Story #220 - In-house Training

In-house Training

“Who am I?” The young man asked, his eyes impossibly confused. Just 18, it was the kind of question Jiter Michaels would have expected from a kid just getting his bearings and figuring out where he stood in the world, if that same kid hadn't been part of an experimental test group and had his memory blanked on purpose.

“You?” Jiter said incredulously “Who the hell am I?” He'd run the scenario enough times to be convincing; in the last fifteen years only one of the trainees had been bright enough to question his authenticity, and that one was now his superior. Director Loffery was a ruthless SOB, but that's why he'd been picked by the big boys after his novitiate for the fast track – he was just what the Organization needed.

“Where are we?” The kid said, eyes darting around the room. That was always the next questions recruits had, and though they didn't know it, it didn't matter. Within minutes, a squad of goons was going to break down the door – in this case, one at a seedy motel – and start shooting. Real bullets would be coming out of the guns, and both he and the kid had hot-loaded pistols, but the kid was the only one who wouldn't be wearing body armor. Jiter always felt a twinge of guilt at that, but stifled it with the memory of the worst partner he'd ever had, before the Organization began using this drill. The idiot had nearly gotten them both killed off the coast of Greece when it was discovered – at an utterly inopportune moment – that he “didn't like guns”. Now, the kids coming through had two choices: fight, live and get their memories back, so much the wiser and so much the better, or die in a hail of gunfire.

“Don't ask me!” Jiter snapped. “Wait! What's that noise?”

Damn. He thought to himself. Early. Jiter knew the men were in position, but he should have waited for their footsteps outside before saying something. As it was, he had to pretend his hearing was somehow superior until the kid heard it too, and perked up. He was getting sloppy in his old age, and the Organization had no use for it. Loffery would kill him as soon as let him retire with the kind of secrets he was carrying around, and Jiter knew he had to be as useful as he could for as long as he could.

A careless boot-scuff outside finally grabbed the recruit's attention, and he moved quickly to take cover behind the bed. Not a bad choice, but not the best in the room; although it gave a good sight-line to the door, a mattress wasn't going to do much to stop a bullet. The doorway between the bedroom and bathroom would have been the best place to take cover, since it would have afforded the kid the ability to show as little of his body to his attackers as possible.

Since it was vacant, Jiter took the best space in the room and drew the pistol at his hip. His men had been trained to go down hard on what looked like lethal shots, and so had he. It was a point of pride that the last time anyone had scored a fatal shot on him was the day after his niece's wedding, when he'd had far too much to drink and around forty-five minutes of sleep. Even so, he'd taken four men with him before he hit the ground.

“Kid,” he hissed, and the pale-faced young man looked over at him. Right in the middle of his class, the kid didn't have any distinguishing skills, and so long as he survived the last few weeks of his training would make an solid mid-level operative, one that the Organization didn't mind throwing away to ensure more important jobs could be completed by those of higher calibers.

Jiter motioned to his pistol, and the kid finally figured out he was carrying one of his own. With a smooth motion, he drew, surprise clear on his face that he was so competent with the gun. Jiter had seen some of the younger ones scream when they found the pistol in their hands, even though he knew they'd been training with it for months.

Muffled voices outside the door told him the attack was coming, and he steadied himself against the bathroom wall, making sure that only his pistol and the slightest edge of his face was visible at the edge. No sense in making this easy for his men, since they needed the practice as well.

Jiter saw the door start to crack open, and then the kid was moving before he had a chance to react. Dropping the gun, the thin recruit leapt across the bed to land in front of the door, then slammed it hard shut on the hand and leg of the first man trying to come through. There was a cry of pain and the kid danced back and away, moving quickly side-to-side on the balls of his feet. The door came crashing down next, three of his men jamming through the opening, weapons drawn. Not one got a shot off before the young man at the door leveled them, and the other three outside shot him a look.

He nodded; their job hadn't changed.

They tried to be more cautious, but the kid was simply too fast. Guns were knocked from hands, wrists were broken, and when it was over Jiter stood in the middle of the room, pistol back in its holster, no shots fired.

Pulling a cellphone from his pocket, he started to dial. The sound of a gun hammer drawing back stopped him.

“I work for the Agency,” the kid said calmly, “have for five years. Your training program is good, I'll admit, and you're the best part of it. My bosses have an interest in you, and an offer to make. Mine is this: put the phone down and come with me, or I'll kill you right now.”

Jiter knelt slowly and set the phone on the ground.

“Lead on.”

- D

Story #219 - Disappearing Act

Disappearing Act

The world was disappearing.

When he heard the words, Buster assumed they were some half-assed statement made by yet another government official, yet another would-be leader who wanted to take whatever their agenda might be seriously. As it turned out, and perhaps for the first moment in the history of time, a politician was being not only literal, but entirely factual.

It started in Antarctica, which was no surprise to anyone who followed the old tenants of global warming. The theory had been proven false two decades ago, but just like those who argued the earth was flat, it was still a strongly held belief in some quarters.

Despite initial reports that the landmass had simply vanished, common wisdom held that it must have melted away, and those who had seen something different were either delusional or suffering with some form of temporary madness. It took eight full research teams to confirm that not only had a portion of the permafrost-covered area of the Antarctic disappeared, but that it hadn’t melted, or burned off, or been catalyzed in some way; it was simply gone.

Striations in the rock closer to sea levels showed that nothing had disturbed the fossils, no chemical reaction had taken place, at least not until the portion of earth covering them was missing. Suddenly, eons-old pieces of history were unearthed and study was furiously conducted by expedition after expedition – everyone who could make the trek down.

They were all lost when the disappearing act happened again.

Now, over half the Antarctic was gone, and sonar readings indicated that water in and around the area had vanished as well. With the loss of some of the world’s best minds, there was a global panic, at least until politicians got up and started lying again – one could only hope for blood from a stone for so long, and so it was with the time of honesty in politics. It was short-lived.

Buster shivered in his parka as the plane touched down on the landing strip. The strip was newly-built, part of the initiative to ensure that as much research on the “Antarctic problem” was done before the next “issue” arose. Buster knew he wasn’t exactly the government’s first choice when it came to scientists – they didn’t care for disgraced community college professors, no matter what the first five years of their careers looked like – but they didn’t have much choice in the matter.

He took a deep breath of mostly-warm air before stepping off the plane. Buster knew there was little chance he’d be this comfortable again for months, but the chance to see the destruction first-hand, to help understand what might be causing it was too tempting to pass up. The fact that he’d just been fired again helped make the decision for him, and before he knew it he was on a plane to Houston. Three long flights later in progressively smaller planes and he was over the miles-thick ice that covered the southern pole. Buster had never expected such a trip.

An hour later had him shivering so hard his muscles had begun to ache. He knew that the accommodations to be provided were limited at best, but in person they were less impressive than he’d been led to believe. Even inside, the chill permeated everything, every surface five or six degrees colder than what he was used to. He couldn’t bring himself to remove his parka.

“Buster Pollack!” A sharp voice jolted him out of a half-doze. He’d been ushered into a small conference room with the seven other scientists that had been with him on the plane, though he couldn’t put a name to any of them. They were all the bottom of the barrel, and each seemed wrapped up in their own particular problems, which suited him just fine. He wasn’t looking for friends.

“Here!” He bellowed back. Buster had always been contrary, and while he was glad for work, he wasn’t exactly happy to be freezing cold and crammed into a metal box with two hundred other sub-par minds.

The director of the expedition, Major Tom Gallaghan, shot him a glare and then bellowed out the remaining names on his list. Once finished he stepped back, and a young woman in a heavy lab coat took his place.

“I’m Dr. Lindsey Price,” she said sweetly, “thank you all for coming.”

Buster had a hard time keeping his eyes where they were supposed to be. Even under the lab coat, Lindsey had a fine figure. He forced himself to listen to her words – something about a lack of physical evidence – and his mind wandered again to her physical evidence.

She was reading off numbers when his attention perked back up.

“What did you say?” He asked abruptly, and sudden silence followed his words.

“Pollack!” Gallaghan bellowed. “You’re here to listen and learn, not comment!”

Buster ignored the fuming Major and looked at Lindsey – her eyes, this time. “What did you say? What are the specific numbers on the landmasses missing?”

She rattled them off with the precision of one who’d spent far too much time chewing on their meaning.

“Fibonacci.” He said when she was finished. “Clearly.”

There was a silence in the room as his words went out. It was obvious, based on the numbers, that not only was the problem growing, but that it was following a particular pattern. Trouble was, the pattern could actually be found in nature, so despite the outcries of the religious right and the liberal left, what was happening might not be punishment, might not be an alien attack. It might just be the natural order.

“Pollack,” Price said shortly, “you’re with me. The rest of you, stay here with the Major – he’ll see to your accommodations.”

“I don’t get to be accommodated?” Buster asked with a smirk on his face as she led him out of the room.

“Damn it, Buster – now isn’t the time!” Lindsey said through clenched teeth as the door to the meeting room closed behind them. “It’s been over for ten years, and I don’t have time for your nonsense. We have work to do!”


