MYTHIC

A QUARTERLY SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY MAGAZINE

ISSUE #11 | SUMMER 2019

Editor’s Note

SHAUN KILGORE

Well, we’ve made it to Issue #10. That’s something of a milestone, I think. I’m happy to welcome all of you to this latest issue of MYTHIC. There is plenty of great fiction from a talented selection of writer waiting for you in the following pages. I’m very grateful for the opportunity to produce this publication, though it can be challenging to do this on my own. I hope I can change that as time goes by simply for logistical reasons, but that’s not as important right now as make sure all of you get your helping of great science fiction and fantasy.

Going forward, I will not be including editor’s notes with every issue, but will write them if I feel there is something important to share about the status of the magazine. As ever, my mission to provide better compensation four our wonderful writers and I hope some of you might consider becoming a patron through our Patreon page or subscribing by visiting the MYTHIC website. You can also pick up a copy and tell your friends about us. Consider supporting this publication. Support great sci-fi and fantasy fiction. Support MYTHIC.

Yours truly,

Shaun Kilgore, Editor

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A Father’s Challenge

DAVID ENGLAND

THE MAN STOOD AT the window of his study, looking to the west as a rusted sun easing into the rooftops of London turned his thoughts homeward. His hair was dark yet, with only hints of grey showing at the temples. Hands were clasped behind his back, his suit well-tailored and comfortable. The style of his clothes, however, was rather out of step with the fashion trends here in the heart of the Empire (”positively colonial,” his sister had commented) though, quite frankly, this was something to which he gave little weight.

Hazel eyes considered the scene beyond the glass and he thought of the red ochre landscape of his homeworld, the fertility of that rich soil unleashed by the carefully engineered irrigation canals which harvested and harbored the rains. He thought, too, of the low hills of burnt sienna which lay just north of the estate house, over which he’d spread the ashes of his beloved many years before in accordance with her wishes. He thought of the tenants who worked his lands alongside him and who were far closer family than most of his blood-relations.

The door behind him quietly opened and closed again. The sound of small steps approached, muffled only slightly by the area rugs which partially covered the polished wood of the study floor. The footsteps stopped and after a moment’s pause, he turned from the window.

“I’m sorry, Papa,” the little girl said, her voice hitching ever so slightly as she accented the second syllable. “I’m sorry I made Aunt Margaret mad and she yelled at you.”

Lord Charles Hillcrest, Fourteenth Baron Botelier, looked down at his only child. Deep green eyes gazed up at him from beneath long jet-black hair neatly pulled back from her face. She looked so much like her mother it made his heart ache. Charles frowned inwardly at the circumstance which pained his child so. He hadn’t wanted to come to London at all, but certain family business had required his presence and the majority of his relatives resided here. So he’d agreed to the journey, however reluctantly, and had brought his eight-year old daughter along, both at his sister’s urging and because the combined visit and travel would easily span two months, if not longer.

It had been Penelope’s first time aboard an interplanetary passenger liner and as the two of them settled into their suite on the Oberon, he had explained to his wide-eyed daughter how the vessel would be carrying them through the aetheric currents of space for the next three weeks as they travelled from Mars to Earth. She had spent the majority of that time exploring passageways, curled up in the ship’s library with a good book, or staring out the viewports of one of the several first-class lounges at the dark tapestry of the universe. With a bit of negotiation, he had even obtained a tour of the vessel’s engine room, with its massive Henry-Germain lens and matrix of vulcanite crystals which directed the aetheric flow. Though only a baron, peerage nonetheless offered certain benefits and he gladly took advantage of those when it came to the furtherance of his daughter’s education.

Charles, on the other hand, had spent most of the journey preparing for the confrontation he knew to be coming. His sister had certainly wasted no time in pressing her case, conveniently “happening by” the townhouse less an hour after he and his daughter had arrived from the aeroport at the edge of the city where the zeppelin-like ferry had brought them from the orbiting liner.

“You cannot raise a daughter alone, Charles,” she’d argued, repeating the points she’d made in ceaseless correspondence for well over a year now. “She requires a suitable female presence in her life, for her own good. How the gossips talk, it is as if you let her to run loose among the laborers.” Her face had then assumed that slightly-superior expression that had always annoyed him. “You must see that my proposal is the only sensible solution.” And despite his misgivings, he had been persuaded to allow Margaret to take her niece on this outing as a possible first step. Events had not worked out as Margaret had envisioned, but that made her only more adamant in her position. He set his jaw. A decision was going to have to be made, and soon.

But first, he needed to clean up this mess.

“How did you know that your aunt had been cross with me?” he asked in an attempt to sound stern. “Were you listening at the door again?”

“No,” his daughter replied firmly. Her eyes fell to her shoes a moment later. “Maybe a little. It’s hard not hear, though. She’s loud.”

Charles fought the urge to smile. His younger sister could indeed be loud and she had come very close to yelling at him during their conversation a short while ago. The words “disgrace,” “outrage,” and “family embarrassment” still rang in his ears.

“That may be true, Penny,” he replied, “but still, it is hardly proper for you to be eavesdropping. No more. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Papa,” she answered, bringing her eyes back up to meet his. “I promise.”

“Very good.” He waved to a pair of armchairs off to one side of the study where they flanked a small tea-table. “Now, why don’t we have a seat and you can tell me what happened.”

“Yes, Papa.” He followed her across the room and sat, leaning back in one chair and casually propping one leg on the other knee. A few feet away, his daughter climbed into the companion chair and settled herself, her toes barely scraping the study floor as she kicked her feet lightly.

“So,” he prompted.

“Simone Hargrave is a horse’s ass,” his daughter stated bluntly.

“Penny,” he warned. “Language. We are not among the stable-hands just now.”

“I’m sorry, Papa. Mais elle ètait un cul de cheval.”

“That’s not much better,” he responded, “though I will grant you points for wit. Perhaps you could explain what occurred a bit further for me. I understand that there was some violence involved?”

“I punched her,” Penny affirmed. “Hard. Just like Master Wu taught me.” She paused. “Aunt Margaret says that girls aren’t supposed to do that. She said I needed to think about how mad the Queen would be if I did that at court.”

Charles nodded. “I imagine your aunt would say something like that.”

“The Queen is a girl,” his daughter observed, making connections in that way only a child can. “Do you think she has ever punched anybody?”

“Her Majesty Queen Victoria has sat on the throne for the past forty-four years,” Charles replied. “I very much doubt that she has ever had occasion to punch anyone in that time.”

“She became queen in 1837 when she was eighteen years old,” Penny said proudly. “I remember that from my lessons.” Her small brow furrowed in thought. “Do you think she punched anybody before she became queen?”

“I would think not,” he responded, smiling to himself at how appalled his sister would be at this line of questioning. “I believe that sort of behavior is generally frowned upon in a princess.”

“I’m not a princess.”

“That is true,” her father agreed. “You are, however, the daughter of a baron and as such, you must be mindful of your position. Moreover, in due time, you will become a baroness yourself. Don’t you think it would be important to learn to act like one?”

“What do you mean, Papa?”

“You are my heir, Penny. Just as I inherited my title and the family estate from your grandfather, you will one day inherit them from me.”

“Simone says that except for the Queen, girls don’t inherit.”

Charles nodded. “For the most part, Simone is correct. Most titles and lands pass to the firstborn son or nearest male relative. There are a few, though, that pass to the firstborn child or nearest relative regardless of gender. Ours is one of those.”

“So I will be a baron one day, just like you?”

“Baroness,” Charles emphasized. “But yes. And when my time in these worlds is done and I am laid to rest, you will take on the title and the responsibility for the family estate.”

“I don’t want to be baroness,” she said earnestly, “if it means you have to die.”

His daughter’s sincerity was touching. “All of us die, Penny,” he replied with a small smile. “It is the way of things. But don’t worry; I plan on being around for a good while yet.” He gestured toward the coat of arms which hung on the study wall across from them. “The barony Botelier has been in our family for many centuries: your many-times great-grandfather was created the First Baron Botelier by Henry Tudor for his valor at the Battle of Bosworth Field. Our Martian estate, on the other hand, is a much more recent grant, being given to your great-grandfather, the Twelfth Baron, by the Queen’s uncle, His Majesty William IV.”

The little girl’s face scrunched up quizzically. “Isn’t he the great-grandpapa who went crazy and built that funny house for dead people by the church here in London?”

He winced. The notoriety of that mausoleum was going to haunt the family for generations to come. But he nodded to his daughter. “Yes, Penny. While my grandfather was...odd...he nevertheless served his king with distinction during the last of the major wars for Mars and in particular at the Third Siege of Barsoom. And so he was rewarded handsomely.”

“Did he ever punch anybody?”

“Well,” Charles temporized, “there were many battles during that time and there was a lot of fighting, so more than likely, yes.”

“But he was a boy, so it was all right.” Her response was almost petulant.

“It has less to do with whether one is a boy or a girl,” Charles explained carefully, “and much more to do with whether or not it is an appropriate response to the situation.” He looked at his daughter. “What did Master Wu say about why one fights?”

“To defend honor!” Penny replied forcefully.

Charles cleared his throat. “I believe, my dear, that you are skipping over something. What was Master Wu’s first lesson about the purpose of combat?”

Penny looked down at the floor. “To defend oneself or others when attacked,” she answered with a sigh. She looked up, indignant. “But I was attacked.”

“Simone hit you?”

“No,” Penny admitted. “But she did say I was an orphaned clod who thought she was a boy.”

That caught Charles’ attention. “She said what exactly?”

“She said that I didn’t know how to be a proper girl because Mama died when I was born and I was no better than an orphan. She said she’d heard her mama and Aunt Margaret say so.”

Damn you, Marge, Charles swore to himself. Damn you and your opinions.

“Be that as it may,” he replied a moment later, bringing his attention back to task at hand, “it was not exactly the most well-considered response for you to hit her.”

“But Papa…”

“No, Penny,” he interrupted. “You need to understand how to navigate these situations. When we return to Mars, I’m going to get you started on a new set of lessons.” Beginning with The Art of War, he thought to himself.

“We’re going back home?” Penny’s face lit up. “Oh, Papa. I was so worried. Aunt Margaret had said the two of you had talked and I was going to be staying with her from now on.”

Over my dead body. “I think your aunt might have misunderstood a conversation she and I had earlier. You and I will be returning to Mars within a fortnight, as soon as I’ve cleared up some family business here.”

“Thank you, Papa!” Penny said excitedly. “I was afraid that I was going to have deal with Simone for a long time if I was going to be staying here.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” he assured her. “But Penny, while I don’t agree with your aunt’s thoughts about your education, she’s not wrong about the need to properly conduct yourself in society. You are going to have to learn to handle yourself better.” He paused for effect. “This is hardly the last time you are going to encounter someone like Simone and you cannot punch someone every time he or she says something that isn’t nice.” He allowed a smile. “Your fist would be very sore if you did.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“So tell me. What will you take away from our talk here?”

His daughter looked at him intently. “The next time Simone Hargrave is an ass, I will be mindful of my place as a baron’s daughter and I won’t punch her.” Her eyes blazed with youthful fire. “I’ll challenge her to a duel instead.”

Charles sighed and shook his head.

About the Author

DAVID ENGLAND lives in small-town Wisconsin along the western shore of Lake Michigan.  A life-long lover of science fiction (born from a childhood discovery of his father's well-worn Lucky Starr paperbacks), he supplements reality by indulging in tales of fantastical adventures of epic daring-do.  One day, he hopes to complete the numerous novels which have taken up residence inside his head over the years.  His stories have appeared in the first volume of Vintage Worlds, the de-industrial science fiction quarterly Into The Ruins, and the online OSS 'zine Tales To Astound.

In the Land of the Blind

REX CALEVAL

YOU KNOW THOSE BOOKS where it’s like the normal world, but goblins and zombies and other fairy-tale things exist, too? Where magic is real, and the heroes use it to keep the nasties at bay and save the day? I really like those books. It’s not just because they’re a fun read, although some of them certainly are. It’s mostly because, in the ones that I like best, the heroes have so much knowledge. They know exactly how their magic works, and how to train it; they know what the bad guys are, and how to beat them; they’ve got organizations that give support and gear; they’ve got friends and contacts who can provide answers or skills that they need. Heck, even the Ghostbusters at least had Tobin’s Spirit Guide. I like to imagine what that would be like, because when I have to deal with these things, I never have anything like that.

On the other hand, the heroes in those books usually have to deal with really overpowering stuff, instead of just one, um, well…I’m not sure what to call it. This weird thing in front of me, that seems to be trying to drain a little girl somehow, while her mother cries by her bedside, unable to even see it. I get one of these, instead of a vampire army or an angry god or something. So maybe it comes out even.

It sure would be nice to have some idea what the heck it is, though. Or where it came from. Or what it’s doing. Anything at all, really.

Anyway. Back to the task at hand. I’ve never seen anything exactly like this before, but in the past when I’ve run across something I can see but others can’t, I’ve usually been able to affect it by, um, well…hmm. I’m not sure how to describe it, since I’m not entirely sure how it works. It’s not like I’m exactly seeing it; more like I can sense it, but with some unknown sense that I don’t have any conscious control over. I do see it when I look, even if nobody else does, but if I close my eyes, I can still sense it, often even more strongly. And if I just focus on it, really concentrate on the fact that it’s there, then that seems to hurt it. If I can keep that focus strong enough, I can hold it in place, and if I can keep that up long enough, then it seems to actually kill it. Well, it’s hard to tell. It kind of dissolves, anyway, and it doesn’t seem to come back. You have to make sure that they can’t come back; if you let them run off, they often return later, for whatever reason. Even if they didn’t, they’d probably be off somewhere doing the same thing to someone else. I know from personal experience that whatever they’re doing is very unpleasant for their victims, so I do my best to keep them from getting away.

Of course, this also gets their attention, and they seem to be able to focus on me, too, if I’m doing it to them. It hurts me, too, like it does them. Then it becomes a battle of wills; like a staring contest, only not staring with eyes, but…um, well. Like I said, I don’t know exactly how it works, but it does. Or more accurately, it has worked before, and it might work this time too, if this thing is similar to those other things, and if I can keep my focus strong enough for long enough. I wish there was a handbook for these things.

I turned to the girl’s mother. “Ms. Williams, I can see the trouble, and I may be able to do something. The way I do that is very hard to describe, but it will help me if you can stay as still and quiet as you can. If this works the way that I hope it will, Becky’s going to wake up, but the problem won’t be completely solved yet; it’ll take a little while after that. She might be disoriented or confused. Try to keep her as still and quiet as possible, too, if you can. Can you do that for me?”

The sobbing, red-haired woman at the girl’s bedside looked up at me and nodded.

“Good. That will help me a lot. Now, there’s one other thing. I’m not sure how much time this is going to take, and it might seem to you at some point that I’m in distress. It might just be moans or shudders, or it could be a nosebleed, or blood on my lips.” I bit my tongue doing this once, before I knew to use a mouthguard. The guy that I’d been helping that time had freaked out a little. Plus, it took forever to heal. “It’s important that you not disturb me, even if you’re trying to help me. If I actually do pass out and collapse, though, wake me up as soon as you can. Splash water on my face, slap me, whatever it takes. Okay?”

The young mother’s face paled. “It sounds dangerous. What is it that you’re going to do, exactly? It won’t hurt Becky, will it?” she asked.

“It’s almost impossible to describe in a way that makes any sense. Believe me, I’ve tried, and afterward I’ll try again if you really want me to. The best description I’ve been able to come up with is that I have to concentrate very hard, but that’s not really it. Maybe you could think of it as a form of meditation. I know it sounds very strange. What I do won’t hurt Becky at all, I promise, but it’s possible that it could um, well…stir up the problem that she’s having. I don’t know if that would make it any worse or not. No two things like this ever seem to be the same. I won’t do anything at all if you don’t want me to, but you’ve tried everything else you can think of, haven’t you? People try everything else before they’ll consider me. It’s understandable.”

“Nobody has been able to help, and she’s not getting better. I’ll try anything…” she trailed off. “Can you really do it?”

I tried to sound reassuring. “I think so. All I can say for sure is that I’ll do my best, and when I’ve seen things like this before, that’s been enough to work. You’ll be right by Becky’s side the whole time. Do you want me to try?”

She closed her eyes for a moment and let out a breath. Then she said, “Yes. Yes, please. Do what you can, and I’ll do what you told me.” She sounded determined.

“All right. We’ll start now. I’ll be over here, leaning against the wall by the door. You keep sitting with Becky, and calm her when she wakes up. Here we go.”

I sat down on the floor, trying not to let Becky’s mom see me slip my mouthguard in. No sense freaking her out even more. I closed my eyes and tried to slow my breathing. The whole time we’d been talking, the thing had been staying in the same place, hovering over Becky as she lay in her bed. It hadn’t seemed to take any notice of us. They never pay attention to you, until you pay attention to them.

Well, it was going to pay attention to me now.

I turned my focus to the thing. The best way that I’ve found to do that is to envision a red targeting dot right in the middle of it, like the snipers use on TV shows. Then I focus on making that dot bore into it, puncture it, blast right through it. The thing noticed right away, and even though I couldn’t really say what its form was like, it felt like it turned and looked at me. It had felt my attention, and now I sensed its attention focusing on me. I felt it immediately, and it seemed powerful; stronger than the other things like this that I’d seen.

At least it wasn’t concentrating on Becky any more. No, don’t think that. No thoughts of anything else, not even her. There’s only the red dot and the need to push it through. Blow through it like Superman’s laser beam eyes. Was it lasers or heat beams? No. Focus. Concentrate. Burn through. My head hurts. My eyes hurt. I can’t breathe. No. Focus. Concentrate. Burn through. It’s working; I can feel it working. The thing tries to run. No. Focus. Concentrate. Burn through. No getting away for you. I’ve got you pinned. Focus. Concentrate. Burn through. Will somebody please pick up that phone? Stop that stupid ringing. Answer it or turn it off. What? No! Focus. Concentrate. Burn through. I’ve still got you. You almost got away, but I’ve still got you. Focus. Concentrate. Burn through. I sense the thing starting to dissolve, but I feel like I’m falling. Focus. Concentrate. Burn…

Ow. I feel awful. Where am I? Ow. What is going on? Ow! My eyes finally open as another stinging slap hits my cheek. “Ow, okay, please stop, I’m back.” I look up to see Theresa Williams above me, her hand drawn back for another smack. “I passed out? How long has it been? Wait, just let me check…” I close my eyes again and try to sense the presence of the thing. I can’t feel it. “Help me up, please.” When I’m on my feet again, I look over at the bed and don’t see anything but a little girl, sleeping quietly. “Looks like it worked. I can’t see anything. Does she seem okay?”

Becky’s mom threw her arms around me in a joyful hug. “Yes, she’s so much better! She woke up like you said she would, and she was actually hungry! I’ve barely been able to get her to eat or drink. She had a little water, and I told her to just sleep now and we’d eat when she woke up. She nodded right off; she seemed so tired. But she’s been sleeping easily, not crying and thrashing around like she was. Oh, Mr. Graves, thank you! Whatever you did, thank you!” She sobbed against my shoulder.

I never seem to get comfortable dealing with these situations. Dealing with the things is easier. Well, maybe not this time; that thing was strong. “Um, I’m glad I was able to help, Ms. Williams. And you can call me Barrett.”

She pulled back, looking embarrassed to find that she was still hugging me. “And I’m Theresa,” she said, wiping her eyes. “How can I ever thank you? I’ve got a little money; I can pay you something.”

“Thanks, Theresa, honestly, but no,” I replied gently. “I’ve got my own reasons for what I do, and I wouldn’t feel right about taking money for it. I wouldn’t say no to a bite to eat though, if you have some cookies or juice or something. I feel a bit wiped out.”

She headed for the bedroom door. “Of course, I’ll get something right away. I’ve got some orange juice, I think, and I could make some eggs. Is that okay?”

“That sounds great, thanks. Before you do that, though, could you answer a couple of questions for me? First, how long was I actually out?”

“It was about 15 minutes. I remembered that you said to wake you if it happened, but Becky seemed fine, and I didn’t want to, you know, hit you…but then you didn’t wake up, and I thought I’d better do what you said. I’m sorry that I hit you so hard, but you weren’t waking up at first. I didn’t mean to make your nose bleed, I swear.” She looked sheepish.

Fifteen minutes! I breathed a sigh of relief that I’d actually gotten the thing before I passed out. Wait, did she say nosebleed? I checked and felt crusted blood on my lip. “Don’t worry about it. The nosebleed probably wasn’t you, anyway. Say, was there a phone ringing? I kept hearing a phone, while I was trying to…um, well. I thought I heard a phone.”

She reddened. “I’m so sorry about that. You said to be still and quiet, and I tried, but I’d forgotten to turn off my cell phone and it rang. I sent it to voicemail as soon as I could get it out of my purse. Was it a problem?”

Cell phone. Right. Should have thought of that one from going to the movies. Please turn off all cell phones before the thing removal begins. Sheesh. “No, no, it’s okay. It all worked out. Could you hand me my bag, there? I’m going to use your washroom to get cleaned up a bit, if that’s okay,” I said.

She passed my gym bag over. “Yes, of course. It’s just down the hall. I’ll go get the eggs started. Come out to the kitchen whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks. I won’t be long.” I pulled my tablet out of the bag, and added turn off cell phones to my prep list. Then I added emphasize the importance of waking me if I pass out to my instructions list. Hey, I said there aren’t any books for this stuff, not that I wouldn’t try to write one. I do what I can.

In the bathroom, I washed the blood from my nose and lip. Looks like I popped something in my right eye; the white is spiderwebbed with red lines. I’m starting to get a pretty bad headache, too. I take a couple of aspirin from the bottle I keep in my bag, and add a quick note about the eye to the file. I’ll write it up properly later. Let’s see...cell phone, wake me up, physical notes. That focus, concentrate, burn through thing worked pretty well, too; I’ll keep using that. Is there anything else I should jot down?

Oh, yeah, there is one more thing to look up. Maybe I should have known this already, but I was always more of a Marvel guy than DC. Here it is.

Got it. Heat vision, not lasers.

About the Author

REX CALEVAL lives in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, where he spent twenty years as an air traffic controller. Always an avid reader with story ideas popping into his head, he decided to try writing a few, and has been pleased to find that some people like them. His stories have appeared or are upcoming in Every Day Fiction, Ripples in Space, Antipodean SF, and Medusa's Laugh.

Fundament of Justice
JOSHUA CHAPLINSKY

MIRANDA PULLED HER EYES from her head and placed them on the table.

“That better?” she said.

The Interrogatrix maintained visual contact with the empty sockets.

“Does your hardware have remote capabilities?”

“No,” Miranda lied. Most current gen street optics lacked the hardware to transmit via the wireless, but she’d made the modifications herself. The tech had cost a small fortune in bit-rations. She watched from the table as the Interrogatrix placed a sanitary tissue over the detached organs. The gun-metal grey of the interrogation room went soft white.

“Are those the same optics with which you recorded the incident in question?” When isolated, the Interrogatrix’s soft female voice belied its intimidating uniform. Miranda could still visualize the ensemble—starched white shirt, black tie, and blonde bob held in place by black peaked cap.

“Yes,” Miranda said.

