Paradigm Clutch

Chillblade

The region was called Chillblade, and the name was apt.

After blowing unimpeded across a thousand miles of glacial ice, the wind didn’t just freeze, it cut through all normal types of insulation. The white-furred giants who called the frozen tundra home relied on their great bulk and peculiar immunities evolved over generations for protection. But even they bundled up when the wind blew. Other creatures had to invest in clothing specially warded to keep body heat from escaping through exposed skin or even breathing, and sleep in similarly-protected shelters. Though the jagged mountains and massive glaciers were magnificent sights, most people preferred to look at them in pictures while sitting in more comfortable climes.

The three figures who stood at the base of the mountain called Whistler would have preferred the former option, had it been available. Even the green sky seemed frozen, taking on a greyish tint. But their business could only be done in person.

Bolt shifted unhappily. Part of his fidgeting was due to the unaccustomed sensation of wearing boots over his hooves. He’d gone barehoofed nearly all his life, and was proud of the fact that he could walk across the finest polished marble floors with neither a slip nor a scuffmark. The sensation of having a thick layer of rubber between his hooves and the ground was unnerving.

The major source of the centaur’s distress was the idea that his two companions were about to depart on what they all hoped would be the turning point of their quest, and he couldn’t go with them. He looked at the cleft which cut into the side of Whistler. It would have been a tight fit in any event; with the added bulk of his protective clothing, Bolt wouldn’t make it five paces before he’d be hopelessly jammed.

“Blast it,” he cursed. “How could it be in there? From all reports it’s as big as me! No way it’d fit!”

The shorter of his companions gestured toward Whistler’s peak. Not an inch of exposed skin was visible, but her voice came through her mask clearly. “Remember what Ta said,” Zerene told him. “Last winter her nephew fell in a crevasse at the peak. An opening big enough for a tagarl child is more than large enough.” Tagarl meant “walker in the ice,” and was the name for the local giants.

“At any rate, it need not actually be there,” Jonnal, the last member of the trio added. “They found the nest when they rescued the child. As long as there are feathers left, that’s all we need.”

“As long as the damned bird hasn’t come back and done its pyre in the meantime!” Bolt grumbled. He was normally optimistic, but the idea that his partners could be going into harm’s way without him at their back clouded his mood.

“One way or the other,” Zerene assured him, “in and out. Either this cleft goes all the way to the center or it doesn’t. If it does, we’re all golden. If not, we’ll climb the slope tomorrow.” She thumped his abdomen playfully. “Cheer up, Pony. This is the best lead we’ve had in two years. If the Ladies are with us, we’ll be on our way home tomorrow.”

“And even if not,” Jonnal added, “we’ll at least be on our way to more comfortable surroundings.” He took a bearing on his compass. “We’d best go, Zerene. It’s past noon already.”

“Right,” Zerene agreed. Then with astonishing agility, she grabbed the front of Bolt’s jacket and vaulted upward, planting her feet on the muscles of his abdomen and bringing her face close to his. He could see her brown eyes fixed on his through her goggles. “If I tell you to wait for us at the camp,” she asked, “what are you going to do?”

“Stay right here,” he replied honestly.

She sighed and nodded. Then the corners of her eyes wrinkled in the way they always did when she smiled, and she lightly knocked her forehead against his in proper centaur fashion. “I’ll be right back, Pony.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Spoons,” he warned her. Then his arms wrapped around her and held her close. His thews were so massive they covered her from shoulder to waist. In turn, her arms went as far around his neck as they could. Ten years ago they’d started as teacher and student, then as partners. At one point they almost became lovers, but veered away into the deepest of friends. Neither wished to imagine a world without the other in it.

They parted, and then she and Jonnal threaded their way into the cleft. They were quickly lost from his view.

Aerie

The cleft narrowed alarmingly, but not to implausibility. Even with their cold-weather gear both Zerene and Jonnal were slender enough that they could press further in, though they resorted to walking sideways for long stretches. The grey-green sunlight outside quickly faded in the twists and turns of the cleft, and both of them hooked lights onto the breasts of their jackets. Joints and muscles began to ache from the unnatural sidelong stride forced upon them.

“Are we going the right way?” Jonnal panted. “I can’t reach my compass.”

“What was your bearing outside?” Zerene panted back. Sweat beaded along her brows and she wished she could reach up to wipe it away.

“Nine-three-nine.”

She tried to reach for her own compass, and cursed mildly that the press of the passage prevented her as well. She reviewed the turns they’d made so far, drawing on ten years’ experience finding her way through wilderness both pastoral and urban. “Feels close,” she murmured loudly enough for him to hear. “Only a few marks off one side or the other. We should be near.”

Jonnal held up his hand, not in warning but as if to test the air. “It’s warmer,” he said.

Zerene looked forward and back into the passage. “The crevasse blocks the wind,” she theorized, “but the temperature in here should still be around freezing.” She tested the air with her hand as well. “It’s slight,” she agreed after a moment, “but you’re right.”

“It’s not just the wind being blocked,” Jonnal insisted. “Something ahead is giving off heat!” He tried to rein in rising excitement. A lifetime fight against fatalism and cynicism capped by two years’ continual disappointment made it a difficult match.

A few paces later there was no doubt. Their clothing was composed of alternating layers of leather and thick, plush fabric. The leather provided some natural insulation while the fabric was porous enough to hold air within its weave. The gear was good enough for most cold climates but against Chillblade’s killing wind extra measures were needed. Runes were woven into the fabric and embossed on the inside of the leather, creating a ward. Stronger versions of the same ward were used in fireproofing. At this weak level the ward prevented heat from escaping outward, and thus hypothermia. By design though, they did nothing to block heat coming from outside.

As Zerene had pointed out the air in the passage should have been cold enough to freeze the moisture in their breath. Instead the ice riming the stone walls was melting and running down, much like the sweat inside Zerene’s suit.

“Rrh,” Zerene growled in resignation. Yanking on the straps at wrists and neck, she pulled off her gloves and mask, and jerked her hood back as well. She sighed explosively with relief, mopping at her brow with evident pleasure. “Like a steam bath in here.”

“It’s here!” Jonnal said, uncovering his head and hands as well. Unlike Zerene his skin was perfectly dry, a fact she acknowledged with a snort of mock annoyance. Jonnal did not need to sweat – for his pyrin breed there was no such thing as unwanted heat. “There’s no other explanation!”

Zerene shushed him and doused her light. She pointed ahead of them into the passage. Jonnal shut his off as well. The passage should have been black as pitch, but an amber glow as from a small fire lit the stone before them. They crept forward silently. Zerene couldn’t help a feeling of absurdity at their stealthy approach. If half the stories they’d heard about their quarry were true, it was probably already aware of them.

The passage narrowed even more as it made a sharp turn, and stone scraped across leather as they crabwalked through. The crush of the turn forced them to stumble forward slightly as they came out, ruining any further attempts at a graceful entrance.

Two years ago Lord Jonnal Shad had come to Zerene and Bolt with a commission. They’d heard of his House of course – everybody in the world knew about that unhappy family. Five generations ago they’d incurred somebody’s wrath. The identity of their tormentor had never been divined, but the effects of the curse became obvious over time. Nothing so dramatic as death or disfigurement; the curse was a torture, not a means of extermination.

It was a curse of underachievement, of bad luck. Maintaining the family fortunes and assets was tolerated as long as it was done cautiously, gradually. But any attempt to improve or even repair damage or decay ran the risk of catastrophe. The greater the attempt at change the more certain the disaster that would befall. Not every time, but often enough and with consequences severe enough that it became more tolerable to make do than try to advance.

As word had spread about House Shad’s curse the true extent of its malice became more obvious. Curses were sometimes contagious. If you dealt with a cursed victim, their wares could be tainted as well. House Shad had been known as Shenn’s premier vendor of distilled and fermented beverages. Their ales, wines, and liquors had been an expected component of every Upper Court function, and even any commoner who wanted to make an impression or just be assured of good flavor and quality would pay the few extra coin to afford a Shad bottle or keg.

When people learned the nature of the Shad curse they became fearful. Who could know if that bottle held fine liquor or the worst swill? Maybe ill fortune had gotten into the hops or yeast, and what came out might at least make you sick, at worse maybe kill? Rumors completed the curse’s effect. Few wanted to risk dealing with House Shad. Their fortunes had dwindled along with their customers, and any efforts at new markets met with predictable results.

