Proof

            The faceless man stood at the foot of the hill. The observatory was nearly in alignment. With the positioning ascertained, a corridor could be opened. All the data that had been collected suggested that tonight, the telescope would do the fine-tuning, pinpointing the location, and that information would be used to bring about an acceleration.

            The faceless man did not need this information. It could step between planets, across light-years, in an instant. Space meant very little to something like a faceless man. But a faceless man could only do what a faceless man could do, and thus, there were people who needed to know where the planet was, hence the need for this observatory.

            The faceless man did not think these ideas. The faceless man did not know these facts. The facts stood on their own as information that the faceless man would act upon, but to suggest that it could truly know anything would be to attribute qualities to an entity that did not have them.

            “No, but seriously, I need you to double-check this.”

            Tessa ran up the stairs after Freya. It was half past one in the morning, and the temperature had dropped to where there was now a little dusting of frost on the ground.

            Freya skipped steps as she ran up to the room to the observation deck. Tessa took longer to get there, and was panting a little when she reached the top.

            “Ok. Look at this.” Freya sat at one of the computers and pulled up the graph. The light shining from the star designated HSL91023 had, indeed, dipped considerably for a few brief moments.

            “A planet?”

            “Yes, and given the size of this fucker, the profile is looking really good.”

            “Do you have video?” said Tessa.

            “I haven’t checked yet. I wanted you to be here to see it with me, just in case.”

            “Well do it!” Tessa was already grinning. She didn’t want to get her hopes up. Even if there was a planet there, it was no guarantee that they had actually found Arashka… though given the position that that star had relative to Ashtor’s Bleed and the relative distance and the theories about the propulsion of the Red Ships…

            She was getting ahead of herself. Her throat had gone dry. Freya tapped a few commands into the console and pulled up the video.

            There it was, a big, grainy, pixilated white dot. “Ok, and it should be right about… damn, ok, wait like ten seconds…” They did. “And…”

            And in front of the big white dot, there was a little dark spot that came into view. It slowly passed in front of the white dot and then disappeared back into the black of space.

            “Oh my gods, Freya.”

            “Exactly, Tessa. Your gods. They’re there. Right there.”

            Tessa shivered a little. Then the two of them hugged and screamed in celebration.

            They woke Azjar and Jack. Freya took a bottle of sparkwine out of the icebox and popped the cork. The four of them watched the video over twenty times before heading back to the lodge to celebrate some more. Azjar made the call to Dr. Peters, the head of the Sinret Project, all the way over in the Redlands, where they were pretty sure it was day already, not that they would have waited if it hadn’t been, to tell him the good news.

            With the sparkwine gone, Freya broke out more booze, chugging an entire bottle of dark ale in a single swig.

            Tessa ran to her room to retrieve a music record she had been saving for the occasion and put it on the player in the living room. Freya immediately began to dance, and pulled Azjar to her to get him to dance, which he attempted to do.

            Tessa laughed at this, giddy and light-headed.

            Jack smiled at her. “Congratulations.”

            “Well, just to be clear, this isn't exact proof – all we know right now is that we’ve found an another planet. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. There are actually a lot of planets out there in the universe, and most of them orbit stars, rather than the other way around. It’s just… the positioning of this one really puts it pretty much exactly where Arashka ought to be, so…”

            “It still seems like a big accomplishment, regardless.”

            “Yes. Finding a new planet, well, that’s the sort of thing that you dream about.”

            Jack then glanced out the window very suddenly, his eyes wide. Tessa thought he even might have sniffed the air.

            “What’s wrong?”

            Jack took a moment to respond. “Nothing. I don’t…”

            And at that moment, she heard something. There was a car coming up the drive. Out the window, Tessa could see a single headlight heralding the vehicle’s approach.

            “Who is that?” asked Jack. There was a steeliness to his tone of voice that worried her.

            “I have no idea,” said Tessa.

            Azjar went to the window. “I don’t know that car.”

            The car’s door opened, and a man stumbled out of it, holding his right arm stiffly. “Hang on, Eitan,” said the man. Tessa peered out the window to look with Azjar. She noticed that there were two spots on the man’s arm that seemed to be glowing, like embers. “Wait there, I’m going to get her,” said the ember-studded man.

            He walked up to the door, banging on it. Tessa and Freya looked to each other. Tessa noticed that Jack had backed away from the door. “Who is it?” called Tessa.

            “Dust!” the djinni cried. “I need to see Dust!”

            Tessa’s world seemed to freeze, and an eternity passed as she looked from the door to Freya’s inquisitive expression. “What?” she heard herself responding.

            “I have Tall Man in the car with me. He’s in really bad shape.”

            “You need to see what? What was that you said?” asked Freya. She turned back to the others. “Is this guy a crazy person?”

            Out of the corner of her eye, Tessa could see Jack staring at her.

            She stepped forward and opened the door. The djinni was breathing heavily. Embers and sparks bled out of the wounds in his arm and his shoulder. “Oh, Gods, you’re wounded.”

            The djinni shook his head. “It’s not that bad. I’ve had worse. Someone come help me get my friend out of the car.”

            They all followed him back to the vehicle. It had been brutalized – a big dent in the hood, a headlight obliterated, the rear windshield smashed to powder, the surface polka-dotted with bullet holes. The entire right side of the car was smeared with blood.

            And in the passenger side, Tall Man was lying motionless. “Oh Gods,” said Tessa. He was going pale. He seemed almost deflated. Azjar and Freya lifted him up by the shoulders and carried him out of the car.

            He was totally limp, and in his seat he had left a veritable pool of blood.

            It was the man he had seen by the Staten Island Ferry. Jack was certain of it. Even the stab-wounds were in the same places. A man stabbed like that could live, but only if he got to a hospital soon.

            And this man isn’t going to a hospital.

            They brought him inside and laid him down on the ground.

            “Is he breathing?” asked Azjar. He bent down to listen at the man’s mouth. “Dammit, ok, someone put pressure on the wounds.” Freya grabbed a blanket from the couch and balled it up, pressing it onto the man’s stomach. Azjar began compressions on his chest.

            Tessa had grown quiet, slowly backing away from the dying man.

            She knows him. Jack could see that. The djinni had referred to her by her codename. These were House agents.

            Freya looked up at him. “Someone call an ambulance.”

            Jack nodded and took a step toward the phone, but the djinni stepped in front of him.

            “I’m sorry, but that’s not happening.”

            The djinni had pulled out a gun, holding it awkwardly, but still sufficiently deadly, in his left hand. “There’s not enough time. They’ll have followed us here.”

           

            For a moment Mr. Flow was confused by their reaction –they all backed away at the sight of the gun. Well, three of them. The Prisoner stood his ground, simply looking at the weapon.

            “Here,” he said, handing Jack Milton the gun. “You’ll be able to use it better than I can.”

            His arm hurt like hell. Glowing ashes of blood floated out of the wounds in his arm and shoulder. “I’m going to need a tourniquet. You, local boy, give me your shirt.” In fact, Mr. Flow knew Azjar’s name, and the names of his parents and his supervising professor, but on the off chance that the kid survived the night, Flow figured it would be best to keep things simple.

            Freya, the Sardok girl, looked stunned. “Blondie, over here. You know anything about treating my people?” Freya shook her head. “Ok, I need you to get that shirt nice and wet. Boy, keep working on those compressions. Dust, go into your closet and lift up the floorboards.”

            “What?” said Dust.

            “There’ll be a couple rifles and some ammunition there. I was really hoping you wouldn’t have to use them, but such is life.”

