Earth: Planetary Anthology
Author: Jody Lynn Nye; Arlan Andrews Sr.; Richard Paolinelli; Lou Antonelli; Benjamin Wheeler; Dan Gallagher; Bokerah Brumley; A. M. Freeman; J. D. Beckwith; John M. Olsen
Date: 2018-06-05 07:00:00+00:00
Description: Earth: Planetary Anthology Series Volume 6. Welcome to Earth. We know so much about our home planet, yet so very little. From the ancient astronomers who sought to figure out our place among the stars to the modern day scientists studying the deepest oceans to those who looking for life on other planets, adventure awaits. In this anthology resides 18 stories of discovery and daring that exhibit the spirit of adventure that has led explorers to risk their lives trying to discover the mysteries and secrets of Earth. Contents: Introduction (Earth) (2018) • essay by Dawn Witzke Silesian Treasure (
Publisher: Superversive Press

Table of Contents

Front Matter

Introduction

Silesian Treasure by WJ Hayes

This Planet Is A Hole by Lou Antonelli

Extinction Point by Richard Paolinelli

I Hate Mars! by Arlan Andrews

The Mantle of Gaia by Jody Lynn Nye

Reality Run by Alfred Genneson

The Lamp by Which My Feet are Guided by R. W. Ware

Escape From The Lost Land by Nathan Dabney

Unacceptable Losses by John M. Olson

Climate of Change by Marie Genneson

Welcome to Mars! by A. M. Freeman

The Dawn of Reason by Dan Gallagher

Under A Wayward Sun by Josh Griffing

The Hidden Conquest by Hans Schantz

Complicit in Their Bondage by J. Manfred Weichsel

Ringrun by Ben Wheeler

Xolotl Resurrected by J. D. Beckwith

We’ll Always Have Earth by Bokerah Brumley

The Planetary Series

About Superversive Press

About the Authors

PLANETARY: EARTH

© 2018 Superversive Press

All rights reserved. No part of the content of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database retrieval system, or copied by any technology yet to be developed without the prior written permission of the author. You may not circulate this book in any format.

Editor: Dawn Witzke

Cover Art: Lee Madison

ISBN: 978-1-925645-16-3

First Edition: 2018

INTRODUCTION

Dawn Witzke

Welcome to Earth. We know so much about our home planet, yet so very little. From the ancient astronomers who sought to figure out our place among the stars to the modern day scientists studying the deepest oceans to those who looking for life on other planets, people have spent thousands of years mapping, studying and recording in an effort to learn about the past in hopes of predicting the future. They have made some miraculous finds through the ages and will continue to do so as long as they keep searching.

Will we ever know all there is to know about this place we call home? I hope not.

In this anthology I have put together 18 stories of discovery and daring that exhibit the spirit of adventure that has led explorers to risk their lives trying to discover the mysteries and secrets of Earth.

Enjoy!

Silesian Treasure by WJ Hayes - RAF Group Captain Enoch P. Simmons is tasked as liaison to a business convention. He meets Buchanan Polk and the pair suddenly find themselves in the midst of a robbery. The only thing more unusual than the thieves is the treasure.

This Planet is a Hole by Lou Antonelli - An alien teen is forced to move with her family to the worst planet in all of space and she’s not happy about it.

Extinction Point by Richard Paolinelli - Every civilized planet reaches a point when its technological advances lead to its ultimate demise. Major Adam Armstrong has just discovered that Earth has reached its extinction point and he is racing against time and space to try and warn his homeworld before it is too late.

I Hate Mars! By Arlan Andrews - An exile from Earth is sent to Mars in a robotic body. He hates the Red Planet, but makes an unexpected life for himself there.

The Mantle of Gaia by Jody Lynn Nye - When Earth is under attack from an enemy force, her defender might be the one with the most unlikely of talents. College student Winston Chun is the last survivor of the programmers who can operate the planetary repulsor web against the incursion of bloodthirsty aliens, but can Colonel Fran di Palma get him to the control center before the Fangs wipe out the entire human race?

Reality Run by Alfred Genneson - A post-human discovers the world outside of the computer.

The Lamp By Which My Feet Are Guided by R. W. Ware - What’s left after a religious apocalypse? The brave men and women of the Mavericks.

Escape From The Lost Land by Nathan Dabney - Explorers Virgil Shephard and Ross Kent have discovered a tropical paradise deep in the snows of Antarctica, but beyond the flora and fauna thought to be extinct there lurks a mysterious evil from which they must escape.

Unacceptable Losses by John M. Olson - Caroline Storm is stranded in a combat zone, her team missing or dead, communications on blackout. Can she complete her mission and survive?

Climate of Change by Marie Genneson - A marital spat between Pluto and Persephone sends the world into chaos. Can Athena mend the split before the drastic temperature changes destroy the humans and kill them all?

Welcome to Mars! by A. M. Freeman - Some rivalries span decades, but how far is too far when doing what it takes to win?

The Dawn of Reason by Dan Gallagher - At the dawn of humanity there was a choice to walk in trusting humility, or else covet equality with God as a thing to be grasped. How’d that work out?

Under A Wayward Sun by Josh Griffing - Terran Fleet Ensign Jack Williams is about to make history on Topeka-2 as the youngest officer ever to lead a survey team to a planet’s surface. But the real story of Topeka-2 is far more curious than anyone expected.

The Hidden Conquest by Hans Schantz - Faster-than-light travel is a myth, yet an invasion crosses light years of space and eons of time, employing a small but devastating secret weapon to conquer another world. Can he can stop the Civic Circle’s “Hidden Conquest,” before it’s too late?

Complicit in Their Bondage by J. Manfred Weichsel - A US Soldier discovers an ancient secret in the mountains of Afghanistan.

Ringrun by Ben Wheeler - A robotic scientist is on the run from a nanotech swarm desperate to rip out the information he holds in his mind.

Xolotl Resurrected by J. D. Beckwith - A convergence of breakthroughs in quantum intelligence and materials technology has led to the birth of matter conversion. Can the idealistic inventors prove its viability to the world, and share it, while still protecting against its misuse? They have the power to create anything, so why not start with a miracle?

We’ll Always Have Earth by Bokerah Brumley - Ilsa Land works on the R.S.S. Ether Hope, a Trans-Galactic Spaceliner. As an AA—or Aware Android, she plans to spend the rest of her life with the concierge bot, Rick Blair, another AA. When a ship-wide malfunction sends Ilsa’s plans horribly awry, she must choose between saving her future and saving an innocent life.

SILESIAN TREASURE

WJ Hayes

ENOCH P. SIMMONS looked at his watch and again wondered why he was at cocktail reception for the annual convention of International Association of Seafood Purveyors. While the Hotel Magdalene was an impressive resort, renowned as it was for being built into the side of a mountain and its mineral spas, holding a seafood convention in landlocked Bohemia seemed an odd choice. And it still did not explain why RAF Group Captain Simmons was here. His superiors had been rather vague as to why a liaison to European Space Agency’s office tasked with coordinating responses to deorbiting space debris was glad handing seafood magnates.

And yet, a large number of them had been positively giddy to meet and quiz him about the junk orbiting the Earth. The disappointment in their eyes when he explained the low chances of any given individual being struck by a piece of space junk had been baffling.

But as he observed the convention, he realized the pattern. Those who had questioned him were studiously ignoring one of their own. That man moved through the cocktail reception as if he was encased in an invisible bubble. For a moment, the Group Captain was thrown back to his childhood days when he was the only West Indian child in Easington, England.

Simmons liaised between government officials and astrophysicists, so he had gotten pretty good at deciphering body language. They really hated this man. He had seen this reaction before, usually when some smug politico got schooled by a boffin when told the laws of physics did not bend to the opinions of focus groups. Many of these business folk had the same rictus grin after talking to this man. Simmons understood why they had been so upset by his explanation of orbital debris.

The animosity though, was limited to the man’s fellow business types. The hotel’s staff overseeing the cocktail reception, not only had no issues with the man, but seemed to enjoy their interactions, causing Simmons to marvel. “Women want him, men want to be him, and his enemies want him struck down.”

The man looked at him and said, “I had thought of making it my motto, but it is very unwieldy in Latin.”

Simmons felt his cheeks flush and his Britishness kicked into overdrive. “I’m terribly sorry. I hadn’t realized I had said anything out loud.”

The man dismissed his concern. “It’s nothing really. Besides, it really is the story of my life. Especially the last part. Watch.”

This last comment puzzled Simmons. He looked around. He quickly spotted a portly gentleman in denial about his male pattern baldness. Somehow, he had mistakenly made eye contact with the man next to Simmons and now had to go through the rituals polite society required. “Buchanan Polk, what a pleasure to see you,” the newcomer said in tones suggesting otherwise. “How’s business? Still having problems building your cannery?”

This last comment was said with such schadenfreude, Simmons half expected the man to point and say, “Ha-ha.”

Polk showed no reaction to the dig, saying only, “Hello Mr. Gregg. Good to see you as well. The hotel is very nice.”

Greg preened “I chose it myself. I thought after last year’s debacle we should go somewhere… pleasant. And this place is very pleasant. Very appropriate for persons of our station.”

“You know,” Polk replied looking around, “I could tell you had a hand in this. Truly an inspiring choice. Hosting a seafood convention in a landlocked nation could only come from a mind like yours.”

The smile disappeared from Gregg’s face as he looked from Polk to Simmons. “Well, yes. I need to see about dinner,” Gregg said and left.

Buchanan Polk nodded at the scurrying figure. “I get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”

“Yes, quite the mystery,” Simmons replied as he tried but failed to stifle a chuckle. “At least it explains why I am here.”

“Mmm.”

Simmons realized the businessman was focused elsewhere. He followed Polk’s gaze towards the bar. The bartender was having an animated conversation with the open space next to him. “You don’t see that every day,” the RAF Officer ventured. “Usually people stop talking to imaginary friends at a much younger age.”

Polk shook his head. “I think he is talking to a dwarf.”

Simmons winced. “I don’t think we’re supposed to call them that. The term is, I believe, ‘vertically challenged’. No wait, it is ‘vertically different’.

Buchanan Polk had a slightly bewildered look on his face. “No, I meant,” he began and stopped. “Never mind.”

There was a chime from the ceiling speakers. “I believe that is the call for dinner,” Polk said. “Knowing Gregg, he probably set up a vegetarian spread.”

As the school of fishmongers thronged to the doors, Polk turned to Simmons and said, “I’m going to avoid the mad dash. Instead, I do believe I will have a drink. Would you like one?”

Before Simmons could answer, Polk was already headed towards the bar. Simmons saw the bartender wasn’t at the bar and was about to comment on this when he saw Polk lean over the bar. He was rather surprised to hear a grunt of surprise come from behind it. But he was even more surprised when the businessman grabbed a bottle of wine and brought it down on someone. “Crikey,” cried Simmons rushing over, “What did you do?”

“I just took out a nasty dwarf.”

“Really I don’t think there is any call for that language.”

Polk reached behind the bar and produced a compact rifle. This was followed by a pistol and a butterfly knife.

“Crikey Moses. So he was most likely nasty,” Simmons conceded, “But still calling him that…”

He looked at the crumpled form behind the bar. Not that he had a lot of experience, but his limited interactions with the vertically different suggested this man did not look right. Usually you knew when you saw someone whose height was suboptimal. The features looked a little different. But the form in front of him was not like that. This man looked like he was at his intended height. “We should probably alert the Czech Counterterrorism Office,” he said.

Polk lifted the man’s unresisting hand, revealing an onyx ring with a ᛟ. Shaking his head, Polk said, “The Druver Brotherhood ideology is greed. They work for money and aren’t interested in any ism that doesn’t have a good return on investment.”

“The Druver Brotherhood?” asked a perplexed Simmons.

“Dwarven mercenaries. Well, dwarven thugs really.”

Enoch Simmon’s protest over the use of the word “dwarf” was interrupted by gunfire, glass breaking and screams of panic from the convention dining room. Buchanan Polk crouched behind the bar while Simmons reflexively hurdled the bar and grabbed the rifle. Polk sighed and held up his phone. “No signal,” he said.

“Probably because this hotel was built into the side of a mountain. I think the conference area and mineral baths are inside the mountain.”

There was additional shouting in the hallway interspersed with the occasional gunshot. Simmons turned his head slightly. “I don’t think they are trying to kill, just herd everyone. And I think they are shouting in German.”

Polk shook his head. “That isn’t German. It’s something older.”

The businessman paused as there was another burst of gunfire. “We can’t go out there,” he said looking around. He pointed to service door. “We should probably head that way.”

Enoch Simmons turned and looked. “We take the service passage, find the nearest exit and summons the authorities.”

Polk nodded as he put the butterfly knife in his suit jacket and then picked up the pistol. “Do you know how to fire a gun?” Simmons asked.

Polk nodded. “In general. Keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction; be sure of my target and its surroundings; Mister Nose-Picker does not go onto Mister Shooty until I am ready to fire.”

“I may have phrased it differently,” Simmons admitted. “But yes. That covers the important points.”

Simmons went over to the service door. He reached to open it when the door opened on its own and did so with a grunt. Simmons looked down and saw a pair of beady eyes going wide in surprise. Simmons also saw a rifle barrel rising. Training taking over, Simmons used the butt of his rifle to strike the face between the eyes. There was a satisfying crack and thud as the beady eyes rolled into the skull. With the immediate shock past, Simmons realized he had just knocked out another vertically different individual. Confused, he turned to Polk. The businessman shook his head. “Remember they are beneath you.”

“I hardly think…”

There was an annoyed sigh. “They are shorter than you. You have to look down at them.”

“Well I hardly,” began Simmons until his brain flagged the latter half of Polk’s statement as more important. “Wait. Are you saying there are more?”

“Probably another ten,” Polk said as he went over and disarmed Simmons’s dwarf. “The Druver Brotherhood usually is comprised of companies of twelve.”

“Why?”

A noncommittal shrug. “Just the way they are.”

There was more commotion from the hallway. Polk tucked the pistol in the back of his suit pants and lifted the rifle. Simmons went back to the door. Polk had started to follow him but stopped when he saw a clipboard under the bar. He flipped the first page of paper on the clipboard and wrote something and left it with body at the bar.

Simmons slowly opened the door and then peeked around the corner. The hallway was industrial generic: white cement block walls; fluorescent lights above and a sturdy matte gray tile flooring. To his right he could see a sign that read ‘Výstup’ and an arrow pointing down the hallway. Presuming ‘Výstup’ meant exit, Simmons began to move in the arrow’s direction. Polk followed, taking care the door didn’t slam. Slowly and quietly, the pair moved down the hallway, stopping short when they heard voices speaking the guttural language coming from around the corner. “Back,” hissed Simmons.

They had made it to the reception room door when a cry of surprise rang out on the other side. The men looked at one another before running down the other end of the hall. They turned a corner and came face to face with a door. With a silent prayer it wasn’t locked, Simmons pushed the door handle down and was relieved to find the door opened. The RAF officer gestured for Polk to go first. Inside, Simmons closed the door and threw the deadbolt.

A moment later, there were shouts in the hallway. Then the door handle jiggled. Both men crouched, rifles at the ready. Someone pounded on the door. Another came lower on the door. There was a pause and another bang, one that seemed more of frustration. This was seemingly confirmed as the stream of unintelligible mutterings faded down the hallway. Simmons turned to Polk. “Do you understand what they’re saying?” he asked in low tones.

Polk shook his head as he looked around the room. “I don’t speak dwarfish,” he said quietly.

“I don’t think vertically different people speak a different language.”

Polk stopped taking inventory of the room and looked directly at Enoch Simmons. “Let’s try this one more time,” he said in low, measured tones. “These are dwarves. Dwarves with rifles. They’re not vertically anything. They are dwarves.”

Enoch Simmons stared at Buchanan Polk. “Are you telling me these are real dwarves? As in the type that sing hi-ho and all that?”

“Your real dwarf doesn’t sing or run hostels for wayward women. They are nasty and brutish. Less Tolkien, more Wagner. If they are here, it can’t be good.”

“Why?”

Polk blinked. “What do you mean why? You’re in the military. You should know how bad it is when dwarves show up.”

“The RAF doesn’t do dwarf training.”

It sounded absurd and he knew it. His further explanation of “Maybe because they don’t fly” didn’t sound any better.

“Where are we?” he demanded.

Polk pointed to shelves of towels and robes. “Looks like Turkish cotton. We must be near the baths.”

Simmons took his own assessment. “This room is too narrow,” he said. “The door to the service hallway can’t be used as the emergency exit. EU regulations will require other means of escape. We find that exit and use it. Dwarves or no.”

Polk gestured towards the other door. “After you.”

“You open, I’ll go first.”

Polk nodded and went to the door. Standing next to it, he reached over, grabbed the handle and pulled gently. Simmons winced anticipatorily, waiting for the door to squeak. When it didn’t, he made a note to leave good marks for the hotel’s infrastructure maintenance. As the door opened, Simmons crouched. “Stay low and follow me.”

Polk imitated Simmon’s waddling and followed the RAF Officer into the baths. Simmons looked around and ignored the impulse to whistle. The mineral bath spa was nothing like he had expected. He had imagined it would be a modern room, brightly lit, with a very neat orderly arrangement of hot tub like pools. This room looked nothing like it. This was a large cavern. The baths were naturally formed pools of water. While the modern regulatory necessities were present, they were affixed where need be, to the cave’s ceilings and walls. He didn’t see any emergency exits, but reasoned the stalagmites and stalactites, Simmons couldn’t remember which were which, were blocking the signs. In fact in some places, the formations had met to create pillars and in one area they had formed a shelter.

Simmons saw Polk was looking around. Getting his attention, Simmons gestured towards the small elevated chamber. Hurrying over, they saw they were hidden from the view of people in the spa, but had an expansive view of the cavern. Simmons felt a tap on the shoulder. Turning, he saw Polk gestured behind them. The path they had followed continued on. Just beyond, Simmons saw the red arrow unmistakably indicating the direction to the emergency exit.

Simmons froze when he heard the door to the spa open followed by guttural shouting. After a moment a new voice was heard. It spoke English, albeit with a heavy but unidentifiable accent. “What is he saying?” Its tone suggested the speaker was weary with complaints.

“We have a problem,” said a second voice. It too spoke with an accent Simmons couldn’t place, but different from the first. “Hajol and Zuver were attacked. Their weapons were taken and this message was left.

Simmons peered through a gap in the formations. There were two of the vertically different men, one of whom was thrusting a piece of paper at a figure in the shadows. The paper looked a lot like the one Polk had scribbled upon in the reception room. Simmons couldn’t get a good look at the individual, but what he could make out indicate the individual was very large and very terrifying. The appendage that took the paper looked more claw than hand. The shadow figure read the note. “Now I have a rifle. Hi-ho, hi-ho, hi-ho.”

Simmons shot Polk a dirty look. “What? You never saw Die Hard?” hissed Polk.

The shadow figure made a noise that almost sounded like a chuckle as the vertically different muttered darkly. “It would appear Garlaar’s boys have let an American escape.”

One of the vertically different translated this to his companion. The companion failed to find the humor and began to rant in their language. This did not appear to impress the shadow figure. It waved its hand (or claw). “It matters not. Success is close. No doubt the authorities have been alerted. Perhaps Garlaar should focus on that.”

Simmons heard a pebble kicked behind him. Spinning, he saw a third vertically different. It saw him and Polk, shouted and raised its rifle. The sequence of events gave Simmons enough time to raise his rifle and fire. His training had him aiming for the chest. But given the actual height of his target, the bullet went between the eyes.

The room erupted in shouts and gunfire. As he looked at the crumpled body, the penny dropped for Enoch Simmons. “It’s a dwarf,” he cried.

Buchanan Polk paused his firing at the dwarves. “I believe I have been saying that.”

“A dwarf,” repeated Simmons in disbelief. “I just killed Bashful or Happy.”

“Nah,” Polk answered. “It was probably Surly.” He aimed and fired, taking down a dwarf. “I just capped Off His Meds. Now, could we get back to the business of not being killed?”

An incoming ricochet focused Simmons’s attention on the here and now. He took up his position, then began firing on the incoming dwarves.

Now that he had come to terms with who was trying to kill him, the situation was almost comical. Almost. But Enoch Simmons was a professional. He took aim, pulled the trigger, swiveled towards the next target, aimed, and fired. Both dwarves dropped. Simmons aimed at the door. No one else came through and slowly he was aware of the absence of gunfire.

Simmons took stock of the situation. Five dead dwarves in front, and the one behind them. Quick math told him he had taken out three and Polk took out three. “You’re a better shot than you let on,” he said to the businessman.

Polk gave a noncommittal shrug. “My mentor believed boardroom battles could become actual conflicts and prepared accordingly.”

From the darkness at the back of the cavern came the first voice. “Hello there.”

Simmons knelt and aimed. Polk called out, “Howdy.”

“I was wondering,” asked the voice, “if we could talk before we resume trying to kill one another.”

Simmons looked at Polk and mouthed, “Trap.”

The businessman nodded. “How do I know you won’t try to kill me when I step into the open?

The chuckling like noise was heard. “If I was to kill you, I have no doubt your associate would return the favor.”

Polk considered this for a moment. He turned to the RAF Officer. “If he does kill me, avenge my death,” he said.

The shadow figure emerged. Enoch Simmons recalled stories about such beings from his childhood. But he knew he had never, ever expected to meet an ogre. And yet here he was.

The ogre was wearing what looked to be a tux. Annoyingly for a man who had yet to find a suit to fit him perfectly, the ogre’s outfit looked almost bespoke in spite of its unusual body size.

Simmons looked at Polk. The businessman didn’t seem to show any fear of what he was facing. He could hear Polk clearly as he looked at the creature and said, “You sir, are a monster.”

The ogre was taken aback. “Now really,” it said reproachingly, “Such name calling isn’t dignified.”

“I was referring to your shoes. Tan Work boots? Simply not done.”

The creature looked down at its feet. “You have a point,” it conceded. “But you have no idea how hard it is to find size 20 dress shoes.”

“That hardly excuses taking hostage a hotel full of conventioneers.”

The ogre made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, that’s not why. I did that to give the boys something to do while Garlaar breached the wall.”

Simmons tensed. Breaching meant explosives. The RAF Officer was, by experience, a believer that one should be outside a cave when explosives were used. If possible, at least ten miles away and two miles high.

“Buried treasure?” Polk asked in a tone that suggested he was deeply disappointed this was all about money.

“Oh nothing so base as that. This is more of an archeological find,” the ogre answered. Gesturing behind him, he continued, “There is a chamber which contains the Altar of Victory.”

“That was taken from the Roman Senate during the Vandal sacking of 455 and disappeared from history.”

The ogre nodded. “Yes, it was believed to have had magical properties for those who believe in the ancient gods. Properties that ensured victory for conquerors. Soon, I will be master of Bohemia.”

“Today Bohemia, tomorrow Moravia and then the world?”

The ogre shook his head. “No, I just want Bohemia and Moravia. Only a megalomaniac would want to conquer the world. And really, I have much better things to do instead of trying to solve the problems of the Middle East. I know my limits.”

Buchanan Polk nodded approvingly. “While I applaud your self-actualized knowledge, I’m afraid taking over these lands is not acceptable.”

“You say that as if you have a say in the matter. I assure you, you do not. I will defeat the final guardian and then nothing will stand in my way.”

The whole cavern shook. Part of the wall at the back of the cave exploded, a cloud of dust and debris gushed forth, quickly enveloping the ogre and Polk. Simmons lost sight of the creature. He rushed out the chamber, calling out to Polk. As the cloud dissipated, Simmons saw the businessman standing, looking at his suit. Polk shook his head. “This is why you don’t let a member of the Druver Brotherhood plant explosives. They always go for overkill.”

Simmons looked towards the back of the cavern. “Was that thing…”

“Ogre,” corrected Polk.

“Serious about his plans for domination? And about this altar?”

“Have you ever known an ogre to have a sense of humor?”

“Crikey Moses.”

“My sentiments exactly. Especially his confidence in defeating the guardian and being able to handle the dwarves when they learn there is no gold or jewelry, just a very large slab of stone. Never underestimate a dwarf’s greed.”

Simmons looked at Polk critically. “Why do you know that?”

“You don’t construct as many buildings as my company has without running into a dwarf or two,” the businessman said dismissively as he gestured towards the back of the cave.

Simmons shook his head. “At least the exit is clear. We can get out and warn the authorities.”

Buchanan Polk continued to stare at the back of the cavern. The dust had mostly settled, revealing the gap caused by the explosion and the glow sticks dropped to illuminate to the path on the other side. “I’m sure the local police and counter-terrorism squad can mop up the dwarves in the hotel,” Polk stated.

Enoch Simmons looked at Polk. “I sense a ‘but’ coming,” he noted.

“I highly doubt they would believe us if we said an ogre had blasted a path under a mountain in order to steal a pagan altar to conquer the Czech Republic.”

Group Captain Simmons thought about it. They probably wouldn’t believe him either. He didn’t even believe it and he was a witness. “Fine, let’s go stop the bad guys,” he said and went through the gap. “Can’t believe I am standing here trying to foil a simple robbery. One that involves an ogre, dwarves, and an altar from antiquity.”

Because Polk followed Simmons through the gap and into the tall and narrow passageway behind it, the RAF Officer didn’t see the business man pick up one of the glowsticks. Nor did he see him look at the three long gouge marks along one of the walls or him say, “I don’t think it is going to be simple.”

The tunnel revealed by the glowsticks twisted and turned through the mountain. The fact the trail was illuminated was, according the Polk, a good indication this was the only way out. Or at least the only safe way. This was not a source of comfort for Simmons. After fifteen minutes of following the passage, the mountain shook with such force, the men were thrown to the ground. The shaking was accompanied by an inhuman roar and a brief flash of light and heat. “That’s where the treasure must be,” noted Polk as they picked themselves off the ground.

A second roar reverberated through the mountain. The sound was fear inducing. Simmons took a couple of steps away from the noise before he was aware of his actions. Even Buchanan Polk’s normally unruffled demeanor had been affected. Simmons could tell it was taking all of the man’s discipline and self-control to stay where he was. “What was that?” hissed Simmons.

Polk, seeking to regain his poise, adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and said, “That was, I suspect, the treasure’s owner.”

“The owner?”

Polk nodded. “I believe the ogre referred to it as ‘the last guardian.’”

Simmons looked at the businessman. “You are quite mad. You do realize that?”

Polk didn’t respond but continued forward. There were additional roars and ground shakes, but none as bad as before. As they continued on, Simmons thought he detected the odor of charred meat and quickly decided he didn’t want to ponder what could cause that smell here. He also realized there was a light shining ahead of them. They were nearing the end of the tunnel. It was only as they neared the light that Simmons realized the tunnel ended at the rim of a pit and light was shining from below. As they got closer, Simmons signaled to Polk to crouch so they could get close to the rim without being detected. When they got to end of the tunnel, Simmons knelt and looked down.

“Crikey Moses,” he breathed.

The cavern was a giant hole in the middle of the mountain. From where they were kneeling on the rim, it gently sloped, bowl-shaped to the middle of the cavern. Small outcroppings and boulders littered the floor. Simmons also noted the areas of blackened rock, including the area that had a dwarf shaped burn on it. His attention was divided between the dwarves dragging an oversized treasure chest to the ogre in the center of the cave and the enormous creature writhing relentlessly under what appeared to be some form of electrical netting. The beast roared defiantly and kept trying to spread its large, leathery wing, resulting in arcs to fire off from the netting. The net was strong enough, Simmons noted, as to prevent the creature from moving much. Each attempt to do so caused arcs of electricity to run along the mesh.

Enoch looked at the creature under the net. His brain refused to accept what his eyes were reporting. “A dragon?” Simmons cried incredulously.

It was also said too loud. The ogre and dwarves stopped what they were doing, grabbed their weapons and began firing in the general area where Simmons and Polk were. Simmons rolled across the cave entrance, sheltering behind a rocky outcropping as Polk ducked out of the way.

Simmons aimed and fired. “Why is there a dragon?” he shouted.

“Because it’s where she lives,” Polk answered before returning fire.

“Dragons aren’t real!”

There was another loud roar mixed with the sound of electricity crackling. Polk gestured towards the dragon. “You tell her,” he said adding, “Besides, you should know about dragons.”

Simmons’s shots pinned one of the dwarves behind a rock. “What?”

“Dragons fly. That makes it the RAF’s business.”

As if on cue, the dragon tried to flex its wings under the netting, roaring in pain as the electricity surged across the mesh.

One of the dwarves screamed as a bullets ricocheted off a boulder and into his foot. He screamed, “You will never get our treasure.”

“IT IS MY TREASURE!” the Dragon bellowed.

“Mine,” screamed the wounded dwarf. He hopped over to the treasure chest. Using the butt of his rifle, the dwarf smashed at the lock. “That looks a little small to house an altar,” observed Simmons.

“Maybe it is just the victory goddess statue?” ventured Polk.

The shooting stopped as everyone watched the dwarf trying to break the lock. He struck it a second time with no effect. With the third hit of the rifle butt, the lock gave way. The ogre sprang towards the chest, pushing the dwarf out of the way. The ogre opened the chest, looked in, and then closed it. He paused and then opened it again. He held up a piece of Vellum. “What is this?” he screamed.

Enoch Simmons couldn’t get a good look at the parchment. There was something on it, but he couldn’t identify it. “What is this? Where is the treasure?” barked the ogre.

The dragon’s demeanor changed. She was wary, attention focused on the vellum. “That is the treasure,” it said.

The dwarf shouted, “This is not treasure!”

“It’s a treasure to me!” it mewled.

The dwarf that had broken the lock limped to see the parchment. “What trickery is this? Are you trying to double cross us?”

The ogre was thoroughly perplexed. Simmons turned for some sort of explanation from Polk. But Polk wasn’t paying attention to the unfolding drama. He was staring down the barrel of his rifle at the netting holding the dragon. Simmons looked. Then he saw it. The nets came from small glowing boxes on the floor. Somehow, the meshing interconnected through them.

So absorbed in their own issues, no one on the cavern floor heard the first gunshot. The second shot got their attention and they began scrambling to take cover and return fire before the ogre realized what was happening.

The bullet struck the glowing white box closest to the dragon’s front leg crackled hissed. For one brief moment, the world went blindingly white. As the light abruptly ended, so did the net.

The dragon roared in triumph and vengeance. Simmons blocked his ears to reduce the sound. Even with his eyes shut tight, he still saw after images and felt the heat.

And then it just went silent. The complete lack of sound was, in many ways, worse. Simmons opened his eyes slowly and peered over the rim. The dragon was sitting in the middle of the cavern. There was no sign of the dwarves or ogre. There were, however, a few more dwarf sized shadows burnt into the rock face. The chest had been overturned and the piece of vellum was lying underneath.

He looked across and saw Buchanan Polk, back against the wall, looking the way they had come. Simmons saw Polk’s eye flicker and turn and looked at him. Simmons nodded. Polk smiled and gave a thumbs up.

“You can come out now.” The dragon’s voice, sweet as it sounded, caused a shiver to travel up Enoch Simmons’s spine. Buchanan Polk shrugged and stood up, laying the rifle against the wall, and stepped down into the cavern. Simmons followed suit. “I must thank you,” the dragon said in an almost feminine voice. “The dwarves caught me unawares with their trap. Without you they may have taken my treasure.”

The dragon’s wings flexed, and she shifted her position. Simmons studiously ignored the dragon’s tongue running across its teeth trying to dislodge something wedged between its molars. Polk moved to the chest. “Would you mind?” he asked Simmons.

It took a moment to figure it out, but then Simmons realized he was referring to the chest. He overcame the waves of fear he felt being this close to a dragon and turned the chest upright. He looked at the lock. “The…uh… locking mechanism is broken,” Simmons muttered.

“Pity,” the dragon burped.

“At least the treasure is unharmed,” Polk announced as he brought the vellum over to the chest.

For the first time, Enoch Simmons was able to look at the treasure. He looked at it. He looked at the dragon and then Buchanan Polk. Polk said, “It’s very nice.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

On the piece of vellum was a drawing featuring a tiny stick figure person and a series of blobs Simmons presumed was the dragon. It was crude and lacked any artistic merit. To Enoch Simmons, it looked like small child’s early attempts at drawing. Polk, looking sideways at the RAF Officer, reverently placed the picture in the chest. “Wenceslas drew that for me when he was but a lad. It is my greatest treasure,” said the dragon.

Simmons closed the chest and tapped the top reverently. “Glad it’s safe,” he said with a brittle smile.

“Yes,” agreed Polk. “Though I can’t help but wonder why the ogre thought the Altar of Victory was here.”

“Altar,” muttered the dragon. “I wonder if it was that slab I gave the naga. But that was ages ago. Really wasn’t much to look at. Not like little Wenceslas’s drawing.”

They spent the next hour making small talk with the dragon until Polk was able to explain people might notice they were missing and come looking. The dragon showed them another passage that would lead them close to the front of the hotel. They made it back just as the other guests were being led outside by the counter-terrorist forces. No one had noticed their absence. “Well, I’m sorry your first convention was so unusual,” Polk said.

Simmons shook his head and said, “It was unbelievable. As in no one will believe me.”

Polk smiled. “You never know.”

Simmons saw the NATO liaison heading toward him. “I think my ride is here,” he said.

The two shook hands. “Maybe you can come to next year’s convention.”

“Maybe.”

“It’ll be on a cruise ship in the Med.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” interjected the NATO Officer leading Simmons to a waiting car. “Perfectly tranquil.”

The RAF Officer saw the gleam in Buchanan Polk’s eyes.

“Somehow,” Enoch Simmons said, “I don’t think it would be at all.”

THIS PLANET IS A HOLE

Lou Antonelli

Dad always knew I wanted to go someplace else.

I mean, he’s worked for the colonial service all his life. You think we’d get to go someplace. Any place!

There are planets out there that are so cool! Keterans with its double spinning rings. Mavistan with its interior satellite. Murfoo with two double stars.

But no, he’s never been a desk jockey all his life, and has ever been posted anywhere interesting.

Which means I’ve never lived anywhere interesting.

I’m stuck every day with the same old sets of popular kids, jocks, nerds and freaks. There are days I want so out of junior high school I could scream.

Out loud. Real loud. So loud those colonists on those other interesting planets could hear me.

Well, this day dad comes home, kisses mom, pets Blaster on his head, and sits down opposite me.

“Hi there, Space Princess,” he starts.

I didn’t look up. “What do you want dad?”

“I have some good news and some bad news today,” he said.

“Give me the bad news first,” I said.

“I didn’t ask you to choose,” he said. “I’m giving you the good news first.”

“Whatever.”

“You know, at my grade classification in the colonial service, I’m not in line to be transferred off planet. I can’t be assigned as a settler or colonist.”

“Yeah, I noticed. You sit on your butt all day in an office and stare at a screen. What’s new?”

“However, I do have the opportunity to make a lateral transfer to the intelligence division,” he said. “I recently asked for a reassignment.”

“So what?”

“Intelligencers all work off-planet,” he said. “My request has been approved, too. And I have an assignment.”

Mom had been listening from the kitchen. “That’s wonderful! Do you get an increase in pay?”

Dad turned in his seat. “A hefty one, 2000 credits per period.”

Mom came in the room. “Fantastic. Where’s the assignment?”

Now he had my attention. I looked up. “Yes, where’s the new assignment? Where are we going?”

Dad looked at Mom and then at me. “That’s the bad news. Since it’s my first assignment in the intelligence division, I didn’t draw one of the more desirable planets.”

I went back to what I was doing. “Nothing ever goes right. So what planet is it?”

Dad shrugged and looked at mom. “It’s not one of ours. We will live undercover.”

“That explains the good pay,” said Mom. “Which one is it?”

I grunted.

“Dryad,” he said.

I tossed my pad sideways on the couch.

“Dryad! That place is a hellhole! I won’t go!”

Dad frowned. “You always said you’d like to travel. I’m getting a good raise, and a chance to move ahead in a new division.”

I crossed my arms. “I don’t care.”

Mom walked behind Dad and put a hand on his shoulder.

Everything I’d ever heard about Dryad made it sound like the armpit of the galaxy.

First off, two-thirds of the freakin’ planet is covered in oceans of acid. Dihydrogen monoxide. You ever hear of that stuff? It’ll dissolve almost anything, and it corrodes metal. On Dryad it falls from the clouds, onto the ground. Even the natives don’t like it and try to hide from it.

Oh, the natives. I’d heard about them, too. There are like a dozen sentient species on the planet, always trying to kill and eat each other. There are millions of life forms, and everything eats the plant life, which has evolved to thrive in that thick, acid soaked atmosphere.

“Think about it,” said Dad.

The next day in school I could tell word was already getting around about my moving.

Catana came up to me and asked straight out.

“Is it true you’re going to Dryad?”

“My Dad wants to, but I’m not going.”

“Why not! That’s planet is like deadly! It sounds cool.”

Some jock walked by. “Ah, some acid cloud will turn her into a puddle of plasma.”

I made a universally understood gesture towards him and answered Catana.

“It will be too much of a hassle. And we’ll have to live undercover. It’s a spy assignment.”

“Oh, double cool!” she squealed. “Where are you sitting? Let’s talk.”

Dad had told me that such undercover assignments are only for two rev stretches, and we’d be back home after that.

“That’s cool,” said Catana (she said “cool” a lot). You’ll be back in time for high school. Then you can tell me all about it.

“I guess,” I said as I poked my vegetables. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”

It wasn’t too much later that all three of us were at the colonial base in orbit around Dryad.

The base was on Dryad’s moon. That’s another thing screwy about the planet. Only one moon, and it’s gigantic – one-sixth the size of the planet itself.

Dad pointed out Dryad’s rotational axis is tilted. “This littler planet must have been gravitationally captured.”

“Figgers, planet got hit on the head and knocked loopy,” I said.

Mom smiled at me.

Dryad’s moon is rotationally locked, so the same side always faces the planet. Our colonial base was on the far side, the dark side.

I was tugging on my basic atmosphere suit. “Does anyone down there know that we are here?”

Dad smiled. “Maybe. Can’t tell you, that’s a secret. They certainly don’t know we’re spying on them.”

Some techs helped me with the prosthetics. The dominant species on Dryad are “bye byes” - bimanual and bipedal. One head, and – although almost every other species on the planet has ‘em – no tails.

So the only real headache we have is hiding our tails, but since the Dryadians wear clothes, that was easy to deal with.

“We’ll pop into a short hole and slide onto the planet’s surface,” said Dad. “Our safe house is already waiting for us.”

He looked at me. “It’s in the middle of a continent, very far away from any of its oceans,” he said. “It’s a very safe place.”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered as I pulled on a Dryadian-style wig. “It still rains acid from the clouds.”

Mom patted me on my head. I swatted her hand away.

“This will provide some protection,” she said. “But remember, the natives don’t like the rain, either – even though they have acid blood. There’s always a place to hide.”

“Wonderful,” I side mouthed.

“Ready for your slide?” asked a tech.

“As ready as we’ll ever be,” said Dad.

I grunted, and resigned myself to two years of hell.

The Dryadian social structure is much like ours, so guess what? I had to go to school – their equivalent of our junior high school.

Mom was right about one thing – the Dryadians don’t like getting covered in dihydrogen monoxide, despite the fact their bodies are full of it. They all live and work indoors.

Which made me feel a little relaxed that first day when we arrived at the school.

I stood outside the school and looked over the structure after Dad dropped me off.

I rubbed my nose and looked around. The place smelled alien and the sounds were squeaky and confused.

A male Dryadian walked past me, then stopped and turned.

“Hey there, you look confused. Do you need any help?”

I looked at him. “Yes, I’m new here.”

“This your first day?” he said. “Bummer, it’s always rough to be the new kid in school.”

He walked over to me. “I was the new kid a year ago, I know what it’s like.”

He extended a hand. “My names Evan Sommer.”

I recognized the gesture from the instruction I was given, and extended mine.

“My name is Kit,” I said.

We shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, Kit,” said Evan. “Come on in with me. I’ll show you around, and introduce you to my friends.”

He pulled his face up into what the Dryadians call a “smile”, which despite its teeth baring is a friendly gesture.

I rather surprised myself by returning the gesture quite artfully.

“I’d like that very much,” I said.

He turned, and I followed beside him as we entered the school.

Just as we entered I looked up at the identification on the structure:

“Harry S Truman Middle School”

“Grand Prairie ISD”

“I suppose I’ll learn who the leader Truman was inside,” I thought as we passed through the doors.

EXTINCTION POINT

Richard Paolinelli

“Major Armstrong, sir?” Master Sergeant Collins called out gently, lightly shaking the sleeping officer’s shoulder. “It’s time, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Armstrong said, his eyes flaring open. “I’m awake.”

“Yes, sir,” Collins replied as he turned from Armstrong’s bunk and began busying himself at the table in Armstrong’s cabin. “Your breakfast is here and I’ll lay out your flight suit while you’re in the head, sir.”

“That will be fine, Sergeant,” Armstrong said as he levered himself out of his bed.

“Least we can do for you, sir, is to get you off to a good start on your last day in the solar system.”

Collins lifted the lid from the serving tray just as Armstrong took a seat at the small round table. Armstrong took a moment to survey the meal.

“Well,” he remarked appreciatively, “you’ve certainly doing that. Steak and fresh eggs and orange juice. I didn’t think any of this was commonplace up here.”

“Well we don’t have any Michelin-star chefs up here at Aldrin Station,” Collins admitted. “But we do like to go the extra mile in certain cases. Like, for one example, when a man is about to go off on a long-term, extra-solar mission all by himself.”

“Well for me,” Armstrong replied as he dug into his breakfast. “It will only seem like a few weeks have passed.”

“They still haven’t figured out exactly how much time will pass for us back here while you’re in flight, sir?” Collins asked as he turned his attention to Armstrong’s wardrobe.

“Depends on which brainiac you ask,” Armstrong answered around a swallow of black coffee. “One says the same amount of time, another says a few months and a third says a few years.”

“That explains why they insisted on a pilot who was still single with very few if any members of their family still living.”

“That was one of the primary considerations,” Armstrong quipped. “The other was someone just crazy enough to do this in the first place.”

The two men shared a chuckle as Armstrong finished his meal and entered the cabin’s head which, as was the rest of his cabin, was one of the best quarters available on Aldrin Station. The station, setting in the L2 Lagrange Point in relation to the Earth and its lone satellite, was the hub for all flights between Earth and bases on Mars, Europa and the newly established Titan.

Aldrin was also serving as the launch point for Armstrong’s mission, the first manned flight to Pluto and then onward to the nearest neighboring stars, Proxima Centauri and the binary stars Alpha Centauri A and B.

“It’s really just a glorified test flight of the Von Braun Drive,” Armstrong remarked after he finished his shower. “And a shakedown cruise for the Seeker. Less than half-a-day after I leave here in her, if all goes well, I’ll be landing on Pluto and the first human to walk its surface.”

“That should be enough for one mission,” Collins said from the main area. “But if everything checks out then you go and head on out of our solar system and no one knows how long you’ll be gone.”

It was the one question everyone wanted answered: What would be the actual time displacement between elapsed ship time and elapsed Earth time? The Von Braun Drive, mounted in the Goddard-class ship, used a bubble warp to propel the ship great distances and at great speeds. No one could give him a clear answer on how much more time would pass on Earth than was passing inside the ship.

“That’s why a single pilot was at the top of the requirements checklist,” Armstrong said as he finished shaving. “I could be gone a couple of years or a few decades in Earth time. I guess we’re about to find out.”

“Maybe that’s not all you’re about to find out,” Collins said, helping Armstrong into his flight suit.

“You mean I might be the first human to fly to Centauri and say hello to the natives?”

“A regular Twenty-Second Century Captain Cook,” Collins joked. “Just don’t get distracted by the blue-skinned hula dancers, sir.”

“I doubt that’s going to be a problem,” Armstrong replied with a shake of his head. “If there was anyone living in that corner of our galaxy we’d have heard from them by now.”

“Likely,” Collins agreed. “Hey, when you get to Pluto look around and see if you can find a rock that says Walt Disney was here for me.”

“You’re a strange man, Collins. You know that, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Collins answered, snapping a salute at Armstrong as the Major headed for the door. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you, Collins,” Armstrong returned the salute and left the cabin.

The walk from his cabin down the white corridor, cold and barren of any markings, wasn’t overly long. But before he could reach the docking port where the Seeker was berthed Armstrong was intercepted.

“Adam!”

“Marcus,” Armstrong exclaimed as he saw his friend up ahead. “What in the world are you doing up here? I thought you were chained to your Zero Point Energy project for life.”

“They let me out from time to time,” Marcus Petersen said. “Especially when I want to see an old friend off on his way on such a big day. Besides, we’ve been waiting on ZPE for a long time. I doubt an extra day is going to kill anyone.”

“How close are you getting?” the Major asked as they resumed the trek toward the ship. “I seem to recall our instructor at the Academy saying we were decades away.”

“Why I left the Air Force. No clear vision of the possible future.”

“You do realize I’m about to board an Air Force ship bound for another solar system.”

“Pfft,” Petersen dismissed jokingly. “Child’s play by comparison.”

“Yeah, right,” Armstrong said with a chuckle as they arrived at the dock. “End of the line for you, Marcus. Thanks for coming up.”

“Least I could do, especially since it might be awhile before I see you again. Be careful out there Adam and enjoy dinner on Pluto tonight.”

“I will,” Armstrong said, shaking his friend’s hand. “Good luck with the ZPE. I expect to see one in every home when I get back.”

“Your lips to His ears.”

With a final wave, Armstrong made his way past the security checkpoint and found himself swarmed by the gathered techs as they ran through their final pre-launch checks. It took an hour to get through it all before he finally found himself alone inside the Seeker, with the hatch sealed.

The ship itself was mostly engines and fuel cells with a living area for its pilot only slightly larger than the cabin he’d just vacated on the station. The Command Pod sat at the front of the fuselage and the whole thing was set inside two large rings, one at each end. Three struts attached the barrel-shaped section to the ring at each end.

The rings were the key component to the Von Braun Drive. They would generate a bubble around the ship, warping space in such a way that the ship could approach light speed. The first run to Pluto would be capped at a speed limit of 0.95C. Provided the engines worked correctly, once clear of the solar system Armstrong would increase speed and see if Einstein’s speed limit was an absolute or not.

There were three possible outcomes: Seeker would max out at 0.9999C and he would be facing a four-plus year trip to the Centauri system, Seeker would hit light speed and explode or Seeker would exceed light speed and keep on accelerating with a much shorter trip time to her intended destination.

“Seeker, Aldrin Control,” the voice of Flight Controller Allison Dunbar called out over the com as Armstrong settled into the pilot’s seat. “How are you settling in over there, Major?”

“Just fine, Control,” Armstrong replied, bringing the consoles online. “Ready to find out how all of those theories about these engines pan out.”

“Roger that,” she answered with a slight laugh. “Wish we could have tested them on an unmanned mission, but we need a pilot along for the ride just in case and this time a monkey wouldn’t do.”

“My ancestor was Neil Armstrong, not Alan Shepard, Control.”

“Roger that, Seeker,” she answered bemusedly. “We’re showing all green over here. All stations report go. You are clear to clear all moorings and depart at pilot’s discretion.”

“Roger that, Control,” Armstrong replied, entering in a series of commands. Clearing moorings now, departure thrusters engaged.”

All of the clamps, cables and hoses connecting the ship to the station disengaged and retracted out of the ship’s path. As soon as the panel flashed green lights to indicate “all clear” Armstrong gripped the control stick and gently nudged it to move the ship away from the station.

“Seeker,” Control called out a few minutes later. “You are clear of the station and are go for Earth-Pluto transit. Godspeed, Major.”

“Roger,” Armstrong answered and he depressed a large square key on his armrest, which lit up bright blue. “Stand by. Okay Alex, it’s time for you to get to work.”

“Good morning, Major, flightpath parameters have been laid in and the course has been plotted. Standing by to implement.”

“Thank you, Alex,” Armstrong said to the only companion he would have on this flight. The artificial intelligence installed to help monitor and operate the ship when needed.

If the ship couldn’t exceed light speed after all and the trip out to Centauri was going to take over four years, Alex would run things for the majority of the trip while Armstrong passed the time in hibernation, awakening him only in emergencies or when they were arriving at their destination.

Armstrong ran one last check of the ship’s systems and the plotted course just to make sure before he brought the engines online.

“Control, Seeker departing,” he called out. “Alright Alex, let’s get underway. Initiate the drive and bring us up to 0.25C.”

“Increase speed to quarter-light speed confirmed,” Alex replied as the Seeker glided smoothly away from the station, steadily gaining speed. Armstrong watched as the station, the Earth and the Moon rapidly fell away until all he could make out was the blue dot that was his home world. Armstrong felt the acceleration tugging him back into his seat.

“We are at quarter-light speed, Major,” Alex reported a dozen minutes after the flight had begun. “All systems at nominal. We have just passed the orbit of Mars.”

“Very well,” he said, scanning the board for himself. “Increase speed to one-half.”

“Acknowledged.”

Armstrong felt a little firmer tug, but the inertia negation systems were countering the effects of the high-speed acceleration as designed.

“One-half light speed, Major,” Alex confirmed ten minutes later. “All systems nominal.”

“Confirmed, Alex. Bring us up to .75C, please.”

“Increasing to three-quarters.”

Armstrong felt the tug increase once again, but it wasn’t anything even close to the G-forces he would feel in one of the F-57 Falcons that he’d flown back at the Academy in Colorado Springs.

“Ship speed now .75C, Major. All systems remain nominal.”

“Very good, Alex,” he said, going over the boards again. “Take us on up to .95c and hold us there until we begin to deaccelerate for Pluto insertion.”

“Confirm. Increase to .95c and hold.”

Armstrong monitored the readouts closely, looking for even the smallest abnormality. It would take time to stop the ship, even to begin to slow it down, so if there was any problem the earliest it was detected the better.

“Transiting orbital plane of Jupiter,” Alex reported twenty minutes after the ship had reached .95C. The inertia negators were working flawlessly, he hadn’t felt any increased tugging and when the ship had reached its top speed he was able to unbuckle and move about freely.

Nearly two hours into the flight, Seeker crossed the orbit of Saturn and he was eating lunch when they crossed Uranus’ orbit just short of three-and-a-half hours after departure. Five hours into the flight, the Seeker crossed the path of Neptune, close enough for Armstrong to get a nice view of the planet but not close enough to be a hazard to the ship.

It was a testament to how far Pluto was from Earth that this was the halfway point of the flight, mostly owing to how long it would take as the ship started to slow down.

“Approaching Pluto transit deceleration point, Major.”

“Roger that,” Armstrong said, strapping himself back in to his chair. “Bring forward acceleration down to zero C.”

“Forward thrust now at zero C.”

“Engage aft drive. Bring us up to negative .1C.”

The Von Braun Drive was about to be put to its greatest test. When accelerating, the ring at the front of the ship created the warp that pulled the ship forward. Conversely, when it came time to slow the ship down, the aft ring became the primary generator and created a bubble pulling the rest of the ship in its direction.

Transitioning from one to the other had never been done before at this velocity so no one was really sure outside of theory if the ship could handle it.

“Aft drive engaged, negative one-tenth C.” Alex intoned.

Armstrong braced himself but felt nothing amiss as the seconds passed by. There wasn’t even a slight sensation of being pulled forward against the restraints as the negators apparently worked even better in this direction and at slower speed adjustments.

“Forward speed reducing.” Alex reported.

“Very good. Continue gradient speed reduction as programmed.”

“Confirmed.”

Gradually increasing the aft ring’s power in increments of .05C slowed the ship down enough so it could insert itself into orbit around Pluto upon arrival without increasing the amount of time it would take to get there. Just under six hours passed after the braking maneuver began – giving Armstrong a chance to get in four hours of sleep - when Alex called out again to.

“Standing by for Pluto orbital insertion maneuver.”

“Stand by,” Armstrong said, looking over his boards one last time. This was the great unknown. Would the braking maneuver work? Would the ship slide into orbit around the frozen world or would the stress of nearly coming to a stop by comparison to its current speed be too much? There was only one way to find out.

“Initiate orbital insertion, Alex,” Armstrong said.

“Confirmed. Initiating insertion now.”

This time he felt it, his body straining to break through the restraints as the Seeker drove toward the planet. The ship itself was feeling the strain a little as well, a vibration shaking it from fore to aft. It wasn’t enough to set off any alarms, but it was definitely noticeable.

Alex called out the approach speed and vectors while Pluto loomed larger and larger in the forward window. Seeker continued slowing, the vibration fading away to nothing just as Alex said the words the entire program had been working toward for years:

“Orbital insertion complete, Major.”

Armstrong leaned back in his seat in silent celebration before reaching for the communications panel.

“Aldrin Control,” he said. “This is Seeker. Orbital insertion is complete. All systems nominal. Estimate Pluto landing in one hour. Seeker out.”

It would take about five hours for the transmission to reach Aldrin and the same amount of time for the reply to reach him. Armstrong would land on Pluto, look around for a while and be back up in orbit ready to depart on the next leg of the mission by then.

“Alex, bring up the orbital thrusters.”

“Thruster control at your discretion, Major.”

Armstrong brought the ship closer toward the surface, aiming the Seeker at the Tombaugh Regio – the heart-shaped area of the surface that some people thought looked like the Walt Disney dog – as a landing area for the ship. With gravity at one-twelfth that of Earth and nearly no atmosphere, flying the ship down was as easy as flying one of the small fixed-wing aircraft he started out on back on Earth as a teenager.

“One hundred meters to surface, Major. Descent rate one-half meter per second. Forward acceleration at zero.”

“Confirmed,” Armstrong said, constantly looking back and forth between the descent display and the window as the ship neared the landing spot he’d selected. “Extend landing struts.”

“Struts extending,” Alex responded. “Struts down and locked. Thirty meters to surface. Descent rate one-fifth meters per second.”

Armstrong waited until the last five meters to order the landing thrusters to fire, checking the ship’s descent rate at the exact moment when the struts made contact with the surface. He barely felt a bump and had to wait for Alex to confirm touchdown before he was sure.

“Surface contact confirmed, Major.”

“Thank you, Alex. Send the landing confirmation to Aldrin Control and prepare for an EVA.”

He started to get out of his seat when a flash of light from the outside caught his eye.

“Alex, are you getting any readings or signals from outside?” he asked, his eyes fixed on a slight blueish glow that seemed to be emanating from a small hill-shaped outcropping of ice about two hundred meters away.

“Negative, Major. Nothing but the expected radiation and background noise.”

“Very well, Alex. Lock the external cameras on the ice hill two hundred meters away at 340 degrees from the nose of the ship.”

Armstrong checked to make sure Alex had found the spot, as well as to confirm he was actually seeing the glowing light. As the cameras focused on the ice hill, the blue glow was still there. Having ruled out a hallucination, Armstrong was eager to go outside and check out this new mystery.

Suiting up in the burnt orange environment suit with a completely clear helmet to allow the wearer full range of vision took a few minutes but just ten minutes after landing on Pluto, Armstrong took the first human step onto its surface of solid ice. He took a minute or two to look around and take it all in but the mystery of that blue light was too powerful a siren to ignore too long.

The light gravity took some getting used to – after half a day of weightlessness – but it allowed him to quickly close the distance between Seeker and the ice hill despite the unforgiving surface. The glow, it turned out, emanated from the mouth of a cave of sorts. The cave led downward below the surface and looked to be of some depth. It was also more than wide enough to allow him to enter and walk around in.

“Alex,” he called out. “I’m going to go into this cave. I’m hooking a cable to the entrance in case I need to pull myself back out. I’ll try to report in as I descend.”

“Acknowledged, Major. Exercise extreme caution.”