From one of the most powerful and prestigious members of Shenn’s Upper Court House Shad had fallen to a station below that of many Lower Court Houses. Even some of the estates of Shenns’ other races surpassed those of House Shad, a situation previously unheard of on a world where all the greatest fortunes were held by members of the Aerin race. Entire cities which had sworn fealty to House Shad renounced their vows to avoid the effects of the curse.

Three years ago House Shad had gotten a break. A daring diviner scried the key to breaking the curse. If the Lord Most High of House Shad were to write a declaration renouncing the curse it would be broken. The catch was that the renunciation had to be written on parchment made from the skin of the current Lord Most High , in ink from the blood a family member, and with a quill made from a very specific breed of bird.

The parchment and the ink had been painful but not impossible to procure. The quill had proven a different matter. Most of the rest of the family had thrown up their hands in surrender at that, but not Jonnal. Fourth son of a cursed House, he had little left to risk. All he needed was a Seeker good enough to do the job, daring enough to risk the curse, and idealistic or mercenary enough to stay the course of the quest.

He’d found two: an unlikely partnership of a human and a Tantareli centaur, Zerene and Bolt. They fulfilled all the criteria and then some. For two years they had kept his back, taught him the ways of the trail and the world beyond the Upper Court, and shared his commitment to save his family. Most surprisingly in his contract with them he had even found love…

They emerged into a crevasse so deep it may as well have been a grotto. Though its top was open, the sliver of grey which was the sky above Whistler was no more than a glowing line at the peak of the walls. Neither of them spared even a glance upward – their attention was riveted on the thing before them.

Avian. Plumage of scarlet and auric with azure accents. Bolt’s estimate of its size had not been far off – it was huge. The neck was long and supple, but not gangly like a duck or a goose. A crest lay relaxed along the line of the skull. The glistening beak was like a raptor’s but somehow avoided the harsh line of a falcon. Parts of its body here and there resembled those of other birds, but the gestalt made it altogether its own.

Most captivating were the eyes which regarded them. They glowed like something molten – No, Zerene thought. Purer than that. Like – she couldn’t think of a proper comparison for that glow except the meaningless phrase: the light of life itself.

By tacit agreement Jonnal, Bolt, and herself had stopped using its specific name last year. It had become “it,” “the bird,” or at worst “that damn bird.” So elusive and frustrating had become the object of the quest that it seemed even uttering its proper label might scare it away.

Yet now here it was before them.

A phoenix.

And all they needed was a feather.

Trapped

That same moment, just a world away…

Avery Trask paced. He knew it was useless – each step brought him no closer to escaping the cell, nor to his wife Rachel and daughter Jennifer. But if he couldn’t pace his only other options were to rant at his fellow captives or silently fret himself to madness.

Not that pacing stopped him from fretting. Damn it, he ranted to himself, This isn’t supposed to happen! We signed the damned contract! We paid in advance! What went wrong?

He knew the answer, of course. They all did. Last night they’d been part of a caravan. For the Trask family it had been the last leg of a trip from Salt Lake City to San Diego. A decade ago the journey would have been routine, a quick jaunt by airliner while their worldly belongings paralleled their journey in a cargo jet. At worst their luggage might have made a side trip to Detroit, a slight inconvenience, nothing more…

The Warp had changed all that.

The official name for it was Cantionis Terra, ‘Enchantment Of The World.’ But regular people called it The Warp. The Second of April, Nineteen Ninety-Two. Reality had changed all the rules.

Avery remembered the day, as did everybody old enough to be cognizant of it. He’d been eighteen, his father stationed at a military base in Utah. Just the day before everybody’d been playing jokes on everybody else, giving away the gag by yelling “April Fool!”

Then…

Landscapes twisted, sprouting forests, deserts, or yawning crevasses where there’d been none. Entire cities vanished, been cut off, or become weird distortions of their former selves. The streets were infested with centaurs, trolls, and elves, while the skies darkened under the shadow of dragons’ wings. Worst of all was that many of the monsters had been friends, neighbors, family just the day before.

The Warp itself lasted less than forty-eight hours. The chaos which raged in its wake took years to sort out. Travel by any means was disrupted. Not only were highways and railroads suddenly fragmented or missing, but planes and ships were suddenly prey to rocs, kraken, and dragons both airborne and aquatic. The Warp hadn’t reached into space, so the web of satellites orbiting Earth was itself unaffected. That didn’t help, since the ground stations which normally communicated with the satellites were either missing or unmanned. Cities were stranded, governments and corporations paralyzed without any means of communication, delivery, and deployment.

Would-be conquerors took advantage of the chaos to attempt coup after coup. Security and convenience which had been taken for granted became matters of personal responsibility. A man’s home might be his castle, but only if he could defend it. No nukes, no invasions, no plagues – but the world nearly came to an end.

As in ages past, humanity survived catastrophe through adaptation. Two groups of people, normally disparate, had united and come to the fore: the working-class military and the disaffected dreamers. One trained to make do in the worst of situations, the other inclined to imagine the most unlikely of solutions; both determined to be standing when all others had fallen.

Avery himself was of both worlds. His father had been a junior lieutenant with the 96^th Regional Readiness Command – Army Reserve – at Fort Douglas in Salt Lake City, while his mother was a courtier in the Barony of Loch Salann, the local chapter of the Society for Creative Anachronism. When the Warp transformed a local radical militia group into ogres who then took the city hostage, it took cooperation between both groups and the assistance of an Army platoon which had been escorting civilian refugees through the area to lift the siege. That had been one chapter in the story of Earth crawling back from the brink.

That sort of thing didn’t happen anymore. Governments and corporations had reinstated order, restoring old borders or creating new ones. Despite some notably ugly exceptions, once humanity got past its initial xenophobia the chimeras (the term coined to refer to humans transformed by Cantionis Terra) were accepted back into society. For seven-year-old Jennifer, it was a fact of life that some of her classmates had tails, four legs, horns, outlandish musculature, and a host of other features that would have been declared freakish, alien to her parents’ generation.

The world had adapted in other ways too. Solutions which had been stopgaps became institutions. Without airliners, trains, and freeways it was impossible to physically attend meetings across the country or around the world. Telepresence – the use of advanced imaging and feedback to simulate existence in one location while your actual body was somewhere else – created and maintained chains of command in its stead. That same lack of high-speed long-distance transport made it impossible to move bulk quantities of resources or finished product from manufacturer to retailer to customer. With molecular engineering – nanotechnology – nearly anything could be created on-site, provided the right raw elements and templates were available.

Modern man’s attitude has always been faster is better. Before the Warp, this was reflected in an obsession with getting goods and people from point A to point B as quickly as possible. Cantionis Terra had changed only the expression of that mindset, and restored the idea of travel as luxury. Telepresence and nanotechnology allowed you to get your ideas and your product out quicker than ever before, so you could take your time moving yourself and your things.

Avery now wished he’d been a little more impatient. Post-Warp twenty-first-century telepresence was still not perfect, and his new position with Struyck Worldwide had made relocation from Salt Lake City to San Diego a necessity. Their options had been airship or caravan. Airship was faster but more expensive, and suffered only the hazards of weather and airborne predators, easily avoided or repelled. Avery remembered the adventurous tales spun by the survivors of the platoon that had helped lift the siege of Salt Lake. Though the cautious husband and father in him had argued for the extra expense of airship travel, the thrifty administrator and closet freelance had won out in favor of overland caravan. Which in turn had landed he and his family in their present crisis.

That mental segue freed Avery from his reverie, and allowed him to focus once again on his current accommodations. The outriders had separated their captives by gender and age. Eight other adult men shared the room in which Avery Trask paced, though he knew the caravan had consisted of whole families. They all showed their distress in various ways. Avery was one of two who paced and fretted. Two others had gotten into a fistfight over the best way to escape and now sulked, bruised and bloody, on opposite sides of the cell. Four more sat talking in hushed tones, either forming a conspiracy or reminiscing. And incredibly, one man slept.

Avery became distracted by the ninth man’s attitude. Not only because he found it unbelievable that anybody could sleep in such circumstances, but because the man’s face was tantalizingly familiar. His hair was long according to current fashion, a black so intense it reflected blue in the cell’s actinic light. His features were angular but not pinched, which along with the terra-cotta color of his skin indicated a multiethnic ancestry. He was well-built – in fact Avery envied the man’s musculature – and just a shade taller than average. A thick, well-trimmed moustache of ebon hue traced his upper lip, enhancing his facial expressions when he’d been awake.

