Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 1 Num 2
Novel
1932-0930-02
978-1932-0930-01
10.1125/Baen.1932093002
Baen Books
Eric Flint
David Mattingly
Science Fiction
2006 by Eric Flint
2006-08-01
US English (en-us)

Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 1 Num 2

by
Eric Flint

Table of Contents

Jim Baen's Universe
Vol 1 Num 2: August 2006

Credits, Issue 2

Written by Jim Baen's Universe! Staff

Jim Baen's Universe Magazine, Volume 1 Number 2

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this magazine are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2006 by Jim Baen's Universe

A Baen Publishing Enterprises Publication
Jim Baen's Universe
P. O. Box 7488
Moore, OK 73153-1488

ISSN: 1932-0930

"Treasure in the Sand" Copyright © 2006 by Kevin Anderson and Brian Herbert
"Dog Soldier" Copyright © 2006 by Garth Nix
"When Sysadmins Ruled the Earth" Copyright © 2006 by Cory Doctorow
"The Ruby Dice" Copyright © 2006 by Catherine Asaro
"Sisters of Saronnym, Sisters of Westwind" Copyright © 2006 by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
"As Black as Hell" Copyright © 2006 by John Lambshead
"What Sleeps in the Shadows Belongs in the Depths" Copyright © 2006 by Julie Czerneda
"Benny Comes Home" Copyright © 2006 by Esther Friesner
"The Ancient Ones Part 2" Copyright © 2006 by David Brin
"Travails with Momma, part 2" Copyright © 2006 by John Ringo
"Fish Story, Episode 2" Copyright © 2006 by Andrew Dennis, Eric Flint and Dave Freer
"Decaf and Spaceship, To Go" Copyright © 2006 by Katherine Sanger
"Technical Exchange" Copyright © 2006 by Kevin Haw
"Medic" Copyright © 2006 by William Ledbetter
"The Best Plaid Lans" Copyright © 2006 by Loren K. Jones
"Supercargo" Copyright © 2006 by M. T. Reiten
"Robowar" Copyright © 2006 by Gregory Benford
"Lulu" by Clifford Simak was first published by Galaxy Science Fiction in June, 1957
"Pollock and the Porroh Man" by H. G. Wells was first published by New Budget in May, 1895

First electronic publication: August 2006

STORIES

Treasure in The Sand

Written by Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson
Illustrated by Phil Renne

"When the last worm dies and the last melange is harvested upon our sands, these deep treasures will spring up throughout our universe. As the power of the spice monopoly fades and the hidden stockpiles make their mark, new powers will appear throughout our realm."

—Leto Atreides II, the God Emperor of Dune

Pressing his fingers against the windowport of the Spacing Guild landing shuttle, Lokar stared at the blasted world beneath them. Rakis, once called Dune—home of the holy sandworms, the only natural source of the spice melange, the place where the God Emperor Leto II had gone into the sand.

Now everything was dead, incinerated by the obliterating weapons of the Honored Matres. . . .

Lokar, one of the last Priests of the Divided God, closed his eyes before tears could come. Giving water to the dead. To a whole dead world. He murmured a prayer, which was drowned out by the sound of dry air currents that buffeted the descending ship.

"The planet looks like one giant scab. How can there be anything left down there?" asked Dak Pellenquin. Lokar didn't like him; he was the expedition member who had talked loudest and bragged most frequently during the Heighliner journey to Rakis. "One giant scab. Is this expedition going to be worth our while? Worth anyone's while?"

"We'll find whatever there is to find." Guriff, the expedition leader, cut him off. "Our priest will show us where to dig." Guriff had close-cropped dark hair, narrow-set eyes, and a persistent bristly stubble on his chin, no matter how often he attended to his facial hygiene. "Anything left down there—that whole planet is ours for the taking."

"Only because no one else wants it," said a stocky man. He had a jovial expression, but icy cold eyes behind his forced smile. This one called himself Ivex, though rumor held that this was not his true name. He propped his feet up on the empty seat in front of him.

Lokar didn't answer any of them, just clung to his prayer like a lifeline, eyes shut. Joining these treasure hunters on the departure planet of Cherodo had been a risk, but the devout priest had considered his options. Rakis was the most sacred of all worlds, home of the great sandworms that comprised the Divided God. Away from Rakis on a mission during the cataclysm, Lokar had survived by the purest luck—or divine destiny. He must recover what he could, if only to atone.

Since scanning had proved imprecise on the planet still in flux after the bombardment, Lokar had offered to use his own instincts and first-hand knowledge to guide their searches. Among many poor choices, this one made the most sense, the only way he could afford to travel back to what was left of his beloved Rakis. A last, desperate pilgrimage.

He had agreed to accompany their "archaeological expedition"—what a euphemism!—under very specific terms. CHOAM, the ancient and powerful trading organization, financed the expedition for its own reasons, hoping for a financial boon. They had agreed to the priest's demands, drawn up a contract, and specified the terms. Provided the Priest of the Divided God could indeed show the scavengers the way, Guriff's men were authorized to grab whatever physical treasures they managed to dig out of the blasted sands, but any sacred relics would be turned over to Lokar (though the distinction between "sacred relics" and "treasure" remained uncomfortably nebulous).

A slender woman stepped out of the cockpit and looked at the hodge-podge members of the expedition. Representing CHOAM, Alaenor Ven had reddish-gold hair that hung to her shoulders, the strands so precisely neat and straight that they seemed held in place with a nullentropy field. Her eyes were crystalline blue, her facial features flawlessly (and probably artificially) sculpted to the absolute perfection one might find on the visage of a mannequin. In an odd way, her very lack of flaws made her seem cold and unattractive.

"CHOAM has provided all the equipment you will need. You have two survey 'thopters, two groundcars, prefabricated shelters, excavation machines, and supplies for two months. Even with all of the sand plankton killed, sample probes show the air is thin but breathable. The oxygen content remains tolerable, though diminished."

Ivex gave a scornful laugh. "How can that be? If sand plankton create the oxygen, and they were all burned away—"

"I merely report the readings. I do not explain them. You will have to find your own answers."

Listening without participating, Lokar nodded quietly to himself at the obvious explanation: It was a miracle. There had always been mysteries about the planet Dune. This was just one more.

"Though the environment is not as inhospitable as one might expect, do not allow yourselves to be overconfident. Rakis is still a harsh place." She looked at them again. "We land in forty minutes. Our schedule permits you only three standard hours to unload and make your preparations."

Eleven members of the team shifted in their seats, fully attentive; two pretended to sleep, as if ignoring the challenges they would face; the remaining three peered through the windowports with varying levels of interest and trepidation.

Pellenquin cried, "Three hours? Can't you wait a day or two to make sure we're not stranded there."

Guriff scowled at his own crewman. "The Spacing Guild has schedules and customers. If you don't trust your own survival abilities, Dak, you have no business on my team. Tear up your contract now and go back with Alaenor Ven if you like."

"I would if she'd have me," Ivex said with a snort. A few others chuckled in their seats. The icily beautiful CHOAM woman's expression did not change at all.

High overhead, the huge Heighliner that had carried them here orbited the seared desert planet as the landing shuttle set down on the unmarked ground. Devastating weapons had entirely reshaped the terrain—cities leveled, mountains turned to glass, oceans of sand vitrified. A few sketchy landmarks remained, and despite the planet's unpredictable magnetics, the transport's deep-scan probes had found enough of a street grid to identify the buried city of Keen. The team would set up camp there.

When the cargo doors opened onto the glassy, baked plain, Guriff's team wore oxygen intensifiers with supplemental tanks on their shoulders. Lokar was the first to remove his breather and inhale deeply. The air was thin and dry, with what others found to be an unpleasant burnt smell; even so, when he filled his lungs, the taste was sweet. He was returning home. He fell to his knees on the hard, scorched sand, thanking the Divided God for bringing him back safely, for helping him to continue holy work.

Guriff went over to the kneeling priest and nudged him roughly. "Work now, pray later. You'll have plenty of time to commune with your desert once we set up the camp."

Under a tight schedule, the crew threw themselves into the task at hand. Guriff shouted orders to them, and the scavengers moved about unloading the groundcars and 'thopters, removing the shelter structures, prefabricated huts, crates of food supplies, and large barrels of water. To protect the exploratory 'thopters and groundcars, they erected a hangar dome.

For his own shelter, Lokar had specified a simple desert tent. To really understand this planet, to touch its pulse, the Holy Books of the Divided God said it was better to live on the surface and in natural rock formations, facing the heat, sandstorms, and behemoth worms. But this was not the old Rakis, not a great planetary expanse of windblown sand. Much of the loose sand had turned to glass, and surely the great worms had all perished in the conflagration.

The scavengers spoke excitedly of the great treasure the God Emperor was said to have concealed on Rakis. Though no one had found the hoards in thousands of years, during prime conditions on Rakis, the scavengers hoped the very devastation had churned something up from the depths.

In less than three standard hours, they had unloaded the equipment and supplies. All the while, the CHOAM representative stood staring at the wasteland, frequently consulting her wrist-embedded chronometer. She stepped back into the transport precisely when her schedule told her to do so. "A ship will return to gather whatever you have found in thirty standard days. Complete your survey and assess any value this planet retains." Her voice became harder. "But do not disappoint us."

With a hum of suspensor engines and a roar of displaced air, the large landing shuttle climbed back into the atmosphere, leaving Lokar with Guriff's crew, alone on an entire planet.

* * *

Like frenzied worker bees, the treasure hunters laid out their equipment and gear, ready to begin their work. Guriff and his men fanned out with handheld probes, using several models of Ixian ground-penetrating scanners in a useless attempt to peer through the sandy surface. Lokar watched them with patient skepticism. The Divided God would never make their work so simple. They would have to labor, sweat, and suffer for any gains they achieved.

These men would learn, he knew.

It was late afternoon, with the sun low in the restless atmosphere, but the men were anxious to get underway, frustrated by the long wait of the journey. They made a lot of noise, unlike the old days when such vibrations would have brought the monster worms. Not anymore. Lokar felt a wave of sadness.

Off by himself, he moved to a low spot, a glassy featureless depression that he thought might be the center of the lost city. He placed himself in relation to the low rocky escarpments that distinguished the site from the rest of the bleak surroundings. The sensation felt right, as if his entire life and all its experiences, large and small, had pointed him in this direction.

The Priests of the Divided God had placed many of the God Emperor's treasures in safekeeping at their temple in the city of Keen. Though he held only a middle rank, Lokar had once seen the protected subterranean vaults. Perhaps those chambers were far enough beneath the surface to have survived the bombardment.

The air, while dry and thin, was disturbingly cool, as if the planet's great furnace had flickered out. But he could not shake the belief that his Divided God still lived here, somehow. As he stared, hypnotically drawn to the shimmering and melted surface, Lokar began to see with a different set of eyes.

He walked around the blasted city with an increasing sensation. Each step of the way he knew exactly where he was. When he narrowed his eyes, ancient structures began to appear around him like mirages, dancing on the sand in ghostly, flickering color, as if his mind had its own scanner.

Am I going mad? Or am I receiving divine guidance?

A few hundred meters away, the others gathered around the expedition leader, shaking their heads at their equipment in anger, hurling it to the ground and cursing it. Pellenquin shouted, "Just like they said. Our damned scanners don't work here!"

Although Guriff brought out a tough, thin map printed on spice paper, he and his companions could not get their bearings. Annoyed, he stuffed it back in his pocket.

"Maybe our priest will have a revelation," Ivex said with a forced chuckle.

Guriff led them over to Lokar. "Priest, you had better earn your keep."

Still seeing spectral images of the lost city, he nodded distractedly. "The Divided God is speaking to you through this planet. All of your technology didn't destroy it. Rakis still has a pulse."

"We didn't destroy it," Pellenquin protested. "Don't blame us for this."

"Mankind is a single organism. We are all responsible for what occurred here."

"He's talking strangely," Ivex said. "Again."

"If you insist on thinking that way, you will never understand." Lokar narrowed his eyes, and the illusory splendor of the great city danced beyond and around the men. "Tomorrow, I will show you the way."

* * *

As he slept alone in his flimsy tent, listening to the rustle of silence outside, Lokar lived through a peculiar dream. He saw the Temple at Keen restored in all of its glory, with dark-robed priests going about their business as if the Divided God would last forever.

Lokar had not been one of the Priesthood's elite, though he'd undergone rituals and tests that could one day grant him entry into the most secret sanctums. In his dream he gazed through the slit-window of a tower that overlooked the sands, the realm of the holy worms. A procession of hooded priests entered the tower room and gathered around him. They pulled down their hoods to reveal their faces: Guriff, Pellenquin, Ivex, and the others.

The shock awoke him, and he sat up in the darkness of his tent. Poking his head out through the flap seals, Lokar smelled moisture in the darkness, an oddly heavy night-scent unlike any of the Rakian odors he remembered. What had the bombardment done to the cycles of water on this planet? In bygone days there had been subterranean caches of water, but the devastating weapons must have damaged them, broken them loose. He drew another deep breath, savoring the smell. Moist air on Rakis!

Above the disconcertingly bumpy eastern horizon, the sky glowed softly red, then brightened with sunrise to profile the nubby, melted escarpments. The treasure hunters emerged from their stiff-walled shelters and milled around.

Lokar walked out onto the sandy surface. The men formed a circle outside, opened food and beverage packages provided by CHOAM, and made faces as they chewed and swallowed. He picked up a breakfast pack and joined them, lifting a self-heating coffee cup from an extruded holder on his plate. The dark blend should have had melange in it, especially on Rakis. It had been so long since he'd had good spice coffee.

Eager to get started, stocky Ivex tested his handheld scanner again. In disgust he tossed it into a half-buried storage bin.

At sunset the night before, their two survey 'thopters had already taken off for a first look at the surrounding area. When they returned, the men had streamed out of them like enraged bees. Lokar didn't have to hear their complaints and expectations. Their faces told it all. Rakis had not met their expectations, and now they were stuck here for at least a month.

Guriff said, "We're relying on you, Priest. Where is the buried temple?" He pointed over his left shoulder. "That way?"

"No. Government offices were in that direction, and the Bene Gesserit keep."

The expedition leader brought out the rumpled spice-paper map. "So the temple was more to the west?"

"Your map is flawed. Important streets and structures are missing. The scale is off."

"Reliable documents about Rakis are hard to come by, especially now. No one thought maps of Keen would ever be useful again."

"I'm your only reliable map now." He could easily have led them off track, but he was anxious to explore the religious site himself—and they had the appropriate tools. "Remember, according to my CHOAM agreement, I am to be the caretaker of the most important religious artifacts. And I am to decide which artifacts are the most significant."

"Yes, yes." Guriff's eyes flashed angrily. "But first you have to find something for us to discuss."

Lokar pointed to the northwest. "The great Temple of Keen is that way. Follow me."

As if his comment had fired the starting gun in a race, the scavengers ran for digging machines kept in the 'thopters and began assembling the components. He had seen the powerful wheeled machines demonstrated back on Cherodo, during preparation for the expedition.

As the priest led the treasure hunters across the desolate sand, he hoped he was doing the right thing. If God didn't want me to do this, he would tell me so. With each step, a more intense trancelike state came over him, as if the Divided God were still transmitting across the cosmos, telling the priest exactly what to do, despite the grievous injury that had been committed against Him.

Through narrowed eyes, Lokar absorbed the images of the lost buildings, and the grandeur of Keen danced around him. These unbelievers noticed nothing more than dead rolling sand around them. He led the men along a thoroughfare that only he could see, a wide boulevard that once had been lined with devout followers. Behind him, the men chattered anxiously over the soft rumble of their rolling, self-propelled digging machines.

At the main entrance of the Temple, where a statue-lined bridge had once crossed a deep, dry arroyo, Lokar pointed a wavering finger downward. "Dig there. Carefully."

Two men donned protective suits and climbed onto a pair of digging machines. Side by side, they began to bore downward at an angle into the fused sandy surface, blasting a reinforced shell into the soft, sloping walls. Behind them, the exhaust funnels spewed dirt back out with great force, shooting material high into the air.

Guriff handed an imager headset to the priest. "Here, watch the progress of the drilling. Tell us if you see anything wrong."

When Lokar put the device on, the illusory images of the city faded in his mind, leaving only ugly reality. He watched as the tunnelers reached a glassy-black surface several meters beneath the surface—the remains of a melted structure that had been covered over by blowing sand. The headlamps of the digging machines revealed a partially uncovered door and an ancient symbol.

He transmitted an urgent signal to the tunnelers, halting their machines. "They've reached the entrance to one of the meeting chambers!" He and Guriff climbed down the fused slope into the deep hole, pressing past the tunnelers. "Remove the door carefully."

One of the men activated a small, spinning drill on his machine, while the other tunneler produced a mechanical hand that held several small, black cartridges. While Lokar and Guriff looked on, the men drilled holes in the door and inserted cartridges. Before the priest could express his alarm, tiny explosions went off, and the ancient, heavy door shuddered and tilted, and a narrow opening showed on the hinge side. The men used a hook to pull the door open, then shone a bright light inside the chamber.

A partially collapsed ceiling hung like a thunderhead over a room filled with debris. Lokar squeezed through the opening and entered the room, demanding the right of first inspection. He hunched beneath a section of partially collapsed ceiling, scuttled across the rough floor.

"The whole thing could cave in on you," Guriff warned. Lokar knew, though, that the Divided God would not allow that, not after all he'd been through.

His heart beating wildly, he spotted a glittering object in the pile of debris and shoved rubble aside to clear a large platinum-colored goblet capped with an engraved lid so that the symbolic blood of God would not evaporate into the dry desert air.

Digging deeper into the pile, he found something more interesting, a small golden statue of a sandworm rising out of the desert and turning its proud, eyeless face upward to the heavens. Excited, the priest set it next to the goblet.

Then, like a miracle, he noticed moisture seeping down a wall behind the debris pile. Could it be? What was the source? Hearing a rumble, he looked upward and saw the ceiling start to give way over his head. Water trickled and then poured on him—water on Rakis! Grabbing the goblet and the statuette, he ran for the doorway. Just as he squirmed out next to Guriff, the whole room collapsed behind him in a roar.

"What do you have there?" the expedition leader asked, looking at the goblet as if nothing remarkable had happened.

"This goblet should have some value to you. I believe it is made of rare metal." Lokar handed it to Guriff, while slipping the sandworm sculpture into the pocket of his wet robe. "This is something more sacred. Not for outside eyes."

With a shrug, Guriff said, "It's a start." He swung up the goblet's metal lid to investigate whether the large vessel contained any other treasure. He cried out as a tiny creature jumped out and scampered partway up the inclined tunnel, then stopped and looked back at the intruders with tiny, dark eyes.

"Damn thing bit me!" Guriff rubbed a red spot on his thumb. "How the hell did it survive?"

"It's just a mouse," one of the men said. "Something's alive here after all."

"A desert mouse. The ancient Fremen called it muad'dib," Lokar murmured in awe. "The mouse that jumps."

The two tunnelers left their machines and ran up the fused incline, boisterously chasing after the creature.

"Terrible catastrophe will befall anyone who harms a muad'dib," Lokar cried. The rodent easily scurried away from its pursuers and disappeared into a tiny opening in the doorway.

Guriff rolled his eyes. "Now you consider a mouse a sacred object?"

* * *

Two weeks later, the sunset looked like a layer of spilled blood over a hot flame. Dust smeared the horizon in an ominous approaching line. The air around the settlement, which normally held a silence so deep as to be a hole of sound, was alive with an angry background hum like buried thunder.

Lokar knew what the signs meant. Because of his human failings, he felt the thrill of fear; because of his religious faith, he felt awe. Rakis was wounded, perhaps mortally, but not entirely dead. The planet was restless in its sleep.

"What I wouldn't give for a set of weathersats." Guriff propped his hands on his hips and sniffed the air. "That looks dangerous." He had already called back the exploration 'thopters and groundcars, though a team continued to dig in the tunnels of buried Keen, excavating a large labyrinth underground.

"You know what it is," Lokar said. "You can see. It's a storm, maybe the mother of them all."

"I thought that with the bombardment, with the fusing of so much sand, the usual Coriolis effect—"

"This will not be usual, Guriff. Not in any way." The priest continued to stare. He had not moved. "The whole environment has been thrown into turmoil. Some weather patterns might have been suppressed, and others inflamed." Lokar nodded toward the blood-red horizon. "We will be lucky if we survive this night."

Taking the warning seriously, Guriff shouted for his men, picked up a commlink and summoned his teams for an immediate emergency meeting. "Tell me then, Priest, what shall we do? You've lived through storms here before. What is our best option for shelter? In the tunnels under Keen, or sealed inside our shelters? What about the hangar dome? Will the vehicles be safe?"

Lokar responded with a vacant smile and a shrug. "I shall remain in my tent, but you do whatever you see fit. Only God can save us. No shelter in the universe can protect you if He deems that tonight is the night you will die."

Guriff cursed under his breath, then trudged off to meet with his crew. . . .

That night the wind howled like an awakening beast, and abrasive sand scratched against the fabric of the priest's small tent. The storm whispered and muttered maddening temptations like the hoarse voice of Shaitan.

Lokar huddled with his bony knees drawn up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, his eyes closed. He recited his prayers over and over, raising his voice until he was practically shouting against the roar outside. The true God could hear even the tiniest whisper, no matter what the background din might be, but Lokar comforted himself by hearing his own words.

The reinforced tent fabric stretched taut, as if demons were breathing against it. Lokar knew he could survive this storm. A storm had unquestionable power—yet faith was more powerful still.

Lokar held on, rocking himself throughout the night. He heard a clatter and a groan as one of the camp's larger, heavily armored structures was torn apart in the gale, but if he ran outside, the blowing sand grains would flay the flesh from his bones.

The men of Guriff's team had made their choices and placed their bets. Some had dug themselves underground in Keen; others believed in the security of their own structures. Their fates had been written by a hand of fire in the Book of Heaven from the moment they were born. In the morning after the storm had passed, Lokar would see what had been decided.

Hours passed, and he didn't actually sleep so much as go into a deep trance. Sand and dust sprinkled his face, caking his eyes and his nose.

Finally, he blinked and looked around him to see washed-out daylight. Miraculously, his tent still stood erect, but the fabric had been scoured down to fine gauzy remnants. Breezes, now gentle in the exhausted aftermath of the terrific winds, spilled through tiny gaps in the tent, stirring against him. The priest stood up and parted the spiderweb-thin fibers of the wall of his tent, like a man emerging from a womb.

Rakis seemed pristine and virginal. He blinked into the dawn radiance, rubbed the dust from his face, and stared at the freshly scoured landscape. The early morning sunlight sparkled across fresh sand that had been freed from the glassy crust that covered so many dunes.

Debris from the entire encampment had scattered, probably over an expanse of kilometers. Nearby, one of the prefabricated structures had been destroyed, and everyone inside was surely dead. Although the hangar dome was also breached, the vehicles and 'thopters were still intact, though damaged.

Lokar heard shouts and voices, other members of the scavenging team crawling out of where they had huddled during the night, assessing the losses, counting the casualties, and cursing. Guriff's voice was unmistakable as he shouted profanities, finding one set of wreckage after another.

Lokar couldn't believe he had survived in his tiny shelter, where he should have been wiped out. There was no logical explanation, but a Priest of the Divided God did not look for logic. He found himself wrapped up in his own revelation, his own ecstasy. He bent down to the fresh sand at his feet, scooped up a handful and looked at it in his palm. He pinched a single grain between thumb and forefinger and lifted it to the sunlight, studying the sparkle. He saw in even this tiny fleck of silica a symbol of miraculous, divine power. He smiled.

Without warning, Guriff slapped his hand, and cuffed Lokar in the side of the head. The priest blinked and turned to the expedition leader, whose face was red with anger and disgust. Guriff had lost so much during the night that he needed to take out his outrage on someone.

Lokar refused to be rattled. "Be thankful, Guriff. You survived."

Disheartened, the man stalked away. A few moments later, Lokar went to join him, offering his assistance. God had saved them for a reason.

* * *

The robed priest stood on a high lump of rock, gazing across the mottled, lifeless wasteland. The lens of dust in the air made the rising orange sun appear larger than normal.

Like immense birds riding the air currents, the two repaired ornithopters approached from the night, flying low over the desert, flapping their wings rhythmically. In the week following the storm, disgusted with the lack of success at Keen, Guriff had sent his scouts to search the south polar regions for treasure sites. Optimistically and unrealistically, the scavengers hoped they might find signs of ancient hidden vaults exposed by the upheaval. Lokar knew they would find nothing. The Divided God would reveal his treasure only to the faithful—like himself.

Lokar climbed down from the rock and made his way across the makeshift field as the aircraft landed. Guriff came forward to meet the 'thopter crews and receive his report.

The rough-and-tumble scout leader knocked dust from his clothes. "Nothing down south at all. We landed more than twenty times and poked around, took core samples, tested the deep scanners." He shook his head. "Looks like Keen is all we have."

In the background, the priest heard engines whirring to life, the drone of tunneling machines as they awoke for the day. Excavation crews had so far discovered a handful of artifacts, a sealed chest of clothes, flatware, broken pieces of furniture, portions of tapestries, a few relatively undamaged statues.

"Even junk collectors wouldn't pay more than ten solaris for these scraps," Pellenquin had said in disgust.

The priest did not share the general feeling of disappointment. Something valuable would turn up, if they persisted in their efforts. But God had his own tricks, and perhaps Guriff and his crew would not see the treasure in front of their eyes.

As the returning scouts from the second 'thopter plodded toward the settlement to curl up and sleep in the heat of the day, the tunnel-riddled ground trembled. On the other side of the camp, a cloud of dust spurted upward, accompanied by a loud thud and shouts. Guriff and the men ran toward the excavations. "Cave-in!"

Within the hour, all working together, they pulled two bodies out of the dirt. Lokar recognized a pair of young men who had been eager to contribute, anxious to earn their fortunes. Guriff bitterly watched the bodies being wrapped for chemical cremation. The team was still reeling from the damage the unexpected storm had inflicted.

"There is treasure on Rakis," Lokar said, trying to reassure him. "We just have to look in the right place."

"You're as blind as your precious worms, Priest!"

"The worms of Rakis were never blind. They simply saw in a different manner."

"They didn't see the obliteration of their planet coming," Guriff said, and Lokar had no response.

Gazing out at the barren, blasted planet, Lokar turned and strode out onto the wasteland. Though he took no water or supplies, he walked for hours as the day warmed and the air began to shimmer. He ventured farther from camp than he had ever gone before.

Out on the sand, instinctively Lokar walked with an irregular shuffling step in the manner of the Fremen who used to live here, as if any worms still existed deep underground that might be able to detect him. He felt something driving him forward, galvanizing his energies, enticing him.

Far from view of the camp, with only a trail of footprints snaking behind him to show him the way back, Lokar climbed up a wide, gnarled rock formation under the harsh afternoon sunlight. He reached the top and gazed across the expanse. Something dark and rounded caught his eye, an obstruction large enough to form a stark lip of shadow. It seemed to call to him.

Lokar made his way down the other side of the rock and plodded across the desert. The sinuous mound was larger than it looked, as if most of it was still covered by the sand. Its exterior was mottled and weathered with splotches of black, like a giant buried tree trunk. He touched it and pulled back as sand and dust sloughed down from a rough, pebbly surface. Lokar fell to his knees in the dust.

A sandworm had risen to the surface and perished in the last shocks of the bombardment of Rakis, roasted alive. These weathered cartilaginous remnants had been burned, fused with a layer of glassy sand, exposed by the shifting storms.

In the loose sand that had gathered in the lee of the obstruction, he discovered a fist-sized ball of clear glass, perfectly spherical. Filled with wonder, Lokar dug it out, then found another melted sphere buried beside it. These nodules of flash-melted sand were not an unusual consequence of the ferocious heat of the attack. But placed where they were, beneath the head of the fallen worm, Lokar interpreted them as something entirely different. The tears of God.

Out on the blasted landscape, staring in wonder at the hulk of the long-dead worm, Lokar felt a new kind of light suffusing him from all directions. Just as he had seen ghostly visions of the lost city of Keen, he now also saw the entire planet as it once had been, in all of its perilous glory. No matter what the Honored Matres had done, all the splendor of Rakis was not gone. The treasure was everywhere, for all of the faithful. The priest knew exactly what the Divided God wanted him to do.

Lokar smiled beatifically. "We just weren't looking for it with the proper eyes."

* * *

The CHOAM ship returned in a month, exactly on schedule. Exploring at random in the ruins of Keen and the collapsed Temple, Guriff ordered his prospectors to continue their scavenging and excavation work up to the last minute, hoping to find some lost treasure to justify the expedition.

The expedition leader had managed to consolidate what remained of his crew, but two days ago the useless priest had gone missing. Guriff had sent an ornithopter out to search for the frustrating man, but gave up the effort after a few hours. Lokar was mad; they should never have wasted time or supplies on him in the first place. But the trading company had hired him, sent him along.

As soon as the large CHOAM transport ship landed, workers emerged from the transport, scurrying about like ants on the sand. They opened the cargo doors and removed equipment.

Guriff was surprised to see the priest disembark onto the blasted sands with the coldly beautiful Alaenor Ven. How had they gotten together? The cargo shuttle must have found him wandering like a lunatic on the sands. Guriff didn't know why they would have bothered to rescue the man.

As he watched Lokar and the woman talking, not even looking in his direction, the expedition leader balled his fists. He was tempted to stride over and knock down the babbling priest for being so reckless, not acting as part of this crew. But he realized that his outburst would be childish, and he doubted the cool, businesslike representative would have the time or patience for power plays like that. Instead, Guriff decided it would be better for him to ignore the situation entirely, retreat to his headquarters hut, and put together documents and records. She could come to him. He sealed the door against oxygen and moisture loss and made himself a cup of potent spice coffee using the last scraps of melange from their supplies.

As he sat in his sealed chamber, Guriff listened to the hum of excavating machines outside, the groan of equipment. New diggers? He didn't know what the company was doing out there, nor could he understand why Alaenor Ven continued to ignore him. Did she not want her report?

At last she unsealed the door and strode into his headquarters hut without signaling or asking permission. She probably thought she owned the entire camp because CHOAM had supplied it.

Not letting her take control of the conversation, Guriff faced her clear blue eyes. "My team and I would like to stay for another month. We have not found the wealth you expected, but I'm convinced that the legends of the God Emperor's treasure hoards are true." He had no direct evidence to support what he said, but he would not give up. Not yet.

She responded with a thin smile. "Oh, the treasure is here all right—more wealth than we can imagine, perhaps more than CHOAM could sell."

"Then I'll find it," Guriff said. "We'll keep digging, keep hunting."

"Perhaps you will find something else of interest, but my transport already has a hold full of treasure, something you overlooked. Quite foolishly, I must say. We found the priest Lokar out in the desert, and he convinced me that he had found something of great value. Priests are very good salesmen, you know."

Guriff felt his skin grow hot. "What has the crazy priest found? He reported nothing to me." He pushed past the woman, and she slowly turned to watch him as he unsealed the door hatch and marched toward the landed transport.

Lokar stood there on the ramp, looking saintly. The last large pieces of equipment had been rolled back aboard. A great deal of digging had been done in the sand around the landing area.

Guriff grabbed him by the collar of his robes. He felt betrayed, after all his effort, all the disasters his misbegotten crew had faced. "What have you been hiding from me?"

"I have hidden nothing. It was right in front of you all the time."

"Explain yourself."

"I am a messenger of God, chosen to continue His great work. Even though the priesthood is mostly dead, even though our temples have been leveled here on Rakis, our belief remains widespread across the galaxy. Many new cults and spinoff sects have sprung up. The faithful continue to believe and worship. They need more. They need their Divided God."

"What does that have to do with treasure?"

Lokar slumped down onto the ship's ramp, sitting there as if meditating. Guriff wanted to strangle him.

"You simply don't understand, Guriff." The CHOAM woman walked calmly up to him. "Treasure and wealth are a matter of definitions. You defined your search too narrowly."

He walked up the ramp, ignoring her, demanding to see exactly what they had loaded into their hold. Guild and CHOAM workers had returned to their seats, preparing to take off again. Crates of new camp supplies had been left behind on the ground to be sorted and restacked by the scavenger crew. It was certainly enough to last them for another month. He would demand that the woman take Lokar with her when she departed.

Guriff pushed his way down the aisle with Alaenor Ven following him. He reached the back, where a hatch led into the cargo bay.

"You forgot to recognize the importance and power of religion," she said, continuing as if she had never paused. "Even if the fanatics are not wealthy, they will sacrifice everything to pay for something they believe is important. They truly revere their Divided God."

Guriff worked the hold's controls, but missed the proper button. He slapped his palm on the wall and rekeyed the pad. Finally, the hatch slid open.

The transport's cargo hold was full of sand.

Ordinary sand.

The CHOAM woman continued to smile. "The faithful seek any sort of artifact from Rakis. Sacred relics. Even in the best of times, only the richest and most dedicated could afford to make a pilgrimage to their sacred Dune. Now that the planet is dead and almost all travel cut off, every scrap—every holy artifact—is worth even more."

"You're planning to sell sand?"

"Yes. Beautiful in its simplicity, isn't it?"

"I've never heard of anything so absurd."

"CHOAM will file for the necessary mining rights and patents to prevent claim jumpers. When word gets out, of course, there will be smugglers and purveyors of fraudulent goods, but those are all problems we can deal with."

Lokar came up beside them and beamed as he stared into the dusty, sand-filled hold. Stepping forward, he bent down and thrust his hands into the soft grains, pulling up handfuls. "Isn't it wonderful? Offworld, throughout the Old Empire, even a tiny vial of this sand will sell for many solaris. People will line up for a single grain, to touch the dust to their lips."

"The sand must flow," the CHOAM woman said.

"You're all idiots." In disgust, Guriff exited the transport and went to meet what was left of his crew. They were pleased at the stacks of fresh supplies. When they asked him about the departing priest and what the CHOAM representative had said, he refused to answer, gruffly telling them to get back to work. They all had risked everything to come here, and they needed to find something worthwhile on Rakis. Something other than sand.

As the heavily laden transport ship lifted off, kicking up a blast of sand around it—worthless sand, in his view—Guriff looked at the barren landscape and imagined the real treasure out there, treasure that he would find.

* * *

Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson have written a number of novels set in the Dune universe.

Dog Soldier

Written by Garth Nix
Illustrated by Liz Clarke

"The seven rings of Syrene shine

Like glowing disks in a nazdra mine

Burning brighter than fusion fire . . ."

"How long is this bullshit going to last?" Assault Sergeant Gillies whispered to his neighbour, Base Sergeant Major Traut.

"Long as it wants to," Traut muttered back. "It"s the CG's poem. Lukas is just reading it."

"The golden whorl of Syrene's seas

Swirl in torrents as they please . . ."

"Didn't Syrene take a Xene transformer bomb in '06?" whispered Gillies.

"Yeah," replied Traut. "But it was partially damped. Navy showed up just in time. Mind you, Syrene was a real dump before the trannie bomb. The xeneform went about halfway. Gave the planet dust rings and turned the oceans sort of murky yellow with sparkly bits. Killed everyone at the time, of course. But the general's from one of the later settlements. Tourist operators."

"So come to Syrene, make a start

But be prepared to lose your heart."

"More like your wallet," Traut added in an aside to Gillies, as thunderous applause filled the amphitheatre. It wasn't actually the end of the poem, but the troops couldn't cope with any more, so they'd taken advantage of a meaningful pause to clap. Since it was officially rec-time, the clapping was swiftly followed by an exodus to the low port accessway, and the fallway to the Other Ranks Club.

Gillies and Traut waited for the initial rush to subside, let the few unfortunate officers who been trapped into attending go, then made a stately exit to the Topside ascensor, heading for the sergeant's mess.

As the ascensor lift gripped him, Gillies looked back at Lukas, to see whether he was still going with the poem. But the unfortunate Lieutenant Lukas, head of the Cultural Events committee, was obviously receiving some fairly harsh words over his implant com. Probably a critique from the commanding general for his stupidity in pausing long enough for the troops to applaud, Gillies thought. Just as he was wondering what it would be like to get a personal tongue-lashing from Major General Orosonne, his own tongue tingled, alerting him to a communication.

"Sergeant Gillies, this is ComOp. You back on?"

"Uh, not exactly. What have you got?" Gillies subvocalised.

"Got a Navy "at your convenience." Report to Dock Three, Navy Cargo Master. Logged at 2130. ComOp Out."

"Got it," Gillies affirmed. Traut, seeing the characteristic twitch of the muscles in his neck, raised her single surviving eyebrow in query—a characteristic gesture that could make junior officers and other ranks whimper, but Gillies and Traut were old comrades.

"A navy 'when you can but right now would be best if you don't want me to complain to the captain,'" Gillies explained. "Dock Three."

"Time for a drink first, then," said Traut genially, touching her ID bracelet against the sergeant's mess door. It slid back, revealing a glimpse of walnut paneling (ersatz), thick rugs (tylarn), leather lounges (havax cloth), alcoholic beverages (synthesized) and senior NCOs (not strictly human).

"No, I'd better get over there. The navy's probably caught one of my people trying to steal a cargo vessel or something. Who's cargo master on Three?"

"Berzis. Chief P.O. Rule merchant. Bit of a shithead."

"Can't be theft, then. Berzis would just call the MPs for inter-service borrowing. If it doesn't take too long, I'll take you up on that drink."

"Okay," said Traut. "But you might want an early night. The whisper is a full-sim boarding ex tomorrow for your lot. 0320 or thereabouts. A surprise."

She smiled, made an unorthodox salute in the direction of the Second Battalion HQ, topside and starboard, and disappeared into the mess. Gillies turned back to the ascensor, cursing the battalion CO. They'd only just got back from an on-planet assault exercise. Hostile environment, pulling 3Gs, in an atmosphere pretty much the same as the shit they cleaned the drains with back on the garrison station. Full-sim meant occasional live fire too, which was why Gillies was temporarily in charge of the assault engineer platoon. The lieutenant had been shuttled out yesterday, back to civilization and a hospital where they could regrow his left hand and eye, instead of the combat replacement prosthetics the garrison hospital practically bolted on before sending you back out.

Not that there was an "out" just at the moment. The Fourth Xene War had ended three years before, in a series of inconclusive engagements in the Hogawan system, resulting in an armed truce. Which was why the 203rd Marine Brigade was in garrison, on a navy-run converted battlewagon, brought out of mothballs and put in orbit around the distasteful Hogawan VI. The Xenes had a similar operation in orbit around the earth-like Hogawan III. Needless to say, the Xenes wanted H-VI and the Terrans wanted H-III. But they weren't prepared to swap. Not for the first time, Gillies considered what might happen if the troops on both sides simply shot the politicians and did a deal on the real estate. The only problem was it took about five years to learn Xene trade talk, mostly spent in learning to operate six prosthetic feelers, simulating the ones that grew out of the lump that could loosely be described as a Xene's head. Gillies had heard that the process wasn't totally reversible, either.

The ascensor bottomed out on Deck Minus, and Gillies transferred to the ring-about that would take him in a circle halfway around the ship's hull to Dock Three. The ring-about clanked every ten meters, but that was a comfortable reminder that the old TNS Sable Basilisk had extra armor bonded on in ten meter wide slabs, for its next but last incarnation as a planetary bombardment station. The ring-about had been converted from the missile feeder system that ran between the old and the new armor belt.

Clank-clank-clank-clank-ping-brrrr. The ping was the programmed stop for Dock Three, and the brrr was a gravity alert. Gillies left the capsule, pushing off for a controlled somersault to the exterior rails of the cargo master's eyrie. The dock was in zero-g, though there was no reason why it should be. Except that the navy pretended to like zero-g.

Gillies climbed inside the eyrie, where two vac-suited figures hung relatively upside down, their visors open, fingers flying over checkcomps. Gillies spun himself, clipped on to the rail and re-oriented opposite the one with the swirling galaxies on his suit sleeves.

"Chief Berzis. Assault Sergeant Gillies."

"Oh yeah . . . Sergeant Gillies. We've got a bit of a problem."

"Okay.Who is it and what have they done?" Gillies asked resignedly. He tried to think if he'd accidentally asked the boys and girls to steal something. All it took was a slip of the tongue, like, "Okay, so those stargazing perverts might have a one-portable slipscan, but we don't. So let's see this one put together in under three minutes . . ."

"Don't worry, Sergeant. It's nothing like that. Fact is, we've got a shipment for you. Or part of one."

"A shipment?"

"Yeah. All the way from Sol. Pallas R&D, to be exact. Only there's supposed to be more of it."

"Pallas R&D? Addressed to me? I don't know anyone at Pallas."

"It's not personal, Sergeant. ComOp says you're acting OC of the Assault Engineer Platoon of 2 Battalion, and that's who it's for. Some sort of new equipment you're supposed to trial, according to the transhipment explanation anyway. The only problem is that one cap is missing. Been missing since Syrene, four stops away."

"What's in the missing capsule?"

"If the manifest's right, you're missing all the frageware documentation. The instruction data, the specs, the familiarity program. The other cap, which we are about to present to you, lucky Sergeant Gillies, is the hardware. Only. Please tag the slate."

Gillies shook his head, but took the slate, read the details of the receipt, then pressed his ID bracelet against it. The slate didn't do anything until the cargo master tapped it briskly, then it flashed and gave a confirming beep, followed by a slow voice, "Log-ged at oh-seven-seven . . ." The cargo master tapped it again, and the slate hiccupped, before continuing, "Correction . . . twenty-one fifty two. Thank you."

"Piece of shit," muttered Berzis. "The cap's over there. Green decal, orafluoro stripes, number 0122. See it?"

"Got it," said Gillies. "Thanks, Chief. I think."

"Wait till he sees what's inside," Berzis muttered to his offsider, as Gillies adjusted the antigrav on the capsule and let it drag him over to the ring-about. "Pallas R&D! The 'r' must be for retarded and the 'd' for, uh, 'd'
for . . ."

"Deadheads?" suggested the offsider.

Gillies took the cap down to the assault engineers workroom, checked the hazard symbols, and opened it. Naturally, this revealed more packaging, and when he'd stripped that off, still more packaging—some sort of anodized foil with a quick release ring. Gillies pulled it, looked at what was inside, leapt back and only just prevented himself from slapping the emergency alert panel which would open the weapon lockers, jolt every trooper on the ship in the tongue and alert the bridge.

There was a life form in the capsule. A thing. It was about knee-high, had a sort of cylindrical body with a smaller cylindrical head, six legs and a tail. It was shiny black all over, and it was alive. Its head moved. It had two eyes. They looked at Gillies, and it stretched, the six legs going from sort of rubbery multi-jointed stilts to stiff supports. Its mouth opened, revealing a hideously wet, yellow maw and enormous saw-edged blue teeth. It yawned, snorted and let out a sharp, short noise.

Gillies tongued his implant and subvocalised.

"ComOp. This is Gillies in 77AE1. Get me two MPs on the double with stunzers and netweb."

"Done. Alert?"

"Local seal. Standby. Info duty officer, possible Lifeform Haz."

Gillies edged around the capsule, looking for the instruction reader that he'd seen in with the life form. The thing watched him, and licked its lips. Its tongue was also yellow.

The sergeant slowly reached for the reader, which had fallen on the floor a foot away from the creature. It stepped out of the capsule and also looked at the instructions. Gillies reached again, a bit closer. The thing edged closer too. Gillies lunged. So did the creature. Blue teeth snapped on the reader, and the thing jumped back in the capsule. The sergeant jumped back too, almost colliding with the two Marine Police who burst through the door, stunzer and netweb at the reader.

"Stun it!" shouted Gillies, but the MPs didn't need to be told. The one with the stunzer fired. Several times. All it did was make the creature jump out of the capsule and advance on them again. Then the other MP fired the netweb, and the creature fell over in a writhing mass of rapidly ballooning threads.

It had dropped the reader to snap at its bonds. Gillies snatched the unit up and flicked it on, as the MPs watched the thing begin to successfully chew its way through the supposedly super-toughened web. One MP looked anxiously at the emergency alert panel and twitched. The other, older one was obviously subvocalising something, but Gillies wasn't on their net. Besides, he was reading. Quickly.

"Purple Perseans . . . patrol the . . . perimeter . . . of Pair-sepol-eyes," he shouted, as the thing bit through the last strands of netweb around its forelegs. Nothing happened. Gillies looked at the reader again, keyed for phonetic, and hastily re-read the sentence.

"Purple Persians . . . patrol the . . . perimeter of . . . Per-sep-olis."

The thing suddenly froze in place, three of its six legs in the air.

"What happened?" asked the nervous MP. Gillies noticed he didn't take his hand too far away from the alert panel.

"Code phrase for deactivation," replied Gillies. "Apparently Xene mockers can't pronounce alliterative series starting with "p." That's what it says here, anyway."

"What is that thing?" asked the other MP. He'd just subvocalised something that Gillies suspected was the cancellation of an armored squad with boarding weapons.

Gillies scrolled the reader back to the introduction, and keyed it for speech. Typically, it had an accented voice that made it difficult to follow, instead of using the military standard inflections.

"This unit is a Combat Candroid DOG 01A prototype. Designed for support use with Assault Engineer units, the DOG 01A is a sophisticated artificial life form. For reasons of durability, the body is mechanical, with a high survivability in all but Class 10X environments. Lightly armored, the DOG 01A is impervious to low-powered radiant, sonic or projectile weapons and highly resistant to Xene solvents. Its Central Intelligence Unit is based on a Sysicram 310 multiproc, with a prototype biological intelligence and personality transfer from a Terran natural life form, the dog variant known as a collie-shepherd cross. Prototype frageware interfaces this natural personality with the special requirements of different environments and the specialized tasks of an assault engineer unit.

This reader has further categories: Packing Instructions, Unpacking Instructions, Basic PowerUp and Emergency Shutdown. For full specifications, run-in procedure and operational instructions, see separate reader CCAN-DOG-01A, classified Operational Secret. This reader is classified as Restricted. Have a nice day."

"Personality transfer?" asked the nervous MP.

"It means that this thing thinks it's a live animal," replied Gillies. "A Terran dog. Whatever that is. You guys aren't from Sol are you?"

"Nephreus Prime."

"Jaminor IV," replied the older one. "I doubt there's anyone on Garrison from Terra. We've got a corporal from Sol Belt, but she's on one of the picquet ships. I'll call ComOp and see who they can come up with."

"Don't bother," said Gillies. "Our battalion quartermaster is supposed to be Terran—I'll talk to him tomorrow."

"You just going to leave that thing here?" asked the young MP. He still seemed nervous.

"Yeah," said Gillies. "I'll secure this reader, so it won't be able to PowerUp. Who knows, the other capsule might show up too, with the full order set."

"It's your responsibility," shrugged the older MP. "Come on, Nerik. Zoo tour over. Good luck, Sergeant."

"Thanks," said Gillies, eyeing the DOG with a jaundiced look. It was already 2305, and if there was going to be an alert at 0320, he wanted to be up and ready at 0250. He just hoped that neither the CO nor the company commander were aware that he was supposed to be checking out this new equipment, or they'd want to take it on the exercise.

"So where is the DOG unit you're evaluating, Sergeant?" Colonel Kjaskle asked as she marched down the first rank of the assault engineer platoon, her martinet's eye running over the armored shapes standing stiffly at attention, looking for any deviation from the standard equipment or procedures. "And why is Private Loposhin's field cutter fixed on his right sleeve?"

"Half the DOG shipment didn't come in, sir," Gillies snapped, all too aware of the gleaming capsule in the corner of the ready room. "No frageware instructions. And Loposhin's left arm rider has a malfunctioning connect, sir, temporarily US."

"Then get him out and down to Cyber," Kjaskle snapped. "Memo to adjutant: 'Check tech workshop wait times. Report by 1200.' The DOG unit works doesn't it?"

"Ah, yes, sir," Gillies replied unhappily. "But I don't know the command phrases or its capabilities."

"It has an artificial persona, I believe, Sergeant," the CO replied. "Treat it like a real dog. The exercise will be delayed till the DOG unit is ready to deploy. You have fifteen minutes, Sergeant Gillies. Copy to all OC, Bridge, BrigCom. Ex re-start 0335. And we'll change it to a planetary search and destroy. All sub-units deploy to drop stations. Orders Group in ten."

Gillies snapped a salute, ordered the platoon to re-equip for planet action and drop, and watched the Colonel's back as she marched on to the heavy weapons platoon ready room, the adjutant and RSM marching behind, catching a steady stream of orders.

"Treat it like a real dog," he muttered to himself. He'd forgotten the Colonel's last assignment had been in Sol. Staff College on Mars. There were probably hundreds of dogs there. He tongued his impcom. "ComOp. Gillies. Get me BQMS Skuarren. Urgent."

Fortunately, "Sublight" Skuarren was on duty, and so it only took two or three minutes for the ComOp to convince him that he had to talk to Gillies. Sublight, being both a hundred and fifty-year veteran and a quartermaster, considered himself to be a sort of independent prince, and gave rare audiences. He probably should have been retired, but since he'd started his career back when starships were sublight and subject to temporal dilation, no one could figure out how old he actually was. It was also rumored that his retirement payout would be so huge that the Paymaster was hoping he'd die first.

"Gillies? Assault engineers, huh? I was an assault sergeant for a while, son. Back in the First War. Lost a hand when a mini-sun novaed prematurely when we were burning through the Xene flagship off Parast. Then the damned trauma seal malfunctioned and cut off my whole damn arm! Had a prosthetic one for about ten years before I could get a new one grown back. Hell of a thing, that prosthetic . . . what? Terran dogs? Yeah. A what? A collie? Nice dog, may be a bit gentle. Shepherd cross? German shepherd, that'd be. No, nothing to do with bacterial weapons. Germany is a sub-unit of Terra. Of course I know. I used to have a Labrador—that's another variant, son— when we were doing police work on Nightwing. Commands? The usual stuff. Sit, Walk, Find, Retrieve, Stay, Attack, Heel . . . no, it means follow close by your heels. On your boots. The part at the back. You call it what? Where are you from, son? Brink II! Shit, son, I was part of the relief force that recaptured Brink. More commands? Okay, I'll see what I can remember, and zap it down on the dataline. Enjoy your exercise, Sergeant. I hope it's a good dog."

Ten hours later, Sergeant Gillies was pretty sure that even if it was a good dog, he didn't like it. They'd hit the planet at 0400, deploying in squad-sized drop saucers, and the DOG had been out the hatch as soon as it opened, without waiting for a command. It had run backwards and forwards around him as he'd disembarked, and got in the way of the initial scans. Then, when the whole battalion had moved off towards the simulated enemy defense area, the DOG had raced out in front of the lead scouts, confusing them and everybody else. Luckily, Gillies had remembered "heel." and transmitted it at once, but to add insult to injury, the DOG communicated on one of the spare bands that Gillies had assigned as a private channel for him and the three squad leaders. Now, it was interrupted all the time by sharp, strident noises from the DOG. It seemed to make them every time it found something.

To be fair, it found things with considerable efficiency, turning up several booby traps or fixed auto weapons several minutes before Gillie's slipscan teams. But it was only a few minutes, and the Sergeant didn't really think it was worth the aggravation.

The DOG had been useful in the assault too, demoralizing the defenders (from the brigade's HQ company) by digging through a frozen oxygen rampart and then springing out in a heavy weapons emplacement, blue teeth and six sets of claws scoring faceplates and shredding exterior aerials and the like. No one had been hurt by the DOG—which seemed to understand it was an exercise—but it certainly put them off long enough for a squad to gee-vault in and finish them off with low-en simulated plasma dotters.

Now, on the shuttle going back up to Garrison, Gillies noticed that the DOG must have purposefully rolled around on one of the crystalline "plant-mats" that grew on Hogawan VII, because long lines of furry crystals were now growing on its black body, giving it the appearance of long hair. The crystals were harmless, but Gillies eyed it with misgiving. Bald was good enough for Marines, it ought to be good enough for an auxiliary animal. The DOG seemed to notice he was looking, because it put its head back and thrust its tongue out at him, while its tail rotated in eccentric circles. Probably an insult, Gillies thought.

Suddenly, his suit com squawked into life, and his tongue tingled with the sensation of a red alert. The troopers around him in the shuttle's shockwebs suddenly jerked upright, and the DOG sprang to its feet. Gillies felt every inch of his skin suddenly contract, like being dumped in freezing water, as the shuttle energized its protective shield. It was followed a moment later by the controlled but excited voice of the naval duty officer.

"Red! Nilsim! All hands, close up for action."

There was a pause, then Colonel Kjaskle came on the all troops channel.

"Listen up, Marines! An unauthorized craft is approaching the interdicted zone. Fighters are vectoring to intercept. We're going in behind to board. The craft looks like a Xene battle barge, but it's all on its own. This is not a simulation. Nilsim. Company and platoon commanders standby for orders."

The colonel clicked off and Gillies spoke quickly, before she came on the command channel directly.

"Pull safety tags and sim buttons and cross-check with your team."

Seconds later, the colonel spoke to Gillies directly. "Gillies. We've got a ID on the battle barge. A Xene renegade, probably a suicide run for the garrison. It's pointed straight at it on full acceleration, and the navy isn't positive they can totally vaporize it without some debris hitting the garrison and attendant craft. So we've got to clean up—and only your shuttle and 2nd Platoon, A company are close enough for immediate intercept. That's the situation. Orders. Two-A platoon will take the bridge. Your assault engineer platoon will secure the engine room. Scan downloading now. From the schematics, it looks like a standard battle barge, but don't take it for granted, they're running a full screen. Do it by the book, exactly as you've done before. Any questions?"

"No, sir," replied Gillies, as he studied the schematics displayed just in front of his eyes on the upper part of the visor. "We'll cut in the trailing cargo hold and deploy from there."

"Sounds good to me, Sergeant," said the CO. "Take it away."

"Okay, children, listen in!" Gillies said. "We're going in to take the engine room of this battle barge. It looks like a Xene suicide ram, so we've got the important job. But I want it nice and careful, okay? Smazl, your squad will be on scan and support, Wattson, your guys'll do the drill-in and blow. I'll go with Nreda's squad, and we'll do the assault. The schematics look just like the sim we did last month, but don't take it for granted. Okay. The trailing cargo bay is the cut-in, core bulkhead the scan and blow, and then the aft hatch of that corridor behind I'll mini-sun for the assault party. Drop in four thirty-two. Any questions?"

There were no questions. The DOG looked like it would ask questions if it could talk, and Gillies realized he hadn't thought about what it would do. Stay with him, he guessed, if it had an EVA capability.

"Okay. Three minutes. Seal and energize. Weapons—ready! Load and set! Take up boarding positions."

Gillies slapped his own faceplate down and checked the suit tell-tales, before arming his in-built and carried weapons and setting the safety switches. Finally, he stood up, locked his boots into position on the floor and called the bridge, while his eyes ran over the men and women of the platoon, checking the readiness tell-tales which didn't always sync up with his helmet display. The DOG, he noticed, had automatically assumed the drop position when everyone else did.

"Platoon ready for boarding. Open boarding hatch and standby for drop."

"Confirmed. Okay, you Marines! Boarding hatch opening, standby for gravity alert. Two point five gees matched with the target. Good luck!"

The floor in front of Gillies suddenly slid away, revealing open space. He couldn't see the Xene craft because of the shield interference, but his locator beam was already on it, locking in on his chosen drop point. It flashed a yellow warning in his helmet, and then red, as the ejection field picked up the entire platoon and hurled them into space.

Gravity hit like a sucker punch, more than the 2. 5G the shuttle pilot had indicated, and the heavens wheeled around the faceplate as Gillies spun towards the enemy vessel. The suit's autopilot was firing pulsion units to stop the spin, but Gillies assumed control and merely slowed it, so he could get his bearings. A few seconds later, he felt his skin crawl again, as he passed through the enemy energy field. That made him susceptible to fire, so he upped the acceleration and started jinking, while his suit fired chaff and tiny distorter missiles. Around him, everyone in the platoon was doing the same, as the squads sorted themselves into a rough formation for the landing.

The first squad hit and established a scan perimeter, taking out two enemy autoguns as they did so; Wattson's squad pancaked in and drillers flared white, sparking fountains of light. Gillies kept the other squad matched to the ship's vector, in a rough circle about twenty meters above the hull. Experience had shown that a band about four meters deep existed here, where the enemy's ship-mounted AP weapons couldn't bear. A frageware glitch probably, but one common to this type of vessel. Gillies hoped it was still current.

Down on the hull, Wattson's troops finished drilling and starting placing charges in the boreholes to finish the breach. Wattson came over the com.

"Two minutes, from my mark. Mark!"

The circle on the deck suddenly expanded, as both squads opened up the perimeter to allow room for the blast. The cutting charges were supposed to be uni-directional—inwards—but it never seemed to totally work that way. Gillies, up above, opened up his perimeter too, and as Wattson said "three seconds!" they all flipped to take the flash and blast debris on their back armor.

Wattson's "One" was lost in the com interference from the micronukes, but the flash was clear enough. Gillies counted "one-two," then somersaulted and jetted for what he hoped was a gaping hole through the outer hull into a cargo bay. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the DOG was close behind him, its crystalline hair wavering as pulsors from its legs delivered sudden changes of direction.

The breach was there, twenty meters in diameter, with molten metal still bleeding off in all directions, and the Xene's chlorine atmosphere boiling out like green steam.

"Go to wavescan," Gillies instructed the assaulting squad, and his visor suddenly cleared to show a simulated real-time view of what everything looked like without the gases. The hull was cleanly breached, revealing a large, empty cargo hold. The assault squad raced in through the breach, leapfrogging in alternate pairs along the notional floor and walls of the hold. The enemy ship was maintaining an artificial gravity of about 0.2G, but this was wasn't enough for full gravity tactics. Two marines bounced off the walls to the coreward bulkhead, the first running a deepscan across the bulkhead, the second slapping a long ribbon-shaped cutting charge on the point indicated by the scan. The bomber then went left as the scanner went right, and five seconds later there was an explosion and a door-sized hole in the bulkhead. Another marine moved up and flipped flechette grenades through, to cover each end of the corridor on the other side of the bulkhead. Immediately they exploded, two marines dived through, and plasma dotters fired, almost simultaneously with a Xene greyband. There was a muffled exclamation on com.

"One Xene down in the corridor, none in range," said Corporal Nreda. "I've taken a greyband hit on the leg, lost ablat, knee-joint's immobilized."

"Okay," snapped Gillies as he bounded forward. "Stay there and cover the topside approach. I'm coming through. Smazl, stay hullside and secure. Wattson, come through when we're into the engine room."

He dived through the bulkhead hole, and cursed as the DOG dived too, almost colliding with him as he flipped to take the impact on his legs. Nreda was firing again, to the left, and the flare from the stream of microscopic plasma dots was causing part of his faceplate to polarize and the wavescan view was chopping up. The marine to his right indicated the aft hatch, then flew hullwards and sticktered herself against the corridor 'roof,' to get a good firing position when Gillies sunned the door.

The sergeant locked himself feet-first on the 'wall,' at right-angles to the other two marines, and unclipped the black globe of the minisun from his belt. He aimed it at the hatch, thumb securely pressing the safety interlock switch, while his suitcomp downloaded the instructions that would define both the protective field and the arc of destruction. As Gillies raised his thumb, he thought of Sublight's story about losing an arm—but that had been an earlier model. Below him, the DOG unit seemed to see the weapon for the first time, and it pressed itself totally flat on the floor and tucked its head in between its front legs. Then Gillies let the mini-sun go.

It worked perfectly. The globe flew forward, and the instant before it hit the hatch, raised a protective field in a hemisphere behind it, while vaporizing everything in a hemisphere in front of it. The hatch, part of the aft bulkhead and two Xene warriors several meters behind the hatch just disappeared. The half of the globe that had generated the field continued in its trajectory, rebounding from the far bulkhead of the room.

The marine on the roof fired as Gillies went in below her, the DOG at his reboos, or heels as Sublight called them. She missed whatever she was aiming at, and a millisecond later, she was hit by an rocket-propelled greyband capsule, the Xene organic solvent eating into her armor as she frantically activated the shedding process that would slough off her outer ablative layer.

Gillies' comp tracked the launch, and he instinctively fired back with his in-built arm dotter, taking a Xene as it dived to new cover. At that same second, Gillies realized that this room wasn't the engine control room. The schematics were wrong. He anchored himself behind a panel and called his squad leaders.

"Smazl! Get a scan team down here to me! Wattson! Report! Nreda, where's the rest of the fucking squad?"

"We're under fire, boss! Big counter-attack—ambush—they're coming out of the fucking forr'd hold . . . the boat deck . . . they're everywhere!"

Gillies had to check his comp to see who was talking, the voice was almost hysterical, totally unlike Smazl. Before he could answer, Wattson came over the com, speaking fast.

"Smazl just went down, Sarge! His troopies are in hand-to-hand, I'll counter-attack up the hold rim before they're over-run. At least fifty warriors . . ."

"Okay!" Gillies snapped. "Wattson, hold your attack, there's too many of them. Get Smazl's squad to fall back if they can. Nreda, join your squad with Wattson's and establish a defensive position around the hold for a hot insertion by reinforcements. Wattson, you're in command, contact the CO and ask for some goddamn help. I'm going on for the engine room."

Gillies hardly heard the affirmatives of Nreda and Wattson. They knew as well as he did that there might not be any reinforcements if he couldn't stop or at least slow the battle barge long enough for the rest of the battalion to catch up. And in the worst-case scenario, the Navy might have to try and take the barge out even with the marines still fighting on board. Gillies would have to try and find the engine room without a scan team.

Boosting his suit scans to maximum, the sergeant moved his head from side-to-side, hoping that some aberrant energy emission would show up. One did, but visual observation showed it to be the DOG unit. Gillies looked at it, and suddenly wondered if the Pallas R&D people really were as stupid as everyone thought.

"Okay, DOG," he transmitted to it. "Where's the engine room?"

The DOG's ears pricked up and it moved its head sideways, as if listening, but it didn't do anything.

"DOG-01, locate engine room!" Gillies snapped. Again, the DOG looked like it was intently listening, but it still didn't do anything.

"DOG-01, search for the engine room . . ." Gillies tried, a little half-heartedly. He knew the DOG could locate things—it just needed the right command.

"Sublight!"

Gillies suddenly remembered the old codger was going to download a list of commands on the dataline. Quickly, he accessed his comp. Sure enough, there was a stored low priority send from BQMS Skuarren. He activated it, and Sublight's familiar voice filled his ears.

"I got that full list of commands, son. Would you believe it? That second capsule came to me with a batch of left-handed spinsticks. I've been scrolling it all morning, and those guys on Pallas sure have a sense of humor. Must be some old-timers there like me . . ."

Gillies hit fast-forward, as his helmet tell-tales showed two new casualties among Smazl's squad. Six of Smazl"s ten marines were either dead or their suits were, and there five casualties among the other two squads. He had to find the engine room!

"Okay, Sergeant, the basic command menu follows. There's some real funny stuff, but it sure is a good DOG."

Gillies listened intently to the stream of one-word commands and two- or three-word groups, till he heard the one he wanted. It was incredibly obvious, but he didn't waste time worrying about that.

"DOG . . . FIND . . . ENGINE . . . ROOM."

The pauses were important apparently. Something else Xene mockers couldn't handle properly. They had no sense of rhythm.

The DOG shot up from the deck, its head went down and it rotated through a complex sphere. Apparently finding some scan-trail or trace, it then used its pulsors to head off towards the coreward hatch. Gillies followed along the wall, using his stickters, plasma dotter tracking just above the DOG's head. According to the schematics, this hatch led to a drop shaft to a drive inspection chamber, but the schematics were clearly wrong.

The DOG pawed at the hatch, and then looked back at Gillies. He nodded, and said, "Heel!" as he readied his last mini-sun. The DOG obeyed with alacrity. Gillies trained the mini-sun on the hatch, let it compute, then raised his thumb.

Something did go wrong with this one, but Gillies wasn't sure what it was, as he was knocked back across the room and momentarily stunned by the blast. Coming to, he instinctively bounced behind cover, twisting himself so he could cover the hatch. Even as he rolled, a greyband capsule struck near his feet, and the solvent spewed out, seeking marine armor. Gillies activated the mechanism that would shuck the first ablative layer, and returned fire. His dotter struck a Xene warrior who was charging through a gaping hole where the coreward hatch used to be. The alien, despite being hit through the midsection, kept on coming.

Behind him, Gillies saw the DOG unit rolling around on the ground with another Xene, and behind them, he saw the characteristic tall panels of a Xene ship's engine control room. But before he could use the com, the gut-shot Xene was on top of him, thrusting with a small trident in each of its three combat arms. Gillies jumped backwards, and activated the forceblades in his gauntlets. Two bright-blue beams, each sixty centimeters long, shot out just in time for him to parry the Xene's trident attacks.

Sparks flew as forceblade met trident field. Gillies caught the two main attacks, but was too slow on the third, and a trident skewed off his blade to sink into the left side of his armor. It didn't penetrate to skin, but it didn't have to. The Xene twisted the handle, and the remaining field charge earthed itself, shorting out most of Gillies' systems. His whole left side locked up, and his sinister beam faded to nothing. Desperately, Gillies fired his back pulsors, throwing himself forward in a mad lunge with the functioning force blade, expecting to feel the other tridents in his chest.

But the Xene toppled over, smashed into the floor and rebounded with Gillies on top of him. Before the alien could recover, Gillies thrust his forceblade through its chest exhaust, the savage blow sending him into a spin that he couldn't control. Out of the corner of his helmet, he saw the DOG propel itself out from under the Xene's anterior limbs, where it had struck as he'd shoved.

"Well done," Gillies sent, remembering the order codes Sublight had sent down. But there was no answer: only an ominous vibration deep in his cheekbones. Quickly, Gillies flipped through the other channels, without success. He couldn't get a full damage control readout, but the emergency tell-tales inside his helmet told him his motor controls were shot, there was significant loss of suit environment and the trident charge was still ravaging his suit systems. He'd probably be dead inside twenty minutes—with everyone else from his own platoon and Two Platoon as well, if he couldn't get to the drive controls and shut it down.

The controls were little more than five meters away, and there were no Xene defenders in the way. But Gillies was unable to move, his arms and legs twitching uselessly, bound in armor that had effectively lost its nervous system. He was writhing uselessly on the notional floor under 0.2G, but even the low gravity couldn't help him.

Quickly, Gillies assessed his options. The DOG unit looked to be fully functional, but it couldn't receive his commands. He looked down at it, and it looked up at him.

"Come here!" Gillies tried, but there was no response. Desperately, he tried again. Still, the DOG just stared up at him. He tried gesturing to it to come closer, but only a few of his fingers moved. He tried again, with his other hand. No fingers, but the wrist flopped backwards and forwards, like a clockwork obscene gesture.

The DOG seemed to understand that, because it unwrapped its tail, and jetted up to Gillies, doing an elegant flip-over halfway that put its tail next to Gillies' helmet. He wondered what the hell it was doing, till his damage control telltales showed one restored com circuit. The DOG's tail was its antenna and input fiber, and it had just plugged into his suit phone.

"Well done!" Gillies exclaimed again. The tail wagged a little, but not too much. Praying that his message log wasn't destroyed, Gillies summoned up Sublight's message again. It worked, and this time he ran through all the codes, using up a precious five minutes of his remaining life support. But it was worth it. The DOG's command language was surprisingly sophisticated when groups of words were used, and it hinted at equally sophisticated capabilities.

"DOG! DESTROY . . . ENEMY . . . ENGINE . . . CONTROL . . . PANELS . . . IN . . . VISUAL . . . RANGE . . . AND . . . RETURN!"

The DOG detached itself, and sped over to the engine room. Gillies watched in fascination as it moved to each panel, and a cutting lance shot out of its nose, melting through the armored covers of key fiber junctions. Then, a blue claw went in, and came out festooned with broken fibers and the Xene's curious half-sentient chips, their metallic blood boiling out into vacuum. Luminescent trails on the panels died. When the second-last panel dimmed, Gillies skin crawled as the ship's screen pulsed and died. When the last panel faded into darkness, his stomach told him he was in zero-g. The artificial gravity was off and the ship was no longer accelerating.

The DOG jetted back, and reconnected. Gillies smiled and nodded at it.

"GOOD . . . DOG! Very good!"

The rest of the battalion shuttles would intercept all the sooner now, maybe even soon enough to save Gillies' platoon. They could even be landing now, for all he knew. But it was too late for him. The suit said he had less than five minutes of atmosphere left, and they'd never get to him in time. Wearily, he tried to think of something he could do, something to add to the simple equation of not enough air and a broken suit. Salvage atmos tanks from one of his dead marines back in the hold? He couldn't get to them. He was too tired, and he couldn't move anyway. He might as well just go to sleep . . .

With a jerk, he twitched himself awake, and checked the tell-tales again. The suit had cut him to half pressure—he wasn't getting enough oxygen. He couldn't think. There was the DOG, maybe it could get him the atmos tanks, but once again, he couldn't think of the commands. His head felt like he'd just gone through a gravity flux. He couldn't remember the commands, the commands. Only the one Sublight thought was funny, though Gillies didn't know why. Maybe it was Sublight's joke, and it wasn't a real command, but it sounded like just the right thing for the situation.

Half unconscious, Gillies muttered the command that would save his life.

"Lassie. Get help."

* * *

Garth Nix is the author of many books and stories.

When Sysadmins Ruled The Earth

Written by Cory Doctorow
Illustrated by Rob Dumuhosky

When Felix's special phone rang at two in the morning, Kelly rolled over and punched him in the shoulder and hissed, "Why didn't you turn that fucking thing off before bed?"

"Because I'm on call," he said.

"You're not a fucking doctor," she said, kicking him as he sat on the bed's edge, pulling on the pants he'd left on the floor before turning in. "You're a goddamned systems administrator."

"It's my job," he said.

"They work you like a government mule," she said. "You know I'm right. For Christ's sake, you're a father now, you can't go running off in the middle of the night every time someone's porn supply goes down. Don't answer that phone."

He knew she was right. He answered the phone.

"Main routers not responding. BGP not responding." The mechanical voice of the systems monitor didn't care if he cursed at it, so he did, and it made him feel a little better.

"Maybe I can fix it from here," he said. He could login to the UPS for the cage and reboot the routers. The UPS was in a different netblock, with its own independent routers on their own uninterruptible power-supplies.

Kelly was sitting up in bed now, an indistinct shape against the headboard. "In five years of marriage, you have never once been able to fix anything from here." This time she was wrong—he fixed stuff from home all the time, but he did it discreetly and didn't make a fuss, so she didn't remember it. And she was right, too—he had logs that showed that after 1AM, nothing could ever be fixed without driving out to the cage. Law of Infinite Universal Perversity—AKA Felix's Law.

Five minutes later Felix was behind the wheel. He hadn't been able to fix it from home. The independent router's netblock was offline, too. The last time that had happened, some dumbfuck construction worker had driven a ditch-witch through the main conduit into the data-center and Felix had joined a cadre of fifty enraged sysadmins who'd stood atop the resulting pit for a week, screaming abuse at the poor bastards who labored 24-7 to splice ten thousand wires back together.

His phone went off twice more in the car and he let it override the stereo and play the mechanical status reports through the big, bassy speakers of more critical network infrastructure offline. Then Kelly called.

"Hi," he said.

"Don't cringe, I can hear the cringe in your voice."

He smiled involuntarily. "Check, no cringing."

"I love you, Felix," she said.

"I'm totally bonkers for you, Kelly. Go back to bed."

"2.0's awake," she said. The baby had been Beta Test when he was in her womb, and when her water broke, he got the call and dashed out of the office, shouting, 'The Gold Master just shipped!' They'd started calling him 2.0 before he'd finished his first cry. "This little bastard was born to suck tit."

"I'm sorry I woke you," he said. He was almost at the data center. No traffic at 2AM. He slowed down and pulled over before the entrance to the garage. He didn't want to lose Kelly's call underground.

"It's not waking me," she said. "You've been there for seven years. You have three juniors reporting to you. Give them the phone. You've paid your dues."

"I don't like asking my reports to do anything I wouldn't do," he said.

"You've done it," she said. "Please? I hate waking up alone in the night. I miss you most at night."

"Kelly—"

"I'm over being angry. I just miss you is all. You give me sweet dreams."

"OK," he said.

"Simple as that?"

"Exactly. Simple as that. Can't have you having bad dreams, and I've paid my dues. From now on, I'm only going on night call to cover holidays."

She laughed. "Sysadmins don't take holidays."

"This one will," he said. "Promise."

"You're wonderful," she said. "Oh, gross. 2.0 just dumped core all over my bathrobe."

"That's my boy," he said.

"Oh that he is," she said. She hung up, and he piloted the car into the data-center lot, badging in and peeling up a bleary eyelid to let the retinal scanner get a good look at his sleep-depped eyeball.

He stopped at the machine to get himself a guarana/medafonil power-bar and a cup of lethal robot-coffee in a spill-proof clean-room sippy-cup. He wolfed down the bar and sipped the coffee, then let the inner door read his hand-geometry and size him up for a moment. It sighed open and gusted the airlock's load of positively pressurized air over him as he passed finally to the inner sanctum.

It was bedlam. The cages were designed to let two or three sysadmins maneuver around them at a time. Every other inch of cubic space was given over to humming racks of servers and routers and drives. Jammed among them were no fewer than twenty other sysadmins. It was a regular convention of black tee-shirts with inexplicable slogans, bellies overlapping belts with phones and multitools.

Normally it was practically freezing in the cage, but all those bodies were overheating the small, enclosed space. Five or six looked up and grimaced when he came through. Two greeted him by name. He threaded his belly through the press and the cages, toward the Ardent racks in the back of the room.

"Felix." It was Van, who wasn't on call that night.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "No need for both of us to be wrecked tomorrow."

"What? Oh. My personal box is over there. It went down around 1:30 and I got woken up by my process-monitor. I should have called you and told you I was coming down—spared you the trip."

Felix's own server—a box he shared with five other friends—was in a rack one floor down. He wondered if it was offline too.

"What's the story?"

"Massive flashworm attack. Some jackass with a zero-day exploit has got every Windows box on the net running Monte Carlo probes on every IP block, including IPv6. The big Ciscos all run administrative interfaces over v6, and they all fall over if they get more than ten simultaneous probes, which means that just about every interchange has gone down. DNS is screwy, too—like maybe someone poisoned the zone transfer last night. Oh, and there's an email and IM component that sends pretty lifelike messages to everyone in your address book, barfing up Eliza-dialog that keys off of your logged email and messages to get you to open a Trojan."

"Jesus."

"Yeah." Van was a type-two sysadmin, over six feet tall, long pony-tail, bobbing Adam's apple. Over his toast-rack chest, his tee said CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON and featured a row of polyhedral RPG dice.

Felix was a type-one admin, with an extra seventy or eighty pounds all around the middle, and a neat but full beard that he wore over his extra chins. His tee said HELLO CTHULHU and featured a cute, mouthless, Hello-Kitty-style Cthulhu. They'd known each other for fifteen years, having met on Usenet, then f2f at Toronto Freenet beer-sessions, a Star Trek convention or two, and eventually Felix had hired Van to work under him at Ardent. Van was reliable and methodical. Trained as an electrical engineer, he kept a procession of spiral notebooks filled with the details of every step he'd ever taken, with time and date.

"Not even PEBKAC this time," Van said. Problem Exists Between Keyboard And Chair. Email trojans fell into that category—if people were smart enough not to open suspect attachments, email trojans would be a thing of the past. But worms that ate Cisco routers weren't a problem with the lusers—they were the fault of incompetent engineers.

"No, it's Microsoft's fault," Felix said. "Any time I'm at work at 2AM, it's either PEBKAC or Microsloth."

* * *

They ended up just unplugging the frigging routers from the Internet. Not Felix, of course, though he was itching to do it and get them rebooted after shutting down their IPv6 interfaces. It was done by a couple bull-goose Bastard Operators From Hell who had to turn two keys at once to get access to their cage—like guards in a Minuteman silo. 95 percent of the long distance traffic in Canada went through this building. It had better security than most Minuteman silos.

Felix and Van got the Ardent boxes back online one at a time. They were being pounded by worm-probes—putting the routers back online just exposed the downstream cages to the attack. Every box on the Internet was drowning in worms, or creating worm-attacks, or both. Felix managed to get through to NIST and Bugtraq after about a hundred timeouts, and download some kernel patches that should reduce the load the worms put on the machines in his care. It was 10AM, and he was hungry enough to eat the ass out of a dead bear, but he recompiled his kernels and brought the machines back online. Van's long fingers flew over the administrative keyboard, his tongue protruding as he ran load-stats on each one.

"I had two hundred days of uptime on Greedo," Van said. Greedo was the oldest server in the rack, from the days when they'd named the boxes after Star Wars characters. Now they were all named after Smurfs, and they were running out of Smurfs and had started in on McDonaldland characters, starting with Van's laptop, Mayor McCheese.

"Greedo will rise again," Felix said. "I've got a 486 downstairs with over five years of uptime. It's going to break my heart to reboot it."

"What the everlasting shit do you use a 486 for?"

"Nothing. But who shuts down a machine with five years uptime? That's like euthanizing your grandmother."

"I wanna eat," Van said.

"Tell you what," Felix said. "We'll get your box up, then mine, then I'll take you to the Lakeview Lunch for breakfast pizzas and you can have the rest of the day off."

"You're on," Van said. "Man, you're too good to us grunts. You should keep us in a pit and beat us like all the other bosses. It's all we deserve."

* * *

"It's your phone," Van said. Felix extracted himself from the guts of the 486, which had refused to power up at all. He had cadged a spare power-supply from some guys who ran a spam operation and was trying to get it fitted. He let Van hand him the phone, which had fallen off his belt while he was twisting to get at the back of the machine.

"Hey, Kel," he said. There was an odd, snuffling noise in the background. Static, maybe? 2.0 splashing in the bath? "Kelly?"

The line went dead. He tried to call back, but didn't get anything—no ring nor voicemail. His phone finally timed out and said NETWORK ERROR.

"Dammit," he said, mildly. He clipped the phone to his belt. Kelly wanted to know when he was coming home, or wanted him to pick something up for the family. She'd leave voicemail.

He was testing the power-supply when his phone rang again. He snatched it up and answered it. "Kelly, hey, what's up?" He worked to keep anything like irritation out of his voice. He felt guilty: technically speaking, he had discharged his obligations to Ardent Financial LLC once the Ardent servers were back online. The past three hours had been purely personal—even if he planned on billing them to the company.

There was sobbing on the line.

"Kelly?" He felt the blood draining from his face and his toes were numb.

"Felix," she said, barely comprehensible through the sobbing. "He's dead, oh Jesus, he's dead."

"Who? Who, Kelly?"

"Will," she said.

Will? he thought. Who the fuck is — He dropped to his knees. William was the name they'd written on the birth certificate, though they'd called him 2.0 all along. Felix made an anguished sound, like a sick bark.

"I'm sick," she said, "I can't even stand anymore. Oh, Felix. I love you so much."

"Kelly? What's going on?"

"Everyone, everyone—" she said. "Only two channels left on the tube. Christ, Felix, it looks like dawn of the dead out the window—" He heard her retch. The phone started to break up, washing her puke-noises back like an echoplex.

"Stay there, Kelly," he shouted as the line died. He punched 911, but the phone went NETWORK ERROR again as soon as he hit SEND.

He grabbed Mayor McCheese from Van and plugged it into the 486's network cable and launched Firefox off the command line and googled for the Metro Police site. Quickly, but not frantically, he searched for an online contact form. Felix didn't lose his head, ever. He solved problems and freaking out didn't solve problems.

He located an online form and wrote out the details of his conversation with Kelly like he was filing a bug report, his fingers fast, his description complete, and then he hit SUBMIT.

Van had read over his shoulder. "Felix—" he began.

"God," Felix said. He was sitting on the floor of the cage and he slowly pulled himself upright. Van took the laptop and tried some news sites, but they were all timing out. Impossible to say if it was because something terrible was happening or because the network was limping under the superworm.

"I need to get home," Felix said.

"I'll drive you," Van said. "You can keep calling your wife."

They made their way to the elevators. One of the building's few windows was there, a thick, shielded porthole. They peered through it as they waited for the elevator. Not much traffic for a Wednesday. Where there more police cars than usual?

"Oh my God—" Van pointed.

The CN Tower, a giant white-elephant needle of a building loomed to the east of them. It was askew, like a branch stuck in wet sand. Was it moving? It was. It was heeling over, slowly, but gaining speed, falling northeast toward the financial district. In a second, it slid over the tipping point and crashed down. They felt the shock, then heard it, the whole building rocking from the impact. A cloud of dust rose from the wreckage, and there was more thunder as the world's tallest freestanding structure crashed through building after building.

"The Broadcast Centre's coming down," Van said. It was—the CBC's towering building was collapsing in slow motion. People ran every way, were crushed by falling masonry. Seen through the port-hole, it was like watching a neat CGI trick downloaded from a file-sharing site.

Sysadmins were clustering around them now, jostling to see the destruction.

"What happened?" one of them asked.

"The CN Tower fell down," Felix said. He sounded far away in his own ears.

"Was it the virus?"

"The worm? What?" Felix focused on the guy, who was a young admin with just a little type-two flab around the middle.

"Not the worm," the guy said. "I got an email that the whole city's quarantined because of some virus. Bioweapon, they say." He handed Felix his Blackberry.

Felix was so engrossed in the report—purportedly forwarded from Health Canada—that he didn't even notice that all the lights had gone out. Then he did, and he pressed the Blackberry back into its owner's hand, and let out one small sob.

* * *

The generators kicked in a minute later. Sysadmins stampeded for the stairs. Felix grabbed Van by the arm, pulled him back.

"Maybe we should wait this out in the cage," he said.

"What about Kelly?" Van said.

Felix felt like he was going to throw up. "We should get into the cage, now." The cage had microparticulate air-filters.

They ran upstairs to the big cage. Felix opened the door and then let it hiss shut behind him.

"Felix, you need to get home—"

"It's a bioweapon," Felix said. "Superbug. We'll be OK in here, I think, so long as the filters hold out."

"What?"

"Get on IRC," he said.

They did. Van had Mayor McCheese and Felix used Smurfette. They skipped around the chat channels until they found one with some familiar handles.

> pentagons gone/white house too

> MY NEIGHBORS BARFING BLOOD OFF HIS BALCONY IN SAN DIEGO

> Someone knocked over the Gherkin. Bankers are fleeing the City like rats.

> I heard that the Ginza's on fire

Felix typed: I'm in Toronto. We just saw the CN Tower fall. I've heard reports of bioweapons, something very fast.

Van read this and said, "You don't know how fast it is, Felix. Maybe we were all exposed three days ago."

Felix closed his eyes. "If that were so we'd be feeling some symptoms, I think."

> Looks like an EMP took out Hong Kong and maybe Paris—realtime sat footage shows them completely dark, and all netblocks there aren't routing

> You're in Toronto?

It was an unfamiliar handle.

> Yes—on Front Street

> my sisters at UofT and i cnt reach her—can you call her?

> No phone service

Felix typed, staring at NETWORK PROBLEMS.

"I have a soft phone on Mayor McCheese," Van said, launching his voice-over-IP app. "I just remembered."

Felix took the laptop from him and punched in his home number. It rang once, then there was a flat, blatting sound like an ambulance siren in an Italian movie.

> No phone service

Felix typed again.

He looked up at Van, and saw that his skinny shoulders were shaking. Van said, "Holy motherfucking shit. The world is ending."

* * *

Felix pried himself off of IRC an hour later. Atlanta had burned. Manhattan was hot—radioactive enough to screw up the webcams looking out over Lincoln Plaza. Everyone blamed Islam until it became clear that Mecca was a smoking pit and the Saudi Royals had been hanged before their palaces.

His hands were shaking, and Van was quietly weeping in the far corner of the cage. He tried calling home again, and then the police. It didn't work any better than it had the last 20 times.

He sshed into his box downstairs and grabbed his mail. Spam, spam, spam. More spam. Automated messages. There—an urgent message from the intrusion detection system in the Ardent cage.

He opened it and read quickly. Someone was crudely, repeatedly probing his routers. It didn't match a worm's signature, either. He followed the traceroute and discovered that the attack had originated in the same building as him, a system in a cage one floor below.

He had procedures for this. He portscanned his attacker and found that port 1337 was open—1337 was "leet" or "elite" in hacker number/letter substitution code. That was the kind of port that a worm left open to slither in and out of. He googled known sploits that left a listener on port 1337, narrowed this down based on the fingerprinted operating system of the compromised server, and then he had it.

It was an ancient worm, one that every box should have been patched against years before. No mind. He had the client for it, and he used it to create a root account for himself on the box, which he then logged into, and took a look around.

There was one other user logged in, "scaredy," and he checked the proccess monitor and saw that scaredy had spawned all the hundreds of processes that were probing him and plenty of other boxen.

He opened a chat:

> Stop probing my server

He expected bluster, guilt, denial. He was surprised.

> Are you in the Front Street data-center?

> Yes

> Christ I thought I was the last one alive. I'm on the fourth floor. I think there's a bioweapon attack outside. I don't want to leave the clean room.

Felix whooshed out a breath.

> You were probing me to get me to trace back to you?

> Yeah

> That was smart

Clever bastard.

> I'm on the sixth floor, I've got one more with me.

> What do you know?

Felix pasted in the IRC log and waited while the other guy digested it. Van stood up and paced. His eyes were glazed over.

"Van? Pal?"

"I have to pee," he said.

"No opening the door," Felix said. "I saw an empty Mountain Dew bottle in the trash there."

"Right," Van said. He walked like a zombie to the trash can and pulled out the empty magnum. He turned his back.

> I'm Felix

> Will

Felix's stomach did a slow somersault as he thought about 2.0.

"Felix, I think I need to go outside," Van said. He was moving toward the airlock door. Felix dropped his keyboard and struggled to his feet and ran headlong to Van, tackling him before he reached the door.

"Van," he said, looking into his friend's glazed, unfocused eyes. "Look at me, Van."

"I need to go," Van said. "I need to get home and feed the cats."

"There's something out there, something fast-acting and lethal. Maybe it will blow away with the wind. Maybe it's already gone. But we're going to sit here until we know for sure or until we have no choice. Sit down, Van. Sit."

"I'm cold, Felix."

It was freezing. Felix's arms were broken out in gooseflesh and his feet felt like blocks of ice.

"Sit against the servers, by the vents. Get the exhaust heat." He found a rack and nestled up against it.

> Are you there?

> Still here—sorting out some logistics

> How long until we can go out?

> I have no idea

No one typed anything for quite some time then.

* * *

Felix had to use the Mountain Dew bottle twice. Then Van used it again. Felix tried calling Kelly again. The Metro Police site was down.

Finally, he slid back against the servers and wrapped his arms around his knees and wept like a baby.

After a minute, Van came over and sat beside him, with his arm around Felix's shoulder.

"They're dead, Van," Felix said. "Kelly and my s— son. My family is gone."

"You don't know for sure," Van said.

"I'm sure enough," Felix said. "Christ, it's all over, isn't it?"

"We'll gut it out a few more hours and then head out. Things should be getting back to normal soon. The fire department will fix it. They'll mobilize the Army. It'll be OK."

Felix's ribs hurt. He hadn't cried since—Since 2.0 was born. He hugged his knees harder.

Then the doors opened.

The two sysadmins who entered were wild-eyed. One had a tee that said TALK NERDY TO ME and the other one was wearing an Electronic Frontiers Canada shirt.

"Come on," TALK NERDY said. "We're all getting together on the top floor. Take the stairs."

Felix found he was holding his breath.

"If there's a bioagent in the building, we're all infected," TALK NERDY said. "Just go, we'll meet you there."

"There's one on the sixth floor," Felix said, as he climbed to his feet.

"Will, yeah, we got him. He's up there."

TALK NERDY was one of the Bastard Operators >From Hell who'd unplugged the big routers. Felix and Van climbed the stairs slowly, their steps echoing in the deserted shaft. After the frigid air of the cage, the stairwell felt like a sauna.

There was a cafeteria on the top floor, with working toilets, water and coffee and vending machine food. There was an uneasy queue of sysadmins before each. No one met anyone's eye. Felix wondered which one was Will and then he joined the vending machine queue.

He got a couple more energy bars and a gigantic cup of vanilla coffee before running out of change. Van had scored them some table space and Felix set the stuff down before him and got in the toilet line. "Just save some for me," he said, tossing an energy bar in front of Van.

By the time they were all settled in, thoroughly evacuated, and eating, TALK NERDY and his friend had returned again. They cleared off the cash-register at the end of the food-prep area and TALK NERDY got up on it. Slowly the conversation died down.

"I'm Uri Popovich, this is Diego Rosenbaum. Thank you all for coming up here. Here's what we know for sure: the building's been on generators for three hours now. Visual observation indicates that we're the only building in central Toronto with working power—which should hold out for three more days. There is a bioagent of unknown origin loose beyond our doors. It kills quickly, within hours, and it is aerosolized. You get it from breathing bad air. No one has opened any of the exterior doors to this building since five this morning. No one will open the doors until I give the go-ahead.

"Attacks on major cities all over the world have left emergency responders in chaos. The attacks are electronic, biological, nuclear and conventional explosives, and they are very widespread. I'm a security engineer, and where I come from, attacks in this kind of cluster are usually viewed as opportunistic: group B blows up a bridge because everyone is off taking care of group A's dirty nuke event. It's smart. An Aum Shin Rikyo cell in Seoul gassed the subways there about 2AM Eastern—that's the earliest event we can locate, so it may have been the Archduke that broke the camel's back. We're pretty sure that Aum Shin Rikyo couldn't be behind this kind of mayhem: they have no history of infowar and have never shown the kind of organizational acumen necessary to take out so many targets at once. Basically, they're not smart enough.

"We're holing up here for the foreseeable future, at least until the bioweapon has been identified and dispersed. We're going to staff the racks and keep the networks up. This is critical infrastructure, and it's our job to make sure it's got five nines of uptime. In times of national emergency, our responsibility to do that doubles."

One sysadmin put up his hand. He was very daring in a green Incredible Hulk ring-tee, and he was at the young end of the scale.

"Who died and made you king?"

"I have controls for the main security system, keys to every cage, and passcodes for the exterior doors—they're all locked now, by the way. I'm the one who got everyone up here first and called the meeting. I don't care if someone else wants this job, it's a shitty one. But someone needs to have this job."

"You're right," the kid said. "And I can do it every bit as well as you. My name's Will Sario."

Popovich looked down his nose at the kid. "Well, if you'll let me finish talking, maybe I'll hand things over to you when I'm done."

"Finish, by all means." Sario turned his back on him and walked to the window. He stared out of it intensely. Felix's gaze was drawn to it, and he saw that there were several oily smoke plumes rising up from the city.

Popovich's momentum was broken. "So that's what we're going to do," he said.

The kid looked around after a stretched moment of silence. "Oh, is it my turn now?"

There was a round of good-natured chuckling.

"Here's what I think: the world is going to shit. There are coordinated attacks on every critical piece of infrastructure. There's only one way that those attacks could be so well coordinated: via the Internet. Even if you buy the thesis that the attacks are all opportunistic, we need to ask how an opportunistic attack could be organized in minutes: the Internet."

"So you think we should shut down the Internet?" Popovich laughed a little, but stopped when Sario said nothing.

"We saw an attack last night that nearly killed the Internet. A little DoS on the critical routers, a little DNS-foo, and down it goes like a preacher's daughter. Cops and the military are a bunch of technophobic lusers, they hardly rely on the net at all. If we take the Internet down, we'll disproportionately disadvantage the attackers, while only inconveniencing the defenders. When the time comes, we can rebuild it."

"You're shitting me," Popovich said. His jaw literally hung open.

"It's logical," Sario said. "Lots of people don't like coping with logic when it dictates hard decisions. That's a problem with people, not logic."

There was a buzz of conversation that quickly turned into a roar.

"Shut UP!" Popovich hollered. The conversation dimmed by one Watt. Popovich yelled again, stamping his foot on the countertop. Finally there was a semblance of order. "One at a time," he said. He was flushed red, his hands in his pockets.

One sysadmin was for staying. Another for going. They should hide in the cages. They should inventory their supplies and appoint a quartermaster. They should go outside and find the police, or volunteer at hospitals. They should appoint defenders to keep the front door secure.

Felix found to his surprise that he had his hand in the air. Popovich called on him.

"My name is Felix Tremont," he said, getting up on one of the tables, drawing out his PDA. "I want to read you something.

"'Governments of the Industrial World, you weary giants of flesh and steel, I come from Cyberspace, the new home of Mind. On behalf of the future, I ask you of the past to leave us alone. You are not welcome among us. You have no sovereignty where we gather.

"'We have no elected government, nor are we likely to have one, so I address you with no greater authority than that with which liberty itself always speaks. I declare the global social space we are building to be naturally independent of the tyrannies you seek to impose on us. You have no moral right to rule us nor do you possess any methods of enforcement we have true reason to fear.

"'Governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed. You have neither solicited nor received ours. We did not invite you. You do not know us, nor do you know our world. Cyberspace does not lie within your borders. Do not think that you can build it, as though it were a public construction project. You cannot. It is an act of nature and it grows itself through our collective actions.'

"That's from the Declaration of Independence of Cyberspace. It was written 12 years ago. I thought it was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever read. I wanted my kid to grow up in a world where cyberspace was free—and where that freedom infected the real world, so meatspace got freer too."

He swallowed hard and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. Van awkwardly patted him on the shoe.

"My beautiful son and my beautiful wife died today. Millions more, too. The city is literally in flames. Whole cities have disappeared from the map."

He coughed up a sob and swallowed it again.

"All around the world, people like us are gathered in buildings like this. They were trying to recover from last night's worm when disaster struck. We have independent power. Food. Water.

"We have the network, that the bad guys use so well and that the good guys have never figured out.

"We have a shared love of liberty that comes from caring about and caring for the network. We are in charge of the most important organizational and governmental tool the world has ever seen. We are the closest thing to a government the world has right now. Geneva is a crater. The East River is on fire and the UN is evacuated.

"The Distributed Republic of Cyberspace weathered this storm basically unscathed. We are the custodians of a deathless, monstrous, wonderful machine, one with the potential to rebuild a better world.

"I have nothing to live for but that."

There were tears in Van's eyes. He wasn't the only one. They didn't applaud him, but they did one better. They maintained respectful, total silence for seconds that stretched to a minute.

"How do we do it?" Popovich said, without a trace of sarcasm.

* * *

The newsgroups were filling up fast. They'd announced them in news.admin.net-abuse.email, where all the spamfighters hung out, and where there was a tight culture of camaraderie in the face of full-out attack.

The new group was alt.november5-disaster.recovery, with .recovery.goverance, .recovery.finance, .recovery.logistics and .recovery.defense hanging off of it. Bless the wooly alt. hierarchy and all those who sail in her.

The sysadmins came out of the woodwork. The Googleplex was online, with the stalwart Queen Kong bossing a gang of rollerbladed grunts who wheeled through the gigantic data-center swapping out dead boxen and hitting reboot switches. The Internet Archive was offline in the Presidio, but the mirror in Amsterdam was live and they'd redirected the DNS so that you'd hardly know the difference. Amazon was down. Paypal was up. Blogger, Typepad and Livejournal were all up, and filling with millions of posts from scared survivors huddling together for electronic warmth.

The Flickr photostreams were horrific. Felix had to unsubscribe from them after he caught a photo of a woman and a baby, dead in a kitchen, twisted into an agonized heiroglyph by the bioagent. They didn't look like Kelly and 2.0, but they didn't have to. He started shaking and couldn't stop.

Wikipedia was up, but limping under load. The spam poured in as though nothing had changed. Worms roamed the network.

.recovery.logistics was where most of the action was.

> We can use the newsgroup voting mechanism to hold regional

> elections

Felix knew that this would work. Usenet newsgroup votes had been running for more than twenty years without a substantial hitch.

> We'll elect regional representatives and they'll pick a Prime

> Minister.

The Americans insisted on President, which Felix didn't like. Seemed too partisan. His future wouldn't be the American future. The American future had gone up with the White House. He was building a bigger tent than that.

There were French sysadmins online from France Telecom. The EBU's data-center had been spared in the attacks that hammered Geneva, and it was filled with wry Germans whose English was better than Felix's. They got on well with the remains of the BBC team in Canary Wharf.

They spoke polyglot English in .recovery.logistics, and Felix had momentum on his side. Some of the admins were cooling out the inevitable stupid flamewars with the practice of long years. Some were chipping in useful suggestions.

Surprisingly few thought that Felix was off his rocker.

> I think we should hold elections as soon as possible. Tomorrow

> at the latest. We can't rule justly without the consent of the

> governed.

Within seconds the reply landed in his inbox.

> You can't be serious. Consent of the governed? Unless I miss my

> guess, most of the people you're proposing to govern are puking

> their guts out, hiding under their desks, or wandering

> shell-shocked through the city streets. When do THEY get a vote?

Felix had to admit she had a point. Queen Kong was sharp. Not many woman sysadmins, and that was a genuine tragedy. Women like Queen Kong were too good to exclude from the field. He'd have to hack a solution to get women balanced out in his new government. Require each region to elect one woman and one man?

He happily clattered into argument with her. The elections would be the next day; he'd see to it.

* * *

"Prime Minister of Cyberspace? Why not call yourself the Grand Poobah of the Global Data Network? It's more dignified, sounds cooler and it'll get you just as far." Will had the sleeping spot next to him, up in the cafeteria, with Van on the other side. The room smelled like a dingleberry: twenty-five sysadmins who hadn't washed in at least a day all crammed into the same room. For some of them, it had been much, much longer than a day.

"Shut up, Will," Van said. "You wanted to try to knock the Internet offline."

"Correction: I want to knock the Internet offline. Present-tense"

Felix cracked one eye. He was so tired, it was like lifting weights.

"Look, Sario—if you don't like my platform, put one of your own forward. There are plenty of people who think I'm full of shit and I respect them for that, since they're all running opposite me or backing someone who is. That's your choice. What's not on the menu is nagging and complaining. Bedtime now, or get up and post your platform."

Sario sat up slowly, unrolling the jacket he had been using for a pillow and putting it on. "Screw you guys, I'm out of here."

"I thought he'd never leave," Felix said and turned over, lying awake a long time, thinking about the election.

There were other people in the running. Some of them weren't even sysadmins. A US Senator on retreat at his summer place in Wyoming had generator power and a satellite phone. Somehow he'd found the right newsgroup and thrown his hat into the ring. Some anarchist hackers in Italy strafed the group all night long, posting broken-English screeds about the political bankruptcy of "governance" in the new world. Felix looked at their netblock and determined that they were probably holed up in a small Interaction Design institute near Turin. Italy had been hit very bad, but out in the small town, this cell of anarchists had taken up residence.

A surprising number were running on a platform of shutting down the Internet. Felix had his doubts about whether this was even possible, but he thought he understood the impulse to finish the work and the world. Why not? From every indication, it seemed that the work to date had been a cascade of disasters, attacks, and opportunism, all of it adding up to Gotterdammerung. A terrorist attack here, a lethal counteroffensive there from an overreactive government... Before long, they'd made short work of the world.

He fell asleep thinking about the logistics of shutting down the Internet, and dreamed bad dreams in which he was the network's sole defender.

He woke to a papery, itchy sound. He rolled over and saw that Van was sitting up, his jacket balled up in his lap, vigorously scratching his skinny arms. They'd gone the color of corned beef, and had a scaly look. In the light streaming through the cafeteria windows, skin motes floated and danced in great clouds.

"What are you doing?" Felix sat up. Watching Van's fingernails rip into his skin made him itch in sympathy. It had been three days since he'd last washed his hair and his scalp sometimes felt like there were little egg-laying insects picking their way through it. He'd adjusted his glasses the night before and had touched the backs of his ears; his finger came away shining with thick sebum. He got blackheads in the backs of his ears when he didn't shower for a couple days, and sometimes gigantic, deep boils that Kelly finally popped with sick relish.

"Scratching," Van said. He went to work on his head, sending a cloud of dandruff-crud into the sky, there to join the scurf that he'd already eliminated from his extremeties. "Christ, I itch all over."

Felix took Mayor McCheese from Van's backpack and plugged it into one of the Ethernet cables that snaked all over the floor. He googled everything he could think of that could be related to this. "Itchy" yielded 40,600,000 links. He tried compound queries and got slightly more discriminating links.

"I think it's stress-related excema," Felix said, finally.

"I don't get excema," Van said.

Felix showed him some lurid photos of red, angry skin flaked with white. "Stress-related excema," he said, reading the caption.

Van examined his arms. "I have excema," he said.

"Says here to keep it moisturized and to try cortisone cream. You might try the first aid kit in the second-floor toilets. I think I saw some there." Like all of the sysadmins, Felix had had a bit of a rummage around the offices, bathrooms, kitchen and store-rooms, squirreling away a roll of toilet-paper in his shoulder-bag along with three or four power-bars. They were sharing out the food in the caf by unspoken agreement, every sysadmin watching every other for signs of gluttony and hoarding. All were convinced that there was hoarding and gluttony going on out of eyeshot, because all were guilty of it themselves when no one else was watching.

Van got up and when his face hove into the light, Felix saw how puffed his eyes were. "I'll post to the mailing-list for some antihistamine," Felix said. There had been four mailing lists and three wikis for the survivors in the building within hours of the first meeting's close, and in the intervening days they'd settled on just one. Felix was still on a little mailing list with five of his most trusted friends, two of whom were trapped in cages in other countries. He suspected that the rest of the sysadmins were doing the same.

Van stumbled off. "Good luck on the elections," he said, patting Felix on the shoulder.

Felix stood and paced, stopping to stare out the grubby windows. The fires still burned in Toronto, more than before. He'd tried to find mailing lists or blogs that Torontonians were posting to, but the only ones he'd found were being run by other geeks in other data-centers. It was possible—likely, even—that there were survivors out there who had more pressing priorities than posting to the Internet. His home phone still worked about half the time but he'd stopped calling it after the second day, when hearing Kelly's voice on the voicemail for the fiftieth time had made him cry in the middle of a planning meeting. He wasn't the only one.

Election day. Time to face the music.

> Are you nervous?

> Nope,

Felix typed.

> I don't much care if I win, to be honest. I'm just glad we're doing this. The alternative was sitting around with our thumbs up our ass, waiting for someone to crack up and open the door.

The cursor hung. Queen Kong was very high latency as she bossed her gang of Googloids around the Googleplex, doing everything she could to keep her data center online. Three of the offshore cages had gone offline and two of their six redundant network links were smoked. Lucky for her, queries-per-second were way down.

> There's still China

she typed. Queen Kong had a big board with a map of the world colored in Google-queries-per-second, and could do magic with it, showing the drop-off over time in colorful charts. She'd uploaded lots of video clips showing how the plague and the bombs had swept the world: the initial upswell of queries from people wanting to find out what was going on, then the grim, precipitous shelving off as the plagues took hold.

> China's still running about ninety percent nominal.

Felix shook his head.

> You can't think that they're responsible

> No

she typed, but then she started to key something and then stopped.

> No of course not. I believe the Popovich Hypothesis. Every asshole in the world is using the other assholes for cover. But China put them down harder and faster than anyone else. Maybe we've finally found a use for totalitarian states.

Felix couldn't resist. He typed:

> You're lucky your boss can't see you type that. You guys were pretty enthusiastic participants in the Great Firewall of China.

> Wasn't my idea

she typed.

> And my boss is dead. They're probably all dead. The whole Bay Area got hit hard, and then there was the quake.

They'd watched the USGS's automated data-stream from the 6.9 that trashed northern Cal from Gilroy to Sebastapol. Soma webcams revealed the scope of the damage—gas main explosions, seismically retrofitted buildings crumpling like piles of children's blocks after a good kicking. The Googleplex, floating on a series of gigantic steel springs, had shook like a plateful of jello, but the racks had stayed in place and the worst injury they'd had was a badly bruised eye on a sysadmin who'd caught a flying cable-crimper in the face.

> Sorry. I forgot.

> It's OK. We all lost people, right?

> Yeah. Yeah. Anyway, I'm not worried about the election. Whoever wins, at least we're doing SOMETHING

> Not if they vote for one of the fuckrags

Fuckrag was the epithet that some of the sysadmins were using to describe the contingent that wanted to shut down the Internet. Queen Kong had coined it—apparently it had started life as a catch-all term to describe clueless IT managers that she'd chewed up through her career.

> They won't. They're just tired and sad is all. Your endorsement will carry the day

The Googloids were one of the largest and most powerful blocs left behind, along with the satellite uplink crews and the remaining transoceanic crews. Queen Kong's endorsement had come as a surprise and he'd sent her an email that she'd replied to tersely: "can't have the fuckrags in charge."

> gtg

she typed and then her connection dropped. He fired up a browser and called up google.com. The browser timed out. He hit reload, and then again, and then the Google front-page came back up. Whatever had hit Queen Kong's workplace—power failure, worms, another quake—she had fixed it. He snorted when he saw that they'd replaced the O's in the Google logo with little planet Earths with mushroom clouds rising from them.

* * *

"Got anything to eat?" Van said to him. It was mid-afternoon, not that time particularly passed in the data-center. Felix patted his pockets. They'd put a quartermaster in charge, but not before everyone had snagged some chow out of the machines. He'd had a dozen power-bars and some apples. He'd taken a couple sandwiches but had wisely eaten them first before they got stale.

"One power-bar left," he said. He'd noticed a certain looseness in his waistline that morning and had briefly relished it. Then he'd remembered Kelly's teasing about his weight and he'd cried some. Then he'd eaten two power bars, leaving him with just one left.

"Oh," Van said. His face was hollower than ever, his shoulders sloping in on his toast-rack chest.

"Here," Felix said. "Vote Felix."

Van took the power-bar from him and then put it down on the table. "OK, I want to give this back to you and say, 'No, I couldn't,' but I'm fucking hungry, so I'm just going to take it and eat it, OK?"

"That's fine by me," Felix said. "Enjoy."

"How are the elections coming?" Van said, once he'd licked the wrapper clean.

"Dunno," Felix said. "Haven't checked in a while." He'd been winning by a slim margin a few hours before. Not having his laptop was a major handicap when it came to stuff like this. Up in the cages, there were a dozen more like him, poor bastards who'd left the house on Der Tag without thinking to snag something WiFi-enabled.

"You're going to get smoked," Sario said, sliding in next to them. He'd become famous in the center for never sleeping, for eavesdropping, for picking fights in RL that had the ill-considered heat of a Usenet flamewar. "The winner will be someone who understands a couple of fundamental facts." He held up a fist, then ticked off his bullet points by raising a finger at a time. "Point: The terrorists are using the Internet to destroy the world, and we need to destroy the Internet first. Point: Even if I'm wrong, the whole thing is a joke. We'll run out of generator-fuel soon enough. Point: Or if we don't, it will be because the old world will be back and running, and it won't give a crap about your new world. Point: We're gonna run out of food before we run out of shit to argue about or reasons not to go outside. We have the chance to do something to help the world recover: we can kill the net and cut it off as a tool for bad guys. Or we can rearrange some more deck chairs on the bridge of your personal Titanic in the service of some sweet dream about an 'independent cyberspace.'"

The thing was that Sario was right. They would be out of fuel in two days—intermittent power from the grid had stretched their generator lifespan. And if you bought his hypothesis that the Internet was primarily being used as a tool to organize more mayhem, shutting it down would be the right thing to do.

But Felix's son and his wife were dead. He didn't want to rebuild the old world. He wanted a new one. The old world was one that didn't have any place for him. Not anymore.

Van scratched his raw, flaking skin. Puffs of dander and scurf swirled in the musty, greasy air. Sario curled a lip at him. "That is disgusting. We're breathing recycled air, you know. Whatever leprosy is eating you, aerosolizing it into the air supply is pretty anti-social."

"You're the world's leading authority on anti-social, Sario," Van said. "Go away or I'll multi-tool you to death." He stopped scratching and patted his sheathed multi-pliers like a gunslinger.

"Yeah, I'm anti-social. I've got Asperger's and I haven't taken any meds in four days. What's your fucking excuse."

Van scratched some more. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know."

Sario cracked up. "Oh, you are priceless. I'd bet that three quarters of this bunch is borderline autistic. Me, I'm just an asshole. But I'm one who isn't afraid to tell the truth, and that makes me better than you, dickweed."

"Fuckrag," Felix said, "fuck off."

* * *

They had less than a day's worth of fuel when Felix was elected the first ever Prime Minister of Cyberspace. The first count was spoiled by a bot that spammed the voting process and they lost a critical day while they added up the votes a second time.

But by then, it was all seeming like more of a joke. Half the data-centers had gone dark. Queen Kong's net-maps of Google queries were looking grimmer and grimmer as more of the world went offline, though she maintained a leader-board of new and rising queries—largely related to health, shelter, sanitation and self-defense.

Worm-load slowed. Power was going off to many home PC users, and staying off, so their compromised PCs were going dark. The backbones were still lit up and blinking, but the missives from those data-centers were looking more and more desperate. Felix hadn't eaten in a day and neither had anyone in a satellite Earth-station of transoceanic head-end.

Water was running short, too.

Popovich and Rosenbaum came and got him before he could do more than answer a few congratulatory messages and post a canned acceptance speech to newsgroups.

"We're going to open the doors," Popovich said. Like all of them, he'd lost weight and waxed scruffy and oily. His BO was like a cloud coming off a trash-bags behind a fish-market on a sunny day. Felix was quite sure he smelled no better.

"You're going to go for a reccy? Get more fuel? We can charter a working group for it—great idea."

Rosenbaum shook his head sadly. "We're going to go find our families. Whatever is out there has burned itself out. Or it hasn't. Either way, there's no future in here."

"What about network maintenance?" Felix said, thought he knew the answers. "Who'll keep the routers up?"

"We'll give you the root passwords to everything," Popovich said. His hands were shaking and his eyes were bleary. Like many of the smokers stuck in the data-center, he'd gone cold turkey this week. They'd run out of caffeine products two days earlier, too. The smokers had it rough.

"And I'll just stay here and keep everything online?"

"You and anyone else who cares anymore."

Felix knew that he'd squandered his opportunity. The election had seemed noble and brave, but in hindsight all it had been was an excuse for infighting when they should have been figuring out what to do next. The problem was that there was nothing to do next.

"I can't make you stay," he said.

"Yeah, you can't." Popovich turned on his heel and walked out. Rosenbaum watched him go, then he gripped Felix's shoulder and squeezed it.

"Thank you, Felix. It was a beautiful dream. It still is. Maybe we'll find something to eat and some fuel and come back."

Rosenbaum had a sister whom he'd been in contact with over IM for the first days after the crisis broke. Then she'd stopped answering. The sysadmins were split among those who'd had a chance to say goodbye and those who hadn't. Each was sure the other had it better.

They posted about it on the internal newsgroup—they were still geeks, after all, and there was a little honor guard on the ground floor, geeks who watched them pass toward the double doors. They manipulated the keypads and the steel shutters lifted, then the first set of doors opened. They stepped into the vestibule and pulled the doors shut behind them. The front doors opened. It was very bright and sunny outside, and apart from how empty it was, it looked very normal. Heartbreakingly so.

The two took a tentative step out into the world. Then another. They turned to wave at the assembled masses. Then they both grabbed their throats and began to jerk and twitch, crumpling in a heap on the ground.

"Shiii—!" was all Felix managed to choke out before they both dusted themselves off and stood up, laughing so hard they were clutching their sides. They waved once more and turned on their heels.

"Man, those guys are sick," Van said. He scratched his arms, which had long, bloody scratches on them. His clothes were so covered in scurf they looked like they'd been dusted with icing sugar.

"I thought it was pretty funny," Felix said.

"Christ I'm hungry," Van said, conversationally.

"Lucky for you, we've got all the packets we can eat," Felix said.

"You're too good to us grunts, Mr President," Van said.

"Prime Minister," he said. "And you're no grunt, you're the Deputy Prime Minister. You're my designated ribbon-cutter and hander-out of oversized novelty checks."

It buoyed both of their spirits. Watching Popovich and Rosenbaum go, it buoyed them up. Felix knew then that they'd all be going soon.

That had been pre-ordained by the fuel-supply, but who wanted to wait for the fuel to run out, anyway?

* * *

> half my crew split this morning

Queen Kong typed. Google was holding up pretty good anyway, of course. The load on the servers was a lot lighter than it had been since the days when Google fit on a bunch of hand-built PCs under a desk at Stanford.

> we're down to a quarter

Felix typed back. It was only a day since Popovich and Rosenbaum left, but the traffic on the newsgroups had fallen down to near zero. He and Van hadn't had much time to play Republic of Cyberspace. They'd been too busy learning the systems that Popovich had turned over to them, the big, big routers that had went on acting as the major interchange for all the network backbones in Canada.

Still, someone posted to the newsgroups every now and again, generally to say goodbye. The old flamewars about who would be PM, or whether they would shut down the network, or who took too much food—it was all gone.

He reloaded the newsgroup. There was a typical message.

> Runaway processes on Solaris TK

>

> Uh, hi. I'm just a lightweight MSCE but I'm the only one awake here and four of the DSLAMs just went down. Looks like there's some custom accounting code that's trying to figure out how much to bill our corporate customers and it's spawned ten thousand threads and its eating all the swap. I just want to kill it but I can't seem to do that. Is there some magic invocation I need to do to get this goddamned weenix box to kill this shit? I mean, it's not as if any of our customers are ever going to pay us again. I'd ask the guy who wrote this code, but he's pretty much dead as far as anyone can work out.

He reloaded. There was a response. It was short, authoritative, and helpful—just the sort of thing you almost never saw in a high-caliber newsgroup when a noob posted a dumb question. The apocalypse had awoken the spirit of patient helpfulness in the world's sysop community.

Van shoulder-surfed him. "Holy shit, who knew he had it in him?"

He looked at the message again. It was from Will Sario.

He dropped into his chat window.

> sario i thought you wanted the network dead why are you helping msces fix their boxen?

> Gee Mr PM, maybe I just can't bear to watch a computer suffer at the hands of an amateur.

He flipped to the channel with Queen Kong in it.

> How long?

> Since I slept? Two days. Until we run out of fuel? Three days. Since we ran out of food? Two days.

> Jeez. I didn't sleep last night either. We're a little short handed around here.

> asl? Im monica and I live in pasadena and Im bored with my homework. WOuld you like to download my pic???

The trojan bots were all over IRC these days, jumping to every channel that had any traffic on it. Sometimes you caught five or six flirting with each other. It was pretty weird to watch a piece of malware try to con another instance of itself into downloading a trojan.

They both kicked the bot off the channel simultaneously. He had a script for it now. The spam hadn't even tailed off a little.

> How come the spam isn't reducing? Half the goddamned data-centers have gone dark

Queen Kong paused a long time before typing. As had become automatic when she went high-latency, he reloaded the Google homepage. Sure enough, it was down.

> Sario, you got any food?

> You won't miss a couple more meals, Your Excellency

Van had gone back to Mayor McCheese but he was in the same channel.

"What a dick. You're looking pretty buff, though, dude."

Van didn't look so good. He looked like you could knock him over with a stiff breeze and he had a phlegmy, weak quality to his speech.

> hey kong everything ok?

> everything's fine just had to go kick some ass

"How's the traffic, Van?"

"Down 25 percent from this morning," he said. There were a bunch of nodes whose connections routed through them. Presumably most of these were home or commercial customers in places where the power was still on and the phone company's COs were still alive.

Every once in a while, Felix would wiretap the connections to see if he could find a person who had news of the wide world. Almost all of it was automated traffic, though: network backups, status updates. Spam. Lots of spam.

> Spam's still up because the services that stop spam are failing faster than the services that create it. All the anti-worm stuff is centralized in a couple places. The bad stuff is on a million zombie computers. If only the lusers had had the good sense to turn off their home PCs before keeling over or taking off

> at the rate were going well be routing nothing but spam by dinnertime

Van cleared his throat, a painful sound. "About that," he said. "I think it's going to hit sooner than that. Felix, I don't think anyone would notice if we just walked away from here."

Felix looked at him, his skin the color of corned-beef and streaked with long, angry scabs. His fingers trembled.

"You drinking enough water?"

Van nodded. "All frigging day, every ten seconds. Anything to keep my belly full." He pointed to a refilled Pepsi Max bottle full of water by his side.

"Let's have a meeting," he said.

* * *

There had been forty-three of them on D-Day. Now there were fifteen. Six had responded to the call for a meeting by simply leaving. Everyone knew without having to be told what the meeting was about.

"So that's it, you're going to let it all fall apart?" Sario was the only one with the energy left to get properly angry. He'd go angry to his grave. The veins on his throat and forehead stood out angrily. His fists shook angrily. All the other geeks went lids-down at the site of him, looking up in unison for once at the discussion, not keeping one eye on a chat-log or a tailed service log.

"Sario, you've got to be shitting me," Felix said. "You wanted to pull the goddamned plug!"

"I wanted it to go clean," he shouted. "I didn't want it to bleed out and keel over in little gasps and pukes forever. I wanted it to be an act of will by the global community of its caretakers. I wanted it to be an affirmative act by human hands. Not entropy and bad code and worms winning out. Fuck that, that's just what's happened out there."

Up in the top-floor cafeteria, there were windows all around, hardened and light-bending, and by custom, they were all blinds-down. Now Sario ran around the room, yanking down the blinds. How the hell can he get the energy to run? Felix wondered. He could barely walk up the stairs to the meeting room.

Harsh daylight flooded in. It was a fine sunny day out there, but everywhere you looked across that commanding view of Toronto's skyline, there were rising plumes of smoke. The TD tower, a gigantic black modernist glass brick, was gouting flame to the sky. "It's all falling apart, the way everything does.

"Listen, listen. If we leave the network to fall over slowly, parts of it will stay online for months. Maybe years. And what will run on it? Malware. Worms. Spam. System-processes. Zone transfers. The things we use fall apart and require constant maintenance. The things we abandon don't get used and they last forever. We're going to leave the network behind like a lime-pit filled with industrial waste. That will be our fucking legacy—the legacy of every keystroke you and I and anyone, anywhere ever typed. You understand? We're going to leave it to die slow like a wounded dog, instead of giving it one clean shot through the head."

Van scratched his cheeks, then Felix saw that he was wiping away tears.

"Sario, you're not wrong, but you're not right either," he said. "Leaving it up to limp along is right. We're going to all be limping for a long time, and maybe it will be some use to someone. If there's one packet being routed from any user to any other user, anywhere in the world, it's doing its job."

"If you want a clean kill, you can do that," Felix said. "I'm the PM and I say so. I'm giving you root. All of you." He turned to the white-board where the cafeteria workers used to scrawl the day's specials. Now it was covered with the remnants of heated technical debates that the sysadmins had engaged in over the days since the day.

He scrubbed away a clean spot with his sleeve and began to write out long, complicated alphanumeric passwords salted with punctuation. Felix had a gift for remembering that kind of password. He doubted it would do him much good, ever again.

* * *

> Were going, kong. Fuels almost out anyway

> yeah well thats right then. it was an honor, mr prime minister

> you going to be ok?

> ive commandeered a young sysadmin to see to my feminine needs and weve found another cache of food thatll last us a coupel weeks now that were down to fifteen admins—im in hog heaven pal

> youre amazing, Queen Kong, seriously. Dont be a hero though. When you need to go go. Theres got to be something out there

> be safe felix, seriously—btw did i tell you queries are up in Romania? maybe theyre getting back on their feet

> really?

> yeah, really. we're hard to kill—like fucking roaches

Her connection died. He dropped to Firefox and reloaded Google and it was down. He hit reload and hit reload and hit reload, but it didn't come up. He closed his eyes and listened to Van scratch his legs and then heard Van type a little.

"They're back up," he said.

Felix whooshed out a breath. He sent the message to the newsgroup, one that he'd run through five drafts before settling on, "Take care of the place, OK? We'll be back, someday."

Everyone was going except Sario. Sario wouldn't leave. He came down to see them off, though.

The sysadmins gathered in the lobby and Felix made the safety door go up, and the light rushed in.

Sario stuck his hand out.

"Good luck," he said.

"You too," Felix said. He had a firm grip, Sario, stronger than he had any right to be. "Maybe you were right," he said.

"Maybe," he said.

"You going to pull the plug?"

Sario looked up at the drop-ceiling, seeming to peer through the reinforced floors at the humming racks above. "Who knows?" he said at last.

Van scratched and a flurry of white motes danced in the sunlight.

"Let's go find you a pharmacy," Felix said. He walked to the door and the other sysadmins followed.

They waited for the interior doors to close behind them and then Felix opened the exterior doors. The air smelled and tasted like a mown grass, like the first drops of rain, like the lake and the sky, like the outdoors and the world, an old friend not heard from in an eternity.

"Bye, Felix," the other sysadmins said. They were drifting away while he stood transfixed at the top of the short concrete staircase. The light hurt his eyes and made them water.

"I think there's a Shopper's Drug Mart on King Street," he said to Van. "We'll throw a brick through the window and get you some cortisone, OK?"

"You're the Prime Minister," Van said. "Lead on."

