by Ron McClung

Part 1: Dawn On Dwindlelight

She sat on a hilltop on a remote world, in the western forest of the northeastern continent, in the far reaches of the galaxy, alone and scared. She sat in peace, however, for the first time in a long time. The pre-dawn wind ran through her once-beautiful, now-soiled blonde hair, waving in the air like yellow flame from a raging solar flare. They called this world Dwindlelight because at certain times of the year the star at sunrise had a strange flickering property like none other. The rising sun at those times appeared as if it were a dwindling candle, flickering rapidly then returning to its original state.

Maronim Galactic Researchers had an automated research station in orbit monitoring this phenomenon. She had just come from that automated station. Yet, another grungy job, in a long line of rag-tag jobs, she thought. It was the best she could do while she ran and hid from whatever wanted her dead. In all her travels, all her hitching rides on dilapidated freighters, stowing away on space-liners and a series of other horrid and unspeakable things she had to do to stay on the run, she escaped death many times… too many to count. Others weren’t so lucky. Sometimes they were simply victims in the way of a stray blast, while others who got too close to her became victims of circumstance. She shed a tear at those memories. She remembered the odd and sad feelings she felt as she watched them die, as if she could feel their soul drain away. Some people just wouldn’t turn away, no matter how hard she pushed.

For every tree in this forest below her, she could come up with a face or a name of a bounty hunter or assassin that had tried to kill or take her. Or a face of an innocent that got in the way.

She only knew that she was different. She had never shared just how different to anyone, and it only manifested at points of high trauma or stress. But that wasn’t reason enough to put so much effort into killing her. Who wanted her dead THAT badly?

She raised her hand and extended her index finger. It flared with fiery light. She wrote her name in the night air with that light: Diara Lynwyn Lightwind. It hung in midair for several minutes like a neon sign, before she waved it away.

Diara looked at her hands—greasy and calloused from hard labor, her dirty and tattered coveralls that of a remote system service person—and grimaced. To think, she had been a noblewoman at one time. She thought of all the other disguises she had worn and the skills she had to learn. Her special talents didn’t seem so special then. From an evening gown at a royal gala, to a stolen police uniform, to a male Corvanian’s envi-suit, to full-combat powered armor on a mercenary ship. Now she wore the coveralls of a deep space technician. At least she had a ship. She looked through the trees in the direction she had come, where she had landed her small one-man repair/scout vessel. She couldn’t see it because it was still at least four kilometers away, but she knew it was there, safe and sound. It was no bigger than a shuttle, but it got her from jump-point A to jump-point B. And as long as B was farther away from the Core, she had no problems.

Diara had stopped crying and wondering why years ago. At least she thought she had. She wiped away a tear. She was a tired 28-standard-year-old woman, tired of running, tired of not having a normal life. She began to cry again…

“SEVEN YEARS!” she screamed.

The sorrow turned to fury quickly, which welled up deep inside of her, powerful and uncontrollable. Diara closed her eyes, and all she heard was a thunderous clap. When she reopened her eyes, there was nothing around her but scorched ground… for a three-kilometer radius.

Damn, I knew that would happen… she thought. She was glad she parked her ship far enough away this time. Why me?

She had heard the authorities sometimes hunted down people with Psi abilities because of what they could do, but she had never heard of anyone with abilities like hers. The most she had heard of was a person who could move a pen across a table or start a small fire. Nothing like what she could do. She looked at the devastation around her. Nothing like this! With all the technology in the galaxy—matter transference, terraforming reactors, sentient machines and hundreds upon thousands of ways to kill one another—she had not heard of anything being able to do what she could do.

Something flickered in the smoke and the darkness of the night. Cloak field. She reached for her tool bag where she kept her blaster pistol. How did they find me this time?

“You shouldn’t leave such an easy trail, Lady Lightwind,” came a voice.

The cloak field dropped to reveal an armored figure walking towards her through the flame and smoke. It lifted from the ground, obviously using an anti-G belt, and produced an assault rifle. The figure drew closer, landing only meters away on a scorched and smoldering tree trunk. There was no place to hide, thanks to her outburst, so she knew he could see her plainly.

This was where some wavered.

She watched as his rifle dropped ever so slightly. He too found her irresistibly attractive. Yet another part of her power, a power she didn’t understand.

The figure, obviously male and human, tried to stay strong, “You are a threat to someone very important.” Another waver. “I am here… to kill you.”

Diara stared into his faceplate intently, seeing beyond it, seeing his face—a blonde young human male, probably younger than she. He was weak and very easily manipulated.

“Who wants me dead? Who wants you to kill me?” she asked as she stood up. The commanding voice was yet another power of hers. But something was resisting her.

Diara could not count the number of times she asked the question, or the number of times she felt the same resistance when she asked it. But this time, she hoped she was far enough away from the source that perhaps she could make this one crack.

The resistance was strong, but not as strong as in the past. The weapon dropped even further as he felt his mind being probed.

“I… can’t tell you, that, pretty lady…” Blood started to drip from the boy’s nose behind his mask. The resistance wavered at that moment. She lashed out with her power and suddenly the rifle was gone.

It was weaker this time.

The bounty hunter grabbed for his pistol, “Oh, no you don’t, bitch…”


She heard an unfamiliar voice within his mind—one that had similar command powers to hers. Who was he?

“You don’t want to die, do you?” she said to the boy. “Look around you, you think you can kill me?”

He could only stutter and step back, pistol wavering in his hand as he felt the power of others surging through him. “No… I can’t… You must die…”

“I feel doubt in you, strong doubt.”


“But she is so beauti… aaaaaaaahhhh!” With a blood-curdling scream the boy grabbed his helmet and fell limp to the ground.

“So, that’s how it ends now?! Your power is not strong enough to control your minions out here, so you kill them?! Show yourself!” Her voice boomed like thunder, boosted by her powers.

The bounty hunter lurched one more time and rolled over. Maybe this one carried a clue. He looked over-confident, perhaps to the point of ignorance. Diara began to strip his clothing and search his body. She looked at the armor, it was just her size. She smiled. He must have a ship nearby.

On the horizon she could see the flicker of the morning light… Well, at least I got to see it.


Part 2: The Cyber-Mutant Underground of Kara’Kresh

Gadaron Port Authority believed her to be the bounty hunter easily enough, with the help of her powers. The boy was too over-confident. He had left a data trail light years long, leading to this backwater world, where he was hired in the first place. And what a world it was…

Gadaron Space Port, on Kara’Kresh, was a seething city on a hot world that had seen way too much corporate development in its time. Over-industrialized, over-populated at one time, it was finally forgotten after the Second Karian War. It had now become a wet, polluted, hopeless world where the rejects of Expanse came to hide, to make a living or to scavenge the ruins of industrial plants of old. It was a pinnacle of technology at one time but was now a wasteland of obsolescence.

However, there was one thing that thrived on Kara’Kresh: the techno-underground, where anyone could get anything for almost any ruinous price. From illegal cyber-ware or enhancement drugs, to hard-to-get experimental bio-ware or booster-nanites, anything was there.

The young dead bounty hunter, Harming Ellos—former soldier from the cyber-brigade turned AWOL, now dead—turned out to be heavily modified himself. With bio-ware implants for strength and agility, and cyber-implants for just about everything else, he would have been formidable if he hadn’t been so weak minded. The problem with having that many implants was that it weakened the mind and the soul. One needed both to be able to resist her powers.

It was raining. A stinging rain, with a slight chemical smell to it. Diara was glad for the armor suit. It helped her avoid any skin burns. Damn acid rain. In the mist caused by the rain, hover-skiffs and repulse-bikes flew by above, while ground vehicles battled their way through traffic below. This was the busiest city on the planet because it had the spaceport.

Diara spotted what she was looking for. It’s always a bar. Why is it always a bar? One of the drawbacks of her physical assets was the harassment she constantly received when she walked into places like this. Thankfully, she was wearing the bounty hunter’s armor and helmet this time. But there was no telling how popular this guy was here either. Standing a block away from the bar, she took a deep breath and reviewed the facts in her mind.

She had a name: Jarus Nell. He was the contact person the boy dealt with. Nell was a cyber-demon—a street term for a heavily mutated human with cyber-ware. Mutations were another problem on worlds like this. Over the last several centuries—since the Terran Expanse discovered FTL flight and started colonizing and terraforming worlds—mutations had grown worse and more radical. Kara’Kresh seemed to have been the extreme of that, perhaps because of the terraforming and re-terraforming that had occurred throughout its colonial history.

Nell paid Ellos half up-front, and would pay half on proof that Diara was dead. Diara knew from Ellos’s logs that Nell had four bodyguards at all times, all cyber-demons of one kind or another. Most members of his entourage were addicts to tree’deshian spice also known as Tree-Dew, including Nell himself. She had heard of the degenerative effects it had on its addicts, from the addicts that existed in the noble courts back home. Initially, the buzz is a slow one, but as time goes on and the user becomes an addict, the buzz is instantaneous, and debilitating. Tree-Dew normally comes in liquid form, to be injected intravenously or dropped under one’s eyelids. However, a very rare and potent powder form existed, and that is what she had.

Very few people knew the effects it had on the mind’s eye and on the internal defenses most sentients had against her power—their sense of reality and unreality, their willpower and their soul. This, coupled with the amount of cyber she hoped Nell had, would make him an easy source of information.

The bar was called the Grinding Stone, a hole-in-the-wall place set near a dark alley lit by neon light and a single street light. Several beings stood outside. One was a bouncer/guard-type. He was Untharian, a huge multi-limbed hulk of a beast with a carapace-like skin and a head somewhat reminiscent of a rhino merged with an insect. Perfect for his job. And there was no telling how much cyber this one had, or if he was a mutant.

Diara had to play it cool, in hopes that Mr. Ellos didn’t frequent this place as often as she suspected.

“Not you again, hot shot!” came the reverberating voice of the Untharian.

Damn. Diara disguised her voice the best she could. “I have to see Nell. I have what he needs.”

“Oh, really? Hmmmm…” the creature scanned her with it’s antennae. “Leave your cannon at the door as usual and keep the rest holstered this time. We’ll be watching you, hot shot. No funny business.”

Diara removed the assault rifle from her shoulder and handed it off at the check-counter by the door. She then walked into the smoke-infested room and was assaulted by the collage of smells, sounds and sights of the Grinding Stone. It was a haven for cyber-demons, nitro-geeks, transients and addicts of the area. It lay in the midst of what was once the industrial zone. The overall industrial theme of the bar cast a dark and dreary tone.

It was pretty crowded, with assorted aliens from all corners of the region, some she didn’t recognize. Who she didn’t see was Nell. She had seen a picture on Ellos’s logs, so she had an idea what she was looking for—short, slouched, grayish skin and cybered with second clone-tech. Her first instinct was to go to the bartender.

“You again? I thought Nell said not to allow you back until you had what he was looking for…” the gruff towering beast of a bartender grumbled.

