Story #281 - Play Misty

Play Misty

The mists parted, and Sho Landry saw…nothing.

Five seconds later, his sub-light slammed nose first into that same nothing, sending him careening for the windshield. A brilliant career in exo-archeology flashed before his eyes; the career he could have had if he’d bothered to apply himself in school instead of thinking about all the planets he’d get to explore. He was going out the way he wanted, doing what he loved – the trouble was, nobody gave a damn. He should have left a note.

***

“You think it’s still alive?” Juwan’s voice was tense. He’d only seen three of the things in his lifetime – strange, pale creatures that walked on their hind legs, and all of those had been in cages on the backs of Jo-carts heading toward the capital. Rumors about them were rampant, but he never though he’d get to see onefor himself.

“I don’t know!” Lalani said in a whisper. She’d always been a bit timid, especially when it came to roaming the edges of the Waste. They weren’t supposed to be out here – it was “too dangerous” – and the fact that Lalani’s father was on the city council would only make it worse if they got caught.

Juwan stomped a fore-leg hard into the ground by the thing’s head, trying to rouse it, and Lalani sucked in a sharp breath through her lower mouth. She’d always been a bit crass, but that was one of the things he liked about her. She’d never let her power or position influence the way she acted, and had been the first to speak to him when he arrived from the Outlands. They’d become fast friends, and though he held more for her than just friendly affection, he wisely kept it to himself. Neither one of them was past their second mark-day, and Juwan knew things could change rapidly once they had both had their back-leg brands. There was no sense in getting them both into something they would regret in just a few months.

The body beneath him stirred. Juwan jumped back, hooves sending up small clouds of dust, and Lalani let out a small yelp. The creature was alive, sure enough.

“Let me do the talking,” he said, firming his grip on the pointed stick he’d found earlier. It had caught his eye only because it was of a material he’d never seen, and its weight once he picked it up told him it was worth hanging on to. Now, it would be the end of the alien on the ground if the thing did anything but play nice.

***

His head hurt.

As light began to filter in, he recalled just why his head hurt, and tried to leap to his feet. Protesting, his body didn’t move more than a few inches, and he let out a sharp groan. Sho was glad to be alive, at least – and maybe, just maybe have found what he sought.

A sound above him pulled his thoughts off-track, and he tried his best to remain calm. There was no mistaking the sound of breathing – the only question was if what he was hearing came from an animal, or from something more intelligent.

He corrected the thought in his mind. There was a second, equally important question. Did whatever was breathing mean him any harm?

Not playing at being nearly dead wasn’t doing anything for him, so Sho decided it was time to try getting up again. With an effort, he flipped onto his back and found himself staring up at two…beings was the only word he could use to describe them. Part horse, part human and part completely unknown, the dark grey and shaggy brown things staring down at him were unquestionably intelligent and didn’t exactly look friendly.

Their presence – in fact, the existence of this place at all – meant he had been right! Jumping for joy wasn’t an option, so he settled for grinning foolishly while the two horse-men looked down at him. He revised that assessment almost immediately; the grey one was female, he was almost sure of it. Something in the hips and the way the shirt she wore clung at the chest made that much clear.

“Hello,” he said it quietly, and both creatures took a step back. It was a stretch to think they spoke Standard, but he had to start somewhere.

“Hello.” The brown-haired male said, and Sho smiled at him. It might just be mimicry, but at least it was something.

“My name is Sho.” He raised a hand and pointed to his chest, trying not to show how much it hurt. Strength was returning slowly, and so far he hadn’t encountered any bones that were broken.

“Juwan.” The male said shortly, then pointed at the female. “Lalani. Now, explain yourself, alien – how do you speak our language, and where did you come from?”

Even pained as he was Sho found it difficult to contain his glee. Suddenly all the hours he’d spent searching, the half-truths and bits of information he’d found were worth it. Not only was there something beyond the mists, but it was a full-fledged offshoot of the galactic core – there could be no question about that now.

The female – Lalani – reached out a long arm and he took it gratefully. Juwan looked horrified, and Sho was sure he could see anger flash across his liquid eyes. He would have to watch himself around these two – provided they let him live.

“I’m from beyond your world,” Sho said as he stood, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees to stay upright. “My people have been searching for yours for a very long time. We have much to discuss.”

The look the two shared told him they had no idea what he was talking about, but Juwan nodded.

“Come with us, stranger,” he said, eyes still flat and unfriendly, “we will speak of the things you wish to tell us. You will speak of what we wish to know.”

“Lead on,” Sho said, fear rising as he moved, body protesting his action. He really should have left a note.

- D

Story #280 - Prints

Prints

“I’m telling you they don’t match.” Pol’s voice was weary. This was not the first unhappy lawyer he’d had to deal with today, but the crown counsels were always the most difficult, and the most invested in their jobs.

“And I’m telling you that’s impossible!” Ted Sully was one of the best in the business, and also the most passionate of his colleagues about seeing justice done and ensuring that the right people went to jail. The latest case he’d become involved in was right up his alley – a chance to put away a real scumbag, and for a very long time. Unfortunately, it didn’t look like that was going to happen, and Pol was the one who had to hand down the decision.

“The evidence is clear, Pol – clear as day! You can see him on the tape, killing that man outright, and without a shred of remorse. I’ve got ten eyewitnesses that can testify to the fact!” Ted’s normally deep voice was high and strident; this one had really hit a nerve with the big man.

“You know as well as I do that eyewitnesses aren’t worth a damn, Ted. There’s too much chance of collusion, too high a possibility that they missed what was important or saw something that wasn’t there.” He fixed Ted with a stern glare. “Besides which, you know as well as I do this isn’t going to jury trial. It stops here, with me.”

“Damn it!” Ted exploded. “That’s not fair and you know it! You’re letting him walk free, setting him loose to do this again. You see that, right? You see the foolish mistake you’re making here, don’t you Pol?”

Sitting up straighter in his deep leather chair, he spoke clearly. “That’s Judge Makir, Ted, and you’d do well to remember it.”

The man opposite him slumped, shoulders sagging and face drawn. Ted was all bluster and all heart, and Pol hated to call him out, to make him feel like he’d done something wrong.

“I’m sorry, I just –“ Ted cut off, sinking into the other chair in the room.

“I know, believe me.” He looked at the thick sheaf of papers on his desk again. It was hard to believe that what he’d been told was possible, let alone had actually happened, and he couldn’t claim to understand the calculations and formulae that spilled out across every page. What it boiled down to was one succinct line on the last page of the pile, one clearly meant for laymen like himself.

“The only conclusion which can be reached from the data supplied is that the individual described is able, at will, to alter the structure of his fingerprints, rendering a positive identification impossible.”

It went against everything he knew about the process of confirming identity; prints were supposed to be inviolate, a sure way to mark out the innocent from the guilty. Now, he was going to have to let a man go based solely on what appeared to be a genetic abnormality. It rankled, to say the least.

“I’ve read the lab reports from top to bottom and back to front, Ted, looking for a way around it, but your case just isn’t strong enough to stand up without this kind of physical evidence. If I ram this thing through it’ll come back to bite us both in the ass, and cast doubt on every decision that comes out of this office.”

Ted nodded. He knew.

***

It wasn’t that he had wanted to kill, but that no other choice was available. Even at a distance, it had been clear that the thin man was an agent of the Most High, one sent to stop his brainwaves from reaching the cosmos. A rock to the head worked well enough even on agents to end their lives, though he felt some small remorse for the unwilling host that went with them. Such remorse did not last long – only those with weak spirits could be possessed, could allow the Most High to corrupt them.

Looking down at his hands, he marveled again at the great gift the Endless had given him. Without conscious thought, the tips of each digit swirled and changed, giving him the freedom he needed to carry out his work. Fools with badges and mean-looking things with guns came to him asking questions, but he sent them away. He did not need to talk to them, and they had no right to interfere. All of them seemed angry, so angry, but eventually all left him alone. They had no choice.

Now, all he had to do was wait. The Endless would return soon, invade his mind with further instructions about what he was to do. It was foolish to try and predict what the source of all life wanted – and could get him killed if he was wrong.

A sudden wracking spasm hit, and he knew a visitation was imminent. Clenching his teeth against the incoming pain would do no good.

Agony swam in his veins as the Endless appeared to him, a wavering vision of black and silver streaked with red. It had no form, no distinct shape, but was overwhelmingly powerful, overwhelmingly beautiful.

In front of his eyes a new shape coalesced, that of a thin man with a black business suit, brows drawn in consternation. Information about the man flooded his senses, details about height, weight, age, job, and a host of other, more intimate particulars. It was all over in a matter of moments but left him gasping on the floor for breath, trying to hold on to sensations the Endless left behind. It was always too short a season, too little time spent with the perfect center of the universe, but he reasoned that it might be his own limitations that prevented him from enduring more pain and more ecstasy – his face twisted as he cursed the frail shell that housed him.

Clarity came after a moment; the Endless had assigned him a task. Picking up the worn pencil on his desk, he began to write on one of the few white spaces left on dirty walls.

Pol Makir. Pol Makir. I’m coming, I’m coming, Pol Makir.

- D

Story #279 - Unionized

Unionized

The whistle blew and Renny Delcar took a moment to stretch, arcing his back as he tried to work out kinks that had developed over the last eight hours on the assembly line floor. All around him, workers and friends did the same, each hoping the second, lower-toned whistle wouldn't blow and that they would get a chance for some shuteye. Renny couldn't be sure, but he guessed that it had been at least a day and half since their last rest break, something he knew put them well ahead of other companies in the area, but did little for the cramps in his legs – he wasn't getting any younger.

A low groan of protest went up as the second whistle blew, followed by the buzzing of the PA system.

“Back to work, now. Anyone found not at their station or not performing as expected will be taken to the break room.”

