...not entirely

While the "story a day" part of this blog has ended, it doesn't mean my fledgling writing career has gone down with it. As of right now, Feb 1, 2012, I'm halfway through editing what I hope will be my breakout novel, and I continue to write commercially for tech blog sites like InfoBoom and gaming sites like TORWars.

I appreciate those few of you who've read (or just started reading) my work, but this ride ain't over yet. The year of 1,000 words a day has only made my aim clearer - now I just have to take the shot.

Stay tuned. Things are coming.

- D

It's Over!

It's finally here - the end.

After three hundred and sixty-five stories and 365,000 words, this blog has run its course. I know I have only a precious few readers, I'm grateful for anyone who took the time to stop by, even for a moment. This exercise often seemed like one of futility, but I can honestly say it's made me a better writer, one more certain of his own creativity and ability to write, consistently, day after day.

It's with some sadness that I stop - these stories have become a part of my life, a part of my routine and though the time they take will be easily replaced with the work of editing my novel, a part of me will always remain here, among the words.

- D

Story #365 - Beginnings

Beginnings

“Are you certain this is what you wish to submit as your Web project?” Professor Klung's voice was cold. “I've looked it over, and to be honest it's not particularly good.”

Dave Bondar didn't argue, and instead extended a hand. “I've learned a great deal from you, Professor – your constant negativity has given me a drive to keep fighting, keep writing even when I didn't feel like it. I doubt you'll appreciate the irony, but when publish my first book you'll be at least partly responsible.” Anger at the constant, belittling comments the man had made over the course of the term was the easier choice, but Dave was done struggling against opinions that didn't matter. He had dreams, and achieving them meant doing what he loved, and doing it well.

“I -” Klung started, but Dave cut him off.

“Don't bother prof, and don't worry about the Website. Creativity comes in all shapes and sizes and I just needed a place to let my muse out. You'll hate it, but give me a passing grade, and never see me again. Sound fair?”

After a long moment Klung nodded and Dave turned, a boisterous tune swelling in his head. Beginnings were always exciting.

***

“So you've had experience...where, exactly?” The interviewer's face was slack and his eyes dull – he'd seen at least forty other candidates before getting to Dave, and the looks on their faces as they exited the conference room said not one had been hired to work at the magazine.

“Nowhere,” Dave said brightly. “I've done a smattering of work online, but mostly write my own stuff. Chasing the dream of book publication, just like everyone else in your waiting room.”

The thin, suited man focused his eyes on Dave's own. “Really? And here I thought they wanted to work for my magazine.”

Dave shrugged. If the man really was the owner, his disinterest spoke volumes about the kind of operation he was running.

“No, not really. I'm here because I need a job to pay for my apartment in the city, and to keep food on the table while I write – everyone else waiting to see you is in the same boat. Getting hired would mean a better chance of meeting someone in the industry that wants to publish my work, not just have me spin out banal articles day and night.”

“If that's how you feel, young man,” the suit's tone was clipped, “then you're not the right fit for our business, and I suspect you'll have difficulty finding anyone to read your work. The samples you submitted were mediocre at best.”

Standing, Dave extended a hand that wasn't taken and then spun on his heel, mellow music coming to mind. Endings were always exciting.

***


“Dave!” Cora called. “I need your help down here – Murphy's throwing up again and Brianna won't stop crying!”

With a small sigh Dave headed to the kitchen, mind still on his point-of-view conundrum. Third and first-person drafts of his newest work's first chapter both had their advantages.

“Can you deal with the dog?” His wife asked, pointing at their heaving golden retriever. “I'm hoping Bri will exhaust herself and just go back to sleep.”

“Sure,” he said, giving Cora and his daughter each a kiss on the forehead as he went by. Grabbing a roll of paper towel, he pushed Murphy away from the mess she'd made and wrinkled his nose at the smell.
“You're quite the stinker, pup.”

Murphy looked up with wide, uncomprehending eyes and Dave smiled, giving her a quick scratch on the head before going to work on what she'd tossed up. Most of her breakfast was still intact, along with a baby sock, two small carrots and several items he couldn't identify. Fortunately, she was from hardy stock, and would be raring to go again once it was time for her afternoon walk.

“Go back to work, honey,” Cora said as he finished cleaning. “Our girl wants some food and then I'll put her to bed.”

Dave kissed his wife more deeply and then headed back upstairs – she'd always been supportive of his dreams, even when they didn't quite match her own, and together he was sure they'd raise one hell of a daughter. Joyous music rang in his ears; middles were always so exciting.

***

The woman in front of him adjusted her glasses again and kept reading. She hadn't spoken a word since Dave sat down, and the only greeting he'd been given coming through the door was “Hi, sit please.”

Darlene McMannus ran one of the most successful small publishing companies in the state, and Dave had been lucky to get even five minutes of her time; as it happened, one of the other writers on the short story website he wrote for knew her and liked Dave's stuff. That was enough to get him the time, but impressing her all came down to what he could create, what he could bring to life on a page.

“Good,” Darlene said finally, setting down the small stack of papers. “Not the best I've ever read, but a damn sight better than most. You're a bit fancy for my tastes, but I think we can grind that edge off.”

“What?” Excitement flooded through him at even the prospect of what she was suggesting. “You mean -”

“Yes, yes,” she waved a thin hand. “We'll take you on. Now get out of my office and expect a call from one of my editors – you have a lot of work to do before this thing can be sold.”

“Of course, of course, I -” A dark look silenced Dave and he turned, face split in a grin of sudden pride. A boisterous melody pulsed in his veins, one all his own. Beginnings were always exciting.

- D

Story #364 - The Circle

The Circle

Jerlee Tom’son stood rigid in front of the slowly-shifting stone doors; she’d been told that ancient security systems no longer functioned but didn’t want to risk losing an arm or leg because some shred of power still remained.

“I assume you understand the regulations?” Keeper Daly asked from a safe distance, and Jerlee nodded.

“Yes. I have half an hour to explore, and must return to these doors before they close again. If I am not here when the time elapses, you will not come for me.”

“Correct,” Daly’s voice rose over the grinding of granite slabs. “Enjoy this time, but do not become so involved that you are not present here when required.”

Jerlee doubted that would be an issue. Her entry into the Chamber of Circles was a privilege given only because of her father’s position with the Assembly, and she had no interest in ancient history or the machines that supposedly orchestrated the everyday lives of original Dantarans. With any luck, she would find a safe spot to stand just inside the doors and remain there until her allotted time elapsed. Her father’s colleagues would be pleased that tradition had been honored, and Jerlee could go back to enjoying the comforts that familial power supplied.

“The doors of knowledge are fully opened,” the Keeper intoned. “Soon, they shall close again. Balance in all things, rotation in all things. The Circle provides.”

“The Circle provides,” Jerlee murmured as she stepped forward, crossing the threshold and leaving Daly behind. Past the door’s massive hinges the dank cave was almost identical – light brown rock stained with luminescent fungus surrounded her, each outcropping as boring and dull as the next.

It was the humming that drew her in further, a low-toned buzz that set her skin to tingling. The sound wasn’t unpleasant but clearly unnatural – too regular to come from any of the stone or as a result of falling water.

Twenty steps in and the chamber expanded, its ceiling rising to a height she could no longer see. Ancient computer terminals lined smooth walls, and pale lights glowed down from above, dangling on silver strings. In the distance she saw a massive monitor, the green glow from its face suffusing the entire space and with a blinking cursor pulsing out steady rhythms. As if her feet operated beyond her control Jerlee drew closer, breath held until she felt lightheaded, then exhaled in a single great rush, its echo loud in the chamber.

“Yes?” A crystalline question shimmered over the cavernous space, and Jerlee jumped, barely managing to keep her feet planted as she came down.

“Who’s there?” She called in a small voice, and after a moment the same multi-toned sound responded.

“We are the Circle. We are life. You come in search of knowledge, as many before you. Ask.”

“I –“ Jerlee hesitated. “I don’t have any questions to ask. I’m not with the Academy. My father’s an important man.”

“Academy,” the voice said, and Jerlee was sure she could hear the faint whirring of gears - Daly had said something about the Circle’s knowledge being stored in one of the greatest technical wonders of ancient times, but she hadn’t paid much attention. “Yes. I am familiar with this term. Small-minded things, mostly, that cannot fathom what I hope to impart.”

Her mind raced as the thing droned on – if it was so powerful, so intelligent, perhaps it knew about things that really mattered.

“Computer,” she said abruptly. “What do you know about the Assembly?”

It whirred for a moment and then began to rattle off information. “Assembly. Formed 1256 Free Year by Mathus Halbren. Still in existence, directed by Strauss Tom’son and soon to be overthrown –“

“Stop!” She cried. “What do you mean, overthrown? How can you know that?”

“We are the Circle,” the thing said firmly. “All is known to us – all is merely rotation to be discovered.”

“Fine, fine – tell me what will happen to my father!” Panic rose in her voice – she had heard rumblings of concern from both her parents, despite their attempts to conceal it.

“Likely predictions indicate that he will die by poison at hand of Boris Muldor.” Jerlee’s breath caught in her throat. Assemblyman Muldor was her father’s closest friend!

“I won’t listen to this,” she declared. “You can’t possibly know the future!”

There was distressed clicking, almost as if the machine was perturbed. After a moment, a soft response floated out. “You are correct, seeker. The future cannot be known. I read only the past.”

“Past?” Anger began to build in her chest – she hadn’t wanted to tromp through a murky cave or seek knowledge from some dusty machine. “Talk sense, you piece of scrap metal!”

Shimmering force-shields sprung into existence all around her, and a deep-toned klaxon sounded. “Aggression will not be tolerated, Seeker. You must calm yourself.”

Jerlee took a deep breath and forced herself to focus. Daly’s time limit had to be coming close, and she didn’t want to be trapped.

“I apologize,” she said slowly, “but tell me – if you’re so smart – shouldn’t you be able to predict exactly what I’m going to do?”

A tinkling sound almost like soft laughter came to her ears, and when the voice spoke again the shields lifted and warning sirens stopped. “You are pert, young Seeker, to see so much. Here, inside the Circle, we cannot know what has occurred, what will occur. You are within the diameter.”

There was a pause, followed by sudden discordant strains, as if a debate were taking place.

“It is decided,” the voice came again, stronger and with greater certainty. “You will remain with us. There is much to learn, we think, before the Circle turns again.”