I know I’m not the hero of this piece, Avery thought in mock conversation to the sleeping man. I’m just not that type. Are you?

Incredibly, Avery could swear a reply echoed in his head.

At your service.

Negotiation

Bright Ladies! Jonnal exclaimed psychically. We’ve found it!

Which puts us exactly one step closer, Zerene cautioned him. She did not begrudge him his excitement, but she had salvaged too many catastrophes created when somebody sprinted too early in the final leg of the race.

Truthfully, Zerene would have preferred to find a vacant nest, the phoenix out on whatever errands occupied it between its semi-millennial pyres. It would have been so much easier to just steal in, lift some castoff plumage, and be gone without anybody the wiser! Instead, they now had to negotiate with the most enigmatic and powerful breed of creature known on this side of the Veil.

Zerene reviewed the lore of phoenix-kind she’d accumulated in the past two years, as she formulated her strategy for making contact. There was a lot of speculation and debate, and frustratingly few hard facts. There were by current estimate only two or three phoenixes on Shenn. That census was based on observation, which consisted of glimpses and scryings scrutinized to pick out every possible differentiating detail. Complicating the process was a theory held by some scholars that a phoenix’s appearance changed with each regeneration, so what seemed to be multiple birds might actually be the same phoenix in different incarnations. Whatever the actual number, everybody agreed that phoenixes were few and far between.

Other than their scarcity, there were few points of universal agreement regarding pthe creatures. Even their pattern of repeated immolation and reincarnation was debated, though those proposing alternate theories were given scarce credibility. Did they eat? If so, what was their prey? Did they have any natural enemies? Did they procreate? If so, how? Did they even have genders? Were they sentient? How much?

Various artists using different media had managed to depict phoenixes over the years. Looking at the bird before her now, Zerene realized how far their attempts had fallen short of the reality. It wasn’t their fault. They had gotten the shape and color mostly right, but no painting, sculpture, or even magical medium could convey the unbelievable energy the bird exuded. It poured from the phoenix in waves that were nearly visible, seeming to blow through the grotto. The impression Zerene had was that the phoenix was so full of life that it couldn’t help but sweat it into the air. The only other creature she’d ever encountered that came close to such power was the great dragon she’d met four years ago.

Fiercely Zerene marshaled her thoughts, focusing on the job at hand. She’d lived and worked two years for this moment, she’d be damned before she’d let it get away. The first step was to gauge the target’s intelligence and attitude. It was obviously not overly aggressive as it hadn’t attacked them on sight, nor did its current posture appear threatening. That could change if they ventured closer. Was it an immensely powerful animal, or a sentient being? Riddling that would be the difference between success and disaster. Fortunately, she had a nearly foolproof way of answering that question.

Shortly after coming to Shenn Zerene had discovered that she was psychic. Mental abilities were an accepted fact of life here, so getting training in the use and courtesy of her talent was easy. She could sense the thoughts of only those people to whom she had the closest emotional connection, but there was also a difference between the emotions of a intelligent creature and one which operated purely on instinct. Best of all, few creatures were able and willing to shield their emotions, so no active probe was needed. Zerene relaxed her own shields, opening her mind to the phoenix’s feelings –

–looking into the sun –

Zerene! Jonnal called mentally as she physically staggered, and reached a hand out to steady her. Her shields slammed shut on reflex, and she grabbed his wrist in turn. Not just emotions but ideas, knowledge cascaded across her mind. She was wrong: not even the great dragon, old and grand as that wyrm had been, did not begin to approach the age and power of this being!

A wry thought made the corner of her mouth quirk. One of her claims to fame as a Seeker was the anecdote that she’d once charmed a great dragon out of destroying a town. It was essentially true, but of course there was more to the story than that. Zerene was never one to boast about herself, but Shenn’s community of professional adventurers was very close-knit and loved a good story. She’d come out of this also known as the Seeker who’d braced a phoenix in its nest!

Of more immediate concern was the realization that she dared not use her ability in dealing with the phoenix. She was annoyed that she considered that a problem. Zerene realized suddenly how much she’d come to depend on her sensitivity in negotiations. Everybody had their own priorities and agendas, goals and fears. It was sometimes a Seeker’s job to transfer custody of a desired item from the person who had it, to the one who’d hired her. When possible, Zerene preferred to do this without violence. Her skill at convincing clients and marks that their agenda would best be served by the achievement of her goal kept her in demand among people who normally balked at hiring Seekers, most of whom had a well-earned reputation as forthright folk more suited to action than diplomacy. Not surprisingly her empathy made it easier to gauge the priorities and vulnerabilities of those she dealt with.

But not here. Just the brief touch to the phoenix’s emotions had dazzled her. Anything more could literally burn her mind out. She would have to rely on more conventional methods of reading the phoenix, and that was the source of her chagrin: that she’d come to rely on her empathy so heavily, possibly at the expense of her other skills.

As the jumble of images she’d received sorted themselves out, Zerene realized that even with her empathy, negotiating with the phoenix would be no simple task. Though it was driven by desires similar to other creatures, its ability to fulfill those desires was so comprehensive that it lacked only what it did not want. It ate only for flavor not sustenance, but could obtain whatever food it wanted, even if that dish were something prepared by one of Shenn’s other races. For companionship it desired only the company of its own kind, and they could link mentally any time they pleased, across any distance. This grotto had been chosen for its isolation, not protection – even Chillblade’s killing wind could not touch this creature. If another creature were foolish enough to challenge its desire for solitude it could escape or defend itself as it chose, and none would be able to cage or defeat it. Even time was no enemy to the phoenix –it had renewed itself many times throughout the years, and could do so again at any time as it pleased.

So. Now you know me. Why should I care about you?

Zerene was startled despite herself. Of course her shields would be nothing against this being’s mind. It had taken her and Jonnal’s full measure as soon as they entered its lair. She realized suddenly that the insights she now had into the ways of the phoenix had not been her own abilities picking up castoff thoughts, but a deliberate sharing by the phoenix itself.

After her initial surprise Zerene realized this was a good omen. The phoenix could have immolated itself as soon as they entered, attacked them, flown away, or simply ignored them. It had instead chosen to make contact. That meant there was something about them that caught its attention, something she could use in a negotiation.

Out of habit Zerene started to rehearse her words before speaking, to make sure she chose the right approach. Then it occurred to her that the phoenix was no doubt privy to any of her thoughts it wanted, so any dissembling or evasion would be seen as the ploy it was. The phoenix had set the tone for the negotiation with a straightforward question. She had to respond in kind.

“I’m offering you a chance to do something good,” she said aloud. “That’s why you should care.”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jonnal start as she spoke, and realized he wasn’t included in the conversation. This is what you hired me for Jonnie, she told him. Now trust me. Let me do this. He sent back a quick mental nod, and she turned her attention back to the phoenix.

What is good? The phoenix challenged. The author of the curse which you come seeking to break considered their actions good. Those who nearly destroyed this world before you were born were certain their cause was just and noble. He who tore your spirit in half thought himself in the right. Even you spend little grief on the lives you have ended, who like yourself only sought to survive. Good exists only in the mind, like all illusions.

Zerene contained most of the physical reaction the phoenix’s words provoked, limiting herself to a blink at the references to her own past. Inside, and she knew none of it was hidden from the phoenix, she reeled as her own game was turned on her. The phoenix knew exactly where and how to hit her, and pulled no punches.

She rallied herself and fired back. She couldn’t argue the motivations of past actions, but the larger philosophical picture was open to debate. “You’re wrong,” she told the phoenix. “Good and evil are real, and go beyond personal agendas. How one person views their actions makes no difference to whether they are doing good or evil.”

She dragged the discussion back to the immediate issue. “No matter what the person who cursed House Shad thought, cursing an entire family to misfortune and torture is evil. Even if the actions that prompted the curse were evil, repaying them with evil does not erase or balance it. It only continues the cycle. Breaking the curse is good.”

Why?

Zerene thought quickly. “Do you like to fly?” she asked.

Flying is a pleasure, the phoenix conceded.

“Flying lets you go places, do things, that add to your life,” Zerene stated. “Flying lets you be more than you would be if you couldn’t fly. If your wings were bound, and if it wasn’t done to save your life, that would be evil because it would prevent you from being as much as you can be. Do you agree?”

All creatures should be allowed to go as far as they will, so long as they do not limit another on the journey, the phoenix agreed.