Renny had to laugh at that. Once, years ago, the break room had been exactly what it sounded like, but now it was just about the worst place in the factory to be. Anyone found “slacking” or not adhering to one of the hundreds of rules the company laid down could be taken into the room, and when they came out they were typically shaken, if not entirely bruised. No one had been killed by the thugs the company employed when they were hauled into the room – yet.

Anger surged at the thought of Sol, his best friend, being called up to the room for taking five seconds too long to get back to his station. Though most of his bones had healed over the last six months, there was a haunted look in the man's eyes that told Renny he wanted to avoid the company's ire at all costs.

He could always quit.

That thought brought a strained smile to his lips, but he was careful not to make it too broad as he twisted on another metal fill-cap at the small workstation in front of him. Even if his productivity did not suffer, seeing levity on the floor was the perfect excuse for one of the foremen to smack him in the bask with a vibro-whip, and the last thing his spine needed was more pressure.

Quitting was a dream most of those in the plant had, but they knew full well there was no chance they'd find work anywhere else. Jobs had become scarce and then nearly impossible to find in the five years since the war, and no company was going to hire a worker that had walked away from his last job – that was tantamount to encouraging laziness and sloth. The last vacation he'd taken into the city, two years ago, he'd heard rumors about a colony of free men to the north who had gone back to hunting and gathering, shunning progress and the price it brought. Renny had been tempted, but with his wife and son depending on every check he sent home, there was no way he could break free. He had a responsibility.

A wave of tiredness washed over him as the unending line of parts moved past and onto the next man in the chain. He had no idea what they were building or why, but presumed it was for a defensive purpose. The government had no official ties to the company, but it was easy to see their influence on little things like rank structure of the higher-ups and how thick the red tape was to get a promotion. Sleep was something he needed to keep working, but if there was way he could simply press on without having to lie down in a room full of fifty sweaty men all using bunks recently vacated other shifters, he'd take it. Sleep, when it came, brought dreams, and waking brought the crushing disappointment that they had not been real.

“Here.” A gruff voice said from behind him, and he turned. A folded piece of canary-yellow paper was shoved into his hands; the weekly company newsletter. It was funny, in a sick sort of way, that those who ran the factory still tried to encourage camaraderie, still tried to pretend that they weren't keeping a gang of poorly-paid slaves, ones who had no choice but to work or die.

Renny was about to toss the letter in the trash when he noticed a small mark on the lower inside corner of the page. A closer look showed four words written in a hasty hand “The Union is coming.”
A quick glance down the line and he met the eyes of the man that had given him the newsletter, who nodded. Rumors about the Union had been swirling for months – one of the guys had managed to weasel his way into a library in the city and started doing some research on labor action on his last vacation, and hadn't been shy about spreading it around. He'd disappeared shortly after he opened his mouth, but the notions he'd been spouting took root in the minds of more sensible men. To Renny it all sounded like a pipe dream; corporations did what they wanted and workers had to fall in line. That was the way it always had been, and the way it always would be.

An hour later and he was in the rhythm of his work, subsumed by the mindless task that made the time roll by. He was so caught up in his role it took him a moment to register the noise. Screaming.

A thunderous detonation sounded behind him, ringing off of the steel walls to pound at his ears. He spun, dumbfounded, and saw the encouragement platform the company had erected in the middle of the shop floor tumble to the ground, the two armed guards on top of it leaping to safety as it struck. Five men from the line pinned them to the ground and took their weapons, while the man who'd been handing out newsletters climbed to the top of the metal husk that had been the platform.

“Brothers!” He cried out, raising his arms. “Unite!”

Renny took a step away from his station, a eyes wide and excitement rising, but fear chasing his heart. A glance around showed hope flaring across the shop, faces lighting up and heavy arms lifted – but how long could it last?

- D

Story #278 - The Twelve

The Twelve

Legends of the Twelve abound, of the dozen that were present in the universe at its creation. Most such legends were wrong – simple things that had been twisted by the mouths of those speaking until they resembled nothing so much as reflections of flawed mortality. The Twelve intended as much, intended their message to be lost to the ages, pieces and parts scattered to the five solar winds.

What they did not expect was losing one of their own.

The Twelve did not build the universe, though they were born shortly after it arrived. They were not, therefore, a part of its original fabric, and to lose one was possible, though even they were unaware.

Over eons, the Twelve came to believe their own stories, came to be sure of their place in the larger scheme. The universe delighted in such arrogance, and began to devise a way to punish the beings for their hubris – or so it seemed.

That, of course, supposes that the universe cared about the Twelve, or that an entity forged of matter and energy could hate those created in its wake. No such emotion was possible, but after the loss of the First, the Twelve became certain they were the target of a vicious attack.

The oldest of their remaining number, the Seventh, had an interest in origins, and delved deeply into beginnings. What was uncovered lent credence to no theory, meshed with no thought, mortal or divine. The Seven was frustrated, but an agreement was reached. None of the lesser things would be made aware of the Lost.

Those under the care of the Lost suffered – the Twelve had chosen to take on the well-being of the lesser beings that littered the universe, though not out of any feeling of obligation. To them it seemed the sensible choice, a way to ensure that the tiny, confused pockets of swarming matter did not suddenly decide they were greater than their station. Such arrogance could be met with direct force, and not a few burgeoning species found themselves crushed under the hammer of the Twelve, and for nothing more than moving forward.

It was the Second that finally found an answer, of sorts, though one that did not sit well. Origins were not what concerned the Second, but the endings of all things, including the Twelve. Predication and probability told the tale; they too, would meet their end, and with increasing speed.

A meeting was called, a council convened, a panicked thing that saw the self-styled masters of the universe cowering and afraid. What had killed the First appeared to be stalking them all, and was the universe itself.

Details were shared, small stones of information that had made their way to each of the Twelve in turn, but had never been pooled in a single place, never been shared among those equal and yet desperately jealous.
Clarity came, along with the sudden realization that not one of them was safe – not one would survive. The universe was older than them all, more powerful, and they were unworthy.

Some questioned what they had done to deserve such a fate, while others railed against its coming. Stories of the Twelve changed as they became tyrants, Lords of destruction that rained death upon the lesser beings of the universe. Planets were engulfed in flames and compressed into nothingness, the victims of moments of pique and depression.

Each by each, the Twelve were removed.

The Eighth was next, a sudden energetic implosion that shook half the universe and sent the Fourth and the Fifth to reeling. The Second and Twelfth followed in rapid succession, both simply winking out with no explanation, no marker to speak of their passing. The Twelve had become the Eight, and the universe began to roil and burn. Fiery suns exploded, consuming planets and devouring other stars; black holes appeared, torn wide from tiny rips in the fabric of space. In the space of two short eons those born at the start of all met their end – all save one.

The Ninth remained.

He – the pronoun had always formed around his mindset most appropriately – was sure that his time was coming. Each exercise of his power brought him one step closer to oblivion, one moment closer to the end of all things. The time for measured consideration was over, the time for deliberation had passed. Pouring his energy into the last planet left to his control, a new monument was risen, a new story told of the Twelve. None on the surface understood the quaking of their cities, knew why the cracks in their earth appeared.

Alone and weak, the Ninth awoke, startled to find his consciousness intact. His next thought followed, something about the weak body that now housed his being, but it was the simple linearity of that thought which had him reeling. Such a limited process – what had been done to him? What this the end?

Sense penetrated slowly – so slowly. Without the power bestowed upon him, he had become no more than the beings he watched in amusement, no more than an insect upon a tiny leaf of the plant of the universe. Somewhere, that power was stored, waiting for a claimant, waiting to be re-taken.

It could not be him – the universe sought him out. But perhaps…the thoughts came so slowly he wanted to scream, and did so, once he discovered how to make his foul lungs work.

Perhaps one of the crawling things on this planet could be shaped, molded to be enough. Perhaps there was hope for the Twelve yet.

Stumbling to his feet, the Ninth moved toward glimmering lights on the horizon. Observations of the mortals told him they would be willing to offer shelter to a traveler in need, a being that could not sustain himself.

Faint energy thrummed within him, a reflective beacon of what he had cast down. He could lead, if they would follow – perhaps the universe would not destroy one that was worthy.



- D

Story #277 - Corps Marker

Corps Marker

“Well, at least you’ve still got the most expensive part,” Ryn said, glancing at him.

“Yeah…” Tyride replied, trying to conceal his irritation. He knew Ryn meant well, but her ceaseless optimism was beginning to wear on him. The Nickodenium power supply in his hands was worth the yearly gross production of a small planet, but it was useless without its outer housing. Though there was no physical evidence indicting where the dented surface covering had disappeared to, Tyr was certain he knew what had happened.

“You can just build another housing, right?” A bright smile followed the words, and Tyr smiled back, doing his best not to clench his teeth. Finding the components for the detector’s house casing had taken the better part of two years and trips to seven planets, and he knew for a fact that it had taken all of the Pleneurium on Drin VII to make the attunement arm. Creating another was possible – he still had the schematics – but time was another issue. The Corps were scheduled to arrive sometime in the next few weeks, and they would not be pleased with any delay. From what he’d heard, the war was not going well, and the Corps needed all the help they could get.

“Sure.” He said with a forced enthusiasm. “It shouldn’t take me too long.” There was no point in telling her what he was actually going to do – she would only worry, and if she was really feeling passionate about it, try to stop him. “Now, weren’t you talking about a trip to the city this week?” He led her over to the transport computer and brought up the schedules for the next few days. An overland shuttle was heading out tomorrow morning, and with any luck he could convince her to be on it.

“Well –“ she hesitated, and he put an arm around her shoulders. He loved her more than the machines he’d been tinkering with for the last twenty years, more than the recognition he knew he deserved for at least a dozen of the innovations the Corps took for granted, but Ryn remained firmly convinced that honesty and optimism were the cures for any ill. Tyr had seen too much, been deceived too many times.

“It’s fine,” he said gently. “I need time to work, anyway, and I’d really appreciate it if you could pick me up a few things I’ll need to put the finishing touches on the casing. I’ll make you a list, and it shouldn’t take more than four days for you to find everything and get back in time for the Corps.”

