Story #36 - Old Gods

Old Gods

The time of things past is present. Those hidden have been revealed and what was lost is slowly being found. Many have disputed the events, the signs, the portents that make these simple truths evident, but such is the way of us. Such is the way of fools.

Such is the way of all.

Was the world ever new? Some ask but few can answer for certain. I for one believe it was – in time uncounted, time unknown; the world began in the formless mists, or was birthed out of the churning mass of a god’s passion. No evidence exists to give us the answers we desire save the fact that the world ends now, and that can only mean it had a beginning.

One need only look to the water to know the end is coming. The clear running, jeweled streams and pulsing rivers speak loudly to the fact that our world is changing, and not for the best. Gone are the dark skies, the thin soil and the struggling crops of the past eons, replaced instead by virulent growth and a blazing orb I have only recently heard named. “Sun”, they call it.

I make no claim to perfection; I am merely a keeper of records, a ponderer of words. I have seen what great men of history have recorded, what great women of history have omitted. Conclusions are difficult to draw, because or perhaps in spite of such abundant data.

Our people love to speak of the world as it was, the world at its beginning. Our best information places us underground, far from the brutal light above and the need for the harsh mistress of soil. Instead, we are told that we lived quiet lives under rock, subsisting largely off of the lichen, moss and mushrooms that flourish in such glorious darkness.

Of course, Gods are not satisfied with the status quo.

Change came, and with him the destruction of our homes, our caves. Change came, and with her the forming of our bodies, our need to move about in order to survive. Our people venerated, honored our Gods until the truth was finally realized, our purpose finally crystallized. For what are Gods if they are not meant to be destroyed, overthrown by their very creations? If they did not wish such things, they were fools to make us so much in their image.

Heroes rose, weaknesses were discovered and we knew, as a people, what we must do. The strongest of us took up arms, took up a cause against our former masters and the weakest of us looked the other way. Our Chosen One delivered a blow to set the world aflame and the Gods fell, perfect forms crashing to the burned and barren ground below.

And the world changed.

We had expected as much – though a reversion was predicted. We were blind, foolish to not see that thought the Gods had ripped us from our peace to serve them, they had also created the world as they saw fit. Our destruction removed the force which stabilized our balance, kept even our middle world as we had become accustomed.

Now, the clouds peel. Now, the plants flourish. Now, we are dying.

Young ones in the towns do not suffer as much as the old. The few that escaped the Whips of the Gods are feeble and weak and this new light, this thin water is killing them, as surely as any choice the Gods had made. They smile broadly and speak of times better than we know, but they know the truth.

We die, surely. We die, slowly.

Perhaps some remnant will remain – a fraction of a fraction, a piece of a piece. Young ones have taken to ranging beyond the villages, to seeking out places of light and water to test their mettle, to bathe in the glory they call pain.

Our Gods pulled us from perfection and gifted us with pain. We cried out – “put us back, put us back!” But we could not be removed, could not be changed into what we had been. We evolved, in spite of ourselves. We were altered, in defiance of our desire.

The generations rebelled, and the old ones rose up. The young ones fuelled our fire, our desire for final change, but they have changed too much, too quickly. Foolish that we did not recognize it. They speak of this new land as a challenge to conquer, a pain to endure. They smile and skitter happily into the light, its cruel yellow glow only singeing what on us would be burned.

Our Gods were clever, even in their demise.

Our ancients die now, and I among them. The younger do not know I write; do not know I set these words down in stone. They will remain here, hidden, until such time as knowledge once again becomes paramount to change.

It is a cruel thing, to kill one’s Gods, but crueler still to be made their image. Twisted by their desire, a people can be bent, broken beyond their recognition. We are such a people. We were such a people.

The waters run clear, the sun beats down. The young rise up, and the old ones fall. Heroes have succeeded and Gods have fallen, but we can never return. Never remain.

We were once as we would be, once as we are, and are changing as we will. Gods have betrayed us, Gods have delayed us, and our race dies quietly as I write. We live on, but not as we were – a shadow of remembered truth. All days end, young ones, as shall yours.

For we know the secrets of the Gods, their terrible cloaking of purpose. Gods die, and Gods disperse. Gods fail, and Gods succeed. Gods appear – where they are needed least.

Live now, young ones, for your time runs down even as your raise your standards in victory.

Old Gods will return. Our fight will become yours, once again.


- D

Story #35 - Density

Density

These humans were incredibly dense.

Vikroth had been waiting all of his career for the chance to make first contact, but the things on the little blue planet he'd seen through yet another sweep of the Milky Way seemed to be going out of their way to ignore him. He scanned planets in this area every so often for improvements and the potential that they had finally grown beyond a simple food/work/sex mentality, and it appeared as though the inhabitants of the third planet from the sun might finally have done just that.

Many of his brethren had argued for contact when they fired a metal shell to their moon, but Vikroth was concerned – and had a right to be. Fewer and fewer spacecraft were coming from the planet now, as if they were regressing instead of moving forward. Of course, when his ship slipped by a probe on the outer edge of the solar system, Vikroth began to give the humans slightly more credit. Perhaps they had made some progress.

He slammed a fist into the control arm of his chair – now the bipedal fools were ignoring every message he sent. Telewave, Megasonic, even outdated radio had been tried, each carrying the standard galactic code. Of course, the humans didn't know the code, but it should have been obvious even to the most mildly interested observer. Perhaps no one was listening?

Part of his instincts told him to simply turn around and head home. His tour was nearly over and his brood would be pained by his long absence. Still, as one who had kept a careful eye on this planet for Spans and Spans, he had a vested interest in confirming just how far they had managed to come.

“Rith,” he said, and the smaller creature appeared beside him. He had the same six limbs as Vikroth but a slightly slimmer torso and carried his long form closer to the ground. Technically they were of different species but the two kinds had been working together for so long that aside from the stature and color variances – Rith's white to his own gold – few crews even noticed.

“I'm going down there.” Rith's displeasure was obvious and his colored darkened a shade, streaks of grey appearing along his slim neck. “Don't argue with me, please. I doubt they have anything that could hurt me, and I'm not planning an extended stay.”

Rith nodded sharply, immaculately placed head-feathers bobbing quickly forward. Some on the crew snickered at Rith for his dedication to visual perfection but Vikroth found it refreshing. The younger one was a cut above most in his rank, someone Vikroth knew he could trust.

“Good.” Vikroth rose and motioned for Rith to take his seat. “If you don't hear from me in four Units, you take the ship and leave. Do you understand?”

Rith nodded, but this time that wasn't good enough. Words were law, but gestures could be misinterpreted. “I know what you're doing, Rith, and I appreciate it, but you need to say the word. If you do not hear from me you will take the ship and leave. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” The word was quiet, but that was good enough.

***

The surface of the planet was barren, at least by Vikroth's standards. Here and there a larger building reached for the sky but stopped before it had truly achieved any measure of height. In choosing his landing zone, he'd seen acres of poorly-used space with tiny domiciles stretched out so far from one another it was a wonder any of these creatures ever felt a connection. How could they live so distantly, so spread out?

Vikroth shook his head. It wasn't his job to judge their ways, merely to evaluate their technical progress. If they'd come far enough, he could attempt some form of meaningful contact. If not, they would have to wait until the next time one of his ships came through.

He'd chosen a landing site in one of the urban areas that featured a large satellite transmitter. Fortunately he had a good grasp of his planet's own history and knew that at one time even they had looked to the stars, pointing great mechanical devices out into the night and hoping for an answer.

No one noticed his arrival or interfered with his movements; the eyesight of the humans was so incredibly narrow in its viable spectrum that he had no trouble shifting just out of their range.

It took him less than an hour to find two of the creatures sitting in front of a large monitor, arguing.

“I'm telling you Henry – there's nothing out there!” The human that had spoken had dark grey head crowning and was taller than his companion, with a face lined by deep crevasses and grooves. From the little he knew about the bipedal species, that meant this one was either very young or very old.

“There is, Walt!” The other was shorter and had far more mass, especially around the middle, along with a brownish colored, furry lump on his head. “Last night – 0300 hours – look at that transmission!”

Walt glanced at the data on the screen and Vikroth could see that Henry had isolated the communications pulse the ship had sent.

Walk snorted loudly. “Hah! That's just background noise, Henry, and you know it. Probably an increase in solar radiation or something that's pushing its intensity up. It's natural.”

“What about this?” Henry pointed at another display on the screen. “There was a displacement – something's out there, just above the North Pole.”

Walt leaned in and considered the data for moment, then clasped his hands in front of him. “Faulty equipment. That change is barely big enough to register and you know as well as I do that we've been having trouble with that array.”

Henry's face fell, but the human finally nodded.

Vikroth was stunned. What kind of species gave up to easily when confronted with a problem? What kind of intelligent life dismissed the signs so quickly?

He would have to try something more direct. Glancing at his wrist monitor he saw that his vocal frequency was far too high for the two in front of him to understand. Adjusting it that low would be impossible without more serious technical help, but he would likely be able to lower it just enough that they could hear him.

“Hello,” he spoke softly.