“And why didn’t you stop when directed by the Junior Watchman?”

“Because a Junior Watchman doesn’t have that authority.”

Miranda’s ears, also DIY mods, perked up as the tapping of the Duty Witness’s transcription machine paused. Unbeknownst to her, the Witness had turned away. Miranda felt a hand grip her short-cropped hair seconds before the vertigo and frontal impact. Pain receptors registered fire as her nose buckled against the table.

“Miss?” The Interrogatrix feigned concern. “Are you okay?”

Miranda sniffed back a trickle of blood. She felt the Interrogatrix take her hand and place a small wet object in its palm. She inserted the eye back into its socket. A uniocular image of the Interrogatrix sizzled then stabilized. Behind it sat the Duty Witness, fingers poised above the keys. Miranda knew better than to ask what had happened.

“Shall we continue?” the Interrogatrix said. “Why didn’t you stop recording the incident as directed?”

“I already told you.”

“I’ll ask again. Why didn’t you—”

“The boy didn’t do anything!”

Miranda jumped involuntary as the Interrogatrix slammed its hand against the table.

“The boy is not the issue here. You would be wise to worry about your own well-being.”

A droplet of blood fell to the table. Miranda licked her upper lip. It tasted of copper.

“Are you going to charge me, or are you just having a slow day?”

The Duty Witness tensed, looked up from its machine.

The Interrogatrix removed the tissue covering the eyeball still on the table. The sudden introduction of a disparate visual field disoriented Miranda. She held a hand to her head as she mentally severed the connection. The Interrogatrix held the tissue out to her.

“You’re free to go.”

Miranda pressed the tissue to her nose. A door behind her opened and a Junior Watchmen stepped into the room.

“What about the boy?” Miranda said.

The Interrogatrix sighed.

“Again with the boy. We released him hours ago. Processing swarm is more trouble than it’s worth, and you can’t drown them like kittens.” The Interrogatrix stood and pushed in its chair. “The officer here will escort you from the premises. Just as soon as we wipe that vid from your cache.”

BACK AT HER APARTMENT, Miranda popped out her eye and dropped it in a bowl of sterilization gel. The socket had already turned a puffy pink around the edges. There was no telling what kind of bacteria populated the surface of a Fundament of Justice interrogation room, and chances were the microscopic bastards now fornicated in her ocular cavity. Since the Interrogatrix had “forgotten” to return her other eye, this left her momentarily blind. It would take weeks of red tape and paperwork to get her tech back.

She checked her wireless backup to make sure it had received the footage of the boy. The info wipe had left her brain fuzzy, so she couldn’t rely on analog memory. She bumbled her way across the cell-sized apartment, sat in front of her computer and plugged in direct via a port in her temple. She clicked on the file.

The vid played in her head. A ninety pound urchin, probably separated from its swarm, lay face down on the pavement with a knee between its shoulders. Said knee connected to a two hundred fifty pound Fundament Junior Watchman. He held the perp’s skinny arms behind its back in a single meaty fist. The owner of the superette in front of which this took place looked on as the Watchman pushed forward on the hyper-extended limbs, threatening the integrity of the kid’s joints.

“Let him go, you’re hurting him!” Miranda heard herself yell. A small crowd had gathered, but no one intervened.

The superette owner’s eyes brimmed with righteous anger as he turned them on Miranda.

“Last week he is a thief. No one fools me twice.”

“I came to pay…” The boy forced the words through clenched teeth and spittle. A crumpled fifty-bit promissory note, rare these days but still valid tender, fell from the urchin’s tethered hand. The owner’s face softened.

“See?” Miranda said. “He came to make good. Besides, isn’t this amount of force excessive for a shoplifter?”

The owner wrung his apron in sweaty hands. Looked from the note to the Watchman.

“It doesn’t cover my loss, but maybe I make an exception? Maybe you let him go?”

The Watchman maintained his grip, didn’t take his eyes off the urchin’s neck.

“According to Fundament Code an arrest in progress cannot be interrupted or countermanded. It can only be retroactively nullified by a judge.”

Miranda scanned her knowledge of Fundament Code. No such statute existed. She took a step forward.

“You heard the shopkeeper, he doesn’t want to press charges. You have to let the boy go.”

The Watchman’s head pivoted on its thick neck to face Miranda.

“I don’t have to do ANYTHING…” He punctuated the word with a sharp yank of the boy’s arms. “...of the sort.”

He took his knee out of the boy’s back and lifted him by the wrists. When the Watchman stood to his full height, the urchin’s feet dangled a good six inches above the ground. The Watchman narrowed his eyes at Miranda.

“Are you vidding this?”

“No, I—” Miranda’s voice caught in her throat. She took a step back. “It’s my right as a citizen.”

“Turn it off.”

“I’m not doing anything illegal.”

“I said TURN IT OFF!”

The Watchman jerked up on the boy’s arms. A shoulder dislocated with an audible snap. A sharp scream tore from the boy, then his head fell forward and his body went slack.

The Watchman threw the boy’s limp body into the back of a waiting squad car. He held the door and motioned for Miranda to join him.

“You too, bitch.”

MIRANDA POSTED THE VID on her personal media feed, tagging it with a call to action. Within minutes the usual harassing replies began to aggregate. Swarm fucker. He shouldn’t have resisted. You break the law you get what you deserve. It was rare someone responded with anything constructive. Combined with the recent backlash over a misidentified terror suspect, the notoriously capricious members of the social platform felt less altruistic than usual. An encrypted message came through from username Officer Friendly: You look hot. Have you tried sucking Fundament cock?

Miranda yanked the feed wire from her temple. She winced as the connection severed, but welcomed the darkness. After twenty-four hours in a Fundament holding facility she felt ready to pass out. She’d be useless unless she took her brain offline a few hours.

AFTER A QUICK NAP to keep the post-wipe migraine at bay, Miranda popped in her eye and made herself ramen. She stared at the wall as she ate. If she stayed in she’d just monitor her media feed all night, so she washed up and hit the streets. She’d stuffed her empty eye socket with alcohol-soaked cotton and covered it with a patch. She didn’t have a destination in mind, but found her feet covering the same ground they’d traversed the day before. The owner of the superette saw her coming from across the street and ran to intercept her.

“No, no, no. I don’t want more trouble.” He waved a hand, shooing an invisible fly.

“Relax, I’ve had more than my share. I just came for…” Miranda scanned the shelves. “...a pack of gum.”

The shopkeeper eyed her with suspicion.

“Which brand?”

Miranda couldn’t help laughing to herself as she pointed at a random pack.

“That one.”

She turned her hand to expose the QR code tattooed on her wrist. The owner pulled out his reader and scanned it.

“Thanks,” said Miranda.

They both stood there.

“I’m sorry about the boy. But he should not steal.”

Miranda nodded.

“I know. He was desperate.”

“I know.”

More silence.

“Plus,” Miranda said, “he tried to pay you back.”

“I know.”

The owner produced the crumpled fifty-bit note. Smoothed it out as best he could.

“Can I see?”

The owner handed her the note.

“Keep it. I no longer want it.”

Miranda took the note. In the lower left-hand corner she noticed a symbol stamped in silver ink. A swarm marker.

“Have you submitted a statement of retraction?”

The owner wrung his apron in his hands.

“I cannot leave superette. The station is a long walk and I cannot afford to close.” Then, off Miranda’s disappointed look— “Plus, he should not steal.”

Miranda could only nod.

“I know.” The mantra of the evening.

She turned to go, tried to put the kid out of her mind. What difference did it make? They’d already tossed him back on the street. So they claimed the skeptical part of her brain added. It sounded a little too convenient, but what could she do? She’d taken less than a dozen steps when the superette owner called after her.

“Miss, wait!’

Hope surged. Maybe he’d had a change of heart. Miranda turned to look. The man held a pack of shiny foil out to her.

“You forgot your gum.”

MIRANDA CHECKED THE MEDIA feed on her portable as she put distance between herself and the superette. Nothing but threats and mockery. Someone had even looped the Watchman yanking the boy’s arm from its socket and set it to a novelty dance song. It made Miranda sick but she couldn’t look away. She stuffed a stick of gum in her mouth, mesmerized by the violence. The longer she watched, the less real it felt. In the span of a few seconds it went from horrific to mundane to comical, which made her feel even worse.

She tried telling herself the kid was fine. Fundament code dictated all detainees had a right to medical attention. They couldn’t release someone with an injury caused by one of their officers. At least not technically.

But it was a moot point. Part of Miranda had already decided to visit the kid’s swarm.

FIVE OR SIX SWARM hives existed in the city at any given time. They each had their own distinct logos. Most civvies had gotten QR codes to transfer bit-rations, but swarm kids lived off the grid, hence the use of outdated physical currency. The stamp on the note the superette owner had given Miranda belonged to a group called the Silverbacks. Even your fresh-off-the-bus civvie knew what parts of the city to avoid, so it didn’t take long to find their camp.

Miranda threw one last look over her shoulder before ducking down the alley. Losing one of her eyes had fucked her peripheral vision. A kid in a ratty hoodie stopped her in front of a rusted-out hole in the corrugated metal. He mustered more menace than someone his age should have been capable of.

“You lost, lady?”

Miranda brandished her wrist. Not the one with the QR code. The one with the faded purple and gold tattoo.

“Damn, old school. Never seen that one outside the history books.”

“I’m here to see the man in charge.”

The kid grinned a handful of blackened pegs.

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” He moved aside with mock politeness.

Miranda fumbled through the maze of sheet metal, winding her way to the heart of who-knows-where. It opened into a large space only slightly brighter than the tunnel. Mattresses lined the perimeter, most occupied by dirty human bundles. A clutter of tents dominated the center. On the far side, up on a concrete platform, stood the mansion on a hill. The largest, newest looking tent with the least amount of patches.

Miranda felt the eyes as she approached the tent. Three Silverbacks sat on the edge of the platform.

“It true you used to be a Royal?” the largest, dirtiest one said.

“That’s right.”

“Let’s see it.”

Miranda held up her wrist.

“Cool.” It sounded almost reverent. The other two nodded their approval. Big Dirty motioned towards the tent.

“She’s expecting you.”

She. Miranda couldn’t remember ever encountering a female hive leader, despite the obvious queen bee analogy. But there she lay on a pile of sleeping bags, flipping through an old Tiger Beat magazine. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Two other girls lounged alongside her, painting their nails. Best friends? Lieutenants?

“Swarm that leave the hive don’t usually come back and visit,” the hive leader said without looking up. “Like they’re ashamed of where they came from.”

Miranda looked at the girl’s companions, then slowly reached into her pocket and pulled out the fifty-bit note.

“I have something that belongs to you.” She unfolded the bill for all to see. The leader put down her magazine and studied the silver stamp.

“Marked currency isn’t supposed to leave the hive. Where’d you get it?”

“You heard about the incident at the superette?”

The two girls exchanged a look with their leader. Definitely lieutenants. The leader nodded.

“Momma’s Boy.”

“You know him?”

“Yeah. Not one of ours. Came looking for work. Had a debt to pay. Word on the street is his moms caught him stealing and forced him to make good.”

The lieutenants giggled.

“Well he got pinched,” Miranda said. “I’m here to settle his account.”

“Like I said, he came to me for work, not a loan. He earned that money.”

Miranda didn’t like the way that sounded.

“Couldn’t have been much, for a fifty.”

The hive leader grinned. A grin hardened by a lifetime on the streets before she’d even hit puberty.

“You may have noticed we run things a bit different at this hive. Round here, the girls are in charge. I’m sure you remember what it used to be like.”

Miranda thought back to her time on the street. She’d been lucky to develop a way with electronics. Girls without a specific skill had to ply the trade. Fundament looked the other way because swarm kids weren’t registered, hence they weren’t human. In fact, some of the swarm’s best customers held high-ranking FOJ positions.

But Momma’s Boy wasn’t swarm. That made him a registered civvie.

“Maybe I could trade the fifty for some information. You called him Momma’s Boy. You know where I can find his kin?”

The leader snapped a finger. One of her lieutenants got up and plucked the fifty from Miranda’s hand.

“She lives in a glitch over by the Heights,” the hive leader said. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

ROOSEVELT HOUSE WAS A twelve story tenement in desperate need of demolition. No signs of life out front. Just a courtyard paved with weeds and gravel.

Miranda found the front door locked, but somebody’d smashed the glass. She crouched down and stepped through. Inside the lobby a middle-aged man sat in a busted recliner, absorbed in a newspaper. As far as Miranda remembered, the city paper had gone under years ago. Now the only accessible news came via wireless media feed.

“Help you?” the man said, face hidden by outdated sports and weather.

“Looking for someone.”

“You got a warrant?” The old timer wanted to dance. Miranda obliged him.

“I’m not Fundament. You know this kid?” She held up her portable. The old man put down his paper to look. “I heard his family lives in one of the glitches.”

The old man turned his attention to Miranda. Glitches were illegal. The tech wasn’t stable and no one with money wanted to share their space, even with someone on an out of phase timeline. But the FOJ didn’t do much to prevent slumlords from jamming buildings full of the unregistered. Even the registered poor weren’t worth government concern. In a good glitch, separated from your cohabitors by milliseconds, the worst you had to worry about was a bit of ghosting or some phantom sounds. Single socks disappearing in the drier or a misplaced remote. But most glitches were separated by upwards of seconds, and there had been cases of entire families vanishing, never to be heard from again.

The old man finished his evaluation, turned back to the paper.

“I’m just a lookout. And it’s not like we keep a registry.”

“Is there anyone who would know?”

The old man shrugged.

“Maybe the guy who collects rent. He’s pretty good with faces.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Comes the first of every month.”

Miranda checked the date on her portable. The 2nd.

“Shit.”

The old man put his paper down a second time.

“Just out of curiosity, what do you want with the boy?”

“He was arrested in an altercation at a local superette. They told me he’d been released. Considering how trustworthy Fundament is, I wanted to make sure.”

The old man considered this.

“Tell you what.” He shifted in his recliner. “I gotta take a wicked slash. What say you cover for me? Maybe I don’t come back for a few hours, maybe somebody who knows the family wanders by. That work?”

Miranda had no other option.

“Leave the paper. I’ve never seen one.”

THE OLD MAN DIDN’T return until the following morning. He found Miranda curled up in a fetal position on the recliner, using the newspaper for a blanket.

“Didn’t expect you’d still be here.”

A single eye peered out from beneath the paper.

“What the fuck took so long?”

“At my age, things don’t work as well as they used to.”

Miranda tried not to envision the world’s most arduous piss as she got to her feet.

“Any luck?” the old man asked.

Miranda shook her head.

“Yeah, no one much comes or goes around her. Don’t wanna tempt the glitch more than necessary. You mind showing me that picture again?”

Miranda pulled out her portable. The old man stared at the image, nodding to himself.

“Thought so. That’s Audrey’s boy. She lives on the third floor, glitch two.”

Miranda balled her empty hand into a fist.

“Thought you were just a lookout,” she said, arm trembling.

“And that’s what I was doing. Looking out. Had to make sure you weren’t Fundament. Fundament wouldn’t spend the night sleeping in the lobby of no glitch house, so now I know.”

Miranda gave the old man the meanest stare she could muster with only one eye. He let her have a moment to cool down.

“Names Larry, by the way. Ever been in a glitch? I’ll take you up. Audrey’s expecting you.”

LARRY OPENED THE ELEVATOR panel. He pushed aside a mess of wires to reveal a second, smaller panel. He opened it with a key. Inside were three buttons and a rusty Frankenstein switch, like the ones used to fry movie-convicts in the electric chair. Larry gripped the rubber handle and turned to Miranda.

“You ready? This ain’t exactly pleasant.”

Miranda nodded, gripped one of the handrails, also made of rubber.

Larry threw the switch. Nothing happened. Then—

The elevator hummed. The hair on Miranda’s arms came alive. Her organs jostled for position as pressure built. She looked at Larry, who seemed unfazed. He concentrated on the hum, which rose in pitch, like an engine about to change gears. Just as the sound neared the point of ear-piercing, Larry jabbed a button.

The elevator flashed white and an invisible hand gripped Miranda’s stomach. She fell to her knees and vomited. Larry did the polite thing and looked away.

“Is it over?” Miranda said over the ringing in her ears.

Larry reset the switch and closed both panels. He pushed the button for the third floor.

“The easy part is.”

“LARRY SAYS YOU’RE LOOKING for my son.”

A pair of milky eyes met Miranda’s own. Laser focused, despite their impairment.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do you want with him?”

Miranda shot Larry a questioning look. Hadn’t they been through this? He made a motion with his hand. Keep talking. Miranda turned back to the door and forced a polite smile.

“May we come in, please?”

The old woman limped back into the apartment, letting the door swing behind her. That was as much welcome as they were going to get. Larry nodded for Miranda to follow.

“Before she changes her mind,” he said.

A short hallway led to the main living area. A small kitchenette occupied one side of the room. On the other, a door leading to the bedroom. Edges appeared soft, out of focus. The air hummed electric. Both side effects of the glitch. Audrey eased into one of two facing armchairs. Miranda and Larry positioned themselves on either side of the other.

“Well?” Audrey stared at the empty chair across from her. Miranda swallowed. She could still taste vomit.

“Larry told you I’m not Fundament, right?”

Audrey cocked her head as if listening to an unseen advisor.

“More than one predator in this jungle. Fundament just happens to be top of the food chain.”

Food. The word made Miranda’s stomach queasy.

“I wanted to make sure—”

She had been about to say Mama’s Boy.

“I wanted to make sure your son was okay. Watchman roughed him up pretty bad.”

The old woman nodded. If news of her son’s mistreatment distressed her, her face didn’t show it.

“You don’t even know his name, do you?”

Miranda’s stomach flip-flopped.

“If you’d be willing to tell me, I’d like to know his name very much.”

Audrey looked away, towards the thick curtain that hid the room’s only source of natural light.

“Must be nice when worrying’s your hobby, not a full-time job.”

Miranda sighed. She tried to think of what to say next, but her brain refused to comply. She hacked out a series of dry coughs instead.

“Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

Audrey grunted. “Tap’s not safe.” She gestured over her shoulder with a thumb. “You’ll have to boil it.”

Miranda walked to the kitchenette and filled a saucepan with water. She set the water on a rusty hotplate. A watched pot never boils a voice in her head chided. Something her own mother might have said, except she didn’t remember her mother—only the phrase. Still, she’d heard it clearly.

“I said a watched pot never boils,” Audrey called over her shoulder, louder this time.

Miranda shook her head clear. She probed an ear canal with her pinky, worried the elevator ride had damaged her hearing mods.

“Why don’t you tell me your story while we wait?” Audrey said.

Too worn out to argue, Miranda spilled her guts. From the arrest to the swarm camp to the glitch house. She only left out one detail—what Momma’s Boy had done for the money. Audrey listened without interrupting. Miranda gauged her reaction by Larry’s reaction. They had just reached the part about the unhelpful old woman at the glitch house when a soft groan floated across the room.

“Did you hear that?” Miranda looked past the old woman, past Larry to the bedroom door.

“In the glitch,” Audrey said, “you’re never truly alone.”

Miranda looked at Larry, but his blank expression revealed nothing. Another groan echoed the first.

“Is there someone in that room?” Miranda pointed at the closed door. Had it been open when they arrived? Audrey bristled.

“Larry didn’t explain phantom sounds to you? Mr. Ferguson—the man in the next glitch—has the cancer. Doesn’t get much sleep.”

Miranda backed down. She didn’t want to appear insensitive. Besides, why would Audrey bother seeing her if the prodigal son had already returned? She turned to check on the hotplate. The water in the pan had boiled down to a couple mouthfuls.

A neglected pot boils too fast, Miranda thought as she turned off the hotplate and set the pan aside to cool. She waved away the steam, as if that would help. She was on the verge of cutting her losses when a sharp yell tore across the room, followed by a muffled crash. Miranda jumped in her skin.

“I thought you said there was no one in there.”

Audrey stiffened.

“There isn’t.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take a look.” Miranda strode towards the room.

One step.

“I told you—”

Two steps.

“—he ain’t—”

Three steps. Audrey filled her lungs.

“God dammit, the boy’s gone!”

Miranda stopped mid-stride. Despite its impressive volume, a trace of vulnerability had entered Audrey’s voice.

“I ain’t seen him in days.”

Miranda turned to the old woman. She’d shrunk into the chair, her stern features gone soft. Opaque eyes stared at wrinkled hands.

“And if the swarm don’t know where he is, that means one of two things. Either Fundament still has him, or he’s dead.”

The bluntness of Audrey’s words broke Miranda’s heart. In that moment she forgave the woman her difficult behavior. Wanted to reach out and put her arms around her, put her lips to her ear and say just the right thing to ease her pain.

“You don’t know that for sure...”

Audrey looked up, blind eyes like daggers. The vulnerable moment had passed. An anomaly.

“You think you know my boy better than me?”

Miranda thought back to what the hive leader had said. He earned that money.

“There are things we can do. Organize, demand an investigation—”

“We don’t have to do anything.”

Audrey’s pride loomed large, a terror to behold. Miranda’s concern for Mamma’s Boy cowered in its shadow. She ran her thumb over the swarm tattoo on her wrist, a permanent reminder of where she’d come from.

“I’m not some fucking tourist, you know.”

“Worse!” Audrey shot back. Miranda put a hand to her cheek as if she’d been slapped. Larry averted his gaze.

“Used to be,” the old woman went on, “when things got bad, the have-nots would rise up to overthrow the haves. It’s easy to risk it all when nothing’s all you’ve got. But once a have-not has something to lose, even if it’s the tiniest of something, they become reluctant to take risks on behalf of others.”

Miranda couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The last of her patience vanished in a puff of dust. She wanted to scream but didn’t possess the strength. Her body needed water NOW. She went on autopilot, stormed back to the kitchenette. Grabbed the saucepan by the handle and brought it to her lips. Filled her mouth with too-hot water.

Larry’s eye’s went wide. Miranda, realizing her mistake, clamped her lips tight, focusing her anger on the pain. Tears welled up as she swallowed the scalding mouthful. It slid down her throat like a fist. Audrey continued her monologue, unaware. Almost as if she spoke to herself.

“We gave these people their power over us. We gave it willingly. And power given is not so easily taken back. In our naivete, we assumed we could defend justice with the pen. We would have been better off erecting a guillotine in the town square.”

MIRANDA WENT TO THE local Precinct and stood in line. There was still hope, still things she could do to help. Six feet and four hours later she and her fellow queuers were informed they’d need to return the next morning. She set her alarm for the ass-crack of dawn and was first in line when the doors reopened. Three hours later she’d filled out a Personal Property Requisition for her missing eye and an Information Request concerning Mama’s Boy, even though she still didn’t know his name. After another three hours on line she turned the documents in.

She went home and deep-dived into the media feeds. She didn’t come up for days, except to shit. She could eat and sleep in front of the computer. Collective outrage lost its steam as the Mama’s Boy incident faded from people’s memory. The arm-socket meme had been replaced by other hilarious atrocities. A month went by and still no response to the FOJ requests she’d submitted.

Life went back to a semblance of normalcy. Building tech by day and scrapping for parts at night. She spent her time on the feeds following up on work related issues. Calls to action within the city died down. Or maybe she’d been ignoring them. Her personal status quo needed maintaining. She could picture Audrey’s smug, I-told-you-so face.