Ryn nodded, concern loud in her eyes, and Tyr spent the rest of the day convincing her a few days in the city would be as good for her as it would be for him. By the time night fell, he’d drawn up an entirely facetious list of parts he needed – one that would keep her busy long enough for him to find out the truth.

***

The sniffer he’d created to track the Pleneurium in his device picked up traces as soon as he turned it on in the workshop. Tyr knew that Raiders and Imperial loyalists in the area would love to get their hands on a scanner that could pierce any cloaking field, but he doubted any of them knew that the same material that made it such a powerful system also allowed it to be tracked over almost any distance. Pleneurium atoms were extraordinarily heavy and constantly bled off the attunement arm, making the direction the device had gone easy to determine. By noon he was up in the hills surrounding Ungale, looking down at the small collection of huts he’d called home for the last year.

It wasn’t long before he found the first body.

Sand-brown clothing and a ruddy face marked the man out as a Raider, and the knife wound in his belly made it obvious his death hadn’t come from natural causes. Raiders were a hardy bunch, and ferocious – it would have taken several men to overpower even one of the desert’s own.

Traces of Pleneurium led off to the west, but a shining bit of metal caught Tyr’s eye as he stepped around the dead man. Stooping to pick it up, the spark of rage he’d felt at seeing his creation gone fanned into a flame – the black and silver crest of the Empire was unmistakable. They would pay for this.

Five hours later brought him to a rock outcropping with a narrow crevasse carved into its side. The trail veered toward the small opening, and then moved back onto the rough track he was following, and he had every intention of passing the fissure by until a familiar smell caught his attention.

Two of the Empire’s best had been shoved into a hole roughly half their size, twisted limbs and pooled blood speaking to the ferocity of the encounter that had led to their deaths. Long black smudges were apparent on large portions of their clothing, and Tyr reached out and rubbed a thumb against the nearest mark. Powder easily came off on his skin, and quick sniff told him all he needed to know.

The Corps covered their tracks well – anyone less familiar with their methods would have assumed the Imperials had been murdered in retribution by Raiders, a notion shored up by the vicious nature of the attack. Corps gun powder, however, was something neither Radiers nor Imperials could duplicate. Tyr should know; he had created the basic formula.

He had three and half days until Ryn returned from the city – not much time, but enough if he was quick about his business. Finding what was sure to be a secret Corps base on the planet would be easy enough with the sniffer’s help, but murdering everyone inside and reclaiming his device would take more time. Stretching, Tyr grimaced. It had been years since he had killed anyone for a profit, and he had never enjoyed killing for revenge. Still, some insults could pass unanswered.

Whispering his love for Ryn into the gathering darkness, he moved swiftly, eyes on the sniffer’s readout and feet barely touching the sand as he ran.



- D

Story #276 - The Baroness

The Baroness

Baroness Sofia von Bruen was vexed, though that wasn't how she saw it.

As far as the Baroness was concerned, certain matters of note had occurred in the castle, matters which she felt had not been properly addressed. She was put out, displeased, perhaps even unhappy, but she would never have described herself as “vexed”.

The servants, too, would not have used that term, but one can be forgiven for leaving their language off of the page, as it is perhaps to vile for the eyes of those not used to the robust and raunchy words of the common folk. Suffice it to say, none of them wished to attend her rooms, and the Lords help the ones who had to bring her breakfast or take in her morning tea. More than one had fled the room sobbing, their clothes stained with the hot, dark liquid and their eyes wide in fright. Baroness Sofia had a very penetrating voice, and was not afraid to use every vulgar word she knew to chastise those she felt did not perform their duties with proper alacrity. She also used words she did not know the meaning of, and many feared servants later agreed that they would have been doubled over with laughter were they not so certain she would do actual violence upon them were they to stay.

Fortunately, Baron Graham von Bruen had retained most of his humor, though it was apparent to those around him that much of the true joy in his life had vanished after his recent decision. Many had tried to talk him out of it, but to no avail.

“Stay awhile, Samwise,” Graham said to the young man who had brought him a steaming cup of broth, “I am ever lonely, these nights.”

“Of course, Baron,” Samwise said with downcast eyes, then moved to stand in the corner of the room. Graham could not help but smile, despite his bleak outlook of his future; his wife had thoroughly cowed the entire servant population of their estate.

“Samwise,” he said with a note of command in his voice, “come here and take a chair. Not the big one, mind you – I wouldn't want you to be too comfortable, but I can't have you standing over there like a peering shadow. I do have to sleep at night, you know.”

“Yes, Baron,” Samwise moved quickly to the chair and sat down, back straight and hands in his lap. Graham smiled again, a wan thing that did not reach his eyes – he did not care where the lanky servant sat, but knew that if he insisted on the cushioned chair across from his own, Samwise would never speak, let alone look at him. At least in the smaller, unpadded seat, the servant felt enough distance that he might just loose his tongue, if pressed.

“Tell me, Sam – what do you think of the estate in recent weeks? How do you find your duties here?”

Graham knew that Sam had been to see Sofia at least twice, and though he wasn't one to back down even in the face of pure, white-hot rage, all accounts said that the normally calm and collected servant had been shaken.

“Fine, Baron.” Sam still refused to look at him. While the dropping of eyes was not a strictly enforced custom in the region, Sam had always been exceedingly formal, and interactions with the Baroness had only reinforced that mindset.

“Fine? Well, I'm glad to hear that, at least. Thank the Lords you haven't had to go near my wife – even I'm afraid to approach her chambers, and she's here only at my pleasure. The woman is...direct, wouldn't you agree, Samwise?

He could see the servant's face color, though from embarrassment or an effort not to laugh, he couldn't be sure.

“What do you think of my decision, young Sam? Have I done wrong?” It was selfish, he knew, but he could no longer take the lonely nights, the second-guessing and the agony of being apart from Sofia. She was a good woman at heart, but to hear her speak he had ripped that heart from her and crushed it on the ground.

“No, Baron!” Sam's head came up sharply. “What other choice did you have? Few are so blessed to see the Lords in their lifetime,” the catch in his throat told Graham that Sam knew exactly how much of a “blessing” their presence truly was, “and how could you refuse their demands? They would have destroyed us all.” Tears stood in the servant's eyes. He, at least, was grateful for Graham's sacrifice.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “they would have. But would you have done the same, Sam? Would you have given them your son, let them drag him away in irons as fodder for the next Coming? He will likely die, my Jaren, and if he survives will be forever changed. Can you say that you would have done the same?”

Sam's eyes finally met Graham's own. “I hope so, Baron, since only a true and honorable man could make such a choice. We all loved Lord Jaren, and wished the best for him, but you have more than just one under your care, more than just one charge you must follow. The Lords would have accepted nothing else from you but your son, and war with them would have meant the deaths of everyone inside these walls. You did what you had to – you saved us all.”

Tears welled up, and he turned quickly to his broth. Samwise truly earned his name, but it would not do to have a servant see weeping.

“Thank you, Sam,” Graham said quietly, “now please, leave me be. I must prepare for the Coming.”

“What?” Sam's voice was stunned. “Baron you would -”

“I have no choice!” His voice was fierce. “I will not leave my son to die alone, no matter the cost. If his end comes, he will meet it in the presence of a loving father.”

Samwise went silent; he knew his place.

“Please, Sam – take care of her while I'm gone. I know she is a terror, but she is his mother and my wife. Do whatever you can for her.”

“I will.” Sam's voice was thick. “I promise.”

- D

Story #275 - Buoyant

Buoyant

Twenty thousand light-years, countless billions of dollars spent, and the large globe of liquid in front of Mac Trommer was the best the space program could come up with.

He frowned as the last scan test spun down; Mac was sure that the boys in the bright white space suits were doing their best, but it was hard to justify the level of funding they were receiving – if it were up to Mac, greater amounts of money would be spent at on-planet, trying to fix at least a few of society’s ills.

Just as he had suspected – the substance in front of him was twice as buoyant as water, but half of the weight. That was significant, or would have been if similar substances hadn’t been discovered three years ago. They didn’t share identical properties, but lay along the same spectrum.

A few notes and he had all the data he needed for the non-interactive part of the testing sequence. New directives from HQ now mandated that he test each of the compounds discovered in a sterile environment and under multiple stress conditions – an issue with heat-resistant material discovered outside the solar system three years ago and used during a shuttle launch had forced the formation of several committees, and they were only now returning the results. Mac could have told them what they’d find and what to do about it; the material had failed for an unknown reason and they should never have used it in the first place. He doubted that the battery of tests he could run on the pseudo-water in front of him would yield anything definitive, but he’d do his job as ordered.

It wasn’t like had much choice, he thought as he moved the small basin containing the small into the testing room. Jobs weren’t exactly easy to come by any longer, and with over half of the population living on government handouts, he wasn’t willing to risk losing his gainful employment in a fit of pique. Mac was sure the directives of the higher-ups were ridiculous, but that didn’t stop him from following them to the letter. He liked his paycheck too much to risk a firing, or even another review.

He grimaced at the thought of Chairman Ryan’s flushed and florid face staring across the conference table at him, an open file folder and its contents spread across the glossy oak surface.

“Technician Trommer,” Ryan had said in his toneless voice, “from what I can gather you’ve expressed some…displeasure at following the directives that have been laid out by the Service.”

Of course, Mac had mouthed all the right words and assured the Chairman that he would never do anything to risk his job or the reputation of the Service, and had been allowed to go back to work with only a warning. He wasn’t stupid; another run-in like that and he’d be slinking to the Government bread lines like everyone else, wishing he’d had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

The cold and heat tests finished up and he glanced at the results. There was nothing out of the ordinary - the water-like substance had done better with heat resistance than cold, and was taking a few minutes to re-constitute itself into liquid form.

A sonic reading showed a spike just as the test peaked, but Mac chalked it up to an irregularity in the system. He’d been bothering his boss for a refurb of the machine for the last few years, but was told the budget was too tight.

