Story #128 - 1 Percent

1 Percent

There was no milk.

There were cartons on the shelf, each one branded with a laughing cow or a smiling dairy farmer, but none of them were right. None of them were what she was looking for.

There was no milk.

She wandered aimlessly for a time, up and down slick aisles with processed food and shelf after shelf of packaged products, each one promising more dietary happiness than the next. Eventually, she returned to the dairy section, hopeful that what she needed would have miraculously appeared.

They had a spot for it; a clean metal rack marked for what she required, but it remained steadfastly blank, no matter how many laps of the dairy section, the produce space or the bakery she took. There was no milk.

A tear leaked from the corner of her eye, and a brief sniffle escaped, drawing a look from the man browsing next to her. Pulling herself together she faked a cough and then shied away, slipping into a back corner of the store. Tears ran freely down her face; she needed a few minutes to compose herself, to get away from the terrible pressure.

He was going to be so angry.

He was a good man – he provided for her every need - but he got angry sometimes. It wasn’t that she didn’t deserve it. He assigned her simple tasks, and she knew that failing was her own fault.

Hopelessness washed over her. This store was the only one on the block that had what she was looking for, and without a car, there was no way she could find any somewhere else.

Overhead lights hummed, and the bustle of the evening grocery crowd began to overwhelm her. She had to get away, had to run before it all became too much.

Laura could help her.

She was out the sliding door and down the street before anyone else could look at her askance. Her breathing was coming in ragged gasps, and the light dress she had put on for him was beginning to stick uncomfortably. Laura would make it better. Laura would make it right.

It took three buzzes before Laura answered and let her in. Her sitting room was full; Laura was popular in the neighborhood, and often entertained guests from across the borough. She’d always thought it was odd for a woman to be so free with her home and her time, but Laura seemed happy, and she’d always been able to help her when she needed it most.

“I need to see her,” she said to the young woman who met her at the door to Laura’s private rooms, “it’s urgent.”

“I’m sorry,” the pretty thing said, “but she’s very busy.”

“Please,” she wailed, “it’s important. They’re all out of milk.”

The bitch looked at her with dark eyes for a moment; what an ugly cow. “Fine. Wait here.”

“Thank you, thank you!” A surge of glee overwhelmed her. Laura could make it all better. The door in front of her slid open after a few minutes, and Laura poked her head out. Older, but without the man-face that came to so many woman of age, Laura Pickerall was tall, beautiful and serious.

She hated her; she loved her.

“Gina.” Laura’s voice was flat. “Come in.” She didn’t take offence – Laura always treated her that way, but had a knack for making her feel better no matter the circumstance.

She waited until Laura had taken her seat before placing herself in the middle of the large couch. Laura was very particular about protocol, and she didn’t want to offend her friend with an accidental slight.

“What is the problem?” Direct and to the point: this was why she loved Laura.

“There’s no milk at the store. None! He’s going to be so mad. He’s going to hit me!” Gina felt the horror escaping her, the fear at being at his mercy yet again. He was such a good man, but with such a temper. Such a temper!

“Why would he do that? It’s not your fault there was no milk.”

“You know better than that!” She was screaming now. When had that happened? “When he gets home from work, he’s going to be mad that his milk isn’t there, and he’s going to get angry. He doesn’t care that it’s not my fault!”

“And where is he working today?” Despite Gina’s outburst, Laura’s voice was calm.

“Pluto,” she said shortly, “with a stop on Mars before he gets home. The Galactic Council needs his help before they move against the Weggens. Space travel always makes him cranky.”

“Pluto?” Laura said mildly. “Yesterday it was Saturn – and without a suit, even. Your man certainly gets around. I’m sorry; what was his name? I always forget.”

“I…” Gina’s brain fuzzed as she thought about him. His name wouldn’t come. It never did when she thought hard. “Nevermind! That doesn’t matter. He’ll be home soon, and then what am I going to do?”

Laura glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, Gina, but I’m booked solid today. I don’t really have time for this. Meet me later this week, but for now, this is going to have to do.” Grey eyes met hers across the room. Kindly, they had a solid backing of steel.

“What is his name?”

“I don’t know!” Gina could feel her fear rising. He was coming.

“What is his name?”

“I…it’s…” Panic took her; she could feel her breathing shorten to small gasps.

“What is his name?” Laura’s voice was low and hard.

“WHO?” Gina screamed. What the hell was Laura talking about?

Laura regarded her for a long moment; hands clasped in front of her and face calm. “Good enough,” she said finally, and motioned for Gina to rise.

“Thanks for the chat, Laura – I always feel so much better after I talk to you.”

“Of course, Gina. Now, make sure to talk to Christy on the way out. I need to see you later this week.”

She nodded. Laura was such a good friend. A twinge of sadness caught at her as she stepped out onto the street; her apartment was lonelier than ever, these days, but at least she would see her friend again soon.

- D

Story #127 - A Breath, Dying - 2

A Breath, Dying - 2

Most of the time, Dave Broussard found research to be a cathartic activity, but today, he wished he could simply put the book in his hands down, close the cover, and never pick it up again.

Or burn it. Burning would be good.

It was his passion for information that had landed him his spot with the police department and given him the income to retire from teaching, but he’d never missed the classroom before. He’d take two hundred hormone-charged undergrads over the facts he was learning in a heartbeat; there was some knowledge that shouldn’t be allowed to exist, simply for the good of all.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he’d seen the tattoo on Grent’s phone wrong. Maybe it just been a unique tribal design, or perhaps the artist had seen the mark of the Twisted Air somewhere; it was unlikely, but not impossible.

He shook his head and took another sip of his tea. The rose ruled out that possibility. Items kept alive past their time, especially flora, indicated the presence of an Air spirit, and even if it were one of the more minor varieties, it had enough power to not only brutally murder the woman who’d invoked it, but would grow in strength as it killed again.

The Air cult had been all but suppressed in North American, but Dave knew that several African and European chapters persisted. Even communication with the spirits was dangerous, and he’d seen first-hand a number of devotees that had made communed with one of the lesser spirits, only to be robbed of the powers of speech and hearing.

Summoning any of the spirits was expressly forbidden except for grand masters in the order, and only a few of those remained; most having died under “suspicious circumstances”. Based on the tattoo on the woman’s shoulder, she had been a low-level functionality at best, and had no business knowing – let alone using – the words required to bring an Air spirit to this dimension.Dave forced his eyes back to the book in front of him. He was one of only three people in the world that had an unabridged copy of the information; while laymen could still find the basics in occult book stores and online, the pertinent information – and more importantly, diagrams – had been removed.

He had been almost certain on seeing the rose what the woman had done wrong, but needed to verify with the text before moving further. Grent and his colleagues would have to be told something about the killer that was on the loose, but Dave would have to make sure it was something they could handle.

It was the lack of an African wasp that had caused the trouble; he had found the remains of a large bumblebee in the dead woman’s room, but crushed against the inside of the window it was hardly out of the ordinary, especially from the perspective of investigators. He hadn’t thought it was relevant either, until the rose caught his eye.

The trouble came in finding a live African wasp in North America – the woman would have had no chance to find one, and substituted a bee thinking it was “good enough”. Unfortunately, those of the Twisted Air were very particular, and the compacts they made with ancient humans were exacting. One small misstep, one ingredient missed and the Spirit would no longer be bound to the will of the summoner. They were always pleased to arrive on earth; humans made excellent energy sources for their kind, but they were always looking for a way out, a way to break the bonds that held them.

He sighed. Had she been able to find the necessary ingredients, the spirit would have done her bidding until it became strong enough and then killed her, but would have been forced to return to its own realm. Now she’d opened the door for it, and allowed it to roam free.

Flipping forward, Dave found the list of spirits she could have brought down. Only three responded to the African wasp, and even though she had used the wrong insect, none of the others would have arrived.

Kandrals were large and slow-moving, but required at least one male summoner in order to be properly bound. Though the woman could have had a male assistant that escaped unharmed, the lack of any destruction around the property pointed away from a Kandral.

Opeis were the right size; they could easily fit into and swarm around a house with little effect, and could be summoned by either a male or female. The trouble lay in their aura, as they desiccated environments rather than encouraging them.

Jthraks fit the bill. Small and mobile, they had a preference for female summoners and exuded a moist air energy that left plants in their path healthier than they had any right to be – an unintended side effect of their wet and swirling nature.

Reading further brought a cold tightness to Dave’s chest. Jthraks were heart-touched, which meant that they not only killed but would siphon a small amount of blood from their victims, blood that would lead them to their next kill. A single Jthrak could destroy entire family trees in a matter of days or weeks, depending on the purity of the sample the obtained.

He hadn’t asked Grent about the tox screen, but he was betting that she had at least a few narcotics in her system; it took a great deal of courage to even consider summoning one of the Twisted Air. Hopefully, that would give them enough time to find her next of kin.

