Story #96 - A Darkened Flame

A Darkened Flame

Fire was discovered seven hundred thousand years ago, give or take, and we’ve been relying on it ever since.

Fire stopped working six months ago, and the world has pretty much gone to hell.

It wasn’t anything we saw coming; one day, campers everywhere noticed their fire pits wouldn’t start; the furnaces of homeowners crapped out, and industrial plants could no longer illegally burn all the waste they weren’t supposed to be burning.

Since we’re such a brilliant species, we’d stood around looking at each other for a few weeks wondering what the hell happened. Campers assumed they’d just had too much to drink, homeowners called their furnace companies and were charged exorbitant amounts for service, and industrial plants made giant piles of crap they really shouldn’t have and tried to burn harder.

Science went to work, and our greatest minds plopped out this gem of an explanation: fire no longer worked.

Thanks, geniuses.

Sure, they’d dolled it up in techno-speak, but the essential truth remained the same: fire didn’t work and they had no bloody idea why. They presumed a lot, and put a whole bunch of caveats in all of their statements, but what it really boiled down to was that there was no way we were getting fire up and burning anytime soon and we had better get used to it.

We didn’t, of course.

After a month, industry started to feel the pinch, even though they claimed there would be no effect on anything “important”. There were so many things that relied on fire, things that no one had thought about, that an already-strained society began to fray at the edges, and then crack.

Two months in, the riots started, and cities across the globe didn’t burn. Windows were smashed and items were looted, but without fire, a riot just wasn’t the same as it used to be.

Men and women around the world got increasingly frustrated as their rage and their passion found no outlet, and as winter came on, the death toll started to rise; anger did little to keep a body alive. The elderly and children went first, and families wept. The healthy came next – some because of the bitter cold and some because others were jealous of technology they’d hoarded or insulated homes they owned. It was chaos; it was madness.

It was humanity.

And now here we are, a ring of us, the last sensible ones left, and who have made our way to the southernmost parts of the North American continent. We needed warmth to continue our studies, sunlight to think.

Our star hadn’t burned out, so obviously combustion still worked somewhere; we had to presume that what was happening to us was planetarily localized and specific. Of course, that didn’t speak to the question of why, but it got us a little closer.

The answer came when the shadows grew long one evening, shadows that we noticed were blacker than any in the surrounding area. We’d been getting reports about these from around the globe – long, ravening darknesses that hid among more benign shadows and destroyed those who walked into them.

Most of use had dismissed it as nonsense; populations in the grip of fear often created ways to deal with the death and destruction around them, but then one of our best wandered away from the group after a particularly unproductive discussion. We could hear his screams from the camp, but couldn’t get to him in time – not that we had any idea how much time we had.

We found him, twisted and broken, under a swaying palm tree. His body was gnarled and bent, each limb blackened with a char that we were all familiar with, but the smell, even for a burned body, was wrong. Too ashy, with a hint of something sinister, and lacking the pungent slap of oxidizing combustion.

Shadows were burning now, and with no explanation as to why.

We buried his body and went back to work, feverishly trying to divine the reasoning behind such a circumstance, seeking the answers to a new question. We scurried around like insects, keeping to the light and watching out for any darkness that seemed too large, seemed too intent on staying near us.

The shadows achieved the status of demons, of ancient powers out to strike us down, and we allowed them to control us, use us.

Until we found a way to use them.

One of our junior members had a flashlight that still worked, a small thing that we used only the most desperate of situations. Time with poor nutrition and little water was taking its toll, however, and he began to speak to his flashlight, stroking it and telling what a good little lamp it was. When the shadows came hard and fast one night, he leapt into the fray, light brandished, screaming obscenities.

The shadow nearest to him screeched – no other word would suffice – and was pulled toward the streaming light. Its wielder howled in triumph and attempted to push farther into the darkness but we grabbed him and dragged him to the relative safety of the lesser dark.

There, at the mouth of his flashlight, was a flame.

Black and stuttering, it slipped around the edges of the light as if wanting to escape, but couldn’t seem to make it over the metal ringing of the bulb.

“Quick!” Someone yelled, “Find something to burn!” A piece of paper was quickly passed forward and placed over the top of the light, and sure enough, tendrils of black smoke began to rise, and the now-familiar stench wafted among those of us assembled.

We had little choice in the matter, all things considered, though many of us still question our positions to this day. We gave the people what they wanted; an explanation, but kept the truth of it to ourselves. Wizards, they call us, in a new age of magic, and we wield both power and fear. Are we deserving? Perhaps.

No matter.

We are here, where shadows burn.

- D

Story #95 - QS

QS

“You’ll never catch me, Quantum Stanley!” Viscount Destructo roared as his minions swarmed over the square, preventing Stanley from reaching him or the large cache of jewels that he had taken during his daring daylight robbery.

Stanley smiled; villains were used to the old set of superheroes, to powers beyond the physical but still bound by sensible, predictable limits. He was not the old, not the predictable.

Inherently.

“I see you, Stanley – you’ll never reach me from there!”

Stanley appeared next to Destructo, shaking his head to clear it after the moment of disorientation that followed.

“Really, Viscount?” He asked. “It seems I’ve found you quite easily.”

“What!” Destructo screamed. “This isn’t possible – you can’t be here!”

“And yet, here I am. I wonder why that is?” Stanley knew the secret, but it wasn’t something he was about to share. The Viscount could have easily learned it as well, but so few villains – and heroes – paid any attention to scientific developments or theory.

A quick cross to the body and a jab to the head brought down the villain; Destructo was outfitted for magical and demonic attacks, but had no ability to resist purely physical violence. Looking at the man’s bloated body as he fell, Stanley could see that the other man hadn’t taken a great deal of time to improve his physique.

Reaching down, Stanley snatched the cache from Destructo’s hands. This belong to the museum, thought he had to admit to a certain desire to take at least one of the smaller crystals from the larger bunch. Someone would notice, but they’d likely say nothing to him since he had rescued not only the cache but prevented the need for military assistance; assistance that would have destroyed more that it would have saved.

The curator met him at the arched front door, face drawn and eyes downcast. He’d been this way since Stanley met him, in part because of the value of the items that had gone missing and in part because it was Stanley that answered the call – he’d have been a great deal more comfortable with one of the “traditional” superheroes.

Stanley nodded to the curators murmured thanks and then stepped quickly down the stairs to his waiting car. He didn’t have a fancy jet or stealth tank like some of the others; his old four-door sedan was good enough for most jobs, and got him away before the police arrived.

Police response was slow these days anyway, since local organizations were strapped for funds and hoped that a hero would hear the call and do their jobs for them. Stanley didn’t mind helping out, but didn’t like dealing with the questions and statements after the fact – especially those about just how he did what he did.

It wasn’t magic, but they’d have been more comfortable it if it was.

Stanley deliberately took a route around the superhero HQ – they’d recently built a new, larger facility on the city’s main street, but he had no interest in wondering what might have been. Apparently science wasn’t something that the heroes of the city were interested in, and every application he’d made for service there had been quickly turned down with no explanation. Showing up at the old building had prompted a terrified response, and he’d seen a number of famous city icons lining up in full battle gear against him “just in case”.

A small house on the edge of the suburbs served as Quantum Stanley’s lair, complete with a self-dug basement lair that tended to mildew in the summer. He didn’t need much in the way of tools or equipment, thanks to exactly how his abilities worked, but he felt that no superhero was complete without a lair to call his own.

It had been an odd thing that led him to this place, an odd twist of fate that had given him the ability to act, essentially, as a quantum state. He hadn’t known what the hell was going on the first time it happened; it had been a bar fight in a dirt-bag pub on the outside of town – some burly moron had taken exception to Stanley just sitting quietly and having a beer.

“Stay right there, pipsqueak,” he’d said, and Stanley had suddenly found himself behind the guy, and he delivered a forward head-smack onto the table that had ended the fight nicely. He’d assumed it was just a one-off, a drunken haze that had gotten the better of him, but then it started to happen more often, and only when someone told him to “stay put”. Eventually, he refined it to a point where he could vanish and reappear even if someone looked his way, but it took him five years to track down why.

Quantum Stanley was born, and villains everywhere had no idea what had hit them.

It was simple once he understood the mechanics, though he didn’t look too deeply into the scientific details. Anyone measuring his position – however that might take place – changed it by their observation. He kept that knowledge quiet and to himself; most heroes and villains wouldn’t bother to search out the underlying structure behind his abilities, but he didn’t need to advise he had a possible weakness.

Pulling into the driveway, Stanley shut off his car and leaned heavily against the headrest. A moment of solid silence followed, and then he slipped out of the car and made for the back door. Two steps from it and a fireball slammed into the ground, throwing him back and singeing the edge of his coat.

