Writing Halo and Science Fiction - link.me

Tor/Forge Author Voices

Volume Two

This is a collection of fiction and nonfiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these stories and novel excerpts are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Collection copyright © 2011 by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC. Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC 175 Fifth Avenue New York, NY 10010 www.tor-forge.com Tor® and Forge® are registered trademarks of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

Table of Contents

Author Articles Escaping into Science Fiction by Kevin J. Anderson .........................................................5 Writing Halo™ and Science Fiction by Greg Bear ..........................................................30 Mapping Worlds in The Lost Gate by Orson Scott Card ..................................................97 From Batman to The Long Man by Steve Englehart ......................................................153 On Writing Dead Space: Martyr by Brian Evenson .......................................................169 From Game Writer to Novel Writer by David Gaider ....................................................201 The Half-Made Frontier by Felix Gilman .......................................................................227 EVE™ and the Human Story by Tony Gonzales ...........................................................239 Creating a new world with Imager by L.E. Modesitt, Jr. ...............................................281 Steampunk: The Devil Wears Goggles by Cherie Priest ................................................290 Before the Golden Age by Carrie Vaughn ......................................................................311

Excerpts Halo: Cryptum by Greg Bear ............................................................................................32 Anna Dressed in Blood by Kendare Blake .......................................................................56 Farlander by Col Buchanan .............................................................................................79 The Lost Gate by Orson Scott Card ................................................................................100 Original Sin by Lisa Desrochers .....................................................................................131 The Long Man by Steve Englehart ..................................................................................155 Dead Space: Martyr by B. K. Evenson ..........................................................................171

The First Days by Rhiannon Frater ................................................................................175 Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne by David Gaider .........................................................203 The Half-Made World by Felix Gilman ..........................................................................230 EVE: The Emyrean Age by Tony Gonzales ....................................................................241 The Faerie Ring by Kiki Hamilton .................................................................................250 Hellhole by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson..............................................................9 Imager by L.E. Modesitt, Jr. ...........................................................................................283 Boneshaker by Cherie Priest ...........................................................................................293 After the Golden Age by Carrie Vaughn .........................................................................313 Children of the Sky by Vernor Vinge ..............................................................................330 Off Armageddon Reef by David Weber ..........................................................................341 Down the Mysterly River by Bill Willingham, illustrated by Mark Buckingham ..........360

5

Escaping Into Science Fiction

By Kevin J. Anderson

I grew up in a small town in Wisconsin in the US, a rural area with farms, big red barns and tall grain silos . . . and nothing interesting to do. Even as a little kid I was enamored with watching science fiction movies (the Saturday afternoon Sci-Fi Cinema that broadcast old black-and-white science fiction movies with silly special effects and rubber bug-eyed monsters that didn’t look at all silly to me at my wide-eyed age). At the age of five, I remember seeing the George Pal version of The War of the Worlds, and it scared the daylights out of me and had a profound effect, igniting my imagination and making me ponder other worlds, other races (not all of which wanted to invade the Earth). Our town was too small to have a library of its own, but was serviced by a Bookmobile, a sort of bus/truck combination filled with books that traveled from place to place, making a weekly circuit so that rural communities had access to a steady flow of books. I went to the Bookmobile as often as possible; at my age, I was relegated to the children’s section, which I finished quickly enough, and soon turned my eyes to their shelf or two of science fiction. When I tried to check out an “adult” book, however— Dolphin Island by Arthur C. Clarke—the stern librarian (who looked as if she went to a mortician rather than a beauty parlor) informed me in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t allowed to check out any of the grown-up books because I wasn’t ready for them; apparently, her minimal customer-service abilities had disqualified her from a position in

6 a more stable library (i.e., one not on wheels). I was devastated; this was my only access to new books, and I had set my sights on Asimov, Bradbury, Clarke. Hearing of this, however, my mom—bless her!—marched me right back down to the Bookmobile, checked out the books under her own name, and lectured the mobile-librarian that I was allowed to check out any books I wanted. Around that time, my parents found an ad in the Sunday newspaper supplement advertising a home library of classics of literature “in handsome paperback format”—one hundred books for the princely sum of $25. The Airmont Classics Library…rather poorquality paperbacks with cheap paper, inept cover paintings, and microscopic print. It was wonderful! I remember the day the boxes were delivered to our door, and we spent the afternoon unpacking books, looking with delight on title after title, chosen by the staff of the Airmont Library as the greatest works ever written. It was as if treasure chests had fallen from the sky. Jane Austen, Emily Bronte, Charles Dickens…those held no interest for a 9-year-old. But War of the Worlds, The Time Machine, Frankenstein, A Journey to the Center of the Earth, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, Dracula, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Master of the World, Treasure Island, Stories of Edgar Allan Poe. It opened the whole world. For a young man who lived far from any movie theater, with 3-4 television stations available if the antenna on the roof was positioned just right, surrounded by rolling corn and soybean fields and a list of home chores, lawnmowing, garden work…the works of science fiction and fantasy took me away to adventurous and interesting places, exotic worlds. Places far from home.

7 When I was ten, my mom took me on an expedition to a two-story shopping mall (my first ever) in the big city (of Milwaukee), and we entered a B. Dalton, Bookseller. Though it was nothing like current huge book superstores, it was many times the size of any library I had ever seen, with a whole section devoted solely to science fiction. The bookstore clerk suggested a few authors who might be appropriate, and my mom told me I could pick out two paperbacks and she would buy them. Big mistake. I froze: How could I pick only two? I wanted to read everything there. I went back and forth, picking up one after another, reading the back-cover summary, then trying another one and another one, then going back to an earlier one. My sister, a few years younger, was bored to tears (she wanted to go clothes shopping…talk about boring!) After an hour or so, I finally chose Andre Norton’s Daybreak: 2250 A.D. and H.G. Wells’s Star-Begotten. Years later, when I was in a creative writing class in college, still in Wisconsin, I submitted science fiction short stories for critique while the other students turned in “creative writing class” stories (plotless things about characters discussing their crumbling relationships over the breakfast table). In exasperation, the professor (who had published a single novel and took it as a point of pride that he was five years late on his next novel deadline) asked me, “Anderson, why don’t you write about anything real? Why not do a story about a young man who grew up in a farming town who’s working his way through college as a waiter in a restaurant?” The suggestion appalled me. “Because I live that every day. Why would I want to write about a dull, regular life when there are so many more interesting stories to tell and places to describe?” I don’t think he understood my answer any more than I understood his question.

8 That what science fiction has always been to me—not just lighthearted escape fiction, but genuine escape fiction, a way for me to get away from the mundane and to explore the wonders of the galaxy in my imagination, whether or not I lived in a small, humdrum town. By now I have escaped that small town, but I haven’t even come close to the boundaries of what’s possible in science fiction.

Copyright © 2011 by Kevin J. Anderson

9

Hellhole

By Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson

Copyright ©2011 by Brian Herbert & Kevin J. Anderson

Brian Herbert has been nominated for both the Hugo and the Nebula Awards. In 2003, he published Dreamer of Dune, a Hugo Award-nominated biography of his father, Frank Herbert. With Kevin J. Anderson, he is the co-author of the New York Times bestselling novels expanding upon and telling further stories in the Dune universe.

Kevin J. Anderson has been nominated for the Nebula Award, the Bram Stoker Award, and the SFX Reader’s Choice Award. He set the Guinness-certified world record for the largest single-author book signing. With Brian Herbert, he is the co-author of the New York Times bestselling novels expanding upon and telling further stories in the Dune universe.

10 Prologue

It was the end of the rebellion, and this day would either make or break the freedom fighters. General Tiber Maximilian Adolphus had struggled for half a decade against the corrupt government of the Constellation, taking his cause across the twenty central Crown Jewel worlds and riding a groundswell of popular support – all of which had led him to this place. A last stand where the old regime was bound to collapse. The battle over the planet Sonjeera would decide it all. The General’s teeth ached from clenching his jaw, but he stood on the bridge of his flagship, ostensibly calm and confident. He had not intended to be a rebel leader, but the role had been forced on him, and he’d never lost sight of the goal. The ancient, incestuous system had oppressed many populations. The more powerful noble families devoured the weaker ones to steal their planetary holdings. Ultimately, even those powerful families split up and tore at one another, as if it were some kind of game. It had gone on far too long. For five years now, the General’s ever-growing forces had battled old-guard loyalists, winning victories and suffering defeats. Any reasonable person could see that the bloated system was rotten, crumbling, unfair to the majority. People across the Crown Jewels had only needed a man to serve as an example, someone to light the spark and unify their grievances. Adolphus had fallen into this role by accident, but like a piece of driftwood caught in a whitewater flood, he had been swept along to his inevitable destination.

11 Now his forces converged over the main prize: Sonjeera, with its glorious white stone buildings, tall towers, and ancient museums – window-dressing that made the government appear to be as marvelous as the politicians claimed it was. Diadem Michella Duchenet, the Constellation’s supreme ruler, would never admit defeat, clinging to her position of power with cadaverous claws. Rather than relinquish the Star Throne, the old woman would see the capital world laid to waste, without regard to the innocent citizens she claimed to represent and protect. And if the General allowed it to come to that, he would be no better than Diadem Michella. But he didn’t see any way around it. In the battles of the rebellion so far, Adolphus had been careful to keep civilian casualties to a minimum, but he knew the Diadem would eventually force his hand. She would draw a dark line of morality in front of him and dare him to cross it. Today might be that day . . . “Steady ahead.” His flagship, the Jacob, was named after his father, one of the first casualties in the string of political and economic schemes that had provoked Adolphus into action. “Frigates and sweepers forward. Open the gunports and show them we mean business.” “Aye, General.” With an intense focus, he studied the screen and the planet growing larger by the minute; Sonjeera sparkled with tiny dots of ships, stations, and orbital activity. It was a sapphire laced with clouds, green continents, and city lights that sparkled across the night side. The crown jewel of all Crown Jewels.

12 Adolphus’s eyes were dark and old beyond his years, not having seen laughter in a long time. His black hair was neatly trimmed, and his square jaw had a tendency to show beard shadow, but he had shaved carefully only a few hours before. He intended to be presentable for this engagement, no matter how it turned out. He had his obligation to history . . . His deep blue uniform was neat and impeccable, the coppery rank insignia prominent on his collar, though he sported no medals or decorations. The General had refused to let his men present him with accolades until they had actually won. He had not entered this conflict for glory or wealth, but justice. “Tactical display, Mr Conyer. Let me see the distribution of our ships, and project the defenses that Sonjeera has mounted.” “Here they are, General.” The tac officer called up a display of the 463 rebel ships – a fleet that was certainly superior to what the Army of the Constellation could muster here on short notice. Destroyers, fast harriers, frigates, sweepers, large carriers, even civilian cargo ships refit- ted with armor and weapons. Above the capital planet, cargo ships and short-range in-system yachts and transports scattered, seeking shelter. A meager ring of security ships kept station near the main stringline hub, the orbiting nexus of interstellar lines that connected the Crown Jewel planets. Not nearly enough. The General’s forces could – and would – overwhelm the security ships and seize the hub without much resistance. “The Diadem has mounted no primary defenses that we can see yet, sir.” “She will,” Adolphus said. It couldn’t be that easy. Over the codecall link, Franck Tello, the General’s second-in-command and a close friend, broke in from the bridge of his own

13 destroyer, cheery as usual. “Maybe that’s the old bitch’s answer. One look at our fleet, and she ran to hide in a bomb shelter. I hope she took sanitary facilities and some extra panties.” The men on the Jacob’s bridge chuckled, a release of tension, but Adolphus slowly shook his head. “She’s not stupid, Franck. Michella knew we were coming, and she’s been losing battles for years. If she was going to surrender, she would have cut a deal to save her own skin.” He didn’t like this. As his fleet spread out and prepared to form a blockade, the surface-to-orbit traffic around Sonjeera increased dramatically. Passenger pods and shuttles rose into space, people evacuating the capital world in a disorderly rush. “Maybe the bitch already fled,” Tello suggested. “That doesn’t sound like her,” Adolphus said, “but I’d bet a month’s pay that she called for an immediate evacuation to cause chaos.” An overloaded stringline hauler accelerated away from the orbiting hub, its framework crowded with passenger pods that dangled like ripe fruit. A second hauler remained docked at the hub, but it would not be loaded in time. The last-minute evacuees would be stranded there in orbit. “It’s like a stampede. We’d better wrap this up before it turns into an even bigger mess. Four frigates, take the stringline hub,” Adolphus ordered. “Minimal damage, no casualties if possible.” His first ships streaked in, broadcasting a surrender order. As they approached the hub, the second stringline hauler broke away from the dock and lurched away from the

14 station, only half loaded. Three passenger pods disengaged and dropped free, improperly secured in the rush, and the ovoid vessels tumbled in free orbit. “Stop that hauler! No telling who’s aboard,” Adolphus said into the codecall. He dispatched one of his large, slow carriers to block the vessel. Passenger shuttles and evacuating in-system ships flurried about, retreating to the dark side of Sonjeera in panic. Adolphus clenched his jaw even harder; the Diadem had made them terrified of what he and his supposed barbarians would do . . . when it was Michella they should have feared. The second stringline hauler continued to accelerate away from the hub, even as the General’s slow carrier moved to cross its path before the hauler could activate the ultrafast stringline engines. The carrier pilot yelped over the codecall, “He’s going to ram us, General!” “Retreat and match speed, but do not deviate from the path. If the hauler pilot insists on a crash, give him a gentle one.” The rebel carrier refused to get out of the way even as the hauler moved forward. Adolphus admired the fortitude of the carrier’s crew; if the fleeing hauler activated the stringline engines, they would both be a vapor cloud. The hauler closed the distance and the rebel carrier blocked it, slowed it; the two ships collided in space, but the impact was minimal. As the four rebel frigates again demanded the surrender of the stringline hub, the ten small Constellation security ships left their stations and swept forward in a coordinated move, opening fire on the General’s warships. Explosions rippled along the first frigate’s hull, drawing shouts of astonishment from the crews.

15 “What the hell are they doing?” Franck Tello cried over the codecall. “We’ve got hundreds more ships than they do!” “Return fire,” Adolphus said. “Disable engines if possible . . . but do what you need to do.” The frigate captains launched retaliatory fire, and three security ships exploded. Two others were damaged, but the rest circled around, undeterred. Streams of explosive projectiles flew in all directions, most of them directed at Adolphus’s frigates, but countless others missed their targets and hit nearby vessels, including the evacuating insystem ships that were scrambling away from the stringline hub. When he saw two civilian transports explode, Adolphus yelled for his fleet to close in. “No time for finesse. Eradicate those security ships!” In a hail of return fire, the rebels blew up the vessels before they could cause further damage. The General’s jaw ached. He hated useless death. “Why wouldn’t they stand down? They had no chance against us.” Lieutenant Spencer, the weapons officer, cleared his throat. “Sir, if I might suggest, we can force the issue now. Threaten to blow up the whole hub if the Diadem doesn’t surrender. That would cripple the Constellation’s interstellar transport – the people would never stand for it.” “But that’s not what I stand for, Lieutenant,” Adolphus said. “Hostages and terrorist acts are for cowards and bullies. The people of the Constellation need to see that I’m different.” The Diadem’s propaganda machine had already painted him with the broad strokes of “monster” and “anarchist.” If he were to sever the lines of transportation

16 and trade among the Crown Jewels, the people would turn against him in a matter of weeks. “General, the stringline hub is ours,” said the first frigate captain. “We have the high ground. Nobody on Sonjeera is going anywhere.” Adolphus nodded, but did not let down his guard. “Harriers, round up those loose passenger pods before they burn up in orbit.” “This is making me damned nervous, General,” Franck transmitted. “How can the Diadem just sit there, with almost five hundred rebel ships lining up in orbit?” “Here it comes, sir!” broke in the weapons officer. “Constellation battleships emerging from Sonjeera’s sensor shadow.” Now Adolphus understood. “The security ships were trying to stall us. All right, how many are we facing?” Conyer ran a scan. As they stormed forward, the Diadem’s ships moved in a random flurry as if to disguise their numbers. “Three hundred and twelve, sir. And that’s an accurate count. Probably all the ships she’s got left.” Though his rebels outgunned them by a substantial margin, he was sure Diadem Michella had given her fleet strict no-surrender orders. If the General’s fleet gained the upper hand, the Constellation defenders might initiate a suicide protocol . . . though he wondered if they would follow such an order. General Tiber Adolphus engendered such loyalty among his own men, but he doubted the Diadem was capable of inspiring such dedication. However, the security ships around the stringline hub had already demonstrated their willingness to die. “They’re not slowing, General!” Lieutenant Spencer said in a crisp voice.

17 “Message coming in from the Constellation flagship, sir,” said the communications officer. The screen filled with the image of an older gentleman wearing a Constellation uniform studded with so many ribbons, medals, and pins that it looked like gaudy armor over the uniform shirt. The man had sad gray eyes, a lean face, and neatly groomed muttonchop sideburns. Adolphus had faced this opponent in eight previous battles, winning five of them, but only by narrow margins. “Commodore Hallholme!” Even as the Diadem’s last-stand defense fleet came toward them, the General forced himself to be calm and businesslike, especially with this man. “You are clearly outgunned. My people have strongholds on numerous Crown Jewel planets, and today I intend to take Sonjeera. Only the details remain.” “But history rests on the details.” The old Commodore seemed dyspeptic from the choice he faced. Percival Hallholme had been a worthy foe and an honorable man, welltrained in the rules of engagement. “The Diadem has commanded me to insist upon your surrender.” The Jacob’s bridge crew chuckled at the absurd comment, but Adolphus silenced them. “That won’t be possible at this time, Commodore.” This was the last chance he would give, and he put all of his sincerity into the offer. “Please be reasonable – you know how this is going to end. If you help me secure a peaceful resolution without any further blood- shed and no damage to Sonjeera – a planet beloved by all of us – I would be willing to work out amnesty arrangements for yourself and your top-tier officers, even a suitably supervised exile for Diadem Michella, Lord Selik Riomini, and some of the worst offenders among the nobility.”

18 While the Constellation ships surged closer, Adolphus continued to stare at Hallholme’s image, silently begging the man to see reason, to flinch, to back down in the face of harsh reality. For a fleeting instant, Adolphus thought the old Commodore would reconsider, then Hallholme said, “Unfortunately, General, the Diadem gave me no latitude for negotiation. I am required to force your surrender at all costs, using any means necessary.” He gestured to his communications officer. “Before you open fire, you should see something.” Multiple images flooded the panel screens on the Jacob’s bridge of forlornlooking people, gaunt-faced, sunken-eyed, and plainly terrified. They were packed in metal-walled rooms that looked like spacecraft brig chambers or sealed crew quarters. Adolphus recognized some of the faces. Over the codecall channel, Franck Tello shouted, “That’s my sister! She’s been missing for months.” Some of Adolphus’s bridge officers identified other captives, but there were thousands. The images flickered one after another. “We’re holding them aboard these ships, General,” Hallholme said. He had blood on his scalp and forehead now, which he wiped with a cloth. Something had happened when the cameras went to the hostages. “Seventeen-thousand hostages. Members of your own families and their close associates. If you open fire upon us, you will be killing your own.”

19 Adolphus’s stomach churned with revulsion as he looked at the terrified hostages, including women, children, and the elderly. “I always thought you were a man of honor, Commodore. This loathsome act is beneath you.” “Not when the Constellation is at stake.” Hallholme looked embarrassed, even disgusted with himself, but he shook it off, still holding a loth to his head. “Look at them. Have all of your rebels look at them. Once again, General, I demand your surrender.” “We’ve all faced tragedies, sir,” said Conyer, with an audible swallow. “We should have known the Diadem would stoop to such barbaric tactics.” “We’ve got to take Sonjeera, General!” said the navigation officer. On his own ship, the old Commodore barked an order, and on the transmitted images, the Diadem’s guards strode into the field of view, brandishing shock prods with sizzling electric tips. The hostages tried to fight back as the guards fell upon them with the shock prods, burning skin, shedding blood. As the hostages screamed in pain, Adolphus felt the torture as if it were inflicted upon his own body. “General, we can’t let them get away with this!” said Lieutenant Spencer. Hallholme raised his voice to a grim command. “Guards, set shock levels to lethal.” His ships continued forward. “Surrender now, General. The blood will be on your hands.” The two fleets closed until they were separated by only a hair’s breadth in space. All gunports were open, weapons ready to fire. “You are an animal, Commodore.” Seventeen thousand hostages. “I will not surrender. Weapons officer, prepare—”

20 “And we have your mother aboard, General,” Hallholme interrupted, and her image flooded the screen. Adolphus had thought she was safe, sent away to a quiet village on Qiorfu under an assumed name. And yet she stared at him through the screen, her face bruised, hair bedraggled, sealed in a brig cell somewhere. But which ship? The General froze for just an instant, a pause too short for a single breath. For Hallholme it was enough. He barked a command, and all three-hundred Constellation warships opened fire at point-blank range. Diadem Michella Duchenet despised the man for what he had done to her peaceful Constellation. The twenty core worlds had been unified under a stable government for centuries, with a high standard of living and a population that didn’t complain too much. Tiber Adolphus had mucked everything up. She tried not to take it personally, because a leader was supposed to be admirable, professional. But the Constellation was hers, and anyone who threatened it committed a personal affront against her. She sat on the Star Throne like an angry death-angel looming over the courtmartial proceedings. More than a hundred rebel warships had been destroyed before Adolphus finally declared his unconditional surrender. In desperation and under attack, some of his own men had opened fire on Hallholme’s ships, but the rebel General had refused to slaughter the hostages in the heat of battle, even though it meant his defeat. Adolphus had lost thousands of men, and thousands more were prisoners of war. Now that the war was over, maybe she would have to be merciful. The Council Hall on Sonjeera was crowded, every seat filled, and Michella had made certain that the full court-martial would be broadcast across Sonjeera, and

21 annotated recordings would be distributed among the Crown Jewels, even out to the rugged frontier planets in the Deep Zone. An escort of six armed guards brought Tiber Adolphus into the chamber, stripped of military rank insignia. The shackles were completely unnecessary, but the Diadem considered them an effective statement. This man had to serve as an example. His numerous followers would also be punished; she would confiscate their holdings, put the most prominent into penal servitude, and scatter the rest to live in poverty. Adolphus was the one who mattered to her. As he walked forward, managing to carry himself upright despite the chains, the crowd let out an angry mutter, though not nearly as loud as Michella had hoped. Somehow, the man had sparked a popular fervor across the Crown Jewels. Why, they actually viewed him as heroic! And that disturbed Michella. The night before, while preparing for this spectacle, she had met with Lord Riomini, who came dressed in his characteristic black garments, even for a private meeting at the Diadem’s palace. Selik Riomini was the most powerful of the nobles, ruler of his own planet Aeroc. He also commanded the Army of the Constellation, because his private military force comprised the bulk of the ships drawn together to fight the spreading rebellion. “He has to be executed, of course, Selik,” Michella had said, as they shared an unimaginably valuable brandy he had brought her as a gift. Riomini would likely succeed her as Diadem, and was already setting his pieces on the game board in the power plays among the nobles. Despite her age, however, Michella did not intend to retire for some time.

22 Riomini sipped his brandy before he answered. “That is the very thing you must not do, Eminence. The rebellion pointed out fundamental flaws in our government and lit a spark to tinder that’s been piling up for generations. If you execute Adolphus, you make him a martyr, and this unrest will never die. Someone else will take up his cause. Punish him, but keep him alive.” “I refuse! That man committed treason, tried to bring down the Constellation—” The Black Lord set down his glass and leaned closer to her. “Please hear me out, Eminence. If you address the grievances that formed the basis of this rebellion, the people will calm themselves and wait to see what you do.” Michella was ready to argue. “And what will I do?” “Oh, you’ll make a few cosmetic changes, establish numerous committees, look into the matter for the next several years, and the momentum will die away. Soon enough, the rebellion will be forgotten. And so will Adolphus.” Intellectually, she could see the wisdom in his words, but personally she could not put aside her anger. “I won’t let him get away with it, Selik. I won’t grant him a pardon.” Riomini just chuckled. “Oh, I would never suggest that, Eminence. I have an idea that I think you’ll like.” Now, the deposed Adolphus stood at attention in the center of the polished stone floor. The noble lords in attendance listened in breathless silence as the docket of his crimes was read, one item after the next after the next, for two hours. Adolphus denied none of the charges. Obviously he assumed his death sentence was pre-ordained. Michella had taken particular pleasure in informing him that his mother was among the

23 hostages killed during the combat operations (and she’d issued orders to make sure that was true). When it was all finished, the audience waited. Diadem Michella rose slowly and grandly from her throne, taking time to summon the words she had crafted with such care. She even fashioned the sweet, benevolent expression that had made her a beloved maternal presence throughout the Constellation. “Tiber Maximilian Adolphus, you have been a scourge upon our peaceful society. Every person here knows the pain and misery you’ve caused.” She smiled like a disappointed schoolteacher. “But I am not a vindictive woman. Many of your former followers, after begging me for mercy, have asked me to redress the problems that you tried to solve through violence. As Diadem, that is my duty. “As for you, Tiber Adolphus, your crimes cannot be forgiven. Although you deserve execution, I grant you a second chance in the fervent hope that you will turn your energies toward the betterment of humankind.” She waited for the surprised buzz of conversation to rise and then subside. Finally she continued, “We therefore send you into exile on an untamed planet in the Deep Zone. Go there with as many of your followers as wish to join you. Instead of causing further destruction, I offer you a fresh start, a chance to build something.” She had seen images of the planet chosen for him – a wasteland, a giant scab on the hindquarters of the Galaxy. It had once been beautiful, but a massive asteroid impact had all but destroyed the world some centuries in the past. The landscape was blasted, the ecosystem in turmoil. The few surviving remnants of native flora and fauna were incompatible with human biochemistry.

24 As an added twist of the knife, Michella had decided to name the world Hallholme. Adolphus raised his square chin and spoke. “Diadem Michella, I accept your challenge. Better to rule on the most hellish frontier planet than to serve the corrupt government on Sonjeera.” That provoked a number of boos, oaths, and hisses. Michella continued in her studiously maternal and benevolent tone. “You have your chance, Tiber Adolphus. I shall grant you the basic supplies you need to establish yourself.” She paused, realizing she had run out of words to say. “I have spoken.” As the armed guards whisked Adolphus away, Michella had to hide a satisfied smile. Even his followers would admit that she was benevolent. They could not fault her. And when the deposed General failed – as assuredly he would, since she had sabotaged his equipment and tainted his supplies – the failure would be seen as his own, and no one would be the wiser. On that horrific planet, Adolphus wouldn’t last three months.

25 TEN YEARS LATER 1

That morning’s smoke storm left a greenish haze in the air. Over the course of the day, intermittent breezes would scour the fine layer of grit from the reinforced buildings . . . or maybe the weather would do something entirely different. During his decade of exile, planet Hallholme had always been unpredictable. Tiber Maximillian Adolphus arrived at the Michella Town spaceport, several kilometers from the main settlement, ready to meet the scheduled stringline hauler with its passengers and much-needed cargo. After Lt Spencer, his driver, parked the ground vehicle in the common area, Adolphus made his way to the crowd that was already gathering. Seeing him, his old troops offered formal salutes (the discipline was automatic for them); everyone on the colony still referred to him as “the General.” Even the civilian families and penal workers greeted him with real, heartfelt respect, because they knew he had made the best of an impossible situation in this terrible place. Adolphus had singlehandedly shown the colony how to survive whatever the world had to throw at them. The landing and loading area looked like a bustling bazaar as people prepared for the scheduled downboxes from the hauler that had just docked in orbit. Underground warehouse hangars were opened, waiting for the new cargo to fall from the sky. Flatbeds were prepped to deliver perishables directly to Michella Town. The colony merchants were anxious to bid for the new materials. It would be a free-for-all.

26 Though the spaceport clerks had a manifest of items due to arrive from other Constellation worlds, Adolphus knew those lists were rarely accurate. He hoped the downboxes wouldn’t contain another shipment of ice-world parkas or underwater breathing apparatus, which were of no use here. The persistent mix-ups couldn’t be explained by sheer incompetence. Back on Sonjeera, Diadem Michella made no secret that she would shed no tears should the banished rebel General perish on his isolated colony. And yet he and his people continued to survive. In the first year here, Adolphus had named the initial planetary settlement Michella Town in her “honor.” The Diadem knew full well it was a veiled insult, but she could not demand that he change the name without looking like a petty fool. A number of locals called the place Helltown, a name they considered more endearing than the other. “Why the formal uniform today, Tiber?” came a familiar voice from his left. “Looks like you had it cleaned and pressed just for the occasion.” In the bustle of people anticipating the stringline hauler’s arrival, he had not noticed Sophie Vence. As the colony’s largest distributor of general goods, Sophie always had a strong claim on arriving shipments. And Adolphus liked her company. He brushed the lapel of his old uniform, touched the medals on his chest, which his followers had given to him even after his defeat. “It stays clean from one occasion to the next, since I wear it so rarely.” He ran his fingers along the tight collar. “Not the proper clothing for this environment.” Sophie had wavy dark brown hair, large gray eyes, and the sort of skin that looked better without makeup. She was in her early middle age, a decade younger than

27 Adolphus, but she had been through a great deal in her life. Her generous mouth could offer a smile or issue implacable instructions to her workers. “You don’t usually come to meet stringline arrivals. What’s so interesting about this one? You didn’t mention anything last night.” She gave him an endearing smile. “Or were you too preoccupied?” He maintained his stiff and formal appearance. “One of the Diadem’s watchdogs is on that passenger pod. He’s here to make certain I’m not up to any mischief.” “You’re always up to mischief.” He didn’t argue with the comment. She continued, “Don’t they realize it’s not much of a surprise inspection if you already know about it?” “The Diadem doesn’t know that I know. I received a coded message packet from a secret contact on Sonjeera.” Plenty of people back in the old government still wished that his rebellion had succeeded. One of the humming flatbeds pulled up before them in a cloud of alkaline dust, and Sophie’s eighteen-year-old son Devon rolled down the driver’s compartment window. Strikingly good-looking, he had a muscular build and intense blue eyes. He pointed to a cleared area, but Sophie shook her head and jabbed a finger southward. “No, go over there! Our downboxes will be in the first cluster.” Devon accelerated the flatbed over to the indicated area, where he grabbed a prime spot before other flatbeds could nose in. Work administrators gathered by the colony reception area for the new batch of convicts, fifty of them from a handful of Constellation worlds. Because there was so much to be done on the rugged colony, Adolphus was grateful for the extra laborers. Even after a decade of backbreaking work and growing population, the Hallholme

28 settlements teetered on the razor’s edge of survival. He would put the convicts to work, rehabilitate them, and give them a genuine fresh start – if they wanted it. He shaded his eyes and gazed into the greenish-brown sky, searching for the bright white lights of descending downboxes or the passenger pod. After locking onto the planet’s lone terminus ring in orbit, the giant stringline hauler would release one container after another from its framework. When the big ship was empty, the pilot would prepare the hauler’s skeleton to receive the carefully audited upboxes that Adolphus’s colony was required to ship back to Sonjeera as tribute to the Diadem. Tribute. The very word had jagged edges and sharp points. Among the governors of the fifty-four newly settled Deep Zone colony worlds, Adolphus was not alone in resenting the Constellation’s demand for its share. Establishing a foothold on an exotic planet did not come easily. On most worlds, the native biochemistry was not compatible with Terran systems, so all food supplies, seed stock, and fertilizers had to be delivered from elsewhere. The task was even more difficult on devastated Hallholme. Thinking back, Adolphus sighed with ever-present regret. He had launched his rebellion for grand societal changes . . . changes that most citizens knew were necessary. And he had come close to winning – very close – but under fire and faced with treachery, he had made the only choice he could live with, the only moral choice, and now he had to live with the consequences of his defeat. Even so, Diadem Michella couldn’t accept her triumph for what it was. She had never expected the colony to survive the first year, and she didn’t trust Adolphus to abide by the terms of his exile. So, she was sending someone to check on him – again. But this inspector would find nothing. None of them ever did.

29 A signal echoed across the landing field, and people scurried to get into position. Sophie Vence smiled at him again. “I’d better get busy. The boxes are coming down.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and he flushed. He hated the fact that he couldn’t discipline his own embarrassment. “Not in public,” he said tersely. “You know that.” “I know that it makes you uncomfortable.” She flitted away, waving at him. “Later, then.”

30

Writing Halo and Science Fiction

By Greg Bear

There are lots of reasons for me to love science fiction. I grew up on sf—books, comic books, TV, movies—and very quickly decided I wanted to write it. I also wanted to create special effects, a la Ray Harryhausen, and later Star Trek and 2001: A Space Odyssey. The genre—if it is a genre—expanded my brain, challenged my prejudices and the prejudices of my culture, and drew me time and again back to the sciences. To this day, pulling me into a conversation about an idea—any idea—elicits this rambling mental journey back through science, books, movies, artistic visions. There’s no easy way to separate them in my head. Being given the opportunity to work in the Halo® universe is like a homecoming. So many science fictional ideas find an honored place in the Halo games, from Larry Niven’s Ringworld to Heinlein’s Starship Troopers to the cosmic expansiveness of Edward E. Smith and Olaf Stapledon. By the time we’re discussing the Forerunners, we’re in Arthur C. Clarke territory. And I love all of these authors. But there are other aspects to the Halo Saga. The mythic angle cannot be avoided. We’re talking about human origins, cosmic cataclysm, monstrous transformation— genocide, biocide. The troubled histories of many ancient gods come to mind. Why weigh down what is in essence an entertaining adventure and action game with all this freight of history and myth? One reason only: because it’s fun. It stretches

31 our thinking. We play in these fabulous environments and ask how they came to be; our questions generate more questions. Storytelling is the best way to explore those questions and perhaps lay down some answers. But because many, many people contribute to the Halo universe—the creators at Bungie, the current creators and guardians at 343, and the many fans and players themselves—playing around in Halo must be a group effort. And that’s the other benefit of loving science fiction—the great sense of community, of shared questions, of a shared adventure in exploration and discovery. The science fiction community took me in as a teenager, gave me opportunities, exposed me to new ways of thinking about art and literature. The Halo community is part of that outreach. I hope Halo: Cryptum and the next two novels in the Forerunner Saga will engage you as well. Whether or not you’ve actually played Halo, if you love science fiction as I do, I hope you’ll find yourself in familiar territory—that is, lost in a profound sense of wonder. We’re all players here; and the players create new ground, and new stories, every day.

Copyright © 2011 by Greg Bear

32

Halo: Cryptum

By Greg Bear

Copyright © 2010 by Microsoft Corporation

Halo is a trademark or registered trademark of Microsoft Corporation in the United States and/or other countries and is used under license from owner.

Greg Bear is the author of more than thirty books of science fiction and fantasy, including Hull Zero Three, City at the End of Time, Eon, Moving Mars, Mariposa, and Quantico. He is married to Astrid Anderson Bear and is the father of Erik and Alexandra. Awarded two Hugos and five Nebulas for his fiction, one of two authors to win a Nebula in every category, Bear has been called the “Best working writer of hard science fiction” by “The Ultimate Encyclopedia of Science Fiction.” His stories have been collected into an omnibus volume by Tor Books. Bear has served on political and scientific action committees and has advised both government agencies and corporations on issues ranging from national security to private aerospace ventures to new media and video game development. His most recent endeavor is a long-term collaboration with Neal Stephenson and the Subutai Corporation on The Mongoliad, an interactive serial novel available on multiple platforms, including iPhone, iPad, and Kindle.

33 THE FORERUNNER STORY—the history of my people—has been told many times, with greater and greater idealization, until I scarcely recognize it. Some of the ideals are factually true. The Forerunners were sophisticated above all other empires and powerful almost beyond measure. Our ecumene spanned three million fertile worlds. We had achieved the greatest heights of technology and physical knowledge, at least since the time of the Precursors, who, some say, shaped us in their image, and rewarded that image with their breath. The tugging threads of this part of the tale—the first of three—are journey, daring, betrayal, and fate. My fate, the fate of a foolish Forerunner, was joined one night with the fates of two humans and the long world-line of a great military leader . . . that night on which I put in motion the circumstances that triggered the final wave of the hideous Flood. So be this tale told, so be the telling true.

ONE ———— SOL • EDOM TO ERDE-TYRENE

THE BOAT’S CREW banked the fires, disengaged the steam engine, and raised the calliope horn from the water. The bubbling clockwork song died out with a series of clicks and sad groans; it hadn’t been working well to begin with.

34 Twenty kilometers away, the central peak of Djamonkin Crater rose through bluegray haze, its tip outlined in ruddy gold by the last of the setting sun. A single brilliant moon rose bright and cold behind our boat. The crater’s inland lake rippled around the hull in ways no tide or wind had ever moved water. Under the swells and whorls, sparkling with reflected sunset and moon, pale merse twisted and bobbed like the lilies in my mother’s pond. These lilies, however, weren’t passive flowers, but sleeping krakens growing in the shallows on thick stalks. Ten meters wide, their thickened, muscular edges were rimmed with black teeth the length of my forearm. We sailed over a garden of clannish, self-cloning monsters. They covered the entire flooded floor of the crater, skulking just below the surface and very defensive of their territory. Only boats that sang the lulling song the merse used to keep peace among themselves could cross these waters unmolested. And now it seemed our tunes were out of date. The young human I knew as Chakas crossed the deck, clutching his palm-frond hat and shaking his head. We stood side by side and stared out over the rail, watching the merse writhe and churn. Chakas—bronze-skinned, practically hairless, and totally unlike the bestial image of humans my tutors had impressed upon me—shook his head in dismay. “They swear they’re using the newest songs,” he murmured. “We shouldn’t move until they figure it out.” I eyed the crew on the bow, engaged in whispered argument. “You assured me they were the best,” I reminded him.

35 He regarded me with eyes like polished onyx and swept his hand through a thick thatch of black hair that hung in back to his neck, cut perfectly square. “My father knew their fathers.” “You trust your father?” I asked. “Of course,” he said. “Don’t you?” “I haven’t seen my real father in three years,” I said. “Is that sad, for you?” the young human asked. “He sent me there.” I pointed to a bright russet point in the black sky. “To learn discipline.” “Shh-shhaa!” The Florian—a smaller variety of human, half Chakas’s height scampered from the stern on bare feet to join us. I had never known a species to vary so widely yet maintain such an even level of intelligence. His voice was soft and sweet, and he made delicate signs with his fingers. In his excitement, he spoke too rapidly for me to understand. Chakas interpreted. “He says you need to take off your armor. It’s upsetting the merse.” At first, this was not a welcome suggestion. Forerunners of all rates wear bodyassist armor through much of their lives. The armor protects us both physically and medically. In emergencies, it can suspend a Forerunner until rescue, and even provide nourishment for a time. It allows mature Forerunners to connect to the Domain, from which all Forerunner knowledge can flow. Armor is one of the main reasons that Forerunners live so long. It can also act as friend and advisor.

36 I consulted with my ancilla, the armor’s disembodied intelligence and memory—a small bluish figure in the back of my thoughts. “This was anticipated,” she told me. “Electrical and magnetic fields, other than those generated by the planet’s natural dynamics, drive these organisms into splashing fury. That is why the boat is powered by a primitive steam engine.” She assured me that the armor would be of no value to humans, and that at any rate she could guard against its misuse. The rest of the crew watched with interest. I sensed this might be a sore point. The armor would power down, of course, once I removed it. For all our sakes, I would have to go naked, or nearly so. I halfway managed to convince myself this could only enhance the adventure. The Florian set to work weaving me a pair of sandals from reeds used to plug leaks.

————

Of all my father’s children, I was the most incorrigible. In itself this was not an ill mark or even unusual. Manipulars of promise often show early rebellion—the stamp in raw metal from which the discipline of a full rate is honed and shaped. But I exceeded even my father’s ample patience; I refused to learn and advance along any of the proper Forerunner curves: intensive training, bestowal to my rate, mutation to my next form, and finally, espousal to a nascent triad . . . where I would climb to the zenith of maturity.

37 None of that attracted me. I was more far interested in adventure and the treasures of the past. Historic glory shined so much brighter in my eyes; the present seemed empty. And so at the end of my sixth year, frustrated beyond endurance by my stubbornness, my father traded me to another family, in another part of the galaxy, far from the Orion complex where my peoples were born. For the last three years, the system of eight planets around a minor yellow star— and in particular, the fourth, a dry, reddish desert world called Edom—became my home. Call it exile. I called it escape. I knew my destiny lay elsewhere. When I arrived on Edom, my swap-father, following tradition, equipped my armor with one of his own ancillas to educate me to the ways of my new family. At first I thought this new ancilla would be the most obvious face of my indoctrination—just another shackle in my prison, harsh and unsympathetic. But she soon proved something else entirely, unlike any ancilla I had ever experienced. During my long periods of tutoring and regimented exercise, she drew me out, traced my rough rebellion back to its roots—but also showed me my new world and new family in the clear light of unbiased reason. “You are a Builder sent to live among Miners,” she told me. “Miners are rated below Builders, but they are sensible, proud and strong. Miners know the raw, inner ways of worlds. Respect them, and they will treat you well, teach you what they know, and return you to your family with all the discipline and skills a Manipular needs to advance.” After two years of generally impeccable service, guiding my reeducation while at the same time relieving my stultifying existence with a certain dry wit, she came to discern a pattern in my questions. Her response was unexpected.

38 The first sign of my ancilla’s strange favor was her opening of my swap-family’s archives. Ancillas are charged with the maintenance of all records and libraries, to ease access to any information a member of the family might need, however ancient and obscure. “Miners, you know, delve deep. Treasure, as you call it, is frequently in their way. They recover, record, settle the matter with the proper authorities . . . and move on. They are not curious, but their records are sometimes very curious.” I spent happy hours studying the old records, and learned much more about Precursor remnants, as well as the archaeology of Forerunner history. Here it was that I picked up hints of lore discouraged or forgotten elsewhere—not always in actual evidence, but deduced from this and that odd fact. And in that next year, my ancilla measured and judged me. One dry and dusty day, as I climbed the gentle slope of Edom’s largest volcano, imagining that in the vast caldera was hidden some great secret that would redeem me in the eyes of my family and justify my existence—my common state of pointless fugue— she broke ancilla code in a shocking manner. She confessed that she had once, a thousand years ago, been part of the retinue of the Librarian. Of course, I knew about the greatest Lifeworker of all. I wasn’t com pletely ignorant. Lifeworkers—experts on living things and medicine—rank below both Builders and Miners, but just above Warriors. And the highest rank of Lifeworker is Lifeshaper. The Librarian was one of just three Lifeworkers ever honored with that rank. The ancilla’s memory of her time with the Librarian had supposedly been expunged when the Librarian’s foundation traded her to my swap-family, as part of a

39 general cultural exchange; but now, fully reawakened to her past, it seemed she was prepared to conspire with me. She told me: “There is a world just a few hours’ journey from Edom where you might find what you seek. Nine thousand years ago, the Librarian established a research station in this system. It is still a topic of discussion among the Miners, who of course disapprove. Life is ever so much more slippery than rocks and gases.” This station was located on the system’s third planet, known as Erde-Tyrene: a forsaken place, obscure, sequestered, and both the origin and final repository of the last of a degraded species called human. My ancilla’s motives, it seemed, were even more deviant than my own. Every few months, a craft lifted away from Edom to carry supplies downstar to Erde-Tyrene. She did not precisely inform me of what I would find there, but through hints and clues led me to decide it was major. With her help, I made my way through the labyrinthine hallways and tunnels to the shipping platform, smuggled myself onto the cramped craft, reset the codes to conceal my extra mass—and lifted away to Erde-Tyrene. I was now much more than just a rebellious Manipular. I had become a hijacker, a pirate . . . And was astonished at how easy it was! Too easy, perhaps. Still, I could not believe an ancilla would lead a Forerunner into a trap. That was contrary to their design, their programming—everything about their nature. Ancillas serve their masters faithfully at all times. What I could not foretell was that I was not her master, and never had been.

40 ————

I stripped down reluctantly, unwinding the torso spiral, then the shoulder and arm guards, and finally the leg guards and boots. The thin pale fuzz on my arms and legs prickled in the breeze. My neck and ears suddenly itched. Then, everything itched, and I had to force myself to ignore it. The armor assumed a loose mold of my body as it slumped to the deck. I wondered if the ancilla would now go dormant, or whether she would continue with her own inner processes. This was the first time I had been without her guidance in three years. “Good,” Chakas said. “The crew will keep it safe for you.” “I’m sure they will,” I said. Chakas and the little Florian—in their own language, specimens, respectively, of chamanune and hamanune—scrambled to the bow, where they joined the five crew members already there and argued in low whispers. Anything louder and the merse might attack whether or not the boat sang the proper song. Merse hated many things, but they especially hated excess noise. After storms, it was said they were upset for days, and passage over the inland sea became impossible. Chakas returned, shaking his head. “They’re going to try pumping out some songs from three moons past,” he said. “Merse rarely invent new tunes. It’s a kind of cycle.” With a sharp lurch, the boat spun about on its mast axis. I dropped to the deck and lay beside my armor. I had paid the humans well. Chakas had heard strange tales of ancient forbidden zones and secret structures within Djamonkin Crater.

41 My researches among the Miners’ files had led me to believe there was a decent chance there was real treasure on Erde-Tyrene, perhaps the most sought-after treasure of all, the Organon—the device which could reactivate all Precursor artifacts. It had all seemed to fit together—until now. Where had I been guided wrong? After a jaunt across sixty light-years and a second, trivial journey of a hundred million kilometers, I might never get any closer to my ultimate goal. Merse broke the surface on our starboard side, flexing gray-purple fans and shedding ribbons of water. I could hear long black teeth gnawing at the wooden hull. ————

The journey from Edom to Erde-Tyrene took a long and boring forty-eight hours, entry into slipspace being deemed unnecessary for a routine supply trip across so short a distance. My first live view of the planet, through the open port of the supply craft, revealed a glowing, jewel-like orb of greens and browns and deep blues. Much of the northern hemisphere was lost in cloud and glacier. The third planet was passing through a period of deep cooling and expanding ice floes. Compared with Edom, long past its best eon, Erde-Tyrene was a neglected paradise. Certainly wasted on humans. I queried my ancilla about the truth of their origins. She responded that to the best of Forerunner research, humans had indeed first arisen on Erde-Tyrene, but over fifty thousand years ago had moved their interstellar civilization

42 outward along the galactic arm, perhaps to flee early Forerunner control. Records from those ages were sparse. The supply ship landed at the main research station north of Marontik, the largest human community. The station was automated and empty but for a family of lemurs, who had set up residence in a long-abandoned barracks. It seemed the rest of civilization had forgotten about this place. I was the only Forerunner on the planet, and that was fine with me. I set out on foot across the last stretch of grassland and prairie and arrived at midday on the trash-heaped outskirts of the city. Marontik, located at the confluence of two great rivers, was hardly a city at all by Forerunner standards. Wooden shacks and mud huts, some three or four stories tall, were arranged on either side of alleys branching into other alleys, winding in no particular direction. This crowded collection of primitive hovels spread over dozens of square kilometers. It would have been easy for a young Forerunner to become lost, but my ancilla guided me with unerring skill. I wandered the streets for several hours, a minor curiosity to the inhabitants but no more. I passed a doorway opening to underground passages from which rose noxious smells. Urchins in rags poured up through the door and surrounded me, chanting, “There are parts of Marontik only for the eyes of such a one . . . The dead in review! Ancient queens and kings preserved in rum and honey! They have waited centuries for you!” Though that gave me a vague tingle, I ignored the urchins. They went away after a time, and never did I feel in danger. It seemed these rudely dressed, unkempt, shambling beings had some experience of Forerunners but little respect. This did not

43 bother my ancilla. Here, she said, the genetically impressed rules of the Librarian included docility toward Forerunners, wariness toward strangers, and discretion in all else. The sky over Marontik was frequented by primitive airships of all sizes and colors, some truly horrendous in their pretension—dozens of corded red, green, and blue hot-air balloons tied together, from which hung great platforms of woven river reed, crowded with merchants, travelers, and spectators as well as lower beasts destined, I assumed, to become food. Humans ate meat. The balloon platforms provided a regular, dizzying means of conveyance—and so, of course, my ancilla instructed me to pay for passage to the center of the city. When I pointed out I had no scrip, she guided me to a stash hidden in a nearby substation, hundreds of years old but unmolested by the humans. I waited at an elevated platform and paid the fare to a skeptical agent, who looked over the ancient scrip with disdain. His narrow face and darting, beady eyes were overshadowed by a tall cylindrical hat made of fur. Only after chattering with a colleague hidden in a wicker cage did he accept my payment and allow me to board the next creaking, swaying, lighter-than-air conveyance. The trip took an hour. The balloon platform arrived at city center as night fell. Lanterns were lit throughout the devious streets. Long shadows loomed. I was surrounded by anthropoid rankness. In Marontik’s largest market, my ancilla informed me, there had in years past been a collective of human guides, some of whom might still know the routes to the centers of local legend. Soon, the humans would all be asleep—a condition with which I

44 had had little experience—so we had to hurry. “If it’s adventure you seek,” she said, “here is where you are most likely to find it—yet most likely to survive the experience.” In a rambling sloven of alleys, which served both as walkways and gutters, I found the ancient river-stone storefront of the matriarch of guides. Half-hidden in shadows, illuminated by a single candle dangling from a hook in the wattle, an enormously fat female, tented in a loose robe of white fabric, embarrassingly sheer, regarded me with open suspicion. After making a few offers I found offensive, including a tour of underground catacombs filled with human dead, she took the last of my scrip and passed me through a rag-hung arch to a young member of the guild who, she said, might be able to help. “There is treasure on Erde-Tyrene, young Forerunner,” she added in a dulcet baritone, “as you have no doubt deduced through careful research. And I have just the boy for you.” It was here, in the humid shadows of a reed shack, that I met Chakas. My first impression of the bronze-skinned, half-naked human, with his greasy shock of black hair, was not favorable. He kept looking at me, as if we had met before—or perhaps he was seeking a weak spot in my armor. “I love solving mysteries,” Chakas said. “I, too, seek lost treasure. It is my passion! We will be friends, no?” I knew that humans, as lower beings, were deceitful and tricky. Still, I had few choices. My resources were at their limit. A few hours later, he led me through pitchblack streets to another neighborhood, filled with hamanune, and introduced me to his partner, a gray-muzzled Florian. Surrounded by a mob of diminutive youngsters and two

45 stooped, elderly females—I think—the Florian was cheek-stuffing the last of a supper of fruit and plates of pounded, shapeless raw meat. The Florian said that his ancestors had once frequented a ring-shaped island at the center of a great, flooded crater. They called it Djamonkin Augh—Big Man’s Water. There, he said, a marvelous site still hid many antiquities. “From the Precursors?” I asked. “Who are they?” “Ancient masters,” I said. “Before the Forerunners.” “Maybe. Very old.” The Florian looked me over shrewdly, then patted his lips with the furry back of his hand. “The Organon?” I asked. Neither Chakas nor the Florian were familiar with that name, but did not dismiss the possibility.

————

The crew separated and opened the hatch on the calliope’s box. The hamanune— his head barely level with my waist—waggled his raised hands. With the help of his small, dexterous fingers, they inserted a different wooden placket set with tiny horn pegs, then reset the mechanism of plucked and bowed gut strings, cranked out the horn that broadcast the music into the water, attached the steam tube, and rewound the spring that powered it all.

46 Chakas walked aft, still worried. “Music soothes the savage flowers,” the chamanune said, callused finger to lip. “We wait now and watch.” The Florian ran back to squat beside us. He looped a hand around his friend’s bare ankles. The little man’s braincase held less than a third the volume of young Chakas’s, and yet I had trouble deciding who was more clever—or more truthful. In my quest for treasure, I had focused my studies on old Forerunner records, and what little I had learned about human history I did not feel comfortable revealing to my guides. Ten thousand years ago, humans had fought a war against Forerunners—and lost. The centers of human civilization had been dismantled and the humans themselves devolved and shattered into many forms, some said as punishment—but more likely because they were a naturally violent species. The Librarian, for some reason, had espoused the human cause. My ancilla explained that either as a form of penance, or at the Librarian’s request—the records were vague—the Council had given her charge of Erde-Tyrene and she had moved the last humans there. Under her care, some of the humans had stubbornly reevolved. I couldn’t tell whether that might be true or not. They all looked degraded to me. From that seed stock, over nine thousand years, more than twenty varieties of humans had migrated and formed communities around this water-soaked world. Husky ocher and brown k’tamanune wandered the northern latitudes and skirted massive grinding sheets of ice. These dwellers in glacial shadows wrapped themselves in harsh woven fiber and fur. Not far from this inland crater sea, over an imposing range of

47 mountains, skinny, lithe b’ashamanune scampered across equatorial grasslands and leaped into thorny trees to avoid predators. Some chose to build crude cities, as if struggling to reacquire past greatness—and failing miserably. Because of strong similarities in our natural genetic structure, some Forerunner sages thought humans might be a brethren species, also shaped and given breath by the Precursors. It was possible the Librarian was intent on testing those theories. Very shortly, evolved or not, there might soon be seven fewer humans in the Librarian’s collection—and one less Forerunner.

————

We sat near the widest spot in the deck, away from the low rail. Chakas formed his fingers into a cradle, then swapped them in an exercise he adamantly refused to teach me. His wry smile was so like that of a Forerunner child. The little Florian watched us with some amusement. The merse made a sad, damp whistling noise and squirted jets of water. Their spray smelled like rotted seaweed. Looked at from afar, the creatures that surrounded our boat were laughably simple, little more advanced than the comb jellies that swam in the glassy walls of my swap-father’s palace, on that russet spot a hundred million kilometers away. And yet, they sang to each other—spoke in soft, musical murmurs through the long nights, then basked silent in the dappled sun as if sleeping. On rare occasions, the crater ocean roiled with brief sea-merse wars, and shreds of glistening flesh washed up on far beaches for weeks. . . .

48 Maybe there was more to these blind krakens than a Manipular could judge. The Librarian might have had a hand in bringing them to Erde-Tyrene—to grow in Djamonkin Crater, where they also served her ends, perhaps by solving biological riddles in their own strange way, using their own genetic songs. . . . Was I imagining it, or was the grinding beneath and the churn around us slowly subsiding? The moon set. The stars were thick for a time. Then fog rolled back in, filling the crater bowl from brim to brim. Chakas claimed he heard the gentle lap of waves on a beach. “The merse are quiet now, I think,” he added hopefully. I got up to retrieve my armor, but a bulky, strong-looking human blocked my way, and Chakas shook his head. The crew decided it might be time to drop the screw and engage the engine. Again we made forward progress. I couldn’t see much beyond the rail except little bursts of phosphorescence. The water, what little I could see of it, appeared calm. Chakas and the Florian murmured human prayers. The Florian ended his prayers with a short, sweet melody, like birdsong. Had I been faithful to my upbringing, I would even now be contemplating the dictates of the Mantle, silently repeating the Twelve Laws of Making and Moving, allowing my muscles to flex according to those rhythms until I swayed like a sapling. . . . But here I was, following false hopes, associating with the discredited and the low . . . And I might yet swim in a toothy sea, my undeveloped body shredded by mindless monsters.

49 Or walk on a deserted beach around a sacred island in the middle of an old asteroid crater, flooded ages ago with cold water so pure it dried without residue. Challenge, mystery, unbridled danger and beauty. It was all worth whatever shame I might be wise enough to feel. As a Manipular, I still resembled Chakas more than my father. I could still smile but thought it beneath me. Despite everything, in my thoughts I could not help visualizing myself as taller, broader, stronger—like my father, with his long, pale face, crown hair and nape fur bleached white with lilac roots, fingers capable of surrounding a shrop melon . . . and strong enough to smash its tough shell to pulp. This was my contradiction: I mistrusted everything about my family and my people, yet still dreamed of mutating into a second-form—while keeping my youthful, independent attitude. Of course, it never seemed to happen that way. The pilot strode aft with renewed confidence. “The merse think we’re one of them. We should reach the ring island in less than a flare.” Humans counted time using waxy wicks tied with knots that flared when touched by an ascending flame. Even now, two of the crew were lighting lanterns with crude sticks.

————

In the fog, something big bumped the bow. I caught myself in mid-lurch and steadied against a wide, slow swing of the stern. Chakas jumped to his feet, grinning earto-ear.

50 “That’s our beach,” he said. The crew dropped a board onto the black sand. The Florian scampered ashore first. He danced on the beach and snapped his fingers. “Shhh!” Chakas cautioned. Again I tried to retrieve my armor, and again the bulky crewmember blocked my way. Two others approached slowly, hands out, and guided me toward Chakas. He shrugged at my concern. “They fear that even from the beach, it might anger the merse.” I had little choice. They could kill me now, or I might die from some other cause later. We crossed the ramp through the fog. The crew stayed on the boat—and so did my armor. As soon as we were disembarked, the boat backed water, swung about, and left us in the drizzle and darkness with nothing but three small bags of provisions—human food only, though edible enough if I held my nose. “They’ll be back in three days,” Chakas said. “Plenty of time to search the island.” When the boat was gone and we could no longer hear the chugging pump of its song, the Florian danced some more. Clearly, he was ecstatic to walk once again on the ring island of Djamonkin Augh. “Island hides all!” he said, then chittered a rolling laugh and pointed at Chakas. “Boy knows nothing. Look for treasure and die, unless you go where I go.” The Florian pushed out expressive rose-colored lips and raised his hands above his head, thumb and forefinger circled.

51 Chakas seemed unaffected by the Florian’s judgment. “He’s right. I know nothing about this place.” I was too relieved to have escaped the merse to feel much irritation. I had known humans could not be trusted; they were degraded forms, no doubt about it. But something felt authentically strange about this beach, this island. . . . My hopes refused to wink out. We walked inland a few meters and sat on a rock, shivering in the damp and cold. “First, tell us why you’re really here,” Chakas said. “Tell us about Forerunners and Precursors.” In the dark, I could see nothing above the palms, and beyond the beach, nothing other than a faint glow from the breaking wavelets. “Precursors were powerful. They drew lines across many skies. Some say that long ago they shaped Forerunners in their image.” Even the name we gave ourselves, “Forerunner,” implied a fleeting, impermanent place in the Mantle—accepting that we were but a stage in the stewardship of Living Time. That others would come after us. Other—and better. “And us?” the Florian asked. “Hamanune and chamanune?” I shook my head, unwilling to encourage this story—or believe it. “I’m here to learn why the Precursors went away,” I continued, “how we might have offended them . . . and just possibly find the center of their power, their might, their intelligence.” “Oh,” Chakas said. “Are you here to discover a great gift and please your father?” “I’m here to learn.”