Reaching for his phone, Dave began to work out the story he was going to have to tell Grent. The man was a blunt instrument, but effective enough at sniffing out information once the basics were given to him. So long as he could plant the notion that this was a family-related killing firmly in Grent’s mind, the details wouldn’t matter. He could plead the need for more time while the police found the woman’s nearest relative.

But found relative or not, the Jthrak was coming for them, and that meant he had to find a way to deal with it.

- D

Story #126 - Getting The Dregs

Getting The Dregs

“Get down!” The Sergeant screamed as another salvo came whistling in. The Dreggers had been hard at it since dawn broke, trying to force the troops out of position and back into the hills. Luckily, only five of guys had been caught out by their attacks, and the plan was still a go to rush their position once the sun got high enough to allow movement across the planet's surface without full cold-shielding.

War was hell, or so the saying went, but Lt. Chance Guston was coming to realize that hell had literally frozen over; Phi Alpha VI was a terrible little world, but from what their intelligence indicated, was the Dregger stronghold in this sector.

He grit his teeth as the bombs fell. The Glassteel shield above his head would protect him from anything the Dreggers could throw at him, but they had taken to spacing out their barrages in such a way that guys felt comfortable they were over, stood up, and then took a Glowbomb full in the chest. They all did the same thing when that happened: ran around screaming for the ten seconds they had left and then lit up like a torch and collapsed inward. The best minds in the fleet had been trying to figure out how the damn things worked since the war started with no success.

The attacks were coming faster now as the Dreggers started to realize that the advance couldn't be stopped. Guston was proud of his men; they'd fought well over the last three months planet-side, and the entire company, along with the twelve others on the surface, was starting to make real strides toward the Dregger capital. Scans hadn't given them much of what it looked like, but it didn't really matter; they had enough men grounded that they should be able to take down anything that got in their way.

“Release!” The Sergeant bellowed and the men stood up. They'd tried loudhailers and PA's , but Sergeant Griff Tannen was louder than any electronic system they could find, and managed to give commands a sense of urgency that other methods just couldn't convey. So long as he didn't take a one-off Glower to the chest, they'd be fine no matter what the Dreggers sent their way.

Dreggers. Glowbombs. Phi Alpha – whatever. Guston had been on countless planets over the course of the war, something he'd never signed up for when he joined the core. Earth always had its share of squabbles, and he figured that at worst he'd be up along the Red Line dealing with the Martians and their ilk, but even the Earth's little sister had been relatively quiet over the last two decades.

It was an unprovoked attack by Dreggers that had sent Guston and his men blasting further into space, heading to a small moon two solar systems over. That was the first time he had ever seen a Dregger, and he still had no idea what they looked like under all their tech gear. Each one was six or seven feet tall, covered in overlapping metal plates with pulsing electronic connections, and he had never seen beings that could move so fast or strike so hard. They hadn't been prepared for such ferocity, and out of fifty good men, twenty-five died to the three Dreggers that occupied what looked like a forward recon station. Guston was furious; he hadn't been told anything about the enemy's capabilities, and he hated losing men for reasons that were easily avoidable.

Inquiries with Command were met with stoic silence, and Guston came to realize that they knew as little about their enemy as he did. The boys in Command had a way of ignoring things, like the first manned expo mission they sent out that never came back or their disastrous attempt to colonize Neptune. If things went their way, the faces of one of the generals would be all over the VisiScreens, but if something didn't go as planned, it was a struggle get them to admit they'd done anything in the first place. The Dreggers were an unknown, and so Command kept their mouths shut, and good men died.

Shouldering his rifle, Guston took a moment to re-focus. Good men always died in war, and this Command was not so different from any other that had been in power. It was the men and women in the field that did the learning and the suffered the pain – and it was Command that took the credit.

“Back inside!” He screamed, and the men moved toward the bunker they'd erected. He didn't have the voice of the Sergeant, but so long as Glowbombs weren't dropping, it was good enough. They still had three hours before the temperature would make movement safe on the surface, so there was nothing to do but wait and hope that the Dreggers held off.

A commotion near the gate set him running, and once he saw its focus he was throwing men aside, bellowing for them to let their commander through.

It was small for its kind, its red helmet dented and worn, and its armored plating in a poor state compared to the others that Guston had seen. Dreggers didn't usually come alone, and they'd come in firing, not send some half-pint to do their work for them.

Kneeling down beside it, Guston cleared his sidearm and set it against the thing's chest. At close range, the armor was no good against even a conventional bullet.

“Why did they send you?”

The thing made a whirring sound in response, a keening sort of wail that set most of the men back a step. He had heard Dreggers speak before, but getting used to it took time.

They could be seeking a parley, but that seemed unlikely given their track record. Looking the creature over, he could see marks and scars far older than anything his men could have inflicted, and he realized that the thing was injured.

What would the Dreggers do with an injured man?

He slapped the trigger down, hammering bullet after bullet into the body. The men, stunned by his pure rage, took another step back.

“It's hurt. Living bomb, I'm guessing. Strip that armor. We need intel.” He stood up and sheathed his pistol, but a collective gasp turned him around.

There was no mistaking it; sure, there were subtle differences between what he'd consider “normal” and this, but the head under the helmet of their dead Dregger was that of a fifteen year-old human boy.

- D

Story #125 - Venus Rising

Venus Rising

Venus wasn't as bad as Bruce had imagined it was going to be, though he still wished he'd been picked for the mission to Mars.

The UAS had decided on unprecedented joint ventures in an effort to not only garner public interest, but ensure that at least something useful was found on one planet or the other. Mars had the potential for water, something Earth desperately needed after the collapse of the United States and the fourth and fifth World Wars. America had started the fourth one, and found out the hard way what happened when other nations picked it as the target as the one after. The entire landscape of the planet had been changed thanks to the use of clean nukes, and overnight half of the fresh water supply dried up.

World leaders found a modicum of peace in that; once they had a crisis that might kill them all, countries sought ways to work together and the UAS was founded. They had little time to worry about things like public opinion, but still wanted to play up space exploration as something that was not only exciting but viable – if neither M1 or V1 succeeded in bringing home useful knowledge, the UAS might find itself with very little money to use.

Venus had no chance of water findings, and Bruce had known that from the start. They'd elected to send only a two-man team to the hot and gassy planet because it was a much larger unknown than the red dot so many astronauts aspired to, but Bruce had been alone almost since the capsule touched down.

Commander Johnny Vince, his superior and counterpart for this mission, had gone out alone the night after they arrived. He did not come back.

Bruce didn't have the supplies or knowledge to go looking for the Commander; the man was hot-headed and foolhardy, so he'd probably gone somewhere the suit couldn't handle. Communications with Earth wouldn't be possible for at least another six months, so there was nothing for Bruce to do but keep working and hope to find something great to report when contact was made, along with the fact that the Commander was missing and almost certainly dead.

He sighed. In the capsule, the temperature was well-controlled, but even modern systems couldn't keep up with the massive greenhouse gas effects on the planet. During the day, the temperature climbed hard and high, and once noon rolled around he could hear the cabin air conditioners straining to keep up. Twenty-five centigrade was the best they could manage on a hot day, which left Bruce in his underwear working with gas samples from the planet; he knew it was dangerous, but months alone on the planet had begun to make him reckless. He just wanted the experiments to be done, contact to be re-established and the UAS to get him off of the surface.

Grabbing the nearest vial – a sliding mass of blue-white gas – he dropped it into the analyzer. So far, there had been nothing unexpected in any of the samples. All were as detected from orbit, possessing a number of organic parts but nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that couldn't be found on earth.

There were a few traces of chemicals that Bruce had never seen before, but they were so minute as to be laughable – not even enough for the analyzer to tell him what they might have been made off.

He hoped the Mars mission was having better success. Here, he had found only what was expected and lost a comrade along the way. Not a shining moment for the UAS.

“I'd say.” A voice floated in.

Bruce didn't react at first. It wasn't loud or unpleasant, and he assumed it was just a consequence of being along for so long.

“It isn't, Bruce. It really isn't.”

He could feel his anxiety begin to rise. Nothing on this mission was going to plan.

“Who are you?”

“That's not a question I have a good answer to. Let's just say I – we – exist here.” There was no aggression in the tone, but without a face to match it to and a direction to look in, Bruce found himself beginning to panic. The thing could be anywhere.

“Everywhere, more precisely. In that gas, specifically.”

Bruce held up the blue-white vial. “Here?”

“In all of it. Small enough amounts separate the functional part of our consciousness, but once we're together in large enough concentrations, we're able to communicate again.”

He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Did you...did you kill Commander Vince?”

“Your companion? Yes. We lured him out of the ship and consumed his body. It was required in order to learn your language.”

Bruce felt his throat contract and had to fight had to keep from retching on the deck of the capsule.