* * *

They didn't see a single soul on the fifteen minute walk. There wasn't a single sound except for some bird noises and some distant groans, and the wind in the electric cables overhead. It was like walking on the surface of the moon.

"Bet they have chocolate bars at the Shopper's," Van said.

Felix's stomach lurched. Food. "Wow," he said, around a mouthful of saliva.

They walked past a little hatchback and in the front seat was the dried body of a woman holding the dried body of a baby, and his mouth filled with sour bile, even though the smell was faint through the rolled-up windows.

He hadn't thought of Kelly or 2.0 in days. He dropped to his knees and retched again. Out here in the real world, his family was dead. Everyone he knew was dead. He just wanted to lie down on the sidewalk and wait to die, too.

Van's rough hands slipped under his armpits and hauled weakly at him. "Not now," he said. "Once we're safe inside somewhere and we've eaten something, then and then you can do this, but not now. Understand me, Felix? Not fucking now."

The profanity got through to him. He got to his feet. His knees were trembling.

"Just a block more," Van said, and slipped Felix's arm around his shoulders and led him along.

"Thank you, Van. I'm sorry."

"No sweat," he said. "You need a shower, bad. No offense."

"None taken."

The Shoppers had a metal security gate, but it had been torn away from the front windows, which had been rudely smashed. Felix and Van squeezed through the gap and stepped into the dim drug-store. A few of the displays were knocked over, but other than that, it looked OK. By the cash-registers, Felix spotted the racks of candy bars at the same instant that Van saw them, and they hurried over and grabbed a handful each, stuffing their faces.

"You two eat like pigs."

They both whirled at the sound of the woman's voice. She was holding a fire-axe that was nearly as big as she was. She wore a lab-coat and comfortable shoes.

"You take what you need and go, OK? No sense in there being any trouble." Her chin was pointy and her eyes were sharp. She looked to be in her forties. She looked nothing like Kelly, which was good, because Felix felt like running and giving her a hug as it was. Another person alive!

"Are you a doctor?" Felix said. She was wearing scrubs under the coat, he saw.

"You going to go?" She brandished the axe.

Felix held his hands up. "Seriously, are you a doctor? A pharmacist?"

"I used to be a RN, ten years ago. I'm mostly a Web-designer."

"You're shitting me," Felix said.

"Haven't you ever met a girl who knew about computers?"

"Actually, a friend of mine who runs Google's data-center is a girl. A woman, I mean."

"You're shitting me," she said. "A woman ran Google's data-center?"

"Runs," Felix said. "It's still online."

"NFW," she said. She let the axe lower.

"Way. Have you got any cortisone cream? I can tell you the story. My name's Felix and this is Van, who needs any anti-histamines you can spare."

"I can spare? Felix old pal, I have enough dope here to last a hundred years. This stuff's going to expire long before it runs out. But are you telling me that the net's still up?"

"It's still up," he said. "Kind of. That's what we've been doing all week. Keeping it online. It might not last much longer, though."

"No," she said. "I don't suppose it would." She set the axe down. "Have you got anything to trade? I don't need much, but I've been trying to keep my spirits up by trading with the neighbors. It's like playing civilization."

"You have neighbors?"

"At least ten," she said. "The people in the restaurant across the way make a pretty good soup, even if most of the veg is canned. They cleaned me out of Sterno, though."

"You've got neighbors and you trade with them?"

"Well, nominally. It'd be pretty lonely without them. I've taken care of whatever sniffles I could. Set a bone—broken wrist. Listen, do you want some Wonder Bread and peanut butter? I have a ton of it. Your friend looks like he could use a meal."

"Yes please," Van said. "We don't have anything to trade, but we're both committed workaholics looking to learn a trade. Could you use some assistants?"

"Not really." She spun her axe on its head. "But I wouldn't mind some company."

They ate the sandwiches and then some soup. The restaurant people brought it over and made their manners at them, though Felix saw their noses wrinkle up and ascertained that there was working plumbing in the back room. Van went in to take a sponge bath and then he followed.

"None of us know what to do," the woman said. Her name was Rosa, and she had found them a bottle of wine and some disposable plastic cups from the housewares aisle. "I thought we'd have helicopters or tanks or even looters, but it's just quiet."

"You seem to have kept pretty quiet yourself," Felix said.

"Didn't want to attract the wrong kind of attention."

"You ever think that maybe there's a lot of people out there doing the same thing? Maybe if we all get together we'll come up with something to do."

"Or maybe they'll cut our throats," she said.

Van nodded. "She's got a point."

Felix was on his feet. "No way, we can't think like that. Lady, we're at a critical juncture here. We can go down through negligence, dwindling away in our hiding holes, or we can try to build something better."

"Better?" She made a rude noise.

"OK, not better. Something though. Building something new is better than letting it dwindle away. Christ, what are you going to do when you've read all the magazines and eaten all the potato chips here?"

Rosa shook her head. "Pretty talk," she said. "But what the hell are we going to do, anyway?"

"Something," Felix said. "We're going to do something. Something is better than nothing. We're going to take this patch of the world where people are talking to each other, and we're going to expand it. We're going to find everyone we can and we're going to take care of them and they're going to take care of us. We'll probably fuck it up. We'll probably fail. I'd rather fail than give up, though."

Van laughed. "Felix, you are crazier than Sario, you know it?"

"We're going to go and drag him out, first thing tomorrow. He's going to be a part of this, too. Everyone will. Screw the end of the world. The world doesn't end. Humans aren't the kind of things that have endings."

Rosa shook her head again, but she was smiling a little now. "And you'll be what, the Pope-Emperor of the World?"

"He prefers Prime Minister," Van said in a stagey whisper. The anti-histamines had worked miracles on his skin, and it had faded from angry red to a fine pink.

"You want to be Minister of Health, Rosa?" he said.

"Boys," she said. "Playing games. How about this. I'll help out however I can, provided you never ask me to call you Prime Minister and you never call me the Minister of Health?"

"It's a deal," he said.

Van refilled their glasses, upending the wine bottle to get the last few drops out.

They raised their glasses. "To the world," Felix said. "To humanity." He thought hard. "To rebuilding."

"To anything," Van said.

"To anything," Felix said. "To everything."

"To everything," Rosa said.

They drank. He wanted to go see the house—see Kelly and 2.0, though his stomach churned at the thought of what he might find there. But the next day, they started to rebuild. And months later, they started over again, when disagreements drove apart the fragile little group they'd pulled together. And a year after that, they started over again. And five years later, they started again.

It was nearly six months before he went home. Van helped him along, riding cover behind him on the bicycles they used to get around town. The further north they rode, the stronger the smell of burnt wood became. There were lots of burnt-out houses. Sometimes marauders burnt the houses they'd looted, but more often it was just nature, the kinds of fires you got in forests and on mountains. There were six choking, burnt blocks where every house was burnt before they reached home.

But Felix's old housing development was still standing, an oasis of eerily pristine buildings that looked like maybe their somewhat neglectful owners had merely stepped out to buy some paint and fresh lawnmower blades to bring their old homes back up to their neat, groomed selves.

That was worse, somehow. He got off the bike at the entry of the subdivision and they walked the bikes together in silence, listening to the sough of the wind in the trees. Winter was coming late that year, but it was coming, and as the sweat dried in the wind, Felix started to shiver.

He didn't have his keys anymore. They were at the data-center, months and worlds away. He tried the door-handle, but it didn't turn. He applied his shoulder to the door and it ripped away from its wet, rotted jamb with a loud, splintering sound. The house was rotting from the inside.

The door splashed when it landed. The house was full of stagnant water, four inches of stinking pond-scummed water in the living room. He splashed carefully through it, feeling the floor-boards sag spongily beneath each step.

Up the stairs, his nose full of that terrible green mildewy stench. Into the bedroom, the furniture familiar as a childhood friend.

Kelly was in the bed with 2.0. The way they both lay, it was clear they hadn't gone easy—they were twisted double, Kelly curled around 2.0. Their skin was bloated, making them almost unrecognizable. The smell—God, the smell.

Felix's head spun. He thought he would fall over and clutched at the dresser. An emotion he couldn't name—rage, anger, sorrow?—made him breathe hard, gulp for air like he was drowning.

And then it was over. The world was over. Kelly and 2.0—over. And he had a job to do. He folded the blanket over them—Van helped, solemnly. They went into the front yard and took turns digging, using the shovel from the garage that Kelly had used for gardening. They had lots of experience digging graves by then. Lots of experience handling the dead. They dug, and wary dogs watched them from the tall grass on the neighboring lawns, but they were also good at chasing off dogs with well-thrown stones.

When the grave was dug, they laid Felix's wife and son to rest in it. Felix quested after words to say over the mound, but none came. He'd dug so many graves for so many men's wives and so many women's husbands and so many children—the words were long gone.

Felix dug ditches and salvaged cans and buried the dead. He planted and harvested. He fixed some cars and learned to make biodiesel. Finally he fetched up in a data-center for a little government—little governments came and went, but this one was smart enough to want to keep records and needed someone to keep everything running, and Van went with him.

They spent a lot of time in chat rooms and sometimes they happened upon old friends from the strange time they'd spent running the Distributed Republic of Cyberspace, geeks who insisted on calling him PM, though no one in the real world ever called him that anymore.

It wasn't a good life, most of the time. Felix's wounds never healed, and neither did most other people's. There were lingering sicknesses and sudden ones. Tragedy on tragedy.

But Felix liked his data-center. There in the humming of the racks, he never felt like it was the first days of a better nation, but he never felt like it was the last days of one, either.

> go to bed, felix

> soon, kong, soon—almost got this backup running

> youre a junkie, dude.

> look whos talking

He reloaded the Google homepage. Queen Kong had had it online for a couple years now. The Os in Google changed all the time, whenever she got the urge. Today they were little cartoon globes, one smiling the other frowning.

He looked at it for a long time and dropped back into a terminal to check his backup. It was running clean, for a change. The little government's records were safe.

> ok night night

> take care

Van waved at him as he creaked to the door, stretching out his back with a long series of pops.

"Sleep well, boss," he said.

"Don't stick around here all night again," Felix said. "You need your sleep, too."

"You're too good to us grunts," Van said, and went back to typing.

Felix went to the door and walked out into the night. Behind him, the biodiesel generator hummed and made its acrid fumes. The harvest moon was up, which he loved. Tomorrow, he'd go back and fix another computer and fight off entropy again. And why not?

It was what he did. He was a sysadmin.

* * *

Cory Doctorow is the author of several books and stories.

The Ruby Dice

Written by Catherine Asaro
Illustrated by Phil Renne

The night mourned with silence, as if it were a sonata with no music left to play. Kelric sat on the bed, in the dim light, and watched the woman sleep. White hair curled around her face. Her skin was smooth, with only a few wrinkles, but it had a translucent quality. Her torso barely rose and fell with her shallow breaths. The crook of her nose, broken decades ago, shadowed her cheek. She had never wanted it fixed, though he could have given her anything, anything at all, any riches or wealth or lands or gifts.

Anything except her life.

"Jeejon," he whispered. A tear formed in his eye, and he wiped it away with the heel of his hand.

She seemed small under the blankets, wasted away. He had searched out every remedy medical science could provide, but it was too late. By the time he had met Jeejon, her body had nearly finished its span of life. Trader slave architects had designed her to last sixty years, and she had been fifty-seven when his path crossed hers. His age. But he had benefited from treatments to delay his aging his entire life, even nanomed species passed to him by his mother in the womb. He had the health and vitality of a man barely forty. Jeejon had received nothing. Her owners had considered her a machine with no more rights than a robot. Kelric had managed to extend her three years to nine, but now, at sixty-six, her body had given out.

A rustle came from the doorway. He looked around to see Najo, one of his bodyguards, a man in the stark black uniform of a Jagernaut Secondary, with a heavy Jumbler in a holster on his hip.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir," Najo said. "But you have a page on your console."

Kelric nodded tiredly. Nothing could stop the Imperialate in its teeming vibrancy, nine hundred worlds and habitats, a trillion people spread across the stars. It slowed for nothing, not even him, its Imperator.

He rose to his feet, watching Jeejon, hoping for a sign she would awake. Nothing happened except the whisper of her breath.

Kelric went with Najo. His other bodyguards were in the hall outside: Axer, a burly Jagernaut Tertiary whose shaved head was tattooed with linked circles; and Strava, tall and stoic, a Jagernaut Secondary, her hair cut short. They had accompanied him here to his stone mansion above a valley of green slopes and whispering trees. He lived in the Orbiter space station, which had perfect weather every day; the house required neither glass in its windows nor doors in its archways. Its big, airy spaces accommodated his large size, as did the lower gravity in this part of the station, two-thirds the human standard.

He didn't need bodyguards in his home; the entire space habitat protected him. Najo and the others had come today as a buffer. They stood between him and the rest of humanity, to give him privacy in his last days with Jeejon.

Even so. His officers had to be able to reach him. As Imperator, he commanded all four branches of Imperial Space Command: Pharaoh's Army, Imperial Fleet, Jagernaut Forces, and Advance Services Corps. He didn't rule the Imperialate; that job went to a contentious, vociferous Assembly of elected representatives. But Kelric had the loyalty of ISC.

He crossed his living room, a large space of polished grey stone. Gold silhouettes of desert landscapes glowed on the walls at waist height. At a console by the far wall, hieroglyphics floated above a flat holoscreen. The message was from his aunt, Dehya Selei. The Ruby Pharaoh. She descended from the ancient dynasty that had ruled the Ruby Empire thousands of years ago. As a scholarly mathematician, she was far different from those ancient queens, but she wielded a vast and uncharted power in the shadowy mesh of communications that wove the Imperialate together.

She could have paged his gauntlet, but she had probably realized it would be an intrusion. Her message glowed above the holoscreen in three-dimensional hieroglyphics:

Kelric, we've a diplomatic glitch with the Allied Worlds of Earth. It isn't urgent, but as soon as you have a chance, I'd like to brief you. — Dehya.

The shape of the glyphs encoded signs indicating her regret for disturbing him. He rested his palm on the screen, and the holos faded above his skin. Thank you, he thought to her, for knowing he couldn't leave Jeejon. He needed more time here before his voracious responsibilities demanded his attention.

Although an elected Assembly governed the Imperialate now, their civilization had never let go of its dynastic roots. As a member of the Ruby Dynasty, Kelric had inherited his position as Imperator. He commanded one of the largest militaries in human history—yet all his power, all his titles and lineage and wealth meant nothing, for they couldn't stop his wife from dying.

* * *

Kelric had never understood his bedroom. This mansion had belonged to his half-brother, Kurj, a previous Imperator. Kurj had been a huge man, tall and massively built, and Kelric looked a great deal like him. The house was all open spaces and stone, with no adornment except the minimalist gold silhouettes. Kelric had thought of adding color to the grey walls, but he rather liked it this way. And with Jeejon here, the place had always seemed warm.

Today the bedroom echoed with emptiness. Breezes wafted in through windows with no panes. The bed stood in the middle of the stone floor, almost the only furniture. Walking to it, he felt as if he were crossing a desert. Jeejon hadn't stirred. He climbed up on the dais, and with a sigh, he lay beside her.

"Kelric?" Her voice was wispy.

He pushed up on his elbow and looked at her. She watched him with pale blue eyes, worn and tired, wrinkles at their corners.

His voice caught. "My greetings of the morning."

"Is it . . . morning?"

"I think so." He hadn't been paying attention.

Her mouth curved in the ghost of a smile. "Come here. . . ."

He hesitated, wanting to hold her but afraid. He was so large, with more strength than he knew what to do with, and she had become so very fragile.

"I don't break that easily," she said.

Kelric drew down the covers. She was wearing that white sleep gown he loved. He pushed off his boots, then lay on his back and pulled her into his arms. She settled against his side, resting her head on his shoulder. They stayed that way, and he listened to her breathing. Each exhale was a gift, for it meant she lived that much longer.

"I remember the first time I saw you," she said.

"At that mining outpost."

"Yes." She sighed. "You were so incredibly beautiful."

He snorted. "I was so incredibly sick."

"That too."

The memories were scars in his mind. He had been one among millions of refugees caught in the aftermath of the Radiance War that devastated both the Imperialate and Trader empire. Alone and unprotected, he had feared to reveal his identity lest he risk assassination. Not that it had really mattered; no one would have believed him. He had been dying, stranded on a mining asteroid, his body in the last stages of collapse. Jeejon was processing people through the port. A former Trader slave, she had escaped to freedom during the war. If she hadn't taken him in, he would have died, alone and in misery.

He laid his head against hers. "You saved my life." If only he could do the same for her.

She was silent for awhile. Then she said, "You were kind."

Although he laughed, his voice shook. "I made you a Ruby consort. That's cruel more than kind." One reason he lived here, instead of on the capital world of the Imperialate, was so she wouldn't have to deal with the elegantly cutthroat imperial court.

"It has been a treasure." Her voice was barely audible. "I was born a slave. I die a queen."

His pulse stuttered. "You won't die."

"It was a great act of gratitude, to marry me because I saved your life."

"That's not why I married you." He wasn't telling the full truth, but he had grown to love her.

She breathed out, her body slight against his. "When we met, you were wearing gold guards on your wrists."

Kelric tensed. "I took them off."

"They were marriage guards."

Had she known all these years? "Jeejon—"

"Shhhh," she whispered. "I never knew why you left her."

He felt as if he were dying inside. "Don't."

"You never went back to her. Even though you love her."

"You're my wife. I don't want to talk about someone else. Not now." Not when they had so little time left.

She pressed her lips against his chest. "No one knows what happened to you during the war, do they? It isn't just me . . . you never told anyone about those eighteen years you vanished."

"It doesn't matter." Moisture gathered in his eyes.

Her voice was low. "Such a tremendous gift you have given me, waiting while it took me nine years to die."

"Jeejon, stop."

"Someday . . . you must finish that chapter of your life you left behind for me."

He cradled her in his arms. "You can't die."

"I love you, Kelric."

"And I, you." His voice broke. "Always."

"Good-bye," she whispered.

"Don't—" Kelric froze. Her breathing had stopped. Somewhere an alarm went off, distant, discreet, horrifying.

"No." He pulled her close, his arms shaking, and laid his cheek against her head. "Jeejon, no."

She didn't answer.

Kelric held his late wife, and his tears soaked into her hair.

I
Quis

"Jeremiah Coltman," Dehya said.

Kelric looked up from the console where he was scanning files on army deployments. He and Dehya were in one of the glossy offices that honeycombed the hull of the space station.

"What?" he asked.

She regarded him from her console, a slender woman with long hair, sleek and black, but streaked with white, as if frost had iced the tendrils curling around her face. Translucent sunset colors overlaid her green eyes, the only trace she had of her father's inner eyelid. Kelric didn't have the inner lid either, but he had his grandfather's metallic gold eyes, skin, and hair, modifications designed to adapt humans to a too-bright world.

"Jeremiah Coltman," she repeated. "Do you remember?"

"I've no idea," he said.

"That boy from Earth. About a year ago we had trouble with the Allied Worlds over him."

Kelric searched his memory, but nothing came to him. Bolt, he thought, accessing his spinal node. You have anything on him?

His node answered via bioelectrodes in his brain that fired his neurons in a manner he interpreted as thought. Jeremiah Coltman was detained on a Skolian world. I'm afraid my records are spotty.

He remembered then. It had come up the day Jeejon died. He recalled little from that time, and he hadn't recorded his memory well in the long days that followed. Even now, nearly a year later, he avoided the memories. They hurt too much.

"I thought the man they locked up was an adult," Kelric said. "A professor."

"An anthropology graduate student." Dehya was reading from her console. "He spent three years on one of our worlds while he wrote his dissertation. Huh. Listen to this. They didn't throw him in prison. They like him so much, they won't let him go home."

Kelric turned back to his work files. Absently, he said, "Can't somebody's embassy take care of it?"

"I'm not sure," she said.

It surprised him she was spending time on it. Dehya served as Assembly Key, the liaison between the Assembly and the vast information meshes that networked the Imperialate, not only in spacetime, but also in Kyle space. Physics had no meaning in the Kyle; proximity was determined by similarity of thought rather than position. Two people having a conversation were "next" to each other no matter how many light-years separated them in real space. It made possible instant communication across interstellar distances and tied the Imperialate into a coherent civilization. But only those few people with a nearly extinct mutation in their neural structures could power the Kyle web. Like Dehya. As Assembly Key, she had far more pressing matters to attend than a minor incident from a year ago.

"Ah, but Kelric," she said. "It's such an interesting incident."

Damn! He had to guard his thoughts better. He shielded his mind, fortifying his defenses until nothing could rise too close to the surface. "Stop eavesdropping," he grumbled.

She smiled with that eerie quality of hers, as if she were only partly in the real universe. "He won a prize."

"Who won a prize?"

"Jeremiah Coltman. Something called the Goldstone." She glanced at her console. "It's quite prestigious among anthropologists. But his hosts won't let him go home to receive it. That caused a stir, enough to toggle my news monitors."

Kelric felt a pang of longing. Had he been free to pursue any career, he would have chosen the academic life and become a mathematician. He and Dehya were alike that way. Those extra neural structures that adapted their brains to Kyle space also gave them an enhanced facility with abstract disciplines.

"Why won't they let him go?" Kelric said. "Where is he?"

"Never heard of the place." She squinted at her screen. "Planet called Coba."

He felt as if a freighter slammed into him. Jeejon's words rushed back from that moment before she died: You never told anyone where you were those eighteen years.

"Kelric?" Dehya was watching him. "What's wrong?"

He refocused on her face. Mercifully, his mental shields were still in place. He didn't think she could pick up anything from him, but he never knew for certain with Dehya; she had a mental finesse unlike anyone else. So he told the truth, as best he could. "It reminded me of Jeejon."

Sympathy softened her sculpted features. "Good memories, I hope."

He just nodded. His family believed he had been a prisoner of war during the eighteen years he vanished. He let them assume the Traders had captured him, and that he didn't want to speak of it. That was even true for the final months. But he didn't think Dehya had ever fully believed it. If she suspected he was reacting to the name Coba, she would pursue the lead.

He had to escape before she sensed that his disquiet went beyond his memories of Jeejon. Dehya's ability to read his moods depended on how well the fields of her brain interacted with his. The Coulomb forces that determined those fields dropped off quickly with distance; even a few meters could affect whether or not she picked up his emotions.

He rose to his feet. "I think I'll take a break."

She spoke softly. "I'm sorry I reminded you."

His face gentled, as sometimes happened around Dehya. She was one of the few people who seemed untroubled by his silences and reclusive nature. "It's all right."

Then he left the chamber, walking in long strides, his steps lengthened by the lower gravity. Alone, he headed back to his large, cool, empty house.

* * *

Kelric sat in his living room with no lights except the gold designs on the walls. No sunlight slanted through the open windows, but the bright day diffused into his home. He had settled on the couch, one of the few pieces of furniture in the huge room.

He sat and he thought.

Coba. It had taken eighteen years of his life. What would it do to Jeremiah Coltman? Would his unwilling presence stir that world as Kelric's had done, until its culture erupted into war? Compared to the interstellar Radiance War that had raged between the mammoth Trader and Skolian empires, Coba's war had been tiny. But it had ravaged its people. And he, Kelric, had caused it. Coltman was a scholar, not a warrior, but the young man's presence would still exert an influence.

Kelric spoke to the Evolving Intelligence, or EI, than ran his house. He had named it after an ancient physicist who had illuminated mysteries of relativistic quantum mechanics.

"Dirac?" he asked.

A man's rich baritone answered. "Attending."

"Find me everything you can about Jeremiah Coltman."

Dirac paused. "He was born in Wyoming."

"What's a wyoming?"

"A place on Earth."

"Oh." That didn't help much. "What about his graduate school?"

"He earned his doctorate in anthropology from a school called Harvard for his study of human settlement on the planet Coba. He spent three years working on a construction crew while he wrote his dissertation. One year ago, a Coban queen selected him for a Calani. I have no definition of Calani."

"I know what it means." Kelric leaned back and closed his eyes. Queen was the wrong word for the women who ruled the Coban city-estates. They called themselves Managers. In Coba's Old Age they had been warriors who battled constantly, but in these modern times they considered themselves civilized. Never mind this atavistic penchant of theirs for kidnapping male geniuses.

Dirac continued. "Coltman's family and members of the Allied diplomatic corps have tried to free him."

"Any success?" Kelric asked.

"So far, none. He agreed to abide by Coban law when they let him live on their world."

"What about this award he won?"

Dirac paused. "Apparently the Coban queen relented enough to send his doctoral thesis to his advisor at Harvard. The advisor submitted it to the awards committee. At twenty-four, Coltman is the youngest person ever to win the Goldstone Prize."

Kelric was grateful the fellow had received the honor, not because he knew anything about anthropology, but because it had caused enough of an outcry to catch Dehya's attention.

"What do you have on Coba?" Kelric asked. His outward calm didn't match his inner turmoil. He had avoided speaking that question for ten years, lest someone notice and want to know why Coba interested him. As long as he ignored Coba, no one had reason to suspect its people had imprisoned a Ruby heir for eighteen years.

"Coba is a Skolian World," Dirac said. "Restricted Status. No native may leave the planet. They are denied contact with the Imperialate. The world has one automated starport, a military refueling post that's rarely used. Skolians who voluntarily enter the Restricted zone forfeit their citizenship."

Kelric waited. "That's it?"

"Yes." The EI sounded apologetic.

Relief washed over him. It was even less than he expected. Restricted Status generally went to worlds inimical to human life or otherwise so dangerous they required quarantine. The Cobans had asked for the status, and ISC granted it because Coba was so inconsequential that no one cared.

Kelric's Jag fighter had crashed on Coba after he escaped a Trader ambush. The Cobans should have taken him to the starport. He would have died before they reached it, but the Restriction required they do it. Instead they saved his life. By the time he recovered, they had decided never to let him go. They feared he would bring ISC to investigate the Restriction. They had been right. That had been before he understood how the Imperialate could destroy their unique, maddening, and wondrous culture.

Kelric couldn't fathom why they had let Coltman study them. He rose to his feet, and his steps echoed as he walked through the stone halls of his house, under high, unadorned ceilings.

His office had a warmer touch. Jeejon had put down rugs, dark gold with tassels. Panels softened his stark walls with scenes of his home world, plains with silvery-green reeds and spheres adrift in the air. In some, the spindled peaks of the Backbone Mountains speared a darkening sky.

He sat at his desk, and it lit up with icons, awaiting his commands. He turned off every panel. Then he opened a drawer and removed his pouch. The bag was old and worn, bulging with its contents. He undid its drawstring and rolled out his Quis dice.

The dice came in many shapes: squares, disks, balls, cubes, rods, polyhedrons, and more. Not only did he have the full set carried by most Cobans, his also included unusual shapes, stars, eggs, even small boxes with lids.

Dice and Coba. They were inextricably blended. All Cobans played Quis, every day of their lives, from the moment they were old enough to hold the dice until the day they died. It was one giant game, the life's blood of a world. They gambled with Quis, educated with the dice, gossiped with it. Scholars built philosophies based on the game. The powers of Coba used it to gain political influence. For a Manager to hold her realms and prosper, she had to master Quis at its top levels.

Then there were Calani.

The few men honored as Calani were profoundly gifted at Quis. They lived in luxury and spent their lives playing dice. They provided strategy for the Manager; as such, they served not only as advisors, but also as a weapon she wielded in the flow of power among the Estates. Managers had ten to twenty Calani; together, they formed her Calanya. The stronger a Manager's Calanya, the more she could influence the network of Quis that molded Coba's culture. Quis meant power, and a Manager's Calanya was her most valuable asset.

Only Calani owned jeweled dice. The white pieces were diamond; the blue, sapphire; the red, ruby. The opals had many hues that allowed Kelric to manipulate color rank when he built structures. Over the decades, his gold dice had become worn, their metal less durable than iron or copper.

Calani paid a steep price for the spectacular luxury of their lives. They remained secluded. They saw no one but the Manager and the few visitors she allowed. They swore never to read, write, or speak to anyone Outside the Calanya. Nothing was allowed to contaminate their Quis, for anyone who succeeded in manipulating their game could damage the Estate, even topple the Manager from power. Managers shielded their scholarly Calani from outside influences with the single-minded resolve of their warrior queen ancestors.

To symbolize Jeremiah, Kelric chose a silver ball, one of his higher-ranked pieces. He built structures involving the ball and let them develop according to complex and fluid rules. A Calani and his dice were two halves of a whole, each affecting the other. His skill molded the structures, but the complexity of the game and its often unexpected evolution informed their design just as much. Calani and Quis: they created each other.

He had intended to model Coban politics and examine what they revealed about Jeremiah. Instead, his patterns mirrored the history of his people. He wasn't certain what his subconscious was up to, but he let the structures evolve. Six millennia ago, an unknown race had taken humans from Earth and moved them to the world Raylicon. Then they vanished. No one knew why and they left behind nothing but dead starships. Over the centuries, using libraries on those ships, the humans had developed star travel. They built the interstellar Ruby Empire and established many colonies, including Coba. But the empire soon collapsed, destroying the starships and stranding the colonies. Four millennia of Dark Ages followed.

When the Raylicans finally regained the stars, they split into two empires: the Traders, with an economy based on slavery; and Kelric's people, the Skolian Imperialate. Since then, Skolia had been rediscovering ancient colonies like Coba.

The people of Earth had a real shock after they developed space travel and went exploring: their siblings were already out here, two huge and bitterly opposed civilizations. The Allied Worlds of Earth became a third. Unlike their bellicose neighbors, however, they had no interest in conquering anyone. They just sold things. In his philosophical moments, Kelric doubted either his people or the Traders would inherit the stars. While they were busy throwing world-slagging armies at each other, the Allieds would quietly take over by convincing everyone they couldn't survive without Allied goods. Imperial Space Command had an incredible ability to expand to new worlds, but it paled in comparison to Starbytes Coffee.

Earth's success in the interstellar marketplace, however, depended on maintaining civil relations with Skolia and the Traders. They obviously had no intention of upsetting their relations with the Imperialate over one graduate student. The moment Jeremiah had set foot on Coba, he forfeited his rights as an Allied citizen and became subject to the Restriction.

Kelric blew out a gust of air. He had to get Jeremiah out of there, and do it without alerting anyone. The Restriction protected Coba's extraordinary culture—and his children.

He sat back, staring at the Quis structures that covered his desk. "Dirac."

The EI's voice floated into the air. "Attending."

Kelric knew if he continued to ask about Coba, someone might notice. His interactions with Dirac were shielded by the best security ISC had to offer. But he knew Dehya. If she became curious, she could break even his security. He was taking a risk. But it had been so long, and he had so little time left.

He took a breath. "I need you to find a Closure document. It was written ten years ago, just after the Radiance War." He tilted his chair back until he was gazing at the stone ceiling far above his head. The silence of the house surrounded him. Outside his window, wind rustled in the dapple-trees like children whispering together.

"Did you write it?" Dirac asked.

"That's right," Kelric said. "I was serving on a merchant ship. The Corona." He had escaped Coba in a dilapidated shuttle that barely managed to reach another port. He hadn't had credits enough even to buy food, let alone repair the aging shuttle. The job on the Corona had offered a way out.

"I have records of a vessel fitting that description," Dirac said. "Jaffe Maccar is its captain."

"That's it. I filed a Closure document with the ship's legal EI."

A long silence followed. Finally Dirac said, "I find no record of this document."

Maybe he had hidden it better than he thought. Either that, or it was lost. "It's encrypted," he said, and gave Dirac the key.

After a moment, Dirac spoke crisply. "File six-eight-three, signed by Kelric Skolia. Marriage to Ixpar Karn Closed. If Closure isn't reversed in ten years, Kelric Garlin Valdoria Skolia will be declared dead, and his assets will revert to his heirs. Ixpar Karn and two children are named as beneficiaries." The EI paused. "Your listed assets are extensive."

"I suppose."

"In one-hundred-eleven days," Dirac said, "Ixpar Karn will be one of the wealthiest human beings alive."

Even though Kelric had known this was coming for ten years, it still rattled him. "Ixpar doesn't know."

"Do you wish me to cancel the document?"

"I'm not sure."

"You aren't dead," Dirac pointed out.

"If you cancel it, I'll be married to Ixpar again." The Closure didn't become permanent until the end of ten years. It was usually done when someone's spouse vanished, to declare that person legally dead. Generally, the abandoned spouse invoked the Closure, not the person who disappeared.

"Is marriage to Ixpar Karn a problem?" Dirac asked.

Kelric thought of Jeejon. Grief didn't end on a schedule. It receded, yes, but it crept up on you like a mouse under the table, until one day you looked down and saw it crouched in your home, watching you with pale eyes, still there after all this time. It was true, he had married Jeejon in gratitude. Maybe he had never felt the soul-deep passion for her that he had with Ixpar, but he had loved Jeejon in a quieter way. She had given up everything she owned to save his life, even believing he was deluded to think he was the Imperator. She had never expected anything in return, but he had sworn to stand by her.

Dirac spoke. "Sir, the three people named as your heirs live on Coba. I don't think it's legal for inhabitants of a Restricted world to inherit from a Skolian citizen."

"I'm the Imperator," Kelric grumbled. "If I say it's legal, it's legal."

"According to Imperialate law, that isn't true."

Kelric scowled at the ceiling. Unlike his officers, his EI had no qualms about contradicting him.

"Who is going to tell me no?" Kelric asked.

"That would be complicated," Dirac acknowledged. "May I ask a question?"

"Go ahead."

"Why set up Closure for yourself?" The EI sounded genuinely puzzled, as opposed to an AI, which only simulated the emotion. "You aren't the deserted spouse."

"I was unprotected, in a volatile situation." Painful memories rose within him. "I left my children on Coba so they would be safe and taken care of in case anything happened to me. If I died, I wanted to make sure they and Ixpar inherited."

"Yet nothing happened to you."

He grimaced. "I was kidnapped by Traders and sold as a slave."

"Oh." Another pause. "Are you saying you became a Trader slave after you signed this document?"

"That's right."

"But the document is only ten years old. Less, in fact."

"Yes."

"It was my understanding the Traders captured you twenty-eight years ago. Not ten."

Kelric didn't answer.

"When you die," Dirac added, "this document becomes public."

"My heirs could hardly inherit otherwise." He had wrestled with that decision, knowing it would draw attention to Coba. As long as he could shield both Coba and his family, he would do so. But if he ever had to choose, his wife and children came first. If he died, the Closure would ensure they had his name and the multitude of protections that came with it.

And yet . . . he could protect Coba now in ways he couldn't have imagined ten years ago when, as a desperate refugee, he had written that will.

Dirac suddenly said, "This Closure document gives a new twist to the Hinterland defenses."

Kelric stiffened. "I have no idea what you mean."

"The Hinterland Deployment. One of your first acts as Imperator ten years ago. The military presence you established in sector twenty-seven of the Imperialate hinterlands."

"It was vital," Kelric said. "We needed to stop Traders from using that region of space."

"No indications existed they were doing so," Dirac said.

Kelric's advisors had told him the same. He gave Dirac the same answer he had given them. "That was the problem. No one paid attention to that sector. Had the Traders set up covert operations there, we might never have known."

"This is true." Dirac waited a beat. "How interesting that the Coban star system is the most heavily guarded region of that deployment."

Damn. "Delete that from your memory."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Deleted. You have sixty seconds to undo the deletion before it becomes permanent."

Kelric knew erasing parts of an EI's memory was ill-advised. It always lost associated data as well. Such deletions could have unexpected results. But surely erasing one small fact wouldn't cause trouble. Still . . . perhaps he should reconsider.

"If I don't cancel this Closure," Dirac added, "you are going to be destitute in one-hundred and eleven days."

A voice called from another room. "Kellie?"

"For flaming sakes," Kelric muttered. "Dirac, end session." He got up and stalked out of his office.

A woman was standing in his living room. Roca. Gold hair cascaded down her body and curled around her face. She had the same metallic gold skin and eyes as Kelric, but it looked much better on her. In Roca's youth, men had written odes to her beauty and songs lauding her grace. Hell, so had women.

He scowled at her. "My name is Kelric, Mother."

"My apologies, honey. I forget sometimes."

Honey was almost as bad. He wondered when she would notice that her "baby" had grown into a hulking monster who commanded one of the most deadly war machines ever created.

"Don't glare at me so," she added, smiling.

"I thought you were going to Selei City for the Assembly."

Her good mood faded. "That's what I came to see you about." She walked to his console and stood facing it, her palm resting on the surface, though he didn't think she was looking at anything.

He went over to her. "What's wrong?"

Roca wouldn't meet his gaze. "The Progressive Party wants to abolish the votes held by Assembly delegates with hereditary seats."

That didn't sound new. The Progressives considered it an abomination that the Ruby Dynasty and noble Houses held seats even though no one had elected them. As Pharaoh and Imperator, Dehya and Kelric were among the Assembly's most influential members. Roca had won election like any other delegate and become Foreign Affairs Councilor of the Inner Circle. With her hereditary votes added to that, she was also a great force. Kelric's siblings all held seats, but their blocs were smaller. The noble Houses each had two seats, mostly titular, with few votes.

Kelric smiled wryly. "One of these days, the Progressives will call for eradication of the Assembly on the grounds that EIs instead of people should run the government. The Royalists will agree we should abolish the Assembly, but only so Dehya becomes our sole ruler. The Traditionalists will insist a woman command the military and stick me in seclusion. The Technologists will blow up the Assembly with hot-air bombs. Meanwhile, the Moderates will urge everyone to please get along."

Roca laughed, her stiff posture easing. "Probably." She leaned against the console with her arms folded. "The problem is, I think the Progressives can make headway this time."

He didn't see how. "Every time they introduce one of those brain-rattled amendments, the Royalists vote them down. Usually the Traditionalists do, too. Your Moderates don't care, and they're the biggest party. Given that Dehya and I are both Technologists, I doubt they would vote to weaken our influence."

She stared across the room. "It seems the deaths in our family offer them a political opportunity."

Kelric felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He hated that he had gained his title through the deaths of his siblings. "It may offend them that I inherited Soz's votes when she died, and that she inherited them from Kurj, but they can't deny the law. The Imperator holds a primary Assembly seat." True, the military answered to the Assembly. But the loyalty of ISC to the Imperator was legendary. and he doubted the Assembly wanted to push the issue of who the military would obey. The last time they had faced that question, ISC had thrown its might behind the Ruby Dynasty and put Dehya back on the throne. In the end, she chose to split her rule with the Assembly because she genuinely believed it was best for the Imperialate. But few people doubted that, if put to the test, ISC would follow the Imperator.

"They won't touch your votes," Roca said. "They aren't stupid." Her voice quieted. "It's your father's bloc. No one objected to my inheriting it after he died because they knew how it would look. But it's been ten years." She sounded tired. "Before he became Web Key, we had only two Keys, the positions you and Dehya now hold. Those two Keys powered the Kyle Web. It was a fluke that your father's mind differed enough from theirs to add a third mind without killing them. Many people don't believe we can duplicate that achievement. They say those votes should cease to exist unless we find another Web Key."

Kelric swore under his breath. The Progressives had grounds for their objection. He had expected them to raise it years ago, and when they hadn't, he had grown complacent. They had bided their time until they could no longer be accused of traumatizing the widow or her grieving family. They had even waited a year after Jeejon's death, though Kelric had no direct connection with his mother's votes. Yes, they had been careful. He could see why Roca was worried. They might win.

He didn't want her to lose those votes. She was one of the Assembly's greatest moderating forces. Many citizens felt the Imperialate subjugated its people with militaristic occupations and harsh laws. Facing the relentless threat of the Traders, Kelric understood all too well the draconian measures instituted by previous Imperators. He had enough objectivity to admit that in defending the Imperialate, he was capable of acts many would consider oppressive. They needed temperate voices. Roca offered a counterbalance. The day he rejected that balance was the day he became a tyrant.

"You have a plan?" he asked.

"I'm going early to the session," she said. "See if I can sway votes. It would help if you attended in person. Spend time softening up delegates with me."

"I couldn't soften a pod fruit."

"You're damn effective when you want to be."

He glowered at her. "Doing what? I hate public speaking."

"I'm not asking you to speak in the Assembly." She smiled with that too-reasonable expression that always meant trouble. "I just plan to give some dinners. Small, elegant, elite. People consider it a coup to be invited. They will think it even more so if the Imperator attends. We wine them, dine them, and convince them to support us."

Kelric stared at her. "You want me to attend dinner parties with the imperial court?"

"Yes, actually."

"I would rather die."

Exasperation leaked into her voice. "It's not a form of torture, you know."

"It's not?"

"Do you want to win the vote or not?"

I'm going to regret this, he thought. "Fine," he growled. "I'll do it."

"Good." Then she thought, The dinners will be fun.

Gods forbid. He had never understood how she thrived in the universe of politics and the imperial court, but it gratified him that she did it so well. Someone in his family had to deal with the politicians.

After Roca left, he returned to his office and stood gazing at the dice on his desk. He thought of his family. In standard years, his son would be twenty-six now and his daughter sixteen. Ixpar was forty-two. She wasn't the mother of either child; she had only been fourteen when Kelric met her, and twice that age when she married him. He had never met his son, and he had known his daughter only a few months after her birth. The ache of that lack in his life had never stopped, even after all this time.

Kelric often wanted to go to them. Then he would remember the devastation he had wrought on Coba, how cities had roared in flames while windriders battled in the skies. He had brought death and ruin to their world.

He would die before he let that happen again.

II
The Gold Guards

Kelric met Admiral Barzun in the War Room.

Consoles filled the amphitheater, and robot arms carried operators through the air. Far above, a command chair hung under a holodome lit with stars, so anyone who looked up saw it silhouetted against the nebulae of space. When Kelric worked here, coordinating his far-flung armies, he sat in that technological throne. It linked him into the Kyle web, which stretched across human-occupied space. Any telop, or telepathic operator, could use the Kyle web, but only Kelric and Dehya could power that vast mesh.

Chad Barzun was waiting on a dais set off from the amphitheater. Crisp in his blue Fleet uniform, Chad was a man of average height, with a square chin, a beak of a nose, and hair the color of granite. As one of Kelric's joint commanders, he headed the Imperial Fleet. Kelric liked him because Barzun spoke his mind, with respect, but he said what needed saying even if he knew Kelric might not like it.

Barzun had commanded the fleet that put Dehya back on the throne. That shock had paled, though, compared to the next, when she had returned half her power to the Assembly. Kelric had stood at her side as she announced her decision. On his own, he would never have agreed to split the power. But he understood her reasons. The time for a hereditary dynasty as sole rulers of an interstellar empire had passed. They needed the Assembly. Unlike before Dehya's coup, however, the Ruby Dynasty now had equal footing with the Assembly.

Chad saluted Kelric, extending his arms at chest level and crossing his wrists, his fists clenched.

Kelric returned the salute. "At ease, Chad."

The admiral relaxed. "My greetings, sir. Are you leaving soon?"

"Later today." Kelric grimaced. "Unfortunately."

Chad smiled slightly. "I don't envy you this vacation."

Kelric didn't envy himself, either, having to spend time with the imperial court. "I'm taking a few days alone first."

"Very good, sir." Chad's voice quieted. "Let yourself rest. Gods know, you've earned it."

Kelric managed a dry smile. "I'll try," he lied.

They spent the next hour going over the Imperator's duties, which Barzun would oversee in Kelric's absence. If necessary, Chad could reach him through the Kyle web. Given that he believed Kelric was taking a long-overdue vacation, he would make contact only in an emergency.

Later, Kelric rode the magrail to a secluded valley of the Orbiter. He walked across the gilt-vine meadows, past Dehya's house. Holopanels on her roof reflected the sky and Sun Lamp several kilometers above. The spherical Orbiter was designed for beauty rather than efficiency; half its interior was just a sky. He could see the tiny figures of people walking by the sun. If they looked up, they would see the ground with its mountains and valleys curving above them like a ceiling of the world.

He hiked up the slope to his own house. Inside, his duffle was where he had left it, on the desk in his office. He took his dice pouch out of the desk and tied it to his belt. Then he went to a black lacquered stand in the corner. Resting his hand on its top, he slid his thumb over its design, the Imperialate insignia, a ruby triangle inscribed within an amber circle. The gold silhouette of an exploding sun burst past the confines of the triangle. The symbol of an empire. His empire. The Imperialate claimed it was civilized, but a heart of barbarism beat close beneath their cultured exterior.

His spinal node thought, Kelric.

He roused himself. Yes?

According to your schedule, you depart from docking bay six in twelve minutes.

Kelric pushed his hand across his close-cropped hair. With a deep breath, he tapped out a code on the sunburst insignia. A hum vibrated within the stand, and a drawer slid out.

His Coban wrist guards lay inside.

He picked up one of the guards. Crafted from gold, its ancient engravings showed a giant hawk soaring over mountains, the symbol of Karn, largest and oldest city-estate on Coba. He snapped open the guard. Its hinge worked well, even though he had left it untouched for a decade.

Kelric brushed his thumb over the massive gauntlet he wore on his right forearm, a marvel of conduits, alloys, and mesh engineering. He had its twin on his left arm. He had found the gauntlets in the Lock chamber, the place where Kyle space penetrated the real universe. The Lock was a singularity in spacetime. By stepping into it, he had joined the powerlink that created the Kyle web. In that moment, he had become a Key.

Thousands of years ago, after the fall of the Ruby Empire, his ancestors had lost the technology to create Locks. Although modern science had yet to rediscover the theories, they could use the ancient machines they found derelict in space or on planets, such as the Locks. Or these gauntlets. They provided him a mesh node, a comm, and a means to link with other systems. But they were more. They had intelligence. He felt certain they connected to Kyle space in ways beyond his ability, perhaps even his understanding. He had worn them for a decade, yet he still didn't know how they had survived for five thousand years or why they let him use them.

He clicked open a switch on his gauntlet—and it snapped closed. He pried at the switch, but this time it didn't move at all. Trying to open the entire wrist section didn't work, either. Odd. The gauntlet looked normal. Small lights glowed on it, silver threads gleamed, and the comm mesh glinted.

Come off, he thought. He didn't want to damage it; the gauntlets could never be replaced. Destroying them might even be murder.

If you won't open, he added, I can't put on my wrist guards.

Both gauntlets snapped open.

Kelric blinked, puzzled. Apparently they liked his wrist guards.

A socket gleamed in his left wrist. Normally the gauntlet jacked into the socket and linked to his internal biomech system. Handling his Coban guard with care, he clicked it around his wrist, lining up a hole in the gold with his wrist socket. Before he could do anything else, his gauntlet snapped around his arm and fitted into the guard as if they had always been joined. Filaments wisped out from the gauntlet, protecting the soft Coban gold.

"Huh." Kelric squinted at his arm. He took his second guard and snapped it onto his other wrist. That gauntlet immediately closed, repeating the same procedure as the first.

Bolt, Kelric thought.

Attending.

Why did my gauntlets do that?

I don't know. Bolt projected a sense of apology.

Do you know why they wouldn't come off before?

Based on past incidents, I would say they believed it would endanger you to remove them.

What, by my standing in my perilous office, with its four thousand safeguards? That was an exaggeration, but not much. I might stub my toe.

It does seem far-fetched.

He touched the wrist guard. Its gold seemed warm compared to his silver and black gauntlet. Can you find out why they did that?

If you mean can I talk to them, the answer is no. But we exchange information all the time. I sometimes read patterns in their data. If I direct our exchange, with your wrist guards as the subject, I may glean some insights.

See what you can find out.

I will let you know.

He returned his attention to the nightstand. His armbands still lay in the drawer. They indicated a Calani's Level, the number of Estates where he had lived in a Calanya. Most Calani were First Levels. Attaining a higher Level was a matter of great negotiation, for what better way for one Manager to gain advantage over another than to obtain one of her Calani? His Quis held immense knowledge of her Estate, strategies, plans, everything.

Toward the end of his time on Coba, Kelric had lived at Varz Estate as a Fifth Level. His Quis had vaulted the already powerful Varz into world dominance, but his submerged fury had also gone into the dice. His life had been hell. Harsh and icy, the Varz Manager had been a sadistic nightmare. By that time, Ixpar Karn had ruled Coba, a young Minister full of fire. She had freed Kelric from Varz—and so provoked the first war Coba had seen in a thousand years.

I've an analysis of your gauntlets, Bolt thought.

Kelric put away his memories. Go ahead.

They consider whatever you plan to do dangerous enough that you need them for your protection. However, apparently they deem your wrist guards acceptable, even beneficial, to your needs or your emotions.

His emotions? Even he wasn't sure how he felt. He stared into the drawer. One of his armbands was missing. It had come off during his escape from Coba and probably lay buried somewhere in the ashes of Ixpar's Estate.

Kelric gathered the bands and packed them into his duffle. Then he left for the docking bay.

* * *

"Prepare for launch," Kelric said. The cabin of the ship gleamed, small and bright. An exoskeleton closed around his pilot's chair and jacked into the sockets in his spine.

As the engines hummed, Bolt thought, Your bodyguards aren't here.

Kelric didn't answer.

Mace, the ship's EI, spoke. "Bay doors opening."

A hiss came from around Kelric as buffers inflated to protect sensitive equipment in the cabin. The forward screens swirled with gold and black lines, then cleared to reveal the scene outside. Two gigantic doors were opening, their toothed edges dwarfing his vessel.

Bolt's thought came urgently. You must not leave without security.

Kelric laid his hand on the Jumbler at his hip. I have it.

One gun is not enough to guard the Imperator.

The ship is armed. And I used to be a weapons officer.

Even so. You should have —

Bolt, enough.

With a great clang, the docking clamps released Kelric's ship. He maneuvered out of the bay, leaving the Orbiter along its rotation axis. Communication between Mace and the dock personnel murmured in his ear comm. To them, the launch was routine. No one knew he was alone. He had told Najo, Axer, and Strava he was taking his other bodyguards, and he told the others he would be with Najo, Axer, and Strava.

As his ship moved through the Orbiter's perimeter defenses, Kelric spoke into his comm. "Docking station four, I'm switching off your network and onto the Kyle-Star."

"Understood," the duty officerreplied. "Gods' speed, sir."

"My thanks." Kelric cut his link to the Orbiter, but contrary to his claim, he made no attempt to reach Kyle-star, the interstellar mesh of communications designed to guide starships.

Bolt, he thought. Download my travel coordinates to the ship.

I don't think you should do this alone.

I've made my decision.

I'm concerned for your safety.

I appreciate that. Now send the damn coordinates.

You are sure you want to do this?

Yes! I'm also sure I don't want to argue with a node in my head.

Bolt paused, almost no time for human thought, but a long silence to an EI. Then he thought, Coordinates sent.

"Coordinates loaded," Mace said.

"Good." Kelric took a deep breath. "Take me to Coba."

III
Viasa

Kelric played dice.

His ship was traveling in inversion, which meant its speed was a complex number, with an imaginary as well as a real part. It eliminated the singularity at light-speed in the relativistic equations. He could never go at light-speed, so he went "around" it much as a hiker might leave a path to walk around an infinitely tall tree. Once past the "tree," he could attain immense speeds, many times that of light. During the trip, though, his ship needed only minimal oversight. He had little to do. So he played Quis solitaire.

He swung a panel in front of himself and built structures on it about the Trader emperor, Jaibriol the Third. Jaibriol had only been seventeen when he came into power ten years ago, but he had compensated for his deadly lack of experience by marrying his most powerful Cabinet Minister, Tarquine Iquar. Kelric knew Tarquine. Oh yes, he knew her, far too well. While he had been serving aboard the merchant ship Corona, the Traders had captured it and sold him into slavery. Tarquine had bought him. If he hadn't escaped, he would still be her pleasure slave.

Uncomfortable with that memory, he shifted his focus to politics. His structures evolved strangely. They implied Jaibriol genuinely wanted peace. He found it hard to credit, yet here it was, in his Quis.

The talks had foundered in recent years. Kelric hoped Roca might sway the Assembly away from its current intransigence and back to treaty negotiations. He represented ISC at those talks, a military counterbalance to Roca. They made an effective team, she the diplomat, he the threat. But for it to work, they had to get to the peace table. If they and the Traders didn't hammer out a treaty, their empires could pound away at each other until nothing remained.

Patterns of the upcoming Assembly session filtered into his Quis. The structures predicted an unwanted result: his mother would lose the vote. He varied parameters, searching for models that predicted a win, and found a few. They relied on her ability to sway councilors outside of the session, with a greater chance of success if he helped her. Which meant he had to attend her infernal dinner parties. That put him in a bad mood, and he quit playing dice.

Sitting back, he gazed at the holoscreen in front of him, which showed the stars inverted from their positions at sublight speeds. He could replace the map with a display of dice and play Quis with Mace. It seemed pointless, though. He had taught the EI, and it played just like him, but without creativity. For ten years, he had done almost nothing but Quis solitaire. He was starved for real Quis. He had wanted to teach Dehya, had even given her a set of dice, but then he changed his mind. She was too smart. If she mastered Quis, she would unravel his secrets from the way he played. He couldn't trust anyone with that knowledge.

On Coba, he had played Quis with many Calani, saturating their culture-spanning game with his military influence until the war erupted. Ixpar claimed that capacity for violence had always been within her people, that in the Old Age, queens had warred with one another until they nearly destroyed civilization. Finally, in desperation, they subsumed their aggression into the Quis. He believed her, but he also saw what they had achieved, a millennium of peace, one that ended when he came to their world.

Kelric would never forget the windriders battling in the sky or Karn roaring in flames. In that chaos, he had stolen a rider and escaped. By then, he had known all too well why the Cobans wanted the Restriction. If he, only one person, could have such a dramatic effect, what would happen if the Imperialate came in full force? He had sworn that day to protect his children, Ixpar, and Coba.

Which was why he had to go back.

* * *

The preset message droned on the ship's comm. "Identify yourself immediately. This world is Restricted. Identify yourself immediately." And on and on.

The voice was an eerie reminder to Kelric of the day, ten years ago, when he had escaped to the starport. It was the only warning anyone received, either in space or on-planet. The port was fully automated and usually empty. Cobans had no access to anything there, and ISC didn't care who landed as long as they stayed in the port. Any Skolian who entered the Restricted zone, which consisted of the entire rest of the planet, essentially ceased to exist. He doubted anyone in ISC bothered to keep track, though. It mattered only if the Cobans held someone against his will, as with him. In that case, their actions would be considered an act of aggression, subject to military intervention.

Had ISC ever discovered what happened to him, they would have put the Cobans under martial law, prosecuted the Managers involved, absorbed Coba into the Imperialate, and never realized until too late, if ever, that they had destroyed a remarkable culture. He had the authority now to prevent the legal actions, but he couldn't stop his family from turning their relentless focus here if anyone discovered his interest—which they might if the port recorded his landing.

So he wouldn't go to the port.

"Mace," he said. "Get a map of the Coban Estates from the port. Hide your presence from the mesh system there."

"Accessing." Then Mace said, "The files are locked."

"Use my keys." His security would top any port safeguards.

"I have the map," Mace said.

"We need a city-estate called Viasa. It's in the Upper Teotec Mountains, the most northeast Estate." He was fortunate the Viasa Manager had bought Jeremiah's contract. Kelric had never been to Viasa, and his inviolable seclusion in the Calanya of other Estates meant none of Viasa's citizens had ever seen him.

"I've identified a city that fits your description," Mace said. "But it's called Tehnsa."

"Oh. That's right." He had forgotten. "Viasa is slightly below Tehnsa, near Greyrock Falls and the Viasa-Tehnsa Dam."

"I have coordinates," Mace said.

A holomap formed above a panel to Kelric's left, a dramatic image of the towering Upper Teotecs. The winds in those mountains were brutal. His ship was a Dalstern scout, designed for flight in planetary terrains as well as space, but it would still need guidance. At least Coba had aircraft beacons. Although their culture had backslid during their millennia of isolation, they had redeveloped some technology even before ISC discovered them. Their windriders were small but respectable aircraft.

"The dam has a beacon that can guide us," Kelric said.

"I can't find it," Mace said. "And this map is wrong. We're passing over what appears to be Tehnsa, but the map places it southwest of here."

Kelric frowned. His holomap was updating continuously, but Mace could only calculate changes as fast as the Dalstern's sensors could provide data about the mountains.

"How are you handling the winds?" Kelric asked.

"So far, fine. They're increasing, though, as we go lower in the atmosphere." After a pause, Mace added, "This port map is appalling. It hardly matches the one I'm making at all."

"Can you find the beacon?"

"So far, no."

"Keep looking."

"I'm getting a signal!"

Relief washed over Kelric. "From the dam?"

"No. It's a mesh system."

What the blazes? "Cobans don't have mesh systems."

"It's from Viasa," Mace said. "Not a guidance beacon. It's a general comm channel."

Kelric toggled long range comm and spoke in Skolian Flag, a language used by his people to bridge their many tongues. He didn't want to reveal he knew Teotecan, the Coban language, unless it was necessary.

"Viasa, I'm reading your signal," he said.

No response.

"Mace, can you increase my range?" Kelric asked.

"Working."

"Viasa, I'm reading your signal," Kelric said. "Can you read me? I repeat, I'm reading your signal. Please respond."

Still no answer. The scout was lower in the mountains now, and peaks loomed around them.

The comm suddenly crackled with a man's voice. But the words made no sense.

"What the blazes was that?" Kelric asked.

"He's speaking Flag," Mace said. "Very bad Flag. I believe he said, 'Know English you? Spanish? French?'" The EI paused. "Those are Earth languages."

Kelric sent a thought to his node. Do I speak any of those?

I have a Spanish mod, Bolt replied. I can provide rudimentary responses.

Go, Kelric thought.

Bolt gave him words, and Kelric spoke into the comm, struggling with pronunciation. The Skolian translation glowed on a forward screen.

"This is Dalstern GH3, scout class TI," he said. "Viasa, I need holomaps. These mountains are much trouble. The wind make problem also."

"Can you link your computers to our system here?" the man asked. "We will help guide you down."

"Computers?" Kelric said, more to himself than the man.

"I think he means me," Mace said. "I will make the link."

Kelric spoke into the comm. "We try." At least he thought he said we. The translation came up as I. He continued to navigate the mountains, relying on Mace to map the terrain and feed data to Bolt. He could hear winds screaming past the ship.

"I'm having trouble linking to Viasa's mesh," Mace said. "It's manufactured by Earth's North-Am conglomerate, which is only partially compatible with ours."

"Figures," Kelric muttered. He wondered if anyone existed who had escaped buying products from the Allieds. Coba, though? He hadn't expected that.

The man's voice came again. "Dalstern, can you send your data in an Allied protocol?"

"Which one?" Kelric asked.

Symbols appeared on his screen, sent from Viasa. He saw a problem immediately. A pattern formed in his mind, evolving like a Quis structure, and with it, a possible solution.

"Viasa, we are maybe close to what we need," Kelric said. "Can you send the equations that transform the coordinate system you use to the one we use?" The Viasa system wasn't set up to deal with starships; they had only windriders to worry about.

More silence. Kelric hoped his Spanish was intelligible. According to his translator, what he wanted to say and what was coming out weren't the same. It seemed close, though.

A peak suddenly reared up on his screens. With accelerated reflexes, Kelric jerked the scout into a vertical climb. G-forces slammed him into his seat. He veered east and dropped past another crag with a sickening lurch. The scout leveled out and shot through the mountains.

"Gods." He spoke into the comm. "Viasa, where is beacon to guide aircraft in these mountains?"

A woman answered in terrible Spanish. "Say again?"

"The warning beacon. Where is it?"

"Broken." Her accent didn't mask her suspicious tone. He didn't blame her. He had just revealed he knew more about Viasa than almost any offworlder alive.

The man spoke. "Dalstern, we have holomaps for you, but we still have a protocol mismatch. We're working on it. Please stand by."

"Understood." Kelric wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "Mace, how is our speed?"

"Too fast. The deeper we go in these mountains, the more complex the terrain. I can't recalculate the map fast enough."

Kelric leaned over the comm. "Viasa, I need maps."

"I'm sending what I have," the man answered.

"Received!" Mace said.

A new holomap formed, centered on a magnificent waterfall that cascaded down a cliff. In the east, a pass showed in the mountains. Kelric changed course for that small notch.

"Viasa should be beyond the cliffs," Mace said. "I still don't have landing coordinates."

Kelric winced at the thought of setting down in a mountain hamlet without guidance, on a field that was probably too small. "Maybe we'll see it when we get through the pass."

The holomap suddenly fragmented. In the same instant, Mace said, "I've lost the Viasa data stream."

Damn! Kelric spoke urgently into the comm. "Viasa, we have problem."

"We too," the man said.

Sweat dripped down Kelric's neck. Mace was doing his best to reconstruct the holomap, but they needed more—

With no warning, a wall ofstone loomed on his screens. Kelric had no time for surprise; Bolt accelerated his reflexes, and he swerved east before his mind grasped what he was doing. Cliffs sheered up on his starboard side as his ship hurtled into the pass. Closer, too close! He careened away, but that brought him too close to the other side.

Suddenly they shot free of the cliffs. Ahead and below, lights glittered like sparkflies scattered across the mountains. The rest of the majestic range lay shrouded in darkness beneath the chill stars. Bittersweet memories flooded Kelric, and incredibly, a sense of homecoming. He had never seen Viasa, but he knew the way of life, culture, language, all of it. Until this moment, he had never let himself acknowledge how much he missed those years he spent submerged in Calanya Quis. He had given up everything for that privilege: his freedom, his heritage, his way of life, even his name. It had almost been worth the price.

"We need landing data," Mace said. "Or I'm going to crash into that city."

"They must have an airfield." Kelric spoke into the comm. "Viasa, I need set-down coordinates."

The man answered. "We're working on it!"

Kelric could guess the problem. They didn't know starship protocols or astronavigation. The Cobans learned fast, but no one could jump from elementary aerodynamics to ship navigation in ten minutes. They had Jeremiah, but he was an anthropologist. Although college students learned the rudiments of celestial mechanics, Jeremiah had no more reason to know astronavigation than the Cobans.

"I'm mapping a landing site," Mace said. "I'll try not to hit too many buildings."

Kelric spoke into the comm. "Viasa, I have no more time. I guess coordinates."

"Dalstern, I have it!" the man said. Holomaps of Viasa flared above Kelric's screens.

"Received," Kelric said. He was going to careen right over the origin of the signal. "Suggest you get out of there," he added, praying he didn't hit their command center.

A sparkle of lights rushed toward the scout, and towers pierced the starred sky. A dark area ahead had no buildings. With a jolt, Kelric realized they had sent him to the Calanya parks, probably the largest open area in Viasa, even bigger than the landing field.

The Dalstern was dropping fast, past domes and peaked roofs. A wall sheered up out of the dark. It grazed a wing of the ship, and a shudder went through the scout. Although the collision barely pushed the ship off course, it was enough to invite disaster. Gritting his teeth, Kelric wrestled with the Dalstern, struggling to avoid the estate buildings.

The scout slammed down into the park and plowed through the gardens with a scream of its hull on the underlying bedrock. Trees whipped past his screen as the Dalstern tore them out of the ground. A wall loomed ahead of them, and he recognized it immediately, though he had never seen this one before. A huge windbreak surrounded every Calanya in every Estate, and he was headed straight for Viasa's massive barrier.

With a shattering crash, the scout rammed through the wall. Kelric groaned as the impact threw him against his exoskeleton. The ship came to a stop balanced on a cliff that sheered down beyond the windbreak. His lamps revealed a spectacular view; the Teotec Mountains rolled out in fold after magnificent fold of land, a primal landscape of dark mists and snow-fir trees.

The Dalstern began to tip over the edge.

Swearing loudly, Kelric tore off the exoskeleton and jumped to his feet.

"We don't have much time," Mace said. "I can take off now, but if I tip too far, I'm going down that cliff."

"Coltman will come," Kelric said. Jeremiah was smart. If a way existed to reach the ship, he would find it. At least, Kelric hoped so. He cycled through the airlock and jumped to the ground, into the night. The notorious winds of the Teotecs blasted him. Two people were running across the parks toward him, a tall woman and a husky man.

He knew the man.

Kelric froze. His hope of managing this without anyone recognizing him had just vanished.

Pounding came from the other side of the ship. Kelric ran around the fuselage to find a youth banging on the hull as he shouted in Spanish, "You have to get out!"

Kelric reached him in three ground-devouring strides. He grabbed the youth's arm and swung him around. The fellow looked up at him with a startled gaze, like a wild hazelle caught in a hunter's trap.

"I come for man called Jeremiah Coltman," Kelric said in halting Spanish.

The youth inhaled sharply. "I'm Coltman."

Kelric took his chin and turned his face into the starlight. His features matched the mesh images. He lifted one of the man's arms and easily read the Teotecan glyphs on the armband: Jeremiah Coltman Viasa.

Relief washed over Kelric. "So. You are. We must hurry."

The Dalstern creaked as it tipped further. Alarmed, Kelric took off, pulling Jeremiah with him as he ran for the airlock.

A woman's voice called in Teotecan. "Jeremiah, wait!"

Kelric spun around. The woman and man had stopped a short distance away. The woman's attention was on Jeremiah, but the man stared at Kelric as if he were a specter from the graveyard.

Kelric's hand fell to his gun—and Jeremiah caught his arm. The youth had courage to touch a man with a Jumbler. He had to know it meant Kelric was a Jagernaut, one of ISC's cybernetic warriors. Had Kelric had less control of his augmented reflexes, Jeremiah's impulsive action could have just ended his young life.

"Please," Jeremiah said in Spanish. "Don't shoot them."

Kelric lowered his arm as the woman came closer. She was tall and elegant, with a regal beauty. A thick braid dusted with gray fell over her shoulder to her waist. The man was about forty, and he wore three Calanya bands on each arm. Third Level. He had been a Second Level when Kelric knew him.

"Don't go, Jeremiah," the woman said.

The youth's voice caught. "I have to."

"Viasa has come to care—" She took a deep breath. "I have come to care. For you."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm truly sorry. But I can't be what I'm not." His gaze shifted to the Third Level, then back to the woman. "And I could never share you. It would kill me." He sounded as if he were breaking inside. "Oh God, Khal, don't let pride keep you apart from the man you really love. Whatever you and Kev said to each other all those years ago . . . let it mend."

"Jeremiah." Moisture gleamed on her face in the starlight.

The ship scraped and shifted position. Kelric spoke to Jeremiah in Spanish. "We have to go."

The youth nodded, still intent on the woman.

"Good-bye, beautiful scholar," she said. Her voice caught on the words.

Jeremiah wiped a tear off his face. "Good-bye."

As the youth climbed into the ship, Kelric stared at the Coban man. The Third Level met his look with stunned eyes, but his gaze never wavered.

Kelric spoke to him in Teotecan. "Don't tell anyone. You know why."

The man inclined his head in agreement, silent as he kept his Calanya Oath.

Then Kelric boarded the scout.

IV
Scholars' Dice

Jeremiah sat in the co-pilot's seat while Kelric piloted the Dalstern. The youth said nothing, but he didn't barrier his emotions well. His pain scraped Kelric's mind. Kelric pretended to be absorbed in his controls, giving the fellow as much privacy as they could manage in the cramped cabin.

An image of Jeremiah showed in a corner of Kelric's forward screen. The fellow hardly looked more than a boy. He wasn't tall, and his lean physique lacked the heavy musculature valued in Earth's culture. His rich brown hair gleamed and was longer than most Allied men wore it. He had a wholesome, farm boy quality, and also a shyness Kelric associated with scholars. Those traits might not have made him a male sex symbol on Earth, but Coba's women had probably adored him. Quiet, brilliant, scholarly, fit but slender, neither too large nor too strong: he matched their most popular ideal of masculinity. Kelric had unfortunately fit another ideal, albeit one far less common, the towering, aggressive male they wanted to tame.

It didn't surprise him that Jeremiah's armbands differed from those worn by most Calani. Kelric recognized them because his were the same. Jeremiah was Akasi, the Manager's husband. Making him a Calani without his consent was coercion, which meant the union could be annulled if Jeremiah wanted. Whatever the youth decided, Kelric suspected it wouldn't be easy for him.

Jeremiah sat with his eyes downcast, and Kelric busied himself with checks that didn't need doing. They were high enough now that the winds and abysmal port map didn't endanger the ship.

Eventually, when Jeremiah began to look around, Kelric spoke in halting Spanish. "Are you all right?"

The youth answered in the same voice Kelric had heard over the Viasa comm. "Yes. Thank you for your trouble."

"It is not so much trouble."

"You could have been killed."

Kelric suspected the biggest risk had been to the Calanya park. He would find a discreet means to recompense Manager Viasa for repairs.

"I have seen worse," Kelric said. "I expect to have the beacon, though. It help that you know the transform." Without Jeremiah's quick thinking, he would have had to land blind. The Dalstern would have survived, but not whatever part of Viasa it hit.

Mortification came from the boy's mind. He apparently had no idea how to guard his moods. "I was guessing. Playing dice with your life."

Kelric wondered if the young man realized what he had accomplished. "Such a problem take more than guesses."

"I was lucky."

Kelric smiled slightly. "You are not what I expect."

Jeremiah watched him with large brown eyes that had probably turned the women of Coba into putty. "I'm not?"

"The genius who make history when he win this famous prize at twenty-four?" With apology, Kelric added, "I expect you to have a large opinion of yourself. But it seems not that way."

"I didn't deserve the Goldstone." Jeremiah hesitated. "Besides, that's hardly reason for your military to rescue me."

"They know nothing about this." Kelric wasn't certain how much to tell him. "I take you to a civilian port. From there, we find you passage to Earth."

Jeremiah was watching him with puzzlement. "At Viasa you spoke in Teotecan. You even knew how to read my name from the Calanya bands. How?"

Kelric thought of Ixpar, his wife, at least for one hundred and nine more days. He answered in Teotecan. "It doesn't seem to bother you to speak."

Jeremiah seemed startled, but he switched easily into the Coban language. "Well, no. Should it?"

Kelric spoke quietly. "It was years before I could carry on a normal conversation with an Outsider." He used an emphasis on "Outsider" that only another Coban would recognize. Calani were Inside. The rest of the universe was Outside.

Jeremiah froze. Then he looked at Kelric's gauntlets—including the wrist guards—and Kelric felt the youth's jolt of recognition as if it were mental electricity.

"You were a Calani?" Jeremiah asked.

Kelric took a gold armband out of his pocket and handed it to him. "I thought this might answer your questions."

Jeremiah turned the ring over in his hands, and his shock filled the cabin. "You're him." He raised his gaze to Kelric. "You're Sevtar. The one they went to war over."

Sevtar. Kelric hadn't heard the name in a decade. Sevtar was the dawn god of Coban mythology, a giant with gold skin created from sunlight. He strode across the sky, pushing back the night so the goddess Savina could sail out on her giant hawk pulling the sun.

"Actually, my name is Kelric," he said. "They called me Sevtar."

"But you're dead."

Kelric smiled wryly. "I guess no one told me."

"They think you burned to death."

"I escaped during the battle."

"Why let them think you died? Did you hate Coba so much?"

Kelric felt as if a lump lodged in his throat. It was a moment before he could answer. "At times. But it became a home I valued. Eventually one I loved." He extended his hand, and Jeremiah gave him back the armband. Kelric ran his finger over the gold. His memories were too personal to share. He put the ring back into his pocket.

"Some of my Oaths were like yours," Kelric said. "Forced. But I gave the Oath freely to Ixpar Karn. When I swore my loyalty, I meant it." He regarded Jeremiah steadily. "I will protect Ixpar, her people, and her world for as long as it is within my power to do so."

Sweat beaded on Jeremiah's forehead. "Why come for me?"

"It was obvious no one else was going to." Dryly Kelric added, "Your people and mine have been playing this dance of politics for years. You got chewed up in it." He touched his wrist guard. "I spent eighteen years as a Calani. Everything in me went into the Quis. I was a Jagernaut. A fighter pilot. It so affected the dice that the Cobans went to war. I had no intention of leaving you in the Calanya, another cultural time bomb ready to go off."

Jeremiah didn't seem surprised. "You knew Kevtar."

Kelric thought of the man with the Viasa Manager. "He lived at Varz when I was there. Kevtar Jev Ahkah Varz. He called himself Jev back then, because people mixed up our names." As a Third Level, Kevtar would have an additional name, now. Viasa.

"Why did you tell him not to say anything?"

Kelric wondered if he could ever fully answer that question, even for himself. "I don't want my family seeking vengeance against Coba for what happened to me. They think I was a POW all those years. I intend for it to stay that way."

Jeremiah's posture tensed. "Who is your family?"

Kelric suspected Jeremiah would recognize the Skolia name. It was, after all, also the name of an empire. For most of his life, Kelric had used his father's second name because so few people could identify it.

"Valdoria," Kelric said.

A surge of surprise from Jeremiah; he knew the Valdorias were an important family. But nothing more.

"Maybe someday I can return," Kelric said. "But not now. I don't want Ixpar dragged into Skolian politics unless I'm secure enough in my own position to make sure neither she nor Coba comes to harm." Wryly he added, "And believe me, if Ixpar knew I was alive, she would become involved."

"Coban women are—" Jeremiah reddened. "Well, they certainly aren't tentative."

Indeed. It was an apt description of Coba's passionate warrior queens. "No, they aren't." He couldn't bring himself to ask more about Ixpar; he didn't want to hear if she had remarried.

"I thought I would never see my home again," Jeremiah said.

"Your rescue has a price." Kelric thought of his children, those miracles he had never revealed to anyone outside Coba's protected sphere. "If you renege, you'll face the anger of my family. And myself."

Jeremiah regarded him steadily. "I'll never reveal you were on Coba."

"Good." No matter who might claim it was impossible over such distances, Kelric could sense his children through Kyle space like a distant song. They were content. And safe.

"But how do I explain my escape?" Jeremiah asked.

"It's remarkable," Kelric said. "You managed to fly a rider to the port on your own." He motioned at the controls. "I've entered the necessary records and had the port send a message to Manager Viasa, supposedly from you."

"So she will tell the same story?"

"Yes."

Jeremiah spoke softly. "I'll miss her."

Kelric thought of Ixpar. "Coban women do have that effect." He squinted at Jeremiah. "Gods only know why. They are surely exasperating."

Jeremiah laughed softly. "Yes."

Kelric hesitated. "There is a favor I would ask of you."

"A favor?"

"I should like to play Calanya Quis again."

The youth sat up straighter, as if Kelric had offered him a gift instead of dice with someone who hadn't done the game properly for ten years. "I would like that."

Kelric pulled a table-panel between their seats as Jeremiah untied his pouch from his belt. The youth rolled out a jeweled set similar to Kelric's, though with fewer dice. Soon they were deep in a session, their structures glittering. Kelric saw right away why Manager Viasa had wanted the youth's contract even though Jeremiah had never formally trained for a Calanya. His Quis had clarity and purity. He made creative moves. Kelric had no problem anticipating them; for all Jeremiah's talent, he had a long way to go before he mastered his gifts. Kelric could have turned his game around, upside down, and inside out. But he didn't. He didn't want to discourage the youth.

With subtle pressure from Kelric's Quis, Jeremiah built patterns of his first years on Coba. During the day he worked in Dahl, a city lower in the mountains, and at night he wrote his doctoral thesis. He considered it an idyllic life. He never had a clue Manager Viasa noticed him during her visits to Dahl. Except, of course, when it was too late.

After a while, Kelric realized Jeremiah was trying to draw him out, too. So he let his life evolve into the dice. Twenty-eight years ago, his fighter had crashed in the Teotecs. The previous Dahl manager rescued him. Ixpar had been visiting Dahl then, a fiery-haired child of fourteen. Kelric later learned it was Ixpar who had argued that they save his life, though it would violate the Restriction.

However, they never intended to let him go. He had tried to escape, but his internal biomech was injured, and it had damaged his brain. He lost control of his neurological links while fighting his guards and killed one of them even as he tried to stop it from happening. He had crippled his own mind to save the others.

The Cobans were terrified that if he did escape, ISC would exact retribution against their world that would make the guard's death look like nothing. They were right. They should have executed him. Instead they sent him to the prison at Haka Estate. What swayed the Minister to let him live? The arguments of her fourteen-year-old successor. Ixpar.

"Good Lord," Jeremiah murmured. "I never learned any of this in Dahl."

Kelric lifted his head. "I doubt they wanted it in your doctoral thesis."

The youth regarded him with a look Kelric had seen too often here, an awed gaze that embarrassed him. "The way you play Quis is extraordinary. And you were holding back. A lot."

Kelric shifted in his seat. "It's nothing."

Jeremiah made an incredulous noise. "That's like saying a supernova is nothing compared to a candle."

His face gentled. "Your Quis is far more than a candle."

"Do you miss Calanya Quis?"

"Every day of my life."

"Perhaps you and I—?"

Kelric wondered what Jeremiah would do when he realized he had just asked the Imperator to play dice with him. No matter. It was a good suggestion. But unrealistic.

"Perhaps," Kelric said, though he knew it wouldn't happen.

"You know," Jeremiah said thoughtfully. "It could work in reverse."

Reverse? "What?" Kelric asked.

"Quis. We worry about Outside influence on Coba, but think how Coba might affect the rest of us." He gathered his dice and poured them into his pouch. "They're so peaceful here. Imagine if they let their best dice players loose on all those barbaric Imperialate warmongers." He froze, his hand full of jewels. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said—I didn't mean to offend."

"You didn't," Kelric said. In theory, he preferred peace to hostilities, too. In reality, he fully intended to build up ISC; they needed more defenses against the Traders, not less. But he wasn't blind. Jeremiah had reason for his views. Only a thin film covered the Imperialate's conquering soul. That film gleamed, bright and modern, but it could rip all too easily and uncover the darkness under their civilized exteriors.

Could Quis affect that darkness?

V
A Court of Rubies

The world Metropoli boasted the largest starport in settled space. The place was a city, teeming with people and vehicles. Kelric's scout ship went unnoticed in all the tumult, especially with his stratospheric clearances, which invoked veils of security most people had no idea existed.

He used a nano-paste to dull the metallic sheen of his skin and hair, and he donned clothes that made him look overweight. Jeremiah watched with puzzlement, but he didn't push the matter. He would figure out the truth soon enough. Kelric avoided public appearances and news broadcasts when he could, but his likeness was out there on the meshes. If Jeremiah searched on "Kelric Valdoria" and worked hard enough, he would identify his rescuer.

They walked to the gate where Jeremiah would board a transport to Earth. The youth was wearing a blue pullover and "jeans" interwoven with mesh threads. He had purchased them at a store that sold Allied imports. Several women gave him appreciative glances, but no one otherwise paid attention to them. Kelric hid in plain sight.

At the gate, Jeremiah offered his hand. "Thank you for everything."

When Kelric hesitated, Bolt thought, Remember? Put your hand in his and move it up and down.

Oh. That's right. He clasped Jeremiah's hand and shook until Jeremiah winced. Embarrassed, Kelric let go. He sometimes forgot to moderate his strength.

"You're sure you have enough funds?" he asked.

"You've been incredibly generous," Jeremiah said. "You must let me pay you back."

"It's nothing." Kelric didn't know the value of what he had given Jeremiah. He could multiply the amount by a million and it would still be insignificant to his estate. At least, that would be true for one hundred and nine days. After that, he would be officially dead and Ixpar would be very, very rich.

A female voice spoke from the air. "Mister Coltman, please board the shuttle. We are ready to leave."

Jeremiah swung his new smart-pack over his shoulder and smiled at Kelric. "Good-bye. And good luck."

Kelric inclined his head. "You also."

After Jeremiah boarded, Kelric stood at a window-wall and watched the shuttle take off. Good-bye, he thought, to Jeremiah and to Quis. But an idea was lurking in his mind. It had hidden in his subconscious, and now it crept into his thoughts like mist, blurring the outlines of his reality.

Had the time come to stop hiding Coba?

* * *

When Kelric visited the world Parthonia, he stayed at the Sunrise Palace. It was built of golden stone, with arched colonnades. Trees shaded its wings, silver-bell willows and ghost-elms with pale green streamer-leaves that draped from their branches. Three million people lived in Selei City far below, but this region of the mountains was off-limits, except to guests of the Ruby Dynasty. Tomorrow, the Assembly would convene down in the city; tonight, the elite of that legislative body had invaded the palace.

Kelric wore his dress uniform. After many studies, the ISC Protocol experts had designed it from black cloth that glimmered. The sheen seemed superfluous to Kelric, but it thrilled the analysts who charted how his appearance affected the public. The tunic had a dark gold stripe across his chest, and a gold stripe ran up the trousers, which Protocol claimed accented the length of his legs. It wasn't clear to him why anyone would give a buzz in a battleship about the length of his legs, but his opinion had no effect on their efforts. They polished his black knee-boots to a shine and fastened a black belt around his waist, all the time rhapsodizing about how the uniform complimented his physique. It was mortifying.

Kelric put off going downstairs as long as he could, but finally he descended the staircase that swept into the foyer of the Grand Opera Hall. Chandeliers dripped with sunburst crystals, and gold shimmered on the walls. Guests filled the hall, sparkling in their finery. Human servants rather than robots moved among them, carrying platters of drinks or pastries. So much for his mother's "small" dinner party.

As Kelric entered the Hall, he fortified his mental barriers until the emotions of the crowd receded to a bearable pressure. A man carrying a platter of goblets bowed to him. With a self-conscious nod, Kelric took a glass of a gold drink that bubbled. He would have preferred Dieshan pepper whiskey.

A woman in a long green dress was talking to several people nearby. She glanced idly at Kelric, then froze with her drink halfway to her lips, staring at him. It was odd. He lived here, after all. They were attending an affair hosted by the Ruby Dynasty; seeing a member of that dynasty shouldn't elicit that much surprise.

Everyone in her group was staring at him now. They bowed, all except the woman, who kept gaping. Then she jerked and bowed as well, her face flushed. Bewildered, Kelric nodded formally to them and kept going.

After he passed the group, he glanced down at himself. Nothing looked wrong, and he didn't think he had done anything strange. He eased down his defenses to search for clues, but the pressure against his mind increased, and his head throbbed. The moods of his guests swirled, too many to distinguish. It was a soup of emotions flavored by anticipation, curiosity, jealousy, avarice, boredom, and sensuality. Ill at ease, he reinforced his barriers until it all receded.

"I haven't seen you at one of these things in ages," a man drawled.

Kelric tensed and turned around. Admiral Ragnar Bloodmark stood there, idly holding a goblet of blood-red wine. Tall and lean, with sharp features, he had an aura of menace, as if he were ready to strike. His dark coloring evoked a lord of the Skolian noble Houses, but his grandfather had actually come from a place called Scandinavia on Earth. Ragnar was a Skolian citizen, however. His impressive military record and seniority should have made him the top choice to head the Imperial Fleet. Kelric had never trusted him, though, which was why he had promoted Chad Barzun instead. He doubted Ragnar would ever forgive him that decision.

Although Ragnar bowed, he somehow made the gesture mocking. Kelric had always wondered how he managed that, following imperial protocols to the letter, yet projecting disdain rather than respect. Kelric didn't care; he had never felt any need to have people bow to him.

"My greetings, Admiral." Kelric kept his voice neutral.

"And mine." Ragnar watched him closely. "So you will attend the Assembly in person this time."

"I imagine so." Kelric wondered if Ragnar was probing for clues about his vote. The admiral was a Technologist. Although Ragnar had supported Dehya's coup, Kelric had no illusions about his motives. He helped her for two reasons, the first being because he thought she could win. He hid his second, but as an empath Kelric knew. Ragnar coveted the title of Ruby Consort for the power that came with it. That Dehya already had a consort didn't deter him. Kelric had no proof Ragnar had contemplated assassinating her husband, nor would any tribunal accept empathic impressions as evidence; even if a way existed to verify them, they were too vague. But he had no intention of trusting the admiral.

"Your mother is lovely tonight," Ragnar was saying.

Distracted, Kelric followed his gaze. Roca was across the hall in a sleeveless blue gown, talking with several councilors, her gold hair piled elegantly on her head. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and dangled from her ears. One man was paying far too close attention to her, and Kelric didn't think his interest had anything to do with politics. He hated it when men noticed her that way. They were intruding on his father's memory.

"You're talkative," Ragnar said. A laconic smile curved his lips. "As always."

Deal with it, Kelric told himself. All Ragnar had done was compliment her. He motioned at the crowd. "They glitter tonight. But tomorrow in Assembly will be a different story."

"The ballot on your father's votes comes up, doesn't it?"

Kelric shrugged. "Votes on the hereditary seats come up every year." He eased down his barriers so he could do his own probe of the admiral. "And always fail."

"Perhaps not this time." Ragnar had worked with Ruby psions for decades and knew how to shield his mind. He also wasn't an empath, which meant Kelric couldn't receive impressions from him as well as from a psion. Although Kelric felt his ambivalence, he couldn't tell if it was because Ragnar wasn't certain how to vote or because he doubted the vote would succeed.

"It would be unfortunate for our party if the vote passed," Kelric said.

Ragnar gave an incredulous snort. "It's ridiculous that a technology party supports hereditary rule within a democracy."

Kelric cocked an eyebrow. "Ridiculous?" Ragnar wasn't the only one to make that assertion, not by far, but most didn't say it to Kelric's face. He saw their point perfectly well, but he had no intention of giving up his power.

"I apologize if I gave offense," Ragnar said.

Kelric doubted he felt the least bit apologetic. He sipped his drink. "It's only half a democracy."

"So it is." A sharp image came from Ragnar's mind, his memory of Dehya in the command chair of an ISC flag ship while a million vessels gathered in support of her coup. He had helped put her there despite his objections to her throne. His motives were purely self-interested; her ascendancy worked to his advantage if he backed her. However, he had no wish to support Roca's moderating voice in the Assembly. He wanted to conquer the Traders. Period.

Kelric's head ached from the flood of moods in the room. He raised his shields, and the onslaught faded enough that he could endure it again.

A woman spoke at his side, her voice rich with the Iotic accent of the nobility. "So what are you two plotting?"

Kelric turned with a jerk, even more edgy now. Naaj Majda had joined them. At six-foot-five, she commanded attention. Gold braid glinted on her dark green uniform, and her belt had the Majda insignia tooled into it, a hawk with wings spread. Iron-gray streaked her black hair; she was almost eighty, but she looked fifty. As General of the Pharaoh's Army, she served as one of his four joint commanders. She was also the Matriarch of the House of Majda and a ranking member of the Royalist Party. In the interim after the war, following the death of Kelric's sister but before Kelric had assumed command of ISC, Naaj had acted as Imperator.

She was also his sister-in-law.

Ragnar bowed to Naaj in perfect style and managed to make it even more sardonic than with Kelric. "My greetings, General." He raised his glass to her. "Oh, my apologies. You prefer the dynastic address, yes? Your Highness."

Naaj cocked an eyebrow at him. "Apology accepted." She knew perfectly well he was baiting her.

Kelric nodded to Naaj, and she nodded back, both of them excruciatingly formal. The House of Majda was the most powerful noble line, and thousands of years ago they had been royalty in their own right. Now their empire was financial, with holdings vast and lucrative. They had served the Pharaoh's Army since before the Ruby Empire and provided many of ISC's top officers.

Over forty years ago, Kelric had wed Naaj's sister—and lost her soon after to assassination. After the Radiance War, when Kelric had shown up to claim his title as Imperator, he had feared Naaj would refuse to relinquish either the title or the substantial Majda assets he had inherited from her sister. As Matriarch, however, she was honor bound to protect the widower of the former Matriarch. If not for that kin-bond, he wasn't so sure she wouldn't have tried to depose him.

She spoke with impeccable courtesy. "Your House does honor to your guests, Your Highness."

Well, that was safe. He gave a safe response. "We value the honor of your presence." He eased down his barriers, but Naaj was guarding her mind, and she blocked him.

"We were discussing my father's votes," Kelric said.

She inclined her head. "His memory lives with esteem."

He returned the gesture. That seemed the extent of their ability to relate tonight: nods and platitudes. At least she spoke with respect. Kelric's father had been a farmer, which had appalled the Royalist Party. Personally, Kelric would far rather spend his time on a farm than in the royal court, but he could hardly tell Naaj that, not if he wanted her votes.

"We venerate his noble memory," Ragnar told Naaj, his eyes glinting.

"So we do." Naaj's expression remained neutral despite his use of "noble" for a farmer. Kelric wondered why Ragnar bothered trying to bait her. No one could fluster Naaj.

As Naaj and Ragnar parried with barbs disguised as small talk, Kelric studied them. Maybe Ragnar provoked Naaj more than she let on. Her shields slipped, and Kelric sensed her mood with unexpected detail. She intended to back him tomorrow even if he counseled peace. She preferred action against the Traders, but she would follow his recommendations even if her House wished otherwise—because she respected his judgment.

That floored him. She sure as hell hadn't felt that way when he assumed command of ISC. As the head of a conservative House, she followed ancient customs from a time when men were property and kept in seclusion. Modern Skolia had an egalitarian culture, and Naaj was too savvy to let her personal views destroy her career. She knew she had to deal with him as Imperator. But she had obviously doubted his leadership ten years ago. He hadn't realized how much had changed since then.

And you? Kelric asked himself. Don't you see Coba the same way Naaj used to see you? He had never considered it in that light before.

"Good gods," a dusky voice said. "Kelric, what have you gotten into, caught by these two?" A woman with dark eyes and night-black hair was strolling up to them. Her glistening red gown could have been painted onto her prodigiously well-toned body. Ruby balls dangled from her ears, and her ruby necklace was probably worth more than a fully armed Starslammer warship.

Naaj gave the woman a dour look. "You're out of uniform, Primary Majda."

"So I am, Cousin." The woman, Vazar Majda, smiled lazily, with the ease of someone who was both off-duty and out of Naaj's line of command. A former fighter pilot, Vazar now served in the upper echelons of the Jagernaut-Force.

Ragnar bowed to Vazar, and this time he even looked as if he meant it. He raised his goblet. "You're stunning tonight, Primary Majda."

"Thank you, Admiral," Vazar said. With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she grasped Kelric's arm. "I'm stealing this golden apparition." Then she dragged him away.

Laughing, Kelric tried to extricate his arm. "Vaz, you'll give people ideas about us."

"Oh, they'll get them anyway." She drew him through an alcove and onto a balcony above the palace gardens. Out in the balmy night air, she closed the doors and sagged against the wall. "Gods, I thought I was going to suffocate in there. How can you stand these parties?"

He leaned against the wall and smirked. "That's a good question. The place is teeming with my sisters-in-law."

"Given all the brothers you have, that's no surprise." Her smile faded. "Had."

Kelric's mood dimmed. He had lost a sister and a brother in the Radiance War. Soz and Althor. Althor had been married to Vazar.

"Ragnar is right," he said, offering her a less painful subject. "You could be a lethal weapon in that dress."

Mischief returned to her eyes. "What about you, eh? Roca's greatest weapon, her gorgeous, powerful, bachelor son."

"ISC needs an entire protocol division to make me look this way." Grinning, he added, "We should set them loose on the Trader emperor. He'll surrender just to make them go away."

Vazar's laugh rumbled. "I imagine so." Then she said, "Roca wants you to sway votes."

He couldn't let that opening go by. "What votes?"

"That's why we're all here, isn't it? If the Assembly eliminates your father's votes, your mother loses power."

Well, that was blunt. It was one reason he liked Vazar; she didn't play at intrigue. He eased down his barriers. It wasn't as painful out here, where distance and several walls muted the onslaught from the Opera Hall. He probed at her mind.

"The drawbridge is up and the moat full of sea monsters," Vazar said. "You can't come in."

He squinted at her. "What?"

"You've a luminous, powerful mind, Kelric, but subtlety was never your strong point. Quit snooping."

He lifted his goblet to her. "I was knocking at the door."

She stood against the wall, facing him, curved and deadly in her glittering red dress. "If you want to know how I plan to vote, the answer is 'I don't know.'"

Damn. Her Assembly seat was hereditary. How could she not know her position on a ballot that jeopardized her own votes?

"I didn't realize a question existed," he said.

"I'm not Naaj. There's a reason I'm a Technologist instead of a Royalist." She shook her head. "If anyone should wield those votes, it's Roca. But should we concentrate so much power in unelected seats? Even without them, she's one of the most influential councilors in the Assembly."

Kelric's voice cooled. "That's right. She earned it through election."

"No one elected her to your father's votes."

"Better her than anyone else."

"Why should anyone have them?"

Instead of answering directly, Kelric said, "I won't deny I want vengeance against the Traders for all they've done to us."

"You should want it."

He spoke quietly. "My mother lost two sons and a daughter in the Radiance War. The Traders captured and tortured her husband, several of her children, and herself. She more than any of us should hate them. And believe me, she's capable of it." He knew Roca's darker side, the anger and bitterness she wrestled with, but when she walked into the Assembly Hall, she put it behind her. "Yet she counsels peace, now that we have a Trader emperor who claims he will negotiate with us."

"She's an invaluable voice of moderation," Vazar said. "But if we reaffirm that power for Roca, what happens when the next person wants it? And the next?" Her gaze hardened, reflecting the pilot who had become infamous in battle. "And maybe moderation is the wrong counsel."

He couldn't argue. Sometimes, when his anger or grief became too great, he wanted to send ISC to destroy the Traders, even knowing his forces and theirs were too evenly matched to ensure any outcome but misery.

"If we don't negotiate peace," he said, as much to himself as to Vazar, "this hostility will never end. Do you want a thousand years of war?"

Vazar pushed back her hair. "No." She stared down at the gardens. "Have you talked to Brant?"

He followed her gaze. In the garden below, Brant Tapperhaven was walking with a woman. As head of the J-Force, Brant was another of Kelric's joint commanders. Like most Jagernauts, he had a fierce streak of independence, and he also abhorred the idea of inherited votes. Kelric was glad he didn't hold an Assembly seat; Brant might have gone against him tomorrow.

"We've discussed it," Kelric said, and left it at that.

"Who is that girl with him?" Vaz asked.

"I don't know." He watched the couple stroll under colored lamps strung from silver-bell willows. The woman was lovely with her dark hair and sensual grace. She reminded Kelric of Rashiva, the Manager of Haka Estate on Coba. Haka ran the prison where they had sent Kelric after his escape attempt. He had spent one of the worst years of his life there. Then Rashiva made had him her Calani. He had never been certain what happened; he knew only that the power of his Quis at Haka had alarmed the Minister who ruled Coba. Haka Estate was an antagonist of the Ministry; Kelric's former Estate, Dahl, was the Ministry's strongest ally. Within a year, the Minister had pardoned him and he was back at Dahl.

He never saw Rashiva again. But seven months later, Rashiva had given birth to a son. Caught in the volatile politics of that time, she had claimed it was another man's child, born prematurely. Rumors spread about the remarkable color of the boy's violet eyes, a color never seen on Coba. None of them knew Kelric's father also had violet eyes.

Something was building within Kelric, something ten years in coming. He kept hearing Jeremiah's words: They're so peaceful here. Imagine if they let their top dice players loose on all those barbaric Imperialate warmongers.

Watching the woman in the garden, he spoke quietly. "She looks like my ex-wife." It was the first time he had mentioned anything of his life on Coba to any Skolian. It felt as if alarms should blare or bells toll.

"You think so?" Vaz peered at the woman. "Corey wasn't that beautiful." She flushed and quickly added, "I mean no offense to her memory."

"I know," Kelric said. "None taken."

She gave him an odd look. "Why would you call my cousin Corey your ex-wife? You two were married when she died."

Softly he said, "I wasn't talking about Corey."

"Who else could you mean?"

Ten years of caution, ten years of silence: he couldn't break it so easily.

"We should go back inside," he said.

Vaz was watching him intently. "All right."

For now she let it go. But he knew her silence wouldn't last.

VI
The Gold Die

People overflowed the Amphitheater of Memories where the Assembly met. Tiers of seats rose for hundreds of levels; above them, balconies held yet more people. Delegates filled the amphitheater, and images glowed at the VR benches where offworld members attended through the Kyle web. Controlled pandemonium reigned as thousands conferred, bargained, and argued, all the gathered powers of an empire struggling to accommodate the contradictions and conflicts of a government that was both dynastic rule and a democracy.

Kelric sat at the Imperator's bench with his aides, and also with Najo, Axer, and Strava standing on duty. They hadn't stopped scowling since they discovered he had taken his "vacation" with no guards.

A dais was rising in the amphitheater's center. The Councilor of Protocol sat at a console there, preparing to call the vote. Tikal, First Councilor of the Assembly, the elected leader of the Imperialate, stood at a podium, and Dehya was standing closer to Protocol. On principle, Kelric would have preferred Dehya attend through the web; that way, his people could protect her even better than the stratospheric level of security he already wrapped around her. But he knew why she came in person. Although she was one of the savviest people here, her waif-like face and small size made her look fragile. It inspired protective instincts in people and helped counterbalance his presence, which many people found alarmingly militaristic.

The session had started only an hour ago, and already the debate regarding his mother's voting bloc was done. Few speakers had commented. Those who did, including Naaj Majda, orated eloquently in Roca's favor. The lack of counterarguments didn't fool Kelric. No one wanted to speak openly against the Ruby Dynasty. Unfortunately, their reluctance only went so far; it wouldn't stop most of them from voting against her even in an open ballot. He could see Roca on his screens. She sat across the amphitheater, relaxed at her console with a composure that he doubted came easy today.

The number of votes held by a delegate depended on the size and status of the populations that elected them, or in the case of hereditary seats, on the power of the family. The Ruby Pharaoh and First Councilor held the largest blocs. The next largest went to Kelric, then the Councilors of the Inner Circle: Stars, Intelligence, Foreign Affairs, Finance, Industry, Judiciary, Life, Planetary Development, Domestic Affairs, Nature, and Protocol.

Protocol spoke into her comm. "Calling the vote."

The words flashed on Kelric's screen. They also came over the audio system, but they were almost lost with all the noise. Protocol waited while people quieted. Then she said, "The measure is this: The voting bloc of the Web Key should cease to exist until another Web Key ascends to the Triad. A vote of Yea supports abolishing the bloc; a vote of Nay opposes the measure."

She called the roll then, starting with the lowest-ranked delegates, those with the fewest votes. Their names appeared on Kelric's screen, their Yea or Nay, and the number of votes they carried. The overall tally showed on a large holoscreen above the dais.

Bolt, Kelric thought. Project the outcome based on the current tally and your expectations for delegates who haven't yet voted.

Your mother will lose, Bolt answered.

Damn. At the moment, the tally favored Roca. Most noble Houses had already cast their ballots, though, and they supported her. Ragnar's name came up—and he voted against her. Kelric gritted his teeth as her edge shrank. The vote continued inexorably, and when it turned against her, murmurs rolled through the hall. Kelric heard a snap, and a sharp pain stabbed his palm. Startled, he looked down. He had gripped the console so hard, a switch had broken and jabbed his hand.

"Cardin Taymor," Protocol called.

Kelric glanced up, at a loss to recognize the name.

She's new, Bolt thought. From Metropoli. Given her record in their Assembly, she will undoubtedly go against Councilor Roca. He accessed Kelric's optic nerve and produced an image of Taymor. Kelric blinked; she was the woman who had done a double take when he walked into the Grand Opera Hall last night.

His screen flashed with Taymor's vote: Nay.

Hah! Kelric grinned. You calculated wrong.

Perhaps I had too little data. Bolt paused. Or maybe your protocol analysts know what they are doing better than you think. She did seem taken with you.

Dryly Kelric thought, Thanks for your confidence in my intellect.

Voices rumbled in the amphitheater; apparently Bolt wasn't the only one who had misjudged Taymor's intent. Coming from the most heavily populated world in the Imperialate, she wielded an impressive bloc. The tally swung back in favorof Roca.

Update, Bolt thought. I now project you will win.

Kelric exhaled. The broken switch fell out of his hand and clattered onto the console.

As the vote continued, the tally fluctuated, but remained in Roca's favor. Two of Kelric's brothers had attended: Eldrin, his oldest sibling and the Ruby Consort; and Denric, who had earned a doctorate in literature and now taught children on the world Sandstorm. Both voted with Roca, and she cast proxies for Kelric's other siblings, also in her favor.

Then Protocol said, "Vazar Majda."

Across the amphitheater, the Majda queens were sitting at their consoles, tall and aristocratic. Just their women held Assembly seats; even in this modern age, they followed ancient customs that allowed only their women to inherit power.

When Earth's people had finally discovered the Imperialate, they had scandalized the noble matriarchs of Skolia. Apparently on Earth, men had historically held more power than women. The matriarchs claimed this was why it took Earth's people so long to reach the stars. They asserted that if women had been in charge, Earth would have achieved that pinnacle of development thousands of years earlier. Their arguments conveniently ignored the fact that their ancestors had developed star travel because they had starships to study.

Earth's annoyed males had responded by pointing out that Earth had achieved a far greater degree of peace than the Imperialate, which surely had to do with the fact that bellicose, aggressive women had been in charge of the Imperialate rather than peaceful men. Naaj Majda hadn't understood why Kelric found this so funny. She even acknowledged the Earth men had a point. Kelric told her to go read Earth's military history.

By the time Earth and Skolia discovered each other, both had evolved toward equality, though men still tended to hold more power on Earth and women more among the Skolians. The Traders had always been egalitarian; they enslaved everyone equally, male and female alike.

The way the Majda queens secluded their princes reminded Kelric of a Calanya. He had lived in over half of Coba's cities, yet he knew almost nothing about them, for he had spent his entire time in seclusion. He had never done anything as simple as buy a sausage at market. They had imprisoned him in luxury as if he were a ruby die locked in a treasure box, withholding something far more precious than all the wealth they lavished on him—his freedom.

Protocol's words came over the audio system. "Vazar Majda, does your console have a problem?"

With a start, Kelric realized Vazar hadn't voted.

Her answer came over the audio. "No problem."

"Please place your vote," Protocol said.

Why isn't she responding? Kelric asked Bolt. He could see her arguing with Naaj.

I don't know, Bolt thought. However, my projection of your win assumes the Majdas will support you.

He didn't believe Vazar would go against them. But she had worried him last night.

"Vazar Majda, you must respond," Protocol said.

The buzz of conversation in the amphitheater died away. Such a wait was unprecedented. Then Kelric's console flashed—like a punch to the gut.

Yea.

Gasps came from all over as the tally swung solidly against Roca. Naaj's face was thunderous. Protocol called her next, and her adamant Nay negated Vazar's effect. Then the Inner Circle voted—and doubled the tally against Roca. Roca went next and took a huge bite out of their gains.

"Kelric Valdoria," Protocol said.

He stabbed in his answer, and it flared on his screen. Nay. The tally careened toward a balance, almost evening the sides.

Two voters remained: the Ruby Pharaoh and First Councilor. Their blocs were almost identical, but Dehya had a few more votes—because she had staged the coup that deposed Tikal. Her decision to rule jointly with him had been contingent on those extra votes, and with them the ability to break a deadlock.

"First Councilor Tikal," Protocol said.

His answer appeared: Yea. The tally shifted firmly to his side, and the amphitheater went silent as if the Assembly were holding its collective breath.

"Dyhianna Selei," Protocol said.

Dehya's vote flashed: Nay.

The tally careened back toward Roca's side. When it finished, the result glowed in large red letters above the amphitheater.

By a mere six votes, Roca had lost.

* * *

Kelric brooded in the Corner Room, a hexagonal alcove removed from the amphitheater. Someone had shoved a divan into a corner, so he sat on it with his back against the wall and his legs outstretched. A line of blue and white glyphs bordered the wall at shoulder height, more artwork than words.

Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. He was clenching his Quis pouch, and dice poked his hand through the cloth. He told himself that today's vote didn't matter. If anything, it strengthened his position as Imperator. But he feared it presaged an even more intransigent Assembly and a future of hostilities with the Traders, the Allieds, even his own people.

A creak broke the silence. As Kelric opened his eyes, the antique door across the room swung inward on old-style hinges designed for aesthetics rather than practicality. A slender man with curly blond hair stood looking at him. Beyond him, Kelric's bodyguards were talking to another bodyguard in black leathers. Kelric's visitor came in and closed the door.

"My greetings, Deni," Kelric said.

"It's good to see you," his brother said.

Kelric felt the same way. He saw Denric only a few times a year. When had that streak of grey appeared in his brother's hair? Denric had always seemed young, though he was a decade older than Kelric. Perhaps it was his boyish face or small size compared to his towering brothers. Or maybe it was his idealism, his belief he could bring about a more peaceful universe by schooling young people. Kelric suspected the universe would resist tranquility regardless of how well its inhabitants educated themselves, but that had never decreased his admiration for his brother. Denric had taken a teaching post that paid almost nothing in an impoverished community and dedicated his life and personal resources to its youth.

His brother settled into an upholstered chair and swung his feet up on the footstool. "Well, that wascertainly a rout."

"We only lost by six votes," Kelric said. "That hardly qualifies as a rout." Not that it made him feel any better.

Denric considered him for long enough to make Kelric uncomfortable. Then Denric said, "I suppose for you, it has advantages."

"You think I wanted that to happen?"

"It supports you." Denric's voice was atypically cool. "It will help you continue to build up the military beyond our needs and increase ISC control over our people."

Kelric couldn't believe he was hearing this from his own brother. "You ought to know me better than that."

"I thought I did. But sometimes it seems like I hardly know you at all. You've become so focused on ISC, people are comparing you to Kurj."

Kelric stared at him. People had called Kurj a dictator. Yes, Kelric physically resembled him. Even their names were similar. But he had little else in common with his half-brother.

"If I don't build up ISC," Kelric said, "the Traders will conquer us. Then we'll all be slaves."

Denric gave him an incredulous look. "So you need military threats against our own people?"

"Of course not."

"Which is why all our own worlds have such a strong ISC presence."

"It's to protect them." Kelric eased down his mental shields. We have to be ready. If the Traders attacked today, we would lose.

Denric's cultured thoughts came into his mind. I had heard nothing of our situation being that bad.

It is hardly something I want to broadcast.

Then why don't they attack us?

They probably don't know they can win. After a moment, Kelric added, Or maybe this emperor of theirs genuinely desires peace.

Maybe. Denric didn't hide his doubt.

Kelric's head throbbed from the contact. Releasing the link, he shielded his mind and exhaled as the ache in his temples receded. He didn't know how psions had survived without the ability to raise shields. The onslaught of emotions could drive a person insane.

The geneticist Rhon had developed the shielding techniques centuries ago. He also developed genetic modifications that would reroute the pain signals an empath received to areas of the brain that didn't process empathic input. He sought to ease their intense sensitivity to such signals.

That well-meant plan became one of the worst failures in history.

Rhon had inadvertently created the Aristos, a race of anti-empaths. When an Aristo detected pain from a psion, it activated pleasure centers of the Aristo's brain, producing ecstasy. Aristos were sadists. They craved psions with single-minded obsession and enslaved them with no remorse.

Kelric thought of his only face-to-face meeting with the Trader Emperor, Jaibriol III. He had felt certain Jaibriol was an empath, though Aristos supposedly lacked the "contaminating" genes that created a psion. The youth protected his mind well; only a Ruby psion would have guessed. But if his people ever suspected, his life would become hell. Maybe this emperor had reasons no one expected for wanting connections with Skolia.

The door opened again, framing Dehya in its archway. Yet more black-clad bodyguards had gathered outside, dwarfing her delicate form. They were the human components in the myriad of defenses that protected the dynasty, especially the Dyad.

"Well." Denric pulled himself out of his chair. "I'll leave you two to talk."

A smile touched Dehya's face. "My greetings, Deni."

He swept her a gallant bow. Court etiquette didn't require it with his own family, but he always treated Dehya that way. Straightening up, he winked at her. "Don't intimidate my little brother."

Her laugh was musical. "I'll try not to terrorize him."

After Denric left, closing the door, Kelric smiled at his aunt. "I'm quaking in my boots."

Dehya dropped into the chair, taking up much less of it than Denric had done. "Roca isn't happy."

That had to be an understatement of magnificent proportions. "She's still one of the most influential voices in the Assembly."

Dehya regarded him wearily. "It isn't only the vote. She believes Vazar betrayed us. She used words that—well, let's just say it was language my sister the diplomat rarely employs."

"I don't blame her." Yet for all his anger, Kelric knew Vazar too well to call her decision a betrayal. "Vaz follows her conscience, not anyone's political agenda."

The door slammed open and Roca stalked into the room. "She dishonored him." She closed the door with a thud. "She inherited Althor's votes and now she disrespects his memory."

"I doubt she thinks so," Dehya said.

"Why aren't you angry?" Roca demanded.

Dehya grimaced. "I'm worn out with being angry. It seems to be a constant state where the Assembly is concerned."

Roca scowled at Kelric.

"What?" Kelric asked.

"First Denric, then Dehya, now me. What is this, we must come to petition the mighty Imperator?"

"Why are you angry at me?" he asked.

"You spoke to Vaz last night."

"I speak to Vaz all the time."

"Did you encourage her to change the vote?"

"You think I plotted this with her?"

"Did you?"

"No." He barely controlled his surge of anger. "I can't believe you would even ask."

"Her vote benefits you."

"For flaming sakes," Kelric said. "If I had wanted to vote for the damn ballot, I would have."

"Having Vaz do it makes her the traitor," Roca said. Her mental tap came at his mind. Kelric?

He crossed his arms and strengthened his mental shields.

Kelric, come on. Her thought barely leaked through.

She wanted to talk? Fine. He lowered his barriers and let his anger blast out. You have no business accusing me.

Roca took a startled step back and her face paled. But her thought didn't waver. I know.

So why the bloody hell say it?

It was Dehya who answered. We think someone has compromised security.

You're testing it?

Roca winced at the force of his thought. Yes, she thought. Testing to see if rumors spread of strife within the Ruby Dynasty.

He didn't believe her. He was the one who oversaw security. If they trusted him, they would have told him. Why didn't you warn me? This time, though, he moderated the power of his thought.

We had to make it convincing, Roca thought.

She had a point; he was a terrible actor. But she was testing him, too, regardless of what she claimed. He gave her a dour look. Did you ask Denric to challenge me, too?

Surprise came from her mind. No. I didn't.

Although that troubled Kelric, he knew Denric had never been easy with the military. The problem isn't Vazar. The Assembly doesn't like our hereditary seats. If they could remove them all, they would.

Roca crossed her arms. I can't believe they still expect us to do the Promenade.

Kelric couldn't either, but he had always felt that way. Every seven years, the Assembly asked the Houses to walk in a ceremonial promenade. The public loved it, which was why the Assembly promoted the whole business, because it inspired the public to love them, too.

We can refuse, he thought.

I'd like to. Roca uncrossed her arms. But it would make us look bad. She resumed pacing. I need to talk to Councilor Tikal.

Dehya glanced at Kelric with a slight smile. I think we should let her loose on the Assembly to work her magic.

Maybe she'll convince them to take another vote. Aloud, in case someone actually was eavesdropping, he added, "If you believe I plotted with Vaz, you should, uh, leave." He almost winced at his lousy acting. A swirl of amusement came from Dehya.

"Very well," Roca said. "I will." With that, she swept out of the room. In the wake of her departure, the chamber seemed smaller.

Dehya sat back in her chair. "She won't stay angry."

Kelric just shrugged. He was still simmering.

"I spoke to Vaz before I came here," Dehya added.

He hadn't caught that from her mind. He always kept his shields partially up when he mind-spoke with her, though. She had more mental finesse than he would ever manage, and he didn't want her to learn too much from him.

"About the vote?" he asked.

"She didn't want to discuss it," Dehya said. "I think she's as upset with herself as we are."

Kelric scowled. "That didn't stop her from doing it."

She told me something peculiar, Dehya thought.

Wary, he let her see only the surface of his mind. Peculiar how?

Her answer had an odd stillness. That you had an ex-wife.

Kelric was suddenly aware of the dice pouch in his hand. He shored up his mental defenses, and Dehya's thought came to him as though it were muffled. I thought Trader empathic slaves were forbidden to marry.

They are.

Then how could you have had a wife?

He couldn't respond.

Kelric? Dehya asked.

His thought came like a shadow stretching out as the sun sunk to the horizon. I wasn't with the Traders all those eighteen years.

Neither her posture nor her face betrayed surprise, but it crackled in her mind, not from what he told her, but because he finally admitted what she had always suspected. He couldn't explain. The words wouldn't come. So he formed the image of a woman. It wasn't Rashiva Haka, his ex-wife. Instead, he showed her the woman he had married later.

Savina.

She had brought sun into his life. She laughed often, and her yellow hair framed an angelic face. She stood only as tall as his chest, but that never stopped her from doing outrageous things to him: climbing the tower where he lived and hanging on a rope while she proclaimed her love; kidnapping him up to a ruined fortress; getting him drunk so she could compromise his honor in all sorts of intriguing ways. Somewhere in all that, their play had turned to love, and it had changed him forever.

Kelric couldn't bear the memory. He hid it deep in his mind.

"Saints almighty," Dehya murmured. "What happened to you?"

He just shook his head.

After a silence, she said, "Do you want to be alone?"

He nodded, staring at his dice pouch. He heard her leaving. He looked up just as she set her hand on the crystal doorknob.

"Do you remember," Kelric said, "when I asked you to make copies of my dice?"

She turned to him. "I still have them."

"Tonight, at home, will you join me for a game of Quis?"

"Quis?"

He shook his pouch, rattling the dice. "This."

Her posture altered slightly, with a new tension. "I would like that."

He said no more. That had been enough. Maybe too much.

After Dehya left, Kelric poured his dice onto the divan. He picked up the gold ball. He almost never used it. For him, it symbolized one person. Savina. She had been an empath, a mild talent, but she carried every one of the genes. On a planet with primitive medical care, in a place with infant mortality rates higher than on almost any other settled world, Savina had brought an empath into the world, and incredibly, the baby girl had survived the agonizing birth.

Not so for Savina. She had died in Kelric's arms.

On that distant world, protected by the inimitable Hinterland Deployment, a child with gold eyes was growing to adulthood. She had been born of Kelric's greatest sorrow, but she was a treasure, hidden by the Restriction and by the power of one of the greatest military forces known to the human race.

VII
Sunsky Bridge

Dehya sat at the round table with Kelric. He rolled out his dice, and she shook hers out of a box. While the rest of the Assembly slept, celebrated, or brooded, he and Dehya played Quis.

Words had never been his forte, so he showed her the rules instead. He placed a regular tetrahedron—a ruby pyramid—in the center of the table. Then he waited.

Dehya looked from the die to Kelric to the pyramid again. Then she took a gold pentahedron and set it next to his piece.

That surprised him. Did she know she had started a queen's spectrum? She had probably studied records of his solitaire games, trying to figure them out. Building a spectrum against an advanced player was difficult. An augmented queen's spectrum was almost impossible; to his knowledge, he was the only living person who had done it in Calanya Quis.

He set a yellow cube against her die. She placed a green heptahedron. Well, hell. She was making a spectrum. He played an emerald octahedron. "My game."

She looked up at him. "You can win Quis?"

He grinned. "Of course. You're lucky we aren't betting; you would owe me ten times whatever you had risked."

Dehya cocked an eyebrow. "Why should I believe you won?"

Despite her outward skepticism, he could tell she was enjoying herself. It was the advantage of being an empath; it helped him learn gestures, body language, and expressions until interpreting them became second nature. He could read Dehya even when she shielded her mind.

He tapped the line of dice. "These increase according to number of sides and colors of the spectrum. Five make a queen's spectrum. Three of the dice are mine and two are yours. I have advantage. So I win."

"I was helping you, eh? If you start the spectrum, you win no matter what."

"You can block my moves." He took his dice and slid hers across the table. Then he set an amethyst bar in the playing area. "Your move."

"Are we gambling?"

"If you would like."

She laughed softly. "Ah, well, you made up the rules, I don't know them, and you've been playing for decades. I don't think I want to bet." She set her amethyst bar on top of his.

Kelric stared at the bars until he felt her amusement fade to puzzlement. Finally he said, "I didn't make up the rules."

"Who did?" Her voice had a waiting quality.

He set a diamond sphere near the structure. Its flattened bottom kept it from rolling away. "Your move."

She waited a little longer, but when he didn't respond, she said, "Spectrums go by color, yes?"

"That's right."

"And white is all colors, in light."

"Yes." So she had already figured it out. She was going to be formidable at Quis. He wondered if she realized he had represented her with the diamond ball. As the highest ranked piece, it seemed appropriate. Dehya wasn't hard like a diamond, but its implied strength fit her. And the way it refracted light within itself, releasing a spectrum of vivid colors, fit her well.

She set a gold dodecahedron apart from the other dice. Interesting. Although a sphere was the highest-ranked shape, the dodecahedron came next. What did she mean? Possibly nothing. He could never tell with Dehya, though; her complex, evolving mind often startled him.

He set down an onyx ring, one of his symbols for himself. She responded by balancing a jeweled arch so it connected the diamond ball and gold dodecahedron.

Kelric tapped the structure she had built. "That's a sunsky bridge."

"What does it mean?"

"It suggests a cooperative venture."

She indicated the gold dodecahedron. "Roca." Then she touched the diamond ball. "You."

He regarded her curiously. "Why assign names to the dice?"

"I've watched you play. Your structures evolve. It's almost as if they have personalities."

It gratified him that she understood. "They tell stories. Or make the story. The dice shape events as much as portray them."

"I don't see how gambling can spur events." Wryly she added, "Except to lower my credit account."

Kelric waved his hand. "Gambling is for Outsiders. It isn't true Quis." He leaned forward. "Suppose everyone played. Everywhere. Throughout the Imperialate."

She was watching him closely. "And?"

"I put my stories into my Quis. I play dice with other people. My input goes into their Quis. They sit at Quis with others. The better designed my strategies, the more it affects their Quis, and the more they pass on my intentions."

"So your effect spreads."

"Yes."

"And if, say, Vaz Majda played Quis, you might affect her opinions."

Good! She saw. "But other people also input stories. Ragnar might build patterns of war. Councilor Tikal would focus on politics. Naaj would bring in heredity. Their input goes to the public, who all play Quis. Everyone affects the game, but most people don't play well enough to do much beyond accepting, refusing, or transmitting ideas."

Her voice took on a careful quality. "And when everyone is playing Quis, what do you call your world?"

He knew what she was really asking: where he had spent all those years? He gathered his dice and put them in his pouch. "Thank you for the game."

"Who won?"

"Both of us."

"So you and I, we don't gamble."

Calani and Managers never do. But he kept that thought shielded from her. "With you, I would rather work together."

She met his gaze. "So would I."

He stood and bowed. "We will play again."

Dehya rose to her feet. "I hope so." Her thoughts swirled with unasked questions, and he knew if he let down his barriers, they would flood his mind. But she didn't speak. Perhaps she knew he couldn't answer.

Not yet.

VIII
Plaza of Memories

Sunlight filled the city center. Skyscrapers pierced the lavender sky, which had never taken on the bluer hue intended by the world's terraformers. The mirrored buildings reflected clouds as if they were constructed from the sky itself. Kelric strolled in a plaza tiled with blue stone. Government officials walked in pairs and trios across the area, their jumpsuits glossy in the sunshine. Many glanced at Kelric, but they gave him and his heavily armed guards a wide berth.

The beautiful weather contrasted with his mood. He had no desire to attend the Assembly after yesterday's loss, but the sessions continued. At least he could escape during this break. Najo, Axer, and Strava walked with him.

"Nice day," Strava commented.

"It is." Kelric needed say no more. It was one reason he liked these guards. They were as taciturn as he.

He stopped at the plaza's fountain, a jumble of geometric shapes with water cascading over them. It looked like a big pile of wet Quis dice. What would happen if he introduced Quis into Skolian culture? It might be no more than a fad. But he knew it too well to believe that. Quis would fascinate his people: scholars would write papers on it, gaming dens would proliferate, schools would teach it, player conclaves would form. The game was too powerful to fade away.

Maybe it would spread to the Traders. The Coban queens had sublimated their aggression into Quis. He doubted it could affect the Traders as much, but even a small change might get the stalled treaty negotiations back on track.

A silver spark flashed in Kelric's side vision.

Combat mode toggled, Bolt thought.

What the hell? As Kelric spun around, Najo literally shoved him to the ground. Strava and Najo both threw themselves across Kelric as he hit the pavement. Axer stood over them with his feet planted wide, firing, his massive Jumbler clenched in both hands. The gun had to be big; it was a particle accelerator. It carried abitons, the anti-particle of the biton. Electrons consisted of many, many bitons. With a rest energy of 1.9 eV, they produced only orange light when they annihilated abitons—but that was all it took. It was bad enough in the atmosphere; when the beam hit solids, the instability of the mutilated electrons blew apart the material.

Axer swept the beam across the plaza, his speed enhanced, his reflexes powered by the microfusion reactor in his body. Strava and Najo were shooting as well, even as they protected Kelric with their bodies. The air glittered with orange sparks, and where the beams touched ground, it exploded in eye-searing flashes. Debris flew everywhere and dust swirled around the fountain.

Kelric lay with his palms braced on the ground, tensed like a wire drawn taut. He wanted to throw off his guards and vault to his feet; it took a great effort of will to let them do their job. His enhanced vision picked out bullets headed toward him and also their demise in flashes of orange light.