Then—a personal message, via username thisgirlfuxxx. It read: This your bogey? The attached image showed a Junior Watchman fishing a waterlogged urchin out of the canal. It was hard to decipher with only one optic, so she plugged in direct. The blurry bundle could have been anything. Adjusting brightness and contrast proved little help. With all the advances in tech, you still couldn’t say enhance like in the movies to magically improve picture quality.

That’s when Miranda realized she’d likely never know what happened to Mama’s Boy. Her last bit of hope curled up under the porch and died. But her anger...

Her anger persisted.

THE LEADER OF THE Silverbacks laced up a pair of combat boots as Miranda entered the tent. Her posse of two stood at attention, dressed for reconnaissance. If Miranda’s previous visit had interrupted a slumber party, this time she’d interrupted a preparation for war.

“You’ve got five minutes.” The hive leader made two separate loops with her laces and knotted them together.

“I need a contingent of swarm.”

The girl looked up from her boots. One of her lieutenants arched a finely plucked eyebrow.

Later that night, the biggest swarm riot in years hit the city. Fundament lockup filled to capacity, and the overflow had to be carted off to neighboring precincts. Authorities assured the public of their safety, calling the incident a fluke, some sort of drug-induced mass hysteria. Behind closed doors they wracked their brains for a legitimate explanation.

THE OWNER OF THE superette greeted Miranda with a weary smile. His establishment lay in shambles around him.

“You see?” He pointed to the destruction. “Swarm did this.”

“I know,” Miranda said. Same old mantra.

“Maybe the kid tells his friends, that old guy’s soft. Let’s teach him a lesson.”

Miranda fingered the strap on her eyepatch.

“The kid is dead.”

“Oh.” The owner looked away. Was that relief or guilt she saw on his face?

Miranda scanned the ground, trying to figure out how to say what she’d come to say. She spotted a crushed foil pack and bent to pick it up. She smiled as she held the gum out to the shopkeeper.

“I need a favor,” she said.

THE INTERROGATRIX LOOKED UP from its tablet and glared across the table. The Duty Witness typed away in the background.

“Says here you assaulted a Junior Watchman.”

Miranda made a peace sign with her hand. Or was it V for victory?

“Two.” She smiled, revealing a chipped tooth. “You’re a hard synthetic to see. I had to take drastic measures.”

The Interrogatrix laid the tablet on the table.

“If this is about your tech, you need to fill out a Property Requisition. In case you haven’t heard, I’m up to my neck in swarm.”

“This isn’t about my tech, although it’d be nice if I didn’t have to keep stuffing my ocular cavity full of cotton. May I?” Miranda didn’t wait for permission. She removed her eyepatch to expose a tuft of white. The Duty Witness watched as Miranda pulled the wad of cotton out of her head and placed it on the table.

“There. Much better.”

The Interrogatrix peered into the empty socket as if it were a pipeline to Miranda’s thoughts.

“This is about the boy, isn’t it? Your little swarm friend.”

“He wasn’t swarm. He was registered.” Miranda fiddled with the cotton, pulled it apart in her hands. The Interrogatrix played the waiting game.

“You know,” Miranda finally said. “You really should train these new recruits better. Sure, they were plenty thorough patting down my tits, but no one even asked me about the eyepatch.”

The Duty Witness stiffened as Miranda pulled a slim pearl disc from amid the cotton. With her other hand she pointed at her face.

“I wanted to be all like, Hellooo? My eye is up here.”

The interrogatrix ignored the joke.

“What is that?”

“This thing?” Miranda held up the pearl disc. “Just a simple frequency emitter. Nothing for you to worry about.”

The Duty Witness stood and backed up against the wall. The Interrogatrix looked almost impressed.

“Not bad. Should I slow clap?” She paused for effect. “I’ll tell you what, you get an A for effort, that’s for sure. Unfortunately this is a bomb proof room, so the only person you’ll succeed in killing is yourself. Despite the transcriber’s pathetic reaction, we are both algorithms housed on a server. These bodies are merely hosts. In fact, I’m interrogating suspects in three other precincts as we speak.”

Miranda stood to her feet, brandishing the emitter between thumb and forefinger. The Duty Witness went into panic mode, screaming for help and clawing at walls. It slammed its body against the one-way glass. The Interrogatrix rolled its eyes.

“Would someone shut that damn thing off, please?”

The Duty Witness ragdolled to the floor. It’s howl faded in a slur of digital distortion.

“That’s better. Those things are long overdue for an upgrade. Where were we?”

Miranda indicated the emitter once again.

“Right. You were about to blow yourself to Kingdom Come. Any last words?”

Miranda thought back to her conversation with the hive leader.

—What makes you think I’d give you a contingent of swarm?

—I’d be doing you a favor. I’ve seen how crowded this place is. How many of these urchins have debts to pay? How many actually contribute?

“Oh, this isn’t connected to me,” Miranda said out loud. “It’s connected to silicon charges implanted on dozens of random swarm.”

Somehow the Interrogatrix’s smile grew, taking up the whole of its face like a carnival grin.

“Now I’m really impressed. In order to save one precious little urchin, you’re willing to sacrifice the lives of the many.”

—So you’re what, offering to take them off my hands?

—Exactly. No one with trade skills or seniority. Only those who’re expendable.

“Things need to change,” Miranda said.

The Interrogatrix stood and planted its hands on the table. Pressed its face against Miranda’s.

“I know,” it said. The superette owner’s mantra. “The question is, are you going to be the one to change them?”

Miranda’s hand swayed. The frequency emitter hovered between them, momentarily forgotten during the staring contest. An unfair fight, rigged from the start. Two eyes versus one.

“Hard to say,” Miranda said, sizing up her adversary. “I suppose I’ll never really know.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because power given is not so easily taken back.”

Miranda squeezed the pearl between thumb and forefinger. In the silence of the interrogation room it rang out like a skull cracking.

AUDREY’S EARS PERKED UP at the sound. Right away she knew it wasn’t a phantom. A slow creak, building in intensity, accompanied by tentative footsteps. She lifted her head, turned her face towards the source of the disturbance. She sensed more than saw the shaft of light stabbing into the apartment from the hall. Standing within that light, the sharp edges of a child’s silhouette. A wet breath escaped Audrey’s mouth.

The child ran to her, dropped to his knees and buried his face in her lap. Audrey wrapped her arms around him and didn’t let go, even as the explosions sounded in the distance.

About the Author

JOSHUA CHAPLINSKY is the Managing Editor of LitReactor.com. He is the author of ‘Kanye West—Reanimator.’ His short fiction has been published by Motherboard, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Thuglit, Severed Press, Perpetual Motion Machine Publishing, Pantheon Magazine, Broken River Books, and more. Follow him on Twitter at @jaceycockrobin. More info at joshuachaplinsky.com.

Playing the Hand You’re Dealt

M. A. AKINS

EVEN THE END OF the world won’t make me miss our annual poker game. It’s a tradition that’s been going on for thirty-five years now. Normally we get together around seven, which at this time of year, is just after dark. Today we’re meeting at noon. It doesn’t feel right. There’s something about gambling in natural light that seems, well, unnatural. But, as I said, even the end of the world… I’m just grateful the timing worked out.

Roger, Charlie, Bill, Daryl, and I have been playing poker ever since we survived an ambush in the second Iraq war. We were the only ones. Charlie took a couple rounds, one in the shoulder, the other in his right thigh, just missing the artery. We played poker on Charlie’s cot while he was in the medic’s tent waiting for medevac to the hospital. That’s where we played the first game, and we’ve been playing on that day ever since. With Daryl dying of pancreatic cancer a little less than a year ago, around the time my wife Sandy was diagnosed with brain cancer, this is the first time any of us has been absent. I wanted to be with him the day he died, but at least the other guys made it, so he didn’t die alone. Sure, his wife and daughter were there too, but he needed us just the same. I called him to say goodbye, but it felt like I was cheating. Sandy understood, even told me to go, but I knew she needed me more.

I pull up to the wood cabin and park behind a red Porsche Cayenne. I wonder who the hell owns that? I see Bill’s rusted Ford pickup and Roger’s ancient Chevy, not looking any different than the day he first bought it, so it must be Charlie’s. My son Matt steps out of the car before I turn the engine off. We didn’t speak at all during the two-hour drive. We hadn’t spoken in the last five months, so he surprised me by saying yes when I asked him to join us to stand in for Daryl.

“Look who decided to show up,” Charlie says as we walk in the door. He walks up to Matt, putting his thin hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I’m sure as hell sorry about your mom, Matt. That’s tough. We appreciate your sittin’ in fer Daryl. Wouldn’t be the same with just the four of us.”

Charlie’s parents moved to Boston from Ireland when he was a child, and he never fully lost the accent. Charlie’s dad wanted him to work for him after we came back from the Gulf and take over the family business. He went to work for Big Y supermarkets instead, loading trucks at a distribution center, never even taking a promotion to shift supervisor so he wouldn’t have to be responsible for anyone but himself. He’s worked there ever since.

“So, this is the mysterious cabin dad’s been coming to all these years,” Matt says. He looks up at the vaulted ceiling, then the loft, around to the kitchen area with a small, white two-door fridge and sink with an old radio sitting on the edge. Classical music or something like that plays. A black and white Felix the Cat clock is mounted above the sink. A single log beam stretches from one side of the room to the other, with a solitary five-bulb lamp hanging from it over the round table in the middle of the room. “Don’t you guys eat? Where’s the stove?”

“Not really,” Roger says, opening the fridge door and revealing two loaves of bread, cold cuts, cheese, mustard, and ketchup on the top shelf while bottles of Sam Adams Boston Lager line the remaining two. Pointing to the iron wood burning stove over in the corner, he adds, “If we want something hot, which we almost never do, but if we did, we have this old gal. It’s great for pancakes, bacon, and eggs in the morning. Of course, we didn’t bring anything for breakfast this time.”

Bill hands Matt and me a cold Sam Adams and nods, taking a sip of his own. Bill, a lobster man from Massachusetts, has always been a quiet person, at least as long as I’ve known him. I figured that was the reason his wife left him after only being married a few years. It might have also been he chose to spend more time with his crew on the boat. He never remarried.

I ask who brought the Porsche, and Bill and Roger turn to Charlie, who tells us his neighbor gave it to him. It seems Charlie and he got to talking this morning about the poker game, our history, Daryl, and all that when the guy takes out the keys and tosses them to him. He tells Charlie not to gamble it away. Charlie tells the guy it’s not that kind of game, no heavy hitters, but the man just turns around and walks back into his house, sipping his coffee.

“We’ve been neighbors for I don’t know how long,” Charlie says. “and this is the first time he gives a shit about my day. Even gave me a damn fine cup o’ Joe. Anyway, he just got that SUV too. Still has that new car smell.”

“It’s the luck of the Irish,” Roger says.

Roger’s a big man with a nervous demeanor. He used the GI Bill after returning home to get a degree in computer engineering and started his own network security company after that. He’s the richest one of us, but you would never know it the way he dresses. If there was a time he wore an expensive watch, a tailor-made suit, or anything that didn’t look like it came off the rack at a JC Penney’s, I couldn’t tell you.

“Even out in the sticks where I live, there was quite a bit of chaos at the beginning,” I say and then nod towards Matt. “But this morning it was quiet when I picked up my son. I suppose people are with family or at church today.”

Matt stares down at his beer.

After I buried my wife, I didn’t have time to mourn her properly. As soon as I could, I stockpiled canned goods, water, and toilet paper, bought a few hundred rounds of ammunition, and filled up extra gas cans. I made sure I had enough for two and then some. If all hell was going to break loose, I would make damn sure my part of the world was secure. I wanted Matt with me, so I called him over and over again. He never picked up the phone. I drove to his place twice a week, but he never came to the door. Fortunately, my visions of apocalyptic doom never came to pass. Still, I worried about how well Matt would do under the circumstances.

“Well, boys, the family’s all here and this is our church. Time fer communion,” Charlie says, grabbing five tumbler glasses and a bottle of Makers Mark out of the pantry.

“For Pete’s sake, Charlie, you’d think you could be a little less, you know, sacrilegious today,” Roger says.

After Charlie fills each glass half way, he says, “There ain’t no God. I’ve been a Catholic all my life, and at no time, did the priest—”

Bill clears his throat. “Gentlemen, we have a tradition. Now knock off the silly squabbling.” As I said, Bill’s a quiet man, a quiet man with a deep, commanding voice people listen to. He raises his glass, and we follow suit. “To Daryl and fallen comrades.” My throat burns as the bourbon rushes down.

I never liked talking about religion. Sandy grew up with it, regularly going to church, praying before the meal, the whole bit, and while my family proclaimed to be among the faithful when asked, the only time you heard the Lord’s name in our house was when we took it in vain. They say there are no atheists in foxholes and I always thought that meant the idea of getting killed put the fear of God in you. I guess I don’t feel any different today than I did then.

The music stops.

My friend in Perth, Australia tells me the asteroid will enter the atmosphere in a short while.

The music starts again. It sounds a little like elevator music.

After some more small talk, Bill refills the bourbon glasses and we migrate to the table with a deck of cards and an old radio. Each of us puts ten dollars’ worth of nickels and dimes into piles in front of us. I take the deck of cards from the center, shuffle, and deal.

“Christ! Ya think they could play somethin’ a little more upbeat today,” Charlie says

After a half hour with everyone except Roger winning a hand, the music stops.

Impact! In the next—

I turn the radio off as the cabin trembles, and the bourbon in my glass ripples out to the sides. Matt throws me an angry look, his What-the-hell look. I’m used to it. I pick up my cards, toss in a couple nickels and look at Bill, who tosses in three nickels. Bill won a few thousand in Vegas a few years ago playing poker. As I look at him, I can see how. His expression is as blank as the face on a statue, but with a half-burnt stogie sticking out of a mouth surrounded by a bushy, brown and gray beard.

Matt turns the radio back on, but only music plays now, some jazz piece from the 50’s. He turns the dial only to find static. I look at my watch and then to Roger, who’s toying with the nickels and dimes on the table in front of him. He runs his hand through his thin grey hair. It’s obvious he’s got a bad hand and can’t decide whether to fold or not. Roger couldn’t bluff his way out of anything. Charlie taps his finger on the table with the rhythm of slow faucet leak. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Fer Chrissake Roger, we don’t have all day. Would ya just throw a couple of coins on the pile and be done with it?” Charlie says. “You’ve got a shit hand. Ye know it. We know it.”

Roger throws his cards down.

“I would like a chance to win for once. If this is going to be our last game, I want to win.”

“Win? Nobody wins here except Bill. We’ll all be down before the game is over. The best ye can hope fer is to walk outta here with a little dignity, which, at this point, my friend, you are sorely lacking.”

“I think I can do it this time. I’m only down a little.”

As far as I know, Roger succeeded in everything he did, never losing at anything except poker. He graduated both high school and college with a 4.0 GPA, star quarterback for the university, started a successful business, dated beautiful women, but never married. You name it; he succeeded at it. When we were ambushed, he took cover about fifty meters away from me behind a rock outcropping, popping off a round now and then toward an enemy none of us could see. He wanted to win then too, but knew the odds favored the other side. Still, he got careless at one point, firing without cover and charging forward, and if Daryl hadn’t ordered him to return to his position, he may not have survived that day. I don’t know how he didn’t get killed. I’d call that a success.

Charlie looks to Bill for support. Without looking away from his cards, Bill takes his cigar out of his mouth, taps ash into the ashtray, then puts the stogie back in his mouth. Charlie takes a deep breath and resumes tapping his finger on the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Matt is fidgeting with his cards, folding them together, unfolding and folding. He keeps turning to the radio. I put my hand on his wrist and smile, but he doesn’t notice. He’s focused and unfocused at the same time. I’d seen that look in his mom’s eyes all too often.

When the news broke six months ago, I didn’t tell my wife. I turned off the television and radio and told her we needed to just spend some quiet time together. Because of the pain meds, she slept most of the time anyway. She was at rest now, finally calm after weeks of worrying about us, about how we would take care of ourselves without her. If she had found out, she’d have fussed about what we needed to do, as if there was anything you could do. I couldn’t let her do that to herself with such little time left. Matt disagreed with me. He thought the news would be more of a comfort to her. Because of her faith, she would have believed we would soon be together again. We fought, and only after I let him know he wouldn’t be allowed to see her again until the funeral if he tried to tell her anything did he agree to keep silent. She only lived another three days. We spent those few lucid moments she had reliving the good times and talking about our plans for a future that would never be.

The music stops. The airwaves remain silent.

Australia, Indonesia and New Zeal—

I turn the radio off again before Matt’s reach can stop me. He flicks the knob, and music plays, the stuff my grandma and grandpa listened to from the ‘50s and ‘60s. I’m not sure. This time I get the words along with the look.

“What the hell, Dad?”

“We have a game to play, and it’s your turn now that Roger has finally tossed in his hard-earned coins.” I say.

Charlie chuckles. Bill stares at his hand. Roger wipes his forehead with a paper towel. After glancing at his cards, Matt folds, throwing his cards onto the coin pile.

I lay down my cards, two jacks, two queens, and a ten. Charlie and Roger toss theirs into the pile, face down. Bill, he looks at me, the corners of his mouth widening, showing me teeth clamped down on a cigar. I can’t take my eyes off of that smile. He never smiles like that. One by one he puts the cards on the table, five of hearts, five of clubs, five of diamonds, nine of clubs and nine of spades. Full house. He wraps his arms around the coins as if he just won a million dollars and draws them into his other winnings.

We play another few rounds with Bill winning three more hands, Charlie and Matt one each and me taking two. As I’m dealing another, the music stops and the radio goes silent. Matt leans over the box, blocking me from reaching the dial. I shrug my shoulders.

All broadcasts from China have stopped. Antarctic stations are now silent. In approximately 45 minutes—

Charlie turns the radio off this time and keeps his hand on the dial while Matt glowers at him. After a two-minute stare down, Charlie gives Matt a big goofy grin and turns the dial again. Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Sound of Silence” is playing now. I love the song, but question the person’s mentality for choosing the songs to play today.

“Don’t you want to know what’s going on out there? Don’t you want—”

“No, Matt, we don’t,” I tell him. “We’re playing poker. What’s going on out there doesn’t change what’s going on in here.”

“Once again making the decision for everyone?”

“I’m cool with it,” says Charlie.

“Yeah, me too,” says Roger.

Bill goes to the ice cooler, bringing back another round of beer for everyone. As Matt opens his mouth to say something, Bill pops the cap off of a bottle and puts the bottle in front of his face. Matt takes it from him and doesn’t say anything. When Roger says he’s hungry and now might be a good time for the sandwiches, we all agree, shifting the coins and cards aside to make room for the food.

“You don’t know how hard it was to get this stuff,” Charlie says, spreading mustard over a slice of bread. “I don’t know why I didn’t think about it earlier. Took me a good two weeks of scrounging around the stores to round these up. Who brought the bread anyway? I haven’t seen any in the stores for at least a month.”

“I bought a few loaves and froze them and saved a couple for today,” Roger says. He takes a bite of his ham and cheese. “I wargamed a few scenarios, factoring in a number of possibilities, and came to the conclusion most food products would run dry a couple of weeks before today.”

For the life of me, I don’t know how Roger can be so methodical and still be so terrible at cards.

After we finish the sandwiches, I deal another round. While everyone is studying their hand, the music on the radio ends.

Hawaii and Berlin have ceased broadcasting.

A mellow upbeat song begins playing. The name escapes me, but I remember dancing with my wife to it on our fifth anniversary when Matt was only eighteen months old. It was the first time she left him with a babysitter, her own mother. What if something happens to Mom? she would ask. She’s very healthy and not at all old, I would tell her. What if he won’t stop crying? she’d say a little later. They’ll be all right. I’d say.

I watch Matt fidget with his cards after everyone else tossed in their nickels. I touch his shoulder to remind him to place his bet, and he adds a nickel to the pile. After replacement cards are drawn, we toss more coins in the pile. Matt folds again. Bill wins again.

“Ya know, Matty,” Charlie says. “Don’t take this wrong. You’re doin’ us a big favor playing for Daryl, but I gotta tell ya, Daryl you ain’t. Your Dad ever tell you about him?”

Confusion rolls over Matt’s face.

Roger shuffles the deck. I have to admit. I’m not sure where Charlie’s heading with this or if Matt is going to lose his temper. Knowing how to read Matt was a skill I never mastered.

After his Mom took her last breath, after we cried by her bedside, after I called the hospital, he just stared at me, his face red. He turned away from me. I called him back, but the door slammed shut. At the funeral, we stood side by side next to her coffin as people gave us their condolences. We thanked them together and carried her casket to the hearse together. The whole time he never said a word to me. I never imagined he could be so angry over such a simple request.

“He never talks about the war,” Matt says.

“Let me tell you. Unlike yourself, Daryl could not keep his mouth shut for more than two minutes. Ain’t that right, guys?” Charlie says, taking a peek at the cards Roger handed him. Roger and Bill nod their heads. “He always had some story to tell. I never knew a guy who could have so much to relate after only one year. One year he goes to China, the next Africa. Just to take pictures of wild animals. He shoulda been here after they made that announcement. Talk about animals. Anyway, up to the day he died, he had somethin’ to say. But he wasn’t always like that. No, sir. He was a quiet one in the army. At least until the day of the ambush. He got us out of that firefight with the Iraqis, directin’ fire and keepin’ us movin’. I knew in my heart of hearts we were all goin’ to die, but here we are.”

I remember the vehicles rolling up to the edge of the village, and before I know what’s happening, I watched the Bradley in front of us disappear in a cloud of dust; and then, our Humvee being pelted by gunfire as if we were in a hailstorm, we stopped and I saw the disabled vehicle, its tracks blown off, the back ramp lowering, the first man out shot in the face, then Charlie running out and falling to the ground. I screamed as my driver died when he jumped from the Humvee, and I wanted to shoot back, but there was no room, and Bill pushed me out, rounds whizzing by me, getting closer and closer, as I hugged anything that offered even the smallest bit of protection. I saw the bodies of the rest of our patrol sprawled in the dirt, as bullets splashed into the soft earth around them, a burning Humvee, its ammunition cooking off, sending more projectiles in all directions. Bill vanished off to the side firing as he ran, leaving me alone, and then Daryl’s voice came out of nowhere instructing us to lay down cover fire as he sprinted into that hell to get a radio from our other Hummer. I knew he was calling for evacuation or assistance, but those thirty minutes waiting for the choppers were the longest and loneliest ones of my life. I thought Charlie was dead, and could only see Roger, who looked as scared I did.

Everyone places their bets as Charlie continues.

“I was laid up in the medic tent with a couple well-placed bullet holes in me when in walks Daryl and these three. They’re all carryin’ somethin’; your dad and Roger had some chairs, Bill a deck of cards, and Daryl a bottle of bourbon. I can see them walkin’ in like it was yesterday. But somethin’’s different. Daryl’s talkin’. I mean a lot. We can’t get a word in edgewise.”

Matt plays his hand and loses. He doesn’t look angry anymore. Bill shuffles and deals.