Mac grabbed the data printout and scanned it quickly, his interest rising. The molecular formation of the substance was showing a massiveness missing in water and similar compounds, and though it deformed under pressure, it showed remarkable resilience. Though he hadn’t found it to be any more viscous than ordinary H2O, it was apparent it had a number of unique qualities.

The blackout test was next, something he’d always felt was a waste of time. Darkness had little chance to produce a significant result, but was part of the series protocol.

A slurping sound brought him out of his seat as soon as the lights went off, and Mac stumbled in the near-total blackness to find the light switch, slamming his foot into the cyclophase on the way. He let out a sharp curse, and was shocked to hear a blurred echo.

As the flickering fluorescent lights came on, Mac felt his grip on gainful employment loosen. The substance was gone, the basin empty and dry, still rocking slightly on its pedestal from the force of the things departure. Had darkness destroyed it?

He found it on the ceiling of the isolation chamber, stuck firmly there and quivering. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the schlorping mass was afraid.

“Damn,” he whispered under his breath, and saw the stuck sample shimmer in response.

“Damn!” He said it forcefully, and the thing on the roof deformed slightly. A look at the sound reading showed it had mimicked his voice almost exactly.

Moving back to his console, he punched up a sequence of tests, the broadest batch he could find. For the better part of an hour he sat and watched as the strange buoyant sample writhed on the ceiling, and as the testing spun down, saw it slap back into the basin.

It didn’t take him long to find the result he was looking for, and then quickly check to make sure the test door was secure. Pulling the office phone from its cradle, he ignored the polite requests of the operator on the end of the line and demanded to speak to Chairman Ryan. For several minutes he hovered in hold limbo, but finally the man’s dusty voice came through.

“What? This had better be good, Trommer.”

“It is, sir, and you’d better get down here. Your flyboys found intelligent life and couldn’t even recognize it - I’ve spent the last three days poking and prodding at it. I’d say you owe it an apology.”


- D

Story #274 - Green Light

Green Light

The glossy steel machine in front of Bo Derulier cycled for a third time, and its low green light came on. Bo didn't immediately press the release button – something had been off all morning, though he couldn't put his finger on what.

It could have been the fact that he'd been demoted to Cylco-tech; he'd helped build the damn prototype, but a falling out with station higher-ups meant he was the one riding the chair and watching the samples get purified. If anyone off-station asked, he told them he was working “hands-on” with the Cycloatomizer, but that was a stretch of the truth to say the least. From his control panel, he could manipulate the three arms inside the Cyclo's chamber, but was never allowed inside.

That rankled more than he was willing to admit, at least to any of his colleagues. For the other two hundred idiots on the station, he put on a smiling face, since at least half of them were higher-ranked than he was and could make his life even more miserable. The nature of the agreement he'd signed to come work abroad IS-1 meant that if his superiors wanted to, they could send him to clean bathrooms all day, every day, and there wouldn't be a thing he could do about it except quit. Since the shuttle to earth only came around every six months or so, even that wasn't a viable solution unless he wanted to have a meltdown just before it docked so he'd have an escape route.

Shaking his head, Bo triple-checked the scanner results. The green light stared at him from beyond the quad-glass, but there was something about this particular sample that had him on edge. It wasn't as though they hadn't tested alien rocks before; he'd seen all kinds from the farthest corners of the three known solar systems, but this one felt different. Partially it was the look of the thing – as big as his palm, flat and wide, it had a number of raised markings that he was sure were not naturally occurring. Of course, his expertise lay in chemical analysis, not archeology, and coupled with his current position meant no one gave a damn about what he was sure about.

Again, the scanner said the rock was clean. Ninety-eight percent of it was composed of familiar materials, things found on just about every planet humanity had visited, and three percent was “unknown”. That was actually low - most of what he tested pushed ten or fifteen percent. In some cases, it was the density of the rock or its structure that made the Cyclo unable to determine what all of its component parts were. He'd been ecstatic the first few times it came back with an unknown reading, even going so far as to call the station commander down, but it had always turned out to be something simple, like carbon in a new formation. That in itself was worth something, but not to the commander who'd been roused out of bed three hours before an early-morning shift. Bo had quickly learned to be very sparing about when he called the higher-ups.

He swung the spindly manipulator arm down and into place, carefully twisting the Cyclo's first hatch dial. They'd found that three backup doors was not only the most cost-efficient but gave the highest possible security for the lowest budget, something the number-crunchers that came by every few years liked to see. Putting the Cyclo behind quad-glass was their idea; Bo knew the glass wouldn't do much good against anything alien that came crawling out of the Cyclo, but it made the boys who held the purse-strings feel better, so he'd had it installed. Right now, he was glad it was there, however ineffective it might actually be.

It took him the better part of half an hour to get all three hatches open, and another ten to work up the nerve and break the seal on the inner chamber. All real-time reports showed that the material he'd put inside – 321B-6 – hadn't even moved since the process began, and had lost almost none of its mass. More than likely, he'd open the chamber and find nothing of consequence.

Slamming his hand down harder than necessary on the controls, he set the two unlocking arms to work. Thinking about it would do no good – now that the arms were in motion the process would happen by itself.

A soft dinging sound let him know the chamber had been successfully breached, and a glance at the readouts told him nothing had changed. Smiling, he began to retract the thin arm when it was suddenly flung against the chamber wall, slamming into the quad-glass and dropping to the ground. The second arm followed a moment later, and Bo quickly locked the last arm safely away. Turning on the Cyclo's speaker, he could hear a low snuffling sound, something he knew should be familiar, but that he couldn't quite place. It was the rapid pace of his inhales and exhales that finally clued in his thought process – something in the chamber was breathing. Bo flipped the security switch; this was no time to be a lone hero-scientist. He needed backup, and he needed it now.

The Cyclo began to shake, and he could see the green light on its top waver and then begin to pulse a bright yellow. Red followed quickly, a strobed warning that would tell anyone in the control room they should not, under any circumstances, open the hatches.

Bo cursed under his breath as he saw the machine start to shake. Fear shook him, but he refused to move, curiosity overcoming his basic instinct to run. Security would arrive soon – he had to know what was going to happen.

With a sharp hiss, the small object in the Cyclo came rocketing out; Bo had enough time to see it pierce the glass and come streaking for him before everything went black.

…

“Bo!” Patrolman Lance Biggs shook the thin scientist hard.

“What?” Bo's eyes fluttered open, and he slumped forward in his chair.

“Are you alright, Bo? You hit the alarm – what's wrong?” Looking around, Lance couldn't see anything out of order in the lab – the quad-glass was still intact, and the machine looked as normal as weird scientific junk ever could, but he wouldn't put it past Bo to pull station security down to the Cyclo just for fun.

“I'm...” Bo hesitated. “Fine. One of the arms broke loose and smashed into the glass. I thought for a second we were going to have a breach with a sample still inside.”

Lance nodded, then leaned in closer. “You sure you're alright? You've got some blood just above your eyebrow. Anything get out of that chamber?”

“No, of course not,” Bo said with an odd half-smile. “The green light was on.”

- D

Story #273 - Barrier

Barrier

“The Barrier will hold.” Captain Tal's voice rang out over the staging square, nearly full to bursting with fifty Walkers. Each had heard the speech and exulting line that went with it hundreds of times, but still they stiffened, backs rigid with pride and faces beaming. They knew the Barrier would hold, knew it would keep them all safe. Even if a crack were somehow to appear, they were trained to deal with it, trained to respond to whatever might come through. The Realms would be safe, no matter what the men of the Barrier were up against; that was the way it was, and the way it always would be.

“I ask you, men of the Barrier – will it hold?” Tal cried out, and a cheer went up from the assembled. “Will it hold?” He bellowed.

“YES!” Came the shattering reply.

“Dismissed, then.” Tal's said with a clipped salute, and the men began to file out, faces set and strides determined. They would not fail.

…

Bix Teever had heard Tal's speech at least a hundred times since taking his post at the Barrier, but somehow the Captain always managed to make it seem as though this patrol might be their last, as if the fate of all the Realms rested on their shoulders. Despite himself, despite twenty years of jaded service in the forces, Bix always found the speech exciting, found that it set his blood racing to...walk.

That was the truth of it – that was what they really did for ten hour shifts each day. Up and down their appointed section of the Barrier, staring into the shimmering yellow wall that lay just beyond the stone walkway. Of course, the wall was not really yellow, just like the stone wasn't really there. From what he understood, the entire facility was a three-dimensional projection of a four-dimensional space. They'd all had to take a class when they started, a little training session hosted by one of the Barrier's eggheads. The wormy fellow had explained that the V'goth didn't need to use three-dimensional space to travel, which was why they'd been able to invade the in the first place. Using technology stolen from the V'goth when they retreated, the best minds in the Realms were able to erect the Barrier around the entire solar system, preventing any traffic in or out. Thankfully, there were enough on-planet resources to sustain all of the Realms for the next three hundred years, since there was no way to know if or when the V'goth would give up the hunt.

That was the real downside to the Barrier- it was either on or off. No ships could leave, just as none could enter, and turning it off to allow passage for even one scout vessel would leave the Realms undefended for the better part of a year while the Barrier's generators recharged.

Bix moved to the edge of the walkway and looked out at the sphere that kept them safe and hemmed them in. Personally, he'd take the safety over the need for exploration, but he knew more than few who felt the other way. Nuts to them, though – they could amuse themselves fighting for the Realms in one of the colony wars – he would keep his job here on the Barrier, protecting what really mattered.

A ripple in the Barrier's imaginary fabric caught his eye, and his heart skipped a beat. For all that he'd been trained in how to respond if an attack came, what it really boiled down to was shooting his gun wildly and trying to get to an alarm. Sealing the Barrier wasn't something that could be done easily, and he had no illusions about killing a V'goth on his own. He was expendable – he knew that much – but if he could raise the rest of the station, they'd likely be able to mount a coherent defense and seal the breach. One life for many, just as it should be.