            Freya came back with the soaked t-shirt. She was visibly shaking. “Ok, wring it out a little,” he said. She did, and what looked like a gallon of water poured out of it and onto the floor. “Now, we need to cauterize the wound.”

            “Cauterize?”

            “With water. Just… tie it around the wound and press it in.” With his help, she brought the t-shirt around the arm and pressed down. A bolt of pain shot through him, and he growled as the embers darkened. “Ok, now the shoulder. Same thing.”

            With the wounds very temporarily closed, Mr. Flow hazarded a glance out the window. It was the middle of the night, and there was nothing but faint starlight illuminating the desert. The lights from Towatki were fairly faint this far out, but still enough for him to guess that they would come from the east and take advantage of the night’s darkness.

            Compared to the House’s normal operations, the last year had been utter chaos. Mr. Flow had no idea what Templar One was, but that monster was unlike any Agent he had ever met. He could hardly assume the thing was sentient, much less that it was somehow pulling the strings.

            Yet in all that chaos, he had never seen anything like this night’s actions.

            Somehow, someone had found his safehouse. Mr. Flow was no rookie Agent. He had been with the House for forty years. He could recognize when an observer had gone “dim.” He knew how to sweep for bugs both technological and magical. He had exhausted the entire breadth of his knowledge of spycraft, and yet someone had found him.

            It had been dumb luck that he wasn’t dead. Iron String had scheduled a meet that night, and so Mr. Flow was already heading out the door when he came across a group of assassins preparing their ambush. He had killed two and lost the third, and went on to discover that everyone in his circle was being targeted. Mr. Flow had not had time to process his losses, but they were high.

            It was only a matter of time before they came to the DFO.

            Jack checked the gun. All told, it hadn’t been very long since he had last held a weapon like this, but the last few months had felt like a decade.

            “Keep checking the driveway. I’ll try to look around the back,” said the djinni.

            Milton did as he was told, but there was something far worse bothering him.

            He could smell the coffee. It was unmistakable, even if it was faint. After his experience in that strange, dreamlike city called New York, the haze of the coffee had lifted from him. He was certain that he had purged the foul stuff from his system, yet here the scent of it returned.

            He wished to dismiss the dread that he felt in his heart, but his own voice within his head could not be denied.

            The faceless man is here.

            Tessa returned with the rifles.

            Azjar said, quietly “I can’t hear his heart.”

            Mr. Flow said “Tessa, here,” and took one of the guns.

            The chaos passed into sudden silence, except for the thuds of Azjar’s compressions on Tall Man’s chest.

            A minute, or maybe an hour, or maybe three, passed. Freya was now staring at Tall Man’s lifeless body.

            “There’s nothing you can do for him now,” said Mr. Flow. “Get behind the kitchen counter. Have either of you ever heard of a Molotov cocktail?”

            Azjar continued to perform compressions. Freya looked to Mr. Flow. “Me?”

            “Yes.”

            “No.”

            “Ok. Do you have any weapons?”

            “I have a sword,” she said, her voice small.

            “Where?”

            “My room.”

            “Can you use it?”

            Freya stared forward. “I think so.”

            “Get it.”

            Freya got up.

            “Local boy, stop. He’s dead.”

            Azjar sighed. “I don’t have any weapons.”

            “Ok. You’ll have to treat the wounded.”

            Mr. Flow’s commands faded into the back of Milton’s mind. He was not a stranger to violence, though never as an Enforcer had things felt as dire as they did now.

            There will be violence, but the assassins are not the true threat.

            He closed his eyes. He allowed his memory of the grounds around the observatory to form a mental map. He could see where they would approach. He could see where they might take cover. Somehow, he could almost sense that a small number of them were already coming around the back, but the majority of them were massed in front. He did not see them, but for some reason, he was certain of it.

            CRASH.

            That was the pair coming in the back. They had come in through the back door, simple enough. Milton stepped to the left, giving him a clear view of the corridor, and fired twice. Both assassins, dressed in dark blue camouflage gear, dropped.

            “That’s the back. The rest are in front,” said Jack. He was not worried about being wrong. Somehow, he knew he was correct.

            Mr. Flow took aim, firing out the window, missing one of the figures dashing behind the car. A bit of plaster exploded near Tessa, who thankfully took this as a cue to get low. Milton fired another shot, this time taking the leg out from under one of the assailants. He took a deep breath.

            There were probably another ten assassins coming up the drive. Mr. Flow fired again, but it was apparent that his injured arm had ruined his aim. Without a word, Milton approached him, handed him the pistol, and took the rifle.

            The attackers had grown wary, and were now more gradually advancing, hiding themselves with the many rocks and trees that made the site such a pleasant place in ordinary circumstances.

            There was nearly a minute of quiet, though he could faintly hear the murmurs of the attackers behind their cover. There was a hint of frustration, if not outright panic. Clearly, they had not expected much of a resistance.

            It would be several hours before the sun rose, so waiting for daylight did not seem to be an option. Most of the attackers seemed to be gathered behind one large boulder, with two others behind a pair of young redwood trees. Just in case, he scanned across the drive, but he could see no other movement. He had them pinned down just as much as they had him.

            “Everyone all right?” whispered Milton.

            There was a sufficient number of affirmative grunts.

            “Freya, are you near the phone?”

            “Yes,” she said, her voice shaken, though not as much as he would have expected. It then occurred to him that she was probably still drunk.

            “Give the phone to Azjar and have him call the enforcers.”

            “The what?”

            “The police.”

            The sun would take too long, but law enforcement would put real pressure on the attackers. “Make sure they know what they’re getting into.”

            Azjar dialed. “Dammit,” he said. “The line is dead.”

            “Do you have a mobile?”

            “I do,” said Tessa. She made the call. Milton did not allow himself to relax. He would have to maintain this stalemate until the cops showed up, and that could take a long time. It would take a fair amount of time for them to merely get to the DFO from Towatki.

            Mr. Flow spoke. “We don’t have a good cover story. What do you expect us to tell them?”

            “I don’t give a flying fuck,” said Milton, his unblinking eyes trained on his enemies.

            “This is a lot bigger than you and me, Milton. If we get exposed to the police, the repercussions could be enormous. I know you don’t want to hear it, but we’re going to have to finish this ourselves. And now we’re going to have to do it fast, before…”

            “Shut up!” said Milton. Three of the attackers began to run. But they were not running toward the lodge. Instead, they were heading to the observatory building. “Why are they heading to the telescope?”

            “The telescope? Why? What do they care about a new planet?” asked Tessa.

            Mr. Flow looked back at her. “A new… what did you say?”

            “We found a new planet tonight. That’s why we were celebrating. I think it’s Arashka.”

            Mr. Flow’s face sunk. “Oh fuck me,” and with that, he ran out the front door.

            Milton attempted to provide some semblance of covering fire, but with only ten more rounds, his heart was now racing. “Tessa! Shoot!”

            “Where?”

            “Anywhere that’s not him!”

            She opened fire as Mr. Flow charged his way into the observatory. One of the assassins fell.

            Milton drew a bead on one of Flow’s pursuers when he suddenly felt a sharp chill run up his spine.

            In the midst of it all, there was the faceless man. It stood in the middle of the drive, staring eyeless right back at him.

            Mr. Flow smashed his way through the door, slamming it shut behind him. There was a bolt at the bottom, and he clapped it down into place.

            He moved up the stairs carefully and slowly. The pain in his arm had been dulled by the excitement, but he would still have to fire left-handed.