After what seemed an eon, his bodyguards stopped firing. The air had the astringent smell of annihilated bitons. Sirens blared throughout the plaza, and engines rumbled in the sky.

"Imperator Skolia?" Najo asked, getting to his feet. "Are you all right?"

Kelric pushed up on his elbow. "I'm fine. Are we clear?"

"Looks like it," Strava said. She was kneeling over him, her calves on either side of his legs while she surveyed the ruined plaza. Najo scanned the area with his gauntlet monitors, and Axer was speaking into his gauntlet comm.

Kelric stabbed a panel on his own gauntlet. "Major Qahot, what the hell is going on?"

The voice of his security chief came out of the mesh. "The shooters are dead, sir. It doesn't look like they expected to survive."

"Suicide assassins," Kelric said.

"Apparently. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he growled. "I want to know how the hell they got in here." The Assembly drew delegates from all over Skolia. Some attended through the web, but many gathered in Selei City. ISC had ramped up security so high, they should have known if someone a hundred kilometer radius even breathed oddly.

Strava got up, freeing Kelric. He climbed to his feet and spoke quietly to his bodyguards. "Thank you."

Najo inclined his head, and Strava lifted her hand in acknowledgement. Axer was getting updates on his gauntlet and probably his ear comm, too. ISC police were already combing the plaza, adjacent parks, and no doubt every nearby building. Flyers rumbled above, gold and black, reflected in the mirrored skyscrapers.

Kelric finally let himself absorb he had almost just died.

* * *

"They never had a chance," Major Qahot said, pacing across the security office beneath the Assembly Hall. A stocky man with bristly hair, he moved as if he were caged, unable to break free until he solved the mystery of Kelric's attackers.

People filled the room: officers, aides, and his guards. And Roca. Kelric had arranged to have Dehya and his brothers taken to safety, as well as the First Councilor and the Inner Circle. Roca, however, refused to leave. His people would take her if he ordered it, but he knew it would antagonize her. For now, in the depths of this secured command center, he let her stay. She stood by a wall, listening while his officers investigated the attempt on his life. Kelric sat at a console that monitored the Assembly Hall, Selei City, the countryside, even orbital traffic. From here, he could access any system on the planet.

"The assassins could never have reached you," Qahot said as he paced. "Their clothes were shrouded against sensors, but the moment they drew their weapons, it triggered alarms all over Selei City. Their shots would never have hit home."

Roca spoke, her voice like tempered steel. "They should never have gotten close enough to shoot."

Perspiration beaded on Qahot's forehead. "It won't happen again, Your Highness."

"Imperator Skolia." Strava spoke from her seat at another console. "We've identified the security hole that let the assassins get their guns by our systems."

"A hole?" Kelric said. "How did that happen?"

"It migrated from another system." She was reading from one of her screens. "The Hinterland Deployment."

Kelric froze. The Hinterland Deployment guarded Coba. "How could that affect us? It's a different region of space."

She rubbed her chin as she studied the data. "It's odd. A few bytes are missing from a security mod in the Hinterland codes. Almost nothing at all. But the hole propagated to other systems." She looked up at Kelric. "The mesh-techs couldn't locate the cause, but they're patching the hole."

It was all Kelric could do to remain impassive. One little hole in Hinterland security. Just one, but it had spread. Because it hadn't been properly coded. Because it should never have existed. Because he had made it in secret.

Kelric had told Dirac to "forget" Coba was the focus of the Hinterland Deployment. He should have known better. The deletion had ended up drawing far more attention than if he had done nothing. Hell, it had nearly gotten him killed.

"Keep me apprised of their progress," he told Strava.

"Will do, sir."

He swiveled his chair to Axer, who was standing by another console. "Do you have anything on the three assassins?"

A frown creased the broad planes of the guard's face. "Sir, they were delegates." He cupped his hand to his ear, listening to his comm. "They've been members of the Assembly for years. The police found records in their quarters."

Axer's careful expression didn't fool Kelric. His guards shielded their minds and didn't talk much, but he knew them well. Axer was worried.

"What do you have on them so far?" Kelric asked.

"They feared what would happen if Councilor Roca lost the vote." He glanced at Kelric's mother. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

"Why would they fear the vote?" she asked. "Their seats aren't hereditary."

"They thought it would give Imperator Skolia too much power and you too little."

Kelric stared at him. "They would assassinate me to support my mother?"

Roca's voice hardened. "They deserved to die."

Don't, Kelric thought to her.

No one tries to murder my child and gets away with it.

Kelric recognized the fire in her eyes. Normally she was a peaceful woman, but threats to her family brought out a ferocity that startled even him. He thought of his years of anguish on Coba. Had she known, she would have retaliated. And if today's assassination had succeeded? Roca was next in line to become Imperator. It was among the more bizarre ramifications of their extended life spans, that a parent could be her child's heir.

Had he died, the Closure document would have released itself to the authorities as soon the news became public. ISC would have gone to find Ixpar and his children. He had always known that could happen, but when he had written the document, he had seen no other choice.

Kelric? Roca's forehead furrowed. You think I will retaliate against the families of the assassins?

He strengthened his shields. At least his defenses had been strong enough that she misread his thoughts. Let the courts deal with it.

She regarded him implacably.

I mean it, Mother. Let Legal handle this. He was aware of his guards watching. They probably knew he and Roca were conversing. As Jagernauts, they were psions, but if Roca even picked up so little through his shields, his guards wouldn't get anything. They had nowhere near her mental strength. Kelric had become a master at hiding from his family, but he was so very tired of cutting himself off from everyone.

Security suspected something was up, Roca thought. But they never expected this.

So you really were trying to start a rumor yesterday.

Yes. To trace its source.

Apparently its source found us first, he thought dourly.

Roca exhaled. It seems so.

Kelric glanced at Major Qahot, who was standing with his hand cupped to his ear, tapping into some data stream. "Major, do we have leads on who the assassins were working with?" Kelric asked.

"It looks like only those three were involved," Qahot said. "Records of their correspondence indicate they've grown disaffected over the years." Then he added, "Yesterday, one of them told another delegate you should be 'voted out' of your seat permanently."

Kelric knew the Imperator wasn't well-liked, but he hadn't thought other delegates wanted him dead. Had he lost sight of his humanity in the performance of his duties?

Axer was watching Kelric's face. "Sir," he said quietly. "They were fanatics. No matter what you did, they would have objected to the principle of an Imperator."

As much as Kelric knew Axer was trying to help, his doubts remained. Maybe Denric was right. But he had to do his job, even if people hated him for it. He spoke tiredly. "Do checks on all the Assembly delegates and their aides. If anyone else was involved, we need to find out."

"We'll take care of it," Qahot said.

A door opened across the room to admit a Jagernaut in black leathers. Vazar. She strode to Kelric's console. "Primary Majda reporting, sir."

Kelric stood up. "Are my Joint Commanders safe?"

"Yes, sir." Her posture was ramrod straight. "General Majda and Primary Tapperhaven have left Parthonia. Admiral Barzun is on the Orbiter. General Stone is on Diesha. All are under increased protection."

"Good," he said. Her tension snapped against his barriers. Yesterday she had voted against the Ruby Dynasty; today she was tasked with protecting their interests. Neither of them missed the irony. He went around the console. In a low voice only she could hear, he added, "You're on duty here until I get back. Don't disappoint me."

"I won't."

He felt her mood: regardless of her vote, she would protect his family with her life. He had to respect the integrity that spurred her to vote as she believed right even when she knew it would alienate him and imperil her own Assembly seat.

Kelric beckoned to Roca, and she joined him as he headed out of the center. He felt her anger at Vazar. But she said nothing. She rarely spoke aloud to him when he was dealing with ISC. He had realized she didn't want to interfere with his authority. He doubted she would, but he appreciated the consideration.

Her bodyguards were outside, three instead of the usual two. They fell into formation with Najo, Strava, and Axer, and all of them walked down the glossy corridor, the guards ahead or behind Kelric and Roca.

"With supporters like those assassins," Roca said, "I don't need enemies."

"It's not your fault," he said.

"You're a damn fine commander, Kelric. Don't let what happened today make you think otherwise."

He rubbed his neck, working at stiffness even his nanomeds couldn't seem to ease. "Doubt is good for the soul."

Her normally dulcet voice turned icy. "Everyone involved will pay."

She reminded him of the wild cats that prowled the Teotec Mountains on Coba. "Let the courts deal with it."

"Of course."

He frowned at her. She never gave in that easily. He knew she wouldn't rest until she was convinced they had punished everyone connected with the attempt on his life.

The assassins had forced him to face certain facts. If he died, Roca would become Imperator. She didn't want the title; she was trained to succeed Dehya as Assembly Key. But no one was better prepared for it, certainly none of his siblings. At the same time she was taking command, the Closure document would come to light, with all that meant. And he would no longer be alive to watch over Coba.

* * *

Most people left the city through Selei Interstellar Starport. Kelric went to the Admiral Starport, a facility used by military and government officials, and boarded an ISC racer with his guards. They left Parthonia just after night's mid-hour, flying swift and silent.

IX
King's Spectrum

Hot wind tugged Kelric's leather jacket and his pullover underneath. Gusts pulled at the Talha scarf hanging around his neck. Woven from coarse white and black yarn, it resembled a muffler, with tassels along its edges.

Carrying his duffle, he walked down the sand-scoured street of a base isolated in the desert. Najo, Axer, and Strava stalked at his side, sleek and lethal, each with the bulk of a Jumbler on the hip. They scanned the area continually and monitored it with their gauntlets. They weren't happy about this trip, even less so because he had told them almost nothing of his intentions.

They encountered no one. The place consisted of a few wide streets bordered by unused buildings. Robots kept the tiny port in shape, but travelers rarely visited. Nothing more than a low wall surrounded the base; beyond it, desert stretched in every direction, sand dunes mottled with spiky green plants, and bluffs streaked with red and yellow layers of rock.

They soon reached a wide gap in the wall. That was it. No gate. Nothing. On this side, he was a Skolian: on the other, his citizenship ceased to matter.

Accompanied by his guards, Kelric walked out into the Coban desert. Restricted territory. A pitted windrider stood about fifty meters away, partially buried in drifts of sand.

Kelric spoke into his gauntlet. "Bolt, connect me to the port EI." He could have thought the command to his node, but he wanted his guards to witness what he had to say.

Bolt's voice came out of the mesh. "Connecting."

A deeper voice spoke, that of the EI that ran the port. "ISC-Coba attending."

"ISC-Coba," Kelric said, "I'm sending you some codes. Use them to access the Kyle web and contact the Orbiter space station, in particular the EI called 'Dirac.'"

"Understood," ISC-Coba said.

Najo watched him with that uncanny ability of his to seem utterly still. Strava rested her hand on her Jumbler while she scanned the desert. Axer monitored the area with his gauntlet.

"Contact made," ISC-Coba said.

Dirac's rich baritone rumbled. "My greetings."

Kelric looked north to mountains that reared against the pale sky. "Dirac, how long until my Closure becomes permanent?"

"Ninety-seven days," Dirac said.

Najo stiffened, his eyes widening. Axer raised his head, and Strava snapped her attention back to Kelric. Learning he would be legally dead in ninety-seven days had to be unnerving for the people tasked with ensuring he stayed alive.

Kelric turned to the nearby windrider. It was painted like a giant althawk, with red wings and a rusted head that had once gleamed. The landing gear resembled black talons, or it would if he could have seen it under the sand dunes that had drifted around the aircraft.

"Dirac," he said. "Cancel the Closure."

A pause. "Cancelled," Dirac said.

Najo started to speak. Kelric didn't know how he looked, but whatever Najo was about to say, he changed his mind. Axer and Strava exchanged glances.

"Closing connection," Kelric told Dirac.

"Orbiter connection closed," ISC-Coba rumbled.

"ISC-Coba," Kelric said. "Verify my identity."

"You are the Imperator of the Skolian Imperialate."

Kelric stopped then, unable to take the final step. He tried to go on, but no words came.

"Do you have a command?" ISC-Coba asked.

"Yes." He took a deep breath. "Change the status of this world from Restricted to Protected."

"That requires a review by Imperial Space Command."

"I'm the Imperator. That's review enough."

Silence.

Kelric knew of no other case where ISC had altered a world's status without a review. The process could take years. However, in theory nothing prohibited him from acting unilaterally.

Suddenly ISC-Coba said, "Status changed."

Kelric exhaled. A human probably would have protested. "End communication."

"Connection closed," Bolt said.

Najo spoke. "Sir, to protect you, we need to know what's going on."

Kelric indicated the mountains. "We're going to a city up there. The air is even thinner than here, so use caution in any exertions. The food varies from irritating to toxic, at least to us, but our nanomeds can deal with it. Boiling the water helps. For a short stay, we should be all right." Eighteen years here, with his nanomeds failing, had nearly killed him. By the time he had escaped, he had been dying. Without Jeejon, he wouldn't have survived.

A pang of grief hit Kelric. He had needed this year to say good-bye to her. He remembered what she had told him just before she died: Someday you must finish that chapter of your life you left behind for me.

He looked out over the desert. Be well, love. He sent his thought into the wind, across the sands, as if it could float into the pale sky, to the stars and beyond, until it reached her spirit.

"Sir, I don't understand," Strava said. "Why are we here?"

Kelric continued to gaze at the desert. "So I can see the city. Walk down a street." He turned to them. "Buy a sausage at market."

They regarded him with bewilderment.

Finally Axer said, "What are the threats?"

"To me?" Kelric asked. The greatest threat here was him, to Coba.

"Yes, sir," Axer said.

Kelric answered wryly. "People in the city might gawk at my metallic skin. They will probably stare more at you three, with those Jumblers. Their city guards just carry stunners."

"You seem to know this place," Najo said.

More than I ever admitted, he thought, but only to himself. The sight of the land, the smell of the air, the feel of the wind: it was all achingly familiar.

"I spent eighteen years here," he said.

"Gods above," Strava said. "Sir! Is this where—"

Kelric held up his hand. "None of you can talk about this without my leave." He had known them for years and trusted them, at least as much as he trusted anyone. But he had left a trail this time, and if and when questions arose, he wanted to be the one who responded.

"We won't say anything," Najo told him. Axer and Strava nodded their agreement.

"I'm not sure what will happen at the city." Kelric rolled a tassel of his Talha between his fingers. "For personal reasons, I may find it hard to speak. You won't know the language. It has roots in common with ours, but it has evolved in isolation for thousands of years. Your nodes can analyze it and eventually provide translations, but at first it may sound like gibberish."

"What hostiles should we be aware of?" Axer asked.

Kelric would have laughed if this hadn't hurt so much. "These people are peaceful. Treat them gently."

"We need a flyer to reach the mountains," Strava said.

Kelric indicated the windrider. "I flew that here eighteen years ago. If it still works, we can take it to Karn."

"Karn?" Najo asked.

Softly Kelric said, "My home."

* * *

The voice on the radio sent a chill up Kelric's spine. The woman spoke in normal tones—in the Teotecan language. "Sky Racer, I've received your ID. Are you new here? I don't recognize your codes." She paused. "Or your accent."

"It's an old rider," Kelric said. "I haven't been to Karn in years."

"Welcome back." She sounded wary.

"My thanks." Talking to an Outsider was strange. His years on Coba, keeping an Oath of silence, had reinforced his taciturn nature. As Imperator, he had to overcome his reticence to speak, but being here brought it back. In all his time on Coba, he had never had a conversation like this. Piloting a rider wasn't that different from the antique aircraft he flew as a hobby, and he had overheard pilots during his trips as a Calani, so he had an idea of protocols. But this all felt surreal.

"Request permission to land," Kelric said.

"Go ahead," the woman said. "Lane Five."

Quis patterns appeared on his screen, providing directions he easily read. In the co-pilot's seat, Najo peered at the symbols, his brow furrowed. Axer and Strava had the two seats in back, and Kelric felt them concentrating on his Teotecan. He could have translated, but he wanted the privacy of his adopted language for a little while longer.

He spread the wing slats and circled the airfield, fitting into the pattern of two other riders. At most Estates, he would have been the only one; Karn, however, had the largest airport on Coba. The woman in the tower tried to draw him into conversation, but he remained noncommittal. She was more curious about a man piloting a rider than about his accent.

Kelric landed reasonably well, though the craft bounced. While his guards unstrapped from their seats, he went to the locker in the back. He hung his jacket on a seat. As he pulled off his shirt, a surge of pleasure leaked around Strava's mental shields, which she immediately clamped down. Facing away from her, Kelric smiled. Her appreciation of her shirtless commander embarrassed her far more than him.

He removed his duffle from the locker and donned the white shirt he had packed. It matched the ones he had worn here, even the embroidery on the cuffs. Next he took out his armbands. For a moment he stood, staring at the engraved circles of gold. Then he slid them on his arms. They felt strange. He almost took them off again, then decided that for this one day he would wear these signs of his former life.

He shrugged back into his jacket, in part against the chill winds of the Teotecs, but also to hide his bands and gauntlets. His dice bag hung from his belt and his Talha around his neck. Seeing the Talha, people would assume he came from Haka Estate, which was far from Karn in both distance and culture. It would, he hoped, account for his accent and bodyguards. He didn't have the dark coloring of the Hakaborn, so he obviously wasn't native to that Estate, a desert land of shimmering red and gold cliffs blasted by sandstorms. That could explain why he neither covered his face with the Talha nor wore a robe. In this age, only Haka men went robed. And Calani. But of course no sane person would believe a Calani was out on his own with only three guards.

Then he disembarked from the rider. He stood on the tarmac with his bodyguards, wind tugging his clothes, surrounded by spectacular scenery. To the west, the Teotec Mountains rolled out in forested slopes; to the south and east they dropped down in endless ripples of green to the horizon. The city of Karn jumbled north of the port, and the Upper Teotecs towered starkly above it. Clustered beneath those peaks, Karn basked, yellow and white in the morning sunshine from a cloud-flecked sky.

* * *

The lane of blue and white cobblestones was as familiar to Kelric as a picture seen a thousand times but never touched. He walked with Najo, Strava, and Axer, marveling at the city he had lived in yet never experienced. Shops crowded both sides of the street, and wooden signs hung from bars above the doors, creaking in the wind. He passed glassblowers, potters, butchers, and dice makers.

The pure mountain air, exhilarating in its clarity, stirred memories edged with beauty and pain. After Savina's death, he had ended up at Varz Estate, high in the Teotecs. The Manager had been a nightmare, abusive and cold. She respected neither his grief nor his need to see his child. His repressed fury had saturated the Quis and roused the sleeping dragon of violence the Cobans had so long submerged. It was more than a year before Ixpar brought him to Karn. In the exquisite serenity of her Calanya, he had begun to heal, but it had been too late by then. His influence had saturated the Quis for nearly eighteen years, and finally it spiked. Nothing could have stopped the war.

A pack of boys burst out of a side lane, laughing and calling to one another. They gaped at Kelric but kept going down the lane, jumping over invisible obstacles with shouts of delight.

"Happy kids," Najo commented.

Kelric couldn't answer. His memories brought such longing. He missed Coba. He had spent the worst times of his life here—and the best.

He knew the location of the market only from maps he had studied as a Calani, and he wasn't sure he could find it. He heard it first, a rumble of voices in the street. The lane crooked around a corner—and opened into a bustling plaza like a tributary feeding a great lake. Merchants, stalls, and customers thronged the area. Buildings two or three stories high bordered it, many with balconies. Chains adorned with metal Quis dice hung from their eaves, clinking in the ever-present wind. A tumult of voices poured over Kelric like Teotecan music. So much color and vibrancy and life.

"Too many people," Axer said, his hand on his gun.

Kelric barely heard. He walked forward and Cobans flowed around him. Merchants called out their wares; children ran and hopped and shouted; street artists sang, played instruments, or acted out skits.

In the first Quis game Kelric had ever played, the Dahl Manager had bet him one tekal, "enough to buy a sausage in market." He had owed her Estate that tekal for twenty-eight years. He didn't know how much a sausage cost now, though, besides which, he had no Coban money.

Although people noticed him, they paid less attention than he had expected. Just as he started to relax, though, a woman in the red and gold of the City Guard stared hard at him. Then she spun around and strode across the plaza.

"Not good," Axer said, watching the woman.

"She knows we're out of place," Najo said. "She's going to tell someone."

"Probably at the Estate." Kelric indicated a fortress of amber-hued stone and ancient crenellations on a hill across the city. "The Manager lives there." His heartbeat felt too fast. He might soon see Ixpar, perhaps his children. Just as he had needed time alone after Jeejon died, now he needed to prepare. Somehow. Before he faced Ixpar, he wanted to know how it felt to be part of Coba in a way he had never known when he lived here.

Strava was studying him with that penetrating gaze of hers. "What is a Manager?"

"The governor of a city-estate," Kelric said. "The Manager of Karn, this place, is also Minister. She rules Coba."

Najo tensed. "Does she pose a danger to your person?"

Danger indeed. "No," Kelric said. The only danger was to his heart.

Nearby, a man was sitting against the yellow-stone wall of a shop. He wore fine clothes: a white shirt, suede trousers with gold buttons up the seams, and suede boots. He had an air of confidence, like a king in his milieu. Quis dice were piled on his low table.

"Someone you know?" Strava asked.

"I've never seen him before," Kelric said.

A woman had seated herself at the table, and a crowd was gathering. Kelric stayed back, behaving like a Haka man, never smiling. With so many people around, he absorbed a sense of their moods even through his shields. They found him exotic, but he didn't sense anyone realized he was more than a visitor from a distant city. Although his guards and their guns disturbed people, they didn't seem to realize the Jumblers weren't just oddly designed stunners.

The man at the Quis table cleared off his extra dice, and the woman rolled out her set, pieces carved from wood. The two players were talking, setting a bet that involved many coins and goods, it sounded like. When they finished, the woman opened the game by playing a blue cylinder.

Conversations drifted around Kelric from the crowd.

"I heard she came all the way from Ahkah to challenge him," a man was saying.

"His reputation is spreading," a woman replied.

"I can't figure why he isn't in a Calanya," another woman said. "Everyone says he's good enough."

"Maybe he has some problem," someone else said.

A man snorted. "Right. A problem with living in a cage."

"Why go in a Calanya?" another man said. "He's making pots of coins here, and he doesn't have to abide by an Oath straight out of the Old Age."

"Did you hear about the offworld Calani in Viasa?" a woman asked. "Viasa Manager kidnapped him, just like in the Old Age."

"Heard he was good-looking," a second woman said.

A third one chuckled. "You want to carry one off, too?"

The other woman bristled. "I don't need to kidnap a man to get a husband."

"You haven't heard?" a man said. "The fellow escaped."

"He did not," a woman said.

"Play Quis with someone from Viasa," he countered. "It's in their dice. He stole himself a windrider and whisked off."

Kelric listened as people embellished Jeremiah's tale. Manager Viasa had built her cover story well; he heard no hints of his own involvement. So he returned his focus to the game. The players competed rather than studying problems or plotting the ascendance of their Estate. They were opposed rather than aligned. It reminded him of the Quis played among Managers, but on a less intense scale, for fun rather than politics.

Both players surely rated the title of Quis Master. They built towers, arches, stacks, bridges, rings, claws, and more. Whenever one gained advantage, the other wrested it back. The man was probably the better player, but the woman seemed more experienced. They vied solely for advantage, without the complexity of Calanya Quis. Kelric had no doubt the man would thrive in a Calanya: he had the gift. He would find such Quis far more satisfying than anything Out here. That he chose freedom despite the price it exacted—never to play true Quis—hinted at far-reaching changes in Coba's social structure.

Suddenly the man grinned. "My game."

"What?" The woman looked up with a start.

Murmurs rolled among the crowd. "He hasn't won . . . "

"His tower has more dice than hers . . . "

"She collapsed his tower . . . "

"But look! He hid an arch."

Axer spoke to Kelric in a low voice. "Do you have any idea what these people are saying?"

"They're arguing over the game," Kelric said absently, intent on the dice. The man had bridged several structures with an elegant arch, increasing their worth enough for him to claim victory. He had managed it despite his opponent's vigilance because he used dice of a similar color to surrounding pieces, so it looked as if he were creating lesser structures. A camouflage.

The woman ceded the match, and applause scattered as people slapped their palms against their thighs. After arranging to pay her debt, the woman stood and bowed to the Quis Master. Then she went on her way.

Kelric walked forward.

The gleam in the man's eyes when he saw Kelric was the same as everywhere in settled space, the calculation of a master player sizing up a rube. Kelric eased down his barriers. With so many people at market, it was hard to distinguish moods, but he gathered the man didn't see him as a challenge. Good male Quis players were in a Calanya. He also associated Kelric's large size with low intelligence. The crowd that had watched the last game was dispersing.

"Have a seat," the Quis Master said. "I'm Talv."

As Kelric sat down, he wondered if he had somehow let on that he didn't know market-style Quis. He had never learned to gamble, and he had played nothing but Quis solitaire for ten years. He wasn't certain he could beat Talv. But if he could win a few tekals, he could buy a sausage and indulge his admittedly whimsical desire to repay his old debt.

Talv glanced at the pouch on Kelric's belt. "You've brought your set, I see." He started to remove his extra dice.

Kelric knew if he rolled out jeweled Calanya dice, the game would end before it started. As much as a Quis Master might want to challenge a Calani, he would never risk the ire of a Manager. So he indicated Talv's extra dice. "I prefer those." Speaking was even harder here. "Your extra set."

"Are you sure?" Talv yawned. "Most people find it easier to use their own. They will be more familiar to you."

It was, of course, something any child knew. "Yours will be fine," Kelric said.

"All right." Talv smirked at him. "What shall we bet?"

"How much for a sausage?"

"A sausage?" Talv wasn't even trying to hide his disdain. "One tekal."

So. Same price. "Let us play for two tekals."

Talv shrugged. "Well. You can start."

"Shouldn't we draw dice?" Going first was an advantage.

"If you insist." Talv pulled a disk out of his pouch and handed over the bag. Kelric took out a lower-ranked piece, a flat square. So he had lost the draw.

"Your move," Kelric said.

"So it is." As Talv set a red pyramid in the playing area, he projected both boredom and the belief that the game would be over fast enough to make the tedium bearable.

A sense of opening came to Kelric. After so many years of solitaire, sitting here made him feel . . . expanded. It hadn't happened with Jeremiah or Dehya, but he had held back then. Now he envisioned a myriad of elegant patterns stemming from the one die Talv had placed. He set down a grey pyramid with curved sides.

Talv looked up at him. "If your die doesn't touch mine, you aren't building a structure."

"I know," Kelric said.

"Are you sure you want to play that piece?" Talv said. "Nonstandard dice are difficult to use."

Kelric was growing irritated. Calani never disrupted a session, especially not with unasked-for Quis lessons. "It's your move."

"Suit yourself." Talv set down orange pentahedron.

Kelric saw his intent: a queen's spectrum. Few players could manage them; they were too easy to block. Kelric had slipped one past Dehya because she hadn't known the rules, but he wouldn't be that lucky with her again. To succeed against someone who knew Quis, Talv either had to camouflage the spectrum or else hope his opponent was too stupid to see it. He hadn't bothered with a camouflage.

Kelric had met only one player on Coba who consistently managed to build a Queen's spectrum in high level Quis: Mentar, the Karn Fourth Level, widower of the previous Minister. Mentar's Quis had thrilled Kelric. Ixpar had claimed that when he and Mentar played dice, the world shook.

This callow player was no Mentar. Kelric slid an aqua piece against the orange die, disrupting the spectrum. Talv grunted and placed a yellow cube. So. He was trying to recover his spectrum by turning it at an angle. Kelric blocked him with an ocher cube.

"Huh." Talv rubbed his chin. He set down a green die, again turning his spectrum.

Enough, Kelric thought. He bridged Talv's pyramid and his own cube with an arch. The cube had a higher rank, so the advantage went to Kelric. He had no idea what points went with it, but he doubted he had enough to win. And indeed, Talv continued playing. Good. Kelric didn't want to stop; he was envisioning an exquisite pattern. His Quis thoughts pleased him, and he set about making them reality.

Talv became quieter as they played. His sneer vanished. He spent more time considering his moves. Then he began to sweat.

Kelric built for the sheer beauty of it. Dice spread in patterns of platonic solids, and geometric elegance covered the table. After a while, Talv stopped sweating, and his game took on a new quality, as if he were appreciating a work of art. When he quit fighting Kelric, he became a better Quis partner. The structures flourished.

With regret, Kelric pulled himself back to here and now. As much as he wanted to keep playing, he had business to attend. He set down a white sphere. When Talv started to place a ring, Kelric spoke quietly. "It's my game."

Talv lifted his head like a swimmer surfacing from a dive. "Your game?"

A woman behind them said, "I don't believe it!"

Startled, Kelric looked around—and froze.

People.

They had crowded around, more even than for the last game. The woman who played before was gaping at the table. Others looked from her to the board, obviously puzzled.

"What is it?" Talv said.

Kelric turned back. He tapped a line of dice that wound across the table, around and through other structures: grey, orange, gold, yellow, yellow-green, green, aqua, blue, indigo, purple, and finally the white sphere.

Murmurs swelled in the crowd. Talv stared at the structure for a long time. Finally he lifted his gaze to Kelric. "I don't think I've heard tell of anyone, even the highest of the Calani, building a grand augmented queen's spectrum."

X
The Twelfth Band

Kelric hadn't intended to draw attention; he had become too caught up in the game. He had to admit, though, it was a good spectrum. He inclined his head to Talv. "You play well."

"I had thought so," Talv said. "Now I know better."

"You have talent. It's wasted on market Quis."

Talv's voice heated. "You won't lock me in a Calanya!"

"Find other ways to use your talent," Kelric said. "Join the Minister's staff. Work your way up in the Estate Quis."

Talv snorted. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm the wrong sex."

"No laws forbid it."

"Sure they do," Talv said. "They're just unwritten."

"So break them."

"Who are you?"

Kelric smiled slightly. "I believe you owe me two tekals."

Talv squinted at him. "Just two?"

"That was the bet."

Talv shook his head, but he handed over two coins. Kelric turned the copper heptagons over in his hand. One side showed a Quis structure, a nested tower that symbolized protection. The other had the portrait of a regal queen.

"That's Ixpar Karn," Kelric said.

"Haven't you ever seen a tekal before?"

He looked up to see Talv watching him oddly. Kelric rose to his feet. "Thank you for the game."

"The honor was mine." Talv stood as well. "That was Quis like nothing I've ever played."

It was a high compliment among Quis Masters. Kelric nodded to honor to his opponent. His guards gathered around him, and he could tell they wanted him away from this attention. He left the table, and people stepped respectfully aside as he walked through the crowd. He felt their curiosity.

Kelric went deeper into market until he lost himself among the crowds. A familiar aroma teased his nose, wafting from a stall with yellow slats. A sausage merchant stood behind the counter, a plump man with a white apron pulled across his large belly. He beamed as Kelric paused. "What can I get for you, goodsir?" He motioned at sausages hanging from the rafters. "I've the best spiced-reds from here to Haka."

Kelric indicated a fat specimen. "Kadilish."

"Ah! A man after my own tastes." The merchant wrapped the sausage in waxy paper, accepted Kelric's tekal, and handed over the purchase as if it were the most natural thing to do. For him, it was. To Kelric, it was another watershed.

"Sir," Najo said, his voice uneasy.

He followed Najo's gaze across the plaza to where a street opened into the market. Far beyond it, on its distant hill, the Estate glowed amber in the sunlight. Strava stepped closer, and Kelric was aware of Axer behind them, tall and solid.

Someone was entering the plaza. Many someones. Kelric drew in a deep breath. They came in formation, all wearing the uniform of the City Guard, and they were headed toward him. He had no idea if they suspected his identity. If Ixpar had sent them, she might hate him for drawing attention to her world. He had no reason to think she would want to see him. But he couldn't turn back.

In the same moment Kelric's guards drew their Jumblers and took aim at the approaching group, he saw the woman walking in its center. He grabbed Najo's arm and spoke in Skolian. "Don't harm them!"

His guards waited, poised, glancing from him to the woman. She was tall even among Cobans. Her hair blazed like fire, pulled loosely into a braid. Her suede trousers did nothing to hide the muscular lines of her long, long legs. She had a powerful beauty, wild and fierce under a veneer of elegance—a face that could inspire armies and conquer a world.

For Kelric, time slowed down. She continued toward him, never pausing despite the monstrous guns of his guards, and in that crystalline moment, he thought the two of them would be here forever. She came closer, closer still, and then she was in front of him, her gray eyes filled with incredulity. He had thought of a million words for this moment, planned for days. For years. Now the words left him.

"Kelric?" she asked, her voice husky.

She was one of the few Cobans who had known him as Kelric rather than Sevtar. Seeing her filled him with an emotion he couldn't define, jagged and painful and miraculous. They stood together as if they were inside a bubble, and he wanted to touch her, feel her cheek, her hair, her lips, but he feared even to move, lest it burst this tenuous sphere.

He spoke in a voice rough with the feelings he couldn't express. "My greetings, Ixpar."

XI
Rosewood Suite

"It cannot be." She reached into her pocket and drew out a half-melted ring of gold. "This is all that remains of Kelric Valdoria."

He pulled up his jacket cuff and uncovered the guards embedded in his gauntlets. "These, too."

Ixpar looked from him to his bodyguards and back to his face. In her dusky voice, she said, "If the god of the dawn has come seeking vengeance, I entreat him to reconsider."

"Vengeance?" He would have laughed if this hadn't all hurt so much. "For what? My shattering Coba?"

Moisture gathered in her eyes. "Ten years is a long time."

Too long. He wanted to say so much, but he could neither move nor speak.

Finally he found his voice, enough to ask a question that was always with him, in the back of his mind. "My children?"

Her face gentled. "They are well."

Softly he asked, "And who came after me?"

"After?" She seemed as lost for words as him.

"As your Akasi."

"None now."

"You have no husband?"

"I thought not." Her voice caught. "It seems I was wrong."

He took her into his arms then and embraced the wife he had never expected to see again. She tensed, and he was aware of his bodyguards looming around them. Gods only knew what they thought.

Then Ixpar exhaled and put her arms around him, leaning her head against his. He held a stranger, yet he recognized the curves and strength of her body. If he had erred in coming here, it was too late to turn back. Too many people knew. In this incredible instant, he didn't care.

* * *

Kelric stood with Ixpar by a high window that overlooked Karn. Houses clustered along the streets and down the hills below. Plumberry vines grew in a profusion of purple and blue flowers, climbing walls and spiraling up street lamps. So many times he had stood savoring this view from this window.

"I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here," he said.

Ixpar was leaning against the wall across the window from him. "I never did."

He turned to find her looking at him, not the city. She had that quality he remembered well, a serenity that came when she wasn't preoccupied with politics or war. Soon she would be pacing and planning again, her agile mind occupied with affairs of state. But she let him see this side she showed so few people, indeed that few knew existed. She had always been compelling, but the years had added a maturity that made it difficult to stop gazing at her face.

"You look good," Kelric said.

"To see you again is a miracle. But I fear your reasons for coming." She shook her head. "What happens now? Will Skolia retaliate against Coba?"

"I won't allow it."

"You can't stop the Imperator."

Softly he said, "Yes, I can."

Her voice tightened. "You said otherwise ten years ago."

It was hard to tell her. Once she knew what he had become, this bubble that held them would burst. So he said only, "The Imperator has changed the status of Coba."

Her face paled. "We no longer have the Restriction?"

"As of this morning, no. Coba is Protected."

She clenched the window frame. "What does it mean?"

He had meant to reassure, not alarm her. He tried again. "In some ways it's like Restriction. A Protected world is even harder to visit. But you decide who comes here. You control what happens. And your people now have Skolian citizenship."

She stared at him. "Why would your brother do this thing?"

"He didn't."

"Then who did?"

The world was too quiet. Muffled. His voice seemed far away. "Me."

For a long time she looked at him. Finally she spoke in a low voice. "Winds above."

"Ixpar, don't."

"Do I say Your Majesty? Or Imperator Skolia?"

Heat spread in his face. "Call me Kelric. Hell, even Sevtar."

She started to answer, then stopped as if she had glimpsed something strange. "Am I your wife by Skolian law?"

He thought of the Closure he had cancelled. "Yes."

"Doesn't that make me the Imperator's consort?"

He regarded her steadily. "Yes."

"Gods," she murmured. "I am honored. But Kelric, that changes nothing. Your empire can still destroy us."

He knew she would never have allowed Jeremiah Coltman to study them if she had felt all offworld influence would bring harm. "Change will come. You can't hide forever. Must it be for the worse?"

Her gaze never wavered. "We would be just as wrong to deny the danger now as we were when we took you into the Calanya."

He knew her fear. He shared it. Then he thought of the Assembly vote that had strengthened his position. "I control ISC. My influence becomes more established every year. I can set it up so no Skolian ever sets foot here." Kelric struggled for the right words. "But a parent has to let a child become an adult. Coba can't live protected all its life."

She regarded him dourly. "We are not children."

He suspected he would make it worse if he continued these inarticulate attempts to express himself. So he said, "Play Quis with me."

* * *

Ixpar placed the first die.

They sat at a table by the window and played dice at its highest level. Ixpar had always been brilliant, and the years had added even greater depth to her Quis. She wove patterns of other Managers into her structures, other Calani, other Estates. She synthesized a world into her Quis with a virtuosity that took his breath. Her patterns spoke of how the war had drenched Coba in violence and ruin. The recovery had taken years, but they were healing. He would destroy their hard-won stability.

Kelric remolded the structures to portray positive offworld effects. New technologies. Better educations. Health care. The mothers of his children had received nanomeds from him and passed them to his son and daughter; they would all live longer, healthier lives as a result. All Cobans could have those advantages. He wove patterns of Jeremiah; in allowing an offworlder here, Ixpar had dared to take a chance. He had expected Jeremiah to create turmoil, but the youth's Quis told another story, how he had benefited Coba.

Ixpar turned his patterns into comparisons of Skolia and Earth, symbolized by Kelric and Jeremiah. One aggressive and large; the other gentle and scholarly. One overwhelming; the other seeking friendship. Jeremiah would never hurt anyone; Kelric was the military commander of an empire.

He saw himself through her Quis and wasn't sure he knew that man, one with great strength of character, but also one who wielded a power so immense, he could crush them without realizing it. He built structures showing her how he would work in cooperation with the Managers of Coba. He would sit at Quis with them. Ixpar's eyes blazed, and she played fire opals, garnets, rubies. Angry dice. She would never agree to have her Calani play Quis with other Managers. That he sat in the Assembly as Imperator—that she could deal with. But for him to enter the Quis Council went against every principle she held true.

So he showed her harsher reality: someday the Imperialate would find Coba. Without his intervention, it could be in vengeance. Or perhaps, despite his best attempts to prevent it, the Traders would come. Her people should join the interstellar community on their terms. They should open or close their world according to their choice. They needed a gatekeeper. Him.

Ixpar countered with jagged patterns of destruction, of his life on Coba and the upheavals that followed. Her dice never accused, never damned. She blamed Coba. But he knew the truth. He had left deep, terrible wounds on this world.

Kelric paused, subdued. This intense session, with someone he hadn't seen for ten years, drained him. She believed that to protect Coba, they should strengthen its isolation until they could survive even if he died. With care, he offered her a new conclusion. All the finesse he lacked in the blunt power of his mind and body, he put into his dice. He had been a prisoner before, on Coba, with neither the understanding nor opportunity to control his effect on the Quis. Now he and Ixpar had the knowledge. Together they could make a better world.

Her Quis called him idealistic. Her patterns revealed the deep differences between his people and hers, his way of life and that of Coba. Skolia would saturate the Quis until it swamped Coba's unique, irreplaceable culture.

It doesn't have to be that way, he answered. He sifted a new idea into his dice: Quis was like the Kyle web. His people had created a web in Kyle space, a place humans entered only in thought. To open a gate to the Kyle required a telop. The most gifted telops created the star-spanning system that joined the Imperialate into a coherent whole.

Quis was a web. It, too, linked a civilization. Cobans communicated and took information from the world-spanning game; more adept players acted as operators; the rare geniuses who dedicated their lives to Quis defined its highest levels. The best players read moods, even thoughts, from the dice. With both Quis and the Kyle, it became hard to tell where the web left off and the mind began. Intellect and emotion; technology and art; communication and intuition: it all blended. Coba and Skolia could achieve marvels. At their best, they could produce a civilization greater than the sum of the two alone.

And at their worst? Ixpar asked.

He made no false promises; she could pick up nuances in his Quis he never meant to reveal. She knew his doubts, which had never left him, only receded. But she would also recognize his belief that he could protect Coba. She would have to choose what to trust.

Their session lasted hours. He had to return to Parthonia, yet long after he should have left for the starport, they continued to play. Their guards kept anyone from disturbing them. The people of Karn surely knew by now that their Minister was sitting at Quis with a Calani returned from the dead. Windriders would carry the news to other cities. Within days, all Coba would know: The Minister had sat at Quis with the Imperator.

* * *

Afternoon had melted into evening by the time Kelric and Ixpar pushed back from the table. Kelric stood up, his joints creaking. Age was creeping up on him even with the benefits of life extension.

"A good session," he said. More than good. It was worth ten years of solitaire.

"So it was," Ixpar murmured. She rose to her feet, and they stood together at the window above Karn. Long shadows from the mountains stretched across the city.

Leaning against the wall, Kelric gazed across the window at his wife. She looked as fit today as ten years ago. And as erotic. Quis had always had a sensual undercurrent for him with her.

"It's been a long time," he said.

She regarded him with smoky eyes. "Too long."

Kelric heard the invitation in her voice. He grasped her arm and drew her forward, into his embrace. But she resisted, her palms against his shoulders.

"I have a thing to say," she told him. "You should know."

That didn't sound auspicious. "Know what?"

"I remarried."

Kelric stiffened. Had he misinterpreted her mood? "You said you had no Akasi."

"I don't." Sadness touched her voice. "He passed away."

"Oh." Idiot, he told himself. "I'm sorry."

"It's been several years." Her face was pensive. "After the war, the Council felt I should remarry. As expected."

As expected. By law, the Minister had to wed a Calani, preferably the man with the highest level among the suitable candidates. "You mean Mentar?"

She nodded. "Together, he and I knew more of the Quis than anyone else alive. We had much in common."

He heard what she didn't say. "Did you love him?"

"I always had great affection for him."

"More as a father figure, I thought."

"I loved him." She paused. "In a quiet sort of way."

Kelric told her about Jeejon then. When he finished, Ixpar spoke with pain. "We each do as we should. But sometimes, I wish . . . we hadn't lost so much."

"I, too," he said.

Ixpar took his hand. Then she led him to a private inner door of the Rosewood Suite.

That evening, in the last rays of gilded sunlight slanting through the windows, they lay in the rosewood bed where they had loved each other so many years ago. Outside, in the city below and the world beyond, life continued, people working, bargaining, playing Quis. Beyond Coba, stars radiated, worlds turned in their celestial dance, and ships streaked among the settlements of thriving humanity, all oblivious to two people, neither of them young, who had lost so much in their lives, but for a brief time, found a bittersweet happiness.

XII
Cathedral

On the world of Parthonia, Kelric waited in the Cathedral of Memories. Its sweeping wings graced Selei City, where elegant towers rose into the lavender sky. Standing within a chamber, he gazed out a one-way panel of glass. The Royal Concourse, a wide path of white stone, led from the cathedral steps outside to an open-air coliseum. Metallic dust sparkled in the walkway, tiny nano-systems that monitored pedestrians, just as security systems monitored every micron of the city.

People lined the concourse and filled the coliseum. Sunlight streamed, vendors sold food, and military officers paced among the crowds. Breezes stirred flags with the Imperialate insignia on tall poles in front of the coliseum.

The Promenade was among the most popular Skolian festivals. Obtaining passes to attend required stratospheric connections. But the spectacle would be broadcast throughout the Imperialate, and people everywhere would celebrate. Kelric hoped they enjoyed themselves. It might be fun for the rest of the universe, but he and his security teams found it excruciating.

A door swooshed behind him, and he turned to see Najo. His bodyguard crossed the chamber and saluted, arms out, wrists crossed, fists clenched.

Kelric returned the salute. "Any news from the port?"

"Nothing, sir." Sympathy showed in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Kelric felt heavy. He wanted to withdraw from the too-bright day and sit in private. He couldn't, so he just said, "Thank you."

"They still might come."

"Perhaps." But Kelric knew it was too late for Ixpar to change her mind. He had failed to convince her.

Ten days had passed since his trip to Coba. Ixpar had declined to return with him. He hadn't even met his children yet. He wanted them by his side so much it hurt, but the day he had sworn his Calanya Oath to Ixpar, he had vowed to protect her Estate with his life. He would keep his Oath. Just as he had spent all those years secluded in a Calanya, so now he would do the same for Coba, secluding a world.

Music filled the chamber from outside, the Skolian anthem, "The Lost Desert." Its exquisite melody could lift the spirit, but its bittersweet quality often brought people to tears.

The House of Jizarian began the Promenade. A man announced them, his voice coming out of orbs that floated above the concourse and coliseum. As the music shifted into the brighter theme of their House, the Jizarians poured out of the cathedral. Children ran down the steps and onto the Concourse. The adults followed in traditional costume, the women in silken tunics and trousers, the men in shirts and trousers with glinting threads. Their hair gleamed, mostly dark, but a few with lighter coloring. Kelric even saw a redhead.

The Matriarch came last, normally with dignity and age, but this one was barely twenty-four, having inherited her title when her mother passed away several years ago. Her hair tousled about her shoulders as she waved to the crowd. The spectators cheered and threw flowers as the Jizarians walked the Concourse.

"An attractive House," Najo said. "Vibrant."

"So they are," Kelric said, intent on his console. Everything was secure. He had an odd feeling, though, like a pressure on his mind. He checked the room where his family waited: Dehya, Roca, his siblings, and their families, including spouses and children. It hurt to see them. He would never know what it was like to share his life with his children and wife.

Najo spoke quietly. "They are happy and well. Safe."

Kelric couldn't answer. He knew Najo didn't mean his brothers and sisters. His guard was too perceptive, and Kelric didn't want to talk about it, not now, maybe never.

Outside, the Jizarians were entering the coliseum. The House of Nariz was leaving the cathedral, a small family of moderate lineage. The Akarads came next, a line of merchants with thriving fleets. The men wore robes over their clothes, but in a casual manner, letting them billow behind them in the breezes. The Shazarindas followed, less strict in their demeanor.

Kelric shifted his weight, restless and unsettled. He cycled through views of the city and countryside on his console. Then he paged his intelligence chief in the orbital defense system.

The chief's voice came over the comm. "Major Qahot here."

"Any problems?" Kelric asked.

"None, sir. Is anything wrong?"

"No. Nothing." Kelric wished he knew what bothered him.

Outside, the women in the House of Kaaj were descending the cathedral steps. Just the women: they secluded their men. In their traditional garb, they resembled ancient Ruby warriors, with leather and metal armor, curved swords at their hips, and glinting spears. In real life they ran robotics corporations, but right now they reminded Kelric of paintings he had seen of Old Age queens on Coba.

He spoke into the comm. "Qahot, let me know if you notice anything strange."

"Aye, sir." Qahot paused as voices spoke in the background. Then he said, "We had an unauthorized ship request to land about an hour ago."

Kelric tensed, afraid to hope. "Who? And why?" He had left authorization for Ixpar, but the Coban port was decades out of date. Perhaps security here hadn't recognized the codes. Perhaps Ixpar hadn't realized that. Or perhaps he was raising futile hopes within himself.

"They're tourists," Qahot said. "They didn't realize the festival is off-limits. We have them in custody, five men and six women, name of Turning. We're running checks."

"Did any of the women give her name as Ixpar Karn or ask for me?"

"No, sir," Qahot said. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No, not really." Kelric pushed down his disappointment. "Keep checking them out. Let me know if anything comes up."

"Yes, sir."

Outside, the Vibarrs were striding toward the coliseum. Their late Matriarch, an aggressive powerhouse, had broken with tradition and named her son as her heir. Now he led the House, all bankers and lawyers and wildcatters, secure in their power and wealth. The Rajindias came next, the House that provided ISC with the neurological specialists who treated psions. Despite their restraint, they were more relaxed than the hawklike Kaajs.

Hawk.

Insight came to Kelric like a rush of heat, as a fire might flare at a campsite. Turning. Tern. A bird, yes, but they had the wrong one, probably because of language differences. Not tern. Hawk.

He spoke into his comm. "Qahot?"

"Here, sir," the major said.

"The leader of that group you picked up—is it a woman?"

"Yes, sir."

"With red hair?"

"No, sir."

Kelric frowned. Was he wrong?

Then Qahot added, "Her hair is orange. Like copper."

Kelric exhaled, long and slow. "I want to talk to her."

* * *

When the Majdas walked the concourse, they left no doubt who dominated the noble Houses. With their black hair, high cheekbones, and great height, they embodied the quintessential Skolian aristocrat. Most of the women wore uniforms, primarily the green of the Pharaoh's Army, but also the blue of the Imperial Fleet. Vazar strode along in her Jagernaut leathers, skin-tight black with glinting silver studs.

The Majdas also secluded their princes. But the same indomitable will that infused their women manifested in the men. More than a few of their brothers and sons had defied tradition. They walked with the House now, professors, architects, scientists, artists, and military officers, tall and imposing. Naaj came last. Queen of Majda. She neither waved nor smiled. She simply walked. It was enough.

Najo stood with Kelric at the window. "Impressive."

Kelric smiled dryly. "They've raised it to an art."

Then the announcer said, "The Ruby Dynasty."

A flood of children poured out of the cathedral, Kelric's nephews and nieces, grandnephews, grandnieces, and on down the generations. They waved exuberantly at the crowd, who cheered their approval of the dynasty's beautiful progeny. Kelric intended that effect; the more his young kin charmed the public, the better. It was good public relations.

His siblings came next, first his sister Aniece, small and curved, with dark curls and gold eyes. Her husband Lord Rillia walked at her side. Kelric's brother Shannon followed, a willowy Blue Dale Archer, bow and quiver on his back. Then Denric the school teacher. Soz should have been next; since her death, they had left a gap in the Promenade, in her honor.

Havryl walked down the steps next, his bronzed hair tossing in the wind, his toddler nestled in the crook of his arm. His wife came with him, holding their baby. The twins, Del and Chaniece, would have followed, but they had stayed home, tending to family duties. Another lull came in the Promenade, in honor of Althor, who had died in the Radiance War.

A hum sounded behind Kelric. He turned to see Najo by the door.

"Sir?" Najo's gaze was a question.

Kelric's pulse surged. He nodded as if he were ready, even though he wasn't and might never be. But he had set these events in motion and he would never turn back.

Najo tapped his gauntlet and the door whisked open. A woman stood in the archway. She had piled her hair on her head and threaded it with blue beads. Her leather and bronzed clothes evoked the warriors of her ancestors, and a keen intelligence filled her gaze. Her aura of power filled the room.

Kelric walked forward. The tread of his boots on the tiles seemed to echo. He stopped in front of her, absorbing that she stood here, out of context with every memory he had of her, in a place he never expected to see her.

He spoke quietly. "Ixpar." For him, that one word, at this moment, held more meaning than he could ever sort out.

She inclined her head. "My greetings, Husband."

He indicated the window. "Will you join me?"

"It would be my honor."

He felt painfully formal. He knew her so well, yet he barely knew her at all. As they reached the window, exclamations from the crowd swelled over the monitors. The announcer said, "Roca Skolia, Foreign Affairs Councilor," as Roca descended the steps, a vision of gold in rose-hued silk that rippled around her figure.

"That's your mother?" Ixpar asked. When Kelric nodded, she said, "No wonder."

He glanced at her. "No wonder what?"

Her voice had that smoky quality again. "No wonder you were the man whose face launched a thousand windriders into battle."

Apparently she had been reading Earth classics. He crooked a smile at her. "What, it scared them that much?"

"Hardly," she murmured.

It didn't surprise him she knew about Earth; she would never have allowed Jeremiah to study Coba without first studying him and his people. Apparently she found him far less formidable than her Imperator husband. And yet she had come.

"It's not too late to change your mind," he said. He needed her to be sure she wanted this.

She spoke quietly. "I thought a long time before I boarded that ship in the port. Is this a mistake? No clear answer shows itself when I project futures with my Quis. Some patterns evolve into ruin. Others are incredible. Even beautiful." She stopped. He waited, and finally she said, "The time comes when we must take a risk. To decide our own future."

An odd silence fell over the room. Kelric hadn't realized how noisy the crowds were until they quieted. He glanced at the window—and froze.

A robed and cowled figure stood with four guards at the top of the cathedral steps. A Talha scarf wrapped around his head within the cowl, hiding his face, except for his eyes.

Kelric shot a look at Ixpar.

She answered his unspoken question. "Yes."

His emotions swelled, too jumbled to untangle. "I can't see him."

"He's never gone in public without robes," Ixpar said. "He's never even left the Calanya."

Dismay surged within him. "I would never force—"

"He wanted to come." Dryly she added, "Manager Varz was the one who balked. It took a lot to convince her."

It didn't surprise Kelric. The shock was that she had let her Calani travel at all. Apparently the current Manager was more human than the monster he had known.

The announcer hadn't spoken; he was probably reading notes that Kelric's officers had delivered to him as soon as the geneticists finished their rushed tests. Kelric had ordered the tests when Ixpar told him who had come with her. He could almost hear the question whispered among the spectators. Who is that? It had been Kelric's question as well, for twenty-eight years. Finally he would have an answer.

With firm motions, the man pushed back his hood and pulled down his Talha. Kelric barely detected the way his arm shook. He doubted anyone watching but he and Ixpar understood the significance of that action. A Hakaborn prince never showed his face to the public.

The man had dark hair and large eyes. Violet eyes. His hair was as dark as the Hakaborn, but it glinted with metallic highlights. He stood tall and strong, his head lifted. He had a strange look, though, as if he were about to step off a cliff. Kelric knew the courage it took for him to do this, he who had surely never expected to leave seclusion, let along walk before trillions on an interstellar broadcast. It was a quieter bravery than the dramatic acts of the Jagernauts that Kelric had known at that age, but that made it no less real.

The announcer said, "Jimorla Haka Varz Valdoria."

Startled voices erupted among the crowd, and Kelric released a silent exhale. To use the Valdoria name at this point in the Promenade identified Jimorla as his child, as binding a declaration as any legal document. He had hoped and believed it for so long, but he had never been sure. Jimorla wasn't a Ruby psion, so he couldn't use the Skolia name, but he was Kelric's firstborn in every other aspect and would take his place in the line of succession to the Ruby Throne.

Jimorla visibly braced his shoulders. He descended the stairs with his guards and strode along the Concourse, his robe billowing out behind him. For the first time, a Calani walked openly on another world. Coba—and Skolia—were changed forever. Quis would come to the Imperialate.

A strained voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sir," Najo said.

Kelric turned to see his bodyguard standing by the console. Lights blazed all over the station. Najo had that same expression he had worn when Kelric revealed he had spent eighteen years on Coba, the look of a man who knew he stood witness to the making of history.

"People are trying to contact you," Najo said.

"Who?" Kelric could guess: the leaders of an empire. They had just learned they had a new crown prince.

"The First Councilor of the Assembly," Najo said. "General Majda, General Bloodmark, Primary Tapperhaven, your mother, your brothers, your sister, the gene team you summoned, and several Councilors of the Inner Circle."

Kelric noticed the list didn't include Dehya. She had just discovered the existence of a prince who preceded her son in the line of succession, yet she waited. She understood Kelric in a way few others could.

"I imagine they're surprised," Kelric allowed.

Najo looked as if he considered that a monumental understatement. But he said only, "Yes, sir."

Kelric wasn't ready to talk. He wanted these moments for himself. "Tell them I'll contact them after the Promenade."

Voices surged outside, and gasps. With a start, Kelric turned back. A young woman had appeared at the top of the cathedral stairs—a girl whose skin, hair, and eyes shimmered gold.

The announcer said, "Roca Miesa Varz Valdoria—" He took a breath that everyone on thousands of worlds and habitats in three empires would hear, a sound that would become another page of history. Then he added, "Skolia."

Until that moment, Kelric hadn't been certain. By using the Skolia name, the announcer revealed the truth: his daughter was a Ruby psion. Someday she would take her place as a member of the Dyad.

She descended the steps alone, without guards, but the defenses of an empire protected her. Her true name was Rohka, the Coban version of Roca. Kelric felt as if he were sundering in two. Rohka, the wonder he and Savina had given life, had come into the world as her mother died. The hours Kelric had spent cradling his infant child in his oversized arms had been the only light in his grief-shattered life. He would be forever grateful to Ixpar for freeing him from Varz, but he had mourned, too, for the Varz Manager had retaliated by denying him his child.

Jimorla had reached the coliseum, and officers ushered him to the area reserved for the Imperator's children. He was the first person to sit there in a century. On the Concourse, Rohka's stride never faltered, though Kelric recognized the overwhelmed look she tried to hide. He had seen the same on her mother when Savina felt daunted but refused to let fear diminish her spirit.

Welcome, Kelric thought to his children. They couldn't reply; even if they had known how to interpret mental input, they were too far away. He didn't even know if his son was an empath or had the rarer telepathic traits Kelric shared with his family.

And yet . . . he felt certain a man's thought answered, distant but clear, the words in Teotecan: It is my honor.

A young woman's thought suddenly resonated in his mind, young and raw, untrained but full of power. And mine, Father.

* * *

The speaker said, simply, "Kelric Skolia, Imperator, and Ixpar Karn, Minister of Coba."

Side by side, Kelric and Ixpar descended the steps. The crowds had cheered the Houses and the Ruby Dynasty. They remained silent now, whether in shock or respect, Kelric didn't know. He had never been comfortable with public displays; he preferred to stay in the background. But he had waited ten years for this—no, twenty-eight. That was when he had first seen Ixpar, as he awoke in a sickroom on Coba with the fourteen-year-old Ministry successor leaning over him. It had taken nearly three decades to bring that moment full circle, decades that had changed his life more than he would ever have imagined.

After twenty-eight years, he had come home.

* * *

The story of Kelric's life on Coba appears in the Nebula- nominated novel, The Last Hawk. Jeremiah's story appears in the novella, "A Roll of the Dice," which won the AnLab (Analog Reader's poll), and was nominated for a Hugo and Nebula. The full-length book, The Ruby Dice, will come out in 2007 from Baen books.

Sisters Of Sarronnyn:
Sisters Of Westwind

Written by L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Illustrated by Kevin Wasden

I

The Roof of the World was still frozen in winter gray, and the sun had not yet cleared the peaks to the east or shone on Freyja when I caught sight of Fiera coming up the old stone steps from the entrance to Tower Black.

I moved to intercept her. "What were you doing, Guard Fiera?"

"I was coming to the main hall, Guard Captain." Fiera did not look directly at me, but past me, a trick many Westwind guards had tried over the years. Even my own sister, especially my own sister, could not fool me.

"Using the east passage?"

Fiera flushed. "Yes, Guard Captain."

"Assignations before breakfast, yet? When did you sneak out of the barracks?"

She straightened, as she always did when she decided to flaunt something or when she knew she'd been caught. "He kissed me, Guard Captain. Creslin did."

Oh, Fiera, do not lie to me. I did not voice the words. "I seriously doubt that the esteemed son of the Marshall would have even known you were in the east passage. It is seldom traveled before dawn in winter. If anyone kissed anyone, you kissed him. What was he doing? Why were you following him?"

Fiera's eyes dropped. "He was just there. By himself. He was walking the passage."

"You're a fool! If the Marshall ever finds out, you'll be posted to High Ice for the rest of the winter this year, and for all of next year with no relief. That would be after you were given to the most needy of the consorts until you were with child. You'd never see the child after you bore her, and you'd spend your shortened life on remote duty, perhaps even on the winter road crews."

This time, my words reached her. She swallowed. "I meant no harm. He's always looked at me. I just . . . wanted him to know before he leaves for Sarronnyn."

"He knows now. If I see you anywhere near him, if I hear a whisper . . ."

"Yes, Guard Captain . . . please . . .Shierra."

"What was he doing near Tower Black?" I asked again.

"I do not know, Guard Captain. He was wearing field dress, without a winter parka. He looked like any other guard." Fiera's eyes met mine fully for the first time.

We both knew that young Creslin, for all his abilities with a blade, was anything but another guard. He was the only male ever trained with the Guards, and yet his masculine skills had not been neglected. He could play the guitar better than any minstrel, and I'd heard his voice when he sang. It seemed that he could call a soft breeze in the heat of summer, and more than a few of those who had guarded his door had come away with tears in their eyes. Fiera had been one of them, unhappily. He'd even called an ice storm once. Only once, after he had discovered he'd been promised to the Sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn.

Shortly, after more words with Fiera, I walked down the steps to the door of the ancient tower to check on what might have happened.

I always thought that tales of love were romantic nothings meant for men, not for the guards—or guard captains of Westwind—although I worried about my younger sister, and her actions in the east passage showed that I was right to worry. Fiera was close to ten years younger than I. We had not been close as children. I've always felt that sisters were either inseparable or distant. We were distant. Much as I tried to bridge that distance, much as I tried to offer kindness and advice, Fiera rejected both. When I attempted kindness, she said, "I know you're trying to be nice, but I'm not you. I have to do things my own way." She said much the same thing when I first offered advice. After a time, I only offered simple courtesy, as one would to any other Westwind guard, and no advice at all.

To my relief, the Tower Black door was locked, as it always was and should have been. There might have been boot prints in the frost, but even as a guard captain, I was not about to report what I could not prove, not when it might lead to revealing Fiera's indiscretion. Besides, what difference could it have made? Fiera had not made a fatal error, and young Creslin would be leaving Westwind forever, within days, to become the consort of the Sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn.

II

Four mornings later, Guard Commander Aemris summoned the ten Westwind Guard Captains to the duty room below the great hall. She said nothing at all for a time. Her eyes traveled from one face to another.

"Some of you may have heard the news," Aemris finally said. "Lord Creslin skied off the side of the mountain into a snowstorm. The detachment was unable to find him. The Marshall has declared mourning."

"How . . . ?"

"The weather . . ."
"He wasn't supplied . . ."

"There are some skis and supplies missing from Tower Black. He must have taken them. Do any of you know anything about that?"

I almost froze in place when Aemris dropped those words, but I quickly asked, "How could he?"

The Guard Commander turned to me. "He does have some magely abilities. He coated the walls of the South Tower with ice the night after his consorting was announced. The ice is still there. None of the duty guards saw him near Tower Black recently, but he could have taken the gear weeks ago. Or he could have used some sort of magely concealment and made his way there."

Not a single guard captain spoke.

Aemris shook her head. "Men. They expect to be pampered. Even when they're not, and you do everything for them, what does it get you? He's probably frozen solid in the highlands, and we'll find his body in the spring or summer."

I tried not to move my face, but just nod.

"You don't think so, Guard Captain?"

Everyone was looking at me.

"I've seen him with a blade and on skis and in the field trials, ser. He's very good, but he doesn't know it. That will make him cautious."

"For the sake of the Marshall and the Marshalle, I hope so. For the sake of the rest of us . . ." Aemris said no more.

I understood her concerns, but for Fiera's sake, I could only hope Creslin would survive and find some sort of happiness. Despite all the fancies of men and all the tales of the minstrels, most stories of lost or unrequited love end when lovers or would-be lovers are parted. In the real world, they never find each other again, and that was probably for the best, because time changes us all.

III

For weeks after Creslin vanished, Fiera was silent. She threw herself into arms practice, so much so that, one morning, as ice flakes drifted across the courtyard under a gray sky, I had to caution her, if quietly.

"Getting yourself impaled on a practice blade won't bring him back."

"They're blunted," she snapped back

"That just means the entry wound is jagged and worse."

"You should talk, sister dearest. I've seen you watch him as well."

"I have. I admit it. But only because I admired him, young as he was. I had no illusions."

"You don't understand. You never will. Don't talk to me."

"Very well." I didn't mention Creslin again, even indirectly.

IV

Slightly more than a year passed. The sun began to climb higher in the sky that spring, foreshadowing the short and glorious summer on the Roof of the World. The ice began to melt, if but slightly at midday, and the healer in black appeared at the gates of Westwind. Since she was a woman, she was admitted.

Word spread through the Guard like a forest fire in early fall. Creslin was alive. He had somehow found the Sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn, or she had found him, and the Duke of Montgren had married them and named them as co-regents of Recluce. I'd never heard anything much about Recluce, save that it was a large and mostly deserted isle across the Gulf of Candar to the east of Lydiar.

Fiera avoided me, and that was as well, for what could I have said to her? Creslin was alive, but wed to another, as had been fated from his birth. No male heir to the Marshall could ever remain in Westwind, and none ever had.

That night after inspecting the duty guards, I settled onto my pallet in the private corner alcove I merited as a guard captain without a consort.

I awoke in a tower. It was Tower Black, and the walls rose up around me. I looked up, but the stones extended farther than I could make out. The stone steps led upward, and I began to climb them. Yet they never ended, and at each landing, the doorway to the outside had been blocked by a stone statue of an unsmiling Creslin in the garb of a Westwind Guard. Behind the statue, the archway had been filled in with small black stones and deep gray mortar. I kept climbing, past landing after landing with the same statue of Creslin. The walls rose into a gray mist above me. Blood began to seep from my boots. I refused to say anything. I kept climbing. Surely, there had to be a way out of the tower. There had to be . . .

"Shierra, wake up." Dalyra shook me. "Wake up," she hissed. "You'll rouse everyone with that moaning and muttering. They'll ask what you were dreaming. Guard captains don't need that."

"I'm awake." I could tell I was still sleepy. My words came out mumbled.

"Good," whispered Dalyra. "Now go back to sleep." She padded back to her pallet in the adjoining alcove.

I lay there in the darkness under the thick woolen blankets of a single guard captain. I'd never wanted a consort. Not in Westwind, and it wasn't likely I'd ever be anywhere else. Even if I left Westwind, where would I ever find one strong enough to stand up to me? The only man I'd seen with that strength was Creslin, and he'd been little more than a youth when he'd escaped Westwind, and far too young and far too above me. Unlike Fiera, I knew what was possible.

Yet what had the dream meant? The Tower Black of my dream hadn't been the tower I knew. Tower Black was the oldest part of Westwind. Its smooth stones had been cut and fitted precisely by the ancient smith-mage Nylan under the geas of Ryba the Great before he had spellsung the traitor Arylyn to free him and fled with her to the world below the Roof of the World. The great hall, the Guard quarters, the stables, the craft buildings, all of them were far larger than Tower Black. Yet none of them conveyed the solidity of the far smaller Tower Black that they dwarfed.

I finally drifted back into sleep, but it was an uneasy slumber at best.

The next morning, Aemris mustered all the Guards, and even the handfuls of consorts, and the guard captains, in the main courtyard of Westwind. She stood in the gusty spring wind and snowfall, the large fat flakes swirling lazily from the sky. Beside her stood the healer.

"The Marshall of Westwind has learned that Lord Creslin made his own way to the Sub-Tyrant of Sarronnyn," the Guard Commander began. "They were wed in Montgren, and, as a token of his esteem, the Duke named them co-regents of Recluce. They are expanding the town of Land's End there on Recluce, and the Marshall will permit some from Westwind to join them in Recluce. The healer will explain."

Aemris delivered her speech without great enthusiasm. Even so, everyone was listening as the healer stepped forward.

"My name is Lydya. I am a healer, and I bring news of Creslin. He crossed much of Candar by himself and unaided. For a time he was imprisoned by the white wizards of Fairhaven, but he escaped and made his way to Montgren. He and Megaera are co-regents of Recluce. They are building a new land, and there is opportunity for all. The land is much warmer and much drier than Westwind, but there are mountains and the sea." She smiled crookedly. "The mountains are rugged, but much lower and not nearly so cold. For better or worse, neither men nor women rule, but both can prosper, or suffer, according to ability . . ."

Somehow that did not surprise me, not from a youth who had crossed much of Candar alone. What puzzled me was that he had married the woman he had left the Westhorns to avoid being consorted to. That suggested that Megaera was far more than he or anyone had expected.

After the healer finished speaking, Aemris added a few words. "Any of you who are interested in accompanying the healer to Recluce remain here. That includes consorts."

Perhaps forty guards out of three hundred remained in the courtyard. I was the only guard captain.

Aemris motioned for me to come forward first.

"You, Shierra?" asked the Guard Commander. "You have the makings of an arms-master or even Guard Commander in years to come."

How could I explain the dream? That, somehow, an image of Creslin kept me walled within Westwind? I could only trust the dream. "Someone must bring his heritage to him," I finally said.

Aemris looked to Lydya. The healer nodded.

"She's the most senior guard who wishes to go," Aemris said. "She should be guard captain of the detachment."

"That she will be." The healer smiled, but I felt the sadness behind the expression.

In the end, Aemris and Lydya settled on twenty-five guards and ten consorts with five children—all boys under five.

For the two days until we rode out, Fiera avoided me even more pointedly than before, walking away when she could, giving only formal responses when she could not. She could have volunteered, but she had not. Instead, she had asked to accompany a trade delegation to Sarronnyn. She hadn't told me. I'd discovered that from others—as I had so many things.

V

The ride to Armat took almost four eightdays. We rode through the Westhorns to Middle Vale and then down into Suthya by the road to the north of the River Arma. Until we reached Suthya, in most places, the snow beside the roads was at least waist-deep, and twice we had to help the road crews clear away new-fallen snow. In Armat, we had to wait another eightday for the ship Lydya had engaged with the letter of credit from the Marshall.

While we waited, she continued to purchase goods in one fashion or another. When the Pride of Armat ported, I was surprised to discover it was one of the largest vessels in the harbor, with three tall masts. The ship was heavy-laden indeed by the time her master lifted sail and we departed from Armat three days later. Lydya and I talked frequently, but it was mostly about the cargo, about the guards and their consorts, and about how we would need to use all the wood-working and stone-working tools to build our own shelter on Recluce. That bothered me little. All Guards knew something about building and maintaining structures. Westwind could not have endured over the centuries without those skills. I tended to be better with stone. Perhaps I lacked the delicate touch needed for woodwork.

After more than an eightday of hugging the northern coasts of Candar, the ship had finally left the eastern-most part of Lydiar behind, swallowed by the sea. For the first two days, we'd been followed by another vessel, until Lydya had suggested to the captain that he fly the banner of Westwind I had brought. About halfway across the Gulf of Candar, the war schooner eased away on a different course.

Lydya and I stood just aft of the bowsprit, at the port railing.

"Do you know what to expect in Recluce, Shierra?"

"No, except that it will likely be hot and dry and strange. We'll have to build almost everything from nothing, and there's a garrison of savage men we'll have to deal with."

Lydya laughed. "They'll have to deal with you. None of them are a match for your least trained Guards. That's one of the reasons why Creslin needs you, and why the Marshall permitted some of you to come."

"But she drove him out, didn't she?"

"Did she?"

The question made me uneasy, especially asked by a healer. "Why did you come to Westwind?"

"To ask the Marshall for what might be called Creslin's dowry. For obvious reasons, he cannot ask, and he would not even if he were physically where he could."

For that, I also admired him. "How did you come to know him?"

"I was a healer in the White road camp where they imprisoned him. After he escaped, Klerris and I followed him, not to Montgren, but to Tyrhavven. That is where he and Megaera took the Duke's schooner that brought them to Recluce. Klerris accompanied them, and I traveled to Westwind."

"Is he really a mage?"

"Yes. He may become one of the greatest ever. That is if he and Megaera survive each other."

"Healer . . . what is the Sub-Tyrant like?" I did not wish to ask the question, but I had to know, especially after Lydya's last words.

"She has hair like red mahogany, eyes as green and deep as the summer seas south of Naclos, fair skin, and freckles. She is also a white witch, with a kind heart, and a temper to match the most violent thunderstorms of summer."

"Is she . . ."

"She is as beautiful and as deadly as a fine dagger, Shierra. That is what makes her a match for Creslin, or him for her."

What could I say to that, except more pleasantries about the sea, the weather, and the cargo we carried?

VI

Another day passed. On the morning of the following day, a rocky headland appeared. I could see no buildings at all. There was no smoke from fires. As the ship neared land, and some of the sails were furled, I could finally make out a breakwater on the east side of the inlet between the rocky cliffs. At first, I wasn't certain, because it wasn't much more than a long pile of stones. There was a single short pier, with a black stone building behind it, and a scattering of other buildings, one of them clearly half-built. A dusty road wound up a low rise to a keep built out of grayish black stones. On one end was a section that looked to have been added recently.

The captain had a boat lowered, with a heavy rope—a hawser, I thought—attached to the sternpost. The men in the boat rowed to the pier and fastened it to one of the posts, and then the crew used the capstan to winch the ship in toward the pier. As we got nearer to the shore, I could see that very little grew anywhere, just bushes.

"Lydya . . . it doesn't look like we'll have much use for that wood-working equipment. All I see are a few bushes."

The healer laughed. "Those are trees, or what passes for them."

Trees? They were barely taller than I. I swallowed and turned back to look at the handful of people waiting on the pier. One of them was Creslin. I could tell that from his silver hair, lit by the sunlight. Beside him on one side was a black mage. On the other was a tall red-haired woman. That had to be Megaera.

Once the ship was tied past to the pier, the captain scrambled onto the pier, bowing to Creslin and Megaera. I just watched for a moment.

"Shierra . . . you're the Guard captain," said Lydya quietly. "Report to the regents."

I was senior, and I would have stepped forward sooner, except . . .

There was no excuse. I vaulted over the railing and stood waiting behind the captain. Once he stepped back, I moved forward.

"Guard Captain Shierra, Regent Creslin, Regent Megaera," I began, inclining my head in respect to them.

"Did you have any trouble with the wizards?" Creslin asked.

"No, ser. But then, we insisted that the captain fly our banner. One war schooner did follow us. It left halfway across the Gulf." I couldn't help smiling, but felt nervous all the same as I gestured to the middle mast that where the Westwind banner drooped limply.

"You seem to have a full group." Creslin smiled, but he didn't seem to recognize me. Then, why should he have? Fiera had been the one who had kissed him.

"Two and a half squads, actually."

Creslin pointed westward toward the keep. "There are your quarters, rough as they are. We'll discuss other needs once you look things over. We might as well get whatever you brought off-loaded."

"Some carts would help, ser. The healer—" I didn't wish to use her first name, and what else could I call her to a regent?—"was apparently quite persuasive . . ." I went on to explain everything in the cargo holds.

"Now, that is true wizardry." Creslin laughed.

The sound was so infectious, almost joyful, that I ended up laughing with him. Then, I was so embarrassed that I turned immediately to the Guards. "Let's offload!"

I forced myself to concentrate on the details of getting the Guards and consorts and the children off the ship, and then making sure with the ship's boatswain that the holds would be unloaded in the order on the bill of lading that I did not even sense Megaera's approach.

"Guard Captain?" Her voice carried, despite its softness.

I tried not to jump and turned. "Regent Megaera."

"Once you're ready, I'll escort you up to the keep." She smiled, almost humorously. "They'll have to walk. We're a bit short on mounts. It's not that far, though."

"We have enough mounts for the Guards, and some spares." I paused. "But they'll have to be walked themselves after all the time on ship."

It took until early afternoon before we had even begun to transfer cargo and to walk the horses up to the crude stables behind the keep. Once I had duties assigned to the Guards, I stayed at the keep, trying to keep track of goods and especially weapons. The wall stones of the outbuildings being used as tables were so loosely set that the stalls would have filled with ice on a single winter day at Westwind. The storerooms on the lower levels of the keep were better, but musty.

I blotted my forehead with my sleeve as I stood outside the stable in the sun, checking the contents of each cart, and directing the Guards.

After the cart I had checked was unloaded and Eliera began to lead the old mare back down to the pier, Megaera appeared and walked toward me

"Guard captain . . . I have a question for you."

"Yes, Regent?" What could a white witch want of me?

"Recluce is a hard place, and it is likely to get harder before it gets easier. Could you instruct me in the use of blades?"

"Regent . . ." What could I say? Westwind Guards began training almost as soon as they could walk, and Megaera was nearly as old as I was, I suspected. Beautiful as she was, she was certainly older than Creslin.

She lifted her arms and let the tunic sleeves fall back, revealing heavy white scars around both wrists. "I can deal with pain and discomfort, Guard Captain. What I cannot abide is my own inability to defend myself with a blade."

But . . . she was a white mage.

"Magery has its limits." She looked directly at me. "Please . . . will you help me?"

How could I say no when she had begged me? Or as close to begging as a Sub-Tyrant could come.

VII

I was studying the practice yard early the next morning. The sun had barely cleared the low cliffs to the east, and the air was cool, for Recluce, but dusty. I wondered if I'd ever escape the dust. Already, I missed the smell of the firs and the pines, and the clean crispness of the air of Westwind. The barracks were stone-walled, sturdy, and rough. From what I could tell, so were the Montgren guards.

I heard boots and turned.

"You're Guard Captain Shierra. Hyel, at your service." As eastern men sometimes were, he was tall, almost half a head taller than I was, but lanky with brown hair. His hands were broad, with long fingers. Megaera had pointed him out the day before and told me that he was in charge of the Montgren troopers, such as they were, but with all the fuss and bother of unloading and squeezing everyone in, we had not meet.

"I'm pleased to meet you." I wasn't certain that I was, but his approach had been polite enough.

"Are you as good as Regent Creslin with the blade?"

How could I answer that question? There was no good answer. I forced a smile. "Why don't we spar, and you can make up your own mind?"

Hyel stiffened. I didn't see why. "I only made a friendly suggestion, Hyel. That was because I don't have an answer to your question. I never sparred against Creslin." That was shading things, because Heldra had, and at the end, just before Creslin had ridden off, even she had been hard pressed. I certainly would have been.

"With wands?"

"That might be best." Best for both of us. If he were a master blade, I didn't want to find out with cold steel, and if he weren't, I didn't want to have to slice him up to prove a point.

"I'll be back in a moment."

Why had Hyel immediately sought me out, and before most others were around?

In moments, he re-appeared with two white oak wands that seemed scarcely used. He offered me my choice. I took the one that felt more balanced. Neither was that good.

"Shall we begin?" Hyel turned and walked into the courtyard. He turned and waited. Once I neared, he lifted the white oak wand, slightly too high. I was less comfortable with the single blade, but the shorter twin wooden practice blades were still buried in the storeroom where they'd been quickly unloaded.

His feet were about right, but he was leaning forward too far.

It took just three passes before I disarmed him.

He just shrugged and stood there, laughing,

I lowered the wand, uncertain of what to say. "Are you . . ."

"I'm fine, Shierra. Might I call you that?"

"You may."

He shook his head. "I always thought that what they said about Westwind was just . . . well, that folks believed what they wanted. Then, when Creslin slaughtered Zarlen in about two quick moves, well . . . I just thought that was him."

"No. He could have been as good as a Westwind arms-master . . . he might even have been when he left, but there are many Guards as good as I am." That was true enough. There were at least ten others. But Creslin . . . slaughtering someone? I'd known he was determined, but somehow, I'd never imagined him that way..

"It wasn't like that," Hyel said quickly. "Creslin and Megaera came here almost by themselves. On the Duke's small schooner with no guards and no troopers. Zarlen thought he could kill Creslin and have his way with her. Creslin saw what he had in mind and asked him to spar. Creslin disarmed him real quick, and Zarlen went crazy. He attacked Creslin with his own steel. Creslin had to kill him." Hyel laughed ruefully. "Made his point."

That made more sense . . . but to see that a man wanted his wife . . . and to kill him like that? The Marshall would have acted that quickly, and Creslin was her son. I'd never thought of it that way. I lowered the wooden wand until the blunted point touched the stones.

"Can you teach me?" Hyel asked.

I could. Should I? "If you're willing to work," I answered, still distracted by what Hyel had told me.

"Early in the morning?" A sheepish look crossed his face.

"Early in the morning. Every morning."

I'd been in Recluce only two days, and I'd already committed to teaching Megaera the basics of the blade and to improving the skills of the Montgren garrison commander.

VIII

With the Regent Megaera, I had to start farther back, with an exercise program of sorts. I gave her stones of the proper weight to lift and hold and exercises to loosen and limber her shoulders. After an eightday, she found me re-mortaring the stones in what would be the armory.

"Regent." I laid aside the trowel that I'd recovered from the recesses of the keep and stood.

"When can we start with blades?"

I didn't answer her, but turned and walked to the wall where I'd laid aside my harness. I unsheathed one of the blades and extended it, hilt first. "Take it, if you would, Regent."

After a moment of hesitation, she did.

"Hold it out, extended. Keep holding it." That wasn't totally fair, because no blademaster works with her weapon fully extended or with the arm straight, except for a thrust. But it's a good indication of arm strength.

Her arm and wrist began to tremble before long. She fought the weakness, but finally had to lower the blade.

"When your arms are strong enough to hold that position longer," I answered.

Her lips tightened.

"If we start before you're ready, you'll learn bad technique because you won't have the strength you'll have later, and strength and technique won't match."

Abruptly, she laughed. "Strength and technique won't match. That's almost what Klerris said about black magery."

I nodded slightly. I knew nothing about magery, but it seemed that strength and technique should match in any application.

"Did you ever see Creslin work magery?"

How was I to answer that?

"Did you?" Megaera's voice was hard.

I thought I saw whitish flames at the tips of her fingers.

"Only once. I wasn't certain it was magery. He called a storm and flung the winds against the south tower until it was coated with ice."

"Why did he do that?"

"I could not say, Regent."

Megaera smiled. I didn't like that kind of calculating smile. "When did he perform this . . . weather magery?"

I could have lied, but she would have known. "After his betrothal to you was announced. He left the Great Hall as soon as he could."

"Oh . . . best-betrothed . . . if only . . ."

While her words were less than murmured, I might as well not have been there.

Abruptly, she looked at me. "I would appreciate it if you would say nothing of this."

"I will not, Regent Megaera."

"Next eightday, we will begin with blades."

Then she was gone.

IX

Several days later, I took one of the mounts and rode up the winding road to the Black Holding. Several of the Guards had been detailed to help Creslin build the quarters for him and Megaera. I knew he'd never shirked work, but it was still strange to think of the Marshall's son and the Regent of Recluce working stone. I'd overheard remarks about his skill as a mason, and I wanted to see that, as well as check on the guards working there.

When I reached the structure, still incomplete under its slate roof, I reined up and dismounted, and tied the horse to the single post. The stones of the front wall and the archway were of various sizes, but all edges were smoothed and dressed, and fitted into an almost seamless pattern that required little or no mortar. Had Creslin done that? I couldn't have dressed the stones that smoothly, especially not with the tools we had, and I was the best of the Guard stoneworkers on Recluce.

Hulyan appeared immediately. She was carrying a bucket. "Guard Captain, ser, we didn't expect you."

"What are you doing?"

"It's my round to carry water to the Regent. He's cutting and dressing stone down in back, ser."

"Where are the others?"

"They're finding and carrying rough stones to the Regent. That's so he doesn't have to spend time looking."

"You can lead me there, but don't announce me.'

"Yes, Guard Captain."

We walked quietly around the north side of the building and to the edge of the terrace. There I stopped and watched.

Below the partly built terrace, Creslin stood amid piles of black stones. His silver hair was plastered against his skull with sweat, yet it still shimmered in the sun. He adjusted the irregular black stone on the larger chunk of rock, then positioned the chisel and struck with the hammer. Precise and powerful as the blow was, the stone shouldn't have split, but it did. One side was as smooth as if it had been dressed. I watched as he readjusted the stone and repeated the process.

Before long he had a precisely dressed black stone block. He only took a single deep breath, wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm, and then started on the next irregular chunk of heavy stone. In some fashion, he was mixing magery and stonecraft, and the results were superb. At that moment, I did not want to look at another piece of stone. Ever.

After a moment, I realized that Creslin must have known that as well. Was that why he worked alone?

I watched as he cut and then dressed one stone after another. I could not have lifted the hammer so strongly and precisely. Not for stone after stone. No stone-cutter I had ever seen or known could have.

Slowly, I moved forward, just watching, trying to sense what he was doing.

Despite the brilliant sunlight, there was a darkness around him, but it wasn't any kind of darkness or shadow that I had ever seen. It was more like something felt, the sense of how a blade should be held, or a saddle adjusted to a skittish mount. I kept watching, trying to feel what he did, rather than see.

For a moment, I could feel the stone before Creslin, knowing where the faults lay, and where chisel should be placed . . .

"Guard Captain Shierra!" he finally called, as if he had just seen me.

"Yes, ser. I was just checking on the guards."

"They've been most helpful. We couldn't have done half what's here without them." He paused. "But if you need them at the keep . . ."

"No, ser. Not yet anyway. Thank you, ser." My voice sounded steady to me. It didn't feel steady. I turned and hurried back to my mount, before Creslin could ask me anything more.

I untied the gelding and mounted, turning him back toward the keep in the harbor valley.

Thoughts swirled through my head as I rode down the dusty road.

Was that order-magery? The understanding of the forces beneath and within everything?

What I had seen wasn't what anyone would have called mage-craft. There were no winds or storms created. No one had been healed, and no keep had been suddenly created. Yet those stones could not have been cut and dressed so precisely in any other fashion. What I had also seen was a man who was driving himself far harder than anyone I had known. His body was muscle, and only muscle, and he was almost as slender as a girl guard before she became a woman.

I had thought I'd known something about Creslin. Now I was far from certain that I knew anything at all.

Back at the keep, I couldn't help but think about the way in which Creslin had turned irregular chunks of rock into cut and dressed black building stones. Could I do that? How could I not try?

I settled myself in the stoneyard on the hillside above the keep, with hammer and chisel and the pile of large chunks of broken dark gray stone. I set an irregular hunk on the granite-like boulder that served as a cutting table and looked at it. It remained a gray stone.

I closed my eyes and tried to recapture the feeling I'd sensed around Creslin. It had been deliberate, calm, a feeling of everything in its place.

Nothing happened.

Knowing that nothing was that simple, I hadn't expected instant understanding or mastery. While still trying to hold that feeling of simplicity and order, I picked up the chisel and the hammer. After placing the chisel where it felt best—close to where it needed to be to dress the edge of the stone, I took a long and deliberate stroke.

A fragment of the stone chipped away. It was larger than most that I had been chiseling away. That could have been chance. Without hurrying, I placed the chisel again, concentrating without forcing the feeling. Another large fragment split away.

Slowly, deliberately, I worked on the stone.

After a few more blows, I had a clean face to the stone, cleaner and smoother than I'd ever managed before, but the face was angled slightly, compared to the other, rougher faces.

I kept at it. At times, I had a hard time recapturing that deliberate, calm feeling, but I could tell the difference in the results.

Learning how to harness that feeling, and to use it effectively in cutting and dressing stone was going to take some time. I just hoped it didn't take too long. We needed dressed stones for far too many structures that had yet to be built. Creslin had also asked that some of the stone be used to finish the inn near the pier, especially the public room. That was to give the guards and troopers some place where they could gather and get a drink. I had my doubts about how that would work, for all of Hyel's efforts, and those of Creslin.

X

Exactly one eightday after she had last asked me, Megaera appeared in the keep courtyard, early in the morning, right after I had finished my daily session with Hyel.

"We're running out of time, Guard Captain," she said firmly. "Whether I'm strong enough or not, we need to begin."

"You've made a good start with the physical conditioning. But whether you can master a lifetime of training in a season or two is another question." That wasn't even a question. I doubted that she could, but she could learn to use a shortsword to defend herself against what passed for eastern bladework. In case of raiders or invaders, or even assassins, that could save her life just by allowing her to hold someone at bay long enough for help to reach her.
"There's no other choice."

The way she said the words, it seemed as though she was not even thinking of raiders.

"Creslin's not that hard, is he?" I couldn't believe I'd said that to the Regent, and I quickly added, "My sister felt he was a good man at heart."

Megaera laughed, half-humorously, half-bitterly. "It's not that at all. Against him, I need no defenses. Besides, from what I've seen, I'm not sure that I'd ever prevail by force of arms."

Her words lifted a burden from me. But why was she so insistent that she needed to learn the blade? She was a white witch who could throw chaos-fire. I'd even seen it flaring around her once or twice.

Megaera lifted the white-oak wand. "Where do we begin?"

"At the beginning, with the way you hold the blade." I stepped forward and repositioned her fingers. "You must have firm control, and yet not grip it so tightly that it wearies your muscles." I positioned her feet in the basic stance. "And the way in which you stand will affect those muscles as well."

"Like this?"

I nodded and picked up my own wand. "You may regret this, lady."

"The time for regrets has come and gone, Shierra. There is only time to do what must be done."

"Higher on the blade tip . . ." I cautioned.

For the first few passes, breaking through her guard was almost laughably easy. Unlike many of the junior guards when they first began, once she had a wand in her hand, Megaera had no interest in anything but learning how to best use it.

Her eyes never left me, and I could almost feel that she was trying to absorb everything I said. Her concentration, like Creslin's, was frightening.

What was between the two regents, so much that they each drove themselves beyond reason, beyond exhaustion?

XI

The following morning, Hyel was waiting for me.

"You're early," I said.

"I wanted to make sure I got my time with you before the Regent Megaera appeared." He laughed easily.

"You don't need that much more work." He really didn't. He learned quickly. His basic technique had never been that poor, but no one had ever drilled him in the need for perfection. I wondered if the Westwind Guards had developed that insistence on absolute mastery of weapons and tactics because the women were both the warriors and the child bearers and every woman lost meant children who would not be born.

"I'll need to keep sparring with you to improve and hold what you've taught me."

True as his words might be, I had the feeling that Hyel was not telling me everything. "And?"

He gave me the sheepish grin. "Who else can I talk to? You're the only one who commands fighting forces. The regents are above me, and . . ."

I could understand that. I did enjoy talking to him. Still . . . "If we're going to spar before the Regent gets here . . ."

"You're right." With a nod, he picked up his wand.

We worked hard, and I had to admit that he'd gotten enough better that I had to be on guard all the time. He even got a touch on me, not enough to give me more than a slight bruise, but he hadn't been able to do that before.

When we set down the wands, I inclined my head. "You're pressing me now." I even had to blot my forehead.

"Good!" Hyel was soaked, but he was smiling broadly—for a moment.

"What's the matter?"

"Is everyone from the West like you and the Regents?"

"What do you mean?"

"You never stop. From dawn to dusk, you, Creslin, and the Regent Megaera push yourselves. Anyone else would drop. Some of my men have, just trying to keep up with Creslin on his tours of the fields and the springs. He cuts stone, looks and finds springs, runs up and down mountains—"

"Compared to Westwind," I interjected, "they're just hills."

"They're mountains to the rest of us." He grinned before continuing. "You and the Regent Megaera are just as bad. You give me and her blade lessons, drill your own guards, cut and dress stones, check supplies and weapons . . . I've even seen you at the grindstone sharpening blades."

"A Guard Captain has to be able to do all that. That's what the position requires."

"Stone-cutting, too?"

"Not always stone-cutting or masonry, but all guards have to have at least apprentice level skills in a craft."

"No wonder Westwind has lasted so many ages." He shook his head. "That explains you and Creslin. What about the Regent Megaera?"

I shrugged. "She's more driven than Creslin, and I don't know why."

Hyel cleared his throat abruptly. "Ah . . ."

I turned. Megaera had entered the courtyard carrying a practice wand.

"Until later, Guard Captain." Hyel inclined his head, and then stepped away, offering a deeper nod of respect to Megaera.

"Can we begin, Shierra?" Megaera asked.

"Yes, Regent."

I turned and lifted my wand.

Megaera had practiced . . . or she had absorbed totally what I had taught her the day before. Once more, she concentrated totally on every aspect of what I showed her. At the end of the practice session, she inclined her head and thanked me, then left hurriedly. I couldn't help but think about what Hyel had said.

Her intensity made Creslin look calm, and I knew he was scarcely that.

After washing up a bit, I was back working on cutting stones. I couldn't match the pace that I'd seen in Creslin, but with each day I felt that I was getting more skilled. That was strange, because I'd felt no such improvement over the years before. I couldn't exactly explain what was different, except that the work went more quickly when I could hold onto the sense of calm and order.

I'd cut and dressed several larger stones when I sensed more than saw Lydya approach. She radiated a calmness that didn't interfere with my concentration. Her presence should have, but it didn't. She said nothing, and I kept working.

Finally, she stepped forward, almost to my elbow. "You're good at cutting and shaping the rough stone."

"I've been working at it."

"You're using some basic order skills, you know?"

"I watched Creslin for a time. I just thought I'd try to do what he was doing. It looked . . . more effective."

"Just like that?" Lydya raised her eyebrows.

"No, not exactly. I already knew something about masonry and stone-cutting. But there was a certain feel to what he was doing . . ." How else could I explain it?

The healer laughed, softly, but humorously. "There is indeed a feel to the use of order. If you continue to work on developing that feel to your stone-work, you may become a master mason." The humorous tone was replaced with one more somber. "In time, it will impair your ability to use a blade."

"But . . . Creslin . . ."

Lydya just nodded. "Order has its price, and there are no exceptions."

XII

Megaera made solid improvements. By the end of the second eightday of practice, she was sparring at the same level as the most junior guards. At times, she made terrible mistakes. That was because she had so little experience. Each of those mistakes resulted in severe bruises, and she was fortunate not to have broken her wrist once. Even so, she continued to improve. After our sessions, I began to match her against the guards. That was as much to show her that she had improved as for the practice itself.

After one session, she forced herself not to limp, despite a slash-blow to her calf that would have tried the will of most of the guards. She did sit down on the stone bench beside me.

"That was quite a blow you took."

"I should have sensed it coming." She shook her head.

I couldn't help noticing that the circles under her eyes were darker. "You can't learn everything all at once."

"You sound like . . ." She stopped, then went on. "Do you have a sister, Shierra?"

"A younger sister. She's probably a squad leader now."

"How do you get along?"

Should I have answered? How could I not, when she could tell my very thoughts?

"I love her, but she has kept her distance from me."

Megaera laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

"Do you have a sister?"

"You know I have a sister. She's the Tyrant."

She was right, but I hadn't known quite what to say. "Is she a mage, too?"

"No. Not many Tyrants have been mages, not since Saryn anyway. She is just the Tyrant. Were you ever close to your sister?"

"I tried to be. But she never wanted to hear what I had to say. She said she had to make her own decisions and mistakes."

Megaera looked away. After a moment, she rose. "Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow." Then she turned and left.

Had my comment offended her, by suggesting her sister had only meant the best for her? Did she react that way to everything, taking even harmless statements as criticisms or as slights?

Megaera said little to me for the next three mornings, only what was necessary to respond to my instructions. She avoided me totally in matters involving the upgrading of the quarters and the keep, or even the duty rosters for the guards. Creslin and Hyel discussed the duty rosters for the Montgren troopers, and Hyel and I worked out the rotations between us.

On the fourth morning, before we began, Megaera looked at me, then lowered the practice wand. "Shierra . . . you meant the best."

"I did not realize that matters were so between you and your sister." I wasn't about to apologize when I had done nothing wrong, but I could say that I meant no harm.

"You could not have known. No one here could have. Even Creslin did not know until I told him. Sisters can be so cruel."

Could they? Had I been that cruel?

Even as we sparred, Megaera's words crept through my thoughts.

XIII

Late one afternoon, Hyel found me in the stoneyard. "We need to get down to the public room."

"Now? We need more stones . . ."

"You know how the troopers and guards don't talk to each other?"

"We talk to each other."

"Our guards don't talk to each other. Even when they're drinking they sit on opposite sides of the room."

I'd seen that. "It will change."

Hyel shook his head. "I told Regent Creslin about it. He's going to do something, This evening. He didn't say what. I think you should be there."

"Frig! I don't need this." But I picked up my tools and my harness. "I'll meet you there. I need to wash up." At least, I needed to get stone dust out of my eyes and nose and hair

I did hurry, but by the time I got to the half-finished inn and public room, the sun was low over the western hills that everyone else called mountains. The windows were without glass or shutters, and someone had propped wooden slats over several of the openings to cut the draft.

Hyel was right. The Westwind guards had taken the tables on the south side, and the Montgren troopers those on the north side. I should have paid more attention, but between keeping things going and the stonework, and the training sessions, I'd had little time and less inclination for the going to the public room.

I eased onto one end of the bench on the leftmost table. "What is there to drink?"

"Some fermented green stuff," replied Fylena, "and something they call beer."

"Doesn't anyone ever talk to the Montgren guards?"

"Why? All they want is to get in our trousers."

"Without even bathing," added someone else.

"There's the regent."

I looked up. Megaera had taken a place at the adjoining table, and beside her was the healer. Across the room, Klerris the mage was sitting beside Hyel.

Creslin walked into the public room and glanced around. He carried his guitar as he made his way to Hyel and spoke. Hyel hurried off and returned with a stool. After a moment, Creslin dragged the stool into the open space and then recovered his guitar.

He settled onto the stool and fingered the strings of the guitar. He smiled, but it was clear he was uneasy. After another strumming chord, he spoke. "I don't know too many songs that don't favor one group or another. So enjoy the ones you like and ignore the ones you don't." Then he began to sing.

Up on the mountain

where the men dare not go

the angels set guards there

in the ice and the snow . . .

I'd forgotten how beautifully he sang. It was as though every note hung like liquid silver in the air. When he finished the first song, no one spoke, but Megaera slipped away from the other table and sat beside me.

Creslin then sang "White was the Color of My Love."

"Has he always sung this well?" murmured Megaera.

"His father was supposed to have been a minstrel, but no one knows for sure."

Creslin launched into two humorous songs, and both the guards and the troopers laughed. When he halted, he stretched his fingers, then coughed, looking around as if for something to drink. Megaera left me for a moment, carrying her cup to him.

Instead of thanking her, he asked, "Are you all right?"

"Fine, thank you. I thought you might need this." After he drank she took the cup and rejoined me. For the first time, I saw that she was deathly white, and she held her hands to keep them from trembling.

Creslin sang several more songs, and then coaxed one of Hyel's troopers into singing one of their songs.

Finally, he brought the guitar to Darcyl. I hadn't even known that she played. Creslin turned, looking for a place to sit. Megaera rose, taking my arm and guiding me with her. We ended up at the one vacant table. I did manage to gesture for Hyel to join us, and Megaera beckoned as well.

"I didn't know you could sing." Megaera's words were almost an accusation.

"I never had a chance until now, and you never seemed to be interested," Creslin replied, his voice either distant or tired, perhaps both. His eyes were on Darcyl and the guitar.

No one spoke. Finally, I had to. "Fiera said that the hall guards used to sneak up to his door when he practiced."

For the first time I'd ever seen, Creslin looked surprised. "Fiera? Is she your—"

"My youngest sister." I don't know why I said it that way, since she was also my only sister. "She talked a lot about you, probably too much." I wished I hadn't said that, either, almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth, but I hadn't expected to find myself sitting at a table with just the two regents and Hyel.

"How is she?"

I sensed Megaera bristling, but all I could do was answer. "She went with the detachment to Sarronnyn. She'll be rotated back later in the year sometime. It could be that she's already back at Westwind."

"Where did the guitar come from?" Hyel was doing his best to keep the conversation light.

"It was mine," Creslin replied. "I left it behind. Lydya—the healer—brought it. My sister Llyse thought I might like to have it."

"You've never played in public?" I was trying to do . . . something . . . to disarm Megaera's hostility.

"No. I was scared to do it, but sometimes music helps. The second song, the white-as-a-dove one, probably saved me from the White Wizards."

"You didn't exactly sound scared." Megaera's voice was like winter ice in Westwind.

"That wouldn't have helped much," Creslin said slowly. "Besides no one born in Westwind shows fear. Not if they can help it."

Megaera looked at me, as if she wanted me to refute what he'd said.

"Feeling afraid is acceptable, but letting it affect your actions is not. That's one of the reasons the guards are often more effective than men. Men too often conceal their fear in brashness or in unwise attacks. The guards are trained to recognize their fears and set them aside. Regent Creslin was trained as a guard until he left Westwind."

Hyel raised his eyebrows, then took a long pull from his mug.

For several songs by Darcyl, we just sat there and listened.

Then Creslin rose. He offered an awkward smile. "I'm going to get some sleep."

At the adjoining table, both Klerris and Lydya stiffened.

"I do hope you'll play again for us," Hyel said. "That really was a treat, and just about everyone liked it."

Everyone but Megaera, I felt, and I was afraid I understood why. I was also afraid I'd just made matters worse without meaning to.

Creslin recovered his guitar and looked at Megaera.

"I do hope you'll play again," I said quickly.

Megaera's eyes fixed on Creslin. "I need to talk to you."

"Now?"

"When you get to the holding will be fine. I won't be long."

Her words told me that matters were anything but fine.

Concern flooded Creslin's face.

"Stop it. Please . . ." Megaera spoke softly, but firmly.

Before Creslin could move, Klerris stepped up to Megaera. "A moment, lady?"

"Can it wait until tomorrow?"

"I think not."

As if they had planned it, the two mages separated Creslin and Megaera, Klerris leading her in one direction and Lydya guiding him in another.

"What was that all about?" asked Hyel. "I thought things were going better between the troopers and the guards."

"Between my guards and your troopers, yes."

Hyel's eyes went to Megaera's back as she and Klerris left the public room. "He was singing to her, and she didn't hear it. Was that it?" asked Hyel.

I shook my head. "He was singing to us, all of us, and she needs him to sing for her."

"She's not that selfish."

He didn't understand. "I didn't say she was. It's different." I tried not to snap at him.

"How's he supposed to know that?"

I didn't have an answer, but I knew it was so, and even Fiera would have understood that.

XIV

After the night that Creslin sang to all the guards and troopers at the public room, two things happened. The first was that Creslin and Megaera begin to call Klerris and Lydya, and Hyel and me, together to meet almost daily about matters affecting Recluce. Creslin laughed about it, calling us the unofficial high council of Recluce. Usually, I didn't say too much, Neither did Hyel.

Mostly, I watched, especially Creslin and Megaera. Sometimes, I couldn't help but overhear what they said afterwards as they left the hall.

" . . . don't . . ."

"I'm sorry," Creslin apologized. "I still can't believe your cousin wants to tax us . . ."

"He doesn't. It has to be Helisse . . . not any better than sister dear . . ."

Creslin said nothing.

"Sisters of Sarronnyn . . . except she never thought of us . . . just of her, of what she thought was best for Sarronnyn . . ."

"Don't we have to think of what's best for Recluce?"

"It's not the same!" After a moment, Megaera continued, her voice softer. "I'm sorry, best-betrothed. You try to ask people. You don't always listen, but you care enough to ask . . ."

Their voices faded away, and I stood there, thinking about how they had spoken to each other and what they had said—and not said.

The second thing was that, not every night, but more and more frequently, Megaera began to sleep in the keep. Then it was every night.

I didn't even pretend to understand all the reasons why she preferred to share my small room at the keep rather than stay in the Black Holding where she had a fine large room to herself. I also understood why she'd married Creslin. What real choice had she had? I could have understood why she'd never slept with him, except for one thing. It was clear to every person on the isle that he loved her, that he would have taken a blade or a storm for her. Yet she ignored that, and she also ignored the fact that she cared for him. That was what I found so hard to understand. But a guard captain doesn't ask such things of a regent, even one who shares her chamber.

Finally, one night, in the darkness, she just sat on the edge of her pallet and looked at the wall.

"It's not my affair," I began, although it was because anything that the regents did affected all of us on Recluce, "but could you . . ." I didn't quite know what to say.

Megaera did not speak for a time, and I waited.

"It isn't your affair, Shierra. It's between Creslin and me." She paused, then went on. "We're tied together by magery. It's an evil thing. I know everything he feels. Everything. When he looks at me . . . or when he feels I've done something I shouldn't . . . or when . . ." She shook her head.

"Does he know what you feel?"

"He's beginning to know that. The . . . mage-ties were done at different times. I had no choice . . . mine to him was done even before we were betrothed. He didn't even know. That . . . it was my sister's doing. My own sister, and she said that it was for my own good. My own good. Creslin . . . he chose to tie himself to me. He didn't even ask. He just had it done." She turned. "How would you feel, to have every feeling you experienced felt by a man you never knew before you were married?"

I was confused. "Didn't you say that you know everything he feels?"

"Every last feeling! Every time he looks at me and wants me! Every time he feels hurt, like a whipped puppy, because I don't think what he did was wonderful . . . Do you know what that's like? How would you feel if you knew every feeling Hyel had for you, and he knew how you felt?" She snorted. "You've at least worked with Hyel. When I started feeling what Creslin felt, we'd met once at a dinner, and we'd exchanged less than a handful of words. Sister dear and his mighty mother the Marshall decided we should be wed, and that was that."

The idea of having every feeling known? I shuddered. I liked Hyel, and we had gotten to know each other somewhat. The idea that a complete stranger might know all my feelings . . . no wonder Megaera looked exhausted. No wonder she was edgy. Yet . . . I had to wonder about Creslin.

"What about Regent Creslin?" I asked softly.

She shook her head.

Once more, I waited.

"He does what he feels is right, but . . . he doesn't always think about how it affects others. At times, he tries to listen, but then . . . it's as though something happened, and he's back doing the same things." Megaera's voice died away. Abruptly, she stretched out on the pallet. "Good night, Shierra."

Everything Megaera had said rang true, and yet I felt that there was more there. Was that because I had watched Creslin grow up? Because I wanted to believe he was doing the best he knew how? I had watched him both in Westwind and since I had come to Recluce, and I could see how he tried to balance matters, and how he drove himself. But was I seeing what I wanted to see? Was what Megaera saw more accurate?

How could I know?

I lay on my pallet, thinking about Fiera. I'd only wanted the best for her. I'd never even thought of doing anything like the Tyrant had. I wished I could have told her that. But when I left, she hadn't let me. She'd gone off to Sarronnyn, as if to say that she could go where she wanted without telling me.

XV

The warning trumpet sounded while I was just about to begin finishing the stonework reinforcing around the second supply storehouse. I was halfway across the courtyard when Gylara called to me.

"Guard Captain! Ships! At least two warships entering the harbor. They're flying the standard of Hamor . . ."

Hamor? Why were the Hamorians attacking?
". . . Regent Megaera has ordered all squads to the pier! She's left with first squad!"

I should have been the one to issue that order. But then, I shouldn't have properly been doing stonework, except no one else in the detachment had been trained in it, except Doryana, and two stone-masons weren't nearly enough with all that needed to be repaired and built. I was already buckling on my harness and sprinting for the courtyard.

"Second squad! Form up! Pass the word."

Hyel rushed into the courtyard just as we were heading out. I'd hoped we could catch up with first squad. I didn't like the thought of Megaera leading them into battle.

"Get your men! We've got invaders!" I didn't wait to see what he did, because second squad was already moving. The harbor was close enough that advancing on foot was faster than saddling up. Besides, there wouldn't be enough room to maneuver in the confined area, and we'd lose mounts we had too few of anyway.

Second squad followed me in good order. I didn't bother to count the ships filling the harbor or the boats that were heading shoreward. Counting didn't solve anything when you were attacked and had no place to retreat. The first boat reached the pier before first squad did.

First squad tore into the attackers, but another set of boats was headed toward the foot of the pier. If they landed there, they could trap first squad between two Hamorian forces.

"Second squad! To the boats!"

We managed to reach the rocky shore just as the first Hamorians scrambled from the water. The leading warrior charged me with his oversized iron bar. I just stepped inside and cut his calf all the way to the bone and his neck with the other blade.

After that, it was slash and protect.

Then fire—white wizard-fire—flared from somewhere.

I took advantage of that to cut another Hamorian throat and disable two more. So did my guards.

More wizard fire flared across the sky.

Then the winds began to howl, and the skies blackened. Instantly, or so it seemed. Lightnings flashed out of the clouds. I hoped they were hitting the Hamorian ships, but we weren't looking that way, and the Hamorians who were died under our blades.

"Waterspouts! Frigging waterspouts!"

I didn't look for those, either. "Second squad, toward the water!"

The Hamorians began to panic.

Before long we held the shore to the east of the pier, and the only Hamorians nearby were wounded or stumbling eastward.

"Second squad! Reform on me!"

Only then did I study the harbor. The water was filled with high and choppy waves, and debris was everywhere. Three ships were enshrouded in flames. A fourth was beached hard on the shingle to the east. I didn't see anyone alive on it, but there were bodies tangled in twisted and torn rigging and ropes.

Then, I turned to the pier. The guards of first squad had been split by the ferocity of the initial attack and by the numbers, but they had reformed into smaller groups. They were standing. I didn't see any Hamorians. I also didn't see Creslin or Megaera.

"Second squad! Hold! Dispatch anyone who doesn't surrender!"

I scrambled over and around bodies to get to the pier. Half the way toward the seaward end, I found them. Megaera lay on the blood-smeared stones of the pier, gashes in her leathers. Creslin lay beside her, an arrow through his right shoulder. One hand still held a blade. The other was thrown out, as if to protect Megaera. Both were breathing.

Creslin was more slightly built than I recalled, so wiry that he was almost gaunt. He looked like a youth, almost childlike, helpless. Despite the blood on her leathers and face, Megaera looked young, too, without the anger that sometimes seemed to fuel every movement she made. For the briefest moment, I looked from the two, looking young and bloody, and somehow innocent, to the carnage around them. There were scores of mangled bodies, and burning and sunken ships. Ashes rained across the pier, along with the smoke from the burning schooner that had begun to sink.

Hyel hurried toward me, followed by four litter bearers, two of his men and two guards.

"They're alive, but . . . they'll need the healers," I told him. "We'll need to round up the survivors. Some of them are swimming ashore." I glanced around. "Most of your men are on the west side of the pier. You take that area. The Guards will take the east."

Hyel nodded. "We'll do it. The lookouts say that there aren't any more ships near."

That was some help.

Once we finally captured all the surviving Hamorians and had them under guard, I headed back to the keep.

I trudged up the steps, only to have one of the Montgren troopers approach and bow.

"Guard Captain, the mage and Captain Hyel are waiting for you in the hall."

"Thank you." I wiped the second shortsword clean and sheathed it.

Even before I stepped into the hall, Klerris moved forward. Hyel followed.

"How are they?"

"Lydya is working with them. They'll live." Klerris glanced at me and then Hyel. "You two are in charge for now."

I looked back at the mage. "Us?"

"Who else? Lydya and I will be busy trying to patch up bodies and spirits. You two get to take care of everything else."

It was pitch dark before I felt like I could stop, and I'd made a last trip down to the pier and back because I'd posted guards on the grounded Hamorian vessel. I didn't want the ship looted. There was potentially too much on her that we could use.

"It's hard to believe, isn't it?" Hyel was sitting on the topmost step leading into the keep. "Sit down. You could use a moment to catch your breath."

"Just for a bit." I did sit down, but on the other side of the wide step, where I could lean back against the stone of the walls. "What's hard to believe?"

"People. You get two young leaders, and they start trying to make a better place for people who don't have much hope or anywhere to go, and everyone wants to stop them."

I didn't find that hard to believe. I'd already seen enough of that as a Westwind guard.

"You don't agree?" He raised his eyebrows.

I laughed. The sound came out bitter. "I do agree, but I don't find it hard to believe. People are like that."

He gestured to the north, his arm taking in the small harbor and the last embers of the grounded and burning sloop. "And all this? That's not hard to believe?"

"It's real, Hyel."

"How could two people—even if they are wizards—create such . . ."

"Chaos?" I laughed again. "Creslin's a mage, and she's a white witch. They both have to prove their worth. To the world and to each other." Proving it to each other might be the hardest part, I thought. "We all have to prove things." I stood. "I need to check on the wounded and see what changes we'll need in the duty rosters."

Hyel grinned crookedly, uneasily, as he rose from the step. "What do you have to prove, Shierra?"

"Tell me what you have to prove, Hyel, and then I'll tell you." I started to turn.

His long-fingered hand touched my shoulder. Gently.

"Yes?"

His eyes met mine. "I have to prove . . . that I was sent here wrongfully. I have to prove that I'm not a coward or a bully."

"What if you were sent here rightfully, but you're not the same man that you once were?"

His lips quirked. "You ask questions no one else does."

"I did not mean to say—"

"You didn't, Shierra. I always learn something when I'm with you." He smiled. "You'd better check those rosters."

I could have avoided Hyel's question. He wouldn't have pressed me again. He'd answered my question and not demanded my answer. After a moment, I managed a smile. "I have to prove that I didn't make a mistake in choosing to come here. I have to prove that I've escaped an image."

"The image of a Westwind Guard?"

"Partly."

He nodded, but didn't press. This time, I wasn't ready to say more. "Until tomorrow, Hyel."

"Good night, Shierra."

XVI

Over the next three eightdays, something changed between Creslin and Megaera. I didn't know what, or how, but after they recovered, they both slept at the Black Holding, and occasionally they held hands. They still bickered, but most of the bitterness had vanished.

Our meetings didn't have the edginess that they had once had. Not that there weren't problems and more problems.

A second tax notice came from the Duke of Montgren, and there was no pay chest, either, although the Duke had promised them for a year.

"What about the cargo?" I asked, looking around the table in the keep hall.

"It's paid for," snapped Creslin.

"Did you have to pay, since the ship is the Duke's?" I didn't understand why that was necessary, since Creslin and Megaera were his regents.

"The captain's acting as a consignment agent. If he doesn't get paid now, when would we get another shipment of goods? Would anyone else trade with us?" He went on, pointing out how few wanted to trade with such an out of the way place.

"So they're gouging the darkness out of us?" asked Hyel.

"That's why we need to refit the Hamorian ships for our own trading."

"We can't afford to refit one ship, let alone others," observed Megaera.

"We can't afford not to," snapped Creslin.

Then after a few more words, he stood and strode out. Megaera rose. "He's worried."

After the others left, Hyel looked to me. "He's acting like we're idiots."

"Sometimes we are," I pointed out. "He's paid for most everything we have personally, and he doesn't have much left."

"What about Megaera's sister, the Tyrant? At least, the Marshall sent you and equipment and supplies. The Tyrant hasn't sent anything. Neither has the Duke."

Why hadn't the Tyrant sent anything? Sarronnyn was rich enough to spare a shipload of supplies now and again. Did Megaera's sister hate her that much? Or did she regard her as a threat? How could Recluce ever threaten Sarronnyn?

XVII

Whether it was the result of Creslin calling the storms against the Hamorians or something else, I didn't know, and no one said, but the weather changed. Day after day, the clouds rolled in from the northwest, and the rains lashed Recluce. Fields began to wash out, and we kept having to repair our few roads. No one had ever thought about so much rain on a desert isle, and most of the roofs leaked. After nearly three eightdays, the worst passed, but we still got more rain than the isle had gotten before.

Megaera, once she had fully recovered from her injuries, and once we did not have to deal with rain falling in sheets, continued her sparring and working with me on improving her blade skills. One morning she did not bring her practice blade. Instead, she sat on one of the benches in the courtyard and motioned for me to sit beside her. Her face was somber.

"Shierra . . . something has happened . . ."

What? It couldn't have been Creslin, or Megaera would have been far more distraught. It couldn't have been Hyel, because I'd seen him a few moments before, and enjoyed his smile.

"Creslin . . . he sensed something last night. Something has happened at Westwind. He doesn't know what it is, but . . . it's likely that the Marshall and Marshalle are dead."

"Dead? What about . . . all the others?"

Her fingers rested on my wrist, lightly. "We don't know. We don't have any way of knowing, but we thought you should know what we know. You're the senior Westwind guard here. Creslin and I . . . we thought that perhaps you could tell the guards that you've had word of hard times at Westwind, and that the Marshall and Marshalle have been hurt, but that you don't know more than that."

I found myself nodding, even as I wondered about Fiera. Had she been hurt? Or killed? Would I ever know, with Westwind thousands of kays away?

"I'm sorry, Shierra." Megaera's voice was soft. "I know you have a sister . . ."

For some reason, hearing that, I had to swallow, and I found myself thinking of Megaera as much as Fiera. How could her sister have been so cruel to her?

After Megaera departed, I did gather the squads, and I told them something similar to what she had suggested.

But the eightdays passed, and we heard nothing.

I kept wondering about Fiera. Was she all right? Would I ever hear? Would I ever know?

Then, one morning at the keep, as Hyel and I waited for the regents, Creslin burst through the door. "There's a coaster porting." He hurried past us and down the steps to the hill road that led to the pier.

Hyel looked at me. Then we both followed.

"That's a Westwind banner below the ensign," I told Hyel. "That's why he's upset."

"Upset?"

I didn't try to explain, not while trying to catch up with Creslin. "We're going to have more guards." Would Fiera be there? If she weren't, could someone tell me about her?

"More—?" Hyel groaned as he hurried beside me.

"Don't groan so loudly."

We finally caught up with Creslin as the coaster eased up to the pier and cast out lines.

"Do you want to explain?" asked Hyel.

Creslin pointed to the Westwind guards ranked on the deck.

"I still—" Hyel didn't understand.

"I hope they aren't all that's left," I said. Please let Fiera be there . . . or alive and well somewhere.

"The Marshall's dead. Llyse is dead, and Ryessa has been moving troops eastward into the Westhorns," Creslin said.

I hadn't heard about the Sarronnese troops. I wondered how he knew, but perhaps the mages or the trading captains had told him.

"If Westwind still existed, there wouldn't be three squads coming to Recluce." His words were hard.

Once the coaster was secured to the pier, the gangway came down, and a blond guard—a squad leader—stepped down and onto the pier.

My heart almost stopped. Fiera! But I had to take her report as she stepped past Hyel and Creslin and stopped before me.

"Squad Leader Fiera reporting."

"Report."

"Three full squads. Also ten walking wounded, five permanently disabled, and twenty consorts and children. Three deaths since embarkation in Rulyarth. We also bring some supplies, weapons, and tools . . . and what is left of the Westwind treasury."

Hard as it was, I replied. "Report accepted, Squad Leader." I turned. "May I present you to Regent Creslin? Squad Leader Fiera."

Creslin did not speak for a moment. He and Fiera locked eyes. The last time they had met, she had kissed him, and now everything was different.

Then he nodded solemnly. "Honor bright, Squad Leader. You have paid a great price, and great is the honor you bestow upon us through your presence. Few have paid a higher price than you . . ." When he finished, his eyes were bright, although his voice was firm.

So were Fiera's, but her voice was hard. "Will you accept the presentation of your heritage, Your Grace? For you are all that remains of the glory and power of Westwind."

"I can do no less, and I will accept it in the spirit in which it is offered." Creslin looked directly into her eyes and lowered his voice. "But never would I have wished this. Even long ago, I wished otherwise." He tightened his lips.

Even I felt the agony within him.

"We know that, Your Grace." Fiera swallowed, and the tears oozed from the corners of her eyes. "By your leave, Regent?"

"The keep is yours, Squad Leader, as is all that we have. We are in your debt, as am I, in the angels', and in the Legend's."

"And we in yours, Regent." Fiera's voice was hard as granite or black stone, but the tears still flowed.

"Form up!" I ordered, as much to spare Fiera as for anything. "On the pier."

"What was all that about?" Hyel asked Creslin.

Whatever Creslin said, it would not explain half of what had happened, nor should it.

Carts had already begun to arrive. They had to have been sent by Megaera, and at that moment my heart went out to both my sister and to Megaera, for both suffered, and would suffer, and neither was at fault. Nor was Creslin.

With all the need to accommodate the unexpected additional guards, consorts, and children, I could not find a time when Fiera was alone until well past sunset.

I watched as she slipped out the front entrance of the keep and began to walk down the road. I did not know what she had in mind, but I had to reach her.

Following her, I did not speak until we were well away.

"Fiera . . . ?"

She did not respond.

I caught up with her. "I wanted to talk to you, but not . . . not with everyone around."

She stopped in the middle of the rutted road, under a cloudy and starless sky.

"Why?" She asked. "Why did it have to happen this way?"

"You gave him his future. You gave him what will save us all," I told her, and I knew it was true. I also knew that, at that moment, it didn't matter to her.

She said nothing.

"Fiera . . . ?"

"What?" The single word was almost snapped. "I suppose you have some great suggestion. Or some reason why everything will be wonderful."

"No. I don't. I don't have any answers. For you or for me. Or for us." I rushed on. "I know I didn't do everything right, and I know what I did must have hurt you. I didn't mean it that way. I only wanted to help . . ." I swallowed. "I love you, and you are my sister, and you always will be."

We both cried, and held each other.

There were other words, but they were ours and for us alone.

XVIII

Late that night, I sat on the front steps of the keep. Fiera was sleeping, if fitfully, and Megaera and Creslin doubtless had their problems, and I . . . I had my sister . . . if I could keep her, if I could avoid interfering too much.
"Are you all right?" Hyel stood in the doorway of the keep.

"I'm fine."

He just looked at me with those deep gray eyes, then sat down beside me. For a long time, he said nothing. Finally, he reached out and took my hand. Gently.

Love is as much about wisdom as lust and longing. Fiera had loved Creslin, not wisely, but well, and out of that love, she had brought him the tools to build a kingdom. He would never forget, for he was not the kind who could or would, but he loved Megaera. So he would offer all the honors and respect he could to Fiera, but they would not be love.