“Would it make a difference if the person binding your wings thought they were doing you a favor?” Zerene asked. “Or if they bound your wings because of something another phoenix had once done?” She suddenly realized this might not be a negotiation. The phoenix already knew the answers – did it want to see if she understood?

A feather of mine frees your companion’s family to be as much as they will, the phoenix acknowledged. What do you offer in guarantee that releasing them will not create the opportunity for more evil? Do you promise they will do only good with their freedom?

Zerene shook her head. She was on track now, anticipating possible challenges and forming responses. Ironically this was easier than in other negotiations because she could speak frankly and believed everything she said. “The only way I can offer such a guarantee,” she told the phoenix, “is if they were bound again. Like everything else they will do what they will with freedom. You know better than I how few things in life are certain. But this we both know: to leave them bound or to bind them again because they might do evil, is itself evil.”

Warmth flooded Zerene’s mind, a September memory of blue skies and mangrove trees. The conversation had been a test, and she had just passed. Well done little flicker, the phoenix told her. Wisdom is in you such as many who will outlive you will never gain.

Thin wisps of smoke began to waft from between the phoenix’s feathers. Approach me, it told her. Your reward awaits.

Outrider

Blast it, thought Nathan St. John. I really wanted it to be bandits.

Nathan crouched comfortably among the rafters of the raiders’ motor pool. The cavernous area had once been an aircraft hangar, from the days when the United States had kept itself on guard against enemies who would come with planes, tanks, guns, and bombs. At the far end of the room steel girders melded into stalactites and flowstone, and corrugated aluminum blended seamlessly with living rock. The entire building was buried beneath tons of earth and stone, part of a jagged range of hills that hadn’t been here just ten years ago. The same pattern was repeated with variations around the world – the legacy of Cantionis Terra.

The Warp had disrupted the infrastructure of authority and enforcement as thoroughly as freeways and telephones. Overland travel between cities became fraught with dangers worse than any flat or breakdown, and you could no longer count on a friendly garage at the next offramp. Following the atavistic axiom of safety in numbers people began traveling in makeshift caravans to get from place to place. Over the years these expeditions became more organized. Schedules were arranged, routes were scouted, cleared, and established.

Even a decade later the echoes of the Warp still resonated. Wild things had come to life in the reaches between surviving cities, creatures that obeyed only the oldest laws of predator and prey. When dangerous wildlife was cleared from a regular overland route, others moved in to fill the vacuum. Even where highways had been rebuilt the monsters hunted, unafraid of the vehicles. Ironically the obsolescence of the internal combustion engine with its noise and toxic exhaust removed much of the repulsiveness which pre-Warp vehicles had exuded to wildlife. New deterrents were needed.

The adventurous souls who had braved the wild lands of the new world as a matter of survival found themselves in demand. They had made it through once, the argument went, so they were the best-qualified to get through again, and show others the way. Many refused – one life-and-death trek in a lifetime was enough, and they were happy to stay in their new homes. Others answered the call. Some had discovered a new addiction in the risks of the trail. Others were paladin enough that the thought of people being taken unawares by dangers they themselves had already faced, bested, and knew how to avoid was intolerable. Thus, thought Nathan, were born the first outriders.

Outriders quickly become romantic figures whose courageous exploits were legendary, much to the chagrin of most outriders. The majority of these people were men and women of little ego or self-importance who considered it a good day to reach their destination without losing any crew or clients. This was not an uncommon attitude in those days, or these days. The Warp and the dark years following it had been a crucible in which much of mankind’s pettiness was burnt away for the sake of survival. People quickly learned to depend on and help their fellows because it was suicide to do otherwise. Saving somebody else’s life might save yours the next time you needed help. And so long as you could depend on the person at your back, what did appearance matter?

Even after making it through the next night became less of an immediate concern, the habit of giving and receiving trust and help remained. Favors were remembered and repaid or paid forward even when the stakes were less than life-or-death. Doing right by somebody else might not mean saving his life, but what went around still came around. Accepting a person irregardless of their appearance didn’t mean the difference between immediate survival or extinction, but the axiom still applied in the subtler, long-run sense.

As always though, Nathan mused sadly, there are some who prefer to repeat history rather than learn from it.

Not all overland caravans made it to their destination intact, or at all. This was an accepted risk. It had taken Man millennia to tame as much of the world as he had by April 2 1992. Reclaiming what the Warp had taken away would take longer than ten years, even with the advantages of molecular technology. Nathan summarized the usual scenario in his head. A caravan vanishes en route or is found scattered by monsters or bandits. Rescue any survivors, retrieve as much of the dead as possible, salvage what’s left of the vehicles and cargo, hold a memorial, and move on.

The raiders had been careful, clever, and thorough. They didn’t always take the richest caravans, they sometimes dressed up a scene to point to one of the predators that infested the wilderness, and they occasionally hit one of their own to divert suspicion. The operation was well-funded, highly disciplined, and connected. Orbital surveillance was never in position to catch a raid as it happened. No vehicles ever showed up in junkyards or repainted. No cargo surfaced on any black market. No personal effects were ever found in any pawn shop. No pattern to the losses was noticed so there had been no call for an open investigation. The scheme had gone on for months, and might have continued for many more.

A thorn on the trail, Nathan mused. A stone in the forehead, a nail in the road. Gum on your shoe. Always the smallest unseen obstacles to fell the titans.

Moses Trask was a meticulous, cautious man. Being married to one of North America’s most reliable licensed psychics had that effect. He and Nathan had helped lift the Siege of Salt Lake shortly after the Warp. No love had been lost between them at the time, but ten years of relative peace and world-building can change a man’s perspective.

On the eve of their son Avery’s departure for his new job Winifred Trask had dreamed of a house in San Diego filled with unpacked boxes, abandoned toys. Winnie had refused to share her vision with Avery. Not for fear that he would dismiss it, but rather that he would overreact, alter his family’s itinerary too drastically, and invite a greater catastrophe. “Fate has its designs,” Winnie had often told Moses. “It never turns out right to counter them too strongly.”

Moses knew to heed his wife’s advice. Many Salt Lake citizens would eagerly have escorted his son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter on the long trek to San Diego. Winifred insisted that something subtler was needed. That shortened the list to one man.

Nathan St. John.

Fortunately I’m neither one nor a man, Nathan mused. Ladies bless me! Why do I deserve such fortune?

With mild vinegar he surveyed the scene below. One half of the converted hangar was the motor pool, where the raiders stored and serviced their fleet of battletrucks and warwagons. These were hulking, knobby-tired vehicles of uncompromising armored lines and intimidating bristles of weapons. Their original design had been to deliver personnel and firepower where they were needed, while at the same time exude a sense of stylish menace. They were all of similar make and model, with minimal modifications. That told Nathan they’d been part of a legitimate fleet purchase, another indicator that these were not bandits.

The other half of the garage was the ‘chop shop.’ Here the cargo-haulers and RVs captured in each raid were methodically emptied and dismantled. Contents and parts which were generic and hence undistinguishable went one direction. If it had a serial number which could be erased or changed it went another. And anything too personalized which couldn’t be mistaken as belonging to anybody other than its owner, went for a short ride up an inclined conveyor into a sealed vat. That vat was completely sealed and sported the jagged nanohazard trefoil below which was the legend ‘SuperGoo.’

Like everybody else Nathan knew about SuperGoo. It was one of the most famous/notorious products of the molecular age, having replaced water as the universal solvent. SuperGoo robots could safely dismantle nuclear material, toxic waste, and even other nanobots. The only thing that kept SuperGoo from reducing its container to the atomic level was the programming of the robots, which told them to dismantle only materials which were totally immersed. Any failure in that programming or in containment while SuperGoo was active, and only nuclear disintegration could stop the robots. Struyck Worldwide held the only legal patent and fought vigorously to protect its monopoly, as well as any attempts to reverse-engineer it. SuperGoo couldn’t be bought legally at any price, only licensed. That the raiders used it to dispose of incriminating evidence spoke eloquently of their connections.

The scale and organization of the operation was the final testimonial. The bandits who competed with more exotic predators in modern America’s wilderness were rebels in self-imposed exile. They had abandoned modern society’s rules and mores for less complicated systems. Some were fanatic survivalists, some were charismatic religious cults. All of them shared two defining characteristics: they took what they wanted whenever they could, and they didn’t play well with others. An enterprise like the one Nathan saw below him would have required an alliance of bandit troupes and cooperative links to legitimate business, neither of which was in any way likely.