52 “Something to prove you’re not a fool. Hm.” Chakas opened the bag and handed out small rolls of dense, black bread made with fish oil. I ate but enjoyed none of it. All my life, others had judged me to be a fool, but it stung when degraded animals reached the same conclusion. I flicked a pebble toward the darkness. “When do we start looking?” “Too dark. First, start a fire,” the Florian insisted. We gathered branches and half-decayed palm chunks and built a fire. Chakas seemed to doze off. Then he awoke and grinned at me. He yawned and stretched and looked out over the ocean. “Forerunners never sleep,” he observed. That was true enough—as long as we wore armor. “Nights are long for you, no?” the Florian asked. He had rolled his fish-oil bread into round little balls and placed them in lines on the smoothness of a glassy black rock. Now he plucked them up and, one by one, popped them into his mouth, smacking his broad lips. “Better that way?” I asked. He made a face. “Fish bread stinks,” he replied. “Fruit flour is best.” The fog had lifted but overcast still lay over the entire crater. Dawn was not long off. I lay on my back and looked up at the graying sky, at peace for the first time I could remember. I was a fool, I had betrayed my Maniple, but I was at peace. I was doing what I had always dreamed I would do. “Daowa-maad,” I said. Both humans lifted their eyebrows—it made them look like brothers. Daowa-maad was a human term for the roll and tug of the universe. It

53 actually translated rather neatly into Forerunner Builder-speak: “You fall as your stresses crack you.” “You know about that?” Chakas asked. “My ancilla taught me.” “That’s the voice in his clothes,” Chakas told the Florian, all-wise. “A female.” “Is she pretty?” the little one asked. “Not your type,” I said. The Florian finished the last rounded ball of fish-oil bread and made another remarkable face. So many expressive muscles. “Daowa-maad. We hunt, we grow, we live. Life is simple—we do.” He poked Chakas. “I begin to like this Forerunner. Tell him all of my names.” Chakas took a deep breath. “The hamanune sitting right next to you, whose breath smells of fish oil and stale bread, his family name is Day-Chaser. His personal name is Morning Riser. His long name is Day-Chaser Makes Paths Long-stretch Morning Riser. Long name for a short fellow. He likes to be called Riser. There. It is done.” “All good, all true,” Riser said, satisfied. “My grandfathers built walls here to protect and guide us.” “You will see after sunup. Now—too dark. Good time to learn names. What’s your real name, young Forerunner?” For a Forerunner to reveal his actual using name to anyone outside the Maniple . . . and to humans, at that . . . Delicious. A perfect thumb-crook to my family. “Bornstellar,” I said. “Bornstellar Makes Eternal Lasting, Form Zero, Manipular untried.”

54 “A mouthful,” Riser said. He opened his eyes wide, leaned in, and made that fullmouth, lip-curled, leering grin that indicated vast Florian amusement. “But it has a good rolling sound.” I leaned back. I was getting more and more used to his fast, piping speech. “My mother calls me Born,” I said. “Short better,” Riser said. “Born it is.” “Day is coming. Warmer soon, and bright,” Chakas said. “Shuffle and scuff. Don’t want anyone to find tracks.” I suspected that if anyone from Edom was searching for me, or if the Librarian’s watchers decided to check from orbit, from a drone, or with a direct flyover, they would find us no matter how we hid our tracks. I didn’t say anything to my companions, however. In my short time on Erde-Tyrene I had already learned an important truth—that among the poor, the downtrodden, and the desperate, foolish bravery is to be savored. I was obviously foolish, but, apparently, my two companions now believed I might be brave. We swept away our tracks using a palm frond from the shoreline vegetation. “How far to the center of the island?” I asked. “Long legs, shorter trip,” Riser said. “Fruit along the way. Don’t eat. Gives you the scoots. Save it all for me.” “It’ll be fine,” Chakas confided to me. “If he leaves any for us.” “We’re not going to the mountain,” Riser said. He pushed through the vegetation. “No need to cross inner lake. A maze, some fog, a spiral, then a jump or two. My grandfather used to live here, before there was water.”

55 Curiouser and curiouser. I knew for a fact—again, from my ancilla—that the crater had been flooded and the lake planted with merse a thousand years ago. “How old are you?” I asked. Riser said, “Two hundred years.” “For his people, just a youngster,” Chakas said, then made a clicking sound with tongue and cheeks. “Little folk, long lives, longer memories.” The Florian whickered. “My family grew up on islands everywhere. We made walls. My mother came from here before she met my father, and she told him, and he told me, click-song and stare-whistle. That’s how we’ll know the maze.” “Click-song?” “You are privileged,” Chakas said. “Hamanune do not often reveal these truths to outsiders.” “If they are true,” I said. Neither took offense. The humans I had met seemed remarkably thick-skinned. Or more likely, the pronouncements of a Forerunner meant little on a world they thought was theirs. Daylight finally arrived, and swiftly. The sky went from mellow orange to pink to blue in a few minutes. From the short jungle came no sound, not even the rustling of leaves. I had experienced few islands in my short existence, but had never known any of them to be as quiet as a tomb.

56

Anna Dressed in Blood

By Kendare Blake

Copyright ©2011 by Kendare Blake

17-year-old Cas Lowood has grown up knowing what other people don’t know: that dead doesn’t always mean gone, and that some of the dead would like to take you with them. Like his father before him, Cas travels the country hunting down the ghosts of urban legend and sending them where they belong—wherever that is.

Kendare Blake holds an M.A. in creative writing from Middlesex University in northern London. She lives and writes in Washington, brakes for animals—the largest of which was a deer, which sadly didn’t make it, and the smallest of which was a mouse, which did, but it took forever—and appreciates Greek mythology, rare red meat, and veganism.

57 Chapter One

The grease-slicked hair is a dead giveaway—no pun intended. So is the loose and faded leather coat, though not as much that as the sideburns. And the way he keeps nodding and flicking his Zippo open and closed in rhythm with his head. He belongs in a chorus line of dancing Jets and Sharks. Then again, I have an eye for these things. I know what to look for, because I’ve seen just about every variety of spook and specter you can imagine. The hitchhiker haunts a stretch of winding North Carolina road, bordered by unpainted split-rail fences and a whole lot of nothing. Unsuspecting drivers probably pick him up out of boredom, thinking he’s just some college kid who reads too much Kerouac. “My gal, she’s waiting for me,” he says now in an excited voice, like he’s going to see her the minute we crest the next hill. He taps the lighter hard on the dash, twice, and I glance over to make sure he hasn’t left a ding in the panel. This isn’t my car. And I’ve suffered through eight weeks of lawn work for Mr. Dean, the retired army colonel who lives down the block, just so I could borrow it. For a seventy-year-old man he’s got the straightest back I’ve ever seen. If I had more time, I could’ve spent a summer listening to interesting stories about Vietnam. Instead I cleared shrubs and tilled an eightby-ten plot for new rosebushes while he watched me with a surly eye, making sure his baby would be safe with this seventeen-year-old kid in an old Rolling Stones t-shirt and his mother’s gardening gloves.

58 To tell the truth, knowing what I was going to use the car for, I felt a little guilty. It’s a dusk blue 1969 Camaro Rally Sport, mint condition. Drives smooth as silk and growls around curves. I can’t believe he let me take it, yard work or no. But thank god he did, because without it I would have been sunk. It was something the hitchhiker would go for—something worth the trouble of crawling out of the ground. “She must be pretty nice,” I say without much interest. “Yeah, man, yeah,” he says and, for the hundredth time since I picked him up five miles ago, I wonder how anyone could possibly not know that he’s dead. He sounds like a James Dean movie. And then there’s the smell. Not quite rotten but definitely mossy, hanging around him like a fog. How has anyone mistaken him for the living? How has anyone kept him in the car for the ten miles it takes to get to the Lowren’s Bridge, where he inevitably grabs the wheel and takes both car and driver into the river? Most likely they were creeped out by his clothes and his voice, and by the smell of bones—that smell they seem to know even though they’ve probably never smelled it. But by then it’s always too late. They’d made the decision to pick up a hitchhiker, and they weren’t about to let themselves be scared into going back on it. They rationalized their fears away. People shouldn’t do that. In the passenger seat, the hitchhiker is still talking in this faraway voice about his girl back home, somebody named Lisa, and how she’s got the shiniest blond hair and the prettiest red smile, and how they’re going to run off and get married as soon as he gets back hitching from Florida. He was working part of a summer down there for his uncle at a car dealership: the best opportunity to save up for their wedding, even if it did mean they wouldn’t see each other for months.

59 “It must’ve been hard, being away from home so long,” I say, and there’s actually a little bit of pity in my voice. “But I’m sure she’ll be glad to see you.” “Yeah, man. That’s what I’m talking about. I’ve got everything we need, right in my jacket pocket. We’ll get married and move out to the coast. I’ve got a pal out there, Robby. We can stay with him until I get a job working on cars.” “Sure,” I say. The hitchhiker has this sadly optimistic look on his face, lit up by the moon and the glowing dashlights. He never saw Robby, of course. He never saw his girl Lisa, either. Because two miles up the road in the summer of 1970, he got into a car, probably a lot like this one. And he told whoever was driving that he had a way to start an entire life in his coat pocket. The locals say that they beat him up pretty good by the bridge and then dragged him back into the trees, where they stabbed him a couple of times and then cut his throat. They pushed his body down an embankment and into one of the tributary streams. That’s where a farmer found it, nearly six months later, wound around with vines, the jaw hanging open in surprise, like he still couldn’t believe that he was stuck there. And now he doesn’t know that he’s stuck here. None of them ever seem to know. Right now the hitchhiker is whistling and bobbing along to nonexistent music. He probably still hears whatever they were playing the night they killed him. He’s perfectly pleasant. A nice guy to ride with. But when we get to that bridge, he’ll be as angry and ugly as anyone you’ve ever seen. It’s reported that his ghost, dubbed unoriginally as the County 12 Hiker, has killed at least a dozen people and injured another eight. But I can’t really blame him. He never made it home to see his girl, and now he doesn’t want anyone else to get home either.

60 We pass mile marker twenty-three—the bridge is less than two minutes away. I’ve driven this road almost every night since we moved here in the hopes that I would catch his thumb in my headlights, but I had no luck. Not until I got behind the wheel of this Rally Sport. Before this it was just half a summer of the same damn road, the same damn blade tucked under my leg. I hate it when it’s like that, like some kind of horribly extended fishing trip. But I don’t give up on them. They always come around in the end. I let my foot ease up on the gas. “Something wrong, friend?” he asks me. I shake my head. “Only that this isn’t my car, and I don’t have the cash to fix it if you decide to try to take me off the bridge.” The hitchhiker laughs, just a little too loudly to be normal. “I think you’ve been drinking or something tonight, pal. Maybe you ought to just let me off here.” I realize too late that I shouldn’t have said that. I can’t let him out. It’d be my luck that he’d step out and disappear. I’m going to have to kill him while the car is moving or I’ll have to do this all over again, and I doubt that Mr. Dean is willing to let the car go for too many more nights. Besides, I’m moving to Thunder Bay in three days. There’s also the thought that I’m doing this to this poor bastard all over again. But that thought is fleeting. He’s already dead. I try to keep the speedometer over fifty—too fast for him to really consider jumping out, but with ghosts you can never be sure. I’ll have to work fast. It’s when I reach down to take my blade out from under the leg of my jeans that I see the silhouette of the bridge in the moonlight. Right on cue, the hitchhiker grabs the wheel and yanks it to the left. I try to jerk it back right and slam my foot on the brake. I

61 hear the sound of angry rubber on asphalt and out of the corner of my eye I can see that the hitchhiker’s face is gone. No more easy Joe, no slicked hair and eager smile. He’s just a mask of rotten skin and bare, black holes, with teeth like dull stones. It looks like he’s grinning, but it might just be the effect of his lips peeling off. Even as the car is fishtailing and trying to stop, I don’t have any flashes of my life before my eyes. What would that even be like? A highlight reel of murdered ghosts. Instead I see a series of quick, ordered images of my dead body: one with the steering wheel through my chest, another with my head gone as the rest of me hangs out the missing window. A tree comes up out of nowhere, aimed right for my driver’s side door. I don’t have time to swear, just to jerk the wheel and hit the gas, and the tree is behind me. What I don’t want to do is make it to the bridge. The car is all over the shoulder and the bridge doesn’t have one. It’s narrow, and wooden, and outdated. “It’s not so bad, being dead,” the hitchhiker says to me, clawing at my arm, trying to get me off the wheel. “What about the smell?” I hiss. Through all of this I haven’t lost my grip on my knife handle. Don’t ask me how; my wrist feels like the bones are going to separate in about ten seconds, and I’ve been pulled off my seat so that I’m hovering over the stick shift. I throw the car into neutral with my hip (should have done that earlier) and pull my blade out fast. What happens next is kind of a surprise: the skin comes back onto the hitchhiker’s face, and the green comes back into his eyes. He’s just a kid, staring at my knife. I get the car back under control and hit the brakes.

62 The jolt from the stop makes him blink. He looks at me. “I worked all summer for this money,” he says softly. “My girl will kill me if I lose it.” My heart is pounding from the effort of controlling the lurching car. I don’t want to say anything. I just want to get it over with. But instead I hear my voice. “Your girl will forgive you. I promise.” The knife, my father’s athame, is light in my hand. “I don’t want to do this again,” the hitchhiker whispers. “This is the last time,” I say, and then I strike, drawing the blade across his throat, opening a yawning black line. The hitchhiker’s fingers come up to his neck. They try to press the skin back together, but something as dark and thick as oil floods out of the wound and covers him, bleeding not only down over his vintage-era jacket but also up over his face and eyes, into his hair. The hitchhiker doesn’t scream as he shrivels, but maybe he can’t: his throat was cut and the black fluid has worked its way into his mouth. In less than a minute he’s gone, leaving not a trace behind. I pass my hand over the seat. It’s dry. Then I get out of the car and do a walkaround as best I can in the dark, looking for scratches. The tire tread is still smoking and melted. I can hear Mr. Dean’s teeth grinding. I’m leaving town in three days, and now I’ll be spending at least one of them putting on a new set of Goodyears. Come to think of it, maybe I shouldn’t take the car back until the new tires are on.

63 Chapter Two

It’s after midnight when I park the Rally Sport in our driveway. Mr. Dean’s probably still up, wiry and full of black coffee as he is, watching me cruise carefully down the street. But he doesn’t expect the car back until morning. If I get up early enough, I can take it down to the shop and replace the tires before he knows any different. As the headlights cut through the yard and splash onto the face of the house, I see two green dots: the eyes of my mom’s cat. When I get to the front door, it’s gone from the window. It’ll tell her that I’m home. Tybalt is the cat’s name. It’s an unruly thing, and it doesn’t much care for me. I don’t care much for it either. It has a weird habit of pulling all the hair off its tail, leaving little tufts of black all over the house. But my mom likes to have a cat around. Like most children, they can see and hear things that are already dead. A handy trick, when you live with us. I go inside, take my shoes off and climb the stairs by two. I’m dying for a shower—want to get that mossy, rotten feeling off my wrist and shoulder. And I want to check my dad’s athame and rinse off whatever black stuff might be on the edge. At the top of the stairs, I stumble against a box and say, “Shit!” a little too loudly. I should know better. My life is lived in a maze of packed boxes. My mom and I are professional packers; we don’t mess around with castoff cardboard from the grocery or liquor stores. We have high-grade, industrial-strength, reinforced boxes with permanent labels. Even in the dark I can see that I just tripped over the Kitchen Utensils (2).

64 I tiptoe into the bathroom and pull my knife out of my leather backpack. After I finished off the hitchhiker I wrapped it up in a black velvet cloth, but not neatly. I was in a hurry. I didn’t want to be on the road anymore, or anywhere near the bridge. Seeing the hitchhiker disintegrate didn’t scare me. I’ve seen worse. But it isn’t the kind of thing you get used to. “Cas?” I look up into the mirror and see the sleepy reflection of my mom, holding the black cat in her arms. I put the athame down on the counter. “Hey, Mom. Sorry to wake you.” “You know I like to be up when you come in anyway. You should always wake me, so I can sleep.” I don’t tell her how dumb that sounds; I just turn on the faucet and start to run the blade under the cold water. “I’ll do it,” she says, and touches my arm. Then of course she grabs my wrist, because she can see the bruises that are starting to purple up all along my forearm. I expect her to say something motherly; I expect her to quack around like a worried duck for a few minutes and go to the kitchen to get ice and a wet towel, even though the bruises are by no means the worst mark I’ve ever gotten. But this time she doesn’t. Maybe because it’s late, and she’s tired. Or maybe because after three years she’s finally starting to figure out that I’m not going to quit. “Give it to me,” she says, and I do, because I’ve gotten the worst of the black stuff off already. She takes it and leaves. I know that she’s off to do what she does every time, which is to boil the blade and then stab it into a big jar of salt, where it will sit under the

65 light of the moon for three days. When she takes it out she’ll wipe it down with cinnamon oil and call it good as new. She used to do the same thing for my dad. He’d come home from killing something that was already dead and she’d kiss him on the cheek and take away the athame, as casually as any wife might carry in a briefcase. He and I used to stare at the thing while it sat in its jar of salt, our arms crossed over our chests, conveying to each other that we both thought it was ridiculous. It always seemed to me like an exercise in make-believe. Like it was Excalibur in the rock. But my dad let her do it. He knew what he was getting into when he met and married her, a pretty, auburn-haired Wiccan girl with a strand of white flowers braided around her neck. He’d lied back then and called himself Wiccan too, for lack of a better word. But really, Dad wasn’t much of anything. He just loved the legends. He loved a good story, tales about the world that made it seem cooler than it really was. He went crazy over Greek mythology, which is where I got my name. They compromised on it, because my mom loved Shakespeare, and I ended up called Theseus Cassio. Theseus for the slayer of the Minotaur, and Cassio for Othello’s doomed lieutenant. I think it sounds straight-up stupid. Theseus Cassio Lowood. Everyone just calls me Cas. I suppose I should be glad—my dad also loved Norse mythology, so I might have wound up being called Thor, which would have been basically unbearable. I exhale and look in the mirror. There are no marks on my face, or on my gray dress button-up, just like there were no marks on the Rally Sport’s upholstery (thank

66 god). I look ridiculous. I’m in slacks and sleeves like I’m out on a big date, because that’s what I told Mr. Dean I needed the car for. When I left the house tonight my hair was combed back, and there was a little bit of gel in it, but after that fucking kerfuffle it’s hanging across my forehead in dark streaks. “You should hurry up and get to bed, sweetheart. It’s late and we’ve got more packing to do.” My mom is done with the knife. She’s floated back up against the doorjamb and her black cat is twisting around her ankles like a bored fish around a plastic castle. “I just want to jump in the shower,” I say. She sighs and turns away. “You did get him, didn’t you?” she says over her shoulder, almost like an afterthought. “Yeah. I got him.” She smiles at me. Her mouth looks sad and wistful. “It was close this time. You thought you’d have him finished before the end of July. Now it’s August.” “He was a tougher hunt,” I say, pulling a towel down off the shelf. I don’t think she’s going to say anything else, but she stops and turns back. “Would you have stayed here, if you hadn’t gotten him? Would you have pushed her back?” I only think for a few seconds, just a natural pause in the conversation, because I knew the answer before she finished asking the question. “No.” As my mom leaves, I drop the bomb. “Hey, can I borrow some cash for a new set of tires?”

67 “Theseus Cassio,” she moans, and I grimace, but her exhausted sigh tells me that I’m good to go in the morning.

#

Thunder Bay, Ontario is our destination. I’m going there to kill her. Anna. Anna Korlov. Anna Dressed in Blood. “This one has you worried, doesn’t it Cas,” my mom says from behind the wheel of the U-Haul van. I keep telling her we should just buy our own moving truck, instead of renting. God knows we move often enough, following the ghosts. “Why would you say that?” I ask, and she nods at my hand. I hadn’t realized it was tapping against my leather bag, which is where Dad’s athame is. With a focused effort, I don’t take it away. I just keep tapping like it doesn’t matter, like she’s overanalyzing and reading into things. “I killed Peter Carver when I was fourteen, Mom,” I say. “I’ve been doing it ever since. Nothing much surprises me anymore.” There’s a tightening in her face. “You shouldn’t say it like that. You didn’t ‘kill’ Peter Carver. You were attacked by Peter Carver and he was already dead.” It amazes me sometimes how she can change a thing just by using the right words. If her occult supply shop ever goes under, she’s got a good future in branding. I was attacked by Peter Carver, she says. Yeah. I was attacked. But only after I broke into the Carver family’s abandoned house. It had been my first job. I did it without my mom’s permission, which is actually an understatement. I did it against my mom’s

68 screaming protests and had to pick the lock on my bedroom window to get out of the house. But I did it. I took my father’s knife and broke in. I waited until two a.m. in the room where Peter Carver shot his wife with a .44 caliber pistol and then hung himself with his own belt in the closet. I waited in the same room where his ghost had murdered a real estate agent trying to sell the house two years later, and then a property surveyor a year after that. Thinking about it now, I remember my shaking hands and a stomach close to heaving. I remember the desperation to do it, to do what I was supposed to do, like my father had. When the ghosts finally showed up (yes, ghosts plural—turns out that Peter and his wife had reconciled, found a common interest in killing) I think I almost passed out. One came out of the closet with his neck so purple and bent it looked like it was on sideways, and the other bled up through the floor like a paper towel commercial in reverse. She hardly made it out of the boards, I’m proud to say. Instinct took over and I tacked her back down before she could make a move. Carver tackled me though, while I was trying to pull my knife out of the wood that was coated with the stain that used to be his wife. He almost threw me out the window before I scrambled back to the athame, mewling like a kitten. Stabbing him was almost an accident. The knife just sort of ran into him when he wrapped the end of his rope around my throat and spun me around. I never told my mom that part. “You know better than that, Mom,” I say. “It’s only other people who think you can’t kill what’s already dead.” I want to say that Dad knew too, but I don’t. She doesn’t like to talk about him, and I know that she hasn’t been the same since he died. She’s not quite here anymore; there’s something missing in all of her smiles, like a blurry spot or a

69 camera lens out of focus. Part of her followed him, wherever it was that he went. I know it’s not that she doesn’t love me. But I don’t think she ever figured on raising a son by herself. Her family was supposed to form a circle. Now we walk around like a photograph that my dad’s been cut out of. “I’ll be in and out like that,” I say, snapping my fingers and redirecting the subject. “I might not even spend the whole school year in Thunder Bay.” She leans forward over the steering wheel and shakes her head. “You should think about staying longer. I’ve heard it’s a nice place.” I roll my eyes. She knows better. Our life isn’t quiet. It isn’t like other lives, where there are roots and routines. We’re a traveling circus. And she can’t even blame it on my dad being killed, because we traveled with him too, though admittedly not as much. It’s the reason that she works the way she does, doing tarot card readings and aura cleansing over the phone, and selling occult supplies online. My mother the mobile witch. She makes a surprisingly good living at it. Even without my dad’s trust accounts, we’d probably be just fine. Right now we’re driving north on some winding road that follows the shore of Lake Superior. I was glad to get out of North Carolina, away from iced tea and accents and hospitality that didn’t suit me. Being on the road I feel free, when I’m on my way from here to there, and it won’t be until I put my feet down on Thunder Bay pavement that I’ll feel like I’m back to work. For now I can enjoy the stacks of pines and the layers of sedimentary rock along the roadside, weeping groundwater like a constant regret. Lake Superior is bluer than blue and greener than green, and the clear light coming through the windows makes me squint behind my sunglasses.

70 “What are you going to do about college?” “Mom,” I moan. Frustration bubbles out of me all of a sudden. She’s doing her half-and-half routine. Half accepting what I am, half insisting that I be a normal kid. I wonder if she did it to my dad too. I don’t think so. “Cas,” she moans back. “Superheroes go to college too.” “I’m not a superhero,” I say. It’s an awful tag. It’s egotistical, and it doesn’t fit. I don’t parade around in spandex. I don’t do what I do and receive accolades and keys to cities. I work in the dark, killing what should have stayed dead. If people knew what I was up to, they’d probably try to stop me. The idiots would take Casper’s side, and then I’d have to kill Casper and them after Casper bit their throats out. I’m no superhero. If anything I’m Rorschach from Watchmen. I’m Grendel. I’m the survivor in Silent Hill. “If you’re so set on doing this during college, there are plenty of cities that could keep you busy for four years.” She turns the U-Haul into a gas station, the last one on the U.S. side. “What about Birmingham? That place is so haunted you could take two a month and still probably have enough to make it through grad school.” “Yeah, but then I’d have to go to college in fucking Birmingham,” I say, and she shoots me a look. I mutter an apology. She might be the most liberal-minded of mothers, letting her teenage son roam the night hunting down the remains of murderers, but she still doesn’t like hearing the f-bomb fall out of my mouth. She pulls up to the pumps and takes a deep breath. “You’ve avenged him five times over, you know.” Before I can say that I haven’t, she gets out and shuts the door.

71 Chapter Three

The scenery changed fast once we crossed over into Canada, and I’m looking out the window at miles of rolling hills covered in forest. My mother says it’s something called boreal forest. Recently, since we really started moving around, she’s developed this hobby of intensely researching each new place we live. She says it makes it feel more like a vacation, to know places where she wants to eat and things that she wants to do when we get there. I think it makes her feel like it’s more of a home. She’s let Tybalt out of his pet carrier and he’s perched on her shoulder with his tail wrapped around her neck. He doesn’t spare a glance for me. He’s half Siamese and has that breed’s trait of choosing one person to adore and saying screw off to all the rest. Not that I care. I like it when he hisses and bats at me, and the only thing he’s good for is occasionally seeing ghosts before I do. My mom is staring up at the clouds, humming something that isn’t a real song. She’s wearing the same smile as her cat. “Why the good mood?” I ask. “Isn’t your butt asleep yet?” “Been asleep for hours,” she replies. “But I think I’m going to like Thunder Bay. And from the looks of these clouds, I’m going to get to enjoy it for quite some time.” I glance up. The clouds are enormous and perfectly white. They sit deadly still in the sky as we drive into them. I watch without blinking until my eyes dry out. They don’t move or change in any way.

72 “Driving into unmoving clouds,” she whispers. “Things are going to take longer than you expect.” I want to tell her that she’s being superstitious, that clouds not moving don’t mean anything, and besides, if you watch them long enough they have to move—but that would make a hypocrite of me, this guy who lets her cleanse his knife in salt under moonlight. The stagnant clouds make me motion-sick for some reason, so I go back to looking at the forest, a blanket of pines in colors of green, brown, and rust, struck through with birch trunks sticking up like bones. I’m usually in a better mood on these trips. The excitement of somewhere new, a new ghost to hunt, new things to see…the prospects usually keep my brain sunny for at least the duration of the drive. Maybe it’s just that I’m tired. I don’t sleep much, and when I do, there’s usually some kind of nightmare involved. But I’m not complaining. I’ve had them off and on since I started using the athame. Occupational hazard, I guess, my subconscious letting out all the fear I should be feeling when I walk into places where there are murderous ghosts. Still, I should try to get some rest. The dreams are particularly bad the night after a successful hunt, and they haven’t really calmed down since I took out the hitchhiker. An hour or so later, after many attempts at sleep, Thunder Bay comes up in our windshield, a sprawling, urban-esque city of over a hundred thousand living. We drive through the commercial and business districts and I am unimpressed. Walmart is a convenient place for the breathing, but I have never seen a ghost comparing prices on motor oil or trying to jimmy his way into the Xbox 360 game case. It’s only as we get into the heart of the city—the older part of the city that rests above the harbor—that I see what I’m looking for.

73 Nestled in between refurbished family homes are houses cut out at bad angles, their coats of paint peeling in scabs and their shutters hanging crooked on their windows so they look like wounded eyes. I barely notice the nicer houses. I blink as we pass and they’re gone, boring and inconsequential. Over the course of my life I’ve been to lots of places. Shadowed places where things have gone wrong. Sinister places where things still are. I always hate the sunlit towns, full of newly built developments with double-car garages in shades of pale eggshell, surrounded by green lawns and dotted with laughing children. Those towns aren’t any less haunted than the others. They’re just better liars. I like it more to come to a place like this, where the scent of death is carried to you on every seventh breath. I watch the water of Superior lie beside the city like a sleeping dog. My dad always said that water makes the dead feel safe. Nothing draws them more. Or hides them better. My mom has turned on the GPS, which she has affectionately named Fran after an uncle with a particularly good sense of direction. Fran’s droning voice is guiding us through the city, directing us like we’re idiots: Prepare to turn left in 100 feet. Prepare to turn left. Turn left. Tybalt, sensing the end of the journey, has returned to his pet carrier, and I reach down and shut the door. He hisses at me like he could have done it himself. The house that we rented is smallish, two stories of fresh maroon paint and dark gray trim and shutters. It sits at the base of a hill, the start of a nice flat patch of land. When we pull up there are no neighbors peeking at us from windows or coming out onto their porches to say hello. The house looks contained, and solitary. “What do you think?” my mom asks.

74 “I like it,” I reply honestly. “You can see things coming.” She sighs at me. She’d be happier if I would grin and bound up the stairs of the front porch, throw open the door and race up to the second floor to try and call dibs on the master bedroom. I used to do that sort of thing when we’d move into a new place with Dad. But I was seven. I’m not going to let her road-weary eyes guilt me into anything. Before I know it, we’ll be making daisy chains in the backyard and crowning the cat the king of summer solstice. Instead, I grab the pet carrier and get out of the U-Haul. It isn’t ten seconds before I hear my mom’s footsteps behind my own. I wait for her to unlock the front door, and then we go in, smelling cooped-up summer air and the old dirt of strangers. The door has opened on a large living room, already furnished with a cream-colored couch and wingback chair. There’s a brass lamp that needs a new lampshade, and a coffee and end table set in dark mahogany. Farther back, a wooden archway leads to the kitchen and an open dining room. I look up into the shadows of the staircase on my right. Quietly, I close the front door behind us and set the pet carrier on the wood floor, then open it up. After a second, a pair of green eyes pokes out, followed by a black, slinky body. This is a trick I learned from my dad. Or rather, that my dad learned from himself. He’d been following a tip into Portland. The job in question was the multiple victims of a fire in a canning factory. His mind was wound up with thoughts of machinery and things whose lips cracked open when they spoke. He hadn’t paid much attention when he rented the house we moved into, and of course the landlord didn’t

75 mention that a woman and her unborn baby died there when her husband pushed her down the stairs. These are things one tends to gloss over. It’s a funny thing about ghosts. They might have been normal, or relatively normal, when they were still breathing, but once they die they’re your typical obsessives. They become fixated on what happened to them and trap themselves in the worst moment. Nothing else exists in their world except the edge of that knife, the feel of those hands around their throat. They have a habit of showing you these things, usually by demonstration. If you know their story, it isn’t hard to predict what they’ll do. On that particular day in Portland, my mom was helping me move my boxes up into my new room. It was back when we still used cheap cardboard, and it was raining; most of the box tops were softening like cereal in milk. I remember laughing over how wet we were getting, and how we left shoe-shaped puddles all over the linoleum entryway. By the sound of our scrambling feet you would have thought a family of hypoglycemic golden retrievers was moving in. It happened on our third trip up the stairs. I was slapping my shoes down, making a mess, and had taken my baseball glove out of the box because I didn’t want it to get water-spotted. Then I felt it—something glide by me on the staircase, just brushing past my shoulder. There was nothing angry or hurried about the touch. I never told anyone, because of what happened next, but it felt motherly, like I was being carefully moved out of the way. At the time I think I thought it was my mom, making a play-grab for my arm, because I turned around with this big grin on my face, just in time to see the ghost of the woman change from wind to mist. She seemed to be wearing a sheet, and her hair was so pale that I could see her face through the back of her head. I’d seen ghosts before.

76 Growing up with my dad it was as routine as Thursday night meatloaf. But I’d never seen one shove my mother into thin air. I tried to reach her, but all I ended up with was a torn scrap of the cardboard box. She fell back, the ghost wavering triumphantly. I could see Mom’s expression through the floating sheet. Strangely enough, I can remember that I could see her back molars as she fell, the upper back molars, and that she had two cavities in them. That’s what I think of when I think of that incident: the gross, queasy feeling I got from seeing my mother’s cavities. She landed on the stairs butt first and made a little “oh” sound, then rolled backward until she hit the wall. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t even remember if we stayed in the house. Of course my father must have dispatched the ghost—probably that same day—but I don’t remember anything else of Portland. All I know is, after that my dad started using Tybalt, who was just a kitten then, and Mom still walks with a limp on the day before a thunderstorm. Tybalt is eyeing the ceiling, sniffing the walls. His tail twitches occasionally. We follow him as he checks the entirety of the lower level. I get impatient with him in the bathroom, because he looks like he’s forgotten that he has a job to do and instead wants to roll on the cool tile. I snap my fingers. He squints at me resentfully, but he gets up and continues his inspection. On the stairs he hesitates. I’m not worried. What I’m looking for is for him to hiss at thin air, or to sit quietly and stare at nothing. Hesitation doesn’t mean a thing. Cats can see ghosts, but they don’t have precognition. We follow him up the stairs and out of habit I take my mom’s hand. I’ve got my leather bag over my shoulder. The athame is a comforting presence inside, my own little St. Christopher’s medallion.

77 There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the fourth floor, plus a small attic with a pull-down ladder. It smells like fresh paint, which is good. Things that are new are good. No chance that some sentimental dead thing has attached itself. Tybalt winds his way through the bathroom and then walks into a bedroom. He stares at the dresser, its drawers open and askew, and regards the stripped bed with distaste. Then he sits and cleans both forepaws. “There’s nothing here. Let’s move our stuff in and seal it.” At the suggestion of activity, the lazy cat turns his head and growls at me, his green reflector eyes as round as wall clocks. I ignore him and reach up for the trap door to the attic. “Ow!” I look down. Tybalt has climbed me like a tree. I’ve got both hands on his back, and he has all four sets of claws snugly embedded in my skin. And the damned thing is purring. “He’s just playing, honey,” my mom says, and carefully plucks each paw off of my clothing. “I’ll put him back in his carrier and stow him in a bedroom until we get the boxes in. Maybe you should dig in the trailer and find his litterbox.” “Great,” I say sarcastically. But I do get the cat set up in my mom’s new bedroom with food, water and his cat box before we move the rest of our stuff into the house. It takes only two hours. We’re experts at this. Still, the sun is beginning to set when my mom finishes up the kitchen-witch business: boiling oils and herbs to anoint the doors and windows with, effectively keeping out anything that wasn’t in when we got here. I don’t know that it works, but I can’t really say that it doesn’t. We’ve always been safe in our homes. I do, however, know that it reeks like sandalwood and rosemary. After the house is sealed, I start a small fire in the backyard, and my mom and I burn every small knick-knack we find that could have meant something to a previous

78 tenant: a purple beaded necklace left in a drawer, a few homemade potholders, and even a tiny book of matches that looked too well-preserved. We don’t need ghosts trying to come back for something left behind. My mom presses a wet thumb to my forehead. I can smell rosemary and sweet oil. “Mom.” “You know the rules. Every night for the first three nights.” She smiles, and in the firelight her auburn hair looks like embers. “It’ll keep you safe.” “It’ll give me acne,” I protest, but make no move to wipe it off. “I have to start school in two weeks.” She doesn’t say anything. She just stares down at her herbal thumb like she might press it between her own eyes. But then she blinks and wipes it on the leg of her jeans. This city smells like smoke and things that rot in the summer. It’s more haunted than I thought it would be, an entire layer of activity just under the dirt: whispers behind peoples’ laughter, or movement that you shouldn’t see in the corner of your eye. Most of them are harmless—sad little cold spots or groans in the dark. Blurry patches of white that only show up in a Polaroid. I have no business with them. But somewhere out there is one that matters. Somewhere out there is the one that I came for, one who is strong enough to squeeze the breath out of living throats. I think of her again. Anna. Anna Dressed in Blood. I wonder what tricks she’ll try. I wonder if she’ll be clever. Will she float? Will she laugh or scream? How will she try to kill me?

79

Farlander

By Col Buchanan

Copyright © 2010 by Col Buchanan

Col Buchanan lives in Lancaster, England. Farlander is his debut novel, and the first novel in the Heart of the World series.

80 CHAPTER ONE The Shield

Bahn had climbed the Mount of Truth many times in his life. It was a green, broadshouldered hill with gentle slopes, not overly high; yet that morning, hiking up the path that wound its way towards the flattened summit, it seemed steeper than it ever had before. He could not fathom why. ‘Bahn,’ said Marlee by his side, her hand in his tugging him to a stop. He turned to find his wife was gazing back along the path, her other palm shielding her eyes from the sun. Juno, their ten-year-old son, struggled some way behind. He was small for his age, and the picnic basket he carried too bulky for his short arms. Still, he had insisted on carrying it on his own. Bahn wiped sweat from his brow. In the moment his hand drew clear, and cool air kissed his forehead, he thought: I do not wish him to see this today. And he knew then that it was not the hill itself that was steeper that morning. It was his own resistance to it. An apple toppled from the basket, red and shiny as lip paint, and began to roll down the foot-polished stones of the path. Both parents watched as the boy stopped its progress with his boot, then bent to pick it up. ‘Need a hand?’ Bahn called back to his son, and tried not to dwell on the money it had cost him for that single apple, or the rest of their precious picnic. The boy replied with an angry glare. Dropping the apple back into the basket, he hefted the load before continuing.

81 Thunder rumbled in the far distance, though there were no clouds in the sky. Bahn looked away from his son, tried to exhale the worry that seemed always to curdle in his stomach these days. He forced a smile on to his face, in a trick he had learned during his years of fighting in the Red Guard. If he stretched his lips just so, his burdens would seem to grow a touch lighter. ‘It’s good to see you smile,’ said Marlee, her own brown eyes creasing at the edges. On her back, in a canvas sling, their infant daughter hung open-mouthed and asleep. ‘It’s good to have a day away from the walls, though I’d rather we spent it anywhere but here.’ ‘If he’s old enough to ask, he’s old enough to see it. We can’t shelter him from the truth forever, Bahn.’ ‘No, but we can try.’ She frowned at that, but squeezed his hand harder. Below them, the city of Bar-Khos roared like a distant river. Gulls soared and dipped above the nearby harbour, wheeling in their hundreds like a snowstorm in the far mountains. He watched them, a hand across his forehead to shade his eyes, as they took turns to speed low and fast across the mirror-flat water, their reflections flying upsidedown between the hulls of ships. Sunlight speared back from the surface, the dazzles painting it in burning gold. The rest of the city lay beneath a glamour of heat, the figures of people small and indistinct as they made their way through streets cast into deep shadow. Bells rang from above the domes of the White Temple, horns sounded from the Stadium of Arms. In air hazy with dust, mirrors flashed from the baskets of merchants’

82 hot-air balloons tethered to slender towers. Beyond them all, beyond the northern walls, an airship rose from the pylons of the skyport, and began heading east on its hazardous run to Zanzahar. It seemed strange to Bahn, even now, that life could carry on seemingly as normal while the city teetered on the brink. ‘What are you waiting for?’ Juno panted, as he caught up with them. Bahn’s smile was now a genuine one. ‘Nothing,’ he replied to the boy. * On days like this one, a crisping hot Foolsday at the high point of summer, it was common for people to climb their way out of the baking streets of Bar-Khos to seek refuge on the top of the Mount of Truth. There a park rose in terraces around its flattened summit, and a breeze blew constantly fresh from the sea. The path levelled off as it reached the park itself. Young Juno, feeling more confident now with his load, took this opportunity to increase his pace, overtaking his parents before dodging past others who were strolling more sedately. Together, they skirted a narrow green where, amongst a group of children playing with a kite, a fight was breaking out over who should fly it next. Beyond them, on a bench overshadowed by a withered jupe tree, an old beggar monk sat with his bottle of wine while talking incessantly to his dog. The dog seemed not to be listening. Again, a peal of thunder rolled through the air, sounding more distinct now they were closer to the city’s southern walls. Juno glanced back towards his parents. ‘Hurry up,’ he urged, unable to contain his excitement.

83 ‘We should have brought his kite along for later,’ said Marlee, as behind them the children ceased their squabbling long enough to send their box of paper and featherwood sailing into the wind. Bahn nodded, but said nothing. His attention was fixed on a building that stood on the summit of the hill and occupied the very centre of the park. Surrounded by hedgerows, its tall walls were dotted with hundreds of white-framed windows, reflecting either sky or blankness depending on where he looked. Bahn himself reported to that building almost daily, in his capacity as aide to General Creed. Even without choosing to, he found his gaze running across the flank of the Ministry of War, to where he knew the general’s office was located. He sought sign of the old man perhaps watching from one of the windows. ‘Bahn,’ chided his wife, as she tugged him onwards. At last they came to the southern fringe of the park. Juno moved ahead, weaving his way between the crowds of people sitting amongst the long grasses, but slowing with every step as he took in the vista appearing below. Finally he stopped completely. After a moment, the basket tumbled from his hands. Bahn went over to join him and began to gather up the spilled contents of the basket. All the while, he watched his son closely, much as he had once watched him take his first tentative, risky steps as a young child. The boy had always been banned from visiting the hill on his own, but in the last year he had begun to ask and then to plead to be brought here, fired up on the stories told by his friends. He had wanted to see for himself why the hill was named the Mount of Truth.

84 Now, from this moment on, he would always know. On this southernmost edge of the tallest hill of the city, the sea could be seen to run both east and west along the coastline – and directly ahead, the long, half-laq-wide corridor of land known as the Lansway, reaching out like a road towards the continent lying beyond, which today was a mere suggestion of contours and cloud barely visible in the distance. Across the waist of this isthmus, in sheer grey stone, rose the great southern walls of Bar-Khos known as the Shield. Those walls – which had protected the city from land invasion for over three centuries, and therefore the island of Khos, breadbasket of the Mercian Isles – towered some ninety feet in height, and taller still where turrets rose from the battlements. They were old enough to have given the city its name of Bar-Khos – ‘the Shield of Khos’. There were six bands of wall in all, or at least there had been until the Mannians had arrived with their flags waving and their declarations of conquest. Now just four stood blocking the Lansway, and two of those were of recent construction. In the original outermost one still standing, no gates or gateways remained: all such entrances had been sealed up with stone and mortar. The Mount of Truth offered the highest vantage point in the city. It was from here, and here alone, that the ordinary citizen could witness what confronted the walls on the other side. The boy, doing so now, blinked as his gaze roved out from the Shield towards the Mannian besiegers arrayed like a white flood across the plain of the isthmus; the full might of the Imperial Fourth Army. His young face grew pale, his eyes widening with every new detail they absorbed.

85 The Lansway was entirely covered by a city of bright tents, neatly arranged in rows and quarters by the streets of wooden buildings dividing them. The tent city faced the Shield from beyond countless lines of earthworks – ramparts of dirt raised up across a plain of dusty yellow – and meandering ditches choked with black water. Behind the closest sequence of these earthworks, like creatures basking in the heat of the sun, squatted the siege engines and cannon, belching smoke and constant noise as they fired at the city in a slow, unending regularity that had lasted – beyond everyone’s expectation – for the last ten years. ‘You were born on the very first day they assaulted the walls,’ Marlee said from behind them, in a voice seemingly calm, as she unwrapped a loaf of honeyed keesh from their basket. ‘I went into labour early, and you came out no bigger than a farl. It was due to the shock of losing my father, I think, for that was the morning he fell.’ The boy gave no impression of hearing her; what lay before him had seized his full attention. Yet, in the past, Juno had asked more than once to be told about the day he was born – only to be given the barest facts possible. Bahn and his wife each had their separate reasons for not wishing to recall it. Give him time, Bahn thought, sitting himself on the grass to study the vista with his own more experienced eyes. Memories were stirring, unbidden, in the wake of his wife’s words. Bahn had been just twenty-three when the war had begun. He could still recall exactly where he had been when news had first arrived of refugees flooding towards the city from the continent. He had been seated in the taproom of the Throttled Monk, still thirsty after his fourth black ale, and drunk already. His mood had been foul that

86 afternoon: he’d had altogether enough of his job as a shipping clerk at the city skyport, putting up with a foreman who was a stumpy-legged little dictator of the worst kind, and all for a wage that barely saw him and Marlee through to the end of each week. The news, when it broke, was delivered by a fat skins merchant just returned from the south, the man’s portly face a bright scarlet, as though he had run all the way home just to say what he revealed next. Pathia had fallen, he declared to them all breathlessly. Pathia, their immediate neighbour to the south, was the traditional enemy of Khos – the very reason the Shield had been built in the first place. Around the taproom his words fell upon a sudden silence. As they now listened, shock and wonder grew in equal measure. King Ottomek V, despised thirty-first monarch of the royal line of Sanse, had been foolish enough to be captured alive. The Mannians had dragged him screaming, twisting and turning through the streets of conquered Bairat behind a galloping white horse, until the skin had been flayed almost entirely from his body – along with his ears, his nose, his genitals. Near death, the king had then been cast down a well, where he had somehow clung on to life for an entire night, while the Mannians laughed down the shaft at his cries for mercy. At dawn, they had filled the well with rocks. Even amongst the most hardened men in the taproom, such a fate drew muttered oaths and shakes of the head. Bahn grew fearful: this was bad news for them all. For the full length of his life, and more, the Mannians had been conquering nation after nation around the inland sea of the Midèr¯es. Never before, though, had they been so close as this to Khos. Around him, the debate rose in volume: shouts, arguments, thin attempts at

87 humour. Bahn pushed his way outside. He hastened for home, back to his wife of barely a year. There he rushed up the stairs to their small damp room above the public bathhouse, and blurted all of it out in one desperate, drunken tirade. She tried to soothe him with soft words, then she made him some chee, her hands remaining miraculously steady. For a time – Bahn’s mind needing a release from itself – they made love on the creaking bed, a slowly passionate affair, her gaze fixed constantly on his. Together, later that night, they stood on the flat roof of the building, and listened with the rest of the inhabitants of Bar-Khos to the cries of the refugees pleading to be let in, thousands of them huddled beyond the walls. From other rooftops, people shouted for the gates to be opened; others demanded, in hot anger, for them to let the Pathians rot. Marlee had prayed quietly for the poor souls, he remembered, whispering under her breath to Eres, the great World Mother, her painted lips moving blackly under a strange light cast by the twin moons hanging over the south. Oh mercy, Sweet Eres, let them in, let them have sanctuary. It was General Creed himself who had ordered the gates to be opened the next morning. The refugees flooded in bearing stories of slaughter, of whole communities put to the torch for their defiance against the invaders. Even confronted with such alarming accounts, most in Bar-Khos considered themselves beyond harm. The great Shield would protect them. Besides, the Mannians would be busy enough with the newly conquered south. Bahn and Marlee carried on with their lives as best they could. She was expecting again, and therefore taking it easy, cautious of risking another miscarriage. She drank infusions of herbs the midwife gave her and would sit for hours watching the busy street

88 below, a hand splayed protectively over her belly. Sometimes her father would visit, still clad in his reeking armour, a giant of a man, his face hard, without flex, squinting at her with eyes dimmed by age. His daughter was precious to him, and he and Bahn would fuss over her until she finally snapped and lost her temper. Even that did not dissuade them for long. Four months later, news came of an advancing imperial army. The mood in the city remained much the same. There were six walls after all, tall and thick enough to protect them. All the same, another call went out from the city council asking for volunteers to fill the ranks of the Red Guard, which had thinned considerably during the previous decades of peace. Bahn was hardly cut out to be a soldier, but he was a romantic at heart and, with a wife and child and a home to protect, in his own way he was stirred to action. He quit his job without fuss, simply not turning up one morning – a warm thrill in his belly on thinking of the foreman having a tantrum at his absence. That same day Bahn signed up to defend his city. At the central barracks, they handed him an old sword with a chipped blade, a red cloak of damp-smelling wool, a round shield, a cuirass, a pair of greaves and a helm all much too large for him . . . and a single silver coin. He was then told to report every morning to the Stadium of Arms for training. Bahn had barely learned the names of the other recruits in his company, all still as green and untrained as he was, when the Mannian herald arrived on horseback to demand the city’s surrender. Their terms were simple enough. Open the gates and most would be spared; but fight and all would be slain or enslaved. It was impossible, the herald announced to the high wall looming before him, to resist the manifest destiny of Holy Mann.

89 A trigger-happy marksman on the ramparts shot the herald off his mount. A cry rose up from the battlements: first blood. The city held its breath, waiting for what was to come next. At first their numbers seemed impossible. For five days the Imperial Fourth Army assembled across the width of the Lansway, tens of thousands stamping into position in an ordered procession, then spreading out to erect their colony of tents, earthworks, guns in numbers never seen before, mammoth siege towers – all before the collective gaze of the defenders. Their barrage finally began with a single screeching whistle. Cannon shots pounded into the wall; one arched high and landed in a shattering explosion among the reserves of men behind. The defenders on the parapet hunkered down and waited. On the morning of the first ground assault, Bahn was standing with some other raw recruits behind the main gates of wall one, the heavy shield hanging from his arm, a sword in his trembling hand. He had not slept. All night the Mannian missiles had crashed down around them, and horns like wild banshees had sounded from the imperial lines, fraying his nerves to tatters. Now in the early dawn he could think of only one thing: his wife Marlee at home with her unborn child, worried sick over both her husband and her father. The Mannians came like a wave cresting over cliffs. With ladders and siege towers they attacked the ramparts in a single crashing line; Bahn, from below, watched in awe as white-armoured men launched themselves over the battlements at the Red Guard defenders, their battle cries like nothing he had ever heard before, shrill ululations that seemed barely plausible from human

90 throats. He had already heard how the enemy ingested narcotics before battle, primarily to dispel their fears; and indeed they fought in a frenzy, without any regard for their own lives. Their ferocity stunned the Khosian defenders. The lines buckled, almost broke. It was butchery, murderous and simple. Men slipped and pitched headlong from the heights. Blood flowed from the parapet gutters like the run-offs of a crimson rain so that soldiers had to run from underneath them with shields held over their heads. His father-inlaw was up there somewhere, in amongst the grunts and hollers of collision. Bahn did not see him fall. In truth, Bahn failed to use his sword even once that day. He did not even come face to face with the enemy. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the other men of his company, most of them strangers to him still, every face that he saw a stark white, drained of spirit. The din of the battle robbed him of breath; he felt a sickness take hold of his body, like a dizzying sense of freefall. Bahn held his sword in front of him like a stick. It may as well have been a stick, for all he knew how to use it. Someone’s bowels had loosened nearby. The ensuing stench hardly inspired courage in the other men; it inspired only an urge to run, to be away from there. The recruits trembled like colts wanting to bolt from a stable fire. Bahn did not know what it was that breached the gates in the end. One instant they were there before them, massive and stout, seemingly impregnable. Rall the baker was jabbering by his side, something about his helm and shield being his own, how he had bought them from the bazaar, a jumble of words that Bahn could barely hear. The next instant, Bahn was sprawled on his

91 back, gasping for air, his mind stunned to numbness, a high-pitched ringing in his ears as he tried to remember who he was, what he was supposed to be doing here, why he was staring at a milky blue sky obscured with rolling clouds of dust. As he lifted his head, grit pattered down all around him. Old Rall the baker was shouting in his face, eyes and mouth open wider than they had any normal right to be. The man was holding up the stump of his arm, the hand still dangling from a narrow length of tendon. Blood jetted in an arc that caught the slanting sunlight, becoming almost pretty in that moment. Pain descended on Bahn then. It stung the torn flesh of his cheeks, and at once he could feel the explosion of breath from Rall’s screaming against his face, though he still could not hear him. He looked over to the gates, between the legs of men still on their feet, and found himself staring over a carpet of raw meat, of gristle, with hideous movement in amongst it. The gates were gone. In their place stood an unfurling curtain of dark smoke, parting here and there where white figures slipped through, howling as they came. Somehow, he staggered to his feet as survivors from his company ran forward to fill the breach. That seemed like madness to Bahn: farmers and stall-keepers in ill-fitting armour rushing straight at killers intent on hacking them down. His eyes burned with what he saw: the impetus, the nerve of those men, when all about them their comrades lay exposed to the sky, or stumbled about, unhinged from their senses, jostling to get away. It roused something within Bahn. He thought of the sword in his hand, and of running to help those fellows, too few of them trying to stop the tide. But, no, he no longer held his sword. He looked about for it, frantic, and saw old Rall again, on his knees, screaming up at him.

92 What does he want of me? Bahn had thought wildly. Does he expect me to fix his hand? At the gates themselves, the defenders were being cut down like wheat. They were inexperienced recruits. And the Mannians were not. Somewhere behind Bahn, a sergeant yelled for the men to stand firm, spittle flying from his mouth as he shoved at their backs and tried to form them into a line. No one was listening to him, and those around Bahn were pushing against him, cursing, crying out, wanting only to flee. He knew it was hopeless then; besides, he couldn’t find his sword. There were other blades lying amongst the debris, but not one with the right number on the hilt – and it was vital to him, for some reason just then, to find the right one. Perhaps if he had done so he would have died that day. Instead, in those scattered moments he spent searching in vain, the urge to fight drained out of him. Instead, he wanted more than anything else to see Marlee again. To see their child when it was born. To live. Bahn grabbed old Rall and hauled him clumsily over his shoulder. His knees buckled; but fear loaned him extra strength. With the rest of the panicking men, he allowed himself to be jostled back towards the gates of wall two, faces glancing back over shoulders, over Bahn’s shoulders, no talk or shouting from them now, simply wordless panting. Even Rall stopped yelling and began thanking him, would not stop thanking him. His words emerged jerkily to the bounce of Bahn’s footfalls. It was a full rout, as hundreds of men raced back across the killing ground, casting their weapons and shields aside as they went. The distance was several throws to reach the safety of wall two. The old baker grew heavier on his back, so that Bahn’s stride unevitably slackened and he fell behind the main mass of escapees. Rall shouted for him

93 to move faster, warning that the enemy were close behind. Bahn hardly needed telling. He could hear the Mannians baying in hot pursuit. They were the last to get through, just before the gates were slammed shut and sealed. Less fortunate men remained trapped on the other side. They pounded for the gates to be opened. They shouted of how they had wives and children at home. They cursed and pleaded. The gates stayed closed. Bahn lay in a heap and listened to the shouting on the other side, more grateful than anything else in his whole life that it was not him still out there. He had closed his eyes, overwhelmed. For a long time, lying facedown in the dirt, he had wept. Now a gust of wind swept across the Mount of Truth, warm and humid. Bahn exhaled a breath of stale air and returned his attention to the hill and the summer’s sunlight, and his son staring down at the walls. ‘Drink?’ asked Marlee, as she handed her husband a jug of cider, her motions slow and careful so as not to wake the child on her back. Bahn’s mouth was parched. He took a drink, held a mouthful of the sweet liquid before swallowing. He then followed his son’s gaze. Even now, as he and the boy silently watched, an occasional missile struck or rebounded off the still intact outermost rampart facing the imperial army. A giant glacis of earth fronted the entire wall now, deflecting or absorbing such shots – one of the inspired innovations that had allowed them to draw out the Mannian siege for this long. Still, this rampart was sagging in places, and the battlements behind it gaped like toothless mouths where sections of stone and crenellations had fallen. Along these ragged

94 defences, an almost imperceptible line of red-cloaked soldiers huddled behind the surviving cover; amongst them, crews operated squat ballistae and cannon, constantly firing back at the Mannian lines. Behind the other three inner walls, more heavily garrisoned in comparison, cranes and labourers could be seen erecting yet another one. So far, four walls had fallen to the never-ending barrage of the enemy – at a staggering material expense to the Mannians. In response, the defenders had succeeded in building two new ones to replace them, but they could not hope to erect ramparts indefinitely. The latest construction lay close to the straight channel of the canal which cut across the Lansway to connect the two bays. Not far beyond this canal, the Lansway ended at the Mount of Truth, and beyond that sprawled the city itself. It was clear they were running out of room. Bahn’s son was peering down at the wall currently under fire. Along its battlements, between the cannon, ballistae, and the occasional long-rifle firing in reply, men laboured with cranes as they raised great scoops of earth and rock. Some kept dropping out of sight as they were lowered on ropes over the far side, while others merely tipped the contents of the cranes’ scoops over the outer rim. Even as they watched, a group of men pulling on ropes collapsed amidst a cloud of flying debris. Juno gasped. ‘Look there,’ said Bahn, quickly drawing his son’s attention away from the sight, and instead pointed out various structures dotted around the prospective killing grounds between the walls. They looked like towers, though they were open on all sides and not very tall. ‘Mine shafts,’ he explained. ‘The Specials are fighting every hour down there, trying to stop the walls from being undermined.’

95 At last Juno looked down at his seated father. ‘It’s different, from what I was expecting,’ he said. ‘You fight there every day?’ ‘Some days. Though there are few battles any more. Just this.’ His words appeared to impress the boy. Bahn swallowed, turning away from what he recognized as pride in his son’s eyes. Juno already knew that his grandfather had died defending the city. Even now he wore the old man’s short-sword about his waist; and, when they returned home, he would no doubt insist that his father give him further lessons in its use. The boy talked often of how he would follow in his father’s footsteps when he was old enough, but Bahn did not wish to encourage such ambitions. Better his son ran off to be a wandering monk, better even to sign up on a leaky merchanter, than stay here and fight to the inevitable end. Juno seemed to read his mood. Softly, he asked, ‘How long can we hold them off?’ Bahn blinked, surprised. That was the question of a soldier, not a boy. ‘Papa?’ Bahn almost lied to his son then, even though he knew it would be an insult to the boy’s growing maturity. But Marlee was sitting just behind them, his wife who had been raised to face the truth no matter how unpalatable it might be. He could sense her ears listening keenly in the silence that awaited his reply. ‘We don’t know,’ he admitted, as he shut his eyes momentarily against another gust of wind. Bahn tasted salt on his lips, like the remnants of dried blood. When he reopened them, it was to see Juno staring again at the walls, and the Mannian host that confronted them. He appeared to be studying the countless banners

96 that were visible: to one side, the Khosian shield or the Mercian whorl on a sea-green background, dozens of them fluttering along the ramparts; on the other side the imperial red hand of Mann, with the tip of the little finger missing, emblazoned on a field of pure white – hundreds of them staked out across the isthmus. Intent on this scrutiny the boy’s skin clung thin and tight to his face. ‘There is always hope,’ said Marlee reassuringly to her troubled son. Juno looked to his father once more. ‘Yes,’ agreed Bahn. ‘There is always hope.’ But even as he said these words, he could not meet his son’s eyes.