Jerlee heard the sound of scraping stone behind her, and the quickly-quieting sound of Keeper Daly’s voice.

“But I don’t want to stay here!” Jerlee wailed. “I want to go home!”

“You are home,” the machine spoke again after a long moment. “You are one. You are none. You are the Circle.”

- D

Story #363 - The Guardsman

The Guardsman

“This is all your fault!” Presta screamed, but Tomas ignored her. It seemed as though he’d been trying to do so for an infinite span of time, but in truth they’d only been forced to endure each other’s company for a matter of weeks.

Being assigned to transport Lord Eligh’s daughter from the estate all the way to Landau City had initially seemed the perfect assignment – many of those also given the job were Tomas’ good friends, and all reports from the Magi were for good weather and smooth traveling for the entire two-week journey.

Of course, the trip had not gone as planned, with a sudden thunderstorm significantly hampering forward progress after the second day and Presta becoming more shrill with each passing hour. To hear the Lady tell it, her carriage was a “work of the under-beast – foul smelling, uncomfortable and hot!” She’d made Johnny-boy’s life a living hell, and Tomas had never seen his friend so out of sorts over any other job he’d captained. Several choice oaths slipped from the big man’s mouth, and Tomas began to worry that rash action might be in the cards.

The attack eliminated any such concerns.

They’d come screaming out of the woods, dirty men with gap-toothed mouths and crude weapons, but the ferocity of their attack combined with sheer numbers was enough to overwhelm the ten guards around Presta’s carriage. Still standing with a wound that would have felled any normal man, Johnny-boy ordered Tomas to take the young Lady to safety, and had then single-handedly held off a full charge by the rabble still on their feet, giving enough time to escape.

“This would not have happened if you people were competent,” Presta went on as they pressed forward through the brush, blonde curls bobbing in time with her words. “I’ve told my father time and again that he must set a better example, must provide more discipline in order to keep servants in line.” The sneer on her face managed to give even cruel words a darker cast.

Tomas held his tongue, though it was becoming increasingly difficult. Good men had bled and died for her safety – silence, if not gratitude, was the appropriate response. Main roads had to be avoided, precautions taken to have any chance of survival, but all Presta could do was complain.

“To die at the hands of such foul men,” she went on, “speaks to the character of those who were to be my ‘protectors’. Their ends were deserved –“ Presta’s words were abruptly halted as Tomas spun, large hands taking a firm grip on slender shoulders.

“You will not speak of my companions, my friends in such a manner, Lady. We were sworn to protect you and did so as well as we were able – Johnny-boy gave his life for yours; I watched him die as we left that clearing. They were not simply servants – they were true and honest, more than you will ever be.” He took a deep breath to calm himself, but it had little effect, and his tongue ran ahead of good sense. “I will see you safely to the city or die trying, but should you ever again sully the name of those who gave their lives for you I will cut out your tongue and teach you a lesson in the true value of silence.”

A small sound came from Presta as her teeth clacked hard together, her normally pale face turning an even more deathly shade of white. Those at the estate stepped lightly around their Lord’s only child – there was no way she could take over the lands when her father passed, but there was some hope he could marry her off to a suitor from a smaller house, one that wanted advancement badly enough to endure her temper.

“Excellent,” Tomas said shortly, “you have an agile mind, Lady – when you choose to use it.” He turned away to conceal a smile; there were a number of things he’d wanted to say for years, and since the chance they would reach Landau City alive was slim, there was no point in holding back true feelings.

The next few days passed in total silence, and despite poor weather along with hastily constructed lodging Presta did not complain. Tomas was considering an apology as they tromped down a thick game trail when he felt a sharp tug on his arm.

“Look!” Presta hissed, and Tomas raised his eyes to the clearing only steps away. A single man in purple stood in its center, bright blue eyes locked on Tomas’ own.

“Magus Trian!” He called as they broke through the brush. “We were ambushed! Attacked! How did you find us – did you bring any men?” There was an enormous rush of relief, chased almost immediately by a looming sense of…fear.

“Your band was more resourceful than I gave them credit for, Tomas,” Trian said softly, hands flashing in an intricate series of gestures. “But it is of no matter now. Both you and Lady Presta will meet your end here, by my hand. I regret only that direct intervention was necessary.”

“No.” Tomas said firmly, stepping forward to draw his sword. “I will not let you harm her.” The man had always been odd, but treasonous? It was beyond madness.

Trian laughed, a mocking thing that rang out over the clearing. “You amuse me, Tomas – you always have – but that is hardly a reason to keep you alive.” His eyes narrowed, and his hands began to glow with greenish light. “Death is coming, guardsman. Make your peace.”

“No!” Presta screamed, slipping around Tomas to face Trian alone. The magus smiled as green fire blazed but though it enveloped the young girl it did not burn, and confident azure orbs were suddenly afraid.

“What? It cannot be!” Trian screamed, and Presta raised both hands.

“It can, you fool – and you should have known better all these years. My power is hardly weak, hardly pitiful. Nothing like yours.”

“Please, I –“ whatever else Trian wanted to say was lost in a storm of bone-white fire, and within moments only smoldering ashes remained. Presta tossed a dark look over her shoulder and then extended a thin hand.

“Come, Tomas.” She said softly. “You must get me to the city, and we have much to discuss.”

The fear in Tomas ebbed, but did not dissipate entirely. What he guarded was suddenly more than expected.

- D

Story #362 - Follower

Follower

There was something in the walls.

Sherrie was sure it was there, sure it was running amok behind plastered-in ceilings and faux-wood panels. She’d had the exterminators in three times with no luck, four priests of different religious affiliation and more recently a shaman. All told her the same thing – there was nothing in the walls.

They were wrong.

She didn’t bother to tell them it hadn’t started with the apartment she was renting, that the thing had been following her since she was a child, living in her parent’s old Victorian. It came with her to University, slipped into her dorm and even made it through her first marriage in the tiny condominium – something about her seemed to pull it along, no matter where she went.

At first she’d chalked up her surety to childhood delusion – even imagined playmates could seem quite real to those whose home life was less than ideal. But courses in psychology and a deeper understanding of her own issues did nothing to rid her of what followed, and she’d begun to wonder if perhaps her problems were too overwhelming to self-analyze.

Three years and fifteen therapists later and her “concern” still wasn’t alleviated, but her wallet was certainly lighter. Though some of those she’d seen had recommended useful methods of coping and ways to make her personal life function with greater ease, none could address what lay underneath. To be fair, she’d never told them exactly what she needed cured, merely that she felt “shadowed”. Still, she didn’t believe her lack of honesty was what limited the effectiveness of therapy – it was because head-shrinks couldn’t cure real problems.

It was a lamp by her bed that finally tipped her off, a little ceramic thing with blue flowers James had given her for a silly first anniversary gift. They’d parted on poor terms but he had been a good man, one who was simply too “normal” to deal with her swings in mood and changes of heart, and she’d always treasured what he gave.

A long day of work had exhausted her, and when she first saw the lamp shattered on the floor Sherrie assumed it had been vibration from the subway that ran underneath the building. The muffled, cackling laugh from her walls told another tale, and she’d known with startling, certain clarity that she was not alone.

She moved only marginally in her chair, making sure the blanket covering her did not move. It had taken months to develop what she believed was a viable plan to catch whatever plagued her and she wasn’t about to ruin everything with a stray movement or foolish sound.

An early-morning grease fire did the trick; she’d showered, dressed and stumbled into the kitchen to make breakfast before work as usual, but made a “mistake” that sent billowing smoke out into the apartment. Sherrie put the fire out quickly and made for the front door, doing her best to make it seem she’d left for the day, muttering about what she’d do when she got back. Before the smoke had a chance to clear, however, she’d leapt under into her blanket-covered chair and taken refuge.

Her work knew she wasn’t coming – she’d taken a week of vacation to ensure her chances were as great as possible to not only catch but confront the thing that lived inside her walls and had crawled inside her life.

Sherrie shifted again. After only half a day the ordinarily comfortable recliner had started to feel like rock under her hands and knees. She’d been careful to pick a position that gave her the largest view of the room with minimum effort, but was paying the price.

Desperation began to settle in – even with certainty that something lay beyond the walls, Sherrie started to question her subterfuge and wonder if the creature needed to leave its home at all. Perhaps it fed on cobwebs and drywall dust, and if so, it was well-supplied.

A moment caught her eye at the living room heat register, and she watched as it was pushed slowly away from the wall and then toppled to the floor. Out of the black hole a figure emerged, tall and thin and covered in angry scars. Its face was gaunt and hungry, and deep eyes stared out from a too-small head.

“You!” Sherrie shrieked, throwing off her blanket and charging across the space, slamming into the thing’s shoulders and bearing it to the ground. “I’ve found you!”

The figure under her smiled, a twisted reflection of her own pearly whites and then smoked into nothingness, sliding up and into Sherrie. Rigid agony slammed into her and tears began to flow, desperate sadness came crashing through.

Understanding came along with weeping, knowledge that what she’d seen was not only real but necessary. Sordid details of her life were coming into sharp relief, half-remembered images suddenly drenched in color and sound. Displacement was a term she knew, a concept familiar to her but Sherrie had never believed such a manifestation was possible, that a body could do so much to protect itself.

Three more giant sobs and the burdened part of her came wrenching free, spit back out into the world to slip away through the open wall. Sherrie could hear it scrabbling, scratching at the ceiling and ringing off the pipes.

“Thank you,” she whispered, forcing herself to stand. “Thank you!” She repeated with greater force. “And I’m sorry!”

There was a rattling above her, a rhythmic shaking of the walls in response to her words. She could not say why but the noise sounded…appreciative.

With a small smile, Sherrie took a seat and turned on the television, settling down into deep upholstery. All around, the sounds of her visitor, her passenger calmed strained nerves and gave her, finally, a sense of peace. Not all could be washed away so easily, not all could be changed, but she had found her demon and confronted it, emerged on the other side unscathed.

There was something in her walls – something real. Something right.

- D

Story #361 - Regen

Regen

“Can the process be accelerated at all?” The councilman’s face lit up, and it took all of Keno Darkan’s control not to throw back an insulting reply. He had been warned that the councilmembers were not to be trifled with, while in the same breath told what wonderful work he’d done. The implication had been clear, however – despite his progress in the field of technical regeneration he was still expendable if the right people complained.