Nathan felt his own predator’s fury rising at the callous efficiency of the raiders, and wrestled it back into its cage. Time and a place for that later, Sinjinklaer.

The raiders wasted nothing of the vehicles and personal effects. What do they do with the people?

.45

“Hot as phoenix-fire” is a popular saying on Shenn. Of course nobody has ever actually been able to measure the heat of the flames in which a phoenix regenerates itself. The common wisdom is that given the invulnerability of the creature it would take a supremely hot fire to incinerate its flesh. Sites of previous alleged phoenix-pyres are characterized by vaporized soil and rock run like water.

During the two-year span of their quest Jonnal Shad and Zerene had discussed several scenarios involving actually meeting a phoenix, and what part his family’s curse might play in the encounter. In an especially morose mood Jonnal had once proposed a scene in which they came upon the phoenix just at the moment of its pyre, and were incinerated just at the culmination of their journey. Zerene and Bolt had dragged him out of the black mood that gave rise to the idea, and it hadn’t been mentioned again.

Scion of a cursed House that he was, Jonnal hadn’t ever quite laid the ghoulish scenario to rest. Weirder twists of misfortune were recorded in the Shad archives, and it was unanimously acknowledged that the more daring an attempt to advance the House fortunes, the stranger and more catastrophic the disaster that befell. They were attempting nothing less than the destruction of the curse itself, by means of unparalleled audacity. Surely the curse would answer in kind!

When Jonnal had first met Zerene he knew only that she was a Seeker of some renown, with a reputation for doggedness and ingenuity and a romantic affinity for ‘hopeless’ cases. Shortly after contracting her and her massive centaur partner he wondered if his choice was a product of the curse. Irreverent, unpredictable, disrespectful, crude – they’d seemed the embodiment of all the horror stories he’d heard of their breed and profession. As time passed and the trail behind them grew longer Jonnal had come to realize that the fault lay not with Zerene and Bolt, but with himself.

Few Shennese creatures live as long or have such affinity for magecraft as aerin. Many Houses both Upper and Lower Court trace their ancestry directly to the Ladies Bright and further, to Those Before. Besides an unmatched capacity for conventional craft all breeds of aerin have a natural magical control to some aspect of the world around them. Zefin fly and command winds, Nerin love the oceans and hold sway over all liquids, Terin are earthy people in appearance, temperament, and ability, Ausin call the storms, the lost Sylin ruled all things green and growing, the damned Ferin controlled anything metal, and Pyrin like Jonnal are masters of all forms of heat and combustion. Most importantly the aerin have maintained a unified racial identity, because they are also innately telepathic. An aerin might scale the highest peaks of achievement or sink to the lowest depths of depravity, but never loses his mental connection to his kin. Given such advantages it is small wonder that the aerin are the dominant single race on Shenn.

Sadly many aerin over the years have come to mistake the coincidence of their station for a divine right. They refer to Shenn’s other intelligent races as “Lesser Breeds” expect them to scrape and grovel before aerin ‘superiority,’ and dismiss them as primitive and ignorant when they refuse. Jonnal had been dismayed and humiliated when Zerene opened his eyes to his own hubris, but to his credit he had taken the lesson to heart. He might outlive the human or the centaur, he could call fire from the air and walk through it unsinged, but he had known nothing of Shenn beyond his family’s demesnes and his Pyrin abilities would have been scant defense against the first brigands to cross his path had he essayed this quest alone.

Most importantly and most startlingly he would never have found love such as he shared with Zerene. Her forthright ways, uncanny insights, the proper balance between sensitivity and challenge, and her unconscious grace – weighed against these, of what import were the pettiness of station and censure? It had become their plan to deliver the feather, see the curse broken, declare their love, and if his family would not have them vanish back onto the trail. No more Lord and Seeker, just Jonnie, Zerene, and Bolt.

Assuming the infinitely-damned curse didn’t ruin that plan as well! Zerene would be a long time forgiving him but Jonnal was glad now he’d taken precautions.

The damned bird had her enchanted. She’d sought to charm it and it had turned the game on her. Jonnal felt the heat rising and saw the smoke curling from under the phoenix’s feathers. His nightmare scenario was coming true, and his love walked serenely toward the beast as if nothing were amiss!

“Zerene, stop!” he cried, scrabbling under his coat for the strange metal weapon. He’d found it by accident once while looking for extra bandages. She’d been angry more at herself than him for its discovery. She’d told him what it was and showed him how it worked, stopping short of actually demonstrating it. She hadn’t said where she’d gotten it but he could guess, being educated. He’d wondered in idle moments what her possession of it meant about her own origins, but hadn’t ever broached the subject with her. There were always more pleasant things to talk about…

None of that mattered now. Gun, she’d called it. A short, somehow vulgar word. A weapon of prodigious power, scant skill, and no remorse. Without spring or magic it spat a pellet faster than eye could see or muscle could dodge, over distance unmatched by bow or shot, tearing flesh and shattering bone without care for armor or wards. No Shennese forge could produce such a weapon. Jonnal hoped it could fell a phoenix before his love and the hope of his House were incinerated.

Zerene turned. She did not have the vacuous or incongruously serene look associated with the ensorcelled. She knew him, and recognized the device in his hands. “Jonnal, what the fndaku do you think you’re doing?”

Jonnal goggled. “What am I doing?” he echoed. “Bright Ladies Zerene, open your eyes! That – beast is going to –“

”Her name is Tethwyn,” Zerene corrected him. “She is going to give what we’ve been hunting for two years. And this will all go much easier if you’ll trust me and put away my gun.” Zerene carefully kept her tone calm but her thoughts were racing. Emotional people with firearms were never a good thing. Calm him down and get the gun away from him, then see how much damage you have to undo to get the feather.

Of secondary importance was the question of whether this sudden turn was Jonnal’s own doing or a product of the curse. Though it had never again been discussed Zerene also hadn’t forgotten Jonnal’s depressing suggestion about this point of their quest. The worst aspect of curses like the one afflicting House Shad was the insidious way they encouraged stagnation and apathy. You encounter situations and make choices to deal with them. How can you be sure any choice you make is your own or a manipulation of the curse? The uncertainty even extended to asking the question itself. The result was a maddening and paralyzing loop of second-guessing.

Zerene was no stranger to self-critique with hindsight. One lesson she had learned in her years as a Seeker was that in every encounter there came a moment when you had to trust your experience, skill, and judgment, say to hell with it and commit. Successful Seekers learned to recognize that moment when it arrived.

Mentally Zerene reached out to Jonnal. Though she was concentrating on him, the phoenix’s spirit still pressed in on her senses, dazzling as if she were trying make out details in the shadows beyond a roaring fire. If she didn’t know Jonnal as well as she did, she’d have been hard-pressed to read him at all.

He was afraid, but not for himself. Most of all he was terrified for her, at what he took to be her imminent peril. Zerene had to concede that accepting a ‘gift’ from a smoldering phoenix could mean several things, not all of them good. Secondly he was afraid for their quest, which tied into his fear of losing her. The chances of coming this close to getting a phoenix feather again were slender as a knife’s edge, and if he lost her they would become narrower than the finest razor. Most abstractly he was afraid for his family, for the untold future generations they would have to spend still under their mysterious curse.

Fear was useful in some situations, when you wanted to paralyze the other person or provoke them into something stupid. Reactions could be unpredictable though, and since the stupidest thing Jonnal could do right now was shoot the last thing she wanted to provoke in him was a rash reaction. She had to search deeper.

What drove his fear? The obvious answer was love. Like any good-hearted person Jonnal didn’t want to see those dear to his heart suffer. That affection had driven him to this ‘hopeless’ quest, and sustained him through the long months of boredom and frustration. Now one of the people he loved most was in deadly danger and by extension so was everything else close to his heart.

Love like fear was primal. It was easy to provoke reactions by appealing to affections, but those reactions tended to be unpredictable in tense situations. Zerene might convince Jonnal that the best way to protect her was to put down the gun, but when it came down to that single moment he might choose to sacrifice it all rather than trust her skills.

Trust! That was the critical element. Jonnal loved her but when it came down to Zerene vs. the curse he had more faith in the curse’s power to stymy. All the frustration, pain, and tragedy of House Shad’s five bedeviled generations came together in this time and place, and the not-quite two years’ demonstration and reassurance that she knew her business and was good enough to beat it was found lacking in his eyes.

