Story #310 - Bus Stop

Bus Stop

Pren Worth recalled the bus flipping end over end, the sickening feeling of seeing earth and sky pass by in alternate measures. He had no idea what they’d hit or how such an accident could even have occurred, but it didn’t much matter in what he was sure were the final moments of his life. Questions both broad and narrow passed before his eyes – had he made a mistake in letting Susan go? Had moving south been the wrong choice? Was the kettle still on?

None of them mattered, none could be answered, and then the bus hit the ground and the last thing he remembered was the roof coming for his head, crushing pointed metal that spelled his death.

He’d awoken surrounded by the dead but not one of them.

At first he’d assumed some massive stroke of unexplainable luck had saved him, something that he didn’t deserve but gave him the opportunity to be eternally grateful. Looking down at his clothes told a different story; he was covered in blood and there were deep bruises in his flesh, already oozing a pained stiffness when he tried to rise and move around the crash site.

It took over an hour for his perceptions to catch up with his senses, and he realized not only most of the bus been obliterated but that he should never have lived. No one else had – thankfully, he’d been too shell-shocked to recognize their remains as he searched the wreckage.

After throwing up the little he had in his stomach, Pren stumbled into the woods and began walking – his cellphone was missing and while most of his ID was still in his pocket, a drivers license, two credits cars and a library pass would do him little good once the sun went down. The bus company might be sending someone to investigate, but a strange fear told him he didn’t want to be around when anyone arrived.

“Pren,” he spun at the sound of a woman’s voice, but though the forest around him was thick with brush it was devoid of any life he could see. He shivered but pressed on – it would be no surprise to find that his mind had been affected more than he knew.

“Pren,” the voice came again and he stopped, taking his time to glance not only around but up into the trees and listen of any sound of disturbed dirt or whisper of movement.

Nothing.

“Pren,” the word rebounded off his skull before he had a chance to move again, and he fell to his knees.

“WHAT?” He screamed into the woods, producing a substantial echo and scaring a group of pheasants out from a nearby bush. There was no answer from the voice.

Five minutes in the dirt and he struggled back to his feet – his bruises were coloring already and Pren knew if he didn’t keep moving he’d be in pain and immobile for the rest of the day.

He’d gone less than three hundred yards when he heard it again, but forced himself to focus on his footsteps and trees he was moving quickly past.

“You were spared,” the voice said. It was familiar, almost – and yet like nothing he’d ever heard. That it was in his head instead of coming from another individual accounted for some of the oddity, along with the strange ringing sound of the words, but the inflection was something he knew. “You were chosen.”

“Karen,” he said aloud, “I don’t know what kind of sick joke this is but I’m not laughing. Your work might be in dealing with head-cases, but that doesn’t mean you have permission to mess with mine.”

“Karen…” there was a pause, “she provided only the way. I provided the act.”

Pren slowed his pace, frowning. “What?” He said again. “What are you talking about?”

“The female you speak of was jealous, controlling. You were attached without knowledge.”

“Dammit!” He cursed. Karen had promised she would never use the tech she was developing on him, but he should have known better. She’d always been a bit crazy. “So she did this to me – and what the hell are you?”

“The chooser. You are not worthy of my gifts, but were chosen nonetheless as an example. Already, I guide your steps.”

“Gifts?” His head spun. “You’re the one who saved me from that crash?”

“Saved,” the voice said, “caused.” There was a pause. “I do all.”

“You killed those people!” Pren howled, driving his feet faster in the dirt. He had to get away!

“And saved you. Gratitude is the common response.”

“Like hell!” Ludicrous didn’t even begin to describe his circumstance – more than likely the crash had pushed him over the edge. Karen would never have risked government tech just to keep tabs on him, and he was sure shock from the crash must somehow account for the voice he was hearing.

A quick leap over a fallen log in looming darkness meant he didn’t see the broken branch next to his planned landing spot. Pren heard it crack and looked down at the sensation of pressure, the feeling of sharp pain in his stomach. He could see the jagged edge of the thing pressing against his abdomen but making no inroads into his fragile flesh.

“Again, gratitude would be expected.”

He pulled himself free of the wooden spear and began to run desperately, hoping that speed and exhaustion would drive the voice away. A minute later and he was tumbling over the edge of a grassy knoll and down into a clearing, his eyes sending messages of a silvery craft resting on gentle grass in front of him with each roll.

“Welcome, Pren Worth.” The voice was outside him now, and as he righted himself he saw a shimmering form standing next to a ship that had no business on earth. “You have arrived with more haste than expected.”

“Shut up,” he managed before his vision clouded and he tumbled to soft ground.

- D

Story #309 - Daylight

Daylight

“Daylight is wasting,” Jacan Silder said, pointing to the northern horizon and Kelly Gonzales shuddered. Umbra VII had a strange planetary alignment; it was difficult for most of those who landed on-site to deal with the sun passing south to north each day and never with a hint of diversion. Most of the worlds in the sector were a little bit strange, but Umbra VII was the oddest of the bunch. A super-heavy core along with a number of other geological oddities meant that the planet never deviated from its alignment and the seasons never changed. It made for a beautiful, temperate world – at least until the sun went down.

“We need to find shelter,” Kelly said. It was hard to keep the panic out of her voice, and by her partner's face she hadn't entirely fooled him with what on the surface was a calm tone. Jacan knew her well enough to understand just how much she was afraid.

“Yes,” he replied. “Don't worry, pard – we'll be fine.”

The use of the nickname was supposed to calm her down, Kelly was sure, but it only made her concerns more real. The quiver in Jacan's own voice told her that he was also not as confident as he seemed.

“Here!” He said, breaking her line of thought, and she glanced at the massive jinoo tree he'd found. At least twenty feet across, the tree had pushed out most of the surrounding flora and still had the blue bark that marked it as young and growing. Its bottom edge was almost perfectly smooth except for a single deformation that led to its root structure. Animals across the southern forests used jinoo trees to hibernate or if they suddenly needed to take shelter.

Jacan pulled an audioslicer from his belt and knelt down beside the root entry, then pressed the activation button. There was no sound Kelly could hear, but creatures began slipping out of the hole and she turned her back. Not all of them fell into the “furry and cute” category like oppens or paldors.

“It's clear,” her partner said finally, dropping to his belly and wiggling his way into the opening. Within moments he was gone; Kelly was sure she could hear a mocking whisper on the wind, a realization that she was alone. Jacan's hand shot out a moment later and she dove for it, not caring about dirt stains on her clothes or the line of slime one of the tree's previous occupants had left behind. Their new shelter might be dirty and disgusting but at least they would be safe.

The tree's inside was better than she had expected; a number of small animal corpses were obvious by their smell, but Jacan was already neutralizing them with his h-pistol. Kelly unslung her pack to access three mag-lights, which stuck well enough on their hideout's inside thanks to the veins of pseudo-steel that ran though each jinoo tree. Though the thinkers back at base camp couldn't figure out how the trees had developed to a point where they needed metal to grow, or even what the metal was, it was magnetic and strong – two things that Kelly found particularly comforting under the circumstances.

“Not perfect,” Jacan said, finishing up with the last of the corpses, “but it should keep us safe.”

Kelly smiled, though her heart wasn't in it. Neither one of them had spent a night away from the base in their time on the surface, and had never wanted to experience one. A late meeting and a broken speeder had conspired to put them on the road back to camp far later than they should have been. Even ensconced in the relative security of the tree, she didn't exactly feel safe.

“Have you ever seen one of them, Jacan?”

“What?” He looked up from deploying their gel-stove. “What are you on about, Kelly?”

She frowned. He had heard what she said – there was no question about it. He just didn't want to answer.

“I said,” she crossed her arms and glared down at him. “Have you ever seen one of the things that roam the planet at night? We've both heard the stories, but do you know the truth?”

Jacan shrugged. “Not really. I haven't stayed alive this long by ignoring my instincts, and those instincts told me to stay the hell in at night as soon as I arrived on this rock. Thankfully, I was smart enough to listen.”

“I hear they feast on flesh while their food is still alive,” the most virulent of the rumors came to her lips, “and that they make sure it suffers for as long as possible.”

“Kelly!” Her partner said sharply. He'd started the fire, and rose to move across the small space. “You can't think like that. The people at the base don't know any more than we do – and in most cases, considerably less. Right now, we've got a safe haven and a warm fire; don't ruin it until there's a need, alright?” He smiled down at her, the same smile that had gotten her in trouble with a Gammrian merchant all those years ago and started what had been the most lucrative partnership of her life. She didn't want it to end in a tree.

“Alright,” she said, taking a deep breath. Panic still sat low in her stomach, but at least it wasn't trying to claw its way out. “Let's get something cooking. I'm starved.”

Jacan smiled and reached into his pack. “Let's see,” he said as he rummaged through, “we've got creamed corn, creamed chicken – well, it's all creamed just take your pick.”

“Chicken is fine,” she tried to keep her tone light, but it was difficult. Beyond the root entrance she could hear the wind start to pick up, mingled with the cries of the things that roamed the night. They were out there; they were searching. Hopefully Jacan was right.

- D

Story #308 - Athena

Athena

“Jin!” Captain Agean called. “Hammer down those farstalls!”

His pilot didn’t answer, but the Athena banked sharply left and the frigate she was chasing came into view. As soon he’d seen the pot-bellied airship lumbering along outside the safe zone of the Aldaran border, he’d had to take a run at it.

The Athena was easily the fastest ship south of the Line, and though he’d met a few Northmen who said they could build a quicker boat he’d never been outpaced. Part of it was the ship; the Athena had been designed by Jandi himself, and part of it was the crew he’d hired. Most captains took the attitude that they and their airship were all that mattered – that crew was just collateral necessary to run the mechanics, but Agean knew better. Without Jin, the Athena would never be able to live up to her potential; the young man had a touch on the controls that Agean had never seen in any other pilot.

