Paradigm Clutch

Cairnhaven

The image on the monitor would not win any awards for production, but it wasn’t intended as an entertainment piece. The opening scene was outside at night, the landscape made eerie by the pale green tint of night-vision imaging. A hillside split open and disgorged a tractor-trailer rig. The truck ran without lights, quickly vanishing around a curve which traced another hill. “Paradigm Clutch clear,” said a calm, faintly synthetic voice. “Hostages clear.”

“First squad: hit it,” replied a gruff baritone voice which was obviously not synthetic. The view shifted and showed a group of black-clad figures bursting from nearby foliage and sprinting across the cleared ground toward the yawning hillside. They vanished into the no-longer-hidden doorway. Ninety seconds later a different voice spoke up: “Entry clear to inner hatch. No alarms.”

The image now jostled and shifted, regular slight burring in time with running footsteps. Obviously the camera had been mounted on a helmet. “Second squad, move up,” the gruff commanding voice said.

“That damn smart truck of theirs did the trick,” the same voice now spoke from behind Galen Cairn’s chair. The epithet was without rancor. “We caught them totally flatfooted. Bastards didn’t even know the outer hatch hadn’t closed!”

“You still took some hits,” Galen qualified.

“Minor stuff,” the man who was watching the playback over his shoulder shot back mildly. “Field triage. Clinic took one look at ‘em and cut ‘em loose.” He spoke with justifiable pride, arms crossed over his chest. He stood two inches over six feet, but his barrel torso and muscled arms made him look bigger. The tank top he wore showed a wealth of tattoos on both arms, as well as hints of ink on his shoulders, chest, and back. Some of the tattoo details were obscured due to the bushy mat of hair which bristled over his torso and arms. A fierce walrus moustache hid his upper lip completely. The moustache as well as the thick shock of stiff hair on his head had been sandy brown in his youth, but was now shot heavily through with white. His face seemed to have a perpetual scowl, with evident lines around his mouth and eyes. He was a man who’d lived long and none too wisely at times, but wasn’t done yet by a damn sight.

Galen watched the playback. Tuck Paulsen’s assessment of the assault was accurate. Both squads of Cairnhaven Irregulars infiltrated the raiders’ motor pool through regular-size auxiliary doors, avoiding the noise of opening the powered main doors. They used the cover of the raider vehicles and partially-disassembled captured trucks and RVs to good advantage, surrounding the workers who were still dismantling and separating their booty. That area was taken without a single shot.

Further in some of the raiders gathered enough of their wits to draw weapons and try to repel the assault, but the Irregulars were already in too far and with an advantage in weapons and armor. The final demoralizing blow had come when the raiders had played their nuclear dog-in-the-manger card. Galen laughed at the final image on the playback: the monitor which was supposed to display the countdown to a fusion reaction large enough to vaporize the raider facility. Only instead of a clock counting backward the monitor showed a field of bright blue that bore the legend:

Windows

A fatal exception 0E has occurred at 0137:BFFA21C9. The current application will be terminated. Press any key to terminate the current application. Press CTRL+ALT+DEL again to restart your computer. You will lose any unsaved information in all applications. Press any key to continue

The message was a spoof of course. The operating system which had used that text to signify critical failure hadn’t survived the Warp. The “blue screen of death” was Morphy’s way of telling the raiders their luck had run out.

Tuck Paulsen added the bass rumble he called laughter to Galen’s baritone mirth. “That was it,” he confirmed. “You should’ve seen their faces when that screen popped up!” He mimicked an expression of goggle-eyed slack-jawed shock long enough for Galen to appreciate it, then laughed again. “What’s the news from Struyck?”

Galen nodded, rubbing a hand over the gleaming dome of his shorn skull. He was two inches taller than Tuck and of comparable build, but the length of his limbs and torso made him seem more slender. In further contrast to the hirsute Paulsen, the only visible hair on Galen Cairn were his eyebrows and eyelashes. His eyes were arctic ice where Paulsen’s were sapphire, and his skin chocolate silk to Tuck’s sun-bronzed leather. Tuck Paulsen presented the image of a grizzled biker who’d walked out of his share of rumbles, while Galen Cairn should have been holding court in some long-vanished African kingdom.

“The SuperGoo was the clincher,” Galen said. “The nanobots’ ID code pointed right to a license held by Sonrise Capital Group, who owns Longbow Limited. That batch of ‘Goo was supposed to be disposing of toxic waste in Newark.” Galen grinned, teeth ivory white against his dark skin. “The final nail was that Sonrise had just paid next year’s fees for the license.”

“And that’s why I never sold out,” Paulsen proclaimed proudly. Then his expression sobered. “What about Nick? I heard he had a meltdown.”

Galen’s expression became grave as well. “I’m going to check on him as soon as we finish here.”

“Well we’re finished!” Paulsen boomed. “So go check on him already!”

“Hey! I’m your boss, not the other way around!” Galen argued without rancor. “I decide when a debriefing’s finished!”

“So dock me for insubordination and go check on your godson!” Paulsen ordered.

Galen grinned and tossed a mock salute before leaving his office. Banter like that had become the hallmark of his relationship with Tuck Paulsen, a faint echo of the fierce arguments they’d had in years past. Back then Cairnhaven was called Desert View Tower, a tourist trap bypassed and forgotten when Interstate 8 had replaced State Highway 80 as the main route between California and Arizona.

Galen passed through Cairnhaven’s main atrium. The old Desert View Tower was the centerpiece, preserved in its original native rock and mortar state. The only change was the windows at the top of the tower. In years past they had afforded a view of the Anza Borrego Desert in all its barren glory. The Anza Borrego was gone – Cantionis Terra had turned it into a forest of blood-trees (named so for the thick crimson veins which traced their trunks and leaves). And the main atrium of Cairnhaven towered far above the three-story roof of the tower’s wooden roof. The windows of the tower had been replaced with monitors. Now if you climbed to the observation deck of the old tower you could still see the sandy, rocky expanse of the Anza Borrego to the east and the rise of the Sierra Laguna mountains to the west. A projected sun even rose and fell in time with the real thing outside the mall…

Galen Cairn didn’t consider himself a nostalgic man, but he couldn’t help but think back on those days every time he passed the old tower. Back then he’d just wanted to be left alone, separated from the rest of the world by the anonymity of the Internet. The last thing he’d have predicted for himself was becoming the founder and leader of Southern California’s most famous arcology!

But then who could have foretold the Warp?

The medics in the clinic told Galen that Nicholas Chandler had awakened less than an hour earlier, and had immediately excused himself. He’d taken one other patient with him, brooking no opposition. Galen’s eyebrows arched when he learned the other patient’s identity.

He was just leaving the clinic when a man half-a-head shorter than himself with earth-colored hair and hazel eyes called his name. “I’m Avery Trask,” the man introduced himself. “I just wanted to thank your people for getting us out. Especially the two men who actually infiltrated the base.” A pretty woman with red hair and a girl who was obviously the offspring of both of them joined him. “I understand if it hadn’t been for them your assault force wouldn’t have been able to find the raiders.”

“That’s true,” Galen agreed. “I’ll be happy to relay your thanks to them Mr. Trask, but they’ll be around. If you just ask somebody will point them out.”

“I heard one of them is named Nathan St. John?” Trask asked, to which Galen replied with an affirmative nod. “I wonder if he’s any relation,” Avery mused. “My father mentioned a Nathan St. John who helped raise the siege of Salt Lake City just after the Warp.”

“Hopefully you’ll get a chance to find out,” Galen smiled. “Excuse me please. Ma’am, Miss.” He favored them all with a wide smile and left.

The parking lot of Cairnhaven was huge, as it must be to accommodate the massive trucks which stopped regularly for rest, delivery, and maintenance. During peak times automated trams provided convenient access from the arcology to the fence. Even at those times Galen preferred walking even if the hike did stretch the full three-hundred-meter expanse. Right now only a few long-distance haulers and a scattering of cars owned by Cairnhaven residents and visitors up from San Diego peppered the lot. Among them was an unremarkable RV of maroon hue with mirrored windows. It wasn’t the largest, fanciest, or best-armored vehicle in the lot – on the outside.

Galen didn’t bother knocking. “Morphy, it’s Galen,” he called, raising his voice just slightly louder than a conversational volume. In response the door in front of him hummed and hissed and slid into the hull. Galen braced himself and stepped inside.

The Chandler family had been friends with Galen for over thirty years. In that time Galen had seen hints and clues that while Jackson and Alicia and their children were quality people, there was something very Twilight Zone about them. Tuck Paulsen had called Morphy a “smart truck” in reference to its onboard AI. Tip of the iceberg, Galen reflected. On the outside Morphy measured four meters wide, five meters high, and fourteen meters long. On the inside it was larger, too much larger. The entry hall alone should have taken up a third of the RV’s space. Instead Galen took four steps to the end of it, and through the interior door which opened at his approach. Beyond was a comfortable wood-panelled salon which by rights had no business inside an RV, complete with a bar, state-of-the-art home theatre, and even a fireplace!

“Hello Galen,” came Nathan’s smooth voice over a hidden speaker. “We’re in the lab, come on down.” Another door opened in one corner of the sitting room, showing a spiral staircase.

Come on down! Galen had once asked Nicholas how Morphy’s interior could break so many rules of space-time. The answer had surprised and unnerved him. “I can tell you what it is,” Nicholas had said. “Morphy’s outer hull contains a dimensional interface. It’s interior structure is actually located in a different quantum state than the space-time around it, so it’s not bound by the limits of that space-time. Wormholes coinciding with the doors bridge the two quantum states so stably that transit from one state to the other is seamless.” Then he’d smirked and shrugged. “As for how it does it… I haven’t a clue.”

The spiral stairs landed in a compact, sparsely-furnished room. A single chair and keyboard faced a holographic monitor which dominated one wall. A built-in suspension tank sat against another wall, its console showing it active and occupied. Nicholas leaned forward in the chair, arm propped on the console and hand over his mouth in a characteristic posture of thought, staring ahead of him. Nathan stood behind him, hands propped on the back of the chair, also staring ahead. Galen recognized the three-dimensional display in the monitor as some sort of molecular-scale imaging, but was too much the layman at that technology to tell more. A tangled mass of stems, trunks, and vines twisted in the monitor, Most of them were pink striated with crimson, but interlacing through those were many which were charcoal-grey and smooth. The words floating across the bottom edge of the display were more illuminating:

Subject: Bradford S.

Upgrade: Themiscyra, modified

“There it is,” Nicholas muttered through his hand. He drew the index finger of his other hand across a sensor-pad next to the keyboard. In response a pointer highlighted a rounded conical object with vanes on each side, which vibrated at near invisibility. A circular opening at the widest end looked unnervingly like a mouth. Nicholas tapped the sensor pad, and objects identical to the first one lit up. Galen suddenly realized he was looking at a molecular image of human muscle fiber, augmented with polycarbon strands. Such muscle could expand or contract faster, lift more, and withstand heavier impacts than the stuff with which humans normally made do. Which meant the conical creatures infesting the reinforced muscle were nanobots.

“Lot of them,” Nathan commented.

Nicholas tapped a few keys and new lines of text appeared in the monitor:

Assembler count: 1.35×10¹⁴

Capabilities: unknown

“Hm,” Nicholas grunted and started playing the keyboard one-handed.

“I thought the police took away one raider too few,” Galen commented nonchalantly. “What makes this one special?”

“Possible biotrap,” Nicholas replied quietly.

“Biotrap?!” Galen repeated, no longer nonchalant. “What makes you think so?”

“She was the only full-body job among the raiders,” Nathan answered. “Longbow did her, standard indenture arrangement with a built-in defect as a leash. Of course they told her it was an unavoidable side-effect of the work.”

“Christ!” Galen spat. “Amazing, there are still people who think augmentation is that primitive!”

“Morphy found the raiders’ self-destruct program included a burst transmission,” Nathan continued, “including just enough information for a single simple command.”

“Self-destruct for the suspension truck,” Galen deduced.

Nathan nodded. “Only the truck itself had no self-destruct,” Nathan continued. “Which could have left thirty-two witnesses to testify. So there was only one place they could have hidden another fail-safe.” In the monitor an amorphous blob of translucent matter sluiced between the natural and synthetic muscle fibers. It moved with a definite purpose, flowing around one of the conical assemblers.

The trapper’s composition was wholly biological and based on leukocytes, the white blood cells which policed the body in search of invaders. The assemblers had been designed to be rejection-proof, which meant they had to present no threat to any of the body’s defenses. This in turn meant they could not counter in the event one of those defenses reacted to them, or a catastrophic anaphylactic reaction could occur. So the assembler placidly hovered and let itself be enveloped. Its prey secure, the trapper moved outward toward the skin where it could pass into the suspension medium and deliver the assembler for disassembly and study.

Nicholas tapped a few more keys then leaned back from the console. The view on the monitor changed to a close-up of the captive assembler. Text flowed up the display as Morphy’s systems began the meticulous task of disassembly. “Hello Galen,” he said at last with a slight curve to his lips.

“I’m glad to see you’re back to normal,” Galen replied. “Any idea what happened to you out there?”

Nicholas nodded. “It’s Zed,” he said in a flat tone. “She’s alive.”

Loose Ends

“Ever since we were kids Zed and I had a connection,” Nick began. The three men were gathered in Morphy’s main salon. Galen and Nathan sat in opposing chairs while Nick perched on one end of the U-shaped sofa. “It’s not uncommon between twins. We always had a feeling where the other was, how they felt, especially if they were in trouble.” One corner of his moustache quirked, which was as close as Nicholas ever came to a smile. “The local bullies were sure that Zed followed me, because she always showed up whenever they came after me. We never thought anything of it, and I think Mom and Dad just put it down to how close the two of us were.

“The day before my internship with Struyck was due to start the link broke. Until then neither of us was really sure it had ever been there at all. It hit us hard, but Zed much worse than I. Our parents had to take her away for special treatment, I don’t know where. The next thing I knew a car and team from the NSA were there to take me off on my internship.” His eyes squeezed shut and for a few moments he concentrated only on keeping his breathing deep and even. Galen and Nathan sat rapt. Normally Nicholas was detached to the point of seeming aloof. The idea of him taking a moment to compose himself so he wouldn’t break into sobs would have been inconceivable except that they were witnessing it. He didn’t used to be that cold, Galen remembered. Only since he came back from that damned mountain.