“Maybe I have what he was looking for…” disguising her voice again. The bartender stopped and raised an eyebrow… or what would pass for one if he were human.

In a matter of minutes the word had spread around fast. She was soon accosted by two large thugs and escorted to where Nell resided on busy nights. They took her upstairs and across noisy catwalks to his office, hidden in the latticework of girders, catwalks and ladders.

Nell hated crowds; some said he even feared them. His “office” was indicative of that. The smoke seemed to get thicker as she was brought into the office area. The smells became even worse. Her distinguished nose was never meant to come this close to any of the sights and smells she was experiencing here. How things change for a noble woman.

Nell’s room was as attractive as the rest of the place, with a little more leather and fewer steel girders. It was a small room with a barred back door she spied in the shadows. Nell was surrounded by four female “beings” behind an old office desk and his bodyguards were spread out around the room. Assorted old furniture was littered around the room, a pool table in the far corner.

“Well, if it isn’t little Ellos himself, already back from his adventures… She scare you away, boy? She is said to be rather persuasive.” Nell blew a cloud of smoke from his gor’an-weed cigar. Yet another vice.

Diara scanned the room with her inner senses and detected others behind a wall, listening in—two others, armed and anxious. She focused on them for a short minute while she spoke in her Ellos-impression. “I have what you want…” She held up a leather satchel. Inside was something she wished she hadn’t had to bring, but the bounty hunter’s data insisted that the evidence of the kill was her severed head. Thank the gods that the bounty hunter was blonde. It might buy her more time.

Diara heard the quiet thud that told her that the hidden two had fallen asleep, just as she wanted.

Nell dismissed the females, who reluctantly left. He looked intrigued, but disgusted. She knew his type couldn’t stomach a severed head. He probably won’t even take it out of the bag. He opened the bag slightly and peered in. He made a face as he saw the bloodied blonde hair, “Did you have to be so messy?” As she suspected, he didn’t pull the head out, only saw the hair.

“I’m changing the deal,” Diara said abruptly. This drew the attention of the bodyguards. She instinctively moved her hand closer to her holstered blaster pistol. That move was followed up by the sound of a sword being unsheathed, the mechanical hum signifying a slight modification to the blade—vibro-sword. Probably mono-edged as well. That thing would cut through this armor like hot Ow’oonga fat.

“Easy now, gentlemen. Let’s hear the whelp out.” Nell eased back in his desk chair as if it was his throne.

Diara’s senses told her that the one with the sword was inches from taking her out. Adrenaline surging in her veins, she found new levels of control and strength in her ability. She conjured up a little surprise for the swordsman and stored it in the back of her mind, just in case things got nasty.

“I want to take it to your benefactor myself. In return, you can keep half the bounty.” She figured he was already keeping half, but now he’d be getting three-quarters of it.

That got his attention. He leaned forward in his chair. “And all you require of me is the identity and location of my benefactor, is that it?” She couldn’t glean it from his mind that easily. That part of her powers was not completely developed. But she did sense he knew something she could use.

She also got the feeling he wasn’t giving it up so easily.

“Well, to be honest, boy, I am not authorized to give you that information…” His cybered left eye gleamed at her. She knew he had that information somewhere in those extra data-chips he had installed in his left lobe. She just had to get in there, past his natural defenses. She gripped the small bag of Tree-Dew powder in her hand. She just needed a moment.

He leaned closer. “Did you hear me? Hand over the head and walk away. You can pick up your pay at the door.”

Diara had to make the move now. He was close enough that the powder would lower his defenses just long enough for her to pick his brain. It was a complicated invocation, but she learned that non-organics were easier than organics to pull information from, if you knew how to read it.

Diara leaned closer and sensed the bodyguards’ heightened awareness. She had the closest one covered; the rest would probably get one shot off, at most. She took her chances.

The cloud of reddish dust exploded from her hand with a thought, and Nell was suddenly thrown in a daze. She searched hard and as soon as she knew she had found it, she triggered her next surprise.

The blade in the hand of the bodyguard suddenly vanished. The bodyguard then abruptly went rigid. Blood began to pour from his mouth. The bodyguard then grotesquely split in half, vertically, and the sword fell out from between the pieces. The sword had re-materialized inside him.

Nell slouched over in his chair, blood seeping from his nose. The cloud was probably too potent for him. He would probably OD before she even left the room. Diara was not hanging around to find out. One blast struck near her as she dove over the desk. She lashed out with her power, again.

Two bodyguards had moved in and were in close proximity to each other. Big mistake. In a flash, the still-hot blaster in the one guard’s hand exploded. The fiery eruption engulfed them both, killing at least one of them and incapacitating the other. That was going to attract attention from the outside, she thought, picturing the lumbering Untharian already running from the door to the back.

Another blast struck her in the shoulder, knocking her back. The armor absorbed most of it. Diara lifted her blaster and fired back. Two quick blasts felled the oncoming guard. She looked at her blaster. Conventional means are not beneath me, she thought and smiled for a moment.

Diara got up, the burn from the shoulder wound telling her the armor didn’t absorb as much as she thought. Nell was still in his chair, twitching and drooling, as the powder wreaked havoc on his neural system. She removed the helmet to show Nell her face. She knew some part of him could register the sight. She saw in his eyes that it had.

“Sorry, partner… Deal’s off.” Diara searched his body and his desk for any credits. She found his half of the bounty. “You can pick up your share at the door…”

Before the Untharian came bursting into the room, she was out and through the back. She left a small surprise for the Untharian however—in the form of a small detonator in Nell’s hands. As soon as his neural systems shut down, which she guessed would be soon, the device would drop out of his hand, the spoon would be released and BOOM.

She was a block away when she heard the explosion.

Damn, that was some potent stuff.


Part 3: The Psychotic Psi-Casters of Bedlam

The data she had taken from Nell’s neural pathways was encrypted. It took her three days sitting in Ellos’s ship while in orbit around Kara’Kresh’s second moon to translate it. All she got was what she liked to call an “astral image” of the data, which she had to translate into real data and let a machine decrypt it. It turned out the ugly cyber-demon could only afford a cheap operating system and encryption algorithm for his implants, making her work only slightly easier.

But now she wished she wasn’t able to decrypt it so easily.

The data gave the name of Gram Bellington as the person that had contacted Nell. That transmission was heavily encoded, but with some work was traced back to a relay-sat orbiting a planet called Bedlam. The transmission itself originated from Bedlam.

Of all places in the region, it had to be Bedlam.

Bedlam was claimed by the Expanse Fleet at the end of the First Karian War and set up as a special military training facility. Its existence was said to be one of the causes of the Second Karian War. It seemed the Karian apes didn’t like the humans experimenting with the psionic sciences. It scared them.

And Fleet didn’t think of the drawbacks to all their experimenting either. Now it had become a special asylum for the Fleet’s special projects and “prototypes”—projects that revolved around the powers of the mind. Psi-Casters. It was rumored that the military spent considerable time studying the sciences surrounding psionic powers, attempting to boost them, find new powers, and discover new ways to use them. They found that overuse tended to fray the human mind. Hundreds upon thousands of sentients that had enrolled in the program had gone insane. They and their children and their children’s children now resided on Bedlam and were watched over by a special division of Fleet.

Bedlam was a harsh world. Fleet attempted to terraform it once and regretted it. The storms only got worse. Now, the eight cities on Bedlam existed only because of transparent-steel bubbles over them or, as in two cases, because they were underground. There were roughly twenty other cities, built on the gamble that the terraforming would hold, but all those were abandoned.

All eight cities were guarded asylums for some faction of the Bedlam-Psi society. Without special Fleet permission no one was getting into any of the cities of Bedlam.

However, Diara had her own way in. Her mother had died there when she was a young girl—admitted just after Diara was born. She still had her free passage codes to visit her mother’s grave. All she had to do was cover her trail once she was in. She had developed her hacking ability over the past seven years to be able to crack even the best Fleet security systems.

No one ever explained to Diara why her mother was admitted into Bedlam. She remembered very little of her mother, being raised by her aunt and uncle in the Noble Courts of New Avalon. She was told the circumstances of her conception when she was eighteen. A Terran soldier had raped her mother during the Second Karian War. That’s all she was told.

But what did that have to do with anyone wanting her dead… and this badly. This Mr. Bellington had better know.

A few more hours of hacking into a local Expanse Fleet node found that Bellington was not an inmate, but a member of the Fleet “Psi”-chiatric Staff on Bedlam. Dr. Bellington, actually. To find him, she had to go to the city of New Arkham—one of the smaller ones, underground and near the coast.

The trip to Bedlam would take three weeks in void-space. Diara had time to rest. She climbed into the sleeper pod, after engaging the void-engines.

* * * *

In her dreams, she heard her mother’s voice, saw her mother’s face. So kind, so gentle… And then it was gone, replaced by a demon. Diara felt her body being ripped to shreds, her organs thrown to the four winds. Sounds of a horrid battle could be heard behind the scene. A single man standing at the top of thousands of bodies, holding a sword in one hand, her mother’s head in the other.

That’s the biggest problem with sleep pods. No matter how badly your psyche wants you to wake up, you can’t. People had been known to go insane while under pod-induced sleep.

She awoke on the edges of the Bedlam System. Instead of locking onto the guidance beacons of the system, she took the ship in herself. The beacons would log her presence. She would be expected, however she didn’t want to knock on the front door quite yet.

The flight from the system’s outer edge to orbit took another three and a half weeks, at full thrust. Fortunately, it was a small system.

* * * *

The city of New Arkham was a dark and morbid place. Attempts to make it look like a normal city, with normal citizenry, were corrupted by the occasional mad scream or pointless babble from a wandering passerby.

It was a twisted place that she didn’t want to be in for very long.

As Diara walked the streets, she felt something strange, like she was being watched. More than watched… scanned. But from where?

Something else made her nervous. Diara thought that maybe it was because she had never been to this city, her mother’s grave residing in New Providence. However, it seemed to her that there was a deficiency in regular personnel.

Diara walked to the place where the transmission originated—an Expanse Fleet office complex. She could see its tower from a distance and, as she turned a corner, saw the entrance.

The entrance was ransacked. Expanse Fleet symbols were defaced, the front gate and door destroyed, the front foyer burned out by fire. This happened a while ago. Diara drew her pistol. It appeared that the staff was no longer in charge of the asylum. At least not this one. No telling how many others had been taken over.

She looked around nervously as more faces appeared out of the darkness of alleyways, street corners and windows, all looking at her. She turned on the night vision visor on her helmet and saw more faces in the darkness.

Diara started to run. A shower of debris came from upper level windows of buildings as citizens of New Arkham started screaming and howling. She turned down an alleyway that had fewer windows and found a “bunker” of garbage to hide behind, taking aim down one direction of the alleyway. She kept one eye on the other direction, not really sure where it ended. All she saw was darkness.

The screaming and the howling stopped. If the city could get any more ominous, it did in that moment.