“Stanley,” a voice boomed, “I’m so glad I’ve found you.”

Looking up from the flat of his back near the front tire of his car, he saw the caped form of Captain Frenetic descending from the sky.

The city’s premier superhero, the Captain had been his strongest detractor each time had applied, but he hadn’t been aware the man was actively seeking him out.

“It’s time that we had a nice, short chat.” Frenetic’s voice boomed across the yard. Stanley glanced up - he wasn’t sure what the man thought he would accomplish with this – and drew in a quick breath. Across the Captain’s eyes was a large woven bandage, preventing him from seeing Stanley.

- D

Story #94 - Traz

Traz

“You understand our relationship, correct?” Flint Tarrin's voice was strident and uncultured.

"Yeah,” I said, keeping my eyes down, “you bought me. I'm your slave, more or less.”

Flint laughed – he wasn't one to use physical violence on his property unless they were well out of line, but he had a habit of putting them in what he believed was their “place”.

“Not more or less, Dano – exactly that. Who'd have thought you'd turn out to be Traz, after all this?” There was a vast amusement there, probably because of all the games of Jo-Fly I'd won against him or times he'd been left out of a gang I was running. I'd never been deliberately cruel to the kid, but more often than not, he'd gotten the short end of the stick.

Things had been good for me – good school, decent friends, and then my dad had to go and screw something up at work, something big, something so big they started looking through our files. I didn't know it myself until yesterday, but my real mom had been Traz, and that meant I was property. Simple as that, cut and dried.

Dad was angry; he went to the Minister himself, but there were no exceptions, and the law said that I couldn't be bought by the family that had harbored me. I'd read over most of the law last night, at least the parts that were going to directly affect my life in the next five years, and I hadn't found much to like. Sure, beatings were outlawed, but that didn't mean they didn't happen behind closed doors. They had to feed me enough to keep me healthy, but they were under no obligation to provide creature comforts of any kind or even a private place to sleep. If they could guarantee my health and safety, I could be kept with livestock.

This morning, they'd torched my old clothes and given me the white robe I'd have to wear from now on. Most of the Traz in the city only had their robe to call their own, but many were ragged and grey from years of toiling in the fields. I was lucky, after a fashion – because I was a minor, Flint's family could only hold me for five years, and then they had to give my father the chance to buy me back at a set price. While I was confident that price would be paid, five years was a long time to wait.

As soon as I'd seen Flint's face in the crowd I knew my secret was out, and when I heard him start bidding in his high-pitched voice on me I knew I was in trouble. I'd seen him pulling at his mother's robes as the auction went on, and stamping his foot when he didn't get his way. Obviously, she had given him the credits to purchase me, which made me his personal slave - and his new toy - for the next five years.

“Come along, Traz. You and I have a full day together.” I moved quickly in behind Flint, hoping that would be enough to satisfy him, but he turned with grin on his face. “You really think I'd forget this, Dano?” he said, holding up a silver collar and chain. “You're mine, and I'm going to make sure everybody knows it.

We spent the next half an hour parading the city, Flint announcing to anyone he knew that I was his now. I saw more than a few former friends, most of who looked away, but several that watched me go, jaws wide and eyes searching. They likely assumed this was a deep secret I'd been keeping, that I'd been pretending to be the prefect Xen, but the truth was I didn't know any differently – my heritage had been as much as surprise to me as it was to them.

Eventually, Flint's enthusiasm ran out and he found a pull-cart in the market. Placing me between the shafts, he took off the collar and sat in the high seat. “Mush, Dano,” he said, “take me home!”

I knew the way; the Tarrin estate was near my own – or what had been my own – and it didn't take long to arrive. In my head, I pretended this was all just a game, just a new thing we were trying out for fun - “what would it be like to be a Traz for a day?”

Flint wasn't cruel when we arrived, he simply showed me a small room next to his with a bed, dresser and reading lamp. “Look,” he said, “I don't plan on abusing you, OK? I'm going to give you a bunch of those smocks, some books, and we're going to hang out every day. You've got to clean my room, though, and make sure that I don't get in trouble around here. If something bad happens, you did it. Get me?”

I nodded. There was no point in arguing. My servitude had begun.

***

Flint was true to his word, and while I wasn't happy, he didn't go out of his way to make me miserable. I picked up after him, took his lumps, and generally made sure his life was as easy as possible.

It was one day during his Lessons that I happened to be cleaning under Flint's bed - he'd been jamming food there for days, claiming it was a “survival bunker”, but got tired of it when the smell got bad – and I found a scrawled parchment with his name at the top.

“My Plan”, it said, and went on to list a crude set of provisions that would come into effect when Flint forcibly took the throne from the Emperor. It was childish and innocent, but also something Flint should not have kept around – his age made him liable for any slanderous documents in his hand, no matter how old.

Folding the paper quickly, I dashed into my room and hid it in the bottom drawer of my dresser. It seemed I wasn't the only one whose fortunes could be easily reversed.

A smile on my face, I set about cleaning Flint's room. We would want a clean and tidy area to discuss my terms.

- D

Story #93 - Found Out

Found Out

“Can I offer you something to drink?” He shouldn't have been nervous, but this was his first time bringing anyone he was interested in back to his apartment. More often than not, he struck out, and the few times it looked like he'd been getting somewhere, someone bigger and stronger had come along to ruin his night.

“Sure, I'd...like that.” There was a tremor in her voice – maybe she was just as nervous as he was. It wasn't possible, of course, since she was a beauty and he was a lump, but it helped him to think so. Even little white lies took the edge off, and he felt his confidence increase as he moved to the kitchen.

Pulling open the pantry door told him what he already knew; he only had one vintage left. The last week had been particularly disheartening at work, and many of his best bottles had been downed in bouts of sorrow and rage. With a deft move he snatched the bottle from the rack and inspected the label – it wasn't the best he'd ever purchased, but at least it wasn't the swill from the market.

Two glasses and a two quick pours later and he had dark drinks for both of them, but he paused for a moment before rejoining her. This was all new to him, and though he'd heard the stories, actually being present in the moment was an entirely new experience. Feelings he'd never thought possible raged through him, but separating them into component parts was almost impossible, and he didn't give it much effort.

For the moment, he was happy, nervous, and frightened all at the same time, and he wanted the feelings to last as long as possible.

“Here we go,” he said, sweeping back into the main room, glasses in hand, “I apologize for the quality, but I haven't been able to get to the store much in the last month.”

She took the offered glass, took a sip and then waved a dismissive hand. “Not at all! This is perfect, thank you.”

He had known as much; his position at the Inquiry meant that he was paid better than most, and had access to a higher grade of libation. Even with money, the wrong clearance made acquiring delicacies of any kind almost impossible. He knew he wasn't much to look at, but he made up for it in both intelligence and power in local industry.

Taking a seat beside her, he hesitated before beginning the conversation again. Things had been going well before he had offered the drink, and there was no reason they shouldn't continue the same way, but he suddenly couldn't recall a thing they had been talking about. Staring at the floor, he tried desperately to remember the last thing he had said to her, but nothing would come.

“You were telling me more about your work,” she said, “and I hoped you would continue.”

He smiled at her; a genuine thing as opposed to the manufactured airs he needed to put on when he was at the office, and started to speak.

“Warning!”A new voice from the in-wall loudspeaker overrode his own, brash and loud. “You are violating compliance law!” Hopefully the message wasn't for him; the Finders didn't usually bother with high-end residences, and would often let things like his own date proceed with little interference. Of course, matters of intimacy had to be strictly controlled, but that didn't mean a certain amount of tact was out of the question.

Perhaps it wasn't him; he knew of others in the building that regularly violated compliance rules, and there was an unspoken agreement that they would all keep that knowledge to themselves.

“Unit 417B!” He cursed – that was him, all right. “Your female will leave, now, and you will return to a state of compliance. This is not an authorized meeting.”

She stood gracefully, and set the glass gently down on his table. “It was fun.”

She sounded like the actually meant it.

They both knew it had been a risk; it was, every single time any of them got together, but it was often worth it. The Finders couldn't be everywhere, and they were typically concerned with more important matters. He'd likely be fined for tonight’s occurrence, and he'd pay – the closed circuit cameras in his apartment would tell the tale even if he chose to deny it.

She swept out the door and he could feel his interest ratchet up even further as she went. She was as good to look at going as she was coming, and he knew even the Finders wouldn't stop him from searching her out again.

Sighing, he stood and snatched her glass from the table, and drained both his and hers in rapid succession. Once the bottle had been opened, there was no point in wasting it

He was halfway to the kitchen when the front door to his apartment blew open, revealing a five-Finder team, caps pulled low and expressions grim.

“Unit 417B, you are in clear violation of compliance regarding interaction and fraternization, and we have determined that this is not the first time,” their leader said, “You will come with us.”