“Inside Mount Twilight we were permitted no news or contact with the outside world,” Nicholas continued once he had regained control. “When C-T hit we didn’t even know it was worldwide. We thought somebody’s experiment had gone wrong until we opened an outside line.

“The rest you know. After Nathan and I –“ he paused again and swallowed as a different, fresher pain stabbed from memory “–after we got out I went back to New Orleans, but the place where our house had been was just swamp. Nobody knew what had happened to them. Ten years of search programs and rumor-tracing – nothing.”

“Until today.” Nathan qualified.

Nicholas nodded. “For a few seconds it was like we were one person. I saw, heard, felt, smelled, knew everything she did. The input overloaded me.”

“Is it that way now?” Galen asked, thinking Twilight Zone!

Nicholas’ head swung sideways in negation. “It’s much fainter, almost imperceptible. And the information I had about her location has dumped into long-term memory, if it stuck at all. But I know she’s alive.” His expression set into determination, his eyebrows and moustache two uncompromising parallel lines of purpose on his face.

Galen nodded and stood. “I’ll make sure your card is clear,” he announced. “Any other help you need?”

“Possibly,” Nicholas hedged. “Depends on what comes up while I’m tanked.”

Nathan shot a glance at his partner. “Tanked?” he echoed.

Nicholas nodded. “Deep. If Zed’s location is there, or if the link can be boosted, that’s the only way.”

Galen nodded in turn and clapped a hand on Nicholas’ shoulder. “You’ll bring her back,” he stated with certainty. “You Chandlers have a knack for the impossible.”

Nicholas’ mouth quirked, then suddenly he was on his feet and his arms were around Galen’s ribs. After a moment’s pause due to surprise Galen returned the hug, crushing his godson to him. Twilight Zone or not, family was family.

Nathan stood to one side, finely-drawn eyebrows climbing into his hairline at the uncharacteristic display of intimacy from his normally distant comrade. Nor had the omissions in Nicholas’ account of his separation from his twin escaped Nathan’s notice. There was more to the story, obviously. But you can hardly begrudge him his secrets, can you? he chided himself.

“I’ll be in the lab,” Nicholas announced once Galen had left, and headed back downstairs. Nathan knew Nicholas had no work pending in the lab. He was restless to begin his search for his sister, but they couldn’t leave until Morphy had finished riddling the functions of the nanobots inside Susan Bradford, and they’d delivered her to the authorities. After all it wouldn’t do to go traveling while carrying a wanted criminal in suspension!

Nathan recalled the confrontation with Ms. Bradford aboard the suspension truck. The crew in the cab hadn’t been a challenge but he’d been wary of walking into an ambush. He’d planned to let Nicholas draw the attention of whoever was riding with the prisoners, and would only assist if necessary. Nathan was by far the stronger and faster between them, but Nicholas was far from helpless.

Then Nathan had felt the flare of confusion and almost-pain followed by blackness from Nicholas. The two of them had been partners and friends for ten years. Keep secrets though they might, Nathan felt more kinship with Nicholas than with most members of his actual family. He had been already high on adrenaline and outrage at the raiders’ callous efficiency – the imminent prospect of losing Nicholas had pushed him right off the proverbial edge.

Nathan remembered how he looked in Susan Bradford’s mind’s eye: a great ravening beast, all fangs and claws and glowing green eyes. That one moment had been all the persuasion she’d needed to surrender. Nathan allowed that part of her impression was based on the stress of the moment and his own reflexive glamour, and that his ability to terrify circumvented a lot of otherwise unavoidable fighting. Still…

“Visitors, Nathan,” Morphy announced. A rectangular image appeared in the air a few feet ahead of him, as if a monitor were hovering right there. Just another one of Morphy’s many unexplainable tricks. The image was outside Morphy’s front door – a man, a woman, and a little girl. Nathan recognized Avery Trask’s family. The lad’s fortunate he took after his mother, he idly reflected.

“I’ll be right out,” Nathan replied, heading for the foyer.

“Mr. Trask, what a pleasure to see you all safe and healthy!” he exclaimed as he stepped down from Morphy’s door.

“I understand we have you to thank for that, Mr. St. John,” Avery replied, extending his hand.

Nathan shook the offered hand but waved his other in the air dismissively. “I played a part, but your thanks should really go to the Cairnhaven Irregulars who took the base. They’re the ones who put themselves in harm’s way.”

“We have,” Rachel Trask spoke up. “They insisted that if you and Dr. Chandler hadn’t gone undercover and gotten captured with the rest of us they wouldn’t even have known where they took us!”

Nathan rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air in mock exasperation. “Ah!” he cried. “So much for my pose as the self-effacing hero!” His smile encompassed all three of them. “At any rate, it was an honor and privilege for Nicholas and I to do what we could to make sure you and your fellow travelers reach your destinations alive and well.” And he emphasized that sentiment with a small bow.

“My father spoke of a Nathan St. John,” Avery ventured. “A chimera matching your description, part of the group that lifted the Siege of Salt Lake.” His gaze sharpened. “He hired you to watch us, didn’t he? I’ll bet my mother had a vision.”

“Guilty on all counts,” Nathan confessed.

“Well it’s a good thing then,” Avery declared. “Lord knows where we’d have woken up otherwise!”

“Is Dr. Chandler here?” the daughter asked. Her eyes shone with hope and hero-worship.

“Jennifer,” her mother rebuked gently, and favored Nathan with an apologetic smile. “Jennifer’s favorite subject in school is science. She’s already planning to major in molecular engineering in college, so naturally Dr. Chandler’s a hero of hers.”

“I was top of my class and won the science fair too!” Jennifer proudly announced her credentials.

Nathan crouched down to Jennifer’s eye-level. “Then you’re well on your way!” he confirmed. “And I compliment you on your taste. Nicholas Chandler is one of the finest, most brilliant men I have ever been privileged to call friend. If you’ll wait right here I’ll drag him away from his lab long enough for you to talk to him.”

Jennifer nodded a promise. Nathan favored all three of them with another smile as he rose, turned, and stepped back up into Morphy. As he crossed the salon and descended the stairs to the lab he reflected on yet another change on Earth since the Warp. Before Cantionis Terra scientists were rarely celebrities or heroes, at least not in the popular consciousness. Their accomplishments received appreciation from peers, investors, or students, but were never featured in mainstream magazines or television shows.

But those who labored in labs were as vital in the rebuilding of the world since the Warp as any adventurer. The molecular age which made post-Warp Earth more comfortable and convenient than its predecessor was the direct result of research and testing, not derring-do. This was not lost on re-emerging media organizations. As they rebuilt themselves, they started giving scientists the spotlights previously reserved for professional athletes and performers. Men like Nicholas got special focus because they blended the intellectual and the swashbuckling.

Nicholas was watching the monitor, on which Morphy’s own nanobots were still disassembling the assembler captured from Susan Bradford. Nathan had an educated layman’s knowledge of molecular technology, mostly absorbed osmotically through the years spent with Nicholas, but the data scrolling up in the 3-d display surpassed him by several degrees. It took only knowledge of Nicholas’ body language to know that he was merely a spectator at this point.

“Nicholas, come outside,” Nathan said without preamble. “The Trasks are here and their daughter wishes to bask in your glory.”

Nicholas blinked and stared at him. “What?”

“The Trasks,” Nathan repeated. “The nice family we were hired to protect. They’ve come to say thank you.” He reached to the console in front of Nicholas and hit the key which toggled the monitor. In response the airborne patterns of flourescing nanobots doused their glowing parade and drifted back to their reservoir beneath the lab floor.

Nicholas favored him with a faintly sour look. “You already promised, didn’t you?” he accused.

Nathan smiled broadly. “Nicholas. She’s nine years old, won the science fair, and already plans to be a molecular engineer. We must encourage the next generation of genius if there is going to be one.”

“I took second at my fourth-grade science fair,” Nicholas announced as he emerged from Morphy a few moments later. Jennifer Trask spun around and beamed up at him. “First place went to Samantha Marcos for her demonstration on how to defuse the Yellowstone supervolcano by turning it into a geothermal powerplant.” He sat down cross-legged in front of the girl. “How’d you win?”

“I showed how neoperi might be psychoreactive,” Jennifer replied, “and what applications that might have in programming and feedback of molecular engines if it’s true.”

Nicholas arched one eyebrow. “Bleeding edge,” he commented. “How did you control for natural chaotic program iterations due to neoperi’s energetic state?”

“I built a Faraday Cage to block out electromagnetic frequencies…” Jennifer proceeded to give a blow-by-blow description of her testing and results, with Nicholas asking questions as pointed as if he were talking to a contemporary. Nathan exchanged smiles with Avery and Rachel Trask, realizing that they were as lost by the conversation as he. He also realized Nicholas’ interest had gone beyond simple polite curiosity. Nathan’s upbringing had instilled in him a strong sense of noblesse oblige, and he had done his best to teach Nicholas the responsibilities that came with being a hero. Though he didn’t share Nathan’s ready grace in the face of adoration and gratitude, he couldn’t resist the lure of a young mind tempted by the same passion that had consumed half his own life.

Nicholas winced and grimaced slightly. “Are you okay?” Jennifer asked.

Earlier Nicholas had startled Nathan by hugging Galen, a display of emotion and affection normally alien to him. Now he did it again when he gave Jennifer a warm, broad smile. “Muscle cramp,” he assured her. “Too much time in the lab and not enough running around. Important safety tip.”

Jennifer nodded, her own smile wide and happy as she picked up the cue. “Thanks, Egon!” she answered. The line from a pre-Warp movie featured repeatedly in discussions of molecular technology dangers on Nicholas’ website. “You have to go, don’t you?” she asked.

Nicholas nodded. “Other projects, you know how it is.”

Oh of course she does! Nathan thought, marveling at the entire exchange. Fourth-graders always have so many things going on! It was as if Nicholas had forgotten he wasn’t speaking to a peer. Then again given how little of the conversation just passed had been over Nathan’s head, perhaps Nicholas’ reaction wasn’t so absurd.

Thanks and farewells were exchanged and the Trasks started the trek back across the parking lot toward Cairnhaven. Nathan and Nicholas reentered Morphy. “You and she really hit it off,” Nathan commented, intending to point out the changes in Nicholas’ manner.

“She’s the reason Avery got his new job,” Nicholas announced.

Nathan blinked. “How could you possibly know that?” he demanded.

“I don’t,” Nicholas conceded. “But neoperi psychoreactivity is still being debated on most forums, and her model was sound. I asked her to post her results on my site so I can review them. I think she’s going in the right direction, and you know Struyck Worldwide is also sinking money into applications. Moving to San Diego puts her in the same city as Struyck’s corporate headquarters and main advanced research facilities.” His mouth quirked in a more typically Nicholas manner. “Lay odds that within a month she’ll be in an accelerated studies program with a promise of full scholarship and internship sponsored by Struyck Worldwide.”

“No bet,” Nathan declined. “I just hope hers ends happier than yours.”

Nicholas shot an agreeing glance at Nathan then said, “Status on assembler analysis?”

“Analysis aborted,” Morphy replied. “Would you come down to the lab, please?”

Both of them exchanged glances, then sprinted for the stairs. Nathan could have easily outraced Nicholas, but by habit allowed his partner to enter the room first. Nicholas stabbed the monitor display and the image of the assembler formed in the matrix of hovering, flourescing nanobots. Its conical shell had been removed along with its flagellant propellors. To Nathan the interior looked like an incomprehensible tangle of balls and strands both fuzzy and smooth. Then his mind made an intuitive leap and he realized the color of some of the assembler’s innards made a recognizable symbol: a human skull with its mouth open wide, and a four-pointed starburst in the gaping orifice. “Bright Ladies,” Nathan breathed.

“Stargrave,” Nicholas growled.

“If there weren’t enough evidence to bury Longbow and Sonrise before,” Nathan murmured, “this removes any doubt. Using a design by one of the world’s most wanted outlaw engineers!”

“That worries me less than what she put in there,” Nicholas said.

“You can counter it,” Nathan stated with certainty.

“Probably,” Nicholas confirmed, scowling. “But it will take time. And I can’t do it tanked.”

“Well legally we shouldn’t have Ms. Bradford here at all,” Nathan reminded him. “If we hand her over to the police they’ll almost certainly call in Struyck’s people. Do you think they’re up to the challenge?”

“Possibly,” Nicholas allowed. “I read about one of Stargrave’s designs that reacted to the assembler’s shell being removed, another that went off if the subject were suspended past a certain amount of time, and a third that went off if one of the assembler pool went missing.”

“We’re running short on options,” Nathan noted.

“I know,” Nicholas muttered, brows nearly meeting over his eyes.

Nathan didn’t bother proposing they delay the search for Nicholas’ sister. It took scant insight to see that his partner was chafing at every moment’s passage. “It’s a shame that Morphy is only smart enough to know when to stop,” he commented.

“It’s not a matter of smart,” Nicholas corrected. “It’s a matter of experience and skill.”

“Well it’s a shame you can’t teach that to Morphy then,” Nathan retorted mildly.

Nicholas’ eyebrows shot up. He stared at the monitor. “If it was a snake it’d’ve bit me,” he quoted softly. Then he turned and smiled at Nathan, an open-mouthed smile of the sort Nathan hadn’t seen from him in ten years, until today. “Genius,” he complimented. “Morphy, set up a neural link in the tank you prepared for me. You’ll continue the disassembly and countering of any black nano Stargrave built into that assembler. You’ll use my mind as a check and reference.”

“Yes, Nicholas,” Morphy answered.

“So, Morphy is going to read your mind and tap into your skill and subconscious knowledge of black nano and Stargrave in particular,” Nathan restated, unable to keep a mild sarcasm out of his tone. “So that while you are tanked and tracing your mindlink after your sister who has been missing for ten years, he’ll be defusing whatever form of molecular malice Stargrave has built into our passenger, who also just happens to be a wanted criminal.”