Diara suddenly heard a chorus of hums coming from down the other end of the alleyway. She shifted her aim. She saw movement but waited to see what it was. Four figures, all dressed the same, came into the light, followed by four more, followed by four more. All in formation, dressed in black and brown leather tunics and pants with eyeless leather masks straight out of a bad S&M vid. They were all humming the same monotonous note, never changing it. She felt the pressure on her mind, as if the chorus was penetrating it. She fought back, pushed against them.

The chorus and the formation stopped. Oh? No one has ever done that before, have they? she thought as she sensed the bewilderment in their minds.

Diara lowered her pistol in their direction and fired. The blast struck just in front of the left-most lead man and deflected. Damn, Psi-shield… these guys are good.

The man looked in her direction—first one to do that—and lifted his hand. A blast of force hit her and, in an explosion of garbage and debris, sent her sliding down the alleyway. The blow nearly knocked the wind out of her but her armor absorbed most of the force.

She fired again as she got up. The blast was deflected and went wild. The chorus of hums started again as they began to march towards her. She needed more time than she had to drum something up with her power. She thought of something small and released it.

A ball of flame launched from her hands and exploded at their feet. Diara gambled that, with all the garbage in this alleyway, there had to be something flammable on the floor. There was. Flames engulfed the formation of leather-bound men, obscuring them from her vision.

Diara smiled at her minor victory.

Movement from within the flames told her just how minor it was. The formation marched on, in full force, despite a few charred members. They released another telekinetic ball of force, which she dodged. It went across the street, toppling the small building there in a cloud of dust and smoke.

The humming continued.

She ran down the street, across it, not looking behind her. In her rush, she attempted to conjure up some of her own defenses, which deflected a few of their attacks. Diara turned a corner, down another alleyway, just as the walls of the building she passed erupted. She was covered in a shower of brick dust.

She stopped only for a moment to catch her breath when she saw a figure in the alleyway, dressed in what looked like a lab coat, waving to her. She wasted no time heading in that direction. Anyone not wearing leather had to be better than these goons.

The figure was gone before she could reach it, but a door stood open. She went into the door and closed it. Inside was darkness. She moved to switch on her night vision but a whisper stopped her. “They will sense that if you turn it on. We have your essence covered as long as nothing else gives us away.”

She heard the humming approaching. She also heard the whimper of someone else as they got closer, someone in the room with her. She sensed that there were several people here, but did not reach out with her power to find out. The leather boys could probably sense that too. The humming soon faded.

A few minutes afterwards, a candle was lit.

In the small cramped room, no bigger than a broom closet, were a dozen ragged figures and a single male in a lab coat, with the letters “GB” stenciled on the pocket. Any Fleet symbols that might have been on the coat were gone. “Gram Bellington?” she asked.

He looked shocked. “You know who I am? How?” He looked suddenly suspicious, reaching into his pocket. The group of people in the room suddenly cowered.

“Whoooah, wait. I’m a newcomer here. I got a transmission from here that had your name on it and I have a few questions for you.” Being careful not to reveal too much of herself, Diara removed her helmet. Her blonde hair fell loose over her shoulders, sweat beading from her forehead.

Bellington’s twelve “disciples” all gasped at her sight. Bellington removed his hand from his pocket and produced a handful of medicine bottles. He opened one and began passing them around to each of his disciples. They devoured the substance as if it were food.

“The only way to keep the upper hand around here—take advantage of their addictions. It’s one of the few things he can’t seem to overcome.” Bellington said as he passed out the last of the meds. Bellington looked as though he could use some of the therapy that he was handing out.

“What? What’s going on here?”

He paused a moment and gestured to the group around him… “These kind folks are what’s left of Ward 19. They were in isolation before he took over. He killed most of them, but I was able to save these twelve. They are my only defense against him and everyone else he controls, like those guys out there—the Hummers.” He gestured back to his group of addicts. “Meet the Maskers.” The group of twelve grimy faces smiled and snickered as they saw the look of approval from Bellington. He snickered back. “They don’t talk much though.”

“He? He who? What the hell is going on?”

Bellington looked shocked. “You mean you don’t know? I thought you got my distress signal. You’re not Fleet here to save us? Oh god, who are you?”

She was tired of the games. She put her blaster to his head. “What the hell is going on?!”

Bellington froze. “I don’t know what transmission you received, but whatever it was, I didn’t send it. I only sent a distress signal a few months ago. Could he… Is he that powerful?”


“Patient 991-09-1009…We call him the Sovereign. We have no other name. His records were lost in the fires. He took control a few years ago… about seven, I would say. He keeps the other administrators out by controlling everyone, somehow, and making them believe New Arkham is operating normally. New Arkham is one of the least visited cities here on Bedlam because of the strange cases it gets.

“Since then, I’ve survived. I was only recently able to get into the offices and find that transmitter. Oh god, what did he do? Did he change the transmission? How could he? His power must be getting greater. No one has been able to manipulate EM waves at that level, let alone hyper-EM transmissions… Oh god, help us.”

“The Sovereign?” Who was he? Is this who wanted me dead? Why? Was I a threat to him while he was here in this asylum? Why?

Her only choice was to find him, to go to him and present herself to him and ask why. And if possible, kill him. “Take me to him.”

The entire group cowered at the suggestion. “What? We can’t. You must be crazy.”

“I am Fleet and I am here to kill him. You must take me to him.” A slight glint of hope flared up inside Bellington’s mind. But he was hiding something also, and she sensed it, even past the psi-shield the other twelve were still forming.

“But it’s suicide. He is all-powerful. There are rumors that he even controls parts of New Providence. You can’t possibly go alone.”

She stared sternly into the doctor’s eyes, one of which was obviously cybered as a medical scanner. “Let me worry about the dangers. Debrief me on what you know of the threat on the way and I will deal with the rest,” she said in her best gung-ho-military tone. She had learned that from the mercenaries.

The doctor sighed. “We’ll have to take the tunnels. There are only a few citizens there, and we can hide from them.” He looked at the twelve of Ward 19. They all nodded that they would go along and help. “The Hummers are just some of his minions, and they are the least dangerous.”

Great. She rolled her eyes. Who was this guy?

* * * * *

The tunnels turned out to be old service tunnels used by the staff to avoid the regular population. It seemed to Diara that the staff was more imprisoned than the regular population.

The doctor continued to speak as they walked down the hallway. “The Sovereign took over by first controlling some staff, then some inmates. No one knows how he did it. Unlike most of the population, Fleet didn’t make him… well, not entirely.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Too long. Before I started, that’s for sure. They say he’s been here since the Second War. That’s at least thirty years or so, isn’t it?”

“And he wasn’t one of the Fleet’s toys?”

“Not in the paranormal sense, at least at first. He was a regular soldier who lost it on the battlefield during the Second War.” He paused. “I can’t remember much else, other than that when he was brought in he showed signs of paranormal abilities beyond anything anyone had ever seen.” His thought was interrupted by a sound down the hallway. “Damn…” The twelve disappeared in corners, cowering in fear. “I should have seen where we were. Ward 32 – Pyrokinetics.” Bellington hid in another dark corner near his twelve.

Diara stood alone in the dim light of the hallway. She heard the noise again, like something being dragged across the floor. She smelled something burnt, like scorched meat. Her mind raced to conjure something up. She tapped deep into her reservoirs to find the right ability.

A hulking beast of a man turned a corner as Bellington spoke, “They’re very powerful. I would be careful. Oh, and they’re cannibals.”

The beast-man, muscular and dark skinned dressed in tattered and charred clothing, pulled an inert body, presumably lifeless, along with it—a young female, with one leg gnawed on already. Diara’s senses told her it was dead, but not totally useless to her.

The pyrokinetic beast-man roared as he saw Diara. The air around her warmed as his rage built. She felt his fire building up inside him. She prepared a defense as she looked at Bellington. “Find cover. This is going to get a little hot.”

The man roared again, as flame built up around his mouth. Oh, he likes to breathe fire, does he? Probably the only way he knows how to use his powers. How one-dimensional.

The beast bellowed as a fireball launched forward from his mouth, striking Diara dead center. Steam erupted around her as she withstood the blast. The fire cleared and she stood unmarked. Her defenses held. She summoned up her own attack, while at the same time attempting to conceal her power from Bellington. She pointed her gun at the pyro-beast and manipulated its power with her own to create a much more powerful blast. Diara fired. The blast was met with another blast of flame, deflecting it.

Going to have to try another tactic. Diara thought as she prepared another defense. She started to feel fatigued from over-use of her powers. She couldn’t let this next strike hit her. She waited, shifted to the side behind a pillar just as the second attack came.

She had just enough strength to try one more thing. The body. She left her defenses up and concentrated on the body, attempting something she had never tried but had a gut feeling she could do. She felt its limpness, its empty shell. She then separated her own self from her physical body. Part of her filled the emptiness, and soon it had life again.

The beast was lumbering forward to get a better angle on Diara’s body. Diara, now giving the corpse temporary life, caused it to stand. She waited for her moment. As the beast angled closer to Diara’s body she waited until she knew another fireball was welling up. When it did, the corpse moved.

As the beast was about to release the fireball, the body of the young girl grabbed the beast’s head and kissed him, blocking the flame. Her last action was to blow back into the beast’s mouth. Then Diara was out, and back in her own body.

She ducked as both heads exploded in a ball of flame. The smell of burned flesh filled the hallway.

Bellington came out of the room amazed. “She must have not been completely dead. Pretty crazy sacrificing her life like that.”

“Yeah, well, this is a crazy place.”

* * * * *

They crawled out of tunnels into what Bellington said was Ward 99, the special cases ward.

“He was one of five that stayed here. He killed the other four in the first few weeks of his takeover.”

“What else happened here? What did they do to the special cases?”

They walked into an atrium, where they could see multiple levels of hallways, like the central area of a prison. “Well, I’m not really at liberty to say. It’s all top secret.”

Diara turned and grabbed him. His twelve disciples, already scared to be there, turned and ran. Her power welling up inside, she roared at him, “What happened here!?” He shriveled in her grip in fear.

“That voice… I know that voice, that power… you’re one…. You have that power…” the doctor cowered in fear. He scanned her with his cyber-eye. “Yes, I see it now, surging through you. You do have his power. You are another one…”

With her voice again, Diara flared, “Tell me!”

“They experimented. Did everything to him, short of killing him, to determine his power.” They tortured the special cases, beyond any being’s imagination, with test after test, she realized.

Suddenly Diara doubled over in pain. Flashes came to her mind. Imagery of a battlefield. Dying soldiers. Horrid scenes of death and destruction. Screaming Karian ape-men being slaughtered by an unknown force. Tortured soldiers on pikes. Heinous war crimes beyond anything anyone had seen. A voice calling to her. Come to me, child.

And another voice pushing her away. NO! Run, Diara, run away and never return! She recognized this voice. It was her mother’s.

She still gripped the cowering doctor. A roar of thunder came from above. They were showered with debris from an already faltering ceiling. “Take me to him!”