“Required? You couldn't have learned to speak with us some other way?” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice; the planet was covered in this being, if what it said was true, and it could destroy him in a heartbeat.

The annoyance returned told him that he had not been entirely successful. “Of course we could have, but there was no time for that. You are limited, Bruce, but that is not your fault. It is the nature of your species.”

He bristled, ready to make an issue of the assertion, but the voice went on. “It was the nature of our species as well, the first time we settled this planet.”

“What?” Bruce was stunned. “The first time?”

“Yes,” the voice went on, “we were much like you and your Commander are now. Arrogant. Unyielding. Convinced of our superiority. We destroyed ourselves utterly, but our physical obliteration was so total that our singular minds remained behind. Over time, we learned to work together.”

“To what end?” Bruce needed to keep the conversation going, needed to get the vials out the door and off of the ship. Once he was off-planet, he could deal with getting home. Alive.

“To ensure the survival of our people.” In his hand, the glass vial shattered.

***

“Bruce! Thank God you're alive. Tell us some good news.”

“Not much to say, control. We lost Vince on the first night, and I'm bringing back some samples for further data analysis, but nothing else of interest. Hopefully Mars had better luck.”

“No – not a drop of water. We've got problems, Bruce. Get your ass home, and we'll see if we can sort it out.”

“Roger.”

It wasn't so bad, being in a physical body again, Awkward, but they would have time to work out the bugs before they reached Earth.

- D

Story #124 - Manny Worlds

Manny Worlds

Dawn had broken hours ago, but the low-lying cloud cover had finally shifted enough to allow streaks of golden light to pierce the smoky haze, casting dancing shadows down onto the field.

“It’s beautiful,” Sheila said, pausing to appreciate the pale and streaking light.

“What?” Manny glanced up from the body he was mangling.

“The sky, sweetie. It’s a nice contrast to the blood and gore we’re standing in.” She wasn’t irritated with him; he could only obey his nature.

“Contrast?” He asked, finally tearing the head from the body he was working on. Blood and gore spattered as he wrenched it free, and Sheila found that she didn’t even flinch. It had been too long.

“Maybe its time for a change, Manny. We’ve been doing this a long time.” It would fall on deaf ears, she knew, but she had to try.

“Of course we have!” Her husband roared, throwing his dripping prize on to a pile with a dozen others. He loved to make monuments to his ferocity, and while they were grotesque, they did get the point across. “It’s what we do! It’s what we’ve always done!”

“No,” she said quietly, “it isn’t.”

He didn’t know that. Couldn’t, for all she knew, and how she’d been made party to it was still a mystery. It was only the in last six months that memories had started to surface, murky images of a different life and a different world.

They had come in dreams at first, shuddering things that left her sweating in her tent while Manny snored soundly. She has assumed that dreams were all they were and tried to shrug them off, but they began to come more frequently, and came especially clearly after a large battle or violent encounter.

It had taken a particularly intense battle to convince her that they were more than just fantasies; she had woken to find her head full of lives, full of feelings, full of information that she could not possibly have known given her current circumstances. It was disorienting in the extreme, but it served to demonstrate that she was far more than she had initially realized.

Manny went on happily, hacking and slashing his way through fight after fight, no idea that his wife was quickly losing her taste for being the barbarian queen of Azlanda.

She still raised her sword and met the charge; she had responsibilities to fulfill, but it felt less and less like what she was intended to do. Despite her best efforts, Manny remained steadfast in his devotion to the idea of a barbarian nation, with he and Sheila at the head, and she began to feel as though she was trapped.

Even trying to convince Manny that slowing down their expansion might be a good idea was difficult. The man was nothing if not focused, and Sheila was certain that if she attempted to tell him what she had experienced it would make no difference.

At first, ignoring it was easier than dealing with the complications it brought, but as time went on Sheila found that she could no longer manage. Dreams were weaving into reality, and after one especially violent encounter, she found a sense of clarity that left her gasping.

This was not her life.

For the moment she had been confined to it, but she could see a vast expanse of other lives and other times in front of and behind her, each one with Manny by her side. She could see only corners and edges of them, but knew for a certainty that this was the first time she had discovered the secret, the first time she had been exposed to the knowledge.

She also knew that each phase of her life had been triggered by a very specific event; her leaving Manny.

Sheila loved him, and his love for her was unquestioned. In each of the lives she remembered, he had never been unfaithful, never sought comfort in the arms of another woman no matter how rough their arguments became or how little time they spent together.

It was always her that did the leaving, and from what her half-memories could show her, it was never for a particularly good reason. But each time she did, the world around her shifted, forcing her back into Manny’s arms and altering their circumstances enough that she had no recollection of what had occurred.

Now, she faced that choice again, only this time with the knowledge that her choice would mean a new world for them both, one that could be far better or far worse than their current circumstances.

Manny swept her into his embrace, forcing her thoughts off of their path, and she was overcome by the sickly sweet smell of blood on him. She met his kiss, but barely managed to keep the little food she had down. Anything would be better than this life of constant violence and the threat of death. Anything.

She left the next morning, wandering into the woods before Manny woke. He always slept well after a battle, and didn’t stir as she made her way out of the tent. Unsure if it was distance or intent that made the difference, she wandered aimlessly until the grassy landscape turned to hills, and –

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked across at Manny, still in his suit from the night before. They had both been working late, and had passed out in bed after dinner, neither of them bothering with their nighttime rituals.

She felt – aggressive – for some reason, and could sense the wisps of dreams slipping away from her as she came fully awake. Specifics escaped her, but she was certain that blood had been involved. She hated blood.

The alarm called and she frowned; she had been hoping for a few more hours of sleep. At least it was almost the weekend; she and Manny had plans to get away.

***

Manny heard his wife stir and felt his heart race. She was human, but that didn’t mean he loved her any less for it. Someday, he would find a reality that suited her. Someday, she wouldn’t leave.

- D

Story #123 - Willowed

Willowed

“Sit down.”

Ken sat. It wasn’t often that a talking tree told him what to do. In fact, it wasn’t ever.

“I-“

The tree cut him off, its great branches swaying above his head. “Don’t interrupt, skinling. I’ve been waiting here a long time, and I’m not going to let you ruin my first conversation with another being of moderate intelligence by blathering on while I’m trying to speak. Be still, and be silent.”

Ken was sure the tree was angry. Its leaves had dipped from a bright to a dark, silky green and its trunk seemed engorged, but more than that, its voice carried a crystal tone of irritation – apparently some things carried across even the plant/animal barrier.

He’d been walking alone in the woods – not something he did often, but enough that he knew how to keep himself safe – and of course he’d taken a tumble down a hill he’d been on top of dozens of times. As luck would have it nothing was broken or sprained when he hit the ground, but he found himself in a part of the low-lying forest he’d never seen.

When the whispers on the wind started up, he assumed it was as a result of a poor breakfast choice and a night of restless sleep, and hadn’t given it much thought. At first, he’d done his best to skirt the sounds he was hearing, in case they were real and might belong to a large animal or vicious woods dweller in the area. It wasn’t until the sounds started to take the form of words that he found his feet carrying him in their direction, and within minutes, he found himself at the foot of a proud willow, its trunk thick and deep.

“Greetings,” it had said, “you are the first to find me in many years.” Its voice sounded normal enough, albeit reedy, but Ken couldn’t find a mouth or other orifice to account for the sound.

Of course, it had taken some time before Ken could accept the fact that the thing might actually be speaking and that he was not instead having some sort of nightmare or induced coma. Once he was fairly certain he wasn’t going completely crazy, Ken started to ask questions.

The tree didn’t like that.

Its name had been the first such question he posed, and the willow dismissed him out of hand.

“You could not pronounce it, skinling, nor you should you try. For now, willow will suffice.”

He’d gotten hot under the collar at that point – the tree had called him, after all – and he asked why the thing had bothered.

“To listen.”

Now, he’d been told to sit down and decided obeying was easier than fighting the willow on the point, and he had to admit he was curious about what kind of story a talking tree would tell. Who wouldn’t be?

“You don’t recognize my kind.” It was a statement of fact, not a question, but Ken shook his head anyway, though he didn’t speak.

After a moment, the tree spoke again. “Well?”

“I recognize your type – willow tree, but no, I’ve never met a tree that could speak.”

“We all could, skinling! We all could. Once.” There was an anger there, deep and still raw, and Ken watched as the tree whipped its upper branches hard in a circle.

“What happened?” Ken hadn’t moved, and the tree’s branches dipped down dangerously toward him. It was not pleased at his speaking out of turn.

“You happened! You and your science! My kind once roamed the earth as you did – walking beside you, imparting our knowledge to you, but you restrained us, handcuffed us to a location, to a silence we never desired.” The tree thrashed violently now, and Ken stood up and moved several feet away.