- D

Story #218 - Take Me

Take Me

“Take me to the Captain.” The man’s voice was hard, an accomplishment considering that he was surrounded by three of my men, all with blasters leveled at him, though that was part of his training. Agents weren’t known for their humility, and most could handle their share of pressure, but I’d broken more than in few during my time as head of security operations for the Orkana.

This Agent, though, was something else – a cut above the kind I usually ran into. His dark hair and thin build put him right in line, physically, with the rest of his brethren, but his attitude was arrogant even for one of his kind. In a way, I found him amusing.

“I demand that you take me to the Captain,” the Agent said again, glaring up at me. “This treatment violates both Conventions.”

“Does it?” I whispered, leaning in close to the man. “And why would that matter to you?”

“I’m just an honest merchant!” The man cried in an almost-perfect imitation of chagrin. “You’ve seen me selling my wares every day you’ve been in port. I haven’t so much as glanced at your ship!”

“Exactly,” I said, motioning to one of my men, who pulled out the neutralizer he had stored in his belt, “and yet we found this among your possessions.” The long silver cylinder was unmistakable as anything else – one touch of the rounded end of the device to the head of a target, combined with a light thumb-press of the button at the other end, and their mind was blanked. Neutralizers left the body intact for mission-completion purposes, but once touched, there was no coming back from the electro-scattering of the device. They had been outlawed in the Far Reaches for the better part of a decade, and only the most hardened criminals carried them, along with the few Agents sent to do the Republic’s dirty work.

The tall man frowned, managing to look surprised and indignant at the same time. I was impressed, I had to admit – most of the Agents they were training at the Academy these days were pure arrogance and vitriol. This one had learned a number of other, useful skills, like how to hide in plan sight.

“What is that?” The Agent asked, moving forward slightly in his chair. I put a not-so-gentle hand on his chest to stop him, and stared down at him until he relaxed.

“Really, Agent?” I said with a smirk. “You expect us to believe that you were carrying a neutralizer and didn’t know what it was? That you are so stupid you do not recognize your possession?”

“Why do you call me that – Agent? I am no servant of the Republic!” The dark-haired man tried to stand up from his chair, but I set him down firmly. His performance, while convincing, would yield no results.

“The Captain will be coming to see you,” I said once he was sitting and calm, and I could see his face brighten, “but I doubt that you will like what he has to say any more that what you’ve heard from me.”

The Agent’s face darkened again, and it took great restraint on my part not to laugh. Whoever had done his training was skilled, but had given him the unfortunate habit of over-acting the part.

I turned to Malcom, the best of my men and the only one I’d trust to hold the neutralizer. At my motion, he passed it to my hand.

“While we wait for the Captain to arrive,” I said softly, “let’s talk about this device you supposedly know nothing about.”

The Agent said nothing – the first smart choice he’d made since I’d dragged him into the room and given him a seat.

“One touch with this, Agent, one press of the button, and I can erase everything you know, make you into a shell of your former self, a hollow container that doesn’t contain a damn thing of who you are. Does that sound appealing?”

The man shook his head, a feigned fear large in his eyes.

Grabbing him by the collar, I lifted him off of the chair and slammed him hard into the wall.

“Are you sure?” I bellowed at him. “Are you sure that doesn’t sound like something you may have known, carrying this weapon with you, all this time?”

“No,” he said softly, “it sounds horrific.” His body went limp in my hands, and I threw him back into his chair. Malcom, Dern and Ceri all looked at one another, and then at me. I could see it in the eyes – they weren’t sure that we had the right man, now. They were starting to believe his lies.

A tap at the door told me that the Captain had arrived, and I motioned to Dern to let him in. He’d want to see the Agent in person, before we disposed of the body. A quick look at Ceri and a nod let me know that the cameras in the room had been disabled. No one would know what transpired here – always a good idea if the Merchants Association ever found itself in a position to bargain with the Republic.

The door swept open to admit Captain Wheler, a veteran of the Merchant Fleet and one of the most outspoken opponents of Republic control in the Far Reaches.

“Well, well,” Wheler said, moving around the desk to stand beside me, “what do we have here?”

I moved before he had a chance to react, not that he would have seen it coming in any case. A quick jab with the neutralizer, a button press, and the Captain went down in a heap. Three quick blaster shots left Malcom, Dern and Ceri on the floor with holes in their chests, and I felt a twinge of regret. They had been good men.

Indo smiled at me from his chair. He had played his part perfectly.

I smiled back, and I could see him recoil quickly. He’d been told by Republic higher-ups that this was the start of his training, but the truth was he was just a wash-out, a would-be Agent that couldn’t make the grade. Indo struggled briefly, but his fate was sealed, and his body joined that of the other four on the ground.

Dashing to the door, I thumbed the control panel and started screaming for reinforcements, jamming the alarm once I’d made it into the hallway.

A true Agent existed where he was least expected – acted when others wouldn’t dare.


- D

Story #217 - Stubby Two

Stubby Two

Stubby Reiner goosed the throttle hard, and was glad to hear the engine of the X-1 roar in response. Doc and his team had made him sit through meeting after meeting about the damn car before they'd let him anywhere near the inside, and had handed out sixteen or so manuals that he was supposed to read so he didn't foul things up inside their precious project.

Fifteen of those manuals were scattered around his house, propping up various chairs and tables, and the last one he'd been tearing pages out of and setting them on fire on his balcony. The high-gloss paper Landsbury and his science-pals had used burned brightly.

He wasn't trying to be contrary – it was just that he knew more about cars than Doc and his team ever could. Sure, they had all the technical specs about the X-1, but not one of them had the guts to drive the thing. Why? Because they didn't really understand the car. Stubby did.

Stubby let up on the throttle and let the engine settle back down, then made a quick survey of the other instruments in the car. Most of it was familiar stuff, but there was a control panel behind him where the gap to the back seat should have been that featured a number of dials and buttons he had no idea about. As soon as Doc saw him looking at the panel, the older man came swooping in to the driver's side window and motioned for stubby to roll it down.

“Don't touch those, Mr. Reiner.,” Doc said quietly.

He gave the other man a hard look. They had talked about this, and Doc was in his territory, now.

“Stubby.” He could hear the irritation in the other man's voice, but at least Doc could remember the simple things.

“No worries, Doc – all those fancy buttons ain't my thing anyways. I just like to drive cars.”

“I'm sure you do. Now, do you mind telling me what you're doing in here? I wanted you to have a chance to 'get to know your new girl', as you put it, but is this really of any benefit?” Landsbury's face was earnest, and his tone was curious – the man really didn't get it.

“Look, Doc,” he said, shutting off the X-1, “you came down here because you need a driver, and not just any driver, one that can handle big cars and high speed without batting an eye.” Stubby pulled out the single key from the ignition and handed it back to Landsbury. “Well, part of that is because I get along with my cars, I know them inside and out. Tech manuals and specs are great, but they don't tell you what a car needs, how she's going to react under pressure and what it feels like when you stomp down hard and push her as far as she can go. You want me to go some speed nobody's ever gone? Sure, I can do that – but you've got to let me do it my way.”

Doc nodded as he stepped away from the door, and Stubby hopped out.

“When do you think you'll know our girl well enough to get started?” Doc asked, and Stubby could see the two suits in the corner smirking at him. He hadn't liked Ray or Jay from the moment they walked into his garage, and time hadn't improved his feelings about them. Landsbury was smarter than he was, no question, but didn't rub it in his face. The rhyming twins the older man had brought with him, however, had no problem telling Stubby just how dumb they thought he was whenever Doc wasn't around to hear it.

“Tomorrow, Doc, and I'll be as ready as ever.”

Landsbury smiled, and then motioned to Lana, who was working quietly on a laptop. She didn't seem to like Ray or Jay either, and had kept her distance from everyone except the good Doctor for the two weeks she had been in the South.

“I take that to mean that you've had a chance to review all of the technical documentation that we gave you? That you know the X-1 in and out?”

Stubby hesitated. “I...maybe not all of them.” Or maybe one page of the first one before he'd fallen asleep.

Doc smiled. “I thought as much. Lana wrote most of those manuals, Stubby, and we didn't really think you'd read them, but for insurance purposes we had to give you a chance. Now that we've done that, it's only fair to tell you that Lana will be coming along on the testing run.”

Stubby could feel his jaw drop open, though the beautiful dark-haired woman next to Landsbury didn't react – impressive, considering the speed they'd be going once Stubby got the X-1 on the road.

“That's a bad idea, Doc,” Stubby said once he got some of his voice back. “No offense, ma'am,” he said politely to Lana, “but I drive a car with one man in it – me. Another body will throw off the weight balance, and the last thing you want me to do is make a mistake with this X-1 of yours. Sorry, but the answer is no.”

Landsbury didn't speak, but Lana held his gaze, her blue eyes deep and crystalline. “I know it won't be easy, Mr. Reiner, but I'd love to see your work. You're the best of the best, and one rarely gets the chance to see such skill close up.”

Stubby felt his face flush. Flattery from Lana was the last thing he needed – and about the only thing that might convince him to change his mind. He glared at Doc, and then at the two idiots in the corner. He could fight the man on this, but it would delay the whole experiment, and Doc might just pack up and leave. After getting a taste of X-1, he didn't want that to happen.