“Fer the love of God, Bill, can’t you cut me a little slack?” Charlie says after looking at the cards. “Anyway, where was I? So every year, Daryl and us get together to play poker and shoot the shit. Daryl still talks a ton and updates us on every little thing that happened durin’ the year. Our last get together, he tells us he’s dyin’ and probably won’t be makin’ it to the next night. Cancer. I went to see him in the hospital just before he passed. While I was there, I had to ask him what made him change that day, the day we nearly died. You know what he told me? He tells me that if he would’ve died that day, we wouldn’t have known him from Adam. He couldn’t live with that. So, from that point on, he told us everythin’ about his life.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Matt asks. “What’s that got to do with today, the radio, or anything else going on in the world? I don’t know why—”

The song on the radio stops in the middle, and Matt whips his head in my direction. I raise my hands up as if surrendering.

San Francisco and London are silent now. This is my final announcement. I hope you’ve enjoyed the selections we chose for you. This station will go off the air after one final song.

The now all too familiar lyrics of REM’s “It’s the End of the World” come pouring into the cabin. Every television and radio station has played it ad infinitum since word of the asteroid broke. Matt puts his fist to his mouth as if to force back a sob, but he chuckles instead. Then he laughs. He laughs hard. Bill smiles then also breaks into hysterical laughter, dragging the rest of us along. We can’t hear the song anymore over our own noise. I force myself to stop and breathe. The song finishes. A minute or two of silence and then static lets us know the announcer powered down the station.

Bill keeps the cards and deals each of us five cards.

“It’s time to wrap this game up,” he says putting a fresh cigar in his mouth and lighting it. He tosses two dimes into the middle of the table. We each in turn add two dimes to the pile, and then without hesitation, Bill replaces three cards.

Roger smiles and asks for only one card. When he sees Charlie looking at him, he looks down at his hand. Charlie asks for two, Matt three, and I take three.

Bill bets five dimes.

Roger ups the ante to six.

Charlie adds six. Matt adds six, and I add six.

Bill tosses in another five and a nickel while Roger again raises the stakes by a nickel.

The betting goes around the table twice more with Bill and Roger in heavy competition and the rest of us just playing along, matching Roger’s bet. When Bill’s turn comes around once more, a low vibration as if a generator has been turned on flows into the table.

Bill takes his cigar out and places it in the ashtray.

“It’s time to stop pussy footin’ around,” he says, shoving all of his coins to the middle.

Roger’s eyes open wide, but he pushes the rest of his coins in without a pause. After I add the last of my money, Bill puts his cards on the table. He doesn’t even have a pair. Roger is giddy with excitement as he lays each card down one at a time. Ace of diamonds. King of spades. Queen of spades. Jack of hearts. Ten of hearts. The rest of us toss down our hands as Roger scoops in his winnings.

Matt stands up, stretches, and goes outside. I follow him as Charlie congratulates Roger and Bill smokes his cigar with a wide grin.

“Son,” I say as I step out onto the porch. “Are you ok?”

“What kind of a question is that? Of course, I’m not all right.” His face softens a little, and he looks up. The light dims as the sun fades behind dust filling the sky. “I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me tell Mom.”

“I know you think you knew her,” I say, “but you didn’t. Not really. What could she have done? Nothing. That’s what. Wasn’t it nice to feel like we didn’t have a care in the world while we were together?”

“No. She might have died a lot happier. You don’t have the right to make all the decisions, yet you did.”

“I don’t think anyone dies happy. She was in a lot of pain, but died peacefully. We can’t control everything, only a very small portion and sometimes not even then. We play the hand we’re dealt.”

A thin dark line grows in the distance, as a gentle warm breeze washes over us. Overhead, fireballs blaze across the sky like shooting stars.

“But you’ve always tried to control everything, Dad. There are too many things you can’t control, and what you do control is very small.”

“I’ve only done what I felt was best for you and your mom.”

“Have you ever considered you might have been wrong on some of those decisions?”

“Sure. Who doesn’t question the calls they make now and again?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. I didn’t come here to rehash this or stand in for Daryl or play poker. I came to be with you because Mom would have wanted me to. Because I wanted to.”

I put my arm around his shoulder as the other three file out of the cabin, joining us on the porch. The wind and heat rise, and I feel sweat run down my left side and bead on my forehead. Pine trees swat the air. As I realize how much my Son is more like my wife than I ever thought, certainly more than me, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“The boys and I were thinkin’ it might be a good time to see what that Porsche can do,” Charlie shouts over the roar.

The ground shakes and rumbles, but we can still stand.

Matt yells, “Where would we go?”

Bill yells back, “Who the hell knows? Beats waiting around to die, don’t ya think?”

Matt and I look at each other and shrug our shoulders. I open the door to let Matt climb in before me, but he shakes his head and gestures for me to get in first. We climb into the SUV and spin out of the driveway toward the highway.

About the Author

M. A. AKINS holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University and lives near Fort Wayne, Indiana where he spends his non-writing time wrangling ten cats. He is currently working on the first book of a young adult fantasy series as well as a children’s picture book. His only other published work appears in Wild Musette Journal.

How Not to Kill A Dragon

JOCELYN SCOTT

“NO EXPERIENCE?” KING GWION demanded.

“Not really,” Bertie mumbled.

“What the hell did you come here for then?” Macaria’s Lord Marshall demanded. He and the two young men were sipping wine in a canteen in the palace of Caer Gwyndon. The clashing of blades and thudding of boots assailed their ears; in the courtyard outside the broad open window soldiers of the King’s Guard were practicing their swordsmanship. “We need seasoned warriors to help His Majesty slay the dragon, not greenhorns.”

“The King’s appeal for volunteers said nothing about experience. I was bored to death as a guardsman of the Duke of Berundor, doing nothing except stand sentinel over his castle day and night against enemies that never appeared. There were no rebellions, no one ever attacked the castle, and even the criminals in the city did nothing more exciting than rob a few shops. That wasn’t what I expected when I enlisted. I’ve always craved adventure, so when I heard the King’s appeal for assistance fighting the dragon, I volunteered.”

The Lord Marshall turned to his young King. “I told you, Sire, you should have let me choose a few doughty lads from the Royal Bodyguard, not send out an appeal to all and sundry. This youth is well-built, granted”—glancing at Bertie’s tall muscular raw-boned frame, “and presumably has had some military training, but—Have you ever killed anything, youngster?”

Bertie hesitated. “Well--uh—when I was a teenager, working on a farm during the school holidays to make a little pocket money, I occasionally shot a rabbit that was raiding the crops.”

“A rabbit!” the Lord Marshall sneered. As Supreme Commander of Macaria’s whole army and a veteran of two wars, one could hardly expect him to be impressed. “A farm-boy, are you?’

“I’m not a farm-boy. I grew up in the city of Berundor. My father’s Assistant Headmaster of its secondary school. He teaches the Old Tongues, and when I was in his classes, we studied plenty of epics about battles.”

“So you’ve inherited ink in your veins instead of blood?” Turning back to the King: “I told you this plan was madness. Let me choose half a dozen--”
“It’s the King’s duty to protect his people,” Gwion retorted stubbornly. “The inhabitants of the Scilla Isles sent a message that they were bedevilled by a gigantic dragon that had burnt all their crops, devoured all their cattle, slain all the knights dispatched to destroy him, and was now devouring their young maidens and children—

What would you expect me to do? Macaria has been their overlord for centuries. I’m young, strong, and an experienced warrior. It’s clearly my job to slay the dragon. And-- as you advised--I’m taking several other warriors along as a backup.”

“I’ve no objection to your going, Sire. But I meant you should bring along several doughty knights of my bodyguard--”

“My bodyguard,” the King corrected. The Lord Marshall uttered a grunt that might have been meant for an apology.

“--not this idiocy about an appeal for volunteers.”

“Professional bodyguards make it so easy it seems like cheating. More honourable to give unknown young men the chance to prove themselves heroes.”

The Lord Marshall uttered a snort which he dared not make too loud. The twenty-six-old King Gwion was brave as a lion, but he was apt to come up with ideas more quixotic than realistic; to make things worse, he was extremely pig-headed and could be touchy. Sneer at his whims and you might find yourself minus a head. Of course the impulsive King would regret it afterward—the Lord Marshall knew his worth—but that would not recapitate you.

“You should be glad I’m bringing along five others. A knight normally slays a dragon single-handed; you know that. But you insisted on backups, so I issued this nationwide appeal. A dozen young men answered, including this youth, who looks very strong and warlike—”

“But has only killed rabbits! And has only experienced war in poetry in dead languages! And”—addressing Bertie again”—I suppose you got top marks in those?”

“When I worked. At school I was mostly rebelling.”

The King looked amused and interested. “Rebelling against what?”

“Against being the Assistant Headmaster’s son. Everybody expected me to be a good little boy, so studious, getting top marks, and respectful to the teachers. My father insisted I was to become a schoolmaster like him. I wanted to be a soldier and have adventures.”

“Couldn’t you have run away and joined a militia?’

“Not at fifteen, I couldn’t. So I stayed in school, as it was better than doing nothing, and there were other teenagers there, some of them girls.”

“That doesn’t sound very rebellious. A healthy interest in girls is normal. What did you do that was so rebellious?”

“Made smart remarks in class in an innocent tone and made the other kids laugh. Did my homework on toilet paper—when I did it. Came to school drunk and rolled beer-bottles down the aisles. Sat at the back of the classroom with my textbook propped on my desk, but inside it a magazine with pictures of naked girls and couples having sex. When the teacher discovered this last, he sent me to the Headmaster. But the Headmaster was in a meeting, so I got sent to my father, who did not know what to do except sigh and issue me a warning. The last straw was when I had sex with a girl on the floor of the refectory when everybody else was having lunch. Of course I was pretty drunk, and so was she. But my father thought inebriation just made it worse.”

King Gwion seemed to be struggling not to smile. “What did he do?”

“The Headmaster suspended me from school for a week and threatened expulsion if anything of the sort happened again. At home my father sighed, summoned me to his study, and instead of giving me the whipping I expected, demanded what was wrong with me. I was extremely bright and could do well if only I would apply myself. I told him for the hundredth time I didn’t want to be a schoolmaster. I wanted to be a soldier, as I was sick and tired of being ordered around. My father, with some sense for once, said that if I wanted to avoid obeying orders, a soldier was the worst profession. I said I’d put up with it as long as I could have adventures, and anyway I intended to become an officer and give orders. Reminded him I was going to be eighteen in March, the following month. At eighteen I could do whatever I wanted with my life, and he couldn’t stop me. Told him I was planning to drop out of school on my birthday and join the Duke’s bodyguard.

“At that he finally admitted defeat. Sighing deeply, he offered me a deal. If I stayed in school to the end of the next year to finish secondary school and got reasonably good marks, then if I still wanted to be a soldier, I could do so with his blessing. Thought it over and accepted. After all, I did find some of the subjects—like history and epic poetry about battles—interesting when I paid attention.

“And”—Bertie looked sheepish—“I really did prefer to have my parents’ approval—I was sick of my mother’s constant crying—as long as they accepted me on my terms, not theirs. So I stayed in school for the final year. Since it was my last year and we could choose our subjects, I told myself I might as well learn all I could before I was finished with school forever. So I got first class honours in every subject except one.”

“So then you joined the Duke’s bodyguard?” the King prompted.

“Yes, but it was a shattering disappointment. Since Berundor is in the centre of the country, there were no invaders to repel, and the duchy’s so law-abiding, there weren’t any rebellions, hardly even any poachers stealing the Duke’s game. And he is so old, he didn’t even take us hunting. So when Your Majesty sent out an appeal for soldiers to slay the dragon, I leapt at the chance.”

King Gwion turned to the Lord Marshall. “I like him.”

“Surely you aren’t going to accept him, Sire? Over a score of men have volunteered and I advised you to take just six, including yourself, since a dozen dragon-slayers would get their spears entangled and trip over each other’s feet. All the other volunteers have fighting experience.”

“They say they have. The lists of monsters and giants some claim to have killed, I refuse to believe. At least this young man’s honest. I want somebody I can depend on.”

“You’ll need more than honesty, Your Majesty. I assume most of the others have killed men, if not monsters or giants; why not choose five of them?”

“I like him,” Gwion repeated stubbornly.

The Lord Marshall sighed. He knew his King and knew when to surrender. “Well, at least you’ll have four others with fighting experience.” To Bertie: “At least have you any military training?”

“Plenty. That was the one thing made service in the Duke’s bodyguard tolerable. We practised with swords and spears every day, on foot and on horseback, and had plenty of jousts and tournaments. And at the former, I generally won.”

“H’m. So maybe you won’t trip over your own feet. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Should be in good condition anyway. What’s your full name?”

“Bertram Segal. But I hate ‘Bertram,’ which my mother,” grimacing, “chose for me—sounds effeminate—and ‘Bert’ sounds like the butcher’s boy, so I prefer ‘Bertie’ as the least of the evils.”

“Bertie Segal then, do you own any armour?”

“Yes. First-rate helmet and breastplate. An excellent sword that my parents bought me on graduation. Plus a good war-horse. Him I bought with my wages.”

“I don’t know how much riding you’ll do, because the dragon lives in a cave near the top of a steep mountain. But at least you won’t be a major expense to the expedition. Try to remember not to trip over your own feet.”

“FARM-BOY!” SPAT OUT Sir Jermyn, a giant with a shock of red hair who was another of the champions. Feet braced against the ship’s rocking, he stood on the deck gazing down at Bertie. Not many men could look down at Bertie, who was six-foot-two, but Jermyn must be six-foot-four. Broad of shoulder, he had bulging biceps decorated with tattoos. The most renowned of the frontier guards on Macaria’s mountainous western border, he was fond of boasting of the cougars, grizzly bears and giants he had slain. A scar on his left cheek and a longer one on his right shin suggested these boasts were not entirely empty.

The three other champions stood gazing at the two of them with amusement. It was twelve days since they had sailed from Caer Gwyndon, and they had seen nothing but waves, clouds, and sea-birds. It was two weeks’ sailing to the Scilla Isles in the most favourable weather, and the most favourable weather was not what they were experiencing now. For over twenty-four hours they had been becalmed, and since they had not enough sailors for rowing, they had bobbed up and down on the wavelets, waiting. A southern breeze puffed at the sails, too feeble to set the ship skimming eastward.

Defiantly Bertie gazed at Sir Jermyn and then at the three others. The twins, Sirs Aron and Arys, looked sardonically amused. As tall as Bertie, they were identical: lean, lithe, dark-haired and blue-eyed, wearing the kilts characteristic of northern Macarians. They came from the guards of the northern frontier, and claimed to have slain dozens of the barbarians who persistently attacked it.

The face of the fifth champion was an aristocratic mask. Blond and elegant in his trim hair-cut and silk tunic in the latest fashion, he was Prince Corwyn, the King’s first cousin, his comrade-in-arms in numerous combats. A jewelled gold belt cinched his waist; his sword was gold-hilted and scabbarded in gold and jewels, Even Bertie, who did not lack confidence, felt rustic and unsophisticated in his presence.

“I’m not a farm-boy,” he flashed back at his tormentor. “My father’s Assistant Headmaster of Berundor’s secondary school.”

The others all burst out laughing. “A scholar who dreams of battles instead of fighting them,” jeered one of the twins. Bertie could not tell them apart.

“Oh, but he’s worked on a farm,” the other twin mocked. “He built up those muscles pitching hay into the barn. And I suppose you’ve milked cows? Very dangerous!”

“If you think I’ve never faced anything more dangerous than a cow, I’ve taunted the farmer’s bull for sport.” Pulling up his tunic, he revealed a scar running down his left ribcage. “That’s how close he got.”

“Idiot, to court danger unnecessarily,” shrugged the Prince. But his tone betrayed increased respect.

“I was bored.”

“Bored, were you?” Jermyn taunted. “Well if you’re bored here, farm-boy, and want to experience a real fight for once--” He drew his sword.

The Prince and the twins glanced toward the stern. King Gwion was deep in conference with the helmsman.

“Clear the decks,” ordered the Prince as Bertie angrily whipped out his blade. Jermyn and the twins kicked aside fishing nets, coils of rope, a wicker basket smelling of fish, and well-worn wet boots encrusted with sea-salt; hoisted kegs of fresh water to one side, and dragged the lifeboat sternward. Drawing his sword, the Prince scored two grooves in the wooden deck.

“Fight between these lines, you two. The masts and sails you’ll just have to dodge around. When you’re in a real fight, farm-boy, nobody’s going to clear away the rocks and trees to make things easy for you. The ocean is so nearly calm it shouldn’t pose a problem--So may the best man win!” Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he produced a piercing whistle.

Bertie advanced toward his adversary with an air of defiance, but a flutter in his stomach. His whole status among his band, he realized, depended on the outcome of this combat. But he was not at as much disadvantage as the others believed. The Captain of the Duke’s bodyguard was a first-rate swordsman and trained his men religiously in fencing, jousting and tourneying. Just three weeks before the appeal for champions came Bertie had proved himself a better swordsman than his master. But never before had he fought with sharp weapons.

Warily they circled each other, each trying to position his opponent so the sun was in his eyes. Suddenly Jermyn lunged out; Bertie parried with an ease that surprised the spectators. He aimed a backhand slash at Jermyn, who dodged it nimbly, then lashed out at Bertie’s side. Up and down the deck they paced, thrusting, lunging, slashing, dodging and parrying. The others watched in silence, the padding of the fencers’ boots on the deck and the gentle slaps of the waves against the ship’s sides the only sounds. Two sailors seated themselves in the nearest gunwale to watch; several others perched in the rigging. Jermyn feinted twice, then stabbed at Bertie’s chest. Bertie was surprised to hear cheering as he dodged it, then with a series of lightning-swift thrusts drove his opponent back to the gunwale. Jermyn was strong, but surprisingly lacking in finesse. Suddenly, leaping left, Bertie twisted his sword in an eye-blurring manoeuvre—and Jermyn’s sword flew out of his hand, over the gunwale, and disappeared into the ocean with a splash.

“Hey there!” a familiar voice thundered. “What the bloody hell have you done?”

Wrath on his face, King Gwion was advancing on them. “Segal, you ass, you’ve robbed our expedition of a first-rate sword.”

“Never mind; I’ll get it,” Bertie said. And without thinking, he stripped off his tunic and dived into the ocean.

As soon as he clove the surface, he realized what an idiot he was. This was not the Avonné River, where he had paddled since a toddler. This was the ocean, where the bottom was several leagues down.

Too obstinate to admit defeat, he opened his eyes. The unfamiliar salt water stung them, but forcing them to stay open, he gazed around. To his astonishment, not far below in the murky depths, he saw a gleam of gold.

It was the hilt of Jermyn’s sword, caught in a tangle of seaweed. (The ship, he later learned, chanced to be sailing over a ridge in the ocean bed.) Shutting his eyes against the salt, with several powerful breast-strokes he propelled himself downward. The water got colder, nipping at him like daggers of ice. When the compulsion to breathe almost overcame him, he opened his eyes. A school of white flatfish were darting past, obscuring his vision. Cursing mentally, he plunged through them, scattering them—and saw the sword, just to his left, two paces below.

Lungs bursting, with a few mighty strokes he forced himself deeper and seized it. As he shot upward, he saw the surface glimmering far above his head. His chest felt ready to explode, but mastering the urge to exhale, he kept swimming. As he yielded to the need and released his breath, the greenish ocean with his bubbles ascending through it, a few tendrils of seaweed, and—was that a mermaid?—grew dimmer and dimmer. He was just about to surrender to the compulsion to inhale when he broke the surface.

A cheer arose from the ship’s deck when the spectators saw the upraised sword. Jermyn reached out and snatched it; other hands pulled Bertie over the gunwale, where he lay gasping for breath like a beached fish.

“I was an idiot to bring an asshole like you on this expedition,” King Gwion grumbled. “but you seem to have the Devil’s own luck, so I’ll let you stay.”

THE WHARF WAS CROWDED with ecstatic citizens, all dressed in their Sunday best, when the ship sailed into the harbour. Men were cheering, women were weeping with joy, children were jumping up and down with excitement.

As the ship glided toward the dock, the sun sinking behind it cast its shadow over the shallows and over the crowd. Behind the grey and blue roofs of the town in their rear rose a mountain tier on tier, grassy green two-thirds of the way up, yielding to grey rocks that soared to a single peak. Bertie stared upwards. Just below the peak was a black splotch that could be the mouth of a cave. Around it in the sapphire sky circled a green winged creature that looked like a giant insect.

“Is that the dragon?” King Gwion called out.

“Yes,” chorused several of the townsfolk. “It’s eaten all our sheep and cattle, all our dogs and cats, and now it’s eating our kids.” Several women started crying. Bertie guessed they had lost children.

“Don’t worry!” boomed Gwion in his carrying baritone. “I’ve brought you six champions. One of us will slay it for you tomorrow.”

FIRST LIGHT THE NEXT morning revealed six armour-clad warriors tramping up the mountainside, clutching spears. Though the sky on both sides was sapphire, the western flank of the mount, which they were treading, was still in shadow. Gwion strode two paces ahead, his stride purposeful. Behind him, abreast, marched the Prince and Sir Jermyn, with the twins, also abreast, in their wake. Bertie tramped alone at the rear, feeling superfluous.

In all the tales he had heard or read, the knight fought the dragon on horseback.

But highest scarps of this tor were too steep for riding, so Gwion had decreed they go on foot. They ascended for the most part in silence. For the first several hundred furlongs they passed through farmland, which Bertie found himself comparing with the countryside where he had worked in his teens.

The pitch of the roofs here was steeper and their tiles blue or grey instead of the crimson or dark green at home. The wooden rail fences were straight instead of zigzag. But those differences were superficial. The real difference was that this farmland was eerily desolate. Green pastures were in abundance, but no sheep, cows or goats were to be seen cropping the grass. Even more chilling, no birds sang or chirped in the trees. The windows of the farmhouses were all shuttered. Though it was cool this early in the morning, nary a wisp of smoke rose from a chimney. No children were to be spotted playing outside, no milkmaids carrying pails from the barns; no dogs could be heard barking at the strangers. Not even a chicken scratched in the dirt of a yard. It looked a landscape of the dead. Only cow-patties and sheep-droppings indicated that there had been living creatures here once.

As they kept climbing, their surroundings deteriorated into the dreamscape of a nightmare. Huge swaths of grass were black and scorched. Though it was summer, many trees were black leafless skeletons; from others a few charred leaves drifted down. Though a few of the farmhouses and barns were intact, many were roofless with their upper stories scorched and gutted. Where it looked like others had been, were heaps of cinders. Once or twice they passed the blackened bones of some animal—cows, Bertie thought. But not very many; the dragon, people said, usually devoured his prey completely. Shivering, he tightened his grip on his spear.

“Looks like the beast’s been here,” grunted the Prince.

No one gainsaid him. “When we see the dragon,” King Gwion called out, “all the rest of you, hang back. You guys are just backups. Only intervene if I’m dead or it’s clear I can’t cope.”

“Maybe it’s not at home,” said one of the twins. The others all laughed nervously.

The ascent grew steeper and the light grew. Over on his right Bertie heard the gurgling of water. Rounding a spur of the mountain, they saw its source: a brook, rushing and churning over rocks, tumbling down to the vale below.