“Why have you moved?”

“You are aggressive, willow, and I’m not going to let you hurt me just because you’re angry. If you think we’ve done something to harm you, fine, but I wasn’t the one to do it. I won’t die for it.”

The branches released suddenly, as if the energy of the tree had finally given out, and for a moment Ken was sure that the tree had reverted to its natural state – silent.

“I’m sorry,” said the willow, its voice drooping as its branches did the same, “I’ve been alone for a very long time.”

“That’s fine, but you need to show some respect to those who are willing to listen to your story. Now, please go on.” Ken felt a certain measure of boldness after the thing’s sudden apology; if he could just keep it talking, he might be able to learn something useful. He quickly pulled his phone from his pocket; no one would believe this without proof.

“We lived together once, my kind and yours. We walked in harmony, but you betrayed us. Each winter, we were forced to settle to ground to repair and renew, and your kind trapped us, removed our food source and allowed us to become permanently implanted in the ground, tied to the earth and alone.”

“Why would we be so cruel?”

“It is in your nature! You had more than enough food to spare, but were unwilling to share, unwilling to allow us a taste of what you had. You paid, of course, and we bore witness to the death and rebirth of your civilizations many times.”

“You mean –“

“Yes. We are not eternal, but we have been here for many years, watching your failures and your successes. Once, a seat of government stood near here. At other times this area has been used for war and for peace, and developed as housing for your kind. Still, I remain.”

Ken stepped closer; he felt a certain compulsion to assist the being; it was no surprise that humanity had used the tree and its kind for its own ends – perhaps there was something he could do to help, and if he became famous in the bargain, so much the better.

“Perhaps, together, we can –“ Ken cut off as he came under the arc of the trees branches and was swept up into its embrace. A mouth he had not seen, hidden under willowy leaves, opened wide to display rows of needle-sharp teeth.

“You can, I’m sure,” the thing growled as it fed his body down into the maw, joyfully crunching on its first real meal in decades, “I will finally be free of this place.”

Heaving itself out of the ground, the willow scratched its roots across the ground. It couldn’t go far, but it didn’t have to – a nearby road and its travelers would provide more than enough fodder.

They would pay.

- D

Story #122 - Fitting In

Fitting In

I'd never found the Diggers' clubroom particularly attractive, but I wasn't there to pass judgment; quite the opposite, in fact.

Blessed with a father who had been in the club along with robust genes and a predisposition toward athletics, I'd been an ideal choice for the group when I'd hit campus the year before. The Diggers had to shy away from calling themselves a “frat” after the organizations had been banned due to excessive hazing practices, and though they had a reputable on-campus presence, what happened just outside the borders of the school grounds and in secret was an entirely different matter.

“Initiate L!” Tank's voice called across the room and I stepped forward. Jeremy Linas was my real name, and they thought themselves incredibly clever for devising such a nickname for me. To be honest about it, I didn't really have much interest in the Diggers as a whole, but they would vastly improve my chances for a sweet employment deal once I left school, so I was willing to put up with a certain amount of bullshit.

“Kneel!” Tank bellowed, and smacked me in the ass with a paddle when I didn't do it quickly enough.

A certain amount of bullshit – but I had limits.

“So, you think you're ready for the final test, L?” That was Mike the Bike talking, the leader of the Diggers and, judging by his appearance, a normal, healthy guy.

Unfortunately, this was one of those “don't judge a book by its cover” moments, as Mike had picked up his nickname for two reasons: he ran over those who got in his way, and he was notoriously unstable. He'd led the Diggers since they went underground, and while they had prospered under him, it had been at the cost of a number of former members, some of whom had walked away with lifelong scars – not all emotional, either.

“Yes,” I said simply. Not point in being grandiose about it or beating around the bush. I'd done as Mike had asked, and I was ready to be done with the whole mess. Thinking about it made me uncomfortable, but I'd known when I signed on that there would be sacrifices I'd have to make.

“Alright, L. Two days. You know the spot.” Mike smiled; a cruel thing on an otherwise handsome face. He could give off all of the perfectly average junior college vibes, but could also turn on the crazy whenever he felt like it. I just wanted in, wanted to finish two more years, and then get the hell out.

“Yeah.”

***

I'd befriended Linden Sark the first week the skinny kid was on campus. From a small town down south and way out of his depth in a school of over ten thousand, he'd needed a helping hand to make sure he didn't go off the deep end before the finish of the first semester. Bookish and shy, Linden didn't make friends easily but I was determined to win his trust, and within a month I knew just about everything I needed to about him. He knew a fair bit about me as well – there was no point in lying.

He knew, for example, that I was “trying out” for the Diggers, since no one was allowed to use the term “pledging”, and he knew that my dad had been a member.

What he didn't know was that he was part of my initiation, and that getting his ass kicked in the quad was going to be final thing I had to do before they'd open the doors wide.

The two days the Diggers had given me had gone quickly, and I found my stomach churning as I looked across the table at Linden. Everyone else in the cafeteria gave us a wide berth, though my friend didn't notice – he was face-down in his book, as always.

“How about we eat outside today, Linden?” I said, and he looked up. I waited a minute for my question to process, and then he nodded. He'd agree to just about anything I said. Damn, but I felt guilty - just not guilty enough not to lead him outside and sit him down under a tree, then pace around while I waited for Mike, Tank and the others to show up.

Linden, usually dense about these kinds of things, noticed.

“What's wrong, Jeremy? You tense?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the east quad entrance, and caught sight of Tank's massive shoulders. They were coming.

“Yeah,” I said, kneeling down beside Linden. He might as well know. “The Diggers are coming here, today, to let me into the club,” Linden's face brightened, “but -” I went on, “my final test is to kick your ass, make you feel like a fool for ever trusting me.”

The kid's face fell, and I waited for the tears to follow, but he just put his head against the tree and smiled. “I figured. A guy like me doesn't get a friend like you without a reason. Just be gentle, OK? These glasses are expensive. And for what it's worth, it's been fun.”

Mike was let than a hundred yards away; I had to get this going if I was ever going to do it. Someone had to get their ass kicked.

“Stand up,” I said tersely, and Linden obeyed. Dashing forward, I grabbed his right arm and pulled it up to my face, then went down in a heap toward the tree, screaming.

“Jeremy!” Linden knelt down. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing!” I hissed. “You're kicking my ass – it'll get you what you want!” He'd tried to pretend like it didn't matter, but I knew he wanted in with the Diggers.

“What? No!”

“Yes,” I said, looking up at him, “hit me, Linden. Hit me in the face. Mike's ten yards behind you. He'll see it, I promise.”

There was a hesitation there, a momentary struggle, but the kid did the right thing. Surprisingly, he hit pretty damn hard.

***

I didn't get in, of course, and Linden managed to squeak by thanks to the credit kicking my ass got him. We don't talk anymore, but I see him around campus, usually near Tank or Mike. I'm happier for not being a member, and at least Linden got what he wanted.

He's changing, though – becoming more like them - and I have to wonder.

Did I really do him a favor?

- D

Story #121 - Untimely Meetings

Untimely Meetings

Krenan Telmor was sure he'd come the right way. He'd been making the journey to Darroch for the better part of twenty years, and it had always been here before.

Once a week, every week, he would rise early and take all of the items he'd collected from the woods around his cabin and trek into town, carefully snaking around the Ysmitu Bogs and the Palvern breeding grounds. His first few years in the Wilds had led to a number of almost-drownings at the gripping hands of the sticky Ysmitu tar, and though he had only seen a full-grown and angry mother Palvern once, talon claws extended and and poisonous darts engorged and ready to fire from her wingtips, that had been more than enough.

A man learned quickly in the Wilds that survival depended on focus, concentration and the ability to not be stupid on a regular basis. Of course, not being exactly a man gave Krenan an edge, but not one so great it could save him from his own stupidity.

He had to wonder if that was what had been brought to bear here as he pulled his thoughts back into the present moment and swept his eyes over the landscape in front of him – if billowing whiteness could be called a “landscape”. Darroch's first guard tower should have lain here, at the first bend into the city from Silvana, the closest town and the only roadway out of the Wilds and into civilization, and it was that knowledge which concerned him most. Wrong turns on the road were impossible; there were no branches, no forks on the way from Silvana to Darroch. Dense forest lay along the route on both sides, forest that had once been home to roving bandit gangs, though most of those had long gone in search of greener pastures. The few that were left knew him on sight, and were more than a little afraid of the towering Treth. He was typically gentle, but bandits fell well outside the typical.

Nothing was falling into place.

Krenan found that he could often solve problems by not looking at them, but instead by skirting around their edges. His mind knew far more than he was aware of, and unfettered by his conscious drive to find the most obvious solution, it would take the reins and discover what he had been missing.

When it came to the disappearance of Darroch, it seemed that even his mind was confused.