97

Mapping Worlds in The Lost Gate

By Orson Scott Card

Sometimes you know when you’re onto something big. It was the same year that “Ender’s Game” appeared in Analog—my first sci-fi publication. I was working with Ben Bova, and the stories I was selling all had spaceships and rivets and machines. But in my heart, what I loved was fantasy. No, let’s be more precise: What I loved was Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings and George Macdonald’s The Light Princess and C. S. Lewis’s Till We Have Faces and Michael Crichton’s Eaters of the Dead and Thomas Hardy’s Far From the Madding Crowd and John Hersey’s White Lotus and Miller’s A Canticle for Leibowitz and Crowley’s The Deep and Peake’s Ghormengast. Wait. Some of those are only barely fantasy, and two of them aren’t fantasy at all! But that’s because at the time I’m talking about—1977—fantasy didn’t really exist as a genre. It was still being invented. The only commercially successful fantasy that wasn’t by Tolkien was Brooks’s The Sword of Shannara, and it was so clearly derivative of Lord of the Rings that it only convinced me that it was vital that any fantasy I wrote not take place in a universe that resembled Tolkien’s. I wanted to create something that had the same effect on readers as Tolkien’s work—that sense of having been immersed in a real world, deep and rich and dangerous and dark, but with islands of light—without having to lean on anybody else’s invention.

98 I wanted my fiction to be as original as Crowley’s and Peake’s, as morally insightful and challenging as Lewis’s and Miller’s, as thickly and richly created as Hardy’s and Hersey’s and Crichton’s, and as filled with tragic joy as Macdonald’s and Tolkien’s. And then I drew this map. As with Treason, Hart’s Hope, and The Worthing Chronicle, which all began with maps I doodled (and unlike the many hundreds of maps that have not led to books or stories), this map set me to daydreaming. I created a whole historical atlas of this world, along with changing names as the languages evolved. And into this world I pushed a magic system I had been toying with, again in my daydreams of fiction. (Lots of daydreaming in those days—I wasn’t married yet, I lived alone. I spent most of my free time with only my imagination for company, and we kept up a constant stream of conversation with each other.) It was an animistic magic system in which power is granted to mages voluntarily, by the creatures or elements that the mage disciplined himself to serve. Trees would do strange and powerful things for you—if you truly loved them and served their interests and came to understand what they could do and how and why. I tried it out in the short story “Sandmagic,” and then… And then I waited. Because it was too big. The ramifications were too deep. It was too important to me. I had to wait until I was a better writer, with more experience, more knowledge of the real world, more understanding of everything. The idea grew until I had a magical explanation for pretty much everything. All the religions of our world, all the supernatural manifestations that are believed in by

99 anybody. And somehow I had to tell a story about real people moving through our present world (“Mittlegard”) and that highly mapped fantasy world (“Westil”). A third of a century after the map and the magic first came to me, I have, with The Lost Gate, the first book-length exploration of that world and the powers at work in it. I hope I’m doing it justice. For its origin is in those early days when the modern commercial genre of fantasy had not yet been invented.

Copyright © 2011 by Orson Scott Card

100

The Lost Gate By Orson Scott Card

Copyright © 2011 by Orson Scott Card

Orson Scott Card is the author of the international bestsellers Shadow of the Giant, Shadow Puppets, Shadow of the Hegemon, and Ender’s Shadow, and of the beloved classic of science fiction, Ender’s Game, as well as the acclaimed fantasy series The Tales of Alvin Maker. He lives in Greensboro, North Carolina.

101 Chapter One: Drekka

Danny North grew up surrounded by fairies, ghosts, talking animals, living stones, walking trees, and gods who called up wind and brought down rain, made fire from air and drew iron out of the depths of the earth as easily as ordinary people might draw up water from a well. The North family lived on a compound in a sheltered valley in western Virginia, and most of them never went to town, for it was a matter of some shame that gods should now be forced to buy supplies and sell crops just like common people. The Family had spliced and intertwined so often over the centuries that almost all adults except one’s own parents were called Aunt and Uncle, and all the children were lumped together as “the cousins.” To the dozens and dozens of North cousins, “town” was a distant thing, like “ocean” and “space” and “government.” What did they care about such things, except that during school hours, Auntie Tweng or Auntie Uck would rap them on the head with a thimbled finger if they didn’t come up with the right answers? School was something the children endured in the mornings, so they could spend the afternoons learning how to create the things that commoners called fairies, ghosts, golems, trolls, werewolves, and other such miracles that were the heritage of the North family. It was their heritage, but not every child inherited. Great-uncle Zog was notorious for muttering, “The blood’s too thin, the blood’s too thin,” because it was his considered

102 opinion that the Norths had grown weak in the thirteen and a half centuries since the Evil One closed the gates. “Why else do we have so many weaklings who can’t send their outself more than a hundred yards?” he said once. “Why else do we have so few children who can raise a clant out of anything sturdier than pollen and dust, or heartbind with one of their clan? Why do we have these miserable drekkas like Danny in every generation? Putting them in Hammernip Hill hasn’t made us stronger. Nothing makes us stronger.” Danny heard this when he was eleven, when it wasn’t a sure thing yet that he was a drekka. Plenty of children didn’t show any talent till they were in their teens. Or so Mama said, reassuring him; but from Great-uncle Zog’s words Danny began to doubt her. How could it be “plenty” of children who showed no talent when Danny was now the only child in the Family over the age of nine who couldn’t even figure out whether he had an outself, let alone send it out to explore. When the other kids used their outselves to spy on Danny’s school papers and copy them, he couldn’t even detect that they were there, let alone stop them. “Drive them away, can’t you?” demanded Aunt Lummy. “You’re the only decent student in this school, but they’re all getting the same marks as you because you let them cheat!” “I know how they’re doing it,” said Danny, “but how can I drive them away when I can’t see them or feel them?” “Just make yourself big,” said Aunt Lummy. “Hold on to your own space. Don’t let them crowd you!” But these words meant nothing to Danny, no matter how he tried to act them out, and the cheating went on until Lummy and the other Aunts who taught the school were

103 forced to make separate tests, one for Danny and one for all the others at his grade level. The instant result was that by age twelve, Danny was soon the only student in his grade level, the others having been put back where they belonged. In the outside world, Danny would have been doing ninth grade work, two years ahead of his age. The other kids resented him more than ever, and therefore taunted him or froze him out as a drekka. “You’re not one of us,” they said—often in those exact words. During free time they refused to let him come along on any of their escapades; he was never chosen for a team; he was never told when one of the Aunts was sharing out cookies or some other treat; and he always had to check his drawer for spiders, snakes, or dog poo. He got used to it quickly, and he knew better than to tell any of the adults. What good would it do him? How much fun would he have if some adult forced the others to take him along? What kinds of pranks would they do if they had been whipped for pooing his clean clothes? So in this idyllic world of fairies and ghosts, gods and talking animals, Danny was a profoundly solitary child. He knew everybody; everybody was kin to him. But he had been made ashamed of everything he did well, and even more ashamed of everything he could not do, and he regarded even those of the cousins who treated him kindly as if their kindness were pity. For who could genuinely like a boy so unworthy, whose existence meant no more than this: that the bloodlines of the North family were weak and getting weaker, with Danny the weakest of them all. The irony was that Danny had been kept as a child apart since he was born—but for the opposite reason. His father, Alf, a Rockbrother with an affinity for pure metals,

104 had found a way to get inside the steel of machines and make them run almost without friction, and without lubrication. It was such a useful and unprecedented skill that he had been made ruler of the Family, and was therefore renamed as Odin; but Danny called him Baba. Danny’s mother, Gerd, was only slightly less remarkable, a lightmage who had learned to change the color of reflected light so that she could make things nearly invisible, or hide them in shadows, or make them glow as bright as the sun. For years Alf and Gerd had been forbidden to marry by old Gyish, who was then the Odin, for fear that the joining of two such potent bloodlines might create something awful—a gatemage, which the Norths were forbidden ever to have again, or a manmage, which all the Families were sworn to destroy. But when Gyish retired after losing the last war, and machinemage Alf was made Odin in his place, the Family voted almost unanimously to allow the marriage. Danny’s birth was the result, as close to a royal child as the Norths had had in many generations. In his early childhood, Danny was pampered by all the adults. He was the golden boy, and great things were expected of him. He had been bright as a child—quick to read, clever with all the family languages, dextrous with his fingers, an athletic runner and leaper, curious to a fault, and clever of tongue so he could make almost anyone laugh. But as he got older, these traits could not make up for his utter lack of harmony with any of the magics of the Family. Danny tried everything. He gardened alongside the cousins who had a way with herbs and trees and grasses—the ones who, as adult mages, would continue to make the

105 North farms so astonishingly productive. But the seeds he planted grew weakly, and he could not feel the throbbing pulse of a tree. He roamed the woods with those who had a way with animals—the ones who, if they could only form a deep bond with wolf or bear or (failing everything grand) squirrel or snake, would become Eyefriend or Clawbrother and roam the world in animal shape whenever they wished. But the creatures ran from him, or snarled or snapped at him, and he made no friends among the beasts. He tried to understand what it meant to “serve” stone or water, wind or the electricity of lightning in the air. But the stones bruised his fingers and moved for him only if he threw them; the wind only blew his hair into a tangled mop; and storms and ponds left him wet, cold, and powerless. Far from being precocious, with magic he was slow. Worse than slow. He was inert, making no visible progress at all. Yet, except for the loneliness, he didn’t hate his life. His long rovings in the woods were a pleasure to him. Since neither tree nor animal was drawn to him, he simply ran, becoming swift and tireless, mile after mile. At first he ran only within the limits of the family compound, because the trees that guarded the perimeter would snatch at him and then give the alarm, bringing the adult Seedguards and even Uncle Poot, the only Sapkin in the Family right now, to warn him not to leave. But during this past winter—perhaps because the trees were dormant and less alert—he had found three different routes that allowed him to avoid the sentinel trees entirely. He knew that as a probable drekka he was being watched—Danny never knew when the outself of some adult might be following him. So he took different routes to

106 these secret passageways each time. As far as he knew, he had never been seen leaving. No one had challenged him about it, at least. Liberated now, he would run and run, miles in whatever direction he chose. And he was fast! He could cover miles and still be home by suppertime. He would only stop when he came to a highway, a fence, a house, a factory, a town, and from the shelter of the woods or hedges or weeds he would watch the drowthers go about their lives and think: I am by nature one of them. Without affinities or powers. Living by the labor of their hands or the words of their mouth. With one slight difference: Drowthers didn’t know they were bereft of all that was noble in the world. They had no sense of lost heritage. The North family ignored them, cared nothing about them. But if Danny tried to leave, all the Family secrets would be at risk. The stories told on dark nights, of traitors, of wars between the Westilian families, all ended the same way: Anyone who defied the Family and fled the compound without permission would be hunted down and killed. In these twilight times Norths may not have all the power they used to have before Loki closed the gates, before the centuries of war with the other families. But they were superb hunters. Nobody evaded them. Danny knew he took his life in his hands every time he left. He was insane to do it. Yet he felt so free outside the compound. The world was so large, so full of people who did not despise him yet. They have no talents like ours, and yet they build these roads, these factories, these houses. We have to import their machines to air-condition our homes. We tie in to their internet to get our news and send emails to the trusted rovers the Family sends out into the world. We drive in cars and trucks we buy from them. How dare we feel

107 superior? None of these things are in our power, and when the Westilian families ruled the world as gods of the Phrygians, the Hittites, the Greeks, the Celts, the Persians, the Hindi, the Slavs, and of course the Norse, the lives of common people were nasty, brutish, and short—nastier, shorter, and more brutal because of our demands on them. The world would be better if there had never been such gods as these. Taking whatever we wanted because we could, killing anyone who got in our way, deposing kings and setting up new ones, sending our disciples out a-conquering—who did we think we were? In the long-lost world of Westil, where everyone was talented, it might have been fair, for everyone might have had a chance. But here in Mittlegard—on Earth— where only the few Westilian families had such powers, it was unjust. These were the thoughts that Danny was free to think as he watched the teenagers come out of the high schools of Buena Vista and Lexington and ride off in buses or drive off in their cars. At home he never let himself think such things, because if he did his face might reveal his repugnance or dismay at something that a relative did or some old story of an ancestor’s adventures. His only hope of having any kind of useful life was to convince them that he could be trusted to be allowed out into the world, that his loyalty to the Family was unshakeable. Meanwhile, he pored over the books that children were allowed to read, especially the mythologies, trying to understand the real history of the Westilians from the tantalizing tales the drowthers had collected. He once asked Auntie Uck which of the tales from Bulfinch’s Mythology were true, and she just glared at him and said, “All of them,” which was just stupid.

108 Somewhere there were books that told the true stories. He knew that family histories were kept—histories that went back thousands of years. How else could the adults make their cryptic references to this or that person or event in the distant past? All the adults knew these histories, and someday the other cousins would be given these secrets—but not Danny, the one best suited to read, understand, and remember. If he ever learned the truth about anything, he would have to find it out himself. Meanwhile, he had to stay alive. Which meant that as much as he loved to run outside the compound, he only did it now and then, when he couldn’t stand to be confined in his loneliness another day; when it began to seem that it might be better just to go up to Hammernip Hill, dig his own grave, lie down in it, and wait for someone to come up and finish the job. When he was analytical about it, he realized that running outside the compound was a kind of suicide. A game of Russian roulette, without any idea of how many chambers there were in the revolver, nor how many bullets there might be. Just run to a secret passageway and keep on running—that was how he pulled the trigger. His life was not unrelenting solitude and hostility, of course. There were aunts and uncles who had loved him from childhood on, and they seemed to love him still, though some were certainly more distant now. And since Baba and Mama themselves had never particularly doted on him, certainly he could detect no difference in their indifference now. In many ways his life at home was normal. Normalish, anyway. And maybe he would find a way to make himself useful to the Family so they would let him live.

109 He had tried to get them to let him become the family computer expert. “Let me set up a local area network,” he said. “I’ve been reading about it online. We could have computers in every house, in every room, and they could share the same internet connection so we wouldn’t have to pay the cable company a dollar more.” But all they could think to say was, “How did you learn about these things?” “I googled them,” he said. The result was that the family made a new rule that kids could access computers only with an adult in the room, and you had to be able to demonstrate at any moment just how the stuff you had on the screen was related to the classroom assignment you were supposed to be doing. “Thanks a lot, drekka,” Lem and Stem said as they beat him up a little behind the haybarn the next day. They were particularly annoyed because Danny’s inquiry had led to Auntie Tweng finding their files of pornography, which got them a screaming tonguelashing from their drekka mother, Miz Jane, and a whipping from one of Uncle Poot’s most savage hickories. So now Danny was trying to make himself useful by helping train the kids who were just learning to create clants with their outselves. Not that Danny knew anything about clanting, but since the kids couldn’t see their own clants, Danny watched how the clants took shape and then reported to them on their results. Pure observation, but because Danny was doing it, an adult was free to do something else. The trouble was that the three children whose clants he was supervising were Tina, Mona, and Crista, and instead of working on their assignment—to make their clant as close to lifesize as possible—they were remaining under a foot in height and trying to

110 make themselves as voluptuous as they could. All three girls were just starting to develop as women in their real bodies, but the miniature female bodies they were forming out of fallen twigs, leaves, and nutshells were shaping up with huge breasts and exaggerated hips. Forest fairies, a drowther would have called them. Or sluts. “I’ll report this, you know,” said Danny. But it was wasted breath—none of them was good enough at clanting to be able to hear anything through their clants. They could see, however—the outself could see whether it was formed into a clant or not—and one of them noticed Danny’s lips moving. Almost at once, all three of the forest fairies turned to face him. Two of them flaunted their chests; the other turned around, thrust her buttocks toward him, and waggled it back and forth. They could not have made their contempt more clear. Danny didn’t care. It was better than getting beaten up by Lem and Stem. But it was his responsibility to make sure they worked on what they were supposed to work on. He had no authority himself, and even if he had, he couldn’t have done anything if they chose to defy him. Adults could use their own outselves to give the girls’ clants a shove, which they would feel in their own bodies as well. But Danny had no outself, or hadn’t found one, anyway. The only thing he could do was find an adult and report them—but by the time an adult arrived, they’d be working on what they were supposed to work on, and the adult would be annoyed at Danny. Not that the adult would doubt Danny’s word—he was known not to lie, and besides, they knew exactly what Tina, Mona, and Crista were like. But the very fact that Danny had to fetch an adult to enforce the rules meant that he really wasn’t worth very much as a clant-minder. Sometimes Danny was conscientious enough to report such

111 antics as these, but most of the time he put his own survival ahead of the goal of pushing the children to develop their skills, and let them get away with whatever they wanted. The danger was that when these children grew up, they would remember how worthless Danny had been as a child-minder, and far from being grateful that he hadn’t reported them when they were young, they’d realize he couldn’t be trusted to take care of their own children. Then he’d just be Poor Uncle Danny the drekka. Or Poor Old Danny, the body under the nameless headstone on Hammernip Hill. All he could do was kick out at them, dispersing the stuff out of which their clants were formed, so they’d have to take a few moments to gather them up and shape themselves again. It took only a second or two—they’d been making forest fairies of this size since they were nine or ten, and Danny was the darling little eightyear-old that they liked to pamper when adults were around or torture when they weren’t. Well, even though Danny couldn’t make a clant the size of a thimble, he had listened well during the early lessons and remembered things that those with talent often forgot. For instance, he knew the warning about letting drowthers capture a small and fragile clant. “You hold the clant,” Uncle Poot had told them, “and the clant holds you. If you let them capture you when you’re little, they can keep your outself from returning to your body, which leaves you completely helpless.” “Why can’t we just toss away the clant?” Danny had asked—for in those days, he still expected to be able to use these lessons. “You have to be able to spin and leap to cast away the bits from which you made the clant,” said Uncle Poot. “If they trap you so you can’t move far enough, the bits of clant stay bound to you. It’s just the way it works.”

112 “I’ll just make my clant with scissors,” Friggy, Danny’s best friend in those days, had boasted. “Then I’ll cut my way out.” “Make your clant with scissors?” Uncle Poot had laughed. “Why not make it with a gun and shoot your captors through the sack they caught you in?” “The clants that children make are faint and small,” said Danny. “They have no strength in them.” “That’s right,” said Uncle Poot. “The son of Odin never forgets. It’s only truly a clant when it’s full-size and every bit as solid as you are in your own body. Until then it’s a small or a faint or a face, and it could no more lift a pair of scissors than a boulder.” Remembering such lessons, Danny pulled his tee-shirt off over his head and then idly scratched his side, as if that had been his purpose. The girls made their clants point at him and pantomime rolling on the ground with laughter—they really were quite good at giving lifelike movements to their smalls—but all that mattered to Danny was that they weren’t paying attention to the danger they were in. It took only a moment for Danny to have his shirt down on top of the two nearest fairies and another moment for him to gather it into a sack containing them. The third was free, and it leapt and scampered up the sack, up his arms, into his face. But it was a mere annoyance—he swept it away with a brush of his hand and the pieces of it fell to the ground. He expected that girl—he had no way of knowing which it was, since they weren’t good enough yet to put their face on the clants they made—to drop her outself back to the ground and form the clant again, so he didn’t wait around to see. Instead he gripped the teeshirt in his teeth and began to climb the nearest branchy tree.

113 No one climbed trees better than Danny, and this time he moved so fast it seemed to him that he was flying, just tapping the branches with his hands and feet. Meanwhile the fairies in the bag kept trying to jump and spin so they could shed their clants and return to their bodies, but they didn’t have the strength to do much more than jostle the bag a little. At a high branch, Danny stopped climbing, took the tee-shirt out of his mouth, and tied it so tightly to a slender branch that there was hardly room for the clants to move at all. Then he let himself back down the tree, taking much longer jumps downward than he had managed on the way up. When he reached the bottom, the third girl’s clant was nowhere to be seen. So Danny walked back to the house, to tell Uncle Poot what he had done. But it was Great-uncle Zog and Grandpa Gyish who intercepted him on the path, and they gave him no chance at all to explain that he was only teaching the girls a lesson. “Where are they!” screamed Grandpa Gyish. “What kind of drekka bags a child!” Great-uncle Zog bellowed at him. “I’ll have you up the hill for this, you fairy-thief, you childabuser!” And then he was shaking Danny so hard that he was afraid his head would come clear off. Years of flying with the eagles had caused old Zog’s arms and shoulders to bulk up and he had so much strength that he could break a big man’s neck with a swipe of his hand—he’d done it more than once in the wars. So it was a relief when Auntie Uck and Auntie Tweng showed up and clung to both Zog’s arms, dragging him away from Danny. As it was, Zog didn’t let go—the Aunts dragged him, but he dragged Danny, his grip like a talon on Danny’s shoulder. He staggered to keep his feet under him so that he

114 didn’t have his full weight dangling from Zog’s massive grip. Who would have thought an old man could be so strong? A few minutes later, the adults who were in the compound had gathered, and Danny found himself in the midst of something like a trial—but without the legal forms they saw in the TV shows. There was Danny and there was his accuser, Crista, the oldest of the girls, and there was Gyish, presiding like a judge in Baba’s absence, with Zog as the prosecutor. But that’s where the resemblance to a fair trial left off, for there was no one to speak in Danny’s defense. Not even Danny—whenever he tried to speak, Zog slapped him or Gyish shouted him into silence. So the only story anyone could hear was Crista’s. “We were trying so hard to make our clants big,” she said, “that we didn’t even see that Danny was sneaking up on us with a giant sack. He caught all three of us but I just barely managed to get out before he sealed the neck of it with Tina and Mona inside. And then he broke my clant in pieces and before I could put myself together he was gone, up in the sky.” “He flew?” demanded Gyish. “Yes!” cried Crista. “He flew away and dropped the bag outside the compound and now we’ll never get them back!” It took a moment before she realized that she had pushed too hard. For the adults were all shaking their heads and some were laughing derisively. “Danny? Fly?” said Uncle Poot. “If only he could.” “You can see that Crista’s lying,” said Uncle Mook. “Maybe everything she said’s a lie.” “It’s not a lie!” shouted Gyish—he had made no pretense of im-

115 partiality. “I saw the poor girls’ bodies lying helpless in the house! Children so young don’t have the strength to bring their outselves back when their clant is captured! Nor the skill to wake up their own bodies when their outselves are clanting! They might never wake up!” “Let’s hear from Danny,” said Aunt Lummy mildly. Zog turned on her savagely. “A drekka has no voice here!” “But the son of Odin and Gerd has the right to speak in his own defense,” said Lummy. And Mook, her husband, moved closer to her, standing beside her, to give more force to what she said. “What will we hear from him but lies?” said Gyish. “I know what drekkas and drowthers are—they’ll say anything to save their worthless lives!” “If he is so determined to save his life,” said Aunt Lummy, “why would he harm these children, whom we trusted to his care?” “Because they hate us! Drekkas hate us worse than drowthers do!” Gyish was almost frothing at the mouth. Danny realized that he was seeing now what lay behind the muttering and grumbling that were Gyish’s usual form of speech. The old man’s wrath and shame at having lost the war and the seat of Odin had made him into this poisonous old gnome—or so he seemed, because he stooped to point a quavering finger at Aunt Lummy as if he meant to jab it through her heart if she took one more step toward him. “Piffle,” said Auntie Uck. “You’re behaving like a child, Grandpa Gyish, and Zog, you’re just a bully. Let go of the boy at once—you’ve probably broken his shoulder and you know we don’t have a first-rate healer anymore.” She turned to Gyish again. “Which you’ll rue if you let your anger give you a stroke!”

116 It took Uck’s no-nonsense tone and unintimidated look to get Gyish back to his normal level of grumbling, while Zog tossed Danny on the ground and stood there, fists clenched, waiting for Danny to be such a fool as to try to rise again. He needn’t have worried. Danny’s shoulder hurt so badly that he could only lie there, holding it with his other hand, trying not to cry. “Danny,” said Uncle Mook, “tell us what happened.” “I already told you what happened!” shouted Crista. Uncle Poot silenced her with a glare. “We already heard your lies, girl. Now we’ll see if Danny can come up with better ones.” “Well, boy?” asked Zog. “You heard them! Answer!” “They were staying small,” said Danny, “and giving themselves huge boobs.” “So what!” shouted Gyish. “So what if they were! It’s what they do! They’re stupid little girls, it’s what they do!” “I knew that if I went to fetch you, Uncle Poot, they’d lie and say they were trying to be big.” “I wouldn’t have believed them,” answered Poot. “But you wouldn’t have punished them, either,” said Danny. “So they’d just have kept on doing it.” He heard the other adults murmur their agreement. “So now you’re a critic, is that it?” Uncle Poot replied. “Telling me that I’m not good at training youngsters?” “It doesn’t excuse you putting them in a sack!” said Zog. And the adults murmured their agreement at that, too.

117 “I didn’t have a sack,” said Danny. “I stood there right in front of them and took off my shirt and walked right over to them. It was plain enough what I was doing—if they’d been paying any attention. I didn’t expect to actually catch them with my shirt! I just wanted to give them a scare, remind them to take their study seriously. But when I found that two of them were in the shirt, I didn’t know what to do. If I just let them go, they’d mock me and I’d never be able to get them to do what’s right without bothering some adult. The whole point of having me watch them is so none of you has to be bothered, isn’t it?” Even as he said it, though, Danny realized that he had just declared that it was impossible for him to tend the clants if the other children didn’t want him to; he wouldn’t save the adults any time at all, and so they might as well have one of them do the minding and leave Danny out of it. But what choice had he had? The accusation Crista made was so terrible, and with Gyish and Zog calling him a drekka, one who could be killed whenever it was convenient, there was a great danger that the trial would end suddenly with Zog tearing his head off and tossing it into the trees. “So you trapped them in your tee-shirt,” said Aunt Lummy. “And you didn’t let them go. Where are they now?” “Crista’s clant was going for my eyes and so I did brush her aside. And then to get away from her, I climbed a tree.” “And yet you are not in a tree,” said Uncle Mook. “And you seem to have neither your shirt nor the clants of two disobedient and stupid girls.”

118 “I tied the shirt to a branch and climbed down and I was just going to fetch Uncle Poot and turn their clants over to him when Great-uncle Zog and Grandpa Gyish attacked me.” “No grandpa of yours!” shouted Gyish, though this was only partly true, since Danny’s mother, Gerd, was Gyish’s firstborn granddaughter. “I believe you,” said Mook. “But what you don’t know—what you could not possibly understand—is how terrified those girls are now. There’s nothing worse for an inexperienced child than to have your outself trapped and be unable to bring it back. It’s like you’re suffocating and can’t draw breath.” The others present murmured their agreement. “I’m sorry,” said Danny. “I really am. It’s not as if I planned it. I only did what came to mind, to try to get them to work on what they were assigned. I didn’t know that it would hurt them.” “Look at his shoulder,” said Auntie Tweng. “Look at that bruise. It’s like a truck ran over him.” “He was trying to get away!” said Zog defensively. “He was in agony,” said Tweng. “How dare you punish the boy before the rest of us were called?” “I didn’t punish him!” Zog roared. “I brought him!” “You know your strength, and you’re responsible for what you do with it,” said Tweng. “You and Grandpa Gyish did this to him? It’s at least as bad as anything he did to those two girls—why, I wouldn’t be surprised if his clavicle was broken along with a few thousand capillaries.”

119 Since neither Zog nor Gyish was even slightly educated in the drowther sciences, they had no idea what they were being accused of having done, but they were clearly angry and abashed at having the tables turn like this. “And while you’re torturing this child,” said Tweng, “and refusing to let him speak, has anyone thought that only he knows where he hung that tee-shirt with a brace of stupid disobedient fairies inside?” Danny could have kissed her then and there, if he’d thought that Auntie Tweng would stand for it. Within a few moments, uncles Poot and Mook had Danny on his feet and helped him keep his balance—he was faint with pain—as he led them back to the tree. It was farther than Danny had remembered, or perhaps pain magnified the distance, since every step jostled him and made it hurt worse. But finally they were there, with all the Aunts and Uncles—and now a fair entourage of cousins, too—staring up into the tree. “I don’t see it,” said Zog. “He’s lying.” “He said he put it high in the tree,” said Auntie Tweng. “Of course you can’t see it. The leaves are in the way.” “I can’t climb that thing,” said Uncle Mook. “Can you get the tree itself to bring them down?” Aunt Lummy asked Uncle Poot. “Is it on a living branch?” Poot asked Danny. “Green with leaves?” “Yes,” said Danny. “Then we should try another way,” said Poot, his voice now gentle, “before we ask this scarlet oak for such a sacrifice.”

120 “Then Zog,” said Auntie Tweng. “Send up a bird to untie the shirt and bring them down.” Zog whirled on her, but then seemed to swallow the first terrible thing he had meant to say. Instead he spoke softly. “You know my heartbound died in the war. Such birds as I can speak to now have no such skill as the untying of a knotted shirt. I can make them attack and kill, but not untie a knot.” “Then someone has to climb the tree,” said Uncle Poot. “Make a clant first,” said Auntie Tweng, “and see how high it is, and how dangerous the climb might be.” Uncle Poot was one of the foremost clanters of the Family, and he must have been showing off a little, for he sat down at the base of the tree and formed his outself into a clant using the leaves and twigs of the living oak. The smaller branches merely bent toward each other to form the leaves into the vague shape of a man. It progressed up the tree by joining higher leaves into the shape and letting lower ones fall away behind it. Soon it came back down, little more than a rapid quivering of the leaves and branches, yet always shaped like a man, and Uncle Poot opened his eyes again. “How could you climb so high?” he asked Danny. “How could such slender branches bear your weight?” “I don’t know,” said Danny. “I climbed up them and they didn’t break and I didn’t fall.” “I can’t send another child up there,” said Uncle Poot. “As we were so recently reminded, we have no healer capable of dealing with grave injuries.”

121 “Then let me go,” said Danny. “With that shoulder?” asked Aunt Lummy. “I don’t think so!” “I can do it,” said Danny. “It’s only pain. I can still move my arm.” So he climbed the tree for the second time today, slowly this time, testing the strength in his left arm and shoulder every time before relying on them to hold him. When he was far enough up the tree that he could see none of the people below him, he came to a place where he couldn’t find any kind of handhold at all. The next higher branch was simply out of reach. Yet he had come this way. This high in the tree there were no alternate routes. I was moving faster, Danny thought. I was almost running up the tree. I must have leapt upward and reached it without realizing it. Yet he knew this was not true. Such a leap as this he would have noticed and remembered—if for no other reason than to brag that he had done it. He had climbed the tree in the same kind of single-minded trance that came over him when he ran. He didn’t remember picking his way or watching his footsteps when he ran his fastest, and likewise he had no memory of gripping this branch or that one when he had made his first climb, though he remembered every handhold and every reach on this second time up the tree. He closed his eyes. How could he possibly go back down and tell them that what he had climbed before, he could not climb a second time? What could they possibly think, except that he refused to go? What if someone else got to this same place, and saw the tee-shirt hanging far out of reach? What would they think? Only that Danny didn’t want to free the girls from their imprisonment. Then Uncle Poot would ask the tree to

122 sacrifice and break the living branch, and Danny’s punishment would be severe indeed. Who would think him anything but a drekka then? Yet he knew there was a way up, and not just because of the logic that the teeshirt was knotted around a branch, so Danny must have been there; he knew there was a way because he could sense it, where it began and where it led, even though there were no handholds that his eyes could see. So he closed his eyes and reached upward, sliding his hand along the rough trunk. Ah, if only you could speak to me, Scarlet Oak, if only we were friends. If only you could bend your branch to me. And as that yearning mixed with his despair, he twisted and flung his body upward. What did it matter if he missed the branch and fell? His days were numbered anyway, if he did not bring those girls back down. His hand gripped a branch. He opened his eyes. It was not the next branch up, the one that he had reached for in vain a moment before. It was the very branch the tee-shirt hung on. How did I get from there to here? But even as he asked himself the question, he answered it. I could not have done it with hands and feet. Nor is there any magic that lets a twelve-year-old boy leap upward three times his own height. No, there was such a magic, only Danny had never seen it. The whole world had not seen it since 632 A.D. He had to close his eyes and breathe deeply as he took it in.

123 I must have made a gate. A little one, a gate that takes me only there to here. I must have made it when I climbed the first time, and when I leapt again just now I passed through it. He had read about gates like this in books. They were the gates that were within the reach of Pathbrothers, or even Lockfriends sometimes, back in the days when gatemagery was still practiced in the world. And now that he was thinking of it this way, Danny could see just where the gate began and ended. It was nothing visible, not even a quivering in the air or a rearrangement of the leaves, like Uncle Poot’s temporary clant had been. He simply knew that it was there, knew where it began and ended, felt it almost as if it were a part of him. Danny had made a gate. How many others had he made, not knowing it? It must be gates like this that had allowed him to get past the watching trees at the perimeter. How long had he been making them? How many were there? As soon as the question formed in his mind, the answer came. He could sense the placement of every gate that he had ever made. There were scarcely two dozen of them, but from his reading he knew that this was really quite a lot. Even a Pathbrother could only make a dozen gates of any size, because each gate required that a portion of the gatemage’s outself remain behind with it. A trained, experienced gatemage could close the gates that he had made himself, erase them and gather his outself fragments back into the whole. But Danny had no idea how such a thing was done. And there was no one to teach him. I’ve made two dozen gates without knowing that I was doing it, without feeling it at all. Yet I’ve been finding the ones that lead outside the compound, because I could

124 sense without realizing it exactly where they were and where they led and how to use them. Now every one of them is lying about inside the compound, waiting for someone to stumble into it and find himself abruptly in another place. It only had to happen once, and the discoverer would know there was a gatemage in the world again, and one with strength enough to make a gate rather than merely find and open up a gate that someone else had made. Danny exulted at the knowledge that he was not a drekka at all, but instead a rather powerful mage of the rarest kind. But eating away at the thrill of triumph was the fact that to be a gatemage in the North family was worse than being drekka. For the last gatemage in the world had been Loki the trickster, the monster Loki who had sealed up every Great Gate in the world so thoroughly that all traffic between Westil and Mittlegard was cut off at once. It had shattered the power of every Family in the world, for the mightiest of powers could only be sustained by frequent passages back and forth. Magic gathered in one world was magnified a hundred times by passage through a Great Gate into the other. Little gates like the ones that Danny made had no such power—they led from Earth to another spot on Earth, and meant nothing except that his body moved from there to here. But the Great Gates had been what turned the mages of Westil into gods when they came here to Mittlegard. And when they closed, when Loki made it impossible for anyone to even find them—even the gates that had stood for three thousand years or more before his time— the gods became mere mages, and easy to find and kill if someone was determined to; they could die from the blows of drowther swords or the darts from drowther bows. They

125 had to learn caution, to isolate themselves, to pretend that they were ordinary people. To hide, as the North family was hidden here in the Virginia hills, where people who kept to themselves were not exceptional and others mostly left them alone. The wars had been fought at first to force the Norths to reopen the gates, for no one believed that Loki’s actions were not part of some nefarious plan. Only after the Families had decimated each other and the Norths had fled with Leiv Eiriksson to Vinland—only then, seeing how helpless the Norths had been against five centuries of onslaughts, did the other Families finally believe that Loki had acted alone, that the Norths were not holding on to some secret Westil Gate that would enable them to build up power that no other Family could withstand. Even so, once America was conquered the Families made war on the Norths again from time to time, whenever the pain of being cut off from Westil became too much to bear, if only to punish the Norths or perhaps destroy them utterly—what else did they deserve? But as truces and treaties were formed and broken, made anew and once again broken, they always included this clause: that if any gatemage was born into the world, into any Family but most especially the Norths, he would be killed. And not just killed, but his or her body cut up and one piece sent to each of the other Families as proof that it was done. Otherwise, whichever Family got a gatemaker first would have a devastating advantage and could destroy the others if they were not stopped in time. All the Families feared the others would cheat, because that’s what they themselves would do.

126 If any of the adults had sent a clant to watch Danny and saw what he just did to reach this spot, then when he came back down they’d hack him to death on the spot, and care nothing. For if the Norths were caught with a gatemage of any degree of power left alive and making gates, the other Families would unite again and this time they would not stop till every North was dead. I am a mage with power to do what no other living mage can do; and yet I am a dead man. If Loki had not played his monstrous, inexplicable prank and closed the gates, the discovery of my power would be a cause for celebration. I would at once become one of the leading members of the Family, and mere beastmages like Zog would defer to me, and Lem and Stem would never dare to raise their hand against me. But Loki closed the gates, and now it’s a crime for me to breathe. If I were a good boy, I’d fling myself from this tree and die, saving them the trouble of killing me. But Danny was not that good a boy. He owed them nothing. He was not one of them. He did not accept their power over him. He would not let them kill him if he could avoid it. The only trouble was, he didn’t actually know how to use his power. He had made a gate, but unconsciously; he could map with his mind all the gates that he had ever made, because they were a part of him. But he had no idea what to do in order to create another. Useful as it might be right now to make a gate that would take him from this treetop to a place somewhere in Canada or Brazil, he had never made a gate that took him more than fifty yards, and never made a single one on purpose. So he inched his way out to where he had tied the shirt, unfastened it, opened it, and released the two feeble fairy clants. At once the girls’ outselves let go of the pieces of

127 their clants and let the twigs and leaves and nutshells tumble or flutter to the ground. Upstairs in the schoolhouse, their eyes were opening; no doubt they were wailing and clinging to each other and making noise about how terrified they’d been. And it’s a near certainty that they’ll never wave their clanty boobs and butts at me again, thought Danny, if I were ever set to watch over them again. So my plan was a good one, except for the part where it nearly got me killed. Danny made his way slowly down the tree, pausing here and there to try to hear what was going on below him. Then he noticed that his shoulder did not hurt at all anymore. That it had not hurt since he made the leap through the gate and hung from the branch where his shirt was tied. He looked at his shoulder and saw no trace of injury— not a bruise, not a scratch. Gates heal. He had vaguely known that, but since it was a positive aspect of gatemagery, no one spoke of it much. When Auntie Uck referred to not having a first-rate healer, she was talking about the lack of a Meadowfriend who specialized in herbs and could enhance their healing powers. But before 632 A.D., any injury could be healed by pulling or pushing someone through a gate. If they saw his shoulder, they would know. The injury had been severe enough it could not have healed without a mark. Only a gatemage could be unscathed. Pulling on his shirt would not be enough. One of the aunts would insist on seeing the wound, dressing it. He had to have a suitable injury to show them. Yet how could he inflict it on himself, here in the tree?

128 He gripped his shoulder with all his might, jabbing his longish, dirty thumbnail into several spots. It hurt, and there were red marks, but had it been enough to bruise himself? He could only hope as he pulled his shirt on again. When he got to the bottom of the tree, only Uncle Mook and Aunt Lummy were waiting for him. Lummy was Mama’s youngest sister and looked like her, only plumper and not as irritable as Mama always seemed to be. But then, Aunt Lummy was not a great lightmage; she was good with rabbits, a skill not much called for once she had persuaded them to leave the vegetable garden alone. So she spent her days trying to teach all the useful languages, written and spoken, to children who mostly could not understand what they might ever be used for. And she was kind to Danny. So was Uncle Mook. And these were the two who had been left behind to wait for him. Danny dropped from the lowest branch to the ground and faced them. “How much trouble am I in?” he asked them. “With me,” said Aunt Lummy, “none at all.” “Those girls should have been wrapped in a sack long ago, to teach them sense and manners,” said Uncle Mook. “But Zog and Gyish are now your enemies,” said Aunt Lummy, “and they want you dead, to put it plainly. And many there are who think they have a point, and that the only reason you’re still alive is because your parents are who they are.” “As if Mama would miss me if I died,” said Danny, “or Baba would even notice I was gone.”

129 “Don’t be unjust,” said Uncle Mook. “Your parents are complicated people, but I assure you that they care a great deal about you and think about you all the time.” “But if the Family decided I was drekka and dangerous and had to be killed, Baba would put me up in Hammernip himself, and Mama would shovel on the dirt.” “Nonsense,” said Aunt Lummy. “Of course they would,” said Uncle Mook. “It’s their duty.” “Now, Mooky,” said Aunt Lummy. “The boy is old enough to know the truth,” Mook said to her. And then to Danny, “They know their duty to the Family and they will do it. But right now the madness is over and it’s time for you to come back home to eat. With us, I think, in case somebody takes it in their head to make a preemptive strike before your folks come home.” “Oh, Mooky,” said Aunt Lummy impatiently. “Don’t scare the boy!” “He should be scared,” said Mook. “He should have cut off a hand before he put those children’s clants in a sack. Now he knows it, but the deed’s been done. Everything he does from now on will be viewed with suspicion. If we mean to keep him safe, we have to help him learn to be as innocuous as possible. No more strutting around about how smart he is in school—” “He never struts,” said Aunt Lummy. Danny was grateful that she defended him, but he realized that there had been times when he flaunted his superiority in classwork. “It looks like strutting to the other children,” said Mook, “and you know it.” Aunt Lummy sighed. “If only he could leave here and grow up in safety somewhere else.” “Don’t put a thought like that into his head!” cried Mook.

130 “Do you think I haven’t thought of it a thousand times?” said Danny truthfully. “But I know they’d track me down and find me, and I won’t do anything like that. The only life I’ll ever have is here, and all I can hope to affect is how long it lasts.” “That’s the attitude,” said Mook. “Humility, acceptance, willingness to sacrifice.” They led him back to the house, and Danny ate well that night, since Lummy’s best talent was neither with rabbits nor students, but with cooking. After dinner, she insisted on applying her favorite and smelliest salves to his injuries, and when she pulled his shirt off, he was relieved to see that his self-inflicted replacement injuries had left bruises, though small ones. “Well,” said Lummy, “either Zog is getting weaker in his old age or he was being gentler than it seemed, because you’re only bruised a little.” “Danny has the resilience of youth,” said Uncle Mook. “They’re tougher than they look, these children.” Well-salved and stinking to high heaven, Danny went to bed. Only then, alone in the darkness, did he allow himself to know what he must know: that he intended to survive, no matter what. Now the entire business of his life was to figure out a way to escape from the North Family compound in such a way that they could never find him. Fortunately, unlike so many others who had ended their lives on Hammernip Hill, Danny had the power to move himself from anyplace to anywhere—if only he could figure out just how his power worked, and how to make it do things that he consciously desired.

131

Original Sin

By Lisa Desrochers

Copyright ©2011 by Lisa Desrochers

Luc Cain was born and raised in Hell, but he isn’t feeling as demonic as usual lately— thanks to Frannie Cavanaugh and the unique power she never realized she had. But you can’t desert Hell without consequences, and in this exciting second installment of the Personal Demons trilogy, Frannie and Luc find themselves targeted by the same demons who used to be Luc’s allies.

Lisa Desrochers lives in central California with her husband and two very busy daughters. There is never a time that she can be found without a book in her hand, and she adores stories that take her to new places and then take her by surprise.

132 Chapter 1

You Can Take the Demon Out of Hell…

LUC Not that I’m complaining, but one serious downside of being a demon-turned-human is that I’m no longer indestructible. I stare at my bleeding face in the mirror and rinse the razor in the sink. As I examine the multitude of seeping wounds, I wonder how much blood a mortal can afford to lose. Which brings me to another downside of being human: personal hygiene. Why the Almighty would design humans to require so much maintenance is beyond me. And all these millennia I thought we demons were the ones who got off on torture. I’m still having trouble wrapping my mind around all of this—my new life. Frannie. I woke up in my car this morning and my heart ached because, for an instant, I was sure it had all been a dream. But it was my aching heart—and the fact that I was asleep in the first place—that convinced me otherwise. Brimstone doesn’t ache. Which brings me to yet another downside: sleep. Now that I have to sleep, I can’t protect Frannie like I want to. With some assistance from Starbucks, until last night I was able to hang on. But four o’clock this morning found me sound asleep in my car in front of her house, leaning over the steering wheel and drooling on my sleeve. I’m going to have to discuss shifts with Matt.

133 Frannie insists she doesn’t need a guardian angel, but I’m glad for the help. Of course, I haven’t been quite honest with her. She doesn’t know that I’m still watching every night. She’d probably beat the crap out of me if she did. It’s a little embarrassing to think that my five-two, hundred-pound girlfriend could kick my ass but, unfortunately, it’s true. “Frannie’s on her way over.” Even though the voice sounds smooth and musical, it still scares the Hell out of me. It’s a good thing the razor is in the sink, because if it’d been on my face it would have left another gash. I spin and survey my studio apartment for the source of the proclamation. Matt leans against the wall next to the unfinished edge of my wall mural, thumbs hooked into the front pockets of his torn jeans. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude not to knock?” I say. But seeing an angel standing there, next to a floor to ceiling painting of Hell, is more than I can take, and I burst out laughing. Matt’s sandy-blond curls are almost to his shoulders and his tanned face is positively angelic—except for the fact that he’s glaring death at me. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was an avenging angel, not a guardian. But, as I get myself back together, a hint of a smile creeps into those baby blues. “She might have mentioned something about that.” I hate that Frannie needs a guardian. I hate that I can’t protect her anymore. But my power has completely dried up. There’s no spark in the plugs. I do miss being able to shoot Hellfire out of my fists and blast things into oblivion.

134 But would I go back to what I was? Never. I raise an eyebrow at him and try not to smile. “So, if Frannie’s on her way over, why aren’t you watching her? Falling down on the job so soon? What the Hell kind of guardian angel are you?” A grin spreads across Matt’s face as he shrugs away from the wall. “She drives so fast not even the Hounds of Hell could catch her between there and here.” I smile thinking about her driving that midnight blue ‘65 Mustang convertible, top down, music cranked. She does drive dangerously fast, but it’s kind of sexy. “Thanks for the back-up last night, by the way,” I say as Matt glides over to my bookshelf and scans the titles. “I was hoping this whole sleep thing was overrated. Guess I was wrong.” Pulling my original run Dante’s Purgatorio from the volumes, he scowls. “I knew you were going to be useless. Why Gabriel thought you’d be any help at all, I’ll never understand.” He fans the pages and then turns his glare on me. “You’re going to slip back into your old ways. I just know it. Demons don’t change.” “But I’m not a demon anymore. There are no ‘old ways.’ Clean slate and all.” “You’ll slip.” He flips me a glance with a self-satisfied smirk, then slides Dante back onto the shelf. “And when you do, I hope it’s a good one. I’ve been dying to smite someone. Nothing would make me happier than if it was you.” “I thought only the hand of God could smite.” An enigmatic smile turns the corners of his mouth. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

135 I walk back into the bathroom, shaking my head, and wipe the last traces of shaving cream from my face with a towel. “When will she get here?” I say, reexamining my wounds in the mirror and tugging at the dark circles under my eyes. My finger courses along the blood-red scar twisting down the right side of my face—Beherit’s parting gift—as Matt peers over my shoulder into the mirror and says, “Now.” I push him aside and cross my studio to the window, throwing up the sash, just in time to see her pull in next to my black ‘68 Shelby Cobra and climb out of her car. Her face beams as she waves up at me and makes her way toward the door of my building. I sprint down the hall and meet her on the stairs. She rushes up, smiling. “Hey. Missed you.” Frannie’s long, sandy-blond waves are windblown and unruly. And I can’t help but admire how that white tank top and those well-worn jeans hug every contour of her body without being tight. A large tear in those jeans teases me with a hint of skin and I shudder. “Hey,” I say. I loop my arms around her shoulders and run my hands through her hair, tying it in a knot at the base of her neck. “I missed you too.” She pushes up onto her tiptoes, stretching her petite frame to its maximum, but I still need to lean down and meet her halfway for our kiss. I guide her up the rest of the stairs and into my apartment. She bounds through the door, and when she sees Matt, her eyes light up. Just watching them together, how happy she is to have him back, I have no doubt that it was her Sway that influenced Gabriel to choose Matt as Frannie’s guardian. And, the best

136 part: she looks at him with a light heart and clear eyes now. The guilt is gone. She had to forgive herself for Matt’s death in order for Gabriel to tag her soul for Heaven, so I knew she had, but something lightens in my core to see it so clearly on her face. “Hey Matt. Long time no see.” Matt’s smile is warm and genuine as he regards his sister. “Thought you were going to break the sound barrier on the way over. I was pretty sure you’d beat me here.” He hooks an arm over her shoulder. “If you won’t drive more carefully, I’m going to have to wrap that Mustang in celestial bubble wrap.” He rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, contemplating. “And maybe rig the accelerator.” “Touch my car and you’re dead, little brother.” As soon as the words leave her lips, her smile disappears and her eyes pull wide. “I mean…” Matt chuckles and pulls her back to his side. “Yeah, good luck with that. And I’m not your ‘little brother.’” She swallows hard and offers a wily smile. “Yes you are. By eight and a half minutes, according to Mom.” She shoves away from him and makes her way to the small wooden kitchen table, where she drops her bag onto a chair. Up until a few weeks ago, I didn’t need to eat, so the only furniture in my apartment was a big, black, king-sized bed—for recreational purposes. The addition of the table and two chairs became necessary when I kept finding food in my bed. And now that laundry is also a necessity—downsides of being human are racking up fast—we eat at the table. I twine my fingers into hers. “Did you eat? I was going to make omelets.”

137 She gazes up at me, twisting a finger along the scar on my face, and I get completely lost in her eyes. “Sounds good,” she says. “What?” An devilish smile breaks across her face. “Omelets?” “Oh, yeah…”

MATT “Not hungry, thanks,” I say. They both look at me and Frannie cracks a smile. “That’s ‘cause you’ve never had one of Luc’s omelets. He got the recipe off Rachael Ray’s website. They’re to die for,” she says, then cringes. “I got it, sis. They’re good. So, what’s the plan for the day?” Frannie shrugs. “Well, lunch, I guess. Then…” She looks at the demon and an impish grin pulls at her lips. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking…?” I roll my eyes and glare at Luc. He leans back into the table and smirks at me as Frannie heads for the fridge. “Get your mind out of the gutter, cherub. The Mustang needs an oil change.” Luc pushes off the table and moves to the kitchen, bringing a pan and bowl out from the cabinet below the stove. Frannie retrieves the eggs, milk and a few bags of veggies from the fridge. As they move around the kitchen, they don’t speak, but, as they work, they seem completely unaware that they are always touching—connected. And perfectly in sync.

138 Suddenly, it feels too intimate. How can cooking lunch be intimate? I clench my teeth to keep from groaning. I can’t stand this. I have to get out of here. “So, if you guys don’t need me, I guess I’ll go.” Frannie turns back to me and smiles. “Sure you don’t want an omelet?” she says, holding up a tomato. I can’t help smiling back. “Got to watch my girlish figure.” She cracks up as I push through the wall into the hall, where I stand guard. Alone. As usual. I slide down to sit on the floor, my back against the wall. When Gabriel pulled me out of training to work with me himself, he said he had a special job for me. A job no one was better suited for. When he told me I was going to be Frannie’s guardian, I couldn’t believe it. I wasn’t proud of how I’d treated her in life, and being seven was no excuse. This was perfect. How many people get the chance to make amends with their twin sister from the other side? What he failed to mention is that my sister is in love with a freakin’ demon. How did he let that happen? So here I sit, banging my head against the wall helplessly while my sister is in there—in danger. Gabriel was clear. I can’t interfere. He says it’s her life. Her choice. He says things will work out. I don’t believe him. And it’s only a matter of time before the demon does something to prove me right.

139

FRANNIE “Gabe has me experimenting with this Sway thing,” I say after lunch, handing Luc the cast iron skillet to wipe down. His eyes tighten and he doesn’t even try to hide the jealous edge to his voice. “Let me guess: late at night, all alone in your room.” I can’t help the flutter in my stomach or my blush, and I hate that I feel guilty. But I do. I still don’t have a grasp on what I feel for Gabe. All I know is that I need him. When he’s around I can almost believe that things are gonna be okay, and when he touches me, all my panic seems to melt away. I plunge my hands into the soapy dishwater and start scrubbing dishes madly. “Sometimes. But if the only person I can Sway is Gabe, that’s not gonna accomplish much.” Luc doesn’t need to know that those practice sessions, late at night in my room, mostly involve me trying to figure out how not to use my Sway on Gabe. He slams the pan down onto the counter with a crash that shakes the floor and stares at his hands, splayed on either side of it. “I sincerely doubt there’s much you couldn’t get Gabriel to do for you just by asking.” I start, ‘cause it’s Gabe who can read my mind, not Luc. But the way he’s looking at me makes me wonder. I sigh deeply and take a second to get myself back together. “Anyway…we’ve been hanging at the park, mostly.” I feel my chest tighten as I push back the frustration that threatens to take charge of me every time I think about this

140 whole stupid thing. “He thinks kids should be easier to influence. But I seem to be better at instigating stuff than stopping it.” He yanks the pan off the counter by the handle. “Well, that bodes well for world peace.” I drop my face into my soapy hands and groan. “I suck at this. I don’t know what he thinks I’m supposed to be able to do, but I can’t even break up a sandbox scuffle over a pail and shovel.” I hate the tears seeping from my eyes into my hands. I hate everything right now. “I can’t do it. It doesn’t work.” I don’t look at him as he turns me and presses me against the counter, his body hot against mine, his voice suddenly soft. “I’m sorry, Frannie. You know how hard this is for me…sorting all these feelings. Everything is going to work out.” He lifts my chin with his finger and wipes the suds off of my forehead with his hand. “It’ll all come together.” He smiles and quirks his eyebrow. “I’ll let you practice on me.” I sniffle and wipe my nose on the back of my arm. “I did already.” He grins and looks down at himself to be sure he’s still intact. “Should I be worried?” I sorta smile back. “No. I already did my thing on you without even knowing it. You were like my lab rat or something. My first victim.” Before I even knew what Sway was, or that I had it, I was using it on Luc. Course, at the time, I also didn’t know Luc was a demon. But I wanted him. A lot. And I got him by sorta accidentally turning him mortal with my Sway.

141 He pins me tighter against the counter and I can’t ignore how his body against mine makes me feel—like Jell-O. The look in his smoldering black eyes sends my heart racing. “And how did that experiment work out?” I feel myself getting hot all over despite the cool dish suds running down my arms. I loop my soapy hands around his neck and watch him grimace as the cold water drips down his back. “I don’t think I’m done finding out. It’s an ongoing investigation. You know, like…” I press myself harder into him. “What happens if I do this.” I feel his body react, muscles tensing, his breathing becoming faster. I smile. “Or this,” I say, reaching up onto my tiptoes to kiss his Adam’s apple. “Interesting reaction,” I say when he tips his head back and shudders. “I’ll have to log that in my journal.” “So, it sounds like when you do what comes naturally, your Sway works just fine. Maybe you’re just trying too hard.” He drops his head and looks at me, those fathomless black eyes still on fire. But then he pushes away. “If only I could finish what I’ve started.” I tug him back to me by the waist of his jeans. “Why can’t you?” “Because the woman from the library told me to call her at one.” He nods to the clock on the microwave, which reads 12:58. I shove him away and turn back to the soapy sink full of dishes. “You’re such a tease.” I shake my head, frustrated. “See how well my Sway works? I couldn’t even entice you to blow off a phone call.”

142 His hands slide down the curve of my hips and I look over my shoulder at him. “Oh, you enticed me just fine,” he says with a beautifully wicked grin. “The only reason I can resist right now is because I’m fairly certain we can pick up where we left off when I’m done.” “Don’t be so sure,” I say, knowing he’s right. “You snooze, you lose.” He looks genuinely concerned for a heartbeat, then his face clears. “We’ll see about that.” His smile is back and all kinds of wicked ideas flash behind his eyes. He sits in one of the kitchen chairs and pushes back, balancing on its back two legs as he dials. He hangs up ten minutes later as I stack the last of the dishes, an old set of my mom’s, back into the cupboard. Lowering all four legs of his chair back to the ground, he says, “I start Saturday.” “I don’t know why you think you need a job. You should be able to live forever…” I catch myself as he grins. “I mean, for the rest of your life, anyway, on your insane bank accounts.” His gaze settles into mine. “And so could you.” I turn back to the counter and ignore the thrill that races through me with everything he’s implying. “I’m not taking your money, Luc.” We’ve done this already. “Fine. So, you’ll be working, and I could spend all day hanging around that pizza place, or I can attempt to become a productive member of society.” “I guess it’s best,” I admit. Luc tended to distract me when he was around. My first week at my new job was pretty rough, culminating with the pizza Ricco made me pay for after it slid off the tray and onto the floor on my way to a table.

143 I hang the dishcloth over the faucet and turn back to face Luc. “Ricco would probably have you arrested for stalking me and scaring away all the customers if you hung at his place all day. You still have that dark thing happening, you know. They’d lock you up and throw away the key.” “Speaking of keys…” He slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out a shiny silver key, holding it up so it glimmers in the dim lighting. “It’s to the apartment. I know it’s only for another couple of months, but I want you to be able to come and go as you please.” I settle into his lap. “I thought that’s what I was doing.” “You shouldn’t have to knock.” His arms circle me and pull me closer. “You’re not afraid I’ll walk in on you doing something you’re not supposed to be?” “The only person I’d be doing that with would be you.” His smile turns wicked as he slides his hand under my shirt. “And you’ll already be here.” When I press my lips to his, my heart rate doubles. He starts to pull my shirt over my head. “Don’t mind me…” Gabe’s voice comes from the door and scares the snot out of me. I turn and there he is, leaning against the doorframe looking all angelic: glowing smile, platinum waves, and insanely beautiful blue eyes shining out of a strong, tanned face. Nobody should be allowed to look that good. Luc blows out a frustrated sigh and eases my shirt back down. “For the love of all things unholy, what is it with you celestials? Will you please learn how to knock?”