“Lor! Fire the hooks!” The words were barely off his lips and the thin Aldarman was moving, sending the two lis-steel grapplers out from the Athena’s front firing ports. Screaming strings of rope and metal, they easily clamped on to the running frigate and locked her tight in the bigger airship’s clutches. “Half-speed!” Agean bellowed and felt the ship slow, heard the engines spool down and the thrusters warm up. Anything less than four tressles meant the ship needed upward thrust to stay afloat, and Agean kept a close eye on the ship he’d captured; while most frigate captains wouldn’t risk their crews’ lives and their own just to evade capture, there were a few that were willing to plummet out of the sky just to make a point. Even the Athena couldn’t hold on to a ship tumbling in free-fall – the grappling hooks and the bays that held them would be ripped right out of her hull, and even getting her back to port would be a challenge.

So far, the frigate’s captain hadn’t made any foolish moves and Agean pulled the small telescope from beside his command chair to take a closer look. A white flag was running up the mast of the now-caught vessel and he smiled; at least he wouldn’t have a fight on his hands.

“Reel it in and then bring their captain to me.” He stood and strode off the bridge, not bothering to wait for a reply. His crew was paid well to be the best in the business, and to a man they got a share of the plunder – something of an oddity in the field of piracy. Most captains kept the lion’s share for themselves and gave almost nothing to their crew, instead diverting the other funds to the upkeep of their vessel. Agean had seen so much success captaining the Athena that he’d decided to spread the wealth around. Not only was his crew the most loyal and dedicated in their particular circle, but he always had men waiting in the wings if a crewman was lost or decided a life in the skies was no longer their calling.

He took his time in climbing the steps to his audience chamber. Separate from his quarters, the large round room served as an effective meeting space since it not only established his command but offered a spectacular view of the Athena, something kings and captains alike could not help but respect. It put them off-balance, which gave Agean the advantage – those who had spent their entire lives on land could not help but stare at the horizon, and other captains could not help but stare at his ship. Either way, it put him in control.

The chamber’s large oak desk was polished and gleaming in lamp-light as he entered – even his cleaning crew was paid well, and it showed. His men would escort the frigate’s captain through the ship’s underbelly, treating him like a prisoner in all but name. The captain wouldn’t see a bit of the Athena proper until he entered the audience chamber, and the effects were always dramatic. Privately, Agean had to admit he found the looks of stunned incredulity and envy almost as rich as the treasure he plundered.

Pulling pen and paper from one of the massive desk’s drawers as he sat, Agean made himself look busy and distracted. It was always worthwhile to give those captured a few moments in silence to consider their options as they stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the chamber’s north side; the view of the Athena’s main deck was spectacular. It took a great deal of effort not to look up from his false work – hours could disappear staring down at the pride of his captain’s career.

A sharp knock told him the guards and his guest had arrived and Agean called for them to enter, then put his head back down and returned to writing. The words on the page were nonsense, but the man being brought in didn’t need to know that.

“Captain Agean!” One of the guards said, and Agean raised his head. He didn’t recognize the tall young man; they had taken on a number of new bodies at their last stop, and he hadn’t had the time to introduce himself as yet. “Allow me to present Captain Hargraves of the frigate Musoma.”

Agean nodded distantly and then waved a dismissive hand. Both guardsmen filed out and he dropped his gaze back to the paper on his desk, leaving the room in stunted silence.

“Captain,” the other man began, and Aegan frowned. Most of those brought to see him had trouble putting two words together for the better part of ten minutes, and even then spoke with a hushed respect. This man’s tone was brash, even confrontational.

“Yes?” He raised his head and met the other captain’s eyes.

“You’re in violation of section forty-three of the Corsuan Treaty. I suggest you release my ship immediately.”

Agean laughed - such brashness was unheard of.

“Let me say it again, captain,” the man’s voice was tight, “and be clearer. The King is on board my ship. Do you really wish to pursue this course?”

A sinking feeling replaced triumph as Agean stood. Such a claim was ludicrous, but Captain Hargraves wasn’t blinking, and he wasn’t backing down. He might be telling the truth.


- D

Story #307 - Darkness Prevails

Darkness Prevails

“Darkness prevails.” That was Harry Tulman, a tiny shred of a man that had no business being near anywhere anyone with power. His family had money, though – which counted for more than it should.

“Darkness prevails,” echoed Sare Fullbright. She was more in line with what the Masters considered to be a perfect recruit; tall, sensible and with a significant drive to learn.

“Darkness prevails,” Ril Tessla said in a small voice. He hated the phrasing, and had never enjoyed their Arts of the Underside class. It had always been difficult to reconcile the idea of fighting for the Light by getting to know the darkness he opposed – it made sense, when the instructors explained it, but felt wrong when they were sitting in a circle and chanting out the same words that had brought the Provinces to ruin.

“Better,” Master Grada said in a hollow voice. “But you still lack passion. The darkness is nothing without passion – I’ve said as much every day you’ve been here with me.”

Ril squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Passion was the last thing he wanted to give the darkness, even in jest. Stories told by the elders of his birth-village said that venerating the dark gave it strength, no matter the purpose. The Masters had been critical of the idea since he arrived at the Annex, and told him such notions were nonsense. On the surface, he agreed with everything they had said – there could be no way the fallen gods of darkness could rise again, but when he sat enrobed and enshadowed chanting words of their glory it was easy to imagine them rising from the pool in which the forces of Light had bound them eons ago.

“Ril.” Grada’s voice was hard. “You especially are weak in the chants. Explain.”

“Master, I…” he hesitated. Truth might not bring the best result, but lying would make things even worse – Grada had a way of figuring things out. “I don’t like this.”

“Why?” The Master’s gaze bore into him. “Why do you have such trouble with what I ask you to do?”

“It’s wrong,” Ril said flatly. “We shouldn’t be doing it.” He heard Harry and Sare draw in quick breaths and saw both look down at the floor. They knew he was going to catch hell, and didn’t want to be hit by accident when it flew.

“Wrong?” Grada’s voice was deceptively quiet. “You presume to know what is right and wrong at such a young age? Perhaps you should be the Master and I the student?”

“No, Master,” finding his voice was a struggle. Truth suddenly seemed less than sensible. “I do not mean to question your wisdom, but my feelings speak too loudly. The Light teaches us to venerate it alone – that praising darkness leads only to more of the same. We should not be doing this!” The last was delivered more loudly than he intended, and Ril saw both of his classmates recoil. Speaking the truth was one thing – yelling it was something else entirely.


“Pupil,” the thick-armed Master said as he rose, “you are treading on dangerous ground. Do you really wish to continue along this path?” He loomed over Ril, massive frame tense and teeth clenched. Physical violence was unlikely, but fear didn’t listen to odds. “Do you really wish to continue to question?”

“I must!” Ril stood as well, moving and speaking before he had a chance to think. “This is wrong!”

“Students,” Grada’s voice was heavy with potential threats. “You bear witness to this, you are a part of it.”

Dirty looks from both Sare and Harry told Ril he was going to hear about his actions later, as would the rest of their class – providing he was not removed from the Annex entirely. Grada’s face broke into a grin, and Ril shivered.

“Well done, student,” the Master said, stepping forward to place a large hand on Ril’s shoulder. “Few recognize the problem with the class, and fewer still will speak of it.”

“What?” Harry’s voice was incredulous, and though Sare held her tongue it was clear she was also on the verge of an outburst.

Grada spun to face the fat young man. “The purpose of this exercise is not to speak of the darkness – the rituals we perform here are not a tenth as vile as those originally conducted by priests of the abandoned light. Instead, we use this as a gauge, a way to know how far our students have come and if they are ready for the next stage of their training. Ril is – but I worry about the other two of you.”

The faces of his classmates told him that their anger at his punishment was a pale thing compared to their envy at his praise and he sighed. Being singled out was not what he wanted.

“Harry, Sare,” Grada said sharply. “Leave us now, and think on why you were not willing to speak. Soon you will both be in your final year and we expect a greater strength of will from our top-level pupils.”

The two filed out, shooting dark looks at Ril as they went.

“They are displeased, Ril – but I am sure you know that,” the Master spoke softly. “I have praised you and insulted them, and they will view it as your failing. Does that bother you?”

“Yes,” he said honestly, “but not because I care what they think. I just don’t need the extra attention.”


“You are wise to say so, pupil,” Garda said, smiling. “Few are so intelligent at such a young age.”

“Master, I –“

“Silence.” The tone was kind, but firm. “I did not ask for a response. I have a question, young Ril – what made you speak?”

“Fear.” There it was, plain and simple. Grada would not be pleased, but it was the truth. Silence filled the room as Ril endured the Master’s stare.

“Good,” Grada said finally. “Only the wise are fearful, and only fear can fight the darkness. Darkness prevails,” he went on, “and we fight it still. Your fear will let you fight it as well. Come with me.”

The Master turned and strode away; Ril had no choice but to follow. This was not what he wanted.


- D

Story #306 - Fired

Fired

“Fire fist activate!” Ken Juno's voice rang out in the training hall, followed by the distinct sucking sound of flame springing to life. For a moment Ken smiled, round face split in a beaming smile until he realized that neither hand had caught fire. With a pained yelp he stamped his left foot on the ground hard, trying to put out the blaze that was quickly taking hold.

“Enough!” Trainer Palvin said sharply, and the flames quickly died under a localized rush of air. The boy was talented, but needed control. Control was life, control was power. Without it, the young fools lining the walls would be dead in a week. “Ken, what were you thinking about when you spoke?”

“Fire!” Ken's eyes were bright despite his glaring mistake and potential injury. “Just like you told me, Trainer!”

“No,” Palvin replied softly. “Not just like I told you. What part of your body were you thinking about?”

“My fist!” The thin young man threw one hand into the air. “At least, at first...” he trailed off.

“Exactly.” A stern look served to calm the trainee down. “You lost your concentration, and look where it got you – nearly injured by your own power. First lesson, Ken, and one you should know well – focus is more important than force.”