Nicholas was studying the assembler’s image in the monitor. “Mm-hm,” he replied absently.

Nathan nodded. “Right. I’ll just have Galen work some of his special magic with the police. Wouldn’t do for us to be accused of aiding and abetting a fugitive in flight.”

Triumph

Like a whirlpool in reverse the portal opened and Jonnal Shad emerged at the gates of his family’s ancestral keep. He looked up at the crenelated ramparts that hadn’t served any practical defensive purpose in nearly six generations and thought Home at last?

The guard at the gate was the same who’d manned that post when he’d left two years ago, but she didn’t recognize him at first. Jonnal didn’t blame her. There’d been scant ceremony when he’d left Shad Keep for his quest. Whispers aplenty though! The kindest had been about his foolishness in insisting that a solution was conceivable, let alone practical. Less charitable lips had hinted that the quest was a ruse, that Jonnal sought only to distance himself from his family name and thus perhaps from the reach of the curse.

Jonnal remembered the indignation he’d felt then at hearing those vicious rumors. Even if he’d been so inclined, no curse that could last five generations would be fooled by such simple deception. Even the more generous estimations of his motives and sense had angered him, furnishing extra fuel to his determination to prove them all wrong.

Now he couldn’t care less.

“The keep is closed,” the guard told him in bored tones. “Come back in the morning.”

“Serre,” he replied, “Know you not your lord?”

His use of her proper name and the classic challenge stopped her in her tracks. She turned slowly and called a light to her hand, the better to survey his features. “Lord… Jonnal?”

He managed a smile that was both sarcastic and wan. “Wake my father,” he commanded. “And tell him that his foolish son has returned triumphant.”

Mahargni Shad, Lord Most High of Pyrin House Shad, was walking proof that the different breeds of aerin could and had interbred. Though his hair and beard were as flaming crimson as any Pyrin, his eyes were as brilliant blue as any sky-flying Zefin; the breadth of his shoulders and chest as rock-solid as any earthy Terin; and his ability to drink was unequalled by the deepest-diving Nerin. (Granted that the last comparison would be more truly ascribed to a life spent sampling and indulging a world’s worth of fermented and distilled beverages, the analogy still held true.)

Though capable of bluster befitting his build, Mahargni had a virtuouso’s sense of when and how much to apply his overwhelming manner. When he was awakened by the house steward’s mental summons he wrapped a robe around his nakedness but left his chambers and descended to the hall’s main entryway without ceremony. He knew at a glance that the fourth son who’d left so full of his own importance and the gravity of his errand had returned chastened by the hardships of that same quest, hardened by its demands, and tempered by the price its success demanded.

Still, Mahargni’s essential pixie nature insisted on a small measure of bombast. “You swore you’d return successful or not at all,” he reminded Jonnal. “Let’s see it.”

Jonnal met his father’s eyes with neither hesitation nor challenge. Silently he reached under his cloak and jacket and held up a quill of glittering gold and scarlet. Even the vane which would have been dead white from any other bird, glittered and swirled as if filled with molten auric stuff. “Uncapped,” he said quietly. “Sharpened by he who gathered it. Just as Mother instructed.”

Mahargni’s eyes wet at the reminder of his Lady Most High, who had made her ultimate sacrifice merely to divine if any chance existed of lifting the Shad Curse. He let the tears fall unheeded as he reached for the proffered quill. His manner was slow but not tentative; rather it was the deliberate intensity of one who had set on a course and would not be swayed from it.

“Father?” Kylyn Shad spoke from the top of the stairs. The eldest son of House Shad was flanked on either side by his siblings.

“Jonnal?” Naz Shad’s tone was incredulous as he recognized the only brother to whom he was senior. “Jonnal’s back!”

“Not just back!” bellowed Mahargni, holding the quill aloft. “Returned victorious, with the sword of our salvation in his coat! Fetch the parchment and ink! We’ll not suffer a moment longer under this thrice-damned curse!”

His cry echoed psychically throughout the Keep, stirring every servant. The news spread beyond the Keep into the compound, moving at the speed of thought possible only in a telepathic society. From a locked and warded case were fetched the sheet of parchment which had been skinned from Mahargni’s own back, and the bottle of ink made at the last wishes of his departed Lady, from her own blood. The declaration was simple and concise.

By this quill point

By this blood inked

By this flesh scribed

By this hand writ

Be this curse foiled.

As Mahargni finished the final stroke and lifted the quill from the page a shudder stirred the air, scattering the dust motes and setting everybody’s teeth on edge. Later reports confirmed the same sensation was felt by everybody who was awake at that moment throughout House Shad’s remaining holdings. By the next noon the news was known by all the Upper Court. By sunset all aerin knew. When the next morning dawned the entire Settled Lands had heard the news: the Shad Curse was broken.

Hearing did not always breed credence. A five-generation curse is not easily set aside, and skepticism comes surprisingly easily to a society accustomed to unraveling and re-weaving existence. Most of Shenn had taken pains over the years to distance itself from House Shad, thus were not shaken by the tremor which passed with its release. Reservation of judgment or outright disbelief from those quarters was discouraging but understandable. More distressing were the lackluster responses from some of those who had felt the pluck on reality’s thread yet would not accept its proffered meaning.

Embron was one of the oldest living cities on Shenn and the only one which remained under Shad authority. Its last Lord had departed seventy-three years ago, disavowing fealty to House and blood. His disloyalty hadn’t saved him – his coach was attacked by brigands less than a day’s ride from the city, leaving no survivors. After that drama willing candidates to the post were plausibly scarce. Of the family itself only Mahargni and first son Kylyn were eligible for city Lordship, but both of them knew that neither had any gift for running a city. In the end Mahargni had been forced to hire a regent.

The word which most easily attached itself to Vrei Weton was adequate. Of mixed Terin and Zefin blood, his heritage seemed to cancel out the strengths of both breeds. Thus he lacked either the hardiness and resolve of a Terin, or the sensitivity and vision of a Zefin. His resume was equally uninspiring, a series of minor offices whose duties he had discharged barely to the letter, never any further. It could not even be said that he seemed willing to accept the regency of Embron – rather he gave the impression that he was the only candidate who did not view the post as a punishment.

The call came just as he had sat down to his morning meal. Mahargni had obviously already drunk his own breakfast, but Vrei knew inebriation did not equal impairment for House Shad’s Lord Most High. “Vrei!” Mahargni bellowed. “It’s done! The curse is lifted! I declare a day of celebration in Embron!”

Vrei regarded Mahargni’s image in the iron-bound mirror on his table. “Good morning, my Lord,” he replied in bland tones. “That’s marvelous news. I’ll see to it directly I finish breakfast.” To underscore his priority he lifted his cup to his lips.

At first Mahargni’s mood was impervious to Vrei’s indifference. “Breakfast?” he echoed. “Breakfast can wait, Vrei! Did you hear what I said? House Shad is free!”

Vrei nodded, swallowing a mouthful of tea. “Of course my Lord,” he droned. “But surely my Lord wouldn’t begrudge at least my morning cup before seeing to this occasion?” He was aware that his manner bordered on insubordination, but it was no worse than he’d displayed in previous conversations with Mahargni. The Lord Most High had often expressed disapproval, but Vrei shielded himself with the knowledge that in order to dismiss him Mahargni would have to find a replacement. That was the comforting thing about being at the bottom of the list: it came down to him or nothing, and he was at least better than nothing.

Truthfully Vrei had always considered Mahargni Shad more than a little mad. Not that he blamed him of course. Only a madman could maintain lordship of a House cursed for five generations without either killing himself or his entire family, much less hold onto any hope of release. Vrei had heard of Lady Most High Elenin Shad’s suicide two-and-a-half years ago. The family had spun it as an heroic sacrifice, that she had given her own life to divine a foil for the family curse. They even went so far as to say that her blood had been given as part of the foil!

Mahargni finally riddled Vrei’s manner. “Listen, Vrei,” he said in quieter tones. “I do not begrudge you your skepticism. Hope has been an elusive blossom in the Shad gardens for too long. But make no mistake! My son Jonnal has returned with a quill made from a phoenix feather. I myself have penned a declaration on parchment made from my own skin, in ink made from the blood of our beloved departed Lady Most High Elenin. All according to the vision she gave her life to gain. Did you not feel a tremor in your bones last night, only two hours past midnight?”

Vrei slowly blinked. He dimly remembered being awakened in the wee hours of the morning with a disquieting feeling in his gut. He’d ascribed it to indigestion – it was hard to get really fresh fish with the nearest port of Zaua a dusty hour away – taken a glass of brandy and dismissed it. Surely it couldn’t have been any more than that. Could it?

Of course not. Vrei Weton’s intestinal delicacy was a documented fact. He’d often plagued the staff of Embron Greathouse with special demands for his meals, mostly consisting of less spice and more boiling. He kept a bottle of specially-spiced brandy next to his bed so he wouldn’t have to wait for a servant to wake in the middle of the night and bring him his remedy.

In a flash of insight Vrei understood what was happening. Mahargni’s idiot son had indeed returned from his two-year waste of time, predictably empty-handed. With the wisdom born of too little sleep, too much hope, and much too much drink Mahargni had decided to turn the occasion into a prank with Vrei Weton as the target. Or perhaps Mahargni thought by turning another failure into into a tale of heroic labor and sacrifice he could string the peons along a little longer.

Vrei Weton wanted no part of it. Plates of bread, fruit, eggs, and spiced meat – his few remaining pleasures in life – grew cold and stale while a drunken maniac raved at him. A heady, unfamiliar sensation crept up the back of his neck and over his skull, penetrating his brain: daring, impetuous, foolish.

“My Lord,” he intoned. “I appreciate your sense of humor, and the time you have taken to form and impose this jest on your servant. I likewise applaud your spirit and your devotion in putting the best face possible on your House’s continuing misfortunes. I hope your Lordship will in turn appreciate the humor in my returned wish that your Lordship should share such comedy with those better-suited to enjoy it, such as our dear departed Lady Most High.”

The mirror shadowed and cleared, showing Vrei’s own face and the dishes in front of him. Vrei figured his barb had struck true, and Mahargni had retreated in dismay at having lost the battle of wit. Mad old sot, Vrei thought as he began meticulously sectioning his eggs. He noted sourly that the white had congealed more solidly than he preferred as he lifted the first forkful to his mouth.

An explosion flung the fork and its cargo from Vrei’s hand. Heat like an open furnace withered the fruit and blackened the bread. Vrei knocked against the table as he jumped to his feet, knocking his teacup over.

The receding vortex of the closing portal was barely visible behind Mahargni. The Lord Most High was normally no taller than Vrei Weton, but somehow seemed to tower over him. His hair and beard bristled and swirled in the blistering wind that whipped about him. His blue eyes flared like twin torches. Smoke and small licks of open flame chased over and around him.

“YOU DARE?!” he roared, his voice like the roar of a forge. Flame spat from his mouth with the words, reinforcing the impression. “MOCK MY LOSS AND THE SACRIFICE OF MY LADY MOST HIGH?” Great hands shot out and grabbed the lapels of Vrei’s coat, lifting him with terrifying ease. “I’LL LEAVE NAUGHT OF YOU BUT SOOT TO BLOW ON THE WIND!”

Vrei felt his hair singe at the rising heat. Mahargni was no Avatar of his element, but the power rising from him dwarfed Vrei’s own meager abilities to nonexistence. He had no doubt that Mahargni meant to kill him. Even in this moment though, Vrei’s own innate self-importance crowed in triumph. With him dead Mahargni would have nobody to run Embron. He was right! The Shad Curse hadn’t been foiled! His death would prove it!

Hands suddenly grabbed and pulled at Mahargni, unhurt by the great heat which roiled off him. His grip loosened on Vrei, dropping him without ceremony to the floor. Dimly through his terror Vrei recognized Mahargni’s sons gamely restraining their father. One of them – the fourth one? Vrei had never bothered learning one from the other – leaped behind Vrei, scooped him up and over his shoulder with strength that was never gained from court life, and ran for the door to the hall. Another interposed himself between Mahargni and his prey, shoving against his father’s chest. “Father!” that one shouted. “This is not the way to honor Mother’s memory!”

Once out in the hall the Shad son spun and kicked the door shut. Without breaking pace he bent slightly as he continued the spin, dislodging Vrei from his shoulder and fetching him against the wall. “Make no mistake,” he told Vrei. “You mean nothing to me. But too many people have died under this curse’s power.” Grief shadowed his eyes, evidence of a wound still raw on his soul. “Now… now it’s destroyed, and I’ll not have the occasion marred by another death. Not even yours.”

Vrei stared at the door to his suite, through which he could hear the shouting had died down. “Then what?” he asked.

The Shad son looked at himcoolly. “You’re done,” he told him. “We’ll have your things sent after you. Get out.”

From a barely-explored corner of his mind Vrei scrounged up a scrap of courage. “You can’t do that!” he protested. “Only the Lord Most High can….” he trailed off in realization.

“Yes?” his savior prompted. “Then by all means.” He gestured toward the door, stepping aside. “Let’s leave to the Lord Most High the matter of your – termination.”

It was a bluff, but one Vrei dared not call. Courage having failed, he fell back on protocol. “You can’t just fire a regent!” he argued.

“True,” the son agreed. “But a regent can always resign.”

“But who will run the city?” Vrei whined.

The door to his suite banged open at that point, Mahargni framed in the doorway. So startl ed was Vrei by the noise and appearance that he screamed and prevented his legs from buckling only by the sheerest effort of will. Through his falsetto flare of terror Vrei registered that the Shad son had answered his question, but he couldn’t hear what he’d said.

Mahargni likewise was caught off-guard, conversely because he had heard Jonnal’s reply.

“I will,” Jonnal had said. “I’ll run Embron.”

Black Lake Valley

On every other day Bolt loved pulling into Black Lake Valley. Ever since he’d turned tail on the mountains and gorges of Tanteral and his family, this was the closest thing to home he’d ever had.

