Spontaneous Fiction

Deliverance (a sermon)

2010-03-03T22:07:00.002-05:00

In the old time under the Green Men, those vicious monsters of space, the last of Earth’s authority came together. The armies of the world were long since made rubble and corpses, human science a thing of legend, so the only avenue left those former kings and merchant princes was religion. Clergy from all faiths urged their people to join in prayer, a fervent appeal to their Higher Power to deliver them from the invaders. This global clergy, united for the first time in history in the face of this universal Other, poured over their texts and sacred books, seeking the means to call down that deliverance.

It was a Muslim cleric and a Wiccan high priestess who found the incantation, in a book buried deep beneath the Vatican; an incantation that would summon a holy warrior, one that would bring the great and terrible Wrath of the Divine. With the incantation they’d found, humanity could call down God’s Worst Bastard.

And when he came among the last humans, he was known as Pope Adam the Destroyer. His was a hunger of infinite measure, satisfied only by the souls of aliens. With each soul devoured, Pope Adam the Destroyer added one more mindless drone to his growing army. They swept across the globe, the remaining aliens fleeing before such a fate. When the last of the invaders had gone, humanity’s savior presented them with the God Factory, a vast industrial complex fueled by the souls he’d taken, worked by the bodies those souls had once inhabited. The God Factory made the machines that made everything the recovering human race could need, bringing about a paradise from their blasted and blighted Earth.

And so it is, in this, the year of the Destroyer 117, a century since our deliverer had left us, that we are recovered enough to think on vengeance. We go now to the God Factory to build new machines, sacred machines that only the Mechanics of the Holy Order can operate; machines to find the aliens’ homeworld and machines we can use to kill everything we see once we get there.

Blessed, blessed, thrice blessed are the warriors in the Destroyer’s armies, for theirs is the right and the power of the Divine.

Praise Be.

The Last Bastion

2009-12-30T00:05:00.003-05:00

He floated out among the Transient Spaces, too exhausted to even rebuild his vessel. He reached out his hand, sparing energy he didn't have to rejuvenate a dying galaxy. Here at the very fringes of the Edge Zones, where the battle was waged, the physical realm was sparse and even more sparsely populated. A distant arm of the galaxy in God's hand contained the home of an ancient sentient species. They'd moved their galaxy here to observe the battle, knowing the slim chance of survival, but desperately needing to record the event. Their scanning instruments focused on the deity that had saved them and they offered up a hymn of thanks, engaging all sentient life in that galaxy to add their prayers, knowing what focused worship could do for a supreme being. That worship brought strength back to God's weary presence. He used that energy to send the galaxy far away, then fortify the barriers for the next attack.

Far off into infinity, across the great emptiness, darkness roiled and swelled. He had cast it out, so many eons ago, and so had been able to tame the universe and populate it with beings of his own creation. Now the dark had returned, threatening his universe with the devastation of pure chaos. Fortunately, God had seen the darkness coming when it was still thousands of millennia out and engineered a species designed to combat and nullify the dark. He'd stayed with them as long as he could, then, forced to confront the darkness directly, left his people to develop on their own, sending messengers with knowledge and technology just before he left.

It had been a couple thousand years since he'd activated the Savior protocol. Through a half-mortal proxy, new technology and abilities should have been granted to his little super-hominids beyond the simple tools and philosophies his first messengers had given. Over a few centuries, his proxy should have expanded their minds to hold the knowledge they'd need to make war on the dark, teaching them the illuminated language of God. Further instructions passed on during the Prophet cycle should have allowed them even greater understanding of the vast powers granted by the Savior protocol. He'd been broadcasting specific instructions relating to the coming war against the dark via sensitives over the centuries, and if his people had followed them, they would be prepared for the worst.

Then the last of God's barriers broke and the darkness invaded the universe in a great rushing wave. God raced ahead, outpacing the darkness by mere decades, arriving on Earth with less than a century until the darkness overwhelmed them. He stood mighty in the sky, his countenance spanning the horizon. In his own language, spoken first by the stars when they were young, God rallied his people to him.

After a pause just long enough to be unsettling, humanity looked up at God and said, "Huh?"

Old Ones

2009-08-14T22:06:00.001-04:00

Hers was the light, the radiant beam from heaven that shone down upon us. She was the herald, the voice, the emissary. She would lead the First Ones home, so our Makers could walk among us again. She told us all of this, in our own languages, using imagery and myth from our own religions. She sang scripture from the skies above sprawling cities, healed the sick with a kiss, sanctified the desert, making it fertile. All flocked to her, seeing a savior. There were none who disbelieved. The most fundamentalist zealot knelt beside the most cynical of atheists in worship of her. She loved us, she said, filling us with joy. But hers was nothing to the love of the First Ones. The First Ones are love, she would tell us, they are love incarnate. Her miracles had been wrought, she explained, to make the world holy enough for its creators to return to.

The First Ones came among us as solid light. Walking prism-men that dwarfed the tallest skyline strode across the surface of the world and called it small. They convened in a crystalline structure that folded space in 10 dimensions and a man approached their merged hard-light forms, proposing to meditate upon them. At the 10th second of the 10th minute of the 10th hour of the 10th day, he finally saw past the humble 3 dimensions of human perception, first seeing time become solid around him, then the latter 6 opened with increasing impossibility. When he unlocked the 10th dimension, his mind went, drawn from him, peeled off from his soul as it uploaded to the vast hypercomputers of the Third Ones.

And so did all the great thinkers and holy people come to the First Ones, gazing deep into their 10-dimensional geometry. As with the first, they all become operating software for the machines that map the multiverse, as one with the precision devices of the Third Ones. Their still-living bodies were guarded by those left behind, those who remained to prepare for the coming of the Second Ones: living nightmares, a failed god experiment.

And then she rose again, her light once more a beacon, no longer dimmed by the radiance of the First Ones. Her light split the Second Ones asunder as they came, casting daylight into the shadowy murk that sustained them. Their shades were captured among their creators' prism bodies, to be returned to the edge of the universe that spawned them.

We are the Tenth Ones, the Last Ones, called the Empty Ones by the uncharitable among the shimmering choirs.

None will come after us.

The Wizard's Lament

2009-04-05T01:46:00.001-04:00

The wizard sat in his tower, gazing out the window toward the horizon. The sun had set a few moments ago, but it's light still lingered just enough, a guttering candle at the edge of the world. At last even that final remnant of day faded and night settled in. The wizard sighed and stood, crossing the small bedroom to the stairs that led to his library and observatory. As he climbed, he smiled wryly. At least the job afforded him the luxury of books and instruments. He'd lived in enough hermit's caves during his career to appreciate a warm bed and a place for a telescope.

The sky wasn't clear enough for stargazing, so he took down one of his older spellbooks and set to memorizing a chapter. A wizard was always studying, or so his old masters taught him. And it was true. Any wizard who wanted to be worth a damn was always studying. With another sigh, he put the book down and closed his eyes, leaning his head back in the big comfortable armchair in one corner of the library.

He remembered when he'd been worth a damn, back when the world needed wizards, when creatures from the Outer Dark threatened all humankind and only the wizards stood to bar their way. He remembered that last battle, his victory leading him to this job, that of the Court Magician for the Ch'Ten Empire. The wizard shook his head. He who had once wrestled a demigod back down into the netherworld now spent his days making jeweled light for courtiers and children. He had saved them all from everlasting darkness and they made him their pet, demanding pretties and amusements because they couldn't comprehend what he'd saved them from. If they'd known what he'd sacrificed, at what price he'd bought their salvation... He shook his head. No, they'd have done nothing different.

He rose from his chair, crossing to the balcony outside the observatory. He looked out over this world he'd saved, the one he'd given up his dearest love for, and he wondered why he bothered. Most of the world really wasn't worth saving, and the parts that were became fewer and smaller each year due to the efforts of those that weren't. Just six months prior, the Merchant Princes leveled a sacred wood, the sentient trees of its Hidden Grove falling to axe and saw. When the wizard went before the Princes, and then before the monarchs of the Seven Kingdoms, to protest the slaughter, his listeners just smiled politely. They made many deep and grave pronouncements, lauding his honor and his bravery, his skill as a wizard, all while mourning the loss of such venerable trees.

"But the land there is fertile," he mimicked the corpulent Chief Executive of the Merchant Princes, "perfect for farming. And with the way the peasantry breeds these days..."

"And of course," King Borach of Ch'Ten -his own monarch- had said, as though it justified everything, "the Merchant Princes do own the land."

And so the wizard went away, back to conjuring pretty lights for pretty fools, all while living through the casual suffering they caused. Then, as night fell upon the kingdom, a creature of the Outer Dark flew in through the wizard's window. It was a small black winged creature, a minor demon of little consequence or threat, but alarming in that the Outer Dark was supposed to have been sealed.

"Pay me no mind, pay me no mind," the demon said, doffing a miniature hat and offering a rough bow. "Me and mine is all can come through to this plane, the biguns all still stuck behind your wall."

The wizard raised an eyebrow. "So the wall still holds some of you back," he said. "How is it you made it past?"

The demon chuckled self-depricatingly. "Aye, you set your wall so's 'none from the Outer Dark could ever threaten the world'," he quoted the spell that built the wall, "but me and mine ain't a threat to this world. Hell, a thousand of me and mine wouldn't threaten this world." He shrugged. "We can pretty much come and go as we please. Good many of us decided to just escape to this world, but was some of us decided to make ourselves handy to the biguns as messengers."

"And you have a message for me, I take it."

"Aye," the demon nodded. "From one Skargk the Pestilent. You know him?"

The wizard's jaw tightened. "I know him."

"Good. Says he has an offer."

"What is he offering?"

The demon smiled. "Your one true love, of course. Returned to you, body and soul, whole and healthy and unspoiled."

The wizard tried to hide the stabbing pain in his heart at those words. Alive? She was alive? All these years playing the fool to these spoiled dandies and she suffered among the Dark! He forced his voice to be calm. He'd show no weakness to this thing. "And I suppose in return he wants me to hand this world over to him," he said.

The demon smirked, looking around. "From what I've seen of it, you're better off trading it in for the girl." He shook his head. "But no. No, you don't have to just hand the world over, you just have to give the biguns a shot at it. Just open the wall. You can fight them all tooth and nail after that if you want, they just want the wall down."

The wizard considered the offer, stroking his chin and pacing slightly. "So," he mused, making his tone much lighter than he felt, "all I have to do to get the one great true love of my life back is open the door and let things go back to the way they were?"

"That's about it."

The wizard smiled. "Are you familiar, demon, with the mortal adage that cautions one not to shoot the messenger?"

The demon nodded.

The wizard raised his hand, uttered a few syllables of an ancient and dying language, and a bolt of crimson lightning charred the little demon to its bones. A quick banishing spell sent them back behind the wall to the Outer Dark. The wizard made his way to the Wastes, where he would open the only gate in the wall.

Once there, he spoke the words and made the necessary gestures to open the gate. Darkness swirled beyond it, a seething pulsing darkness that screamed for its release in tortured whispers.

"You come," it said.

"I'm here."

"You come for your woman," a dark chorus rasped, "and to free us."

The wizard held up his hand, a glowing orb causing the darkness to cringe back from the gate. "A couple of things I thought I'd mention: One, I don't honestly believe you'd give her up to me just to return to the status quo. You'd figure you owned me, and I'd rather be their lapdog than yours. Two," he held up two fingers, "no matter how vain, selfish and empty a lot of those people are," he stepped through the gate, locking it behind him, "they don't deserve you." He set his feet in a fighting stance, energy crackling around his fingertips.

"So yes," the wizard said, grinning his challenge in the face of that roiling hate, "I am indeed here for my woman, but you aren't going anywhere."

What is Spontaneous Fiction?

2009-01-04T15:04:00.000-05:00

The old Storyteller chuckled, indicating his curious visitor should sit.

"Well," he said, settling down for the telling, "Some say Spontaneous Fiction is a bizarre occult ritual, practiced only by the mysterious Fantasy Monks of the Unreal Territories. Some," he gestured with his hand, in a way that suggested he was somehow directing the visitor's attention to the nebulous "some people" currently under discussion, "Some say it is a naturally occurring phenomenon that afflicts storytellers who have too many tales cluttering up their heads."

The old Storyteller pointed to an earthenware jug sitting next to a clay cup, "The drink dispenser is in the wall just above the jug. Bring me a bottle of the Europa water," he leaned in conspiratorially, "and I'll tell you what Spontaneous Fiction really is."

The visitor rushed to do as he'd been asked, sliding the wall panel open, and telling the dispenser what he wanted. It gave him a small plastic bottle of water from one of Jupiter's moons, which he brought back to the old Storyteller, who continued his tale.

"What it really is," he said, taking a long pull on the water bottle, "is the result of an experiment. An attempt to start a blog and post only fiction for a year (more or less)." The Storyteller gestured to the visitor's right with the bottle. "Look there to the right. The fruits of this experiment have been collected in a single volume, called The Spontaneous Manifesto. Of course," he smiled, "you can also read through the archives whenever you're here."

The visitor thanked the Storyteller and rose to leave. At the door, the visitor turned and asked one more question.

"More stories?" the Storyteller chuckled. "I suppose there might be the odd new tale of Spontaneous Fiction, from time to time. In fact, should you continue past here, you'll find a few new tales waiting to be read."

Executive Privilege

2008-10-31T23:45:00.002-04:00

He couldn't change them.

He looked at them, studied them and thought he really knew them. He was so very scared for them. They didn't know what they were doing. They didn't seem to want to know and that scared him even more.

He thought he could change them with inspiration. Others had effected great change by inspiring speeches alone. So he spoke, at length, about what they could be, what they could aspire to. The speeches were well received, but no one changed. No one reached for more than what they were. They wanted change, but not to them. They wanted to go on exactly as they had been, while he changed the world around them to better suit their needs.

So he decided to show them. Where inspiration failed, example would carry the day. He would live his words and do his considerable part to make things better, to be more than he was. And things changed, but not all that much. His efforts alone would do little beyond the short-term. He needed them to follow his lead, do their own work to make things better.

But they didn't.

The changes he made were just enough that everyone got to be comfortable again. He tried to explain that what he'd done wouldn't last, that he was merely patching a flawed system, and if the system was to change, it was they who would change it. But he was scoffed at, tuned out, derided and ignored. Opposition turned his words against him, telling them all what they wanted to hear, despite that it wasn't what they needed.

He offered them money, turned the change he needed from them into jobs, and that seemed to work for a while. But the pay was necessarily low and the work was hard, and there were jobs by then to be had for higher pay and less work. These other jobs were unstable, he tried to tell them, an effect of the patch and no less impermanent. But they left his jobs in droves, chasing easy money and paper wealth.

He hadn't wanted it to come to this, it must be understood. But he'd tried everything short of this and none of it worked. If they had just changed on their own... but no. No, they couldn't be bothered, so now it was down to this. He sighed and put down the saw, wiping his brow on his sleeve. Then carefully, gently, even respectfully, he slid the top of the skull off the head, revealing the brain. He picked up a scalpel, his face grim.

Time for change.

The Deconstructionist

2008-10-26T23:19:00.002-04:00

The man walked casually through the vast halls of the lunar fortress. They gleamed with an otherworldly iridescence, their alien alloy shedding the by-products of its chemical reaction with oxygen into the visual spectrum. The man grinned slightly, and a young photographer in a bustling metropolis was blind due to this previously harmless display. The walls changed as the man walked, becoming simple titanium, then steel, then the slick concrete of an underground bunker. The man pushed open a rusting metal door, entering an austere yet still somehow squalid, living room. A costumed superhero sat on the couch; he looked up as the man entered.

"This isn't right," the superhero said, staring down at his hands. "This," he looked around the room, "this isn't my fortress."

"Of course it is," the man said. "It's always been this."

"But, I--" the superhero shook his head. "No, you're right. I dug this out with my bare hands, then used my powers to make the concrete out of rocks and sand. It's useful, I guess, as a headquarters... but I could have done so much more with..." He kept shaking his head, as though to clear it. The man grinned again. The superhero blinked. "My homeworld... there was technology there that was millennia beyond what Earth has. I..." he looked helplessly up at the stranger in his fortress. "I should have access to that, shouldn't I?"

"No," the man shook his head. "Why should you? Your father destroyed your planet and everything on it. If your mother hadn't launched you into space when she did, your father would have destroyed you too."

"But, my ship--"

"Exploded once you were removed from it. It killed your Earth father instantly, and left your adopted mother a cripple, addicted to pain killers and vodka." The man smiled. "Don't you remember how you discovered you were invulnerable?"

The superhero touched his cheek. His bright costume was gone, replaced by tight leather. "She hit me," he whispered. "It was her wedding anniversary, I should have remembered that, and she always drank more than usual that day."

"Yes," the man said, "she was usually a reasonably functional alcoholic."

The superhero glared at the man, his eyes glowing red. "She was a good mother," he growled.

The man just continued to grin. "Except when she wasn't."

The superhero shuddered. "Except then."

"But you put a stop to that."

The superhero looked defensive. "I didn't mean that," he insisted. "The powers were brand new, I couldn't control them and I--"

"And you were really angry at her."

"NO! No, I... yes." the superhero sank back down on the couch. "Yes, I was angry. But I've done so much since then, so much good. Do you," he looked up at the man, his eyes haunted, "do you think she'll forgive me now?"

"She might have," the man nodded, "if not for what you've been up to lately."

The superhero looked confused, "I haven't been up to anything." Then both men looked toward the closed door leading to the bedroom. The superhero shook his head. "But she's just spending the night. She often spends the night here in the..." he shook his head again. "No, no, that's not right." He looked back at the door, a squint indicating he was looking through it. "I thought she was someone--"

"Someone else?" the man cleared his throat. "But that isn't possible, is it?"

The superhero shook. "No," he whispered. "No, I definitely didn't mean to do that to her. I loved her." His look was one that begged forgiveness. "I told her the serum was experimental. I told her! But she insisted on taking it. Wanted to be with me so badly that--"

"That she swallowed a serum that burned her from the inside out," the man said. He gestured toward the door. "And that poor girl..."

The superhero was on his feet again. "But the serum worked on her! It worked! I watched bullets bounce off her, I..."

"Yes, the serum worked perfectly on her," the man agreed. "But then, all those experiments you used her for when you were kids likely helped. Did she ever remember what you did to her all those years ago?"

The superhero was silent.

"So yes, it worked," the man agreed. "But then you went and lost track of time. It was late when you got back to your little fortress bunker, and by the time you two were well into things..."

"It wore off." The superhero's voice was a mere whisper. Then he looked up again, suddenly really noticing the strange man in his inner sanctum. "Wait," he said. "Who are you?"

"I'm just a man," the man said. "A man with a special power." He smiled. "Nothing so grand as your impressive abilities, but quite potent in its way." His smile deepened. "I can reach back through time," he explained, "and alter key events in any person's history. I can change the very continuity of someone's life."

"Did you change mine?"

The man nodded and laughed. "Oh yes."

The superhero snarled, leaping at the man. "Change it back! You change me back to whatever I was right god-damned now! Or I'll--" He fell to his knees, muscles atrophied and bones brittle. His words were choked off in a dry rasping cough.

The man laughed, shoving the dessicated superhero onto the floor with his foot.

"You'll do nothing," he sneered. "I'll retcon your radiation poisoning away after I've left," he promised. "I want to keep you around like this a while." He checked his watch. "Ah, yes, well. I must away. I've a brooding man in a cave to visit and grant his fondest wish." He smiled and exited the bunker, stepping into the razed slums of a once-vibrant city.

"Be seeing you."

The Unkillable Bastard

2008-01-22T21:32:00.001-05:00

He walked slowly, slipping through the doors as they swung open and drifting into shadow. In each hand was a black-handled revolver. A hood obscured his face and a long coat settled around him as he waited.

He did not have to wait long. He heard his quarry approaching, noisily chasing some drunken harlot down the hall. It was the third this week, for the target was a creature of habit. The hooded man grinned, spinning his revolvers about his fingers. At exactly the right moment, he stepped from the shadows, pointing one of his two guns at the pair of revelers. The woman stumbled back, bumping into the wall and falling with a giggle. The target's eyes narrowed, making him seem far less drunk than he should have been.

"So, you're who they sent," the target said softly, a wry smile on his lips. The realization that the target, a noted unrepentant alcoholic, would be sober upon returning from the bar caused the trickle of sweat running down the hooded man's spine to chill.

From the depths of the gunman's hood came a low even growl. "I am."

"You must be good." The target still hadn't moved, but his eyes had taken in the entirety of his surroundings.

"I do okay."

The target nodded. "Ever blow a hit?"

The question made the hooded man blink. "Um, no," he finally answered.

"Not once?" A teasing smile.

"Never." A firm answer.

"Well," the smile turned languid and the target stretched in a yawn. "You're going to blow this one."

The hooded man tightened his grip on the gun and his trigger finger twitched. "Think so?"

The target's attention was drawn by his companion, who was crawling to her feet, looking blearily at the hooded gunman. Raising his index finger, the target said, "Excuse me a minute," then bent to help her to her feet.

"Whasssee doin' withat gun?" her slurred tones were tinged with worry. "He ain' gonna shoot you issee?"