“Must be where the worm drinks,” Gwion grunted. “We’ll follow it.”

The grass was straggling to an end. Clambering up a scarp, they came to a shelf of land where the stream pooled in a tarn. On the far side a swath of scorched grass ran toward it. As they approached Bertie saw in a patch of wet sand on its margin a claw-print as big as a sheep, beside it a heap of green guck that must be dung. Heart hammering, he gazed upward. Rocky cliffs soared above them; near the summit he could see the splotch of black. There could be no doubt now it was the mouth of a cave. Issuing from it was a plume of smoke.

“Follow me, lads,” said King Gwion.

Jabbing his spear in the ground for leverage, he scrambled up the next scarp. The three frontier guards and Prince Corwyn followed at a cautious distance. His stomach hollow, Bertie trailed them. A shelf of rock dotted with small pines stretched back to another cliff cloven by a channel through which the stream rushed and chattered.

And suddenly with a deafening thunder of wings the dragon came.

His flames consumed the nearest pines and the rest swayed in the wind of his wings as if in a gale. Green he was, scaly and snakelike, reminiscent of the serpent in Eden pictured in a book his pious mother had read him when he was small. Only this creature was monstrous, several bowshots in length, its spiky tail whipping back and forth, knocking over trees and sending rocks crashing down toward the champions. One struck the Prince’s helmet, forcing him to his knees; then bouncing off, tumbled down the hillside. Another barely missed Bertie, who, heart palpitating, clutched his spear even tighter.

“Stay back,” ordered the King. His companions did not need to be told. As they retreated towards the brink of the cliff, he levelled his spear and stepped forward. With a hiss like a hundred snakes, the dragon swooped down on him, belching fire. Angling his spear, King Gwion drove it into its blazing mouth.

The dragon roared like a wounded lion. From its open maw poured a torrent of flame. Stepping back, Gwion tripped over a rock and fell. Like lightning the monster was upon him, clutching his arms with its claws and breathing fire into his face.

Gwion emitted a howl of pain. Writhing, thrashing and kicking, he struggled to squirm out of the dragon’s grip, struggled to free his right arm to reach his dropped spear. In vain. The flames scalded his face scarlet, blackened his helmet like a cauldron over a fire. “Help!” he screamed.

Frantically Bertie gazed around for his fellow-champions. They were nowhere to be seen. “Help!” shrieked the King again. Ripping off his helmet, Bertie sprinted to the stream, filled it with water, and raced toward the King.

His liege lord was on his back, flailing in the dragon’s grip with the monster atop him like a rapist atop a maiden. Bertie poured the water over his face. Steam hissed up-- the only visible effect. “More!” the King shrieked. He was struggling violently, kicking the dragon in the belly, and turning his face from side to side in an attempt to avoid the flames. Sprinting back to the stream, Bertie refilled his helmet, raced back, and dashed the water at the beast’s fiery maw. More steam hissed up, but the flames seemed diminished not a whit.

Brain whirling, he gazed around. On the ground nearby lay the King’s dropped spear. Its eye! screamed his brain, recalling a combat he had read about when he was supposed to be doing maths homework. But as he seized the spear, the dragon flapped its wings to take flight, its victim squirming in its claws. Just in time, with every ounce of muscle he possessed, Bertie jabbed the spear into its eye.

Blood gushed down, steam hissed up from the wounded eye. Roaring like an injured bull, the dragon whipped its snout toward him. Bertie stood, clutching the stump of his spear, molten steel dripping from its truncated end.

“Help!” he cried in his turn, glancing wildly around. But his fellow-champions had not just retreated to a safe distance; they had vanished like ghosts at dawn.

“Great!” he said aloud. How does one attack a monster whose flesh melts steel? Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a dwarf pine whose needles were brown. Ripping it up by the roots, he lit the dead needles from the dragon’s fiery breath, and jabbed it into its second eye.

The beast howled. Snatching up his own dropped spear, Bertie stabbed at its only possibly vulnerable spot: under its wing.

Black blood gushed forth, sending more steam into the air. With a howl and a mighty flapping of wings, the dragon took flight.

Bertie’s sole thought was that it must not be allowed to escape. He grabbed hold of the nearest wing. Screeching, the monster dropped the King, then took off like a wounded eagle, one wing flapping powerfully, the other, hampered by its burden, flailing feebly. Bertie had always longed to fly, but this was more than he had bargained for: dangling precariously single-handed from an injured wing as the dragon rose into the air, banking heavily due to its wound and Bertie’s weight, with the mountainside falling farther and farther below. Flinging up his other arm, he clutched the wing with both hands and hung on for dear life.

But shortly the dragon’s flight grew more and more lopsided, as the weight of an over six-foot-high warrior panoplied in steel started ripping its wing away. Floundering and starting to spiral, the monster lost height. Below was the mountainside, descending precipitously. The dragon howled like a damned soul as its wing ripped away, clinging by just a narrow strip of flesh—and plummeted like a stone.

Into the tarn! Again Bertie found himself under water. Glancing up through the green depths, he glimpsed the surface—perhaps a furlong overhead.

But this water was bubbling and boiling, scarlet eddies swirling through it. As gasping for air, he broke the surface, he understood. The tarn was bubbling like a boiling cauldron because the dragon was immersed in it. The red of its blood mingling with the bubbling lake, with the steam rising from it, make it look like another illustration in his childhood Bible-story book: a vision of Hell.

And almost as hot! He was boiling inside his armour like a lobster being cooked.
Striking out for shore, he dragged himself up on the beach where a blackened warrior with a blistering scarlet face stood tottering, clutching a spear.

“Watch out!” yelled Gwion yelled. Bertie wheeled. The dragon had broken the surface. Bleeding profusely, its injured wing trailing, its sound one flailing, it was struggling, half submerged, toward them. Opening its mouth, it uttered a cry of despair that echoed over the mountainside and down into the town. But its flames were dead as a hearth at dawn.

“Quick!” barked the King as the wounded monster floundered onto the shore. Raising Bertie’s dropped spear, he strode forward.

Amazingly Bertie’s sword still hung at his hip. Whipping it out, he staggered to his King’s side. While Gwion drove his spear into the monster’s mouth, Bertie finished hacking off its wing. Wallowing in its own blood, the dragon howled like Lucifer being cast from Heaven, convulsed violently, and died.

King Gwion was struggling to stay on his feet. But he drew his sword. Speaking with difficulty from his scorched lips: “Kneel, Master Segal.” When his vassal obeyed, he tapped him on the head and on each shoulder. “I herewith dub thee knight. Rise, Sir Bertram.”

About the Author

JOCELYN SCOTT lives in Toronto, Canada, where she is an anomaly: a seventh-generation Canadian.  She has lived in various communities in southern Ontario, everything from small villages without even one stoplight to multicultural Toronto. She has an Honours B.A. in English with History Minor from the University of Toronto, and an M.A. in English from the same university. Her travels in Canada include Quebec, British Columbia, and the Yukon; she has travelled frequently in the eastern United States, and has visited the United Kingdom, France, Italy, Greece and Turkey.  She reads constantly in a variety of genres, most notably fantasy and history.  She is married with two adult children, and a little white dog.

Fire Watch

TOM JOLLY

BOBBY ADAMS PULLED HIS pickup into the gravel driveway, looking around anxiously for the house’s owner. After bragging on the phone about what a great shot he was, he was hoping that he wouldn’t have to prove it.

A dense oak forest twined with vines of poison oak and blackberry, thick with tinder-dry sagebrush, hugged the house. It was amazing the place hadn’t burned down yet. Still, there were signs that there had been a few burns in the past; old black rotting tree stumps dotted the landscape like decaying teeth. The hills hid the damage well. The owner obviously did a lot of weed-whacking to keep down the fire-hazard, as much as he could without disturbing the wildlife.

Bobby got out of his truck as a rough-looking beanpole of a man came down the driveway toward him. He had a few days of gray growth on his chin, a worn plaid shirt, and blue jeans. On his hip was a holstered pistol. Why would you need to carry a gun way out here in the middle of nowhere?

“Bobby Adams? I’m Henry MacPherson.” He held out a hand as gnarled as the oak trees and Bobby shook it. Grip like a vise. “Let’s walk around, I’ll give you some idea what we’re doing here.” He motioned toward a broad path leading away from the house and the driveway.

As they went down the path, Henry explained. “You know about the Biodiversity Act of 2035, right?” Bobby nodded. “Well, we picked up a contract for the California red salamanders out here, probably got 50,000 head on this property. Seems to be an ideal location for them.” He pointed out the shaded, cool creek bed that meandered broadly through the center of the property. “They tend to hide in the culverts and under the leaves and roots, wherever it’s damp, so you won’t see them very often. Not the rarest critter, and not the best contract, but it pays the taxes and I got a place to live.” Henry snorted. “Anyway, we get paid to keep the salamanders happy. Which is why we need the guns.”

“Uh...for...” Bobby fished.

“Shooting the peacocks.” Henry waved a hand ambiguously to the west. “About three lots over, there’s an asshole who raises peacocks, God knows why those hideous creatures are on the list; they make a call like a dying baby. I can’t stand ‘em. And they like the taste of my salamanders, damn them, and he doesn’t do a very good job of keeping them contained on his lot. Got too many of them, if you ask me, but since we get paid by the head, I guess I can’t blame him.”

“So peacocks...eat salamanders?”

Henry shrugged and looked away. “Life does odd things sometimes,” he said. “Used to be peacocks were only found in India, with these red newts a half-world away.” Henry rolled a wad of something noxious around in his mouth, and spat black tar onto the ground. “I ‘spect someone did that on purpose, a long time ago.”

“To keep the peacocks away from salamanders?” Bobby looked doubtful, and was beginning to question the wisdom of working for a crazy guy in a job that required guns.

Henry squinted at him, then turned back to the path. They were approaching another man sitting in a lawn-chair under the shade of an oak tree. From his seat, he had a good view of the rising hillside, which was a thicket of tangled underbrush. The man eyed the underbrush nervously. “Hey, Hammer, see anything today?”

Hammer had a shotgun across his lap and a cup of coffee sitting precariously on a broken oak limb next to the chair. He nodded to Henry. “Some quail. They scared the crap out of me when I was walking my rounds when they came out of a bush. Some turkey, too.”

“There are hawks out here, too, aren’t there?” Bobby asked.

“The red-tails were killed off in 2025. I keep looking up and hoping to see one or hear one, y’know, maybe they snuck through the survey, but no luck. Maybe one of those genlabs will bring them back from the Code Bank someday.” He shook his head sadly, then straightened up. “Well, enough yammering. You’ll be stationed about a quarter mile down the path here, and you’ll be expected to walk your part of the trail every fifteen minutes. I’ll give you the shotgun, whatever you need to stay awake, and a four-hour shift. I have to stress to you that this is very important work. Maybe not too dangerous, but...”

“Dangerous? What’s dangerous about it?”

Henry tipped his head back and forth and said, “Well, you are carrying a gun, and you’ll be expected to shoot it if needed, and you have three other guys carrying guns, so yeah, it’s a little dangerous.” Bobby thought there was something he wasn’t saying, but he didn’t push it. He looked over at Hammer, but Hammer immediately averted his eyes. What the hell? But the pay was good, better than expected for sitting on your ass for four hours with no job to do but shoot at birds. How hard could that be?

“Alright, I’ll take the job if you’ll have me.” Hell, who couldn’t stay awake for four hours?

FOUR DAYS OF INACTIVITY made Bobby realize that no matter how well the job paid, it was boring the hell out of him. No shots were fired, no alarms raised, nobody close enough to talk to, except for the few moments where he changed shifts with the next watchman. He didn’t even remember the other guy’s name, just said, “Hey” when they swapped out. He guessed he should be grateful for such an easy gig, but boring was still boring.

Bobby finished walking one of his rounds and sat down in the shade of a towering red oak, shotgun in hand. He took a drink from a water bottle and glared at the bushes. Nothing stirred except for the crickets and flies. He sighed and leaned back against the tree, putting his shotgun down at his side. The warm air brushed slowly around him, and he shut his eyes as the welcome breeze caressed him.

He was startled out of his cat-nap by a shout from Hammer three hundred yards away. Struggling to his feet, he scanned the skyline and saw about a dozen large birds running down the hillside, breaking into short glides, landing and running. Huge tails. Bigger than wild turkeys. Shining metallic feathers. Aw, crap. He brought his gun up and started shooting. His aim wasn’t as good as his boast, but shotguns are forgiving and the big birds started dropping out of the sky in a spray of blood and feathers. He flipped his gun over, grabbed fresh shells from his belt, and started cramming them into the tube magazine as fast as he could, keeping an eye on the peacocks as they came toward the property. Weird. Why would peacocks be in such a hurry? It looked like a friggin’ invasion.

Out of the corner of one eye, he caught a glint of something shiny and red squirming out from underneath a rotting log and making a dash up the hill. He stared at the little salamander in disbelief as it ran on its stubby legs, hell-bent on jumping down a peacock’s gullet. A peacock dipped its head to meet the red newt, but Bobby leaped forward, stomped on the newt’s tail and whacked the peacock in the head with the butt of his shotgun. The peacock fell and lay motionless, but he could swear the suicidal newt was glaring at him accusingly. What the hell was going on here?

He looked around quickly and finished loading his gun, then started running back and forth, shooting the damned birds. Almost sneaky, the way they weaved in and out of the brush. He was shouting now, too, and Annette, the gunner to the west, was calling out a count as she nailed each one. Going for bragging rights, maybe.

Bobby saw Henry running like a scared mule-deer down the path toward him. “Get the ones on the ground first, nail ‘em, for godsake, don’t let ‘em eat a salamander!” Bobby rolled his eyes. So he’d lose a few creds on the head-count, big deal. But that was the job, so best pay attention. Henry shot a few peacocks himself, on the run, off to see how Annette was doing. An unearthly bone-chilling scream from Hammer’s direction stopped him in his tracks.

“What the hell was that?” Bobby said.

“Aw, no,” Henry said, spun on his heal and ran back the other way. Bobby had to follow. He looked around to see how many birds were left on their feet, but the area looked like a Thanksgiving slaughterhouse. Nothing in sight moved. He ran after Henry.

The screaming continued unabated. Bobby could see smoke rising from the area where Hammer was stationed, and as he and Henry came around a low hill, they saw Hammer writhing on the ground, skin, clothes, and hair on fire. Something was sitting on his chest, holding on while he thrashed wildly. Behind him was what was left of a peacock, also on fire. In a rustle of movement, a bright object squirmed out of the burning remains of the peacock, spread fiery glowing wings, and took off into the air, flame trailing from its tail feathers. Bobby stared, dumbfounded. Now what?

“No you don’t, you son-of-a-bitch!” Henry swung his gun up and snapped a shot off as the shining bird propelled itself into the air. Bobby stood and gawked at it. He’d never seen such a beautiful creature before, and was spellbound.

The bird exploded into a puff of glittering feathers and blood.

Bobby’s attention was yanked downward toward the bright-red radiating thing that leaped off the immolated chest of Hammer. It dashed toward Henry, lighting the very ground on fire as it ran. Through the blast-furnace heat coming off the creature, Bobby could see what looked like a giant lizard...nope...a giant salamander running toward Henry. Henry didn’t even have time to cuss. The salamander jumped at his face, and Henry barely had time to smack it out of the way with the barrel of the shotgun. The barrel of the shotgun burst into flame, the metal burning white hot, and the flame raced down the barrel of the gun. Henry threw the gun away from himself before the flame touched him, the gun slamming into the side of a small oak that ignited like it was saturated in gasoline. The shells in the gun blew up, but with little effect since the metal in breech and barrel was so soft; mostly, it just spread the deadly fire further through the dry leaves around the tree.

“Shoot it! Shoot the fucking thing!” Henry screamed, spinning to meet the creature. The salamander ran toward him, and in an almost acrobatic leap, Henry jumped up and stomped on the creature’s head. It stopped, stunned, but Henry’s boot was on fire.

Bobby brought up his shotgun and blasted at the salamander. The pellets seemed to melt almost as they reached it, but the sheer kinetic energy of the molten beads momentarily stunned it. Bobby stepped forward and fired again and again, finally penetrating the heat enough to destroy the thing. Still flaming, but no longer moving.

“My leg! My leg! Do something!” Henry wailed. The fire had nearly consumed his boot and was crawling up his leg, unstoppable. He held his leg out as far from the rest of the body as he could get it, not rolling in the dirt, not jumping in the stream, just lying there screaming.

Bobby glanced down to the little water bottle at his waist, then looked at the burning metal of the gun that Henry had tossed away and the burning trail of dirt that led from the peacock corpse to Henry. Burning dirt. Okay. Right. He ran over to Henry, aimed at the kneecap, and shot.

“Ah, goddamn, you fucker! Shoot again, it’s not all the way off!”

Bobby shot and the severed limb flew a few feet away into some sagebrush, which also burst into flame. He glanced over at the remains of the salamander, which, among all the flaming things around them, had gone out. A black, giant salamander corpse sizzled on the hillside.

Kneeling down, he tore his shirt off and bound Henry’s shredded leg as best as he could. Annette was running down the path toward them. “What happened?” she said.

Bobby shook his head. “Help me get him to the house, away from the fires. Don’t touch the flames, whatever you do.”

She stared at the burning mass that used to be a man. “Is that...Hammer?”

Bobby nodded. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They both lifted Henry up and stumbled out of the flaming area. “What the hell did we just kill?” he asked Henry. Henry just glared at him.

Annette said, “If I were to take a wild guess, it looked like a phoenix and a fire salamander.”

Henry grunted, neither acknowledging nor refuting her.

Bobby frowned. “Neither of those actually exist.”

“Said the man who just shot a flaming lizard while it tried to barbeque him,” Annette said.

Overhead, Bobby could hear the drone of airplanes and helicopters. A deluge of iridescent fluid poured out of a tanker above them, drenching them as they walked along the trail. It had a peculiar smell to it. Not water, for sure. Bobby hoped it wasn’t toxic. “That was fast,” Bobby said.

“They’re on contract,” Henry grunted. “Five minute response.”

The son-of-a-bitch knew this might happen. Bobby fumed. “So. We could have all died because of these...peacocks...and salamanders? You couldn’t have just told us?”

“The Biodiversity Agency runs this show.” Henry strained his speech through gritted teeth. “‘Preserving our genetic heritage,’ they said.” He barked a laugh through his pain. “We just didn’t know what we were buying into. When we contracted to raise these things, the government didn’t tell us what, exactly, we were protecting. They just told us, you can raise ‘em or lose your land to someone who will. What do you say to that? Bastards. Like being hired to store half a nuclear bomb.”

“And nobody knows about this?”

The three of them arrived at the front porch of the house. “It’s classified, of course. That fire-salamander thing is considered a bioweapon and a national asset, and that bird coming out of the flame, well, that’ll just confuse people if they find out about it. Creates questions nobody wants to answer. Some weird-ass symbiotic relationship between ‘em. Bird eats newt, boom, two new critters crawl out of the flaming carcass. I just don’t get it. Ah, I see damage control has arrived.”

A black Sola pulled into the driveway, rear collectors folding out as it came to a stop. Two men in suits got out of the car and approached the house.

Henry sat down on a plastic chair on the porch. He gripped his bleeding stump, blood soaking the torn shirt wrapped tightly around it. He groaned, but looked up at Bobby with some appreciation. “You did good, here, even though this hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. If you can keep your mouth shut and don’t mind keeping some secrets, you and Annette can probably keep these jobs. Interested?”

Bobby looked at Annette, who stared back at him wide-eyed. He wondered if he also had that deer-in-the-headlights look. Annette nodded to him.

“Double pay?” Bobby said.

Henry hissed and then chuckled. “Don’t push your luck, son. We can work something out. I think these guys will cough up some extra money to keep you quiet.”

“Then I suppose so.”

“Better than the other option, anyway,” Henry muttered. He glared at the two approaching men. “Can one of you assholes get me a doctor before I bleed to death?”

Bobby looked over at the smoldering oak forest, remembering the look on the salamander’s fiery face as it struggled against his molten barrage, trying so hard to get to him.

Sure as hell, tomorrow he was going to find some shot with a higher melting temperature.

About the Author

TOM JOLLY is a retired astronautical/electrical engineer who now spends his time writing SF and fantasy, designing board games, and creating obnoxious puzzles. His stories have appeared in Analog SF, Daily Science Fiction, Compelling Science Fiction, New Myths, and a number of anthologies, including “As Told By Things” and “The Witch and the Two-Headed Boy”. He lives in Santa Maria, California, with his wife Penny in a place where mountain lions and black bears still visit. You can discover more of his stories at www.silcom.com/~tomjolly/tomjolly2.htm.

Three Minutes Back in Time

JR GERSHEN-SIEGEL

THE FAIR WAS A disappointment. Rosemary couldn’t really blame her date for that. James Warren was a serious guy, and it was getting to be a serious relationship. For him to take her to something so frivolous as a fair in the DC suburbs was a rare treat indeed. It wasn’t his fault that it was a bit run-down and small, a bit too old-fashioned for 1943.

His spectacles gave him a serious look, even more serious than he was. But they were also a necessity. And they had made him a 4-F. Rosemary Parker knew that a lot of her friends at the munitions plant were jealous. And she didn’t even think she was that pretty, yet there she was, with a man who was going to become an actuary once he finished his exams. And he even said he would be all right with it if she went to school to become a teacher and work after – he hoped – they wed. Rosemary still wasn’t sure if her answer was yes. She didn’t know if his permission to work would suddenly be withdrawn if they had a child.

With her mother gone and her brother as well; it had just been Rosemary and her father, Reverend Elisha Parker. Until James came along, straight out of Concord, Massachusetts, to seek his fortune in the nation’s capital and, in his spare time, join the church. A romance hadn’t been on his mind, and it hadn’t been on Rosemary’s, either. Other young ladies at the National Baptist Memorial Church had thrown themselves at James, as he attentively listened to the choir or read aloud to the congregation.

Maybe it was her soprano voice, or maybe it was her hair, straightened carefully and flipped slightly, like one of her favorites, Lena Horne, or sometimes held back or even with a flower by her ear, like Billie Holiday. Times were tight enough that Rosemary didn’t dress in the latest styles. Her hat for church was modest, as was her suit. The dresses she wore, and the occasional skirts with sweater sets, were all a bit old, so they had a bit more decoration than was currently the style. She had taken in some of her mother’s old things or saved her money from her work for a blouse here, a hair ribbon there. But she was never a fashion plate.

Maybe those were the things that had attracted James first, for Rosemary had looked serious, too. Except that, inside, she wasn’t. So she had convinced him to forego their usual date – watching the planes take off and land at National Airport – and instead go to a fair just outside nearby Arlington. This was even though it meant a streetcar ride and then a bus ride. James grumbled a little at that.

And now he was grumbling more, that their day was not going well at all. At least the fair wasn’t segregated, like so many other places were. Its grounds were open to all, including James and Rosemary. And once they had determined the fair had little to offer, they had sat down on a bench and talked. He had wanted to discuss W.E.B. Du Bois and the recent allied raid on Rome. But Rosemary had wanted to talk about the upcoming premiere of Stormy Weather with Lena Horne and Fats Waller. He didn’t even want to discuss the recent All-Star game.