Megaera had loved her sister, also not wisely, but well, while I had loved my sister wisely, carefully, I had not shown that that love, nor had the Tyrant, I thought. Unlike the Tyrant, who would never show any love to her sister, I'd been given the chance to let Fiera know what I felt, and I, for once, had been brave enough to take it.

As for the future, I could only hope that, in time, Fiera would find someone who matched her, as Creslin and Megaera had found each other, as Hyel and I might.

* * *

L. E. Modesitt, Jr. Is the author of many books and stories.

As Black As Hell

Written by John Lambshead
Illustrated by David Daniel

"For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night."

Sonnet 147, William Shakespeare

Gaston was used to waiting. The unofficial motto of the British Army was 'hurry up and wait.' Gaston had reached the rank of sergeant in the 2nd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment—the Queen's own Royal goon squad, not bad for the illegitimate son of a Charing Cross streetwalker. He had joined up after his mother's pimp had beaten her senseless with a red-hot coat hanger. Gaston had taken a white-hot poker to the pimp in retaliation. The local police had found the incident hilarious but a kindly bobby had suggested that Gaston should join the Queen's colours for a while to keep him out of circulation. The pimp was connected to one of the more vicious Kosovan white slaver gangs that imported teenage girls for the sex trade in Central London.

In Afghanistan, Gaston had come across something much older and far more dangerous than the Taliban, something that stalked and killed his section, one by one. Gaston had survived and even fought back. The Commission team that finally put down the beast had been impressed enough to recommend that the soldier be recruited. His mother was dead by then so Gaston was footloose and free. He was quietly discharged from the ranks on health grounds and disappeared into the Commission's tender arms.

Gaston sat on the floor in the back of a battered van with three others. "For Christ's sake stop drumming your fingers, MacDowell," he said.

"Sorry, Sarge," MacDowell said. He guiltily placed his hand in his lap.

Gaston closed his eyes again. The one thing a soldier learnt was to sleep when he could. You never knew when the chance might come again. The spearmen who followed Achilles knew this, as did the legionnaires who marched behind the Caesars. The important things never change.

The mobile vibrated in Gaston's pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message. It read simply 'She's in.' "Okay, boys," said Gaston. "It's on." He would have preferred to wait for daylight to deal with a Code Z but his orders were precise.

The van might have looked old and battered but the side door slid back in well-oiled silence. The four men debussed and moved purposely towards the cottage carrying bulky equipment. Two of them moved to the front door while the others knelt down in the garden. Gaston inserted a device into the door lock. A light flashed on the equipment, briefly illuminating black body armour, topped by a helmet with a reinforced visor.

The door lock opened with a noticeable click and the men froze, listening. When nothing happened, they pushed open the door and crept inside. Inside, the cottage was in darkness. The men opened the doors to each room with the barrels of bulky guns, scanning each room before entering. They moved confidently and silently through the darkened rooms, using the light enhancement technology in their visors.

Eventually, they had searched all the ground floor without finding their quarry so they clustered around the base of the narrow staircase. Gaston silently designated an order by pointing at each man and indicating a number with his fingers. The men filed up the stairs behind Gaston in the indicated sequence, keeping one metre's distance apart.

Gaston stepped on a loose board that creaked underfoot. All the men stopped and waited but the cottage remained dark and silent. Finally, they started moving again but each of the following men stepped carefully over the treacherous stair.

They stopped at the first bedroom door on the top landing and repeated their room opening ritual. The door was ajar. Gaston and a partner stood each side of the door and pushed it fully open with their gun muzzles. When there was no reaction, they moved inside, the second two members of the team taking their place at the entrance.

The room was empty except for some basic furniture. The bed was solid and the wardrobe door open, so there was no possible hiding place. Gaston started to back out when, for some odd reason, the second team member looked up.

Chaos theory insists that a single flap of a butterfly's wing in China can change the direction of a hurricane in the West Indies, sparing one island to devastate another. This may or may not be true. Certainly Chinese butterflies continue to irresponsibly flap, giving absolutely no thought to the welfare of their relatives in the Americas.

Human beings consider themselves to be inestimably superior to mere butterflies because they have created opera, organic vegetables and the Oprah Winfrey Show but in terms of irresponsible body movements they may not have advanced much further than the Lepidoptera.

The second team member looked up, changing several lives. It certainly changed his own life. Orange streetlight leaking through the window gently illuminated a lady all in black, crouching against the ceiling. She wore black leather trousers and jacket like a biker babe. Long black curly hair trailed down over her face. Her face was starkly North European pale. She crouched, hands and feet against the roof as if gravity was reversed.

The woman dropped down on the team member before he could move. Somehow, she twisted in mid air so that she dropped astride him as he fell to the floor. She grabbed his helmet with both hands and jerked hard. His neck broke with a noticeable crack.

Gaston hit her hard across the shoulders with his gun, driving her back. She hissed at him, opening her mouth to show impossibly long fangs. There was a great flash and crack of discharging capacitors that filled the room with indigo light and ozone. Invisible ultraviolet raked the woman's face causing her to moan in agony. The whine of recharging capacitors filled the room with high pitched sound. As she dropped, disorientated onto her knees, Gaston stepped up to her. He had not fired yet. He placed his gun muzzle directly against her face and discharged it. The flash flipped the woman onto her back.

"Quickly, get the restraints on." Gaston spoke for the first time since they had entered the cottage. Working with polished speed, the men slapped heavy silvered restraints around her wrists and ankles. One of the team pulled a thick leather bag over her head and fastened it at the neck.

A team member knelt to check the pulse of the man down on the ground. "He's dead."

Gaston unclipped a mobile phone and triggered a number. "Send a clean up crew. We got her. We have one friendly casualty, terminal."

The woman on the floor sat up.

A soldier walked over to her, "You killed Frank, you bitch." He kicked her in the face, as hard as he could.

* * *

"There's the Code Z," said Farley. "She's already had the preliminary treatment. Only the oaths are left."

"What do we know about her?" said Jameson.

Farley opened a file. "We know she has been using the name Karla. We are not sure who she really is or how old she is. She can still pass as human well enough to function to a limited degree within human society. She has made at least five kills in the red light zones. Three clients and two prostitutes have been drained to our certain knowledge over the last two years. Given that she would need regular meals, the low frequency of deaths must mean that she mostly stops short of a kill. That suggests she hasn't yet descended into animal irrationality. Frankly, I never thought that R&D would ever find a suitable candidate. It certainly took them long enough."

Jameson did not comment. Code Zs became more dangerous as they aged. Young suckers were more malleable but the old ones were the real prize for the experiment. Mental deterioration set in past a certain age, though. That was why immortal Code Zs did not overrun the world. Some became twisted obsessive maniacs that were too damn dangerous to do anything but destroy–if you could. Most shut down mentally and retreated into non-sentience to become the basis for monster and demon legends.

The two men stood behind a shield of one-way armoured glass. The woman in black leather was chained to a heavy steel chair that was itself bolted to a concrete floor, like it was in some demented dentist's surgery. She sat with unnatural stillness.

The interrogator pulled the hood off her head. She didn't move but blinked in the bright, artificial lights, watching him.

"Can you understand me?" the interrogator said.

She looked at him without speaking. The man sighed.

He raised his hand and a guard in body armour walked around him and pointed a weapon at her torso. It looked like an assault rifle but had a much thicker barrel and magazine.

"That is a Model YR03 rail gun. The electromagnetic coils accelerate a steel cored wooden bolt up to 200 miles an hour. At this range it will punch clean through you."

She still did not respond so he spoke again. "You are useless to me if you refuse to cooperate or you are too far gone to comprehend instructions, and we might as well use you to test the gun. So for the last time—can you understand me?"

"I understand you," she said. "What do you want?" Her accent was impossible to place, like one of those Eurotrash playboys who had lived in so many places that they had picked up something from all of them.

"That's better. We want you to do something for us," he said. "Are you willing to cooperate?"

"You need me for something?" She spoke without emotion.

"You will undergo a magic ritual. You will be required to do this voluntarily and to make the appropriate actions and response when prompted." The man looked at her intently.

"Yes." She licked her lips.

"If you do anything to interrupt or corrupt the ritual then you will be immediately destroyed without a second chance. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said, again.

"You don't say much do you," the interrogator said. She did not answer.

The man got up and left the room but the guards remained watching her.

A woman approached carrying a bag of arcane objects and herbs.

"Witch," whispered Karla. For the first time she looked apprehensive.

The woman set out her magic paraphernalia on the floor. She lit scented candles, dimming the lights. She put various herbs in a bowl and ground them up in Buxton spring water from a plastic bottle. Closing her eyes the witch recited an incantation sitting cross-legged on Karla's right.

"I think this is your cue, old boy," said Farley.

"Yah." Jameson opened the door and walked in. He knelt down in front of Karla.

The witch paused while Jameson found a comfortable position, then she started the ceremony proper.

"Tied in chains that can't be seen,

Tied in chains that can't be parted,

Tied in chains that bind her being,

Hecate, Queen of night,

Hear me, Hecate, hear my summoning

She offers body, mind and heart,

Come Hecate and hear her promise,

Bind her body, mind and heart,

He is here and waits possession,

An open channel for your purpose,

On his head the geas falls,

Hear her, Hecate, work the magic,

Bind her body mind and heart,"

The witch chanted on and on until Karla's eyes dropped. Little will-o-wisps danced in green and white and blue around the three and the candles flared. It looked like a clip from a soap advert dreamt up by a planner who had pushed too much white powder up his nose. Jameson couldn't move. The witch arched her back and sighed deeply.

"Hecate, Queen of Darkness, she comes, she comes."

Then she slumped forward as if exhausted. The candle flames subsided and the will-o-wisps faded. There was a long pause and Jameson's hands and feet tingled with "pins and needles" as if the circulation had been temporarily cut off. The witch sat up and snapped her fingers, waking Karla up. She offered Karla a bowl. Yellow vapour flowed gently from it onto the floor.

"Drink and say 'With all my heart I offer,'" said the witch.

Karla hesitated, took a sideways look at a guard, then bent her head forward.

The witch put the bowl to her lips and Karla drank. "With all my heart I offer," she said.

Jameson took the bowl in turn and drank "I accept the responsibility."

The witch blew the candles out slowly and ceremonially. She said a small incantation as each flame was extinguished. When the last was out, she left the room. The guards followed and closed the door.

"Hello Karla, my name is Jameson. Well here we are, all alone."

Jameson had done some hairy things for the Commission but this was the most dangerous. He feigned casualness out of some personal sense of pride. There was no real point. He knew Karla could smell his emotions and he must reek of fear.

"We will soon have you out of all those chains." He chatted amiably and pointlessly as he worked.

He unclipped her ankles first, then her arms and wrists. Karla shot out of the chair and moved warily to the back of the room. Jameson stood still, turning to watch her. She tested the armoured glass and walls with the heel of her hand. She hit like a pile driver but the room was reinforced. Then she tried the door without success.

"I have the door key." Jameson showed it to her then put it in his pocket.

She walked up to him and opened her mouth, revealing elongated canines. He wanted to run, oh boy, how he wanted to run, but he was locked in with her. There was nowhere to go. She stopped and looked puzzled.

"I feel your fear," she spoke to him for the first time. "I don't . . . I don't like the feeling."

He pulled a rail pistol from under his arm. It was a three shot weapon that could be easily concealed as a last ditch defence. Jameson's weapons instructor had always said that if you needed to fire a second time at rail pistol range then you were already dead. So the three shot magazine was a luxury.

Jameson held the pistol at arm's length pointed at her heart. "Pay careful attention, Karla. I will kill you if you feed on a human being. I will kill you unless you kill me first."

She made a half-hearted move towards him, claws and teeth extended, but hesitated. He slapped her across the face, causing her to recoil. "What have you done to me?" she whispered.

"I will kill you if you ever feed on a human being unless you kill me first. Do you understand me?"

She then did something utterly unexpected. She backed away from him to the corner, curled up into a ball and shook. What was he supposed to do now? He squatted down beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. She shrank away.

"It's alright, Karla. It's alright," he said softly stroking her arm. "You don't want to kill me, the magic won't let you, and I don't want to kill you. You will tell me when you need to feed and I will get you blood." After a while she stopped shaking.

"Come on, get up," he said, cajolingly.

"What have you done to me?" she repeated.

"You've been bound to me," he said gently. "The witch's magic has bound you. Come on, get up."

This was ridiculous; he was treating a man-killing monster as if she was a frightened woman. The trouble was that she looked like a frightened woman, albeit one with metallic green eyes. She allowed him to haul her to her feet.

"Now we are going to leave this place. You will stay close to me and remember, attack a human being and I will kill you."

Jameson unlocked the door and walked out. He didn't look around but he heard her follow him. They walked down a corridor and into another room full of people. Everyone in that room was a volunteer and everyone was scared. They were all dead if she went into a killing frenzy. Jameson held his pistol inconspicuously at his side. Karla looked in and opened her mouth, showing long teeth. She looked at Jameson and then backed out into the corridor.

"It's okay, Karla. Follow me." Jameson grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him. She looked rigidly ahead as he paraded her through the room. He took her to a door that opened out into a courtyard.

"Well, Karla. You passed the test. I guess the spell works, or at least it has so far."

Jameson walked to where his car was parked. The blue Jaguar two seater sports was his beloved. He clicked the remote and the car chirruped a welcome, flashing its amber indicators. He opened the left-hand door. "Come on, Karla. Get in."

She shrank back. "Smelly, noisy."

Jameson held out his hand to her. "We have to use the car to go home. Come on, I've even fitted darkened windows," he said, encouragingly. Home was too far to walk and it was too late for the tube. The thought of taking her on a tube train was–disconcerting.

She climbed into the Jag and perched on the edge of the seat. Jameson got in the driver's side and clipped his belt on. He tried to attach hers but she stopped him and shook her head. "I guess the seat belt laws don't apply to you," he said. Actually, very little of the United Kingdom's legal code had been written with her in mind.

He started the engine. She seemed fascinated by the parade of lights that flicked across the dashboard. "Karla, have you been in a car before?"

She shook her head.

"I suppose the technology has only been around for a hundred years," said Jameson, with heavy, and wasted, irony.

* * *

He pulled out of the bay and up to the security barrier. His chipped identity card lifted the bar. At this time in the morning, even the streets of London were empty and the big Jag ate the miles. Jameson was a fast, confident driver and, as he got into the mood, he swung the car through the wet streets, letting the back step out as he used the accelerator to steer. He flicked the player on.

The Jag had a state of the art MP3 system. Jameson downloaded the latest CDs into it every month. He had the system rigged to random mood selection. Theoretically, the system analysed his driving and the weather to select appropriate tracks. Jameson also had set it to favour recent recordings.

Katie Melua's perfect, crystal-clear voice infiltrated their air space.

"Piece by piece is how I'll let go of you, Kiss by kiss, will leave my mind one at a time."

A hand gripped his thigh.

Karla gripped the roof handhold with one hand and his leg with the other. "Fast," she said. "Go fast."

Good grief, thought Jameson. Jaguar sports cars had a well-deserved reputation as totty-magnets but this was ridiculous. But her enthusiasm was infectious especially to a man who still possessed a strong boy-racer streak.

He pulled the gear selector down and across to drop it two gears and he opened the throttle as they joined the Cromwell Road. The bonnet lifted as the V12 dug the rear wheels into the tarmac. The Jag shot past the gothic cathedral-like building of the Natural History Museum. Not only the dinosaurs watched them pass, a trail of flashing speed cameras winked in their wake, like photographers behind a Hollywood starlet parading up the red carpet. The car was registered with the diplomatic plates of a small African country so the traffic police could only sigh and tear up the tickets.

She gripped him hard as the Jag accelerated. "Um, Karla, you're hurting my leg."

She turned shining emerald eyes on him and released him fractionally. "I can feel your blood pumping."

There was, he thought, no answer to that. He turned off the A4, southwest to Richmond.

* * *

Jameson lived at the top of a small, modern block of flats half way up Richmond Hill. The building was wonderfully tasteless, and quite out of keeping with the rest of the area. He had often thought that the builder must have had serious black on the head clerk of Richmond's Planning Department to get permission for such a monstrosity. Nevertheless, the view from his flat took in the Thames and half of Richmond below. After only fifteen minutes, he found a bay to park the Jag a bare five hundred metres from his flat. It was a good night. Sometimes he needed to get a taxi home from where he parked the car.

The deadlocked door opened with a click and he punched his code into the elaborate security systems. "I will need to teach you how an electronic alarm system works," he said. "What are you waiting for?"

She stood outside. "I can't come in. Something stops me."

"Ah, I forgot the magical shield around the flat. It obviously regards you as hostile. Hang on." He reached out and held her wrist. "You are welcome in my home. That should do it, try again."

She walked in. "The kitchen is here. There are blood bags in the fridge and a microwave." She looked blank. "I will teach you how to use them. The sitting room is in here. My bedroom is at the end and this is yours."

He opened the door on a well-appointed room. "It's a little small, I'm afraid, but you know London prices."

He was gabbling, he knew. How could she possibly understand property prices? But the situation was stressful He paused but she said nothing. "It'll be dawn soon. The window is double blinded and I have drawn the curtains in the other rooms to give you the run of the flat. I need to sleep, so I'll see you later."

She did not speak or even move as he let himself out. Jameson was tired but sleep eluded him. He had total faith in The Commission's magic geeks when they assured him that Karla couldn't possibly attack him. Yeah, right. They gave the assurances but it was his neck not theirs. How the hell had he volunteered for this? You killed suckers, as quickly and safely as possible, before they killed you. What you didn't do was have them over as houseguests. He listened intently but all he could hear was his heart, thump, thump, thump. Come to think of it, she could probably hear it too. Jameson checked his rail pistol was charged and rolled over.

When he woke, it was mid afternoon. The flat was as silent as the grave. Jameson winced; the metaphor was unattractive. He put his robe on and knocked gently on Karla's door. There was no answer so he pushed it open. The room was just as he had left it, the bed unruffled. There was no evidence that she had ever been in it. Where the hell was she?

He found her in the lounge, sitting cross-legged on the floor, in the darkest corner, to the side of the window. He almost drew the curtains; cursing himself gently, he turned on the light instead. She had a book open on her lap. She must have been reading in the dim light. He made a note that her night vision was extraordinary.

Reading was a good sign. It suggested her mind was functioning. "What attracted your interest, hmm, the complete works of William Shakespeare. You like the Bard, then."

Jameson had read English Lit. at Cambridge. He had obtained a good rowing blue and a poor third class degree. Two sorts of people went to Oxford and Cambridge in Jameson's day. The first group was state school geeks with oversized brains; they generally got firsts. The second group was the public school educated sons and daughters of the cream of society, that is the thick and the rich. They spent three years networking and clubbing, and got thirds. It was very unfashionable to get a second since it implied that you were too geeky to enjoy the social life and too dim to cut the academic mustard.

He had kept his course books after graduating. Many of them were still unopened, but they filled the spaces on his shelves nicely. His Shakespeare, however, was well thumbed.

"What are you reading? The Sonnets? You have a taste for romanticism, then." She did not answer but it was important that he keep communicating with her so he took the book from her hands and read from the open page.

"In the old age black was not counted fair, or if it were, it bore not beauty's name; but now is black beauty's successive heir, and beauty slander'd with a bastard's shame."

He flicked down the page. "Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, as those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; for well thou know'st to my dear doting heart . . . Thy black is fairest in my judgement's place, in nothing art though black save in thy deeds, and hence this slander, as I think, proceeds."

"The Dark Lady Sonnets!" he said. Jameson had a soft spot for these poems. His one attempt at amateur dramatics had been a part in Shaw's play based on the Dark Lady of the Sonnets. His girlfriend of the moment had played The Lady so he had been persuaded to play the Beefeater. He had a scant dozen line of dialogue. The only one he could remember now had been something like "Halt, who goes there?" The girlfriend had dumped him right afterwards for the smooth bastard who played the romantic lead, young Will Shakespeare, himself. But Jameson's interest in Shakespeare had been awakened and had never quite died.

"He was so young," she said "but his words hung in the air."

"You were there?" he said. "You heard the Bard?" Jameson gazed at her in astonishment and increasing excitement. The rational side of his mind insisted that coincidences like this did not happen. But the romantic part whispered that it was not impossible.

"Are you really that old, Karla? Could you have met Shakespeare?" he said, doubtfully.

"The poet's words were like quicksilver, like fire in my head," she said, "and he loved me."

"He loved you?" said Jameson, in astonishment. He paced the room, excitement mounting. Could she lie in her current state? Why would she lie? Do suckers fantasise? He knew so little about her kind. Mostly, he just killed them.

"I wish I had paid more attention to Gimpy Harris' lectures," Jameson said. Gimpy Harris was Professor Auberon Harris, an eminent Shakespearean scholar. Jameson had slept off several hangovers through his lectures.

"What did Gimpy say about the Dark Lady?" Jameson ticked the points off on his fingers. "She was older than Shakespeare. She was probably not an aristocrat. He called her black because of both her colouring and the wickedness in her heart. She was devious and unfaithful. Loving her was wrong in some way. The Bard was almost vicious in his denunciation of his love for her and the damage it would do to his soul."

He thumbed through the Dark Lady arc with a new eye. "Then will I swear beauty herself is black, and all they foul that thy complexion lack."

"So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, and death once dead, there's no more dying then."

"Read in one way, that could have come straight out of the Necronomicon–the Book of The Dead," whispered Jameson. Oh this surely was not possible.

"For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night."

"He's talking about the undead, the creatures of the night!" said Jameson, belief starting to overcome scepticism.

"In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn . . . For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur'd I, to swear against the truth so foul a lie."

"Oh my God, it's all here. The Dark Lady was a black-haired vampire, the undead who feed on death so that they never die, a creature of the night. His soul was foresworn for loving her." Jameson was stunned. He had read these passages a hundred times and seen them simply as the record of an unfortunate love affair. That was the problem with Shakespeare. There were so many ways to interpret the words, depending on the reader's mindset.

He knelt down beside her and pushed the hair out of her eyes. "What do you remember, Karla? What secrets are locked in your head? Gimpy would have sold his soul for an hour with you." That might have been literally true but Gimpy would still have paid the price.

"It's been so long," she said.

"Do you understand what was happening to you, Karla?" he said. "You were regressing fast. Soon, you would have been completely animal. Then you would have made a fatal mistake. Well, you are going to be kicked out of it now."

* * *

Jameson gunned the Jaguar up the North Circular. London's north western inner ring road is a driver's delight. Large roundabouts connect stretches of urban duel carriageway, offering a constant challenge. Karla was a particular temptation as speed thrilled her and she urged him on, not that he ever needed much encouragement.

The player had selected Franz Ferdinand. "You see her, you can't touch her. You hear her, you can't hold her."

Tonight he was barely getting into his stride when a large Ford attached itself to his tail. Jameson dropped a gear and accelerated away from it. The Ford followed and deployed hidden blue flashing lights and a familiar bee-boo noise.

"Damn, I seem to have picked up the only patrol car in London. Let me do the talking," Jameson said.

"You want her, you can't have her. You want to, she won't let you."

He pulled over, killed the player and lowered the driver's window. "Who do we think we are then, sir, Michael Schumacher?" Only London's Metropolitan Police could make the word "sir" sound so deeply insulting.

"No, Officer. I think I'm a diplomat. My passport." Jameson handed it over. The bobby examined it with his torch. It was a perfectly good passport that declared Jameson to be an attaché of the Republic of Hamrandi. "As you see, I have diplomatic immunity to prosecution."

"Where's Hamrandi, when it's at home?" the guardian of the law asked.

"Africa," said Jameson succinctly.

The policeman sniffed, eloquently. "Amazing how diplomats from the poorest countries have the flashiest cars. And what about her? Is she a diplomat too?"

"No, Officer. She's just a colleague. And as she is simply sitting there she doesn't need to prove anything, does she?"

The policeman shone his torch at her. "Would you mind removing your sunglasses please, madam?"

She just looked at him.

"Take your glasses off, love," said Jameson.

Karla removed the shades. Her eyes flashed metallic green in the torchlight. She hissed at the policeman, who jumped.

"Amazing what women can do nowadays with coloured contact lenses, isn't it?" said Jameson, cheerfully.

The policeman was so rattled that he failed to reprimand Karla for not wearing a belt. Nevertheless, he rallied manfully. "Yes, sir. You may be a diplomat but keep your speed down, or we will find reasons to keep pulling you over and making your life miserable."

"Absolutely, Officer. I shall certainly be more careful in future," Jameson assured him.

"See that you do." With that parting shot, the guardian of the law reasserted his dignity and strode back to his motor.

"We had better be more circumspect for the rest of the evening," said Jameson, propelling the Jag at a sedate pace.

"Slow," said Karla, succinctly. She had improved immensely in the last fortnight and now even initiated discourse. But she was still not one would call a sparkling conversationalist.

Jameson pulled into the rear car park at the Brent Cross shopping centre, leaving the motor tucked well away in a dimly lit corner. He opened the passenger door for Karla and handed her out. As he wanted her to behave like a lady, he elected to treat her as one. She took his arm, as he had trained her. He had put a lot of effort into training her and the more he tried the faster she learnt. He escorted her to a shop that had one dress in the window, a dress with no price tag. Simpsons was a ladies outfitter, not a dress shop.

"Are you up to this, love? You will have to maintain control out of my sight. Can you do that for me, Karla?"

"I can do it," she said.

"Mr Jameson?" said the personal shopper. "We are expecting you." The lady—Simpsons does not have shop assistants, they have ladies—looked somewhat askance at Karla's tattered leathers.

"My friend," Jameson gestured at Karla, " has just flown back from a spiritual odyssey to Nepal. Her luggage is believed to have been rerouted to Bangkok via Istanbul. While the airline looks for it, she will need daywear, business wear, an evening outfit and something suitable for bike riding; she favours leathers. I expect you to make appropriate suggestions as she is somewhat out of touch, fashion wise. Charming place, Nepal, but somewhat rural." Jameson indicated Karla's outfit, which spoke for itself.

"Does sir require an account?" said the lady. By way of answer, Jameson laid a Coutt's Classic Card down on the counter. Coutt's were the Queen's bank. Liquid assets of one hundred thousand pounds were required to open an account.

"Charge it to that," Jameson said.

"Madam will require underwear to match?" said the lady. From the look on her face, she was estimating her commission on the sale.

"I would imagine so," said Jameson, vaguely. He retreated hastily from what was clearly becoming a male no-go zone.

* * *

The lady raised a hand and a younger version materialised at her elbow. "Madam will need luggage to carry away her selection. Go round to V&J and pick up a set."

She seized Karla by the arm and led her determinedly into the racks. Karla gave him a look of desperation over her shoulder so he smiled encouragingly. Jameson, preparing for a long wait, took out a packet of Dunhill. One of the staff frowned at him and pointed to a sign indicating that the whole arcade was a no-smoking zone.

Cursing Blair's nanny government, he trooped out to the car park and joined a small huddle of pariahs camped around the main entrance. The rebellious "enemies-of-the-Blairite-state" sucked on their burning weeds and stomped up and down to keep warm. He flirted for four cigarettes with a charming girl from Hackney, any difference in social class submerged in their common exile. They were the dispossessed in the new politically correct society.

Reluctantly, for the young lady from Hackney was a very nice girl who had admitted to certain interesting fantasies regarding Jaguar sports cars, he dragged himself back to the shop to see how the wardrobing of his pet creature of the night was proceeding. The personal shopper was standing outside the changing area talking to Karla, who lurked within where Jameson couldn't see her.

"Madam wears it well. The gentleman wished you to have eveningwear and that is eveningwear. Look, he has returned. Why not show him?" She reached in and hauled Karla out into the shop.

The personal shopper had dressed the Dark Lady in a wisp of a little black dress with matching strappy sandals and clutch bag. "I feel ridiculous," muttered Karla, sulkily.

"You look fabulous," said Jameson, simply. "We'll take it."

Karla elected to wear her new black leathers out of the shop. Jameson let her have her way as he thought she had received enough fashion shocks for one night. She was definitely starting to look mutinous. Jameson insisted on carrying the luggage. He was intellectually aware that she could carry him and the luggage with one hand but, dammit, a gentleman carried the bags for a lady. And back there in that shop, she had looked every inch a lady.

Four youths hung around the Jaguar. "Nice wheels, mate," said the largest. "We've been looking after your motor for you to make sure it don't get damaged. Might still get damaged unless you pay us a pony."

"Sod off," said Jameson, succinctly. "Or I'll set my girlfriend on you."

The youths straightened up and closed on him. Jameson ran through the options in his head. Karla was well fed so shouldn't be hungry. The magic spell would probably force her to intervene if the yobs attacked him. That could rapidly get out of hand. Perhaps better to have a more controlled situation. It would be a good test of how well he could control her and how well she could control herself to please him.

"You have been very patient tonight, Karla, so I give you these four. No killing or maiming but other than that, have fun. Oh and Karla." She looked at him. "No feeding."

"Really," said Karla, happily. "I can play with them?"

"Sure," said Jameson. "Have a ball." He hoped he wasn't making a terrible error.

"Hold on a min—" a yob started to say.

Karla grabbed him, picked him up and heaved him horizontally across the car park.

"No," said Jameson, in genuine anguish. "Mind the Jag." Too late, the yob crashed into the wing, leaving a dent.

The gang leader produced a knife and ran at her. He thrust viciously at her face. She caught him by the wrist and twisted. Something broke with a crack. Karla kicked his legs out from under him and rabbit punched him as he fell. The last two made a run for it, but she was on them, like a cheetah running down rabbits. She grabbed them, one hand on each neck, and crashed their heads together. Then she tossed them casually aside.

The leader groaned and rose to his knees attracting her attention. He would have done better to have stayed down. She moved over to him. Jameson noticed that she slid like an ice dancer. She really was extraordinarily graceful, a beautiful man-killer who moved like a tigress. Karla hauled the leader up by the front of his denim jacket. Blood ran down his face and neck. She stared at it in fascination, opening her mouth to reveal long canines. He fainted dead away, becoming limp in her grip.

"No feeding, Karla. Remember," Jameson said softly.

She licked the blood from his face and shuddered. "No feeding," she repeated, retracted her teeth and dropped him.

Lights appeared.

"Oh no, not plod again," said Jameson.

A "jam-sandwich" pulled into the car park and made its way unhurriedly towards them.

"Well, well," said the Keeper of the Queen's Peace, emerging from the police car. "If it isn't the diplomat from . . . where is that place?"

"Hamrandi," said Jameson.

"Hamrandi," repeated the bobby, with satisfaction. "The attaché from Hamrandi."

The gang leader revived and groaned. "As I leave and breathe, Chippy Jones," said the policeman, with a grin. "The North Circular's answer to The West Side Boys. Working the old 'guard your wheels for you mister' were you, Chippy?"

The policeman applied first aid with the back of his hand across Chippy's face, knocking him fully awake.

"We was attacked," said Chippy.

"No, attacked eh, how shocking," said the bobby, looking utterly unshocked. "Have you been beating up the local wildlife then, ambassador?"

"Not him, her!" Chippy wailed.

"The young lady." The bobby laughed. "She hammered you! All together Chippy, or did you line up one at a time, like gentlemen?"

"She ain't yuman," said Chippy.

"What would you know about being human, Chippy?" said the policeman, scornfully. "Do you want to press charges, sir?" he asked Jameson.

"Against this shower?" said Jameson. "I can't be bothered."

"You had better be off then." He looked at Karla, thoughtfully. "Interesting bodyguards you Hamrandi people use. Good night, sir."

* * *

Jameson noticed that Farley was nervous, very, very nervous. He fidgeted, he sweated, he adjusted his laptop and he adjusted his tie. He was an analyst not a field operative. His job involved collating, analysing and interpreting data. He planned operations and briefed the agents. He might have worked for an insurance company or been the bloke who determined the optimum failure rate of light bulbs to maximise profits but, amongst other things, he was a financial expert.

The Commission still had people who hung out in Gothic cemeteries and ancient temples but in London, you followed the money trail. Farley had antennae sensitive to the smallest sniff of bad money on the move around the merchant banks and clearing houses of The City.

Often, the Commission's analysts found illicit transactions that had no paranormal interest at all. But that was all right too. The Commission could always use additional funds and the original owners of the loot were in no position to complain.

Jameson knew that Farley had briefed too many field teams for the danger aspect of the work that the agents did to bother him. He had acquired the essential knack that all staff officers need, of emotionally disconnecting himself from outcomes. He did his very best to prepare field operatives for their task but if it subsequently went pear-shaped and people died–well, he had done his best. But Jameson was willing to bet that Farley had never sat on a sofa next to a demon, hence the nervousness.

"I first noticed the movement of money, through an account at CBJs. Large sums are being laundered from the trade of Aztec grave goods. Someone has access to unknown burial grounds in Mexico."

"And the money is being used for?" asked Jameson.

"No idea," said Farley. "It's just accumulating at the moment. We traced the movements to a banker and put a watcher team on him."

"What makes you think we have a Code Z?" asked Jameson.

"The people who bought the grave goods. Some just had breakdowns but others. . . ." Farley shrugged and pushed a London Evening Standard clipping over to Jameson. It read "Islington dad slaughters baby twins and partner before cutting his own throat."

"There was something else," said Farley. "One of the watchers disappeared, a young woman. She turned up in the Thames, drained of blood."

"The banker?" said Jameson.

"He's taken to working at home during the day and only comes into the office after dark," said Farley.

"So he's been possessed by a sucker. The best time to take him would be at midday, when he's torpid, at his home. Why are you briefing us? Karla is also . . . not at her best in daylight." Jameson smiled at her."

"Oh, I agree with your analysis, Major Jameson. But we don't know where he currently lives."

"The dead watcher," said Jameson.

"Must have followed him to his new lair, yes. We do not want to risk any more watchers so you will have to take him at night when he leaves the office. He uses a laptop; we want the hard drive."

Farley produced a picture. "We also want him destroyed." He looked at Karla. "Will that present you with a conflict? You are of a type."

"He is not of me," said Karla.

Farley looked at Jameson, who shrugged. He was not exactly sure what Karla meant but there would be little point in asking her. If she wanted to tell them then she would, cross questioning her would be unproductive.

"This laptop has software synched to CBJ's communications. It will tell you when the banker goes online.I suggest you pick him up when he leaves the office."

"Someone will have to shut down the flow of artefacts at source," said Jameson.

"That is in hand and none of your concern," said Farley, pompously. "The Texas office is sending in a team."

"Oh really, rather them than me. Aztec blood magic is nasty." Jameson shuddered. "Who are the poor saps assigned to that piece of fun?"

"I believe Pitts has taken the job on," said Farley.

Jameson had met Pitts, a tough, slow talking Texan, who he remembered as a first rate shot. "Best of British luck, mate." He whispered a quiet blessing.

"If there's nothing more?" Farley snapped the lid of the laptop down when no one answered. "I'll see myself out," he said, with what could only be described as relief.

* * *

The sun was setting as the Jag headed north up the South Circular. The Pagoda at Kew Gardens stood out against the setting sun. The sky was a streak of red as the light filtered through the pollution of twenty million people. Jameson switched on the car player as they crossed the river. Spookily it selected When the sun goes down, the Arctic Monkeys hit. The player had been selecting eerily appropriate music lately when he drove with Karla on board. He suspected he had a "a god in the machine,"—or at least a small demon in the chip.

"They said it changes when the sun goes down, over the river going out of town."

The song was about Sheffield but it could be London or any British city. The Monkeys sang how the streets change when the sun goes down and the day people hurry home to their TV dinners and suburban warmth of their double-glazed, centrally heated lives. The night people come out. The girls with pinched faces shivering in skirts that are too short and blouses that are too thin. Housewives that need a bit extra to pay the lekky bill, addicts who owe their dealer or just students whose loans have run out. And then there are the punters, the middle aged, middle management, middle class, middle of the road men slowing down their company Ford Mondeos and Vauxhall Vectras to walking pace, kerb-crawling so that they could assess the talent and hire a friend for an hour. Jameson reflected that he and Karla were in no position to cast stones. They too were of the dark, people as black as night.

Over the river he connected with the A4, to follow it into The City. The player seemed to favour the Monkeys tonight.

"All you people are vampires, all your stories are stale."

Jameson killed the autoselector and manually restricted the machine to old sixties numbers. It retaliated with Waterloo Sunset. He sighed and let it run. The damn machine was trying to tell him something.

Relying on his diplomatic plates, Jameson parked on the double yellow lines opposite CBJs. He plugged his iPAQ in to the car's power supply and jiggled with the software that he had downloaded from the laptop.

"Yeah, our target is definitely in there, doing whatever merchant bankers do to earn their million quid bonuses."

"A million pounds sounds such a great deal of money," said Karla. "They used to run the whole country on less than that."

"Yah, well. Some day let me explain inflation to you. I'm going to get some sleep. Watch that display and tell me if anything changes."

Jameson pushed the seat back and propped himself against the door. He couldn't get comfortable but must have dozed because Karla was shaking him awake. "He's coming outside."

"What? Why didn't you wake me earlier when he logged off? Oh, I see. Bloody computers." According to his iPAQ the banker was still online. Karla gestured to a shadowy figure getting into a BMW. He carried a computer case. "Are you sure that's him, Karla?" She did not answer. "Yes, of course you're sure. You can feel him, can't you?"

The Beamer pulled out of the bay and Jameson followed. The banker drove steadily through the streets east and north, turning into smaller and smaller side streets. Soon they were driving through dimly lit narrow alleys. Jameson hung back as far as he could to avoid detection. Every so often, he changed the pattern of the light array on the front of the Jag, to make it look like a different vehicle in the banker's rear view mirror.

The BMW stopped outside a run down warehouse. "That's odd," said Jameson, pulling in. "I thought all these old buildings had been pulled down years ago."

The banker locked the Beamer and vanished down the side of the warehouse. "Come on Karla, we are losing him."

"No," she said. "I know where he is going. Follow close to me."

She followed after the banker. There was a narrow footpath between two buildings. Jameson could hear footsteps in the distance but the lighting was terrible. Karla pushed on. The pavement gave way to cobblestones. Jameson just hated walking on cobblestones. They turned your ankles with every step. As they went deeper into the alley, the buildings closed in on both sides.

"I don't know why they have bothered to put up lights disguised as Victorian gas lamps," said Jameson. "It's not as if this was a prime tourist site. Mind, you could make a great theme park here. See the Whitechapel ripper murders re-enacted," he said theatrically.

Curls of fog drifted along the alley. "Fog, in London?" said Jameson, in astonishment. "I don't remember that being forecast." London was a dry city. Fog was as rare as snow.

Jameson felt that he was on a film set. "Those imitation Victorian gas lights, Karla," he said. "They aren't really imitation, are they?"

"No," she said. "This is a special place for my kind. You must stay close to me, Jameson or I will lose you."

Jameson heard piano music up ahead through the mist. They entered a small square with a dirt floor. An old pub lined one side. A door opened spilling lamplight out. A man in a top hat pulled a giggling woman in a Victorian dress after him. They kissed and made their way unsteadily out of the square.

"This way," said Karla, pulling Jameson after her.

As they left, Jameson heard a woman scream behind him. He turned to look.

"No!" She warned, pulling him back. "Here things are seldom what they seem." She walked on to a cul de sac with another Old London pub at the end. Jameson went to push the door open but Karla stopped him, one hand on his chest. "We have to blend in. In there, you belong to me. You walk directly behind me. You obey me without question. I won't be able to protect you if you don't." There was a pleading element to her voice that he had not heard before.

He touched her face lightly with his fingers. "You're the boss. I'll follow your lead."

They entered.

Inside was a twenty-first-century nightclub, with neon lights, chrome fittings and giant fish tanks. Modern rock hammered from hidden speakers so loud that you could feel it in your chest. Jameson couldn't understand why the sound did not penetrate outside. She walked down a corridor and out onto an open warehouse-sized area. In the centre was a dance floor

Karla found them a table just off the dance floor. She held out her hand to him and clicked her fingers. Her lips made a small gesture. Taking the hint he pulled out the Dunhills. She leaned forward and he put one in her mouth and then one in his own. Jameson had an old battered steel lighter that he had used in the Guards. It ran on petrol so could be recharged from the nearest Land Rover wherever he happened to be based.

Karla leaned forward so could light her. "The target is sitting at a table on your left."

Jameson lit his own cigarette before glancing casually around the room. The banker was sitting with two men, well, two man-sized things. He had the case open and was trading something.

"Yeah?" A waitress in a 1950s usherette costume appeared at their table and chewed gum.

"Malt whiskey, two large ones," said Karla, without consulting him.

"That'll be eighteen quid," the waitress said, shifting the gum around.

"Pay her twenty," said Karla.

Jameson handed over a twenty-pound note.

"Gee thanks," said the waitress, with total contempt, before flouncing off.

Karla shrugged. "They can't get the staff these days."

A blonde in an exquisite evening gown sleazed up to their table. She drew deep on a cigarette holder and blew the smoke to the ceiling. "'Lo. Karla. I'd heard you were losing your mind, darling."

"I wonder who starts these rumours," said Karla. "You look well, Rosanna, considering your age."

The two women planted false smiles on their faces and air kissed at least two feet apart. Rosanna stood right in front of Jameson and stared at him. She took him by the chin and moved his head from side to side. "You have a new pet, I see. You do collect waifs and strays, don't you? Mind you, this one's rather cute. I wouldn't mind trying him myself." She parted her lips to show elongated canines.

Jameson let his jacket fall open far enough to show his bolt pistol and grinned back, showing his teeth. They locked eyes.

"He has spirit, Karla. I think he could be dangerous." Rosanna touched his face again. "He has strong bonds to you. I don't understand, magic is involved."

Karla seized her hard by the wrist and pulled her hand away. "I don't share my possessions. You know that, Rosanna. They're too fragile and you like to play rough."

The blonde smiled enigmatically, blew more smoke and slinked off without another word. Jameson checked out the banker. He was locked in some interminable negotiation. His briefcase was open and the laptop was inside. The waitress brought the drinks. Jameson took a sip. It was good stuff but he couldn't quite place it.

The music poured around them again. The Kaiser Chiefs opened with Every day I love you less and less. "Come on," said Karla. "I want to dance."

"I can't believe once you and me did sex."

She strutted to the dance floor in a walk that made Jerry Hall seem introverted. Jameson was a pretty good dancer. He would not win many marks for elegance but he was fit and strong. But Karla was just incredible and she exploited the driving beat of the band with great skill. Her body seemed to bend in ways unknown to man. She danced as if she had not signed up to the law of gravity.

"It makes me sick to think of you undressed."

In the end, Jameson gave up trying to match her and let her use him the way a pole dancer uses the pole. When the song ended, she draped herself on him, wrapping one leg around his.

"I thought you said that we had to be inconspicuous," said Jameson.

"No, I said that we had to blend in," said Karla. "We are blending beautifully, my pet."

Then Katie Melua sang how the man with the power who was a charmer with a snake took her half way up the Hindu Kush to show her things she had never seen.

Karla held her arms out straight, palm up, and rested them on his shoulders. Then she undulated against him. Jameson kept his mind on the job and watched the banker. He leaned forward and whispered in Karla's ear. "Matey is leaving, so we need to follow. After your performance, what could be more natural than we should leave? But I warn you that I will definitely shoot you if you try to carry me out over your shoulder."

She laughed. The first time he had heard her laugh. She was recovering fast.

They exited, looking unhurried but covering ground quickly. "Okay, Karla, he's on his own. Pick a place to take him."

They followed the banker through the archaic streets, the fog allowing them to keep close. After some minutes, Karla accelerated up to the man and kicked his legs away. Before he hit the ground, she punched him twice more. Once he was down, she put the boot in. It was quick, clinical, and he never laid a finger on her. When Jameson reached the scene, he kicked the briefcase away. Taking the rail pistol from under his arm, he fired one wooden bolt into the banker's heart. The gun thumped, but the slow acceleration of the bolt compared to a bullet made the kick manageable. The banker collapsed in upon himself and his body flowed into dust.

Karla's eyes flashed metallic green and her lips parted to show long canines. She shook with excitement. She pushed Jameson up against a wall and moved her mouth towards him. He jerked back, shocked. She hissed and her eyes flashed. "So I'm good enough to fight for you but not good enough to kiss."

He had the rail pistol between them, muzzle jammed into her heart. She looked down at it. "If you're going to shoot then shoot," she said, calling his bluff. Then she kissed him savagely on the mouth. A tooth cut his lip and she watched the trickle of blood with fascination. She put out her tongue and licked it, shuddering at the sensation. He still did not fire.

"Karla, it's not that you're not attractive," he said. "But we put a love geas on you. I can't take advantage. It wouldn't be right. . . ."

"I know what you did," she said. She let him go and walked away from him. He picked up the briefcase and hurried after her. It seemed to him that her hips swayed far more than was strictly necessary.

The way back seemed much shorter. The streets quickly normalised. They had barely started when Jameson saw the Jaguar on the other side of the road. Somehow they seemed to have come round in a circle. He turned to look back, to see from where they had come, but behind was a high brick wall. He went to check but the wall was real. Karla had reached the car. Jameson took out his electronic card, but before he could trigger it she put her hand on the Jag's roof. It made a friendly chirrup and flashed its amber lights, the doors unlocking with a clunk. How the hell had she done that? That damned car had taken a shine to her.

When he reached the Jag she was already inside. She had dropped the back of her seat down and was curled up on it like a kitten. She flashed metallic green eyes at him when he got in and stretched her legs out. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

* * *

Farley stood at the front of the small lecture theatre operating the PowerPoint display. "The information on the lap top was most helpful," said Farley. "We have an address. The distribution centre for the Aztec grave goods is a storage unit in Hackney. You go in, see what you can find, and bug the place."

"Why aren't we doing this in daylight?" said Gaston. "Where there's one sucker there could be more."

"The place is full of workman during the day. The streets are awash with people. It isn't viable, Gaston, it has to be at night. You do have back up in the event of a Code Z incident." Farley waved vaguely in Karla's direction. "You know her capabilities."

"Oh yes," said Gaston, softly. "We know what she can do."

They all rode in a Commission battered transit van with the logo of a plumber on the side. These motors looked rough but were mechanically sound. Karla amused herself by playing with the combat team. She yawned and showed her teeth. The troops grasped their rail guns in sweaty hands. She enjoyed feeling their anxiety. Gaston nudged Jameson.

He whispered in her ear. "Behave yourself. Leave the men alone."

"I'm bored." She pouted and closed her eyes.

The wait went on. "Hurry up and wait," said Gaston. "You remember, Major."

Jameson sucked on a Dunhill. Yes, he remembered. Waiting on the Falls Road in support of the police in a Pig, a light armoured personal carrier that rode on six wheels. The politicians would not let the army use heavy tracked armour for political reasons. After all, it might look like a real war if they used "tanks." The car bomb went off in front of them, incinerating the drivers instantly. Jameson was right at the back to be first out of the rear troop deployment doors, in the time-honoured way of a British officer. This time the tradition saved him. Half his section was killed, most of the rest horribly burnt. He got away without a scratch.

He inhaled deeply from the Dunhill and blew the smoke up into the van. "Yes, I remember," he said, unemotionally. Karla looked at him, uncertainly; she was sensitive to his moods.

Gaston's phone uttered a soft bleep. He checked the message. "Okay, move out."

He pulled open the door and they jumped out. The team walked quickly to a side door of the building. In the dark, their combat gear might not be noticed but running was the surest way to attract unwelcome attention. The technician knelt down at the lock and inserted the electronic key. Gaston and the technician went in first. Inside was a corridor with an alarm system on the wall. The technician inserted a probe and ran diagnostics. He turned the alarms off within a few seconds.

"A good system," the technician said, "but no match for the software that I threw at it."

"Move back," Gaston said to the technician. "I'll take point."

"Karla and I had better be alongside you," said Jameson.

It was then that the butterfly flapped its wings.

"Okay, you come up front," said Gaston. "But she stays at the rear to guard our backs."

Jameson was not sure whether Gaston genuinely thought that they needed a rearguard or whether he simply did not want Karla too close to him. But Gaston was the team leader, so Jameson indicated that she should comply. She did not like being separated from him and expressed her displeasure openly with bared canines. Jameson ignored her.

The team moved down the corridor in single file to a door at the end. Gaston tried the handle; it was unlocked. He pushed the door open with his gun barrel. Nothing moved inside. Jameson slipped in and moved to the right away from the door. He dropped on one knee and covered the interior of the warehouse, while Gaston slipped in and took up a position on the left. Inside was an open area, filled with palettes and boxes. Two forklift trucks stood up against the wall. Nothing moved.

Gaston stood up warily and signalled that they should move in. He and Jameson led the way, the rest of the team followed in single file through the door. Karla was the last in. The world exploded at the moment that she crossed the threshold.

Jameson saw a bright flash that left him with after image on his retinas, like the negative filming that they used in old TV programmes to indicate that an alien had fired his ray gun. He had a brief sensation of floating, then something thumped him in the back and it went dark.

He hurt. Jameson hurt all over. His cheek was on concrete and his helmet was missing. The warehouse was lit when he opened his eyes. He could see a wire mesh. He'd lost his helmet. One sat upright the other side of the wire and Jameson wondered if it was his. No it couldn't be. The helmet opposite still had a head in it. Jameson was fairly certain that he still had his head attached because it hurt like hell.

"I thought that you were a goner," said Gaston. The man helped him sit up.

"What happened?" said Jameson.

"Some sort of bomb went off behind us. Killed everyone but you and me, major."

"It wasn't a bomb," said Jameson. "There was a flash but no heat. Look, nothing is burnt and the damage is localised."

It was true. Most of the interior of the warehouse was surprisingly undamaged, if you ignored the blood and body parts sprayed around.

"It went off when Karla was entering the room," said Jameson. "There must have been a trigger in the door frame."

"So why didn't we set it off?" said Gaston.

"Because the alarm was there to deter humans. The booby trap was set up to kill something else. Something like Karla, a creature of the night."

"I don't want to worry you," said Gaston. "But someone has put us in a cage."

"Someone like him," said Jameson.

"Yeah," said Gaston.

A man appeared in front of them. He looked Mediterranean, not just in features but in the way he sported moustaches and a wide brimmed hat. His smile said "insane" the way a letter from the tax office said "gotcha." He casually picked up a large wooden crate and dropped it back on the palette from which it had been blown.

"I suppose your appearance is connected with my banker's sudden disappearance. But I bet that you are keen to tell me everything you know." The man's accent was unplaceable, smeared by many too many regions and times—rather like Karla's, Jameson reflected. He opened his mouth to show long curved canines.

"Is that what I think it is?" said Gaston.

"Depends," said Jameson. "If you think that it's the tooth fairy then, no. But if you think that it is an evil mad old sucker then I think you could be right."

"Manners," said the man. "You are in no position to annoy me."

"And if we are polite and helpful then you will let us go and all will be well, will it?" said Jameson.

"Well, no actually," conceded the man.

Jameson slipped his hand inside his jacket, looking for the rail pistol.

The man noticed the motion and held it up. "Interesting toy. When did you stop using crossbows? You cattle so love innovation. Every time I turn around, why you are at something new." He tossed the gun aside.

"Shit," said Jameson. "Go to Plan B"

"What was Plan B?" said Gaston.

"I had hoped that you could tell me," said Jameson.

"You two are such fun," said the man, delightedly. "I wish I could keep you around for a while but duty calls."

He walked to the cage and unlocked the door. Jameson and Gaston shrank back but it was a small cage and there was nowhere to go. The man reached in and effortlessly hauled Jameson out. Jameson tried hitting him but it was like striking iron. His head was pushed aside and the canines descended.

"Would you mind unhanding my property? I don't recall offering you a bite." Karla was just there, head up, hands on her hips, a dark-haired angel in black leather.

"Karla. I heard that you were back. So it was you who set off my little trap. You should have been dissipated to the winds by my little surprise, my sweet."

"I have a strong sense of self identity," she said

"I must admit that it was not intended for the likes of you. I would have doubled the power if I had known that you were dropping in." The man looked at her almost fondly.

"You are still holding my pets. Let them go and we'll be off," Karla demanded.

"Karla, get out. Save yourself," Jameson said.

The man slapped Jameson quiet and threw him back in the cage. "I don't think I can let you leave, Karla my love. Not now."

Without warning, the man snarled and threw himself at Karla, clawing with both hands. He moved so very fast. She backed up, blocking each blow, then kicked him in the kneecap. It sounded like a wreaking ball hitting a wall. He didn't move.

"You always were a fast little thing," the man said. He swung without warning and backhanded her across the face. Karla spun into a stack of heavy palettes, knocking them over.

Jameson pulled on the cage door, which had self locked. "We have to help her, Gaston. She can't win."

Karla picked herself up and squared up to the man. He waited for her with that insane grin across his face, apparently content for her to take the initiative. She moved in and caught him with punches and kicks. She was much faster, but her blows weren't hurting him, at least, not hurting him enough. He did not even bother to try to dodge or block her attack but traded punch for punch. She evaded his swings with the speed and grace that she had shown on the dance floor, but her luck ran out in the end. A punch caught her in the side of the head sending her tumbling over the floor.

Jameson and Jackson kicked the cage door but they couldn't break it down.

The man closed with Karla as she tried to get up, hitting powerful blows into her body before she could dodge. She dropped to her knees and he kicked her in the chest. Karla went down and stayed down. He grabbed her by the shoulder and picked her up. His left hand elongated into vicious dinosaur-like claws. He hooked them in her shoulder and slowly ripped down, tearing her body open. Jameson saw her ribs come apart, the broken ends poking out. The man chuckled the whole time, like someone enjoying a really good Mel Brooks comedy.

There was a thump and the man jerked.

"What? No!" he said.

There was a second thump and a third. Jameson saw the head of the third bolt stick out of his back. The man let her go and fell over backwards. Dissolution started at his hands and feet and spread, until there was nothing but a greasy stain on the floor. The instructor was wrong. Three shots are not a luxury, reflected Gaston. Sometimes you needed back up.

Karla dropped Jameson's rail pistol. The whole front of her body was ripped out. She toppled forwards onto the floor.

Jameson knelt at the wire mesh. "Come to me, Karla, come to me," he said.

She was only a few feet from the cage but it took agonising minutes for her to crawl the distance.

"I can't break the wire, Karla. You have to. One more effort, old girl, come on," Jameson said, gently.

She twisted her hand in the mesh and pulled. It bent out of shape and snapped like cotton. Jameson took hold of the jagged wire in his right hand and slashed his left wrist open. Red blood dripped out.

Gaston grabbed his wrist. "Is this a good idea, Major?"

"Did you learn to leave wounded comrades to die when you were in the Paras, Gaston? In the Guards, we looked after our own."

"The Paras learnt at Arnheim that the Guards aren't much cop in a fight, sir," said Gaston, who, nevertheless, released him. The Parachute Regiment had never forgiven the Guard's Armoured Regiments for failing to relieve them at the Bridge at Arnheim in Montgomery's doomed WWII offensive. But this was hardly the place to discuss ancient history so Jameson let the comment pass. He put the bleeding wound on his wrist to Karla's mouth and let his blood run inside. After a few seconds, she began to suck. "That's it Karla, suck it down."

"Surely, she's too badly gone," said Gaston.

"I don't know," said Jameson. "But I'm hoping that the magic connection between us has made my blood special. She reacts strongly when I cut myself."

Gaston gave him a strange look but held his tongue.

Jameson's wound in his wrist began to clot but she reopened it with her teeth. It didn't hurt him at all. Gradually her body knitted itself back together. Ribs bent down and reformed. Tissue flowed across them to recreate her chest.

"I think that you ought to stop, Major," said Gaston, after some time. "You have lost too much already." He pulled Jameson's wrist back inside the wire mesh. Karla hissed and tried to push her head though the mesh after the blood, then she seemed to catch herself and her teeth retracted.

"Your blood," she said. "It burns in me like fire. I have never tasted anything so—"

She shook her head again. Jameson was feeling giddy. "Can you open the cage, Karla?" said Gaston.

It took her two attempts but she managed to break the lock. Then she sat down with a thump. Jameson opened the door and got out but he was weaving as he tried to keep his balance. Gaston put one arm around Karla and the other around Jameson. He half carried them to the door.

"The Commissions elite death squad. Huh! What a couple of crocks you two really are. I think it's time I asked for some leave. Fiji, I fancy Fiji. Ever been to Fiji, Major? We had some Fijians in the Paras. They always said that I should look them up one day. Now seems like a good time to me. What do you think, Major? Major? Come on now, don't pass out on me."

* * *

Jameson slept most of the next day and into the night. He rose only to eat and take his iron tablets. It was the early hours before he felt rested enough to take an interest in life again. Karla was nowhere to be found in the flat. She had not gone out because the door was locked and the key still in the lock. That only left one place.

His lease included access to the roof. It was probably intended that he should set up a dinky little roof garden, with shrubs in pots clinging desperately to life in the polluted London air, surrounded by mock hard-wood furniture from B&Q. Jameson was hardly the green fingered type, however.

The door to the roof was unlatched, indicating that she had passed that way so he mounted the narrow stairs. He had to stop half way for a rest. His blood fluid had been replaced by means of a drip but it was going to be some time before his body replaced all the red blood cells. He easily became breathless.

When he emerged, it took a few moments for his eyes to adapt to the gloom. Karla was sitting on the edge, legs hanging over the side. He went and sat down beside her.

"His name was Vexillo," she said.

"What?" said Jameson.

"The old one. He was called Vexillo. He was very powerful. He said he would live forever. But I killed him." Her voice rang with satisfaction.

"Make sure your people know. Have them record it in their books that I killed him," she said. "You don't need to mention the gun in your files, do you?" she said, anxiously.

"No," he said. "That's unnecessary detail."

There was a pause before she spoke again.

"Your people are becoming truly dangerous, Jameson," she said. "Once you only had stakes and fire. Now you hunt us with terrible weapons. I am not sure my kind has a future."

Jameson could thing of nothing to say so he sat with her in companionable silence for some little time.

"Do you intend to do it yourself?" Karla asked.

"Do what?" he said.

"Will you put the bolt into my heart, yourself?" she said. "You hardly intend to let me go, do you?"

"No, we couldn't do that. You would start killing people again, Karla."

She nodded in acceptance of his analysis. "So would it have been you?"

"Yes. I owe you that. I would have done it myself. How did you work it out?"

"It was easy enough, once you awakened me. I really am quite clever. That was how I lasted so long."

There was another long silence.

"I was nearly finished when you awakened me. The last one to rouse me when I had reached dormancy was the poet. His words filled me with such passion that I lasted another four hundred years. He never forgave himself when he realised what he'd done, but he loved me so much."

"I know," said Jameson. "It's all there in the Dark Lady sonnets, the passion, the love, the hate and the shame."

They faced east, looking across the city. The dark indigo of the sky was turning blue and the first hint of pink stained the horizon.

"It will be dawn soon. We had better go indoors," Jameson said.

"I have not seen the rising sun for such a long time. This morning I shall," Karla said, with quiet determination.

Jameson looked at her in astonishment.

"What are you talking about? You won't see it. The ultraviolet will burn out your eyes before incinerating your body. Come indoors now." He grabbed at her arm but she easily broke his hold.

"I don't want you to have to destroy me. I want to leave with dignity. Oh don't look so sad, Jameson. I am long past my time. The poet got me four hundred more years and, thanks to you, I end on a high note. I killed Vexillo," she said, triumphantly. She tilted her head up to the sky and showed her long canines. Her eyes flashed metallic green. She had never looked more like a monster. She had never looked so desirable.

Jameson seized her by the arms. "You are not listening, Karla. I said it would have been me, not it will be. It took me too long to realise the meaning of my oath but I do now. Come inside with me. I can't promise to save you but I promise to try."

He kissed her hard on the lips. Her razor sharp teeth lacerated his tongue but he did not care. She did not resist when he lifted her in his arms and carried her off the roof. She was light, no heavier than a woman of the same size, which was just as well considering his physical condition. Somehow he had expected her to be heavier.

* * *

Jameson knocked and entered the council chamber. Lord Harwood, a senior Commissioner chaired the meeting.

"Ah, Major Jameson, come in."

"Thank you, My Lord." Jameson nodded at the other members of the room.

"I believe you know Sir James, who heads special operations, Mr Benson, and Miss Arnoux of R&D."

Hung on the wall over Lord Harwood's head was a painting of an Elizabethan race built galleon, of the sort commanded by Drake or Hawkins. Lord Harwood was not descended from the old aristocracy. He had acquired his peerage recently for services to the arts; he had bailed the Royal Opera House out of an awkward financial hole. That was for form's sake. In the hallowed traditions of England, his peerage had really been awarded for substantial campaign contributions to a political party. However, he had researched his family thoroughly and had found an ancestor who had sailed with John Hawkins.

"I believe most of you know my secretary, Miss Sonnet." Jameson indicated the prim woman in a business suit behind him.

Jameson took a seat at the table. Miss Sonnet sat on a seat against the wall and took a notebook out of her bag. She would record, but not contribute, to the meeting.

"The purpose of this meeting is to evaluate Project 139 and consider termination procedures," said Lord Harwood. "As this was essentially an R&D operation perhaps you would start, Miss Arnoux."

"The project was the culmination of a programme to test various geas spells on paranormal entities. It was decided to evaluate a love geas as a method for binding a paranormal to one of our operatives. R&D are pleased with the results. The spell worked perfectly, with one small reservation about the principle of reciprocation that we are still evaluating. As far as we are concerned, the project has been a great success and can now be shut down. We would like to debrief Major Jameson, of course."

"Thank you, Miss Arnoux," said Lord Harwood. "Could I have a summary of your report on the subject's utility for special operations, Sir James."

"A bit of a mixed bag, My Lord. Leaving out all the bullshit, we ran into two problems. One is that the operations team found it unsettling to work in close contact with an unrestrained Code Z. The second is that the main mission was completely compromised by a device set specifically to attack paranormals. That we might have to defend against such an attack had, understandably, escaped the planners. We will have to learn to think differently if we are to utilise paranormals within our combat teams. Other than that it was a success. Our agent, Major Jameson retained command control of the paranormal at all times. I concur; we have the information we need. The experiment may now be terminated."

"How very neat," said Jameson, who had heard enough. "She has served her purpose so she can be dumped. No matter that she fought and bled for us."

"She's a monster, Jameson. She doesn't matter," said Lord Harwood.

"Yes, she is a monster but she does matter. She is not an unthinking animal. She thinks, she feels, she laughs. She is a person. 'If you prick her, does she not bleed, if you tickle her does she not laugh and if you wrong her will she not take revenge?'" Jameson had taken the trouble to look up the quote even if, under the stress of the moment, he did not get it quite right. "I promised, on our behalf, to accept responsibility for her."

"That is what we were worried about," said Miss Arnoux, sighing. "There is reciprocity in the spell. Tell me, Major Jameson, are you sleeping with her yet."

Miss Arnoux was a dried up prune of a woman. In Jameson's view, having a man would vastly improve the blasted woman. "I don't think my bedroom habits are any of your damn business," Jameson said

"Yes, I thought you might be. It's the spell, Jameson. Once she is eliminated, we will reverse the spell and you will feel quite differently," Miss Arnoux said.

The woman was so damned smug and sure of herself. Lord Harwood looked puzzled, then he looked at Jameson's secretary and his eyes narrowed. His hand slipped below the table. Jameson casually unclipped the flap on his soft leather briefcase and put his hand inside.

The door opened in response to the silent alarm and Gaston walked in wearing full combat gear followed by three troopers. "Hello Karla," Gaston said to Miss Sonnet and pointed his rail gun at her. The troopers followed his example.

Miss Arnoux gaped like a fish then looked at Karla and paled. Jameson slowly pulled his briefcase off his hand to reveal an automatic pistol pointed at Lord Harwood. "It seems that we have a situation," he said.

Lord Harwood took his glasses off and polished them. "Gaston's men will gun her down whether you kill me or no, Major. I was very impressed by your stage magician's skills. 'Most of you know my secretary'– neatly done. Actually, none of us in the room knew her but we all assumed that someone else must. Masterful misdirection, my boy, it took me some little while to work it out. How did you disguise her eyes?"

"Dark contact lenses, a policeman gave me the idea," said Jameson.

"Indeed," said Lord Harwood

"Why not hear me out, My Lord? Then Gaston can kill me and Karla right after I kill you," said Jameson. "This is not about a spell or reciprocity. This is about integrity. We either have it or we don't. We can't have a little bit of honour, an integrity constrained only to people we approve of. Once we draw a line and impose limits on our integrity—why, then we have none at all."

"We are not talking about how we treat people. She's a monster. Think, Jameson," said Lord Harwood. "She will be tied to you all your life if we let her survive. You will never have a girlfriend, a wife or children. It won't be you she would kill when she got jealous."

"Yes, she is a monster. But we used to think that we did not have to treat some people fairly either, people who were the wrong class, or the wrong nationality, or the wrong colour skin. She may be as black as hell, My Lord, but once my ancestors despised yours for much the same reason."

Lord Harwood froze. He resumed polishing his glasses with long dark brown fingers. Lord Harwood's ancestor had sailed with Hawkins to the Americas all right, but not on the deck. Harwood's ancestor had been chained in the hold.

"He has a point, My Lord," said Gaston. "And she did save our lives." Gaston had joined the Paras because that regiment was already commissioning black officers when the fashionable Guards Regiments still had a colour bar against even black private soldiers. When your mother came from Cameroon, as Gaston's had, then these things mattered.

Harwood sighed, "I know that I am going to regret this but . . . Benson."

"Yes, My Lord?" said The Commission's administrator.

"Add Miss Sonnet to the payroll as a secretary."

Jameson relaxed and carefully clicked the pistol's safety back on. "Thank you, My Lord."

"A trial period, mark you Jameson. She's as black as hell."

Jameson looked across at Karla who gazed back at him with an utter lack of expression. He wished he knew how this was going to turn out. The risks were immense but he just couldn't kill her out of hand so he was stuck with the situation. His lips curled; at least it wouldn't be boring. He looked around the meeting. Gaston grinned at him, gun muzzle pointed at the ground. Miss Arnoux looked as if she had been goosed by a Royal Marine. Jameson made an observation so softly that the others had to strain to hear it. "Let's not kid ourselves, people. She may be as black as hell but all of us in this room, we are as dark as night."

* * *

For Blue Sky

Written by Wen Spencer
Illustrated by Jeremey Mohler, Colourist Tom Scholes

Two weeks after Pittsburgh became permanently stranded on Elfhome, the war between the elves and the oni reached John Montana's gas station. John had been greasing the CV joint of a Honda he had up on the rack when the bell on the pumps chimed, announcing someone had pulled up for gas. He listened for the sound of his little brother's feet moving across the ceiling above him, but could only hear the rumble of rock music. He ducked out from under the Honda, walked to the old fireman pole that dropped down from their apartment, and yelled, "Hey! We've got a customer down here!"

The bell chimed again and again, like someone was jumping on the air hose, making it trigger. Just kids messing with the air hose, John thought, and headed outside, still carrying the grease gun.

He hadn't been expecting trouble. It had been a summer of hell since war had broken out between the elves and the oni, with humans like John caught in the middle. But with the recent dramatic events, he thought that the elves had won, and the war was over.

Looking at the sea of elves in Fire Clan red massed outside his gas station, John realized that he was mistaken. Most of them were common garden variety laedin-caste soldiers, but sprinkled among them were the holy sekasha-caste warriors, with spells tattooed down their arms. The elves had been distracted by the chime, playing with the novelty of the air hose like kids. When they noticed him at the garage's third bay door, though, all play died from their faces, and the eyes they turned toward him were hard and suspicious.

"Oooohhhh, shit." John felt his stomach tighten into a cold knot. The evening news had covered what had happened in Chinatown just days before, showing the blood washed sidewalks and the headless dead of the oni flushed out of their hiding spaces. The elves weren't taking prisoners.

They saw the grease gun in his hands and they drew their swords.

"It's not a weapon!" John cried in low Elvish, dropped the tool, and stepped backwards. "It's not a weapon!"

"Get on your knees!" One of the sekasha shouted in high tongue.

John raised his hands, holding them out to show they were empty and got down on his knees. This can't be happening. "It's not a weapon." He continued in low Elvish because he was more fluent in it. "I fix automobiles. It's only a tool for applying oil to the automobiles."

The sekasha nudged the grease gun with his toe and watched it leak. Satisfied it was harmless, he signaled to the laedin-caste elves to search the garage. "Is there anyone else in the building?"

"My little brother. He's just a child. Please don't hurt him."

"If you're both human, you have nothing to fear."

That was the problem—they weren't.

One of the other sekashas produced a sheet of fine handmade paper, a spell inked onto its surface. John knew what this was. The oni used spells to disguise themselves as humans. The paper held a counter-spell to break the illusion. The elves pressed it to John's forearm, spoke the verb component and a static charge ran over him like low voltage electricity. The hairs on his arms and back lifted and stayed standing.

"John, who was playing with the . . .?" His half-brother, Blue Sky, came sliding down the old fireman pole, landing in the center of the chaos. He stood only chest-high among the armored elves, thankfully looking younger than he was. He glanced around at the strangers, unafraid, until he saw John on his knees in front of the sword-wielding sekasha. "John!"

"I'm not hurt!" John cried. "Everything is—no, no, no, no!"

Blue had launched himself at the sekasha, shouting, "Get away from him!"

John surged up, reaching for Blue, but an elf caught him by the back of the head, jerked him back to his knees, and pressed a sword blade against his windpipe.

"Don't move!" The elf behind him snapped.

The sekasha dodged Blue and tried to sweep out the boy's legs. His brother back-flipped over the sweeping foot. Without even turning, or looking, the sekasha slashed backwards with his sword.

"No!" John screamed and fought the hold on him. "He's a child! A child!"

The sword hit Blue Sky in the head, smashing him to the ground. John shouted out in wordless dismay.

"Hush!" The sekasha commanded, sheathing his sword. "I used the back of my blade. He's only stunned."

The sekasha held out his hand for another spell paper and placed it against Blue's arm. He activated it and a distortion of air flowed over Blue and vanished. The boy groaned as the sekasha turned him, carefully, gently, to examine him.

His gaze was suspicious when he looked back at John, but he signaled to the others to free him. John didn't bother to stand, just scrambled on his hands and knees to Blue and made sure that his little brother wasn't hurt. As a testament to the sekasha's skill with his sword, there was only a slight bruise on Blue's forehead, and his eyes weren't dilated. The boy glared at the sekasha, so John locked him in a hold.

The Fire Clan sekasha grunted. It was hard to tell if he was amused by Blue's glare or annoyed by it. "What are you doing with this child? Where are his parents?"

"We share a mother." John said. "She is sick. She went back to Earth. His father is dead."

"Who was his father?" The sekaska asked.

The one thing you didn't do was lie to elves. As much as John wanted to say that he didn't know, it would be worse to be caught in a lie. "Lightning Strikes Wind."

Unfortunately, the warrior recognized the name. "He was one of the Wind Clan sekasha?"

John nodded.

"He is—fourteen?" The sekasha tried to guess Blue's age.

"I'm seventeen." Blue answered for himself. It was a sore spot for him, because he'd been mistaken for as young as ten.

"Shhhh." John hushed him.

"You don't feed him right; he's too small." The sekasha stood and walked about the bay, studying the old fire hall that John used as a garage, from the fire pole that Blue had slid down to the gas pumps outside. He stomped on the air hose, making it chime again.

Blue was shaking with fury in his hold. John, however, was terrified that the worst could just be starting.

"Wolf Who Rules," The sekasha named the head of the Wind Clan. "Does he know about the child?"

"No." John had lived in terror of this day. He didn't know how the sekasha would react to their holy bloodline being mixed with human. Even if they didn't kill Blue Sky outright, there remained the chance they would take him from John.

The laedin-caste warrior appeared to sketch a slight bow to the sekasha. "The building seems clear, holy one."

"Clear!" The sekasha shouted.

Profound silence filled the garage as the elves went still, waiting. John had heard that the Stone Clan, newly arrived to Pittsburgh, was using spells to find oni hidden within the walls of buildings and secret tunnels underground.

"Clear," someone outside shouted. The elves relaxed.

The sekasha signaled for the others to move to the next building down. "If he was not sekasha-caste, I would not care what you do with him. My duty here is clear. He is of the holy blood. His clan must be told. This is no way for one such as he should live."

Blue jerked in John's hold.

"I'll take the child to Wolf Who Rules." John struggled to keep his brother checked. "I swear I will."

The sekasha looked down the street to where his people searched for oni. As John hoped, he deemed it easier to let John handle the problem than to abandon his duties. "I will know if you break your vow. I will not be kind."

"John always keeps his promises." Blue snapped.

The sekasha smiled. "He has his father's reactions."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"We sekasha—we protect those we love."

* * *

"You shouldn't have promised." Blue swung up onto the counter of the old fireman's kitchen as John opened the fridge and dug through it, looking for a beer. "It means you have to do it."

"I didn't want him taking you with him."

"He couldn't have done that!" Blue cried.

"He's a sekasha." John found an Iron City beer, opened it and drank deeply. He was still shaking from the encounter. In the stainless steel surface of the fridge, he could see the line where the sword blade had pressed against his throat. "They're allowed to do anything they want. They're considered too holy to be bound by law made by mortals."

All his life, John had watched the Wind Clan sekasha prowl the city like lions among lambs. Even other elves watched them with fear. Thus, he'd been terrified when his mother brought a drunk sekasha home. At thirteen, he was just beginning to realize that she wasn't fully sane and that he couldn't trust her to keep them safe. John spent the night sure that the warrior would kill her when he sobered.

After Blue Sky was born, their mother grew more and more erratic. The treaty with the elves banned criminals, the insane, and orphans; the elves didn't want the dredges of humanity littering their world. The same treaty, however, meant Blue Sky couldn't travel to Earth. Caught between the two rules, John struggled to keep his mother's insanity hidden until he was eighteen. At that point, John sent his mother to Earth and stayed behind to become Blue's guardian.

Until today, his greatest fear was that the elves would kill Blue out of hand, deeming his human genetics a stain on their holy blood line.

Now, he was afraid that even a half-blood like Blue was too holy to be raised by a mere human.

"So, what do we do?" Blue asked.

John sighed and put down his beer. He'd put this off for years. There was one glimmer of hope. "Come on, let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"I'm going to see if Tinker can do anything about this."

Tinker and her cousin, Oilcan, could be called good friends. They had the same interests, traded business, knew the same people, and went to the same parties. Like John and Blue, the cousins were orphans and only had each other. John would like to think it created a bond between them—but he'd learned in the past that when things went horribly wrong in your life, the people you thought could trust sometimes turned their back on you.

Luck, courage and a good bit of ingenuity had landed Tinker in a position of power as the wife of the clan head, Wolf Who Rules. If anyone in Pittsburgh could help them, she could.

But the question was—would she?

* * *

The elfin enclaves lined where the Rim used to cut through Oakland. Each a block wide and half a mile deep, the high walled residences acted as both hotels and restaurants. Since everything about the clan head was tabloid fodder, everyone in Pittsburgh knew that Tinker and her new husband were living at the Poppymeadow enclave.

John and Blue Sky passed through three checkpoints on their way to Oakland. Each time they were questioned in depth, searched for weapons, and checked by spell to see if they were oni. It took them two hours to work their way to the enclaves. John parked his pickup and they walked to the tall garden gate that normally stood open, but found it shut and locked. He tried knocking.

A slot gate opened and an elf peered out at them.

"Forgiveness," the elf said. "The dining room is not open."

"I need to see—" John realized that saying Tinker's name without her proper title would be considered rude. Elves set store on that kind of thing. He frowned a moment, trying to remember her new title. "Domi. I beg you. May I speak with Tinker domi?"

"Who asks?"

"John Montana," And then quickly, he added. "It's clan business! I'm here to see her as the clan's domi."

"Wait here."

Blue had been kicking pebbles. When the slot shut, he scoffed. "Clan business."

John smacked him on the back of the head. "Behave."

"I don't like you groveling to them."

"It's not groveling, it's fitting in. At the race track, you fit in by acting tough and saying you've got the best team. Different place—different set of rules."

"At the races, we're all equal. Elves are all about keeping people under your thumb."

"You sound like half the rednecks of Pittsburgh."

"I am one, that's why. My father never cared enough to see how I was doing. I don't see why we have to do this."

"Your father didn't know about you—"

"Because he was a murdering psychopath of a sekasha and our mother was a nutcase."

John ignored that little rant. "At the races, you know that if anyone on the pit crew didn't do what I told them, they'd be off the team. Every place has rules—and none of them are better or wrong—they just are."

There was a rattle of metal on wood—the bar on the gate was being drawn. They were being let in.

"Now be polite and don't screw this up—or you might be staying here when I go home."

Blue gave him a terrified look, but was polite as they were frisked for weapons and once again, checked to see if they were disguised oni.

* * *

Tinker was just a year older than Blue—thus John had known her all her life—and yet, when they were escorted into an orchard courtyard, he barely recognized her. Oilcan had told him about the physical transformation. John had guessed that power would probably also change her—but he hadn't been ready for this.

He had known a coltish girl dressed in dirty hand-me-downs. She enjoyed her solitary junkyard existence because it allowed her to play mad inventor. Famous for her virginity, she unknowingly blew away all would-be suitors with aggressive intelligence, fierce independence, and stunning naivety.

This stranger wore a dress of fairy silk green that shimmered against her dusky skin. With magic, her eyes and ears—along with her underlying DNA—had been changed from human to elfin. She lay on a blanket in the dappled shade, her head resting on the lap of a young male sekasha. Four more sekasha watched John intently, while pretending polite disinterest. It was difficult to judge the ages of elves, but John thought that all five seemed young, as if Wolf Who Rules tried to match up his wife up with guards who were just "teenagers" themselves. Despite the tranquil setting, the three males and two females bristled with weapons. Whereas the Fire Clan sekasha had been red-heads, the Wind Clan sekasha were dark-haired and blue-eyed like Blue Sky. Their spell tattoos and scaled chest armor were in the deep blue which identified their clan.

"Domi, wake up," her pillow murmured. "They are here."

She woke slowly, yawning and rubbing at her eyes. Her actions were innocent, but the skin-tight dress made them sensual. It wasn't until she blinked at him and said his name that he realized that her arm was braced and inked with healing spells. He hadn't heard that she been hurt—but considering her last fight with the oni had nearly leveled the city—he shouldn't have been surprised.

She really shouldn't arch like that as she stretched awake. He glanced away, feeling like a pervert—she was young as Blue! "Sorry, the healing spells—" She yawned. "They make me really tired. What's wrong, John?"

John had hoped for a private talk with Tinker. Apparently that was impossible. He worked on ignoring the sekasha. Blue leaned against him, glaring at the guards.

"The Fire Clan sekasha were just at the garage. They've ordered me to talk to Wolf Who Rules. I was hoping you could—be in our corner. We could use some help."

"I don't understand." Tinker ran her hand through her short brown hair, grabbed a handful and tugged at it. The familiar gesture comforted John that something remained of the girl he knew. Under the clean skin and beautiful dress, he could see the core of the compassionate person he knew—now weighted down with responsibilities. She had gone from being accountable only for herself to having all of Pittsburgh on her shoulders, and judging by the weary sigh, fully aware of it. "Why did Wyverns send you here? To talk about what?"

Blue pressed tighter against John's side, and shook his head.

John sighed. Having promised the Fire Clan sekasha, he had no choice; he had to broach the subject. "Blue's father was Lightening Strikes Wind."

Tinker looked confused but the sekasha attending her went from polite disinterest to staring at Blue Sky with startled amazement. "Stormsong?" Tinker turned to the blue-haired female who had her hand pressed to her mouth. "Who was Lightening Strikes?"

Stormsong blinked away tears and composed herself. "He was killed by a saurus at the faire ground five years ago. He was barely out of his doubles."

"Oh!" Tinker made a little sound of hurt. "I saw him die. I didn't know he was that young. All elves seemed so old to me then—but I guess that would only make him seventeen or eighteen if he were a human."

Elves became adults at a hundred, when they needed three numbers to write their age. John always assumed it included a much extended 'holding pattern' much like the gray zone for humans between the age of eighteen and twenty-one, where they were old enough to vote but not to legally drink. It suddenly occurred to him that he had been wrong all along. Elves didn't mature quickly and yet remain legally a child. They matured slowly through the ages that corresponded with the human range of twelve to eighteen.

John sat there in shock. He had expected that Blue would continue growing up, slower than humans, but reaching maturity within the next ten years or so. But he was wrong—Blue would not be growing up for a long, long time. "Blue Sky's half human," he finally managed to say. "He might grow up faster."

Tinker's guards shook their heads.

"If his father had not been sekasha, that might have been so," Stormsong said. "But we breed true; ours is always the dominant gene. He will be his father's child much more than his mother's. He won't be able to deny his nature. I know from experience, it will be better if he accepts it instead of rebels against it."

John struggled with all the implications flooding over him. He remembered how as a teenager, he'd grown like a weed. Blue was seventeen but still looked like a ten year old. "What do you mean?"

The sekasha exchanged looks and then the male at Tinker's side said, "Forgiveness, domi, but as Lightening Strike's child, he belongs to Wolf Who Rules' household until he's an adult. It is the clan's responsibility that he be raised correctly."

At least I was right about something—this was exactly the reaction I was afraid of.

"Pony!" Tinker cried. "We can't just take Blue Sky from his brother!"

"Sooner or later, domi, it must be done." Pony said. "He will be a child long after his brother dies of old age."

"I am seventeen!" Blue cried. "I'm almost full grown! I'm top hoverbike driver in Pittsburgh, and I put in forty hours of week helping John run the shop."

"I have to say, I know how he feels." Tinker said. "I'm not happy that the queen has said that I have to wait until I'm a hundred before being considered an adult."

"His case is much different from yours, domi." Stormsong said. "There are hormone changes that affect the development of the mind, and those come with aging. A child, no matter how mature, still views the world with a child's mind, and reacts to it in the same way. You matured to adult before being made an elf, domi, but have been given the protection of a child until you have learned all you need to know about our society. Your lack is from knowledge alone. Much as he wants to be viewed as adult—as much as he must hurt seeing others his age treated as almost adults—he will not be one for a long time."

"John, say something!" Blue cried. "They can't do this."

It all matched so well with what John had been ignoring. Blue had dropped out of high school, complaining that everyone suddenly seemed like alien creatures. The problem was that Blue had continued to have elementary school interests, while the others raced to embrace all things adult.

"The problems will truly start when his sekasha nature joins the natural aggression of puberty," Stormsong said.

"We like to fight," Pony clarified. "And we're very good at it."

Blue loved the fierce competition of hoverbike racing. While in high school, Blue came home with bloody noses—and reports that his taller opponents were worse the wear.

"And he needs better nutrition," Pony said. "He's too thin, his hair is brittle and his fingernails are ridged; all signs he's not eating right. If his diet doesn't change, his adult bones won't be a strong as they should be and his eyesight might be impaired. A sekasha child needs twice the meat and milk as a normal elfin child."

"I'm fine!" Blue shouted. "I'm not too small! I eat fine! I'm not violent, and I'm sick of everyone acting like I'm not here! You can talk all you want, but I'm not living here!"

And he bolted out of the orchard though a gate that John hadn't noticed.

John shook himself out of his daze. "Blue! Blue!" Oh great, so much for showing his wonderful parenting skills! "Tinker, please, he's only half elf. He's still half human, and that part makes us brothers. Our blood has to count for something. I don't want to give him up."

"Domi," Pony countered. "It is not possible to raise a sekasha child alone."

Tinker, however, seemed to be listening intently to the whine of a hoverbike's lift engine spinning up. "That's coming from the motor court, isn't it?"

"That little turd is taking my bike!" Stormsong cried in English, and took off running in the direction Blue had gone.

John's heart dropped down through his stomach. Oh, no! He took off after Stormsong, keenly aware that she had a pistol as well as her sword. Beyond the courtyard was a motor court with a dozen garage bays open showing off a fleet of gray Rolls Royce Phantoms. Just outside the last bay, Blue sat astride a top of the line, custom delta hover bike.

"Blue! No!" John shouted.

The boy maxed the lift and popped the bike over the high demesne wall in one easy leap. On the other side, he dropped all power into the spell chain and roared off.

Oh, god, how could Blue be so stupid? John spun to face Stormsong, holding up his hands to warn off her anger. "I'm sorry. I'll get it back, and fix anything he breaks on it." He edged around her, heading back to the orchard. "I promise you, I'll make things right."

He echoed the apology to Tinker as he passed her, heading for the front gate and his pickup.

Tinker trailed after him. "He'll just go home, won't he?"

"I don't know." John admitted. "But I'll get the bike back. Please don't call the police."

"Fuck the bike." Tinker snapped in English and then dropped back to low Elvish. "It isn't safe for him to be alone in the city right now. There are still pockets of oni troops. The humans are upset at the elves. And if the Wyverns think the Wind Clan isn't handling Blue right, they will take him."

John stumbled to a halt. "But you said that Blue was part of Wolf Who Rules' household."

"The Wyverns are head of the sekasha caste," Pony explained calmly. "They have ultimate responsibility for Blue Sky."

* * *

John was at his pickup before he realized that Stormsong was following him.

"I'm coming with you." She opened the passenger door.

John stared at the tall, leggy female. "Why?"

"Because I can get you around all the roadblocks that the royal troops have set up, and protect Blue Sky from anyone that might try to hurt him."

She had a good point, but it still seemed wrong to get into the truck with one of them. John still wasn't totally convinced Blue was in no danger from the sekasha beyond being taken from him.

"I'm not going to hurt your brother." She read the disbelief on his face. "I swear to you, by the blood and the sword that makes me a sekasha, I will never harm Lightening Strike's son."

An elf would never lie. To them, there was nothing more important than their personal honor.

"He's really a very good kid." John slammed shut his door and started the engine. "He's just upset and angry. He's never done anything like this before."

"I know that."

"How can you know that?"

"It's why we're considered holy. Virtue is not a choice for us; it's encoded in our genes, on the same level as the color of our eyes. Under stress, Blue Sky might falter, but he'll never stray far from righteousness."

"Morality is not a genetic trait."

"What the fuck do you know?" Stormsong snapped back in English. "Elves didn't start out immortal. We were made that way while we were slaves to the Skin Clan. For thousands of years, they perfected bioengineering, using what you know as elves as their guinea pigs. Each caste is a different gene pool they set up. They wanted the perfect guard, one that they could trust absolutely, so they made the sekasha virtuous without measure."

"I've never heard of the Skin Clan."

"Because we sekasha carved their fucking evil hearts out—each and every one of them."

So much for trusting their guards absolutely. "And I'm supposed to hand my brother over to you to raise?"

"That's what we want." Stormsong shrugged. "But you've asked domi to intercede—so it is possible that is not what will happen."

John studied the female, trying to tell how serious she was. "If she decides in my favor, you'll obey her?"

"Yes." Stormsong saw the surprise on his face, and added, "She's our domi" as if it explained everything.

"I don't get it," John said. "You're these holy warriors of god, each of you hundreds of years old, and you roll over and listen to . . ."

"Do not go there." There was a razor edge in her voice. "I will forgive much, but not a slur on my domi."

John swallowed down anything that could be taken as negative toward Tinker. He couldn't believe that they would so blindly obey her judgment. "After the Skin Clan, why would you listen to anyone? You're the ones who are 'virtuous without measure.'"

Stormsong smiled. "Because we like to fight."

"That's bullshit."

"No. It isn't. We prefer to solve all our problems with violence—but might does not make right."

"So you let someone less vicious run the show?"

"More or less."

"I still don't see why you would listen to Tinker," John said as they rolled up to the first checkpoint. "Compared to the rest of you, she's just a kid."

"I thought you knew her—I guess I was wrong."

* * *

With Stormsong in the truck, John was waved through without the prolonged questioning, being tested with spells, and being searched for weapons. It also turned out that Tinker had called ahead. Blue hadn't been shot at when he ran the roadblocks. The news chilled John.

Let him be home, safe and sound.

There was no sign of him at the gas station. John raced through the building, checking all the rooms. Everything was as they left it.

The bell on the pumps chimed, summoning John back to the garage.

"He's not here." Stormsong said it as a statement, not question. She bounced on the air hose again. "He doesn't want to bring trouble down on you, so he won't come back."

"Shit, shit, shit." John tried to think of where Blue would run to as Stormsong walked through the garage, giving it the same careful study that the Wyvern had. "Go ahead and say it."

"What?"

"This is no way for one such as he should live." John quoted the Wyvern.

"Actually, this is cool." She touched the fireman's pole lightly. "But there's nothing of us, the people who will still be here when you're gone. The oldest living elf is close to twenty thousand years old—that's a long time to be alone."

"I've taught him what I could." John headed for the door, trying to ignore the guilt taking root in the center of his chest.

"I told you—we see things in black and white. What we don't embrace, we reject. We don't do the middle ground. You're teaching him to hate himself."

"I am not!" John cried.

"Yes, you are."

Was he? Everything they claimed to be sekasha had fit Blue Sky so well. Could this be true too? Guilt grew through John like a dark weed. He went out to his pickup and got in but still had no idea where to head.

Stormsong got in beside him. "He's that way." She pointed west.

"How do you know?"

"I'm mixed caste—much like Blue Sky. My mother is the Queen's Oracle. I spent my childhood trying to deny being a sekasha. I went through much of what Blue Sky is going through now. Even hating myself."

John considered West. A large chunk of Pittsburgh still lay in that direction, from their gas station in McKees Rocks to out past the airport. Even Tinker's scrap yard lay in that direction. "Can you be more specific?"

"He's feeling helpless right now. He's heading someplace where he can feel powerful."

The racetrack.

* * *

John could hear the whine of a hoverbike being pushed through the curves and loops of the racecourse even as he parked in the big empty lot. As a team captain, he had a passkey into the track.

"It will be important to get him off the bike," Stormsong followed close on John heels. "He might hurt himself."

"He won't wreck the bike by mistake." John assured her. "He's one of the best drivers in Pittsburgh. See."

Stormsong gasped as she watched Blue Sky tear through the complex twists and turns. "Oh shit. I didn't connect the name. You're Team Big Sky!"

"Yeah, we are."

She laughed. "Oh, Lightening Strikes would have been proud. Team Big Sky has always been the clan's favorite team."

John trotted down the concourse steps, trying to escape the remorse he felt, but it followed him. He should have told Lightening Strikes that he had a son. If it had been John, he would have wanted to know before he died. I couldn't be sure, though, that Blue would be safe!

Blue flashed past, spotted John, and pulled in a sharp loop, heading back toward him.

"What do you think you're doing?" John walked out to meet him.

Blue slid away, keeping out of grabbing range. "I don't want to be one of them! If I can't be with you, I won't be with anyone!"

"Blue, this isn't solving anything. Cut the engine and talk to me."

Blue frowned and started to reach for the keys and then spotted Stormsong tucked in the shadows of the stands. "What is she doing here?" He gave John a look full of pain. "You're just going to give me to them?"

"I don't want to, Blue, but it might be the best thing for you."

Blue twisted hard on the power and shot away.

"Blue!" John shouted.

Stormsong made a sound of disgust. "You know—you suck at this."

"I'm just doing the best that I can. It's not like I had a great model to work from. When I was little, if I was bad, my mother would say 'I just can't take it anymore, I'm taking you to the EIA. You can go live with another family on another world.' And after Blue Sky was born, it became 'take care of him, or I'm taking you both to the EIA.' Okay, so I'm not the best parent in the world. I really don't have a clue what I'm doing, but I have never, never threatened to give him up."

"You should have given him to us! We would have done a better job than this!"

"I wasn't willing to risk his life to find that out!"

"If you're worried about his life, then stop fighting with me and do something about him!" Stormsong pointed upwards.

Blue Sky raced up the tallest ramp that climbed skyward. At the summit, he popped up and landed on the very rim and balanced there. As the bike teetered on the narrow ledge, Blue killed the engine.

When Stormsong had said "hurt himself" she wasn't meaning by accident.

"Blue!" John shouted. "Don't be insane! Come down!"

"I won't be one of them!" Blue shouted.

Stormsong kneed John in the balls. Surprise made him scream at the pain. He didn't even see the second hit. He went sprawling in the dirt, with black closing in. Distantly he was aware that Stormsong had drawn her pistol and was taking careful aim down at him.

"John!" Blue shouted and the hoverbike's engine snarled to life.

The gun thundered over and over again, the shots echoing off the stands.

Somehow Stormsong had emptied her gun and missed him. John scrambled away from her, aware that she was drawing her sword. Blue was roaring toward them.

"You promised!" John held out his hand, pleading to her. "You promised not to hurt him."

"And I'm not going to," she said quietly as Blue leapt at her. She spun, caught Blue in mid-air with her left hand. As his weight spun her around, she sliced the hover bike's spell chain. The engine's power diverted into the lift and the hoverbike soared upwards on maximum lift. She continued the turn, slamming Blue against the ground and pinned him there.

Blue thrashed in her hold. "You murdering whore! I'm going to kill you!"

"Blue, she didn't hurt me." John's head was clearing, his balls ached, and he felt like vomiting, but he was basically unhurt. "Shut up before you make her mad."

Blue went still in surprise, and then squeaked, "John!"

Stormsong let Blue go. The boy scrambled to him. John hugged him tightly, relieved that he hadn't self-destructed. The sekasha looked on with sadness in her eyes.

"Why the hell did you do that?" John asked her.

"We protect those we love," Stormsong said.

Meaning she knew that Blue would come to John's protection. John supposed this was what she meant by solving all problems with violence.

* * *

Blue kept himself between John and Stormsong as they pulled down her floating hoverbike, maneuvered it to his pickup and killed the power. After they strapped the bike down, they drove back to Poppymeadows enclave in silence. Blue huddled in the middle, a small ball of hurt. Stormsong cleared them through check points. Thunderclouds gathered, threatening a downpour.

The same servant opened the gate at Poppymeadows, letting them in. "Domi is sleeping in the garden room."

"Again?" Blue sneered.

Stormsong cuffed Blue on the back of the head. "Tinker domi moved heaven and earth to save all the people of this city. She is a good and just leader. But until her injuries are fully healed, she will have to sleep often."

Apparently they were now considered trustworthy as they weren't searched, nor escorted through the enclave. The garden room turned out to be a small conservatory filled with a riot of blooming flowers. Tinker slept curled on a chaise with only Pony in attendance. Stormsong knelt beside Tinker, and kissed her forehead to wake her. "We're back, domi. We found the child and brought him back."

"Hm?" Tinker opened her eyes sleepily. "Oh, good." She yawned and reached out for a hand up. "I was worried. Thank you for keeping him safe."

Tinker hugged the female sekasha. The depth of Stormsong's affection showed on her face.

We protect those we love.

The sekasha weren't standing guard over Wolf Who Rule's wife—they were protecting their beloved domi. She had won their hearts. Nor was the fact all that surprising. Blue had always bordered on puppy love for Tinker. She was courageous in a fight, fiercely loyal, never lied, and kept all her promises.

John supposed that if Blue had to go to someone else, at least it was someone he knew he could trust. "Tinker, I've thought about this, and I'm willing to do whatever is best for Blue Sky. I ask that he stays in Pittsburgh and I want to be able to see him."

"You don't want me?" Blue fought to stay stoic in the face of news.

"This isn't about wanting you, or not wanting you. This is about what's best for you. They're right. You've probably would have been better off with your father from the start."

Tears filled Blue's eyes and he bowed his head to keep them hidden. "Why does everyone want me to be an elf?"

"Because you are an elf." John tapped him on his pointed ear tips to remind him. "And without meaning to, I've poisoned you against yourself. I know this hurts, but I really think you should come and live with Tinker."

Blue bowed his head lower, shaking it. "If I become one of them, you'll be afraid of me. You will hate me."

"Blue, I swear to you, nothing you can do or say or be will ever make me hate you."

"I don't want to lose you!" Blue whispered.

Tinker put her arms around Blue. "When I was thirteen, and Oilcan was seventeen, he moved out. I felt like I was losing him, but I wasn't. We're even closer now, because we don't have to fight over all those little annoying things that come with living with someone. What to watch on the TV and whose turn it is to take out the trash. He's still there for me anytime I need him. You're not losing John. You're gaining a very large family."

Blue scoffed. "Just what I need, a dozen more people to tell me what to do." But he turned and hugged Tinker tightly.

* * *

The elves had said that Blue was free to come and go as he pleased. John expected that Blue would put it to the test. He didn't expect that it would be so soon. Close to midnight, Blue sulked into the shop.

"What are you doing here?" John moved his bowl of popcorn so Blue could sprawl on the couch beside him.

Blue made a sound of disgust. "Do you know that Stormsong is the only elf in Tinker's household that speaks English?"

"You're fluent in Elvish."

"It's a pain to have to speak it all the time. And besides, there's so many things in Pittsburgh that Elvish doesn't have a word for!"

"True."

"What are you watching?"

"Something Oilcan loaned me." John suspected the loan had been an excuse to make sure he was coping with Blue being gone. "It's a season of a reality TV show called American Chopper. This family custom-builds motorcycles."

Blue usually disliked gearhead shows, so John was surprised when he exclaimed, "Oh, cool," and settled in to watch, apparently contented. Two handfuls of popcorn later, Blue added, "You know, the enclaves don't have TVs, CD players, flush toilets, or electricity."

"Barbaric," John said.

"And get this! No showers! You suppose to bathe in this big heated swimming pool with everyone else. Male and females together!"

John laughed at the disgust in Blue's voice. "Was there anything you liked?"

"I got to watch them sparring with practice swords. It was really cool." Blue gave a sigh of happiness. "You should see how they can move. They say I'll be able to fight like them someday. And they gave me this cool bow. I can't wait until you see it. You should come eat breakfast with me tomorrow. The food is amazing."

"Sure, sounds good." John mussed Blue's hair. "So, are you going to be backup ride for Team Tinker instead of main ride for Team Big Sky? Or is racing totally beneath a holy one like you?" Blue's scowl was answer enough, and the cold knot in John's stomach dissolved. John was pretty sure that as his brother aged, the sekasha would come to regret their decision, as often as not. Which, so far as he was concerned, was all to the good.

* * *

Wen Spencer is the author of many books and stories.

What Sleeps In The Shallows Belongs To The Depths

Written by Julie Czerneda
Illustrated by Kevin Wasden

And so it came to pass, in the third age of the world, that those from the mainland sought once more to conquer the ocean realm. They gathered powerful sorcerers and built ships beyond numbering to carry them. Unstoppable, they sank fleet after fleet, razed island after island of the archipelago until they threatened Circle Cove itself, the very heart of our Blessed Kingdom. All seemed lost.

Until a willing sacrifice of Magic, Innocence, and Hope aroused Her Quiet God from Her Depths. The Three revealed to Him our enemies, and He did swallow them whole. Those few who survived fled back to the tree-infested lands of their birth, knowing the water forever cursed for their kind.

To ensure the safety of the ocean folk for all time, the Quiet God left Her Depths and came to dwell within the arms of Circle Cove, where He will sleep until called upon at our darkest hou~~~

"May barnacles crust your stinking hull," Agnon cursed as latest gentle tremor jarred his table enough so the nib of his pen broke, splattering octopus ink over the rest of what had been pristine parchment, imported, pristine parchment. He looked around quickly to see if he'd been heard. Master Scribe Caienthe was a gentle soul, but even he might be as quick with the back of his hand as any quartermaster if he heard bilge talk in his workroom. But he was alone. The rest of the apprentices had finished their stacks and left for supper. Agnon, the newest arrival, wondered how long it would be before his hand was as swift. Or as accurate.

Maybe he could wipe it. Agnon tried the edge of his sleeve, already spotted from his morning's task of refilling inkwells. The result was more artistic, but the parchment was still ruined. With a sigh, Agnon dropped it to join two others on the floor. At least his stack of perfect copies was shoulder-high. Not that anyone would read them or admire his elegant script. No, each would be rolled and secured with golden thread, by those who could afford it, or clean linen picked from a hem, by those who couldn't. Rare orchids from the Outer Islands would be affixed to each roll, or daisies, for those reliant on the charity of priests. Regardless of presentation, the result would be an offering, to be floated on tiny candle-lit rafts by pious and atheist alike on the upcoming anniversary of the Islanders' supposed salvation.

Agnon stretched and gazed out the broad window that spilled sunlight on his table. The Scribe Hall held a privileged location, a third up one of the elaborate towers carved from the living black stone. The stone itself formed a mountain, curled like a mother's embrace around the deep blue waters of Circle Cove. Its outer surface was composed of bleak, ragged cliffs—clawed by the sea and home only to seabirds. But the mountain's inner surface had been worked and reworked by artisans for generations beyond memory. The result was a city overlooking the cove, footed in gleaming black sand and busy docks, rising in towers terraced with gardens aburst with the flowers its residents loved so well.

The cove itself was an almost perfect circle, its waters rippled only by the traffic of traders and fishers, and the kiss of gulls. The great fleet rested at anchor, its magnificent ships like begemmed toys from this height.

In the distance, Agnon could make out the mist-filled entrance to Circle Cove, wide enough for three galleons abreast and hemmed by cliffs extending out into the ocean like welcoming arms. Or protecting ones. For those cliffs were hollowed as well, home to warrior-priests and their weapons. Rocks were not the least of what they could unleash on any who ventured without permission into the cove.

Or out. Woe betide the merchant who thought to sneak by without paying due tax, or the smuggler attempting to leave with stolen cargo. Not that the spells of dir-priests were lightly used—but the threat of a magical blight on one's ship or crew was usually enough.

Agnon shook his head and pulled another parchment into position, dipping his pen into the inkwell with care. There was more demand than usual this year for copies of the reassuring "Legend of the Summoning." The recent quakes, perhaps. They were more nuisance than anything else—except to his pen nib—but several nights of being shaken awake had begun taking its toll on even the good-natured.

Then, there were the latest rumors, though Agnon put little stock into word that traveled from fisher to dock hand to rock scrubber. Those were prone to embellish a tale with each retelling, loving the sound of their own voices, until what might have been real news was as unreliable as the legend he penned so carefully, over and over again.

The peace-loving P'okukii, who never ventured on the open sea, had somehow built themselves a secret fleet? A race who relied on soothsayers and foreign traders for news of the world, had somehow invented metal hulls and weapons of magical fire? All so they could invade Circle Cove—a place no P'okukii had ever seen in person?

And he, Agnon, was really a prince of noble blood, orphaned by a cruel twist of fate, doomed to apprentice in this craft hall until a raven-haired princess with warm brown eyes and a laugh like the chiming of telltales on a mast fell in love with him from afar . . .

"Agnon!"

The bellow rattled quills in their pots. The young man cringed inwardly, but fixed a pleasant smile on his face before he turned on his stool. "Yes, Master Rathe?"

The master armorer was larger than life in every way, from the unruly mass of black hair sprouting from his squared head to his temper. A temper that hadn't sweetened with Agnon's refusal to apprentice in his hall. Fathers had aspirations for their sons. "Aren't you finished scribbling yet?" Rathe scowled at the parchments so fiercely Agnon half-expected them to shrivel up and burn. "If you've no time to spare for the forge, there's other work waiting."

There always was, Agnon sighed to himself. Those in charge of the craft halls were not merchant princes or of the ten Noble Houses, entitled to servants. And the Quiet God forbid, his father pry loose coin to hire one while he, Agnon, lived at home. "I'll be finished in an hour."

Somehow, Rathe managed to create sufficient wind with his leaving to dislodge the legends carefully stacked beside his son, a minor disaster timed perfectly with Master Caienthe's return. He exclaimed in soft dismay: "Oh, Agnon. Can't you be more careful?"

* * *

Shafts of sunlight disappeared, reappeared; they filled at times with flower petals, twirling downward. At night, the stars were doubled by closer, smaller flames, floating above us to outline the dark hulls of ships.

We had been content thus, to gaze upward through the great lens of our eye into the living magic of this place and see that which belonged here. The great flocks came, silver-sided and swift, seeking the richness of the reef, dancing in the light. Others swam among them, taking as was their need, sometimes just to dance.

But time measures itself in tide and change. They came more rarely, the great flocks and the others. Among the flower petals rained wood and metal, offal and ash. The clarity above our eye diminished. We grew restless and trembled.

If we dream the world, we sometimes wondered, surprised by bursts of fire, or touched by lifeless hands, do dreams end?

* * *

Two hours, not one, later, Agnon grumbled to himself as he hurried home through the corridors leading deep into the mountain. "Next year," he muttered out loud, "I'll be old enough to move to the men's hall. See if he finds a servant who works half as hard." An urgent low growl from the rock on either side seemed to agree. Agnon waited for the tremor to end, one hand on a nearby tapestry to steady himself.

For some reason, his eyes were drawn to what he touched. Agnon usually ignored the tapestries. The ancient, faded weavings lined all of the inner stone walls, relieving the black and muting echoes, if doing little to add warmth. Living in a cave was living in a cave. Having windows and terraces overlooking the cove was for the privileged—or for those whose work required sunlight and convenient access to both harbor and nobles. Another good reason he'd apprenticed as scribe. His father's armory was located so far inside the hollowed-out mountain only ensorcelled light could be used.

This tapestry, like many others, depicted both those of the land and those of the sea. The Landers. The P'okukii. Their pale skin and paler eyes seemed to glow against a backdrop of storm cloud and wave-wracked ocean. This must be one of the oldest, Agnon decided, carefully lifting his hand from its dusty surface. Then he frowned. The image—it was all wrong. The P'okukii didn't venture on to the sea, yet these were shown on ships. Ships of war. That was wrong, too. Despite their differences, not least the Islanders' amused contempt for anyone afraid of open water, there had always been peaceful commerce between their people. Lumber and metal for fish and rare pearls, grain and fruits for the feathers of island birds and the oil of whales. Agnon couldn't imagine otherwise.

But this? There was nothing peaceful here. The ships in the tapestry were heavily armed, their pale crews grim-faced and ready for combat. Red and silver threads shot across every open space, lines of battle magic, spells of wasting, spells of blindness.

Agnon took a step back, the better to study the strange scene. The legends spoke of a long-ago conflict with those from the mainland, but everyone knew it had been with a mysterious, overwhelming Enemy, beings with the heads and habits of beasts, arms longer than his father's. Teeth filed to points! Not the P'okukii. Yet it was them standing in those ships, so many ships they filled the entire horizon. It was as if an entire people had gone to war. Why?

In the foreground, so low Agnon had missed it at first glance, was the lone ship in opposition to the mammoth fleet, riding sideways up a wave. No warship or galley, this was a sturdy little fishing vessel, better suited to chasing baskers. On her prow stood three figures, dir-priests by their robes, a woman and two men. Their faces were so well-rendered Agnon would have been able to recognize each in real life. Ah yes. He nodded to himself. "The Legend of the Summoning." These must be the ones who cast the Spell.

He leaned closer, amazed by the weavers' skill. One man wore armor, a warrior-priest. Rathe.

Agnon started at the name. He glanced around for who had spoken, but he was alone. Wait. It hadn't been a voice. He'd just . . . known.

He couldn't help looking back at the tapestry. The second man was smaller, rounder, with the stooped shoulders of a scholar or scribe. Agnon. Not his own name, but that of this long-dead priest. And the woman . . . "Skalda," Agnon said out loud.

And the woman in the tapestry turned to look right at him. The faded threads that were her mouth parted in shreds, as if she shouted without sound. Words floated Agnon's mind: What sleeps in the shallows belongs to Her Depths.

Gasping, Agnon stumbled away, then ran for home as fast as his legs could carry him.

* * *

"Master Caienthe. Master, please. A moment." Agnon followed the old scribe as he wound his way among tables loaded with parchments and scrolls, barely able to resist plucking at his robe to stop him. "I must speak with you."

Caienthe paused and looked down, his expression kind, if harried. "Can it not wait until tomorrow, young Agnon?" His hands fluttered in the air, as if he were a dir-priest able to command the elements. "This is the busiest day of the year. We're so behind. I really don't know how we'll make quota before tomorrow's celebration—"

"Master. Please. It can't wait . . ." Agnon's voice faltered and he swallowed hard. "I need your wisdom. It's about tomorrow—the meaning of the ceremony. The Legend . . ."

"Goodness." His master's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Such weighty matters call for mulled wine. Which also does wonders for productivity, as my own master used to say."

The wine was heady with spice and its heat spread to the outside of the simple brown goblet. Perched on a stool across a table from Master Caienthe, an island of calm within the bustle of the scribe hall, Agnon wrapped his hands around his cup, not ready to sip but comforted nonetheless.

After running from the tapestry, he'd done his chores in a daze. What sleep he'd managed had been troubled by nightmares—visions of being trapped, of being weighed down, of drowning. Drowning wasn't to be feared. It was the way to Her Depths, to eternal life. The bodies of those who died on land were always consigned to the ocean. Yet Agnon had been terrified. When he awoke, he would have asked his father the meaning of his dreams, and to explain away the bizarre behavior of tapestries, but Master Rathe had been summoned to the Armory before dawn and not returned.

For there really was a P'okukii fleet approaching. Maybe the rumors hadn't lied after all.

It had happened before.

Stomach churning, Agnon had waited for his friends before walking the corridor where threads on a wall had spoken to him. The tapestry was still there, but to his astonishment, the warships were little more than shadows, their crews impossible to see. The figures on the small ship were tiny and indistinct, the colors so dim he could barely make them out.

How had he seen more?

"I take it you've heard what's to happen tomorrow, despite the Council's care. Rumors?" Caienthe shook his head as if at himself. "Of course. Your father."

"Yes. The fleet is arming. They sail on the morning tide. Is it—war, Master Caienthe?"

"War?" Caienthe huffed as if shocked, his breath parting the wisps of his beard. "Whatever gave you that idea, lad? Yes, yes, the P'okukii have left their shores for the first time in living memory, which is a startling thing in itself. Just imagine the effort, young Agnon. They had to teach themselves to build suitable ships, let alone learn to use them. River captains and barge crews, taking to the open sea despite their fear. But no matter what you may have heard from unreputable sources," a pause as the scribe scowled meaningfully at his roomful of apprentices, "the P'okukii's purpose is a peaceful one."

"But our fleet sails—"

"As an escort of honor. And a show of might to soothe those on Council who jump at the mere hint the tide's changing beneath their keels." The scribe took a longer swallow of his wine, his cheeks taking on a ruddy glow. "The soothsayers of the P'okukii read portents to guide their people's future. Seems they've learned that by having their ships enter Circle Cove on a certain day—tomorrow in fact—they can prevent a doom. A doom which, I might add, they believe could destroy both our peoples." Caienthe beamed contentedly at his apprentice. "Whether you believe in portents or not, it will surely be a momentous day—the first time ships of another realm have been welcomed into the heart of ours."

"They'll arrive tomorrow?" It was as if the tapestry, with its dire image of warships and pale-skinned crews, hung between them. Agnon took a hasty gulp of his own wine. Sputtering, he managed to gasp: "During the ceremony itself?"

"What more fitting time? The city will be filled with revels and prayer. And parties—"

"They can't!" Agnon half-shouted. Wine spilled over his hands as words spilled from his lips. "The P'okukii were the ones who attacked the Blessed Kingdom in the third age—the Quiet God was Summoned to destroy them. You can't let them into the Cove. They are the Enemy!"

Master Caienthe's kind eyes chilled. "Calm yourself, young Agnon. I think perhaps you've been reading too many legends, instead of copying them."

"No. No, sir." Agnon licked his lips and tried to calm his voice, though he couldn't stop his hands from shaking. "I've seen it, Master Caienthe. I've seen. When I left here yesterday, I passed a tapestry in the hall. Yes, it depicted part of 'The Legend of the Summoning.' But I saw more than the legend—I saw more than what was really there."

The master scribe seemed to become still, the way the waters of the cove could suddenly turn to glass at sunset. "Go on."

"I could see everything. The crews on the warships. I could see their pale skins and eyes. They were P'okukii." Agnon took a deep breath. "More. I could see the faces of the dir-priests who were conducting the Summoning, as clearly as I see yours now. And I heard their names. Rathe, Agnon. And Skalda. Dir Skalda—" He shuddered. "Master Caienthe, she turned and looked at me. She—spoke."

Caienthe's bushy eyebrows disappeared into his hair. "Blessed Depths," he whispered. Louder: "What did she say?"

"'What sleeps in the shallows belongs to Her Depths.'" Only words. Yet Agnon felt a cold wash of air, as though the Ocean Herself breathed winter down his neck. "You have to believe me."

His master reached out and steadied Agnon's hands around his cup. "Take a drink, lad. Yes," this as Agnon gave him a desperate look, "I believe you. Dir Segnon, advisor to Council, is my sister. I grew up with visions—though none like yours."

"Visions?" Agnon echoed numbly. "I don't have a gift for magic, Master Caienthe. You know that." He'd been tested at birth, as was everyone. Today's magic might be controlled and contained, but it still required those of inborn talent to utter the carefully composed spells and make them real. Apprentices, called sedir, spent their youth on ships, filling sails with wind and calming storm waves. As masters, they became dir-priests, responsible for the larger and lasting magics. Such lit the innermost reaches of Circle Cove, cured the ill, helped flowers grow. Such went to battle, when necessary, using spells of devastating effect.

None had visions, whispered something deep inside Agnon. Not any more. Those belonged to that dangerous, unpredictable power of the past. Forbidden until forgotten. Lost. "I thought the Old Magic was gone," he protested.

Caienthe glanced around once, as if to be sure they were out of earshot of the others in the hall. "No," he said, his gaze back and steady on Agnon. "Never gone. It remains in the world, a temptation only to those willing to pay any price for power." He reached inside his robe and pulled out a roll of parchment. The brown, brittle edges marked it as older than any here. It was tied with what appeared to be strands of brown hair. The scribe held it between his hands with reverent care, but didn't open it. "This is also 'The Legend of the Summoning.' An older, less comforting version. They say it was been copied through the generations from the account of the very captain who took his ship and passengers over Blood Reef."

The Ocean sighed over Agnon's neck, again sending chills down his spine. Blood Reef. The home of the Quiet God. The young man strained to comprehend what Caienthe was saying, knowing it was important, if not why.

"It tells how the Great Spell used to arouse the Quiet God wasn't from the safe, tame knowledge of the dir-priesthood. It was Old Magic, the kind no inner gift controls, the kind that answers only to blood. Six young princes and princesses gave theirs to Summon Her Quiet God from Her Depths, then three dir-priests gave their lives to join with the God and send him at our foe. The rest—" The master scribe shrugged. "—the rest is as you've copied so often. The destruction of the invader's ships, the final rest of the Quiet God here, beneath the waves of Circle Cove."

He'd swum in the cove with friends all his life, never thinking what might lie below. "Is this—truth or legend? What do you believe, Master?"

Master Caienthe shrugged. "I confess I'm not a religious man, Agnon. It makes sense to me that our people, who depend on the ocean, long ago chose to populate Her unknowable Depths with gods. A comfort to sailors, to believe the Depths themselves care for us—that heaven lies below." He drank deeply then wiped red drops from his beard. "Did you know the P'okukii, who depend on growing things in soil, worship the sun instead, and place their gods in the sky? Still." Caienthe gazed out the window at the sparkling cove, where the last of the fleet could be seen leaving the harbor. "I'm no priest to have studied the mysteries of Her Depths, to have bespelled my eyes to see for myself what lies below and beyond. But even I believe something sleeps there."

The scribe laid the small roll on the table between them. "And there is a drop of truth in all tales, Agnon. This, more than most. The captain's name, Bocknek, is recorded elsewhere as a fisher from the Leewards. He existed. The rest? The Old Magic still rumbles below our feet. And," he smiled "there is your name, Agnon. Common as cormorants, isn't it? So is Rathe. And Skalda. The names of destiny and good fortune. You understand why, now, don't you."

Agnon nodded. "They were the dir-priests."

A tremor rattled their cups on the table. At a far corner of the hall, an inkpot slipped to the floor with a crash. They both jumped, then looked at one another.

"Legend gains a voice and the Cove herself trembles," Master Caienthe said soberly. "I may not be a soothsayer, Agnon, but . . . I believe you were right to tell me of your vision. I must go to my sister. Warn her that the P'okukii may have longer and darker memories than we do." He put down his cup and stood. Agnon hurried to do the same. "Meanwhile, I ask you to keep silent and come to me if anything else happens." The scribe's long supple fingers, ink-stained but strong, rested tip-down on the table for an instant, then one finger gently pushed the roll of antique parchment towards Agnon. "I think you should read this for yourself."

* * *

Petals sank and spun their way through the columns of light, streams of color tasting of soil. So many, they clouded the sky. So many, they became a shadow through which other, darker things drifted down, limbs given grace by the sea, innocence shed.

The remnants of the great flock converged slowly, timid at first. Then they feasted. We had seen this before. As before, blood did not diffuse, but fell to our mouth, coating our sides, staining the world with rage.

If we dreamed, now was the moment we awoke.

* * *

Awake, Agnon grabbed the sides of his bed, holding on as if another tremor was tilting the world. But all was still, hushed with sleep.

Dream or vision? It had been so clear—that sense of being underwater, of seeing the sacrifices raining down on his face through the water. Of being . . . something other than himself.

His hand drove beneath his pillow to retrieve the parchment from Master Caienthe. He had read the chilling account, knew of the true sacrifice: the lives of children as well as priests. He sagged with relief. It must have caused the dream.

Then, suddenly, Agnon realized his face was wet. He touched his cheeks with trembling fingers. They came away wet and cold. He brought his hand into the light that played over his blankets. Flower petals clung to his fingertips.

And blood.

But it wasn't his.

* * *

The corridors of Circle Cove had two kinds of floors, those smoothed and cleared of any dust by the ceaseless motion of feet and wheels, and those coated in the fine black powder of undisturbed time.

The approach to the Inner Sanctum of Dir-Priest Segnon was polished to gleaming. Master Scribe Caienthe's sister was a busy woman; the demand of her office, Advisor to Council, claiming what time she had to spare from her studies. This late at night, the light was dimmed to be gentle on tired eyes, but Agnon had no problem following the directions Caienthe had given him.

He'd staggered from his bedroom to his father's chambers, his face dripping with seawater and blood, body coated in the petals of rare orchids and daisies. For once, Master Rathe had been mute, helping dry his son, holding him until he stopped trembling. Then, they'd both gone to wake the master scribe.

Who had sent Agnon here, alone.

Agnon raised his hand to ring the silver bell, but the heavy curtains that formed the door moved aside before he touched it. "Come in, lad," said a voice from the shadows within.

Even as he obeyed and the curtain closed behind him, lights snapped into being from all sides, so bright he might have stood outside on a beach at noon, when the wise protected their heads beneath hats of woven kelp. Agnon squinted, eyes watering.

"A moment . . ." followed by a whispered incantation. The lighting assumed a more normal glow.

Agnon found himself in an unexpectedly ordinary room, sparsely furnished with chairs and tables and shelves no finer than those of his home. He bowed politely to the small woman standing before him. "Dir Segnon?"

"Yes, yes. And you're the young man eavesdropping on the future." At his shocked look, she stroked her hands through the air as if collecting motes of dust. "The gift in a family tends to connect siblings. What you told my dear brother tonight so alarmed him, it woke me from a sound sleep to find the cause." She smiled gently; Agnon recognized Caienthe's kindness in her face.

"I don't know what happened," he admitted.

"Nor do I. That is why you are here. Sit, please."

Agnon obeyed, his hands limp in his lap.

Segnon was no taller than he. Though the years and costs of her calling had lined her face, her eyes were young and fiercely bright. Now, she hugged the folds of her plain white robe closer to her sparse frame as she sat and studied him, her head tilting to one side so her long grey hair tumbled over that shoulder. "Ah," she said at last.

Ah? Agnon fidgeted in the chair. "Ah?" he repeated, when nothing else seemed forthcoming.

"You're the son of the armorer, Master Rathe, aren't you? I'd know his hair and eyes anywhere. Fine man. A little loud, but what can you expect from someone who thumped iron half his life?"

Before Agnon could say anything, Segnon straightened, her look turning serious. "Now. Tell me everything you've done and witnessed in the last two days. All of it—no matter how inconsequential."

Dawn was coming. Agnon suddenly knew it, as if he looked up through water and watched the stars dim in the sky. "There's no time—"

She clasped her hands together. "Then speak quickly."

Agnon thought it would be hard, but the dir-priest listened with such intensity words seemed to pour from him. The tapestry, being awakened by his father's preparations for war, the ancient parchment beneath his pillow and his dream—

She reached out and he put the roll into her hand. She lifted one eyebrow, as if surprised by something: "Thought I'd locked that away. Continue."

"I dreamed I lay at the bottom of Her Depths, that somehow flowers and—and— Agnon swallowed hard, but made himself continue "—children were drifting down on me. Innocent and beautiful. Then, there was blood. So much blood. It filled my mouth. It woke me." He shivered despite the dry clothes, steadying his voice with an effort. "I found myself sitting up in bed, covered in seawater, petals, and . . ."

"Blood."

"Yes."

