasn’t known as Borderline Bob at that time. He was the very prestigious Professor Robert Z. Kinahan, Ph.D., winner of the first Nobel Prize in Mathematics. Kinahan had won the prize for his pioneering work in mapping the actual size of the Milky Way galaxy. But after receiving the award, he devoted all of his time to proving that the universe was collapsing instead of expanding, research that was diametrically opposed to all serious inquiries since the late twentieth century. Even the University of Chicago was starting to consider him a quack.

According to Kinahan’s theory, not only was the universe collapsing, but it was collapsing at an exponential rate. In fact, if Kinahan was right, the entire universe would implode in a colossal Big Crunch in the year 2081, roughly thirty-two years from the date of his calculations.

Nobody believed Kinahan, but neither could they dispute him. He was such a monumental genius that there were few people on Earth who could even understand his calculations, and those who could refused to support him publicly for fear of committing professional suicide. He was a Cassandra in a doctoral gown.

That’s when Professor Robert Z. Kinahan, Ph.D., became Borderline Bob. With a mere thirty-two years remaining for the universe, Kinahan resigned from the University of Chicago, bought a Tripplelite shuttle with his Nobel Prize money, and headed for the far end of the galaxy. Then he did the one thing he had always wanted to do—he opened a bar.

* * *

I awoke with a start from a nightmare about trying to reach Laura by crossing Antarctica in my underwear. Cryonic sleep chambers always make me feel claustrophobic and disoriented, not to mention cold as hell. I shivered a couple of times as the temperature rose, then started to relax as the pressure dissipated, and the translucent hatch lifted.

I crawled out of the frozen sarcophagus as quickly as my aching body would let me. The inside of my mouth felt like I’d been gnawing on a dead possum for a week, so I grabbed my toothbrush from the sleep chamber and brushed my teeth while looking out the portal.

Borderline Bob’s was a human-run bar inside an alien-built space station. The space station was an enormous black disk with multicolored blinking lights and numerous docking ports. It was smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, situated somewhere between two dying red dwarfs. The combination of its unusual shape and the eerie crimson glow made it look like the Frisbee from hell.

The aliens who built the space station were the Beechers, an ancient race of tall, brooding bipeds who had since developed a technology for transcending their physical bodies. They had painstakingly constructed the space station three thousand years earlier, but abruptly abandoned it when they no longer needed a material home. Kinahan had to buy out several squatter species before he could secure a place for his bar.

The docking ports were chock-full of human and alien spacecraft. Kinahan’s bar had been a tremendous success ever since its inception twenty-five years earlier. People and nonpeople came from all over the galaxy to get their fill of exotic intoxicants.

But the space station was a mere speck against the oblivion behind it. A massive cosmic maelstrom was slowly but incessantly moving toward the tiny space station, gobbling up stars and nebulae in its path. The red dwarfs looked like a couple of gumballs about to be swallowed whole. It seemed as if the maelstrom would engulf the space station at any moment, transforming it into dark matter like everything else. But it never did. Instead, the space station continuously inched away from oblivion. Kinahan had reprogrammed its navigation system based on his calculations of the collapsing universe. As the maelstrom approached, the space station moved away from it and toward the Galactic Center, escaping inevitability at every moment.

I stood dumbfounded in the face of the maelstrom. Although I’d heard of Kinahan’s crazy ideas about the universe collapsing and his quixotic quest to find happiness at the edge of the galaxy, I hadn’t really thought about it that much. I mean, that was just one guy’s theory, and none of the experts gave it any credence. But it’s one thing to hear about something like that and quite another to be confronted with it. Here was all the evidence I needed that Kinahan’s theory was correct.

Why on Earth did no one on Earth believe him?

* * *

The shuttle docked with a thud. I dressed quickly as I waited for the air pressure to equalize and the door to open. When it finally did, I grabbed my recorder and stepped into an empty reception area with three corridors leading in different directions. The walls were made from a sleek ebony material, and the ceilings were very high, most likely to accommodate the Beechers before they transcended. The whole place had an eerie feel to it, like it had been there for eons. And maybe it had.

Not knowing what else to do, I headed over to an abandoned reception desk and was bathed in a red scanning light. Suddenly, a hologram of a brunette appeared seated behind the desk, looking like a beautiful ghost.

“Welcome to Borderline Bob’s,” she said. “Is English your preferred language?”

“Yes.”

She got up, revealing an ethereal white gown, and sashayed over to the middle corridor.

“Follow me to the main bar.”

“My pleasure.”

Blinking white running lights appeared on the floor, lighting the way as we walked down the corridor side by side.

“Is this your first visit?”

“Yes. Um … who are you?”

“I’m Holly, your virtual guide. I don’t really exist. But I’m sure you’ll find some willing human females at the main bar.”

“I wasn’t implying—”

“—But if I were a human female, I’d go after you in a heartbeat. Would you like to preorder a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Studies show that the human male is 23 percent more successful in the mating ritual if he consumes two sixty-milliliter alcoholic beverages before approaching the human female. The alcohol lowers the male’s inhibitions, allowing him to reveal his secret libidinal desires.”

“I don’t want a drink.”

“Of course, that theory reaches a point of diminishing returns. After four sixty-milliliter alcoholic beverages, the human male may still be successful in wooing the human female, but then he might not be able to perform due to erectile dysfunction, premature ejaculation, or merely falling asleep. So it only stands to reason that you should drink in moderation.”

“Actually, I’m looking for Borderline Bob.”

“This is Borderline Bob’s.”

“No, I mean Bob Kinahan, the human male.”

“Bob Kinahan is at the main bar. Is he expecting you?”

“No, I couldn’t make an appointment. Your transceiver isn’t working.”

“Are you from Earth?”

“Yes.”

“We no longer accept transmissions from Earth.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“Bob Kinahan reprogrammed me to ignore them. He said quote No news is good news end quote.”

“Great.”

“Do you mean great as in large or great as in distinguished?”

“Neither. I mean great as in goddamn-it-all-to-hell.”

“I wasn’t aware of that definition.”

* * *

We reached the entrance to the bar, and Holly pixilated without so much as a good-bye, reminding me of Laura. The corridor opened up into a cavernous breezeway made of the same ebony material. At the far end were two tall double doors with an anachronistic neon sign above them that read “Borderline Bob’s” in English script. I negotiated the breezeway, my footsteps echoing in the ebony silence, and walked through the double doors as they opened inward automatically.

The place wasn’t as large as I expected. It had a retrofuturistic art deco feel to it, all geometric shapes in black, white, and silver. Small circular tables were peppered around the room, with a main bar made of polished mahogany toward the back. A long, curved, horizontal window looked out onto the maelstrom, with a banner proclaiming “Happy 25th Anniversary” partially obscuring the view. It reminded me of the bars back on Earth, and I felt right at home.

I had made a point of arriving before happy hour, and the bar was almost empty. A small group of Parmavians, with their ugly grey tentacles and bloodshot eyes, chortled amiably in the corner. After my disastrous chandelier incident, I went out of my way to avoid them. Three human males, gruff space traders by their appearance, drank straight from the bottle at another table.

A bearded repairman wearing safety goggles was behind the bar working on a nanobox, his long hair tied back in a ponytail. He had the box disassembled on the bar’s counter. I walked up to him, but he just kept right on working, using a laser soldering gun to fix something inside the box.

“I’m looking for Bob Kinahan.”

He didn’t bother to look up. “Yeah? Are you a cop?”

“No, a reporter.”

“Good, because what I’m doing is highly illegal.”

He continued soldering.

“What exactly are you doing?”

“I’m converting this nanobox into a still.”

“A still?”

“Well, kind of. A normal still can only manufacture one type of alcohol. But this still can manufacture any type of alcohol you want—human or alien.”

He finished soldering and put the nanobox back together. Then he swiveled it around until it faced me. It looked like a glorified microwave oven.

“There! Now let’s test it out. What are you drinking?”

“I’m not. I’m looking for—”

“—Come on, don’t be a spoilsport.”

“Okay, a Scotch.”

“What kind of Scotch?”

“Um … a single malt. Glenmorangie.”

“Speak directly into the microphone.”

I leaned into the nanobox. “Glen-mor-an-gie.”

The nanobox hummed for a minute, then dinged. The repairman popped open the door and pulled out a glass filled with a rich amber liquid.

“That’s the tricky part. Not only does it manufacture the alcohol, but it manufactures the glass. If you had ordered a martini, it would’ve created a martini glass.”

He handed me the Scotch. “Give it a try.”

I tentatively put the glass to my lips and took a sip. “Not bad.” I took another. “Actually, this is pretty good. What was the nanobox originally used for?”

“Condoms.”

I spit the Scotch back into the glass.

He laughed and yanked off his goggles. “Just kidding.” Then he reached over the bar to shake my hand. “Bob Kinahan, at your service.”

I did a double take. “You’re Bob Kinahan?” But when I studied his features I realized it was true. The ponytail and beard had me fooled; he was clean-shaven in all of the backgrounder photos. But it was hard to mistake those emerald green eyes once he removed the goggles.

“Not what you expected?”

“Actually, no. I’m Tim Godfrey from the Galaxy Post.”

“An actual Terran. That’s a long way to come for a drink. Did they close down all the bars back on Earth?”

“No, my paper sent me here to interview you about the alien refugee problem. I would’ve set up an appointment but—why aren’t you accepting transmissions from Earth anymore?”

“You know what they say: no news—”

“—is good news. Yeah, but if we believed that back at the Post, we’d go out of business.”

He spoke into the nanobox. “Long Island Iced Tea.” The nanobox hummed, and he pulled out a tall glass containing a murky brown liquid.

“Nobody was listening on the other end,” he said. “It was like talking to a brick wall, so I reprogrammed the transceiver.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to the terminally deaf,” he said, and we clinked glasses.

I pulled out the recorder and placed it on the bar. It was a Verisim 360, designed to capture all images and sounds within a twenty-foot radius.

“Mind if I record this?”

“No, but we’ll probably be interrupted. I’m working the bar this afternoon. It’s not easy finding good help at the edge of the galaxy, you know.”

He picked up his glass and examined its contents. “I have only one rule at this bar: you must drink while you’re on duty.” He looked out the window at the maelstrom. “Here’s to nothing!”

We clinked glasses again and sipped our drinks.

“Actually, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about—nothing.”

He smiled. “And that’s pretty much all I know anymore—nothing. I can talk about nothing till the cows come home. Did you get a good look at the chaotic soup?”

“How could I avoid it?”

“Well, you can’t, and neither can those disbelievers back on Earth. I mean, I can understand them not taking my word for it, but you can see the evidence for yourself. If this space station wasn’t programmed to move away from the chaos, we’d all become part of the chaos ourselves.”

“Shouldn’t we warn them?” I said.

Bob laughed loud and long. “My dear boy, what do you think I’ve been trying to do for the past twenty-five years? Not only did I perform my calculations, but once I got out here, I transmitted thousands of pictures back to them for years. But they ignored me, so I finally cut the umbilical cord to Mother Earth. I’m afraid your friends back there are in denial.”

“Denial?”

“They’re swimming in it. Want to hear my theory?”

I could tell that was a rhetorical question.

“You see, individual denial is the way one person deals with an unpleasant reality. Say a wife suspects her husband of infidelity. Well, the easiest thing for her to do psychologically is to pretend it never happened. That’s individual denial, and it might work up until the point she can no longer deny it. Perhaps he comes home with lipstick on his collar, or she catches him in bed with the other woman.

“But collective denial is even more insidious. That’s where an entire group of people chooses not to believe an unpleasant reality. The most famous example is Nazi Germany in the mid twentieth century. That regime was so successful at compartmentalizing its evil that they convinced an entire nation to believe in a mass fiction. Not only did they deny their culpability in genocide on a massive scale, but they actually believed that they were a good Christian nation.

“But what we have here is collective denial on a planetary scale. An entire species is in denial. The grim reality is that the universe is collapsing, and it will implode in a Big Crunch in seven years. All matter will be transformed and all beings—including all human beings—will die. That’s an undeniable fact, but it’s such an unpleasant reality that no one back on Earth believes it.”

He took another sip.

“Maybe I could help you get your message across,” I said. “We could use this recording to warn them.”

“What’s the point? A fact is a fact regardless of who accepts it. Their denial—and even my theory about their denial—won’t make any difference in the long run. In fact, maybe it’s better for them if they remain in denial. At least that way they’ll lead relatively happy lives right up until the end. Why should they dwell on it? It certainly hasn’t helped me much.”

Patrons started filtering into the bar.

“And you thought I was just another run-of-the-mill Nobel Prize-winning mathematician. Actually, being a bartender has turned me into more of a psychologist. I guess it’s a hazard of the profession.”

He gazed out into the room.

“But not all human beings are in denial. See those drunks in the corner?” He pointed to the space traders I had passed as I entered the bar. “Now there’s a group of true believers.”

The lead drunk, seeing Bob point in his direction, raised his bottle in a toast and called out in an ersatz Irish brogue, “The center kenna hold!”

Bob downed his drink and manufactured another. I was still nursing mine.

“So, your paper sent you here to find out about the alien refugee problem. Well, here’s the honest-to-God truth.”

He leaned over into the recorder.

“We’re all refugees in this universe.”

* * *

Happy hour was now in full swing. Bob activated three blonde android waitresses, who helped out at the tables while he manned the bar.

Aliens forcibly expatriated from nearby galaxies because of the maelstrom entered the bar to drink their troubles away. There were Kormans from NGC 3310 and Salatos from ESO0418-008. Several more Parmavians, who originally came from UGC06471-2, joined the chortling chorus in the corner.

The humans from the Milky Way were mostly deep space traders like the ones Bob had pointed out to me earlier. Other than their outward appearance, the big difference between the humans and the aliens was that the humans still had a galaxy to call home, at least for the moment. That simple fact had engendered quite a bit of resentment against the space traders, and Bob told me that he’d had to break up a number of fights lately.

Now that the aliens no longer had home planets—or home galaxies for that matter—the survivors lived in their spaceships or on the few remaining habitable planets nearby. Many were just passing through trying to escape the maelstrom, but they all came to drink at the bar because there was nothing better to do. They were lost souls whose purpose had been suddenly and violently ripped away from them. Many of their species had died in the maelstrom, and the remaining aliens formed a cornucopia of the homeless. As more of them entered the bar, there was a palpable feeling of not-so-quiet desperation. It was only then that I fully understood the magnitude of the problem, and I was afraid.

“Misery loves company,” Bob said, a wide grin on his face. “And it’s good for business, too.”

Just then a couple of seven-foot-tall hairy aliens squeezed through the double doors and headed toward the bar. The shorter one, presumably the female, wore a red amulet hanging from her neck.

“Bearkins,” Bob said. “Be careful, they can be dangerous.”

He stored the nanobox under the bar as they approached.

Naturally, they sat down right next to me, making the triangular seats squeak horribly under the weight. The Big One unceremoniously pushed my recorder out of the way and slammed his fist down on the bar.

“Harugga!” he said.

“Harugga it is!” Bob replied. He pulled down a large bottle of blue liquid and poured them two tall glasses. The big one, apparently the male, quaffed it in one swig and slammed it down on the bar.

“Harugga!” he repeated. Quite the conversationalist. Bob filled the Big One’s glass, and he promptly downed it again. Then he said “Anklogo!” to his girlfriend and got up.

Bob whispered to me, “Anklogo means bathroom. He could be gone for quite a while.”