The two in front of him sat straight up, glancing around the room with worried eyes.

“Henry, did you just...” Walt trailed off.

“No,” Henry said, face flushed and eyes scanning the room, “I didn't. Let's get a cup of coffee.”

The two stood, Walt picking up the conversation again as they left. “You know what they say about this part of the building, right? Build on an old burial -”

“Stop it!” Henry's voice was sharp. “We're both just overworked. Let's go.”

Vikroth had been in space many Spans, seen countless races come and go under the oppression and benevolent rule of empires and alliances, but such active ignorance was beyond his capability to comprehend.

Returning his modulation to normal, he spoke into his communicator. “Rith, I'm returning. It's time to go home. There is, as yet, no intelligent life here.”

These humans were incredibly dense.

-D

Story #34 - Faced With Vision

Faced With Vision

It wasn't that he minded killing, it was that he didn't do it without reason.

Another soldier charged him after seeing his companion fall and he simply ducked out of the way of a cross-body swing and then whipped his hand in a wide arc to take the burly defender in the side of the head.

Not killing people was the preferable option, especially if it still managed to accomplish his aims. His superiors – those who thought themselves in that role, at any rate – disapproved of any mission where he wasn't willing to make a grand pile of bodies as a testament to his skill.

Fortunately, that same skill coupled with a complete lack of understanding about how a skinny young man could be the force of nature he'd become made his commanders wary and it was he who called the shots when it came to any kind of combative outing.

Truthfully, he had little knowledge of his own origins but knew enough to see that he was clearly different from those around him. Speed, strength, stamina - they had all been enhanced in him, though he'd call it perfectly natural. He'd never known another way, never had to feel the slow plodding of they pace they all walked, never had to know the terrifying desire for sleep they all felt.

They assumed he spent an hour or two each night in bed in his tent before he took up his rounds again, but they were only half right. An hour or two away from the staring eyes of the other men was a boon, but this “sleep” was not something he required or desired. The thought of turning off his brain, of leaving himself completely open to attack or poison just didn't seem sensible so he didn't do it. Why put himself at risk?

Of course, he kept that knowledge to himself.

In a nation at war, the generals would use every tool they had to come out on top and if they knew he needed no sleep, could go virtually without rest, then he would never have any. Besides, he needed time to think, time to consider his options.

It might be time to leave.

Another group of soldiers had spotted him and charged. For this mission he wore the tabard of his home country; the generals wanted these men to know who was attacking them, to know that they had an unstoppable force that could be unleashed at any time.

Dust puffed around the small group as they came, announcing their intended movements before they even came within striking distance. It was all so obvious.

A quick step to the side and the sword swing of the first man met only empty air. Pivoting on his heel he was around the grizzled solider and a driving his fist into the back of his head before the other four in the group even had time to react. Charging forward, he knocked them to the ground as though they were no more than rasta-sticks in a hard wind. Even only a matter of three steps gave him a speed and weight no man could expect, and these four were certainly no different.

They struggled but he aimed carefully, lashing out with hands and feet. Four precise strikes and he was done – five more defenders down but still breathing – a testament to his skill and restraint.

He'd done what the generals wanted; the camp was in chaos, but he had aims of his own. There were rumors that this commander, more so than any others that had come to the border, was a man of Vision.

Few enough such men remained in the world that it was worth looking into, and if the commander's battle record was any indication, finding out now just what he was might be critically important. Visioned men were typically of military stock, though some few did end up in thieving or the mercantile sphere, though those two amounted to nearly the same thing.

In some respects, he was just curious about a man who might possess something outside of the ordinary, someone who might be, in some small way, like himself. He'd been given speed, strength and stamina of a kind frightening to the average individual and that roused a desperate desire to control in those with power, but his sight remained unchanged. It was said that those with Vision could see the smallest detail or the largest battlefield without leaving their tents and could easily command armies of thousands or tens of thousands as simply as they would command one hundred.

The Protector had been a man of Vision, or so the legends claimed, but he had never put much stock in legends, since a creation such as himself was never mentioned, and he had to believe he wasn't the first.

It didn't take him long to locate the commander's tent. He considered a more secretive option than with the guards – with luck, he could scale the supply station that lay behind the tent and simply wait for anything of interest to happen, likely when the sun set, and he'd be able to get close enough to hear what was being said.

Still, he preferred meetings of face to those of fortune so he simply strolled forward, cracking the heads of the two med guarding the tent together and leaving them in a heap before stepping inside.

The commander had his back to the door; a foolish move on the frontier, but luckily for the man his death as not on the agenda.

“Ah,” the commander said, turning, “I was wondering when you'd get here. We have a number of things to discuss.”

Gazing into mirrors wasn't something he spent a great deal of time doing either on the field or back at the Capital, but he knew his own face and bearing well enough. How in the Protector's Eyes had this man managed to steal it and wear it for himself?

- D

Story 33 Notes

Today's story is more about characterization than plot, about the old man's life and how it has affected his choices in the present moment. I've been doing a lot of reading recently and come to the conclusion that character-driven plots are a great deal more fun that those merely moved along by set pieces, but I've found that writing great characters is a hell of a lot more difficult than writing great scenes.

On that note, I've finished the second book of the Mistborn trilogy and while I'm still impressed with Sanderson's characters, I thought the book itself was fairly weak. In some respects, I felt that the character development traced the same path as in the first volume, and at the same time found myself skipping over great action set pieces because I was a touch bored with the whole story.

I'm going to keep reading - I'm hoping this is a Lord of the Rings "Two Towers" type of situation, and I have great faith that Sanderson will pull it all together in the third book.

- D

Story #33 - Choices

Choices

The small cup of steaming broth sat on the edge of my swing-in bedside table and just far enough out of reach that I could smell it but had no hope of getting it. Straining, I tried one more time to swipe at it with a bony arm, only to upset its delicate balance and send some of the thin liquid slopping over the side of the white ceramic bowl.

I frowned; I didn't like asking for help, even if it was right in front of me. Even if I wouldn't call it “help”.

“Amy,” I wheezed, gesturing in her direction, and my youngest daughter turned, straight brown hair bobbing as she spun on one kitten heel. She was halfway into her thirties now but I still thought of her as my baby girl, my sweet little one who could do no wrong.

With an exasperated sigh she stepped in, swatted the bowl closer to my grasping hand and went back to her oh-so-important cell phone conversation.

I knew what it was about, of course – me. Greg, my middle son, was on the line and they were discussing just what they were going to do with dear old dad now that the recession had well and truly hit and they had no more money to keep me in a home. The home was nice enough, if you didn't mind the overly aggressive nurses, the ones would were as fake as those chests you see on women these days and the ones who just didn't care. They were actually my favorite, the ones who had just given up, given in to the drudgery of their job. Days of cleaning up other people's shit seemed an apt metaphor for life.

But now the money had run out. The three of them – Amy, Greg and Dan – had taken turns paying for my care in the years since I'd declined, each grumbling about the expense but doing what they thought was right. It was funny, in a sad little way – I'd never see the one that paid for the home that year, only the other two at the obligatory Christmas and Easter visits. It was as though whoever was paying had divested themselves of any responsibility for me beyond my immediate care – their money had been spent, and their presence in my life was something they were unwilling to shell out.

I couldn't fault them, not really. Their mom had been the one at home, the one who really looked after them. For me it was always another job, another opportunity, another way to make money and stay away. I was their best teacher in this – just send money and hope that was enough, hope that they'd still love you. They did, but more out of societal obligation than any real feeling.

There wasn't much for me to do but sip my broth and listen, something Amy assumed was beyond my capabilities. They'd know if they bothered to ask; my eyesight was failing by my hearing was perfect, and even at a whisper I had no problems hearing my youngest daughter in the small room.

“I know Greg, but it's not like Tom and I are flush with cash!” I knew that she'd fallen on hard times, but they'd obviously been harder than I thought.

“Their rates are going up here, Greg – ask Dan about it. Even together, I doubt the three of us can find the money. One of us is going to have to take him.” There was a pause and I could hear muted mumblings on the other end of the line.

“I don't like it either!” She exclaimed, then quickly glanced at me and moved a few feet farther from the bed. “I know you don't want him, but your house is bigger than ours. Look, let's all meet next week at my place and we'll hash this out. Bring the kids and I'll get Dan to do the same. No sense in having it be an entirely wasted day.”

There were a few more volleys, a few more exchanges of words that I didn't hear, but they really didn't matter. It wasn't as though this was a surprise – more of a relief, in some respects. Palming the pill bottle I'd filched when the nurse wasn't looking, I popped the top and downed the twenty or so inside along with one large gulp of broth.

I'd stayed with Amy's mom not because we loved each other anymore but because I knew what it was like to be a possession tossed around between homes, between parents that looked at you as a bargaining chip, a lever to hurt each other or a way to prove a point. What I'd wanted hadn't mattered; friends, schools, growth had been put on hold while I was quietly passed around and everyone told me how I was lucky because my parents “loved me so much”.

I had an hour or so before the pills took hold; a blissful sleep followed by a cessation of function, something I'd been frankly dreaming about for years.