“But I -” Ken started up again, and Palvin's face darkened. The boy would never have been so brash six months ago, when he first stood in the hall and watched senior classmen demonstrate what they had learned. Shorter than most of his peers and with as weak a spirit as had ever been sensed by the Masters, Juno had been brought only because of his lineage; barring the grandson of the generation's greatest hero from entry would have been a difficult task, even if all the Masters had opposed it. Fortunately, Ken had a significant amount of aptitude hidden beneath an unremarkable shell, and a breakthrough after his semester vacation had led to speedy development.

It had also led to arrogance.

“But nothing.” Palvin made sure his voice was hard as iron. “You know how to use your power properly, but are too lazy to do so. What you think about informs what comes to pass – why under the sun did you think about your foot?”

“It was itchy,” Ken said sheepishly, shoulders slumping. “These socks you give us are made of some kind of awful fabric and I -” The boy cut off as Palvin took a step forward.

“I see.” Reaching out, he pulled the Adept badge from Ken's shoulder and threw it to the floor. “So it is our fault that you cannot follow directions – our error that has led you to endanger us all.”

It was a challenge, pure and simple – one that any trainee should have known well enough to back away from. Ken's eyes narrowed, however, and his chest puffed out. “You know who I am, Trainer, and you know my family. I am the grandson of your savior, the continuation of his line. His blood and power course through me, and you would do well to show the proper respect.” Palvin sighed. He had hoped Ken would not force the issue, but the child seemed determined to make foolish mistakes, even when warned.

“Ken Juno,” he turned his back to the young upstart and addressed the hall. “You are no longer worthy of the title Trainee, or a place here with us. I have stripped you of your badge and your honor, and you are to leave before day's end. Those of you here,” he pointed to the twenty students watching, their eyes wide and hands shaking, “are witness to this event and this expulsion. Juno is no longer welcome.”
The starting sounds of fire warned him a moment before Ken attacked, giving him just enough time to roll forward and spring to his feet.

“Trainees!” He bellowed. “To your dorms!” They ran, tripping over one another in their haste to leave the hall. Staged fights were common for training purposes, but a real battle was frightening, unknown.

“You dare?” Palvin said as he straightened, staring down the young man who thought himself an equal to his teachers. “You would risk everything in a fit of temper? You are powerful, Juno – you know that much. Use your power for good, as your grandfather did.”

“My grandfather was a fool,” Ken spoke with a twist to his mouth, and his tone carried a bitterness Palvin had not heard in years. It was petulant and self-serving, foul and yet somehow needy. Somehow familiar.

“Baelvas!” He spoke the name aloud in shock, and Ken laughed. Palvin corrected the thought – he was not entirely Ken any longer.

“Yes, Palvin,” the young man's mouth said, “it's me. Did you really think Keva Juno could kill me? Did you really believe that I would never return? The moment of that noble fool's greatest victory was also his undoing, though he had no idea.” Ken smiled – a sick, oily curve of the mouth. “It took only a little bit of power, only a tiny portion of my will to infuse Keva, to give him a gift that would surprise him at just the right moment.”

“Keva!” Palvin felt a knot of fear grow in his stomach. “What have you done to him?”

“Not I,” Baelvas said, “but your young trainee. I have been a part of his life since he was a child, and we have come to an understanding. He was provided a portion of my power, and took the life of my enemy. A fair bargain, wouldn't you say?”

Palvin's world spun; how could such a thing have happened? How had they not known? Another attack came before he was ready, Ken charging in with both fists blazing. For a moment, Palvin considered death, considered simply letting Baelvas have his way.

Anger surged. Ken might still be saved; Keva had not deserved such a death. Air howled around him, a shield of power that smothered all flame.

It wasn't over.

- D

Story #305 - Youngest

Youngest

“Blessings of the Youngest be upon you,” Karinn Fliss said as he passed by the small knot of young men outside the Center. “Is this not a truly glorious day?”

One the four men grunted in response but the other three didn’t look up from the dice game they were playing. Officially, dicing and any other forms of gambling were banned on Center property, but Karinn had found he caught more souls with honey than with scripture.

“Enjoy your game, gentlemen,” he said, moving toward the Center’s large front door, “and remember that all things come from the Youngest – even dice.”

There was a murmur of acknowledgement from behind Karinn has he moved away – he had a reputation as one of the most lenient Mals in the city and while some said that attracted an unsavory crowd to his Center, he preferred to think of it as bringing in those who needed his help the most.

He took a moment to pause inside the Center’s entryway atrium and offer up thanks to the Youngest. Above him blue-tinted skylights filtered down a soft light, granting a feeling of peace and perfect serenity; how he had endured life before his change, Karinn could not recall.

A young woman approached him as he strode into the vaulted main hall of the Center; he had met Yolene Oppenhal days after his change, and ever since she had been a steadfast friend. The pale young woman always had excellent advice, both when it came to matters of faith and matters of a more practical nature. Though her gender meant she could never be a Mal, he had given her an administrative position in the Center once he had attained the office.

“Good morning, Mal,” Yolene said, bowing her head in the traditional greeting. “Blessings of the Youngest upon you.”

“And you,” he said, completing the ritual. Temptation pulled at him to bow his head as well but protocol did not permit such gestures of a Mal to a penitent, no matter what their position. He sighed. His baser instincts still rose up, even a decade after his illumination.

“How are you this glorious morning?” A bright smile spread across her face as she raised her head. Those in service of the Youngest were to take joy in their work, but Karinn had never met anyone who took the directive as much to heart as Yolene.

“I am well, child,” he replied, a smile touching his lips as well, though it was more forced than his assistant’s. The gamblers outside had annoyed him, but there was no point speaking such thoughts aloud.

“Excellent!” She said with a ringing voice. Karinn would never say it, but sometimes Yolene’s tone was too much, too loud for such early mornings. “Mal,” she went on, speaking the word softly; he had to take several steps forward as she continued to speak, tone suddenly tense and demanding. “There is something you must see. Now.”

It had been years since she had taken such a tone with him and while the authority of his position demanded a stern response, he simply nodded and waved her forward. With a quick step Yolene moved to the back of the Center, but not to the office as Karinn expected. Instead she headed for the small pantry required in each dwelling of the Youngest, there to feed the poor when fortunes left them no other choice.

“I found it last night,” she said, “after you left. I can’t believe I’ve never seen it before.”

Karinn was curious but held his tongue – whatever she had found, he would see it soon enough.

Entering the pantry showed him nothing out of the ordinary, and he felt a sharp stab of annoyance; anything relating to supply or use of the food should have been well within her purview. Why would she bother him with it?

“Here.” Yolene moved to the back wall of the pantry and reached into one of the shelves. For a moment there was only silence and then a sharp click sounded, followed by a low and steady grinding. The shelf his friend had touched moved backward and then slid to the left, revealing a steep-staired passage leading down. “Please,” she gestured, “go ahead. It is perfectly safe – I went down myself, last night.”

Karinn hesitated. Nothing on the floor plan of the Center spoke to any kind of basement, but Yolene would never lead him astray. He moved forward.

Down and down the passage went, a twisting stone staircase that spun in on itself until Karinn felt dizzy from the constant turning. It finally delivered him to a vaulted concrete room, devoid of furnishings save for a large wooden table in its center.

On the wall opposite the passage entryway were a series of photos, each of a face in tormented agony. Though his mind recoiled at the unthinking horror laid out in front of him, Karinn’s feet took him forward as he picked out a familiar set of dark green eyes.

“What…” his voice failed him as distant recognition proved true. “what is this?”

“I don’t know, Mal,” Yolene’s voice was quiet, “but I see you’ve found a face you know.”

“Yolene, I –“ he began, but she cut him off.

“Two up from mine, and three to the right. You won’t like it, but you should look.”

It took effort to move his eyes, force to pull them off of the snapshot of Yolene’s wide-mouthed scream. He knew what he would see next, what he would encounter when his friend’s directions were followed but his legs still buckled as his own twisted visage came into view.

“Who did this to us?” He screamed at the face-filled wall.

“I did.” A deep voice said from behind Karinn, and he spun on his heel. Shapes were moving in the stairwell, fragmented shadows that resolved themselves into the form of Grand Mal Tolvar, head of the Youngest’s presence in the city. “Not all Illuminations come easily.”

- D

Story #304 - Jones

Collector Jones

“You can't be serious!” Uter Crawson's voice rose another notch. He hadn't been expecting anyone today, least of all the man in front of him, and the nonsense being spouted was enough to get under his skin.

“I am quite serious, Master Crawson.” The thin man had a voice to match; a reedy kind that said its owner was a pushover or a pint-sized jackfool with more brains than balls. “You owe the government -” he checked the pad he was carrying again - “sixty-two million dollars. We're willing to let the hundreds and tens of thousands go, so long as you pay us promptly.”

Uter laughed, a hacking sound thanks to years of great booze and more cigars than any man should ever smoke. “You're crazy, I'll give you that,” he said with a smirk, “but crazy don't get paid.” He liked the rough quality of his voice, the power that two decades of self-abuse had brought. Gravelly tones and a steely rumble suited his line of work just perfectly.

“Master Crawson, the government is all kinds of crazy, I assure you – and we always get paid.”

Another laugh; Uter had to admit the guy was amusing. “Look, Mister -” he left it hanging; the guy had barged in an hour ago without so much as an introduction and started demanding payment. He'd flashed some kind of badge, but metalcrafts were a dime a dozen in the slums. It was likely some kind of scam, some kind Uter had never seen before – that was the only reason the thin man hadn't died on the spot.

“Jones,” the man replied. “Collector Jones. Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, how would you like to start your payment? A lump sum is typically best, and gets us off on the right foot. But if you can't afford it...” Jones looked around the torn-up shop with a pained expression and Uter bristled; it was only a temporary safe house. “We can always discuss a payment plan.”

“Here's the thing, Jonsey,” Uter said, rising from his chair. “People pay me to do work – I don't pay the government. Hell, as far as the government knows, I don't even exist.”

“Uterald Mennal Crawson,” Jones read from his pad. “Born 2025, Banfield, Iowa. Parents were Manfred and Brenna. Two brothers, one killed in a -”

“Shut up!” Uter roared. He'd faked his own death six years ago to avoid a number of messy problems, and assumed the government had been stupid enough to buy it along with everyone else. “Fine! You know who I am but it doesn't matter. I'm a paid assassin, and I don't pay taxes. Cash is my commander in chief and I don't answer to suits.”