“Good,” I said. Maybe now I could continue the interview. But Bob had another idea. He started talking to the female in the Bearkin language, and soon he was engaged in an intimate conversation. Apparently, they knew each other quite well, perhaps too well. I sat there sipping my drink and listening to their guttural yearnings, feeling increasingly like a fifth wheel.

After several more minutes of this, Bob finally remembered that I was alive. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forgot to introduce you. This is Princess Amal of the Bearkin Empire. Amal is the daughter of the king of the Bearkins.”

She nodded, and I shook her hairy paw. Exactly what Bob saw in the Bearkin female I’ll never know. She was almost seven feet tall, heavyset, and covered with brown fur. But I have to admit that she did have beautiful brown eyes and a warm handshake.

“Hu-man,” she said in broken English. I wasn’t sure if I should take that as a compliment, an insult, or a simple statement of fact.

To Bob I said, “Was that her father who went to the bathroom?”

“Um, no,” he said. “Her father died in the maelstrom. That was her brokundi.”

“What’s that?”

“Husband.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute.

Bob politely changed the subject. “The Bearkins are from a distant galaxy. We don’t even have a number for it. A few of them escaped from their home planet before it was destroyed. But Amal’s father refused to leave, and many of his subjects stayed behind with him. Amal had a falling-out with her father over it.”

“And who’s her husband?” I asked, trying to remind Bob of his own advice about the Bearkins.

“You worry too much, Tim.”

* * *

About twenty minutes later the Big One returned from the bathroom. Unfortunately, Bob and Amal had forgotten all about him in their amorous reverie. Bob was still holding Amal’s hand and gazing into her eyes, whispering sweet nothings into her big hairy ear.

“Bob,” I said. “Bob.”

He finally looked up and released Amal’s hand, one nanosecond too late.

The Big One saw them together and had what can only be described as a conniption fit. He beat his hairy chest with his fists and roared “Kontanka!” at the top of his lungs. Then he stomped over to Amal and promptly threw her onto the floor, standing over her menacingly.

Everyone in the bar stopped what they were doing and looked on in amazement.

In an instant, Bob lunged over the bar and onto the Big One’s back, locking his arms around the Bearkin’s massive chest. Amal got up and hid behind me at the bar. To the Bearkin, Bob must’ve seemed like an annoying mosquito. But Bob held on for dear life, and the Big One was unable to shake him.

Amal looked at me pleadingly with those big brown eyes, and said “Death.” I took that to mean Bob’s death and soon, so I picked up the blue bottle and headed for the middle of the fracas.

A crowd of humans and aliens started to congregate around the fighters, cheering on one or the other. The Big One tried to pull Bob’s hands apart, but Bob wouldn’t let go, so he started swinging Bob around in a circle like a marionette, desperately trying to shake him loose. Finally, Bob lost his grip and sailed into the bar, smashing his right shoulder. He huddled at the base of the bar waiting for the inevitable.

The Big One prepared for the kill by roaring “Kontanka!” which gave me the moment I was waiting for. I raised the blue bottle behind him and smashed it down into the back of his head, breaking the bottle and splashing sticky blue liquid over everything. The Big One teetered momentarily, then fell back into me, crushing me to the floor. Luckily, he was unconscious.

* * *

Bob and I dragged the Big One back to Bob’s private apartment, a three-room efficiency behind the bar with a lovely view of the maelstrom. We took him into the bedroom and tied him down to the king-size bed, which could barely contain his seven-foot frame.

Amal seemed relieved after she checked her burly husband’s pulse.

“I’m sorry I got you involved in this,” Bob said as he sat down next to Amal on the edge of the bed.

“That’s all right,” I said. “I seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“These days everyone’s in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, looking out at the maelstrom and taking Amal’s hand. “I guess I owe you an explanation. Amal and I have been planning our escape for some time now, but I guess we’ve just been waiting for the right moment. It looks like the right moment finally found us.”

“Escape? To where?”

“Into the maelstrom.”

“What?”

Bob unbuttoned his shirt and pulled out an amulet that matched the one around Amal’s neck.

“Know what these are?”

I shook my head no.

“They’re transcenders. The Beechers left them behind when they abandoned their bodies three hundred years ago. I found them hidden in the space station when I first moved in.”

He took a deep breath.

“Let me be perfectly frank with you, Tim. Amal and I will never be able to consummate our relationship. Bearkins and humans just don’t fit together, if you know what I mean.”

“You mean you never—”

“Nope, we never.”

“Then what the hell was that fight all about?”

“My dear boy, that Bearkin wasn’t jealous of us having sex, he was jealous of us having love.”

I knew what he meant. As unusual as their relationship was, I could tell right away that Bob and Amal were deeply in love, and I was actually a little jealous myself. I decided to tell Bob all about my problems with Laura.

When I was done, he said, “If you want your bartender’s advice, you need to apologize to that girl right away, the sooner the better. The universe is a perilous enough place without someone to love. Amal and I never planned to fall in love, but some things are just beyond your control. Anyway, we’ll never be able to have sex, but these transcenders give us another option.”

“You mean you’re going to—”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“But that’s crazy. How can you be sure they’ll work on humans … or Bearkins, for that matter?”

“There’s only one way to find out. We believe that if we die in the proximity of this technology, our souls will transcend the material universe. It worked for the Beechers, and it’ll work for us. You know, Tim, when I was a mathematician I believed that physical reality was the only reality there was. But since I found these amulets—and since I fell in love with Amal—I’ve come to believe in a higher state of consciousness, something beyond mere physical reality. Call it soul, call it God, call it the collective unconscious—whatever you call it, Amal and I believe that we can transcend our physical bodies and live together on a higher plane.”

“But that’s suicide. If there really is a God, wouldn’t He want you to die naturally?”

“Nature as we know it is coming to an end, Tim,” he said, pointing to the maelstrom. “Besides, I don’t think it’s an accident that I found these amulets. Amal and I have known for quite some time what we were supposed to do, but I guess we’ve just been too afraid to go through with it. Until now.”

* * *

Three hours later—after we dumped the Big One in his shuttle and set it on autopilot, and after I ran out of all logical objections to Bob and Amal’s master plan—we stood at the entrance to Bob’s personal shuttle and said good-bye. I had agreed to manage the bar for a few days before returning home to Earth.

“I reprogrammed the android waitresses to create drinks using the nanobox,” Bob said. “But you might want to test it out a few times before letting them use it.”

“I will,” I said.

“And don’t worry about the Bearkin. He never saw who hit him, so if he comes back, you can just say that Amal did it.”

“Bob, we’ve been over this already.”

“Sorry,” he said. Then he suddenly gave me a big hug. “Thanks for saving my life, Tim.” His eyes welled up as he looked around one last time. “I’m sure going to miss this place.”

Then he grabbed Amal’s hand and they walked together into the shuttle, the door closing tightly behind them.

I walked over to a window and watched as the tiny shuttle undocked and headed straight for the maelstrom. There was a single bright flash of light, then they were gone.

Or were they?

* * *

The next day I reestablished transceiver communications with Earth and sent the Verisim recording to my editor. But, just as Bob had predicted, my editor didn’t believe a word of it and refused to distribute the vid. Not only that, he ordered me to return to Earth immediately, most likely so he could fire me as soon as I hit terra firma. For that very reason I decided to extend my stay in deep space indefinitely.

Th

en I sent a big fat apology to Laura, telling her that I was ready to make a commitment and promising that I’d try to stay well grounded in reality from now on. I spent several nervous hours at the transceiver waiting for her response, but when it finally arrived she said that she still loved me, and that she forgave me. I immediately invited her out to see me at Borderline Bob’s, and she booked passage on the very next shuttle. Things were definitely looking up.

Later that day, as I was helping the androids prepare for happy hour, I pulled the nanobox out from under the bar and opened it up to clean it. Inside was a package labeled “For Tim and Laura.” I opened the package and found two amulets and a note that read:

“It’s better to transcend with the one you love.”

I looked out at the maelstrom and smiled, certain that I saw two stars shining just a little bit brighter than the rest.

Back | Next

Framed

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Contents

Spamdemonium

Written by John Parke Davis

Illustrated by Kip Ayers

MYSTRIE OF TEH UNIVERSE, YOURS FREE!!!!!

“Oh, you are so deleted,” Pete said to no one. Something stopped his finger just over the key, though. The email sat there as he stared at it, patiently highlighted on the screen like a herald in some ancient court, bowing and waiting for the wave of the king’s hand to deliver its message. It intrigued him, somehow. Most of his spam had to do with the size, quality, or usage of his manhood, but this one, this one went for the mind. It couldn’t have a very broad customer base.

He chuckled to himself and looked up. Dust had gathered on the books lining the shelves of his little study, and outside, a tangle of weeds threatened the zinnias and those little white northern flowers he had planted for Peg. Normally, he kept it all so immaculate, but the whole divorce thing just left him a little drained. He would get back on his feet in a second, he told himself, quit wasting time scavenging the ends of the internet, even unto the spam folder, for procrastinatory material, and march off to do battle with the world. He would dust those books, pull those weeds, go to parties with mutual friends and smile fake smiles to acquaintances. Pete Hassell, talk of the town, fifty-five and still alive, back on his feet like he didn’t even feel the blow.

But not just right now. Right now he didn’t quite have the will to face the world yet. Right now, he could use a laugh. And besides, he’d hate to think that the real mysteries of the universe might be in the possession of spammers and he’d never know about it.

He hit enter and lines of oversize text filed onto the screen in orderly procession.

DO YCU SEE PATTERNS WHERE NO ONE ELSE dOES?

I see letters where none should be, he thought, smiling. But patterns, patterns was a good start. “What else you got?” he asked the screen.

CAN U LOOK PAST THe SURFACE AND SEE THE WAY THNGS REAHLY ARE?

Now they were talking, questioning the ego, daring the reader to step up. Clever, clever spammers, playing to the base human emotions: ego and penis size. Then again, maybe those were the same.

WLD U LIKE TO KNOW TAE SECRET TO EvERYTHING?

Well, what kind of a question was that? Pete glanced around the room. A bobblehead of Jesus jiggled erratically on the bookshelf by the door, but everything else was perfectly still. The whole house had been soundless since Peg had come and taken the dog. His second ex-wife, now, frantically working on ridding him of all his possessions. If there were a time to learn the secret to everything, it might as well be now.

SHOW US YOU’RE READY! THEiRS A PATTERN HEOR, RIGHT IN THSIS EMAIL!!! FIND IT, AND SHOW THAT THE SECRETS OF THE WORlD SHOULD BE YOURS!

Pete squinted at the screen. Was this for real? These spammers were smart; they knew how to set a hook, he had to give them that. But where was the product? Hidden? Who ever heard of such a thing? Really, how many people would sit here eagerly trying to decode their spam?

But then, maybe that was the looking past the surface part. Maybe this was a mystery to explore, and that was something he had never been able to pass up. Explored mysteries filled the shelves of his study: Jung, Plato, Diderot; history, psychology, linguistics. Most of them had been opened, and a very goodly percentage had been read. A flutter of fancy passed over him for just a second, a little butterfly hope lain dormant from childhood, escaping in the thought that maybe, just maybe, it was all real and there were cyclopean secrets on the other end of that email, just waiting to be explored. He quickly shook off the feeling, but it left him smiling.

A high-pitched ring snapped Pete rather uncomfortably from his reverie. He kicked at the rug, scuffling the little wheels of his desk chair back and forth until the carpet finally released its grip and sent him sailing over the hardwood to the telephone.

“Peter, it’s Peg.” He hadn’t even said “hello.” “Look, there’s some things I need to come over and get. The microwave, that print in the front hall you like so much, some of the back deck chairs. I was going to stop by around two?”

Pete glanced toward the front hallway. He could just see the Waterhouse print around the corner of the door. A lone knight stretched his arms to either side, as a maiden leaned off her horse to kiss him. La Belle Dame sans Merci.

Vulture, he thought.

“Pete?”

He glanced back at the computer. The email filled up the whole screen, the herald waiting patiently again for his lord’s answer.

“You know, I’m actually really busy today, Peg,” Pete said, smiling. “Maybe next week?”

* * *

“It said chaos?” Angie asked.

“Yes, chaos,” Pete told her. “That’s it.”

“Weird.” She clenched her lips together like she always did when she was thinking. Worry and time had worn little lines at the edges of her forehead, and her curly blond hair frizzed out from her ponytail. Green sweats a size too large hung off her skinny frame; she had inherited that from Pete. Her mother, Pete’s first wife, was the size of a house.

Pete shook his head. “Went over and over the damn thing, took me forever to find that. It was a great puzzle, though. Maybe they’ll send more.”

“You’re waiting for more spam.” She let out a little sigh. “I’m starting to get worried that you’re spending too much time at home, Dad.”

“I’m not at home right now,” Pete said, leaning back. Grease and bacon sizzled in the close air of the little diner. “And we come out here all the time.” He knitted his fingers together casually, resting his case.

“We come here once a week,” she said. “And it’s a mile from your house. It doesn’t count.”

“Sure it does. Out is out.”

“No, it isn’t.” She crinkled her nose to force her glasses back up. “Look, I’m just worried that you aren’t getting enough socialization since Peg left, that’s all.”

“Your stepmother and I still have a very healthy relationship,” he told her. “She calls about once a week, more if she needs to come get something from the house. In this state, you have to be really careful about how often you see each other, because you have to be separated for at least a year before you can finalize the divorce. If you have sex even once, it’s a done deal.” Angie squirmed a little. “In fact, when your mother and I—”

“All right, enough!” she shouted. A little man with an off-kilter toupee turned to look at them from the next booth. Pete gave him a little nod, then turned back to Angie.

“Keep your voice down a little, sweetheart,” he said.

She sighed again. “Sorry.” With one hand, she massaged her temples lightly. “I’m just a little concerned about you, that’s all I’m trying to say. I know this isn’t where you wanted to be at this time in your life, and maybe it would help if you were around people more. Rick and I would love to have you come over more often …”

“Well, maybe I will,” Pete said. “But you know, I’m actually getting a lot of use out of that computer you got me. I’ve got one board for philosophy, and another board I’m pretty active on for gardening and landscaping. Bunch of old women, mostly, but they have some good tips. I’m trying to figure out the chat thing, too, almost got the hang of it. There are some nice people online, you know. I’m keeping myself pretty busy.”

A stringy-haired teen who Pete hoped hadn’t been involved in the food preparation slid a burger in front of each of them. Angie grabbed hers and took a huge bite. “Welph, awright,” she said around each chew. “So long as you’re getting some human contact. But you really should try and get out more.”

“I’m out now,” Pete said matter-of-factly, salting his burger. She rolled her eyes and changed the subject.

* * *

By the time Pete got home, an email titled MYSTERS OF THE UNiTVERSE WITHIn!!!!! waited for him in his junk-mail folder. He patiently read the rest of his email first, trying to look nonchalant to himself, then eagerly clicked on it. A new message popped onto the screen.

YOU SOLVED OUR LASt MYSTRE DID’T YOU PETE?

Pete jumped back and looked around him. He checked underneath his desk, then looked over out the window. No one there. But how would there be?

“It’s just a gimmick,” he muttered to himself. “Got your name off the gardening board.” Still, it was a little unsettling.

YOU WANT TO KNOW MORE, DON’T YOU PETE?

Pete rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, I want to know more,” he whispered. “You got me, you bastards. I’m hooked.”