Amy snapped her phone shut and turned to me, a too-bright smile playing across her face. “I'll be back next week, dad. We'll get this all figured out.” She leaned in and gave me a quick peck on the cheek and then disappeared out the doorway, phone already out and dialing a new number.

She hadn't asked how I was, which was no surprise. She hadn't noticed what I'd done, which was no wonder.

Choice is a powerful thing, one I was forced to give up long ago at the hands of a system that saw numbers more than names, and it was something I'd be damned if I'd give up again.

The kids would be free to do as they wanted, knowing they'd all done “the right thing”, and I'd go out knowing I went the only way that mattered: by my own choice.

- D

Story #32 - Imperfect Copy

Imperfect Copy

“They’re monsters.” Dr. Jack Mnado’s voice was hard.

Jates Lamond had to agree with the word use, though he doubted he and Mnado has the same definition in mind. Mnado meant that his creations were hideous freaks, slices of nature that should not exist. He was thinking more in terms of the word’s root meaning – miracle.

Pulling the shade-screen closed, Jates stepped away from the incubation chamber and moved for his small oak desk, Mnado trailing along behind, head shaking. Seating himself, he waited for the older man to sit as well and then simply let the silence wash over them both, scanning the lab with a sense of satisfaction.

If Mnado wanted to say something further, the iron-haired supervisor would do so soon enough. For the moment, Jates was content to survey his steel and sterile kingdom, a small fiefdom he had been able to carve out at the University thanks to exceptional research skills, an ability to stay under the bureaucratic radar and just a touch of madness that made a good scientist great.

Well – more than a touch, perhaps.

When he looked back to the man opposite him, he could see the expected, the predicted. He could see the concerns Jack had harbored all along, finally coming to the surface. There was a hint of betrayal there and if he wasn’t mistaken…envy?

“Do you know why I hired you, Jates?” There was no anger in the other man’s voice, just a sense of resignation.

He shrugged. There were any number of reasons; he was one of the best in his field, constantly pushing the envelope of what was possible, but he was also known for an ability to generate profitable and stable research for a school, keeping funding lines secured and drawing in precocious undergrads.

“I hired you because I knew you’d doing something like this if you were left alone long enough,” Mnado said quietly, “but I’d hoped it wouldn’t be exactly this.”

He bristled, but fought it down. Jack wasn’t questioning the work itself, just what he perceived to be the moral issues surrounding it. That was the job of a good supervisor – to check up on what was being done around them, to be the sober second thought.

Still – couldn’t the other man see? Couldn’t he understand?

It hadn’t really been that difficult once he put his mind to it. Genetic techniques were advanced enough that he’d been able to make a human hybrid easily enough. His Hybans, as he’d come to call them, would have all of the intelligence of a human being without the pesky need to conquer or kill. He’d seen their future for years, long before he had the technology to create them. They would be educators, scholars like him but with an increased life span, greater mental capacity and a voracious desire for knowledge. They might not look like much, writhing around under the incubator light, but within a month they’d be alert enough to start moving.

If Jack would let them.

Jates didn’t see any point in responding; his defense was in his work, not his word, and he knew Jack well enough to know the man had already made a decision.

“Keep me informed,” Jack said, rising, “I won’t have this go south on my watch.”

***

Twenty-eight days.

Even Jates had been surprised by their progress and now, watching the strongest of the first batch at work, gave himself a mental pat on the back.

Prime had been the most adventuresome of the group and six days ago Jates had lifted him from the rapidly shrinking incubator space and set him to work in the lab. His thin, grayish body resembled that of a human but lacked the identifying features that marked out one primate from another. No hair marred his form and his large, multi-faceted eyes bore no color, but had the ability to see in far more detail than his creator. Each Hyban was distinct but identifying them purely based on physical characteristics was impossible.

Looking down at his own flabby form, Jates felt a surge of satisfaction. Getting rid of jealously and ambition among the test group had been one of his main objectives. Time would tell how Hybans chose to interact with one another.

Prime couldn’t speak – yet – but could understand simple commands. Jates had created them with a stealer aural capacity and only a half-day of explanation had been required for Prime to comprehend what he was required to do in the lab. With absolute sincerity, Jates could say that this single, month old creation was better than all of the lab assistants he’d ever been given.

He’d have to call Jack in once Prime was working on his own studies – two weeks more and Jates was certain he could get the Hyban up to speed on biology and dissection.

He smiled. He hadn’t enjoyed his work this much in years.

***

Prime and Duo were more like a force of nature than simple scientists, but they devoured knowledge as though it were the only thing keeping them alive. They required little in the way of other sustenance – he’d created them to run on the equivalent of a one-thousand calorie meal a week – and they seemed content to hunch over their experiments, muttering in a dialect only they understood.

They’d made a mess of the lab but could clean it up just as quickly when they were through with their day. It was hard to tell when they were going to stop – one of them would look at the other, something odd would pass between them and they would drop to the tiled floor, snoring lightly.

Both of his creations had proven exceptionally bright in all aspects of basic science but Primo especially was fascinated by internal biology. He had easily devoured every text in the lab and those from the library that Jates had brought, and the University was beginning to wonder at the number of specimens he was ordering for dissection.

He glanced up from his next requisition form to find them both snoring quietly. The others would be ready soon and he could get Jack back in here for another visit. The man had been suitably impressed with what he’d seen the week before, and that was merely the beginning.

Yawning, Jates realized it was long after midnight. He could go home, but that would mean treading across the lab and running the risk of waking Duo and Prime. No, he decided, his chair was comfortable enough – he would go home when there wasn’t so much to do.

…

It was the cold metal under his head that woke him.

He was still in the lab, that much was certain, but his perspective had changed from the night before. He moved to rise, but…couldn’t.

A sound to his left caught his attention and his eyes followed, finding the lank form of Primo standing by his head, small cloth in one gray hand.

He was in the lab, sure enough – strapped to a work bench.

Glancing down he saw Duo at his midsection, a shining steel scalpel in her hand.

“No!” He said it sharply enough that both brought their eyes to his face. “Let me go. Now.”

An indistinct bit of chatter passed between them and then Primo spoke, haltingly. “Need. Knowing. Study…incomplete.”

Jates shook his head. There was no malice in this, but no morality either. He’d assumed their drive for knowledge would be his protection; their lack of human drives an easy fix for the violence that plagued his species.

“Thank you,” Prime said, and there was a simple sincerity in his voice.

Jates Lamond struggled but it was no use; the cloth covered his mouth, its sickly sweet scent pulling him under, down into the abyss.

Knowledge came with a price.


- D

One Month Of Stories

It's been a month now - a story every single day for 31 days and I have to say I'm fairly impressed with myself. I'm 1/12 of the way through to my goal and although I'm not exactly churning gout Pulitzer-prize winning material, I find myself getting far more comfortable with creating fiction on the fly.

Some days, it's a struggle just to put a word to paper and some days it comes steamrolling out - I've mentioned the process and its oddities before. Overall, though, I'm enjoying the exercise and I appreciate the few of you that are reading along.

I'm also planning on submitting another novel for potential publication within the next week or so - stay tuned for details of the next rejection and subsequent (eventual) triumph!

- D

Story #31 - Zuggers

Zuggers

A part of me would like to find my mother, look her square in the face and tell her she was wrong.

Of course, that would mean going outside and somehow locating the shallow, unmarked grave she and the rest of my family were buried in.

I have a fairly good idea of where I put them all – in a pit I dug by hand in the backyard – but finding “our house” isn’t really something I can do anymore – the Zuggers have done their job well. This city is nothing like I remember it.

Funny what you do remember, though, after an apocalypse. I’d heard rumblings about it on the Internet, small drips and dribbles about some cataclysmic event they all said was coming. It sounded like bullshit to me, like swine flu or SARS or one of the other big “world killers” that was supposed to wipe us out.

Then somebody said “zombies” and the whole thing went off the goddamn chain. Sarcasm of levels unmeasured shot out over the ‘net mocking the Z’rs for all they were worth, giving them the gears about having watched too many movies and hoping for some sort of crazy, mind-bending apocalypse. It was funny stuff – funnier than the classes I was supposed to be taking.

Of course, it wasn’t so funny when I got home.

Mom had been all over me the night before – comparing (without judging, of course) the accomplishments of my brother and the accolades of my sister with my own meager efforts. The whole family was a bunch of over-achievers, and I just didn’t fit the mold. Of course, that wasn’t the only thing – or even the most important thing. I was single.

Somehow, that always seemed to personally offensive to mom, as if by being alone I mocked all the times she called me “cute” or told me I was “so handsome”. Fact was I just didn’t have any interest, in either sex.

Honestly, she would have been fine with my swinging either way – she was just determined to make me happy, no matter what I had to say about the matter. The truth was – the deep, dark, dismal truth – that I was happy alone, happy to wander around in my own mind, no odd expectations or strange requests from significant others to deal with.

I’d even made up my mind that day to tell a lie to mom, tell her I’d met a girl in class just to give some breathing room, some space for air, but I didn’t get the chance.