The councilman in front of him was one of those people; Rellin Tralo had risen from the ranks of a common citizen to the position of councilman in a very short span of time and had the backing of both religious zealots and liberal firestarters – no mean feat for any politician.

“I’m sorry, councilman Tralo,” Keno said slowly, “but any faster and the entire matrix would de-stabilize. We want to present you with a healthy and powerful army to win the war, not one that will self-destruct after the first battle has been fought.” He knew a large measure of Tralo’s support came from his aggressive stance regarding the war – no one was more vocal in Chambers than the thin man about defending planetary freedoms and pushing the invaders back into black, empty space.

Of course, Keno knew full well that it was his planet that had invaded first and the strikes now were only retaliation. Most citizens knew the same but chose to ignore such information in the face of constant news reports from the front lines – colonies at the outer edge of controlled space that were under heavy attack from Nalbis ships. Each day a new horror appeared on monitors across the globe, fresh destruction for citizens to endure.

“That’s just fine, my boy,” Tralo said with a broad smile. He was younger than Keno and most of the others in the room but had a way of seemingly wise and elderly; a combination of ill-fitting sweaters, owlish glasses and a slow gait made the guise almost believable. Even more senior members of the council by term of service deferred to Tralo, nodding in unison as he spoke. “We’re all proud of your efforts. You’re helping to secure a future for our world and its colonies,” his voice rose as he turned, one fist raised in defiance, “and your innovations are to be commended! You are the highest form of patriot, the most noble of men. You sacrifice, you endure. You are the future.” It was a pretty speech, but Keno knew it wasn’t really for his benefit - there were always cameras recording, always photos being taken wherever Tralo went. The councilman needed to make a good impression, no matter the circumstance.

The man and his retinue filed out, and Keno felt a sense of calm return as he leaned in to tweak his droid’s circuits. He didn’t enjoy showing off his work to direct superiors, let alone those with political leanings. Though regenerative cybernetics meant good men and women wouldn’t have to die in service to their planet, he had no interest in the technology he’d developed being perverted into a weapon of colonization rather than repulsion.

“It won’t work, you know,” a voice came from the shadows. “They’ll discover what you’ve done soon enough.”

“I’m well aware of that, Burnaby,” Keno said acidly. “And I don’t care. Tralo and his cronies can scream all they want but the damage is already done – it’s in the base-level programming, now, and all through the regen circuitry.”

“That won’t matter.” His former assistant came sweeping out of the back work area, face drawn. “You know that. Once they discover what’s happened you’ll be given two options: remove what you’ve done or facing the firing squad.” Tralo had implemented the archaic punishment for “traitors”, a term that was often used to cover those who disagreed with his ideas in public.

“Then he can shoot me,” Keno spat out the words. “I won’t change the programming.” The army would function just as intended, respond to any attack and let Tralo take back the colonies, but any attempt to use the regenerative technology for aggressive action would lead to refusal of the battle-droids to cooperate; under duress they would simply shut down.

“I know that,” Burnaby said as he moved closer. “But you’re not the only one Tralo can lean on. I’m not sure I can endure without some kind of encouragement.”

Keno let his hands drop and turned to face the shorter man. Burnaby had been “reassigned” after several conflicts with higher-ranking members of the technology consortium, and while he had always been a capable assistant he didn’t share Keno’s views on the state of society and its disturbing shift to a more confrontational space policy.

“I beg your pardon?” His voice was ice. “What exactly are you saying?”

“It’s a simple solution, Ken,” Burnaby turned out an oily smile. “You give me the last bit of detail I need to make regen technology work in my field, and I get rich. You get the benefit of knowing that your little side-project is covered no matter what Tralo sends my way.”

The arc-spanner was in Keno’s hand without thought and he drove forward, thumbing the contact as it touched Burnaby’s chest. A guttering scream escaped the short man’s lips and then he slumped forward, eyes open in shock.

Keno moved quickly, before emotion had time to catch his action, dragging Buraby’s limp form across the lab to the scrap-metal liquefier. In moments the body was nothing more than a bubbling mass, one quickly scoured away by intense heat.

He frowned slightly and then moved back to the line of droids, more tools coming to hand. There was no doubt the murder would be found out, eventually, much as his modifications to the army. Tralo would be furious and a firing squad was the likely conclusion, but the work had to be protected – flesh and blood beings were monsters by nature, but those constructed of metal and circuit could be something more.

Something better.

- D

Story #360 - Officer Palin

Officer Palin

The thrum of engines underneath him always made Theta Zane feel more comfortable; the sense that he was moving forward instead of standing still, even for a moment.

Though the merchantman his ship had captured put up something of a struggle, her captain eventually saw reason’s light and provided the cargo he carried in exchange for the lives of his crew. Just as Theta told Caldor’s magistrate, he preferred to end encounters without the need for bloodshed and was willing to negotiate so long as his basic demands were met.

“Take her out, Captain?” His First, Pruck, asked as the Deltarra’s power spooled up to full strength. “The Bri’lan Cluster, perhaps?”

Theta shook his head. “Core worlds. We’ve had slim pickings for a while now and I want the men to see real reward for their effort.”

“You’re sure, Captain?” Pruck’s tone was hushed. He’d learned the value in speaking his mind on the Deltarra; unlike other pirate captains, Theta valued the opinions of his subordinates.

“Yes,” he said quickly. “I won’t be steering back toward Caldor any time soon, but that doesn’t mean we have to avoid all of the hot spots.” Though he’d been cleared of any wrongdoing thanks to his heritage, further aggravating the Caldorran authorities was a recipe for disaster.

“Aye aye, Captain.” The First knew when to hold his ground and when to back down – anything involving profit meant Theta would not change his mind.

A few moments and they were away, lightspeed drive throwing the ship forward into a distorted bubble of space-time. Theta had never taken the time to study the drive’s mechanics but made sure he always had the latest version running in his engine room. Escaping authorities was just as important as the initial approach to a target vessel, and speed often made the difference between a massive payday and possible prison time.

He smiled as the viewscreen blurred and his stomach spun in a familiar, sickening lurch. The Core worlds were ripe for plucking.

***

Five days and they’d already taken eight ships, all with cargo bays stuffed full of legal goods and hiding places stuffed with things no so legal. The Deltarra’s entire crew would see a substantial take once they made port, something that kept them happy and loyal.

“Captain!” The Comm officer’s voice broke through Theta’s self-congratulatory thoughts.

“Yes, Flinn?” He asked slowly. “What is it?”

“There’s a ship hailing us, sir – Caldorran!”

Theta sat up in his chair, glancing up at the viewscreen and coming fully alert. They were a long way from Caldorran space, and there was no reason any of the Union’s ships should be anywhere near his, let alone hailing it.

“Answer it, Flinn – let’s see what our Union friends want.”

It took him a few minutes to place the wavering image that appeared on the screen, and even a fine-tuning of the rez bandwidth had little effect. Muscular and unshaven, the man staring across black space had a sour look on his face and a clenched jaw. He did not speak as the channel firmed.

Keeping silence close also appealed to Theta, and he allowed himself to simply watch and wait, letting his mind trail over those he had befriended and angered in years past.

“I told you it wasn’t over, Zane,” the man finally grated, each word seemingly dragged out of him by force. “I’ve lost everything because of you, and now it’s time for you to pay.”

“I’m sorry –“ Theta began, but cut off as memories surged. “Palin!” He said with a broad smile. “I’m surprised they let you out of prison.” The last he’d seen of the officer was the larger man being bodily forced from a courtroom to face justice for his contempt. Judge Rita had been quite unhappy with his attempt to interrupt legal proceedings, and Theta expected the authorities to come down quite hard on their rogue enforcer.

“They didn’t,” Palin sneered. “I wasn’t about to be held thanks to a mockery of justice – one that you perpetrated, Zane!”

“Took you rather a long time to break out, don’t you think, Palin?” Theta replied with a smirk. “I’ve been out tooling around the galaxy for the last two years, and I haven’t heard a thing from you. I’d expect someone so hell-bent on my destruction could do better.”

Gloating served no real purpose but he didn’t care; the officer had decided to make an issue out of something beyond his control, and Theta wasn’t about to dignify it by admitting any kind of equality, any form of parity.

“Oh I’ve been busy, Zane, working hard to make sure that once I found you there would be no getting away.” Palin raised both arms and gestured at the cramped cabin surrounding him. “Do you like my little ship? It’s not much to look at, but I’ve packed it full of Thermio and it’s ready to blow on my command.”

“Flinn!” Theta bellowed. “Cut the channel! Pruck – hard to port!” Thermio had a reputation for destroying small moons – while the Deltarra was well-equipped, there was no way it could take that kind of punishment.

The viewscreen resolved to a more distant view, one quickly obscured by Palin’s speeding ship. It was too fast, too small – there was no way to avoid what was coming.

Theta jammed down the emergency call button. “All hands!” He screamed. “Abandon ship!” Even as words burst from his mouth the ship shuddered and began to scream, it’s Opsteel coating torn open by igniting Thermio. He was on his feet and herding crewmen out the escape door when the bridge lights went and the ship listed hard to starboard, throwing him to the deck.

Lights flashed and klaxons sounded, but he was trapped - his body wouldn’t respond though his mind urged it. A final look at the viewscreen showed a small green planet looming ever-larger as gravity caught the crippled Deltarra and pulled it down.

A less than stellar end for the notorious Theta Zane; one fitting perhaps, for Palin.

- D

Story #359 - Gods and Men

Gods and Men

“You!” The voice thundered as a massive glowing hand swept down toward Ali Potan. It stopped only inches short of his face, too-large finger pointing and wisps of frayed magic drifting up to tickle his nose. “You have been chosen, and will accompany me.”

“I -” Ali began, but got no further before the voice cut him off.

“Silence! You will not question, or you will die. Remain perfectly still, small one.”

Ali did as instructed; it was said the gods could be as cruel as they were kind, and Zehar, father of them all, was known for his indiscriminate attitude when it came to killing humans. History recorded more than a few conflicts that began as a result of Zehar's exhortation, and ended when both sides realized the elder god had promised them both the same things. Sometimes, a tentative peace was the result, but all too often more bloodshed was the outcome as once-strong powers vied for the fickle affection of their god.