ThEN USe WHAT YOU LEARNEd. SOLVE TH4 MYSTeRY IN tHIS EMaIL PETE, AND MOVE ON!

There followed a seemingly endless series of letters and numbers, and occasionally symbols.

“Oh, what the hell?” Pete said. “What exactly did I learn, jackasses?” Still, after staring at the screen for a few minutes, Pete copied the pattern down onto a yellow legal pad, checking and double checking to be sure he had the order just right before he scrolled to the next line. It took nearly three sheets of paper to transcribe the whole thing. When he was done, he moved to the couch in the living room to decipher the puzzle.

He worked for hours, arranging and rearranging the letters, combining the numbers, puzzling at the symbols, all the while muttering “chaos, chaos.” Sometimes a line would come up that started to make sense, but just as soon as it threatened to resolve itself, it would lapse back to randomness. S went to A went to E, then suddenly went to % or q or 14. The whole thing was chaos. It was randomness.

After nearly half a day banging his head against the impenetrable code with no progress, he was nearly ready to be done with the whole thing, call it a practical joke or something, and leave it alone. He sat back down at the computer and looked at the last line one more time.

yDar6SDHoJG6thYj6GJoPUYuKL/mbcSft6ANGeCXSWe6oldvmMhyt6SQIDFeRGK?

Pete glanced down at the keyboard, then back up at the screen. He squinted, as if squinting would reveal another layer of meaning just beyond the glowing alphanumeric code before him. Something, something about that pattern. He squinted at the keyboard. Something familiar waited there, grabbing and slapping at his mind with sharp tentacles of vague recognition. Screen, keyboard. Screen … keyboard. Screen. Keyboard. Slowly, he put the two together. To his surprise, it worked! Rushing now, he compared the rest of the email with his new decoder. It all worked! Every letter, every number, every symbol was within five keys of the previous one on the keyboard!

“All right, you son-of-a-bitch,” he grumbled, reaching back for his pen and paper. This time, he made a graph of the range of possibilities for each entry in the sequence, then where in the range the outcome had turned up. A central line marked the main sequence, with a fan emerging from each point in the line to mark the possibilities for the next point. Each successive letter created a new possibility fan, fluxing and varying in size depending on the proximity of the individual key to the side of the keyboard and therefore its range of options for the next key. The letter G, then, had a broad fan, whereas A had a very limited one. It was fascinating academically, Pete thought, but after graphing three full lines of code, not even the hint of a pattern had emerged. Each successive key seemed to have been chosen at random from within the possibility fan of the previous one.

“Chaos,” he said. “Pure chaos.” That triggered a new thought. Chaos. Maybe there was a pattern after all. He jumped up out his chair, popping it off the rug and sending it sailing into the planter by the window. Frantically, he clawed at the volumes on his shelves until he found the one he was looking for, pristine and poised on the second to bottom shelf between a brand new copy of Aristotle and a dog-eared volume of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Philosophy: Bencort Manodell’s Bewitching Patterns: Chaos Theory from the Ancients to Us. Pete couldn’t even remember where he’d heard of this book; ten years ago, he had seen a copy at a garage sale and picked it up. Turned out that the thing was rare, having had a limited run after the author was tragically killed in a boating accident in the South Pacific. This copy looked like it had never been read before. He carefully opened the book and read the first line: “Not everything chaotic resists order; no, often much in chaos orders naturally.” Perfect!

Pete skimmed through summaries of how chaos theory had been used by ancient Druids and Arab philosophers to predict cataclysmic events, landing at last on a basic how-to guide to graphing just the type of problem he currently faced. Instead of drawing a line based on what had happened, the book focused on predictive sequences, essentially making him graph out the probability fans from his previous effort. The grid grew denser and denser, creating a near impenetrable tangle of lines, progressing onward toward infinity. But within the fans, within the ever growing forest of possibility, distinct bands emerged in the graph. Distinct patterns that arose out of pure chaos.

Pete sat bolt upright. It was a giant “D.”

“Weird,” he said to no one. Outside, darkness had long since fallen, and midnight had come and gone. Pete pushed the graph further, and more letters emerged. An “E,” then a “C,” and so on. Then an @ sign! Then more letters! Pete copied them down eagerly. Soon he had a complete email address: decode@didgroup.net

Pete grinned widely. He had done it. “Unbelievable,” he told himself as he typed the email address in swiftly, wrote a quick “Dear sirs, I have solved your code. Please send me whatever mystery or mysteries of the universe I may be entitled to,” and leaned back in his swivel chair, triumphant. Whoever had sent these messages knew more than the average spammer, he thought. This time tomorrow, he might well be pondering the real mysteries of the universe after all.

The computer chirped out its “you got mail” message, and Pete jumped to the keyboard. It was from decode@didgroup! He opened it swiftly and scanned the text within.

“Auto-reply: Mysteries of the universe,” it read. “CONGRATUNLATiONS!!!! Few people make it past Stage One. But you are different, Pete. You see order where others see chaos. Many poeple waste they’re lives trying to find the pattern within, but you saw that a greater pattern was hidden without! But now we must ask a favor. You’ve passed the first test but we can’t possibly send you the second round without expanding aour marketing base! SIend us one, just one, email address of someone you know (and be sure it’s someone you care about!) to receive further instructions.”

Pete let out a great sigh. So it was a scam after all. Just a way for them to get more email to sell it right out again. Still, they only asked for one address … just one …

Even so, he told himself, he couldn’t think of a soul who would appreciate having their inbox flooded with spam.

Another email sat in his own inbox. He clicked on it absentmindedly.

“Peter,” it read. “Tired of waiting for you to call back. Have my TV and my Waterhouse ready for me tomorrow morning. —Peg.”

A wolfish smile snuck onto Pete’s face as he clicked back to the didgroup email and hit reply. Peg.Hassel@… .

* * *

The next few weeks passed slowly, but peacefully. The emails trickled in, but each provided a new code, a new mystery for him to solve. He met Angie for their weekly lunches, which were always pleasant, and Peg had given up coming over and even calling altogether. For each new mystery, Pete had to give them a new email address, and pretty soon he was running low on addresses to give out.

But the mysteries deepened. At first, the patterns were contained in the emails themselves, then in the titles of different emails. Soon, with a little help from Bewitching Patterns, he realized that the same chaotic sequence emerged when looking at the time of day each email arrived. And then, beyond all reason, the pattern got even bigger.

“So chaos theory predicts your spam?” Angie’s face was flat.

“Yes, exactly!” Pete was nearly shaking, his hands turning white as he gripped the edge of their table

“Okay, we’re definitely taking you out more often,” she said.

Pete shook his head. “I’m serious here, Angie,” he said, instinctively knitting his eyebrows and employing his father-knows-best voice. She immediately fired back with the whatever-Dad eye roll. “All right, listen. Every email you get, right, every spam I mean, you never know when it’s coming, what it’ll say.”

“I can generally hazard a guess.” She was wearing pink sweats this time, though they were just as loose on her as always. The little man with the off-kilter toupee had moved his usual seat a few booths away from them by now, but he still glanced over angrily every time their voices rose.

“Well, you know it’s something you don’t want,” Pete said.

“Right.”

“But you don’t know exactly what. Hell, you don’t even know what language it’s in. These guys just troll the net, grabbing addresses from wherever they can get them. It doesn’t cost them a dime more to send it to ten million people than to ten. They send it all over the world.”

“Okay.” Her face said she was just waiting for the crazy to come.

“So you can never predict exactly what emails you’re going to get. They’re totally random. Chaotic.”

“I’ll give you that.”

“Well, even chaos has order. So I started graphing my spam. You know, when they showed up, and what they were for.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this.” Angie leaned back and crossed her arms. “And how exactly does one graph ‘Increase bust three sizes-herbal?’” she asked.

“On a grid.” She sighed. “I’m serious,” he told her, grabbing a French-fry and stabbing it in ketchup. “I assign each one’s content a value between zero and one, with those two values being the most dissimilar subject matters. For instance, your bust-size email would be a zero, and a consolidate your mortgage email might be a one. Then everything gets classed in between based on how similar it was to one or the other.”

“That sounds pretty arbitrary,” she said.

He nodded, gnawing the end off his fry. “I admit, that’s impossible to keep out, but I worked it out two different ways and got the same result. I even used information theory to try and sort it out more cleanly. So I reduced spam content to numbers, slapped the numbers on a graph, and boom! Chaos!”

“No pattern,” she said.

“Absolutely none. On the micro scale. But the farther out you go, the more the pattern emerges. And repeats itself. It’s fractal.”

Angie put her hands on the sides of the table to mirror his. “All right, Dad, listen. I’ve been talking to Mom. She thinks we should get you to join a men’s group, like Rotary Club or something.”

He dismissed her with the toss of his hand. “Your mother would think that. She really doesn’t know what’s going on in my life anymore, Angie. She’s detached.”

“I’m not sure it’s her that’s detached, Dad,” she said. “Look maybe you should consider it. Mom’s already a member, she said you should give her a call a little later about it.”

“Sure,” Pete said. “I’ll consider it.” They ate the rest of their meal in silence.

That night, the spammers asked for a phone number. Without a second’s hesitation, he entered his first wife’s.

* * *

“Mr. Hassel?” A sharp-looking young man with a badge stood on Pete’s doorstoop.

“Yes?” Pete said.

“Mr. Hassel, my name is Detective Wilson Thurgood,” the man said. “I’m calling about your ex-wife.”

“Which one?” Pete asked. Nearly a week had passed since his last email. In the meantime, more patterns had emerged. Now they were everywhere, in infomercials, in newspaper headlines, everywhere. Even in the count of the dead overseas, or in natural disasters. He had begun a huge graph to capture each pattern.

“Bess Scarborough. Mr. Hassel, can I come in?”

“Sure,” Pete said, holding the door open. Detective Thurgood walked in, nodded at the decor of Pete’s living room, and took a seat in the big leather recliner, Pete’s favorite.

“Is Bess okay?” Pete asked, sliding onto the couch across from the policeman.

“We hope so,” Detective Thurgood said, knitting his fingers together. His hair was slicked back nicely, and he wore a trench-coat that showed he watched too many cop shows on TV. “The thing is, Mr. Hassel, she’s been missing.”

“Well, that’s nonsense,” Pete said. “Look, if Bess had gone missing, I would have known about it. Our daughter would have called me right away.”

“That’s just the thing,” Detective Thurgood said. “She has called you. So have I for that matter. We left several messages. That’s why I’m here in person.” Pete looked over at his answering machine. The red numbers glowed “37.”

“Well, I have been pretty busy,” he explained.

“I’m sure you have,” the detective said. “Listen, your daughter said that the day before her mother disappeared, she had talked to you about the Rotary Club or something. Told you to call Bess about that. If you did, that could change our whole timetable.”

Pete crossed his legs, and shook his head back and forth. “Nope. We talked about it, but I didn’t call Bess. Haven’t talked to her in awhile, actually.” The detective stared straight at him with cold brown eyes, looking at him, looking through him. Pete smiled, trying hard not to think about the email he had sent with Bess’s phone number in it.

“Well, all right then,” Detective Thurgood said at last, rising to his feet. Pete followed suit, walking him to the door. “If there’s anything you can think of, give me a call.” He held out a business card, which Pete took, nodding gratefully.

“Thanks for dropping by, Detective,” Pete said. “Let me know what you come up with.”

“It’s probably nothing,” the younger man said, then turned and walked away. Pete stumbled back to his study and collapsed in his chair. Just like Bess to disappear right when he was in the middle of something important.

Of course, she had disappeared right after he gave her number to the spammers. And, now that he thought about it, Peg had dropped off the face of the earth just after he had given her email address out. Actually, he hadn’t heard from anyone whose information he had sent to the spammers. A cold feeling crept over him. It was a pattern!

Pete leapt out of his chair, grabbed his day planner and a piece of graph paper. Carefully, he logged the nearest time he could remember being in contact with each person, then graphed them against the time when he had sent the email with that person’s information. It worked!

But the pattern was incomplete. He needed more plot-points to see the whole thing! He held up the detective’s card and looked over its carefully printed surface. In the corner sat Detective Thurgood’s email address.

* * *

A new email flickered onto Pete’s screen. For the past week, he had analyzed the patterns from every flood, volcano, earthquake, tsunami, or hurricane in the last two centuries, taking a break only to meet Angie for dinner, and had come up with the pattern within. A pattern that, using the guidelines set out by Bencort Manodell’s book, could be boiled down to a single numerical code: 800-312-155. A phone number, with a single digit missing.

“So you’ve broken the code agains!!” the email read. “You are so close now! But you should know, this is as far as anyone has gotten. Most people shy from the big Truth. Are you one of those people PETE?”

Hell no, thought Pete. Not this far along in the game. This had gone far beyond simple solicitation. Whoever these people were, they saw patterns, placed patterns in phenomena that should be beyond their control, beyond anyone’s control. He didn’t know how they did it, but he wanted in.

“Good! There’s only one more pattern to see, PETE. But first, we need to row our custome base yt agin! To receive your final message, he final key to deiphering the grea code and receiving the SECRET TO EVERYTING, we need one more favor. It’s our selling season, and we’re desperate to meet the nmbers! So this time, pease select someone tat’s very special to yo, because we are offering them a FREE IN-PERSON SOlICITATION!s!!”

Pete thought long and hard, but he couldn’t come up with anyone. He had long since used up all the people he didn’t like, and most of the people he did. And this had to be someone very special! But the code … there was only one number between him and the mysteries of the universe, and he had to have them, he had to know! One more data point, and he would have it. One more favor. There was only one person he could think of, but he hesitated.

Angie smiled at him from the photo he kept on his desk, her blond hair poking out in wild directions from her ponytail, her glasses half-way down her nose.

“Sorry, baby,” he whispered, and typed in her address.

* * *

Pete’s hands trembled as he dialed the numbers. The secrets of universe lay on the other end of the line. Not some scam, but the honest-to-god secrets of the universe.

“This call may be recorded for quality control purposes,” a smooth, metallic voice said.

“Right, right, come on then,” he said.

“Dee-Eye-Dee Group, this is Lilith speaking, how may I help you today?” The voice was cool, trained but sultry. Pete swallowed hard.

“Yes, I’m calling about your mysteries of the universe offer?” he said.

“Of course, sir,” she said. “We’ve been expecting your call. Ahem.” Her voice became stilted, as if she were reading from a script. “We are excited to welcome you into the Dee-Eye-Dee family. It takes a certain special someone to reach this stage.”

“Yes, yes, thanks and all, but I think we can skip this,” Pete said.

“You have shown the intellect, ability, and fortuity of a true Dee-Eye-Deer.” She paused. “Dee-er. The mysteries of the universe are being offered to you at a remarkable rate—”

“Fine, fine, I’ll take them,” he interjected.

“Just a moment,” the operator said. “The mysteries are being offered at a remarkable rate, and we expect that once you see what we have to offer, you will be a member of our family for a long time to come. Perhaps even a representative yourself?”

A long silence followed. Pete raised his eyebrow. Apparently she had hit the end of her script. “Sure,” Pete said. “So can I have my mysteries now?”

“Of course sir.” The operator’s trained voice returned. “I’ll just put that order through and we’ll send someone right out with them. Just let me enter a few things here, and there are a few disclaimers …”

“I waive them all,” Pete said. “Go ahead and send the mysteries.”