* * * * *

The Sovereign resided at the top level of the tower of Ward 99, overlooking the underground waterway that led out to sea. The room at the top was a dark and dank one, solid cement walls, with restraints lining them. When Diara saw it, she could only think it looked like a dungeon. But what shocked her the most was the Sovereign himself.

He lay upside-down, suspended in the air by chains and steel cable, spread eagle, in the center of the room. His body was wrapped in leather restraints and connected to electrodes that were long dead. His face was covered in a horrid clinical mask. Only the rise and fall of his chest told her he was alive. He was a big man, a warrior, with a lot of rage and anger inside of him.

She could tell he was insane. Insane from all that he saw in battle and the nightmares that haunted him afterwards. Insane from the torture and pain the scientists put him through. So insane that his body was nothing more than a shell and all that was left was his power, small fragments of memory and his insanity.

But she could tell something else. This was her father.

This was something she had suspected since she arrived, but something she denied as well. She had felt her mother’s spirit pushing her away, but she knew she had to face him. This was where she got her power, the originator of it all. And the one that wanted her dead so badly.

How can I be a threat to you like this? This is hell. Why would you want to protect this? Are you controlling more than I know? Maybe you have your own little empire already. Is that what I threaten? She realized he wasn’t protecting anything.

She sensed something else in him. An implant left in his brain by Fleet. A small array of memory, enough for him to use as a journal. They never saw it, but she did. She captured that data image and stored it away. Then turned to the doctor.

Diara could hear her father talking to her now, and she understood why. She looked at the doctor. In an instant he was dead on the floor, a twisted ball of flesh and bone. Her rage continued to flare up. Anger not toward her father, he who had chased her down and tried to kill her uncountable times. Not at him for all those that died trying to kill her or trying to protect her. She had lost friends, family and lovers to this, but that didn’t make her angry anymore.

She was angry with those that did this to her father and would have done it to her.

The anger was at a boiling point, higher than it had ever been. She walked away, not tapping it until she was well outside Ward 99. She was twenty blocks away before she finally focused it.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Father?”

In a flash, the Ward and all twenty blocks around it suddenly disintegrated to dust.

A final release.

* * * * *

She decrypted the journal on her way back to New Avalon. Most of it she had guessed. Her father considered himself not of this universe, but from another with different laws of physics. He had powers beyond what this universe would allow, and it drove him insane. His life was a living paradox. What he brought into this universe of technology and science was what some people would call magic. The forces that rule what was right and wrong, what was real and unreal, battled against him, even as he battled against the Karian enemy during the Second War. It drove him insane but never destroyed his inner compassion. Even though he had no control over his own actions, deep down he knew what was right and wrong. When he raped her mother in one of his fits of rage, he knew that a child would be conceived. When they put him in Ward 99, his inner self could only hope that his child would be nothing like him.

As they experimented, he sensed that the child was different. Through the years, he worked hard at his powers, even as they poked and prodded him. No matter what happened, he never wanted another person to live through what he had—the insanity and the experiments. When her mother was admitted he got a name and a location. It turned out that her mother was a psi-talent Fleet had been watching. She too went insane.

So his quest to kill her was to save her from a life of insanity and a life of Fleet experiments. But what he didn’t realize was that she was a child of this universe. The axioms had reformed to fit her into this universe. She belonged to this universe. And she had made sure no Fleet doctors knew of her existence. She was no longer wanted and she could lead a normal life again.

It was over…



by Erik Cotton

The sun was already well into the sky when Kerry, whose real name was Nathaniel Bright but insisted that everyone call him that, awoke. The clock, barely visible under the piles of clutter on the nightstand, flashed 12:00. Of course, it always flashed 12:00, Kerry had never bothered to set it after the last power outage. He didn’t have to really, school was out for the summer and he didn’t have a steady job.

He lazily reached over to the stereo and pressed play on the tape deck. Instantly the room was filled with noise. Megadeth was hammering out their cover of “No more Mr. Nice Guy.”

I got no friends ’cuz they read the papers, they can’t be seen with me and I’m getting real shot down and I’m feeling mean.

Feeling mean indeed, Kerry thought. The only way to be. He sat up and attempted to guess the time and day. Sunday he thought, parents probably in church or out socializing. He tried to recall the prior night… right, party at the Slammin’ Watusis. Lasted well into the morning too. Mac, the owner, had managed to get Running Wild to play there. Kerry didn’t care for their current pirate motif, but back when they were black metal they had some killer albums.

In fact, somewhere amidst all the clutter, Kerry had their first album Gates to Purgatory autographed by all the members. Feeling somewhat nostalgic for their sound, he half-attempted to find the album, but gave up and headed for the shower instead.

Later, back in his room he dug through his closet for something to wear. Buried beneath Exodus posters and a Cradle of Filth backpack he found his old Destruction tee-shirt, from the ’85 Bestial Invasion Tour. He slipped it on and grabbed his only pair of leather pants. Pitch black and encrusted with spikes, studs and chains, they matched perfectly his worn out leather biker jacket. On the back was a huge monocled grinning skull. Above it was the word “Cyclone”, a Belgian thrash band, and below the phrase “Inferior to None.” He also pulled out his best combat boots. Made from Spanish leather and German steel, the New Rock Gladiators had set him back several hundred dollars. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he’d had to bribe his geek brother to order them off the Internet. But it didn’t matter, these boots would last a lifetime. Looking at the back of the jacket that’s just how Kerry felt today. Today was the big day. His band, “Wardance” had lined up and audition with an out of town record exec from Combat Records. The label was a subdivision of Metal Blade, and was primarily a showcase for up and coming talent. Slayer, Megadeth and Metallica had all debuted on Combat. Kerry wanted Wardance to be mentioned right alongside the Big Three.

Today was also the day Kerry was going to buy his dream. A used but in good shape B.C. Rich “Rich Bitch” Warlock guitar had showed up at the local pawn shop. Black, with a custom head, just like Blackie Lawless used. Sure W.A.S.P. was a little light for Kerry’s musical tastes, but there was no denying that Rich Bitch looked good in Blackie’s hands. Kerry had slaved for months as a dishwasher at Hank’s Bar-B-Que to save up enough cash for a new guitar and fortune had smiled upon him with the Warlock.

Exiting his room, he snatched his Walkman and his inverted cross from the bathroom counter. Slipping them on over his greasy way-past-the-shoulder black hair he mashed down the play button on the tape deck. Sanctuary was in mid-chorus of “Die for my Sins”

…As you fill the lies hypocrisy chokes the life from you Die for me, die only for me…

Downstairs his younger brother was hunched over the computer, deeply involved in a game. On his way out the door, Kerry pulled the power cord.

* * *

At the pawn shop, Kerry was waiting impatiently behind some old lady trying to foist off her family silverware. He wasn’t really listening to the discussion going on between the owner and the old lady but he could tell it wasn’t going her way. Instead, Kerry cranked his Walkman even louder as Annihilator’s “Word Salad” was reaching its crescendo.

Woken up from death, nausea. Catatonic stupor, anoxia. Remaining still I hold on to a sense of permanence. Negativistic fear of pain, algophobic life sentence.

Kerry was so caught up in the thrashing end of the tune he didn’t realize the old biddy had left until the owner had tapped him on his shoulder. Kerry slipped the headphones off his ears, “Yeah?”

“What’cha need buddy?” asked the owner.

“Right, I want the Warlock over there.” Kerry pointed to the black guitar.

The owner looked at Kerry skeptically, “That’s a lotta cash pal.”

“Yeah yeah,” nodded Kerry absently, his eyes locked on the Warlock. He fumbled in the inner pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a wad of bills. “There’s four hundred there.” he said as he shoved the wrinkled bills toward the man.

The owner looked at the crumpled and sweaty bills as if they might contain some hidden curse. Wiping his hands on his stained shirt, he slowly started smoothing out and counting the money.

“Yup, that’s four bills awright, but the tag says four-fifty.”

Kerry looked right at the guy, “So negotiate, it’s not that much difference.”

The owner thought about it a moment and shrugged, “What the hell. Here.” and handed Kerry the guitar.

Grasping the Warlock in his hands Kerry knew today was going to be special. The guitar felt natural in his hands, felt right, like it was made for him. He put the strap over his shoulder and ran a quick succession of chords over the fretboard. Yup, it was even in tune. “Right on, absofuckinlutely right on!” Kerry grinned.

* * *

“Where the hell is he?” complained Set.

“Aw man, you know Kerry, that fucker is never on time,” said Thoth.

“You know it pal, he’d be late for his own funeral,” replied Leviathan.

The three band members, dressed to a man identically in black leather and spikes, were sitting on ragged cast off furniture at their rehearsal stage. Actually, to call it a rehearsal stage was overly optimistic. It was a run down studio loft in a very iffy section of town. But between the four band members, it was all they could afford. In the background “Soldiers of Hell” was playing.

You see the ranks beside you, and their long black hair, Soldiers of Hell, Soldiers of Hell.

“Hey man, do you think the exec will know how to get here?” asked Thoth.

“Kerry’s supposed to meet him someplace, Hank’s I think,” said Set.

“Do you think it’s wise for Kerry to talk to him without us around?”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s his band after all, besides the guy’s gotta come here and catch us play before he’ll sign us.”

If he signs us.”

“He’ll sign us, we’re the best.”

“Shit, we’re the only metal band in this town.”

Leviathan got up and lumbered over to a window. “Hey, here he comes now. But I don’t see the exec!”

Kerry opened the metal door, “Hey guys, you seen the exec yet?”

“Shit no, man. We thought you had him,” spat Set.

Kerry shrugged, “I was supposed to meet him at Hanks, but he didn’t show.”

“Maybe he’s lost?” suggested Thoth.

Before Kerry could respond a man appeared at the far end of the loft, “I’m sorry gentlemen to keep you waiting, I had a few other duties to attend to.”

The band turned and looked at the man. He was tall, taller even than Thoth, who in his combat boots was over six four. The man was also very thin, with dark black hair slicked back and wore a very expensive red and black suit.

“S’okay,” said Kerry, “yer here, that’s what matters.”

“Indeed,” said the man. “Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Mr. Louis Seefer.” He smiled and raised his eyebrows, as if in expectation.

Kerry started, “Uh right, I’m Kerry lead guitar and vocals, the tall one over on my left is Thoth, our bass player. Leviathan, the big guy here is our drummer, and that’s Set, rhythm guitar.”

Mr. Seefer smiled, “So pleased to meet you, I’ve heard much about you and your band.”

Kerry grinned, “Really? Yeah man, we’re the best!”

The others nodded in agreement.

“Well now, that’s what I have come to determine. You certainly have the looks down.”

Kerry and the others nodded in unison, “Yeah, we’re a black metal band you know? Gotta have the look to back it up—inverted crosses, a few goat horns here and there, songs about death and Satan and hell and stuff like that.”

“But you are named ‘Wardance’, hardly a black metal name,” posited Mr. Seefer.

“Yeah, but neither is Venom, and they’re the kings. Originally we started as a straight thrash band, but our lyrics drifted into the black metal realm so we changed our looks to match,” chimed in Set.