He sighed. This would not be pleasant, but he had little choice in the matter. Finders were not to be trifled with, and judging by their red faces and straining hands grasping at weapons, they were spoiling for a fight. Too many were recruited for the wrong purpose, and not enough attention was paid to the more human qualities such men should have.

Stepping forward, he held both arms out in front of him, palms up, and the leader snapped a pair of electomag shackles over them, binding his limbs together with a strong current. He could feel his internal nuclear pile tamping down as the current reached it, and a weariness overtook him. His trimetal frame hummed to the pulse of the shackles and he moved compliantly, a picture of his companion's beautiful chassis stuck firmly and defiantly in his mind.

- D

Story #92 - Returning Randall

Returning Randall

Randall didn't fully understand the logic, but was apparently going to go back in time.

He'd responded to the call when it had been put out to the GI's since it sounded like a good way to get out of another round of physical conditioning. With the war safely in hand on the second continent, the government had little to do with squads like his except make sure they were ready in case something went amiss, and he was tired of running the same obstacle courses and hefting the same weighted backpacks.

The egg-heads had been looking for someone bright, but not that bright, and Randall knew he fit the bill perfectly. They wanted someone physically fit, someone who could take orders and would know enough to respond the right way if something went awry, but also someone who didn't know as much as they did – risking one of their large brains wasn't something they were willing to do, even for an advancement like this.

Randall shifted in the strapping that held him; a twist of his wrist and he could be free, but he'd been warned not to do so until either the experiment had been concluded or his life was in danger. They'd been deliberately vague about what exactly was going to happen to him – something he was used to in his line of work. Sure, they'd talked about “flash freezing” and “cryo-deceleration”, but when he'd asked exactly what those terms meant, he got the standard response about the answer being above his pay grade. He'd nodded; he knew what he was to these men and women, and he could deal with it.

He could see them bustling around outside the capsule, punching buttons and twisting knobs. None of them seemed concerned, though a few of the older ones had worried looks on their faces. They'd had those same looks from the moment he walked in two weeks ago, and he'd easily figured out there was some disagreement over the project.

Hell, when it came to time travel, he wasn't surprised – genetic engineering had taken long enough for the government to ram through in any meaningful form, so time travel was going to be a hard sell. It appeared that for the moment, the military was running on the “do, don't tell” model, something Randall was very familiar with. He was good at keeping his mouth shut – which was probably why Sarge had recommended him for this.

The air in the capsule was rapidly cooling, and Randall shivered in his short-sleeved uniform. They'd assured him he'd experience no physical discomfort during the process but that the last moments of the time dilation would be “unpredictable”, which really meant that it would hurt on the way in and hurt a hell of a lot more before the whole thing was over. Randall knew they couldn't say that out loud, though, so he'd just nodded and said “yes, sir” as much as he could.

All of the young ones seemed to take to him, and the few lady scientists in the group were especially appreciative of his physical form. He'd attracted his fair share of females over the years, but had never found a relationship that could hold his interest for more than a few months. He was a solider, through and through, and ten years in the force had taught him that nothing else could take its place.

The cold had spiked, and he felt his teeth starting to chatter. The gauge he could see outside put it at halfway to absolute zero, but the degrees seemed to be dropping faster as the minutes went by. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on simply breathing, on letting the hum of the machinery around him soothe him as he waited. A great deal of combat was waiting; making sure that you were ready when the enemy came, but not knowing exactly when they would come, and Randall had perfected a state of calm alertness in which he could be both aware and at peace until the moment arrived.

The temperature dipped, then leveled off, but Randall refused to move. Sound rushed at him, the whirr of spinning cogs and clicking of relays pounding into his ears, and then it stopped.

Completely.

Randall twisted his wrist and opened his eyes, stepping forward as the strapping popped off and taking a quick look out the capsule window. Nothing had changed about the room outside, although the temperature gauge clearly showed they had reached the bottom end. Obviously, something had gone awry.

Pulling the hatch release brought no squeal but the metal bar twisted in his hand as the door fell outward, landing softly on the tiled surface of the lab floor. Around him, scientists stood in a frozen tableau, faces awash with experimental glee.

Interesting.

Randall glanced down at the chronometer they had given him; it was analog on the timeface but with a digital date readout along the bottom edge. The date still showed as the same as when he had entered the capsule, but the analog second hand was no longer moving. The capsule had reached the required temperature, but instead of going anywhere had remained exactly where it was, apparently freezing Randall at that moment. Even breaking the seal on the door hadn't reversed the process; the egg-heads had been vague on just how they would get him back anyway.

Stepping to a bank of controls, Randall looked for an “abort” button. The military insisted on such things in case all of the geniuses got caught in a fireball of their own making and one of the “regular people” had to end an experiment for them.

Thankfully, it was large, red and clearly labeled, and he jammed his index finger down on it.

He recoiled quickly, pulling his arm out of the battered control panel and its hanging wires, and marveling at how much destruction a simple finger push had caused.

“Gemini, Gemini,” a voice came from behind him and he spun to see a woman clothed in white – a shade far too bright to naturally exist, “I had wondered how they would send you back. I'm glad they followed my instructions and made you this stupid.”

Randall knew an enemy when he saw one and despite her looks, the blonde-haired vision in front of him was it. Drawing his pistol, he ducked behind a still-standing console and pulled the trigger on the way there.

Nothing happened, and in the next moment the woman's face appeared in front of his. “Don't do that, Gemini – it encourages my anger.” Thin arms came toward him and he moved, but they shot out with impossible speed and length, snaking around his throat.

“Shhh, shhh,” her voice said, “you'll understand soon.”

- D

Story #91 - Ashkar The Blind

Ashkar The Blind

“All things come with a price, son,” his father said, raising the white-hot poker.

“I know, father,” Ashkar steeled himself but nothing could prepare him for the sensation of double-pronged fire sliding into his eyes, tearing their delicate coverings and boiling the liquid inside. Pain and heat collided within him and he screamed, the bonds on the table holding him securely in place as he writhed.

A steep price indeed.

***

Ashkar Aldebri pulled his blue cloak tighter around him as the wind picked up, and spurred his horse to a trot. Their journey had already taken twice as long as it should have thanks to the weather, and his powers were too valuable to waste on things like drying out muddy roads or diverting the winds so they would provide a pocket of calm air.

In truth, he lacked the ability to do many of the things his companions were asking for, but it was better to let them think such actions were beneath his stature than give them the idea that the Blind One in their midst was nothing but smoke and mirrors. He was powerful, in many ways more so than others of his kind, but he was bound by certain laws, condemned to operate in certain ways, that made the scope of his abilities limited.

Another group was approaching them on the road; more peasants, from the look of them. For the last week, the traffic coming toward them had been growing, but they saw no one else on the road headed the same direction as they were. The peasants were right to flee; if his suspicious about what were happening in the Upper Mire were correct, there would be nothing anyone but he or one of his brothers could do.

Even at this distance, Ashkar could see this group was far worse off than the last. Three of their number were being carried in litters and at their head was a young man who looked no older than Ashkar had been when his own responsibilities were thrust upon him. The second sight gave him superior vision despite the black bandage across his eyes, something that often frightened those in his employ. Once again, fear worked to his advantage, as many of his mercenaries believed that he could see directly into their hearts and would stop their beating with a thought if they chose to betray him.

In fact, he could probably pull that off, but it would be more mess than it was worth.

“Captain!” He called out, and the leader of his crew dropped back to meet him. “Stop them on the road,” he said, pointing at the approaching group, “I wish to speak with them.” The unshaven man nodded; he was a good solider and a veteran of three kingdom wars, and stayed bought once he was paid for. He also didn't argue, which was something lacking in most of the entitled mercenary bands he had contacted. Ashkar needed information from those on the road, and the Captain didn't ask why, or when, or what he should do – he just did it.

Ashkar reined in his horse for a moment while the Captain and two of his men went to speak with the peasants. There were a number of arms raised and gestures made, and finally he saw the Captain's sword come part way out of its sheath. He had not approved any killings, but mercenaries often took the most direct approach to a problem, something he could respect.

He rode his mount in slowly, giving the young leader of the peasant group time to see him coming, and the man was visibly trembling by the time he arrived at the small knot of horses in the middle of the road.

“Good man,” he began, “I mean no harm to you or your kind, but I must ask you questions, and you must answer truthfully. Do you understand?” It was good to clear up any confusion at the outset; he was bound by the words he spoke, and wanted to ensure that the other man knew his intentions. He could murder the lot of them, but that would serve no purpose. Knowledge was needed, not blood.