“We don’t have a money-back guarantee, now …”

“Won’t be necessary,” he told her. He drummed his fingers against the desk. His impatience was building into frustration.

“Payment is on delivery, of course …”

“Yes, yes,” Pete said, “Details, details! Just send me the damn mysteries!”

“Very well, sir, he’s on his way.”

The doorbell sounded, echoing shrilly through the house. “Hold on a second,” Pete said.

“No need, sir—” the operator tried to say, but Pete had already put the phone down and left the room.

On the doorstep stood a tall, darkhaired man in a brown outfit. “Did you order something, sir?” he asked, taking a wrapped paper bundle from a little cart he pulled behind him and holding it out to Pete.

“Uhm, yes, just now… .” Pete muttered, taking the bundle. “Do I need to sign for this or …”

“Oh, no sir,” said the delivery man. “We’re far past signatures these days.”

“Great, great,” said Pete. He tore open the packaging fiercely, sloughing the empty paper onto the doorstep. Inside it, huge ungainly shapes lurched through untold abysses and twisted figures breathed secrets into the ears of sleeping madmen. Formless abominations gibbered through impossible geometries, and cold planets swirled around dark constellations. They hove against themselves in strange new orbits, twisting downward eternally and disappearing.

“What the hell …” Pete whispered, transfixed. Before him, little men looked up from their homes beneath shattered buildings as epochs rose and crumbled beneath the light of a bloody sun.

The delivery boy cleared his throat. His face looked rubbery, almost like a mask, Pete noticed. And his teeth were unnaturally sharp.

“Now how will you be paying for this, sir?” he asked.

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Framed

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Contents

NONFICTION

Cosmic Electricity

Written by James P. Hogan

There’s a story about a physics student who was asked in an exam question how he would use a barometer to determine the height of a tall building. Instead of the expected answer—measure the air pressure at the top and bottom, and calculate the altitude difference from the readings—he suggested lowering the barometer from the roof on a length of string and measuring the string. Alternatively, he said, you could make a pendulum and time the periods at the top and the bottom of the building; or you could measure the length of the barometer, stand it on end and, and work out the ratio of their shadows; or you could walk down the stairs, marking off “barometer lengths” on the wall as you went, and then add them up; but the simplest way might be to offer to give the barometer to the building superintendent if he’d tell you the height of the building. The story is often attributed to Neils Bohr, but others say that’s an urban legend.

Mental flexibility is sometimes called “thinking sideways”; being able to see meanings other than the obvious. It’s the kind of thing that solvers of cryptic crossword are good at. I got introduced to them at lunch breaks in an electronics lab that I once worked in. The clues don’t always mean what you think they do.

The speck of cool, electrically neutral matter that we live on is very atypical. Over 99% of the observed universe exists as plasma, which contains separated charges that respond to electric and electromagnetic forces. The electric force between two charged particles is 39 orders of magnitude greater than their gravitational attraction. I’ve been working with numbers all my life, but I was stunned when I took a moment to work out just how huge a difference that is. It’s a millionth of a millimeter compared to 10,000 times the estimated size of the universe.

Even in a plasma comprising just one charged particle in 10,000, which would be typical of the clouds that stars form from …

electromagnetic forces will dominate gravity by a factor of 10 million to one.

Yet modern astronomy remains essentially rooted in the work of such figures as Kepler, Newton, and Laplace, whose laws describe a mechanical universe consisting of electrically neutral bodies moving in a vacuum under the influence of gravity. And the reigning cosmological model, based on general relativity, is essentially a theory of gravity. If the Sun were reduced to the size of a speck of dust, the nearest star would be about four miles away. The weakest force known, operating on matter dispersed this diffusely, is said to be the main factor responsible for shaping the universe.

An alternative cosmology that recognizes the importance of electrical principles has been developed that traces back to the early years of the last century. Its proponents claim it to be simpler, more powerful predictively, and modeled by phenomena that are well understood and can be demonstrated in any laboratory. It requires none of the speculative, ad hoc explanations that the mainstream has had to resort to repeatedly when new observations failed to match expectations—or were never anticipated at all. I think it could be telling us some important things, and should be given more serious consideration than is the case at the present time.

Kristian Birkeland, 1867-1917

Around the beginning of the 19th century, the Norwegian Kristian Birkeland devoted a lot of field and laboratory work to studying the northern auroras. He concluded that they were caused by charged particles from the Sun, guided to the polar regions by the Earth’s magnetic field. This was not well received by the theoreticians of his day, whose elegant, spherically symmetrical mathematical models treated the Earth as an isolated object in space.

In the 1960s and 70s, satellite measurements revealed the complex environment of fields, currents, and particles surrounding the Earth and forming part of a circuit connecting it with the Sun, and proved Birkeland to have been correct.

Birkeland’s work was further developed and applied to cosmic rays by the Swedish physicist Hannes Alfven, who started out as an electrical power engineer, became a professor of electronics and plasma physics …

Hannes Alfven, 1908-1995

and in 1970 received the Nobel Prize for Physics for his work on magnetohydrodynamics. He and other plasma pioneers identified on cosmic scales the same effects that they were able to create in laboratories, and established that plasma phenomena could be scaled through an astonishing 14 orders of magnitude. In place of the gravity-dominated picture, he proposed an earlier plasma epoch in the evolution of the cosmos, in which electromagnetic forces played the initial role in collecting matter together to create the densities in which gravity would become a significant factor only later.

Far from being an insulating vacuum, space was permeated by plasma, which can carry electric currents. Electric currents produce magnetic fields. Interesting things happen when currents flow through a plasma.

From basics, currents flowing in the same direction in a pair of parallel conductors will induce circular magnetic fields and produce an attractive force between them.

In a plasma, where the charge carriers are free to move laterally, the currents are drawn together into a constriction called a “pinch,” or frequently, “Z-pinch.” It can be very powerful. Also, the negative electrons and positive ions experience forces in opposite directions as they move inward and interact with the circular field of the other filament. Since the electrons have a far higher mobility than the ions, this redistributes and separates the charges .

The resultant forces act off-center, causing the filament to rotate about each other as they converge—like approaching ice skaters linking arms as they pass.

As the two filaments move closer together and rotate faster, the excess charges on the inner sides, moving in opposite directions, produces a short-range repulsive force.

The net force is attractive at long ranges but repulsive at close range. On the right are two current filaments in a lab demonstration just beginning to pinch together and twist.

The short-range repulsion prevents the filaments from merging and preserves their identity, resulting in a twisted, braided structure. It could interact in turn with similar structures to form “ropes” on a larger scale. Braided structures like this are the signature of electric currents in plasmas. They occur at all scales, from microscopic to cosmological. Let’s look at some.

A fusion research device for generating intense plasmas. A large current is discharged across the two concentric cylinders, which ionizes the plasma and forms usually eight to ten pairs of current filaments, each about a millimeter in diameter, which fountain outward from the right-hand end. The oppositely-rotating vortex pairs pinch together into a doughnut-shaped filamentary knot called a plasmoid, whose field contains all the energy that was stored in the magnetic field of the whole device, a million times bigger in volume. The spiraling electrons start to radiate away the energy, causing the current to drop, collapsing the magnetic field and generating a electric field which shoots two high-energy beams out along the axis of the toroid in opposite directions, electrons in one direction, ions in the other, each a micron across.

Here’s a view down the barrel. No need to comment on the filamentary structure.

Plasma Ball

Scaling up by a factor of getting on for a million, the plasma ball that you see in novelty shops. You can see the smaller filaments combining and getting thicker toward the center.

Up by another million—a spectacular view of the southern aurora from space, which Birkeland first recognized as electrical. Currents flowing in space plasmas are called Birkeland currents.

From Earth scale to Sun scale. A part of the Sun’s visible surface or photosphere. The conventional model applies the physics of fluid dynamics as we know it here on Earth, and explains the granulated appearance as being the tops of convection columns. The trouble with that is that at the temperatures and densities involved, the motion should be violently chaotic, not ordered and structured. The quantity that defines a critical limit beyond which orderly motion gives way to complex turbulence is known as the Reynolds Number. Under the conditions prevailing in the photosphere, it’s exceeded by a factor of 100 billion. That’s not a trivial discrepancy. Similarly, the Rayleigh Number, specifically devised as a criterion for the formation of convection cells, is exceeded by a factor of 100,000.

But here’s a sunspot, where a hole penetrates through the photosphere to the interior. The filamentary structure at the sides starts to become apparent. In fact it’s suggestive of the phenomenon know as “anode tufting” in arc discharge tubes. When the current at an anode becomes excessive, further ionization of the medium sets in, causing secondary, brighter plasmas to form inside the first. The bright tufts repel each other and pack into polygonal patterns that appear and then disappear to be replaced by new ones—just as is observed on the Sun.

The sunspot edge at higher magnifications. Plasma engineers have no hesitation in seeing plasma structures shaped by electrical forces. On the right, for comparison, is a high-current laboratory hot plasma vortex.

And in case there could be any doubt about it, here’s a false-color image of the same sunspot at higher altitude, showing the filamentary structure that’s not visible optically.

Solar Prominence

Again at the Sun, but now above and beyond the surface. A NASA spokesman described prominences as “loops of magnetic field with hot gases trapped inside.” Astronomers apparently treat magnetic fields as primary entities in their own right, without giving recognition to the currents that are necessary to produce them. The structure matches laboratory discharges using intense currents almost parallel to the magnetic field—known as “spheromaks.”

Magnetic fields arise only from electric currents. It has become fashionable to talk about magnetic field lines “breaking” and reconnecting” as the source of the energy that drives these eruptions. But field lines are simply representations that point the direction of a field and indicate its strength by their spacing—like contours on a map. They are not physically real things that can break and reconnect.

According to the standard gravity-bound convection model, the Sun ought to end at the photosphere, with not much going on beyond it except energy being radiated away. Certainly, there’s no prediction of, or reason for, any complex structure.

But this is what the corona looks like in ultraviolet.

Going beyond the Solar System, Cygnus Loop is a supernova remnant in the constellation Cygnus. The aurora-like curtains and filaments have far more the characteristics of electrical currents flowing through plasma than the mechanical processes resulting from “acoustic shock” that the standard theory talks about. To the right is a close-up of one of the filaments showing the Birkeland twists quite clearly. To say that neutral gases in a vacuum do not form such structures in an understatement. Cygnus Loop also exhibits polarization of light, acceleration of relativistic electrons, and X-ray hot spots—all expected from electrified plasma.

Double Helix Nebula

A striking example of braided Birkeland currents on a celestial scale. The Double Helix nebula, near our own galactic center. It even looks like DNA—I’m sure a science-fiction writer somewhere could go places with that.

Plasma phenomena scale up not only through many orders of magnitude, but also in time. Processes that take billionths of a second in laboratories can be recognized unfolding over centuries or more astronomically. We began this quick tour up through scales of magnitude with the plasma focus device and its sub-millimeter-size tornadoes of current.

Here it is again, alongside a Hubble image of the planetary nebula NGC 6751. So what are we seeing? Gravity, which produces featureless clumps of matter? Or electricity?

Stars are supposed to form out of dust and gas contracting from an accretion disk under self-gravitation.

But there are many problems with this. Simulations and calculations indicate that matter would tend to disperse rather than form into clumps. Then there’s the question of how the angular momentum comes to be concentrated in the planets. In the case of our own Solar System, 97 percent of it is in Jupiter and Saturn, one percent distributed among the smaller fry, leaving about two percent in the Sun itself. A cloud contracting and speeding up under gravity should concentrate most of the angular momentum in the Sun, giving it a rotation period of something like 13 hours instead of the 28 days that it has. And then there’s the question of where it came from in the first place. A cloud of randomly moving matter should contain very little net angular momentum.

Alfven and his intellectual descendants saw Birkeland currents in space as not merely coincidental with the existence of stars, but responsible for their formation. The electromagnetic force diminishes with distance, in contrast with gravity, which decreases as the square of distance. This makes electromagnetic forces far more effective for gathering and organizing widely dispersed clouds of dust and gas. And rotation is the natural outcome, as we saw earlier.

Stars are concentrated along the spiral arms of galaxies like ours, and that’s also where new stars come into existence.

The electrical model proposes that these arms form the paths of currents flowing along a galactic-scale circuit between the rim and the axis. Stars form like beads along a thread, where matter is being compressed, rotated, and heated by powerful electrical Z-pinches.

Here are some examples of where you can see it happening.

The Butterfly nebula. A bipolar formation of converging embedded current cylinders producing glow discharge mode in the plasma for a distance greater than the diameter of our Solar System. The close-up of the neck shows a dusty toroid occluding the star at the center. The physics of plasmas predicts such a central torus. Note the embedded hourglass shapes. We’ll meet them again later.

Bug nebula

Here’s the Bug nebula. The pinch effect and general hourglass form are plainly visible. It spans about a third of a light-year. The light from the star is rich in ultraviolet—one of the signatures of an electric discharge.

Spiders Web nebula

And the same kind of thing seen from the side. We’re looking through two cones meeting point-to-point. The geometry resembles the electrodes of a carbon arc—which perhaps in many ways it is.

Heresy is probably one of the most extreme expressions of flexible thinking. While we’re at it, we might as well follow the possible implication of what we’ve been talking about, and ask, if cosmic electrical currents provide the driving force to compress and form stars, might they not supply the power that lights them too?

“Everyone knows,” because we learned it at school and all the textbooks and encyclopedias say so, that the Sun is powered by thermonuclear reactions deep in the core, that were ignited by gravitational compression. But despite its being generally regarded as established fact, the theory in fact has some serious difficulties.

The standard model originated from the work of the English scientist Sir Arthur Eddington in the 1920s. Since astronomical objects were viewed—and to a large degree still are—as isolated bodies, an internal heat source was needed that could maintain the Sun’s energy output and support an equilibrium against compression. In the following decade, the physics of hydrogen-helium fusion was worked out. Since the Sun was known to consist predominantly of hydrogen that seemed to settle it, and all observational data since has been interpreted in terms of that assumption. But the essence of flexible thinking, surely, is to be able to question core assumptions objectively, instead of defending them reflexively.

For a start, the calculated density at the center of the Sun is about a hundred times too low to ignite a thermonuclear process. At the indicated temperature of 13,000,000 K, protons wouldn’t have enough energy to overcome their mutual repulsion. The response is to invoke quantum-mechanical tunneling. That permits fusion only when the protons approach each other head-on, which occurs only in a minuscule proportion of cases. But for as long as an interior energy source is insisted on, there is no alternative, and so the conclusion is drawn that the requisite conditions must exist “somehow.”

We’ve already seen that the convection-cell explanation for the appearance of the photosphere is difficult to reconcile with just about everything that’s known about convection. And the gravity-bound model predicts none of the complex structures seen beyond the surface, in the corona. In addition, the Sun has been found to expand and contract rhythmically through an amplitude of about 10 km with a period of 2 hours, 40 minutes. This is almost precisely what would be expected if it were equally dense throughout, like a balloon, rather than progressively denser toward the center. But an isodense model would be far too cool for core fusion.

And then, of course, there’s the question of neutrino count, which I’d imagine most people here are familiar with. The basic Proton-Proton reaction produces low-energy neutrinos and involves a rarer beryllium-producing side reaction that releases a higher-energy neutrino. Enormous expense and effort were invested over the last twenty years or so in the construction of neutrino observatories in South Dakota, Japan, and Canada. The low-energy counts came out so low as to make meaningful interpretation impossible, and the high-energy counts were about a third of what was expected. Well, it was all hands to the pumps to save the ship. After extensive mining of the possibilities buried in the equations, and judicious tweaking of the many variables, the answer was declared to be that the three types of neutrino that physics describes—the electron type, muon type, and tau type—can change one into another in flight. And so the problem is said to be solved.