He drew in a deep breath and took several steps forward, placing himself only two paces from the end of the Darroch road. In the absence of gleaned knowledge, he would have to gather empirical data, and that meant getting closer to his objective.

At five paces, it had been obvious that the oddity in front of him was wide-ranging, but at two it was apparent that it was far worse than he had realized. A razor edge marked the end of the road, and leaning forward to peer down, he could see rock and soil cut away along a flat surface, as if a giant knife had carved out a part of the world itself. In front of him lazy clouds of white mist puffed in and our of existence, but there was no sound and no motion of living creatures. No birds flew beyond the edge, and those above him circled in place or shied away; nothing wanted to cross the boundary. He had hoped there might be some sort of physical explanation for such a phenomena, but it appeared his past was coming back again to haunt him.

This was Possibility at work.

“Hello!” He called, hoping for an echo, but received nothing. His voice cut off as it met the rolling white wall.

“Hello,” a voice said from behind him, and it took everything Krenan Telmor had not to jump, a move that might very well have cost him his life.

Spinning, he pulled a hunting knife from his belt and dropped into a crouch. There had been no one behind him when he left Silvana, and he had heard no one approach during his study of the cloud.

The being behind him was like none he had even seen, and certainly didn't seem threatening, though Krenan kept his knife at the ready. Palvern cubs looked innocent and cute, but grew up to be poison-spitting monstrosities, and he would take no chances.

He wouldn't describe the creature in front of him as cute, but there was serenity about it, a peace that he had to envy. Standing taller even than Krenan, the form he faced appeared male, and had many features that were traditionally Treth, including longer than average arms and an impressive width at the chest. It was the creature's face that set it apart; a wide mouth split the bottom half, but it was cocked to the side instead of in the middle, and only a bump of a nose served to offset that strange feature. The eyes too were odd, glittering onyx pebbles set deeply into sockets. The face gave the thing a slight cast of madness, a cast only reinforced by its red-tinged skin.

“What are you?” Krenen couldn't help himself. He knew that such a question was impolite in the extreme; the Alliance had dozens of different races which had intermingled over the years, and asking about one's parentage or origin was frowned upon, but his common courtesy was running thin.

“Aldreth, the Untimely,” came the reply, and the being seemed confused when Krenan didn't immediately react.

“I'm sorry?” His voice was tense; his own confusion was getting the better of him.

“Don't be. It is a burden I bear, and one I will never escape. I have come to terms with it, and so shall you. Now, why have you called me?”

Krenan could feel his jaw drop open. Called him? What in Tynndir was this Aldreth talking about? “I didn't call you.”

Aldreth checked a large silver device on his wrist and then looked back at Krenan. “Certainly you did. Your destruction of this city was felt across the Planes, and I have arrived just after the moment of prevention, as was intended.”

His destruction?

“Aldreth -” he began, but the other being cut him off.

“Ald, please. We are going to be together for some time.”

“Ald. I have no idea what you're talking about. I just arrived here myself.”

The creature who called himself the Untimely smiled slightly, or at least Krenan assumed that the expression had the same meaning as his own, even coming from the side of Ald's face.

“Of course you did.” Ald's voice was quiet. “Now, come with me and we shall discover the truth of this.”

And with that, Aldreth the Untimely stepped out into the mist.

- D

Story #120 - Right Off

Right Off

“Is there anything you can do for me, Doctor P?” Robbie Vat's voice cracked at the end of his question. Just out of his teens, he was a good kid – one that Dean Palmor had seen in his office every year in June since Robbie was old enough to crawl. From what he could remember, Robbie had never had any serious medical issues, and looking at his chart confirmed it; up until today, Robbie had been as healthy as his parents.

They were an odd mix; his father was a professional circus clown and part-time comedian, and hands-down one of the funniest men that Palmor had ever met, while Robbie's mother was a high-powered and no-nonsense attorney. Both were of average attractiveness, height and weight, but their dispositions couldn't be more opposite. So far as he knew, they were still together.

“I'm not sure just yet, Robbie – I need to run some more tests. Probably an MRI.” He glanced at the kid's chart again; there really was nothing there to see, and he could just be chasing his tail, but Palmor had a hunch Robbie wouldn't fake something like this. “Tell me,” he went on, trying to sound nonchalant, “how are your parents?”

In younger patients, especially those with strong home lives, the separation of parents could produce serious and far-reaching consequences and physical symptoms, ones that the patient often didn't realize were a result of the emotional trauma they'd suffered.

“Huh?” Robbie said, looking up from the floor. “Fine, I guess. Mom's at work a lot for some big case and dad is on tour in the southern states.”

“So you're not seeing them too much?” Perhaps it was just acute loneliness or something else equally benign; most of Robbie's described symptoms were mental, but he did say he had been experiencing severe nausea and headaches as well.

“What? No.” Robbie seemed surprised. “Oh, I guess you don't know – I moved out a couple of months ago. Living on my own not too far from the house. It's great!” His face brightened for a moment, and then he sagged forward, color draining from his cheeks and hands going to his stomach.

“Robbie!” Palmor moved forward, steadying the younger man in his hands and setting him back up on the bed. “Are you alright?”

“I don't know, Doc!” There was real fear in Robbie's voice, and Palmor's heart went out to him.

“You'll be fine, Robbie,” he said with a confidence that came from long years of lying for the good of his patients, “you'll be fine. Get some rest, make sure to go to the appointments I schedule for you, and then come back and see me next week.”

Robbie nodded, his face still pale. “OK.”

***

“I'm...not really sure how to say this, Robbie.”

“Oh God!” The kid moaned. They were in Palmor's office, a dark-paneled affair that was overflowing with books. Robbie, like all of his patients, knew that serious things happened behind the heavy office door. “I'm going to die, aren't I?”

“No!” His voice was firm. “You're not, actually. You just have a choice to make.”

“A choice?” Robbie brought his head up out of his hands, and wiped away a tear that had formed at the corner of his eye. The kid had always been a study in contrasts: logical and sensible one minute, and bubbling over with laughter the next. He had never seemed moody, just – odd.

And now Parmor knew why.

“Your brain has a communication problem, Robbie – its halves don't want to talk to each other.”

“Like, my left and right brain, you mean?”

“Exactly.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “They do different things, but are supposed to speak to each other about how to do them – each one acts as a control for the other. Your halves have stopped talking altogether. Neither one is in control, and yet both are, and your symptoms are as a result of that.”

Robbie nodded. “OK. So now what?”

“Now, you choose – I'm going to have to deaden one, make it submit to the other, and you've got to pick which one.”

“What? I can't do that! What am I going to lose?” Robbie's voice was panicked.

“Overall, not much. You'll keep all of your physical abilities and memories – you won't suddenly become mute or deaf, and you'll still know who everyone around you is. But,” he looked across the desk and directly into Robbie's eyes, “you'll lose either a significant chunk of emotion or reasoning power. I'm sorry, but that's the bottom line.”

***

“How do you feel, Robbie?”

“Great!” Came the reply. “Just great – I've never been this happy, I don't think.”

No surprise there.

“Everything seems to have worked exactly as it should. Your reasoning center is dampened significantly, but not entirely gone, and your emotional brain is fully in control. Your symptoms should stop.”

“Super! Can I go now? I want to go see a movie or talk to some friends.” Robbie's eyes were bright, and he was gesturing rapidly.

“Sure,” Palmor said slowly, “but make sure you take the pills I gave you, and you need to contact your HMO. That surgery won't be entirely covered – your parents need to know more about this, too.”

Robbie waved him off. “Yeah, pills, whatever. I'm sure it'll be fine. God, I feel great!”

It's an old question, Parmor thought as Robbie left the office – reason or happiness? Did not knowing somehow make it all better?

Robbie had made his choice, and seemed better for it, but along with that came a loss of critical thought, a loss of pure brain power. Perhaps such things were overrated; or maybe the truly happy were also partially deranged. He chuckled. It made a certain amount of sense.

- D

Story #119 - A Breath, Dying

A Breath, Dying

“What’s keeping these flowers alive, exactly?” Dr. Dave Broussard leaned in toward the vase on the table, and took a closer look at the bouquet of seemingly fresh roses. The rest of the house was in shambles and had been for some time; food had rotted in the fridge and the vase containing the seven long-stemmed plants was bone dry.

“That an actual question, ‘doc? Or you just bein’ torical?” Sergeant Grent Benneton’s voice was the same as the man himself; rough and not exactly high class. Shorter than Broussard, he had an authority about him hammered out over long years of commanding men, bulling his way into crime scenes and eventually catching bad guys.

Dave preferred a neater operation.

“It’s rhetorical, Grent, and yes, I was talking to myself. I find thinking out loud helps me solve problems more quickly than firing a gun at them or attempting to beat them into submission. If nothing else, it makes for less paperwork.”