The hut began to shimmer, and Ali cast quick looks at his wife and daughter. They at least would survive, cared for by other villagers in the absence of a father and husband. Luck might bring him back someday, but his fate was more than likely sealed.

Drab wood was replaced with shining walls of gold, marble floors and an open ceiling that seemed to stare directly into eternity. Though stars shone and light flashed above his head, Ali's attention was riveted on the large figure sprawled across a steel throne at the room's head. Zehar.

“Welcome, puny one!” The god bellowed, tossing a large bird-wing he'd been gnawing on over his shoulder where it vanished in a puff of blue smoke. “I am pleased you accepted my offer.”

“I had no choice, Lord,” Ali said sharply. Though the eldest god could easily wipe out anyone who dared defy him, death was almost a certainty no matter the number of polite words mouthed. “Tell me what I must do or kill me – there is nothing else left.”

Zehar laughed, a broad thing that filled the room and doubled back on itself, assaulting frail human ears. Despite the pain, Ali refused to raise his hands, refused to give the god satisfaction in suffering.

“You are bold one, I'll give you that, mortal – but that's why I picked you. I've been watching you and your mate struggle to feed that child of yours, eke out a miserable existence in the fields, and I've been ever so slightly impressed with your determination.” Zehar rose, gesturing as he did so and the room's back wall thinned to transparency, then lit up with the image of a strikingly beautiful woman.

“My daughter,” Zehar said by way of explanation. “Cresidae.”

Ali drew in a sharp breath – Cresidae was second only to the eldest himself in power and influence.

“We have had...disagreements of late,” the god went on, “messy things that killed many of the mortals under our control. My child,” Zehar said the word heavily, as if it pained him, “insists that there is a better way and will no longer face me in the time-honored ritual of mortal war. Instead, she demanded I choose a champion, a creature I will pit against one of hers to decide the outcome of our argument.”

It took all the strength in Ali's legs to keep from falling forward – he was no fighter, no great weapon-master. Why would the god choose him?

“My Lord,” he said with barely concealed fear, tempered only by the hot rage burning in his throat. “Why me? I am hardly as fit as others, hardly as quick-witted.”

“I know,” Zehar smiled down at him, too-perfect face a suddenly grotesque sight. “Truthfully, I've had other things on my mind – many of my younger progeny have sudden taken up the idea of rebellion as well, and I've had to put them down rather hard. As a result, I haven't had the time to find a suitable champion. I selected your village at random, and two days of observation was enough to tell me of your worth.”

“Wait!” Ali cried. “You should choose again – clearly, there are better choices, men more suited to your cause. Perhaps I could see one out for you.”

“No,” the eldest god said firmly. “I have chosen you, and you will perform as directed. Frankly, I no longer care about the outcome of the dispute. I've long since made my peace with the petty demands of my daughter. You are here simply to appease her sense of honor.”

“May I -” speech was suddenly difficult, “may I see my opponent?”

“Of course!” Zehar boomed, and then waved one large hand. The scene on what had been the back wall changed, replaced by a half-man, half-ape creature with a prominent jaw, huge hands and thickly muscled legs. He was casually tossing rocks into the air with his feet, catching each one in a large hand and easily crushing them to dust. Ali swallowed hard.

“My Lord – there is no way I can defeat such a creature, and I thought your agreement required mortal champions!”

“Oh? Yes,” the glowing deity shrugged. “The Mathor is mortal, but no one has ever been able to kill it. To do so would require it be stabbed directly through the heart with a golden spike. I made it on an off day, and I can't recall exactly what its other abilities are, but suffice it to say you have a difficult task ahead. Here,” Zehar stepped forward and placed a large hand on Ali's shoulder, “let me give you what little our rules permit.”

A sudden power flowed, only a trickle but to Ali it was a flood, a torrent, a stunning wash of sensation and image. Muscles bulged as his mind expanded, and small hope flared. Perhaps he could win, after all.

“Begin!” Zehar called, and the Mathor leapt from the screen, roaring.

Story #358 - Spied

Spied

“Welcome, Captain,” the base-commander’s voice was tight. “We’re pleased you could join us on such short notice.”

“I rather doubt that,” Trell Soriss said drily. “And I suspect we both know why I’m here.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” It was hard for Trell not to laugh at the man – straight-backed and iron faced, he was the soul of the Federated Territories, and about as bright as a stump.

“Of course you don’t, Commander.” Trell gestured to a nearby tent. “Why don’t we step inside and have a chat about exactly what it is you don’t know.”

A few steps across the threshold and two guardsmen had him by the arms while two others loosed their blasters and leveled them with dark eyes. The mission on Vorall had been a difficult one for the Territories, plagued by problems and setbacks, and those stationed on the small world had become hard, uncompromising. Word of a spy in the ranks had filtered downward from the General, talk of a shadowy figure in Federated clothing, one that could move unseen and disappear from plain sight.

That the Conglomerate had the capability to field such spies was no shock, but many good, Federated men lived with the foolish belief that lurking predators employed to destroy their way of life could not possibly have slipped into the army itself.

For twenty years Trell had worked for the Conglomerate, always sure and certain he’d be caught, exposed by a single mistake. It was a mistimed bombing op – not his fault, but that didn’t matter – and a fool who’d spoken out of turn that pointed straight to Trell.

“Don’t move,” one of the guards said. “We have orders to shoot if you so much as lift a finger.”

“Gentlemen,” Trell replied with a warm smile. “You’ve got me. I have no intentions of fighting you on this. Get your Commander in here and we’ll have a nice little chat.”

“I don’t think so, spy.” The Commander’s voice was hard as he swept in through the tent-flap. “Your lies hold no interest for me. Detention processing is your next stop,” the sharp-chinned man smiled, “and then I’m hoping a messy public execution.” He gestured to his guards. “My men need the morale boost.”

Trell knelt, hands at his sides, but the gesture of peace was lost on the already-raging guardsmen and they swept in, blows raining down. Blackness quickly followed.

***

“How long have you been active in the service as a spy?” The interrogators voice was smooth and pleasant; Trell had been cooperative thus far, giving the older man no reason to bring out any more aggressive tactics. He seemed disappointed – no surprise for a torture specialist.

“My entire career.” Trell said shortly.

“Which is how long, exactly?” The dates were well known and listed in every dossier sent around about his exploits, but conditioning to answer easy questions was a part of the interrogation process.

“Twenty years,” he replied. “I was trained at the academy on Kelbor before I ever applied with the Service.”

“Interesting.” The man’s voice was clipped. “Tell me more. I want names, dates, specific operations. All of it.”

Trell sighed. He had expected as much, but didn’t want to rehash the details of his career. Some of his ops has led to the deaths of significant Territory figures, while others had more subtle, long-term effects but all were intricate and precise and would take time to explain.

“No,” he said softly, and the other man’s face lit up.

The hours that followed were hazy, a mixture of narcotics and agony, and Trell was sure he revealed everything asked. His masters at the Conglomerate had been prepared for such an outcome, and while the information he gave revealed his part in plot after plot, he had no knowledge of anyone who’d worked alongside him or provided the orders that led to “terrorist” activities.

Finally lucid again, Trell could see the obvious displeasure on his captor’s face. A lack of resistance always meant a less satisfying session, and there were few spies as easy to torture as Trell.

“Your crimes are heinous,” the interrogator spoke softly. “And despite your willingness to speak the truth, deserve nothing but death.”

Trell shrugged. He’d known as much would be his punishment from the first moment of his career.

“I, however, cannot make that final judgment,” the man went on. “You are fortunate, spy, in that our law demands trial by the highest magistrate on a world, even for filth such as you. It will be your great honor to be given a sentence of death by Lord Ithos Reid, here to oversee operations and reclamation.”

***

“So you are the spy everyone speaks to me about – the Captain who has betrayed his people.” Ithos Reid’s voice was cold.

“Hardly,” Trell said jovially. “I’ve always been a Conglomerate man. That you didn’t know as much is laughable.”

A sharp smack from one of his guards set Trell’s head to ringing, but he kept the smile on his face.

“Do you know why you are here, spy?” Reid asked.

“For you to pass judgment.” He glanced around the small council room. No recording devices were present – what happened inside was clearly something the Territories want to keep a secret. Trell smiled.

“Yes.” Reid leaned in, wide face only inches from Trell’s own.

A sharp exhale of breath and the Lord stepped back, coughing at the foul breath that came his way. “Guilty!” He cried, “guards – take him away and make sure he does not see the sun rise again.”

Blows fells onto Trell’s head and back as he was dragged from the room to his death, but they didn’t matter. His capture had been arranged, his interrogation certain. That Reid was on-planet gave the perfect opportunity, and the tiny device Trell had kept concealed in his mouth would quickly begin to act on the Lord. Within weeks, the Conglomerate would own one of the most powerful men in the Territories, and yet be foolishly sure in the knowledge it had eliminated a threat.

Such was the life of a spy.


- D

Story #357 - Koala

Koala

“So you’re, like, an alien?” Pav McAllister said with a catch in his voice. Working night shift janitorial at the Therana Science Center wasn’t without its perks, but coming across a real live alien wasn’t something he expected.

“No.” The fuzzy creature said shortly. “Nothing like that – I understand your confusion but please don’t start thinking that way.”

“Alright…” Pav said dubiously. “Then what the hell are you?”

The thing paced around its cage, tiny paws clasped behind its back. Walking upright was possible for koalas, but seeing one do it for extended periods of time was disconcerting, to say the least. “Look at me,” it finally said, “what do I look like to you?”

“A...koala?” Trying not to hesitate did no good – things just didn’t match up.

“That’s right.” There was a note of indulgence in the voice, of patronizing pleasure. “Now, applying Occam’s Razor –“

“Occam’s what?” Pav interrupted. “Why do you have a razor?” He took a step back – the thing was still in its cage but if it could talk, who knew what else it could do?

“Shut up!” The creature said sharply. “And listen. Put down to basics, the Razor states that the simplest explanation is typically correct. So,” it thrust one paw in Pav’s direction, “if I look like a Koala…”

“Then you are one?” He finished, face drawn.

“Exactly!”

“I don’t know…” Pav hesitated. “Something isn’t right here. I haven’t heard a damn thing about super-intelligent koalas, let alone anything like you.”

“Je’deel,” the small creature said shortly. “My name is Je’deel.”

“Fine, Je’deel – I’m Pav, pleased to meet you and all that. But why are you talking to me? I’m not the one in charge here.”