But the more you look into it, the more contrived it seems to get. For example, electron-type neutrinos interact with electrons in the dense interior of the Sun to turn into muon types; but they can become tau types in empty space—which conveniently makes them undetectable. But muon types can turn into tau types in the Earth’s core to account for why the numbers measured on the night side aren’t what they ought to be. The jubilant press releases claimed that the newest observatories proved that neutrinos changed flavor on their way to the Earth. But that’s a philosophical impossibility. Without measuring what actually leaves at the sending end, you can’t determine conclusively whether anything changed en route. You can only tune a model to be consistent with the assumptions. So I would offer that the jury is still out behind all the PR hype. I’ve heard that the latest observations don’t support the flavor-changing assertions anyway.

So what are the electrical theorists proposing instead?

Basically, that what’s going on is exactly what the picture we saw a moment ago suggests. Clouds of hydrogen pinched together initially by electrical currents become dense enough for self-gravitation to play a part in condensing them into protostars in pretty much the kind of way that conventional theory says. But before any thermonuclear ignition takes place at the core, strong electric fields are created that limit density increase and prevent further collapse.

Before any onset of fusion the interior is quite cool, meaning that most of the hydrogen will exist in its atomic form. Under the increasing gravitational pressure the atoms are deformed geometrically in a way that redistributes the charges to create electrical dipoles. In seeking a minimum energy configuration, these align, producing a radial electric field which causes the more mobile electrons to diffuse outward to the surface, leaving a net surplus of positive charge in the interior. And it is the mutual repulsions of these charges that resist and halt further gravitational collapse.

The protostars form the focal points of currents that intensify as they converge, becoming, in effect, the anodes of cosmic-scale electrical discharges. There are research papers from the early 1940s observing that the Sun’s photosphere has the appearance, temperature, and spectrum of an electric arc.

With increasing current density, plasma discharges evolve through three basic types. Transitions from one type to another can be abrupt, with millivolts separating different regions in a typical experimental discharge tube.

At the low end is “Dark Current” mode, where the plasma is invisible optically but may give off radio emissions. A common example is the “cathodeless discharge” that occurs around high-voltage electric power lines. “Glow” mode occurs with the onset of excitation and then ionization of the atoms in the medium —St Elmo’s Fire around ships’ masts and mountain peaks under stormy electrical conditions; and planetary auroras. And lastly “Arc” mode, when the ions become energetic enough to ionize more atoms, and avalanche breakdown sets in. Seen with welding machines, arc lamps used in lighthouses, searchlights, and so forth.

Here’s a suggestion of how the plasma environment of the Sun progresses through the same modes as the density of the converging current increases. Note, we’re not talking about the highly energetic kind of situation that we saw earlier, where the visible glow mode extended for long distances from the central star.

Out where the planets are, we have Dark Mode. This applies also to the planetary “magnetospheres,” with radio emissions from the more energetic regions, such as Jupiter, and transitions to glow mode at the auroras. Also the tails of comets on eccentric orbits, discharging as they move into regions of different potential.

The solar corona marks the onset of general Glow Mode—seen here during an eclipse. The presence of structure outside the photosphere is no longer strange but something to be expected, because the energy source is from the outside, and the corona is where electrical activity is increasing.

This model is also consistent with another observation that has been called the “greatest unsolved mystery” of solar physics. That is, how the temperature of the corona comes to be way higher than that of the photosphere—millions of degrees. With an internal heat source, the temperature ought to fall as you move farther away.

This is the plot of voltage against distance that the electrical model yields. Protons liberated in the photospheric arcing will be strongly accelerated down the steep field across the chromosphere. This causes them to be “dethermalized,” losing much of the random component of motion that’s measured as temperature. The indication of millions of degrees arises when they encounter turbulence at the bottom. The message is, maybe, that where strong electric fields are involved, temperature isn’t a very good indicator of energy.

The small but non-zero field existing through the corona and beyond also explains why the solar wind continues to accelerate as it moves outward across the Solar System. A gravitational Sun in the absence of an electric field ought to retard it.

And finally, the reason why the filamentary photosphere resembles the “tufting” of an anode in an arc discharge turns out to be, because that’s what it is.

The Z-pinch effect of currents in arc-mode plasmas is extremely powerful. In the photosphere it would be strong enough to fuse nuclei. The Fraunhofer spectrum of the photosphere contains over 27,000 absorption lines that indicate the presence of 68 out of the 92 naturally occurring elements. A problem with the standard model is how heavier elements are transported from the core, where they’re supposed to be created, to the surface. Another is where the elements heavier than iron come from, since they can’t be produced by thermonuclear fusion. The electrical model says simply that we seen them in the photosphere because that’s where they’re being made. The simplest way of producing heavy nuclei in laboratories is by using electric fields to accelerate protons or other light nuclei. It’s practically 1920s vacuum tube technology. The accelerated particles can be made to fuse with just about any element in the Periodic Table.

And the mix of electron, muon, and tau neutrinos can be just about anything, so there’s no problem in accepting what’s measured as being what’s produced. You don’t need any statistical sleight of hand to derive what is from what we think ought to be.

All this about the Sun applies also, of course, to stars in general. So what kind of impact does the alternative way of looking at things have on interpreting the various stellar types that are observed, and how they evolve?

Hertzsprung-Russell

This is the familiar Hertzsprung-Russell Diagram, which dates from the beginning of the century. It shows temperature, or spectral class as determined by color, across the bottom, Absolute magnitude and Luminosity on the vertical scales. This is an empirical plot of observations, not something deduced from any theory, so any viable model of stellar behavior must be consistent with it. Our Sun falls near the center, with Luminosity = 1, Absolute Magnitude =5, Spectral Class G, photospheric temperature = 6,000 K.

The conventional interpretation, based on the assumption of hydrogen-helium fusion at the core, is that stars evolve through a series of stages as they burn up their fuel, and in the process migrate from one part of the diagram to another over timescales of hundreds of thousands of years. Initially, at the bottom right, a cloud of dust and gas coalesces under gravitation. When thermonuclear ignition initiates, the star moves up into the Main Sequence, where it spends most of its stable life. As the hydrogen is used up, the accumulation of helium leads to an internal structural readjustment that results in an expansion and increase in luminosity, taking the star into its Giant phase. A succession of core collapses and accompanying higher temperatures then ensues, in which first the helium itself is burned up, followed in turn by carbon, oxygen, and so on through to iron. As we said earlier, elements beyond iron can’t be produced by regular thermonuclear fusion.

What happens finally depends on the star’s initial mass. When fusion reactions cease, gravitational collapse resumes, transforming the majority of stars into white dwarves, which eventually die and stabilize as black dwarves. But in more massive ones, ordinary matter is unable to resist the gravitational pressure, and breaks down into superdense forms to produce such exotic objects as neutron stars and black holes. Humans haven’t been around long enough to actually observe any of these slow migrations.

With the electrical model, the most important variable is current density. With increasing current density, arc discharges get hotter and change in color from red toward blue. So what I’m going to do is …

Russell-Hertzsprung

flip the diagram around the other way so that the temperature increases from left to right, and at the same time add a second horizontal axis that measures current density.

At the bottom end, the current density is low enough for secondary arc tufting of the anode not to be needed. This is the region where we find the brown dwarf stars and gas giant planets with their radio emissions. The red giants fall into the glow mode category. They appear gigantic because what we’re seeing is the corona surrounding the star in its brightly glowing phase just before arc discharge sets in—not the star’s surface.

With further increase a more effective means is needed to carry the current, and areas of anode tufting begin to appear. The tufts form a dynamic structure, able to light up and shut down to adjust to fluctuating conditions. The discovery of an X-ray flare being emitted from a brown dwarf star by the Chandra orbiting observatory posed a problem for the core fusion model, because a star that cool—spectral class M9—shouldn’t produce X-rays. But an anode tuft appearing in response to a fluctuation in total current would exhibit a strong electric field. And strong electric fields are the standard way of producing X-rays.

With increasing current density, arcing spreads to cover more of the star’s surface, and luminosity increases sharply. Let me emphasize here that we’re not following the evolution of one star over time as was the case with the conventional model. We’re simply cataloging the appearances of different stars according to their size and electrical environment.

Beyond the “knee” of the Main Sequence, stars are fully tufted. They get brighter with increasing current density, but without adding further to the tufted area, and so the luminosity grows less rapidly. At the upper end we reach the region of hot, bluish-white stars with surface temperatures of 35,000 K or more. Stars here are under extreme electrical stress, and at the limit of what they can absorb. A new means will be required to deal with any increase beyond this point. One way might be for the star to increase its available surface area by undergoing fission—perhaps explosively, in what are observed as novas. The current density on the smaller of the resulting pair of objects might drop sufficiently to turn the arc tufting off, reverting it to brown dwarf or even super-gas-giant status. That would explain why so many stars are found as binary pairs, and why so many of the giant planets detected in recent years appear to orbit unexpectedly close to their primaries. And maybe we have an alternative mechanism too for the origin of Earth-like planets—not produced by accretion, with all the difficulties that we touched on earlier, but by fission from gas giants, or maybe as smaller debris ejected in the course of more major fission events.

And we might not be entirely lacking in observational corroboration. Around 1900, FG Sagittae was an inconspicuous hot star of magnitude 13, temperature 50,000 K. Over the next 60 years it cooled to around 8,000 K and brightened to magnitude 9 as its radiation shifted from the far ultraviolet into the visible range. Then, around 1970, spectral lines appeared of new elements—produced in some energetic process or liberated from the interior. So here, indeed, is an example of a star moving from one part of the H-R Diagram to another—but not on the slow timescale of classical astrophysics. After abruptly brightening by four magnitudes, it dropped by seven magnitudes, changing from being a hot blue giant to a cool star with different surface composition. It’s surrounded by a nebulous nova remnant. And FG Sagittae is a binary pair.

An interesting picture emerges of stars as ideal planet factories. The materials are manufactured in the outer layers and stripped off via fission. At the same time, the parent star acts as a local step-down transformer in the power distribution grid, converting lethal cosmic supply-line energies to forms of radiation more conducive to supporting life.

We can extend this far beyond just stars, or even galaxies. Hannes Alfven envisioned immense rivers of electricity threading through space on the highest, intergalactic scales, out of which galaxies themselves are formed.

This shows a sequence from an LANL supercomputer simulation of the structure that arises from two currents interacting in a Z-pinch.

And a couple of real galaxies for comparison.

What’s being suggested here is that, far from being isolated, passive accumulations of mass revolving under their own inertia after being spun up by some unexplained source, galaxies are active components in enormous cosmic power circuits. They’re not flywheels, but homopolar motors. A major problem for the gravity-driven model of galaxies is that they don’t rotate the way they should. With the amount of observed mass and the velocities measured out to the rim, they ought to be flying apart. But if they are primarily electrical in nature, the forces involved are easily able to do the job, and there’s no need to postulate 90% of the universe as consisting of unseen “dark matter” to hold them together. Inventing unobservables to hold up failed predictions is usually a sign of a theory in trouble.

Galaxies are not distributed evenly through space, but concentrated in strings and “walls” around voids that can be thousands of light-years across. This presents another difficulty for the standard theory, because structures of that size shouldn’t have had time to form in the 14 billion years that the standard theory gives as the age of the universe. But it’s what you’d expect if galaxies are produced by cosmic electrical currents, because currents flow as filaments and sheets of filaments—like the aurora. And if an earlier electrical era occurred before gravity became a significant effect, we’re not limited to 14 billion years anyway.

A recent finding is that the rotational axes of spiral galaxies located on the shells of even the largest cosmic voids appear to be aligned preferentially along the void surfaces—consistent with the suggestion of their sharing common current threads.

The inward-flowing currents in the rotating structures that form galaxy clusters and galaxies interact with the background field in such a way as to slow the rotation. The stored energy is not just the mechanical momentum, but also the magnetic energy stored in the fields produced by the rotating currents. The mode of shedding it is via energetic axial jets.

A classical example of the model predicted by Hannes Alfven, showing glow discharge in the central region.

Radio Galaxy 0313-192

Here, the visible galaxy is embedded in electrical circuits and discharge activity that dwarfs the galaxy itself. The lobes produced by the jets are X-ray emitting regions, predicted by Alfven long before radio sources were discovered. That’s a composite image of Very-Large-Array radio image superposed on an image from the Hubble.

Jet emerging from M87

Even if ejected energetically, neutral gas would rapidly disperse in space vacuum. Electrical structures would remain coherent for enormous distances. M87 is located near the center of our own supercluster. The jet here extends for thousands of light-years. The glow is what would be expected from highly energetic electrons emitting synchrotron radiation as they spiral along the field lines.

So finally we arrive at a cosmic version of the micron-scale jets that we saw with the plasma focus device back at the beginning. Electrical explanations for everything we’ve touched on follow from principles that are well understood and can be demonstrated in any plasma laboratory. But in insisting on a gravitational model, mainstream astronomy is forced to invent exotic objects that have never been observed, involving mass concentrated to almost infinite densities in order to focus the weakest force known to physics.

Yet for forty year or more, plasma physicists and engineers, and a few inside the astronomical community, have been offering an alternative that appears capable of accounting for all the evidence on the basis of principles that are well understood and readily demonstrated. But they are met with dismissal and ridicule, denial of access to journals and the regular means of discourse, personal attacks, withholding of career opportunities, and in some cases, sabotage of existing careers.

I would submit that here we have a prime example of thinking that has rigidified to the verge of catatonia, and a branch of science taking on more the characteristics of an intolerant religion putting down heresy than displaying the open-minded readiness to consider new evidence and if necessary change its thinking, in the way that is supposed to characterize science.

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The Coming Popularity and Power of Luddism

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

Once upon a time a man got laid off from his job. So did most of his neighbors. They had all worked for a factory in their town but the factory upgraded the old machines for more efficient machines which needed fewer operators. The man who was laid off was very angry. He ranted and raved and whipped his neighbors into an angry mob and together they trashed the factory.

This is a story we’ve all heard before. It’s been on the news many times. But this one is different for several reasons: (a) it happened almost two centuries ago; (b) it is partly accurate and partly legend; (c) it produced a new word in the English language: Luddite; but most importantly (d) it’s an early example of how improvements in technology disrupt people’s lives.

The now legendary actions attributed to the textile worker Ned Ludd were condensed from real and imaginary events which occurred over a period of decades. The growth and condensation of his legend was motivated by the frustration and anger of thousands of similarly laid off workers.

Granted, Ned was neither the first nor last to lose his job because of improvements in technology, but because of his violent reaction he has come to personify all those who are against the march of technological progress. Today, two centuries later, his last name is often used as an insult against those who are seen as anti-technology or anti-science.

Insults are powerful tools for manipulating which attitudes are accepted by a group. This is why they are popular today, and have been throughout history. There has never been a time when humans did not use the power of insults to manipulate populations both small and large. If you can make the people reject whatever you wish, you can make them do whatever you wish. The power of insults is based on their ability to produce emotion. And since a human being is capable of logical thought at any particular moment in exact inverse proportion to their emotional state, the more emotional they are, the less capable they are of examining the insult for any actual merit it may or may not possess.