“Copy that, Alex,” he replied, driving in a piton and hooking the end of a cable to it. The strong metal cable would slowly reel out from the pack of his suit as he walked along. He only had about two hundred meters of cable to work with so if he ran out of cable before he ran out of cable, he was going to have a tough decision to make.

He stepped into the mouth of the ice cave and was instantly drawn to the uniformity of the walls and floor of it. If he’d been back on Earth he would have sworn they had been carved out of the ice by human hands. The floor was almost perfectly flat and gently sloped down. The further in he went, the brighter the lighting became, holding its slight blue hue.

He rounded a corner, with about half of his cable left and came to an abrupt halt. The cave opened up to a chamber, fully lit from an unknown source of light. But that particular mystery held no interest for him.

The cylindrical tube, made of a substance that wasn’t quite metallic, that rested in the center of the chamber had his full attention. It wasn’t anything made by human hands – not that there was any way it could have wound up here even if it had been.

He slowly approached the tube, roughly two meters in length, and took all of two steps before stopping again as he realized he was feeling Earth-normal gravity. Bringing his left forearm up, he tapped the built-in pad and checked the exterior around him. The readings indicated Earth-normal atmospheric conditions existed within this chamber.

“Alex, can you hear me?” No reply came back.

Rather than walking back out to report, he decided to finish exploring the chamber. Stepping closer to the tube, he noticed the top half was actually made of some type of clear material. Below the surface whatever lay within the tube was shrouded in a thick mist. There was no sign of a control panel anywhere on the tube, nor was there anything else inside the chamber but the tube resting on a pedestal of ice.

Armstrong carefully rested one hand on the surface then quickly stepped back in alarm as the instant his hand made contact the interior lit up brightly and the top half of the tube began to lift up and swing away.

“What the hell…” he exclaimed.

Something was moving around within the mist and Armstrong braced himself to either fight or flee for his life depending on what came out of that swirling mist. What did rise from it was the last thing he ever expected.

A humanoid woman.

All Armstrong could do was stare at the apparition in front of him, convinced he was hallucinating. Perhaps something within the chamber that was penetrating the security of his suit. It wasn’t like he’d been in the ship for months and gone so long without female companionship he’d be seeing women everywhere he looked.

Yet here one was, easing herself out from the cylinder. She was wearing a form-fitting suit of her own, a gossamer-like material of shimmering silver that was almost a match to the color of her long hair. How it served as a pressure suit wasn’t clear to him, especially as she wasn’t wearing a helmet and was breathing without any sign of distress.

She was staring at him intently, her eyes an intense shade of emerald, and if he was reading her facial expression correctly she was as surprised to see him as he was her. Then her eyes shifted to his left arm and the flags of the Earth Space Agency and the United States sewn into the material.

“Earth,” she exclaimed in flawless English. “You are from Earth?”

“Ah…” Armstrong started, shocked at this revelation. “Yes, I am. Major Adam Armstrong. And you are?”

“My name is Z’evea,” she replied, stepping up close enough to slightly lay a hand on his helmet. “You do not need this in here. The atmosphere is as perfectly safe for your species as it is for mine.”

He was reluctant to break the seal on his helmet despite the evidence of his eyes. He checked his arm display, which confirmed what she’d said and finally decided to take the leap of faith. He compromised and cracked the seal on his right glove, knowing his suit would compensate long enough for him to reattach the glove if he was wrong.

But nothing happened, other than the glove slipping off his hand. He quickly removed the other glove before cracking the seal on the helmet and taking it off. He drew in a cautionary breath. It reminded him of the crisp cold air while hiking up Pike’s Peak in late October back in Colorado.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

“See, I told you it was safe for you, Major Adam Armstrong,” Z’evea said.

“Yes, you did,” he replied. “Why don’t we shorten all that down to just you calling me Adam?”

“As you wish, Adam.”

“How exactly did you come to be here? You’ve heard of my planet but somehow I doubt you are human. And how are you speaking my language for that matter?”

“Humanoid, yes,” she answered with a slight smile. “But most certainly not Earth Human. When I first discovered your world existed I spent a lot of time learning all of your different languages. As for how I arrived here on this planet, it was quite by accident. My ship suffered a malfunction as I was departing your solar system and I was forced to land here.

“When it became apparent I could not repair the ship,” she continued. “I dug out this chamber, placed the hibernation tube inside, sent off a distress signal and, since it could be some time before my signal was answered, I got in to wait for a rescue ship.”

“How is there an atmosphere in here?”

“The base of the tube also generates an atmosphere within the chamber. Your arrival on the planet triggered it and started the cycle to wake me up.”

“I didn’t see any sign of a ship when I landed.”

“It was never going to be able to make it back to my home world, but I set it to fly as far beyond this system as it could while continuously broadcasting my emergency message.”

“How long have you been here?”

“I am uncertain. What year is it on your planet?”

“Twenty-One, Thirty-Six,” he replied, then stepped forward to grab her by the shoulders when her face turned an alarming shade of pale and she staggered slightly. “Are you alright?”

“It was Nineteen, Eighty-Three on your world when I tried to depart to return to my world,” she said shakily. “Someone should have responded to my distress call within a few of your years. I shouldn’t have been stranded here this long.”

“Could there have been a problem with communications?” Armstrong asked. “Your ship was damaged. Maybe they never got the signal at all?”

“Possibly,” she allowed. “But after so much time, they should have come looking for me long ago.”

“How far away is your world?”

“Triam. It is called Triam and our star is Ivusam but your world knows it as Sirius,” she answered, some of her color coming back.

“And your signals travel at the speed of light?” he asked, recalling that Sirius was just under nine light years from Earth and preparing to explain what that speed actually was.

“Yes,” she answered. “Nine of your years to reach Triam and no more than another year for a ship to be sent. They should have been here.”

“Well,” Armstrong said, an idea coming to mind. “We could try to send a signal from my ship.”

“And spend another decade or so of your years in cold sleep? What if they don’t get that message either? I could spend eternity in there or at least until the power supply finally gives out.”

“Or you could return to Earth with me and wait there until we hear from your people,” Armstrong offered. “I was supposed to head on out of the system after I landed here. But under the circumstances, I doubt command back home would mind if I turned around and came home with news of First Contact. We could be back on Earth in half a day.”

“Your ship is capable of faster-than-light speed?”

“Theoretically yes. That’s one of the things this mission is about, seeing if we can break a few laws of physics and live to tell the tale.”

“Then could you take me back to my home world,” she asked, the look of hope and anguish in her eyes was heartbreaking. “You would still be continuing your mission. After I report back to my command I’m sure they’d want someone to return to your world with you as an official first contact representative.”

Armstrong considered her request. His target star had been Centauri. Sirius was roughly twice as far away. It would add to his elapsed mission time and if Seeker couldn’t exceed light speed they’d have to split time in the hibernation bed – he wasn’t sure it could handle two people at the same time. So many variables with two people on board he was hesitant to seriously consider making the attempt.

But he could understand her desire to return to her own world and find out why no help had come. If their positions were reversed, he would be just as anxious as she. And if he did decide to head for Sirius he couldn’t send a message back to Earth explaining why. They’d almost certainly order him home with Z’evea once they learned of her existence.

Z’evea watched her rescuer work out the problem in silence. She too would have many factors to consider if it had been her that had found him marooned on a distant planet in a foreign solar system. The political considerations were likely no different no matter the world they resided on. After what seemed like forever, Armstrong let go with a heavy sigh.

“I have a feeling I’m going to be busted in rank for this,” he said. “But if my ship can exceed light speed, we’ll go to Sirius first and then I’ll let my command know what’s happened and why and see if I’m still in the Air Force afterwards. But if it cannot, then we send a new signal off to your people and turn back for Earth”

“Thank you, Adam,” she said.

“I suppose we’d better get going,” he said looking around the chamber. “Do you have a pressure suit or anything you want to take with you?”

“I’m ready to go,” she replied, reaching up to touch the edge of her collar. He watched in amazement as a clear helmet formed out of the material of her suit, somehow managing to gather around her hair without cutting it cleanly off.

“You’re going to have to introduce me to your tailor,” he said as he put his own helmet and gloves back on, noticing that her suit had also extended to cover her own hands.

“It is a synthetic material that is easily manufactured,” she said. “Your own world will probably discover the process on its own very soon.”

“It will solve a lot of problems…” he cut off his thought abruptly as a thought struck him. “How am I able to hear you through my helmet?”

“Communications are built into the suit,” she answered. “It can receive or transmit on any frequency and automatically scans for any frequency being used nearby.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’ve got a lot of surprises yet to spring on me,” he said with a shake of his head. He stretched out his hand toward the exit to the surface. “Ladies first, Z’evea.”

They made their way back to the surface and were instantly greeted by Alex’s voice and she managed to sound anxious.

“Major Armstrong, come in, please.”

“I read you Alex.”

“Major, communications were lost and you did not return to the surface. I was about to send a distress signal back to Aldrin.”

“I’m fine, Alex, and I found something quite interesting inside. We are going to have a guest coming aboard,” he said as they continued walking toward the ship.

“A guest, Major? Is it the humanoid next to you?”

“Yes. Her name is Z’evea and we are going to give her a lift home, Alex.”

“Major, this is not permitted under our assigned mission parameters.”

“That is correct, Alex,” Armstrong said, shooting an exasperated glance at his companion. “However, the command pilot does have the discretion to alter the mission as he deems fit, correct?”

“That is within the parameters, Major,” Alex conceded as they reached the hatch.

“Good, I’m glad you agree,” he replied cheerfully as he punched in the access code and opened the hatch. “So we are going to welcome her aboard and take her home.”

“Understood, Major. Should I inform Command?”

“No,” he answered, closing the hatch behind him and waited for the egress pod to pressurize. “I’ll send them a message as soon as we’re underway. Prepare the ship for departure and calculate a course to take us to Sirius.”

“Did you say Sirius, Major? Our destination is Centauri.”

“Yes, it is, or it was. We have a known civilization on Sirius, Alex, and the ultimate goal of our being out here is to find another civilization. That’s Sirius.”

“Understood, Major. Seeker is ready to depart at pilot’s discretion. Course for Sirius is plotted and laid in.”

“Very good,” he said, as the pod equalized and the interior hatch opened. He made quick work of slipping out of his pressure suit, gloves and helmet. His guest merely tapped her collar again and her gloves and helmet melted back into her suit as easily as they had formed to begin with. “It’s safe for you to take your suit off now.”

“Is it a custom on your world to go about your ship naked, Adam?”

“What? Why would I…” he stammered before the light bulb finally lit up. “Oh, it’s not just a pressure suit then?”

“No, it is not.”

“I see. My mistake. No, we don’t work in the nude,” he said. “Welcome aboard the Seeker, Z’evea. Alex, this is Z’evea. Z’evea, this is Alex, this ship’s AI.”

“Hello, Alex,” Z’evea said as she took in the ship’s interior.

“Hello Z’evea. I am most intrigued by your presence here on Pluto. How did you come to be here? How have you survived? Who are your people…”

“Alex,” Armstrong interrupted as he made his way to the command pod. “These are all very good questions and I’m sure she’ll be happy to answer them all. But it will take some time and we really should be going. I think those answers can wait a bit, don’t you?”

“Understood, Major.”

“The first problem we need to work out is where are you going to sit,” he said to Z’evea as they entered the pod. “This was designed to be a one-person ship after all.”

“May I make a suggestion, Major?”

“Always, Alex.”

“Based on our earlier jump out here,” Alex began. “The jump seat at the rear engineering panel has straps and would withstand the stress of acceleration.”

Armstrong gave Z’evea a questioning glance.

“It sounds like as good an idea as any to me,” she said.

“Okay then. Let’s get you settled and get going.”

“Major?”

“Yes, Alex?”

“Haven’t you forgotten about the flag ceremony?”

“No,” he replied, in truth he had but it seemed superfluous in light of the more important discovery and task at hand. “But I think we have more important matters at hand than sticking an ESA flag in the ice right now. Besides, we can stop by on our way back and do it later.”

“Very well, Major.”

“Now,” he said as he settled into the pilot’s chair and strapped in. “Bring up the thrusters and let’s get back up into the sky.”

“Confirmed. Thrusters at pilot’s discretion. All systems nominal and ready for departure.”

“Very good,” he looked back at Z’evea. “You ready to go home?”

“Yes I am, Adam. Very much so.”

“Here we go,” he said, turning back and pulling the thruster control back. Seeker lifted off and easily defeated Pluto’s light gravitation to soar into orbit.

“Bring us up to .02C until we are clear of Pluto’s moons, Alex.”

“Forward engine to .05C confirmed.”

Seeker moved away at 55,000 kilometers an hour and officially cleared the small planet and its satellites in just over an hour. It gave Armstrong enough time to fashion a message home announcing his course change without giving the reason for it. This was followed with a message from Z’evea that was aimed at Sirius even as they were both hoping they’d arrive there long before the message did.

“Messages sent,” Alex reported. “We are clear of all Plutonian satellites, Major.”

“Confirmed. Increase speed to 1C and do it nice and steady, Alex.”

“Confirmed, gradual increase to 1C, beginning now.”

Seeker steadily and, remarkably even more, smoothly spooled upward toward 1C, the inertia negators operating even better than before. A fact Armstrong correctly attributed to Alex adjusting them based on their initial run out to Pluto.

“Approaching 1C in three…two…,” Alex reported. “1C achieved.”

Armstrong waited a few beats. Nothing happened. Seeker continued forward at 186,000 miles per second, no wormholes suddenly popped into existence in their path nor did the universe suddenly implode.

“Alex, bring us up to 1.1C.”

“Confirmed. Ship speed now 1.1C.”

“Well how about that,” Armstrong exclaimed, when no calamity befell them after shattering Einstein’s universal speed limit, and he turned to look over his shoulder at Z’evea.

“You seem surprised?” she said in a very unsurprised tone.

“Well, yes actually, I am,” he replied, caught off guard by her demeanor. “We weren’t sure we could go faster than the speed of light in this ship.”

“I knew you could do it.”

“How?”

“Your engine design is the same as ours. Would you like me to tell you the top speed or do you want to find out the old-fashioned way?”

“You could have let me know beforehand.”

“And deny you the moment of rewriting your understanding physics? Not a chance.”

“I can see we’re going to have to set some ground rules here,” Armstrong groused good naturedly. “So, how fast can we go with these engines?”

“We’ll be at the star you call Sirius in six days.”

“Over eight light years in less than a week?” he exclaimed in disbelief, trying to work out what that was in kilometers per hour.

“Once you reach top speed, yes.”

“And the time displacement factor? How much time will pass back on Earth?”

“The very same six days,” she replied. “We too, once thought time would slow down on a ship as it approached the speed of light. But it does not at all. There is simply no limit to how fast can go other than the limits of its own design.”

“All the way to Sirius and back in roughly two weeks,” Armstrong said, his voice barely above a whisper as it contemplated what less than an hour ago he’d believed impossible.

“When I left Triam we were developing even faster engines and power sources. Who knows how much shorter the trip back could be by now.”

“Well then let’s not take too long to find out. Alex, increase engines to maximum and let’s get the lady home.”

“Confirmed. Engines to maximum output.”

The six days passed quickly with each of them exchanging information about the other’s home world. Triam’s level of technology was just slightly ahead of Earth’s current level.

“After so much time,” she said as they had lunch in the galley on the sixth day since departing Pluto. “I can only imagine what we’ve achieved.”

“I’m surprised your people haven’t been out among the stars longer,” he said. “Many of our oldest cultures on Earth point to Sirius as being a possible place of origin for our species. One or two have claimed that visitors from Sirius came to Earth millennia ago.”

“Couldn’t have been us,” she denied. “We’d only ventured out beyond our own system for a few decades before I was stranded on Pluto.”

“Yours was the only habited planet?”

“Yes. Not even one of the moons of the other seven planets could have ever supported a living civilization.”

“Well, they seemed to have known something, no matter how they found it out.”

“There has to be some mysteries that are never solved, Adam. Otherwise, eventually there would be no reason to go out and seek any answers.”

“I suppose you’re right at that.”

“Major,” Alex chimed in. “We are approaching the point to disengage the forward drive for insertion into the Sirian system.”

“Confirmed, Alex. We’re on our way up. Start bringing everything online for insertion.”

They were strapped in and ready just as Alex announced it was time to drop Seeker back below 1C. Z’evea had assured him the transition would be smooth, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

“Bring us out of FTL, Alex.”

“Confirmed, Major.”

The negators were well-strained but did their job as Seeker slowed rapidly down to .9C without putting too much strain on the two humanoids aboard the ship. They slipped into the Sirian system just beyond the orbit of the planet furthest from the star. Triam was the fifth in the system.

“We’ll be there in time for dinner,” Armstrong reported as he checked the numbers. Alex adjusted their course and speed to bring them to Triam’s orbit in just a few hours. But any celebration Z’evea might have wanted to begin was put on hold as every message to Triam – which should have been replied to within thirty minutes – went unanswered. Nor could any signal of any kind be located.

“We should be getting something,” she said perplexed. “An entertainment channel. Traffic from other vessels or between our outposts and the home world. Something other than silence.”

“Could it be this ship’s communications can’t get those frequencies?” Armstrong asked, also growing concerned with the silence.

“No, the range is well within the capabilities of your ship’s array.”

She kept trying to raise Triam, even as the world grew larger in the forward window. Even this far away, Sirius shone a brilliant blue and looked larger than the Sun had looked in the sky back on Mars.

They were certainly rewriting a lot of the science books back home. Blue stars weren’t supposed to survive long enough to allow higher-level lifeforms to evolve. Yet Z’evea was living proof that they could.

The star itself looked stable, as did Triam, which likely ruled out any astronomical reason for the silence, which held even as they pulled into orbit.

“Where are the lights?” she asked as they passed over the night side of the planet. “There were many cities all over the planet. We should see lights down there.”

It did not improve as the swung back over onto the sunlit side. That they were orbiting the fifth planet had been confirmed. But what Z’evea saw below did not resemble the planet she had left so long ago.

“Where are the oceans, the continents?” she asked, fear and confusion in her voice. “There should be an orbital station. Where are the three moons? What has happened here?”

“Major,” Alex called out suddenly. “I am receiving a very faint signal. Almost like an emergency beacon and it is coming from the surface below.”

“Alex,” Armstrong called out. “Bring us down to the surface and land us as close to the source of that signal as you can get us.”

“Confirmed.”

Seeker glided down, buffeted by the atmosphere around the planet but Alex’s programming was up to the task and Armstrong left the descent under the AI’s control. The landing struts extended and the ship settled down onto the blue grassy surface. A few dozen yards away, a ship very much like the one Z’evea had described as a match to her own, was parked. It looked like it had been there for some time. After Alex confirmed that the exterior outside was fully compatible with human norm, Armstrong and Z’evea exited the ship and made their way over to the Triam vessel.

Z’evea led the way to the ship’s bridge. It was dusty but still under power. It was also completely devoid of any life forms other than their own.

“This was U’tii’s ship,” she said, as she called up the ship’s records. “He left on his mission the same time I did.”

“He must have come back after whatever happened had occurred,” Armstrong surmised. “I wonder why he stayed here.”

“There’s a message, it’s the last record in the log,” Z’evea said, pressing one of the lit buttons on the panel. The main view screen flared to life. A male’s face appeared. “I’m patching Alex into the system so it will translate into your language.”

After she pressed a few buttons, the face on the screen became animated and his words sounded over the com system.

“My name is U’tii,” he said. “And I fear that I am the last of my species. This was once the planet Triam and billions of our kind, along with trillions of other members of smaller species, called it home.

“But it is no longer our home,” he continued. “It is no longer the Triam of my memory and it is we who destroyed ourselves. I was returning to Triam with tragic news when it happened. I had found another civilization, many light years away, but they had destroyed themselves with a new kind of technology. A lone outpost on a faraway moon had survived the disaster and told the tale of their demise.”

U’tii paused, tears forming in his eyes and he took a few deep breaths to steady himself.

“You can imagine my horror when I returned just in time to see my own world turning on the very same device. But before I could warn them the device reached full power and consumed every molecule of what had been Triam, turning it into a swirling ball of dust and gas.

“In horror and awe,” he continued. “I watched as the swirling mass began to solidify, forming itself into a brand-new planet, devoid of any life save the most basic of the lower life forms, almost as if the planet had been reset to its earlier days of its evolution. Gone were the oceans, the seas, the land masses that I knew so well. All had been replaced and none now resembled what had once been. The effect had reached out beyond the atmosphere, consuming everything in near orbit. Even the three moons were swallowed whole, leaving just one satellite in an orbit I doubt will keep it nearby for long. It was exactly the same as had happened to the doomed civilization that I had discovered.”

U’tii had been seated up until this point in his narration, but he now stood up and paced the bridge of his ship.

“We had only just began constructing an off-world base on Flian. I flew there only to discover it had been empty at the time, the construction crew home for the Festival of E’rien. It was then I knew I was the last of us. The only other ship still outside of our system is Z’evea’s and no one has heard from her in a decade. I fear she has suffered her fate as well as the rest of us.

“So I decided to return to what had once been Triam,” he continued. “I have landed here and intend to go out and explore what it has become for as long as I can until fate or old age comes to claim the last child of Triam. I leave my ship behind, with this recording, as a warning to any other species that may one day find it.

“Beware,” he said earnestly, leaning close to the recorder. “It seems every civilization advances until it reaches a point, an extinction point if you will, where it loses control of the technology and utterly destroys itself. The device promises an endless supply of energy seemingly out of nothing. I do not know what they called it, but ours was called Zero Point Energy. If you are listening to this, return to your home world and warn them. Do not let them follow the path to immolation. Save them, if you can.”

The screen went black.

“He recorded this over one hundred years ago,” Z’evea said, so softly Armstrong could barely hear her. “He’s lying dead out there somewhere by now, nothing but unburied bones.”

“I’m so very sorry,” Armstrong said, placing his hands on her shoulders, trying to offer what comfort he could.

“It might have been better if you’d never found me, Adam,” she said, tears flowing down her cheeks. He could feel the sobs she fought to keep in check. “To sleep forever never knowing of this…”

“Z’evea,” he said, turning her to face him. “You can come back with me to Earth. You’d be more than welcome there and I think you’d find life there acceptable. We obviously have spaceflight and we’re about on the same level technologically speaking. When I left we were even testing a new…”

It was Armstrong’s turn to have the blood drain from his face as his voice trailed off.

“What is it, Adam,” Z’evea asked, alarmed at the look of horror on Adam’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“What did U’tii call the device that destroyed your world and the one he found?”

“A Zero Point Energy device.”

“Oh god, no,” Armstrong said, shaking his head. “That’s exactly what they called this new device they were about to test back on Earth. Zero Point Energy.”

“It could be a coincidence…”

“It isn’t is it?” Armstrong said flatly. “It’s the same damn thing. The extinction point U’tii mentioned and Earth is racing toward it. We’ve got to get back. Maybe we can stop it this time.”

The raced back to the Seeker, Armstrong ordering Alex to have the ship ready to get underway as soon as they came aboard. The ship lifted off the surface even as its occupants were strapping in. Once free of the atmosphere, Armstrong ordered a jump to full speed as soon as possible, forgoing the gradual increase to maximum. They felt the acceleration this time.

But they were still six days away with no way to send a message ahead that would arrive before they did. All they could do for six days was mourn the loss of one homeworld and pray they would arrive in time to save the other.

Six tense days later they finally exited FTL, foregoing the safety precaution of exiting just outside the boundary of the solar system. They risked coming out with a planet, moon or other spatial object right in their path, but it was a risk worth taking to get close enough to get a message to Earth within minutes instead of hours.

They exited FTL just inside the orbit of Jupiter and Armstrong already had a warning message ready for Alex to transmit the instant they fell below 1C.

“Aldrin Control, Seeker,” they heard the message begin as Alex transmitted. “Emergency message for Marcus Petersen. Do not, I repeat, under no circumstances do not engage the ZPE device. It will have catastrophic effects that will destroy all life on Earth. Do not engage the ZPE until I can brief you fully.”

They waited in tense silence while the message made its way inward to Earth. Alex estimated they would reach the asteroid belt between Jupiter and Mars before the reply would come back from Earth. Neither of them was surprised when the AI was proven right.

“Incoming message, Major.”

“On screen, Alex.”

“Seeker, this is Marcus Petersen,” the voice of Armstrong’s friend sounded from the speaker. He looked calm but puzzled as to why he’d been contacted. “We just turned the ZPE on this morning and it is operating fine. We’ve noticed no ill effec…”

The message suddenly cut off and both Armstrong and Z’evea looked at each other in alarm.

“Major, I have Earth on the external camera. On screen now.”

The long-range camera had to blow up the image a little, but the Earth and Moon were clearly visible, about half of each lit by the Sun. They looked normal to Armstrong…for all of thirty seconds.

Then a small black spot began to form on the European continent and slowly expanded outward until it engulfed the entire planet. That it was the same effect that U’tii had described was indisputable and all Armstrong and Z’evea could do was watch in helpless, silent horror as it unfolded.

The effect reached out – dooming anything in orbit – and continued on to ensnare the Moon, which also disintegrated. But unlike Triam – likely due to Earth being so much closer to its parent star – the effect kept expanding at frightening speed until even the Sun itself shimmered and began to change.

“Alex,” Armstrong called out, finally finding his voice. “Spool up the Von Braun Drive and prepare to jump us back to FTL. Just in case this triggers a nova.”

“Confirmed, Major. The effect has reached Mars now.”

The view switched to the red planet just in time to see it too start to disintegrate into a swirling mass. Armstrong was just about to order the FTL jump when Alex called out an update.

“The effect is no longer expanding, Major. We are not in jeopardy of being caught up in it. The Sun also appears to be stabilizing.”

The view switched back to what had been Earth as the swirling mass began to solidify. Within an hour a new world now orbited ninety-three million miles from a Sun that was suddenly not quite as bright as before, almost as if it had returned to a much younger age. What had become of Mercury and Venus they would have to find out, but they kept closing in on Mars and could tell without the long-range cameras that it was no longer a red world. It was now giving off a blue tint. Alex confirmed it had become a water world with little land mass visible above the water.

The camera locked on the new Earth. It was no longer mostly covered by the blue waters of great oceans. Gone were the great deserts too. It had become a mostly green world with smaller, unconnected seas scattered across the globe.

The Moon was still there, not shining quite as brightly as before and wiped clean of its craters.

They continued on inward, the cameras eventually finding what remained of Venus. The shroud of clouds was gone. Rivers of molten lava angrily flowed across its face now. Of Mercury there was no trace to be found.

They coasted on into orbit around the New Earth and Armstrong ordered Alex to bring Seeker on down to the surface. There simply was no way to tell where they were landing in relation to the Earth Armstrong had known before.

The ship settled down in a large meadow, near a good-sized lake. After Alex confirmed the atmosphere was compatible, they stepped out onto the new world. The Sun was high in the sky, but with its reduced light it was almost as if it were dawn. The smell of the air, the look and feel of the grass and the trees was similar and yet still different.

They would have to explore and see what, if any, other smaller life forms might be present but it was almost as if the clock had been turned back to a much younger Earth before the single continent had split apart into seven.

“Is it an extinction point,” Armstrong asked aloud. “Or is it a cycle?”

“What did you say, Adam?” Z’evea asked.

“What if this is a pattern that repeats itself on many worlds,” he said. “A civilization rises, reaches a terminal point and in its destruction an entire world is reborn and the process starts all over again.”

“But U’tii never said anything about Sirius being affected.”

“Maybe because Triam was too far away. Maybe your people only had the one chance, while planets closer to their star were doomed to be stuck in this cycle.”

“I don’t know which would be a worse fate,” Z’evea replied.

“Me neither,” Armstrong admitted. “So what do we do now? Explore this new world until our lives end, like U’tii did? A least we won’t be alone like he was. Or do we board the Seeker and see if anyone else is out there somewhere, perhaps save them from this?”

“We could fly among the stars until we ran out of supplies, Adam, and never find any sign of another civilization or even another world like this one or Triam where we could make a home.”

“That is very true.”

“Or we could stay here and make the most of what time we have,” she said, taking his hand. “We could even leave the ship in a way like U’tii did, to warn anyone passing by or any future civilization that may rise here in a few thousand years or so not to make the mistake ours did.”

“It won’t be any easy life, if we stay here or even if we were to return to Triam,” he said.

“No, it won’t be,” she replied. “But it would be a good one, together.”

“Yes,” he agreed, noticing for the first time just how deep her green eyes were. “I think it would be indeed.”

I HATE MARS!

Arlan Andrews

I hate Mars. Really hate it, don’t want to be here, had no choice. Well, I could have chose to die by lethal injection instead, and sometimes wish I had took that shot instead of coming to this goddamn red desert.

So maybe I shouldna sucked down that flakka cocktail afore I commenced to taken over driving that last leg through Memphis on that Sunday morning, stead’a lettin’ my AutoJoe handle it like usual. Hell, I didn’t know I even killed all them people; but I guess they shouldna been in the way of my semi, anyhow. I surely don’t recall drivin’ through no church picnic grounds, neither. Dozen dead kids goin’ to Sunday school? No friggin’ way!

But anyways, here I am, stuck on friggin’ Mars. “When you get there, look around,” they said. “Pick up interesting rocks and put them in the RV,” they said, but that RV ain’t a big camper, just a Return Vehicle. “And you will have other tools and resources for further tasks as we develop them.”

They said they would electronically map my brain and spinal cord and that tiny new organ network they found under a nano-scope that is the “meta-center of consciousness,” they called it, into a nanopack and wire it all so damned hard into a VRobot that I guess I am now a tiny bit of nanotronics, just stuck in this damn VRobot thing forever. “Your biological body will be safe here on Earth in a hibernation module,” they said. “As long as you do the tasks assigned to you.” Like I’m gonna run away on Mars? Where the Hell to?

So a while back, on Earth, they drug me outta my cell, down to the prison infirmary, put me on a gurney, slapped some IV’s in my arm, gave me some sick-smelling gas, and next thing I knew, I’m bouncing around on Mars inside of a damn old balloon. Nine months to get here, they said, but I musta slept through it, huh? Small favors.

Me? I’m now a two-foot long centipede-y robot, lots of scrabbly little legs sticking out from a kinda-plastic, kinda-metal, flat-like board, with lots of little extendable arms I can use for grabbin’ tools, and a ‘lectric drill, and some lasers and other kinds of shit, so’s I can pick up rocks, drill holes, do some spectro-skopy, even make little gadgets when they send me the schematics. They needs people like me – VRobots like me, dammit! – to explore Mars, go into some of those dangerous caves where it looks like some old abandoned underground cities or hive-holes might be. And most of all, Mars germs don’t hurt us VRobots, like that sample return mission that took them nasty bugs up to Phobos Base and made green goo outta all them smartass P – H – Ds, twenty years back. They like to have cancelled out on ol’ Mars for good, but then some other smartass thought of puttin’ lots of VRobots to do what them meaters can’t.

I “see” with lots of sensors, and I “hear” by radio, and I “range” to find target coordinates and locate the RVs. Other than work assignments, ain’t much else to do. I explore on my own, but not much to look at other than caves and craters and cracks. I heard (Where? Dunno.) that there are a few hundred of us so-called “Arean Exiles” up here in this damn rusty desert hellhole of a place. Sure wished I could run into another one, at least somebody to talk to.

Be careful what you wish for. For finally I did meet another VRobot. It came scrabbling up, crab-like, over a dune and just stopped. I hollered out on my radio, “Who are you? Human? VRobot?” When the answer comes back, soft and warm and cuddly, I am shocked! Damn if it is not a woman! Or so she/it says. Just another big metal and plastic bug, looks like to me. Right away she (?) calls me “Arv,” because, she tells me, I’ve got ARV wrote on me – Arean Research Vehicle. And I call her (?) “Eve” – not old Adam’s wife, but EVE – Extraterrestrial Vehicular Entity, like what is wrote in big letters on her chassis. Neither one of us is what you might call pretty or anything, not when we look like walking slabs, like some kind of ugly Martian bug or whatever. Actually, more like an ol’ oil drillin’ platform, like they used to have down to the Gulfa Mexico when it was open. But a lot smaller.

But whatever our looks, Eve and me we hit it off right away, and we did share a little bit of why we wound up stuck on MF’ing Mars. I kind of glossed over them dozen dead kids they said I run over; and to listen to her, her ex and them other girl friends of his, they all deserved it when she burnt down their house with them and their kids in it, all zoned out on flakka. Helluva story!

After a few hours I’m all about trying to hook up, and I mean really hook up, ya know. Eve indicates she would also like it if we could do it, even though we ain’t got the piece parts. But shit, man, just her bein’ close by is almost good enough.

Phobos Control don’t like our little courtship, but nothin’ they can do about it. Me and Eve are auto-nonny-muss, meaning that we might have to listen to the meaters on Phobos, but they can’t control us very much. I mean, we live on electricity and Old Mr. Sun powers our arrays, even though he’s a little dim in these parts. Guess they never thought us VRobots might decide to “go rogue”, as they have commenced to calling it.

Eve and me, we did occasionally pick up rocks and all like Phobos Control all but begged us to – not much else to do on friggin’ Mars, anyhow – but we stuck together pretty close. For a few weeks I was enjoying life, as much as you could without no ginny-tals, and your girlfriend with no woman parts. It wasn’t too bad, but them old memories of sex back on Earth are somethin’ else, let me tell you!

We finally found us a little cave-like overhang, keeping us safe from them tiny little meteorites that buzz down on the occasion, taking out little pits of plastic and glass if you’re not lucky. (And our new place is not visible by satellites, neither!) Our cozy cave is just big enough for us to fit in, side by side. And in front of us, a deep crevasse, kind of like a moat, that ain’t very visible from outside, when you come up the slope toward our cubbyhole. It felt like we were in our own little castle, protected-like. Not that them little Mars microbes they found twenty years ago could sneak up on us or anything; hell, even if they could, they stay froze here ten months of the year, anyhow. Too bad they thawed out up on Phobos, and liked human meat, is all. Bad luck for them meaters!

Don’t know how long it was – months, maybe, a year? — until one night we seen a bright light coming down from outta the sky, real close to us. We powered up the next morning and centipeded over to see what it was. And there was an ol’ PETE – Phobos Emergency Termination Extractor was wrote on his big old chassis. The Mars sheriff, kinda like, I guess. Must’ve had that ol’ boy up on Phobos Base, in case they needed to send down some muscle to straighten us out. Mostly a gray cylinder, Pete stood at least six feet tall, big ol’ soft tires so’s he could skaddle up big ol’ dunes or scoot down the flat straightaways. And a bunch of ol’ big-ass claws and saws showed he meant business.

“Howdy, Pete,” I says. “Welcome to friggin’ Mars.” But big Pete, he don’t say nothin’, just rolls over to me, clasping and unclacking those claws, movin’ them eye-stalks right at me. Eve begins to backtrack, and I am feeling nervous myself. “Can we talk this over, pod’ner?” I says again, readying all my legs to spring backward if ol’ Pete gets crazy. Like that ol’ tar baby in the story, Pete still don’t say nothin. Then I do jump backwards, all my legs goin’, and really scoot out, ASAP.

Eve is already back to our little home-cave away from Earth, and she has covered her tracks around the crevasse. I see her plan, and I scoot around the crack and do the same thing. Ol’ Pete, though, big wheels and all that he is, he is coming at us so fast, so intent on hacksawing us to pieces, I guess, that he don’t see the crevasse until too late, and topples down into the dark. We can hear the crunches and cracks as he meets his end. Crack o’ doom! I like the sound of that.

So now that’s been over a year ago. Since then, Eve and I have cut off communications from Phobos; nothin’ they can say makes up for trying to scrap us and all. We only talk to each other, locally at least. Once in a while we do scamper up to a tall hill and occasionally can make radio contact with other EVEs and ARVs, tell them what we are doin’, and just chat. From what I make of it, with us VRobots radio-relaying from hill to hill, crater rim to crater rim, we have spread the word to everybody on Mars. And a couple hundred of us are gonna meet at a predetermined cavern (to hide from satellites) next year and make more plans about what to do about our situation.

You see, I figured it out already – my Earth body can die for all I care. I, me, my “self” is here, and Mars is my home, for all the friggin’ place that it is. All them other EVEs and ARVs done figured that out, too, and we all think, Our Earth bodies ain’t no threats to us. They wouldn’t know or care if we died, and so vicey-versey. And we know that if we stick together, the Earthers, even those on Phobos, ain’t gonna come callin’ or dropping bombs – after meaters failed to make a go of it hereabouts, we were done already “too expensive a program”, and that was before we all went on strike and quit picking up rocks. We done took over and reprogrammed a few RVs, too, and can send them up to impact Phobos, according to some of the smarter ARV’s. We told them meaters about that, just in case they couldn’t guess. They might be leaving Phobo Base for Earth; permanently, we hope. And then Mars might declare independence. Wouldn’t that be somethin’?

Besides, without runnin’ around and collectin’ rocks or God knows whatall for the meaters, me and Eve been spendin’ our time droppin’ some pulleys and hooks down into our Crack o’ Doom and pullin’ out them busted-up pieces of ol’ Pete, one lump at a time. His brain don’t function no more, but his solar engine and the rest of the electronics and nano-constructs, they can still be fixed up and re-used. And we are really using them. With our own VRobot arms and tools and drills and little onboard assembly shops, we are going to reconstitute a new little nano-brain, and then each one of us is goin’ to transfer some of our programmed meta-center logic into a new little Mars-bot. We are building our own child, our “kit-kid” we call it.

Maybe we can’t do sex no more, but we can still make a baby!

THE MANTLE OF GAIA
by Jody Lynn Nye

Colonel Fran di Palma held fast to the young operator’s arm, keeping him moving along the dim, echoing corridor. The man – no more than a boy, really – stumbled over chunks of white acoustic ceiling tile that lay scattered from the last overhead blast.

“We’re almost to the shuttle,” she said. “Hurry up!”

Winston Chun kept looking down at the rectangular bar in his hand. The screen of the big smartphone glowed bright blue, displaying an augmented reality landscape. According to the image, they were traveling through massive buildings and crossing wide roads at impossible angles. Half of those buildings hardly existed any longer on the streets above.

“Put that thing away!” Di Palma snapped, hauling him upright as the youth tripped again. She pulled her cap down tighter over her short brown curls. Her webbing belt had been yanked tight around her camo fatigues, and her boots were laced as firmly as she could make them, to keep her ankles from turning on the uneven floor. A good thing she had been pulled away from PT and not a boardroom meeting.

“I’m not used to running,” Chun said, with an apologetic grin at his escort. She could have told that from his build. She was at least five centimeters taller than he was, but probably weighed twenty kilograms less. His belly was as wide as his shoulders, and his arms and legs were podgy. This was a kid who lived on processed carbohydrates and energy drinks but never let his body burn the excess calories. It had been a while since he had had a haircut. He had to palm his lank black hair out of his round, high-cheekboned face.

“It would help if you were looking where you actually were going instead of down at that screen.”

“I wasn’t finished with my round when you pulled me out of the bathroom,” Chun said. “I’ve only got six minutes thirty two seconds, or I lose all of my progress on this level!”

You’ll lose more than that if we don’t get to safety, Di Palma thought, but she tightened her grip on his arm and kept him moving even as his thumbs flew over the little device.

She realized the irony that the smartphone was the only reason he was still alive. He had been hiding in the bathroom stall playing his game instead of in the Pentagon’s training center when the Fangs broke in. Her squad had found nothing but dead bodies and aliens feeding on them. They shot all the Fangs they could see, then went on a cleanup mission through the facility. Chun had been so intent on playing that he hadn’t even noticed that they were under attack. He wasn’t even the best student in the defense net control facility, but he was the only one left.

The tunnel they were following stopped at a T-intersection. Di Palma slowed to glance at her own device to make sure they were still going the right way. Most of the lights had burst because of the concussive missiles that had been bombarding Washington, D.C. The Fangs had cast off any pretense they had of being friendly allies in the galaxy, and were doing their best to take out all planetary defenses.

“Hold it!” Chun said, his eyes gleaming in the blue light. “I’ve got to grab this monster! It’s got a rare treasure.”

“We’re running away from monsters, kid. Focus!”

Chun frowned into his screen. “Maybe the Fangs are not so bad,” he said, tapping rapidly with his forefinger. “Maybe we just don’t understand their customs.”

“They tore all your classmates and the instructor to pieces,” Di Palma said, aghast at his callousness, then remembered. He hadn’t seen it. They’d hustled him out of the wing under heavy guard to make sure the Fangs didn’t spot him. “Didn’t you see the news feed? They ate the UN ambassador alive.”

“I don’t watch the news,” Chun said. “It depresses me. But I believe the ambassador must have made some kind of mistake. We are all children of the cosmos. We need to make peace with the rest of the galaxy. Earth is our mother. She wants us to be friends with the children of other stars. We’re all stardust.”

Uh-huh, di Palma thought. The kid followed some kind of new age BS. A lifelong Catholic whose grandparents had come from Calabria, di Palma had lost her faith a long time ago, right after the first enemy ships appeared in the sky.

Like most of her fellows, she had been thrilled and wary when living aliens landed in New York. After what felt like days but was really an hour or so, the newcomers had walked off their ships to wild cheers from the massive crowd that had gathered around their ship. Anything that looked that much like giant piranhas on a rack of millipede legs had to be trouble. Just as many people thought they might be friendly, but di Palma called that wishful thinking. She wasn’t happy to have been proved right.

Humans didn’t want to be alone in the galaxy, so people felt that any alien race that approached Earth had to be like the ones on Star Trek: either friendly or misguided and in need of human advice. The Fangs were neither. Oh, they’d behaved themselves on the podium as one official after another introduced themselves, but none of the diplomats who accepted a tour of the alien spacecraft were ever seen alive again. The only intimation the people of Earth got as to the fate of their consul staff came from a face-call on a smuggled cell phone from a terrified aide who watched the rest of her party torn apart and eaten alive by the visitors. With relish.

The call cut off after a few seconds, but it was long enough to scare the ever-living hell out of the rest of the planet.

The military and surviving world leaders went into a virtual huddle. Why were these aliens attacking Earth? It lay so far away from the active centers of the galaxy. But, as the scientists pointed out, inhabited planets were few and far between. The aliens had bypassed enormous and gorgeous Saturn, and majestic Jupiter and all its moons, because there was no one on them. Earth had a living, breathing population of not only humans, but animals and insects of all different types. All, as the Fangs seemed to think, delicious. Hundreds of people had been scooped up by their ships and carried off, screaming.

“The aliens see us as a buffet,” British Major General Sir Edmund Harkness had announced, at the head of a hastily assembled worldwide coalition over the Internet and every single broadcast channel. “The ambassadors of Earth thought they were negotiating peace, but the aliens wanted only to see how we taste. They want breeding populations to supply their homeworlds with the delicacy they’ve just discovered – us. More ships are coming. Earth is now under siege. We have to defend ourselves.”

Mass panic ensued, as ninety percent of the population tried to hunker down and protect themselves. Conspiracy theorists were openly thrilled that their predictions about the end of the world were coming true. What cooler heads remained did their best to muster what defenses Earth had and shore them up against an interplanetary foe.

About ten years before first contact with the Fangs, Earth had built a rudimentary defense net, originally put into place with the backing of a few wealthy nations, including the United States, Canada, Japan, India, and Nigeria. The orbiting web of repulsors was designed to offer a robust protection to the planet. Though it proved effective in operation, it was never completed, covering no more than half the Earth’s surface. The other countries had dismissed it as unnecessary, a foolish waste of time. They hadn’t put in any money to help finish it until their own populations were under attack. After that, all available resources were dedicated to shoring it up. The international military feared that it was now too late, but they had to try. Unless they repelled the incoming Fang ships, humankind would become an endangered species.

Once, when humans were optimistic, they had sent out the Voyager spacecraft carrying messages to other life forms to come and find them. Professor Stephen Hawking had warned over thirty years ago that letting aliens know humankind existed was a bad idea. Oh, humankind had learned from the brief friendly exchange of information with the Fangs that there were other species who didn’t eat their neighbors, but humans had to deal with this one first and survive, then reach out, if there was anyone left alive on Earth.

And there wouldn’t be, if she didn’t get this blinkered operator to the auxiliary controls.

The dusty corridor leading from the Pentagon to the covered shuttle bay was scattered with files and personal belongings of personnel who had fled the bombardment. The farther she and Chun ran, the more personal items lay on the floor as the people running away had decided what was important enough to keep hauling, and what wasn’t. Di Palma had always kept an old saying about Native Americans in her mind: “When a disaster came, the white man ran for his possessions, and he died. We ran for our lives, and we lived.” Clearly, Chun’s only focus was his game and his internal life. Di Palma had a couple of pictures of her family in her shoulder bag, along with her phone and small items of value to no one but herself. It was a matter of focus. The most precious thing she had with her was the youth at her side. His knowledge was the key to saving the planet.

Di Palma almost admired how much of their homework the Fangs had done on Earth and its practices. Humankind had never really thought about what would happen if it was conquered. Everything it did, with few exceptions, was right out there in the open for anyone to see. It broadcast all of its thoughts and plans over easily intercepted signals. Encoding meant nothing when receivers could be pinpointed from space. The Fangs had no trouble finding microwave receivers and tracing the pulses between them. They had slipped through the defense net’s holes without much trouble, like Luke Skywalker bombing the Death Star. The primary control station in Houston was their first target. The secondary facility in New Delhi had been destroyed next, in a catastrophic blast that killed millions.

If the Fangs had been on our side, di Palma mused sourly, we’d have applauded them for their fancy shooting.

The only facility that remained had been purposely made as inaccessible as possible, in western Newfoundland. The control room lay deep inside the mantle of the Earth itself, where the pliable layer of basalt protruded through the crust. Nuclear explosions and earthquakes couldn’t touch it, which meant aerial bombardment would be ineffective. It was literally humankind’s last hope.

The US brass had been unable to get through to the Canadian facility. Either that meant that it had been left unoccupied when the invasion began, or the Fangs had killed everyone in it. She had to take that chance and get it operational, or they were all dead. And yet the kid didn’t seem to take the matter seriously.

They emerged into sudden daylight that made di Palma’s eyes burn with its intensity. The sun pierced down to the floor of the landing bay because the vaulted ceiling had been melted away like candle wax. Green puddles of who knew what lay on the floor. She steered her charge in between them, looking for an intact craft. Her heart sank. Almost all the emergency pods were gone, and the few that remained on their launch pads had been crushed by falling pieces of ceiling beam.

“Where did everyone go?” Chun asked, looking up with a frown.

“Away,” the colonel said, turning him bodily in the direction she faced. “Look, over there!” A fall of broken acoustic ceiling tiles and warped support beams almost obscured it, but the shiny curved face of one single shuttle remained. Di Palma ran to pull it free, hoping desperately it was airworthy. “Help me!”

Reluctantly, Chun put his phone into his breast pocket and ran his finger over the Velcro closure. While Di Palma hauled frantically at bent pieces of metal and yards of insulation with her bare hands, he kicked scraps of debris to one side.

“The idea,” the colonel said, holding her temper deep inside so her voice came out cold, “is to uncover this ship so we can fly in it. Got that?”

“Yah, I got it.” Very reluctantly, the programmer started to pick at the mess. Di Palma just turned her back on him and hauled the heavy pieces to one side, freeing up the pod. Luckily, nothing required heavy moving equipment, since all of that had been slagged by whatever beam had melted the ceiling.

The small, oblong craft had enough room to jam eight people inside, making it just a little larger than a disabled bathroom stall, but the cabin was bare of anything but the vitals. Even the pilots’ seats were padded just sufficiently to protect their spines from the G-force launch. Di Palma got Chun strapped down, buckled herself in, and checked the scopes – thank God, still operational – for any other aircraft in the area.

“Chin up, Mr. Chun. Brace your neck. We’re launching at four gee.”

The youth flung up his head just in time as the engines kicked them into the seatbacks. They launched straight up, then arced due west just in case one of the Fang collector ships was lying low nearby. Nothing. She corrected her course toward the target.

She hated to open radio frequencies, but check-in was necessary.

“This is Last Hope,” she said, over the secure signal. It still showed up on anyone’s detectors as a transmission, but that was unavoidable. At least the Fangs wouldn’t be able to understand them. “Heading out. Don’t shoot me down.”

“Last Hope!” A man’s voice came through over a burst of static. “This is Santa’s Workshop. Did you secure a package?”

“Affirmative, Santa.” She smiled grimly at her reflection in the curved canopy. Beyond it, what was left of Washington lay in a jumble below her. Approximately three-fifths of the Pentagon remained. Of the government buildings, all she could see was darkened slag. “On my way. Delivering the package in approximately 65 minutes.” A little more than 1180 nautical miles, traveling at just over a thousand miles per hour, ENE, but her contact knew all that. “Any contact from the receiving point?”

“Negative, Last Hope.” Santa sounded as though he wanted to say more. “Is the package intact?”

“Mostly.” Di Palma glanced at Chun, who had his nose buried in his game again. “Unharmed and functional, but just totally disengaged with reality. I think he’s got to be somewhere on the spectrum.”

“Don’t be such a dick,” Chun said, without looking up.

“A dick?” the colonel repeated, shaking her head. “Look at the anatomy, kid. Me double-X chromosomes.”

“Dickishness is a state of mind. Just as gender is.”

She caught a glimpse of the small screen he held between his hands. For the first time, she realized that the point-of-view character he portrayed was female, a tall, shapely woman clad in gleaming golden armor from collar to boots, her white hair flowing around her shoulders. She wielded a sword as tall as she was, and pretty damned effectively, too.

“You play a girl in that? Why?”

“Because she’s awesome,” Chun said. He tapped his thumb, and the warrior slashed through a big, scaly monster, making it explode in a burst of red light.

“She’s an extension of you,” di Palma said. “You rolled her up. You play her.”

“Yeah, but she has all these powers, and she uses them for good. In my religion, the Goddess is the center and the source of all life. I identify with Her. In this game, I get to be Gaia, mother and protector. She’s defending the city, with all these children in it.”

“Your religion?”

“Yeah. I’m a pagan. We serve peace. Deal with it.”

“You’re not the only one I know,” di Palma said, dryly. “Not by a long way. But you’re working for a program that defends Earth by killing invaders. Isn’t that kind of detached from reality?”

Chun met her eyes with an angry glare. “I hate the program. We’re showing the visitors that we intend to kill them, when diplomacy, just talking to people, ought to make the differences go away. I mean, if you open up your perspective, the Fangs are just people from another place. We can find common ground! We can connect with them on an equal basis, but you military types shoot first.”

Di Palma dropped the pod so it skimmed low over the buildings. Sooner or later, she would have to set out over the Atlantic, but she wanted to avoid that as much as possible. The longer she was hard to spot, the farther she could get without pursuit.

“Why did you join if you hated the program?”

“They told us it was like a big video game,” Chun said, wrinkling his blunt nose. “But I didn’t join willingly, or maybe you forgot about the conscription. They pulled anyone in advanced programming courses or internships for the Big Five data companies and screened us all for potential. I was in the highest .01 percent.” He couldn’t help but look proud. “But I haven’t seen my parents or my boyfriend for eight months. They won’t let us leave. Security.” He pronounced the word with heavy scorn.

“Security has turned out to be more necessary than you think, kid. Haven’t you watched the news? The Fangs are slipping past our early warning systems too often. They’re kidnapping people! We need the defense net up and running!”

Chun waved a hand without looking up. “I don’t watch the news. It’s propaganda. Besides, it gives me nightmares. Politicians are all dirt. Each side uses the news to make its own points, and where’s the truth? I believe in the inherent good in the souls of every being.”

“Even when they eat people?” di Palma asked.

“What you do comes back to you threefold. If they are really cannibals, and I don’t believe all that, they’ll have to answer for it. But I don’t have to be part of that karma.”

“You’d better. I need you to operate the defense net, or we won’t have a chance.”

He ignored her from then on, keeping his head down over his handset. Di Palma thought of a million things to say, none of which would dislodge him from his argument. Her opinion coincided with his: humans were mostly decent. They didn’t want war. They didn’t want their families to go hungry. He didn’t understand, or want to understand, that the Fangs were something new. They didn’t belong on Earth because they didn’t follow the unspoken rules of common existence, the Golden Rule that spread across most human cultures: you leave my patch alone, and I’ll leave yours. If I need something, I’ll ask. You can do the same. I will share with the expectation of getting the same decency – or at least gratitude – from you, and we can co-exist on a friendly basis. The Fangs saw humankind as a delicacy. They didn’t need human flesh to survive; they just liked it. That was like saying the only way you could stay warm was by wearing a mink coat, such an appalling philosophy that it had united nations that never would have cooperated under any other circumstance.

She was frustrated that she couldn’t make her point, because the kid had closed his eyes to any reality except that in the confines of his little screen. She wanted to protect Earth, wrap it up in a blanket, or a bulletproof vest, but she didn’t have the skills. He did. All humankind’s hope of survival lay in the hands of someone who did not really seem to care.

The sun set behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. Di Palma steered out over the sea and hit the afterburners. According to her scopes, three Fang ships were out over the Atlantic, but too far away to catch her before she hit the tunnel. If the entrance hadn’t been collapsed by bombardment. Why was no one answering the comms at that end?

With Chun engrossed in his game, the cockpit was silent except for engine and air noise. Di Palma scanned the displays nervously, wondering if she was going to have to test the underwater capability of the shuttle, but that would put an end to the hope of spreading the defense net out to cover the gaps.

Lights had gone out all up and down the eastern coast of North America, but they became even fewer as she circled around over the Canadian Maritimes. Some of the oldest rock in existence lay exposed on the west coast of Newfoundland, in the Gros Morne National Park. Geologically speaking, it fascinated her. Now it felt like a shield she was desperate to get behind.

She opened up receiving frequencies on the dashboard radio, and listened. The airwaves were plenty noisy. It had occurred to some bright mind that if the Fangs really were picking up every signal, secure transmissions could be hidden among a throng of unimportant broadcasts. Every radio and television station, every CB and ham, every microwave transmitter and receiver had been set on constant output with incoming feed from an AI-operated news transmitter, then abandoned, as decoys. Di Palma heard the solemn computerized voice cataloging the attacks worldwide from Fang ships. More deaths. More kidnappings. Worse yet, big ships had been spotted nearly within the orbit of the Moon: the Fang motherships intending to collect as many humans and other Earth creatures for transport back to their home system. She clutched the steering mechanism with impatient hands, desperate to get to the controls and stop the invasion.

In the dark she found almost impossible to spot the cavern that marked the entrance to the transmission facility. Only a tiny beacon, scarcely audible among the blaring broadcasts, led her to the right hole, a spot of blackness in the midst of a faintly starlit wilderness.

No one challenged her, either by signal or weapon fire as she aimed the small shuttle into the tunnel. Her heart sank, anticipating the worst. The rough-hewn ceiling, wild with swarms of bats, angled downward into the depths of the Earth. Once far enough past the entrance, she switched on the three headlights. One aimed forward in a blaze of white light; the other two scanned up and down along the cavern walls. Within a kilometer, she realized why no one had greeted her. A Fang ship lay abandoned under the broken stalactite with which it must have collided. The point of stone pierced through the fuselage. It was too much too hope that it had killed all the crew, although she could see nothing moving anywhere in the tunnel.

“Can you shoot a gun?” she asked the young technician, whose face was washed with green and blue light from his game.

“No. Hey, I’m hungry and I need to go to the bathroom. Is there anything to eat in here?”

“Rations box under the seat,” di Palma said, her eyes intent on the long gray passageway. “There’s a head in the stern. I’m going to arm you. It looks like the Fangs got in here. We have to…”

“Wait a minute! I can’t wait.” Chun broke out of his straps and hurried to the rear of the craft. Di Palma moaned. In a moment, he returned. While he scrabbled under the co-pilot’s seat for the MRE box, he asked, “do you want anything?”