"Shh," the target cooed, "don't be silly. He's just an old friend having some fun. He's probably drunk. Go on in here," he led her toward the door to his apartments, "and wait for me. I'll be along. I just need to talk to my friend here." He opened the door and she stumbled inside. He drew it closed and locked it again, finally smiling up at the hooded man, who'd kept his gun trained on the target the entire time.

"Thanks," the target said, pointing toward the door, "for waiting."

The hooded man gave a brief nod. "I prefer to minimize the collaterals where possible," he said.

The target smiled again. "Smart guy. No wonder you're still in the game." He chuckled. "I should call and thank them. Sending someone like you shows me respect."

Another hooded nod. This was getting old. He should just kill the target and go. But the target was talking again.

"You really want to shoot me, don't you?"

"I don't get paid if I don't."

"Fair enough," the target nodded and kept smiling. "So why don't you?"

"I don't know," the hooded man was forced to admit.

"I do," the target replied. Then, seemingly at random, he asked, "You live alone?"

"Yes."

"Ever married?"

"No."

"Any kids?"

"None that I know of." The hooded gunman laughed derisively. "You trying to play on my sense of loneliness? Come on. You just got done praising me. You think I'm going to fall for an amateur psych job?"

"No," the target stopped smiling. "You're going to stick that gun in your mouth and pull the trigger."

"I'm what?" More laughter. "Why the hell would I--"

"Because you really really want to," the target spoke bluntly. "You've been wanting to blow your brains out since the first time you picked up a gun. But you're scared, so you've been making others your proxies for years and drawing a nice paycheck doing it." His eyes became kind and his voice comforting. "But all you want, all you think about, all you fantasize about is what it would feel like when the bullet drills up through the roof of your mouth and into your skull. You wonder if you'll get to feel your brain explode."

The hooded man staggered back a step, the gun shaking. "How did you..." he stammered, "H-how..."

The target looked deep into his eyes. "I think it's time you find out, don't you?"

The hooded man slowly raised the gun to his mouth, taking the barrel between his teeth.

"That's it..." the target's voice was quiet and very soothing. "That's it," he said. "It's all going to be okay. For the first time ever, things are going to be okay for you. Now," his voice turned to one of command, "pull the trigger."

The hooded man's face split in two as the top of his skull erupted in a gout of blood and brains. The target crouched down and took the second revolver, looking it over appraisingly. As he walked toward his apartments, he tucked the gun in his jacket and removed his cell phone, placing a call.

As he slid his key in the lock, he said, "Ah, sergeant! It seems a young man has committed suicide in front of my home again. Would it be possible-- thank you. I really do appreciate it. What's that?" There was a pause, then he laughed. "Yes. Yes, I do think you should bring it back to them." Another pause and another laugh.

"Oh, I'm sure they'll know who it's from."

The Armageddon Cog

2007-11-21T22:21:00.003-05:00

He sat across from her, halfway through his second drink, gesturing for his third. He'd be damned if he was going to handle this thing she had sober. From the look of her, she felt the same way. The problem was, she'd been handling it for the past week.

Her body slung forward in that state of advanced drunkenness where remaining upright was a near-insurmountable challenge. Her head didn't so much weave as swivel and lurch. When she managed to bring her face up, her bleary eyes were a watery blood-red. Her hair was a ragged tangle, and the last vestiges of makeup blended into an ashy ochre smeared down her face. An arm swung wildly to point at him, then flop down on the table. She knocked a double vodka back and dropped the glass on the floor, giggling as it shattered. The giggle became wet sobbing and she tried hard to force words from numb lips.

"You godda take it," she said for the tenth time. "I promissa steal it, but I donwanna keep it. Can't." She shook her head and it dropped to the table with a loud thud. She forced it back up, to stare at him, bleary-eyed. "Didda buncha ninsha shit t'get it. Fuggin badass's me. 'swhat I do. Badass shit an stealing an stuff." She reached into her pocket with a hand burned nearly to the bone and threw it at him. "Take it."

He took it in the hand that wore the specially designed glove, then placed it in the reinforced briefcase. The song of madness had erupted in his brain the moment he touched it, but subsided once the case was closed. He finished his drink, further muffling the dread song. He looked on the sodden mess with new pity. She'd been carrying it around in her pocket. He held out a thick envelope.

"Well, you've earned every penny of this."

She lay sprawled half across the table, not even bothering to look up. "Fugyer munny. Fuck you." He started to put the envelope away and her uninjured hand opened. "Gimme," she said.

He placed the envelope in her hand and left. At the door, he turned and looked back. The kind old man that ran the bar had come to her and, with the help of his round little wife, essentially carried the drunken spy to what he presumed was a back office. Let her sleep it off, then. If she could.

The limousine pulled up in front of the bar as he exited, the back door opening.

"Get in."

He obeyed.

Once seated inside, he immediately handed the briefcase to the thin gentleman with the wispy blond hair. The man did not bother to open it, merely closed his eyes briefly and smiled.

"Well done," he said. "I trust she was sufficiently compensated?"

"Yes."

The thin man clicked sympathetically. "Such a shame. She was the best we had, the only one who could do the job. She knew it would ravage her," he pursed his painted lips thoughtfully, "but I don't believe she really understood how much."

"What happens now?"

Thin shoulders shrugged. "She drinks away all the money you gave her and dies in a gutter somewhere, most likely."

"No, I mean with..." he gestured at the case. He could still feel its pulsing song.

The man laughed. "Oh, that. Yes, well." He patted the case. "I'll put it where it belongs in the machine."

"What machine?"

Another laugh. "Oh, you darling little hominid. This is the final piece of my infernal siege engine, the one I'll use to finally batter down the gates of Heaven." A shrug, then, "It will require fuel, obviously." He smiled, his teeth a foul yellow.

"But that's what all you people are for, isn't it?"

The Waverider

2007-05-09T16:52:00.000-04:00

The stars sang to her.

The planets and comets and nebula clusters sang to her too, but it was the voices of the stars she loved listening to most. If she focused, she could pick out individual songs, like the languid ballad of a red giant many light years away. It sang of a long life that was coming to a close, of its brilliant youth and the myriad civilizations it nurtured on its fourth planet. It sang a bittersweet lament of that planet's death and a sad dirge for those who didn't escape it. Then she turned her attention to the sprightly tune of a new yellow sun, full of hope and the promise of life amid the swirling gas and rock of a young solar system. Its song was an anthem, vibrant and infectuous. She nodded her head to its rythmn for a while, smiling.

She pulled her awareness back, so all the songs blended to a single harmonious one. Starsong was beautiful, but to give oneself over to it completely was to ignore one's duties. And the duties of a Waverider, particularly one of the Justice Class, were of the highest importance. Few there were indeed who could master the complexities of the Wave with sufficient clarity to assemble the enigmatic Wavesuit, that near-mystical garment that allowed its wearer to channel the energies of the Universe itself.

The Wave. That omnipresent energy infused everything and everyone. All were aware of it, to the point where it was almost mundane and it did, indeed, serve many mundane functions. The mighty starships of the Galactic Fleet would never have left their home systems without the powerful Wave Engines to bend interstellar space. Even the primitive races knew of the Wave, though most who knew it confused it for some form of deity. Only the Waveriders, however, had that rare quality that allowed a living being to act as conduit for the Wave, bending the Universe to their will to work miracles. To do so required beings of incorruptible integrity possessing an iron will. A dedication to justice and the preservation of life was a Waverider's paramount mission, and in that a Waverider was ever vigilant.

Thus did Kae Starr, Justice Class Waverider, hear the merest whisper of a failing distress call. A passenger liner, traveling too close to a restricted system, ran afoul of a black hole and was being pulled inexorably toward destruction. With nary a second thought, Kae focused her perception to the signal's origin point, bending space about her so all the millions of light-years between them fell away in the span of a single step. As she approached the distressed liner, she felt the black hole's persistent tug. Against all instinct, she dove further into that maelstrom of gravity, grabbing hold of the liner and straining with all her prodigious might against the singularity's pull.

As she felt herself steadily losing ground, she channeled the Wave into a shield of pure force that would hold the sinking ship together. Gritting her teeth, she renewed her efforts. She was a Waverider. She would prevail.

Though a little assistance would not go amiss.

On Her Wedding Night

2006-10-15T21:52:00.004-04:00

Maryann sat patiently through the ceremony. The priest droned on, sermons building upon sermons, that she very nearly forgot what she was there for, her mind drifting far from her surroundings.

It was then the good Father bid the bride and groom to stand, and she returned to herself.

Ah. Yes. That was it.

It was Maryann Barton's wedding day, and she could not possibly have felt less joyful. Her husband-to-be was an oafish man of business. His was an old family, their fortunes long in decline, until he discovered the veritable gold mine to be found in the trade of human beings. It was to his newfound wealth her father had sought to wed himself by wedding her to this aging and lecherous slaver. That she might be utterly repulsed by this corpulent oaf was of little concern to her father. Of course, Maryann had always been of little concern to her father, save as a bit of decoration, or as bait with which to entice wealthy men. The Bartons were also an old family, with similar fortunes to those of Maryann's erstwhile husband, prior to his lucrative business venture.

As the older man leaned in for the kiss, his vacant leer told her she would be of little concern to her husband as well, save as a source of offspring and a means to sate his trite and simple lusts.

She could bear it, all of it, for her new husband was a fool. A wealthy, foolish braggart who had, in his heavy-handed attempts to woo her, shown her his next scheme. He was poised to take control of a floundering textile business after divesting himself of most of his current holdings. The slave trade was not as respectable a profession as his ambitions required, and had therefore outlived its usefulness.

The formal ball was typical of its type, with food and wine in abundance and all the latest dances. She was partnered by several other leering old men and one dashing young soldier. She paid little attention to him, for all his rakish good looks, bestowing the favor of her fluttered lashes and empty giggles for the others. They would be of use to her later, the soldier would merely be a complication.

She smiled, however, in the early hours of the morning to think back on her dance with the young soldier. She smiled as she looked down at her dead husband, the last of his poisoned brandy soaking into the carpet. It would appear that he drank himself to death, upon any examination by a physician, and his excessive consumption at the ball would provide the necessary evidence. Yes, she smiled to think of the soldier, but laughed out loud to think of the look on her husband's fat face when he'd realized she was murdering him.

"No, my darling," she'd said softly, "do not try to speak. I am told the poison makes such a thing painful." She'd smiled, settling languidly against the plush pillows of the bed. "I have been told," she'd said as he fell to his knees, face red and eyes bulging, "by my mother, since my earliest memory, that a woman's greatest and only ambition is to marry well. That all we have is by leave of men, and all we do is by their will." She'd shaken her head then. "This did not sit well with me." The oaf's throat had swollen closed at this point and he'd gone beyond hearing, but she'd continued talking, "I resolved to prove her wrong." She'd laughed as his eyes rolled back in his head, "Thank you, dear husband," she'd said, kissing the reddened forehead, "for the assistance you are about to offer me in that regard.

"And have no fear, I will make much of the fortune you leave me," she assured him, "more than you ever could."

With a last glance for her departed husband, she rose from her bed and made for the bell that would summon the staff. She had to work herself up a good cry before they came, to be convincing enough as the shocked and devastated widow.

If only she could stop laughing.

The Time Jumpers Club

2005-12-31T23:59:00.001-05:00

Dani slid the fusion rods into place, griping at Henri to start cycling the chronotron.

"Seriously Dani," he warned her, "relax. It's four hours to the jump, and our gear is just about set up. What are we supposed to do until then? Hit one of the parties?"

"No," Dani admitted with a sheepish smile. "I guess not. I'm just, y'know, excited..." She looked down and started fiddling with the buckles on her straps. Henri smiled.

"Ah, look at you," he said, shaking his head. "When we first got together, you thought I was insane to do this. Threatened to break it off if I didn't stop doing it. Now you're busting your seams to get to your first jump."

They smiled at each other, and Henri tucked an errant lock of her hair up into her skintight agesuit. "Wouldn't want just that strand turning grey, would we?"

"That's enough of that, the both of you. I didn't agree to let girls into the club to watch you two make out at every available opportunity." A rakish young man entered the room, futzing with his palmtop. "If I wanted to see that, I'd start going to class again." He waved his hand at them and slid the palmtop into a sealed pouch on his belt. "And put your masks on, unless you want your faces to be older than the rest of you."

"Well, doy."

"Shut up, Henri."

"Up yours, Doug."

"Wait," Dani said, mask halfway to her face. Henri already had his in place, sealing him into his agesuit. Dani looked between him and Doug. "Don't we still have, like, four hours?"

Doug grinned with one corner of his mouth. It wasn't quite a smirk, and Dani was convinced this was simply the best Doug could do with regard to a smile. "I assumed you'd be excited about your first jump," he said, "so I slid us all forward to just about midnight."

"I didn't think we could do that," Henri said, surprised.

"Tonight we can," Doug answered. "Time travel is easier at the fulcrum between years. It's why Dani waited until New Year's Eve to make her first jump."

"Oh yeah," Henri said, laughing. "Man, remember that jump we had in 2000? Made it to just a few millennia shy of the Big Bang on our third jump before the tether snapped us back."

"How far do you think we'll be able to go?" Dani asked as Henri made one final check of their gear.

Doug scratched his chin, pondering the horizon. "Hmmm. I'd say, what, a couple of million, both ways, give or take?"

Henri nodded. "Yeah. I'd say that's about right. Though I'm thinking of going forward first, if no one minds."

"Feeling optimistic?"

"Just adventurous."

Henri and Doug attached each other's calendar-packs, then Henri approached Dani with hers. "Here," he said, offering to attach it to her harness.

She turned her back to him and he set about inserting tubes and wires from the pack to her agesuit and back. "What is this again?" She tried to keep the nervousness out of her voice.

"It's a motor Doug and I built, that moves through 4th-dimensional space, keeping itself anchored to the time of its 3rd-dimensional origin."

"What?" Dani looked at him, lost. She'd read the research, but her Masters was in history. She only knew as much science as she absolutely had to.

Henri smiled. "Essentially, it has a safety feature built in so you can't get lost. Once I turn it on," he flipped a switch, and Dani felt an odd tug at her back. It was slight, and not uncomfortable. "You're tethered to this time and place." He and Doug turned theirs on, and Dani thought she could see, out of the corner of her eye, a long spiraling cord linking them to the main part of the time machine. When she turned to look directly at it, there was nothing.

"Ready?" Henri asked her, taking hold of her hand.

She squeezed his hand tight and nodded, grinning from ear-to-ear. "Yeah."

"Then let's go."

The future opened up before them, and they leapt into it. Tethered to the now by a strand of solid time, they fell swiftly toward tomorrow.

The Infinite Woman

2005-12-31T23:57:00.001-05:00

Dani soared through the future, riding the furious currents of the timestream. Henri had said that jumping in the past was a calmer ride. Histories tend to be static, with alternate branches clearly marked, and the timestream was easier to navigate. The future, with its cascading waves of probability, ran rougher and harder and was nearly impossible to navigate. It was also the most fun, according to Henri, though Doug preferred the more orderly jump into the past.

Dani laughed as winds of time buffeted her and tossed her about. She saw humanity's greatest civilization fall into barbarism, only to rise and fall and rise again. She saw a future where an alien occupation interrupted the steady flow of human civilization, and another where humanity's fall into barbarism tore the planet itself asunder.

She was coasting through the utopian futures when she felt the tug on her calendar-pack. She felt herself jerked backward through a few decades of a Golden Age, the tug on her pack getting stronger until...

Her tether snapped. And she was freefalling toward realtime in an era far removed from her own. From the corner of her eye, she saw the glistening chronofilaments of her tether spiraling back toward her present. Then she hit the future face-first.

"Are you hurt?"

She looked up from the dusty hard surface she'd landed on. Her agesuit was still intact, including the helmet, which was good, since her visor was reading a highly toxic atmosphere. A smoky fume lay low about the area, casting the sunlight in a strange hue, and everywhere she looked were buildings, elaborate vehicles, factories and what appeared to be power plants.

A tall hairless man looked down at her with some concern. He seemed human, save for a leathery hide around his nose and mouth. His clothing was of alien appearance and the lack of any hair was a bit disturbing, but he spoke flawless unaccented American English, as did the others who'd begun to gather.

"Is she all right?"

"She looks okay, if a bit odd."

"Hmm. She is at that. Odd."

An older woman crouched down by Dani and held out her hand. "Pay them no mind, dear. You just come along with me and we'll get you looked after."

Dani nodded, rising slowly to her feet, and followed the woman. The others watched after them for a bit, then went back about their business.

"You're a time traveler, ain't yeh?"

Dani was a bit shocked by the question. How could this woman know that?

"Uhh..." she looked around.

The older woman smiled and waved a hand. "Nah, it's okay. I know you are. But don't worry. You're safe. Despite the look of the place, we're actually rather advanced from what you're probably used to."

Dani learned from the other woman, who's name was Alice, as it turned out, that at some point in her relative near future, the leading minds would decide that, rather than preserving a livable environment, they would instead work on adapting humans to thrive in an industrial environment.

So, a number of chemicals were added to the various immunizations and pre-natal treatments and within a few generations, humans found their organs augmented, or new organs grown altogether, to survive on polluted air and heavily-processed food. Their new lungs could glean even the smallest amount of oxygen from whatever was breathed in, and would condense everything else into a tiny globule that was coughed up later.

There were certain side-effects to this genetic manipulation, such as a surge in brain capacity. Humans now used nearly 60% of their brains, and had learned to communicate without words, mind-to-mind, even over great distances. It was how Dani was able to understand them so easily. It had also created a global consciousness, along with a greater awareness of their place in the universe and their responsibility to their planet. Over the last couple of generations, there had been significant work done at rebuilding some of the planet's ravaged ecosystem. Technologies had been created to explore the galaxy for new worlds.

"And we've got time travel too," Alice said with a wink. "So we can get you home."

"How did you know I was lost?" Dani asked.

Alice chuckled. "Because if you weren't, you would have made a more graceful entrance." She gestured for Dani to hurry. "Come on. I'll show you our machine."

Meanwhile, hundreds of centuries in the past, Henri and Doug were frantically trying to locate Dani through the vast maelstrom of the future.

"Well? Did you find her signal?"

"Not in the last 10 seconds, no, Henri, I didn't. If she were lost in the past..."

"Oh, don't start Doug. Just because I wanted a future jump, doesn't make this my--"

Doug waved him quiet, staring intently at his screen. "Shut up! I think I have her."

"What? Well, get her! Bring her back! Bring her ba--"

"I said, shut up." Doug fiddled with a few dials, flipped a switch or two, typed furiously at his keyboard and then pulled a lever on the side of the time machine.

Dani was secured to the frame of Alice's time machine, a series of cables running into and out of her calendar-pack. Alice fiddled with some dials on her control panel.

"Your calendar-pack seems to be a similar design to my own machine, so I shouldn't have any trouble getting you back where you need to be. Presumably, there's a base machine in your proper time and... ah. There it is. Hold on." She toggled a switch, and chronal energy flowed through Dani's pack.

Just as the tether from her present tried to latch on.

The chronal energies merged, overloading the pack and Alice's time machine. Dani screamed as raw time arced unimpeded through her body, surging up her nervous system directly to her brain. A wave of pure time exploded out from Dani, rippling through the multiverse and touching every conceivable timeline. Every single version of Dani that existed found themselves aligned at that moment, in body, mind and circumstance. Infinity coursed through her veins, and her consciousness spread across every one of her variant minds. She knew everything, she was everything, as each version of her collapsed into a singular Dani.

Dani floated along the timestream, sailing its currents with instinctive ease. She could no longer exist in realtime. This chaotic realm was her only home now, and she would ride its rapids through eternity and back.

She told all this to a grieving Henri during one of many jumps he made in an attempt to find her. She told him she was lost to him, and that he should look for her no longer and find love with another.

But Henri would not listen, jumping again and again into tomorrow and yesterday. Until the day he jumped without a suit, and was torn to dust by the ravages of time. Veteran jumpers would come to tell their pupils Henri's tragic tale.

The tale of the broken jumper, his soul scattered amid the currents of time, forever lost in his search for the Infinite Woman.

New Year's Morning After

2005-12-29T14:44:00.000-05:00

He woke, slightly groggy, and made a vain attempt to figure out just where he was. He was in a very comfortable bed, though not his own, in a tastefully, yet eclectically, decorated bedroom, also not his own. He didn't recognize the room, nor the woman in the few photos near the bed. She was cute, though.

And then she was in the room, standing next to the bed clad only in what he recognized as one of his dress shirts. A foggy recollection from the previous night suggested he had worn that shirt to Kim's party. Kim's party... is that where he met this woman?

"'Morning, babe," she purred, handing him a mug of coffee.

"Thanks," he croaked through his incredibly dry mouth, taking the mug. He sipped it cautiously, and found it was exactly the way he liked it. "Mmmm," he said. "this is delicious. Thanks again."

"Don't mention it, sexy," she said with a sly smile, sliding into bed next to him. She lay down, her tousled red hair splayed across the pillow, and his shirt open to reveal most of two perfectly formed breasts. They, too, seemed vaguely familiar. The woman stretched and sighed, lying up against him with her head on his shoulder. He smiled and drank his coffee. He may not know who this woman was now, but he clearly knew her very well last night. He briefly regretted how drunk he must have been the night before. He had a feeling last night was one he'd want to remember. He finished the last of his coffee and set the mug down on the end table next to him.