“Fine. She comes along,” Stubby said shortly, “but to be clear, when we're in that car, I'm the one in charge. You get me?”

“Of course, Mr. Reiner,” Lana said sweetly, “whatever you say.”

Cursing under his breath, Stubby stalked off. Damn Yankees.

- D

Story #216 - Fireman

Fireman

The weekly visits were getting to her, though Kara Tulman tried not to show it as she waved goodbye to her father. They still didn't know what was wrong with him, and the few times he'd been allowed to go home had resulted in an ambulance ride back to the hospital within hours or days at the most, so his room in the special care unit was where he was going to stay for the time being.

Kara was sure he looked worse than last week, but the petite nurse that was responsible for overseeing his day-to-day care told her that he looked the same as always. It was possible, she supposed, that she was just becoming hyper-concerned. The last few months had been stressful enough without her father taking ill – Jeremy leaving and the issues at work meant she barely had a moment of peace as it was, and then suddenly her dad was falling over at the dinner table on Sunday evening, gasping for breath.

Lost in thought, it took her a moment to realize that another woman was waving at her from across the ward. She waved back – Lily Thompson's father was in the same predicament as her own, and it had come on just as suddenly. They had never met before coming to the hospital, and Kara doubted that in another situation they would be friends, much less acquaintances, but parental illness made for strange bedfellows. Hopefully, both of their fathers would get well soon and they could go their separate ways.

Kara didn't feel like talking, so she slipped into the next corridor on her right to get away from Lily. She was fairly certain she could access the elevator from down the hallway she'd chosen, but didn't see any signs for it in sight. A door to her left stood out from the others around, and if she remembered the layout of the building correctly, should connect back with the main hallway. Slipping inside, she went four steps before she noticed she'd stumbled into another patient care room, albeit one very different from where her father was recovering.

There was a single bed in the middle of the room, odd since the hospital was already over-capacity, and even from a distance she could see that it was of a far heavier metal than the one that held her father. A young man was asleep on the bed, lying perfectly straight and still in its middle, and his wrists were bound by dark metal chains to both sides of the bed. His feet also looked to be locked to the bed, and she could see a silver collar at his neck. What could this man have possibly done to deserve such treatment?

Fear sparked in her mind. What disease could he have to warrant such confinement? Kara turned to leave, and could hear the man shifting on the bed. She had to get out.

“I know what he has.” The man's voice was weak, but confident, and Kara spun quickly.

“What did you say?” She expected to see him sitting up, but he was still on the bed, eyes closed, unmoving.

“I know what he has.” The voice came again. She could see his lips moving, but none of the rest of him. Kara shivered despite her best efforts to stay calm.

“What would you know about it? And what the hell is wrong with you, anyway?” It was rude, but she didn't care.

“We have the same disease, he and I, or at least that's what the doctors here are going to call it. I'm not sure something man-made and this invasive should really be called a disease, though.” There was a bitterness in the tone, an anger.

“And what exactly is that?

“It's...” the was a hesitation, “look, I'm no use chained down like this. Unhook my hands and feet, and I'll show you.”

“Hah!” She barked out a laugh. Trusting a man at his word wasn't something she was going to be doing anymore, unless that man was her hale and healthy father. Justin had proven to her the folly in that.

“Fine,” the bound man said simply. “Leave me here. Good luck as his disease spreads, as you see him waste away. I'm young, so the transformation hasn't been nearly as taxing on my system. How old is your man?”

“My father?” She asked, then realized he had no way to know – he'd been taking a shot in the dark to get her to listen, and he'd been right. “Sixty-two.”

The young man made a clucking sound. “Not good. It will be difficult for him.”

“What will?” She was getting impatient.

“Let me go and I'll show you!” There was real anger in the man's voice now, but despite the fear she knew she should feel, Kara found herself moving to unhook the chains that bound him. A chance at an answer was better than watching her father die.

Once the last chain was off, the man sat up quickly, rubbing his hands over his chest and arms, a small smile on his face.

“Much better,” he said, “thank you. Now, back up.”

Kara did as she was told, and watched as he reached up to grasp the collar at his neck. The silvery metal parted, and as it did, the man burst into flames, scorching the mattress underneath him and blackening the metal that surrounded the bed. As soon as the man let the ends of the collar go, they joined together with an audible snap and the flames died.

“That's what awaits your father unless we can find a cure – life as a human weapon. Come on, let's get me out of here before they notice I'm gone.”

Kara flinched when he reached out to take her hand, but was pleased to discover it was only slightly warm, like a stone that had been heated by the sun. It wasn't much, but at least she had hope now.

Small, but it burned.

- D

Story #215 - Wendell and the God

Wendell and the God

There wasn't a cloud in the sky, which worried him.

Too many clouds would bring the same kind of worry; Wendell had taken to worrying about everything after the gods of the sea and sky had rebelled against their brethren, leaving humanity caught in the crossfire. It was strange to think that way – newscaster after newscaster had their own take on what was happening, their own pithy phrase to describe the fact that not only had the pantheon split, but at least two of the major godheads were trying their best to destroy the skittering, intelligent insects spread over the face of their planet.

Orin himself, father of the gods, had made an appearance on every television, and sent his voice out over every radio wave, letting the people of earth know that the issues were of a “domestic nature” and that the gods would appreciate “patience and understanding” from humanity.

Wendell snorted out loud as he thought of it. People were dying across the globe; drowning in floods, struck by lightening and flung into tornadoes, and Orin had the audacity to ask for patience? Perspective made all the difference, Wendell supposed; to Orin, they were worth nothing more than the other creatures on the planet, all created by the hands of the gods.

Another step forward and his leg caught on a root, almost sending him to the ground. The mountain climb was difficult, to say the least, but he was tired of waiting around for something to happen or someone to save the day. To his left, a large rock under a shady tree beckoned. He was already a third of the way to the summit, and better to rest now and succeed than die of dehydration or missed footing just before he reached the top.

Sitting down heavily, he pulled a waterskin from his belt and drank deeply. He was no mountain climber, no outdoorsman, but he had fared better than most of his neighbors in the last few weeks. Three men on his block had lost their wives to the lust of the sky-god, Ilir, and six men from work had been swept away by the minions of Horax, duchess of the water. Wendell had been single and childless, with nothing to lose but himself, and neither of the rebel deities had wanted any part of him. In a way, it was blow to his ego, but he could deal with it if it meant he remained alive.

No one on earth knew exactly what had caused the rift among the gods, though many suspected it had to do with Orin's daughter, Zephonie. She was a halfling, part god and part human, and while nowhere near as powerful as her father, she was one of the few halflings still living. Most were stillborn, as their human and godly sides struggled against one another, and nine in ten ended their mother's lives as well. Zephonie had been doubly lucky – both she and her mother lived, and while her powers were muted, they bore a strong resemblance to those of Orin.

Ilir had taken an instant liking to her, and there were some rumblings in the immortal realm about a possible uniting of two families, but Orin had forbidden it. He had never cared for Ilir and his lecherous ways, seemingly blind to the fact that his own daughter had come about through just such lechery. Simply refusing permission to marry hardly seemed like enough provocation for a double-god rebellion, but the passions of the gods, much like their powers, were heightened.

Wendell stood, working a knuckle into his back. The longer he tarried, the greater the chance he would be caught by the minions of any of the gods, to say nothing of the two that were out to kill his kind. Mount Eysol was forbidden, the home of the gods off-limits to those with mortal souls. Wendell, however, was of the mind that if the gods could break the rules then so could he, and he wasn't about to sit around and wait for death to come find him. He'd go seek it out.

He had taken only three more steps when the trees around him shimmered and and then disappeared, leaving him standing on empty space. Blackness descended on him, and he could feel the touch of a mind greater than his own pressing down on his consciousness. It was as though he was being studied, examined by an incorporeal hand with crude motor skills. It was unpleasant, to say the least.

“Hey!” He called out sharply. “Watch what you're doing there! I need most of this stuff intact t live!”

There was a sudden withdrawal of the pressure, replaced by a sensation of vast amusement.

You dare tell me what to do, Wendell Case? A voice sounded loud in his mind. I could destroy you in an instant. I am your god. Orin, he suspected, from the haughty tone.

“Not really,” Wendell said as casually as he could manage, given the circumstances, “you may have created my predecessors, but my mother and father made me all on their own, without any interference from you. You've never done anything for me directly, and now you've decided to allow your sons and daughters to destroy my home. Go ahead and kill me, but you won't solve the problem. Others like me will come.”

That was almost certainly a lie, since he hadn't met anyone else who was willing to attempt what he was trying, for fear of their own lives. For him, cowering in a corner and waiting for death made no sense; he might as well go out in a blaze of god-angered glory.

You intrigue me with your audacity, tiny one. Of course, had I not encouraged you to come up here in the first place, I would destroy you, but since you are to be my avatar, I will let your offense slip past.

“Wait! What?” Wendell felt confusion washing over him.

Wendell, the voice was laughing at him now, he was sure of it, your bull-headed courage made you an excellent choice, but the very notion of ascension came from me. I am your god, after all.