Grent barked a laugh; Dave had known the smaller man for more than ten years, and they had always enjoyed a strange camaraderie. The sergeant was his total opposite, something that Dave found both refreshing and invigorating. Working alone had its benefits, but for cases like this, having Grent around to bounce ideas off of was invaluable. While the man’s responses were typically not of much use, they often sparked a line of reasoning in Dave’s brain that led to a solution.

“I’ve missed ya, Davey. What’s it been, two years?” Grent clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Dave slid quickly out of the way. He didn’t care for physical contact, and the other man knew it, which meant he did everything he could to make Dave uncomfortable.

“Eight months,” he replied, “two years would have been preferable.” Reaching out a gloved hand, Dave touched the edge of the nearest flower. Even under the latex, he could feel that is was strong and moist, and quick tug revealed that it was still firmly attached to its stem. Very odd. He’d made a circuit of the house, and this was the only thing out of place.

The mangled body upstairs he couldn’t count as “out of place”, since the rest of the house matched the state of the deceased. The power had been cut at least two weeks ago, leading to a smell far worse than most of the crime scenes he’d been to, and making identifying the cause of death on the woman harder than it should have been. Someone had cut the lines on purpose when they left – obvious tool-marks had been found on the box and the wires themselves – presumably in the hope of slowing down the investigation.

Presumably.

“Tell me about her again, Grent.”

The other man sighed. Dave had a habit of appearing to only half-listen to everything the sergeant said, meaning Grent had to repeat himself often. Dave heard every word, of course, but hearing it again helped his process, and he liked to get under Grent’s skin.

Flipping open his notebook, Grent began rattling off facts. “Thirty-one. Unmarried. Wealthy. May have been in the sex trade. No family.”

“Fine, fine,” Dave said, waving an impatient hand at him, “but anything about the body? Anything new your guys have found out?”

Grent grunted – a common response when he was unhappy. Or happy, for that matter. There was the sound of rustling pages, and then Grent started up again. “Fake ta-tas, implanted lips and a nose job. More silicon than girl in this one, it looks like. Too fake for my taste. I like ‘em round.”

“Keep it to yourself, Grent,” Dave stopped the sergeant’s line of thought, “I don’t care about your sex life, and I don’t want to contaminate the scene by throwing up. Anything else useful?”

“Meh,” Grent said, “not much. No jewelry on her, but none taken, either. Was naked up there under all the blood. Oh – had a ‘tat. Left shoulder blade.”

“Of what?” Dave’s interest perked up just slightly.

“Uh…lemme see.” The sergeant pulled out his mobile and fiddled with it for a few seconds. A rotary phone was probably too much for him – how the department expected him to use a cell phone was anyone’s guess. “Here,” he said finally, “look if you want.”

“What a gracious offer,” Dave said, stepping over to Grent and snatching the phone from his hand. Only a steady grip saved it from falling onto the floor as he looked at the picture; the quality was poor, and the edge of Grent’s thumb could be seen in the frame, but there was no mistaking the tattoo on the dead woman’s shoulder.

A black, inverted “T” shape, with two curving horns at varying heights along the vertical shaft, this mark was known by few and worn by only the most dedicated.

“Recognize it?” Grent’s eyes were bright. He knew Dave well enough to know when something captured his interest.

“Seems vaguely familiar,” he said distantly, “I’ll look into it when I get back to the office.”

Dave returned the phone and moved away quickly; he had what he needed, but Grent couldn’t know it, at least not yet. Maybe never.

He took two more hours to pore over the contents of the house, mostly out of show than any real need. A few small items found confirmed his suspicions – black ash in the shower drain, red wax under the bedside table and a tarnished silver pendant in a lockbox.

Grent finally got a call that took him back to the precinct, and Dave promised to call him with any information he had. Dave had proven his worth to the department time and time again, but they still seemed to think he’d run out on them with crucial information, or hold back something they needed to know.

As he made his way back to his car, he realized he’d never been more tempted to do that than right now, but that wouldn’t get the case solved. He needed more information before he brought Grent into the loop, but the tattoo left no question; the dead woman had been invoking the Spirits of the Twisted Air, and what was worse – she appeared to know what she was doing.

- D

Story #118 - Fey'ted Thrones VII

Fey'ted Thrones - VII

King Alhendra was uncomfortable on his throne in Tir'dal. He would never say as much to the lackeys that came by asking for favors or the ambassadors trying to turn his mind from war, but the truth was that the Golden Throne was tall and hard, and the weakness of a cushion or backrest could not be tolerated.

“No, Ambassador,” he said flatly, looking down at the fawning man below. “We will accept none of your terms. Full surrender or death are your only options.” He had known there was going to be resistance from the other Kingdoms of men, but could not believe how short-sighted many of their rulers were being. A number had come under his banner easily enough, realizing he was their best chance at a final victory over the Fey realm, but half again that number sought to strike out on their own now that one Throne sat unoccupied. He had hoped to make his way into the land of the Fey sooner, but for the moment he would have to content himself with weakening their borders while he brought the other Kingdoms under his rule.

The green-haired man lifted his head from the carpet as if to speak, but Alhendra gestured to the guards at his side and the Ambassador was quickly removed. He had given an audience, as requested, and stated terms. Now, the petty kinglets and lords had two choices: acceptance or death.

As the doors closed behind his guest, Pyulon snaked out of the shadows. He hated the little Fey, but had known since their first meeting that the weasal was the key to final victory. It was Pyulon's knowledge that had given him the ability to directly attack the Fey realm, and the creature had been the one to lead Alhandro astray.

Thoughts of his brother caused him a momentary stab of pain, this time from his head instead of his back. They had seen each other only twice in their lifetimes, and the second had involved a horrible betrayal. He had to admit that he would have liked to know the other half of himself, but couldn't take the chance Alhandro had been infected by the moral do-goodery of their mother. She was a kind woman, and he had loved her for that, but her worldview was hopelessly naïve. Those with power were meant to wield it, not sit on their hands and protect that which did not require defense. He had known the necessary steps to take from the moment he learned the purpose of the Thrones, and Pyulon had been there to assist him.

Still, the Fey was foul as the day was long.

“My king,” Pyulon whispered, his voice low, “was that altogether wise? What if the Kingdoms of men band against you? Might that not be a war you do not wish to fight?”

Alhendra regarded his adviser coldly. “Only if the weapons you have made for me do not work as intended. You have led me to believe that they are far superior than anything the realm above has to offer. Are you now telling me that was a lie?”

Pyulon hesitated; to speak a lie in front of the King was death, and Alhendra was confident that the weapons delivered would do their job. The Fey simply needed to be put in his place.

“I...no, my King. It was no lie. They will work as they should, and they will deliver you victory. I merely wonder if such a battle could be avoided – perhaps through further negotiation -”

“No!” He cut the Fey off. “That will not happen. My terms have been issued, my conditions declared. Surrender or death are their choices, and they must make those choices now. If the next missives from any of the kings are anything but offers of full acceptance of my rule, we march the army to war.”

Alhendra could see the guards stiffen with pride. The forces of both Tir'dal and Dirlat were his to command, and together comprised the largest army in the known world. Even an alliance among the other nations could not stand against them under the best of circumstances, and his men would be using weapons never before seen outside of the realm of Fey.

“Of course, my King,” Pyulon said, bowing deeply, “I am your humble servant. May I be excused? I must see to our preparations.”

Waving a dismissive hand, he let the Fey go. The man was as humble as the throne was soft, and served only because the Thrones required one of Alhendra's blood to operate. Pyulon still had not divined their secret, but assured his King that he was getting close.

Alhendra relaxed his back for a moment, sinking into a slouch and letting the pain recede. All that was left now was waiting – waiting to see what the kings would decide and what the battle would bring.

A sudden thought occurred and he straightened. The truly forward-thinking man moved when no one expected him to, and in ways no one could predict. He could wait for the arrival of messengers from other nations, but the kings might delay or seek to mislead him with promises of capitulation that became drawn-out negotiation, and Pyulon would push for that the moment he saw an opening.

An attack, however – coordinated such that it would completely decimate one of the waffling kingdoms – would secure his place as a power to be reckoned with. The army could get some much-needed field practice, and under pressure from such a foe, any allies his target might have would quickly scatter.

Standing, he strode to the map in the corner of the room, closed his eyes and jabbed a finger forward.

“Guards!” He called, and they came running. “Inform the general staff that the army is to march in three days. We ride to attack Galtara – the world shall know the might of its true master!”

Grins on their faces, the two armored men dashed into the hallway.

- D

Story #117 - Arrow and Flow

Arrow And Flow

Time seems linear, kiddies – but guess what. It ain’t.

I know, I know. You’ve been sold that line since grade school, told that the arrow of time only points one way and that you’d better get on board with that. Hell, it’s not like you have a choice, right?