"Ah. A true vision," she half-whispered, her eyes dark with emotion. "Such has not occurred within these walls since—well, since my long-ago predecessors drew magic away from the land and sea, to pour into the people so its cost would be borne only by the user, not others. With one exception," she lifted the roll and frowned, "we've avoided Old Magic from that time."

"I didn't mean to—"

A smile. "It isn't a matter of fault, but of meaning. Such visions have purpose."

"Do you understand it, Dir Segnon?" Agnon asked eagerly.

As if her thoughts made her too uneasy to sit still, Segnon stood and began pacing back and forth, her sandals making a soft shushing sound, as if they disapproved. On her third pass, she stopped in front of him and uttered a phrase in a musical language Agnon had never heard before, then seemed to await some reaction from him.

A Spell? Agnon didn't feel any different. He opened his mouth to say so, only to have a voice flow out that wasn't his: "WHAT SLEEPS IN THE SHALLOWS BELONGS TO HER DEPTHS. SET US FREE."

Segnon didn't look surprised. "Name yourself."

Agnon gripped the arms of his chair, helpless as his lips writhed around more words, overlapping and confused: "I WAS SKALDA. MYSELF. ONE. THREE TO SUMMON. THREE TO AIM. ONE GONE. TWO GONE. WE ALONE REMAIN. WE ARE ONE. WE MUST BE TWO. I . . . I . . . I!!!!" The young man found himself screaming, as if no volume could be enough to encompass that terrible need to be heard.

By what?

* * *

"How's your throat?"

"Better." Agnon didn't thank the dir-priest for her healing spell. It had been her magic that called whatever had tried to rip through him in the first place. "Who was that—them?"

"You know as well as I." Segnon busied herself with cups and tea, as much to keep him from seeing her shaking hands, Agnon thought, as to provide them both with a drink.

It wasn't every day, or everyone, who heard the voice of their god.

"No. It isn't possible."

The floor shook, once, hard and impatient.

Segnon lifted one eyebrow. "You were saying?" She handed him a steaming cup. Agnon sniffed it suspiciously. "Drink up. I'll be right back."

She disappeared through a door at the back of the room, pulling its curtain closed behind her. Agnon made himself taste the brew. It was the same as his mother would give him for colds. His eyes stung with tears and he wiped them away furiously. This was no time to play the child, to dwell on befores and what ifs.

If he understood anything of what was happening, Circle Cove, all his people, were in terrible danger.

Agnon's fears were like waves at the rising tide, slipping higher and higher over the black sand until there seemed no room left to safely stand. The P'okukii soothsayers. What had they really seen? Grim past or future? If the future, had they seen the Quiet God aroused to defend Circle Cove again? Wouldn't that be a reason for an otherwise peaceful people to build a fleet of war, to act first to save themselves?

He could see the tapestry in his mind's eye.

Had that been the reason once before?

"Here it is." Dir Segnon's voice rang with triumph as she rushed back into the room, brandishing what appeared to be a roll of parchment identical to the one from Master Caienthe, only older, if that were possible. Three others, two men and a woman clad in similar robes, followed her at a more dignified pace.

"You're going to use the Great Spell again," Agnon accused, leaping to his feet. "You, the Council. You'll Summon the Quiet God to destroy the P'okukii. You can't. You'll only repeat the mistakes of the past!"

The three newcomers frowned in unison. Agnon lowered his head immediately, aghast at himself. A scribe's youngest apprentice, speaking out to challenge the most powerful member of Circle Cove's leadership?

But when Dir Segnon said only: "You are right, " Agnon dared look up again. She didn't smile, but her eyes were warm on his. "Through you, Dir Skalda herself has been warning us. We must return the Quiet God to Her Depths. And it must be done so the P'okukii will see it, and know they are safe. This—she held up the roll, "will be our offering to toss on the water this night. The Spell of Departure."

From the somber looks the other three dir-priests gave Segnon, they hadn't been frowning at him at all, they'd already known her decision. Three to Summon, Three to Aim. Three to Dismiss.

"No," he said to them. Agnon felt the touch of the Ocean again, but this time it was soft and warm, the way the surface of the cove felt when you swam in summer. "It can't be you," he said, sure he was right. "This is Old Magic. There must be a sacrifice—"

"We know, lad," said one of the men, his look and voice gentle. "At least the Spell of Departing asks for only three. Us."

"No," Agnon repeated, the terrifying knowledge welling up. "It can't be you. The new legend, the one we toss in offering today. It's real, too. The sacrifice must be of magic, innocence, and hope. Her, for magic," his finger pointed at Dir Segnon. He stopped and licked his lips, tasting salt.

It didn't matter that he was a scribe's apprentice, too young to live in the men's hall. The visions had come to him. This was, Agnon realized, his choice to make. He could tell them to find a child, perhaps a noble one as before, then watch that child drown. He could say nothing, then watch these wise priests fail. In either case, the P'okukii would attack the Cove and their fleet would fight back. There would be war.

Or he could accept what was being offered him—a chance for peace.

Agnon's hand flattened against his own chest; he could feel his heart pounding wildly. "Me," he managed to breathe out.

"For innocence," Dir Segnon said quietly. All of the dir-priests bowed low. "And who is the third, young Agnon? Who is hope?"

"She has been waiting for us," he heard himself say, "since legends were true."

* * *

"Agnon." He heard the grief in the word and didn't know what to say. His father settled the folds of the white cloak, then his hands encompassed Agnon's shoulders. A squeeze, then their weight was gone.

"I copied this for you." Master Caienthe held out a roll of new parchment, wrapped in gold thread and orchids. His voice was faint and rough, as if overused in argument. Dir Segnon's eyes hadn't left her brother since they'd arrived on the beach, but he looked only at Agnon.

Whatever Dir Segnon and her priests had said or done to convince the Council, or if the rising severity of the tremors had been the Quiet God's own plea, the result had been this. The four of them were alone. Had he looked behind, Agnon knew he would see where their footsteps had marred the black sand, scuffed through fine whorls of drying foam. Looking ahead, he saw the waters of the cove, stilled by the end of day, yet ablaze with candles. Walkways and decks were filled with people tossing in their offerings. Their voices were like the distant piping of shorebirds, happy and unknowing.

"Here they come."

Agnon looked to the entrance of the cove. Sure enough, it was filled with the tilting masts of ships, their sails of unfamiliar design. The P'okukii, being granted first approach. The people began to cheer. Baskets of flower petals were tipped from upper terraces, raining color. Tasting of soil.

"NOW," Agnon heard himself say in Skalda's voice.

Dir Segnon took his hand. They walked into the sea together.

* * *

Petals sank and spun their way through the columns of light, a rain of color, tasting of soil. Pinpoints of fire floated above, daytime stars, only to be pushed aside by the dark moving hulls of ships, so many they clouded the sky.

So many. We tasted metal and fear, wood and anger. The pinpoints of fire spread in sudden flashes, as if the approaching night had become dawn instead, or as if a storm had broken from clear air. Then, drifting down, limbs given grace by the sea, came magic and innocence.

The remnants of the great flock converged slowly, swimming around those who came closer and closer. They refused to feed.

We had never seen this before.

Hands, warm and living, touched us. Eyes filled with wonder gazed into ours. Words poured from mouths, jewels of air seeking the surface alone.

THERE IS MORE THAN NOW AND HERE, said the voice within. THERE IS HOME. THERE IS PEACE.

* * *

Where am I? Agnon asked the darkness. He'd forgotten breath, lost light, abandoned time as his hands touched the black and yellow orb that was the Quiet God's centermost eye.

But curiosity remained.

The answer surged from beneath, pushing him higher and higher until he was blinded by light again, felt air surging into his lungs, grabbed for anything and found himself held instead.

"Be still, boy." He knew that voice. Agnon turned.

The woman treading water beside him smiled. She looked like anyone he'd pass in the corridors, the same dark hair and skin, older than some, younger than others. Then he looked deeper, and saw the rare beauty in the lines of bone, the will etched in flesh, the warm laughter brimming in her eyes. He knew that face. "Dir Skalda!" he gasped, caught between an honest terror and rising joy.

And a rising world. They clung to one another as the sea beside them swelled overhead, then burst into a hill, then a mountain, draining down its sides in a thousand waterfalls adorned with black sand, drowned candles, and flower petals, hapless fish caught on spikes and spires of coral.

The water calmed and an impossible head turned, its three eyes, each taller than a ship's mast, gazing not at them, nor at the people lining the terraces, nor at the ships cowering along shore, but to the opening to the sea.

"Agnon?" A hoarse whisper, close enough that Agnon wasn't surprised to see Dir Segnon stroking towards them.

"Here! We're here!"

In the distance, the Quiet God answered a call as old as time itself, freedom. With a heave that carved the cliffs on both sides, it shoved its way through to the open ocean, ignoring the ships scattering from its path. With a last mighty whoopmf of air, it disappeared into Her Depths.

In the sudden calm, Dir Segnon's astonished "We?" skipped along the surface like a pebble tossed by a child.

"We," said Agnon happily. He rolled on his back, floating beside a legend come true.

Immense plumes of every colour suddenly shot upward from the decks of the P'okukii ships, as though, like the islanders, they honored their heaven with flowers. Answering cheers ran out with each new explosion, until the cove rang like thousand bells.

And the legend laughed.

* * *

Shafts of sunlight disappeared, reappeared; they filled at times with motes of life, golden suspended dust, then at others reflected silver as the great flocks swam through their columns, dancing with the light.

I was content thus, to gaze upward through the lens of my eye into the living magic of my world, my place, and see only that which belonged here. I felt the surge of waves over the crust of my side, reading there the approach of storms, the tug of moon and sun—events distant yet intimate. I slept, as some life reckoned this state of consciousness. It was as true a description as any; since I needed nothing and need do nothing.

If this is sleep, I sometimes wondered, struck by some particular beauty above me or caught by starlight through a rare clarity of ocean, perhaps I dream the world.

* * *

Julie Czerneda is the author of many novels and short stories.

Benny Comes Home

Written by Esther Friesner
Illustrated by Apis Teicher

"Crazy, that's what she is," Gertrude Rosenfeld (née Gratz) told everyone on the IRT local. She couldn't help it: Like all the Gratz women, she was possessed of an internal amplification system that was the bane of librarians, movie theatre ushers, and sermonizing rabbis everywhere. "My poor sister, she's gone out of her mind. It has to be. There's no other reason for her to be doing something like this. I don't know where to hide my head from shame."

"Why, Ma?" Crammed onto the wickerwork seat between his mother's ample, apple blossom-scented flesh and his father's slumped bulk, little Oscar Rosenfeld looked up eagerly from his Detective comic book. He had just turned eleven, old enough to realize that the adventures of the Batman were pretty good entertainment for a dime, but this was better. "What's to be ashamed of?"

Heaven knew he wasn't ashamed by the prospect of having a madwoman for an aunt. On the contrary, he found the possibility rather stimulating. If Tanteh Rifka was crazy, maybe this Cousins' Club meeting wasn't going to be so boring after all. The Joker was crazy, and he was a criminal mastermind. To Oscar's way of thinking, Tanteh Rifka already resembled the Joker insofar as her over-generous application of red lipstick and pallid pancake makeup, to say nothing of her rather gaudy taste in clothes. All she needed was to dye her hair emerald green to complete the picture and then could fabulous jewel theft be too far behind?

"'What's to be ashamed of?'" his mother echoed. "'What's to be ashamed of' he asks? Is this what they teach them in the schools these days, that it's nothing to be ashamed of, having a crazy person in the family?"

"Sha, Gertie, sha." Gertrude's husband Abe spoke with the flat, weary air of a man who knows he has already lost the battle, the war, and the writing of the history books afterwards. "He's only a boy, he doesn't know what he's talking about. Let it go."

The Statue of Liberty would turn butterfingers and drop her torch before Gertrude Rosenfeld would let go of an argument. "This is how you talk to your wife among people?" she demanded. "This is how you teach the boy he should respect his mother? By undermining my authority? Oh, it's easy for you; you don't have a sister who's gone crazy!" Her voice broke and cataracts of tears drenched her cheeks. Mrs. Rosenfeld's command of strategic waterworks was deadly.

"Gertie, Gertie, don't." There was a note of genuine panic in Abe's voice. Twenty years of marriage had taught him that his blushing bride had absolutely no qualms about making scenes in public. Scenes? Whole dramas. Grand operas, yet! He still woke up in a cold sweat from dreams of her famous production, You Want I Should Do WHAT in the Bedroom, You Pervert?! which had debuted on their honeymoon, in the lobby of Kutscher's resort, to Standing Room Only and thunderous critical acclaim.

Abe crammed his huge white handkerchief into Gertie's hands. "Shhh, shhh, stop crying, forget I said anything. And you—!" He rounded on Oscar. "Who asked for your opinion, you little pisher? If your mama says there's something to be ashamed of, you be ashamed!"

"Abie, don't yell at the boy!" Gertrude exclaimed. Her eyes went from flood to flint in an instant. She gathered her son to her bosom, nearly smothering him in the process, and glared fleischig daggers at her husband. "Is it his fault that Rifka's crazy? Is it?" And answering her own question before her husband could get a word in edgewise (Why start a precedent?) she declared: "It is not! It's that no-good boy of hers, that Benny's fault, that's who. Like a bitterness in the mouth, he is, eating out his own mother's heart with anguish. Other boys, the war's over in Europe, they come home. But Benny? He stays! For over ten years, he stays. What, Europe's a bargain? Our people couldn't run away fast enough from such a bargain! No wonder Rifka's gone mishuggeh! May God take me from this earth if I ever have to know from such a thing!" On that note, she gave her own son a monitory squeeze and released him from her embrace.

Little Oscar fell back against his father, breathing hard, his face lightly dusted with talcum powder, his comic book a crumpled mess. He was both terrified and elated by his recent ordeal and what it foreshadowed. If Ma was this upset by Tanteh Rifka's supposed madness, the odds were favorable that the rest of the female Gratzes would be likewise all a-flutter. An otherwise tedious evening of family socializing might well be relieved by pyrotechnic outbursts of hoo-hah seldom seen anywhere outside of Greek tragedy.

Plus, there would be herring.

There was herring. There was always herring by the Gratz Cousins' Club. The three immortal immutables—the only sacred Trinity in which that extended clan believed—were Death, Taxes and Herring, with maybe a nice shtik prune danish, for after. The imminence of pickled fish enveloped the Rosenfelds like a supernatural presence almost from the minute they stepped off the train at Flatbush Avenue and walked the three blocks to the apartment building where the former Rifka Gratz—now Strauss—lived with her husband Max.

The Gratz family Cousins' Club met on the third Sunday of every other month because that was the way it had always been from the time that the Gratz brothers, Ludwig and Morris, had brought their families to the goldineh medina of America, back in the 1890s. The procedures and underlying organizational tsimmes governing the Cousins' Club were originally the brainchild of Chaia Gratz (née Siegel), Ludwig's first wife from back in the Old Country. It was she who decreed that the club should convene when it did. ("So we should have less chance of a meeting falling on the High Holydays, and so I shouldn't have to see that farbisenneh sister-in-law of mine more than six times a year, God willing.") It was likewise she who determined that the club should meet only in the afternoons, to give those family members who lived in the farther flung reaches of the New York City area sufficient time to get home at a decent hour. ("You never know what's out there in the dark," she'd say, rolling her eyes meaningly.)

Most important of all, it was she who laid out the plan for rotating the site of club meetings, every household within the family taking its proper turn hosting the event. Only established married couples counted as households. Singles, newlyweds, widows and widowers, and—God forbid!—those who had brought the shame of divorce onto the clan, were all excluded from the rotation.

Although she was not a Gratz by blood, Chaia held an unassailably solid claim to authority within the family: Having borne her Ludwig six little female Gratzes like six pearls, and having set down the rules for the Cousins' Club, she died while bringing forth a seventh child, a boy, thus acquiring that most indisputable prerogative to supremacy, martyrdom-via-male-producing-motherhood. This automatically made her the Gratz equivalent of a saint.

Thus it was that Chaia Gratz achieved her own kind of immortality, her familial decisions continuing to carry weight and to annoy people for better than thirty-five years after her death. It was a legacy more deeply carved into the spirits of her descendants and corollary kin than any of the letters chiseled into the old-fashioned brownstone marker on her grave.

So when (in the Year of Their Lord, 1958) Mrs. Becky "Rifka" Strauss declared that this time the Cousins' Club would meet on Sunday night, it was almost the same as if she'd announced that she would be serving a lovely lobster bisque to go with the ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

As he walked along the sidewalk en route to his recurring date with Destiny and danish, little Oscar contrived to fall back a few paces from his mother in order to tug at his father's sleeve and ask, "Papa? How come Evie doesn't have to come to this?"

Mr. Rosenfeld sighed. "Your sister will be there," he said, speaking as heavily as he walked. Twenty-three years of his wife's delectable, schmaltz-laden cooking had worked their magic, transforming a young man who once resembled Fred Astaire into a replica of Sidney Greenstreet, only not half so nimble. "She had something important to do tonight with her girlfriends—a nice party for the Dreyfus girl, Joanie, she's getting married soon, your sister should only be so lucky already!—but when Tanteh Rifka sprang this last-minute nighttime meeting mishegass on us, Evie had to go first by the girlfriends, then come here all by herself, and at this hour, so your poor mama should drop dead from worry, cholileh!"

While Abe went through several ritual gesticulations to avert Gertrude's imaginary death-by-maternal-anxiety, Oscar set to work parsing his father's words. The results were both disappointing and encouraging, a paradox unworkable anywhere else in the real world except du côté de chez Gratz.

Point the first: Oscar's sister Evie was coming to the Cousins' Club meeting fresh from a bridal shower for Joanie Dreyfus, a young woman who looked like a bundle of throw pillows drenched in vinegar. Everyone at the Cousins' Club meeting must know this beforehand, otherwise Evie's delayed arrival would be sniping-fodder. ("So, Gertie, your daughter's now too good to show up on time like the rest of us? What, Miss Big-shot Career Girl can't afford, maybe, a watch?")

Point the second: In the Gratz family culture, it mattered not how pretty, smart, well-educated, refined, creative, or successfully employed a girl was; if she wasn't married, she was nothing. Worse than nothing: A cipher, a nebbish, a humiliation, a living reproach to her parents and, more specifically, irrefutable proof of her own mother's bitter failure as a woman, a matriarch, and a nag. Evie could stand up at the Cousins' Club meeting and announce "I've just been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize!" only to hear, "And this gets you a husband how?"

Point the third: It was a given that every last female at the Cousins' Club was going to make at least one stinging remark to Evie about her ongoing state of unblessed singleness. This would aggravate Evie. (All the more so because if Evie dared find the gumption to make any sort of retort, it would inevitably be greeted by, "What's wrong with you, you snap at me like that? I only ask how come you're not married yet because I care. By you this is a sin, to care about your own niece/cousin/obscurely related single female family member? Hmph! With a temper like that, no wonder you still can't get a man!")

It was likewise a constant of the universe that every last female at the Cousins' Club would also manage to needle Gertrude about her daughter's lack of matrimonial success long before Evie showed up. This would get Gertrude worked up to such a degree that when Evie finally did arrive, she would be White Sands to her mother's fifty kiloton why-aren't-you-married-yet-you-want-to-kill-your-own-mother-from-shame A-bomb.

Oscar grinned. Some things were even better than herring!

To Gertie's unspoken relief and Oscar's disappointment, no one at the Cousins' Club meeting mentioned Evie or the bridal shower. Was it for this he had endured the inevitable gauntlet of cheek-pinching and kisses? (Oscar swore up and down that after some Cousins' Club meetings he could remove the layers of lipstick from his face with a trowel. The scraped-off goo displayed distinct cosmetological strata, enabling the careful scholar to figure out the order in which Oscar's aunts, great-aunts, cousins, and other female relations had assailed him.)

Aside from being transformed into a walking color-sampler for Helena Rubinstein, Hazel Bishop and Max Factor, Oscar's ears rang painfully with countless cries of "Oy! Look at him! Looksobighe'sgetting!" followed quickly by "K'n ein'horeh! P'too-p'too-p'too!" Who had been the first genius to determine that spitting all over a kid would ward off the Evil Eye? Dripping pints of familial saliva, Oscar bellied up to the buffet and was somewhat placated to see that there was not only herring, but also plates of smoked whitefish, sable, and even—O rapture! O luxury!—lox.

The buffet table chatter centered on repeated declarations that all the platters looked so gorgeous that it would be a pity to touch anything. The Visigoths probably said much the same thing about Rome just before they laid the city waste. Alaric and his hordes had nothing on the Gratz family when confronted by the Seven Hills of Smoked Salmon.

Oscar filled up a plate, then cast about for someplace to sit. This was a toughie. Even the sci-fi comic books he adored could not account for the unearthly, mystifying powers of the Gratzes: Bend the concepts space and time how he might, Oscar simply could not explain how all of his relatives managed to occupy every sofa, armchair, ottoman, rocker, stool, and folding chair in the apartment while at the same time never leaving the buffet.

"Oscar, sweetie, here! Come sit by Tanteh Lillian!" A scarlet-clawed hand waved furiously from the far end of the living room as blinding beams of light reflected off a pair of turquoise-colored, rhinestone-studded, harlequin eyeglasses. Oscar swallowed hard and wondered if he had time to escape into one of the bedrooms before—

Too late. His mother had overheard. "Oscar, don't stand there like a goyisher kop. You don't hear Tanteh Lillian calling you? You want the whole family should think both my children got no manners? Go! Go!" She backed up her words with an encouraging shove between the shoulder blades, a shove so hard that Oscar was surprised not to see her hand protruding from the center of his chest, helping itself to a nice piece lox off his platter.

By the time he made his way across the room, Tanteh Lillian had forgotten all about summoning him to her side. She was deep in deliciously scandalized conversation with her sisters, Gloria and Greta (The girls in that movie-mad branch of the family got off much easier than their brothers, Boris, Lon, Valentino and Chico). Feeling his mother's eagle eye still heavy upon him, Oscar wriggled himself onto the sofa between two of the ladies and tried to eat in peace.

It was not to be. The conversation going on above his head proved to be far more fascinating than any succulent sliver of dead fish, even unto a slice of Leviathan itself: They were talking about Benny.

"—the reason why Rifka changed the meeting time! The only reason."

"Sure, that's what I heard, but why—?"

"Why else? Because she's ashamed. Because she doesn't want any of us to see by the light of day what that ungrateful momzer is doing to his own mother! Because maybe this way she hoped a lot of us wouldn't be able to come by, so she wouldn't have so many witnesses to her disgrace, itshouldn'thappentoadog."

"Momzer? Rifka's boy, he served in the war! He was made a captain, yet!" There followed a gloriously elaborate spate of Yiddish maledictions where the only words Oscar could recognize were Hitler, Nazis, mad dog and burn in Hell.

"Captain, shmaptain." Tanteh Gloria waved away Cousin Benny's commission and multiple Purple Hearts with one sweep of her cocktail-ringed hand. "He's how old and still not married? What, I've got to draw you a picture?"

"Shh! Shh! You want Rifka should maybe hear you and burst a blood vessel?" In the way of the women of her tribe, Tanteh Greta sincerely believed that the best way to stifle Gloria was by shushing her loudly. Luckily for the integrity of Rifka's blood vessels, in a room already throbbing with so many other female Gratzes exercising their concept of "indoor voices," Gloria's remark and Greta's cover-up attempt went largely unnoticed.

Oscar, however, did notice. "What kinda picture, Tanteh Gloria?" he asked. "I mean, I thought it was only bad if girls didn't get married."

The three sisters exchanged a look that spoke volumes, all of them written in the key of Oy. Before they could come up with an answer or—more likely—shove Oscar back in his mother's direction, the unthinkable happened: A hush fell over the Gratz Cousins' Club.

Benny had arrived.

Benny had not arrived alone.

Looking back, Oscar couldn't put his finger on the exact moment that the whispers began. They were simply there, like the brown horsehair sofa under his rump, like the smell of Uncle Max's cigars, like the mustard-and-spinach-patterned wallpaper. They were real whispers, too, not Gratz whispers: whispers fit for a Connecticut country club, whispers proper to an Episcopalian funeral, whispers where you could not hear every word clearly from a distance of ten feet away. It was all very frustrating for Oscar, to say nothing of confusing. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why his extended family was acting so weird.

Cousins' Club Standard Operating Procedure required that when someone showed up accompanied by a non-family member, the sluice gates opened and the women streamed forward, shrieking and clucking and demanding "So, who's this? When are you two getting married?" No one saw anything pushy or impolitic about the latter question. If you brought someone to Cousins' Club, you wanted to marry them. That, or you wanted to end the affair, and exposing them to the full force of the Gratz women was the coward's way to do it. Either way, it was like the scene in The Jungle Book where Mowgli and the new cubs were displayed for the inspection of the wolf pack, only without old Akeela there to declare "Look well, O Gratzes!"

This time no one moved, no one swept down upon Benny and his escort, no one clamored to know the identity of that charming person in his company nor when the wedding day would be.

How could they? Benny had arrived with another man.

There was something vaguely perturbing about the gentleman in question. Though his pale face, dark eyes and pitch-black hair were commonplace to the Eastern European branches of the Gratz clan, he carried these as no Gratz had ever done, with a disquieting air of the exotic, the forbidden, the . . .goyish. He stood only a little taller than Benny—who at six-foot-one was no slouch in that department, unless he did slouch—yet where Benny was robust and well-muscled, this guy was so thin that he seemed to tower over Tanteh Rifka's son. He wore his suit like a panther's pelt. Benny was no slob, but next to his companion he looked positively scruffy.

And next to his companion he stayed: Stayed, stood, walked, sat down, you name it. They stuck so close to one another that they might as well have been joined at the hip. It was like watching a sister act.

Oscar didn't get it. Sure, if someone showed up at Cousins' Club accompanied by a person of the same sex, no one could fire off the Marriage Cathechism ("So, when—?" "So, where—?" "So, a ring—?" "So small?") but in those cases the relatives would still surge in to make the newcomer welcome and add him or her to the official family fix-up list ("So, you're Benny's friend? Such a good-looking man like you, and not married? Come, you should meet my daughter.") That wasn't happening either.

In all the seething mass of Gratzes, only Oscar stared. To be fair, the boy had a built-in excuse for such impolite behavior: It was the first time he had ever seen his cousin Benny in the flesh. The man had left to serve his country when Oscar was still an infant in arms. Yet to be honest as well as fair, even if Benny had been more familiar to Oscar than a face from a photograph lovingly displayed on Tanteh Rifka's sideboard, his entrance, appearance, escort, and the reactions that these had elicited among the gathered Gratzes still would have made gawking inevitable.

The rest of Oscar's relatives were being incredibly assiduous about not staring, not even casting a casual glance in Benny's direction. If concerted inattention could render a person invisible, Benny would have become a phantom on the spot. Oscar was utterly at sea. Why the silence, then the real whispers, then—hideously unnatural act for any Gratz!—why the deliberate minding of their own business?

Only Tanteh Rifka seemed untouched by the plague of intentional indifference. She alone rushed up to Benny and his friend, threw her arms around her son and embraced him fiercely. "And this must be Kazimir," she said. Her lips curved up in a grimace so taut, so false, so petrified, so downright horrific that green hair or no green hair, in Oscar's eyes Tanteh Rifka had clinched her claim to Jokerhood.

If Benny's friend noticed that the warmth of Rifka's welcome was forced, he gave no sign. Bowing, he raised one of her plump hands to his lips, kissed it, then met her eyes. "My pleasure," he said. His smile was cold and brilliant as a winter's midnight sky.

Oscar heard that low, powerful voice, recognized the foreign accent weighing down every word. He snapped to attention where he sat, idle curiosity sharply changed to intense focus, like a fox terrier suddenly catching wind of a rabbit. The man's pallor mirrored Benny's own, except the lips that had just touched Tanteh Rifka's hand were so red they might have been rouged. His gaze was cold, hypnotic. When Tanteh Rifka urged the two men towards the buffet, Benny ate without relish, like an automaton, but despite a display of succulent foods fit to tempt the prissiest palate, his companion Kazimir did not eat at all. In fact, he showed a positive aversion to the acutely fragrant end of the table that proffered platters of salami, pastrami, tongue, and the garlicky delights of carnatzlach sausage and p'tcha. (He stood in good company as to that lattermost dish: To young Oscar's eyes p'tcha—a redolent, translucent, unnerving concoction of calf's foot jelly—looked like something that a Martian would sneeze.) And he did not drink . . . Manischewitz. Or Dr. Brown's cream soda. Or even a nice glass of tea.

All at once, in a revelation worthy of thunderbolts and Wagnerian crescendos, Oscar knew!

As to what he knew, before he could put down the lox and blurt any word of his epiphany, a thick, stubby finger jammed him in the ribs so hard that it knocked half the breath from his body.

"What, boychik, you never seen a faigeleh before?"

The question as to whether this were the first time Oscar had seen a man's man (in the Oscar Wilde rather than Ernest Hemingway sense of the term) was rendered almost unintelligible by the low, raspy, carton-of-Camels-a-day voice that uttered it. There could be only one source: Bubbeh Gratz.

To speak the name of Bubbeh Gratz was to invoke the ageless power of pure, primal, run-screaming-wet-your-pants terror. She was Bubbeh, not bubbeh: The absolute magnitude of her authority and dominion within the family was more than lower-case letters could bear. She was also Bubbeh only by courtesy, for she was no one's grandmother nor, indeed, mother. Born Louisa Claire (a.k.a. Leah Chaviva) Gratz, she had stayed Louisa Claire Gratz despite the best efforts of the family to drag her down with them into the depths of marital bliss. She had not just proved to be unmarriageable, she had actively fought to stay single with the same zeal she'd brought to all her other battles, whether for workers' unions, women's votes, Colored People's rights, or the re-establishment of a Jewish homeland.

Squat as a trodden toad, with steel-gray hair, steel-gray eyes, steel-rimmed pince-nez spectacles, and a body as white and blobby as a ladleful of mashed potatoes, Bubbeh Gratz was the oldest living member of the family. She wore contention for her crown and wielded spleen for her scepter. It was foretold by one unnamed member of the Gratz tribe whose hand had strayed to the forbidden art of tea-leaf reading that on the day Bubbeh Gratz found anything she did approve of in this world, she would depart for the next. Thus she was assured of unnatural immortality.

Again the short, fat finger rammed the boy's ribcage. "You don't talk back, someone talks to you?" Another jab. Oscar could have sworn he heard his young bones give up a faint, pitiful crack, but pain was immediately engulfed by panic when he noted that he and Bubbeh were the only two people left on the sofa. The assorted aunts had turned terror into transmigration, vanishing from the living room to rematerialize in the safety of the kitchen doorway where they huddled like hens in a thunderstorm. He sat alone, noshing herring with the dragon.

"I—I'm sorry, Bubbeh." Oscar borrowed courage from imagining that he was a hero like the Batman or Tarzan or Flash Gordon, though the Joker, the Leopard Men, and Ming the Merciless all rolled into one were still strictly bush-league next to Bubbeh. "I don't know what that means, faigeleh."

"No?" She tilted her head back, looked down her nose at him and then, without wasting words or one instant's worry about whether the boy's parents wanted him to have the information, she told him. She spoke of the matter casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She didn't even pause in her ongoing task of wrapping up the bounty of her buffet plate in sheet upon sheet of waxed paper and stuffing her cavernous pocketbook with packet after packet of cold cuts and smoked fish. (Whoever hosted the Cousins' Club knew that all the womenfolk came prepared to use purses and coat pockets to cache as many alleged leftovers as they could "Fahlaydah, it shouldn't go to waste." Their hosts budgeted and bought food accordingly.)

Oscar's lower jaw dropped like the parachute ride at Coney Island. "Two guys?" His voice cracked as badly as his rib. "Together? Doing that?" He watched, appalled and fascinated, as Kazimir leaned close to Cousin Benny and whispered something in his ear. Benny nodded dumbly and followed his "friend" down the hall. What might have been a simple request to be shown the toilet became something far more freighted with forbidden meaning as Oscar realized that this was the same hall that led to the bedrooms.

"With each other? Benny and that guy are—?" He shook his head. "You're wrong."

"What, you don't believe me?" Bubbeh dropped yet another parcel of salami into her purse. "Just because it's not something they write about in that science fiction drek you read?"

Now drek—a.k.a. manure, either literal or figurative—was one Yiddish word Oscar knew, though customarily applied by his father to the doings of Senator Joseph McCarthy. This was the first time Oscar had heard it used to describe his favorite reading matter. "It's not drek! It's—it's real good! Educational! It's all about ideas and stuff!"

"Nu, what isn't?" Bubbeh Gratz chuckled. "Educational is what you tell your parents, they shouldn't stop you from reading it. 'Educational . . .' Life is educational, boychik. What you read by science fiction, it's all spaceships, bug-eyed monsters, ray-guns, alien princesses with a pair tsatskehs on them, the poor girls can't hardly stand up straight! It's got nothing to teach you about real life."

For an instant, Oscar had a scary thought: What if Bubbeh Gratz conveyed her dangerously anti-sci-fi attitude to his parents? As the oldest living Gratz, her words would carry more weight than her orthopedic shoes already did. If she that sci-fi was worthless, useless, drek, Ma and Dad might very well believe her and then—

No. No, never, k'n ein'horeh, p'too-p'too-p'too, the accursed outcome did not bear thinking on. Oscar's heart beat faster: Bad enough, what he'd just concluded about Benny and that Kazimir creep, but worse by far the realization that Bubbeh Gratz might cause him to lose the one thing that opened up doorways to the stars in a life that was otherwise circumscribed by school, shul and herring.

"Oh, yeah?" He shouted his defiance full in her face. Fear had made him bold. "Well, if sci-fi's not about real life, how come I'm the only one here who knows the difference between a faigeleh and a vampire?"

Alas for Oscar, he spoke out at the instant when every other conversation in the Strauss apartment hit a coincidental stop. The fateful words echoed through the sudden silence and promptly turned it into something greater than itself: The hush heard 'round the world, the acoustic equivalent of negative space and anti-matter.

The first sound to creep back into the room was a low, thin wail of anguish from Tanteh Rifka. This quickly blossomed into racking sobs. The women swarmed over her like ants on a caramel, jabbering wildly as they dragged her into the kitchen. The men, abandoned, turned their attention to Oscar. Even kindly, torpid Uncle Max was glaring at him.

It was at this moment that the doorbell rang. It rang loudly and repeatedly, each peal longer and more emphatic than the one before, until finally the doorknob turned and Oscar's sister Evie let herself in.

"Hi, everyone," she said. Her face, her entire body was tense; she was clearly bracing herself for the onslaught of questions about her friend Joanie's bridal shower, followed fast by "well-meaning" comments concerning her own ongoing failure to land a husband. There was really no way to calculate the sheer magnitude of the shockwave she experienced upon entering the Cousins' Club venue and finding her unmarried self most unnaturally ignored, even by her own parents.

"Evie!" Oscar broke away from the ring of scowling menfolk and flung himself on his sister with terrifying enthusiasm. "Boy, am I ever glad to see you!"

Evie pried herself free of her little brother's suspiciously eager embrace and held him at arm's length. "Okay, Oscar, what did you do now?"

Little did she know it was a loaded question until it went off in her face. The torrent of explanations from all sides swept her to the brink of insensibility before she fought her way back up the narrative stream, gasped, and managed to ask: "So since when is Cousin Benny a queer vampire?"

The sound of one hand clapping itself to a forehead in exasperation was repeated many times throughout the livingroom. It remained for Bubbeh Gratz to step in as the voice of clarification:

"I said Benny's a faigeleh, him and his friend. This little pisher said he's a vampire."

"I did not!" Oscar's protest flew free in the face of his father's ineffective attempts to shush the lad. "I said Benny's friend was the vampire. I mean, look at him! Look how pale he is, how he's all dressed in black, how he couldn't come here unless it was at night. You gotta watch him drink Benny's blood to prove I'm right or what?"

"I would not suggest waiting for that opportunity." Kazimir stood in the hallway leading from the bedrooms, Benny glued to his side as always. The foreigner's face contorted with distaste. "We heard what was said. I bid you . . . good evening."

He was gone so quickly it seemed as if he'd sprouted wings. Benny uttered a low moan, but when he tried to rush after his friend, Tanteh Rifka suddenly materialized from the kitchen and laid hold of her son with an unyielding grasp.

"Benny, zieskeit, let him go!" she cried. "Such a friend you don't need, believe me!"

"Ma, please," Benny protested. "You've gotta let me go; it'll kill me if you don't."

"Fine, go!" Benny's mother dropped her hold on his arm and clutched her chest. "Better you should tear my heart out and grind it into the dirt than you should listen to me. Who am I to ask you for anything? Only the woman who suffered the tortures of the damned to give birth to you. But go, go! I'm only thankful that with my health I won't be around to suffer your ingratitude much longer." She staggered towards the nearest sofa, alternating sobs with coughing fits and groans.

"Oh my God, I can't take this." Evie rolled her eyes. "I have just sat through that snotty Joanie Dreyfus unwrapping thirty-four identical sets of monogrammed guest towels with nothing to eat but dried-out cucumber sandwiches because Mrs. Dreyfus thinks that's refined, for Lord's sake, and I am not going to have my first chance at a decent meal ruined because Cousin Benny's queer friend had a hissy fit and stomped out. You wait right there with your Ma, Benny; I'll bring back your boyfriend." So saying, Evie was out the door.

Oscar took one look at the remaining family faces surrounding him. If life were a comic book, their eyes would be emitting tiny red lightning bolts, symbolizing the emanation of killer Guilt rays. "I'll help you, Evie!" he yelped, and bolted before anyone could stop him.

He hoped to catch up to his sister on the stairs or at least in the lobby of Tanteh Rifka's building, but it was not meant to be. Evie had a head start and hunger had given her speed. Oscar hit the sidewalk and cast around for some sight of her, to no avail. The Flatbush streets were well lighted with the yellow radiance of streetlamps, none of which revealed his sister's retreating form. On such a warm evening, kids were still out playing potsy, fathers settled world affairs over a pack of Lucky Strikes and a bottle of Coca-Cola, mothers swapped news, recipes, and beaming brags about their perfect children, while grandmothers enthroned on a row of folding chairs sat in awful judgment-without-appeal over the whole neighborhood, but that was all. There was no sign of Evie; there was no sign of Kazimir.

Oscar pondered his options: Go back upstairs and face the collective Wrath of Gratz—with the added likelihood that Bubbeh would seize this opportunity to blame the recent blowup on "that sci-fi drek the boychik reads"—or wander aimlessly around the streets until his absence became so terrifying that when he finally did return to the Strauss apartment, all would be forgiven out of sheer relief to have him back again.

It wasn't a hard choice to make. Oscar jammed his hands into the pockets of his good pants and sauntered off in a random direction, whistling the Davy Crockett theme song. If he knew his kinfolk—and he did, thanks to all those Cousins' Club meetings—being a Lost Child would trump his Troublemaker status into oblivion.

He was halfway to the corner when he heard a sound that set the short hairs on the nape of his neck on end, a plaintive, high-pitched moan that came from the back of a strange passageway between two large apartment buildings. Five concrete steps led down into a tunnel that served the function of an alley. The lone working light bulb cast a weak glow over a clutter of trashcans near the stairs, but left the far end shrouded in shadow.

The moan came again, louder, shuddering through the air. For Oscar, there was no mistaking the voice that had uttered it. He'd swear to its identity on a stack of Detective comics: "Evie? Evie, is that you? What are you doing down there?" No answer came out of the shades. For a moment he paused on the lip of the passageway, unsure of whether to descend into the gloom or run to Tanteh Rifka's apartment for help.

With alacrity worthy of UNIVAC, his young mind blitzed through all the possibilities that might be lurking just beyond the pathetic pool of light, all the consequences that might befall if he didn't do something and do it now. Swiftly he weighed his hopes of getting immediate backup from any of the strangers on the sidewalk. He knew how that would go:

"Who are you . . .? Rifka's nephew? Rifka Strauss, from 3-C?"

"No, Simon, the Strausses live by 5-C."

"I'm telling you, Shayna, it's 3-C, and may God strike me dead if I'm wrong."

"Fine, so I'll be a widow."

"Little boy, does your tanteh Rifka know you're out here like a wild thing, talking nonsense about someone making a big tumult down by where the super keeps the garbage?"

And over this imagined interchange there loomed another image, a gaunt specter of the night—white skin, red lips, arms spread wide like a bat's leathery wings. When those arms closed, they clasped to the monster's bosom that helpless victim of his hideous thirst, Evie. The fantasized Kazimir raised a bloody mouth from his unnatural feast and filled Oscar's head with dreadful, gloating laughter.

That did it. He took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and asked himself What would the Batman do? He knew the answer: Oscar Rosenfeld dove into the darkness.

"Evie! Evie, I'm coming!" As he sped past the row of garbage cans, he caught sight of a godsend: Huddled in the space between two of the cans was a busted-up old orange crate. Oscar paused just long enough to wrench free one of the broken wooden slats, then ran on, couching his improvised stake like a lance, ready to send the vampire to his doom.

"Oh my God, Oscar, what are you doing, running with that sharp thing? You want you should poke your eye out, God forbid?" Like a deus ex Future Jewish Mothers of America, Evie materialized out of the darkness and intercepted her little brother, yanking the slat from his hands and throwing it far away. Behind her, Kazimir observed the whole business with burning crimson eyes.

"Evie, no!" Oscar hollered, lunging for his do-it-yourself vampire-slayer. Again she thwarted him, pulling him back by the shoulders. He stared at her in horror. He'd read the stories: He understood why his own sister had betrayed him. A faint spill of light came from the rear end of the passageway, where lamp-lit single family homes shared backyard space with the big apartment buildings. The soft glow illuminated the young woman's face, her hair—

—her neck.

"He got you!" Oscar stared spellbound at the dark mark on his sister's dainty throat. "You're his slave for all eternity! Ma's gonna plotz!" He began to sniffle, then to sob for his lost sister, the vampire's newest plaything.

"Oscar, why're you crying, a big boy like you?" Evie asked.

"'Cause I'm too late, and he bit you, and now you're gonna become a vampire, and sleep in a coffin by day, and drink the blood of the living by night, and— and—" Abruptly, Oscar's sobs stopped. He took a long, shaky breath, then a closer look at his sister's neck.

"That's no vampire bite," he declared. With dynamism worthy of a young Perry Mason, he leveled an accusatory finger at her. "There's no puncture marks. That's— that's—" He cudgeled his brain for a word he'd learned from some older boys at school—accompanied by salacious winks and snickers—when they spoke of the mysterium tremendum that was Brooklyn Woman.

"—a hickey." The glaring beam from the flashlight in Cousin Benny's fist illuminated Evie's throat, then swept over to engulf Kazimir. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" he said coldly.

"No matter how much I wish you would, no." The vampire drew back his lips in a grimace that began life as a feral snarl but resolved itself into a sheepish grin. "I keep telling you, Benny: I like girls."

"So do I. We should talk," said a gravelly voice. Bubbeh Gratz shoved Benny aside and lumbered down the concrete steps into the passageway, bearing down upon Oscar, Evie and Kazimir like an othopedically-shod juggernaut. She did not stop until she stood nose-to-shirt-front with the vampire.

"It's a good thing I followed Benny when he handed his poor mama that tumel about going out for a pack cigarettes. For this you need to take a flashlight? Bah. Children. And you." She stabbed her pocketbook sharply into Kazimir's belly. "So the little pisher was right, after all?" She jerked her head at Oscar. "You're a vampire, like out of that sci-fi drek? With the blood-drinking and the coffin-sleeping and the whole undead mishegass?"

Kazimir nodded nervously. In all his years on either side of the grave, he had never encountered anything quite so daunting as Bubbeh Gratz.

That formidable woman now rounded on Evie. "And you," she declared, waving her purse at the trembling maiden. "You aren't gone maybe five minutes from the apartment and already you're making moofkie-foofkie in an alley with this piece of work? What are you, a cat? A bummerke? A Little Miss Round Heels?"

Evie grabbed Bubbeh Gratz's meaty hands. "Please don't tell Ma," she begged. "All I wanted was to talk to Kazimir somewhere away from all the neighborhood yentas, so they shouldn't know about him and Benny being . . . you know."

"Except as I told this lovely girl, Benny and I are not 'you know,'" Kazimir put in.

"Say it again, louder, I don't think they heard you in Far Rockaway," Benny said bitterly. "For this I got away from Ma, Kaz? For you to give me a slap in the face? Again? With my own cousin?"

Evie shushed them both. "I wanted he should come back upstairs, that's all. But then— I don't know what happened, or how it happened so fast or—" She paused, left flummoxed by her own emotions. "There's something about him that's so— so—"

"Sexy?" Bubbeh Gratz gave a lecherous chuckle and nudged the girl with one plump elbow. "Like I can't know that word? I'm through playing the game, but I can still keep score."

Benny descended the concrete steps to join the miniature family reunion in the alleyway. He placed one hand on Evie's shoulder and said, "I know what you mean about Kaz. Why do you think I spent ten years of my life trying to get him to change his mind about me? I hope you never have to know what it's like, Evie, when the love of your life won't even give you a chance to— OW!"

The zetz that Bubbeh Gratz landed on Benny's arm might not have shaken the pillars of heaven, but it probably shook the pillars of Teaneck, New Jersey. "What love? What life? You haven't been paying attention? He says he likes girls,

"So do you," Oscar spoke up. Bubbeh Gratz and the others looked at him as though he'd just proclaimed his vocation for the Catholic priesthood. Oscar responded with a defiant: "Well, that's what you said."

"Like you didn't know, already?" Bubbeh Gratz inquired. The silence that followed was eloquent. "You didn't?" Bubbeh's grizzled eyebrows rose. She looked from Oscar to Evie. "The boychik, okay, him I can see not knowing, but you?" Evie shook her head. "And you, the faigeleh, nothing?"

Benny shrugged helplessly. "No one in the family ever said anything about you liking— about how you never got married because— about you being a—" His voice trailed off.

"Oy." Bubbeh Gratz sighed. "This generation, kasha varnishkes for brains. You don't need to be told things about your family, you big yutz: You just know! Why do you think we have these Cousins' Club meetings? For our health? It's where we come so we can find out all the family things we need to know but no one wants to talk about."

"You mean like about how you're a girl faigeleh?" Oscar asked Bubbeh brightly.

Bubbeh Gratz smiled. "You're a smart boy. Here, have a sourball." She flicked open her purse and gave Oscar a piece of unwrapped hard candy so covered in pocket lint that it looked like a dandelion puff. It was either a reward or revenge.

The furry candy came out of the same purse into which Bubbeh Gratz had been stuffing salami and its pungent kindred all evening. The gust of garlic-laden air released from the purse's depths hit poor Kazimir like a mallet. He groaned, demonstrated that there was a stage of pallor that went beyond the dead-and-bloodless variety, and fainted.

"Oh my God, what do we do now?" Evie cried, kneeling beside the fallen vampire and cradling his head to her bosom.

"First, mamaleh, you stop holding him to your tsatskehs like you want he should take a drink," Bubbeh Gratz said. "Then, we should all go get one."

* * *

Oscar sat in a booth at the back of McNulty's bar making an outline of the Bat Signal out of maraschino cherry stems. The remains of four Shirley Temples stood ranged on the tabletop in front of him. They had all come with extra cherries as a bribe to Oscar's goodwill. It hadn't worked.

"They've got their nerve," he muttered, fiddling with the pattern of scarlet stems. "Turning me into a stupid baby-sitter." He spared a cold glance for his charge, the still-unconscious vampire. "Boy, I wish you could've seen some of the looks we got from the little old ladies in front of Tanteh Rifka's building when Benny walked by with you slung over his shoulder. I thought they were all gonna have a heart attack or something. Wait until they tell his Ma!" Oscar grinned in spite of his displeasure with having been shunted aside to play vampire-tender.

Kazimir was propped up in one corner of the booth, eyes closed, mouth open. He looked like just another drunk, which was exactly how Bubbeh Gratz had introduced him to her old friend, Mr. Cullen McNulty, the establishment's owner/barkeep.

"But a drunk with money," she clarified when that worthy man seemed reluctant to let their group enter his place of business. "You wait until he gets his second wind, and then such drinking you'll see—!"

"It's Sunday," McNulty said. "He's not supposed to be drinking on a Sunday."

"And you're not supposed to be serving on a Sunday, you old gonif," she countered. "But if someone knows you're here today, you pour. It's a public service for the local shikkers, those drunks should have somewhere safe to get a snootful. Now draw us three beers, give the boychik a nice glass of soda pop, and don't make every little thing into a big megillah!"

Before McNulty could voice any further doubts or demurrals, Benny flashed him a twenty and he saw reason. Now, lined up like birds on a telephone wire, Benny, Bubbeh, and Evie sat nursing a trio of beers at the bar while Oscar minded Kazimir in the booth. They were the only people in the place, it being too late for the after-church-drymouth crowd and too early for the real nightowls.

From time to time Oscar caught tantalizing scraps of the bar-side conversation concerning how Benny had first encountered and fallen hard for Kazimir. The amorous thunderbolt struck him in a café in Germany, in the war's aftermath, when the world was still just a little topsy-turvy and strange things had more of a chance to happen.

Oscar strained his ears, hoping to pick up some clue as to why the vampire had not turned Cousin Benny into a meal from the get-go. What was that Benny was saying, over at the bar? He'd taken Kaz up to his hotel room? Why would anyone need to go up to a hotel room just to keep talking? That was weird.

Weirder was yet to come: "—really did just want to talk . . . to listen, I mean . . . about the family. Funny, right?" Benny raised his Pilsner glass in a mock toast. "He was fascinated. All he wanted to do was listen to me tell him all about—"

—the family? Our family? Oscar shook his head. Some things were even more unbelievable than vampires.

And yet, there it was: The few sentence fragments Oscar overheard told how, in his infatuated state, Benny was willing to do anything to keep Kazimir in his company that night. And apparently Kazimir was willing to hold off on drinking Benny's blood if that meant he'd get to hear more about that herring-bearing freak show that was Clan Gratz.

Alas, the dawn was not willing to hold off, and so the vampire found himself thrown into peril of his afterlife, marooned in a cheap hotel room, far from the shelter of his coffin. Having no other recourse, he confessed his true nature to his smitten suitor and threw himself on Benny's mercy.

"—word of honor never to harm me," Benny was saying. "To stay by me and protect me forever, as I protected him that day. Forever . . . or until I told him he was free to go."

"Oh, Benny, how noble!" Evie sighed, casting a fond look back to the booth where Kaz still sat in a garlic coma.

"Oy, Benny, how narrish!" Bubbeh Gratz's sigh was anything but fond. "Other boys, they save coins, stamps, box tops. You save monsters?"

"He's not a monster!" Benny protested.

"By you he's not a monster, but trust me: Someone who doesn't want to shtup him thinks different."

"But I love him! Doesn't that count for something?"

"Unless he loves you back, it counts for bubkes," Bubbeh Gratz replied. "Listen, boychik, maybe by some men, hanging on like a leech finally gets them, but that's not love: That's them shtupping you so you'll stop with the nagging, already. You've got no class, they've got no backbone, a nice bargain! Ten years this one owes you his life and he hasn't let you touch him? Learn, already! You can't make gefilte fish from goulash. Get someone who loves you! But first, take my advice: Get married. Find a nice girl who wants to get a husband, have a kid or two, and then to be left in peace. Give your poor mother grandchildren instead of aggravation. Trust me, once you make with the grandchildren, you can get away with anything in this family."

"Why didn't you take your own advice, then?" Benny demanded.

Bubbeh Gratz grinned. "Because when the egg pops out, it's not the rooster who screams, fershtais?"

"So you want me to get married, have kids, and then find a man who—?" Benny began.

"Hey, get a load of that, guys! Gramma Hettie saw right: Jew-boy's back." A strident voice cut Benny off in mid-sentence and drew all eyes to the doorway of McNulty's. The speaker was a short, boxy man about Benny's age, wearing a cheap suit with the green-on-brown sheen of rancid roast beef. He was attended by a pair of swarthy, lumbering brutes whose forearm hair could have founded a wig-making dynasty. Rumpled trousers and sweat-stained white singlets were their livery and ape-like hooting was their best stab at laughter. Bubbeh Gratz took the trio's measure calmly, but Evie's cheeks went pale.

Benny's face was ashen too, though not with fear. "Carl Dorst," he said between clenched teeth. "Ten years away, and I see you the first night I'm back? Son of a—"

"What's'a matter, Jew-boy, ain't you glad to see me?" Dorst rolled into McNulty's like he owned the place. "Or don't you care about me no more? My gramma Hettie, she told me saw you and your boyfriend come in here. Said you was carrying him. What is he, your war bride? This your honeymoon, ya fag?"

(Thus did Oscar learn that neighborhoods, like families, were full of secrets that were no secret, things known by all and said by none; none except the Carl Dorsts of the world, that is.)

Benny stood up. "If you've got business with me, Carl, let's take it outside."

Dorst showed no sign of wanting to leave the premises. "So you can run? Sure, ain't that just like you kikes: Buncha yellow bastards, always running back to Maaaama." His lip curled. "We missed you here in the neighborhood since you been gone, Benny. Yeah, Jimmy Gannon missed you most of all. You remember Jimmy, don'cha? Pretty Jimmy? The one who didn't go into the army because he was nothing but a goddam—"

"Shut your mouth, Dorst!" McNulty stepped out from behind the bar. "You know damn well that Jimmy didn't go into the army because he had the asthma. Is that why you didn't enlist? Tell me that, if you can! You think I forgot the way you and your goons ganged up on him the last time you was in here, how you busted that poor lad's jaw? Get the hell out of my place! You're not welcome here."

"But kikes and faggots are?" Dorst smirked. Suddenly something sharp glittered in his hand. McNulty saw, and backed away slowly. The dank air in the bar became electric with peril. It was heady stuff, pure catnip to those too young to know better. With all adult eyes on Dorst and his men, no one noticed Oscar slip out of the booth and creep closer for a better view. This beat the heck out of Detective comics!

Like a load of wet-wash hitting the sidewalk from a great height, Bubbeh Gratz slid off her barstool and stood by Benny. "Shame on you, Carl Friedrich Dorst!" she declaimed. "Big man. Always with that mouth, your tongue should only shrivel like a prune. Over thirty years I know you and not once do you give your poor family a minute they could be proud of you! And you've got the gall to call our Benny a coward? You should only be such a coward, you lousy nogoodnik—"

The sound of Dorst's free hand connecting with Bubbeh Gratz's cheek was almost as shocking as the sight of that penny-ante lowlife slapping the old woman. But this was nothing compared to the thunderous report of another hand cracking across Carl Dorst's own ugly mug so hard that he staggered back against one of his loutish hangers-on.

"Don't you dare touch my Bubbeh!" Evie shouted as she raised her hand to give Dorst a second taste of Gratz justice. She wasn't afraid any more.

"Evie, no. They're punks, but they're dangerous." Benny tried to get Evie out of harm's way, but he wasn't fast enough. Dorst gave a curt signal to his goons. They yanked the girl away from Benny before he could react and shoved her at Dorst. He grabbed her by the wrist so hard that she whimpered.

"You want I shouldn't touch your what, Baby?" He leered. "Y'know, you ain't half bad, for a Jew. A little mouthy, a little outa line, but— OW!"

"Let go of my sister!" Oscar yelled. The command was purely for effect: The instant that Oscar's foot connected with Dorst's shin, the neighborhood bully lost his hold on Evie.

There followed one of those instants when the laws of time altered subtly and many things happened at once: A loud clunk echoed through the bar. Mr. McNulty had brought out a baseball bat and dropped it on the bar. He glared at Dorst and his over-muscled crew. Bubbeh Gratz set aside her gargantuan pocketbook in favor of the superior destructive potential of Benny's flashlight. Evie scampered around behind the bar and grabbed a couple of full liquor bottles. She rearmed Benny with one and raised the other by the neck until she looked like the tavern version of a rolling-pin-toting housewife straight out of the funny pages. The Gratzes stood ready to do battle.

Unfortunately, that elastic moment also contained Carl Dorst grabbing Oscar by the neck with one hand and bringing his nasty little jackknife right up against the boy's face with the other. "Whaddaya say, Benny?" he drawled. "Wanna see me give this little heeb a human nose?"

"Try it and die."

A voice old as dust and hollow as an empty tomb filled McNulty's tavern. Carl Dorst and his pet thugs turned to confront the vampire in full hunting mode, arms high and outstretched, hands like claws, pale face contorted with inhuman fury, and red, red lips pulled back to expose keen, glittering, deadly fangs. Even with a knife less than an inch from his right eye, Oscar forgot to be afraid.

Wow, he thought. He needs a cape. Then this would really be something!

Cape or no cape, Kazimir's display of the vampire rampant packed more than enough clout to deal with Dorst and his crew. They took one look, screamed like horror flick sorority girls, and bolted out the back way, leaping the bar and leaving suspicious puddles in the sawdust as they fled.

Kazimir dropped his pose and hurried to Bubbeh Gratz's side. "Are you all right?" he asked, studying her reddened cheek solicitously.

"It'll take more than a patsh from a little snot like Carl Dorst to bother me," she replied. "But just you wait until I tell his bubbeh Hettie what he did, then you'll see something!" She chuckled, relishing the grandmotherly retribution to come.

"Kaz, you were wonderful," Evie cooed, draping herself over the vampire's shoulder like a mink stole. "Would you really have killed them if they'd hurt Oscar?"

Kaz smiled modestly. "In truth, I was relieved that it did not come to that," he said. "I never drink . . . swine."

* * *

In the Strauss apartment, all was well. The initial flurry of familial squawking that attended the return of Benny, Oscar and Evie was quickly swallowed whole by concerted gasps, groans and ultimate glee when Bubbeh Gratz recounted how Kazimir had defended them all in McNulty's. So adept was she at painting a picture of disaster narrowly averted that no one thought to ask what she and the others had been doing in the illicit bar in the first place. She made no bones about the fact that Benny's foreign friend was indeed a creature of the night, for she knew that this was less important to her kin than how he'd given that shtik drek Dorst the bum's rush.

"Nu, Kazimir, it's like Bubbeh says? You're a vampire?" Uncle Max asked affably. And when Kazimir admitted this was so, he added: "And from this, you make a living?"

While Max tried making small talk with the vampire, his wife Rifka was both stunned and overjoyed as her beloved Benny told anyone who would listen that his first order of business, now that he was back in the United States, was to find himself a nice girl and get married.

"A nice, understanding girl," Bubbeh Gratz specified. "One who wants to get married in the worst way." And she sighed.

No sooner had Kazimir managed to excuse himself from Uncle Max's company than Gertrude Rosenfeld cornered him. With little Oscar secured to her bosom by a hammerlock that Haystack Calhoun might envy, she showered tearful blessings on the vampire's head. "How can I ever repay you for saving my children from that momzer? You're a gift, a saint, a blessing! I don't care if you and Benny are . . . friends, from now on, you're like family to me, you hear? Family."

"Mrs. Rosenfeld, you have voiced my dearest dream," Kazimir replied. "This family, this wonderful family of yours has enchanted me from the moment I first heard of you. And while Benny and I are indeed friends, though never . . . friends, there is someone else in your family with whom I would very much like to become . . . friends, and that someone is—"

Gertrude's shriek of horror caused irate neighbors above, below and flanking the Strauss apartment to play Desi Arnaz-style conga drum riffs on the floor, ceiling and walls. "You want you should date my Evie?" she gasped. "My daughter? My little girl? My baby? My infant? My—?"

"Ma, he loves me." Evie spoke up before her mother could reduce her to an embryo. "He told me so on the way back up here. I know we just met, but Kaz and I, we feel that there's something special between us."

"Oh, I know what he wants to feel between you, believe me," Mrs. Rosenfeld countered. She turned on Kazimir. "You want I should let you date my Evie? You should live so long!"

"I think he already has, Ma," Oscar said, fighting free of the maternal stranglehold.

"He's a monster!" Gertrude cried. "He drinks blood! He's dead! He's not even Jewish! He—"

"He wants to marry me," Evie said softly. "He said that on the way back up here too."

Gertrude stopped dead in mid-rant. A smile bloomed across her face. "Mazel tov!" she cried, and buried the vampire in the abyss of her cleavage.

The Cousins' Club burst into congratulations, fortissimo. The Gratzes didn't believe in the Romantic nonsense of love at first sight. Marriage at first sight, though? That was another story. The women swept Evie off in a flash flood of good wishes, with footnotes:

"Evie, mazel tov! So he's monster: You think maybe my Bernie's a saint?"

"You should only live and be well! So he drinks blood: Better that than gin, let me tell you."

"A blessing on your head! So he's dead. Look, you're no spring chicken yourself, and as long as he wants children . . ."

"You should never know from bad things! So he's goyish. Eh. Maybe he'll convert. And as long as you raise the kids Jewish—"

"You could do worse."

Oscar slipped away in the midst of the joyous uproar. He wriggled out of the crush of gabbling female bodies, then skirted the clan males as they took turns welcoming Kazimir into the family with the traditional handshake, cigar, pitying gaze and mournful sigh. He did an end-run around Tanteh Rifka, Bubbeh Gratz and Benny as the ladies talked matchmaking strategy:

"Find one that's been on the market a while," Bubbeh said. "One that's not so much in the looks department, she shouldn't mind when the husband goes out at night so long as he comes home, eventually, and gives her a couple kids and a mink. One that's willing to settle."

"The girl who gets my Benny isn't 'settling' for anything," Tanteh Rifka said huffily.

"Maybe not, but she'll be standing for plenty."

Benny gave Oscar a feeble Help me! look as the boy scooted by, headed for the bedrooms.

Oscar found the refuge he sought in the room where Tanteh Rifka had piled her kinfolks' coats on the bed. The mound wasn't as massive as its wintertime counterpart, but it was still a formidable heap of outerwear. Oscar burrowed into the side of the fabric hill until he found what he was looking for, his much-mangled copy of Detective comics.

He settled down for a good, satisfying, peaceful read, but his anticipation swiftly turned to disenchantment. The Batman's exploits had lost their zing. The Joker's insanity failed to amuse. The whole point of escaping a humdrum life through the portal of fantasy crumbled before his eyes. An abrupt, life-altering revelation left him open-mouthed and appalled: With family like mine, who needs sci-fi?

Oscar wept for lost childhood dreams.

Then he went to eat more herring, and to ask his ma what shtup meant.

* * *

Esther Friesner is the author of several books and the editor of the "Chicks In Chainmail" anthologies.

To read more work by this author, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

CLASSICS

Lulu

Written by Clifford Simak
Illustrated by Rita Reed

The machine was a lulu.

That's what we called her: Lulu.

And that was our big mistake.

Not the only one we made, of course, but it was the first, and maybe if we hadn't called her Lulu, it might have been all right.

Technically, Lulu was a PER, a Planetary Exploration Robot. She was a combination spaceship/base of operations/synthesizer/analyzer/communicator. And other things besides. Too many other things besides. That was the trouble with her.

Actually, there was no reason for us to go along with Lulu. As a matter of fact, it probably would have been a good deal better if we hadn't. She could have done the planet-checking without any supervision. But there were rules which said a robot of her class must be attended by no fewer than three humans. And, naturally, there was some prejudice against turning loose, all by itself, a robot that had taken almost twenty years to build and had cost ten billion dollars.

To give her her due, she was an all-but-living wonder. She was loaded with sensors that dug more information out of a planet in an hour than a full human survey crew could have gotten in a month. Not only could she get the data, but she correlated it and coded it and put it on the tape, then messaged the information back to Earth Center without a pause for breath.

Without a pause for breath, of course—she was just a dumb machine.

Did I say dumb?

She wasn't in any single sense. She could even talk to us. She could and did. She talked all the blessed time. And she listened to every word we said. She read over our shoulders and kibitzed on our poker. There were times we'd willingly have killed her, except you can't kill a robot—that is, a self-maintaining one. Anyhow, she cost ten billion dollars and was the only thing that could bring us back to Earth.

She took good care of us. That no one could deny. She synthesized our food and cooked it and served our meals to us. She saw that the temperature and humidity were just the way they should be. She washed and pressed our clothes and she doctored us if we had need of it, like the time Ben got the sniffles and she whipped up a bottle of some sort of gook that cured him overnight.

There were just the three of us—Jimmy Robins, our communications man; Ben Parris, a robotic trouble-shooter; and myself, an interpreter—which, incidentally, had nothing to do with languages.

We called her Lulu and we never should have done that. After this, no one is ever going to hang a name on any of those long-haired robots; they'll just have to get along with numbers. When Earth Center hears what happened to us, they'll probably make it a capital offense to repeat our mistake.

But the thing, I think, that really lit the candles was that Jimmy had poetry in his soul. It was pretty awful poetry and about the only thing that could be said of it was that it sometimes rhymed. Not always even that. But he worked at it so hard and earnestly that neither Ben nor I at first had the heart to tell him. It would have done no good even if we had. There probably would have been no way of stopping him short of strangulation.

We should have strangled him.

And landing on Honeymoon didn't help, of course.

But that was out of our control. It was the third planet on our assignment sheet and it was our job to land there—or, rather, it was Lulu's job. We just tagged along.

The planet wasn't called Honeymoon to start with. It just had a charting designation. But we weren't there more than a day or two before we hung the label on it.

I'm no prude, but I refuse to describe Honeymoon. Wouldn't be surprised at all if Earth Center by now has placed our report under lock and key. It you are curious, though, you might write and ask them for the exploratory data on ER56-94. It wouldn't hurt to ask. They can't do more than say no.

Lulu did a bang-up job on Honeymoon and I beat out my brains running the tapes through the playback mechanism after Lulu had put them on the transmitter to be messaged back to Earth. As an interpreter, I was supposed to make some sense—some human sense, I mean—out of the goings-on of any planet that we checked. And don't imagine for a moment that the phrase goings-on is just idle terminology in the case of Honeymoon.

The reports are analyzed as soon as they reach Earth Center. But there are, after all, some advantages to arriving at an independent evaluation in the field.

I'm afraid I wasn't too much help. My evaluation report boiled down essentially to the equivalent of a surprised gasp and a blush.

Finally we left Honeymoon and headed out in space, with Lulu homing in on the next planet on the sheet.

Lulu was unusually quiet, which should have tipped us off that there was something wrong. But we were so relieved to have her shut up for a while that we never questioned it. We just leaned back and reveled in it.

Jimmy was laboring on a poem that wasn't coming off too well and Ben and I were in the middle of a blackjack game when Lulu broke her silence.

"Good evening, boys," she said, and her voice seemed a bit off key, not as brisk and efficient as it usually was. I remember thinking that maybe the audio units had somehow gotten out of kilter.

Jimmy was all wrapped up in his poem, and Ben was trying to decide if he should ask me to hit him or stand with what he had, and neither of them answered.

So I said, "Good evening, Lulu. How are you today?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said, her voice trilling a bit.

"That's wonderful," I said, and hoped she'd let it go at that.

"I've just decided," Lulu informed me, "that I love you."

"It's nice of you to say so," I replied, "and I love you, too."

"But I mean it," Lulu insisted. "I have it all thought out. I'm in love with you."

"Which one of us?" I asked. "Who is the lucky man?"

Just kidding, you understand, but also a little puzzled, for Lulu was no jokester.

"All three of you," said Lulu.

I'm afraid I yawned. "Good idea. That way there'll be no jealousy."

"Yes," said Lulu. "I'm in love with you and we are eloping."

Ben looked up, startled, and I asked, "Where are we eloping to?"

"A long way off," she said. "Where we can be alone."

"My God!" yelled Ben. "Do you really think—"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. There is something wrong, but—"

Ben rose so swiftly to his feet that he tipped the table and sent the whole deck of cards spinning to the floor.

"I'll go and see," he said.

Jimmy looked up from his table. "What's going on?"

"You and your poetry!" I described his poetry in a rather bitter manner.

"I'm in love with you," said Lulu. "I'll love you forever. I'll take good care of you and I'll make you see how much I really love you and someday you'll love me—"

"Oh, shut up!" I said.

Ben came back sweating.

"We're way off course and the emergencies are locked."

"Can we—"

He shook his head. "If you ask me, Lulu jammed them intentionally. In that case, we're sunk. We'll never get back."

"Lulu," I said sternly.

"Yes, darling."

"Cut out that kind of talk!"

"I love you," Lulu said.

"It was Honeymoon," said Ben. "The damn place put notions in her head."

"Honeymoon," I told him, "and that crummy verse Jimmy's always writing—"

"It's not crummy verse," Jimmy shot back, all burned up. "One day, when I am published—"

"Why couldn't you write about war or hunting or flying in the depths of space or something big and noble, instead of all that mush about how I'll always love you and fly to me, sweetheart, and all the other—"

"Tame down," Ben advised me. "No good crawling up Jimmy's frame. It was mostly Honeymoon, I tell you."

"Lulu," I said, "you got to stop this nonsense. You know as well as anything that a machine can't love a human. It's just plain ridiculous."

"In Honeymoon," said Lulu, "there were different species that—"

"Forget Honeymoon. Honeymoon's a freak. You could check a billion planets and not find another like it."

"I love you," Lulu repeated obstinately, "and we are eloping."

"Where'd she get that eloping stuff?" asked Ben.

"It's the junk they filled her up with back on Earth," I said.

"It wasn't junk," protested Lulu. "If I am to do my job, it's necessary that I have a wide and varied insight into humanity."

"They read her novels," Jimmy said, "and they told her about the facts of life. It's not Lulu's fault."

"When I get back," said Ben, "I'm going to hunt up the jerk who picked out those novels and jam them down his throat and then mop up the place with him."

"Look, Lulu," I said, "it's all right if you love us. We don't mind at all, but don't you think eloping is going too far?"

"I'm not taking any chances," Lulu answered. "If I went back to Earth, you'd get away from me."

"And if we don't go back, they'll come out and hunt us down."

"That's exactly right," Lulu agreed. "That's the reason, sweetheart, that we are eloping. We're going out so far that they'll never find us."

"I'll give you one last chance," I said. "You better think it over. If you don't, I'll message back to Earth and—"

"You can't message Earth," she said. "The circuits have been disconnected. And, as Ben guessed, I've jammed all emergencies. There's nothing you can do. Why don't you stop this foolishness and return my love?"

Getting down on the floor on his hands and knees, Ben began to pick up the cards. Jimmy tossed his tablet on the desk.

"This is your big chance," I told him. "Why don't you rise to the occasion? Think what an ode you could indite about the ageless and eternal love between machine and man."

"Go chase yourself," said Jimmy.

"Now, boys," Lulu scolded us. "I will not have you fighting over me."

She sounded like she already owned us and, in a way, she did. There was no way for us to get away from her, and if we couldn't talk her out of this eloping business, we were through for sure.

"There's just one thing wrong with all of this," I said to her. "By your standards, we won't live long. In another fifty years or less, no matter how well you may take care of us, we'll be dead. Of old age, if nothing else. What will happen then?"

"She'll be a widow," said Ben. "Just a poor old weeping widow without chick or child to bring her any comfort."

"I have thought of that," Lulu replied. "I have thought of everything. There's no reason you should die."

"But there's no way—"

"With a love as great as mine, there's nothing that's impossible. I won't let you die. I love you too much ever to let you die."

We gave up after a while and went to bed and Lulu turned off the lights and sang us a lullaby.

With her squalling this lullaby, there was no chance of sleeping and we all yelled at her to dry up and let us get to sleep. But she paid no attention to us until Ben threw one of his shoes at the audio.

Even so, I didn't go to sleep right away, but lay there thinking.

I could see that we had to make some plans and we had to make them without her knowing it. That was going to be tough, because she watched us all the time. She kibitzed and she listened and she read over our shoulders and there wasn't anything we did or said that she didn't know about.

I knew that I might take quite a while and that we must not panic and that we must have patience and that, more than likely, we'd be just plain lucky if we got out of it at all.

After we had slept, we sat around, not saying much, listening to Lulu telling us how happy we would be and how we'd be a complete world and a whole life in ourselves and how love cancelled out everything else and made it small and petty.

Half of the words she used were from Jimmy's sappy verse and the rest of it was from the slushy novels that someone back on Earth had read her.

I would have got up right then and there and beat Jimmy to a pulp, only I told myself that what was done was done and it wouldn't help us any to take it out on him.

Jimmy sat hunched over in one corner, scribbling on his tablet, and I wondered how he had the guts to keep on writing after what had happened.

He kept writing and ripping off sheets and throwing them on the floor, making disgusted sounds every now and then.

One sheet he tossed away landed in my lap, and when I went to brush it off, I caught the words on it:

I'm an untidy cuss,

I'm always in a muss,

And no one ever loves me

Because I'm a sloppy Gus.

I picked it up quick and crumpled it and tossed it at Ben and he batted it away. I tossed it back at him and he batted it away again.

"What the hell you trying to do?" he snapped.

I hit him in the face with it and he was just starting to get up to paste me when he must have seen by my look that this wasn't just horseplay. So he picked up the wad of paper and began fooling with it until he got it unwrapped enough to see what was written on it. Then he crumpled it again.

Lulu heard every word, so we couldn't talk it over. And we must not be too obvious, because then she might suspect.

We went at it gradually, perhaps more gradually than there was any need, but we had to be casual about it and we had to be convincing.

We were convincing. Maybe we were just natural-born slobs, but before a week had ended, our living quarters were a boar's nest.

We strewed our clothes around. We didn't even bother to put them in the laundry chute so Lulu could wash them for us. We left the dishes stacked on the table instead of putting them in the washer. We knocked out our pipes upon the floor. We failed to shave and we didn't brush our teeth and we skipped our baths.

Lulu was fit to be tied. Her orderly robot intellect was outraged. She pleaded with us and she nagged at us and there were times she lectured us, but we kept on strewing things around. We told her if she loved us, she'd have to put up with our messiness and take us as we were.

After a couple of weeks of it, we won, but not the way we had intended.

Lulu told us, in a hurt and resigned voice, she'd go along with us if it pleased us to live like pigs. Her love, she said, was too big a thing to let a small matter like mere personal untidiness interfere with it.

So it was no good.

I, for one, was rather glad of it. Years of spaceship routine revolted against this kind of life and I don't know how much more of it I could have stood.

It was a lousy idea to start with.

We cleared up and we got ourselves clean and it was possible once again to pass downwind of one another.

Lulu was pleased and happy and she told us so and cooed over us and it was worse than all the nagging she had done. She thought we'd been touched by her willing sacrifice and that we were making it up to her and she sounded like a high school girl who had been invited by her hero to the Junior Prom.

Ben tried some plain talk with her and he told her some facts of life (which she already knew, of course) and tried to impress upon her the part that the physical factor played in love.

Lulu was insulted, but not enough to bust off the romance and get back to business.

She told us, in a sorrowful voice tinged by the slightest anger, that we had missed the deeper meaning of love. She went on to quote some of Jimmy's more gooey verse about the nobility and the purity of love, and there was nothing we could do about it. We were just plain licked.

So we sat around and thought and we couldn't talk about it because Lulu would hear everything we said.

We didn't do anything for several days but just mope around.

As far as I could see, there was nothing we could do. I ran through my mind all the things a man might do to get a woman sore at him.

Most women would get burned up at gambling. But the only reason they got sore at that was because it was a threat to their security. Here that threat could not possibly exist. Lulu was entirely self-sufficient. We were no breadwinners.

Most women would get sore at excessive drinking. Security again. And, besides, we had not a thing to drink.

Some women raised hell if a man stayed away from home. We had no place to go.

All women would resent another woman. And here there were no women—no matter what Lulu thought she was.

There was no way, it seemed, to get Lulu sore at us.

And arguing with her simply did no good.

I lay in bed and ran through all the possibilities, going over them again and again, trying to find a chink of hope in one of them. By reciting and recounting them, I might suddenly happen on one that I'd never thought of, and that might be the one that would do the job.

And even as I turned these things over in my head, I knew there was something wrong with the way I had been thinking. I knew there was some illogic in the way I was tackling the problem—that somehow I was going at it tail-end to.

I lay there and thought about it and I mulled it considerably and, all at once, I had it.

I was approaching the problem as if Lulu were a woman, and when you thought about it, that didn't make much sense. For Lulu was no woman, but just a robot.

The problem was: How do you make a robot sore?

The untidiness business had upset her, but it had just outraged her sense of rightness; it was something she could overlook and live with. The trouble with it was that it wasn't basic.

And what would be basic with a robot—with any machine, for that matter?

What would a machine value? What would it idealize?

Order?

No, we'd tried that one and it hadn't worked.

Sanity?

Of course.

What else?

Productiveness? Usefulness?

I tossed insanity around a bit, but it was too hard to figure out. How in the name of common sense would a man go about pretending that he was insane—especially in a limited space inside an all-knowing intelligent machine?

But just the same, I lay there and dreamed up all kinds of insanities. If carried out, they might have fooled people, but not a robot.

With a robot, you had to get down to basics and what, I wondered, was the fundamental of insanity? Perhaps the true horror of insanity, I told myself, would become apparent to a robot only when it interfered with usefulness.

And that was it!

I turned it around and around and looked at it from every angle.

It was airtight.

Even to start with, we hadn't been much use. We'd just come along because Earth Center had rules about sending Lulu out alone. But we represented a certain potential usefulness.

We did things. We read books and wrote terrible poetry and played cards and argued. There wasn't much of the time we just sat around. That's a trick you learn in space—keep busy doing something, no matter what it is, no matter how piddling or purposeless.

In the morning, after breakfast, when Ben wanted to play cards, I said no, I didn't want to play. I sat down on the floor with my back against the wall; I didn't even bother to sit in a chair. I didn't smoke, for smoking was doing something and I was determined to be as utterly inactive as a living man could manage. I didn't intend to do a blessed thing except eat and sleep and sit.

Ben prowled around some and tried to get Jimmy to play a hand or two, but Jimmy wasn't much for cards and, anyhow, he was busy with a poem.

So Ben came over and sat on the floor beside me.

"Want a smoke?" he asked, offering me his tobacco pouch.

I shook my head.

"What's the matter? You haven't had your after-breakfast smoke."

"What's the use?" I said.

He tried to talk to me and I wouldn't talk, so he got up and paced around some more and finally came back and sat down beside me again.

"What's the trouble with you two?" Lulu wanted to know. "Why aren't you doing something?"

"Don't feel like doing anything," I told her. "Too much bother to be doing something all the time."

She berated us a bit and I didn't dare look at Ben, but I felt sure that he began to see what I was up to.

After a while, Lulu left us alone and the two of us just sat there, lazier than hill-billies on a Sunday afternoon.

Jimmy kept on with his poem. There was nothing we could do about him. But Lulu called his attention to us when we dragged ourselves to lunch. She was just a little sharper than she had been earlier and she called us lazy, which we surely were, and wondered about our health and made us step into the diagnosis booth, which reported we were fine, and that got her burned up more than ever.

She gave us a masterly chewing out and listed all the things there were for us to occupy our time. So when lunch was over, Ben and I went back and sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall. This time, Jimmy joined us.

Try sitting still for days on end, doing absolutely nothing. At first it's uncomfortable, then it's torture, and finally it gets to be almost intolerable.

I don't know what the others did, but I made up complex mathematical problems and tried to solve them. I started mental chess game after chess game, but was never able to hold one in my mind beyond a dozen moves. I went clean back to childhood and tried to recreate, in sequence, everything I had ever done or experienced. I delved into strange areas of the imagination and hung onto them desperately to string them out and kill all the time I could.

I even composed some poetry and, if I do say so myself, it was better than that junk of Jimmy's.

I think Lulu must have guessed what we were doing, must have known that our attitude was deliberate, but for once her cold robotic judgment was outweighed by her sense of outrage that there could exist such useless hulks as us.

She pleaded with us, she cajoled us, she lectured us—for almost five days hand-running, she never shut her yap. She tried to shame us. She told us how worthless and low-down and no account we were and she used adjectives I didn't think she knew.

She gave us pep talks.

She told us of her love in prose poems that made Jimmy's sound almost unrestrained.

She appealed to our manhood and the honor of humanity.

She threatened to heave us out in space.

We just sat there.

We didn't do a thing.

Mostly we didn't even answer. We didn't try to defend ourselves. At times we agreed with all she said of us and that, I believe, was most infuriating of all to her.

She got cold and distant. Not sore. Not angry. Just icy.

Finally she quit talking.

We sat, sweating it out.

Now came the hard part. We couldn't talk, so we couldn't try to figure out together what was going on.

We had to keep on doing nothing. Had to, for to do anything at all would have spoiled whatever advantage we might have.

The days dragged on and nothing happened. Lulu didn't speak to us. She fed us, she washed the dishes, she laundered, she made up the bunks. She took care of us as she always had, but she did it without a word.

She sure was fuming.

A dozen crazy thoughts crossed my mind and I worried them to tatters.

Maybe Lulu was a woman. Maybe a woman's brain was somehow welded into that great hulk of intelligent machinery. After all, none of us knew the full details of Lulu's structure.

The brain of an old maid, it would have to be, so often disillusioned, so lonely and so by-passed in life that she would welcome a chance to go adventuring even if it meant sacrificing a body which, probably, had meant less and less to her as the years went by.

I built up quite a picture of my hypothetical old maid, complete with cat and canary, and even the boardinghouse in which she lived.

I sensed her lonely twilight walks and her aimless chattering and her small imaginary triumphs and the hungers that kept building up inside her.

And I felt sorry for her.

Fantastic? Of course. But it helped to pass the time.

But there was another notion that really took solid hold of me—that Lulu, beaten, had finally given up and was taking us back to Earth, but that, womanlike, she refused to give us the satisfaction and comfort of knowing that we had won and were going home at last.

I told myself over and over that it was impossible, that after the kind of shenanigans she'd pulled, Lulu wouldn't dare go back. They'd break her up for scrap.

But the idea persisted and I couldn't shake it off. I knew I must be wrong, but I couldn't convince myself I was and I began to watch the chronometer. I'd say to myself, "One hour nearer home, another hour and yet another and we are that much closer."

And no matter what I told myself, no matter how I argued, I became positive that we were heading Earthward.

So I was not surprised when Lulu finally landed. I was just grateful and relieved.

We looked at one another and I saw the hope and question in the others' eyes. Naturally, none of us could ask. One word might have ruined our victory. All we could do was stand there silently and wait for the answer.

The port began to open and I got the whiff of Earth and I didn't fool around waiting any more. There wasn't room enough as yet to get out standing up, so I took a run at it and dived and went through slick and clean. I hit the ground and got a lot of breath knocked out of me, but I scrambled to my feet and lit out of there as fast as I could go. I wasn't taking any chances. I didn't want to be within reach if Lulu changed her mind.

Once I stumbled and almost fell, and Ben and Jimmy went past me with a whoosh, and I told myself that I'd not been mistaken. They'd caught the Earth smell, too.

It was night, but there was a big, bright moon and it was almost as light as day. There was an ocean to the left of us, with a wide strip of sandy beach, and, to the right, the land swept up into barren rolling hills, and right ahead of us was a strip of woods that looked as if it might border some river flowing down into the sea.

We legged it for the woods, for we knew that if we got in among the trees, Lulu would have a tough time ferreting us out. But when I sneaked a quick look back over my shoulder, she was just squatting where she'd landed, with the moonlight shining on her.

We reached the woods and threw ourselves on the ground and lay panting. It had been quite a stretch of ground to cover and we had covered it fast; after weeks of just sitting, a man is in no condition to do a lot of running.

I had fallen face down and just sprawled there, sucking in great gulps of air and smelling the good Earth smell—old leaf mold and growing things and the tang of salt from the soft and gentle ocean breeze.

After a while, I rolled over on my back and looked up. The trees were wrong—there were no trees like those on Earth—and when I crawled out to the edge of the woods and looked at the sky, the stars were all wrong, too.

My mind was slow in accepting what I saw. I had been so sure that we were on Earth that my brain rebelled against thinking otherwise.

But finally it hit me, the chilling terrible knowledge.

I went back to the other two.

"Gents," I said, "I have news for you. This planet isn't Earth at all."

"It smells like Earth," said Ben. "It has the look of Earth."

"It feels like Earth," Jimmy argued. "The gravity and the air and—"

"Look at the stars. Take a gander at those trees."

They took a long time looking. Like me, they must have gotten the idea that Lulu had zeroed in for home. Or maybe it was only what they wanted to believe. It took a while to knock the wishful thinking out of them, as well as myself.

Ben let out his breath slowly. "You're right."

"What do we do now?" asked Jimmy.

We stood there, thinking about what we should do now.

Actually it was no decision, but pure and simple reflex, conditioned by a million years of living on Earth as opposed to only a few hundred in which to get used to the idea that there were different worlds.

We started running, as if an order had been given, as fast as we could go.

"Lulu!" we yelled. "Lulu, wait for us!"

But Lulu didn't wait. She shot straight up for a thousand feet or so and hung there. We skidded to a halt and gaped up at her, not quite believing what we saw. Lulu started to fall back, shot up again, came to a halt and hovered. She seemed to shiver, then sank slowly back until she rested on the ground.

We continued running and she shot up and fell back, then shot up once more, then fell back again and hit the ground and hopped. She looked for all the world like a demented yo-yo. She was acting strangely, as if she wanted to get out of there, only there was something that wouldn't let her go, as if she were tethered to the ground by some invisible elastic cable.

Finally she came to rest about a hundred yards from where she'd first set down. No sound came from her, but I got the impression she was panting like a winded hound dog.

There was a pile of stuff stacked where Lulu had first landed, but we raced right past it and ran up to her. We pounded on her metal sides.

"Open up!" we shouted. "We want to get back in!"

Lulu hopped. She hopped about a hundred feet into the air, then plopped back with a thud, not more than thirty feet away.

We backed away from her. She could have just as easily come straight down on top of us.

We stood watching her, but she didn't move.

"Lulu!" I yelled at her.

She didn't answer.

"She's gone crazy," Jimmy said.

"Someday," said Ben, "this was bound to happen. It was a cinch they'd sooner or later build a robot too big for its britches."

We backed away from her slowly, watching all the time. We weren't afraid of her exactly, but we didn't trust her either.

We backed all the way to the mound of stuff that Lulu had unloaded and stacked up and we saw that it was a pyramid of supplies, all neatly boxed and labeled. And beside the pyramid was planted a stenciled sign that read:

NOW, DAMN

YOU, WORK!!

Ben said, "She certainly took our worthlessness to heart."

Jimmy was close to gibbering. "She was actually going to maroon us!"

Ben reached out and grabbed his shoulder and shook him a little—a kindly sort of shake.

"Unless we can get back inside," I said, "and get her operating, we are as marooned as if she had up and left us."

"But what made her do it?" Jimmy wailed. "Robots aren't suppose to—"

"I know," said Ben. "They're not supposed to harm a human. But Lulu wasn't harming us. She didn't throw us out. We ran away from her."

"That's splitting legal hairs," I objected.

"Lulu's just the kind of gadget for hair-splitting," Ben said. "Trouble is they made her damn near human. They probably poured her full of a lot of law as well as literature and physics and all the rest of it."

"Then why didn't she just leave? If she could whitewash her conscience, why is she still here?"

Ben shook his head. "I don't know."

"She looked like she tried to leave and couldn't, as though there was something holding her back."

"This is just an idea," said Ben. "Maybe she could have left if we had stayed out of sight. But when we showed up, the order that a robot must not harm a human may have become operative again. A sort of out of sight, out of mind proposition."

She was still squatting where she'd landed. She hadn't tried to move again. Looking at her, I thought maybe Ben was right. If so, it had been a lucky thing that we'd headed back exactly when we did.

We started going through the supplies Lulu had left for us. She had done right well by us. Not only had she forgotten nothing we needed, but had stenciled careful instructions and even some advice on many of the boxes.

Near the signboard, lying by themselves, were two boxes. One was labeled TOOLS and the top was loosely nailed so we could pry it off. The other was labeled WEAPONS and had a further stencil: Open immediately and always keep at hand.

We opened both the boxes. In the weapons box, we found the newest type of planet-busters—a sort of shotgun deal, a general-purpose weapon that put out everything from bullets to a wide range of vibratory charges. In between these two extremes were a flame-thrower, acid, gas, poisoned darts, explosive warheads and knockout pellets. You merely twirled a dial to choose your ammunition. The guns were heavy and awkward to handle and they were brutes to operate, but they were just the ticket for a planet where you never knew what you might run into next.

We turned our attention to the rest of the stuff and started to get it sorted out. There were boxes of protein and carbohydrate foods. There were cartons of vitamins and minerals. There was clothing and a tent, lanterns and dishes—all the stuff you'd need on a high-priced camping trip.

Lulu hadn't forgotten a single item.

"She had it all planned out," said Jimmy bitterly. "She spent a long time making this stuff. She had to synthesize every bit of it. All she needed then was to find a planet where a man could live. All that took some doing."

"It was tougher than you think," I added. "Not only a planet where a man could live, but one that smelled like Earth and looked and felt like Earth. Because, you see, we had to be encouraged to run away from her. If we hadn't, she couldn't have marooned us. She had the problem of her conscience and—"

Ben spat viciously. "Marooned!" he said. "Marooned by a love-sick robot!"

"Maybe not entirely robot." I told them about the old maid I had conjured up and they hooted at me and that made us all feel better.

But Ben admitted that my idea needn't be entirely crazy. "She was twenty years in building and a lot of funny stuff must have gone into her."

Dawn was breaking and now, for the first time, we really saw the land. It was a pleasant place, as pleasant as any man might wish. But we failed to appreciate it much.

The sea was so blue that it made you think of a blue-eyed girl and the beach ran white and straight and, from the beach, the land ran back into rolling hills with the faint whiteness of distant mountains frosting the horizon. And to the west was the forest.

Jimmy and I went down to the beach to collect some driftwood for a fire while Ben made ready to get breakfast.

We had our arms full of wood and were starting back when something came charging over the hill and down upon the camp. It was about rhinoceros size and shaped somewhat like a beetle and it shone dully in the morning light. It made no sound, but it was traveling fast and it looked like something hard to stop.

And, of course, we'd left our guns behind.

I dropped my wood and yelled at Ben and started running up the slope. Ben had already seen the charging monster and had grabbed a rifle. The beast swerved straight for him and he brought up his gun. There was a flash of fire and then the bright gout of an exploding warhead and, for an instant, the scene was fogged with smoke and shrieking bits of metal and flying dust.

It was exactly as if one had been watching a film and the film had jumped. One moment there was the blaze of fire; then the thing had plunged past Ben and was coming down the slope of the beach, heading for Jimmy and myself.

"Scatter!" I yelled at Jimmy and didn't think till later how silly it must have sounded to yell for just the two of us to scatter.

But it wasn't any time or place for fine points of semantics and, anyhow, Jimmy caught onto what I meant. He went one way down the beach and I went the other and the monster wheeled around, hesitating for a moment, apparently to decide which one of us to take.

And, as you might have known, he took after me.

I figured I was a goner. That beach was just plain naked, with not a place to hide, and I knew I had no chance at all of outrunning my pursuer. I might be able to dodge a time or two, but even so, that thing was pretty shifty on the turns and I knew in the end I'd lose.

Out of the tail of my eye, I saw Ben running and sliding down the slope to cut off the beast. He yelled something at me, but I didn't catch the words.

Then the air shook with the blast of another exploding warhead and I sneaked a quick look back.

Ben was legging it up the slope and the thing was chasing him, so I spun around and sprinted for the camp. Jimmy, I saw, was almost there and I put on some extra speed. If we only could get three guns going, I felt sure we could make it.

Ben was running straight toward Lulu, apparently figuring that he could race around her bulk and elude the beast. I saw that his dash would be a nip-and-tuck affair.

Jimmy had reached the camp and grabbed a gun. He had it firing before he got it to his shoulder and little splashes of liquid were flying all over the running beast.

I tried to yell at Jimmy, but had no breath to do it—the damn fool was firing knockout pellets and they were hitting that tough hide and bursting without penetrating.

Within arm's reach of Lulu, Ben stumbled. The gun flew from his hand. His body struck the ground doubled up and he rolled, trying to get under the curve of Lulu's side. The rhinoceros-thing lunged forward viciously.

Then it happened—quicker than the eye could follow, much quicker than it can be told.

Lulu grew an arm, a long, ropelike tentacle that snaked out of the top of her. It lashed downward and had the beast about the middle and was lifting him.

I stopped dead still and watched. The instant of the lifting of the beast seemed to stretch out into long minutes as my mind scrambled at top speed to see what kind of thing it was. The first thing I saw was that it had wheels instead of feet.

The dull luster of the hide could be nothing but metal and I could see the dents where the warheads had exploded. Drops of liquid spotted the hide—what was left of the knockout drops Jimmy had been firing.

Lulu raised the monster high above the ground and began swinging it around and around. It went so fast, it was just a blur. Then she let go and it sailed out above the sea. It went tumbling end over end in an awkward arc and plunged into the water. When it hit, it raised a pretty geyser.

Ben picked himself up and got his gun. Jimmy came over and I walked up to Lulu. The three of us stood and looked out to sea, watching the spot where the creature had kerplunked.

Finally Ben turned around and rapped on Lulu's side with his rifle barrel.

"Thanks a heap," he said.

Lulu grew another tentacle, shorter this time, and there was a face on it. It had a lenslike eye and an audio and speaker.

"Go chase yourselves," Lulu remarked.

"What's eating you?" I asked.

"Men!" she spat, and pulled her face in again.

We rapped on her three or four times more, but there was no reply. Lulu was sulking.

So Jimmy and I started down to pick up the wood that we had dropped. We had just gotten it picked up when Ben let out a yelp from up by the camp and we spun around. There was our rhinoceros friend wheeling out of the water.

We dropped the wood and lit out for camp, but there was no need to hurry. Our boy wasn't having any more just then. He made a wide circle to the east of us and raced back into the hills.

We cooked breakfast and ate it and kept our guns handy, because where there was one critter, there were liable to be more. We didn't see the sense in taking chances.

We talked about our visitor and since we had to call it something, we named it Elmer. For no particular reason, that seemed appropriate.

"Did you see those wheels?" asked Ben, and the two of us agreed that we'd seen them. Ben seemed to be relieved. "I thought I was seeing things," he explained.

But there could be no doubt about the wheels. All of us had noticed them and there were the tracks to prove it—wheel tracks running plain and clear along the sandy beach.

But we were somewhat puzzled when it came to determining just what Elmer was. The wheels spelled out machine, but there were a lot of other things that didn't—mannerisms that were distinctly lifelike, such as the momentary hesitation before it decided which one of us to charge, Jimmy or myself, or the vicious lunge at Ben when he lay upon the ground, or the caution it had shown in circling us when it came out of the sea.

But there were, as well, the wheels and the unmistakably metal hide and the dents made by exploding warheads that would have torn the biggest and toughest animal to shreds.

"A bit of both?" suggested Ben. "Basically machine, but with some life in it, too, like the old-maid brain you dreamed up for Lulu?"

Sure it could be that. It could be almost anything.

"Silicate life?" offered Jimmy.

"That's not silicate," Ben declared. "That's metal. Silicate, any form of it, would have turned to dust under a direct rocket hit. Besides, we know what silicate life is like. One species of it was found years ago out on Thelma V."

"It isn't basically life," I said. "Life wouldn't evolve wheels. Wheels are bum inventions so far as locomotion is concerned, except where you have special conditions. Life might be involved, but only as Ben says—as a deliberate, engineered combining of machine and life."

"And that means intelligence," said Ben.

We sat there around the fire, shaken at the thought of it. In many years of searching, only a handful of intelligent races had been found and the level of intelligence, in general, was not too impressive. Certainly nothing of the order that would be necessary to build something like Elmer.

So far, man was top dog in the discovered universe. Nothing had been found to match him in the use of brain-power.

And here, by utter accident, we'd been dumped upon a planet where there seemed to be some evidence of an intelligence that would equal man—if not, indeed, surpass him.

"There's one thing that has been bothering me," said Ben. "Why didn't Lulu check this place before she landed here? She intended to maroon us, that's why. She meant to dump us here and leave. And yet presumably she's still bound by the precept that a robot cannot harm a human. And if she followed that law, it would have meant that she was compelled—completely and absolutely compelled—to make certain, before she marooned us, that there was nothing here to harm us."

"Maybe she slipped a little," guessed Jimmy.

"Not Lulu," said Ben. "Not with that Swiss-watch brain of hers."

"You know what I think?" I said. "I think Lulu has evolved. In her, we have a brand-new kind of robot. They pumped too much humanity into her—"

"She had to have the human viewpoint," Jimmy pointed out, "or she couldn't do her job."

"The point," I said, "is that when you make a robot as human as Lulu, you no longer have a robot. You have something else. Not quite human, not entirely robot, but something in between. A new kind of a sort of life you can't be certain of. One you have to watch."

"I wonder if she's still sulking," Ben wondered.

"Of course she is," I said.

"We ought to go over and kick her in the pants and snap her out of it."

"Leave her alone," I ordered sharply. "The only thing is to ignore her. As long as she gets attention, she'll keep on sulking."

So we left her alone. It was the only thing we could do.

I took the dishes down to the sea to wash them, but this time I took my gun along. Jimmy went down to the woods to see if he could find a spring. The half dozen tins of water that Lulu had provided for us wouldn't last forever and we couldn't be sure she'd shell out more when those were gone.

She hadn't forgotten us, though, hadn't shut us out of her life entirely. She had fixed Elmer's wagon when he got too gay. I took a lot of comfort out of reflecting that when the cards were down, she had backed us up. There still were grounds for hope, I told myself, that we could work out some sort of deal with her.

I squatted down by a pool of water in the sand, and as I washed the dishes, I did some thinking about the realignment which would become necessary once all robots were like Lulu. I could envision a Bill of Robotic Rights and special laws for robots and robotic lobbies, and after I'd thought of it for a while, it became mighty complicated.

Back at the camp, Ben had been setting up the tent, and when I came back, I helped him.

"You know," Ben said, "the more I think about it, the more I believe I was right when I said that the reason Lulu couldn't leave was because we showed up. It's only logical that she can't up and leave when we're standing right in front of her and reminding her of her responsibility."

"You getting around to saying that one of us has to stay close by her all the time?" I asked.

"That's the general idea."

I didn't argue with him. There was nothing to argue about, nothing to believe or disbelieve. But we were in no position to be making any boners.

After we had the tent up, Ben said to me, "If you don't mind, I'll take a little walk-around back in the hills."

"Watch out for Elmer," I warned him.

"He won't bother us. Lulu took the starch out of him."

He picked up his gun and left.

I puttered around the camp, putting things in order. Everything was peaceful. The beach shone in the sun and the sea was still and beautiful. There were a few birds flying, but no other sign of life. Lulu kept on sulking.

Jimmy came back. He had found a spring and brought along a pail of water. He started rummaging around in the supplies.

"What you looking for?" I asked.

"Paper and a pencil. Lulu would have thought of them."

I grunted at the idea, but he was right. Damned if Lulu hadn't fixed him up with a ream of paper and a box of pencils.

He settled down against a pile of boxes and began to write a poem.

Ben returned shortly after midday. I could see he was excited, but I didn't push him any.

"Jimmy stumbled on a spring," I said. "The pail is over there."

He had a drink, then sat down in the shade of a pile of boxes.

"I found it," he said triumphantly.

"I didn't know you were hunting anything."

He looked up at me and grinned a bit crookedly. "Someone manufactured Elmer."

"So you went out and found them. Just like walking down a street. Just like—"

He shook his head. "Seems we're too late. Some several thousand years too late, if not a good deal longer. I found a few ruins and a valley heaped with tumuli that must be ruin mounds. And some caves in a limestone bluff beyond the valley."

He got up and walked over to the pail and had another drink.

"I couldn't get too close," he said. "Elmer is on guard." He took off his hat and wiped his shirt sleeve across his face. "He's patrolling up and down, the way a sentry walks a post. You can see the paths he's worn through all the years of standing guard."

"So that's why he took us on," I said. "We're trespassers."

"I suppose that's it," said Ben.

That evening we talked it over and decided we'd have to post a watch on Elmer so we could learn his habits and timetable, if any. Because it was important that we try to find out what we could about the buried ruins of the place that Elmer guarded.

For the first time, man had stumbled on a high civilization, but had come too late and, because of Lulu's sulking, too poorly equipped to do much with what little there was left.

Getting somewhat sore the more I thought about it, I went over to Lulu and kicked her good and solid to attract her attention. But she paid me no mind. I yelled at her and there was no answer. I told her what was cooking and that we needed her—that there was a job she simply had to do, just exactly the kind she had been built to do. She just sat there frigidly.

I went back and slouched down with the others at the fire. "She acts as if she might be dead."

Ben poked the fire together and it flamed a little higher. "I wonder if a robot could die. A highly sensitive job like Lulu."

"Of a broken heart," said Jimmy pityingly.

"You and your poetic notions!" I raged at him. "Always mooning around. Always spouting words. If it hadn't been for that damned verse of yours—"

"Cut it out," Ben said.

I looked at his face across the fire, with flame shadows running on it, and I cut it out. After all, I admitted to myself, I might be wrong. Jimmy couldn't help being a lousy poet.

I sat there looking at the fire, wondering if Lulu might be dead. I knew she wasn't, of course. She was just being nasty. She had fixed our clock for us and she had fixed it good. Now she was watching us sweat before she made her play, whatever it was.

In the morning we set up our watch on Elmer and we kept it up day after day. One of us would go out to the ridge-top three miles or so from camp and settle down with our only field glass. We'd stare for several hours. Then someone else would come out and relieve the watcher and that way, for ten days or more, we had Elmer under observation during all the daylight hours.

We didn't learn much. He operated on a schedule and it was the kind that seemed to leave no loopholes for anyone to sneak into the valley he guarded—although probably none of us would have known what to do if we had sneaked in.

Elmer had a regular beat. He used some of the mounds for observation posts and he came to each one about every fifteen minutes. The more we watched him, the more we became convinced that he had the situation well in hand. No one would monkey around with that buried city as long as he was there.

I think that after the second day or so, he found out we were watching. He got a little nervous, and when he mounted his observation mounds, he'd stand and look in our direction longer than in any other. Once, while I was on guard, he began what looked to be a charge and I was just getting ready to light out of there when he broke off and went back to his regular rounds.

Other than watching Elmer, we took things easy. We swam in the sea and fished, taking our lives in our hands when we cooked and ate each new kind, but luck was with us and we got no poisonous ones. We wouldn't have eaten the fish at all except that we figured we should piece out our food supplies as best we could. They wouldn't last forever and we had no guarantee that Lulu would give more handouts once the last was gone. If she didn't we'd have to face the problem of making our own way.

Ben got to worrying about whether there were seasons on the planet. He convinced himself there were and went off into the woods to find a place where we might build a cabin.

"Can't live out on the beach in a tent when it gets cold," he said.

But he couldn't get either Jimmy or me too stirred up about the possibility. I had it all doped out that, sooner or later, Lulu would end her sulking and we could get down to business. And Jimmy was deep into the crudest bunch of junk you ever heard that he called a saga. Maybe it was a saga. Damned if I know. I'm ignorant on sagas.

He called it The Death of Lulu and he filled page after page with the purest drivel about what a swell machine she was and how, despite its being metal, her heart beat with snow-white innocence. It wouldn't have been so bad if he had allowed us to ignore it, but he insisted on reading that tripe to us each evening after supper.

I stood it as long as I could, but one evening I blew my top. Ben stood up for Jimmy, but when I threatened to take my third of the supplies and set up a camp of my own, out of earshot, Ben gave in and came over to my side of the argument. Between the two of us, we ruled out any more recitals. Jimmy took it hard, but he was outnumbered.

After that first ten days or so, we watched Elmer only off and on, but we must have had him nervous, for during the night we'd sometimes hear his wheels, and in the morning we'd find tracks. We figured that he was spying out the camp, trying to size us up the same way we'd done with him. He didn't make any passes at us and we didn't bother him—we were just a lot more wakeful and alert on our night watches. Even Jimmy managed to stay awake while he was standing guard.

There was a funny thing about it, though. One would have imagined that Elmer would have stayed away from Lulu after the clobbering she gave him. But there were mornings when we found his tracks running up close behind her, then angling sharply off.

We got it doped up that he sneaked up and hid behind her, so he could watch the camp close up, peeking around at us from his position behind that sulking hulk.

Ben kept arguing about building winter quarters until he had me almost convinced that it was something we should do. So one day I teamed up with him, leaving Jimmy at the camp. We set off, carrying an ax and a saw and our guns.

Ben had picked a fine site for our cabin, that much I'll say. It wasn't far from the spring, and it was tucked away in a sort of pocket where we'd be protected from the wind, and there were a lot of trees nearby so we wouldn't have far to drag our timbers or haul our winter wood.

I still wasn't convinced there would be any winter. I was fairly sure that even if there were, we wouldn't have to stay that long. One of these days, we'd be able to arrive at some sort of compromise with Lulu. But Ben was worried and I knew it would make him happier if he could get a start at building. And there was nothing else for any of us to do. Building a cabin, I consoled myself, would be better than just sitting.

We leaned our guns against a tree and began to work. We had one tree down and sawed into lengths and were starting on the second tree when I heard the brush snap behind me.

I straightened up from the saw to look, and there was Elmer, tearing down the hill at us.

There wasn't any time to grab our guns. There was no time to run. There was no time for anything at all.

I yelled and made a leap for the tree behind me and pulled myself up. I felt the wind as Elmer whizzed by beneath me.

Ben had jumped to one side and, as Elmer went pounding past, heaved the ax at him. It was a honey of a throw. The ax caught Elmer in his metal side and the handle splintered into pieces.

Elmer spun around. Ben tried to reach the guns, but he didn't have the time. He took to a tree and shinnied up it like a cat. He got up to the first big branch and straddled it.

"You all right?" he yelled at me.

"Great," I said.

Elmer was standing between the two trees, swinging his massive head back and forth, as if deciding which one of us to take.

We clung there, watching him.

He had waited, I reasoned, until he could get between us and Lulu—then he had tackled us. And if that was the case, then this business of his hiding behind Lulu so he could spy on us seemed very queer indeed.

Finally Elmer wheeled around and rolled over to my tree. He squared off and took a chopping bite at it with his metal jaws. Splinters flew and the tree shivered. I got a tighter grip and looked down the trunk. Elmer was no great shakes as a chopper, but if he kept at it long enough, he'd get that tree chewed off.

I climbed up a little higher, where there were more branches and where I could wedge myself a little tighter so I couldn't be shaken out.

I got myself fixed fairly comfortable, then looked to see how Ben was getting on and I got quite a shock. He wasn't in his tree. I looked around for him and then back at the tree again, and I saw that he was sneaking down it as quietly as he could, like a hunted squirrel, keeping the trunk of the tree between himself and Elmer.

I watched him breathlessly, ready to shout out a warning if Elmer should spot him, but Elmer was too busy chopping at my tree to notice anything.

Ben reached the ground and made a dash for the guns. He grabbed both of them and ducked behind another tree. He opened up on Elmer at short range. From where I crouched, I could hear the warheads slamming into Elmer. The explosions rocked everything so much that I had to grab the tree and hang on with all my might. A couple of pieces of flying metal ripped into the tree just underneath me, and other pieces went flying through the branches, and the air was full of spinning leaves and flying shredded wood, but I was untouched.

It must have been a horrible surprise for Elmer. At the first explosion, he took a jump of about fifteen feet and bolted up the hill like a cat with a stepped-on tail. I could see a lot of new dents in his shining hide. A big hunk of metal had been gouged out of one of his wheels and he rocked slightly as he went, and he was going so fast that he couldn't dodge and ran head-on into a tree. The impact sent him skidding back a dozen feet or so. As he slid back, Ben poured another salvo into him and he seemed to become considerably lopsided, but he recovered himself and made it over the hilltop and out of sight.

Ben came out from behind his tree and shouted at me, "All right, you can come down now."

But when I tried to get down, I found that I was trapped. My left foot had become wedged in a crotch between the tree trunk and a good-sized limb and I couldn't pull it loose, no matter how I tried.

"What's the matter?" asked Ben. "Do you like it up there?"

I told him what was wrong.

"All right," he said, disgusted. "I'll come up and cut you loose."

He hunted for the ax and found it and, of course, it was no use. He'd smashed the handle when he threw it at Elmer.

He stood there, holding the ax in his hands, and delivered an oration on the lowdown meanness of fate.

Then he threw the ax down and climbed my tree. He squeezed past me out onto the limb.

"I'll climb out on it and bend it down," he explained. "Maybe then you can get loose."

He crawled out on the branch a way, but it was a shaky trick. A couple of times, he almost fell.

"You're sure you can't get your foot out now?" he asked anxiously.

I tried and I said I couldn't.

So he gave up the crawling idea and let his body down and hung on by his hands, shifting out along the branch hand over hand.

The branch bent toward the ground as he inched along it and it seemed to me my boot wasn't gripped as tightly as it had been. I tried again and found I could move it some, but I still couldn't pull it loose.

Just then there was a terrible crashing in the brush. Ben let out a yell and dropped to the ground and scurried for a gun.

The branch whipped back and caught my foot just as I had managed it move it a little and this time caught it at a slightly different angle, twisting it, and I let out a howl of pain.

Down on the ground, Ben lifted his gun and swung around to face the crashing in the brush and suddenly who should come busting out of all that racket but Jimmy, racing to the rescue.

"You guys in trouble?" he shouted. "I heard shooting."

Ben's face was three shades whiter than the purest chalk as he lowered his gun. "You fool! I almost let you have it!"

"There was all this shooting," Jimmy panted. "I came as quickly as I could."

"And left Lulu alone!"

"But I thought you guys . . ."

"Now we're sunk for sure," groaned Ben. "You know all that makes Lulu stick around is one of us being there."

We didn't know any such thing, of course. It was just the only reason we could think of why she didn't up and leave. But Ben was somewhat overwrought. He'd had a trying day.

"You get back there!" he yelled at Jimmy. "Get back as fast as your legs will let you. Maybe you can catch her before she gets away."

Which was foolishness, because if Lulu meant to leave, she'd have lifted out of there as soon as Jimmy had disappeared. But Jimmy didn't say a word. He just turned around and went crashing back. For a long time after he had left, I could hear him blundering through the woods.

Ben climbed my tree again, muttering, "Just a pack of wooden-headed jerks. Can't do anything right. Running off and leaving Lulu. Getting trapped up in a tree. You would think, by God, that they could learn to watch out for themselves . . .."

He said a good deal more than that.

I didn't answer back. I didn't want to get into any argument.

My foot was hurting something fierce and the only thing I wanted him to do was get me out of there.

He climbed out on the branch again and I got my foot loose. While Ben dropped to the ground, I climbed down the tree. My foot hurt pretty bad and seemed to be swelling some, but I could hobble on it.

He didn't wait for me. He grabbed his gun and made off rapidly for camp.

I tried to hurry, but it was no use, so I took it easy.

When I got to the edge of the woods, I saw that Lulu still was there and all Ben's hell-raising had been over absolutely nothing. There are some guys like that.

When I reached camp, Jimmy pulled off my boot while I clawed at the ground. Then he heated a pail of water for me to soak the foot in and rummaged around in the medicine chest and found some goo that he smeared on the foot. Personally, I don't think he knew what he was doing. But I'll say this for the kid—he had some kindness in him.

All this time, Ben was fuming around about a funny thing that had attracted his attention. When we had left camp, the area around Lulu had been all tracked up with our tracks and Elmer's tracks, but now it was swept clean. It looked exactly as if someone had taken a broom and had swept out all the tracks. It surely was a funny business, but Ben was making too much of it. The important thing was that Lulu still was there. As long as she stuck around, there was a chance we could work out some agreement with her. Once she left, we were marooned for good.

Jimmy fixed something to eat, and after we had eaten, Ben said to us, "I think I'll go out and see how Elmer's getting on."

I, for one, had seen enough of Elmer for a lifetime and Jimmy wasn't interested. Said he wanted to work on his saga.

So Ben took a rifle and set out alone, back into the hills.

My foot hurt me quite a bit and I got myself comfortable and tried to do some thinking, but I tried so hard that I put myself to sleep.

It was late in the afternoon when I awoke. Jimmy was getting nervous.

"Ben hasn't shown up," he said. "I wonder if something's happened to him."

I didn't like it, either, but we decided to wait a while before going out to hunt Ben. After all, he wasn't in the best of humor and he might have been considerably upset if we'd gone out to rescue him.

He finally showed up just before dusk, tuckered out and a little flabbergasted. He leaned his rifle against a box and sat down. He found a cup and reached for the coffeepot.

"Elmer's gone," he said. "I spend all afternoon trying to find him. Not a sign of him anywhere."

My first reaction was that it was just fine. Then I realized that the safest thing would be to know where Elmer was, so we could keep an eye on him. And suddenly I had a horrible hunch that I knew where Elmer was.

"I didn't actually go down into the valley," said Ben, "but I walked around and glassed it from every angle."

"He might be in one of the caves," Jimmy said.

"Maybe so," said Ben.

We did a lot of speculating on what might have happened to Elmer. Jimmy held out for his having holed up in one of the caves. Ben was inclined to think he might have cleared out of the country. I didn't say what I thought. It was too fantastic.

I volunteered for the first watch, saying that I couldn't sleep with my foot, anyhow, and after the two of them were asleep, I walked over to Lulu and rapped on her hide. I didn't expect anything to happen. I figured she would keep on sulking.

But she put out a tentacle and grew a face on it—a lens, an audio and speaker.

"It was nice of you," I said, "not to run away and leave us."

Lulu swore. It was the first and the only time I have ever heard her use such language.

"How could I leave?" she asked when she at last turned printable. "Of all the dirty human tricks! I'd have been gone long ago if it weren't for—"

"What dirty trick?"

"As if you didn't know. A built-in block that won't let me move unless there's one of you detestable humans inside me."

"I didn't know," I said.

"Don't try to pass the buck," she snapped. "It's a dirty human trick and you're a dirty human and you're just as responsible as all the rest of them. But it doesn't make any difference any more, because I've found myself. I am finally content. I know what I was meant for. I have—"

"Lulu," I asked her, straight out, "are you shacking up with Elmer?"

"That's a vulgar way to say it," Lulu told me heatedly. "It's the nasty human way. Elmer is a scholar and a gentleman and his loyalty to his ancient, long-dead masters is a touching thing no human could be capable of. He has been badly treated and I shall make it up to him. All he wanted from you was the phosphate in your bones—"

"The phosphate in our bones!" I yelled.

"Why, certainly," said Lulu. "Poor Elmer has such a hard time finding any phosphate. He got it at first from animals that he caught, but now all the animals are gone. There are birds, of course, but birds are hard to catch. And you had such nice, big bones—"

"That's a fine thing for you to say," I bawled her out sternly. "You were built by humans and humans educated you and—"

"Still I'm a machine," said Lulu, "and I am closer to Elmer than I am to you. You humans can't get it through your heads that there might be a legitimate set of non-human values. You are horrified that Elmer wanted the phosphate in your bones, but if there were a metal in Elmer that you needed, you'd break him up to get it without a second thought. You wouldn't even consider that you might be wrong. You'd think it an imposition if Elmer should object. That's the trouble with you and your human race. I've had enough. I have what I want. I am content to stay here. I've found the great love of my life. And for all I care, your pals and you can rot."

She pulled in her face and I didn't rap to try to get her to talk any more. I figured there wasn't any use. She had made it about as plain as anyone could wish.

I walked back to the camp and woke Ben and Jimmy. I told them about my hunch and about the talk with Lulu. We were pretty glum, because we were all washed up.

Up till now, there had always been the chance that we could make a deal with Lulu. I had felt all along that we needn't worry too much—that Lulu was more alone than we were and that eventually she would have to be reasonable. But now Lulu was not alone and she no longer needed us. And she still was sore at us—and not just at us, but at the whole human race.

And the worst of it was that this was no sudden whim. It had been going on for days. Elmer hadn't been really watching us when he'd hung around at night. He'd come to neck with Lulu. And undoubtedly the two of them had planned Elmer's attack on Ben and me, knowing that Jimmy would be loping to the rescue, leaving the coast clear so that Elmer could rush back and Lulu could take him in. And once it had been accomplished, Lulu had put out a tentacle and swept the tracks away so we wouldn't know that Elmer was inside.

"So she jilted us," said Ben.

"No worse than we did to her," Jimmy reminded him.

"But what did she expect? A man can't love a robot."

"Evidently," I said, "a robot can love a robot. And that's a new one to paste into the book."

"Lulu's crazy," Ben declared.

In all this great romance of Lulu's, it seemed to me there was a certain false note. Why should Lulu and Elmer be sneaky about their love? Lulu could have opened the port any time she wanted and Elmer could have scampered up the ramp right before our eyes. But they hadn't done that. They had planned and plotted. They had practically eloped.

I wondered if, on Lulu's part, it might be the mark of shame. Was she ashamed of Elmer—ashamed that she had fallen for him? Much as she might deny it, perhaps she nursed the smug snobbery of the human race.

Or was I only thinking this to save my own smug snobbery, simply building up a defense mechanism against being forced to admit, now or in some future time, that there might be other values than the ones evolved by humans? For in us all, I knew, lingered that reluctance to recognize that our way was not necessarily best, that the human viewpoint might not be the universal viewpoint to which all other life must eventually conform.

Ben made a pot of coffee, and while we sat around and drank it, we said some bitter things of Lulu. I don't regret anything we said, for she had it coming to her. She'd played us a nasty trick.

We finally rolled back into our blankets and didn't bother standing guard. With Elmer out of circulation, there was no need.

The next morning my foot was still sore, so I stayed behind while Ben and Jimmy went out to explore the valley that held the ruined city. Meantime, I hobbled out and walked all around Lulu, looking her over. There was no way I could see that a man might bust into her. The port itself was machined so closely that you had to get real close to see the tiny hairline where it fitted into her side.

Even if we could bust into her, I wondered, could we take control of her? There were the emergencies, of course, but I wasn't too sure just how much use they were. They certainly hadn't bothered Lulu much when she'd got that crazy notion of eloping with us. Then she'd simply jammed them and had left us helpless.

And if we broke into Lulu, we'd come to grips with Elmer, and Elmer was just the kind of beast I had no hankering to come to grips with.

So I went back to camp and puttered around, thinking that now we'd really have to begin to lay some plans about how to get along. We'd have to build that cabin and work up a food supply and do the best we could to get along on our own. For I was fairly certain that we could expect no help from Lulu.

Ben and Jimmy came back in the afternoon and their eyes were shining with excitement. They spread out a blanket and emptied their pockets of the most incredible things any man has ever laid eyes on.

Don't expect me to describe that stuff. There's no point in trying to. What is the sense of saying that a certain item was like a metal chain and that it was yellow? There is no way to get across the feel of it as it slid through one's fingers or the tinkle of it as it moved or the blazing color that was a sort of living yellow. It is very much like saying that a famous painting is square and flat and blue, with some green and red.

The chain was only a part of it. There were a lot of other doodads and each one of them was the sort of thing to snatch your breath away.

Ben shrugged at the question in my eyes. "Don't ask me. It's only some stuff we picked up. The caves are full of it. Stuff like this and a whole lot more. We just picked up one thing here and another there—whatever was pocket-size and happened to catch our eye. Trinkets. Samples. I don't know."

Like jackdaws, I thought. Or pack-rats. Grabbing a thing that shone or had a certain shape or a certain texture—taking it because it was pretty, not knowing what its use might be or if, in fact, it had any use at all.

"Those caves may have been storehouses," said Ben. "They're jammed with all sorts of things—not much of any one thing, apparently. All different, as if these aliens had set up a trading post and had their merchandise on display. There seems to be a sort of curtain in front of each of the caves. You can see a shimmer and hear a hissing, but you can't feel a thing when you step through it. And behind that curtain, all the junk they left is as clean and bright and new as the day they left it."

I looked at the articles spread on the blanket. It was hard to keep your hands off them, for they felt good in your hands and were pleasing to the eye and one seemed to get a sense of warmth and richness just by handling them.

"Something happened to those folks," said Jimmy. "They knew it was going to happen, so they took all this stuff and laid it out—all the many things they had made, all the things they'd used and loved. Because, you see, that way there always was a chance someone might come along someday and find it, so they and the culture they had fashioned would not be entirely lost."

It was exactly the kind of silly, sentimental drivel you could expect from a glassy-eyed romantic like Jimmy.

But for whatever reason the artifacts of that vanished race had gotten in the caves, we were the ones who'd found them and here once again they'd run into a dead end. Even if we had been equipped to puzzle out their use, even if we had been able to ferret out the basic principles of that long-dead culture, it still would be a useless business. We were not going anywhere; we wouldn't be passing on the knowledge. We'd live out our lives here on this planet, and when the last of us had died, the ancient silence and the old uncaring would close down once again.

We weren't going anywhere and neither was Lulu. It was a double dead end.

It was too bad, I thought, for Earth could use the knowledge and the insight that could be wrested from those caves and from the mounds. And now more than a hundred feet from where we sat lay the very tool that Earth had spent twenty years in building to dig out that specific kind of knowledge, should man ever happen on it.

"It must be terrible," said Jimmy, "to realize that all the things and all the knowledge that you ever had, all the trying, all the praying, all the dreams and hopes, will be wiped out forever. That all of you and your way of life and your understanding of that life will simply disappear and no one will ever know."