This was not going to plan at all. Not that he had a plan – but he was certain if he did this would be well outside its bounds.

I will teach you what you need to know, Wendell, and then you will destroy my rebel siblings. Come.

With that, the pressure on his mind lifted, and a portal sprung up in front of him, a gateway to a world he had never seen. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through.

- D

Story #214 - Stubby's Run

Stubby's Run

“So you're saying that if I go fast enough in this thing, I'll go into another dimension?” Stubby Reiner looked over the car the egg-heads had brought in for him to look at. It wasn't much on the eyes, nothing like his Mark II or the Sweeper he had out back, but it had a certain charm to it, a sleekness he found appealing. Of course, the fact that it ran on dark matter just upped the ante.

“Not quite,” there was an amused quality to the voice of Doctor Pip Landsbury, one that Stubby had been hearing clearly since the Doc and his team walked into the shop. Fact was, he knew they'd been sent to him because he was the best driver in country, something that did no small thing for his ego. They could look down their noses at him all they wanted – he'd gotten the fighting bug out of his system long ago – since when they were gone, he'd still be rich, famous and fast.

“What then, Doc?” Landsbury's brows creased. It was obvious he didn't like the shortening of his title, which meant Stubby would use it more often. His mama had always told him he was a trying child on the best of days, and maybe that's why he wanted to go so fast. People didn't mind talking to him for a few minutes, but after that they wished he'd go away, and as quickly as possible.

Stubby knew his appearance didn't do him any favors when combined with his manners. Big ears, a big nose and small eyes gave him the look of a rat dressed in plaid, and he couldn't help but feel like he'd missed the invitation to the fancy-clothes party, looking at the team Doc had brought with him. Landsbury himself was tall and iron-haired, with a slightly hooked nose and a cast to his face that brooked no nonsense. He alone out of the four scientists in Stubby's garage was wearing a lab coat, probably to convince Stubby that he meant business.

The other two men in the group were dressed in dark business suits, and looked similar enough to be brothers. Both had red hair and freckles, and had to be at least five years younger than Stubby. Ray and Jay, Doc had called them, and though they hadn't spoken, their looks of disdain said it all. They weren't southern boys, that was for sure.

It was the woman who really held his attention, though he tried not to let it show. Long, dark hair framed a porcelain face, and the blue eyes staring out over high cheekbones seemed to see right through him. Lana Rathbone was her name, and after a brief introduction, Stubby had all but ignored her. Doc wanted to ask him something important, or so he'd been told, and he didn't need a woman fouling it all up.

Now that he'd heard what Doc wanted, he wasn't so sure what was so damned important it had brought the man all the way from his lab in New York.

“What, then?” Stubby asked again, moving forward to touch the sloping hood of the car, his irritation rising. One of the red-hairs – Jay, he thought – moved to stop him, but Doc shook his head. They didn't understand, of course. They'd built the car, but that wasn't the same as loving her. Touch and feel were the first warning signs any driver had that something was wrong with his vehicle, and meeting a new car meant shaking hands, getting to know what made it tick. He smiled. It was forward, but he really wanted to see under her hood.

“As I told you, Mr. Reiner,” Doc said in a not-so-patient tone.

“Stubby,” he cut in abruptly. This was his home and his garage, and Mr. Reiner was his father.

“Stubby.” He could hear the strain in Doc's voice, and had to hide a smile. It wasn't that he went out of his way to anger Yankees, just that they seemed to take offense so easily.

“The X-1 won't take you to another dimension, just move you more rapidly through ours. The idea is that at high speeds, the machine can generate enough energy to open a portal, one that's tied to a beacon we've set up in New York. Once it passes through the portal, it should instantly appear in our lab – at a far more reasonable velocity – and we'll be able to assess how well the process works.”

Stubby nodded, not really listening as he made his way around the car. He'd heard enough to understand, but was more focused on the beauty they'd crafted – she was appealing to him more and more as he got a better look. Even egg-heads could get some things right, it seemed.

“First off,” he said shortly, “she's a car, not a machine.” Doc opened his mouth to say something more, but Stubby kept talking. “Second, why do you need me? You could've taken this thing to New Jersey or one of them other northern states to test this out. What the hell are you doing this far south?”

Doc shifted uncomfortably, and then glanced at the woman beside him.

“The truth is, Stubby,” Lana said softly, taking a step toward him. “that none of our team was willing to pilot the car that fast. Combine that with the fact that we haven't done a long distance test and well,” she smiled and gestured in his direction, “that led us to you.”

“Ok,” he heard himself saying, “I'll do it.” He cursed inside his head. He shouldn't have looked right at her – damn blue eyes had caught him off guard. “How damn fast do you need me to go, anyway?”

Doc checked his notes, and a grin spread across his face. “Five hundred and seventeen miles an hour, Stubby, and that's just for the warm-up.”

Fear wasn't something Stubby was used to feeling, so he decided to label it as caution. Severe, heart-pounding caution. This was going to be fun – or deadly. Or both.

- D

Story #213 - Shadow's Edge

Shadow's Edge

The rain beat down steadily, and combined with a northwesterly wind, made seeing much more than a few feet beyond his car windshield impossible. Larry had pulled over twenty minutes ago, confident the storm would pass, but no such luck yet; it seemed to be getting worse.

At first, he'd tried to get some rest. After the week he'd had, sleep was high on his list of priorities to keep his mind and body functioning, but even the steady drone of rain on the car's roof couldn't soothe his cares away. Part of the problem was that Janice and his parents kept creeping back into his head; how were they taking his disappearance? Hard, he was sure, since his cell phone hadn't stopped ringing for two days, but this was something he needed to do. He was a danger to them, and that was that, even if they didn't know it.

He had been edging up on a nap when the rain intensified, shaking the car with the force of its downpour. Such a deluge was rare, and the fact that as the minutes went by it got worse gave him no small measure of concern. Eyes wide open again, he stared down the country road in front of him, hoping to spot the thing before it saw him.

A creaking in the seat behind him told him he'd been looking the wrong way.

“Larry...” the figure now occupying his back seat whispered, and he did his best not to shiver. Their first meeting had led to Larry out stone-cold for the better part of an hour, and when he'd woken up the shadowy apparition was gone. He'd seen it several more times over the course of the following month, and each time he tried to learn a little bit more about it. In the end, he came away with the fact that the thing had his face, could speak softly, and didn't seem to have any sort of purpose; when it arrived, it simply sat nearby, invisible to everyone but him.

He'd been sure he was crazy. Work had been breathing down his neck to finish a number of projects, and his boss – an ass – had been replaced by an ever bigger ass who seemed hell-bent on making Larry's life miserable. Janice wanted to know when they were getting married, since he'd been smart enough to propose last winter, hoping that would silence her questions about his love for her. He did love her, very much, but didn't see why so much of love had to be about doing things he had no interest in, like getting married or planning social events. Larry wanted to spend time with Janice, not her parents or his own, and there was nothing more uncomfortable for him than talking about his feelings in public.

The shadow-version of him was merely an inconvenience, though search of the Internet revealed no answers as to just what might be wrong with his brain. Without answers, Larry had gone back to normal life as well as he could, and ignored the shadow whenever it popped up. The longest it had ever stayed was overnight once when he and Janice were fighting. It had sat in the chair at their bedside, darkened eyes staring at him for hours. He hadn't slept well but had made up with Janice in the morning, and the thing had disappeared.

It was another fight he and Janice were having that finally sparked his need to leave. He'd been thinking about it in the back of his mind for some time; work was getting worse, and as much as he loved his fiancee, things seemed to be going from bad to terrible. Their argument had been about the size of centerpieces, of all things, but rapidly spiraled beyond that to cover ground about his shortcomings. He'd responded in kind, and soon enough their apartment was filled with shouting, finger-wagging and the occasional slamming door.

After one such slam, Larry had come back to the living room to find his shadow, hovering just over Janice's right shoulder. She'd lit some candles, something she often did when she wanted them both to calm down. It typically signaled that she was willing to end the fight, and Larry would usually go along with it. That night, he'd ignored the obvious and laid into her again, chastising her for a number of past slights. The tempo of the argument was just picking up when the shadow-man had stepped forward and pulled down hard on Janice's right arm. With a stumble, she'd fallen down onto the candles, suffering burns on her left arm, neck and the side of her face.

Larry had been horrified.

The shadow came more frequently after that, and each time it appeared Larry felt his stomach drop. His anger seemed to catalyze it, and his anger seemed to be growing every day that passed. He had no control over the shadow; his hand passed right through on a touch, and ordering it to stop appearing did nothing. Two days before he'd left, it started talking to him, sibilant whispers of his own name and Janice's.

“What?” He screamed, twisting around to face the apparition in the car. “What the hell do you want?”

“Unhappy...” was the reply.

“You're goddamn right I'm unhappy, shadow! You've ruined my life, I've got nowhere to go, and the people I love think I've gone crazy. Is that not clear enough unhappiness for you?”

His shadow-form shook its head, then pointed at itself. “Unhappy,” it said more firmly.

“What?” Larry was incredulous. “You're unhappy? What do I care?”

“Unhappy!” The shape was yelling now, and reached forward to grab Larry by the shoulder. The next thing he knew he was on the wet ground outside the car, his shoulder aching and the car door wide open.