She finally got up, tired of too many somber moments. “Rosie, where are you off to?”

“I, I just need some time to myself.” She started walking away.

James dashed over. “This place isn’t familiar. It’s not safe for a girl like you to be walking alone.” He shrugged and gestured a little at the fair. “You know, circus people.”

“James! Please, these people are making a living and abiding by the law. Don’t begrudge them that.”

“It’s, it’s not helping anyone.”

She leveled her gaze at him. “And you honestly think actuaries help anyone? And I mean people, not insurance companies.” She started walking again.

“I, I, wait, wait, please.” She stopped and let him catch up. He said, “Rosie, I’m sorry. It’s just so, so frivolous. There’s a war going on and our people are finally getting some recognition and are advancing. There’s the good and the bad but all these people are focusing on is how to have a good time.”

“And why is that such a bad thing? James – and you’re not even Jim, like most men would be – James, you are missing the point. People going to a fair or the movies or to the ballpark are well aware that there’s a war going on. They want to escape it, if only for a little while.”

“And the advancement of our people? Do they want to escape that as well?”

“I don’t know. But honestly, James, were you ever a child?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Of course I was a child.”

“I don’t think so. You may have been shorter and immature, but it seems to me as if you’ve been a studious near-actuary your entire life. Were you born wearing spectacles and carrying a book?”

“Don’t be absurd. It, it doesn’t become you.”

“James, we have our whole lives to be sober and serious. We have, the good lord willing, decades to be the pillars of the community, fine and dependable and upright citizens and all that that entails. Can you, just once, set that aside for an afternoon and, and be the child I’m not so sure you ever truly were?”

“This is hardly the place.”

She spotted a different ride she hadn’t noticed before. “This is exactly the place.” She strode toward it and he hurried to keep up with her. She reached the attendant first. “Excuse me,” she said to the attendant, “I see your ride is free. But I’m puzzled as to its name – Three Minutes Back in Time – whatever does it mean?”

James arrived a moment later. The ride suspiciously looked a lot like a tunnel of love. “Rosie, I think this would be improper.”

“Wait, we haven’t heard this man’s explanation as to what this ride is all about. Sir?”

The attendant took a toothpick from his mouth. “It’s exactly what it says. You can go back in time to any day, but only for three minutes.”

“What?” asked James. “That’s impossible.”

“It’s very possible. Young lady, what do you think?”

“I don’t rightly know. Here,” she said after a moment, “if you can take me to a particular time and place, then I’ll know you’re not pulling our legs.”

“And when would those be?”

“Rosie, you can’t be serious.”

“April the eleventh, 1940. At about four in the afternoon, please.”

“And the location, Miss?”

“Meridian Hill Park, near the Joan of Arc memorial, sir.”

“I can do that. That’ll be fifteen cents, or a quarter for the both of you.”

Rosemary turned to James. “Well? I can pay my own way but if you want to come along, you’d best speak up now.”

“I suppose I should.” He fished into his pocket. “Here’s two bits.”

“Now you folks get into the boat and I’ll start everything up.” He pulled levers and manually turned gear wheels and then plotted the location using a straightedge and a map. “Ready when you are. And you’d best set your watch, young man.” James checked his wristwatch briefly.

They settled into the small boat. “Ready,” Rosemary said.

It was perhaps a coworker of the attendant’s pulling them along, because for some reason the boat went forward even though there was no motor and no one was paddling. The tunnel was dark and quiet and then there was music. James strained to identify it. “Tommy Dorsey?”

“No, it’s Make Believe Island and I believe the band is Mitchell Ayers. I’ve forgotten who the girl singer is.”

“That’s all right. Well, I suppose such older music is a bit like a moment back in time. Not bad for two bits. But why that day in particular? What’s so special about it?”

“It’s, it’s the day Freddie was shot and killed.”

“Oh my goodness. Rosie, I knew you had lost your mother, of course. And I had seen pictures of your brother. I had always assumed he had died in the service of the armed forces, or something. But this is before we were at war. What happened?”

“It was a gang fight, James.”

The scene changed in an instant, and they were out of the boat and standing in the sunshine right by a statue of a woman in medieval armor on horseback, Joan of Arc. Rosemary was stunned and then rushed over to a man sitting on a nearby park bench reading the newspaper. “Pardon me, sir, but may I see the headline, please.”

“By all means,” he said, handing her the paper. The front page article in that morning’s Baltimore Sun said: Norway to Fight to End – Berlin Dubious of Quick Victory. The date was April the eleventh, 1940.

“Oh, my!”

“Is something wrong, Miss?”

“I, I, I’m sorry.” She turned to find James and he was right behind her. “Did you see it?”

“Yes, I did, Rosie. Sir, is this some sort of a trick? Are you an actor?”

“No, young man. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He adjusted his hat and left, leaving his newspaper behind.

Rosemary picked it up, randomly turning to page 23. “There’s classified advertisements and everything. I do believe it is the correct newspaper.”

“Anyone could have saved theirs, though. This doesn’t make any sense. Rosie, we are not in 1940. That’s impossible,” he repeated.

“I beg to differ. Look at her outfit.”

It was a woman in a smart suit and heels. Her jacket had pockets and her heels were maybe three inches high. Her hat had a wide brim. “And?”

“And those are prewar clothes, James. Her complete outfit is from before rationing.”

“I still say this is a trick. This, it can’t be right. It can’t possibly be true.”

There was the sound of shouting suddenly. It was insults going back and forth. They both turned toward the sources of the noise, to see young men of several races in their shirtsleeves. Their slacks were the looser kind worn with zoot suits. “Freddie!” Rosemary yelled. “Freddie!”

One young man turned and rushed over. “Sis, what are you doing here? It’s not safe for you.” He had a baseball bat in his hands. “And, and you, you cut your hair? New clothes?”

“I’m not so sure I can explain. Freddie, you’re in peril.”

“It’s as I said,” he pointed out. “I did just warn you that it’s not safe here. And who might you be, sir?”

“I’m James Warren, Rosie’s fiancé.” Rosemary gave him a look so James hastily added, “Well, that is to say, I have asked but I don’t have a response as of yet.”

“I see,” Freddie said. “Sis, really, you need to go back home. It ain’t right for you to watch this.” He turned the bat over in his hands.

“Baseball, Freddie, baseball,” Rosemary said, “I know you have season tickets for the next few years. I know your seat number and everything. It’s 89R.”

Freddie scowled a bit. “Nobody’s supposed to know about that. You been looking through my sock drawer?”

“Freddie, I know where your seat is because I’ve sat in it, many times.” Her voice quavered and James quickly handed her his handkerchief.

“I would never miss a lotta games.”

“Freddie,” she whispered, rubbing the handkerchief against her face to sop up a tear or two, “this is your last day on earth.”

Freddie glanced from one face to another. “Is this for real, Mr. Warren?”

“Yes, it is. We come from 1943. I didn’t believe it before. But I do now.” He glanced down at his watch. “It’s been two minutes and, and forty-one seconds.”

“There’s no time. Freddie, just know that we love you and, and you can change this.”

“Freddie,” James said, “leave this place so her heart isn’t broken. Please.”

Freddie’s image started to dissolve as time was up. The last thing Rosemary heard in 1940 was the report of a gun.

And then they were back in the boat, and the music was playing, but this time it was Jimmy Dorsey’s orchestra and Kitty Kallen singing, They’re Either Too Young or Too Old, a lament about all the good men having been drafted. It was a hit in 1943. Just as Kallen sang, “He tries to serenade me, but his voice is changing now,” the boat left the tunnel and emerged in the July sunshine.

Shaken, Rosemary let James help her out of the little boat. She was still clutching his handkerchief. He led her to a bench as a few pigeons jogged out of the way. “Are you all right, Rosie?”

“No,” she said, lower jaw trembling, “I’m not. James, what do you think just happened?”

“It feels as if we really were there. And if we were, then Freddie learned how much you cared. And how much you still do.”

“But that gunshot. Is it the bullet that killed him? Did we meet Freddie only to barely miss his end?”

“Maybe God spared us from Freddie’s end. I know you see me as a stick in the mud. And I am. I know that about myself. But I can see your point of view, too. I know it doesn’t always look like I do. But you’re right. I have time enough to be a drab, gray, dull man, surrounded by numbers and bank notes and the like. So I will need you, Rosie, to pull me back from that, and bring me back to the light. But I want to do something for you in return.”

“What is it?”

“I swear to you, I will be your rock. I’ll never be flashy. But I will always be there. And I vow to you that I will never ignore what you say. I will never dismiss your ambitions or your dreams and claim they’re worthless. My own father did that to my mother. I promise I will never, ever do that to you.”

“If we were to wed, what would happen after we started a family?”

“I can’t predict the future,” he smiled just a touch. “All I can do is understand the past, I suppose.”

She glanced back to look at the ride again, but it was gone. There was nothing there at all. “Where’s the ride?”

James looked back, too. He then looked back at her, slack-jawed. “What happened?”

“Maybe it was God giving us a lesson, too, and a bit of a nudge. It wasn’t just God sparing me – us – from witnessing Freddie’s death.”

“Whose death?” asked a voice just behind Rosemary.

She turned to see a man a year older than her in a corporal’s uniform, holding two dripping ice cream cones. “Freddie? What is going on?”

“They were out of chocolate sprinkles so I got you walnuts. I hope that’s okay.” He handed her a chocolate cone which had been rolled in crushed walnuts. “And Jimmy, I got you your usual plain vanilla.” He handed the other cone to a speechless James. “What’s the matter? You two look like you’ve just been to a funeral, or something.”

Weeping, she hugged him, and James took her cone from her so she could hug Freddie all the more tightly. “Freddie, oh Freddie.”

“This was a great surprise,” Freddie said. “Jimmy sure knows how to set ‘em up. All I had to do was get leave and a plane ticket and let him know when I was in town.”

Laughing and crying at the same time, Rosemary broke the hug and turned to look at James, who she caught eating some of her ice cream. He gave her a guilty look and then winked at her and smiled. “Freddie,” she said, “I’m so glad you’re here. You’re the first person I wanted to tell.”

“Tell me what?”

“I wanted to tell you that this is the man I am going to marry.”

About the Author

JR GERSHEN-SIEGEL is a Lambda Literary Award nominee (2014, Untrustworthy, under SF/F/Horror https://www.lambdaliterary.org/current-submissions/). She has been published by Riverdale Avenue Books, Jay Henge Publishing, Hydra Productions, and Writers Colony Press. Her work has appeared in Mythic Magazine (thank you), Theme of Absence, Empyreome, and Asymmetry Fiction. Her current project is a trilogy of works about Victorian Boston, called The Real Hub of the Universe. She lives in Boston with her husband and twice as many computers as they need.

Mirror, Mirror

LIAM HOGAN

LISTEN:

At the age of eight I told my first truth.

That is, counting from the beginning of my second life. Or from the end of my first, if you prefer.

Dead men tell no tales, so they say. But if nothing else they tell the tale of their deaths. Perhaps, also, of their struggles and their weaknesses.

A mirror never lies. They say that too and they’re as wrong about the one as the other. A mirror always lies. Left is right, right is left and we can only echo back the untruths we watch you tell yourselves.

What then are you to make of this tale told by a dead man, imprisoned within an enchanted mirror?

Be careful.

It may be the most truthful thing you ever hear.

EIGHT YEARS I HAD been trapped within that silvery layer before I let a truth escape my non-existent lips. An accident, of course.

I told the Queen stood before me that she was the fairest in the land.

I didn’t believe it myself. Not anymore. She was the sorceress who had me killed and then, as if that were not punishment enough, bound my soul to her ebony-framed mirror. To my eyes--where every blemish, ever mole, every hair out of place was faithfully reflected--she was far from beautiful.

You might think telling her what she wanted to hear was a kindness?

Lies can hurt just as deeply as the truth. All the more so when the mask falls away and the falsehood is inevitably revealed.

My Queen was forever preening before me, as often naked as clothed. Covering her flesh with salves and unguents.

Rubbing it in.

I don’t think she did it maliciously. Not as she had at the start; basking in the waves of anguish, of want, that rolled from my perfectly flat surface. Well aware that I could do nothing to avert my gaze. The most exquisite of torments: to give me what I’d asked for, what I’d once demanded.

My accidental truth came about because, watching as her soft curves took on a cruel hardness over the years, I assumed there would be younger women at least as beautiful as she. Women who didn’t carry themselves with such cold disdain. I was confident in my lie. Confident also that the Queen would swell with misplaced pride.

But what would she think when a courtier’s eye drifted to one of these more available, more beautiful women? Would she begin to doubt? To compare herself to others? To peer more closely into my depths?

I hoped the barb lodged deep.

Only belatedly did I realise that despite her frozen exterior, despite the wickedness hidden in her heart, despite even the passage of time, she was still the most beautiful in the Kingdom. She had made herself so; the bitter fruit of a long campaign of jealousy.

She had never taken such barbs silently. She might have chosen to have the inattentive courtier’s wandering eye plucked out. Instead she levelled her punishment at the object of his affections.

Stinging acid in the girl’s bathing water for a first offence, resulting in puffy, reddened skin. Beatings with whip and rod that left more permanent marks for a second. A knife, slit through the cheek to give a lopsided leer for those few who, even after that, still held their charms.

You might think these cruelties limited to the Castle? If only that had been true! The Queen carried her sport to the very borders of the Kingdom, always with her retinue of cold-hearted bastards. Punishments meted out for sleights real or imagined by men made brave by the Royal commands they followed. Men eager to extract revenge on women who would never pay them any attention.

In their wake, a tidal swell of hatred for this bitter, vindictive Queen that I--yes, I!--had created. Mutinous words muttered by husbands, by fathers, by mothers. Black deeds plotted, though none yet dared move against her regal might.

I found this out through the ghosts that haunt mirrors. The ghosts that link them, enchanted or not. The sliver of light that escapes the metalled layer, that is not reflected back to the observer, that leaks through the thin edges of the looking glass. In these I saw the Queen’s handiwork reflected over and over again.

And so the next time she asked her foolish question I gave her a different answer.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

Who in this land is fairest of all?”

I took my moment before replying.

“You, my Queen, are fair; it is true.

But Snow-White is a thousand times fairer than you.”

A bare faced lie. Rank exaggeration. A thousand times? I thought she’d scoff at that, thought she’d call my bluff. But perhaps the hint of gray hairs at her temple, the lines beginning to form around a mouth that never smiled, not anymore... perhaps these gave weight to my falsehood.

Why did I choose Snow-White I hear you ask?

Or did I put those words into your reflected mouth?

I wanted to see what the Queen would do when her beauty was challenged by someone of higher status than a mere serving girl. Someone under the protection of the Court. A Princess. Would Snow-White--lively enough and certainly not plain, that much is true--inspire the same jealousy, the same burning hatred? And what action would--could--the Queen take against her?

Snow-White was seven, nearly eight, years old. How could such a child be thought to be the fairest in the land? But the Queen bought my lie hook, line and sinker. My words troubled her sleep, put her off her food, made her neglect her beauty regime.

I saw the results as she stood before me. Her face gaunt, her complexion wan, a twitch at the corner of her eye. If I could have smiled, I would have done so.

Even the ineffectual and not to be mentioned again King spotted the change. “My dear, are you quite well? You look... weary?” he asked, concern creasing his placid brow.

An innocent remark that stung her into fierce action.

She called for the most trusted of her retinue, a man who did not flinch at the odious tasks she set for him. I knew him well. I knew the keen edge of his blade, still felt the memory of it at my throat.

I did not see what happened next. There are no mirrors in the forest.

But from the swiftest of shudders as the huntsman took his orders and from the failure of this villain to return and collect his reward, I could easily guess.

So when the Queen asked once again I spun her another lie, hidden in a half-truth. I told her that Snow-White lived and grew ever more beautiful under the watchful protection of seven dwarfs living in mountains far away.

A flight of fancy. Ludicrous! But she trusted me, trusted the hold she had over me. She searched the furthest reaches of her Kingdom, terrorising the simple folk who lived in the foot-hills, torturing any man with the misfortune to stand less than five feet tall.

For a while, for a number of years as she scoured the lands, I was left alone, slumbering in comparative peace. A shroud kept things dark and silent, with only the occasional cleaning girl, braver than most, sneaking beneath the heavy cloth to pout and pose. What a shock she would have received had she voiced the unasked questions on her rosebud lips!

When the shroud was exchanged for a black one I knew the King had died. I thought the Queen would return. Perhaps she hadn’t heard.

Perhaps she didn’t care.

One day when I thought myself long-forgotten, another girl crept into the Queen’s chambers and slipped beneath the faded black. Though rough-of-dress something regal shone through, sparking a distant memory. Her skin as white as snow, her lips as red as blood, her hair as black as the ebony frame that imprisoned me.

She was truly as beautiful as her mother had been and owed nothing to her father.

But there was also an edge to her. Something she had not gotten from her privileged existence in the Castle. Something born of living rough, of going cold, of killing her own food.

Something had been awoken in the huntsman’s woods. She had not returned out of mere idle curiosity for a life she had long ago lost.

“Mirror, Mirror,” Snow-White murmured and my disembodied heart quickened.

“-Where is my mother?”

Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm lied when they wrote down my story. They said Snow-White was the child of the first Queen, that it was her Step-Mother who was so haughty, so cruel, so wicked.

In truth the two Queens were one and the same. An easy mistake: she had not always been so evil. It was my treachery that taught her so. Her revenge that sealed her fate.

It was the same Queen but younger and more innocent that I overheard in my former role as Castle Guard, pleading so plaintively for a child.

Snow-White’s question didn’t rhyme, so I wasn’t compelled to answer. But I wanted to. And so I told my second truth.

Not that it helped, as I could already hear sounds of the alarm being raised.

“Even now, Snow-White, she hunts you down,

Fearful that you’ll take her crown.

She’s in the Castle, with her men,

Don’t let her find you, ‘twill be your end!”

My warning came too late. I heard heavy wood splintering under the blade of a sharp axe. As Snow-White turned the blanket that covered me fell away. There stood the Queen, quivering with rage. Behind her the huntsman who had cut my throat, framed by the hole he’d made in the thick oak door, still too narrow to permit him to follow.

With a murderous scream, born of a quest long frustrated, the Queen drew her knife, bejewelled and shining bright. Snow-White’s more practical, pitted blade was no less sharp. In the tight confines of the chamber the Queen and Snow-White fought before me. I watched helpless as what I had wrought played out, as red-rose blood was spilled over alabaster limbs.

But no advantage was gained until, as one, both of them turned to the waiting, watching huntsman and yelled: “Kill her!”

Did they both think the huntsman was theirs to call upon? Was the fact he had arrived hard on the Queen’s heels not proof that Snow-White was no longer under his protection? The fact that Snow-White still lived not proof of his earlier treachery?

Whose command would the huntsman now obey?

Did he care who his axe hit?

Perhaps not. But the instant it left his scarred hands, I found that I did.

You wonder at that? You think me moved by Snow-White’s youthful innocence? By her mother’s still evident beauty?

For heaven’s sake! Have I not said enough? Must I spell it out? Must I explain what I did for the Queen to kill me and then--and then!--to curse me so cruelly?

It takes a powerful hatred to bind a soul to this world, to enslave it to your will. A spell that blackens the heart of the sorceress as much as my crime of passion did mine.

Did it not strike you as coincidence that my death and the birth of Snow-White were nine months apart? That the Queen only ever bore one child, the ineffectual loins of the King proving otherwise barren? That a child could be so harshly disowned by her own mother? That my punishment was to look upon the form I had coveted, that I had forced?

In the moment of the axe’s flight I lied once again. As they grappled with no gap between, no way to avoid hitting one or perhaps both, I flexed and folded my surface and my lie became truth.

Their knives were knocked aside by the spinning blade; the blade that passed through a gap that wasn’t there, passed between Queen and daughter. My daughter.

And then the axe splintered me into a thousand agonising pieces.

SEVEN YEARS BAD LUCK, that should have been. Yet another lie. Disarmed, shocked, the two women fell into an uneasy accord, the Queen coming finally to her senses. With the King dead and no male heir the Princess would one day rule in her stead and she thanked her gods Snow-White was as beautiful as she herself had once been.

A story was spun: the long lost child miraculously found, a national day of rejoicing announced, even as the people grumbled at the expense and hoped Snow-White would not turn out like her mother.

A handsome Prince was found, none too bright. A younger version of the one I promised I wouldn’t mention again. Snow-White’s beauty did the rest.

Even the treacherous huntsman escaped punishment. True, the Queen no longer trusted him and true, Snow-White no longer regarded him as a hero, as her saviour. She no longer regarded him at all. Welcomed back into the bosom of the Royal Court her attention could not be held by his rough charms.

But he was paid handsomely enough for a job he never did and--spotting the change in the prevailing winds, the mutters of dissent, of rebellion--left the Kingdom while the leaving was good.

As for me?

The splintering did nothing to free my soul. It bound it tighter. Each jagged fragment containing an echo, an echo that somehow held a diminished whole, my painful penance not yet served.

When the maids came to clean up the mess, to cast me upon the midden, I escaped the only way I could. I followed the ghosts and found myself reflected in every mirror in the Kingdom.

And in these foreign lands, as well.

So look for me, when you stare into your mirror. Look for me when you wonder if you are too fat, or too thin; too old, or too young. Look for me when you ask if you are still beautiful, if you ever were, if you ever will be.

Look for me and, though my voice be weak, listen carefully for my whispered lies.

About the Author

LIAM HOGAN is an award winning London based writer. His short story "Ana", appeared in Best of British Science Fiction 2016 (NewCon Press) and “The Dance of a Thousand Cuts” appears in Best of British Fantasy, 2018. http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk or tweet @LiamJHogan

Heaven’s Eye

K. TRAYLOR

WHEN SHE FIRST FOUND him, she thought he was a drowned sailor, tossed up on the beach below the cliff. Only when she stepped closer, peering at him through the fading afternoon light, did she know him as one of Heaven’s bright messengers, fallen in battle.

Sara knew no more about angels than anyone. She’d seen them from a distance, arcing across the sky on missions from the Queen of Heaven, but no one in living memory had seen one up close. They were said to visit the mainland sometimes, demanding tribute or information, but the Isle of Gulls was too poor and isolated for them to bother.

Now Sara didn’t know what to do. The angel was clearly wounded—a terrible slash parted his robes from hip to shoulder, staining his clothes and the sand around him with startling red blood. In legends, angels bled gold.

Sara moved tentatively towards him, afraid to touch him. He was taller than any man she’d ever met, with a long mournful face and hands that could have circled both her wrists. “My lord,” she said softly, wondering if he was alive.

Groaning, the angel opened his eyes. They were jade-colored, sharp as trap wires. Seeing her, they narrowed.

Sara shivered. “My lord, if I can assist you…”

The angel studied her a long time. She imagined herself as he must see her: small, rough-haired, in her father’s old jacket and boots. No one worth talking to.

At last, the angel cleared his throat. “What isle is this?” His voice was low, softer than she’d expected.

Sara bowed awkwardly. “The Isle of Gulls, my lord. In the North Sea.”

He groaned. “So far…”

“My lord, you’re wounded,” she said. “Should we… call your people?” She didn’t know how they could do that, but perhaps he did.