144 “And miss the show?” he says, smiling at me as I yank at my shirt. I extricate myself from Luc and stand. “For an angel you’re quite the pervert,” Luc says. Gabe relaxes back into the wall and tucks his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “Some things are worth losing your wings for.” His smile is gone and his blue eyes pierce mine. “Anyway, I really just came to say good-bye.” “Good-bye?” The panic that lives constantly in my gut creeps into my voice. As guilty as it makes me feel, there’s nothing I can do to stop my heart from fluttering when he looks at me like that—like he’s seeing my soul. Luc notices my awkward stare and the color in my cheeks. He pulls himself out of the chair and glares at Gabe. “Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out.” “Won’t be using the door, dude.” He saunters over to Luc’s wall mural. “You know you’re playing for the other team now. You’ve really got to do something about this,” he says, running a finger over the roiling orange and gold molten surface of the Lake of Fire. “Hey, you can take the demon out of Hell, but you can’t take Hell out of the demon.” Luc’s grin makes my heart go from fluttering to sputtering. Gabe’s eyes slide back to mine. “You’re going to be fine, Frannie,” he says. And a part of me hates that he’s in my head—reading my mind. That he knows how I feel about him, even if I don’t. But then I register what he’s saying. My sputtering heart speeds up as an overwhelming sense of alarm takes over at the thought of Gabe leaving. “You can’t go.”

145 It’s all I can say without sounding totally hysterical or giving away the shake in my voice. He steps forward and brushes the hair out of my face with a sweep of his hand. “It’s better this way. For everyone,” he adds, glancing toward Luc. “But—” “You’ll be in good hands, Frannie. Matt will be here if you need him, and Luc…” His jaw tightens and his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Luc won’t let anything happen to you.” Luc, perceiving the challenge in Gabe’s words, steps forward and loops his arms around me. “You’re right, I won’t.” I pull out of Luc’s grasp and step toward Gabe. “Why?” He lifts a hand and brushes his cool fingertips along the line of my jaw. I breathe in his cool winter sunshine and feel calmer just standing here next to him. When he answers, his voice is soft and low—meant only for me. “It’s really not wise for me to spend too much time around you, Frannie.” “But—” “You’re both tagged for Heaven, and, if you need to leave, your celestial Shields will keep both of you hidden. With Matt watching, you’ll be fine. But I can’t stay here.” His gaze drops to the floor. I swallow thickly past the lump in my throat. “Okay,” I say, knowing he’s right, ‘cause there’s a reason that I’m dreading turning around and looking at Luc. I can’t deny that, as much as I love Luc, I have some deep connection to Gabe. Luc is my heart and my soul, but Gabe is my anchor. I hug him and pull away as I feel tears sting my eyes. I

146 step back and Luc’s arm eases around my waist, feeling much less possessive. I look at him, sure of what I’ll see, but his eyes are soft and full of compassion. He gives me a gentle squeeze and a reassuring smile. I turn back to Gabe and stare into his blue eyes, endless as the sky. “So, when will I see you?” “I’ll be back here and there to check on you.” “You promise?” I know how desperate it sounds, but I don’t care. He lifts his eyes, but not his head, gazing at me out from under his long, white lashes. “Promise.” He continues to stare at me and, even though his lips don’t move I swear I hear him add, “I’ll always be here for you.” I nod again and choke back the threat of tears. I open my mouth, but there aren’t words so I close it again. But my eyes say what my mouth couldn’t. And I know he sees it ‘cause his eyes mist and he swallows hard as he disappears. “Sorry, Frannie,” Luc says pulling me to him. “I try not to be jealous, to understand your connection…” “It’s not your fault.” I pull him closer. How can I expect him to understand it when I can’t even figure it out? His hand drifts to my face and he pulls me into a kiss, his lips gentle on mine, as if he’s afraid of breaking me. I wind my fist into his hair and pull him closer, but it only lasts a second before I draw back, ashamed. I’m looking for something in his kiss that isn’t there. Something that I’ve only felt in one other kiss. I’ll need to find a different way to calm my nerves.

147 I ignore the question swirling in Luc’s eyes as he gazes down at me, his brow creased. “Help me change that oil before work?” I can tell by his resigned sigh that he knows I was thinking of Gabe, and I hate that I’m so crappy at hiding it. “Your wish, my command,” he says. “What time do you have to be there?” “Three.” He glances at the clock in the kitchen. “We better get on it. You have everything?” “In the trunk.” I pull my keys from my pocket, jingling the two keys that now dangle from my rabbit’s foot key chain with a tentative smile. He smiles back and takes my hand, leading me to the door. “I forgot to test your key,” he says. “Try it.” I jingle my keys again as we step into the hall and use the shiny new one to lock the door behind us. I pull the key from the lock and feel him press into me from behind, his hands gliding gently around my waist to my stomach. His lips trace a line across my cheek to my ear, where he whispers, “We’re in this together, Frannie. Everything’s going to be fine.” I spin in his arms and kiss him again, this time wanting only him. Warmth from his kiss spreads through me till I’m burning with it. Twisting my finger down the scar Beherit left on his cheek, I shudder thinking about how close I came to losing him. I want to tell him how much I trust him and that I know he’d do anything for me. He proved that when he risked his own life to save me

148 from Beherit. I want to tell him I’d do anything for him too. But I can’t manage words past the lump in my throat. Instead, I turn back to the door blinking away tears, unlock the deadbolts, and pull him into the apartment. I lead him to the bed, then pull him into another kiss. We sink into the sheets, and I just want to lose myself in him—to not have to think about anything for a little while. But when I reach for the button of his jeans, he twines his fingers in mine and brings my hand up to his face, where he kisses the back of my fingers. “Not like this, Frannie. Our first time isn’t going to be because of him.” “It’s not ‘cause of him. I just want us to be closer.” But even as I say it, I’m really not one hundred percent sure it’s true, ‘cause those blue eyes and that glowing smile are there in my head. I feel the hole in my heart where he’s supposed to be. I miss Gabe already. “Soon,” Luc says and kisses me. “But not now.”

MATT Gabriel filled me in before he pushed through the wall into Luc’s apartment. I’m on my own. When I started to follow him through, he motioned for me to wait in the hall. He said he needed a private moment with Frannie. How he planned to accomplish that with the demon in the room is anybody’s guess. Frannie and the demon came out a little while later, and she looked seriously shaken. But he whispered something to her and they disappeared back through the door. And I’ve been sitting here ever since thinking about what their deal is—the three of them.

149 Gabriel is a Dominion. One of Heaven’s most powerful. Third in line to God Himself. But when I watch him with Frannie, everything about him changes—softens. He’d do anything for her. And the look in his eyes when he told me he was leaving… Agony. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was in love with her. Could he love her? Angels love everyone. It’s what we do. But, I mean…is it more than that? Does he seriously love her? I’m still pondering that when Frannie and the demon step out into the hall again. I follow them toward the stairs as they lock step, arm in arm. Just as we reach the bottom of the stairs, the door from the parking lot swings open. Frannie holds it as a stack of boxes with legs walks through. The stack of boxes bumps into her and the top one slips, revealing the face of a girl. She’s about our age but taller than Frannie, with stringy, chocolate-brown hair hanging across her green eyes. “Shit. Sorry,” she says just as the top box slips off the stack. The demon grabs it before it hits the floor. “Got it,” he says. “Where you headed?” “218,” she says. He glances at Frannie. “We’ll give you a hand?” “Sure,” Frannie says, grabbing a box off the stack. “Are you moving in?” “Yeah,” she says, diverting her gaze. “Thanks, but you guys don’t need to help. Looks like you’re headed somewhere.” “No biggie. The oil can wait,” Frannie says and turns for the stairs. 218 is next door to Luc’s. I watch as the three of them haul boxes from the bed of the girl’s beat up hunter-orange Ford pickup up the stairs and into her apartment. In three

150 trips they have everything. The girl wipes beads of sweat from her forehead with the sleeve of her gray sweatshirt. “I need to get to work,” Frannie says. “You got it from here?” The girl stares at the floor, not meeting Frannie’s eyes as she speaks. “I’m good…I don’t have that much.” I look at the small stack of boxes in the middle of the room. If that’s all her stuff, she’s right. I watch her scan the room. Other than the cabinets in the kitchen, which are painted a cheerful tangerine color, the place looks pretty bleak. Just an open space with peeling grayish walls. Like in Luc’s apartment, there’s a large window that overlooks the parking lot. The upper windowpane is cracked in an intricate spider web pattern that looks sure to explode into hundreds of shards at the least contact. Along the wall to the right of the window is a worn green sofa with a large tear in the middle cushion, which has belched a pile of crumbling foam stuffing onto the floor. Looking around, it’s hard to understand the excited glint in the new girl’s eyes. To me it’s just depressing, which is saying something, since angels don’t get depressed. Frannie holds out her hand. “So, I’m Frannie and this is Luc.” The girl takes Frannie’s hand tentatively and shakes it. “Lili.” She ducks her head like it embarrasses her to be the center of attention. “So, where’d you come from?” Frannie asks. “Oh…um…nowhere really. I just moved here because I’m going to State in the fall. This was the closest I could afford to the city.”

151 “Well, I’m next door, so if you need anything…” Luc says as he and Frannie move toward the door. “Thanks,” she says and runs a hand through her hair, pulling the damp strands off her sweaty forehead and giving me a brief glance at her face. It’s a good thing I’m invisible because, as the demon and Frannie disappear down the hall and onto the stairs, I find myself rooted to this spot. I can’t stop staring at her. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever seen before. Or felt. There’s something completely foreign about her soul. I can’t read her very well; I only get snippets—fleeting sensations. There’s a dark side to her, and her soul is already tagged for Hell, but there’s also a wounded side, begging for help. And something in those green eyes makes me want to be the one to help her. I’m so mesmerized by her that I forget myself and don’t get out of the way in time as she moves to the door to lock it. As she passes through me, I feel a rush of…something. Desire? I think so. I shiver as an electric tingle shoots through me, then spin and watch her shut the door and twist the deadbolts. It suddenly occurs to me that I’m on the wrong side of the door. Those locks are meant to keep others out. I back off, but hesitate before pushing through the wall out into the hall. Those eyes. There’s something in those eyes. I step closer and reach out for her face, feeling like a moth drawn inexplicably to a flame. I need to touch her. But just before my hand makes contact, she spins away and moves toward the stack of boxes.

152 Sweet Heaven above. What am I doing? I shake my head, then push through the wall and just stand in the hall for a long minute trying to get myself together. What was that? I’ve never felt need like that before—raw desire, stirring something feral inside of me. Breathing deep, I jump up and down a few times to shake the tension out, but I’m still not quite myself when I phase into Frannie’s backseat. I stay invisible as she pulls out of the parking lot, and it’s not until we’re halfway down the street, me in the back of the convertible, the wind clearing the fog from my head, that I fade in and allow Frannie and the demon to see me. “Nice of you to join us,” he says as I reach for my seatbelt and fasten it around me. I slouch back into the seat, still feeling a little shaky from whatever just happened with Lili. “So…what do you think of that girl?” The demon shoots me a sidelong glance. “Well, I think she’s a girl.” I scowl. “Ha, ha. I mean did she seem, I don’t know…like she needed help or something?” Frannie glances into the rearview mirror at me. “Maybe. She seemed really shy and sorta scared. I’ll keep my eye on her.” So will I.

153

From Batman to the Long Man

By Steve Englehart

Once upon a time, I wrote comics: the Batman, Captain America, the Justice League, the Hulk, and pretty much anybody else you’ve ever heard of. Now, at that time, writing comics was a very low-class thing to do. Nobody in the non-comics world knew anything about the medium, except that it was trash (much like fantasy in some circles); I admitted my profession with diffidence. But those of us on the inside knew it as a gold mine of creativity, and the perfect way to hone a writer’s skills. I handled a wide range of characters, in four ongoing series, trying anything that seemed like it would be entertaining - and I got feedback in the very short time of three months (typewriter to publication to mailed letters of response). And when I say “anything,” I mean “anything”; Marvel, for whom I worked, gave its people complete freedom. Since it was my first stab at writing for a living, I had no real way to know that that was a rare gift. All I knew was, I was doing what writers need to do, which is write. I rose through Marvel’s ranks pretty quickly. Then Marvel’s competition, DC, hired me to come over and revamp all of their characters - Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, Green Lantern. I did that, while writing a separate series specifically for the Batman. And in the process of revamping him, I came up with a way to sell superheroes not just to kids, but to the mass market - the people who had thought comics were beneath them. Readers labeled my Batman “the definitive Batman,” Warner Bros. set to

154 work making a movie of it, and Batman, starring Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson, launched superhero films for the general public. Within a decade, everybody knew about comics, and I take a lot of pride in that. Then the next thing I did was write The Point Man, my first novel, for Dell. After that, I designed games for Atari, because I thought I’d said all I had to say about Max August and his world - which I probably had, at that time. A few years ago, though, I looked back and saw that novel in a whole new light, precisely because I was looking back across time. In The Point Man, Max, a normal guy, discovered that the world is just what we think it is, with one little addition: some people can do magick. What if, I wondered, Max had gone on to become immortal, thanks to one of those magicians? In The Long Man, he would be more or less the same guy, but the world around him would be very different. I had a whole new way of looking at the life an immortal must lead - a series that moved through contemporary time along with Max, with each novel an in-depth snapshot of the world he was dealing with. And he was dealing, because he could remember when the future looked a lot brighter than it does just now; since he may still be here a hundred, even a thousand years from now, he’s determined to rekindle those flames. Not a bad basis for a series of thrillers, I thought. And this time, thanks to all those superhero films, I won’t have to apologize for thinking so.

Copyright © 2010 by Steve Englehart

155

The Long Man

By Steve Englehart

Copyright © 2010 by Steve Englehart

The Long Man is an action-packed thriller set in the real world featuring a Vietnam vet who becomes an alchemist-sorcerer trying to prevent a vast right-wing cabal from unleashing zombies in a genocidal war.

Steve Englehart is best known for writing for such series as The Avengers, Captain America, and The Fantastic Four (for Marvel) and Batman and The Justice League of America (for DC), and for his novel The Point Man, the first Max August novel. He lives in northern California.

156 OCTOBER 31, 2007 • 4:45 P.M. PACIFIC DAYLIGHT TIME

His name was not Max August. “Hey!” the guy with the cape said. “Aren’t you Max August?” The questioner was not the only one in costume, because tonight was Halloween and the night would be here soon. All the kids coming home from school past Mount Davidson Park, and some of the more- alive adults, had gotten started early. But the guy with the cape wore his backpack under the cape, so he looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. He for his part was looking at a man in his midthirties, dressed normally: jeans, flannel shirt, tall, blond, athletic. A highbrow, high cheekbones, large, intelligent hazel eyes, and the full mouth of a guy who talked for a living—very much like Max August. That mouth smiled wryly as the blond man said, “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong guy.” “Really?” The caped guy was peering at him, eyes narrowed against the low sun. “You look just like him.” “I hear that,” the blond man said, “though not so much anymore; it’s been like twenty- five years, right? Max August would be in his fifties.” Suddenly the caped guy felt very stupid. “Yeah. Sure. Sorry.” Then, hopefully, “You a relative?” “Nope. Just similar genes, I guess.” The guy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Ah, well—sorry, dude. I was just rememberin’ watchin’ him do his show inside his window at KQBU. We all did,

157 back in the day; we’d duck out of school for it. The coolest thing in San Francisco—if you were a teenager. He called himself Barnaby Wilde then, but anybody cool knew his real name. He played the best music, great music, an’ danced like a lunatic, right in the window, y’know?” “Nahhh. I lived in Miami when I was a kid, so I never heard the guy live. But I’ve had a crash course on him since I moved out here, I can tell you that.” “You know what happened to him?” “Been working on the East Coast, I think. He’s got some new airname; ‘Barnaby Wilde’ doesn’t make sense anymore. I don’t think he’s ever used his real name on air.” “Huh. I probably wouldn’ even know him if I heard him now,” the caped crusader said. “Or saw him. But I just had this picture of him in my head, up in that window, all these years, and bam! you were it.” He shrugged. The wind was picking up and his cape ballooned, mimicking the gesture. “I’m sorry I missed him,” the blond man said. “Yeah. Hey, I’m sorry I bothered you.” “No problem, man. Happy Halloween.” The guy grinned suddenly, remembering his cape, his character, and the night ahead. “Happy Halloween!” He walked jauntily away along Dalewood, heading west, while Max turned into the park. Among the shadows of the eucalypti, Max’s smile died, his face turning cool, if not cold, and utterly self- contained. He gave a sharp, impatient shrug. Time was passing. But it was still madness, coming back to San Francisco. He’d been so huge in the ‘70s, the king of all rock, and he had done his show from a window

158 studio right on Sutter Street. How could he have known that one day he’d lust for anonymity the way he’d lusted after fame? How could he have known he’d turn Timeless? He’d been a normal guy once, if you called having a feel for music and getting famous for it “normal.” One night that normal guy had done yet another rock- star interview and had met the rock star’s manager. He turned out to be Cornelius Agrippa, a wizard close to five hundred years old. By the time Agrippa died five years later, he had taught Max how to become Timeless. Timeless was just this side of Immortal, but the difference was significant. Timeless meant you didn’t die until something killed you. Agrippa went five hundred years before he was overpowered by a sorceress called Madeleine. He didn’t get older for five centuries, didn’t even get sick, but then he died. The same could happen to Max at any time. He was just a normal guy who had a feel for music and, as it turned out, the music of the spheres. But none of that would have had him looking at five centuries and beyond if he weren’t a normal guy in one other way. Like a lot of guys from back in the day, he’d spent some time in a shooting war, and he had a feel for self- preservation. At sunrise on the Autumnal Equinox of 1985, exactly one hundred days before Agrippa left the world of the living, Max had taken what Agrippa had taught him and stepped out of time. He was barely thirtyfive years old then, and he was barely thirty- five years old now, and he’d be barely thirty- five years old until somebody took his life away.

159 That life stretched before him like a highway in the desert. After years of being Timeless, he no longer thought in terms of the next year, the next five years, the next ten. He was looking at a horizon a hundred years ahead and beyond. And the more he looked out there, the more he saw of the world that could be coming. He was going to walk through the entire twenty- first century if he could survive it, then on through the twenty- second, the twenty- third . . . Soon enough, no one would have actual memories of the twentieth century except him, and a few others like him. People would ask him “What was it like?” But the highway stretched out behind him, too. His particular route ran through Howdy Doody, color television, The Twilight Zone, the Kennedy assassination, the Beatles, Motown, drugs, The Prisoner, Vietnam, Watergate, Star Wars, Agrippa, AIDS, Atari, Timelessness, Iran-Contra, the first Iraq War, TransNeptunian Objects, the Internet, The X-Files, O.J., Ken Starr, the new millennium, 9/11, the fake Iraq War, blogs, global warming . . . and what ever was happening now. The past, the present, the future, it was all one route, and it all mattered. He was here now, to do what he chose to do now. And still, he remembered what it was like to be dancing in the window of KQBU, his earphones on, his mind a million miles away and right there on the air. He was into it, and people got that, so they filled the sidewalk outside the window every weekday, four to eight, to watch him at his work. Damn right he danced; he’d pull something from the side bin that fit the mood precisely and lay that disc of vinyl on the turntable and lay the needle in the groove and hold the cork circle on the disc so it wouldn’t move until he let it go, which he did when the disc he was already playing spun to its end. It was all feel,

160 talent, and craft. He danced below the neon BARNABY WILDE, people’s minds were expanding, and Freedom was marching down Time’s highway. Neptune in Sagittarius and Uranus in Scorpio was one explanation; “that’s just the way it was” was another. Who needed an explanation? The world was welcoming, everyone was pushing their envelope and enjoying the fruits of the others’ push—it was a golden age, and he was the golden boy, and he danced in his window studio because he couldn’t not dance. But he didn’t dance now.

161 DECEMBER 31, 1985 • 11:51 P.M. PACIFIC STANDARD TIME

NEW YEAR’S EVE Nine minutes till midnight and the Happy New Year of 1986, Anno Domini. Reagan had been President for five years, Nintendos were red hot. In twenty more days, the first Martin Luther King Day would take place. Cornelius Agrippa, who had met da Vinci and drawn a horoscope for the first Queen Elizabeth, would miss MLK Day. At the stroke of midnight, he’d be dead. “If you believe in the Gregorian calendar!” Max told him forcefully. They were standing in Agrippa’s Victorian mansion, sprawled across Mount Tamalpais above San Francisco Bay. The only thing in the black sky over the city was the Virgo moon, rising in the east. “Cornelius, tonight means nothing to the Chinese or the Muslims or Mayans! It’s Twenty Eleven or Eighteen Rabi’ al- Akhir or Six Star. Six Star means Responding to Devotion, for God’s sake! Your calculations are all off! You just have to believe it!” Agrippa laughed easily, faintly mocking. Wearing his well- tailored black suit, standing at ease, he was the picture of successful equanimity even now. The only outward signs of a change in him were his hair, which had finally turned from gray to white, and a voice that had grown a little reedy. “You don’t think I’m responding to your devotion, Max?” “If you were, you’d fight this! You’re a wizard! You’re the wizard! Take control of your life like you always have.”

162 “Max, you’ve decided to pursue alchemy. An alchemist shapes himself in order to shape the world. But you are correct that I am a wizard, and a wizard shapes the world itself, working the tides of history. I shaped the world quite well in my time, but I have never controlled it. The tide is going out to night, what ever name you give it, and even if I could shape it, I couldn’t stop it.” “All right, then,” said Max doggedly. “I work in the here and now, where things actually happen. Let me try to keep you here.” “It would be like swimming up Niagara Falls”—Agrippa snorted, an old- world sound—”then on through the sky to the stars. I am a wizard, and I learned my art from the great Trithemius, who also taught Paracelsus. I may be Eu ro pe an but I know the universe, and whatever the Chinese or Mayans say, it will come to the same thing. I tell you I know what the universe has in store for me, and I tell you I am content.” To show how content he was, he took a pull from the intricately carved stein of Rheinländische Bitterbier he was holding, and smacked his lips deliberately. Then he went on: “Madeleine—or, to use her true name, Aleksandra—is a shape- shifter, and her lack of a defined center fooled me. I knew what I knew, but I did not know how to deal with such as her, and she exploded my mind. You know full well that Timelessness is not disrupted by sleep or even unconsciousness, any more than breathing is, but she tore my mind apart. When I floated back together, I had lost my control, and I could feel the decay beginning. I hadn’t felt it for over four hundred years, so it was rather noticeable, and I was still wizard enough to calculate very quickly how long it would take to still my heart. The answer was five years to the day, a nice round number because I still have

163 some harmony with the tides. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to enjoy the most beautiful voice of the past five hundred years while I still have ears to hear it.” “I’m gonna punch you!” Val snapped. Both men turned their eyes toward her. There were six minutes left now. Her sound was all around them, clear and sultry from the huge Bose speakers in the corners of the vast room overlooking the bay. It was the final track of her latest album, a long concept piece from her biggest seller yet. Standing there, wearing tight acid- washed denim, lace, and piles of costume jewelry, she was everything a true rock diva should be. Her loose, fluffy hair, almost black with deep auburn highlights, hung heavily to frame her face and her huge hoop earrings. The only thing wrong was, that rock- star face was a study in grief. Agrippa took her fist in his hand, tenderly. “For the soundtrack to their last moments on Earth, many men, especially a Europe an and especially a German, would choose Der Rosenkavalier. But this is what my world sounds like, right here and now. It makes me so happy, and so proud of what you accomplished, dear Valerie.” But she had a rock star’s drive. “C’mon, Corny, fight it!” she pressed him over her amplified voice. “If you won’t do it for yourself, or for Max, do it for me.” He sighed. This wasn’t easy for him, either, no matter how blithe he appeared. “I would do anything I could for you, Woman, but I can’t do this.” He squeezed her hand. “You know that.” “I don’t know that,” Val said stubbornly, “and I don’t like it, and nothing you say can make me like it.”

164 “You don’t like it because you know me, and you know me because I extended my life till it overlapped yours.” “I know you because I loved you.” “And I loved you, but those are the tides I speak of.” He spread his hands, reasonably. “By rights, we should have missed each other by four and a half centuries. Instead, we had each other for a time, and because we did, there are two wonderful people to take my place—which justifies everything I did in my life. So how can anyone in this room be sad?” “You’re leaving Max in your place, not me,” Val said. “I need you, Corny. I need more time. I haven’t learned everything you had to teach me.” “You’ll do fine without me,” Agrippa answered confidently. “I know this, too. You’re a different person from Max, and you have a career, so it takes a little longer. But you will get there, if only because you have a better soul than he does.” Max laughed. “Hell, everybody knows that.” He put a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders. If it had been up to him, he’d have let her continue, but he had to rein it in now. They’d fought the good fight to keep Agrippa here; it was time to honor their mentor’s wishes and ease his passing. It was time for Max to start moving toward taking control. Agrippa, however, had gone in the other direction. “I’m very serious about her soul,” he told Max. “Valerie has a purity you and I have never had. You can hear it in her voice; it’s what makes her a star. But we all have what it takes to master the occult, and I leave this world with full faith in both of you. Cornelius Agrippa, born fourteen September 1486 in the Julian calendar, dies thirty-one December 1985 in the Gregorian.

165 That’s four hundred and ninety- one years; should I cry because I didn’t get five hundred? I might cry for not seeing you become Timeless, Valerie, but Max has a soul that gets things done. He’ll take you there.” “I’ll get it all done,” Max said seriously. “I’ll carry on your fight. Five years ago you told me, ‘In the year 2000, another new era will begin. I believe it will involve this world’s emergence into the solar system, but Wolf Messing believes it will see the final triumph of totalitarianism.’ You killed Wolf and I killed Aleksandra, and from fourteen years out, it looks like Russia’s going to fall, but totalitarianism is a powerful drug. Someone else will pick up the needle, and 2000’s coming faster than we think.” Agrippa was still the master. “So you must remember that creatures with no center are almost impossible to discern. Because nothing is cut and dried in magick, you beat her face- to- face—” “Or something like that,” Val muttered, nudging her husband just a little bit harder than was necessary. His magick had been sex magick. “You beat her, but others may be even better. So you must be better, too. You must devote yourself to your new life, Max. Grow every day.” “I will,” Max said, and somehow those words seemed to echo off the high, vaulted ceiling. It was Agrippa’s house. Two minutes. The Val in the speakers reached the end of her album, leaving only the soft hiss of the tape. The Val in the room asked quietly, “What will I do, Corny?”

166 “Max knew almost nothing when he faced her. You are far stronger now than he was then. So just remember that you can rely absolutely on your soul and your will.” For the first time, his parchment face grew intent. “Wizardry is nothing but wisdom and will.” “So you always say.” “Good, then. You two love each other. Make many children and teach them alchemy from birth. In that way I’ll continue through Time by other means, and so will you.” He took a last lusty swallow of bier and put the stein down. He clapped Max on the shoulder and shook his hand. “Good- bye, Max.” One minute. “Wiedersehn, Cornelius,” Max said. Time was falling in on them so fast, so relentlessly. Nothing could slow it down. “Corny—,” Val said, her voice breaking, and he took her shoulders and hugged her. It was meant to be a tight hug, but she could feel the tremors in his arms as he held her. “Good- bye, Woman,” he said. When he released her, she turned to Max and hugged him even more tightly as Agrippa walked just slightly unsteadily to the couch. She had her face buried in Max’s shoulder, refusing to look, as Agrippa sat down carefully, gave them a final confident smile, closed his eyes, and died. The clock struck midnight. Fireworks erupted over the bay. Max’s eyes were fixed on his mentor, taking in everything about the moment. On one level, it was no less than Agrippa deserved, and on another, it would add to Max’s store of knowledge, which was the best they had now that Agrippa’s work was falling to him. The deaths of Magi were not common things. On another level, simultaneously,

167 Max saw Agrippa’s soul rise from the forehead, a golden nimbus. It didn’t so much look like Agrippa as it held his scent. It didn’t so much fade as it expanded. Even Max, the professional motormouth, couldn’t find the words for it, but he felt it as it filled him . . . and then filled the night. Now he knew it. Agrippa had left the building. He stood in silence, digesting everything about it, following each train of thought. After long moments, he returned his attention to Val . . . and realized she was no longer holding him. No longer at his side. “Val?” No answer. He called her name again, and when still no answer came, he began to hunt through the mansion’s rooms. But she was not there. Alarm leapt sharply within him. He ran out onto the deck, underneath the moon and firework stars. At the base of a railing post, sharp in the moonlight, was a black loop of rope. He went to the railing, looked down. Saw his wife hanging by the neck above the steep hillside, slowly turning in the chilling wind. He ran to the end of the balcony where it came closest to the ground, jumped off the edge, hit the slope, and rolled ten feet before he could regain control. Then he scrabbled along the profound drop to reach her, dirt spitting from beneath him. He grabbed her legs, raised her to get the pressure off her neck. Her legs were cold. She’d been dead for hours.

168 It was like a sledgehammer square between the eyes. Someone else had stood beside him in that room, accepted Agrippa’s kisses, kissed his own neck. A shapeshifter! “Now we’re even, Max.” He spun to spot her hovering in the black abyss. Aleksandra! She was gone.

169

On Writing Dead Space: Martyr

By Brian Evenson

As my girlfriend knows all too well, I’m an unapologetic gamer. I’m all too capable of sitting down at the computer at ten at night and only realizing that I’ve been playing for eight hours once I see the sun start to come up. I read in something like the same way: I like when I read to fall into another world and stay immersed in it, swimming around in it, only rarely coming up for air. What I like as both a reader and as a gamer are books and games that are constructed with such attention to detail that you really feel the satisfaction of living inside them. But I also like games and books that don’t solve everything for you, that make you feel like the world goes on well beyond them, that there are other stories just waiting to be told. Dead Space™ was a game like that for me. From the moment I started to play, I was hooked. I loved the flickering lighting, the grungy industrial feeling of the world of the USG Ishimura, the deep-seated twistedness that infects every level of the game design. I loved being slowly exposed to the cult-like aspects of Unitology and I was crazy for the vision of a society on the verge of ecological collapse. Not to mention liking how the necromorphs are humans that have been twisted into monsters, and enjoying the variety of violent deaths just waiting for Isaac, and being sometimes frightened enough to find myself physically dodging the screen during gameplay.

170 All this made me jump at the chance to write Dead Space: Martyr. If someone would have told me even a few years ago that I’d write a novel based on a video game, I probably would have laughed. But I’d spent so much time loving being immersed in the game that it seemed completely natural. Dead Space is a window on a great consistent world, and it was a world I wanted to be part of. In writing Dead Space: Martyr I set out to answer the questions that hadn’t been answered by the game or the motion comics or the graphic novel. I wanted to see into corners of the world that the game had just hinted at. I was interested in the Unitologists and their founder Michael Altman and, of course, in the discovery of the black marker. I wanted to write something worthy of the game itself, to try to give readers some of the pleasure I’d gotten out of the game and to give them answers worthy of the Dead Space franchise, and I wanted it to work, really work, as a novel. I wanted to cut through the layers of myth surrounding the Unitologists by going back to their beginnings to see what happened behind closed doors. And most of all I wanted to write the kind of novel that, whether you’ve played Dead Space yet or not, will take you deep into that universe, scare you, creep you out a little, and make you want more.

Copyright © 2010 by Brian Evenson

171

Dead Space: Martyr

By B. K. Evenson

Copyright © 2010 by Electronic Arts, Inc. Dead Space is a trademark or registered trademark of Electronic Arts, Inc. in the United States and/or other countries and is used under license from owner.

B.K. Evenson has also published the Aliens franchise novel Aliens: No Exit and the Halo short story “Pariah” in Halo: Evolutions. As Brian Evenson, he is the author of Last Days and The Open Curtain. He has been a finalist for an Edgar Award, a Spinetingler Award and a Shirley Jackson Award, and received and IHG Award. Last Days was chosen by the American Library Association as Best Horror Novel of 2009.

172 1

Chava woke up earlier than usual that day, just before the sun rose. His mother and sister were still asleep. His father was gone, traveling again. When the boy asked him where he went, he was always evasive, and Chava had learned not to ask further. He took a ladleful of water from the bucket and drank it, careful not to wake his sister. He poured another into the basin and washed his face and hands and arms before quietly slopping the rest onto the dirt floor. He was still sleepy. He watched his sister move restlessly, giving a little moan. Why had he woken up early? He had been in the middle of a frightening dream. There was something chasing him. A strange, stumbling creature, something that moved in lurches and starts, something that seemed at once alive and dead. He shook his head, wondering how something could be both alive and dead. He slipped into his clothes and left the shack, careful to stop the piece of aluminum that served as a makeshift door from clacking behind him. Outside, he could smell the salt in the air, could see, a few hundred meters away, the slate gray waves. The tide was out, the waves gentle now, hard to hear from this distance. Something lingered in his head, a noise, a strange sound: a whispering. It was saying words but in a language he couldn’t understand, so softly that he couldn’t even tell where one word stopped and another started. He tried to force the sound out, but though it

173 receded, it didn’t go away. It just hid itself somewhere deep in the back of his skull, nagging at him. His dream rushed forward to fill the space. The creature had been large, just a little bigger than a man. He was watching it from behind. In the dream, at first he had thought it was a man, but when it turned, he saw that it was missing part of its face, the jaw. There was something wrong with its arms as well, but the dream was blurry and he couldn’t make out what it was exactly. It watched him with eyes as blank and inhuman as the eyes of a fish. And then, in a single bound, hissing, it had been on him, its slavering half jaw trying to sink broken teeth into his throat. He was wandering, not really aware of where he was going, trying to fight off the bits of dream playing out in his semiconscious mind. He was surprised to find himself down at the shoreline. To the left, the coast was empty. Down the coast to his right, far in the distance, were two or three fishermen, standing in the surf, trying to pull something in. What ever it was, the boy knew, would almost certainly be deformed and taste of oil. It would be a challenge to choke down. It was no longer safe to fish. The sea here was polluted and starting to die, and similar problems were working their way inland as well. He’d heard his father talking angrily about it. Crops that even a few years back had been healthy and strong now came up stunted if they came up at all. The only supposedly safe food was the patented foods grown in controlled environments by megacorporations, food that few could afford. So the choice, his father said, was either to eat food that slowly killed you or go broke on food you couldn’t afford, while everyone went on destroying the world.

174 He started walking toward the fishermen, but something hindered his steps, slowly turning him. He began moving down the beach in the other direction, where it was deserted. Or almost deserted; there was something there, something rolling in the surf. A fish maybe, he thought at first, but as he walked forward, it seemed too large to be a fish. And the shape was wrong. A corpse maybe, a drowned man? But when it flopped back and forth in the tide, he knew he was wrong. That it was wrong. The hair started to stand on the back of Chava’s neck. He walked toward the thing, trying not to listen to the rising cacophony of whispers taking over his head.

175

The First Days

As the World Dies, book one

By Rhiannon Frater

Copyright © 2011 by Rhiannon Frater

The First Days: As the World Dies tells of the terrifying first days of the zombie apocalypse. Katie, a self-possessed prosecuting attorney who is the daughter of a cop, rescues Jenni, the shell-shocked trophy wife and SAHM who loses her husband and two of her children to the zombies. Together, Katie and Jenni and an adorable German Shepherd puppy set out on a harrowing drive across Texas, searching for Jenni’s stepson and for a place where they will be safe from the ravenous zombie hordes.

Rhiannon Frater is the author of The First Days: As the World Dies and two sequels, Fighting to Survive and Siege. This award-winning, critically-acclaimed trilogy— originally self-published—comes to Tor Books in newly-revised editions beginning in July 2011. Frater is active in the Goth and horror communities in Texas, around the US, and online. She and her husband live in Austin, TX.

176 Somewhere in Texas

Chapter 1

1. Tiny Fingers So small. So very, very small. The fingers pressed under the front door of her home were so very small. She could not stop staring at those baby fingers straining desperately to reach her as she stood trembling on the porch. The cool, morning air lightly puffed out her pink nightgown as her pale fingers clutched the thin bathrobe tightly closed at her throat. Texas weather could change so fast and this early March morning was crisp. I knew we needed weather stripping, she thought vaguely. The gap under the front door was far too large. These new modern homes looked so fancy, but were actually not very well built. If they had bought the nice Victorian she had wanted there wouldn’t be a gap under the front door. A gap large enough for that little hand to slide underneath. The tiny fingers clawed desperately under the edge of the door. The banging from inside the house had become a steady staccato. It had a rhythm now, as did the grunts and groans. The sounds terrified her. But what was truly horrible were those tiny, desperate fingers.

177 Her voice caught in her throat as blood began to trickle out from beneath the door. Of course the blood would eventually flow out. There was so much. It had been everywhere when she had stood in the doorway of Benjamin’s bedroom. The walls had been splashed red. She covered her mouth with her hand. Another wave of chills flowed over her as her knees knocked together. The rhythm changed to a new beat as a second set of fists banged against the door. Through the thick, lead glass of the door she could see the dim outline of her husband’s body. It was distorted by the thick smears of blood on the inside. She stared long enough to make out Lloyd’s misshapen hands battering against the glass before her gaze was inexorably drawn down to those tiny fingers scrabbling so frenziedly toward her. She really should have insisted on Lloyd putting in weather stripping. An angry howl from the other side of the door made her jump and her thick raven hair fell into her face. With trembling hands, she pushed back her tresses. Her gaze did not waver from those tiny fingers. The pool of blood was slowly spreading toward her bare feet. She should move. But where? The tiny fingers were now raw, with tips of bone showing. Yet they still sought her out.

178 There was a loud thunk to her left and her gaze shot over to the window. Mikey stood there, hissing as he beat on the window with clenched fists. His torn lips were drawn back in a grimace as his dead eyes latched onto her hungrily. “Why, Mikey, why?” Her voice was a plaintive whisper. Why had her twelve-year-old son rushed back to try to fight his father? Why hadn’t he run when she had screamed at him to follow her? Clutching her head, she swayed slightly. She felt something cold touch her toe and looked down to see thick blood welling around her foot. Stepping back, her focus slid back to the fingers pressed under the front door. The tips of the tiny fingers were skinless. “Benjamin, please stop,” she whispered. He always followed her everywhere. Every time she went to the bathroom, the persistent three-year-old would be on her heels. She could never relax and just go. She would have to talk to him as he lay outside the bathroom, one eye pressed against the crack, his tiny, chubby fingers pressed under the door. Was one eye pressed against the crack under the front door now? How had he managed to get downstairs? There was so little left of him. Lloyd always was a big eater... She almost threw up as both hands flew up to cover her mouth. Gagging, she stepped back, away from the door. Her body was trembling violently. She heard a clattering sound now, painfully loud. Covering her ears with her hands, she took another step back. Why wouldn’t it just all stop? The rattling noise was louder and her jaw hurt.

179 Oh, her teeth were chattering. She closed her eyes, swaying. Those tiny fingers...those tiny fingers... Glass shattered and growls filled the cool morning air. Her eyes snapped open to see Mikey trying to push his way through the broken window. “No, no, no...” She stumbled backward down the front steps and fell as her bare foot slipped on the slick dew-drenched grass. The glass shards ripped away Mikey’s flesh as he shoved his way through the window, but the twelve-year-old didn’t seem to notice. He kept pushing forward, growling and snarling. It was then that she screamed. Screamed louder than she ever thought possible. Screamed like she should have when she had found Lloyd hunched over Benjamin, eating away her baby’s tender flesh. Screamed like she should have when Lloyd had pursued her and Mikey down the stairs. Screamed like she should have when Mikey had turned back to try to defend her. Screamed like she should have when the front door slammed behind her and she realized she was alone. She screamed until her voice died in her throat. And still Mikey grunted and hissed as he slowly dragged his torn body through the shattered window. Lloyd, blood-drenched and crazed, came up behind Mikey and fastened his vicious gaze on her. Determined, he began to crawl over his son, breaking the remaining glass out of the window frame. Slowly, she stood. Her gaze strayed to the door. Tiny fingers still searched for her.

180 She pressed her hands against her face as she watched Lloyd and Mikey wiggle and jerk their way through the narrow window. “Get in the truck now!” She blinked. “Get in the truck now!” She turned slowly. An old, battered white truck sat on her perfectly manicured lawn. The engine was hot and grumbling. Where had it come from? “In! Now!” She raised her eyes to see a tall, slim, blond woman in a business suit and hunting jacket standing next to the truck with a shotgun in one hand. “Get in now!” Looking back, she saw Mikey slip from the window, wet, bloody and battered. For a moment, she remembered how he had looked when he had just been born. Her shriveled up little monkey boy. Struggling to his feet, Mikey leaped forward. It was time to leave her family. The money she had carefully squirreled away to provide for her and the kids in a new life would have to stay hidden in the closet. The suitcase she had packed for when they finally ran away to the women’s shelter would have to remain in its hiding place in the attic. Lloyd had destroyed what remained of their life together. It was time to go.

181 Wrenching the passenger door open, she looked back to see Mikey hurtling toward her. She jumped in and slammed the door shut just as he impacted with the side of the truck. His battered, chewed-up face pressed against the glass as he bared his teeth and his growls ripped at her ears. “Mikey,” she whispered. She pressed her hand against the glass, blocking his gruesome face from her view. She looked away. The blond woman slammed her door shut and shifted gears. The truck roared into reverse as Lloyd rushed toward them, hissing loudly. The blond shifted again and the pickup truck lurched forward and accelerated down the quiet suburban street just as the sun rose over the tops of the houses. She dared to look back, dared to see what followed. Falling behind were Lloyd and Mikey: her husband and her son. And they were not alone. Others, bloodied and crazed, were racing out of houses, screaming in either terror or hunger. She tore her gaze away from the things running behind her. And the tiny fingers she knew were still pressed under the door.

2. Together The battered pickup swerved around a corner and nearly sideswiped an SUV that was stopped dead in the middle of the road. Forced to slow down, the driver slammed the flat of her hand against the steering wheel, cursing under her breath.

182 The blond woman’s green eyes glanced into the parked vehicle. She immediately wished she hadn’t. A man sat in the driver seat, staring straight ahead. His eyes were wide, unblinking, his mouth moving in words that were too easy to make out. “Stop, please, stop.” Despite his plea, the female passenger hunched over him, covered in blood and gore, continued to pull ropes of intestine up to her greedy mouth. As the truck passed by, the woman looked up and hissed, slamming her hand against the SUV’s windshield. The driver mashed her foot down on the accelerator and the truck lurched ahead. She stole a glance at the pale, fragile creature beside her. The woman she had rescued sat silently with one hand pressed against the bloody smear on the passenger side window. “Hey,” the driver said reaching over and tapping the stranger’s knee. “Hey.” The woman slowly turned her head, and the driver saw that her eyes were glassy and distant. Great, she was in shock. “Hey, my name is Katie. I need your help, okay?” “The man,” the woman said in response. Katie turned her attention to the road just in time to see a man trying to wave them down. He was drenched in blood and was sobbing violently. She started to slow the truck, but two small children suddenly leapt onto the man, their baby teeth ripping into his throat. “Just go,” the passenger said in a dead voice. “Just go.” Katie drew in a shivering breath. “Yeah. You’re right.”

183 She drove on, leaving the man wailing as blood spurted into the air and the children rode him to the ground. Katie swallowed hard as she forced her gaze from the review mirror and concentrated on maneuvering through the suburban hell they were caught in. The rescued woman drew her pale pink bathrobe tighter around her trembling body and stared straight ahead. Her eyes were as dark as her black hair. Katie slowed down just a tad to a quick, but more reasonable pace. The street they were on appeared to be peaceful. She needed to get her thoughts together. She forced herself to take several deep breaths. She had to keep calm. She knew that much. “Listen, I need you to take my cell phone and call the first number in the speeddial. 911 is not working right now, but hopefully we can get through to the police department. I can’t pay attention to driving and call.” She had to swerve again, this time to avoid a pack of rabid humans racing toward them from a side street. Chaos was spreading quickly. The pack tried to pursue the truck for a few seconds, but was drawn off by another car tearing out of a garage in an attempt to escape. The dark-haired woman nodded as she took the phone from Katie. She flipped it open and stared at the tiny screen. On it was a picture of a lovely woman with shortcropped brown hair and amber eyes. “She’s pretty,” the woman whispered. Katie choked back a sob and fought the hot tears suddenly stinging her eyes. “Yes, she is.” She brushed her mouth with her hand and tried not to cry. She couldn’t

184 think of Lydia right now. She just couldn’t. She had to find her way out of this hellish neighborhood and to safety. The woman worked her way easily through the menu and pressed dial. Even Katie could hear the busy signal. “Keep trying, okay?” “Okay.” Katie drove past a school bus. It was empty and the open door was smeared with blood. The rest of the block looked calm, but she knew it was not. Whatever was happening in the rest of the city was happening here. They had to be very careful. Katie had seen too many horrors this morning to think they could be safe. “I’m Jenni. With an ‘I,’ not a ‘Y.’ I like it spelled that way,” the woman said softly. Katie smiled despite everything. “Hi, Jenni with an ‘I.’ I’d say I’m happy to meet you, but under the circum-” “The little boy, that was my son, Mikey. His Dad...he...my husband...Lloyd...did something to him. To him and Benji...” Katie shuddered slightly at the harsh, brutal memory of seeing Jenni pursued by the ravaged little boy and his blood-splattered father. “I’m so sorry.” It was all Katie could think of to say. “It’s still busy,” Jenni said. “Please, keep trying.” Jenni nodded as she pushed the button again.

185 Katie spun the steering wheel and the pickup headed around a corner, barely avoiding two cars. She saw frightened families inside and whispered a silent prayer for them. She was hopelessly lost, not sure how to get out of the neighborhood. She and Lydia lived miles from this new, modern, cookie-cutter suburb. Lydia had designed their custom-built home. It was tucked into a hillside overlooking the lake and the city. It should have been safe there. It should have been, but the terror of this morning had even reached their quiet street. Her feet were aching in her high heels and she wished she had found shoes in the truck. The old man’s hunting coat was comforting, warm and smelled of fresh tobacco. It reminded her of her grandfather. How had this happened? What did it mean? One minute she had been sitting in her brand-new convertible, top down despite the cool morning, enjoying a cup of coffee and readying herself for a long day at her job as a prosecutor. The next she had been fighting off a man who had reached across the passenger seat, grabbed the jacket of her Ann Taylor suit and tried to drag her out of the car. She had slipped out of her jacket, grabbed her briefcase, and smashed it into her attacker. She’d struck him so hard she’d heard his skull crack. She’d leapt from the car, ready to fight … and then seen that his throat was torn out and that a long train of intestines trailed behind him. But none of that stopped him from trying to climb over the car to get to her. To her growing horror, she’d seen more mutilated people rushing straight for her through the early rush hour traffic that always snarled up the narrow road leading down into the city. She had turned and started to run blindly, past honking cars, vehicles with

186 music so loud her teeth throbbed, and SUVs packed with children going to school. All of them seemed oblivious to the danger quickly running toward them. “Hey, missy!” An old man had stood outside his white truck, waving at her, a shotgun clutched in his hand. “Get in my truck! We’ll off road it! Hurry!” She hadn’t needed to look behind her to know she was pursued. She heard the slap of their feet against the pavement. Katie had almost been to the truck when suddenly the old man was grabbed from behind. A woman bit into his throat and viciously dragged him down to the ground. Katie had almost stopped, but the old man had waved to her. “Get in the truck! Take the gun! Get out of here! Go! Go!” He fought with the woman that had assaulted him, but his blood had already been a fountain against the pavement and he faded fast. Pausing for the barest of moments, she had grabbed the shotgun from his quivering hand and jumped into the pickup on the driver’s side. Slamming the door shut, her hand had reached for the ignition only to realize the engine was already on. The old man’s gurgling voice had shouted, “Go! Go! Go!” She had obeyed: shifted gears and went. In the rear view mirror, as she had driven down the shoulder and past the stopped cars that honked at her, she had seen the small pack of mutilated humans reach the old man and dive onto him. “Don’t turn here!” Kate shook herself out of her memories and slammed on the brakes. “Shit!” It was a cul-de-sac. She quickly started to turn around when she saw a nightmarish vision.

187 Around fifteen of the things erupted into the street and began to race toward the pickup, cutting off their escape route. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel as she quickly pulled the white vehicle around to face their pursuers. “Just do it,” Jenni said softly beside her. “They’re not real anymore.” Katie aimed right for the center of the throng, floored the gas pedal, and braced herself. The deer guard caught the first few and flung them away from the vehicle. One skinny teenager bounced onto the hood and clung there, beating at the windshield with one hand. Katie slammed on the brake. Momentum carried him away and his hand, already barely fastened to his arm by strands of tendon and skin, snapped off, still gripping the edge of the truck’s hood. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “It’s okay,” Jenni said softly. “Really.” Katie hit the accelerator and moments later they bumped over the youth’s body. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she could have sworn she heard a mushy popping sound as the wheels passed over the thing. “What is happening? What the hell is this?” Katie shook her head, her blond hair falling softly across her brow. “The end,” Jenni sighed. “It’s the end.”

3. As the City Falls

188 As the white truck hurtled down suburban streets that were quickly falling into bloody bedlam, it was obvious that whatever was happening was spreading at an accelerated pace. Gunshots rang through the morning air. People’s screams rose in a cacophony. Cars careened crazily through the streets. At times only Katie’s quick reflexes saved them from an accident. Beside her, Jenni hit the Redial button once more. Katie couldn’t bear to look at the phone and see Lydia’s beautiful face smiling out at her. If this wasn’t the end, it sure looked like it. It had to be terrorists. Some sort of weapon that made people crazy. PCP, something. Katie rubbed her mouth with her fingers. That had to be it. Since Jenni’s proclamation of the end, they had both been silent. It was too much to absorb. Too much to comprehend. They just had to keep moving. They had to keep going. But where? If only her Dad would answer his cell phone. Of course, he was probably going nuts trying to reach her. She could see him now, in the midst of the chaos, being the strong police chief of legend. Big Bruce was certainly doing his best to get this insanity under control. Tears threatened to fall as she thought of his strong, craggy face under his military buzz cut. It was a soothing thought in this moment. “I got him!” Jenni exclaimed, switching the phone to speaker. Suddenly, Bruce’s voice filled the truck cab.

189 “Hello? Katie?” “Daddy!” “Katie, are you and Lydia okay?” Katie shook her head and whispered, “No, no. I’m fine, but Lydia, she didn’t make it. She...Daddy...she...” “I’m sorry, Katie-baby. I’m sorry.” She could tell by his voice that he truly was. Despite his misgivings about her lifestyle, he had come to accept and be quite close to Lydia. Though her mother had remained blissfully in denial until her death, her father had tried hard to understand. His painful, sometimes embarrassing questions had only showed her how much he was trying. And when he had shown up at her wedding, dressed in his military uniform, beaming and near tears, to walk her down the aisle, she knew that he loved her even if he didn’t understand her completely. Now they shared a moment of silence over the woman Katie had loved. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said again. “But you can’t let it affect you right now, understand?” “Yes, I know. I’m trying to keep a cool head.” “Good girl.” A tinge of pride crept into his tone. “Listen, Katie, whatever the hell this is, it’s all over the city. You need to get down to the police department. We’re barricaded in and you’ll be safe here. We got the National Guard on its way.” “Okay, Daddy. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” “Katie, be careful.” His voice was rich with emotion and she wiped a tear away. “I’m armed, Daddy. I have a good vehicle.”

190 “Not that little—” “No, no. A truck. I’m in a truck.” “How...nevermind....” Katie continued to drive, trying not to let her emotions overwhelm her. “Daddy, what are they?” “I don’t know. I don’t know. The damn Ruskies are behind it, I know. We never could trust them. Everyone else is saying terrorists, but I’m telling you, Katie, the Soviet Union never really died.” She couldn’t help but laugh a little. He was such a Cold Warrior. She could hear many voices behind him, demanding, questioning. Without a doubt, her dear old dad was at the center of the storm. “Katie, I gotta go. I love you. Get here as soon as you can. Be careful.” “Okay, Daddy. Okay. Love you.” Jenni snapped the phone shut, the image of Lydia vanishing from view, and smiled weakly. Katie drew in a deep breath, trying to refocus herself. She needed to get them to safety and not think about what these things were. Of what her beloved had become. She couldn’t think of how she had pulled up to their beautiful home to see Lydia and their neighbors tearing at the mailman. She couldn’t think of how Lydia had rushed toward her, not to kiss her and hold her and make the world better, but to kill. “I know what they are,” Jenni said softly beside her. She was intently staring at her feet, especially her bloodstained toe. “Yeah?”

191 “Zombies.” Katie laughed bitterly, then her voice died away as they crested a hill. Before them lay the city. It was smoldering. From their high position, Katie could see clearly that the city had been overrun. The things were everywhere. Chaos swirled through the streets. The phone rang. Katie snatched it from Jenni and pressed it against her ear. “Katie?” “Daddy?” “Katie, don’t come here! Don’t come here! I just got word in. It’s not safe. The National Guard was overrun. Don’t come, Katie! Run! Get the hell out of the city! Keep safe, baby, keep safe.” Her father’s anguished voice filled her with despair as she rested her forehead against the steering wheel. “Daddy...” Tears brimmed in her eyes as she struggled for words. All she truly wanted in that moment was to feel his arms around her and know that she was safe. Either he hung up or the service went out for suddenly there was nothing on the line but a pulsing tone. Katie looked up as a car sped past, heading for downtown. In a few seconds, only blocks away, it was overrun by a horde of those things. “We need to go now,” Jenni’s faint, singsong voice said. Katie looked at her and saw that Jenni’s eyes were glassy. She thought her own probably looked the same. Katie turned the wheel and they headed back up the road. “Turn here,” Jenni said.

192 Katie obeyed automatically. Tears streamed down her face. Jenni pointed again. “Turn here.” Katie sped down a back road that sliced behind the suburbs nestled into the hills. “This will take us far away from the city,” Jenni sighed, then reached down and cleaned her toe with the edge of her bathrobe. “Away from the zombies.” Katie whispered, “There’s no such thing.” “Then what are they?” Jenni’s voice held a hint of emotion. “Some bum bit Lloyd last night when he was coming home from work. This morning he ate my baby!” Abruptly, her voice was on the edge of hysteria. Lydia racing toward her, bloody hands stretched out, her chest torn open... Katie drew in a sharp breath. “If they’re not zombies, what are they?” Jenni’s voice was shrill. Katie grabbed Jenni’s cold, clammy hand with her own. “Zombies, okay, Jenni. They are zombies. And you’re right, this is the end.” Jenni nodded and rested her head against the passenger seat. “I know...” She closed her eyes and slept.

4. Into the Hills Jenni woke to the steady hum of the road. She opened her eyes slowly. Her nightmares released her and she sighed with relief. Her dreams were even worse than this new, horrible reality. In her sleep she had curled up, resting against the passenger door. Now, raising her head, she saw the dried blood her son had smeared on the window when he had tried in vain to reach her.

193 Not for hugs and kisses, but for far worse. Beyond the swath of gore the world was speeding by. Hills, large and small, were covered in trees decked out in colorful spring blossoms. Time for Easter and Easter baskets. She would fill them with candies and toys and the kids would scramble around the backyard looking for colorful eggs. No, no. That wouldn’t happen now. Lloyd had taken away her kids. Stolen them away. Just like she had known he would. Maybe he had been a zombie when he’d attacked them, but Jenni knew he had only finished the cycle he’d begun when they’d married. She had been seventeen and his looks, money, and success had blinded her. He was older and wiser. She hadn’t truly loved him, but she had believed that one day, she would. When he spoke of his first failed marriage, she had vowed that she would never let him down. She would be the perfect wife, the perfect companion, and he would never say a negative word about her. But no matter how hard she had tried, she had failed. At first his weapons were words—fierce lashings of scorn and anger. Then it was the back of his hand, and, eventually, his fists. Nothing she had done had been enough, though she’d done everything he asked of her. Toward the end, she had known in her heart that either she would die at his hand or he would kill the children. She should have run away sooner and not waited. But then again, how was she to know he’d turn into a zombie? “I always fail,” she sighed. “What?” Jenni directed her gaze slowly to the woman beside her.

194 The driver of the truck was very pretty, with golden hair that fell just to her shoulders in tousled curls. She had a strong yet feminine face with catlike eyes and a sensuous mouth. Jenni was sure that the driver had been the sort of girl who was homecoming queen, head cheerleader, and student council president all rolled into one. The smart, pretty girl who was actually nice. Jenni felt comforted by this. She understood these girls. They lead, you follow. It was that simple. Her name was Katie. That was right, Katie. “I was dreaming,” Jenni answered finally. Katie flicked her gaze toward her for a second, then returned it to the road. “You didn’t miss anything. After the last traffic light on the edge of the neighborhood it was smooth sailing. We’re about an hour out of the city.” “No one comes this way anymore. Not since the toll road was built. I like it out here. It’s peaceful.” Jenni didn’t feel so cold anymore. She still felt awfully numb, but it was a pleasant sort of numb. “I’m not sure where we’re going,” Katie said after a beat. “I’m just driving.” Jenni looked at the phone resting on Katie’s lap. “Did you talk to your Dad again?” Katie shook her head, pressing her lips tightly together. “No. There’s no signal.” She motioned to the radio. “And that doesn’t work.” Jenni nodded, understanding. They were alone, detached from the rest of the world. Since this was how she often felt, it was almost comforting. Besides, she was sure Katie would figure things out. She looked strong and very capable.

195 “We’ll need gas soon,” Katie said. “Know if there are any stations out this way?” “Yeah, there are. One is coming up soon, about two hills over.” Jenni slid her fingers through her hair and sat up. “Maybe those things aren’t out here.” “That’s what I’m hoping for.” Jenni laughed a little, her voice sounding odd to her ears. “You know, this isn’t supposed to happen. The zombocalypse isn’t supposed to be real.” Katie exhaled slowly. “Maybe it’s some sort of terrorist weapon. Something like that.” “No,” Jenni said firmly. “It’s zombies.” Katie cast a thoughtful look in her direction. “I agree they look like zombies.” “They are zombies,” Jenni stressed again. Katie had to accept this as truth. The blond woman stared straight ahead as she drove. It took several long seconds before she said, “Zombies, or whatever they are, definitely shouldn’t exist in a rational, ordered world. It suddenly feels like we’re living in a horror movie.” “A Romero movie,” Jenni agreed, then frowned. “They aren’t supposed to be so fast. They’re supposed to be slow. Very slow.” Running down the stairs, trying to evade Lloyd, had been terrifying. There had been no time to think, just run. It was sheer luck that he didn’t seem to know how to open the door and had just banged against it. “Why do you say that?” “In the original movies they were slow. Lloyd always watched those movies. I was afraid but he made me watch.” Jenni chewed on her bottom lip. “If the movies are right, we can’t let them bite us.” She looked over at Katie warily. “You’re not bitten, are you?”