“Come.” Above him, the shadow crossed his arms, and Larry struggled to rise. The rain was finally slacking off, and he could see farther into the forest in front of him, though he wished he hadn't looked. As far as he could see into trees, shadow-men and women shambled, moving slowly along the forest floor.

“Come,” his shadow said again, and he followed. He had little choice.

- D

Story #212 - Solo Alto

Solo Alto

They were going down.

Captain Polly Inman would have preferred another answer, but one wasn’t forthcoming. Something had knocked out both of their engines, and though the backup had been spooling for five minutes, it wasn’t turning over, its combustion not quite taking hold. No, The Flying Alto was going down, and she was going down with it.

The rest of the crew had jumped just as she had told them to; they were good men and women, but hadn’t put their hearts and souls into making the enterprise a go. They deserved a chance at life, even if it wasn’t a particularly good one. Their position above the Atlantic Ocean was a rough estimate at best, thanks to a nav system that had gone haywire an hour ago and still couldn’t read anything worth a damn. For all she knew, her co-pilot and crew were going to parachute into the deep blue, with no rescue coming for days. For her, fate was more certain and more immediate; she was going to hit the island.

It had come up on the radar as she got closer to sea level, and now she could see dense brush and thick foliage below her as the Alto plummeted down. A quick scan of the place told her there was nowhere to set down, even if she could get the landing gear working. Polly could hear the grinding of the gears every time she flipped the switch, but couldn’t feel any change in the drag on the plane. The electronics worked, but the mechanics didn’t – no matter where she landed, it wouldn’t be smooth.

Crash was the more appropriate term, but she had trouble thinking it, let alone saying it out loud. She’d never crashed a plane in her career, and Dave had always said she was the best pilot he knew, himself included. A quick look at the picture of him and Buster, her chocolate lab, at the lake last summer was all she could spare before the ground came up to meet her. She knew it was her death, but looking away wasn’t something she could do.

Polly and the Alto would go down together.

***

Opening her eyes confirmed that she wasn’t exactly dead, but something wasn’t right. She was still in the Alto, or at least a version of it – the dials and switches looked cleaner than she’d ever seen them, and the leather on both pilot seats was soft and supple. Outside the plane was where things got really strange, and Polly took a few deep breaths before focusing her gaze on what was happening beyond the windows.

Denying it would be easy, but wouldn’t make what was happening any less creepy. Aside from a dark purple hue, the landscape outside was formless and void of anything resembling plants or scenery she was familiar with. Instead, she could see scenes from her life, snippets of what had happened to her over the last thirty-five years. Dave was there, as was Buster as a puppy, and just out the left window was a whole section seemingly dedicated to her parents. Their looks of disapproval were clear, even from behind the Alto’s glass.

It took her a moment to realize that many of the memories in front of her were not actually real. Most were what she had believed happened, what she had been scared was the truth behind the words. It was Dave walking away from her at their favorite restaurant that tipped her off – that had been the night he proposed, but she had been scared he would just up and leave her, since that had also been the night she told him she was starting the company, with or without his help.
Could this be death?

If so, this brand of hell or limbo seemed easy enough to live with, albeit unhappy. She still had her own memories intact, though she’d prefer if they were the ones on display outside.

A noise from the cabin caught her attention, and she spun quickly, reaching for the pistol she kept under her chair. Dave had been unhappy with her choice to carry a firearm on board, and he raised a few good points against it – most notably that it could blow out a window or rip through the hull, compromising the integrity of the Alto and sending them to the ground. Wouldn’t he love to know it was something completely alien that had brought them down, and not her own stupidity.

The noise came again, and she set her grip on the pistol, laying her trigger finger along the outside edge of the barrel. A random shot was a wasted at best, and could kill someone innocent at worst, though she doubted she had to worry about that here.

Moving slowly, she stood and then pulled down on the cabin door handle. Wan light flickered out from the crack made as she pulled the door open, light that had no business on her plane.

Candlelight.

Beyond the door was a strange caricature, which appeared to be half her plane and half a fancy French restaurant. Two rows of passenger seats remained, but the last three were missing and had been replaced with a table set in silver and bronze. The chair closest to her was empty, but the one across from it was filled easily by the form of her husband, a wide smile on his face.

“Polly,” he said, standing, “I was wondering when you’d get here. Sit, please. I know you must have questions.”

She was moving before she realized it, but stopped halfway to the table. So much made no sense, but she supposed that could be because she was dead. She didn’t feel dead, though.

Polly put the gun to her head.

“Polly!” The Dave in front of her exclaimed sharply. “What are you doing?”

His concern raised a few of her own. If she was dead the gun didn’t matter, but something about this strange netherworld didn’t have the feel of death. Instead, it felt more like…rummaging. As if someone were in her head, poking around.

She moved to the nearest emergency exit, and the Dave-shape moved to stop her. Polly raised her gun, and the shape paused. A quick pull up on the handle and the creeping purpose outside began to seep in, and then the door was ripped from her grasp.

In seconds, she was gone.

Dave snarled, leaping after her. She couldn’t be allowed to escape.


- D

Story #211 - The Sick

The Sick

He was sick; that much was apparent from the vomit-stains he’d left in the toilet. The trouble lay in the fact that he’d never been this sick in his life, and working at the nearby hospital gave him some concern about what exactly he’d been infected with. There was no particular strain of virus he’d heard about recently that should give him pause, but the potential always existed for something deadly to become airborne. He’d seen too many movies, read too many books to be entirely placated by assurances of health and safety.

Wiping his mouth, Chenny Patterson stood and tried to force himself to ignore the chills he was feeling. It didn’t work, of course, nor could he shake the fact that something more serious was wrong than a simple flu virus. He’d always been healthy, and one quick to bounce back from injury, but this had been holding on for the better part of two weeks.

Yesterday, Doctor Cutler had sent him home; while cleaning the physician’s office he’d thrown up in the garbage can he was taking out to the dumpster, and Cutler had been concerned enough to do a preliminary exam. As pleasant as the grey-haired man’s bedside manner was, however, Chenny was fairly certain there was something more at work – a desire to ensure that patients and staff in the hospital didn’t see him at his worst.

Sickness in such a facility was commonplace, but unexplained sickness made people nervous.

Chenny had seen several specialists in the last week, all outside of the hospital and all of whom hadn’t been able to tell him anymore than that “he was sick”. After the third such appointment he had stormed out, stomach churning and his temper flaring. Oddly, he felt better angry than he had at any other moment in recent memory.

Looking out at the bright summer day beyond his drab curtains, Chenny felt that same anger begin to rise, and the sickness started to lift along with it. Stoking his fire, he grabbed at the curtains and pulled hard, yanking them to the ground with a loud crash. A purging fire seemed to sweep through his body as adrenaline coursed, and without thinking he lashed out, striking the glass pane with an open palm and shattering it easily. He drew back his hand in horror but there was no pain, only a pulsing sense of satisfaction. What the hell was going on?

A wave of weariness swept over him as he stepped away from the window, and though he could feel his legs buckling underneath him he couldn’t move quickly enough to prevent himself from toppling over. He threw his hands out in a desperate attempt to keep his face from smacking into the hardwood of his bedroom floor, but it was too late.

Chenny awoke in darkness.

Moving was easy for him, and he found he felt none of the sickness that he had for the last several weeks. Weakness was gone, along with any desire to throw up the little food left in his stomach. A glance at the clock as he stood told him it had been at least twelve hours since he’d fallen, and a cool breeze reminded him about the window he’d destroyed.

Chenny headed for the bathroom; his hand might need serious attention after his efforts at window-breaking earlier. It didn’t hurt, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t damaged.

Flicking on the light, Chenny found a blinding headache blooming behind his eyes, and he squinted hard to make out his image in the mirror. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t explain what was wrong. Looking down, he saw several red streaks on his hand, but flexing it brought no pain. Closer inspection showed no open wounds and a quick inspection with his good hand revealed no sign of broken bones. He had been lucky, it seemed.

Slapping the light off, he moved back into the bedroom. He was exhausted, even after his half-day long nap, and nothing sounded so fantastic as his bed. His head was only the pillow only for a moment before light slipped away, and his next memory was of a group men standing above him, a cold table under his back. What the hell was going on?

***

“His name is –“ James flipped through the binder he held, “Chenny Patterson. Hospital janitor. We don’t know how the hell he picked it up, but it’s definitely ours. He managed to break the sickness just before it got bad enough to kill him, and then went on to break a window. We’re lucky one of our boys had a tracer out for the signals.”

Commander Lippin frowned. The Commander never been a fan of the program, and James knew he’d been looking for an excuse to shut them down for several years now – this would be his best chance.

“I warned you boys that I had misgivings about this project from the start, but you told me it would be safe, told me there was no chance that a civilian could become infected, and yet here we are.” Lippin paused. “How far along his he?”

James grimaced. “Ninety percent.”

Lippin’s hands tightened on the edge of the desk in front of him. “Ninety? You understand what this means if it gets out, don’t you, James? A government super-solider program, the things of spooks and nightmares, suddenly made real. You have to get him under control, and you have to do it now. If you can’t, I’m shutting this whole mess down and hanging you egg-heads out to dry. Get me, son?”