The name of the place was deceptive. Once the valley had been a lake of dark, peaty water. Lore held that a malediction during the Steel War had boiled the water away and baked the peat to a hard crust. It might have been true – many terrible curses had been cast during Shenn’s only world war, and the planet still bore the scars.

However it had dried up, new life had eventually sprung from the lake’s corpse. The rich black soil proved incredibly fertile. Even seeds blown by the wind and deposited on the surface took root and flourished. Three main roads touched the edges of the lakebed on their ways between Shenn’s cities, but nobody claimed the land until a young portian named Salyrokenimora and her daughters decided to tame it and start servicing the carriages and caravans which passed through. What started as a simple homestead, farm, and storefront serving fresh food and cider had grown into a sprawling compound which combined lodging, stable, garage, and restaurant.

True to her portian’s artisan nature Sally (as non-portian customers had quickly abbreviated her name) cared naught for a person’s breed or breeding, station or history – as long as they appreciated her services and behaved themselves, all were welcome. Small wonder then that Black Lake Valley attracted heavy Seeker patronage, since many of that curious profession were vagabond by nature. On modern Shenn the valley and its eponymous hostel are known as the best place to hire contract adventurers.

Like many Seekers Bolt had bed and board reserved for him at Black Lake Valley. Normally he’d pass the gate at a gallop and skid to a stop at the inn’s doorstep, enjoying a good-natured laugh at the reactions of anybody standing nearby. Tantareli centaurs were the largest of the species, and Bolt was larger than many of his breed. His torso blended into his barrel at eight feet, and the crown of his head rose another six feet above that. His barrel stretched back just shy of ten feet, and measured between three and four feet from side to side. Muscles bulged and rippled under sun-bronzed skin and hide as if trying to escape and seek their own destinies. Seeing such a massive creature approaching at blurring speed raised one terrifying question in many minds: Could he stop in time?

But not today. Today Bolt trudged through Black Lake Valley’s gate with his ears drooped and tail dragging. The slackness of his muscles had nothing to do with the packs slung across his barrel, nor was the dullness of his eye the product of physical exhaustion.

Sally’s eldest daughter Wynne (Wynnekovalaniara) spotted him first. At first she wasn’t sure who she was seeing. He was the size and color of Bolt, but the way he moved like a long-broken plowhorse! It was as if he were but an undead shadow of the magnificent stallion she remembered. For a horrifying moment Wynne thought this might actually be the case, but she knew that no ghoul or shade could pass the wards around the compound. That certainty made it worse when she realized this was Bolt, unrestrainable, inexhaustible, indomitable Bolt, looking as though he’d lost –

Oh no.

“Bolt!”

He turned at her call, coming to a stop as she ran to him. The bare curve of his lips was as much a pale echo of his normal irrepressible grin as the rest of his manner. It tore at Wynne’s heart to see him reduced to this state. She reached up and touched the front curve of his barrel – like most of her race Wynne was only four feet tall, and that was as high on him as she could reach. She wanted to say something more, something to reach through his fog of despair and find that bright spirit she loved. But all other words had the same flat, bitter taste of banality on her own tongue so she swallowed them rather than inflict them on him.

“Come on,” she finally said, hooking her hand under a strap of his harness. “I’ll see to you.”

As many of its clientele were of Shenn’s giant races Black Lake Valley offered amenities scaled to their needs. Wynne led Bolt to a private room where with the aid of a stepladder she removed his trail gear. Her own muscles bulged with even greater strength than her stocky build indicated as she loosed the straps and buckles, hefting the large woven and hide parcels and the sturdy network of his harness. Some called Wynne’s race dwarf because their proportions did not match the ideals of their own aesthetic. Most portians, Wynne included, bristled at that label because of its implied insult of deformity. There was nothing wrong with the strength or length of her limbs except in the eyes of those who knew no better! She could turn a field or a head with equal facility, would pit her skills versus any farmhand or courtesan and dare anyone to lay odds against her!

The room was spartan but fully-appointed: no space was wasted but one could sit, lay, or bathe in comfort. Having undressed Bolt and stacked the gear neatly aside, Wynne untied and tossed aside her dress and boots, leaving just her bustier and undershorts on. She uncoiled a hose and spray nozzle from its hook on the tub wall. The nozzle also incorporated a firm, flexible brush around the sprayholes. Wynne opened a valve on the wall, and warm water shot from the nozzle. With the hose in one hand and a bottle of liquid soap in the other, Wynne expertly ascended the stepladder again, spread some soap onto Bolt’s back, and began scrubbing. She started at his shoulders and worked her way down, not missing an inch. Her own shoulders and arms bunched and flexed with the force of her efforts.

The soap was spiced, and the aroma was heady. Wynne began to hum a nameless tune as she worked. Between the scent and her expert ministrations Bolt’s mood couldn’t help but lift. He felt as though numbness were caked on with the trail-dust, and was being scrubbed off and washed down the drain.

Other things lurked beneath that layer of stupor, things that weren’t ready to surface. Bolt gathered a handful of suds and scrubbed it over his face. Wynne obligingly let some of the spray shoot forward over his shoulders to help rinse the soap and dirt away there. She was watching him intently, aware of what might happen. Suddenly Bolt paused in mid-scrub. His shoulders hunched, the muscles bulging, and his fingers curled as if to dig into his own face. Wynne quickly set the soap and spray nozzle down and clambered from the ladder onto Bolt’s barrel. Mindful of the treacherously slick hide beneath her bare feet she slid forward and reached her arms under his shoulders, wrapping in front on his chest. She pressed herself against his back without saying a word.

Suddenly one long, massive arm reached up and back and scooped her off his barrel. He crushed her to him so fiercely she couldn’t help a momentary flash of fear that she might actually be injured. Tantareli centaurs were renowned for their strength as much as their speed.

“I TRIED!” he cried, loud enough to echo from the room’s baked clay walls. “I went t’ the tagarl after he left, thought they could rappel down the chimney ‘cause I couldn’ fit through the cleft. Th’ walls were glass, the ground crunched, she wasn’ there. Nothin’ there, all burnt n’ gone.” The pitch of his voice lowered to a growl, betraying an anger Wynne had never heard from him, wouldn’t have thought his soul capable of. “She’s gone, does he care? He got his feather and went, inta his portal n’ home, figgy aerin cares only for his own n’ his figgy curse!” The ire flashed and was gone, drenched in renewed grief for she who’d been his partner and best friend for ten years.

Wynne hung in his arms, suspended over three times her own height from the floor. The danger of falling did not occur to her. Nor did she review the number of times she’d watched him streak out Black Lake Valley’s gates and wishing he’d at least pause long enough to glance back at her. Most of all she did not entertain any thought that now bereft of a footloose partner always dragging him off on another contract that maybe, just maybe she herself could tempt him to stay awhile. Such things had occupied Wynne’s thoughts in the past,when fatigue or frustration took the place of ethics and good sense. At this moment her only thought was the pain of this gigantic creature to whom she’d not yet confessed her own feelings, and what she could to ease it.

Grief is hard work. The sobs racking Bolt’s frame eventually subsided on their own, punctuated by hiccups and exhausted sighs. His grip on her relaxed but Wynne knew she was in no danger of being dropped.

Suddenly Wynne felt him rumble, this time lower down and deeper inside. It was a sound the innkeeper in her knew well. “When did you last eat?” she asked.

“Dunno,” he replied. “What day is it?”

Portians are artisans by nature, and are endeared to anybody who appreciates quality workmanship. One of the most most popular portian crafts is cooking. No other artistic endeavor is so versatile and able to appeal and satisfy as many senses and esthetics. Like many of her sisters Wynne took pride in her ability to craft dishes that were original, attractive to the eye, sure to trigger salivary responses, and just as certain to produce groans and belches of satisfaction during and afterward. To her appetite was a blank canvas, hunger a challenge begging to be met.

She took his chin in her hand and drew his eyes to hers. “Put me down,” she told him softly, “and get dressed. Meet me at the back door.”

Black Lake Valley’s kitchen was one room that made no accommodation for any race other than portian. The ceiling was only six feet from the floor, which for a breed averaging no more than four feet in height was perfectly comfortable. Stoves, ovens, counters, and cabinets were all similarly scaled. It was obvious that only Sally and her daughters were ever intended to work here.

The kitchen had three doors. One connected to the staff quarters and was definitely portian-sized, only five feet high and three feet wide. Another accessed the main dining room and was just slightly wider to make it easier pass while carrying trays of food. The third gave onto the huge array of patios which were the primary dining facilities for giant clientele. Known as the ‘back door,’ this was actually a set of extra-wide double doors which were enchanted to open on command. Across this eight-foot-wide threshold Black Lake Valley’s staff delivered meals intended to satisfy the appetites of giant, ogre, and Tantareli centaur, on platters so large four portians were needed to support them.

Only one person took note as Bolt paced onto the stone deck of the patio. This was not a surprise. Impressive as Bolt was, he was not the largest, oldest, or best-known Seeker to frequent Black Lake Valley. Though he and Zerene were good enough at their job to earn referrals from past clients, none of their exploits had gained the attention of the news guilds who were commissioned by various cities to gather, investigate, and report interesting information about Shennese affairs. Even within the grapevine of the Seeker community their most noteworthy action had been to accept Lord Jonnal Shad’s mad quest.

That the one who noticed Bolt’s arrival did so was more a credit to his powers of observation than Bolt’s reputation, but even that was faint praise. Po!Xa Ki! had little enough to do these days than watch the comings and goings at Black Lake Valley, but his own reputation was undimmed by his years of retirement. It could not be argued that his race contributed to that notoriety, since tagarl were almost never seen anyplace other than Chillblade. His ivory coat had thinned with years spent in warmer climes, but when he stood he was not stooped and his obsidian eyes sparkled as sharp and bright as their namesake. Few non-tagarl could properly manage the clicks that pronounced his name properly, so he was simply known as Po. Not only had his adventures featured regularly in news reports, but even in retirement his counsel was regularly sought by Seeker and potential client alike. Though he hadn’t taken a contract in years nobody thought of him as used up or past his prime.

“!Bolt.”

Tagarl speech can be very directional, as it must to carry through blizzard winds. Both the attention-getting click and the name following echoed clearly in Bolt’s ears, but nobody to one side or the other heard either sound. Bolt turned and met his old mentor’s gaze. Seductive aromas leaked from the kitchen’s back door, but when Po called your name….

Faint displeasure echoed in Bolt’s hoofsteps as he paced across the stone-paved patio to Po’s usual table. Torn as he was by grief and driven by respect for his elders, once his stomach’s voice was acknowledged it was not easily set aside. “Heya, Po,” he answered when he approached.

“Were you !paid?”

To less conversant ears the question would have seemed callous. Like any Seeker worth their rations, Bolt understood Po’s meaning. Any star-eyed fool could undertake a quest, and the lucky ones might even succeed. Fanatic crusaders could offer their blood or soul in guarantee against their failure. Of course if they did fail, they might in turn curse the client for their own damnation.

Seekers offered a middle ground, with more of a guarantee than a fool’s promise but with less disastrous side-effects than a blood-oath. Seekers never guaranteed success, only your money’s worth. But every Seeker knew that once the contract was signed and money changed hands they became the representative of every Seeker on Shenn. To provide any less than they had promised was not only a personal failure but a damning reflection on every single one of their peers. And to refuse payment for a contract fulfilled sent a signal that Seekers didn’t take their contracts seriously, which in turn raised questions about how seriously they took their own work.

Bolt’s head hung lower as he realized he’d not only lost his best friend, but had failed to see to the letter of his contract. “Um…” he managed.

Po snorted. “First things !first,” he stated, as binding as the strongest ward. Bolt knew Po must have noticed Zerene’s absence and figured its significance. His response carried a clear message: You’re a professional. See to your contract, see to the client. Then to yourself.

Along with reserved accommodations Bolt kept a post box at Black Lake Valley, where clients could send proposals or payments. When Wynne and three of her sisters brought out a “Seeker’s Platter” – a six-foot-diameter tray creaking under steaming piles of spiced meats, fruits, cheeses, spreads, breads, and pastries while a fifth staggered gamely with a tapped keg of ale, Bolt held himself in check long enough to inquire: “Any word in m’ box?”

Having been raised to the standards and demands of Seekers Wynne had long ago learned to anticipate their priorities. Once the tray was set before him she reached under her apron and produced a sealed letter. Bolt paused in his first ravenous mouthful when he recognized the seal of House Shad, but his hunger would not be denied. He afforded the message only a bare perusal before he handed it back to Wynne. “T’ the aid fund,” he told her as he chewed.

Wynne boggled when she saw the sum promised in the note. As with other hostels Black Lake Valley set aside a portion of its resources for those whose fortunes had been lost to bad luck or brigands, to help them back on their feet and on their way. Such benefits were rarely more than cast-off clothing and baggage, along with a meagre account of funds. The amount guaranteed in the note she held would make Black Lake Valley’s aid fund a fortune among its peers. “B-Bolt!” she stammered. “Are you sure?!”

Bolt locked eyes with Po, wanting to be sure his old teacher caught the import of his reply. “Old pony’s had his fill of Shad fortunes.”

Why

Zerene placed one foot deliberately in front of the other, making sure the only sensation she felt was the dirt and grass crunching underfoot. Everything else she kept chained, caged, walled away, and buried.

She’d been a sensitive since childhood. Before everything had come apart and her life had been normal the ability had been slight enough to be ignored or explained away. She always knew when he was in trouble, of course she did! She knew the neighborhood bullies couldn’t resist the lure offered whenever he had his nose in a book (which he did more often than not). Dad’s favorite jacket made her think of far-off places under strange skies, but she knew he’d traveled the world before he and Mom had married. The kitchen knives Mom used for cooking felt different than the one she kept on her altar, but that was probably because she was only six the first time she saw what the other knife was for, and was freaked about it for a while afterward.

That all changed after the last time she saw him. Dad had brought Mom and herself to Shenn so she could get the treatment she needed. Under the care and tutelage of his family she’d learned the truth about herself and what she’d been doing all her life. The precise term was empathy. At a touch she could tell the history of an object, the stories and feelings of those who’d been there before her. Her literal mind took the definition of ‘anything she held’ to heart, so that she only picked up clear impressions if she touched the item with her hands.