196 Katie looked at her for a long, frightening moment. “No! Are you?” Jenni sighed, relieved. “No. I’m not.” But she almost had been. Lloyd had almost grabbed her; then Mikey had turned back and yelled, “Leave Mom alone!” She covered her face with one hand. She tried hard not to remember the horrible fear she had felt as she had screamed at her son to run and raced out the front door. How it slammed behind her, she didn’t know. Maybe she closed it. Maybe Mikey did. Maybe when Lloyd had grabbed her son he had shoved it shut. But the front door had slammed and she had been alone. “How did you find me?” “I got lost in your neighborhood trying to get off the highway. I heard you screaming, then saw you in your front yard,” was Katie’s answer. That easy. That simple. That tiny difference between life and death. Jenni studied her reflection in the tiny side mirror. Her eyes looked too big, too wide. Her face was very pale. “I think I’m in shock,” she said. “Aren’t we all,” Katie responded in a harsh, bitter voice. Her tone softened as she hastily said, “It was hard to see my wife like that. But your children…” She reached out and gripped Jenni’s hand tenderly. “I can’t imagine how it feels to lose your children.” Jenni clung to Katie, grateful for the kindness. She really didn’t care about Lloyd being dead...undead.... The children. That was harder. Much harder. They had been so

197 sweet and innocent and for them to die…She didn’t want to think about it and quickly closed off that train of thought. She wanted to ask Katie about her wife, the beautiful woman in the photo on the phone, but she was afraid to ask. Afraid that Katie might think she was being judgmental and withdraw her comforting hand. “Shit!” Katie jerked her hand away from Jenni and yanked the steering wheel hard to the left. As she slammed on the brakes, both women were thrust forward, then caught painfully by their seat belts. A car was idling on the right shoulder of the road. Near it stood a man covered in blood. He looked at their truck in a daze; then it was as if something snapped inside him and he flung out his hands and rushed toward the truck. Katie quickly shifted gears and the pickup leaped forward. The man’s hand slapped hard against the side of the truck and they could hear his nails scrapping the metal as they escaped. Jenni whirled around in her seat to look out the back window. The man was running after them, pumping his arms and screeching. “How fast are we going?” “Thirty,” Katie responded. “He’s keeping up.” The man howled as his legs suddenly spread askew and he tumbled hard to the pavement. Katie braked sharply and looked back. “Why did you stop?” Jenni exclaimed. “I want to see if what I’m thinking is true.”

198 Jenni watched as the man staggered to his feet, looked around, saw the truck and began to slowly hobble toward them. “Now that is the way they are supposed to be!” Jenni grinned at Katie triumphantly. “He blew out his knees!” Katie laughed. “I thought that was what happened, but I wanted to make sure. They aren’t superhuman. They can still be hurt.” They both screamed as a mouth filled with sharp teeth suddenly appeared in the back window. “Shit!” Jenni screamed. “Oh, my god! It’s a dog,” Katie said with relief. A German Shepherd was staring at them, looking a little dazed. Katie flung open the door to get a better look at the bed of the truck. A veterinarian’s temporary cardboard carrier was strapped with bungee cords to the big silver toolbox under the back window. A corner of the carrier had been chewed open and the young German Shepherd stood on wobbly legs before her. Jenni leaned out of the driver’s side. “Uh, zombie-” Katie looked up to see the man still shambling toward them. Jenni picked up the shotgun from the floor of the truck and handed it to Katie. “Just shoot him in the head. That’s how it works in the movies.” Katie blinked at her, then looked back at the man. “I can’t.” She handed the gun back and reached out to the dog. “Come here, puppy, come here.” The dog padded slowly over to her and she lifted his heavy body out of the bed of the pickup. Holding him tightly, she slid him into the cab, then reached back to snag the vet paperwork taped to the carrier.

199 Meanwhile, Jenni solemnly got out of the truck, released the safety, pumped the shotgun and waited. The zombified man was moaning, reaching out to her. For a moment, he looked remarkably like Lloyd. She fired. The headless corpse hit the pavement. “What the hell did you just do?” Katie looked utterly shocked. Jenni shrugged. “We have to kill them.” Katie opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Silently, she climbed into the cab and shut the door. Jenni climbed in as well, slipping the safety back on the shotgun. “We don’t kill,” Katie said at last in a low voice. She appeared shaken. “We can’t kill them.” “You ran over the runners back in town.” “I panicked. I...” Katie faltered. Jenni sighed sadly. She needed Katie to be strong. She needed her to be the strong one. She hadn’t minded shooting the zombie and she would kill them in the future, but Katie needed to lead. Jenni couldn’t bear the thought of having to figure everything out. Katie stroked the dog’s fur as she looked at Jenni for a long moment. “We’ll talk about this later. We need gas now.” Katie read over the vet’s paperwork swiftly while she scratched behind the dog’s ears. “As for Jack here, well, we need to keep him up here. Poor baby just had surgery. Good thing he was knocked out during most of our escape.” She nuzzled the dog and kissed him.

200 “Jack?” Jenni smiled. “I like that name.” She wrapped her arms around the dog and pulled him onto her lap. “That’s what his vet papers say. Jack Horton. His human daddy was the Reverend Horton. That is the man who saved my life. Jack and the Reverend lived out of the city near the lake.” “It’s a good name.” Katie smiled slightly and nodded to herself. “Okay, gas station next. Gas, food, supplies, and we keep going until we figure out where the hell we are going? Sound good?” “Yeah,” Jenni answered. Snuggling the dog tight, she exhaled with relief. Katie was back in control. It would be okay.

201

From Game Writer to Novel Writer

By David Gaider

I’ve been working as a writer for video games for about ten years, now. The last five of those years have been devoted to a single project, a dark fantasy game by the name of Dragon Age: Origins. Why five years, you might ask? Mainly it’s because of the magnitude of content; Dragon Age™ has over 800,000 words of dialogue, of which I have written a sizeable portion. And re-written. And re-written again. The one lesson you quickly learn when writing for video games is that there isn’t anything you can write that’s so good that you can’t be forced to re-write it due to some overriding conflict with the technology, the time or just the gameplay. Video game writers need to serve a lot of mistresses. The differences don’t end there. Take the protagonist: in a novel, you know exactly who that is. It’s a set character, with a set personality that you can put into scenes and have him react exactly the way you want him to. In a video game, the protagonist is the player’s avatar. It’s up to them to determine how their character feels and where they go, and while you can arrange scenes for them to engage in the more you lead them by the nose through your story the more turned off they will become. Video game players require more than emotional engagement with the story, they require agency. They need to be led through the story but be allowed to make it their own.

202 Sounds challenging, right? At first I thought it might be a pleasant diversion to write the tie-in novels for Dragon Age. Each one would take “only” a handful of months to complete, and would be something I could create without needing to worry about the restrictions of programming or graphics. I had done a great deal of writing back in the days before I got into the game industry, so wouldn’t it be nice to get back into that? If only it were that easy! Writing for a novel comes with its own set of challenges (imagine that!), and I needed to quickly unlearn ten years worth of habits from games— such as suddenly needing to write descriptions and use narration! But it was a pleasure, too. In writing the first tie-in novel, Dragon Age: the Stolen Throne and its follow-up, Dragon Age: the Calling, I was able to present some stories from the history of the world I helped create in a very personal manner. Whether someone reads the novels as an introduction to the game and its setting or as stories in their own right, I’m positive they will see some of the depth that has gone into this project. For my part, it’s been a pleasure to write for—no matter the medium.

Copyright © 2009 by David Gaider

203

Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne

By David Gaider

Copyright © 2009 by Electronic Arts, Inc.

Dragon Age is a trademark or registered trademark of Electronic Arts, Inc. in the United States and/or other countries and is used under license from owner.

Dragon Age: The Stolen Throne is the thrilling prequel to Dragon Age: Origins, the hit role-playing video game from award-winning developer BioWare.

David Gaider lives in Edmonton, Alberta, and has worked for video game developer BioWare since 1999. He is the lead writer on the upcoming Dragon Age: Origins roleplaying game and has previously worked on such titles as Baldur’s Gate 2: Shadows of AmnTM, Star Wars ®: Knights of the Old Republic TM, and Neverwinter Nights TM.

204 1

“Run, Maric!” And run he did. His mother’s dying words whipped him into action. The image of her grisly murder still burning in his mind, Maric reeled and plunged into the trees at the edge of the clearing. Ignoring the clawing branches that scraped at his face and clung to his cloak, he blindly forced his way into the foliage. Strong hands grabbed him from behind. One of his mother’s men, or one of the traitors who had just orchestrated her death? He assumed the latter. Grunting with effort, Maric shoved back, struggling to dislodge the hold on him. He succeeded only in getting a few more branches striking him in the face, the leaves blinding him further. The hands attempted to haul him back into the clearing, and he dug his boots into the ground, gaining a bit of purchase on gnarled tree roots. Maric violently shoved back again, his elbow connecting with something hard . . . something that gave way with a wet crunching sound and a startled grunt of pain. The hands loosened, and Maric leaped forward into the trees. His cloak resisted, jerked him back. Something had caught on his long leather coat. He twisted and fought frantically, like a wild beast caught in a trap, until he somehow wriggled himself out, leaving the cloak torn on a branch. Maric gasped, launching himself into the darkness beyond the clearing without risking even a glance behind. The forest was old and thick, allowing

205 only the faintest beams of moonlight through the dense canopy. It was not enough to see by, only enough to turn the forest into a maze of frightening shadows and silhouettes. Tall twisted oaks stood like dark sentinels, surrounded by dense bushes and recesses so black, they could have held almost anything. He had no idea where he was going; only his urge to flee guided his feet. He stumbled over roots that jutted out of the uneven ground and bounced off solid tree trunks that kept springing out of nowhere. Wet and slippery mud made his steps treacherous and his balance so precarious, it seemed the ground might give way beneath him at any moment. The woods were completely disorienting. He could have been running in circles, for all he knew. Maric heard men shouting as they entered the woods behind him, giving chase, and he could clearly make out the sounds of fighting as well. Steel blade ringing on steel blade, the cries of men dying—his mother’s men, many he had known his entire life. As he frantically ran on, images kept whirling through Maric’s mind. Moments ago, he had been shivering in the cold forest clearing, convinced that his presence at the clandestine meeting was more a formality than anything else. He barely paid attention to the proceedings. His mother had informed him earlier that with the support of these new men, the rebellion would finally become a force. These men were willing to turn on their Orlesian masters, she said, and that made it an opportunity she wasn’t willing to pass up after so many years spent running and hiding and only picking what battles they could win. Maric hadn’t objected to the meeting, and the idea that it might be risky never even occurred to him. His mother was the infamous Rebel Queen; it was she who had first inspired the rebellion, and she who led the army. The battle had always been hers and

206 never his. He, himself, had never even seen his grandfather’s throne, never understood the power his family had possessed before the Orlesians invaded. He had spent his entire eighteen years in rebel camps and remote castles, endlessly marching and forever being dragged along in his mother’s wake. He couldn’t even imagine what it might be like to not live that way; it was a completely foreign concept to him. And now his mother was dead. Maric’s balance was ripped from him, and he tumbled in darkness down a short hill covered in wet leaves. He slid awkwardly and slammed his head against a rock, crying out in pain. His vision swam. From far off came a muffled answering cry of his pursuers. They had heard him. Maric lay there in the moonlit shadows, cradling his head. It felt like it was on fire, a raging inferno that blotted out reason. He cursed himself for being so stupid. By sheer luck if nothing else, he had managed to run some distance into the forest, and now he had given away his location. There was a thick wetness on his fingers. Blood was caking in his hair and running down around his ears and neck—warm in sharp contrast with the frosty air. For a moment he shook, a single sob escaping his lips. Maybe it was best just to lie here, he thought. Let them come and kill him, too. They had already killed his mother and earned whatever lavish reward the usurper had surely promised them. What was he, besides an extra body to be slaughtered along with the too-few men Mother had brought? And then he froze as a terrible realization settled at the edge of his consciousness. He was the King.

207 It was ridiculous, of course. Him? The one who elicited so many impatient sighs and worried looks? The one for whom Mother always had to make excuses? She had always assured him that once he got older, he would grow into the same easy authority that she evinced. But that had never happened. It was no great offense, either, as he had never taken seriously the idea that his mother might actually die. She was Invulnerable and larger than life itself. Her death was a hypothetical thing, something that had no actual bearing on reality. And now she was gone and he was supposed to be King? He was to carry on the rebellion on his own? He could just imagine the usurper upon his throne in the capital, laughing uproariously when he received the news of Maric’s succession. Better to die here, he thought. Better that they put a sword through his gut, just as they had done to his mother, than to become the laughingstock of Ferelden. Maybe they would find some distant relative to take up the banner of rebellion. And if not, then it was best to let the bloodline of King Calenhad the Great die here. Let it end with the Rebel Queen falling just short of her goal—rather than petering out under the leadership of her inept son. There was a certain amount of peace in that thought. Maric lay there on his back, the damp coldness of the leaves and mud almost comforting against his skin. The irregular shouts of the men drew nearer, but it was almost possible for Maric to blot them out. He tried to focus solely on the rustling of the leaves in the wind overhead. The tall trees stood all around him, like giant shadows peering down at the tiny figure who had tumbled at their feet. He could smell the pine, the tartness of nearby tree sap. These forest sentinels would be the only witnesses to his death.

208 And as he lay there, the pain in his head dulling to an insistent throb, the thought rankled. The men who had lured his mother here with promises of aid were nobles of Ferelden, the sort who had bent knee to the Orlesians so they could keep their lands. Rather than finally live up to their ancestral oaths, they had betrayed their rightful Queen. If no one escaped to inform those who had remained with the rebel army about what had actually happened, they might never know the truth. They would guess, but what could they do without proof? The traitors might never pay for their crime. Maric sat up, his throbbing head protesting fiercely. Aching and shivering, he was wet and chilled right to the bone. Getting his bearings was difficult, but he guessed he was not far from the edge of the forest. He had stumbled only a short ways in, and the men chasing him were not far away, searching and calling out to each other. Their voices were getting fainter, however. Maybe he should just remain still? He was in some kind of a depression, and if he stayed there long enough, these men could pass him by, giving him enough time to catch his breath. Perhaps he could find his way back to the clearing and see if any of his mother’s men had survived. A sudden crunch of twigs nearby made him stop again. Maric listened carefully in the darkness for an agonizing moment, but heard nothing. The noise had been a footstep; he was sure of it. He waited longer, not daring to move a muscle . . . and heard it again. Quieter, this time. Someone was definitely trying to sneak up on him. Maybe they could see him, even if he couldn’t see them?

209 Maric cast about desperately. The far side of the hollow he was in opened up into a downward slope. It was difficult to tell the general terrain with so little moonlight coming through the canopy. There were also trees in that direction, roots and thick bushes that would prevent him from crawling out of sight. He either had to stay where he was . . . or climb out. A squelch of wet leaves nearby forced Maric as low to the ground as he could go. Listening closely was difficult given the muted shouting in the distance and the sound of the wind blowing high in the trees, but he could ever so faintly detect the soft steps of someone passing nearby. He suspected they couldn’t see him at all. In fact, it was dark enough that his pursuer would likely end up doing exactly what Maric had done and fall right into the hollow. Maric didn’t exactly relish the idea of his enemy falling on top of him, so he cautiously tried to get up onto his feet. Sharp pain lanced through his knees and arms. There were cuts on his face and hands from the branches, and he was sure there was a gash on his head . . . but it all felt distant, as if someone else were experiencing the pain. He tried to control his movements, making them slow and quiet. Smooth. And he continued to listen for more footsteps, anxiously biting his lower lip. It was difficult to hear anything over the desperate thumping of his heart. Surely it was obvious to whoever was out there. Perhaps they were closing in for the kill even now, laughing at his terror. Breathing deliberately, sweating despite the chill, Maric slowly pulled himself upright enough to get both his feet underneath him. His right knee spasmed, shooting lightningsharp agony up his leg. This injury he felt very clearly, unlike the others. In shock, he hissed through gritted teeth, nearly gasping out loud.

210 Immediately he clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes in silent reprimand at his idiocy. Crouching there in the darkness, he listened carefully. The footsteps had stopped. Someone else, farther out among the trees, shouted in Maric’s direction. He couldn’t quite hear what the man had said, but there was definitely a question to it: calling out, asking if they had found anything. But there was no response. The source of the footsteps nearby had probably heard Maric and was not willing to give his own position away by answering. With the utmost care, Maric crawled up the side of the depression. He squinted into the shadows, trying to pick out anything that might resemble a human form. He imagined his pursuer doing the same thing, playing a cat-and-mouse game in the dark. The first one of them to spot the other would win the prize. Belatedly, Maric realized that even if he did see this man, there might not be much he could do about it. He wasn’t armed. An empty sheath dangled at his waist, his belt knife lent to Hyram not two hours earlier to cut some rope. Hyram, one of his mother’s most trusted generals and a fine man he had known since childhood, most likely lying dead at his Queen’s side, their blood cooling in the midnight air. Maric cursed himself for a fool and tried to put the image out of his mind. Just then, Maric noticed a glint in the shadows. Narrowing his eyes helped him just barely discern a sword, its polished blade reflecting the faint moonlight. In the mass of dark shadows and bushes, he still couldn’t see the form of the man holding the weapon, but it calmed him to finally know where his opponent was. Gaze locked in that direction, Maric raised his hands to grasp the edge of the depression and quietly heaved himself up. The pain that shot through his arms was

211 considerable, but he ignored it and never for one second took his eyes off that sword. As he got over the edge, the sword moved. A dark shape began lumbering toward him, raising the sword up high and growling with menace. Without thinking, Maric launched himself forward and charged. The sword slashed down by his ear, narrowly missing his arm. He rammed headfirst into the man’s midsection, knocking the wind out of him. Unfortunately, the pursuer was wearing a heavy chain hauberk, and Maric’s head exploded with pain. He may as well have headbutted a tree trunk. The world spun around him wildly. He would have careened out of control had his momentum not carried the two of them backwards, knocking the man off his feet. They fell on hard uneven ground, with the swordsman taking the brunt of the impact. His weapon arm swung out to one side, causing the sword to fly out into the shadows. Almost delirious and barely able to see, Maric pulled himself back up and grabbed the man’s head in both hands. He felt a strong whiskered jaw, and the man flailed wildly with his free hand, trying to push Maric off. He tried to shout, possibly call on his fellows for help, but all that came out was a muted bellow. Maric used the benefit of leverage to pull up the man’s head and then slam it down hard. The man grunted when his head hit an exposed root. “You bastard!” Maric snarled. The man’s desperation intensified, the hand reaching for Maric’s face, slapping and clawing. Finding purchase, it pushed hard against Maric’s nose, one finger digging into his eye. Maric pulled his face away as he shoved down hard on the man’s head, grinding it back into a root. The man grunted and tried to

212 buck Maric off, but the heavy hauberk worked against him. He writhed and pushed with that one hand against Maric’s face, but none of his efforts were enough to get him free. Maric’s throbbing head was torture, and his neck was stretched to its limit, trying to pull away. When Maric let go of the man’s head to battle the pushing hand, the bearded man made an attempt to kick Maric off. Maric lost his balance for a moment and the enemy’s hand turned into a fist, thumping him solidly across the face. Lightheadedness came over Maric, and he saw stars. He fought against swooning, reached down, and grabbed as much of the man’s long hair as he could, pulling him upward. This time the man bellowed loudly, his head yanked up at an awkward and painful angle. Letting out his own cry of effort, Maric crashed the man’s head down on the tree root a third time. Even harder. “You killed her!” Maric shouted. He picked up the man’s head by the hair yet again to slam it down. “You bastard, you killed her!” He smashed the head down again. And again. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he choked on his words: “She was your Queen, and you killed her!” He slammed the head again, still harder. This time the man stopped fighting back. A cloying, meaty smell assaulted Maric’s nostrils. His hands were covered with thick, fresh blood that wasn’t his own. Almost involuntarily, he fell off the body and scrambled back, his bloody hands slipping on the cold leaves, and pain shooting anew through his legs. He half expected the man to rise up and charge at him again. But he didn’t. The body lay there in the shadows, a vague shape resting awkward and still upon a clump of tree roots.

213 Maric could barely make out the great oak behind him, thrusting up into the overhead canopy like a gravestone. He felt physically ill, his stomach twisting in knots and his body shaking. Almost involuntarily, he brought a hand up to his mouth to keep his bile down, smearing fresh blood onto his face. There was gore on his hand, clumps of skin and hair. He convulsed, vomiting onto the muddy ground what little lunch he had eaten earlier in the day. Despair threatened to overwhelm him. You’re the King, he reminded himself. Maric’s mother, Queen Moira, was a tower of strength who could lead armies of battle-hardened men to victory. She was every inch her grandfather’s daughter; that’s what everyone said. She had inspired some of the most powerful noblemen in Ferelden to rise up in her name and fight to put her on the throne simply because they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she belonged there. And now she’s gone, and you’re the King, he repeated to himself. It felt no more real now than it had before. In the distance, the sounds of the pursuit were getting louder again. The traitors might have heard Maric’s struggle with the bearded man. He needed to leave. He needed to run, to keep going. Yet he could not will his legs to move. He sat in the dark forest, his bloody hands held out in front of him as if he had no idea where else to put them. All Maric could think of was his mother’s voice the last time she had returned from battle. She was in full armor, covered in blood and sweat, and grinning madly. Maric had been dragged in front of her by his trainer for brawling with a commoner boy. Even worse, Arl Rendorn had been with his mother, and he asked if Maric had at least

214 won the fight. Burning with shame, Maric admitted to being soundly beaten, causing the Arl to snort and ask what sort of king Maric could possibly make. And then his mother had laughed merrily, a laugh that could dispel anything serious. She had taken Maric’s chin in her hand and looked in his eyes, and with a gentle smile told him not to listen to the Arl. You are the light of my life, and I believe in you. Grief brought Maric close to laughing and crying at the same time. His mother had believed in him, and yet he had gotten lost in the woods in less than half an hour. Should he somehow elude his pursuers, make it out of the forest, and obtain another horse, he still needed to find a way to locate the army. He was so used to being led around, being told where to go and where to ride, that he hadn’t paid attention to any route they’d taken. He had followed as he was bidden. Now he couldn’t even guess his location. And thus passes the last true King of Ferelden, he thought with bizarre amusement. He wanted to be a good king, but he didn’t know his arse from a hole in the ground. Mad giggling threatened to overtake his tears, but Maric shut down both reactions. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking of the past, or grieving. He had just killed a man with his bare hands, and there were other enemies nearby. He needed to run. He took a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes. Deep down inside of him there was steel. He embraced it, tasted its bitter edge and let it shut out the whirlwind inside of him. He needed to be calm, even if only for a moment. When he opened his eyes again, he was ready.

215 Maric cast about calmly for any sign of the sword that had flown out of the other man’s hand. Everything around him was somehow moving very slowly, none of it seeming quite real. There were too many bushes, too many odd dips and clumps of trees where the sword could be hiding. He couldn’t find it. Then he heard another man’s voice, this one calling out from somewhere close. There was no more time. Standing gingerly, Maric listened for where the voices were coming from. As soon as he ascertained their source, he headed in the opposite direction. It was an awkward hobble at first. His legs were bruised and cramped and he might have broken some bones, but he ignored the pain. With effort, he grabbed on to low-hanging branches and pulled himself farther into the darkness. They would pay for what they had done. If he did only one thing as King, he would make them pay. “Something’s happening,” Loghain muttered, frowning. He stood at the edge of the forest, absently wiping mudoff his leathers. The effort was pointless, as his clothing was as worn and as filthy as one might expect from a poacher. The Orlesians, of course, had less kind names for him and the others like him: criminals, thieves, and bandits, too, though only when desperation forced their hand. Not that Loghain much cared what the Orlesians called him, since it was their fault his family had been forced off the farm. The Orlesians didn’t believe in anyone owning land but

216 their fancy, painted-up nobility, so it came as no surprise that they didn’t look favorably on Ferelden’s freemen. An extra “tribute” tax was concocted by the Orlesian Emperor, and any freemen who couldn’t afford it had their lands confiscated. Loghain’s father had managed to scrape together enough to pay the tax the first year, so naturally it was decided the tax could stand to be even higher.The next year, his father refused to pay, and when the soldiers came, they determined that not only was the farmhold forfeit, but his father should also be arrested for tax evasion. Loghain’s family resisted, so now they lived out in the Ferelden wilds, banding together with other desperate souls to eke out a living however they could. Loghain might not have cared what the Orlesians thought of him, but he did very much care to avoid being arrested. The local constable over in Lothering was a Fereldan man, and so far he had been tolerant of their band. So long as they didn’t prey on travelers and restricted their thefts to the petty sort, the constable made only token efforts to track them down. Loghain knew that the man was going to be forced to hunt them in earnest someday, and hopefully he would be decent enough to let them know about it in advance. They would move on, as they had already done many times. There were enough forests and hills in Ferelden to hide an entire army, after all; even the Rebel Queen knew that. But what if the constable didn’t warn them? That thought worried Loghain now and had him staring into the forest. Men didn’t always get to do as they’d prefer. A cold wind blew across the field, making him shiver. It was late, and the moon shone down from a cloudless night sky. He wiped the black curls out of his eyes, resigned to the fact that his hair was no doubt as dirty as his hands, and pulled his hood up. The

217 spring had been more of a lingering winter that had refused to let go. The cold nights he and his band had spent in their makeshift tents had been less than comfortable, to say the least, but the accommodations were preferable to some of the alternatives. Dannon, a big brute of a man with an untrustworthy air, walked up behind him. Loghain suspected that Dannon had once been a thief, the dedicated sort who lived in the cities, picking pockets and robbing travelers, and that he was here with them now because he wasn’t a very good one. Not that Loghain was in much of a position to judge him. They did what they could, all of them, and Dannon pulled his weight. That didn’t mean Loghain had to feel comfortable around the man. “What’s that you’re saying? You saw something?” Dannon scratched his beak of a nose while he adjusted the carcasses he was carrying.There were three rabbits slung over his shoulder, the prize of the evening’s work, poached from the fields of a lord known for his Orlesian sympathies. Hunting in the dark was never easy, especially when one took more care to avoid being spotted then to actually hunt, but they had been fortunate for once. “I said that something’s happening,” Loghain repeated irritably. He turned and glared at Dannon, and the man backed away a step. He had that effect on people. Loghain had been told before that his blue eyes lent him an icy, intense air that could put people off. And that was fine by him. Loghain was still considered young by most in the camp, Dannon especially, and he preferred that the man didn’t get any notions about trying to give him orders. “Are you telling me you haven’t noticed?” Dannon shrugged. “There’s some tracks. I think maybe there’s some soldiers about.”

218 “And you didn’t think that was of any interest?” “Agh!” He rolled his eyes. “Karolyn down at the village already told us that there’d be soldiers, didn’t she? Said she saw Bann Ceorlic marching through the north field with some of his fellows just this morning.” Loghain frowned at the name. “Ceorlic is a lickspittle. Desperate for favor with the Orlesian usurper, everyone knows that.” “Yes, well, Karolyn said he was marching well out of sight, and didn’t even stop at the inn. Like he didn’t want to be seen.” He gestured at the rabbits Dannon carried. “Look, whatever he’s up to, it doesn’t have anything to do with us. Nobody saw us hunting. We’re good. We should go.” He smiled, a nervous, friendly smile meant to be reassuring. Dannon was afraid of him. Which was as Loghain preferred it. He looked back into the forest, his hand grazing the sword belted at his side. Dannon’s eyes followed the motion, and he grimaced. Dannon was skilled enough with a knife, but hopeless with anything larger. “Aw, come on, now. Don’t go making trouble,” he groused. “I’m not interested in making trouble,” Loghain insisted. “I’m interested in avoiding it.” He advanced toward the forest’s edge, crossing over a ridge that led him downhill a ways. “Nobody has to have seen us hunting to know that we’re here. You know as well as I that we may have overstayed our welcome.” “That’s not for you to decide,” Dannon said, but he followed quietly after that. It was Loghain’s father who would decide, after all, and even a man like Dannon knew that Loghain and his father were seldom of different minds when it came to such matters. As it should be, Loghain thought to himself. His father hadn’t raised a fool.

219 The pair of them descended into the dark forest, pausing only once to let their eyes adjust to the patches of moonlight that managed to snake through the canopy above. Dannon grew increasingly agitated by the treacherous ground, even though he had sense enough to stay quiet. For his part, Loghain was beginning to think Dannon might have the right of it. He was just about to turn them both around when Dannon stopped short. “You hear that?” he whispered. Good ears, Loghain thought. “Animal?” “No.” He shook his head, uncertain. “Sounds more like shouting.” The two of them stood still, and Loghain tried to be patient and listen. The breeze rustled the branches overhead, a significant distraction, but after a moment he heard what Dannon was referring to. It was faint, but in the distance he could pick up the sounds of men calling to each other, engaged in some kind of search. “It’s a foxhunt.” “Huh?” Loghain restrained the urge to roll his eyes. “You were right,” he said tersely. “They’re not here for us.” Dannon seemed pleased by the news. He shifted the rabbits on his shoulder and turned to go. “So let’s not wait around, then. It’s late.” But still Loghain hesitated. “You said Bann Ceorlic passed through. How many men did he have with him, you think?” “I don’t know. I didn’t see them, did I?” “What did your bar wench say, exactly?”

220 The big man shrugged, but his back stiffened in quiet rage. Loghain noticed with a vague interest that he had hit a sore spot. A dalliance, then? Not that Loghain truly cared, but it was better to avoid provoking the big man needlessly. “I don’t know,” Dannon gritted out. “She didn’t say. It didn’t sound like a lot.” Loghain figured there must easily be twenty men out there. Surely if Bann Ceorlic had brought that many men near Lothering, it would have caused more comment. So what was going on, exactly? The fact that it involved one of the Fereldan noblemen most notorious for his open allegiance to the Orlesian tyrant did not sit well with him. Whatever Ceorlic and his men might be up to, it was undoubtedly not good for the band—even if it didn’t involve them directly. As Loghain stood there, trying to ignore Dannon’s impatience, he conceded to himself that there might be nothing he could do either way. The political goings-on of Ferelden were none of his concern. Survival was his concern, and anything political was important only when it affected that survival directly. He sighed irritably, staring off into the shadows as if they would provide the answer to his mystery. Dannon harrumphed. “You sound like your father when you do that.” “That may be the first compliment I’ve heard from you.” He snorted derisively, glaring at Loghain. “It wasn’t intended.” He spat down between them. “Look. This doesn’t involve us, like you said. Let’s go.” Loghain didn’t like being challenged. He met Dannon’s glare with his own, and for a long moment he said nothing. “If you want to go,” he stated quietly, “then go.” Dannon stood his ground, though Loghain saw the man shift nervously. Dannon didn’t want to be in this position. Loghain could almost sense him thinking about his

221 knife there in the dark, wondering if he would need to use it, wondering how he would get back to camp if he did so. Loghain was tempted to push it further. He wanted to step right up in front of Dannon’s face and take his measure. Maybe Dannon had the guts to knife him and be done with it. For all Loghain knew, he was a murderer, the sort who liked to cut people just to hear them scream, and that was the past he had fled. Maybe Loghain was being foolish by not going along with his suggestion. But he doubted that. The silence between them was long and tense, intruded on only by the sound of the wind in the trees and the far-off shouts of the hunters. Loghain narrowed his eyes, not even touching his sword hilt, and was inwardly pleased as Dannon was the first to look away. The moment was broken by the sound of someone approaching. Dannon leaped at the interruption, letting the urgency of the new threat cover up the fact that he had just backed down. As though their standoff had never happened. But Loghain knew. Something was coming toward them, fast and clumsy. Whatever it was, it scrambled madly through the bushes, heedlessly pushing branches away in a panic.The fox, Loghain surmised. Of course it would end up right in their lap, wouldn’t it? If there truly was a Maker up in the heavens, as the priests said, He had a troublesome sense of humor indeed. Dannon retreated a few feet, nervous and agitated, while Loghain drew his sword, waiting. Their guest suddenly fell into view, deposited out of the shadows like an unwanted gift, and then stopped short, staring at the two of them with wide, fearful eyes.

222 It was a young man, Loghain’s age or perhaps younger. His fair hair and fairer skin were obscured under scratches, leaves, dirt, and a healthy dose of blood. He certainly wasn’t dressed for a run in the woods, wearing only a tattered shirt and enough mud to make one think he had escaped whoever he was running from by crawling around on his belly. The blood covered his face as well as his hands. Probably not all his. Whoever this man was, he had likely killed to get away, which told Loghain just how desperate the intruder might be. The new arrival crouched before them in the shadows like a caught animal, frozen between fight and flight. Behind him, the shouting drew near. Loghain slowly raised a hand, carefully showing his palm to the fugitive to demonstrate that he meant no harm. And then he put his sword back in its scabbard. The blond man didn’t move, only narrowed his eyes suspiciously. His attention darted nervously behind him as more muffled shouts came through the trees. “Let’s get out of here!” Dannon hissed behind him. “He’s going to lead them right to us!” “Wait,” Loghain whispered, not taking his eyes off the fugitive. Dannon bristled, and Loghain caught a glimpse of the knife now in his hand. Holding out his hands to calm both of them, Loghain turned back to look at the blood-covered man in the shadows. “Who’s chasing you?” he asked slowly. The blond man licked his lips, and Loghain saw calculation in his eyes. “Orlesian dogs,” he said evenly. Still he didn’t move. Loghain glanced at Dannon. The big man was grimacing, but Loghain could tell he wasn’t without sympathy for the fellow’s situation. No doubt he was interested only in his own hide, but finally he relented with a grunt.

223 “Good answer.” Loghain took a step back and half turned as if to leave. “Come with us.” Dannon swore unhappily, refusing to look at anything but the ground as he sheathed his knife and stalked off. Loghain made as if to follow him, but watched to see if the fugitive would fall in, too. For a long moment, the blond man was visibly torn. Then, without further hesitation, he sprang up from his crouch and ran after them. The three proceeded quietly back the way Loghain and Dannon had come, the blond man trailing and Dannon staying ahead as if he were close to leaving them behind. The set of the big man’s shoulders said he was angry and resentful. Loghain didn’t care. They kept up a brisk pace, and after a short time, the shouts of the blond man’s pursuers were left behind. The stranger seemed relieved, and appeared even more at ease as they approached the edge of the forest and moonlight could be seen more clearly overhead. Getting a better look at him, Loghain couldn’t help but be a bit mystified. The man’s clothes, while torn and dirtied, were plainly of quality if not fancy. The boots in particular seemed solid, made of fine leather, the sort that Loghain saw templars wear on occasion. So no pauper, certainly. He was also shivering and jumped at every strange forest sound, so this hike was no normal event for him. Not by a long shot. “Dannon, wait,” Loghain called out as he came to a halt. Dannon stopped only reluctantly. Loghain turned to the blond man, who now edged back with renewed suspicion, his eyes darting between them as if wondering who was going to come after him first. “This may be as far as we can go,” Loghain reluctantly acknowledged.

224 “Thank the Maker!” Dannon muttered under his breath. The blond man considered for a moment, looking around as if to judge his location. The field outside the forest could be seen from where they were. “I can find my own way from here.” Loghain couldn’t place the young man’s accent, but from the way he spoke it was clear he was educated. A merchant’s son, perhaps? “Is that so?” He gestured at the blond man’s tattered clothing, noting he didn’t even have a cloak. “You look more likely to freeze before you even reach town.” He raised an eyebrow. “If that’s where you intend to head, with those men after you.” “Why were they after you?” Dannon demanded, shoving his way up beside Loghain. The blond man paused, glancing between Loghain and Dannon as if uncertain to whom he should be responding first. Then he looked down at his hands and saw the dark stains of blood in the moonlight as if for the first time. He was clearly repelled, despite his efforts to fight down his reaction. “I think I killed one of them,” he breathed. Dannon whistled appreciatively. “They won’t give up easily, then.” Loghain’s brow furrowed. “These were Bann Ceorlic’s men, I take it?” “Some of them,” the blond man agreed reluctantly. “They killed . . . a friend of mine.” The pain that crossed his face told Loghain that the last statement was true enough, at least. The blond man closed his eyes, shivering again and trying vainly to wipe some of the blood from his cheek. Loghain glanced at Dannon, and the big man shrugged in response. Whatever the full story was, Loghain doubted they were going to get it. And perhaps it wasn’t necessary to do so. This stranger wasn’t the first person they had

225 encountered who had crossed the Orlesians. And if Loghain was in this man’s shoes, he wouldn’t trust them either. There was definitely more here than met the eye, but Loghain’s gut told him that whatever this was, it wasn’t a trick. And his gut was seldom wrong. “Look.” Loghain sighed heavily. “We don’t know for sure who’s hunting you back there. You say they’re working with the Orlesians, I’m willing to take your word for it.” The blond man looked about to object, but Loghain held up a hand. “Whoever they are, it sounded like there’s quite a few of them. They’re going to figure out soon enough that you got out of the forest. First place they’re going to look for you is in Lothering. Do you have somewhere else to go?” The blond man hung his head, looking grim. “No, I . . . suppose not. Nowhere I can get to easily.” Then he set his jaw and looked up at Loghain. “But I’ll make do.” For a moment, Loghain actually believed he might try. No doubt he would fail, but he would try. Whether this was a sign of stubbornness or foolishness or even something else, he couldn’t tell. “We have a camp,” Loghain offered. “It’s hidden.” “You both . . . You didn’t have to help me, I know that. I’m grateful.” His look was reluctant. “It’s not necessary.” “If nothing else, I’m sure we could find an old cloak for you. Get you cleaned up and . . . less conspicuous.” He shrugged. “Or you can go your own way. Up to you.” The fellow squirmed, shivering again in the cold as a breeze blew in from the field. For a moment Loghain thought he looked lost, adrift in his own little free fall from

226 whatever life he had led. Fate could hand you a poor hand when you least expected it, that Loghain knew very well. He recognized the signs, even if his sympathy was minimal. This offer was all the blond man was going to get, after all. Dannon snorted. “Maker’s breath, man! Will you look at yourself? What else are you going to do!” Loghain eyed the big man dubiously. “You changed your tune rather quickly.” “Bah! You’re the one who dragged him along. Now that he’s here, he may as well just come.” He turned on his heel and stomped off. “If it’ll get me back to a fire any faster, I’m all for it.” The young man stared at the ground, uncomfortable and shamefaced. “I . . . don’t have anything valuable.” And then he added: “To repay you, I mean.” To steal was what he’d really meant. But it was hard to be offended when he and Dannon were indeed thieves, after all. “It certainly doesn’t look that way, does it?” There wasn’t much else the blond man could say. He nodded lamely. Loghain motioned his head toward Dannon, who was already long gone. “We’d better catch up to him then, before he manages to fall in a hole somewhere.” He stepped forward and extended a hand. “You can call me Loghain.” The blond man hesitated a fraction before taking Loghain’s hand and shaking it. “Hyram.” It was a lie, of course. Loghain wondered for a moment if he would regret doing this. His gut had never been wrong before, but there was always a first time. Still, the die had been cast. Nodding to Hyram, he turned, and the two left the forest together.

227

The Half-Made Frontier

By Felix Gilman

The Half-Made World is a western, kind of. A western with monsters. I didn’t start with the intention of writing a kind-of-western, but it soon became clear that that was where Creedmoor belonged, so that was that. Also, I’d just written two long books about Great Big Cities and wanted to get outdoors for a while. I made a frontier—not any frontier in actual human history, but something like the Frontier, or the idea of the Frontier, turned up to eleven. It was a western, so I gave them guns. Now they had a frontier and they had guns, so there had to be a war. That’s just the way things work. The aggressor in this war is called the Line. It’s a metaphor for Industry and Modernity, one of those metaphors made literal and concrete and allowed to run wild, chewing up the scenery, which for me is at least half the fun of writing fantasy. It’s a nightmare view of the future, as seen by the people the future is about to crush. It’s crowded lightless cities, off on the horizon, with vast smoking factories that can outproduce your little town in a matter of moments, rendering you obsolete. It’s the enclosure of land and the leveling of hills and acid rain. It’s ruthless and acquisitive and amoral and vast and rich and powerful beyond comprehension. It’s tanks and trucks and rockets and poison gas and barbed wire and a variety of models of spying machines and flying machines, including all the gothic and bat-winged ornithopter-type craft that never

228 worked in the real world but once seemed like they were going to. It’s the dark side of steampunk. It’s the First World War. It’s an aggressively expanding industrial civilization run by the half-mechanical half-demonic minds of thirty-eight train Engines of monstrous size, who communicate with each other across the continent through the clatter and din of industry like whalesong, and who do not value human life. And Creedmoor works for their enemies, who are even worse. The book started with Creedmore’s voice. He was making fun of something and talking to himself, which meant that he was also talking to me. I think he had a name right from the first moment: Creedmoor. He’s an asshole. A genuinely bad man—a killer, a liar, a thief, and pleased with himself about it. He’s heading up the side of a hill. There is dust, sweat, hot red sun. He’s definitely armed and he is almost certainly wearing a hat, but it isn’t clear whether he is riding a horse or walking. Along the side of the road there are billboards with peeling posters. At the top of the hill there is a large building, probably a hospital, full of hardworking decent people. When Creedmoor gets to the top of the hill he is going to have to lie and cheat his way into that building. I don’t know why yet or what is going to happen when he did except that it is going to be weird and bloody. He is talking in his head, but not, on further investigation, to himself, but to something else—I don’t know what. I know I shouldn’t like him but I am starting to, sort of. Some of this scene survives now, about halfway into the book, though there are no billboards and no hill and Creedmoor sounds less cartoon-Irish than he did at first, which should be a relief for all concerned.

229 When I sat down to write again the next morning there was a woman, getting off a train. It was a very big train, and there was steam. There was that hot red sun again, and dust. She was wearing white, and I knew that she was very clever and a very long way from home, and I knew her name was Liv. Two characters, and a war. Everything else in the world opened out around them, out to the horizon, out to the frontier.

Copyright © 2010 by Felix Gilman

230

The Half-Made World By Felix Gilman

Copyright © 2010 by Felix Gilman

A fantastical reimagining of the American West which draws its influence from steampunk, the American western tradition, and magical realism

Felix Gilman has been nominated for the John W. Campbell Award and the Crawford Award for best new writer and the Locus Award for best first novel. He is the author of the critically acclaimed Thunderer and Gears of the City. He lives with his wife in New York City.

231 PROLOGUE

HOW THE GENERAL DIED

~ 1878 ~

The General lay flat on his back, arms outflung, watching the stars. A rock pressed into the base of his spine. He’d hit his head and turned his ankle when he fell, but the rock was the worst of his pain. Other sensations were leaving him, but the rock, obstinately, persisted; yet he was powerless to move. He was powerless to will himself to move. Between his will and his body, there was the noise. A dark cloud passed before the stars, and their light was shadowed, then returned, cold as ever. He watched the night sky over the mountains burn and wheel, hiss and dance, shudder and fall. The General was losing his mind. There were no trees—no pines. He lay in a bare hollow, a high flat stony clearing. The General and his last most loyal twenty- two men had been caught in their desperate flight between the Line behind them and the cliff’s edge before them. If the General could only have mustered the will to turn his head, he would have seen the mountain’s peak. It was dark, and forked like a gesture of benediction. It had been his destination, before this—this unfortunate interruption. It would have been better, he

232 thought, to have died watching the mountain than the stars, which were meaningless. In the end, no shots had been fired. No words exchanged or warnings given. The Linesmen’s awful weapon had simply come whistling out of the night sky, fallen like a stone at Lieutenant Deerfield’s feet, and poor young Deerfield had gone pale, eyes wide, turning to the General for last words; then the noise had begun, the mad awful noise, and Deerfield’s wide eyes had filled with fear and blood, and he’d toppled one way and the General had toppled the other, and now they both lay where they fell. The weapon had quickly burned through its fuel and gone silent, but the terrible noise still echoed in the General’s mind. The noise split his mind in two, then in four, then into scattered pieces. The echoes ground him to finer and finer dust. The process was frightening and painful. The General was a man of extraordinary character. He’d built the Red Valley Republic out of nothing—hadn’t he? He’d preserved it against all enemies and all odds, he’d taken the mere words of politicians and philosophers and he’d beaten the world into their mold. As the noise crashed rhythmlessly back and forth across his mind, he held tightly to his pride—which maybe slowed the process of disintegration but could not stop it. For twenty years the Republic had flourished, and it had been the finest moment in the history of the West; indeed, the finest of all possible moments, for the Republic had been constructed in accordance with the best possible theories of political virtue. Gun and Line and their endless war had been banished—the Republic had been an island of peace and sanity. It was gone now, ten years gone, undermined by the spies and blackmailers of

233 Gun, crushed by the wheels of the Line, never to return. But it had lasted long enough to raise a generation of young men and women in its mold, and it was for those young persons that the General wished he could somehow utter, and have recorded, some noble and inspiring last words; but all that now came to his shattered mind were fragments of old fairy tales, curse words, obscenities, babble. He thought he might be weeping. He couldn’t tell. He was vaguely aware of the Linesmen going through the bodies around him. He could see them out of the corner of his eye. Squat little men in their grays and blacks stepping dismissively over the bodies of heroes! They stopped sometimes and knelt down to use their dull- bladed boot- knives to silence murmuring throats. They went like busy doctors from patient to patient. The General’s men lay helplessly. A bad way to end. A bad way for it all to end. Would the Linesmen notice the General, still breathing? Maybe, maybe not. There was nothing he could do to stop it. One more section of the architecture of his mind crumbled to dust, and for a moment he entirely forgot who he was, and he became preoccupied with his memories. He’d been a leader of some kind? He’d had some great final duty, which had brought him up into these damned cold ugly mountains; he forgot what it was. For some reason, he remembered instead a fairy tale his nursemaid had told him, many, many years ago back in green Glen Lily, in Ulver County: a tale regarding a prince who set out from his father’s red castle bearing nothing but a sword and, and, an owl, in search of the princess, who . . . no, bearing a message for the princess, who . . .the princess was a prisoner, chained in a tower, ebony- skinned, beautiful black hair to her waist, bare- naked . . .

234 A Linesman stepped over him—black boots momentarily blocked out the stars. The Linesman’s black trousers were worn and smeared gray with dust. The Linesman shouted something, something the General couldn’t understand, and moved on, not looking down. The General clutched at the scattering dust of himself and recalled that this was not the first time he’d lain outside at night, under the stars, among the dead, bleeding and dying. Indeed, a night like this had been the making of him, once. As a young soldier he had been wounded in the shoulder by a lucky shot at the battle of A . . . at the battle of . . . at the field of gorse and briars, by the stone bridge. He had been left for dead in the first retreat and spent the night among the dead, too weak to walk, strong enough only to hold his jacket to his shoulder and pray for the slow bleed to stop, and to watch the cold stars. He’d been very young then. There he had learned to dedicate his soul and his strength to a bright distant purpose, to lay his course by a remote star. He had learned to be heroic and not to fear death. So he’d told too many generations of fresh young recruits. The recruits hadn’t been so fresh or so young, or so many, in recent years—not since the horrors of Black Cap Valley. Not since all was lost. Not since the Line drove them into the hills and the woods and the back alleys like bandits, not since the army of the Republic, reduced to a desperate fierce remnant of its former glory, became a matter of secret meetings and disguises and dead- drops and midnight explosions and code words and signals. He remembered! No—he remembered only the codes, not why they were sent. Matters of great weight and significance hidden in the lines of humble everyday domestic correspondence—The children are growing tall and strong meant The weapons are ready to be retrieved—he struggled and grasped at codes and symbols. . . .

235 He remembered they sent messages encoded, among other things, in fairy tales, in letters that purported to be addressed to much-loved children safe at home. He remembered writing, Once upon a time, the Prince of Birds looked down from the Mountain over his kingdom and was unhappy. It meant something secret; it conveyed maybe good news, more likely bad, because all the news had been bad for ten years; he couldn’t remember what. He tried to recall the names of some of his men—many of whom, perhaps all of whom, lay scattered on the mountainside around him, their own minds ruined and crumbling like his own. No names came to him. What came to him instead were the faces of three Presidents, three of his masters: Bellow, big- bearded, who was once only Mayor of Morgan, who drafted the Charter; Iredell, little wiry brilliant man, who was the first to sign it at Red Valley; stout but simpleminded Killbuck, who in retrospect was perhaps a sign of the Republic’s rapid decline. But his memory of Bellow’s bearded face was perhaps confused with an illustrated king from the storybook his nursemaid read to him. The noise kept sounding in his head, and he forgot Bellow forever. The noise ricocheted madly back and forth against the chamber of his skull like a bullet. The meaninglessness of the noise was its worst quality. He forgot his battle standards. He recalled, then forgot again, the stables at Glen Lily, where he first learned to ride and read and hold a sword. The stables were long since ground under by the Line. He recalled with sudden sickness that he had a daughter of his own, whom he had not seen for years, for all these years of hard campaigning, of hiding in the hills, of raiding

236 and harrowing the Line. He wrote letters; she always waited for him to come home. Now he never would. He’d sent her a last letter, from the foot of the mountains, just days ago: there was something very important in it, but he couldn’t recall what. Something about these mountains and these stones on which his mind now bled. He recalled that he signed and sealed it with a reckless wild abandon. He said things it was dangerous to say. He had set years of discretion and secrecy aside. He remembered thinking, Secrecy is behind us now. If we win through, the earth will shake. He forgot why. He remembered, terribly vividly, the stink of Black Cap Valley, after the battle, its mud and vile flowers black and glistening, slick with red blood. One of his sons had died there. He forgot where the other one had died. A Linesman stepped back over him, knocking his head sideways, so that he could no longer see the stars. He saw instead the shuffling legs of the Linesmen and the body of Lieutenant Deerfield. Deerfield! A good man. He wore trappers’ furs, not his old red uniform, because the days of splendid red uniforms were long gone. He was pale and dead. Behind Deerfield, the General saw the body of Kan- Kuk, the stonecaster, the Hill- man, his Hill- man. His ally among the First Folk. There were a great many secrets about Kan- Kuk in his last letter. The General had forgotten them all. Kan- Kuk’s naked bone- white body jerked and flopped like a landed fish. KanKuk’s long skinny arms flailed like stripped branches in a storm. Kan- Kuk tore at his wild mane and ripped away greasy black fistfuls. That struck the General as strange; the

237 General was fairly sure that he himself was still, very still. Perhaps the mind- bombs affected different species of person in different ways. Or perhaps the General himself, without knowing it, was also thrashing and flailing and screaming. Everything was very numb; he couldn’t be sure. The General wondered if Kan- Kuk would rise again. It was said of the Folk, and perhaps it was only a fairy tale, like the story of the princess and the prince and the mountain . . . It was said of the Folk that when they died, and were buried, they rose again, in due season, immortal, like a song or a dream—or like the masters of Gun and Line. If Kan- Kuk were to be buried, and to rise again from the red earth, would his mind recover, or was Kan- Kuk ruined now, too? His fine, strange mad mind, now ruined. It was at Kan- Kuk’s request that the General had gone on this last mad mission. Those were the terms of their deal. People had said for years that the General was mad to keep a Hill-man around like that, and maybe they were right. Now the General remembered what Kan- Kuk promised: that his people had a secret. A Song, Kan- Kuk had called it, though the General had thought: a weapon. A weapon to bring peace. An alliance between resolution and atonement for peace and goodwill, that oldest dream. The General would have tended his garden in his old age, grown roses perhaps. Kan- Kuk’s people had been ready to share it at last, to forgive, again, at last. There was a cave, there was a cave in the red navel of the world, there was drumming, there was the City of the First Folk, for they, too, were fallen from greatness.

238 Down in the dark, fallen. There were, so Kan- Kuk whispered, to have been tests of courage and virtue and . . . Now a song sounded in the General’s head, but it was a terrible one, not peaceful, not a cure for anything, but a gathering torrent of mad noise. Kan- Kuk! The General remembered Kan- Kuk and then forgot again, forever. Kan- Kuk and Deerfield. The names of Putnam and Holmes occurred to him as well. The echo in his mind grew and thundered rhythmically over and over like horses’ hooves. The names of Halley and Orange surfaced from the sinking ruin of his mind, and he remembered that Orange was once from the Twenty- third Regiment of the Third Army of the Republic, before the Third Army was lost at Black Cap. The echo of horses; it was tearing him apart, but for a moment it made him think of escape—he imagined that the horses were thundering an escape, thundering new hope.

239

EVE and the Human Story

By Tony Gonzales

Storytelling in novels is a unique dialog between authors and readers. When delivered well, the imagination is engaged on every page, as the audience is lured deeper into the tale and the world in which it takes place. The reader may become so immersed that he or she might wish to experience the setting more directly, if not become a part of its landscape and join the adventures of its characters. This is the allure of novelizing games. The vision described by authors who write for established settings like EVE is not expressly their own. However, it is their own creativity which uses the lore to provide the game universe with more depth, and entices readers to join the virtual setting. Many fans of science fiction have imagined taking the helm of a powerful starship; the beauty of EVE is that it allows them to do just that. EVE is a depiction of mankind tens of thousands of years in the future. In this setting, Earth is a forgotten memory, but there are no alien civilizations to distract us from confronting ourselves. It is only raw humanity and its grueling survival through the ages, with all of its triumphs and failures alike. Without question, EVE is a dark universe, yet there are glimmers of hope throughout. The writers thus focus on the human story— the timeless drama of heroes and villains, of good versus evil. They weave tales which speak of the corruptive vice of power and those who fall victim to its destructive

240 influence; and they describe how justice is often a matter of perspective, wallowing in gray areas that are difficult to resolve. People are what drive the story of EVE Online. This is evident in its novels, through characters that are refreshingly—and sometimes agonizingly—human; and in its players, who forge their own stories through bold actions within the game. It is a huge playground for both writers and gamers alike, and for the science fiction audience, a brave new world to explore.

Copyright © 2009 by Tony Gonzales

241

EVE: The Empyrean Age

By Tony Gonzales

Copyright © 2008 by CCP hf.

EVE is a trademark or registered trademark of CCP hf in the United States and/or other countries and is used under license from owner.

Tony Gonzales was born in Jersey City, New Jersey, in 1973. He graduated from the Richard Stockton College of New Jersey with a BA in Political Science in 1995, and has an MBA from Rutgers University. He is a Lead Writer for CCP Games in Reykjavik, Iceland, and is the author of two EVE Online novellas, “Ruthless”, and “Theodicy”. This is his first published work.

242 1

The first experience of life was a bright point of light followed by the sound of distant, muted whispers. A flood of sensory information registered self- awareness, when just before there was only a sea of blackness. A new mind took inventory of the world surrounding him: his chest, rising and falling with the sensation of air rushing into his lungs; the taste of saliva and the contraction of throat muscles as he swallowed; hands that opened and closed into fists as he commanded; all virgin experiences, so it seemed, for a man who was just born inside a coffin. Lying supine, he blinked several times, struggling to make sense of his narrow confines. A glass shield was just inches from his face, where he gazed with frustrating uncertainty upon a reflection that was his own. An older man, with creases stretched across a high forehead and steel- gray eyes set upon severe cheekbones, returned the bewildered stare. Who am I? this lost soul asked, struggling to reach backward in time for a memory or reference, anything to place this surreal state of being into context. But there was nothing there, and the sea of blackness prevailed. As he tried to lift his shoulders, a medical device descended from inside the chamber and passed a bluish light over the entire length of his body. It was then that he realized the base of his skull was fastened to the bed’s surface, and that the connection was through a metallic socket implanted directly into the bone.

243 I am a capsuleer, he realized, peering through the glass at a ceiling high above. One of the immortals, but . . . what happened to me? The device hovered over his squinting eyes before an artificial voice spoke softly: ‘Good morning. Your vital signs are excellent. Try to relax while I assess the rebuilding progress of your temporal lobe. Scanning . . .’ With the center light focusing on his eyes, additional beams were projected onto his face. Then he felt a tingling sensation in the back of his head. ‘I’m going to ask you several questions,’ the voice continued. He found her voice soothing, despite its artificial tone. ‘Do you know what today’s date is?’ ‘No,’ he answered. ‘Where am I?’ The voice remained impassive, but gentle. ‘Do you know what your name is?’ He was about to answer ‘No’ in desperation again when a bright flash illuminated the room beyond the glass, followed by a loud muffled thud that shook the chamber. He felt his pulse accelerate as his instincts registered danger for the first time. ‘Good morning. Your vital signs are excellent,’ the automated voice repeated. ‘Try to relax while I . . . Good morning. Your vital signs are . . .’ The device hovering above him flickered once, and then retracted back into its lair. He realized that a new face was staring at him through the glass, and that the predatory look in this stranger’s eyes was reason enough to be very afraid. With a series of mechanical clicks and hisses, the chamber’s lid began to open. Hidden above the chamber was a camera lens, one of hundreds located throughout the starship. Optical data was routed directly into a cybernetic implant which, like the

244 man inside the chamber, was embedded within the skull of the ship’s pilot. Using onboard processors and the raw computing power of his cerebral cortex, telemetry was converted into ocular images that he could therefore ‘see’, despite being hundreds of meters away from the chamber itself. Terrifying events were unfolding before him: an assassin had infiltrated the ship, sealed himself in the cargo bay, activated the CRU (Clone Reanimation Unit) prematurely, and was now moments away from murdering the most important figure in Theology Council history. The same cybernetic implant feeding data to the pilot’s brain made his ship a natural extension of his own physical self. All he needed was to will his starship into action, and his biochemical signals were translated into digital instructions that were executed immediately by automated systems or the hundreds of crew members onboard. Because of this union between man and machine, the ship could react as quickly as its pilot could think – but only if he knew how to act. Dealing with onboard saboteurs was a situation that had, until now, been unthinkable. Opening a command channel through the cruiser’s subspace communication arrays, the pilot watched helplessly as the assassin stood over the CRU and began taunting the vulnerable clone of Falek Grange. ‘Lord Victor, we have an emergency,’ the pilot said. ‘Lieutenant Thornsson,’ the stern voice replied from dozens of light years away. ‘Go ahead.’ ‘We escaped from Karsoth’s forces and survived a Covenant ambush,’ the pilot replied. ‘But there’s an assassin onboard and—’

245 The pilot lost his concentration as the attacker’s clenched, metal- plated fist crashed down upon Falek Grange’s face, spraying droplets of blood across the room. Despite the physical appearance of an older man, this incarnation of Falek Grange was less than five minutes old. Every cell in his body was an exact replica of the original man, who by now had been dead for almost forty minutes. Although the brain of this clone contained elemental knowledge artificially distilled from simulated life experiences that an older man should have, in this case the core attributes of Falek’s original personality and personal memories were absent. A person awakening in this state has knowledge, but lacks the understanding of why he knows what he does. To call this condition ‘amnesia’ would be inaccurate, for the term implies that there was once a memory to lose. This was far worse. For Falek Grange, there were no memories. Every experience from now on would seem both new and distantly familiar all at once. But there was nothing familiar about the horrid violence that Falek was enduring now. With each blow, Falek could feel both skin and bone breaking beneath the assailant’s mailed fists. Every strike was perfectly placed to inflict maximum pain; just when Falek thought he would lose consciousness, the assassin instructed the CRU to inject him with enough adrenaline to keep him awake. With his head still attached to the neural interface and his hands clamped to the chamber walls, Falek was helpless to defend himself.