“I know that!” Je’deel pointed to the broom Pav held in one hand. “But I’m not really interested in getting moved to the ‘special’ facility. If I open my mouth to Dr. Penner, I’ll be shipped off in the blink of an eye, and I don’t mind it here so much.”

“Really?” Pav found that hard to believe. “But you’re in a cage!”

“True enough – but all of my existence that I can recall has been in this cage. I can’t remember anything from before, anything from when I wasn’t this way, so I view these four, steel-barred walls as my home. Being the subject of invasive tests doesn’t sit well with me, and though Penner can do some work on me he’s bound by the Code to inflict minimal harm; all in all, I’ve got a pretty sweet deal.”

“That’s fascinating,” Pav said drily. It was, in truth, but getting too attached was a recipe for disaster. “But still doesn’t answer my question. Why bother talking to me?”

Je’deel paced around his cage for a few moments, chest puffing and tiny paws twitching. “Well,” it said haltingly. “I guess I’m lonely.”

“Alright.” There was no point pressing the issue – being locked in a lab would be miserable, and Pav wasn’t sure he’d do so well in captivity as the intelligent creature in front of him. “Then let’s talk.” A nearby lab stool provided an easy seat, and he glanced at his watch; all of the work was done for the night, and until four-thirty he was alone in the sector.

“I –“ the bear hesitated. “Thank you.”

Pav nodded sharply. “No problem. Now, anything in particular you want to talk about?”

“Tell me about Penner.” Je’deel said quickly. “What kind of man is he?”

“Dr. Penner?” Pav frowned. “Honestly, I don’t know that much about him. He’s been here for a dozen years but mostly keeps to himself, never eats in the lunch area or goes out with the others after work on Fridays.”

“So you don’t like him?”

“I didn’t say that. He’s just – different – than the others, even more socially awkward, if you can believe it. I think Penner’s a good man, to be honest, and I’m not sure how he deals with –“ Pav cut off abruptly.

“Deals with what?” Je’deel’s voice rose. “What are you talking about, Pav?”

“Nothing!” He said sharply. “It’s nothing!”

“No,” the clever little koala’s tone was clipped. “It’s not. You know something about the work Penner is doing, and it doesn’t jive with his personality, is that it?”

Pav managed to keep his silence, but found himself nodding. The thing in front of him didn’t deserve to be kept in the dark.

“Please,” big eyes stared up out of the cage. “You don’t have to free me, but tell me what’s going on.”

“Infiltration,” Pav said sharply. “Penner’s been working on ways to get unexpected spies into high-security facilities. So far as I know, his research centers on making friendly-looking creatures able to use small tools and remember simple number strings.” He paused to look down at Je’deel. “I’m guessing he got more than he bargained with you.”

“Dammit!” the koala swore. “I knew it was something like this. Penner and his assistants act like the world is coming to end at any moment, like someone’s going to break down the door and kill them all. They’re scared, and they should be. Dammit!”

“I can’t let you go,” Pav said sadly. “I need to feed my family.”

“I know, I know,” Je’deel replied, stalking around his cage in a small circle. “And I won’t ask you to do that.” It looked up with pleading eyes. “But maybe there’s something you can do that’s not so risky. See that switch over there?” The creature didn’t point – video surveillance would capture any moves made, but couldn’t record audio.

Pav nodded. The switch was obvious, marked with large “don’t touch” labels.

“Good.” Je’deel went on. “Let’s say you knock into it on the way out, perhaps your broom handle strikes it accidentally. When Penner comes in today, the first thing he’ll do is fire up the tech he’s been using, but he’s getting lax. It should put me back the way I was – stupider, even, if I’m lucky.”

Rising, Pav moved to the door, broom held low. At the threshold he “tripped”, smacking into the switch and then recovering, hamming it up a bit for the cameras.

“Thank you,” Je’deel’s voice floated out from the lab.


- D

Story #356 - Buried

Buried

“You're talking about destroying the entire city!” Wes Larson said, jabbing his finger across the table at Sol Lightner. The other man was brilliant, but what he'd suggested to save them all from certain destruction carried a massive potential for disaster, one that could kill everyone long before conditions outside the walls became a problem.

“I'm not,” Sol said quietly, “and you know that, Wes. You've looked at my research and you know what I'm proposing is possible.”

“Yes,” taking his seat again, Wes tried to control his tongue, “but that doesn't make it a good idea. Sunlight levels are still years away from being toxic to anyone unshielded, and it will at least another decade before we start having any problems with protective gear. What you're asking this council to approve is nothing short of madness!”

He had expected a measure of assent from those around him, a murmur of shared concern but instead there was only silence. Glancing around the table he saw all those assembled looking down at their notes or with their eyes closed – not one would meet his gaze.

“I represent Dr. Lightner as much as anyone in this room, but he's asking us to bury this city – encase it in a shell and blast out the ground underneath. What if that shell isn't quite impenetrable? What if we encounter something the clever doctor hasn't predicted? What then?”

Still no response came and Wes felt his spirits sink. Fear was a powerful motivator - it was the creeping terror of searing sunlight that had those of council by the throat; what Sol wanted to do was risky, but the fear of being burned alive, seared by a once life-giving orb was taking its toll.

“Your compatriots don't seem to agree, my friend,” Sol said gently. “Perhaps we should ask for one of their opinions in counterpoint to your own. Councilman Piper,” he pointed to the newest council addition, “what do you think of my plan?”

“I -” Dom Piper rose slowly, “frankly I'm not sure what to think. Two of my sisters already suffer with sun-poisoning, and I've heard of families that have lost parents and grandparents even on days when the Index is supposedly low. Something has to be done, and your plan...” he trailed off and then shot a guilty look at Wes, “might just work.”

“Thank you, Councilman. Anyone else care to speak?”

“Enough, Sol,” Wes said sharply. “Your point is well taken. Apparently I'm the only one here who doesn't think what you're asking us to do is tantamount to mass suicide, but that's why the Council was convened in the first place – different opinions lead us to better answers in the end. Or at least, that's how it's supposed to work.”

“Does that mean -” Sol's voice rose.

“Yes.” Wes cut his friend off and addressed those around him. “We will take a vote on the matter, and whatever the outcome I will not oppose it. This council must stand united in our action, even if we are divided in our opinion. All in favor?” Seven hands rose quickly. “Opposed?” He raised his own.

“Motion carried!” He announced, then stood and moved to Sol's side. “Please,” he said quietly, “don't be wrong about this.”

***

Sol Lightner wasn't quite so sure as he appeared about the plan. All calculations indicated that the force-shield constructed would prevent any harm from coming to the city as the blast charges went off and carved out a new home for it underground, and debris coming back down on the city after the explosion were also of no concern, but there was a gnawing worry in the back of his mind that he couldn't quite identify, a problem he couldn't isolate.

“Ready here, doctor,” his fresh-faced assistant said. She'd proven more capable than many of his older students and colleagues, and had a knack for ensuring things were done to perfection. “Just say the word.”

He still marveled at how quickly things had moved once Wes and the council gave their approval. Though his young friend was in opposition to the idea, he fully supported the mandate of the council and enacted their will accordingly. Within weeks all of the necessary hardware had been delivered and installed, and as of two nights ago the shield was up and running, a sparkling blue barrier that kept sunlight at bay. In five years even its shell would be penetrated by increasingly aggressive rays, but was already being heralded as a stunning achievement.

The fly of worry buzzed in Sol's mind again but he ignored it, pushed it to the side and did a final check of all the dials himself, making sure everything was within limits.

“Very well,” he said firmly. “Begin.”

Technicians across the broad room threw switches and Sol could hear generators tamping up production, knew power was being siphoned from every system in the city.

Again the fly thrummed, tickling his brain and he shooed it away – weightier matters required his attention.

Sudden clarity tore at him, sudden realization of what he'd done. Weight! There was too much weight!

“Stop!” He cried, but the moment had passed; he could hear the faint detonation of charges around the city as a crater was carved underneath it. Everything had been planned so carefully, no detail overlooked but one – once the city began to drop, encased and impenetrable, its own weight would drive it far deeper into the ground than anticipated; geological studies showed that much of what lay beneath was broken and cracked, a testament to the force of nature over time.

There was a sickening feeling of falling, followed by a substantial thump as the city slammed downward into the created gap. For a moment, Sol had hopes that he had been lucky, that what he had missed would be only a footnote in an otherwise perfect plan.

The sound of tearing rock told him otherwise; screams rose as they city began to fall.

- D

Story #355 - Candle

Candle

Another gust of wind blew in, wrenching at the small candle in Bale's hand. He'd been told several times that the path between the monastery and the shrine was prone to all kinds of unsavory weather, but hadn't expected quite such violence. Though the monks meant well, they were overly concerned about a number of issues and while Bale showed them respect as custom demanded, privately he had very different opinions.

Sighing, Bale pulled his cloak tighter around his bulky frame and focused on simply plodding ahead. Though he'd hoped to avoid the pilgrimage to Ulsef's shrine, his father would have none of it. Days of explaining why old customs couldn't possibly be the basis of a new and greater Kingdom fell on deaf ears; although his father nodded each time Bale made a sensible argument or demonstrated his knowledge of broad political forces, the discussion ultimately ended as he expected.

For over a thousand years the nobles of Balderon had made pilgrimages to the monastery to take direction from the monks. Some were turned away at the gates – Bale privately wished he had been one so fortunate – while others were assigned tasks of varying natures. Friends of his father had been sent to sweep stables or care for the sick in a nearby village, since the monks paid no attention to class divisions or position in the Kingdom as a whole; Ewald VI began his forty-year reign cleaning out the gutters of a church for a group of filthy peasants. Such was the way of the monks.

More wind beat down at Bale but he ignored it and picked up his pace. The monks refused to say how long he would have to travel, but based on the amount of food provided he guessed it was the better part of a day. They'd instructed him to leave just as dawn broke over the horizon, but high mountain peaks made it difficult to find any rays of sunlight, and he'd spent the last three hours in cold shadow. A part of him wanted to lash out, rage against what he was being made to do and at the very least stop the foolish practice should he ever become king, but the larger, more sensible portion of his mind knew better. Tradition helped keep Balderon strong, even when other nations fell apart or under the sway of the Toothless. Without firm knowledge of what had come before, the Kingdom could easily lose its away.