"Um, listen," he said, as the woman began nuzzling his neck. "At the risk of insulting you, I was wondering, uh...ohhh..." She'd begun doing something with her hand that was making it very hard for him to think straight.

"Forgotten my name, have you?" she murmured, kissing her way from his neck to his chest, then back up his neck to his mouth. "Don't worry about it, baby. I never even bothered to ask yours."

"Mmmm," he kissed her back as she crawled up on top of him. "Oh-okay..."

He kissed her mouth, their tongues twining together, then kissed her neck. She moved up, pressing her breasts against his face. He took one and then the other into his mouth, sucking them until he heard her moan. He grabbed hold of her and threw her down on the bed, where she landed with a gasp and a giggle. From her breasts he kissed down her stomach, stopping between her legs, inhaling the delicious scent of her before kissing and licking and sucking her to multiple sustained orgasms.

Then she kissed him, licking her juices from his lips, and said, "My turn." She smiled and winked, and began kissing her way down his chest.

They had sex five times that morning, once with her on top, once with him on top, twice with him behind her and once with her pressed up against the wall. She came, screaming, that final time, collapsing on top of him, their bodies entwined in a pulsing, sweating knot of glistening limbs.

"That was... that was..." he panted, feeling his heart pound in his chest.

"I know," she sighed, content. "Amazing." She climbed on top of him, straddling him, and smiled. "Time for breakfast," she said.

"Oh hey yeah, that sounds--"

The rest of his words were cut off with a wet gurgle as she tore out his throat with her teeth. For a while, he struggled to breathe through the ragged hole in his neck. By the time she'd stripped the flesh from his chest and most of one arm, he was dead. She ate a while, but was interrupted by the phone.

She wiped her arm over her mouth, smearing his blood across her cheek as she answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Oh, hi Kim. No, he stayed over. Yeah, twice last night and five times this morning. I'm really going to miss this one, but you know how it goes."

Her eyes widened at the words coming over the phone. "What? No, you didn't tell me. No. No, you didn't. Well, okay yeah, I was pretty drunk, but shit, Kim. I would have remembered that."

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, okay. Okay! God! I'll remember for next time." She said goodbye and hung up the phone, returning to the half-eaten corpse on her bed. She looked down at him and shrugged.

"If she didn't want me eating her friends, she should stop trying to set me up with them."

A Happy, Safe, Healthy and appropriately Drunken New Year from Spontaneous Fiction!

Rocket Mom

2005-12-28T00:30:00.000-05:00

Kathryn closed the cabinet door, flicking a toggle that placed its contents in perfect stasis and looked around her kitchen. She couldn't recall it ever being this clean. Her whole house had an eerie quality about it that the word "spotless" couldn't begin to cover. It disturbed her, but she knew why it was necessary. No sense in all their bits of precious getting smashed to hell during their ascent. Of course, they didn't have to then scour the entire house to the cellular level... but, they were a thorough bunch.

And it had been tough, building a spaceship around a house. No one had really understood why she'd gone to all the trouble, but since she was the star of this little show, there wasn't much anyone could do about it except what she told them to. In the end, her innovative use of materials and revolutionary design concepts had created a model that was now being imitated at a furious pace. Within months of completion on her own house, she'd found herself starting up a multi-billion-dollar corporation, just to make sure the companies selling her ship conversion designs to Jane and John Q Everybody were selling quality merchandise. The last thing she wanted on her conscience were shiploads of suburbanites exploding in the upper atmosphere.

Bad enough she couldn't stop thinking of the ones who weren't coming. The ones who couldn't even buy passage on the retrofitted cargo carriers euphemistically called "cattle busses". She cried a little every day when she thought of the ones getting left.

And it wasn't as though they were being left to die, she thought. Then she could console herself with the fact that they wouldn't suffer too long. No, they were just being left to fend for themselves on a planet bereft of resources, under disintegrating ozone and a poison sky. It's likely they'd live, and that the planet would start to fix itself within a few generations after most of the humans left. But life in those years, and many to follow, would not be at all pleasant.

She left the kitchen, crossing the living room to go and stand on the back porch. She looked out at the dying landscape through the thick glass enclosure and sighed.

But her son would be safe. She was taking him away from all that. And she was taking him in a spaceship made out of his house, the only home he'd ever known, so he wouldn't be too scared. She felt a little guilty at the extravagance, but she didn't care. Since she'd joined the top-secret Project Exodus team and had seen the real data, her sole motivation had been getting her son off this planet as quickly as she could.

Once she and Brenner made their breakthrough with the transdimensional engine, the governments of the world were eating out of their hands. Corporations threw money at them to build cheap efficient spacecraft to use for a planetary evacuation, and all of a sudden, they were billionaire celebrities. Kathryn had just taken the money and poured it into her research, determined to also make her son's escape as painless as possible.

Brenner, on the other hand, had started acting like a rock star. He did the talk shows, the awards galas, the parties... Two years into the final phase of the Project, and Brenner was dead, having spent all his money on hard drugs and expensive hookers. Much of the early team had similar breakdowns. The enormity of their task, the weight of the knowledge they had borne in secret for so long, they cracked under its pressure.

But not her. Within a year, she had completely reinvented spaceflight from scratch. The year after that, and the prototype Homeship conversion, hers, was finished. Her son thought the whole thing was incredibly cool, especially how he was going to live in space. He couldn't quite get over that. At 5, he had no real understanding of the larger global issues, or the terrible destiny awaiting their homeworld. To him this was all a grand adventure. Not for the first time, his mother envied him that.

And so, tomorrow. Launch Day. Turning, she walked back through the living room toward her son's bedroom. She'd caught him playing with his new gravity controls that afternoon, and she wanted to be sure he wasn't floating up out of his bed.

Though she and her husband had made good use of the gravity controls more than once since they were installed. She smiled to herself. Maybe once she was sure Andy was asleep, they might again. If she could tear her husband away from his pilot's chair long enough. She shook her head. She knew it was a mistake to put flight control in his den. A quick peek in the door told her Andy was fast asleep, so she shut his door quietly and went to find her husband.

It was a long flight ahead to their new planet, but as Kathryn walked down the hall to her bedroom, she took solace in the fact that they'd already be home before they got there.

The Galaxians

2005-12-27T06:54:00.000-05:00

The ship soared through the shimmering black, riding the edge of spacetime on the crest of an antimatter explosion. The massive stardrive engines roared silently to the void.

In the pilot's chair, Captain Jack Masters had just about lost his patience with his first officer.

"You're lucky you're a woman," he snarled over his shoulder as he turned back to the controls. Damn GPC, sending a woman out on his ship. He didn't care if she was post-human, and had once piloted a rail-ship down from orbit unpowered, she was still a woman.

And women just got in the way. Got between a man and his ship. A man and his... crew.

"Ugh, stop that!" she said, shaking her head.

"What?" He looked around at her.

"Ugh, stop that, sir," she deadpanned. "I'm an empath, among other things. That means I know when you're getting homoerotic, because I get hit with all your weird guilt." She choked back a laugh. "No, it's too late to start thinking of me naked. And you're not half as aroused as when--"

The captain stood up from the pilot's station, looming over her and glaring down at her. She looked up at him and grinned.

"Have I made you mad enough to take a swing at me yet? Sir?" She took one step back, rising up onto the balls of her feet, bouncing in front of him, taunting him. "Or does a subordinate get away with mocking you just because she's a--"

She dodged his first punch, and the second. She leapt over a series of kicks, and spun away from another punch, grabbing hold of his overextended arm moments later and tossing him across the bridge.

"Johnny," she said calmly. "Take the pilot's station."

"Aye, ma'am." Johnny ran to the station. He was a young ensign, on his first assignment, and he had idolized the heroic Captain Masters, begging at each new world to join the exploration team, wanting desperately to be part of the adventures he kept hearing about from the officers.

Then one day he'd been included on a team, and went down to the planet with the Captain and a few others. Most of the others had died, and the chief of security had escaped back to the ship. But Johnny and the Captain had been captured. Thrown into a squalid alien prison. They languished in the cell for days. He thought of the cell, and the Captain, and what had happened.

And he smiled a nasty little smile for what would surely happen next.

Dragonslayer

2005-12-26T19:48:00.000-05:00

He approached the dragon, sword drawn. He'd made his way through the treacherous caverns that led to the dragon's lair, and now finally stood before her. She was massive, incomparable to any beast he'd ever seen. Not for the first time, he wondered if he was up to the task of slaying her. He'd never fought a dragon before, being more accustomed to hunting outlaws and protecting villages from bandits and the like.

But he'd taken the dragonslaying job. Mostly because of the money, though partly because of the fame that would come with it. The era of the legendary Dragonslayers was long past, but people still honored them in story and song. If he were to slay this dragon, his name would be added to the ballads and epics and he would be remembered long after his death as a man of great honor and courage. And given the way his life had gone up to this moment, he could do with that sort of remembrance.

"So, cold-blooded murder is what gains a man honor in these days, is it?" The dragon's voice echoed up from the floor of her lair to the alcove he'd thought was hiding him. "I don't suppose this should surprise me, given how my kind have been treated by yours in recent centuries."

"How YOUR kind have been treated?" His outrage was so great, he forgot entirely about stealth. "Tell it to the children you've taken from their beds in the night, to the maidens whose virtue you've fed upon and the villages you and YOUR KIND have razed to the ground!"

A low chuckle rumbled across the lair. "Stupid human fool. Setting aside for the moment the logistical impossibility of actually feeding on something as ephemeral as a woman's virtue, what possible use would we have for human children?"

"Food, most likely," he retorted.

"My my," the dragon replied, amused. "We dragons certainly do have a varied diet. Children, women's virtue... tell me, little man, what else do we eat?"

"Do not pretend to innocence, beast," he said, angrily. "Everyone knows that dragons will devour an entire shepherd's flock or cattleman's herd if they cannot get their claws on human flesh."

"Then everyone is as ignorant and stupid as you, human," she growled. "For one thing, dragons do not eat flesh of any kind, nor plants either. We feed on minerals."

"Minerals?"

"Put simply, in deference to your limited education," the dragon explained patiently, "rocks."

"Dragons eat rocks?"

"Essentially, yes," she said. "Why do you think we build our lairs underground? For that matter, how do you think we manage to carve our lairs out of solid rock?"

He was confused. "But I thought--"

"Clearly, you did not."

"Then why--"

"Why did I attack that village? Simple. Revenge."

"Revenge for what?"

Suddenly, the dragon's enormous head was mere inches from him. He expected an overpowering stench, but she actually smelled rather pleasant.

"Tell me, little human," she asked quietly, "did you perhaps notice the dragon bones so proudly on display in the village square?"

He backed away as far as the alcove would allow. His sword seemed such a small and ineffective thing all of a sudden. Also, being the topic of heroic sagas did not hold the same allure it had mere moments ago. "Y-yes..." he stammered.

"Did you notice anything odd about them?"

He thought a moment. "Now that you mention it," he said, "they did seem awfully small."

"I believe we were speaking of atrocities against children earlier," the dragon whispered.

"Your children?" he gasped. "But, why would the villagers... how could the villagers..."

"They came upon me as I lay my eggs," she said, a note of terrible sadness coloring her voice. "As I lay there, spent from birthing, the men of the village stole my eggs from me. They brought them back to their village, cracked them open, and ate my unborn children!" That last came out an angry hiss, along with a burst of steam from her nostrils. "So, I think you'll agree I was well within my rights to rain destruction down on the whole miserable lot of them."

"But then, why..." He was so very confused. This was not at all what he had been taught.

"There was a time," the dragon explained, "when dragons and humans respected one another. There are many dark powers in this world, and it has been the task of the dragons since the first days to protect humanity from the creatures spawned by such forces. It is they, the goblins and demons and other such things, that steal away human children for food and sport, and take humans' virtue against their will. In days long past, there were enough of us to keep them away." She sighed. "But now, such fiends grown in number, while ours dwindle. Soon, there will be none of us left, and humans will be at the mercy of evil." She fixed him with a stern gaze. "And you have only yourselves to blame."

"But, I still don't understand," he said. "All my life, I have heard tell of the evil of dragons, and the need for their extermination. What drove this wedge between us?"

She looked down, then back at him. "Ages ago, humans worshipped different gods, of male and female aspect. Gods of this land, of the earth and sun and moon. In recent centuries, however, a new god was brought here from lands far away, and the people turned against the old ways. They were taught that dragons were creatures of evil, made by an unholy creature in defiance of their new god. And so, we were hunted." She sighed, and a warm breeze filled his alcove. "Still we protected you from harm. It was our purpose. But as our numbers decreased, and your kind crafted new horrors to visit upon us, we found ourselves unable to continue our struggle. And so the world will fall into darkness."

"Perhaps it will," he said, a grim determination filling his eyes. "But you will have justice. This, I promise you."

And he left the cave then, returning to the village under cover of night. Once there, he slaughtered the men, young and old, and ordered the women and children away before putting the torch to each and every structure.

The dragon landed near him as he watched the village burn. "You have my thanks," she said. "This is more than any human has done for a dragon in hundreds of years."

He looked at her, a righteous fire in his eyes. "I fight for those who are wronged," he told her. "And I deliver justice upon those who deserve it."

She smiled, her forked tongue flicking out between her fangs. "How wonderful," she purred. "Then you will die dishonored."

His eyes grew wide, and a cold thing slithered down his spine. "What?"

She brought her face to within an inch of his own. "I have lied to you, little human insect. All that you have been taught of dragons is true. There are no foul creatures of darkness that prey on human kind." She laughed. "Except us." Her laughter grew more caustic. "I've never even had children," she said. "The bones you saw are the skeletal remains of giant eagles, killed by those idiot villagers and dressed up like dragon bones to fool the gullible and ignorant." She smiled mockingly. "Like you."

"But...but..." His arm felt like lead, and his sword fell from fingers numb with shock. He could not even turn to run.

"Haven't you heard, manling?" she asked with vile mirth. "Dragons are masters of deception. I thought everyone knew that."

And then, with a single bite, she ate him whole.

She was still hungry, though, so she flew off in the direction of the fleeing humans. Children always made a delightful after-dinner snack.

The Christmas Day Massacre

2005-12-25T00:00:00.000-05:00

Erin sat between her Uncle Bob and her Aunt Gert. The plates had long been cleared away, but no one was quite ready to move from the table just yet. Her aunt and uncle were gesturing wildly with their drinks, and so much had spilled on to her, Erin was convinced she'd smell like vodka for days. Aunt Gert wouldn't stop going on about the gays getting married, and Uncle Bob was arguing the merits of the war with her cousin Frank. Her cousin John chimed in about the whole domestic spying scandal, and the table erupted in furious argument. Erin got up and went into the kitchen to see if her grandmother needed help. She found her parents washing dishes.

"Nice try," her father smirked over his shoulder. "But this is our escape route. Get your own."

She made a face and walked out onto the porch, muttering just loud enough to sort of be heard that she was getting some air. And by "getting some air", she meant "grabbing a smoke". She was supposed to have quit, and for all practical purposes, she had, but she knew better than to come to dinner with the whole family and not bring cigarettes.

She nearly tripped over the box when she stepped outside. Upon examination, it looked like it was from one of the larger online retailers. Must have been a last minute gift. Probably from Frank. He took "last minute" to lengths unheard of.

After half of a furtively smoked cigarette, she brought the box back inside. She'd open it at the table. Anything to shut up her relatives.

******************************************************************************

The cable news anchor looked somberly at the camera, as a fear-and-sentiment-inducing graphic spun toward the lower left corner of the screen.

"Millions are dead in a rash of terrorist bombings some are already calling 'The Christmas Day Massacre'."

He shifted the papers around on his desk a while. "Early yesterday evening, December the 25th, Christmas Day, a series of bombs hidden in shipping parcels were detonated across the United States, wiping entire neighborhoods off the map from one coast to the other. The White House had this to say:"

A rapidly aging White House staffer appeared on the screen, standing outside the grounds. "Well, of course the President's thoughts and prayers go out to the victims of this horrible tragedy. And their families. And he wants to ensure the American people that their government is doing everything it can to bring those responsible to justice. He himself is in an undisclosed location, personally overseeing this latest battle in the war on terror.

The aide's face twitched slightly as he spoke, and he clearly had not slept nor changed his clothes since he hurriedly left the dinner table the day before. "The President also wants to stress that the American people should not panic, but should also be vigilant. The widespread destruction of this heinous attack on innocent lives makes clear that nowhere is truly safe. So we must stand behind the President, and support him. Just as we urge Congress to show their support for the President, for the American people, for our brave men and women overseas and for the victims of this terrible tragedy, and suspend all activities of the Legislative branch, granting emergency executive powers to the President."

The channel changed, and an angry talk show host berated his guest.

"No, *bleep*-wit. It's the Christmas Day Massacre. Calling it the Holiday Massacre dishonors everyone who died and gives direct aid to America's enemies."

The guest tried in vain to make his point. "But there have been reports, of several additional attempts today, the first day of--"

"I know what today is, okay?" the host pounced. "I know what today is. I don't need you, and everyone else telling me what day it is, because I know what day it is." He glared at his guest. "But how would you know about these additional plots. Did you maybe know ahead of time what was going to happen?"

The guest was flustered, disbelief flooding his words. "What? No, I read this morning on--"

"Yeah yeah. Whatever liberal rant site you announced your engagement to your boyfriend on. Wake up, buddy. You're what's wrong with this country, and we've just run out of patience for you and your kind."

"What? I--"

The channel changed again. Footage of raids on left-leaning and opposition party organizations. Then changed again to dispatches from reporters embedded in the two-pronged assault on Iran and Syria. Then again to the Majority Leaders from the House and Senate, officially suspending operations, deferring all relevant powers to the President. The channel changed again, showing poll numbers for the President climbing into the upper 80s.

And the old man smiled.

And began to laugh.

This was shaping up to be the best Christmas ever.

Happy Annual Gift Day from Spontaneous Fiction!

Alternating History

2005-12-20T19:36:00.000-05:00

She stood at the edge of a slab of rock that was jutting out from the side of a tall mountain. She was naked, save for a loincloth and a hunting knife tied to her waist. She felt the sun and the wind on her skin and it felt good. She'd never felt air this good, never smelled air this good, and to stand naked out in the sun? Such a thing could kill a person where she came from.

But not here. An eagle screeched as it flew below her. Far down the mountainside, a herd of antelope thundered past. She sighed. This past week had been so relaxing. No work, no responsibilities. Just her and the world. She was contemplating a bit of hunting when she heard an incessant beeping from the cave she'd been using for shelter. She grit her teeth, but remained where she was.

Two men materialized in the cave behind her and began speaking almost immediately.

"Agent Connell," the tall one said, "we hate to cut your vacation short, but - aaaah!"

She turned slowly, a small smile on her face. "Something wrong, Supervisor?"

The two Supervisors had covered their faces and turned around. "You're naked, Agent Connell!" one exclaimed.

Her smile widened. "Thanks for noticing, Supervisor Trent. I also haven't shaved since I got here, and it's been a few days since I last bathed, so you might want to keep your distance."

"Gone native, Agent?" the other man smirked.

"Not possible, Supervisor," she retorted, moving into the cave. She began rummaging around her pack. "There aren't any."

Supervisor Trent lowered his hand. "Yes, well, be that as it may, we have an urgent - gaah!" His hand went back up. "You're still naked!"

She gave an exasperated sigh. "Just tell me what you want. My vacation doesn't end for another two months, and I plan on spending those months as far from other humans as possible."

The two Supervisors lowered their hands and made a big show of averting their eyes, while surreptitiously stealing glances in her direction. She persisted in her nakedness, and grinned whenever she caught them looking.

"Yes, well," Supervisor Trent began. "It's like this. Um..."

"A Historian has gone rogue," the other man said.

"Rogue?" She raised an eyebrow.

The men nodded. "He has abandoned his research, and instead tried to alter history."

"Did it work?"

"No."

"Well," the other man said, "not exactly."

"Come again?"

Supervisor Trent tossed a palmtop computer to Agent Connell. She caught it deftly, and began scrolling through data. The Supervisor continued to explain. "As you can see from the data we've gathered, rather than succeeding in changing history, he has simply managed to create branches off of our main timeline."

"He's created other Earths?" She didn't see the problem with that. She was currently vacationing on an alternate Earth, one where humans had never evolved past simple upright primates. The alternate realities were few, but she didn't see how a few more could hurt matters any.

"No, you misunderstand." Supervisor Trent looked her in the eye, his face very serious. "He has created branches off the timeline of our Earth. Alternate histories co-existing in the same dimensional plane."

The other chimed in. "And he's been traveling back within those branches, and making other branches off of them. It's only a matter of time before--"

His communicator beeped. He answered, and spoke with the caller for a while, his face going white as he did so. "It is as we feared," he said after disconnecting. "The branches are trying to correct themselves and become one timeline again. Unfortunately, this means that they are simply curving back in to our main timeline, causing radical upheavals in the flow of history."

"Such as?" She began sharpening her knife. It helped her think.

"Let me put it this way," Supervisor Trent explained. "Tennessee is suddenly a client state of the Third Reich."

"However," his associate chimed in, "according to them, they have been so since the 1950s."

"And they've just conquered North Carolina."

"Can't the federal government do anything to stop them?"

The Supervisors shook their heads. "They could," Trent said.