246 When the sparks of pain and numbing disorientation parted for just a moment, he gurgled out a single, pleading question: ‘Why . . . ?’ The assassin – a much younger man, with features similar to Falek’s – removed his gauntlets, unveiling thick, calloused hands. As if in prayer, he murmured a series of phrases in a foreign language, closing his eyes while speaking. Then he pressed both his hands into the deep, symmetric lacerations on Falek’s eye sockets and jawbone. ‘Unholy beast!’ Thornsson raged as he watched Falek scream. ‘The assassin is Covenant!’ ‘You have to seal him inside the CRU,’ Victor answered. ‘Force it shut if you have to—’ ‘I can’t! He disabled the hatch – my crew can’t get inside!’ The assassin raised both blood- soaked hands upward as if to make an offering, and then lowered them to allow droplets of the crimson fluid to fall into his mouth. ‘There’s nothing they can do at all?’ Victor pleaded. ‘They’re trying everything to break in,’ the pilot replied. ‘We don’t stow any explosives onboard to blast through . . .’ He thought about that for a moment, and then added: ‘Unless . . .’ ‘A pity that you’ll never know your crimes,’ the assassin said, manipulating the bloody controls of the CRU. ‘They are too numerous to mention in the time we have left.’ Falek Grange would have sobbed if he could; his eyes were swollen shut as his body rushed fluids to the trauma sites on his face. But the physical pain was no less excruciating than the mental anguish of not knowing if this cruel fate was deserved.

247 A shudder wracked his aching body as the locking shunt connecting his implant to the CRU withdrew from his skull. ‘My master has passed judgment on you,’ the assassin continued, placing one hand over Falek’s disfigured face and running it slowly toward his neck. ‘It is my devoted honor to serve him.’ Using his free hand, the assassin brandished a small scepter. As Falek felt the grip around his neck tighten, he wished for the nothingness that was before the whispers brought him to life. ‘This will purge New Eden of your curse once and for all.’ ‘Your clones have been destroyed, as all of ours have,’ Victor warned. ‘You know what that means!’ ‘I believe in her, my lord,’ Thornsson said, swallowing hard as the assassin forcibly yanked Falek upright by his neck and positioned the scepter beneath his head. ‘And she believed in him.’ With a single thought, Lieutenant Thornsson armed the self- destruct sequence for his ship.s ‘This is all I can do to save him,’ he said, just as the assassin thrust the back of Falek’s exposed skull downward. ‘Tell her that I did this for her glory . . .’ ‘She already knows, my friend,’ Victor replied. Falek had little time to scream as the electrically charged scepter made brief contact with the implant’s socket, producing a sickening flash of white and red. As the surrounding tissue vaporized along with metal, the lid of the CRU forcibly closed down,

248 knocking the scepter loose and forcing the assassin to release his choking grip. Falek collapsed, unconscious, onto his back within the chamber as the lid shut completely and formed an airtight seal. The last thing the enraged assassin would ever see was a reinforced blast shield rise from the floor and enclose the CRU, where his prey continued to breathe. Powered by an aneutronic fusion reactor, the Prophecyclass battle- cruiser piloted by Lieutenant Thornsson relied on magnetic containment fields to regulate the flow of plasma used for propulsion. If these fields collapsed, the plasma would scatter internally and destroy the surrounding structure. They also served as the primary self- destruct mechanism for the ship. Lieutenant Thornsson was sacrificing himself and his crew in a desperate attempt to save the life of Falek Grange. Normally occurring after a sixty- second countdown, the fail- safes regulating the fields were instructed to switch off earlier, making it impossible for anyone onboard to escape. In the exact instant when the blast shield locked into place over the CRU, the containment fields ceased, and the engine room’s plasma began incinerating everything in its path, eating its way back into the fusion reactor within seconds. Expanding outward in every direction, the resulting explosion tore the ship in two, obliterating the decks leading up to the forward superstructure. Fragments of superheated debris travelling at immense speeds perforated every remaining section of the ship. For the crew closest to the engine room at the time of the blast, death came as quickly as a thought. For those in the forward compartments, there may have been just enough time to grasp the severity of what was happening, but not much more.

249 For Falek Grange, the experience was the same as the blackness from which he had emerged. Protected by the blast shield, the CRU continued to function, keeping him alive for the time being. Suspended inside the chamber, he floated among the ruins of a shattered starship, unwillingly clinging to an existence whose single memory was of being tortured and beaten to within an inch of his life.

250

The Faerie Ring

By Kiki Hamilton

Copyright © 2011 by Karen Hamilton

Debut novelist Kiki Hamilton takes readers from the gritty slums and glittering ballrooms of Victorian London to the beguiling but menacing Otherworld of the Fey in this spellbinding tale of romance, suspense, and danger.

251 Chapter One

London , December 1871

“You wouldn’t be here pickin’ pockets, would you?” Tiki jumped as the dark figure loomed over the corner where she sat pretending to be half-asleep. Thick, black hair hung low over his forehead, shadowing his eyes. The aggressive way he approached made her instinctively recoil. The glittery light of the pub illuminated his face as he leaned toward her and the fear that bubbled in her stomach dissipated as she recognized him. “Rieker.” Tiki spoke in a low voice. “What are you doing here?” His timing couldn’t be worse. “Are you following me, again?” She’d identified her mark and was just waiting for the right moment to make her move. “Me follow you?” Rieker gave an arrogant snort. “Now why would I do that?” He jingled the coins in his pocket as if to taunt her. “I’ve been workin’ the World’s End for a few months now.” He leaned an elbow on the plank table, a mug of ale clutched in his hand. “Maybe you’re followin’ me.” He looked her up and down with a mocking gaze. “Because I’d swear I’ve never seen your pretty face in here before.” Tiki forced an insincere smile. “Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough.” She tugged the bill of her cap down to hide her features. Dressed in breeches and a man’s oversized jacket, no one but Rieker would have known she was a sixteen year old girl. And even he hadn’t known until two months ago.

252 It had been when she’d spotted him coming out of a clockmaker’s shop in King’s Cross with both hands shoved into the pockets of his tattered black coat as though he’d hidden something in their depths. The cautious way he’d glanced over at her had made her wonder what he’d nicked. Curious, she’d followed him. Rieker had made a name for himself throughout the slums of London. Stories about him stretched from Bishopsgate in the East End, to Charing Cross in the heart of the city, all the way to Kings Cross, here in the North End. The other pickpockets whispered that he could steal anything. But Shamus had told her something else: that Rieker could disappear in the blink of an eye. She didn’t believe Shamus, but she did want to know how Rieker always got away from the Bobbies. She also wanted to know why she’d seen him in Charing Cross, her home turf, so often lately. As though sensing her presence, Rieker had glanced over his shoulder. His gaze had skipped from her face to something behind her. Without a word he’d turned and ran. Instinct made Tiki run too. That’s when the Bobby had shouted at them to stop. The policeman had been so close he’d torn her baggy coat from her back, revealing her long braided hair and a shape that couldn’t belong to a boy. She’d never forget the look on Rieker’s face that day. “What are you doing up north here in Camden Town?” Rieker’s voice brought her back to the present. “Bit far from Charing Cross, aren’t you?” “Maybe.” Tiki kept her tone even. “But the biggest pub in all of London is worth the trip.” He pulled one of the chairs away from the table, the wooden legs scraping against the floor. “Are you here alone?”

253 Tiki put out a hand out to block him. “Don’t sit down—you’re not staying. And it’s none of your business who I’m with or where I go.” Irritated, she turned back toward the crowd. Where was her mark? A smoky cloud hung in the room above the motley crew of sailors, chandlers, coal porters, and dustmen who filled the pub. She recognized Bilby, the rat catcher, and Mr. Bonfield, the costermonger from up round Covent Garden Market, but where was MacGregor? For weeks she’d been watching the big, ruddy Scotsman, following him in the evenings from pub to pub. He owned clothing shops in Seven Dials and Petticoat Lane and loved to drink his profits, especially on a Friday night. When he got drunk he got careless. Tiki’s fingers itched in anticipation. It was hardly a challenge for someone of her skills, but she had grown to dislike his swaggering and the way he bullied the barmaids. It would be a pleasure to lighten his pockets. Damn, had she missed her chance? “Last call!” The bartender’s voice cut across the noise of the room. “Drink up fellers, pub’s closin’.” The World’s End had a packed house tonight. The wooden plank floor of the pub was slick with spilled ale and the rich, yeasty smell of beer hung thick in the air. A row of sailors sat shoulder to shoulder along the wooden bar, hunched over their drinks as though fearful their glasses would be snatched away. Big mirrors lined the walls, etched with the names of ales or whiskeys, reflecting the bright lights in the room as well as the cloud of tobacco smoke. Barmaids and prostitutes, with their skirts partially tucked up in their waistbands, worked their way through the thick crowd milling between the full tables, smiling and joking with the customers. The tinkling notes of a piano were

254 a backdrop to the cacophony of accents that clashed above it all, like an instrument with several strings out of tune. Tiki’s eyes stopped on the silhouette of a tall man with a large bulbous nose. There he was. A meaty looking fellow with shoulders like a bull underneath his worn, brown jacket, MacGregor looked in fine form tonight. Red-faced, swaying, he was belting out a raunchy tune as he waved his mug of ale in time to the song. Rieker followed Tiki’s gaze. He leaned forward. “No. Not MacGregor.” Tiki let out a snort of disbelief. “Why in bloody hell not? I’ve been watching him half the night.” She started to slide out of her chair but Rieker’s hand clamped down on her wrist, pinning her to the table. “He’s too drunk,” he warned. “If he catches you, there’ll be no mercy.” “Take your hand off me,” she gritted through clenched teeth. Tiki yanked her arm away and shot out of her chair. Fiona might chatter on about how handsome Rieker was with his tall, rugged build and elusive air, but as far as Tiki was concerned he was equal parts annoying. The corners of Rieker’s mouth quirked, his smoky, gray eyes dancing. “Just like a kitten pretending to be a lion,” he said. “Except I don’t think your claws are sharp enough to hurt anyone, little kitten.” Tiki reacted without thinking. She jabbed her finger into his chest. “Listen to me, Rieker. I’m not your ‘kitten’ or anybody else’s. I’ll do what I please and I’ll thank you to leave me the hell alone.”

255 Fast as a cat, he grabbed her arm. A look of shock crossed his face before he tried to hide it. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up her wrist. Delicate lines twisted and turned like a tangle of vines, encircling her small wrist. They were dark against her pale skin. Rieker’s fingers gripped her hand so tight that her fingers began to tingle and she winced, swallowing a gasp. “Rieker, stop it. You’re hurting me.” His grip loosened but he didn’t let go. “Tiki, where did you get this mark?” Rieker’s gaze was incredulous, searching, as if trying to see into her very thoughts. She couldn’t help but notice how long his dark lashes were, framing his smoky eyes. A strange nervousness started to flutter in the pit of her stomach when MacGregor’s drunken bellow for more ale cut through the noise in the pub and broke the spell. “I. Said. Let go!” With a great surge Tiki jerked her arm back and in the process managed to send Rieker’s mug of ale flying directly into the face of a nearby sailor. After a stunned moment, the sailor shook his head, his bleary eyes searching the crowd for the culprit. Tiki turned just in time to see the sailor drop his head and plow his shoulders into an innocent chimney sweep. The diminutive man, still covered in coal dust, went flying backwards into the crowd, sending bodies scrambling to get out of the way. Mayhem broke loose as sailors and tradesmen shoved back with fists and feet. For a second, Tiki wondered at Rieker’s strange reaction to her birthmark. But she pushed the thought aside. This was her chance.

256 Tiki stepped away from the table and slid sideways through the crowd, head down so the bill of her cap shadowed her face. Usually she wouldn’t take such a risk on her last pick of the night, but she wanted to prove Rieker wrong. “Tiki, wait,” Rieker called after her. Tiki glanced back but Rieker was stuck in the crowd, unable to stop her. She smiled to herself in satisfaction. She could handle MacGregor. Plus, a few more coins to line her pockets would certainly warm the long, cold ride home to the abandoned clockmaker’s shop adjoining Charing Cross. Tiki took a deep breath as she neared her mark, dodging the arms and legs swinging wildly around her. MacGregor was engrossed in the brawl, red-faced and hollering encouragement in a hoarse roar. His face shone with excitement, a large bead of sweat hanging from the tip of a nose that had seen more than a few fights. She slithered close and slipped her hand into his pocket. Just as she’d hoped, MacGregor was carrying a load of money. She pinched several of the coins together and started to pull her hand free. The big man’s gaze landed on Tiki with the weight of a boulder. MacGregor squinted his red-rimmed eyes in her direction. “Wot you be about, boy?” he growled. “N..nuthin’ Guv’nor,” Tiki stammered. She tried to back away but was hemmed in by the mass of bodies. “Wot you got in your hand?” He snatched for her with a big meaty paw. “Show me.”

257 Tiki slapped her hands together to mask the sound of the coins dropping and held her palms up, wiggling her fingers to distract him as the coins slid down her sleeve. “Nuthin’ sir, I swear.” There was another surge in the crowd and a large man, dressed like a coal porter, collided with MacGregor. The man’s black hat flew off as MacGregor’s glass of ale hit the wooden floor with a resounding crash. This was trouble. MacGregor roared with rage. Tiki swung her right elbow back as hard as she could, hitting a soft belly. “Umphf,” a voice gasped as her elbow made contact. “What the bloody hell?” The man behind her stepped back, opening a small space in the crowd. In a blink, Tiki darted through the gap. “Come back ‘ere, you little thief,” MacGregor yelled. Tiki cut her way through the crowd. She reached the heavy plank entry door and yanked it open just enough to slip out into the chill winter air. Her breath came in short gasps, her chest heaving with exertion. Where could she hide? She only had a moment before MacGregor would be on her. In the distance, the brisk clip-clop of a lone carriage working its way up the cobblestone lane echoed in the cool night air. Blast. It was so late there were few cabs about and this coach was headed in the wrong direction. She took a step toward the street, peering right and left, looking for any other means of escape. Behind her, the pub door creaked open. “Where is he?” a thick voice cried.

258 Tiki’s breath caught in her throat. It was MacGregor. Damn. She pushed away from the building and ran. The carriage was just turning the corner onto the lane. “You there,” MacGregor cried. “Stop!” Tiki darted out of the shadows and raced toward the back of the carriage. With a burst of speed, she placed a hand on one of the rear struts and jumped lightly onto the boot where the luggage was usually stored. Wedging herself into the corner of the little shelf situated behind the wheel box, she watched as MacGregor lumbered onto the cobblestone lane, his head swiveling back and forth in confusion. “Where’d he go?” he bellowed. Behind him, just exiting the pub, Tiki recognized Rieker’s tall silhouette. “And that’s how you pick MacGregor’s pocket,” she whispered. The carriage creaked around a corner and the pub disappeared from view. Tiki repositioned herself on the small shelf with a tired sigh, settling in for the ride back to Charing Cross. Her body ached from the long day on her feet and her stomach growled with hunger. She fingered the solid weight of the coins she had stashed in her pocket and pressed her lips together in a small, satisfied smile. There would be enough to pay the muffin man and to buy a chunk of cheddar big enough for all of them. Tiki thought of how excited the others would be. Food had been scarce lately. Shamus and Fiona had been giving part of their portions to the younger ones, Toots and Clara, and even with that, four year old Clara was painfully thin. Tiki tried not to think of the persistent cough that had been wracking the child lately. Maybe she could find some milk for Clara to soak her bread in as well.

259 Wrapping her arms tight around her knees to ward off the chill, Tiki eyed the black swirls on her wrist and wondered again about Rieker’s strange reaction to her mark. She usually made an effort to keep her wrist covered, not wanting to draw attention to the odd birthmark. When she was younger her mum had teased her and told her she’d been marked by faeries. Her mother’s whispered words came back to her now. “They’re around us. Pay attention and you’ll see them.” A pang of longing twisted inside at the memory of her mum and she pushed the painful thoughts away. She had more important things to think about now, like finding enough food to fill their stomachs each day. Tiki leaned her head back and closed her eyes, listening to the staccato rhythm of the horse’s hooves echoing in the night.

260 Chapter Two

Tiki jolted awake. The carriage had come to a stop. She leaned forward to peer around the edge of the cab and stared in confusion at the orbs of lamplight glowing through the thick mist. Where was she? She could make out the dim shadows of other carriages forming a queue. Snorts and the shuffling clack of horse’s hooves were oddly muffled by the dense fog. To her left, through the shadows, the walls of a great mansion loomed. To her right, she could see the dim light of the streetlamps through the overhanging trees. But which street did they light? It was impossible to tell through the fingers of fog that wrapped everything in its blinding grip. She tightened her grip on a strut as the carriage jerked forward, crouching down on the boot, trying to stay hidden. “Bring her this way,” a man cried in the distance. She had to get away. Through the fog she could see the outline of the large building. Tall columns stretched along the front of the façade. The bare limbs of several elm trees stretched in a row toward the entry. Taking a deep breath, Tiki jumped from the back of the carriage and ran for the shadows that surrounded one of the trees. The bark was rough on her fingers as she leaned against the trunk, waiting to make sure she remained unseen. After a moment she pushed off and raced toward the side of the building.

261 Tiki heaved a sigh of relief as she leaned back against the rough stone. Of all the idiotic things to do, how could she have fallen asleep on the boot? And now she didn’t even know where she was. Her stomach gave a loud growl. She hadn’t eaten since afternoon and that biscuit had been hard enough to crack her teeth. Clara and Toots would be starving unless Shamus or Fiona had been able to pick a pocket or snitch some fruit from a costermonger’s stall today. But the costermongers guarded their fruit and vegetable carts well, carrying a long switch to swat the hands of hungry children who might think to steal from them. A twinge snaked its way through Tiki’s chest. It had to be close to midnight. She usually returned home around the supper hour as the crowds were too thin to safely pick a pocket. Clara liked to wait up for her return each day. Was the little girl clutching Doggie, her sawdust-filled ragdoll, wondering where she was right now? Tiki peered toward a swath of light that cut across the dark yard. A side door was stretched wide open as if beckoning her. The aroma of roasting meat was tempting. Tiki’s stomach gave another growl, louder this time. She hesitated. The coins she had pocketed tonight were heavy in her pocket but the muffin man who worked near Charing Cross was long gone for the day and the shops were closed. The children would be so hungry. Did she dare try to find some food before she started for home again? She inched closer. She couldn’t resist the fragrant smells of baking bread and roasting beef. As Tiki stepped through the doorway, the heat from the coal burning fires of the kitchen enveloped her like a warm blanket. The room bustled with activity. A red-

262 face, round bellied woman, clearly in charge, brandished a butcher knife as she barked orders at the kitchen maids. Tiki ducked into a dim alcove stacked with bags of flour and stayed tight to the wall as she peered around the corner. Her eyes grew wide at the staggering amounts of food being prepared. Soups and sauces were stirred over the fire. Some sort of meat, venison or beef, dripped juices onto the open flames. Nearby, pots full of asparagus, peas and carrots waited to be steamed, and there was an entire table full of bread. Loaves and loaves of fresh baked bread. Tiki’s mouth watered as she eyed the bounty. What she would give to take even a few loaves and a good hunk of beef home to the others. At seventeen, Shamus was grown but he’d become so thin and tall that his wrists and ankles stuck out from his ragged clothes as if he’d pulled on ten year-old Toots’ trousers by mistake. And fifteen year-old Fiona’s pretty face had become angular and sunken. “Turn that spit, before the meat chars and I have to char your backside.” The cook whacked at the meat on the cutting board. “An’ you, young Miss.” The cook pointed her knife at a girl who stood stirring a large pot. “Don’t let me catch you daydreamin’ again.” Tiki eyed a round block of cheddar on a nearby table that was surrounded by a number of smaller chunks of cheese, just waiting to be melted. She could snitch a few of the smaller hunks and a couple of loaves, and no one would be the wiser. A movement to her left caught her attention. A young boy watched her from the floor. He reminded her of a dormouse, his big eyes like two dark plums centered in the round pie plate of his face. She raised a finger to her lips. He blinked at her, and nodded that he understood she wanted him to be quiet. Could she take the chance?

263 “That bread has had time to cool,” the cook bellowed. “Mary, start putting it in the bread baskets and store them against that wall. We need that table for the sweetcakes.” It was now or never. She made her way over to the table with the cheddar and crouched beside it. Watching the swirling skirts of the kitchen maids walking to and fro, she snaked a hand up over the edge of the table and grabbed blindly for a hunk of cheese. She slid the cheese into the oversized pocket of her jacket and on hands and knees worked her way over toward the table laden with loaves of bread. She shot a quick glance back at the young boy. He was still watching her every move. “Ellie,” the cook yelled, “get me a bag of flour.” The clank of pots and pans along with the rhythmic beat of chopping knives continued as though the kitchen was a great machine, its gears and cogs in full motion. Tiki crept along the floor, grateful for the shadows cast under the tables. Under the bread table, she paused, waiting for the right moment. Whoever lived here had so much food they’d never notice a few missing crusts. She thought of how Toots’ freckled face would light up when she showed him the fresh cheddar. One of the kitchen maids came over to the table where Tiki hid. Tiki held her breath as the girl shuffled the loaves of bread from the table to a basket. When the girl walked away Tiki groped blindly over the edge of the table. She’d just latched onto a loaf when a scream split the air. “Who’s under there?”

264 Tiki bolted out from under the table. She caught a fleeting glimpse of the little boy, his eyes wide, his mouth open to form an ‘o’ of surprise as she flew by. As she ran for the door she’d come in, another kitchen maid stepped out of the alcove where Tiki had hidden earlier, a huge sack of flour clutched to her chest. A scream erupted from her throat and she froze in place, blocking the exit. “Stop you!” the cook bellowed. “Thief!” Tiki darted toward another door, desperate for an escape. A dim hallway stretched before her and she flew as fast as her feet could move, unmindful of the clatter her boots made on the wooden floor. Shouts and shrieks followed her departure and Tiki could hear the lumbering gait of the well-endowed cook. “Get back in the stables where you belong!” the rotund woman yelled down the hallway after her. Tiki ran down a warren of dim corridors until she found a door slightly ajar. She slipped inside the door, closed it softly behind her, and pressed her forehead against the cool grain of the wood. She strained to hear any sounds of pursuit. Long moments ticked by as Tiki held her ear to the door, poised to run. But there was nothing to be heard in the hallway and she heaved a sigh of relief. Thankful that she’d escaped for the moment, Tiki turned and gasped. She stood in a huge room with eight angled walls that formed an octagon. Every wall was filled with bookcases, every shelf filled with books. And if that wasn’t enough, a second set of bookshelves lined the walls above the first set, reaching all the way up to the large, archtop windows far above her head.

265 Her jaw sagged in disbelief as she tilted her head back and gazed up at the enormous number of books. Underneath her boots plush carpet softened her steps. Tiki turned in a full circle, trying to take it all in. The sheer size of the room made her feel antlike and small. A large desk sat in the center of the room and on the far side there was a glasspaned door. A fire burned low in the grate, gas lamps lighting the interior of the room with a soft glow. A familiar longing tugged at her as she gazed at the shelves lining the walls. An old memory rushed to mind, of her father sitting before the fire, a pipe clutched in one hand as he read stories from Dinah Craik’s A Fairy Tale. Scotty, her cocker spaniel, was asleep on her lap as she listened. Her mother sat in a nearby chair, her dark head bent over her fancy needlework. A lump suddenly filled her throat at the vivid recollection. Drawn by an irresistible pull, Tiki moved to the nearest shelf and ran her fingers over the leather spines. She longed to pull open the pages and read the secrets kept inside. She moved deeper into the room. The great desk was exactly the same shape as the room, with four legs to support the eight-sided top. Nearby, an over-sized book lay open on a stand with a magnifying glass resting on its surface. Tiki picked up the circle of clear glass suspended by an ornately carved handle and peered at the map. “I know it’s here somewhere,” a voice said from outside the glass-paned door. “I was looking at it earlier.”

266 Tiki jumped in alarm as the door to the library swung inward. Still clutching the magnifying glass, she dove under the desk, her pulse drumming in her ears. The soft shuffle of boots on carpet moved in her direction. “It’s the only way you’ll get him to believe you at this point, Arthur,” a second voice replied. The pages of a newspaper rustled overhead, alarmingly close to Tiki’s hiding place. “Ah, here it is.” Arthur’s voice was deep and pleasant. “Have you found it, then?” The second voice was not as deep as the first and sounded younger. “Yes, I’ve got the information right here,” Arthur said. “Smithson will have to eat his words once he looks at these numbers. I’d wager this is Grace’s best cricket season yet.” Tiki’s heart beat a wild rhythm in her chest as she listened to their conversation, huddled under the massive desk. She couldn’t possibly explain her presence in this room to these two young men, with bread and cheddar tucked in her pockets. They would know at a glance that she was nothing more than a thief. “Probably should’ve upped the bet,” the younger voice said. He snickered. “You know what they say, Arthur, build your wealth when opportunity knocks.” “Yes, Smithson owes me after the beating I took in cards the other night. Speaking of that, Leo,” Arthur said, “I think Isabelle Cavendish considers you an opportunity.”

267 Leo’s voice answered just above her head and Tiki jumped in surprise. She had to bite her lip not to gasp out loud when she spied the toes of two black boots only a few feet from her shoulder. “At least Isabelle is interesting. And pretty. Doesn’t she look breathtaking tonight? So many of these young women can hardly carry on a decent conversation, what with their incessant giggling and whatnot. Why is the female species so dreadfully boring, I wonder?” Arthur laughed. “Maybe you should try talking about something besides horses and hunting. What is it about Isabelle, besides her looks that you find so fascinating, then?” Tiki heard a soft pop! and then the clink of crystal. “She was asking me about one of Mother’s rings tonight. You know the one.” There was a pause and then a soft sigh. “I do love champagne.” “What ring?” Arthur sounded like he had moved closer. “The one Mother has hidden, with the red stone,” Leo said. There was a rustling sound. “This one.” There was a long moment of silence. “Is that the ring of the truce?” Arthur’s voice was hushed. “Where did you get that?” “I took it from Mother’s strongbox earlier today,” Leo said. “Does she know?” Leo snorted. “What do you think I am, a complete fool?” “What are you two doing down here?” The strident tone of an older woman interrupted their conversation.

268 “Oh, hello, Mother,” Arthur replied smoothly. “Just came down to get the paper to show Charlie Smithson something.” Papers rattled as if to emphasize his point. “And Leo? What is your excuse?” The sound of skirts swishing moved closer. “You both belong upstairs in the ballroom with your guests. And what’s that in your hand, Leo?” “Just a glass of champagne, Mother,” the younger voice replied. Something dropped down into the darkness underneath the desk. He sighed. “I thought I’d take a break from the party.” He took several steps away from the desk, but remained close enough that Tiki could still spy the black heels of his boots. “I need a breather every once in awhile from all the attention.” “Yes, well, the attention serves a purpose,” the woman said. “There are alliances to be forged. Stop spending so much time with Isabelle Cavendish. You’ve known her all your life. Spend some time with that young Duchess from Russia – what’s her name? Maria? “Grand Duchess Maria Alexandrovna.” Arthur said. “Yes, that’s the one.” “She looks like a horse.” Leo said. “Well, you love horses, so you should find her quite appealing.” Fingers snapped. “Come along, then, both of you. Our guests expect to have the opportunity to see and talk with you tonight,” the woman said, “and many have traveled a great distance to be here.” “Yes, we’ll be right up,” Arthur said. “I just wanted to…” “Now.” Her tone made it clear there would be no further negotiation.

269 There was just a split-second of silence before the whisper of boots moved across the carpet. “Brilliant idea, Mother.” Leo’s voice light and pleasant. “Can we escort you upstairs?” “Thank you, dear, that would be lovely. I plan to return to …” The woman’s voice faded as they left the room and the door snapped shut. After several long minutes, Tiki released her breath and relaxed against the thick carpet. That was close. She eyed the item that Leo had tossed under the desk. Mesmerized by its beauty, Tiki reached for the ring. It was a burnished band of rich gold, capped by an intensely red stone the color of blood that almost seemed to beckon to her. Tiki stared into the ruby red depths, turning the stone this way and that to catch the light. Something flickered and her heart caught in her throat as she peered closer. Deep within the heart of the stone it looked like flames burned as though lit by a fire. She crawled out from under the desk and tilted the ring under a lamp on the desk. How could there be flames inside a ring? A tiny bit of writing inside the band caught Tiki’s eye. Na síochána, aontaímid: For the sake of peace, we agree. Tiki murmured the words aloud to herself. She held the ring up again and watched the flames within the stone flicker and dance. It was breathtaking. She couldn’t look away.

270 She slid the ring on, her finger tingling as though the fire in the ring warmed her skin. She held her hand out to admire the beauty of the stone, the flames winking in its depths as if sending her a secret message. Tiki gave a furtive glance around the room before sliding the ring off her finger and into her pocket. She had never stolen something just for herself before. She had only stolen to survive. But she had to have this ring. “They’ll probably never even notice the ring’s gone missing,” she whispered, trying to convince herself. A clock on one of the bookshelves chimed twelve times. Midnight. She needed to get back to Charing Cross. The others would be worried. She hurried to the back wall and eased the door open a crack to peer into the hallway. There was no one in sight. She rushed down the dim corridor, keeping to her toes, trying to minimize the sound of her boots. As she wound her way through the maze of halls the din from the kitchen became louder. Pans clanking and a cobble of voices talking; kitchen maids and the low tones of a man. Above it all the shouts of the cook could be heard. Tiki slowed as she approached the door. Stealthily she leaned forward and peered around the door jamb. The cook and her helpers were busy: chopping, stirring, steaming, kneading. A thin, balding man in a red coat leaned against the wall of the alcove that held the flour. His back partially blocked the door. “A thief in the kitchens? Are you sure Cookie wasn’t samplin’ the wine again?” he said. “Now don’t you start in on that, Angus,” the cook called over her shoulder from where she stood at the great stove. “I’ve heard just about enough out of you.”

271 No one was looking in Tiki’s direction. Now was her chance. She hurried down the hall to the exterior door and skidded into the cold night. Without looking back she dashed for the shadows under the trees. The fog had lifted and she could see carriages stretched in a queue around the corner, lined up awaiting the return of the partygoers. She didn’t dare try to catch a ride from here. Staying deep in the shadows, she ran across the street toward what looked to be a park, and disappeared into the darkness. When she was a safe distance away, Tiki dug into the pocket of her trousers and pulled out the ring. By the light of the moon she could see the flames embedded deep in the stone flicker and glow, like the embers of a fire still breathing with life. A strange yearning pulled at her. She slid the band back on her finger, turning and twisting the ring to watch the play of light. The piece of jewelry had to be worth a fortune. Could she take it home with her and fence it? No. She didn’t dare. If caught with the ring in her possession, she’d be thrown into Newgate Prison to rot until the end of time. She needed some time to think, to plan. Tiki ran alongside a lake until she came to the base of a stately old elm tree, its dark shadow looming over the other trees under the patchwork light of the cloudshrouded moon. She grabbed a branch and swung herself up on a limb. Perched in the crotch of the tree, she ran her hands over the spongy moss-laden trunk until she found a rotted out hole where an old branch had fallen away.

272 The ring would be safe here for a few days. No one would think to look in this old tree. She would leave it just until she made up her mind what she was going to do with the thing. She tore a piece off the bottom of her ragged trousers and reluctantly pulled the ring from her finger. Tiki carefully wrapped it in the fabric. Then, with tentative fingers, she reached into the hole and tucked the bundle into the crevice, covering it with several chunks of moss. Satisfied the ring was safely hidden, Tiki swung down from the branch and landed in the thicket. She brushed off her trousers and smiled to herself before turning to gaze back across the lake toward the grand mansion. Though the trees eclipsed part of her view, from this distance she could see the building lit up like Big Ben. Her smile faded as cold fingers wrapped around her heart. She recognized that familiar silhouette. It was Buckingham Palace. She recalled the names of the young men who had been in the library with her. Leo… Prince Leopold? And Prince Arthur? And the older woman….Mother… Oh bloody hell. She’d just stolen the Queen’s ring.

273 Chapter Three

Tiki pushed aside the board hanging from a single nail and slipped into the abandoned clockmaker’s shop that adjoined Charing Cross railway station. The milky light from the railway station drifted in through the three arched windows that lined the common wall between the station and the room they called home. Positioned above their makeshift door, the windows let in just enough illumination that she could see their shadowy figures of her small family of orphans. “Tiki!” Toots scrambled across the room and threw his arms around her. “We thought you’d been snatched by the Bobbies.” “Or someone had caught your hand in their pocket.” Worry made Fiona’s voice softer than usual. “An’ hauled you away for good.” “Everything okay, Tiki?” Shamus stood, a tall, thin shadow in the dim light. “Yes, not to worry,” Tiki said. She wrapped her arms around Toots’ thin shoulders. “I just hopped a boot and fell asleep.” “You fell asleep on the back of a carriage?” Fiona asked. She was snuggled in a pile of ragged blankets on one side of the small box stove, which created enough heat to keep the room bearable in winter, if they could find the coal to fill it. “In this weather? It’s freezing out there.” “I was tired,” Tiki replied. A match sizzled to life as Shamus lit a candle; the small flame cast wavering shadows against the wall as the wick ignited. Shamus’ blonde hair glowed yellow in the candlelight.

274 Rumpled blankets and tattered pieces of clothing stretched on both sides of the box stove, divided into boy’s and girl’s sleeping areas. In the middle of the long room an upturned crate covered with a plank of wood served as their table. Tiki made her way toward the two rickety chairs they’d scavenged from a burned out flat in Drury Lane. “I’m home now though, so let’s eat.” With a flourish she pulled the loaf of bread and chunk of cheddar from her pockets and placed them on the wooden surface. “Cheddar,” Toots cried. He skittered across the floor, nearly tripping in his hurry. “Where’d you get that, Teek?” “Oh, had a bit of luck on my way home.” “I am so hungry.” Fiona pushed aside her covers and joined Toots at the table. “We didn’t have any luck today.” She tore a chunk of the bread and shoved it in her mouth until her cheeks bulged. “How’s Clara?” Tiki asked. She freed her own long dark braid from inside her jacket and began to unweave the strands, anxious to massage the tension from the back of her head. As if in response to her question a deep gurgling cough rose from a small lump next to where Fiona had sat huddled. The cough ended in a raspy sigh. Tiki turned toward the sound. “She sounds worse.” “Ay, she’s been coughing a mite more,” Shamus agreed. Six months ago Tiki had stumbled over the little girl curled up in a pile of trash on secluded Craven Street outside Charing Cross. She had taken her home and cared for her but for weeks she wasn’t sure the little girl would live. In the ensuing months Tiki had

275 worked hard to nurse Clara back to health. Not more than four years old, the frail child had continued to improve until three weeks ago when the cough had started again. Tiki moved across the room, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Deeply asleep, Clara clutched Doggie close to her face. A pang of love pierced Tiki’s chest with such fierceness that it made her breath catch. She would need to find some medicine for Clara in the morning. She couldn’t bear the thought of the little girl being so sick again. Gently, she pulled a blanket up over Clara’s shoulders, resting the back of her fingers along the little child’s soft cheek for a moment. She felt warm enough but the congestion in her chest made her breathing labored. Tiki sank down in one of the chairs as Shamus tore off a hunk of cheese and sat on the floor beside her, one arm wrapped around his knees. “I was so hungry,” Toots said in between bites, “that my stomach was knockin’ on my back bone. An’ the Bobbies were as thick as flies on fish today.” Even in the dim shadows his red hair seemed bright and his pale face was covered with freckles. He took a bite of bread, chewing with his mouth open. “That’s why I thought they’d caught you. They were everywhere.” “And it was so bloody cold,” Fiona said, “that Shamus made me stay home with Clara. And Mr. Binder wanted him to come in and talk about the bakery wagon today so he and Toots only got to work the streets for a few hours. They came back and said the crowds were too light to even pick a pocket.” Tiki looked over at Shamus. “What did Mr. Binder want?” Shamus shrugged. “Wanted to know if I could drive a carriage. Said maybe I could fill in when his regular driver doesn’t show up.”

276 Tiki smiled. “That would be fantastic, Shamus.” “Yeah, if he pays me.” “Is the pot empty again?” The pot was where they stored the extra coins they were able to steal. Their stash was hidden beneath a floorboard in the far corner of the room and to be used for food on those days when they couldn’t steal enough for a meal or pick a pocket. “‘Fraid so.” Shamus nodded. Tiki pulled the coins that she’d collected at the World’s End from her pocket. They made a soft clinking noise as she laid them on the table, the silver, copper and bronze gleaming in the light of the candle. “There was a pretty good crowd at the pub tonight, but I had a close call with MacGregor.” “You didn’t try to pick MacGregor’s pocket, did you?” Toots gasped. “MacGregor is vicious when he drinks,” Fiona said in a quiet voice. “I saw him beat a woman once.” “I didn’t try.” Tiki grinned proudly. “I did it.” She held up two gold quid. “But he chased me out of the pub and I hopped a carriage that took the long way home. That’s why I fell asleep.” She nodded at the coins. “We can use some of this for food but I’m going to go to the apothecary up in Leicester Square first thing in the morning and get something for Clara’s cough.” She nodded towards the sleeping little girl. “She doesn’t sound very good.” “She waited up a long time for you to come home, Teek.” Fiona’s eyebrows drew down in a worried expression. “But she was so tired she finally fell asleep.”

277 “Well, that’s what we all should be doing,” Tiki said. “It’s got to be close to two in the morning.” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “Toots, get back to bed.” Toots scrambled across the hard floor to his pile of blankets on the opposite side of the stove from where Fiona had been huddled. “We can talk in the morning.” Fiona followed the boy and crawled back into her own ragged pile of blankets, pulling them over her shoulders with a shiver. Tiki waited for Toots to settle in. It wasn’t long before snores emitted from his corner of the room. “I’ve done something,” she said in a low voice. “What is it this time?” Shamus asked. “Or should I ask who? Did you find another orphan to live with us?” A year ago, she’d found Toots in Trafalgar Square. Thin as a rail, his mother had kicked him out of the house because she had too many other children to feed and care for. But even though he’d been starving, he’d offered to share half his apple with her. She’d brought him home to Charing Cross that day. “And what if I did?” Tiki said. “I’m thankful every day that you and Fiona had it in your hearts to help me.” After her parent’s death Tiki had been sent to live with her mother’s sister, Aunt Trudy, and her aunt’s banker husband. It had only been a matter of months before it became evident to Tiki that the well-to-do veneer of her uncle’s position hid a dark side to his personality. Her skin crawled with fear as she thought of him watching her each night as he drank his whiskey. There was a lust in his eyes that didn’t need words to define. Even now she could hear the creak of the floorboards as his uneven footsteps staggered down the hallway, searching for her.

278 She had fled from their house in fear for her own safety, intending to seek shelter with Mrs. Adelaide Bishop, a dear friend of her mother’s. But upon her unannounced arrival on Mrs. Bishop’s stoop she learned the woman had also died of the fever two weeks prior. Unsure of where to go, but knowing she had to hide from her uncle, Tiki had gone to King’s Cross railway station. There, the small valise she had taken with her from her uncle’s was stolen and she found herself alone, struggling daily to find a way to fill her stomach. That’s where she’d met Fiona. The girl, only a year younger than Tiki, had shown her how to spot a mark and how to bump their arm so they didn’t realize their pockets were being picked. A few weeks later, Fiona took Tiki to meet her cousin Shamus and showed her the hidden little room they shared in Charing Cross. “But it’s not a who this time.” Tiki lowered her voice. “I took something.” “Oh,” Shamus perked up. “Something good?” Tiki nodded at Shamus through the dim light. “Yes, it’s something completely brilliant if I don’t get caught.” She hesitated, then added, “This could be our way out of Charing Cross, Shamus. Into a real home.” He tilted his head at her and Tiki could make out the frown on his face. “Blimey, Teek, what’d you do? Steal the crown jewels?” His teeth flashed as he grinned at his own joke. “Next best thing,” Tiki whispered. A thrill of excitement shot through her as she waited for his reaction. “Belongs to Queen Vic, herself.” Shamus’ brow drew down in a surprised frown. “Are you serious?”

279 There was a rustle of cloth as Fiona wrapped a dirty blanket around her shoulders and crept closer. “I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered. She turned big eyes up to Tiki. “What’d you steal, Teek?” Tiki recounted her tale of hitching a ride on the boot and waking up at an unknown mansion. “I didn’t realize it at the time,” she whispered, “but the blokes in the room with me were Prince Arthur and Prince Leo and for a minute the Queen herself was there.” Tiki giggled and her voice danced with excitement now that she was out of danger. The story sounded fantastical even to her ears. “So you took the ring?” Shamus asked. He spoke with a mixture of disbelief and awe. “And nobody saw you? Nobody knew you were there?” “Well, a couple maids and a little boy saw me snitch the bread, but nobody saw me take the ring.” She grinned at him. “I was like a bloody ghost.” “We ate the Queen’s bread?” Fiona breathed. “An’ what’d you do with it?” Shamus said. “I hid it. That way we’ll be safe until we can figure out a way to sell the thing.” She looked over at both of them through the flickering candlelight. “That is, if we can figure out how to sell it without getting caught.” “I’ve heard Rieker talk of a bloke over in Cheapside who buys things,” Shamus said. Tiki grabbed his arm. “No. Not Rieker.” “Why not?” Fiona asked. “He’s practically a legend. I heard he knows everyone.” She gave Tiki a lopsided grin. “Plus, he’s handsome.”

280 “I don’t know…there’s just something…” Tiki hesitated. “I don’t trust him. He’s been around too much, lately. He was even up at The World’s End tonight. It’s like he’s following me.” Her voice wavered with concern. “I’m afraid he wants part of our territory.” “The Queen’s ring,” Shamus repeated with a dreamy air. “How much do you suppose the thing’s worth?” “I don’t know,” Tiki replied. “Maybe a hundred quid, eh? Enough to rent a nice flat over in Kensington and put some food in the cupboards, anyway.” She nudged Shamus with her elbow and grinned. “We could pretend to be brothers and sisters. I could be a governess and Fi can be a seamstress. Toots will go to school and you could work for Mr. Binder. We’ll be a family, just like we’ve always planned.” Tiki gazed around the familiar room as her words seemed to echo in her ears. They’d talk about leaving Charing Cross before, never really believing it could happen, but why couldn’t their dream come true? She’d stolen something that would let them escape their daily struggle to survive. Now all she needed to was sell the ring.

281

Creating a New World of Magic and Mystery with Imager

By L.E. Modesitt, Jr.

A combination of steampunk, political, semi-thriller, and romantic fantasy? That’s about as close a one-line description as is possible to the books of the Imager Portfolio, which opens with Imager. Rhenn is a journeyman portraiturist on his way to becoming a master painter who discovers, with fatal consequences, that he is one of the few imagers in the city of L’Excelsis, capital of the continent nation of Solidar. Imagers are feared, valued, and vulnerable, and must live separately on the river isle in the middle of the river that divides the capital city, while providing services and skills to the ruling Council. As a late-developing imager, Rhenn finds himself under the tutelage of one of the most powerful imagers—who forces the equivalent of a university education on Rhenn in months, before dispatching him to serve as a security assistant to the Council. Along the way, Rhenn makes enemies he shouldn’t, falls in love with the beautiful daughter of a family with connections in the underworld, and becomes a target for both the enemies of Solidar and a powerful High Holder. One of the challenges of writing the Imager Portfolio was to realistically depict a different and sophisticated culture of a capital city. In my own experience of close to twenty years in politics, most of it in Washington, D.C., I found that there was a minimal amount of actual violence, but an enormous amount of pressure and indifference, great superficial charm, and continual indirect jockeying for power, with very little real

282 concern for people as people. I’ve attempted to convey some of those dynamics, as they are expressed in a steam-and-coal-powered society that has the added benefit of some “imaging” magic. One of the key elements that illustrates the difference of this fantasysteampunk culture is the religion. Because the deity cannot be named, there’s an underlying cultural skepticism and worry about emphasis on the importance of names, memorials, and the like, as well as a distrust of other cultures that exalt names and fame. Because Rhenn has come to the Collegium Imago in his early twenties, having just begun to achieve a certain recognition as a portrait painter, he’s neither a youth learning the ropes nor a person of fully defined talents. Instead, he is essentially an adult faced with a mandatory career change, and one that could be fatal if he fails to make the transition from portraiturist to imager.

Copyright © 2011 by L.E. Modesitt, Jr.

283

Imager

By L.E. Modesitt, Jr.

Copyright © 2009 by L.E. Modesitt, Jr.

L.E. Modesitt, Jr. is the New York Times bestselling author of The Saga of Recluce. He lives in Cedar City, Utah.

284 Chapter One

743 A.L. Commerce weighs value, yet such weight is but an image, and, as such, is an illusion. The bell announcing dinner rang twice, just twice, and no more, for it never did. Rousel leapt up from his table desk in the sitting room that adjoined our bedchambers, disarraying the stack of papers that represented a composition doubtless due in the morning. “I’m starved.” “You’re not. You’re merely hungry,” I pointed out, carefully placing a paperweight over the work on my table desk. “ ‘Starved’ means great physical deprivation and lack of nourishment. We don’t suffer either.” “I feel starved. Stop being such a pedant, Rhenn.” The heels of his shoes clattered on the back stairs leading down to the pantry off the dining chamber. Two weeks ago, Rousel couldn’t even have pronounced “pedant,” but he’d heard Master Sesiphus use it, and now he applied it to me as often as he could. Younger brothers were worse than vermin, because one could squash vermin and then bathe, something one could not do with younger brothers. With some fortune, since Father would really have preferred that I follow him as a factor but had acknowledged that I had little interest, I’d be out of the house before Culthyn was old enough to leave the nursery and eat with us. As for Khethila, she was almost old enough, but she was quiet and thoughtful. She liked it when I read to her, even things like my history assignments about

285 people like Rex Regis or Rex Defou. Rousel had never liked my reading to him, but then, he’d never much cared for anything I did. By the time I reached the dining chamber, Father was walking through the archway from the parlor where he always had a single goblet of red wine—usually Dhuensa—before dinner. Mother was standing behind the chair at the other end of the oval table. I slipped behind my chair, on Father’s right. Rousel grinned at me, then cleared his face. “Promptness! That’s what I like. A time and a place for everything, and everything in its time and place.” Father cleared his throat, then set his near-empty goblet on the table and placed his hands on the back of the armed chair that was his. “For the grace and warmth from above, for the bounty of the earth below, for all the grace of the world and beyond, for your justice, and for your manifold and great mercies, we offer our thanks and gratitude, both now and evermore, in the spirit of that which cannot be named or imaged.” “In peace and harmony,” we all chorused, although I had my doubts about the presence and viability of either, even in L’Excelsis, crown city and capital of Solidar. Father settled into his chair at the end of the table with a contented sigh, and a glance at Mother. “Thank you, dear. Roast lamb, one of my favorites, and you had Riesela fix it just the way I prefer it.” If Mother had told the cook to fix lamb any other way, we all would have been treated to a long lecture on the glories of crisped roast lamb and the inadequacies of other preparations.

286 After pouring a heavier red wine into his goblet and then into Mother’s, Father placed the carafe before me. I took about a third of a goblet, because that was what he’d declared as appropriate for me, and poured a quarter for Rousel. When Father finished carving and serving, Mother passed the rice casserole and the pickled beets. I took as little as I could of the beets. “How was your day, dear?” asked Mother. “Oh . . . the same as any other, I suppose. The Phlanysh wool is softer than last year, and that means that Wurys will complain. Last year he said it was too stringy and tough, and that he’d have to interweave with the Norinygan . . . and the finished Extelan gray is too light . . . But then he’s half Pharsi, and they quibble about everything.” Mother nodded. “They’re different. They work hard. You can’t complain about that, but they’re not our type.” “No, they’re not, but he does pay in gold, and that means I have to listen.” I managed to choke down the beets while Father offered another discourse on wool and the patterned weaving looms, and the shortcomings of those from a Pharsi background. I wasn’t about to mention that the prettiest and brightest girl at the grammaire was Remaya, and she was Pharsi. Abruptly, he looked at me. “You don’t seem terribly interested in what feeds you, Rhennthyl.” “Sir . . . I was listening closely. You were pointing out that, while the pattern blocks used by the new weaving machinery produced a tighter thread weave, the women loom tenders have gotten more careless and that means that spoilage is up, which increases costs—”

287 “Enough. I know you listen, but I have great doubts that you care, or even appreciate what brings in the golds for this house hold. At times, I wonder if you don’t listen to the secret whispers of the Namer.” “Chenkyr . . .” cautioned Mother. Father sighed as only he could sigh. “Enough of that. What did you learn of interest at grammaire today?” It wasn’t so much what I’d learned as what I’d been thinking about. “Father . . . lead is heavier than copper or silver. It’s even heavier than gold, but it’s cheaper. I thought you said that we used copper, silver, and gold for coins because they were heavier and harder for evil imagers to counterfeit.” “That’s what I mean, Rhennthyl.” He sighed even more loudly. “You ask a question like that, but when I ask you to help in the counting house, you can’t be bothered to work out the cost of an extra tariff of a copper . . . or work out the costs for guards on a summer consignment of bolts of Acoman prime wool to Nacliano. It isn’t as though you had no head for figures, but you do not care to be accurate if something doesn’t interest you. What metals the Council uses for coins matters little if one has no coins to count. No matter how much a man likes his work, there will be parts of it that are less pleasing—or even displeasing. You seem to think that everything should be pleasing or interesting. Life doesn’t oblige us in that fashion.” “Don’t be that hard on the boy, Chenkyr.” Mother’s voice was patient. “Not everyone is meant to be a factor.” “His willfulness makes an ob look flexible, Maelyna.” “Even the obdurates have their place.”

288 I couldn’t help thinking I’d rather be an obdurate than a mal. Most people were malleables of one sort or another, changing their views or opinions whenever someone roared at them, like Father. “Exactly!” exclaimed Father. “As servants to imagers and little else. I don’t want one of my sons a lackey because he won’t think about anything except what interests or pleases him. The world isn’t a kind place for inflexible stubbornness and unthinking questioning.” “How can a question be unthinking?” I wanted to know. “You have to think even to ask one.” My father’s sigh was more like a roar. Then he glared at me. “When you ask a question to which you would already know the answer if you stopped to think, or when you ask a question to which no one knows the answer. In both cases, you’re wasting your time and someone else’s.” “But how do I know when no one knows the answer if I don’t ask the question?” “Rhennthyl! There you go again. Do you want to eat cold rice in the kitchen?” “No, sir.” “Rousel,” said Father, pointedly avoiding looking in my direction, “how are you coming with your calculations and figures?” “Master Sesiphus says that I have a good head for figures. My last two examinations have been perfect.” Of course they had been. What was so hard about adding up columns of numbers that never changed? Or dividing them, or multiplying them? Rousel was more than a little careless about numbers and anything else when no one was looking or checking on him.

289 I cut several more thin morsels of the lamb. It was good, especially the edge of the meat where the fat and seasonings were all crisped together. The wine wasn’t bad, either, but it was hard to sit there and listen to Father draw out Rousel.

290

Steampunk: The Devil Wears Goggles

By Cherie Priest

Pick a genre book—any genre, any book—and the cover will probably provide a satisfactory shorthand for where it ought to be shelved. Wizards, elves, and knights? You’ve got yourself a fantasy novel. Fangs and a matte black background? Horror. And so forth. But a couple of years ago when I began working on Boneshaker, I couldn’t name many meaningful signifiers that screamed out “steampunk.” Oh there were goggles, sure—but no one seemed to have a good explanation for what the goggles were for apart from leaving a sweaty crease above your eyebrows. The delightful preponderance of Victorian garb was striking and fun, but the gas masks left me scratching my head. Gears made sense, even on top hats, I supposed. Watch chains were shiny, so, you know. Cool. However, the odd goggle-wearing, retro-dressing, hat-decorating pocket-watch toter might be mistaken for goth at a glance. In fact, my friend Jess Nevins once repeated that he’d heard steampunk is what happens when goths discover brown. While this assessment oversimplifies the matter, it’d be silly to pretend that there isn’t a great deal of overlap between the two scenes.

291 So. As an aging quasi-goth with a deep-seated interest in steampunk, I wanted to take an honest stab at the genre—giving it legs, or at least giving its stranger elements a literary excuse to complement the fashion imperative. Boneshaker began this way, as an idle exercise—a noodling experiment. But like so many projects, I had no idea when I began exactly how far it would take me…or how weird it would get. I started out with only a few concrete demands: I wanted this story to be American, and not London gas-lamp; I wanted to write about people, not about a worldsetting; but I needed for the people to be symptomatic of that world-setting. Also, I wanted zombies. The world came first. Nineteenth-century America was strange enough without any interference from yours truly, but I imagined it as if the Civil War had lingered—and the west was not incorporated, or organized. I thought of Texas, and how it might have remained a republic. I wondered how the Confederacy could’ve held on, and how the Union would’ve restructured, and what the war would’ve looked like decades down the line—when most of the men who’d started fighting it were dead, and their sons were fighting over grievances they were too young to remember firsthand. Piece by piece the Clockwork Century came together, and on that foundation I found people with stories to tell. I found former slaves and air pirates, criminal overlords and Native American princesses. I found a deranged scientist or two. And eventually I found Briar Wilkes—the widow of a madman, mother of a runaway, and daughter of a dead folk hero.

292 Boneshaker is her story. And like steampunk itself, Boneshaker is about rummaging through the wreckage of the past and finding something worth salvaging, and maybe even worth celebrating. So if you take a chance on my new book, I do hope you enjoy it. If it’s half as much fun to read as it was to write, I’ll consider the whole noodling experiment a grand success.

Copyright © 2009 by Cherie Priest

293

Boneshaker

By Cherie Priest

Copyright © 2009 by Cherie Priest

Cherie Priest is the author of Four and Twenty Blackbirds; Boneshaker, the first book in the Clockwork Century series; and several other novels. She lives in Seattle, Washington.

294 From Unlikely Episodes in Western History CHAPTER 7: Seattle’s Walled and Peculiar State Work in progress, by Hale Quarter (1880)

Unpaved, uneven trails pretended to be roads; they tied the nation’s coasts together like laces holding a boot, binding it with crossed strings and crossed fingers. And over the great river, across the plains, between the mountain passes, the settlers pushed from east to west. They trickled over the Rockies in dribs and drabs, in wagons and coaches. Or this is how it began. In California there were nuggets the size of walnuts lying on the ground—or so it was said, and truth travels slowly when rumors have wings of gold. The trickle of humanity became a magnificent flow. The glittering western shores swarmed with prospectors, pushing their luck and pushing their pans into the gravelly streams, praying for fortunes. In time, the earth grew crowded, and claims became more tenuous. Gold came out of the ground in dust so fine that the men who mined it could’ve inhaled it. In 1850 another rumor, winged and sparkling, came swiftly from the north. The Klondike, it said. Come and cut your way through the ice you find there. A fortune in gold awaits a determined enough man. The tide shifted, and looked to the northern latitudes. This meant very, very good things for the last frontier stop before the Canadian border—a backwater mill town on Puget Sound called Seattle after the native chief of the local tribes. The muddy village

295 became a tiny empire nearly overnight as explorers and prospectors paused to trade and stock up on supplies. While American legislators argued over whether or not to buy the Alaska territory, Russia hedged its bets and considered its asking price. If the land really was pocked with gold deposits, the game would absolutely change; but even if a steady supply of gold could be located, could it be retrieved? A potential vein, spotted intermittently but mostly buried beneath a hundred feet of permanent ice, would make for an ideal testing ground. In 1860, the Russians announced a contest, offering a 100,000 ruble prize to the inventor who could produce or propose a machine that could mine through ice in search of gold. And in this way, a scientific arms race began despite a budding civil war. Across the Pacific Northwest, big machines and small machines were tinkered into existence. They were tricky affairs designed to withstand bitter cold and tear through turf that was frozen diamondhard. They were powered by steam and coal, and lubricated with special solutions that protected their mechanisms from the elements. These machines were made for men to drive like stagecoaches, or designed to dig on their own, controlled by clockwork and ingenious guiding devices. But none of them were rugged enough to tackle the buried vein, and the Rus sians were on the verge of selling the land to America for a relative pittance . . . when a Seattle inventor approached them with plans for an amazing machine. It would be the greatest mining vehicle ever constructed: fifty feet long and fully mechanized, powered by compressed steam. It would boast three primary drilling and cutting heads, positioned at

296 the front of the craft; and a system of spiral shoveling devices mounted along the back and sides would scoop the bored- through ice, rocks, or earth back out of the drilling path. Carefully weighted and meticulously reinforced, this machine could drill in an almost perfect vertical or horizontal path, depending on the whims of the man in the driver’s seat. Its precision would be unprecedented, and its power would set the standard for all such devices to come. But it had not yet been built. The inventor, a man named Leviticus Blue, convinced the Russians to advance him a sum great enough to gather the parts and fund the labor on Dr. Blue’s Incredible Bone-Shaking Drill Engine. He asked for six months, and promised a public test display. Leviticus Blue took his funding, returned to his home in Seattle, and began to build the remarkable machine in his basement. Piece by piece he assembled his contraption out of sight of his fellow townsmen; and night by night the sounds of mysterious tools and instruments startled the neighbors. But eventually, and well before the six- month deadline, the inventor declared his masterpiece “complete.” What happened next remains a subject of much debate. It might have been only an accident, after all—a terrible malfunction of equipment running amuck. It may have been nothing more than confusion, or bad timing, or improper calculations. Or then again, it might have been a calculated move after all, plotted to bring down a city’s core with unprecedented violence and mercenary greed. What motivated Dr. Blue may never be known.