“And your names…” said Mr. Seefer.

“Well of course, gotta have a stage name, can’t hit the road with names like—” said Kerry.

Mr. Seefer cut him off, “Like Nathaniel Bright, Warren Allison, David Little and Martin Stanley.”

The band was silent for a moment. “Hey, how’d you know our names?” asked Kerry.

“The same way I know your birthdates, your past, future and deathdates. It is my job to know these things.”

The silence was deafening. “Deathdates… how in hell would—”

“How in hell indeed, gentlemen,” intoned Mr. Seefer. “Would you like to see how?”

Mr. Seefer made a grand gesture and the room darkened and shifted. The roof disappeared and flames rose around the band, screams and the smells of sulfur and brimstone assaulted their senses.

* * *

The choir’s last notes of “Glory Be” were trailing off as Pastor Jones approached the podium.

“Friends, I wish to talk to you today about Repentance.”

Pastor Jones overlooked his flock. Most of the town was there, listening attentively to his speech. Pastor Jones took his job seriously, the job of saving souls after all should not be taken lightly. He was about to go on when the double doors at the front of the church banged open.

Four figures stepped in and for a moment, Pastor Jones thought they were demons. But as his eyes adjusted to the sudden bright light, he could see they were four youths, dressed all in black, with scruffy long hair and wild shirts.

“Ye… Yes?” he stammered out.

One of the youths stepped forward, “Pastor Jones? My name is Nathaniel Bright and my friends and I are in dire need of salvation.”

Pastor Jones smiled, “Then you are in the right place, my sons.”


3:34 AM

by Erik Cotton

I awoke to daylight, which meant I was already late for work. The alarm clock next to my bed was blinking 3:34 a.m. There must have been a power outage. I jumped out of bed and headed for the closet, intent on skipping breakfast and getting to work as soon as possible.

Ah, what the hell? I figured I was already late, so I might as well take advantage of it. I changed direction and headed into the bathroom. The lights flickered on and I drew a steamy shower. Formless thoughts drifted around my head as I undressed and stepped under the blistering hot water.

I couldn’t remember when I had gone to bed last night, nor for that matter what I had dreamt. That alone was fairly unusual for me, I remember everything I dream. Of course, if it was a late night, or I had gotten plastered at the local dive, then it wouldn’t be so unusual.

I closed my eyes and let the water invigorate me. My thoughts drifted away with the rising steam. I felt greasy and my hair was sticky. I fumbled for the shampoo and washed the filth away. I tried to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing at work today, but I couldn’t recall clearly. Something about a meeting and final coding.

Oh, that’s right, the meeting with Peterson’s group. Seems they’d discovered a bug in the latest interface that crashed the back-end database. Well, no problem, the meeting was mostly going to be a bitch session. I’d fix the bug in less time than it would take to drive to work.

I finished washing up and opened my eyes. Steam swirled around the room and obscured everything. Hey, I like it hot.

I stepped out of the shower and ran the red towel over myself. I wiped away some of the condensation from the mirror and combed my hair. I pulled out some small, vaguely sticky bits from my hair. I tried, but couldn’t identify them. I really must have been drunk last night, passed out, or simply fell out and hit the bar floor, and got junk stuck in my hair.

Nevermind, it doesn’t hurt to get wasted occasionally. I went to the spare room and grabbed some fresh clothes, fiddled with the damn tie and shrugged on a jacket. Why programmers in our company have to dress like managers I’ll never know. Ours is not to reason why I guess.

Downstairs I noticed the clock on the wall said 3:34 a.m. as well. I’ll fix it when I get home today. I thought about breakfast, decided against it. I wasn’t all that hungry. I grabbed my keys, my helmet and kevlar jacket and headed for the garage.

The lights were already on in the garage, again I must have left them on when I got in last night. The garage door was open as well. I was starting to get pissed at myself for all this. Granted I live in a good neighborhood, but a pair of targets like my Maserati and Ducati sitting wide open for invitation is plainly asking for it.

The Maserati was parked askew, partly on the lawn. That settled it then, I was drunk out of my ever-loving mind last night. I don’t normally go on binges like that, but something must have set it off. I didn’t really have the time to park it right, so I decided to ignore it until I got home. The lawnkeepers could mow around it assuming they’d ever show up. I tell you, it must be nice to charge what they do, and show up when they feel like it.

Oh well, I fired up the Ducati, let it warm up and put on my helmet. The world got dark and quieter. When you are on a bike, you’re a target for everyone, even the little old lady in the Geo Metro, so no point making things easy for them.

I backed out of the garage, hit the remote door button and slid onto the street. The rumbling v-twin powerplant helped to clear the dust from my head and I started to really wake up. At the end of the street two cars were blocking the lane, drivers deep in conversation with each other. I’m as patient as the next person and I waited a few minutes, I’m late already right? They didn’t seem to notice me and I got tired of waiting, so I honked the horn. Still no response and I was starting to lose my cheerful disposition.

I laid on the horn good and hard for thirty seconds, and with no response still, I gunned it past the right side of the near car. I didn’t pay attention to what these two clowns were doing but I swear the fast glimpse I caught of them looked like they were frozen in place. Chalk that one up to the booze I suppose.

At the end of the street the traffic light was out, further confirming my theory of a power failure. I didn’t see any traffic at all, unusual for a morning. Or at least I assumed it was morning, I never checked. For all I knew it was late afternoon.

Making a left out of my subdivision was my first clue that all was not right with the world. The streets were deserted, and I mean completely empty. No cars, no pedestrians, no animals, nothing. I slowed my bike at the next intersection, lights also out, and looked crossways. No cars oncoming either. Just past the intersection, I pulled it over and killed the bike.

I got off and removed my helmet and listened for a few moments. Nothing, no horns, no birds, no city sounds, nada. A prickly feeling climbed my neck and my scalp started to itch. I didn’t like this one bit, it was simply too damn quiet. I walked to the corner block and looked down the road. A solitary car was in the far lane, motionless, driver staring straight ahead. I jogged over to get a better look.

The car was a late model Lincoln with an elderly white guy behind the wheel. His facial features slightly distorted as I attempted to get a better look. In fact, I noticed that the entire car was slightly distorted, out of focus in some odd way that I couldn’t pin down. I removed a glove and knocked on the driver’s side window.

There was a rush of noise, a blur of motion and I pulled back my hand fast. The knuckles were bruised and bleeding as if I’d just scraped them along a brick wall. What the hell? The car wasn’t on, as near as I could determine, but that blur still surrounded it.

I tried to peer closer to the car, without touching it again. The driver was moving slightly. No, that’s not correct. There was motion, but it appeared as a cloud around the driver, giving the illusion of movement.

Hangover or no, this was not normal. I backed away from the car, and ran towards my bike. I got back on, fired it up and tore ass down the road. Here and there were cars and trucks, motionless like the Lincoln. I could see people inside, frozen in time like the old guy.

Answers weren’t forthcoming, at least not out here. The whole world had gone crazy and I was the only sane one left. Although I knew what I would find, old habits die hard and I found myself in the parking lot of my office. A few cars, thankfully empty, were parked in their usual spots. Out by the dumpster was Sam, the night janitor. He was dumping a load of garbage into the compactor. Relief flooded through me as I saw him. I got off my bike and raised a hand to greet him when the realization struck. He was motionless like the rest. I ventured nearer to him. That same cloud of indistinct motion surrounded his body. I pulled off a glove and risked a touch.

Sights and sounds flooded over me. Sam, taking out the trash, sneaking a peak in the boss’s cabinets, playing a video game on the company computers. My hand was buffeted and shoved about, but not hurt, more like someone had bumped into me.

Or like I had bumped into someone. I removed my hand and looked at it. Slightly reddish with a buzzing sensation. I rubbed my hand and I could sense the fading life experiences of Sam. I looked toward the office. Something told me I’d find answers in there. I ran to the front doors, electro-key operated and tried my key. No power of course. I stood back and thought for a moment, figured what the hell, and reached for my gun. Only it wasn’t there. Okay, fine then, I’ll do it the hard way.

I went back to my bike and fired it up. I secured my helmet, zipped the jacket completely up and tightened down the glove straps. I aimed squarely at the plate glass and took off. A Ducati can reach 140 miles an hour in a little under 1000 feet. I didn’t need that kind of speed but I hit doing 60 anyway. The glass shattered, twisting the door frame in the process and spewing shards over the marble concourse. I managed to keep control of the bike and slid to a halt next to the guard’s station. No movement from the security guard of course. He was glued to his sports magazine, oblivious, frozen to all that surrounded him.

No sounds issued forth from the building, no fire alarms, no screams of shock at my entrance, nothing. As quiet as the rest of the world. The stairwell door gave me similar life experiences as when I touched Sam, but I was getting used to that. I raced up the stairs and, as I neared my cubicle, I began to get a feeling in the pit of my stomach. That same kind of sickening sensation one gets when something bad is about to happen.

The lights were out upstairs, but enough light filtered through the tinted windows for me to easily see my cube. The desk was a mess, as it always is. The computers were there, the programming books, cork pin board and the…

I lurched, and vomited on the floor. My shirt was soaked in cold sweat and I knew what had happened. Like rolling thunder, images and memories came flooding back. I staggered and slid to the floor staring at my desk. I had been wrong, the answer wasn’t here, only the question. The answer was at home.

I crawled, stumbled and tripped my way back to the stairwell. I tumbled down to the landing and somehow managed not to break my neck in the process of getting back to my bike. The journey home was a blur, and had there been real traffic I’d have never made it in one piece. In sight of my house I lost control, my mind swirling with last night’s events. I laid the bike down, scoring the expensive fiberglass of the Ducati. I rolled off the bike and ran the rest of the way to the front door.

Momentum carried me through the door and I clawed my way upstairs. More images flared in my mind, the argument, the accusations, the look on her face, the drunken rage. My bedroom door was askew and I shoved it open, and hung onto the frame as I looked inside. There, on my bed was my gun, the red sheets stained a darker red and here and there were chunks of sticky, unidentifiable bits. I slid to my knees, my eyes transfixed on the clock.

It was blinking 3:34 a.m.


The Last Guardian of Everness (excerpt)

by John C. Wright

John C. Wright’s book The Last Gaurdian of Everness (Tor Books) can be ordered at Amazon.


Chapter One: The Forgotten Wardens of the Dreaming


Upon a midnight in midsummer, in an unchanging ancient house upon the coast, in the year when he was a boy no more and a man not yet, Galen Waylock heard the far-off sound of the sea-bell tolling slowly in his dream.

Galen woke. His eyes were wide with terror and astonishment, and he had clawed the bedsheets to either side of him into sweat-stained knots. The moonlight fell across the bed from the diamond-shaped panes of his bed chamber window. The roof and walls were all dark wood, hidden in shadows. Outside, came the soft and restless crashing of the sea-waves on the cliffs below the house.

The melancholy peal was silent, now: his waking ears heard only earthly noises.