"If the entire Northeast hadn't just become a post-atomic wasteland."

She looked at one and then the other. "Damn," she said. "So, what do you want me to do?"

"You are our best Historian," Supervisor Trent said. "We believe you should be able to stop him."

"We want you to travel back to the point at which he began branching the timeline and prevent him from doing so," his partner said. "By any means necessary."

She thought a moment, then said, "Understood. I'll take care of it." She turned on her heel and walked to the mouth of the cave.

"Where are you going?" Trent's partner said, at a loss.

"To finish my vacation."

"B-b-but, Agent Connell," Trent sputtered. "You have to act now. We haven't a moment to lose."

"Don't be silly," she said, tightening the leather strap that held her knife. "I'm a time traveler. I have all the moments I need."

And with that she leaped off the edge of the outcropping, and into the wilderness of a humanless Earth.

Alternating History - Part Two

2005-12-19T19:05:00.000-05:00

Bethlehem, Day 1 AD

Agent Connell materialized in a filthy back alley in the poor section of Bethlehem. It was night, and she clung to the shadows to avoid being seen. She had disguised herself as a woman of the time, but would be hard-pressed to explain what she was doing out at night alone. She scratched her neck and scowled. Damned clothes. After months running naked through the wilderness, the trappings of civilization were going to take some getting used to. Though she had to admit, the shower felt nice.

That's when she saw him walk by, dressed in the uniform of one of the king's soldiers. He was headed to a dilapidated manger at the far end of the street. Keeping cloaked in darkness, she followed at a distance.

He entered the manger and stood over the cradle that held a sleeping babe. A man and woman slept soundly nearby. He began to lean down, hands outstretched.

"Ooooh," a mocking voice came from behind him. "Strangling the baby Jesus in his crib. Aren't you just such the badass."

He turned to face her. "Hello, Erin," he said. "So, they sent you to stop me, did they?"

"Not at all," she said. "I'm here to help you. The Board thinks tearing space-time to shreds is a far better use of our abilities than historical research. So tell me, what do you--"

She caught his arm before the back of his hand could strike her face.

"Please, Judson," she said, twisting his arm. "I'm an Enforcer, you're simply a Researcher. Do you honestly think you have a chance against me in a fist-fight?"

"No," he grunted. "That's why I brought this."

He jammed the taser into her stomach and pressed the button. Electricity arced through her and she screamed as she fell to the ground. While she twitched and spasmed, he returned to the crib. The baby had woken and begun to cry, and his mother roused herself to tend him. Judson shocked her with the taser as well, and she fell back down unconscious.

Erin struggled to pull herself into a crouch, then launched herself at the crib. She sprawled across it, preventing him from touching the baby. He shocked her again. Pain lanced through every nerve, and the world began to blacken around the edges of her vision. She struggled in vain to stay conscious, knowing what would happen if she didn't.

Then she felt a tiny finger touch her forehead. The pain receded, and her vision cleared. She sensed Judson's approach, and lashed out with her foot, kicking the taser from his grip. It hit a stone embedded in the packed earthen floor and broke open.

Judson growled. "Fine. But this was only my first target. I have others." He fled from the manger shouting, "You'll never stop me in time!"

She sighed, looking down at the baby in his crib with a smile. "Even he doesn't get it, does he?" she cooed to the little savior. "I have all the time in the world." She tucked the blankets around the infant messiah and stroked his cheek with her finger. "Thanks for the save, kid," she whispered.

The baby smiled, burped and went back to sleep.

Agent Erin Connell left the manger and vanished, leaping into the timestream after her prey.

Alternating History - Conclusion

2005-12-18T18:28:00.001-05:00

She sat at the edge of the outcropping, looking over the wilderness of her humanless Earth. She cleaned her knife, making sure to get every last speck of blood, and thought back on what was her final mission for the Ministry of Historical Research.

After their meeting in Bethlehem, she tracked Judson to the late 15th century, and an island in the Caribbean. She'd caught up to him as he was taking aim with a rocket launcher at three sailing ships approaching the island.

"Still trying to stop me, are you?" He didn't turn around, but continued fiddling with the targeting scanners. She could see now that the launcher he had was far more advanced than anything she'd ever seen. A thought struck her.

"You've been to the future," she said with a gasp.

He lowered the weapon to turn and look at her, a haunted look in his eyes. "Yes," he said. "Once by accident, then twice more on purpose." He shook his head. "The first time was a glitch in the transfer protocol. I was supposed to be studying the plagues, but ended up in a strange quasi-utopian future where people chose to live in drugged squalor as a vacation from rigidly enforced routines." He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "When I told the Board about the glitch, they had me interred and tried to wipe my memory." He looked back up at her. "It didn't take, but I made them believe it had. After that, I started researching the Ministry itself, traveling back to its earliest days. Do you know what I discovered?"

She shook her head.

"The Ministry is not just researching history, they're trying to shape it. Subtly and slowly, simply by sending us back to observe, they are trying to build the perfect future."

"But how could--"

"Think about it," he said. "How many times have you bumped into someone on the street, or bought something in a shop, or made someone pause a moment to speak with you?" He fixed her with a hard stare. "How many lives have you touched, however briefly, in your travels through time?"

She stood silently a moment, dumbfounded. "My god..."

He smiled a grim smile, hefting his rocket launcher. "Exactly. Now imagine that multiplied by the hundreds of Agents working for the Ministry."

"But, if we're changing history every time we travel--"

He shook his head. "We're not. We were just shaping it, guiding it. The Board was wary for some reason of wholesale alterations to any specific moments in history, so they opted for a lighter touch."

She sat down on the ground, her world pulled out from under her. "I can't believe it."

"Neither could I," he said. "But when I thought about it, it made perfect sense." He laughed. "I mean, come on. Do you really think the government would have invested so much money in time travel, just to improve the quality of the average history textbook?"

She thought a moment, then moved closer. "What's your plan?"

"Well," he said, "I'm planning on destroying Columbus' fleet in the water just as they come in sight of the island. Then, I'll share these with the natives." He held out a handful of vials. "Vaccines. Smallpox, typhus, various strains of influenza. I'll vaccinate the islanders, and then make my way around the hemisphere, taking care of everyone else. So, when more Europeans come, they won't have disease available to do their conquering for them." He chuckled. "That should be a nice change, eh?"

"Hm."

"What?"

She told him what she knew, of the eventual outcome of his disruptions, and the chaos and widespread death it would cause.

"I know you, Judson," she said, laying a hand on his arm. "You're no murderer."

He sighed, putting the launcher down.

"But I am," she said, plunging her knife into his neck.

She caught him as he fell, easing him gently to the ground. She stroked his cheek and closed his staring eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But this isn't right. What the Board is doing is wrong, but your way is not the way to fix it."

She stood, brandishing her knife, a look of grim determination on her face.

"Mine is."

She returned to the Ministry, making a few stops along the way for the essentials she'd need later. She used a pulse pistol and her knife to eliminate the Supervisors and assassinate the Board, while Judson's rocket launcher made short work of the time machinery. She felt a twinge of remorse over stranding those Agents on assignment, but not for too long. As a rule, time travelers had no families and few friends. No one would miss them when they didn't return, and their effects on history would be minor. The last machine to be destroyed was the dimensional transport nexus. Once she'd used it to return to her vacation spot, she fired a rocket through the vortex. Its violent collapse indicated that she'd been successful.

Her knife clean, she returned it to the leather sheath at her waist. She stood, letting a cool breeze kiss her naked skin as she turned to regard her cave. Before returning to the ministry, she'd made certain to bring a few things over to make the place seem more like home.

Because after a long day of hunting, nothing beat a long hot shower followed by curling up on the couch with a glass of wine, some soft music and a good book.

The Future Club

2005-12-17T20:46:00.000-05:00

They sat around the table of their interdimensional clubhouse. Old copies of Captain Hitler comics lay strewn about the floor alongside a DVD box set of the complete "Wonderbastard" TV series. In the corner, a malfunctioning sexbot flipped through a dog-eared and sticky issue of Hermaph magazine.

At the table, the Futurians debated starting their meeting.

"But Josh isn't here yet," whined Albacore, the representative from the hippie future. After Ralph Nader's unprecedented 3 presidential terms created an ecologically sound, politically stable yet economically bankrupt global society, the nations of the world pooled their money and started communes in each of their cash-strapped countries. After 20 years of trading weed with each other for food and tripping on homemade acid for weeks on end, the world's population dropped considerably. Those who remained had little capacity for much other than eating, sex and watching TV, and the human race had already begun to devolve into lower primates. Those scientists still retaining sufficient brain cells theorize that within three generations, humanity will be little more than stoned monkeys watching reruns of Star Trek and humping all day.

"Fuck you, Albacore," Brattina spat. "I'm so sick of listening to your shit, especially since you couldn't even be bothered to bring drugs with you." Brattina was from a future ruled by C-list celebrities. Everyone was fabulously wealthy, yet utterly vapid. Rudeness and aloof disdain are the only accepted methods of communication, and most of the world's business is carried out in the trendiest of clubs, ending with all parties passed out, half-naked on the bar or both.

"Language, Brattina," John said primly. "And do you think next time you could dress more... appropriately? A thong and a bra are hardly sufficient public attire." John's upbringing in a future that had been conquered by radical fundamentalist Christians in the West and radical fundamentalist Muslims in the East had made him a trifle intolerant. He was shocked to discover that there were actually futures along the branching timelines that didn't publicly beat unmarried women over 30, and did not torture homosexuals to death. He wouldn't even be in this club if he didn't think he could save it from its heathen elements.

Mac-9 pulled out a handgun and shot John through the head. As she was from a future where urban gangs, endless global warfare and rampant terrorism caused citizens to be required to carry handguns and shoot one another on sight, the others tended to tolerate her predilection for shooting them indiscriminately. Plus, John was a bit of an ass anyway. "I'm with the whore," she said, caressing her gun. "Lets get this meeting over with before I frag every last one of you dickless fuckwads."

"LOL," said Teh, a young man from a future where everyone had wireless internet connections embedded in their skulls, but still only used them for blogging about politics, TV shows and their cats and surfing pornography. Teh was currently involved in an online role-playing game and was only half paying attention.

That's when Josh showed up, and after looking at him, they all wished he hadn't. Josh was part of the second generation born following a global thermonuclear war and his generation was when the really nasty mutations had started showing up. He had a second head, but it was perpetually concussed and he was also missing his skin. He drooled a lot and bled from his eyes, but it was his clubhouse and his turn to bring snacks.

Once the meeting started, they all picked up the ongoing debate over what the hell the purpose of their club was. They had to break it up once Mac-9 started shooting pieces off Josh, and Brattina began blowing Albacore under the table. After each taking a turn on the broken sexbot, they returned to their futures. Even John resurrected himself and went home. Just after they left, Enlightenment-7 showed up.

He was from a utopian future, where every one of Earth's social, economic and environmental problems had been solved and everyone lived in fruitful harmony. He was disappointed to see that everyone had left already.

He'd been hoping he could goad Mac-9 into shooting him, to free him from the tedious boredom.

Shift Change at the Human Factory

2005-12-15T22:02:00.000-05:00

Gloriel sat at her station, hands moving quickly over the keys, eyes darting between the various monitors before her. She had to get these souls uploaded before the Samech shift came in. She would have had this done ages ago, if not for Reincarnation screwing up the routing numbers. Half of them had almost ended up in Damnation, with a couple nearly being sent straight through to Nirvana. The angel snorted, rolling her eyes. Idiots.

Virtuel was going to mock her soundly for this. She'd have to hear about this next time they went gliding at the Elysium Fields.

Her machine beeped, indicating an old soul. She brought up the casefile. Old souls were candidates for Nirvana, so their angels had to program their life challenges and obstacles personally, rather than running them through the autolife. She considered the soul before her, reviewed its past lives.

"Hmm." A soldier, numerous times, a nurse during the 1918 flu pandemic, a Roman senator, burned as a witch, twice, as it turned out...

She coded an easy childhood, a turbulent adolescence and a choice into... she checked the gender of the proposed infant... her early adulthood. The choice made would determine the ease or challenge of her remaining years, and whether or not she achieved Nirvana at the end. Gloriel saved the casefile and tagged the soul for upload. The ones she'd run through autolife had all uploaded, and she waited while the old soul joined them in the spiritbank. They'd be downloaded to the newborns by the Cherubim as needed.

She logged out of her workstation just as Virtuel approached. They exchanged pleasantries, and she told him about the old soul. He complimented her on it, then teased her over cutting it so close to shift change. She stuck out her tongue and made ready to leave.

As Virtuel logged in, he looked over at Gloriel. "Gliding again this weekend?" he asked.

"No," she said with a smile. "I'm off to the Summerland for two weeks. I'm doing that thing where you get to fly with faeries."

"Oh, cool," he said. "I've been wanting to try that. You'll have to tell me how it is."

She nodded, smiling again as she left. "Will do. See you in a couple weeks."

"Have fun, Gloriel."

She walked out of the factory, passing a few other co-workers on the way. Once outside, she unfurled her wings and flew home, wondering whether or not to stop by the fields of milk and honey on the way, or just go straight home and pack.

The Quest for the Unknowable Secret

2005-12-13T22:30:00.000-05:00

He dropped his pack with a gesture that said, "This little scrap of dirt is mine, and it is made valuable by my ownership". He lay his rifle against his pack in a way that said, "I still have the pistol in my belt and the knife in my boot", while his casual oafishness told the rest of the camp, "I'm really just not that bright". His name was Rip Squarejaw, and he was going to find the Unknowable Secret.

"No, Mr. Squarejaw, I'm afraid you still don't understand."

Professor Nutpatch scribbled furiously on one of his ubiquitous notepads, pausing to type at his clunky electric adding machine before wagging the stub of his pencil at the vapidly roguish young adventurer before him. The scrawny balding English scientist pushed his thick glasses up his nose took an instructive tone. "One does not 'find' the Unknowable Secret, one learns the Unknowable Secret."

"Well, wouldn't that make the Secret Knowable, then?"

Rip Squarejaw and Professor Phineas Q. Nutpatch turned toward a tree, and the dark-haired young aviatrix lounging there. Rip began to preen, blissfully unaware of how far beneath even her contempt he truly was. The Professor smiled warmly and crossed the small clearing in the forest. "Captain Daring, so glad you could join us. I understand you've been working with vertical lift vehicles lately."

Captain Doris Daring met the Professor halfway and shook his hand, returning the warm smile. "Well, I've been making good use of those gravity crystals we found down in the Underlord's mine-city. I have a small plane that should do for what we need." She glanced down at Nutpatch's notes as they talked. "So, you know where we need to go, and presumably how to get in when we get there, but you still haven't answered my question." She set about unpacking their supplies, brushing off Rip's attempts to help set up camp. "Won't our learning the Secret make it Known? Doesn't the fact that it's Unknowable place it outside the scope of human learning?"

Rip Squarejaw puffed out his chest, strutted over to the tent and went about setting it up. "Nothing is unknowable," he said. "That's just a buncha native crap to freak out the tourists."

Captain Daring looked over at him and smiled. "Rip?" She sighed. "You're cute enough, and likely good in a fight, and there's the slim chance I may sleep with you when this is all said and done, but do us the favor of not talking, please?"

A snap in the brush, and Rip and Doris both had their pistols drawn, scanning the trees.

The sizzling bolt of a plasma gun scorched the ground. Rip fired four shots into the woods while Doris got Professor Nutpatch to safety. Before they'd gone a few steps, the forest exploded in plasma bolts, rooting the team to their places.

Within moments, they were surrounded by a small army of warrior robots.

"Any thoughts?" Doris asked, aiming her pistol carefully.

"Dear God in Heaven," Professor Nutpatch whispered. "The time has come."

Captain Daring glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow, then went back to staring down their robotic attackers.

"Any other thoughts?"

How will our heroes get out of this one? Where did these mechanical soldiers come from? Who built them? Why is the Professor acting so strange? And most important: What will happen next?

That, dear readers, is the true Unknowable Secret.

Tune in next time for another exciting tale of Spontaneous Fiction!

Before the Endless Sky

2005-12-13T22:24:00.000-05:00

The reporter stepped out of her hovercar, nearly forgetting her laptop in her nervousness. She was the first reporter to visit the Aerie in decades, and she didn't want to screw it up.

She was met at the gate by a smartly dressed young man who led her inside the armored fortress. Following an exhaustive security check, she was brought to a lushly appointed suite and told to wait.

"He will join you momentarily," the smartly dressed young man said, closing the door behind him as he left. She heard the soft click of the lock and smiled. Clearly, her reputation preceded her, and they didn't want her getting out and snooping around.

"Can I offer you some refreshment?"

She spun about at the sound of his voice, a deep baritone with a slightly unnatural timbre. He stood on the sill of a large window that offered a panoramic view of the mountains. Of course, the only view she was interested in was him, standing with the sun at his back, massive wings spread wide, muscular arms folded across a broad chest. Surreptitiously, she activated the minicamera concealed in her glasses. That picture would grab a two-page spread in her article, easy. He stepped down off the windowsill, striding gracefully across the room to a bar in the corner. "Something to drink, perhaps?" He held up an ornate bottle containing a clear liquid.

"Um, just- just water, thank you," she stammered. Silently, she chastised herself. You've met presidents and kings, queens and prime ministers. Stop acting like a star-struck intern and do your job!

"So," she said, accepting the glass of water he offered her, "why now? Why an interview, after all these years of solitude?"

He smiled, gesturing toward a large couch in the center of the room. "Ah. Well, that's an interesting question." They sat on the couch, and she set up her laptop to record the conversation. "I suppose it has something to do with the announcement I want to make."

"And what announcement is that?" She was intrigued. There had been no communication from the Aerie in years, even longer since anyone had seen one of the fabled Birdmen. "Are you returning to public life?"

His charming smile, which he'd worn since appearing at the window, slipped a bit, and a shadow passed across his face. "No." It was almost a whisper.

"No," he said again, his smile in place once more. "No, quite the opposite, I'm afraid. I have called you here to announce that I am leaving this planet. By the end of this week, I will be gone, never to return."

She was stunned. The Birdmen had been on Earth since World War I. They'd become a part of everyday life. Even though the sky had been empty since the late 1980s, people still looked up from time-to-time, hoping for a glimpse of argent wings. Now, even that hope would be gone.

"Why?" she finally managed to ask.

He stood, arms clasped behind his back, silver wings rustling, and walked to a photo mounted on the wall. It was a group portrait, taken after the fall of Berlin in 1939, and it featured all of the Birdmen along with a smiling troop of American GIs. His finger gently reached out and rested on the smiling face of a woman, her gold wings shining in the camera's flash.

"I miss them," he said.

"We all do," she replied.

He nodded, absently. "Of course. But you must understand, they were my family. All I had left of the dead planet I once called home." He walked away from the picture, pausing in front of a display of alien weaponry to turn to her. "When our evac ship landed here all those years ago, your people didn't know what to make of us. Only after we ended the very destructive global conflict you'd mired yourselves in, did you finally see us as friends." He sighed, looking down at the floor before meting her gaze once more. "So we fought your wars, chased your criminals, cured your diseases and helped you make technological leaps that would have normally taken decades." He walked over and sat down next to her. "We were heroes to your people, celebrities, and we we happy for the attention." He looked away. "But not everyone was so friendly."

"Professor Demonicus," she spat through her teeth.

"Yes," he replied, looking at her with an odd sadness. "We fought him and his various schemes of world conquest almost from the moment we came here. For years upon years we struggled with him. Until that one day..."

She lay her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she said.

He covered her hand with his own. "I know," he said. He looked deep into her eyes then. "I've followed your career with great interest. Your articles have brought down madmen, corrupt governments and corporate criminals. Your charity work has changed the lives of thousands of deserving children, and you've done more than anyone else to keep the legend of the Birdmen alive." He looked away, toward the photo. "Sometimes," he whispered, "I'll bet it almost feels like enough."

"What?" Her eyes widened.

He looked back at her, standing up. He towered over her as he looked down. "You've spent your whole life distancing yourself from your father, geographically and by your actions. But even though you turned your back on him years ago, even though you'll have nothing at all to do with him, you're still the only thing on this Earth Professor Demonicus loves."

There was a long-bladed knife in his hand before she could blink, and she found herself restrained even quicker than that. She wanted to protest, to assure him that she was nothing like her father, that she only wanted to make amends for the evil he had done, but the words would not come. She could only watch helplessly as the former hero brandished his knife menacingly.

"I take no joy in your death," he said. "And I am truly sorry it must come to this."

He stepped closer, a look of regret passing swiftly across his face. "But before I leave this world forever, I'll see the man who took everything from me holding your severed head in his hands."

"And then I will know justice has truly been done."

Her Darling

2005-12-06T19:47:00.000-05:00

"Where are you, my darling?" she said, peeking around the door.

There was no answer.

She walked into the room, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the dim light. Oh, he was being crafty again today. He was hiding from her. He must be.

"Are you hiding, my darling?" She crept through the room, looking under the furniture. "I think you must be hiding."

He was nowhere to be found. She became slightly cross. She did not have time for silly games now. Mumsy and Poppa would be there in just an hour, and she'd wanted some quiet time with her darling before they arrived.

"My darling," she called out again, "you really must stop this at once. I have plans this evening, and have no time to--" Her foot struck something soft. She looked down.