            He could hear them at work in the computer room. “Get everything. Everything we can carry.”

            “I’m trying, just give me a sec and… Mack, door!”

            “Mack” fired as Mr. Flow passed close to the door, and something – if not the bullet, then a hunk of metal blown off the doorframe, hit him in the gut.

            Flow fell to the floor, firing back. Mack dropped, shot in the head.

            The other assassin moved to get his gun.

            “No. No. You won’t have time,” said Mr. Flow. He was leaning on his elbow, aiming up at the other man.

            His target froze.

            “Here’s the deal,” said Mr. Flow. “You step away from that gun, you leave here, and you get to live.” This was bullshit. Mr. Flow just wanted a clearer shot.

            “You’ll just shoot me.”

            “Not if you do as I say. Now, why are you here?”

            “You betrayed the House.”

            “No, kid, I did not.”

            The young man looked to the monitor at the end of the room. A small shadow was passing over a large white circle.

            “The others are coming,” said the young man. “They’ll get what they came for.”

            The data. They weren’t here to kill Dust. Or at least, that wasn’t the main reason. They wanted to know about Arashka. The orders to have an Agent inside the Sinret Project came from high above Mr. Flow’s level. He had never given it much thought, but now it was clear that this is what they were after. Was this what all the death and mayhem of the last six months had been about?

            “Ok, kid. Sorry,” and Mr. Flow fired. The young man dropped, though Mr. Flow did not bother checking if the shot had been fatal. Instead, he took the man’s gun and made his way up to the control room.

            He had seen blueprints of the DFO, but he had not realized the celestial majesty that the observatory had on display. The control room had an open roof, and one could almost imagine seeing the telescope, hovering far above the ground site, a glimmering metallic speck.

            Runes adorned the four walls of the room, which Mr. Flow guessed were there to keep the telescope positioned over the observatory. An arcane sigil stood in the center of the control room and a circular table. The sigil projected the field of “exotic gravity” that kept the telescope aloft without requiring the angular momentum to achieve orbit.

            The sigil was drawn in some kind of special sand. Mr. Flow did not have anything beyond a layman’s understanding of the arcane, but it seemed clear that if he wiped the sand away, the spell would be broken.

            Milton stepped backward, his breath shortened as if he had plunged into icy water.

            The gunfire grew muted, and even the light around him seemed to dim. The faceless man was growing closer, even though he was not walking. He was merely closer, and closer, and then he was only a few yards away.

            And Jack suddenly felt as if he was back in his cell, answering the Shabby Man’s questions, enduring the games played by the Thin Woman and Gold Tooth.

            “Jack?” said Tessa, a note of suppressed panic underneath.

            The world came back into focus. What few lights there were grew bright again, and the sound came back to him.

            And the faceless man was still there, but now, Milton could see it for what it really was.

            A shape. It was the shape of a man, but there was nothing within it. No substance, no reality to it. The emptiness of the faceless man had filled him with dread the first time he saw it, but now, as the world erupted in chaos around him, the emptiness of this nightmare creature felt more like a weakness, something that made it pathetic.

            A little origami man. Nothing at all.

            The faceless man stopped its advance. It tilted its head to the side, but even this gesture, which might have seemed unnerving in the past, now appeared to be the action of a mindless puppet.

            And Milton reached out toward the faceless man, reaching somehow through the window and across the distance between them with invisible arms made of thought. He took hold of the faceless man, that paper nightmare concealing nothing, and tore.

            There was something like a blast – raw force erupting from the place where the faceless man had been (or, to be precise, had not been) and there was a deafening screech, like metal scraping metal.

            He had killed the faceless man, to the extent that a thing that was never alive could be killed. He had broken that shape, and now the faceless man was truly nothing.

            He could hear cries from outside. The assassins were screaming, and he could see many of them writhing on the ground.

            Tentatively, Milton stepped out of the lodge. He walked over to the nearest wailing assassin and kicked his gun away. The man was bleeding from his ears. There was something deeply strange about the color of the blood, as if it had lost some of its pigment and had faded to the grey of a black and white film, though Milton couldn’t be sure if this was merely because of the dim starlight.

            The ones who were still alive were all incapacitated. Milton gathered their weapons, though he doubted they would be in a state to fight any time in the near future.

            How long had they been fighting? It had to have been a few hours; the sky in the east was growing lighter. Milton looked out toward Towatki, and sure enough, there were a few blinking lights off in the distance. The police were finally coming, though their timing was a bit off.

            Tessa stepped out of the lodge, with Freya and Azjar peeking out the door. They were quiet. Everything was quiet, except for the moans of the assassins.

            There was a metallic creak as the observatory door opened. Mr. Flow stumbled out the door, falling to his knees. Milton and Tessa ran to help him.

            “Are you all right?” said Tessa.

            “I’ll live, but we have to go.”

            “Our attackers are down,” said Milton.

            “Still, everyone get in the car.”

            “Why?” asked Tessa.

            Then they heard Azjar. “Oh no. Oh no no no no no!” and he began to run toward the observatory. Milton looked up. There was something coming down from the sky – something gleaming, and maybe even beginning to glow red hot…

            Oh shit.

            “Everyone in the car! Now! Now!” yelled Milton.

            “I need to fix it!” yelled Azjar as he attempted to run past them, but Milton caught him.

            “In the car,” said Milton.

            Tessa helped get Mr. Flow up as Milton dragged Azjar to the vehicle. Freya ran to get the door open. “Wait, what’s happening?” she asked.

            Mr. Flow pointed up at the falling telescope before he got in the vehicle. “That.”

            Milton got in the driver’s seat and turned the key. Thankfully, the dashboard lights came on, and with a slight hum, the car began to move.

            They traveled down the long drive, descending the hill as fast as possible. Wind howled through the car’s shattered windows. As they came to the foot of the hill, where the drive turned on to the main road, Milton clipped a corner, and the car briefly went up on two wheels before slamming back onto all four.

            Milton slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the hill began to shrink in the rearview mirror. He turned back to speak to Azjar. “Do we have any idea where it’s going to…”

            And then there was the most tremendous, thunderous crash Milton had ever heard. Instinctively, he slammed on the brakes. The car stopped, and Milton stepped out.

            There were still shards of metal erupting from the hilltop. Strange, purple lightning crackled around the wreckage – some last gasp of a broken spell to maintain the telescope’s position. The burning metal had ignited some of the trees as well, and flames began to spread over the hill.

            The Deep Field Observatory was no more.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2014)

The Ethics of Doctor Meldi

            He arrived, as most did, by boat. The doctor always took his cane with him – a short rod with a blue glass bead at the top - even though he had no need of it to walk in ordinary conditions. Still, with the wind howling over the harbor, he was not sorry to have it as he made his way down the gangplank. Even a young man might lose his footing on a day like this. He was not from the NEC originally, hailing instead from Vastanos, that last living remnant of the once-great nation of Vansa, whose mainland was now referred to only as “The Wastes.” He had long ago learned to tolerate the cold of northern Elderland, but it was merely toleration, and not a preference of climate. As a young man, he had bounced between Narcia, Hosos, Arkos Province, and back west to Arizradna before he took the plunge and went as east as one could go to settle in the North East Colony. Meldi had never married, but he valued his solitude, even if he did not consider himself an introvert. To an extent, his practice required some degree of isolation, but it was not inconceivable to him that that isolation had been what had drawn him to the field in the first place.