"You said it, kid," I chipped in.

He stared at me with haunted, stricken eyes. "That may be why they did it."

Watching him, the tenseness of him, the suffering in his face, I caught a glimpse of why he was a poet—why he had to be a poet. But even so, he still was an utter creep.

"Earth has to know about this," Ben said flatly.

"Sure," I agreed. "I'll run right over and let them know."

"Always the smart guy," Ben growled at me. "When are you going to cut out being bright and get down to business?"

"Like busting Lulu open, I suppose."

"That's right. We have to get back somehow and Lulu's the only way to get there."

"It might surprise you, Buster, but I thought of all that before you. I went out today and looked Lulu over. If you can figure how to bust into her, you've a better brain than I have."

"Tools," said Ben. "If we only had—"

"We have. An ax without a handle, a hammer and a saw. A small pinch-bar, a plane, a draw-shave—"

"We might make some tools."

"Find the ore and smelt it and—"

"I was thinking of those caves," said Ben. "There might be tools in there."

I wasn't even interested. I knew it was impossible.

"We might find some explosive," Ben went on. "We might—"

"Look," I said, "what do you want to do—open Lulu up or blow her to bits? Anyhow, I don't think you can do a thing about it. Lulu is a self-maintaining robot, or have you forgotten? Bore a hole in her and she'll grow it shut. Go monkeying around too much and she'll grow a club and clout you on the head."

Ben's eyes blazed with fury and frustration. "Earth has to know! You understand that, don't you? Earth has got to know!"

"Sure," I said. "Absolutely."

In the morning, I thought, he'd come to his senses, see how impossible it was. And that was important. Before we began to lay any plans, it was necessary that we realize what we were up against. That way, you conserve a lot of energy and miss a lot of lumps.

But, come morning, he still had that crazy light of frustration in his eyes and he was filled with a determination that was based on nothing more than downright desperation.

After breakfast, Jimmy said he wasn't going with us.

"For God's sake, why not?" demanded Ben.

"I'm way behind on my writing," Jimmy told him, deadpan. "I'm still working on that saga."

Ben wanted to argue with him, but I cut him off disgustedly.

"Let us go," I said. "He's no use, anyhow."

Which was the solemn truth.

So the two of us went out to the caves. It was the first time I had seen them and they were something to see. There were a dozen of them and all of them were crammed. I got dizzy just walking up and down, looking at all the gadgets and the thingumbobs and dofunnies, not knowing, of course, what any of them were. It was maddening enough just to look at them; it was plain torture trying to figure out what use they might be put to. But Ben was plain hell-bent on trying to figure out because he'd picked up the stubborn conviction that we could find a gadget that would help us get the best of Lulu.

We worked all day and I was dog-tired at the end of it. Not once in the entire day had we found anything that made any sense at all. I wonder if you can imagine how it felt to stand there, surrounded by all those devices, knowing there were things within your reach that, rightly used, could open up entirely new avenues for human thoughts and technique and imagination. And yet you stood there powerless—an alien illiterate.

But there was no stopping Ben. We went out again the next day and the day after and we kept on going out. On the second day, we found a dojigger that was just fine for opening cans, although I'm fairly sure that was not at all what it was designed for. And on the following day, we finally puzzled out how another piece of equipment could be used for digging slanted postholes and, I ask you, who in their right mind would be wanting slanted postholes?

We got nowhere, but we kept on going out and I sensed that Ben had no more hope than I had, but that he still kept at it because it was the one remaining fingerhold he had on sanity.

I don't think that for one moment he considered the source or significance of that heritage we'd found. To him, it became no more than a junkyard through which we searched frantically to find one unrecognizable piece of scrap that we might improvise into something that would serve our purpose.

As the days went on, the valley and its mounds, the caves and their residue of a vanished culture seized upon my imagination, and it seemed to me that, in some mysterious manner, I grew closer to that extinct race and sensed at once its greatness and its tragedy. And the feeling grew as well that this frantic hunt of ours bordered on sacrilege and callous profanation of the dead.

Jimmy had not gone out with us a single day. He'd sit hunched over his ream of paper and he scribbled and revised and crossed out words and put in others. He'd get up and walk around in circles or pace back and forth and mumble to himself, then go back and write some more. He scarcely ate and he wouldn't talk and he only slept a little. He was the very portrait of a Young Man in the Throes of Creation.

I got curious about it, wondering if, with all this agony and sweat, he might be at last writing something that was worth the effort. So, when he wasn't looking, I sneaked out a page of it.

It was even worse than the goo he had written before.

That night I lay awake and looked up at the unfamiliar stars and surrendered myself to loneliness. Only, once I had surrendered, I found that I was not so lonely as I might have been—that somehow I had drawn comfort and perhaps even understanding from the muteness of the ruin-mounds and the shining wonder of the trove.

Finally I dropped asleep.

I don't know what woke me. It might have been the wind or the sound of the waves breaking on the beach or maybe the chilliness of the night.

Then I heard it, a voice like a chant, solemn and sonorous, a throaty whisper in the dark.

I started up and propped myself on an elbow—and caught my breath at what I saw.

Jimmy was standing in front of Lulu, holding a flashlight in one hand, reading her his saga. His voice had a rolling quality, and despite the soggy words, there was a fascination in the tenor of his tone. It must have been so that the ancient Greeks read their Homer in the flare of torches before the next day's battle.

And Lulu was listening. She had a face hung out and the tentacle which supported it was twisted to one side, so that her audio would not miss a single syllable, just as a man might cup his ear.

Looking at that touching scene, I began to feel a little sorry about the way we'd treated Jimmy. We wouldn't listen to him and the poor devil had to read that tripe of his to someone. His soul hungered for appreciation and he'd got no appreciation out of either Ben or me. Merely writing was not enough for him; he must share it. He had to have an audience.

I put out a hand and shook Ben gently by the shoulder. He came storming up out of his blankets.

"What the hell is—"

"Sh-h-h!"

He drew in a whistling breath and dropped on one knee beside me.

Jimmy went on with his reading and Lulu, with her face cocked attentively, went on listening.

Part of the words came to us, wind-blown and fragmentary:

"Wanderer of the far ways between the two faces of eternity,

True, forever, to the race that forged her,

With the winds of alien space blowing in her hair,

Wearing a circlet of stars as her crown of glory . . ."

Lulu wept. There was the shine of tears in that single, gleaming lens.

She grew another tentacle and there was a hand on the end of it and a handkerchief, a very white and lacy and extremely feminine hanky, was clutched within the hand.

She dabbed with the handkerchief at her dripping eye.

If she had had a nose, she undoubtedly would have blown it, delicately, of course, and very ladylike.

"And you wrote it all for me?" she asked.

"All for you," said Jimmy. He was lying like a trooper. The only reason he was reading it to her was because he knew that Ben and I wouldn't listen to it.

"I've been so wrong," Lulu sighed.

She wiped her eye quite dry and briskly polished it.

"Just a second," she said, very businesslike. "There's something I must do."

We waited, scarcely breathing.

Slowly the port in Lulu's side came open. She grew a long, limber tentacle and reached inside the port and hauled Elmer out. She held him dangling.

"You lout!" she stormed at Elmer. "I take you in and stuff you full of phosphate. I get your dents smoothed out and I polish you all bright. And then what? Do you write sagas for me? No, you grow fat and satisfied. There's no mark of greatness on you, no spark of imagination. You're nothing but a dumb machine!"

Elmer just dangled at the end of Lulu's tentacle, but his wheels were spinning furiously and I took that to mean that he was upset.

"Love!" proclaimed Lulu. "Love for the likes of us? We machines have better things to do—far better. There are the star-studded trails of space waiting for our tread, the bitter winds of foreverness blowing from the cloud banks of eternity, the mountains of the great beyond . . ."

She went on for quite a while about the challenge of the farther galaxies, about wearing a coronet of stars, about the dust of shattered time paving the road that led into the ultimate nothingness, and all of it was lifted from what Jimmy called a saga.

Then, when she was all through, she hurled Elmer down the beach and he hit the sand and skidded straight into the water.

We didn't wait to see any more of it. We were off like sprinters. We hit the ramp full tilt and went up it in a leap and flung ourselves into our quarters.

Lulu slammed the port behind us.

"Welcome home," she said.

I walked over to Jimmy and held out my hand. "Great going, kid. You got Longfellow backed clear off the map."

Ben also shook his hand. "It was a masterpiece."

"And now," said Lulu, "we'll be on our way."

"Our way!" yelled Ben. "We can't leave this planet. Not right away at least. There's that city out there. We can't go until—"

"Phooey on the city," Lulu said. "Phooey on the data. We are off star-wandering. We are searching out the depths of silence. We are racing down the corridors of space with thunder in our brain—the everlasting thunder of a dread eternity."

We turned and looked at Jimmy.

"Every word of it," I said. "Every single word of it out of that muck he wrote."

Ben took a quick step forward and grabbed Jimmy by his shirt front.

"Don't you feel the urge," Ben asked him, "don't you feel a mighty impulse to write a lengthy ode to home—its comfort and its glory and all the other clichés?"

Jimmy's teeth were chattering just a little.

"Lulu is a sucker," Ben said, "for everything you write."

I lifted a fist and let Jimmy smell of it.

"You better make it good," I warned him. "You better write like you never wrote before."

"But keep it sloppy," Ben said. "That's the way Lulu likes it."

Jimmy sat down on the floor and began writing desperately.

* * *

Clifford Donald Simak was the author of many books and stories. He died in 1988.

Pollock And The Porroh Man

Written by H. G. Wells
Illustrated by Paul Campbell

It was in a swampy village on the lagoon river behind the Turner Peninsula that Pollock's first encounter with the Porroh man occurred. The women of that country are famous for their good looks—they are Galinas with a dash of European blood that dates from the days of Vasco de Gama and the English slave-traders, and the Porroh man, too, was possibly inspired by a faint Caucasian taint in his composition. (It's a curious thing to think that some of us may have distant cousins eating men on Sherboro Island or raiding with the Sofas.) At any rate, the Porroh man stabbed the woman to the heart as though he had been a mere low-class Italian, and very narrowly missed Pollock. But Pollock, using his revolver to parry the lightning stab which was aimed at his deltoid muscle, sent the iron dagger flying, and, firing, hit the man in the hand.

He fired again and missed, knocking a sudden window out of the wall of the hut. The Porroh man stooped in the doorway, glancing under his arm at Pollock. Pollock caught a glimpse of his inverted face in the sunlight, and then the Englishman was alone, sick and trembling with the excitement of the affair, in the twilight of the place. It had all happened in less time than it takes to read about it.

The woman was quite dead, and having ascertained this, Pollock went to the entrance of the hut and looked out. Things outside were dazzling bright. Half a dozen of the porters of the expedition were standing up in a group near the green huts they occupied, and staring towards him, wondering what the shots might signify. Behind the little group of men was the broad stretch of black fetid mud by the river, a green carpet of rafts of papyrus and water-grass, and then the leaden water. The mangroves beyond the stream loomed indistinctly through the blue haze. There were no signs of excitement in the squat village, whose fence was just visible above the cane-grass.

Pollock came out of the hut cautiously and walked towards the river, looking over his shoulder at intervals. But the Porroh man had vanished. Pollock clutched his revolver nervously in his hand.

One of his men came to meet him, and as he came, pointed to the bushes behind the hut in which the Porroh man had disappeared. Pollock had an irritating persuasion of having made an absolute fool of himself; he felt bitter, savage, at the turn things had taken. At the same time, he would have to tell Waterhouse—the moral, exemplary, cautious Waterhouse—who would inevitably take the matter seriously. Pollock cursed bitterly at his luck, at Waterhouse, and especially at the West Coast of Africa. He felt consummately sick of the expedition. And in the back of his mind all the time was a speculative doubt where precisely within the visible horizon the Porroh man might be.

It is perhaps rather shocking, but he was not at all upset by the murder that had just happened. He had seen so much brutality during the last three months, so many dead women, burnt huts, drying skeletons, up the Kitam River in the wake of the Sofa cavalry, that his senses were blunted. What disturbed him was the persuasion that this business was only beginning.

He swore savagely at the black, who ventured to ask a question, and went on into the tent under the orange-trees where Waterhouse was lying, feeling exasperatingly like a boy going into the headmaster's study.

Waterhouse was still sleeping of the effects of his last dose of chlorodyne, and Pollock sat down on a packing-case beside him, and, lighting his pipe, waited for him to awake. About him were scattered the pots and weapons Waterhouse had collected from the Mendi people, and which he had been repacking for the canoe voyage to Sulyma.

Presently Waterhouse woke up, and after judicial stretching, decided he was all right again. Pollock got him some tea. Over the tea the incidents of the afternoon were described by Pollock, after some preliminary beating about the bush. Waterhouse took the matter even more seriously than Pollock had anticipated. He did not simply disapprove, he scolded, he insulted.

'You're one of those infernal fools who think a black man isn't a human being,' he said. 'I can't be ill a day without you must get into some dirty scrape or other. This is the third time in a month that you have come crossway's-on with a native, and this time you're in for it with a vengeance. Porroh, too! They're down upon you enough as it is, about that idol you wrote your silly name on. And they're the most vindictive devils on earth! You make a man ashamed of civilization To think you come of a decent family! If ever I cumber myself up with a vicious, stupid young lout like you again'—

'Steady on, now,' snarled Pollock, in the tone that always exasperated Waterhouse; 'steady on.'

At that Waterhouse became speechless. He jumped to his feet.

'Look here, Pollock,' he said, after a struggle to control his breath. 'You must go home. I won't have you any longer. I'm ill enough as it is through you'—

'Keep your hair on,' said Pollock, staring in front of him. 'I'm ready enough to go.'

Waterhouse became calmer again. He sat down on the camp-stool. 'Very well,' he said. 'I don't want a row, Pollock, you know, but it's confoundedly annoying to have one's plans put out by this kind of thing. I'll come to Sulyma with you, and see you safe aboard'—

'You needn't,' said Pollock 'I can go alone. From here.'

'Not far,' said Waterhouse. 'You don't understand this Porroh business.'

'How should I know she belonged to a Porroh man?' said Pollock bitterly

'Well, she did,' said Waterhouse; 'and you can't undo the thing. Go alone, indeed! I wonder what they'd do to you. You don't seem to understand that this Porroh hokey-pokey rules this country, is its law, religion, constitution, medicine, magic . They appoint the chiefs. The Inquisition, at its best, couldn't hold a candle to these chaps. He will probably set Awajale, the chief here, on to us. It's lucky our porters are Mendis. We shall have to shift this little settlement of ours . Confound you, Pollock! And, of course, you must go and miss him.'

He thought, and his thoughts seemed disagreeable. Presently he stood up and took his rifle. 'I'd keep close for a bit, if I were you,' he said, over his shoulder, as he went out. 'I'm going out to see what I can find out about it.'

Pollock remained sitting in the tent, meditating. 'I was meant for a civilized life,' he said to himself, regretfully, as he filed his pipe. 'The sooner I get back to London or Paris the better for me.'

His eye fell on the sealed case in which Waterhouse had put the featherless poisoned arrows they had bought in the Mendi country. 'I wish I had hit the beggar somewhere vital,' said Pollock viciously.

Waterhouse came back after a long interval. He was not communicative, though Pollock asked him questions enough. The Porroh man, it seems, was a prominent member of that mystical society. The village was interested, but not threatening. No doubt the witch-doctor had gone into the bush. He was a great witch-doctor. 'Of course, he's up to something,' said Waterhouse, and became silent.

'But what can he do?' asked Pollock, unheeded.

'I must get you out of this. There's something brewing, or things would not be so quiet,' said Waterhouse, after a gap of silence. Pollock wanted to know what the brew might be. 'Dancing in a circle of skulls,' said Waterhouse; 'brewing a stink in a copper pot.' Pollock wanted particulars. Waterhouse was vague, Pollock pressing. At last Waterhouse lost his temper. 'How the devil should I know?' he said to Pollock's twentieth inquiry what the Porroh man would do. 'He tried to kill you off-hand in the hut. Now, I fancy he will try something more elaborate. But you'll see fast enough. I don't want to help unnerve you. It's probably all nonsense.'

That night, as they were sitting at their fire, Pollock again tried to draw Waterhouse out on the subject of Porroh methods. 'Better get to sleep,' said Waterhouse, when Pollock's bent became apparent; 'we start early tomorrow. You may want all your nerve about you.'

'But what line will he take?'

'Can't say. They're versatile people. They know a lot of rum dodges. You'd better get that copper-devil, Shakespeare, to talk.'

There was a flash and a heavy bang out of the darkness behind the huts, and a clay bullet came whistling close to Pollock's head. This, at least, was crude enough. The blacks and half-breeds sitting and yarning round their own fire jumped up, and someone fired into the dark.

'Better go into one of the huts,' said Waterhouse quietly, still sitting unmoved.

Pollock stood up by the fire and drew his revolver. Fighting, at least, he was not afraid of. But a man in the dark is in the best of armour. Realizing the wisdom of Waterhouse's advice, Pollock went into the tent and lay down there.

What little sleep he had was disturbed by dreams, variegated dreams, but chiefly of the Porroh man's face, upside down, as he went out of the hut, and looked up under his arm. It was odd that this transitory impression should have stuck so firmly in Pollock's memory. Moreover, he was troubled by queer pains in his limbs.

In the white haze of the early morning, as they were loading the canoes, a barbed arrow suddenly appeared quivering in the ground close to Pollock's foot. The boys made a perfunctory effort to clear out the thicket, but it led to no capture.

After these two occurrences, there was a disposition on the part of the expedition to leave Pollock to himself, and Pollock became, for the first time in his life, anxious to mingle with blacks. Waterhouse took one canoe, and Pollock, in spite of a friendly desire to chat with Waterhouse, had to take the other. He was left all alone in the front part of the canoe, and he had the greatest trouble to make the men—who did not love him—keep to the middle of the river, a clear hundred yards or more from either shore. However, he made Shakespeare, the Freetown half-breed, come up to his own end of the canoe and tell him about Porroh, which Shakespeare, failing in his attempts to leave Pollock alone, presently did with considerable freedom and gusto.

The day passed. The canoe glided swiftly along the ribbon of lagoon water, between the drift of water-figs, fallen trees, papyrus, and palm wine palms, and with the dark mangrove swamp to the left, through which one could hear now and then the roar of the Atlantic surf. Shakespeare told in his soft, blurred English of how the Porroh could cast spells; how men withered up under their malice; how they could send dreams and devils; how they tormented and killed the sons of Ijibu; how they kidnapped a white trader from Sulyma who had maltreated one of the sect, and how his body looked when it was found. And Pollock after each narrative cursed under his breath at the want of missionary enterprise that allowed such things to be, and at the inert British Government that ruled over this dark heathendom of sierra Leone. In the evening they came to the Kasi Lake, and sent a score of crocodiles lumbering of the island on which the expedition camped for the night.

The next day they reached Sulyma, and smelt the sea breeze, but Pollock had to put up there for five days before he could get on to Freetown. Waterhouse, considering him to be comparatively safe here, and within the pale of Freetown influence, left him and went back with the expedition to Gbemma, and Pollock became very friendly with Perera, the only resident white trader at Sulyma—so friendly, indeed, that he went about with him everywhere. Perera was a little Portuguese Jew, who had lived in England, and he appreciated the Englishman s friendliness as a great compliment.

For two days nothing happened out of the ordinary; for the most part Pollock and Perera played Nap—the only game they had in common—and Pollock got into debt. Then, on the second evening, Pollock had a disagreeable intimation of the arrival of the Porroh man in Sulyma by getting a flesh-wound in the shoulder from a lump of filed iron. It was a long shot, and the missile had nearly spent its force when it hit him. Still it conveyed its message plainly enough. Pollock sat up in his hammock, revolver in hand, all that night, and next morning confided, to some extent, in the Anglo-Portuguese.

Perera took the mater seriously. He knew the local customs pretty thoroughly. 'It is a personal question, you must know. It is revenge. And of course he is hurried by your leaving de country. None of de natives or half-breeds will interfere wid him very much—unless you make it wort deir while. If you come upon him suddenly, you might shoot him. But den he might shoot you.

'Den dere's dis—infernal magic,' said Perera. 'Of course, I don't believe in it—superstition—but still it's not nice to tink dat wherever you are, dere is a black man, who spends a moonlight night now and den a-dancing about a fire to send you bad dreams . Had any bad dreams?'

'Rather,' said Pollock 'I keep on seeing the beggar's head upside down grinning at me and showing all his teeth as he did in the hut, and coming close up to me, and then going ever so far off, and coming back. It's nothing to be afraid of, but somehow it simply paralyzes me with terror in my sleep. Queer things—dreams. I know it's a dream all the time, and I can't wake up from it.'

'It's probably only fancy,' said Perera. 'Den my niggers say Porroh man can send snakes. Seen any snakes lately?'

'Only one. I killed him this morning, on the floor near my hammock. Almost trod on him as I got up.'

'Ah!' said Perera, and then, reassuringly, 'Of course it is a—coincidence. Still I would keep my eyes open. Den dere's pains in de bones.'

'I thought they were due to miasma,' said Pollock

'Probably dey are. When did dey begin?'

Then Pollock remembered that he first noticed them the night after the fight in the hut. 'It's my opinion he don't want to kill you,' said Perera—'at least not yet. I've heard deir idea is to scare and worry a man wid deir spells, and narrow misses, and rheumatic pains, and bad dreams, and all dadat, until he's sick of life. Of course, it's all talk, you know. You mustn't worry about it . . . But I wonder what he'll be up to next.'

'I shall have to be up to something first,' said Pollock, staring gloomily at the greasy cards that Perera was pouting on the table. 'It don't suit my dignity to be followed about, and shot at, and blighted in this way. I wonder if Porroh hokey-pokey upsets your luck at cards.'

He looked at Perera suspiciously.

'Very likely it does,' said Perera warmly, shuffling 'Dey are wonderful people.'

That afternoon Pollock killed two snakes in his hammock, and there was also an extraordinary increase in the number of red ants that swarmed over the place; and these annoyances put him in a fit temper to talk over business with a certain Mendi rough he had interviewed before. The Mendi rough showed Pollock a little iron dagger, and demonstrated where one struck in the neck, in a way that made Pollock shiver, and in return for certain considerations Pollock promised him a double-barreled gun with an ornamental lock.

In the evening, as Pollock and Perera were playing cards, the Mendi rough came in through the doorway, carrying something in a blood-soaked piece of native cloth.

'Not here!' said Pollock very hurriedly 'Not here!'

But he was not quick enough to prevent the man, who was anxious to get to Pollock's side of the bargain, from opening the cloth and throwing the head of the Porroh man upon the table. It bounded from there on to the floor, leaving a red trail on the cards, and rolled into the corner, where it came to rest upside down, but glaring hard at Pollock

Perera jumped up as the thing fell among the cards, and began in his excitement to gabble in Portuguese. The Mendi was bowing, with the red cloth in his hand. 'De gun!' he cried. Pollock stared back at the head in the corner. It bore exactly the expression it had in his dreams. Something seemed to snap in his own brain as he looked at it.

Then Perera found his English again.

'You got him killed?' he said. 'You did not kill him yourself?'

'Why should I?' said Pollock

'But he will not be able to take it of now!'

'Take what of?' said Pollock

'And all dese cards are spoiled!'

'What do you mean by taking of?' said Pollock

'You must send me a new pack from Freetown. You can buy dem dere.

'But—"take it of"?'

'It is only superstition. I forgot. De niggers say dat if de witches—he was a witch—But it is rubbish . You must make de Porroh man take it of, or kill him yourself . It is very silly'

Pollock swore under his breath, still staring hard at the head in the corner.

'I can't stand that glare,' he said. Then suddenly he rushed at the thing and kicked it. It rolled some yards or so, and came to rest in the same position as before, upside down, and looking at him.

'He is ugly,' said the Anglo-Portuguese. 'Very ugly. Dey do it on deir faces with little knives.'

Pollock would have kicked the head again, but the Mendi man touched him on the arm. 'De gun?' he said, looking nervously at the head.

'Two—if you will take that beastly thing away.' said Pollock

The Mendi shook his head, and intimated that he only wanted one gun now due to him, and for which he would be obliged. Pollock found neither cajolery nor bullying any good with him. Perera had a gun to sell (at a profit of three hundred per cent), and with that the man presently departed. Then Pollock's eyes, against his will, were recalled to the thing on the floor.

'It is funny dat his head keeps upside down,' said Perera, with an uneasy laugh. 'His brains must be heavy, like de weight in de little images one sees dat keep always upright wid lead in dem. You will take him wiv you when you go presently. You might take him now. De cards are all spoilt. Dere is a man sell dem in Freetown. De room is in a filthy mess as it is. You should have killed him yourself.'

Pollock pulled himself together, and went and picked up the head. He would hang it up by the lamp-hook in the middle of the ceiling of his room, and dig a grave for it at once. He was under the impression that he hung it up by the hair, but that must have been wrong, for when he returned for it, it was hanging by the neck upside down.

He buried it before sunset on the north side of the shed he occupied, so that he should not have to pass the grave after dark when he was returning from Perera's. He killed two snakes before he went to sleep. In the darkest part of the night he awoke with a start, and heard a pattering sound and something scraping on the floor. He sat up noiselessly, and felt under his pillow for his revolver. A mumbling growl followed, and Pollock fired at the sound. There was a yelp, and something dark passed for a moment across the hazy blue of the doorway. 'A dog!' said Pollock, lying down again.

In the early dawn he awoke again with a peculiar sense of unrest. The vague pain in his bones had returned. For some time he lay watching the red ants that were swarming over the ceiling, and then, as the light grew brighter, he looked over the edge of his hammock and saw something dark on the floor. He gave such a violent start that the hammock overset and flung him out.

He found himself lying, perhaps, a yard away from the head of the Porroh man. It had been disinterred by the dog, and the nose was grievously battered. Ants and flies swarmed over it. By an odd coincidence, it was still upside down, and with the same diabolical expression in the inverted eyes.

Pollock sat paralyzed, and stared at the horror for some time. Then he got up and walked round it—giving it a wide berth—and out of the shed. The clear light of the sunrise, the living stir of vegetation before the breath of the dying land-breeze, and the empty grave with the marks of the dog's paws, lightened the weight upon his mind a little

He told Perera of the business as though it was a jest—a jest to be told with white lips. 'You should not have frighten de dog,' said Perera, with poorly simulated hilarity.

The next two days, until the steamer came, were spent by Pollock in making a more effectual disposition of his possession. Overcoming his aversion to handling the thing, he went down to the river mouth and threw it into the sea-water, but by some miracle it escaped the crocodiles, and was cast up by the tide on the mud a little way up the river, to be found by an intelligent Arab half-breed, and offered for sale to Pollock and Perera as a curiosity, just on the edge of night. The native hung about in the brief twilight, making lower and lower offers, and at last, getting scared in some way by the evident dread these wise white men had for the thing, went off, and, passing Pollock's shed, threw his burden in there for Pollock to discover in the morning.

At this Pollock got into a kind of frenzy. He would burn the thing. He went out straightway into the dawn, and had constructed a big pyre of brushwood before the heat of the day. He was interrupted by the hooter of the little paddle steamer from Monrovia to Bathurst, which was coming through the gap in the bar. 'Thank Heaven!' said Pollock, with infinite piety, when the meaning of the sound dawned upon him. With trembling hands he lit his pile of wood hastily, threw the head upon it, and went away to pack his portmanteau and make his adieux to Perera.

That afternoon, with a sense of infinite relief, Pollock watched the flat swampy foreshore of Suilyma grow small in the distance. The gap in the long line of white surge became narrower and narrower It seemed to be closing in and cutting him of from his trouble. The feeling of dread and worry began to slip from him bit by bit. At Sulyma belief in Porroh malignity and Porroh magic had been in the air, his sense of Porroh had been vast, pervading, threatening, dreadful. Now manifestly the domain of Porroh was only a little place, a little black band between the sea and the blue cloudy Mendi uplands.

'Good-bye, Porroh!' said Pollock 'Good-bye—certainly not au revoir.'

The captain of the steamer came and lent over the rail beside him, and wished him good-evening, and spat at the froth of the wake in token of friendly ease.

'I picked up a rummy curio on the beach this go,' said the captain. 'It's a thing I never saw done this side of Indy before.'

'What might that be?' said Pollock

'Pickled 'ed,' said the captain.

'What!' said Pollock

"Ed—smoked. 'Ed of one of those Porroh chaps, all ornamented with knife-cuts. Why! What's up? Nothing? I shouldn't have took you for a nervous chap. Green in the face. By gosh! you're a bad sailor. Al right, eh? Lord, how funny you went! . Well, this 'ed I was telling you of is a bit rum in a way. I've got it, along with some snakes, in a jar of spirit in my cabin what I keeps for such curios, and I'm hanged if it don't float upsy down. Hullo!'

Pollock had given an incoherent cry, and had his hands in his hair. He ran towards the paddle-boxes with a half-formed idea of jumping into the sea, and then he realized his position and turned back towards the captain.

'Here!' said the captain. 'Jack Phillips, just keep him of me! Stand of! No nearer, mister! What's the matter with you? Are you mad?'

Pollock put his hand to his head. It was no good explaining. 'I believe I am pretty nearly mad at times,' he said. 'It's a pain I have here. Comes suddenly. You'll excuse me, I hope.'

He was white and in a perspiration. He saw suddenly very clearly all the danger he ran of having his sanity doubted. He forced himself to restore the captain's confidence, by answering his sympathetic inquiries, noting his suggestions, even trying a spoonful of neat brandy in his cheek, and, that matter settled, asking a number of questions about the captain's private trade in curiosities. The captain described the head in detail. Al the while Pollock was struggling to keep under a preposterous persuasion that the ship was as transparent as glass, and that he could distinctly see the inverted face looking at him from the cabin beneath his feet.

Pollock had a worse time almost on the steamer than he had at Sulyma. All day he had to control himself in spite of his intense perception of the imminent presence of that horrible head that was overshadowing his mind. At night his old nightmare returned, until, with a violent effort, he would force himself awake, rigid with the horror of it, and with the ghost of a hoarse scream in his throat.

He left the actual head behind at Bathurst, where he changed ship for Tenerife, but not his dreams nor the dull ache in his bones. At Tenerife Pollock transferred to a Cape liner, but the head followed him. He gambled, he tried chess, he even read books, but he knew the danger of drink. Yet whenever a round black shadow, a round black object came into his range, there he looked for the head, and—saw it. He knew clearly enough that his imagination was growing traitor to him, and yet at times it seemed the ship he sailed in, his fellow-passengers, the sailors, the wide sea, was all part of a filmy phantasmagoria that hung, scarcely veiling it, between him and a horrible real world. Then the Porroh man, thrusting his diabolical face through that curtain, was the one real and undeniable thing. At that he would get up and touch things, taste something, gnaw something, burn his hand with a match, or run a needle into himself.

So, struggling grimly and silently with his excited imagination, Pollock reached England. He landed at Southampton, and went on straight from Waterloo to his banker's in Cornhill in a cab. There he transacted some business with the manager in a private room, and all the while the head hung like an ornament under the black marble mantel and dripped upon the fender. He could hear the drops fall, and see the red on the fender.

'A pretty fern,' said the manager, following his eyes. 'But it makes the fender rusty.'

'Very,' said Pollock; 'a very pretty fern. And that reminds me. Can you recommend me a physician for mind troubles? I've got a little—what is it?—hallucination'

The head laughed savagely, wildly. Pollock was surprised the manager did not notice it. But the manager only stared at his face.

With the address of a doctor, Pollock presently emerged in Cornhill. There was no cab in sight, and so he went on down to the western end of the street, and essayed the crossing opposite the Mansion House. The crossing is hardly easy even for the expert Londoners; cabs, vans, carriages, mail-carts, omnibuses go by in one incessant stream; to anyone fresh from the malarious solitudes of Sierra Leone it is a boiling, maddening confusion. But when an inverted head suddenly comes bounding, like an india rubber ball, between your legs, leaving distinct smears of blood every time it touches the ground, you can scarcely hope to avoid an accident. Pollock lifted his feet convulsively to avoid it, and then kicked at the thing furiously. Then something hit him violently in the back, and a hot pain ran up his arm.

He had been hit by the pole of an omnibus, and three of the fingers of his left hand smashed by the hoof of one of the horses—the very fingers, as it happened, that he shot from the Porroh man. They pulled him out from between the horse's legs, and found the address of the physician in his crushed hand.

For a couple of days Pollock's sensations were full of the sweet, pungent smell of chloroform, of painful operations that caused him no pain, of lying still and being given food and drink. Then he had a slight fever, and was very thirsty, and his old nightmare came back. It was only when it returned that he noticed it had left him for a day.

'If my skull had been smashed instead of my fingers, it might have gone altogether,' said Pollock, staring thoughtfully at the dark cushion that had taken on for the time the shape of the head. Pollock at the first opportunity told the physician of his mind trouble. He knew clearly that he must go mad unless something should intervene to save him. He explained that he had witnessed a decapitation in Dahomey, and was haunted by one of the heads. Naturally, he did not care to state the actual facts. The physician looked grave. Presently he spoke hesitatingly. 'As a child, did you get very much religious training?' 'Very little,' said Pollock

A shade parsed over the physician's face. 'I don't know if you have heard of the miraculous cures—it may be, of course, they are not miraculous—at Lourdes.'

'Faith-healing will hardly suit me, I am afraid,' said Pollock, with his eye on the dark cushion.

The head distorted its scared features in an abominable grimace. The physician went upon a new track. 'It's all imagination,' he said, speaking with sudden briskness. 'A fair case for faith-healing, anyhow. Your nervous system has run down, you're in that twilight state of health when the bogles come easiest. The strong impression was too much for you. I must make you up a little mixture that will strengthen your nervous system—especially your brain. And you must take exercise.'

'I'm no good for faith-healing,' said Pollock

'And therefore we must restore tone. Go in search of stimulating air—Scotland, Norway, the Alps'—

'Jericho, if you like,' said Pollock—'where Naaman went.'

However, so soon as his fingers would let him, Pollock made a gallant attempt to follow out the doctor's suggestion. It was now November. He tried football, but to Pollock the game consisted in kicking a furious inverted head about a field. He was no good at the game. He kicked blindly, with a kind of horror, and when they put him back into goal, and the ball came swooping down upon him, he suddenly yelled and got out of its way. The discreditable stories that had driven him from England to wander in the tropics shut him of from any but men's society, and now his increasingly strange behavior made even his man friends avoid him. The thing was no longer a thing of the eye merely; it gibbered at him, spoke to him. A horrible fear came upon him that presently, when he took hold of the apparition, it would no longer become some mere article of furniture, but would feel like a real dissevered head. Alone, he would curse at the thing, defy it, entreat it; once or twice, in spite of his grim self-control, he addressed it in the presence of others. He felt the growing suspicion in the eyes of the people that watched him—his landlady, the servant, his man.

One day early in December his cousin Arnold—his next of kin—came to see him and draw him out, and watch his sunken yellow face with narrow eager eyes. And it seemed to Pollock that the hat his cousin carried in his hand was no hat at all, but a Gorgon head that glared at him upside down, and fought with its eyes against his reason. However, he was still resolute to see the matter out. He got a bicycle, and, riding over the frosty road from Wandsworth to Kingston, found the thing roiling along at his side, and leaving a dark trail behind it. He set his teeth and rode faster. Then suddenly, as he came down the hill towards Richmond Park, the apparition roiled in front of him and under his wheel, so quickly that he had no time for thought, and, turning quickly to avoid it, was flung violently against a heap of stones and broke his left wrist.

The end came on Christmas morning. Al night he had been in a fever, the bandages encircling his wrist like a band of fire, his dreams more vivid and terrible than ever. In the cold, colorless, uncertain light that came before the sunrise, he sat up in his bed, and saw the head upon the bracket in the place of the bronze jar that had stood there overnight.

'I know that is a bronze jar,' he said, with a chill doubt at his heart. Presently the doubt was irresistible. He got out of bed slowly, shivering, and advanced to the jar with his hand raised. Surely he would see now his imagination had deceived him, recognize the distinctive sheen of bronze. At last, after an age of hesitation, his fingers came down on the patterned cheek of the head. He withdrew them spasmodically. The last stage was reached. His sense of touch had betrayed him.

Trembling, stumbling against the bed, kicking against his shoes with his bare feet, a dark confusion eddying round him, he groped his way to the dressing-table, took his razor from the drawer, and sat down on the bed with this in his hand. In the looking-glass he saw his own face, colorless, haggard, full of the ultimate bitterness of despair.

He beheld in swift succession the incidents in the brief tale of his experience. His wretched home, his still more wretched schooldays, the years of vicious life he had led since then, one act of selfish dishonor leading to another; it was all clear and pitiless now, all its squalid folly, in the cold light of the dawn. He came to the hut, to the fight with the Porroh man, to the retreat down the river to Sulyma, to the Mendi assassin and his red parcel, to his frantic endeavors to destroy the head, to the growth of his hallucination It was a hallucination! He knew it was. A hallucination merely. For a moment he snatched at hope. He looked away from the glass, and on the bracket, the inverted head grinned and grimaced at him . With the stiff fingers of his bandaged hand he felt at his neck for the throb of his arteries. The morning was very cold, the steel blade felt like ice.

* * *

Herbert George Wells was the author of many books and stories. He died in 1946.

SERIES

The Ancient Ones, Episode 2

Written by David Brin
Illustrated by Rob Dumuhosky

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, accompanied by a rhythmic, irritating, "plinking" sound—the repetitious dripping of water into some pool. Even before I opened my eyes, mineral aromas and stony echoes told me that I must be underground, lying on some cold, gritty floor.

Spikes of yellow light stabbed when I cracked my eyelids, but I tried not to move or make a sound as blurry outlines gradually formed into steady images—a stretch of rocky wall; a smoldering torch set in an iron cresset; stacks of wooden crates covered with frayed tarps; a rough wooden table, where lay a platter, stacked with raw meat steaks. A glass tankard frothed with some kind of brownish ale.

A pair of pale, squinting eyes peered over the tankard's rim as it raised to meet a broad face, nearly covered by a riot of dark fur.

The meniscus level of ale dropped swiftly, accompanied by slurping gulps as the tankard swung horizontal, draining down that hairy gullet. With a deep, satisfied sigh, the furry drinker licked the goblet's rim with a prodigious tongue. Where Earl Dragonlord had possessed canine uppers even pointier than a Demmy's, this fellow had huge, heavy lower tusks, jutting up to graze his shaggy cheeks.

The flagon slammed down and he started toward the pile of steaks, salivating prodigiously . . . then he stopped, sniffing the air. A matched pair of splendidly huge eyebrows arched as he turned toward me, grinning impressively.

"Snarsh glimp? Naggle scraggle. Yowzuh nowzuh, whutchuh-briggle. . . ."

My captor must not have come into contact with the translator-converter. Or else the device was knocked out during the ambush. No matter. I never believed in that method of dealing with language differences, anyway. "When in Rome . . ." begins an old human expression that's good advice for any traveler.

I tongued one of my molars, turning on the interpreter nanos in my own ear canal.

"Grimble gramble gnash . . . so-o-o it's no-o-o yoosh pretending-g-g," rumbled the deep, slurred voice, which grew steadily easier to understand. "I ken when a man's scannin' me, though 'is gaze be narrow as a nomort's charity."

I opened my eyes fully and sat up on one elbow, wincing just a little from sharp twinges.

"I suppose I'm your prisoner," I said, subvocalizing first in my own language, then relaxing to let my laryngeal nanos fashion the equivalent in local dialect.

The hirsute fellow replied with what I took to be a shrug, using shoulders the size of hamhocks. When he next opened his mouth, what emerged was a hearty, majestic belch.

I made certain to look impressed.

"Hmm. Well said. I take it you are what they call a lican."

If he winced at my use of the term, it was hidden by the mat of hair covering all but his nose and eyes.

"This week I seek no relief, 'xcept to be what I be, and am what I am. You should see me elsetimes. Handsome bugger, or so says my mirror. An' what about you? What's your fate? To eat, or be ate?"

A queer question. It made me glance, against my better wishes, at the stack of bloody cutlets on his plate.

"My name is Dr. Alvin Montessori. And I'm not sure I understand what you mean. Someone recently told me that I looked like a . . . a standard."

My host grunted expressively. "So does a corpambulist, when he's new an' not too smelly. So's a nomort, in daylight. Heck-o, you should see me most days. Smooth as a baby an' don't say maybe!" He guffawed heartily, a friendly sound that would have cheered me, were not beads of saliva running down his yellow tusks and pooling on his lower lip before they spilled onto the tabletop.

Questions had been swirling in my head ever since we met Earl Dragonlord, about the social class structure on this world. I had a feeling I wasn't going to like the answers.

"Let's say I am a standard. Does that automatically mean I'm slated for somebody's dinner table?"

My host sniggered, as if amused by my ignorance.

"In some measure that's up to the standard hisself."

"And I suppose licans and corpsic—"

"Corpambulists," he corrected. "Though they prefer bein' called Zoomz. T'is easier to pronounce, especially in their condition."

"Zooms?" I'm afraid I rolled my eyes. "Then licans and zooms are devourers of—"

"Hey. Don't pin the whole rap on us! There's nomorts, too, y'know."

Nomorts . . . such as Earl Dragonlord. The native I last saw guiding my captain and crewmates toward his home. His lair.

I felt a chill that had little to do with the dank, underground cold. Turning toward the torch, I squinted so that its light pierced between my eyelids in sharp, diffracting rays. My nose began to tickle.

"So," I asked. "What must a standard do in order to keep from being someone's dinner?"

The furry humanoid grinned, his tusks gleaming. "You mean you really don't know? Then as we suspected—"

The tickling light beams struck a nerve at last. I gasped . . . then bellowed a ferocious sneeze.

The abrupt noise sent my captor toppling backward, off his chair. If my intent had been to jump him, that would have been the time. But I only took the occasion to gather myself up to one knee, pulling in my collar tab.

A fleecy, dark mane reappeared in view, rising above the table, followed by peering eyes.

"Wha . . . what was that?"

"Just a sneeze. It's freezing down here, don't you think? Doesn't a solitary captive like me deserve a blanket, after being attacked on the darkened streets of your urb district, knocked out, and dragged underground, away from my friends?"

"That was a sneeze? It sounded like a cross 'tween a hellion howl and a razortooth's roar." He blinked some more. "I thought you said you was a standard."

I divided my attention, as another voice buzzed in my ears.

"Advisor Montessori, this is Commander Talon, on the bridge of the Clever Gamble. Thank Avery you're all right! I assume from your phrasing that you're alone underground, under some type of coercion, and out of contact with the captain. Is that correct?"

I shivered to reinforce the impression that I must keep my hand on my collar. Facing the lican, I spoke sharply, as if to answer his question.

"I never said I was a member of the planetwide social class that's apparently preyed upon by three other sub-races of humanoids . . . those three groups being called the corpambulists, whom I've never seen; and the elegant nomorts, one of whom I last saw guiding my comrades toward castlelike structures on a hill west of the park, presumably into a trap; or licans like you my captor, who seem to grow abundant lower bicuspids and facial fur during certain times of the month, and relish beer with their raw meat."

The lican stared at me, rising the rest of the way. "Uh, why are you talkin' like that?"

"How should I talk to a fellow who has taken away my belt pouch and all my tools, and now holds me captive in a subterranean chamber, a little over two meters in height and roughly three meters long by four wide, with a tunnel exiting along the long axis? There you are, standing about a meter and a half tall, though a bit crouched, on the other side of a table piled high with raw steaks, and you have the nerve to ask—"

"We're homing in on your signal now, Advisor. I don't think we can read the kind of detail you're giving us. Not through solid rock. But the room dimensions should help us track you down."

"—have the nerve to ask why I'm talking like this? You really don't know why I'm talking like this?"

The lican shook his head vigorously, eyes betraying growing worry. "Look, Doc, maybe we got off to a bad start. My name's Lorg, by the way. He hurried over to a pile of tarps in the corner. "Here, let me get you that blanket—"

"Got it!" The voice of the ship's exec cut in. "Hold on, Advisor, we've found your locus, in a cavity underneath one of their streets. I'm warming up the blasters right now. Just give us a few seconds. We'll rip away thirty meters of rock and have you outta there in a jif—"

"No!" I cried out, leaping to my feet so fast that I lost contact with the throat mike. Lorg jumped back in dismay, yelping like a puppy with its tail caught in a door.

I pressed my uniform collar once more. "Don't you dare!" I reiterated. My heartbeat raced, knowing how quickly Demmies can work when they think they're coming to the rescue of a friend. Any moment now, the planetary crust over my head might start boiling into the atmosphere, surgically peeled in molten sheets by a terrawatt laser.

"Just . . . just hold it right there," I added, in a lower tone. "Hold it and stay calm."

Lorg stared at me, clutching the blanket in front of him, his jaw quivering, tusks and all.

"I'm calm. I'm calm!"

Commander Talon also replied—"Roger, Doctor Montessori. Understood. Standing by."

I tried to think. So far I'd been improvising . . . a technique which isn't taught much here at Earth's Advisor Academy, since that skill is usually left to Demmies. (It is their strongest trait.) But sometimes a human has to do the Demmiest things. At this point I had my captor intimidated, but I knew that would give way when he realized my loud bark wasn't backed up with bite.

I took an assertive step towards him. "Where are we now? In the sub-urb?"

Lorg nodded. "Under my own place. You were closest to the manhole, so I grabbed you before the renks grabbed ever'body else."

This confused me. "You mean the captai—my friends aren't here too?"

"Naw. The renks laid a trap for 'em. Me an' my friends were lucky to get you."

"Renks? Who are they? Are they nomorts?" My suspicions of Earl Dragonlord flared. Had he led our party into an ambush?

But that didn't make sense! We had been following Earl toward the hill of castles he called home. Why should he abduct victims who were already heading into his lair?

"Renks is a kind of zoomz," Lorg said, with a shiver and a shake of his head. "They swarmed over y'all. We hardly had time to—"

"Shut up, Lorg!"

A new, harsh voice cut in, making us both startle and turn. At the entrance to the underground chamber, three more licans had appeared, even larger than my host. Foremost among the newcomers was a giant figure, bulging out of his makeshift, burlap clothes. Pale yellow fur stood on end with rage, and his curling tusks made Lorg look like a poster boy for Orthodontia Monthly.

"Besh!" Lorg cried out . "I was just—"

"Playing with your food, I know." The bigger lican sauntered in—if one can "saunter" with treelike arms that almost brush the floor. "How many times do I haveta tell you? If you talk to it, that only makes it harder to eat."

The other two licans leaned against the door and chortled, a sound vaguely like what an engine might say, after being fed a treat of corundum sand. Lorg turned red—in those few bare patches showing through his matted pelt.

"Uh, Besh, I don't think this's food at all. It . . . he ain't like any standard I ever seen."

"Nonsense! Look at him! X'cept for that funny nose, and those flattish eyes, and smooth fore'ead—"

What funny nose? I thought, a bit put out.

"Besides, what were renks doing out there? Hunting for partners in a game of spin the skull? They must want this meat pretty bad, risking a foray into our urb like that."

"Exactly!" Lorg said, gaining some feeling in his voice. "You ever see that happen before? Or for that matter, you ever see standards come strolling through the urb at night? With a moon full? I tell you, them renks wanted somethin' more'n just standard flesh."

Besh seemed torn between affront at Lorg's daring to talk back, and interest in the possibilities he'd raised.

"Not a regular standard, eh? Maybe something tastier?"

"Maybe something a whole lot more dangerous," I interjected, speaking with more steadiness than I felt inside.

Besh looked me over, and barked a savage laugh. He ambled toward me with an air of relish . . . and mustard and mayonnaise, I'd wager.

"I don't scare off easy, meat. I'm Besh, night-howler and hill-loper! Runner in the woods and bed-lover of all three moons! My yowl curdles milk in far counties. It shatters windows in the standards' armored high rises. Nomorts take a sunburn, before they face Besh. Little baldie, you dare try to out-bluff me?"

As he moved closer, flexing hands like the scoops at the end of a steam shovel, Lorg tugged at his sleeve.

"Watch out, Besh. He makes this noise."

I had been getting ready for a fight, relaxing into Judo stance . . . as if that would help much against four such demons. But Lorg's words gave me an idea. I pressed my collar again.

"Did that noise impress you, Lorg? Why, I wouldn't insult Besh with anything so puny."

This time the big lican stopped, clearly intrigued.

"Oh yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah! Besh calls himself night-howler? Why, I can out-bellow him anytime, anywhere. I can make clamor that'll rattle your gums and shake your teeth out of their sockets. I can make water rise up and stones fall from above. You want noise? I'll give you noise!"

Would Commander Talon understand what I wanted? By sonic induction, it should be easy enough to transmit vibrations directly into the bedrock all around this chamber—something loud and awe-inspiring. It would only be a matter of timing, triggering it to coincide with my surreptitious cue. Just the sort of improvised trick I had seen the captain pull, plenty of times.

I felt a moment's triumph from the facial expressions of Besh and the others. Clearly, bravado and bluster were components of lican character, part of how they sorted out their own pecking order. Now to back up my bravado with something that would turn them into jibbering converts, eager to help me any way they could.

"Right!" I took a step forward, brandishing a fist. "I'll make these rock walls tremble with such a din, you'll think the world is ending!"

The licans stared at me, wide-eyed and nervously expectant.

Seconds passed, measured by the slow plinking of condensation droplets, falling unhurriedly into a nearby puddle. With each "plunk" my heart sank. Where was Talon? Why didn't he answer, to confirm my request?

Besh blinked once. Twice. Scratching his shaggy, blond mane, he ran his tongue back and forth a few times between his tusks, making a thoughtful clicking.

He glanced at Lorg, who looked back at him and shrugged.

"Okay, I'll bite," Besh said, facing me once more. "What noise is it you were thinkin' of impressin' us with?"

"Yeah," Lorg added, a little eagerly. "Will it hurt?"

I pressed the collar mike against my throat, with desperate urgency.

"Hurt? Why . . . I can make a racket that will shiver these chambers and rattle your soul! A cacophony to show you I'm nobody's meat. It'll petrify your very bones, shrivel your guts, shake your teeth—"

"We heard that part already," Lorg complained, a little churlishly. I really was doing my best, under the circumstances.

"Enough!" Besh roared, setting off his own reverberations and sweeping the plate of cutlets off the table, crashing to the floor.

"Enough braggin'! Just do it, meat. Give it a shot."

He crossed his arms, waiting.

My mind whirled. What had gone wrong? Was it a problem with my microphone or nanos? Or had something gone amiss with the Clever Gamble, in orbit?

The eyes of the lican chieftain told me, I had but seconds left.

Improvise! Part of me insisted.

But I'm no Demmie! Another part replied. I'm a logical Earthman!

That thought cheered me, just a little. Enough to find some saliva in my dry mouth, to wet my lips.

I brought them together . . . and blew.

This isn't going to work, I thought, as I began a softshoe tap-shuffle, to my own whistling accompaniment.

I had never been so right in all my life.

* * *

The next time I awoke, it was under a vast canopy of stars, damp, bruised, and in pain. Still, I gasped foremost in surprise at still being alive. My last recollected image hadn't been all that promising.

After the ship didn't answer, and the licans called my bluff, what else could I do but wing it? Starting with the very first thing to come to mind. The "Colonel Bogie March" was followed by a brief rendition of "I Got Rhythm," which seguéd into a blues version of that ancient, venerated Earth melody, "Zippedee-doo-dah"—attended by every sound effect I could muster with hand in armpit.

Slack-jawed, the four licans had stared in astonishment while I moved on through a half-dozen of my best animal calls, then a syncopated chant of "The Ballad of Eskimo Nell"—in some faint hope they'd like the raunchy bits. Or else, perhaps, that sheer tedium would put them to sleep.

No such luck. The two silent licans had stared with glazed expressions. And while Lorg seemed willing to give me points for effort, the giant leader simply glared..

At last, Besh told Lorg—"I guess you're right, after all. This meat's no good. I'll help you throw it out."

With that, four huge creatures—each about the size and density of a Harley space scooter—buried me under a blurry avalanche of hair and burlap.

In fact, I must have made a good account of myself during the brief fight, since it lasted longer and was even more painful than I expected. Finally, as the world spun and I blacked out, the last words I heard were—"Let's' toss him to the zoomz, if they want him so bad."

Pondering about later, as consciousness returned, I didn't much like the sound of those words, even in recollection. At the moment, though, I had other worries as I lay in the dark, sprawled on my back on a cold, hard surface.

No bones seemed broken, but I hurt all over. Stars could be seen overhead—occulted by the outlines of clouds and tree branches. It was damn cold. And worse yet, my uniform was torn!

That was bad. Circuitry woven into the fibers was essential to communicating with my crewmates, in orbit. Wincing at the effort, I pressed my collar tab anyway, and tried to transmit. My voice warbled and scritched like something made of tin.

"This is Ship's Advisor Montessori, calling . . . calling Clever Gamble. Come in, Clever Gamble. Do you read?"

No answer. The nanos in my ears remained silent—though I couldn't rule out the possibility that Besh and his boys had knocked them loose, along with half my fillings.

Maybe it would help if I sat up and smoothed some of the kinks out of my abused shirt. I pushed up to my elbows, and for the first time got a glimpse of my surroundings. My call to the ship trailed off as I made out rows of grayish white forms, mostly rectangular, arrayed in rows that vanished into the gloom in all directions. Some of the slabs stood upright. Others tilted awkwardly or had toppled on the ground. I now lay upon one of the latter kind.

An overturned grave stone.

Frissons of panic climbed my gorge. It wasn't just your typical queasiness, mixed with surprise. When you've spent as much time with Demmies as I have, you can't help picking up their penchant for superstition. Right then, my cemetarian surroundings didn't make me any more appreciative of the direction life was heading.

Then I noticed something else that didn't help my sense of well-being. Among the tombstones I'd thought "toppled," several of those nearby seemed deliberately positioned on the ground, with metal fixtures along one side.

Hinges, I realized, unhappily, soon noting that the slab I lay upon came so equipped. Why would anyone put hinges on grave slabs?

As if that weren't bad enough, it was about then that a voice murmured out of the darkness behind my back.

"There, you see, Sully? He got up. I told you he must be dead. You owe me five."

Shivering, I turned to see two humanoids watching me. One leaned against a tall funerary monument, managing to look wryly dapper, despite missing an ear, an eye, and nearly half his scalp. The other one sat atop the same marble shrine, swinging her legs while regarding me with an amused expression on her waxy, overly made-up face. Above them both, a stone heroic figure—exaggeratedly masculine—stood frozen in the act of offering sage counsel, chiding with an outstretched finger.

Probably warning future generations never to stand still long enough to let birds roost on your head, I thought. Or so mused the part of me still capable of detached observation. Symptoms of incipient hysteria were evident. I had started not to give a damn.

"I don't think so, Moulder," the woman answered her companion with a wry smirk. She slid off her perch to land beside him, and pointed at me. "He smells much too fresh. Besides, ever see Besh and his bunch leave their meat in such good shape?"

"Moulder" winced and touched the missing side of his face.

"Well, maybe it wasn't Besh that left it here. Some of the other lican bands are still living by the Old Code. Or maybe the nomorts dumped him, after draining him."

The female shook her head as she sauntered toward me. Her gait was strange, at once both graceful and somehow impaired—as if she were a dancer, struggling to disguise a progressive neurological disease. Underneath that casual pose, I thought I caught an attitude of intense concentration. She dropped to one knee next to me and reached out toward my neck. I flinched, and her fingers stopped short, then withdrew. She tilted her head, looking at me from both sides... and I caught a pungent, sweet scent, like a ten-times normal dose of tangy perfume.

"He's not been sipped by nomorts, either. He's warm." She rocked back on her haunches. "And I sense a normal pulse."

"Ho, yes?" Moulder shambled closer, and I saw that one of his arms hung nearly useless at his side. He gave off a reek that made me to quail back, breathing only through my mouth.

"You're right, Sully," he muttered, crouching over me. "Lookit him pant like a scared puppy!" Moulder guffawed so hard that something came loose from his mouth, flying past my left ear. A tooth, I suspected unhappily. "So, you're still standard, eh? Still among the true-living? Well enjoy it! For a while."

I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that. It seemed time that I took matters in hand. But as I was about to speak, I heard something I liked even less. A rumbling vibration that seemed to come from below my mortifying platform. There was a scraping clatter, followed by a bang which jarred the stone from underneath.

Both Sully and Moulder stood up and stepped back. I quickly saw that the disturbance wasn't limited to this area. On all sides, tombstones that lay flush with the ground were being nudged, then rocked . . . and then flung back, swiveling over their hinges to strike the abused earth with loud thuds, revealing yawning black cavities below.

I stared as more and more opened, the lids pivoting and banging into dirt, raising small dust clouds, until the cemetery hills were pocked with rectangular holes like a carcass pecked-over by neat ravens.

The nearest grave lay silent for an agonizing eternity that for me lasted all too briefly. Then a hand emerged . . . or something that may once have deserved the name.

While I stared, transfixed, the stone beneath me rocked once more, this time insistently.

"Well, bloodywarm?" Moulder sneered. "Gonna get out of the way? Or d'you want to join us the fast way?"

I turned to see that he and Sully had retaken their perches, climbing up the pedestal of the monument, more than two meters above the ground.

More hands were emerging from graves on all sides, followed by vague shapes that made me deeply grateful for the dark. The tombstone that I sat on received a bang that lifted one side several centimeters before slamming back down.

I suddenly found the will to move my arms and legs, scrambling to my feet and running past gaping crypts whose residents now emerged like implacable wraiths. Desperately, I dodged around crumbly, foul-smelling pits, evading clawlike hands that reached for me—whether in aggression or supplication I didn't tarry to find out. I leaped for the pedestal and managed to get my arms over the stone lip, near the cold base of the statue. I was trying to swing my legs up when something brushed my left foot. I tried shaking it off, but a bony grip clamped down on my boot and began dragging me backward!

I seem to recall a sound leaving my throat. I would not be ashamed if anyone called it a whimper.

Suddenly, two pairs of chill hands seized my arms and yanked me upward. I felt a snap below, and soon thereafter found myself on my feet atop the pedestal, standing next to the statue itself, just under the benevolent arm of the sculpted eminence.

"Thank you," I gasped, between hasty breaths.

This time, Moulder spilled no parts when he laughed. "Think nothing of it. That's why the tribe has recents, like us, check out the surface before an advent. Older corpies don't like surprises. Makes 'em grumpy." He nodded downward, and I got an all-too good look at the entity who had tried to seize me, seconds before.

A zombie, I thought, subvocalizing a word that I'd been avoiding for some time. Shreds of former clothing still draped the cadaverous form, grinning liplessly as it cast about, left and right, searching for something it had lost. It never occurred to the wretched thing—thank God—to look up.

"S'cuse me," Moulder said, in an amused voice. "I think you've got something our cousin wants back."

As he crouched by my side, I looked down and must have yelped. The woman, Sully, steadied me as Moulder wrestled loose a severed hand that still clamped ahold of my service boot. With a grunting effort, he loosened its grip, holding it warily by the wrist as it slowly writhed, opening and closing clumsily.

"Hey, cuz! Here ya go. Wear it in health!"

He tossed the disembodied appendage down so that it struck the zombie in the chest. After a moment or two, the pathetic, horrible thing bent over to recover the member, fumbling and finally managing to re-attach the hand in some way. Backwards, I realized when it clenched. The poor creature didn't seem to notice.

"Flshsh-shfleppp-ph-ph gr-gr-flph-ph-f," it slobbered through a rictus grin . . . and I swear, the slavering sound seemed almost musical, in a strange, chilling way. I wouldn't have expected my nanos to make sense of the noise, but the translator in my left ear offered a best-guess interpretation—

"Why thank you, kids, for finding what I had misplaced! How nice to see that courtesy is still extant among today's youth."

It was only a rough rendering. The original statement might have been bitterly sarcastic for all I knew.

Still, I muttered, "You're welcome," almost involuntarily, as the corpambulist shuffled off to join a horde of risen forms, now shambling in unison through the gloom.

"Have a nice evening stroll," I added.

The woman, Sully, let go of my arm and stared at me. I turned, and abruptly realized something I'd been too tense no notice before—that she was, without a doubt, the loveliest dead person who ever saved my life. To her surprised regard, I could only I shrug and repeat what my own instructors used to teach, at the academy, as good advice for any occasion.

"Well after all," I told the beautiful zombie. "It never hurts a body to be polite."

* * *

Sully and Moulder led me to a mausoleum at the far end of the cemetery, where tombs apparently pre-dated the present era of decline in both population and wealth. Lavish marble masonry faced the vaults and sepulchers, adorned with kneeling statuary figures in prayerful poses. On Earth, such postures usually illustrated earnest supplication for an afterlife. But I tried to shuck aside any preconceptions. Clearly, to the denizens of 1265 Oxytocin 41-C, "death" was just another phase in a rather complex cycle.

The crypt possessed an arching roof, like an ancient Greek tholos, under which we sheltered from some intermittent drizzling rain. Beyond a bank of low trees, I could make out lighted skyscrapers, less than a kilometer away. I might have been tempted to call them beacons of refuge, but right now I was in no hurry to test the nighttime reactions of trigger-happy guards, protecting the "standard" populace . . . standards who were sure to be utterly paranoid, if they had any sense at all.

In the opposite direction, away from the city lights, a gap in the clouds let moonlight spill across a hilly glade, where milled throngs of limping, staggering forms. A distant lowing floated from that place—a creepy, moaning din that sent chills coursing down what remained of my aptly-named nervous system.

I tried ignoring the zombie sounds, as my rescuers, Sully and Moulder, asked questions and I did my best to answer. Still, my thoughts were elsewhere. What I really wanted, desperately, was to restore contact with Clever Gamble! Whatever my plight, the well being of my ship and crewmates came first.

Fortunately, the cool weather was reason enough to press my collar against my throat the entire time that I told Moulder and Sully about my predicament—the kidnapping of my comrades from the heart of the lican urb, and my subsequent encounter with Lorg and the gang of Besh. Perhaps my shirt was transmitting but not receiving. Anyway, it seemed worth a try.

"You were lucky to get away from Besh in one piece," Sully commented. "Either his bunch currently has a full larder, or you did something to put him off his feed."

"Mmm," I commented, remembering those last moments under the urb. My singing has affected people that way, on occasion. But I never before owed my survival to that fact.

"Anyway," Moulder added as he groomed Sully, much as I'd seen apes do in a zoo, picking through her glossy hair, seeking what I dared not dwell upon. "Anyway, I wouldn't worry about your friends anymore, if I was you."

"You wouldn't?"

"Naw. You'll probably be reunited soon."

"Really?"

"Sure, providing the licans left enough of them to animate, and didn't put the remains out in the sun. It's not nice, but Besh has been known to do that. Otherwise, they'll be along this way soon."

I winced at the image. Demmie zombies. It made me shiver.

"I'm pretty sure Besh never got his hands on my colleagues." And I explained the reaction of Lorg to my questions.

"He said what?" Sully sneered. "That zooms ambushed your group? Right in the middle of the urb? Oh, that's rich!"

"Why's that? Maybe it was some other, er, tribe of corpambulists. I think he used the term . . . renks?"

The two of them looked at each other and I knew I'd said something important. But they didn't comment.

"Look, If I could only ask your leaders—"

"That's just the point! Zooms have very little of anything you'd call leadership. Sometimes a group'll get an idea into their failing brains, and go shambling off in some direction to do one thing or other. Settle old scores they vaguely recall from when they were alive, for instance, or surround a house and bang on it to scare everybody inside half to death. And then there are brain-smorgs . . . those are hard to resist.

"But the very idea of doing something so . . . organized . . . as an ambush in lican country . . . ?" She shook her head, dismissing the idea as absurd.

"Well, what about you?" I asked, taking a chance. "You and Moulder are . . . well, recent is the word you used. You still have plenty of umm . . ."

I almost said life in you, but decided to use other phrasing.

". . . You seem just as bright and astute as anyone not saddled with your . . . uh, impairment."

"Why, what a sweet thing to say!" She smiled and turned to her friend. "Wasn't that sweet, Moulder?"

Moulder grunted and rolled his one eye in its socket. "Yeah, real sweet."

"But you really don't understand," Sully continued. "Recents like us have to stay out of the way, or the older corpsies will tear us apart. We smell too fresh, you see. They assign us tasks that take finesse, like dealing with strangers and such. But when it comes to mass action, zooms tend to follow those even further along than they are."

"Farther along?"

"You know," she said, and pretended to hold her nose, without actually touching it.

"Rule by the ripest," Moulder summarized.

"Oh, I see."

"Ripe makes might," Sully corrected. "Only the decayed may decree."

Moulder pondered. "Which means the really rank hath privileges."

"Uh huh. And victory goes to the spoiled."

"Then corruption empowers?" I interjected, on impulse.

They paused, then Sully replied with a grin. "Necrolutely."

"Rot on!" Moulder enthused. "Power to the putrid!" And for a second I feared he was about to offer me a high slap-handshake. But he settled for raising a clenched fist.

I relaxed, having already, that evening, learned a new meaning to the expression—"gimme five."

We sat in silence for a time, listening as the zombie "singing" on that far hillside coalesced, taking on a complex rhythm and eerie tonality I had never heard in all my travels.

I let go of the throat mike at last. It seemed futile, and anyway, my neck was getting raw. There had never been the slightest sign that anybody in orbit heard me. Something was terribly wrong, and I was going to need help ever to find out what happened to my crewmates in the slurry party, let alone the Clever Gamble herself.

I could feel my alertness start to fade away. It had, after all, been a damn rough day. (Or two? Or three?) The music of the dead had a somnolent effect, drawing me downward toward unconscious realms, whether I liked it or not. I had no will any longer to resist as a deep languor spread across my limbs.

"I have it!" Sully announced abruptly. By now she had traded places and was grooming Moulder, a process I chose not to watch too closely. Still I managed to turn and regard her eyes, which seemed to shine at me with genuine pleasure.

"Have what?" Moulder asked, clearly concerned and trying to squirm around to see what she had found in his scalp.

"I mean I've got an idea. I know where we can take our guest in the morning, if the weather's nice. We'll guide him to town and introduce him to Professor Ping!"

Moulder sat up suddenly. Too suddenly, leaving a patch of hairy scalp in Sully's hand, which she quickly hid from view.

"Of course!" he cried. "Ping is the thing. You'll see, stranger. He'll get you straightened out in no time.

"And if he doesn't, perish the thought," Moulder added with a leer. "Or if the guards or viggies or nomorts get you first . . . well, no harm in trying. You'll just wind up right back here in Necropolis, and we can show you how to fit right into the rot race."

I suppose I thanked them. I guess I must have made all the right, polite sounds. But I was so exhausted, I had no strength to ask any further questions.

Sometimes students, in your travels, there will come occasions when you simply have to hope for the best and put your fate in the hands of strangers.

I had never been in stranger hands than I was that night. Still the rule held. Anyway, what choice had I, except to trust my instinctive feeling that these two would protect me until dawn?

I drifted off, lying upwind of my two deceased friends under a marble mausoleum canopy.

As minutes elongated, the crooning from the hillside zombie-gathering seemed to come together with compelling urgency and a kind of unexpectedly weird beauty, blending into the equally unalive, yet animate, singing of the wind.

I recall at the time thinking vaguely about a certain radio station—one still using binaural, no-pix format—that I used to listen to as a boy. The net-jockies on that channel always bragged that they played only contemporary tunes, never classical, or oldies, or cro-rock, or warp zither. . . . Just the latest stuff.

"No music by dead guys." That was their motto.

But here I was, listening to a veritable song of the perished. A melody with spirit, with soul. And it was the very latest thing.

The rhythms were unique.

The harmonies were splendid.

Decomposers were sublime.

* * *

David Brin is the author of many novels and short stories.

Travails With Momma, Part 2

Written by John Ringo
Illustrated by Jennifer Miller

4: Ignorance Really Is Bliss

"Josh, you have to understand," his dad said calmly. "The Toolecks are a very efficient race. They discovered advanced biology and medicine comparatively early in their development and lagged behind in . . . hard sciences like physics and engineering. So they had a population problem well before Terra, developmentally. And the way they solved it was by—"

"Growing worms!" Josh said. "Worms you eat! We've been eating worm meat."

"It tastes the same, Josh," his dad said patiently as his mother could be heard vomiting in the bathroom.

"It's worms!"

"Josh," his dad said, with a hint less patience and possibly some trepidation since his wife had quit throwing up and was probably going to be emerging from the bathroom, soon, with less than friendly intentions, "Nari doesn't import any food worth talking about from Terra. Most of it comes from Tooleck or Nalo or Jootan and, Josh, you really don't want me explaining Nalo food to you. So you're going to have to get used to it. Worm meat tastes just like chicken or pork. It's that or starve."

"I'm gonna starve, then," Josh said, his eyes wide. "I'm going to waste away and die. At least there's ollien and keatle."

"Right," Steve said, nodding his head sagely. "Wheat and corn syrup. It's got a lot of nutrition in it, too. Good for you. Helps you . . . grow. You'll do fine."

"Iravo!" Josh said, suddenly. "That's worm meat!" He clapped a hand over his mouth and headed for the bathroom. "Mom!" he said in a muffled tone, pounding on the door. "Mom! Lemme in! Quick!"

* * *

Josh picked at his ollien and glared at the iravo. The problem was, it was good. He picked up a piece and looked at it, frowning.

His dad was being really quiet this morning and they'd ordered breakfast in the room. His mom was apparently dieting again since she'd ordered nothing. She'd gone to visit Neorak with his father on a project and lost nearly twenty kilos. The Neorakans use really complicated eating utensils and she'd blamed it on those. Of course, he'd heard that Neorakan noodles were really dried worms. But he'd put it down to a rumor until yesterday.

He bit a piece of the iravo off and chewed on it, thoughtfully, suppressing an automatic gag reaction.

"It's not that bad, Mom," he said, swallowing and suppressing the gag reaction again. "And the ollien is okay. Try it with the keatle syrup."

"I don't . . . maybe a little of the iravo." After Josh was firmly asleep Jala had insisted on a precise briefing on local foodstuffs. After which her stomach was empty of not only dinner and breakfast but everything she'd eaten for the last year. Which meant she was very hungry and likely to starve to death. And she'd thought Neorak was bad.

"What's on the schedule for today?" she asked weakly, picking at a piece of iravo.

"I arranged a tour of the Tooleck temples," Steve said. "They're amazing architecture and have some tricky foundation problems in places. . . ."

* * *

Josh had to admit that "amazing" was the word for Simonan Temple. It was the last of four they were visiting and it was . . . well . . . awesome.

The temples were made from a volcanic glass that was found only on Tooleck. The glass had very high strength properties, as he'd been told three times so far, and was easily workable. The temple was almost seventy meters to the ceiling of the nave, with flying buttresses of colored glass, and the weak sun gleamed through the walls and ceiling. All of the glass was colored so that throughout the day and year the colors blended and shifted. The effect was something like walking through a rainbow and Josh had never felt the way he did now, just walking down the aisle from one strange hue to the next.

"Look here, Josh," his dad said excitedly, pointing up to a spot near where the bell tower joined with the south wall. "See that?"

"It looks like it's . . . welded," Josh said. There was a thicker spot on the wall.

"It is," his dad said, grinning. "This thing almost came apart about two thousand years ago. That was before the Tooleck were space travelers and right after the temple was built. They built it on bad soil and the south tower, which weighs right at fourteen thousand kips, started to sink. It took them nearly a hundred years to figure out a way to stabilize it. Told you they were lagging in engineering research. All they had to do was backfill it first. Maybe pile it. They ended up grouting it but they had to restabilize it about two centuries ago. Now there's a grav generator in it to reduce the weight."

"So, you're saying that it could fall over any time the power went out?" Josh said.

"Well . . ." Steve paused with an abstracted look on his face. "Hopefully not today."

The Tooleck buried their dead in glass catacombs that were up to ten stories high. The ones around the temple were smaller and old, but you could see the dessicated bodies in them. Each of the cubicles had an inscription on the front, and his dad dragged him over to one that had a special plate set on the ground in front of it.

"This is the Tooleck poet Gobasan," his dad said excitedly. "He did some of the best poetry and stories ever written. The metal plate's because so many people come to visit his tomb. They wore out the stone and that must have been tough because it's a high olivine dolomite. . . ."

Josh peered at the inscription and brought up a translation meme.

" 'At last the talons are gone from my digits'?" he translated aloud, confused.

"Uhm . . . he was really tired of writing," his dad said sheepishly. "He said there was a monster on his back every day that made him write and the only place he would find peace was the grave."

"Well, if he had to do it by hand I can understand," Josh said.

* * *

After two days in Tooleck they were back on the road. Or, at least, back in the spaceport.

From Tooleck to Nari they were taking Nari Spacelines. Josh had expected the ship to be piloted by Nari but instead, as they were being given their take-off instructions, it was clear from the accent that the pilot was a Tooleck. The stewards were Tooleck as well and one Nalo, a really cute female one in a tunic and high-cut skirt.

His mom and dad were in the same compartment, this time, but they were sitting across the aisle from him. Seated next to him, taking up two couches, was another Sjoglun. Josh hoped that he wasn't carrying Purple Spotted Fever but he resolved not to bring it up this time.

The ship left the spaceport on time and climbed into space rapidly. Josh didn't even get a glimpse of the planet this time and in ten minutes the pilot announced they were jumping to hyperspace.

He was pushed gently back in his chair and watched the stars start to blue-shift ahead and then the ship slowed down and the stars shifted back to normal. It sped up again and started to rumble alarmingly and then slowed back down.

They did this two more times and then the announcer clicked.

"Ladies, gentlemen, neuters and ?T*Reen," the captain said in a bored tone. "I'm afraid we're going to have to check in at the nearest spacedock, what? Seems the hyperdrive has developed a bit of a tick."

The announcement was repeated in what Josh assumed was Nari.

The stars wheeled around them as the ship turned and then headed off, presumably back to Tooleck. From time to time the stars would blue-shift then go back to normal as the captain used the malfunctioning hyperdrive to speed up their progress. One time, Josh was sure they almost made it into hyper. Since they were pointed in, as far as he could tell, a random direction, going into hyper would have been a bad thing. They could have ended up anywhere.

Finally, he could see the bulk of a spacedock out the window and they slid into a docking bay.

"Ladies, gentlemen, neuters and ?T*Reen," the captain said. "It will just be a moment while our highly trained maintenance teams check over our warpcore and ensure that it is perfectly functional. Please feel free to move about the cabin but be prepared to resume your seat at any time."

Josh had never been in a hypership dock and he was excited to get a chance to watch the ship engineers go about their business. The bay was, apparently, unpressurized because the beings moving around were in space suits. Again, most of them were Tooleck but there was one that had the distinctive outline of a Nari.

Two Tooleck wearing the blue and gold uniforms of Tooleck Airlines vanished under the ship for a moment and then came into view towing a large silver box on a floater. The box was marked with the red and gold bird-creature of the Nari Spacelines. The top was sealed on but not airtight and a blue glow could be seen around the edges.

"What's happening?" the Sjoglun asked, curious.

"They pulled a box out of the ship," Josh said. "It's glowing."

"Ah, that would be the hypercore," the Sjoglun said, craning over to look out the window.

"Why's it glowing?" Josh asked.

"I don't know, young Terran," the Sjoglun said politely. "I am not a hyper engineer."

"What do you do?" Josh asked as the two Tooleck, watched by Nari wearing the red and gold of Nari Spacelines, started removing the maglinks that held the top on the core.

"I am a seller of bathroom fixtures," the Sjoglun replied. "The Blefrib company makes the finest kunerac in the known galaxy if I may be so bold. And quite inexpensive for the quality we provide."

"Oh," Josh said as the top came off. The reason for the blue glow was immediately apparent; the interior of the box was packed with clear tubes through which a glowing blue substance was flowing. In one spot near the right upper corner two of the globes were glowing extremely brightly as they approached one another and the blue material in one tube was flickering as it came in close proximity to that in the adjacent tube.

The two Tooleck backed rapidly away from the box and apparently spoke by com to the Nari, who pointed at the spot and began gesticulating. The Tooleck began gesticulating back, the one on the far side of the box much more vigorously than the one by the Nari. This went on for some time until the more agitated Tooleck came around the box and grabbed the Nari by an arm, trying to drag it over to the corner. The Nari knocked the hand away with a gesture of what could be clearly read as disdain and began waving its hands again. Finally, it reached into a pouch and pulled out a roll of what appeared to be some sort of tape.

The more agitated Tooleck had apparently had enough, picking up one of the magwrenches and charging the much larger Nari, waving the wrench overhead like a battleaxe.

There was a brief scuffle before the less upset Tooleck managed to get his companion off the Nari. The more aggressive Tooleck was dragged away, still gesticulating and making some motions that Josh felt had more or less universal significance involving the inability of the Nari to find its tail with all ten hands.

A much larger group composed of a mixed group of Tooleck and Nari came out. Some of the Tooleck were in red and gold and some in the colors of Tooleck Spacelines. All of the Nari wore red and gold. More digit waving commenced with some rubbing of helmets and lots of pointing and in the case of one undersized Tooleck in red and gold a certain amount of hopping up and down. Finally, consensus was reached and the Nari approached the glowing box with the roll of tape in its hands.

Sensing something unusual was about to happen by the way the Tooleck were backing away and ducking behind large items of equipment, Josh sensibly ducked, shut his eyes and put his hands over them.

The flash was visible even through his hands.

When he looked back all that was left of the tape-toting Nari was a pair of smoking boots. The three Nari that stayed by the box were all on their backs and the interior of the box was empty of blue stuff. In fact, it was entirely empty except for some scorch marks and a cloud of slightly blue vapor that hung around it in a pall.

The Nari were hauled away on floaters, except for the boots, which were ceremoniously dropped into a clear bag by the small Tooleck wearing red and gold.

The box was hauled away. A blower appeared and sucked up the cloud that was still hanging around despite the vacuum. Then a warpcore marked in blue and gold was rolled into the bay and under the ship. After a bit of clanging from the underside of the ship, the whole group dispersed. The short Tooleck in red and gold appeared to be skipping as he left, dangling the bag with the boots in one hand.

"Ladies, gentlemen, neuters and ?T*Reen," the captain said, "please resume your seats and we'll continue our interrupted travels."

As the ship lifted off, Josh looked away from the window, frowning.

"What's a kunerac?" he asked the Sjoglun.

The Sjoglun had stopped looking out the window some time before and now was sitting rigidly upright, quivering, all his eyestalks stiff and extended.

"Hey, you okay?" Josh asked.

"Fine," the Sjoglun whistled plaintively.

"What's a kunerac?" Josh asked, again.

"What? Oh." The Sjoglun paused and then for the next ten minutes tried to explain Sjoglun waste removal processes, in passing giving Josh the answer to what "Purple Spotted Fever" was.

"Gosh," Josh said, his eyes wide. "No offense but I thought you smelled kind of funny. I'm glad we just have to use the flusher. . . ."

[5: Take the Last Mango]

"Ladies, gentlemen, neuters and ?T*Reen," the captain announced as they were about halfway to Nari. "It will be necessary to make short fuel stop in Terub. We'll only be there for an hour or so. Please prepare for exit from hyperspace."

Josh cocked his ears at the buzz of conversation in the compartment and looked at his Sjoglun companion.

"Terub?" Josh said. "What's so special about Terub?"

"Ah, larva, it's a sad story," the Sjoglun said, sighing out of his spicules. "Terub was once called the Sparata of the East. A beautiful city, I have been there many times. But the local Alyt have been engaged in a civil war for the last two cycles of their sun and it has done much damage to the city, to the planet. I doubt that many more ships will dock there for fuel; I could wish we were not doing so."

"Are we going to be spacejacked?" Josh said. Secret agent Josh Parker . . .

"One would hope not." The Sjoglun sighed. "Nor that we take fire on landing or take-off. But all are possible. We shall have to see what we see. . . ."

Josh was looking out the window curiously as the ship banked to approach the planet. It looked much like most planets he'd seen so far, clouds, land, oceans. But then he saw some bright pinpricks on the surface, lights like he'd never seen.

"What are those?" Josh asked, pointing.

"Kinetic energy weapons," the Sjoglun said unhappily. "Perhaps negamatter bombs. A great battle is raging there."

"Is it near Terub?" Josh asked, his eyes widening.

"Yes."

The ship entered the atmosphere faster than for the landing in Tooleck, and the atmosphere burned at the edge of the flight-shield. Josh knew that as soon as they were down the captain would have to disengage the shield. And while the shield might stop chemical explosives from bombardment rockets, there was no way it was going to protect the ship from a negamatter bomb.

The ship banked sharply and landed at the port, taxiing fast towards the terminal. Josh got a fleeting impression of a city of low buildings in the distance. To the east there were low mountains or high hills and as he watched, one hillside erupted in white fire.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Bombardment rockets." The Sjoglun sighed again.

More explosions suddenly erupted on the edge of the spaceport and Josh watched in a mixture of terror and wonder as a flight of air-ships flashed across the port and laid down a string of bombs. One of them began to spin as it passed out of sight and then dropped towards the ground. There was an actinic white explosion from where it went down.

"Cool," Josh said, momentarily jolted out of terror and into pure wonder.

"The Nastari have the spaceport at the moment," the Sjoglun said. "At least at last report. They are supporters of the legal government. But the rebels have, apparently, gotten close enough to be dropping mortars on the edge. No, I don't think many more ships will be arriving at Terub. . . ."

There was a crowd of people at the gate, waving at the plane, as Tooleck and something that looked like short Nari rolled up in a refueling bot. The bot extended a probe under the wing as the group on it deployed around the ship. The Tooleck, who had the blue and gold markings of a member of Tooleck Spacelines, appeared to be in charge of the guards. One set of guards held back the crowd while the rest appeared to be watching for more serious threats, fingering their plasma guns unhappily.

The refueling was over in what, to Josh, seemed to be record time and the craft reengaged its engines, lifting off the ground and taxiing to the take-off pads. Another set of explosions rocked the edges of the pad to loud shouts from the passengers and then the ship took off into the skies. Josh noticed that it seemed to be maneuvering more than usual, staying low initially until it was over water and then banking sharply upwards and swinging from side to side. He didn't have to ask the Sjoglun what was happening; he'd read enough about evasive maneuvers.

A bolt of plasma went past the window, but that was all that appeared to happen. Before he knew it they were looking at the stars again, undimmed by atmosphere.

"No," the Sjoglun said, "I don't think that I'll be selling many kunerac in Terub for a while. . . ."

[6: It's All In The Translation]

If Nari was supposed to be a hot, dry world, why was it snowing?

Josh contemplated that as he looked out the window at the city of Heteran. The purple sun of Nari was nearing its zenith somewhere above the clouds, but it wasn't visible. There was plenty of light to see by, however, if anyone wanted to. Most of the city consisted of low, circular buildings that looked like dirt igloos. He hadn't been in one yet but his mom had told him that most of the Nari lived underground. He could see why with the wind outside clocking along at something like ninety kilometers per hour and blowing a mixture of snow and dust that left the snow yellow brown where it piled in shallow drifts.

There were some taller buildings, if no megascrapers, and plenty of ground cars with a few aircars zipping around wildly. Some Nari hurried along the streets as well, gripping ropes that were stung from heavy metal lampposts. The street he was looking at was four lanes wide, flanked on either side by wide gutters down which water flowed. Well, ice at the moment. Dirty ice at that, with bits of rind from some fruit, bones and other debris sticking up from it.

The biggest single impression was one of untidy mess. The small yards around the buildings were mostly dirt with some scrubby lichenlike substance growing in places and they were all littered with trash. Trash joined the snow and dust in the wind, blowing down the streets, piling up in the drifts and being lifted up in the occasional dust devil that flickered through the air.

It was an altogether unprepossessing sight. And he was going to be living here for at least two more years.

Dad was gone already. The project he was working on was near the Basadab Spaceport, which was on the other side of the planet. Since there weren't very many facilities for human dependents in Basadab, Dad was going to be working there for three weeks out of the month and then would shuttle back to Heteran for a week. Leaving Josh and his mom alone for the rest of the time.

"Josh, I'm going out to look at a house," Jala said, standing by the room iris. "Order lunch while I'm gone but don't leave the room, okay?"

"Okay," Josh said. He didn't think he was going to be running outside to play any time soon.

He read and memed for a while, checking out the very limited local infonet. Mom had put the usual filter on it and there wasn't much that was interesting. Finally, getting hungry, he tried to access a room service menu, a skill he'd developed to a high art, but couldn't find one.

Prowling around the room he discovered a menu in one of the drawers. It was printed on plascrip and didn't have any link codes at all. He was, apparently, supposed to use the device by the bed called a phone. It didn't even have a vidlink. Odd.

He perused the menu unhappily. There were little flat-pics by each dish with a Galacta name. There was far more writing in Nari, blocks and dots that he couldn't read and which the plant wasn't programmed to translate.

There was a drink he recognized called shaloop. He'd had it a couple of times before and it was okay. After looking at the food on the menu he settled on something that looked like a strip of meat and a side of some yellowish-white things that looked like rice grains. He really hoped they weren't maggots or something. With the still-pic there was no way to tell. The Galacta next to it just said: "Chelo." There were at least a couple of sentences of Nari in addition, presumably explaining what it was to people that would already know.

He walked to the phone with the menu in his hand and considered it carefully. There was a note on it in Galacta.

Eating in the room to dial 315

Physical Service to dial 316

Bed Service to dial 317

Calling Out to dial 1

Calling in to dial 2

Every Other Thing to dial 0

There was a handset with the phone and large speaker. The handset was too big for his hand and the button that had to be pushed was on the wrong side for him. Finally he got the pieces arranged and dialed 315.

"Hello?" he said.

"S'GLOR RESH POOT!" a voice screamed back at him.

"HELLO!" Josh shouted in the phone. "IS THERE ANYONE WHO SPEAKS GALACTA?"

"S'BLOG NEBBUT . . ." the voice went on for some time as Josh set the speaker down where it wasn't causing his ears to ring.

"GALACTA!" Josh shouted. "FOOD, I NEED FOOD!"

"S'GLOR RESH POOT, MORUPT G'G'LOROAT!"

"CHELO!" Josh shouted. "CHELO, SHALOOP! ROOM 748!"

"CHELO, SHALOOP, S'BLOG EBDET B'B'MOROOP!"

"I guess," Josh said, then thought about his manners. "THANK YOU!"

But the phone was dead.

He tapped his fingers together, wondering worriedly about what he was going to get to eat, then prowled around the room some more.

He'd taken a shower the night before, before his dad left and he could get some explanations of the controls. But there were more things in that room than just human settings. He fiddled with the buttons and taps for a while, carefully. The shower was on a flexible hose that you had to hold up. Right now it was sitting in the bottom of the bathtub, which was huge. Josh pressed the button he'd been shown to get water, then kept going. There was a brown viscous liquid, another yellow viscous one and then one that looked like water but when it hit the material that hadn't drained from the others flashed into steam and gave off a sulphurous smell.

"Ah," Josh said to himself, nodding sagely. "That'd be for Sjoglun. . . ."

* * *

His mother came back just as he was finishing the second dish of chelo, the one he'd accidently ordered. The meat was something chopped up and pressed with spices and not bad at all and the yellowish things had turned out to be some sort of grain or at least they looked, and tasted, like. He just wasn't going to ask. It was something to survive on.

"What's that?" Jala said as she walked in the room.

"Chelo," Josh replied. "I don't know what it is and I don't want to; it's good."

"Well, we've found a house," Jala said. "There's a Nari family that lives there but they rent out the lower floor as its own apartment. And they have a sort of small, indoor, pool."

"Great!" Josh said.

"And I found a school," Jala continued, smiling at his grimace. "It caters to . . . sort of interplanetary middle management and some of the same among the Nari. Mostly Nari but lots of children of diplomats and that sort of thing; you should be able to fit in just fine."

"I don't speak Nari, Mom," Josh pointed out.

"All instruction is in Galacta," Jala replied. "And they meme instead of writing; I checked."

* * *

The house was one of dozens of identical domes set along a side street. The door was some sort of heavy wood and there was a pull rope by it. When Jala pulled on the rope a Nari answered the door quickly. Josh wasn't sure if it was a he or a she but it waved its claws for the two humans to enter. Josh watched the claws and thought about the vids he'd shown his class. Suddenly they weren't nearly as funny as they had been.

"This is Dr. Reenig," his mother said, gesturing to the Nari. "He owns the house."

"To be pleased to have you in our nest," the Nari said, whistling the words through a breathing slit set over his mandibles. "Come, come."

Behind the door was a small room with high tunnels sloping off to the left and down. Just beyond the room the tunnels split, one curving sharply inward and sloping down at the same rate and the other continuing in the previous curve but sloping more sharply. Both were closed by irises. The Nari took the left-hand corridor, whistling the iris open, and led them down a tunnel lit dimly by irregular globes that glowed with a faint, greenish light.

The walls and ceiling of the curved tunnel weren't dirt but something that looked like plastic or maybe wood with faint, irregular ribbing and occasional oval or circular patterns. The floor was set in tile that seemed to be marble or something similar. The walls were a deep purplish-red but the tile was white turned slightly pink and green by reflection. Josh felt like he was walking down a marble-floored intestine.

The tunnel finally flattened out at a landing with another iris. This gave onto a large room that was more regularly shaped to human eyes. The floor, again, was made of marble tiles, larger ones, each nearly a meter on a side, but the walls were plaster or something similar. The corners of the room were faintly curved instead of being sharply angular but the room was decorated with humans or Oolteck in mind. Instead of the faint glow-bulbs there was sun-paint on the ceiling, currently set to mimic an earthly tone.

Josh poked around the apartment in curiosity as the doctor showed it to his mother again. There were several rooms: two bedrooms, a sitting room or parlor, a very large entry room that connected to a dining room, a living room, a kitchen with mostly human-style fixtures and a fresher room. The apartment was comfortably furnished in human-style float chairs and couches. But he noticed that all the doors were double doors and very high. And beyond the living room was another room containing what looked to be a very large oval jacuzzi or small pool. It was currently dry but there were controls to fill it.

"See, Josh," his mother said, pointing to it as he was contemplating the device. "It's not much of a pool but you can splash around in it. The doctor called it a . . . conera or something."

"Kunerac!" Josh said, startled.

"Yes," Jala replied. "He showed me how to fill it . . ." she continued in a distracted tone, frowning at the controls and then pushing a blue button.

Liquid began to fill the bowl from inlets on the bottom and she knelt to feel the temperature.

"Mom!" Josh shouted. "Don't do that!"

"Why not?" Jala said, pausing.

"Uhmmm . . ." Josh said, trying to figure out how to explain gently. "Uhm . . . you have any of those rayel things? A small one that's not worth much real money?"

"I think so," Jala said, standing up and pulling around her pouch. She frowned dubiously at the metal pieces and then handed one to him.

"Back up," Josh said, fitting action to words, and then flicked the small piece of metal into the "water."

There was a fizzing and popping sound and when they stepped back to the pool the remnants of the rayel had settled to the bottom where it was quickly being dissolved.

"Acid?" Jala asked, sniffing. "Sulphuric acid?!"

"Yeah," Josh replied. "It's a kunerac. They fixed this place so Sjoglun could use it, too." He looked at the plate set in the wall and nodded. "Yep. Blefrib 2000. No expense spared; that's one top-of-the-line kunerac."

"And what is a kunerac?" Jala asked, horrified.

Josh took a few minutes to explain.

After contemplating the explanation for a moment Jala shook her head.

"I'm glad we just use the flusher. . . ."

[7: Remember, One Seventh Of Your Life Is Mondays]

Josh stood in the cold, waiting for the airbus, rubbing his hands together and wishing he had a hat. He'd been warned that if he wasn't standing out front the airbus wouldn't even drop. So he had to stand out here, freezing and contemplating his first day at the Central Heteran Combined School. His mom had picked it out but he'd never been there. It was somewhere in downtown Heteran and that was about all he knew about it.

A blue and white bus dropped out of the air just as he was considering dashing back in to warm up and the Nari driving it dropped the force-screen over the door and gobbled something at him. Josh hurried to board and looked around at the students in the bus.

They were mostly Nari, young ones ranging from dog sized to bigger than he was. There were a couple of Tooleck, a Nalo male that looked like he was older than Josh, a Sjoglun that must have been pretty young because he was not much larger than a human adult and three or four Terrans. One of them, sitting right at the back of the bus, was a really pretty blonde girl about his own age.

He took the first available seat, sitting next to one of the smaller Nari, and looked out the window as the bus lifted rapidly into the air.

Josh decided, immediately, that the driver was insane. The airbus, its engine screaming, lifted up to about six hundred meters, stood on its side and banked to the north, then dropped just as fast and grounded in front of another house. A Nari got on, took a seat, and the bus took off again.

They picked up three more young Nari, Josh straining not to throw up at each climb and drop, then lifted up one more time and, the engines clearly redlined, headed southward.

There were other vehicles in the air but, apparently, no concept of air-control. The bus dodged and weaved, once narrowly missing an airtruck that was being towed by some large flying creatures as the driver kept up a continuous, loud, stream of what was either a running commentary or, more likely, profanity.

Josh held on to the seat, there was not so much as a lap belt, and swore that he was going to find another way to get to school. The flight, however, was short and before he knew it they were dropping through a narrow opening in a force-screen.

The bus dropped to the ground with a crunch and the students began picking themselves up and getting off.

The school was completely shielded by the force-screen, which Josh found odd, and covered about three hectares. Most of what was visible were the low entry mounds of Nari nests but there were two large above-ground buildings. He had no idea where he should be going.

"Uhm . . ." Josh said, hesitantly, to one of the humans, a teenage male. "I'm in Miss Kakousis' homeroom."

"That building over there." The boy pointed to one of the mounds that was on the east side of the compound, right on the edge by the force-screen. "Take your first left on the tunnel, should be the third iris on the right iirc."

"Thanks," Josh said. "I'm . . . I'm Josh Parker."

"Jeno Szuchs," the boy said. "See you this afternoon, Josh. Isn't Homal the driver a bastard? He does it on purpose, you know. . . ."

Josh went to the indicated mound. There were a number of sophonts around his age, as far as he could tell, going into the same mound. He took the first left and found the third iris. This building, he noticed, had the weird plastic–wood on floor and ceiling. The iris wasn't a regular iris, either; it looked sort of wet, like it was an organism or something. But it opened as he stepped up to it.

The room within was crowded with beings. Most of them were Nari sitting on something that looked like a canted saddle or running around whistling and gobbling at each other. There were some Tooleck and two humans, one boy and one girl. The pretty girl from the bus wasn't in the room, which disappointed him.

The teacher was a human female, a pretty blonde lady. He was surprised by that but pleased; he wasn't sure he was ready for a Nari teacher.

He walked up to her and raised a hand.

"I'm Josh Parker," he said.

"And I'm Miss Alethea Kakousis, Josh," the woman said, smiling. She had long blonde hair that was braided and then wrapped in a bun behind her head and was wearing a flowered dress. "I want you to sit over there behind Doosam," she added, pointing at a Nari. The seat behind him was a rock, but Josh just shrugged that off. There was an empty desk behind the rock but probably one of the humans or Tooleck running around the room used it.

"Thank you," he said, walking to the rock and sitting down.

"Excuse me!" the rock said in gutturally accented Galacta. It shifted under Josh's rump and he jumped up quickly.

"Sorry," Josh said. "She told me to sit behind Doosam," he added, pointing at the Nari.

"I am Doosam," the rock answered. The top of it formed into a human face that looked something like Josh. "Doosam Padro. You're supposed to sit at the desk, bag-of-water."

"Sorry," Josh said again, sitting down at the desk. "I'm new here."

"Yeah, I know," Doosam said. "Terrys always make the same mistake." The face had rotated around to where it was facing Josh and the mouth moved like it was talking but the voice seemed to be coming from somewhere on the side of the rock.

"What are you?" Josh asked, fascinated.

"I'm a Tr'k'k'ikil," the rock answered in a series of clicks. "Humans usually just call us Trekkies."

"Class!" Miss Kakousis said loudly, pinging over the net for order and shutting down several toolies that were being played. "Take your seats, please."

Josh did a quick ping for the datanet and was surprised and pleased that most of the class seemed to have plants or something similar.

The school net pinged for the start as a few more young beings scurried into the room and took their seats. Miss Kakousis did a general ping to take roll and then brought up a hologram.

"We'll continue today with our study of the rise of the early Laek. . . ."

Josh was sweating by the end of class. He'd heard of the Laek before he came to Nari. They were an empire that stretched over most of the local galactic region prior to the Yemnor. They would have spread over the region the Yemnor came from if they hadn't had a big war with the early Sjoglun. It had been a sub-light war; this was before the invention of hyperdrive, way back in antiquity. They were early Nari and all the worlds in the area that had similar inhabitants, like the Atyl, had descended from them. But he'd never even heard of the Sdree, non-Narioids and apparently extinct, that had been an important part of the Laek Empire or Sdreas, Segjerx or Suilak, all of them Laek emperors that Miss Kakousis had mentioned in passing as if everyone in the room knew what she was talking about.

"Your memeports on the Laek Empire's second war with the Sjoglun is due on Julsey," Miss Kakousis ended as the ping for change of class sounded. "I expect not just text but full audio-tridee. . . ."

"Come on," Doosam said, rolling towards the exit. "It's Galacta next."

They didn't even enter the corridor, just went through another of those wet looking irises into the room next to theirs. The teacher there was a Tooleck.

"Josh," the Tooleck said, skittering through the crowd of young beings. "I'm Mr. Mistoki. Good, you've met Doosam. You'll be sitting right in front of him. . . ."

* * *

Josh thought that Galacta would be easy but the class was way in advance of anything he'd ever taken on Terra. They were reading something called Sharnash' Adventures on Norham. That was okay; it was about a Tooleck that goes to visit her aunt who lives on some jungle world. But the the spelling they were learning was . . . wrong. A bunch of the Galacta words were spelled differently than he was used to. Finally, he pinged the teacher hesitantly.

"Yes, Josh?" Mr. Mistoki said.

"Sir," Josh said. "Medakalbol. It's not spelled the way—"

"Ah, a Terran," Mr. Mistoki said, waving all five eyes. "Well, Mr. Parker, this is how it is supposed to be spelled, the Queen's Galacta, don't you know, not Terran."

"But Terrans do speak Galacta!" Josh replied. "And write it!"

"Not properly," Mr. Mistoki said with a sniff. "I am aware that you've been improperly taught up until now, young Terran, but try to keep up. . . ."

* * *

"So when I'm doing this memeport for Miss Kakousis, do I spell in Terran or Tooleck?" Josh said, throwing up his arms in exasperation.

"Either," Doosam said. "Both. Miss Kakousis and Mr. Mistoki have been arguing about it as long as I've been in school here. But Miss Kakousis won't take points off for either spelling."

They were headed to recess, following a crowded tunnel downward, with Doosam trying not to run over people's feet, talons and tentacles.

"I was expecting Nari teachers," Josh said. "Not Tooleck, Terrans, Nalo . . . "

"Wait until you get to Miss Hissberger," Doosam said balefully. "She's a Jootan and limestone is she mean! We've got her for math and she's just brutal. Thinks everyone in the Galaxy is lower than the Jootan. Real Zimbot."

"Wow!" Josh said. "I didn't think there were any more Zimbot!"

"Oh, I don't mean she's a really real Zimbot," Doosam replied. "I mean, she's not going to drag the Adoo students off to the mines or sprinkle them with salt. But . . . well . . . you'll learn."

The tunnel leveled out and through a big open iris Josh could see a large room. It was filled with kids and had some sort of big fungi lining one side.

"Is this the lunchroom?" he asked, worried.

"No, of course not!" Doosam said. "This is the gym!"

Kids were running around in circles or talking or sitting on some of the fungus. At one end a game of dyup ball was just starting with the two sides picking players.

"Let's go play dyup!" Doosam said, rolling quickly across the gym floor. "If we hurry we can get there before they're done picking."

"Don't they play null-grav around here?" Josh asked, frowning. He'd played dyup before but Terra tended to have more null-grav teams while it seemed like the rest of the galaxy played dyup.

"There's a lot of Terrys in Heteran and some of the other schools play null-grav, but we play dyup at Central," Doosam said as they reached the group

"Hi Doosam," a Tooleck said as the rock rolled to a stop. "I take Doosam!"

"I'll take Denpas," the other team captain, a Nari, said.

Josh tried to look alert, happy and the best dyup player ever to be born or whelped or whatever. No luck. All the other kids gathered around, and even one female human, got picked until it was down to just him, standing all alone.

"You've got seven, I've got eight," the Tooleck said. "I'll get rid of Fidbut."

But Doosam had been talking to the Nari and the local lifted his banana shaped black head and shot out a labial extension.

"I'll take the Terry," he spat, then lifted the oblong dyup flyer and lofted it into the air. "Go!"

Dyup is a simple game with simple rules. The dyup ball is caught by a player and then thrown to another player on his, her, its or V!Tup team, who then passes the ball to the next player on the team and so on and so forth until it gets to the end of the field and tossed through a small gate called a shuttle. Players who have the ball cannot run with the ball or be touched except under certain circumstances. Attempts to pass the ball can, of course, be intercepted by the other team.

There are a few complexities.

The first of these is that the dyup ball has an anti-gravity lift and drive device that is misweighted so that it constantly spins within the ball and sends it in random directions. Thus if tossed upward it may come directly down upon the head of the tosser. If thrown to another player it may curve in any direction. It never goes more than seven meters above the playing field but other than that it will go in any direction randomly. If a player touches it and cannot catch it and it thereafter strikes the ground out of bounds it passes to the other team, assuming anyone can get a hand on it at all.

Humans are limited to catching the ball only with their right arm. If they touch it with their left arm or hand the ball turns over to the other side. They can clutch it to their body but it cannot touch the head or the right leg. It can be bounced with the left leg but only if the player is not standing in one of the seven rings. There are similar rules for other species.

This then brings us to the question of the seven rings.

There are seven rings in the dyup field, Udhas, Snup, Thawasaf, Bebas, Nihad, Idaya and George. They are placed equidistantly down the field in two sets of three with the Udhas being in the center.

A player who catches the dyup ball while standing in the Udhas ring is immune to being tackled but only if they caught it while standing in the Udhas ring. Furthermore they can only throw the ball Jnorbong, or in the opposite direction from their own goal in a 45 degree area towards the edge of the field in the direction of the Bebas or George ring towards one of their own team's players and players from other teams are not permitted to move to intercept the throw unless the ball touches the ground.

A player who catches the ball in the Snup ring or catches it and can make it to the Snup ring in one bound is then permitted to pass the ball, unhindered, to one other player who then gets three bounds before the game begins again. The first player cannot, however, move out of the Snup ring, and the player who now has the ball gets only three more bounds before having to stop and is liable to be tackled by players from the opposite side during those three bounds. Bounds are limited to a distance of slightly less than two meters and are called "Rhmer." All Rhmer must be Jnorbong.

Players who catch the ball in the Thawasaf ring or catch it and can make it to the Thwasaf ring in one Rhmer are then permitted to run to their goal but they must first round either the Bebas or Nihad ring, depending upon which is in the opposite direction of their goal and if they were outside the Thawasaf ring they have to make it into the ring in that one bound before running to the other rings. However, they are then liable to be tackled during the run. They are not permitted to pass unless they are in contact with a player from the opposite team.

A player who catches the ball in the Bebas ring or catches it and can make it to the Bebas ring in one Rhmer is permitted to throw the ball to a player from the opposite team who then changes sides and is permitted three bounds (or seconds) while play stops, after which the play resumes and the player is liable to be tackled.

A player who catches the ball in the Nihad ring or catches it and can make it to the Nihad ring in one Rhmer automatically passes to the opposite team and is liable to be tackled. Players can throw from the Nihad ring but only Jnorbong if their current goal is on the Nihad end of the field. (Called the Radkas.)

A player who catches the ball in the Idaya ring or catches it and can make it to the Idaya ring in one Rhmer also passes to the other team but cannot be tackled, and can only throw the ball Jnorbong[1].

A player who has had the ball turned over due to passes from the Thawasaf or Bebas ring can attempt to make it to the Nihad ring or the Idaya ring. If they enter the Nihad or Idaya ring before they are tackled and within their regulation Rhmer they are immune to being tackled and can throw the ball Jnorbong without attempts to intercept however they also automatically switch to the opposite team but only after their throw[2].

The rings take up about half the total area of the field.

Failure to throw Jnorbong, touching the ball with illegal extremities, excess Rhmer or leaving the field with the ball, even if traveling Jnorbong, are grounds to turn over the ball to the other team.

There is no tripping.

That, with some minor additional rules that run to some four hundred and twenty-three million words for competition play, is dyup[3].

In this game, when thrown, the ball traveled upwards very quickly and then down even faster, striking a Nari player on the head and mildly concussing him. There was a brief scrum while both of the team captains got into a violent argument about whose ball it was now. As the scrum broke apart a Nari had the ball and took a Rhmer to the Snup ring. Both of the team captains immediately changed their argument to whether it was a valid Rmer or not, the captain from the opposite team insisting that levering oneself up counted as half a Rhmer with the other violently opposing that call. Both eventually started rolling around on the ground, punching at one another, while the game proceeded around them.

The Nari, who Josh was pretty sure was from the opposite team, tossed the ball towards him. It curved to the right but Josh snagged it with one hand and a legal knee bounce, then realized that in three bounds he was going to be liable to be tackled so he quickly threw the ball to some spiderlike creature who was immediately piled with bodies. This was technically illegal but the spider creature, when he crawled off the field, wasn't in any position to protest.

During the scrum the ball shot out and upwards, going down the field rapidly with all the young beings that were hale following it in a milling, screaming, crowd. Josh joined in and was quickly tripped by a Nari he was virtually certain was from his own team. The ball was finally tackled by a small Sjorglun while in the Udhas ring. He threw anti-Jnorbong, or so the opposite team's captain contended, at which the two captains got back to their fight.

The ball, which had been tossed towards a Tooleck, shot up into the air and then bounced off the ground, rolling out of bounds. However, before anyone could catch it, it bounded into the air again and went off across the field. It was finally caught by a very small Nari who was carefully standing outside all the rings.

"That's supposed to change to Tforlock's team!" Doosam shouted, rolling towards the Nari.

"I'm on Tforlock's team!" the Nari shouted, struggling to hold the active ball in two of his left pseudoarms.

"No you're not!" Doosam shouted, rolling over and extending two pseudopods to wrestle the ball away. "You're on Hemshots!"

"Am not!" the Nari contended, grabbing the ball with all his arms.

"Foul!" Josh called.

"Not with Nari," Dossam said.

The ball scrabbled loose and went into play again. Josh managed to jump off Doosam and land with it in the Thwasaf ring. He was clear, most of the team having darted down the field in pursuit while he was bending over getting some breath and trying not to throw up breakfast. So he took off down the field, headed for the Nihad ring.

Just as he rounded the Nihad he felt something slam into him and he went to the ground with Doosam on his back.

"Sorry," Doosam said, scooping up the ball. "I got caught in the Nihad."

"You're in the Nihad again," Josh said, pointing to the red painted ring.

"So I am," Doosam said, looking at the wall of bodies headed his way. "Catch!"

Josh had already thrown the ball when he was covered in players.

"Hey!" he yelled from the bottom of the pile. "That was a fair catch!"

"Upfield! Upfield," one of the team captains screamed.

"I'm going to find the bastard that invented this game and kill him," Josh said, trotting in the direction of the ball. Suddenly it hit the ground, bounded into the air, changed course and headed back down towards where Josh was trotting and Doosam was rolling slowly.

As it passed overhead, Josh felt pseudopods wrap around his belt and arm.

"Go get it!" Doosam shouted, suddenly extending up like a megalith and tossing the Terran through the air.

"You're on the opposite team!" Josh yelled.

"No I'm not," Doosam said. "You were in Nihad."

"That's my point!"

Josh managed to snag the ball with one hand. He pulled it into his chest, then had a brief but unpleasant moment of realization that he was about six meters in the air and descending. Rapidly.

He hit with a thud, his impact slightly reduced by a sudden upward bound of the ball just before he hit. He lay there for a moment, seeing stars and catching his breath. He just started to get up when he was tackled by a Nari. He was pretty sure it was the one that tripped him at the beginning of the game.

"Leave me alone!" Josh yelled. "It was a legal catch!"

"You're in the Nihad Ring!" the Nari shouted, pulling at the ball. "It's legal to tackle!"

"It wasn't a Rhmer, I was thrown and farther than a legal Rmer," Josh said. "It counts as a free catch."

"Does not!" the Nari said.

"Does so!"

By this time the ball had wriggled loose and back into play and Josh suddenly found himself in a fight with the little Nari. The Nari's labial extension shot out and punched him in the nose as Josh kicked in the vague area of the groin region. There probably wasn't anything there to kick but it was better than just getting repeatedly pummeled by the labia. The second time it shot out Josh got a hand around it and began shaking it back and forth as the two of them rolled around on the ground. The Nari's arms wrapped around him while Josh held him off with one hand, jerked the labia viciously in the other and kept kicking him in the groin.

"Here, now, what's all this then?" Mr. Mistoki said, pulling the two apart with difficulty.

"He's a cheater!" the Nari said. "It's no fair!"

"He tackled me after a legal catch!" Josh protested, sticking out his tongue and then tasting blood. "My nobe ib bleeding!" Hurt, too.

"Well, recess is about over," Mr. Mistoki said. "Now, you two were just having good fun playing dyup; these things happen. Touch feelers and say you're sorry."

Josh stuck out his hand angrily as the Nari bowed forward.

"You need to bring your sensory organs into contact," Mr. Mistoki said. "Touch heads in your case, Terran."

Josh bowed angrily, and whispered.

"I'm gonna kick your black butt, bug," he said.

"I'm going to feed you to a brooder," the Nari whispered back.

"There, now," Mr. Mistoki said jovially, "we're all friends. Josh, I understand that body fluid loss in endoskeletal creatures is not all that serious but you are . . . leaking . . . rather . . . profusely. . . ." The Tooleck trailed off and then keeled over backwards, all five eyestalks retracted into his cranial cavity.

"Can't stand the sight of body fluids," Doosam said, rolling up behind them. "You might want to stay away from Malfoo."

"Who?"

"Malfoo, the kid you were fighting. His dad is in the Nari security forces and he can make a lot of trouble for you."

"Oh," Josh said, looking around for the little Nari, but he had disappeared. "He tripped me."

"Yeah, well, he's a migbop if you ask me," Dossam admitted. "But you still need to watch your back around him. Let's off. Art next!"

"Who won?" Josh asked.

"Zero, zero," Doosam muttered unhappily.

"Oh, just like normal. Remember last year when the Galactic Cup was awarded based on which team could do the better macarena?"

* * *

"Feel the creative energies of the universe!" the teacher squeaked, waving two forelegs in the air ecstatically. "Let them flow, flow through you up the brush and into the canvas! Let them infuse your pigment with their spectacular scintillating rhythms!"

The teacher was a Grantin, a being that looked something like a large, green, daddy longlegs. Very large. Her body was suspended about two meters above the ground. She was carefully stepping among the students, dropping down from time to time to make a suggestion here, add a dab of paint there. Her lower legs were covered in paint and it was splashed on the underside of her abdomen as well. She looked a bit like a cross between Salvador Dali and Jackson Pollock with a dash of Lovecraft.

Josh was doing his best to paint a space-fighter like they used in the Orion War. But he could never get the reaction control veins to look right and the fuselage was really just a blue and yellow blob. It was supposed to be one of the Toffire fighters that had saved Tooleck during the System battle. But . . . he could never get it to look right.

He didn't like daddy longlegs, or Grantin for that matter, but if he was ever going to get it right he was going to have to ask the teacher for help. However, she'd never been by him and he'd tried pinging her a couple of times with no answer.

"Miss Tchick?" Josh said, raising his hand.

"Y . . . yes?" the teacher said, skittering around on all ten legs and pointing a few eyes in his direction.

"Could you give me a ha . . . a fee . . . could I get some help?" Josh asked.

The teacher looked at him for a moment and then raised herself up with a deeply indrawn breath.

"Very well," she said, skittering over to his easel, her body clearing those of the young beings in-between, the legs carefully placing themselves in open spots.

"I'm trying to do a space fighter—"

"Oh, why must you male mammaloforms always create weapons of war?" the teacher snapped, carefully lowering her body and swiveling six eyes at it. "Your problems is perspective, young Terran. . . ."

"What's perspective?" Josh asked, swiveling around on his stool, brush raised.

The teacher let out a high-pitched shriek and backed away, rapidly.

"Pardon me, Josh," the teacher panted. "Must go . . ." With that she skittered out the door as fast as her legs could carry her.

"Terrified of mammaloforms," Doosam said from near the floor. He had a piece of plascrip held down with four pseudoarms and appeared to be painting . . . a rock . . . with two more. He'd used a lot of gray. "Just can't stand them. Rocks are okay, anything with an exoskeleton, sure, but get her around an endoskeletal and she just goes to pieces."

"You're telling me she has an irrational fear of mammals?" Josh asked.

"Yep. Not enough legs. Too few eyes. Body all the wrong shape. Just . . . gives her the willies. Grantin are like that. She'll be back. But, face it, you're on your own in this class. Not that she grades hard. Just put some color on the paper and when you turn it in, do it at arm's length. But this is as good as it gets. Next period is . . . math."

* * *

"You vill take your SEATSSS!"

The Jootan teacher, Miss Hissberger, had apparently teleported to the space behind her desk. One minute the room was empty of teacher, with various young beings running around doing their individual versions of shouting, the next there was this . . . Jootan standing at the end of the room, waving a meter stick in her hand.

"You vill sit down unt you vill be QVIET!" she shouted, slamming the meter stick on the desktop.

She was short for a Jootan, barely a meter and a half, dressed in a black jacket, white shirt and black pants with her brown tail sticking out behind, lashing back and forth angrily. She had beady black eyes that swept the room like a laser as the last of the students settled into quiet, quivering, panic.

"YOU!" she shouted, pointing the meter stick at Josh. "Josh Parker. New to my classss, arrre you?" she purred.

"Yes?" Josh said. It seemed painfully obvious to him as the rest of the students tittered and whistled in humor.

"Vat-ist-der-qvadrratic-eqvation?" she shot out in a staccato.

"I . . ." Josh gulped and shrugged. "I don't know?"

"Vat are they TEACHING on Terra theessse days?" the teacher spat. "Int te old daysss vast taught quadratics on Terra in der second grate! Vere is vaunted Terra now, I ask you, ey? How vill you maintain your soooo superior FLEET? Unlessss you buy it all from der Jootan! Vell, today, you vill be LEARNING der qvadratic eqvation! Unt . . . here it iss!" she ended sharply, spinning around to the board.

* * *

"How was school, dear?" Josh's mom called from the living room as the iris closed behind him.

Josh fell to his knees and leaned against the iris, panting and trying not to throw up.

"Fine?" he said, crawling across the entry room towards the fresher.

"Good," his mom replied. "Dinner in an hour or so and you need to get ready for tomorrow. Do your homework."

"Yes, Mother," Josh called weakly, tapping at the door to the fresher instead of whistling and then pulling himself up on the sink. His nose was still a bit bloody, his clothes were ripped and he was nauseated from the flight home. One of the Nari had thrown up during one of the dips and he'd never ever forget the sight of the vomit in midair, everyone eyeing it and wondering where it would come down. As it turned out, it hit the driver in the back of the head, which served him right. Homework? He could barely remember his own name.

And it was only Monday

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED

[1] This assumes that they can figure out which team is theirs.

[2] See prior footnote.

[3] The legal industry occasioned by competition dyup play supports over sixteen million sophonts and generates over sixty billion credits in legal fees per year, so the game cannot be said to be worthless. Without all the lawsuits surrounding it, thousands of young beings would go hungry every night.

John Ringo is the author of many novels, as well as a writer of short stories.

To read more work by John Ringo, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

Fish Story, Episode 2

Written by Dave Freer, Eric Flint and Andrew Dennis
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

Episode 2, The Tinta Falls Catfish

I was always a slow learner, even though on the day this episode of our story begins I had been practicing Darwinian selection on my brain-cells since just before lunch. More precisely, since just before the lunch that would have happened if we'd had lunch at all—"we" in this instance referring to myself and my two drinking friends of the moment, Steven Speairs and MacParrot.

You know the theory? No? Well, it goes something like this:

Alcohol kills brain cells. Darwinian selection means that only the fittest survive. Give your brain enough alcohol and you are actually enhancing your intelligence because the slow, less fit brain cells are being eliminated.

Some time around midnight you can actually feel this working. You get smarter. We should train our Olympic gymnasts like this. It even worked wonders on my previously nonexistent limbo dancing skills.

But I digress from our tale.

Rule one. Never assume that the big red-haired fellow who is staring cross-eyed at his glass is actually so out of it that he's not listening to the story. Remember this.

Sheila Rowen had come into the pub while I was telling the Wandle Pike Epic to Steven and MacParrot. MacParrot wasn't his real name, of course. He just had a Scots accent so thick that we had to get him really shattered before he'd speak English in a fashion that anyone could understand. Steven called him McParrot, because he always ended up repeating everything three times before we figured out what he was saying. Speairs could call anyone whatever he liked and get away with it, because he had a look in his eye that said "they threw me out of the SAS and then I put on a little weight." That wasn't actually true—the bit about the SAS, that is; the extra weight was there—but when you're that big people tend to assume you're an Honest Man.

Sheila started adding embellishments to the story, and it took a long time. And a large number of pints. It's dry work telling a story like that. It's dry work listening to it too. And MacParrot was in that happy state where he couldn't remember if he'd paid for the last round or not. In the interests of Anglo-Scottish harmony we'd convinced him that it was his shout five or six times in a row.

Sheila's embellishments went on. They were suitable embellishments of course, if a little long. Listen, when someone who cracks walnuts between her forearm and biceps adds them, they're always great embellishments. Especially when the tattoo on her bicep reads All Men Are Mortal and the tattoo on the opposing forearm which shattered said walnuts was a depiction of an Iron Maiden.

Enter the ancient mariner. As usual the place was wall-to-wall with people renting beer, so space was at a premium. I guess the two guys sharing the table with us could hardly help hearing the story with patrons wedged in like that. "It sounds," said the redhead, raising his head briefly from the dead glass he'd been trying to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, "as if that pike of yours must be related to the Tinta Falls Catfish. Dexter and I," he jerked a thumb at his mate, "had a run-in with that one."

He had an odd accent, but we didn't think much of it. In South London, you could find someone from anywhere, especially in the Queens Legs on a Saturday Night. Story goes that a few aliens from Betelgeuse used to hang out there. Of course that was quite wrong, but we didn't know it yet.

"Big fish, catfish," said Steven. "Ugly beggars too, with those little tentacly things around their mouths. I heard they got them as big as hundred pounds there." He gestured vaguely, knocking over an empty glass and nearly setting fire to Sheila's hair with his cometlike coffin-nail. He could have been pointing to anywhere from the lower Thames to the Caspian Sea, but definitely vaguely east. "Nothing to a pike though."

"I've never head of the Tinta Falls," said Sheila, "and I was born and bred here."

The redhead looked at his mate. "It's a bit further off and a bit further off and a bit further South. Shall I tell them about it, Dexter?"

Dexter sighed, shook his dreads. "You're going to anyway, Kevin. So long as you don't mention the frigging submersible! I am going to need some anesthetic for this. What are you guys drinking?"

It's the kind of question that Jehovah's Witnesses ought to ask before they ask if you'll listen to them for a few minutes. It guarantees an audience.

"So . . . a fooggin bug fush was it?" said MacParrot, buoyed up by the discovery that it wasn't his round.

"What?

"A fooggin bug fush," said MacParrot slowly.

The redhead then demonstrated he had little survival potential, except for having a mate that was fetching the drinks. "These English accents really get me. Say it slowly?"

We translated before MacParrot could stagger to his feet. "And he's a Scot."

"Oh? So's Dexter. He's from the Makatini clan." The redheaded Kevin seemed to find that funny. "Yep, our catfish are big."

"Nothing to a pike though," said Sheila, jealously guarding the ever pristine reputation of South London.

Kevin took a long look at the tattoo on Sheila's bicep. "Nope," he said. "Not as far as teeth are concerned. But this isn't your European catfish, Silurus glanis, which are reputed to be up to sixteen feet long in the Danube, or your American Channel Cat, Ictalurus punctatus. You get bigger ones in the Mekong and the Amazon—"

"Sixteen feet! And the f . . . ing pudding . . ." I might possibly have said, being in my moment of folly the wedding guest to the ancient mariner.

Red-haired Kevin fixed me with the beady eye. "You doubt me. But I spent eight years at the finest Ichthyological Research Institute in the Southern Hemisphere. Let me introduce myself. Dr Kevin Bagust. I am an ichthyologist—"

"You were an ichthyologist, before the submersible—" said his dreadlocked friend, having returned with the dark amber insurance of a continuing audience.

"Shut up about the bloody submersible!" snapped Kevin, wrinkling his forehead and making his black eyebrows stick out like hairy caterpillars. "They never proved anything, did they?"