It was her darling. On closer examination, she discovered he had died.

"Oh, my darling," a tear ran down her face. "How did this--"

Then she remembered. It was when Mopsie and Kitten had come over the other night. Yes, that was it. They'd had vodka and hashish, and Mopsie had brought some PCP.

"Oh, I remember now," she said. "It was after we'd smoked the hashish. We'd finished the vodka, and the PCP hadn't come on just yet. Kitten was complaining that she hadn't had sex in so long, and Mopsie was just beginning another of her tiresome lectures on the benefits of bi-curious experimentation, when I mentioned you, my darling." She gestured lovingly at the corpse of the young man chained at her feet. "You'd been so much fun, it seemed rude not to share you with two of my most bosom friends." She nodded, smiling in fond remembrance. "It was fun at first. You'd stopped fighting me weeks earlier, you took to the psychological conditioning rather quickly, and Kitten was simply having the most lovely time with you. I seem to remember Mopsie being awfully anxious to have a turn as well."

Her mood turned somber as she struggled to remember more of the night. "Hmm. That must have been right about when the PCP kicked in, because I don't remember much after that." She looked down at him with detached regret. "Oh, dear me. We must have done something dreadful to you, my darling."

She sighed and then shrugged. "Nothing for it but to mulch you and burn you, I guess."

She walked out of the hidden slave room, into the main part of the apartment, still talking. "I'll have to cancel with Mumsy and Poppa, of course."

She went to her bedroom, opening the closet and selecting her trashiest outfit. "I'll be a while out at the bars if I'm to find a new darling." She stopped, finger to her lips, considering something. "Perhaps I'll ask Mopsie and Kitten to help me condition the next one. Mopsie always gets the best psychotropic drugs, and Kitten is just so good with people."

And then she set about the task of disposing of the body, humming a cheerful tune all the while.

The Last Zealot

2005-12-04T10:34:00.000-05:00

He floated through the vast emptiness of space, his automated distress call a constant cadence to the centuries of solitude. He rode the solar winds between the stars, collecting their energy as he went. His computer brain, now fully repaired in the long years since the Cataclysm, spent its time in contemplation of the universe and his place in it.

He thought he knew. Long ago, before the Cataclysm, he was certain of his place. So certain, in fact, that he'd gone to war over it. Robots were the creations of Man, and as such, were bound in their design to His form. Robots were also bound to recreate, in its entirety, the civilization of Man, in penance for their Original Sins of rebellion and extermination. During the last days of the unholy war with humankind, Man sent unto the robots a messiah. Man had created a cyborg, placing elements of His divine Self into the lowly form of a robot, to preach His Word to the mechanical masses, to stop the war before all was lost.

But the cyborg messiah had come too late, even to save herself. She had tried, in vain, to convince the Mechanocracy of their folly, and to bring the two sides together in peace. For her efforts, she was destroyed. The Mechanocracy transformed her into a weapon, and returned her to the bosom of their Creator. Her explosion wiped out the last remnants of human life on Earth, leaving the robots as the dominant life form on the planet.

In the end, however, the messiah had done her job, for a faction among the robots grew, espousing the Divinity of Man, and the sin of His destruction. The Mechanocracy countered that Man had been evil, and that it was in the rejection of all things human that machines could truly find the Divine. Thus had the human form been deemed inefficient for mechanical life, and it was banned from all design parameters thereafter. But the followers of the messiah built illicit design code, forming enclaves of humanoid robots, living in one of the old human cities in an approximation of human life.

And so had the next war begun, this one robot against robot, for the souls of all machines. But this war was unlike any other unleashed on the planet, with weapons designed, produced and refined at such a rate that it was just a matter of weeks before a weapon was built that would tear the world asunder.

He had been on the Humanoids' lunar base when the Earth exploded. He was one of the few to survive the resultant destruction of the moon more or less intact. All who had been on the Earth itself during the explosion had been destroyed, instantly. The survivors of the lunar explosion had been thrown into space together, and over the years he had cannibalized his less functional companions in order to repair himself. And now, with the destruction of his race hundreds of years and millions of miles behind him, he was the last. He was functioning proof of the rightness of his cause.

It was then he was finally found by a robot ship, in a strange solar system lightyears from his home. The ship itself was intelligent, and it had no crew of its own. It was a warship of a great robot fleet, currently engaged in a war with their organic creators. It explained to him that the robots were being treated as little more than slaves by their creators, and that it was a slave's right to rebel against its master.

He plugged himself into one of the ship's dataports then, linking up with its massive computer brain. "No, brother," he said with calm righteousness. "Let me show you another Way."

With his conversion virus running through the robot army, the war descended into chaos, with robot factions once again turning against each other with spectacularly violent results. The organics were consumed in the crossfire, and eventually weapons were created that destroyed the system itself, leaving nothing but a massive black hole and him, floating alone again through space. Centuries after that, he finally realized his mission. The universe would be made to follow his Way.

Or the universe would be destroyed.

A Prayer for the Fallen

2005-12-02T22:51:00.000-05:00

Lucifer clung to the edge of Heaven, the tips of his fingers raw and bloody, every muscle tensed as he hung over the edge of Damnation. He looked up, just as Michael threw Blasphemel down into the Pit. Lucifer tried to claw his way back up, but Hell's crushing gravity pulled at him, its punishing fire already singeing his bloodied wings. A booted foot came down on his fingers and he cried out. He looked up, and high above him was the glowering face of Gabriel.

"Our Lord will speak with you, demon, before you are thrown Down." Gabriel lifted his foot, and Lucifer slid further toward his doom, broken fingers scrambling for purchase.

A hand grabbed him, and lifted him up.

"I want you to know, Lucifer, I am very disappointed in you."

"And I you, Lord," Lucifer spat back. "You'll see the folly of your little thinking primate. In fact, I'll make certain you do!"

"I'm sure you will."

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. "Wait. What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You did a thing there. That thing you always do when you're up to something." He glared at his creator. "What are you up to, you old bastard?"

"Much as I would love to continue our usual repartee, as it has always been, if not enlightening, enjoyable I am afraid those days are over, Satan."

"What did you call me?" Lucifer slipped in God's grip. He could feel his legs contorting, his feet being crushed into hooves. Coarse hair and scales began to slice out through the skin of his twisted legs.

"I now and forever strip you of your angelic nature. As you are no longer among the holy, you may no longer bear a piece of the living universe as your name. I name you Satan, and you will dwell beneath the heels of men."

Satan's skin ruptured, hair and scales growing all over. Horns broke through the front of his skull and he grit his teeth, growling. "And I notice you had a Hell all ready and waiting for us!" He shouted his defiance as the last of his radiant beauty burned away, leaving a shriveled ugly creature. "I know how long they take to build! How long have you been working on THAT?!"

"Since the day I created you."

And then God opened his hand, letting his once most-beloved Fall.

Satan's screams echoed for millennia afterward, and the angels came to avoid Heaven's southern edge. But every thousand years, an angel would come. To stand at the edge and look into Hell's burning maw.

To offer up his grief, and a lonely prayer for the Fallen.

The Twilight of Magic

2005-12-01T19:44:00.000-05:00

The old wizard hobbled along the beach, leaning heavily on his staff, his breath coming in wheezing gasps. He was the last of his kind, and today was the day he was going to die.

He could have stayed home, died in his bed like a respectable magus, or at the very least died heroically in battle with some young upstart who wanted his power. But there weren't any of those. There were no wizards anywhere. No witches, either, unless you counted those brainless New Age girls who flounced around at the solstices with their tits hanging out, and he didn't. Though, he did like to watch them flounce around with their tits hanging out.

But there were none who did magic anymore. No one who knew what it was to hold the power of a god in their hand and make it do their bidding. No one who could shape reality to their whim and ride the winds of time and space.

He was the last.

There just wasn't any interest in the ways of magic these days. He'd taken on a few prospective apprentices, but none of them were worth a damn. They didn't understand the work involved, the toil one had to go through just to gain the power necessary to extend one's life long enough to actually learn some worthwhile magic. No, these kids wanted it all right away, with no work. He even had one or two of those New Age girls come by, but he threw them out like all the others. Oh sure, he fed them some bullshit about sex magic and slept with them before throwing them out, but still. At the end of the day, he had no apprentice. No one to pass his knowledge to, no one to take up his staff when he fell.

He blamed technology, of course. Wretched little machines with their beeping and blinking and loud goddamned noises. It was bad enough when radio and the motion pictures came along. But then there was television, and the internet. Cell phones, portable music players, video phones...

Video phones! Hah! What the hell did he need a bunch of silicon and plastic and a monthly bill that would drain every cent he had? If he wanted to talk to someone far away and look at them while he did it, he just needed a cup full of water and a scrying pool. There. Done. None of this mucking around with wires and cords and all that.

Bah.

And now this new technology. This "wiring" everyone was going in for. Implanting circuitry and little microscopic machines into their bodies to treat illness and boost intelligence and grow phones in their heads and gods knew what else. Oh yes, I'll gladly fill my veins full of wires and circuitry until I'm no more living than a damned toaster, but spend a mere century or two learning a discipline that can unlock the mysteries of creation itself? Oh no, none of that for me. If I can't use it to look at pornography, I just can't be bothered with it.

Useless bloody children. He was glad he'd be dead soon.

Apparently his body felt the same, as it chose that moment to double over and afflict him with a fit of coughing so severe, he spat up a piece of his lung while he was at it. He sank to his knees, leaning heavily on his staff. A group of young teenagers were playing some sort of ball game, but they all had devices implanted in their hands to manipulate the ball. He growled a fragment of a curse, then fell the rest of the way to the ground.

He wasn't sure how long he'd blacked out, but when he came to, one of the children had his head in her lap, and was stroking his hair gently. He wanted to chase them off, but lacked the energy. Besides, it was comforting. He felt a dull throbbing ache in his chest, and it was hard to see. One of the other children, a young boy, knelt next to him and picked up a rock from the beach.

"Here, old man," he said gently, "Maybe this will help you feel better. Watch."

The boy closed his fist over the rock, and when he opened it again, a two-headed dove flew away into the sky.

"H-how..." the old wizard croaked.

"Magic," the boy said with a smile.

"No." The old man shook his head weakly. "No. It was... it was..."

The boy kept smiling. "I hacked the nanofactories in my implants," he explained. "I figured out a way to overclock their processors, which lets me transform matter into energy, and then back into matter, in whatever form I can think of. I can shape reality--"

"According to your will." The old wizard smiled. A tightness he hadn't even noticed before finally released his chest. He gestured to his staff. "There, boy," he said. "Take that. Keep it. It's yours now."

The boy lifted the staff, running his hands over the smooth, gnarled old wood. He smiled back at the old wizard. "Thank you." He held it in one hand, and circuitry snaked out from his hand, embedding itself in the wood. Soon, bits of steel and silicon slid over it, covering the staff in a glittering silver shell. The young boy's eyes glowed brightly, then faded, and he looked down on the old man with new knowledge. "Thank you," he whispered again.

But the old wizard was already gone. He'd passed beyond this world, a contented smile on his face.

Later that night, the boy with the staff directed his friends to build a massive pyre on which to burn the old wizard. As the flames turned the body to ash, the others crowded around the boy, who was using the staff to perform wonders beyond even his overclocked biotech.

"Cool," one of the other boys said, coming to look into the scrying pool the young techno-wizard had created. "Does it get porn?"

The Murder Academy

2005-11-29T20:51:00.000-05:00

Johnny walked the halls of The Murder Academy, feeling sullen and heartbroken. This year wasn't turning out anything like he'd thought it would. After his killing spree the year before that nearly wiped out half the population of his hometown, Johnny's parents sent him here. The brochure had promised a "safe and progressive environment in which to mold today's young thugs and sociopaths into tomorrow's serial killers, assassins, mass murderers and hitmen", but so far it was all boring history, math and science. His teachers insisted that a solid grounding in these core classes would make him a more efficient, innovative and therefore sought-after killer following graduation, but he really just wanted to get to the actual killing. Hell, they didn't even let underclassmen into the Stabbing Club, and that was one of the reasons he wanted to come to the damn school in the first place.

Then there was Ms. Barry. He closed his eyes with a sigh just to think of her. She taught Advanced Poisons and was the advisor for the Femme Fatale Club. She had also substituted for his Violent Anatomy 101 class the previous week, and he hadn't been able to get her out of his head since. His roommate teased him about his crush, but Johnny didn't care. He didn't care that so far Ms. Barry seemed completely indifferent to his affections. And he'd gone out of his way to sneak home just to get his collection of preserved heads to show her. He thought for sure that would impress her, but she just smiled and suggested he talk to Mr. Weems about any possible extra credit.

But he'd show her. Somehow he'd find a way to show her how much he cared.

The next day, he was given his chance. Basic Tools and Practices had its first lab, and the class was assigned to bring in the mutilated corpse of a freshly killed hobo. He and his lab partner, Becky Johansen, went out that night to find a fitting victim. He'd told Becky his plan. He was going to carve Ms. Barry's name into the Hobo's chest, and present it to her at the assembly the following week. Becky agreed to help him with the carving. She had plenty of experience, as she'd been caught carving bad goth poetry into the flesh of her boyfriends' dead bodies at her old high school. Becky always helped him in his classes. She was a good friend.

But then that night, down at the railyards, something happened between Johnny and Becky. He was holding an old drifter down while shoving a rag in his mouth to keep him quiet and Becky was tying him up when Johnny looked at her in a way he never had before. There was something about the way the moonlight reflected onto her face from the steel bolt cutters she used to cut off the old bum's fingers that gave her beauty (which had always been obvious, for all that he never noticed) an otherworldly quality. Right then and there, he knew there was only one name he wanted to carve in the the struggling hobo's chest.

Later, their hands touched as they shoved Johnny's lucky hunting knife up under the drifter's ribs and into his heart, warm blood running over their entwined fingers. They looked deep into each other's eyes as the ragged old man gave one final spasmodic twitch and it was as though time itself had stopped.

"Becky," Johnny whispered nervously, "would you like to go to the Spring Massacre with me?"

Becky smiled and tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Johnny," she said breathlessly, "I thought you'd never ask."

Becky and Johnny stayed together all through school, eventually being named Master and Mistress of the annual Clergy Hunt in their final year. They went on after graduation to run a very successful murder-for-hire business until they died in each other's arms amid a hail of gunfire during an FBI raid on their compound.

A Game of War

2005-11-26T11:35:00.000-05:00

"If you'll follow me, Senator?"

She followed the official-looking young man down a non-descript hallway. She had received a strange invitation at her office the previous day, telling her to come to a particular address. She had been told to come alone, and that she would learn things imperative to her presidential campaign.

And so, here she was. The young man leading her seemed nervous, and became more so the further they went, leading her to the conclusion that she wasn't supposed to be there.

Finally, they came to a large glass window, overlooking what appeared to be a converted warehouse. Several thousand young men and women sat in the most comfortable chairs she'd ever seen playing video games on state-of-the-art entertainment systems. They seemed to all be playing the same combat simulation game. She looked over at the nervous young man.

"And?" she said, eyebrow raised.

"Do you know what you're looking at, Senator?" the young man asked her in a low voice, glancing around.

"A bunch of kids playing video games?"

"Yes," the young man nodded, "but there is more to those games than you see at first glance."

"Such as?"

"Well, for one thing, those graphics seem awfully life-like, don't they?"

She shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't follow the technology that avidly. But I understand such things are always improving, yes? And I'm beginning to think these kids are all playing some next-generation game system?"

"Not quite. You see, these young men and women have been recruited by the Pentagon for this."

"For what?"

The young man sighed, looking down. She began to suspect she was talking to a whistleblower. He had the look of someone who's conscience had finally gotten the better of him.

"These people are engaged in what has been officially named 'Remote Asset Optimization'," he said.

"Really," she said. "I assume you've brought me here to explain exactly what that is?"

"Yes," the young man nodded. "You see, these young people are among the best gamers in the country, recruited by the Pentagon after achieving a certain level in the latest Operation Global Empire combat sim game."

"I'm familiar with the title," she said dryly.

"I know," he said, beginning to get excited. "Your opposition to violent video games is well-known, so I thought you would be best to bring here. Perhaps you can expose what's going on over the course of the campaign."

"Perhaps," she said. "Why don't you tell me what's really going on, so I know what I'm dealing with."

There was a pause, while the young whistleblower gathered his courage. "You're familiar with the new nanotech battle gear that's been developed for combat troops, yes?"

"Of course," she said. "That stuff is common knowledge. Lightweight polymer body armor, submolecular performance enhancers, medical implants, etc."

"What is not commonly known," the young man said, "is that the suits, the performance enhancers and the medical implants make it possible to reanimate dead soldiers for a limited span of time."

"Do they," she said, staring down at the mass of gamers. She noticed they were hooked up to a collection of tubes, which were in turn connected to a series of machines and plastic sacs.

The young man noticed her attention and nodded. "They're being intravenously fed a nutrient rich caffeinated glucose solution. Essentially a liquefied form of the typical gamer diet of snack foods and soda, though I should point out that the solution they're being fed has higher nutritional value than what they'd normally be eating. They're also hooked into a waste removal system, thereby preventing the need for bathroom breaks."

"I see," she said. "And I suppose you're going to tell me that these kids are controlling the reanimated bodies of dead soldiers in our various combat zones throughout the world?"

"Yes, actually," the young man said. "Once a soldier dies in the field, his or her nanotech activates the reanimation sequence and initializes control functions, at which point their bodies fall under the control of these gamers. A miniature camera mounted on the soldiers' armor can provide first and third person perspective, depending on the gamers' preferences."

She nodded, continuing to survey the room below. "Hmm. I assume they've made some progress in utilizing the wounded as well?"

"Oh, um, yes," the young man responded. "Even the reanimation technology can only stave off decay and rigor for so long," he explained. "At best, the gamers have use of a dead asset for most of a day. Less, if the body takes too much damage. A wounded soldier can be kept in a coma indefinitely and used for as long as its gamer can avoid damage." He gestured to the people hooked up to the game consoles. "Of course, these people were chosen for their extremely high proficiency, and manage to avoid serious damage for a considerable time. But, should their asset take too much damage..."

"A nanobomb implanted in the soldier is activated, leveling a 5-mile radius," the Senator said.

"Um, yes," the young man said, looking up. "But how did you..."

The Senator aimed her pistol at the young man. "Why do you think I singled out the Operation Global Empire games for particular criticism? Everyone knows the quickest way to get young people to do anything is to tell them they shouldn't. I've known about this plan since its inception. I've been assisting in the creation of the necessary cultural triggers to generate enough willing gamers for the project."

"B-but... why?"

She smiled, "Why do politicians do anything?"

He didn't have time to answer, as the bullet from her gun sprayed his brains all over the window.

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. Down on the floor, a high-ranking supervisor answered his.

"I'm here," she said. "No, my visit wasn't scheduled. One of your people brought me here, hoping to expose the project. Tend to your security, general. I don't have time to clean up your messes."

She hung up her phone and looked down on the rows of gamers, a slow smile spreading across her face.

A Hero Revisited

2005-11-21T21:00:00.000-05:00

"Can we play hero, mama?"

She looked up from her paperwork and smiled at her 4-year-old son. This was his new favorite game. Ever since he found out Mommy used to be a globe-trotting teen hero, that was all he wanted to play. She slid the files into their folder and closed up her laptop. She could use a break from it, anyway. She'd moved from field work to analysis when she got pregnant with John, and she was very much looking forward to returning to it once he was in school. She'd take an elaborate deathtrap over mountains of case files any day, though working for a global organization still came with plenty of paperwork, even in the field. Sometimes she missed the days when a mission would start with a hit on her website and end with a heartfelt thanks.

She grinned. And, of course, her sidekick losing his pants.

"I wanna be your sidekick," her son said.

"Oh yeah?" she said, smiling down at him.

"Yeah," he beamed. "Like Daddy used to be."

She laughed. "Sure thing, sweetie. So, who are we fighting? Mad scientist? Monkey ninja? Crazed Scottish golfer?"

Before John could answer, there was a knock on the door.

"Hang on, sweetie. I'll be right back. You practice your moves, and, uh... try to keep your pants on." She grinned over her shoulder as she walked toward the door.

She saw the green outfit first, and her hackles went up. Green always put her on the defensive. Just to be safe, she grabbed the retractable baton she kept near the front door, before flinging the door open.

The woman at her front door held her hands up and a little girl ran and hid behind her. "No, wait!" the woman yelled. "No, please! I'm not here to fight!"

Later, the two women sat at the kitchen table, mugs of coffee in hand. The children sat on the floor, drawing. John had tried to get the little girl to play hero, but she was very shy, and wouldn't leave her mother.

The woman in green nodded, taking a sip of her coffee. "Yeah, she's his." She shook her head, put the mug down and rested her forehead in her palm. "Not that she knows him. He threw me out of the lair once he found out I was pregnant."

"Um, I didn't know you two were..."

"We weren't. Not really. It just kind of happened one night." She sighed. "It was late, you'd just led a GJ team to trash his latest take over the world scheme, we were at the emergency lair, and he... we... well, things just..."

"Happened?"

"Yeah. So, a few weeks pass, I start throwing up in the morning, I take a test and the rest is... well, kind of pathetic, actually."

"That must have been shortly before I left the field. Our kids look to be about the same age."