There was a low grunt from behind him as Yannick passed by. As large as any two men put together, Yannick had been sent to the Barrier station for repeated issues in his previous squadron, and it was a simple and well-known fact that staying away from Yannick was the best way to stay out of trouble. The man was unpredictable at best.

He was about to turn and continue on his walk when he heard another grunt from the bigger man, low-toned and intense. Whilrling, he watched as Yannick's body tumbled to the ground, a tall creature in a blue-plated armor suit standing above it. A quick glance at the Barrier showed a tiny hole, already sealing itself, just below the edge of the walkway. His blood ran cold.

Lifting his rifle, he slipped off the safety and began to slowly back away. The nearest alarm station was only ten yards behind him – radios wouldn't work near the Barrier, so hardlines were the only options.

The V'goth held up a hand, and with the other popped the clips on its helmet. There was no mistaking its features, no way it could be confused for something else.

It was him.

The world began to spin lazily around him as what he was seeing refused to mesh with what he knew was possible.

“Listen,” the thing that couldn't be him said quickly, “we don't have much time. We need to shut this thing down, and quickly.”

“What?” He was impressed he managed to get the entire word out.

“Dammit!” The other-him swore. “I'd forgotten how obtuse I am. Let me sum it up for you, hotshot. You're not safe in the Barrier – hell, you're not even in the Realms. The V'goth won the war ten years ago, not us, and created the Barrier to keep us trapped. They've been twisting us – well, you – to their aims ever since. You've been sold a line about us stealing V'goth shield tech, but what we really took were their duplicators. There are a new set of Realms, and we're finally strong enough that we've come to save our former brothers in arms.”

Bix nodded as he reached the alarm, made like he was actually considering the nonsense he was hearing, and then pulled down hard. A warning klaxon sounded.

“Goddamit!” The other man said, gliding toward him, and Bix grit his teeth. One way or another, only one of him would be standing when the rest of the Barrier crew arrived.

- D

Story #272 - Gunshy

Gunshy

There’s something distinct about the sound of a gun cocking, the sound of the hammer being drawn back and the pin locking into place.

It’s not the kind of thing you notice ordinarily, but trust me, you can’t miss it when a barrel’s pointed in your direction and the man with the trigger in his hand looks like he’d rather reach down and use his bare hands to end your life, or at least break a few of your bones.

I hadn’t been looking for a fight, and I certainly wasn’t looking to be on the wrong end of a steel barrel, but unfortunately that came with the territory.

Chasing down Runners was an easy way to make money – if you had the right mindset and you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty. Usually, I had both in spades but the last few months had been rough; something about dragging kids back to the Housing Projects was starting to leave a foul taste in my mouth. Most of them were snot-nosed little punks who thought a life on the street would be preferable to the handouts the government gave them for free, but lately I’d been coming across dead-eyed boys and girls, tiny things that had no business trying to survive in the Underground. Hell, it was rough on me, and I had a place to go at the end of the night – I had a government-sanctioned contract.

“Don’t move, asshole.” Supposedly, the voice of the man above me belonged to an eighteen year old who’d escaped lawful assistance last week, but from his voice and stature, you’d be forgiven for thinking he was at least thirty. I’d heard rumors about the experiments the government had been running on these kids, but like most of the nutrient-free propaganda the citizens were forced to chow down on, I was sure there was no truth to them

Looking up at the eyes of the beast in front of me, however, I started to question that particular surety.

“No problem,” I said. “How about I stay here and you take my gun and leave – it’ll get a good price on the Underground market, or you can just keep it for protection.”

“Shut up!” A large vein on the kid’s forehead was standing out, pulsing and engorged. He was on the brink – the trouble was, I had no idea what brink that was.

“OK, OK –“ I started, then cut off as a I realized exactly what “shut up” meant. I’d always been more talkative than was good for me.

“Who sent you?” The kid grated. “Wellson?”

I kept my silence, even though I had a powerful urge to ask just who the hell Wellson was and why he’d send me. I was a curious, but not curious enough to take a bullet to the brain. Still…

I raised an eyebrow. That would make my interest clear without giving the kid reason to shoot me. Of course, he might decide to shoot me no matter what I did – something that sent a tremor of fear running through my legs. I’d been kneeling for the better part of half and hour, and damn if it hadn’t started to hurt.

“Wellson!” The man with my gun bellowed, and I tried to keep my eyes wide and innocent. I really didn’t have any idea who this Wellson was, but I didn’t want to give off the impression that I knew more than I was saying.

“Fine!” The gun dropped an inch as the kid’s arm sagged. “Talk!”

“I don’t know who this Wellson is, kid,” I brought my hands up in front of my face as he pulled his lips back in a snarl and straightened his arm. “Really! I’ve got a contract to bring in Runners, that it! The government pays me after I bring you back – I never see a real person!”

“Liar!”

“I’m not! I’m not!” My mind reeled, desperately trying to come up with something definitive, something that would convince the kid I was telling the truth.

The gun lowered an inch; maybe my outright cowardice was having an effect.

“Maybe.” The kid grunted. “Most of Wellson’s guys can handle themselves a little better.”

“Thanks,” I said drily, my sense of humor re-asserting itself as it seemed my life might not actually be in immediate danger, and the kid smiled, a wan thing that drained me of any mirth.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” the kid said quietly. “You’re going to Run me in.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about, kid?”

“It’s Eric, and don’t ever call me ‘kid’ again.” I nodded; we were back on familiar territory now, and I was back to being scared as hell.

“Eric, why –“ He cut me off.

“Wellson won’t see me coming this way.” Another thin smile crossed his face. “And he certainly won’t see you. It’s obvious you’re not as weak as you look, or you’d never be able to chase down Runners. Together, we’ll blow this thing wide open.”

Asking what on earth he was talking about was at the top of my priority list, just as soon as he lowered the gun. He did me one better, tossing it at my feet and then turning his back.

I didn’t think; I moved. A shot rang out and Eric stumbled forward, hands clutching at his back. A strangling sound ripped from his mouth as he tried to find his footing, and it took me a moment to realize he was laughing.

“Good!” He bellowed. “I’m glad to see you have the nerve.” Shrugging off the short jacket he wore, I could see my bullet had made it through his white t-shirt, but I didn’t see a drop of blood. Eric smiled over his shoulder as he tugged up the tail end of the shirt, revealing a compressed copper bullet and smooth, unbroken skin.

There’s something distinct about the sound of a pistol round hitting the ground, the clack of metal on asphalt.

It’s not the kind of thing you notice ordinarily, but trust me, you can’t miss it when it’s falling off of the man you just shot in the back.



- D

Story #271 - Backs of the Dead

“You know this city is built on the backs of the dead,” Lionel Craig said with drawn brows.

Kal Rocci sighed. He’d heard that particular expression more times than he could count since moving to the seaside city of Elone, but he’d never had occasion to believe it, nor had it ever particularly mattered if it were true – until now.

“I’ve heard that,” he said drily. “But it doesn’t change facts. I’m going into the catacombs.”

Lionel harrumphed loudly, his silver mustache moving sharply with the force of his breath. He was Elone’s foremost historian, and was convinced that if anyone should venture into the crypts below the city, they would never return.

Kal rose, moving to the small teapot on his stove. Lionel could be forgiven for some of his attitudes about the seaside city, since there had been five disappearances in the last seven years, all of which were attributed to the crypts. Such mumbo-jumbo didn’t sit well with Kal, but that didn’t mean he could go tromping around underground without any preparation. Aside from his particular views on the subject of the city’s underground being haunted, Lionel was a valuable resource – over the years, he had compiled an extensive map, complete with notations about recent shifts in city formations that could cause cave-ins or other issues.

“More tea?” Kal asked politely, but Lionel waved him off.

“Don’t do this, Kal,” Lionel said seriously, leaning forward in his chair. “Please. You’re insufferable, but I’d hate to lose you over a stupid book.”

There was no point in responding – Lionel would never understand. In the same way his historically-minded friend couldn’t leave his study of the city and its secrets, there was no way Kal could let the first volume of his collection disappear. He’d worked too hard, travelled too far to start over.

It was all the merchant’s fault. If he’d just been willing to take a promise of a few silver more when Kal had the means, everything would have been fine. Instead, an argument had erupted in the middle of Tower Street, Kal being called out as though he were a common criminal. A struggle over the few items he taken resulted in the leather-bound love of his life being knocked from his hands and slipping down a broken sewer grate. Only the presence of the town watch had kept him from the merchant’s throat and saved him from a severe beating and a night or two in the stocks.

“It appears we’ve reached an impasse,” Kal said softly, filling his own cup and then setting the teapot back on the burner, “so I’ll ask you to leave. I appreciate the map you’ve provided –“ he moved to the table and grabbed the folded paper before Lionel had the presence of mind to snatch it away, “and I’ll come and see you when I return.”

His friend’s face darkened at the dismissal, and he stood abruptly. Pausing at the door, Lionel snapped out two words before vanishing into the deepening dusk.

“God speed.”

***

At least he knew where the phrase had come from, now.

Kad had assumed “on the backs of the dead” simply meant that Elone had been created using slave labor – a common practice in the West until the reign of King Albor V. Slaves had typically come from the barbaric north, and were given only the more basic of food and shelter to keep them working during the sweltering summer months and vicious storms. Most died during the construction of large projects, so it was no wonder phrases like the one used in Elone had sprung up.

Staring at the deep rows of what had been strong-backed men, browned skeletons doubled over beneath the oldest section of the city square, Kal saw that the words which fell so easily from the lips of those above were absolutely – and gruesomely – true.

He made a quick note on the pad he always carried with him; his own form of shorthand allowed him to compress a great deal of information into only a few lines, and it was essential that he record what he was seeing. Finding his first volume was important, but not at the cost of missing other crucial details about the city. Elone was one of his last stops in the West, and the last major port before he could find a small town and take the time to finish his great work in peace and quiet. How it would be received was something he could not even guess at, but it did not matter. He simply had to finish.