Odd as it sounds, even now, the Zombies attacked. Mom, dad, both siblings and most of the neighbors on the street were dead in first wave.

Those of us that made it to safe houses stopped calling them Zombies a few days after the attacks came, when it became clear they were nothing like the things we’d seen in movies. They were humans, still, their skin and hair – even clothes – just like our own. The only thing that set them apart was a stuttering gait and a tendency to mutter one single syllable over and over again.

Zug.

Zug zug.

Leaving the safe house meant you could hear them everywhere, snuffling in the darkness and the light, an omnipresent aural assault that left you wondering why you’d left at all.

During the first few days the government tried to respond, tried to stem the tide of whatever the hell it was that had caused all this, but they were just too slow. Killing Zuggers was possible but it took more force than you’d think to split their skulls or pierce their chests, and though the corpses from that first day never rose again, subsequent victims would only stay dead for a few days before they too quietly started Zugging.

By the time the first week was out, we’d begun to care less about where the Zuggers had come from and more about just staying alive. The safe houses were never meant for the purposes we were putting them to – they were old apartment buildings and community halls – anything with a defensible entrance and a way to keep survivors close together. The problem, though, was food. We were running out and though the Zuggers didn’t pay a lick of attention to grocery stores, going out meant a risk we could ill afford, even in large groups.

Of course, we had to suck it up and just do it, and it was one of those first daytime forays when we noticed something odd – even in a world of mumbling automatons. The Zuggers had a tendency, a desire to pick certain people over others, in some cases leaving a group alone once they’d finished off their grisly targets.

It wasn’t until I found myself making a quick run across the alley to a nearby convenience story with Mac and his girlfriend Jess that I discovered what the Zuggers were really after.

Mac and Jess were one of those couples that just seemed perfect for each other, to a point that anyone else around them felt slightly nauseated at their affection. They probably hadn’t been this bad pre-Zug, but with death on the horizon every morning they’d started being overly lovey-dovey all the damn time.

We’d almost made it back to the safe house when the Zuggers came swarming out of a darkened alcove, five of them together in a sweaty, writhing bunch. Mac and I had no warning and Jess was dead before we’d even turned to run. Screaming epithets, Mac died shortly after and I stood, fists clenched and mind void of all thought save for images of dirty Zugger hands digging into my flesh. The lead one moved and I started forward, determined to go out with a fight –

And they moved past me, moved by like I didn’t even exist.

I was beneath their notice, under the radar – not what they were looking for.

I’ve confirmed it, now. Everyone else in the safe house is single, and not one of us had anything on the horizon before the Zug hit.

How a race of love-eating shamblers was birthed I’ll never know, but I know this: my Mom was wrong, just this once.


- D

Story #30 - That L Word

That L Word

At a certain point, lying simply became my truth.

Saying exactly when wouldn't have meaning; from where I stand, it simply is – there's no need for dates or times, for the application of specifics to what is as general a process as one can imagine.

It started with small things, as is often the case – little things I cared nothing for and would make no difference to those who heard.

“What time is it?” They'd say.

“Four-thirty,” I'd reply, though quarter after five was the reality. They'd think my watch off or that LED clock wrong. My words had no impact on them, but slipped into me a feeling of power, of swimming upstream against a current of uniform uniqueness, a world that had me as special as those around, never letting me fall but building me up so high the ground shrouded itself in dreams of the future I was meant to have.

Lying was simple. Lying was easy. It made others happy; it made them sad. It set me apart, gave me something all my own. My lies were infantile, in the beginning, mere shadows of the truth they were meant to represent. They took what existed and tweaked it, curved it to fly across the plate of my listener such that it could never be declared foul. Just enough truth seasoned with a dash of lie and a delicacy emerged, one those around me were only too eager to consume.

These words, these twisting of the absolute were everywhere; I was merely doing my part to add to the confusion. I learned quickly just how much we believe to be true, uncluttered by politik or fear is in fact a maladaption, a rewriting of straight lines for those that lazily circle our subconscious, telling us everything will be alright.

We're conditioned to expect lies, to accept them rather than “cause a fuss”, to enshrine them as they come pouring out of the mouths of lovers, or friends, of the world as a great hulking beast. I'm simply doing my part, you see, to deliver the quota of lies you expect, the broad-based truth twisting you have come to know from everyone around you. I am truth's constant companion, its keenest student and its greatest muse.

I've learned to be more subtle. To craft lies that are masterworks in themselves, tiny stories wrapped in large maneuverings layered upon years of dedicated indoctrination. My words ring true, truer than those that would actually speak of what you desire – something I think you know with each one you accept, each one you cradle and caress in your mind's arms. You know as well as I when I speak against the grain, when I seek to lead you down the path but you go willingly, joyfully.

Is it your fault? Are you to blame for my words, for your foolish desire to listen? Hardly.

I'm the one choosing, speaking the words into the air. Your ears are simply receivers, your brain simply a space for my spoken seedlings to flourish, to take root and grow. You are the field that lies fallow, starving for the corn of truth until I come along, planting choking weeds, but you are too desperate, too starved to know the difference.

No one speaks in absolutes. Governments equivocate, commercials alliterate and people elucidate, but all without really saying anything. You're given a spread of useless verbiage, each broken syllable reassuring you that all will be well without convey just how it may be achieved, just how you will be saved from the malady that ails you.

I offer fact. Opinion. Hard evidence to support what you know you wish you would hear. I offer words of specificity, words of black and white and red that speak plainly and crash their colors 'cross the page. You never have to wonder what you get, what you take away when you speak to me. I offer, I deliver.

I am the man who runs the store down the street – the one who promises everything but can deliver nothing. I am the company you search out online - “best prices, great delivery” - I take your money and run. I am the love you lost, the one that assured you “it isn't you”.

I am a father, a mother, a brother, a son.

I am a word, an image, a sound, a choice.

Lying is not an art, as many would have you believe – a grand skill which can be perfected for the amusement of the speaker and to the chagrin of those who listen. It is a facet, fact, and faucet of the human condition, of the life we choose to lead. It is intrinsic, a value we term a vice, a virtue we make a vulture.

It defines us, separates us, moves us to new heights and I embody it, exploit it and deliver it – just as you desire.

The lie is in the truth, inherent in its words and meanings, sandwiched deeply between its crusts of faith. It gives stability to the tipped, weight to the porous, and fixation to the swung. It is more than the sum of its parts, more than the fact that gives it birth.

You will come to me, and drink deeply, taking in what I provide as the sustenance you need. Truth will cry out, “but I am here,” and you will ignore it, seeing the lie as the liberated and the twist as the tangible.

Do I say this to scare you, to cow you into accepting what you must and running from what you know you will seek? Not at all.

I speak for the words left unheard, the lies left unfurled.

I lie, and you listen.

I lie, and you like.

I lie, and you learn.

It is what I am, what I do and what you need.

What more would I need?

I am happy.

- D

Story #29 - Put It In Park

Put It In Park

I can't be sure where they're taking me – this route is unfamiliar.

While I've tried to outrun them, common sense demands that I return no matter the situation as they hold my only means of nutrition, my only way of staying alive. It's not as though they've treated me badly, but some of their number are less inclined to acknowledge my existence at all.

The path itself is not unpleasant, though I can't make out any landmarks I recognize, any places that I could dip into the woods and never return. I might be able to forage for food for a time but there are others on this route that would give me away, things no more than beasts that would howl out my presence to anyone who would listen.

I'm being as careful as I can now; in my first weeks with this group I attacked several of their number and was made to spend time chained up in a filthy dungeon, fed well but alone.

My only thought is to focus on the task at hand, to continue moving forward and attempt to be as positive as I can. Each step I take at their command, but each meter I move makes me stronger, better able to resit should I so choose.

I must admit, however, that my instinct for freedom, my desire to be independent is fading. Each raging stance I take, each defiant sound I make leaves me weakened and the group that claims me is only too willing to exploit that weakness. I've struggled with the fact that I often feel like giving up, like letting the lethargy that has been creeping up on me win. Perhaps it would be simpler, perhaps it would give me a measure of peace.

This turn is familiar; this roadway something I'm sure I've seen. I've done my best to create a map of this area in my mind but I'm often taken to unfamiliar places before they set me free for brief moments, knowing that my possibility of escape is so minimal as to be ignored. Often, I am allowed to move about without any bonds save the identification they have wrapped around my throat and in truth they are probably right to let me go. I am desperately in need of moments to run, to imagine I am without them for periods of time, even if I cannot escape them altogether, and they seem to know this.

I'd call my captors cruel but that does not appear to be a description to best suit them. Some are – the smaller ones, at least – but some try to make my captivity as comforting as possible. These I can understand, even empathize with, but I cannot give in.

There – up ahead! A break in the fence, a way that perhaps my captors do not yet know. Running through is a risk – others of my kind are nearby and may attempt to raise an alarm as I go.

Quickly now – I just need a few more feet. The large one isn't looking – if I simply -

Ugh.

I'm in the dirt again, facedown.

Somehow they've attached me, tethered me to their hands. I often wonder at this object's existence, where it comes from and how I am never able to predict its coming. Each day, I am sure I have been granted a respite from it but then a movement, a shift in body position shows me that I have been wrong.