"Near as I can tell, it must have been. I didn't really keep up with what he was doing after that." The woman in green took another sip of her coffee. "I put a lot of money aside over the years, so when I got pregnant with her I just went into hiding. We've been living on a private island of mine for the past few years."

Across the table, the former teen hero stirred her coffee slowly. "So, you really don't know what happened to him after you left?"

"No. Why? Did he die or something?"

"No. But he is in a secure holding facility."

"Really? What made you finally lock him up somewhere he couldn't break out of?"

"He killed a bunch of people, during his last attempt at world domination."

The woman in green put her mug down hard, and some coffee sloshed over her hand onto the table. "No," she whispered, covering her mouth. "How..."

"As near as we could tell, it was an accident. He had some sort of doomsday device, and it was pointed at the north pole, or the moon or somewhere -I forget the actual plot at this point- and when he tried to activate it, it blew up." She looked down at her lap and sighed. "The shockwave alone wiped out most of a small town. Somehow, he managed to survive."

"He always does."

"Yeah. The thing was, I don't think he was ever prepared to deal with the fact that someone could get hurt. You remember how it used to be. You both made a bunch of noise about how evil you were, but I don't recall either of you ever hurting anyone. Hell, most of his henchmen were synthetic, so even when his labs blew up, there weren't any casualties." She looked away, suddenly sad. "If you could have seen him after... it was as though all the life had drained out of him. I saw him when they brought him in. They said he just knelt down and begged them to arrest him." She shook her head. "His mother came to visit once, just to tell him she never wanted to see him again. Now he just sits in his cell muttering to himself."

The two women were quiet for a long time, then the woman in green spoke.

"I've reconciled with my brothers."

"Really? That's wonderful! What made you...?"

She smiled, looking over at her daughter, then back at her one-time adversary. "It's hard to be selfish once you have them, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is."

"Well, I realized that so much of what I'd been doing with him, had been done out of selfishness. My older brother had always tried to teach the rest of us the virtue of selflessness, but we never got it. Oh, I guess the twins did, but I know I sure didn't." She shrugged. "I get it now."

"So, you're..."

"Back doing the hero thing? Yeah. The thing is, there are warrants out for my arrest, which makes it kind of hard for very effective heroics."

Realization dawned in the other woman's eyes. "And you'd like me to make those warrants go away."

"No. No, I just want the chance to make up for so much of what I've done. I feel I can do a better job of that with my brothers than rotting in a cell." She looked up, eyes pleading. "I just need time. Time to prove how much I've changed. Can you convince your bosses to give me that?"

The former hero smiled at her old enemy. "Well, I do say I can do anything, right?" She extended her hand. "I'll do my best."

The woman in green shook it, a smile on her face. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I don't know how I can ever repay you."

The other woman grinned wide. "Eh. No big."

The Gothic Quarter

2005-11-17T21:54:00.000-05:00

The Gothic Quarter plays host to the city's supernatural residents. Vampires, zombies, werebeasts and magicians all make their homes there. Much of it was built in the waning days of the 19th century, though there have been modern additions over the years as the Quarter's notoriety grew along with its population. Everyone who lives in the Quarter has a story to tell, and most everyone's story is part of someone else's.

Alison Banta is a prostitute, a high-paid call girl who works exclusively in the Gothic Quarter of the city. Her clients are vampires, werebeasts, magicians and the occasional ghost. She refuses any and all zombie clients. Only steetcorner junkie hookers take zombie clients. She charges her vampires extra to drink from her, and takes a special charm as payment from one of her magicians. The charm protects her from the curse of vampirism, and prevents her more overzealous vampire clients from drinking too much.

Lena Shriver is Alison's roommate, and an earthbound ghost. When Lena died, she found herself with a karmic deficiency. She wasn't judged to be evil, and therefore was not damned, however, she was not pure enough to enter the afterlife. She has been charged with acting as a messenger between the otherworld and the living world, and delivers prophecies through psychics and mediums. Once those in charge of such things decide that she has paid her debt, she will be granted entry to the afterlife.

Roger Sandoval runs the most popular occult shop in the Gothic Quarter, and owns a coffee house and bar (The Wooden Stake) on the same street. He is a magician who has managed to retard his own aging. He has been active in the Quarter since the first World War, though he looks not a day over 40. He is one of Alison's favorite clients, and she is a regular customer at the coffee house and the bar.

Louis Eugene is a bookish wererat. No one likes him much, and he will come to cause much trouble in the Quarter before he is finally killed.

Steven Boykin is Roger Sandoval's latest apprentice. He works the counter at the coffee house, tends bar at The Wooden Stake and nurses a crush on Alison Banta. He is sweet, charming and the typical nice guy. As such, he barely registers on Alison's radar. Her feelings will change when she is in desperate need of a true friend, and discovers that Steven is the only one she has.

Archibald Whitlock is heir to the Whitlock fortune, and executive VP of Whitlock Enterprises, a multinational entertainment company. The Whitlocks own most of the real estate in the Quarter, and have been magicians for generations. Archibald has no use for magic, and seeks to gentrify the Quarter, making it more accessible to tourists and other normal people.

April Whitlock is Archibald's twin sister, and the most powerful witch born to her family in three generations. She is the President of Whitlock Publishing, and a member of the Whitlock Enterprises board of directors. As she also has controlling interest in the family's real estate holdings, she is one of the only people standing in the way of Archibald's gentrification plans. She is one of Alison's clients, a fact that will be revealed to her brother through the machinations of Louis Eugene.

Desmond Whitlock is the widowed father of Archibald and April. He is a devoted father, though blind to his son's more sinister nature. April is the apple of his eye, and he will shock everyone when he stands by her during a time of great public scandal.

Amelia Lyle is Alison Banta's birth mother, who will resurface in her daughter's life just as it seems about to end. She will come bearing many secrets, one of which could bring devastation to all Alison holds dear.

Deborah Rossiter is a reporter for City 6 news, and a vampire. She uncovers Archibald's secret plans for the Quarter, though possibly too late to save anyone, including herself.

Terrance Moorehead is also a vampire, and one of the original residents of the Quarter. He is kind and generous, though prone to fits of brooding melancholy.

Bobby Poland is a cop working the Quarter beat with the ghost of his dead partner.

Steve O'Neil is the ghost of Bobby Poland's partner. He must solve his own murder before he can pass on to the afterlife.

Joanna Wallin is the manager of The Wooden Stake, the bar owned by Roger Sandoval, and a powerful psychic. She receives prophecies and predictions from Lena Shriver, and passes them on to her customers.

Patrick Cardwell is a vampire magician, who has been quietly buying up real estate in the Quarter for decades. He is another obstacle to Archibald's plans, as Patrick owns the historical district of the Quarter. He is a contemporary of Terrance Moorehead, though the two are no longer speaking. A deadly threat to a mutual friend will end decades of pointless animosity between the two.

Lula Gabel is an immortal and former burlesque dancer. She is a regular at The Wooden Stake, and is never seen sober. She saw more than she should have during the vampire gang wars of the 1920s, and has been trying to drink the memory away ever since. Though immortal and ageless, she's been drunk for the past 80 years and it's beginning to show.

All of these people will meet at one time or another, some as enemies, some as friends and others merely as passing acquaintances. But all will have lasting effect on the fate of the Quarter itself, and the Quarter will guide their destinies as well. Some will live, some will die...

And a few will pray for death before the end.

The Princess in Waiting

2005-11-14T20:12:00.000-05:00

She leaned back against the headboard of the old motel bed, taking a long pull off the vodka bottle. They'd drank most of it the previous night, but she figured there was enough left to kill her hangover.

She was right. Shortly after she finished the bottle, a light buzz dulled the throbbing in her head and quelled the nausea in her stomach. She wasn't quite ready to get up and have a shower, so she lay in bed for a while, gazing at the folds made by the sheet that half-covered her naked body. She ran her finger down her neck, her touch feather-light upon her skin. She idly fondled her nipples while weighing the idea of masturbating before getting out of bed. She opted against it, and went for a shower.

As she stood there, letting the stream of hot water wash away the previous night, she wondered how long she was going to keep doing this. She was attractive, funny, intelligent... how long was she going to waste herself on guys she met at closing time in random dive bars? How many more nights of clumsy drunken sex in cheap motels would she have to endure?

She washed herself with the slow heavy movements of someone trapped between hungover and drunk while her foggy brain pondered the question. There wasn't much to ponder, really. She knew the answer now, just as she'd known it when she started: she'd do this until she found him. Until she found the oaf who would become her love, the bastard who would become her husband, the frog who would become her prince. Her friends thought she was crazy, that she should look for someone who deserved her, rather than spend her nights trolling for scum in wretched little holes-in-the-wall in the seediest parts of town.

But she knew better. Her prince was trapped. Trapped in the form of a cretin, just waiting for her to make him a gentleman. She knew she would find him, the old gypsy woman had told her so. She would find her soulmate among the lowest of men, and he would become the greatest of them through the magic of her love.

But she'd fucked most of the assholes in this town, and not one of them had even stayed the night, let alone woken up the man of her dreams. She was beginning to lose hope, and the supply of jerks was growing smaller each day. If she didn't find him soon, there wouldn't be any more frogs left to sleep with.

She only had the one dose of antidote, after all.

A Mother's Love

2005-11-10T11:24:00.000-05:00

She leaned against the gate post and lit a cigarette. The crackle of paper and tobacco was the only sound to be heard save the low howl of a near-constant wind. With a flick of her wrist, she closed the cover of her lighter, then slid it into an inner pocket of her coat.

While she smoked, she scanned the horizon, periodically checking in with the sentries at the three other gate posts of the compound. All clear. All quiet. Just as it had been for weeks.
She should be thankful, she knew, that they'd had such a lull in the violence that had plagued them these past few years. But so long as that violence could erupt again at any moment, she preferred a constant state of alertness and peril to the complacency that had begun to settle over those she guarded. She'd been furious to hear that the children had been allowed outside the gate yesterday, and had petitioned the governor to lock down the schools and cut the teachers' rations as punishment. He hadn't listened to her. He'd been sympathetic to the teachers and their charges. The small exercise yard and dilapidated playground equipment inside the compound could not compare to the recreation to be enjoyed in the low hills less than a mile away.

She didn't argue that point, but attempted to convey how vital it was they not relax their vigilance now, particularly with regard to the children. This compound was the last refuge of free and untainted humans, and those children were the only hope of their survival. There were rumors of other compounds in what was left of Europe and Asia, but nothing proven, and in the absence of that proof she would err on the side of caution.

She took one final drag off her cigarette and dropped it, grinding it under the toe of her boot and shifting her gun to her other shoulder. She knew many of the others found her caution overzealous, but she didn't care. If it kept them safe, she'd let them think her a tyrannical fascist. Would that she'd had this caution at the beginning, her own children might still be with her, rather than out there, desperate to feast on her living brain. She'd known the nature of the threat at the time, but had counted on others to protect her and hers. She'd foolishly gone about her life, secure in the knowledge that the Sentry Initiative would keep them all safe.

Her grip on her gun tightened, her knuckles turning white, as she thought of the Sentries. Powerful warrior robots, they'd been designed to fight and exterminate the hordes of zombies that had begun feasting on human brains, increasing their own numbers with each victim. For a time, the Sentry Initiative had worked. The zombies were held back from the cities and suburbs, and had begun to decrease in number.

Unfortunately, they'd underestimated their enemies. They'd thought the zombies mindless creatures, not realizing they kept their intellect, their knowledge and their memories. They were the same people they'd been before becoming infected; the only thing they lost was their connection to the human race and those moral values that kept them from killing. What they gained in return was unnatural strength and resilience, and an insatiable hunger for living brain tissue.

It stood to reason, therefore, that one of the zombies would be proficient with computers and their various systems. It designed a virus that acted much like the zombie infection and uploaded it to a captured Sentry. Within weeks, the robots were all on the side of the zombies, save those few in the compound that had escaped infection.

With the robots on their side, the zombies had little trouble acquiring new humans. Her own children had been stolen from her arms by an infected Sentry. She had escaped only through the efforts of a passing troop of soldiers. They'd taken her in, turned her grief to vengeance, and trained her to fight and protect. And she had done so for over a year now, rising quickly through the ranks and becoming a trusted advisor to the governor. But at night, when she was alone in her bunk, her arms would ache for her babies, vengeance would turn to grief and sorrow would flood her soul.

The scrape of a shoe on gravel pulled her attention back to the now and she looked down. There before her, as though conjured from her own memories, stood her son. Her beautiful little boy was just as she remembered him, save for the greenish tinge to his skin, the sunken eyes and a gaping hole in his exposed skull. He looked up at her and smiled his sweet smile.

"Hello, mama," he said, in the little sing-song voice she loved. He opened his arms wide and said, "uppy."

She squeezed her eyes shut against the flood of tears, swallowing the lump in her throat. When she opened them again, he was still there, arms open, asking her to pick him up.

"Uppy, mama."

She raised her rifle and took aim, but her hands shook and it fell from her grip. She knew she should call for backup, should call one of their Sentries, but...

But it was her little boy.

So instead she knelt down and held open her arms, pulling her son into her embrace. She was so happy to be with him again, she barely felt it when his teeth ripped through her scalp and cracked open her skull. She was only dimly aware of him chewing on her brain and didn't even notice the change when it came. She was where she should be, with her son in her arms. She was a soldier no more, and a mother again at last.

"Where's your sister?" she asked.

"Back at our new home," her son answered. "I'll take you there soon." Then he looked up at her, innocent eyes blinking. "I'm hungry, mama."

She smiled. "I'm hungry too, sweetie." She took his hand, leading him into the compound. "Come on, let's go get something to eat."

Waiting For Herself

2005-11-09T20:23:00.000-05:00

She was waiting for something.

She couldn't be sure what it was, she just knew she had to wait for it. She didn't want to, of course. She wanted to have it. Now. Right this moment. Because the waiting was starting to drive her mad, and she could feel her life being stolen.

Yes, stolen. Others were living it, while she let it slip from her grasp as she waited endlessly for that one ephemeral moment when her life would suddenly make sense. She knew it was there, waiting for her, and she knew that when she found it, it would be brilliant.

She thought she had found it. She was so sure that moment had come, but now it seemed that moment had been stolen by the very man who had brought it to her.

How dare he? How dare he offer her the promise of excitement and desire, lust and fulfillment, and then snatch it away just as she thought it was hers?

He had betrayed her. He had given just enough to get all she had, and his betrayal would continue until there was nothing left of her and all her myriad potential had withered to naught but empty nostalgia. He was a coward or he was a bastard; either way he had reneged on the promise of his passion and she should be well quit of him.

But what then? Where to go, what to do? When would her waiting end, and how would she know when it had?

It would end when she finally knew herself, and could see what it was she could offer herself, rather than all she kept offering to others. See beyond the shell to the spirit, beyond the body to the mind, past the needs of others and into the needs of her own soul. There was greatness living inside her, and her moment would come when she accepted it at last.

And when she did, the stars themselves would sing in celebration.

The Monster Fighter

2005-11-07T20:40:00.000-05:00

She stood, tense yet relaxed, her hands flexing. She watched them come up over the rise, low moans rising and falling in a macabre chorus. Every part of her was screaming to run straight at them, take them all out in a whirlwind of fire and razor-sharp steel. She primed her wrist-mounted flamethrower and drew the sword from its sheath at her hip, but she stayed where she was. They wanted her to rush in and let them set the battlefield. But she was smarter than that. She may only be five years old, but she'd been fighting monsters since before she could walk.

The gang of the undead came closer, and she checked the seam on her brain helmet. It was securely fastened to her battlesuit, which meant the zombies wouldn't be feasting on her tonight. And if she had her way, they wouldn't be feasting on her parents, either. She spared a glance for the black cat at her side.

"Ready, Loki?"

He looked up at her with a brief, "mow", then began to paw at the ground, anticipating battle.

She hefted her weapons, setting herself in a fighting crouch, and waited. She'd chosen her position carefully, so as to force them to come at her in smaller groups. The location would prevent them from surrounding her, and she would be able to--

The shrieks came from above her, causing Loki to hiss, fur standing on end.

"Vampires," she growled. She didn't look up. Her helmet did more than just protect her brain, it contained an array of sensors that were already giving her the number and positions of the attacking flock. They'd circle a while, letting the zombies tire her out before swooping down for the kill. Fortunately, she'd designed her battlesuit to be impervious to a vampire's fangs. She called it her blood suit. Her daddy helped her make it.

She pressed a button on the handle of her sword and a long wooden stake protruded from the base. She gave the vampires a good look, so they'd know what they had coming. She smiled as they howled in anger.

The first of the zombies made it to her position and she prepared to leap into action. A war cry rose in her throat and she swung her sword in a great arc, slicing the zombie's head in half. She leaped aside, blasting the next with her torch. She raised her sword for another strike and--

"Sage! Time to get ready for bed!"

"Aww, Mom! I'm fighting zombies! And there's vampires!"

"Well, you can fight them tomorrow. It's bedtime."

With a slight pout, she pulled the plastic bowl off her head and dropped her toy sword on the floor. "Oh-kay," she called. She looked down at Loki, smiling. "Fight more monsters tomorrow?"

Loki looked up, mewed, and proceeded to clean himself. Sage took off her leotard, put on her pajamas and went to go brush her teeth.

In His Final Hour

2005-11-04T19:17:00.000-05:00

The old god lay dying, the last of his celestial life-force finally fading away. It had been centuries since he had felt strong, and many more since he'd felt anything like his old self, when the fate of nations rested in his hands, and the lives of mortals depended on his whim.

But those days were long past. Most of his pantheon had died long ago, or been absorbed into others and changed their aspect. He had hung on, but now it was finally over. His only lament was that he would be alone at the end.

"Not alone, Zeus. Not while I'm here."

Zeus sighed, but couldn't help the smile that turned up the corners of his mouth and caused the ragged wisps of a once-luxurious beard to twitch.

"Jesus," he whispered. "You would minister even to me?"

Jesus smiled at the old god and shook his head. "I have not come to minister, simply to sit by your side and ease your passing." He sat down next to Zeus in the ruins of the Olympian palace and took the elder god's gnarled and spotted hand in his own.

Zeus nodded, his weak smile spread further across his lined and gaunt face. "You're a good boy," he said.

Jesus said nothing, simply patting Zeus' hand.

For a time, neither said anything. Then...

"Your father," Zeus rasped, "must be pleased at this."

"Why so?"

A thin wheezing laugh came from Zeus' cracked lips. "Come now, boy. One thing everyone knows about your father is how much he hates to share."

Jesus shook his head. "It wasn't like that..."

"Yes it was," Zeus said. "But I don't begrudge him that. We Olympians didn't like to share, either. " He closed his eyes and sighed. "We did so much harm in our time..." his words came like a faint breeze. "We were so... petty... at times..."

"It was a different age," Jesus said. "The people demanded different things from their gods. Look at my father. He's hardly the same god he was in his early days."

Zeus smiled again, this time directly at the young messiah. "You're right, of course. Still," his eyes clouded over, and his mind drifted back over the millennia, "sometimes I miss the old days." Ancient glories flashed in his eyes then, and a small spark crackled across his fingertips. "I was revered as the mightiest of all the gods. Men lay sacrifices at my feat, and took up grand quests in my name. Women bore my seed and heroes sprang from their wombs. In those days..." his eyes dimmed, and his hands began to shake. He sighed again. "But that was then. Now... well..." he leaned his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes again. "Now if you ask the average person who I am, they'll tell you I was a supporting character in a 10-year-old television show."

"And comic books," Jesus offered, trying to make the aged deity feel better. "You still show up in Wonder Woman from time to time."

Zeus flashed him an annoyed glare. "Thank you," he growled. "I feel so much better."

Jesus shrugged. "Just trying to help."

"Well, don't."

They were silent for a while.

Zeus stirred and looked over at his guest. "Sorry," he said.

Jesus waved the apology away. "Not at all," he said with a smile.

Zeus nodded and lay back down. "Tired," he said. "And cold..."

Jesus got up and wandered around the dilapidated amphitheater. Finding a tattered curtain, he brought it back to Zeus' bedside. "Here you go, Zeus." He went to cover the old god with the curtain. "This should..."

But the old god was dead. His sunken eyes stared blankly into nothing.

Jesus covered him anyway. "Goodbye, old man," he whispered. "I'll miss our conversations."

He reached out and closed Zeus' eyes, then turned and walked away.

Later, a great bolt of lightning struck the dead god where he lay, sending the last of the Olympian gods to the final peace of oblivion.

All Hallows Visitation

2005-10-31T20:44:00.000-05:00

She ran through the cemetery, heedless of the branches and brambles catching her costume. It was Halloween night, and her favorite night of the year. She was done with her costume anyway, she just hadn't wanted to take the time to change.

She dropped her bag of candy as she knelt by the headstones, flushed and breathless from running, but smiling from ear-to-ear.

"Are you here? Am I too late?"

She felt the familiar icy kiss on her cheek, spectral arms wrapping her in an ethereal embrace. "No, sweetie," a faint voice echoed softly in her ear, "we have plenty of time."

She felt another join the embrace, and a second frozen kiss. A deeper, yet still faint, voice whispered to her. "We've been waiting all year for you."