He shook his head. “She’ll call me back eventually.” Groaning, he pressed a hand to his wound. “But if you’d sew me up, I’d appreciate it.”

“Oh.” Sara faltered. She should take him to the village, but no one there would know what to make of him, either. “I… suppose I can. But I’ll have to go and get some things, sir.”

“Take your time.” He turned, looking out over the ocean, and seemed to forget that she was there.

PULLING A NEEDLE THROUGH flesh was very different from sewing canvas. Fortunately, the cut was shallower than it had looked, and the angel didn’t bleed much more. His skin had a satiny texture, like fine-grained wood, and smelled faintly of silk. Though the stitches must have been agony, he lay still.

Soon Sara’s waxed thread had left a neat seam on his chest. She covered him with a blanket, and wondered how to get him up the cliff. Eventually, she loaded him into a handcart. It was easier than she expected. Legend said that angels’ bones were made from balsa wood. Sara didn’t think so, but perhaps they were hollow, like bird’s bones.

His vast wings jutted from the cart as she pushed and puffed him up the cliff. Light though he was, she stopped many times to rest. Each time, the angel closed his eyes and seemed to fall into a trance.

Above them, Heaven’s Eye peered down over the sea. As daylight faded, the blaze of sunlight on the great bronze orb was replaced by the light of a thousand thousand torches. Sara wondered if the sentinels there could see their fallen warrior. Perhaps she should light a signal fire.

“Will they send for you soon?” she said at last. Surely Heaven wouldn’t leave its fallen soldier long, unless the battle had gone very badly.

He stirred and sighed, a wind across the moor. “It may take a while. Many of us fell last night. No doubt they think me dead.” The angel smiled ruefully. “I should never have caught such a wound. I think it was exhaustion that dropped me, more than anything.”

“Who were you fighting?” Sara’s island heard little of the Sovereigns’ battles—only brief dispatches, months out of date, embellished by mainland scribes.

“The Demons of the Western Shore. We’ve faced them dozens of times now.”

Sara nodded, as if this meant anything to her. The Queen of Heaven seemed always to be fighting some new enemy.

Seeing her incomprehension, he took pity. “Shall I tell you about it? I’m feeling better now.”

“If it pleases you, my lord,” said Sara, surprised.

He coughed, and then began to speak in a low, singsong voice. “At the crest of morning, our heralds sang of the attack on our western strongholds, beneath the great watchtowers of Choir Mountain…”

Sara listened as she pushed him up the hill. He told of places she would never see—the silver cities of the Western Isles, their green mountains, their deep lagoons—and over them all, the angels massed in glittering ranks across the sky.

When they came to the top of the cliff, his voice trailed off. The moon had risen, and the long planes of the angel’s mournful face were painted bright with moonlight. His eyes had fallen closed.

She’d stolen him, Sara realized suddenly. She should have taken him to the village, where someone could have lit one of the old beacons or sent a message to the mainland. It should have occurred to her to do that.

She should settle him in the house, and go right away to call for help.

A wind of wildflowers swept across the moor. Heaven’s Eye seemed very distant. If the battle had been so bad, the Heavenly Legions must be busy. There was no need to bother them tonight. In fact, it might be best to give her charge a few days’ rest before he traveled. If he wanted to leave sooner, she could send a message tomorrow.

Decision made, she steered him gently toward the house, closing her eyes under the starlight.

THE ANGEL SEEMED HAPPY in her little house. She’d installed him in the bedroom, and he slept and rested there, but often came out to speak with her, peering around as if everything he saw fascinated him. He often questioned her about pumps, woodstoves, wells, things Sara would never have thought to explain.

For her part, she couldn’t stop watching him, barely averting her eyes before he could catch her staring. Besides his beauty, his strangeness, his great size, he was the most company she’d had in ten years.

“What is all this?” he said one day, gesturing at the sculptures and pottery that covered every free space in Sara’s house. “Is it an art collection?”

“In a way,” she said. “I’m a sculptor. Any kind of handicraft, really—sewing, wood-carving, whatever—but I mostly work with clay.”

He looked impressed. “There are sculptors here?”

Sara realized, then, how poor her work must look to someone who’d seen the galleries of Heaven’s Eye. “Not as you have them, sir. But we do our best.”

He studied a small clay sculpture of Sara’s old dog Brown. It was rough—she’d made it when she was fifteen—but the pose was natural, and even a dozen years later Sara was proud of it. “This is all your work?” the angel said.

“Yes, my lord,” said Sara. “Though it must be nothing to what you’ve seen.” She’d studied what she could—ordered books from the mainland, treasured the library her father had collected, refined her craft as well as she could alone. But with no other artists around, and her father—her only teacher—long dead, her training had been limited.

“I like it.” The angel picked up a small wood carving of a gull, held it to the light. “Simple, but lively. I’d like to see some of these cast in bronze.” Setting down the gull, he bent to look into the eyes of a clay bust of Sara’s grandfather. Then he turned abruptly, giving Sara a strange look. “Don’t call me ‘my lord.’ My name is Ori.”

Sara blinked. “I should... call you by your name?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“Isn’t it disrespectful, sir?”

The angel shook his head. “It’s only a name. More disrespectful for you to use a title that means nothing to you.”

Sara tried to see his logic. “All right. Ah, Ori.”

“Good.” He waited. When Sara didn’t speak, he prompted, “And your name, my good host?”

“Oh. Ah… Sara, sir.”

He smiled, and bowed slightly. “Thank you, Sara, for bringing me into your home.”

“My honor, sir,” said Sara. “And my duty, of course.”

“But I appreciate it.” Ori looked around, frowning. “Why are you alone? Most mortals live in groups, but I’ve seen no one since you brought me here.“

Sara shrugged. “I’ve been alone since my father died. I have no other family.”

“You support yourself?”

She nodded. “I throw pots, bake tiles, whatever the village needs. Some repairs, though they have other people for that. I earn enough for what I need. With fishing, gardening, gathering—food’s not a problem. And you couldn’t ask for a better view.” She gestured to the moor above the cliffs, its windswept cottongrass stained golden by the sun.

Ori followed her gaze. “It seems... pleasant,” he said dubiously. “But wouldn’t you rather have companions?”

She shrugged again. “We can’t have all we want. You’ve got to be satisfied with what you have—or so I’m told. Could be worse, anyway.” There were places where Sovereigns were more demanding. In some places, the Heavenly Legions fought their battles over open land, and mortals burned in rains of fire—angels’ weapons did not always fly true. It was said that whole populations worked their lives away in mines to bring up ores for the Legions’ weapons. Luckily, the Isle of Gulls had only chalk, and not enough to quarry.

Ori stayed much closer to her after that. He helped in the garden and about the house, fetching and carrying, making conversation, till Sara could hardly remember life without him. She knew she shouldn’t get too used to him—but no one had come yet to reclaim him. Heaven seemed almost to have forgotten its lost soldier.

WALKING THE CLIFF’S EDGE with him one sunset, Sara was struck suddenly by the angel’s perfect grace. No mortal man was so perfectly in tune. Every element of Ori’s body was quietly efficient—his gestures elegant, his posture like a deer’s. No artist could conceive such perfect beauty.

“How are you possible?” she said, unthinking.

He turned his eyes from the dusk horizon. “I am as I was made,” he said. His curious smile forbade closer inquiry.

Sara blushed, but asked a different question. “Are other angels... like you?”

“All of us are different.” Ori seemed suddenly weary of the subject, though Sara had never brought it up before. “We are all unique, like the waves of the ocean. But there are... similarities.”

Sara tried to imagine other angels. She’d seen paintings—stained glass windows in the church—one treasured statue in the vicar’s house. But all of them looked human, just with wings, and lacked the wild power that made Ori so compelling. She couldn’t imagine any other being as lovely as he was.

“What would they think,” she said, “if they knew you were with me?”

His face grew distant. “Some might envy me,” he said. “Others would resent it. And... my Lady…” He grimaced. “She would not approve.”

“Even though it’s not your fault?” said Sara. “Even though you can’t get back?”

“Even so,” said Ori evasively.

Then Sara realized Ori had shown no sign of pain in weeks. She often forgot that he’d ever been injured. She’d never seen him fly, but suspected that he could—might even have the power to go back home, if he so chose. But he hadn’t. And Sara wouldn’t send him away.

TWO MONTHS INTO HIS stay, Ori came one day into Sara’s studio. “I’ve noticed,” he said, almost diffidently, “that there’s only one bed in this house.”

Sara smiled. “There’s a couch.” She pointed at the ancient leather sofa under the window, stained by her father’s paints. “We used to have two beds, but I sold one when Dad died.”

Ori frowned. “I should sleep in here.”

Sara suppressed a laugh. She’d kept the larger bed, but Ori filled it; he’d never fit his whole self on the couch. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m comfortable. Half the time I sleep here, anyway.”

He fidgeted. “I still don’t think it’s right.”

“Well, you’re not fitting on the couch, my lord,” she said, “and I won’t have you on the floor, so there’s no other way.” She grinned. “Unless we share the bed.”

It was a joke—but possibility suddenly stretched between them. They eyed each other. “Is that,” Ori said carefully, “an invitation?”

Sara nodded slowly.

After that, they shared the bed.

ORI WAS SUNLIGHT IN a life of clouds. Sara basked in him, soaked him in, filled herself to the brim with love. Often she was overswept with desperate adoration, imagining she could take on Heaven itself to win him. Then sense returned, and she knew she had no hope.

She tried to record him—furtively at first; then, when he didn’t seem to mind, more openly. She made clay sculptures, wood carvings, watercolors—shaping the curves and contours her fingers followed each night, scrabbling for a part of him to keep, something to hold onto when he went.

One night she came out to the moor and found him sitting in the grass, looking up into the dark late-autumn sky. The great curves of his wings cast deep shadows on his.

Sara sat beside him in the chilly grass and leaned against his shoulder. He tucked one wing around her, and they watched the stars in silence. At last, Sara nudged Ori gently. “Do the stars look different from up there?”

“A little,” Ori said. “Colder, but clearer. You can see the reds and blues.” His gaze fell grimly to the largest star, which was not a star at all. “Heaven’s Eye has an excellent watchtower,” he said. “My lady is ever-watchful.”

Sara shivered. “She hasn’t sent for you.”

“No.” Ori looked pensive. “Caught up in other things, perhaps. But she’ll gather us soon. She loves a winter campaign.” He snorted. “I’m sure she’ll have much to say to me for dallying so long.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” said Sara.

“It was,” Ori said. “ But it doesn’t matter. I’d rather not think about it.” Smiling, he kissed her, and shielded them both with his wings.

Sara let the kiss linger, clinging to his hands when he withdrew. “Could you stay?” she said. “What would happen if you did?”

He shook his head. ”She’s bound us, body and soul. If she calls me, I must go. We all must go and fight again, till we’ve conquered all the world… or are destroyed.”

Sara shivered. After a pause, she ventured, “Were you different? Before she bound you?”

Ori considered. “Lighter,” he said finally. “Happier, I think.” He shrugged. “But everything changes. You’ve changed, surely, since you were younger. What does it matter what I was like before?”

She bit her lip. “How did she bind you?”

“She called me by name—she conjured me. She’s a powerful sorceress—I could only obey.”

“How did she call you?” Sara persisted. It seemed important she should know.

He hesitated a long time. Then, at last, he said, “‘Ori. Shining one. Child of light, spirit of air, come and enter this body I’ve made for you.’”

Sara let the echoes wash over her. When the sound faded, she said, “And you had to go?”

Ori nodded. “I’m a spirit, after all. Any strong sorcerer can conjure and bind us. The Heavens are full of them—our Queen, all the others. Which is why,” he said dryly, “we are always at war.”

The wars had gone on since before there were angels. More Sovereigns had risen and fallen in that time than Sara could have named. “Do you think the wars will ever stop?” she said.

He watched the sky. “I don’t suppose they will.”

“I’m sorry.” She held his hand. There were no more words to say.

Ori stared at the stars as if into a void. “I’ve slain so many. Been slain so many times—and raised up, and sent to fight again.” He sighed. “I’m so very, very tired.”

Sara did not know how to comfort him.

LATE ONE NIGHT, THE two of them sat ensconced in golden light, warm against the icy darkness outside. Sara had drawn the drapes, but Ori kept opening them and looking out. She wondered what he was looking for.

Over the months, they’d learned each other’s moods. Now their silence was perfectly companionable. Sara had set up a table by the woodstove. By lamplight and candlelight, she was building a small articulated model of an angel’s wing. She was using all her best materials: resin, copper wire, steel gears, downy feathers. She’d told Ori she needed the model for reference—but it was an art piece, a tribute to her life’s light and center.

Ori passed behind her in a waft of silken air. Sara shivered as his cool breath brushed her cheek. The motion of his wings sent kaleidoscopic shadows around the room.

“Making good progress?” he murmured, teasing.

Extending the wing, Sara showed the model’s motion. “I’m doing my best,” she said. “I’ve modeled birds’ wings before, but your anatomy is different. You angels must be a form apart.”

Ori laughed. “It’s worse: we’re all unique. If you saw Korban’s wings, or Gemara’s, you’d find them completely different—and Ruah has no wings at all. You’ll never model us all, my dear.”

Sara sighed. “At least I can blame my failure on something besides own my poor skills.”

Stealing her screwdriver, Ori kissed her. “Your skills are rich and varied,” he said against her mouth. “I appreciate them deeply.”

She laughed, batting him away. “Angling for another nude study? I’ve done enough... but I suppose I could be persuaded to do more.” She wrapped her arms around him. For a while, they did not speak.

At last, Ori withdrew. He looked at the model again, and sobered. “Keep that hidden,” he said. “If anyone knew you’d modeled it from life… things could go badly for you.”

Sara snorted. “If they knew that much, things would go badly for us both.” She ran a hand through his feathers, grinning as he shivered. “Sculpting your lovely wings, darling, is the least of my sins by now.”

Ori still looked troubled. Setting the screwdriver down, he stared out the window onto the moonlit moor.

He had been restless since afternoon, pacing and fretting as the shadows deepened and the moon rose. His movements were stiff today, almost rheumatic, though Sara didn’t think angels suffered from such ailments. She couldn’t imagine Ori aging and dying as mortals did on Earth’s corrupted soil.

“Come away from the window,” she said. “They’ll see you if they’re looking.”

Ori smiled wearily. “If she calls me, they won’t have to look for me.”

THEY CLUNG TOGETHER FOR hours that night in the darkness of Sara’s quiet room.

“Will you really leave me?” Sara said. “Can Heaven miss just one soldier?”

Ori sighed. “She always finds us in the end. I think I’m only free because she’s been busy. When the Queen calls her fallen—I must go.”

“You’ve died a thousand times,” Sara protested. “You deserve rest—and she has other soldiers.”

He shook his head. “She wants us all. A mother knows if her children are missing—and we are, in a way, her children.”

“Her children?” said Sara. “Or her slaves?”

Ori shushed her, glancing at the window. “Don’t be unwise, my dear. There’s nothing to do about it.”

They both fell silent. Below the cliffs, surf pounded shore, but their room was an island of silence.

“Do you miss it?” Sara said abruptly. “I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.”

Heaven’s Eye was said to be the loveliest city ever made, with marble halls and crystal windows, fixtures of gold and bronze and silver. Fountains sweetened the air in every courtyard. There were hanging gardens, libraries, menageries, galleries that shamed humanity’s best efforts. The citizens were mighty angels—proud and stern, lovely as stars, clad in garments Sara couldn’t buy with a hundred years’ work. And over it all, the Queen of Heaven presided: star-crowned, radiant, her voice a trumpet, her eyes all-seeing. Heaven’s bright Sovereign—Queen of the Western Seas.

Ori hesitated. Finally he shook his head. “I’m only a soldier there—a servant. The beauty of the place can’t change that. I’m much happier here.” He kissed the top of Sara’s head.

“Would she ever let you leave?” Sara huddled closer, wrapping herself around him. “If we begged her, would she let you stay?”

She knew it was a fantasy. But with Ori so close—his skin so soft and fragrant, his wings so warm—it seemed impossible that he should ever go.

Ori stroked her hair. “My lady is a jealous mistress. She’d be furious to know how you’ve ensnared me with your charms.”

Sara laughed. “Such as they are.”

He took her hands. His voice grew strangely urgent. “You’re more precious to me, Sara, than all the realms of Heaven.”

Sara’s smile fell. “Is everything all right?” she said.

“I need you to know this,” Ori said tightly. “If you forget all else, remember I love you. If I were free, I’d never leave. Remember.”

“I will,” Sara said.

He kissed her again, then wrapped his wings around her, pulling the blankets close. “Sleep, dearest. It’s getting cold outside.”

WHEN SHE WOKE, THE room was cold. Gray light filtered from the windows, casting blue shadows on the floor. The bed beside her was empty.

Sara rose, fighting dread. The house was silent, the moor bare of silhouettes. An icy wind rose beneath a clouding sky. She felt a snowstorm coming.

She dressed, pulling on coat and boots. Outside, she scanned the sky, hoping to see Ori flying, but saw only the clouds sweeping across the moon—and Heaven’s Eye, gleaming balefully below them. She wondered if the watchers there could see her. It was said they could see anything, if they wanted to.

Instinctively she started down the frozen trail towards the beach. Though she’d come this way a thousand times, the landscape seemed suddenly more lonely, as if something vital had left it. She’d lived here all her life, and would never leave. The thought had never depressed her, but now it struck with deep melancholy. Strange how a place could change from day to night.

At the bottom of the cliff, she stopped. She stood a long time, breathing quietly. Then, bracing herself, she stepped onto the beach.

Ori lay as before, stretched across the sand— body still, limbs spread like a drowned man’s.

This time, he was dead.

Sara edged closer, choking back nausea.

Ori was rotting, his body shrinking in. Cavities had opened in his skin, showing delicate bones beneath. He was a wreck—a worm-eaten ruin—a remnant.

Feathers were scattered around him like foam, fallen from the loosened skin of his wings. Sara remembered the flight feathers’ papery rustle, the softness of the down.

His face...

There were gaps in his cheeks. His eyes were empty. What was left of his head looked like a skull, wrapped obscenely in his curling hair.

She moved closer. His body had no smell—might have been driftwood. Kneeling, she reached to touch him—but couldn’t. How could this dead, dusty thing be Ori, whose eyes had been so deep and kind, whose face so keen? There was nothing of him left in this husk—it was an abandoned shell, nothing to do with him who’d held it. He’d left, and this was what remained of him.

Above, Heaven’s Eye flashed in the snow-clouded sky.

He’d said he must return. But Sara had imagined a tearful goodbye, a last embrace on the doorstep, Ori winging heavenward. At worst, she’d imagined him in chains—his great winged comrades dragging him off disgraced. Maybe she would have fought, then. Maybe they would have killed her. But it had never once occurred to her that Ori might die.

Sara realized, now, that she’d let herself hope they might get away with it somehow—carve out a bit of happiness, live forgotten in the margins of time and place. Heaven had so many soldiers. It could have spared this one.

He must have left so Sara wouldn’t see him die—crept off to die alone as Sara slept peacefully in her house above the cliff. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to taint her house with bad memories. His body was rotting so quickly that she might never have found him if she’d woken a few hours later. She’d never have known what happened. Maybe he’d wanted it that way.

It made sense, in retrospect. Why would Heaven take back an Earth-corrupted body, when it could just call the spirit back and recreate the shell? They said the Queen of Heaven built her soldiers like clockwork, putting them together from whatever was at hand. Ori had been silk, wood, emeralds, precious metals, blaze-white feathers—elements Heaven could surely replace. Maybe all angels fell to pieces when they died. Maybe Earth’s beaches were littered with the dust of rotten angels.

BY THE TIME SHE realized snow was falling, it was thick in the air—a veil across the landscape. It fell on what remained of Ori’s skin, into the great cavities of his body—hiding his ruined face, filling his emptiness, burying his wings. When it melted, there would be no trace of him.

She’d never seen snow drift so quickly.

Absently, Sara started scooping drifts together, shaping the snow into a mound without much thought. The cold of it was bracing. On the mound she sketched two eyes and a mouth that quickly became Ori’s. It took so little to invoke him. He was wind and starlight, moon-lovely—his voice a lover’s heartbeat, his breath the songs of a thousand lost nations. Angels, it was said, remembered all the long history of humankind. Would he remember Sara, when he awoke again?

She crushed the mound and began a new sculpture, shaping Ori’s features quickly from memory. She traced his chest and shoulders, arms and legs, on and on in more detail, making a perfect replica. She ignored the corpse now. It was nothing—just a container that once held something valuable.

Still the snow fell. It seemed almost to leap into place where she wanted it, forming outlines with barely a touch. The sculpture was almost finished.

She made her model perfect, made it real. She couldn’t match a Sovereign’s handiwork—but Sara was an artist, too, and loved her subject better.

She saved the wings for last, not sure how to make them. Gathering his fallen feathers seemed wrong—but there were no others on the beach, and she didn’t dare risk fetching more. Then she realized he didn’t need wings. A spirit of air, he was light as snow already. She sketched vague outlines in the snow, gesturing feathers with her fingertips.

Then, breathing deep, she said, “Ori. Shining one. Child of light—soldier of Heaven—love and anchor of my soul—come and enter the body I’ve made for you.”

She looked up and peered through the snow into the heavens.

A spark of light was rising, clear and bright beyond the snowflakes, a fallen star called somehow back from the sea. Above it, Heaven’s Eye waited, steadfast and gleaming.

Sara fixed her eyes on the spark. “Come back, Ori,” she murmured. “Don’t go back to her. Come back to me.”

The distant star hung for a moment, suspended as if between two worlds. Then it fell.

It dropped straight toward her, gathering speed. Inside her head, something was singing—a joyful homecoming song. Then suddenly he was there, invisible and omnipresent—filling the beach with potential like an electric current, waiting for rebirth. Slowly, the feeling of him gathered—condensed itself unbearably small and tense. Sara closed her eyes, shuddering.

Something passed through her, shivering her nerves. Beneath her hands, the snow drew breath.

She opened her eyes, and found him looking up at her, his white eyes (snow on snow) as expressive as they had always been. His bloodless, perfect lips began to smile.

“Ori,” she said, her voice a gasp.

His body shivered as beneath a wind, and then he sat upright. Behind him hovered a mere suggestion of wings—dancing snow-flurries, casting kaleidoscopic shadows on the white-drifted sand.

About the Author

K. TRAYLOR is a US citizen, but has spent nine of the last twelve years in South Korea working as an EFL instructor. Her work has previously been published in the Critical Blast anthology Gods & Services. Follow her on Twitter @amongthegoblins.

A New Age

SHAUN KILGORE

THE ROOM SHOOK WITH the pounding of the subwoofers, vibrating my body with it. The deep bass sounds reverberated off me, the music encircled me as I twisted round and round. The bodies of girls moved with the rhythm of the D.J.’s mix. Heat, sweating, glistening skin. Touching them, feeling them move, feeling me move with them. They were given over to the ecstasy too. Dancing harder to the ceaseless beat.

Boom baba boom, ba ba boom, ba ba ba boom baba boom.

I was drowning in sea of colored lights, flashing, flaring, and fading to the pulse of the music.