All this review and analysis took place in the space of three breaths. Zerene drew a fourth to settle herself and crystallize her plan.

Suspension

Oh, thought Nathan, the mildness of his words belying his rising fury, I so do not like the look of this. His jaw set harshly as he surveyed the rows of empty suspension tanks awaiting their contents.

The popular image of a suspension tank is an upright cylinder of transparent glass capped at the top and bottom by rings of polished metal, filled with bubbling liquid. Some high-end vanity models adhere to that romantic design, but for everyday purposes more practical design considerations have taken primacy. Modern suspension tanks look more like a chest freezer than an aquarium – a windowless oblong box of ceramic or metal with a hinged or sliding lid, depending on the manufacturer’s preference. Electric sleep keeps the suspended subject blissfully unconscious, minimizing the risk of a claustrophobic or aquaphobic reaction. Monitoring is done through remote sensors which convey detailed information more quickly than an unaided visual check through the refraction of glass and fluid.

Suspension tanks are the method of choice in modern trauma treatment for their ability to provide a complete therapeutic environment which can react quickly to changes in the patient’s condition. Alternately the combination of physical immobilization and induced unconsciousness without the use of drugs also makes suspension tanks a preferred tactic for transporting prisoners who might take an opportunity to escape if left to their own devices. Nathan suspected the raiders had a variation on that use in mind. But where did they take the hostages, and to what end?

The room to which Nathan’s survey of the raider base had eventually brought him was obviously a prep and loading area. Empty suspension tanks were neatly arranged in rows, their reservoirs full and bays open, control panels lit and ready. Nathan counted thirty-three tanks, and realized the number almost matched the number of passengers who’d been in the most recently “lost” caravan.

Almost. There was actually one tank too many. When the escort vehicles had led the caravan into the raider base’s receiving area under pretense of a secure rest stop, one passenger had run for the doors before they shut and been shot for his effort. Uncalled for, Nathan reflected sourly as he recalled the sense-memory of the slug tearing through his lung. All this state-of-the-art technology and refined process and the only way they have of handling escapees is bullets? I suppose I should be grateful at least that they didn’t drop me in the Supergoo afterward!

A reverberation beyond the door caught his attention. He effortlessly leaped to the ceiling, hiding in the shadows between the floodlamps which illuminated the chamber. The door swung open to admit a line of women and girls, escorted by hard-faced men in coveralls. The guards’ guns were holstered, but Nathan supposed the object lesson of his own ‘death’ was still fresh in the prisoners’ minds.

Nicholas? Nathan ‘pathed. They’re moving the prisoners.

Here too, came the reply. The order came through two minutes ago.

Any clue what they have in mind? Nathan asked.

Nicholas returned a mental shrug. Morphy says their network’s standalone. Those orders must be passed verbally.

Which will make it nearly impossible to implicate those actually giving the orders, Nathan acknowledged bitterly. Below him the captives were being escorted to their respective tanks. One girl balked at climbing in, eyes goggling at the metal cabinet. The guard nearest her calmly drew his pistol and tapped her on the back of the head. When she turned to look at him he pointed the gun away, at a woman to whom the girl bore more than a passing resemblance. In turn the woman caught her daughter’s gaze and nodded mutely, sadly. The message was clear: disobey and we won’t kill you. We’ll kill the person you care about.

Nathan’s fury rose again. Part of him wanted only to drop down among them, tearing, biting, feeding. The innocents he’d spare of course, but for those monsters who herded them like cattle…. He fought the beast back once more, chaining it in a corner of his mind where it could rage fettered until it was needed. I really want to cut off the head to this particular serpent, he complained.

The prisoners first, came the dispassionate rebuke. That was Nicholas, always the intellectual tactician. Often during their partnership Nathan had baited and teased his partner in hopes of provoking some show of emotion. He knew Nicholas had it in him, he’d seen it during their first days together. He thought he knew why he held it in check, and Nathan admitted a slight bitterness that after everything else which had passed between them this man to whom he was closer than any other would still not share the secret of this grief.

All that aside Nathan could not deny that Nicholas’ strategic judgments were right much more often than not. A brigade whose skill was matched only by their enthusiasm waited outside to capture the raider base. They’d been in position shortly after the caravan including Nathan and Nicholas had been taken. The only factor staying their hand was the danger of ‘collateral damage,’ the euphemism for ‘dead civilians.’ The assault had to wait until the families captured along with their vehicles and possessions were beyond harm.

They’re tanking the males, came the update from Nicholas. His role had been to ‘play ‘possum’ as he’d called it in full Cajun drawl. While Nathan skulked through the raider base and Morphy hacked their mainframe Nicholas pretended to be a prisoner, beaten and helpless. I may be offline a few if I can’t reboot immediately. Find out if the guards know who’s calling the shots and why.

Nathan was ahead of Nicholas on that last count. On Shenn psychic shielding was part of every child’s upbringing. Nathan felt no compunction about exploiting Earth’s ignorance of basic mental defense when it served a higher purpose. He was already tulip-stepping his way through the cerebral junkyard of the guard who’d led the procession into the room. Since the task at hand was foremost in the guard’s mind the reasons for it were not far removed. Nathan conceded his internal beast the luxury of letting his canine teeth elongate as he felt his ultimate quarry move one step closer. Carlton Oswald Grisham, he relished the name as it passed into his memory, soon will words pass between us. Then he dug a little deeper and discovered the fate for which the prisoners were intended. Ladies Bright and Pure.

Nicholas Chandler felt Nathan’s fury rage in its mental chains, and did not begrudge his partner that reaction. Nicholas’ own response at this newest discovery was more muted but just as intense, manifesting itself as an unstoppable determination. No more, he vowed silently.

Not all of the changes which followed the Cantionis Terra Warp were advances. In some parts of the world the forces of prejudice, brutality, and willful ignorance gained purchase and held on with a terrier’s ferocity. Who had caused the Warp? Obviously those who’d suffered least or benefitted most, who had the resources to devise and implement such transformation, and were arrogant enough to impose such change on others to suit themselves. When some nations rose from the Warp and came offering ideas and methods that made anything previous pale to insignificance, especially when such aid came with no visible strings attached, did not experience demand a prudent level of skepticism? Was it not better to return to older, more proven methods, even if they were considered distasteful?

In less poetically rationalizing terms: the collapse of the pre-Warp industrial infrastructure had resurrected the slave trade in some parts of the world. Even more heinous, the incomplete acceptance of molecular technology in other nations had created a demand for fresh, healthy body parts in place of whole regeneration. The media had borrowed the term coined from pre-Warp science fiction writer Larry Niven for the practice: organlegging.

The raiders catered to both markets. The women and girls in this room, like the men and boys in another, would wake up in a distant country as somebody else’s property. Or they would never wake up at all, their bodies broken up into so many spare parts for sale to the highest bidder.

Except for the interference of Paradigm Clutch.

Status, Morphy, Nicholas ‘pathed.

The base mainframe is one hundred percent compromised, the reply resonated in his skull. Surveillance is looped on a ten-second playback. Entrance and egress controls, climate control, and transport protocols are at your command. Prisoner transport is ready to depart as soon as their cargo is loaded, crew of three. Base nuclear self-destruct is critically disabled. The Cairnhaven Irregulars wait outside.

Nicholas blinked at the mention of a nuclear self-destruct device, but conceded its practicality since the raiders were using Supergoo. Nathan and I will leave and secure the prisoners, he instructed. When you receive the all-clear from either of us open the base and send word to the Cairnhaven Irregulars to clean up.

Your orders are received and ready to execute, Morphy replied.

I’m being tanked now, Nicholas advised them both. Nathan –

I’ll meet the transport, Nathan finished. And I’ll wake you if you can’t reboot yourself.

Nathan felt something like radio static obscure his mental link to Nicholas, and knew its cause to be the electric sleep of the suspension tank. He slipped out of the loading room and headed for the motor pool. He knew from the guard’s mind that the tanks would be sent there by conveyor and packed securely onto a disguised transport. That vehicle would join a caravan en route as a late-arriving straggler, and follow along to the port of San Diego. From there the secret cargo would split up, assume a variety of new disguises and destinations, and scatter to the proverbial winds.