“I would suggest you reconsider, Master Crawson. While the government is willing to be understanding in this matter, they never forget a debt that is owed. You answer to us because you live within our borders, and enjoy the freedom and protection we provide. Though you haven't voted in -” Jones glanced down, “twenty years, you are nonetheless a citizen of this country, entitled to all of the rights that go along with that citizenship and a party to all responsibilities. Do you understand?”

“No!”

“Master Crawson, allow me to explain again -”

“Yes!” Uter was furious now. “Yes I bloody understand you, I just don't agree. I don't take advantage of a single one of your benefits, and all the risk I assume is my own. Crack-job doctors sew me up if I get cut, and you can be damn sure I've never used your welfare or collected a dime of unemployment insurance. I might be a citizen on paper, but that doesn’t mean I owe you any green.”

Jones took a step forward, tucking his black pad into a suit pocket. “I do not wish this to come to a confrontation, Master Crawford, but if you are not willing to cooperate I will have to take more assertive measures.”

Uter smiled. He'd been spoiling for a fight since the bungle on his last job – he hated double-bookings, especially when the other guy got there first. Killing the competition had been easy, but it was after the fact and that meant he didn't get paid. Riddling the target's body with his signature ammunition had been fun, but hadn't served a purpose – his boss knew well enough which hunter's bullet hit home first. That and a whispered rumor that the son of a recent target was out for revenge had him lying low, and Collector Jones was the perfect outlet for some barely repressed hostility.

“Bring it,” he growled, putting his hands up. Killing a government agent wasn't a good idea, but seriously hurting one and leaving him to be found worked just fine. A step forward put him at arm's length and he swung, but Jones was gone before the fist came down and Uter stumbled forward.

“We're not quite so fragile, Master Crawford,” the squeaky voice came from behind him and he spun. Jones stood calmly, hands in his pockets and not a hair out of place. “The government has supplied me with a number of...enhanced capabilities.”

With a roar Uter swung again but Jones brought up a hand, one that stopped the incoming fist as though it had struck a stone wall. Uter stepped back, shook his aching fist and then charged Jones full-bore, hoping to knock the fool flat on his ass. Impact came hard but the suited man didn't fall, and Uter found himself sailing through the air to crash into a nearby desk. Rising from the rubble, he charged again.

The next fifteen minutes were the most embarrassing of his life; every move his bigger and stronger body made was easily countered by the Collector. Soon he was sweating, bleeding, and having a hard time standing up.

“Jones,” he wheezed, “will you take a check?”

The Collector smiled. “Certainly. Let's see some ID.”

Uter grumbled as he pulled out his wallet with slick hands, stomach sinking.

“You'll be able to get most of this money back,” Jones said, “as soon as you start filing taxes. Also, I'll need a basic schedule for your work – hours, wages, the usual.”

There was no sense in a reply; Uter had clearly missed an opportunity. The real money was in collections.

- D

Story #303 - Renhaven

Renhaven

Renhaven was a very different city at night.

Baler Toman knew as much, and did his best never to leave the comfort of his home once the sun went down. A celebration for a friend, however, had him running late and leaving Pem’s – the local watering hole – he realized that daylight was fading.

Two choices presented themselves: stay the night in one of Pem’s lumpy, sour beds and stumble home in the morning, or risk the twenty blocks to his house. A few moments of tipsy consideration and he’d turned around and headed back inside to talk to the barkeep. Pem had owned the squat taproom since his father passed on, but wasn’t interested in making sure the standards his elder had set were kept. Dirty glasses and a cluttered floor were common, and most of those in Renhaven either avoided Pem’s and chose the higher-class Tully’s instead, or came only for the cheap drinks.

“What?” Pem said in a gravelly voice as Baler approached the bar.

“You got a bed?” There was no point in being polite to Pem – kind words would never come back from the beast.

“Yeah, I got a few. That all you wanted to know?” The barkeep grinned.

“No,” Baler said flatly. “I wanted to know if you’d rent me one for the night.”

“Sure.” Pem extended a grimy hand. “Four silver.”

Baler recoiled at the hand, horrified he’d ever taken a drink from any glass Pem had touched and suddenly quite sure he didn’t want to spend any time at all in one of the fat man’s beds.

“Forget it,” he said sharply, turning toward the door. Pem made an indelicate sound – no surprise – but Baler ignored it. A war of half-formed grunts with the wouldn’t get Baler home any quicker, and would mean more time to notice exactly what was wrong in the bar. No matter what the streets of Renhaven held at night, it had to be better than staying until morning at Pem’s.

He’d gone two blocks before a solid knot of fear settled into his stomach. The condition of the bar had distracted him enough that he hadn’t been able to focus on the sounds he started to hear and the smells that seemed to rise from the cobblestones themselves. Warm, fresh things, they tickled his nose and had him gagging as he walked, doing his best to focus on the stones in front of him and not the dark houses beside.

Two more blocks and he saw the first of them, shambling through the middle of the street as though it owned the dark cobbles, and the breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe the elders who spoke of the nighttime residents of the city, but he’d never seen one up close, never had occasion to be out when they rose from their slumber.

Cold fear held him until the thing passed by, not bothering to spare him a single glance or so much as drift a step in his direction. Baler was glad of that, but anger joined his slight joy at having been overlooked; this was his city more than the things that stalked its streets, and fear should be theirs, not his, to endure.

“Hey!” He called as the thing reached a bend in the road and it turned, long arms swinging and smooth face devoid of expression. “You don’t belong here – this is our city!”

The beast didn’t reply but smiled slightly, a grotesque approximation of the grins Baler was used to seeing on his friends and family. Without a word, it turned again and slipped off into the night, angling for a house down the road that glowed with amber light.

Baler’s eyes went wide; he had heard of places where the night-things gathered, but had never thought to see one in person. He was moving again before he thought about it, letting his anger carry him along. Renhaven was a safe place, somewhere those of any creed and color could find a home. He would not see it destroyed by those who sprung from its cracks and crevasses.

By the time his fear came back, pushing at the base of his throat like a dagger-point, it was already too late. He could see movement from the house ahead, make out strange shapes twisting and twirling in the lamp-light. Afraid or not, he had to know.

His next five minutes were spent inching up to the house, taking slow and measured steps to ensure that he was not heard. From the noise inside the tall building, being heard was the least of his worries but Baler saw no need to be any more incautious. He’d already risked enough.

Getting to the window proved simple, but looking inside took far more nerve. The elders never spoke about what the creatures did at night but only that they existed, only that they were to be feared. Though deep breaths helped him to relax, it soon became apparent no amount of rational thinking would provide a compelling reason to look inside.

With a sharp grunt, he forced himself to stare through the window and discover what went on once dark fell in Renhaven.

It took all his will not to retch.

They were everywhere; pink-skinned things with rounded teeth and fur sprouting only from gently curving heads. Their forms were covered in garish cloth and their feet were covered, trapped in wrappings of leather and silk. Strains of foul music played, a tune to haunt the ages with its surging tempo and airy strains.

Humans.

The word came unbidden, a remembrance from a speech of the eldest, the wisest of them all. He had called them humans, and said they were a blight upon the land, one that could not be cleansed.

Turning on his heels, Baler dropped to all fours and sprinted off into the night, wind streaming through his fur as he ran. Daylight would come soon, and he hoped to forget – Renhaven was a very different place at night.


- D

Story #302 - Uncasting

Uncasting

There was a snuffling sound behind him, a quick huffing of breath as if for a sigh or a scream.

“V…v…” David could tell from the consonant’s panicked tone that the woman behind him had seen what he’d hoped would go unnoticed.

Ducking into an alleyway before the next strip mall on his right, he took off at a dead run and made for another cross-street. Behind him, the woman’s voice rose to a scream that echoed along narrow alley walls.

“Vampire!”

Coming back onto the street, David slowed his pace and tried to look as stunned as those around him. Vamps weren’t common after the Purging but there were still a few lurking around, weak and wan things that lamented the loss of their brethren. He wasn’t a vampire, but explaining that to anyone who didn’t know him was a stretch. Lacking a shadow meant he was a vamp – for most people, that was enough.

David wasn’t sure where he’d lost his shadow or when it would be coming back, if ever. He’d woken up a month ago feeling as though something was missing, something was gone, but couldn’t put his finger on it and chalked it up to a bad dream. A bright morning and a sharp-eyed houseguest told the tale, leading his hung-over female companion to burst screaming from his condo into the sunlight. From there, it had only been a few steps to his own discovery of the problem.

Not having the black passenger attached to his body hadn’t made life any more difficult, but it also hadn’t given him any kind of super-powers, at least that he could find. Pundits and preachers across the country were whining that “old evils were new again”, but most of those affected by whatever had been stirred up in the metaphysical realm weren’t exactly crying in church pews. Some were out saving the world while others had turned to a life of crime, and vamps – the first such oddities to appear – were hunted nearly to extinction.

“What’s her problem?” A gruff voice said from behind David.

“Dunno,” another dull male tone was the response. “Probably one of them crazies.”

“Shut up, man!” The first one said again. “I told you I don’t wanna hear about that crap!”

“Whatever.” His friend’s tone was frosty. “Like I care what you want. Those freaks are out here – all around us. That dude in front of us is probably some kind of whack-job.”

David tensed. He’d been in a few fights over the last three weeks, leading to a bruised ego more than anything. Blood hadn’t flowed – yet – but it was only a matter of time.


He took a quick left into the next shop door he came to, yanking the wooden door open harder than necessary. If the two behind him had noticed something, chances are they wouldn’t be willing to take it inside a business – the cops were cracking down on trouble in the downtown core.

“Welcome, David Faber.” A smooth female voice said from within the dark confines of the shop. Squinting, he tried to make out the face of the speaker or anything beyond the five feet of light at the front door, but it was no use.