The ability had been useful in her Seeker work. Missing person? All she needed was an item dear to them and she could at least discern their current direction, if not their actual location and condition. Theft? Few thieves were so dispassionate they could avoid leaving some psychic residue behind, and that was all she needed. Negotiation? Even when the participants’ own mental shields were up the papers and accoutrements they brought with them bore echoes of what they really wanted from the deal. And if she wanted to handle an object without learning its life story, a pair of gloves was adequate insulation.

Now for a second time her life had been taken apart and put back together different. The ability which had been so easily managed before had gained a will of its own. It leaked from her feet, her back, any exposed part of her (which right now was all of her). It didn’t wait for input to come to her – she could feel it reaching for the air and ground, straining to touch, sample, know everything around her. She’d staggered and fallen under the rush of awareness, felt herself, her self mixing and vanishing into the noise all around.

Family training had come to her rescue. Counter psychic overload with physical shock, the more primal the better. She shoved her tongue between her teeth and bit down as hard as she could. Pain exploded through her head, adrenalin and endorphins sprayed from respective glands, tears filled her eyes, a hot copper tang was in her mouth, and the psychic cacophony had receded to an ignorable roar.

She’d followed the shock therapy with some breathing exercises and mantras, and was able to rein in her unruly power, though her hold on it was still precarious. She dared not even open up enough to craft any of the cantrips she would normally use to clean herself of the sweat, dirt, and grime which made her hold her arms just slightly akimbo and hate the touch of her thighs with each step. All of which brought her to this moment, concentrating on perfecting her walking technique.

FEAR

Stabbing through her foot as if she’d stepped on a thorn, echoing up her leg and all through her. Staggering back and falling, gorge rising and spewing a red-tinged spray of bile because she hadn’t eaten. Struggling to her knees and staring in disbelief at the innocent-looking patch of well-trampled earth, part of a trail–

Not mine. Not my fear. She repeated it to herself, fiercely squeezing the emotion out of her so she could examine it from a distance. A trail–

It was a child’s fear, or of somebody very simple-minded. Age and experience temper fear, dilute it with knowledge and assurance. Adult fear ignites more slowly because it has to pass these checks and balances. Is it real? Is it familiar? Is it threatening? Is it beyond me? Children and fools don’t bother with such questions because in their world the answers are almost always the same: Yes. No. Yes. Yes!

A trail.

Zerene’s innate pragmatism finally dragged her attention to the first sign of civilization she’d seen all day. It wasn’t much of a trail, just enough for two friendly people of medium size to walk side-by-side, the earth worn smooth and packed too solidly by constant use for the plants to reclaim it. One end of it connected to some landmark, perhaps a main road or a favorite picnic spot, while the other became the front yard of a house or even a village. However modest its form or either of its destinations, it was at last a tangible step back to familiar environs and problems that needed to be solved. Such as clothing.

Except that something terrible had happened right here, not too long ago, which had terrified a child.

In the end pragmatism won out by appealing to physical senses. Being naked, sweaty, and dusty she could tolerate. But the mixture of bile and blood coating her mouth tainted the very breath she drew. None of the plants in sight were familiar, so she didn’t know which might be helpful cleansing herbs. She hadn’t seen water since passing a muddy stream three hours before. One end of the trail or the other led to some sort of habitation where clean water and herbs for cooking could be had, which would substitute in a pinch for a toothbrush. Of course they might be wary about strangers, especially if the cause of that fear was still about. But there was an answer for that too.

Zerene now knew that she had actually visited Shenn several times in her life. Her childhood memory was spotted with weekends and vacations spent in a wondrous place, a warren of passages, terraces, grottos, beaches, and fields where people with the same dusky skin and indigo-black hair as her father lived, played, and all called her ‘cousin.’ Only after Dad had brought Mom and herself here so she could recover from what he had done did she realize Kandaler Vale was not just a secluded commune hidden somewhere along the Gulf Coast.

On the heels of that first epiphany had come other surprises about her paternal relatives. Earthside the family name of Chandler is just another entry in the phone book. On Shenn the name Kandaler provokes much more interesting reactions. Some call them a clan of thieves, spies, and assassins infiltrating every level of Feyside society toward some unnamed nefarious purpose. To others they are some of the best Agents and Seekers available, even if they are a bit spooky. For still others who have felt the fear or impotent rage of being harassed or oppressed, they are a host of jet-tressed phantom champions who move in and evaporate like fog, leaving the oppressors dead or in complete disarray. One unanimous sentiment is that nobody knows the whole truth about the Kandalers, and that’s just how the Kandalers like it.

Part of Zerene’s recovery therapy had been tutelage in Kandaler mental disciplines. Though by no means the best she’d been an apt pupil and had mastered them well enough to avoid embarrassing the family name. One of her favorites because of its value to a Seeker was qran ztan, which translated from the Kandaler language as “Unnoticed.”

Could she do so in her current state? Qran ztan was not craft so required no channelling of external energy. It was an application of telepathic suggestion, subtly convincing surrounding people she was so unworthy of attention that she wasn’t even there. A qran ztan adept could walk in a crowd and even occasionally bump into a passerby without arousing notice. Zerene had never mastered the technique to that level, but if she stayed to the corners and byways she could cross a room or a town without leaving any memory of her passage.

She breathed deeply, evenly, mentally reciting the proper mantra. In response she felt her aura shift and turn inward. Normally auras bleed freely off their sources, living or inanimate, intersecting, blending, and parting as those sources moved toward or away from each other. Most people are oblivious to this constant commingling of energies, but the interaction backstops the evidence of physical senses. By turning her aura inward Zerene avoided contact with the auras of creatures and objects around her, removing that pervasive unconscious verification of being there. After that all she needed was a constant mental hum of Nothing to see here, move along to convince nearly anybody that she was no more than the same scenery they’d seen every time before.

The aureal twist felt right and the not there echoed in her mind like a favorite song. Unnoticed was a passive technique, reacting to the touch of other auras. She could maintain it without having to drop her own shields. The real test would be when she encountered another living creature, especially a sentient.

Half an hour later Zerene realized that while she hadn’t ended up where she’d intended, she was close to the place where she was most needed. Her shields were proof against airborne impressions, but the sick, oily taint leaking up through the ground with each press of her feet made walking forward into the glade even more of an ordeal. Something wasn’t just wrong here, something was evil.

But where was the source? The foulness was so pervasive that no matter which direction she stepped it was just as intense. Physical senses were no help; to eyes, ears, and nose this was an unremarkable glen, sparse grass littered with last season’s leaves and fallen twigs and dappled by spears of sunlight that had gotten through the canopy overhead. In fact by all normal estimates she had found a first-rate picnic spot. Only her psychometry betrayed the malevolence that contaminated this place.

Whatever the cause of the taint, it was something that should only be faced with proper preparation and equipment. Stomping in naked and dirty to confront it, she might just as well finish the job by slitting her own throat at its feet. Oh wait, she couldn’t slit her own throat, she had no knife!

The trail ended here. By simple elimination then the other direction must reach some sort of village. And now that she knew that she could make much better time. She turned and took a couple jogging steps, conceding some relief at leaving this sickening place even if only for a short time.

The cry was thin, strangled, and quickly cut off. But it was enough for her experienced ears to pinpoint a direction.

Zerene frowned, finely-traced brows drawing down into a straight line over her eyes. “The clouds parted, the skies opened,” she muttered, “and the lazy writer said ‘Time for a plot device.’ Damn it.”

She reassured herself that qran ztan was still in place and crept forward. With every step she fought the urge to recoil from that oily malignant feeling.

Her eye fell on a root projecting just slightly above the ground. To normal sight there was nothing remarkable about it. It wasn’t unusually large, nor did it rise high enough to be a hazard except for the very clumsy. Psychometry told a different story. Even though she was at a distance and her shields were tightly shut, she could tell the root was enchanted. Zerene could almost feel the weave of it and knew that with just a slight relaxing she’d riddle the sorcery. She steeled herself, knowing that even the smallest opening would let more of that sickness through.

The root twitched and arched upward, drawing the soil with it. A hole yawned open in the floor of the glade, small bits of dirt plopping from its ceiling. Zerene tensed, thinking for a moment that qran ztan had failed or been pierced. But nothing burst from the opening, and no change in the level psychic drone of nothing to see indicated her ruse had been detected. Could the opening be an automatic response to her presence that didn’t key off her aura? She knew that wards could be set to respond to nearly any stimulus, depending on the ability and preference of the mage doing the craft.

There was no doubt that whatever lay at the bottom of that hole was both the source of the evil in the glade, as well as the location of the scream’s author. Zerene crept forward, gaze intent on piercing the shadows in the hole for the slightest movement.

Her vigilance and years of Seeker experience paid off. Only the slightest stir in the stygian passage, a sound that might have been the windfall covering the glade floor stirred by a breeze, betrayed the approach of the thing that erupted from the tunnel. She dove out of its way by a hair’s breadth.

Revenant.

Zerene couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since normal breath had passed its lips, or since it last had lips. Dead bodies decay at different rates depending on many different factors. Long enough that what skin remained to cover muscle and bone either hung in slack folds or dangled in strips. The left arm had lost the muscles from shoulder to hand, and was only bone with a few strips of tendon. Soft organs like stomach, lungs, intestines, and eyes were long gone – both abdomen and sockets were but hollow pits. The lipless mouth stretched in a constant grin.

It had been a lamia in life. The head, torso, and arms were humanoid, but instead of legs it had a long serpentine tail. That appendage likewise was a rotting shadow of itself. As with the rest of it, the only force which allowed the putrefied muscle and bone to support and propel the thing was the will of the spirit which refused to accept its own death.

The head cast about, swinging from side to side as if it could still see. “Hhhhhhhhhhwho a’roacheszzzzzzz,” it hissed, not like a snake but like an instrument that had to build up enough wind to form words.

Zerene knew about revenants. She’d encountered a few during her career. Sometimes they were just regular people for whom life was such a joy and death such an unwelcome interruption that they denied their own passing. These were tragic souls who wanted only what everybody else wants, to stay as they were and finish what they started.

Most often though, revenants were mages in life. They were accustomed to changing reality to suit themselves, and fought any attempt by the universe to impose limits on their designs. That hubris persisted when breath and heartbeat failed, creating a psychotic state in which the soul countered or ignored all evidence of its own death. That was why dead skin dangled and fluids from rotting organs seeped unchecked – to address any such issues they had to be acknowledged, and doing so by extension would admit their cause.

With the revenant on one side of her and the tunnel on the other, Zerene could now feel through her feet the terror of young, living souls trapped below. She understood suddenly what was going on. Though she’d never personally encountered such a scenario, it was familiar enough from stories. The thing before her might be in denial of its own vanished mortality, but it knew that it was not well. It had lured or hunted local children and was holding them until circumstances were right to cast some twisted spell to save itself, expending their life force to power the enchantment.

Fury lit behind her eyes, flaring molten white. Her power rose with her rage, cresting and overwhelming the self-imposed limits of her shields. Nothing to see and qran ztan washed away as she took a stance in the middle of the tunnel mouth.

“Hhhhhhhdon’t runnnnnnhhhhhh…” the revenant called. “hhhhhiiiiI faster than youuuuuuhhh….” Its back was to her, its manner evidently unaware.

“Aye,” she said clearly. “You better hope you are.”

It spun so quickly she was surprised no pieces flew off. Its back was hunched and arms cocked, ready to spring on its prey. Whatever it was expecting though, a naked human female with wild sanguine hair and eyes that glowed like twin suns couldn’t have been on even its long list. It hesitated for just a moment, and that was its destruction.

Zerene felt the connection between the revenant and the children below. It was saving their essential energies, but sustaining itself on the fine pitch of terror it cultivated in them by its presence and manner. Wide open as she was, that connection was as visible and palpable as a heavy rope. All thoughts about proper armor and weaponry were gone. In this place, in this moment, she was the finest plate and the keenest edge.

First she severed the link between the revenant and its sustenance with the smallest effort. Then she reached into its mind and found a particular memory. That recollection she honed and sharpened, and thrust into the center of the undead thing’s soul. “Requiescat in pace,” she quoted, replaying for it the moment of its own death. With a sigh and a rattle the revenant fell to pieces, its remains scattering wetly across the glade.

The immediate threat gone, Zerene’s attention was drawn to the distress below her. She descended the tunnel and emerged into a grotto defined by the roots of the trees and bushes above, warped and bent to their previous master’s purpose. Those same tendrils formed cages suspended above the grotto floor, and in each cage was a lamia child. The only light was what came down the tunnel – when that was shut the grotto must have been black as the crypt it truly was, since the revenant wouldn’t have needed light to see. Zerene didn’t need to imagine for herself what that would have been like. She could see it in the eyes of each child, and feel the constant dread that even hunger and exhaustion could not dull.

Rescuing their bodies would not be difficult, just tedious… but ultimately futile. The fear they had learned here would stay with them. Their futures held nightmares, panic attacks, psychoses. The strongest of them would learn to live with it, but none of them could look forward to any sort of normal, happy life. Even now, as they regarded her with curiosity and the first faint flickers of hope the fear lived in them like a cancer, strong enough for her to touch.

To touch…

To seize?

She’d always been able to feel emotions around her, through touch or through the air if they were especially strong. But they’d been ephemeral things, scents and breezes that slipped through her fingers. Suddenly she realized what she had done with the revenant. She’d used her own rage to fuel her power. She’d treated the bond of fear between it and its captives as if it were a physical connection, a conduit to be sliced. Even the memory of its own death had been taken and reshaped into a weapon to send it to its final peace. Emotions for her were no longer just things to be felt. She could grab them, twist and bend them to her own designs, reduce them to their primal energy and use that in turn.