I struggle, anger burning hot in my veins. Can't these fools see that I will never be broken, never be cowed?

A heavy weight is upon me, a soothing tone drifts to my ears.

“It's OK, it's OK.”

How is it OK? How is this a feasible, tenable situation? How can I endure?

Strangely, the weight calms me, slows the thudding in my chest and restless movements of my legs. I have noticed this recently, a Stockholm-like desire to simply let go, to endure what I have been given and bear it with pride. Perhaps, just to make it simpler...

I relax and the weight is removed, a thin hand coming down to gently touch my head. Anger flares but I push it down – this one is the best of the lot and is trying his best to ensure that I am not mistreated.

He pulls gently on my tether and I move forward, few other options presenting themselves. My brethren look on, faces slack and eyes vacant as I pass by. Not one cries out, not one darts to my rescue, though I can be accused of the same. We are a broken people.

Perhaps we enjoy it. Perhaps we must be controlled for the sake of our captors. We are certainly more mobile than they, more agile and more determined, and their fear of us is understandable. Some choose not to take us in and I can see the fear in their eyes as my kind passes them by, see the quick steps they take to avoid us, the shuddering breaths they draw until we are gone.

This clearing looks vaguely familiar – perhaps we've been here before?

Beside me, the captor's footsteps are speeding up, his body slanting forward. He is eager to reach his destination. I keep pace, my struggle momentarily dampened. There will be another day, another struggle to endure, though I worry my will is failing, my desire to resist giving out.

A vehicle looms ahead – a thing of blue and and black shining softly in lowering sun. Part of it shifts, splitting away from the body and an opening at its end is revealed, a hole large enough that I could easily fit through.

The car.

We're back at the car.

I drive forward, shoulders bunching and my master keeps pace. We're almost there. Almost there.

A quick leap takes me up and into the car and I land gracefully on the padding placed there for me.

“Good boy.” My master rubs my head affectionately. “We'll come back to the park again tomorrow.”

- D

What I'm Reading: The Mistborn Trilogy

Reading makes for better writing, or so they say, and I can certainly say that I'm more inspired to write the more I read.

I recently finished the newest Wheel of Time book, "Towers of Midnight" by Robert Jordan and Brandon Sanderson and was generally pleased with the overall effort. Sanderson has done a masterful job of taking over where Jordan left off though there are a number of scenes, most notably those involving Mat, that don't quite ring true.

As a result of that read I decided to pick up the Mistborn trilogy and so far have been reasonably impressed. The magic system isn't as ridiculous as it sounds when you initially hear about it (burning metals in your stomach?) and the characters are well-developed. I'm halfway through the second book and while I'm not liking it quite as much as the first, Sanderson has a distinctive style that I quite enjoy.

It doesn't involve as many descriptions of female clothing as Jordan's works, thank god, but still has several strong female characters and host of interesting male ones. His take on the standard "hero/quest" paradigm is really interesting and that in combination with good writing makes this one a steal of deal and one I tend to read for far too long far too late.

Hope is, someday, someone will say that about my work.

- D

Story #28 - Agreement Made

Agreement Made

Pastoral was the word most used to describe it – those that passed through, impressed by the town’s nestled valley location, its gentle green ringing hills and crystal clear streams. It was a paradise in a land that had known little in the way of dreams, a fantasy for all those that dared to approach.

And yet most didn’t stay. They came for a day, a week, perhaps a month but then found pressing engagements elsewhere, calls in other parts of the land.

Wilton Phist couldn’t understand it, frankly. He’d grown up in the village, rarely daring to leave the valley and confront the “civilized” peoples that lived above. It was hardly forbidden; the elders permitted him, or any citizen of the village, to come and go as they pleased, but he had no desire or inclination to leave. Why would he?

The village had been good to him, never demanding more than he could give. He had an interest in art and the elders had encouraged him, brining him all of the materials he needed to start his own small craftsman’s shop. Now he was chief architect to the town, responsible for the upkeep of the hall and church as well as building any new homes that visitors might choose to inhabit, though there had only been a handful of those in his time.

He sighed as he watched another one go. A medicine man, this time, who said he’d never stay no matter what they offered him. He’d seemed so angry, so aggressive, so unlike the man he’d been when he came to town. Wilton could never fathom what happened to these men and women – children even – that they left in such fear.

Shaking his head, he noticed the sun had climbed just above the valley’s rim. A quick glance to the watch at his waist told him he’d better hurry. As much as the elders respected the work he’d done, he was no more given leeway than anyone else. He must do his best to uphold the Agreement.

Walking swiftly along the wide main street Wilton nodded to the few passersby who were out. Old Lem was there, of course, sitting on a stone bench near the Statue as he was each and every day. Even the pitted stone of the long seat seemed younger, softer than Old Lem. He’d lived his entire life in the village, working first as a laborer and eventually becoming the town’s long-serving elder. The years had taken their toll, however, and though Lem kept his health, he’d lost both his eyes, an ear, and four fingers on each hand.

Wilton nodded to the man regardless, though he knew Old Lem had no chance to see. Respect for his betters, respect for men dedicated to maintaining the Agreement was something he would never lose.

The hall loomed large in front of him sooner he thought it would. Even after all this time, five payments made and the Agreement always honored, he still felt a thrill of nervousness each time he approached.

Tanis, the newest secretary at the hall, did not speak as he entered. Words were unnecessary – he had been summoned and arrived on time. He checked his watch again

Exactly on time.

Balling his right hand into a fist, Wilton did his best to store the feeling, to remember and identify each finger on the hand as it curled inward, short nails marking scores across the fleshy surface. He’d survived without an index finger on his left, but his right had always been so dominant, so deft.

A deep breath and he swept into the Agreement office. There was little need for decoration here, small point in having it well-fashioned or extravagant. It held only what was needed – three elders and the pit, a solid stone cylinder rising four feet from the floor, seemingly carved from a single piece of rock. Legend had it the pit existed before the village, though some stories marked it as a function of the village’s formation. Regardless of its place in time, however, it existed. More importantly, it commanded the dedication of each man and woman in the village once every decade.

Wilton stepped forward, right hand out, palm up. Ten years had passed but still his hand shook, still his feet were unsteady.

As he reached the pit elder Rahiv took his wrist, guiding him into position. The man’s grip was warm and firm, a reassuring touch in what was otherwise a cold and ugly room. Beside Rahiv was Myrs, the youngest of the elders. The scared duty always fell to the youngest – something new elders both feared and embraced.

Myrs dipped a hand quickly into his robe, drawing the ceremonial blade with a dull scrape and Wilton shuddered. Part of the Agreement was that the blade could not be cleaned, could not be altered in any way, and Wilton Phist found himself facing the three elders, hand in their grip and a crusted knife slipping toward his flesh.

It was all over in a moment.

Wilton cried out, pain searing as the knife sheared of his right middle finger. Myrs was well-trained, he needed only one long cut to do the job and the finger fell, spitting blood as it plummeted into the pit.

A deep-toned snarl drifted up from the opening – the Beast had been sated.

The third elder, Umoa, handed Wilton a towel and waved him from the room. Help would be waiting down the hallway; their current medicine man was old but still had one eye left. His stitches were not what they once had been – a shame the other could not have been convinced to stay – but they would suffice.

It was a small price to pay for peace. A small price to keep nations and their politics away from the gentle streets and flowing breezes of the village. A small price to honor the agreement, to keep the village safe.

Pastoral was the word most used to describe it. Most did not stay.

- D

Story #27 - Sounder

Sounder

He could hear the ice cracking as he made his way along the city's main canal. Temperatures had been unseasonably cold even for the Northlands and a route that typically saw over two hundred ships per week had effectively been halted.

The canal itself was long and winding; snaking in and out of small stopping points around the city, its blue and silver stonework a shining testament to the Pyol stonemasons who had created it over five hundred years ago. Even their work was beginning to suffer, however, as the climate swung in a lazy arc, first chilling the bones of Treldor and then mitigating just enough for the city and its shivering citizenry to take a collective breath.

Pulling his cape tighter around him, Lars made quickly for his destination. The bridge over the canal was ice-slicked, something most would avoid for fear of a bad fall, but he had no time. He had debated responding to the summons of the High Call at all, but finally decided he'd rather face them head on than spend the next three months dodging assassins. Treldor was known for its back alleys and high rooftops, all excellent places for a well-trained hired blade to take his life in the night.

Or worse, during the day.

Underneath the bridge the ice creaked as though a giant held it tight, crushing it into submission, and he jumped slightly, thoughts of assassins throwing him off balance. Thin, bony arms shot out to the side and Lars gripped the railing of the canal bridge, breathing heavily but still moving. Better late than never but better to never be late at all, when it came to the Call.

Finally back on the relative safety of the street he took a moment to compose himself. The Call would want details – names and dates, profits and losses – something he could provide so long as he was calm. All of it was fabrication, of course, but they did not need to know that. Keeping calm was essential to this ruse, this game he had begun to play.