The sound of dripping water led him down a long, arched hallway – his book had fallen into the sewer section of the youngest part of the city, one which ran on an aquifer near the eastern edge of the peninsula. If his book was anywhere, it would be where there was water.

Fear lanced through him, and not because of the corpses around him. If the book was damaged, if even a page was missing, it would be tragic.

Another sound in the darkness brought him up short. Though he knew the sewers used a system of locks and pulleys to remove waste from the city, the noise ahead of him could not be simply that – sewers did not breathe heavily.

“Stay back!” Kal cried, waving his pitch-smeared torch in front of him. Boldness might get him killed, but it was better than waiting in darkness for death to sneak up on him.

A low snuffling was the only response, and after a moment a lurching shape slipped into the pool of light cast by his fire. Half his height, the thing hobbled forward, its twisted back making it easier for the thing to walk on all fours than upright. A grotesquely strained neck had it looking at him sideways, pale eyes questioning.

He quickly pulled out his pad, doing his best to keep his hands from shaking. The men of the north were supposedly long-lived, but he had never thought they could survive in such filth for so long. The backs of the dead, it appeared, were far more resilient than those above ground gave them credit for.

Damn Lionel. Damn him to the Pit.

Story #270 - Heatwave

Heatwave

Pal Dunman checked the thermostat again, hoping he'd been wrong. The digital readout confirmed what he'd felt earlier, and the older mercury thermometer in his hand said the same – the temperature was definitely going up.

It wasn't insignificant, either – a degree or two could be the result of too small a space or because of multiple guests in an apartment but this increase had nothing to do with either.

He swore. It wasn't as though he'd ever trusted the Feds to keep their word, but once they'd immunized the entire country, there wasn't much citizens could do about it, and Pal had to admit that he'd willingly gone to the clinic for the shot once he'd seen enough data convincing him it would keep him safe from H-PAS. For twenty years the disease had ravaged human kind, easily surpassing both AIDS and cancer in pure numbers affected and rising to the top of the mortality charts in every nation that kept medical records. Its exact method of transmission was still unknown, and all types of elaborate protective systems had sprung up, each as ineffective as the last in keeping those behind them safe. After two decades of research, the Feds announced that they'd developed a sure and certain immunization, though they could do nothing for those who already had the disease.

Pal had been lucky – only his brother and two aunts had passed away from H-PAS, and he was able to get in on the first wave of immunization thanks to his job as a firefighter. Surprisingly, there had been no side effects, and he began to think that the worst just might have passed, that humanity might have managed to weather the crisis unscathed.

Of course, that was when the deaths began.

First were emergency services personnel and heavy machinery operators, but the Feds blamed it on the stress of their jobs and potential pre-infection by the H-PAS virus. Next were athletes and celebrities shooting a new generation of films in tropical locations, far from the still-diseased shores of the country. Rumors began to circle and then fly that heat was triggering some kind of reaction to the immunization, something the Feds vehemently denied.

Once the Minister died, however, and a responsible doctor managed to get a look at him, the secret was out. Suddenly, the Feds were willing to talk about the “potential for increased risk during times of elevated heat”, and admitted that the shot they'd given out so freely came with a sinister potential. If an immunized citizen became too hot, too quickly, their internal organs would liquify. Anything above one hundred degrees Fahrenheit was deadly, and even the low nineties could start the process.

Pal checked the thermometer again – eighty-seven and still climbing.

Those in northern climates didn't have to worry so much; a working air conditioner in summer and making sure not to dress too warmly in winter kept them alive and healthy. In the south, the Feds had promised air cooling units to every citizen paying a mortgage or rent in any city or town, and had actually made good on their promise. But in true Fed style, they hadn't updated their power grid in anticipation of a record heatwave, and cities across the Southern Belt were teetering on the edge of disaster.

Not for the first time, Pal considered downing the vial of H-PAS he'd smuggled out of a call to a lab-fire. He'd been out of a job anyway as of the end of the month, thanks to the city scrapping the fire service altogether. Ostensibly, it was because they were worried about the condition of first responders, but in truth it meant more houses burning down due to shoddy electrical work done on government cooling systems, and less units to keep up and running.

Another degree slipped by, and Pal felt panic start to rise along with his bubbling internal temperature. He didn't want to die – least of all by being boiled alive in his own skin. The few Internet videos he'd seen of the process were more horrible than he could have possibly imagined, and just about any other way out would be preferable.

A crackling sound came from outside as one of the speakers the Feds had installed on every block came to life.

“Remain calm,” a woman's voice said. “Rest assured, we are working on the situation. We expect to have cooling restored to your portion of the city in -” there was a pause “eight hours.”

Eight hours! Pal clenched his teeth hard not to scream. In four hours he'd be lucky to be alive, let alone able to make it another four. Turning, he grabbed the glass vial from his coffee table, pulled the stopper and downed it in one long pull.

Satisfaction bloomed, followed by a horrible realization. H-PAS had never been tested in pure form again the immunization – what the hell had he done?

The world swam in front of him, and he could feel his legs getting weak. Maybe it was the H-PAS, maybe it was the heat, or maybe he just couldn't take the pressure any longer, but he sagged to the couch, then rolled face-down onto the floor. It was over.

***

He awoke to the sound of screaming, and struggled off of the floor to look out over the street below. Bloated corpses lay everywhere, piles of bodies being rummaged through by rough-looking men and women in long coats. Transients, from the look of them, but why weren't they dead like everyone else?

Why wasn't he?

The thought startled him and he glanced down, terrified of what he might find. A light blue coating met his eyes, one that seemed to cover every surface of his body. Bringing his hand to his face, he could feel a slight pulse of cold, as if his fingers were degrees cooler than the air around them.

Another look outside confirmed the conclusion his brain had already made – the men and women looting also wore the same blue skin. They were the non-immunized, those on the fringes of society the Feds had been willing to sacrifice, but here they were, looting the bodies of those who looked had down on them.

It was the H-PAS.

It was the only explanation, though it wasn't like it made crystal-clear sense. Pal stomped to the door, anger replacing the panic that had consumed him earlier. There was a Federal building nearby, and he was sure he was in better shape than those looting below. It was time to find some answers.

- D

Story #269- Super Drew

Super Drew

“Get down!” Sal Gibbens screamed. “Down, I said!”

Drew laughed, glee clear in his voice. For a seven year old he was about as typical as they came, with the notable exception of his superpowers.

Sal had been reluctant to name them as such when Drew was born, but after three months of calling them “latent chromosomal characteristics”, he'd opted for the simplicity of the more colloquial term. It wasn't that he and his wife weren't excited for their first child, or impressed that they had somehow managed to produce an offspring that could lift cars, walk at sixty miles and hour and fly effortlessly around their living room, but more that raising such a child came with a host of issues unknown to other parents.

It had started with steel-plating the house, top to bottom, since that was the only way they could keep little Drew inside when he demanded it was time to go to the park. Thankfully, he'd quickly learned the lesson that hitting people was wrong, and so neither Sal nor Gloria ended up with more than few broken bones, but Drew had quite the temper when he decided he was being unfairly treated, and several holes in their walls had made for uncomfortable winters.

Drew finally settled down, coming to rest on the coffee table, hands on his hips. He looked very proud of his landing.

“Very nice,” Sal said, “now get your feet off of the table. You know your mother doesn't allow it. And what have I told you about flying in the house?” His tone was stern, and his face was set in a frown. It was difficult, thanks to his son's large blue eyes and wide smile, but he had to be harsh. Drew needed to learn control.

“I know, Dad, but -”

“Down, son,” he interrupted, and Drew hopped off of the table, shaggy blond hair bouncing as his feet struck the carpet.

“I got an A today in math, on the test I told you about – the one I was sure I was gonna fail!”

“Going to, Drew,” he said patiently. “The expression is 'going to', not 'gonna', and congratulations. I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad!” Drew said, smiling.

“Now, go to your room.”

His son's face darkened, and Sal did his best not to step back. Consequences for actions were something that he and Gloria had decided on early in Drew's development, but they were not always easy to enforce. For the moment, Drew was willing to abide by their rules, but in five or six years hormones would take over, and all of that would change. They had no definite plans on how to handle their super-sons teenage angst just yet.

“It's only for five minutes, Drew – and you know you broke the rules. Now go.” He turned toward the kitchen, doing his best to pretend that he was sure his words would be obeyed. The sound of rushing air told him his son had complied, and he let out a sigh of relief.

A check of the phone messages in the kitchen revealed a call from Drew's school, fortunately just praise for his hard work over recent weeks and his grade in math. Sal was still somewhat surprised that the school had been so accommodating of Drew's special needs, going so far as to have an iron-plated concrete desk installed, one that even his son could not move or shatter.

The sound of music upstairs told him Drew had forgotten all about his punishment and instead found something new to focus on. While the music wasn't offensive and came with a decent beat, Sal wished his son would spend more time with other children his age, rather than working on his audio collection. Interaction with ordinary kids in his class had been difficult, at least until one had been thrown clear across a soccer field to make a point and the others had been suitably impressed, and although Sal was certain Drew wasn't being bullied, he'd prefer it if at least one friend for his son could be found.

A knock at the door had him frowning; Tuesday afternoons were typically quiet in the neighborhood, and most salesmen and religious types knew they weren't going to get any bites on the block.

It was a young man that had knocked, one dressed head to toe in black except for a fitted white dress shirt. Tie, jacket and slacks and shoes were all exactly the same shade of midnight, and the doorbell-ringer looked like he hadn't slept in a month.

“Mr. Gibbens?” Black-suit said politely, and he nodded. “I'm Special Agent Timothy Wayfarer, may I come in?”

Sal stared at the man until he produced a small leather wallet and then flipped it open. There was no mistaking the crest of the Service, and if this Timothy had taken the time to fake one, he'd done an exceptionally good job.