He nodded, but knew there was little chance of doing what Lippin was asking. An uncontrolled escalation meant Chenny was almost certainly beyond their control, and killing him might prove the only option.

An alarm sounded as he moved down the corridor toward the isolation room. Two short pulses followed by three seconds of silence meant Chenny hadn’t killed anyone, but he was up and swinging. This could be difficult.


- D

Story #210 - The Relgarian Rebellion

The Relgarian Rebellion

The Rebellion had been crushed, and Minos Relgarian was the undisputed master of the not-so-free Territories. The battle had been long and brutal, and it had taken a forced march, overnight attack and female assassin to finally end the leadership of the Rebellion's commander. Minos did feel a twinge of guilt that the commander had been his brother, but the younger Relgarian had gone against his nature, and deserved the death he received. Their father had taught them both that in the absence of a strong, those of the lower classes would rebel and make life unlivable both for themselves and those of higher standing.

Trellvan Relgarian, the Lord of a small series of villages in the Northern Territories, had been quietly expanding his grip in the area when his two sons were born. Minos immediately took to his father's teaching, but Renald always had a soft spot for those that were closer to the ground than they. Even at a young age, Renald had been known for making friends among those far below his station, and Minos was sure that his brother had dallied with at least one of the local girls. Truth be told, the relationship had almost certainly passed over into unrequited love when Trellvan decided that Renald needed an object lesson.

It was one of the few things that Minos had disagreed with his father about. Trellvan had been sure that Renald was simply wetting his pen, but Minos knew better. Naela's death at the hands of Relgarian guards had signaled the end of the relationship between father and son, and soon Renald had disappeared into the Wilds. No one gave him a second thought until Minos began making inroads where his father left off, and the Rebellion began.

His brother had been smart enough not to announce himself as the leader from the very beginning, since Renald knew full well that there was no lost love among brothers. Instead, the younger Relgarian had gathered his forces and sent spies to speak with the soldiers of Minos's army, hoping to draw them away from conquest to liberation. Renald had little success there, since Minos promised gold, women and more gold, and his brother could offer only the hope of a brighter future. Such futures dimmed when compared the to the shine of gold piled high, and did not seem so sweet when seen next to the woman on your bed.

Renald had been persistent, however, and displayed a flair for tactics that Minos had to admit rivaled his own. He had always assumed Renald had not been listening during their father's speeches about strategy and war, but it seemed his brother had not only been storing the information away, but meant it for a greater purpose.

Even that knowledge couldn’t save Renald, however, against the brutal attack he had staged and the almost-perfect replica of Naela he had found in the city below. For good coin, she had been willing to impersonate his brother's lost love, and had done her job well. A spike with his brother's head now sat outside the new royal palace, and Minos would be king within the week.

Victory was his - if only he weren't so bored.

***

Renald Relgarian smiled grimly as he passed by the guards at the city gates. Both he and Ophie were unrecognizable to them, and even had his face been more familiar, the armored men wouldn't have been looking for it. He was supposed to be dead.

It was his brother that had given him the idea for his deception, and it so far it was working just as planned. Sending a woman that looked as Naela did all those years ago had tugged at his heart strings, but he was not stupid; she was clearly an assassin. Fortunately, she was also willing to listen to reason, combined with the promise of good coin and a better life if she were to help the cause of the rebellion. Once she had been brought on, it was simply a matter of attacking hard and fast at his brother's forces in an effort to find the item he was looking for. It took a dozen battles, nine of them losses, before he came across a dying soldier who bore his countenance. He had not seen it in years – the face of a hopeful, earnest young man and the one that his brother would surely recognize. His own grizzled visage showed only a passing resemblance to his younger self.

Renald had eased the young man's passing as best he could, then taken his head and waited for the attack that was surely coming. His three victories had come in a row and the battles had been getting easier, which meant Minos was up to something, and just before dawn broke two days later, he saw what it was. Much of the army was able to escape, but he was sure leave Ophie and her “prize” behind. Minos now believed he was the ruler of the Territories, alone and undisputed, and in his glee had let Ophie go, though his brother had paid her none of the gold promised.

With Minos confident the Rebellion had been crushed and secure in his power, real work could begin. Renald had tried his best to meet his brother on even ground, but the last two years of war had taught him otherwise. Only his skill in the art of battle had saved the rebel army, time and again, but they were making no headway. Meeting his brother head-on in engagement after engagement meant losses on both sides, and little chance for the victory of his people.

“Over here,” Ophie said softly, and he followed the tall, dark-haired woman into an alleyway. Friends of hers had agreed to house them until their business in the capital was done, and Renald hoped not to overstay his welcome, or put those who harbored them in danger.. His task was simple; he would not kill by proxy, but bring the battle to Minos instead. His brother would die by his own hand.

- D

Story #209 - The Father, The Son

The Father, The Son

In the wilds outside Therala, a young man waited, those who passed him by mistakenly believing that prophecy had sent him to meet his God. Inside the walls of the biggest city in the nation, the few that knew of him mocked him for his outlandish notion, his simple clothes, and his refusal to leave, even for a moment.

Far above the city, the young man's God watched with some interest, and decided to descend.

***

Berte was the God of the Western Nations, though he wished he'd been less willing now to take what his brothers had given him. He'd always been the most mellow, the most calm in his family, and while the others had argued over what to rule and how to rule it at the beginning of this world's time, Berte had remained quiet in the corner, his mind on the puzzles of logic and emotion. The beings he and his siblings had created were much as themselves, with thoughts and desires and hopes for the future, only on a very limited scale. He had concerns about their eventual ability to stand up to those who had made them, should they choose to do so. His brothers had chosen to rule with brutal dominance in order to prevent such uprisings, but had still given Berte the untamed West in the hopes that he would be the first to fall. There was little love lost in his family.

For ten thousand years, he'd managed to hold his people together through a mix of small miracles and ignorant bliss. While his brother Rober interfered in the affairs of the Southern Steppes early and often, and Galmond had taken to bedding the women and men of his nations, Berte preferred to remain aloof, to allow those in the West to develop as they liked. Of course, rumors about him had sprung up and those below had written scroll after scroll about him, describing his attributes, his appearance, and what he would do when he finally arrived in all his glory. Almost every piece of information contained in the scrolls was wrong, thanks to a typically over-zealous priesthood, and it was the same scrolls that had led the young man to his post outside Therala, where his misplaced faith in the words of his own kind made him sure a God would come to visit.

It was his lucky day.

The young man looked up sharply from the parchment he held in his hand as Berte landed softly on the ground a few feet in front of him.

“I am your God,” Berte said simply, and waited for the man to prostate himself, as was the custom. He did not.

“Ah, Berte,” the young man said in a deep voice. He was handsome enough, now that Berte got a better look at him, and almost familiar. Of course, Berte felt that way about most of the humans he encountered, since he had been the one that designed many of their facial features. He still felt they'd made noses and ears too large, but it helped to distinguish humans from their makers at first glance. “So good of you to join me. Won't you have a seat?” The man gestured to the grass clearing in front of him, and Berte felt a laugh bubbling up.

“You cannot be serious.” Berte was more stunned than anything else at the man's tone. His brothers would have destroyed or at least injured the man on the spot, but Berte knew better – that wouldn't give him any information.

“Of course I can, Berte, and I am right now. You should probably sit down for this.” As the man spoke, Berte had taken a better look at him, and had begun to wonder at the dark, curly hair, the perfectly spaced eyes and the delicate ears on the face in front of him. It wasn't one of his brothers, but...

“Father?”

The young man smiled. “I knew you would figure it out, Berte – you always were the smartest of the bunch. That's why I came to you first.”

Berte didn't speak. Father had disappeared not long after the world was made, and without so much as a warning. The others were happy; they always said that Father meddled too much in their affairs and had too much care for the beings they had created. Berte had made a half-hearted attempt to find his Father, but the needs of the West quickly became too much and he was forced to give up the search. Father had not wanted to be found, that much was clear.

And now here he was.

“Why?” It was blunt, but Berte didn't like surprises.

“Things are changing, my son, and you and the others are in danger.” Father took a step forward, and Berte moved three back.

“No, I mean why did you leave? Where have you been all this time?”

Father spread his hands. “Out here,” he said, “with them. They're fascinating, Berte – you know that better than anyone. They have hopes and dreams just as we do, and they constantly push at the limits we've set for them.” His Father's face darkened. “They're also incredibly dangerous.”

“Oh?” Berte said, more to buy himself time to think than out of any real interest. “How?”

Father moved too quickly this time, and had him by the shoulders before he had a chance to escape. “Listen to me very carefully, Berte. One of them has found the cavern. It's taken him the better part of his life, but he's managed to descend the depths and retrieve the words.”

Berte frowned. The cavern's location was unknown to any of his brothers – it was the final act of Father before he left to seal the knowledge of unmaking away from them, in case they decided they no longer wanted one of their creatures. He would not permit such waste.

“You mean -”

“That's right, Berte,” Father spoke over him, “one of them possesses the power to destroy everything you've made here. One of them could destroy you.”