Transport

The transport was as easy to find as Nathan had expected. Secreting himself aboard was easier still. Unlike fictional vampires Nathan could not evaporate into mist, nor was he invisible to mirrors or cameras. But his speed and reflexes were so far advanced from human limits that he could hide in a blind spot and move from it in the time it took a person to blink or shift their gaze.

He watched the crew of the transport checking each tank as it arrived and making sure they were fastened securely, and considered strategies for dealing with them once they were safely away from the base. Naturally the fettered predator in the corner of his mind was eager to suggest methods of a direct and final nature, which he rebuffed with practiced ease. Nathan remembered vividly the moment his aerinity had been stolen from him ten years ago. The abilities given him by his current hybrid nature had saved Nicholas’ and his lives more than once and gave him a definite edge on the weird world of post-Warp Earth. For all that there were still times when he might give it all away just to be rid of that nagging thirsty voice.

One of the transport crew caught Nathan’s attention. At first she looked as normal as the other two, but something in her manner and movement raised a flag. On closer review Nathan realized the long bill of her cap concealed a face of astonishing beauty. Her uniform coverall likewise hid a physique too generous of breast and hip for Nathan’s aesthetics but which would certainly appeal to a wide range of tastes.

There was more to her than her pulchritude though. Suddenly Nathan recognized what was special about her. Nicholas, he ‘pathed, are you there?

Rebooted fine, came the reply. I’m in tank 52-30.

Outstanding, Nathan replied. Our part of the rescue will be a little more interesting than we anticipated. One of the transport crew is a Themiscyran.

Do you see that as a problem? Nicholas asked.

A challenge, Nathan clarified. Though I’m surprised to see one doing such grunt work.

Paying off her debt, Nicholas theorized. What about the other two?

Nathan probed the minds of the other transport guards as they locked down the last of the suspension tanks. He noted absently that tank 52-30 was third from the end on the right side. Off the rack, he announced, using the slang term for an un-augmented human. Only one joker in the deck. Ah, here we go.

Susan Bradford hated her job. She also hated herself for staying with it. She’d become an Outrider because she wanted the sort of adventure that couldn’t be found within the city limits. Longbow Limited promised the best benefits and advancement package of any established Outrider company. They had even offered 3-to-1 cost-sharing if she wanted augmentation. Dazzled by the possibilities Susan had not only accepted the offer but gone for the full Themiscyra package. Sure she would have to contract for the highest-risk jobs to pay off the work, but that would guarantee the adventure she craved, right?

Stupid bimbo, she chided herself once more as the transport left the facility which didn’t appear on any official database or ledger for Longbow Limited. Mom had it right. TANSTAAFL. She mentally translated the acronym popularized by Robert Heinlein: There Ain’t No Such Thing As A Free Lunch. Susan was now stronger, faster, tougher, and more agile than any pre-Warp Olympic athlete, and had a face and body that could feature proudly on any fashion or porn website. Every trip across the American Wildlands not only ran the risk of bandits or monsters, but discovery by the authorities – what more adventure could one ask for?

All it had cost was her soul. As long as Longbow was her only source of maintenance treatments they owned her. Without regular maintenance Susan wouldn’t just revert to her original unimpressive state – she would degrade into numb, palsied decrepitude.

Susan felt sympathy for the vehicle she now rode. Like her it was now both more and less than it had begun. The transport had started life as a battletruck, a tractor-trailer rig designed for off-road travel with enough armor and weapons to repel most wildland aggressors. Only the lightest armament had been retained in the interests of extra cargo space and a lower profile. The ceramic armor was still there, but its lines had been softened away from their original aggressive harshness. Even an expert in modern military vehicles would have trouble recognizing a cargo-hauler laden with overpriced kitschy pre-Warp pop-art as a castrated weapons platform subverted into a slave-ship.

Susan’s crewmates shared none of her remorse. Sonja and Bill sat forward in the cab, reminiscing about their latest furlough in Las Vegas. Susan preferred the vigil of the cargo bay. Suspension technology was nearly foolproof, but a pit full of devils lived between the six letters of that ‘nearly.’ Each of their ‘passengers’ was worth potentially three million dollars intact, and any loss of that came right out of the crew’s paychecks.

Given this, Susan’s reaction to an alert from tank 52-30 was understandable. The pressure-loss tone jolted her across the bay. The panel readout told the same tale as the puddle at her feet: the bay of the tank had purged itself. Susan had been briefed on all the possible malfunctions that could befall a suspension tank, and what to do about them. Without its oxygenated fluorocarbon environment a suspension tank was a quick trip to suffocation.

Susan’s deceptively lithe arms tensed, cross-fibre muscles shoving. The lid resisted briefly before sliding back into its recess on stripping gears. She had a moment to realize that the sodden black-haired man in the tank looked really familiar before he opened his eyes, asked “Are we there yet?” and belted her across the jaw.

She hadn’t felt a punch that strong since she’d become a Themiscyran. It erupted without warning from a hand that last appeared to be in a resting posture, but flipped Susan feet-up over the next adjacent tank. She gathered herself and sprang upright, by which time the man was out of his tank and ready for her. Where had she seen him? The slick hair might be throwing her off…

A brief sound of scuffle from the cab behind her distracted Susan. She reflected briefly that Sonja and Bill must have problems of their own. The man before her said, “I’m Nicholas Chandler, Paradigm Clutch. This vehicle is impounded and you are ordered by U.S. law to stand down.”

Susan stared at him in recognition of the name. Nicholas Chandler?

He goggled back at Susan as if he’d recognized her in turn, brown eyes bulging. Then he grabbed his head with both hands and screamed “Zed!” before collapsing to the deck.

Metal and ceramic screams echoed through the bay as the hatch from the cab slammed open hard enough to strip its gears and warp the doorjamb. Susan spun to face a spectre. His hand gripped the hatch at its point of greatest deformation, his eyes blazed green fire, and his lips were distended around a jaw full of teeth designed for tearing flesh in ragged chunks. Rage bled off him in waves so thick Susan later swore she could see it.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!” he roared at her.

Trust

“Jonnie,” Zerene said, “remember when you fired me?”

Jonnal blinked at the reference, then nodded in recollection. “Last summer,” he told her.

“Aye,” she nodded back. “Last summer, the city of Zyladun. They tricked you into giving your word you’d take part in their annual memorial festival.”

“It was the only way they’d give us access to their archives,” Jonnal added. “Why are you bringing this up now, Zerene?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment,” Zerene assured him. “If you remember that then you must remember what we discovered your participation involved.”

“Zerene this is hardly the time –“

”It will make sense Jonnie, just go along with me,” she entreated. She raised her head slightly in a prompting gesture, using the motion to step forward slightly. She was five paces away from Jonnal, which was about three paces too far for any practical disarming maneuver.

Jonnal tilted his head slightly. Zerene could read his thoughts on his face. He obviously knew she was running some sort of plan. The question was who was the mark – the phoenix or himself? “The festival commemorated the last in a series of attacks by a unicorn herd,” he said, “in which several citizens were killed. I was to recreate the role of the lead mare, in which I –“ His voice broke in revulsion at the memory, and he squeezed his eyes shut as if by doing so he could block it off.

“In which you were to ritually sodomize a local child chosen at random,” Zerene continued for him. She took advantage of his eyes being shut to move two paces closer. Almost there… “It was an illegal ceremony but you were in honor bound by your word as a Lord of the Upper Court. Which also bound anybody in your employ.”

Jonnal’s eyes snapped open. “I ken your thrust,” he declared, using the traditional swordsman’s taunt meaning I know your game. “So yes, I was in honor bound to fulfill my word, heinous as that was.” He gestured at her with the gun, which was both encouraging and alarming. Encouraging because it showed she was successfully distracting him from his original intent, and alarming because upset people waving firearms is never a good thing. “You argued the point–“

”And said some things I didn’t mean,” Zerene interrupted, “in order to provoke you into doing what you did.”

“You goaded me into firing you!” he cried. “And then you left!”

“Did I?” she challenged, keeping her tone mild. The confrontation was not going the way she’d hoped. Jonnal seemed to have forgotten their current situation, but was getting angry all over again at an incident she’d been sure was over and settled. Was the damn curse affecting him, or was he actually still haunted by Zyladun? Either way she had to make her point before the situation totally disintegrated. “What happened afterward? Just as the ceremonies got to the point where you were supposed to fulfill your promise?”