“Come in, Agent Wayfarer.” Sal stepped back and led the Serviceman into his living room. “Now, what's this all about?”

“I'll come straight to the point, Mr. Gibbens,” Wayfarer said, his eyes darting quickly around the room. “Our nation is in trouble.”

Sal shrugged. Pundits had been saying that for years, fear-mongers that wanted to get to the hearts and wallets of the citizenry. “Isn't it always?”

Wayfarer flashed a humorless smile. “Of course. This time, however, things are a bit more serious, and we're going to need help.”

He sighed. He'd been clear enough on leaving that Service that his skills were no longer for hire, and that he had no desire to be contacted under any circumstances. Leave it to the government to disregard his wishes.

“I'm sorry, but I don't do that kind of work anymore. Find yourself another weapons specialist.”

“Actually, Mr Gibbens,” the agent said, pulling a thick sheaf of paper from his jacket pocket, “you're not the one we want; I'm here for Drew. As you can see,” he pointed to a familiar contract clause, one Sal had never given much thought to, “we technically own him.”

Sal frowed. How the hell was he going to tell Gloria?

- D

Story #268 - Pret a 'Porter

Pret a 'Porter

This wasn't Medoria, he was sure about that.

It was his fault for not checking the 'porter before he used it, but Kailee had assured him that it was set correctly. Of course, she had been avoiding him anywhere but the Central Station Core where she had no choice but to see him for work, so her words were not exactly sacrosanct.

Qunnel swore; the thick brush around him told him he'd landed on an outer world, and with his luck it would be one whose denizens took a sick delight in capturing scientists from the Core and holding them for ransom. So far as he knew, the Council had never paid for any of its people to be released, owing both to their tight-fistedness as a research organization and the fact that far more people were willing to work on the station than actually worked there. Losing a junior-rank that was fed into the 'porter at the insistence of senior members was not of great concern to the council – they could simply train another dime-a-dozen researcher to take over where the lost one had left off.

Not for the first time, he was sorry he'd ended things with Kailee. She was sweet and pretty, but the spark just hadn't been there, not like with Julia. Kailee had known that, but was willing to try and make things work anyway, in spite of his often boorish behavior, especially after a few bottles of wine. He'd finally decided it wasn't fair to either of them to continue on, but hadn't exactly been subtle in letting Kailee down. Technically, he was her superior, but it was only by a matter of months and not really enough that it got him respect from any of the techs.

A movement in the bushes beside him had him wishing he'd led her on a little further – at least then they'd been on speaking terms and he wouldn't have gotten in the 'porter just to avoid an uncomfortable silence. It was amazing what stunted emotions could do for scientific inquiry.

The movement came again, this time followed by a low growl. Staring into the dark green foliage revealed two deep red eyes, both locked on him, and both of which remained there as he moved slowly across the clearing where he'd been dumped. Qunnel had no idea what kind of creature owned the eyes – he'd never been much for exobiology - but he was quite sure that unarmed and alone, almost anything would be a match for him.

A hissing sound from behind him had his heart in his throat until he realized it was the 'porter re-opening, and he dove through the expanding blue slice in the air before it had time to fully coalesce. Another bad choice, since he couldn't be certain who had opened it or why, but he'd take his chances back at the station.

Metal flooring met his face as he tumbled through, and he could feel a large strip of flesh tear off his chin as he landed. Laying still for a moment, he thanked the god he said he didn't believe in for getting him home safe.

“You OK?” That was Kailee's voice, and after a moment he saw her crouch down in front of him, round face concerned. “I started thinking about it after I left, and realized Vurt had been in here earlier. Then I started to worry about you -” she paused. “you asshole.” Another pause. “And I decided that I should probably come back and check.”

Qunnel mumbled thanks as she helped him up – from the look on her face, the cut on his chin was none too pretty.

“Come on,” she said, slipping an arm around him, “let's get you down to see the doc. Who knows what's been spilled on that floor over the last few years?”

He had to agree. Though the cut stung, it wasn't something he would worry about under other circumstances, but the amount of alien dirt and grime that had come through the station was substantial, and the last thing he needed was some kind of other-worldly STD.

“Vurt?” Qunnel managed as Kailee led him down the corridor to the medical sector. “Used the 'porter?”

Kailee nodded. “Not sure why – he came by right before I was going to power down last night.”

Qunnel frowned, bringing a low moan of pain as his face protested. Vurt had always been a bit on the strange side, and two Council men had been asking after him just the other day, questions about his schooling, background, and political leanings. It wasn't out of the ordinary for the Council to meddle in business that wasn't theirs, but the interest had seemed focused, almost desperate. Any questions he had were turned aside, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Vurt had done something of great interest to the Council – and that usually meant bad news.

“Where?” He mumbled, trying to keep his sentences short. The pain was really starting to ramp up, and he was finding it harder to walk.

“Did Vurt go?” Kailee said, catching on, “I looked – nowhere that odd. All seven of the outer worlds, though, in one night. I'm not sure why he was in such a hurry.”

He began to stiffen up as the small woman at his side led him through the medical sector doors, his body going rigid as whatever he'd picked up on his face-ride into the ground began to take hold. “Captain!” He managed through clenched teeth.

“Don't worry,” Kailee said, moving away as the doctors crowded in, “I won't tell him. You'll get better soon, and he doesn't need to know.”

Her kindness was noble, but Qunnel balled his spasming hands in frustration. She didn't understand! Telewave told the whole story, but she wasn't much for the news; a traitor had been trying to broker an alliance with the outer worlds, giving them information about the Core and its defenses. It could only be someone with both knowledge of the Core itself and easy access to the worlds – someone like Vurt.

Qunnel felt fear wash over him as a powerful sedative took hold. What the hell would he wake up to?

- D

Story #267 - Sollus Malfoe

Sollus Malfoe

It was the breathing tube that distracted Captain Sollus Malfoe. He'd been to twelve sectors in his career, twelve sectors and well over three hundred planets, but it was the breathing tubes that really freaked him out. The rest of it, he could deal with – some species needed powered lifts to get around because of gravitational changes, some needed full-body coverings to deal with heat or cold, and some wore oversized glasses to protect from bright sunlight or amplify light that was available. Sollus knew it was all necessary, was all a part of the greater Galactic Expanse, but he didn't like it. Especially the breathing tubes.

The thing with the tube changed direction and started heading his way, but he kept his pace and didn't so much as look in its green-skinned direction. He knew full well he was an Earthist, but tried not to let it show when he was off-planet. It wasn't that he wanted to judge the other species that shared the galaxy – it wasn't their fault they were disgusting.

He felt himself relax as one of his crewmen struck up a conversation with the tubed alien. Working on his criticisms of those he had to do business with was at the top of his priority list, and he'd get right to it – as soon as he could start reliably making ends meet and paying all the men who worked for him on a regular basis. That was the whole point of his trip to Banal V; a “reputable” job had become available, and from a source he both knew and was fairly confident wouldn't murder him when his back was turned.

Five minutes more of pushing through the throng and he arrived at the heavily-guarded door of Fandral Oppenmer, a self-made man who'd made most of what he'd earned by taking it from other people and then calling it his own. Sure, his moniker might not be accurate, but once a man had enough wealth, he could call himself whatever he wanted, and those around could either get in line or get out. Sollus hoped someday to have that kind of money – he had no particular label in mind, except maybe for “safe”.

He laughed softly to himself. That was a pipe-dream if he ever heard one.

“What?” The guard at the door grunted, leveling a blaster at Sollus and his three crewmen. “You here for a reason?”

The city guards didn't take well to fights on their territory, and Sollus didn't like guns being pointed at him, but he was willing to bet that Fandral was paying enough in “taxes” that he could do whatever he damn well pleased.

“Yeah,” he said shortly, keeping his hands above his waist, “tell your boss Sollus Malfoe is here to see him. He'll know what its about. Oh, and while you're at it, how about you get me a drink, sweetheart? I'm parched.” The last was a risk, but Fandral had been insistent that Sollus come as quickly as possible to Banal, so he was betting whatever the crimelord wanted was important, and that he'd given his guards instructions not to “accidentally” kill or maim Sollus or anyone he brought with him.

The guard grunted and stepped to the side, tapping in a quick keycode on the door. He did a good job hiding the keypad from view, but apparently Fandral had forgotten just how sensitive the ears of some species were. A look over his shoulder yielded a quick nod from Remmy, his second, and told him that the blue-skinned Yrian had easily picked up on the code. Good. At least he could get back in and see Fandral if things went sideways or the man refused to pay.

“Inside,” the guard said shortly. “Down the hall, third door on the left. Go anywhere else and I get to kill you.”

Sollus nodded and threw the man a cheery smile. “Try it.”

With that, moved forward quickly, shouldering past the guard and into Fandral's house. The place was garishly decorated, but that was no surprise given the larger man's aesthetic – or lack thereof. The theme of the hallway appeared to be “I'm richer than you”, and was accomplished by piling gold on every available surface until it gleamed. Sollus was not impressed.

He found Fandral just where the guard said he would be, through the third door and spread out on a lounger, being fed alien fruit by a pleasure-nymph. They were expensive, but imprinted with the desires of their masters, and from what he had heard around spaceports, well worth the cost if one could afford it.

“Sollus!” Fandral bellowed, waving away the nymph. “Took you bloody look enough to get here. I was starting to get worried you wouldn't make it.”

“I'm here, Fandral,” he said tightly, not bothering to exchange pleasantries, “let's get on with it. What do you have for me?”

“Right to the point!” The fat man stood, swaying slightly on too-small feet. “I like that! Here's the deal, Sollus – I need something from Tyr VII, and you're going to get it for me. You do, and I'll give you triple what I normally pay.”

Sollus grunted. Great deal, but Tyr VII was a world of tube-breathers like the one he'd seen outside, and they didn't exactly take kindly to outsiders.