“How the hell do you know my name?” Aggression wasn’t the smartest response, but he was tried of hiding, tried of feeling like a freak. He hadn’t asked to have his shadow ripped away, hadn’t asked to become a whack-job; it was wearing.

“I know many things, Uncasting One – things that are hidden to others or that they do not wish to see.”

“Come out here!” He bellowed. “Where I can see you!”

“Very well.”

There was a slither of movement from the darkness, a wavering shape that seemed to coalesce out of wooden cabinetry and smoky lights. A form appeared, willowy and well-hipped all the same time, smiling and yet stern. There was an overpowering sense of femininity to it, along with a very real sense of repulsion – David was sure a bad pick-up line would get him more than just a drink to the face. Whoever she was, whatever she was, the woman in front of him held power.

“Hello,” he stammered, “my name is –“

“David Faber.” She cut him off, and he didn’t bother to start up again. Aggressive women had always been his downfall. “I had expected you earlier.”

“Earlier?” He chose the single word carefully. Information was what he needed, not a fight.”

“Of course,” she nodded, moving in a slow circle around him. It took all of his willpower not to turn and face her, not to protect himself from her gaze. She hadn’t put a hand on him – yet – but he was sure a touch was only a single mistake away. “You have been known to me since your darkness was lost. Few can banish their darkness, but you did it without thought.”

“Banish darkness?” He said, frowning. “You mean my shadow?”

“Yes. Yes. Shadow.” The word came out through clenched teeth, a sinister thing that was far less benign than when he spoke of it. “You do not yet realize, David Faber. You do not yet know.” She was in front of him again, suddenly. It took a great deal of effort not to step back. “You are incorruptible.”

He laughed, but her face said the words weren’t meant as a joke. His entire adult life had been spent corrupting himself as much as possible, and enjoying every minute of it.

“Silence!” She barked, and he bit his lip to stifle his smirk. “There is a vast darkness coming, one greater than any of your kind has ever seen. Only a few of you have been chosen to stand against it, David – and you are such a one. The shadow you once bore is a conduit, a way for what will appear to enter the world.” The woman spat out a hiss and jumped back, swinging at a blackened creature rising from the floor.

From her shadow.

“Help!” She screamed, and David lunged forward. A swung fist seemed useless, but he couldn’t think of another option. The shadow shattered like thin ice as he struck. “Savior!” The strange woman screamed.

What the hell was going on?



- D

Story #301 - Maestro

Maestro

“There are very few people in your position, Maestro,” Ser Dollan’s voice was cold. “I’d expect you’d show more gratitude for what you have.”

Kellor dropped his head in an apparent pose of submission, but inside he seethed. Dollan had been running roughshod over the palace staff since his father left for the front, and no one had the good sense to stand up and call his bluff. He had no right to remove any of them from office, or even demand they change their practice – the older Ser had been very clear on that point before departing. Still, Ser Dollan had an air of authority about him, along with a hard face and a range of withering looks that put most of those in his father’s service in a state of fear for their livelihoods.

The Ser didn’t scare Kellor, but fighting the man on the choice of music that would be played at the Festday’s grand meal was not worth his time.

“My apologies, Ser Dollan. You are correct, of course. I have been in fortunate to remain in your father’s employ for so long, and sometimes I forget my place.” It was a suitable apology, but carried a reminder of who actually paid his wages. He was no slave, like the chattel property that tended the horses and turned down the bed linens – many of those had been brought from the eastern provinces, and had no hope other than to serve well. His was the realm of music and composition, creation and performance. Arguments over the authenticity of a particular piece written some ten years ago had stalled a rising career, and muted a brilliant muse; Kellor had been forced to seek gainful employment outside the orchestral world. Ser Tallen was a great admirer, and graciously offered a job for as long as Kellor wanted it at a reasonable rate of pay. The younger Ser was a minor inconvenience, and one that had never bothered Kellor until now. Hopefully, bad habits could be broken before the older Ser passed in to the void and his son became the public face of the family.

“Your apologies are of no moment, Maestro, only your actions, so I tell you again – we will have Mageth’s concerto at the Festday, and you will ensure it is played to perfection.” Dollan leaned back in his chair – it stopped just short of being a throne, and certainly had not been left by his father. In the two weeks since Ser Tallen had left, Dollan had made sure that he was bowed and scraped to at every turn, and that he always sat in a room’s tallest chair. It was infantile, but there was no one to pull out the carpet on the young popinjay, and Kellor had no interest in trying to find an edge.

“You shall have what you desire, Ser Dollan,” he said shortly, meeting the other man’s eyes. “I will see to it.”

“I expect nothing less, Maestro. I am the heir, after all.” Dollan paused to glare. “In fact, I think that I may remove the musical staff completely when my father passes on. I’ve never been impressed with the screeching of your strings and the bleating of your trumpets, and the music you compose is truly awful. Think of the money I’ll save with no musicians to employ!”


Deep breaths were his only recourse against a reply that would do no good. Dollan was pushing, trying to goad rash action and form some grounds for dismissal, but Kellor would not give him the satisfaction. If the young Ser wanted the foul strains of Mageth, he would have them.

“You are dismissed, Maestro,” Dollan said when it became apparent he would receive no response. “We will not speak again until the Festday.”

Such an arrangement suited Kellor perfectly, and found his spirits lifting as he swept out of the Ser’s presence and into the palace itself. Dollan clearly believed he had set an impossible task, but the orchestra was familiar with Mageth, many of its members having come from the southern opera house. Their performance would not be flawless, but Dollar would never know the difference; his blackened soul made him unable to recognize either beauty or its opposite.

”You’re sure?” A gruff voice came down the corridor, and Kellor stopped, feet quiet on deep carpet. The sergeant-at-arms had a distinct cadence to his voice, along with a graveled rumble.

“Yeah,” an unfamiliar tone replied. “got the report this morning. Natural causes, they say, which is exactly what Dollan wanted.”

“Idiot!” The sergeant barked. “Poisoning his father – that’s a risky game, Gemmel, and one I wouldn’t play even for this kind of power.” There was a sharp laugh. “Money, though, that’s something else entirely. I’ve got no love for the young pup, but he paid me enough to retire.”

The other man – Gemmel – spoke again. “Money spends, and without all that pesky business about conspiracy to commit murder. At least, so long as no one ever knows you’re the one who packed Ser’s travelling bags.”

“I didn’t.” the sergeant’s tone was scathing. “What do you take me for, Gemmel? I guess when you’ve been a two-bit merc as long as you have, instincts get a little rusty.” There was the sound of steel being bared and a hiss of breath, but no cries followed, no heavy bodies crumpled to the floor.

“That’s right, little man,” the sergeant said finally, “put that blade away. Take your pay and get out of my sight, or I’ll make sure you never live to spend it.”

“You’re not worth it,” Gemmel rasped out, and Kellor heard the quick tread of feet speeding down away. Steeling himself, he picked up his pace and walked quickly forward, meeting the sergeant around the next hallway corner.

“Maestro!” He said brightly, “coming from a visit with our little Ser? Gods, but I hope his father returns soon.”

“As do I, sergeant,” Kellor said, thoughts spinning. “as do I.” Notes ran through his mind, phrases of music he’d never been able to clearly see. His muse had returned, a fragile thing – a traitor’s lament.

- D

Story #300 - Gennos

Gennos

The war was over.

It was hard for Tam Chedran to believe, hard for him to wrap his head around the idea that what had been announced on the holo-news was the truth. Part of him was sure it was a trick – that more Genno would come sweeping down out of the sky at any moment, hungry for the blood of civilians. The streets were still littered with broken bodies from their last attack; crews from the clean-up squads couldn't work fast enough to keep ahead of the constant barrage of landing parties.

No one really knew how the war began – months after landing on earth for the first time, the seemingly friendly aliens had opened fire during a routine diplomatic mission. Other races the World Council was on friendly terms with quickly removed their ambassadors from the planet's surface and stated the problem was an “internal matter”, one in which they couldn't take sides. Out-manned and outgunned, the global military had no choice but to dig in and hope that they could hold push the Gennos back.

It hadn't worked out so well.

Stepping around a particularly large pile of bodies, Tam kept his eyes locked on the distant horizon. A medical ship had gone down not three blocks from his house, and it had been his turn to go out and see if there was anything worth salvaging. It seemed like it was always his turn, but whenever he brought it up mother told him he was being too sensitive – he was a middle child, and had always struggled for attention under the potential brilliance of his older brother and the complete idiocy of his younger. Random selection was the only fair way to determine who would brave the torn streets, his mother said, and it wasn't her fault he had been picked again.

Tam smiled. This time, she'd have to be happy when he got back, have to give him praise for what he'd done. The ship had been right where it was supposed to be and filled to the brim with medical equipment and treatment kits. Others in the neighborhood were too scared to send out searching parties anymore, but Tam's mother was convinced that for them to have any chance of survival, they would have to stand up for themselves – his father had told her as much just before he left to fight the Gennos at one of the central defense hubs. There had been no word from him in two years, but Tam wasn't going to give up hope until a well-dressed military man came calling and told them they had Bul Chedran's body in a bag somewhere. As he rounded the last corner to the house, a dark green van came into view and he broke into a run; he should never have had the thought.

Flying through the front door he threw the sack of kits on the ground and started screaming for his mother. He was the quiet one in the family, the one who didn't speak up, but wasn't about to be ignored or put off – if his father was dead, he wanted to know when and how.

Tam found two well-dressed military men in the living room, standing uncomfortably while his mother and two brothers sat. Rel had his hands clasped in front of him and the stern expression on his face that never seemed to disappear. Even when they were children playing, Tam's older brother never seemed happy. Wen looked despondent, and there were obvious tear-tracks on both of his cheeks. The younger Chedran had always been emotional, and typically Tam took it in stride. Not today.

“Tam,” his mother said gently, rising from the couch. “Please, come and sit down.”

“I got the kits!” He announced triumphantly. Terrible words were about to be spoken, and he wanted at least a moment more of happiness, a second longer to enjoy having done something right.