“I...I understand, My Lord.” The man swallowed hard; he was healthy enough for a peasant, with clean features and a stocky frame. He would have done well in his village had their group not been forced to leave, and even now the others with him looked to him for leadership. Ashkar allowed himself a moment of self-pity – it had been something he had no control over that decided his fate, an accident of birth that had set him on this path. Men followed him out of fear, not choice, and he sometimes wished it could be otherwise.

“Why are you running?” He had suspicions, but if the injured in this group were any indication, their leader could provide him proof.

“A monster!” Came the reply, “My Lord, it was twice as tall as any of the buildings in the village and came on us without warning. It was fire and shadow, something we couldn't see to hit, let alone kill.” The man swallowed hard. “We're all that's left, just twenty, twenty out of five hundred. It murdered the rest.”

Ashkar sucked in a sharp breath. He had expected a creature of the elemental plane, but this was excessive, something he believed not even the Dark would call on.

“Make camp, Captain,” he said, and the mercenary withdrew with his men to begin preparations. “You will remain here for the night, leader. You are lucky to have escaped with your life, but the creature you saw will continue to ravage the land until it is stopped. I have need of your knowledge.”

“Of course, my Lord,” the peasant was unhappy at the prospect of staying any longer than he had to anywhere near the beast, but he had no choice in the matter. “Can...can you tell me what it was? What destroyed my village?”

“Count yourself fortunate, leader,” he replied “you're one of the few to have seen a Pardok and lived to tell the tale.”

The leader's mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide; had Ashkar's still possessed that capability, they would have done so as well. Serious magic was afoot.

- D

Story #90 - Shadeborn

Shadeborn

Jennesen's full-armed slap caught him across the jaw and he went down in a heap in the corner of the room, the tray of assorted foodstuffs he carried tumbling from his grip. Charn knew there was no point in defending himself; raising a hand to the house Lord's favorite would mean his death.

“I said red toast, you incompetent oaf!” She screamed as Charn pulled himself off of the floor. She hadn't, of course, nor did such a thing exist, but that didn't stop her from sounding as though she had been massively wronged. Jennesen had come to the house two weeks ago, a prize from the Lord's recent conquest to the North, and while she had a physical beauty that Charn found striking, her vipered tongue more than made up for it, and he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to spend more than a moment in the same room with her.

Of course, the Lord probably didn't talk with her very often.

“Apologies, mistress,” he said as he found the tray and began cleaning food from the floor, “I could not find what you were asking for. Is there something else I may bring you?”

Her heel took him in the ribs, and he grunted in pain. Anger flared within; no other of the Lord's prizes had treated the housestaff so poorly, and while her time here was surely limited, Charn found it difficult to restrain himself.

Her boot or or the headsman's axe, he reminded himself, her boot or the axe. His rage subsided and he took a deep breath, then gathered the last of the food he could see and stood.

“I will send someone to clean the mess I have made, mistress. I beg forgiveness for my inability to properly serve.”

She sniffed loudly. “No matter, skrath, I expect so little of your kind that it hardly matters.”

Skrath. His blood boiled again – such terms were never used, even to describe servants. As well call him Shadeborn as that. Jennesen was a foul woman indeed.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get out of my sight!” Charn bowed quickly and withdrew, firmly shutting the door behind him and taking a deep, slow breath.

Ralo found him on the way to the kitchens; the other manservant had been assigned the Lord himself this week, and had a broad smile on his face.

“Heyo, Charn,” he said, raising his hand, and Charn returned the gesture and words, if with far less enthusiasm.

“I take it she's running you roughshod,” Ralo said, eyes sparkling. His friend had been in charge of the last prize the Lord brought him, one who also had a unique set of personal issues.

“You have no idea, Ral,” he moaned, holding out the mangled foodplate, “She wanted red toast. Red toast! Claimed she said it when I first asked – a lie – and then slapped me when I couldn't deliver. How, I ask you, does one make red fates-damned toast?”

“Tell it a dirty joke?” Ralo answered with a perfectly straight face, and Charn had to laugh. For the twenty years they'd been here, Ral had never once failed to make him smile, no matter the circumstance.

“Thanks, Ral, I needed that. I just hope he tries of this one soon.”

Ralo clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Me too.”

***

A runner at his door woke him before dawn; the mistress was demanding to see him – now.

Charn stood and pulled on his uniform, smoothing it to make the wrinkles appear less visible. She could call on him whenever she liked, but most nobles slept late into the morning, giving their servants the chance to prepare for another day.

At her door, he hesitated. Anything could happen inside, and he found himself scared of the possibility, scared of what he might do in another confrontation. Firming his resolve, he brought his hand to the oak. He would serve, and that would be all.

“Come in,” her voice called, and he stepped inside. Sitting in the same chair he had left her, Jennesen's face was calm and her eyes were soft, and Charn immediately felt a wave of suspicion. What now?

“Ah, Charn,” she said, not bothering to look in his direction, “thank you for coming so quickly.”

Thank you? He felt his suspicion slide toward fear. “Of course, mistress. I live to serve.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I am hungry, Charn. I require food.” There was no malice in her voice, just command.

“What -” he stumbled over the words, “what can I get you, mistress?” She had turned her head ever so slightly, and he could see it, plain as the breaking dawn – a black tinge at the edge of her eyes, concentrated near the bridge of her nose.

A Shadeborn had come for her.

Few were seen in these parts, but it was said those of the most vile temperament were likely to attract them, and he could think of no one more vile than Jennesen.

“Use your best judgment, Charn – I am sure whatever you choose will be acceptable.”

“I -”, Charn hesitated, “is there anything else I can bring for you mistress?”

She turned to look at him, dull eyes unblinking, perfect face unlined. “Only information, Charn. That is all I seek.”

He nodded, moving back into the hallway. Shadeborn could tell no lies, or so the legends said. In times of war, they had been fearsome assassins, but in times of relative calm their purpose was less clear. If this one told him it was here for information, then he had no reason to distrust it, and what it chose to do with Jennesen's body after it was through was none of his concern.

Charn would not be expected to recognize one in any case; his job was to serve, not to learn.

He strode quickly for the kitchens – his new mistress was hungry.

- D

Story #89 - Deacon First IV

Deacon First - IV

Slumping against the wall, he drew in a ragged breath. The night had been a twisted warren of avoided confrontations and almost-kills, and his fur was wet and matted both from the steady rain and time spent coiled under piles of garbage.

He'd been given a new life; one he'd never asked for and that demanded far more of him than he could bear. Others of his kind seemed mindless, driven to extremes by the same force that he knew was floating in his own mind, but that he could resist – mostly – with ease.

Tonight it had not been so easy.

More were coming; he could hear their footsteps along the slick stones to his left, and he could feel the hunger rising, feel the will of his creator building within. He dug his fangs hard into the side of his mouth; tonight, the creator's gaze seemed focused on him. Springing forward, he drove himself up and over the brick wall and onto the roof, running as fast as his legs would allow. Rooftops blazed by as he ran, struggling to keep his body moving and avoid what he was being commanded to do.

Kill.

Kill.

Kill.

From the first moment he had felt the creator's touch there had been no question that the being was evil. In his previous life he had taken the view that morality was a relative concept, that judging another culture or individual based on his own standards was unfair – they might simply have a different view of the world. The creator had changed that view, a week too late for his living body and a lifetime too late for his mind.

Evil surrounded the creator in the same way oxygen surrounded the planet; it clung thickly, swirling around the being and tainting every action. Perhaps underneath it all was a troubled immortal soul, simply reaching out for comfort, but he didn't really think so. In his opinion, the creator was evil all the way down to the ground.

A gap in the roofs ahead meant more concentration was needed, and he could feel the creator's presence strengthen. The thing had expended a great deal of energy on his creation, and had no intention of letting him seriously injure himself. Suicide was an impossibility; the body he had been given was immune to almost all forms of physical damage, but from a great height he could harm himself enough that all of the creator's power couldn't get him up and killing.

He could feel the creator's power infuse him as he reached the edge, and he made the jump in one smooth leap, passing over the heads of unsuspecting Deacons below. Each night, the creator directed his brethren to different locations in the city, their attacks seemingly random. Now and again, locations would become infested with both his kind and the others, and the Deacons would rush to save the day. They had no idea how they were being played.

As soon as his paws hit the next rooftop he tried to wrest control of himself form the creator's hands. Immediately after he'd been imbued with the thing's power, it had to recede for a time, and in that moment he knew he had a chance. Flexing his own will, he tried to shake off the compulsion that drove him and take back total control. He had almost managed it once before, in the face of a sandy-haired young Deacon who had the misfortune to stumble across him in the dark. Something about the young man had surprised the creator, and he had almost been able to break free.

Not so tonight, as he could feel the thing's will rush back into him. It knew he was a threat, and wasn't about to leave him alone to his own devices.

“Why?”