But back to Ned.

Ned’s layoff exemplifies what has become known as a “disruptive technology.” A disruptive technology is one that somehow makes worse many people’s lives by changing an old way of doing things so drastically that it eliminates jobs and sometimes entire companies, and does this as a direct byproduct of making other peoples lives better.

History text books are filled with examples of disruptive technologies. At one time there were dozens of buggy whip manufacturers and hundreds of workers. Today there are none. Some dead industries are long forgotten such as the harvesting of baleen; some have become cliches like button hooks; and some have become part of our romanticized past. The mail delivery service known as the Pony Express has been glorified in movies, songs and books yet it was eliminated after less than two years of operation by the First Transcontinental Telegraph.

Not every company collapses when faced with technological disruption. Some manage to use these disruptions to grow.

In 1911 a company named CTR was formed by the merger of three existing companies, one of which dated back to the late eighteen hundreds. This new company manufactured a wide range of products including employee time-keeping systems, automatic meat slicers, weighing scales, and (long before the invention of the electronic computer) equipment for the rapid reading, sorting and punching of punch cards. That company has survived and grown through the decades by transforming itself in accordance with each new disruptive technology. (Though to be fair, they were almost destroyed by one in the 1990s when they were slow to identify the trend to smaller computers and set a new world record for corporate losses in a single year.) You’ve probably heard of them. In 1924 CTR changed its name to IBM.

As a means of storing information, punch cards not only predate electronic computers they are another example of disruptive technology. Tabulating the results of the 1880 census took eight years because it was done by hand. The same process was done for the 1890 census with mechanical punch card machines invented by Herman Hollerith and took only one year. This saved the US Census Bureau a huge amount of money because it put a huge number of people out of work.

Disruptions like these often provoke Luddite feelings in those who find themselves laid off. But since even a huge layoff involves only a small percentage of the population, and since those who are laid off generally find work again, this feelings of Luddism never develop into any kind of large scale movement.

And so Luddism has come to be thought of as a response: a knee-jerk reaction which has not been pondered at length and examined for its merits. Sometimes that’s all it is. But for some people it is a philosophy.

To be sure, it’s never been a very popular philosophy. Most people love clever new things. They loved those newfangled air machines in the twenties and those noisy iron horses in the eighteen hundreds. Today they love their computers and cell phones and blue tooth and wi-fi. Sometimes there seems no end to this love of all that is new and clever. And the desire seems strong to forever pull and squeeze and twist materials to see what new thing we can get them to do.

But sometimes the new thing they do is scary. Alfred Nobel got a good fright, although not from the many wartime deaths caused by the dynamite he invented, as I have heard some people say. No, he owned a large munitions factory and made a lot of money selling weapons. His fright came when a French newspaper accidentally published his obituary in 1888 while he was still very much alive. The obituary opened with, The merchant of death is dead, and followed that with, Dr. Alfred Nobel, who became rich by finding ways to kill more people faster than ever before, died yesterday. Fearing he would be remembered through all future history as a bad person, the doctor changed his will to devote a large chunk of his fortune to promote peaceful uses of science. He called his promotion the Nobel Prize.

Nobel was of course no Luddite. And most people who worry about the dangers of science or technology are concerned with only a single invention or narrow group of inventions. For example, In 1829 the Governor of New York, Martin Van Buren (who later became the eighth president) wrote a letter to Andrew Jackson: “Dear Mr. President: The canal system of this country is being threatened by a new form of transportation known as ‘railroads’ … As you may well know, Mr. President, ‘railroad’ carriages are pulled at the enormous speed of 15 miles per hour by ‘engines’ which, in addition to endangering life and limb of passengers, roar and snort their way through the countryside, setting fire to crops, scaring the livestock and frightening women and children. The Almighty certainly never intended that people should travel at such breakneck speed.”

One can argue that the difference between Martin Van Buren’s reaction and that of Alfred Nobel is not just in how they responded but in the ratio of danger they perceived to exist compared to the danger that existed in actually, but that only clouds the important point. The point is that both were based on negative emotions: fear, worry, annoyance, aggravation, etc.

Negative emotions are powerful motivators. When present in a population, they change how that population behaves; and it is upon the strength of these negative emotions within the general public that the strength of Luddism has always risen and fallen.

If today we were living in traditional times, all that you have read so far in this article could be treated as nothing more than interesting historical footnotes with no actual importance. But we are not.

During the coming years and decades our technology will continue to advance, but it will not do so at any pace we have seen in the past, nor at the pace we are seeing now. Instead it will accelerate. Advances will come faster and faster, year after year. If plotted on a graph, this exponential process would form a curved line of ever increasing steepness.

As these advanced technologies come into widespread use they will disrupt old technologies, and the disruptions will come at an ever increasing rate. The exponentially increasing rate of disruptions will produce exponentially increasing levels of fear and annoyance in the general public. Because of this, the popularity of Luddism will also increase exponentially. And this exponential increase in Luddism will be tied to, and operate in lockstep with, the rate of technological disruption. For the next few years this growth curve will be gentle, almost imperceptible. Ten years from now it will no longer be gentle, and will have become impossible to ignore.

Additional fuel for the Luddite growth curve will be provided by those who are not Luddites themselves, but study and analyze and then write and speak about existential risks: sometimes called X-Risks for short. An existential risk is one that endangers all or most of humanity. (Paradoxically, not only am I one of these writers, but this very article may contribute to the problem it anticipates.)

Descriptions of X-Risks during the next few decades will multiply exponentially. During the first few years these descriptions will appear mostly in obscure special-interest publications of a technical or scientific nature, with an occasional quote in the more mainstream media which will be made sensationalist by being plucked out of context. Within five or at most ten years the descriptions will be everywhere and multiplying. They will also become increasingly wild, weird, esoteric and speculative. Which is not the same as saying they will be wrong. Their accuracy can not be predicted at this point. This will, however, emphasize how wild, weird and esoteric our technology is becoming.

The year 2020 is only twelve years away. By 2020 there are likely to be many outspoken Luddite activists. Luddism, as a philosophy and political position, is likely to have grown strong in popularity. If so, many bestselling books, speaking careers and fortunes will be built upon this movement, and will in return cause the movement to grow even stronger.

If this happens, the two main political parties in The United States will undergo a dramatic transformation. As more and more voters become drawn to the two opposing positions of Luddite on the one side and pro-technology on the other, each party will have to take a position to attract one or the other. Which party goes Luddite is difficult to guess since both have traditionally been pro-science and pro-technology. If neither party takes up the popular cry for Luddism a third party will. And as the Luddite vote grows stronger, so too will this third party.

Where this will all lead is anybody’s guess. My money is on technology, but I know that I am biased in this because of my love for science.

History tells us that given enough patience, science seems to win in the end. But sometimes the Luddites win for a very long time. Sometimes a victory for science can take three hundred and fifty nine years. That’s how long it took the Vatican to cancel Galileo’s punishment after his trial for heresy and to finally admit that the earth really does travel around the sun.

Theodore Kaczynski’s essay “Industrial Society and Its Future” (more commonly known as the Unabomber Manifesto) is an intellectual explanation of why the former professor of mathematics and currently imprisoned-for-life murderer believes we need a global Luddite revolution. That 35,000 word treaties is proof enough that the desire to overturn our technological civilization and return to a simpler world is not limited to simpletons. I know; I’ve read it.

But we are long past the days in which we can give up technology. Six billion people is too many mouths to feed without the use of modern scientific methods of farming. To go back to the old ways would doom billions, not millions, to starvation.

The fight between those against and those in favor of technology is going to get ugly. And after that it’s going to get even uglier. And those who write and speak about the legitimate dangers of technology will have to pick their words with ever increasing care, both to safeguard their reputations and to prevent extremists on either side from misusing their words as a tool for their own agenda.

* * *

Learn More

You can learn more about Stephen Euin Cobb here or here.

Or learn more about his podcast The Future And You here, or here or even here.

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COLUMNS

Remembering Giants

Written by Mike Resnick

There is a great Secret History of Science Fiction to be written, one that exposes all the scams, lies, dirty-dealings, illicit affairs, and the like—but while I know more than my share of it, someone else will have to write it. I prefer pleasant memories of our giants, and I thought I’d share some with you before they’re all forgotten by me and others.

* * *

The late Robert Sheckley was my good friend, and even my collaborator in the year before his death.

Bob had an infallible way of beating Writer’s Block He set himself an absolute minimum production of 5,000 words a day. If he couldn’t think of anything else, he told me, he’d write his name 2,500 times. And on those days he was blocked, he’d sit down and force himself to start typing. And to quote him: “By the time I’d typed ‘Robert Sheckley’ 800 or 900 times, a little subconscious editor would kick in and say ‘Fuck it, as long as you’re stuck here for another 3,300 words, you might as well write a story.’”

According to Bob, it never failed.

* * *

E. E. “Doc” Smith was the first pro I ever met at a con. Sweet man, very fond of fandom, very accessible to anyone. I always thought his greatest invention (other than the Lens and the Lensmen) was the seasonal Ploorians. Doc’s daughter, Verna Trestrail, was a good friend, and I used to see her every year at Midwestcon and Rivercon. She once remarked that she helped her dad from time to time. So I asked how, and she replied that she had invented the Ploorians.

(Verna also invented the planet where Clarissa had to function in the nude. She told me that Doc bought a gorgeous painting of it—and Mrs. Doc took one look at it and consigned it to the attic for the next 25 years.)

* * *

I met Robert A. Heinlein only a couple of times, at the 1976 and 1977 Worldcons, so I have no personal anecdotes to tell you about him—but Theodore Sturgeon had one. There was a point in the mid-1940s where Sturgeon was played out. He couldn’t come up with any saleable stories, his creditors were after him, and he was terminally depressed … and he mentioned it to Heinlein in a letter. A week later he got a letter from Heinlein with 26 story ideas and a $100 bill to tide him over until he started selling again. And, according to Sturgeon, before the decade was over he had written and sold all 26 stories.

* * *

I never met Fredric Brown. I know he grew up in Cincinnati, where I have lived the past 33 years, but no one here remembers meeting him. And I know he spent a lot of time working in Chicago, where I spent my first 33 years, and I never met anyone there who knew him either. But I do know he had a habit, especially when writing his mysteries (which far outnumbered his science fiction) of getting on a Greyhound bus and riding it for hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles, until he had his plot worked out to the last detail. Then he’d come home, sit down, and quickly type the book he’d already written in his head while touring the countryside.

* * *

Phil Klass (who writes as “William Tenn”) told this one on a panel I moderated at a Worldcon a few years ago.

He was dating a new girl, and he mentioned it to Ted Sturgeon when they were both living in New York. Sturgeon urged Phil to bring the girl to his apartment for dinner. He and his wife would lay out an impressive spread, and Ted would regale the girl with tales of how talented and important Phil was. Phil happily agreed.

What he didn’t know was that Ted and his then-wife were nudists. Phil and the girl walk up to the door of Ted’s apartment, Phil knocks, the door opens, and there are Ted and his wife, totally naked. They greet them and start leading them to the dining room.

Phil’s girl turns to him and whispers: “You didn’t tell me we had to dress for dinner.”

* * *

Speaking of dinners …

At our first Worldcon, Discon I in 1963—I was 21, my still-beautiful child-bride Carol was 20—Randall Garrett invited a bunch of new writers and their spouses out for dinner—his treat. Then, during dessert, he excused himself to say something of vital importance to his agent, who was walking past the restaurant. He left the table—and we never saw him again. The rest of us got stuck with the tab (it was an expensive restaurant, we were broke kids, and Randy himself had the most expensive dish and wine on the menu.)

Move the clock ahead three years. Randy spots Carol and me at Tricon (the 1966 Worldcon in Cleveland) and offers to buy us dinner. We say sure. During dessert Carol excuses herself to go powder her nose, and I remember a phone call I have to make. We meet and walk out, leaving Randy with the tab he had promised to pay (but, according to Bob Silverberg, Bob Tucker, and others I’d spoken to before going out with him, had no intention of paying.)

Move the clock ahead one more year, and we’re at NYcon III. Opening night Randy spots me across the room, turns red in the face, and yells: “Resnick, I’m never eating dinner with you again!”

I got an ovation from every pro and fan he’d ever stuck with a dinner check.

* * *

And let me end with one about a living writer, just to be different—my friend, recent Nebula Grandmaster Robert Silverberg.

When Bob started selling to Astounding, he wrote under the name of “Calvin M. Knox.” Some years later John Campbell asked him why. He replied that the word on the grapevine was that Campbell didn’t want Jewish names on the cover. Campbell’s reply: “Did you ever hear of Isaac Asimov?”

Then, as the conversation was drawing to a close and Bob was about to leave, Campbell asked him why of all the pseudonyms in the world he chose Calvin M. Knox. Bob replied that it was the most Christian-sounding name he could think of.

Finally, as he’s leaving, Campbell asks what the “M” stands for.

Bob’s answer: “Moses.”

* * *

How can you not love this field?

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Framed

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Contents

The Nature of Transitions

Written by Eric Flint

I left off at the end of my column in the last issue of the magazine by posing the following question:

Even if it’s only a mental experiment at the moment, what would happen if electronic publishing did become the dominant form of publication—or even the almost exclusive form? What if any changes would be needed in the various policies that I’ve advocated so far?

In the end, it’s the answer to this question that underlies the position on electronic copyright issues taken by just about everybody in this debate. Why? Because the “trump card” that advocates of restrictive polices and harsh penalties always haul out is this one. They may concede many other things, in the interim, but what they argue is that:

1) In the final analysis electronic reading will become the dominant format for publishing, and when that happens—

2) Electronic piracy will becomes a monumental problem for authors and publishers, possibly an insurmountable one.

I’ve even seen some people go so far as to argue that authors will soon be deprived of their livelihood altogether, if the looming menace of online piracy is not dealt with. The fact that this argument rests upon the utterly preposterous notion that a given branch of production is determined by a specific form of paying for the labor required does not prevent people from advancing it.

And it is an absurd notion. The reason authors can make a living is not because of copyright or any specific form of compensation. It’s because there is a demand for their product, which is stories. That demand is just about as stable and steady as any economic demand in the world, short of food and clothing and shelter. So far as archaeologists and anthropologists have been able to determine, story-telling is the oldest art form practiced by the human race and there is not one culture that has ever existed that does not engage in that art form.

In short, an economic activity that is at least one hundred thousand years old, economically and culturally ubiquitous, and just about as deeply rooted in human society as the production of food, is …

Going to vanish, because of Ye Dastardly Online Pirates.

For Pete’s sake. The worst that electronic piracy could possibly do would be to force a complete change in the methods by which authors and publishers derive their income. That’s …

Possible. After all, the forms of payment which authors have received over the centuries have changed quite a bit and have always been subject to fluctuation. As for publishers, the publishing enterprise itself didn’t really exist in the modern sense of the term until the advent of the copyright era in the early eighteenth century. Prior to that time, “publishers” were either patrons or printers, who paid for the publication of something either by shelling out money from their own pocket or by doing the printing themselves.

But so what? Making a living a different way is still making a living. The only thing that could even theoretically deprive authors of a livelihood would be if someone invented an artificial intelligence that was capable of writing stories that were as good as stories written by humans.