Bale stopped suddenly at a change in the wind's direction and lifted his head from the relatively warm spot at his chest. In front of him a pitted stone temple rose, surging upward alongside mountain peaks and looking every bit as ancient as the rocks that spawned it. He had checked the path ahead just moments ago and saw nothing of note – the temple seemed to have come out of nowhere.

A shake of his head dispelled that thought. Buildings did not simply appear any more than the “magic” practiced by healers at his father's estate cure disease. At best, such healers gave patients hope and the will to fight on their own against what ailed them and at worst made death even more terrifying as those who did not recover lived their final moments with the belief their gods had abandoned them.

Squaring his shoulders Bale started up the temple steps, sure to keep his candle firmly gripped. Though the monks would not say exactly what might happen if he dropped the tallow, they were very vocal in telling him not to make such a mistake.

Large wooden doors barred his way at the stairs' end, but a gentle push was enough to send them swinging open. That they did not creak was disconcerting, along with the fact that the hall beyond was brightly lit. After a moment, however, he relaxed – surely one of the monks was assigned to care for the temple and its shrine, and likely kept the hinges oiled and torches burning.

“Welcome, traveler,” a voice called out as Bale stepped across the threshold. “The servant of Ulsef greets you in friendship.”

“Thank you,” Bale said in return, unsure if there was a more formal reply – the monks had made no mention of such a servant.

“Come in, come in,” the voice went on as a thin man in crimson robes shuffled into the light. He was no monk – they all wore pale yellow draped in a far more elaborate fashion - and Bale took a moment to orient himself before stepping in any further. The temple was arranged sensibly enough, with a wide front entry, torch-lined main room and altar at the far end. Nothing out of the ordinary for the style of structure, at least.

“I'm -” Bale began, but the servant cut him off.

“Bale of Trimera. Yes. I've been expecting you.” There was an odd cadence to the man's words, a strange rhythm that Bale could not place.

“Have you?” He said with a heavy dose of skepticism. “I expect the monks let you know I was coming.”

“Not quite, not quite,” the man said, smiling. “My master, he was gracious enough to inform.”

Bale halted a few feet from the man and held out his tallow candle. “Do I give this to you, then?”

The man's eyes light up and a smile shot across his face, revealing a mouth devoid of any teeth – no wonder his speech was so strange.

“I'll take it, yes,” the servant stepped forward, hands extended, but Bale moved away quickly, sudden thought spurring action.

“What did you say your name was again, toothless old man? And who exactly is your master?”

The man snarled in response and lunged forward more quickly than Bale believed possible, smacking the candle from his grip. A shuddering wind tore through the temple, snuffing out torches and darkness gripped him, made worse by mocking laughter.

“We have come for you,” the old man hissed, “and we have come for your people.”

- D

Story #354 - Ringmaster

Ringmaster

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Ringmaster's voiced boomed out over the tent, “I am pleased to present, for your viewing pleasure...”

The rest of what was said vanished as Lem Tory slipped past one of the distracted security guards and into the warren of backrooms and practice areas. The circus had drawn crowds from across town – all the pretty girls were in attendance, sleazy boyfriends on their arms, and the local bully-boys who'd been hired by the circus couldn't help but stare; it made Lem's job a great deal easier.

He'd been coming to the circus since it opened a month ago, back when he was one of few in the crowd and the performances were not so polished. Even then he'd had suspicions but chalked it up to several novels he was reading – his active imagination had landed him in trouble more than once. But as he watched, as he learned, as he stared up from his seat at every show he became more convinced that something was not right at Jacob and Sons Circus, that something sinister went on behind drawn tent-flaps.

No one questioned him once he was past the thick curtain separating audience from performers, though a few shot curious glances his way. It was standard practice for a circus like Jacob's to pick up new talent in every town passed through, so Lem put on a confident smile and pretended as though he belonged.

“Excuse me,” a throaty voice said from the shadows and he stopped, then tried not to look startled as Alhembra, Queen of the Sword slithered out of the darkness. Taller than Lem by at least six inches and as buxom a woman as he'd ever seen, she was one of the show's biggest draws. That he act involved not only sword-swallowing but poison-coated sword-swallowing made it huge hit, to say nothing of the fact that men all over town were desperately in love with Alhembra herself. Lem wouldn't call what he felt love, exactly, but he certainly had an interest.

“Yes?” he tried to make the word sound nonchalant but succeeded in giving it a cast of irritation. He cleared his throat and tried again. “How can I help you, miss...?” Lem hoped that she'd get the idea he wasn't local, but there was always the chance Alhembra had seen him in the front row for weeks on end.

“Alhembra,” she said, gliding closer, “and I need a favor.”

“S-s-sure.” It was difficult to keep calm with her body only inches away and Lem felt his breath start to quicken. His plan had been to start with the trapeze artists – they were the strangest of the lot – but it was possible that the sword-swallower could shed some light on the show's oddities as well. “How can I help you?”

“Come with me,” Alhembra said, turning swiftly to glide away. It took all of Lem's willpower to move after her instead of stare at her swaying form, and even then his eyes refused to stay where they belonged.

“Where are we going?” He managed as they swept past other performers and road-hands, all focused on their tasks and with no eyes for a beautiful woman or the young man behind her.

“Right here,” she said, stopping at a thin wooden door. “My chambers. Please, come inside.”

Lem nodded, head swimming and extremities going numb. He had little luck with those of the female persuasion, but that didn't mean he had no desire.

As soon as the door shut behind him Alhembra spun on her heel, striking him across the face with an open-palmed slap.

“Ow!” He cried. “Why did you do that?” Fantasies came tumbling down around his ears. “What's wrong with you?”

“Quiet, Lem!” She said sharply, and Lem sucked in a quick breath.

“How do you know my name?” He tried to make his voice sound gruff and irritated.

“I asked around,” Alhembra said with a small laugh. “After I saw you front and center for three weeks. There was something about you, something around the eyes that said you weren't buying the act.” She paused. “You're looking for our little secret, I suppose?”

Lem nodded, and the sword-swallower went on. “Fine. But I don't give away information to just anyone. Tell me how my trick is really done and I'll tell you the truth.”

“It's simple,” he spoke quickly, before the words went right out of his head. Confrontation wasn't something he was good at, and combined with beauty Lem found it almost overwhelming. “The swords are real, and so's the poison, but you're dousing yourself with an antidote every night. More than likely you're using Darasin, which is effective but requires you have a substantial constitution to endure its side-effects, which explains your strong and -” he hesitated, “robust figure.”

Alhembra laughed again and bowed deeply, forcing Lem to look away. “Correct, young man! Now, have a seat.” She led the way to small, upholstered chairs around a wooden table.

“Tell me,” she said, sinking down onto a chair, “what do think it is that we hide from the townspeople? What is our great deception?”

“I don't know!” Lem's voice carried his frustration. “I thought at first you might be fugitives, but none of you come close to any of the most wanted descriptions. You're not deserters or radicals, and I've confirmed you weren't part of the uprising last year. I don't know what else is left!”

“Hmmm,” Alhembra murmured, “and what was it made us seem odd in the first place, what did you notice?”

“It was...” Lem paused to think. “The acrobats. Some of what they were doing seemed impossible, even for trained professionals. There were several movements that should have injured if not outright killed them, but they went on as if nothing had happened.” He gasped, a sudden insight crashing into him. “Are they robots? Is that it?”

The sword-swallower laughed deeply, hands coming up to cover her face as she snorted in amusement. When she lowered them, Lem noticed a strange white marking on her jaw line, pale and dusty-looking.

“Is that...” he began, and she smiled sadly.

“Our curse is simple, Lem, but our malady profound. We've died a thousand times, bodies broken and useless, but are always raised again to perform. Our Ringmaster is far more than he appears.”

There was a sound at the door, a commotion beyond and Alhembra's eyes went wide. “Hide!” she said. “Quickly! They are coming!”

- D

Story #353 - Swordmaster

Swordmaster

The logo wasn’t quite right, but it got the point across.

Gameth Ron almost laughed at that, but then got control of himself and put down the paint brush. He’d rented the small office space on the wrong side of the tracks two weeks ago, but hadn’t gotten around to doing anything useful with it. Though he wasn’t much of an artist, the single sword he’d drawn was easy enough to recognize, and even if the small vine markings along its length meant nothing to anyone that walked by, it was important to Gameth that they be present and easy to identify.

It had never been his plan to sell out a strong-arm for hire, but circumstance had forced his hand and left him with few other options. While there were several standing offers waiting for him around the globe, they all came with commitments or expectations that made them unappealing. At home, his career in the military had been cut short by an unfortunate incident and while no charges had been laid, he’d been drummed out of the corps and into the ranks of civilians.

Jobs at fix-houses and commercial industries had proven pointless – he was not suited for such mind-numbing tasks and quickly earned the ire of both managers and employees alike. Working for himself was the only choice that made sense but until he saved a co-worker from a potentially fatal situation one evening after work, he had no idea what form that work would take.

“Thank gods for you, Gameth,” the young man had said, watching his would-be killers flee with sliced arms and cut legs, “you and that sword are a service any man could use.”

At first, Gameth assumed the fool had too much drink and not enough sense but quiet inquires of others brought a need to light – civilians lived in fear and were willing to pay well for the protection of a swordmaster.

Obtaining a license for his new venture had been easier than he anticipated; the dull-eyed woman at the city office asked for none of his certifications and seemed surprised he wanted to provide anything of substance. He had considered unsheathing his sword and proving his worth, but the office guards seemed ready to fight at any perceived slight. Though defeating them would have been no difficult thing, Gameth worried such an act could delay his permit processing.

Two weeks later and the paper was in hand, giving him permission to set up wherever he liked. He'd been careful to avoid mentioning any outright violence in the description of his business endeavors, and though the underlying concept of his venture was clear, the city appeared desperate enough for small operations to set up shop that they were willing to let him act along the fringes of law.

That suited him just fine.

“Excuse me?” A small voice said, interrupting his thoughts.

Turning, Gameth was met with the figure of a thin man, dressed well enough there was no way he lived in the surrounding area. That meant he was lost, or -

“Are you Gameth Ron?” The young man's face lit up. “Oh you must be – you look just like I've heard you described. I need your help.”

Gameth opened his mouth to reply, but the thin fellow kept talking, a stream of quick and jerky words that painted him as unsure at the very least and scared to death in the worst case.