“You and Bolt came in at a gallop and abducted me,” he recited, “getting me safely away before the sheriff’s guard arrived to halt the ceremony and arrest its principals. All according to your plan, brilliantly conceived on the fly after my foolish pride shoved me into a corner. I was wrong and you were right!” His voice rose to a shout with the last sentence. “Is that what you want me to say? And then extend that to this moment? I should just stand and watch, and trust that you and Tethwyn –“

”YES!” Zerene shouted him down. She pushed as hard as she could against his mind with her empathy to reinforce her interjection. “Jonnie if you’ve learned anything these past two years haven’t you learned to trust me? Have I ever played you false?”

“You’ve made mistakes –“ he began.

“Mistakes yes,” she agreed. “But have I ever broken a promise? Ever guaranteed anything I didn’t deliver?” She stood directly before him now, locking his eyes on hers. Peripherally she could see the pistol had lowered but was still held firmly – a jerk of the wrist and he could still hit either her or Tethwyn.

“It’s all down to this moment, Jonnie,” she reminded him. “Everything we’ve gone through, leading us right here. We can finally end it, but only if you believe in me and let me do my job.” Slowly she raised her hand and laid it on his arm, well above the hand holding the gun. She made sure he could see the motion, not wanting to startle him.

She wasn’t sure what set him off. She knew she’d gotten through to him. The lines around his brow and jaw had smoothed, the muscles in his arms relaxed, the tangle of emotions in his mind un-knotting. She slid her hand down onto his forearm, moving toward the gun. She wasn’t going to take it from him, just put the safety on before turning back to finish with Tethwyn.

Suddenly his eyes flicked from hers to Tethwyn. There was no warning. Fresh emotion bloomed in him as he moved. It wasn’t fear or love or distrust this time. He was determined now, and the sudden change slowed her reaction just fractionally. He twisted his shoulders and shoved past her. Her hand tensed to grab his arm and force it down, but instead slid off as he raised the pistol.

“Jonnie NO!” she screamed. She reached for the gun-arm, intending to place her back against him to keep herself out of the line of fire while she wrestled his arm down. The ground was suddenly slick under her boots – melted ice? – so what was supposed to be a half-spin ending with her back pressed against his chest continued under its own momentum. She ducked awkwardly under his arm, trying at least to keep her feet, and ended right where she least wanted to be.

Jonnal tensed his arm as Zerene grabbed it and spun. The muscles in his forearm also jerked tight, including those controlling the finger resting on the pistol’s trigger. His eyes bulged as he saw her come upright directly in front of him, just as the trigger clicked back.

He’d never heard a sound like it before. It was not the ripping crack of lightning, nor the roar of air igniting. The thing in his hand bucked and he felt the jolt from palm to shoulder. Zerene jerked back and staggered, but her eyes didn’t leave his. They stared at him in wide brown shock. He dared not take his eyes from hers, because then he would have to look at the bloody, torn shreds that had been her nose and jaw. She staggered back one more step and fell against the phoenix’s flank.

That was the last he saw of her.

Reforged

What happened?

Your lover shot and killed you.

Did he get the feather?

Why does that matter?

Why…?! It’s all we’ve been after for two years!

Two what?

…Wait a minute.

A what?

Hush.

He shot me in the face.

Yes he did.

How am I talking to you?

That question could be answered in many ways. But it isn’t a question you need to ask.

Did he get your feather?

Just so you can move on, yes he did.

Are all phoenixes so damned smug?

It’s hard to avoid when you’re dealing with infants who think they’re adults.

Touche! So, questions I need to ask…

Oh Bright Ladies.

You’re going to touch me, aren’t you?

I already have.

But I don’t want to be a phoenix!

What’s so funny?

Phoenix-Touched do not become phoenix. That myth was invented by one of those silly people who think us worthy of worship.

Then what?

To do better what you do anyway.

Is a straight answer too much to ask?

Which do you remember better, that which you’re told or that which you discover?

Rrh. Why me?

Two reasons. First you won’t disappoint me.

Disappoint you?!

Meaning ‘Why should I care if I disappoint you?!’ Because doing so means betraying yourself. Have you ever broken a promise? Ever guaranteed anything you didn’t deliver?

Yes, on both counts.

Never when you had a choice.

Doesn’t matter.

It makes all the difference. I quote. ‘If I’d known I’d have been more careful not to just take everything. If he had known he’d never have severed it. So neither of us can be blamed for what he did.’

F’ndaku.

That’s the spirit. And thus to the second reason. You’re broken.

I’m fine.

You’re not. Neither of you are.

Neither of us?

Cool deep blue bursting in filling where it had once been so long ago before that day when he tore it out everything went wrong they died looking for him nobody ever found anything of him after that she figured he was dead too that part of her life was over this was her home now suddenly as if ten years had not passed there he was like when they were growing up their minds ebbing and flowing in and out of each other so naturally more like one mind than two joined there alive and NICK–

“NO!”

A gull’s startled cry answered her scream. She staggered and fell to her knees, only then realizing she’d been standing. Light stung her eyes and she pinched them shut. Physical sensations pressed in on her: warm wind on her skin, unbound hair tickling her back and legs, gritty sand pressing against her knees, briny air in her nostrils, roar and pound of surf in her ears. A beach, the analytical part of her mind said. There were no beaches anywhere near Chillblade, especially not any where sun blazed and birds played.

That was all secondary. Her hands pressed against her skull, fingers curled as if she could dig through bone and tissue and rip out the thing that lived there again as it had for her first seventeen years. The overwhelming storm of its return faded to a mere echo, but did not go away. It remained, hair-thin but unbreakable.

She hadn’t known it was there then because it had always been there. Nobody knew about it, hadn’t even known it was possible. Until the other one who could know figured it out. He’d shown it to her, how it worked, and what it had meant in their lives. Then he had destroyed it and it had felt like her soul had been shredded. Sister Parasite.

She’d been a long time recovering, even longer forgiving him. Then just when she had come to peace with it and was ready to move on, her life was torn apart all over again. And though he hadn’t done anything the second time, he was still the cause of it.

That had all been ten years ago. Again she’d recovered and moved on. Repeated searches and scryings had turned up nothing, and she’d believed him dead among the chaos that had consumed Earth in those days. All the rest of her family was here on Shenn, so she buried and mourned and all but forgot those first seventeen years.

Until Tethwyn had brought it back, brought him back. “How is this supposed to be good for me, you damn bird?” she muttered.

Speaking aloud gave her a physical anchor, something to distract and block the persistent tickle of the mental link that stretched away, so far she couldn’t feel the other end… a world away?

Would it be far enough?

She turned her focus to the information her other physical senses had been sending. Anything to further block it! Gingerly she opened her eyes, blinking until she could bear the sparkle and glare of blue water and white sand with only a squint. The sand pressing against her knees stung slightly so she stood, brushing her calves as she did so. The warm wind blew across her legs, belly, and chest. Though she knew what the sensation meant she looked down anyway. “Naked,” she said flatly. Even her jewelry, chosen for function rather than ornamentation, was gone. “Symbolic rebirth or are you just perverted?” she asked the absent phoenix.

She looked around. The beach was wide, long, and flat. Tropical grass and trees grew above the tideline. She realized there were no tracks, no sign that anybody had ever come here. The only disturbance was what she had made in falling to her knees and standing again. Her hair blew in the wind, free from the wrapping she’d used to control it. It got in her face as she cast about, the tresses swirling like a blood-colored banner –

BLOOD-COLORED?!

She caught a lock in her hands and held it, and felt her jaw slack as she stared at it. Like her father, like her mother, like him, like all her kin she had grown up with dark hair. She had taken after her father’s side, with a black so intense it reflected blue highlights. Red.

Not copper, not auburn, not even the scarlet that was often accompanied by blue eyes and freckles.

Blood red.

Phoenix red.

The lore had mentioned it. Sometimes a person attracted the favor of a phoenix enough that the damn bird (the epithet was now synonymous in her mind) bestowed some of its life-force on them. With that ‘gift’ came powers. Their nature varied with the legend, but two themes always rang true.

Phoenix-Touched could be told at a glance by two marks. One was blood-red hair that resisted any dye. The other she’d need a mirror to see, but she knew it would be there.

Phoenix-Touched always went on to great and lonely destinies.

Zerene stood naked on an unmarked beach across the world from the frozen wastes of Chillblade, mind bonded to the last person on two worlds she’d ever wanted to see again, marked for all to see as a person bound for an extraordinary fate.

“God damn it,” she said, the first Earthside words she’d spoken in several months.