297 He was an avaricious man in his way, but no more so than most; and it’s possible that he wished only to take the money and run—with a bit of extra cash in his pocket to fund a larger escape. The inventor had recently married (as tongues did wag, his bride was some twentyfive years his junior), and there was much speculation that perhaps she had a hand in his decisions. Perhaps she urged his haste or she wished herself married to a richer husband. Or perhaps, as she long maintained, she knew nothing of anything. What is certain is this: On the afternoon of January 2, 1863, something appalling burst out from the basement and tore a trail of havoc from the house on Denny Hill to the central business district, and then back home again. Few witnesses agree, and fewer still were granted a glimpse of the Incredible Bone- Shaking Drill Engine. Its course took it under the earth and down the hills, gouging up the land beneath the luxurious homes of wealthy mariners and shipping magnates, under the muddy flats where sat the sprawling sawmill, and down along the corridors, cellars, and storage rooms of general stores, ladies’ notions shops, apothecaries, and yes . . . the banks. Four of the major ones, where they were lined up in a row—all four of those banks were ravaged as their foundations were ground into mulch. Their walls rattled, buckled, and fell. Their floors collapsed downward in a V-shaped implosion as their bottom buttresses dropped away, and then the space was partially filled with the toppling roofs. And these four banks held three million dollars or better between them, accumulated from the California miners cashing in their nuggets and heading north in search of more.

298 Scores of innocent bystanders were killed indoors as they stood in line for deposits or withdrawals. Many more died outside on the street, crushed by the leaning, trembling walls as they gave up their mortar and crashed heavily down. Citizens clamored for safety, but where could it be found? The earth itself opened up and swallowed them, here and there where the Drill Engine’s tunnel was too shallow to maintain even the thinnest crust of land. The quaking, rolling street flung itself like a rug being flapped before beaten clean. It moved hard from side to side, and in waves. And wherever the machine had gone, there came the sounds of crumbling and boring from the underground passages left by its passing. To call the scene a disaster does it a terrific disser vice. The final death toll was never fully calculated, for heaven only knew how many bodies might lie wedged in the rubble. And alas, there was no time for excavation. For after Dr. Blue lodged his machine back beneath his own home, and after the wails of the injured were tended, and the first of the angry questions were being shouted from the remaining rooftops, a second wave of horror would come to afflict the city. It was difficult for Seattle’s residents to conclude that this second wave was unrelated to the first wave, but the details of their suspicions have never been explained to anyone’s collective satisfaction. Only the observable facts can be recorded now, and perhaps in time a future analyst may provide a better answer than can presently be guessed at. This much is known: In the aftermath of the Drill Engine’s astonishing trail of destruction, a peculiar illness afflicted the reconstruction workers nearest the wreckage of the bank blocks. By all reports this illness was eventually traced to the Drill Engine

299 tunnels, and to a gas which came from them. At first, this gas appeared odorless and colorless, but over time it built up to such an extent that it could be discerned by the human eye, if spied through a bit of polarized glass. Through trial and error, a few particulars of the gas were determined. It was a thick, slow- moving substance that killed by contamination, and it could be generally halted or stilled by simple barriers. Temporary stopgap mea sures cropped up across the city as an evacuation was organized. Tents were disassembled and treated with pitch in order to form makeshift walls. As these barriers failed one ring at a time, and as thousands more of the city’s inhabitants fell fatally ill, sterner mea sures were called for. Hasty plans were drawn up and enacted, and within one year from the incident with Dr. Blue’s Incredible Bone- Shaking Drill Engine, the entire downtown area was surrounded by an immense brick, mortar, and stone wall. The wall stands approximately two hundred feet high—depending on the city’s diverse geographic constraints—and it averages a width of fifteen to twenty feet. It wholly encircles the damaged blocks, containing an area of nearly two square miles. Truly, it is a marvel of engineering. However, within this wall the city spoils, utterly dead except for the rats and crows that are rumored to be there. The gas which still seeps from the ground ruins everything it touches. What once was a bustling metropolis is now a ghost town, surrounded by the surviving and resettled population. These people are fugitives from

300 their hometown, and although many of them relocated north to Vancouver, or south to Tacoma or Portland, a significant number have stayed close to the wall. They live on the mudflats and up against the hills, in a sprawling nontown most often called the Outskirts; and there, they have begun their lives anew.

301 One

She saw him, and she stopped a few feet from the stairs. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman in the dull black overcoat didn’t blink and didn’t move. “What do you want?” He’d prepared a speech, but he couldn’t remember it. “To talk. To you. I want to talk to you.” Briar Wilkes closed her eyes hard. When she opened them again, she asked, “Is it about Zeke? What’s he done now?” “No, no, it’s not about him,” he insisted. “Ma’am, I was hoping we could talk about your father.” Her shoulders lost their stiff, defensive right angles, and she shook her head. “That figures. I swear to God, all the men in my life, they . . .” She stopped herself. And then she said, “My father was a tyrant, and everyone he loved was afraid of him. Is that what you want to hear?” He held his position while she climbed the eleven crooked stairs that led the way to her home, and to him. When she reached the narrow porch he asked, “Is it true?” “More true than not.” She stood before him with her fingers wrapped around a ring of keys. The top of her head was level with his chin. Her keys were aimed at his waist, he thought, until he realized he was standing in front of the door. He shuffled out of her way.

302 “How long have you been waiting for me?” she asked. He strongly considered lying, but she pinned him to the wall with her stare. “Several hours. I wanted to be here when you got home.” The door clacked, clicked, and scooted inward. “I took an extra shift at the ‘works. You could’ve come back later.” “Please, ma’am. May I come inside?” She shrugged, but she didn’t say no, and she didn’t close him out in the cold, so he followed behind her, shutting the door and standing beside it while Briar found a lamp and lit it. She carried the lamp to the fireplace, where the logs had burned down cold. Beside the mantle there was a poker and a set of bellows, and a flat iron basket with a cache of split logs. She jabbed the poker against the charred lumps and found a few live coals lingering at the bottom. With gentle encouragement, a handful of kindling, and two more lengths of wood, a slow flame caught and held. One arm at a time, Briar pried herself out of the overcoat and left it hanging on a peg. Without the coat, her body had a lean look to it—as if she worked too long, and ate too little or too poorly. Her gloves and tall brown boots were caked with the filth of the plant, and she was wearing pants like a man. Her long, dark hair was piled up and back, but two shifts of labor had picked it apart and heavy strands had scattered, escaping the combs she’d used to hold it all aloft. She was thirty- five, and she did not look a minute younger.

303 In front of the growing, glowing fire there was a large and ancient leather chair. Briar dropped herself into it. “Tell me, Mr. . . . I’m sorry. You didn’t say your name.” “Hale. Hale Quarter. And I must say, it’s an honor to meet you.”For a moment he thought she was going to laugh, but she didn’t. She reached over to a small table beside the chair and retrieved a pouch. “All right, Hale Quarter. Tell me. Why did you wait outside so long in this bitter weather?” From within the pouch she picked a small piece of paper and a large pinch of tobacco. She worked the two together until she had a cigarette, and she used the lamp’s flame to coax the cigarette alight. He’d gotten this far by telling the truth, so he risked another confession. “I came when I knew you wouldn’t be home. Someone told me that if I knocked, you’d shoot through the peephole.” She nodded, and pressed the back of her head against the leather. “I’ve heard that story, too. It doesn’t keep nearly as many folks away as you might expect.” He couldn’t tell if she was serious, or if her response was a denial. “Then I thank you double, for not shooting me and for letting me come inside.” “You’re welcome.” “May I . . . may I take a seat? Would that be all right?” “Suit yourself, but you won’t be here long,” she predicted. “You don’t want to talk?”

304 “I don’t want to talk about Maynard, no. I don’t have any answers about anything that happened to him. Nobody does. But you can ask what ever you want. And you can take your leave when I get tired of you, or when you get bored with all the ways I can say ‘I don’t know’—whichever comes first.” Encouraged, he reached for a tall- backed wooden chair and dragged it forward, putting his body directly into her line of sight. His notebook folded open to reveal an unlined sheet with a few small words scribbled at the top. While he was getting situated, she asked him, “Why do you want to know about Maynard? Why now? He’s been dead for fifteen years. Nearly sixteen.” “Why not now?” Hale scanned his previous page of notes, and settled down with his pencil hovering over the next blank section. “But to answer you more directly, I’m writing a book.” “Another book?” she said, and it sounded sharp and fast. “Not a sensational piece,” he was careful to clarify. “I want to write a proper biography of Maynard Wilkes, because I believe he’s been done a great disservice. Don’t you agree?” “No, I don’t agree. He got exactly what he should have expected. He spent thirty years working hard, for nothing, and he was treated disgracefully by the city he served.” She fiddled with the half- smoked wand of tobacco. “He allowed it. And I hated him for it.” “But your father believed in the law.” She almost snapped at him. “So does every criminal.”

305 Hale perked. “Then you do think he was a criminal?” One more hard draw on the cigarette came and went, and then she said, “Don’t twist my words. But you’re right. He believed in the law. There were times I wasn’t sure he believed in anything else, but yes. He believed in that.” Spits and sparks from the fireplace filled the short silence that fell between them. Finally, Hale said, “I’m trying to get it right, ma’am. That’s all. I think there was more to it than a jailbreak—” “Why?” she interrupted. “Why do you think he did it? Which theory do you want to write your book about, Mr. Quarter?” He hesitated, because he didn’t know what to think, not yet. He gambled on the theory that he hoped Briar would find least offensive. “I think he was doing what he thought was right. But I really want to know what you think. Maynard raised you alone, didn’t he? You must’ve known him better than anyone.” Her face stayed a little too carefully blank. “You’d be surprised. We weren’t that close.” “But your mother died—” “When I was born, that’s right. He was the only parent I ever had, and he wasn’t much of one. He didn’t know what to do with a daughter any more than I know what to do with a map of Spain.” Hale sensed a brick wall, so he backed up and tried another way around, and into her good graces. His eyes scanned the smallish room with its solid and

306 unadorned furniture, and its clean but battered floors. He noted the corridor that led to the back side of the house. And from his seat, he could see that all four doors at the end of it were closed. “You grew up here, didn’t you? In this house?” he pretended to guess. She didn’t soften. “Everybody knows that.” “They brought him back here, though. One of the boys from the prison break, and his brother—they brought him here and tried to save him. A doctor was sent for, but . . .” Briar retrieved the dangled thread of conversation and pulled it. “But he’d inhaled too much of the Blight. He was dead before the doctor ever got the message, and I swear”—she flicked a fingertip’s worth of ash into the fire—”it’s just as well. Can you imagine what would’ve happened to him, if he’d lived? Tried for treason, or gross insubordination at least. Jailed, at the minimum. Shot, at the worst. My father and I had our disagreements, but I wouldn’t have wished that upon him. It’s just as well,” she said again, and she stared into the fire. Hale spent a few seconds trying to assemble a response. At last he said, “Did you get to see him, before he died? I know you were one of the last to leave Seattle—and I know you came here. Did you see him, one last time?” “I saw him.” She nodded. “He was lying alone in that back room, on his bed, under a sheet that was soaked with the vomit that finally choked him to death. The doctor wasn’t here, and as far as I know, he never did come. I don’t know if you could even find one, in those days, in the middle of the evacuation.” “So, he was alone? Dead, in this house?”

307 “He was alone,” she confirmed. “The front door was broken, but closed. Someone had left him on the bed, laid out with respect, I do remember that. Someone had covered him with a sheet, and left his rifle on the bed beside him with his badge. But he was dead, and he stayed dead. The Blight didn’t start him walking again, so thank God for small things, I suppose.” Hale jotted it all down, mumbling encouraging sounds as his pencil skipped across the paper. “Do you think the prisoners did that?” “You do,” she said. It wasn’t quite an accusation. “I suspect as much,” he replied, but he was giddily certain of it. The prison- boy’s brother had told him they’d left Maynard’s place clean, and they didn’t take a thing. He’d said they’d laid him out on the bed, his face covered up. These were details that no one else had ever mentioned, not in all the speculation or investigation into the Great Blight Jailbreak. And there had been plenty of it over the years. “And then . . . ,” he tried to prompt her. “I dragged him out back and buried him under the tree, beside his old dog. A couple days later, two city officers came out and dug him back up again.” “To make sure?” She grunted. “To make sure he hadn’t skipped town and gone back east; to make sure the Blight hadn’t started him moving again; to make sure I’d put him where I said I did. Take your pick.” He finished chasing her words with his pencil and raised his eyes. “What you just said, about the Blight. Did they know, so soon, about what it could do?”

308 “They knew. They figured it out real quick. Not all the Blight- dead started moving, but the ones who did climbed up and went prowling pretty fast, within a few days. But mostly, people wanted to make sure Maynard hadn’t gotten away with anything. And when they were satisfied that he was out of their reach, they dumped him back here. They didn’t even bury him again. They just left him out there by the tree. I had to put him in the ground twice.” Hale’s pencil and his chin hung over the paper. “I’m sorry, did you say—do you mean . . . ?” “Don’t look so shocked.” She shifted in the chair and the leather tugged squeakily at her skin. “At least they didn’t fill in the hole, the first time. The second time was a lot faster. Let me ask you a question, Mr. Quarter.” “Hale, please.” “Hale, as you like. Tell me, how old were you when the Blight came calling?” His pencil was shuddering, so he placed it flat against the notebook and answered her. “I was almost six.” “That’s about what I figured. So you were a little thing, then. You don’t even remember it, do you—what it was like before the wall?” He turned his head back and forth; no, he didn’t. Not really. “But I remember the wall, when it first went up. I remember watching it rise, foot by foot, around the contaminated blocks. All two hundred feet of it, all the way around the evacuated neighborhoods.” “I remember it, too. I watched it from here. You could see it from that back window, by the kitchen.” She waved her hand toward the stove, and a small rectangular

309 portal behind it. “All day and all night for seven months, two weeks, and three days they worked to build that wall.” “That’s very precise. Do you always keep count of such things?” “No,” she said. “But it’s easy to remember. They finished construction on the day my son was born. I used to wonder if he didn’t miss it, all the noise from the workers. It was all he ever heard, while I was carrying him—the swinging of the hammers, the pounding of the masons’ chisels. As soon as the poor child arrived, the world fell silent.” Something occurred to her, and she sat up straight. The chair hissed. She glanced at the door. “Speaking of the boy, it’s getting late. Where’s he gotten off to, I wonder? He’s usually home by now.” She corrected herself. “He’s often home by now, and it’s damnably cold out there.” Hale settled against the stiff wood back of his borrowed seat. “It’s a shame he never got to meet his grandfather. I’m sure Maynard would’ve been proud.” Briar leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. She put her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. She straightened herself and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm. She peeled off her gloves and dropped them onto the squat, round table between the chair and the fireplace. “You don’t know? But there aren’t any other grandchildren, are there? He had no other children, did he?” “Not as far as I know, but I guess there’s no telling.” She leaned forward and began to unlace her boots. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” she said. “I’ve been wearing these since six o’clock this morning.”

310 “No, no, don’t mind me,” he said, and kept his eyes on the fire. “I’m sorry. I know I’m intruding.” “You are intruding, but I let you in, so the fault is mine.” One boot came free of her foot with a sucking pop. She went to work on the other one. “And I don’t know if Maynard would’ve cared much for Zeke, or vice versa. They’re not the same kind.” “Is Zeke . . .” Hale was tiptoeing toward dangerous ground, and he knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Too much like his father, perhaps?” Briar didn’t flinch, or frown. Again she kept that poker- flat stare firmly in place as she removed the other boot and set it down beside the first one. “It’s possible. Blood may tell, but he’s still just a boy. There’s time yet for him to sort himself out. But as for you, Mr. Hale, I’m afraid I’m going to have to see you on your way. It’s getting late, and dawn comes before long.” Hale sighed and nodded. He’d pushed too hard, and too far. He should’ve stayed on topic, on the dead father—not the dead husband. “I’m sorry,” he told her as he rose and stuffed his notebook under his arm. He replaced his hat, pulled his coat tightly across his chest, and said, “And I thank you for your time. I appreciate everything you’ve told me, and if my book is ever published, I’ll make note of your help.” “Sure,” she said. She closed Hale out, and into the night. He braced himself to face the windy winter evening, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck and adjusting his wool gloves.

311

Before the Golden Age

By Carrie Vaughn

A lot of people have been asking me about comic books. After the Golden Age is so obviously inspired by the classic comic-book superheroes, surely I must have a lifelong love for them. But I have a terrible confession: I didn’t really read comic books when I was growing up, and didn’t start until college, when I encountered Watchmen and Batman: The Dark Knight Returns and all those seminal graphic novels that changed everything. Instead, I watched a lot of TV, and that’s how I fell in love with superheroes. I grew up in a golden age of TV superheroes: Wonder Woman, the Incredible Hulk, the Bionic Woman and Six Million Dollar Man, not to mention those Spider-Man shorts on The Electric Company, the Superfriends cartoon, Spider-Man and His Amazing Friends (I was shocked, shocked I tell you, to find out that Bobby/Iceman was supposed to be part of the X-Men. I thought, he doesn’t have time for that, he’s off saving the world with Spider-Man and Firestar!), and a bunch of others I’ve probably forgotten. I even adored The Greatest American Hero, which was on some level a spoof—but a spoof that remained true to the spirit of superheroism. Ralph really did have powers, and he really did help people, however goofy he was while doing it. I had Wonder Woman and Supergirl Underoos. My second time trick-or-treating on Halloween, I dressed up as Wonder Woman. I spent a lot of time on the playground in preschool pretending to be Wonder Woman, including getting into a knock-down

312 argument with the other kids about what she would really look like flying in her invisible jet. (I insisted on sticking my arms out and running around making airplane noises. I was informed that this was incorrect, and that she would merely scoot through the air in a seated position. Well, sure, I said. But my way is more fun.) I would spin around and pretend that my costume changed, just like Lynda Carter’s. Spin Wonder Woman! Spin Scuba Wonder Woman! Spin Motorcycle Wonder Woman! It was awesome. And dizzy. I tried reading comic books—my brother’s, not mine. Girls were not supposed to read comic books, so nobody gave me any. Fortunately, Rob shared his. I gotta tell you, early 1980′s runs of Superman and X-Men and such were kind of…boring. Not nearly as interesting as what I was watching on TV. I later found out from comic-guru friends that it wasn’t just me—this was not the best time to be reading comic books. It was the lull before Alan Moore and Frank Miller knocked the stuffings out of the genre. These days, I have boxes of my own comic books. It’s even okay for girls to read them now, which is awesome. I came to comics as an adult, for the most part. But my true love has always been for the superheroes rather than the medium they first appeared in. Which is why, I think, I wrote a novel about them instead of a comic book. I didn’t need the pictures. I wanted the hows and whys and thoughts and meaning. The “what if?” questions that made me daydream as a kid. That still make me daydream. ‘Cause you know, I still occasionally dress up as Wonder Woman.

Copyright © 2011 by Carrie Vaughn

313

After the Golden Age

By Carrie Vaughn

Copyright © 2011 by Carrie Vaughn

Carrie Vaughn had the nomadic childhood of the typical Air Force brat, with stops across the country from California to Florida. She is the New York Times bestselling author of the Kitty Norville books, most recently Kitty’s Greatest Hits and Kitty’s Big Trouble, and she lives in Boulder, Colorado.

314 Chapter One

Celia took the late bus home, riding along with other young workaholic professionals, the odd student, and late shift retail clerks. A quiet, working bunch, cogs and wheels that kept Commerce City running. Only a block away from the office, the person in the seat behind her leaned forward and spoke in her ear: “Get off at the next stop.” She hadn’t noticed him before. He was ordinary; in his thirties, he had a rugged, stubbled face, and wore jeans and a button-up shirt. He looked like he belonged. With a lift to his brow, he glared at her over the back of the plastic seat and raised the handgun from his lap. Without moving his gaze, he pushed the stop call button by the window. Damn, not again. Her heart pounded hard—with anger. Not fear, she reminded herself. Her fists clenched, her face a mask, she stood. She could hardly move her legs, wanting only to turn and throttle the bastard for interrupting her evening. He stood with her, following a step behind as she moved forward toward the door. He could stop her before she called to the driver for help. And what could the driver do, but stand aside as her kidnapper waved the gun at him? She was still two miles from home. She could try to run—in pumps and a dress suit. Right. Really, she only had to run far enough away to duck into a corner and call 91-1. Or her parents.

315 9-1-1. That was what she’d do. She didn’t dig in the pocket of her attaché for her phone. Did nothing that would give away her plan. She stepped off the bus, onto the sidewalk. Her kidnapper disembarked right behind her. “Turn right. Walk five steps.” She turned right. Her muscles tensed, ready— The bus pulled away. She prepared to launch herself into a run. A sedan stopped at the curb. Two men jumped out of the back seat, and the kidnapper from the bus grabbed her arm. The three surrounded her and spirited her into the car, which rolled away in seconds. They’d planned this, hadn’t they? In the backseat, one of the men tied her hands in front of her with nylon cord. The other pressed a gun to her ribs. The one from the bus sat in the passenger side of the front seat and looked back at her. “You’re Warren and Suzanne West’s daughter.” Not like this was news. “What will the Olympiad do to keep you safe?” “You’ll have to ask them,” she said. “I will.” He grinned, a self-satisfied, cat-with-the-canary grin that she recognized from a half-dozen two-bit hoodlums who thought they’d done something clever, that they’d figured out how to corner the Olympiad. As if no one else had tried this before.

316 “What are you going to do with me?” She said it perfunctorily. It was a way to make conversation. Maybe distract him. His grin widened. “We’re going to send your parents a message. With the Destructor out of the picture, the city’s wide open for a new gang to move in. The Olympiad is going to stay out of our way, or you get hurt.” He really was stupid enough to tell her his plan. Amateurs. Wasn’t much she could do until he’d sent the message and the Olympiad learned what had happened. She’d leave the hard work to them. She always did. Then, of course, they blindfolded her so she couldn’t keep track of their route. By the time they stopped, she had no idea where they were. Someplace west, by the docks maybe. The air smelled of concrete and industry. A stooge on each arm pulled her out of the car and guided her down a corridor. They must have parked inside a building. Her feet stepped on tile, and the walls felt close. Finally, they pushed her into a hard wooden chair and tied her wrists to its arms. The blindfold came off. Before her, a video camera was mounted on a tripod. The man from the bus stood next to the camera. She smirked at him, and his frown deepened. He probably expected her to be frightened, crying and begging him to let her go. Giving him that power of fear over her. She had already been as frightened as she was ever likely to be in her life. This guy was nothing. “Read this.” He lifted a piece of paper with large writing. She just wanted to go home. Have some hot cocoa and cookies. Supper had been microwave ramen and her stomach was growling. The blindfold had messed up her short

317 red hair, making it itch, and she couldn’t reach up to scratch it. Irrationally, she thought of her parents, and her anger began to turn toward them. If it wasn’t for them and what they were. . . Thinking like that had gotten her in trouble before. She focused on her captor. This was his fault. She skimmed over the text, groaned. They couldn’t even be a little creative. “Are you kidding?” “Just read it.” In a frustrated monotone, she did as she was told. “I’m Celia West, and I’m being held in an undisclosed location. If the Olympiad has not responded to their demands in six hours, my captors cannot guarantee my safety—” “Wait. Stop.” She glared an inquiry. “Couldn’t you sound. . .you know. Scared or something?” “Sorry. But you know I’ve done this before. This isn’t exactly new to me.” “We’re different.” “They all say that.” “Shut up. Finish reading.” She raised her brow. He waved her on. She said, “If you really want to scare everyone you’d cut off one of my fingers and send it to them. Of course, then you’d really piss them off. That whole non-lethal force thing might not apply then.”

318 He stepped forward, fists clenched, like he might actually hit her. “Unless you really want me to do something like that, just stick to the script. I know what I’m doing.” “Whatever you say.” She read out the usual list of demands: the Olympiad was to leave Commerce City and not interfere with the actions of the Baxter Gang—“Baxter Gang?” she added in a disbelieving aside, then shook her head and continued. They’d let her go when the Baxter Gang had the run of the city. They’d send another video in six hours to show just how mean they could be, etcetera. The plan must have sounded so good on paper. She made a point of not looking at the men with guns who seemed to fill the room. In truth there were only five. Even so, if she did anything more aggressive than mock the man she assumed was Baxter, they just might shoot her. There was a time when even that wouldn’t have bothered her. She remembered. She drew on that now. Don’t reveal anything to them. No weakness. She didn’t want to die. What an oddly pleasing thought. Finally, she reached the end of the script and Baxter shut off the recorder. He popped the memory card out of the camera, gave her a final glare, and left the room. The men with the guns remained. All she could do was wait. * * *

How it usually worked: the kidnappers sent the video to the police. The police delivered it to the Olympiad. The kidnappers expected Warren and Suzanne West to be

319 despondent over the imminent danger toward their only child and cave to their every demand. What the kidnappers never understood was that Celia West was expendable. She’d understood that early on. When it came to choosing between her own safety or the safety of Commerce City, the city always won. She understood that, and usually even believed it herself. She thought she might try to sleep. She’d been losing lots, with the late nights at the office. Leaning back in the chair, she breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and tried to relax. Unfortunately, relaxing in a hard-backed chair you were tied to was difficult at best. Though she imagined her falling asleep in the midst of her own kidnapping would annoy Baxter, which made her want to do it even more. But she was sweating inside her jacket and wanted to fidget. All the breathing and attempts at relaxation did was keep her heart from racing, which was enough. She could meet the gazes of the gun-toting stooges in the room and not give in to blind panic. Eventually, Baxter returned to the room. He eyed her warily, but didn’t approach, didn’t speak. He broke his minions into shifts, sending one of them for fast food. The food returned a half-hour later, and they sat around a table to eat. Her stomach rumbled at the smell of cheap hamburgers. She hadn’t eaten, and she needed to use a restroom. Just breathe. She’d had to wait longer than this before. Her watch said that only three hours had passed. It was just now midnight. She had a couple more hours at least. More dramatic that way.

320 She might say a dozen things to aggravate Baxter. She figured she could annoy him enough to get him to come over and hit her. That was the bored, self-destructive teenager of yore talking. And a little bit of revenge. If she ended up with a big black eye, things would go so much more badly for him later on. Then, the waiting ended. —Celia, are you there?— It was odd, an inner whisper that felt like a thought, but came from outside. Rather like a psychotic must feel, listening to the voices. This one was understated, with a British accent. She’d felt Dr. Mentis’s telepathic reach before. She couldn’t respond in kind, not with such articulate, well-formed thoughts. Instead, she filled her mind with a yes, knowing he’d read it there. Along with a little bit of, it’s about time. —I’m going to put the room to sleep. I’m afraid I can’t pick and choose. You’ll feel a little dizzy, then pass out. I wanted to warn you.— She kept herself from nodding. Mustn’t let the erstwhile archvillains of Commerce City know anything was happening. The guard by the door blacked out first. He shook his head, as if trying to stay awake, swayed a little, and pitched over sideways, dropping his gun. Startled, his compatriots looked over. “Bill? Hey, Bill!” Two at the table keeled over next. Then one standing by his chair. Baxter stood and stared at them, looking from one to another with growing urgency. Her vision was swimming. Squinting to focus, she braced, waiting, wanting it to be over.

321 Baxter looked at her, his eyes widening. “You. What’s happening? You know, I know you know—” He stepped forward, arm outstretched. Then he blinked, stopped, gave a shudder— She thought she smelled sage. —Sleep—

“Celia?” The world was black and lurching. If she opened her eyes, she’d find herself on the deck of a sailing ship. “Celia, time to wake up.” A cool hand pressed her cheek. She opened her eyes, and the light stabbed to life a headache that ran from her temples to the back of her neck. “Ow,” she said and covered her face with her hands. “There you are. Good morning.” She was lying on the floor. Dr. Arthur Mentis knelt beside her, his brown trench coat spread around him, his smile wry. The cavalry, finally. Now she could relax. He put an arm around her shoulders and helped her sit up. The headache shifted and pounded in another direction. She had to hold her head. On the bright side, the members of Baxter’s Gang were all writhing around on the floor, groaning, while the police picked them up and dragged them away. “Sorry about the headache,” he said. “It’ll go away in a couple of hours.”

322 “That’s okay,” she said softly, to not jostle herself. “I think I used to be better at this hostage thing.” “Are you joking? That ransom video was a riot. Even Warren laughed.” She raised her brow, disbelieving. “Will you be all right for the next few minutes?” he said. “Yeah.” He gave her shoulder a comforting squeeze and left her propped against the wall while he helped with clean-up. As the police collected and removed the gang members, Mentis looked each of them in the eyes, reading their minds, learning what he could from them. They wouldn’t even know what was happening. The wall around the door was scorched, streaked black with soot, and the door itself had disappeared. Spark must have had to blast it open. The room smelled toasted with that particular flavor Celia had always associated with Spark’s flames: baking chocolate. Celia was surprised to find the scent comforting. Her mother entered the room a moment later. Suzanne West—Spark—was beautiful, marvelously svelte in her form-fitted skinsuit, black with flame-colored accents. Her red hair swept thick and luxurious down her back. She moved with energy and purpose. She paused, looked around, and found Celia. “Celia!” This was just like old times, nearly. Suzanne crouched beside her, gripped Celia’s shoulders, and pursed her face like she might cry. Celia sighed and put her arms around her mother. Suzanne hugged back tightly. “Hi, Mom.”

323 “Oh Celia, are you all right?” “Headache. But yeah. Did you guys find my bag? I had notes from work in it.” “I don’t know. We’ll look. I was so worried—did they hurt you? Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” She tried to stand, but the headache made her vision splotchy. The floor was nice and stable. “Don’t try to move; paramedics are on the way.” “I don’t need paramedics. I just want to go home.” Suzanne sighed with frustration. “I really wish you’d come live at the plaza. It’s so much safer—” Celia shook her head. “No way. Uh-uh.” “This sort of thing wouldn’t happen—” “Mom, they picked me off the bus on the way home from work. I can’t not leave home.” “What were you doing riding the bus?” “I don’t have a car.” “Celia, if you need a car we can—” Headache or no, she wasn’t sitting still to listen to this. Bracing against the wall, she got her feet under her and managed to push herself up. Suzanne reached for her, but she shrugged away. “I’m fine.” She hated being like this. She felt sixteen years old, all over again. “Why won’t you let us help you?” The question wasn’t about this, the rescue from the kidnapping, the arm to get her off the floor. It was the big question.

324 Celia focused on the wall, which didn’t make her dizzy. “I haven’t taken a cent from you in years; I’m not going to start now.” “If it’ll keep you from getting assaulted like this—” “Well, I wouldn’t get assaulted like this if I weren’t your daughter, would I?” If she’d said that to her father, he would have lost his temper, broken a chair or punched through the wall with a glance, and stalked out of the room. Her mother, on the other hand…Suzanne’s lips pursed, and her eyes reddened like she was about to cry. Instantly Celia felt guilty, but she couldn’t take it back, and she couldn’t apologize, because it was true. “Everything all right?” Mentis had returned. He stood, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, and looked between the two of them inquiringly. He was in his thirties, with brown hair grown slightly shaggy and a pale, searching face. The Olympiad had been active for over ten years already when he joined, as a student at the University medical school. Despite his younger age, he carried around with him this maddening, ancient air of wisdom. Celia and her mother stared at one another. Mentis, the telepath, must have seen a frothing mass of pent-up frustrations and unspoken thoughts. They couldn’t hide from him like they could from each other. Nevertheless, Celia said, “Fine. I’d just like to go home and sleep off this hangover.” “Right,” Mentis said. He held out her attaché case, unopened and none the worse for wear. “I think this is yours. We found it in Baxter’s car.” “Thanks.”

325 He turned to Suzanne. “We should move on. Captain and the Bullet have cleaned up the bank robberies, but two branches of the gang are still at large.” Celia paused. “What’s happening?” “This was more than a simple kidnapping,” Mentis said. “It was a distraction. Baxter’s people launched attacks all over the city. He wanted to see how much he could get away with while we were busy rescuing you.” If Baxter could have held her indefinitely, moving from place to place, keeping one step ahead of the Olympiad, he might have run them ragged. They’d taken the time to rescue her. “Detective? Could you see that Miss West arrives home safely?” Mentis called to a young man in a suit and overcoat standing near the doorway. One of the detectives on the case, he held a notepad and pencil, jotting notes as Baxter’s men were escorted out. The cop looked at Mentis and nodded. She suppressed a vague feeling of abandonment, that she could have died, and now Mentis and her mother were just leaving her alone. But she remembered: the city was more important. And Celia was always saying she could take care of herself, wasn’t she? —You’ll be fine. I have faith in you.— Mentis’s smile was wry, and Celia nodded in acknowledgement. “Thanks,” she said. “For coming after me. Tell Dad I said hi.” Suzanne crossed her arms. “You could call once in a while.” He could call me. “Maybe I will.” She managed a smile for her mother and a last wave at Mentis before leaving.

326 The cop escorted her out of the building. “I’m Detective Paulson. Mark Paulson.” Endearingly, he offered his hand, and she shook it. “Celia West.” “Yeah, I know.” A few awkward, silent minutes brought them to the curb and a swarm of police cars, lights flashing a fireworks display on the street. A half-dozen men were occupied keeping reporters and news cameras behind a line of caution tape. A couple of hero groupies were there as well—the creator of a low-end gossip website dedicated to the city’s heroes, another guy holding up a big poster declaring: CAPTAIN OLYMPUS: OUR ALIEN SAVIOR. There were always a few lurking around every time something like this happened. Instinctively, Celia looked away and hunched her shoulders, trying to duck into her collar. Paulson brought her to an unmarked sedan. They might actually get away without the reporters noticing. Opening the passenger side door, he helped her in. While he situated himself and started the car, she said, “Paulson. Any relation to Mayor Paulson?” He developed a funny little half-smile. “I’m his son.” That was where she’d seen that jawline before. And the flop of dark hair. The mayor’s had gone handsomely salt and pepper in his middle age. Mark’s hair still shone. “Ah,” she said, grinning. “Then you know all about it. I shouldn’t pry—but he wanted you to go into politics, didn’t he?” “Not quite. He wanted me to be a lawyer, then go into politics. I got the law degree. Then, well.” He shrugged, his glance taking in the car and the flashing lights

327 behind them. “Then I decided I wanted to be on the front lines rather than the rear guard. Make sure no one gets off on a technicality because they weren’t read their rights.” “Cool,” she said. “What about you? I mean, your parents—” He let out an awestruck sigh. And who wouldn’t, after meeting Spark? “They want you to go into. . .the family business, I guess it is?” “Oh, they certainly did. Nature had different ideas, though. I’m the offspring of Commerce City’s two greatest superhumans, and the most exciting thing I ever did was win a silver medal in a high school swim meet.” Good thing she could look back on it now and laugh. She still had that medal sitting on her dresser. “It must have been amazing, growing up with them.” “Yeah, you could say that.” The strength of her sarcasm invited no further questions. Finally, they arrived at her apartment building. Detective Paulson insisted on walking her to her front door, as if one of the Baxter Gang splinters would leap out of the shadows and snatch her up. She had to admit, twice in a night would be embarrassing. “Thanks for taking me home,” she said, once her door was unlocked. “I know you’ve got better things to do.” “Not at all,” he said. “Maybe I could do it again sometime.” Though he turned away before she could read the expression on his face, she thought he was smiling. She watched him until he turned the corner.

328 Closing the door behind her, she shook her head. She’d imagined it. Her head was still foggy. Later, she sat in bed, drinking a cup of chamomile tea and watching the news. All the city’s “independent law enforcement agents” were out in force, quelling the riot of criminal activity. Typhoon created floods to incapacitate a group of bank robbers. Breezeway swept them off their feet with gusts of air. Even the telekinetic Mind-masher and his on-again, off-again lover Earth Mother were out and about. Block Buster Senior and Junior were as usual directing their brute-force mode of combat toward a trio of vandals holed up in an abandoned convenience store. The two superhumans were taking the building apart, concrete block by concrete block, until it formed an impromptu jail. Block Buster Senior used to be just Block Buster until a couple of years ago, when Junior showed up. Anyone could tell he wasn’t much more than a kid under the mask and skinsuit uniform. Lots of people speculated if the two were actually father and son as their names suggested, or if they instead had a mentor/apprentice relationship. Whatever their story, Celia thought they took a little too much joy in inflicting property damage. And if they were father and son—how had Junior managed to inherit his father’s power? Why him and not her? Most of the coverage focused on the beloved Olympiad, who’d been protecting Commerce City for twenty-five years now. One of the stations had exclusive footage of Captain Olympus and the Bullet, the fourth member of the Olympiad, tearing open the warehouse that housed the Baxter Gang’s main headquarters. The camera could only follow the Bullet’s progress by tracking a whirlwind that traveled from one end of the building to the other, tossing masked gunmen aside in a

329 storm of dust and debris. Guns flew from their hands and spiraled upward, shattering with the force of movement. It was all the Bullet, Robbie Denton, moving faster than the eye could see, disrupting one enemy attack after another in mere seconds. Captain Olympus, the Golden Thunderbolt, most powerful man in the world, wore black and gold and tore down walls with his will. He stood before his target, braced, arms outstretched, and created a hammer of force that crumpled half the building. Celia’s hands started shaking. The warehouse district was across town. He wasn’t anywhere near here. The news reporter on the scene raved on and on about the spectacular scene, the malevolence of the criminals, the courage of the Olympiad. She found the remote and turned off the TV.

330

Children of the Sky

By Vernor Vinge

Copyright © 2011 by Vernor Vinge

Vernor Vinge is the author of the Hugo Award–winning novels A Fire Upon the Deep, A Deepness in the Sky, and Rainbows End. An acknowledged authority on the technological Singularity, he was for many years a professor of mathematics and computer science at San Diego State University. He lives in San Diego, California.

331 CHAPTER 00

How do you get the attention of the richest businessperson in the world? Vendacious had spent all his well- remembered life sucking up to royalty. He had never dreamed he would fall so low as to need a common merchant, but here he was with his only remaining servant, trying to find a street address in East Home’s factory district. This latest street was even narrower than the one they had left. Surely the world’s richest would never come here! The alley had heavy doors set on either side. At the moment, all were closed, but the place must be a crowded madness at shift change. There were posters every few feet, but these were not the advertisements they had seen elsewhere. These were demands and announcements: WASH ALL PAWS BEFORE WORK, NO ADVANCE WAGES, EMPLOYMENT APPLICATIONS AHEAD. This last sign pointed toward a wide pair of doors at the end of the alley. It was all marvelously pompous and silly. And yet . . . as he walked along, Vendacious took a long look at the crenellations above him. Surely that was plaster over wood. But if it was real stone, then this was a fortified castle hidden right in the middle of East Home commercialism. Vendacious held back, waved at his servant to proceed. Chitiratifor advanced along the alley, singing praise for his dear master. He had not quite reached the wide doors when they swung open and a hugely numerous pack emerged. It was nine or ten and it spread across their way like a sentry line. Vendacious suppressed the urge to look up at the battlements for signs of archers.

332 The huge pack looked at them stupidly for a moment, then spoke in loud and officious chords. “Employment work you want? Can you read?” Chitiratifor stopped singing introductory flourishes, and replied, “Of course we can read, but we’re not here for—” The gatekeeper pack spoke right over Chitiratifor’s words: “No matter. I have application forms here.” Two of it trotted down the steps with scraps of paper held in their jaws. “I will explain it all to you and then you sign. Tycoon pay good. Give good housing. And one day off every tenday.” Chitiratifor bristled. “See here, my good pack. We are not seeking employment. My lord”—he gestured respectfully at Vendacious—”has come to tell the Great Tycoon of new products and opportunities.” “Paw prints to suffice if you cannot write—” The other interrupted its own speech as Chitiratifor’s words finally penetrated. “Not wanting to apply for work?” It looked at them for moment, took in Chitiratifor’s flashy outfit. “Yes, you are not dressed for this doorway. I should have noticed.” It thought for a second. “You are in wrong place. Business visitors must visit to the Business Center. You go back five blocks and then onto the Concourse of the Great Tycoon. Wait. I get you a map.” The creature didn’t move, but Vendacious realized the pack was even more numerous than he had thought, extending back out of sight into the building; these Easterners tolerated the most grotesque perversions. Chitiratifor shuffled back in Vendacious’s direction, and the nearest of him hissed, “That’s a two-mile walk just to get to the other side of this frigging building!”

333 Vendacious nodded and walked around his servant, confronting the gatekeeper directly. “We’ve come all the way from the West Coast to help Tycoon. We demand a courteous response, not petty delays!” The nearest members of the gatekeeper stepped back timidly. Up close, Vendacious could hear that this was no military pack. Except at dinner parties, it probably never had killed a single living thing. In fact, the creature was so naive that it didn’t really recognize the deadly anger confronting it. After a moment, it reformed its line, and said “Nevertheless, sir, I must follow my orders. Business visitors use the business entrance.” Chitiratifor was hissing murder; Vendacious waved him quiet. But Vendacious really didn’t want to walk around to the official entrance—and that wasn’t just a matter of convenience. He now realized that finding this entrance was a lucky accident. Woodcarver’s spies were unlikely this far from home, but the fewer people who could draw a connection between Tycoon and Vendacious, the better. He backed off courteously, out of the gatekeeper’s space. This entrance would be fine if he could just talk to someone with a mind. “Perhaps your orders do not apply to me.” The gatekeeper pondered the possibility for almost fi ve seconds. “But I think they do apply,” it finally said. “Well then, while we wait for the map, perhaps you could pass on an enquiry to someone who deals with difficult problems.” There were several lures Vendacious could dangle: “Tell your supervisor that his visitors bear news about the invasion from outer space.”

334 “The what from where?” “We have eyewitness information about the humans—” that provoked more blank looks. “Damn it, fellow, this is about the mantis monsters!”

Mention of the mantis monsters did not produce the gatekeeper’s supervisor; the fivesome who came out to see them was far higher in the chain of command than that! “Remasritlfeer” asked a few sharp questions and then waved for them to follow him. In a matter of minutes, they were past the gatekeeper and walking down carpeted corridors. Looking around, Vendacious had to hide his smiles. The interior design was a perfection of bad taste and mismatched wealth, proof of the foolishness of the newly rich. Their guide was a very different matter. Remasritlfeer was mostly slender, but there were scars on his snouts and flanks, and you could see the lines of hard muscle beneath his fur. His eyes were mostly pale yellow and not especially friendly. It was a long walk, but their guide had very little to say. Finally, the corridor ended at a member-wide door, more like the entrance to an animal den than the office of the world’s richest commoner. Remasritlfeer opened the door and stuck a head in. “I have the outlanders, your eminence,” he said A voice came from within: “That should be ‘my lord’. Today, I think ‘my lord’ sounds better.” “Yes, my lord.” But the four of Remasritlfeer who were still in the corridor rolled their heads in exasperation.

335 “Well then, let’s not waste my time. Have them all come in. There’s plenty of room.” As Vendacious filed through the narrow doorway, he was looking in all directions without appearing to be especially interested. Gas mantle lamps were ranked near the ceiling. Vendacious thought he saw parts of a bodyguard on perches above that. Yes, the room was large, but it was crowded with—what? not the bejeweled knicknacks of the hallway. Here there were gears and gadgets and large tilted easels covered with halffinished drawings. The walls were bookcases rising so high that perches on ropes and pulleys were needed to reach the top shelves. One of Vendacious stood less than a yard from the nearest books. No great literature here. Most of the books were accounting ledgers. The ones further up looked like bound volumes of legal statutes. The unseen speaker continued, “Come forward where I can see you all! Why in hell couldn’t you use the business visitor entrance? I didn’t build that throne room for nothing.” This last was querulous muttering. Vendacious percolated through the jumble. Two of him came out from under a large drawing easel. The rest reached the central area a second later. He suffered a moment of confusion as Chitiratifor shuffled himself out of the way, and then he got his first glimpse of the Great Tycoon: The pack was an ill- assorted eightsome. Vendacious had to count him twice, since the smaller members were moving around so much. At the core were four middleaged adults. They had no noble or martial aspect whatsoever. Two of them wore the kind of green-tinted visors affected by accountants everywhere. The other two had been

336 turning the pages of a ledger. Pretty clearly he had been counting his money or cutting expenses, or what ever it was that businesscritters did. Tycoon cast irritated looks at Vendacious and Chitiratifor. “You claim to know about the mantis monsters. This better be good. I know lots about the mantises, so I advise against lies.” He pointed a snout at Vendacious, waving him closer Treat him like royalty. Vendacious belly- crawled two of himself closer to Tycoon. Now he had the attention of all Tycoon’s members. The four small ones,puppies under two years old, had stopped their pell-mell orbiting of the accountancy

four.

Two hung back with the four, while two came within a couple feet of Vendacious. These pups were integrated parts of Tycoon’s personality—just barely, and when they felt like it. Their mindsounds were unseemly loud. Vendacious had to force himself not to shrink back. After a moment or two of impolite poking, Tycoon said, “So, how would you know about the mantis monsters?” “I witnessed their starship Oobii descend from the sky.” Vendacious used the human name of their ship. The sounds were fl at and simple, alien. “I saw its lightning weapon bring down a great empire in a single afternoon.” Tycoon was nodding. Most East Coast packs took this version of Woodcarver’s victory to be a fantasy. Evidently, Tycoon was not one of those. “You’re saying nothing new here, fellow—though few packs know the name of the flying ship.” “I know far more than that, my lord. I speak the mantis language. I know their secrets and their plans.” And he had one of their datasets in his right third pannier, though he had no intention of revealing that advantage.

337 “Oh really?” Tycoon’s smile was sharp and incredulous, even unto his puppies. “Who then are you?” An honest answer to that question had to come sooner or later, fatal though it might be. “My lord, my name is Vendacious. I was—” Tycoon’s heads jerked up. “Remasritlfeer!” “My lord!” The deadly little fivesome was clustered around the only exit. “Cancel my appointments. No more visitors today, of any sort. Have Saliminophon take care of the shift change.” “Yes, my lord!” Tycoon’s older four set their ledger aside and all of him looked at Vendacious.”Be assured that this claim will be verified, sir. Discreetly but definitively verified.” But you could see Tycoon’s enthusiasm, the will to believe; for now, the puppies were in control. “You were Woodcarver’s spymaster, convicted of treason.” Vendacious raised his heads. “All true, my lord. And I am proud of my ‘treason.’ Woodcarver has allied with the mantis queen and her maggots.” “Maggots?” Tycoon’s eyes were wide. “Yes, my lord. ‘Mantis’ and ‘maggot’ refer to different aspects of the same creatures, humans as they call themselves. ‘Mantis’ is the appropriate term for the adult. After all, it is a two- legged creature, sneaky and vicious, but also solitary.” “Real mantises are insects, only about so tall.” One of the puppies yawned wide, indicating less than two inches. “The mantises from the sky can be five feet at the shoulder.”

338 “I knew that,” said Tycoon. “But the maggots? They are the younglings of the grown monsters?” “Indeed so.” Vendacious moved his two forward members confidingly close to the other pack. “And here is something you may not know. It makes the analogy nigh perfect. The actual invasion from the sky began almost a year before the Battle on Starship Hill.” “Before Woodcarver marched north?” “Yes. A much smaller craft landed secretly, thirty- five tendays earlier. And do you know what was aboard? My lord, that first lander was filled with maggot eggsacks!” “So that will be the real invasion,” said Tycoon. “Just as insect maggots burst from their eggsacks and overrun the neighborhood, these humans will overrun the entire world—” Chitiratifor popped in with, “They will devour us all!” Vendacious gave his servant a stern look. “Chitiratifor takes the analogy too far. At present, the maggots are young. There is only one adult, the mantis queen, Ravna. But consider, in just the two years since Ravna and Oobii arrived, she has taken control of Woodcarver’s Domain and expanded it across all the realms of the Northwest.” Two of Tycoon’s older members tapped idly at an addition device, flicking small beads back and forth. A bean counter indeed. “And how do the mantises—this one Ravna mantis—manage such control? Are they loud? Can they swamp another’s mindsounds with their own?” This sounded like a testing question. “Not at all, my lord. Just like insects, the humans make no sounds when they think. None whatsoever. They might as well be

339 walking corpses.” Vendacious paused. “My lord, I don’t mean to understate the threat, but if we work together we can prevail against these creatures. Humans are stupid! It shouldn’t be surprising since they are singletons. I estimate that the smartest of them aren’t much more clever than a mismatched foursome.” “Really! Even the Ravna?” “Yes! They can’t do the simplest arithmetic, what any street haggler can do. Their memory for sounds—even the speech sounds they can hear—is almost non ex is tent. Like insect mantises, their way of life is parasitic and thieving.” All eight of Tycoon sat very still. Vendacious could hear the edges of his mind, a mix of calculation, wonder, and uncertainty. “It doesn’t make sense,” Tycoon fi nally said. “From my own investigations, I already know some of what you say. But the mantises are superlative inventors. I’ve tested their exploding black powder. I’ve heard of the catapults powered by that powder. And they have other inventions I can’t yet reproduce. They can fly! Their Oobii may now be crashed to earth, but they have a smaller flyer, barely the size of a boat. Last year it was seen by reliable packs just north of town.” Vendacious and Chitiratifor traded a glance. That was bad news. Aloud, Vendacious said, “Your point is well taken, my lord, but there is no paradox. The mantis folk simply stole the things that give them their advantage. I have . . . sources . . . that prove they’ve been doing that for a very long time. Finally, their victims tired of them and chased them out of their original place in the sky. Much of what they have, they do not understand and cannot re- create.

340 Those devices will eventually wear out. The antigravity flier you mention is an example. Furthermore, the creatures have stolen—and are continuing to steal—our own inventions. For instance, that exploding black powder you mentioned? It might well have been invented by some creative pack, perhaps the same one who truly invented the cannon catapults.” Tycoon didn’t reply immediately; he looked stunned. Ever since Vendacious had heard of Tycoon, he’d suspected that this pack had a special secret, something that could make him a faithful supporter of Vendacious’ cause. That was still just a theory, but— Finally, Tycoon found his voice: “I wondered. . . . The blasting powder and the catapults . . . I remember . . .” He drifted off for a moment, splitting into the old and the young. The puppies scrabbled around, whining like some forlorn fragment. Then Tycoon gathered himself together. “I, I was once an inventor.” Vendacious waved at the mechanisms that fi lled the room. “I can see that you still are, my lord.” Tycoon didn’t seem to hear. “But then I split up. My fission sibling eventually left for the West Coast. He had so many ideas. Do you suppose—?” Yes! But aloud, Vendacious was much more cautious: “I still have my sources, sir. Perhaps I can help with that question, too.”

341

Off Armageddon Reef

By David Weber

Copyright © 2007 by David Weber. All rights reserved.

David Weber is the author of the New York Times-bestselling “Honor Harrington” series, the most recent of which was At All Costs. His many other novels include Mutineers’ Moon, The Armageddon Inheritance, Heirs of Empire, Path of the Fury, and Wind Rider’s Oath. He lives in South Carolina.

342 Context:

The Terran Federation Navy fought desperately for over forty years, but the ruthless species known as the Gbaba slaughtered the human race’s extra-Solar colonies one by one. Now the end had finally come; Earth herself lay under siege by an enemy humankind could not defeat. And so mankind undertook one last throw of the dice: Operation Ark. Earth’s final colonizing expedition was meant to build a new civilization, on a planet so distant even the Gbaba might never find it, and without the high-tech infrastructure whose emissions might betray its location. To protect and conceal that expedition, the Navy’s final fleet was prepared to die to the last ship. Lieutenant Commander Nimue Alban volunteered to serve on the flagship of that fleet, knowing that she and everyone else aboard it would die…which was exactly what happened. So she was a little surprised to wake up in a cave on a planet called Safehold. She was even more surprised to discover that she’d been dead for eight centuries…and that the fanatic administrators of Operation Ark had used mind control techniques to create a false, brutally suppressive religion in which every single Safeholdian believed. One whose entire purpose was to forbid invention and innovation forever.

Everyone on Safehold knows the Church is the consecrated custodian of God’s will. Everyone knows forbidden technology is the work of the Devil. And everyone knows that anyone who dabbles in the forbidden must be destroyed, lest everyone’s soul be lost forever to damnation.

343 But a tiny fraction within Operation Ark’s leadership remembered the truth and believed in human dignity and freedom. They’ve left Nimue Alban to oppose that monstrous creation, and they’ve given her a carefully hidden cache of technology and the capabilities of the android body in which her memories, loves, hopes, and dreams live on. It’s her job to somehow provoke the that human progress which the Church of God Awaiting has worked centuries to crush. Now, in a new guise—that of the apparently male “Merlin”—Nimue comes to Charis, a mid-sized kingdom with a talent for naval warfare, to make the acquaintance of King Haarahld and Crown Prince Cayleb, and maybe, just maybe, kick off a new era of invention. In this excerpt, Merlin, having managed to save Cayleb from an attempted assassination, speaks with King Haarahld for the first time…

.VI. Royal Palace, Telesberg, Kingdom of Charis “Seijin Merlin, Your Majesty,” the chamberlain said quietly as he stepped through the open doorway and bowed. Merlin followed him into the small presence chamber—more of a working office, really, it seemed—and bowed a bit more profoundly than the chamberlain. King Haarahld’s court was looked down upon by the courtiers of such sophisticated lands as Harchong because of its casual informality and ability to get along without a veritable horde of servitors. Still, Haarahld was a king, and one of the more powerful ones on the face of Safehold, whatever others might think.

344 “Seijin,” Haarahld said, and Merlin looked up.

He saw a man of middle years, stocky, for a Charisian, and taller than most, although shorter than his son and considerably shorter than Merlin. Haarahld wore the traditional loose-cut breeches and thigh-length linen over-tunic of the Charisian upperclass, although his tunic was bright with bullion embroidery and bead work. The belt about his waist was made of intricately decorated, seashell-shaped plaques of hammered silver, the golden scepter badge of one who’d made his required pilgrimage to the Temple gleamed on his shoulder brooch, and the glittering fire of the emerald-set golden chain which was his normal badge of office glowed upon his chest. He had a neatly trimmed beard, somewhat more luxuriant than Merlin’s own, and the slight epicanthic fold common to most of Safehold’s humanity. Haarahld VII was fifty-two local years old, just over forty-seven standard, and he’d sat on his throne for just over twenty local years. In that time, he’d come to be known—by his own subjects, at least—as “Haarahld the Just,” and his level eyes considered Merlin thoughtfully. He was putting on a bit of extra flesh these days, Merlin noticed. Judging from his chest and shoulders, he’d been a man of heroic physique in his youth, but maintaining that sort of fitness, especially at his age, must have been the next best thing to impossible given his immobile right knee. His leg stretched out straight in front of him, his heel resting on a footrest, as he sat in a comfortable but not particularly splendid armchair behind a desk cluttered with documents and slates. One other person was present. A bishop of the Church of God Awaiting with silvering dark hair and a splendid patriarchal beard, stood at the king’s right shoulder. His

345 three-cornered cap bore the white cockade of a senior bishop, but lacked the ribbon of an archbishop. His eyes were bright as they considered Merlin, and his white cassock bore the oil lamp emblem of the Order of Bédard. The sight of that lamp set Merlin’s teeth instantly on edge, but he made himself suppress the instinctive reaction firmly. Much as he hated to admit it, the order which bore Adorée Bédard’s name had changed over the years into something far different from anything its ostensible patron would have wanted to see. Besides, he’d “seen” this bishop often enough through his SNARCs to strongly suspect what impelled Haarahld to trust him so totally. “Your Majesty,” he murmured in reply to the king’s greeting after only the briefest of pauses. “You do me honor to receive me privately.” “Perhaps,” Haarahld said, studying his visitor intently. “Some might feel I’ve slighted you by not greeting you and thanking you for my son’s life in a more public audience.” “But at that more public audience, Your Majesty, I would undoubtedly have been uncomfortably aware of all of the spanned crossbows watching me so alertly. Here,” Merlin smiled charmingly, “I need worry only about the two bodyguards behind that screen.” He nodded towards the exquisitely detailed lacquered Harchongese screen behind the king, and Haarahld’s eyes narrowed. The bishop’s, however, only considered Merlin with a sort of calm curiosity. Interesting, Merlin thought, but his attention was mainly focused on the king, waiting for his reaction. Which came after a heartbeat in a single word.