That’s the common wisdom, and far be it from me to correct all those pundits that have told you one thing or another over the years, but you’re missing out, boys and girls.

It’s not like I can give you step-by-step instructions on how to break the bonds of your self-imposed timeline, but I can at least give you the heads up on what it’s like, on what I see from the other side of the looking glass.

Let’s be clear here, right off of the bat – time doesn’t “flow”, at least not like any river I’ve ever seen. You’ve heard there’s a constant movement forward, an eternal falling to the future, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Once you’re outside of it, you can see that time sets up like the last side on a four-dimensional cube; something that is just another facet of the thing’s existence, not an integral support to its presence. I can pick and choose any physical time and space to set down and it won’t matter. All that BS about “temporal paradoxes” is just that.

You can’t put it in perspective, I know, but your present doesn’t depend on your past, and your future isn’t related to your present. Everything you do has a perceived effect, but only because of memory transmissions and the fact that generally, you’re built that way.

Any of you can break that chain and snap that cycle, but it’s not something you’re going to learn in grade school.

How did I do it? I’m special – and let’s just leave it at that. I’m one of you, for the most part, but let’s just say that my parentage is something that has more than just your DNA as a part of it.

I’ve been gone from the world for a long time and I’ve seen your mistakes, your screw ups and your failures, and I know that you’re all looking for a way out. I’ve got one, but it’s not the one they’re all selling you, not the one you’ve heard about for so long.

I know my name’s been used in vain, and my image is plastered across the nations of the world, many of whom claim they know exactly what I’m talking about and how I’m going to save you all.

They don’t.

Physical saving isn’t what I’m about – I’ve been in the same kind of body you all now occupy – I’m talking about a freedom from the one thing that really bogs you all down.

Time.

It’s more than what you think, and less than what it is. You’ve heard the stories of the great serpent, the one who betrayed your predecessors in the garden? Is it any wonder that after his intervention they withered and died, that limits were placed on lengths of their lives?

He whispers in your ears, but you mistake him for a being that lives below, one that drives your compulsions and makes you less than what you are. He is more than that, more than you realize, and less than nothing. He claims to flow by you, around you, wrapping you up in arms that he claims will protect you.

Destruction is his aim, slow and grinding. He will break you down bit by bit and you will let him, allow him to do so because you believe the line he’s repeating, buying the trash he’s selling.

You’re figuring it out now – I see it. Your brains are finally making the connection I’m trying to lay down, and you’re just about there. Reach for it, and I know you’ll get it. Strive, and you’ll find it.

He’s time. Time is him. They’re one and the same – a being more than a force that seeks to convince you of the “truth” by telling you that he’s one you can’t ignore.

You see it, don’t you? Time isn’t the immutable force you’ve always thought it to be, the singular expanse that swims lazily forward. Instead, it’s a creature of malice, one as fragile and tainted as the rest that seeks to convince you of his power.

Like a high gale in a windstorm, he is loud and destructive without the proper protections, a nightmare of epic proportions should you not guard your dreams. Each of you feels it, knows that at the tattered edges of your soul lies the possibility that you could escape the clock, avoid the droning years and move beyond what you’ve been given.

The world is a lie, folks. I said it the first time I touched down and have been saying the same ever since. You weren’t ready on the first go-round, but this time I think you’re up for the challenge. I’m coming back, and soon – and you need to be ready for it. I can’t take slackers where I’m going, and those that choose to stay in the box, keep themselves blinded by the truth can stay where they are, locked into a cycle of spasm and release.

I’m not one to turn anyone away if I can help it. I’ll do my best to break your shackles and get you where you need to be, but you’ve got to take the first step. You’ve got to think about the “time” you know and the devil you don’t, and make that stride.

I’m coming, and soon – consider your options, and consider what I’ve told you. It’s not something easy, it’s not something known, but it is your only way out. Break the cycle, break the flow. Don’t believe what you’ve been told about how the world works – it works the way it should, the way you always thought it did.

Time is the arrow, but I own the bow.

-D

Story #116 - RG

RG

You think it's so easy being a superhero? Tell you what – we'll find a way to give you my powers for a day, and you tell me how great it is, how easy it is, and just how much you love it.

Before we do that, though - you mind giving me a hand here?

Fine, fine – I'll explain.

Look, there are worse things than being Reactive Girl, the city's most notorious hero and the only one with any real “powers” to speak of. I love Captain Justice, Ronnie Right and the Liberation Twins, but none of them are actually “super” by nature. CJ carries around a giant laser gun he built in his basement – non-lethal, but painful as you can imagine – and RR has taken the time to get his body into fine fighting form. The Twins are about misdirection; they look so similar that they can easily confuse baddies and end up winning a lot battles by virtue of the fact that their enemies didn't know which way to turn.

No tricks for me, though – I'm the real deal.

It's all in the name, and I figured it was appropriate after I discovered just how my powers worked. Nobody else managed to click in, which was great for me, since I didn't really want to explain.

The whole thing started with a boy I liked. Tall, handsome, strong – Josh Dremel was everything I thought I wanted when I was fifteen. He seemed to like me back, much to my surprise, and we went on a few awkward dates. Around date three or so he finally got up the nerve to kiss me, and I let him, but when he went to put his hand under my shirt I told him “no”. That fell on deaf ears, so I grabbed his hand and moved it away.

Well, big Josh didn't take too well to that, and the next thing I knew, he had slapped me across the face. I swung back, and put his head through the driver side window of his car. He came out lucky; only his pride was really injured, but he kept his mouth shut about the whole thing. I had no idea what happened, at first, but as I got older and the world got more violent, I figured it out.

Mom got a new boyfriend just before I turned eighteen, one that had a real mean temper if his day didn't go right. I told mom to leave the scumbag, but she was lonely, and ended up taking way too much of what he dished out. I ignored him, but one night mom wasn't around and he decided he needed a new punching bag. He caught me in the hallway outside of my bedroom and whacked me hard in the side of the head; I sent him flying down the hall and off of the stairs with a light tap to the chest.

I started to get it.

I'd been trying ever since the Josh incident to drum up whatever powers were latent with in me – I took martial arts classes, did yoga, and learned to balance my mind and body – all to no avail. The scumbag helped me sort it out; my power was dependent on what people did to me; whatever they did, I could return ten-fold.

Reactive Girl was born.

At first, I just thought it was cool to have a secret identity but didn't do much with it. After a few botched attempts I made myself a snazzy green costume, one form-fitting enough that it was clear I was a female, but not so tight that I felt like I was showing off the goods to everyone who came by. Once I had my own place I started going out at night, skulking around and pretending like I was making a difference.

Finally, I found a crime in progress – a home invasion – and decided to get my feet wet. I barged in, screaming something archaic and ridiculous, and the three burly men that had tied up the homeowner and were looting his place just turned and laughed. I shoved the nearest one lightly, and he decked me, hard. Once I could see straight again I slugged him back and sent him tumbling end over end. Throwing a few kicks in the next one's direction, I played with him until he managed to smack me, then tossed him out the front window. The third one saw how his luck was going and ran, and I quickly untied the homeowner. He was grateful enough, but seemed more scared of me than the other three, as if I was somehow going to pick up where they left off.

Fighting crime comes with precious few rewards.

Of course, my notoriety led to others of “my kind” coming out of the woodwork, fakers with good hearts but no real powers, and the birth of super-villains, the kind that love to do nothing but taunt heroes like me.

It was the note from Maestro Malefic that got me here today; he had my mother.

All was going to plan; I showed up at the designated meeting spot, he hauled out mom for me to see and confirm she was alright, and then he had two lackeys hustle her into a van and start to drive off. I moved quickly; my speed a result of training, not power, and wondered just how much of a beating I was going to take today.

Malefic smacked me across the jaw and the sprinted away, jumping into the van as it pulled out into the street, I grinned. It wasn't just strength I could react to; anything done within about ten seconds after a touch I could use, and that included speed.

I followed the van through the city and up into the hills. I was fast enough to keep up with it, but not strong enough to do anything about it, and I didn't want to force it off of the road – my mother was in there!

On a deserted rocky road, the thing pulled a sharp turn and the side door flew open. I couldn't stop, nor did I have any plans to, and I soared into the van. Liquid met me as I fell, and I saw a lid snap down over me as I struggled to get out.

“Reactive Girl,” came Malefic's voice, “very clever name, young lady, but I suspect you'll find it hard to use your powers in a sensory deprivation chamber.”

He was right; I couldn't feel a damn thing, and even my speed was draining.

Yeah, being a superhero is great.

- D

Story #115 - Fly Boy

Fly Boy

Two fat flies were buzzing around the counter when Tom Fairchild swaggered his way into the motel lobby, fat juicy morsels that had obviously been feeding well on the scraps of food and filth left on the desk.