            As he left the boat – a coast hugging ferry, really – and walked into the harbor of Port O’James, Dr. Meldi took a deep breath. He had not been back here in a long time.

            Security had been tightened in light of the recent events, but Meldi was confident that anything that he carried that did not adhere to the strict contraband lists would appear to be nothing unusual to the harbor security agents. Meldi had packed light – four shirts, two pairs of pants, a week’s worth of underwear and socks. His equipment would seem to be just a laptop computer, a somewhat fancy fountain pen, and a few medical books.

            The risks of what he intended to do were great, but he did not walk into the town with any sense of guilt. He had examined his own ethics and found them to be sufficient, though he doubted others would see them this way. He was nervous, but he had promised himself that he would not turn back, and that his actions were a necessity. These were trying times, and even though he felt he was in the right, his conscience had been prodded and tested. Indeed, he had already crossed one of his own lines by contacting Ana. It was justified, certainly. He had no qualms about tracking the draugr that pursued her, but he had made a promise to the Sweeneys all those years ago that he would only maintain the kind of contact with their daughter that a family doctor would.

            Perhaps Ana’s totality was a breach of ethics. Meldi’s field of research was, to put it lightly, taboo, but once again, there was justification. Why let parents suffer the loss of two children? Why allow a young girl to be taken away in the spring of her life? Often it was said that such tragedies were part of the ineffable plans of the gods, but Meldi had always rejected that logic. Ashtor had never cared about the North East Colony, and the one god that did pay the small, remote country any mind was only interested in killing everyone in it. The devout gave the gods far too much credit.

            Besides, any traditional medical doctor would do whatever they could to revive a patient. Meldi had merely moved the threshold a little farther, refusing to give up at brain death.

            They never recovered the boy. He sank too deep. But he had gotten to Ana less than twelve hours after it happened. Sometimes he wondered, had the boy had been found, if he would have attempted to revive both siblings. Being responsible for two separate subjects might have been overwhelming. What if one had been as successful as Ana, and the other brought back as a shambling mockery? The resultant guilt and recriminations… fate had made things simpler for him.

            Ana had been an experiment, and one that had filled him with trepidation, but seeing the results assured him that it had been the right thing to do. He restored life from death. Was the symbol of medicine not a chthonic serpent raised up around a staff, a symbol of death giving way to life?

            Were the world aligned in such a way to receive his accomplishments, Meldi would be renowned for pioneering a form of necromancy that rejected the cruelty of the Airbright method. But figures like Paul Airbright and Mogra Thesh had irrevocably painted the practice as the work of madmen.

            This thought of Thesh, known now as the Bone King, crossed his mind just as he passed by the ruined dock. He had read about the explosion of the ship from the Wastes, but he had not realized just how much damage it had caused. Construction crews appeared to be entirely rebuilding one of the piers, and farther out from that one, there were still signs of damage.

            Meldi followed the other passengers into the customs house, a fine old stone building, though he was relieved to discover that inside, it had the appearance, and most importantly, the central heating system, of a modern building.

            “Anything to declare?” asked the customs official, a middle-aged woman who looked like she had been bored too long to show it anymore.

            “No.” A lie was a breach of ethics there, but it served his greater purpose.

            “What is your reason for visiting Port O’James?” Not long ago, this sort of rigmarole was for foreign visitors only, and the NEC had thankfully developed a liberal culture that was willing to accept a naturalized citizen like himself as a local. But the Governor General had instituted emergency measures in response to the undead.

            “I am here to meet with Mayor Harlaw.”

            The woman looked up. Meldi took some satisfaction in rousing her from her usual tedium.

            “Do you have an appointment? Hold on,” she said. This was clearly not something for which there was protocol. In immediate retrospect, he should have just said “business” and then walked to the Mayoral Hall, but his statement (was it a brag?) has started wheels turning that he could not stop.

            Regardless of this slight miscalculation, four hours later, Meldi found himself sitting in the waiting room for the mayor’s office. The Mayoral Hall, situated next to the far less attractive Town Hall, was a pleasant old building – tasteful, perhaps a little larger than a city of its size warranted – and it was relatively quiet. It was a far cry from Port Sang, where one could hardly imagine a stranger could ask to see the mayor and speak to him the same day.

            Mayor Harlaw’s secretary invited him into the office. The Mayor was at his desk, eyes down on some sort of paperwork. He finished signing it and then looked up. “Doctor… Medley?”

            “Meldi. Hello, Mayor Harlaw.” Meldi extended his hand. They shook.

            “What brings you to me, Doctor Meldi?”

            “I wish to speak to you about Ana Sweeney,” said Meldi, and noted the immediate tension that became apparent in the Mayor’s face.

            “Ana Sweeney. Yes, well, there’s an ongoing investigation, but you’ll have to talk to the militia about that…”

            “No, I’m sorry, Mayor, I am not looking for information. I wish to provide some.”

            The mayor sat back, now looking Meldi over more intently. “Go on.”

            “Ana Sweeney is, technically speaking, undead. But she is not a draugr. She is not a thrall to anybody. Physically, she is brain dead, but her spirit was reconnected to her in such a way that her own personality, intelligence, and self-control were restored, and aside from her brain, her body continues to function normally. She is, for all intents and purposes, a living woman, and no threat to you or your town.”

            Harlaw listened quietly to this, and then waited several seconds before responding.

            “Doctor Meldi,” he replied. “How could you possibly know all of this?”

            Meldi sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Because I am the one who raised her from the dead.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2014)

The Ice Chest

            There was a time when the Rookery was a little more trusting of its own thieves. Before the Brother’s War in Narcia, the Rookery was really committed to its primary mission – to steal, and thus fill the nation’s treasury. But in the thousand years since Retrein’s neighbor to the south clashed in civil war, Retrein had grown a little wary.

            The historical perspective in Narcia tended to paint the Brother’s War in a kinder light, seeing it as the growing pains that birthed the Republic. The people of Retrein focused more on the subsequent ten years of dictatorship that rivaled the Sardok Fascist period for brutality. Many of Tartin’s countrymen were descendants of those who had fled the tyranny of the “Restoration League” that took power after the deaths of Narcia’s rival kings.

            The Rookery had been forced to transform itself when their former ally – indeed, their sole ally – became a legitimate threat to them. Rumor had it that it was at this time that the position of Lord Crow had been created.

            Fearing infiltration by enemies, the Rookery did not give as much immediate trust to its own thieves, or at least it was careful to check in on itself. So while Tartin was not without some authority within its halls, it proved difficult to attain Chris Thatch’s whereabouts.

            The Rookery did not trust Tartin, but that distrust was reflected. With a mole on the inside, Tartin could not seek out a superior authority. If he asked about Thatch, the man could be killed (and Tartin would be putting himself in the spotlight.)

            So Tartin requested repeated “PAAs” – lists of candidates for expeditions. He continued to do so until Thatch’s file came up (thankfully, the mole had not removed it – which boded well for Thatch’s wellbeing.) Tartin committed the contact information – a method of securing a meeting – and then announced that the team lead had already made her selections.

            It was still bright when Tartin left the Rookery. It was spring, and as far north as they were, the days were likely to grow very long. He would meet Thatch in Exbrooke, where the Vinely flowed down from the hills to join with the Lockey. Exbrooke had an almost rustic feel, despite being part of the city. The old buildings there were made of rough-hewn stone, and there were more parks than city blocks, or so it seemed.