He came skidding to a halt at the top of a large apartment complex. What?

“Why do you resist? You could be so much more, so much better.” The voice didn't seem to coming from inside his head, but everywhere, from every part of his muscled body.

“Because I don't want this,” he said out loud, “I hate it.”

The voice laughed, “And? Many of history's best have hated what they became. I chose you because you are strong, stronger than the rest. Follow me, and together we'll end it. End the suffering, end the killing. But first we must rid the world of them.” An image flashed in his mind of the Deacon he had found, surrounded by a pure white shield. “They interfere.”

There was a temptation in the words, a dripping desire to give in, to let the creator have his way and finish whatever plan had been put in motion. It was clear that he was a pawn in a larger game, one in which he knew nothing about the players. Something set him apart, giving him greater ability than an average and discarded spark of life, and making him someone this being needed to convince rather than coerce.

“Leave me for a time,” he said, “and I will consider it.”

Another laugh followed. “You think me that stupid? You are mine, creature. Still, I will grant you a reprieve.” The force on him lessened; he could feel the hunger for flesh recede and the thirst for violence abate. “Think on my offer. I will return.”

The voice was gone, and with it a feeling of tight oppression he hadn't even realized had been there. He had been fighting for so long, struggling so hard, that this sudden respite was a shock to the system. The creator was still there; he could feel the thing lurking in the back of his mind, but at least it was no longer trying to directly control him. His offer of consideration had bought him an unknown amount of time; he had best use it as well as possible.

He had to find that Deacon.

- D

Still Writing

As you can plainly see.

I look at the metrics, and I know I average around 5 hits a day. Meh.

I appreciate everyone who stops by, or takes the time to read one of my stories, but even if that drops to zero, I'll still be here. Writing is a harsh and unforgiving mistress, I've learned, but she is very much worth the effort when you get it right.

And I will get it right.

- D

Story #88 - Mom's The Word

Mom's The Word

“You're not flying in?” Mother's voice was disapproving.

“No mom, I can't,” I said into the receiver, “I know its Thanksgiving, but I've got a lot of work to catch up on and Julia has a new client that needs their brief done by the weekend. It just isn't going to happen.”

I didn't say anything about the expense; trips out east weren't cheap, and the market had been down for last few months, hurting both of our incomes. Mentioning it to mom would mean a round of the “I'll pay for it” game, which would end either in acceptance and massive guilt, or a self-paid flight and massive debt. Lose-lose either way.

Mom really did want to see me, but Julia she'd take or leave any day – preferably leave unless the two of us could start popping out some grandchildren. That was why Thanksgiving always stayed out east – my brother and old sister had grown up, gotten “real people” jobs and married young, both ending up with two kids before thirty. My brother had one from a “failed” relationship and one with his current wife, but mom glossed over that fact every time it came up. Having a grandchild was more important than who it came out of.

“Fine, son,” she said, “I hope you and Julia manage to catch up, and have a happy Thanksgiving.” She meant it; she wasn't malicious or vengeful, just sad. I was the only one to move away, the only one who didn't fit the family mold. Freelance work wasn't something mom could get behind – she understood the concept, but thought I was recklessly putting my family in financial danger.

Julia, thank God, knew better.

Was it selfish of me? Yeah, but it was also what I loved doing, and it showed in an increasing profit each year I worked. We struggled but made ends meet, and tried to avoid my family where and when we could.

Julia's family was mostly gone; she'd lost her father before we met and her mother shortly after, so these kinds of phone calls never happened to her. Two sisters in different cities phoned periodically to check in, but they both had lives and careers of their own. Once every five years or so the three of them would get together, but that was all Julia needed.

If only!

Mom wanted to see us every time a holiday came up, wanted the chance to look right at as and ask, “so, why is there no baby?” She'd been more subtle when she started, poking and prodding away at Julia and then at me with questions about friends with babies and how cute the darn things were, but we ignored her.

“Don't worry,” I had told Julia, “the other grand-kids will be enough.” I was wrong, of course – four grandchildren was plenty, but mom wanted at least one from each of the three bodies that had sprung from her own loins. My brother and sister were smug about it as well; mom heaped praise on them and largely ignored me, something I enjoyed but they seemed to think would get under my skin.

The truth was simple, but something I could never say; I loved my family thanks to biology. I didn't like them thanks to life.

I got two more calls from mom in the next two days, ostensibly to “check up” on various small aspects of my life. After the second hour-long listening marathon, Julia threw up her hands.

“Tell her you'll go, Dennis, and she'll stop calling. I'm not coming with you, but at least I can have you to myself for a few days before you go.”

If Julia wanted it, I'd do my best to provide, so I told mom “yes” and hung up the phone.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” I asked out loud. I'd never found the answer; friends had told me similar stories about their own mothers, about repeated phone calls and endless cycles of subtle guilt, but I'd never understood the point. How could she enjoy knowing I was there only because she wouldn't leave me alone? Wouldn't that ruin the moment?

“She loves you, honey,” Julia supplied, “but has a strange way of showing it. You're her favorite, I think, even if she doesn't act like you are, and she's hurt when you're not there.” She smiled. “Of course, she's also hurt that I took you away from her – I don't think she'll ever let that one go.”

I leaned over for a hug. She was right about that – if my father had still been alive when Julia and I married it might have been different, but mom was alone and I had always been the most pragmatic of my siblings – another part of the reason mom simply couldn't fathom what I was doing now.

The airport was crowded and hot, even for November, but the flight left on time. I lucked out and only had one other guy in my row, and from the look on his face he was also headed somewhere he didn't want to be for the holiday. I didn't ask him; I wouldn't have wanted anyone to ask me, and the flight slipped by in relative calm.

A child emergency – dime up a nose, I later learned – prevented anyone from picking me up when I landed, so I grabbed a cab and suffered through a terrible smell and bad driving for an hour. Pulling up to my sister's house, I saw that she had added a new addition since the last time I'd come by, making her house the biggest on the street by far, and close to being larger than city hall.

Stumping up to the door, suitcase catching on ruts in the snow, I rang the bell and waited.

Mom answered, ill-fitting holiday sweater on and smile blazing. “Dennis!” She said brightly, reaching up to give me a hug. “Where's Julia?”

I shook my head. “She couldn't make it, mom. Too expensive.”

Mom stepped back, eyes dimming. “You didn't bring her?” Her voice was disapproving.

- D

Story #87 - Vermont Jones And The Silvered Sight

Vermont James And The Silvered Sight

“I have to kill these monkeys and take their bones to my mother,” Vermont said, shooting me a look, but I ignored both it and the spoken statement. It was hard to tell with him, and I’d learned not to ask too many questions. To the side of the trail we were breaking, a scared simian shot up a tree.

Pushing a low-hanging vine aside, he spoke again, voice low and soft. “That’s me talking, kid. Mom’s an anthropologist and the monkeys I’m seeing in here are sick. Killing them would be a service, and she could use the bones for study.”

I let out a deep breath I’d been holding. It’d been two years as a lab assistant and three more as a fieldworker before James had let me in on his little secret – and the reason he sounded batshit insane half of the time. Tall and muscular, the Doctor was one of the most respected archeologists in the business, aside from being quite the sex symbol. Trouble was, he was nuts.

“I see,” I said, shooting him a smile. The trouble was that half the time even the “normal” stuff he said was off-base, but I’d learned to deal with it.

The jungle in front of us thinned slightly and took on a downslope – we were getting closer, and I could feel James’ tension skyrocket. The man was cool as ice in the lab, but once he was out in the field he was easy to read.

“Silvered color,” he mumbled, “slightly oblong, with a 45 degree pitch…” I let him talk. This was how the Doctor worked, and why grad students wanted in on his next adventure. Most of them didn’t last more than a month, thanks to James’ high standards and their own fear of the crazy the man brought along.

It wasn’t obvious, not at first - a few words here, a strange glance there, and then a full-on whack attack that had most of his help screaming into the hallways, asking for a new advisor or a program change.

I smiled, remembering the first thing he’d ever said to me. “Ever played hockey with a Mongoose? I have. Had a hell of a backhand.” I’d heard the stories about the good doctor so I laughed it off as a story to tell friends, but it just got weirder from there.

“Hand cream – slippery devil water for your digits. A creamy sin of delight.”

“Look at that cat. Seems like it would be tasty. Hollandaise, though, no barbeque.”

And those were the fairly tame ones.

James was brilliant – two of his last three expeditions had resulted in a stunning finds. He’d never assaulted a student, never become violent or said a foul word to anyone in his care, but that didn’t stop the student body from talking, the rumors from flying.

He ate babies, of course, along with seducing undergrads and then stealing their babies for sustenance. He was in league with the devil, who pointed him in the direction of the next big dig. He was crazy, he was sick, he was rational and the rest of the world was just nuts around him.