346 “Indeed?” Haarahld said, and Merlin smiled again. “This is Thursday, Your Majesty. Assuming you’ve stuck to your regular duty schedule, it should be Sergeant Haarpar and Sergeant Gahrdaner.” The chamberlain stepped quickly to one side, right hand falling to the dagger sheathed at his hip, the bishop touched the golden scepter of Langhorne hanging upon his breast, and even Haarahld sat up straighter in his chair. But the king also raised one hand, and shook his head sharply at the chamberlain. “No, Pawal,” he said. “After all, our guest is a seijin, is he not?” “Or something else, Sire,” the chamberlain said darkly. He glowered at Merlin with eyes full of suspicion, and his hand left his dagger hilt only reluctantly. “Your Majesty,” Merlin said, “my weapons have all been left in my chamber. Your guardsmen were extremely courteous, but they also searched me very carefully before permitting me into your presence. Surely, one unarmed man is no threat to a monarch whose servants are as loyal to him as yours are to you.” “Somehow, Seijin Merlin, I doubt a man such as you is ever unarmed, as long as he has his brain,” Haarahld said with a slow, appreciative smile of his own. “One tries, Your Majesty,” Merlin conceded. The bishop’s lips twitched in what might almost have been a stillborn smile, and Haarahld leaned back in his chair once more, considering the blue-eyed stranger even more thoughtfully than before. Then he nodded and looked at the chamberlain. “Pawal, I believe we might offer Seijin Merlin a chair.” Pawal Hahlmahn looked moderately outraged, but he also carried a straightbacked but upholstered chair from the corner of the room and set it down facing

347 Haarahld’s desk. “Please, Seijin,” Haarahld invited. “Be seated.” “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Merlin settled into the chair and cocked his head, his eyebrows raised. “Yes, Seijin,” Haarahld said with a suspiciously grin-like smile, “the interrogation will now begin.” “I’m at your service, Your Majesty.” Merlin inclined his head again, politely, and Haarahld chuckled. “I find that difficult to believe, Seijin,” he said. “Somehow, I have the distinct impression that it’s more a case of Charis finding herself at your service.” Merlin smiled, but behind that smile he winced. Haarahld VII, in person, was even more impressive than he’d been observed from afar via SNARC. “Before we begin,” Haarahld said more seriously, “allow me to extend my personal thanks for your intervention on Cayleb’s behalf. Without you, he would be dead, and for that I and my house stand in your debt. How may I reward you?” “Your Majesty,” Merlin said with matching seriousness, “while I’m sure some token of your gratitude is in order, it might be as well to draw as little attention to me as possible.” “And why might that be?” Haarahld asked. “Because I’ll be far more useful to Charis if my presence here doesn’t become general knowledge.” “And why should you care to be of use to me?” “Your pardon, Your Majesty,” Merlin said almost gently, “but I didn’t say of use

348 to you. I said of use to Charis. The two are closely related, but not, I fear, identical.” “The King is the Kingdom!” Hahlmahn snapped, then flushed darkly as he realized he’d spoken out of turn. But despite the flush, there was no hiding the fresh anger in his eyes. “No, My Lord Chamberlain,” Merlin disagreed. “The King is the heart and soul of the Kingdom, but he is not the Kingdom itself. Were that true, then the Kingdom would perish with his death.” “The Church teaches that King and Crown are one,” the bishop observed, speaking for the first time, and his voice and expression were both carefully neutral. “And I don’t dispute that point with the Church, Bishop Maikel,” Merlin said, and the priest’s head cocked to one side as the stranger named him correctly. “I simply observe that the King who is the heart of the Kingdom isn’t merely a single individual, but all individuals who hold that office and discharge those duties in the name of the Kingdom. And so, while the King and the Kingdom are one, the mortal man who holds that office is but one man in an endless chain of men who hold their crowns in trust for those they are charged to guard and protect.” Haarahld glanced up at Bishop Maikel, then returned his attention to Merlin and gazed at him without speaking for the better part of a full minute. Finally, he nodded slowly. “A valid distinction,” he said. “Not one all monarchs would agree with, but one I can’t dispute.” “And the fact that you can’t, Your Majesty, is the reason I’m here,” Merlin said simply. “While all kings may be ordained by God, all too few prove worthy of their

349 coronation oaths. When one sees the visions which I’ve been given to see, that fact becomes sadly evident.” “Ah, yes, those ‘visions’ of yours.” Haarahld pursed his lips, then chuckled and raised his voice slightly. “Charlz, you and Gorj may as well come out and join us.” A moment later, the lacquered screen shifted to one side, and two Royal Guard sergeants stepped out from behind it. Both wore black cuirasses, the breastplates emblazoned with the golden kraken of Charis,. They also carried spanned, steel-bowed arbalests, and they regarded Merlin warily as they took their places at their king’s back. “I must admit,” Haarahld said, “that I found your performance rather impressive, Seijin Merlin. As, no doubt, you intended I should. Of course, it’s always possible sufficiently good spies could have provided you with that information. On the other hand, if my personal household is that riddled with spies, my house is already doomed. So, since you obviously want me to ask the question, I will. How did you know?” Despite his whimsical tone, his brown eyes sharpened and he leaned slightly forward in his chair. “Your Majesty,” Merlin replied, “these three men—” he waved one hand, taking in the two Guardsmen and the chamberlain “—are, I believe, loyal unto death to you, your son, and your house. I trust them as fully as I trust you, yourself. And Bishop Maikel has been your confessor for—what? Fifteen years now? But while what I’m about to tell you may prove difficult to believe, I hope to be able to offer you proof I speak the truth. And I believe that if I can prove that to you, you’ll understand why it must be kept as secret as possible for as long as possible.” He paused, and the king nodded without even glancing at his retainers. The three

350 of them continued to regard Merlin with wary eyes, but Merlin saw how their shoulders straightened and their expressions firmed at the king’s obvious confidence in their trustworthiness. Bishop Maikel simply moved a half-step closer to Haarahld’s chair and rested one large, powerful hand lightly on its back. “As I’m sure Prince Cayleb and Lieutenant Falkhan have already told you, Your Majesty,” he began, “I’ve lived for many years in the Mountains of Light, and in the process I’ve developed some, though far from all, of the reputed powers of the seijin. It isn’t a title I would lightly claim for myself, yet it may be that it fits. “At any rate, it’s been given to me to see visions of distant places and events, to hear the voices of distant people. It’s as if an invisible bird perched on the wall there,” he pointed at a spot on the plastered wall not far from an open window, “or on the branch of a tree, and I saw through its eyes, heard through its ears. I’ve never seen the future, and I can’t call up the past. I see only the present, and no man can see all that transpires everywhere in the entire world. But the things which I have seen have focused more and more tightly upon Charis, upon your house, and upon Cayleb. I don’t believe that would happen by accident.” Haarahld’s eyes seemed to bore into Merlin’s. The King of Charis had a reputation for being able to pull the truth out of any man, but Merlin gazed back levelly. After all, everything he’d said was completely truthful. If eight standard centuries at the same address didn’t count as “living for many years” in the Mountains of Light, he couldn’t imagine what would. And his “visions” had focused more and more upon Charis, and definitely not by accident. “What sorts of visions?” Haarahld asked after a long, still moment. “Of whom?”

351 “As I’ve said, I see and hear as if I were physically present. I can’t read a page, if it isn’t turned; I can’t hear a thought, if it isn’t spoken. I can’t know what passes in the secret places of someone’s heart, only what they say and do. “I’ve seen visions of you, Your Majesty. I’ve seen you in this chamber with your personal guards, seen you with Chamberlain Hahlmahn. I’ve seen you discussing the Hanth succession with Cayleb and matters of policy with Earl Gray Harbor. I saw and heard you discussing the new patrols off Triton Head with High Admiral Lock Island when you instructed him to reinforce Falcon and Warrior with Rock Shoal Bay and her entire squadron.” Haarahld had been nodding slowly, but he froze abruptly at the mention of Lock Island. Not surprisingly, Merlin thought, given that he and the high admiral had discussed those reinforcements—and the reasons for them—under conditions of maximum security. None of their precautions, however, had been directed at a SNARC which could deploy reusable parasite spy bugs. “I’ve seen visions of Cayleb,” Merlin continued. “Not just in conversation with you, but riding to the hunt, with his arms master, even at his books.” Merlin smiled slightly and shook his head at that. “And I’ve seen him sitting in council with you, and on shipboard. “And just as I’ve seen those visions, I’ve seen your people. I told Cayleb that what I’ve seen gives me a good opinion of you, Your Majesty, and it does. In all honesty, and without seeking to curry favor with you, I haven’t been given a vision of any other king of Safehold who comes as close as you do to the ideal the Church proclaims. You aren’t perfect. Indeed, if you’ll forgive me, you’re far from it. But you also know you

352 aren’t, and, perhaps even more importantly, you’ve taught your heir to know the same thing. Those qualities, that sense of responsibility, are too rare and precious for me to see them lightly cast aside. I believe the reason I’ve seen what I’ve seen has been to bring me here to offer my services, such as they are, to the preservation of this kingdom and the tradition of service its monarchs strive to uphold.” “The praise of the praiseworthy is especially welcome,” Haarahld said, after another long, thoughtful pause. “I trust you’ll forgive me, however, for pointing out that praise and flattery sometimes blur.” “Especially when the one offering them desires something,” Merlin agreed. “And, to be honest, Your Majesty, I do desire something.” Haarahld’s eyes narrowed, and Merlin smiled. “I desire to see Charis become all she may become,” he said. “All she may become,” Haarahld repeated. “Why Charis? Even if everything you’ve said about my myriad good qualities were accurate, why pick this kingdom? It can’t be because of any sense of loyalty to my house, since the one thing you obviously aren’t is a Charisian. So, if you’ll forgive me, Seijin Merlin, it must be because of something you want out of Charis. Some goal or objective of your own. And while I’m deeply grateful for your part in saving my son’s life, and although only a fool could fail to recognize the value of an adviser who sees what you appear to see, no king worthy of his crown could accept such services without knowing that what you want is also what he wants.” Merlin leaned back in his own chair, gazing thoughtfully at the Charisian monarch, then nodded mentally. Haarahld VII was just as tough-minded as Merlin had expected, but there was a hard core of honesty, close to the king’s surface. This was a

353 man who could play the game of deception, of bluff and counter bluff, with the best of them, but it wasn’t the game he preferred. Of course, it remained to be seen if Bishop Maikel was equally tough-minded and resilient. Normally, Merlin wouldn’t have been very optimistic about that where a bishop of the Church of God Awaiting was concerned, but Maikel was hardly typical of the breed. For one thing, the king’s confessor was a Charisian. So far as Merlin had been able to determine, he’d never left the kingdom in his entire life, except to make his own pilgrimage to the Temple, and he was the highest ranking native Charisian in the entire archbishopric’s hierarchy. Haarahld’s choice, ten years before, of Maikel Staynair to be Bishop of Tellesberg, as well as his confessor had, not been popular with Archbishop Erayk’s predecessor. But Haarahld had clung stubbornly to his prerogative to nominate the priest of his choice to the capital’s see, and over the years, Maikel had become a member of the king’s inner circle of advisers. Which could be a good thing . . . or a very bad thing, indeed. “Your Majesty,” Merlin said finally, “why did your great-grandfather abolish serfdom here in Charis?” Haarahld frowned, as if surprised by the question. Then he shrugged. “Because it’s what he believed God wanted of us,” he said. “But serfdom exists in Emerald,” Merlin pointed out, “and in Tarot, Corisande, and Chisholm. In Harchong, the lot of a serf is little better than that of a beast of the field. Indeed, they treat their draft animals better than they do their serfs, because those animals are more expensive, and in Desnair and Trellheim, they practice outright slavery. Even in

354 the Temple Lands,” he looked up from the king’s face to meet Bishop Maikel’s eyes with just a hint of challenge, “men are bound to the land of the great church estates, although they aren’t called serfs. Yet not here. Why not? You say it’s not what God wants of you, but why do you believe that?” “The Writ teaches that God created every Adam and every Eve in the same instant, the same exercise of His will through the Archangel Langhorne,” Haarahld said. “He didn’t create kings first, or nobles, or wealthy merchants. He breathed the breath of life into the nostrils of all men and all women. Surely that means all men and all women are brothers and sisters. We may not be born to the same states, in this later, less perfect world. Some of us are born kings now, and some are born noble, or to wealth, or all three. Yet those born more humbly are still our brothers and sisters. If God sees men that way, then so must we, and if that’s true, then men aren’t cattle, or sheep, or horses, or dragons. Not something to be owned.” He half-glared at Merlin, and Merlin shrugged. “And would you agree with that, Bishop Maikel?” he asked quietly. “I would.” The priest’s voice was deep and powerful, well-suited to preaching and prayer, and there was a glitter in his eyes. They weren’t quite as hard as Haarahld’s, but there was no retreat in them, either, and Merlin nodded slowly. Then he looked back at the king. “Other rulers would appear to disagree with you, Your Majesty,” he observed. “Even the Church feels differently, to judge by her own practices in her own lands, at any rate. But you do believe it. And that, Your Majesty, is my goal, my objective. I believe

355 the same thing you do, and I see no other powerful kingdom which does. I respect you, and in many ways, I admire you. But my true loyalty?” He shrugged once more. “That belongs not to you, or to Cayleb, but to the future. I will use you, if I can, Your Majesty. Use you to create the day in which no man owns another, no man thinks men born less nobly then he are cattle or sheep.” Hahlmahn glared angrily at him, but Haarahld only nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “And that’s the true reason I want Charis not simply to survive, but to prosper,” Merlin said. “Not because I love empire, and not because I crave wealth, or because I confuse military might with the true strength of a kingdom. But while it may not be given to me to see the future, I know what future I would like to see. I know what values, what laws, what sort of monarchy, I believe God wants called forth. And at this time, Your Majesty, Charis offers the best hope for the future I would like to see to ever come to pass. Which is why I said from the very beginning that I came not to serve you, specifically, but to serve Charis. The idea of Charis, of her future.” Haarahld drummed lightly on one arm of his chair with the fingers of his right hand, then glanced up at Bishop Maikel. “Maikel?” he said quietly. “Sire,” the bishop said without hesitation, “I can quarrel with nothing this man has said. I know your hopes, your aspirations. And I know what it is you most fear.” His fingers stroked his pectoral scepter again, apparently unconsciously, and his nostrils flared. “If I might, Sire?” Haarahld the nodded, and the bishop looked back at Merlin.

356 “I’ve never met an actual seijin,” he said. “Once in my life I met a man who claimed to be a seijin, but what he was in reality was a charlatan.” “Your Eminence,” Merlin said when the bishop paused, “I haven’t claimed to be a seijin; I’ve claimed only that I have some of the powers ascribed to seijin.” “I observed that,” Maikel said with a small smile. “Indeed, while I would never claim to be the equal of my esteemed colleagues in the Temple as a theologian, I’ve engaged in my share of theological debate. And, perhaps as a consequence of that, I was struck by several things you didn’t say.” “You were?” Merlin’s politely attentive expression never wavered, but internal alarms began to sound as the bishop gazed at him levelly for several seconds. “According to many of the tales I read when I was younger,” Maikel said finally, “a true seijin frequently is known only after the fact, by the nature of his deeds. Others may give him the title; he seldom claims it for himself. The nature of these ‘visions’ of yours, however, will strike many as ample evidence that whatever else you may be, you are not as other mortal men. So perhaps we can all agree ‘seijin’ is the word best suited— for now, at least—to describing whatever it is you are. “But having agreed to that, what are we to make of you and your purposes? That, I’m sure you will agree, is the critical question. And my answer to it is that the Writ teaches that the true nature of any man will be shown forth in his actions. It matters not whether that man is a king, a merchant, a seijin, or a peasant; in the end, he cannot conceal what he truly is, what he truly stands for. So far, you’ve saved Cayleb’s life. Whether or not God sent you to us for that specific purpose, I don’t know. But, in my judgment, it was not the act of one who would serve darkness.”

357 The bishop looked at his monarch and bent his head in a curiously formal little bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I sense no evil in this man. I may be wrong, of course—unlike the Grand Vicar or the Chancellor, I’m merely a humble, unlettered, provincial bishop. But my advice to you is to listen to him. I know the darkness which is settling about us. Perhaps this man and the services he offers are the lamp—” he touched the embroidered sigil of his order on the breast of his habit “—you require.” Had Merlin been a being of flesh and blood, he would have let out a long, quiet exhalation of relief. But he wasn’t. And so he simply sat, waiting, while Haarahld looked deeply into his confessor’s eyes. Then the king returned his attention to Merlin once again. “And how would you serve Charis?” he asked intently. “With my visions, as they’re given to me. With my sword, as I must. And with my mind, as I may,” Merlin said simply. “For example, I’m certain you’ve interrogated the one assassin we managed to take alive.” “That you managed to take alive,” Haarahld corrected, and Merlin shrugged. “Perhaps, Your Majesty. But while I’ve had no vision of his interrogation—as I say, I see much, but not all—I do know who sent him.” Hahlmahn and the two Guardsmen leaned slightly forward, eyes intent. Bishop Maikel’s bearded lips pursed thoughtfully, and Merlin’s smile was cold. “I know it must have been tempting to lay the blame on Hektor of Corisande,” he said, “but in this case, it would be an error. The men who attempted to kill Prince Cayleb were mercenaries, Desnairians hired by Prince Nahrmahn and . . . certain others, but

358 Prince Hektor wasn’t even consulted, so far as I’m aware. “Which isn’t to say he isn’t involved in plots of his own. Indeed, his objection to your assassination, Your Majesty, or Cayleb’s, is purely tactical, not a matter of any sort of personal qualm. From what he’s said to his own closest advisers and servants and what I’ve read of his letters to Nahrmahn, he simply believes assassins are unlikely to succeed. And, I think, fears how your Kingdom might react if an attempt did succeed. He has no desire to meet you ship-to-ship at this time, not yet, and he believes that if Cayleb were killed and you believed Corisande was behind it, that’s precisely what he would face. Which is why he prefers to undermine your strength at sea in order to weaken you for a decisive blow by more conventional means. You once called him a sand maggot, not a slash lizard, when you and Cayleb discussed him, and I believe it was an apt description. But in this case, the sand maggot is thinking in more . . . conventional terms than his allies.” Haarahld’s eyes had grown more and more intent as he listened to Merlin. Now he sat back in his chair, his expression one of wonder. “Seijin Merlin,” he said, “when I summoned you to this audience, I didn’t honestly expect to believe you. I wanted to, which is one reason I was determined not to. But the finest spies in the world couldn’t have told you all you’ve just told me, and every word you’ve said has been accurate, so far as my own sources are able to confirm. I know someone who’s said what you’ve said here today will understand that despite all of that, your sincerity and trustworthiness must be tested and proved. For myself, as an individual—as Haarahld Ahrmahk—I would trust you now. As King Haarahld of Charis, I can give no man the trust I must give you if I accept the services you offer until he be

359 proven beyond question or doubt.” “Your Majesty,” Merlin said quietly, “you’re a king. It’s your duty to remember men lie. That they deceive, and that often revealing a little truth makes the final deception all the more convincing. I don’t expect you to accept my services, or even the truth of my visions, without testing thoroughly. And as you test, I beg you to remember this. I’ve said my service is to Charis and what Charis may become, not to you personally, and I meant it. I’ll give you all the truth that lies in me, and the best council I may, but in the end, my service, my loyalty, is to a future which lies beyond your life, beyond the lifespan of this person you call Merlin, and beyond even the lifespan of your son. I would have you understand that.” “Seijin Merlin, I do.” Haarahld looked deep into those unearthly sapphire eyes, and his voice was soft. “It’s said the seijin serve the vision of God, not of man. That any man who accepts the advice of a seijin had best remember the vision of God need not include his own success, or even survival. But one of the duties of a king is to die for his people, if God requires it of him. Whatever God’s vision for Charis may demand, I will pay, and if you are a true seijin, if you truly serve His vision, that’s more than sufficient for me, whatever my own future may hold.”

360

Down the Mysterly River

By Bill Willingham Illustrations by Mark Buckingham

Copyright © 2011 by William T. Willingham Illustrations copyright © 2011 by Mark Buckingham

Down the Mysterly River is the children’s book debut of Bill Willingham, the creator of the #1 New York Times bestselling graphic novel series Fables. Complete with illustrations by Fables artist Mark Buckingham, it is a spirited, highly original tale of adventure, suspense, and everlasting friendship.

361 Chapter One

Wolves and Badgers and Thrilling Boy Detective Stories

Max the Wolf was a wolf in exactly the same way that foothills are made up of real feet and a tiger shark is part tiger, which is to say, not at all. Max was in fact a boy, between twelve or thirteen years old, and entirely human. He was dressed in a Boy Scout uniform. His loose cotton shirt and shorts were a light greenish-tan in color, as were the knee-high stockings that rose out of the weathered brown leather hiking boots he wore. Many brightly colored cloth badges, of every odd shape and size, were sewn onto the front of his shirt. More badges were sewn onto the breasts and back of the dusty red jacket he wore zippered halfway up over his shirt. A blue and white triangle of cloth was draped around his neck, its tightly rolled end points connected in front by a neckerchief slide, deftly hand-carved into the shape of a gray wolf’s head, its fierce jaws open to reveal white fangs. Max had blue eyes and fair skin, lightly dusted with freckles. He had a wild mop of brown hair that he frequently had to brush out of his eyes. Usually his hair was restrained by his cap, but he seemed to have lost his cap recently, though he couldn’t exactly recall where. Now that Max thought about it, not only could he not remember how he’d lost his cap, he couldn’t recall where he was or how he’d arrived there. This was troubling for many reasons. In all the years he’d been a member of Troop 496, Chief Seattle Council,

362 in the countless hikes and camping trips he’d enjoyed, and the many adventures he’d had, Max the Wolf had never once been lost. He was a wizard with map and compass and had earned his Orienteering merit badge while still a Tenderfoot Scout. And he’d never suffered a loss of memory, nor even the briefest moment of blackout. And yet here he found himself walking down the slope of a hill, in the midst of a great forest of mixed broadleaf and evergreen, or so at least it appeared from his limited vantage place. As he walked he passed in and out of the shade of the leafy canopy high overhead. To any observer, and there was at least one, the infrequent pockets of undiluted golden sunlight made Max seem to suddenly shine brightly, like a character in a painting, before he stepped once more into the subdued, heavily filtered light of deep green shadow. The enclosed world was alive with the usual sounds of a forest. Birds sang and bugs chattered to each other from their many hidden enclaves. Many foresty scents drifted on the cool, soft breeze. “Well, Max, it seems you’ve landed yourself in another adventure,” the boy said out loud, even though there didn’t appear to be anyone on hand to talk to. “At the beginning of the mystery,” he continued, “the best way to isolate what you don’t know is to first take stock of everything you do know.” This was one of Max’s five most important rules of detection. Reciting it helped him to order his thoughts and prepare his mind for the coming investigation. “First, I am in the middle of a forest I don’t recognize, though it is so much like the familiar forests of the Pacific Northwest, I’ll assume I’m still in that general area, until evidence suggests otherwise. Second, I don’t know how I got here.” He ticked each point off on his fingers as he mentioned it.

363 “Judging by what I can see of the sky,” he said, counting a third finger, “it’s about mid-day and not likely to rain any time soon, so I’m in no immediate danger of exposure. I can’t hear traffic sounds, so I must be at least a few miles from any well-traveled road.” Now that he was back in a detecting frame of mind, the uneasiness brought about by his initial confusion began to fade. Max was seldom if ever fearful, not even during the Mystery of the Gruesome Grizzly, but he’d never suffered a loss of his mental faculties before. No matter what, he’d always been able to trust his ability to reason, until now. Talking out loud in such an odd situation comforted him just enough to help keep the unfamiliar traces of panic at bay. “I must have been involved in some Scouting activity,” he continued as he strolled downhill, “because I’m in uniform. If our Troop was on a camping trip I’d have a backpack, or at least a canteen for a day hike. But I could’ve lost those along with my hat.” As soon as he thought of his possibly missing backpack, Max checked his pockets for his Lost Kit, which an experienced Scout always carried apart from his backpack, just in case he ever became separated from the rest of his gear in the wild. He found his Lost Kit in his left front pants pocket, exactly where it was supposed to be. Inside a small watertight cylinder were a dozen strike-anywhere matches, a candle, a roll of fishing line with two hooks, a few bandages in sterile wrappings, and a needle and thread. A length of heavier twine was wrapped around the outside of the plastic cylinder, since it didn’t need to be protected from the elements. Along with his Boy Scout Knife, which he discovered safely in his right front pants pocket, he had the minimum basic tools necessary for a resourceful Scout to

364 survive in all but the most extreme sort of wilderness. Since he was in the habit of carrying his knife and Lost Kit during all Scouting activities, even those which took place in the middle of civilization, their presence in his pockets shed no light on the unresolved question of whether or not he was on a day hike or overnight camping trip prior to his memory loss. The bandages in his Lost Kit reminded him that most cases of memory loss were caused by injury, or some other serious trauma. So, mentally criticizing himself for not thinking of it sooner, he stopped walking long enough to give himself as thorough a physical examination as his situation allowed. It didn’t take long. His head seemed free of lumps, cuts or tender spots. He suffered no headache or dizziness. Moving down his body, he discovered no broken bones, or serious cuts. In fact he couldn’t even find superficial cuts, scrapes, or the kind of minor scratches and insect bites anyone picks up after spending a reasonable amount of time in the woods. “So the evidence suggests,” he said, “wherever I am, I haven’t been here long. “If I was on a hike and became separated from my Troop, there’s a pretty good chance some of them might be nearby, looking for me.” Standing still and quiet in the great woods, he listened for human sounds. Any search party would be blowing on loud whistles or actively calling out his name, not only to find him, but also to aid themselves in not becoming separated from each other. Losing additional members of the search party was always the greatest danger in any rescue operation. He decided to put off calling out himself. For now, he reasoned, it was more important to listen. He could hear all manner of birdsong, but failed to recognize any. Identifying individual birdcalls was never his strong point; not like his Patrol mate Danny

365 Underbrink, who could tell a hundred different birds by their song alone. Max did better with plants. Unfortunately the many varieties of tree and shrub he could immediately identify were common to all western forests. After a few minutes of more thorough investigation, he found some mushrooms nestled in the shady roots of a large spruce tree. He recognized them as a type called Bulbous Cort, that were common to the mountainous forests of the Pacific Northwest, though not entirely exclusive to them. It was enough though to add support to his original theory that he wasn’t far from the woodlands regularly explored by his Troop. As bad off as he was, at least it was unlikely he’d been spirited away to some remote corner of the world. In the adventure he called the Mystery of the Cautious Kidnappers, he and Taffy Clark had been taken as far as Canada’s remote Northern Territories before he could effect their escape. Because the Bulbous Cort mushroom ripened only between September and October, Max was able to deduce what time of year it was, which suddenly struck him as the strangest aspect of the mystery so far. No matter how much he’d forgotten of recent events, he should still be able to remember the month, or at least the general time of year. “You can’t blank out entire seasons, can you?” Try as he may, he couldn’t even pin down what his last specific memory was. Though he could recall just about every detail of each one of his adventures, and even fit them in the right chronological order, there seemed to be a big blank between the end of his last adventure and the moment he realized he was walking through these woods. At this point the panicky feeling threatened to well up inside him again, and it was only by a great effort of will he was able to force it back into submission. It was time, he

366 thought, to quit worrying and go back to solving specific problems. “Figure out enough of the small details, and the big mystery will solve itself.” That was another of his famous first five rules of detection. Even though the sun was still high in the sky, promising that there were still several hours of reliable daylight left, Max decided to make some plans, in case it turned out he truly was on his own, and he’d be spending the night in the woods. He turned slowly in place, in two complete circles, looking up and down, from the forest floor to the branches high above him. He could detect no break in the trees and underbrush that might indicate a possible clearing, where he could expect to find a less obstructed view of his location. The next best thing was to head back up the hill he’d been walking down, until he found a clearing or reached the hilltop, where he could climb one of the taller trees to see what he could see. The disadvantage of going uphill, beyond the obvious fact that it was harder than walking downhill, was that he’d tend to be walking away from most sources of fresh water. He’d need to find some water before he settled down for the night, but he had some time before that became the first priority. He’d listen while he hiked. On hillsides any water would tend to be in motion, and moving water made noise. Having decided on his immediate objective, Max removed his jacket and, draping it over one shoulder, set out at a brisk pace up the steep slope of the hillside. Before he had gone very far, while passing through a particularly dense area of underbrush between two black cottonwood trees, he was surprised by a gruff voice from under a leafy bush. “I don’t think either of us would like it if you stepped on me,” the voice said.

367 Startled, Max stepped back a couple of paces, until he was well clear of the bushes. In almost no time at all a squat and furry form came out from under the very same brush, waddling a bit from side to side as it walked on four short legs. The stout creature was nearly twenty inches from nose to tail, and, except for its elongated snout, it was almost as wide as it was long. In a mostly white face, two dark stripes of fur ran from its black nose, one across each eye, to taper off just beyond the back of its head. An additional dark patch of fur colored each cheek. In a very striking pattern, the dark and white lines flowed back along its coat, gradually shading into a uniform gray along the way, turning brownish just before the bristly fur entirely ran out of creature to cover. Max recognized it instantly as a very large example of the species taxidea taxus, or in plain language, a badger. Max looked back and forth between the badger and the bush it had just emerged from, hoping to get a look at who’d spoken, all the while wondering what odd sort of fellow would share space under a bush with a badger. “You might want to be a touch more careful to look where you’re going,” the badger said, provoking a yawlp of astonishment from Max. It was the same gruff voice he’d just heard. There was no one else in the bush. “You talked!” Max said. He backed another full step down the hill, careful not to take his eyes off of the impossible creature. “Well, why shouldn’t I?” the badger said. “You were already talking so much, it seemed impolite not to join the conversation.” The creature shuffled forward a little bit as he talked. As he did, Max stepped back each time, keeping a uniform distance between them.

368 “But badgers can’t talk!” Max said. “Of course we can. We talk all the time. Back in my old sett it was everything I could do to get my wife and cubs to shut up long enough to hear myself think. Of course, this is the first time one of you fire callers ever answered back. For all of your endless jabbering, this is the only time one of you said anything I can understand.” This time as he talked, the badger didn’t shuffle forward on his stubby legs, perhaps because in doing so he would have backed the poor fire caller right into a tangle of devil’s club behind him. Their multitudes of two-inch needles were bad enough on a badger’s thick coat. Against a fire caller’s soft unfurred hide they’d be torture. Instead the creature huffed and snorted and rocked from side to side as he talked, all the while clawing absent-mindedly at the dirt in front of him. It seemed to Max a very badgerly thing to do. Suddenly all evidence of surprise and fear at such an unusual encounter vanished from Max’s face, to be replaced by a wide grin that burped out several solitary chuckles, before they connected into a more proper and delighted stream of laughter that lasted for some moments. Max didn’t back up any more. In fact he boldly knelt down in the spongy carpet of dead leaves and pine needles to get a better look at his new companion. “Do badgers amuse you, fella, or are you just some sort of kook?” “Neither,” Max said, once he was able to get control of his laughter. “I’m simply relieved to have finally solved this particular mystery. I should have suspected it before. The clues were all there. Not knowing what time of year it is should have been a dead giveaway. But the sensations of my environment were so detailed and consistent with

369 reality, the obvious answer never occurred to me, until now. I’m in the middle of a very enjoyable dream. I’m going to regret waking up from this one.” “I hate to interrupt your good mood,” the badger said, “and Brock knows I’ve had some crazy dreams of my own, but I don’t think this is one of them.” “Of course you wouldn’t think so,” Max replied, “because you aren’t the one dreaming. You’re just a character in mine.” “Nope,” the badger said. “I doubt that very much. Though you and I have both landed in a strange place, I don’t think it’s the land of dreams. I know the smell of that country like I know the scent of my own beloved missus in the dark of our den, and this ain’t it. This land smells all wrong. Not in a bad way, precisely, but foreign like.” “Where are we then?” Max said, his broad smile fading only a little. “I think we’re in the afterlife, young fire caller,” the badger said in a voice gone quiet and sober. “My best guess is that you and me are stone cold dead.”

370 Chapter Two

Flights and Fights and Campfire Tales

McTavish the Monster was on the run again. Given the darkness of the night and the density of the woods, with all of its myriad hidey-holes, he could easily have escaped the hunter, if the hunter were on his own. Humans, for all their amazing tools and other wonders, were dull things and easy to outwit. But the two black hounds were another story. Dogs could sniff anyone out of even the most hidden lair, so the only way for McTavish to escape this time was to run and dodge and run some more. McTavish was getting tired though. If it were only a single dog on his tail, he would have turned to fight long ago. Killing a big bad dog wasn’t so hard as all that, even a well trained hunting dog. More than one hound’s ghost was currently whimpering in some foul canine Hell because it had been foolhardy enough to pick a fight with him. But a dog and its master were impossible for even a crafty old fighter like McTavish to beat. And when the hunter had two dogs? Well, that was nothing short of unfair. So McTavish ran for his life, followed closely by the hounds that howled and yipped and bellowed to their master following far behind them as best he could. This was not an occasion for stealth. All four of them, hunters and hunted, crashed headlong through the bramble, with not a care for how much noise they made. From time to time as he fled, McTavish yowled his own vulgar protests to the heavens, and whatever warrior gods there were who’d decided to stack the deck so completely against him.

371 He was an old yellow tomcat, of the species most commonly referred to as a Domestic or House Cat. But to attempt to describe McTavish by either of those names would be seriously misleading. He’d never been inside of any house, and in all of his thirteen hard years of life, no one had been able to domesticate him. He was feral through and through, and bigger than any cat of his variety had a right to be. He weighed at least 30 pounds of pure meanness, spit and bile, and there was not a jot of fat on him. His ratty, ungroomed fur—where there wasn’t so much scar tissue that it still grew—was of a sickly yellow color, except for one white sock on his right hind leg and a splash of unusually lustrous white fur under his chin. Once, in the process of murdering his second dog, he’d had his throat ripped open. The dog—a giant of a Shepherd-Golden Lab mix, with more daring than sense— had partially torn away a great bloody flap of flesh, from his chin down to his chest. As McTavish lay bleeding into the dust of the barnyard, preparing to join his adversary in death, the leather-skinned old man who owned the farm found him. Normally the farmer was wise enough to avoid the evil old barn cat, but McTavish was too weak by then to resist him. The old man carried the dying animal into the barn, and set him on a workbench to see if he wasn’t beyond all help. It wasn’t done for love. The old man hated the foul creature, but a good mouser was worth its weight in gold on a farm. In addition to everything else it destroyed, McTavish killed a pile of rats and mice every day of the week. That alone made him worth saving, if it were possible. Carefully the old man washed out the wound and shaved all the areas around it. Then he set the ragged flap of McTavish’s skin back in place and stitched it with a normal household sewing needle and the length of extra thick neon pink thread that he

372 had no other use for, since his wife had passed on. He didn’t have extra money to waste on animal doctors, so that was as much as he could do for the thing. He laid McTavish in a bed of dry straw and went back about his business, leaving the cat to decide for himself whether he would live or die. It took some time, and things looked dicey for a while, but McTavish lived, eventually recovering the full measure of his health and general meanness. “Too evil to die,” the old farmer said. What’s remarkable though is that the fur under the old cat’s chin, where he’d been so severely wounded, grew back silky and white, as fine and lovely as the fur of the most pampered house cat, and in stark contrast to that which covered the rest of his great, battle-scarred form. It was as if some invisible hand had pinned a gleaming medal on his breast, an award for fierceness and courage in war. The patch of glorious white only showed how ugly and ill-used the rest of him looked. Countless scars from countless battles covered his ancient body. One eye had been clawed out years past and the hole it left had healed badly. His ragged tail had a kink in it, from where it was once bitten nearly in two, and was missing the last inch, from another opponent’s slightly more successful attempt to bite through it. One of his teeth had broken off in the hipbone of a plow horse who’d been too slow getting out of his way. In the inky dark of night under the trees of the strange forest, McTavish continued to scamper just out of reach of the hunting dogs’ fangs. A great boulder suddenly loomed out of the darkness, directly in his path. He was going too fast to avoid it, so instead he jumped into the sky, meeting the vertical rock face at the top of his arc and frantically

373 clawed his way to its top, scrambling in a wild blur of churning feet over the slick wet moss that crowned it. The dog immediately behind him wasn’t quite so lucky. All of his attention had been on his intended prey. He never saw the boulder, not even when he crashed headfirst into it at full speed. Teeth broke and blood splashed with the ugly collision. The dog’s cry of pain pierced the night so as to make every sort of creature shiver in its den. The other dog was more fortunate. He avoided hitting the rock face by smashing instead into his injured brother’s backside, pushing his ruined muzzle back into the rock a second time. Above them, McTavish pranced and strutted on the top of the boulder, reveling in his brief moment of victory. He would have liked to hurl insults at the two hounds, but was so out of breath he couldn’t speak. So, instead, he lifted one hind leg and whizzed down the face of the rock, more or less in the direction of his injured and disheartened pursuers. “That’s as much poetry as you can understand anyway,” he said, when he’d recovered enough wind to speak. Then McTavish took a look around him from his vantage point at the top of the huge rock. He wouldn’t have time for more than a quick look before the dogs recovered enough to continue the chase, but that was all he needed. Far off in the darkness, up the slope of the wooded hillside, he could see the flickering light of a campfire. The rudiments of a plan formed in the huge old cat’s mind and he acted on it without hesitation. He bounded off of the other side of the mossy rock and once again sped off into the night.

***

374

Lord Ander fought to draw breath into his tortured lungs as he ran through the darkened forest, following the loud baying of his hunting dogs. He was dressed in muted grays, browns and greens that blended in with his surroundings. Over his tunic and leggings he wore a long wool cloak that seemed to catch on every hidden branch in his path, as he crashed and stumbled along in pursuit of his dogs and their prey. In the frequent rains that visited the territory the heavy wool cloak was good for bleeding off water, keeping him dry and comfortable underneath, but in a nighttime chase it was just another hindrance. With every step the scabbard of his sword slapped hard against his thigh. Unseen branches whipsawed his face. He was able to catch a brief moment of rest when he came across his hounds who’d suffered a mishap. One of them—Caradoc, he thought, but it was hard to be sure in the dark—had injured itself by running into a boulder. But the dog recovered quickly enough and seemed eager to press on, so the chase resumed. Judging by the sounds they made, they’d had no trouble picking up their quarry’s trail again. The demonic creature had led them all on a merry chase, up and down the hillside, through the thickest parts of the forest. It led them, it seemed, through every hazard the night-dark woods could offer. Despite his thick protective clothing, Ander had already suffered numerous cuts and bruises, and a painful twist to one ankle that he’d likely not be able to walk on in the morning. Once they caught it, he’d enjoy cutting every evil thing out of the beast, until it no longer remotely resembled its present form.

***

375

Max and his newfound badger companion sat near the comforting warmth of the fire he’d built. To be accurate, Max seemed to be the only one that derived any comfort from the fire. The badger, true to its wild nature, continued to be wary of flame and would only approach it cautiously, ready to bolt at any provocation. Earlier that afternoon, after his first startling pronouncement about death and the afterlife, the badger had complained about being hungry and suggested putting off any further conversation until they’d found food and water. Max couldn’t do anything but agree. An actual talking badger was strange enough, but one who insisted they were both dead was especially disturbing. Though he was still convinced he was dreaming, doubts began to weaken his certainty. Too many details were unlike dreams he’d had in the past. He felt real pain when he pinched himself, and real hunger when the badger suggested they seek out dinner. That didn’t happen in dreams. Time and again, on past Scouting trips, Max had proved his skills at finding edible plants in the wilderness. He had little trouble finding some mushrooms, roots and tubers that could sustain him, even if they wouldn’t be exactly tasty. But where Max was merely competent, the badger was an expert. In the hours it took Max to find his few edible items, the badger had located enough for a feast. He gorged on wild strawberries, blueberries and raspberries, then dug up squirming bundles of fat, juicy earthworms and greedily slurped them down. After that he spent some time rooting tasty crunchy nuts out from under the wet carpet of matted dead leaves and pine needles that covered most of the forest floor.

376 When he was so full he couldn’t eat another bite, he found a cool mountain stream to ease his thirst. Then the newly contented badger waddled off to see how the young fire caller had fared. He found the boy looking forlornly at the small pile of edible plants and fungi he’d been able to gather. “Is that all you’re going to eat?” the badger asked in his low grumbling voice. “Aren’t you very hungry?” “Oh, I’m plenty hungry,” Max said, “but this is all I could find so far.” Talking to an animal hadn’t become any more normal over the intervening hours since their first encounter. But one of his rules of detection directed that, “A detective can’t solve a mystery simply by picking and choosing the evidence that suits him.” So, for the time being, he decided to accept the fact that a badger could talk, until he woke up, or some better explanation presented itself. “Then I guess you’re just particular about what you eat,” the badger said. “Because you walked right past a bunch of fat, sweet berries to get at those twisted little roots you dug up.” “Really?” Max said. “I never noticed. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to show me?” “Of course. It would be bad manners not to.” “Speaking of manners,” Max said. “I suspect that it’s time we got around to introducing ourselves to each other. I’d have suggested it sooner, but discovering the world’s first talking badger sort of threw me off balance.” “Yes,” the badger answered. “Trading names is a good thing to do, but I didn’t know what the custom was for you fire callers. Some folk think giving their name to a

377 stranger is a good way to get a black curse put on them. Never ask a goose his name, if you want to save your eardrums. But we’re more enlightened than geese. Badgerkind isn’t burdened with such superstitions. Trading names is fine with me. “I’m called Banderbrock, hero of the Great War of the Thrumbly Hares. My name means ‘one who follows the ways of the first badger,’ and that is the code I live by.” “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mister Banderbrock. I’m called Max the Wolf.” “Oh, I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Banderbrock said. “Did you get your head bopped in, or fall down a steep hill when you were a cub, or what?” “I don’t understand,” Max said. “Yes, that’s evident. But do you know what happened to get you that way, or is that particular memory part of what’s broken in your mind?” “No,” Max said, quite confused by this point. “I don’t understand why you think I’m injured in my head. My head is fine, as far as I know.” “Well, I’m sorry to be the one to bring you bad news,” Banderbrock said, “but something has you confused, because you aren’t a wolf.” “Oh, I understand now,” Max said with a grin of visible relief. “I didn’t mean to suggest I’m a real wolf. That’s just a nickname I have. Everyone calls me Max the Wolf because I’m the leader of the Wolf Patrol in my Scout Troop.” “Oh, you’re a hunter of wolves,” Banderbrock said. “No, not exactly,” Max said. “Although I did have to hunt a wolf once during the Mystery of the Silver Moon. But as a general rule I don’t do that. We’re called the Wolf Patrol because… Well, it’s actually sort of complicated. The wolf is a symbol for us, almost like a totem. Don’t your kind take nicknames?”

378 “Not like that,” Banderbrock said. “If I were to take the wolf’s name he might come to get it back some day. I’ve had to fight wolves a time or two before, but always for a better reason than taking a fancy to his name. You fire callers have odd ways.” “Yes, I suppose we do. I don’t imagine we can go find those berries now?” “We can indeed,” Banderbrock said, and then started off through a stand of blackthorn trees. “Follow me.” Once Banderbrock had directed Max to the various bushes, shrubs and patches where all manner of delectable berry could be found, Max’s mood improved considerably. He picked and ate, while the badger napped in the sun, snoring quietly. He woke up about an hour later to find Max sitting in his own slowly fading patch of sun, licking the ripe juices of the last strawberry off of his fingers. “Did that fill you up?” Banderbrock murmured sleepily, while scratching his big belly with his long digger claws. “Or would you like some meat to go with that? I’d be happy to dig you up a mess of fresh worms.” “No thank you,” Max said. “I never developed a taste for worms, but if you happen to know where to find a plump chicken…” “I doubt we’ll find any chickens this far from a farmstead, but would a rabbit do?” the badger asked. “Seriously?” Not much more than an hour later a skinned and cleaned rabbit slowly cooked on a wooden spit, over the fire Max had built while the badger hunted. They’d made their camp near the splashing waters of the small stream Banderbrock had found earlier in the

379 day. The sun had set behind the crest of a far hill and darkness settled in quickly behind it. The fire popped and crackled as juices from the cooking rabbit dripped into it. “Are you sure you want to burn it like that?” Banderbrock asked. “We fire callers prefer our meat this way,” Max said. “It will take some time to cook, so maybe this would be a good opportunity to pick up our discussion on why you think we’re dead.” “There’s many reasons that occur to me,” Banderbrock answered from the edge of the firelight. “One is that I’ve never talked to a fire caller before. Such miracles are to be expected in the great beyond, don’t you think?” “I guess that makes a degree of sense,” Max answered, in a non-committal voice. “But the most compelling reason is I remember dying,” Banderbrock continued. “I was in the lair of a great and evil dragon, destroying its monstrous offspring as they hatched. One of the dragon cubs got its fangs into me and I was paralyzed by its poison. It took some time to die from it, and I was still awake when more of the creatures hatched and began to eat me up. Then there was the expected darkness, and then I found myself here on this hillside in this forest, under vasty mountains that had never existed in my earthly home. I expect to find the Great Sett somewhere around here.” “What is that?” Max asked. “The Great Sett is the endless communal badger warren, where every good and honorable badger lives in the afterlife. All of my friends who died bravely in any of our wars are there, waiting to welcome me.” “And does this look like the sort of place you’d expect to find the Great Sett?” Max said.

380 “Yes it does,” Banderbrock said. “Though I expect it’s a bit farther down the hill where the bones of the earth aren’t so close to the surface and the trees aren’t so thick together. Tomorrow I’ll head down into the valley to find it.” They continued to talk as the night grew older, trading tales of their many adventures. Max ate the rabbit when it was done. He offered a bite to Banderbrock who didn’t like the burned taste of it. Then, after another trip to the stream, they settled in to sleep. Max built the fire up first, because the night was cold and breezy, and he only had his thin red jacket to act as a blanket. Banderbrock had his fine fur coat, so didn’t need the fire’s warmth. He moved off to find a comfy notch under a fallen log in which to make his bed.

381 Chapter Three

The First Night, the Battle and What Was Learned as a Result

Before Max and Banderbrock had been asleep for very long, they were wakened by the sounds of barking and howling dogs not too far off in the distance. Added to that were the intermittent screams of some other sort of creature. “What do you suppose that is?” Max asked of the fruggerdly old badger, as he shivered and snorted himself into wakefulness. Max was surprised to be woken by dogs barking in the night, but he was more surprised to still find himself in strange woods in the company of a talking badger. He’d fully expected to wake up quite badgerless in his own bed in the suburbs of Renton, Washington. His theory that he was only dreaming was getting harder and harder to support. “Hunting hounds are on the scent of some quarry,” Banderbrock said. Then, after shushing Max so he could listen, and then snuffling at the air for a time, he said, “There are two dogs, and someone of your kind behind them I think. I don’t know what sort of thing it is they’re chasing, but we’re likely to find out soon. They’re coming this way.” “What should we do?” Max asked. “It’s too late to snuff your fire. You called up too much of it. So we should expect their arrival. I wouldn’t count on night hunters to be among the friendly sort, so we’d best prepare for a fight. Now would be a good time to pull out that portable claw you carry in your pocket.”

382 Banderbrock referred to Max’s Boy Scout knife, with its various blades, which he’d seen in use earlier. The badger seemed fascinated by the thing, but couldn’t understand why anyone would find advantage in a claw that one could put away, and possibly lose. “The only good place to keep your claws are on the end of your paws, always out and ready for business,” he’d said earlier in the evening. He’d also wondered whether fire callers also make their teeth removable. He didn’t quite believe Max when he admitted that they sometimes did, but usually only their eldest. “Do you really think we’ll have to fight?” Max said, listening to the hounds come closer. “It’s better to prepare for what could happen, than what you hope will happen,” Banderbrock said. “I’ll need your help if it is a fight we’re facing. On my own I can beat at least two of anything, but three or more isn’t as certain.” Max did take out his knife and opened the longest cutting blade. He’d never had to stab anyone before, and didn’t relish the thought of doing it now. But his companion’s words made sense, and Max wouldn’t leave a friend to face danger alone. He gripped the knife firmly in his right fist, but didn’t hold it out in a threatening way. If there were going to be violence, he wouldn’t be the first to start it. He turned to face the sound of the oncoming dogs, and whatever screeching, wailing thing they were chasing. Just then there was a crashing of leaves, and a frightening yellow shape flew out of the darkness and landed almost in the fire, skidding against the hot stones Max had placed around it. “I’d run or hide if I were you,” the bizarre apparition said. Then it streaked off into the night again, in the opposite direction from where it appeared.

383 Max didn’t have time to decide what it was he’d just seen, because by then two large black hounds trotted out of the circle of darkness surrounding their camp. Their eyes seemed to glow with demonic fire. A mere reflection of the firelight, Max had to remind himself. The dogs paced and growled at the edge of the light, slipping into and out of shadows, like beastly ghosts. Max had to turn every which way to keep them in sight as they circled the barrier of light, which they seemed in no hurry to enter. Banderbrock was nowhere to be seen. Max hadn’t heard him leave the camp area. He was alone against whatever danger the hounds represented. “Hello the camp,” a voice said from out of the darkness. “I’m alone, and master of these hounds. May I come forward?” “Come ahead,” Max called. Within moments there was a soft rustling of underbrush and then a tall man, quite human in appearance, stepped into the circle of firelight. As he approached, he whispered some sharp command to the dogs who stopped their pacing and growling, but remained back in the shadows, twin statues of impending danger. The man wore a long, hooded gray cloak. The hood was lowered at the moment and Max could see that he was somewhere either side of thirty years old. He had long dark brown hair that was tied behind him in a curly ponytail. He also wore a short beard and mustache in good trim. “I’m surprised to find a young man alone in these dangerous woods at night,” the stranger said, with a slight and not very comforting smile. “I’m Lord Ander, of the

384 Fellowship of Justice. Also called the Clarifiers or the Ring of Truth. Who might you be?” “Max of the Wolf Patrol,” Max said. He’d only intended to say “Max,” but the rest slipped out unbidden. Maybe he wanted this man to think he wasn’t necessarily as alone as he looked. It seemed to do the job, because suddenly the man looked impressed. “Do I understand that you’re the one called Max the Wolf?” Ander said. “Yeah, do you know me?” Max said. This was an unexpected surprise. “Have you been looking for me?” “Not me,” Ander said. “But some of my companions have been. You’re not where you were supposed to be. You arrived in the wrong part of the Heroes Wood. I’ll be happy to take you to them though.” “I’m sure that will be fine,” Max said. “But there are lots of things I don’t understand, so I’d like to have some questions answered first.” “That wouldn’t be practical, young man. Why should I bother loading you up with a lot of information we’d just have to cut out of you later?” As he said this, Ander reached inside his cloak and drew a menacing sword out of a leather scabbard belted to his left hip. The sword had a relatively short blade, only eighteen inches at most, but it was of an eerie blue metal that shined with the reflected light of the campfire. “You’d best drop that little knife you have clutched in your sweating paw,” Ander continued, as he advanced towards Max, one pace, then another. “You won’t be able to hurt me with it, but I’ll get angry if you try.” Ander’s subtle smile had broadened considerably, but there was still no warmth in it.

385 As he stepped forward, Max stepped backwards. He raised his small knife defensively and, as he did so, Ander spoke a sharp command that had both dogs growling and on the move again. The three of them together advanced towards Max, who had no chance of escape. Then there was an ear-piercing screech of animal rage, and something small but terrifying in its violence dropped out of the sky, between the two dogs. It was Banderbrock, and he was instantly locked in battle with both dogs. The three beasts fell into a howling tumble of twisting, biting fury. They moved with blurring speed, kicking up a small whirlwind of dust and loam. The sounds they made were horrifying in their ferocity. Max could see nothing more coherent than an occasional flash of tooth and claw. He looked back at the swordsman, to discover that he’d also been distracted by Banderbrock’s arrival. Max wasted no more time and aimed a vicious kick between the man’s legs. Either it was badly aimed, or Lord Ander moved, because it didn’t quite land where Max had intended. Instead it struck Ander’s right thigh, but it connected hard, and Ander grunted in pain. In return, Ander slashed at Max with his sword, but his leg buckled slightly under him and the blow fell short. The cut aimed at Max hit low across the trunk of an ash tree instead, and the tree – at least ten inches thick – was severed clean through where the blade cut it. “That’s impossible!” Max said. Impossible or not, it happened, and it saved Max’s life. The bulk of the tree came crashing down between them, just as Ander was about to strike again with the miracle blade. A flurry of ash leaves and branches hid the two opponents from each other long enough for Max to run out of the circle of firelight, into the darkness of the woods. From

386 behind a thick tree trunk Max watched as Lord Ander forced his way through the branches of the fallen ash tree, only to find that Max had disappeared. The fight between Banderbrock and the dogs raged on, but by now there were as many yelps of pain as there were screams of fury. Max wanted to run deeper into the protective night and keep going, but that would leave the badger alone to eventually face that terrible sword. Max decided he had to stay and do his part, no matter how frightened he was of Ander and his deadly weapon. But he had no plans to get within its reach again. He folded the blade of his knife and put it away. Then, as quietly as he could, he crouched down and felt around the damp ground for rocks of good throwing size. Ander paused at the edge of the firelight, peering in every direction. Max searched more frantically. If he didn’t act before Ander left the lighted area, he’d have no chance of hitting him. When Max had six usable stones, he put four in his jacket pockets and held one in each hand. Then he stepped out from behind the tree, but still well within the concealing darkness, and threw the first stone at Ander with all his might. He aimed for the man’s head. His body would make a better target, but a hit there wouldn’t do the damage Max needed to inflict. The first stone missed, going too high and wide to the left of its target. Ander flinched from the missile, but then rushed the area where it looked to have come from. He was angling slightly off from Max’s location, but Max moved to place himself squarely in the man’s path. It wasn’t due to courage, or any foolhardy sense of fair play on Max’s part. He needed to keep Ander positioned between him and the firelight in order to have any hope of a clear target to throw at. Ander’s bold advance only gave Max time for one more shot, before the man would be on him again.

387 Max held his ground and waited, letting Ander come as close as he dared. Then he threw the second stone. It impacted Ander’s forehead with a sickening thump. Max watched the man’s firelight-haloed silhouette as it stood still for a long moment. Then it seemed to fold in on itself and crumple to the ground. Max didn’t approach the fallen swordsman right away. He waited to see if there was any movement from him, but there was none that he could detect. Max approached him tentatively, ready to run back again at the first sign of renewed menace. The man was still except for the rhythmic twitching of his fingers that kept closing and relaxing. His head was painted in a dark splash of blood, almost black in the dim light. Max felt for his knife own in his pants pocket. It would be easy to cut the man’s throat now, and it was probably the sensible thing to do. But Max didn’t have it in him to kill a helpless man, no matter what his crimes, or what danger he may offer in the future. Still, mercy only went so far. Max knelt next to the man and gingerly picked up his sword from where it had fallen near him. He carefully handled it only by the grip. He wasn’t about to touch the strange blue metal of its blade. Standing again, with Lord Ander’s sword in his hand, he twirled the blade three times over his head and then threw the deadly thing far into the darkness. It crashed once among unseen leaves and made no further sound. Next, with a bit of fumbling about, Max stripped the heavy wool cloak off the unconscious and disarmed swordsman. The fight between Banderbrock and the dogs continued, and he had the notion of throwing the heavy cloak over one of the dogs to entangle him, leaving his courageous partner with only one foe to fight.

388 Max walked back towards the light of the campfire, holding the cloak spread out before him, in both hands like a net. He walked around the fire to the spot on the other side of it where the other battle still raged unabated. Then Max heard a whisper of sound behind him. He turned in time to see Ander, back on his feet and staggering towards him, blood flowing copiously down his face, spreading out in a gruesome river delta before it soaked into his wet sticky beard. Ander stumbled into Max and the two of them went down together. Even unarmed and injured, the man outweighed Max by as much as a hundred pounds, so when he landed on him, all the air rushed out of Max’s chest in a single painful whoosh. Ander threw his arms around Max in a clumsy bear hug, pinning them together face to face. One of Ander’s eyes was covered in blood and useless for the moment. Max tried to work one hand free to claw at the other. But, even weakened with his injury, Ander was too strong and both of Max’s arms remained trapped. They rolled over and over in their ungraceful struggle until Max’s shoulder smacked against the sharp edge of one of the large rocks surrounding the fire, which still blazed away. The impact sent a wave of pain through him, and his right arm lost all sensation. They had come to rest with Ander back on top of him, a look of uncontained madness in his one visible eye. Ander released his grasp on Max, but remained sitting on the boy, pinning him with his body weight. With no thought for the pain it must have caused him, Ander grabbed one of the large hot rocks surrounding the fire, and brought it up high over his head in both hands. At least my death will be instant, Max thought.

389 Then Ander just let the stone fall out of his hands. It fell to one side of Max’s head, into the fire, sending an explosion of sparks into the night sky, as if every fallen star that had ever hit the earth had all at once decided to return burning back into the heavens. Something had caused Ander to drop the stone, rather than crush Max’s head with it. Whatever it was that had saved Max, it made a lot of noise, like the wail of a hundred tortured ghosts. Ander rolled off Max, frantically batting at his own head, desperately trying to dislodge a yellow, clawing thing that had attached itself there. There was a short moment of rolling and screaming, and then Ander was back on his feet, free of the terrible thing that had finally fallen away from him. Now Max could see the beast, which had landed inside the circle of firelight, on four splayed out legs. It was just a big yellow tomcat. With no further glance at any of the combatants, Ander run drunkenly out of the camp, calling his dogs to come with him. Only one dog followed him back into the darkness of the forest, favoring one deeply gashed leg as it went. The other dog lay still and ragged in the churned earth. At some point during his second struggle with Lord Ander, the fight between Banderbrock and the dogs had ended. Banderbrock stood over the fallen dog, a wild look in his eyes, his breath heaving in and out of his chest like a blacksmith’s bellows. Most of the badger was coated in dark blood. Max had no immediate way of knowing whose blood it was. “That is absolutely the first and last time I ever climb a tree,” Banderbrock gasped out in the spaces between labored breaths. “I got no higher than the lowest branch, but it was enough to nearly scare the pellets right out of me.”

390 “I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” Max said, failing to sound nonchalant. For all his past adventures, he was still only a boy. Tears began to bead at his eyes, but he swore to himself that he wouldn’t start crying. “I wanted to be able to come at them from a direction they’d never suspect,” Banderbrock said. He was beginning to get control over his breathing. “Well, you certainly accomplished that,” Max said. “Your arrival from above surprised all of us. Are you okay?” Max didn’t feel okay. His arm was still dead numb and he was beginning to get the cold shakes from the recent adrenaline surge. “Of course,” Banderbrock said. “It wasn’t even a fair fight. One of the dogs was already injured before it began.” “Is that one dead?” Max asked, indicating the dog lying under the badger’s front paws. “I sure hope so,” Banderbrock said. “That was my intention, anyway.” Banderbrock bounced up and down on the dog’s bloodied ribs a few times with his front end, sinking his long claws back into the dog’s chest each time. There wasn’t so much as a twitch of response from the creature. “I would say he is definitely dead,” Banderbrock said. “His brother should have been too, but I couldn’t concentrate properly on my work. I kept getting distracted by what you and the dogs’ master were doing. I wanted to help you out, but these damned mutts didn’t know enough to quit.” “That’s okay, Banderbrock,” Max said. He was trying to rub some life back into his arm. “I was rescued at the last second by that thing.”

391 That’s when Banderbrock and Max saw the huge cat clearly for the first time. It sat placidly in front of the fire, grooming bits of Lord Ander’s face and neck out from between its claws. To Max it looked at best like a grotesque parody of a real cat, in much the same way that Frankenstein’s monster resembled a real human. “I was wondering how long you two were going to ignore me, without so much as a thank you,” McTavish said.

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