            Tartin took a seat on a bench not far from a small café on the edge of the park. He looked out at the trees that stood there, rather far from one another, but large enough that they created a sort of leafy ceiling that made the day seem overcast despite it being sunny. The contact method was encoded: “Three for a loop, one for a stab, and twice in the mists.” Tartin did the calculation in his head and walked over to the dark hawksthorne tree near the park’s western edge.

            Tartin checked for the small hollow at the base of the tree, and then slid the black crow’s feather form his pocket and placed it there. But as he did, he realized that the hollow was already occupied. There was a note, sealed in a waxed paper bag.

            The note was simply coded, so that Tartin could nearly read it as quickly as if it were written plainly. “Kilarny, or whoever sees this – they have shown interest in me. Cannot go dark yet. Need to confirm and pass on vital information. I believe the House is involved. I am waiting in the cottage.”

            The cottage had been in Thatch’s files. It was a small house, also in Exbrooke. Tartin reached inside his jacket to remind himself that the gun was still there. His instincts had been right. Thatch was in danger. The note was not dated. Thatch had been to Narcia and back since Kilarny’s death, but Tartin could not be sure when in the intervening months the note had been placed there.

            It was worth checking into it.

            Four Eyes took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Six Coins was due back by this point. He had received the message two days earlier. Four Eyes had no idea if his superior was returning triumphant or fleeing for his life. He had been in isolation, so the usual chatter was hard to come by.

            He was supposed to meet with Six Coins in Exbrooke, where his superior kept his townhouse. The airship from Hosos should have landed. Indeed, in precisely one minute, Six Coins was supposed to be seated across a desk from him, but as of yet, there had been no contact.

            The townhouse was pleasant enough, though Four Eyes imagined that a man with the kind of riches that Six Coins had might be inclined to greater opulence. House Agent or no, it was obvious that Six Coins was old money. RAS, the second son of a Baron, it was probably only the House that kept him from joining the Court of Peers, though Four Eyes could not speculate on why the House would not want an Agent there.

            Perhaps there are already too many.

            Six Coins’ manservant, a stiff upper lip named Crimms, approached him with a glass of gin on a tray, accompanied by a note. “What is this?”

            “I have just received a message from Sir Roderick’s valet. The note is a message that I am to convey to you from my master.”

            Four Eyes took the drink and then opened the note.

            It read: “There’s a hole dug up in Murleg’s Bog.”

            Four Eyes dropped the glass, spilling the gin all over what he had to assume was a very expensive rug.

            “I must go,” he told Crimms, and he left without his coat.

            “Hello?” Tartin knocked again. A failure to answer the door was no reason to jump to conclusions. A man hiding out, waiting to be relieved for months, would still need to occasionally be unavailable. For all he knew, Thatch was sitting on the toilet.

            But it had been fifteen minutes, and now that he was this close, Tartin was getting anxious. He peeked into the window. There was nothing that odd – a dining room on one side of the house and a living room on the other. They were neat, but that was hardly damning.

            He went around to the back of the house. The back yard overlooked a craggy hill that sloped down into the Vinely. The yard was too rocky to have a real lawn of grass, which unfortunately made it hard to determine if the house was abandoned.

            He went to the back door and knocked. Still no response. Then he looked down.

            The wood around the door’s lock had been broken.

            Tartin drew his gun. He opened the door and stepped inside.

            Now that he was inside, Tartin grew aware of the amount of dust coating everything. He stepped through the back foyer and into the kitchen. There were no dirty dishes, no rubbish in the bins, or rubbish bags for that matter. The strangest thing in the room was that the electric icebox was missing – its nook an empty gap.

            The top floor was similarly undisturbed. The bed was made, and the library was still filled with books. The only other oddity on this floor was that the office was clearly missing a computer – the monitor, keyboard, and mouse were all still there –only the computer itself was missing.

            Someone had cleaned up here. There was a faint scent of ammonia, or perhaps something else…

            Tartin’s heart was beating rather strongly, but he pressed on. Thatch had likely gotten impatient and gone dark. The broken lock on the back… he did not have an explanation for that, but it could have happened after Thatch ghosted.

            Tartin finally went to the basement door. The building was likely empty, but he gripped his gun just the same. Gently, Tartin turned the handle and then pushed the door open.

            Light. The light was on down here. Tartin took a deep breath.

            Slowly, Tartin descended the stairs. There was a cellar door that led to the back yard. He kept that door in mind, should there be something here that might prevent him from exiting the way he entered.

            The basement was plain, with a concrete floor and a few metal pipes leading down from the house. There was almost nothing down here except for the icebox from the kitchen.

            Or at least he thought it might be from the kitchen. Yet as he approached the appliance, it struck him that this was really more of an ice chest, meant to be opened from the top.

            Tartin looked around the basement again, just to be sure there was nothing else to see. And then he opened the chest.

            Thatch’s body was crammed inside. It was covered in dirt and frozen mud. Tartin gasped and stepped back, nearly dropping the lid back down. Thatch had been shoved inside with great force. Some of his bones were broken. Tartin forced himself to look a little closer, seeing the gore of Thatch’s ravaged throat.

            How long had he been here? That would be hard to tell. But he would have to call this in to the Rookery at once, and explain his actions later.

            Tartin closed the ice chest, relieved that he did not have to look on that grotesque sight, but as it turned out, he needed not have bothered, as it was at that moment that the lights in the basement went dark.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2014)

Lascivious Notion

            She never broke eye contact. Hers were the eyes of a seductress, open a little wider than perhaps they needed to be, but this served to accentuate them. She wore a business suit, yes, but it was tailored to invite lascivious notions into the minds of anyone who was habitually interested in the feminine form.

            This was not enchantment. The woman was plainly gifted with beauty, her dark brown hair contrasting with her fair skin. Thall must have calculated that such an emissary would throw Richard off balance, but on this count, it was Airbright who immediately sensed an advantage. Certainly, in his days of youth, Richard Airbright’s weakness had been women, but thirty years, a failed marriage, and the fact that this “Sweet Clara” could not be more than ten years older than his own daughter undercut what Richard presumed to be Henry’s desired effect.

            “And how is the man?”

            “Not yet ready to see you, truth be told.”

            “You must forgive me, I have had an exhausting day. But then, I suppose you know what has happened.” Richard went to his liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of Gensdon Whiskey.

            “Watts?”

            “Indeed.”

            “Dreadful business.”

            Richard scoffed. “Coming from you, that is a strange thing to say.” He handed her a glass, which she took after some hesitation. “Do I detect a slight northern accent? I hope you don’t mind my speculation.”

            “Not at all. I am from Errister.”

            “And what did you do there before you were employed by my dear friend Henry?”

            “I was a whore.”

            “You don’t prefer the term ‘street priestess?’”

            “We were unregistered. Does my résumé make you uncomfortable, Mr. Airbright? Many of your class would be put off.”

            “Not at all. A man of my family name could hardly pass judgment on you for that.” Richard sipped some of the whiskey. “Murder, on the other hand, is perhaps a touch more dire a crime.”

            “Do I appear to be an assassin, Mr. Airbright?”

            “I find that appearances are rarely indicative of a person’s nature and character.”

            “I have never harmed a soul,” said Clara.

            “Directly, perhaps. I suppose he has offered you money? Some material comforts? I assure you, these things are not worth involving yourself with a man such as Henry Thall.”

            “You say that from a privileged position. How much is the Airbright fortune?”

            Richard smiled. “Quite right.” Clara sipped some of her own whiskey.

            “What I am attempting to discern,” Richard began again. “Is just what Henry means by all these atrocities. I am not so egotistical to assume that they are all intended for me.”