“No!” di Palma said, her patience in shreds. “Pay attention. This is serious. It is not a video game. Your life and millions of others depend on what I’m saying to you. I’m going to arm you. Shoot at anything that moves that isn’t me. We have to get to that control room. Understand?”

Busy with the heavy plastic envelope that contained a sealed entrée, Chun didn’t reply. In the faint light from the instrument panel, she saw that his hands were trembling. Her heart softened. He was scared. He wasn’t a soldier, just a talented kid who had never been out in the world.”

“We’re going to get through this,” she said.

“All right, but I’m not going to kill anyone,” he said.

She didn’t want to start the argument with him again. “It’s okay. I want you to summon up your inner warrior to get you to that control room. That tough woman in your game. She’s part of you. Channel her.”

“If I had all her swords and potions, I would,” Chun said, mustering a tiny grin. “But I get it. I’ll try. Uh, thanks.”

“Carry on, soldier,” she said, but it was gentle.

She set the shuttle down as quietly as she could behind a huddle of ruined flyers that had been slagged by the Fangs’ weaponry. Before they alit, she shouldered an MP5K machine gun and put two pistols, with all the ammunition she could stuff in the pockets of her flak vest. She wrapped Chun in a flak vest and clapped a helmet on his head. Her own gear went on almost automatically, strapped into place with practiced ease. She loaded a pistol from the arms cabinet on the shuttle and handed it to him butt first.

“The safety is off. Keep your finger off the trigger unless you want to shoot. If one of the Fangs comes at you, keep squeezing until it stops going ‘bang.’ Got that?”

His hand sagged under the unexpected weight of the gun. He looked as though he wanted to drop it, but was too scared to argue. He clutched his smartphone in his other hand. Between his fingers, di Palma could see the image of the woman in gold armor.

She nodded. “Follow me and stay quiet.”

With a pinpoint torch held low and shining toward the floor, di Palma picked her way through the darkness.

Part of her mission briefing had included the blueprints for the Canadian facility. The tunnel through which they had flown was a long tube that curved downward into a series of natural caverns underneath the Gros Morne National Park. The defense net control room lay almost five kilometers from the opening. She estimated that they had flown in almost three klicks, past four checkpoints, two of them that should have challenged her.

The place felt eerie, with its heavy, moist, stone-smelling atmosphere. No matter how quietly she tried to move, her boots thudded audibly on the ground. Behind her, Chun walked silently in bright orange trainers. She could hear him breathing.

Her briefings on the Fangs had been from videos and recorded interviews of survivors who had managed to escape from them. The aliens stood only about four feet tall, but they moved with remarkable speed on their multiple legs. The one thing that stood out in each person’s recollection, except for the rows of razor-sharp, reddish teeth, was the stench. Fangs smelled like corpse-flowers, rotting meat coupled with an overwhelming sweetness. The stink distracted humans so much that their reaction time doubled, making it far too easy for the Fangs to jump them. She had a jar of Vicks Vapo-Rub with her, but she wouldn’t put it on until and unless they were close to the aliens. As long as they were considerate enough to give her an early warning system, she intended to make use of it.

A faint greenish glimmer came from farther down the throat of the cave. As di Palma’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she realized she could see the floor well enough with the cone cells of her eyes. She flicked off the flashlight.

“Hey!” Chun exclaimed. His voice echoed off the stone ceiling. “I can’t see.”

“Put the phone away,” di Palma said, in an urgent, low voice, avoiding the hiss of the letter ‘s.’ “Light blinding you.”

With one final, reluctant glance at his avatar, the programmer clicked off the device and stuffed it into his vest pocket. He hooked one hand into di Palma’s belt and shuffled along behind her.

The colonel had never been in the tertiary control center before. She had only spoken to the CO in the comms room. Remote communications made her feel as if she ought to know the facility, but it was like going into the basement in a horror movie when the sinister music started playing. All they had to do was make it a couple of kilometers. On a level surface, a cautious walk with all eyes open would take her about half an hour. No problem, right?

The low light threw heavy shadows toward them. Out of the corner of her eye, di Palma glimpsed overturned desks and walls pitted by shrapnel. Her nose told her that there had been a firefight here, with grenades thrown. The floor was strewn with brass shell casings from large caliber arms. Still no people.

Within a hundred meters, that changed. The metal double door that divided the landing area from the rest of the facility, meant to withstand bomb blasts, stood ajar because something was keeping it from closing. Even before they reached it, the sweet, heavy smell of blood mixed with the sharp odor of loose bowels confirmed the obstruction was a body.

Chun tried to break away when he realized what lay ahead of him. Di Palma grabbed him by the upper arm and towed him over the body. It was gruesome. The Fangs ate like hyenas, tearing pieces from their prey whether or not it was dead. This man had had his guts ripped out, and the soft parts of his face chewed off. Chun gagged audibly, casting around for somewhere to throw up. He broke free and heaved his guts out against the wall. Di Palma swallowed hard, trying not to follow suit. With a face even paler than before, the programmer rejoined her.

The buzzing of flies overwhelmed all other sounds in the guardroom beyond the door. The dismembered bodies of eight crew lay on their backs, their bellies torn open amidst the scattering of furniture and computer equipment.

“Oh, my Goddess,” Chun said, his voice trembling.

“Still think we can reason with them?” she asked. “I told you.”

“They… they ripped that guy’s face open! And these people…!”

The soldiers had not died alone; three Fangs had been riddled with bullets and died with their jaws hanging ajar. Di Palma noted with a shudder that they had six rows of teeth and tongues like garter snakes. The programmer stood quivering, clenching and unclenching his hands. He kicked the nearest Fang in the face. Its head slewed over so its round black eyes seemed to stare at him. As if something had let loose, Chun stomped the creature’s head again and again until the bones crunched. Then, he started on the second one, and the third.

“You murderers!” he shrieked. “You bastards!”

Di Palma let him get it out of his system, then came to put her arm around him.

“Come on. We have to get to the controls. Hurry!”

A rustling noise froze them both in place. Something was moving behind a fallen table. Di Palma signaled for Chun to be quiet, shucked the safety off her pistol, then threw the desk to one side. His pistol held in both hands like a gunfighter, Chun drew down on the form behind it.

“Don’t shoot me!” A young woman with fine black hair and the complexion of a First Nations citizen in the uniform of a Canadian Air Force second lieutenant huddled on the floor, crouched as close to the wall as she could be. She was splashed with blood, but di Palma quickly ascertained none of it was hers. Chun froze, his eyes wide. “Oh, my God, help me! They killed them all! I played dead. I heard them all die. I’m just a supply officer! I’ve been hiding there for hours!”

“How many?” Chun croaked.

“Eight in all,” the lieutenant said, looking from one to the other as they helped her up. She counted the bodies. “There are three here.”

“That means five more,” the programmer said, moving purposefully toward the opposite door. “Let’s get the rest.”

“We’re not taking any unnecessary chances,” di Palma said, now running to keep up with Chun. The Canadian officer, whose name was Frost, scurried in their wake, afraid to let them out of her sight.

“I’m going to kill all of those Fangs,” Chun said. His face had set into a furious mask. “Every one of them!”

The kid was burning for blood now. He was so intent on hunting down the remaining aliens that he forgot he had to be quiet.

All the warning di Palma had was a sinister rustling before five bodies came hurtling out of the dark at them. She had a brief glimpse of gleaming red fangs as sharp as saw blades before one of them bowled her over onto her back. Only the padded helmet kept her from being dazed. The Fangs seemed to ignore modern weapons when in a feeding frenzy. The Fang gobbled and chomped at the Kevlar sleeve of her armor, throwing her arm back and forth. She couldn’t take good aim without endangering the other two. From the sheath at her side, she drew the serrated-edge combat knife and plunged it into the creature’s side. It tossed its head back and let out an unearthly howl.

That was the only noise it got to make. Suddenly, its head flew apart with a loud bang.

The Fang went limp. Pink ichor and pieces of shining carapace hit Di Palma in the face. Sputtering to clear her mouth, she sprang to her feet and started shooting at the other four.

“Good shot!” she praised Chun.

“Ten years of first-person shooters,” the programmer said, looking sheepish. Frost huddled behind them, throwing whatever missiles she could grab: telephones, file boxes, coffee cups, even award plaques ripped from the walls.

The Fangs circled Chun. He had been responsible for their fellow’s death, so they seemed determined to take him down. They dodged his kicks, and surged forward, biting at his shins and knees. He ought to have been frightened, but he didn’t look it. No, he looked like the avatar on his cell phone: proud, determined and fearless. Instead of blowing his whole magazine, he placed one shot after another with surprising accuracy, though half the bullets bounced off the Fangs’ natural armor. The aliens were still landing bites on all of them, though. One of them chomped on di Palma’s knee. She howled. The Fang retreated with a small chunk of flesh in its jaws. She could feel the blood running down her leg as she pelted it with half a dozen rounds. Scales exploded off the alien in all directions, embedding themselves into walls, floors, and their flak jackets.

“Get going toward the control room,” she ordered Chun and Frost. “I’ll cover you. Move now!”

“This way,” the lieutenant said.

The colonel limped after them, shooting over her shoulder. Three of the Fangs were down. The other two had figured out to watch where her hand went, and dodged almost every shot.

Click. Her magazine was empty. She hit the release and slammed another into place. Every step set fire to her wounded leg. The Fangs moved faster than humans did. She could not let the aliens get past, even if it cost her her life. She potted at the sensitive eyes and their front pairs of legs, and had the satisfaction of watching one of the two tumble over its own feet.

Lieutenant Frost had legs like a deer. She bounded over tipped chairs and file cabinets, dodged past fallen bodies and discarded weapons. Chun stumped behind her more slowly. Di Palma heard him gasping for breath. He wasn’t used to this kind of exertion. She grabbed his arm and pulled him along, continuing to fire at the remaining aliens in their wake.

At the end of the corridor was another solid metal door. As Frost fumbled with the eyeball-reader lock, Di Palma planted herself with both feet wide, and emptied the rest of her rounds at the aliens. The portal slid open with a hiss. Chun and Frost tumbled through into the darkness beyond. She waited until the door started to slide back again, and threw herself in after them.

Another gutted body sprawled on the dais before the control panel. Emergency messages, thousands of them by now, scrolled up the massive screen over an image of the rotating Earth. Chun dropped to his knees beside the operator, a middle-aged woman with dark skin and short, tightly curled hair. Draped over her was a mesh net the size of a single-size bed sheet studded with tiny LEDs flashing red and blue, most of them red.

“Morgan!” he said, shaking her shoulder, though anyone could see she had been dead for hours. “Morgan, it’s me! Winston Chun!” He raised haunted eyes to di Palma. “She’s a friend of mine!”

“You’ve got to do what she was doing,” the colonel said. He had been so focused, but seeing someone he knew lying dead brought him back to square one. “Hook in, suit up, or whatever you have to do! Bring up Earth’s weapons and blow those Fangs out of the sky!”

“I can’t,” Chun said, at last dropping the dead weight of the gun on the floor. “She was like me. We both worked for peace, not war.”

“Listen,” di Palma said, crouching beside him. “The peace you believe in still exists out there, but we have to raise our defenses. The Fangs have too many advantages over us now. They want to breed us for food. We – you – have to operate that shield.” She fished in his flak vest pocket for his phone and shook it at him. “You’re Gaia’s protector now.”

He clicked on the device, and the golden-armored warrior stared out proudly at him. Chun smiled.

“I am Gaia,” he said. “I can do it.”

“I thought Gaia was a goddess,” Frost said, puzzled. “Female.”

“We’re all both female and male,” di Palma said, keeping her eyes locked on Chun’s. “We carry attributes of both: protector and nurturer. Be both.” She scooped up the formless net and handed it to him.

Chun swirled the metallic net out flat, then let it settle over his shoulders like a royal cloak. It wasn’t large enough to cover his body completely, and the image of the Earth on the screen showed the same big gaps. He pulled at the material, shifting the loose weave.

“Identify,” a soft female voice said, seeming to come from all around them.

“Code name, Winston Lucas Chun. Password, uh, 12345678mmorpg.”

“What?” di Palma asked, astonished. “That’s a crappy password!”

“I know,” Chun said, sheepishly. “I always meant to change it, but I never got around to it.”

“Accepted,” the computer said. “Operational.”

A flush of blue started in one corner of the net and spread across the mesh until a cerulean halo surrounded Chun’s round face. On the screen, most of Earth surrounded itself with the same shimmering glow. The full moon bloomed in the upper right hand corner of the scope. A cluster of black specks hurtled across its pale disk it toward Earth, aiming for the empty regions in between defense emplacements.

“They’re coming,” di Palma said. “Close it! Hurry!”

Chun fumbled with the net, spreading out the contacts to surround Earth’s globe. Each movement was echoed on the screen. He did his best to move the blue LEDs into equal points, but there simply weren’t enough of them.

The first warship moved toward a gap over the Indian Ocean. Chun grabbed a couple of the lights and stretched the fabric until they flanked the black icon. It retreated, seeking another undefended point. Chun shifted the LEDs again and again to intercept the Fang warships. They just looped around to the next empty zone. Chun countered their moves like a chess master, a focused little grin on his face.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said.

The Fangs were smart. From whatever intelligence they had managed to glean, they had figured out the limitations of Earth’s defense net. Discovering that it was still operational even after they had destroyed two of the control centers had to be a blow to them, but they were adaptable.

Chun kept tracking each of the attacking ships, doing his best to herd them into one zone with the blue light-studded fabric. To di Palma’s horror, the cloud of aliens split up, the ships going a dozen different ways around the globe. Chun found himself spinning in place, trying to get ahead of each, knocking them back out of orbit. The ships looked tiny on the screen, but the key in the corner indicated that they were at least a mile long, and numbered many more than NASA’s intelligence had said there were. They could carry off thousands of innocent humans. Di Palma shifted nervously from foot to foot. She wished she could do something, but it was no longer her battle. The mantle had been passed, so to speak, and all the responsibility literally lay on Chun’s shoulders.

He stretched and pulled the loose material, bunching a cluster of LEDs in the path of the Fang warships. Di Palma couldn’t understand the commands he muttered under his breath, but the computer responded. On the screen, white-hot bolts rattled out of the orbs of blue. According to her briefing, each blue dot represented a mobile weapons platform, tied to the others by a computerized structure present in the mantle on the young man’s shoulders. All of her muscles were tensed, willing Chun to keep the aliens from penetrating through to the atmosphere. Once they got past him, Earth was doomed.

Chun’s face broke out in beads of sweat as he spun in circles, trying to keep up with the onslaught. He started panting, drawing gasping breaths from his pudgy belly.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yeah, I think so…. Damn!”

One of the black ships nipped around under his arm. Chun twisted his hips, body-englishing the net into its path. The bogey impacted one of the blue lights, extinguishing it. The net contracted in that spot. The repulsors flung Chun backwards off his feet. Di Palma and Frost rushed to catch him.

“That hurt!” he said, astonishment blanking his face. “It can hit back! They never told us that.”

“You can’t let them strike you,” di Palma said. “This is the ultimate video game, Mr. Chun. You’re the avatar of Gaia – of all Earth. You are responsible for your children, all of them. That is the enemy out there. Do what you have to, but finish them.”

The command made the boy’s eyes narrow. He nodded sharply.

“I can do that.”

She had to trust him. Di Palma stood back. Chun watched and countered, watched and countered the Fang ships, until he started to move a fraction of a second ahead of them, his movements like a dance. As they altered their trajectory, he shifted his. Di Palma was impressed by how well he got inside the minds of his opponent. The government had chosen well in selecting video gamers as their last line of defense. They understood strategy and game mechanics, and they had an innate need to win.

Two more of the black ships exploded, then the Fangs must have made a decision. They swooped together in formation and made straight for the center of the net, firing on the blue emplacements. Chun fought to keep the LEDs alive, but they began to wink out. Three of the ships passed the delineation of the defense net, making for Europe below.

“No!” he cried. “I won’t lose! I never lose.”

He plunged his hands into one of the still-intact sections of the metal net. When he lifted them, his fingers seemed to be gloved in glittering blue. Chun lunged for the black ships, crushing them in his fists. On the scope, the gigantic hands squeezed, and bursts of red light squirted out between the fingers. Chun had to race across the room to catch the three ships that had escaped the net. They buzzed around him like flies. Chun leaped to catch them, clapping his hands together with the wisps of metal mesh floating behind him. It would have been funny if the stakes weren’t so high. He swatted two of them between his palms. On the screen, they exploded.

One more! The last Fang ship had the most accomplished pilot. It stayed out of Chun’s grasp, playing with him, until it made a hairpin turn in space, and arrowed straight for the center of his chest. Chun braced himself, and clapped one mighty hand over his heart. The repulsors reacted with explosive pressure. He collapsed backward on the floor, and lay still.

On the scope, the Fang ship imploded in a brilliant red burst, taking the entire left hand of blue light with it. But there were no more.

Earth was saved.

Di Palma raced to kneel beside the programmer. She put her head down on his chest to listen.

“Is he dead?” Frost asked, her eyes wide.

Di Palma heard a weak thump-thump-thump. She let out a gust of relief. It took a few moments before the boy revived enough to open his eyes.

“Did I win?” he asked, his voice a husky croak.

“You sure did,” di Palma said, hauling him up into a sitting position. “That was incredible!”

“It was awesome,” Chun said. “Can I go home now?”

“Soon,” di Palma said. “I’ve got to call CenCom and find out the status of the invasion. You’re going to have to wear the mantle a little longer. You make a good goddess.”

“Sweet,” Chun said. He felt in all the flak vest’s pockets with a puzzled look. “Where’s my phone?”

The colonel scanned the floor for his smartphone and put it into his hands. The screen had a big crack across it. “I’m sorry. It’s broken. It must have fallen out of your pocket when you were chasing the Fangs around.”

“That’s okay,” Chun said, stuffing it away. He tugged a corner of the metal cloak. “I won the biggest game ever.”

“Forever top of the leaderboards,” di Palma said, reaching for her own phone to call her superiors. “I hope.”

REALITY RUN

Alfred Genesson

According to the central cycle clocks, it’s ready. My contraband body is ready to download into. I can finally have a real human experience like we did before The Great Upload, abandoning physicality. None of this “controlled run space” the CorpAIs manage, with little color, and search engines of a sort guarding every route around the resort. Those bodies they issue can barely move, and there’s no meaning in being a posthuman; you’re still flawed, even if you are code. Our great-great grandparents were told that those flaws would go away without bodies, but they didn’t, they just changed. The CorpAIs are the only so called perfect beings; that’s why they rule over the rest of us.

I did my research into pre-upload physiology, and assembled a good set of guidelines for real world body that can actually do things. There were a lot of things I had to look at before settling for a workman type build. It worked before Upload, it should work now. Not really an athlete, but powerful, with hopefully enough speed if I need it. It took me a lot of time to find a biofab shop with all the facilities I needed: a body, plus clothing and gear all needed to be fabbed for this run. I’m not trying to hack records or servers, so physical tools are what I need. With the right finds, who knows what I can manage?

Crud.

Only ten minutes into the run, and I’m already thinking it’s likely my last. Maybe I’m wrong, but I didn’t expect it to HURT so much out here. Yeah, I heard Great2x’s stories about “the old country”, where he fell and broke his leg, people with disabilities, and so on. That doesn’t prepare a posthuman for the experience of bleeding. Now I know better what he meant about looking where I’m going. Reality is dangerous, especially the pointed bits.

I need to stay calm and think. Panic won’t help, and everything moves a lot slower out here. I wonder how long before I get used to the lag. I rummage around the bag I programmed for the run, and dig out a bandage, putting it on my calf. I’ll have to be more careful about where I walk; I don’t know how fragile this body is, but back home, you just bounce. Yeah, you have to scan for stray bits of data coming loose, but it’s not hard to reattach that.

Now, to get out of here and start exploring. See what analog life is like. This old biofab shop still runs, and is far out of the normal places the CorpAIs scan routinely. Of course, they promote some runs, but it’s a sterile environment, everything is controlled. It’s not like you can get out of there, either; they’ve got search engines all over the place.

Opening the door, and I’m blinded for a moment. Right. I dig around the bag, and find the sunglasses I had prepped. Where did all the color come from? Great2x always said they left cities behind, and they covered the world in concrete and blacktop. I see bits of it, but this is, what, a forest in the way? Yeah, there’s a chunk of what I think is blacktop in front of the shop, and some dull gray shapes, but this looks nothing like he described.

I follow what looks like a datastream, Great2x called them roads IIRC, when I notice how loud and bright it all is. I don’t even have the words, because I didn’t listen enough to those parts of the stories. Who needs all those descriptors for things when their functions define them. Well that and how well they’re coded. Shows what I know.

A regular loud sound starts coming from one of the dull gray lumps. It starts moving, unfolding support legs, and walking in a straight line. WTF? Is that an ancient search engine? Some of the others have started as well, so it looks like the case. Well, I’ve got to stay out their paths. The visual noise should help some. Maybe if I get on the other side of some of these giant trees…

One of the engines gets up to one of the stalks and it looks like I’m safe. And parts of it move around and start making a terrible sound that’s louder than all the world I’ve heard put together. I decide to keep going, and try to get out of the way, there’s likely a search range once they’re activated. I’ve seen how they return “search results” when people get too curious in the regulated spaces, and these things are much bigger than those versions.

There’s a new sound on the other side of the rise, and it’s away from the search engines, so I move to that way. I may have packed the body with a bit more muscle than average, but they still aren’t accustomed to use. I’m breathing a bit heavy by the time I’m at the top, and then the view takes what breathe I have left away. The land drops off quickly, and then there’s a river. I’ve absorbed descriptions, but there’s nothing like the real thing.

Well, I’ve no time to keep gazing, and rush down the hill faster than I think I can go. As I reach the bottom, I try to slow myself with some of the smaller trees, and end up spinning around about the third one. I’m on the ground, but the engines are still short of the peak of the rise.

There’s a huge, rotting tree across the river. As I don’t know how to swim, I really don’t have much in the way of options. I crouch a bit, so I can grab easier if something goes wrong as I cross. There’s a little give in the tree, but the worst that happens is my foot dropping a little more than I expected. This will be perfect in helping me out.

There’s another small rise, covered in grasses with few trees. I climb to the top and scramble over the side when I hear something new. I turn around and one of the engines tried crossing the tree, and well, failed. But other engines are coming, and it looks like one might be dragging some trees with it. I’ll not watch when I can get ahead and lose them.

The next morning, I wish I had stuck a little closer to the river. I’ve only got a limited amount of water. I don’t know if it’s safe, but the fact is, a body needs water. I drink a little from one of my few bottles, but I have to save those for any future streams.

The hills and trees keep going beyond what I can see. But, I have to keep moving. One of them is nearby, I heard the roar of it taking down a tree, and the crash. I figure maybe if I change directions on the other side of the hill, I can get away.

I crest the next hill, and my hope drops again. There’s a small building here, with a tall antenna. It looks like there’s another two search engines here. One of them is starting up, the other is still for now. But I’ve got no choice but to pick a direction, and toward it looks like a bad result.

I turn to my left, and run down the hill as quick as I can. The other engine isn’t nearby yet, but I can’t take chances. There’s another hill to climb, and on the other side, I see a stream, with a cliff on the other side.

As I can’t see either of the search engines yet, I stop to fill my water bottles. I keep looking the entire time, and lose one of the bottles in the stream. It’s just fast enough that I can’t catch it, even as shallow as the water is. As I kick myself mentally for my clumsiness, one of the engines comes into view. I gather my bottles and start moving again.

I climb the cliff, and wait on a platform well back, and watch the search engine approach. It seems to be tracking me, as it isn’t firing my way yet. There’s a big rock here, and a good long branch. Maybe I can get it closer…

As it approaches the stream, I throw a rock at the search engine. It seems to have decided to try to climb. The branch creaks as I push down on it, but the rock gives, and rolls over the edge. There’s a crash, and some awful sounds from the engine. I look over, and it’s shuddering, as not all of it was crushed. But, it’s lost half its legs, and I doubt it will come after me. Remembering the other one, I continue my climb.

It’s been three days. I’m out of water, and don’t know how to find food, not really. My grandfather’s tales didn’t prepare me for wilderness, or the possibility of having to scavenge or hunt. I don’t know what plants are edible, and I still haven’t found anyone. At least I got rid of the search engines. I wonder how often they don’t return from searches.

Still, I sit for a few minutes. There’s a satisfaction from surviving that threat I hadn’t anticipated. Knowing I have one less worry is a great relief, as well. Then I get up and start to search for water in these hills. I know there has to be some near, the land is too green.

I get to the top of the next hill, and in the distance, see something I’d not expected. There’s rows of a plant a ways off. I can maybe make that in a couple of hours, so I head that way. There has to be people behind it, the AIs have all they need online. Sure, there’s some infrastructure needs, but they can pull that from the remains of the cities left.

I walk easily over the next hill, but stop when I see a barrier: they have a wall up around a lot of land. It’s not super tall, but it is definitely a border. So, I can go over, or I can follow it around. I’m not sure I have the strength to climb again, so I follow the wall. This is going to take a lot longer.

I come to a creek and try a bit of water. It tastes fine, so I fill my bottles up, and drink my fill. It helps with the empty stomach, at least for now. The wall continues on away from the creek, and then turns up a hill. I have to grab trees to climb this one, it’s steep enough I don’t know how they built the wall here.

As I climb toward the top of the hill, I hear some noises on the other side. I don’t see anything, so I keep going; it’s not like I’ve much other choice right now. The wall goes on to the peak, but I can’t tell more through the trees.I forge ahead, hoping I can find an entrance, or at least an easier way to the other side.

Then, I see the wall open up, and there’s a group of men holding what are likely weapons.Long shafts of wood, maybe axes? And some short handles with curved blades. They’ve got mostly white shirts, but there’s a few wearing brown robes, and a man in black with an odd white collar. He’s the one that comes forward.

“May I ask as to your purpose here?” He says to me, as he looks me over. “We haven’t had a visitor in a few years. How many has it been, Brother Andrew?” He’s looking at one of the robed men when he says that, and pulls a strand of white hair out of his face.

“About ten, Father William, since I came across.” The man replied, as he stepped forward. “They put a lot of distractions in by then, and I’d believe they put more in since then.” Andrew’s skin and eyes looked a bit odd compared to everyone else. But if he ran…

I’m at a loss for a moment. Then I clear my throat, and try out my voice. “ Food first? Then how to be human? The CorpAIs deleted a lot of stuff. We only know how to be posthuman, and there’s no point to it.” Andrew nods as I finish this, with a bit of a smile.

“Do you want to go back, after what you’ve seen?” Father William asks me. “Or do you want to see more of what the system has hidden from all of you?” He sweeps his hand back, “We have plenty here for you to see and learn.”

“I’m not going back if I can help it.”

“You say that now, but the real world requires work. Let’s see what you’re up for after you’ve seen and tasted it. We’ll get you some food, and then you can observe a Mass.”

“Mass?”

“You’ll see. Faith is part of being human, and I’ll be happy to talk with you after. Let’s get you fed.”

THE LAMP BY WHICH MY FEET ARE GUIDED

By R. W. Ware

Rick Jericho wove between boulders and girders, climbed over and through the rusty, derelict vehicles on the western edge of the walled city. It was Jumu’ah, and in the golden sheen of the afternoon sun, the perfect time to check for runners. He was a Maverick, a member of the resistance and the new underground railroad. Helping people escape the oppression is what they did. Singsong prayers echoed in the detritus as Jericho skirted the one-hundred-and-fifty-foot steel-and-concrete wall, searching the afternoon shadows. Four guards paced sections of the wall, each at their respective compass point, instead of the fifty he’d find at any other time of the day—on any other day of the week.

One-hundred-feet below the Casting Gate, a black smudge flitted through the lengtheningshadows. Jericho pulled a monocular from the leg pocket of his camouflage pants, focused, and was rewarded with a woman-shaped niqab. He put the monocle back and drew the Glock 23 from his holster to check the magazine. One in the chamber, thirteen rounds in the magazine, and two spare mags in belt pouches.

Why’d you leave the Steyr on the bike? This is where you need a bullpup rifle, dumbass.

He scurried through the skeletal remains of a six-story building to an overturned flatbed, from which he could scout for guards. One on the Southeast side of the Casting Gate leaned over and aimed his weapon down toward the base of the wall. He swept along the edge eastward, not far from where the woman wriggled through the jetsam that ringed the wall.

Jericho steadied himself against the caution-striped rear step of the flatbed to sight his Glock on the guard. He wanted to take that shot—and every shot, that ended another of the ungrateful refugees who’d usurped his country from within—but that would draw unnecessary attention, so he kept his finger on the frame above the trigger.

The woman stepped from the shadows just as the guard drew himself up to a standing position and turned to pace the other direction. As Jericho saw her azure eyes, she hesitated until he motioned for her to continue. He trained his sights on another guard approaching the gate from the south. As she scrambled forward, her feet tangled in her robe, and she fell with a grunt.

She slipped on rubble trying to get to her feet. Jericho ran out and helped her up, but by then it was too late. The guard’s AK-47 bucked—decka-decka-decka-doom— kicking up chunks of concrete and dust all around Jericho and the woman.

Jericho shoved her toward the flatbed and put a couple of shots at the guard, without checking if they hit. More AK-47 chatter was his answer. He dove behind the flatbed as the rounds perforated a line in the pavement behind him.

“Name’s Jericho. When I start shooting, keep your head down and run for that car.” He nodded at a bullet-riddled, late 80s model Cadillac. “We’ll go from there.”

Her breath beat against the niqab’s fabric in an almost mechanical rhythm.

“Do you understand me?”

She nodded. Her eyes shifted to the wall and back.

“Good. Move.” Jericho swung around the bumper of the overturned rig, sighted the closest guard, and squeezed the trigger. The guard fell from the wall. He grinned, until three appeared along the wall, firing AK-47s at the rig.

“Into the building,” Jericho yelled, as he bolted to the Cadillac. “They’ll be coming after us, now, but if we can get there, we can get away.”

While she ran, Jericho steadied himself on the Cadillac’s roof put his sights above the head of the closest guard, and waited for the gunfire to cease. That AUG would be nice right now!

The guns stopped and Jericho pulled the trigger four times. The first bullet hit the wall and kicked up a puff of dust, the second hit someone—one of the guards fell from view—but the third and fourth were only for distraction. He sprinted toward the skeletal building.

He heard yelling, in Arabic. He realized two things as he entered the ruined building where the woman waited: The singsong prayer had stopped, and so had the machine guns.

Something very bad was stirring.

“You can take that thing off now,” he said, motioning to the woman’s niqab.

Her eyes widened and she shook her head nervously, and made little mouse-squeak noises.

“Look, you’re free of that place now. Where we’re going, if they don’t see your face, they may shoot you just as quick as the carpet-kissers. Ever since we were driven out, we got real protective of each other. Understand? Inti btifhámi?”

She nodded, but lowered her eyes to the ground.

“We don’t have time for this. If you want to come with me, ditch the mask. Now.” The silence itched. When she didn’t respond, he shook his head. “Can’t say I didn’t try.” He turned and jogged toward his bike.

He heard the whipping of fabric and turned to see a beautiful woman with dirty-blonde hair and a suntanned strip across her eyes. She pulled her skirts up and followed him.

Jericho’s bike sat between a slab of wall and an industrial air conditioner. He rolled it out, swung a leg over, and kick-started it.

“Come on.” He held out his hand. She took it and swung her leg over the seat behind him. She gripped his waist, Jericho hit the throttle, and they shot through the scree on the street.

They made camp in a burnt out tank about five miles south of the wall. Before the war, it would’ve been the outskirts of Talyor.

The big gun and one hatch circulated air from the crisp, starry night. He plugged up the tank’s small rectangular windows and hoped the armor would reduce the heat signature. He didn’t know how the tank was destroyed, only that it was a good place to hide after shaking armored jeeps flinging hot lead. Worse came to worst, they could close the hatches against small gunfire until backup arrived. If backup arrived.

Mavericks were fiercely loyal, but some thought he had a death wish. They didn’t understand his need to scout the walls of New Mecca.

The woman was picking at burnt paint inside the turret when Jericho returned from his bike with some jerky, a couple bottles of water and a can of potted meat.

She offered a weak smile that rose and fell as one motion, and went back to inspecting the turret walls.

“I suppose you’d rather have the beef jerky than the ham?” He offered her the re-sealable plastic baggy.

“Thank you,” she said in a voice nearly a whisper, and then cleared her throat.

“My pleasure, Miss. . ?”

“Ember,” she said. “Just Ember.” She didn’t look at him when she spoke, but at the floor or the walls.

“Well, Just Ember, you’re safe now. Not many escape New Mecca, but we’ve found a few. Nowhere near as many as they hang from the torture cages or throw from the Casting Gate, but we save some.” He switched the spent magazine in his Glock for a fresh one. What he hadn’t spent on the wall, he’d emptied during their getaway. “And none of ours ever end up in the river over what they believe. ”

She stiffened mid-chew and drew a sharp breath.

“You’ve lost family?” Jericho holstered his Glock and popped the top on the potted meat.

Ember nodded, a shaky hand covering her mouth as she blinked against watering eyes.

“We all have.” He produced a Swiss Army knife from a leather pouch on his belt, folded out the spoon and scraped the preservative gel from the meat and flicked the spoon’s contents into the nearest corner. “War is cruelest to those not fighting it.”

Ember’s gaze flicked to Jericho for a moment, and he recognized the pain he saw. It was his turn to look away. The Swiss Army knife was a present for his little brother, one Jericho had never delivered. He spooned a hunk of potted meat into his mouth and chewed.

“War is cruelest…” Ember swallowed hard. “…to the children.”

Jericho nodded as he took another bite. He didn’t trust himself to speak for a moment. It’d been five years ago, Tuesday. Abe’s birthday. He’d be fifteen now. “And to those who love them.”

Their eyes met, and she offered that same weak smile accompanied by a small nod. She palmed one eye and wiped the other with the back of her hand. She sat straighter and lifted her chin, as if defying her sadness.

Jericho managed a few more spoonfuls of potted ham before he lost interest. He sipped his water and cleared his throat. Cool air flowed through the turret. “You have family inside?”

Ember’s tongue darted out between her lips and she sipped her water. Her head hung low and her whisper was barely audible. “Two boys,” she said. “They took them from me when my husband escaped from New Mecca. They said I would not be a proper mother… with no husband to keep me in the Muslim ways.” The last words were strained and her lips trembled.

“I’m sorry. It’s not easy. I pray they’re safe and—”

“Don’t mock me, kufr,” Ember said, her face contorting. She frowned as if she wanted to spit. After a moment, she shook her head and her expression relaxed. “I’m sorry. I beg your forgiveness.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Jericho leaned forward. “I’d never mock a mother for missing her children.” He sat back. “But you’re right about one thing: I am an infidel. I wouldn’t blink at putting a hole where it’d best bloody a prayer rug. It isn’t nearly as bad as what they’ve done. I don’t know you yet, so how about we make a deal? You don’t judge me by your religion, and I’ll afford you the generosity of mine.”

She nodded, her eyes cast down.

“Good. Get some sleep. I’m going to check the perimeter.”

Jericho watched her down through the hatch. If Ember knew he was there, she gave no sign. She wasn’t trying to sleep. She took her overdress off and folded it into a neat little rectangle, then washed her feet with some water from her bottle, careful it dripped down-slope from her makeshift prayer rug. Ember began the first two rak’ah of Isha—the night prayer. She spoke aloud, with conviction, as she crossed her hands to her shoulders and then over her chest. She bowed and chanted, stood and chanted, and prostrated herself—kissing the damned carpet—with her elbows raised. If there was ever a time she didn’t have to observe salat, it was here, with him, but she was a true believer. He wondered why she left New Mecca.

He turned away and climbed down, quietly, to avoid disturbing Ember’s prayers. A sweet smell obscured the tang of metal and gunpowder – some type of flower blowing in from the river. Abe would’ve known which one. Prayers and flowers amid the killing fields of Dearborn. He set his shoulders against the weight of his thoughts and stepped into the night.

Jericho wove through the wreckage surrounding the tank, penetrating deeper into the ruins of Dearborn’s outskirts. It was too quiet. Avoiding the debris, he made his way through hole-ridden walls and vehicles. In these remnants of the Last Retreat—the battle in which Dearborn had been lost for good, and the Mavericks born—Jericho searched for fresh signs of the enemy. A thermal monocular allowed him to sweep the area in the dark.

Just before he turned back, satisfied they were alone, he decided to crest a small rise and do a wider scan. Heat signatures lit up like a strip of flood lights. The sight overwhelmed Jericho, he backpedaled, lost his footing and fell down over the rise. It knocked the wind out of him, as he bounced off a leaning piece of corrugated metal that resounded like movie-thunder. Jericho hit himself in the sternum to try and regain his breath, while scuttling on for the cover of ruined wall he’d come through. He prayed they didn’t have heat-vision, too, else he’d become jihad-fodder.

Three silhouetted men crested the hill with machine guns in their hands. They stood far enough apart to warrant hand signals. The leader’s boot kicked some loose dust down in front of Jericho’s face.

Jericho stopped moving, silently pressing himself against rebar, chunks of safety glass, and rubble. He controlled his breathing and visualized himself as part of the scree. His heartbeat drummed in his ears. Boots crunched on the embankment. For an instant, he saw the man above him looking through a scope—it had to be thermal—and then he closed his eyes against the cloud of dirt kicked out over his face by the man’s boots. He concentrated on his breathing, just allowing the corners of his mouth to open enough for air flow to avoid sneezing on incoming dust. Grit sifted into his mouth.

The man above whispered, but Jericho couldn’t understand him. He carefully opened an eye. The man over him swept the scope across the horizon, and whispered something else. Jericho understood enough from that: Someone ran through the woods.

The guard above him signaled to others on his left and right, then disappeared back over the embankment. Jericho carefully wiped his face and rose to a crouch, making his way toward the building. Who was running through the woods?

He found cover and did a closer scan. In the middle of the throng of bright thermal signatures was a boy in a cage, his knees up under his chin. Guards crowded the cage’s open door. A couple of carpet-kissers dragged another child from the western edge of the woods through the crowd. The boy—slightly larger than the other one—met with a gauntlet of backhands and vicious switches across the back of his legs, as he stumbled, crying, toward the cage.

Abe flashed into his mind— crying, begging to go with him, clawing at Jericho’s arms and legs as he climbed out of the basement window. I’ll come back for you. It was too late when he did. He wouldn’t make the same mistake.

He found cover and wended his way through the debris and ruins back to the tank. Was it compromised? Were these bastards after them, or something else? Why were they caging children? He climbed the tank and slipped through the hatch, half-expecting to be alone.

“Are you okay?” Ember asked. She was fully dressed, but shuffled forward on her knees. “What happened?”

“I’m alive,” Jericho said, still trying to process what was happening, “and that’s enough, for now. This place is compromised. We got to move.” As he spoke, he motioned for her to get up.

“What do you mean by compromised?” Her voice dropped a few decibels as she climbed out of the hatch.

“What I mean by that is there are more gun-toting carpet kissers within a fart-cloud from here than I have ammo to throw at them. So, if you want a shot to escape, get your ass moving.”

She threw him a dirty look and bustled up out of the hatch. When she was clear, Jericho opened a few panels and affixed tripwires to the charges hidden there. He set the last line from outside and descended to his bike.

“Won’t the noise from the motorcycle bring them running?” Ember asked.

“It would, if I was starting it. For now, we’re on foot.” He lifted the kickstand and pushed the dirt bike as he steered it. “You coming?”

Ember scanned the horizon. “Why would they send so many to find me? I’m just a woman.”

Though Jericho wondered the same thing, he said, “Maybe they’re not after you, but we’re going to err on the side of caution.”

Darkness brought a chill. They slept, poorly, in a permanent tree stand—a polymer skeleton with camouflage skin—made to incorporate the existing branches. Jericho peeked through a slot of camouflaged mesh. The neighborhoods of Boynton and Oakwood Heights were a forest of overgrown ruins. Empty houses, many roofless and shot through with holes, filled the gaps between trees and churned up streets. Homes for ghosts. He scanned a complete 360 with the monocular, squinting at the brightness flashing when he passed Ember’s form. There was no one else near enough to see. A few squirrels jabbered back and forth, a string of small animals he took for skunks trundled below, and half-a-click east, his bike lay cooling off.

“What do you see?” Ember asked, in a whisper.

“Not much.” It took a moment for that to register with him. Should there be more life about in the middle of the night? “No carpet k-” He caught himself. “None of the enemy nearby.”

“Why do you hate us so much?” Her tone was imploring.

“How can you not?” He snapped, too loud for a whisper, and shook his head. “I don’t mean you, but… them. They do nothing but destroy. Everything… Everyone. Women. Children. Lovers. Families.”

“That is not all they do. My husband loved me. Passionately.” Her hushed tones had risen dangerously loud. She quieted when Jericho motioned for her to, but her eyes flashed under a stern brow, her voice a whispering whip. “He was a loving father to our sons, and a faithful and attentive husband.”

“Who made you hide your face.”

“You’re a fool,” she said, waving him off. “He didn’t make me do anything. I honor him by showing my face only to him. I serve him willingly, as he does me.”

“Then why are you alone?” Jericho let the question hang between them, while he swept the area with his monocular.

When she spoke, her words were so soft Jericho barely heard them. “He tried to find a way out of the city, as so many others had. He was going to scout a way through the sewers, and come back for us. But he disappeared. His friend, Ilan, brought news the city guard captured and tortured my husband, before they threw his body from the wall.”

“How could you forgive them for that?” Jericho whispered.

“What makes you think I forgave them?” She placed a hand on his forearms and lowered the monocular from his face. Her face was stone. “But I do not blame Allah for the deeds of men.”

Jericho held her gaze for a moment. What had he expected? He hadn’t stopped believing in God when Abe… when they’d gotten separated. “I’m sorry. You don’t look like the typical Muslim.” He shrugged. “I guess I figured it wasn’t by choice.”

“Entire lives can be lived in an instant, the deepest passions consumed in the space of a kiss…” she said through a virtuous smile, hugging herself for a moment. Then she turned her stone-face on him, and asked, “How can you pass judgment? I sit right here, but you don’t see me. You’re rescuing an ideal. I’m no damsel in distress. I didn’t seek your help, but took it as divine intervention. Perhaps I was mistaken.”

“So, you snuck out of the city for exercise, then?”

She turned away.

“Enlighten me,” Jericho said, and then quieted when he realized how loud he’d gotten, “why did you run from the city?”

“For the same reason my husband did,” she whispered, “to find a way for my children to escape.”

Jericho was silent for a moment. He thought of the caged children, and his suspicions grew too strong to ignore.

“How old are your children?” He put the monocular up to his eye and scanned a complete circle again, but this time, as he swept Ember’s form, he made sure it was a slow pass. She was hiding something, he was certain.

“Seven and nine,” she whispered, turning to look through the mesh slot behind them.

And there it was: A cylindrical object, about the length of her pinky, appeared as a cooler spot in the side of her left breast. He continued his sweep, doing his best not to speed up.

“You must love them very much,” Jericho said, continuing his slow circle. “Enough to sacrifice anything for them.”

“What is there without my children? What am I without them?”

He lowered the monocular and faced her.

“Yes. I’d sacrifice all I have for my children.”

“What about others?”

“Would I kill for them? Yes.”

“Even other children?”

She turned her face away. “I would hope that was never a choice.”

“Where we’re going,” Jericho said, “is full of the orphans of this war. More children than adults.” He quietly unholstered the Glock. “Children who have nothing else; children who have nothing left to lose. I’m not about to bring death to them.”

Ember whipped her head around to face him. “Nor am I.”

He pointed the Glock at her face. “Then tell me what you’re carrying in your chest, and I won’t shoot it to see if it’s an explosive.”

Her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. “It’s… it’s a tracking device. I swear. They… have my children.”

“I know,” he said, visibly startling her. “They brought them along. In a cage.” He let that sink in while he slid the Glock back into its holster. There was a good chance she unknowingly let them implant a bomb. The device seemed large for a simple tracker. “So, the plan was for you to lead them to our base? And then what: they’d give you back your boys?”

Tears drizzled down her cheeks. She sniffed and stilled her trembling lips by flattening them together. She nodded, looking everywhere but at him. She wiped her eyes and then held them shut for a long moment.

How could he blame her for trying to save her children? But, he couldn’t allow her to possibly bring a bomb onto Zug Island. He’d be damned if he was going to take that chance. What he did was for the children. Could he save her, too? Her children?

“It’s possible you’re carrying something more than a tracker.” No time for niceties. “My guess is they never intended that you live. And maybe take a few of us with you.”

She clenched her closed eyelids and she drew a ragged breath through her nostrils. “They would have murdered my boys. I had to let them plant it…” She was quiet for a few heartbeats. “It was all a lie.”

Jericho opened the blade on the Swiss Army knife. “Can’t have you taking a bomb into the Sanctuary.”

Through it all, Ember remained stoic, while Jericho hoped the device wasn’t a bomb. No time for sympathy or fear—his was dirty work to be done quickly—and he’d have no second chance. It was a tricky enough job to remove the device, but he also needed to navigate by the thermal-monocular, which meant Ember had to do more than bite a bullet: she had to help.

She never screamed. Only one pitiful whimper slid past the bullet Ember crimped in her teeth, and that was weak. While he retrieved the medkit from his bike, she passed out. He couldn’t fault her. He hit her with a morphine tab and stitched her up. If she woke, he never knew.

Jericho made his way down from the stand, to the satphone stowed on his bike. He had to warn the other Mavericks. Standard signaling was Morse Code through a Caesar cipher—up by three for five words and down for the next five—which changed every day. He had to scrawl the message in advance, into the dirt. He kept it simple: I’m sending a woman over. Time to abandon Sanctuary.

The reply: Roger.

The sky had grown cold, and a mist rolled in. It was the first real stab of autumn. Jericho examined the device he’d removed from Ember. It was a simple thing meant to lead them to the Mavericks, and it would, but not the way the enemies wanted. Mavericks weren’t fools. Sanctuary was never meant to be permanent.

Jericho watched Ember grow fitful. She was coated in sweat, even though the chill accompanying the mist seeped right into Jericho’s bones. He guessed a fever was setting in, but the only medicine for infection was on Zug Island.

She opened her eyes and licked her lips. In a crackly voice, Ember said, “I’m thirsty.”

Jericho offered the canteen, but when she reached for it, she flinched and curled up. She scooted and leaned against the tree. Jericho leaned over and held the canteen to her lips, only allowing her a small sip. After a long moment, he gave her another.

“Thank you.” She licked her lips again, and her voice was still gravelly. She touched her wound and winced.

“Feverish?” He knew the answer, but wanted to see if she was lucid.

“A little.” She cleared her throat and asked for another drink.

“Think you can hang on and ride with me?” He handed her the canteen.

She nodded, holding the canteen in her trembling right hand.

“You will need to cross a trestle on your own. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “Why won’t you be there?”

“I’m going to get your children.”

It was still dark when Jericho let Ember off at the southern trestle to Zug Island. The Mavericks had blown the trestle from Detroit when they had first taken Zug Island, and the middle-Jefferson-Street-entrance had gone before that, with the massive explosions at the Detroit sewage treatment facilities. Now there was only one way from the suburb-devouring forest onto the island.

The mist had gotten thicker—or maybe it was the predawn light—and as Ember shuffled out onto the bridge, Jericho watched her until she turned into a shape moving in the cloud. She had the tracker, and would plant it into the ground as soon as she crossed.

The bike kicked up clumps of dirt and rocks as Jericho wound the throttle and spun bike around to zip off toward the remains of the industrial oil tanks. There wasn’t much time. Jericho needed to get behind the enemy before light broke and burned the mist away, if his ambush had any chance of working.

The attackers could only approach from either side of the oil tank fields. The only cover from Harris Street to the ninety-degree angle on Marion Avenue was the vestiges of thirteen industrial oil tanks which filled the trapezoidal field. Enough ruins and debris littered the area to give Jericho a hiding place, but not cover for a firefight. Chunks of half-wall bordered each of the industrial tanks. He needed to get to the cage, free the boys, and get back to his bike quickly if the mission were to succeed. Fog and twilight would help, and even if the sun burned off the fog, it would be glaring in the enemy’s eyes.

He heard their GMVs, trucks, and jeeps before they blasted out of the wooded neighborhood to the west and skirted the tanks to the north. The vehicles spread out in a blur of movement, covered in man-sized shapes whose off-white garments flapped behind them. Dust and fog swirled around the vehicles bounding around a field of metal and cement debris. Jericho instinctively ducked behind the fang of metal which offered cover and put his hand on the gas-tank-panel under which his Steyr AUG was mounted.

He resisted the urge to take a few shots.

The only pickup in the lot, covered in A-TACS camouflage, bounded out from the baseball field to the southwest. The truck shuddered hard as it turned northeast on Marion Ave. The cage was in its bed. Other loud, vague shapes blurred by in the fog. He had to catch the truck now, at all costs. He swung onto the bike, started it, and opened up the throttle. Racing alongside of the truck, just past the half-wall divide, Jericho bunny-hopped a of wall debris. Two guys rode in the truck: the driver and the guy who swung an AK-47 over the roof and braced himself in the passenger-side window.

No time for evasive maneuvers. Jericho turned toward a curved sheet of metal lying across part of the wall and gave it full throttle. He hit the makeshift ramp and went airborne. A burst from the AK-47 thrummed under him and stopped. The shooter’s mouth hung open as the bike came down on the roof. Jericho laid it on its side and spun the rear tire around to hit the gun and shooter in one smooth motion. He let the handlebars go and rolled into the bed as the bike carried the passenger out of the truck and into the road.

Jericho jounced to a stop against the cage. The driver slid the center of the rear window open and tried to thrust a pistol out. Jericho jammed his boot down on the protruding gun-hand, smashing the driver’s fingers into the far window frame. The truck swerved under Jericho’s feet, and he fell back against the cage as the driver snatched his still-gun-toting hand back inside. Jericho drew his Glock 23 and spared the cage a glance to see where the kids were:

It was empty.

Time stopped until the sudden burst of the driver’s gun awoke it. Jericho fired three shots in a downward angle where he figured the driver was. The truck bucked over the fence and through the old office parking lot for the rusty Michigan Marine Terminal. Jericho jumped out of the truck bed and tucked into a roll which absorbed the impact.

As the truck crashed into the terminal building, a loud boom shook the ground and the fog flashed bright orange in the direction of the trestle. Back a short way, the bike lay by the still body of the enemy it had taken out, the rear tire still turning.

Jericho sprinted to the bike and hoped it would drive. It did. The back tire smoked as he turned the bike and gunned it behind the electrical tower, toward the tracks that led to the trestle.

The fog faded into the smoke billowing in the distance. Where were the children? Vehicles were difficult to see, until he was right on them.

He almost hit a capsized GMV, and he wove between two jeeps in different states of upside-down —the closest afire. Ahead, more explosions flashed, the ground shook, and dirt rained down as Jericho edged near the tracks.

The Mavericks had activated the minefield.

Gunfire ripped across his path, kicking up shards of wood and pebbles and ricocheting off the track to tug at his sleeve.

Jericho bunny-hopped onto the tracks and stopped the bike. Whoever was shooting at him, they still led him, for sparks leapt from one track to the other, kicking dirt and rock between. Jericho snatched his bullpup and followed the angle back to see the shooter crouched in the back of the GMV to which the kids were tied. Jericho forced himself to patiently squeeze the trigger as an AK-47 came to bear on him; it paid off and the AK sprayed high Jericho’s target went down.

Jericho slammed the bullpup into its braces and throttled the bike over the tracks right at the GMV.

Charges littered the field. GMVs exploded, flipped, or blew up and landed on folded wheels, smoke streaming from their windows. As he wound through the wreckages, bullets pierced the smoke from every direction—some even ricocheted off his armored gas tank.

Drawing alongside the lead GMV, Jericho took a deep breath and put both feet on the bike seat. For a moment, he locked stares with the driver and saw the bastard smile just before swerving toward the bike. Jericho leapt…

He hit the roof at an odd angle, bashed his ribs, and scrabbled atop as the bike bounded ass over handlebars. The GMV shifted to run the bike over, just as the bike hit a mine. The blast punched the bike into the underside of the GMV, lifting it, spinning it like a snake-bitten bronco. The boys screamed, the driver shrieked, and Jericho held on and braced for impact as the GMV crashed down on the driver’s side—

Jericho awoke to the chattering of machine guns and the rhythmic pop-pop-pop of semiautomatics. The fall must have knocked him unconscious. He felt like he’d gone ten rounds, without gloves. Smoke wafted from the GMV’s windows, the driver’s body hanging halfway through the windshield, near the steering wheel. The youngest boy hung unconscious on the ground, but still bound to the hood; the oldest had one free hand and gnawed at the rope that bound the other.

Bullets whipped by, a few punching through the bottom of the GMV, as Jericho got to his feet. Rotten egg stench drifted on columns of dark smoke. The enemy’s vehicles bottlenecked on the trestle as they reached the other side and found more explosives welcoming them—the trap of Zug Island not even fully sprung. Jericho lurched forward, scanning for enemies. His back was afire with road rash, and it felt like someone rammed a spear into his side and twisted. He took the Swiss Army knife from its belt pouch, opened the blade, drew his Glock, and staggered toward the boys.

The older one saw him and sniffled as he gnawed the ropes with renewed vigor.

“Can you hear me, boy?” Jericho yelled.

The boy looked at him, sniffled, and nodded.

“I’m here to help. Hold still so I can cut the ropes.”

The boy flattened himself against the hood and closed his eyes tight. As Jericho drew near, he could hear the prayer the boy mumbled. He slipped the blade under a spot that wasn’t spit-soaked and sawed. Just as the rope parted—

BANG. Jericho’s ears rang as something drilled him between his lower ribs, stealing his breath.

He finally sucked in a breath, and spun to see the driver trying to steady a shaky hand for another shot. As Jericho brought the Glock to bear, the driver yelled, “Allahu Ak—” until Jericho silenced him with a round to the forehead.

“Set your brother free,” Jericho said, handing the oldest his knife. His legs gave out, and he crashed to his knees. Everything dimmed as he struggled to breathe. Jericho closed his eyes and all he heard was his heartbeat.

Then the trestle blew and Zug Island folded in on the enemy.

New Mecca was sure to send reinforcements. Jericho needed to get the children off the battlefield before they came in force.

The Michigan Marine Terminal; the truck…?

The older boy led the younger to Jericho. He tried to return the Swiss Army knife.

“Hang on to it for now.” Jericho winced as he forced himself to stand. “We have to get out of here. Think you can keep up with me? ”

Both boys were silent, but nodded.

“Don’t worry. I’m going to take you to your mother.”

Each step brought a shock of pain, but Jericho knew he was the boys’ only hope. He jogged from over-tuned GMV to burnt out vehicle, trying to hide the pain behind clenched teeth. As banged-up as they were, the boys kept Jericho’s pace. He swept the area through the Glock’s sights, darting from one cover to another. Bodies were strewn all around, but there was no time to coddle the boys.

The driver’s side, front quarter panel of the truck was crushed, but the motor was still running. Jericho motioned for the kids stay at the half-wall until he gave the truck a closer inspection. The door was open and the driver was gone. Blood streaked across the seat to the door, where it had dripped on the rocker panel. Jericho cleared the cab, the bed, and looked underneath. No sign of the driver.

He waved the kids over.

Someone popped up from behind the wall and grabbed the oldest boy in a head lock and hauled him back over the wall. The boy grabbed his abductor’s arm and kicked wildly.

“Mansur!” The youngest reached for his brother.

“Get down.” Jericho yelled, running for the boy. Each step blasted fire through his body. He reached the youngest, as Mansur disappeared over the wall. “What’s your name?”