Is that possible? In the short run, no. The forms of artificial intelligence so far developed have two characteristics in common. They are all far superior to human intelligence when it comes to what you might call brute force numbers crunching. And they are vastly inferior to human intelligence—or even animal intelligence—when it comes to anything intuitive. That’s why even very expensive AIs, such as planetary rovers, have a difficult time doing something as simple as navigating across a surface—which any toddler can do quite easily. Or an insect, for that matter.

Story-telling is not numbers crunching. In fact, it’s about as far removed from it as I can imagine. The ability to tell stories well is so completely bound up with the author’s life experience that it’s hard to even imagine how you’d train an AI to do more than rudimentary story telling.

(An aside, here. Yes, I know that some AIs have already been programmed to “tell stories,” just as some AIs have already been programmed to carry on a conversation. What happens in both cases, however, is that the story and the conversation only work within very tightly defined limits.)

In the long run …

It’s an interesting question, actually, and one that lends itself to science fiction. My own view of the matter is that if an artificial intelligence is eventually developed that can tell stories as well as a human being, then that AI has a reasonable claim to being a person, not just a machine. And, that being so, the person is entitled to get paid for its work just like any other person. Or you have slavery.

But I’m going to leave that aside, here. There is certainly no projection by anyone that I know of that, in anything like the foreseeable future, any kind of artificial intelligence will be able to replace authors. So, for the purposes of this series of essays, I’m going to assume that if people want stories, they have to have authors to produce them.

That being so, how could authors not get paid? The form of payment might change, but the fact of it can’t.

And, indeed, in the many centuries—no, millennia—prior to the advent of copyright, authors existed and they did indeed get paid. Usually, of course, “authors” were story-tellers, since the trade was primarily an oral one until the invention of the printing press.

How did they get paid? By patronage, in one of two main forms: private or public.

The principal form of private patronage was for a wealthy individual to pay for the production of stories. In essence, the author did what amounted to “work for hire,” except for a single person instead of a publishing house or company. He or she wrote the story and exchanged it for an agreed upon sum. Thereafter, the author had no right to any further income from the story.

Public patronage took various forms. The most common was the activity that’s called “busking.” Here’s the definition of the term by Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary:

busk (v.i.): to entertain by dancing, singing, or reciting in the street or in a public place.

Musicians and mimes have never stopped busking. You can find street musicians in most cities in the world. Mimes and other dramatic street performers are less common, but you can find them also. If you walk down La Rambla, Barcelona’s famous central boulevard, you will see one living statue after another. Each of those performers, as is true of busking musicians, depends upon voluntary contributions from the public for their income.

In times past, many story-tellers made a living the same way. And there’s a resurgence of busking for story-tellers today, which takes the form of posting stories on the internet and asking for donations.

But there were other forms of public patronage. Plays have been staged by cities throughout human history, in many civilized cultures, and until relatively recent times the cost of producing those plays—which includes, obviously, the cost of paying the playwrights—was borne by the municipality. Or, perhaps, by a major religious institution in that municipality.

Of course, the form of payment does have an impact on the type of story produced. It’s not an accident that the dominant modern form of story-telling, which is the novel, is almost entirely a phenomenon of the copyright era. That’s because of two factors: First, from the author’s viewpoint, writing a novel requires many months of labor. Secondly, it’s a difficult form of story to sell to a large audience. By the nature of the story, novels are intended to be read by one person at a time.

So, in the pre-copyright era, the principal forms of story-telling were either purely verbal recitations—a good example being the various medieval legend cycles—or they were stories that were adapted for public performances. That means plays, basically.

They weren’t the only forms. Poetry was often a prominent form of story-telling, also. (People don’t usually think of poems as “stories,” but that is in fact what they are, albeit often told in a very stylized manner. That’s true even of something like a haiku, in the final analysis.) That’s because poetry lends itself very well to patronage, where novels do not.

The point here is that, in the worst conceivable eventuality, the transformation of publishing into a predominantly electronic form might force authors to change the form in which they told stories. It might, conceivably, force authors to either abandon old methods and develop new ones or lose their livelihoods.

And … so what?

Being blunt about it, a person has a right to try to make a living as a story-teller. You do not, however, have the right to dictate to the public the form in which you choose to tell the story. That’s their prerogative, not yours.

In fact, the public’s taste has continually changed over time, forcing authors to adapt. And, every time a change needed to be made, not all authors were able to make the adaptation. That was tough for them personally, of course, but that’s just the nature of the trade of story-telling. It’s a very chance way to make a living, and always has been.

Let me give you an example of such a change, from the history of science fiction. In its origins, science fiction was a predominantly short form genre. Outside of a few early novels by a handful of authors like Jules Verne and H.G. Wells, most science fiction writers beginning in the early decades of the twentieth century made their living—insofar as any of them made a living at it at all, which was only a handful—writing short stories for magazines. Occasionally, an author was able to get a novel published, but in that era of the science fiction genre novels were few and far between.

So, an author depended on writing short stories, for the most part. And, not surprisingly, this state of affairs benefited authors who were adept at writing short fiction, and penalized authors who were naturally inclined to write much longer stories.

Then, during the course of the 1960s, the genre went through a profound sea change. Science fiction and fantasy went from being a predominantly short form genre to an overwhelmingly novel genre, in a period of about a decade. The change began in the early 1960s and was over by no later than 1975.

Today, the few science fiction and fantasy magazines still in existence are struggling. Adjusting for inflation, they no longer pay anything close to the rates they paid for short stories half a century ago. Today, it is absolutely impossible—no matter how productive they are and how well-published they are—for a science fiction author to make a living by writing short stories. You simply can’t do it. Even if you got three short stories published every month—a production rate that no author has ever maintained in history—you’d earn less than $10,000 a year, which would put you below the official poverty rate even as a single person.

It was never easy for an author to sustain themselves, writing short fiction. But, especially if they could get a handful of novels published over a career, they could manage it. Today, they can’t. There’s simply no money for short fiction, worth talking about. The market for it is now so small that producing short fiction is, for any commercially successful science fiction author, a pure sideline. (In terms of money, at least. Some authors may continue to write a lot of short fiction either for the personal pleasure or for the sake of winning literary awards, or both. But they do not depend on that writing for an income. They can’t.)

To give you an example of how minor an aspect of an author’s income short story writing has become, I’ll use myself as an example. My first novel, Mother of Demons, was published in September of 1997. My first collection of short fiction, Worlds, is scheduled to be published in February of 2009. And in the eleven and a half years between the appearance of those two books, I will have published something like thirty novels. And I’m only publishing this one volume of short fiction on a “what the hell, why not?” basis. I offered it to my publisher for no advance at all, just royalties.

Granted, I’m quite a ways toward one end of this spectrum—but I’m by no means at the extreme edge. There are some very successful science fiction and fantasy authors today who have never published any short fiction. Never. Not once. That would have been completely impossible thirty or forty years earlier, for the good and simple reason that they couldn’t have gotten published at all.

And, sure enough, that profound change in the market punished some authors and benefited others. To start with the happier side, the change was a blessing for an author like Frank Herbert. Herbert wrote short fiction, to be sure. Like any science fiction author at the time, he had no choice. But it was never particularly easy for him, compared to some other authors.

In his first decade as a writer, beginning in the early 1950s, Herbert published about twenty short stories. During that same stretch, Christopher Anvil—an author for whom short fiction came naturally and easily—published almost twice as many stories. To look at it from another angle, Herbert never got more than four short stories published in a single year, and he only managed that twice—in 1954 and again in 1958. In contrast, a natural short story writer like James H. Schmitz published nine short stories in 1962 and did it again in 1965.

Christopher Anvil had an even more impressive streak: eight stories in 1964, eight stories again in 1965, eleven stories in 1966, eleven stories again in 1967, and six stories in 1969. In a short five years, Anvil published about as many short stories as Herbert did in his entire career, which spanned more than three decades.

And Frank Herbert was in no sense a failure. He was a successful writer, even in his early years. He simply wasn’t a writer for whom short fiction came naturally and easily. Still, he adapted as best he could to the demands of the market and soldiered on. Then, the market began to change, and Herbert came into his own. By the 1970s, he was one of science fiction’s major and most successful novelists.

On the flip side of the coin, James Schmitz and Christopher Anvil hit hard times in the 1970s. Although both of them wrote a few short novels—four, in the case of Schmitz (one of which was really a long novella) and five in the case of Anvil—they were naturally short form writers, and struggled once the market changed.

Schmitz never made the transition at all. His last two stories were published in 1974, and they were probably written two years earlier. He was still a relatively young man at the time. Well … not old, at any rate. He was sixty years old in 1971—a year younger than I am, as I write this essay—and he still had a decade of life ahead of him. But for all practical purposes his writing career had ended.

Anvil kept going. But a writer who had been very prominent as a science fiction short story author in the fifties and sixties now faded from the scene. He published only nine stories in the rest of the 1970s, after 1972—fewer stories than he’d published in some single years, in his heyday. Then, eight stories in the 1980s, and four stories in the 1990s. The last of them was published in 1995.

Then … nothing, until I bought a story from him for one of the anthologies of his writings I was assembling as editor, in 2005, and a second one that I bought from him for Jim Baen’s Universe in 2006. The point being that the man is still perfectly capable of telling a story, it’s just that the market changed under him.

So it goes. That was not the first time such a literary transition has happened in history—not by a country mile—and it’s not going to be the last time. Look back over the centuries of literature, even restricting it to the English language, and you’ll see continuous and complex changes taking place in the publishing market—each and every one of which forces authors to adapt to them.

Did you ever wonder why the novels of Fyodor Dostoyevsky always seem to drag in the middle? Typically, they start with a bang and end with a bang. But the middle …

Why, exactly, does Brothers Karamazov need to be nine hundred pages long?

Well, literature professors will insist that’s because of the innate essence of the story, it being a recognized masterpiece of world literature. And I’m certainly not going to quarrel with that judgment of the novel, taken as a whole, because I agree with it. But as a commercially successful professional author, I will also tell you a darker side of the truth. “Darker,” at least, if you view literature as a sacrosanct and well-nigh saintly pursuit which is untainted by any coarse material concerns—a view of the trade which almost no actual practitioner has ever taken. Me, I just think it’s funny.

Here’s the truth. Dostoyevsky had a gambling problem, was chronically in debt—and the standard form of publishing novels in his day was to serialize them in magazines. So, in order to sell a novel to a magazine, he’d send the editor the opening chapters. Those, typically, were brilliant. To this day—allowing for the fact that I have to judge based on translation—I think the opening hundred pages of so of The Idiot is the best writing by any novelist at any time or place.

Then … well, bills had to be paid. Bills to gamblers, to make things worse. And if you’re a good writer—much less a literary genius like Dostoyevsky—it really ain’t that hard to figure out ways to …

“Extend” a story, we’ll call it. Chapter after chapter after chapter after chapter, since that’s how you get paid. By the chapter.

(If you’re wondering, that is not how authors get paid for a novel today. I will negotiate a lump sum with my publisher, to be paid in various installments. Typically, two: half the advance on signing, half on delivery and acceptance of the manuscript. There will be no stipulation as to the length of the novel, although it’s tacitly understood that it will be at least one hundred thousand words long and will not exceed two hundred thousand words unless I discuss it with my publisher. And no mention will ever be made of how many chapters the book might have.)

Charles Dickens published under the same set of circumstances as Dostoyevsky, by the way, which I personally suspect explains at least in part the length and structure of his novels.

My point here is not to ridicule any authors. (Or publishers, actually, since if anyone got taken to the cleaners it was them.) I’m simply making the point that the specific way that authors make a living is inextricably and intricately tied to the specific structure and demands of the market at any given time. And that, in turn, is determined by many things—not the least of which is the dialectic between a given technology and a given audience interest.

I do not doubt for one moment that the changes that have taken place and are taking place in the technology of publishing, the shift—however slowly or quickly it takes place—between paper and electronic publication, will over time have a profound impact on the specific way that authors make a living. I don’t doubt it, because you can already see it happening.

But that is not equivalent to a threat to the livelihood of authors, as such. The fact that some authors will suffer from the change is no excuse for them or anyone else trying to prevent those changes by legal fiat. They have no more “right” to a specific way of earning money as authors than authors have had at any point in the past.

Had James H. Schmitz or Christopher Anvil advanced the proposition, in the late 1960s, that legal measures should be implemented which ensured that their preferred style of story-telling remained the dominant one in science fiction, they would have been subjected to ridicule. And rightly so.

Yet the fact is that many of the proposals—and certainly the logic of the arguments—advanced by people today with regard to the advent of electronic publishing and the “threat” of online piracy are every bit as ridiculous and absolutely no different in their underlying logic. Under the claim of “protecting the livelihood of authors” what they are actually demanding is that legal policies be adopted that protect specific authors who choose to tell stories in a specific manner and sell them in a specific format.

This is a point that Cory Doctorow has made a number of times in various essays he’s written on the subject, for which he invariably gets pilloried by some authors. But the problem isn’t with Cory, it’s with his critics. I don’t always agree with Cory on the various issues involved with the general subject of copyright—at least, in terms of what we each emphasize and don’t—but on this issue, he’s absolutely right and his critics are absolutely wrong.

So let me finish this essay by making this point as clear as I can:

If electronic publishing—and that includes the reality that it’s very easy to “pirate” electronic text—is a form of publishing that some authors and publishers have a hard time adapting to, then that’s just too damn bad for them. As my father liked to say whenever I’d whine about something as a boy, “things are tough all over.” If they can’t cut the mustard, then it’s just a fact that over time they will fade away.

What they have no right to do is to demand that their present situation be enshrined by law. What they have no right to do is to demand that copyright “protection” be made so restrictive and onerous for the public that the fundamental purpose of copyright is actually undermined.

Here’s the flip side of the matter, which these doom-predictors never want to acknowledge or admit. Changes in publishing have been happening for centuries. They always harm some authors and they always benefit some other authors. And the same is happening today, as electronic publishing grows in importance.

Some authors may be harmed by that growth—although I should state here, for the record, that I have yet to see a single author advance a persuasive case that they’ve been so harmed. What is absolutely certain, however, is that other authors have benefited from the change.

How do I know that’s true? Because I’m one of them. One of the most prominent ones in science fiction, in fact. I’ve learned—and I’m still learning—how to use the changes in publishing to my benefit. Just as my publisher, Baen Books, has done the same from its standpoint as a publishing house.

In later essays, I’ll explain why the fears of people concerning the “danger of online piracy” are grossly out of proportion with the reality, even if we assumed that all publishing was electronic. The worst of those fears are just plain silly. In point of fact, the changes that will be forced upon authors and publishers by the inexorable demands and features of electronic publishing—and, yes, ease of “piracy” is one of those features—are very small compared to the enhanced opportunities that come with it. And I’ll also describe, in considerable detail, the various methods that I’ve used and Baen Books has used to take advantage of the new opportunities created by electronic publishing. What will become obvious is that while electronic publishing certainly requires some adaptations, the adaptations are really pretty small potatoes—certainly when compared to the benefits accrued as a result.

But even if it were true that the growth of electronic publishing forced drastic changes in the way authors chose to tell stories and make a living from them, then that would simply be something they’d have to accept. Those of them who could adjust to the change would prosper; those who couldn’t, would not.

And what else is new? That’s the nature of transitions.