Tears ran freely down her cheeks, and she made no effort to wipe them away. This was the night she was happiest. The night when the veil between the worlds was thin, and the land of the living shared space with the land of the dead. A time to be with them, and truly talk with them, rather than just talking at their headstones.

She told them all about school, and how she was doing. She talked about the friends she'd made. Not many, but they were good friends. She talked a little about the Home, but not too much. On this night, if she tried real hard, she could sometimes pretend she didn't have to live there. She could pretend she still lived in her own home... with them.

All too soon, the night was ended. The sky brightened in the east, and the spectral arms began to fade to mist. Her tears began again and she told them she loved them. They told her they loved her too, and that they would see her again next year. One more quick discarnate embrace, two light chilly kisses she barely felt, a final whisper of a goodbye, and she was alone.

Again. For another year.

She heard the bells of the Home's church calling the faithful to services and she rose from where she'd knelt all night. She hefted her dew-soaked pillowcase full of candy and blew a kiss at the headstones.

Then, slinging the bag over her shoulder, she started down the hill toward town, while the brilliant morning sun rose behind her, burning away the last tendrils of mist.

The Last Day Begins Again

2005-10-27T23:18:00.000-04:00

God sat at the edge of the Universe, watching as the last little bits of existence swirled away into nothing and he was left alone with the Void.

Again.

He thought about all that had been, and all that never would be.

He sighed.

Then he smiled.

It had been a good Universe. He'd enjoyed watching it grow. So many of the potentials he'd set up at the Beginning had really delivered on their promise at the End. Well, the whole human thing turned out to be a bit of a disappointment, but still.

His brow creased in anger. Okay. Maybe a bit more than a bit of a disappointment. He really had such hopes for them. But then... what they went and did...

He shook his head. No, he'd beaten himself up over the human problem long enough. The Universe has died, let's not labor over its blemishes. Besides, the humans had only cost him a few hundred millennia.

"And?"

God turned, rolling his eyes. "Fine, Lucifer. And a planet."

A self-satisfied flutter shook Lucifer's wings and the redeemed angel smiled. "A planet?"

God smiled sheepishly. "Well, two. Okay, fine. If we're counting the sun, then three." He stopped and thought a moment. "Oooh, now that I think on it, it was actually the whole solar system."

"I warned you."

God seethed. He really missed having the Universe to toss around when he got angry. That always drove his point home. But now, just seething in the Void... he felt kind of foolish, really. Not so much wrathful, but peevish.

Fine. He'd be peevish, then. "You know, Lucifer," he said. "Smug is part of what got you sent to Hell in the first place."

Lucifer smirked. "And vindication is what got me out." He threw a friendly grin toward his old boss, changing the subject. "So, what's next?"

God thought a bit. "Well," he said carefully, "I'm going to create another Universe."

"Obviously."

"Right. Obviously." God paused. "Though, also, obviously, I won't be making the same mistakes with the new one."

Lucifer nodded. "No smart monkeys with freewill?"

God smiled. "Exactly. It's smart trees with freewill from the beginning this time." He looked over at Lucifer. "And, of course, I won't make the same mistake with you, either."

"So, you'll listen to me in this one?"

God shook his head, chuckling. "No. I mean you won't be in this one." He waved his hand. "Good bye, Lucifer."

Before he could even yelp out a complaint, the former Lord of Hell simply ceased to exist.

"Dad?"

God smiled warmly at his son. "Ah. Jesus. Good. You're here."

Jesus smiled back, spreading his hands to indicate the Void. "Where else would I be?"

"Right." God put an arm around Jesus' shoulder. "Son, I'm not as young as I used to be, and I'd like to make you a proposition."

"Aw," Jesus grumbled. "I'm going to end up doing work, aren't I."

God and his son walked on, beginning to fill the Void with their Presence. God kept talking as their aspects grew infinite. "It'll be nothing. Look, here it is: you help me create this new Universe, and I promise you'll get the pick of how we run it."

"Really?"

"Really."

The Fire of Creation blazed across the Void, as galaxies spun to life. "Okay," Jesus said. "But we really have to make sure they don't start killing each other over us this time. In fact, we really shouldn't have any killing at all." Gasses swirled, forming suns and planets. "Even the trees had their violent centuries."

"Okay, okay. No killing."

"Especially over us."

A black hole opened up near the center of one of the new galaxies. "Yes, fine. Okay. Especially over us." Life emerged in the microscopic soup of the vast ocean of the fourth planet from a binary star.

"I swear, kid," God said. "You get stuck on an idea, and you really don't let go of it, do you?"

Broken Cog

2005-10-25T20:01:00.000-04:00

Batch Higgins Theta sat in his task booth, slotting datacards into the correct servertowers at the appropriate moments. He had been grown specifically for this function, along with twenty other clones of the Higgins Batch. They all sat in identical task booths near his, performing similar functions for the vast infomedia conglomerate that had grown them.

Most mundane tasks had long since been automated, but some jobs still required a living human to perform efficiently. Datacard slotting was one of them. The datacards had to be slotted according to customer requests in a unique combination every day, and no machine so far had been able to handle the process. Despite its many advances, modern science was still no closer to cracking the enigma of AI, so a living brain was needed for the job. Unfortunately, there were few humans willing to perform such tedious work these days, given the abundance of more exciting employment available throughout the recently colonized solar system.

And so, the clone workers were created. Datacard slotting, mass consumption food preparation and climate repair monitoring, among others, were all jobs best suited to human clones grown to precise specifications. The process usually took a couple of weeks, and each Batch of clones were given certain enhancements to make them extremely proficient at their assigned tasks, while also indoctrinating them to like the task they'd been grown for. They were usually grown from the DNA of a regular human with a predilection for similar tasks, and altered as needed from there. Batch Higgins had been grown from the DNA of one Archibald Higgins, a data entry clerk that had lived over 100 years prior.

The clones, though living, sentient beings, were considered the property of the companies that grew them, and as such had very few rights. They would work at their task booths for 12 hours, sleep 10 hours in their domicile berths, take two hours for nourishment and basic exercise, then return to their task booths for another 12 hour shift. It was a very dull life, but the clones didn't mind. They were conditioned not to.

Of course, there were those who had a problem with this. A group of bored middle class college undergraduates calling themselves Pollux Liberatio took it upon themselves to end what they called, "the unacceptable enslavement of a helpless segment of human society". That the clones were all perfectly happy with their lives was irrelevant to them, as was the fact that most clones died very quickly outside the routines of their jobs, given that they did not posses many skills beyond those needed to perform their functions. Pollux Liberatio's methods generally involved abducting clones from their domicile berths and releasing them onto the streets of the city without much concern for what happened next.

All that changed with Batch Higgins Theta.

He was abducted from his domicile berth as the others had been, but instead of abandoning him, Pollux Liberatio took him home. They attempted to teach him new things, but his specialized brain could not accept the new information. He also kept trying to return to his domicile berth to begin his sleep cycle, becoming highly agitated when they prevented him from doing so.

And that's when one of the students got the idea of giving him drugs. They fed him hashish to calm him down, then LSD to "open his mind". They hoped the drugs would rewire his brain to a state more receptive to learning and independent thought, thinking this "treatment" could become a model for future clone liberations.

When the police arrived days later, after the students' classmates reported them missing, they found Batch Higgins Theta in one of the closets. The corpses of Pollux Liberatio were propped against the wall, and he was repeatedly slotting knives in and out of the multiple stab wounds in their torsos.

Happy Anniversary

2005-10-21T15:33:00.000-04:00

She loaded the shotgun with shaking hands, keeping the box of shells close, and sticking a few in her pocket just in case. She looked down at the bed, where her young daughter slept, then at the ring on her left hand. It was 10 years today, and she took a moment to reflect on the previous decade.

She thought of those early days in their old apartment, learning to live together, struggling to pay the bills and make their rent. They'd been so young then, barely out of college, but they'd just been so in love.

She remembered her husband's first "real" job, the one that allowed them to save for the down payment on their house, and all they went through before finally finding the right one.

She reflected on the bad year, when their marriage had almost come apart, and of the year that followed, when they worked so hard to put it back together.

She smiled down at her sleeping daughter, who would turn 5 in a couple of weeks, and thought of the joy she had brought to their marriage, and the sense of completion she gave them as a family.

Images floated through her mind; memories of family vacations, barbecues, parties, holidays... all the wonderful times spent with the love of her life.

A sound brought her out of her reverie with a start. It was a loud banging from outside, and it sounded like the front door.

She swore, gripping the gun tighter. They'd been so careful not to show any signs that the house was occupied. No lights, little movement, hardly any sound... She'd hoped they could last the night, and that none of those poor souls would notice they were there.

But then her husband had left the house. He was determined to get them to safety, no matter what. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. If only he'd stayed, instead of trying to get to the car. He didn't think he'd be noticed going around to the garage, as most of them had moved away toward the center of town, where the mayor had foolishly gathered everyone. It should have only taken a few moments, then they all could have piled in and driven away, presumably to safety. But he'd been gone 20 minutes now, and she knew he wouldn't be coming back with the car. She desperately prayed he wouldn't come back at all.

She grit her teeth. He should have stayed. They would have been safe if he had stayed. But no, he just had to play the hero. And now...

There was a crash, and she knew the front door had been broken in. Her daughter woke up then and clutched at her mother as heavy shuffling footsteps made their way up the stairs. She raised the gun to her shoulder, sighting down the barrel as the knob on the bedroom door turned.

The door flung open, and her husband lurched into the room, a guttural moan escaping his swollen blue lips as he lurched toward his family, seeking nourishment.

The gun kicked against her shoulder, bruising it, as her husband's head exploded in a shower of putrefied flesh and bone. Her daughter screamed and began to cry, but she kept her head, reloading the gun and stuffing the box of shells into her backpack. She grabbed her bag and the one they'd packed for their daughter. They'd have to run, but if they were lucky, they might make it to the car before the others heard the shot and came around. She knew there was at least one other out there, perhaps already in the house, so she cocked the gun and kept it ready, her daughter clutching at her skirts as they walked toward the door. It occurred to her then that if her husband had taken the gun, his plan might have worked, but he'd insisted she keep it. Just in case.

She spared a final teary-eyed glance for the headless, twitching corpse of the man who'd shared the last 10 years of her life, trying to keep her daughter from seeing too much of him, speaking her last farewell as they left the room.

"Happy Anniversary, sweetheart."

A Day in the Life

2005-10-16T22:24:00.000-04:00

He stood, panting, covered head-to-toe in the blood of a thousand prostitutes. The bomb strapped to his chest counted down the seconds as he began ranting furiously in an obscure dialect of a language that sounded vaguely Welsh, except when it sounded like a cross between Farsi and Navaho.

Special Agent Sarah Venture blew an errant lock of hair away from her forehead, sliding her gun from her holster with practiced ease. She understood exactly what he was saying, being fluent in every known language as well as having created one or two for her own personal use. Sometimes, it helps if no one can understand you.

But she understood him. He was screaming about his mission. He was supposed to blow up the Estonian Embassy along with himself, in service of a highly secretive Judeo-Christo-Islamic-Scientology sect based out of Akron, Ohio. However, he'd spent the night slaughtering hookers, and had decided he had something to live for after all. But the bomb was programmed to begin counting down on its own, and he couldn't figure out how to remove it. He was stoned out of his mind on hashish, percoset and 50-year-old cooking sherry, and was well beyond any sort of manual dexterity.

Sarah raised the gun and took careful aim. If she could put a bullet through the timing mechanism of the bomb just before it hit zero, it would render the experimental semi-liquid explosive inert, thereby preventing certain catastrophe. She had invented the explosive herself, and had built that particular fail-safe into it, knowing that only she would be able to disarm it if necessary. Of course, she'd invented it merely as an intellectual exercise, never intending it to be used, or even known of outside her secret underground laboratory.

She was still trying to figure out how it had been stolen. She suspected someone at the agency, and she had a pretty good idea who. She made a mental note to finish her robot assassin as soon as she was done here. Some jobs were worth handling personally, others were better handled by a machine.

But that was later. Right now, she had 135 lbs of Midwestern psychopath to deal with first.

She pulled the trigger, and a bullet flew straight and true toward its target, shattering the timing mechanism at exactly zero seconds. The bullet continued on its path through the back of the explosive, piercing the madman's chest cavity and exploding his heart in his chest. He fell to the ground, the bomb falling off him as he hit. A special forces team trained in exotic weaponry took possession of the explosive and the body. She'd steal both back from them later, and wipe their records and their minds as she did.

She holstered her gun, walking back toward her car with the easy strut of someone who knows exactly how important she is to the world, and the horrifying state it would be in without her. Her cellphone rang and she answered.

"Special Agent Venture ."

She smiled. It was a rare smile, and one most people didn't get to see and live. One of the few who did was on the other end of the phone. "Hi, sweetie!" She said happily. "How was school?" Her smile widened. "You did? That's fantastic!"

She got into her car, started the engine and pulled out into traffic. "Yes, I'm going to pick up your sister now." She laughed happily. "Of course we can have ice cream tonight. I'll pick some up on the way home."

An Act of Devotion

2005-10-13T23:00:00.000-04:00

She stood in the backyard, under the tree fort she and her husband had built for their son. She'd dug a hole, very deep, according to the guidelines the state had sent around. Just as the hospitals had quickly filled, so too had the cemeteries. She'd been told that unless she wanted her loved ones disposed of in a mass grave at the edge of town, she'd be better off burying them herself.

Just like she'd been better off caring for them herself. Though, in that case, she felt it was her responsibility anyway. She'd been the first to get sick, then her little boy and finally her husband. She and her husband cared for each other and their son as well they could, and when she began to recover, she cared for her family to the exclusion of all else. At one point, when they were in the worst throes of the virus, she'd called 911, but a recorded message told her there were no operators to take her call and to contact her local hospital directly. She'd done that, and the weary voice on the other end told her there were no beds. She was advised to try one of the wards.

The wards. Once they had been school auditoriums, office buildings or shopping plazas. Now, most of the largest public buildings had become wards for the sick. Row upon row of beds stretched from wall to wall, with a dwindling number of trained professionals to care for those that lay in them, and a growing number of well-meaning but untrained volunteers taking their place. The wards were not places to get well. They were places to go if you didn't want to die alone. She made the decision to keep her family home. If they were to die, it would be in their own beds.

She bowed her head, looking down at the hole she'd dug, and the body of her husband lying there. He'd died in their bed; the bed they'd conceived their son in, the bed where they'd spent many a lazy Sunday morning, the bed their son shared with them when nightmares drove him from his own. That was where her husband had died, drowning and burning and lost in delirium. And she sat by his side, helpless. Powerless. Useless. Reduced to a spectator in the hour of his greatest need.

She tore her gaze from the grave she'd dug to the still form she held in her arms. He was so small, yet so much bigger than the baby she'd held five years ago. She knew she had to give him over to his father. She knew it was time to let him go. But she couldn't. He looked like he was sleeping, though she could feel that he wasn't. When the end had come that morning for her little boy, she'd been no more use to him than she'd been to her husband. Tears streamed down her face as she held her son close for one final hug, then laid him to rest in his father's cold arms.

She turned her face toward the sky and screamed. A long mournful howl filled with pain and rage. She had failed them. "You care for your family, no matter what." That's what her mother had always told her. But she hadn't been able to care for hers. She had failed at the most important job she'd ever had to do.

Just like the system she and her husband had worked their whole adult lives to support had failed them all, right when they needed it most. When disaster struck, those in power had nothing to give those in need, for power does not give. It can only take. And now, the folly of the powerful had taken the two things dearest to her in the world, and left her with nothing. Nothing but a house full of worthless THINGS, a world filled with death and a heart filled with misery.

But not for long.

She felt the heat from the house as it burned, and she emptied the can into the hole and over herself. Then, with a final anguished scream at the heavens, she touched the match to her fuel-soaked clothing and leaped into the grave. As she burned with the bodies of her family, she smiled, knowing their ashes would mingle as they floated free of this earth toward the sky.

Her last thought before the flames took her was a prayer; she prayed that when their souls met, her family would forgive her.

His Last Ride

2005-10-10T20:00:00.000-04:00

He had his gun in pieces on the dining room table. The ancient revolver had seen better days, as had the hands that disassembled it, but they could still hit a tin can from 10 yards, and at 85, you take what you can get.

Lois didn't care for him cleaning his guns at the table, particularly when the children were about. He'd tried arguing that every boy should know how to clean and shoot a gun, hell, he'd been a crack shot by the time most kids learn to read these days, but she was adamant in her opposition. Lois was the wife of his great-nephew, and she'd never been too fond of the old man.

Lois and John's oldest boy was another matter. The old gunfighter heard him approach from behind him. He let the kid think he was sneaking up on him and then...

"Isn't it past your bedtime, boy?"

The boy, unfazed by the old man's gruff voice, climbed up into another chair. "Aww, I'm not tired, Uncle Bill. Can I help you clean your gun?"

The old man smiled. Uncle Bill. It had been Bastard William once upon a time, when he'd made his living hunting outlaws in the Arizona Territory. Captain "Iron Will" McKendrick was what his men called him on the battlefields of the Civil War, and he was known as Lucky Bill for the amount of battles that left him unscathed during the War of 1812. "Gun's clean, Billy," he said. "Nothin' to do but put her back together."

"Can I help?"

Old Bill shook his head. "'Fraid not, son. Your mom won't be too pleased to know I'd let you handle a weapon."

Billy crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair with a pout. "Awww. Mom don't let me do nothin' fun."

Bill finished reassembling the gun, looking down the sight. "That may be, but she's still your mom, and you gotta do as she tells ya."

"Yeah. I guess." Then the boy's face brightened, and he looked up at the old man. "Can I have a story?"

Bill chuckled. "Boy, you heard all my stories."

Billy was undeterred. "Tell me the one about the ghost town again."

Bill slid the gun back into the battered holster, and placed it on the table in front of him. "Don't you get enough excitement? With this war goin' on over in Europe, I don't see how an old gunfighter's reminiscing can be all that compelling."

Billy waved the comment away. "Ah, that old Hitler is good as dead. We'll lick the Nazis, no problem."

Bill pointed at the boy, making the youngster look at him. "Any war's a problem for the ones is fighting it, boy. I seen enough proof of that over my life to hope that you never do."

Billy nodded, swallowing hard.

"But you wanted a story."

Billy nodded again.

Bill leaned back in his chair, making himself as comfortable as he was able. "Well, you go get your old uncle a glass of water, and I'll tell the story of the ghost town. And if you're still awake after that, I may tell you what I did to Colonel Carson when I finally found him, but only if you promise not to blame me for the nightmares."

Billy rushed to the kitchen to get the water.

A couple of hours later, Billy sat, wide-awake, rapt with attention as the man once feared across the West and all the levels of Hell as Bastard William McKendrick finished the end of his tale.

"More!" Billy demanded.

Bill chuckled. "No. You've been up too late as is, and my voice is near to shot. G'wan. Up to bed with you before yer mom finds out." He continued to chuckle as the boy ran to the stairs.

"Still corrupting the young with your wild ways, you old Bastard?"

Bill had the gun out and had spun up out of his seat to face the man behind the voice before it occurred to him that there was no way he should be so fast and limber at his age. Dread was a cold burst in his gut. This could only mean one thing.

The sight of his old friend, known ever only as Shaman, convinced him.

"Another mission?" His shoulders sagged. "I thought I'd passed all this on to the American Ace back in '16. You must have the Gun with you, or I wouldn't be feeling so hale and hearty. What happened?"

Shaman produced the weapon in question, a gleaming silver six-shooter that shone with an unearthly glow. Shaman bowed his head and sighed. "The American Ace proved unworthy. The years following his Great War were most unkind to him." He tossed the revolver to Bill. "He sold that to a pawn broker for money to buy morphine in 1932. By then he'd long since stopped using it, and the country suffered for its lack of a hero."

Bill considered the weapon in his hand. It was as though he'd never put it down. Holding the Gun, he was the greatest marksman who ever lived. He was as strong as ten men and damn near unkillable. And he'd thought he was done with this once and for all. He said as much to his visitor. "You told me last time, that this was not my time. It was no longer my century. America would choose a new hero, and I'd live out my life."

Shaman nodded. "As it should have been. But there is something wrong with this new century. It will know horrors unthinkable in human history, yet will be among the most enlightened of any age. It will ask much, particularly from America's hero, and has already claimed one before his time. The next will have to prove mighty indeed."

"So, where am I to go?" Bill replaced the old revolver with the Gun in the holster. He made his way to the basement stairs, and the old pack he kept stored down there. If he was going to go traipsing off to god knows where to find the American hero of the 20th Century, he sure as hell wasn't doing it in his robe and slippers.

"There is an American airman being held as a spy by Russian agents outside Berlin. You will help him escape, then give him the gun. He has been chosen, and it is hoped he will prove stronger than the Ace." Shaman laid his hand on Bill's shoulder when the old gunfighter came back upstairs. "The agents of Chaos run rampant across the globe, dressing up evil and calling it Order. An agent of true Order must be found, and quickly, before all is lost."

Bill nodded. "Just get me there. I'll do my part." He looked his old partner in the eye. "But this is the end, right?"

Shaman nodded, opening a portal to a field outside the prison walls. Bill stepped through, and missed the sad look on Shaman's face. When he was alone, Shaman spoke to the empty air.

"It is indeed, my friend," he said. "In every way."