The thought was the deed. She kept shields around her essential self. She still tasted, smelled, and felt the fear, but it left no lasting stain. She could not alter the childrens’ memories, and wouldn’t even if she’d been able. What she could do and did, was to excise the psychic tumors from their spirits, take them into herself, and break them down into a harmless form which she then returned outward, cleansing also the taint that had soaked into the roots and soil of this place. The grotto would remain and the children would remember what had happened to them, but the scars of terror and stink of evil were gone.

Zerene reserved for herself just a tiny bit of morbid awe over how easy it all was….

Chatroom

CoG: Is this channel secure?

Neutr0n: No channel is secure. This is as good as it gets.

CoG: What happened?

Neutr0n: Your people screwed up.

CoG: Bullshit. The destruct signal was sent.

Neutr0n: Don’t lie. Your base’s mainframe was hacked. The BSOD spoof is all over the net!

CoG: Your failsafe was supposed to have a dead-man switch.

Neutr0n: It does.

CoG: Then why is the transport and cargo intact, in the hands of the authorities?!

Neutr0n: Paradigm Clutch.

CoG: You said Chandler wasn’t as good as you!

Neutr0n: He’s not. But they’re not stupid. If they sussed the failsafe and tanked it that could delay it going off.

CoG: Delay? Do you know how many charges I’m being indicted for?

Neutr0n: Fifty-six. Twelve of which carry adjustment.

CoG: Fuck you.

Neutr0n: Language.

CoG: If you want the rest of your money, find out what happened to the failsafe and neutralize it. My legal department can argue me out of adjustment, but if that failsafe comes to light I’m up for the death penalty. And I’ll take you with me.

Neutr0n: Don’t threaten me, Mr. Grisham.

CoG: Don’t use my real name! Now the watchdogs will have this channel tagged!

Neutr0n: They may even be able to backtrack the conversation. One more nail in your coffin, Carlton.

CoG: You meant to do that! You set me up!

Neutr0n: You set yourself up when you threatened me. This is a demonstration. I’m untouchable, you’re not.

Neutr0n: Don’t worry about the failsafe. I’ll find it and either neutralize it or set it off, depending on my mood. But it won’t be for you, or for the money.

Neutr0n: I’ll do it to show everybody that Stargrave is still the best.

Home

“Four hours,” Nathan murmured. “And we’ve moved not an inch.”

He felt the question form in his throat to ask Morphy for a status report, but realized it hadn’t been more than a half-hour since the last time he’d checked. Nicholas was in deep sleep in a tank downstairs, relieved of all the normal distractions of a physical body. His mind was connected to Morphy’s cybernetic consciousness more intimately than Nathan had thought possible. Morphy probed Nicholas’ memory and cognitive centers for strategies to defeat the biotrap inside Susan Bradford. Nicholas in turn linked the part of his mind which was connected to his twin to Morphy’s processing routines, to produce a systematic search grid through which Nicholas sent psychic queries to find his sister Zed.

In the meantime Nathan had nothing to do but sit, wait, and wonder.

He was not surprised that he and Nicholas could be friends, partners, and comrades for ten years and still keep secrets from each other. Nor was he dismayed. When Nathan had first come Earthside he’d seen the manner in which people’s privacy was routinely violated, their intimate affairs and follies blazoned in print and shouted through the airwaves. Raised in a culture of secrets and pretense, Nathan at first found such apparent honesty refreshing.

As he grew more familiar with his post he’d realized that it was not honor that drove the stream of revelations, but voyeurism. Nobody could gain fame without attracting the attention of “journalists” who traded in misfortune and unhappiness, real or fabricated. Stories of real heroism were buried in two-minute soundbites, while the latest celebrity mishap made the headlines. The same obsession infected personal relationships as well. Any unmentioned secret was a gross deception, an unforgivable breach of trust.

That had been another hidden blessing of Cantionis Terra. With three-fourths of the world population wiped out by the effects of the Warp and the remainder huddled together for survival, the only news anybody cared about was who was still alive and where. Hope became so precious that any example of mankind crawling back from the abyss was devoured and met with a demand for more of the same. If a person’s past or outlook didn’t affect the community’s welfare it didn’t bear mention. Instead of complete disclosure being the only standard of trust, people were left to their own honor to divulge those secrets that were dangerous to a relationship.

Nicholas had a twin sister, to whom he had been psychically linked. Something had happened to break that link, and they had lost track of each other when Nicholas had entered Mount Twilight. Now the link had been somehow reforged. Nathan knew Nicholas hadn’t yet shared the whole story, but he trusted that when it became important he would.

Restlessness finally got the better of him. “I’m going out for a flight,” he announced.

Morphy had left Cairnhaven, and was now parked at a turnout along Interstate 8. Massive bloodtrees spread red-veined branches high above the road. The forest extended from the foot of the Sierra Laguna range across the border and well into Arizona. The transformation of the Anza Borrego from desert had changed local climate as well. The hot, dry Santa Ana winds that used to bake San Diego every summer and fall were gone, along with the blistering summers and skin-chapping winters. The result was that Nathan stepped out of Morphy’s perfect climate control into a January evening that made short sleeves practical, and let his wings out.

The wings created a striking impression on either side of the Veil, though for different reasons. Many Earthside cultures held the power of flight as something exceptional, a literal ability to rise above the norm and enjoy release denied normal humanity. Whether angel, pilot, or superhero, the concept of a person in flight was an icon of freedom.

On Shenn a winged aerin meant only one thing: House Arasidhe.

Like all his kin Nathan had been taught to conceal his wings along with walking and mental shielding. He could keep them retracted for days with minimal strain. On Pre-Warp Earth this had been essential for obvious reasons. Given Earth’s current level of acceptance for its chimera population he could leave them out all the time without much comment, but a lifetime’s training is not easily set aside. Besides, he needed to stay in practice for his visits back home.

They were slender and smoothly-fletched, a darker shade of cloud-grey than his hair. The wrists rose just above his head, and the span hung down to his knees. By conventional aerodynamic standards they were wholly inadequate for lifting and maintaining his eighty-five kilos in the air. Then again they weren’t intended for that purpose.

Had he been an ‘off-the-rack’ Arasidhe Nathan would have needed to manipulate local winds and create an artificial jetstream if he wanted to fly faster than a trot. His unique hybrid nature allowed him other options. He reached out with his mind and pulled himself into the air.

Mastering telekinetic flight had required Nathan to unlearn principles drilled into him from childhood. Earth did not have a strong enough magical field to manipulate for levitation. He could call and control a jetstream, but he was still bound by axioms of lift and thrust.

Telekinesis ignored such concerns. Lift and speed were matters of faith. You could go as high and as fast as you believed. The catch was that you had to maintain absolute certainty in what you were doing. Doubt for a moment that you could move through the air by will alone, and you fell. Nathan knew one of Nicholas’ ongoing projects was to riddle the physics behind it all, and had made it clear he did not want to know anything about the progress of that study.

He lifted above the treetops, wings outstretched for balance and stability against the night wind. His lips stretched wide in a rapturous grin and he couldn’t help but laugh. Nathan loved flying. He dipped and rose, looped and curved, dove nearly to the ground only to break off and stretch skyward again. There was no plan to it, just one moment’s whimsy blending into the next. Levitation and winds couldn’t compare. Even if vampirism had given him no other gifts, for this alone Nathan could endure the predatory urges, the thirst, and the exile from his homeworld.

Moments like these never lasted long, which made them all the sweeter and more precious. A new sensation pricked Nathan’s psyche, familiar but unexpected. Somewhere nearby, somebody was gathering and focusing magical energy.

At the same time Morphy’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “Nathan, Nicholas has found a trace. Please return immediately.”

Nathan turned and dove through the forest canopy. His eyes goggled when Morphy came into view. The familiar maroon hull radiated a green-yellow light. “Ladies Bright!” Nathan invoked as he landed and leaped through the open door in one motion. “Morphy, what’s happening?”

“Uncertain, Nathan.” Morphy sounded remarkably unconcerned about his own lack of data. “Three-point-four seconds ago Nicholas alerted me that he had found a track on his sister. Three-point-one seconds ago he accessed my powerplant and began channeling energy through my outer hull. He is not responding to my queries as to his purpose.”

“Can you relay me to him?” Nathan cried. The sense of magic building was blunted through the dimensional interface between Morphy’s inner and outer hulls, but the pattern he’d sensed emerging from the energy outside suggested a boggling possibility.

“Done.”

“Nicholas!” Nathan cried. “Answer me!”

“Not now,” Nicholas’ voice answered from the air. Nathan knew that distant tone. Dr. Nicholas Chandler was engaged in a complex process with no margin for error and would brook no interruption.

“Exterior quantum state in flux,” Morphy announced. “Space-time orientation shifting.”

Nathan felt the change. It didn’t just ripple through the air, it sent waves through the fabric of the oxygen and nitrogen molecules that made up Morphy’s internal atmosphere. It was not unfamiliar – he’d felt it many times. Each time he’d passed through the Veil from Earth to Shenn or back he’d had this same feeling throughout his body and mind.

But how was Nicholas doing it?!

“Quantum state stabilizing,” Morphy updated. “Space-time orientation set to new coordinates.”

“Welcome home, Sinjinklaer,” Nathan murmured.

Because

The children wanted to race ahead, but Zerene’s legs were no match for their tails when it came to speed and they didn’t want to leave her behind. So they restrained themselves, and she in turn loped along the trail at a pace they could hold to without too much impatience.

After days in dark captivity and certainty that they were doomed the children were naturally elated at being alive and free. Their exultation was pure and infectious, and Zerene couldn’t help but be caught up in it. The closer they got to home the happier they became and the faster they raced. By the time they burst into the village’s circle they were a dirty, noisy, laughing horde running at full tilt.

The adults didn’t know what to make of it at first. Zerene guessed there’d been little to celebrate since their sons and daughters had begun disappearing. Some of them thought they were being attacked, which was understandable. The reappearance of their missing offspring as ragged, filthy savages overrunning the circle with a naked human either leading them or chasing them was bound to cause some leaps in conclusion.

Zerene tried to rein in her own euphoria so she could watch for anybody about to do something stupid, but realized she and the children were feeding off each other so thorougly she was caught in an endless spiral. Lost children found their families. Families realized these truly were their sons and daughters in their arms.

Before Zerene had been wading in happiness; now she was drowning in it. Her own power added to it as well, radiating back the elation which literally filled the air around her. On the bright side, the spiral of happiness caught all the villagers so thoroughly that there was no chance of anybody acting from suspicion or fear. She just hoped that natural entropy or exhaustion would ramp down the euphoria before somebody had a seizure!

Eventually it did. Zerene sat with the village elders some hours later while the party that had inevitably erupted began dying down. Though unfinished business tapped its toe in a corner of her mind, she was clean, fed, dressed, and happy to enjoy the moment. The lamia could supply nothing close to pants or shoes, but they had gifted her a sturdy woven tunic decorated with bright local embroidery. The sheath-like garment was just long enough to service modesty, and a belt gave it added security. The mania of the initial reunion had faded, leaving a steady hum of relief and contentment that was a balm for the psyche.

“Our shaman told us that Aren’s Glade was the center of the problem,” explained the First Elder whose name was Tesam. “We tried to purify it but our craft couldn’t overcome the thing’s power. We dared not even ward it for fear that the foulness there would turn the wards against us. All we could do was avoid it.”

“We sent to the Academy for a mage,” added Amelys, Third Elder. Zerene knew she was female by her name only. Her voice was nearly as deep and husky as Tesam’s, and like all lamia the differences between the genders were too subtle for anybody who wasn’t either a lamia or a scholar of their physiognomy. “But we are two days from the main road and have no portal services. It took a week to get a reply, and then the reply said we would have to wait another two weeks!”

“Academy mages are in very high demand, Amelys,” Tesam tempered the edge of his comrade’s frustration.

“If we had been aerin they’d have sent one sooner, I wager,” Amelys muttered.

Zerene kept her own counsel, not wanting to stir the waters any more. The Academy of Mages had been founded by aerin, and in its early history had accepted only aerin students. Time had brought more tolerant attitudes, but while modern student population included many of Shenn’s other races most of the teachers and all of the administration were still aerin. An argument could be made that this was due to the aerin’s superior facility for magic, but many among the ‘Lesser Races’ contested that claim. Common wisdom held that requests for a mage educated and licensed by the Academy took varying lengths of time to fill, depending on the dominant race of the applicant region.

Though some of the contracts Zerene had taken involved negtiations between Upper Court aerin houses, she made it a point to steer clear of politics as much as possible. She’d never been to the Academy and had met only three Academy mages in her career. One had been decent enough, one she held no opinion on, and one had been everything people hated about aerin.

“Well happily that is now neither here nor there,” Tesam declared, with just enough of an edge to his tone to make it clear that no more complaints about the Academy would be aired at the table tonight. He raised his flagon in a toast. “What a blessing from the Mothers that a Phoenix-Touched just happened to be passing through!”

Zerene’s embarrassed smile froze on her face, her own mug half-raised. Just happened to…?

To do better what you do anyway.

Sunnuvabitch. Why didn’t you see to it yourself, you damn bird?

Her epiphany was interrupted as one of the villagers burst into the room. “Bless me, elders,” the newcomer said. “A carriage has entered the circle, such as we have never seen!”

“Now they send somebody!” Amelys groused. All of the diners rose and moved toward the door, intrigued by the description of the visitors.

Though carriages drawn by animals were still used for recreational or ceremonial purposes, most wheeled transports on Shenn had long since shed the need for propulsion by muscle power. Modern carriages were in fact a breed of golem, given animation and in some cases limited awareness by enchantments placed during construction. Some were even capable of steering themselves along a predetermined route, including stops either at regular intervals or when properly signalled. With these refinements had come a greater variety in design, since no accommodations had to be made for yoke or harness. So while the lamia were fascinated by the vehicle which had entered their village, that was the extent of their reaction.

Zerene’s feet seemed to glue to the earth at her first sight of it, and her heart stomped on her ribs. She hadn’t seen a vehicle like this in ten years. The details of line and size were different from those she remembered. But there was no mistaking: this was an Earthside recreational vehicle.

“We have arrived at the coordinates Nicholas programmed,” Morphy announced.