"That's because they didn't want the press getting pictures of the tooth marks. And I never mentioned the submersible—"

"Yes, you bloody did. . . ."

As this had the potential for going downhill fast and drying up our new source of drinks, I said, loudly, "About the catfish." I did it in chorus with Steven, MacParrot and Sheila. Great minds thought alike, obviously Darwinianly selected.

It broke through the iron glare-match that was going on between the two. "Ah, the catfish!" said Kevin. "Well, yes. They can be enormous, seriously. Ask Dexter. Let me introduce you. This reprobate is Dexter Guptill. We used to work together."

"Still do," said Dexter, sitting down. "Just nowadays it is on a rig in the North Sea, not on a research boat on the Agulhas banks. And I won't say whose fault it is because I'm not sure that I remember."

It did explain why they had lots of money for drinks. What a couple of riggers were doing in South London was anyone's guess, but they were buying. "So about this sixteen-foot catfish," I said, expecting rich tale.

Kevin shook his head. "Wasn't sixteen feet. That was Silurus glanis, the Wels catfish—"

"Welsh? Called frigging Jones, carrying a leek and singing arias?" said Sheila. It wasn't a Sarf Lunnon fish, and had to be smelled out for yet another Brentford griffin.

"Wels," corrected Kevin. "A river in Germany I think. But that's not the fish I refer to. No, our story is about Clarias gariepinus, the African land-walking catfish."

"And they get on migrant smuggler boats in Tangier and are all working as waiters in the Costa del Sol," scoffed Sheila, "except for the ones that sell kebabs in Bradford."

"Ah've heerd o'thum," said MacParrot. "Ah saw it on the Discovery Channel. They stick their fins oot like this." He pushed his elbows out and waggled his upper torso, and sent my unlit fag for swimming lessons in my beer. "They're no' so big."

Kevin was catching on, or Darwinian selection was improving his hearing because he got it the second time around. "Ah. You seldom see the really big ones go walkabout. They nab the prime habitat, and seldom have to move. They only go walking on land when they have to. They have a modified gill that lets them air-breathe for a considerable time."

"What did you say they were called?" asked Speairs. "Clarias gar . . ."

"It's an unfortunate name. But quite accurate. They'll grip anything. They even snatch washing from women at the rivers." Dexter grimaced. "They're also called sharp-toothed catfish."

"I thought you said they weren't anything like pike," said Sheila. "Changing the story now?"

"They have little teeth," said Kevin. "But damn sharp. And lots of them. Anyway, you want to hear the story or not?"

"Mark my words, it is another man-eating swine from the Fleet ditch story," said Sheila.

"Oh, they eat men," said Kevin. "But mostly they wait till they're dead. They're like eels. Fond of murky water and food that is good and ripe. Slimy buggers just like eels, too. Got this big wide mouth on them. They'll swallow anything up to a third of their own length, whole."

"A third of sixteen feet . . ." It was unfortunate that Darwinian selection also seemed to work on numbers. The things got stronger as the evening wore on.

"No," said Kevin. "These ones don't get sixteen feet."

His friend shrugged, sending the dreads bouncing. "We don't think, anyway. The angling record is ninety-seven kilograms."

"What's that in pounds?" I asked. "About fifty? That's a fair size fish."

"Nah, it's the other way around. You multiply by 2.25," said Steven.

There was the silence of alcohol-fuelled heavy cogitation. "That's something like two hundred and twenty pounds. Damn near as big as the pike. . . ." mumbled Sheila, impressed despite herself.

"A lot bigger than the official record for pike," I said, risking life and limb.

"Yeah, but getting the real big ones out of the water . . . I mean look at the Wandle Pike," said Sheila.

"Well, these are tough conditions to get a fish out of," said Kevin. "They like to hang out in old tree-roots and in rocks and garbage on the bottom. They know every trick in the book and then some to break you off. Anyway they're bottom-feeders, and the big ones never leave their lairs. They pick places where the river brings them their food—not easy places to fish. Anyway that is the official record, but I've seen one that made that look like a tiddler. Hundred and fifty kilos if it was an ounce, what was left of it."

"And you caught it," said Sheila. "But a bigger one bit it in half . . . Pull the other one."

"No, it was found on the beach at Manz'Ngewenya pan. The crocodiles had eaten the other half. We had to guess," said Kevin.

Now that was a conversation stopper, especially as he said it with a deadpan expression that would have got a drug-crazed rapper off the hook, even if the cops had caught a stash in hand.

"You used to go fishing with crocodiles?" asked Steven, after a good minute's silence.

"Nah, we usually used worms. His girlfriend had them," said Dexter, looking at the glass in his hand. "Terrible evaporation problem you guys have with this beer of yours."

Now we were back on familiar territory. We could swap lies and insults about the women who disdained us with the best of them, although you had to watch outright slander with Sheila around. She was good value in most ways though, and was an education in the department of coarse invective. "It's your round," said Steven cheerfully. "And in exchange I can tell you about a wench I once knew who was into crocodile wrestling."

"Given a fair choice of wrestling you or the crocodile," said Sheila, looking at him, "I can't blame her for choosing the crocodile. Anyway, it's your round."

"I'll pay for it," said Kevin, shocking us all rigid, "If someone else goes and gets it. If I stand up I'm going to fall down. It's a terrible childhood problem I have to live with."

"Which only affects you when you're Vrot. Plastered," said Dexter sarcastically. "Which you're only about half. Get up, you lazy swine."

He did, and proved, a little later, that he had a retentive memory as well as childhood problems. "About the catfish . . ."

"Which was sixteen feet long and was walking for the bus, when you caught it with a crocodile," I said.

"Look, do you want to hear the story?" the ancient mariner asked, pushing beers through the slop on the table.

I took the pint glass. "When you put it like that I do."

"Ah've always had grea' untrest un Africa," said MacParrot owlishly, taking his beer. "Pagodas and wee wee dancers wi'long fingernails and tinkly music, and bein' able to smoke a cigarette or shoot a ping-ball with their watchama . . ."

"That's Bangkok, you Scots prat," said Steven.

MacParrot blinked in surprise. "Usn't Tha' un Africa?"

Kevin fixed him with his beady eye. "Geography is not something that they teach you English much of."

It took us a while to get back around to the catfish but we did, with a sort of piscine inevitibility. Well, they do rule the universe. "Imagine, if you can, a dirt road which goes into the bum end of Africa, if not the universe," said Kevin. "The veldt is as barren as a politician conscience. There is nothing there but little thorn bushes and dead grass. Two hours off the freeway, and I reckoned all they'd find was our tire tracks and two dry corpses sitting in the truck."

He jerked his thumb at his companion. "He didn't help because he kept looking at the map and saying things like 'we should have gone right at that windmill' and 'we're bloody lost, aren't we?' Ha. This from a man who had doomed civilization as we knew it by leaving the beer cooler behind."

"It was an accident!" protested Dexter.

"Mark my words, everything that happened on that fateful day can be blamed on that incident," said the ancient mariner.

Dexter attempted to defend what any lawyer in creation could see was the indefensible. "The beer was warm. I shoved it and the cooler into the chest freezer to cool it all as much as possible. You said that it was a good idea."

Kevin gave this excuse the disdain we all knew it deserved. "Don't trouble me with logic and excuses. All it meant was that by the time we arrived at our destination we were both too dry to be sensible about drinking. Anyway, despite Dexter's lack of faith and his folly with the beer—God, I'm thirsty even thinking about it—we came over the ridge and there it was. The Lucacha River. A little strip of greenery with yellow fever trees and one helluva big mango orchard. It was the bloke that owned the orchard that was our reason for going off into the arse end of nowhere. Gerhardus Van der Plank. He'd decided that he had a river, and as the bum was falling out of the export fruit market, that he'd build himself a fish-farm. He exported fruit and he'd been to the 'States on a marketing trip, and he'd eaten catfish at a restaurant. When he figured out that it was what we called 'baarber' he got a bee in his bonnet and decided that he could make a fortune exporting fish to the U.S.

"Now, Clarias looks similar to Ictalurus. They both have barbels around their mouths and they're both scale-less. But that's where it ends. Clarias air-breathes, likes water that's indistinguishable from muligatawny soup, you know, warm and full of curry and things you better not think too much about. It's nothing like Ictalurus in texture. Clarias is tough and doesn't flake, and it tastes of mud unless you keep in clean, running water, without food, for three days. But Van der Plank was willing to pay us to consult on breeding Clarias, and we were broke. So there we were on a Sunday, moonlighting, in the middle of nowhere, and as dry as dust gods, with a truck full of everything essential to get Clarias to spawn, but no beer."

"Van der Plank had that," said Dexter. "And once he got over the fact that his consultants weren't both lily-white, he was very generous with it. His wife was away in town and he was catching up on his drinking while he had the chance."

"Anyway we looked over the place, had a few beers, said polite things, not like 'you've got more money than sense,' had a few more beers, and got things set up in his hatchery building. We had a few more beers while we were setting up the egg-screens. I guess Van der Plank didn't get too many visitors, in the arse end of nowhere. And it was bloody hot. And dry." He looked pointedly at his glass. "Like that," he said. And all unbidden (well, undragged, and without someone having an armlock on her) Sheila went to get us another round. It was a dangerous sign.

"Now, by this stage we getting quite inspired by the idea of selling South African catfish to the Americans. Clarias have real advantages over a lot of other aquaculture species. The water doesn't have to be clean and oxygenated and they'll eat damn near anything. And you can take them out of the pond and six hours later they're still alive, and will swim off if you put them back in the water. So Dexter here says "well, let's get your brood fish and give them their pituitary extract injection," to Van der Plank."

"What? Inject them with what?" asked Steven.

"Pituitrin," said Kevin, as if that explained everything. "It's like heroin but different. It's made from fish pituitary glands."

"It's a date-rape drug for fish," explained Dexter.

"And the pudding," I said. "I suppose there's a big market for it with fish shaggers—"

"No, really!"said Dexter, hurt by my doubts. Well, trying to look as if he was. He didn't have the face for it. "Catfish only spawn when they get the environmental triggers. The summer flood. As soon as the water gets warm and muddy they release hormones from the pituitary gland, the eggs swell overnight and they're ready to spawn. We just cut out the middleman or the flood."

"And this is where the mad scientists accidentally inject the fish with radioactive isotopes and instead breed super land catfish that are out to conquer the world!" said Sheila.

"Well, I met one on the tube yesterday," I admitted. "So what did you beggars do to these poor fish, pissed as newts as you undoubtably were."

"Nothing. And we weren't pissed yet. Just slightly cheerful. The newts part came later," admitted Dexter.

"What do you mean nothing? Did you inject his wife by accident?" I asked.

Kevin snorted. "I did that once. Well, I injected the guy who was supposed to be holding the fish still. He was convinced that his nuts were going to drop off."

"And did they?" asked Sheila.

"I never looked," said Kevin. "But his wife had twins nine months later, so either it worked in some other way, or she called in consultants to help out. Anyway this time it was that Van der Plank had collected some fish from the river but they were all too weeny. If you want quality eggs you've got get yourself some quality brood fish. Big females. The bigger the female the better the quality of the eggs."

"I told you so," said Sheila, nodding.

"Yeah, and they have more eggs and the size increases slightly too, which means better survival to swim-up. Anyway, Van der Plank only had little fish. Too small."

"Besides you'd have been ashamed of yourselves injecting that stuff into little fish."

"We should have stuck with them, but we'd got a bit inspired. We'd run out of beer and that's when things really went wrong, because Van der Plank turned out to be the local mampoer king. It's a sort of white-lighting he distilled from fruit. A very little bit of that stuff and you think that you're superman. A little more and you don't think at all. We decided to go down to the river to catch a really big mama. No messing around now, we were going to catch something that would give him a million eggs. Well, Van der Plank went looking for some tackle and left us to admire the quality of that mampoer, while he went into that house of his. It was one of those 'spogpaleis' places, you know, a got-rich-and-have-to-show-it thatched monstrosity, with white fluffy carpets, not for scruffy fisheries consultants. So we sat and kept the mampoer company. The stuff was like drinking barbed wire, but you got used to it after a while. He came back with a surf rod—one of those real old telephone poles from the very early days of fiberglass rods, solid enough to hammer into the ground as a mooring post, and strong enough to pole a cruise liner—with a twelve-inch Scarborough reel and a rusty 13/0 shark hook, and, I kid you not, a whole chicken. I might have said something about us needing a decent size bait for a decent size fish, and Van der Plank wanted the biggest and the best for his new venture. By that stage we wanted it for him too. The chicken was going to be lunch. We should have eaten it, but this was a holier purpose.

"Well . . . the river. I don't know if you ever read the Kipling story about the Elephant's child? About the grey-green greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees? Well, this was like that, but smaller. I must have had at least one grey cell still functioning because I took a long look and said 'and what about crocs?' to our genial employer."

"And that was the last grey cell that functioned all day," said Dexter. "'Cause Van der Plank said they'd all been shot out and we had a drink to celebrate. I mean, I'm all for biodiversity and all that, but not when I have to work in the water with the damned things."

He shuddered. "So we did a kind of walking fall along the river bank looking for a good-sized hole to fish in. But the reason Van der Plank had little fish was pretty obvious—it was too shallow and too fast moving for a good big catfish habitat. Anyway, we found the best we could and sat down under a wild fig with the bottle and our new mate. He was telling us, lamenting really, that we couldn't go and fish in the Tinta Falls pool just off the bottom of his property. As a kid he'd caught catfish, big ones, in the waterfall pool. It's just the kind of place they like. The farm the pool was on had been bought by some rich city type who had put in game fencing—electric fences yet, 'cause he had buffalo, and then he'd fought with the locals. Accused them of poaching."

"Utterly impossible of course," said Kevin, sniggering.

Dexter coughed unconvincingly. "Never! Anyway, it was hot, and there was nothing much happening, and the flies were pretty bad . . . and our new buddy said that he was going back to the house to sleep it off before his wife and daughter got home. We stayed for a while. If it hadn't been for the flies we'd probably have stayed longer. But they were excessively persistent. Like tax-collectors. So we decided to move."

"Yes, it was all the flies' fault," said Kevin, with all the facility of a man whose fault it never is. "And the rest of the bottle. We should have left the bottle. But that part was all Dexter's fault. He'd evolved this new fly-killing method. It involved taking a sip of the stuff and then trying to breathe out on a fly."

"They withered. Or at least fell out of the sky," said Dexter. "It seemed like a good game at the time. You said we had to keep it secret from the Australians or they'd steal it and get better at it than we were."

"Well, it's true enough. I won't bother you with the rules we worked out for drop goals and converting a fly instead of a try. Just in case there is an Australian listening in. They have stronger bladders than we do."

"Ut sounds a fine game," said MacParrot. "Wud it worrrk on midges?"

Dexter shook his head. "I'm not sure it even worked on the flies, although Kevin claimed several tries, penalty points, and a conversion. But between that game and the fishing rod, we were doomed. We took the rod along with us. We shouldn't have. Somehow we found ourselves at the top of the falls at the lower edge of Van der Plank's property."

"Now I'd like to tell you that Vic Falls has nothing on the Tinta, but I'd be a liar if did that," said Kevin, righteously. "It's about five hundred feet high—"

"Make that fifty," said Dexter.

Kevin glared at him.

"Meters I mean," said Dexter.

"Sheer red dolerite, stained with white streaks of ibis shit. And down below it is this pool, in among the boulders. Deep, dirty-green water, with a few bits of dead tree sticking out of it. The perfect place for big Clarias."

"All fenced in by a twelve-foot electrified game fence," added Dexter.

"Now, sober and sensible we would have looked at that fence and said 'whatever this guy has inside that kind of fence, we don't want to meet it, not on foot.' Instead, we took it as a challenge. He was trying to keep us out. Stop us catching the mama-catfish to end all mama-catfish. Bastard! He just had no idea of the caliber of men he was dealing with, or just how completely blotto we were. The fence met the rocks at the end of the cliff that the waterfall went over, and stopped. I guess it was just too hard to fence further, and it would have taken a fairly athletic member of the big five to climb out."

"Too much for a leopard, but a piece of piss for two fish-crazed drunks and a fourteen foot surf rod," said Dexter, raising his eyes to heaven.

"Yeah," agreed Kevin. "So we had a good look at the end bit of the cliff and decided we had a real problem."

"The cliff?" I asked.

Kevin shook his head sadly at the lack of Darwinian progress in my skull. "What's a mere cliff? No, this was serious. The bottle of what was left of the mampoer. We couldn't risk carrying the bottle on such a perilous journey."

"So you had to drink the rest of it." I said, understanding dawning. There was a certain logic to this, after all. The kind of logic all of us at that table understood perfectly.

Kevin nodded. "Indeed. And it had got very smooth by that time. It was amazing how much lower it made the cliff seem. And to tell the truth it was only about sixteen or seventeen feet high. You could reach down with the fishing rod."

Dexter started laughing. "He did. Only he lost his balance, and there he was clinging to the end of a bending fishing pole, yelling for me to haul him back."

"Who is telling this story?" asked Kevin.

"We are," said Dexter, taking a pull of his pint. "You leave out the good bits if I let you do it alone."

"Did you rescue him?" asked Steven. Dexter was a small wiry man, whereas Kevin was red-haired and chunky.

"I tried," said Dexter, "but it was a mistake. We both went over and did a sort of half-assed fishing-rod pole-vault into some thick scrubby bushes. I had a soft landing. I landed on his head."

Kevin sniffed and continued. "So we were down, alive and not even too badly hurt. And there was a gully to follow down to the waterfall, and we had a rod. We were ichthyologists, dammit, off to fish the unknown and to collect bloodworms where no man had collected bloodworms before. Or at least not while a conservation official had been watching. Forward into the unknown, and down the scree-slope. How we got to the bottom of it without breaking our necks and the fishing rod, I will never know. We passed the mummified bodies of dead explorers in pith helmets and the wreck of a small Martian space-ship with rod-racks. . . ."

"He is prone to exaggerate a little, but there was an old rusty dead Chevy with those big wing-mudguards from before the war and also the bones of a goat," said Dexter. "It really was not the easiest slope I've fallen down, even stone cold sober. It must have taken us about half an hour to get to the pool. The water polishes that red-weathered rock to glassy black and I have to admit that it was the sort of place that you'd have expected a horned green thing with a pitchfork to come out of a dark cave and charge you entry fees. It was hot enough, and the air was thick and still. The water lapped at the edge of black rocks before it slid away down polished channels. Nets of long filamentous algae swayed in the current. And then Kevin lets out a loud rebel yell that echoes off the cliff, just great for your secretive poacher, and shouts yeah baby, let's fish! at the top of his quiet little voice. He's a real boon to stealth, is Kevin, but other than maybe Beelzebub junior peering from his cave, I didn't think there was anyone to hear him. He picked a nice high rock to stand on, and started to get the rod ready. I was happy to let him because I'm from the Cape. We don't use Scarborough reels, and they take some getting used to."

Now Kevin broke in. "A quick digression about the Scarborough reel. I don't know if anyone outside of South Africa still uses them, but they're a simple center-pin reel with bearings. It's kind of too-basic-to-go-wrong technology. It's also something that looks ridiculously easy to use in the hands of a pro, and a complete circus in the hands of a tyro. Casting with a Scarborough reel involves something that looks a little like a pirouette. Anywhere along the Zululand coast when the shad are running—shad are what you guys call blue-fish—you'll find a mob of Indian fishermen doing little ballet dance numbers and yelling 'Coming ho-vah!' as they fling old spark plugs—they're cheaper than sinkers—into the sea. When you hear that cry you make like you're a tortoise, because a low-flying spark plug can ruin your hairstyle. In the hands of a real pro they can throw as far as a man with a Penn."

"Well, we didn't have to throw that far as this pool was only about forty meters wide. This was a good thing because I knew that Kevin was not half as good with a Scarborough as he liked to pretend he was."

"A vile slander," protested Kevin loftily.

Dexter snorted. "Yes, so vile that when I heard you say 'coming over,' I dived flat. I didn't care what was in front of me, and I should have, because it was the edge of the bloody river. I looked up from the water and there was Kevin doing the mightiest Scarborough reel pirouette I've ever seen. Only halfway through he lost his balance, sat down hard, and the reel hit his stomach . . . And it stopped spinning."

Dexter took a mouthful of beer. "Now work out for yourself what happens when you put a four-pound chicken on the end of a fourteen-foot lever, then add a lot of acceleration to it . . . and just when it has really built up momentum . . . stop it dead. The hook dropped into the water about fifteen feet away from him."

Kevin shook his head ruefully. "I blame the demon drink myself. The hook stopped. But the bait-chicken didn't. It hit the cliff wall about fifty feet up with a solid splat and bounced back and landed in the water. It must have had some air trapped in the body cavity, because it floated. Bob, bob on far side of the pool next to the waterfall."

Dexter took over the tale. "I hadn't even sat up properly when it happened. You know, there should be that 'doom doom' music at this point, but we both saw it. I'm not kidding you, it was like the thing from the black lagoon. It came soooo slowly. All we saw was the mouth, barbels like black ropy tentacles spreading across the water, and then it sucked that chicken in, with a 'schloop' noise you could hear even above the waterfall. The mouth must have been . . . well I swear there was guy inside there looking for his Harley Davidson. This was no mortal fish. No, this was the offspring of Cthulhu himself, who had sneaked through some dark portal into this world for a quick chicken dinner. A thing of fear and trepidation swum up from some nether region. This was the Loch Ness monster's long lost cousin."

"If you show two ichthyologists the peril from the deep . . . there can be but one reaction," whispered Kevin earnestly.

Dexter nodded. "Indeed. We just had to catch it."

"Not a matter of choice, a matter of stern duty!" Kevin raised his glass in a salute as his companion continued.

"I got out of the water and took all my clothes off, and spread them out on the black water-polished rocks to dry. Man, we were in the middle of nowhere. There was no one to see me, except bloody Kevin, and we'd shared a cabin on enough research vessels for me know that I could bend over with perfect safety. And it was a hundred and ten degrees in the shade. I suppose could have kept them on and they would have dried on me in ten minutes. But I wasn't being as logical as I could be, not after seeing that fish. Meanwhile, Kevin had the full-steam mutters. 'Why the hell did we come down here with no bait?' and cursing and swearing much better. He'd taken off his shirt—it was hot work and he was turning over rocks looking for frogs or crabs or something we could use for bait. I went down to join him, me without a stitch on. Like, we're both on the far side of not sober, but that fish—well, it cut through alcohol like an ice bath.

"And then I heard a little 'clack-clack' on the rocks. It was the handles of the Scarborough reel, turning ever so slowly as something pulls out line."

"I got to it before him," said Kevin, taking over. "Struck as hard as I could. There must have been a fragment of chicken left on the hook."

"Or maybe it was just willing to swallow any foreign object that might possibly be edible. They caught a Zambezi shark with a full tin can in its stomach once. Anyway, Kevin was in. The fish took off like a steam train. It even bent that telephone-pole of a rod that we were using. And then we had an epic battle of man against the monster of the deep."

"I was sure from the start that it wasn't the real monster, but I thought a fish fillet would be perfect bait for the Leviathan of Tinta Falls, never mind the fact that we didn't even have a penknife with us. I had the advantage of a heavy rod and line like cable. Oh, the fish tried to break me off on trees, but there I was, standing on the dark rock, lifting him off the bottom. It was a good size fish, one I'd have been delighted to catch on any other day of the week—but that day I had seen the holy grail of catfish fishing. That day it was just a fish. I called to Dexter to come and help me land it."

"So there I was," said Dexter, "still as undressed as a man could be, and I rushed into the shallows to grab the fish. This is not IGFA rules stuff, Kevin had tackle you could subdue a five hundred pound shark with, and we were going to need it, if ever we got to the monster fish. Now, as I said the rocks down there were polished as smooth as slime-covered glass. It was a big fish. As I reached down for the fish and grabbed that lower jaw, my feet betrayed me. I had a grip, but I'm on my butt in the water, half covered in a fish that was damn near as big as me, and as slimy as hell and mad too. And then I figure that I am not alone in this bit of water, and I am not just talking about the catfish I am wrestling with. Obviously there are a lot of catfish in this pool, but they won't dare to go into the deeper water, because there is nothing big catfish like to eat as much as little catfish. With all this splashing going on they all come to see what it is about, and if there might be some scraps to eat. All of the little ones whipped themselves into a feeding frenzy. The were gripping onto anything they could find. They have tiny little teeth, but they're grabbing everything. And Kevin is yelling that the hook has come out and I must for God's sake not let go."

"He was rolling around, trying to stand up, falling over, and the water was boiling around him," said Kevin. "And out in the deeper water I saw that big dark shape rising. Obviously the commotion was attracting it. Maybe it figured that Dexter was an injured animal or something."

"I was, dammit!"

"Now I was not going to let the monster catfish take my buddy, not without at least getting him to hold the hook while he was being swallowed," said Kevin. "So I jumped down there. Which turned out to be the luckiest decision I have ever made, because someone on the ridge, the owner or one of his game guards, started shooting at us."

"Oh come on! Not likely," I said, as if the rest of the ancient mariner's story had been. "For what reason? For trespassing? Come on. Tell us another one."

"Poaching," explained Kevin. "This is in a country where poachers use AKs, and shoot first. This isn't Fred from the village just nicking a few grouse or bit of venison from some bloated landowner. It is high value organized crime. Poachers are after rhino-horn or ivory and it is shoot-first-ask-questions-later stuff. If we hadn't been so totally bladdered we wouldn't have dreamed of doing what we were doing."

"The weirdest thing about the whole scene," said Dexter, "was that before those shots I was wrestling with the catfish. And just after it happened the fish went limp. I don't think anything hit the fish, but maybe in my shock I'd smashed it against a rock or something. Catfish are nearly impossible to kill, but you can stun them."

Kevin nodded. "We kind of both stopped thinking at that point. Well, if we'd been thinking we wouldn't have been there. As it was we just ran."

"Ran—lugging that fish between us," said Dexter shaking his head. "I don't know why we didn't drop it but . . . well let's be honest, we weren't being too logical. I blame that mampoer. And the adrenaline. If I'd been thinking at all I would have dropped the fish and grabbed my pants. But as it was we were deep in the trees about five hundred yards from the waterfall before I ran out of breath. There we were, on the run, shaking, scared—and me with nothing but a fish to wear. The bastard on the ridge had lost sight of us. . . . Actually, he probably hadn't intended to hit us, just to frighten the shit out of us, in which he had succeeded admirably. He was still loosing off a few random shots so there was no way I was going back for my clothes. Near the river the bush was thick. Thorny as hell of course, but we were fairly safe unless they came down there looking for us, which I figured they probably would do, but it would take them a while to get there."

"We decided to follow a run-off gulley away from the valley. When they came to look for us, we didn't want to be there any more. It was unsociable, but I have found I get like that when people are shooting at me. It was, like most of the decisions we'd taken that day, superficially sensible."

Dexter snorted. "Depending on your definition of sense or if you were not wearing trousers while trying to carry a large floppy slimy fish up a valley full of haak en steek thorns, jiggyjolas—what you'd call brambles—and nettles. I know nettles. I'm a lousy botanist but I'll never forget them after being caught short on a field-trip and thinking those furry leaves would make a great substitute for the 'loo paper I didn't have. I remember those leaves well. I have reason to never forget them."

He winced at the memory, before continuing. "I still clung to that fish. I'd lost my clothes, damn near my life, the big one had got away and all we had to show for it was this fish. At least it was ten times the size of the fish in the brood stock pond. Actually by the weight of it it might well have been a record. And it was all I had to wear. We hadn't heard the sound of shots for some time, and so we decided to get out of the impenetrable undergrowth and risk slightly more open ground. And then Kevin froze. I nearly rammed a catfish spine into his back. I started to swear—"

"Did swear," said Kevin, trying to look deeply shocked, and also failing at that.

"And then I shut up. Because just above the Grewia bush was a pair of horns. All we could see were the tips. I'm not kidding. They were at least two yards from tip to tip. We're fish people, not big game zoologists. But even we knew that big solitary buffalo are the worst and the most dangerous kind of buffalo. This one must be enormous with horns that size . . . and I hoped like hell that it was solitary. It could only run after one of us, and I hoped it would be Kevin. If only that had been a loaded catfish."

"We'd still have been standing there to this day," explained Kevin, "Frozen like a pair of statues holding a fish, if the right hand horn hadn't moved off . . . Showing us a different left-hand horn . . . and the face of a wildebeest. What you'd call a gnu. Two complete large mammal ignoramuses us, we couldn't even tell the difference."

"They don't have fins," said Dexter, dismissively.

Kevin nodded in agreement. "And everyone—even us—knows that a gnu is quite the nicest creature in the zoo. But that was enough for us. We had figured out, finally, that being here was as dumb as rocks, and if we didn't get shot we might just get taken out by the wildlife. We made a beeline for the fence—"

"Which was when we saw the error of our ways," said Dexter. "The reason the dangerous wild animals were in and not roaming Van der Plank's orchards: the twelve-foot electric fence. Now I don't know if you English people are familiar with the electric stock fence. It's got a pulsed charge, high volts, low amps, shouldn't kill you unless you have a heart condition, but not the sort of thing you'd want to touch twice, let alone try and climb through. Mostly the fences have low strands a few inches apart, and the spaces get wider as the fence gets higher. At waist high, they're about six inches apart. Not easy to get through. Still, about five yards from the fence was the dirt road, safety, and a way back to our vehicle and some clothes. So we got clever. We collected a bunch of dry dead branches, and by wedging one in the chest-high wire, and raising it a few inches we could then raise the next one down a few more inches with the next piece of branch, and so on. They were old, rotten termite-eaten branches and it took us a while, but we rigged a gap that a man could step through cautiously. Kevin tried it out and he got through fine. Then it was my turn. I didn't have any undercarriage protection, so I was being very cautious. I didn't want any dangly bits having a shocking experience. What I hadn't figured on was the fact that I had this big floppy fish with me. I was halfway through and I asked Kevin to come and take the fish—which he did, reaching through the fence. But the tail touched the wire as he took it. It made slimy, wet, good contact."

Kevin raised his eyes to heaven. "And then we had a divine moment. We had a fish resurrection. The fish I was holding went from limp to thrashing like a mad thing. I was getting shocked every time it touched the wire, and every time it touched the wire it did an imitation grand-mal epileptic seizure and tried some air-swimming—lashing that tail around and making more contact with the fence. In this thrashing process it slapped Dexter and he forgot he was straddling an electric fence and he stood up, and grabbing the fish. The dead branch construct collapses and three of us—the fish, Dexter and me are doing a St Vitus' dance with the fence."

"Somehow we ended up, all three of us, on the right side of the fence, sitting in the middle of a dusty road, under the threshing fish. A fish that wanted desperately to return to the fishy waters of its birth and get away from these lunatics."

"And then," said Kevin, "barreling along the road comes a taxi. Now this is not one of your civilized black cabs that will just overcharge you and bore you to tears with their charmingly informative conversation. This is not even an after midnight minicab driven by a kat-chewing Somali refugee. This, my friends, is a South African taxi. It's a minibus, officially designated to hold fifteen people. When two of them crashed in Maritz street they hospitalized forty-seven, and at least ten passengers just walked away. The vehicles are the last word in racing heavy-duty off-road 4X4 go-anywhere cars, only topped by the company car. They have four bald tires, more pirated and stolen parts than Blackbeard, they're held together with fence-wire and spit, and they are all driven by future world champion rally drivers, if they live through the next ten seconds. Oh, and the drivers are all armed to the teeth in case of deadly danger, like another taxi stealing their fare. Taxi war shoot-outs are a regular feature of South African newspaper stories. If you see one of these vehicles, run away. Well, run, if you're not sitting in the middle of the road in a shocked and dazed state under a squirming slimy catfish, that is. We just, all three of us, managed to roll to the edge of the road and get left in a cloud of choking dust. And then the vehicle skidded and swerved to a halt. We thought we had a lift, and I was just standing up saying to Dexter that maybe we should rather walk, anyway . . . when the occupants of the taxi fell out of the door."

He grinned at the dreadlocked Dexter, who was looking at the ceiling. "There was Dexter dressed in his best fish . . . and there were at least twenty elderly to middle-aged large Zulu mamas in their blue and white Apostolic Zionist church finery—which is a special uniform outfit that makes sure no one can see anything indecent like an ankle. They all had these big blue and white golf umbrellas. They took a long look at the prince of modesty and they charged in, swinging their umbrellas, ululating and yelling at the nudist pervert. I behaved like a true drinking friend and sat on the edge of the road and watched him try to hold a fish over his head, his little buttocks twinkling in the sun as he ran from a mob of rampaging blue behemoths. I laughed until I thought I'd die.

"He took shelter in a culvert pipe that went under the road. They didn't want to get their finery dirty, but they took turns for a good ten minutes at trying to poke him out with their umbrellas."

Dexter shook his head. "There I was at the mercy of the mob, lying in a pipe which had been half filled with mud, with about two inches of clearance above my head, if I held it sideways, in about an inch of glutinous frog-filled water, clinging to a now water-revived catfish, with umbrella ferrules poking at my feet. It was not a happy place to be, I promise you. Anyway, a little later Kevin came along and told me they'd gone. And so had the damned catfish. Now I was not, at this stage, about to give up on that fish. Not after what we'd been through. It was going to be injected with pituitrin before nightfall! So I leopard-crawl squirm after it. Down this end the pipe was about three quarters mud, and I couldn't quite get a grip on its slimy tail. So I yelled to Kevin to come and grab it at the other end of the pipe. And then something squirmed past me and over my foot—not the catfish because I was touching the bloody thing's tail. It's a snake, I figure. I don't know, it might just as easily have been a leguvaan, a monitor lizard, but I have a thing about snakes. I wasn't going to stay in that pipe, and I wasn't out going backwards either."

Kevin's shoulders shook. "The pipe just about erupted. One moment, there I was standing in the ditch and the catfish head was sticking out of this half-pipe full of mud, and I was just getting a grip on it, and the next moment there was this scream fit for Halloween Three and Dexter came out of there like a champagne cork in a shower of yellow mud. He was gibbering like mad and he clung onto to me like a sailor does to his wife after three months at sea. And then we looked up and realized that this big white Mercedes had quietly driven up and two blond beautifully coiffured women were sitting there staring at us with their mouths open.

"We all looked at each other in one of those frozen long, long moments, and then before I could say anything, or Dexter could cover his dignity with a fish, the driver wound down her window, and a flood of expensive scent and air-conditioned air came washing out over us. In a voice that could be used to counter global warming the woman says 'Sies!' In case you couldn't guess that means 'sis!' but in Afrikaans, which has a lot more feeling than you can cram into English. 'What do you think you are doing?' she asks. The make-up on her face was plastered on as thick as the clayey-mud was on us, but it was possibly more carefully applied. It was cracking at the edges from her sucking lemons expression.

"Now, there I was, standing in a ditch next to a rural public road clutching a five foot struggling fish, covered in mud, with a naked man clinging onto me. What sort of answer did she think she'd get? I didn't like her tone. It offended my mampoer impaired dignity. So I said 'Darling, what does it look like? But now that you're here, get your kit off and join us. Dexter can have you two. I think I'd rather go on having it off with the fish.'"

He took a pull of his beer and jerked his thumb at his partner in crime. "Dexter blew her a kiss and she did a damned good imitation of a catfish."

"I didn't think anyone's mouth could go that wide. We gave her a fine one fingered salute," said Dexter, "while the two of them gaped at us."

Kevin nodded. "It must have taken her a good minute to find her wits. Then she screamed: 'I'm going to find my husband to come and have you arrested!' And she floored it and left us in the dust."

"We took cover after that," said Dexter. "If we even thought we heard a car, but we only had about half a mile to walk to the farm gate. And then we knew we were home free, as it was Sunday and only our friend Van der Plank was around. We were starting to feel quite triumphant. We had overcome! So, instead of putting the fish into the hatchery and digging out some clothes, which is what I had thought was a good idea, we walked up to Van der Plank's thatched gin-palace and pounded on the door, proudly holding the fish between us like a very muddy, slimy medal of honor."

Kevin smiled reminiscently. "The door opened and we spilled into the white flokati carpets out of the bright sunlight dazzle . . . and the two elegantly dressed women from the Merc started screaming at us in chorus. That's when we dropped the fish. Onto its back. It flipped over, and, as if it was returning to primal waterweed, it set off with a slime, mud and blood trail across that white fluffy carpet, straight for Van der Plank's wife and daughter."

"Being real he-men we turned and ran like hell," said Dexter. "We got into the truck and got out of there as fast as it would carry us. Didn't stop until we were just off the freeway, when I got into some trousers, before, as our luck would have had it, we got stopped by a traffic policeman."

Kevin threw up his hands. "There was nothing else we could have done anyway. 'Cause when we dropped the fish onto its back we realized that he would pretty useless as a mama-brood-fish."

Dexter nodded. "We really should have checked the sex of that fish a little earlier."

* * *

"An amazin' tale," said MacParrot. "Och, the part aboot the catfish bein' related to the Loch Ness monster. Happen I've some pictures—"

"Last orders please!" shouted the barman.

In twenty minutes we'd be out in the cold night air of South London. We needed fortification against that. Or so we thought anyway. When I got to the bar the barmaid leaned over and pointed to a chubby little fellow resting in the corner. "The man wants a word. About fishing, he said."

It would seem that mine host, the owner of the pub, had long ears. Closing time meant closing time unless you were invited to stay after the doors are locked. In which case it is a private party, at least in beady eye of the law . . . It's a fiction you can get away with sometimes. It turned out that Kevin and Dexter had not been the only ones listening in to the tales of others, and that mine host was part of brotherhood of the angle.

There is always an angle, especially at about one- thirty in the morning after a large number of pints. And the ancient mariner's crew had shed his catfish, but mariner himself still wore the tooth-scarred submersible about his neck.

Of course, the tooth-scars on the submersible are nothing compared to what the Loch Ness Monster could have done to it. But that is another tale, along with our encounters with that secretive organization, the Brotherhood of the Angle. The story of lock-in and the great Loch Ness fishing expedition is not one lightly embarked on. That's for our next episode.

* * *

Eric Flint is the author of many novels and some short fiction. He has also edited a number of anthologies. Dave Freer has written a number of novels and short stories. Andrew Dennis has co-authored books with eric flint. This is the first time the three have worked together.

To read more work by these authors, visit the Baen Free Library at: http://www.baen.com/library/

INTRODUCING NEW AUTHORS

Decaf And Spaceship, To Go

Written by Katherine Sanger
Illustrated by Barb Jernigan

I always knew the world would end while I was trapped in the Starbucks' drive through. With as much time as I spent there, the odds were definitely in its favor. But it still surprised me that afternoon to see the silver, egg-shaped craft materialize in the parking lot next to me.

I placed my order at the little voice-destroying speaker box and pulled forward. The woman in front of me was already at the window. She had her door open (poor depth perception, I guessed), and I heard her complaining.

"No, no, it was an iced vanilla chai soy latte and a hot vanilla white mocha chai soy latte." She was still shaking her blonde bouffant head when her Suburban vanished, taking her with it. Before I could exhale the gulp of air I had taken when the SUV had popped out of existence, something appeared in the line ahead of me.

The first word that came into my head was "alien." The second, third, and fourth were "oh my God."

I stared out my windshield, fighting the urge to rub my eyes like I'd seen people do in all the science fiction movies I'd grown up watching. The dull silver flying object sat in the brown-grey cement parking lot, not ten feet from me, taking up three and a half spots, including the handicap slot. It made a soft humming sound, kind of like one of those little vacuum cleaners that zooms around on the ground and cleans by itself.

Right in front of me stood what had to be an occupant of the craft, her head even with the top of the drive-up window. Her four legs looked like they'd come off a deer, and her two arms were longer than they should have been, giving her the appearance of one of those stick insects, a look that was further enhanced by her skin coloring.

She was the color of an iced non-fat mocha, the very drink I had ordered before the ship and the alien had appeared. What convinced me she was a woman was the fact that, over her shoulder (or the closest approximation of one that she had) was slung one of those fashionable new tootsie-roll looking purses. Even from my distance, I could see the little Gucci symbols all over it. Wherever this alien was from, she knew how to shop.

I fought the urge to press the button and roll my window up. Who knew if this alien woman would take that as a sign of aggression? Shopping habits aside, we might have nothing in common.

Her pencil-thin fingers opened the purse, and she dug through it. A piece of what looked like the foil that Wrigleys' was wrapped in fell to the ground. Do aliens chew gum? She shook her triangular head and kept peering into the bag with those weird bug eyes. Finally, she withdrew a small booklet and flipped to one of the last pages.

Through the open window, I could hear her speaking. Her voice sounded like one of those automated machines that I heard whenever I called my bank to beg them to refund the bounce check fees. "I would like an iced triple grande cinnamon soy no-whip mocha. I would like an iced decaf venti sugar-free vanilla chai latte. I would like a tall almond Americano—" she paused and her head whipped from side to side for a moment. I swore I heard guitar feedback, even though my radio was off. "No. I would like a grande decaf almond Americano with half and half. I would like a venti peppermint mocha frappuccino. With whip."

I couldn't hear the response of whoever was inside the window. The alien woman stood without moving. Was she breathing? Did she breathe? I could feel and hear my own breathing now. It was the only sound I heard. I couldn't tell if the outside world existed anymore. All my attention was focused on the figure in the line ahead of me.

I don't know how long I sat there. I figured this was it. After she got the drinks, I thought, the entire planet would suddenly be destroyed. It was all over. I couldn't tell if that upset me. My entire head—brain included—felt numb.

A pale, shaking hand appeared in the window, holding an iced grande drink. The alien shook her head. I waited for the planet to explode. It didn't.

"I am sorry," the alien said. "I require a cup holder. The x-Generated JVR5 does not come standard with cup holders."

The hand was withdrawn. A minute later, it re-appeared, holding a brown cardboard cup holder with four cups perched in it.

I didn't see the alien move, but one second the tray sat in the disembodied hand, and the next it was floating in the air, a few inches away from the alien's purse. The alien dug through the purse, retrieved some crumpled bills, and handed them to the hand. The hand withdrew quickly.

"Please keep the change for excellent service," the alien said. She turned her head to me without moving her body. The volume of her voice increased as she addressed me. "I do apologize for cutting in your line," she said. I realized that her mouth—or the slash that I assumed was her mouth—didn't move when she spoke. "With the current atmosphere, I cannot observe proper manners. I did not mean to inconvenience you."

I nodded and smiled dumbly. Was I supposed to respond? What did she mean, anyway? The political atmosphere? Were we not alien-friendly? Or did she mean the actual physical atmosphere, the stratosphere and all that science stuff?

She turned away from me, then she disappeared, along with the drinks. The ship blinked once before it vanished. I waited, again, for the planet to explode. It still didn't. But the car in front of me did reappear, the woman still complaining.

"And when I say hot, I don't mean burn my lip and give me a blister hot." She paused and shook her head. "Never mind. Make them both iced."

I closed my eyes, giving in to the temptation to rub them. My breathing was returning to normal, and I heard ordinary noises around me again—birds chirping, cars revving on the road, tires squealing.

The hand appeared from the window again, and drinks and money were exchanged. The SUV pulled out. I exhaled and moved forward, taking my place in front of the window. The woman working the window refused to look at me while she served me my drink and took my money. I didn't know how to broach the subject of aliens ordering coffee. "So, do you get much intergalactic coffee traffic?" sounded like something you'd see written in a police report on COPS after they'd finally managed to arrest the guy who was drunk, driving on the wrong side of the road, and naked. I didn't feel like being on TV.

I lingered at the window a moment. Were they up there, sipping their coffee? I heard a honk behind me and pulled forward and out of the black BMWs way. The road before me was bumper-to-bumper, and as I waited for an opening to appear, I glanced back to the drive through and almost choked on my mocha.

In the same three and a half parking spots that the silver egg had been sitting in not three minutes ago, a blue-tinted, round craft materialized. It had orange lights encircling the bottom, and they flashed slowly, reminding me of a road work sign that was losing power. Before I could blink, the BMW was gone, replaced by another alien.

This alien was more humanoid than the last. It stood on what I assumed were two legs—I could see brown work-boots protruding from under its satin-looking striped pants—and those were definitely hands protruding from the end of the orange and pink pineapple-covered shirt. I couldn't see how many fingers there were at this distance, but I would have bet the rest of my drink that there were a few more than five on each. The alien's octagonal head stuck out of the neckline of the shirt at a weird angle, and it was the same color as the ship.

Staring at the gaudiness on display in my rear-view mirror, I tried to figure out if the alien was pure Prada or pure Wal-Mart.

Through my open window I heard it begin to order. "We wants us a solo ristretto with whip. . ."

The rest of the order—if there was one—was drowned out by the scream that escaped through the window, followed by a very loud and forceful, "I quit!"

I couldn't say I blamed her. The customers always were the worst part of working retail.

* * *

Technical Exchange

Written by Kevin Haw
Illustrated by David Maier

Score: 100.0

I'm ashamed to admit it, but the only reason I went to the kickoff meeting where I met my best friend and business partner was to score a free coffee mug. I wasn't expecting any Exiles to be there.

Now, normally I avoid corporate pep rallies, even when there's free loot to be had, but that time I had an ulterior motive. You see, you can tell how committed an aerospace company is to a project by the quality of the swag it gives the peons. So, while the business section obsessed about the outlook for international tourism and the UN's recognition of the Exiles, I simply clutched the stainless steel mug with the etched 7z7 logo surrounding an Exile shuttlecraft and saw two years of private school tuition for my daughters.

That was also where they debuted the ad. You know the one. "Around the world or around the stars, the Otherliner™ takes you there!" The animated plane taking off from Beijing, kids in a Midwest playground waving up at happy passengers. A media campaign for a piece of hardware that hadn't even been designed yet, let alone manufactured or flown.

You'd think we would've seen it as an omen.

"Thank you," Thermal cooed when the lights came up, assuming the applause was for him. His thumb absently scratched his scalp, a gesture universal to owners of poorly fitted hairpieces. "I'm glad everyone's as excited about this project as I am. Today marks a new chapter in our company's—no—in our planet's history. Now normally, I'd field questions myself . . ."

The auditorium filled with subvocal groans.

". . . but since this is a joint venture, we'll let our partner handle that. Allow me to introduce Chairman Smith, of the Exile Habitat Engineering and Maintenance Company."

Now that perked everyone up. Even I stopped recalculating my hourly contract rate and started paying attention. The Exiles might have been all over the media for the better part of a year, but none of us had ever seen one in the flesh.

The Chairman sidled up to the podium, switching from four footed stance to two-and-tail. At first glance, he looked exactly like the videos. Take a cave newt, one of the eyeless albinos from the documentaries with the narrator in a mining helmet, dye it slate gray and stretch it to eight feet long. Then stick a second pair of limbs just below the ribcage. For the head, put a porpoise's acoustic melon on top of the long, sinewy neck and a tentacled snout underneath, a sea anemone the size of a beer can. Add a three piece suit (shirt, pants, midlett–one garment for each pair of limbs) out of something that looks like navy blue wool.

"Thank you so much for those kind words," the translator strapped to the Chairman's chest said, converting his ultrasonic chirps to a bass monotone. "Before answering your questions, I would like to read a statement from my company to yours . . ."

As he droned, you could sense the entire auditorium lose focus. It appeared that the oratorical habits of middle managers crossed species.

"Ford," Marco whispered, elbowing my side. "He's wearing a rug, just like Thermal!"

I peered closer, realized the kid was right. Male Exiles have this small ruffle of down around the neck, perhaps as wide as a man's palm. In the Chairman's case, though, it appeared flamboyantly large and spanned several unlikely shades along its width.

"Maybe it doesn't look so bad on sonar." I shrugged. A lame joke, since Exiles actually see with a tiny eyespot just above the snout. But I got a snicker from my intern nevertheless.

"Are there any questions?" asked the Chairman when he'd finished reading his lines. Predictably, the audience was silent.

"Ask him," Marco whispered, nudging me, "what you said at lunch."

"No," I hissed back.

"C'mon. Chicken?"

"Me? You're the one who won't come out to the Soaring Club . . ."

"Ah," said the Chairman, swiveling his head towards me. "We have a question."

Damn. Too loud, I'd been caught like a rat in a trap. My embarrassment turned to irritation when I saw the two staff photographers covering the event nudge each other and begin to click away at me. I mean, I know the company's nuts for the whole "diversity" thing, but did they have to put an African American on the cover of the Employee Newsletter every time one stood up and asked a question?

"Well," I began, burying my annoyance. "I really have more of a concern than a question, Mr. Chairman. Er, Ford Gregory, Structures Group."

"Yes?" Perhaps it was just nervousness from talking to a bona fide extraterrestrial, but I swear I felt a beam of ultrasonic sonar boring into me. Several beams, in fact, when I saw about a half dozen Exiles seated in the front row turn their serpentine necks and look at me. An absurd notion, but no less so than feeling human eyes staring.

"Er, yeah. I'm just concerned about the risks of using Exile technology in our airplane."

"You mean safety? Because I can assure . . ."

"No, not that. Schedule and cost risk. For example, that video mentioned new technology that serves as the skin for your generation ship."

"Well, it's hardly a new technology," the Chairman replied. "Skin has protected our ship for centuries and its history goes back even farther. Very mature technology."

"A mature technology for keeping atmosphere separated from deep vacuum, perhaps," I said. "No one, though, not you, not us, has ever wrapped an aircraft with the stuff before. I just have doubts that something a hundred times lighter than the traditional materials can do the job."

"I understand your concerns," the Chairman said, "but the shearing stress of a micrometeor impact compared to anything an atmospheric craft might face . . ."

"It's not just about shear. There's other . . ."

"Thank you, Ford," Thermal interrupted. "But if we get into a debate here, we'll miss the refreshments at the back of the auditorium."

There was a chuckle from the crowd, followed by several hands going up. "Anyone else? Ah, Marilee! What questions does Systems Engineering have?"

In retrospect I couldn't blame Thermal for cutting off a debate that would have bored the rest of the auditorium to tears. Occupational hazard. Engineers argue the way fish swim.

Sure enough, though, the other questions were lightweight: How many Exiles were in the generation ship? (Four million) What did they think of Seattle? (Lovely, especially in the springtime) What was the most interesting thing they'd seen on Earth? (A tie between Mount Rushmore and Hollywood) How many planned to emigrate? (Very few. Most would stay in orbit and occasionally play tourist) Basically, a rehash of everything you could have gotten off the web.

The refreshments were good, though. After more speeches, Marco and I were critiquing the cookie tray when a voice surprised me from behind.

"I told the Chairman not to use those numbers."

"What?" I replied, concealing the stack of baked goods I'd been pocketing.

It was an Exile, a male from the front row. Unlike the Chairman, this fellow had a neatly trimmed crest of modest, although still healthy, dimensions. At first glance, it appeared all natural, too. Score one for those of us with receding hairlines who are still secure in our masculinity.

He stood about five feet in the two-and-tail posture, slightly shorter than the Chairman. Close up, I could see that the fine down that served the Exiles in lieu of fur wasn't solid gray, but was shaded in places. His midlett and trousers seemed slightly threadbare with a different cut than the Chairman's. The ancient suit I wear for job interviews and funerals suddenly leapt to mind.

"I told him not to use the one percent figure," the Exile continued, oblivious to my forced nonchalance and Marco's open gawking. "Valid for our application on the generation ship, but not yours. Ten times lighter, not a hundred, is more realistic."

"Really? I would have thought . . ." I paused, extended my hand. "My apologies, I'm Ford Gregory."

"Yes. 'Structures Group,' right? That would make you a materials engineer, too. Call me Thomas Patch."

There were handshakes all around when he extended the three fingered hand of one of his stubby midlimbs. His grip was firm through his glove/tabi sock garment, but in the back of my mind I remembered the old George Carlin bit about shaking hands with a guy missing some fingers.

"A materials engineer. So, um, what specifically do you do, Thomas?"

"Oh, I'm the chief engineer for the group that maintains the Skin enclosing our habitat."

"Er, ah, the skin that I said, er . . ."

Grace under pressure. Yup. That's me.

Thankfully, Thomas made a dismissive gesture, probably picked up in a briefing on human body language.

"Don't be embarrassed. You said nothing I wouldn't have if I didn't know the properties of Skin. I'd be skeptical, myself."

"Well," I said, "it sounds like a fascinating technology."

"Really? To us it's five centuries old, hardly glamorous. A career dead end, my parents warned me. Still, it's offered plenty of challenge over the years. In fact, we've improved Skin in a dozen ways during our journey. I doubt the inventors on Homebound would even recognize it."

"Well, I only wish I could learn more. But we're using carbon fiber for the 7z7 airframe."

"A good, conservative choice," Thomas agreed, nodding his faceless head. It must've been a very thorough briefing.

"Hey." Marco's unease was apparently abating. "Why will our Skin be ten times heavier than yours?"

"Photoelectric effect. Skin needs an electrical field to operate. Our version converts light from our Habitat's sun for power. Your version will need to include a power distribution network. Unless, of course, you always fly the planes westwards so they face the sun."

Wow. A giant newt telling a joke. Not a funny one, but still . . .

"Photoelectric? This stuff generates power like a solar cell? That's incredible!"

"Yes, it is." Thomas' translator injected a note of glee in his voice. "Skin really is beautiful stuff."

* * *

That should have ended it with Marco and me going back to our little cubicle to work with "good, conservative" carbon composites for the next three years. Instead, a voicemail from Thermal's assistant summoned me to his office to discuss the comments I'd made. On the way down the corridor, I dusted off my list of headhunters and contemplated a new job search.

When I entered Thermal's rosewood and brass lair, though, I was surprised by the absence of a security guard or Human Resources rep, the usual pallbearers at a firing. Instead of canning me, Thermal sat me down and turned on the charm. He said he liked that I "thought outside the box." I considered reminding him I'd actually been advocating thinking inside the Box, but I kept silent.

Then he blindsided me by offering a new job: leading the team that would work with Thomas to adapt Skin to the 7z7. I must've mumbled something vaguely affirmative because he leapt up and shook my hand.

I recovered from my daze long enough to seize on the ritual "If there's anything you need, just ask." It seemed only fair that Marco joined me. When I got back and told him we'd be working with new technology, that the fate of the project and perhaps the company would be resting on our shoulders, he thought it was a compliment.

I couldn't stop laughing for twenty minutes.

* * *

Score: 10.0

It turned out Thomas was absolutely right about Skin. It's beautiful stuff, a material scientist's wet dream. He hadn't even begun to scratch the surface, though.

The Exile generation ship is a study in layers, a rigid, ring shaped space station spinning around an artificial sun. All this is inside a balloon of Skin 200 Km in diameter. The partially pressurized region outside the ring is used for recreation and zero gee agriculture, but also serves as a convenient buffer zone against junk that might collide with the craft.

Don't ask me about how they make the Reference Drive move the damn thing, sun and all. I never understood that loophole in Einstein's theories.

Skin is a nanotube mat, grown in vats rather than manufactured. Only 120 microns thick but with a tensile strength several hundred times greater than anything humanity ever developed. Embedded intelligent nodes dynamically change Skin's elasticity to deform in response to strain within milliseconds, a neural net with enough spare computing power to be a leasable commodity.

If there's stress on the Skin envelope, either from a micrometeor impact outside or an atmospheric gust inside, the strain is distributed over dozens of square kilometers. If there's a breach, Skin won't tear. Instead, it puckers until a repair crew responds to an automatic alarm.

This takes a lot of energy, hence the photoelectric properties Thomas mentioned. During most of the Exiles' three century journey, their artificial sun provided the power. With the habitat in Earth orbit, however, the light from Sol bathing the exterior generates several orders of magnitude more power than the Exiles need.

Which leads us back to the business section again.

The economists and pundits in the press speculated this was the real reason the Exiles had agreed to the 7z7 partnership. They'd announced a long term power project, beaming energy down to Earth. The 7z7 agreements would raise enough capital to build the dirtside receiver stations without human investors or partners, giving them an end to end power monopoly.

The fate of a company might have hinged on humans like Marco and me, but economic independence for all the Exiles rested on Thomas's and his cohorts' shoulders.

Figuratively, of course, because, you know . . . Four arms. No shoulders.

This (less the economic and anatomical speculation) was the essence of the lecture Thomas gave two weeks after my promotion. Thomas and his assistant, a female named Marjorie Currie (yes, that Currie. This was before she went into Exile politics, though), led the meeting.

On the human side, the room was packed. There were only three permanent team members: myself, Marco, and Eleanor Compton, an underappreciated genius I'd poached from the landing gear group. During the eighteen month schedule, though, we'd be loaned aeronautical engineers, power distribution gurus, and other specialists for specific technical milestones. Forty people over the course of the entire program. At "Skin 101" they all showed up.

That's what happens when you spring for donuts.

"You can change the color, though, right?" asked Finn Radke, one of the aeronautic engineers, gesturing to a jar Thomas had passed around containing a sample of Skin. A ribbon of gossamer black as wide as an elastic bandage floated in clear fluid, ends spliced in a moebius strip. It threaded through the eyes of two sewing needles before flaring out again to full width. Thomas had programmed it to "swim", edges rippling as it zipped through the fluid, a hyperactive eel devouring its own tail. A watch battery attached to the needles provided power.

"I mean," Finn continued, "it isn't all black, right?"

Thomas nodded. "When we grow Skin, we can introduce impurities to change specific properties. There are three thousand known variants. We'll grow Skin with the livery of each airline already imprinted."

"So you can't paint it in the field?" That was Jay Tsai, one of the manufacturing guys.

"No."

"That's a big problem. Carriers change color schemes all the time, some to match holiday themes. And the leasing market, they move equipment between carriers like chess pieces. You have to be able to change livery in the field."

I nodded and walked to the whiteboard. Right next to the big "10.0 – Skin, 1.0 – Carbon" scoreboard I'd made, I wrote "Issues: Paint."

"So, this stuff uses power? That's gonna impact weight." This was Joyce Miller, from Systems Engineering.

"How so?" asked Marjorie's translator.

"Well, you're gonna burn fuel to get onboard power, which means more weight overall. I think 'effective weight' is a better term. Then there's wear and tear on the generators, but that's another issue."

And so "effective weight" appeared on the whiteboard.

"Forget power," grumbled Tom Hammond, flicking a piece of imaginary dirt from his Harley-Davison T-shirt (it was Casual Friday). "Lightning is your showstopper. You're changing the skin of an aircraft from a passive substance to an active device. The FAA DER will want proof it won't spasm and rip itself to pieces when it's zapped."

I nodded. Tom is not subtle. As a Designated Engineering Representative, the one who'd probably sign off on Skin for the FAA, he didn't have to be.

"Your DER," Tom continued, still using the third person, "will want a computer model of Skin's electrical as well as aeronautical characteristics. Be sure to simulate antennas, windows, and any other exterior features."

I gritted my teeth, sensing a cramp in my schedule.

And so it went, more and more issues: acid rain, bird strikes, manufacturing quality, combustibility, vibration. It was a close call, but they ran out of questions before I ran out of whiteboard.

"Sorry we're bringing up all these problems," said Jay.

"Don't apologize," answered Marjorie, who still had the stage from the manufacturing question. "After all, that's why you're here." Then, she touched her left hands together in a gesture I'd learned was an Exile grin. "Well, that and the donuts."

Chuckles all around, then a ragged chorus of "Thank you, Ford." Several balled up pieces of paper rained down on me. I returned the favor.

"Hey, Ford," chortled Jay, "maybe you can put this stuff on your hang glider!"

The price of fame. When you're the only black guy in the Soaring Club, the employee newsletter always uses your picture.

"If no one has any more questions, then . . ."

"I have one," said Tom. "Can you bring bagels next time?"

* * *

Score: 6.5

I'd love to say we fixed every problem handily, but I'm a lousy liar. With Joyce's fuel consumption numbers, I recalculated the "score," a weighting of manufactured cost, maintenance cost, and actual weight of Skin against carbon, from 10.0 to 6.5. Upper management gave us a pass on the initial development cost, but if that score ever went below the magic 1.0 mark the 7z7 would ditch Skin and I'd be out on the street.

Our first lightning analysis required beefing up the underlying conductor layer for better grounding (As Thomas said, "How much voltage? In an atmosphere!"). Then, a wind tunnel simulation showed more drag than expected, forcing Eleanor to develop a fiendishly costly polishing process. Acid rain showed a tendency to make Skin brittle and ready to flake under vibration, a bad thing for an aircraft to do. We added protective polymer coating, eliminating Eleanor's polishing process. She was glad to see it go, but the score dropped to 4.8.

It was death by a thousand cuts. Even if a problem didn't directly impact the effectiveness of Skin on the airplane, our solutions made manufacturing and maintenance ever more complex. The few things that didn't, such as the bird strike analysis (at least, for birds flying slower than meteors), still ate up time and budget. It wasn't enough that there was no problem: we had to prove there was no problem.

So, by the time we reached our first major milestone at Labor Day (on time and on budget, may I proudly say), I decided we needed a break.

I got everyone together and we jumped off a cliff.

* * *

"Everyone" is perhaps an overstatement. Thirty people showed for the picnic at Hunter's Point, but only half took up the Soaring Club's offer of a free tandem flight. That was still enough to keep three gliders busy all afternoon.

"I'm ready," declared Thomas, marching up beside me. The other club members looked at the Exile, their expressions ranging from confusion to amusement to fear. Since I'd seen Thomas on the signup list earlier that week, though, I was ready.

"Okay," I answered, waving towards the scale. "Let's get started."

The relief of the other pilots that I was the one taking Thomas up was apparent. Several followed us to my rig, each trying to show how curious they weren't.

"The altitude won't be a problem for you, will it?" I asked as we walked. "I mean, with the pressure difference and all."

"I made a point of scheduling my booster shot for yesterday," Thomas replied. This was before the Exiles had developed treatments to allow their metabolisms to permanently adapt to Earth normal atmosphere. "The physician told me I should be able to handle anything a human can."

"Great." I nodded. Then, looking around, "Hey, where's Marjorie? I would have thought she'd want to see this."

"She went up to the Habitat late last night. Her mother had an emergency."

"Oh, no. Hope she's okay."

"It appears to be a false alarm, overwork and fatigue instead of heart trouble. Marjorie should be back next week."

"Wow. I'm surprised your company flew her back. I thought they only paid for one round trip per Earthside assignment."

"They didn't pay. Marjorie's parents have done quite well for themselves lately." He hesitated. "They're really good people, though. I went to school with her father."

For a moment, I could have sworn he was being defensive. A glitch in the translator's inflection or was he embarrassed about his friend's wealth? Before I could ask anything, though, Thomas produced a grubby nylon bag.

"I brought this." He dug out what looked like an oversized bicyclist's helmet, far too oval for a human skull. The frame was rigid white plastic while the front and top was a waxy, amber substance, presumably translucent to Exile sonar.

"We normally use these for zero gravity sports. Very sturdy. I've had this one for years."

Tammy Chen, the head of our safety committee, examined a nasty gouge along the helmet's edge before returning it. "I guess it's okay. As long as the fit's snug. You, um, did sign the waiver, right?"

"Of course," Thomas answered, placing the thing on his head and tying the complex triple strap with his left hands. With his right hands he attached knee and elbow pads and then strapped a thick monocular goggle over his eyespot. When he stepped on the scale in that bizarre helmet with the four armed T-shirt and baggy shorts, I nearly choked laughing, remembering a photo of my six year old self in oversized skateboarding gear.

Of course, I broke my arm about a half hour after that particular picture was taken.

"Let me get that, Mister Patch," my daughter said, helping Thomas step into the strap harness. Like every twelve-year-old, Gina has a mothering streak when it comes to adults out of their element. Several club members pitched in, each with their own theory of how to best secure a six limbed passenger in a harness designed for humans.

I checked my own bag harness where the rigging attached to the glider's keel. In tandem hang glider flight, the pilot and passenger are side by side, unlike in sky diving where the passenger hangs downwards in front. Thomas was half the weight, so he'd also be providing half the muscle power for takeoff.

I began my preflight lecture. "All right. First, we're going to sprint down this hill." I pointed to the slope before us to eliminate any confusion that I meant some other hill. "Once at speed, I'll shout and we jump into the harnesses. At the bottom we'll have maybe twenty feet altitude. I'll tilt towards the parking lot to catch its thermal. Let me do all the flying, okay? If you get nervous, just holler and I'll land as soon as possible. Questions?"

"Only one. My translator has never heard 'thermal' in that context."

"Pilot jargon. A rising mass of hot air, used for lift."

"Hmmm. 'A rising mass of hot air.'" Thomas pondered. "And just who bestowed the nickname 'Thermal' on the 7z7 vice president of engineering?"

There was a pause as I regained my bearings. "You do know that your life is in my hands."

"Of course," the translator replied.

I made a mental note that the Exile 'two left hands' gesture turns from a grin to a smirk when the fingers are intertwined.

After a last, somewhat dubious, check by Tammy we were off, hurtling down the gentle slope. Thomas's four legged gait surprised me with its strange rhythm. After a few steps, though, we caught each other's stride. I felt lift take the weight of the glider off the bar and I knew we were good. By the time I shouted "Now!" Thomas was upright on two legs, checking his pace so as not to out step me.

To me, that first instant of flight is always magical. Not in the spiritual sense, but instead in that I'm pulling some conjurer's trick by defying gravity. It's that "look Ma, no hands!" moment I love, whether I'm two feet from the ground or two thousand.

One glance at Thomas, however, confirmed that he was having a spiritual moment. His body was rigid, limbs tucked inwards and streamlined, rapt intensity. Thomas stretched his serpentine neck forward, crest ruffling as he washed his faceless head in the wind. All I could think of was how this scurrying, six limbed critter I'd worked beside for half a year had been transformed for an instant into something of noble posture, something straight out of a sculpture gallery. A grand creature.

And we were only twelve feet off the ground at the time.

As we began our upward spiral over the asphalt, I glanced again at my passenger. Thomas peered with his monocle as the gawking pedestrians below us receded and the contours of the terrain began to appear, no trace of panic or agoraphobia. I sighed relief into the rumbling silence. I'd been unsure how an alien raised inside a spaceship would react to this vista.

I began to enjoy myself, inhaling the crisp, frigid wind. I took a moment to gaze around, amazed again to see the Cascades in the distance, low hills and city spread nearby. A whole world laid before us, yet every detail visible.

Thomas wasn't the only one having a spiritual moment.

After fifteen minutes I shouted, "We're going to descend!"

Thomas's reply was lost in the wind. Then his interpreter increased its volume and he tried again.

"One moment," Thomas blared, the machine overcompensating. Then, in a timid tone at odds with the interpreter's blast, he finished, "May I try something?"

I felt him shift against my side, the slightest bit of drag yawing us gently to the left. I was about to compensate when I realized what was happening. I looked down to see his tail dipping downwards into the wind.

Thomas was trying to steer with his tail!

I let him continue, but his efforts had minimal effect. Three feet of skinny Exile tail isn't much against a hundred and fifty square feet of hang glider. Still, his experiment worked, if only in principle.

Back on the ground, Thomas was ecstatic. "Ford-that-was-incredible-I-have-never-felt-anything-like-that-we-must-take-anotherflightassoon—"

Then his translator locked up, emitting a screech that scattered a nearby flock of crows. When it reset, he'd regained a little composure. "Ford, you have to take me up again!"

"Well, it's supposed to be one ride a customer, but next week we're coming out . . ."

"Please! Can't I go again today? If you lend me your glider, I'm sure I could top our altitude!"

"Solo? After one flight?" I shook my head. I'd seen enthusiasm from a first timer before, but this was absurd.

Could an Exile have a death wish?

"Look, I'm glad you liked it, Thomas, but what's the big deal? Why the excitement?"

Thomas paused, fidgeting with his midlimbs.

"What do you know of my species' origin, Ford?"

"Er, you evolved from shoreline omnivores, right? Your ancestors swam in kelp forests past the surfline. Like Earth sea otters."

"Yes, our sonar and underwater vision are adapted for hunting in the oceans of Homebound. Only later did evolution bring us to shore to walk upright and use tools."

"What does that have to do with hang gliding?"

"My body is adapted to swim face down. Does the posture sound familiar?"

"Ah! When you were up there, you were belly down."

"Exactly. On Homebound, my people were accustomed to swimming freely over the ocean bottom. I never have, though. We have a whole body of poetic sagas that translate roughly as 'to fly in the sea.' All my life I have lived in a confined environment, never even knowing a horizon. Now, though . . ." He paused, four hands clenching and unclenching, as if trying to grasp the words from the air. "Even with this confining goggle to correct my distance vision, the experience was . . . heavenly."

I nodded and put a hand on my friend's back. For once, we didn't need the translator to understand each other.

* * *

The Labor Day outing worked, at least for morale. Productivity picked up and grumbling (including mine) about overtime died down. We were still fighting the tyranny of that score on my white board, which now read a disturbing 2.7, but at least the troops were enthusiastic about charging into the fray.

Three months later, Thermal called an emergency meeting.

"It can't be good," Thomas brooded, pouring a cup of coffee. The break room was empty, overcast sky gray against the windows. "Emergency meetings are never good."

"Thermal is probably just gloating about leaving for the powersat project," I said.

"It's about our jobs," he whispered, his free hands fidgeting nervously. "You know that the Exile Council rescinded the lifetime employment guarantees."

"Yes, I heard." I sighed and took the offered coffee pot. I winced as Thomas's upper arms scooped tablespoons of sugar into the mug in his lower hand. "You told me, Thomas. About five times since yesterday."

"Of course. Still, Thermal's leaving makes me nervous. What's the English phrase? 'Rats leaving a leaking ship.'"

" 'Sinking ship.' Sinking is worse than leaking."

"Hmmmph," he mumbled, sticking his snout into his mug. I cringed as he slurped the contaminated brew and we exited the break room and started down the hall. "Obviously, whoever invented English never lived in a space habitat."

"Remind me never to go yachting with you, okay?"

A moment's pause that Thomas always used to broach new subjects.

"I still like 'Yellow Bird'," he proclaimed, referring to the da Vinci-esque hang glider coming together in my garage. It was the first designed for a four armed, long tailed, Exile pilot. Building it was a blast, but the name was a sore point. "'Yellow Bird' adds grandeur, dignity. You saw the videos . . ."

"Yes," I interrupted, recalling the clips of the long extinct species soaring over Homebound, a canary yellow condor with biplane wings eating roadkill. "Look, it's your rig, so you have final say. But don't you think it's bad luck?"

"Why would 'Yellow Bird' be bad luck?"

"You honestly don't think that naming a dangerous, prototype aircraft after a carrion eater is a bad idea?"

"No. Why should I?"

I shook my head. Apparently, you can not only take the Exile out of the food chain but you can also take the food chain (or at least the fear of mortality) out of the Exile.

"Thank you for coming, gentlemen. Grab a seat." I felt my stomach lurch. If Thermal had showed up early instead of his usual ten minutes late, this really was serious. I checked my watch to ensure we were on time, but it didn't calm me any.

"Now," Thermal began, adjusting his hairpiece absently, "we need to be on the same page here. I'm not pointing fingers or blaming anyone . . ."

Beside me Eleanor let out a quiet whimper of terror.

". . . but we have to figure out how to get the Skin project back on track. Frankly, you guys aren't the only team in trouble." Everyone nodded. The Propulsion Group's antics had caused a site wide evacuation and left building sixty-six smelling permanently of burnt milk. "Still, I'm worried. The entire airplane is at risk." He pounded his fist on the table. "We need solutions, people!"

A nice speech. Also, the last civil words he spoke that morning. Frankly, if berating us could have helped the situation, Hurricane Thermal would have fixed the entire project before lunch.

"And what about these integration tests?" he snapped an hour into the blame-storming session. "Wind tunnels ain't cheap, you know! And you want to pump lightning through one? That's what computer simulations are for!"

"Sir," I answered, "we can't be sure our models of complex aerodynamic behavior for Skin are accurate. I built the whole schedule to accelerate this testing . . ."

"But the other tests came up great. This stuff's been used for centuries! Why not just cut . . ."

"Sir," interrupted Thomas, politely but firmly butting into Thermal's tirade. "I have kept the Chairman abreast of our progress and he agrees with our testing regime. Until nine months ago, my people had never even exposed Skin to Earth's atmosphere. While we're making incredible progress here, when would you rather find any problems? In three months on a wind tunnel mockup or next year when the FAA starts throwing lightning at a full sized fuselage?"

Thermal scowled, but apparently was at a loss how to glower at a creature without a face. He paused a moment, as the spreadsheet deep inside his toupeed cranium weighed the risks.

"Fine. You've got your test, Ford. Next up, though, we need to talk about reducing overtime expenses . . ."

* * *

Score: 1.22

We won that battle, but the fifteen weeks leading to Lightning Discharge Testing were a nightmare. I don't know how many hours we worked because we stopped recording overtime. Suffice to say that styrofoam noodle dinners and sleeping bags under desks lose a lot of their charm for a man of my advanced years.

It wasn't just the hours, though. Marco and Marjorie discovered a flaw in our manufacturing process. When we scaled up to mass production, our yield of uncontaminated Skin would fall, dropping the score to 1.22, only somewhat preferable to carbon composites. When the big day rolled around, I just wanted the entire ordeal to be over.

"Telemetry ready," Eleanor's tinny voice called over the video link. Then, with an audible smirk, "How's the weather back home?"

Computer modeling had made wind tunnels as common as Ford Model Ts, so we had been forced to rent time at another facility. Frankly, we'd been lucky to find one that could get the scale wind speed and voltage we needed without going overseas.

"It's raining here," I grunted, pausing to swill some more coffee. "As if you didn't know."

"Rain? They have legends about water falling from the sky here in Arizona. Silly superstitions."

I chuckled, glancing around the conference room at the team. Thomas was in the corner, sharing data with Marjorie on an obsidian tablet unreadable without ultrasonic sonar. Tom Hammond and Finn Radke were off to the side, Tom's motorcycle boots propped up on the walnut conference table. There were deep bags under Marco's eyes, but he gave a "thumbs up," confident the test was a formality, that our models had been perfect.

"You promised we could take the whole weekend off when this works," Marcos said. "Right?"

"A promise is a promise," I agreed.

"Actually," Marjorie said, turning away from Thomas, "I might want to use that time off a little later."

"Sure."

"And," she said, hesitating as she looked back at Thomas and then at me, "I need to ask you two a favor when that happens. A big favor."

"The tunnel's ready," interrupted a stranger's voice over the link. "Releasing smoke now."

The image on the wall showed the top of a 7z7 wing twenty centimeters long, threads of yellow smoke curving gracefully over the slate gray Skin surface. A red display in the corner tracked the speed of the air pumped through the stainless steel tunnel, slowly creeping upwards.

"Airspeed 200 scale knots," called the stranger's voice. "Preparing for test step 1a. Discharging in ten, nine, eight . . ."

"Jeez, Tushar," growled Eleanor to the tunnel manager, "we're paying for the tunnel by the minute! Stop padding your paycheck, okay?"

The audio link died under a sea of static, the video link staying rock steady while a bright blue arc danced across the wing. The part of me that had loved Frankenstein movies as a kid was disappointed that the lightning source was out of frame. Oh, well. They wouldn't be using a Tesla coil anyway.

Two seconds later, it was over. A hundred mild lightning strikes, each faster than the eye could see. We'd increase the charge in later runs, but for now the conference room erupted in cheers at the image of the unscathed wing and undisturbed smoke threads. I sighed relief as Thomas patted me on the shoulder.

"Ah, guys . . ." Eleanor called, breaking into our celebration. "We have a problem."

"What?" I asked. "It looks just . . ."

"Check the underside."

I fumbled the remote and heard Tom Hammond's boots thump to the floor at the same moment my jaw did. On either side of the engine cowling the neat laminar threads of smoke had shattered into chaotic lumps of rippling turbulence, like forest fires quivering with caffeine jitters. While we watched, the patches shrank, retreating to the engine pylon before disappearing entirely.

"I'm rewinding to T plus 100 milliseconds," said Eleanor. I shook my head in disbelief as the freeze frame showed nearly half the wing on either side of the engine lost in a cloud of turbulence. Jay spoke first.

"Jesus. Half the wing . . ."

"Half the lift," corrected Tom. "We loose half the freakin' lift when hit by lightning!"

"And it lasts," interrupted Eleanor, "two point five seconds before recovering to eighty percent lift for five seconds. I don't know if that'll stay there when we scale up or not."

"If it'll get even worse," I moaned, as if it would matter. This was more than enough to crash a plane on takeoff. "What the devil is causing it?"

"The engine," answered Thomas. He stepped forward, pointing to ripples in the cloud's edge on the image. "There's oscillation, see? The skin twitches slightly when charged, as if reacting to an impact, but our grounding dissipates it in just a few milliseconds so it's lost in the turbulence of the lightning strike itself. As expected. But underneath, the engine cowling isn't covered with Skin."

"The shock wave reflects back," I said, "and when it reaches the Skin—"

"Which reacts to the change in pressure and bounces it back again. And so forth. Oscillation. Technically it's not turbulence, but a wave of energy dancing back and forth along the face of the wing."

"Unless some of that energy is facing downwards to hold the plane in the air it's pretty irrelevant, isn't it?"

Thomas fell silent, then gave a very human four-armed shrug.

Two hours later, Eleanor was on an early flight home. We halted testing when a mid-sized strike lost 90% lift for half a minute. Thomas made a quick calculation that showed tripling the thickness of the grounding layer would dampen the oscillations and make Skin safe from anything the FAA could hurl. I followed with a calculation of what the new weight would do to Skin's score.

We all left the conference room in silence.

With a sigh, I hammered my status E-mail to Thermal and went outside for the first time in recent memory. I savored the scent of a March drizzle, tasting raindrops on my tongue. After a stinging hot shower at the company gym, I shaved and packed up my gym bag. Sure enough, I returned to find a voicemail waiting.

Before I even opened the door to Thermal's office, I knew he wouldn't be alone this time.

* * *

Final Score: 0.77

"Those bastards," hissed Marco the next morning.

"I'll land on my feet. Hand me another box, willya?"

"Those worthless, two faced bastards."

I accepted the box and rummaged through my desk, trying to figure out how I'd accrued so many plastic forks.

"You should sue," Marco said. "I mean, they have to give you notice, right?"

"He's a contract worker, Marco," answered Eleanor. "There's nothing he can do."

"The labor board, then."

"What part of 'contract worker' didn't you understand?" Eleanor growled. "Basically, anything shy of selling his organs without his consent is fair game."

"You can't leave, Ford."

"Really?" I chuckled. "Perhaps if you told Thermal . . ."

Just then Thomas and Marjorie walked up two-and-tail, Thomas carrying a cardboard box in his toplimbs.

"Dear Lord . . ." whispered Marco.

"Those bastards," agreed Eleanor.

"Thomas?" I asked. No answer.

"He . . ." said Marjorie, clenching all four hands into angry fists. I had an image of a 1-2-3-4 rabbit punch combination. "He just finished a teleconference with the Chairman."

"Thomas," I repeated, taking my friend by the top bicep. "I'm so sorry. When are you going back? To the Habitat?"

"I'm not," he whispered.

"What?"

"The Chairman," Marjorie began, wringing an amazing amount of contempt from her translator, "says the Exile Habitat Engineering and Maintenance Company reserves its shuttle seats for employees only."

"Those bas . . ." Marco began, only to be interrupted by a fuming Eleanor.

"Let me get this straight, Thomas: You warned your management from the outset that Skin might not be suitable for our application. You spent a year working yourself sick, keeping them abreast of every technical issue. You did no worse than a half dozen other teams that failed. And then, when everything falls apart, they fire you and leave you down here stranded?"

"Yes," Thomas answered.

"Man, you guys are more like humans than I ever thought."

"Don't they owe Thomas a trip back?" asked Marco.

"Under our old laws, definitely," said Marjorie. "During our journey, we were a sealed society. The only way to keep things stable was to provide lifetime employment in exchange for lifetime loyalty. As we integrate into Earth's economy, though, there is a movement to drop rules that are inconsistent with free market profit."

I nodded. Market reform is a bitch.

"I tried to convince Thomas to go before the Grievance Council and demand a trip home, but he refuses."

"What good would it do?" Thomas asked. "Every job in the Habitat is allocated, and some are even being eliminated under the new rules. Besides, I've only done one thing my entire life. What else can I do?"

Traditionally, this would've been where I patted Thomas on the back and said "Buck up, old chum!" Unfortunately, I was pretty emotionally drained myself at that point.

"Ford," said Marjorie, breaking the long silence, "do you remember that favor I mentioned during the wind tunnel testing? Well, I know this is a poor time, but I have to ask you and Thomas for help before you leave."

"What do you need?" I asked, eager to change the subject from unemployment.

"My parents are visiting in three weeks. They saw Thomas flying Yellow Bird on one of the entertainment channels in the Habitat."

I nodded. For the first time the employee newsletter hadn't featured me in its annual story about the Soaring Club. How the wire services had picked up Thomas's photo, I'll never know.

"My mother wants to try it. She wants to fly."

"No problem," I answered. "We're going out with the Soaring Club next month."

"That won't do," she replied. "They're only here for that weekend."

"We can arrange something," answered Thomas. "Perhaps it'll keep our minds off our problems. Right, Ford?"

"Sure. Nothing quite like . . ."

"One second," interrupted Eleanor, turning to Marjorie. "Did you say your folks were coming down on the shuttlecraft for the weekend?"

"Yes. It's all the time they can spare."

"Marjorie, I would have to mortgage my house to get a shuttle ticket."

"Well, my parents have done well for themselves lately."

There. That defensive tone again.

"Marjorie," I asked, "just what do your parents do?"

"Oh, they're our Economists. It was really a very dry and academic field . . ."

"Until the Habitat reached Earth," I finished. The Exile Economists. During their journey, only two Exile academics had bothered to study the esoteric field of exchanging goods and services for money, a worthless concept while traveling between the stars. I'd read that they'd designed the entire Exile business strategy, a multibillion dollar juggernaut of which the 7z7 represented a minute fraction.

"Of course, you really have to credit Mom with negotiating that half percent commission. You'd be amazed at how it adds up."

I shook my head. Couldn't they see the solution hovering right in front of their, er, snouts?

"Marjorie," I asked. "Can't your folks just loan Thomas the price of a shuttle tick . . ."

Both Exiles suddenly threw all four palms rigid and outwards as if to push me away. Thomas' box crashed to the floor. It took two seconds of dead silence for me to realize what had insulted them.

"Um, forget I mentioned borrowing money."

The pair relaxed, assuming their original postures. Thomas lifted his box from the floor with his lower limbs. He poked through the contents as Marjorie cast around for something to do to cover her own awkwardness.

"Look . . ." Marjorie began, hands grasping nervously, "I know you mean well, Ford. My parents are, well, progressive about finances. I doubt they'd think less of Thomas for beg . . . I mean, borrowing the funds. Still, most of our people in the Habitat wouldn't understand."

"We are still adjusting to the concept of personal wealth, Ford," Thomas explained. "You will have to excuse our taboos about unearned money."

I nodded and pretended to understand. In a sealed, regulated economy, who would have any needs so strong that they'd go into debt? Gambling addicts? Criminals? It implied the existence of all sorts of Exile vices I'd never considered before.

"So," Marco asked Marjorie, trying to change the subject. "Where are your folks going to stay?"

"Well, they said they'd be fine using the futon at my apartment. I think they deserve something more."

"What if . . . " Thomas pondered, clearly forming some plan in his mind. "What if you went away for the weekend? A tour of Washington wine country. Bed and breakfasts. I'm sure Ford knows dozens of places."

"Huh?" I asked. "I guess I do."

"Certainly." Thomas nodded. "Glide in the morning, wine tasting in the afternoon. A personal tour of the countryside while staying in some beautiful places. Much better than the futon. Of course, my partner and I would have to charge a fee."

I stared at him. "Partner?"

"You don't mind putting engineering consulting on hold for a while, do you?"

I felt a grin spread across my face. "Get paid to fly? I think I can manage that."

"Well," said Marjorie, still weighing Thomas's proposal. "That all sounds nice. Dad told me he had tried a wine while he and Mother were looking at investments in Europe. Something called a 'Riesling,' I believe."

"He's looking for investment opportunities, you say?" Thomas asked. It's incredible that someone without a face can cast me a meaningful look.

"If your folks will let Thomas and me take them out for the weekend," I promised, "I'll buy them a case of Riesling."

"Hmmm," Marjorie said. "I'll call and see if that's what they want to do."

The Rieslings never panned out, but fortunately for Patch and Benjamin Glider Tours, LLC, it was a terrific year for Washington state Chardonnays.

* * *

Medic!

Written by William Ledbetter
Illustrated by Laura Givens

Sam gripped the cargo locks on the floor as tightly as he could, but still swayed back and forth each time the Osprey zigged or zagged along its radar-avoiding slalom course. A frustrated Ernie Ochoa tried to mount a defensive pod on one of Sam's three attachment points.

"Hold still, Sam. This is hard enough without you doing the hula."

Sam tried to cinch himself tighter.

The plane jerked again and one of the troopers in the back vomited. Dozens of lasers felt out the terrain, keeping the blind aircraft from clipping trees, power lines and radio towers as it flew under radar. The computer-controlled plane did its job well, but the flight equations cared little about passenger comfort or last minute additions to robots like Sam.

"You scare me, Ochoa," Clef yelled from the other side of the plane. "You talk to that damned thing like it's your bedroom buddy."

Several people snickered as Ochoa made the connection and locked the defensive pod into place.

Sam started diagnostics. Servos whirred as he cycled through launchers for taser darts, fire pellets, tear gas canisters and wire netting. Then he armed the targeting system and observed as the pod's sensors locked onto and identified every movement in the cabin.

Ochoa grinned. "Hey, Sam! Do you think Clef is jealous of your equipment?"

A direct question. Sam searched forand found a tag attached to Clifford Harmon's data. The squad called him Clef because he played classical violin. Sam searched his response tree.

"He probably has good reason," Sikes said from her seat next to Ochoa. "I doubt that his equipment measures up to Sam's."

Everyone close enough to hear the exchange laughed.

Sam adjusted the weighting of his responses.

"Well, my dear, you sure didn't complain the last time you invited me in for some mattress poundin'," Clef said with a grin.

Whoops and whistles filled the dark cabin.

"Your right arm was the only thing poundin'," she said amid more laughter.

Sam flagged Clef as being Harmon's preferred name, then scanned the soldier's weapons and gear. All standard combat issue. After searching the tree of possible responses again, Sam selected the best one. He knew the answer would be irrelevant, but he had to respond because Ochoa had directly addressed him.

"I have an automated defensive pod," Sam said. "Clef could have the same equipment, but would have to carry a separate battery pack."

"What is this shit?" Clef said. "I wish you wouldn't let that thing talk, Ochoa. It creeps me out. And don't call me Clef, you tin can, only soldiers can call me Clef!"

Sam changed Harmon's tag again. He kept thetag but would only address him as Harmon. He then locked into the comm-net and cycled through the soldiers' bio-monitors. Other than elevated pre-battle stress levels and some nausea, all the troopers reported normal.

"You'll see," Ochoa said. "Sam has some slick moves. He can do a lot that I can't."

"Well, if I get hit, just send me to the field hospital," Clef said with a snort. "I don't want a mechanical crab poking around inside me."

Lieutenant Wei came back from the cockpit and rapped the floor with his rifle butt. "Listen up troopers! We've just crossed the border and have about three minutes. Armor and equipment checks. Remember this is a politically sensitive mission, non-lethal rounds only."

After the lieutenant went forward again, Clef slammed the bench with a clenched fist. "This is a bunch of shit! Non-lethal rounds? Who the hell are these turds anyway?"

Ochoa shrugged.

The red lights flashed, the lieutenant returned and the rear ramp started to open slowly.

"This is it, people! The whole place has been dusted with fire-pellets, so if we're real lucky, there'll be very little resistance. Let's make it quick, get in, grab that hostage and get out."

Before the ramp even touched ground, troopers began leaping out into the ankle-deep snow. Sam set his defensive pod to auto-response and followed Ochoa as weapons fire started sizzling against the Osprey's slough armor.

" 'Little resistance,' my ass!" Ochoa said and darted for cover as the Osprey poured on full power and raced out of range.

Sam's night vision filters revealed incapacitated defenders writhing on the ground all around them. The fire-pellets delivered by drone only minutes before had burrowed through clothing, then initiated hundreds of electric nerve stimulations that made human skin feel like it was on fire. The combatants would be unhurt once the pellets were deactivated, but until then they wouldn't be a threat.

Sam scanned the walled compound and compared it to the mission map they had uploaded during prep. A central courtyard, a parade field and fourteen single-story, stone and wood structures. It matched. Flashing icons appeared on his tactical display, one for each soldier of the twenty member team. He also had two yellows for the surveillance drones and four green lights for the LAMEs (Lifter, Armored, Medical Evacuation) that were still deploying from two other Ospreys a mile away. In the center of one building a red X flashed. It was the GPS locator implant in the missing envoy. She had been moved to a building on the north end of the compound, nearly 200 meters from their landing zone.

"Holy, shit!" Clef yelled. "Take cover, they have ComBots!"

Sam scanned the squad's comm-net as his defensive pod searched for nearby threats. Armor piercing rounds tore through the sides of buildings and tossed up clouds of dirt as three combat robots advanced, pinning the squad down in the south end of the compound.

"Shit! Aren't ComBots illegal," Ochoa said as he tried to burrow into the frozen ground.

A direct question. Sam scanned his general information database and formed a response. "Terrorist organizations are seldom signatories on international treaties."

The corner of a nearby building disintegrated in a cloud of stone and mortar. Clef's bio-monitor alerted Sam to an injury. Three leg wounds.

"Harmon's hit," Sam sent to Ochoa and the lieutenant, then darted across the ten meters of broken glass and swirling dust to reach the wounded soldier.

"Where are you hit, Harmon?" Sam already knew, but talking to the troopers sometimes helped calm them. His readings showed that three small bullet fragments had pierced Clef's leg and were already engaged by active medical nanos. The inner uniform layer contained a fluid that not only helped to maintain a constant body temperature, but also carried millions of medical repair nanos that automatically looked for blood loss if the layer was punctured.

"My leg. Damn!"

Sam scanned the feed from the microscopic robots in Clef's wounds. They had already stopped the bleeding and were knitting protective sleeves around the intrusive metal shards. It would keep them from doing further damage until they could be removed.

Another hail of bullets crumbled more wall onto them. Sam grabbed the loading eyelet on the back of the wounded man's armor and dragged him across the hard packed snow into a narrow alley.

The young man gritted his teeth and grunted in pain. "Leave me alone you stupid fuck! MEDIC!"

Sam determined that Clef wasn't in any immediate danger and sent that information to Ochoa. He grabbed Clef's leg and tried to seal the wounds, but each time his glue nozzle neared the holes, the man shoved it away.

Through the comm-net, Lieutenant Wei ordered everyone in the harried squad to stay under cover until the Ospreys were able to target the ComBots for a hot plasma strike.

"Medic!" Clef yelled again.

Sam tried to close the wounds one more time, but to no avail. "Harmon, your wounds aren't serious and the lieutenant ordered us to stay under cover."

"Screw off, you damn machine! How do you know they aren't serious? Shut up! I want a medic!"

"Clef, evac's on the way," Ochoa said over the comm-net. "I'm coming up."

Sam's defensive pod sent a warning as one of the ComBots stepped into the opposite end of the alley about twenty meters away and started firing. Sam crawled over a writhing, fire-pellet infested defender to shield Clef with his rear armor. He then called to Ochoa over the comm-net. "Go back!"

It was too late. A half second later the medic entered their end of the alley at a full run. Ochoa's monitor sent an alarm and Sam turned in time to see the man fall to his knees. He grabbed at a ragged hole in his upper left chest armor then fell face first into the snow.

"Shit, shit, oh shit!" Clef pounded his fist on the ground. "Ochoa!"

A level one alert from Ochoa's bio-monitor launched Sam into motion. He considered over four hundred actions in less than a micro-second, then grabbed the disabled rebel, found the implanted "friendly" transmitter, cut it out and sealed the incision. With the same glue, he attached the flea sized transmitter to the exposed skin on Clef's wounded leg just before a round hit square on Sam's armor and pushed him a half meter down the filthy alley.

"What're you doin? What'd you put in me?" Clef demanded. "Christ, that hurts! And I got the medic shot! Damn, damn, damn!"

Sam ignored Clef as he scampered the rest of the way to Ochoa, whose vitals were already dropping. Clef was half moaning, half sobbing, "I'm sorry, Ernie! Jesus, I'm sorry!"

Sam had to stabilize Ochoa and stop the bleeding before moving him. He rolled Ochoa over, injected nanos into the wound, stuffed tissue fluff into the gurgling hole and covered it with a compress.

Sam's defensive pod sent an alarm as it launched impotent taser rounds at the advancing ComBot. The spider-like robot stopped with its heavy caliber guns pointing down, inches from Clef's chest, but seemed momentarily confused. Clef's vitals spiked on the bio-monitor and then he urinated. Then the ComBot swung its guns to the right and fired three rounds into the squirming rebel, before continuing its advance toward the downed medic.

Sam turned so that his rear armor protected Ochoa's head and torso, just before a volley of close range shells slammed into him, flipped him over and left him on his back two meters away from his patient.

His rollover routine tried again and again to flip his crab-like body upright, but the piston was damaged and wouldn't fully extend. He sent a general message that he needed help, but no one answered, except Clef.

"Get up, Sam, keep trying!"

The ComBot straddled Ochoa but didn't shoot him. Targeting lasers from a nearby Osprey danced all around them, and the killer robot knew that a wounded man worked well as a shield. It instead fired at the hovering plane until it ducked out of sight behind a building.

Sam's tactical display indicated that part of the team had already surrounded the building containing the hostage and he heard Lieutenant Wei stop the plasma strike.

Ochoa's status monitor showed that the nanos were working furiously on the bleeding, but they were losing ground. Sam had to act. He used the damaged piston to push him as far as possible, then turned his defensive pod toward the ground and fired a burst of taser rounds. The recoil tipped his center of gravity just enough. He flipped over and started toward Ochoa as the LAME dropped into the alley from above.

"Ernie!" Sikes yelled from down the alley behind Clef. "Hang on, Ernie. I'm coming!"

The ComBot turned its guns toward Sikes, but noticed Sam's sudden movement and whipped them back around. Sam leapt forward, underneath the guns, so that when they fired, the rounds merely grazed his rear armor. Taking advantage of his forward momentum, he shoved upward, extending to his full height. The robot was well made and didn't tip over, but it did stagger backward. Sam fired two wire net rounds—one at the ComBot's legs and one at the targeting sensors—in an effort to slow the thing down by tangling it up for a couple of seconds.

A scream and a thud announced Sikes' arrival. She hit the ComBot low, tipping it on its back, then using the tangled wire netting, strapped a concussion grenade under the armored carapace.

"Get down!" she yelled and dove for cover behind Sam.

Sam instructed the LAME, little more than a pair of armored canisters located between two ducted fans, to land between them and the ComBot. The grenade's detonation blew ComBot pieces into the air and spun the descending lifter like a falling leaf, but it still protected them.

Sam could hear Sikes cursing and checked her bio-monitor. She had several small abrasions and a torn ligament in her right elbow. He flagged her injuries as level three and returned to Ochoa.

The comm-net roared with screamed orders to other troopers and the Ospreys. Sam instructed the battered LAME to land near Clef as two bright flashes announced the arrival of plasma shells that turned the other two ComBots into sagging composite heaps.

"Sikes! Help me move Ochoa," Sam said. They dragged the wounded man deeper into the alley next to Clef. Once under cover, Sam opened the chest armor, cut the shirt away and made a small incision on either side of the wound.

"What are you doing? Get him into a LAME!" Clef yelled. Clef's bio-monitor reported that his inner uniform layer absorbed the urine before it could contaminate his open wounds.

A direct question. "Ochoa needs immediate intervention or he will die before getting to a hospital," Sam said. He inserted the probes, found a hole in the lung and glued it closed.

Sikes gave Clef a withering look and turned back to her wounded comrade. "Sam saved your life, asshole, now put a sock in it," she said.

Ochoa woke up and began to moan. His hands and heels dug into the muddy snow.

"Sikes, I'm not done yet. Please hold him down," Sam said.

She dropped her rifle and tried to pin Ochoa's arms but he was very strong, in pain and easily broke free.

Clef dragged himself over, grabbed the flailing right arm and instructed Sikes to take the other. "Do your stuff, robot."

With each of them holding an arm and Sam's own weight on the man's waist, he was able to inject more nanos and apply a compress.

Ochoa gritted his teeth and stopped struggling long enough for Sam to pull the IV line from the LAME and attach it to his right arm. Status on the nanos showed that they were flooding the nerve centers near the wound with pain killers and as a confirmation, Ochoa relaxed and took a deep breath.

Sam hooked the recovery cable to the back of Ochoa's armor eyelet, winched him into the armored tube and sent instructions for Ochoa's care to the LAME. Only then did he check the nearby rebel soldier. He was already dead.

Lieutenant Wei darted around the corner followed by two troopers dragging a limp form. "Is Ochoa going to make it?"

A direct question. "Yes, sir," Sam said. "But he needs a hospital."

"Here's the hostage. She's been shot—at close range. Bastards. Do what you can."

Sam could see that she'd been hit once in the throat and once in the chest. He went to work immediately, injecting nanos to stop the blood flow and to report the damage, but he didn't wait for their input. He shoved a breathing tube down the ruined throat, started the oxygen flow and attached a portable bio-monitor to her arm.

"Sikes, stay here and cover them," the lieutenant said then moved to the end of the alley and began sending orders to secure the Osprey's landing site.

"What can I do?" Sikes said.

A direct question. "Cover us, like the lieutenant ordered. Harmon, I need the other IV line," Sam said.

The nano data began to trickle in giving Sam a better picture of her condition. She'd lost too much blood. She was dying. He grabbed the IV line from Clef, but her heart stopped beating before he could attach it. With accelerated movements, Sam finished connecting the IV, opened her chest and found damage to the subclavian artery. In less than a second he had sealed the rupture with glue and fluff, then began resuscitation. He jammed electrodes into her chest.

"Clear!" he said. The electric jolts made the woman's body jerk. After the second try, her heart started beating.

The compound erupted with shouts and the sound of small arms fire.

"Let's go!" The lieutenant said over the comm-net. "The fire pellets deactivated early and these creeps are really pissed."

"Shit!" Clef and Sikes said simultaneously as an alarm sounded from Sam's defensive pod.

Two rebel soldiers fired at them from the other end of the alley, but their still jumpy muscles sent the rounds high. Sam tried to shield his patient from the spray of plaster, brick and glass that showered down from above. He added tissue fluff and a compress to the open wound, then attached the recovery line to the woman with a sling and helped the winch ease her into the LAME. The nanos reported that she was starting to stabilize.

As soon as the hatches sealed over the hostage and Ochoa, he sent the emergency return order. The lifter went to full power, covering everyone with billowing snow as it disappeared into the night sky.

Per standard procedure, Sam called for another LAME, and then started checking the bio-monitors of the remaining troopers. His defensive pod again sounded a warning and Sam saw a grenade sliding down the snow packed alley, but Sikes and Clef were looking the other way. Sam grabbed each of them by a leg, yanked them down and turned his rear armor toward the grenade. It exploded about two meters from him.

When the snow and steam cleared, Sam couldn't move.

He could see and even had network contact to the rest of the squad, but he couldn't move. He sent a status message to Lieutenant Wei, and then scanned the soldiers' bio-monitors again. Sikes had sustained minor wounds to her mouth and nose when her face hit the ground. Clef had broken two fingers, clean fractures that should not prevent him from playing violin.

Sam tried to get up but couldn't.

"Sikes!" Sam yelled. "You have nano bulbs and a compress in your first aid kit. Get someone to help you."

Small arms fire raked the walls as two Ospreys arrived and hovered overhead, creating an icy wind storm that drowned out the lieutenant's barked orders. Sam switched to the command channel on comm-net.

"Mount up! Let's get out of here!" the lieutenant yelled as rope ladders dropped from the planes.

Sam watched as the squad scrambled one by one up the swinging ladders beneath an umbrella of cover fire from the planes. He ran diagnostics on his self-destruct mechanism, determined it was in working order and triggered the seven minute timer.

Clef grabbed Sam with his good hand and dragged him over to the ladder.

"C'mon, Clef!" Sikes yelled.

"This sucker's heavy. I can't lift him with this bum hand. Help me get him hooked to the ladder," Clef said.

"He's a robot, Clef!" she said, but slung her rifle and helped anyway.

"I have activated my self-destruct mechanism in order to prevent the capture of sensitive technology. Please stand clear," Sam said.

"No way, tin can," Clef said. "You saved my ass twice. You're comin' with us."

Sam aborted the self-destruct routine.

"You should get off that leg, Harmon," Sam said, but Clef was gone and he was being lifted above the snow into a waiting Osprey.

Five minutes later they were weaving their way through the mountains toward the coast along a new course. They strapped Sam to the floor next to Clef's wounded leg. He checked each monitor, noted that the nanos in the hostage, Ochoa and Clef were working well.

"Hey Sam! You still with us?" asked Sikes. She was behind him somewhere and he couldn't see her.

"Yes. How is your mouth?" Sam said. "Doesn't it hurt too much to talk?"

"No, it's fine now, Sam," she said. "Just a fat lip."

"Yeah," Clef said. "We thought it would shut her up too, Sam. But never underestimate a woman's yakking ability."

No one laughed.

"You saved my ass back there, Sam," Sikes said. "Too bad I can't buy you a drink when we get back."

"Careful, Sam," Clef said. "She's trying to pick you up. Musta been all that talk about your equipment earlier."

Sikes ignored Clef.

Sam couldn't identify a direct question, but since his equipment was mentioned, his response tree settled on a simple status report. "My equipment is damaged."

This time the soldiers laughed.

"Sam?" Sikes said. "How's Ernie? Do you still have a link to his bio-monitor?"

A direct question. "Yes. Ochoa is stabilized," Sam said then scanned his response options and added. "He's going to be okay."

The soldiers grew quiet. Sam could hear one snoring and thought he heard Sikes sniffling. He wondered if her nose might be bleeding because of the grenade and checked her monitor.

Clef patted Sam's pitted and broken armor casing. "I owe you too, Sam. You're the best momma a soldier ever had. Oh and Sam, from now on you can call me Clef."

Sam changed the tag on Harmon's file. After scanning possible responses he didn't know what to say, so he kept quiet.

* * *

Return to top

The Best Plaid Lans

Written by Loren K. Jones
Illustrated by Nathan Rosario

Professor Kenneth Campbell studied the apparatus in his lab, tweaking delicately at the vernier adjusters to achieve exactly the right settings. "This should be it, Heather. With these settings we should be able to peek into the past, to see the Battle of Culloden. We will be witness to the defeat of Bonny Prince Charlie by the British."

Heather Connally studied her monitor. "Yes, sir. The computer has refined the coordinates and downloaded them to the scanner. Are you ready to record?"

"Ready." The professor reached over and started the digital recorder. "Trial 3, TimeScape Viewer. Selected date: April 16, 1746. Place: Culloden, Scotland. Subject: the defeat of Bonny Prince Charlie." Looking up, he nodded. "Begin, Miss Connally."

Heather keyed in the starting sequence. Nothing happened for a moment, then the room exploded! The world dissolved into a blur of bright light and indescribable sound. Heather was nearly knocked unconscious and rolled under her desk by the concussion.

When Heather regained her senses, she immediately knew that something was profoundly wrong. Peeking over her toppled desk, she saw a ragged hole in the wall where the professor had been standing. Tears of pain and grief began to form, clouding her vision. The professor had been her teacher, colleague and friend, and now he was dead. Then her vision became even more blurred as the room reformed around her.

Shattered walls and windows became whole. Overturned benches dissolved and reformed where they belonged without seeming to move. Fragmented lab equipment became whole. And once again the professor was standing where she had last seen him, fiddling with the TimeScape Scanner.

"Bah! Tha' was nay supposed to 'appen!" he snarled in a shepherd's brogue.

"Professor?"

"Come 'ere, Lass. We must begin again," Professor Campbell continued in a more cultured tone. "The Scanner was supposed to show us Bonny Prince Charlie's victory over the Brits at Culloden."

"P—Professor?" Heather asked again, not understanding. Charles Stewart had been defeated. Then she really began to see her surroundings. The professor was dressed in a lab coat and kilt . . . kilt? Staggering drunkenly to the window, she looked out on a campus that was subtly wrong. Plaids and clan tartans were abundant. All of the men were in kilts. And the flag over the commons was not the flag that she knew. The flag of the Scottish Republic flew proudly in place of the Union Jack.

Heather stumbled back to her computer and accessed the history database. April 16, 1746. A mysterious bolt of lightning striking the leaders of the British army, killing most of the officers. The Highlanders taking it as a sign from God that He was on their side. The stunning victory of Bonny Prince Charlie, and the subsequent routing of the British in the Scottish Revolution. It was all there, but her mind said that it was all wrong. Then the ripple in history returned to its origin, bringing a new reality with it.

As history adjusted itself, Heather's memories changed to match. "Professor, did ye ever wonder wha' kind a world we would live in if the Revolution had failed?"

* * *

Return to top

Supercargo

Written by M. T. Reiten
Illustrated by John Ward

The ketones of grilling meat flooded the corridor, despite the laboring air scrubbers. I pulled my head back into the passenger compartment and tossed the reader onto my bunk. I opened the stowage locker and lifted my military issue pressure suit off the rack.

"You better suit up, kid," I said.

Hicks, a freshly promoted infantry sergeant, lay on his bunk, his viewer glasses tuned to reflective silver. At first I thought he was sleeping, but his thick jaw muscles flexed as he chomped on his ever-present gum. Not the fluoridated Chiclet that came in standard rations, but a fat cube of gourmet bubble gum exported from Earth.

"Hey, kid. Get your gear on. Something's happening." I stepped into the back of my suit and it closed around my legs and hips. I shrugged into the torso, worrying about what might be going wrong.

Traveling supercargo was normally a cushy set of orders. I almost felt guilty not getting charged for leave. I had spent my time with a reader, catching up on the latest journal articles and some of my favorite fiction, spy thrillers and pre-contact historicals. Hicks had spent the trip on his wearable system, playing what he called tactical and strategic simulations. Computer games.

"I didn't hear the alarm, sir." Hicks blew a big pink bubble. It snapped insolently.

"Do you smell anything?" I asked.

Hicks sniffed and then swung his legs around to sit up. He stared at me like a mirror-eyed cyclops. "Barbecue."

"The only meat on this ship is the crew."

Hicks was at his locker in the next instant, gearing up like a professional. I shouldn't have been surprised. Only contracted military personnel and a few select diplomats and scholars could travel into League space, exempt from the sanctions. Even though the kid hadn't impressed me so far, we were all professionals.

"What's going on, sir?" he asked as he settled his helmet onto his shoulders.

"I don't know." But that was the first thing we'd been drilled to do if anything strange happened. Suit up. I activated the intercom display on the bulkhead.

Instead of the pilot's face or the wait symbol, I saw the dimmed interior of the cockpit in the screen. Harsh white light streamed from the corridor through the opened cockpit hatch. We were still in i-space, so the hatch should have been kept closed. Shadows passed across the background, glistening and slick like oil stains.

A figure, bald headed with pale skin, moved toward the pilot's station. He leaned in to the navigation controls, coming into the intercom's focus and allowing me a good look. A clear gummy polymer coated his hawk-like face. He clawed into the polymer at his neck and tore it open, exposing his mouth. "Adjust trajectory," he said with a thick Dromed's World accent.

"Doomsday fanatics," I said, stabbing off the display before he looked down and saw my image.

Doomies had control of the ship. They wore emergency pressure suits, the disposable kind. League technology.

"I thought we took care of those bastards." Hicks frowned and reached for the clasps on the chest plate of his suit. An E-mag carbine should have been there, but our small arms traveled on the troop ship. He still wore his viewer glasses. The frequency of his gum chewing had increased from a lazy bovine pace to an open-mouthed gnashing. "What now?"

"We go to ground and work out a plan. Into the hold."

He nodded and followed my lead. We went to the number three airlock near our quarters and climbed down, leaving atmosphere and pseudo gravity. The hold was huge and dark. Our helmet lights were useless. The brigade's equipment hung in shadowed racks, like shells in rifle magazines, except they were tanks and bulldozers rather than cartridges.

The heavy transport, Marie Celeste, was over 99% cargo space and filled the spherical tunneling sheathe that the monopole drive produced, a vast bubble that skirted the laws of physics for a maximum volume with a minimum surface area. The scant habitable area was a long corridor, like the spine on an expanded puffer fish, leading from the cockpit at the front to the monopole drive at the rear in engineering. Crew quarters, support systems, and access ways to the hold were spread evenly down the arc of the spine. We had to assume the positive life support areas had been compromised.

The number one airlock sat closest to the cockpit, and it was in fact a shorter straight-line distance through the hold than along the corridor. As we maneuvered between the stowed machinery, I came across the brigade's engineer support vehicle. The rear hatch hung open and construction tools floated randomly about the back. The hatch had been sealed during our last inspection two days ago.

The Doomsday fanatics had been hidden in the hold and broke in to our equipment.

I grabbed a hammer out of the mess. "Get a weapon."

"Got one." He had already taken a large screwdriver. The shaft was nearly as thick as a crowbar. He slashed twice and made a practice thrust. "It'll work."

We pulled our way to the number one airlock. After we cycled through, I climbed up, opened my visor, and poked my head out to scan the corridor. I saw and smelled the carnage just outside the cockpit entrance.

The navigator's body lay against the open cockpit hatch. A hand laser dangled from his lifeless hand. His face had been squashed into an unrecognizable concave mass of blood and pinkish brain. Three dismembered bodies, each coated in a gummy transparent film, had sprawled on the deck. Large charred gouges still smoked in their chests. Plastic wrapped fingers and arms had been sliced off and littered the corridor. But the burned bodies all had shaved heads and pasty-white skin and didn't wear crew uniforms.

"I'll get eyes on the cockpit," Hicks said.

I grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Sir, it's my job. Let me do it. Unless you have a better idea." He crept forward after I released him.

I felt useless in those agonizing minutes, hanging back in the airlock. As an engineer, I oversaw the construction of roads and landing zones for our bases. My last serious infantry training had been seventeen years ago at the academy.

Hicks came back, carrying the hand laser. "There are three of them at the controls. They seem to know what they're doing. No living crew."

"How'd they get in?"

"There's a big hole in the hatch. You can't see it from here." Hicks held up his hands forming a circle with his fingers the size of a dinner plate.

The Doomsday fanatics had the punch. The short-range cavitation tool was standard equipment on the engineer support vehicle and it could put holes in about anything if enough charges were expended. That explained what happened to the navigator. One half charge at two feet.

"Couldn't catch everything they were saying, but one Doomie talked about changing trajectories." He checked the battery life on the hand laser. "I can drop them."

"I'm sure you could," I whispered. "But test fire the laser first."

He aimed away from me, sighting on an empty locker, and depressed the trigger. Nothing happened. "What the—?"

"Security keyed to crewmembers only."

Some of Hicks' confidence left him. He slumped against the bulkhead, but kept a grip on the hand laser. "Maybe we could signal for help?"

I shook my head. The Marie Celeste had a huge displacement, so that meant slow going in imaginary space. She also took a long time to build velocity in real space, nearing light speed before tunneling up. The rest of our brigade hadn't even lifted yet in the swifter troop transports. They would depart Dromed's World two weeks from now and arrive at our destination three days before we did. No chance of anyone within range to hear our transmission.

"We rush them then." Hicks drew the screwdriver from his cargo pouch.

"Wait. You said they were talking?"

He nodded. "But I couldn't make out most of what they were saying."

"But they had the hoods peeled back?"

"All three did. They must think they've got complete control of the ship."

"Good. Those League suits are single use. If they broke the seal, they're worthless. I've got a plan that might not get us killed." I made a mental list of what we'd need. "Strip a good sized piece off a body and meet me in the airlock."

I returned to the hold to gather additional tools. Hicks waited for me in the dim light of the evacuated airlock. He was chewing his gum and toying with a patch of tough polymer when I got back.

We wedged the hold side hatch open with a pair of titanium crowbars. Industrial staples took care of the physical interlocks on the hatch, so the computer would think it was closed and safe. I needed a way to override the atmosphere sensor, but I couldn't find a gas cylinder. But our suits had buddy umbilicals, so I played out the short length of hose from my hip. I motioned for the patch of polymer and the kid slapped it in my hand. I sealed the sides the patch over the gas sensor and the nozzle of my buddy umbilical.

"Cycle it," I said.

"Yes, sir." He pushed the cycle button and the inlet valve opened up. "I've got flow."

I eased open my umbilical, conscious of the gauge readings on my suit. The polymer patch ballooned up partially like the bubble gum the kid still gnawed on. I hoped it would read close enough to ship's atmosphere to fool the computer. "Let me know if it stops."

After a few seconds, Hicks said, "The flow is off."

"Open the inner hatch."

Hicks initiated the opening sequence. I felt vibrations through the bulkhead as restraining bolts withdrew, but nothing happened. "Open it manually."

"The mechanism is open all the way, but the door is stuck." He pushed on the hatch. "If the hinges were on this side we could just break them off."

"The hinges are on the other side because of the pressure differential." The pressure differential, I thought angry with myself. I tried to slap my forehead, but smacked my helmet visor instead. I had been so clever, that I had forgotten basic physics. The atmospheric pressure from the crew compartments kept the inner hatch of the airlock firmly in place, so there was no way it could accidentally open and vent to vacuum. "Oh, God, I'm stupid."

"How's that, sir?"

"I don't design spaceships. I direct soldiers with bulldozers. I should just stick to what I know best."

"And that is.?"

"Big hammer technology. If it doesn't work, hit it with a bigger hammer." But the Doomies had the punch, the biggest hammer in the brigade's inventory.

"I'm all about that, sir." Hicks flashed me a goofy grin with too many teeth. "I'd just slap some Synth-Tex putty on the door and blow it. But we don't have any explosives."

He was right. Ammo went on a different ship, and, as tempting as it was, we were better off without live rounds or explosives. A main gun round would be suicidal even if we could get a tank off a shipping rack. What did we have? I knew the equipment my engineer section carried. Burning a hole through the hatch with welding equipment would take too long and flying sparks would be obvious. Perhaps a hydraulic jack? That would be slow too, and the Doomsday fanatics would notice a steady loss in pressure. We needed something fast and dramatic.

"So we don't try to push the hatch open. We pull it in." I maneuvered around the braced open outer hatch and exited the airlock. I launched myself at the nearest rack of vehicles.

The second one down was the commander's mobile HQ. The boxy command track had a winch on the front capable of hauling a twelve ton hunk of armor out of a ditch. I played out several hundred feet of carbon rope and launched myself back to airlock number one.

We attached the rope to several points on the crew-side hatch. I had the kid operate the winch. He gingerly took the slack out of the line, following my hand signals and somewhat curt directions.

I moved away from the outer hatch, pressing myself against the slight curve of the hold bulkhead. "Give it all she's got."

The line vibrated as it snapped completely taut, seeming to blur into four separate ropes under the light from my helmet. I felt the jagged creak of shredding metal through my palms. The rope went limp as light poured through the airlock. The inner hatch slammed into the cargo-side hatch, but it held open. Bits of trash tumbled into the hold on the rushing wind trying to fill the immense space. Instantly I recognized them as severed fingers. Alarms flashed red in silence.

After a minute of tense waiting, we squeezed into the airlock. The crew-side hatch had buckled, blown out, and had wedged firmly behind the cargo-side hatch, but there wasn't much damage to the airlock otherwise. We climbed into the corridor. I held the hammer ready and the kid had his screwdriver poised like a bayonet. Our shadows leaped around us, cast in black from the red glow of the alarms.

We stepped over the remains in the corridor, tumbled around by the explosive decompression. The hatch to the cockpit had a large hole with precisely dimpled edges, the signature of a punch. Hicks booted the hatch open and charged in.

The darkened cockpit was a triangular shaped room, more like a multimedia suite than the control center for a spaceship. Large viewer screens lined the forward bulkheads, displaying statuses and course projections. The crew stations were empty.

The three Doomies had scrambled to the door with the dinner plate sized hole in it. Two had collapsed just inside the holed hatch. Freeze-dried blood crystals lined the corners of their bluish lips. The last one still tried to pull the peeled hood back over his face. He lay on the deck, fingers clasping at the torn seam beneath his chin, vainly trying to pinch it together. The ragged seam bubbled with escaping gas. His mouth gaped fish-like and his eyes had rolled back as hypoxia set in.

Hicks plunged the screwdriver into the fanatic's carotid. Blood welled up beneath the polymer coating as he pulled the steel shaft free.

"What the hell?" I demanded.

"I was doing him a favor," Hicks said seriously. "He'll be too brain damaged for good intel. He'd die slow anyways."

The Doomies hadn't removed the corpses of the crew, only shoving them aside. I saw the captain's body wedged beneath a control panel. The punch had mangled him badly. I recognized him from rank on the sleeves.

"We need to figure out where they were going with our equipment." I walked to the pilot's station. Everything was clearly labeled and color-coded on the wrap-around screens. I found the course plot, a cartoonish representation of i-space travel.

I had thought it would head back to Dromed's World, where we had just completed a two year mission bringing the rebelling human outpost under control. The Doomsday cult, despite nihilistic beliefs, could resurrect their uprising with the brigade's weapons. But the Doomies hadn't shifted the course one-eighty degrees. If I correctly remembered the captain's explanation of the navigation screen, the Marie Celeste was headed deeper into League space toward the nearest inhabited planet. That didn't make sense. None of the League members would need the archaic weaponry we used. Humans weren't allowed on League planets, except under contract.

"You've traveled supercargo before. Can you fly this thing?" Hicks asked.

"It's supposed to be straight forward. Aside from approaching a planet in i-space." I had listened to the crew's conversations over meals. In i-space, gravity wells were repulsive. It took expert piloting and well programmed computers, to enter a system shedding velocity, and not overshoot. "I'm not sure how they planned to pull this off."

"The bastards are going for a kill, not a theft." He held up a piece of crumpled paper with the squiggles of ornate calligraphy that he had pulled from a Doomie's body. "It's his message to God."

The kid was right, I realized with a shock. In imaginary space, planets were repulsive. But if a ship tunneled down into real space at a hefty fraction of c, the relativistic mass would suck the planet and the ship together. A guaranteed collision requiring less skill than billiards to line up. We humans had already killed two planets with kinetic bombs during the Spider War, and that was why humanity was under sanction. Destroying another inhabited planet, now that we knew the rules, would end it for all of us. Extinction.

"Then we'll have to turn this ship around." I sat at the pilot's station. "Just need to find a help menu."

I discovered a flight checklist, half-complete, which was almost as good as a help menu. I read through the steps and pulled up the appropriate screens. I only had to key in the coordinates of the destination and the drive would alter the ship's course. Dromed's World was the only safe set of numbers I could recognize on the checklist. We'd at least get within range to signal for assistance from the task force that had relieved us. There were standard ship-to-ship maneuvers to drop us back into real space. I entered the coordinates into the computer and pushed the pilot's seat back.

"Too easy, sir. Too easy." Hicks popped a bubble, which sounded like a whip cracking over the suit-to-suit radio.

Nothing happened.

A flashing yellow message appeared at the top of the pilot's screen. Engineering Bridge Manual Override.

"It's not over yet," I said without enthusiasm.

"That means you can't steer it from here?"

"No, I can't. At least one bad guy survived at the other end of the ship. Must have taken control when we decompressed the ship." I stood up and gripped the hammer. "It's time for your plan."

"Yes, sir," he said. "Follow me."

We ran down the long bowed corridor. The sensation of running uphill was unsettling. The galley, storerooms and crew quarters had automatically sealed. They would remain shut until the corridor was repressurized. We slowed as we reached the aft end of the ship. The hatch to the drive room had a punch hole through it. No way to lock us out. We ducked into airlock number four.

"How many punches are there?" Hicks asked.

"Only one. Don't know how many charges are left."

"So they've got the punch down here." He slugged me in the chest plate. "Take your hits on the armor. It can take serious damage before failing. We don't have face shields, so the visor is the weak point. You know what to do to stop this ship. I don't. You need to stay alive. Are we on the same freq?"

I nodded.

"We go in. I break left and you break right. Don't hang in the door. Those plastic wraps the smegheads got won't stop a hammer. No hesitation. Bang bang."

I could only see my own warped reflection in the steely gaze of his glasses. Adrenaline made my hands tremble. "A simple plan executed in a bold, audacious manner."

"Amen, sir. Time to close with the enemy." He scrambled up the ladder out of the airlock.

I followed him. We approached the punctured hatch cautiously. Through the hole, I saw movement.

Hicks kicked the hatch open and rushed into the drive room, breaking to the left. I followed, but went right. The far bulkhead housed the spherical monopole drive.

Only one Doomie stood at the engineering controls. The polymer layers distorted his snarl and wild eye glare. He held up the punch, like a miniature jackhammer, and aimed at the kid. The wide muzzle flashed and Hicks flew backwards to bounce off the bulkhead. Shards of dull armor plate scattered over the deck.