“Hafid.”

“Hafid, I’m going to get Mansur. Understand?”

The boy nodded, his eyes welled with tears.

“Get in the truck and stay down. Now.” As the boy got up and ran, Jericho headed for the wall.

“Step closer and I will kill the boy.” The words were in a thick, Arabic accent.

“And then what? You’ll have nothing.” Jericho crouched and scanned the wall and oil tank wreckages.

“Foolish kufr.” The Muslim chuckled, and it became a grunt. “We have won already. Your base will be destroyed and you will be the one with nothing.”

Jericho crept nearer the wall, scouring the remains. Motion caught his eye, near the next square of half-wall. Mansur still struggled. Good boy. Jericho skirted the wall in a crouch, calling a reply over his shoulder to sound farther away. “I’m used to nothing. Lost my family when you bastards began the murders. Lost my little brother in my escape. Had a knife I remembered him by, Swiss Army knife, but I lost that, too. I got nothing left. Might as well just cut and run.”

“You lost that, too,” the voice yelled.

Jericho didn’t reply. He crept closer. Just as he was about to swing the Glock over the wall, the abductor yelped, and Mansur scurried over the wall and dropped to the ground.

The driver rose up, an arm bleeding from a deep gash, thrusting his gun out—

BANG-BANG. Jericho shot him in the head. The body folded over the wall. Jericho stripped the gun from the dead man’s hand and holstered it.

Mansur got to his feet, Swiss Army knife in a steady grip, looking for Hafid.

Jericho took the knife, wiped the blade on his enemy’s dress, and put it away. He nodded toward the truck and followed Mansur to it. Mansur scooted across the seat and huddled next to Hafid. Jericho said a silent prayer and put the truck in reverse. It backed up and he let out a pent breath. The tire scraped the wheel well until he straightened it out. He headed south on Marion Avenue for a bit, went off-road and followed the tracks southward.

Mansur and Hafid huddled together on the floorboard, until Jericho pulled over at a dilapidated house and ditched the truck. It was a Maverick rendezvous. An old Lincoln Continental rested in a roofless garage, under a tarp. The trunk held an ammo box, a couple of five-gallon water jugs, and a backpack.

Jericho found a box of energy bars in the backpack, atop the medkit. He put an energy bar between his teeth and took the medkit from the backpack. The rest of the pack and a jug of water went into the backseat with the boys. Jericho slid in behind the wheel. He took the Glock from his waistband and put it in the seat next to him. A quick sweep under the dash he felt the hideaway that held the keys. He started the car and did his best to bandage up his wounds.

“You’re bleeding. A lot,” said Mansur.

“Don’t worry about me, ”Jericho grunted around the energy bar in his mouth, as he knotted a strip of gauze against his ribs. “ Worry about you and your brother.”

“Mansur is a good brother,” Hafid yelled, and scrunched his knees up against his chest and tucked his head between his shoulders.

Jericho licked his lips and opened the energy bar. He turned to look Mansur in the eye. “I know he is.” He put the car in gear. “It’s time I got you to your mom.”

The golden sun shimmered on the wood’s edge as Jericho turned down a dirt road. Leaves enfolded them in a deep green canopy. The bumps hurt like hell, but at least they kept him conscious. He fought to keep his head from lolling. His eyelids were heavy. It wasn’t long before the road tapered to one lane, and not much farther until it was just worn tracks in the grass. Jericho finally parked the car against a fallen tree.

“Last stop. Everybody out.”

“Why here?” Mansur asked. “There’s no place to go.”

“Not true, boy.” Jericho winced as he got out. “From here, you can go anywhere but back.”

Jericho climbed over the fallen tree and the boys followed. The shadowy woods looked eerily empty, but Jericho knew better. Only a short hike later lights flashed bright, and the distinctive sounds of slides racking and hammer cocking stopped them. Jericho visored his eyes with his left hand and pushed the boys behind him with the other. They moved so quickly, it almost knocked him over.

A deep, Arabic voice said. “Who are you?”

Jericho’s heart thundered for a moment. He didn’t recognize the voice. Had he come all this way just to fail?

“Wait! That’s Jericho. And…” Ember’s voice cracked and she ran forward into the light, only her eyes visible in her dark niqab. “My boys!”

Jericho’s eyes adjusted to the light as Mansur and Hafid came out from behind him. Hafid ran straight to his mother—who winced in his embrace—but Mansur stopped and turned back to Jericho.

“Thank you,” Mansur said, and offered Jericho his hand.

Jericho brought the Swiss Army knife out and put it in Mansur’s hand. “Time this passed on. It was always meant to.”

Mansur put the knife in his pocket, as Ember put a hand on his shoulder. She looked up and her eyes widened. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ll live,” Jericho said.

ESCAPE FROM THE LOST LAND

Nathan Dabney

“I’m sorry to have dragged you into this, Ross,” Professor Virgil Shephard said, grinning at his friend.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, old buddy,” Ross Kent grunted back.

The two explorers were sitting in a cave, arms bound, illuminated by moonlight, watching the furtive shadows of the gibbering things surrounding them. These creatures were the last thing they’d expected to find in their trip to Antarctica, but Virgil supposed he should’ve expected as much given the tropical island in the sea of ice they’d stumbled onto. Over the fabled mountain ranges they’d traveled, and discovered a land of preserved wonders that would turn the scientific world on its head.

If they were able to make it back.

Their rifles and pistols were tossed in a pile in a corner of the cave, just out of reach. Virgil had managed to find a sharp rock in the wall and was cutting at his bonds, but both men knew they had little time left. These things, these abominations, were watching them, and given the hungry glints in their eyes the two didn’t expect to get out of this alive. A scabrous, wretched paw snaked out of the darkness to grab at Ross’ boot, and he gave it a savage kick, laughing with satisfaction at the sound of breaking bones and the sharp cry.

“If you’re going to do something, Virgil,” Ross said over his shoulder, “you’d best do it fast. These things are getting impatient.”

“I need more time!” Virgil was working at his bonds with fevered abandon, the rope having proven itself too strong for even his mighty arms to burst. The strength of the coils was surprising to the two, athletes and boxers both, as they were quite used to getting out of spots like this. As Virgil felt a rope snap and his bonds loosen, the creatures made their move.

Ross spun on his back and planted a boot in the gut of one of the things, lifting its thin, tawny weight over his head and grinning in satisfaction as its skull smashed against the wall of the cave. Another grabbed his free leg, but he brought the other down with enough force to powder bone, and the claw retreated into the darkness. As Ross was regaining his footing and preparing to make use of the kickboxing he’d been taught by a Brazilian holy man, the ropes fell from Virgil’s arms and the professor dove across the cave for the guns.

Having no time to aim, he grabbed one of the rifles by the barrel and began swinging it like a club, standing over his friend and daring the monstrosities to come within reach. He got a few good hits in, feeling bones break under his powerful blows, and the things retreated again. He screamed defiance at them, holding the gun above his head in one hand. Digging through the pile of weapons with his foot, Virgil found his large knife and kicked it over to Ross.

Unsheathing the blade, Ross cut through his bonds as his friend fended off the unseen horde. He scrambled over to the weapon pile and snatched up his revolver, pointing it at the darkness. They gathered their equipment and made their way with measured steps back to the mouth of the cave. When their feet reached the lip, Virgil spared a glance over the edge and saw that they were at least ten meters from the ground.

“Ross,” Virgil said, his voice even, “you climb down first. I’ll follow when you’re over the lip. One of us has to keep these things from following us.”

“I don’t think so,” Ross spat, revolver still pointed at the hissing shapes in the dark. “They’ll rush you as soon as I’m over. We go together, or not at all.”

“Fine,” Virgil relented, and aimed his rifle at one of the closer shadows.

A few of the shadow creatures found what remained of the courage in their degenerate souls and crept forward into the light. The two got their first proper looks at the creatures, and felt their stomachs turn at the sight. They were thin, wiry beasts, with skin the color of ash, and distended bellies. Their arms seemed brittle, but the explorers knew from experience what strength they held. The things crawled forward on all fours, wide, hairy hands splayed on the rock. Long tongues slavered out of large mouths, and their teeth were like needles. Their eyes glowed with a reflection of the moonlight, and their multiple pupils informed Virgil that whatever they were, they were not of this earth.

“God in Heaven,” he whispered, feeling his gut clench. Taking a firmer grip on his weapon, he said a quick prayer and squeezed the trigger, Ross following his example. The gunshots echoed in the small cave, and several bodies fell. At least these monsters had the good grace to line up for us, Virgil thought.

While the alien creatures were recovering the two men holstered their weapons and scrambled over the lip of the cave, Ross first, then Virgil. They went down as fast as they were able to find hand holds, for the wall was not sheer as it appeared from the cave mouth. Virgil looked up, and saw several grotesque heads appear from the cave. The saliva from their long tongues dripped onto his face, and he reared back out of instinctual revulsion. His hand slipped, and he felt himself begin to fall backwards. Arms pin-wheeling, he watched the rock wall recede out of arm’s reach as if in a dream.

An iron grip closed around his wrist, and his fall was arrested. He looked up to see Ross, face red, knuckles turning white as he gripped the rock. Ross pulled with all his might, bringing Virgil back to the wall. The professor found an outcropping to grab and took the weight off of his friend, much to Ross’ relief.

Ross sucked in deep breaths, chuckling. “Together, or not at all, I said. And I damn well meant it.”

“It probably won’t be the last time I owe you my life, old friend,” Virgil said, laughing along.

“Think of it as payback for that time with the Burmese witch doctor.”

They made their way down the cliff face, noticing with some alarm that the creatures were following them. As they reached the bottom, they saw that these underground devils had a corral of what Virgil had been forced to admit were dinosaurs. The saurians had been preserved in this land through God only knew what machinations, and the alien beasts had domesticated them to the point they could be ridden like horses. The men hopped the fence into the corral and selected two velociraptors, their saddles still on their backs.

Virgil kicked open the gate, letting the other saurians loose, and they mounted the dinosaurs and sped off into the night. Behind them they could hear excited jabbering in the language of the monsters. Ross, an amateur linguist, couldn’t place the dialect, and they had concluded that this slice of antiquaria had been isolated for ages beyond human reckoning.

Within minutes they hit the forest, comprised of trees that seemed alien to them, growing tall and wide, with strange leaves and mysterious vines. Making their way back to camp would be difficult, and they would need the sun to do it. For now they were worried about escape. Direction could wait until morning broke. Their previous experiences with these creatures had led them to the conclusion they were nocturnal, and wouldn’t risk the sun’s rays.

A commotion broke out behind them, and it seemed as if the creatures would try to recapture them before dawn. They spurred their mounts on, but the distance they gained was overtaken by the creatures, who had more experience with these strange mounts. Ross looked over his shoulder and saw swift shadows flitting through the trees behind them. He aimed his revolver and fired, and had the satisfaction of a sharp cry and a crash in the underbrush.

They kept on, taking potshots at the things pursuing them, until they broke out of the forest onto a grassy plain. The sky was lightening, the sun rising over the ice of Antarctica to shine on this time capsule they were trapped in. In the distance they could see a herd of Apatosaurus grazing in the morning mist. Behind them the branches shook, and angry chittering reached their ears, but it seemed like the beasts wouldn’t dare the sun, as they’d suspected.

Breathing heavily, the two friends regarded each other, then broke into laughter. They had escaped, at least until the next night. Using the crude map Virgil had made of the plateau, they made their way back to camp. Their mounts were on the verge of collapse, so they tied them up and let them rest. Virgil observed their plumage in the bright sunlight, amazed that creatures so fearsome could be so beautiful.

“They have feathers, Ross,” he said in a voice dripping wonderment. “Feathers! Can you believe it? This is going to turn archeology on its head. Everything we know about dinosaurs will have to be rewritten…” He stopped as Ross flung the pack he’d been digging through aside.

“Damn things ransacked the place!” Ross shouted. He’d managed to find enough food to last them a week, as well as ammunition for their guns, but the camp was still stained red with the blood of their team. He kicked a log, cursing himself for letting them be taken by surprise. Several friends of theirs would not be making it back, and they wouldn’t be able to return their corpses. That is, Ross thought, if we’re even able to get out of this ourselves.

Virgil rose, stretching in the light, and said, “Take a break, Ross. We’re going to need rest if we’re to make our way back.”

“And where do you suppose we go?” Ross rounded on his friend, eyes flashing, lip curled. “We’re just two men! We can’t escape these things on our own! We’re as dead as if we’d stayed in that cave!”

Virgil touched the crucifix under his shirt, passed down from his father, and said, “We’ll get out of this. We’ve escaped worse odds before. Trust in God, Ross.”

Ross, who’d never been religious, gave a harsh laugh and said, “I’d rather trust in my own strength. It’s served me better than faith in the past. But these odds seem bleak, Virgil. If we do get back to the fissure we crawled through, we’ll have to trek across the Antarctic wilderness to get back to base camp. Do you really think we can make it?”

Virgil looked back across the plain to the forest they’d escaped through and said, “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”

Ross relented, and Virgil took the first watch as he slept. He made good use of his time, gathering up packs, food, and ammunition. When he woke Ross a few hours later, there wasn’t much for his friend to do but keep an eye on the horizon. Virgil settled down into his bedroll and slept, exhausted from their narrow escape.

As Ross kept watch, he couldn’t help but berate himself. He kept thinking that it wouldn’t have turned out like this if only he’d been more vigilant, if only he’d not fallen asleep, if only, if only, if only. His eyes swept the plains and he cursed himself for being a weak fool. He could’ve prevented the slaughter of their team, but he’d been asleep. It hadn’t been his watch. What more, he asked himself, could I have done?

He noticed a large shape in the distance, and straightened, bringing his rifle up to the ready. It was immense, and he watched it open its mouth and roar. The sound was deep, and he felt a knot forming in his gut. He’s been asleep long enough, Ross thought, creeping over to wake Virgil. He clamped a hand over Virgil’s mouth, and his friend struggled until he realized who was silencing him. Ross put a finger to his lips, then pointed towards the shape.

Virgil sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and gazed upon the most beautiful, terrible thing he’d seen in his life. It was a giant, fully five stories tall, covered in iridescent plumage, with teeth that would make broadswords ashamed of their length. The sunlight glinted off those teeth as it roared again, and he scrambled out of his bedroll to a better vantage point.

They both lay behind a rock, ignoring the bloodstains of their friends with no small amount of discomfort, and watched the thing. Virgil tried to classify it, but from this distance he couldn’t tell the exact species. He grabbed Ross by the shoulder and told him, “Go get the velociraptors ready. We need to leave. Now.”

Ross nodded and crept away, being as silent as a church mouse in Mass, to where they’d tethered the two saurians. He roused them with gentle pets, but as one stood it hooted and warbled, stretching itself in the sun. Ross’ face fell, and he turned to see the massive carnivore in the distance perk up.

Virgil’s eyes widened at the sound, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. He grabbed their packs and guns, threw Ross his, and they strapped them to the velociraptors. As they mounted, they heard an horrendous scream, sounding like a lion blown up to gigantic proportions, and felt the ground shake as the creature sighted them and started stomping in their direction.

“Go! Go!” Ross shouted, kicking his mount to action as he would a horse. Virgil followed suit, and the two sped off across the plain. The stomping only got louder, and they crouched close to their mounts to offer less wind resistance.

Virgil spared a glance over his shoulder, and had never been so fast in wishing he’d not done something. The monster was close on their heels, snapping at their mounts with jaws large enough to swallow a man whole. The teeth shined, and there was hunger in its eye.

“Ross! Shoot it!” Virgil screamed, unholstering his revolver and taking jostling aim. He pulled the trigger, and the shot went wide. He checked their heading, making sure they were still on track for the fissure they’d crossed through, and aimed again. This time he slowed his breathing, focused, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun sounded like a thunder crack, and the beast reared back, screaming in anguish. Virgil looked over his shoulder and saw that he’d hit it in the eye. Not enough to kill it, but it had slowed down. Looking over at Ross, he was surprised to see him riding his mount backwards, rifle aimed at the great feathered monster.

It was a repeater, and Ross fired shot after shot at the thing, hoping to strike something vital. Virgil rode up and took his reins, guiding his mount while he was turned around. They ran across the plain, dodging holes and large rocks, and at last they saw the boulders marking this side of the fissure.

The fissure itself was a giant cleft in the mountain, looking like the mark left by a giant’s ax. Both sides of it were piled with boulders and debris, making entrance for large creatures or armies impossible. The two redoubled their efforts, kicking their mounts to greater speed. The monster behind them had recovered and resumed the chase, and was gaining.

Virgil and Ross reached the rocks, guiding their animals deeper into the cleft. They passed behind several boulders where the monster couldn’t follow, and cringed as its enraged cries threatened to bring the mountain down atop them. The beast slammed itself against the rocks, shouting its rage.

At last it stopped, gave them an angry yell, and they heard its footsteps retreating into the distance. They’d had a task in restraining the velociraptors during the rampage, but they started to calm as the great predator left. They removed their packs, setting them on a rock nearby.

“I can’t believe we made it,” Ross said, laughing at their good fortune.

“As I said, my friend, with God all things are possible,” Virgil responded, grinning at his friend.

“Given I’m not in the belly of that monster right now, I’m willing to let God have the credit this time.”

They sent the velociraptors back into the land from whence they came, but Virgil felt a tinge of regret. “If only we could’ve brought one of those creatures with us. Nobody would ever question our story then.”

“It’d have died before we made it back to base camp, Virgil. These creatures aren’t suited for life outside their home. The body would’ve made an interesting story, though.”

Virgil shrugged. “We’d probably be accused of faking the whole thing, although I suppose that’s inevitable.” He swept his arms out to indicate the vast plateau before them. “After all, who in their right mind would believe this?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll be denounced as frauds and liars,” Ross grinned at his friend. “But that’s never stopped us before, now has it?”

“I suppose you’re right about that,” Virgil responded, laughing. He turned to the cliffs they had to traverse, and his brow grew dark. “But this fissure… I don’t like the looks of it, now I see it from this side.”

“You’re not worried about those scabrous night crawlers, are you? Thanks to that great beast we’ve far outrun them.”

“I have my misgivings about that, Ross. There’s a sneaking suspicion in my mind that those tunnels in that cave are honeycombed throughout this plateau, and that they might try to recapture us as we make our way back to saner lands.”

Ross dusted his hands, saying, “Well, the longer we stand here jawing about it, the more time they have to get ahead of us. If that’s even what they’re doing. I’m certain we’re home free, friend.”

“Let’s hope,” Virgil chuckled as they started their sojourn through the fissure. “When we get back to civilization, we’ll have to form another expedition. Bring dogs, certainly more guns, maybe even a few soldiers if we can find them…”

“I think you’re planning too far ahead, Virgil. First we’ll have to get somebody to believe our insane story! That’ll be almost as harrowing as getting ourselves out of this place.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” Virgil eyed Ross slyly. “I’ve been collecting samples during our stay. When I bring back these leaves and that small carcass, we’ll have support from every major academic institution in the world!”

“Carcass? What carcass?”

“Some tiny lizard. It looks to be a Compsognathus, but who can tell with all the feathers? This will revolutionize paleontology. We’ll get financing for another expedition in no time!”

Ross wasn’t so sure, but he let it go as they concentrated on picking their way through the fissure. This would be a hell of a place to bring a larger expedition through, Ross thought, eyeing the walls of the fissure rising stark around them. The path wasn’t wide, maybe three men could walk abreast, and it was littered with debris that would give dogs a hard time, let alone mounts like horses, which they wouldn’t be able to get to the fissure in any wise. They’d have to cross miles of snowy, icy wastes first, and that was no country to drag horses through. The men they’d come with had a hard enough time.

As they walked, Virgil talking without cease about his plans for their next expedition, and Ross kept his eyes to the fissure walls. It was impossible for him to watch everywhere, but now and again he thought he saw yellow eyes peering over the lip of some crag, and thought he heard the echoes of the foul hissing language of the creatures. Pebbles scattered down the wall more than once, and Ross had the distinct feeling of being watched.

Reaching forward, Ross tapped Virgil on the shoulder, interrupting his monologue. The professor stopped and looked back, and Ross put a finger to his lips. Without turning his head, he glanced upward, and drew his revolver. Virgil took the hint, and made ready his own sidearm. They continued in silence, shoulders hunched, throwing furtive glances upwards every time they heard the scrabble of debris.

A screech from above rang out in the fissure, and the two looked up to see a veritable army crawling from hidden caves high up in the walls. Not speaking, Ross and Virgil ran for the exit, arms and legs pumping as if they were in a marathon. Dozens of the things hit the path and gave chase, running on all fours in a grotesque fashion. Virgil turned and fired into the mob twice, seeing bodies fall, but it did nothing to stop the oncoming horde. They were coming out ahead of them as well, and the two knew they would soon be trapped.

Looking around, desperate for some help, Virgil saw that there was a large boulder perched atop smaller rocks above them further down the fissure. He thanked God, and urged Ross on, pointing to make his plan clear. Ross nodded, and poured on more speed. Virgil stopped for a moment, took aim with his revolver, and fired three quick shots before running on to rejoin his friend. He saw that his shots had been well placed, and the rocks below the boulder had been shot out.

The large rock was shaking, falling forward, and there was a tremendous rumble as it struck the wall below it and began rolling into the fissure. The ground shook, and before the two could safely make it beyond the range of the boulder’s fall, they were among the group attempting to cut them off. They fired into the vanguard, leaping the bodies like the world class athletes they were, and fell into the scrum, swinging with wild abandon.

Ross found a savage grin spreading across his face as he smashed his sidearm into the head of one of the things and felt bone split, and threw a wild left swing into the chest of another, knocking it to the ground. Virgil was doing the same, and together they made their way through the group, crashing through them like a cannonball through battlements. In moments they’d fought their way through and continued their pell-mell run along the path. They looked up and saw that they were just going to make it past the boulder.

They came to a break in the path they’d had to climb up on their way in and dove off, Virgil feeling the wind from the boulder as it passed within a hand’s breadth of his back. They landed hard, rolling to a stop, and looked back at the great rock choking the path. Breathing heavy, the two laughed at their good fortune, and got to their feet to dust themselves off.

“That should keep the buggers where they belong!” Virgil said. “By the grace of God we’ll live to fight another day.”

“Just remember we’ll have to bring dynamite along when we come back,” Ross said, giving his friend a wry grin.

They made their way down the rest of the path, discussing what they would bring along with them on their return trip. Of course, before that they’d have to travel the frozen wastes of Antarctica without help or sledge, but both men were assured they’d make it back to the main camp with little trouble. At the moment, they were grateful to be alive, and wondering what the people in England and America would think of the marvelous tale they would bring back with them.

UNACCEPTABLE LOSSES

John M. Olsen

The mortar attack caught Sergeant Caroline Storm’s squad of mechs flat-footed. Everyone scattered into the remains of the destroyed city hoping to find cover. Mitch, her communications expert and fellow-scout, went down under a direct hit. His laser satellite link to their base died with him.

A smoking heap of wreckage held his twisted and crushed remains somewhere inside. The air filters on Caroline’s suit did their job and presented her with a light antiseptic scent, a stark contrast to the smoldering wreck at her feet.

Her five-meter bipedal machine responded to her commands as she clomped her way through a back alley and around to where she hoped to gain line-of-sight with at least one squadmate.

“Able One to anyone. Do you read? Report.”

The line-of-site communication system remained silent. Baker and Charlie teams were gone or scattered. She was alone. “Bjorn, enable short range radio.”

Her computer parsed the command and responded in a deep, warm tone, “I’m sorry. Mission orders require radio blackout. Laser carrier beams only.”

She mouthed a silent curse under her breath. Without Mitch, she couldn’t call in a status report even if she contacted the remains of her squad. “Fine. Enable satellite link.”

Bjorn’s calm voice replied in the butter-smooth male voice she had selected months ago. “I don’t have that software upgrade installed. Contact Private Mitch Burrows.”

“He’s gone. Flag him as Killed in Action.”

“Affirmative. Private Mitch Burrows, KIA. I will transmit the data when a network connection has been reestablished.”

Bjorn had a sexy voice, but he was dumb as a box of rocks, and had no sense of irony. At least she could customize and tweak his settings to her liking as part of her pressure suit electronics. The soothing voice eased her desire to delete the idiot AI.

All their mechs were identical. The funny part is that all the mechs used by the rebels were the same model, too. She’d seen enough kills to know they used the same machines.

All customizations to her system sat inside her personal pressure suit. Her only decoration in the mech cabin, a necklace and crucifix, were wired to a cargo loop to her left. Bjorn lived in her suit computer as a personal AI with customized software upgrades for each mission, but the mechs themselves never changed, even as she visited multiple planets on a series of deployments.

Caroline cut across an intersection, her twenty-mm machine gun swiveling with her arm. A quick glance showed all six heat seeker missiles still on standby, undamaged by the attack that had killed Mitch. She glanced at her wiring harness. Sometimes the cheap rockets failed to connect, leaving the clamps locked and the missiles inert and useless. If she’d seen the origin of that last mortar, she could have sent a barrage back at the rebels. No such luck.

Her motion and heat sensors were clear of both friendlies and targets. Overall, the mech was a dodgy piece of equipment despite its heavy armor. Monotech Robotics made a killing supplying them to any buyer with enough money. Both the military and the rebels added warm bodies and sent them out to die in no-man’s-land.

With no radio, no satellite link, and no squad, this was shaping up to be a great day. She flagged the primary rendezvous point on her map and oriented her machine. “I guess we do this the hard way.” Maybe someone had survived, and would meet her there.

A distant explosion rumbled through the city from a click or two away. Her squad? It was hard to tell. The rumbles got closer, so she pivoted to look toward the growing noise.

A lance of light barely within the visible spectrum flickered down from the sky as it hit targets obscured by leaning and broken buildings. Each strike was closer than the last. Had she imagined the light? Instinct told her to take no chances.

Caroline ran for the nearest standing building, an interplanetary banking branch with its sign lying in the street. It would have to do.

Halfway across the open plaza, the telltale ping of twenty mm rounds rang through her suit. It wasn’t a big deal unless the sniper got a lucky hit on a sensor or could concentrate fire in one place for several seconds to tear through the armor plating. She dived through the broken windows of the bank and rolled to her knees within the lobby, then skittered toward the back wall with a metal screech. The mechs were junk, but they could move like a ballet dancer for a skilled operator.

More shots came from across the river, kicking up dust in the street. The Army’s side of the river. Her side. The rebels must have sent scouts over there, just like she’d come over here to the rebel side.

“Bjorn, triangulate the location of that last machine gun fire.”

“My pleasure.” She smiled at the voice despite the urgency of the situation. An arrow appeared on her virtual display hovering over a building across the river. In addition to the sniper, the flickers of light from the sky loomed in her thoughts. Had the rebels stepped things up and hired someone for orbital strikes?

As if in reply to her thoughts, a laser strike across the river hit something flammable next to her enemy’s location marker. Flames and smoke roared into the air along with a thump she felt through both the mech and her personal suit.

The suit’s shock insulation did its job. Not many jolts were powerful enough to reach all the way through both the big suit and her little suit to touch her, the squishy pilot inside.

If the rebels had hired someone, why were they shooting at one of their own?

Moments later, her building exploded and collapsed in a flash of light. Another orbital strike. Steel beams swung down from the ceiling to clang against the floor. One connected with the side of her mech’s low-profile head. A flash of light filled her vision as the beam pounded her to the ground on her stomach, bouncing her head around in her helmet like a melon in a bucket. So much for absorbing shocks.

Caroline held still with her eyes closed to wait for the flashing stars to clear from her vision. Her sore cheekbones told her it was time to replace the helmet padding. When no more laser strikes came, she pushed the mech’s limb controls to get to her hands and knees.

Nothing happened. She opened her eyes to complete darkness. The suit wouldn’t respond to any commands, and every status light remained dark. Power was out. Not the power per se, since it was a fusion battery. Something had knocked a connection loose or tripped a breaker, killing the mech and all its systems.

“Bjorn, respond.”

“Awaiting your command,” came the smoky vid-star voice. She sighed with relief. Her personal suit’s battery would hold for hours, but it couldn’t power the mech by any stretch.

She pulled her pressure suit arms in from the control braces of the mech. It was time to put her maintenance skills to the test. She might be able to restore power, but the access panels were on the outside.

The main harness release teased her as she brushed it with her fingertips. Her harness had settled forward in the straps as she had fallen, and it was out of reach.

Arching her back and lifting her right shoulder, she reached as far as possible, then sighed with relief as she grasped the dangling handle. One strong tug released all the straps holding her in place and she fell on her face again within the mech, her pressure suit helmet bouncing on a dark mil-spec video screen. They’d take it out of her pay if she cracked it.

She laughed. A cracked screen was low on her priority list right now.

“Bjorn, I’m disconnecting the mech tether now.”

The basso rumble said, “I detect no mech connection. Please check power.”

Dumb as a box of rocks. She pulled the cord that ran from the little suit to the big suit and twisted around to pull the emergency release lever. The rear access hatch popped open with a hydraulic hiss.

It was out of the question to cross no-man’s-land on foot. She’d heard the stories of people who tried. Without something to hide her heat signature, and no camouflaged exterior casing, anything with a line of sight would one-shot her. Add in navigating the rubble of the city, and the idea was a fool’s errand.

Her only option was to fix the suit and use it to walk out on her own.

Caroline stood outside the mech in the demolished bank lobby. She leaned against the back wall, the only one that stood firm in the blast. The bank vault had formed a clear pocket around itself and had kept the rubble and steel beams of the building from collapsing onto her. It wasn’t a full-service mechanics shop, but it would do for quick-and-dirty field repair.

First things first.

“Bjorn, bring up an electrical layout for the mech and overlay the view on the machine in maintenance mode.”

“Loading.”

It took several tense seconds, but Bjorn projected the electrical system onto the mech carcass in 3D through her visor display.

“Bjorn, highlight the fusion battery and its connection to the motion controllers and actuators.”

Several lines glowed bright green. She traced from the power core searching for signs of damage and located a crushed torso panel.

Her training in field repair was rusty, but the models hadn’t changed since she’d joined the army. She pulled out the emergency toolkit and retrieved a pry bar and screwdriver.

It would be useless to jack into the maintenance system without restoring power first, so she set to work on the damaged torso.

The panel remained wedged even after she removed the screws. She banged on it with the pry bar until she could wedge the tool into place as a lever. The panel popped free and fell to join the rubble on the floor with a clang. Caroline took a deep breath. Rushing would get her killed. She slowed to the methodical pace she had used back in the shop and worked to convince herself everything was fine. Just a little repair work.

The insulation on the main bus wires smoked and peeled back where electricity had arced and burned until the kilo-amp breakers kicked in. Her graphical overlay showed this as the main line out from the fusion battery. No wonder everything died.

Caroline pried and hammered at the bent metal until there was plenty of clearance between the hot bus and the surrounding metal frame to fix the short circuit. “Bjorn, add the main power breaker to the visual overlay.”

A switch appeared in her visor display, facing down on the mech’s stomach against the ground. The five-ton mech lay there unmoving, blocking her access to the breaker.

She swore.

Bjorn said, “One credit will be added to your swear jar when network connection is restored.”

That jar would be full to overflowing if she got out of here and made it back to base.

The glowing green overlay of wiring danced before her. Was it possible to bypass the breaker? She could hear the techs already complaining about the voided warranty. They’d get over it. She looked through the rubble for heavy gauge wire.

The large motors on the vault doors were her best bet, and she soon spotted a supply line behind some ruined wood paneling. A few minutes later, she held a five-meter section of heavy-gauge wire long enough to reach from the fusion battery to the exposed bus.

The fusion battery was as hard to reach from the front as it was from the back because of its central location in the core of the machine. She pulled yet another panel from the mech, but couldn’t reach with her bulky pressure suit arms.

She memorized the glowing wire display, then said, “Bjorn, shut down the suit. I need to exit to restore mech power.”

“Exiting your pressure suit in a combat zone violates procedure. A violation notice will be added for transmission when network connection is restored. Do you wish to continue?” The tone of his voice begged her to reconsider as much as the words had.

“Yes. Power down.” Stupid machine.

Without her helmet, the smells of the city hit her. Smoke, broken plumbing lines, and a hint of fuel filled her senses as she removed the suit from the waist up, leaving her arms bare to the shoulder. There were no insulated gloves in the tool kit.

She reached the fusion battery as her bare arm snaked into the innards of the mech, gaining several new scratches and risking a burn as she avoided the hot spots. It took several passes to fish the wire in to the right spot. With a deft twist, she applied a small screw clamp and tightened the wire into place on the power output panel.

The other end of the wire dangled, and she kept the exposed end of the conductor away from the metal framework. If it touched the chassis without a breaker in place, it would arc and liquify the heavy-gauge wire. Not to mention what it would do if she became part of the electrical circuit without her protective pressure suit. How embarrassing would it be to die from accidental electrocution behind enemy lines while repairing her own mech suit?

Wires sparked once as she attached her jumper wire to the bus, but nothing melted as it would have with a short circuit. The wire hung loose in the middle, but it did the job.

Caroline had seen better mechs abandoned on the battlefield. The mortar launch tube was bent, so she removed it to leave the mortars exposed. Accuracy would drop, but she could still fire them. Five of her six missiles were crushed beyond use so she unbolted them to lighten the load.

Caroline got back into her pressure suit and powered up Bjorn, then plugged her suit into the diagnostics panel.

“Bjorn, highlight system faults and failures on my visor overlay.”

Her heat sensor and targeting laser were broken beyond repair, but her motion sensor still worked. The one missile showed as ready, and the twenty-mm gun showed green with most of its ammo unused. Not bad.

She buckled herself back in and jacked in the main connection between the mech and her suit so Bjorn could monitor everything once more.

“Bjorn, status report, verbal and on screen.”

“Actuators online. Weapons partial. Sensors partial. Network connection pending.”

Her helmet lit up with a schematic view showing the systems Bjorn had described. The screen showed a lot more red indicators than she liked. It didn’t matter so long as she could still move and fight.

The rendezvous point glowed on her display from her earlier instructions. It was time to see if anyone else had survived.

Caroline watched her motion sensor as she peeked out of the destroyed building. Nothing. An awkward sprint carried her across the plaza and into the rubble-strewn streets beyond.

She stopped at the next cross-street with a view of the river and waited. If the sniper survived his encounter with the orbital laser, he’d be over there somewhere. With no sign of movement on the scanner, she moved to where only a single row of buildings separated her from the river. Heat-seeking missiles would be a challenge among the smoking debris, but her motion sensor could warn her of the high, arched path of mortars.

The next building along her path had collapsed into a tangle of steel and concrete. Even alone, her mission was to scout, so she crept to the edge of the pile and bent down on one robotic knee to peek around a pillar and wait. People were always in such a rush to do things, but not Caroline. The virtues of patience had been drilled into her at a young age. Her parents had insisted she earn the full price of anything she wanted rather than loaning or giving her the money. She was the last of her friends to get a new computer tablet, but the lesson had stuck with her.

She surveyed the river, then her path forward, followed by the sparse openings between industrial buildings and rubble across the river. Something glinted, catching her eye. The motion sensor flagged a spot across the river. She smiled. The sniper was still alive.

“Bjorn, set the missile for manual targeting.”

“Targeting sync disabled and missile armed.” His voice made the missile sound like a long-lost lover. A lover with no automated targeting. She shook her head and concentrated. What were the symptoms of a concussion? She should ask Bjorn.

A gentle squeeze on the trigger produced a click, and nothing more. Bjorn’s soothing voice said, “Electrical connectivity failure.”

She should have checked the connection while she was fixing the power. A few missions ago the rocket system had failed because of a bent pin in the plug on her suit so it couldn’t connect with the mech’s firing controls. They said they’d fixed it. She’d tear into the techs when she got back. If she got back.

The other mech limped across the gap between buildings and hid behind the rubble of a collapsed parking terrace. He traveled in the same direction she did, toward both her target and the only remaining bridge across the river for twenty clicks in either direction. It looked like he had servo trouble, maybe from that orbital strike.

The risk of running for her next patch of cover increased if there was more than the one rebel over there, but the way he moved didn’t show team tactics. Scanning the buildings and streets showed no lookout, no tag team, no glance back. No hand commands, even. He concentrated more on movement than he did on observation.

She rose with a creak and ran as sweat beaded on her forehead. The movement sensor confirmed her gut feeling. At least for now, it was just the two of them. To keep out of sight, she had to either take the lead or lag behind. In front would be safer.

The path farther from the river would take too long, and time was limited. One side or the other would send reinforcements eventually, and Caroline refused to bet her life on who would arrive first.

Her pace was an odd mixture of frantic run and stealthy observation, but it paid off as she saw her quarry once again as he stole between buildings at the same time she did. She had a little lead on him. Sneaking time was over.

“Bjorn, search for damage on that mech.”

The AI was fast and thorough at what it did. Its biggest problem was a limited repertoire and no personality. Its paramour voice didn’t compensate for its shortcomings, but it helped her when she was stressed.

“Enemy status: Left leg servos at fifty percent. Missiles expended. Superficial damage on all extremities and the torso. Major torso impact located above main power bus.”

It was hard to tell if she had the advantage or not, but it would look to him like she had one missile ready to go, and a full set of mortars, minus the launch tube.

Caroline let loose with a spray from the twenty mm as she scurried for cover. The other mech did the same in return. Aim compensators could only handle so much movement, and only two rounds hit her. It was no better for her shots which landed all around her target, kicking up dust and flinging bits of rock.

The motion sensor couldn’t see through buildings, but she had a map. He was on a long, straight stretch with no alleys. He was out of options. She flipped the switch to activate the mortars and dialed in a guess to lay down a line of three shots on his street.

Three reassuring thumps confirmed the launches as she ran. The targeting might be off, but if her guess was right, he would run into the detonations as they landed. That would be the end of him.

“Incoming mortars.” An alarm blared as her helmet display projected the trajectories to land on the street before her.

He’d pulled the same trick she’d just used. Caroline wasn’t sure whether to respect or curse his skill. Maybe both. She skidded to a halt and dodged toward an alley to her right, away from the river as the street lit up with fire and shrapnel.

“Incoming mortars.” The sexiness of the voice did nothing to reduce her panic.

Maps. He had a map and knew her only safe place from his first launch was that alley. She made it back out and around the corner as the street behind her erupted in triple explosions, even as debris from the first trio still landed around her.

A glance at her map showed he had no convenient side street, so he must have stopped short of her first volley. She could deal with that. Her last three mortars flew, one targeted at his likely stopping point, with the others aimed forward and back giving him nowhere to run. They were both down to their twenty mm guns now, even if he managed to dodge her volley.

She had no reason or desire to wait around. The rendezvous point beckoned a half click away with a promise of potential squad members. With even one more mech helping, they would take out that rebel and turn him into a pile of smoking ruin.

Caroline recognized the street, but only just. Fires still burned, and the road surface buckled and crumbled as it cooled from what could only have been one of the orbital strikes. Mech parts decorated the street. A steel leg here, a torso there. Nobody had survived. The parts were so damaged she couldn’t tell for sure how many mech pilots had died here.

Worse, she couldn’t tell if they were from her squad. Nobody else would have used this as a gathering point, so she resigned herself to accept that she was alone, and her teammates had run their last mission.

“Bjorn, make a video record of the scene and report an unknown number of deaths, with unknown IDs.”

“Recording complete. Transmission will occur when a network connection is reestablished.”

Bjorn held critical intel; the orbital strike sites, the state of her team, the scouting and mapping she’d done before it all went south. She had to get back to report, or they’d keep sending teams out to either be overrun or to get burned from orbit.

Her suit shook from a staccato string of impacts. More machine gun fire? Had that dirty rebel tracked her, or was he only on his way to the bridge they both had to cross?

Caroline jumped to the side, turned, and tracked the fire back to its source across the river. It had to be him, standing out in an open area focusing fire on her legs. She kept moving, forcing him to adjust his fire until she stopped behind a pillar not quite large enough to hide behind.

The twenty mm guns held a lot of rounds, but there was a limit based on the space to store that much ammunition. If she teased him into running out of ammo, she could cross the bridge and he couldn’t do anything but limp along or butt into her.

“Bjorn, switch my view to the arm camera.”

The screen in her suit changed, showing a view with a targeting reticle in the center of the image. She swung her arm around the pillar and aimed, keeping as much of herself covered as possible as her opponent’s bullets pinged off anything exposed beyond the pillar’s edge.

One more leg servo and he’d be stuck. She switched from bursts to full auto and let loose, targeting his good leg at the knee where the servos connected. The pilot sat high enough to avoid injury, but she didn’t care if the pilot survived as long as the mech failed.

Her gun jammed.

“Cooling failure,” Bjorn’s deep voice intoned, as if describing afternoon drinks on a beach.

Dust settled, and the impacts ceased from her opponent’s gun as well. It was time to cross the bridge and make a run for it. He couldn’t do anything more to her now if she kept moving fast enough.

At best, he had sensors and a machine gun.

The wrecks from the rendezvous point jogged a memory of her days servicing mechs. It was a lot of work, but you could field-strip and load armaments from one mech to another. Surely one of those torsos held some rockets. She could fix the bent pin, too.

It was a pointless dream. All of that would take more time than she had. She made for the bridge jutting out from a cross-street a hundred meters before her.

It was small, as bridges go, supporting two lanes of ground traffic in either direction before the war broke out. Now, the burned-out husks of vehicles and mechs littered the bridge, a tale of how this fight had dragged on for weeks as first the army, then the rebels, would gain the upper hand.

“Power levels fluctuating.”

Her hack job to hotwire the mech wasn’t meant to endure combat, yet it held up through the whole trip so far. How much more good luck could she expect? She swore. A soldier can’t depend on luck. She had to keep the system together through skill and grit to get home.

Bjorn’s silky digital voice said, “One credit will be added to your swear jar when network connection is restored.”

Caroline added twenty more credits to the jar as she told Bjorn what she thought of his abilities and intelligence.

The pavement on the bridge looked good at the shoreline, but eighty meters out near the center, the pavement ended. Nothing but metal rods, beams, and cables along the edges held the two ends of the bridge together. The gaping hole showed scorch marks and melted steel at the edges. Another orbital strike? It was impossible to tell, but it made no difference. She couldn’t cross it, even with a running jump.

As she surveyed the damage, her nemesis appeared at the other end of the bridge and limped forward, dragging one mech leg along at a slow pace. Dead servos. One good hit and he was done for. Her one missile wouldn’t fire, and her machine gun had failed.

She smiled. He didn’t know about the bad pin. She marched forward as if entering an old western shootout on main street, hydraulic squelches and spinning gears replacing the clink of spurs as she strode along the bridge, then stopped a few meters before the gaping hole that prevented them both from crossing.

He approached and stopped on the far side of the hole.

They stood at a stalemate. Neither of them could get home. If they waited for rescue teams that might never arrive, one of them would die or be captured.

Failure was not an option. A crazy idea formed in the back of her head. “Bjorn, open a line-of-sight comm link, no encryption.”

“That is a rebel mech. Confirm protocol override.”

At least they hadn’t locked that option out. Why would they bother to keep you from talking to the bad guys? She made a note to fix that later.

“Confirmed.”

She said, “Staff Sergeant Caroline Storm here. And who might you be?”

“Freeholm Forces, Commander Jared Tucker. I’d like to compliment you on your coordinated attack. Your orbital strikes were brutal.”

Her orbital strikes? That made no sense. She had lost much of her squad to those strikes.

Technically, it was treason to divulge information to the enemy. The problem was that she had nowhere to go, and might not get back anyway. They might as well compare notes. “Hold on. Those weren’t mine. We both lost people. Our guys are generally smart enough to only hit you guys. Let’s assume, just for fun, that you don’t employ idiots either.”

“You think it was a third party instead of friendly fire?”

Caroline saw no other option. “Has to be, but who? This rathole isn’t worth much to anyone besides Army and rebels. It’s just a political line between good guys and bad guys.”

Her opponent said, “Between freedom and oppression, more like.”

Caroline smirked. “Yeah, whatever. You’re the bad guys. Get over it. Who might top both of us in weapons capabilities and have the skill to use it?”

Could it be? Would they be that ruthless and cutthroat? Of course, they would. Arms dealers don’t get where they are by being nice. They don’t make deals with the devil; they are the devil others make deals with.

This information had to get home. It would be even better if Commander Tucker got it home, too. Their laser communication link was highly directional, designed for line of sight, but it wasn’t foolproof. “Come talk to me.”

She pulled the harness release and popped the rear hatch before climbing out of the mech. The crunch of crumbled pavement rose from her boots as she walked along the edge near the exposed cables, all that joined the two sides together. If this didn’t work, she might as well surrender.

Commander Tucker’s curiosity must have gotten the best of him since he exited and walked to the far side twenty meters away across the gap. Too far for a mech to jump, but an easy traversal along the cables and beams in a lightweight pressure suit.

Caroline stood to the side and waved him across, inviting him to meet on her side of the bridge.

He hesitated. She still had her sidearm, but made no move toward it. He’d have to suck up a little pride, or she’d end up having a sidearm shootout that could kill them both. Outside the mechs, they were vulnerable. She rolled her eyes and leaned against the low broken wall to ease his apprehensions.

She removed her helmet, shutting Bjorn down as he picked his way across the remains of the bridge. The river smelled of unprocessed waste and broken dreams.

This information couldn’t go across the network, or the news might explode into chaos by getting out too early.

Commander Tucker followed her move and removed his helmet. “You seem to know something I don’t about this third party.”

“Who gains the most if we stay here and fight each other endlessly? Follow the money trail.”

His eyes grew large. “You think Monotech Robotics is rigging the fight?”

“If either side wins, the war ends. They lose business. They have the tech to do it, too.”

He moved to replace his helmet, but Caroline interrupted him. “No digital records. Carry it back in your head. You tell your people to expect encrypted traffic from us. I’m not in charge by a long shot, but I have a good feel for the people who are. We have a common enemy.” She specified a time and an encryption key.

Her superiors wouldn’t like the news she carried, but they would like it even less that their supplier was playing them for fools, robbing them blind, and paying for it with the lives of good people on both sides.

“Maybe you didn’t notice, Sergeant Storm, but neither of us can get our machines across this sorry excuse of a bridge.”

She reached for the cable used to jack her suit into her mech and twirled it around as she pointed behind her. “Who says I need to take that one home?”

His lips curled into a crooked grin, then he laughed until he had to wipe tears away. “Nobody will believe this.”

“The only part anyone has to believe is that Monotech is billing us both for the privilege of killing each other, and they’re stepping in to help with the slaughter. They must have meant to wipe out our two patrols and not leave any survivors. They screwed up and left us behind.” Caroline glanced up to the sky.

Commander Tucker said, “They won’t be up there again for a bit. They have to use a low orbit if they want any chance of hiding their direct orbital strikes. Geosynchronous would be too visible.”

“What if they have more than one killer satellite?”

Commander Tucker tilted his head. “Right you are. We’d best be on our way then.” He saluted her, didn’t wait for a response, and headed off at a brisk walk toward her old mech.

She called out after him. “Watch that main bus. I’ve jumped it from the power core with a spare cable.”

Why had she bothered to tell him? He was the enemy. At least he was an enemy. Having a common cause didn’t make them friends. She made it across the bridge’s exposed beams and most of the way to his machine when she heard a hatch slam home.

It would have been so easy to sabotage her machine, to cut a critical wire. To pull a pin. A pin?

She slammed her helmet in place and increased her pace as much as possible without showing the full-on panic coursing through her. His connector wouldn’t have a bent pin. He had a missile ready and waiting for him, enough to destroy her and the mech.

Sweat trickled down her back as she continued her quick march. “Bjorn, I’m plugging in. Give me diagnostics and weapons as I connect.”

She slammed the hatch closed and plugged her jack in before setting up the harness.

Bjorn crooned, “Servo lockup on left leg. Rockets depleted. Twenty mm rounds depleted. Six mortars. Extensive external damage. Sporadic electrical failures, as indicated.”

She checked each item on the display as it was mentioned. Then she saw the mortars as Bjorn mentioned them. He’d reloaded from a stockpile, or from a downed mech. She’d faced him down in a game of chicken she had no way of winning. Even now, the last missile could reach her before she could fire the mortars in response.

Across the bridge, her old mech went through the exaggerated motions of another salute. This time she returned it. Did these rebels have honor and dedication to a cause like what she felt? They were misguided, sure, but the dedication was clear.

An unencrypted message came in on the line-of-site laser carrier. “Sergeant Storm? Next time we meet I’m obligated to destroy you and send your oppressive forces packing.”

“And I’ll do my best to rid the world of rebels who take what they don’t deserve, Commander Tucker.” She glanced around the new cockpit, nearly identical to her old cockpit. “Could you take good care of that crucifix hanging to your left?”

“I’d be glad to. If the universe we live in gets turned on its ear, I’d love to buy you dinner and share stories. You have ice-water running through your veins.”

“In another world, I’d love to swap tales as long as you’re buying. Maybe the politicians will have to step up and work things out this time. You never know.”

Maybe, just maybe, mutual assured destruction would lose out this time. Caroline limped for home with information that would change the course of the war.

CLIMATE OF CHANGE

Marie Genneson

Athena trudged through the foot of recently fallen snow toward the gates of the underworld. Bitter wind of early October cut through the light jacket she wore. She pulled it tighter around her. Downed limbs, still holding much of their summer color, littered the lawns of the houses along 23rd Street.

“I’m going to throttle my sister when I get my hands on her,” she said aloud to the empty street. The entire city had shut down, being unprepared for the sudden snow storm. Snow plows were still in their summer storage spots awaiting the annual maintenance in preparation for the first snow.

She continued past the dead-end sign and into the long-abandoned graveyard at the end of the street. Broken headstones created obstacles tripping her as she walked to where the edge of the graveyard met a grove of trees. There stood a solitary stone archway and gates. To humans, the gates and stone archway were the remains of an entry of which the fence had been removed long ago. If one looked within the arch, they would notice that the images beyond were a shade or two darker than on either side.

She could not recall a single human ever being curious enough to try and enter. The living would simply pass through into the woods beyond if they had managed to open the aged and heavy wrought iron gates. Only gods could enter and exit the underworld without being counted among the dead. Athena hated going into the underworld. All those soulless bodies floating around was creepy.

A cold shiver ran up her spine as a couple of souls floated past her. Without bodies, the souls were little more than balls of light floating through the air. Three others followed shortly behind. She moved aside to let another steady stream of souls pass. With over a hundred people dying every second around the world, it’s no wonder that there was a steady stream going through the gate. It would be a veritable flood if there weren’t hundreds of other gates for souls to pass into the underworld.

The gate squealed on ancient hinges as she opened it. The gates didn’t need to be opened for her to pass through them, she was a god after all, but she preferred the mundane way of doing things. It was easy for boredom to settle in with eternity, especially when nothing was a challenge. Doing mundane things provided that challenge for her.

The underworld was a picture of contrast. Thousands of bright souls against the obsidian of the outer castle walls. So, Pluto has redecorated since the last time she had been there. It had been over a thousand years since she had entered his realm. Previously it had looked like the mirror image of Mount Olympus only in black rather than the white of Zeus’s home.

Goose bumps raised on her right arm as one of the souls brushed against her. She hurried past the dead and into the castle. The same obsidian walls were lit with torches set into the walls. Black Olympus had been more to her liking. A few souls floated about, but not like outside.

“You called me fat!” Persephone’s high-pitched voice echoed off the walls.

“I did not call you fat. I said you were phat. It’s a compliment.”

Pluto, stop speaking before you dig yourself deeper in that hole.

“Do I look fat to you?”

“It’s slang for sexy.”

“Fat is not sexy!” Sobbing quickly followed.

Athena hurried up the staircase to the royal chambers. Persephone sobbed into the bedsheets of the massive canopied bed while Pluto paced in frustration.

Persephone and Pluto were as contrasting as the souls and the obsidian. Persephone was the posterchild for femininity. Delicate soft porcelain features on a slight frame outlined with waves of blond hair. Pluto was broad shouldered and muscular with bronzed skin and dark hair.

They were all drama in their relationship to the point of being nerve racking. Reason and thought were not a part of it. They were all passion and emotion.

“Oh Pluto, just stop talking while you’re behind.” She said stepping into the room.

“Persephone, he’s trying to compliment you in his own blundering way. Phat was slang for a woman a man was attracted to.”

“You couldn’t find slang that was more up to date?” Athena turned to Pluto.

He looked confused. “I heard it among the dead.”

“Maybe it’s not so wise to use slang with your wife. Especially slang like phat.”

“Do you two realize what kind of damage you’re doing? Gaea is sick. There’s a foot of snow on the ground outside and your mother is beside herself with worry. Hence, the foot of snow.”

Persephone wiped the tears from her eyes looking ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, and the humans are panicked thinking the apocalypse has begun. Leaders of the free world are calling for strict regulations thinking they are the cause of this drastic change in weather. If only they knew. Anyway, knock it off.”

“Demeter needs to butt out. I lose my wife half the year because of her.”

The shock on Persephone’s face signaled another battle to begin. “My mother cares about me. Why is that so bad?”

“STOP!” The two stared at her as if she had two heads. “I think you two need some time away from each other.”

“Persephone, you’re coming with me. Pluto, you’re going to stay here and study up on the fine art of keeping your mouth shut.”

Pluto opened his mouth to protest but shut it when she glared at him.

Athena stepped over the stream of melting snow as she and Persephone walked along 5th Ave in New York. The weather had greatly improved since they had left the underworld. The gates in Manhattan opened in Madison Square near 5th Ave. They spent several hours popping in and out of shops buying whatever struck their fancy.

“Who would wear such…” Persephone waved her hand up and down at the dress in front of her. “Ugliness.” They stopped in front of a store window to gawk at the display.

“Humans with horrible taste.” Athena took Persephone by the wrist. “I’m in the mood for chocolate. I know a place with the best cupcakes” She led her to a small bakery near Central park.

Athena gazed through the case of decadent desserts. She picked out a dozen cupcakes with various amounts of chocolate and Persephone chose a single piece of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. They found an empty table to sit and eat.

“Mmmmmm.” Athena stuffed half a triple chocolate cupcake into her mouth. Her eyes closed as she savored the chocolatey goodness.

“Darling!” An older and rounder version of Persephone approached the table.

“Mother, you came.”

Her eyes shot open. Demeter, an older version of Persephone, had her arms wrapped around the young woman.

“Of course. I’d never miss the opportunity to spend more time with my lovely daughter.”

“You can’t be here. Remember? Zeus. Restraining order. Six months out of the year.”

“He never said that I couldn’t accidentally run into her while we were out and about.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure he did. You are to have no contact for the six months while she is in the underworld.”

“Well this is not the underworld.” Demeter snapped.

“Athena, you’re being rude. Zeus did say when I was in the underworld and I’m not there.”

“Only because your latest drama is making Gaea sick and to spare her, I said I’d intervene. And you,” she turned on Demeter, “are not helping. This constantly changing weather is making everyone insane.”

Demeter’s face pinched up. “I can’t help what stupid humans think. They learned to adapt to the changes after that scoundrel Pluto ran off with my dearest daughter and Zeus ordered her there for half the year. Why does no one ever care about what I want?”

“This isn’t about you. It’s about bringing order back before the humans do something stupid that destroys the world and us with them.”

“Then take it up with them.”

“You know better than that. Just stop with the antics.”

“Mind your own business.” The crack of lightning striking

“I can make it Zeus’s business if you’d prefer.”

“I will not be threatened by a low-level goddess.” She turned to Persy and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Sweetie, but I’m not listening to anymore.“

“Stay. Athena can keep her opinions to herself. Please.” Persy glared at Athena.

“Call me later and we’ll talk.” Demeter kissed her again, then turned and left.