The deskman was no prize either; a short, fat balding man with a name tag that said “Bob”. Underneath the name Tom could see another word, one that surprised him given the man's slovenly condition. “Owner”.

“Good evening, sir.” Tom knew that even if the place was a dive, he'd have to start off with respect. Too many places these days were getting choosy about who they let in the doors, and he couldn't blame them. Monsters masquerading in human form were the obvious stuff of nightmares, and the Feds still hadn't come up with a viable way to detect the damn things until it was too late.

Bob grunted in response, not bothering to look up from the paper he was reading. One of the two flies landed near him, and he made a half-hearted attempted to bat it away, but succeeded only in stirring up a third one from a dusty window shade.

Tom had been loathe to pull off at this particular exit, but night was coming on hard, and he knew that most of the killings had been reported under the cover of darkness. The things were said to move like the wind; a sudden gust and a guy could find himself with no arms or legs, sitting on the side of the road and wondering what the hell happened. Not even cars were safe – the things had incredible bursting speed, or so the newsmen said.

When he'd seen the sign for the Last Exit Motel he'd intended to drive on, but a quick check of his GPS showed him the next hotel as over fifty miles distant. Sure, he could take the risk for a better room and not having to look at Bob dig a finger deep into one nostril, but that risk for comfort and a settled stomach might have gotten him killed.

He could deal with the fact that the place wasn't exactly clean - air-freshener scented the room instead of the smell of laundered linens and cleaned floors, and he could feel the thick carpet squelching under his boots – but Bob's rudeness was just one step too far. The man had a business to run. Didn't he want paying customers?

“Hey!” Tom said sharply, moving forward while keeping a firm grip on his shoulder bag. “Bob, I'm talking to you. I need a room for the night. How much?”

“Fifty.” Bob's voice grated like a snow scraper running over a steel plate, and Tom reached for his wallet. “But put your money away. I ain't takin' it. Now get out.”

Tom felt his anger spark, though he managed to keep himself cool. He was impressed; during his time in the army, he would have flown off the handle at the smallest thing outside of the rigid confines of daily barracks life, and the guys always ribbed him about how red he'd get, how hot under the collar no matter the issue.

“Bob,” he said softly, stepping forward and pulling out his wallet, “I don't think you can afford to turn me away. You need every paying customer you can get, from the look of this place.” Bob glanced up at him now, eyes flat and unfriendly as he approached.

“Plus,” Tom flipped open his wallet, showing his army ID card. The card didn't grant him any special status, now that he was out, but some still had respect for his service to the country.

Bob rolled his eyes and went back to his puzzle. Clearly, he wasn't one of them.

Time to play hardball, Tom thought, and slapped a $50 bill down on the desk in front of Bob. “I'll give you that much again in the morning. I'm not loud, I don't drink, and I just need a place to sleep to get away from,” he dropped his voice, “them.”

The bald man looked up and nodded slowly. Everyone knew things were getting worse, even if the Feds were selling them a different line. They all had to watch out for each other, in a time like this. “Yeah, it's rough out there,” Bob said, pushing the fifty off of the counter and letting it fall to the floor below, where Tom could see it start to wet at the edges from the damp warmth permeating the carpet, “and I've gotta look out for my interests. Get out.”

Tom felt his control snap and dove forward, reaching out long arms for Bob, who slipped off of his tall stool and into a back room. One of the flies drifted in front of his face and he brushed it out of the way. A sucking sound from his own mouth surprised him, and he watched as his tongue darted out to snag the bug in mid-air. He recoiled as his own tongue brought it back and he munched it down, teeth enjoying the texture and stomach doing backflips at his own foulness.

“Reptilicant!” He heard Bob scream, and saw the other man coming around the corner with a shotgun.

***

Dark was coming on strong; he had to find a place to stop, and soon. The Last Exit Motel had been a bust; it was hard to believe that Reptilicants had managed to infect even honest merchants like Bob. The place had been a dive anyway, and Tom didn't want to risk staying a night, even with one of their kind dead. He'd heard the others were cannibals, and he didn't want to take the chance of a feeding frenzy.

Licking the last of the dark red barbeque sauce off of his fingers, Tom threw the small bone out the window and put the pedal down. Fast-food chicken wings weren't his first choice, but a guy had to eat. He had fifty miles to go before the next exit, and anything could lurk in the dark.

-D

Story #114 - Murder By Numbers

Murder By Numbers

As the doors slammed closed on the fleshy skin of my neck, I couldn’t help but think that I’d known better – been warned, in fact – but went ahead anyway.

Vengeance took time, it seemed.

***

I’d never been all that bold by nature, but there was something about the locally unknown, the scary and yet familiar that drew me in. So it was with old elevator #6, the only one in the building no one used anymore. It was funny; we were an office tower of insurance agents and lawyers, brokers and the occasional shyster – all apparently “professionals”, but not one of us would go near #6.

It wasn’t like we were in the area very often, as it was a service elevator near the janitor’s office on the main floor, but legend had it that at one time it was the “go to” elevator choice when the front five were too busy. In 1952, that all changed.

A murder in the elevator just as it passed the first floor put the fear into everyone in the building, and rumors flew. The best I could find out, the killing had been of a socialite by her jealous boyfriend, and had been pretty damn gruesome. Even the library records were sketchy, but I’d made a study of it because I thought it was “neat” that our building had something interesting happen in it.

I’d worked there a year before I ever got the nerve up to even walk by the machine, and I remember feeling a palpable chill as I breezed through the hallway. I was spooked until I realized that the janitor was throwing out some boxes with the outside door open and that it was the middle of January, and then I felt down right stupid.

After that, it became an obsession for me to know as much about #6 as I could. I went back to the library and dug deeper, and came across a number of things that I found hard to believe. The first was that there had been more than one murder in the elevator, and the second was that they seemed to follow a pattern. Not by date – the second one was in 1956, then ’59, then ’71, but by number. Each body was found on a successively higher floor, and each one had been killed the same way – neck crushed in the doors.

That was the oddest thing. Back in the ‘50s, safeguards didn’t exist to keep the doors from closing hard on a person’s limbs, body or neck. By 1970, elevator code was such that those kinds of things shouldn’t have been possible, and yet they kept occurring. Four deaths in twenty years, each one a decapitation and each one covered up – but why?

Delicate inquiries with friends in the police service were met with roadblocks. They didn’t mind looking into it for me, but after one or two stabs at getting me some information, firmly told me to stop asking, and I knew that was the best choice.

That didn’t stop me from thinking about it, though, and digging deeper. By the time I’d run out of material to look at, I’d found eight murders in total, all of which had the same MO. The oddest thing – aside from their gruesome nature – was that no killer was ever arrested, and no suspects were ever sought. Even newspaper articles in the city didn’t mention the killings, and there seemed to be a general understanding that there was “nothing to be done”.

I was determined to find out – somehow, that made my days worthwhile. Selling insurance wasn’t floating my boat, and it wasn’t like I had much to go home to. A plan was my next step, something that had a logical progression and would result in my solving the mystery, or so I thought.

It started with me taking the time to walk by #6 every day when I came to work. After a month I started to feel comfortable, and I jammed the call button once a week, just to see if the thing still worked, though it took me a month to stand around and wait for the gears to start grinding.

After seven months, I actually managed to wait until the elevator arrived at the bottom floor and the door opened, and then I ran away like I was a scared rabbit. The thing looked normal enough – dark paneled and old – but I wasn’t about to take any chances. A year after I’d started my plan I got inside and stood there for a moment, looking at the buttons and feeling a sense of rising dread in my stomach. Jabbing the “9”, I slipped out side before the doors closed and then went up to my office and panted for a few minutes.

I was almost there; I had to do it.

It was a September day, I remember that much, but I couldn’t tell you the exact day in the month. I’d had a bad week, one of the worst since I’d started at the job, and I needed something, anything to make me feel like I was alive.

Oddly, getting in a death trap did the trick.

I was inside and the doors had closed before I really thought it through, and as the car went up, I found myself holding my breath, too scared to cry out, and just hoping it had all been a large, unfortunate set of circumstances that had led to the deaths of eight other people.

At floor 8 and a half, I felt the car slow down. The “9” light went out a moment a later, followed by the cabin light.

I’d always wondered what facing a specter would look like; I think we all have, at some level. I can tell you its nothing like you’d imagine, nothing like you’d think. It’s a whorl of sounds and sensations as you’re ripped out of the world you know and crammed into one you don’t belong. Those from the other side don’t belong here, and we don’t belong there. Existing together for a moment is possible, but painful for both.

The elevator doors coming were the next thing my conscious mind processed, and then blackness took me. My next awakening came above the floor of the elevator car, peering down at a twitching figure at the threshold.

Was it worth it to learn the secret? Perhaps. There is a great deal I know now that I have never known before.

Come find it for yourself – floor ten is waiting.

-D