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Framed

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Scattershot Again

Written by Barry N. Malzberg

Scattershot One: Arthur Clarke was cool and hot on the page. Less ambiguous in person. Dead a few months ago at 90, by far the longest-lived of the so-called Big Three of the 60’s and 70’s (Heinlein died at 81, Asimov at 72) he was both fierce and pastoral, sometimes simultaneously. Clearly the least classifiable of the major science fiction writers of his time. Desolate landscape at the end of history (Against The Fall Of Night), bleak and overwhelming apocalypse behind religious affirmation (“The Star”) and yet the mystic, tumbling, fiery descent-and-ascent of 2001’s conclusion (film and the book) embraced a kind of transcendence. Clarke could write Campbell humanity uber alles like most of the rest of them (“Rescue Party”, “Hide and Seek”) but the quiet, emotionally entombed ending of “Death And The Senator,” published in Analog of all places, illuminates human folly and loss as a kind of splendor. Very difficult writer to capsulize; the more one knows of his work during the years of its importance, say 1946-1980, the less one can infer of his personality.

That personality, somewhat rigid and certainly self-enamored, became (because of 2001) perhaps the most familiar of all science fiction writers to the television viewer and newspaper reader. In the interest of public persona and popular appeal, Clarke suppressed his poet’s gloom and classic British pessimism (Wells and Dover Beach surely formed him; so I suspect did Edward Elgar’s musical refraction of Victoria passing from the world) but the bluff cheer of his mask was successful and gave him to the world as he wanted. The script of 2001 was based upon a late forties short story, “The Sentinel”, and here is an odyssey to give any hack hope: Scott Meredith sent the story to 20 USA markets without success, finally placed it with Donald Wollheim for a new publication, Ten Story Fantasy, which lasted one issue. Clarke was paid $22.50 after commission for the 2500 word story which lay fallow for twenty years until Kubrick found it (or perhaps Clarke, who had become a friend, helped him find it). It is perhaps the most obscure short story to have ever become the basis of a major film. (Wollheim’s own 1942 “Mimic” is a runner-up.) Clarke carried his fame not lightly but joyfully, and his simple schoolboy pleasure in becoming Sir Arthur of the Telly cannot be begrudged. “Death And The Senator” is really good, great almost; it’s available (legally) online and worth pursuit.

* * *

Scattershot Two: A recollection from Noreascon 11, the 1980 World Science Fiction Convention in Boston. From Damon Knight’s Guest of Honor Speech: “I was living the life of a lonely teenager deep in the forest of Oregon, but because of fandom I had an active life in correspondence and one day, when I was 17, I received a letter from Cyril Kornbluth. He was a member of a group which called themselves the Futurians and had a large apartment in Brooklyn; why didn’t I come and live with them? I didn’t have anything better to do so I came and lived with them. Fred Pohl said, ‘Damon, you are really stupid.’ Cyril Kornbluth said, ‘Why did you come here, Damon? You are a real pain in the ass.’ Isaac Asimov said, ‘Damon, you are a fool.’ But [very long pause] they were talking to me.”

* * *

Scattershot Three: Another Noreascon memory: Standing next to Donald Wollheim in the enormous crowd outside the Hynes Auditorium before the doors were to open for the Hugo ceremonies: “What do you think of this, Don? Is this a 1940’s fantasy for you or not? Look at all the good-looking women here. Did you ever think in the time of the Futurians that there would ever be girls, let alone girls like this? You must be in ecstasy.” “Oh, yes,” Wollheim says as the doors open, as the crowd tumbles forward, “Oh, yes, it’s a dream fulfilled all right. Just a dream fulfilled. How wonderful it all is.” Hollow laughter. Into the darkened auditorium we lurch.

* * *

Scattershot Four: And yet another snapshot: After the Hugo ceremony (Clarke’s The Fountains of Paradise was the winner for Best Novel, speaking of Clarke which I apparently have already) I am in the lobby with the three devoted fans from the MIT Science Fiction Society who I have already decided to call my Three Wise Men: John Howard, Ben Sano, James Killens. They have apparently read every word I have ever published and perversely concluded that I am science fiction’s most hilarious writer. Toward our little circle comes one of those attractive women whose presence I had previously noted for Donald Wollheim. Her eyes burn with interest. “Excuse me,” she says. “Are any of you professional science fiction writers? I need a professional science fiction writer.” The Three Wise Men laugh and point at me. “You are a professional science fiction writer?” she says. I allow that some, however reluctantly, would concede that. “Good,” she says. “This is a scavenger hunt and I have to bring back one science fiction writer. Could you come with me to that man over there and identify yourself?” “All right,” I say. “If it isn’t too far.” “He’s right over there,” she says. “It will just take a minute.” As we walk purposefully forward she says, “Now if anyone else comes over to you, tell them you’ve already been taken. You can only be used once.” “I can only be used once?” I say. “You can only be used once,” she confirms. “I can only be used once,” I agree.

I get a lot of mileage out of that for the rest of the evening. Whenever I drift toward self-pity or grandiosity with the Three Wise Men, I stop and say, “But I can only be used once. I can only be used once.” Much laughter and agreement. Oh, yes, I can only be used once. Tell it to Sweeney.

Ah, the follies of Death, the Senator and the self-identified Professional Science Fiction Writer. You learn—if you hadn’t already life will certainly teach you—that you can be used more than once.

Far more than twice, in fact.

—April 30, 2008: New Jersey

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June 2008

Written by Stephen Euin Cobb

Hugged by Catherine Asaro (the scientist, author and former SFWA President); met and interviewed the best selling author Katharine Kurtz; brokered personal appearances inside Second Life for David Brin and Robert J. Sawyer; given the entire eighth floor of the Central Nexus building, the tallest skyscraper in the futuristic city-state of Extropia (also within Second Life); and granted citizenship of Extropia.

If you’ve been listening to the show, you know the last two months have been filled with many wonderful surprises. More details on some of these can be found farther below. But first, here is a summary of recent topics discussed on the show (March 12 to May 7) followed by a list of recent guests.

Recent Topics

Google’s announced desire to offer wireless high-speed internet access to everyone in America for Free. (*On March 21, 2008 Google submitted a six-page letter to the FCC outlining processes and tests to avoid interference if they are granted use of a portion of the radio frequencies which will become available in 2009 when television ceases to broadcast analog transmissions.)

An earth-grazing asteroid which will be taking two pot-shots at humanity during the next two decades.

Why Japanese users are getting 25 times faster high-speed internet than American high-speed users.

How passports with RFID chips can be hacked wirelessly as you walk through an airport.

Pacemakers with wireless “wi-fi” internet connections can be hacked remotely through the internet, according to a New York Times report. They can then forced to stop working or even give the patient electric shocks strong enough to kill.

How technology will change future battlefields.

How Russia seems to be heading back into the cold war.

How the TV show “24” encourages and justifies the use of torture.

The notion that terrorists may have become an exaggerated enemy.

How ethanol is raising food prices world-wide.

Why English has become the world language.

Google’s research into AI: why Google is interested in AI, and if Google plans to someday have its search page speak and converse with users.

Will machines someday think as well as humans? Will they think in the same way we do? Will they plan, be creative, invent things that are new and innovative? Will they feel emotions as we do? Will they feel compassion, fear, fondness, attachments based on familiarity?

If the IQ curve of AI rises long enough for their IQ to match our own, why would that curve stop rising? Won’t their IQ continue increasing until they are ten times smarter than us, and then a hundred, and then a thousand? At what point might this stop? Is there a limit? Should we fear superhuman AI? Should anyone?

New estimates of the Tunguska impact of 1908.

How Netflix.com is scrambling to keep Hulu.com from outpacing them.

Greg Bear’s TV appearance on The Daily Show with John Stewart.

NASA’s Remote Agent and Mars Exploration Rovers, and what role AI played in them.

How our lives are being changed by cell phones, IM, high speed internet and online catalogs.

Sir Arthur C. Clarke’s many contributions to civilization, as well as recollections by several authors of their conversations with the late Sir Arthur C. Clarke, including the very first time Greg Bear met Sir Arthur back in 1968 when Greg was only 16 years old.

e-books and Amazon’s Kindle.

Physics and String Theory.

The seduction of the internet as a time-vampire.

LED light bulbs: the next big wave in energy savings.

What would people do differently if we all knew we were going to live for 300 years? How would this change civilization? Just how far can human longevity become stretched?

The world-wide annual celebration of Yuri Gagarin’s first human flight into space, which your host celebrated inside Second Life.

How different is it to do a speaking engagement inside Second Life compared to one in the physical world? (David Brin and Robert J. Sawyer found out.)

Space: where the big money will be made in space; space-based solutions to our energy problems on earth today; the inflatable space habitats and hotels that Robert Bigalow has started building; practical methods of asteroid mining and diverting; the likelihood of a new international space race; ion drives and solar sails; exoplanets in general but especially the new developing possibility of earth-like planets orbiting the nearest star, Alpha Centauri.

Beyond Protocol, the new massively multiplayer online real-time strategy game which is currently in beta test.

How frustrating it is that there are lots of exoplanets but we can’t go look at them. The idea that people are losing interest in space exploration because our ability to travel has not extended to the stars and is limited to our own solar system.

Life on extrasolar planets, including the surprisingly numerous super-hot planets which often orbit their stars in a matter of days.

A clever music video now on youTube entitled: I am the Very Model of a Singularitarian, sung to the tune of Gilbert and Sullivan’s I am the Very Model of a Modern Major General from the popular musical play The Pirates of Penzance.

WikiPatents.com is a free community for reviewing, rating, and discussing US patents and pending patent applications. It also offers advanced patent searching and free downloads, as well as the option to vote on the marketability and technical merits of patents and patent applications.

The annoyance of popup ads and junk-mail, and the prediction that physical mail (as opposed to email) will someday become rare.

Geek Cruises and the Scientific American Cruises.

As well as nanotechnology, biotechnology, transhumanism, the singularity, Wikipedia, and many more topics.

Recent Guests

Greg Bear, the award-winning author of more than thirty books of science fiction and fantasy including Quantico, Darwin’s Radio and Blood Music.

Robert J. Sawyer the award-winning and bestselling author.

David Brin, the best selling science fiction author, scientist and public speaker who has won multiple Hugo and Nebula awards and is the author of the novel Kiln People and The Life Eaters as well as six novels within his Uplift Series.

Kim Stanley Robinson, the best selling and award-winning science fiction author, best known to some for his Mars trilogy: Red Mars, Green Mars and Blue Mars.

Katherine Kurtz, the best selling author of many fantasy novels including those in her Deryni Series.

C.J. Henderson the award-winning author of fifty novels including the Teddy London supernatural detective series.

Peter Norvig, Director of Research at Google, who has written more than fifty publications in the computer sciences and is co-author of Artificial Intelligence: A Modern Approach, the leading textbook in the field of AI.

Randal L. Schwartz, the widely known computer programmer and programming consultant.

Dr. Gregory L. Matloff, astronomer and author of six popular books on astronomy and astronautics, including Living off the Land in Space, which was co-authored with NASA’s Les Johnson and Brooklyn artist C Bangs.

Thomas “cmdln” Gideon, the digital media activist and host of The Command Line podcast.

Allen Wold, author of nine novels and five nonfiction books.

Michael Ventrella, one of the founders of Animato Magazine and of the LARP NERO.

The Wombat, RavenCon’s 2007 Fan Guest of Honor.

Bill Mann, Tera Fulbright and many others including one of the inside experts on a new massively multiplayer online real-time strategy game called Beyond Protocol which is currently in beta test.

People who provided comment, feedback or received an honorable mention include: Shaun Farrell, Rich Sigfrit, Mur Lafferty, Tee Morris, the presidential candidates (John McCain, Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton) and of course Sir Arthur C. Clarke because of his recent passing.

And from Second Life, digital people who provided comment, feedback or received an honorable mention include: Khannea Suntzu, the avatar artists Zeroe Auer and Zada Zenovka, Extropia DaSilva for her blog post entitled Snowcrashing into the Diamond age, and Sophrosyne Stenvaag, host of Sophrosyne’s Saturday Salon which is held every week in Extropia.

You can learn more about exactly who said what about what at the show’s page.

* * *

Recent News

David Brin’s

Personal Appearance in Second Life

For nearly two hours David Brin spoke to an overflow crowd in the grand meeting hall in the Central Nexus Building inside the city-state of Extropia inside Second Life. He was interviewed by Sophrosyne Stenvaag in an expanded version of her Sophrosyne’s Saturday Salon which is held every week.

Easily recognizable, the award-winning and best-selling author wore a photorealistic body specially crafted for this event by the skilled avatar artists Zeroe Auer and Zada Zenovka. David spoke about the strengths and weaknesses of virtual worlds as places to discuss ideas—and did so while experiencing those very strengths and weaknesses as he discussed ideas. His appearance was part of the world wide celebration of Yuri’s Night which took place on April 12, 2008.

The city-state of Extropia has become a popular meeting area within Second Life for those who are curious about the future because it features weekly events to discuss various futuristic topics. The organization SL-Transhumanists, for example, hosts lectures and discussions about the many aspects of transhumanism such as nanotech, genotech, AI and the Singularity.

During the all-day festivities in Extropia your host: met two NASA representatives as well as some Russians, drove a moon buggy; sat inside a life-sized model of Yuri Gagarin’s space capsule, danced with a wide variety of beautiful women, admired Vidal Tripsa’s space suit (possibly the sexiest space suit ever), watched David Brin pack the house for his open forum discussion, and took over 300 photos of the day’s events. Many of which can be viewed on Flickr.

* * *

Robert J. Sawyer’s

Two Personal Appearances in Second Life

Robert J. Sawyer, the award-winning author, made two personal appearances inside Second Life on Sunday, April 6, 2008. First he was the featured speaker at Sophrosyne’s Saturday Salon in which he discussed the future of AI, robotics, life extension, SETI, and much more. For his second appearance he joined the Extropia Book Club for their discussion of his latest novel, Rollback, which is now a finalist for the Hugo Award.

* * *

Your Host’s Personal Appearance Schedule

As in previous years, I will be a guest author at a number of conventions this year. This allows me to participate on panels alongside very famous and, in some cases, best selling authors and generally get a really exaggerated notion of myself. Those of you who feel that you can stomach me in such a state, and live within reasonable travel distance, may see and visit with me in person at the following SF&F conventions: (Each of which has its own website.)

ConCarolinas (in Charlotte NC — May 30-June 1)

LibertyCon (in Chattanooga TN — July 11 to 13

* * *

Your Host’s Virtual Appearance Schedule

Those of you who wish to visit with me inside the virtual world called Second Life can do either of two things: Send my avatar—Boc Cryotank—an instant message, or attend Sophrosyne’s Saturday Salon.

The Salon is a weekly gathering of transhumanists, extropians, and other future-minded people hosted by Sophrosyne Stenvaag (“Soph”) each Saturday afternoon. Located on the island of Extropia Core, it’s open to the public and newcomers are always welcome. The format is usually a lecture followed by an enthusiastic discussion with many questions and comments.

Often I linger after the Salon is over to chat with locals and visitors, so this is an easy time to catch me. Now that I’ve been granted citizenship within Extropia, and am setting up my office and studio on the eighth floor of the Central Nexus Building, I have even more reason to frequent Extropia.

If you would like to join me inside, you can go to secondlife.com and sign up. A standard account costs nothing, but I should warn you: Second Life is a strange and fascinating world. If you have a powerful curiosity, it can be powerfully seductive. Sometimes it’s hard to let go of it and come back out.

* * *

Learn More

You can learn more about The Future And You here, or here or even here.

Or learn more about its host here or here.

THE END

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