“That's very good, son,” mother said, smiling, “now come here.”

“No.” It was silly, but going into the room would make whatever the two men had to say real, make it something he could not ignore.

“Son,” the larger of the men said, stepping forward “please. This is important.”

The man's voice reminded him of father's – deep-toned but kind – and he moved before he thought about refusal. Mother pulled him close and then pushed him onto the couch beside her.

“The war is over,” the other man announced, removing his white cap. “A treaty has been reached.”

“Did you come all the way here to tell us that?” Rel's voice was critical. “We saw that on the holo!”

“Listen, you -” the man started forward, but his bigger companion cut him off.

“No, son.” He said. “We just needed a starting point. The war is over, but the Gennos didn't leave without getting something out of us in return. We had no hope of throwing 'em off-planet and they knew it. The other races in our quadrant wanted peace and put pressure on the green-skinned bastards to stop what they were doing, so the Gennos finally agreed but demanded the Council agree to a price.”

“Too high, if you ask me,” the other one chimed in, and the big man shot a dark look at his companion.

“We've been tasked with ensuring the Council complies with its part of the bargain.” Tam could see a bit of his father's face in the man's features. The nose especially was familiar.

“I'm sorry,” he went on, pointing at Tam, “but your middle son is going to have to come with us. All middle children are being given to the Gennos in payment for their cessation of hostilities.”

The world exploded, his mother on her feet screaming while Rel tried to rush the white-suited men only to be firmly pushed back. Wen wept openly, and Tam felt a slow smile creep across his face. They did care, after all.

“Let's go,” he said shortly, moving to stand beside the two men. “My family has things to do. Mother, use the kits wisely.” He looked at his brothers. “Rel, Wen – take care of her for me.”

“Son,” the larger man spoke again, “you're doing the right thing.”

“And you're not,” Tam said sharply, “but that's the price of peace. The war is over. Let's go.”

- D

Story #299 - Cold Day

Cold Day

“Hang on for a second before you go outside.” Pal Zebra, the station's Commander, said before Jim reached the inner hull door. “We need to check the temperature readings.”

“Why?” He had been planet-side for six months, and had seen just about everything the not-so-earthlike rock could throw at them. Another day of cold weather was something he was prepared to endure.

“Because I said so!” Zebra was a good man, but could get rattled under pressure – he really had no business at the station Commander, but was the only one willing to take on the job when it had been offered. Jim had been with the Expeditionary Force for twenty years, and had no interest in Zebra's position. Sure, the pay was better but just about everything else was a hell of a lot worse. Not only were you required to keep all of the engineers, astrotechs and flyboys happy on the surface of whatever world you were assigned, but if something went wrong it was your ass on the line. A increase in rank and a few more creds pay weren't worth the headache, as far as Jim was concerned.

“Do you want to try that again, Commander?” He said gently. There was no point in screaming at the thin man, especially since he'd take it instead of fighting back or threatening security action. Pal was the least offensive of any Commander Jim had served under, though that wasn't always a good thing. Discipline on the station was lax, at best, and several ambitious members of the thousand member team had started to get ideas about a possible change in leadership. On earth they'd never have considered such a thing, but being out on the fringes did odd things to the mind. “Why exactly can't I go outside?”

“Temperature, Jim,” Pal's voice was calmer now, “we've detected a massive storm moving in from the north – a kind we've never seen before. If our readings are accurate, it could be twice as cold as anything we've encountered so far. Even your gear wouldn't be enough to save you.”

Jim grunted, then stepped aside. The Commander was the only one who knew how to use the temp-monitoring equipment, or so he believed. Reading a thermometer - no matter how technologically advanced - was a simple matter, but Pal needed something that was his alone,and everyone else on the station was willing to let him have the outside monitoring station for his bailiwick.

“Minus twenty-five right now, Jim – you're good to go out for a while, but I want you back here in two hours.”

A quick nod and Jim moved to the door handle again. He had no intention of being back in the allotted time, but there was no sense in arguing the point with Zebra. The Commander wouldn't discipline him, regardless, and he had samples that needed to be collected on Alpha Ridge – an hour and a half away, even by speeder. “I'll see you soon.”

Zebra nodded back and then wandered back into the station, hands clasped at his waist. He was a good man and in another circumstance Jim was sure they could get along, but as a Commander Pal did nothing except interfere with the research taking place on the station. Jim wasn't one of the mutineers, but agreed that a change of command would be best for everyone.

Five minutes of prep saw him on the planet's surface, zipping up his cryo-coat to the neck and making sure no wind could get in under his gloves or around his faceguard. He'd lived through worse temperatures even back on earth but if Pal was right - the cold was just getting started on Taral X. Waiting a few more days to get the samples would have been easier, but precise calculations said that they would be useless in less than twenty-four hours and if a storm was coming that time could shorten even more.

Doing his best to ignore the wind, Jim grabbed the nearest speeder and set off for the Red Hills. Time was wasting.

***

Pal hadn't been kidding about the storm – for once, the Commander had been absolutely accurate in his prediction.

A cave had been the only thing to save Jim from the howling wind and snow that swept down just as he reached the sample site, and though he'd been able to collect everything he set up a week ago it wouldn't do him much good if he couldn't get back and analyze it. Another look outside showed that the snow was only getting worse; it was still difficult to call the heavy greenish slop “snow”, but he'd been assured its properties were nearly identical to the white and fluffy version back on earth.

His communicator remained mute thanks to EM shifts in the hills, but Jim was typically able to get out at least a burst signal if he needed help. It must have been the storm – high-altitude lightning was a common feature for even winter weather on Taral X, one that only added to his problems calling the station.

Two fire packs were all he'd thought to bring, which would give him heat to last a single night. Driving through the snow on a speeder was possible but dangerous in the dark, and he'd prefer to see his death coming.

Two hours had him just settling in when he heard a noise further back in the cave. Most of the region had been surveyed for life, but the shifting EM pulses interfered with even short-range equipment. Jim cursed himself for leaving his blaster back at the station, then stood and moved to put the fire between his body and the back of the cave.

“Hello?” He called, loudly. Hopefully, whatever he'd heard was small and skittish.

“Noserea?” It took him a moment to place the reply as language, though not one he'd ever heard. A figure emerged from the darkness, tall and pale, with eyes too small for a wide head and arms that seemed on the verge of breaking. He cursed again. Zebra was the exobiologist, not him, and he had no idea what to do next.

The strange thing walked up to the fire, extending thin hands and fixing him with a stretched smile.

Jim smiled back, fear rising. It appeared he had a bunkmate for the night.

- D

Story #298 - Missing Persons

Missing Persons

Another twist of the key and a frustrated curse-word did no good; the engine of the SUV refused to turn over. Gilles Norenburg knew this had been coming – he'd been warned before he left the city, but it wasn't as though he'd had many alternatives. The last licensed mechanic shop closed up three weeks ago, and though there will still those in Carhaven who insisted there were no problems in the town, Gilles had seen and heard enough over the last six months to know better.

People were disappearing, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that they weren't simply leaving the city because they'd found jobs elsewhere. That had been the line at first, the fiction city councilmen and women had tried to spin and it had worked – at least for the first dozen gone. After that it became obvious to Gilles that something very wrong was happening, something he had no explanation for whatsoever. When Annie had gone missing, it had been all he could do to keep his head on straight but none of his friends saw anything sinister about her sudden absence.

“She does that sometimes,” they had said. “She'll be back.” When Gilles had asked where she went, he was met with blank stares or bemused looks. No one seemed to know, and no one seemed to consider it a problem.

Things had finally come to a head when the Mayor decided to form a Night Watch, something he said all citizens were required to act in as members. At first, Gilles had breathed a small sigh of relief, happy to know that his concerns were finally being taken seriously. As the Mayor continued to speak, however, it became clear that the focus of the Watch wasn't going to be on finding those that were missing, but making sure that no one else left town.

“We're all Carhaven has left,” the broad-faced man had said, “we can't let it down.”

The speech sent Gilles scrambling to find his suitcase and pack up everything of value. If the crazies in the town weren't willing to acknowledge anyone had left but were suddenly concerned about losing more people in the night, who knew what their next move would be? News from other towns had been spotty in recent days as the local TV station cut in an out – probably an issue with staffing – but Gilles was sure things had to be better beyond Carhaven than within its walls.

Getting into his run-down SUV, he'd been warned by Bob across the alley that his battery was getting low. The older man was a former mechanic, and said he could tell just from the sound of the thing backing up each morning that it was on its last legs. Gilles hadn't bothered to respond, just thrown his bag in the passenger seat and torn out into the street. He'd filled up with gas just the day before, and with any luck would see Henold before the sun set. At first, everything had gone to plan – he'd gotten out of Carhaven without even a whisper of a problem, and he'd started to relax.

Another curse and a few strikes to the steering wheel with the palm of his hand told him how foolish that had been.

Quick math told him Carhaven was thirty miles behind him and Henold was still over forty miles north. It wasn't cold; autumn had been hanging on for weeks, but he wasn't exactly dressed for a long walk. Still, going back wasn't something he could stomach. If he was lucky another intelligent soul would also be making a run for it, and they might have the decency to pick him up. He felt a bit guilty at the thought – if he'd seen someone, he wouldn't have stopped. Hopefully, anyone else on the road would be of better character.

Two hours passed with not a car from either direction, and Gilles began to grimace with each step. The black loafers he'd thrown on were fine for the local park or the mall, but didn't have anything in the way of support or comfort for long walks. Glancing at the sun, he made it two hours before sunset; if he was going to stop and rest, it needed to be soon.

A flat rock along the highway provided the perfect spot to sit and catch his breath. He tried not to think of Carhaven, of what he'd left behind but it was difficult. Two years and his house would have been paid off, and three more would have given him enough money to travel. The town had never been his first choice, but they had work for teachers – in the south, he would have been on a waiting list with two hundred others just for a chance at a job. At least in Carhaven he'd been able to start right away.

By the time he picked his feet up again, sunset had come. With Annie by his side he would have called it beautiful, but each inch the golden orb in the sky sunk the worse he felt. Nights were when whatever was happening in Carhaven happened – if only he had some idea of what that was!