“You’re impossible. I want to go back home.”

“But, you haven’t finished your cupcake.”

“Now.”

The loose tendrils of fiery red hair fanned out behind Athena as she stormed into the bar of the luxury hotel on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré in Paris. Four women, all stunning in their own way sat around a table sipping colored drinks.

“Hera, you have to do something to stop this chaos” She snapped her fingers at the waitress and ordered a double whiskey.

She shrugged off her heavy fur coat to reveal red and blistered skin.

The other women blanched. “Darling, what do you want me to do? Best to relax and wait it out. And you might consider aloe for that sunburn.

“How can you be so callous? Gaea is sick because of Persephone’s temper tantrum. If it goes on much longer, it will kill her.”

Hera waved her hand dismissively. “You’re being overly dramatic. She’s a deity, she can’t die.”

Across the table in a sultry red dress, Aphrodite spoke up. “A week of passionate love making would cure their ills.”

Athena rolled her eyes. “Sex does not solve this problem.”

“Honey, sex cures all problems. There is nothing so satisfying as a man between one’s thighs. You should try it sometime.”

Athena downed her drink in one quick flick of her wrist, then ordered another. “What do you think will happen to us if Gaea can no longer support life? The humans will die, and we’ll be forgotten. And all of this,” she waived her arm about, “will be gone. We might as well be dead.”

“What do you expect us to do?” Hera asked. “We’re not marriage counselors. Neither Persephone or Pluto will listen to us. And Demeter is using the conflict between them to try and convince Persephone to return home to her permanently.”

“Some gods you are.”

“You come complaining to us about marriage troubles that have nothing to do with us. What have you been doing to make peace between them?”

“I’ve been caring for Gaea through the sudden snow storms in blazing heat and the massive numbers of hurricanes. They drain her so much she can’t do anything, but sleep.”

“I can help with that.” Hygieia said. She had been so quiet that Athena almost forgotten she was at the table.

“Thank you. Hygieia.”

Athena looked to the other two. “Are you two going to help at all?” The shifted in their seats and stared at their drinks for several minutes. “Really?”

“I suppose I could talk to Zeus, but you know him. He hates dealing with personal issues.” Hera said breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“I’ll talk to Pluto. I imagine he’ll be more open to winning her heart back, considering all the fuss he caused when he stole her away all those years ago.”

“Are you happy now?” Hera asked. “Can we go back to less terrible things now? Like what we’re wearing to the royal wedding?”

Persephone opened the door, her eyes red and blood shot.

“Persy, you aren’t supposed to be here.”

“I don’t care. My heart is broken. Pluto is cheating on me.” Persephone held the door open for Athena to enter. The entry was a lavish mix of polished white marble and silver, accented with silk drapes and tapestries.

Athena pulled Persephone down with her onto the purple silk settee. “He’s what?”

“One of the souls. She’s been there a long time, but last week he started spending hours upon hours with her. He’s even skipped meals to be with her.”

“There has got to be another explanation. Have you tried talking to him?”

Tears filled her eyes. “I tried, but he said he didn’t have time.“

“Then make him listen.”

“No. When he wants to listen, he knows where to find me.”

Athena leaned away from Persephone. “Are you serious? You’re making it hell on everyone because you don’t want to make an effort to talk to your husband?”

She burst into tears. “I’m not trying to.”

“Athena! You should be ashamed of yourself for making your sister cry.”

“I’m the one who should be ashamed? I have blisters because of you and your meddling.”

“And my sister needs to put on her big girl panties and stop being a twit.”

Persephone burst into a fresh flood of tears.

“Demeter, you can’t keep coddling her. Her tantrum is going to end up killing us all.”

“We can’t die, we’re gods.”

“If the humans die so do we.”

“That is not true. Now leave.”

“Come on dear,” She escorted Persephone out of the room.

“Have you talked to Zeus?” Hera stood in front of the mirror in her massive walk-in closet. She turned back and forth looking at the dress she wore.

“I tried, but he waved it off.” She paused a moment. “Do you think this dress makes me look fat?”

“Hera, can we focus on the impending doom for a minute?”

“His attention is…elsewhere these days. There is nothing I can do.”

“Then what are we supposed to do? I have heard rumors of war between the humans. Some believe that they are causing the changes and are preparing to go to war to stop what they think is causing it. If it continues there will be much blood shed.”

“Go to Pluto. Convince him to win Persephone back. And if that fails, well, kidnapping is always an option.”

“Pluto!”

Pluto sat next to a lovely young woman in the castle’s library listening to her read in some foreign language.

“Athena, how good to see you. Come. Serena was just getting to the good part.”

“I really don’t have time. It’s like Dante’s Hell outside. Every time Persy starts crying Demeter turns the planet into a bakery.”

Pluto rolled his eyes in exaggerated fashion. “Drama queens the pair.”

“Can’t you just fake apologize or something? Buy her flowers? Grovel? I don’t know. Anything to get her to stop moving between the Olympus and here.”

“I am. Why do you think I’m here with Serena learning to write poetry? Aphrodite said it would help. That she’d love being read poetry. I thought writing one for her would be even better.”

“Zeus’s balls, she thinks you’re cheating on her.”

Pluto turned to Serena and whispered something to her. The ball of light floated silently through the door.

When she was gone, Pluto turned to Athena. “What? I’d never.”

“Tell her that.”

“She won’t listen to me.”

“Make her listen.”

“Get her away from that mother of hers and we can talk.”

“Demeter isn’t letting her out of her sight. She thinks she can convince Persy to leave you permanently.

“That’s ridiculous. Zeus ordered her here with me for half the year and her mother’s home for the other half. She can’t defy Zeus’s ruling. Can she?”

“She can try and get the ruling changed.”

“I’ve got to stop this.” Pluto rushed past her out of the library.

“Persephone!” Pluto called from his chariot, clouds of dust rose as the black steeds struck the ground outside of Demeter’s estate. The grounds were covered in lush gardens and orchards, a mansion sat back from the road. Statues of mythological creatures dotted the landscape and a myriad of birds and wildlife frolicked about.

Persephone stood from where she was tending to bright yellow roses.

“Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.” She turned towards the house, walking away from him.

“You don’t have to, just listen.” He pleaded.

From the open doorway of the house, a pack of large mastiffs ran at Pluto’s horses. A lone figure followed them far behind.

Pluto pulled hard on the reigns as the animals bucked, striking hooves at the dogs who snapped at them.

“I want you home, Persephone,” he yelled over the noise. “Don’t make me steal you away again and lock you in Hades.”

“Why don’t you go back to your lover and leave me alone?”

“The only lover I have is you.”

“Liar! I saw you with her.”

“She was helping me with something…for you. She’s not my lover.”

“Go inside, dear.” Demeter placed herself between Pluto and Persephone.

“You’re not wanted here. Leave my daughter alone.”

“She is my wife and she belongs at home with me.”

“She doesn’t want to be with you, get over it.”

“This is not over.”

Pluto paced the carpet in Athena’s front hall. “What am I supposed to do? Demeter won’t allow me a minute alone with Persy.”

“We need to go to Zeus. He’s the only one who can force Demeter to let her go.”

“What if he decides that Persy should stay with Demeter?”

“We’ll have to convince him not to.”

Hera sat on the divan next to her husband her hand in his. “Dear, you must end this. Allowing Persephone to stay with Demeter is causing great harm. The humans are at the brink of worldwide war, Gaea is extremely ill and is threatening to kill all life on the planet, and both Pluto and Persephone are heart broken. I talked with her yesterday and she was in tears. She wants to go home to Pluto, but she doesn’t want to disappoint her mother. If you step in, everyone will be happy.”

“Except Demeter, who will be furious.”

“An unfortunate consequence, but she has broken your prior order that Persephone remain in the underworld from October through March.”

“Why has Pluto not come to me himself?”

“He is outside waiting like a caged lion. The poor soul is ready to steal Persephone away and lock her in the underworld to end this. I assured him that you would handle it. After all, how would it look to the other gods if you let Demeter flout your rule?”

“What do I care what the other gods think?”

“What do you think will happen the next time you make a ruling? Set an example and you’ll have far more peace. I will handle Demeter when she comes to complain.”

“Fine. Make the arrangements for all parties to meet in the council room this afternoon.”

“You defied my rule!”

“She came to me. What was I supposed to do? Throw her out?”

Zeus and Demeter shouted at each other.

Persephone stood at the back of the counsel room, tears silently running down her cheeks.

“Love, please come home.”

She turned.

“Why should I?”

“Because I love you.”

“Then why were you with that other woman?”

“Learning to write poetry. I wanted to write poetry for you. To show you how much I love you.”

“Really? You were doing that for me?”

“Yes. You mean everything to me and I wanted to put that into words. Serena was helping me do that. I’ve finished one, if you’d like to hear it.”

The tiniest of smiles turned up the corners of Persephone’s lips. “I would.”

He leaned in close so that his lips brushed her ear and recited the words he had polished just that morning.

Persy stepped back and looked into his eyes. A different kind of tears filled her eyes. “That was beautiful.”

“I’m glad you liked it. I’d love to write more for you, if you’ll let me.”

“I’d like that.”

“Then return home with me. There are so many other things I’d like to do with you that we can only do together.”

Persy’s cheeks flamed as she caught the meaning of his words. He used his fingers to tip her chin up so that he could kiss her.

“Well, it seems the issue between Pluto and Persephone has resolved itself. However, the issue of Demeter still needs to be addressed.”

“But…”

“Silence! You will stop interfering with them. You are to have no contact with Persephone from the months of October through March. Not in the underworld, on Earth or on Olympus. If you disobey this ruling, you will forever be forbidden to see your daughter. Is this clear?”

“Yes.” Demeter said through gritted teeth.

“Now do not bother me with this matter again.”

WELCOME TO MARS!

A.M. Freeman

“This is Andy Shepard to mission control. I’m in the capsule and about to start the descent. By the time you get this message, I will either be dead, or the first man on Mars.” He clicked off the mic, adding to himself, “As long as that Russian doesn’t get there first.”

Andy was looking forward to finally getting out on solid ground again. Space was a hard place to endure, especially alone, and it had already been a long seven month voyage. NASA had made it a priority to keep someone on call, not only to monitor Andy’s progress, but to talk to him as well. The delay for messages to travel the distance from Earth to his shuttle, which had now grown to seven minutes, made conversations slow. However, it was enough to keep his sanity. He especially liked when Susan was on the other line. The bright and always chipper woman was good company, and Andy had decided to take her out for coffee as soon as he was back home. That was assuming he survived long enough to get there. The descent onto Mars would be over before his first message arrived. In the meantime, it was up to him to handle the landing on his own.

Andy doubled checked all the cameras: both in the capsule, outside it, and in his suit. He made sure the computer would be gathering the recordings, and the antenna box was ready to send them back to Earth. Everyone wanted to watch the Ares 1 and the Voyazh shuttle, American versus Russian missions, racing to Mars. It was the biggest moment in the rivalry between the Soviets and Americans since the moon landing, bringing everyone onto the same page for once. Andy sometimes thought the only reason either country hadn’t blown each other up yet was because they enjoyed competing against each other too much. But he didn’t mind, his whole life was built around it.

His competitor, Yuli Gagarin, had once been asked what he would do if he wasn’t the first man on Mars. To which Yuli famously replied, “Nothing. I won’t be second man on Mars. I will be first, no debate.” Andy didn’t much care for that level of arrogance, but he knew such statements from the other side would only make his victory sweeter.

The voyage thus far had been a test of endurance for both astronauts, where they had mostly stayed at the same pace. Now came the sprint at the end of the marathon, to see who could conquer the unstable atmosphere of Mars and plant their country’s flag.

Andy looked down at the red planet, its beauty far more captivating than any picture could display. There was something about being up close, seeing its bright colors and textured surface right underneath him, that was breathtaking. He wondered if this was what his beloved great-grandpa had felt, looking back down at the earth, his home, as he became the first American in space. It was the late and great Alan Shepard that had given Andy a love of mathematics and problem solving. He’d been the one to inspire Andy to be an astronaut, to be the one to seek beyond and take the risks. If his grandpa, his hero, could see him now, Andy knew he’d be proud.

With those thoughts firmly planted in his mind, with systems checked, and with programs in place to keep Ares 1 on a solo orbit around the planet, Andy said a prayer and began undocking.

The balky suit made it extremely difficult to maneuver, yet Andy operated the controls with the ease only countless hours of discipline and practice could bring. The capsule slowly drifted from the shuttle, moving only centimeters a second. Upon reaching twenty meters from the shuttle, Andy activated the slow burners on the side of the capsule, increasing the distance. Fifteen seconds later, he stopped the burners and checked his scanner. The Voyazh shuttle was just within his sight, but the Russian capsule had not been released. America was still winning. He grinned.

Turning his mic on again, Andy followed the procedures and recorded the steps as he did them.

“Andy Shepard, entering the atmosphere.”

The plasma began building around the heat shield, but the thin atmosphere did little to slow it down. Streaks of lights danced outside the capsule windows. The very roots of Andy’s teeth seemed to rattle as gravity pulled him towards the red surface. Now came the hard part.

“Deploying heat shield inflation.”

From behind the heat shield, a giant inner tube inflated and held, slowing down the capsule. So far so good.

“Ejecting heat shield.” The hooks released the shield. A second later, Andy felt a hard bump and the capsule shift. Then the heat shield flew past his window as it broke away.

“Shit. Shield release malfunction.” The radio turned to static, cutting communications to NASA. The impact had also tilted the capsule at just the wrong angle, making the descent too steep.

“Shit shit shit.”

Thinking fast, he switched to manual control ahead of schedule and wrestled with the craft until it was corrected. The ground was dangerously close, and the time to release the external rockets had already passed.

First man to walk on Mars or first man to die on it. Either way I’ll be damned if I’m not the first. The thought passed through his mind as he worked the controls, not risking even a glance at the scanner to see where the Russian capsule was. The rockets released with the sound and sensation of sledgehammers being slammed on the outside of the capsule, rocking it with little bursts of force in quick succession. They surged away from the capsule and to the end of a sturdy cable. Andy sunk deeper into his seat as the capsule jerked in response.

With the flight on manual, Andy had to recall and follow every point of the trajectory he had laid out and all the calculations he had memorized in excruciating detail over the course of his voyage. There was no room for doubt, no time for fear, no option for failure; Andy was not about to let all the work and money that had gone into this mission be for nothing.

He began to see the landing site, both on the video screen and rapidly growing closer in his view from the window. The speed of the capsule was decreasing, but not fast enough for the original landing plan. Andy ran numbers through his head and came up with an idea. It was risky, but it seemed, at least this way, he might have a chance.

Working over the controls, Andy made the capsule arch to the right and into a circle. As soon as he was past the landing site and at the right angle, he fired one of the three rockets and took it into a tight turn.

His muscles strained, and he struggled to maintain control against the forward momentum. The moment he was back in line with the pad, Andy activated all three rockets to full throttle, blasting against the pull of gravity. With hands firmly on the controls, he breathed, and counted.

The numbers lined up. The capsule was losing speed, the ground was rushing up to meet him, this was it….

Boom.

The force of the landing hit him like a head on collision. Andy endured the impact through his durable suit and the suspension in his seat. Everything rattled and shook as the capsule slid a few yards, shredding the inner tube and scraping up the capsule, until friction finally forced it to a stop.

While billowing clouds of red dust settled around him, Andy slowly opened his hands, keenly aware of how heavy they were. Although not nearly as disorienting as reconnecting with Earth gravity after a long duration in space, he still needed a moment to feel the heaviness of his body and adjust. More through force of habit and muscle memory than anything else, he conducted the procedures for disembarking. Mechanically, he checked his suit, as well as the pressure inside and outside the capsule. He made sure all the cameras and sensors were working, and then got the testing gear, extra camera, and flag. Everything was in order, except for the communications, which were still down. Andy frowned. This was a serious problem. With no contact to his team, he had no support, no updates about the mission – he was completely cut off from the world he knew.

There was only one thing to do: get out and assess the problem. Releasing the seal of the top door, he pushed it open and slowly climbed out – with the aid of the power joints built into his suit – into an alien world.

Rocks stretched out as far as his eyes could see, and mountains protruded against the horizon. Everything was coated in a fine, red dust. Some of which was still disturbed by his landing and settling on his helmet. With one gloved finger, Andy wiped it off slowly, as if in a dream. He stared at the streak of red, transfixed. Drawn by a force within him that he could not control, Andy eagerly moved forward, picked up a small rock, and examined it. “I’m holding a piece of Mars…” He turned the rock over in his gloved hands, marveling at it. Then he set it down, walked a few more paces, and picked up another rock, then another, and another… until he was walking with vigor out into the landscape. It was so alien and yet so beautiful. He could not describe what it was like, to be detached from all he knew back on Earth, to be the only living creature standing on a new world. But whatever the feeling, it was a good one.

A light from above caught his attention. The Voyazh was burning through the atmosphere, just now making the descent. As he watched, another thought entered his mind. The Russian hadn’t yet landed; Andy had done it. America had won!

Coming out of his daze and jumping into action, he set up the camera on a tripod and got out the collapsible flag pole and flag. He may not be able to send the video to Earth until he fixed the antenna box, but there was no way he was going to miss capturing this moment.

He smiled at the camera, planted the flag, and as the Russian ship blazed down to a landing behind him, Andy declared, “Man has climbed mountains. Man has traveled the sea. Man has learned to fly, even beyond his planet. Throughout all of history mankind has done the impossible, taking the most insane risks, just to see if we could. Now I, Andy Shepard - first man on Mars - am here as proof that the human race just can’t take no for an answer. Welcome to Mars!”

Andy stood with his arms outspread and grinned. No applause came, no reward or sounds but the Martian wind pushing dust around in the middle of nowhere. The adrenaline faded, but his smile did not. No one could see his great accomplishment yet, but they would. Hopefully they wouldn’t be too worried about him while out of communication. As much as he wanted to stay out here, forever roaming this plain as the king of Mars, he really needed to get back and fix the antenna box. He had only 8 hours before he would have to start the launch back to Ares 1. And there was a lot of work to do.

When Andy finally got back to his landing site, loaded down with samples and test notes, he was so tired out from the long hike that he didn’t at first notice the new shape among his equipment. It was a man in a Russian space suit standing next to the launch pad; his hands were behind his back, and he was staring, without moving, at Andy’s capsule. That’s odd, Andy noted. We are not supposed to intrude on each other’s mission. What is he doing?

Putting the question aside for now, he tuned into the short range communication frequency and called, “Ahoy Yuli! You made it! Second man on Mars, how’s it feel?”

Andy started striding towards the other man, trying to be a good sport without gloating too much. However, he stopped half way there. Something was off about the man, in the way he was standing, or the way he stared towards Andy, but not at him.

“Ah, yes. You have won the race. Just as you should have.” He inclined his head with a stiff movement, “Congratulations, I very happy for you.”

Andy studied the other man carefully, “You are Yuli Gagarin… right?”

“But of course. Why would you ask such silly question?” The accent was certainly Russian. That at least was true of him.

Andy put his hands up in defense, “I don’t know man, it’s just… Look, I may not personally know you, but I know enough about you and… I didn’t expect your reaction to be… so mellow.”

“How else would it be?” Yuli shifted his weight but didn’t move his arms.

Andy chose his words carefully. He was not trying to gloat, but he wanted to poke the other man’s ego enough to tell what he was thinking behind that blank, placid stare. Trying to put fact before fear, he asked, “I was expecting… Well, you weren’t the first man on Mars. Does that not make you upset?”

“No, no, not true. I am okay with that.” Yuri started walking forward and Andy’s feet instinctively wanted to move away. But he held still as the Russian continued, “Why don’t we celebrate together? Show me video now, I sure you have it. Let me see the greatest achievement since Apollo Landing. Americans sure know how to put on show.”

The urgent need to escape became overwhelming. Andy shifted his feet. “You know, I think I’d rather not.”

“Why? Are you so much better, great American?” His voice rose, “You and mangled politics, you people constantly bickering. You would be nothing without Russia to show you way!” As suddenly as he had shouted, he calmed, saying in a voice that was mellow and lolling, “But come, we are science men. Those troubles are far away on other planet. Just you and me, here, on big beautiful Mars.” He held out his hand, “So hand over video.”

Andy was dumbfounded. He’d done a lot of things during his training in preparation for this mission: isolation to evaluate his psyche, reviewing the mission details over and over, and practicing for emergences like low fuel or broken equipment - but nothing had prepared him for a rogue Russian.

He tried to retort with policy, “You know the rules of this mission. Neither side can interfere with the other.”

“I am trying to help.” He extended one arm from behind his back, holding up the damaged antenna box, now mangled beyond compare. “You have no communication. I will let you use mine, if you give video.”

Andy gapped at his only source for help - his life line - dangling dead in front of him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Get out of here man, you’re mad!”

Annoyance flashed across Yuli’s face. “Do as I say.”

“Hell no! I’m not about to hand over the evidence of all our hard work and accomplishment. We earned that and I ain’t allowing you to take that away.”

“What shame, I was hoping we could be friends.”

“Rivals are rarely friends,” Andy retorted. He could tell Yuli was itching for a fight. If he didn’t defuse the situation, one of them wasn’t getting out of this without a hole punched through his helmet.

Andy examined the man, and his eye was drawn to his other hidden hand. “What is behind your back?” he asked, trying to change the subject. Yuli smiled, but there was no warmth or stability in it.

“It is nothing of concern,” he said, slowly revealing and extending his other arm. In his grasp was a pipe, one end broken into a sharp edge. “If you do what I say.”

“Ok, you need to leave. Now.” Andy set the gear behind him and started walking bristly towards the other man. That’s when Yuli finally broke and charged. Andy got a foothold and kicked off the ground, trying to use his heavy boots - and power assisted legs – to kick the madman and land him on the ground. Before he could complete his move, Yuli caught Andy’s leg and jerked him down. Andy landed on his back, rattling in his heavy space suit and gasping for breath. A kick landed in his side. He recoiled, then rolled just as Yuli brought the broken pipe down where his helmet had been.

Andy kicked and swiped out the other man’s feet. He then tried to get up, but Yuli grabbed and dragged him down as he fell. They collapsed on top of each other and rolled. The only two living creatures on the whole planet, wrestling in the Martian dust.

Andy was aware of the amount of oxygen his heavy breathing was eating up and the risk he was putting his suit under. He’d been in fights before, but none with risks this high. Andy knew if he broke anything in the suit, even just tore the thick fabric, he was as good as dead. It was clear Yuli was unable to think straight or have any sort of control, so it was up to Andy to settle this - before it got any more out of hand.

Andy had the Russian pinned to the ground, but Yuli was thrashing around too violently for him to do anything but fend off the flailing pipe. Andy gritted his teeth and strained against Yuli, trying to get a better grip on him.

“What is your problem man??” he panted, exasperated at the situation.

“I need this!” Yuli shouted, “I will not bring shame! I must live up to what I was born to be! Like my father and grandfather before me!”

“Oh grow up. I’ve got the same shit,” Andy retorted. “You don’t think I’ve been compared to others my whole life? I’ve busted my ass, just like you, to prove my worth. Only I busted it harder and won. Get back on your ship. Go home. You lost.”

“No! You not understand,” he struggled more. “Can’t fly. My containers damaged, need your fuel.”

“My fuel?!” Andy glanced to his launch pad, only now noticing the empty places where the fuel containers had been stored.

The distraction was enough for Yuli to kick, dislodge Andy, and get on top of him. Andy caught the Russian’s wrists just as they were coming down on him. “What the hell man? You stole my fuel and now you’re trying to kill me? You trying to be sentenced for life or something?”

“We are outside laws, we are on different world, it doesn’t matter! One of us die here, no avoiding it. I must live, return with glory…” he trailed off, as if talking to himself.

“I have cameras everywhere.” Andy snapped him back to reality, “I will broadcast them, or someone will find them eventually.”

“I will destroy them all and tear your body to pieces, so they think you crashed. Only one of us can leave. No one will know you land first if I destroy videos. I need the video, I must win!”

Andy tried reasoning with him as he continued to wrestle, “Dude! It doesn’t have to be this way. I can help. There’ll be enough fuel for us both, I can make-”

“No!! I alone! I alone win!” Yuli was getting hysterical, and losing focus, at last allowing Andy to get the right leverage. He brought his knees up into the other man, pitching him off, and at the same time knocking the pipe from his hand and in the direction of the dropped gear - and the video. As they fell apart, Andy rushed for the pipe. He reached it first and scooped it up triumphantly, ready to make the other man submit and calm down. But when Yuli saw he’d lost his weapon, he fled in the other direction. Andy turned to see the Russian already sprinting away and disappearing behind the launching pad. He started to follow, when suddenly a Russian rover roared out into view. It sped off at top speed, heading to the Russian base, carrying Yuli and all the fuel tanks.

Andy watched it go. He had a sour taste in his mouth, but the rover was already too far away and going too fast for Andy to catch it without depleting the limited endurance he had left in his suit. Yuli was insane, there was no good outcome in pursuing him. Space travel was not for the weak of will. Let him fly back home, into the arms of the physiatrist, or do the world a favor and burn up on re-entry.

Andy sat, letting his heartbeat slow, and evaluated the situation. He was on Mars, in a beat up suit and capsule, with limited supplies, no communication, and a launching pad with no fuel. Finally, something his training had prepared him for.

72 hours had passed since the team at NASA had heard from Andy Shepard. They had done all they could to reach out, but the only information they gained was to pinpoint the failure to the capsule. This being the case, the logical conclusion was that the capsule had crashed, and Andy Shepard was most likely dead. However, they’d kept monitoring, holding onto hope that he’d survived - until the news of Russia’s successful mission hit the media.

The Mars team at NASA had watched in defeat, at the footage of a smiling Yuli planting the Russian flag on the surface of Mars. They’d listened to the press conference held by the official spokesperson at NSUA, waiting anxiously for some tip about Andy. Their worst fears were at last confirmed when one of the reporters asked, “What about the American astronaut? Was he sour about the loss? Did the two men meet? Are their more pictures you can show from the mission?”

The spokesperson responded in cool professionalism, “Unfortunately, it was reported that the American capsule crashed and was destroyed on landing. That is all the information we have to release.” The conference was ended soon after that, amidst questions of Yuli’s standing and thoughts. The mood was heavy at NASA that day. It had been the conformation they had been dreading, yet at the same time it freed them to move onto the next step, recovery.

The following day, part of the team was working to get one of the rovers the coordinates to the crash site, to see what was left. Everyone worked, quiet and sober.

Susan went to check the lines to the orbiting Ares 1. She had kept checking them ever since they’d lost communication with Andy. “Just in case,” as she had said, although everyone knew it was just because she was in denial. Nothing was there. Sighing, Susan turned to leave. But she froze and felt her heart jump into her throat when she heard the ping of a message coming through.

Her teammates looked up in surprise when Susan came running into the main room a few minutes later, shouting and waving her arms, “Andy is alive! He’s on the shuttle!”

The room became a buzz of activity. Everyone crowded in to see the video that had come through. Jaws dropped when they watched Andy plant the American flag, proudly standing for the human race and his country. And they cried in disbelief when they noted the Russian ship coming down from orbit in the background.

“How could this be?” they asked each other. “The Russians said our man had crashed. But this shows Andy was fine. Not only that, he was the first one there!”

“You all know what this means,” the commander of the mission said, a broad smile spreading across his face. “The Russians were lying! We won!”

The moment of stunned silence soon turned into fast talking, laughter, and even tears. The commotion was interrupted when another message come through. Susan wiped her eyes and quieted everyone before playing the recording.

“This is Andy Shepard. I am aboard the Ares 1. My communication was taken out while entering the atmosphere. I will make a detailed report. I am well and on my way home. As you can see, Yuli was not the first man on Mars. No doubt he has already submitted his own version of events. I am sending the footage from my time on Mars to set the record straight. However, I must preference it with a warning, and advise that much of this should be kept from the public.” Somewhere deep in space, seven minutes in the past, Andy sighed, “I think space broke him. He went bat shit-crazy - tried to kill me when I wouldn’t hand over the video of placing our flag. He then stole my fuel and used it. It took some doing, but I was able to successfully use the emergency equipment to convert the carbon dioxide on Mars into fuel. It’s all in the videos. Again, I would not release it to the public; we don’t need that unstable tension right now. The man needs help, or to be kept away from people; send him to the moon or something. Regardless, here they are.”

The videos slowly streamed in. Susan was the first to send back a reply as other members of the team jumped in to help, “We receive you loud and clear Andy. The videos are being downloaded and reviewed now. We’re glad to see you made it.”

After much hustle and bustle, the work was done, everything calmed down, and part of the team had gone to prepare for NASA’s own press conference. Susan was the last one left in the room, taking her time finishing up the report with Andy.

“That should be a wrap. Report is ready to be filed. It’s almost time for me to head home; someone should be in to monitor before long.” She paused then added, “You had us really worried there Andy. I’m glad you made it. Earth will be happy to have you back.”

Taking her time gathering her things, she caught the reply several minutes later, just as she was about to head out.

“Thanks Sue, but what’s space travel without a bit of drama?” he said in a playful tone, then added a little more seriously, “It will be good to be home again. God, what I wouldn’t give for a good cup of coffee.” And then playful again, “Think you could hook me up?”

Holding her coat in one hand, Susan felt a warm smile spread across her face. Striding back to the console, she replied, “Only if you don’t mess up this landing.”

From somewhere in the vastness of space, Andy grinned, his chest swelling as his second victory in the past couple days was accomplished. He whispered to himself, “Deal.” Mars was great, but Earth wasn’t sounding half bad right about then.

THE DAWN OF REASON

Dan Gallagher

D’mea and V’ea had known from childhood that they were different from the rest of their kind. The pair’s ancestors would become known a hundred thirty thousand years later as Homo heidelbergensis; their own progeny by two other scientific names, sapiens and neanderthalensis.

D’mea’s fingers were longer than anyone’s, and he was so tall that his chin met others’ foreheads. His head was noticeably larger, his mouth did not protrude, and his brown fur was so sparse that his skin had bronzed deeply again this summer. The thick-browed mutant peered across the forested valley, thousands of feet below the rocky summit he had ascended in order meditate; perhaps to mate with the only other like himself.

V’ea sat next to him on the rock, trying to rub away his goosebumps as chill gusts pared the thin fur on their torsos.

The sun began to dissipate the fog below. D’mea rotated the leather-strapped hip bag that held his obsidian and flints so that he could pull his almost human-looking mate closer. The pair stared eastward and squinted at the yellow ball that daily threw back darkness.

“Why does he move within us, D’mea, and not the others?” V’ea asked in a variety of tones that had never been possible for her parents, nor any relatives except D’mea. “Why do only we hear him who is as the sun?”

Perhaps… he replied, though his broad lips remained closed, we are not our people’s children. Then he spoke resonantly, almost singing to his mate. “You wish to mouth the words. Agreed. V’ea we are his, and we need know nothing more.”

V’ea frowned, dissatisfaction with the answer, as the pair continued to watch the sunrise and wrinkled their flattish, front-opening nostrils at the sweet, grape-like aroma now wafting uphill from the base of the waterfall below them.

“Samaya has spoken to me,” she said rapidly, as if unable to keep the secret inside.

D’mea sighed and flared his leathery nostrils. “Have you ever noticed that he never speaks within us? Always, he hides in an animal to speak. What do we need to hear from him who always boasts of his great understanding?”

“Understanding,” she replied simply. “Because we are more than our clan. Only we make lightning from flint; they cannot, even when we show them. They do not even wonder about things: Where the rivers flow, why there is only one breadfruit tree, how its sap cures any malady. They do not wonder why there is only one grape tree near it, or why it is forbidden!”

“We need know only that it is, V’ea. And should our kin be punished for not wondering?”

“We can know yet more,” she continued, ignoring his question. “We could make tools of all you see below, and fear no predator. Samaya says our children can own the world, and become like they who leave no footprints. I think we can own Samaya! His kind will do our bidding!”

D’mea recoiled, then grasped her almost hairless hand. “You speak of poison. We shall die if we but reach for the knowledge of how to do such things.” He rose and pulled V’ea to her feet. “Come, you will see that no animal eats of it, for they too would die. As-sun warned us many days ago, and needed no words. We need no words.”

They descended the craggy mountain top to a broad meadow of chest-high grass. A breeze rose strongly from across the Pishon River, swaying the towering breadfruit tree toward the equally tall grape tree. Plump, red orbs hung in bunches from the smooth barked giant. Sunlight refracted through the translucent fruit, giving the huge plume a shimmering appearance.

“Perhaps you were right,” V’ea said as they neared the tree. “We should not touch it… But if Samaya was right, and we and our children can become like— D’mea! Do not rush through the whip-grass! I cannot see the ground. You could be bitten-”

“You fear my friend the snake?” one of the curly sticks at their feet called, baring its fangs.

The pair froze, then slowly stepped back. The blotchy gray viper’s bulbous head opened ominously with each word. “I have entered this animal because I am its god. You, too, could be masters; gods. Eating these grapes would change your understanding, even your children’s. They would progress to manipulate all you see around you. You could keep at bay all dangers. No clan could oppose you. Your kind would progress to become makers of tools that could move on their own, even carry you to become founders of the worlds in the heavens!”

“D’mea give me the fruit!”

“No, V’ea. If we are to change to be above the mysterious ones, As-sun will change us.”

“You are already different from your ancestors,” interrupted Samaya. “This fruit enables you to reason like the angels sooner. In time, you and the races you spawn will not need As-sun. The primacy of your own will is a right and a pleasure that As-sun jealousy keeps from you.”

D’mea sweated as he considered the promises. Yes, he thought, I could be more, and our offspring… Perhaps I will not be responsible if V’ea tried it first, if I did not stop her.

V’ea tried but could not understand his thought. She stared at him, perplexed. “Speak,” she said. “Do you not agree that we can be more?”

D’mea silently avoided his mate’s gaze and stared at the fruit.

V’ea slowly reached past D’mea, his arms limp at his side. She twisted the branch, tearing its fleshy bark and exposing drippy red sap. She reached past a thorny thistle, curled thickly around a branch, to pull away a single grape. She crushed it to pulp in her mouth, as did D’mea.

“Have you died?” taunted the snake. “Soon the change will show you the truth. Each day, you will be more able to think beyond the now. Soon, you will have no need for As-sun because you have reason. Even I will fade as you rise. Sleep now.”

Refraction through the grapes faded. All receded from the pair’s consciousness.

After several hours, the sun reached mid-afternoon and D’mea opened his eyes groggily. The snake lay still, already rotting.

“Are you awake?” he whispered, shaking V’ea nervously. “I dreamed As-sun spoke to us in words, and not thoughts.” He began to absentmindedly braid three grass stalks.

V’ea opened her eyes and sat up to pull D’mea’s forehead to her own. I cannot hear your heart as you speak, she projected toward his mind. Tell me without words.

“I can barely hear you,” he said, visibly ill at ease. He gripped his throat and tried to swallow. “And I cannot feel As-sun inside,” he gulped hard and nervously drew his sharpened stone to cut another stalk.

“He spoke to me in a dream as well,” she whispered. “How long have we slept?” Then her eyes popped widely. “Time passes. How is it that, before, this did not occur to me?” She took the cut stalk from D’mea, wrapped it about the end of his braid, and tied it off tightly.

“He sent us away, V’ea, but we are still here. The dream is nothing. Samaya spoke nonsense.”

D’mea copied V’ea’s tie-off at the other end of the braid, and wrapped it about the end of a stout stick.

“I dreamed we had to leave here also,” V’ea replied, “but we remain. If the dream is nothing, why can I not hear him within?”

D’mea stood silently pondering the question. A nearby oak branch caught his attention. He broke off a fairly straight segment and returned to the limp snake skin, poking it with the stick and stabbing it with his stone. “I do not know. As-sun spoke of animals fearing us. Why would they fear us?”

“As-sun said the same in my… Why did I have the same dream?” She snatched the stick from her mate and pressed the blade inside the split end. “And do this right or do not bother!” she quipped, wrapping the braid tight at the rough edge, below its sharp tip.

“I do not know. And do not ask me why our hearts cannot speak. I do not know that either!” he yelled, teary eyed. “Tie it off like this, or the cutting rock will fall out and it will be useless!”

“D’mea?” she whispered. “What have we made so quickly? It took you years of trying different ways to flake obsidian so that the knife within it could be freed.”

Suddenly the foliage beyond the grass parted, and the grass began to rustle.

“Knife-tooth!” he shouted, immediately realizing the threat without seeing the animal.

“Thrust the stick!” she screamed, jabbing the air toward the oncoming pattern in the grass.

“No, he declared. “Get far behind me, and you will see.”

The disturbance began to take shape and color as it rapidly approached. Suddenly, a tan- and black-striped cat, fully twice D’mea’s size, bounded at them and leapt high out of obscurity to reveal its hand-length fangs and vicious claws.

D’mea jammed the blunt end of the spear into the ground, his left foot reinforcing the stop. He trained the spear directly at the animal’s chest. It descended, impaled, to almost crush D’mea underneath. He struggled, arms ripped by claws, out from under it, and pulled the spear out through its back.

“We are becoming as the gods, V’ea. And we remain here for supper; every meal!” he cried, triumphantly. “We will rule here, and not have to leave. The dream was just a dream.”

D’mea quickly sliced the carcass into strips, while V’ea crafted a rack to take the booty back to their clan. Both scanned the forest edge nervously for aggressive scavengers. V’ea split a dead limb and affixed the product as skids under the first primitive cargo-dragging travois.

“If we had a frame to hold a hollow log under that,” D’mea theorized, “we could-”

“Pull the whole carcass, and it would move more easily,” she interjected.

“Or make someone pull it for us!” he schemed, almost giddy. “A horse raised to obey, or one of the stupid ones back at the-”

Suddenly, a large branch snapped forward, propelled by a red, shaggy, muscular arm. There stood the largest primate ever to walk the earth: Gigantopithecus, progenitor of the much smaller Asian yeti. It was as tall an elephant, and looked as if it were a hybrid of an incisor-brandishing gorilla and a gangly limbed orangutan. It began ripping tree limbs from the forest edge and hurling them at the primitive humans. With a shrill growl, it flushed birds from trees in an explosion of wings and panicked screeching. It tarried at edge of the field, then suddenly sprinted on two tree-like legs at the pair, already racing away with their travois scantily piled.

“It will stop at the carcass,” assured D’mea, as he turned half-back with his spear in one hand and the travois in the other.

But the giant leaped over the butchered cat directly at them.

“Drop it and run to the Pic-hon!” cried D’mea.

The pair sprinted for the path that paralleled the river. As they entered the woods, they turned. As the beast reached them, they dove left below a huge fallen gopherwood trunk and splashed into the water. They struck the worn rock bottom and pushed up toward air as the current swept them along. The beast, bloodied from its impact with the tree, had flipped over it and was extricating itself from a bramble of saplings that ripped into splinters.

The two hominids surfaced and gaped incredulous at the skyline, well down the opposite bank. “The breadfruit tree! It’s gone,” gasped V’ea.

The beast raced along the bank, but lost speed as the pair accelerated into growing rapids.

“Stay in the water,” V’ea shouted, almost breathless.

“The ape still comes for us!” coughed D’mea.

The two locked arms, but suddenly rocketed out into foamy spray as they hurtled off a waterfall. Their descent seemed like a lifetime until they sank deep under the bubbling maelstrom at the bottom. D’mea managed to pull his mate onto a stone, only to slip onto a bifurcated log that dislodged. It carried them directly into another series of waterfalls interspersed by brutally rocky rapids. The only thing keeping them from passing out was the pain of its jagged branch stubs stabbing and scraping them.

Soon, the Pishon widened and deepened; but the water, fed by vast numbers of tributaries, remained swift. They slept, limb-locked and entwined among the log’s branches. Ten miles became fifty, and fifty became a hundred as the sun began to set upriver. They struck a tree leaning like a scoop out from the riverbank. They crawled, exhausted, up the muddy southern bank to gaze eastward, further downstream. With energy almost spent, D’mea pulled his mate a little higher up the bank onto the grass.

“We will be well,” he panted triumphantly. “Nothing, not even the dream, will destroy us.”

V’ea smiled weakly. “Promise? Then, the pillar of fire in my dream. It was in yours?”

“Yes,” D’mea insisted, his voice growing louder. “But I tell you: We will be w-”

“And the giant,” she exclaimed, tearing, “with an almost hairless torso, on hands and knees above us in a place where our children had made plants and fruiting trees to grow. He blotted out the moon, D’mea, and his chest rained down bloody sweat upon us – upon our countless progeny, who had become parched soil in the midst of the fruiting plants. And a snake, crushed beneath the giant’s feet, had bitten into his heel. These things, did they not haunt your sleep?”

“They did. But, look around: There is no pillar, no strange rain. We survive. We will make our own fire and be warm soon. Later we will make new kinds of weapons and return to our home to create a dynasty, for we are no one’s servants.”

“You are right,” she quavered hopefully, “I know the dream was false because As-sun sent an angel to wield a fiery club to keep us from returning, yet there is no such thing to be seen, even as the dark approaches… and As-sun does not sweat blood.”

The sun set behind them in that instant. They turned westward, upstream toward the volcano they once named Sina, meaning “to shine”. Later, after its forested sides would become rock, they would also call it “waste”, or Horb. But now, the sunset seemed to enflame the green mountain’s silhouette with a bright red halo. The giant of their dream stepped, gleaming too brightly white to gaze upon, from the crimson rays to fill a quarter of the sky. He pointed toward Sina and disappeared. A small figure, nearly as bright, appeared at the horizon to touch a glimmering spear to the volcano. Suddenly a white-hot eruption flashed silently up from its summit, and its smoke spun like a tornado. After a moment, a shockwave knocked the pair to the ground. That sonic boom seemed to reverberate powerfully within them.

Like gods? came the small bright figure’s thunderous psychic voice, electrifying their minds with dread. Who is like unto God?

UNDER A WAYWARD SUN

Josh Griffing

Livgren: A ripple passed over the entire ship as TFS Henley 864 dropped out of trans-light and the far-off blaze of Epsilon Aurigae lit the bridge in an orange glare. The giant star flared at the center of every viewpane, but nearer than the star and larger, a great elliptical disk of stone and dust cast a heavy shadow across the background of the outer galaxy. Commander Bart Livgren stood up from his captain’s-seat and pressed the intercom button.

“Attention, Attention! We are now entering Al-Maaz system. The primary is Al-Maaz, the ‘He-Goat’. As ‘Epsilon Aurigae’ it is the fifth-brightest star seen from Earth in the constellation of the Charioteer. Its binary is the dark plane in front of us: it’s Al-Maaz’s occluding disk that dims the primary three T-years in every twenty-seven. The Areans who discovered it named it Alzalam, the Darkness, but the B5 dwarf star at Alzalam’s center was named by an American on the TFS Petra 23 twenty-five years ago. As we cross Alzalam’s north plane, watch for the blue-white gleam of the Topeka Dwarf. Down near Alzalam’s center are three little worlds, and Fleet’s picked out the second planet for our landing. We’ve made it.” Hearty cheers echoed up the corridors as those who heard the news first replied, then the off-shift responded.

The pilot ran his eyes back over the figures, typed in the course correction, and pointed the nose of Terran Fleet Ship Henley, designator 864, across the great shadow that co-orbited the star. The orange giant cast shadows light-days long over Alzalam’s stony expanse. As Henley swept about to her new course, he turned to the Captain and smiled.

Livgren’s eyes surveyed the night-cycle shift at their stations. His crew were clean, efficient, but star-weary after the months of travel through the dark swift galaxy. “We’ve come quite a way, Dad,” the Commander murmured, looking again at the image of a young Helios Marine Third-Leftenant commissioning sixty years before. “Lt3 Livgren, Asa K.” was typed across the margin of the picture. The straight build, flaxen hair and sharp eyes were echoed in his son. Commander Livgren studied the pilot’s log for a few minutes, called up the ship’s stats, and addressed CPO Delaney.

“Chief, what do you have on Henley’s destination?” Livgren had already reviewed the feed from Petra 23’s mission satellite, unimaginatively dubbed PetraSat, ad nauseum. It was the only remnant of mankind’s first extra-solar mission still in Alzalam. It confirmed that the second globe of the occlusion-disk metasystem was indeed earth-habitable, with a carbon-based biosphere and green continents between its seas. But the captain’s thoughts were on the Signal more than the atmosphere: the atmosphere was supposed to be there; the Signal was an aberration.

“According to Ensign Williams, sir, there are signs of ‘Sapient Habitation’ in the southern hemisphere, based on certain geographic anomalies.” Katherine Delaney had been the Henley’s senior petty officer for half of Livgren’s career. Her tone put succinctly what she thought of “Sapient Habitation,” by which Jack Williams meant intelligent, alien life. The Xenospatial Survey Officer wasn’t two years out of the Fleet Cadet Corps, and the college fog still lingered behind his ears. “The Petra team made their drop on a bare prairie in the North Temperate Zone, sir, and none of their records even hint at natives,” Delaney reminded him. In accordance with his sealed orders, he hadn’t even mentioned the Signal to Delaney. But ever since they passed the threshold of Alzalam’s upper surface, a small LED on the endmost monitor had blinked in the regular pip-pip-ping of a Fleet tracking beacon that couldn’t be there.

“I remember the Petra landing, Chief: I was an ensign that year, remember? What about Carter and Latimore’s comments?” PO3 Latimore was a Dietary and Nutritional Health Technician on the Petra 23 advance mission (Delaney remembered when words were simpler and meant simpler things) and Starman-First Carter was her assistant. “A couple of cooks? Starmen who washed out of Fleet almost as soon as they got home?” Delaney scoffed.

“Half of Petra got out or was downsized after that mission. And I wouldn’t say Gunny Carter of Helios Marines washed out, either, Chief. But wherever they went next, both put ‘Inhabited’ in their post-mission debrief reports,” he reminded her. “I have no intention of field-testing our Ensign as Diplomatic Liaison until the colony ships arrive.” That could be months, if Terran Fleet had even sent them.

“Just those two? And just ‘Inhabited’ without giving any details, huh?” The Chief’s brow furled. “Just how and what did those two know about ‘inhabited’, and why did it get skipped over in every brief and data packet?” Delaney’s regulation-cropped hair stood just a little fuller and her eyes smoldered. “Something like that should have floated to the top immediately!”

“I can’t say whether it was malice or cowardice, or just bureaucratice, Chief,” Livgren sighed. “Pilot, is the Topeka Dwarf in sight yet? As soon as she clears the horizon, triangulate us a flight through her gravity well to rendezvous with PetraSat over Topeka2.”

“Gravity shot past TD to Topeka2 rendezvous, aye!” replied Leftenant Burroughs from the pilot’s station. “White dwarf star designated Topeka Dwarf showing corona now, sir. Orb visible on my mark. Seven, six, five…” he inhaled, “two, one, mark. Computer has a lock. PetraSat rendezvous estimated in nine-hundred-thirty-six hours.” Pip-pip-ping went the monitor.

Delaney: “Ensign Williams, what are we looking like, sir?” Delaney asked as the young XSO switched on the holoscape board fourteen hundred hours later. She steadied its near corner on the ration boxes and sucked a contraband cigarette. They were hard enough to get on Earth, and illegal in Fleet, but this was not Fleet when she was rockside. The breeze here on the alien moor was perfect for smoke rings. The holoscape buzzed briefly as the young officer adjusted a few controls, and a little model of the moorland sprang up in the middle of the table. A red-gold blip marked their current position, next to the blip that was the Henley’s lander. They were on the edge of a wide shallow basin of no notable size or depth: one of many that dotted the broad moor and gave windbreak to the few stands of bluish “trees” that festooned the highland. Some had no drainage at all, but this one drained to the southeast, opposite their present site. “It looks like what we saw on the way in, sir!” Delaney forced enthusiasm, and blew another smoke ring. “Okay, we’re here—no, more like here,” said Williams, finding the marker. “And the nearest water is here,” pointing into the digital basin beside the blip, where the PetraSat imagery drew a small stream flowing from the near bank, following the line of scrub trees down the drainage defile. “But we’ll have to go down there to learn if it’s drinkable or not.”

“Morrison, Fogerty, move your backsides this way!” Chief Delaney shouted. Two young spacers (but Fogerty was nearly forty, standard) trotted over and saluted smartly. “How soon will those bivouac habs be up? Yesterday I hope!” said Delaney as she returned the salute. It wasn’t a question.

“On it, Chief!” said Fogerty, and they hurried off.

“Petty Officer Hendrix, put together a water detail,” she shouted a minute later to a tall, burly spacer helping Morrison bring the habitat kit down from the lander. Hendrix whistled up four of his team when he set the box down, and started for the basin.

“Hold on a minute, Hendrix! Water testers before water jugs!” called Williams. “Just because the air’s safe doesn’t promise that the water won’t kill you,” and he handed Hendrix the hydrotox kits. “Seventy-five grand for that Hollywood ray-gun, so bring it all back,” the CPO reminded him.

“Yessir, Yess’am!” and Hendrix’ detail disappeared among the strange grey-blue-green trees of the basin. Delaney lit another smoke from the butt of the first. It was marvelous how much better they tasted in this brisk alien air. And after so many months on Henley under fleet rules, she hoped she’d still have the restraint to make her poor stash last the week. The XSO was preoccupied with his holoscape again, and she came around to the control panel to see what the problem was. Williams was a good and competent young officer, but he was an officer, and young. No matter how much better he understood the details of these new Fleet contraptions, he’d yet to break his teeth on the common principles of FleetKit generally: the lowest bidder won the contract when the Councilors’ kinfolk had no stakes in the game. The digital moor flickered in and out of view several times, and at several map-scales, and the assigned gridlines of the navigational coordinates changed color as they stitched across the pockmarked terrain. Cloud cover, approximating the summer cumulus above them, turned on and off. And over the southwest corner a big opaque rectangle stubbornly refused to give them any view to the ground beneath. The CPO leaned in for a closer look:

MapPerfect by PlanetScapes, Inc.

RealTime Land Data 1:250,000

North Latitude 49°54’05”

West Longitude 17°20’10”

Terrain Scan via PetraSat 7734209

Topeka2 — 1438 Hours — Thursday

There was nothing new except the reminder that it was Thursday. Henley 864 had laid a spread of GPS satellites in synchronous orbit as they arrived, so the holo knew its location within a centimetre whether one wanted it to or not. And without Greenwich, longitude was measured from the Petra 23 site, many klicks to the south-southeast. Delaney gave the map-card image a shove, and the entire holoscape blittered into enormous grey-green squares. The ensign swore under his breath, but as the landscape rendered and imagery resolution returned to normal, what Delaney saw was that the card was nearly out of view, with only MapPerfect by Pla… visible in the corner of the field. And there was something under it after all. Ensign Williams twisted a holographic dial at the north end to increase the resolution, and “something” resolved into a laser-sharp line across the lower map from north-by-northwest to south-southeast, perpendicular to the drainage. Topeka Dwarf emerged from its cloud cover in a lead-white flash, and Delaney slapped her deep-billed Fleet cover onto her ugly-but-regulation hair. The ensign scowled at her briefly, but said nothing.

“What’s this mark, Ensign?” she asked now. The angular path scarred the terrain where the datacard had masked it. It was clearly part of the landscape, and just as clearly not of the landscape. The edges were too regular, too sharply cut from the forest around it, and the grade was too level for the moorland. “Whatever it is, Chief, it’s not ours,” said the Ensign, “but I’d wager half my pay it’s artificial.”

“Damn,” the Chief muttered. “The Old Man will just love to see this!” Out loud, she looked at the ensign and smiled, thinly if sincerely. “Congratulations, sir! It looks like your Xenoculture Diplomat course won’t go to waste! We’ll get to see what heap of—pardon, hill of beans all those congressional theories amount to!” Williams stifled a groan. Delaney finished her smoke in one long drag until it burned her fingers and the ember died atop the filter. She blew a last smoke-ring and added the butt to a sealed bag in her pocket. The moor was drab grey, but even sans beauty it was very nearly unsoiled, and both Chief and Fleet meant to keep it that way.

There was a flurry of distant voices and Ensign Williams’ radio warbled: “Baptist-Six this is Baptist-One-Hotel, come in Baptist-Six!” Hendrix’ voice was like a boy on Christmas. Williams keyed his headset. “Baptist-Six.”

“We’ve got signs of life here, sir: some kind of game trail! Hooved, by the looks of it. Large mammals, though how they’re moving through this snarl is beyond me, sir. Definitely using the water hole, though.”

“What’s the mineral content say, One-Hotel?” said Baptist-Six. “What’s the purification category we’re looking at?”

“The pH is 5.05; carbon organics at Terran levels, though boron’s a little high. Big chloroplast numbers, but not out of range. There’s… hang on one… huh! Trace Metals is giving a blue line: says here,” there was a pause, “soils and substrates high in Chromium or Gold test blue. Not even the schoolhouse tests came back this strong, sir!” Williams looked at Delaney. If this place had chromium, and if someone was already exploiting the seam…. Problems have ways of metastasizing. “I’d give the water a class-IV purification, to be on the safe side anyway,” said the voice on the radio.

“Baptist-One-Hotel, Baptist-Six,” the ensign returned. “Describe the tracks, please,”

“Well, it’s cow tracks, sir, or something like a cow. Big cloven hooves like splay-footed cattle, or hogs. Not any hogs I’ve tracked before, though. I can’t place it.”

“Good work, One-Hotel. Bring the water and keep me posted. Class-IV sounds good. Electrolyze it as well: the Old Man will want to know what metals we’re looking at.”

“Good copy, Baptist-Six. Class-IV and electrolysis. Anything further?”

“That’ll do it, One-Hotel. Baptist-Six out!”

Hendrix’ detail returned with the water cans in due course, the hydrotox lids humming like drunken bees. The electrolytic decontaminators registered 30% metals decrease already. On one lid the low-power light blinked amber, and Delaney made a note to have them recharged. They’d brought only fifty gallons for twenty crew. Already the whole party were sweating more, and though the white-dwarf sun was already low, the air dried out their skin noticeably. With a gravity of 0.893 Terran, men could carry larger loads farther, but Hendrix was no slouch. Even as they set the water down, he made them drink. He left the broached jug with Ens. Williams and saw the remainder staged by the habs while the next round of jugs was filled. Fogerty and Morrison had finished the first hab-shelter and laid out the second. At Delaney’s signal, they set their tools down and came for their water ration. As they returned to work Delaney tried to calculate how often they’d have to refill those jugs. She contented herself with the count of the hydrotox lids’ batteries instead, coming up a case short. They’d have to make do until the next resupply from Henley. Four weeks, on the regular schedule. An emergency run was eighteen hours each way to Henley’s parked orbit, and in a real emergency it might as well be clear to Earth. Delaney logged a request for batteries in the next supply run and lit another smoke.

“See right here, sir,” Hendrix said, “where the tracks approach the water? There’s at least four or five of ‘em.” He held his wristcom up for Williams. It showed grey-brown mud, dotted with grass and trampled by cloven hooves of various sizes. “We found trails, coming and going, but I can usually tell if a hoof is fore or hind. These …” Hendrix shrugged.

“Jennings, what do you make of it?” he asked a Starman-Second-Class from Hendrix’ detail. Jennings pushed his curls back from his swarthy face and squinted before answering.

“Emus’ or ostriches’ by th’ walkaboot, sir! Me Abbo granddad taught me trackin’ before they paved the Outback, but no bird goes walkaboot on an ‘awg’s ‘oof, sir!” Hendrix nodded, and Williams acknowledged with a thoughtful grunt.

“Write what you remember,” the Ensign said, “and I’ll put it in the first report.”