“Huzzah,” Nathan replied with evident sarcasm. “Just where is that? And when does Dr. Chandler intend to decant himself?”

“It appears to be a small community populated by lamia,” Morphy answered, and a view of the village circle appeared in the air. “At the moment Nicholas cannot be decanted.”

Nathan’s attention jerked away from the view hovering before him. “What?!” he cried. “What’s wrong?”

“Analysis is underway,” Morphy answered. “His c-conscious cognitive processes stopped as soon as our space-time orientation stabilized. Until I have established he is unharmed he should stay suspended.”

Nathan nodded, then a spot of brilliance in the view of the village caught his peripheral vision. He shifted his gaze, and inhaled sharply. “Bright… Ladies…” he breathed, eyes boggled.

She was more slender than Nicholas, like a lean, boyish version of him without all the added muscle. Her skin was a slightly darker shade of Nicholas’ terra-cotta coloring. Nathan noted the bloody hair and sunlike eyes but filed them away. He memorized the line of her cheek and jaw, and the way her neck blended smoothly into her shoulders, then down the lean contours of torso and waist with just a bare swelling of hip. The coup de grace were her legs: long and lean and smoothly-muscled, going on forever.

“Nathan, we’re being hailed.” Morphy’s words seem to speak directly in his ear, jolting him from the enchantment. But the spell remains… On the floating image two of the lamia stood close to Morphy’s door, each with a hand up and one saying something. Morphy helpfully surrounded them with luminous outlines.

“Sound please, Morphy.” Nathan waited a few moments, then blinked at the still-mute image. “Morphy, sound please.”

“–hospitality and join our celebration,” the one lamia (male, if he remembered right) was saying. “Though the purpose of your journey has already been fulfilled, still you are welcome to take part in what meagre diversions our clutch offers.”

“Who do they think we are?” Nathan murmured. “Well, best not to snub them after we’ve come so far.” He checked his clothes and was thankful that despite his years Earthside he still preferred fashions that could at least pass on this side of the Veil, and headed for the door. The inner foyer door yielded readily, but when he pulled on the outer door it stuck fast. “What the deuce? Morphy!”

The door swung open and somebody stepped out. Morphy’s sudden misbehavior, Nicholas’ unprecedented ability to part the Veil and pass their vehicle from Earth to Shenn, and even her were put aside, at least momentarily. Also shed for the occasion was the persona of Nathan St. John, gentleman adventurer and elfin chimera. The person that emerged from the strange carriage was Lord Sinjinklaer Arasidhe of House Arasidhe.

“Good people!” he said, and was relieved that his command of Shenn’s common tongue hadn’t slipped after months of disuse. “Happy am I to be here among you, and even more glad to learn that the misfortune which I was called to address has been resolved! I am honored to partake of your festivities, though before I do one question has yet to be answered.” A lifetime’s training came to the fore, words spinning off his tongue even as his mind sampled, analyzed, drew conclusions, and formed strategies on gathered information. “What miracle has come that lifted the distress from your midst?”

As if rehearsed the collected heads turned, bodies parted, and she stood revealed. Lord Sinjinklaer’s heart swelled fit to bursting at the sight of her, and it took every second spent in Arasidhe training for him to maintain a proper mien. Belatedly he digested the difference in her hair and eyes from her brother’s, and realized what sort of being now held his heart in her grasp. Phoenix-Touched!

Zerene’s reaction was more ambiguous. Ladies Bright, Arasidhe! What the hell is an Arasidhe doing here, in an Earthside RV?!

“N-Nathan!” Morphy screeched. “Terminus unstable! Q-quantum state shifting! Interface des-de- oh no!”

Nathan looked around him, and saw the edges of the doorway that before had always been sharply-defined and easy to dismiss were now blurred and becoming moreso. In the wrinkles and cracks that appeared in-between shone currents and eddies of ebon, emerald, and auric. He’d never seen it in person, but training told him what it meant. Veil breach!

He shot out a hand. “Zed!” he shouted. “Hurry! Nick needs you!”

Nick?

Zerene took one step forward and looked down, glaring at the errant foot. What the hell are you doing?

Why the hell are you stopping? the foot replied. Nick needs us!

For the citizens of Raea Village it was the cap to a supremely strange evening. The beast that had stolen their children was no more, defeated by a Phoenix-Touched human, who in turn was stolen away by an Arasidhe Lord in a carriage stranger than any they had ever heard of. In years to come they enriched local folklore with stories of this, and what happened afterward….

Q&A

“My God,” Galen Cairn said, staring at the person on the infirmary bed. “It is her. What’s happened to her?”

“Vitals are strong,” Lorena Paulsen reassured him as she checked Zed over. “What you’d expect for a person who’s unconscious. Overall she’s in excellent condition, not a wound or scar anywhere.”

Galen couldn’t take his eyes away. He hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years, but knew her at a glance. The angle of nose and jaw was so close to Nick’s, she looked like a female version of him. The resemblance between them had always been startling, much closer than one normally saw between non-identical twins. The decade that had passed between the last time Galen had seen his god-daughter and now had taken a boyishly cute young girl and turned her into a strikingly handsome woman. Then there was the hair….

“Psychics?” Galen asked. “Why isn’t she hooked up?” He looked around, then looked again as he realized a piece of equipment normally present in the infirmary was absent.

Lorena finished her examination and regarded Galen. Her Lakota heritage was obvious in her broad, generous figure, dusky skin, and square features. Her jet-black hair was tousled as if she’d just risen from sleep, and from the fleece slippers insulating her feet against the tile floor Galen deduced this was the case. “Notice a smell in the air?” she asked.

Galen blinked at the apparent non sequitur, but realized that along with the usual blend of antiseptic and air freshener that characterized any medical facility, hovered a faint metallic acridity. It was a smell he knew well from years working on various electronic systems: fried insulation and circuitry. “What happened?” he asked.

“I hooked her up to the PSQUID,” Lorena told him. “As soon as I turned it on it overloaded. It’s in the shop right now to see if she blew anything besides the breakers. I don’t know if she’s psi, but her potential’s right off the scale.” She frowned. “The real problem is without a MEG reading I can’t tell what kind of psychic trauma she’s suffered.”

Galen nodded with a slight answering frown. One of the echoes of the Warp that had taken longer to attract notice was an increase in psychic and paranormal phenomena on Earth. Hauntings, witchcraft, telepathy – how they worked was still open to investigation and debate, but the effects had become replicable enough that only the most hidebound scientific minds resisted admitting their existence.

One common factor that had been found among all these phenomena were subtle shifts in magnetic fields, either in the brain of the witch or psychic or in places where ghostly effects were detected. The science of magnetoencephalography came into its own for the detection and measurement of these shifts, and how they correlated to the physical phenomena recorded. Foremost among the devices used in this research was the SQUID – superconducting quantum interference device, essentially a supersensitive magnetometer. Anybody could claim witchly or psychic abilities, but to the world at large only those whose potential was verified by a SQUID were authentic.

At first SQUIDs were used only for research. Then in 1999 the idea of psychic trauma, shock not to tissue but to the fields of energy produced by the body and brain, gained credence. Only a year later most trauma units included a SQUID specially-calibrated to the human brain, to detect anomalies that would indicate such trauma. The engineer who filed the patent on the modified device indulged in enough whimsy to attach a silent P on the name, so it was officially known as the PSQUID.

“Find a PSQUID that can handle her brain fields,” Galen directed Lorena. “I don’t care if you have to buy it factory-direct or have it made. Carte blanche.”

Lorena smiled indulgently. Like everybody else who’d survived Cantionis Terra she’d lost her share of loved ones. She took the care of every patient who came into her infirmary as personally as Galen did every customer and resident of Cairnhaven itself. “Don’t worry, Galen,” she assured him. “I’ll go before she does.”

Elsewhere Nathan sat in Galen’s office, facing the flat transparency of his desktop monitor. A man’s face floated in the monitor’s pane. If that man had cared to be as handsome, groomed, and youthful as he could afford to be, he’d mirror Adonis himself. As it was his Nordic features showed a fine balance between youthful daring and mature authority, as befit one of the world’s most powerful people.

“Nicholas needs your help, Xander,” Nathan said without preamble.

“He must,” Xander Struyck replied, “if it’s you calling and not him.” A man known for his forthright manner, he did not bridle at Nathan’s lack of ceremony. “What’s up?”

“We made an unplanned jaunt Feyside,” Nathan told him, “and the trip apparently didn’t set well with Morphy. We slingshot back and he shut completely down. Nicholas was tanked at the time, and he and another passenger are still inside.”

“Feyside!” Xander echoed. “Does your grandmother know?”

“I presume not,” Nathan replied, “else she’d have contacted you by now. The point is, Xander, that the prototype mobile command base you gave Nicholas and I now sits inert in Cairnhaven’s parking lot with two people inside in deep suspension. One of whom is of more than passing importance to you and I.”

Xander nodded, smiling. “Point made. The world’s foremost expert on Morphy is en route, she should reach Cairnhaven in less than four hours.”

“Ladies Will that’ll be soon enough,” Nathan prayed.

“Amen,” Xander agreed and signed off.

Nathan looked through the monitor pane and saw Galen standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. “Q and A,” Nathan said.

“Just a touch,” Galen confirmed. “I’ll let people keep their secrets, but when wormholes start dumping MCBs and long-lost relatives in my parking lot, my innate nosiness gets the better of me.”

“Touche,” Nathan acknowledged as he came out from behind the desk. Galen waved a hand in front of himself, beckoning Nathan ahead of him. Both of them knew where they were headed. Galen maintained a mostly open-door policy for his office and apartments, but when he wanted a private conversation he had a sanctum set aside.

The room sat directly beneath the original Desert View Tower, and used to be its basement. The door which used to lead from the ground floor of the tower had been sealed shut – access now was through an unremarkable ‘authorized personnel only’ door tucked in a corner of Cairnhaven’s first sub-level. The room had been used for storage until Galen bought the old landmark. He had turned it into a state-of-the-art (for the 1990s) Internet center, from which he conducted his business of brokering information and clandestine services. The furniture was sparse now as it was then, a desk, chair, couch, and cot. The only concession to modern technology was the computer which included the transparent monitor pane and wireless keyboard, standard peripherals these days.

The rest of the room was taken up by server racks. Rather than computers designed for hosting Web services or databases, the racks had been converted for display. They held a variety of objects in varying states of preservation, ranging from ordinary (an empty Coke bottle, the label partially scratched off, a dark ring of petrified residue encircling the inner bottom) to intriguing (a set of Space Shuttle flight crew fatigues, neatly pressed and folded, the mission patch identifying them as belonging to Challenger Mission STS-51-L) to grotesque (a tarantula encased in acrylic, legs extended to their full eight-inch span, humanoid face frozen in a smile). All of them had a story, but only those closest to Galen had ever seen the collection.

Galen waved Nathan to the couch, then sat down on the opposite end of it. Springs creaked as he did so, testament both to the age of the couch and Galen’s mass.

“First,” Nathan opened, “what happened was a surprise to me as much as anybody.” He went on to summarize how they’d passed the past five hours. The opening interval of boredom was quickly glossed over with little editing. Events after that required more creativity. An essentially honest soul, Nathan was still subject to pangs of conscience at lying to people he otherwise trusted, even if only by omission. More dismaying was how adept he’d become at it. Simply by leaving out a few details, he created the impression that Nicholas and he had capped off hours of painstaking but dull searching with a weird encounter in a remote village, involving both Zed and an anomaly in the space-time continuum. Improbable as that sounded, it was more in keeping with their usual adventures than the whole story!

Galen’s expression remained unchanged throughout the account, showing only intent interest. Nathan St. John and Nicholas Chandler had first rolled through his gate when the community that had become Cairnhaven was just a collection of stranded vehicles taking refuge in the Desert View Tower’s parking lot after surviving the trek through the newly-sprung Borrego Forest.

From their first introduction Galen had pegged Nathan as a fellow delver and keeper of secrets. Under normal circumstances Galen would have made a point to dig through every database and Web-thread and find out just what the charismatic chimera wasn’t telling him. Of course circumstances were anything but normal in those days. By the time things settled down and Galen was able to think further ahead than the next few days, a quality of trust had grown between Nathan and himself, such that he was certain he’d be among the first to know anything critical to himself or Cairnhaven. And since founding and running Cairnhaven left him with little time for much else, he’d mostly retired from the information business anyway.

Old skills die hard though. So now as he listened to Nathan’s version of how he and Zed had managed to fall out of the sky with Morphy, Galen knew he wasn’t getting all the facts. But he also knew that whatever Nathan was holding back, was being held for a good reason.

Old habits are just as resilient as old skills. Should a chance to fill in those holes present itself, Galen would not go out of his way to avoid it.

“Your turn,” Nathan said when he’d finished. “How is Zed? May I see her?”

“Lorena gave her a clean bill of health physically,” Galen told him, noting the slightly off-kilter attempt at nonchalance at Nathan’s request. He rose from the couch and headed for the door, that Nathan should follow implicit in his manner. “She fried our PSQUID though, so we’ve no idea what’s going on in her head.”

Fried the PSQUID, Nathan echoed to himself. Yes, from a Phoenix-Touched I’d expect no less. That’ll be a story in itself.

Lorena glanced up from her monitor and smiled at Nathan as they entered the infirmary. Normally Nathan would have returned her greeting with all manner of charming BS, knowing that there was no chance any of it would be taken seriously. That he spared only a smile and a spoken greeting before crossing briskly to Zed’s bedside and staring down at her brought a curious, amused curve to Lorena’s eyebrows and mouth. She spared a few more moments away from her search for a suitable PSQUID to watch. Oh really? She thought to herself.

Nathan was not a fool in the ways of his own heart, nor was he given to denial. He’d felt infatuation and fascination before, and been in love more than once. He knew what his own reaction to seeing Zed in the lamia village had meant, and knew why he now could not help but retrace her contours with his eyes. This time he allowed himself to linger on her hair. It was long and straight, lacking the very slight wave that Nicholas had. He looked at one lock that draped from her bangs to one side, and realized that when she was standing it had fallen rebelliously over one eye. He found himself toying with various scenarios in which he’d brush that lock back, and sighed.