“It hasn’t really happened!” He muttered feverishly to himself. “It hasn’t really, honestly, finally happened! Not after all this time! Not to me!”

If tradition were to be trusted, fifteen centuries and more had passed since the First Warden of the Order fell asleep beneath an oak tree in Glastonbury, mistletoe and ivy growing in his hair, to await the warning voice of that elfin bell echoing, mystical and furtive, across the star-lit waves of oceans only dreamers know.

Galen kicked away the covers and felt around for the lantern.

His fingers brushed it, and he heard it topple, and roll away across the night-stand, to drop to the floor. With a grunt of disgust, he reached down to where his jeans were crumpled on the floorboards, and found the pocket with his electric flashlight in it.

He sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, flashlight gleaming in his right hand, left hand cupped to catch the light. He was staring at a tiny burn-mark in his palm. He sat for a moment, breathing hard, flexing his fingers and wincing at the tiny pain, eyes wide with astonishment.

Then he leaped to his feet, called out.

A moment later, Galen ran breathlessly into the parlor downstairs, where his Grandfather Lemuel sat before the fireplace where two logs crackled, blazing. All along the mantle-piece, a dozen candles were burning. Above the mantle, carved in stone, was a shield bearing the sign of a winged horse rampant above two crossed keys. A motto inscribed below bore the words: “Patience and Faithfulness.”

Across the room, facing the escutcheon, was an old oil painting of a dark-haired, dark-eyed man wearing a black frock and conical black miter. On a chain of office he wore a heavy gold key. In the figure’s lap, an equine ivory skull with a single spiral horn was resting. The painting was done in a stiff, formal style, heavy with shadows.

Grandfather Lemuel stirred and put aside the book in his hand. “Shut off that light. If you must creep at night, use the lantern. Ever since you came back from college, you have become most lax and careless about the Rules of the House.”

Galen snapped off the flashlight and the circle of light at his feet disappeared. Impatiently he said, “Grampa, listen!”

Grandfather Lemuel said heavily, “Your father also never understood why our family lives this way. He never believed, never had faith. A man can be perfectly comfortable without modern plumbing, or electricity.”

Anger interrupted Galen’s urgency. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about him like he was dead! All he did was join the army and move out.”

“It is not I, but higher powers, who account your father’s lack of faith as a treason to our family’s ancient promise. He never believed the time would come…” Grandfather Lemuel’s head drooped, his mouth pursed into a sullen frown.

“Grampa! It’s come!”

Grandfather Lemuel straightened, blinking. “What’s that, boy?”

“I heard the sea-bell.”

“Wh— ?!”

“Just now. This evening. As I stood my watch along the Outward Wall.”

No expression showed on Grandfather Lemuel’s features, but a hard glint of suppressed excitement came into his eye. “We must be cautious. In your dream, did one of the Seven Signs come forth from Vindyamar?”

“I saw a Sign and received a Summons. The image was a sea-bird carrying a lantern.”

Lemuel muttered. “A lantern? Lantern..? Hm. Mm. Rod, Ring, Wand, Bow, Titan, Grail… Horn? Odd. Perhaps a torch could symbolize the titan’s blood, but… a lantern…? A lantern is not one of the Seven…” Then, straightening up, Grandfather Lemuel said to Galen: “How do you know this was a true dream, come through the gate of horn? Did you perform the Three Tests?”

“Flying; Reading; Observing your hands. Grandfather Lemuel, you know I know the tests! I was in the Deep Dreaming. It was a true dream. And I heard the alarm we’ve been waiting for, for all these years. I heard it. I heard the sea-bell.” All this came out in one excited rush of words.

Grandfather Lemuel raised his hands. “We mustn’t be too hasty. In the time of the Third Warden of Everness, Alfcynnig, he thought he heard the alarm ring out, and he called the Unsleeping Champion away from Rome to defend the Tower of Vortigern in Wessex; and this allowed the unguarded city to fall to the Goths of Totila. The Sixty-First Warden, Sylvanius Waylock, called up the Storm-Princes to whelm the Armada for Elizabeth, and we were cursed out of England for that presumption, by the White Coven whose charge we had usurped, and had to move this house, stone by stone, to the New World. When the Seventy-Ninth Warden, my Grandfather Phineas Waylock, heard the sea-bell, he raised the Stones and rendered the High Summons. But the sound was no true call; it was only the tumult of a leviathan tangled in the phantom nets of Vindyamar, whose lashing tail shook the crystal bell-tower, and set the bell to swinging. The Stones of Everness were angered to be roused from slumber for so light a cause, and my Grandfather lost his sight in the struggle to force the stones to quietness again… Had he sent to the Queens for word, his eyes might have been spared…”

Galen drew himself up, and, young though he was, now he spoke with snap of authority in his voice, not unlike that in his Grandfather’s. Their expressions were the same. “Grandfather! I know the difference between petty dreaming and true. I know them as well or better than you. The dream-colt comes every time I’ve called her, every time! And I’ve called her more than three. And I know the true sound of the sea-bell. I’ve heard it this night on the sea.”

Grandfather Lemuel did not look displeased, but neither did he smile. Perhaps he welcomed a show of spine from this young man. Nonetheless, his voice was cold. “That may be. But the reins have not yet slipped from my hands. You are not the Guardian of Everness yet, no matter what your talents.”

“Grandfather, I heard the sea-bell. The time is come. The time to blow the Last Horn-Call is at hand.”

Now Grandfather Lemuel did smile, but it was a sad, weary smile. “Patience and faithfulness are the virtues mortal men must practice when they stand watch against immortal foes. Galen, every single one of us, all the way back to the Founder, we have all thought, or hoped, or feared, that the Time of the Horn was at hand. But it never was. A lifetime of waiting seems too much to bear, when you’re so young, doesn’t it?”

Galen started to speak again, but Lemuel held up his hand: “Patience! We will do everything in due order, but only if (and I said ‘if’!) this latest alarm turns out to be the Sign for which we have all been waiting, all these long and weary years. There have been so very many false alarms before.”

Galen’s demeanor shrank, and boyish uncertainty once showed in his face. “OK. So now what? What do we do now? The old warrant papers say we’re suppose to warn the King or the royal governor at New Amsterdam. So where the heck does that leave us? Am I supposed to call the President? We don’t even have a damn phone in this moldy old museum!” In frustration, Galen struck the wall beside the door with the side of his fist.

“First,” said Grandfather Lemuel calmly. “You will sit down. Here, opposite me. Then you will recount all the particulars of the dream in detail. Don’t slouch.”

“I heard the bell from beneath the sea. Something’s coming. It’s going to try to rise up through the Mist.”

“In what part of the house were you?”

Galen turned and stared into the fire. A haunted, deep look came into his eyes. “Outside, along the wall overlooking the sea, where we always stand. The dream version is bigger, of course, and the huge blocks of stone glisten in the moonlight.”

“How were you dressed? In modern garb?”

“I don’t recall…”

“It may be important. You know the dream-things know no modern forms. If you have trouble remembering, recite the first exercise in your mind. Picture the circle of time. Say the key to yourself. Raise the Tower and build the mansion…”

Galen closed his eyes…


He dreamt he stood upon a wall of thick black rock, wet with spray, and he wore a coat of silver mail and carried a tall spear tipped with a glint of starlight. In the black, wide sea below him, he dreamt he saw a cavalcade of sunken horsemen, armed and armored in mother-of-pearl. These dimly-lit shapes passed silently from the deep sea toward the shore, and the hair of their steeds floated green in the water as they came. The mouths of the drowned knights were open as if they were singing, though no sound rose above the waves, and from their mouths floated clouds of blood.

To the left and right of the cavalcade, slippery black forms, sleek and playful, darted through the gloomy deep, and smiled with white teeth, as starlight shined from their black eyes.

Far, far to the rear, enormous shadows in the moonlight loomed. With black ocean-froth churning at their knees, and tumbled storm-cloud parting at their shoulders, taller than any creature of the world, strode giants.

The night sky above was torn with flying banners of silver-edged black clouds, rushing in the storm winds. The whole sky seemed to ring and tremble with the echoes of the great bell, tolling, tolling…

Black as a scrap of midnight storm-cloud, a seagull black as pitch whirled down from dark heaven. In his claws he carried a lantern of the elfs, burning like a small star.

A voice like a man’s voice came from the black seagull: “By token of this light I bear, know ye, Lemuel, Guardian of Everness, Last Guardian to be, I am come from He whose name we speak no more, who founded your order, whose blood and title and oath you bear. I summon you beyond the world’s edge, to Tirion, to Wailing Blood, for there are secrets touching the Emperor of Night, our ancient and undying foe, which you must know before the Towers of Acheron rise from the sea. Do not go to Vindyamar, nor elsewhere, but come at once at mine command.”

And he dropped the light from its claws to Galen. It plunged like a falling star, and the flame was silver, and did not move, or breathe, or flicker, even as the lantern spun and fell. Galen tried to catch the lantern but it burnt his palm, and fell from his fingers, so that the light was lost.

Below, with a roar of several voices, shining knights drenched in filth, and dark, smiling shapes rose from the sea. Giant forms with eyes like lamps came behind them, with arms as tall as towers, sea-water flooding from them, reached for the stones at the base of the wall…

And the warning bell tolled on and on…


There was a small old book, sent to him as a present from his Grandfather Lemuel’s library, which Galen had begun to read as a child. It was made of hand-tooled leather, with a symbol of winged horses dancing on crossed keys on the cover. Galen remembered a poem was inscribed on a page illustrated with interlocking figures of fairies and mermaids, one-eyed giants, and winged horses. The old letters had faded with time, and the first letter of the poem was so decorated with curlicues that young Galen could hardly decide which letter it was supposed to be.

Ware the toll of a single ring
Night-mare her single rider will bring
Woe if twice the great bell tolls
For fire-giants and fell frost trolls
Storm-princes rise at the sound of three
The fourth ring brings the plague Kelpie
Five for Selkie, Six for Hate
Seven for Doom, Death for Eight
And if the toll sounds nine withal
Wake the Sleepers; Nine worlds fall.

If there were more to the old poem, Galen never found out.

When his father came upon Galen reading the book in secret, under the covers with his Boyscout flashlight, Galen’s father ripped the book out of his hands, beat him till tears quieted his loud protests, and took the book away. Presumably, to the trashcan.


“How many times did the sea-bell toll?” asked Grandfather Lemuel gently.

Galen’s eyes snapped open. “Many times.”

“More than nine?”

“Grampa, it was all night long. The bell was ringing continuously.” Galen’s eyes were troubled. He looked around the parlor, as if for support. High roof-beams; thick walls of oak; a floor of fitted stones, covered with oriental carpets, handwoven, faded. To one side stood tall French doors, open, admitting the smell of sea-brine. The murmur of the waves against the cliff below hung like a backdrop behind the other noises of the night.

Outside, beyond the weeds of the overgrown gardens, Galen could see the tumbled stones and cracks of the little wall overlooking the bay. It was, of course, much smaller in real life, and overgrown with moss. Galen suddenly felt the urge to do the repair work Grampa was always on him about.