A hand came up to finger the fur scarf at his throat. Seven months ago such finery seemed beyond the grasp of anyone with his background, something only the very rich, very noble or very corrupt would be able to afford. He had been willing to settle for two out of three and with a spot of luck had found his way into high society.

Of course, it hadn't been that easy. Sounders were a rare breed across the Protectorate, or so old Garm had said, and even more so in the Northlands. He was something of an oddity, a rarity among men and a curiosity for the nobles in the city. He had worked hard to establish a fiction of a life, to create a persona that was easily believed and just as easily dismissed.

Now, it appeared that he had been too successful.

The High Call took its time in selecting exactly who they would “protect” from the ills of the city. Once selected, a man could no more refuse than he could command the ice to melt, much as he would have liked to do so for both his and the city's continued financial success. The Call was tolerated by the Regent and feared by the nobles, with many sure and certain that a portion of the money they took for “protection” made its way back to the Regent in the end.

For his part, Lars didn't care if the money went to the Regent, the pockets of the High Call or the Dim itself. All he wanted was to be beneath their notice – ignored, and alone.

Snow began to fall as he reached the address he'd been given. The messenger boy had been fearful when he delivered it, enough that he'd forgotten to use the proper titles of respect. That didn't bother Lars; his title wasn't real to begin with, but it did raise questions about just how much the Call knew of his activities.

Brushing the gray flakes from his hood lining, Lars DuMont, Third Heir to House Oupele, knocked smartly on the door of a ramshackle building two streets back from the canals. He knocked only once and waited, flexing his hands inside rabbit-fur gloves to warm them and stepping quickly from foot to foot. Noble boots were no better than common, he had discovered, when it came to keeping his feet warm – they simply looked better.

After a long moment the door swung open and a large man in a brown robe waved him inside. No words were uttered or acknowledgment given – had Lars been the wrong man or knocked on the wrong door, he would be dead.

The building was old and unpleasant, a hold-over from pre-war Treldor with dark woods, low ceilings and a distinct scent of...foul. Perhaps the Call kept the corpses of unruly meeting victims here, or perhaps it was simply the stench of the E'nora that used to occupy these homes. The beasts emitted a stench unlike any other he had known.

A long hallway stretched in front of him to a single room, lit each few steps by a guttering candle. The room itself seemed darker still, not a surprising choice given the self-appointed role of the Call in he city.

He strode forward purposely, not bothering to acknowledge the guard as he passed. The Call expected Lars DuMont, and he would play the part with style.

As he stepped into the room he heard a shuffling sound behind him and the door slammed shut. Ahead, a single match was struck and a candle lit at a long table. Yudon, Second of the Call, was illuminated in its faint halo and to his right was another man Lars knew all too well.

“Hello, Sounder.” Yudon's voice was friendly but his eyes were the ice that lined the canal outside – cold and unforgiving.

The man next to Yudon spoke, but Lars ignored the words. Instead, he took their sound, their impact on the air around him and collected it, took it in as a normal man would but stored it up, replicated it, empowered it.

A giant stormed out from within, cracking the icy facade that had been Lars, and men began to die.

- D

Story #26 - Fey'Ted Thrones IV

Fey'ted Thrones – IV

Alhandro didn't trust the Snake, but there wasn't much he could do about it. Slithus had appeared unexpectedly in the night, tearing his cell door from its hinges as if it were no more than a minor inconvenience. Without subtlety or ceremony the Fey had heaved Alhandro onto his back and stalked out of the city.

His speed had been incredible, squat legs churning as they ran through the muggy streets of Dirlat, but the prince was certain he had seen more than a few dead guardsmen on the way out. Slithus had killed men – good men, men doing their duty – simply to find Alhandro.

At first he thought it a ransom attempt. With his brother in control of both Gold and Silver, his life would be worth something to any number of the Fey houses. He hadn't been able to glean exactly what Alhendra was planning but if the rumblings in the city this evening were any indication, it had already begun.

Mother had spoken little of Alhendra during their years together, saying only that he was “far more like his father” than Alhandro. Her tone was clear enough; she had never been able to forge the kind of bond with her first son as she had with her second. Alhandro was glad of that, though knowing more about the kind of man his brother was and would become would have proven very useful. His father had died while he'd been shivering away in Dirlat; he had little from which to draw conclusions about Alhendra's next move.

It wasn't until the Fey finally set him down miles outside of town that he learned the true reason for his rescue.

“Lomir?” He had been startled to hear of the Mystral's involvement, but Slithus only nodded at his question. He had met Lomir a number of times during his reign in Tir'dal and the Mystral of the Fey had always been both efficient and to the point. Air Fey were known for their loyalty and dedication to a single purpose, both traits Lomir had shown in spades. Impulsiveness was also said to run in their nature, but Lomir had been as predictable and stuffy as they came.

He'd hated Pyulon, though. Perhaps that had been a better indication of his character than any other.

Alhandro had done his best to get more information out of the Snake but if he knew any more about what Lomir wanted he appeared to have no intention of sharing it. Hunkering down into the grass that first night, Slithus had simply closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep, leaving the young prince with two choices: the ground or a large tree nearby. Unsure of his balance after his recent captivity, Alhandro chose the ground, wrapping the tattered remnants of his gold and red cloak around him. A week ago, it had been a symbol of his office, of the great duty he held, his responsibility to the people. It had become instead a poor substitute for a blanket, thin and devoid of meaning.

Now they walked together, their destination unclear but each unhappy in the other's presence. Slithus had tried to sling Alhandro over his shoulder again but the Prince refused, jaw set and stance open. He would fight, if necessary, to use his own feet, and likely the thought of bringing a beaten and bruised former Prince to the Mystral stayed the Fey's hand.

Alhandro glanced at the Snake in front of him, its lithe form slipping over rocks and tree branches as if they were no more than air. Weak from hunger and aching from a week on a stone floor, Alhandro seemed to find every stone underfoot, every branch slapping at his thighs. Slithus wouldn't say where they were heading, when they would get there or when he would stop moving again. The Thrice-cursed Fey wouldn't say anything!

He was a crown prince, a man of responsibility and action. He would not let some two-bit dirt dragging Fey best him, even in such a simple contest of wills. Hurrying to catch up he misjudged the distance over a large rock in the trail and caught his right foot, arms windmilling as he plummeted forward. The needled forest floor took him full in the face, tiny spikes jamming into his lips and nose. He could go no farther.

“We're here.” The Fey's voice was quiet, each word seeming to slide into the next and Alhandro had to repeat it several times to himself before he caught the meaning. Struggling to his feet, he glanced around, only to find a clearing identical to hundreds they had already passed through.

“We're where?” He had little of a Prince in him and more of a man, or so said his mother. Still, he managed to sound cold and distant, a better asking his servant why his wine was not properly chilled.

Slithus' eye slits narrowed just a hair and Alhandro took a step back. The thing was a killer, through and through.

“Here,” it whispered, and weaved its stubby arms in a complex pattern. Around them the forest seemed to melt away, sky slipping downward to drip azure lines over the softening trees. Before long a pool of color swirled at his feet, the forest in front and sky above replaced with a stark gray wall that had no depth, no form.

Underneath him the colors came to a single point, no larger than the tip of his finger and paused, their swirling mass hesitating for just a moment.

With a speed so abrupt it should have carried sound the colors swirled out, dashing up and around him, past and through him. He spun, dazed. He cried out, confused. Finally, he shut his eyes and waited. Better a blind Prince than a coward.

“Prince Alhandro?” A new voice asked - a deep, resonant voice he'd heard before. “I am Mystral Lomir. Welcome to the realm of Fey.”

Alhandro opened his eyes slowly, trying to make it seem as though he'd closed them only by choice. Impossibilities met his sight.

- D

Novel Notes 1

I mentioned a few weeks ago that I sent my novel off to a publisher to look at and I received an answer today - quite a quick turnaround given the length of time many publishers are taking to review manuscripts.

Not surprisingly, it was a "no", and sadly it didn't really come with any helpful tidbits to improve what I'd already put to paper. It did say the novel wasn't "quite" what they were looking for and that I should keep them in mind for future submissions, but as much as I'd love to tell myself that meant I wasn't far off the mark it was more than likely a form letter.

Is it disappointing? Hell yes - I put months of work into that novel.

Is it expected? Yep. I can look forward to a string of rejections before I find the right publisher, the right book and the right time.

I've got two choices, just like I do everyday I sit down at this computer to write. I can stop, throw up my hands and say "it's too hard - I don't have any good ideas and I'll never be published," or I can dig in, start typing and know that someday, I'm going to get an email saying my work is something someone wants to publish.

- D

Story #25 - Environmental Effects

Environmental Effects

Commander's Log, 5^th Tuven

I really don't like this place. No surprise, since we'd never intended to end up here, but any port in storm – or in this case, a dual-engine thruster fail. It was Sigma Seti 19 or nothing, and the crew and I decided we'd rather live than drift aimlessly among the stars until our food supplies ran out.