Darkness had arrived when he heard the voice.

“Gilles?” It was Annie. No question, though there was a lisp to her speech he'd never heard, a softness in her “s”.

A startled yelp broke out of him before he could catch it. “Yes! Yes? Annie! What are you doing out here?”

There was a rustle at the side of the road and then figure burst out of the brush, filthy and hunched over. Sticks were caught in Annie's long brown hair, and her arms were covered in small nicks and cuts. Her mouth was locked in a grin, one that didn't disappear even as she spoke.

“I'd hoped you'd come to us! The Blue One said you wouldn't, said you knew too much, but I was sure. I was sure you would come. I'm so glad you're here!” She stepped toward him f but Gilles moved to the side, catching her arm and spinning her around.

“The Blue One?”

She nodded, then wrapped a hand tightly around his own. “Yes. Yes. Come with me! Come with me!”

- D

Story #297 - Phased

Phased

“Carrot,” his mind said, but Julian Asso kept his mouth shut and tried to focus on the object in front of him. It was ovoid and brown, with dark spots and pockmarks at random intervals on its surface. He'd seen it thousands of times before, eaten more as a child than he cared to remember – it had to be a carrot.

With an effort, he forced himself to draw on a new set of mental connections, ones he'd been building for the past four months. Each time it was an effort to find them, hidden away under the now-active part of his mind, the part that was not really familiar, not really him. A new word came to mind, one not connected to the familiar image of the carrot in front of him, but to its specific characteristics.

“Potato,” he said aloud, and a small bell chimed. “It's a potato,” he said again for good measure. Though the bell had sounded and he'd been proven right, it did nothing for the feeling of dissonance inside of him, the feeling that something was terribly awry. Julian was learning to cope with his unwanted passenger, but wished he didn't have to – he just wanted to go back to his home, back to work, back to being normal.

Ten more objects were presented and he identified each one correctly. A large green fruit with dark and light stripes was correctly called a watermelon, though he knew it had to be a grape. The picture of a building with a smiling family in front of it was a house, not a car, and a furry animal with a long tail and whiskers was a house cat, not an elephant. Despite the relative ease of the test, Julian found himself exhausted as it came to a conclusion.

“Exit to your right,” Doctor Tallow's voice came over the lab speakers. “I will meet you in the break room.”

Julian's stomach rumbled to remind him that food was still a necessity, even if his palate had changed significantly since being brought to the Center. It still rankled that those at his work turned him over to Tallow and the others, but he knew they really had no choice. An Peace Enforcer could not afford to make mistakes about what he saw and how it was contextualized – people could die as a result. Still, they could have at least given him some warning instead of springing it on him like some kind of goddamned surprise or intervention. One minute, he'd been sitting as his desk finishing up some knitting, and the next he'd been danced out the door and into a waiting balloon.

He frowned. Paperwork. Pulled. Van. Those were the words he really wanted, or at least the ones that others would understand. It was hard to believe that everyone around him had such a difficult time with simple concepts, but he was in the minority – the rest of the world told him he was wrong, and Julian had no choice but to agree.

“I'm sorry.” That was the voice of the passenger he'd picked up two months ago, the sound in his head he'd assumed was an inner muse suddenly come to life. The voice had been quick to explain it was some kind of alien life-form, and though Julian still wasn't sure he hadn’t just gone off the deep end, the voice seemed to know a great deal about things beyond the pay-grade of an Enforcer. His passenger also apologized for interfering with Julian's ability to comprehend the world – something to do with an overlapping of neurons and slight incompatibility with the human form. Whatever the case, it was his passenger's fault that Julian had to learn object recognition all over again, but he wasn't so stupid as to tell the good doctors helping him about the voice he was carrying around. As it stood, he had a good chance of getting back to work with a minimum of fuss and a healthy payday from the Enforcement branch for his new-found disability, but if he blabbed about his ride-along he'd never leave the white-walled facility of Dr. Tallow and his cpmpatriots.

“You're doing really well, Julian,” the voice said as he strode into the cafeteria. “I just wish I was more help.”

“You're doing great, Julian!” Tallow's voice echoed the sentiment when Julian reached the small lunch-table. “I'm confident I'll have you out of here by the end of the week. Fine work on my part!”

Julian smiled with no feeling. Like most doctors, Tallow was convinced of his own brilliance, but that posed no problem so long as it meant open doors and a return to normal life.

“Soon,” the voice said. “Soon.”

***

It had taken the better part of three months for the other Enforcers to start trusting Julian again, but once they saw he handled himself just like he always had, they began to relax.

“Check one, come in,” he said into his mic, and a hissing response came in reply. All units were in position, and none had spotted any threat to the ambassador.

Julian scanned the crowd, forcing himself to see past what his mind immediately called up when he saw each face. Enemies! It called out. Everywhere! He willed himself to look at their posture, examine their hands and scan their faces rather than rely on snap judgments. In some ways it made him better, more alert, but it was frustrating to distrust every piece of information his mind collected.

A car door slammed behind him and he turned, looking for the ambassador.

“Perfect,” said the voice in his head, and he felt a sense of retreat, of loss. A large man was coming down the carpeted aisle toward him, hands in his pockets and frame covered in a tailored black suit.

“Friend!” His mind screamed, and Julian reached for his pistol.

Shots rang out, the others on his squad came running; it was too late. Julian laughed as they cuffed him and threw him to the ground. Couldn't they see? Didn't they know? He'd saved them, saved the ambassador. He was a hero.

- D

Story #296 - Drums Of War

Drums Of War

Ka-thum.

Ka-thum.

Ka-thun. Ka-thum. Ka-thum.

The drums drove him forward, despite fear, despite terror that threatened to hold him back. He’d been trained, modified, adjusted to act in accordance with their rhythm, move according to their beat. It wasn’t involuntary, hardly forced – he had joined the Corps at a young age, hoping for glory and honor.

A dozen years passed quickly, in and out of engagements across the quadrant, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but never dead and never dying. Corporal Loe Soress was one of the lucky ones, one of the few who made it through unscathed, physically. His mind had fared more poorly, his eyes had seen more than any man should have been able to hold, but he soldiered on, marching sharply to the beat of a thousand drums.

It was the Dutharians who had sparked the ire of the Overlords, who had chosen to resist rather than fall under their sway. Once, the name of the Overlords had been spoken in jest, a mocking title fit for a group that believed they were greater than their sum, believed they could reach farther than their grasp. The drums had changed all that, sent enemies scurrying back into holes and given the Overlords undisputed control over the quadrant, but still they were not satisfied.

It took only dissention from those the Overlords approached for an attack to be launched. Refusal of any demand, any dictate meant the drums and the men they brought, submission forced upon those who were simply trying to act in their own best interests.

Loe understood his role, though could no longer pretend it pleased him. He was a tool, an instrument of the Overlords, designed to sing a song of war and death, and sing it well.

The first ranks crashed into waiting Dutharians, huge bug-eyed things with thick arms and plated chests. They screamed as power-lances cut their hides, and fired back with a volley of nu-bolts. All around Loe men died, the audible agony of their passing swept over by the rush of drums.

Ka-thum. Ka-thum. Ka-ka-thum.


He charged forward, dropping his lance and pulling a dagger from his belt. Commanders had told him to return it, superiors had demanded he relinquish it, but none had carried out veiled threats of court-martial or punishment for not complying – Loe was too valuable to lose. The dagger made him feel better about his choices, his actions, as though he were fighting man-to-beast instead of at the behest of roaring rhythm. All around him, Durthari died and he wore their blood, refused to wipe it from his arms or face as a symbol of his victory, his power over the enemy.

Men rallied to his side, fear melting from their movements as they saw him fight. Captains called orders but they were ignored as Loe pushed forward, opening a hole in the Durtharian lines and driving toward their commander, heads taller than his soldiers and screaming almost as loudly as the beat of the drums.

Fire and death rained down, to the left and the right flesh was seared, limbs were severed and under him the ground shook, heaved, and tried to buck those who would do violence upon it. Loe remained firm; he could not be thrown.

The commander glared down at him, a giant sizing up a tiny morsel, and Loe flourished his dagger, spinning it across his hand and then flipping it into the air. A howl drowned out the pulse of drumbeats and he felt confidence waver, felt his surety slip. Those around him stepped back as the commander strode forward, mouth open in a wail and blunt teeth dripping ichor.

A single swipe threw a dozen men across the field, and its return killed five more. Blood and death became Loe’s world, luck and skill keeping him alive in equal measure. The commander roared, friend and foe alike falling around him to the earth, hands over ears and eyes wide in fear. Even Loe was driven down, knees plunging into soft dirt, vision distorted at the sound. Distantly, a familiar beat called, fading as light bled out.

Ka-thum.

Ka-thum.

Silence.

Fear came quickly, rushing in where rhythm had been, where absolute certainty had taken root. The Overlords had been clever, quick to train those they owned in the arts of war, but foolish to rely so heavily on what they considered a perfect solution, an answer to the problem of failing courage in the ranks of the faithful, of the paid.

A scaled fist rose and the commander’s face split in a grin, for a moment stifling the battlefield in a choke of silence. Loe stared up, wide-eyed, at the fisted death coming for him, the swift end that would mark his passing.

The drums were silent; the fight had ended.

His heart beat.

Ka-thum.

It was quiet, a whisper as to a storm. It was loud, a detonation to single crack.

Ka-thum. Ka-thum. KA-THUM!

Loe moved, rolling from his knees, heavy blow swiping through the air above him. The dagger left his hand, a flash of twisting steel in the smoke and fire, and found the commander’s neck, slipping into a fleshy node just under the jutting chin. Down the beast went, crashing to the ground, as did those around him, driving their faces into the dirt.

Wholesale slaughter began as men found their courage, and used it to butcher those they did not understand. Corporal Loe Soress turned, sheathed his dagger, and moved toward the line.

It was the drums that had kept him coming back, the sense of pride and power that filled him each time their beat rang out. They fueled him, they defined him.