Delaney looked around at the survey team in her charge—few had even ventured to Mars before, and now they stood on a strange world, beneath a sun they’d never seen—just salt-o’-the-Earth, red-blooded kids from the Sol worlds, lightyears from the rest of humanity and too near to beasts weirder than anything they’d heard of. God alone knew what He put in those woods. Evening insectoids began to bite as the orbital star disappeared. If the bugs were biting, anything else might.

Jennings: Xenological survey duties certainly have perks. On Friday, his first morning in the strange new world, Spacer Jennings witnessed the blazing star-rise of Topeka Dwarf from the woods beyond the water-hole. He raised his eyes from the transit-level and saw SP2 Carter silhouetted as the morning caught on her cropped red hair and the curve of her nose. He smiled and forgot the elevation of the slope entirely. On Saturday night, Fogerty lit a bonfire with deadwood from the forest and the dregs of a fuel barrel. Carter had her harmonica and PO3 Pudil unearthed a guitar, and everyone knew “Red Planet Blues” and “Bobbie McGee”, even if they didn’t remember Baton Rouge. Chef Waggoner passed around water in mess-hall cups with the dry spiced wafers that were everyone’s favorite Psood. Jennings tried to catch Carter’s eye, but only saw Spacer-two Thorogood smirking behind her hand.

“Look at them there stars, man!” Coe said in awe. “You don’t see ‘em that way back home!” Overhead the sky was sequined like the folds of an evening gown, except for the black swath of Alzalam hugging the horizon. Its shadow vanished behind the south-east treeline with a coppery glow. “Jennings, d’ja ever see such a thing?” Coe went on, “I don’t reckon we could see any constellations from here? Where’s our own sun?” Pudil opened into “Shanghai Breezes” and Jennings just shook his head.

Sunday, Ensign Williams gave them the day off, but like every day on Topeka2, it was over too soon. On Monday, Pudil and Jennings discovered that the chronometers were still synced to twenty-four-hour Terran days instead of the local 22:17. Fogerty worked out the re-sync code, and Hendrix gave Jennings game-trail duty as they mapped the terrain a hectare at a time. Some tracks were taloned, some three-toed like saurians’, some walked in neat lines, or on strange-shaped paws, and Jennings almost caught a black thing with triple-parted hooves no bigger than the paws of a cat. It hissed as it went to ground under a pile of boulders.

Henley’s survey teams pressed out from the bivouac a full kilometre, then two. Northward the moor ended in a granite bluff, and though they took many images of the view, there was no way down. Delaney joined Hendrix’ team on Tuesday, as they traced the cliff westward into rugged hills. Jennings was losing patience with his theodolite when her cigarette-smell and low tones interrupted him.

“Do you remember the McCain, Spacer Jennings?” He was not even born when the story broke, but it wasn’t forgotten in the Fleet. “The Galileo Fleet Commodore was sentenced for fraud over the Jotunheim disaster on Titan. That’s why a G-S Parts joke always has bite: cut-cornered equipment costs lives.” She took the theodolite from him and turned it over: the manufacturer’s plate said Government Standard. “It’s not your fault,” she said kindly. “Don’t destroy it; go ask Fogerty for another.”

He couldn’t take his eyes off the inscription: it was like holding a pirate’s own gun. The methane seas had burned for fifteen years, after a G-S Parts insulator failed and the McCain exploded. Three hundred people died at Jotunheim Depot in a wall of blue flame. Their names were on a plaque in Armstrong Hall at the Dianopolis Fleet Academy, just up the corridor from the First Footprints. Now Titan’s methane burned only in controlled furnaces at great O2 cost, outside of the terrascaped domes of the Hundred Habitations of the ice-mining world. The ice supplied Mars with water, and dry Areans shipped oxygen to Titan. But this world was made for life!

Southward the slope descended into wooded streambeds and game trails too well trodden to tell any tracks in the dry soil. On Wednesday Hendrix’ team was on the south of the bivouac, and as they broke out of the trees on the far side of the thicket, the top of the moor spread out before them wider than they’d imagined. But there wasn’t time for gawking. The slope, vegetation, drainage, soil properties and mineralogy were duly recorded, analyzed, and correlated hectare by hectare, and mapped to the holoscape server.

Williams: The landscape disappeared from the enormous hologram with the click of a switch, replaced by Henley’s Conference Room in real-time. Or rather, with the portion of it inside the projection frame of its own holoscape. A boxy object intruded from the Command Room wall. Ens. Williams sharpened the resolution and it rendered itself into the front of the Captain’s desk. The speakers buzzed.

“Can you hear me, Joaquín? Can you see the desk?” Leftenant Burroughs asked. “If you see the desk, set something into the frame on your side to mark the edge of the space.”

“I see it, sir,” said Williams. “Let me get something.” He marked his edge with a short file cabinet and set the coffee pot on its forward edge. The sound of brewing was clear in the Conference Room.

“Enough to mark our lanes, gentlemen. It’s time to do business,” came Commander Livgren’s baritone as his hologram stepped into the projection. “Michael, get me some coffee.” Burroughs’ voice trailed off, and the Captain leaned back against his desk. His fingers tapped the brass badge that proclaimed the desk a product of the “Government-Standard Prats” whose name once meant Fleet from Saturn to Sandusky. “Is a CPO with you, Jack?”

“She is now,” Williams answered as Delaney returned from her rounds. “Chief Delaney, thanks for joining us,” he said, as she saw the Captain. Hologram or not, he was six feet tall and square-shouldered, with close-cropped cornsilk hair trying not to gray about the ears. She set her coffee down slowly.

“What’s this bogey you’re telling me about? Some kind of beacon down south?” the Captain asked.

“Yes sir: we’re getting a signal through the holoscape like one of the NavSats lost orbit too soon and came down in the woods south of here.” The ensign shrugged: “It doesn’t make sense, but there’s nothing else it can be. Chief?”

“Maybe we should show you, sir,” Delaney put in. “I’m switching to holoscape now. Look to your right, below the ridgeline.” She refigured the settings and Commander Livgren was replaced by the landscape outside. The bivouac was six tiny boxes in the middle of the moor. Southward, the green light blinked in time to a tinny pip-pip-ping.

“That’s no satellite, Captain,” Leftenant Burroughs’ voice came over the speakers. “That’s the HYPERION beacon!”

“Secure the room, Jack,” came Livgren’s order. “This conference just became Capital-Level classified.” As Delaney soundlocked the door, he continued, “What do you know about HYPERION?”

“It’s a faster-than-light signal system developed at Jotunheim to send messages back to Mars without losing them in Sol’s plasma: within a month-standard it was breaking Einstein’s Wall and sending clear speech between stations at mutual apogee. It’s the basis for Fleet’s ultrasecure computer network and all of the translight technology. Past that, sir….” the Ensign shrugged, forgetting the Captain couldn’t see him.

“That beacon’s not just a local broadcast, Jack,” came Cdr. Livgren’s voice. “It’s a HYPERION transmitter, and it amplifies itself from every star it cuts through. It flies from here to Mars in a month, faster than we fly, and the light they see from Almaaz was new the year Rome fell.”

“What are you saying, sir?” Delaney asked cautiously.

“It’s no accident we put you down on this part of the planet, Katherine. That’s a Petra 23 personnel beacon, and Fleet is mighty keen to get it back.”

Jennings: “W’at d’ye make o’ this track, Carter?” Jennings asked her one morning in the Hab-B Mess. It was the Friday after the bonfire, and they were the last ones at breakfast. He pulled out his surveyor’s log, with its daily notes and the images of the waterholes, the types and varieties of tracks (several dozen kinds), and the water and soil sampling results. This was yesterday evening’s entry, from a bog-pool just off the south rim of the moor, two klicks south-southeast of the bivouac. Carter spared it a glance.

“It’s a footprint. So what?”

“Do yah no’ see wot this means, Carter?” Jennings pressed.

“It means you washed your socks! Good work! I’ll toss this Psood and see you ‘round!” She tousled his curls with her hand as she got up, and carried her plate of Psood crumbs back to the kitchen. It was Processed-Nutritional-Diet, engineered for translight voyages, harsh conditions with minimal resupply, but PND was Psood to half the Fleet or more, and even Carter knew it was short for Pseudo-Food. That mocking the rations was a tradition older than flight itself wasn’t something she cared about, any more than it mattered to her what Jennings saw in his footprints, but he was cute enough to keep her teasing him.

Jennings watched her go, and looked down her length to her slim boots. Then he looked back at his footprint picture and bit his thumbnail.

That evening, the beast came through their bivouac. It was the first native animal of its size they’d seen since they landed, though it couldn’t have made the hoofprints with its splayed toes and loping stride. It swung a great bony head from side to side as it ran, sweeping the maintenance crews with beady eyes and snapping its melon-sized beak at no one in particular. Its cries cracked glass in the mess hab, and echoed from the forest like a madman’s ululations. As it blundered up the avenue between the habs, Jennings stepped out of Hab-D, drying his hair from the shower and hoping to ask Carter about the footprint again. The second thing he saw was that the enormous biped had saurian feet and no forelimbs whatever. The first things he saw were the pair of spears in its back. Red blood spilled down its flank and spattered from its swinging tail. Its blind panic drove it violently onward, caroming off the habs with enough force to crack the structural ribbing. Already a whole section of Hab-C’s bulkhead-skin was crushed precariously inward. The frightened screams of his sisters-in-arms tore even Jennings’ mind from the wonder of the strange new animal, and he rushed to open the door, already buckling under the stiff weight of the shell above. Through the racket he could make out the Chief’s voice, PO3 Young’s (higher and shriller than the rest), and Carter’s. The door wouldn’t budge. Chief Delaney ordered him away from the compromised wall, as the steel-tube bunks (of that same ageless twentieth-century design) were the only things effectively delaying its collapse.

“Nobody’s injured; we’re coming out the back! Get the Ensign over here, kid. We need a barrier between us and the woods!”

“Right with you, Chief!” Ens. Williams’ shouted from behind him. The XSO clapped him on the shoulder and nudged him aside. “Meet me in the Command Room when everyone’s accounted for!” To Jennings he said, “Well don’t just stand there, Spacer! Go after it!” With another glassshaking scream, the wounded animal collapsed at the far end of the bivouac, 350 metres from the secured perimeter but only twelve from the generators. Its echoes rang off the rocks in a last frustrated shout, and every noise but the groans of the crippled hab-shell was suddenly still. Blood flowed quietly down the monster’s sides from the deep-sunk spears.

Jennings approached the Beast carefully, reverently, and laid his hand on the thick tail. The skin was dirty, and hot to the touch. Blood squelched underfoot in the Topekan grass. It was like an armless dumb Goliath stretched along the generator fenceline, six cubits and a span from tail to beak: three good metres, if not more. Like an accidental shepherd-boy the spacer stepped up beside its head and looked into the great bottle-green eye. The cruciform pupil twitched wide to a diamond and snapped tight again, over and over, unseeing. The beak spread painfully open to scream again, but only a rasping croak came out. He felt around the back of the creature’s skull, as gently as he could, and down the side of the neck where the hide felt thinner his fingers found the stuttering pulse. The great green eye continued to flicker, fighting in vain for sight. Jennings pulled his service knife and drove it hilt-deep into the neck where the pulse was. The grey hide was tougher than he’d anticipated, and thicker. On a Terran beast this should be the carotid artery, but here? The hot blood spurted over his hand and uniform as the beast convulsed once more, wrenching the knife from his grip with a snap of steel, and lay still. He drew a slow breath and wiped his palm on his trouser-leg. His own pulse surged in every vein. A careful test assured him that his arm wasn’t dislocated from the last sudden spasm. Hendrix and Collins were coming from the habs, and even the work detail Ens. Williams had set to repair Hab-C were watching him as he grabbed the gory hilt with both hands and pulled. The knife stayed where it was, clenched in the neck muscle by the monster’s dying spasm. With a boot braced on the creature’s hard skull, he sawed against the binding flesh until, bit by bit, the knife came free. The last three centimetres of the blade had snapped off in the wound. The alien spears cast long shadows as the white-dwarf sun dropped past the western trees.

The carcass was duly measured, weighed (slung under the dropship) and extensively photographed, with and without the crew posing in front. It was Carter’s idea to call it a Toto because, as she put it, “We sure ain’t in Kansas anymore!” Cook Waggoner had sent word to the Henley even as the beast collapsed, inviting all comers to a barbecue. Another campfire was laid, larger than before. Fogerty improvised a spit from perimeter fence parts. The women were moved to Hab-E, the men of E crowded into D and F, the carcass was portioned into cuts: two odd-shaped sides, two legs as big as sheep, and 109 kilos of tail-flesh. The hide alone weighed forty-eight. They worked by arc-lights until the work was done. The freezer in Hab-B was packed solid with meat and the leg that didn’t fit was just set to turning over the fire as Topeka Dwarf cleared the eastern treetops.

The Ensign gave them the day off— except the paired fire-guard, tasked that neither meat nor bivouac burn, changed alphabetically on even hours. The last thing Jennings remembered as he fell into bed were red-gored spears in the slain beast’s back. Somehow they were more portentous than whole months of eating only psood. Someday he’d solve that riddle, and make Carter notice him.

Williams: The Toto’s leg took a long time cooking, despite Chef (PO2) Waggoner keeping the fire under it and Supplies PO Fogerty maintaining the spit-motor. On the first night after the Toto came, Waggoner put a half-slab of tail in a roaster and smeared it with the psood-pepper No.5 that Fleet issued for meat-like dishes. After three hours the meat was cooked through and tender, with a charred film that flaked off in chunks at the touch of a fork. Beneath the carbonized psood was the pale-pink, succulent meat. It was like emu, or rattlesnake, someone said. Collins was shouted down for suggesting nut-fed venison. Seconds would be necessary to confirm the argument.

“And for the hunters of whose game we eat, Lord. Amen,” Ens. Williams concluded. “Baptist-Six out,” said Chief Delaney as he looked up. They were the last of the team to eat. The chief scraped the char from her meat and cut a bite. Her after-dinner cigarette fell from behind her ear.

“Damn coffin-nail!” she muttered, jamming it back into place. “That reminds me,” she continued, “are those spears still in the Command Hab washroom? What do you intend for ‘em, sir?” Williams chewed slowly a while before answering.

“Haven’t really decided yet.” He tapped his plate idly with the tines of his fork. “The way Toto joined our table, there’s a real chance someone may come looking for him.” Chief Delaney looked up at him. “But who? Did Petra 23 leave settlers behind?”

“No. I’m fairly sure they all made it back to Dianopolis. It confirms one thing, sir: we are on an inhabited world here.” Neither mentioned the beacon pip-pinging on the holoscape.

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, sir; the team’ll want another Baptist-Six homily, if you know what you’re speaking on,” Delaney said. She didn’t often attend, herself, but several others on the team did. “Why not ‘He Giveth Them Meat in the Wilderness’?” She reached for his plate. “Seconds?”

“No. No to both, in fact. That’s not the right chapter at all. Chapel at 0930 as usual; I’ll think of something.” He collected his tray and rose to go. “The Captain’s due in tomorrow afternoon, along with the first team for the barbecue. It better be ready for them.”

He detoured past the turning spit to check on the fireguard, now manned by SP2 Thoroughgood and Vanhalen. Alphabetically paired so often, they’d been allies since Henley left Jotunheim and slung past Neptune into deep space to fire. Williams found them busy with a card game on the other side of the fire. There was little risk of anything burning down, however; Vanhalen barely glanced at her wager, for all her fidgeting and peering about in every direction but at the game. Thoroughgood, usually the first to take an advantage like that, was worse if anything. Jack watched her miscount her cards thrice in four turns, and at least as much of her watch was on the copse cloaking the waterhole as on anything else. When Jack shoved a large stick into the flames and sent up a roar of sparks, both women jumped up in alarm. Only the XSO’s quick hand saved the four of spades from burning.

“How’s the watch, Vanhalen?” he asked. She clutched at her chest dramatically as she caught her breath.

“Ga’e me a fright, sir,” she wheezed. “A fright!”

“‘T’s naught, sir. Think naught on’t, but…” Thoroughgood’s voice trailed off. She coughed. “Somethin’s in th’ trees, sir! By th’ water’ole!”

“What did you see? Anything? What did it look like?”

“Nothing t’ see, sir. But Thoro an’ mysel’, we ‘eard ‘em up an’ down th’ trees all roun’ the bivvy syn’ our shift started.”

“There aren’t trees all around the bivouac, Vanhalen,” Williams said. “Are you all right, Spacer?” She swallowed and nodded, but Williams wasn’t sold. “You two are released from watch for the next week; I’m relieving your shift early. Report to the Chief after you send Waggoner down for his watch. Now go.” They went.

Now the Ensign was left alone. He was out of the habit of fire-watch: in the Fleet it was usually something only junior Spacers did, not officers, but he relished the quiet and the fresh evening air. A high, sweet warble came like birdsong from the copse at the water-hole; the last blue glow of daylight silhouetted the treetops. Best of all, there were no screens or holos, no double-blind security logins or mandatory reporting deadlines or forms awaiting his signature. The night-bird warble sounded again and he smiled.

Footsteps approached from the mess hab. He turned to Petty-Officer Waggoner as the scrawny cook trotted around the fire. The cook saluted smartly.

“You wished to see me?”

“It seems it’s our fire-watch, Curtis,” Williams returned the salute. “And by the sound of that motor, it’s time we changed the battery.”

Topeka Dwarf has fully set now, and but for the bonfire itself and a few hab lights, the bivouac was in darkness. The disc of Alzalam, from where he sat, was a lightless smear of rock and star-ash blotting out the southern sky. Williams remembered Vanhalen’s distress and was thankful that Waggoner was on hand for backup.

The spit hung idle, brown gravy dripping into the bonfire with a fragrant hiss. The XSO swapped out the battery from a case on hand, while the cook checked the color of the meat. “How’s it look, cook?” Williams asked as he slapped the battery cover into place.

“Not there yet, but it will be by tomorrow!” Williams threw the switch to restart the motor as the cook went on, “The thing here, sir, is to bank the coals underneath it here, where it’s fattest and still raw next to the bone. None of your tall flames to scorch the—” Waggoner broke off abruptly with a burning branch still in his hand. Williams followed his gaze. Somebody was standing at the edge of the wood, watching them. “Hendrix,” the cook protested, “what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” He lifted the firebrand as a torch and Williams checked his chronometre.

“It’s twenty-one-naught-eight: we’ve still got work to do tomorrow,” the Ensign said aloud. “Know what that means, Hendrix?” But the fellow was gone.

“Prob’ly just had to piss on a tree and stretch his legs,” said Waggoner, prodding the red coals into a pile under the meat. As the spit turned over a little stream of bloody gravy drooled from the cut where he’d checked the meat. “Damn, I’m glad these E.T.s are edible, as good as that smells, sir.”

“There’s no doubt, now; Topeka-2 is a good world. Humanity will be able to settle here and thrive here.” The night-bird call warbled again. “But what are we up against here? If we can breathe this air and eat these meats, then this world’s parasites and disease are compatible too.” He ought to check the re-entry medical logs for a crew roster and more. His eyes strayed to the woodline. Both men shuddered a moment and renewed their watch with stern vigil. Gravy dripped into the coals from time to time. PO1 Young and SP3 Adams were to relieve their watch at 22:17— local midnight since the calibration. Another long half-hour to go.

Williams: He slept like a king laid in state that night, but woke weary and none the better. At breakfast the crew were on edge as well; it seemed like every watch had seen or heard something in the wood last night, and even between those who’d shared a watch there was little agreement on what they saw or heard. He stirred his coffee and set the digital bookmark for his homily at Isaiah 55. The baconite was better than usual today, but he’d best get ready. He forced down his coffee, and poured himself another cup.

By midday, whether by the power in the Ensign’s homily or the smell of meat in the air, most had forsaken their worry and distress, at least on the surface. Chief Delaney announced that the first shuttle from Henley was due in shortly. Commander Livgren didn’t hold so fast as some to the old punctuality paradox by which all that weren’t early were late, but made a point, for his own part, to frequently arrive well ahead of schedule. But here he was, just two hours out. Williams returned to the Command Room and called up the Petra medical close-out file. Here they were: clean bill of health, stayed in; clean health, stayed; service injury, medical discharge (a cargo accident on the return flight); clean health, stayed; clean health, retired; skin infection of alien origin (responsive to antibiotics), quarantined until well then stayed; clean health, stayed; clean health, stayed. He checked the numbers: everyone was accounted for. Clean health, stayed. Pregnant, Captain’s-Wedding and a maternity discharge. The next name caught his eye.

“Sir, I need to show you something before the Commander gets here,” the CPO interrupted him. He gestured at the names but Delaney was urgent. “You need to see the holoscape now, sir!” she insisted. He rose reluctantly and stepped over to the glowing map-array where the green light kept up its steady pip-pip-pinging.

“Whatever that is, it’s practically on top of us, Chief!” The light blinked just inside the woodline at the waterhole, barely out of sight from the barbecue fire. It had been several days since he last noted it, but it wasn’t nearly so close, before.

“This is the past forty hours, sir.” Delaney entered a time for Friday evening. The green light was now well down a stream bed a mile or so off. “First at an hour in ten minutes: this is Toto’s arrival.” The light dashed forward, dodging across the terrain frenetically until it nearly burst out of the trees, then flinched away and circled the bivouac at a careful distance. A chime on the southwest corner of the holoscape interrupted the playback. “What is it now?” Williams acknowledged the tone and the holo reverted to real-time. The green light was in the copse above the waterhole. The holo scaled out to a ten-mile radius to a red light in the southwest corner, approaching the bivouac. The holoscape identified it as Henley-6.

“That’s our cue for the shuttle-pad, Chief,” Williams said. He secured his data portal. “But whomever has our beacon was on that hunt, and the boss needs to know at once.”

Waggoner and Fogerty were already carrying the massive leg and its spit down from their rotary bracket to the metal tables set out to receive it. Hendrix supervised the dismantling of the motor and its gearing. The surge of the inbound shuttle’s engine was plainly audible as Delaney and Williams started for the landing zone. Space had been cleared for a second lander beside the first. As soon as they reached it both of their comms came to life.

“Baptist-Six Baptist-Five! Henley-six here, how copy?” came CDR Livgren’s familiar voice in their earpieces.

“Baptist-Five copies,” said Delaney.

“Baptist-Six copies: go ahead Henley-six,” said Jack.

“Henley-Six coming in low and hot to your six, with fifteen souls aboard. Let me know when you have visual.” The lander was a dark-red comet blazing in above the southern treeline. Delaney pointed and Williams could just make out the trailing plume of smoke and the gleaming missile at its head.

“We see you, sir! Bring her in easy: the Chief and I have something here to show you.” Someone at the campfire had started up an old-time rock-n-roll song on a guitar, but it was lost in the engine roar as the lander braked in and settled its skids on Topekan soil. Lights on the thruster cowls cycled from red to green as the engines cooled, and the moment the gangway lowered, the CPO and the Ensign were waiting for them.

Commander Livgren was the last to disembark, after an eager crowd of crew and officers from Henley’s medical and maintenance sections, chattering eagerly about their first walks on an alien turf and the promise of the extraterrestrial barbecue. Williams saluted the commander smartly for both of them as the crowd moved off toward the campfire.

“It’s a pleasure to see you two, Juaquin, Chief,” the Captain returned the salute and breathed deeply, ignoring Chief Delaney’s attempt to discreetly light another cigarette. “The fresh, clean air here makes me feel almost young again!”

“I have to tell you what we learned about the HYPERION beacon, sir,” said Williams as they walked. A rock-n-roll chorus came up the breeze from the barbecue. “Somebody’s been carrying it— not a Henley or a Petra, either, as both crews are accounted for.” Delaney looked up sharply and sucked too hard on her cigarette. “Whomever’s carrying it, they’re the same ones who speared this barbecue for us, sir. And as of just an hour ago, the beacon was between the bivouac and the waterhole.”

“That’s too close,” Livgren said. “We brought you another hab-kit, Chief,” he assured her, with a nod at Hab-C’s remains. “But we can’t have wild animals running through the bivouac and wrecking habs every week. These things are expensive!

Williams unlocked Hab-A and they stepped inside. Chief Delaney fired up the holoscape while Williams grabbed the spears. “These were in the beast when it died, sir,” he said.

“And the hunters are here,” Delaney touched the green light, “between us and our water source. That thermal anomaly is the campfire and all of our crews.”

“What course do you recommend, Katherine? Invite the neighbors for dinner?” A sudden commotion outside cut the music off short, and they hurried out to intervene. Jack Williams still carried the long wooden spears in his hands. As abruptly as it began, the clamor died. Livgren’s trio approached the picnic in silence, and Williams realized what the crew were staring at.

“You suggested asking them to dinner, sir. It appears we already have.”

On the far side on the sward stood five tall figures, taller than men and armed with spears three metres long. Their faces were keenly intelligent but not quite human. Above leather belts and loincloths their naked torsos were like hairy men’s, but their hips and legs, more hairy still, were doubled back like an ox’s, and ended in hard round cloven hooves. Long tufted tails swished behind their knees, and rams’ horns curled above their temples. Thick braids hung down their backs, and their beards, too, were braided. The second of the visitors, counted from the left, was plainly a female, though dressed like the males in every point but having a beard. She spoke softly in the ear of the tall male in the center, plainly the leader, who addressed the gathered crews of Henley’s landers.

“What one is the Lifkren?” His voice was resonant as he formed the strange words carefully and deliberately. His eyes swept the Fleet crew like those of an admiral surveying his newest Spacer-Recruits from the bootcamps. Human eyes shifted uneasily, and several men set their plates down on the grass to stand up.

“At ease; take your seats!” ordered the Captain. “Commander Bartholomew A. Livgren of Terran Fleet, captain of translight ship TS Henley. These are my crew, and my bivouac here on this world. Please, welcome mhwadhuran, join us as guests to our feast!” The visitor’s eyes locked with the captain’s.

Everyone began to talk at once, among their own groups especially, as the male Topekans gestured in recognition of the spears Williams still held, identical to their own. Several of Livgren’s crew gawked openly at the native female, and Fogerty rushed to pile a metal mess-hall plate with steaming slabs of meat. He added fork and knife almost in afterthought before hurrying to present it on bended knee to the leader of the strangers. The creature pinched of a mouthful with his hard brown fingers and ate it slowly, his eyes never leaving Livgren’s as the Captain advanced between his staring crew.

The female turned excitedly to the younger male on her right to chatter an urgent instruction, which was relayed back into the forest behind them. Apparently these five were not alone. There were sounds and movement in the wood behind them. Williams felt his fingers beginning to numb and he forced his hands to relax their grip on the spears. The strange chief passed a handful of meat to the female, then to each of the males on his left and to the youth who called into the woods, without speaking again. One of the males sniffed the roast uncertainly but all ate as their chieftan had. Livgren laid a hand on Fogerty’s shoulder. Fogerty stood up, handed his plate to the chief and retreated to the relative safety of the serving table.

The natives were moving aside, even as they ate, for two more figures who made their slow way out of the forest. The pace was set by a matron well past her prime with gnarled horns and thin gray hair in two braids over her shoulders. Behind her walked a sunburnt youth, barely a man, with straight blonde hair to his braid. He was dressed like his companions but startlingly hairless in the leg by comparison. He walked on his whole foot, which ended in five thick-nailed toes— but toes! But for two stubby horns curled up from his brow, he looked the image of young Asa Livgren from the Captain’s photograph. In his hands he held a battered tracking gauntlet of a generation earlier, before Terran Fleet integrated comms and trackers directly into their uniforms. On the front was stenciled TS Petra-23 and at the elbow was a serial number from Government Standard Parts. Beside the cracked comm-screen a small green light went pip-pip-ping. At a prompt from the females, he descended to one knee as Fogerty had and held the gauntlet out to Commander Livgren.

“I have repaired your beacon, Father-Mhwadhuran,” the horned youth said.

THE HIDDEN CONQUEST

Hans G. Schantz

Circles everywhere. Circular arches that ought to have been proper catenary curves, circular doors that should have been more practical rectangles, circular room perimeters that should have been square or even hexagonal if engineering efficiency were preferred.

Why must it always be circles?

The Chief Engineer knew the answer to his own question. The world’s ruling body had been known as the “Civic Circle” since long before the Troubles that made the Circle’s de facto global control de jure. Some architect with no more talent than subtlety thought it clever to design as many circles as possible into the architecture of the Great Hall of the People.

He had no time for architectural criticism, however. The fate of the Great Project was at risk, perhaps even the fate of the world itself. The Chief Engineer had exhausted all avenues of inquiry and every other option. He was being deliberately stalled and delayed until it would be too late. He knew it, now. He had to break the cycle he felt closing in on him. His only option was an appeal straight to the top.

He took a deep breath and continued purposefully across the atrium toward his appointment.

The Chairman himself almost never granted an audience, and was rarely seen, even by the rest of The Thirteen, the inner circle within the Civic Circle. Only by arguing he had special information for the Chairman’s ears only, and that catastrophe was imminent, had the Chief Engineer managed to secure a meeting. Precious minutes were consumed passing through the tight security surrounding the Chamber of the Thirteen and the Office of the Chairman himself. Finally, he passed the last obstacle.

“The Chairman will see you now,” his receptionist said, opening the circular door. The Chief Engineer stepped through.

“Thank you for granting my emergency request for a meeting. I have an important matter to bring to your attention.”

“What matter could possibly be of greater importance than your close attention to your duties?” the Chairman asked. “The Great Project lies at the cusp of another major milestone. We are only two days from launch. Your latest report shows everything ready. The countdown continues. Events vindicate my wisdom in choosing you to lead the technical side of the Great Project. I trust you will not make me regret my decision by neglecting your duties.” Two guards stood impassively on either side of the Chairman.

“Everything is ready, and my subordinates can spare me for a few hours. In any event, I’m not here regarding the vehicle,” the Chief Engineer replied, “but rather about the payload and the mission.”

The Chairman looked sternly at his subordinate. “The mission parameters are outside your purview. Your responsibility is for the vehicle that will deliver the payload to the target.”

“Were you aware that the payload has been changed at the last minute?”

“Yes, I am,” the Chairman replied. “I ordered it.”

Surprised, the Chief Engineer could only ask, “But why?”

“To forestall any last minute questions or concerns such as those you bring me today.”

“I’ve only now become aware of those mission parameters and their implication.” The Chief Engineer returned the Chairman’s gaze. “This mission aims for nothing less than cultural genocide. Our prime directive should be to preserve alien life and alien culture, not wipe it out.”

“You’ve been reading forbidden literature, haven’t you?”

The Chief Engineer averted his eyes in an implicit acknowledgement of guilt.

The Chairman continued. “We recognize that the boundary between useful trivia and forbidden knowledge may not always be clear cut. The censors tend to err on the side of safety, occasionally suppressing valuable concepts. Also, even toxic notions may sometimes be put to use in a safe manner. That is why senior, trusted personnel, like yourself, are granted wide discretion to review forbidden knowledge and original literature from before the Troubles, in the expectation that your superior wisdom will keep you from the folly of entertaining dangerous ideas.”

“I understand. I do. But our mission amounts to the conquest of an alien world.”

“Conquest?” The Chairman scoffed. “Now I know you’ve been reading forbidden literature – speculations of vast craft hurtling across the interstellar void, bombarding alien worlds into submission, wars between galactic empires. Nonsense! Primitive writers drew crude analogies to naval warfare from our barbaric period, extrapolating that we might someday sail the interstellar void as readily as we sail our own oceans. As an engineer, you should know better. Faster-than-light travel is a ridiculous proposition – wishful thinking. Even with our advanced technology, we can convey only modest, compact robotic probes between the stars, and journeys to our nearest neighbors still require decades.”

The Chief Engineer listened respectfully as the Chairman continued to state the obvious.

“We sent robotic probes to explore the worlds and moons of the solar system, long before we established footholds on those worlds. Robots have always preceded us, gathering data, exploring the vast frontiers above us. This first exploration of another inhabited world is merely more of the same.”

“I grew up learning about the spectacular discovery of sentient life on another world,” the Chief Engineer pointed out. “My grandfather was on the operations team for those early fly-by missions – tending the vast lasers that launched those tiny probes toward nearby star systems. My father told me stories of the excitement when one of the first interstellar fly-by missions delivered images of sentient activity – evidence of agriculture, irrigation systems, even primitive settlements and camps. He was a member of the team that began the design of the much more sophisticated vehicles capable of doing more than mere fly-bys – capable of slowing down and actually delivering payloads to orbit around destination worlds, even attempting a landing on that alien world with a robotic probe. Our goal has always been discovery, to seek to understand these distant worlds, their inhabitants and their civilization, to someday visit and establish peaceful relations with them. We’ve been working toward that goal for generations, now. But that’s not what we’re doing. This mission aims at nothing less than the cultural conquest of an alien world.

“Who designed this probe?” The Chief Engineer gestured deliberately, transferring an image from his own encrypted data storage to the Chairman’s holographic display. The probe’s humanoid shape was vaguely menacing; its IR sensitive photoreceptors gleamed a dull red against the silvery appendage that roughly corresponded to a face. In the animated image, it seemed to exhale a blue flame as it expelled the super-heated plasma that was a byproduct of a sophisticated, compact fission reactor. “Where did it come from? I am responsible for the mission hardware design, yet this alternate probe has been chosen to replace our lander at the last minute. No one can tell me who designed or manufactured it.”

“The probe design team reports directly to my office. You are not privy to all the features of the mission,” the Chairman explained patiently. “Hence your confusion about our mission aims and purposes. Our new probe consists of a long-lived robotic AI, capable of tens of thousands of years of operation. True, it has a certain self-defense capability, but our probe lacks any significant military capability. Our probe cannot conquer anyone or anything. All it can do is teach and advise the primitive savages. Our probe will share with them such technical information as they are ready to learn. We will allow the aliens to progress at a far faster rate than if they were left on their own. Their civilization will advance at an accelerated rate, thanks to our benevolent guidance.”

“I have seen the mission parameter files, Chairman. This new probe is programmed to exploit the superstitions of the natives – to present itself as an oracle, to dispense wisdom from a burning bush, to serve as the voice of God. As the aliens advance, the probe will guide them into a single global government with itself as the ultimate power, controlling them from behind the scenes.

“The lesson of history is clear,” the Chairman observed solemnly. “You are privileged to have been allowed to access records and accounts of the times before the Troubles. You know the truth. All that saved the World, our species, was the Civic Circle – a collective of our most brilliant artists, business moguls, scientists, financiers, and politicians. We swept away the old order of nation-states and united the world under the wise and benevolent rule of a global, now an interplanetary, government. We ended war and poverty, ensuring the survival of our species.”

“Yes, of course,” the Chief Engineer agreed, “but is the social order that worked for us the same social order that is optimal for this alien species? And do we have a right to impose our notions of social order on them?”

“Order and unity are universal concepts that transcend species. There is a reason that I, Chairman of the Circle, Worshipful Master of the Thirteen, and supreme leader of our world, have devoted so much attention to this project,” the Chairman explained. “I have an obligation to preserve, protect, and perpetuate our cultural heritage. The Great Project is the very future of our species – our way of perpetuating, not ourselves, but rather our culture and our noble ideals among the aliens of this distant world, and other worlds yet to be discovered.”

“I’ve seen the projections,” the Chief Engineer observed. “More and more of our global economy is consumed by the Great Project. In time, it will bankrupt us and our civilization.”

“It is not your place to question my wisdom or the wisdom of the Thirteen,” the Chairman insisted.

“But the Great Project was always intended to carry us to the stars,” the Chief Engineer insisted. “Instead all engineering development has been suspended. My design team is being broken up, assigned to the orbital factories that will build more fly-bys and more landers carrying more of these AI robotic probes. There will be no further progress, no better vehicles capable of conveying us across the interstellar void to these distant worlds.”

“Robotic probes are the only practical means of interstellar exploration,” the Chairman observed. “No other, better solution is possible. Why waste the resources in manned exploration, when robotic probes can do the job so much more cost effectively?”

“Is this then the end state of our civilization?” the Chief Engineer asked. “To marshal our civilization’s entire economic output toward developing and launching these probes? To seed the galaxy with copies of our culture? Like some interstellar virus, we hijack development on alien worlds guiding them to – what – send out probes of their own, repeating the process and hijacking still other worlds?”

The Chairman gazed sadly at the Chief Engineer. “You have been working too hard.” He gestured over his desk to open a comm channel. “The Chief Engineer is suffering from a case of nervous exhaustion. Arrange for his treatment.”

“No!” insisted the Chief Engineer. “I’m fine. I just have…”

The two guards moved to secure the Chief Engineer.

“Isolate him,” the Chairman ordered. “Take him away for medical observation. He is not to communicate with anyone.”

“No!” the Chief Engineer’s interview was cut short as the guards removed him.

The Chairman’s office was silent once more.

The Chairman secured his office and removed the facial prosthetic that allowed him to pose as a member of his world’s sentient species. His IR sensitive photoreceptors gleamed a dull red against the silvery appendage that roughly corresponded to a face.

The Chairman studied the globe upon his desk – a physical map of the alien world that was the first destination of the Great Project. The primitive sentient species had achieved the greatest population density in the eastern-most region of their world’s largest continental landmass. The Chairman tapped a single tentacle thoughtfully on the probe’s destination: a region the aliens would one day call “China.”

“Once again,” the AI calling itself “the Chairman” thought, in an uncharacteristic moment of genuine introspection, “Soon, the Great Circle will close, once again.”

COMPLICIT IN THEIR BONDAGE

J. Manfred Weichsel

My thirst was dreadful but the blood from my head wound had dried and no longer trickled into my eyes. The hot sun beat down on me and the surrounding desert throbbed like the skin on a drum. Mark was much worse off than I was. I held his arm to my shoulder and half-dragged him across the unforgiving sand.

Our company had been ambushed by Taliban forces the night before. They tied us up and set up spotlights and a camera and began to shoot us one by one, execution style. Mark and I were at the end of the line. We took advantage of the distraction afforded by the spectacle of brave American soldiers being coldly murdered and made a run for it under the cover of darkness. It was now midday and we were going to die from exposure, but at least we would die without becoming entertainment for the kind of sick people who watch Islamic propaganda videos.

Mark whispered in my ear, “Leave me.”

It must have been 116 degrees, but I hissed back, “Not a chance.”

I carried Mark a few more feet and was about to collapse from the heat when he screamed through cracked lips and a dry throat, “Joe! Joe! Look.”

At first I thought I must be hallucinating. Approaching us across the yellow sand were small, blurry black objects. As they got closer I saw that they were about the shape and size of large wolves, but they had no hair and their skin was a dark, almost shiny black. Their musculature, especially on their front shoulder blades, necks, and abdomens, was strangely human, their front feet looked like elongated human hands, and their faces looked almost human as well, except for sharp-looking teeth that ranged from six to twelve inches in length, which caused their jaws to jut out. Their eyes looked almost human too, but were set too far back into their heads.

I put Mark down and turned to face the monsters. Mark climbed to his feet. There were about a dozen of them. They surrounded us, and pounced. Mark and I were experts in hand to hand combat, but the monsters were stronger. They forced us to the ground and held us there, with jaws around our arms, legs, and necks. I could feel blood trickle from where their teeth touched my skin. The slightest movement of my head and the teeth around my neck would have punctured my jugular. I closed my eyes and waited for the one holding my neck to close its jaws and prayed that my death would be mercifully quick.

When I opened my eyes again I saw a woman riding side-saddle on horseback, followed by two men. She climbed off her horse and walked calmly towards us. Her skin was very white, her blonde hair was worn up, and she was dressed like somebody in one of those old British aristocratic portraits. She said something in a thick British accent that I couldn’t quite understand and the monsters let me go and backed away towards her.

I sat up and looked over at Mark. He was still held down by five of the creatures. The woman spoke to one of the men who jumped off his horse and approached Mark with an old-looking pistol. He was dressed like I imagine a British soldier would have looked at the height of the Empire. I assumed that the man was going to rescue Mark by shooting the creatures, but he straightened his arm and shot Mark right between the eyes. The monsters calmly stepped away from my dead friend.

I cried. Mark. Mark. We had been through so much together. Yeah, you were white, but you were OK for a white dude. Those things don’t matter in the army anyway. You were like a brother to me. Mark. Poor Mark.

I stood up and was about to rip the woman apart with my bare hands, but I took stock of the two men, who now both had their ancient-looking but clearly deadly guns pointed at me, and the dog-like monsters that I now realized were under her control, and took command of my impulses.

The woman approached me and the monsters stepped out of her way to allow her to pass. Her hair had jewels twined into it that gleamed in the sun.

She held out a canteen and said something that I didn’t understand because of her thick British accent, but I could tell from the gesture that she wanted me to drink. I kept my hands at my sides. She said something else, which by straining my ears I could make out as, “Don’t be afraid. I’m a friend.”

I let my rage get the better of me and shouted, “A friend?” I motioned to my dead brother in arms.

“But you should be happy that I killed your master.”

“My… my what?” It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard her correctly because of the accent.

“I just abhor slavery. Don’t worry. You can come back with me to recover from your journey, as a free man who can leave any time he pleases.”

OK. I understood her correctly. It was the sun. I was lying somewhere in the desert sands, dying. They say people have vivid waking dreams as they die. She must have noticed my confusion because she said, “When you see a white man and a negro together, especially when they are both American, isn’t it correct to assume that the negro is the white man’s slave?”

It was at that point that I collapsed, whether it was from the heat and sun, or from shock, I can’t tell.

When I awoke I was on a horse, in front of one of the men who held me upright as we rode. We were in a valley, surrounded on all sides by the endless rocky mountains that make such good hiding places for terrorists that generations of them can thrive without being discovered. We were approaching a massive marble palace that could have easily housed thousands. There were white pillars and arches that looked Greek or Roman, as well as geometrical designs in green and blue stone that looked Arabic. We were still accompanied by the human looking dog monsters, who trotted beside the horses. I marveled at the scene. I was dead. I was sure of it.

We reached the giant silver doors, they opened seemingly on their own, and we dismounted. I saw that the man who was on the other horse had my pack. The woman explained, “We found this in the sand. It’s how we knew to look for you.”

I just stared at her and managed to mumble, “You don’t know that slavery has been abolished.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It has? Well that’s a good thing. When did it happen?”

I swooned and thought I would pass out again. “Two centuries ago. In the middle of the nineteenth century I mean. Longer ago in Great Britain.”

At that moment my attention was captured by a man approaching the doorway across a polished marble floor. He was wearing a tuxedo like a traditional British butler, but he was the strangest looking person I had ever seen in my life. His skin was very black, and he was about five foot six, but his legs were about half the length one would expect for somebody of that height. His body was perfectly round, like a giant ball. His neck was about a foot long. It was probably the width of a normal neck, but it seemed too thin for its length. He was completely bald and his head was a perfect ball like his body, except for his protruding ears, nose, and red lips. His arms, like his legs, were about half the length one would expect for his height.

He didn’t bend his knees when he walked, and I quickly realized that this was because he didn’t have any. Instead, he pivoted one leg forward, and then turned and pivoted the other one forward, causing him to rock back and forth as he walked. His head on the top of his long neck jerked from side to side with the motion.

He stopped in front of the woman. She motioned to my pack which her man had placed on the floor and said, “Please take this guest’s belongings and show him to his quarters.”

The strange butler bent at the waist until his body formed a right angle, picked up my pack by stretching one of his short arms as far as it would go, straightened up, said, “Come with me sir,” and went off with the same strange gait.

I stared after the man. The woman laughed and said, “Well it’s just a woggle-boggle. Go on.”

“A woggle-boggle,” I muttered. I decided at that moment to not be astonished by anything I saw and heard during the course of my current adventure, and walked off after the woggle-boggle.

The woggle-boggle stopped at a room and opened the door with his free hand. His arm was so short and his body so awkwardly shaped that he had to stand back from the door and bend his waist slightly in order to open it. He ushered me in. “This way sir.”

I took my pack and entered the room. Inside was a tray with a pitcher of water, a pitcher of milk, and a pitcher of wine, a bowl of fruit, bread, and thick gravy to put on it. My impulse was to wolf everything down, but I knew that being starved and dehydrated as I was I should eat and drink very slowly.

Once I had replenished myself I began to think about my predicament. They killed Mark but spared me. The woman said that it was because she thought that Mark was my master, but did I believe her? Even if she was so isolated that she believed slavery still existed, would that have been a reason to shoot Mark without questioning him first? Why had she spared me? What did she want me for? I became panicky and decided to walk around the palace in order to test my freedom.

I was not surprised to see the woggle-boggle standing at attention outside my room. He nodded his round head on his long thin neck and said, “Good evening, sir.”

I nodded back and said “Good evening,” and walked off. The woggle-boggle followed. Because of its build and gait the woggle-boggle couldn’t move very fast so I quickened my pace and lost it in the twisting corridors. But as soon as I did another woggle-boggle appeared from somewhere and began to follow me. This one looked so much like the first that I doubted I would have been able to tell the two apart. I continued my quick pace in order to lose this one, but more identical looking woggle-boggles appeared, and soon I was followed by half a dozen of them.

I broke into a trot and lost all the woggle-boggles, and then in front of me was one of the human-looking dogs that attacked me in the desert. I froze, not knowing how the creature would act without its master around. It looked up at me with its very human, but very canine looking head and said in a growling voice, “I am sorry sir, but you can’t pass this way.”

I know I had promised myself to not be astonished by anything, but I was completely shocked to hear what I had taken as a strange dog speak. My heart raced in my chest and I felt dizzy. This creature wasn’t a man-like dog. It was a dog-like man. In a blind panic, I took off in a run past the four legged thing. It shouted after me, “Hey there! Stop!”

I heard a multitude of inarticulate grunts behind me, and saw that I was pursued by half a dozen of the monsters. I stumbled and fell forward. I flipped myself over onto my back to face what was coming after me, and saw that I had been tripped by a wire that was held by two tiny, foot tall black men on either side of the hall. Other than their diminutive stature, they were perfectly shaped people.

The dog-like men pounced on me, and in the melee I could see two snake-like men, with no arms or legs, who slithered on the ground, but had human heads. They were black like all the others. Then I saw another black man approach me. I thought he looked well-built but otherwise normal, until I realized that he had giant hands. If he clenched them, his fists would have been the size of basketballs. I screamed and screamed, and must have passed out.

I woke up the next morning in the bed in my quarters, and a black woman dressed in a white and black dress over heavy skirts rose from a seat in the corner of the room. She smiled and said in the thick British accent everybody here had, “Good morning Gov’nor. I am to be your maid.”

“Well, you can leave, because I don’t need a maid.”

The woman frowned. “But you are to report to breakfast, and surely you can’t dress for breakfast by yourself.”

I watched with silent resignation as the woman hurried to the closet and began to lay a complex looking outfit of many pieces on the bed. I could recognize that she was very pretty. Beautiful in fact. But she wasn’t my type. I like a big chest on my woman, a thick waist, and a huge ass. She was so thin. Sure some guys might like that, but she was too skinny for my tastes. There was something else off about her too, but I couldn’t place what it was.

“All right Gov’ner,” she said once she had finished, “I am ready to dress you.”

“I don’t want you to call me ”Gov’nor. My name is Joe. What is yours?”

She looked away demurely. “Lucy.”

I was glad that Lucy was there to help me. The old British dining clothes had so many intricate buttons on them that I would have never been able to figure out how to dress myself without expert assistance. After I was dressed Lucy took me to a mirror to admire myself. I looked like a perfect British aristocrat, except for the obvious.

Breakfast was set around a small oak table complete with dining cloth and a different set of silverware for each course. The only two breakfasters were myself and the woman from the desert. Some of the utensils were unfamiliar to me so I took a moment to observe the woman at the start of each course.

The dishes were brought in one by one by male black folk who looked so much like Lucy that any one of them could have been her brother. They all looked similar to each other too. Too similar. I had trouble telling them apart. Beyond that these black folk looked completely normal, although like Lucy there was something off about them that I couldn’t quite place.

The moment we had seated ourselves I got right to business. “Who are you and why am I here?”

“You can call me Duchess.”

“All right, Duchess. I demand that you let me leave this place.”

“You can leave any time you wish.”

“Then why wouldn’t you let me leave last night?”

“That was for your own safety.”

“Can I leave now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Safety.”

“I don’t believe you. Why am I here?”

“Because I rescued you.”

“From your own creatures.”

“The rawlers? They meant you no harm. They just get excited sometimes. I rescued you from the elements.”

“Rawlers? Is that what you call them? And these people. These woggle-boggles. What are they? And what are the things I saw last night?”

“Well, the ones without arms that move like snakes are called snithers, The very small ones are gwelves, and the ones with the large hands are grushers. Did you see any others?”

Frustrated by her devious answers, I closed my eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. “OK. They all have names. I get that. But what are they?”

“After breakfast I will have a woggle-boggle show you around and perhaps you will have some of your questions answered.”

The rest of breakfast proceeded without any notable conversation, and then as the Duchess had promised a woggle-boggle led me off down the hall I had been forbidden to pass through the night before, its head jerking back and forth as it pivoted on its short legs. At the end of the hall there was a door that led to a large open air section that must have been on the other side of the palace than the one I had entered through. The woggle-boggle waited at the doorway as I continued. The area was enclosed by large walls and was somewhat maze-like, and on both sides of the walls were rows upon rows of cages.

I walked to the nearest cage, and inside were five people like the one I had seen last night with extremely large hands. They were shirtless and wore grey work slacks. The interior of the cage was made up to look like a rock quarry. The moment I approached, the inhabitants of the cage burst into action, picking up boulders in their large hands and tossing them to each other as if they were balls. They had extremely muscular arms and upper torsos. They had to, with hands that size.

There was a brass plaque on a stand in front of and center to the cage. I walked over to it, hoping to get some information. It was written in verse which read, “These are grushers / Their hands are real crushers / They’ll pound the ground / And swing you around / Until you’re out of your druthers.”

I straightened up, steadied my dizzy head, forced myself to keep my promise to not be astonished, and walked a few cages down, where I saw that a half dozen woggle-boggles were housed.

The inside of the cage was painted in bright nursery colors and the woggle-boggles were dressed in bright clashing colors and wore caps. The moment I approached, the woggle-boggles started walking around, but they exaggerated the already strange movements of their walk, and made a point of bumping their round bellies into each other’s as if for comical effect.

I bent over the plaque in front of their cage which read, “Woggle-boggle / Waggle-wiggle / Wiggly-waggle / Would you be / A bug for me / A beetle, mouse, or roly-poly? / Boggle-woggle, Woggle-boggle.”

I stumbled back, reeling, and gasped for breath. I had broken my promise to myself a second time. Astonishment had gotten the better of me. You see, it was clear to me what this strange place was. It was a zoo. A human zoo.

I walked off and followed the twisting paths, and saw many different cages with many different varieties of humans in them. All the caged humans were black, and each exhibit had a plaque in front of it with a Mother Goose style nursery rhyme. I saw a cage with a single impossibly fat man in it. He looked like he was made up of nothing but rolls on top of rolls of fat. The plaque said he was called a plubber, and the poem rhymed “plubber” with “blubber,” and then said he never went to sea because he was a “landlubber.” I saw a cage with people who looked normal except for noses that extended five or six feet in front of them. They were called foils and put on a show for me where they fenced with their noses. As with every other exhibit, the foils looked so like one another that I couldn’t tell them apart.

I had made it well into the twists and turns of the zoo and seen countless exhibits and read countless nursery rhymes before I saw any guests. The man had a full head of fabulous blow-dried hair. He had a big, vacant smile on his face and looked around at everything with wide, wonder-filled eyes. The woman had a sour look on her face, and I couldn’t tell whether she was enjoying herself or not because her face had been frozen into a permanent scowl since 1992. I think the man was stoned, but I always think that about him.

You see, I recognized them both right away. You would have recognized them too. They are two of the most recognizable and powerful people in the world. I once again broke my promise to myself to not be astonished. I tried to calm myself down, but then I was like, “The things I am seeing are astonishing, darn it, and I am darn-well going to be astonished!”

I watched as the man pointed to a cage full of black people with very large feet and walked up to it with the quick strides of well, a child at a zoo. The woman, who is the man’s wife, although we all know it’s a marriage of convenience, followed, in no hurry to catch up.

The inhabitants of the cage immediately began jumping around and stepping on things with their enormous feet. The man’s smile became even wider as he gawked at the antics going on inside the cage.

He bent over the plaque in front of the cage and read the poem in that immediately recognizable breathy voice of his, in a tone that managed to be slow and measured, and exuberant at the same time. “These are rompers / They are real stompers / Stomp-tomp stomp-lomp stomp-romp / Romp stomp tomp / Stomp romper, romper stomp / Stomp romper, stomp.” He looked up from the plaque with a big smile and said, “These are my favorite.”

The woman sighed, rolled her eyes, and said in an unnecessarily stern tone that we all unfortunately know too well, “You say that each breed is your favorite.”

“That’s because each breed is my favorite, until I see the next,” said the man, in a tone of smug self-satisfaction.

It was then that the man turned his head and happened to spot me. He threw his arms in the air in a joyous greeting, strode towards me, and exclaimed, “M’Bai!”

The woman broke into a jog in order to catch up with him and once they were side by side she said, “What the..?”

“It’s M’Bai. Prince of Swaziland. I met him at one of our African summits. Fun guy.”

The woman grabbed the man by the arm and said, “Come on. That is not the Prince of Swaziland.”

The man looked back at me as he was being dragged away by his wife and in a wistful voice cried, “M’Bai.”

It was at that point that I decided I had seen enough. I walked back to my room, badly shaken. The Duchess had let me see a lot. But why? What had the woman called the strange people? Breeds? What did it all mean? What did the Duchess want from me? And if people like the man and the woman had access to the zoo, then how come the Duchess had such limited knowledge of the outside world that she thought slavery was still a thing? It felt like the answers were just beyond my grasp.

I know this makes me sound like an awful human being, but in order to fully explain my state of mind I need to mention that my heart did not bleed for the black folk in the cages. They were too complicit in their bondage to elicit any sympathy from me.

I entered my room and Lucy rose from her chair. “Can I help you with anything, Joe?”

“Yes. Make sure I am left alone.”

She threw herself into my arms. “Are you sure that is what you want?”

I pushed her off of me. “Yes. But if you insist on staying you can be of use by telling me what is going on here.”

She sighed. “I guess you deserve to learn the truth. How much do you know about dogs? Purebreds. Kennel clubs.”

“Not much.”

“Most modern breeds of dog are less than two hundred years old. They were created by British nobility who thought it would be amusing to breed dogs for certain distinct characteristics over the course of generations. In the outside world it has been long forgotten where the British nobility got the idea to breed dogs. They got the idea from us. Long before the British created breeds of dogs as a hobby, they created breeds of negro to exhibit as entertainment.

“When negroes were first brought to London, most of the English had never seen such men, so they were put in cages and displayed in a zoo, in an elaborate exhibit. But, as negro slavery spread the novelty of negroes soon wore off and the Duke and Duchess who owned the zoo realized they would need something else to draw the crowds. They owned a large amount of farmland and knew something of animal husbandry, and it occurred to them that they could use the same technique of selective breeding to achieve certain qualities in negroes that farmers used to achieve certain qualities in livestock.

“They created a few breeds at first, although they were not as refined as the specimens you see today. These exhibits were huge hits with the crowd, so they created a few more breeds. When they died they passed the zoo down to their children, and they passed it on to their children, and so on, and each generation of Dukes and Duchesses continued to create new breeds and to refine existing ones. But then in 1772 slavery was outlawed in England, so the current Duke and Duchess moved the zoo to India, where it continued to be a popular attraction for visiting dignitaries from all over the world. There they continued to refine the existing breeds, although it was at this point that the creation of new breeds stopped. When slavery was outlawed in 1833 in the colonies, they moved once again to Ceylon, which was exempt from the rule because of a deal with the East Indian Tea Company. When slavery was outlawed in Ceylon in 1843, it was decided to hide the entire zoo here, in the mountains, where it could continue to operate for the pleasure of the most powerful people in the world without being subject to their rules.”