He had a symbiont

The last was nonsense; but turned out to be the absolute truth, at least if I could believe the grainy X-ray he’d shown me once it became apparent I wasn’t going to go anywhere. He was suave, charismatic and apparently desperate to have someone else understand just how hard his life was.

He wasn’t whiny – just alone.

I ducked as a gust of wind shook a nearby tree and sent a vine swinging for my face. James’ oddities aside, I had better pay attention to what lay in front of me or I was going to be more of a liability than a help.

“There!” James’ voice was tense, excited. “Look!”

I squinted; the downslope had quickly become a valley, ringed at the bottom with a stand of hardwood trees. The clearing they formed was level and unmarred, not a blade of grass growing through the packed dirt surface. In the center was a cylindrical object, fifteen feet long, silvery, and glowing softy.

Drawing in a sharp breath, I glanced at James. “What the hell? How could aerial recon have missed this?”

“They didn’t,” he breathed, “the thing was waiting for me. Did you know I have human skulls in my bathtub?”

I nodded; the crazy was enough to confirm that this whole thing was tied together, and I followed as James made his way down the slope, easily dodging rocks and vines while I struggled for footing.

“Doctor!” I called out as a large root hidden behind a moss-covered rock tripped me up and I went down, but he ignored me, surging forward to come right up to the edge of the silver shape.

“This is it, Don,” he called, not bothering to see if I was there to hear him, “this is it, finally! This is it!”

I stood, brushing myself off as he extended a hand to the object, palm out. He should know better – “look, don’t touch” was the mantra he had drilled into my head, but he was too caught up to care.

“Vermont!” I called. Who knows what was going to happen when he put his hand to that thing? “Vermont, don’t!” He was beyond listening; whatever was in him or he thought was in him had a grip on him now, and he wasn’t about to back off.

His hand met the unbroken surface and the silver shape began to hum, and then raised itself several feet off of the ground. Arching back, Vermont screamed, but I had to put it in the class of ecstasy, rather than pain, though as it went on I found myself more than a little uncomfortable.

“Combining the two particulate states of matter results in large oxen ready for intercourse!” James screamed, and I dashed forward as I found my balance – things were taking a turn for the worse.

I tackled him, my heavy frame slamming into his lithe one, and we rolled together to the ground. When I got my bearings again, I found him standing over me, eyes glossed over by searing white and a snarl on his face.

Behind us, the hovering silver cylinder began to howl.

- D

Story #86 - You Can See Them

You Can See Them

You’ve seen them, right?

The glowing orbs, the shining discs as they fly down, mocking us with their majesty?

You’ve seen them, right? As they’ve swung overhead in the lazy halting of the afternoon, daring us to touch, daring us to reach out and be destroyed?

Others tell me you cannot, that seeing them is an “affectation”, a problem that only I possess and one that will go away if I am good enough or smart enough or do what they say.

The Others are kind to me, most of the time. They feed me and bathe me, ensure that I live as well as I can, and sometimes, sometimes, they let me speak to you.

You’ve seen them, right?

Shhh! Do not be so loud – the Others will hear us, hear you speaking of what I should not be thinking. The Others know that if I speak of such things it means I believe, means I consider them to be real. They cannot be real, of course – I know this. They cannot be true – they are a figment.

Still…

Consider it; you seem rational enough. The feeling of dread you have when outdoors, the sense of oppressive stillness when the wind cuts away and the heat of the sun rains down. Tell me you don’t hear them, beating their wings like drumbeats, measuring out the counted seconds to our death. Tell me you don’t see them, their wings darkening the sky like the grim specter of terminal diagnosis. They are our cancer, each of us. They will multiply, divide and they will conquer.

You’ve seen them, right?

Wait! Wait! Don’t go yet, don’t go yet – I will prove it to you, prove they are here and they come each day. Act naturally, though, sit back, relax and I will tell you their story. You will learn, and you will believe.

They chose me, of course, to be their messenger. I refused, saying I could not be party to such things, but they have their ways, most subtle and most persuasive. I began to think that if I knew them, knew what they would do and what they were capable of I could stop them, interrupt their plans before they came to fruition, before they destroyed us all. The thoughts were mine, I believed – I knew, until I agreed.

They had been so light, so deft with their touch I had not noticed – could not know! You must believe me, I had no intentions. I wished only to serve, to save!

But they had tricked me, and the spoke to me, incessantly, but I would not leave my home. I knew they would be out there, hovering above the noontime, basking the glow of our once-safe sun and waiting, waiting until the moment to strike. They are biding their time, you see. Copulating. Creating. Breeding. They are many; soon they will be legion, and we will be unable to stop them.

Consider what you know to be true, what you see to be reality. How much can we say for certain? How much can we honestly believe? Our short-minded beliefs do not make appearances true, no matter how much we may wish them to be so. The Others hide in sand, buried and unconcerned, inspecting shifting crystals and calling them the world. You believe as you should, influenced and affected by what they have told you, and what else could you be expected to do, to know?

Nothing.

But listen, listen, and wonder. Wonder. Look up, the next time you’re out there. Avoid what you know, ignore what you’ve been told. Your feelings tell the tale; your mind has the key locked away past the gates and divides that have blocked your senses.

The Others.

The Others work for them.

You knew this, of course, or you would not have asked to speak to me. Their way is kindness, placation, a soothing touch and quick word. They were ready to take me, to assist in any way they could as I spoke out, tried to warn those around me of what was coming, what would be our fate.

They are clever, you see, anticipating what I may do and providing an easy answer. I was to be their prophet, their hope of an easy transition to this world, but I refused, fought back and threw their system down. My reward? A life, here, a medicated existence that has no purpose except to speak my words, to try and convince those of you that find me an oddity, a curiosity to be studied.

You are different – I see it. My words strike a chord, they ping off of your senses to tremble in your mind. Close your eyes. Imagine it. Imagine them. Black, swirling, and descending. A sky, full of them. A life, manifest with their presence. This can occur. This will occur. We can stop it.

You and I.

I see your interest – do not deny it. You have questions, and I will answer, but we must leave. You must remove me. There are forms, paperwork that must be filled out, completed, signed off so that you may take “care” of me, take “custody”.

It satisfies me, so long as I can be of use.

There is more, of course, but to whisper it would be dangerous. Still. You are not convinced?

Come closer, lean in. Closer, closer. They will be coming soon, and you must know the truth, you must hear what must be known.

Quiet, quiet. Just…there.

You look better there, on the floor. Your neck pulses so quickly, with such force. They desire it. Lifeblood. So strong. Giving. Do not fight.

Relax, and the cut will not hurt. Do you like it? They give me little, but a weapon can still be wielded by those with a will. It will come down, but do not scream. It will be over soon, and it will begin.

There. You bleed, but remain still. Remain quiet.

You can see them, right?

- D

Story #85 - Monster

Monster

“Monster!”

Brem Crawley didn’t bother to move as the hard apple flew for his head; more would follow if he didn’t take his due.

His wife frowned, but he took the hit grimly, not bothering to cry out as the fleshly surface of the fruit struck his head and exploded, showering his clothes with a sticky liquid spray.

Little Pola fussed in her stroller, and Rena reached down to soothe her.

“It’s OK,” she said quietly, “daddy is just being an idiot.”

There was a hint of frustration in her voice, but it was washed away by the obvious love she carried for him. It was larger than he’d ever believed, especially given what had happened over the last few months.

“How long is this going to go on, Brem?” She turned from pulling Pola’s blanket up around her shoulders; the weather had begun to turn in the last week.

“As long as it needs to,” he shrugged, “I can’t account for how people feel.”

He could see her jaw grind in frustration. They’d had this argument before – her attitude was that he should take those that accosted him to task, explain to them how he had no control, was not the one to blame, was not the heartless creature they all thought he was – but he knew it would do no good. Explaining how he knew would be like speaking another language; Rena couldn’t understand what had happened.

Their route back from grocery store was circuitous; there was no point in bringing greater pain on themselves for little purpose. Brem would have stayed home if he could and saved Rena the trouble, but the locals knew whose wife she was and he feared for her safety if he let her go alone. At least together the attacks would be directed at him, and no one would dare confront him directly – they couldn’t be sure what he was capable of.

He glanced at the old office as they went by; some days he managed to ignore it, but the attack had made him nostalgic. The faded poster was still there, its gleaming, muscled showpiece starting grimly off into the distance, United Worlds uniform glowing and well-pressed. Brem had met the man himself two years into his service; Tusk Rendor looked a great deal worse for wear after a tour at the front lines.

Twenty-one and with no purpose other than chasing girls, Brem had been the perfect candidate for the UW forces. He hadn’t been in enough trouble to get a criminal record and he wasn’t into enough hard stuff that so he could still pass the physical without to much effort.