“Wait. Wait. I should start with my name. Rel Deroy. That's my name – at least for now. I might change it if things get to hot, but do you think they'll get hot?” He glanced up and paused for a moment, but Gameth didn't answer; clearly, more was coming.

“I have a problem, you see, and I don't think anyone else can help me with it except a swordmaster. In fact, I'm that's what I need. You see, I've run afoul of a pistoleer -”

“What?” Gameth cut off the stringy fellow. “A pistoleer? How does someone like you -” he gestured at the man's fancy clothes and silk hat, “come anywhere near one of those freaks?”

“I...let's just say we had a number of business dealings. At first, the terms were quite favorable, but I put a tad too much trust in my new friend and suddenly found myself blackmailed into a corner. I need help, Mr. Ron, and I need it from you.” A small smile spread across Rel's. “I pay very well.”

Gameth grunted, mind spinning. Talented marksmen, most pistoleers were military vets that did their time and then got the hell out – their skills had been hard-used in the recent conflicts. A few chose to go rogue, either defecting from the service or hiring themselves out as thugs to the highest bidder once their term with the corps ended. Where Gameth's aim was to offer protection at a price, pistoleers were known to commit any act for the right price, and typically leave no survivors. That the thin man had run afoul of one meant he was far less innocent than he appeared.

“No thanks,” Gameth said shortly, turning back to his logo. “I'm not interested.”

“Please! Please, you have to help me,” desperation crept into Rel's voice, panic at the prospect of being hunted down and disposed of in cold blood. “Does the name Marlin Roth mean anything to you?”

Anger surged through Gameth and he turned, ripping his sword from its sheath. “What did you just say?”

“Marlin Roth,” the thin man repeated. “He's the man I had working for me, the one that's going to kill me now unless I do what he says. I thought perhaps since you ran in the same circles -”

“No!” Gameth said sharply. “Roth and I run nowhere near each other – we are nothing alike.” It was difficult to keep his voice under control along with his temper; he hadn't expected to find his younger brother shaking down dishonest merchants in the city. “I'll take your job,” he grated. Clearly, a reunion was long overdue.

- D

Story #352 - Theta Zane

Theta Zane

“I am placing you under arrest according to section 51-zulu of the Galactic Trade Code, subparagraph T-prime.” The Caldorran officer’s voice rang out over the bustling train station and Theta Zane came to a quick halt. There could be no question who the broad shouldered-man was talking to, since 51-zulu referred exclusively to acts of piracy committed in Union space.

Resisting wouldn’t do any good on Caldor; the officers were given a broad scope in exercising their powers and very few checks and balances existed to prevent over-use.

Theta raised his hands and dropped quickly to his knees, speaking loudly as he moved. “I am not armed. I will not resist. Take me before a magistrate.” He repeated the phrase as soon as it was completed, making sure each syllable was clear.

Others on the platform began to look in his direction, and Theta saw the approaching officer slow his stride. Any use of force would be in full view of citizens who had seen the “criminal” surrender, and massive public pressure could affect even them most high-profile and seemingly untouchable local authorities.

“Silence!” The hulking beast spoke again as the distance closed, “Do not move again or I will be forced to injure you.”

“I do not want that,” Theta spoke clearly, “officer…” he left the word hanging. Such men were required to identify themselves even if they would prefer to remain anonymous administers of justice.

“Palen,” the officer said shortly. “Of the fifth brigade.” His face softened slightly. “I’m surprised to see you show your face here, Zane – you have quite the list of charges against your name.”

Theta smiled. “I look forward to testing my mettle against each and every one.”

“Do not move,” Palen said again, voice firming as he reached for a pair of electro-cuffs. “Place your hands in front of you, and lock your fingers together.”

Slowly so as not to alarm suspicion, Theta complied and within moments was fully under Palen’s control. The cuffs buzzed against his wrists, arcing energy causing slight pain as the officer tightened their grip. Such devices were common, almost ordinary in the life of a smuggler, pirate, and all around nuisance in the galaxy, and Theta couldn’t help but smile at the other man’s obvious frustration. Most captives on Caldor were willing to plead for their freedom or offer compensation for release – it was apparent Palen expected much the same. Instead, Theta merely rose and waited patiently to be led off the platform and into a waiting security car.

“You’re going away for a long time, pirate,” Palen grated as he slammed the prisoner door shut. “Savor these last moments of freedom.”

…

“Do you understand what you stand accused of, Mr. Zane?” The judge frowned down at Theta. “This is a serious list of charges – the most extensive I have seen in many years.”

He nodded. “I would be surprised if it were not, Judge Rila. Your space has been quite kind to me.”

“You will not make a mockery of this court!” Palen’s voice boomed from the back of the room. He had been called to give initial evidence of capture, but stayed to see the proceedings unfold.

“And you will not presume to speak for me, Officer Palen.” Rila glared out from her bench. “I am the ultimate authority here and will decide when mockery has taken place.”

Theta didn’t bother to look but was quite certain he could feel the heat from Palen’s angry embarrassment even twenty meters distant.

“Now,” the judge went on, “to the matter of you, Pirate. Did my ears deceive me or have you just admitted to violating our law,“ she paused, “and be aware, any statement made before this court is entered into evidence and cannot be rescinded.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Theta dipped his head in gratitude, “it is most kind. I fully admit that my actions in Union space and Caldor territory fall under the bounds of Galactic Trade Code as well as local law.”

“And do you concede that such actions were in violations of such laws?” Rila pressed.

Theta nodded. “I do.”

Commotion rose up behind him as media came to their feet, phocaptures clicking and mic-pens activated.

“Silence!” The judge bellowed. “This trial is not complete. Silence or I will have you all ejected!” As quickly as it began the noise died down and quiet returned to the vaulted room, bringing with it an almost desperate anticipation. “Now is your chance, pirate – speak in your defense before I pass judgment.”

A quick spin on his heel and Theta faced the waiting throng, shoulders back and head held high. “For the record – and a blood-identity scan will confirm this – I am Theta Zane Renallo Desilva, son of the late Nesto Renallo Desilva, heir to his fortune and enterprise.”

The gasp from those assembled was not quite so sweet as the look on Palen’s face, and the indrawn breath from Judge Rila was merely an extra joy.

“By your own law, those of the high Nobility are exempt from Caldorran piracy law and anything short of murder in front of witnesses. Check you records and you will see no deaths aboard any vessel I’ve taken, no violence perpetrated unless no other choice could be made.”

“This is madness!” Palen screamed and began charging forward, pushing his way past assembled lawmen and media. “You cannot seriously expect us to believe –“

A small hiss and pressure on his arm told Theta the judge had ordered one of her men perform a blood-ID scan, something that could be done by every officer on-planet and should have been done when Palen originally made his arrest. Gasping breath said audacious claims had been confirmed, and the officer’s face paled as he crossed the barrister’s line.

“You are in contempt!” Rita’s voice rang out. “Seize him!” Four burly beasts charged past Theta and grabbed Palen by both arms, driving him to the ground. His eyes bulged and muscles strained as he fought to get free, fought to take out foolish revenge for mistakes he’d made.

“This isn’t over!” he screamed. “You’re dead, Theta Zane. Dead!”


- D

Story #351 - Hungered

Hungered

So it was that the Queen of all things made her choice, and allowed her soul to be consumed, eaten by the Once-was. People of the world were unaware, made ignorant by their own action and kept that way by That Which Eats. That Which Hungers…

“Get down!” Bello Pris screamed, pulling the young man down off of the hill-line. “You might as well light a fire-beacon for the hordes to shoot at!”

“What?” The soldier’s face was slack, his mouth loose. “I don’t –“

Bello did his best to tamp down the anger that flared but it was difficult. The Monarchs had been sending him the bottom of the barrel for months, but it appeared they’d finally managed to scrape through that barrel and down into the ground.

“On top of a ridge line with the sun to your back you might as well scream out our position, son – the enemy not only gets a clear shot at you but it lets them know we’re watching.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I…” the kid trailed off, and Bello clapped a hand down on the young man’s shoulder.

“What were you before this, boy? Before the war?”

“A cobbler,” he said, dropping his head. “And a good one. Had my own shop up and running until the guards came and pulled me away, told me I was in the army.” His voice fell to a whisper. “Took me from my girl.”

Bello felt a stab of compassion – he’d left behind a wife and son, but such was the life of a solider. At least he’d been given a choice.

“Get up,” he said gruffly, “and get back to camp. Tell them to expect me shortly.” He raised his voice. “Men! Back to camp!”

The boy looked as though he was going to protest, but those around him were already moving, crawling down the hill and then striking out along the dirty game-trail that led back to their forward post. They knew better than to question their command when he wanted to be alone; even if Bello was caught by a stray arrow or scouting party, there were others to take his place.

He waited until all of the men were gone before he started swearing, a long string of curses that streamed out into the autumn air. Even a cursory glance at the group below told him that the Those Which Hungered numbered in the thousands, if not tens of thousands, and his army stood no chance. The Monarchs would not be pleased to hear such an assessment, not happy to learn that they were once again outmatched. It had become a common circumstance of late – borders both north and south were beset by the ravening hordes, and Bello had heard rumors of Hungering armies crossing the sea.

“Bello…” A faint voice came to his ears and he was moving, rolling down the hill and coming to his feet, sword in hand. Nothing had pierced his flesh, no hooks had ripped out his eyes – yet – but sound typically meant death facing the hordes.

“Come out, cur!” He called. “Face me as a being of honor!” There was little chance of that – most of those arrayed against him knew little of respect, little of war. They would kill at a whim and only their leaders had any semblance of decency, a mockery of the true spirit shown by good men who gave their lives in service.

“I am not you enemy,” the voice went on, and a shimmering shape descended, sparkling in the slanting light. Crystalline reflections were cast down around him, shimmering things that spread out along the grass and touched gently blowing leaves with gold. After a moment the creature within came clear, but where perfect spiritual form should have appeared was a hideous beast, hunch-backed and warted, snapping and snarling even as it came. “I am the Queen of All.”

Bello snorted. He had heard the stories, but the Queen was widely regarded as the most beautiful creature the Lands had ever seen. Though she was nothing but the stuff of legend, Bello was certain should she choose to step out of the world of fantasy she could at least clean herself up.

“You are skeptical, my Bello, and rightly so,” the voice continued, “but have you never heard the stories?”