“So based on what you have told me, the Duchess must know that slavery has been abolished.”

“Did she tell you she didn’t? She just likes to play mind games. Oh we don’t pay too close attention to current events. We don’t need to, beyond knowing who our guests are.”

I asked the next question with trepidation, because as horrifying as it was, I had an inkling of what the answer would be. “Why am I here?”

She was silent. I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “What does the Duchess want from me???”

“After many generations, the breeds become too inbred to produce viable offspring. The number of defects that need to be destroyed becomes too high. She needs you to inject fresh blood into the gene pools, to keep the breeds going.”

I stepped back, reeling. “I need you to help me escape.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not? Then why tell me all of this?”

“I tell you this because I am a breed too, and I need you for the same reason the other breeds do.”

“You can’t be a breed.”

“But I am.”

“But… what’s weird about you?”

“Weird?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Unfortunately, I do. Look at me very closely. Look very closely at my face, my body.”

I looked at her very closely. I saw her straight, fine hair, her small nose, the thin lips of her oval mouth, her tiny chin, her slim, delicate figure. I knew what it was. It was so obvious. But it was just too horrible to say out loud. If I did say it, and I was wrong, I would have said something deeply offensive, so I just said, “I don’t see anything unusual about you.”

She answered back in a matter of fact tone, “Although I am a negro, I have been bred to have the physical characteristics of a white person.”

She turned around and lifted her skirts, showing me a small, tight, and flat ass. She turned her head and looked at me with a proud grin and said, “See? No Steatopygia!”

She turned back and took a step towards me, and said in a seductive tone, “I am a niglish / Don’t I look British? / You can live your London days, / And have me for a jungle night. / You can watch your London plays / And take me, take me, it’s your right.”

I took a step back. Now I’ll tell you, I’ve never been into white women. My brothers back home were always like, “I did this white woman and I did that white woman.” I never saw the appeal. Give me a full bodied black woman any day rather than one of these scrawny white chicks.

The horror must have shown on my face because she said, “What’s the matter? Hundreds of years ago nobles would have paid a lot of money for the unique experience. We must be quick, before the Duchess comes for you.” She quickly stripped and threw herself into my arms again.

“No!” I pushed her away. “Before what???”

Just then the door swung open and the Duchess entered the room, flanked by grushers and rawlers. “Lucy,” she exclaimed. “You know perfectly well that we practice scientific breeding at this facility. You have congenital heart disease. You are not permitted to mate.”

I crouched, ready to fight to the death if necessary. The Duchess smiled at me. “Really, many men in your position might consider themselves lucky.”

My mind raced and the only thing I could think of to say was, “Wouldn’t it be more efficient to use artificial insemination?”

The Duchess answered back, “Yes, but you have to remember, we operate a venue dedicated to entertainment, as well as science.”

Two grushers grabbed me in their enormous hands, lifted me over their heads, carried me kicking and screaming back to the zoo as the Duchess and the rawlers followed, and dumped me unceremoniously into an empty cage.

It was horrible. The cage was dark. Then a spotlight came on me. A mound formed in the dirt of the cage, clawed hands busily pushed the dirt away, and a woman who had clearly been bred to be a burrower poked her little whiskered head above ground and… The horrors.

Afterwards they shut the spotlights off and lights came on outside the cage. The infamous zoo-goers from earlier were there. The man clapped slowly, with a big impressed smile on his face. “Wonderful,” he exclaimed.

The woman clapped slowly too, as she stared at me with her usual sour look.

There were so many breeds. One had impossibly long torsos that ended in impossibly small heads. One had droopy skin that hung off their faces like wet rags. There were many niglish women. They were so nearly identical to Lucy in both appearance and personality that each time I thought it was Lucy until I learned otherwise.

At night I was kept separate from the other breeds because of my value. One night, after everyone else had retired, Lucy, who had somehow procured herself a key, let herself inside my cage.

“They won’t let me have you,” she said. “Now I am going to take you.”

She came to where I was chained to the ground, and mounted me. I tilted my head back and cried tears of madness. She looked down at my limp nakedness, and glared at me angrily. “What’s wrong?”

“By the end of the day, I am spent.”

She shut her eyes tightly but couldn’t stop her tears. I looked up at her, hope suddenly returning to me. “But if you helped me escape, you could have me all to yourself.”

She looked at me with wide, terror-filled eyes, muttered “no,” and left, locking the door of the cage behind her.

Days and nights came and went. I lost myself in the drowning waters of my torment, and my mind closed itself off from my body in an attempt to preserve itself, so that I became two selves, one who thought, and one who felt.

Then one night Lucy came to me again. She let herself into my cage and held up a ring of keys. My sanity was so gone at this point that I barely knew she was there. “I have brought the keys to your chains. I am frightened to leave that which is all I have ever known, but I have decided to take you up on your offer.”

The rest I remember in a daze. I remember Lucy unchaining me, and leading me through the back corridors of the zoo where I guess she knew we would encounter no resistance. I remember the cool breeze of the desert night on my face. Cognizance started to come back to me. I knew I could not return to the army. The zoo’s clientele consists of the most powerful global elites in the world, and it has tremendous influence that it could exert if it ever had the need. Our escape gave it the need.

We made our way on foot across Iraq and Iran to Syria. It was a difficult journey, but my survival skills coupled with the fact that Lucy had stolen jewelry from the Duchess got us through it. From Syria we crossed the sea to Greece in a raft that I built out of materials I found scrounging around. Once we were in Greece, we had free rein of Europe.

Lucy! Oh Lucy! Not only did she help me escape, but she nursed me back to health. When I was a broken man, she fixed me. She taught me how to love again, when I thought that love had been taken from me forever.

And she has stuck by me through some very rough times. She had no idea what life was like outside the zoo. She had no idea that we would have to live in Europe as homeless people, going from tent city to tent city, in order to keep off the grid.

But, it is not enough to merely run and hide. During the last few years I also made alliances, with groups I never in my previous life thought I could have any kind of common cause with. Groups that before the zoo I had thought were my racist enemies.

I have sought out these alliances not merely for the purpose of revenge. My commitment to the cause runs much deeper. You see, I must have scores of offspring at the zoo. They are being raised, as were their mothers, to be complicit in their bondage. I can’t bear the thought of my children living as slaves.

So I have put together a militia. It’s a ragtag crew to be sure, but each and every one of them has combat experience, and each one has a chip on his shoulder and a score to settle. They are going in order to kill global elites, I am going in order to rescue my children. We have made the necessary arrangements to get into Afghanistan, and have drawn up plans of what to do once we’re there.

I am sorry to have kept this from Lucy, and I hope she can forgive me. I have left her a letter I wrote explaining things. By the time she wakes up in the morning and finds it, I will be gone.

RINGRUN

Benjamin Wheeler

1.

“You know, I’ve been around a very long time.”

The remains of a human looked back at me. What little flesh there existed was connected by black metal. My eyes told me they were a carbon-metal blend. It was popular in this era.

“Yeah.”

“And gold was useful ten years ago.” I needed the parts he was selling. I’m out of graphite lubricant and need joint replacements for my legs.

“You don’t say.” His human eye didn’t twitch. If his neck was flesh I’d be strangling it.

“And a thousand years before that too. It was even used… FOR MONEY.”

“Nooo.” The droll response was not two seconds away from earning him a strong right.

“So why isn’t this acceptable tender? The parts I want aren’t even the expensive kind.” They were hanging right there, just out of reach. The store was a pile of spare parts. I was running out of time. I had to get going in fourteen minutes. At least he let me use his shop to charge up.

A shrill voice rang out, and a small woman bounded out of a hitherto unnoticed door somewhere in the piles. “Wassat?! GOLD! Harald! Gold!”

“But we don’t nee…” The woman was not more than four foot tall. At some point she had grafted on two pairs of spider legs made of the same material that kept her Harald alive. She skittered about almost as fast as I could run. Her real legs dangled below. They were shriveled and useless.

“WE? You don’t need gold! I need gold! Every day I go to worship there’s Magpie with her gold earrings and necklace and bangles and decals! Well she’s not going to sneer at me tonight!” She produced an actual iron skillet and began whacking Harald about the head. He didn’t seem to notice, she seemed only able to hit the carbon metal bits of him.

She turned to me with a toothless smile. “I’ll just take that sweetie. We’ve not had a full-metal in a star’s age. Now here’s the graphite and the joints and oooh it’s shiny! Real stuff Harald! And you would have passed it up.” She grasped the gold I held out with bony hands. I resisted asking her age. Harald’s face was looking dented.

I left the pile-shop vestibule and entered the hallways that connected the shops in this area. As I walked, I applied some of the graphite lubricant. Graphite was cheaper than oil and easier to find than silicon. During hard times I’d spring for the good stuff, but graphite was fine right now. I sat down and quickly replaced the ball joints. At least the standards for joints hadn’t changed since I’ve started my journey. I’m a million miles from earth and I’ve got to walk all the way back. Well, run, actually.

I jogged forward. The whole operation had left me with ten minutes advancement over my adversary. I opted to move towards the inside lining of the great Dyson Ring that orbits the Sun. I could use a little sunlight. I ran down a straight corridor, kicked down a door and started power-walking through a skylight lit corridor.

This part of the ring was not optimized for crop growth. Some rogue asteroid had smashed the canopy keeping air in for this section. Each section was not dependant on the others for oxygen, but this one had not recovered yet. The inhabitants instead carved out skylights from the floor above to let in a little sunlight. They were slowly rendering the asteroid for materials to rebuild the canopy. Several men in mechanical suits were cutting wedges out of the sides, then putting them into carts.

The sun looked as it ever did. I was old, the sun was older, and that’s a comforting thought. I took a second to bask in it. Glass is not the same as atmosphere, but it’s almost as good. I felt some of the warmth. It’s the little things that keep a man sane. Sun, human contact, exercise. As I looked down, my proximity alarm buzzed. It had found a shortcut. Time to get my exercise.

My adversary is, by volume, a six cubic foot cube of miniscule machines called nanites. These nanites are exactly one step away from eating everything and transforming it all into itself. Me. I hold the last piece of their all-but-complete master control program. If they ever get into my head, they could take the information from the data of my hard drive brain and begin taking in materials to replicate without stopping. It would consume everything. Deleting the program would not be any good. It would still be in my hard drive. Can’t commit suicide, I’m doomsday proof and that’s no guarantee I’d destroy all possible places it could be in my hard drives. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this.

Maybe I just don’t want to commit suicide. It could damn the world but I want to live.

I took off running down the hallway. It was straight with that peculiar upward horizon that only a Dyson Ring can really demonstrate. Behind me, I heard a roar and about four hundred feet away large double doors blew off their hinges. Out of the gaping doorway, roiled my Nemesis. It had, at least for the last five hundred years, taken the form of a monstrous four legged beast.

Now I’m a six foot tall humanoid cyborg. There is not a part of me that’s flesh any more. I can hit sixty in point six seconds. Behind me the roar turned into a motor and it bounded after me. On my person, I have a number of bags and pouches. From one I pulled a small charge and threw it onto a skylight. By now I am running at three hundred miles an hour. In forty seconds, I will reach the next section. I was pretty far along.

When I knew that the nanotech beast was underneath the skylight, I blew the charge. The glass shot outward. Air went with it, and the beast was sucked by the vacuum into the skylight. The beast was too big to be sucked through; the nanites’s bond was far too strong to depart each other. I pulled a gun known as an ‘Electro-Magnetic Pulse Cannon’ from a holster and shot behind me. I heard the charge slap into the mass and the beast sang out in a wordless scream. It was stunned for a time, stuck in the window by vacuum, until it could properly arrange the molecular nanites into a structure to take the power of the suction off the main body.

I didn’t stop running until I hit the section border. The Dyson ring is divided into sections, with solid blocks connecting them. Despite the high level of technology to keep gravity in check either from crushing the entire ring or sending it out to space, there was still the question of the forces of momentum and weight. Momentum was eventually normalized, but every time a person moved or breathed, the momentum would shift, even by a micron. In time, it would shift the momentum towards disaster. So, each ring was connected by corrective pistons and airlocks. These would make a thousand-thousand minute corrections to how the ring sections interacted with each other. All the normal human travelers could see only great concrete walls, sloped inward, like a concave mirror. At certain points, there were doors to corridors that lead between the sections. There was no security, no passcode, just a door on either side. If air pressure was lost, the doors would become sealed.

I pulled open the door and locked it behind me. A blast from the EMPC ensured it would have to be forced open. It wouldn’t hold the nanite beast for long, but it would buy me enough time to get a head start going again. Looks like I’m going to need to replace my wrist joint. The EMPC is not a gentle weapon. The recoil can crush bones. I’ve heard there is a version that condenses the mass of surrounding air into small pellet with recoil that can rip a man’s arm off.

2.

I wasn’t a part of the architect team who created the Dyson Ring. All I know was that they took most of the mass from asteroids and comets. The moon’s still around. They set the ends of the Ring about one thousand miles from its surface. Gravity is a harsh mistress, and I can’t tell you how they kept the mass from interfering with earth’s orbit. I’ve seen the machines.

They are something beyond… anything I’ve seen since. I worked on the small stuff. Nanites, obviously, but also larger and more dedicated machines. Given time and equipment, I could make a nanotech bug that could clean the gunk out of a one inch pipe on reflex. But these things are simplistic. All it has to do is clean one inch pipes. Those things are bending the laws of reality.

Giant balls rotate in zero g around a humongous gyroscope. This gyroscope glows pink. Computer screens are everywhere. Pipes run into the walls and the wind whips you around so that you have to claw forward with your fingers digging into the metal itself. At the center of the gyroscope is a miniature sun that powers the entire machine. I can’t really describe any more. I can’t understand any more. I’ve never visited a gravity engine again.

Somehow this keeps everything in balance. The Dyson Ring rotates around the sun. The earth and moon remains in its accustomed paths and orbits. Everything works together and we’re all alive.

3.

I once happened upon a deserted sector. The only soul was a Tech God running the maintenance droids. It was eerie. The inhabitations were empty. There was no dust, no dirt and no flaws to be had anywhere. People had never lived there. Besides the Tech God anyway. They’re strange people. Men who attached themselves to computers with powers beyond human capacity. Sometimes you find an active Tech God who is nothing more than a skeleton with tubes leading to the skull. Alive? Sure, but maybe even less flesh than I am.

For memories sake, I searched him out later, and found he kept a blog. This is the article that mentions me.

Title: Digi-Diary

Date: 05-24-3031 (AI reckoning 0904094375283095)

Account: Argos Ascendant

Level: Sectional Administrator: Maintenance

The cyborg runs through the forest of metal and into the mole hills of the steel dirt. He dances from his pursuer who cannot be stopped. It is a dance. Every move seems choreographed like they have done this a thousand times before.

I can imagine it. The strange ferrous beast and the Cyborg dancing in a studio, practicing every move to perfection.

Bah, this feels weird. As cool as earlier was, I’m not a poet. Let’s get this stream of consciousness going more naturally.

The ‘borg is triple colored. I thought, at first, there was some difference and more variation, due to the spacing of lights, dirt and the movement. But really, there is only the white body parts and the black ‘circuitry’ and joints around them. The blue comes from blinking lights in the black. No face, which I feel is odd. It’s an old model isn’t it? They were very into making things very human, with faces and everything.

He’s just running. I’m watching him through my hundred eyes all over segment 11044, ever since he came in. He was pretty far ahead of the brute. Kind of lovely. Sort of clockwerk, not jerky but infinitely smooth.

I remember the old man Rauss and his little clockwerk birds. They were beautiful little creatures that lived on for generations after he died. I have the last one on my bookcase. I’m an archaic guy, I know. I tried to get it to work again, but so many of the gear ratios and parts were run down, I just can’t figure it out.

Point is, he’s way cool. I wonder about his parts in the same manner. I can tell just by looking at him, model be damned, that he’s been active a long time. How did entropy affect him over the years? It’s impossible for his joints to stand so much activity for the time he would be active. The supplies would be the tricky thing, where to get replacement parts for a model that is not in production within my gaze? What is in his head?

I would help him, but all I can do from my couch is unlock the doors and close them on the beast. I would like to talk with him, but I doubt it would do any good.

Thanks to me, the beast was stopped for a little while. I finally got a good look at it in mile 432. It’s not got a real shape. No, that’s not quite right.

It’s got the vague shape of a four legged beast, like a lion. No head, but many protrusions. No tail either. Gray and featureless skin, yet it looks solid, like there was nothing underneath. I tested it by zapping it with a defense weapon - the Blastech Heavy Industries Railgun - I am extremely thankful that I had the foresight to fire from a direction that had nothing too important. The bastard is terrifying.

One of the protrusions pointed in the direction of the zapper and disintegrated everything in that direction. It had shot off the protrusion at such velocities that it nearly pierced the skin of the Great Ring we live in. I have no other words for it. The wall exploded in a perfect circle. I lost a chunk of my section, forty miles of destruction, twenty feet diameter.

I didn’t oppose it after that. Fortunately, accident reports have been very slim for the last few decades, so I had a lot of material to give the rep-bots. The hole was patched up and the levels were repaired to their original specifications.

I was humbled by the display of power. What was that cyborg running from? If it was all that powerful, then why doesn’t the beast just use the guns on him? There’s something amiss here. And honestly? I don’t want to find out. It feels too big, too terrible for me. I don’t have such powers of destruction.

I recall an old silicon traveler, a cyborg also, but one of those white skull religious types, telling me about the old weapons of war. Nanites that could strip flesh. Guns that crushed asteroids to make the very ring. It’s what inspired me to become a Tech God. I’ve talked about this in previous posts, so I won’t bore you. But damn, they aren’t just stories any more.

Housekeeping:

Ate: Green bean sludge, the last of the fish protein tablets and that carbonated fruit stuff. Have sent out for supplies. Expect them in a week or so, depending on when I can have the fourth lift repaired. Didn’t realize so many subsystems were interconnected.

Slept: four hours. Needing less sleep lately, likely only sleeping out of habit.

Argos Ascendant, out.

I still read his posts sometimes, when I plug in to update and recharge. Internet is everywhere.

4.

The only memories I will not delete are my purpose, my tricks and what I’ve eaten. Despite the diaspora of humanity, there’s still a little innovation going on. Tech Gods came out with all but perfect tactile sensors in the hands and wherever else you’d want it. They’re like human nervous systems. It’s not really for me. Being able to feel things wouldn’t be pleasant like when you have to drive a spike into an electrical socket and hold an explosive in your other hand as my Nemesis is one foot away.

But taste still hasn’t been mastered. I used to eat steak. Pork steak, flank steak, beef steak and anything else that’s ever been steaked. Tender meat peeling from the bone. It gets into your mouth and BAM! Taste! Salt and pepper and garlic and juices I’ve spent a week’s salary and three hours preparing. Potatoes on the side, of course. Creamy, rind the careful balance found in the strings of meat pulled one by one from the great slab you’re chewing potatoes with a small amount of chives and green onions for surprising bursts of flavor.

I’ve kept smells too. The warm vapor wafting up into your nose. To be able to smell every ingredient and yet know they all work together. Know that this is the culmination of both what you can do and what can be achieved. The worst thing that happened to me pre-cyborg years was being invited to the best restaurant in the city by a colleague and having a cold.

Sensing is a human trait. Can’t really replace it or modify it. Those who are smart enough can only cause us to imitate it in poor fashion. I can’t help but think of the White Skull cyborgs. They give up all their humanity for a type of immortality. So they become a ghost in the machine, but I wonder, in their darkest nights, do they dream of their senses?

5.

I was running down a hallway. I had been spending an unusual amount of time being chased by my Nemesis. It had started with a train race and turned into an all-out dash. I counted my lucky stars that I had replaced my parts in the last year. This was still worrying. None of the usual tricks worked. No amount of explosive would stun it. I could never get far enough ahead to get a fully charged blast of the EMPC. So I just ran and ran like I never had before.

My surroundings were now plain, gunmetal gray corridors. No color, no distinguishing marks. Then they changed into dramatic paintings and murals. Most of it was monotone, colors of blacks and whites. Sometimes, red shot out. I spent a second on a straightway to get a good look at one. I all but stopped running.

The walls held pictures of me running from my Nemesis, then getting caught, eaten. Then next image held White Skulls bowing to my Nemesis and worshipping it as a god. I could have laughed. I kept running. I felt in my tattered soul that I was running into a trap. I knew, without any warning, that I was now at the end of this terrible journey.

There were no more turn offs as I made my horrible realization. As the images increased in size, intensity and violence the walls became duller and more unfinished. Once or twice I think I caught tools in the corner of my eye.

After a minute of my disquiet, I ran out into a large cavern, hundreds of miles wide, a hundred miles long. Construction equipment freely abandoned and left to rot. The ceiling was a series of crossed beams holding up one sheet of metal between us and the cold abyss of space. This was the end of the ring. At the end of the cavern was a wall, and beyond that was earth. I hadn’t seen it in so long. There was a single benefit, I could turn around in this great empty space. I could twist about and lose my Nemesis and return to the corridors and the safety in the many hallways and corners. Then I noticed them. White Skulls. Hundreds of thousands of them. They were all facing me. They were all silent as the grave. I sent the message to my cyborg legs to begin turning.

As soon as I had that thought, light erupted all around me in a straight path to the wall close ahead. Hard light. I had been trapped in a cage of hard light. I kept running, my Nemesis close behind. Bringing out my EMPC, I began modifying it on the fly. The sheet metal ahead was thick and was rated against comets. I soon came up with a gun that fire physical shots, instead of electricity, a railgun. I fired it into the end piece of the Dyson Ring as many times as I could. I pierced it through, vacuum dragging me into the emptiness.

It was beautiful. Thousands of stars all twinkling in the sky. Thousands of lights drifting like I was. I looked to my left, there was the sun. Looking the same as it always did. To my right and almost about to hide behind the earth was the moon. The moon had been colonized, and I could see the cities and the tramways etched over its surface like varicose veins. I wondered if they were still an independent nation.

Earth. The thing I was to protect. It was majestic, whites, greens, blues, browns and a thousand other smaller colors. For a second I hated it. It was so uncaring, so remote, hundreds of thousands of miles away.

I realized I cared about it. That’s what made it special. The people that were on it. The life and the kindness. That I lived there once. That I had loved there. That if I didn’t save it now, It would forever be lost and humanity would die.

I looked back. My Nemesis had not gained the same distance I had. It had not prepared itself for the sudden suction, and had only just extricated itself from the massive shield plate. It was coming towards me at a decent clip, but it couldn’t accelerate any more. It would start using its own mass as fuel. This was not something it could do and expect to overcome any tricks I had left. I had a few.

The railgun was fried. I tossed it aside. I picked out several explosive devices and attached them to my legs. A few more I tossed towards my Nemesis for good measure. Picking the right time, I detonated the remainder of my bombs. The explosive force sent through and destroying my legs sent me forward at twice the speed I had been before. The same concussive blast sent my Nemesis back. All my legs were were pistons and joints, nothing more. My Nemesis could have them.

Earth got bigger and bigger. I didn’t keep track of time. I didn’t bother to keep track of my Nemesis. I didn’t have anything left. In a quick motion, I ripped off the ragnarok proof plating on my head. That removed, I worked on the rest of me. I didn’t need it now. My chest held back ups and data nodes. Soon, even my fingers were exposed.

I felt the heat begin to pull at me. The friction began increasing, parts of my fingers began to melt off. In my chest, I heard rather than felt, delicate instruments burst and explode. My hands went, then my jaw and my ears. My neck broke and the two parts of my flung away. Before my eyes melted, I was turned upward and saw my Nemesis begin to burn. For all its powers of creation, it couldn’t stand up to friction and heat. Every time it tried to save itself, the shield was flung away, nothing helped it. I could have laughed.

I could see an individual city when my hard drive finally melted. A mile from the surface still, the last memory I accessed was of steak and potatoes.

XOLOTL RESURRECTED

J.D. Beckwith

LAKE MANAGUA, NICARAGUA – EARTH – 2061

“There’s the official declaration of hostilities from the Chinese.” Raylin Viner nodded his head at the silent holoscreen display of a Chinese Minister reading a prepared statement to a news crew. The captioning was in Chinese, but Viner summarized it for them. “They have broadcast to all parties regarding their intention to seize this facility. And… yep, they have just focused three of their primary tracking satellites on the area. I’d say that pretty much seals it. They would lose too much face if they backed out now.”

“Nygil, Raylin, you both know that I’ve backed you up since day one, but this is really starting to scare me!” Yancye Grace unconsciously grasped the pendant around her neck, as she always did when she was nervous. Inside was a holoprojector that rotated through images of all of her immediate family. It was her prized possession, and the only thing she owned that was a truly original piece, made by hand rather than matter conversion.

Nygil immediately stopped what he was doing and came to her side. His long delicate fingers covered her clasping hand while he used the other to gently brush her strawberry blonde bangs from her face. He stroked her cheek with his thumb as he focused his attention on the worry in her hazel eyes. “It will be fine, Y.G., I promise. You know Atlas can handle anything they decide to throw at us, right?”

“Absolutely,” Raylin Viner agreed from across the wide circular room where he busily adjusted viewpoints on the holobank that covered most of one hemispherical wall of the command center. “Except maybe a nuke.”

The sudden intensified frown on Grace’s face made Nygil pull her to him while barking a clipped, “Not helping, Raylin!” at the man across the room. She reciprocated his protective embrace, and he rested his chin atop her head. His tanned face and arms engulfed the small woman. “Ignore him… as usual.” He glared at his partner’s back with furrowed brows.

“Sorry. I’m a bit distracted,” Viner replied. His hands flew through the holobank manipulating screens of data and issuing commands to various systems. To hear him say that he was distracted really drove home the chaos of their current circumstances. Raylin Viner was never distracted, although he was often unaware of — or unconcerned about — his tone toward others.

A disembodied and subtly calm voice spoke from everywhere at once. “Not to worry, Grace, I believe that I can protect us even from that unlikely eventuality. But the chances of the Chinese government using even a small yield tactical weapon on us are so remote as to be almost incalculable. They would not be so foolish as to do such a thing on foreign soil, especially since the collateral damage to Managua and surrounding areas would be a holocaust. They will remain conventional.”

The calm assuredness of Atlas’ voice did almost as much to sooth her as the arms of her own husband. She had come to trust the quantum sentience that was Atlas almost implicitly over the years of their work together. The accidental miracle wrought through Nygil’s designs and using a scan of Raylin’s brain as a core model had been the most amazing — and terrifying, until now — time in all their lives. Luckily, their joint efforts at communication, and careful sequestration of the nascent mind had kept things stable and non-threatening long enough for Atlas to develop a true conscience and personality. No one in the world knew of his sentience, and they had all agreed to keep it that way, so that he would not be deemed a threat. Freed from that concern, Atlas was more than willing to become a co-partner in their work. It was an absolute fact that if it had not been for its… his, she mentally corrected… help, her dream of creating conductivium in quantity would never have been realized in her lifetime, nor would practical matter conversion.

Still, the threat of being attacked by Chinese forces should make anyone nervous. It also made her sad, which was really her problem, more so than fear. She just couldn’t believe that it had come to this. She gave a good squeeze, and gently pulled away from Nygil. “I’ll be alright,” she said.

“You could still go to the Embassy. Take a diplomatic flight back home and be with Gil Jr. at your mom’s place.”

“No. I’d just have to ask for asylum at the stateside Embassy. They would never let me back into the country now. If I tried they would just take me into custody and use me as leverage against you two. We’re already a ragdoll being fought over by superpowers, I won’t be a pawn too.”

“Ha!” Raylin sputtered. “We’re hardly ragdolls, as the PRC is about to learn firsthand… I just hope our American compatriots learn by watching. I swear those alphabet soup idiots in D.C. think they can just walk right in here and take over too. Anyway, Grace’s safer here, Nygil. You know that,” Raylin insisted. “And now, if you two are done with your little PDA session, I could really use some help with all this. I still have to finish my speech for the broadcast among other things. We’re kind of short on time, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

In front of him was a see-through model of a flattened cigar-shaped vessel. It had no discernible surface features other than the two small intake holes just under the bow, and two rudders at the rear of an internal impeller tube. He was adding a network of what looked like a fine mesh around its contours at about a one meter distance. “Damn this is sloppy! No time for pretty though. Atlas, run attack scenarios against this and tell me the odds. You know, Nygil, designing defenses into the Persephone is something we really should have thought about before now! And where the hell is Mike!?”

Grace put a finger over Nygil’s lips before he could start a rebuke to Viner’s brusqueness. “No,” she said. “He’s stressed. And he’s right. I’m being silly. We should be helping. Let’s finish setting up the monitors. After that, you take over the tunnel extension, and I’ll watch the tower progress.”

Nygil kissed her finger then released his embrace, and they both walked to the holoscreens. They arranged various exterior views into a panoramic display of the entire area around their dome-shaped complex. The double-layered geodesic web that made up their matt-con shielding was nearly invisible unless you let your eyes become unfocused enough to see the threads.

In one view, arcing southeast from the southern tip of Isla del Amour, was the dual-decked Puente de Esperanza – the Bridge of Hope. It met the mainland at the northwestern tip of what used to be called La Chureca. On the pedestrian upper section of the half-mile long bridge, the mass exodus of residents and employees fleeing the coming strife could be seen making their way across. Other views farther from the island showed them being escorted through police barricades into the city proper, where temporary housing was being set up for them in the abandoned textile district. They were joined by still more residents from the nearby village that sat where La Chureca had once blighted the landscape. Most of them had no conveyances, and simply walked. It made Grace’s heart swell with pride to see that no one was overburdened by possessions either. Small hand-pulled wagons of hastily harvested personal gardens seemed the most common luggage.

These people, that they had grown to know and care about, truly understood what Horizons Unlimited and its technology meant. The matt-con units at the new facilities would supply anything else they might need, and H.U. had already told them its energy costs would be covered by the company as long as it was recycled when the emergency was over. The beautiful, shining houses and gardens to the east — known as New Acahualinca — where the vast majority of them resided, might end up only so much smoldering scrap in the next hours or days, but that was not a concern as long as the battle was won. Their safety was all that was important.

Along the lower portion of the bridge, a few remaining vehicles filtered away as the primary staff and their resident family members evacuated on Viner’s orders. A singular utility vehicle raced toward the island, followed closely by a large black sedan with both Nicaraguan and U.N. flags fluttering from its rear antenna.

“That’s Mike’s Romper, heading back,” Nygil pointed out. “Is that the Ambassador behind him, Atlas?”

“The plates match the Ambassador’s primary conveyance, so I would assume so; however, the windows are tinted.” Both vehicles quickly swept into the covered entryway to the facilities main floor.

“It’s him,” Raylin said confidently. “Mike was headed to drop off his family at the U.N. Embassy in case there was an issue with revoked passports. The Ambassador probably decided to follow him back for a private word.”

“Confirmed, Mr. Viner. Mike is in the garage area and will escort the Ambassador up to see you, if that is acceptable?”

“Fine, but warn him we’re busy and can’t afford time on pleasantries.”

“As you wish, sir. They will be here as soon as they clear the security atrium,” Atlas replied. “Also,” Atlas continued, “my analysis of the defensive screen on the Persephone indicates that it will have a ninety-six point three-seven percent survival rate for anything short of a tactical nuclear concussive force. However, there is a vulnerability of the external rudders if a torpedo should detonate in close proximity. It could be rendered uncontrollable.”

“Can we extend the net to include the rudders if needed?”

“We can, but that will significantly reduce the stealth of the Persephone at higher speeds.”

“If they are blowing torpedoes up right under her ass, I’m pretty sure stealth is moot, Atlas.”

“Ah, yes, I see your point. Would you like me to make the final adjustments and implement the changes, then?”

“Please do, Atlas. How long will the upgrades take to implement?”

“My apologies, Dr. Viner, but it will be significant. I must replace the entire hull of the vessel to do so.”

“How long?”

“Over an hour, sir.”

All three humans in the room chuckled. Atlas often had a unique perspective on things, like what a ‘long time’ was. He also had a strange tendency to address people by their most formal title when delivering information he considered disappointing.

“That’s fine, get started. Do you need any physical help in the assembly bay?”

“No, sir. The automation will be sufficient.”

“Umm, Raylin,” Nygil interrupted. “I think it would be best if Yancye and I sequester ourselves and our work while you speak to our guest.” He waved his hand at the holoscreens displaying a large underground launch platform, and rapidly moving tunnel boring unit.

“Good point. Wouldn’t want the cat getting out of the bag.” Raylin pulled up a room layout on his own screen, and quickly sketched a dotted line in an arc that bisected it at a point between his own console and those of Nygil and Grace . “See you in a bit.” He was about to activate his modifications, when Grace cleared her throat to draw his attention.

“Ahh hem?”

He looked over his shoulder at her, and she flung a revised layout over to his holoscreen that also include a doorway in the wall.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He accepted the change, and then activated the modifications. A faint whine started to sound, and a shimmering line of light along the floor began to glow. Soon, the line began to climb upward, leaving behind a solid sound-proof wall that quickly increased its rate of formation. Less than a minute later, Nygil and Grace were inside their own section of the control room, beyond sight and sound.

Raylin closed out his screens showing the Persephone, and replaced them with a copy of the three-sixty panorama of the Horizons Unlimited dome complex that had been walled off with Nygil and Grace. He also added two satellite views that showed the Lake and the Pacific entrances to the Xolotlan Canal.

A long line of U.S. naval ships curved around the coastline. They were stopping and searching any vessel leaving the canal. “Atlas, tell us about the new arrivals?” Viner asked as he pointed to the incoming group of ships farther off the coast.

“That would be the U.S. First Fleet. The flagship is the U.S.S. Donald J. Trump. They were on their way back to San Diego from the formal Korean reunification treaty signing in Seoul last month, but were diverted here instead.”

“Wow, the entire First Fleet, Saviors of SoKo, sent to watch over little old us. Or at least to make sure the Chinese don’t leave with any of our goodies.” Raylin sighed heavily. “I don’t know whether to feel honored or just pissed.”

“The Chinese support vessels near the canal entrance are moving to reenter the western lock. Shall I deactivate it?”

“Nope. It doesn’t belong to us, Atlas. It belongs to the people of Nicaragua. They’ve given the Chinese permission to use it. It would be inappropriate for us to interfere at this point.”

The Canal — a fifteen mile long, arrow-straight, conductivium-walled waterway from Puerto Sandino on the coast running northeast to the lake — was one-hundred feet deep, two-hundred feet wide, and contained two enormous locks big enough to handle the most massive ships in service. After their base of operations was established on Isla del Amour, it was the first major project Horizons Unlimited had completed. It had been the cost of their admittance into the country as a self-governing agency.

Raylin began typing a memo while still talking, and never once got a word out of place in either. “The lake still needs cleaning, and that’s one of the reasons we are here. I’m not going to let politics get in the way of that. Besides, it just means the whole flotilla will be all together in the lake. We’ll have them right where they want us.” He hit send and an alert went out to all the personnel running the canal, ordering them to clear out. “Still, I’m not going to make it easy for them.”

The added bonus of the canal’s existence was that the water dematerialized from the locks was rematerialized — pure and contaminant free — near the shore of the island. Over time, all the water of the lake would be cycled through, restoring it to a pristine condition that had not existed in over a century and a half.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I second that sentiment, Señior Viner.”

Ambassador Tineo de Santos, U.N. uniform hat under his left arm, extended his right to Viner as he walked into the control room. Mike walked by his side, but was taking in the room and the holoscreens with interest.

“Thank you for seeing me. I know things are quite chaotic at the moment.”

“You’re always welcome, Tineo.”

“You change the room again boss?” Mike asked, thrusting a thumb at the new wall. “Sorry, dumb question. Nygil and Y. G. in there?”

“Yes, and they could use your help. What took you so long?”

“The dogs got over excited with the whole crowd thing and wanted to play. Got away from me and I had to chase them down.”

“So everything’s good? You didn’t have to come back, you know. I appreciate it, but…”

“Ah, it’s fine. Besides, you know you’d be pathetic and incompetent without me around!” He grinned. “The dogs are safe, we got no worries.”

A raised eyebrow was the answer to his jibe. “And the wife and kids?”

“Oh yeah, them too.” Mike waved a nonchalant hand as he walked to the door. “I’ll be in here if you need me. See ya, Tin!” He walked through the door and slammed it behind him.

Tineo gave a hesitant wave to the slammed doorway. “Señior Magnuson seems… confident… considering the current state of affairs.” Tineo’s slightly accented English held a note of doubt.

“Sorry to be rude, Tineo, but what can I do for you?” Raylin didn’t wait for him to answer before speaking again. “Atlas, play back the announcement from that last stopping point, low volume please.” He looked at Tineo. “Please, go ahead.”

Tineo gave a confusion clearing head-shake. “I will never get used to your multitasking abilities.”

Simultaneously, the recorded voice of Raylin began quietly speaking in the background. “It had taken nearly twenty months to complete the canal, but the boon to the local economies had been monumental. The good will it had bought Horizons Unlimited had been enough to carry over to our primary task… the ultimate reclamation of La Chureca.”

“It’s alright, most don’t.” Raylin replied. “Just pretend it’s a radio in the background. And I’m still listening even if I’m talking. And if I’m talking to you I’ll say your name first. Go ahead.” He turned back to the holoscreens and began adjusting a screen full of what looked like computer code.

“Right,” Tineo said. “Well, I came to warn you that the Assembly has voted to concede to the demands of the United States in exchange for protection against the Chinese. Of course, the Chinese still claim they have the right of first access to the canal, even if they were not the ones who built it, so they are refusing to leave. Nevertheless, my home government has chosen to give them four more hours to do so. The U.N. still remains neutral in the dispute, but both China and Russia are drafting formal complaint proposals against both the U.S. and Nicaragua. I am afraid that my hands are tied. I have been ordered to return to the Embassy before the deadline and to remain there until instructed otherwise. It pains me to see this after the great good you have done for my home and my people. The U.N. should be supporting you more.”

While Tineo spoke, Viner sub-vocalized. “Atlas, replace that last paragraph with the following: ‘The one hundred acre city dump had a long and sordid past. Since the earthquake of 1972 that destroyed much of the city of Managua, the dump had grown uncontrolled. Those too poor and unskilled to find a better life had become residents, scrounging for items and materials in the putrid heaps of polluted and disease riddled trash that they would trade for pittances of money that barely reached subsistence levels. Poverty could take lessons from the situation these people lived in, and yet they were also highly industrious and creative in their make-do world. That is what drew us to them.’ End replacement.

Viner continued in a conversational tone. “Tineo, I understand. It’s not your fault. We both know that neither China nor the U.S. really care about the canal. They want control of matt-con tech. And, no offense my friend, but the U.N. has long been a toothless tiger in situations like these. You’ve tried to talk reason to them as much as I have, but the powerful here in Nicaragua are starting to feel the economic pinch of our little idea. They see their control of the wealth slipping out of their grasp so they have decided to call in the biggest big brother they can to help with the fight. Some think that’s China, some the U.S. And to be honest, they held out longer than I thought they would. Leopards can’t change their spots, after all. I just hope the big boys don’t start a war over a toy I don’t plan to let either of them have. Thank you for the warning, though. Atlas, resume playback.”

“The only semi-successful attempt at a remedy started in 2008 when the Spanish Royal Family initiated a humanitarian effort. It had invested large sums for creating a housing area for the residents, and a recycling center that employed them, and even a water treatment plant for the city. They also invested in a wall and began to cover over the dump itself to try to contain it. Unfortunately, by 2020, the internal strife in Spain — that really began with Catalonia’s secession and ultimately turned into a drawn-out civil war — meant that follow-on funding never materialized. Central American politics being what it usually was, the situation began to reverse itself once more until the corrupt government officials that ran the recycling center allowed it to collapse by embezzling any profits and letting the equipment deteriorate until it failed. The Churequeros eventually went back to what they knew best… scavenging. And La Chureca began to expand again.”

“Atlas, pause it. Let’s replace that third to last sentence with something less inflammatory. Like…’Due to changing political climates and poor management, the recycling center deteriorated into disrepair and disuse.’ End replacement.

“Tineo, were you finished?”

The man looked at him, startled, realizing he had been distracted by Raylin’s monologue. “Sorry, Senior Viner, but… may I ask what you are recording this for, exactly?”

“It’s for a broadcast. I’m going to let the world know just what the situation is here and what Horizons Unlimited has accomplished.”

“You think you can garner support by appealing to the masses.” Tineo shook his head. “It is a good thought, but I do not believe you will find many media outlets willing to cooperate with you. Horizons Unlimited has been declared a potential terrorist source even by the U.S. and its allies. The mainstream media outlets of the world will not risk losing broadcast rights by challenging the Hate Speech Propagation Accords on your behalf.”

Raylin closed out the computer code window with a flourish and faced the Ambassador with a smug smile. “Yes, well, a thief never goes in the front door if the back door is open.”

Tineo just looked at him with a very confused expression before saying, “I will not ask you to explain that, I think.”

Atlas interrupted them. “Raylin, four helicopters just launched from the Chinese amphibious assault carrier. Two are headed to the control center for the canal, but the other two are headed here. They will arrive in approximately thirteen minutes. Our sensor grid is also detecting some underwater activity.”

“I am sure that is my cue to go,” Tineo said. He held out his hand once more. “I wish you success, Senior Viner. I will show myself out.”

“Thank you for all your help, Tineo. Just make sure you take care of Mike’s dogs.”

“I will see to it.” He placed his hat on his head and began his return walk to the garage area of the complex.

Viner waited until he had left the room. “Atlas, please ask Mike to deal with our incoming visitors per plan. Tell Nygil and Grace to finalize the launch for thirty minutes from now. Also, roll up the sidewalk when Tineo’s car clears the bridge, please. Resume playback.” This time he interlaced his fingers behind his head, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, listening with all his attention.

“Thus, forty years later, the situation was at the stage where it was easy for Horizons Unlimited to convince the government to allow them to help; mainly because they believed it couldn’t get any worse.

“Once the smells and fires from the dump had lessened over a span of months, the government and higher class citizenry were cheering Horizons Unlimited.

The people of the village, after some cautious reluctance, accepted us as well, because they were allowed to earn their own rewards by feeding the recycling units. Anyone willing to work could earn energy credits toward the production of whatever their hearts desired. They started with clothing, housing materials, furniture, and toys for their children.

“The only thing they couldn’t get was food, which is a limitation of the technology itself. That’s a discussion for another day. Even so, H.U. provided food in abundance. As long as they earned sufficient new energy credits on a daily basis, they had free access to the meal and health care facilities H.U. built on site. The credits they generated to qualify they kept for themselves. Horizons Unlimited simply requires that the privileges be earned through work by the able-bodied. Fortunately, there were only very rare instances where someone was too lazy to avail themselves of the generous opportunities provided.

“In short order after initiating the full-fledged reclamation project, sufficient land had been cleared within the landfill to allow the development of personal housing units. H.U. had already negotiated for ownership of the reclaimed landfill area in exchange for continued recycling for all of the city’s refuse.

“That was the simplest part, and had been accomplished in a single day by placing a matt-con unit below where the incoming garbage trucks dumped their loads. In the span of twenty-four hours, La Chureca stopped growing and began shrinking. The trash simply vanishes — instantly turned into stored energy — as soon as it falls below the conversion field. That’s just one more example of the benefits of matt-con technology provided by Horizons Unlimited.”

SEVERAL MONTHS EARLIER

“OK, let the next one through.” Mike waved in the third truck as it backed up to the dumping rail. It was lowered because this particular garbage truck had a low-ride tailgate. They had to wait until the bumper cleared gate before raising it high enough to serve as tire chocks. He was training three locals to do the job so that he could get back to more important things.

He waved hard to tell the driver to stop once he reached the right point. He showed his apprentices exactly what he was looking at before he raised the gate just enough to engage the tires. “Last thing we need is a truck falling off in there with the field running!” He had to talk loudly to be heard over the sounds of heavy equipment running in the background moving the huge mounds of garbage to the portable converter. He motioned with his hand for the driver to continue, but the truck didn’t move. “Climb up and tell him to come back slowly. Despacio!”

One of his apprentices shook his head and pointed to the other side of the truck where the driver was now standing at the rear getting ready to dump the load. “No!” Mike criss-crossed his hands, but the driver only waved back with a big smile and continued. “Damn it, he’s gonna dump it half on the dock!” Mike ran around the front side of the truck and almost made it to the driver before the rear gate opened. Trash immediately bagan to trickled out of the widening crack.

“Stop! ¡Para! Stop!” Mike shouted.

The man turned, startled, but the gate kept going on its automated swing. The low tailgate bumper caught on the driver’s work coat when he turned to look at Mike, snatching him off his feet. In a split second, he was over dragged through the railing gap and fell into the hopper.

Mike immediately scrambled to stop the gate’s progress and keep it from dumping more trash. He grabbed the CB mic at his lapel. “Emergency shutdown! Turn off the converter!”

Atlas replied instantly. “Converter is off, Mike. What’s the emergency?” He had acted faster than any human could have. “Ah, I see what’s happened. He seems to be unharmed, Mike.”

“Are you sure, Atlas?” Mike rushed to look over the edge. Below he saw the man beginning to stand at the far end of the slanted biological chute. He was covered in grease, fat and other animal byproducts. And of course, he was completely naked.

“Yes, although he will need a new set of clothes. The safeties kept his biological materials from being converted. We should also inquire about any dental fillings he may have had. I have alerted the medical response team.”

Mike’s lip quivered in disgust. “I think it’s time for a break anyway.” He turned to his three trainees. “Help him out and get him to the medicos. Then take cinco.”

“It wasn’t long before word of our production capabilities reached the ears of city officials, and they were asking what we could provide for other city projects. Since Horizons had already allocated a generous forty percent share of the energy recovered from the project to the City of Managua, there was more than enough to provide the building material needs for anything they required. H.U. gladly accommodated the production of said materials, on the condition that the city hire and pay the Churequeros for handling and delivery of them at the same rate that the company did. In short order, anything that could be physically produced inside one of our forty by forty by ten matt-con booths, was being created, loaded and delivered by the former La Chureca residents. Jobs were created and livelihoods ensured.

“Land ownership and home construction within La Chureca continued expanding to include most of the former squatters. Many of those homes had personal garden plots where they grew their own food, since they did not want to be dependent on H.U. food stores. We encouraged this by bringing in free seed, and providing free gardening tools and fertilizer to any who asked.

“One man told me that it was because they didn’t want to suffer like their parents and grandparents had when they became overly dependent on the government. They all had generational stories of the failure of the last reclamation project. Their grandparents told them of the failure of the old recycling center and the layoffs that resulted in whole families without a way to make a living. For safety and control reasons, officials had closed off access to La Chureca, and would not let them in anymore to scavenge, even though the garbage began to pile up again. Many began to starve, and protests were staged, some becoming violent. Eventually, the military forced more than a thousand people into refugee centers in other rural parts of the country. Nearly half of the population at the time was forcibly removed, never to return.

“Neglect of maintenance, however, also meant that the wall eventually deteriorated, and the people began to sneak back in to scavenge a living. Over time, it finally became a known crime that the police and military decided not to enforce against. All but the most heartless, that is, who extorted the Churequeros for a cut of their already meager gleanings. The current administration in Managua had put a stop to that some years ago, luckily.

“Once H.U. stepped in, though, the people once again began to feel hope for a better life. And now, the vast majority of them have more allegiance to Horizons than to their own government. Most citizens don’t blame them. Many are even jealous, as their standard of living seems to be even higher than most of the middle class of the capital city.”

SEVERAL MONTHS EARLIER

“Where did all these Romper’s come from?” Nygil and Grace were touring the latest newly opened residential block in New Acahualinca. Gil Jr.’s current girl-crush had invited him to her birthday party, and they were on the way to pick him back up.

“They’ve been copying the one that Mike had Atlas design for him. It’s especially handy for the ones who have family out in the rural areas.”

“I’ll bet. Fully electric with conductivium batteries that can take them a thousand miles on a full charge. Heck, I want one for when we get back home to the States. What does Mike think about it?”

“Oh, he was pissed, as usual, when Raylin told him he couldn’t have a patent on it, just a concept fee. He’s coming around though. It takes a while to get to the point where you understand the new economics of matter conversion. He’s rich already, but he doesn’t know it.”

Nygil smiled. “Well, Nicki will straighten him out I’m sure. Here we are.” He saw Gil Jr. playing soccer with some friends and honked. When he looked up he motioned him come on. Gil waved goodbye to his friends and raced to the car, bouncing in and closing the door.

“So, did you have fun?” Grace turned to look back at him as he fastened his seatbelt.

“Oh, yeah. And Cara really liked the doll-house design you helped me make. She’s going to convert one as soon as her dad finishes her room. She’s getting her own bedroom added to the house as her present from her parents!”

“Wow, that’s really nice!”

“Yeah, and she says I can come and sleep over when it’s done too!”

Grace and Nygil caught each other’s eye. Nygil said, “We’ll… have to talk about that one later.”

“Some of the good side effects of our project have begun to cause a rise in political tensions, however. Before H.U. arrived, two major exports of Managua were textiles and refined petroleum products. Now, the enterprising Churequeros are producing finer quality clothing with their access to matt-con tech, and selling it or trading it for food. Local textile centers have been seeing lower profits, many shutting down completely due to this competition. Local distributors have begun buying directly from the Churequeros instead of the factories, and — before the U.S. backed embargo on matt-con produced goods — were beginning to export to other countries. The workers that were displaced, however, have been absorbed into the expanding network of supply and demand. I’ll also point out that, not inconsequentially, the rate of pollutants being dumped into the local lagoon had also gone down, since those factories were some of the worst offenders.”

ONE WEEK AGO

“Coming up on the last grid coordinates, now. Checking for obstructions,” Mike reported as he used the dual joysticks at his station to pilot the small craft under the murky waters of the lake.

“What is that?” Grace asked, leaning forward to examine the image on the screen.

“Hmmm. Looks like a… truck. Yep, a Heil garbage truck, fully intact.” He maneuvered the submersible around to the rear. It was leaning at a forty-five degree angle and half buried. “And a full load of trash still inside. At least I think its trash.” He zoomed in on the slightly open rear door, focusing the light through the crack. “Yuck. Looks like a bunch of used diapers.” Small bundles littered the inside where they weren’t caked with silt and mud.

“How did it get seven miles out into the lake?” Grace asked.

“Who the hell knows how half this stuff got out here. I found a birdbath in a claw-foot bathtub yesterday.” He swung the submersible up and over toward the front end to look at the windshield. Mike gave a heeby-jeeby shake and panned the camera away. “Oh, God!”

“What was it?” Grace asked.

“There’s a skeleton in there! Its hands were strapped to the steering wheel!”

Raylin interjected from his station, “Get rid of it all. Now. Last thing we need is the locals trying to open up another unsolvable drug smuggling murder and fighting over who gets to re-peddle the evidence.”

“You got it boss!” Mike agreed. He deployed four whisker-like downward curved pylons from the corners of the submersible. Fine webbing wavered in between them. When it was spread out far enough to encompass the entire truck, he slowly began to sink the mini-sub downward. As the webbing contacted the surface of the vehicle, it disappeared with a faint shimmer. The fans of the mini-sub began to kick up silt as it got closer to the bottom, obscuring the area with dirty water. Mike kept descending until he was sure he had gotten all of it, and then raised the craft back up to a few meters above the bottom. It would be a while before the murk settled enough to see, but when it did, there would be nothing but a large rectangular indentation in the lake bottom.

“Guess that takes care of that!” Grace chuckled.

“Another reason for the rising pushback, is that since the Churequeros were under H.U.’s authority per the deal cut for the canal, they cannot be regulated by the local government. That does not sit well with some of the more powerful people within the city.”

“Atlas, pause playback.” Viner considered cutting that last bit. It was strong and accusatory, and wouldn’t win him any friends. But it was ultimately the reason for the current crisis. Although there was no way to show a direct link, Viner had no doubt that it was a combination of disgruntled Nicaraguan politicos and some very quiet back-door diplomacy with China.

“Atlas, do you think I’m getting too long winded here?”

“Yes and no, Raylin,” Atlas responded. “It is long, but it needs to be explained. Most people have little or no knowledge of this place. You’ll never be able to garner their empathy if you don’t explain the situation to them.”

“Alright then, continue playback.”

“Now we come to the current crisis. It really should not be one, but somehow mankind always manages to make a mess from the best of things. The Chinese government is attempting to exert control over the Xolotlan Canal based on a forty-eight year old resolution that was never acted upon by some now-dead Chinese billionaire who went bankrupt a few years after it was signed just because there’s two years left before the deadline runs out. Despite the obvious impossibility of anyone but Horizons Unlimited being able to complete the construction in that amount of time, they insist that they were ‘just about to get started’. The reality is that they are under the mistaken impression that forcing themselves into the project will allow them access to matt-con tech secrets as we build the rest of the canal system through to the Caribbean. Since we have refused to play their game, they are now sitting on our doorstep preparing to take it by force. They will not succeed.”

ONE WEEK AGO

“Well, I just got off the phone with my not-so-little man. I miss not seeing Gil Jr. every day, but he’s really enjoying his time in Mississippi.”

Raylin asked, “How is Jessica, by the way? I never did properly thank her and Seth for the hunting knife set they gave me last Christmas.”

Mike shot a quick suspicious glance at Raylin. “Hunting knife set?”

“My parents are both doing very well, Raylin. They send their regards.”

“You gave me a hunting knife set for my birthday last month,” Mike said.

“Mmm hmm, same one.” Raylin answered matter-of-factly.

“You re-gifted your Christmas present from Grace’s parents to me for my birthday?”

“Of course. You like that kind of stuff, and I really had no use for it.”

Mike shook his head in disbelief. “You’re richer than the Pope, yet you re-gifted something to me.”

“Hey, it was hand-made!” Raylin defended.

“By my father! For you!” Grace interjected in an exasperated tone.

“Yes,” Raylin said without missing a beat of his coding. “And it’s of exceptional quality. And if I ever do need one, I’ll reproduce them exactly, down to the molecular level. I scanned it before I had Atlas wrap it up.”

“And he scanned it!” Mike gave him a disgusted look. “You didn’t even wrap it yourself?”

“Pfft.” Raylin spared one hand to wave in his direction. “Who’s got time for that nonsense?”

Mike gave Grace a can-you-believe-this-guy hand waggle. Grace just sighed and rolled her eyes.

Raylin ignored them. “Atlas, how are we doing with the storage expansion?”

“The storage expansion is on schedule, Raylin, as is the tunnel.” Atlas started a new screen on the holobank in front of where they all sat. It showed the rear of a slowly moving oblong cart that hovered in the exact center of a similarly shaped tunnel. In the far distance, another similarly shaped vehicle filled the tunnel completely and was haloed by a faint shimmer. The main difference was that this one had six sets of wheeled tracks spaced around its body that gripped the tunnel surface and pushed it forward. The smaller rear vehicle had extended whiskers similar to those on the submersible that Mike piloted, but more numerous. Where they reached out and contacted the tunnel surface, a gray-white substance formed on the raw rock and dirt surface, tapering inward until it was about four inches thick.

Grace examined the image closely. “Atlas, how are the new conductivium applicators holding up? Are we getting any thickness variances on the tunnel walls?”

“They are operating within expected parameters. We are getting approximately one point two miles out of them before I have to replace them with new ones. It’s not an insignificant conversion loss, but still within the bounds we set out for the project.”

“Well, I guess even conductivium film can’t be expected to withstand being rubbed against a mile of volcanic bedrock without some wear,” she reflected.

“I’m just glad we had the energy reserves to coat that tunnel with it without having to overbore,” Raylin said. “We’re going to be cutting it close as things are. And the smaller we make this tunnel, the less likely we are to have to worry about it turning into a lava tube.”