“And how's that going to work, exactly?” He gestured to his face, then at the men behind him. “We won't exactly fit in.”

“Shii!” Fandral screamed, and a curtain to his left parted to reveal a stunning woman, completely hairless, and with only the lightest bit of clothing to cover her body. Stunning, if it weren't for the thin tube running from her nose to a small canister at her hip.

“Sollus, meet Shii.” The crimelord pointed. “Shii, this is the scoundrel I was telling you about. Take a few minutes and get to know each other, then you're leaving for Tyr. It'll be up to you two to decide how to explain to her people that she took an off-worlder husband.” Fandral smiled. “Good luck!”

- D

Story #266 - Shots

Shots

“Look, I'm...sorry about the gunshots.”

There wasn't much I could say to that, especially since Joanne still held the revolver in her slim hands. I hadn't been expecting her tonight, and I certainly hadn't been expecting that she'd start taking potshots around the apartment. Luckily, the whole building was made of concrete so the two bullets she'd fired didn't damage anything essential, and the place was loud enough on any given Friday that it was unlikely anyone had heard the sounds.

A knock at my front door sent that notion skittering, and I motioned for Joanne to hide.

“Who is it?” I called out, hiding behind the relative safety of wall beside the door.

“Police!” A voice bellowed back, and I took a quick look through the peephole. Sure enough, two men in dark blue stood outside, though that didn't necessarily mean they were with local law enforcement. If they were up to something sinister, however, they'd be breaking my door down soon enough, and I'd had quite enough destruction for one evening.

“Yes, officers?” I said as I pulled the door open to reveal two tall young men. “How can I help you?”

“Sorry to disturb you, sir.” The one in front said, nodding politely at me. “We've had a few calls from this area about gunshots earlier tonight. Would you know anything about that?”

“Gunshots!” I affected surprise. “I suppose it's not out of the ordinary for around here, but I haven't heard a thing.”

“Mmm-hmm.” The officer looked over his shoulder at his partner. “The thing is, sir, that several of the callers said the shots were coming from this area of the building. Perhaps we could come in and take a quick look around?”

From the tone and bearing of the two lawmen, it was clear they weren't on the crooked side of the force, which meant they wouldn't barge their way in uninvited. It also meant if I was suspicious enough they'd go and get a warrant, and I really didn't want anyone snooping around in my personal business.

“Look, I -” I cut off as I heard Joanne speak from behind me.

“Sweetie,” she said, “are you almost done?” Honey dripped from her tone. “I'm getting lonely in that big bedroom.”

Turning, I did my best to keep my mouth closed and my eyes where they should be, but it was tough. She'd disheveled her long hair just enough to make it seem that it had recently been a part of a passionate tryst, and the blue shirt she was wearing had fully half its buttons undone, revealing a generous swath of pale boson. Her pants were also gone, and the tail end of her shirt only partially covered sheer underwear.

“I...” No sensible words came to mind.

“Sir!” The officer at the door said, and I turned, a stupid grin on my face. “Sorry to disturb you. Have a good night.”

I mumbled something as they left, then closed and locked the door, trying my best to keep my eyes somewhere safe, somewhere appropriate.

“We have to sort this out, Bobby,” Joanne said seriously, all signs of false arousal disappearing.

“I agree. But first, you need to go get dressed. We're not going to get anywhere with you looking like that.”

She laughed, then fixed me with a sultry glare. “It got rid of them, didn't it? And it seemed to have quite the effect on you, too.”

“Joanne!” I cried. “Clothes, now!”

Still chuckling, she made her way to the bedroom.

I needed time to sort out what had happened, time to understand, but that was the one thing I wasn't going to get. I hadn't ever expected to see Joanne again, and when she'd shown up at my door, I'd been too dumbfounded to block her entry. It hadn't taken long for the gun to come out and suddenly she was wrecking the place, trying her best to put a bullet in my brain.

Sure, she was sorry now, but how long would it be before the madness took her again?

This was the trouble with necromancy – or at least part of it. Raising a body meant trying to find and cram the right soul back into its old container, and it didn't always want to go. In Joanne's case, I'd gotten ninety percent of who she'd used to be back where it belonged, but a portion of the nether had managed to slip inside by the time her family came looking for my help. The end result was a sweet, caring woman who periodically went off into bouts of madness and self-destruction, even as her more sensible, second-life self looked on.

From what I could gather, she'd manged to find out that I was the one who brought her back, and was now looking for a fix – one that I would either provide free of charge or suffer for with a bullet to the face. Trouble was, there was really nothing that could be done, gun or no, and Joanne was going to have to deal with it.

“You had training somewhere, right?” She said as she came back into the living room. “You didn't just figure all this out by yourself?”

I nodded. My master was in northern England, a man as old as the rocks and unpredictable as the sea. I'd left before I learned all he had to teach because I feared for my safety.

“Alright.” She said crisply. “Here's what we're going to do. We're taking a trip together, you and I, and we're going to improve your skills.”

“I don't -” I started, but she cut me off.

“This isn't up for debate. If you refuse, I'll track down those cops and tell them a very different story, one convincing enough to have them start poking around in here.” She gestured to one of my alters in the corner. “And I'm guessing you really don't want that to happen.”

I sighed. “Fine. When do we leave?”

- D

Story #265 - New Gods

New Gods

Thunder cracked and lightning arced across the entryway as Jessum strode into the city of the Gods. Eons ago, such majesty had impressed him, but it had been at least a thousand years since something of substance piqued his interest.

Thank the Maker for Celestra.

She was just rogue enough to make the others angry, just unpleasant enough that those around her were uncomfortable, and from what the red-faced messenger had told him, this time she'd really put her foot in it – stirring up a War of Ascension in which the victor had been promised a “spot amongst the gods”. Most mortals – and some gods – didn't know that was possible, but with enough effort and a willing sacrifice, just about anything could be made to happen. Fortunately, the number of willing sacrifices in the Eleven Lands were few and far between, and the pantheon only saw a new member every few millennia. As far as Jessum was concerned, they needed some new blood.

He waved at Farsham on his way to the Meeting Dome, but didn't bother to stop and chat. The god of fire was a strange little thing, obsessed with the element he regulated almost to the point of unhealthy obsession. It wasn't simply that Farsham wanted to speak about the flames he created and doused around the Kingdoms, but that he seemed to consider each one special, feel that each one was precious. Jessum had heard rumors from several of the Love goddesses that Farsham kept a fire burning at all times outside his manor, and that in private referred to the blaze as his “child”. That went too far.

Waving to several minor deities as he sped up the steps to the Dome, he wondered idly how the other gods viewed him. His position as the Lord of Wind was important enough, and without his help snow would never melt and mills would never turn. He did his best to keep to himself and not interfere with the schemes of those around him, but that didn't mean he was clueless. The hope, however, was that the others would see him that way.

When Celestra had approached him fifty years ago, he'd been reluctant to even let her in the door. She had a reputation for seducing even the most chaste of males – man and god alike – and then wrapping her golden fingers around them and making them dance to her tune. For three weeks he'd kept her at bay, cooling her heels outside his home while he tried to fathom her intentions. No information he had gathered told him she had any plan or sinister intention, and he had finally relented, letting her lithe form slip into his chambers.

Instead of the debauchery he'd expected, she'd sat down lightly on the edge of his bed and fixed him with a gemstone glare.

“Time for a change,” she'd said, leveling a finger at him, “and I know someone who's due for a promotion.”

At first, he'd refused to listen, but Celestra sat patiently, describing her plan anew every time she came to its conclusion, and slowly he began to see the wisdom in her words. Magnus, the Elder, was becoming less observant, and he had not been diligent in his management of the last Great War. Three gods had perished where only one was required, and Magnus refused to hear any discussion on the subject. That in itself was cause for concern – the large, red-bearded god was their first among equals only by consensus, and had no to right to forbid discussion or order any of them to fulfill his demands. Unfortunately, many of the younger crowd were willing to go along with Magnus simply because of his age and his vast anger, and argued it was easier to do what he wanted than fight him tooth and nail on every issue.
They were right – Jessum had let himself be led several times – but so was Celestra. And so the plan was born.

“Jessum,” Pip caught his arm as he came to the top of the Dome stairs, “it's madness in there. You may want to just turn around and go home.”

He smiled. The young God of Rivers was a fresh-faced boy of only three millennia, but his heart was in the right place. Jessum had taken the shorter deity under his wing and they had quickly become friends.

“I appreciate the thought, Pip,” the god's full name was Pipponelous, though he'd never heard anyone use it, “but this concerns us all. We need to make sure this is properly dealt with.” He'd hate to have to kill Pip – hopefully, the younger god would be amenable to the new political structure.

Debate was in full bellow when he entered the Dome, Celestra screaming at Magnus about how he was “old and incompetent”, while he hurled back insults about her indiscretion, using words reserved only for the basest of harlots. All was going to plan.

“Enough!” He bellowed, and the Dome went silent. He had been around longer than most of the gods in the room, and all listened when he spoke. “We have a problem, but screaming at each other won't solve it. Celestra, what have you done?” He moved down to stand beside her, just as she had instructed.

“Only what I must! This pantheon needs new blood, someone to lead it into the next age and beyond. The victor of the war below will be granted a rightful place as one of us!”

“And just where will you get a sacrifice, Celestra? Who will volunteer for such a task?” Magnus' tone was patronizing.

“Indeed,” Jessum said, “Though there are many that would speak the words of command,” he took a deep breath, “Come to me, o spirit of the willing, breathe into me your sacrifice.” The sounds felt heavy as they left his mouth, archaic. “Where will you find someone to speak those of release?”

“I come, willing and able, my dying breath for your strength.” There was an audible gasp in the Dome as Celestra spoke, and before Magnus could move, Jessum had the dagger in his palm buried in her golden chest. Power surged within him.

“Bow!” He roared, and the Dome shook. “A new day has dawned, and a new God is born. I am your master, now!”

They bowed.

- D