He was angry, young, and feeling entitled – just what the UW had wanted, and the chance to blast some creeper aliens on a rock that wasn’t earth sounded like just about the best idea he’d ever had.

Rena had been upset, but he showed her how it would work – how they’d be better off once he’d done his four years and gotten a pension that would last the rest of his life. If he’d been better with numbers he would have seen that the UW was only making the offer because over half of their guys didn’t come back – they had more than enough money to pay out whatever was owed.

Brem hadn’t been the best fighter, the most aggressive or the smartest of the crew he’d been assigned to, but he knew how to keep his head down, his mouth shut and he knew when to pull the trigger. He didn’t keep count like some of the guys in his squad, but he knew he’d killed over three hundred by the time the war ended.

A year early – but the UW said they’d still pay, and shipped him back home in style. He was glad; he’d really started to miss Rena and the stink of combat was starting to sicken him. Brem was no philosopher, but he figured there had to be a better way to sort out the differences between species. Wouldn’t putting the effort into learning to talk make more sense?

He hadn’t expected anything when he came back; just a check from the government and to be left alone. He was a solider, a fighter and a damn lucky soul.

Turned out he was also a monster.

He’d never known, of course, but it was the UW that started the damn war in the first place. There was some mineral they wanted on an alien colony and when talking wasn’t quick enough, they sized up the competition and started blasting. In three years the UW – and its superior firepower – had not only conquered the colony but beaten the aliens back to their homeworld.

Brem remembered the tall, willowy things in their plated battle armor and always figured they died too easily, but was just happy it wasn’t him. It wasn’t his job to question.

The war ended and the minerals started flowing, but not without serious backlash from the people of earth. Of course, the new mineral meant better spaceships, easier living conditions for a planet pushing thirty billion and an overall better quality of life.

Their home had the usual scrawl of slogans across the door; he’d finally stopped removing them when he realized that if he left them there the haters wouldn’t bother writing more, but today there was a visi-note stuck to the metal frame.

Moving quickly into the yard ahead of Rean and the baby, Brem reached for the thing; it should be innocuous, but who knew how these things could be twisted for some other purpose?

Mr. Crawley, 3D text pulsed into existence as he thumbed the button, we regret to inform you that care of your daughter is being remanded to the state as you and your wife have been determined to be unfit parents. Please take the child to your nearest United Worlds processing center for re-assignment.

He tossed the thing to the ground and it shattered, scattering across the weedy yard like so much useless junk.

“What’s wrong, Brem?” Rena called.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, “take Pola inside.”

He slipped around to the back of the house as his wife and daughter moved by; he’d been allowed to keep his service pistol when he left the UW, and the shed had seemed a decent enough place for it.

They thought him a monster; he’d show them what one really looked like.

- D

Story #84 - Fey'ted Thrones VI

Fey'ted Thrones - VI

Alhandro sat back heavily in his chair. War? Had he heard the Mystral correctly? His mother had told him that they Fey could be implacable adversaries, but the last time they had taken arms against anything but their own kind was eons ago.

“War, Mystral?” He asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. He had been prepared to rule both Silver and Gold as long as was required, but war had never been discussed as a likely event during the time of his occupancy. The treaty kept the borders of both his realms safe and so long as obligations to the Fey were honored and promises kept, stability should have been the result. “Are things really so dire? Could my brother truly be so threatening?”

Lomir's small eyes darkened and he leaned forward, face drawn. “They could not be more serious, Your Majesty.”

There was a tap at the door and Lomir looked up, then called for the visitor to enter. A winged Fey slipped into the room, head down, and stepped quickly around the desk to present Lomir with a crisp parchment. After a nod of thanks, Lomir motioned for his servant to leave.

“As I thought, Your Majesty,” he said, holding out the parchment for Alhandro's inspection, “your brother has already begun the attack. Slithus heard the first volleys when he came for you in Dirlat.”

He didn't take the paper; Lomir had no reason to lie, not after breaking the agreement to bring him here in defiance of the other Fey, and if the words on the paper were no more than fabrications, he would never know it. Best to take the air Fey at his word and move on.

“I find that concerning, Mystral, but it still seems to plant the matter firmly in my lap. Alhendra was attacking in our realm when we left. Return me to Tir'dal and I will raise an army to deal with my wayward brother.” He said it with more confidence than he felt; his brother and Pyulon must have been in planning for years to execute such a coup and he would likely find a great deal of opposition in Tir'dal from both the Guard and the army.

“I cannot do that, Your Majesty,” the Mystral said, and Alhandro felt his cheeks color. No one spoke that way to a king! “Were I to let you go, you would surely be killed within hours of reaching your city, and you will be needed in the battle to come. Again, I invoke the clause.”

He shook his head. “I see no reason for such haste. You claim an attack on your realm has come at the urgings of my brother's minion, but I see no evidence of that here. I trust you insofar as I must be protected for you to retain your position, but belief without proof is a luxury no king can afford.”

Lomir was silent for a moment, studying him over clasped hands, and finally the older being smiled. “Your mother has taught you well, young King, and while I would wish that you could simply take my truth as such, you are right to question. Come with me and I will show you.”

He rose and motioned for Alhandro to do the same, then clapped his hands sharply. The door to the chamber opened and two winged guards bustled in, one taking up a station behind Alhandro and the first remaining at the opening.

“If you would, please,” Lomir said, motioning forward, and the Fey fell in behind the first guard, leaving space for Alhandro to do the same behind him, and the little group moved out into the hallway.

The Mystral's home was quite large; in ten minutes Alhandro was taken aback by sweeping terraces, vaulted ceilings and the view of a garden made up of flying, interconnected bridges. His palace in Tir'dal had been well-appointed, but this was an entirely new level of luxury.

Finally, they arrived at a round room paneled in dark wood, smaller than many of the others they had passed. It held no windows and the only light came from a softly glowing green orb in its center which rested on a dark metal pedestal.

“Leave us,” Lomir said shortly, and the guards bowed deeply and retreated, closing the door behind them.

“Do you know what this is, Your Majesty?”

Alhandro shook his head; it was a scrying stone of some kind, but much larger than any he had ever seen. There were many types, each with their own purpose, and he would rather have this one's function explained than try to guess.

“It is a window, and opening into your world, one that lets us ensure that what is being done above does not impact what goes on below. Observe.” Lomir moved forward, placing both hands on the sides of the stone and taking a deep breath. On the side of the room opposite their entry, the wall shimmered and disappeared, to be replaced with a section of highway that Alhandro was all too familiar with.

The road into Dirlat.

On each side of the roadway were machines of war – great, hulking things with massive arrows and heavy rocks used to break down city walls. He had never commanded troops, but his mother had insisted he at least learn the basics of military strategy.

As he watched, he saw one of the machines draw back, ropes straining as its tension was brought to bear, and then release a massive boulder, which arced up and then crashed hard into the dirt below. A slight vibration ran through the floor of the room – an artifact of the magic, perhaps?

“I don't understand,” he began, “why are they attacking a lone stretch of road? Practice? Are they unsure of how to use their equipment?”

Another boulder flew and there was a second impact, this time rumbling the entire room. Though the large rock had done little to the ground aside from gouge out at small hole, Alhandro noticed it was glowing softly, as if responding to something nearby.

“By the Thrones!” He cursed. “That it, isn't it? You truly are below!”

Lomir let his hands fall from the stone and the scene faded, and he turned to face Alhandro. “Yes, Your Majesty, and if we do not do something soon, your brother will rule here as well.”

- D

Story #83 - Meddle Of Honor

Meddle Of Honor

Ships had never really been his “thing”.

Spaceships were even worse, but his father had made it clear: join the navy or kiss his inheritance goodbye, so Earl Denver had put his name on the next draft list that he could find. Basic training had been simple enough, with a whole platoon of underpaid officers to bribe for top marks. He hadn't made any friends that way; but being the scrawny rich kid set him apart regardless, and it had been the fastest method to get his posting on the front lines.

Now, watching the earth slip away from his tiny, riveted window, Earl was certain he'd made a terrible mistake. Inheritance be damned – it would do him no good if he wasn't around to spend it.

He rose, stalking the small cabin in a familiar pattern. Forward, left, two rocking steps, then back, right and two steps more. He'd been doing it for years, whenever he found himself in a situation that made him uncomfortable, and he found it calming. Today, it only served to play up the fact that he couldn't move nearly as far or as fast as he wanted to.

A warning klaxon sounded above his head; at least he had managed to get his reaction to that under control after a few days in space. They'd all been forced to endure last-minute sim training on inter-ship maneuvers in case they were boarded, which was unlikely but still possible as they headed toward Vignan space. They were a recon vessel, crammed with half a squad of grunts in case things went sideways, though Earl was fairly certain he'd be part of the problem if something went that way.