“Come along, Father,” he said, pulling the other god into a tight embrace, “we are going to see the others.”

Father began to protest, but it was too late. They were gone.

***

Those in the city wondered what had happened to the young man outside, waiting. Some said he had moved on, others that he was dead. None knew the Father of the gods had rested mere miles from their gate.

- D

Story #208 - Jealous Heart

Jealous Heart

Jealously slithered down his throat, settling just above his stomach in a yellow-hot ball of rage. He was sure if she could manage it, white-hot would have been her first choice, but these things didn't come cheap. Sem had been stupid enough to open the package when it arrived at his work, stupid enough not to notice that the handwriting on the outside was distinct and familiar. She knew enough of his friends to fake an address stamp from one, and he'd greedily swallowed the new “taste sensation” that Arlie the confectioner – a friend since basic school – had supposedly sent him.

Now, he was standing over one of the sinks in the men's washroom, wondering if it was better to force himself to throw up or just live with the pain. Jealously-cubes didn't come cheap, so there was some satisfaction to be found in the idea of sticking he finger down his throat and bringing back up what she'd wrapped in overcooked puff-pastry and spitting it out on the floor. He might even send it back to her, covered in his own bile, but that would attract the attention of the Watchers, and even his rage couldn't stand up to their cold sense of societal duty.

The other choice was just to leave it down there and endure. Sem hated throwing up – something he'd told Eliza several times over the course of their six-year long relationship, one year apart, and brief, four-month reconciliation. She knew almost all of his secrets, but he'd always felt like she was keeping things from him. It was part of the reason they'd split, than and the fact that she was crazier than a Streeter on hoop. He should have known something like this was coming, but he hadn't heard a thing from her for the last three weeks, and had hoped that she had grown up and moved on.

Thoughts of her made him shake with a need to have her back, and thoughts of her with other men swirled in his head. The cube she'd purchased might not have been the highest quality, but it was doing the job. As the minutes went by and the drug-laden device took hold, his mind was filled with images of her clothing, naked, and in every imaginable scenario, but always with another man – or woman – and always leaving him broken-hearted. He slammed a fist forward, forcing it to miss the mirror and strike the tile to the side. The light green ceramic cracked and he felt a sharp pain in his hand, but better a few dusty shards to brush off than a jagged length of glass.

In three to four days, the effects of the cube would wear off, and he'd once again have no interest in his former love; he just had to stay away from her until then. No doubt she'd love to see him come crawling back, even if it was to sate the awful feelings she'd purchased for him, and no doubt she'd kick him to the curb with glee. Where the hell had it gone so wrong?

Sem suffered through the rest of his day, alternatively fueling his anger at her and clenching his fists in a jealous rage. An hour before he was due to leave he found himself unable to perform even the most mundane of data entry tasks thanks to hands that were bent into claws, aching and red. Barry, his boss, was good enough to let him head home early – they'd talked on a number of occasions about the women in their lives over drinks, and Barry had heard an earful about Eliza.

He could feel the nugget in his throat pulsing as he boarded the Jo-train, sending out wave after wave of desire and fear to his stomach. It was as though he were fifteen again, desperate for the girl that sat in the corner but so deathly afraid to speak for fear of rejection. He'd been rejected, as a matter of fact, and by Eliza's older sister. Ephie was only a grade ahead of Eliza, and it had been the younger one he'd always wanted to talk to, but didn't have the nerve. Ephie had shut him down hard, however, and he'd been forced to find the courage to speak to Eliza himself. It had taken three years just to convince her to go on a single date, and two more that they should be together. He'd done all the leg work in the early days, convincing her that he was the right man. As it turned out, he'd overestimated their compatibility.

A pretty girl smiled at him from across the train. They'd been flirting for weeks, but today he didn't have time for her and looked away sharply. He could see her face fall – another opportunity missed. The rest of his ride home was miserable, and by the time he arrived at his front door he was considering throwing up again. By this time, the cube was firmly attached, which meant he'd really have to heave hard if he wanted a chance at getting it back up.

So focused on the cube, Sem didn't notice that his door was already unlocked, and he was halfway to the kitchen before he saw her, standing in the middle of the living room. He'd asked for all of her keys back, but she'd never been one to do what she was told.

“Hello, Sem,” she purred, and he forced himself to look at the ground. She was dressed in one of his favorite intimate outfits, one that was all curving breasts and supple hips. There was something in her hands, but he had no intention of looking at her to find out what.

“Get out,” he grated in return, “this isn't your house anymore.”

“Aww, honey,” she moved closer to him as she spoke, “I think you'll change your mind soon enough.”

The cube in his throat pulsed, and he could feel a warm sensation spread through his body. Desire. She'd spent more than he realized – the object he should have expelled was an omni-cube, available only to citizens of the highest rank.

Pieces fell into place; Eliza was an Operative, and jilted one.

He was in serious trouble.

- D

Story #207 - Galron's God

Galron's God

The young girl smiled at Galron as she finished cleaning his hut and then slipped into the dim light of the day. He’d been on-planet a week now, and his elevated status still concerned him in no small measure. More than one of the local women had suddenly found him irresistibly attractive, and though he’d had his share of conquests over the years, the thought of being intimate with anyone on the planet…suffice it to say, he was uncomfortable.

It wasn’t just that the Federation would hang him out to dry if he were to start “populating” the planet, but that the women’s blank-eyed adoration unnerved him.

The whole village had celebrated him has not just a hero, but according to the old man, “a gods”, after he was able to fix the water pump they’d shown him. It had taken only a few moments for him to find the problem – a broken flow-valve – and luckily his tool belt had just what he needed to get the problem taken care of. The man and his followers had demanded proof after he’d announced it was up and running again, and one of them had run it over to a small rain-barrel to check. As soon as it touched the water and the switch was thrown, liquid began cascading up and out the spout, and the entire village had fallen on their faces.

After a considerable period of chanting and moaning, during which Galron considered disappearing into the woods, the old man had risen.

“I…Malkoth,” he had said haltingly, and Galron nodded.

“Galron.”

After that, he’d been whisked off to a hut and given a basin of water, presumably to clean himself. An hour later, he’d been pulled back out into the center of the village, where a feast had been set up in his honor. It had been almost impossible to get anywhere near Malkoth, and no one else in the village seemed to speak Standard.

For seven days – or seven day-night cycles, he couldn’t be sure if the days on the surface matched the ones he was used to – he’d been left alone in his hut, with nothing but young women coming by to “clean” it. After the first few it became obvious that nothing needed to be cleaned or tidied. Malkoth clearly wanted something from him, something only he could provide to the women.

On the eighth day, the old man himself arrived, flanked by two burly guards. He motioned to them after he stepped inside, and they moved to stand just beyond the door. It was a power play; Malkoth could have come in alone and left the guards outside without so much as a word, but he wanted them to be seen, wanted it to be known who held the upper hand. Was that any way to treat a god?

“Alright, Malkoth,” he said with scowl on his face, “let’s get this out in the open. I’m not a god, and I’m not taking any of your women.”

“God,” Malkoth said haltingly, “you must.”

Galron shook his head. Saying something didn’t make it true.

“Please.” The old man’s voice was strained. “We are…dying.”

“What?” Galron was stunned. The villagers seemed healthy enough; he doubted his seed would be enough to save all of them. He had seen less than one hundred in total, and even if more were hiding in the woods, a viable gene pool that did not make. But beyond those simple concerns, how was this his problem?

“The ancient…” Malkoth took a deep breath, “and revered.”

Galron’s head came up quickly. What had the old man said?

“How do you know those names? How can you know those names?”

Malkoth raised his arms and let his head hang down to his chest. “They are…ancient. They speak…of you. Words…they,” there was a heavy pause, “give me. You must fight. Feared. Or die.”

Galron sat down heavily on the small cot he’d been provided. This was rapidly spiraling out of control. With an effort, he divested himself of emotion and let his technician’s brain take over. He could figure this out.

If the Ancient and Revered truly were the Old Gods and not just stories, it stood to reason they could reach even this backwater planet. Mentions of the Feared were something Galron had not heard since he was a small child, and only then as stories for children, something to scare them out of disobeying their parents or defying authority.

The Feared were not real. The Feared were merely talk, smoke to distract the foolish. Reality was black-and-white, a system of technology and electronics, of real-world concerns, not the desperation of spirituality, the reliance on others for truth.

“You cannot be right, Malkoth. The Feared are not real.”

Malkoth shook his head, then motioned to one of his guards outside. Silent moments passed, and the guard burst into the hut, dragging the body of a small child behind him. The young boy couldn’t have been older than ten, and from the discolorations on his body, had been dead for at least as long as Galron had been planet-side.

“Look!” Malkoth exclaimed.

Galron forced himself to run his eyes over the dead child, his stomach turning. “I am – this life had been ended. Why would you show me this?”

Another quick gesture from Malkoth and the body was flipped over, revealing a small, smooth back. Only one oddity marred the dark skin, one blemish stood out: a small circle, just above the shoulder blade, grey and perfect. Galron knelt down, his fear rising. He could see on closer inspection it was not unbroken, but instead made up of tiny puncture marks, each separate and distinct.