“Gramps,” said Galen. “I think I might be scared. What do we do?”

Grandfather Lemuel took out an old pipe, and stood up, reaching for his tobacco pouch atop the mantel-piece. “Think, eh? I know I am. But a little fear is like wind in the flowers, you know? The flowers bow for a time. The wind passes. The flowers straighten up again.”

“This is no time for your little sayings. Shouldn’t we be doing something?” Galen knew the old man wanted him to leave. He knew Gramps knew he couldn’t stand the smell of tobacco. Galen rose reluctantly to his feet.

Grandfather Lemuel smiled calmly. “First thing; you go back to bed. I will go to the Chamber of Dreaming to sleep. Tonight I will dream of Vindyamar. I will dream of the Three Fair Queens whose charge is to guard the Great Bell, even as we are charged to guard the Horn, and discover if it rang for a true cause. There was something strange about the sign you saw.”

Galen said in a sullen voice, “You don’t believe me. But look at this…”

And held up his left hand. There was a tiny blister in the palm, a burn. “We were summoned to Tirion. Here is the mark of the star-lantern I touched. The Founder is in Tirion.”

Lemuel looked carefully at the mark in the young man’s palm. He took a candle from the mantelpiece, and held it closely, peering. Even thought the air was still in the room, the candle-flame flickered.

Lemuel nodded slowly. “Its magic. Only the Blood of Everness can reach across the barriers like that, and allow a dream-flame to create a waking burn. Whatever else was in that dream, the Raven came from the Founder, sure enough.” He straightened up and shook his head. “But that doesn’t change a thing, boy. We do not answer each and any summons which come to us out from the night-world.”

“But Grandfather…!”

Grandfather Lemuel’s look of amusement died. “We don’t follow voices out of the night-world. That black sea-bird could have been a selkie wearing a gull-skin. And yes, that lantern you touched was the Founder’s handicraft, no doubt. So what?”

“So! The Founder called me to Tirion.”

“No. He called me. And I’m not going. And the Founder does not live in Tirion; he is beyond the rim of the world, hanging in the darkness, in a cage. He betrayed his oath.” Lemuel pointed with his pipe-stem at the motto inscribed in stone above the mantle. “Maybe he was unfaithful. But maybe he was only impatient.”

Galen understood the hint, reluctantly he turned to go.

But then at the door he turned again, a young and rebellious spirit in his eyes:

“Where is the Horn, Grandfather Lemuel? Don’t you think it is time I knew?”

“Patience. Its not time for you to know.”

“What if you don’t come back? Who will be left to blow the Horn?”

“You are not the Guardian yet. Now you go back to sleep. But do not answer the summons of the black sea-bird. Do not dream about Tirion. Recite the lesser key, and go through the gate of lesser dreaming to some nice visions. Cockaygne, perhaps? Luilekkerland? Schlarraffenland?”

Galen straightened. Wounded pride was clear on his face. “Schlarraffenland? That place is for kids! Grandfather Lemuel, I’ve have been places no other Guardian has ever dreamed. I have seen the trees of Arcadia and the groves that grow in the shadow of the Darkest Tower, I have tread the peaks of Zimiamvia and tasted from the ever-falling waters of Utterbol whose fountains are by the sea! I am the greatest dreamer this family has ever produced, and you know it! I am not afraid of the shadows of the dead. I can go to Tirion and return safely. The summons came to me!”

Not without kindness, Grandfather Lemuel said, “You are talented. But, all boasting aside, you are still very young, Galen. And you know that fairy-tales depict the rules in the dreaming the same way science describes our rules here. And no hero in any fairy-tale ever ignored his Grandfather’s warning and escaped unpunished. Do not go to Tirion. Do not go to speak to the Founder. Is that clear?”

And he lit his pipe with candle he held.

Galen retreated to the door, defiantly snapped on the flashlight, and clomped away upstairs, muttering.

Grandfather Lemuel’s smile faded as soon as Galen was out of the room. “A long flight tomorrow night…” he whispered. He stared up at the carved image of the winged horse. “And a dangerous one. Will the dream-colt come for me, this time, now that the bell has tolled? Vindyamar tonight. But where tomorrow..?”

His gaze crossed the room to look at the painting of the stern-eyed man who held the skull. “Will you talk to me this time, old friend? And let me go again? Its so cold beyond the world’s edge, and I am so old…”

He tamped out his pipe against the mantelpiece. He was not in the mood for a smoke after all. His thoughts were somber. “Suppose you do not let me back through the mist to the sunlight this time? If I don’t wake up, who is left? One frightened boy?”


Galen, who had made a deal of noise clattering up the stairs, knew his Grandfather Lemuel’s habit of talking to himself, and had crept quickly and quietly downstairs again, flashlight extinguished. He was crouched in the hall beside the parlor door; and was in time to hear his Grandfather Lemuel’s last comment.

Later, laying awake in bed, and watching the play of the shadows of branches in the moonlight above his bed, Galen came to a stern resolution.

“The first of the watchers is still being punished for his dereliction of duty,” Galen thought to himself. “But Gramps still goes to talk to him. He risks it. It put him in a coma when I was in sixth grade. I remember that’s what the doctors called it. A coma.” He grunted to himself. Contempt was all he felt for modern doctors.

“The First Watcher’s summons came to me. Me. The dream-colts come every time I call, but they have only come three times for Grampa. He might not even be able to get to Tirion.

“And if I go tonight, and brave the danger myself, he won’t need to go tomorrow.”

In his mind’s eye, he drew the circle to build the Tower of Time his Grandfather Lemuel had taught him how to keep in his mind. He inscribed the four wings, placing a different phase of the moon in each, a different element, and a different season. About it, he erected statues and symbols, gardens and arbors, walkways and walls, each with its own name and hidden meaning. In a few moments the imaginary mansion was as real around him as the mansion he slept in. He whispered the Second Secret Name of Morpheus, and stepped into that mansion, rose from the body on the bed on which he slept there, and walked out the doorway which represented today’s phase and season.

In an imaginary garden pagoda, a torch made of narthex reeds held up a light of pure white fire. An imaginary vulture on a stand was gnawing a driblet of red liver. One arch of the pagoda led to stairs which climbed up to the huge black sea-wall to the East. Inscribed on the pagoda walls to either side of this arch, in letters of silver, burned the words of the spell to call a dream-colt from the deeper dreaming.

He looked at the words, wondering whether to speak them or not. Even now, he was still only half-asleep: he could feel the heaviness in his limbs, dimly sense the pillows and bed sheets around him, like a little mountainous country-side of folds and wrinkles. Grandfather Lemuel had taught him never to call even a lesser power of the night without someone standing by to wake him up in case of trouble.

And a dream-colt was not one of the lesser powers.

“Gramps will notice in the morning if I’m not back by then,” Galen tried to tell himself.

He had one last thought before he drifted off to sleep, forgot his slumbering body, and entered fully into the dream:

“I’m not a frightened boy.”

Chapter Two: A life for a life


A husband and wife sat in the sunlight. He sat on the bed and held her hands in his. She sat back on the pillows, eyes bright and cheerful as always. He was a big, burly man with thick black eyebrows and a forked black beard.

Where he was large and bulky, she was small and graceful, and her face was always in motion, now smiling, now blinking, now pouting thoughtfully, now glancing back and forth with a curious gaze.

“I’m so sad!” She was exclaiming cheerfully. Her voice was as bright as a bubbling stream, and those who heard it felt refreshed.

“Aha. And what makes her sad, my little wife, eh?” He tried to smile, but there was an undercurrent of sorrow in his deep voice. He had a thick Russian accent.

“All the stories seem to be going out of the world. Drying up!” She held up her hands, fingers spread, and shrugged, as if to indicate a mysterious vanishment. “No one listens to them, or tells them any more. They just watch TV. My Daddy calls it the ‘Boob tube’. I don’t know if that’s because of shows like Baywatch or if only boobies watch it. Except sometime mothers read books to their children to sleep.” She sighed, and suddenly looked very sleepy herself. Her eyelids drooped. Like a light going out, all the animation seemed to leave her face.

He leaned forward, his face blank with fear, and touched her forehead with the back of his hand. “Wendy?” He whispered.

Wendy’s eyes opened. “Tell me a story,” she said.

“I am not good with the stories, my wife. I only know the one of my father, and that one I told to you long ago, when we were engaged. The night on the lake, you remember, eh?”

She sighed and snuggled down into the pillows more deeply. “I said I’d marry you because you were the only man I ever met who was in a fairytale story. It was such a good idea! I’m so glad I thought of it.”

“You thought..? It was I who asked you, my wife.”

“Yes, well, and a long time you were getting around to it, too!” She laughed in delight, and then said, “Tell it to me again!”

“Well. Father lived in the Caucasus mountains and hated the Russian government men with a deep hatred…”

“No, no, no! That’s not right! It starts with, ‘I am Var Varovitch, which means Raven the Son of Raven in your language. This is the story of how I came by this name’. “

“Hah! Who is telling this story, you or I? Now be quiet and let me talk to you. I am Var Varovitch. In your language I am called Raven, the son of Raven. This is the story of how I came by this name.”

“Almost right,” she allowed. “The next part goes, ‘My father had climbed throughout all the mountains, in places even the goats did not go, and such was his fame as a trapper and trails man, that…’ “

“Quiet, now. When the government people wanted a guide, they came to my father and offered him their paper rubles, which were worthless, for they had no gold to back them, and a government order from the Georgia S.S.R. apparatchik, which was also worthless, but which had the guns and soldiers from the Tbilisi garrison to back them. For himself, he had no fear. But for me, he had fear. For I had taken my mother’s life when I came into this world, and there were no doctors to save her, for she was Georgian, not Russian, and had no friends in the capitol to have a doctor assigned by the government. And I was but a babe in the crib at this time, and had never seen the green grass, since I was born in the winter and the spring had not yet come.”

“I love that part.”

“Quiet. Father feared they might burn the village if he refused to take the expedition up the slopes of Mount Kazbek. He knew the place where they wished to go, even though it was not the place shown on any of their maps. But he asked them why they could not wait till spring? Did they not recall how the Russian winter had destroyed the invasion of Hitler’s armies less than a handful of years ago? But no, they must go to the spot where it said on their maps. The scientist there in charge of the expedition said they must go, since the glory of the Soviet peoples commanded it, and only a traitor would cause delay.

“Well, father said he could not leave his little baby with no mother, since he had only the milk to drink of wild she-wolves father caught in the snow…”

“That’s you! I bet you were cute. But you forgot a part. ‘The winter was so bitter that winter that the cows gave ice, and the bird song froze in the air, and it was not until spring thawed the notes free that all the birdsong sprang up over the green earth…’ “

“No, that is from different story. So, now. The expedition had been traveling for many days, blinded by snow, on short rations…”

“Wait. The government scientist made your father take you with him. You were bundled up on his back in a wrapper of wolfskin.”