            “I cannot say. My employer’s ultimate intentions are not something that he shares.”

            “So why have you come here, then?”

            “I am here to deliver a message, though I’m sure you had surmised as such.  Mr. Thall wishes to assure you that his intentions are not revenge. He understands your reasons for doing what you did in your youth, and he bears you no ill will. Therefore, he has asked me to make you the following offer. Leave Retrein. You may travel south, to Narcia, though he recommends traveling farther still.”

            “May I ask you something, Clara?” said Richard.

            “Certainly.”

            “Does this ominous warning not concern you? You seem to be a woman of flesh and blood. If Herny wishes to warn me of some imminent calamity, why do you not take that advice yourself and flee?”

            “I must remain here to assist Mr. Thall.”

            Richard leaned back in his chair. He had seen something in her eye as she said that last sentence. He may have believed her to be merely unintelligent before – a pretty, naïve face for Thall’s dreadful machinations – but now he saw something far more disconcerting. There was a dark apathy in her. An indifference toward her own survival and well-being.

            “If you were in my position, would you take Henry’s offer?”

            “I am sure that I do not know your exact position, Mr. Airbright. But Mr. Thall seemed to suggest that he still considers you a friend. He hopes that you will not let your jealousy prevent you from ensuring your safety.”

            “Jealousy?” Richard balked. He? Jealous of Henry? What lies had Clara been told? Or had Henry reversed the truth of their history together in his own mind?

            Richard’s mind was aflame. He had yet to determine anything, truly. What had this Clara gleaned from him?

            Perhaps it was this moment of inattention that prompted Clara to say “I must be on my way. Please consider Mr. Thall’s advice. I do think that he is still quite fond of you, despite everything.”

            Richard was shaken from his thoughts. “Of course. Please, allow me to call you a cab.”

            “That won’t be necessary. My car is just pulling up now.”

            Richard looked out the window. A long black limousine had just stopped in front of the house. The back of the vehicle belched out strange blue smoke. “Well, in that case, let me get your coat.” Richard stood up and found Clara’s jacket on the rack. He whispered a brief incantation that might allow him to track the jacket, but he expected that the enchantment would be discovered and broken before Clara left the block.

            As he walked her to the door, she said to him “It was a pleasure to finally meet you.”

            “Likewise, Miss Clara,” said Richard, and he opened the door.

            Where Isabelle had just arrived.

            Richard froze. Clara stopped, half-smiling as she regarded Isabelle.

            “Hello,” said Isabelle, her eyes questioning her father.

            “Oh,” said Richard. “Er, this is Clara. She was just leaving.”

            Isabelle shifted her book bag to her other arm and extended her hand. “Isabelle.”

            “Charmed,” said Clara. She turned to Richard. “I did not realize you had a daughter.”

            “Well, you mustn’t miss your car,” said Richard, and he stood aside for Clara to go. He watched her make her way down the front walk. The limousine driver ran around the back to open the door for her. As she stepped inside, she looked back at Richard and smiled.

            “Who was that, dad?” said Isabelle.

            Richard remained silent, watching the limousine with its horrid smoke pull away.

            “Isn’t she a bit young for you? No offense,” said Isabelle.

            “Go up to your room,” he said.

            “Dad, I was only joking…”

            He turned to her and said, solidly, “Go.”

            She did not need to be told again.

            Richard watched the limousine disappear from view as it turned around the corner. He slammed the door shut. He walked back to the living room and picked up his whiskey glass. He began to pour another drink, but he soon found that half the liquor was splashing down onto the carpet, his hand was shaking so much.

            With a growling scream, Richard flung the glass against the wall. After that, he was silent and motionless for several minutes.

            “Well, well, well,” said Whispering Jim.

            “What the hell do you want, demon?”

            “Only to serve you, master.”

            “I have no time for your snark, Jim.”

            “That’s all right. Allow me to provide some insight then.”

            “You were watching our conversation?”

            “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

            “Very well. What do you have to tell me?”

            “I have read the thoughts of millions of people in my time. In this world and the last one. I prefer to avoid superlatives, because the range and breadth of human emotion is so vast. But when I looked into the thoughts of our dear Sweet Clara, I saw one of the most terrified people I have ever had the pleasure of reading. Someone that frightened can be useful. She only needs something greater to fear.”

            Richard looked up, locking his gaze with his demonic familiar. He was helpless to prevent a smile from curling his lips.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2014)

Hot

            There was no room left for doubt in Eitan’s mind. They were inside the house. Rinn, the dog, had yelped once, but then was silent. He’d kill them for that. He’d make them suffer. But even in the state of utter fear that Tall Man felt overtaking him, he knew that he would not stand any chance if he did not leave immediately.

            He was too high up to just jump from the window. He could break a leg, and that would doom him for sure. There was a gun on the top shelf of the closet, but he’d only fired the thing a few times at paper targets.

            There was an audible footstep downstairs. They were moving.

            He tip-toed to the closet and pulled the pistol from its shelf. He nearly forgot to take the box of ammunition with it, but the thought occurred to him before he went to leave the room.

            To get out, he would have to descend the stairs, and he was almost certain that they were already walking up them. So Eitan took a breath and stepped into the upstairs corridor, slipping into the bathroom.

            He could not hear any reaction to his movement. They had not heard him. Thankfully, the house was built of solid concrete, and the floors were just carpet over the solid surface. Hardwood floors might have creaked.

            He had anticipated this move. Maryam and Karis had already left town. He only hoped that the people who had come to kill him would dismiss his hosts as unrelated to the conflict – not worth the effort.

            Why the hell am I worth the effort? Tall Man thought to himself. Well, maybe he hadn’t been, but as soon as Mr. Flow brought him into the loop, he’d become a target. The old djinni was supposed to be on his way to pick him up, but Tall Man could not be sure he would make it – or even that Flow was still alive.

            They would be checking all the doors. He would not simply be able to wait them out. This thought occurred to him too late from him to see if jumping from the bathroom’s window would be safe enough.

            The solidity of the floor now became a liability, as he had a hard time hearing the killers as they made their way up the corridor. Still, they were close, and the moment came.

            He slammed the door outward, knocking a woman hard into the opposite wall. She fell to the ground, dropping her gun. Tall Man gave her a solid kick to the stomach and then came around.

            He had barely gotten clear of the door when a short man punched him hard in the stomach. The man punched him again, and then a third time, and Tall Man stumbled back.

            The gun fired, and the man who had punched him dropped to the ground. It took a moment for Tall Man to realize he had even aimed and pulled the trigger.

            He ran down the stairs, stumbling, and he missed the last two stairs, falling to his knees painfully when he reached the brown tile floor. He quickly got himself up and ran past poor Rinn’s body.

            Someone fired a gun and the little shrine-statue in the front hall exploded in a hail of splinters. Tall Man kept his head down and ran for the front door. It was already open. He came out into the chilly night.

            There were three men there, all in dark masks, all with guns. They looked about as surprised to see him as he was to see them. The surprise gave way, and Tall Man ducked to the side as they opened up.

            But the gunfire was very short-lived. Tall Man heard the squeal of tires and a loud thump, followed by a pair of short cracks.

            “Get in!” Tall Man heard a familiar voice say. He blinked hard and then ran toward the car.

            Mr. Flow was at the wheel, and another man who was called Iron String leaned out of the back seat with a shotgun. The assailants were all down in the street.

            Tall Man rushed around the back of the car and climbed in the passenger seat.