We had another discipline problem today in camp; something that's becoming increasingly common as the months roll by. Sure, what passes for food here is terrible, the atmosphere is too thin and all of the animals are hostile as hell, but my men were well-trained. Our emergency beacon will reach someone in the Confederacy soon enough and we'll get off this rock. Trouble is, I wonder if it will be soon enough.

Commader's Log, 11^th Wren

It finally happened – we had our first murder in camp, and over a damn toothbrush! Sergeant Gamon accused one of the LTs, saying they'd taken it in the night when he wasn't looking. Lennox, the LT, wasn't pleased to hear his honor being questioned and gave Gamon one hell of a beating before I could even get through the throng to see what was going on.

By the time I'd arrived the fight had moved to the men's commons where Gamon found the light-cursed toothbrush jammed under a chair. I pulled the two apart, gave them a talking to and turned to leave, assuming they'd both go back to work and forget the whole thing happened.

It was the sound of plastic through skin that whipped me back around and gave me a front-row seat as Gamon's toothbrush took Lennox full in the neck. We called Doc, but he was dead before he hit the ground.

Now I've got an improvised brig set up in the old Officer's Mess and I'm not really sure what to do next. We need every hand on deck just to make it through the weeks, but I can't have a killer running loose. That Confed ship had better show up soon.

Commader's Log, 2^nd Valleth

Things are getting odd around camp, and not just because two others have joined Gamon in the brig. The other day I found two of my best men sitting outside the Commons, clothing stained and hanging in tatters around their bodies. I asked just what the hell they thought they were doing and all they looked up at me, faces confused like I'd asked them to calculate Pi to fifteen digits or something. Finally, one of the two – Malek, I think his name is – grunted out that they were tired. Tired!

We're all tired, but those two just decided to take a break on their own time and leave the rest of us to suffer. I made sure they got the rough side of it and put them back to work but even then they seemed...slow.

Commander's Log, 19^th Mardz

We lost another one today. Lincoln, this time – a solid junior officer and someone I thought I knew pretty well – he just went screaming off into the darkness, stripped to the waist and blathering some nonsense none of us understood. That makes five this month and twelve in total; I've only got fifty men left and with anything less than thirty I doubt we'll make it through two weeks. I've started checking the beacon only every second day to give myself just that much more hope, but even I'm finding it difficult to keep my chin up.

Commader's Log – 2^nd Tuven

It's been almost a year we've been...stuck...here. The losses are getting worse, the men are getting. Odd. Even I'm noticing that I can't seem to.

Wait.

It's probably lack of food; that and not sleeping for more than two hours a night. And the noises.

There's something out there. Dark. In the dark. It's not friendly, but not...bad. It's calling. I hear it and I think the men do to. I think we know.

What we have to.

Do.

Comders Log – 1 Today

I get out. Go.

Beacon. Smashed. Too many sounds, voices screaming. Men are...weak.

West calling to mountains. Finding path but feared, so, feared. Find this and go. Don't come.

Don't stay.

C Lg – 2

G. g. g. gone.

Third Division Platoon Leader – Recording 1. Landfall.

So far as well can tell, this planet has never been scouted by our vessels but we're detecting a very faint power source down here. From what my science officer tells me, it's at least two hundred years old, maybe more.

The planet's not in bad shape – not one I'd want to live on but good enough for a port in a storm. We've picked up a few life form readings, humanoid but not anything to high on the scale. I'll have Johnny and his crew check them out while we take a look at this power source.

Third Division Platoon Leader – Recording 2. Observations.

Well, the power source was mostly a bust. Looks like it might be an old transponder of some kind, likely from an unmanned probe or scout ship. Rems tells me its consistent with Confederacy tech, but I never made much of a study of that stuff – they weren't really around long enough to make that big of an impact.

Johnny's team came back with interesting results, at least. The met the natives – big brutish fellas that seemed very interested in the tech we were carrying. They didn't speak a civilized tongue and from what Asher told me, they might not even have the capacity.

For now, I'm marking the planet as uninhabited and letting it go at that. If Command wants to come back and colonize or sterilize some other time, that's up to them but I'll be just as glad to be gone. Some of our boys have been acting spooked down there, good men that know how to handle themselves. They tell me their hearing things outside the base camp at night, and few seem hell-bent on going off exploring on their own.

It's time to go.

- D

Story #24 - Pharm Team

Pharm Team

He was supposed to feel cowed, pacified like the others in his camp, but somehow that was never the case.

It was a struggle to keep his eyes down as the Commander walked their ranks, shoving those with clean shirts and washed hands for no good reason and striking those who showed the barest hint of a stain on their pure white clothing.

The rules were simple in the camp – eat your food and go about your business, quietly. Report for inspection and take what you were given, quietly. Retire to your bunk and sleep. Quietly.

They all knew full well what was being done to them; many friends and colleagues here had worked in the Transformation Plant before its closure – they knew what PharmaCom smelled like when it was being mixed into their gruel each morning, knew what it tasted like when it slid down their throats.

For some, it had become a matter of no choice. They could eat what they were given or starve, and that it made them docile was simple a fact of life. For others, the Phrama seemed to be a welcome relief, a barrier against the forced labor drudgery of the day and the knowledge that no escape lay within reach. Resistance was pointless, and for them the Pharma simply made things bearable.

For him, it appeared to have no effect.

"Scratch that," he thought as the Commander approached, "it's had the opposite effect."

It was true; he was having a hard time keeping his body still, keeping his eyes down as Commander Jennth Vorhees approached. The man was a snake and a liar who had once posed as one of them, as a member of their village, a friend to many.

Now Vorhees was the ruthless overlord of yet another camp in the Regime's spreading dominance of the country and he had no remorse, no pity for the ones he once called friends. Instead, he regarded them with barely concealed suspicion, afraid that they might stumble out of their Pharma induced slumber and rise up to meet him.

In terms of numbers, the Commander had a right to be worried. Pharma had proven far more effective than the Regime had imagined and camps like this one were staffed with a bare minimum of guards. Aside from Vorhees only three other uniformed members patrolled the camps and at inspection all but one of those were out stalking the perimeter.

With the people eating as directed, the Regime had nothing to worry about and could keep their overhead costs to almost nothing – it was a sure and simple solution to a vexing problem.

Commander Vorhees was not so convinced of its effectiveness, however, as could be seen from the way he poked an prodded at each of the people under his command, shoving them just where it hurt the most and when they least expected it, trying to garner and then gauge a reaction. Should he ever find something out of line, a behavior he didn't expect, he would likely exterminate the entire camp and deal with the questions from the High Seat at another time.

Jennth Vorhees was afraid.

Cal Remen was not; he was boiling over with anger as the other man approached.

At first, Cal had assumed that his reaction to the Pharma was simply being influenced by his hatred of the man who had betrayed them, stoked hotter than the anger of his neighbors thanks to his losing a wife and child during the initial fighting. Over time, however, it became apparent that such a simple explanation was not enough. Other men he knew – good men, strong men, men who had lost everything – began to strain and finally wilt under the pressure of the drug. But not Cal.

Day by day, meal by meal, his anger grew, his need to see and feel some sort of vengeance for what had been done to them, to fight back against the arrogant fools that had taken their lands. He was the one in one thousand, in ten thousand or one hundred thousand that the Pharma simply did not work on as intended.

He was a side effect, an consequence of a drug made for the masses that could not cope with each biological makeup. Cal's own physiology acted as a defense, as a way around what others fell easily to, and it filled him with a righteous need for vengeance.

The tip of a long barrel pistol was shoved violently into his nostril and he sucked in a hard breath, trying not to cry out. Vorhees would go to any lengths to force a reaction he knew was hidden, to provoke them into some form of limited resistance he could crush.

Cal straightened but did not touch his nose – blood flowed freely down his chin but touching it would indicate concern. His left hand felt the pressure of something odd; a weight, metallic and substantial. He glanced down.

The pistol!

There was an intake of breath behind him as he brought his eyes back up to meet those of the Commander.

“Do it,” Vorhees whispered, “scum.”

Cal smiled – a simple thing that set the Commander back a single step but still close enough for what Cal had in mind. The gun was unloaded; he had enough training with weapons to know the difference between a full magazine and an empty one, but the Commander had given him what he needed.

Dropping the pistol to the dusty earth he lurched forward, hands going around the Commander's neck. With a quick motion he reached around and behind Jennth's back to where he knew the loaded pistol would be stored. With the Commander in his grip the guard was hesitant to shoot and that gave him the opportunity he needed.

A quick shot and the man crumpled, but Cal fired off two more just to make sure the job was done.

Leaning down to the Commander's face Cal kept his hands in a tight vise around the man's exposed windpipe. It wouldn't be long now.

“You were right to be afraid,” Cal grated as he ground out the last of the man's air, “death comes for you, now.”

A moment more of pressure and he stood, scanning the dead-eyed faces around him. Hopefully the Pharma would wear off soon. He had a rebellion to plan.

-D

Story #23 - Deacon First

Deacon First

Stuffing the silver bullets back into the magazine, he made sure that each hollow-point was completely encased in the shining metal. A bad bullet might mean his life or that of his partner's and he'd be hard-pressed to explain why he let another man die because of his lack of preparation.