In love with my brother’s long-lost Phoenix-Touched twin sister, he thought wryly. You do have a gift for complicating things, Sinjinklaer.

His introspection was broken by the buzz of his phone. He held the small oblong device to his ear. “St. John.”

“Mr. St. John,” said an unfamiliar feminine voice from the speaker. “My name is Xandra Strong. I’m the expert come to find out what’s wrong with your ride. Would you please meet me outside?”

Nathan glanced at the infirmary wall clock. Barely more than an hour had passed since he’d spoken to Xander Struyck. They are a punctual lot at Struyck Worldwide.

Nathan wasn’t sure what to expect of Xandra Strong. Her name piqued his curiosity for its resemblance to Xander Struyck. The head of Struyck Worldwide was known for unabashed nepotism, employing close friends or family in key positions in his empire. In defense of the practice was Nathan’s experience that these people were always very good at their jobs, regardless of any personal connection to their employer.

What he did not expect was a mage of unmistakable power and prowess.

She was of average size, slightly over a meter-and-a-half tall. Raven hair framed a face of breathtaking beauty, the sort that would gain character with age but never decay. She was dressed simply and conservatively in a straightforward matching skirt, blouse, and blazer. To the uninitiated she appeared as a striking example of confident womanhood, but within normal realms for all of that. To Nathan’s aerin sensitivities she shone like a beacon.

She stood next to Morphy’s inert hull, a sedan of recent make parked nearby. As Nathan approached she smiled and extended her hand. “Mr. St. John,” she said. Her voice was husky, with a slight burr that might once have been an accent. “Xander has spoken of you often and well. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Nathan took the proffered hand, lifted it to his mouth and brushed his lips across it just enough to make contact. She left her arm relaxed as he did so, which told him she was schooled in such greetings. He caught the glint of gold on her left hand. “Mrs. Strong,” he replied, answering her smile with his own. “I’d love to say the same, but Xander has unfortunately left me at a disadvantage.”

“There may be time later for pleasantries and anecdotes,” she said, gently reclaiming her hand. “For now let’s see what’s to be done here.” She looked toward Morphy, then caught Nathan’s gaze and smiled again. “We understand each other, do we not, Mr. St. John?”

Nathan knew what she meant. Command of magecraft brought an increased awareness of the invisible energies that flowed through and between worlds. As Nathan could not help but see her for what she was, so she had discerned the truth about him as well.

But does she know all of it?

He again answered her smile and nodded. “I think we do,” he agreed. “And please. Nathan.”

“Xandra,” she replied, and turned toward Morphy. She paced slowly along the vehicle’s length, trailing one hand along its hull as she walked. Nathan felt a quiet flow of power from her, and kept silent while she worked.

She made a complete circuit, coming to a stop in front of Morphy. Nathan’s eyebrows arched curiously at her expression. She had a small smile, but her eyes were bright with tears. She looked as if she’d just visited a dear friend in the hospital and wasn’t sure what to make of the diagnosis.

“He’ll be fine,” she said, and Nathan suddenly realized she was speaking about Morphy. “The trip through the Veil was a jolt, but he’s adjusting to it. He just needs time.”

“That is a relief,” Nathan agreed, but kept the statement that wanted to follow unsaid.

“But not your first priority,” Xandra said it for him, her expression sobering. “There I fear the news is not as good. Emergency protocols took over just before the rift that brought you back here. All suspension tanks were flushed prior to transit.”

Nathan’s heart thudded. “They’re on Shenn?” he whispered, shock letting the name of his homeworld slip.

Kansas

Susan Bradford sat up and wondered what sort of hell she’d been delivered to. Her last memory was of the thing in the transport tearing the cab door off its track and staring murder at her. Now she was on the ground in just her underwear, surrounded by horrible snaky monsters. Experience and hardwired skills gave only two choices: fight or run.

She ran.

Nanofiber-enhanced muscle, ligament, tendon, and bone pushed her upright and hurtling past the monsters. Wide-spectrum retinae made night into noon so she could see the graded dirt road ahead of her. Telemetry implants would be receiving coordinates from the GPS network, and in turn transmitting her position to a Longbow retrieval team. Within two hours she’d be back where she belonged.

Except her GIB alerted her to a malfunction: her implants weren’t picking up any GPS signals. Diagnostics were already checking for the source of the problem. Worry pricked at the back of her head. She had a safe operating limit of thirty-six hours before she’d need her next treatment. She’d been down to eleven when they’d left the base, expecting to get her fix when the transport reached Ensenada. Her onboard clock now said she had three hours and change. The deadline was fuzzy, she’d been told; it represented the point at which she’d start experiencing serious impairment. Depending on her overall condition, environment, and how much she taxed her systems, she might have a three-hour window of error.

She was obviously somewhere far from civilization. The night sky was strewn with stars, dazzling her enhanced vision. She stared upward for a few seconds. A child of the city, she’d never learned to read constellations or even pick out familiar stars by their position. She didn’t know Polaris from Venus. As she stared at the sky though, two things made her even more uneasy: the first was the greenish tint to it all. The second was that though she couldn’t have picked out a single celestial body anyway, she found herself fighting a losing battle against the certainty that she’d never seen this sky before.

Diagnostics gave her telemetry implants a thumbs-up. The net of receivers in her shoulders and chest was operating properly, ready to receive the microwave signals from the GPS sats which would triangulate her position. The only problem was there were no signals to receive.

Impossible. The system was called Global Positioning for a reason! No matter where she was on Earth, she should be able to get a signal! Interference, had to be. Something was jamming her, blocking the signals.

Calm down, you stupid cow, she scolded herself. Just find some high ground, somewhere to get a clean signal or see some city lights. And when you get home, see about downloading some wilderness survival skills!

Suddenly he was there. All her senses were on maximum, yet he stepped out of the shadow like it was a doorway. Like her he was dressed only in underwear, but he seemed completely oblivious to that fact. “Ms. Bradford,” he said. “I hope you remember me. We have to get back to the village if we want the best chances of retrieval.”

“Retrieval and what?” Susan challenged him. “Arrest? Adjustment?” She shook her head and struck a pose with her arms akimbo, hips and shoulders square. She knew how this emphasized her legs and chest, that was the idea. Even on Post-Warp Earth people were people. Even if they didn’t swing that way, few could avoid being distracted by some well-fleshed flash and grind.

She held the pose for just a second before moving in. She remembered how he’d decked her in the transport. Dr. Nicholas Chandler, nano-engineer and adventurer, of course he’d be augmented. This time she was ready for him.

She saw him twist and tried to adjust, but inertia worked against her. Something brushed her wrist and shoulder, and suddenly she cartwheeled into a tree. A flock of winged things that had been nesting overhead screeched at the impact and fled, their passage making the green stars blink.

She bounced off the tree-trunk and righted herself, spinning to face him. His hands were up palms-out in a placating gesture, but she saw he was also balanced on the balls of his feet. “Please, Ms. Bradford,” he pleaded. “Don’t do this. You don’t know what’s happening.”

“Sure I do,” she assured him and moved in again. He’d twisted left last time, so the throw had to have been done right-handed. Her GIB gave a 72% chance he’d twist right this time, in order to avoid repetition which would give her a tell. She angled her charge the same direction, intending to catch him in the knee, groin, and throat.

He did twist right, but too early and too far. She caught a glimpse of his broad back and altered her angle for a kidney shot, only to find air under her fingers again. This time the touch was at the back of her neck and the base of her calf. Earth and sky switched places and back again, and she slammed against the ground, staring upward.

“Listen to me!” he hissed, standing a meter-and-a-half away. “Longbow lied to you. Themiscyran augmentation is safe and stable, no matter what the tabloids say. But they added something I bet they didn’t tell you about. You have a biotrap.”

“Shut up!” she told him and kipped to a ready crouch. “I have to get back or I’m dead!”

“You’re right,” he told her, “but not how you think. I can help you, but only if you come back with me.” He held out a hand. “Come on. Do you really want to be Longbow’s bitch the rest of your life?”

“Better that,” she gritted, “than some brainscrubbed Pollyanna zombie!” She launched herself again, but this time she fooled him. She aborted her attack and poured on as much speed as she could. Two passes and she hadn’t touched him, while he’d laid her out both times without turning a hair. One lesson Susan had learned long before her augmentation was running away.

She went off the road this time, dodging branches and bushes and trying only to keep as straight a course as possible. She knew she might be making things worse by cutting across country, but she couldn’t think of any other way to put distance between herself and him. She thought she saw a thinning in the growth ahead of her. If it were a field she could sprint it, get more of a lead. All she needed was to get clear of this jamming and to a clear signal, and she’d be home free. She kicked harder against the ground as she reached the edge –

–and burst into space.

Her legs beat the air as if trying to pedal a bicycle. She wasn’t sure how far she was from the opposite side of the gap, but knew she couldn’t have cleared it even if she’d actually jumped. She didn’t want to look down, but did anyway. Even if the shadowy thread at the bottom of the chasm were a river and she were lucky enough to hit it, it was probably so shallow she’d break half the bones in her body. Oh, she’d heal in less than twelve hours, not that it mattered since she’d be dead in half that time!

Suddenly an arm looped around her waist and she felt the heat of another nearly-nude body against her. The added weight made her spin in the air until she could tell which way was up only by the direction of the wind rushing past them.

Go limp! His voice was clear in her mind, as if she’d heard it on a different channel than the roar of their fall. Was he a psi too?

She felt mist on her skin and realized they were right above the water. Survival progamming took over, and she let her muscles relax as much as possible. She gulped a mouthful of air just before they hit.

The roar of rushing air was replaced by that of roiling water. They twisted and spun in the icy rapids. A rock abraded across her left thigh and it felt like a blade, then her mind’s eye exploded with the false optic flare of cranial impact and she knew nothing at all, again.

For a second time Susan felt surprised to wake up alive and intact. More than that, she was even warm and comfortable. Something was wrapped around her from neck to toes and made a comfortable weight on top of her. The unmistakable warmth of sunlight bathed her face, and she blinked only a few times when she opened her eyes before her pupils squeezed nearly shut against the glare. Smoke carrying the scent of roasting meat brushed across her nostrils, and both her stomach and salivary glands awoke with a vengeance.

She tried to sit up and succeeded with a little effort. The lattice of grass and branches which had covered her unraveled as she rose. She stopped and looked down at the shallow pit in which she’d lay, and was struck by the fact that it was also lined by a layer of matted grass. The whole thing was just twigs and weeds, but it had been as warm and comfortable as a luxury bed.

He crouched a few meters away, tending a fire. Skinned carcasses of creatures the general size and proportion of small dogs roasted on a spit over the crackling flames. As she looked he reached out and gave the spit a precise quarter-turn. On the ground next to him were sharpened stones that looked like something out of a museum exhibit that should have the placard next to them reading “Primitive Tools.”

“Before you take off again,” he said without looking at her, “look up.”

She did. It was a morning sky, clear of anything but the rising sun, not a cloud in sight. Just a vast bottomless dome of–

Green.

The world suddenly spun and her feet felt a million klicks away from her head. She sat down heavily, unable to take her eyes off that expanse that should have been blue but wasn’t.

“Here,” he said. He held a stick out to her, on which was impaled one of the roasted animals. “Reconstruction takes fuel. It’s safe, I already ate two.”

“Green…” she murmured.

“I know,” he answered. He took her hand in his and put the spit into it, closing her fingers around it.

“Where are we?”

“Speaking either locally or continually,” he replied, “I don’t know. But I’ve been on this world before, when I was a boy.” He moved his grip from her hand to her chin, caught and held her eyes with his. “The point is it’s not Earth. And if you have any interest at all in getting back, I’m your best bet. Now eat.”

She nodded distractedly and took a bite. Then another. Suddenly she realized she was sucking the last strips from the thing’s bones.

“Feel better?” he asked, one corner of his mouth quirking as he handed her another.

His question struck a flare of panic in her. Frantically she checked her onboard clock. Ten hours had passed since she’d awakened in the monsters’ village. Even allowing for a generous margin of error, she was well past her regular treatment time. She cued a full diagnostic even as she attacked the second roasted not-a-dog.

He must have guessed what she was doing. “Clean bill of health?” he asked. “No degradation or corrosion?”

She shook her head, barely daring to believe it. The constant threat of missing a treatment had been a fact of life ever since she’d awakened after becoming Themiscyran. “Everything’s… fine.” Her own words echoed in her head, making it real. “They… lied.”

“Yes, they did,” he confirmed.

A sick feeling choked her throat, but the meal was already too far digested to come back up. It was an old, familiar emotion she’d known since childhood. At home, in the classroom, on the playground; it had pulled her hair and hissed in her ear, pointing a finger and discussing in excruciating detail every mistake she’d ever made, every failure she’d ever suffered. No matter how much she tried, how hard she worked, it had held up a standard to show how short she’d fallen. Becoming Themiscyran was supposed to get rid of it, or at least give it fewer opportunities to torture her.

“S-stupid,” she choked out. “S-so stupid.”

She sprang to her feet and flung the partially-eaten animal. It flew end-over-end and crashed out of sight among the treetops. She opened her mouth wide to scream, give voice to the fury and despair that boiled up again at her own obvious inadequacy.

A sinewy hand closed over her mouth before the first syllable escaped, and once again she heard his voice without her ears. Whatever you’re feeling, he told her, loud noises in the wilderness tend to attract predators. I’d rather not knock you out, but I have too many plans to end up as something else’s dinner. Clear? The shock of the mental contact doused her hysteria, cooling and soothing the psychic wounds her epiphany had torn open. She nodded and he lowered his hand.

Tears stung her eyes nonetheless. “I’m such a fuckup,” she whispered.

“That remains to be seen,” he replied conversationally. “One man’s fuckup is another man’s serendipity.”

She stared at him. “What fortune cookie did you get that out of?”

He smiled suddenly. “Fong’s Food Express, Harbor and Broadway, San Diego. June 3, 2000.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Yah,” he said, and blinked as if just realizing it himself. “I am.”