            “He’s in! He’s in! Go!” yelled Iron String.

            Mr. Flow slammed his foot down and the car lurched forward.

            “Tom, get back in the car before…” but Mr. Flow was cut off by the sound of shattering glass. The rear windshield exploded and Tall Man’s side mirror was suddenly obscured by blood. The car rocked as Iron String’s body fell out the window.

            “Fuck!” cried Mr. Flow.

            A block away, things were suddenly quiet and almost calm. Tall Man could hear the whistling of the wind through the broken windshield.

            He looked over at Mr. Flow. There were two circles of light in his arm and shoulder that were glowing orange, like a burning log. “Flow, you were hit.”

            “I know.” Mr. Flow bit back a wince of pain. “Eitan, you’re not looking so good yourself.”

            It was true; he was covered with blood. When Iron String got hit, it had sprayed all over him. Tall Man sighed, feeling extremely tired.  His stomach still hurt considerably from being punched. He held his hand over it.

            And when he pulled his hand away, it was covered with hot, wet blood.

            “Oh shit,” said Eitan, his head spinning. “I think I got stabbed.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2013)

The Beautiful Harmony

            The forest was a set of shapes to him – shapes that changed gradually, but he took note of all that he saw. In life, he might have thought of the forest as a static thing. It had been many years, many lifetimes before his unhindered mind emerged and he was able to glimpse the undulating, writhing mass that was the forest.

            To him. To him.

            Every second of every day, every moment of every year for countless years, the same words drummed within his mind.

            To him. To him.

            And that was Stalav’s purpose now, as it had ever been. He would serve his master even when he could no longer hear the lord’s commands. The drumbeat remained, but its beautiful harmony – the master’s voice – had vanished.

            For long ages, Stalav’s mind had resonated with the calming words of the master. “You are of me,” he would say. “We are one.”

            When the faceless man took had taken hold of his arm, Stalav could no longer hear the master. He heard only one thing – a refrain that threatened to drown out even the drumbeat.

            We are one in the machine. We are one in the machine.

            No voice chanted these foul words – the words existed only in concept and theory, and even those were faded and dim.

            The arm that had been his even when he walked the world a living man was no more. It had been consumed entirely.

            “The flesh is weak,” he remembered the Icelord had said. “And blood will abandon you in time.” Stalav cut the arm, flesh, blood and bone.

            His foot connected softly with the ground as he heard one of the women speak. Her voice was light and feminine, yet there was a pain underneath it, and a roughness that seemed to contradict what he had observed of her nature.

            She had been raised, of that he was certain, though someone had gone through great care to preserve her. She was not of his master’s children.

            The other was deadly and strong. Hers was a lower voice, both in pitch and volume. She barely left tracks, but the stench of life was strong from her. He had met many of her kind in his days. Stalav himself had not been dissimilar in life.

            His people were long gone, the tribesmen who lived in the southern mountains. The Icelord had been less concerned with conservation in those days.

            The rough one would fall eventually – this did not concern him. It was the other – the dead one – that gave him pause.

            She did not seem physically dangerous. No, it was the implication of her. She might obstruct him in his plan. He would have to warn the others, but he could never come within five miles of Port O’James without being destroyed on sight.

            The first wave of exiles had made a mess of it for the rest of them, panicking and killing the crews of those ships, only to be destroyed themselves. All that they had accomplished was to warn the living, to put them on their guard.

            Stalav had been afforded his own intelligence. In fact, he had learned quite a lot since his death. He could fight, he could track, and he could keep hidden. He had served in the Icelord’s legion, and he had brought thousands of his brethren to be raised and join in the Icelord’s dominion.

            Memories of glory. Of victories and success. But the memories were fading. Ever since the faceless man touched his arm, he could feel details slipping away. Even now, with the non-arm severed and discarded, the memories had not returned.

            We are one in the machine. The chorus continued, as if broadcast via radio across the entire forest.

            At their current pace, they would reach the town in two days. He would have to decide what to do quickly. He had tracked them ever since they found his arm. They were fleeing the faceless men just as he was. Their efforts against them could prove valuable, but he could not imagine a scenario that would lead to an alliance.

            The rough one would try to kill him on sight. It was not unthinkable that she could succeed, so he would have to catch them unaware if that was how he wished to proceed. The other one…

            His hearing cut out again, replaced by a dull whining sound. He stood there for a moment, waiting for it to return.

            Yes, the other one was an unknown factor. It would be safer to butcher them in their sleep. Start with the rough woman and then move on to the dead one. The inhabitants of the town would merely think they were lost to the woods.

            Or perhaps he would be better off merely leaving them, letting them go. They had seen the arm, but they did not seem to know what to make of it. They could not have gleaned his intentions from his malformed arm alone.

            Ana took the first watch. Lisenrush only slept for three hours at a time, so it was not too bad. They stayed very close to the fire. The deerskin cloaks served as their bedding. Ana kept her back to the flames. While having the heat radiate onto her face would be more than welcome, she had an easier time seeing into the woods.

            Animals would probably be frightened away by the fire, but it wasn’t the animals that she was afraid of. There had been no sign of the faceless men since they had escaped Far Watch. Had they managed to evade them? Was that even possible?

            She wore the cloak over the front of her, exposing her back to the fire. She felt raw. She had not showered since the day she was shot. Or had she even done so that morning? It could only have been a matter of days – two weeks, at most – but time seemed to have elongated.

            The heat was isolated to only one surface of her body, but it called to mind basking in the sun on a tropical beach. She could almost picture herself out there on the sand, perhaps a nice cool drink, with lazy palm trees hanging over her. People splashing in the water…

            Her eyes closed and her chin began to drop.

            The awareness of the cold forest around her remained, but it seemed to be pushed into the background.

            Not doing very well at the watch, now, are you?

            The beach was bright and sunny, but the shade in which Ana was lying kept things remarkably cool. She could feel goosebumps on her arms.

            The man sitting next to her adjusted his glasses and touched her lightly on the arm.

            “It’s all right, Ana. You’re doing very well. You’ve been so brave.”

            She turned to him. He was short, with messy brown tufts on either side of his head above the ears, and rosy red cheeks.

            “I’m trying to keep guard.”

            “Well, she’ll be up in a few minutes anyway. I need to talk to you briefly.”

            The man stood up and walked over to her. Even standing, he was only barely taller than she was when seated in her beach chair.

            “Do you remember me, Ana?”

            Ana looked into his small, brown eyes. “I’ve seen you before. Not here.”

            “Yes, Ana.”

            The fact that his eyes looked so small even with the magnifying effect of his glasses did not seem to make sense. She thought they should look bigger.

            “This is a dream, then,” said Ana.

            “Yes, for the most part.”

            She shrugged. She realized she would be in trouble with Lisenrush for falling asleep while on watch duty, but she figured she would deal with that when she woke up.

            “Ana, I’m Doctor Meldi. You remember me?”

            “Yes.”

            “You started seeing me after your brother drowned.”

            “I remember that.”

            “All right, Ana. I need you to listen to me. It is important that you get back to Port O’James safely. Your fellow citizens are operating under a false premise. You have to make sure that Lisenrush gets there with you, or the people won’t believe a word you say.”

            “Yes, I think I had thought of that.”

            “Well, there’s a hitch.”

            “What is it?”

            “There is a draugr following you.”

            Suddenly, the beach was gone, and the forest was back, the trees illuminated by the orange flame and the dark shadows receding back into the distance, and…

            “Lydia,” said Ana. “Lydia, get up.”