The seventeenth bullet took some force to seat properly in the magazine; the gun had always given him problems. He'd complained about it several times but with the same results – the guns the Ministry gave out were made to the same specifications. If there was a problem it was with him, not the gun.

Pulling back hard on the slide, he notched the weapon into firing position and jammed it into his holster. He didn't have much time before they'd expect him downstairs and he needed to make a good impression. First days on rounds were some of the most important for a Deacon looking to move his way up the ranks, and he couldn't afford to make mistakes.

Reaching into his locker brought a smile to his face as he drew out his Chastiser. What he lacked in skill with the pistol he more than made up for in precision and near-perfection with the melee weapon, something he felt was much more likely to save his skin at close range – a position a Deacon was put in far too often for comfort. The bastards he was hunting could move like a part of the air itself, fifty yards from you one second and fifty inches the next. He had to be ready.

A quick glance around the corner showed that no one else was in the change room and he swung the Chastiser in a quick downward arc, the weapon telescoping as it went and yielding a baton of four times its closed length. With a grim smile he jabbed the activator button on the grip and two black spikes sprung out three quarters of the way up the shaft. Razor sharp and quenched in holy water, the Chastiser and its blackened points were a powerful force against things that went bump in the night.

His Chastiser still held perfect balance and the spikes glistened just as they should so he carefully locked them back into place and retracted the weapon back into carrying form. A check over his belt told him he had everything he needed aside from garlic pepper spray, but he'd been told he would receive that before his boots hit the street.

One more stop in front of the mirror, a once-over with a lint roller and he was out the swinging door and down to the Chapel – Session began in only a few minutes.

***

Settling himself as he approached the Chapel door, Deacon First Barry Howe took a deep breath. He'd been training for this moment for months, fighting and clawing his way through the program just to be given the opportunity to serve. His class had lost two good men and a woman in the pre-operation exercises; the Ministry used live subjects in their testing and those who did not take the training seriously enough ended up removed or – Barry brought himself up short. No good to be thinking about that now.

Pushing open the door to the Chapel he strode in confidently, head up and shoulders back. Limited familiarly with his equipment made him wider than he believed, however, and his gun smacked hard into the door frame, sending him stumbling a step to the left and drawing the attention of the seven men inside.

A flush came to his cheeks be he stepped forward, determined not to lose what little he'd gained by walking in with such bravado. Most Deacon Firsts would knock before their entry into the Chapel, though protocol did not strictly require it. Already he had knowingly breached convention; appearing to regent his decision would not speak well of his character.

In measured turn he met the eyes of the others in the room. Six were Deacons - four Seconds and two Thirds - and one was the Bishop.

He'd met Bishop Trammel prior to training and had been told he ran one of the tightest cadres in the city, one that any Deacon could be proud to be a member of. From what Barry had heard, he was also one of the most demanding taskmasters and from Trammel's dark gaze under bushy black eyebrows, he was inclined to believe it.

All of the men in the room were hard, sharp-edged things but Trammel somehow stood above, seperate. They'd fought the Darkness but he'd conquered it, pushed it back a step. His shoulders were no more broad than John Fry, one of the burly Thirds in the room, and his face bore no more scars than Pike Rolson, a beanpole thin Second, but somehow Jens Tremmel stood out among them. Coarse brown hair clipped short over a squat forehead and too-short nose gave him the look of a small-time boxer were it not for the pristine black uniform over his blocky frame.

Meeting Barry's eyes, Tremmel held them and gestured to a chair in the back of the room, apart from the round table the other men sat at.

Another challenge, but not one that Barry could win this early in his career. He had to earn the right to sit with these men, and that meant earning their trust. He sat down as instructed.

“Listen up!” Tremmel's voice wasn't loud but it immediately stopped all conversation. “We've got a new Deacon First - you all heard him when he came in. Barry Howe. Rolson, he's with you.”

Rolson nodded. He was the most junior of the Seconds, so he'd be the one assigned to deal with the “new guy”. From what Barry had heard, Rolson was a solid man to learn from.

“Quiet night out there, boys,” Tremmel continued. “But I want you to watch your backs. There's been reports of a Fanger in the area.”

Barry felt his excitement rise. Every kid dreamed of joining the Ministry just for a night like this – a chance to bag a vampire.

- D

Story #22 Notes

Started reading the Mistborn triology last night and I am enjoying it so far. My newest story is in part informed by that series, especially the concepts of god-like rulers and rebellion.

For my part, I wondered what would happen if a ruler saw a revolution coming and decided that it would be in his best interests to direct it, rather than supress it.

Enjoy!

- D

Story #22 - Risen

Risen

“The time to rise up is now!” The old man’s voice cracked like a whip across the crowded square, its timbre deep and strong despite his slight frame.

In response, the assembled throng roared loudly enough to shake the small wooden platform the man stood upon, though they’d long ago stopped listening to the individual words he spoke. It was the rhythm of his delivery, the force of his presentation that drove them on, that frenzied them.

They were a downtrodden, sodden lot, made more sour by the scouring rain that never seemed to end. With a little work, he’d even been able to blame that on the Emperor, something that had not only incensed the masses but given them the feeling of being covered, almost permanently, in a wet vise devised by the hated man himself.

It was the “man” that was the key – the reason that previous rebellions had failed. Through cunning and guile, the Emperor had managed to set himself up as a near-god, a thing of the sky and soil that could no more be broken than the world itself. It had served the Emperor’s purpose well for nearly two hundred years as he ground the labor class into the ground, returning Noble lines to places of powers and influence while forcing landowners to give up their claims or face Investigation.

A few well-placed deaths had made such Investigations something to be assiduously avoided.

“The Empire is weak, failing! The Emperor seeks to blind you with flash, limit you by pretending strength where none exists!” His arms quaked with the effort of such words; even with the Proclaimer’s assistance, his voice was on the verge of giving out. No one knew his origins or his ties to the rebellion, but that pleased him. Three months ago he had emerged from the Ynar Woodlands and captivated the first gathering he had come across, then led by a man named Ten. Now, Ten was one of his most devoted assistants and committed to the cause they had managed to forge together.

From three thousand to just under fifty in less than a season was unheard of in the Inner Round, but the time to strike was now. The iron had been heating, heating, and only just turned white-hot.

“That’s enough for now, Ithas,” it was Tam, his deep voice uncertain, perturbed by the voracity and desperation of the crowd. “Let them scream themselves out.”

Ithas shook his head, long silver hair flying about his shoulders as he raised his hands to quiet the mob. In drops and then waves the silence spread; more words were desired.

“What does the Emperor have?” he asked quietly, and the whispered mutterings from the crowd died out entirely. “An army.”

Silence stretched out among the thousands – all had heard, and their enthusiasm dampened. He could feel Ten moving behind him, a hand laid on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

“Men, by the thousands! A host of creatures bred for one purpose – to kill – and he will aim it all at you. He will seek to break you, to make you regret the insolence you display each and every time you gather.” Ithas could see the rippling effects of his words as they spilled from his mouth. At the edges of the crowd, men began to drift away, aimless, and women began to cry. Now was the true test of their devotion.

“But that means nothing!” he screamed into the slicing downpour, veins standing out at the side of his neck. “Men paid to fight and creatures bred to kill serve a function, nothing more - they can be bent, they can be broken,” he paused to let his words hit home, to watch as the stragglers were rounded up and the women scrubbed their faces.

“But you,” he was a whispered wind, now, a voice that would be spoken of into the setting ages, “are more than they could ever be. You fight for clarity, for purpose. You fight to reclaim what was stolen, to throw off what has been given and to scream defiance into the very faces of those who will not meet your eyes.”

The rumble was beginning; he could feel it traveling under his feet, feel the tension mount. He reined himself in. Softly, now, to the finish, “You are a weapon, forged of hardest steel, crafted by the finest bladesman. You are many, you are one.”

It came, thundering through the small square, muting all sound around it, a triumphant exultation that needed only focus, sought only release.

“You cannot be shattered!” His words were lost in a redoubled cry and he gestured to Ten, who quickly sent lieutenants out into the crowd. The people were ready now, and his men would see to their equipment and training. The time came quickly.

Stepping down from the platform he ducked around a corner into a small dressing room and Ten followed him, eyes alight.

“How long can you keep this up, Ithas?” Ten’s voice was a mix of awe and concern. “It’s effective, I grant you, but I worry about your health.” He was also worried about what a preemptive rebellion might do in the Lesser Gauge, but he didn’t say as much; he didn’t need to.

“As long as I must,” he kept his words quiet and short; speaking to the crowds was slowly destroying his voice. “Now, please leave me.”

Ten bowed stiffly and withdrew; stewing on the words he knew would serve no purpose.

It took only a moment after the door had closed to ensure that it was locked and quickly dispense with fashioned hair and ragged clothing. He didn’t look that much different than he did ordinarily, but so few recognized him these days.

He knew the value of rebellion. He had led one himself two hundred years ago.

Emperor Lietus the Hallowed smiled as he glanced at himself in the cracked mirror. Change was coming, but it would come at his direction.

- D