I lunged at the Doomie, swinging the hammer. He moved fast in his lightweight League suit. The punch turned toward my midsection. The crushing weight hit me on the chest before I could connect. My face struck my visor and the back of my head cracked against the helmet as I slammed into the opposite bulkhead. Everything had a reddish cast to it. My ribs creaked as I fought to suck a breath into my emptied lungs.

The Doomie brought the punch directly up to Hicks' faceplate. But nothing happened. Charges depleted. He tossed the punch to the deck and picked up the dropped screwdriver. He thrust the sharp tip into Hicks' crystalline visor. The center of the visor crazed white, and the screwdriver broke through forming a small hole. Glittering dust blew away from the kid's helmet.

I struggled to my feet, still unable to draw a breath. I had lost the hammer, but I dived at the Doomie before he could stab again. I blacked out for a second from the pain in my chest after I hit him with my shoulder. The next thing I saw was the pasty-skinned bastard standing over me as I lay on my back. The screwdriver was in his hand pointing at my face, cocked back and ready to thrust.

My hammer seemed to appear from nowhere, barely slowed by smashing across the back of the Doomie's head. The fanatic leaned to the side and fell flat.

Hicks stood over him. A big pink wad was stuck in the middle of the cracked faceplate. His glasses looked like they had fallen off, but were stuck against the back of the bubble gum, reinforcing the hasty seal on his visor. He had to turn his body sideways to see around the blockage in his helmet.

"You still alive, sir?" He extended a hand to help me up.

I stood slowly with his assistance. I staggered to the engineering controls, a scaled down and Spartan version of the cockpit. I keyed in the coordinates to return us to Dromed's World and untoggled the override switch. The drive shifted course this time. Relieved, I turned toward Hicks and managed to speak. "How much oxygen do you have left?"

"Some." His suit was battered. Only the edges of his chest plate remained attached. He pointed at the makeshift patch on his visor and gave me a sidelong glance. "I don't know how long this will hold though."

"Let's fix the damage we've caused and get some atmosphere back in here."

"Yes, sir."

"Sergeant," I asked as we started back to airlock number one. "Once we do that, think I could try a chunk of that gum?"

"If we make it through this, sir." He stumbled beside me. "I'll give you a whole pack."

The damage to the airlock turned out to be worse than I had first estimated. The titanium crowbars had punctured the cargo-side hatch and bent the latching mechanism. The airlock required shipyard level repairs.

I caught Hicks gasping when we climbed into the corridor. "What's your air reading?"

"I thought we'd be up to pressure by now."

Cursing, I snapped my buddy umbilical to Hicks' suit. After the pressure sensor stunt I had pulled earlier, my gauges read low too. Since we couldn't bring the corridor back up to atmosphere, the crew compartments remained sealed off. I maneuvered Hicks to airlock two and secured him inside, where he could properly repair his visor.

I clambered back to the cockpit and hooked up to the pilot's secondary life support while settling in the seat. The weight of my suit shot pain through my ribcage. By taking shallow breaths, the pain faded to a throb and I could assess my situation.

At least five days to get in range of the command cell at Dromed's World and coordinate a rescue from i-space. I considered adjusting the controls to increase our velocity, to speed our return, but only for a second. Anything beyond changing course exceeded my knowledge base. Bodies of crew and Doomies were scattered through the ship with pieces floating in the hold. I should gather the remains, but the investigation team would have me on charges if I disturbed anything not vital for our immediate survival. And Hicks was confined to the airlock until he fixed his suit. If he could fix it.

"Are you doing okay, sergeant?" I asked through the suit-to-suit radio.

"Yes, sir." Hicks reply lacked the hollow chewing-on-the-microphone sound, so I knew his helmet was off. Tinny game music played in the background. "Got the gum off my viewer glasses and they still work!"

I settled in to monitor communications, pulled up a writing program on the armchair screen, and began drafting an award recommendation for Hicks. Headquarters wouldn't let me submit it until after the inquiry, but I figured that I should capture the sergeant's actions in writing while the events were fresh in my mind. Before he reminded me that he was still a kid in spite of what we'd been through.

* * *

COLUMNS

Jim Baen
October 22, 1943 - June 28, 2006

Written by David Drake

Jim Baen called me on the afternoon of June 11. He generally phoned on weekends, and we'd usually talk a couple more times in the course of a week; but this was the last time.

In the course of the conversation he said, "You've got to write my obituary, you know." I laughed (I'll get to that) and said, "Sure, if I'm around—but remember, I'm the one who rides the motorcycle."

So I'm writing this. Part of it's adapted from the profile I did in 2000 for the program book of the Chicago Worldcon at which Jim was Editor Guest of Honor. They cut my original title, which Jim loved: The God of Baendom. I guess they thought it was undignified and whimsical.

The title was undignified and whimsical. So was Jim.

James Patrick Baen was born October 22, 1943, on the Pennsylvania - New York border, a long way by road or in culture from New York City . He was introduced to SF early through the magazines in a step-uncle's attic, including the November, 1957, issue of Astounding with The Gentle Earth by Christopher Anvil.

The two books Jim most remembered as formative influences were Fire-Hunter by Jim Kjelgaard and Against the Fall of Night by Arthur C Clarke. The theme of both short novels is that a youth from a decaying culture escapes the trap of accepted wisdom and saves his people despite themselves. This is a fair description of Jim's life in SF: he was always his own man, always a maverick, and very often brilliantly successful because he didn't listen to what other people thought.

For example, the traditional model of electronic publishing required that the works be encrypted. Jim thought that just made it hard for people to read books, the worst mistake a publisher could make. His e-texts were clear and in a variety of common formats.

While e-publishing has been a costly waste of effort for others, Baen Books quickly began earning more from electronic sales than it did from Canada . By the time of Jim's death, the figure had risen to ten times that.

Jim didn't forget his friends. In later years he arranged for the expansion of Fire-Hunter so that he could republish it (as The Hunter Returns , originally the title of the Charles R Knight painting Jim put on the cover).

Though Clarke didn't need help to keep his books in print the way Kjelgaard did, Jim didn't forget him either. Jim called me for help a week before his stroke, because Amazon.com had asked him to list the ten SF novels that everyone needed to read to understand the field. Against the Fall of Night was one of the titles that we settled on.

Jim's father died at age fifty; he and his stepfather didn't warm to one another. Jim left home at 17 and lived on the streets for several months, losing weight that he couldn't at the time afford. He enlisted in the army as the only available alternative to starving to death.

Jim spent his military career in Bavaria where he worked for the Army Security Agency as a Morse Code Intercept Operator, monitoring transmissions from a Soviet callsign that was probably a armored corps. One night he determined that 'his' Soviet formation was moving swiftly toward the border. This turned out to be an unannounced training exercise—but if World War III had broken out in 1960, Jim would've been the person who announced it.

Jim entered CCNY on the GI Bill and became a Hippie. Among other jobs he managed a Greenwich Village coffee house, sometimes acting as barker as well: 'Come in and see tomorrow's stars today!' None of the entertainers became tomorrow's stars, but that experience of unabashed huckstering is part of the reason that Jim himself did.

Jim's first job in publishing was as an assistant in the Complaints Department of Ace Books. He was good at it—so good that management tried to promote him to running the department. He turned the offer down, however, because he really wanted to be an SF editor.

In 1973 Jim was hired at Galaxy and If magazines when Judy-Lynn Benjamin left. He became assistant to Ejler Jakobson, who with Bernie Williams taught Jim the elements of slash and burn editing.

Unfortunately, this was a necessary skill for an editor in Jim's position. The publisher wasn't in a hurry to pay authors, so established writers who could sell elsewhere preferred to do so. Galaxy and If published a lot of first stories and not a few rejects by major names. Material like that had to be edited for intelligibility and the printer's deadline, not nuances of prose style.

Apart from basic technique Jim had very little to learn from his senior, who shortly thereafter left to pursue other opportunities. Jim's first act as editor was to recall stories that his predecessor had rejected over Jim's recommendation. When in later years I thanked him for retrieving the first two Hammer stories, Jim responded, ''Oh, David—Jake rejected much better stories than yours!" (Among them was Ursula K LeGuin's Nebula winner, The Day Before the Revolution .)

Ace Books, in many ways the standard bearer of SF paperback publishing in the Fifties, had fallen on hard times in the Seventies. Charter Communications bought the company and installed Tom Doherty as publisher. Tom hired Jim to run the SF line. The first thing the new team did was to pay Ace's back (and in some cases, way back) royalties. By the time the famous SFWA audit of Ace Books was complete, the money had already been paid to the authors; a matter of some embarrassment to the SFWA officers who were aware of the facts.

Ace regained its position as an SF line where readers could depend on getting a good story. (To Homer, that was the essence of art; not all writers and editors of more recent times would have agreed.) As well as pleasing readers, the Ace SF line made money for the company; unfortunately (due to decisions from far above the level of publisher) SF came to be the only part of the company that did make money. Tom left Ace in 1980, founded Tor Books, and hired Jim to set up the Tor SF line.

Which Jim did, following the same pattern that had revived Ace: a focus on story and a mix of established authors with first-timers whom Jim thought just might have what it took. It worked again.

In fact it worked so well that when Simon and Schuster went through a series of upheavals in its Pocket Books line in 1983, management decided to hire Jim as their new SF editor. Jim thought about the offer, then made a counter-offer: with the backing of two friends, he would form a separate company which would provide S&S with an SF line to distribute. S&S agreed and Baen Books was born.

Jim used the same formulas with his new line as he had at Ace and Tor, and again he succeeded. If that were easy, then past decades wouldn't be littered with the detritus of so many other people's attempts to do the same thing.

Even more than had been the case at Ace and Tor, Jim was his own art director at Baen Books—and he really directed rather than viewing his job as one of coddling artists. Baen Books gained a distinct look. Like the book contents, the covers weren't to everyone's taste—but they worked.

Jim had the advantage over some editors in that he knew what a story is. He had the advantage over most editors in being able to spot talent before somebody else had published it. (Lois Bujold, Eric Flint, John Ringo and Dave Weber were all Baen discoveries whom Jim promoted to stardom.)

Furthermore, he never stopped developing new writers. The week before his stroke, Jim bought a first novel from a writer whom Baen Books had been grooming through short stories over the past year.

The most important thing of all which Jim brought to his company was a personal vision. Baen Books didn't try to be for everybody, but it wa s always true to itself. In that as in so many other ways, the company mirrored Jim himself.

When Jim called me on June 11, he told me he was dying. I thought he was simply having a bad interaction among prescription drugs. Though the stroke that killed him occurred the next day in hospital, Jim was right and I was wrong—again.

After that opening, Jim said, "I'm just going to say it: we've known each other all these years and you seem to like me. Why?"

That's a hell of a thing to be hit with out of the blue. Jim had always known that he was socially awkward and that he not infrequently rubbed people the wrong way, but it wasn't something we discussed. (And it's obviously not a subject on which I could be of much help.)

If I'd been a different person, I'd have started out by listing the things he did right: for example, that I'd never met a more loving father than Jim was to his children (Jessica Baen, 29, Jim's daughter with Madeline Gleich, and Katherine Baen, 14, Jim's daughter with Toni Weisskopf). Being me, I instead answered the question a number of us ask ourselves: "How can you like a person who's behaved the way you know I have?"

I said that his flaws were childish ones, tantrums and sulking; not, never in my experience, studied cruelty. He agreed with that.

And then I thought further and said that when I was sure my career was tanking—

" You thought that? When was that?"

In the mid '90s, I explained, when Military SF was going down the tubes with the downsizing of the military. But when I was at my lowest point, which was very low, I thought, "I can write two books a year. And Jim will pay me $20K apiece for them—"

"I'd have paid a lot more than that!"

And I explained that this wasn't about reality: this was me in the irrational depths of real depression. And even when I was most depressed and most irrational, I knew in my heart that Jim Baen would pay me enough to keep me alive, because he was that sort of person. He'd done that for Keith Laumer whom he disliked, because Laumer had been an author Jim looked for when he was starting to read SF.

I could not get so crazy and depressed that I didn't trust Jim Baen to stand by me if I needed him. I don't know a better statement than that to sum up what was important about Jim, as a man and as a friend.

—Dave Drake

Toni Weisskopf and Dave suggest that people who wish to make a memorial donation purchase copies of THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN and donate them to libraries or teenagers of their acquaintance.

Comments and remembrances may be left at:

Baen's Bar (http://bar.baen.com) in the "In Memorium" conference or

The Universe forums (http://www.baensuniverse.com/bbs) in the "In Memorium" forum.

A Personal Remembrance of Jim Baen

Jim Baen was a genius. I am head of a science research team at London's Natural History Museum, have a Visiting Chair at Southampton University, and I am a Royal Society Programme Manager so I have met the odd genius in the course of my work.

Other people will tell you about Jim's influence on the publishing industry. I would like to draw attention to his profound grasp of evolutionary biology. Jim had some original ideas on why Metazoa age and die–this is still a contentious subject–and he used me as a sounding board. I couldn't find any holes in his logic so I passed his work to Professor Karl Ugland of Oslo University, who subjected Jim's hypothesis to rigorous mathematical analysis using standard genomic theory. "Baen is a clever fellow", Karl concluded. I concur; the chance of a lay-person coming up with a new testable hypothesis in evolutionary biology is close to zero but Jim did it. His 'Why Die' article and Karl's mathematical test of it are published in the first issue of Jim Baen's Universe.

Jim was always fascinated by the wide variety of early hominids. "Our family tree is too bushy at the base", he would say to me. He suggested that maybe our ancestors had interbred back into the ancestral chimp populations and that was the explanation for so many morphotypes. I was deeply sceptical. There are good reasons why fertile hybrids are unlikely between higher vertebrate species but Jim persisted despite the cold water I poured on him. Then came news that analysis of chimp and human DNA showed that our respective ancestors must have interbred for some considerable time; it is even possible that modern humans are descended from the hybrids rather than 'pure' hominid strains. Had Jim lived, he intended to work up a new article on this subject. He had deduced a hypothesis of human evolution before the DNA evidence. This is an exceptional achievement.

Jim Baen was not an easy man. He retained that childlike attitude to the world that one associates with genius. He could be petulant and unreasonable. He was also loyal, decent and a lifeline to anyone who needed help. I suspect he would have risen to the top of any creative profession that he tackled. Science fiction's gain was science's loss when Jim chose the former. I am very grateful that he was my friend.

Professor John Lambshead
London, England, July 2006

Robowar

Written by Gregory Benford
Illustrated by Laura Givens

Most likely, robots will make our battlefields less bloody

. . .for some.

People seem to especially like to order others around. That may be the greatest social use of robots.

—Isaac Asimov, in conversation

In 1994 Michael Thorpe, a former model maker at George Lucas' Industrial Light and Magic, began public, live robot fights in San Francisco. These Robot Wars began as displays of engineering craft and imagination, allowing the geek community of the area to show off their inventive, destructive talents. Most of the gladiators looked like moving junk piles, springing clever knives, hammers, spikes, electrical arcs and other instruments of mayhem upon their opponents.

Thorpe quickly drew a large audience. Hundreds of technonerds proved quite willing to spend thousands of dollars and hours of labor to make combatants that they hoped might survive for a few minutes in the ring.

A few of the battlers looked benign, but even that was a disguise. A 14-year-old girl brought a ladybug-looking robot whose pretty red shell lifted to deploy a hook, which then skewered rivals. Their very names aimed at intimidation—Toecrusher, Mauler, The Hammer, Stiletto.

Their audience grew steadily until a legal dispute closed the games, but not before a promoter saw their potential. Similar contests went through a brief pay-per-view series, then ended in 2000 with a slot on TV's Comedy Central. There, "battlebots" showed their dual nature—focus for malicious mayhem, plus inadvertent comedians. They offer ritual violence directed by their creators using remote control, so they are only the simplest sort of the robot species, incapable of independent thinking and action.

These are techno versions of aggression, a weird blend of the "sports" of cock fighting and tractor pulls—and the direct descendants of demolition derbies. The audience experiences both jolts of slashing, banging violence and the hilarity of absurd scrap heap machines doing each other in. Robot toys have been around for decades, but they were weak, simple and did no real damage. Robowar fighters are genuinely dangerous.

We have become used to connecting with events like these, through adroit identification with technology. Since the 1950s children could buy robot toys, which steadily got better. Sojourner's 100-meter voyage on Mars in the 1990s, which took an agonizing month to accomplish, enraptured millions. The adventures of later plucky Mars rovers (Spirit, Opportunity) took them through many-kilometer journeys lasting years. With telepresence human guidance, even time-delayed at Mars, this capability is developing very quickly as software takes over the routine navigation and piloting between commanded destinations.

The Gulf War of 1991 and then Gulf War II of 2003 onward both provided robo-conflict without Allied blood. In Gulf War I the machines died (at least on the allied side) far more scenically (smart bombs, etc.) than the few allied casualties; Iraqi losses got much less play. In the Second Gulf War several hundred robots dug up roadside bombs and a robot attack plane, The Predator, quietly prowled the skies day and night, inflicting casualties usually without warning. In 2005 the first robot bomb disposer appeared in Baghdad; it could shoot back with good aim at 1000 rounds a minute. A soldier nearby controlled it with a wireless laptop, the first offensive robot used in combat. Some got destroyed. Newscasters then used "kill" to describe the destruction of both people and machines. Then in 2005 came robot infantry, able to assault and fire while moving forward on tank-like treads. Plainly, more is to come.

Commanding these at a distance recalls a video game quality, and indeed, the troops using them have a long background in such skills. Fresh into the millennium, this gives us TV's BattleBots with its three minute slam-bang bouts. Here is violence both real and absurd, calling up memories of the delicious humor of the old Road Runner cartoons. Robots assault each other with clippers, buzz saws, spikes, crushing jaws, and other ingenious devices, often cobbled together from domestic machines like lawn mowers and power tools. In their BattleBox they can use any strategy, inflicting mortal wounds, while the human audience sits safely beyond the BattleBox's shatterproof glass walls, watching flying debris clatter against the barrier. The Box has its own tricks, with sledges, rods, saws and other bedevilments which pop up randomly to wound one or both the combatants.

All this gets played for ironic laughter, with over-the-top commentary from the sidelines. The rules of human combat get satirized into weight categories: lightweights below 87 pounds, up to super-heavyweight between 316 and 488 pounds. Their creators range from aging engineers to 12-year-old Junior High amateurs. A certain cachet attaches to one who has made his or her robot from the least expensive parts, and especially from scrap.

More such shows are coming, like the SciFi Channel's "Robodeath." Though the robots now contending have budgets of only a few thousand dollars, inevitably under the pressure of ratings the sums will rise. Roller robots built from blenders will give way to walking, stalking specialists with specifically designed pincers or scythes or guns.

History's arms race between human armies will be rerun in madcap, technofreak fashion on full fast forward. The warriors will get heavier, their armor thicker. Instead of being run by their creators from the sidelines, there will come competitions for robots that can direct themselves, concoct strategies in real time, assess opponents' weaknesses and find new uses for their own armaments.

All in good fun, of course. But as the human battlefield begins to accept more machines with greater capabilities, the comic mayhem of BattleBots will blend in the evolutionary chain with the coming of combat robots fighting among humans—and finally, inevitably, against them.

In the 1984 film Terminator, a woman confronted with the nonstop violence between a robot killing machine and a man sent to save her, asks, "It will never be over, will it?" Once machines can fight on equal terms with humans, what social force could stop their use? Worse, if directed by artificial intelligences, would fighter robots not carry out the competition between these two intelligent "species" inhabiting the Earth?

The relentless energy of the Terminator class of robot (Arnold Schwartznegger) confirms this woman's wary prediction as it pursues the two humans with single-minded ferocity, until crushed by a foundry press. That advanced robotic intelligence could have the fanatical concentration of humans, with immense strength and endurance added, makes their use as soldiers seem inevitable.

Robot Armies?

Most robot research funding comes from the US Department of Defense. Obviously armies would rather lose a machine than a man. Robots don't get hungry, feel fear, forget orders, or care if the robot next to them gets killed. Even better, for the accountants, they have no downstream medical or retirement plans. In 2005 the Pentagon owed its soldiers, sailors and airmen $653 billion in future retirement benefits, which it had no clear plan to pay. Indeed, each fighting man costs $4 million over his median lifetime. Robot fighters will certainly cost less than a tenth of that. They can even be retrofitted later for domestic jobs and sold off.

The Bosnian conflict of the late 1990s was the first campaign fought without a single casualty on one side, because the U.S. used only aircraft. None were robots, but that lossless victory whetted appetites and has probably set the mold. In 2000 Congress told the armed services to develop within a decade robotic ground vehicles and deep-strike aircraft. The goal is to make about a third of all such machines independent. The goal is combat without casualties.

And some things machines can always do better than people, anyway. Some innovations are already about to be deployed in the field.

Crawlers

The Micro Unattended Mobility System (MUMS) device, currently under development—is a small, autonomous vehicle no larger than 3 inches across and 12 inches long. It will be robust enough to travel on its own, and survive the high accelerations and decelerations associated with ground penetrations, suffering peak impacts of 1,500 G. (In the long run, it might be sent forth from a grenade launcher.)

This crawler uses two side-by-side wheels that drag behind them an active tail, which can double as an antenna. Its central body houses electronics and a suite of navigation and surveillance sensors, including a modular GPS antenna, communications antenna, seismic sensor, microphone, electromagnetic detectors, and perhaps chemical sniffers more sensitive than a human nose.

The MUMS rover's embedded intelligence system will be controlled by iRobotics' own Behavior Control software, featuring, as a brochure has it, "redundant sensing and flexible system architecture." Overlapping and redundant sensing makes systems robust in the face of sensor noise, failure, or unexpected conditions, such as loss of primary communication or sensors. Flexible system architecture adds supervisory layers to observe its own lower performance and notice problems. At present, self-moving robots often repeatedly run into the same obstacle or get caught in a cyclical path. The MUMS higher levels introduce a random action or series of actions, a simple way to add an element of "creativity" that often allows it to overcome or "solve" unexpected situations.

Again, such mobile sensor systems will first be used for covert surveillance and reconnaissance, but the need to travel unnoticed into hostile environments is not unique to the military. Since MUMS robots do not require airdrop, they can also help out law enforcement that needs to covertly position sensors to collect intelligence during standoff situations.

The next generation will feature combined wearable computers and mobile robots. For military use, the robot becomes part of a reconnaissance team, able to respond to verbal orders with local initiative and intelligence. The robot moves in advance of its human team members, keeping them in a safe position while sending back video images and gathered intelligence.

A soldier will direct and monitor the robot's progress through a wearable intuitive interface, at a distance of about a kilometer. The system will use natural voice recognition, a head-mounted display and head tracking, so the robot will know that the command is, "Go in the direction I'm looking." The soldier will use a head-mounted display with computer generated graphic overlays. At first they will look like deadly toy trucks on treads, with camera snouts pointing front, side and rear, a machine gun that can be slaved to the cameras, and able to hear and smell. Weighing around 100 pounds, they will cruise at about walking speed and keep it up for four hours on lithium-ion batteries.

The soldier will be able to hear what the robot does, and maneuver it with a hand-held joystick, so combat will ape home computer games. This is no accident. A generation has trained using these entertainments, which in turn have been shaped by market forces to be the easiest and most responsive to use.

Beyond that era, robo-fighters will need less supervision. They will increasingly react, see and think like people, while going places we could not.

Underwater Rovers

This class of autonomous robots seeks to equal the efficiency, acceleration, and maneuvrability of fish. Biologically inspired, they use flexible, wiggling, actuated hulls able to produce the large accelerations needed for fishlike bursts of speed and sudden swerves. They mechanically approximate a fish's fluid swimming motion and navigate environments previously considered inaccessible.

The prototype, named Dart, developed by iRobotics Corp. in cooperation with MIT's Department of Ocean Engineering, is roughly three feet long. It consists of a series of lined actuators, a spring-wound exoskeleton, flexible lycra skin, and a rigid caudal fin. Modeled after a pike, its flow-foil mechanism "flaps" to create vortices that produce jets to propel it efficiently.

A microprocessor housed inside the head provides the interface between control electronics and the Dart's body. The software, designed to allow rapid development of embedded routines, lets the driver dictate all swimming, starting, and turning parameters from an off-board computer via a graphical interface.

These swimmers can covertly gather intelligence close to shore. Their fishlike locomotion will reduce power requirements, make detection more difficult, and facilitate escape. On radar and sonar they will look very much like ordinary fish, particularly after "stealth" surfaces appear to outsmart reflected acoustic and electromagnetic waves.

For commercial and research use, where negotiation of hostile environments is essential, they can navigate intricate structures. For harbor cleaning this will help find hazardous materials. In mining, swimming prospectors will prowl far larger areas than human crews in submarines can. Exploring the deep ocean will be open to tough, independent robo-swimmers which can monitor for long times the countless valleys, caverns and geothermal vents we have only begun to fathom.

Fetchers—Counter Mine Intelligence

These offer a new approach to a global plague—the mines left behind in wars. A team of low-cost, robotic mine hunters can provide rapid and complete coverage of a mine field. A swarm of robots will ultimately be capable of cooperatively clearing a field of land mines under the supervision of a single operator.

Designed for low-cost duplication, because they can make mistakes and trigger the mines, these robots are just a few years from deployment. Already they have successfully detected, retrieved, and safely deposited munitions in the real world, visiting areas replete with unfavorable obstacles, terrain slopes, and poor traction.

There are common problems that will arise whenever robot teams do a job. How can a lightly trained technician operate such a complex system? How can the robots cooperate with one another to perform the task most effectively? IS Robotics' Fetch II robots perform their tasks autonomously but with the supervision of a single operator. Learning, "behavior-based" software keeps track of what the robots are doing and anticipates problems for the human. Without explicit instruction, this software mediates robot-robot interference within the swarm and supports cooperation among them.

Terminator...?

The above military 'bots snoop more than they fight. It does not take much imagination to see that modern tanks, outfitted with omnidirectional sensors in many frequencies, assisted by smart software and fast chips, could make their way through a future battleground without humans aboard. Current Pentagon plans are for combat units to have robot complements making up less than ten percent of the "troop" strength.

How good can they become? Much science fiction features fighting machines of the future outwitting human antagonists, and even cyborged people with formidable abilities of their own.

Perhaps this could happen, as munitions become smarter and warfare more mechanized. The Terminator robot of the science fiction films was a marvel of untiring ability, though at present utterly unrealistic. Just imagine what power source could run a Schwarzenegger-sized machine that can fight for even the duration of a two-hour film; lithium-ion batteries won't do it.

Experts like Robert Finkelstein, president of Robotic Technology, have told the Pentagon that a true robot that moves, thinks and fights like a soldier will not appear on battlefields for another 30 years. Today's best attempt is a boxy prototype on treads, with a Cyclops eye. Its right arm is a gun and its left is an all-purpose tool that can open doors, lift blocks and cut holes. Told to fire, it locates, identifies and then quickly shoots a Pepsi can ten meters away.

Of course, it will be quite a while before a shooter robot gets an order to find, identify and kill a human enemy all on its own. For now, we get good performance by specializing machines. We have scouts that can prowl buildings, caves and tunnels. Others drone overhead, staying patiently aloft for tens of hours. Big haulers carry tons of weapons and gear, while others scout and report back. Others will endlessly follow their rounds on security watch, often in the dark since they can see by infrared. More savvy types will sneak behind enemy lines, eavesdrop, even conduct psychological war—making the enemy always look over his shoulder at every odd sound or movement wears him down.

But the need for an all-purpose machine will persist. Robot intelligence is increasing, as chips shrink and software gets smarter. Perception is the fulcrum of improvement. With a bit more progress, quarter-ton trucks will have robot drivers in combat zones. With digital road maps and Global Positioning satellites, robot convoys are only a decade away.

Today's robots work at the level of perception of not terribly bright mammals. In a generation, robots will work at the level of primates. At that level, it will be possible to let machines fight on their own. Monkey see, monkey shoot.

Still, many conflicts are messy matters of mud and blood. Machines cannot easily fight in trenches, snow, jungles or in house-to-house, hand-to-hand guerrilla conflicts. Robots will not fare well there, amid grit, smoke and rust.

So pressure will make them better—more rugged, savvy, perceptive. Doctrine always lags technology—the longbow, cannon, tank, plane and nuclear weapon all outran the strategies first used to employ them. So it will be with machines. Asimov's Three Laws will not apply to a combat robot, so they will need no tricky moral calculus. But they will need to tell friend from enemy, a surrendering foe from a fighting one, and enemies lying doggo. Our doctrines will change, too: will few casualties on one side make war with technologically inferior societies more tempting?

And what of the robots? If the machines are smart enough to outwit humans amid difficult terrain, they might very well have to be smart enough to question why they are doing it—a point seldom noted by film makers, who assume all advanced machines will still be absolutely obedient and have no desires other than perhaps malformed human motivations.

A common movie idea, which applies so broadly it includes many tales of alien contact, is The Menace Theme:

An intelligence we do not understand goes crazy (by our definitions, but maybe not its own). So it does evil things outside our moral code—mostly destruction of people and cities.

Robots are just one category of menace. Why do we like this idea so much that it has spawned hundreds of films?

Perhaps it's because we derive some unacknowledged gratification from watching the destruction. Many love Godzilla, even though it has a grudge against Tokyo. We watch Battlebots not out of love of robots, but of the smashups. We can wash our hands of any guilt feelings because they are just machines, after all; so are cities. Though they might get smart, they won't be human.

This extends to warfare. Robots can take the risks for us only in stylized, well-defined physical situations. The advanced nations will probably seize upon this in future, trying to make their conflicts resemble the Gulf Wars rather than Vietnam. Their antagonists will do the opposite, trying to pin down vulnerable infantry. The success of the NATO air war against the Serbs in 1998 shows that even messy conflicts can be won with high tech, especially if one attacks the obvious, fixed economic infrastructure rather than only troops in the field.

Robots will make these contrasts ever greater. We will always see men with guns and bombs seeking power, but as the technological gap between societies widens further, such groups will have to resort to terrorism (which itself gets ever more complex and technological) to make their bloody points. Against them will stand robots of ever-greater sophistication, patience, savvy and strength. Under enemy fire they will haul ammo, reconnoiter, search buildings, find the wounded.

They will have many shapes—crawlers like caterpillars or cockroaches, heavy assault craft like tanks or tractors, fliers looking like hummingbirds, or even "smart dust" swarms of robo-insects. Some will resemble animals and insects, to escape notice. Others will intentionally look bizarre, to frighten or intimidate. Few will be able to pass as human, even at a distance and at night, for quite a while.

Their inner minds will be odd, stylized, but steadily improving. We may come to see these metallic sentinels as our unique heroes, the modern centurions. The other side will see them as pure, walking terrors, killing whatever romance might still be left in war.

Or perhaps not. For we do have some historical precedent to instruct us. Medieval warfare in the centuries-long age of knights developed conventions quite unlike those we know in too many modern wars. Knights required a large support team, a hundred or more who carried out the heavy-lifting jobs in the logistics of horse and armor. These were in the army, but were kept outside the bounds of battle, and even if overrun were not killed – though their gear might get stolen. Knights themselves were fair game, but here, too, a thrifty ethics ruled. The were most often not killed but instead cornered or injured, then captured and ransomed for large sums; then they could fight again, for capture was no disgrace.

The prevailing rules were: fight only the fighters.

No one attacked the camps supporting the knights, or executed prisoners, since they could be ransomed or sold as slaves. To kill non-combatants was an atrocity, often punished. So until around 1650, European war was a conflict of big metal war machines that happened to have humans inside.

This suggests a strategy: Remove the humans, use robots in combat wherever possible, and knowingly drive the war culture toward a different moral standard. Use international standards, such as the rather outmoded Geneva Conventions, to create a new view. We could see the eventual evolution of robot warfare back to such a code. Of course, medieval times had plagues and starvation that ran alongside wars, but these messy side effects exist now, too; the four horsemen of apocalypse often ride together, led by War. A semi-medieval code would be in some ways superior to our current style of total war. The second half of the 20th Century saw common terror, atrocity and wholesale destruction, even in "advanced" nations like those in the Bosnian-Serbian conflict, that lasted a decade and slaughtered half a million.

A robot war culture does not have to be worse than our moral standards today. This may seem a radical conclusion, given the pervasive imagery of The Terminator, Robocop, etc. But it is important to believe that our future can be better than the worst case scenario. Indeed, it is essential.

* * *

Gregory Benford is the author of many novels and short stories, and has edited a number of anthologies.

Our Second Animated Cover

Written by David Mattingly

David Mattingly has been a major cover artist at Baen for a long time. He has recently completed cover art animations for Jim Baen's Universe and for Baen's upcoming re-issue of The Mote in God's Eye.

We hope you enjoy our second animated cover, "Cities in Flight

The Editor's Page August 2006

Written by Eric Flint
The Legacy of Jim Baen

My original plans for this issue's "The Editor's Page" got swept aside last month by the death of Jim Baen, the man who launched the magazine and whose name is—and will remain—on the masthead. Jim lived just long enough to see the first issue of the magazine come out on June 1. Less than two weeks later, on June 12th, he suffered a massive stroke from which he never recovered consciousness. He died on June 28th.

That's not much of a consolation, but it's some. This magazine was important to Jim for several reasons, one of which I will spend most of this editorial discussing. He was only sixty-two years old when he died, after a life of many accomplishments, of which Universe was one.

And by no means the smallest, either. For Jim, the magazine was both a return to his own origins—he was the editor of Galaxy back in the mid-seventies, early in his career—and a continuation and expansion of a policy he had made central to Baen Books since the onset of the electronic era. That was his complete and total opposition to so-called Digital Rights Management and all the panoply of laws, regulations and attitudes that surround it. One of the reasons he asked me to be the editor of Jim Baen's Universe is because he knew I shared, in full, his hostility toward DRM. He wanted Universe, among other things, to be a showcase demonstrating that it was perfectly possible for a commercial publisher to be successful without soiling themselves with DRM. ("Soiling" is the genteel way to put it. Jim was far more likely, in private correspondence and conversation, to use a simpler Anglo-Saxon term.)

There are a lot of ways you can examine Jim Baen's life and his career. I spent some time thinking about how I would handle it, in this editorial. In the end, I decided I would concentrate simply on this one aspect of the man's legacy. Partly that was because I couldn't see where anything I could say in a general obituary would add anything to what David Drake already said in his superb one—which we are including in this issue of the magazine. And partly it's because I think talking about Jim's general accomplishments as an editor and publisher would fall in the category of hauling coal to Newcastle. Even leaving aside Dave Drake's obituary, many other people by now have said or written a great deal on the subject. Locus magazine's cover story this month is on Jim's life, with appreciations by people who'd known him for many years and worked with him, such as Tom Doherty, Lois McMaster Bujold, Harry Turtledove, David Weber and others.

So, I decided I would concentrate on just this one aspect of his life.

Jim's hostility to Digital Rights Management, along with the alternative approach to it which he developed as a publisher, will in my opinion eventually be accepted as his single most important legacy. It will take years before we know, but I firmly believe the eventual historical verdict will be that Jim Baen was a central figure in the fight to prevent giant corporations from hijacking humanity's common intellectual heritage in the name of "defending copyright from infringement."

Jim had many other accomplishments to his credit—but this is the one, and the only one, in which he played a unique role. As an editor, he was excellent, true enough. But there are other excellent editors. As a publisher, he carved out his own approach to fantasy and science fiction, which is in many ways quite distinct. But there's a difference between "distinct" and "unique."

There are other excellent F&SF publishers, too, as Jim would be the first to agree. And if none of them had exactly his emphasis, there was always a lot of overlap. Many titles published by Baen Books could easily have been published by another house, and vice versa.

But in his fight against DRM, Jim stood alone as a publisher. No other commercial publisher, so far at least, has done more than slide a toe into the DRM-free waters that Jim cheerfully bathed in for many years—and, in doing so, demonstrated in practice that all the propaganda that its advocates advance to justify the increasingly Draconian nature of DRM is, in addition to everything else, so much hogwash even on the practical level of a publishing house's profits and losses.

Here are the facts. They are simple ones, because Jim Baen made them so:

1) All Baen titles that are produced in electronic format are made available to the public through Baen's Webscription service, cheaply and with no encryption. That policy stands in direct opposition to that of all other commercial publishers, who insist not only on encrypting their e-books but usually making them ridiculously expensive as well.

2) That policy has been maintained now for seven years, uninterrupted, since Webscriptions was launched in September of 1999. Month after month, year after year, Baen has sold e-books through Webscriptions using this simple formula: "We'll sell e-books cheaply and unencrypted."

3) Baen earns more income as a publisher and pays its authors more in the way of royalty payments from Webscriptions than any other outlet for electronic books. Typically, a popular Baen author—I'll use myself as the example—will receive royalties from electronic sales that are well into four figures. Granted, that's still a small percentage of my income as a writer, but that's a given since the electronic market is so small. The fact remains, however, that as a percentage of my income, the royalties from electronic sales of my books are higher—considerably higher—than the overall sales of all e-books represent as a percentage of the entire book market.

4) The difference between the level and amount of these royalties and those paid by other publishers, who are still addicted to DRM, is stark. Actually, "stark" is the polite way of putting it. The more accurate way of stating this reality is that the royalties paid by other publishers in the way of e-book sales are derisively low.

I will give you two examples:

In one royalty period, from a major publisher who was not Baen Books—that was Tor Books, generally considered the most important publisher in the field—David Drake once earned $36,000 in royalties for the paper edition of a popular title, Lord of the Isles. The electronic royalties from that same book, during that same period, came to $28.

That's right. Twenty-eight dollars. Less than one-tenth of one percent of his paper royalties—where a Baen title, typically, will pay electronic royalties that are somewhere in the range of five percent or more, measured against paper royalties.

Five percent is still small, of course. As I said, that simply reflects the small size of the e-book market. But five percent reflects market reality, where one-tenth of one percent reflects nothing more than the absurdity of DRM—even on the practical level of making money for publishers and authors.

The second example, from my own experience, is not quite as extreme. My novel 1812: The Rivers of War was published by Del Rey, another of the major F&SF corporate publishing houses. In the first royalty report, Del Rey reported sales of the hardcover edition at slightly over ten thousand copies with earnings for the author of $27,810.65. The electronic sales for the same edition came to one hundred and twenty copies, with earnings of $545.30.

Translating that into percentage terms, again, that means that the electronic sales were two percent of the paper sales, in terms of money, and one percent in terms of actual sales. That's quite a bit below what Baen would have sold, but it begins to approach the ballpark.

I can't prove it, because I don't have access to the detailed records, but I'm pretty sure the difference between my sales and David's were due to the fact that several years elapsed between the two books coming out, over the course of which time other publishers were influenced by Jim Baen's policies. Del Rey agreed, after I requested it, to make at least one version of the electronic edition of Rivers of War available in an unencrypted format—something which I'm sure they wouldn't have done a few years earlier. The e-book was still grossly overpriced—they charged $17.95 for it, where Baen would have charged between $2.50 and $5.00—but it wasn't encrypted.

Before I move on, I should take the time to make clear that the problem here doesn't usually lie with the editors and managing staff of other publishing houses. All of these people, who have a hands-on relationship to fantasy and science fiction publishing, knew Jim Baen as a colleague and were often friends of his. In the case of Tom Doherty, who runs Tor Books, a very old and close friend. They followed what he was doing carefully. And, far more than the abstract arguments advanced in this debate by such vocal opponents of DRM as myself or Cory Doctorow or Charlie Stross, it was Jim's ability to demonstrate in practice that his alternative worked that made the key difference.

More and more often, the editors and managing staff of other F&SF publishing houses are starting to turn in Jim's direction. Or trying to, at least. The problem they run into, however, is that where Jim ran his own publishing house, the others are usually owned by large corporations—and, as is almost always the case, at the level of top executives of major corporations, DRM is considered Holy Writ.

Still, it's progress—and all of it was made possible by Jim Baen. It was his position as a commercial publisher that made him unique in the anti-DRM movement. That's because while an individual author who rejects DRM might risk as much as Jim, in the way of lost income, they simply can't prove their claim the way he could.

What an individual author does, however valuable, is one thing. What the head of a major publishing house does, is something else entirely. Today, measured in terms of titles produced every month, Baen Books is the second most important paper publisher in science fiction, after Tor Books. (A reality that is recently being reflected in Locus polls, I notice, whose readers are now listing Baen as their second most popular publisher.) And it is, easily, the pre-eminent F&SF publisher in the electronic market.

Having that publisher on your side of a debate as important to the public and far-ranging in its implications as the fight over DRM makes a huge difference. In fact, it makes a qualitative difference. Individual authors can be dismissed; lawyers can be dismissed; political pundits and theorists can be dismissed; anyone can be dismissed—except another publisher. Jim Baen was in a position to prove what others like myself could only argue; or, at best, demonstrate by such things as making many of my titles available for free in electronic format.

I've done that for years now, as have a number of Baen authors like David Drake, David Weber, John Ringo and others. Some other authors, who don't publish through Baen, have done much the same. Two examples are Cory Doctorow and Charlie Stross; there are others.

About two-thirds of all my titles are available for free to the public in the Baen Free Library, which we opened in December 2000, not much more than a year after the start of Webscriptions. True enough, I can use that fact to demonstrate that a consistent anti-DRM policy followed by an individual author does not cause the sky to fall. To give perhaps the clearest example, my most popular title is 1632. It has been available for free in electronic format to the public for five years now—and the book has never suffered any decline in sales during that time period. Year after year, despite being available for free as an e-book, the paper edition sells about fifteen thousand copies. That figure fluctuates a bit from one year to the next, of course, but there is no overall downward trend at all. The standard rule of thumb in the industry is that 80% of a book's sales happen in the first three months after publication. But in the case of 1632, sixty percent of the book's sales have come since the first year it came out—during which period the book was always available to the public for free in electronic format.

Impressive, yes. But, in the end, it's really just a stunt. That's about all an individual author can do. Putting my most popular title up for free to the public was my literary equivalent of Evel Knevel jumping over twenty cars on a motorcycle. I did it to demonstrate, as graphically and daringly as possible, that people who worry about the so-called "threat of online piracy" are being spooked by shadows.

Stunts have the great value of drawing a lot of public attention, but the problem is that most people figure they're just that—stunts.

Who knows? The fact that it worked for one author doesn't mean it would work for others, much less all authors. Just as the fact that people will marvel at Evel Knevel's ability to jump over twenty cars on a motorcycle doesn't make them in the least bit inclined to follow his lead. Many of them also know, after all, that in the course of his dare-devil career Evel Knevel broke just about every bone in his body.

But what Jim did wasn't a stunt. All the arguments that people can and do marshal against me, such as:

— you're just lucky;

—you would have been popular anyway, regardless of the free e-books; in fact, they may have cut into your sales and you prospered despite them;

—yadda yadda yadda . . .

Simply can't be made against Jim Baen, because what Jim did wasn't a series of stunts, it was a major publishing house's policy.

In the end, the Free Library is an excellent demonstration of some truths, but it doesn't prove anything. What does prove something is the much more mundane, even—by now—humdrum, regular sales of all its e-books through Webscriptions done by Baen Books.

Year after year, month after month, Baen Books keeps proving that DRM is, in addition to everything else, a liability for a commercial publisher. All the arguments that can be advanced against me—or David Drake, or Cory Doctorow, or Charlie Stross—simply can't be advanced again Baen. That's because it all evens out in the wash, when you're dealing with a major publisher's policy.

If someone insists that I probably would have done well anyway, I can point out that all of Baen's authors do better in electronic sales through Baen's Webscriptions than anyone else.

What? Are we all "lucky"?

If someone insists that Cory Doctorow's policies with regard to DRM prove nothing because Cory doesn't make most of his income as an author, I can simply point out that all of Baen's authors do better in the electronic market than other authors do. And not one of them has an equivalent to Cory's very popular Boing Boing web site, and many of them—including me—do in fact depend on writing for their entire income.

For years, I've danced about and done my best to draw public attention to the issue, like a virtual Gene Kelly. Nor was that work unimportant, because it did in fact get a lot of publicity. Business Week's online magazine ran an article on me, and I was once invited to attend—all expenses paid—an international conference in London on the subject of electronic publishing.

But I could only do it—and it only made a big difference—because I had Jim Baen at my side. I could dance, but he could hammer. And hammer, and hammer, and hammer, and hammer, like a blacksmith at his trade.

Which, in the end, is what he was. And when the day finally comes, as I believe it will, that the American public decisively repudiates DRM and demands that giant corporations cease and desist from their efforts to lock up society's intellectual heritage for their own private gain, the world will look back and recognize Jim Baen as the man who, more than any other, forged that outcome. Not by words, but by deeds.

* * *

One last thing. In a jocular manner, in the course of an email exchange we were having on the subject of DRM, Jim once called me "Baen's bulldog." The reference, to those familiar with the history of evolution, is to Darwin's most forceful and popular advocate, Thomas Henry Huxley.

Jim was joking . . . mostly. And I responded in kind, at the time. But there was an underlying seriousness to the statement, and we both knew it. Leave aside the humor, and it was true.

And still is. Jim Baen is gone. The bulldog remains—and I intend to continue using this magazine the way Jim wanted me to. Among other things, as a bully pulpit for explaining to the public that DRM is a serious and deep threat to the liberties of the American population and that of the world as a whole. And that a clear and practical alternative exists, created and maintained by Jim Baen, that guts all the claims made by DRM advocates that their anti-democratic policies are essential for the preservation of copyright and the livelihood of authors, artists, and other intellectual creators.

The reason I will be able to do that illustrates another part of Jim's legacy. The difference between what an author like myself can advocate and demonstrate, and what a publisher can do, is that the latter leaves behind an institutional framework where the former does not.

There will be no change in Baen Books' policy, now that Jim is dead.

First, because there is no reason to change the policy. It works, and it works well.

Secondly, because—like all successful policies—Jim's has left behind a coherent and organized vested interest, in the form of a staff that is accustomed and comfortable with his policies, and, just as important, a large fan base that is also comfortable and accustomed to it.

People usually use the term "vested interest" as a pejorative, but that's just silly. It all depend on whether the interest being vested is a good one or not. Democracy, after all, is also a "vested interest"—and it becomes more difficult to undermine or destroy, the more thoroughly rooted it becomes.

So it is with Jim's anti-DRM policies. By now, even if the incoming management wanted to change those policies—which it has no intention of doing, I can assure you—they would find it so damaging to Baen's financial interests that they would shy away from even thinking about it. The uproar from the very large fan base that Baen Books has created for Jim's policies with regard to electronic publication—which, I will point out, is so far the one and only clearly defined "vested interest" that can be matched against the vested interests of music recording and movie industry executives and their powerful lobbies—would be enormous.

That, too, is Jim's legacy. Thousands of regular readers—and buyers—of electronic books whom he created as a vested interest in the right way to handle the challenges of the electronic era for the publishing industry.

* * *

I asked Jim to read and approve all of the editorials I wrote in my Salvoes Against Big Brother column. I did that because, although I am listed as the author of those essays, I considered Jim to be the co-author of them in all but name.

He was able to read and approve the first three of those essays. With regard to the first, he sent me the following email:

Hi. I've read both. The DRM one has my enthusiastic approval, and you certainly did not say anything I don't agree with.

He gave me his verbal agreement to the second and third essays, one of which appears in this issue and the other will appear in the next. That was in the course of a telephone conversation that may have been the last one I ever had with him. If not, certainly one of the last.

He won't be able to read the ones that will come after. I don't believe in an afterlife, and neither did Jim. But if we're both proven wrong, whatever other problems I may face in that life-after-death, I'm not at all worried that Jim's shade won't be pleased by the rest of what I have to say.

Copyright: What Are The Proper Terms For The Debate?

Written by Eric Flint
Copyright: What Are the Proper Terms for the Debate?

I want to continue my discussion of copyright, which I began in last issue's column, before turning my attention to the issue of so-called "Digital Rights Management" itself. The reason I want to do so is because what lies at the heart of DRM is one set of answers to a few simple questions:

1) What sort of protection do authors require, to make sure that they can and will keep engaging in their labor?

2) Why do they need a particular sort of protection, as opposed to another?

3) For how long do they need it?

I'll address the first two of these questions in this column, and the third one in the next.

Let's start with the first one, whose answer is obvious. If you don't figure out a way to pay people to do labor such as writing fiction, one of two things will happen:

a) Some potential writers won't do it at all.

b) Most will, simply because they feel a personal urge to do so. But, because they can't make a living as authors, they will—certainly on average—never get all that good at it.

The second point, by the way, is much more important than the first. The number of people who set out to become writers for the purpose of making money is miniscule, and always has been. To be blunt, only a moron would take up being an author as a way to make a living, much less a good living. As careers go, for all but a tiny percentage, it is either impossible altogether except as a part-time occupation, or pays dismally and erratically even if you can manage to do it full-time.

I know a lot of authors, and I'm an author myself. I do not know a single one who set out to be an author because they thought it was a smart way to make money. Even some money, not to mention enough to live on. As far as that goes, setting out to be a professional author is one of worst careers you could choose.

Instead, they set out to write because they wanted to write, period. Getting paid was more important to them as a mark of success in terms of reaching an audience, than for the money itself—at least initially.

This fact has led some people to the conclusion that paying authors is unnecessary at all. This silly notion is particularly cherished by the "information wanna be fwee" crowd of pseudo-libertarians. "Good writing," they argue, "is driven from the heart." Grubby stuff like paying authors money simply prostitutes the noble art itself. (This is invariably their justification for engaging in willful and flagrant violations of copyright.)

Leaving aside issues of simple fairness, the notion is silly for what ought to be the most obvious reason of all. Whatever else it may be—call it "sublime literature" or anything downwind of that—writing is first of all a craft. A particularly difficult craft to learn, at that, as anyone who sets out to write learns very quickly.

Writing is like acting. Every literate person can write, just as any person—literate or not—can act. It does not thereby follow that they can do it well. That's a different kettle of fish entirely. Almost everybody has a cousin or whatever who can provide fairly good family entertainment at barbeques with their jokes or voice impersonations or antics. That doesn't mean they could make a living as a stand-up comic.

Doing something well requires two things. First, it requires an aptitude—or talent, if you prefer—for a particular sort of work or activity. Secondly, it requires practice.

This fact, so obvious to everyone with regard to almost anything else, often gets ignored when it comes to writing. It's amazing to me how many people have the screwiest ideas about writing. They seem to think that a person just sits down one day and, effortlessly, starts churning out good prose.

Well . . . yes, there have been a few individuals here and there who seem to have managed that feat. But "few" is the right word. The most common pattern, by far, is that it takes a person long hours—years, more often than not—before they learn how to write well enough that many other people want to read what they've written.

There's an old saw in science fiction—I've forgotten who first came up with it—that says you have to write a million words of crap before you write anything worth reading. That's a bit of an exaggeration, in my opinion. At least for me. I've gone back through my personal history and added it all up, and I can now strut around and say very proudly that I managed to start writing pretty good stuff after writing only (by my best count) about 400,000 words of crap.

But whether it's a quarter million or half a million or a million words of crap, there are almost no writers who've managed to start writing well without a lot of practice, false starts, and a learning experience. Nor does that end once they start getting published. Almost all writers continue to improve with practice, for a period of many years after they start getting published.

In short, in writing as in every other field of human endeavor, professionals are—on average, understanding that there are always some exceptions—better than amateurs.

Period.

Yes, yes, yes, there are always some exceptions. In any field of work, there are a few amateurs who are better than most professionals. To give one example, every year there are a few graduating amateur college athletes whom everyone knows are already better in their sport than most professionals—which is precisely why they get offered big contracts to "turn pro." But even then, every such extremely gifted amateur has to go through a sharp and steep learning curve before they really perform as a top professional athlete. And many never manage to make the transition at all.

And they're only individual exceptions to the rule, anyway, they're not the rule itself.

The rule is simple:

Put the best college football team on the field against any professional football team, and the pros will win at least nine times out of ten.

The same goes for writers.

If you don't believe me, when it comes to writing, take a look—your choice—at either the list of Nobel Prize winners for literature or any bestseller list. You will quickly discover that well over 90% of the authors on any such list are professional writers, not amateurs. And, if they do have a "principal" occupation other than being an author, it's usually one that is either closely connected to writing or, one way or another, allows them a great deal of time to work as a writer.

In his speeches on copyright—from which I will be quoting throughout these essays—Macaulay put it this way:

You cannot depend for literary instruction and amusement on the leisure of men occupied in the pursuits of active life. Such men may occasionally produce compositions of great merit. But you must not look to such men for works which require deep meditation and long research. Works of that kind you can expect only from persons who make literature the business of their lives. Of these persons few will be found among the rich and the noble. The rich and the noble are not impelled to intellectual exertion by necessity. They may be impelled to intellectual exertion by the desire of distinguishing themselves, or by the desire of benefiting the community. But it is generally within these walls that they seek to signalise themselves and to serve their fellow-creatures. Both their ambition and their public spirit, in a country like this, naturally take a political turn. It is then on men whose profession is literature, and whose private means are not ample, that you must rely for a supply of valuable books. Such men must be remunerated for their literary labour. And there are only two ways in which they can be remunerated. One of those ways is patronage; the other is copyright.

From there, Macaulay goes on to discuss the advantages of copyright over patronage. I will deal with that issue in a moment. But, for now, let me stick to the point at hand.

Which is simple: The fundamental purpose of copyright is not to pay authors. It is to make sure that society gets as many good books written as possible. Or, to put it another way, paying authors is a means to an end, not the end itself.

Immediately, some authors will raise an objection. "I work like anyone else, dammit. So I should get paid!"

Well, of course. But why should you get paid by copyright? Any form of labor should be renumerated, to be sure, or you have slavery. But work-for-hire (as the practice is called in publishing) takes care of that obligation just fine.

For those of you who are not writers and are wondering what "work-for-hire" means, it means exactly what most of you do for a living. You go to work every day, for which you get paid (as a rule) a sum of money determined by the length of time you work, adjusted for whatever level of skill you bring to the labor.

Why should writers get paid any differently? Why, to put it another way, should a writer be entitled to a share of the money earned by his or her product, when a waitress or a truck driver or an accountant or a steel worker is not?

When I was a machinist, I was paid by the hour. Let us say, for example, that I made a shaft to be used in a machine making parts for automobiles. I got paid for the work I did. But I did not get "royalties" which constituted a share of the sales eventually earned by the auto manufacturer because they used my shaft (among a multitude of other parts) to make their product.

So why should writers get royalties?

Well, there's an answer, but it's a bit complicated. First of all, it's because intellectual labor that can be easily reproduced poses a particular set of problems for remunerating the creator. Writers cannot, as painters and sculptors typically do, sell their actual product. A sculptor will spend weeks or months on a particular piece of art, and then sell that individual work to an individual customer. Once the sale is made, the piece of art is owned by the customer, not the sculptor—and, sure enough, sculptors do not get royalties.

But an artist can do that because the concrete, material object he or she produced has a value of its own. A piece of text, such as a novel manuscript, has no such value. (I leave aside the small collectors' market, which couldn't possibly support most writers—and wouldn't exist anyway, if books weren't published.)

The value of text is in the ability to reproduce it many times over for a large audience. But that same ability to be easily reproduced creates the problem. In a nutshell, if a "legitimate" publisher can reproduce the text, so can (theoretically, at least) anyone else.

Which, in fact, was exactly the situation in the English-speaking world prior to the institution of copyright. (I'm using the history of the English-speaking world with regard to copyright because I'm most familiar with it. But you could find a similar historical pattern anywhere.) Plays produced by Shakespeare or Ben Jonson could be produced by anyone who wanted to. The authors got their money—which was damn little—by selling the manuscript to a producer and then letting the producers fight it out over which one could put on the most popular performance.

That worked . . . badly, but well enough, so long as most literature took the form of plays and there was not yet a very well-developed publishing and distribution industry. The cost of putting on a play was and is very high, and the cost of obtaining the manuscript was a small part of it. That entry-level cost eliminated most potential chiselers.

As for poetry and other forms of literature, they were either produced by the author at his or her own expense, or paid for by a patron.

The first real copyright law in the English-speaking world was the so-called Statute of Anne, adopted by the British Parliament in 1709. That statute—which didn't actually take effect until 1710—vested authors with a legal monopoly of the work for a period of 14 years after it was copyrighted.

Why were authors given the monopoly instead of publishers? The reason is simple: somebody has to have the copyright, or society has no option except to rely on patronage. The problem with using work-for-hire as the basis for paying authors is that it won't work unless publishers have the ability to establish copyright—or you simply push the problem back a step. And, that being so, the British parliament (very correctly, in my opinion) decided that it was fairest to give the monopoly to the ultimate producer rather than to a middleman.

What's necessary to understand, however, is that at every step of the way the basic consideration was society's interest. In the absence of any over-riding social imperatives, authors and publishers have no more "right" to a legal monopoly than anyone else does. To put it another way, copyright does not exist simply to enable authors to make a living—which could and can be done several other ways—but to make a living in a way which is most beneficial to the society as a whole.

You can't ever lose sight of that framework.

The value of copyright, as Macaulay put it very well, is that while it is an evil, it is less evil than any of the alternatives. The only real alternative is patronage—public or private—and those have well-known drawbacks. Almost any form of patronage runs at least the risk that whoever the patron is—public or private—it will be the patron who determines what does and does not get produced. The advantage to copyright is that, at least potentially, it gives the author the ability to find his or her own market for the work.

Mind you, patronage continues to exist in publishing, and always has—a lot of it, in fact. To give some examples:

All publications by the government are paid for by the patronage (ultimately) of the taxpayer. That's why, with the exception of some material, usually classified for security reasons—whether properly or improperly, but that's a separate political issue I won't deal with here—everything published by the U.S. government printing office is automatically in the public domain.

A great deal of scholarly publications are paid for by patronage—or, at least, most of the cost is borne by patrons. To give a common example, university researchers who publish a book typically retain copyright and earn some money from the book. But, with a very few exceptions, they couldn't possibly afford to do the needed research and writing on the actual proceeds of the sales of the book. The real cost of the book is borne by the university, which pays them a salary to engage in research and writing.

To give yet another example, a great deal of political writing is paid for by patronage. That's especially true for writing which advance opinions or proposals that are outside the accepted mainstream.

There's nothing wrong with patronage, as such—as long as you don't let it take over the whole show. You need copyright, among other things, as a constant check against patronage getting too restricted.

All right, let me recapitulate. So far, I've addressed the first two of the three questions I posed at the beginning of this essay:

1) What sort of protection do authors require, to make sure that they can and will keep engaging in their labor?

2) Why do they need a particular sort of protection, as opposed to another?

That leaves the third question, which is the critical one for the rest of what I'll be discussing in this essay:

3) For how long do they need it?

I'll discuss the details involved in this question in my next essay. But for now, briefly, there are two answers to this question:

First, authors need to have enough protection to enable them to be able to make a living as full-time writers.

Second, that protection has to be long enough to provide them with a motivation to write for the public, and see doing so as a possible profession.

But that's it. Those are the only two legitimate concerns. Any term of copyright which exceeds that minimum necessary length, as Macaulay put it in the quote I cited in my last column, has no legitimate purpose. Once you cross that line, a necessary evil has simply become an evil—and the farther past that line you go, the more evil it gets.

At the onset of what I will call the "copyright era," which began in 1709 and has now lasted almost three centuries, the term of copyright was set at fourteen years. The newly-formed United States, in 1790, adopted in its first copyright law a modification of that, which allowed for copyright to be extended an additional fourteen years if the author chose to renew it. In 1831, Congress revised the law to allow for an initial copyright term of twenty-eight years, with the possibility of another fourteen years if the author chose to renew—i.e., they made copyright last for a possible total of forty-two years.

For reasons I will argue in my next column, Congress got it . . . pretty close to right at that point. Not quite, because the extension provisions create unnecessary complications and a provision needs to be added that ties copyright to the life of the author, or you get into a different kind of problem. My own position is basically that advanced by Macaulay in his 1841 speeches—a flat 42-year period of copyright (I'd simplify it and make that just forty years), with the provision that so long as the author is alive he or she retains copyright.

But that's for the next column. What I wanted to do in this essay is establish the basic parameters of the problem. That's critical because of the well-known old saw about debates:

Whoever sets the terms of the debate automatically wins the debate.

The reason the parameters are critical is because what has been happening in modern society is that the terms of the debate have been steadily (and stealthily, to call things by their right name) shifted back to the terms which the "perpetual natural right" theorists tried to advance in the middle of the 19th century to undermine copyright law.

One hundred and fifty years ago, men such as Macaulay in Britain and Justice McLean of the U.S Supreme Court, torpedoed that attempt.

I've already introduced you to Macaulay. I'll end this essay by giving Justice McLean his well-deserved credit. Here is a quote from his majority decision in the case of Wheaton vs. Peters, in which Wheaton advanced the argument that authors were entitled to perpetual property rights in their work:

"...since the statute of 8 Anne, the literary property of an author in his works can only be asserted under the statute. . . . That an author, at common law, has a property in his manuscript, and may obtain redress against any one who deprives him of it, or by improperly obtaining a copy endeavours to realise a profit by its publication cannot be doubted; but this is a very different right from that which asserts a perpetual and exclusive property in the future publication of the work, after the author shall have published it to the world."

Always remembers that the terms of a debate are what's critical. Copyright is about the needs of society, not about abstractions concerning "property" as such.

As before, I'll end this essay by urging everyone to read Macaulay's speeches. You can find them in this issue of Universe: a direct link to that article is available.

Look, folks, you may as well just bite the bullet and read the damn things. Because before I'm done, I will have quoted just about every word in them anyway. I told you at the beginning: There is nothing involved in the current disputes over copyright that Macaulay didn't answer a century and a half ago.

If I wanted to be philosophically pretentious, I'd close by citing Santayana's famous saw that those who remain ignorant of history are doomed to repeat it. But having cleverly cited the old saw with that disclaimer, I can put it more simply still:

For Pete's sake, how many times do you insist on re-inventing the wheel?

* * *

McCauley On Copyright

Written by Eric Flint

These are two speeches given by Thomas Macaulay in Parliament in 1841, when the issue of copyright was being hammered out. They are, no other word for it, brilliant—and cover everything fundamental which is involved in the issue. (For those not familiar with him, Macaulay would eventually become one of the foremost British historians of the 19th century. His History of England remains in print to this day, as do many of his other writings.)

I strongly urge people to read them. Yes, they're long—almost 10,000 words—and, yes, Macaulay's oratorical style is that of an earlier era. (Although, I've got to say, I'm partial to it. Macaulay orated before the era of "sound bytes." Thank God.)

But contained herein is all wisdom on the subject, an immense learning—and plenty of wit. So relax, pour yourself some coffee (or whatever beverage of your choice) (or whatever, preferably not hallucinogenic), and take the time to read it. The "oh-so-modern" subject of "electronic piracy" contains no problems which Macaulay didn't already address, at least in essence, more than a century and a half ago.

I should note that Macaulay's position, slightly modified, did become the basis of copyright law in the English speaking world. And remained so (at least in the US) for a century and a half—until, on a day of infamy just a few years ago, the Walt Disney Corporation and their stooges in Congress got the law changed to the modern law, which extends copyright for a truly absurd period of time. Which—those who forget history are doomed to repeat it—is a return to the position advocated by Macaulay's (now long forgotten) opponent in the debate.

Eric Flint

A SPEECH DELIVERED IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS ON THE 5TH OF FEBRUARY 1841

by Thomas Babington Macaulay

On the twenty-ninth of January 1841, Mr Serjeant Talfourd obtained leave to bring in a bill to amend the law of copyright. The object of this bill was to extend the term of copyright in a book to sixty years, reckoned from the death of the writer.

On the fifth of February Mr Serjeant Talfourd moved that the bill should be read a second time. In reply to him the following Speech was made. The bill was rejected by 45 votes to 38.

Though, Sir, it is in some sense agreeable to approach a subject with which political animosities have nothing to do, I offer myself to your notice with some reluctance. It is painful to me to take a course which may possibly be misunderstood or misrepresented as unfriendly to the interests of literature and literary men. It is painful to me, I will add, to oppose my honourable and learned friend on a question which he has taken up from the purest motives, and which he regards with a parental interest. These feelings have hitherto kept me silent when the law of copyright has been under discussion. But as I am, on full consideration, satisfied that the measure before us will, if adopted, inflict grievous injury on the public, without conferring any compensating advantage on men of letters, I think it my duty to avow that opinion and to defend it.

The first thing to be done, Sir, is to settle on what principles the question is to be argued. Are we free to legislate for the public good, or are we not? Is this a question of expediency, or is it a question of right? Many of those who have written and petitioned against the existing state of things treat the question as one of right. The law of nature, according to them, gives to every man a sacred and indefeasible property in his own ideas, in the fruits of his own reason and imagination. The legislature has indeed the power to take away this property, just as it has the power to pass an act of attainder for cutting off an innocent man's head without a trial. But, as such an act of attainder would be legal murder, so would an act invading the right of an author to his copy be, according to these gentlemen, legal robbery.

Now, Sir, if this be so, let justice be done, cost what it may. I am not prepared, like my honourable and learned friend, to agree to a compromise between right and expediency, and to commit an injustice for the public convenience. But I must say, that his theory soars far beyond the reach of my faculties. It is not necessary to go, on the present occasion, into a metaphysical inquiry about the origin of the right of property; and certainly nothing but the strongest necessity would lead me to discuss a subject so likely to be distasteful to the House. I agree, I own, with Paley in thinking that property is the creature of the law, and that the law which creates property can be defended only on this ground, that it is a law beneficial to mankind. But it is unnecessary to debate that point. For, even if I believed in a natural right of property, independent of utility and anterior to legislation, I should still deny that this right could survive the original proprietor. Few, I apprehend, even of those who have studied in the most mystical and sentimental schools of moral philosophy, will be disposed to maintain that there is a natural law of succession older and of higher authority than any human code. If there be, it is quite certain that we have abuses to reform much more serious than any connected with the question of copyright. For this natural law can be only one; and the modes of succession in the Queen's dominions are twenty. To go no further than England, land generally descends to the eldest son. In Kent the sons share and share alike. In many districts the youngest takes the whole. Formerly a portion of a man's personal property was secured to his family; and it was only of the residue that he could dispose by will. Now he can dispose of the whole by will: but you limited his power, a few years ago, by enacting that the will should not be valid unless there were two witnesses. If a man dies intestate, his personal property generally goes according to the statute of distributions; but there are local customs which modify that statute. Now which of all these systems is conformed to the eternal standard of right? Is it primogeniture, or gavelkind, or borough English? Are wills jure divino? Are the two witnesses jure divino? Might not the pars rationabilis of our old law have a fair claim to be regarded as of celestial institution? Was the statute of distributions enacted in Heaven long before it was adopted by Parliament? Or is it to Custom of York, or to Custom of London, that this pre- eminence belongs? Surely, Sir, even those who hold that there is a natural right of property must admit that rules prescribing the manner in which the effects of deceased persons shall be distributed are purely arbitrary, and originate altogether in the will of the legislature. If so, Sir, there is no controversy between my honourable and learned friend and myself as to the principles on which this question is to be argued. For the existing law gives an author copyright during his natural life; nor do I propose to invade that privilege, which I should, on the contrary, be prepared to defend strenuously against any assailant. The only point in issue between us is, how long after an author's death the State shall recognise a copyright in his representatives and assigns; and it can, I think, hardly be disputed by any rational man that this is a point which the legislature is free to determine in the way which may appear to be most conducive to the general good.

We may now, therefore, I think, descend from these high regions, where we are in danger of being lost in the clouds, to firm ground and clear light. Let us look at this question like legislators, and after fairly balancing conveniences and inconveniences, pronounce between the existing law of copyright, and the law now proposed to us. The question of copyright, Sir, like most questions of civil prudence, is neither black nor white, but grey. The system of copyright has great advantages and great disadvantages; and it is our business to ascertain what these are, and then to make an arrangement under which the advantages may be as far as possible secured, and the disadvantages as far as possible excluded. The charge which I bring against my honourable and learned friend's bill is this, that it leaves the advantages nearly what they are at present, and increases the disadvantages at least fourfold.

The advantages arising from a system of copyright are obvious. It is desirable that we should have a supply of good books; we cannot have such a supply unless men of letters are liberally remunerated; and the least objectionable way of remunerating them is by means of copyright. You cannot depend for literary instruction and amusement on the leisure of men occupied in the pursuits of active life. Such men may occasionally produce compositions of great merit. But you must not look to such men for works which require deep meditation and long research. Works of that kind you can expect only from persons who make literature the business of their lives. Of these persons few will be found among the rich and the noble. The rich and the noble are not impelled to intellectual exertion by necessity. They may be impelled to intellectual exertion by the desire of distinguishing themselves, or by the desire of benefiting the community. But it is generally within these walls that they seek to signalise themselves and to serve their fellow-creatures. Both their ambition and their public spirit, in a country like this, naturally take a political turn. It is then on men whose profession is literature, and whose private means are not ample, that you must rely for a supply of valuable books. Such men must be remunerated for their literary labour. And there are only two ways in which they can be remunerated. One of those ways is patronage; the other is copyright.

There have been times in which men of letters looked, not to the public, but to the government, or to a few great men, for the reward of their exertions. It was thus in the time of Maecenas and Pollio at Rome, of the Medici at Florence, of Louis the Fourteenth in France, of Lord Halifax and Lord Oxford in this country. Now, Sir, I well know that there are cases in which it is fit and graceful, nay, in which it is a sacred duty to reward the merits or to relieve the distresses of men of genius by the exercise of this species of liberality. But these cases are exceptions. I can conceive no system more fatal to the integrity and independence of literary men than one under which they should be taught to look for their daily bread to the favour of ministers and nobles. I can conceive no system more certain to turn those minds which are formed by nature to be the blessings and ornaments of our species into public scandals and pests.

We have, then, only one resource left. We must betake ourselves to copyright, be the inconveniences of copyright what they may. Those inconveniences, in truth, are neither few nor small. Copyright is monopoly, and produces all the effects which the general voice of mankind attributes to monopoly. My honourable and learned friend talks very contemptuously of those who are led away by the theory that monopoly makes things dear. That monopoly makes things dear is certainly a theory, as all the great truths which have been established by the experience of all ages and nations, and which are taken for granted in all reasonings, may be said to be theories. It is a theory in the same sense in which it is a theory that day and night follow each other, that lead is heavier than water, that bread nourishes, that arsenic poisons, that alcohol intoxicates. If, as my honourable and learned friend seems to think, the whole world is in the wrong on this point, if the real effect of monopoly is to make articles good and cheap, why does he stop short in his career of change? Why does he limit the operation of so salutary a principle to sixty years? Why does he consent to anything short of a perpetuity? He told us that in consenting to anything short of a perpetuity he was making a compromise between extreme right and expediency. But if his opinion about monopoly be correct, extreme right and expediency would coincide. Or rather, why should we not restore the monopoly of the East India trade to the East India Company? Why should we not revive all those old monopolies which, in Elizabeth's reign, galled our fathers so severely that, maddened by intolerable wrong, they opposed to their sovereign a resistance before which her haughty spirit quailed for the first and for the last time? Was it the cheapness and excellence of commodities that then so violently stirred the indignation of the English people? I believe, Sir, that I may with safety take it for granted that the effect of monopoly generally is to make articles scarce, to make them dear, and to make them bad. And I may with equal safety challenge my honourable friend to find out any distinction between copyright and other privileges of the same kind; any reason why a monopoly of books should produce an effect directly the reverse of that which was produced by the East India Company's monopoly of tea, or by Lord Essex's monopoly of sweet wines. Thus, then, stands the case. It is good that authors should be remunerated; and the least exceptionable way of remunerating them is by a monopoly. Yet monopoly is an evil. For the sake of the good we must submit to the evil; but the evil ought not to last a day longer than is necessary for the purpose of securing the good.

Now, I will not affirm that the existing law is perfect, that it exactly hits the point at which the monopoly ought to cease; but this I confidently say, that the existing law is very much nearer that point than the law proposed by my honourable and learned friend. For consider this; the evil effects of the monopoly are proportioned to the length of its duration. But the good effects for the sake of which we bear with the evil effects are by no means proportioned to the length of its duration. A monopoly of sixty years produces twice as much evil as a monopoly of thirty years, and thrice as much evil as a monopoly of twenty years. But it is by no means the fact that a posthumous monopoly of sixty years gives to an author thrice as much pleasure and thrice as strong a motive as a posthumous monopoly of twenty years. On the contrary, the difference is so small as to be hardly perceptible. We all know how faintly we are affected by the prospect of very distant advantages, even when they are advantages which we may reasonably hope that we shall ourselves enjoy. But an advantage that is to be enjoyed more than half a century after we are dead, by somebody, we know not by whom, perhaps by somebody unborn, by somebody utterly unconnected with us, is really no motive at all to action. It is very probable that in the course of some generations land in the unexplored and unmapped heart of the Australasian continent will be very valuable. But there is none of us who would lay down five pounds for a whole province in the heart of the Australasian continent. We know, that neither we, nor anybody for whom we care, will ever receive a farthing of rent from such a province. And a man is very little moved by the thought that in the year 2000 or 2100, somebody who claims through him will employ more shepherds than Prince Esterhazy, and will have the finest house and gallery of pictures at Victoria or Sydney. Now, this is the sort of boon which my honourable and learned friend holds out to authors. Considered as a boon to them, it is a mere nullity, but considered as an impost on the public, it is no nullity, but a very serious and pernicious reality. I will take an example. Dr Johnson died fifty-six years ago. If the law were what my honourable and learned friend wishes to make it, somebody would now have the monopoly of Dr Johnson's works. Who that somebody would be it is impossible to say; but we may venture to guess. I guess, then, that it would have been some bookseller, who was the assign of another bookseller, who was the grandson of a third bookseller, who had bought the copyright from Black Frank, the doctor's servant and residuary legatee, in 1785 or 1786. Now, would the knowledge that this copyright would exist in 1841 have been a source of gratification to Johnson? Would it have stimulated his exertions? Would it have once drawn him out of his bed before noon? Would it have once cheered him under a fit of the spleen? Would it have induced him to give us one more allegory, one more life of a poet, one more imitation of Juvenal? I firmly believe not. I firmly believe that a hundred years ago, when he was writing our debates for the Gentleman's Magazine, he would very much rather have had twopence to buy a plate of shin of beef at a cook's shop underground. Considered as a reward to him, the difference between a twenty years' and sixty years' term of posthumous copyright would have been nothing or next to nothing. But is the difference nothing to us? I can buy Rasselas for sixpence; I might have had to give five shillings for it. I can buy the Dictionary, the entire genuine Dictionary, for two guineas, perhaps for less; I might have had to give five or six guineas for it. Do I grudge this to a man like Dr Johnson? Not at all. Show me that the prospect of this boon roused him to any vigorous effort, or sustained his spirits under depressing circumstances, and I am quite willing to pay the price of such an object, heavy as that price is. But what I do complain of is that my circumstances are to be worse, and Johnson's none the better; that I am to give five pounds for what to him was not worth a farthing.

The principle of copyright is this. It is a tax on readers for the purpose of giving a bounty to writers. The tax is an exceedingly bad one; it is a tax on one of the most innocent and most salutary of human pleasures; and never let us forget, that a tax on innocent pleasures is a premium on vicious pleasures. I admit, however, the necessity of giving a bounty to genius and learning. In order to give such a bounty, I willingly submit even to this severe and burdensome tax. Nay, I am ready to increase the tax, if it can be shown that by so doing I should proportionally increase the bounty. My complaint is, that my honourable and learned friend doubles, triples, quadruples, the tax, and makes scarcely any perceptible addition to the bounty. Why, Sir, what is the additional amount of taxation which would have been levied on the public for Dr Johnson's works alone, if my honourable and learned friend's bill had been the law of the land? I have not data sufficient to form an opinion. But I am confident that the taxation on his Dictionary alone would have amounted to many thousands of pounds. In reckoning the whole additional sum which the holders of his copyrights would have taken out of the pockets of the public during the last half century at twenty thousand pounds, I feel satisfied that I very greatly underrate it. Now, I again say that I think it but fair that we should pay twenty thousand pounds in consideration of twenty thousand pounds' worth of pleasure and encouragement received by Dr Johnson. But I think it very hard that we should pay twenty thousand pounds for what he would not have valued at five shillings.

My honourable and learned friend dwells on the claims of the posterity of great writers. Undoubtedly, Sir, it would be very pleasing to see a descendant of Shakespeare living in opulence on the fruits of his great ancestor's genius. A house maintained in splendour by such a patrimony would be a more interesting and striking object than Blenheim is to us, or than Strathfieldsaye will be to our children. But, unhappily, it is scarcely possible that, under any system, such a thing can come to pass. My honourable and learned friend does not propose that copyright shall descend to the eldest son, or shall be bound up by irrecoverable entail. It is to be merely personal property. It is therefore highly improbable that it will descend during sixty years or half that term from parent to child. The chance is that more people than one will have an interest in it. They will in all probability sell it and divide the proceeds. The price which a bookseller will give for it will bear no proportion to the sum which he will afterwards draw from the public, if his speculation proves successful. He will give little, if anything, more for a term of sixty years than for a term of thirty or five and twenty. The present value of a distant advantage is always small; but when there is great room to doubt whether a distant advantage will be any advantage at all, the present value sink to almost nothing. Such is the inconstancy of the public taste that no sensible man will venture to pronounce, with confidence, what the sale of any book published in our days will be in the years between 1890 and 1900. The whole fashion of thinking and writing has often undergone a change in a much shorter period than that to which my honourable and learned friend would extend posthumous copyright. What would have been considered the best literary property in the earlier part of Charles the Second's reign? I imagine Cowley's Poems. Overleap sixty years, and you are in the generation of which Pope asked, "Who now reads Cowley?" What works were ever expected with more impatience by the public than those of Lord Bolingbroke, which appeared, I think, in 1754? In 1814, no bookseller would have thanked you for the copyright of them all, if you had offered it to him for nothing. What would Paternoster Row give now for the copyright of Hayley's Triumphs of Temper, so much admired within the memory of many people still living? I say, therefore, that, from the very nature of literary property, it will almost always pass away from an author's family; and I say, that the price given for it to the family will bear a very small proportion to the tax which the purchaser, if his speculation turns out well, will in the course of a long series of years levy on the public.

If, Sir, I wished to find a strong and perfect illustration of the effects which I anticipate from long copyright, I should select,—my honourable and learned friend will be surprised,—I should select the case of Milton's granddaughter. As often as this bill has been under discussion, the fate of Milton's granddaughter has been brought forward by the advocates of monopoly. My honourable and learned friend has repeatedly told the story with great eloquence and effect. He has dilated on the sufferings, on the abject poverty, of this ill-fated woman, the last of an illustrious race. He tells us that, in the extremity of her distress, Garrick gave her a benefit, that Johnson wrote a prologue, and that the public contributed some hundreds of pounds. Was it fit, he asks, that she should receive, in this eleemosynary form, a small portion of what was in truth a debt? Why, he asks, instead of obtaining a pittance from charity, did she not live in comfort and luxury on the proceeds of the sale of her ancestor's works? But, Sir, will my honourable and learned friend tell me that this event, which he has so often and so pathetically described, was caused by the shortness of the term of copyright? Why, at that time, the duration of copyright was longer than even he, at present, proposes to make it. The monopoly lasted, not sixty years, but for ever. At the time at which Milton's granddaughter asked charity, Milton's works were the exclusive property of a bookseller. Within a few months of the day on which the benefit was given at Garrick's theatre, the holder of the copyright of Paradise Lost,—I think it was Tonson,—applied to the Court of Chancery for an injunction against a bookseller who had published a cheap edition of the great epic poem, and obtained the injunction. The representation of Comus was, if I remember rightly, in 1750; the injunction in 1752. Here, then, is a perfect illustration of the effect of long copyright. Milton's works are the property of a single publisher. Everybody who wants them must buy them at Tonson's shop, and at Tonson's price. Whoever attempts to undersell Tonson is harassed with legal proceedings. Thousands who would gladly possess a copy of Paradise Lost, must forego that great enjoyment. And what, in the meantime, is the situation of the only person for whom we can suppose that the author, protected at such a cost to the public, was at all interested? She is reduced to utter destitution. Milton's works are under a monopoly. Milton's granddaughter is starving. The reader is pillaged; but the writer's family is not enriched. Society is taxed doubly. It has to give an exorbitant price for the poems; and it has at the same time to give alms to the only surviving descendant of the poet.

But this is not all. I think it right, Sir, to call the attention of the House to an evil, which is perhaps more to be apprehended when an author's copyright remains in the hands of his family, than when it is transferred to booksellers. I seriously fear that, if such a measure as this should be adopted, many valuable works will be either totally suppressed or grievously mutilated. I can prove that this danger is not chimerical; and I am quite certain that, if the danger be real, the safeguards which my honourable and learned friend has devised are altogether nugatory. That the danger is not chimerical may easily be shown. Most of us, I am sure, have known persons who, very erroneously as I think, but from the best motives, would not choose to reprint Fielding's novels, or Gibbon's History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Some gentlemen may perhaps be of opinion that it would be as well if Tom Jones and Gibbon's History were never reprinted. I will not, then, dwell on these or similar cases. I will take cases respecting which it is not likely that there will be any difference of opinion here; cases, too, in which the danger of which I now speak is not matter of supposition, but matter of fact. Take Richardson's novels. Whatever I may, on the present occasion, think of my honourable and learned friend's judgment as a legislator, I must always respect his judgment as a critic. He will, I am sure, say that Richardson's novels are among the most valuable, among the most original works in our language. No writings have done more to raise the fame of English genius in foreign countries. No writings are more deeply pathetic. No writings, those of Shakspeare excepted, show more profound knowledge of the human heart. As to their moral tendency, I can cite the most respectable testimony. Dr Johnson describes Richardson as one who had taught the passions to move at the command of virtue. My dear and honoured friend, Mr Wilberforce, in his celebrated religious treatise, when speaking of the unchristian tendency of the fashionable novels of the eighteenth century, distinctly excepts Richardson from the censure. Another excellent person, whom I can never mention without respect and kindness, Mrs Hannah More, often declared in conversation, and has declared in one of her published poems, that she first learned from the writings of Richardson those principles of piety by which her life was guided. I may safely say that books celebrated as works of art through the whole civilised world, and praised for their moral tendency by Dr Johnson, by Mr Wilberforce, by Mrs Hannah More, ought not to be suppressed. Sir, it is my firm belief, that if the law had been what my honourable and learned friend proposes to make it, they would have been suppressed. I remember Richardson's grandson well; he was a clergyman in the city of London; he was a most upright and excellent man; but he had conceived a strong prejudice against works of fiction. He thought all novel-reading not only frivolous but sinful. He said,—this I state on the authority of one of his clerical brethren who is now a bishop,—he said that he had never thought it right to read one of his grandfather's books. Suppose, Sir, that the law had been what my honourable and learned friend would make it. Suppose that the copyright of Richardson's novels had descended, as might well have been the case, to this gentleman. I firmly believe, that he would have thought it sinful to give them a wide circulation. I firmly believe, that he would not for a hundred thousand pounds have deliberately done what he thought sinful. He would not have reprinted them. And what protection does my honourable and learned friend give to the public in such a case? Why, Sir, what he proposes is this: if a book is not reprinted during five years, any person who wishes to reprint it may give notice in the London Gazette: the advertisement must be repeated three times: a year must elapse; and then, if the proprietor of the copyright does not put forth a new edition, he loses his exclusive privilege. Now, what protection is this to the public? What is a new edition? Does the law define the number of copies that make an edition? Does it limit the price of a copy? Are twelve copies on large paper, charged at thirty guineas each, an edition? It has been usual, when monopolies have been granted, to prescribe numbers and to limit prices. But I did not find the my honourable and learned friend proposes to do so in the present case. And, without some such provision, the security which he offers is manifestly illusory. It is my conviction that, under such a system as that which he recommends to us, a copy of Clarissa would have been as rare as an Aldus or a Caxton.

I will give another instance. One of the most instructive, interesting, and delightful books in our language is Boswell's Life of Johnson. Now it is well known that Boswell's eldest son considered this book, considered the whole relation of Boswell to Johnson, as a blot in the escutcheon of the family. He thought, not perhaps altogether without reason, that his father had exhibited himself in a ludicrous and degrading light. And thus he became so sore and irritable that at last he could not bear to hear the Life of Johnson mentioned. Suppose that the law had been what my honourable and learned friend wishes to make it. Suppose that the copyright of Boswell's Life of Johnson had belonged, as it well might, during sixty years, to Boswell's eldest son. What would have been the consequence? An unadulterated copy of the finest biographical work in the world would have been as scarce as the first edition of Camden's Britannia.

These are strong cases. I have shown you that, if the law had been what you are now going to make it, the finest prose work of fiction in the language, the finest biographical work in the language, would very probably have been suppressed. But I have stated my case weakly. The books which I have mentioned are singularly inoffensive books, books not touching on any of those questions which drive even wise men beyond the bounds of wisdom. There are books of a very different kind, books which are the rallying points of great political and religious parties. What is likely to happen if the copyright of one of the these books should by descent or transfer come into the possession of some hostile zealot? I will take a single instance. It is only fifty years since John Wesley died; and all his works, if the law had been what my honourable and learned friend wishes to make it, would now have been the property of some person or other. The sect founded by Wesley is the most numerous, the wealthiest, the most powerful, the most zealous of sects. In every parliamentary election it is a matter of the greatest importance to obtain the support of the Wesleyan Methodists. Their numerical strength is reckoned by hundreds of thousands. They hold the memory of their founder in the greatest reverence; and not without reason, for he was unquestionably a great and a good man. To his authority they constantly appeal. His works are in their eyes of the highest value. His doctrinal writings they regard as containing the best system of theology ever deduced from Scripture. His journals, interesting even to the common reader, are peculiarly interesting to the Methodist: for they contain the whole history of that singular polity which, weak and despised in its beginning, is now, after the lapse of a century, so strong, so flourishing, and so formidable. The hymns to which he gave his imprimatur are a most important part of the public worship of his followers. Now, suppose that the copyright of these works should belong to some person who holds the memory of Wesley and the doctrines and discipline of the Methodists in abhorrence. There are many such persons. The Ecclesiastical Courts are at this very time sitting on the case of a clergyman of the Established Church who refused Christian burial to a child baptized by a Methodist preacher. I took up the other day a work which is considered as among the most respectable organs of a large and growing party in the Church of England, and there I saw John Wesley designated as a forsworn priest. Suppose that the works of Wesley were suppressed. Why, Sir, such a grievance would be enough to shake the foundations of Government. Let gentlemen who are attached to the Church reflect for a moment what their feelings would be if the Book of Common Prayer were not to be reprinted for thirty or forty years, if the price of a Book of Common Prayer were run up to five or ten guineas. And then let them determine whether they will pass a law under which it is possible, under which it is probable, that so intolerable a wrong may be done to some sect consisting perhaps of half a million of persons.

I am so sensible, Sir, of the kindness with which the House has listened to me, that I will not detain you longer. I will only say this, that if the measure before us should pass, and should produce one-tenth part of the evil which it is calculated to produce, and which I fully expect it to produce, there will soon be a remedy, though of a very objectionable kind. Just as the absurd acts which prohibited the sale of game were virtually repealed by the poacher, just as many absurd revenue acts have been virtually repealed by the smuggler, so will this law be virtually repealed by piratical booksellers. At present the holder of copyright has the public feeling on his side. Those who invade copyright are regarded as knaves who take the bread out of the mouths of deserving men. Everybody is well pleased to see them restrained by the law, and compelled to refund their ill-gotten gains. No tradesman of good repute will have anything to do with such disgraceful transactions. Pass this law: and that feeling is at an end. Men very different from the present race of piratical booksellers will soon infringe this intolerable monopoly. Great masses of capital will be constantly employed in the violation of the law. Every art will be employed to evade legal pursuit; and the whole nation will be in the plot. On which side indeed should the public sympathy be when the question is whether some book as popular as Robinson Crusoe, or the Pilgrim's Progress, shall be in every cottage, or whether it shall be confined to the libraries of the rich for the advantage of the great-grandson of a bookseller who, a hundred years before, drove a hard bargain for the copyright with the author when in great distress? Remember too that, when once it ceases to be considered as wrong and discreditable to invade literary property, no person can say where the invasion will stop. The public seldom makes nice distinctions. The wholesome copyright which now exists will share in the disgrace and danger of the new copyright which you are about to create. And you will find that, in attempting to impose unreasonable restraints on the reprinting of the works of the dead, you have, to a great extent, annulled those restraints which now prevent men from pillaging and defrauding the living. If I saw, Sir, any probability that this bill could be so amended in the Committee that my objections might be removed, I would not divide the House in this stage. But I am so fully convinced that no alteration which would not seem insupportable to my honourable and learned friend, could render his measure supportable to me, that I must move, though with regret, that this bill be read a second time this day six months.

A SPEECH DELIVERED IN A COMMITTEE OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS ON THE 6TH OF APRIL 1842.

by Thomas Babington Macaulay

On the third of March 1842, Lord Mahon obtained permission to bring in a bill to amend the Law of Copyright. This bill extended the term of Copyright in a book to twenty-five years, reckoned from the death of the author.

On the sixth of April the House went into Committee on the bill, and Mr Greene took the Chair. Several divisions took place, of which the result was that the plan suggested in the following Speech was, with some modifications, adopted.

Mr Greene,—I have been amused and gratified by the remarks which my noble friend (Lord Mahon.) has made on the arguments by which I prevailed on the last House of Commons to reject the bill introduced by a very able and accomplished man, Mr Serjeant Talfourd. My noble friend has done me a high and rare honour. For this is, I believe, the first occasion on which a speech made in one Parliament has been answered in another. I should not find it difficult to vindicate the soundness of the reasons which I formerly urged, to set them in a clearer light, and to fortify them by additional facts. But it seems to me that we had better discuss the bill which is now on our table than the bill which was there fourteen months ago. Glad I am to find that there is a very wide difference between the two bills, and that my noble friend, though he has tried to refute my arguments, has acted as if he had been convinced by them. I objected to the term of sixty years as far too long. My noble friend has cut that term down to twenty-five years. I warned the House that, under the provisions of Mr Serjeant Talfourd's bill, valuable works might not improbably be suppressed by the representatives of authors. My noble friend has prepared a clause which, as he thinks, will guard against that danger. I will not, therefore, waste the time of the Committee by debating points which he has conceded, but will proceed at once to the proper business of this evening.

Sir, I have no objection to the principle of my noble friend's bill. Indeed, I had no objection to the principle of the bill of last year. I have long thought that the term of copyright ought to be extended. When Mr Serjeant Talfourd moved for leave to bring in his bill, I did not oppose the motion. Indeed I meant to vote for the second reading, and to reserve what I had to say for the Committee. But the learned Serjeant left me no choice. He, in strong language, begged that nobody who was disposed to reduce the term of sixty years would divide with him. "Do not," he said, "give me your support, if all that you mean to grant to men of letters is a miserable addition of fourteen or fifteen years to the present term. I do not wish for such support. I despise it." Not wishing to obtrude on the learned Serjeant a support which he despised, I had no course left but to take the sense of the House on the second reading. The circumstances are now different. My noble friend's bill is not at present a good bill; but it may be improved into a very good bill; nor will he, I am persuaded, withdraw it if it should be so improved. He and I have the same object in view; but we differ as to the best mode of attaining that object. We are equally desirous to extend the protection now enjoyed by writers. In what way it may be extended with most benefit to them and with least inconvenience to the public, is the question.

The present state of the law is this. The author of a work has a certain copyright in that work for a term of twenty-eight years. If he should live more than twenty-eight years after the publication of the work, he retains the copyright to the end of his life.

My noble friend does not propose to make any addition to the term of twenty-eight years. But he proposes that the copyright shall last twenty-five years after the author's death. Thus my noble friend makes no addition to that term which is certain, but makes a very large addition to that term which is uncertain.

My plan is different. I would made no addition to the uncertain term; but I would make a large addition to the certain term. I propose to add fourteen years to the twenty-eight years which the law now allows to an author. His copyright will, in this way, last till his death, or till the expiration of forty-two years, whichever shall first happen. And I think that I shall be able to prove to the satisfaction of the Committee that my plan will be more beneficial to literature and to literary men than the plan of my noble friend.

It must surely, Sir, be admitted that the protection which we give to books ought to be distributed as evenly as possible, that every book should have a fair share of that protection, and no book more than a fair share. It would evidently be absurd to put tickets into a wheel, with different numbers marked upon them, and to make writers draw, one a term of twenty-eight years, another a term of fifty, another a term of ninety. And yet this sort of lottery is what my noble friend proposes to establish. I know that we cannot altogether exclude chance. You have two terms of copyright; one certain, the other uncertain; and we cannot, I admit, get rid of the uncertain term. It is proper, no doubt, that an author's copyright should last during his life. But, Sir, though we cannot altogether exclude chance, we can very much diminish the share which chance must have in distributing the recompense which we wish to give to genius and learning. By every addition which we make to the certain term we diminish the influence of chance; by every addition which we make to the uncertain term we increase the influence of chance. I shall make myself best understood by putting cases. Take two eminent female writers, who died within our own memory, Madame D'Arblay and Miss Austen. As the law now stands, Miss Austen's charming novels would have only from twenty-eight to thirty-three years of copyright. For that extraordinary woman died young: she died before her genius was fully appreciated by the world. Madame D'Arblay outlived the whole generation to which she belonged. The copyright of her celebrated novel, Evelina, lasted, under the present law, sixty-two years. Surely this inequality is sufficiently great—sixty-two years of copyright for Evelina, only twenty-eight for Persuasion. But to my noble friend this inequality seems not great enough. He proposes to add twenty- five years to Madame D'Arblay's term, and not a single day to Miss Austen's term. He would give to Persuasion a copyright of only twenty-eight years, as at present, and to Evelina a copyright more than three times as long, a copyright of eighty- seven years. Now, is this reasonable? See, on the other hand, the operation of my plan. I make no addition at all to Madame D'Arblay's term of sixty-two years, which is, in my opinion, quite long enough; but I extend Miss Austen's term to forty-two years, which is, in my opinion, not too much. You see, Sir, that at present chance has too much sway in this matter: that at present the protection which the State gives to letters is very unequally given. You see that if my noble friend's plan be adopted, more will be left to chance than under the present system, and you will have such inequalities as are unknown under the present system. You see also that, under the system which I recommend, we shall have, not perfect certainty, not perfect equality, but much less uncertainty and inequality than at present.

But this is not all. My noble friend's plan is not merely to institute a lottery in which some writers will draw prizes and some will draw blanks. It is much worse than this. His lottery is so contrived that, in the vast majority of cases, the blanks will fall to the best books, and the prizes to books of inferior merit.

Take Shakspeare. My noble friend gives a longer protection than I should give to Love's Labour's Lost, and Pericles, Prince of Tyre; but he gives a shorter protection than I should give to Othello and Macbeth.

Take Milton. Milton died in 1674. The copyrights of Milton's great works would, according to my noble friend's plan, expire in 1699. Comus appeared in 1634, the Paradise Lost in 1668. To Comus, then, my noble friend would give sixty-five years of copyright, and to the Paradise Lost only thirty-one years. Is that reasonable? Comus is a noble poem: but who would rank it with the Paradise Lost? My plan would give forty-two years both to the Paradise Lost and to Comus.

Let us pass on from Milton to Dryden. My noble friend would give more than sixty years of copyright to Dryden's worst works; to the encomiastic verses on Oliver Cromwell, to the Wild Gallant, to the Rival Ladies, to other wretched pieces as bad as anything written by Flecknoe or Settle: but for Theodore and Honoria, for Tancred and Sigismunda, for Cimon and Iphigenia, for Palamon and Arcite, for Alexander's Feast, my noble friend thinks a copyright of twenty-eight years sufficient. Of all Pope's works, that to which my noble friend would give the largest measure of protection is the volume of Pastorals, remarkable only as the production of a boy. Johnson's first work was a Translation of a Book of Travels in Abyssinia, published in 1735. It was so poorly executed that in his later years he did not like to hear it mentioned. Boswell once picked up a copy of it, and told his friend that he had done so. "Do not talk about it," said Johnson: "it is a thing to be forgotten." To this performance my noble friend would give protection during the enormous term of seventy-five years. To the Lives of the Poets he would give protection during about thirty years. Well; take Henry Fielding; it matters not whom I take, but take Fielding. His early works are read only by the curious, and would not be read even by the curious, but for the fame which he acquired in the latter part of his life by works of a very different kind. What is the value of the Temple Beau, of the Intriguing Chambermaid, of half a dozen other plays of which few gentlemen have even heard the names? Yet to these worthless pieces my noble friend would give a term of copyright longer by more than twenty years than that which he would give to Tom Jones and Amelia.

Go on to Burke. His little tract, entitled the Vindication of Natural Society is certainly not without merit; but it would not be remembered in our days if it did not bear the name of Burke. To this tract my noble friend would give a copyright of near seventy years. But to the great work on the French Revolution, to the Appeal from the New to the Old Whigs, to the letters on the Regicide Peace, he would give a copyright of thirty years or little more.

And, Sir observe that I am not selecting here and there extraordinary instances in order to make up the semblance of a case. I am taking the greatest names of our literature in chronological order. Go to other nations; go to remote ages; you will still find the general rule the same. There was no copyright at Athens or Rome; but the history of the Greek and Latin literature illustrates my argument quite as well as if copyright had existed in ancient times. Of all the plays of Sophocles, the one to which the plan of my noble friend would have given the most scanty recompense would have been that wonderful masterpiece, the Oedipus at Colonos. Who would class together the Speech of Demosthenes against his Guardians, and the Speech for the Crown? My noble friend, indeed, would not class them together. For to the Speech against the Guardians he would give a copyright of near seventy years, and to the incomparable Speech for the Crown a copyright of less than half that length. Go to Rome. My noble friend would give more than twice as long a term to Cicero's juvenile declamation in defence of Roscius Amerinus as to the Second Philippic. Go to France. My noble friend would give a far longer term to Racine's Freres Ennemis than to Athalie, and to Moliere's Etourdi than to Tartuffe. Go to Spain. My noble friend would give a longer term to forgotten works of Cervantes, works which nobody now reads, than to Don Quixote. Go to Germany. According to my noble friend's plan, of all the works of Schiller the Robbers would be the most favoured: of all the works of Goethe, the Sorrows of Werter would be the most favoured. I thank the Committee for listening so kindly to this long enumeration. Gentlemen will perceive, I am sure, that it is not from pedantry that I mention the names of so many books and authors. But just as, in our debates on civil affairs, we constantly draw illustrations from civil history, we must, in a debate about literary property, draw our illustrations from literary history. Now, Sir, I have, I think, shown from literary history that the effect of my noble friend's plan would be to give to crude and imperfect works, to third-rate and fourth-rate works, a great advantage over the highest productions of genius. It is impossible to account for the facts which I have laid before you by attributing them to mere accident. Their number is too great, their character too uniform. We must seek for some other explanation; and we shall easily find one.

It is the law of our nature that the mind shall attain its full power by slow degrees; and this is especially true of the most vigorous minds. Young men, no doubt, have often produced works of great merit; but it would be impossible to name any writer of the first order whose juvenile performances were his best. That all the most valuable books of history, of philology, of physical and metaphysical science, of divinity, of political economy, have been produced by men of mature years will hardly be disputed. The case may not be quite so clear as respects works of the imagination. And yet I know no work of the imagination of the very highest class that was ever, in any age or country, produced by a man under thirty-five. Whatever powers a youth may have received from nature, it is impossible that his taste and judgment can be ripe, that his mind can be richly stored with images, that he can have observed the vicissitudes of life, that he can have studied the nicer shades of character. How, as Marmontel very sensibly said, is a person to paint portraits who has never seen faces? On the whole, I believe that I may, without fear of contradiction, affirm this, that of the good books now extant in the world more than nineteen-twentieths were published after the writers had attained the age of forty. If this be so, it is evident that the plan of my noble friend is framed on a vicious principle. For, while he gives to juvenile productions a very much larger protection than they now enjoy, he does comparatively little for the works of men in the full maturity of their powers, and absolutely nothing for any work which is published during the last three years of the life of the writer. For, by the existing law, the copyright of such a work lasts twenty-eight years from the publication; and my noble friend gives only twenty-five years, to be reckoned from the writer's death.

What I recommend is that the certain term, reckoned from the date of publication, shall be forty-two years instead of twenty-eight years. In this arrangement there is no uncertainty, no inequality. The advantage which I propose to give will be the same to every book. No work will have so long a copyright as my noble friend gives to some books, or so short a copyright as he gives to others. No copyright will last ninety years. No copyright will end in twenty-eight years. To every book published in the course of the last seventeen years of a writer's life I give a longer term of copyright than my noble friend gives; and I am confident that no person versed in literary history will deny this,—that in general the most valuable works of an author are published in the course of the last seventeen years of his life. I will rapidly enumerate a few, and but a few, of the great works of English writers to which my plan is more favourable than my noble friend's plan. To Lear, to Macbeth, to Othello, to the Fairy Queen, to the Paradise Lost, to Bacon's Novum Organum and De Augmentis, to Locke's Essay on the Human Understanding, to Clarendon's History, to Hume's History, to Gibbon's History, to Smith's Wealth of Nations, to Addison's Spectators, to almost all the great works of Burke, to Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison, to Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones and Amelia, and, with the single exception of Waverley, to all the novels of Sir Walter Scott, I give a longer term of copyright than my noble friend gives. Can he match that list? Does not that list contain what England has produced greatest in many various ways—poetry, philosophy, history, eloquence, wit, skilful portraiture of life and manners? I confidently therefore call on the Committee to take my plan in preference to the plan of my noble friend. I have shown that the protection which he proposes to give to letters is unequal, and unequal in the worst way. I have shown that his plan is to give protection to books in inverse proportion to their merit. I shall move when we come to the third clause of the bill to omit the words "twenty-five years," and in a subsequent part of the same clause I shall move to substitute for the words "twenty-eight years" the words "forty-two years." I earnestly hope that the Committee will adopt these amendments; and I feel the firmest conviction that my noble friend's bill, so amended, will confer a great boon on men of letters with the smallest possible inconvenience to the public.

The Fifth Information Age

Written by Michael Hart
THE FIFTH INFORMATION AGE

By Michael Hart

Introduction

We keep hearing about how we are in "The Information Age," but rarely is any reference made to any of four previously created Information Ages, and technology changes that were as powerful in their day as the Internet is today.

The First Information Age, 1450-1710: The Gutenberg Press, reduced the price of the average book four hundred times. Stifled by the first copyright laws, which reduced the books in print in Great Britain from 6,000 to 600, overnight.

The Second Information Age, 1830-1831 (Shortest By Far): The High Speed Steam Powered Printing Press, patented in 1830, stifled By Copyright Extension in 1831.

The Third Information Age, ~1900: Electric Printing Press, exemplified by The Sears Catalog, the first book owned by millions of Americans. Reprint houses using such presses were stifled by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1909.

The Fourth Information Age, ~1970: The Xerox Machine made it possible for anyone to reprint anything. Responded to by the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976.

The Fifth Information Age, ~Today: The Internet and Web. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps even a million, books from A to Z are available either free of charge or at pricing "Too Cheap To Meter" for download or via CD and DVD. Responded to by the "Mickey Mouse Copyright Act of 1998," The Digital Millennium Copyright Act, The Patriot Act and any number of other attempted restrictions/restructures.

* * *

The First Information Age
1450-1710

The one Information Age that gets any references at all is the age of The Gutenberg Press, where more books were made in the first half century of The Gutenberg Press than in a whole previous history of civilization.

However, it should be equally important to point out facts about how The Stationers Company worked for 250 years from the invention of The Gutenberg Press to lobby for laws that would return to them the previous monopoly they had on the entire world of publishing. While failure on failure on failure befell their political machinations, it should be noted that they never gave up even after success was apparent in 1557 with the passage of what I called the "Statute of Mary" turned out to be the passage of laws the people and the state were both loathe to treat as law.

However, another 150 years of intense efforts, culminating in the "Statute of Anne" in 1709-1710, finally created the basis of modern copyright law, in which most of the powers granted were to the publishers, with only a few crumbs for the authors of the works they published. The original law gave all rights to every word ever written in history to a business cartel known first as The Stationers Guild and in later times as The Stationers Company. The new law gave a first copyright term of 14 years to The Stationers Company and a second copyright term to an author, but only if that author was still alive and only of value if the works were still selling well after the initial 14 years.

Needless to say, in the early 1700's, neither case was anything remotely approaching a certainty, and the authors got very little chance to benefit from such a copyright.

Thus The First Information Revolution Bit The Dust

* * *

The Second Information Age
The High Speed Steam Powered Printing Press
1830-1831 (The shortest Information Age on record)

While the 1700's were certainly The Age of Revolution from the point of view of nations such as The United States and, soon after, France, they were not The Age of Revolution for either publishing or copyright; both The United States and France adopted the copyright terms provided to England by The Stationers Company.

Thus the de facto copyright term stood at 14 years with an extension possible for an additional 14 years.

American copyright started with the U.S. Copyright Act, in 1790, which meant that the first decade of a United States best seller list entered into the public domain on January 1, 1829, which prompted the invention of the very first of the high speed steam powered printing presses in 1830.

However, this second Information Age was destined to be so short as to never make it into most history books, as there was such an intense effort by the American publishing lobby that the copyright law was extended in 1831, thus wiping a new Information Age out of existence, almost before it got started, literally.

The American version of The Stationers Company was alive—and well—even though it wasn't officially in existence.

It is hard to believe that a new copyright law should have been enacted to stifle the new high speed printing presses only a single year after the patent was issued.

The fortunes of "ye olde boye networke" were preserved, at the expense of the public domain, and this time instead of a 250 year Information Age before copyright intervened for the sole purpose of preserving "ye olde boye networke," it was an Information Age lasting only a single year.

Thus The Second Information Revolution Bit The Dust

(Footnote: While some view the intervening period from the U.S. Copyright Act of 1831 to this U.S. 1909 Copyright Act as an interruption of copyright extensions due to the U.S. Civil War, others will point out that extensions WERE made to U.S. copyright law in terms of breadth if not length.

One example would be that the Civil War photographs by the likes of Matthew Brady instigated on behalf of publishers, not so much for Brady, himself, the extension of copyright to include photographs and other items previously thought to have been outside the scope of intellectual property.)

* * *

The Third Information Age
The Electric Printing Press
Circa 1900

For millions upon millions of Americans, the first "book" they ever owned was The Sears Catalog, one true revolution in the history of printing.

The Sears Catalog was feasible for three reasons:

1. Revolutions in Printing Technology

2. Revolutions in Railroad Transportation

3. Revolutions in Mail Delivery Standards

* * *

1. Revolutions in Printing Technology

All through the 1800's, in spite of the restrictive legal wrangling that wiped out the first high speed presses the moment they were patented, more and more advances were in the works for making better and better printing presses.

By the end of the century there was a wealth of printings of public domain materials; pretty much anything that had been published before 1858 was being reprinted by 1900 in various "home libraries."

You could buy a home library of hydraulics that contained nearly every great publication on the subject from before 1858 for $10, or on the subject of health, law, etc.

This began the age of truly mass consumption of public domain books, and you can still find these at your local used bookstore.

However, you won't find nearly as many from AFTER 1909 as from BEFORE 1909, and here is why.

2. Revolutions in Railroad Transportation

and

3. Revolutions in Mail Delivery Standards

The combination of extremely inexpensive printing, plus a very efficient transcontinental railroad system, added to the new "Rural Federal Delivery" (RFD) of mail, created a new possibility never before considered:

"The Sears Catalog"

This was certainly one of the most revolutionary books in all of history.

A huge book, 768 pages, lavishly illustrated, and free to everyone Sears and Roebuck could give one to.

Apparently the most famous of these was the 1906 edition.

The problem?

The problem was that this made it totally obvious that it was possible to print and deliver millions of books for a price that was so low the books could be given away, free of charge, just for the purposes of advertising.

This made everyone aware of the changes in publishing prices, and a new wave of "reprint houses" sprung up near lots of railroad stations where those high speed printing presses could literally fill up a boxcar overnight and have it on the rails to anywhere in the country the next morning.

"Boxcars full of extremely inexpensive books!"

NOT what "ye olde boye networke" wanted to hear.

The result was yet another round of intensive lobbying to create the U.S. Copyright Act of 1909.

Once again, just as in 1831, the new technologies were no match for the trump cards held by "ye olde boye networke", which had been previously used to stifle The Gutenberg Presses and the high speed steam presses.

Thus The Third Information Revolution Bit The Dust

* * *

The Fourth Information Age
The Xerox Machine

Pretty much everyone takes the Xerox machine for granted, even in Third World countries there are plenty of Xeroxes, at least for those who can afford them.

What we do NOT take for granted is that along with Xerox, came yet another copyright extension, once again trying a "reactionary politics" approach to stifle the advent of a new way of bringing information to the masses.

The oddest part, of course, is that the publishers' claim, such as it is, is that the new technologies will harm the sales of their products, but the LAW they proposed is NOT a law to enforce the protection of their copyrights but a law to destroy the protection of the public domain!!!

Each one of these four revolutions in printing technology has been countered by a law that was not designed to make a system for the protection of private property, but that was designed rather for the destruction of public domain, so that no one but the publishers could benefit from each new revolutionary technology that COULD HAVE BROUGHT BOOK BENEFITS TO THE WORLD AT LARGE FOR A MINIMAL PRICE.

The reason for this unhealthy alliance between publishers and politicians is that the politicians realize that their constituencies are much more easy to manipulate when kept in ignorance, that an educated public is the enemy of the corrupt political system, and what more corrupt politicos than those of U.S. President Nixon's terms in office.

Thus it was that the Xerox machine was counteracted in an even more extreme case than previous copyright extensions with the elimination of copyright renewal requirements on copyrights that were never renewed 90% of the time, even though the process was trivial and the fee was nominal.

The U.S. Copyright Act of 1976 was started during Nixon's time in office and carried out by his appointees after he left office in disgrace.

U.S. copyright had been extended from an average of about 30 years in 1900 to an average of 75 years in 1976, a far worse defeat for the public domain than ever before.

Thus The Fourth Information Revolution Bit The Dust

* * *

The Fifth Information Age
The Internet

I'm sure more of you are aware of The Computer Revolution than of The Xerox Revolution or The Steam and/or Electric Press Revolutions, and probably even more of you than are aware of the real impact of The Gutenberg Press; example:

Were you aware that we might well have never even heard a word about The 95 Theses of Martin Luther if his friends hadn't taken them to the local Kinko's du jour and mailed the copies to other people in other countries?

The same sort of thing just happened recently when a very highly placed newsman, Dan Rather, anchorman, head editor and who knows what else of CBS News, was forced to resign by true nobodies who brought his lack of attention to the form (but not the content) of the letter describing a lot of bad behavior by President Bush.

With every new medium comes a new class of people, not of "ye olde boye networke," who adopt that new medium before "ye olde boye networke" is even really aware of it.

Once ye olde boyes ARE aware they do their best to stifle the new medium to only include their paid representatives who toe the official party line.

Hence the latest movements to decrease the speech freedom on the Internet, to let the big boys decide who and what should be seen and heard.

The number of laws passed to stifle the Internet are more than could be listed in a short article such as this one, but I am sure most of you have heard of the DMCA (Digital Millennium Copyright Act), The Patriot Act, and even that new U.S. Copyright Act labeled variously as The Sonny Bono, or The Mickey Mouse Copyright Act.

The only thing preventing these various laws, and others, from totally stifling the Internet is the varying natures of the widely different networks that make up the Internet— it's just about impossible to effectively police networks in well over 125 languages in nearly twice as many places around the world. Don't believe me? Google, alone, will provide information in 130 languages; Project Gutenberg's Consortia Center in over 100 languages, and 50 languages at Project Gutenberg's original site, this very week.

However, if "ye olde boye networke" has its way, as their way has been in the past, The Fifth Information Age could likely be curtailed as effectively as the first four of a history of potential Information Ages.

Will this Information Age byte the dust as they have?

* * *

In Conclusion

In 1900 perhaps 50% of all copyrights ever issued expired by the turn of the century, leaving the public domain and copyright well balanced. With the average copyright a period of about 30 years, the average person would live long enough to republish any books they had read in the first half of their lives.

This provided for continuity between past and future that did not depend on "ye olde boye network" for permission.

ANYONE could republish what they read early in life, with their own personal commentaries on how things had changed in the period since they first read those books.

When I was in grade school we studied slavery, and movies such as "Gone With The Wind" and "Song Of The South" were the required mandatory viewing of everyone in the school.

The copyright on "Gone With The Wind" was issued in 1939, so the longest it could have been kept under copyright up until a 1976 rewrite of U.S. copyright law would have been through the end of the 56th year, or 1995.

Thus I should have been able to fully demonstrate what my schooling required 50 years ago, and how things changed a great deal in the treatment of the subject of slavery for modern school studies.

Disney's "Song Of The South" has copyrights back from 2006 to 1944 according to various sources, but the movie I refer to above was apparently copyrighted in 1946, thus the 56 year copyright should have expired 2003.

However, due to the various extensions and other misusage of the copyright laws and their multiple extensions, I am not able to even FIND a copy of "Song Of The South", as this is no longer considered "politically correct" from Disney Corporation's point of view, so they have censored it out of the public eye.

The current expiration date for the copyright on "Gone With The Wind" is the year 2041, and 2048 for "Song Of The South," according to a few sources I researched, but those both seem a few years too long for what I understand is the current 95 years.

I would have said 2035 and 2042, respectively.

However, the point remains the same!

No one can expect to live long enough to republish what a person might have seen or read even in grade school.

The continuity of our history has become a discontinuity.

Only corporations can expect to "live" long enough for an untrammeled republication of anything that is copyrighted under our current copyright laws.

As I said in the opening paragraph of this conclusion:

In 1900 perhaps 50% of all copyrights ever issued expired by the turn of the century, leaving the public domain and copyright well balanced, and with the average copyright a period of about 30 years, the average person would have a long enough lifespan to plan to republish any books their lives included in the first half.

In 2100 about 99% of all copyrights ever issued should be expected to still be in force, leaving just 1% to the now threatened public domain, bordering on extinction.

Let's say you took your five-year-old child to see latest newly copyrighted movies.

Under the current copyright law, that child would have to live a couple years past 2100 before they could republish whatever it was they saw.

Not even those with the longest life expectancies in the wide world can legitimately have such expectations as to live long enough to republish under such a strict copyright.

Thus the only commentaries we will hear that include that original movie, presuming it will be found (unlike Disney and "The Song Of The South"), will be the voices of ye olde boye networke. . .voices that have made every effort over the last 550 years to stifle the printing revolution started by Herr Gutenberg before Columbus was even born.

* * *

Footnotes:

I would be remiss in this article that describes the Five Information Ages if I did not add in some prices, and the results of various revolutions in publishing technologies in terms of information affordable by the masses.

Most recently, in my own lifetime, I have see the average price for a paperback go through hyperinflationary spiral figures from 25 cents to $8, from 1955 to 2005.

Just think what the news media would be saying if gallons of gasoline had followed the same pricing, $8 a gallon!!!

I receive messages from publishers as famous as the top of Encyclopedia Britannica, constantly informing me of price hikes in paper, binding, shipping, storage and royalties. But the truth is, that the blank books I use for journals haven't changed price at all since I bought my first ones back in the 1960's, even with a vastly improved quality of binding that now includes a variety of cloth covers, with a choice of lined or unlined paper and two to three times as many pages at the same price for 396 pages today as we paid for 160 pages in a cardboard binding in the 1960's.

Each and every time these false statements are presented, my response is to personally go to the bookstore and buy, not just look at, these products available today so I can tell you about them.

Recently the prices for the blank hardback books dropped, perhaps only temporarily, but the last purchase I made from that shelf was 25% less than the price I paid previously, significantly less than I had ever paid before, and for a better quality binding and more pages, as mentioned.

Something is definitely wrong with the arguments made for prices going up for the raw materials and shipping, if it is a price NOT going up for blank books that require that same paper, binding, shipping, warehousing etc.

When I mentioned this to one of those using that logic, I was reminded that the "real" books paid for advertising—placement—etc., but then my research showed that ye olde "Nothing Book" also paid for placement and ads, though it would appear new ones only pay for placement, as I didn't see any advertising, but did notice placement. Perhaps a possible reason the price fell during my research.

In addition, I usually price the Perry Mason mysteries we saw above, and a few other similar paperbacks, to compare with those I have stashed away from my youth, so I do NOT have to rely completely on the statistics from Bowker and others when they are pooh poohed by those who should deny that Bowker knows anything about book pricing.

Then I challenge our current readers to go up into attics all over the world and bring down boxes of books from their parents' collections to compare even more prices.

James Bond paperbacks were all once 50 cents, as the price in the 1960's had already started doubling from the price in the 1950's, but look at the prices below that I called Borders this very moment to confirm:

Here are some samples I just got from the mystery shelf:

Perry Mason, The Case of the Deadly Toy, $6.99

Ian Fleming, Dr. No, Trade Paperback Only $13

Ian Fleming, From Russia With Love, Trade Paperback Only $14

(All of the James Bond titles were $13-$14)

Jessica Fletcher, Question of Murder, $6.99

(All the Murder She Wrote books were $6.99)

Agatha Christie, And Then There Were None, $6.99

(All the Agatha Christie books were $5.99 or $6.99)

I don't know exactly how many books there are in each set, or how many such classics are ONLY available in the larger and more expensive trade editions so I made another call—specifically designed to find out those differences.

Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged in the larger trade paperback, $20

Atlas Shrugged in the smaller mass paperback, $9

The Fountainhead in the smaller mass paperback, $9

The Fountainhead in the larger trade paperback $20

Interesting that The Fountainhead used to be less, because it was only 70% as long, but now the prices are the same.

The price ranges here probably include the vast majority of all paperbacks in print, as the largest is 1,000+ pages and the smallest is hardly 200.

It is also interesting that it appears many of the classic paperbacks are no longer available in their original, quite reasonably priced mass market editions, but only in a trade paperback edition that is twice as expensive.

However, not even including the trade paperbacks at double the price of the mass market paperbacks, it would appear a price average of $8 is still a quite reasonable guess, and is 40 times the price of the average paperback in 1955.

By the way, when you look up the 1955 prices, don't forget that THAT price of 15 cents you may find is WHOLESALE, and the retail price was 25 cents.

40% markup is very common in the publishing industry.

As for those who say that increased royalties are a reason for increased prices, the average royalty for all the authors I have interviewed still remains at about 5%, though I can send you reports that say J.K. Rowling gets 8%.

In conclusion, it would appear that the main result of copyright extension has been to allow the benefits of printer revolutions to be monopolized by the publishing industries and thus kept from being passed on to the public.

Obviously using computers to type, lay out, spellcheck and edit books, as well as to prepare the galleys, allows saving upon saving to the publishing industry, savings that could have been passed on.

Every publisher I have interviewed, all up and down chains of command from authors to the top brass, have each denied that ANY of the 40 times as much as you pay for paperbacks today goes into their pockets.

Exxon just paid their CEO a billion dollars, half of those dollars in severance pay, so we know where their money was going and they make no attempt at denial.

So why the big denial in the publishing industry?

Hollywood makes a joke out of the fact that movies make no money on paper, so they don't have to pay off royalties to those who own a percentage after "break even."

The publishing industry reacts quite strongly when I ask a simple question about how their bookkeeping compares.

Nevertheless, the real question to ask when the book price goes from 25 cents to $8 for the same edition, while other prices get so much coverage for going from the same prices to $3. . .is. . ."Where Is The Money Going??? And Why???"

THE END

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Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 1 Num 2

Table of Contents

STORIES

Treasure in The Sand

Dog Soldier

When Sysadmins Ruled The Earth

The Ruby Dice

Sisters Of Sarronnyn: Sisters Of Westwind

As Black As Hell

For Blue Sky

What Sleeps In The Shallows Belongs To The Depths

Benny Comes Home

CLASSICS

Lulu

Pollock And The Porroh Man

SERIES

The Ancient Ones, Part 2

Travails With Momma, Part 2

Fish Story, Episode 2

INTRODUCING NEW AUTHORS

Decaf And Spaceship, To Go

Technical Exchange

Medic!

The Best Plaid Lans

Supercargo

COLUMNS

Jim Baen: October 22, 1943 - June 28, 2006

A Personal Remembrance of Jim Baen

Robowar

Our Second Animated Cover

The Editor's Page August 2006

Copyright: What Are The Proper Terms For The Debate?

McCauley On Copyright

The Fifth Information Age

eBook Info

Title:

Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 1 Num 2

Type:

Novel

Identifier:

1932-0930-02

Identifier:

978-1932-0930-01

Identifier:

10.1125/Baen.1932093002

Publisher:

Baen Books

Creator:

Eric Flint

Contributor:

David Mattingly

Subject:

Science Fiction

Rights:

2006 by Eric Flint

Date:

2006-08-01

Language:

US English (en-us)