            The Ranger-Captain was on her feet faster than Ana could have imagined. “What is it?” she said, the rifle already in her hands.

            “I…” Ana scanned the forest. It was utterly still and silent. The pops and crackles of the fire were the only thing she could hear. The forest stretched out into the distance, still and unchanging.

            But for a split second, just as she had woken up, she could have sworn that in that deep black darkness, she had seen a pair of pale blue eyes staring back at her.

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2013)

Blackroot and Damned Rain

            Barclay took a drag on the blackroot cigarette. The musky odor of the smoke surrounded him as he watched the rain pour down from the awning. It had been raining since the previous morning, and indeed, Barclay had heard that it was raining just about everywhere. He had not received a briefing on it, though, so he filed the information away. Montaso and Kern were out on assignment, so it was just Barclay, Darron, and the Nascine woman.

            His glasses were beginning to fog, so he took them off. He could see decently without them, but they had long ago become a part of his look, and he understood how important appearances could be.

            Darron was growing restless. It had been an error to send Kern out instead of him – frankly, he thought Darron might be better suited to what Kern was doing, and vice versa. Still, Barclay would keep things in line, as he always had. His primary concern was about Nascine.

            Emily Nascine was an accomplished thief, but not a very good intelligence officer. The operation in Omlos proved that. Barclay had not actually heard about Omlos on his end – it was only in preparation for the Nascine operation that he found out.

            He had taken to smoking blackroot to deal with his stomach problems. A man named Fipps who lived in Gensdon swore by it. He was Stag’s Head, which made Barclay a little skeptical, but the blackroot smoke did help with the churning in his stomach.

            The cabin was new. The wood had not been painted, but it was treated with chemicals to keep the rot away. The rain was pretty heavy, and there was a muddy river forming somewhere from the top of the hill and flowing down a little too close for comfort.

            If anything, the rain might make it hard to burn down the cabin when they were ready to move on.

            Ten miles north was the shared space with Retrein. There was a little concrete bunker – something dating back to the Brothers’ War, supposedly – that had the space in the basement. When Nascine was ready, they would send her back through there.

            Barclay took out another cigarette and lit it before tossing the first one into a puddle. The smoke had a pungent, fungal smell. It was not particularly pleasant, but he could feel his nausea settling.

            He preferred the quick assignments. Being on the job for too long made him feel uneasy. It was always best to get it over with in a couple hours. Two days was acceptable. He would never let it show, but when it got longer than that, he started to feel uneasy.

            He had a wife and kids, though they knew him by a different name. Neither that one nor Barclay were his original name, but he’d burned that whole past down long ago.

            Barclay kept four separate identities as a matter of course. There was Barclay, the House Agent, Matterly, the family man, Schmidt, a loner who possessed what he thought of as the “transitional” properties that he would use to transform between the first two identities, and finally there was Spindler. Spindler he had never touched, but he kept up appearances – a bank account, a passport, an address -  as best he could. Spindler was the contingency plan. If something ever went wrong, he would drop everything, go be Schmidt for a day, and then be Spindler for the rest of his life.

            His hope was that the House didn’t know about Spindler, but he could not be sure. One superior, long ago, had joked that “the House always wins,” and Barclay took that as a caveat to any plans he might have made. Still, on the off chance he needed it, and on the off chance it worked, he would be happy that he had put in the effort.

            A particular cough that he had rehearsed with Darron let him know that Nascine was awake. Barclay tossed the cigarette away and went indoors.

            Nascine was pacing, wearing the sweatpants and sweatshirt they’d gotten for her. The dark circles around her eyes gave her a strangely glamorous look, despite the dourness of the setting. He had thought it was make-up at first.

            “When are you guys going to release me?”

            “You’re not a prisoner here, Emily.”

            “But you don’t want me to leave.”

            “We want you to be safe. This can’t happen again.”

            Nascine laughed. “Agreed.”

            “We can’t tip our hand to the Opponents. If they knew that we were the ones who had rescued you, well… it would complicate matters.” Barclay walked over and put a hand on Darron’s shoulder. “Darron here will help you build a story.”

            Darron took his cue and stood up from his chair. “We have some of our own people at a hospital in Knightsgate. They’ll release you from the hospital, claiming that some passers-by called an ambulance for you after pulling you out of the Lockey. If the Opponents, or the Rookery, for that matter, try to check in, they’ll find that there was shoddy record-keeping that day.”

            Nascine stopped pacing. “You want me to lie to the Rookery?”

            “Not lie. We want you to omit a few details. For your protection as well as ours,” said Barclay. “We agree that there is likely an Opponent Agent or Agents within the Rookery. We do not wish to alert them to our presence, you understand.”

            Nascine nodded. Again, as Barclay had surmised, the subtleties of spycraft were not her forte. Given her physique and background, he imagined she would be the ideal person to send on a jewel heist, but the cloak and dagger stuff, not so much. Still, she seemed capable of learning.

            “How do I get back there?” asked Nascine. “And where am I, for that matter?”

            “We’re at an isolated location in Western Narcia.”

            “Narcia?”

            “Yes, Darron will explain how on the way back.”

            “And when will that be?”

            “Can you walk all right?” asked Barclay.

            Nascine looked down at her feet. She flexed them, lifting one leg and then the other. “I think so.”

            “Then you can go whenever you like.”

            Nascine raised her eyebrows. “Just like that?”

            “Just like that,” said Barclay.

            Nascine opened her mouth to speak, but stopped herself.

            “What is it?”

            “I only expected you to want something in return.”

            Barclay shook his head dismissively. “You were drowning, we were watching. We weren’t just going to let you die.”

            Nascine nodded slowly. “Well, thank you. For that. And keeping me safe.”

            “My pleasure,” said Barclay, and gave a polite little nod.

            They waited an hour for the rain to stop, but it was relentless. Eventually, Nascine decided that she was willing to brave the storm, and she and Darron embarked on their journey to the shared space.

            Barclay sat in the cabin alone for a time after that, lighting another Blackroot cigarette.

            The orders had been fulfilled. Nascine was going back to Ravenfort, alive and well. Certainly the Rookery would have its eyes on her, but it was his hope that the Opponents might as well.

            They had had some success in Arizradna, though Barclay was hesitant to declare victory just yet. After all, there were other events going on in Retrein that he could hardly guess at. The situation down south involving the Bone King and the Vastani had not turned out so well, but there were other projects in the works.

            Still, it would not do to think about it all too much. Barclay was down a few rungs of the ladder. He operated out in the field, and preferred to leave the long-term planning to others. But these recent years had been exciting. Finally, there was one great goal that the House was moving toward. Naturally, there would be resistance among those who preferred the status quo, but that sort of agent was an endangered species. For now, Barclay was happy to do his part to purge them from Retrein. And with Nascine released back into that environment, he expected many would drop their guard, and both the House and the Rookery would have one fewer threat to deal with.

            It was totally dark outside by the time that Kern got back. The cabin was illuminated only by an electric lantern.

            Kern looked positively haunted. His skin had gone pale, and the light from the lantern seemed to be too much for him.

            “Nascine is gone. Darron took her there.”

            “I saw…” began Kern. “What was that thing?”

            “Don’t worry about it. It won’t harm you. What did you think of the coffee?”

            Kern shook his head. “Disgusting. Literally painful to drink.” He shivered a little. “And my stomach has been acting up ever since.”

            Barclay pulled out his cigarette pack and shook one out. “Try this. It helps settle it.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2013)