They were his.

The Overlords had nothing left to offer, nothing left to give. Perhaps they would let him leave peacefully – perhaps he would die in the attempt. It did not matter. They had provided, but he had created. His drums of war sang out, and could no longer be made quiet.


- D

Story #295 - Spy Game

Spy Game

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Gelnik.” Steele Tanner extended a bronzed hand, but I didn't bother to take it. I'd worked for one too many agencies to fall for that old trick.

Tanner frowned, almost the perfect impression of hurt surprise, but I ignored it and spun as soon as I heard his office door open. Light footsteps on plush carpet told me exactly where the two grunts behind me were going to be, and a single swing was enough to take both of them down and have them cradling soon-to-be bruised faces.

“Thank you, Director Tanner,” I said, straightening my tie. I'd considered business casual, but felt like I owed it to myself to get dressed up this one last time. Hell or high water, I wasn't leaving this firm, even if I had to burn the building to the ground. My fortieth birthday had come and gone in the last month, and I'd realized just what a heaping bank account and eight Central American governments on my tail got me in life – and that was exactly nothing. With any luck, Tanner would bench me after I botched a few missions, and I could ride a desk until I found someone worth settling with over the long haul. “I'm pleased to be here.”

“This way,” Tanner said, moving his lithe form out from behind the large oak desk. I took a moment to study the head of EPSIS as he swept by me for the door; though he was well-built and had the nondescript features so many spies wanted, he was shorter than any of the others I'd worked for in the industry. From my time around the best and worst the world of professional spying had to offer, I knew that Tanner's height was something of an inside joke, and something he took very seriously.

“What do you think of our new HQ?” He asked as we stepped out into the main hallway. “I know you've seen our old one at least once.” Tanner smiled at that – it was no secret I'd been able to infiltrate six out of the ten top agencies in the world during my time on the job, and EPSIS had been the first. Ten years ago, they'd just been breaking into the business, and while they didn't have anything worth taking when I slipped inside, I'd done it more to prove I could than for any other reason. My boss at the time hadn't even ordered the mission, but was quick enough to take credit once he realized what I had been doing with my spare time.

“I like it,” I said, reaching out to strong-arm the tall man hiding in a branching hallway. This was standard fare for a new contract position, but I was growing weary of the game. Thought Tanner wasn't the best in the business, I'd at least hoped for something new. “It's a shorter drive from home.”

The little man shot me a dark glare, but there wasn't really anything he could say in response to my thinly veiled and not particularly funny insult. Calling me on it would just be awkward, and my statement wasn't so far out of bounds that he'd even be able to prove I meant anything by it. I did, of course, but that was because I liked to push and see what I could get away with every time I met a new supervisor. Some thought I was a laugh riot, others wanted me dead after the first words from my mouth. Tanner seemed to lie somewhere in the middle – a pleasant lack of interest either way, which was exactly why I'd chosen EPSIS. Sure, they paid less than NILCOM, and weren't nearly as exciting as WEX, but they had what I needed at my age – a way out of the game.

Tanner didn't speak again until we reached a gunmetal elevator door, and then waved me inside ahead of him when the door opened. I declined, of course, and he was forced to pretend like there wasn't another EPSIS employee lying in wait above our heads. Halfway through the ride down I couldn't resist and jumped up with an extended fist, striking the hiding man solidly in the midsection. He grunted but didn't fall, and Tanner pretended as though nothing had happened. I smiled. Perfect.

Exit into the basement brought us exactly where I'd expected – the gadget lab. Every agency needed one to stay competitive, and they were the main targets whenever a raid was conducted. Most of the technology in the field was similar, owing to the massive amounts of intellectual property theft that went on behind the scenes. For my part, I didn't care where my tech came from or who designed it so long as it worked. I'd left WEX for just that reason – their ops were high-level, but they tried to cut corners on gear. Three agents were killed by their own tech in the time I was there, and that was enough to get me out the door. Danger I could handle, so long as it was coming from somewhere else. If it was a ticking time-bomb somewhere on my own body that might go off the next time I made a phone call or tried to poison-dart a guard, I wasn't interested.

“Agent Gelnik,” Tanner pulled my attention back to his underground lab, “I'd like you to meet Doctor Stephanie Mell.”

“A pleasure, Agent.” The voice came with a slow drawl from a tall redhead I'd never seen before. I knew most of the brains hired by the agencies over the years, but Dr. Mell must have been a new addition to the EPSIS team, a far cry from the standard collection of old men with wild hair and a thousand whirling ideas on how to do science!

“I couldn't agree more, Dr. Mell.” It was a bit smarmy, I'll grant, but she was stunning. Though the white lab coat she had on was pristine and perfectly tailored, it only served to shore up the fact that she was a woman of near-perfect proportions. Not one of the stick-figures I'd seen so many times over the course of missions, breakable things sent by their masters to seduce and then poison me, but a real woman, with curves in the right places and a brain to match. Of all the dangers Tanner had thrown my way, this was the only one that posed a real risk.

“I'll let you two get acquainted,” Tanner turned on his heel and walked for the elevator. “Come see me when you're done, Gelnik – your first mission starts tonight.”

I nodded, not really listening. This was going to be trouble.

- D

Story #294 - Music Man

Music Man

“You want how much for it?” Dallen Friss was interested in the ollenium-plated instrument, but couldn’t let it show. The first rule of any business negotiation for customers was to appear less impressed with the goods than their quality demanded, and the first rule for any trader was to make them seem more appealing than they actually were. The sleek music-maker for sale was worth every credit the shady dealer was asking for, and Dallen was almost certain it was stolen.

He was also fairly certain he could live with that.

“A pittance!” Qular Ido smiled – Dallen had told the Urdian on several occasions to stop smiling at his customers, since three rows of needle-sharp teeth suddenly bared in their faces tended to drive off all but the most dedicated deal-buyers, but Qular seemed determined. His business was booming, regardless, with the demand for luxury items skyrocketing after the peace treaty’s signing. It had been a hard few years for the Feds, but things finally appeared to be settling down – and with that settling came the desire for goods that hadn’t been available during the war, goods like musical instruments. “This synth-trumpet is worth three times what I’m asking.”

Dallen frowned and made a show of considering the merchant’s offer. Qular was known for having access to some of the rarest goods in the quadrant, and charging prices that made them seem the rarest in the galaxy. The amount of credits he wanted for the trumpet were actually quite reasonable – likely because the shifty, green-eyed being knew little about music. His species had poorly developed ears and had created some of the worst music on the known worlds. Scholars studied their combinations of notes and tones as examples of how a species tried to mimic those it came in contact with, sometimes with little success. Of course, other peoples under Fed control tried their best to mimic the Urdians, but there was no duplicating their ability to deal, their skill in finding the best deals for themselves and marking up prices for others. To Dallen’s benefit, trumpet was the wrong thing for Qular to try and sell – he couldn’t properly set its value.

“Perhaps,” Dallen said as he picked up the glossy instrument and turned it over in his hands. It was heavier than it looked, something most amateurs would chalk up to a problem in the manufacturing process. Standard musical teaching held that lighter synth-trumpets were better for player posture and the spine, and while that was true for beginners, heavier instruments could produce a far superior sound. “Or maybe you’re just trying to gouge me. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Gouge!” Qular’s tone was offended. “How could you suggest such a thing, friend Dallen?” I have always dealt honestly with you!”

“Really?” Dallen couldn’t help but smile at the merchant’s indignation. “What about those duo-drums you sold me? The ones that phased out after three gigs? Or the set of sheet music I bought that not only changed every time I played it, but contained coded Imperial messages? I almost lost my head for that!”

“Trifles, trifles,” the merchant waved his hand. “I cannot be responsible for the phase of any items when sold – perhaps you encountered a pocket of piled space. As to the music, that it contained such important coded messages could only have been a boon to you and your Federation. I was merely doing my part.” The grin came out again, a Dallen did his best not to grimace in return. Qular was impressive in defense of his own inventory and moral cleanliness, a remarkable trait given his profession.

“Of course not, master merchant.” Dallen bowed slightly at the waist. “I apologize if I have slighted your honor. Now, to the matter of your moderately interesting musical instrument.” It took all of his willpower to hand the trumpet back nonchalantly; thoughts of it against his lips were hard to resist, but he knew as soon as he tried to play, Qular would consider the sale complete, and the guards in the city would agree with him.

“Ten thousand.” Qular said flatly as he took the trumpet again. “No less.”

Dallen sighed. “Eight would be the most I could offer, I’m afraid – we’ve had few bookings recently.”

“You cannot be serious! Nine-five is the least I could take, with barely enough to cover my expenses.”

“Nine,” Dallen said firmly. “More than I can afford, and less than you want.”

Qular squinted beady eyes and flexed tri-fingers hands, then nodded sharply. “Very well. Because you are a friend –and because you will come back, yes?”

“Always, Qular. You find some of the most interesting things in your travels.” Dallen reached into his jacket and pullet out a small credit-holo, then held it up to Qular’s own. In seconds, he was nine thousand credits poorer and the proud owner of the best instrument he’d ever seen.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you,” Qular said, but Dallen didn’t bother to reply. Trumpet in hand, he moved back into the city, and away from the merchant and his men. He had practicing to do.

***

“Impressive.” Unpo grunted after the musician had left.

“Adequate.” Qular replied. “He is not so stupid as he appears, but I knew his desire for the instrument would overwhelm him. I am just glad to be rid of it.”

The massive green alien starting down at Qular barked a laugh. “Of course you are – the foul thing has killed everyone who owned it for the past ten generations, always violently, and always unexpectedly.”

“I know that,” Qular bit off the words. “You were the one gracious enough to sell it, after all.”

Unpo smirked. “Your own fault, master merchant – you should have asked more about the instrument before buying it. Not everything that appears innocent is in fact so benign. And who knows? Perhaps you were able to divest yourself of it before it could visit its curse upon you.”

Qular grunted sourly. He felt bad about passing the thing off to Dallen – but death wasn’t something that could be paid off.


- D