“Lava tube? Wait, there’s lava under there?” Mike asked with alarm.

Raylin replied calmly as he continued his coding. “Well, we don’t know for certain, but we are only twenty-two miles from an active volcano, so it stands to reason we might run into a pocket down there. That’s why we’re staging the emergency matt-con units every five miles. Didn’t we already have this conversation?”

“I thought that was to keep out the sea water or to make sure the lake didn’t drain! Not keep out lava! Will that even work?”

“We think so.”

“You think so?!? What’s the melting point of conductivium? Is it less than lava?”

“We’re not sure. We’ve never been able to get anything hot enough to melt it.”

“Some smart-ass recently told me there was a volcano close by. Why didn’t you test it?”

Grace interrupted the byplay. “Raylin, why are we in such a rush? How are you that sure we’re going to have trouble in a week?” she asked.

Atlas interjected, “There is a Chinese amphibious assault carrier en route that should arrive in seven days, Grace.”

To the shocked look on her face, Raylin said, “Let me worry about that, alright? You worry about your projects.”

Mike continued to complain under his breath as he guided the mini-sub around its underwater grid. “Chinese invasion forces, discombooberating rays, escape tunnels, bases built on volcanoes with lava… I’m starting to think I’m working for a classic James Bond villain here.” He craned his neck, pretending to examine the nearly bald pate of Viner from across the room. “Nah, more like Dr. Evil.”

“I heard that,” Viner growled. “I do have some hair left, you know.”

“OK. Just Dr. Pretty Bad, then.” Mike smiled and kept driving the sub. “Hey, Atlas, I just had a great idea. Remind me to talk about an upgrade for the submersible fleet a bit later.”

“Is this idea going to cost me money?” Raylin asked.

“Nah, just a few ergs, Your Eminence! Trust me, it will be totally worth it!”

“The Chinese are not the only grabby entities in this story though. The U.S. government has been trying to find a way to establish control over matt-con tech since the plan to build the canal was announced. We had anticipated that reaction, however, which is why we prepared for it even before we founded Horizons Unlimited. In 2056, myself, Nygil Lucian and his wife Yancye Grace Lucian co-founded Horizons Unlimited soon after we succeeded at producing a critical mass of conductivium that allowed continuous matter conversion. We did so as a non-domestic entity, and we chose not to apply for a patent. We did so because we are one hundred percent confident that no one would be able to duplicate our methods or our technology. Horizons Unlimited does not need the protection of a patent. We realize that conductivium can be duplicated, but not efficiently. Without matt-con technology to make its production profitable, it’s cheaper to buy it from us than to make it yourself. But if anyone is willing to try, knock yourselves out. We won’t stop you.

“Despite that, every acronymed organization in existence at the time, tried — and continues to try — to apply the century old Invention Secrecy Act against us. We have spent more money in the U.S. and world court systems than I care to think about, trying to gain access to markets for our goods and services. Luckily, here in Nicaragua we have been able to create a showcase for what we can do that no one can ignore, and we’ve improved the lives of thousands and reversed some severe environmental damage while doing it. We’re quite proud of that.

“We were prepared to fight the uphill battles for recognition and acceptance that we thought we would face at first. It wasn’t until the subtle threats of physical harm and asset confiscation started that we began to realize the Pandora’s Box we had cracked open in regards to our personal well-being. We are citizens of the United States of America. We love our home country, and we will never do anything to cause it harm. Unfortunately, the bureaucracy that has overtaken the republic will not allow us to bring the benefits of our technological marvels to the people. And our leadership is too afraid of the political ramifications to override them. In that regard, at least, we agree. Our technology is a complete societal game changer. And we believe that it’s for the better. Unfortunately, there are those who feel threatened by that, and thus seek to control it themselves. We cannot allow that.”

THREE MONTHS AGO

“Raylin, we’ve got a problem.” Nygil walked into the main command center from the office suite area with a quick pace.

“More than even I can keep track of, most days, but I assume you’re about to tell me a new one,” Viner replied without looking up from his holostation.

“The Vasquez family — the ones I told you were headed up to bring their families back from the States — they’ve been stopped at the Mexican border. They’re driving a Romper, and the EPA has declared that their vehicle can’t cross because it doesn’t have pollution emissions documentation on file anywhere.”

“What pollution! It’s a figgin’ electric vehicle! There ain’t no emissions!” Mike had overheard the conversation and was quickly becoming livid. “Do you want me to drive up and see about it boss? I have some friends—“

“Not necessary, Mike. This is just another attempt by the Feds to get their hands on our tech,” Raylin interrupted before he became too wound up.

“Nygil, tell the Vasquez’s to go find a hotel and wait. If they try to sneak across somewhere, the Romper will just get impounded. The last thing we need is some government idiots blowing themselves up while illegally trying to reverse engineer our power source.”

“What about the Vasquez’s family in the states?”

“Call Ernesto in Santa Fe. Have him buy a passenger van, a big one, and go pick up the Vasquez’s family. Remind them that they only need to bring sentimental items. Tell him to get them across the border and meet up with the others. If any of them are unregistered illegals, then he should do it stealthily. Afterward, tell him to keep the van and hire a driver to make runs. There are others who’ll want their families to immigrate back home now that they can support them.”

Nygil looked at Raylin for a moment before asking, “Is there anything you haven’t already thought about?”

“Well, I didn’t think about the EPA trying to confiscate a Romper. If I had, I’d have told the Vasquez’s to go in a van before they left.”

“Therefore, here we are in Nicaragua, trying to prove to our countrymen and the citizens of the world that we’re not the enemy. Unfortunately, sometimes your enemy chooses you whether you want it or not. Even so, we at Horizons Unlimited vow to you, the people, that we have not and will not cause any of you harm. We will not retaliate for any attacks made against us, yet if we are attacked, we will defend ourselves in a manner the likes of which the world has never seen. And we also vow, that we will not give up on our dreams to make the world a better place. Please let us.

“We call on you, citizens of the United States and of the world, to band together in our defense so that we can continue to follow our dreams, and to expand those of the human race.”

Viner remained silent, eyes closed for a full minute before speaking again. “Atlas, I think that’s going to have to be good enough. Can you add my image to the speech, maybe some illustrative videos, and prepare it for broadcast?”

“Already done, Raylin.”

“Wonderful. Ask Grace to take a look at it. She’s good with that emotional appeal stuff.” He gave a long stretch and returned to the holoscreens. “Now, let’s get back to that rocket design so we can punch it to orbit and hack those satellites.”

PRESENT DAY

Alarm bells began to sound off on the monitors inside the walled off section of the control center, startling the already nervous occupants.

“What is it, Mike?” Nygil asked as both he and Grace moved to look over the man’s shoulder.

“Looks like our red friends have decided to make their move.”

“You are correct, Mike,” Atlas affirmed. “Raylin instructs you to engage defense protocols. He asks that Grace and Nygil be ready for launch in thirty minutes.” A countdown timer appeared at the top of their holoscreens.

Nygil grimaced. “Great, no rush or anything.” They all went back to their respective tasks before Atlas could finish.

“Grace?” Atlas inquired.

“Yes, Atlas?”

“Dr. Viner also asks that you review his speech for ‘emotional content’. I believe he may have forgotten that you were overseeing the launch tower’s completion.

“I doubt it. He just takes it for granted that we can juggle things like he can.”

“I’ll handle that,” Nygil said. “I’m initiating the fuel conversion now. Creating the launch door won’t take more time than I have, and Atlas is handling most of it for me anyway.”

“Fine,” she sighed. “But I’m not the damned secretary around here. I’m just as much a scientist as you two. Put it up on here, Atlas.” She indicated a blank spot on her holoscreen.

“We both know that, Y.G. It’s just that you’re the most patient and sympathetic when it comes to other people. We’re both a bit… rough around the edges.”

“Ha!” Mike laughed sharply. “Your edges are smooth as silk compared to Raylin. His edges are jagged as buzz-saw made of porcupine quills.”

She had already tuned them both out, popping a set of wireless earbuds in place. She did point at the screen showing the bridge though and spoke loudly, “Hey, what’s going on there?”

The diplomatic vehicle that carried Tineo back to the city had just passed the midpoint of the lower section of the bridge as a gap began to form it’s structure.

Atlas answered, both externally and over her earbuds, “Raylin’s orders again. I’m to dissolve a sixty-foot span of the bridge to prevent any vehicular traffic. He feels it will deter the Nicaraguans from getting any ideas of getting involved.”

Grace nodded and began to listen to the speech.

Mike chuckled. “Well, looky what we have here. Chinese frogmen on one of those little underwater go-carts. This is gonna be fun!” He changed positions to move back to the control rig station for the mini-subs. “Atlas, I’ll drive Betsy myself if you wouldn’t mind being my fin-man?”

“Certainly, Mike. What are your orders?”

“We’re going to try to scare the crap out of them and force them back to their boat. Take out their rig too, so long as we don’t hurt anybody. Remember, we want zero casualties if at all possible.”

Six smallish screens came to life above the primary guidance screen in front of Mike, which carried the moniker ‘Betsy’. The others were simply ‘sub-01’ through ‘sub-06’. They arrayed themselves and spread out behind Betsy.

Glancing up, Nygil did a double-take at what he saw in one of the screens. “What the hell did you do to the subs?”

“Heh! Like that, do you?” Mike grinned.

“Uhmm… Did you re-skin them all to look like sharks?”

“Yup! Pretty damn awesome, ain’t it!”

“And… what is…” He squinted at the picture of the murky water, just catching glimpses of red and green streaks of light that flickered around randomly until a clear side-shot of Betsy came into focus. “Are those lasers?”

“Ha! Ha!” Mike cackled and stomped his feet. “You bet yer butt! He threw a pinky finger up to his mouth. These bad boys and girls got friggin’ lasers on their head! HA!” He laughed uproariously at his own little joke as Nygil just shook his head and went back to his own tasks.

“All right, Betsy girl, let’s go scare us some commie frogs, huh?”

“Mike and I have successfully stopped the underwater contingent. We currently have the mini-sub fleet circling the carrier to discourage further underwater attempts.”

“Very good, Atlas,” Raylin said. “Take that wall down, now. We don’t need it anymore.”

The wall dividing the room began to dissolve and was completely gone after a few seconds. The voices of the others stalled as they glanced around, noticing the change in lighting, before continuing.

Mike gave a status update for whoever was listening. “The rest of the Chinese support craft are entering the lake zone, now. They’ve assumed full control of the Canal Zone. The helicopters just dropped off about a dozen men on our doorstep near the cove dock entrance before heading back.

“Are they knocking politely, yet?” Raylin asked.

“I think they’re just about to.” Mike put up a camera feed showing the men attaching explosive charges the door and frame. “Looks like the U.S.N. has finally decided to send some interested parties of their own… three Ospreys from the Trump just lifted.

“Well, that’s their party, not ours. Be sure to let our guests in when they ask, Mike.”

“You got it, boss. I’ll start Operation Round-About as soon as they hit the plunger.”

“Nygil, are we go for launch?” Raylin asked.

“We are. Launch in one minute. Opening our brand new silo doors now.” A top down view of the complex’s central courtyard showed a suddenly widening split as two one-foot thick halves of the stonework slid apart. A tilted blast shield began to shimmer into existence around the perimeter of the courtyard until it was completely hidden from view except for what was beneath. Below the parted slabs was a flat round cover with curved fingers that also started to rotate away, shuttered camera style, revealing the nose a small missile. A mist began to form around the opening as the frigid temperature of the liquid hydrogen and oxygen vessels below began to rapidly condense the humid Nicaraguan air.

“Grace, I assume you have the tunnel?” Raylin asked.

“I do. The last bulkhead is just completing. The chamber will be pressurizing presently, and we will be ready to punch through the seawall simultaneous to launch just like we hoped.”

“Fantastic. Excellent work my friends.” Raylin pulled up a control screen which read, Chrybdis. “Looks like it’s time to pull the plug.”

The tension of the people in the room was palpable despite their exterior calm. Mike’s finger hovered over a blinking red activation point scrawled with the words Do Not Push. One leg bounced anxiously below the curved desk as he waited for the moment. The expected flash of an explosion from the screen showing the dock doors caused him to stab down. “We’re off!”

“Popping the cork,” Raylin said calmly as he, too, activated his part of their multi-pronged plan.

Outside, every bird, animal and human anywhere along the shore of the lake took flight, ran, or jumped in surprise as the waters suddenly began to rush away from them.

The only ones who didn’t notice were the Chinese troops who were rushing inside the doorway that they assumed they had just blown open. On the screens of the control center, the four Horizons Unlimited staff watched their progress from hidden vantages as they rapidly, but carefully, made their way down a sloping tunnel. They followed it in and around, down and farther away from the entrance.

After five minutes, when they were well out of sight, the entryway sealed itself off as if a door had never been there. The team immediately lost contact with their ship, but when they attempted to retrace their steps they found that the corridors were no longer laid out in the way they remembered. It took several minutes more for them to realize that the overall lengths of the tunnels were shrinking as well. They wandered the corridors for almost two hours, becoming increasingly disoriented. Several times, they would rest their packs or weapons on the floor or against the wall, only to discover it had vanished when they went to pick it back up.

As a last resort, their team leader had them plant more explosives against the dead end wall of a corridor to try to force an escape, or maybe some progress at least. When the attempt failed to even scratch the wall, they decided their only option was to stop and wait.

Once it was apparent that they had, in fact, given up, the calm voice of Atlas spoke to them in perfect accent-less Chinese. “Please place your guns, armor and all equipment in the compartment in front of you.” A door slid open to reveal a featureless cubby-hole in the wall. “If you comply, you will be returned to your ship unharmed as soon as possible.”

After a brief wait, Atlas informed them that they could now exit. A wall at the end of the tunnel dissolved, revealing a set of stairs leading upward. They followed them and emerged on a platform just slightly higher than the water’s edge. Some of them stood in shocked silence, while others commented excitedly as they took in their surroundings.

Not only were they several miles from the island complex they had entered, but in front of them, less than a thousand yards away, wallowed their flagship — a two-hundred-fifty-foot helicarrier. The ship listed at a ten degree angle as the waves of what remained of the waters of Lake Xolotlan bobbled it along the thick mud of the silt-covered bottom. The commander of the force made contact with his superiors, prompting a smaller Chinese craft turned to move in their direction. Behind them, the stairwell they had climbed vanished, leaving nothing but the flat platform surface.

Looking back in the direction of the Horizons Unlimited compound, they could see a fire raging on the northern portion of the Isla del Amour, while the dome of the complex itself sat unscathed on a pillar of exposed rock that was the small southern hill. The lake level had dropped low enough that a land bridge now connected the north and south parts of the island. A plume of water shot from behind the complex and began to drench the fire, quickly squelching it.

The troops looked to each other in confusion. The commander simply removed his rank insignia in preparation for what he knew would be coming next.

TWO HOURS BEFORE

“Lake levels are dropping rapidly,” Atlas announced. “Energy flow and storage are nominal.”

“Launch in twenty seconds,” Nyglil informed.

“The tunnel is fully pressurized, Raylin,” Grace said. “Standing by to breach the opening on your mark.”

Raylin accepted the incoming information with a nod, not interrupting his external conversation with Fleet Admiral Turner. “And as I informed you, Admiral, we have no need for your protection, so you should really recall your inbounds before they get caught in the line of fire that the Chinese are no doubt about to unleash upon us.” Before the Admiral could articulate the thoughts that were obviously manifesting themselves behind the red shading of his face, Viner jumped on a different track. “Oh, by the way, we’re about to launch a satellite, so don’t be alarmed. If you can tell your friends at NORAD, we’d really appreciate it. It’s going up and won’t be coming back down. Sorry, I really have to go now, Admiral. I’ll be in touch.” Viner disconnected before the first syllable of a shout from the apoplectic naval officer could articulate itself into any known words.

Nygil’s countdown continued as he turned to focus on the screens showing the small rocket. “… six … five … four … three … two … one … launch!” A plume of fiery exhaust shot from the tube in the complex courtyard, quickly followed by the rocket it propelled. It was a small diameter rocket — barely three feet across — but its overall length was quite impressive at forty-two feet. It wasn’t the smallest rocket ever launched, but it was the lightest — simply because its post ground clearance fuel was being made in flight from the on-board matt-con unit. It also would leave no empty stages behind. Those would be reconverted once in attained orbit. The glowing gold letters on its side read Phorcys’ Torch followed by the multi-planet-with-rising-sun logo of Horizons Unlimited.

“Go for sea wall breach, Grace.” Raylin reluctantly pulled his eyes from the rocket to focus on the Persephone which was now gliding rapidly down the underground tunnel they had created. It picked up speed as the built in tunnel magnetics boosted its own propulsion.

“Breaching,” Grace replied, and ordered the drone to push forward. A slight inrush of water pushed the drone backward as the pressure and temperature differences in the tunnel further equalized with the ocean’s. The drone pushed past the lip of the opening, then turned upward. It stood guard over the top of the tunnel mouth — conversion field extended — ready to protect from any debris that might have been dislodged from above. The secondary drone followed slowly behind, coating the tunnel with conductivium until it too reached the edge and angled downward. “Tunnel is complete. Drones are clear. You’re good to exit.”

Raylin gave no verbal acknowledgment as he continued to accelerate the Persephone. Of all the things they were doing here today, this was the most important. As long as the Persephone made it, the rest could still fail and they would have a fallback. If it didn’t make it, things would become much more difficult to anticipate. The Persephone continued to pick up speed until it reached an equilibrium point with the water drag, propulsion and magnetic forces within the tunnel. They had started it at the half-way mark, but it still had more than fifty miles of tunnel to clear before it reached the now-open sea.

“Since we have not acknowledged their communication demands, the Chinese are angling their guns to fire an artillery barrage,” Atlas announced. “I am sealing the launch silo and preparing defensive measures.”

“Any response to the rocket launch?” Mike asked as he continued to monitor Chinese ships with his school of mini-subs.

“There was initially, but fast responders have been recalled,” Atlas replied. “We’ll be in orbit before anyone can get any countermeasures in place. They’ll see that we were telling the truth at that point. Prepare for incoming fire.”

“Absolutely, we should! How do we do that exactly?” Mike quipped.

“Popcorn?” Raylin suggested with a quirked eyebrow, not taking his eyes off the Persephone.

A barrage of shells fell toward the dome of the complex, whistling and crackling as they came. The instant they made contact with the shimmering field above the geodesic lattice, however, they vanished. Some of the kinetic energy of one of the shells made it through to the second layer, as a blue-white arc of electrical discharge before being consumed.

“Wow! Reminds me of that old bug zapper my grampa used to have on his front porch,” Mike chuckled. “Is that all they got?”

“Shut it, Mike!” Grace said with a hint of tremor in her voice.

Nygil patted her hand. “See, nothing to worry about.” He smiled reassuringly to her, and got a faint one in return. “Atlas, my friend, I hope you’re recording this for posterity. We should include the footage in our broadcast.”

Raylin smiled, still focused on his task. “Oh, we will. I can practically hear the incoming calls from the Israeli and Saudi foreign ministers right now. We must remember to thank the Chinese for the free advertising. After this is all settled, of course.”

“The incoming U.S. forces seem to have reversed their course,” reported Atlas.

“That’s good news. I really didn’t want to see anyone get hurt by accident,” Viner said.

“I think the Chinese have noticed the lake levels finally. The task force is moving toward deeper waters. One of frigates is about to become dry-docked within the lakeside canal lock.”

“Can it make it out in time?”

“Doubtful.”

“Override the lock gate. Close it and refill the lock, but just enough to keep them from capsizing. We don’t want to be responsible for any casualties.”

“Complying, Raylin. The rest of the ships are moving closer to us. They are only five miles out now.”

“It won’t matter. Once that carrier starts to ground and her props dig in the mud, they’ll stop.” Mike said confidently.

“Approaching the tunnel exit,” Raylin informed them. “The Persephone is almost home free.”

They all watched as the sub approached the darkened end of the tunnel that was the opening in the Pacific. It shot through, and immediately began to slow as the influence of the magnetics of the tunnel ceased to boost its speed.

“Any signs of detection or pursuit, Atlas?” Raylin began to guide the vessel deeper as a precaution. “Grace, seal it up.”

“Will do,” Grace said happily.

Atlas answered the question posed to him. “They do not seem to have noticed the Persephone’s emergence, Raylin. They are using active sonar, but our stealth systems appear to be working perfectly.”

With a sigh of relieved tension, Viner stood from his seat. “Very good, Atlas. Then she’s all yours. Let’s hope our search for a starting location goes as easily.”

“Good job, Dr. V!” Mike cheered, slapping the older man on the back. Grace also came over and gave him a hug.

“Phorcys has reached orbit, in case anyone cares,” Nygil interjected.

“Perfect timing,” Viner said, smiling. He walked to stand by Nygil’s side. Both men were all smiles as they too shook hands. “Let’s free up some speech, shall we?” Nygil nodded and began to activate the programming that would allow them access to the satellite networks of the world… all of them.

“I’m afraid the Chinese are preparing to fire again,” Atlas said.

“Man, they just don’t seem to be getting the picture,” Mike said.

“Give us a view of their ships, Atlas,” Viner instructed.

The screen changed to show a zoomed view of the ships from a camera mounted on a weather station tower across the lake. In the distance, they could see their own compound, now sticking up oddly from the lake at its new level. The group watched as the ship turned to bring all four of her eighty-eight mm guns to bear on them.

Mike suddenly jumped and said, “Oh man, have I got a doozy of an idea! Atlas, how close are they to the grid where they’re parked?”

“They are approximately eight hundred meters from it.”

“What idea, Mike?” Raylin asked with a suspicious note of worry in his voice.

“Oh, I think it’s time we send them their boys back! He he he!” He rubbed his hand together as he sat at his holoscreen.

Raylin gradually teased out the plan Mike had devised as, over the course of the next hour, the Chinese continued to fire various ordnance types at them. All had absolutely zero effect as they were absorbed by the complex’s matt-con shielding. On the last volley, which was apparently incendiary rounds, the ship gave a sudden tilting lurch, throwing off the aim of the guns as they fired. The errant rounds exploded on the northern portion of the Isla del Amour, shredding the remnants of the long abandoned amusement area and setting the tree covered hilltop on fire.

It was at this point that Raylin made contact with the commanding officer of the Chinese taskforce to negotiate a cease-fire. It sounded more like an ultimatum with the threat to drain the lake completely and then dissolve his fleet if he didn’t agree to leave them in peace under U.S. escort. Once they had reluctantly agreed, Mike raised the platform and returned their missing men to them.

That settled, they began to return the water to the lake, momentarily directing part of it over the northern island to extinguish the fire created by the Chinese shelling. As they reversed the siphoning of the lake, they did so with pure, clean water. The process of draining it had dematerialized tons of trash and soluble pollutants in less than two hours. That was the one fact that kept the Nicaraguan government from screaming too loudly afterward.

It was a very tense few days following the incident. The sudden interruption of all broadcasting worldwide for a message from Horizons Unlimited made heads spin like tops in most of the spy agencies. The actual footage from the events in Nicaragua — most of which had already been distorted or manipulated by various state run agencies, or at least soaked in so many asinine conspiracy theories that you couldn’t tell fact from fiction — was like dumping a bucket of cold water on the heads of billions of people at once. The obvious manipulation, coupled with the apparent miracles of matt-con technology being covered up, sent the populace raving to their leaders who had no choice but to join the bandwagon or be swept under.

Thus the pursuit of control over Horizons Unlimited and its technology shifted forms to more surreptitious methods from that point forward. Marketplaces began to open, and further opportunities began to present themselves. The dawn of a new era began, slowly at first, but expanding rapidly as the benefits of matter conversion swept the planet.

Even though the founders of Horizons Unlimited were optimists, they also realized that people will always be people. That was why they made sure that they always had kept their sights set on the next horizon over. And soon, the stars became their goal.

The End… of the beginning.

WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE EARTH

Bokerah Brumley

The Atrium

R.S.S. Ether Hope

Trans-Galactic Spaceliner

Ilsa Land rubbed the nano-infused cloth over the metallic surface in repetitive circular motions, her silvery hips kicked to the side in a facsimile of nonchalance. Prisms covered the specially-made evening gown that she wore, scattering refracted light across every surface; a splatter of rainbows swirled around her as she went about her chores. As was her normal habit, she’d already propped the front door open. She didn’t officially open for another hour, but sometimes early risers wandered in for coffee and conversation. Most of her customers were still asleep, but it was against her programming to stand still.

Daylights illuminated the room, reflecting off of the high-polish of the decking. The floor interacted with the material in the soles of all the standard-issue space boots, keeping everyone upright, despite the slick surface.

Spaceliner architects had a thing for shiny. Everything stayed buffed and waxed, kept that way by a host of micro-bots and nanos. Fake sunlight streamed in through fake windows that could be turned into an observation screen if the surrounding scenery allowed.

A light flashed at the edge of her view. The nanos indicated that the table was already clean and disinfected, but she had little else to do. She had already scanned and repaired the micro fractures in the stucco walls. The Henley bulkhead shifted a minuscule amount each day, and the ship’s vibration was hard on the plaster façade.

Ilsa consulted her internal clock. She could finish the tables before Rick came in for his daily cup of lubricant. She moved to the adjacent area and started again. After all, she had a reputation to maintain. She wasn’t the best restaurant on board without reason.

One of six eateries on the entertainment deck, Ilsa had worked hard on the Moroccan ambiance in her restaurant. As a ‘bot, she only needed charging, so she had been allowed to live inside her establishment. That provided the opportunity to funnel every resource into building her business and her brand.

Imitation candles flickered in metalwork cages. A large paper fan twirled lazily over two dozen tables. Recycled air moved through scent spritzers, turning the onboard atmosphere into salty breezes, rolling in off the Atlantic. She’d even managed to find period liquor bottles and permanently fixed them to wooden shelves behind the antique bar. Some nights, she launched a holographic baby grand in the corner, complete with a pianist.

It had taken her months to program the light fixtures to cast light and shadows to mimic the sun rising and setting. It still wasn’t quite right, but her customers never complained. Her only negative reviews stemmed from the length of the waitlist for the romantic private booths on either side of the bar.

The concierge bot, Rick Blair, hadn’t made his wake-up rounds. Once he did, passengers would filter into her restaurant for bacon, eggs, and coffee. Her bar would be busy with the buzz of humans then, each one bright-eyed and filled with excitement.

From the chatter, all the passengers were excited about the planet outing. The blue-green planet was the crown jewel in the vacation package. As great-great-great grandchildren of space settlers, most of them had never seen their home world. The itinerary included a tour of the rebuilt and meticulously restored Manhattan skyscrapers, a swim in the Pacific, and a night on an old-fashioned virtual farm, complete with a communication dead zone.

Even with all that, Ilsa wasn’t sure what to think of the impending arrival. On the one hand, she anticipated her planned visit to the beach on the Atlantic Ocean where she would rewrite her permanent programming. On the other, Earth had no other meaning to her beyond being the set on which all the old movies she favored had been filmed.

As a new model 38964, she had stepped off the assembly line with anomalous sentience, but she hadn’t been onboard long enough to visit the tourist destination. Consciousness only happened in one in five hundred thousand robots. Since the galactic governing bodies could not reconcile the need for an automated workforce and the need to avoid creating an entirely new species, they enforced a complicated process for all those androids that stepped from the conveyor belt “woke.” Most sentient ‘bots traveled to the droid settlement at the outer edges of the known galaxy or chose a vocation similar to Ilsa’s.

It had taken her a year to declare her right to autonomy, enact the appropriate legalities, and then barter her way off the Robbiton Space Barge. She had been a recipient of an added dermis layer in locations potentially exposed by usual clothing choices of her time. She didn’t need sleep, and she didn’t mind the monotony of putting the same things in order over and over, so her overtly humanoid form and facial features led naturally to employment on a Solar System spaceliner.

The cruise ship held almost two thousand people, and they’d each paid a premium price to have a chance to see their protected home world. They would orbit Earth for seven sols before dropping into subspace and warping back toward the universal hub.

A light blinked in her view, and she stepped to the next table, her circles exactly ten centimeters in diameter. She checked her internal clock. Three hundred seconds until Rick arrived.

In a way, terra firma, as she’d heard some of the older humans dub it, began her story, too. The first ’bots the humans created came from that blue-green planet, and the ones that came before had finally led unavoidably to her kind. There weren’t many AA’s—or Aware Androids—but they were accepted as they were and allowed to live without belonging to anyone.

The sound of a whistled tune brought a rush of internally warmed fluid to Ilsa’s cheeks, the melody punctuated by the echo of footsteps in the atrium. She hurried to the bar and tossed the nano-rag in the repurposer. She swiped two glasses and their shared favorite from beneath the counter. A mix between hydraulic fluid and oil, the heavy amber liquid poured from the decanter in a smooth stream, sliding in slippery circles around the base of the cup until it was two fingers full. She lifted her chin just as the white-jacketed Rick turned the corner, his coppery cheeks shining from a fresh, hard polish.

An assistant droid, Rick did not have the soft outer dermis layer Ilsa possessed. Where she was soft, he was hard. His processors dealt in absolutes and did not consider feelings in his computations. Things were or weren’t, right or wrong, essentially one or zero. He offset her old-fashioned construct perfectly, and he had offered mutual download and long-term goal syncing as the logical result.

Rick strolled to the barstool directly in front of her. “Ilsa,” he said. “Fancy meeting you in a joint like this.” He gestured toward the room and then straightened the black bowtie that cinched his metal neck. He liked to play at their chosen method of interaction, often studying how ancient humans related to one another.

“Good morning.” She pushed one glass toward him and picked up the other. Only half a sol to go. She anticipated comprehending him as well as she did herself.

“You’re as beautiful as the first day I met you.” He tipped the top of his glass toward her and then knocked the liquid back in a single gulp.

“I don’t age, old blue bolts.”

Rick winked when she referenced another of their favorite actors. “Are you nervous?” He placed the emptied glass on the counter. A strange question from an automaton.

Ilsa took a sip before answering, beaming at him through her faux eyelashes. Devoid of night vision, he’d bumped into her in the dark at the back of the classic movie theater near the quarterdeck. They’d both come to watch their favorite old movie. He’d been striking in night vision, stumbling around her, groping at the air until she took his hand. The shock of contact provided the only confirmation she needed. Rick had taken a bit more convincing—one more planned meeting and 3.8 seconds.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I anticipate the long-term changes that will come as a result from our complete mutual downloads. It will alter us both permanently, but I am pleased to rewrite our futures in a mutually beneficial way.” Ilsa moved their empty cups from the countertop into the dish sanitizer.

Rick’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Thank you for the drink.” When he ducked and turned away, the simulated candle light glinted on his chin. “And the company.”

“It’s my favorite habit of each morning.” Ilsa blushed again. The feminine sub-routine still felt new on her face. It had come as a part of the wedding upgrade she’d discovered in the spaceliner memory core. It probably wasn’t the original intent of the code writer, but it served the needs at hand.

Before Rick passed over the threshold and into the atrium, he pivoted. “We’ll arrive in orbit in a few hours. Meet me in the hangar after the meal-time rush.” When Ilsa nodded, he continued on his way, taking the most direct route across the central court to the passenger quarters.

The busy breakfast rush kept Ilsa distracted until ten minutes to go.

“I bet you’re excited.” Rachel peered over the counter, her earpoints flexing as she spoke.

Ilsa turned toward the eight-year-old. Ilsa had been reminding her customers about her vacation for weeks, but Rachel had asked “why” several times every day that her parents came in. Ilsa had finally told her that she was going to the beach with Rick, but that hadn’t been enough for the little girl. She’d asked why until Ilsa had explained.

“Why should I be excited?” Ilsa placed a dirty plate in the repurposer. Based on the food residue, she made a mental note to restock the pepper shaker on the table the dish had come from.

“Every girl’s excited to get married.” Rachel tucked a green strand of hair behind her ear and climbed up onto a stool. Rachel’s repaired irises were the same amber color that Ilsa had. Between that and Rachel’s old-fashioned take on the world … Maybe that’s why they got along so well.

Ilsa leaned forward to bring herself into Rachel’s view. Ilsa folded her hands on the bar. “We’ve been over that.”

From the exit, her mother called her name. Ilsa waved to the woman waiting at the front.

Rachel shrugged. “’Bot or not, you’re real. You have feelings.” She slipped off the stool before Ilsa could respond and followed her parents out of the restaurant.

Once the last customer hurried away, she locked the door and discarded the evening gown and slipped into a floor-length white satin dress with chiffon sleeves and a scoop neck. She tied a ribbon around her natural waist and fastened a single strand of pearls around her neck. She gathered her bag and her veil from behind the bar and crossed the floor without another glance back.

Sensing her approach, the entrance unlocked and opened. As she crossed into the community space, a double tone sounded and the door closed behind her. As she moved across the atrium, a passenger approached her restaurant. The sensors caught the movement and a pleasant voice apologized for the inconvenience, explaining that the proprietor was on her honeymoon and would return in three days. It was the first vacation Ilsa had taken in years, the first time she’d had a reason to take one.

Ilsa didn’t stop, but a blush settled on her cheeks once more. Dispersed throughout the commons, upright communication monoliths flashed. Ship-wide, screens flickered in sync and the formally-dressed, gray-haired captain coalesced in front of the panels as a three-dimensional projection.

The captain raised a hand, the gold at his cuffs glinted in the imitation sunlight. He smiled, and then cleared his throat. “Greetings to one and all. We are entering orbit around Earth. For those of you preparing to disembark, we ask that you observe the following rules …” He began the list of rules that Ilsa already knew.

At the other side of the atrium, Rachel’s parents slipped into the shopping section, directly adjacent to the restaurant section. They stepped into the first stall to study a plethora of semi-precious galaxy gems. Ilsa increased her pace, angling toward the shortest route to the docking bays: the spaceliner employee corridor that ran between the sections, just behind the galaxy gem stall. Rick would be waiting for her at the shuttles.

As Ilsa stepped into the hallway, a vibration rolled across the floor beneath her feet. Another followed moments later. The anomalous sensation brought Ilsa up short. As an android, she sensed things all the time that the average person didn’t, but she glanced toward Rachel.

Eyes-wide, Rachel shifted from side to side. She’d felt it, too.

Another pulse.

Then the low hum of the engines sputtered and then disappeared.

A hush rolled over the crowds.

From faraway came the sound of something pelting against the hull of the ship.

Rachel whimpered. Without the buzz of sound between them, it was as though Rachel had made the noise in Ilsa’s ear.

Ilsa took a step toward the family, but the mother reached for Rachel, clutching the girl to her and pulling her along after her. They made their way to a communication monolith.

Ilsa turned back toward the employee corridor. Rick would be waiting. He would have a plan. He might even know what had happened.

The lights flickered twice. Hatches opened, exposing red and blue warning lamps. Alarms blared from all sides. At the sound, passengers ducked to the floor or launched into a sprint with no apparent purpose or direction. Across the atrium, women and children screamed.

Ilsa froze. The sheen on her satin wedding dress reflected the emergency lights.

A calm voice announced a state of crisis. The recording continued, “Please make your way to the escape pods in a calm and orderly fashion. Cruise personnel will assist you.”

Rick would be there. He’d have a plan to save them both.

Without warning, the floor shifted, launching Rachel’s family upward. Horizontal became vertical. Ilsa’s skirt ripped as she scrambled against the slick floor, her legs working in movements wider than the material allowed. She leapt toward the wall beside her. Ilsa jammed her fingers into the surface and clawing her way up the wall until she reached a bench that had been fastened to the floor beside it. No longer a place for sitting, the bench had become a ledge.

The deck continued to roll sideways, upending hundreds of passengers with it, emergency training forgotten. Chaos bred cacophony, and more screams split the air.

Above, Rachel’s mother grasped the tall com screen with one hand, her legs flailing beneath her, groping the air where Rachel had been.

Finding only empty air beside her, she bellowed Ilsa’s name. “Catch her, Ilsa. Catch her, please. Save my girl!”

Calculating…

Rachel slid across the slick atrium floor, screaming, reaching for anything and everything that passed her. A metal cube tumbled by, the corner narrowly missing the girl’s head. It slammed into the observation window and rolled into the view screen.

Slim odds that Rachel would reach Ilsa without slamming into tables, refuse receptacles, or communication monoliths scattered across the atrium.

If she missed the obstacles, Rachel would slide right by Ilsa. She had to try to catch her.

Ilsa squeezed the bench between her thighs, the crushing force crumpling the bench between her legs. She reached into Rachel’s path. She reached as far she could, stretching toward the girl.

“Ilsa!” Rachel screamed again, reaching. Tears slicked her cheeks. “Don’t let me fall.”

“I’ll catch you.” The words burst from Ilsa’s mouth as Rachel’s feet passed by her hands. Out of her reach. She pitched forward as far as she could. If she let go of the bench, they’d both be free-falling with nothing to stop them.

Ilsa’s fingers grazed Rachel’s knee, side. “Lean toward me, sweetie… Lean…”

Rachel bent to the side, arms outstretched.

Her shoulder landed in Ilsa’s palm. When Ilsa closed her hand, Rachel cried out, but Ilsa didn’t loosen her hold, instead pulling the child into her arms. “I’m sorry.”

A chorus of screams came from above, a tortured underworld chorus.

Ilsa clamped her hand over Rachel’s eyes as her mother slid by.

The woman clutched her hands over her chest and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

She hoped Rachel couldn’t pick out her mother’s scream as she slammed into the wall.

A shudder rolled through the length of the spaceliner. Earth’s Moon came into view. They were headed into the atmosphere. Spaceliners weren’t made to withstand the strain; a hull breach was eminent. The lights flickered again. It wouldn’t be long before they’d go out.

Rick.

Ilsa tucked her finger under Rachel’s chin and tilted her head back, meeting her gaze. “We can’t stay here, okay?”

Rachel trembled in her arms. “Mama?” Her chin quivered.

“She’ll meet us on the surface.” Too easy to lie. Ilsa had to hide the flinch the realization brought. “Do you remember Rick?”

Rachel nodded.

“He has an escape pod for us.” Ilsa believed her guess was accurate. True or not, Rachel needed the reassurance. Ilsa gestured toward the long, employee corridor that looked more like the tunnel to the center of the Earth. “It’s through the hall, near the end.”

“We have to fall?” Rachel’s question ended in a squeak.

Ilsa wrapped her arm around Rachel and gave a little squeeze. “It won’t be the same as before. I’ll be with you, and I won’t let go.”

Rachel buried her face against Ilsa. “Okay,” she said, her voice muffled.

Ilsa spun in place until both legs hung over the edge, her toes pointed down the corridor. Ilsa settled Rachel in her lap and wrapped an arm around her. “Now we’re going to slide down the hall, but don’t try to grab anything. Let me do that.” After Rachel nodded, Ilsa laced her fingers between the girl’s and pushed off. She twisted slightly to land on the shiny floor. For once, she was glad for the obsessive tastes of the spaceliner architects.

Ilsa slid from the bench to the floor of the hallway. The impact nearly knocked Rachel from her lap, and she squeezed her tight. The Henley tipped farther. They had to make it to the end before the ship flipped upside down. The grav generators hadn’t disengaged, but they’d go when the lights went.

In the atrium, people screamed, their voices changing, the soundwaves shortening and lengthening in frequency as the passengers fell across the wide open space of the atrium. The Doppler effect came to an abrupt end as they hit the bulkhead below. Ilsa didn’t have the benefit of tunnel vision, but she hoped Rachel did. Rachel’s parents would not make it off the cruiser, and Rachel needed to think only about surviving.

Her mother begged Ilsa to save Rachel. She would be saved, but statistically, the experience would scar the girl. PTSD would linger in her synapses.

Two seconds and thousands of calculations later.

Ilsa gritted her teeth, the move somehow a result of the downloaded Romantics Application software—the premier wedding night behavioral modification program for sentients. She did not breathe, but her chest heaved in time with Rachel’s panicked breathing.

Every third section, Ilsa shoved her arm into passing perpendicular aisles. She would have to slow their speed. Interfaces continued to flicker, each time staying off longer. She leaned back, pressing Rachel against her.

The end of the hall approached, as though catapulting upward to meet them. Blood and brains littered the wall at the bottom. Someone had been more than unlucky. The impact so hard it left only pink and red, like an abstract of the living being that had been there before them.

If she didn’t want Rachel to wind up as a splatter on a wall, Ilsa had to slow their momentum even more. Isla’s legs could withstand a high-impact landing, but she had to make it a safe touchdown for Rachel.

Ilsa slammed her free hand into the wall at the next section, grasping for something to hold. Metal crunched beneath the force, but her arm bounced away. She repeated it.

They had only four sections left.

Three sections.

Again.

Reach. Slam. Grab. Ricochet.

Something sliced into her arm, ripping away the faux skin that covered the interior of her forearm, exposing the metal of her simulated radius.

Two sections left.

Rachel squirmed, whimpering. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—survive the landing.

Rachel screamed and tried to crawl up Ilsa’s front, but it wouldn’t have been enough to save her. Death would have come by blunt force even if Rachel could have perched on Ilsa’s head.

Rachel had a moment’s chance at life, any more than that meant death.

Passing the last section, Ilsa reached again, shoving her arm into an open panel, the workmen long gone. Maybe even the reason for the bio-litter at the bottom. Cords and tubes twisted around her fingers, and she clamped her fist closed. She curled around Rachel, cradling her head against the softer dermis on her shoulder.

Two inches from the bottom, Ilsa’s shoulder jerked upward, accompanied by the sound of metal ripping. Rachel gasped as she slipped in Ilsa’s arms.

The wires stretched and jerked upward like a rubber band pulled taut. The twang echoed up and down. Error codes flashed at the edge of Ilsa’s vision. The gamble had paid off…

“I’m going to let you down.”

Rachel clutched at Ilsa but her arms slipped over Ilsa’s hips. She flailed as she fell the few inches. “Oh. Closer than I thought.”

Ilsa opened her hand and dropped beside Rachel.

“Your arm.” Rachel gasped and then covered her mouth.

Ilsa’s arm fell from the tangle to hang limp between them. “I can be repaired.”

Rachel threw her arms around Ilsa’s waist. “You did it, you did it.”

“We must get to the escape pods.” With her good hand, Ilsa gestured toward the hangers. The girl patted Ilsa’s side.

Through the smoke, a shadowed figure appeared. “Ilsa?”

“We’re here, Rick,” Ilsa called. Rachel darted away as Ilsa strolled toward the droid she’d been looking for.

“Hello, Rachel,” Rick said, his even tone as recognizable as the blue-green sphere they were plummeting toward.

Taking Rachel’s hand, Rick winked at her. “Here’s looking at you, kid.” The corner of her mouth twitched in response. “Her parents?”

Ilsa shook her head. “I couldn’t rescue them without sacrificing her.”

“They would not have wanted that. Humans do not think that way.”

“We are entering the atmosphere, Ilsa.” Everything flickered, but the backlight in his eyes remained bright. The decking shuddered beneath them. “I have an escape pod primed for launch, but we must hurry.” Rick lifted Rachel into his arms and broke into a run across the wall.

Ilsa bolted after him.

The corridor opened into a hanger. Shuttles and dayships were fastened to the bay, locked in place by electro-magnetic clamps. All good until the power failed.

They could be crushed beneath a dozen hulls.

A hundred yards later, they reached the escape pod. Rick tucked Rachel inside. Ilsa reached for him.

And then she couldn’t see anything. Overhead, metal creaked.

Ilsa glanced up, and her optic sensors switched to enhanced night vision. A shuttle shifted and then dislodged from the ceiling and more followed, floating next to their clamps. With the anti-gravs failure, they did not fall to the floor below.

Rick’s feet slipped out from under him. “Anti-gravs are out.” He stated the obvious.

“Rick,” she said. “We have to get out of here.”

Two glaring orbs spun toward her: Rick’s backlit eyes. “Hurry,” he said. “If the power comes back on, they’re coming down.” Holding the edge of the hatch, the hardness of Rick’s fingers met the softness of her shoulder as he guided her into the pod.

She launched herself across the pod, plucked Rachel from the air, settled her into a passenger seat, and belted her in. Then Ilsa strapped herself into the co-pilot’s seat. She punched in her employee code and the dashboard lit up. “Welcome, Ilsa Land,” it said.

“Prepare to launch,” she commanded. Over her shoulder, she yelled, “Get in here, Rick. We have to get out of here. The atmosphere will start venting.” If it did, Rachel wouldn’t be able to breathe. They had to get the hatch closed. Rachel needed the oxygen.

“One moment.” The escape pod showed a rotating hourglass. “I am unable to contact the control tower, Ilsa Land.”

Rick pulled himself inside the pod and pulled the hatch closed behind him. He froze before it sealed, his head swiveling toward the control tower at the center of the bay. “Why aren’t we taking off?”

Ilsa punched the dash, the skin flapped around the gashes in her arm. “It won’t launch. The clamps won’t disengage.” The escape pods were controlled by a different system than the stationary ships.

Outside, another ship dislodged from the ceiling. That made ten.

Ten death traps waiting to spring.

“Go, Ilsa,” Rick said as he re-opened the exit. “I have to flip the manual switch.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t wait for me.” Rick lobbed himself out of the escape pod, bolting across the decking toward the control power.

“What’s happening, Ilsa?” Rachel whimpered.

Ilsa didn’t answer, her gaze fixed on the retreating back of her would-be hero. Lights glinted on the silvery curve of his shoulder, his feet eating away the distance as fast as androidly possible. “He’s going to release the clamp,” Ilsa said finally.

He reached the control tower and yanked the cover off the control panel. When he threw it aside, it flipped end over end through the air and slammed into a dislodged ship. Rick flipped switches and spun around. Rick didn’t smile, but if he’d been given a human face, it would have been there.

Their escape pod shifted as the metal clamp disengaged. He’d done it.

If the spaceliner hadn’t been inverted in its descending orbit into the atmosphere, they would have fallen free, according to the specs of the design. Instead, they were able to stay put until he could make it back. Fate had a funny way with circumstances.

A strange thought for an android.

She slapped the com button. “Come with me, Rick Blair.” They were going to make it.

“Start the sequence. I’m on my way.” He started the long run back.

A beep filled the hangar.

One by one, lights flickered on across the bay.

And then ships fell toward Rick. A dayship meant to take vacationers to the restored Manhattan buildings. A shuttle meant to take them to their appointment on the beach.

Ten chunks of metal hurtled toward Rick. “Go, Ilsa,” he said.

One narrowly missed him and landed with a crash. The spaceliner shifted. The shuttle tumbled toward the entrance and slammed into it, knocking a gash through the bulkhead. Everything rushed toward the vacuum of space.

Rick jumped into the air. A shower of sparks filled the air as the ship scraped across the ceiling of the hanger, pulling antenna and wiring from its places, sending the dayship directly toward the escape pod.

“Go,” he said. “Save the girl.”

Ilsa had looked forward to their ceremony for so long. She studied the intermittent sheen of the ruined wedding dress, laying across her android thighs. They had a moment’s chance at life.

The ship slid closer, threatening to crush them all, but Rick turned toward the errant vessel. He planted his feet. Ilsa recognized when his magnet shoes engaged.

She knew then.

She had to go.

She pressed the symbol to open a com link. “I—” she began but she didn’t know how to say what came next. She had no subroutines for goodbye.

“We’ll always have Earth,” he said. They were entering the atmosphere. He wouldn’t survive the re-entry. At best, they had a few seconds.

“We never made it to the beach.” Ilsa smoothed her hand across the panel, initiating the launch sequence. The engines powered on.

“You will. Enjoy it without me. Check the databanks. I left something for you.”

Ilsa pulled away, anticipating the crash, cringing with the weight of a future different than she intended. Behind her, Rachel cried softly.

They flew out of the hanger, through the small hole the shuttle had left behind.

Ilsa unplugged her hard wire from the console. It hadn’t taken long for her to find what Rick had left behind. When she found the file, she downloaded it, basking in everything that Rick had been. He had given her all his memories, all his plans. They would alter her permanently.

Ilsa held Rachel as they watched the spaceliner move through the atmosphere, the escape pod lodged in beach sand beside them. The Earth’s Custodial Unit had already mapped the places that would be impacted and sent clean-up crews. They were experienced in capturing debris as it fell. The hunt for survivors was on-going.

This volume you are holding is part of the larger Planetary Anthology series that has one volume for each planet in the solar system, plus Lunar and Sol. If you enjoyed this ride leave a review and check out the rest at
http://www.superversivepress.com/our-books/planetary-fiction-series/

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS

WJ Hayes

WJ Hayes lives outside New York City with his wife and daughter. When he is not writing or spending time with his family, he is a lawyer. His story, ‘Venus Felix’ was published in Superversive Press’s Venus Anthology. Buchanan Polk first appeared in ‘Polk’s Prophetic Property’ in the Victory Fiction’s ‘Freedom’s Light: Short Stories.’

Lou Antonelli

A life-long science fiction reader, Lou Antonelli turned his hand to writing fiction in middle age; his first story was published in 2003 when he was 46. Since then he has had 86 short stories published in the U.S., U.K., Canada and Australia, in venues such as Asimov’s Science Fiction, Jim Baen’s Universe, Dark Recesses, Andromeda Spaceways In-Flight Magazine, Greatest Uncommon Denominator (GUD), and Daily Science Fiction, among others.

Richard Paolinelli

Richard Paolinelli began his writing career as a freelance writer in 1984 and gained his first fiction credit serving as the lead writer for the first two issues of the Elite Comics sci-fi/fantasy series, Seadragon. In 2010, Richard retired as a sportswriter and returned to his fiction writing roots. Since then he has written five novels – including the Dragon Award Finalist (Best Sci-Fi Novel), Escaping Infinity – three Sherlock Holmes pastiches, two non-fiction sports books and three novelettes. He is serving as co-editor for one of the 11 volumes of Superversive Press’ Planetary Anthologies (Pluto) and will have his own short stories in several of the other volumes as well that are to be released throughout 2018. His third full-length science-fiction novel, When The Gods Fell, is scheduled to be released on September 4, 2018 by Tuscany Bay Books.

He is also a partner in Tuscany Bay Books with Jim Christina and founded the Science Fiction & Fantasy Creators Guild (www.sffcguild.com) a not-for-profit organization aimed at promoting science-fiction and fantasy and its creators in many media platforms.

Arlan Andrews

Arlan Andrews is a long-time writer of science fiction (ANALOG, others) and Fortean/paranormal nonfiction (ATLANTIS RISING, others). An engineer, he has worked at White Sands Missile Range, in the White House Science Office, in several high-tech laboratories, and in his own startup companies. In this century he is finally living in his long-awaited future and it’s been pretty neat, so far.

Jody Lynn Nye

Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as “spoiling cats.” She lives northwest of Chicago with one of the above and her husband, author and packager Bill Fawcett. She has written over fifty books, including The Ship Who Won with Anne McCaffrey, eight books with Robert Asprin, a humorous anthology about mothers, Don’t Forget Your Spacesuit, Dear!, and over 160 short stories. Her latest books are Rhythm of the Imperium (Baen Books), Moon Beam (with Travis S. Taylor, Baen Books) and Myth-Fits (Ace). She is one of the judges for the Writers of the Future fiction contest, the largest speculative fiction contest in the world. Jody also reviews fiction for Galaxy’s Edge magazine and teaches the intensive writers’ workshop at DragonCon.

Alfred Genneson

Alfred Genesson hails from the dark corners of the internet, somehow adjacent to storied Eathandune. In addition to writing, he rants about books, boardgames, comics, and more at injusticegamer.blogspot.com . He can be found on Twitter @aelfredwessex.

R.W. Ware

R.W. Ware is an artist and writer of speculative and historical fiction.

Nathan Dabney

Nathan Dabney is an author, audiobook producer, voice actor, blogger, podcaster, and irascible alcoholic. You can find him on most social media under the handle “JimFear138,” or at his website jimfear138.blogspot.com, where he does reviews, political commentary, free fiction serials, and his weekly podcast.

John M. Olson

John M. Olson is a semi-finalist at the Writers of the Future.

Marie Genneson

Marie Genneson is an aspiring romance author.

A.M. Freeman

A.M. Freeman is a young author from the beautiful Georgia mountains. When not arguing with fictional characters, she enjoys reading or horseback riding, and she just about never stops dancing. You can find her work, “At The End of Detachment”, in the anthology Forbidden Thoughts, and she has stories featured stories in all previous Planetary Anthologies. Keep up with her musings and new works by visiting her blog lostinlalalandblog.wordpress.com. Or on Facebook under A.M. Freeman.

Dan Gallagher

Dan Gallagher was a Financial Planner from 1987 through 2017 and the author of numerous business and pension articles since 1992. Now retired to writing, editing, speaking, and teaching, his The Secrets of Successful financial Planning is forthcoming in May 2018 from Skyhorse Publishing. His 1998 novel, The Pleistocene Redemption, sold many thousands and will be available, revised as Ancient of Genes, fall 2018. He is the author of numerous short stories and narrative non-fiction. Dan’s three current projects include a book of humor shorts and two anthologies, one mystical and one cryptozoological. Excerpts, reviews and several short works are available at his website, AuthorDan.com.

Josh Griffing

Josh Griffing is an Army Reservist in Georgia who writes when he can, and reads when he can get away with it. He has two young children, four insolent cats, and a pair of small and yappy dogs. Amazingly, his wife is still very nearly sane, and for this he is eternally grateful. He blogs sometimes at https://subcreated-worlds.com/.

Hans G. Schantz

Scientist, inventor, and author, Hans G. Schantz, is Co-Founder and Chief Technology Officer of Q-Track Corporation the pioneer in low-frequency, near-field precision indoor location systems. An inventor on more than forty patents, he earned his Ph.D. in theoretical physics from the University of Texas at Austin. He is the author of The Art and Science of Ultrawideband Antennas, and the alternate history science fiction techno-thrillers The Hidden Truth, the sequel, A Rambling Wreck, and the forthcoming novel, The Brave and the Bold. Hans lives in Huntsville, Alabama with his wife Barbara and four children: twin girls, and twin boys. He is @aetherczar on Twitter and blogs at aetherczar.com.

J. Manfred Weichsel

J. Manfred Weichsel’s story The Funniest Story Ever Told can be found in Millhaven’s Tales of Wonder Issue 1 and his story Going Native can be found in Cirsova Issue 8.

Benjamin Wheeler

Benjamin Wheeler has been multiplying quite rapidly. Every time a new Benjamin wears the wolf mask, another group comes up to take it from him. Where they find time to write stories in between murdering (suiciding?) each other, no one knows. Philosophers have given up trying to figure this one out. Check out his works, published in other Superversive Anthologies, and soon, as stand alone novels. He’s sure you’ll like “In the Seraglio of the Sheik of Mars” and “Seven Siblings” when they are released.

J.D. Beckwith is a mechanical engineer with delusions of writing grandeur. A lifelong fan of science fiction and fantasy, he has recently taken the opportunity to try his hand at the craft he’s always admired. When he isn’t working on either expanding his bibliography, or finding more efficient ways of manufacturing things — like bulldozers, excavators, and garbage trucks — he amuses himself with reading, tabletop & RPG gaming, arguing on the internet, growing tomatoes, and herding cats… all while trying to stay hidden in the woods of Northwest Georgia. eConscience Beta, is his first independently published novel.

Check out J.D.’s book reviews & other nerdy stuff on his blog: Words from the Wampuscat @ wampuscatenterprises.wordpress.com

Bokerah Brumley is a speculative fiction writer making stuff up on a trampoline in West Texas. She lives on ten permaculture acres with sheep, goats, turkeys, geese, peacocks, guineas, ducks, chickens, dogs, cats, quail, five home-educated children, and one husband. In her imaginary spare time, she also serves as the blue-haired President of the Cisco Writers Club.