The transitions between songs came and those I was dancing with broke the spell and made their way, slowly, off the dance floor. I followed. Removed from the crowds, I felt a breeze from the fans. My ears were ringing. The world seemed strangely thinner without the torrent of sound raining down on me, filling me with life and energy. The girls were already gone, probably hitting the bathrooms. Though I thought about hanging out with them, I decided I needed a break. My body felt on fire, the heat radiating off me. I wove through the people hanging out around the pool tables or huddled in booths, weaving my way to the bar.

Meg, a tall redhead in a black corset with a spiked choker ringing her pale throat, was tending bar. She knew me. We had Pysch. Class together.

“Hey, Meg.”

Meg smiled. “Hey, Nate. What can I get you?”

“A Corona.”

Meg leaned back behind the bar and retrieved a bottle from the cooler. She popped the top and handed it over.

“Looks like you’ve been out there on the floor tonight.”

“Yeah. Just like every other Saturday night, eh Meg?”

I was still talking pretty loudly; my hearing was muted. There was some noise from music pouring out of the overhead speakers, and the sound of the pool cues striking the balls on the tables added to the noise of the place. Gino’s was one of the busiest places on campus.

I watched a trio of co-eds walk by, faces painted up, wearing dresses that left little to the imagination. I heard Meg snickering behind me.

“Just a bunch of freshmen, Nate. Probably not sure how they should be dressing now that they’re in the big time. Just kids playing dress-up.”

Meg was a little rough around the edges—sarcastic too.

We were both seniors. One more year of classes and we would be thrust out into the big bad world to make our marks or at least to survive.

“Ah, I was only looking.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

I held my hands up in mock innocence. “I’m here to dance. That’s it.”

That wasn’t always exactly true. Sometimes I hooked up. What? You were expecting some kind of puritan? Still, tonight I wasn’t interested in those sorts of activities. I was beat from dancing. My next stop would be my dorm room. I had a test in Western Philosophy to study for. I needed the shut-eye.

The Corona soothed my throat going down. I downed the bottle and pulled out some cash. I think it’s time to get out of here. I sighed heavily, then stretched my back.

Meg glanced my way, nodded slightly, then topped off the drinks of the guys down the bar. She walked over.

“Calling it a night, then?” Meg was smiling, her lips parted to reveal glistening teeth. She had a great smile.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Getting too old, eh Nate?” She winked.

“Ha, hell no, but a guy’s got his limits. You have a good one, okay Meg.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you in Psych on Monday.”

“You bet,” I said.

I left Gino’s. The night was cool but not unpleasantly so. All along the strip, the restaurants and other bars had steady streams of college students going in and out. Music from D.J.s and live bands blended in the night air with mixed results. I walked down the sidewalk and made my way from the bustle and into the quieter streets behind where the dorms, apartments, and frat houses were situated near the other campus buildings. Sanders College was a patch of building from bygone days, their stately architecture nestled in the midst of the modern city with its shiny skyscrapers. Here I wandered tree-lined streets, kicking the fallen leaves that had settled on the walk. Autumn was settling in nicely.

I nodded to people as I passed. A lot of laughing and happy drunks. For some of them the night was just beginning. It was a quarter after eleven. Damn, maybe I am getting old. The thought made me chuckle. Only last year I was doing all-nighters hitting the clubs and eating pancakes at IHOP sometimes around three o’clock in the morning. Groups of girls sashayed passed me in tight dresses, with guys following like bloodhounds.

I left the sidewalk and jogged across the yard, kicking up more brittle leaves on the way. I entered an open green where me and a few of the other guys played football when we weren’t heading to and from classes. It was empty now. A few scattered lamps provided some illumination. My dorm was on the far side. When I came to the front steps I took a deep breath of the cooling night air. Once inside the hall I climbed the stairs to the second floor. A few people were hanging out in their rooms, the doors wide open in the warm, humid hall. I passed groups of guys huddled around televisions playing video games. A few were strumming guitars for the pretty young things they’d invited inside.

I passed one room and somebody stuck his head out. “Hey Nate, wait a sec.”

It was Steve. We had been roommates freshman year but then I ended up bunking with an old pal of mine named Josh since then.

“What’s up, Steve,” I asked.

My former roomie had an intense look in his eyes. It wasn’t surprising to me. The guy had always been wound a bit too tight. His eyes were riveted to me; his lips were squeezed to a thin line. When he spoke his voice was low, almost a whisper.

“Been watching the news lately?”

“Why? What have I been missing,” I asked. I pulled off a grin though my eyes were getting heavy.

“Oh my goodness. It has been amazing. But the talking heads on camera have no clue what they’re really reporting. They’re blind to the truth.” Steve licked his lips. His voice was filled with, what? Glee maybe?

Shit. He’s finally gone over the edge. Guy’s become a full-fledged nutjob.

Still, something made me ask him. “What is it?”

“Okay, okay. Uh, right,” Steve paused to scrunch his forehead, thinking through what to say. “Yeah, that’s it. They’ve been running reports on the weird lights they’re seeing in the sky.”

“Weird lights? What are you taking about?”

Steve shook his head. “Geez, you’ve got your head in the sand, Nate. You’ve got to open your eyes. They’ve been showing footage from all over the place, all over the world. Bright lights flashing across the sky, colorful like the Aurora Borealis, but also not where we normally see the Northern Lights. Plus, the light seems to move after a while, sometimes vanish altogether.”

“What does it mean?”

Steve’s eyes took on this faraway look like he was seeing something I couldn’t. “Dude, it like I was telling you back when we were roommates. The government is keeping secrets from us. Doing things they shouldn’t be, damaging the environment, jacking with the climate. Nate, this is epic stuff. They’ve done something else. Something that is going to drop on us hard and fast. Maybe bring down Western civilization. I’ve been putting together the rumors, the bits of data that find themselves on the web, and I think these lights are the final piece.”

I wasn’t sure what think. Part of me was considering Steve’s words. The other just thought he was a frigging lunatic. Plus, I was really tired, so my thoughts were a little jumbled.

“What are you saying?”

Steve put his hand on my shoulder. His grip grew harder. I saw a moment of fear flash on his face. “Nate, something really bad is going to happen. It’s going to happen soon. Maybe any day now. The government probably knows about it. They’ve already got their own plans in place. And they sure as hell don’t include saving the majority of the population across the country.”

“Come on, Steve,” I considered the next words for a moment then let them come out. “That sounds crazy, man. Stark raving mad. You know that, don’t you?”

A small smile appeared on Steve’s face. “You were always a straight talker, Nate. I know you think I’m bonkers, but that’s okay. I feel better now that I told you. You were a nice guy when others weren’t. I hope I’m wrong. Take care of yourself.”

Steve turned away and went back into his room. I walked after him and peered inside. I gaped. He had packed up all of his stuff and had it ready to go. Steve pulled on his jacket and did a last minute check.

“Where are you going, Steve?”

Steve turned to me. “I’m leaving right now. I don’t think the city is the best place to be if things go down like I think they might. I called my folks and told them I wasn’t going to try to drive home. I’ll drive out of the city, if I can. Then make for an old resort my parents talked about in the mountains west of here.”

He started hauling stuff out. I just stood there, kind of in a daze. I couldn’t move really, but just waited there while Steve made three trips back and forth. On his final one, he paused in front of me. He reached out and took my hand.

“Bye, Nate.”

“Goodbye, Steve.”

After he was gone, I went to my dorm room. Josh wasn’t there. He would probably be out partying all night long. I sat on my bed and just replayed what Steve said in my mind.

It doesn’t make any sense.

“No sense at all. He’s got to be out of his gourd.”

I shook my head and felt embarrassed I had been taken in by Steve’s paranoid fantasies. At one o’clock I collapsed in my bed, grateful to let sleep steal over me.

EARLY MORNING SUNLIGHT FILTERED through the half-closed blinds to hit me in the face. I squinted trying to make out the time on the clock beside my bed but the display was blank. I rolled over. Josh wasn’t in his bed. There was muted conversation out in the hall. I hopped from bed and walked to the bathroom. When I flipped the switch next to the sink nothing happened. The power must be out.

I ran the water, shaving by the dim light. I grabbed a towel off the back of the door and entered the hall. A few of the guys on my floor were hanging around. One of them—I think his name was Todd—came up to me. He smelled like stale cigarette smoke and maybe few other assorted substances.

“Hey, man. Hear anything about why the power’s out?”

I kept walking. “Naw, I’ve been sleeping, dude. Not a clue. I’m sure it’ll be back on soon.”

I took my shower and went back to my room. Josh still wasn’t there. After getting dress, I drew open the blinds so that the sunlight lit up the space. With some O.J. pulled from the small refrigerator in my hand, I settled down at the desk and started studying. Lost in the reading, I didn’t notice the time go by and only stopped when my stomach was growling loudly.

Maybe they’ve got power over at the student union?

I put on shoes and grabbed my jacket and jogged out the door, down the darkened hall, and out into the warm autumn day. People were out and about, many gathered in groups talking amongst themselves. I kept my pace pretty brisk for a few minutes to get my heart rate up. There were a lot of students outside. More than there usually would be on a Sunday. I slowed down. I looked around trying to get a fix on what seemed odd. I slowed further and walked along looking back and forth across the quad. I stopped just to watch. People were looking at their cell phones, punching frantically at the displays in some cases, shaking them and tapping them.

I dug my smartphone out of my jacket pocket. I hit the power button. Nothing happened. Hmm. It should be fully charged. What’s wrong with it? The same conversation was happening all around me. No one’s cells were working.

“What the hell.”

How could everybody’s phones be screwed up at the same time?

I continued across campus to the student union building. I encountered similar scenes along the way. Students and members of faculty alike seemed at odds with the strange outages. I picked up more info as I went. The problems were not limited to the power grid. Not only was just about every cell phone no longer functional, most electronics were out too. The college’s older phone system was still operational, although on a limited basis. People were having trouble reaching friends and family—or anybody of consequence really. As I neared a parking lot, more strange news was spreading. The cars weren’t starting. Not even a spark.

I was hundred yards away from the student union when somebody ran out into the yard. People were gathering around. Whoever it was spoke loud and clear.

“I’m telling you that’s what I heard. Dean Richards fell over dead in his front yard early this morning.”

“What happened to him,” asked someone else.

“They said it was his heart. He had a pacemaker.”

The comment hung in the air. Those gathered quieted down, then dispersed. I stood there until everyone was gone. Whatever knocked out the power and disabled the cell phones had caused Dean Richards’ pacemaker to fail. It was all connected somehow.

I broke out in a cold sweat, my fingers tingling, mouth drying. Is this what Steve was talking about? There was something absurd about the thought still, but somewhere deep inside I knew the answer. A terrible thing had happened. I scanned the distant skyline. There didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary in the city. The campus buildings and trees obscured the view. I needed to see more.

For several minutes I continued walking, abandoning the student union so I could Advanced Sciences building. It was the tallest of the campus buildings, was situated next to the open grounds that surrounded the college’s track, and it gave me the best view of the city. I remembered taking girl to the top floor to see the lights at night. Other students were running, walking, or riding bicycles. I saw campus security out and about too, patrolling and trying to maintain order. All was surprisingly stable. The power had been out for a few hours. Most people figured it was being repaired and that it was only a matter of time. Sure they weren’t sure what to make of the other failures, and word of Dean Richards’ passing had not circulated widely yet. This would all change. I knew things were much worse than that. Somewhere along the way, I had bought into Steve’s take. I didn’t know how culpable the government was in this, but I had the sinking feeling they were at least partially to blame. Not fair maybe, but I guess I wasn’t thinking all that clearly at the moment anyways.

The modern world was dealt a deathblow. Would the power return? Would we be able to use our cell phones, computers, automobiles, and all the rest? I for one wasn’t sure at all.

“Steve probably had the right idea about getting the hell out of the city. He probably made it out before it all happened.”

I felt like I was going to scream. I tamped down on the mania that was threatening to squeeze out of me and concentrated on walking.

I made it to Advanced Sciences and went inside. The elevator was out so I took the stairs two at a time. There were four floors. It was dark in the stairwell. Not even the emergency lights were active. Severe electrical disruption. I wasn’t an engineer. Hell, I wasn’t even that tech savvy, but I knew just enough to wonder whether even the batteries would work.

I busted through the door and ran down the empty hall, moving past equally empty rooms, the doors locked for the weekend. After a few turns I came on a door marked roof exit. I tried the latch but it was locked. I don’t have Frank the janitor here to bribe, now do I?

I looked around the corridor. I spotted a fire axe and extinguisher. The glass broke noisily but I wasn’t too concerned about getting in trouble. I took a few heavy swings at the doorknob. With a bit of luck, it came loose and I was heading up another staircase. The door at the top popped open and I was outside again. The air was crisp and clean. But I stopped cold.

I could see much better now. More of the city was visible as well as the boroughs beyond. Plumes of dark smoke rose here and there all across the skyline. The silence was eerie. The city was always alive with noises, many of them audible from the campus. Yet now, there was nothing. The only noises I could hear were the breeze blowing against my ears and a few birds warbling in some trees right next to the building.

I suddenly knew something very clearly. The silence was an illusion. I could not hear the sounds from here, but people were suffering and dying out there. That smoke could be fires burning in the neighborhoods. It could be the oily flames of wrecked airplanes that had dropped from the sky without warning when whatever forces knocked the power and disabled electronics. Hundreds of scared people plummeting to their deaths. I could see their pales faces when I closed my eyes. I saw the dead that filled the hospital, those who had been reliant on the machines to keep them alive and I saw the multitudes that would be there seeking help.

The revelation brought me to my knees on the hard gravel surface of the roof. I clutched the side of the building until I regained control of my emotions.

“I’ve got to get the hell of here.”

It was a simple fact. Yet, I was jolted anew by the starkness of my own words spoken in the silence. I was alone. My family was hundreds of miles from here. I had no way to get to them fast if the cars weren’t working and the planes were on the ground. Even the notion of snatching a bicycle and riding there seemed foolish and risky.

How many other people are thinking the exact same thing?

I was moving down the stairs and through the empty building before I realized what I was intending to do. Outside I broke out into a run and dashed across campus, running on sidewalks and through the grass, weaving back and forth to avoid people who were still just hanging out and waiting for things to get back to normal. I felt a twinge of guilt at not stopping to tell everyone what I believed.

“Slow down there,” said one of the campus cops.

I glanced over to see the guy, was only half paying attention now. He was talking with a few other cops. Still, I skidded to a halt and then went at more of jog. Once I was out of sight, I took off again. I returned to the dorms and went up the stairs to my floor. The door was open when I arrived. Josh was sitting on his bed.

“Hey, Nate,” he said. “You won’t believe the night I’ve had. It’s been nuts. I got stranded over in Newberry. Damn car and cellphone both stopped working. I walked back here. Just got in.”

I was so intent on what I was doing I didn’t hear him at first. I began pulling out clothes, then tried to figure out what would be the best ones to take. I figured I would have to travel light so I needed to pare down to essentials. Besides my backpack wouldn’t support much more. I looked around at my other things. Other than textbooks, I didn’t have much else I needed to take with me. Despite my early scoffing, I thought a bike would help me get clear of the city a bit faster.

“Nate, man, what are you doing? Didn’t you hear what I said?” Josh got up and grabbed my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

I jumped. “What, oh, hey Josh.”

“Dude, what are you doing?”

I looked at him, focusing now. “I’m leaving the school. In fact, I’m getting out of the city.”

“Why?”

“It’s not going to be safe here. It’ll be dangerous.”

Josh frowned at me. His eyes were bloodshot. He had a hangover and had been walking all night long. “Dangerous? What the hell are you talking about?”

I paused in the packing. I pointed towards the window. “You saw what’s happening out there? Have you heard anything about the cars, the power, the phones, Dean Richards?”

“Dean Richards? Yeah, I heard something from Greg down the hall. Said Richards keeled over dead. It was his pacemaker or something?”

I nodded. “It failed like everything else electrical. Massive failures everywhere.” I took a breath and told Josh what I feared was happening. “I don’t think the power is coming back on.”

Josh stood there for a few minutes. He seemed to be thinking about what I said, absorbing it, so it filtered. Josh was a thinker. He needed a few minutes to consider just about anything except when he was out partying.

“You think the power’s gone for good?”

“Yeah, I do. I think Steve Brinkley was right.”

“Steve Brinkley?”

I nodded again. “Yeah. I know it sounds nuts, but I think he was actually right about this. He took off just before it all went down but warned me before leaving.”

Josh scrubbed a hand across his face. “How about we get something to eat, if we can, and then take a few minutes to talk about this some more.”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t want to wait. I’m going now.”

Josh turned away. “Well, let me get changed and pack up some stuff. We should probably leave by the Wembly Street exit. That’ll get us out of town the fastest even if we have to hoof it.”

“What? You mean you’re coming with me?”

Josh smirked. “Hell, why not. Maybe that weirdo Steve was right. I mean you seem convinced, man. I’ll trust you on this one.”

I smiled then. I wasn’t in this alone. I felt a bit of the fear drain away as the two of us packed up what we could reasonably carry, locked our door, and set out across campus.

JOSH AND I LEFT our school behind and kept walking away from the city. The conditions in the surrounding neighborhoods and suburbs were strange to see. The number of cars blocking the roads was lower than I expected. It would have been much worse during rush hour with hundreds of drivers left stranded. Probably because it happened in the early morning. As it was, some drivers were still hanging out with their dead automobiles though most had moved on to filling stations, shops, and other places. We passed a few fender-benders. I looked at the crumpled bumpers and broken windows, taillights and headlights. The same conditions—no power, no cellphones, no active vehicles. The world as we knew it had ground to a halt. Groups of people were headed in both directions, some venturing into the heart of the city hoping to find some answers, while others were keen to get as far into the surrounding countryside.

The hours trickled by. Since neither of us had working watches, I could only guess it was some time in the late afternoon. Josh and I picked up some sandwiches and sodas, along with bottles of water from a small food mart. The owner took our money. The food was going to spoil without refrigeration so he gave it to us at a good discount. He seemed confident that everything would be put right by tomorrow. A good majority of the people we stopped to talk with seemed to agree. I didn’t say much about what I thought. Josh noticed but didn’t contradict what they said. We kept moving.

We walked until it started to get dark. Josh and I both realized we would have to stop since there would be no lights on either in the streets or in the houses and businesses surrounding us.

“Do you want to find a place to bed down for the night?”

I nodded. “Maybe we can find a motel that will still take guests.”

Josh looked back the way they had come. “Yeah. Anywhere we can get inside would be good.”

It seemed like such an absurd situation. And it was. I hadn’t thought much beyond getting away from campus and as far out away from the city as we could. I underestimated the distances. The scope and number of suburban and exurban tracts that stretched away from the core. All of it normally traversed by automobile. We had been doing it on foot. I realized there on that darkening street that we’d probably only walked ten miles—maybe twelve. How many more miles would we need to travel? Was I even right about the power?

We walked another mile before Josh spotted a billboard with motel advertisement on it. It was another mile down the road. We doubled our pace. I was feeling the burn from all of the exertion. I was in fairly decent shape but this was pushing it a bit. It was completely dark by the time we reached the right exit ramp. We found the motel easily enough. A restaurant next door was lit by candles—and apparently open for business. There were a handful of customers hanging outside the place smoking cigarettes. Josh and I walked past the door. I could smell hamburgers cooking on the grill. Thing ran on gas so it could be used.

“After we check in, I think we should get a bite to eat.”

I smiled. “Agreed.”

WE LUCKED OUT AGAIN and got a room. Between the two of us, we had the cash. The desk clerk took the money with no questions asked. The lobby had been lit lamps and candles. The stairwell was dark too but we only had to make it up one flight to the second floor so it was simple enough. We dropped our packs off inside the room then returned to the restaurant.

The smell of hot food made my mouth water. We settled down at one of the booths. Small groups of people, likely stranded motorists, were discussing the crisis. I listened as they speculated about causes. Some maintained the belief that they would get things back up and running. Not enough time had passed for people to truly believe that it was more than a temporary disruption. Josh and I drank the water the server brought to our table.

“Yeah, well I was driving my rig when it happened. It was about a quarter till five this morning. Was running at about sixty on the interstate there and then all of sudden there was this bright flashes of light in the sky. My rig lost power at that time. Same with all of the other cars around me. Tried my cell phone but it was dead too. I think there was something about that light that did it.”

The trucker’s mention of the lights in the sky got my attention. Didn’t Steve say something about the Northern Lights? Maybe they had something to do with it?

We sat listening to the guy go on talking for several minutes. When I was sure he wasn’t going to drop any revelations, I nudged Josh. “Let’s get some sleep, man.”

“What are we going to do tomorrow, Nate?”

“We’ll keep going. Get completely out of the city. We might be able to get to my parent’s house. It’ll take a while, but it is possible.”

“That’s five hundred miles away, man. I don’t know if we can do it. How long will that take us? At today’s pace, we won’t make it to your folk’s place for two months. Two months on the road, out in the elements, exposed. It’ll be much colder too. Plus it will be dangerous. The world’s going to come apart big time, Nate. Geez man, we need to find some place closer to hunker down.”

Some place closer. We needed shelter. Somewhere away from it all. Then it hit me.

“I just remembered something. Steve said he was going to some old resort in the mountains west of here. Maybe we can get there too and weather this. It’s probably one of those old retreats, a big log cabin, or lodge. You know.”

Josh thought for a second. “Right. I bet that’s Benning Creek. I heard some of the townies talking about the place. Said it’s up I-20.”

“I think we should get a map. We’ll need it.”

“So we’re going to try for this place?”

“Yeah. I mean the sooner the better right?”

“And you’re definitely sure the power won’t come back on in a day or so?”

“I’m feeling more confident that it one, unfortunately.”

Josh laughed. “Hell, man. Let hit the sack. We’ll start planning our next move in the morning.”

THE NEXT DAY, WE agreed to try for Benning Creek. I knew we had an edge on everyone else. Most of them would think things would return to normal. But the status quo was over now. A new age was dawning. People just didn’t know it yet. We gathered what supplies we could and used up the last of the money we had between us to buy a couple of used bicycles some guy had refurbished and was sitting in his yard. It was a nice piece of good luck. I wasn’t sure how long it would last.

We got our hands on a decent roadmap and set off at lunchtime. The open road stretched out before us, dead cars spread out ahead creating a maze we needed to navigate. I was scared. Josh probably was too. I mean who did we think we were. We weren’t preppers or survivalists. We were just a couple of ordinary guys who got a heads up on the end of the world as we knew it.

I owe Steve big time.

About the Author

SHAUN KILGORE is the author of various works of fantasy, science fiction, and a number of nonfiction works. He has also published numerous short stories and collection. His books appear in both print and ebook editions. Shaun is the publisher and editor of MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine. He lives in eastern Illinois.

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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

MYTHIC

A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine

ISSUE # 11 SUMMER 2019

Copyright © 2019 by Founders House Publishing LLC

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

All Contents are copyrighted to their respective authors

and used here with their permission.

Cover art copyright © Algol/Dreamstime.com

Published by Founders House Publishing LLC

MYTHIC: A Quarterly Science Fiction & Fantasy Magazine

is a project and publication of Founders House Publishing LLC.

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This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional,

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