He frowned, schoolyard tales coming quickly to mind. The Queen had given herself for the good of all, allowed herself to be destroyed –

“Consumed,” the voice interrupted his thoughts. “I was consumed by this…thing.”

Bello looked again, looked more closely at the figure that had touched down before him. Its body struggled, anger clear in rippling waves of flesh and taut veins along knobbled hands, but its eyes were serene, its gaze peaceful.

He had mastered his share of enemies, driven down enough men to know – the beast was controlled.

“I…” he hesitated. “What would you have of me, my Lady?”

“Good,” she went on, “you still remember the old ways. I have a task for you, Commander, an aim that you must accomplish. This world has turned full circle, and soon the being in which I am contained will burst free.” The figure snarled at her words, snapping at the air and stamping its feet. “You must be there when it does so – I will be too weak, too spent to stand against its attacks after eons of control. Save me, Bello!” The voice began to fade along with the figure. “Come to the Pass! Do not abandon this world!”

She was gone before he could speak again, and in moments he was at his mount, swinging into the saddle and riding north. The Pass lay firmly in the hands of his enemy, but he had been looking to strike a blow against the Hungering elite. It would take all his powers of persuasion, but was sure the men could be made to follow. The Monarchs would not approve, but his force would be committed before they could act.

Bello had a Queen to save.


- D

Story #350 - Trial of Reflections

Trial of Reflections

Kayil Depa knelt, incense coming easily to hand. He had carried it with him over a journey of a thousand miles and twenty suns, but still he hesitated. Once burned, what had been started could not end and whatever fate was his could not be escaped.

The fire in front of him burned steadily, though no natural source could be found. That distracted him for a time, broke his thought from the enormity of what he had been called to do. Hands placed near the blaze told him it was not only hot but far hotter than any fire he had ever created, and it burned both day and night, rain or shine. Nothing could put it out.

It had been clear from the beginning that the path he sought to walk would be difficult – only the most ancient of scriptures mentioned anything about the flames and their mountain home. The Trial of Reflections was something very few undertook and only three had lived to write about; of those, two had been so vague as to be useless. The third was more specific, but even still Kayil found the passages maddening – as though the author had been deliberately trying to mislead.

He smiled as another light rain began to fall; under the same circumstance, he too might be vague simply for the sake of it, simply because he could.

Perhaps he would wait another night. Throwing the blood-red sticks into the fire as darkness descended sent a trembling fear up his spine – he had no idea what might emerge from the smoking pit.

With a snarl, he tossed the bundle forward. Kayil was tired of being afraid, tired of seeking only to never find because he was unwilling to endure the final mile, suffer through what was needed. He would survive, or he would die – at least he would know the truth of his worth.

A low crackling came as the incense began to burn; everything Kayil had read said slowly letting it be taken by the fire was not the proper course – it had to be destroyed, all at once, in order to deliver the intended effect.

An acrid smell began to waft over the stone-walled clearing, a choking cloud that had him clawing at his throat. As fast as Kayil could crawl away it enveloped him, twisting around his limbs and pouring into his lungs. The world began to waver, to shimmer, and soon a green cloud was all he could see, all he could smell, all he could taste.

It tasted like…death.

“Kayil…” a voice floated out from the center of the clearing, a ragged thing that was all too familiar. The hints he had been able to glean about the Trial made such a thing a possibility, but he had been unsure what form the spirit summoned would take. It appeared the writings he had found were all too literal.

“You believe yourself worthy of the Trial? A viable prospect?” Contempt was heavy in the voice – his voice – and it seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing and redoubling on itself until Kayil was in the dirt, hands over his ears and mouth open in a silent scream.

As quickly as it appeared, the green fog was gone and Kayil found himself in a watery after-image of the clearing. Rocky cliffs shimmered, stars shone too brightly and the grass underneath his feet seemed almost alive, almost ready to lash out and pull him down. He stood quickly, turning to confront the summoned beast. Only a tamped fire stared back at him, azure flames replacing cherry red. Of the reflection that mocked him, there was no sign.

“Foolish little man,” the voice came from behind him and he spun, desperate to confront it head-on, to face it like a man. Cowardice had always been in his nature but he found that at what he was sure was his end he stood tall, willing to endure so long as he could look death in the eye.

Only empty, drifting air met his gaze.

“Dammit!” He swore into the haze. “I’ve called you – let us finish this!”

“Why should I?” Mockery laced the voice. “Why should I face you? What have you done to deserve such an honor?”

“I followed the path!” Kayil called into the wavering darkness, “Discovered what I required and trekked here. It has not been easy!”

A booming laugh spread out from nowhere, from everywhere. “Poor Kayil. So Willing to martyr yourself, so willing to claim you have been unfairly burdened. These are the things that have held you back, that have prevented your advancement in the Academy.”

It took effort, but Kayil controlled his temper and held his voice. The creature – his reflection – was right. Knowledge began to return with peace; confrontation was the purpose of the trial, and purification its aim.

“I understand,” he said quietly, and the mist in front of him swirled, then coalesced into a mimicry of his own form. Taller and with a cruel twist to the lips, the creature was as Kayil always imagined others saw him – angry and unapproachable. “I am prepared for what must be done.”

“Perhaps you are at that,” the thing said, “perhaps you are ready.”

Without warning it lunged, slamming into Kayil with a force far greater than its insubstantial form implied. With a cry he stepped back, hands going to his chest and hands spread wide, locked in desperate pain.

Struggle raged inside, but so trivial as to be meaningless. Within moments Kayil found his own consciousness repressed and that of his double in control, owning each movement and each look.

“Please,” Kayil whimpered. “Don’t do this.”

A laugh sounded in his skull, far louder than it had been outside.

“You are the one who sought me out, little man. You are the one who believed what others wrote.” There was a pause ripe with satisfaction, a pleasure beyond that of mortal men. “You may well be strong enough to carry my essence beyond this place, and finally find a host more worthy.”



- D

Story #349 - Spirits of the Deep

Spirits of the Deep

Thurston Dash had seen better days, and his was only made worse by the stern-faced clergyman sitting across from him.

“Let me see if I understand,” Father Limor said slowly, “you want me to absolve you of a crime – without knowing exactly what that crime is or if you'll commit such an act again?”

Thurston shook his head, exasperated. That wasn't what he'd told the young sanctum assistant, and he had no illusions that any of the Fathers would be willing to do such a thing. It was simply more proof that nothing was going to go right for him anytime soon.

“No,” he said shortly. “I want to know how much money it will take for you to throw me a prayer of forgiveness.”

Limor's eyes widened in mock horror, but Thurston had been in the city long enough to know that most of the religious institutions were short on cash and that their masters willing to accept a donation so long as the terms were favorable.

“My son,” the fat man spoke as he bowed his head, “I cannot in good conscience offer such a prayer, even for – how much did you say it was?”

Thurston hadn't, but Limor knew that full well. “Sixty thousand credits.”

The supposedly ascetic man made a choking noise as he heard the amount and tried to remain still in his seat. Though he made an attempt to keep his private office moderately furnished and less than opulent, Thurston had been in the luxury trade for long enough to spot fine Alterran wood in the desk and chairs along with a Venne tapestry that could easily sell for five thousand to the right buyer. Limor obviously loved his things – and sixty thousand would be enough to get him quite a few more.

“My son,” the clergyman said, still trying to appear peaceful, “such an amount is substantial. What crime have you committed that you feel such a donation is appropriate?”

Sighing, Thurston leaned forward in his chair and grabbed Limor by the hair, forcing his head back and his eyes to pop open. “I murdered someone this morning, Father. Someone I cared a great deal about, and I did it because a Spirit of the Deep told me to.”

Limor make a choking noise and then sucked in a deep breath, but Thurston slapped his free hand over the wide mouth and shook his head. “No, Father – don't do that. You can still come out ahead if you pay attention and don't ask any more stupid questions.” After a long moment Limor nodded, and Thurston went on, though he didn't move either of his hands. Prudence would get him much farther than undeserved trust.

“The Spirit appeared to me two days ago. It told me I'd been purchased, that my soul had been forfeit thanks to a ritual performed by a another.” Thurston struggled to keep his voice under control. “It went on to explain, in detail, how my brother had given himself entirely to the Deep over the course of ten years and when the Lost finally came to claim his soul, he bargained for mine instead. We're twins,” he went on, “and Preston had uncovered an ancient passage that allowed one to sacrifice for the other under certain conditions. In this case, those conditions were that he donate his entire fortune to operations of the Lost here on Tallia, and provide them with my body and soul.”

Limor struggled, pointing to his mouth and Thurston stepped back with a warning glare. Speaking, he would permit but at the first sign of trouble...he pulled a small knife from his belt and laid it on the clergyman's desk. The sanctum's security needed work.

“You murdered your brother!” Limor hissed. “How can I possibly forgive such a sin?” His eyes were hungry though his words were pious – he was looking for a way to do just that.

“You can do it for credits, or you can do it because you feel some measure of compassion!” Thurston's patience finally ran out. “Don't you see? I did what I had to – Preston or I had to die or the Lost would claim us both. Murdering him appeased the Spirit sent for me, though it required very specific acts to make the soul viable, but now the Lost knows who I am. It seeks me, Father – I can feel it, even here. Your absolution under a false god protects me, makes me invisible once again.” His voice was hoarse and his hands began to shake; he was running out of time. “You get sixty thousand for speaking a few words. Please,” he begged, “don't let them find me.”

“Excellent,” Limor said, rising, and Thurston felt confusion flood over him. What was going on?

“I had my suspicions when I first saw you, but now you have confirmed it.” The fat man's face spread into a wide grin. “The Found is merciful, sending you here – especially given my guise as a man of less than scrupulous morals. You are fortunate, young Thurston,” Limor snapped his fingers and the door to his chambers burst open, admitting four men in battle armor, tech-swords at the ready. “You have found the Legion's home.”

“What?” The world began to spin and Thurston grabbed the arms of his chair for support. The Legion was a fantasy, an impossible lie told by those who wanted to believe in noble men striking down agents of the Lost.

“Silence, my child,” Limor said sternly. “You will learn all in good time. For now, you need to know only that you have been recruited – your absolution with come through service to our cause. That the Lost knows you is superb; you will provide exactly what we need to strike a blow against our ancient enemy. Welcome to our ranks. Welcome to the Legion.”

- D