They will sting and they will bite, a circle’s curve will end the light. The words of a half-remembered nursery rhyme ran through his head. Malkoth might just be right – the Feared had come to his village, and had begun preying on the weak.

And apparently, Galron was all that stood in their way.


- D

Story #206 - Hunger Pains

Hunger Pains

“We're looking at a transfer rate of up to seventy-five percent.” Doctor Allain Treme tried to keep his tone clinical, but his hands tightened on the thick stack of pages he was holding.

There was a silence from the crowd as his words sunk in. Three weeks ago, they'd been willing to argue with him, willing to tell him that his ideas were madness and that there was no way his predictions could be correct. Now, he'd been proven more than right as the illness spread from continent to continent, the world's greatest medical minds having no idea how it was carried or what made a good host.

Exoplasmis Gastrotal was the name he'd given the thing, since it defied all standard medical classifications. His colleagues had been willing to let him have his fun, but chalked it up to another one of his strange projects; something that wouldn't have an impact beyond the lab. For once, they'd made the wrong call, but he wished he hadn't been right, wished he hadn't seen this one coming. It was hard to watch the world crumble and die.

“Are you...” A voice began from the back, and then trailed off. Franz Zaber was a hell of a neurosurgeon, but had little care for diseases that affected the rest of the body. Allain had hoped that the pathogen was brain-responsive, but in the bodies he'd dissected, he could find no evidence of it there.

“Yes, I'm sure,” he said firmly, pulling up a map on the overhead projector. “This is the current spread of the disease. Red areas represent populations beyond control, where the number of uninfected left is not worth counting. Orange are areas where the disease is spreading rapidly, and the yellow sections are those where only a few cases have been reported. The few blue areas you see have no evidence of the disease.”

There was another long moment of silence as the white-coats in front of him took it all in. He'd stopped putting on his coat a few days ago; he didn't feel like he had much chance to heal anyone, anymore. Allain didn't bother looking at the map. He'd checked his figures time and again in the hopes that he'd been wrong, but his only mistakes were to under-represent the number of new cases that were developing. He knew that fully half of North American was in an orange zone, with both seaboards showing significant trends toward red. A large portion of Europe was already red; it was only third-world countries, and those with a far northern or southern latitude that had any blue on them at all.

It was a strange and terrible thing he'd discovered, thanks to a clever doctor down at the morgue. Hans Feldman knew that he loved odd diseases of the stomach and intestine – something few others in his profession took on as a specialization – and when he'd gotten a call two months ago about a strange case downtown, he'd been more than willing to lose a night of sleep checking out the dead man. It had been four in the morning by the time he arrived at Feldman's morgue door, and he'd like to think the hour played a part in the fact that he was horrified by what he saw.

The man couldn't have been older than thirty, with smooth skin on his face and taut muscles on his arms and legs. It was his stomach that was his most notable characteristic, however, as it was at least twice the size of that found on his most obese patients. Feldman had waited to do the cut until he arrived, and he had found himself edging to the back of the room, concerned that the man on the table might conceal something dangerous, something alien.

At first, the lack of anything jumping from the man's chest filled him with a sense of sleep-addled relief, but Feldman's gasp told him something was wrong. Moving in to stand beside the other doctor, he'd seen what was so odd – the man on the table hadn't just eaten himself to death, he'd done so eating everything.

Bits of wood, metal and plastic filed the corpse's stomach, and Allain was sure he could see remnants of nails, fence posts and soft drink bottles. Grabbing the dead man's jaw, he forced it open and found most of the teeth broken, along with cuts and sores along the gums and cheeks. The fool on the table had literally eaten himself to death.

He'd taken a few quick samples and been on his way, thanking Feldman for his time. More than likely it was just a one-off case, an oddity of genetics or environment.

Then the reports had started to come in.

Across the country, men and women were seen shambling through the streets, eyes and mouths wide open. Speaking to them did no good, and only forcibly restraining them from eating would get them to stop. Deprived, they would begin to gnaw on their own flesh. A cry of “zombie” was raised by local news stations, but Allain found something much more sinister.

Disease.

Those infected had no interest in the flesh or brains of anyone else, but only concerned themselves with filling their own stomachs until they burst, until they could no longer move or even breathe. Some communities took precipitous actions and killed anyone who they found feeding, but the truth was the infected weren't a threat to those around them, only to themselves. At first.

Allain still wasn't certain if the disease had gone airborne, infected the water supply or was spread by touch; cultures from the labs were inconclusive. No matter how it was spread, however, the facts were clear. The world had an epidemic on its hands, a frightening manifestation of the need to consume. Desperate hunger had replaced rational thought, and men and women all over the globe would die for it.

Hunger pains were merely the beginning.

- D

Story #205 - Galron's Ground

Galron's Ground

“All hands, abandon ship.” The sound of the canned mechanical voice echoed through the ship.

“All hands, abandon ship.” It was a good thing the voice was so calm; Technician First Class Galron was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other – what the hell had happened?

As far as he knew, the Celestial Voyager had been nowhere near anything that would put it in danger. Galron had been busy with the trans engines when the first blast struck the port side of the Voyager, and had nearly lost his footing along with his best spanner. Shouts to the deck boss had led to no answers and nervousness had quickly spread among the crew – technicians of all types doing their best to keep their heads down and work, but that work suffering because all they could think about was what the hell was going on.

Two more quick blasts followed and then the ship started listing; Galron had felt it slipping sideways under his feet. The need for immediate answers had risen sharply at that point – he and the other Techs were not members of the service but civilians, and they hadn’t signed on to die. By that time, the deck boss was dead thanks to a blown pipe, and Galron barely had time to grab his tool belt before the warning sounded.

Now, there were only two quick turns between him and the escape pods, and he hoped there would be enough left that he could get out. Specs on ships the same class as the Voyager made it clear that there were not enough pods for everyone on board, something that most of the gun-happy solider boys on board didn’t know. If was unlucky, he’d spend the last few minutes of his life going down with the ship.

A single tube was still open when he came around the corner, and he leapt inside before the men behind could stop him. The pods could only support one life-form, though they were roomy enough for two, and he wasn’t about to share his air with anyone else. He could hear the mag-locks engage and feel the pod slip from its moorings even as the Voyager twisted hard in space. The Old Gods came to mind; Galron wasn’t much for prayer, but any chance was better than none.

“Most ancient and revered,” he began, gritting his teeth as the pod spiraled out of the ship, “protect me now, both humbled and feared…” The words came easily as he fell.

***

Galron woke up alive.

That was a good start, but he almost immediately became concerned with the fact that his leg was trapped under a bent edge of the pod. The things were made of solid poltanium – it must have been one hell of an impact to create such a deformation.

With a scream that faded quickly into the silvered walls around him, Galron pulled his leg free. There was no obvious damage, but he could feel it throb and knew that within an hour it would be twice its normal size. A career in the Techs didn’t come without some pain and suffering.

A quick glance at the detection systems panel told him he’d hit a planet, and one that actually had a breathable atmosphere. Punching in the exit code, he heard the door hiss and pop, and then grate slowly open.

Sunlight poured into the small space, blinding him for a moment. Clarity came after a moment, along with the realization that he was not alone.

“Tizrha!” The bare-chested man in front of him bellowed, shaking a sharpened stick at him. “Tizrha!” Galron didn’t speak the language, but the message was clear enough. He raised his hands.

“Mustall!” The man didn’t look angry, but his voice was stern as he gestured up and out of the pod. Galron rose slowly, making sure his tool belt was still firmly attached. There might not be much to fix on this Gods-forsaken rock, but he wouldn’t be the same without it.

His bad leg made getting out of the pod a significant effort, and he got a few jabs in the back with a stick along the way. Without his injury he might have been able to overpower the tall native, but there was no telling how many more were around.

Half an hour of walking later, he began to wonder if he shouldn’t have simply taken the risk. Just as his good foot began to cramp up, a village appeared out of the trees, a thing of low huts and dirt roads. Despite its lack of sophistication it was clean, and there was a crowd of people standing in its center.

“Wel…come.” An older man in a bright blue robe in the center of the crowd said. Like the man who had captured him, the old man had dark, leathery skin and bright white hair. They all looked mostly human, just with longer necks and smaller heads. But how could this one know his language? There was no way these people were space-faring. Galron came to a halt in front of the man, his mouth open.

“Wel…come,” the man said again, haltingly. “We…have…be…wait. For you.”

“You’ve been waiting for me? How is that…I…” Galron was at a loss for words. This was impossible.

The older man gestured to a woman in the crowd, who pulled a metal device into the open. From the look of it, the thing was a water-pump, and one considerably more advanced the people on the planet should have been able to create. A closer inspection revealed a Federated mark – this was older tech, but from his world.

“You fix.” The old man said, gesturing at the pump.

“Look, I –“ There were rules about interaction with other cultures, and though he hadn’t ended up here on purpose, he’d heard of survivors being left behind on planets because they affected the locals to a greater degree than absolutely necessary.

“You fix.” Bushy eyebrows drew together on the man’s small head. “Or you die.”

Galron reached for his tool belt. That was clear enough.


- D