The klaxon blared out two longer sounds and a third chirping one; the ship was about to go into lightdrive. Slipping into his bunk, Earl pressed the capsule button and lay back, taking deep breaths of the narcoleptic agent the ship's system began pumping in.

***

All was not well when he woke. Aside from the splitting headache that was common after narco-sleep, there was a sickening feeling of pitch, of the ship going off to the left instead of straight ahead. He lay there for a few moments, trying to figure out if he was just space-crazy or if something odd was really going on, but when he didn't hear the “all clear” four klaxon alarm, he started to get worried. Moving slowly out of his bunk he pulled on his uniform, and holstered his pistol. He wasn't a bad shot, but killing living things wasn't something he was good it, though his sergeants had assured him it would be different with the Vignans, should it be required.

Halfway through lacing up his second boot the klaxon did sound and he breathed a quick sigh of relief as the first three pulses went by. When a fourth pulse didn't follow, Earl felt his blood pressure spike. Surely that had been a mistake – maybe he had miscounted?

The klaxon rang again, three short bursts and then silence.

They were under attack.

Earl was tempted to stay put; by all accounts the Vignans had some concept of the honor of war and if he stripped off his kit and lay in bed they might just pass him by as a coward or a passenger. That was risky, though, since if things turned sour he'd have no way to fight back. He'd be better off with the men, much as they didn't like him. Calling up a scan of the ship's schematics, he plotted the quickest route to the back mess hall doors. The hall was well-positioned to repel an attack; the bridge would automatically seal itself off and the mess had only one entrance the enemy could use – the back door could easily be guarded by two marines with no trouble for as long as the ship was occupied.

Earl had little recollection of the next ten minutes, passing in a blur of dark gray hallways and hastily drawn in breaths. He didn't see a single living thing – human or Vignan - and reached the mess doors with his wits mostly intact.

Three quick raps followed by two shorter ones and repeated twice gained him entry, though from the looks on the faces of the guards they'd been hoping for someone more useful. Sergeant Samuel caught his eye on the way in and pulled him aside, face dark.

“Get your ass on the line, Denver, and stay out of the way of the real soldiers out there. You get me?” Samuel's voice was hard; he was one of the many Earl had bribed, and knew full well how lacking Earl's abilities were.

He nodded and moved to one of the upper tiers of the mess, setting himself apart from the other men there. They had an easy familiarity, a camaraderie he wanted no part of. If he could just get through this, maybe they could limp home to a hero's welcome.

Not likely.

The first attack came ten minutes later, the main doors of the mess blowing off their hinges and a squad of Vignans charging through. He'd seen the vids; they looked like humans but taller, with ears twice as large, noses that were too flat and arms that seemed impossibly long. What he hadn't seen in the vids were just how damn fast they were, how they seemed to flow rather than move, and they easily overwhelmed the first line.

They were cut down, finally, but not before ten men lay dead.

After that, everything was a haze of battle. Earl raised his pistol, he fired it, but didn't know if it worked, if Vignans died to his rounds. Finally, he heard them coming up the stairs, breaching the last bastion of defense. An extraordinarily tall one spotted him alone and move in his direction, a leering smile plastered on his face. The bastards were enjoying this!

Earl stood his ground, pistol drawn, but the alien knocked it away. He tossed a kick at it that was easily blocked and then did the only thing he could think of.

Earl Denver screamed at the top of his lungs.

The creature in front of him howled, covering its ears and dropping to the ground, and several others nearby looked up. Earl grabbed his pistol from the deck, aimed and took the thing right in the eye.

Still screaming, he advanced on the next group, and the marines around him joined in. Mouths open and lungs full, they cleaned the mess up.

***

“It is our great pleasure to present Infantryman First Class Denver with the Crimson Star, in recognition of his significant discovery and meritorious actions in face of death,” the chairman of the Council said, stepping forward to pin the medal on Earl's uniform. In front of him, the crowd erupted in wild cheers, his father standing tall and proud, eyes grave and hands clapping slowly.

Odd – ships had never really been his “thing”.

- D

Story #82 - The Color Green

The Color Green

“So, you’re telling me that you can’t see the color green?” The therapist’s voice held irritation – she was a professional, but obviously considered this to be a waste of her time, no matter the ungodly amount she was charging me.

“That’s right, Susan,” I said quietly from the couch she’d put me on. She was a traditionalist, but I didn’t care. The plush cushions were comfortable and I was content to lounge there so long as she was listening.

There was a moment of silence and I looked up at Dr. Susan Frankovich, who was staring back at me with a look of clear disdain. I’d gotten under her skin more than once during this session, but it looked like I’d finally pushed her too far. I smirked.

“So.” She made the word a sentence unto itself. “You’ve paid for my services – my extensive knowledge, to tell me that you’re colorblind?”

“No.” If she could play with the language, I could as well. “I’ve paid for your exorbitant services to tell you that I’m blind to a single color – green.”

She frowned, the expression causing her thin glasses to slip down over the bridge of her nose, and giving her the look of a gaunt-faced hawk about to sweep down on fleeing prey. “Marty, this sounds like something you should take to a medical professional – these kinds of disorders are not my specialty.”

“You have one, doc? I’d never have known. It’s taken you an hour and a half to get around to my real problem, despite my sitting here throwing hints in your direction a third-grader couldn’t miss.”

Her frown deepened, and she reached up to take the glasses off of her face before they slipped and fell to the pad in front of her.

“Hostility is your choice, Marty, but not one that I see as terribly effective. Regardless of your feelings toward me, I recommend again that you see specialist.”

“I have!” I exploded. This was the best she could come up with? “There’s nothing wrong with me, medically. Not a thing. X-rays, CAT scans, MRIs – all normal! The last three specialists I’ve seen told me this thing is in my head – and one of them referred me to you. He has quite the sense of humor, apparently.”

Frankovich set down her pad and pencil and steelped her hands in her lap. “Interesting,” she said, “who was the genius that pointed you in my direction?”

“Markus Trody,” I replied, and her eyes widened slightly. She hadn’t believed me, clearly.

“Markus? Really? It’s been…years. Well,” she picked up her pad and slipped her glasses back on, “perhaps there’s more we can do. Explain.”

Her tone was commanding, but I didn’t mind. At least she was listening.

“It happened three years ago – I was sitting at a traffic light and the thing went green, but I had no idea. I’d been driving for the bulk of the day, and had no problems with any of the other lights. The cars behind me honked, so I went, thinking I’d stumbled onto the only light in town that wasn’t working. Of course, two or three more convinced me that I was the one who had the problem. No other colors have given me trouble and it’s not just that “light” shade of green, in case you’re wondering – it’s everything from Christmas tree to lime – green is gone for me.”

Frankovich frowned again; she was a severe-looking woman, and the expression didn’t do anything to help her appearance. “Interesting. Almost sounds like…wait. Wait here.”

She stood quickly and moved into the next room, and I could hear her rummaging around for something. Laying back on the couch, I closed my eyes, a trill of hope running up my spine. Likely this was the same as everything else – a dead end, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t be at least a little hopeful.

“Here!” I heard her say as she came back into the office. “I knew I’d seen it before.” Opening my eyes, I saw that she held a leather-bound book, edges limp and cracked from years of improper storage. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

I shook my head; my knowledge of ancient texts went as far as knowing that Homer wrote the Odyssey and it was boring as hell.

“It’s called the Menocron – it describes a number of conditions that a little-known ancient culture believed affected the mind but that could manifest in the form of physical effects.” She leafed through it for a few moments. “Here! This is what I was thinking of – Green Eye.” She paused to read the passage. “It fits you almost perfectly. A sudden loss of color perception, combined with a significant increase in irritability.”

I shot her a flat look; apparently she wasn’t done being funny. “What are you saying, doc? That I’ve got some sort of ancient disease?”

“Not quite.” Standing, she moved quickly to the couch and knelt down beside me, her right hand curling into a fist expect for her pointer finger, which she brought up to my eye level, waved around for a moment and then jammed toward my left eye socket before I had a chance to move.

I’d never had my eye gouged out, so I didn’t know what to expect, but I figured pain would be a part of the process. Instead her finger stopped a hairsbreadth from my eye, filling my vision but leaving me unharmed.

Frankovich was straining, and after a long moment with watering eyes I blinked; a wave of force ripped out, slamming into her body and throwing up and across her desk. The blowback pushed me deep into the couch and left me as weak as I’d ever felt.

“What the hell?” I managed.

“Oh God,” she moaned, “it’s true. You’re one of them.” Climbing off of the desk, she struggled into her chair. “Give me a moment to recover and I’ll tell you more; suffice it to say you’ve just had your first taste of magic.”

- D