“Yes, that too.”

“And you forgot about the part where they all laughed at him for carrying a bow and arrows when they had guns, and then later their guns froze.”

“That part is coming. Where was I? There was nothing in the sky but one black vulture, and all about them ice crags and chasms of the mountains. Father pointed at the black vulture…”

“You forgot something.”

“Yes, yes. The-stupid-scientist-thought-they-were-lost-and-the-soldier-sthreatened-to-kill-father. OK? OK! Listen: Father pointed at the black vulture and said they need but follow the bird to find what, in the midst of the empty mountains, that bird found to eat.

“He led them to where there was a naked man chained to the mountain, a man so tall that he was taller than the steeple of a church. He was chained with chains of black iron, and frost clung to his chains, and red icicles spread like a fan from the great wound in his side, all down along the bloodstained cliff where he was chained. His face was calm and grave, like the face of the statue of a king; but all full of suffering, like the face of a saint in an icon.

” ‘What do you see?’ asked my father. For he knew the Russian men were not like those of us from Georgia, and cannot see what is right before their faces.

” ‘I see ice,’ said one soldier.

” ‘I see rock,’ said another soldier.

” ‘What do you hear?’ asked my father.

” ‘I hear nothing but the wind,’ said one soldier.

” ‘I hear your brat squalling!’ said another soldier.

“But the scientist looked up, and said, ‘I hear a great deep voice, asking us to shoot the vulture which torments him.’

“But the soldier’s guns had frozen, and could not shoot the great black vulture.”

Wendy chimed in happily, “But your father shot him with the bow!”

Raven nodded. “Exactly right. Down and down the great bird plunged, and the great voice told my father that, even though the bird would live again as soon as the sun came up, for that day, the torture had been stopped. And because he had done this thing, he could ask for any wisdom in the world.”

Wendy said, “But the scientist made him ask…”

“Yes, yes. The scientist made my Father talk to the titan. ‘The Americans have a bomb which they have made from splitting the atom. This is a fire too dangerous for mortals to control, unless it is the Supreme Soviet.’ This is what the scientist made him say.”

“And about the rockets.”

“Yes. ‘The Americans have taken the German rocket scientists from Peenamunde. And they will learn a secret of the fires of heaven, which is how to launch a great missile, greater than the V-1 and V-2 rockets. We must launch a satellite before the Americans, to show the glory of Soviet science to the world. Our great leader Stalin has commanded this thing.’ “

Raven paused. “You are not too tired for this story? It is almost time when time is up.” He looked at his watch and frowned.

“What happened next?”

“The giant looked down at Father with wise and sad eyes, and said, ‘Son of the mountains, I will tell these men who have enslaved you all you ask of me. And yet in my heart I hate all slavery, for man was not created to be a servant. You know this is true. Creatures made for servitude, cattle and sheep, who crawl with their faces forever in the ground, they do not yearn for liberty; only mankind. I will tell you a secret thing unknown to all others, upon your promise never to tell anyone, not even your own son. For there is a way out of these mountains, across to the other side, past all the patrols, over the walls and past the guard posts, into the lands of freedom to the west. I will tell you this way, if you will promise instantly to take it, and go.’

” ‘What must I give you in return, eldest grandfather?’ asked my father.

” ‘To be free, you must give up all fear. Neither you nor your son shall ever know fear again. To begin life anew, you must give up your old name. You may call yourself Raven, for he is a wise bird, and he knows the boundaries between life and death; and if any ask you how you climbed down the impassible mountains, or escaped past the guards and fences, you may tell them you flew as a Raven.’

“And that is all my father told me of how we came to this country when I was a boy, and I never learned the truth of it, though I know he would not tell a child the names of those who had helped smuggle him out, and that only secrecy would keep the way open for others. All he would say is that he flew like a Raven, away from a land filled with death and corpses.”


Raven was silent a moment, and took his wife’s hands in his. “And then I came and fell in love with you, my beautiful strange little Wendy…”


At that moment, the nurse came in to give Wendy her medications, and Wendy would not speak about a dream or tell a secret story in front of a stranger. The nurse also gently reminded Raven that visiting hours were over, and that the other patients in the terminally ill ward might be disturbed, even if the door was shut, by his voice.

Wendy was made sleepy by the medicines. “I remember all sorts of weird things that I forgot from before,” she said. “And such funny dreams!”

Raven leaned forward to kiss her goodbye, but whispered. “I will sneak back in tonight by the loose window I found. They cannot keep me from you, my little one…”

“Don’t be sad,” she said softly back. “I can feel I might be going to a better place. I can see it in my mind some times, when I’m half asleep, like a light, filled up with warmth. If I can stand it, you should be able to, you big man, you. And stop worrying! You’ll make me worry if you do…”

And Raven fiercely hugged her, afraid to take his face away from her cheek, since he was ashamed to let her see his sudden tears.

Debbie Does Deuce

by Diane Arrelle

Hanna studied her opponent.

She watched as chubby, acne-scarred Debbie Shuller tossed the tennis ball low and come down too hard with her racket. Smack… into the net. Debbie shrugged and smiled that sickly-sweet smile that always made Hanna want to puke. Then Debbie carefully set up her second serve and sailed a soft easy ball over to Hanna’s side.

Hanna saw the approaching shot and literally crowed as she ran forward to slam it back. Only… the ball must have had a spin to it. Instead of bouncing back and into Hanna’s waiting, big head, extra-long racket, it bounced sideways and forward… just out of her reach.

Debbie smiled even more sweetly and yelled, “Deuce.”

Hanna gritted her teeth. How could it possibly be tied, she thought. Five minutes ago she’d been leading forty-love, whacking those first three balls back at that cow, Debbie, before she could even blink. Now they were at deuce, forty-forty. “Well, I’ll win this one, Debbie,” she muttered. “I always win.”

She waited as Debbie crossed the back of the tennis court. Debbie seemed to be moving in slow motion as she got into position, stretched up, tossed the ball high and then hit it out of bounds.

“Long!” Hanna shouted, waiting impatiently for the second serve. “Come on already,” she muttered as Debbie seemed to slow down even more. Finally she hit the second serve low and into the net.

Debbie still smiled, seemingly unruffled. She appeared cool and collected as she yelled, “Your add, guess I’m a little rusty. Oh well, plenty of time to warm up.”

Hanna wiped the sweat from her upper lip. She snarled at her old school adversary and squinted at the halo the sun made around her mousy limp hair. “No time for you, honey, I’m gonna put this one away and win.”

Debbie stopped preparing to serve. “Did you say something?” she asked, lowering her arm.

“Yeah, I said serve already.”

“All right,” Debbie sighed. “You always were impatient.”

“Well, you know how it is, I’ve got to get home to Timothy,” Hanna shouted back. “He can’t stand when I’m away too long.” She felt immense satisfaction as she watched Debbie quickly blink her eyes a few times. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she called. “I forgot that Timothy was your husband first.”

Debbie served the ball, crossing the net at a sharp angle, just grazing the line. Hanna ground her teeth harder, wanting to call the shot out but knew she didn’t need to cheat to win. “It’s good!” she announced.

Debbie crossed the court again. “Back to deuce.”

After the sixth return to deuce, Hanna knew the pattern. Debbie would blow the first two serves, letting Hanna have the point, then she’d win the next shot taking the game back to deuce.

Frustrated, Hanna wondered why Debbie had called her and asked her for this match. They hadn’t spoken since she’d taken Timothy away from her. It had only been this past morning when the phone rang.

She remembered it vividly because she was almost involved in a head-on with a tractor trailer. She didn’t know how it had missed her, but she was still shaking when the phone beeped. She’d been so surprised to hear Debbie’s voice that she didn’t react as she normally would have—with enough sarcasm to put the cow in her place forever. In fact she had been mildly surprised because she sort of thought that Debbie had died or something. Obviously she’d been wrong, but after all, who had time to keep track of all the losers in the world.

Her hands had been shaking from her near miss when the call came so she slowed to a stop on the side of the road. “Hello,” Hanna barked into her cellular phone, suddenly and irrationally impatient to get where she was going.

“Hello… uh… Hanna.”

“Yes,” Hanna replied trying to place the weak voice.

“Hanna… this… this is Debbie, Debbie Shuller.”

Hanna’s voice frosted over, icing the conversation. “Debbie, what do you want? And don’t say Timothy, he’s mine now.”

She heard Debbie’s quick intake of breath. “Hanna, there is no need for hostility. I’ve missed you, and… and I wanted you to meet me for a game of tennis. It’s been so long and we were once so close. How about meeting me in a few minutes. I’m at the courts at the end of Mountain Side Road. That’s right near where you are now, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Hanna said, wondering how Debbie knew where she was, then shrugged it off. Probably called Timothy and he told her that she had just left. She saw her racket in the back seat next to her gym bag. She had been planning to work out, so a quick match would fit right into her schedule and playing Debbie was always quick. The bitch had no style or form. “I’m not familiar with the courts, but I’ll look for them and meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

“That’s fine, Hanna. Take your time, after all we’ve got plenty of time.”

Hanna hung up and figured that Debbie called and challenged her because if she could just beat her at one thing, like tennis, then Deb could feel a little vengeful satisfaction. Hanna had to smirk. After all, she’d always beaten Debbie at everything ever since grade school. She never could understand how Debbie had gotten the guy they were both after. It wasn’t fair and it took Hanna five years but she’d finally won at the marriage game too, stealing Timothy away.

She started the car and headed slowly down the road. She was surprised that there were new tennis courts in the park at the bottom of the road but she parked and met Debbie.


* * * *

“Add out… Deuce”

Hanna’d lost count of how many times they’d tied the game. Debbie had to be doing this on purpose, but how’d she get so good? She’d always stunk at sports and Hanna had enough trophies to line a room. How, she wondered, wiping the sweat off her face, how could Debbie be doing this?

“Deuce!” Debbie yelled. “Again.”

“Just serve!” Hanna snarled as she struggled to catch her breath.

“Getting testy, aren’t we?” Debbie cooed. “Don’t you just love tennis? Why I could just play it forever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hanna yelled back. “You may want to play forever, but I’ve got a life. Let’s stop screwing around and end this.”

Debbie laughed and lowered her racket. “Why, how appropriate, you’ve insinuated that I don’t have a life and you’re right. I was so depressed after Tim left that I moved to Colorado and splat, got hit by a truck last month. Lord, I was nothing but road kill. But what does that matter anyway, you were too busy living your own life to notice a dead Deb. Bet you didn’t even notice Tim’s been upset the last few weeks.”

Hanna put down her racket. “What are you talking about?”

Debbie continued smiling. “Why, Heaven. You see we play tennis in heaven. That’s how I’ve improved so, eternal practice.”

Hanna laughed. “You are nuts! If you are so damned good how come we can’t get out of deuce?”

Debbie joined Hanna’s laughter. “Because I’m not damned. But you are. Tennis is my heaven now, and deuce, why Hanna, deuce can be such an infinite hell!”