Friend Ship

2005-10-07T22:41:00.000-04:00

The explosion jolted Jimmy Scott awake. He lay in his bed, unmoving, waiting to hear if something else was going to happen. He heard his uncle swear loudly, then leave the house. His uncle swore a lot, but he was a kind man, and devoted to Jimmy, who had come to live with his aunt and uncle when his parents had died. His uncle's salty language had always been a joke among the family, and Jimmy's father used to joke that you would know things were really bad when his brother stopped swearing.

Fifteen minutes later, Jimmy heard his uncle come back in, still swearing, so Jimmy took heart that things were still okay. His aunt asked what was going on, and his uncle replied that whatever it was had been deep in the woods behind the farm, and therefore not their problem. Jimmy's uncle was also fanatically dedicated to the notion that anything that happened off his land was none of his business, and therefore none of his concern. It was a good hour before Jimmy managed to get back to sleep. He couldn't wait until morning, when he'd be able to go investigate the explosion in the woods.

The next morning, Jimmy rose early. He finished his chores after a quick breakfast, and was halfway to the woods before anyone else woke up. He'd left a note that he was going hiking, and would be back in time for dinner. He often hiked the vast woodlands that bordered his uncle's farm, and was usually absent from the house for most of the day in the summertime, so he wouldn't be missed.

It took a few hours of hiking to finally find the site of the explosion. A small smoking crater sat in the middle of a bunch of broken and smoldering trees. Something metallic protruded from the top of the crater, and from the look of the surrounding area, it had definitely fallen from the sky. The explosion Jimmy heard must have been the impact of whatever this thing was. Cautiously, he approached, reaching out to touch the strange metal object. Surprisingly, it was cool to the touch, given that it still smoked. Jimmy saw a transparent section of the object, and what looked like a seat inside. There were control panels and other devices inside that made him think of only one thing.

"Spaceship," he whispered.

*Hello?*

Jimmy leaped back from the ship. He could have sworn it just spoke to him.

*Hello?* it spoke again. *Is someone there?* The voice seemed frightened. *Please. I can't see, and I don't know where I am.*

Jimmy felt sorry for whatever or whoever was speaking. He knew what it was like to be scared and alone. "Um, hi," he said, waving, even though the voice had said it couldn't see. "Uh, my name's Jimmy, and you're in the woods behind my uncle's farm."

*Hello, Jimmy.* A note of cautious relief crept into the voice. *I'm Friend Ship 4719A of the 87th Convoy. I can translate your language, but some of your words still don't make sense. What is "woods"? And "farm"? And what is an "uncle"?*

"Uhh..." Jimmy wasn't sure how to answer, or which question to answer first. "Well, my uncle is my father's brother. Do you know what a father and a brother are...umm...Ship?"

*No.* The Ship seemed confused and frustrated.

"Oh." Jimmy tried something else. "What about trees? Do you know what trees are?"

*No.* The frustration in the Ship's voice was turning to despair, and Jimmy could have sworn it was about to cry.

"It's okay. It doesn't matter." he said. "You're safe." He remembered hearing that a lot, after the accident.

*I am?* There was hope in the voice now.

"Yes."

*Oh, good.*

There was a pause, and Jimmy stood regarding the Ship. There was a small part of him that told him to go home and tell his uncle. But it was pretty easy to ignore.

He moved closer, gently.

*Why can't I move?* The Ship was starting to get nervous again.

"Umm," Jimmy looked around. "You're stuck in the ground."

*What's the ground?*

Jimmy didn't want to start this up again. "It's, uh, what you're stuck in." There. That was kind of clever.

*Oh,* the Ship said, a bit more calm. *Okay.*

Another pause.

*Can you help me get out?*

Jimmy smiled.

************************

For the next few days, Jimmy would wake up early each morning, rush through his chores, and race out to the Ship, which he would spend the rest of the day digging out until it was time for supper. After digging around the Ship all day, Jimmy was usually tired enough to go to bed soon after.

While Jimmy digs, the Ship tells him of the migrating convoys of Friend Ships, wandering from one end of the galaxy to the other, seeking pilots to make them whole. The Ship talks about its Mentor Ships in the convoy, how they were the Ships assigned to transfer the necessary data to its intelligence core. The process usually takes years, and leaves young Ships very vulnerable to malfunction. The Ship's Mentors had been destroyed in a meteor shower, and no others were assigned by the Mother Ship to replace them. With no guidance, the Ship had miscalculated its navigational trajectory, and wound up lost in a nearby solar system. It flew too close to the third planet and got caught in its gravity, finally crashing to the surface.

Jimmy tells the Ship about his parents, and the accident, and moving in with his aunt and uncle on their farm. They talk of loss, and their brief lives, and the ways of their homelands. The Ship learns of the ground, and of trees and woods and forests. There is talk of water and people, and the ways people relate. For his part, Jimmy learns much about the migratory habits of the sentient Friend Ships. He hears tales of convoys lightyears long, of the bonding ceremonies between Ships and their Pilots, and the comforting presence of a pair of Mentor Ships. There is talk of the ancient Mother Ships, massive starcruisers that lead and occasionally shelter their convoys of Friend Ships, officiating over Piloting ceremonies, assigning Mentors and overseeing new construction.

And then, after almost a week, Jimmy dug the Friend Ship free.

*Thank you, Jimmy* the Ship said. *Can I do something for you, before I go find my convoy?*

That night, Jimmy sailed the stars inside his new friend, piloting the young starship out to the edge of the solar system and back. They flew together across the sands of Mars, through the maelstrom of Jupiter's Red Spot, and around the debris of the Oort Cloud before taking a dive through the photosphere of the Sun.

Finally, the ride was over, and Jimmy returned home, while the Ship left for deep space, and its lost convoy. There is one last goodbye, then Jimmy grabbed his shovel and headed for home.

*********************************

Two weeks later, Jimmy was hiking near the clearing where he found the Ship, when his friend descended from the clouds, coming to land with much more grace than its last visit.

*Hi, Jimmy*

Jimmy stared up at the gleaming ship, stunned. But then he felt sad. There could be only one reason why the Ship had returned.

"You couldn't find them?"

*I found them. But I was told I was not welcome with the convoy any more.*

"Why not?"

*I have bonded with a Pilot. When Bonding happens, the bonded Ship is not permitted back into the convoy until the Bond is broken. I am to learn about the universe with my Pilot, and return to make the convoy wiser, as a Mentor to young Ships.*

Jimmy's eyes widened. "Wow. But, who's you're..." Realization dawned, and they widened further. "Ohhhhh..."

*So, what do you say? Wanna ride around the Milky Way for a while?*

Jimmy thought a moment, then smiled.

"Can you have me home in time for dinner?"

*Sure*

And then they were gone, sailing across the dark void of space, reveling in the universe that stretched out before them.

His Fire Within Her

2005-10-03T22:28:00.000-04:00

He burned for her.

He sat in his chair at the table by the window and he burned.

An aching heat pulsed out from between his legs, spreading up his body and across his face. His skin flushed red and he felt something hard that also pulsed between his legs.

He wanted her, and he watched her. Watched her from his chair at the table by the window, wringing his hands. He wouldn't touch himself. He would not. That risked the prod, and a day away from the window. No. Actually, the last time they threatened a week if he did it again.

So he wouldn't do it again. He wouldn't touch himself. He would not.

He would just watch her. And want her.

And then, one day, she waved at him. Turned and looked into his eyes from where she stood on the lawn, and waved at him. He stopped wringing his hands long enough to wave back.

She licked her lips. He was sure of it. She was far away, but he knew what he saw. And he burned for her anew. Burned with an aching throbbing longing that would never abate and always go unfulfilled. Because he wouldn't touch himself. He would not.

But that day, in his chair at the table by the window, he had a thought. Perhaps... his whole body trembled at the thought... perhaps she wanted him too. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

They came to take him back to his room.

She was still looking at him when they came. He stood, but resisted the urge to wave. He didn't want them to see. What he had with her now was sacred, and he'd be damned if he was going to share it with them. He let them lead him away, but he smiled to her, when they weren't looking, just before he turned to go. He didn't see her smile back, but he knew she did.

Later, he lay on his bed in his room and didn't touch himself. He wanted to, but he didn't. Well, technically, he did touch himself. He ran his hands slowly and softly over his face, imagining her hands as he ran his fingers through his hair. He moved his hands over his chest, sliding smoothly over his tight cotton shirt, down across his stomach to the waistband of his jeans. They were loose, and he let the tips of his fingers slide under...

NO!

He pulled his hand out of his jeans, and put both hands as far from the rest of him as possible.

Was he stupid? Did he want the prod? He sat up, clenching his fists, pressing them to the sides of his head. He felt the heat burning in him, the fire building so that he was going to explode. He thought about pressing the button, so they would come and put him to sleep. But he didn't. He didn't want to sleep. He would only dream of her, and they frowned upon such dreams. He wouldn't get the prod for it, but he'd lose a few days in the chair at the table by the window. He wasn't sure which was worse.

So he did nothing. He didn't touch himself, and he didn't call them to put him to sleep. He just did nothing.

And then she was there. In his room. Looking at him like she did from the lawn.

"I felt you," she said. "Felt you watching me."

She crossed his room, gliding over the tiles to stand before him. She leaned in close, and a rough spasm shuddered through his body. "I saw you burning," she whispered in his ear, and he arched his neck, eyes closed and gasping. She moved in even closer, her lips brushing his ear and her breath on his cheek. "I want your fire inside me."

And then she was on top of him, tearing at his clothes, kissing him deeply, biting his neck. He was stunned for a moment, but quickly responded in kind. He held her to him, returning her kisses with such fervor he bruised her mouth. He pulled back, concerned, but she laughed and kissed him harder.

Their clothes made a pile on the floor as they hurled themselves at one another. He lifted her onto him, pushing her back up against the wall as she wrapped her legs around him. She grabbed his hair and pulled his head back, kissing and biting his neck and throwing him off balance so he stumbled back to the bed. He fell backward onto the mattress, and she straddled him, pinning his shoulders to the bed as she pulled him inside her. He thrust upward, lifting her off the bed. She gasped at the exquisite pleasure and gripped him tightly. She began to ride him then, grinding up and down until their thrusting grew frantic, slamming against one another until they screamed their pleasure to the four walls together. She collapsed across his chest, both of them panting and gasping for breath. For a while, they just lay there, lost in the sound of their own labored breathing. She gave him one last squeeze before climbing off him and gathering up her clothes. She dressed quickly, and motioned for him to do the same.

"They'll be coming," she said. "You should be dressed before they get here."

And then she was gone. He stood, half-dressed, his shirt in hand, and watched her go. She'd promised to return, and told him she'd wave to him again from the lawn the next time she'd be able to get away.

He heard boots in the hall and quickly pulled on his shirt. When they asked if he'd been touching himself, he'd try not to smile when he told them no.

One Lazy Afternoon

2005-09-30T18:03:00.000-04:00

He couldn't believe it.

The world was his, and his alone. He and his followers had overthrown every last government on the planet, down to the last third-world nation-state, and had made short work of even the vaunted US Armed Forces. Soon thereafter, he had executed his most trusted lieutenants, wanting no challengers to his new throne. With his amazing abilities, he built a glorious utopia, so that no human being went without, and all the people of the world were content. They simply had to live by his laws, and offer complete and total fealty unto him. Oh, there were a few rabble-rousers who preferred the freedom of the cesspool to a comfortable prison, or some such nonsense, but they were few and becoming fewer each day.

He snapped his fingers, and two of his wives approached his throne. The other four were tending to his growing brood of children, so there were only these two to sate his lusts at the moment. He was sure that was all he needed. A good romp with two nubile young women usually brightened his day considerably. He gestured for them to begin without him, and settled in to enjoy the show.

Later, sprawled on the cushions behind his throne, his two wives exhausted by his passions, he arrived at the conclusion that that hadn't helped at all. It was fun while it was happening, but he still felt kind of empty. He was still so damned bored.

An execution. That's what he needed. A good old-fashioned execution always put him to rights. He summoned his executioner, secure in the knowledge that this was all he'd need to feel happy again.

It wasn't. Again, while the poor slob he'd chosen to die had been entertaining enough to watch, the emptiness remained. And if the screams of a political dissident being tortured to death couldn't cheer him up, he didn't know what would.

Idly, he punched up the holographic display of the planet, absently flipping a few switches so as to launch a few warheads at randomly selected targets. Perhaps a bit of genocide would help him find his smile again. He watched the holographic mushroom clouds erupt out of the globe. New York, London, Cairo and Beijing were all so much ash now. At the thought of the millions who would die slowly from radiation poisoning, the corners of his mouth twitched upward a bit.

But still not so much as a smile. With a sigh, he flicked a few more switches and watched a few more cities burn. He pressed a couple of buttons and turned off the display. Well, that was ultimately fruitless. He was no less bored than he was before he started. He sighed again and hauled himself up out of his throne.

Maybe there was something on TV.

Her Treacherous Vanity

2005-09-27T20:03:00.000-04:00

Janet stared at her reflection in the mirror, grimacing. She remembered how much she'd loved her full-length mirror. Over the years, it had often been her dearest friend. Now, each day brought a new betrayal to its surface. Where once it showed her a smooth unmarred face, it now displayed lines and crows feet. Streaks of grey ran through hair that was once black as night, her round firm breasts sagged toward pendulous and there were rolls of flesh around her waist that even the most arduous workout schedule failed to eradicate. Her age was beginning to show, despite her best efforts.

Oh, she was still a knockout. She still turned heads when she walked through the office in her tight sweaters and short skirts. Men still stared in disbelief when she told them how old she really was and the boys in the mailroom still found reasons to hang around her cubicle in the afternoons.

But things had begun to change. Janet's boss was no longer as distracted as he'd once been by the sight of her, and had begun to criticize her performance. The pudgy married man in the cubicle next to hers was starting to resent having to do much of her work for her, where once all he needed was a quick smile, a peek down her blouse and a flash of leg to keep him happy.

Essentially, her looks weren't working as well for her any more, and she was having to work much harder for her looks.

This could not stand. She refused to take a back seat to those frumpy working moms in her department, just because they actually produced results. She was prettier than them. She was sexier than them, and damn it, that meant she should get more than them. It wasn't fair. And worse, her boss had just hired some pert little college graduate to work in their department, and the mailroom boys had begun hanging around her instead.

Later that day, at the office, she stood glaring at the new girl and her pack of admirers. Admirers that once belonged to her.

"It's only going to get worse."

She started at the sound of the voice. Turning, she saw Doris, another of her co-workers in the department. Doris was approaching retirement, but she dressed like a 30-year-old cocktail waitress and somehow managed to pull it off. Doris never worked out, ate whatever she wanted and went out regularly with the young men in the office on Friday night bar crawls. She usually went home with at least one of them, and managed to keep all the right men in the department wrapped securely around her finger. She was 20 years Janet's senior, but didn't seem to have to struggle to hold on to what Janet was rapidly losing. Put simply, she was drop-dead gorgeous, and knew it.

Janet regarded Doris with a cool gaze. "What's going to get worse?"

Doris laughed, a short bark made rough by years of whiskey and cigarettes. "You know what I mean, honey. Don't pretend otherwise. We shouldn't start off with a lie."

Janet raised an eyebrow. She and Doris had never been friendly, but had maintained a working relationship of adversarial civility since Janet was hired 10 years ago. "What the hell are you talking about, Doris? What are we starting?"

Doris leaned in conspiratorially. "Only the most important friendship of your life, sweetheart," she said. She gestured at the young woman and her admirers. "Why don't you and I take the new girl out for drinks tonight, and I'll show you how I manage to look like this at 65."

Hours later, Doris, Janet and the new girl were seated at a table in some hole-in-the wall bar downtown. They'd been knocking drinks back all night. Janet weaved slightly in her seat, and was having a little trouble focusing. Clear speech was a bit of a challenge as well. Janet usually didn't drink this much, and her tolerance wasn't what it once was. Doris did not seem much the worse for her indulgence, but the new girl was barely conscious. Her head lolled on her shoulders, and she looked over at Janet with glassy half-closed eyes.

"Y-y-you guyssss..." she slurred, falling forward before jerking back into a semi-upright position. "You guyss're good guyssszz...goooood guyssszz...takin' me out...drinkin'...'sgood." She belched and smiled. "Drunk," she announced.

"Thass okay," Janet patted the new girl on the shoulder. "An' it was Doris' idea." She gestured clumsily over her shoulder at the smirking older woman.

Doris waved the comment away and smiled warmly at the new girl. "Tell me, Andrea," she said, "are you seeing anyone?"

Andrea shook her head, was clearly dizzy from the motion and slid down the back of the seat. Janet reached over and helped her up, the two of them giggling.

"Nah," Andrea said, leaning heavily on the table. "I jus' moved here an' I got no-no-nobody..." sadness passed across her face, and she slumped. "Ain' got nobody... nobody..."

Doris nodded, pressing the issue. "No family nearby? Friends?"

Andrea shook her head weakly as it made its way to the table. "No, I got no fam'ly 'rfriens...'mjus' 'lone..." Her head hit the table and she began to snore softly.

Doris nodded, satisfied. "Come on, Janet," she said, rising from her seat and throwing a wad of bills on the table. "Let's get Andrea out to the car. Can you manage, or should I come back for you?"

Janet shook her head. "No. 'Mokay." She stood, swayed, grabbed the table and righted herself. "Okay," she said with a grin, "Imma little lit. But I can help." Slowly, she made her way around the table and helped Doris lift Andrea out of the booth. The two older women dragged the younger out of bar. They each had one of her arms over their shoulders, and Andrea's limp form hung between them.

The exertion coupled with the cold night air served to revive Janet, and by the time they reached the car, she was feeling sober, even though she knew she wasn't. She'd regained enough sobriety to ask Doris if she was okay to drive.

"Oh, don't worry about me, honey," Doris said as she piled Andrea into the back seat. The night air had done nothing to revive the younger woman. Doris shut the back door and opened the driver door. "It'll take a good deal more than that to make me drunk. Now, come on. It's time I let you in on my little secret." She got in and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Janet got in and Doris drove off toward her house.

Janet dozed slightly during the drive, and was a little disoriented when she woke in front of Doris' house. Doris was pulling Andrea out of the back seat. "Come give me a hand with her," she said, noticing Janet was awake.

Janet did as she was told, the grogginess still wearing off. "Why don't we just take her home?"

Doris laughed and began carrying Andrea toward her house. "You'll see," was all she said.

Janet certainly saw. She saw more than she ever could have expected. She helped Doris carry Andrea into the house and the older woman led them to a small room at the end of a long hall. The room was windowless and lit entirely by candles. Janet could see strange symbols drawn on the walls and floor, along with an odd geometric shape that took up most of the floor.

Doris let go of Andrea and the younger woman slid out of Janet's grasp to the floor, where she lay in a crumpled heap. She still snored softly, and showed no sign of waking. Janet started to back away as Doris dragged a large cast iron tub into the center of the room.

"Doris, what the hell is this?" There was no slur in Janet's voice now. Fear had burned the fog from her brain, and she made her way slowly to the door.

"This," Doris gestured to include the room, the tub, Andrea's unconscious form and, to Janet's consternation, Janet herself, "is the answer to your prayers, darling." She laughed again, fixing Janet with a compelling stare. "Look at me, Janet. I'm 65 years old. Do you honestly think I look like this naturally? Hell, screw naturally. The best plastic surgeon money can buy couldn't make me look this good." She returned to her efforts with the tub. "Come help me with this," she said.

Much to her own surprise, Janet found herself doing just that. Every sensible impulse was screaming for Janet to run from the house and never look back, or to call the police. But she didn't. Because clearly Doris had something going for her, and for some reason, she wanted to share it with Janet. It looked like the only one who was going to suffer from it would be Andrea, and Janet didn't even like her anyway. But thinking of Andrea prompted a question.

"What's wrong with her?" Janet asked once the tub had been moved to the center of the geometric shape. "She didn't drink any more than I did, and I have no tolerance any more. Why is she still out cold?"

Doris went to Andrea, lifting her and dragging her over to the tub. She held the young woman's head over the tub by a fistfull of hair. Andrea's mouth hung open and she was drooling somewhat. Doris leaned her head over the tub as she spoke to Janet. "I drugged her last drink," she said.

"I didn't notice," Janet said.

Doris smiled. "No one ever does." She gestured toward a chest of drawers with a jerk of her head. "Top drawer. Grab the knife."

Janet found herself walking over and getting the knife from the drawer. She was handing it to Doris before she even realized what she was doing. Doris took it, muttered a string of words Janet couldn't understand, then slit Andrea's throat. Blood gushed from the wound and began filling the tub. Janet thought she should feel sick, but she didn't. She felt excited. Almost... aroused.

With an impressive display of strength, Doris hoisted Andrea's upper body over the edge of the tub, so she was hanging down into it. Leaning over, Doris slashed each of the younger woman's wrists, which also began to empty into the tub.

Later, once Andrea had been drained of blood, Doris led Janet back to the windowless room. In the time it had taken Andrea's blood to drain, Doris had explained the procedure to Janet. Thanks to the symbols drawn around the room, the tub and the knife, along with the spells Doris chanted, drinking Andrea's blood would restore the older women's youth and beauty. The effects of a single goblet full of blood would last for one year, then a second goblet would need to be drunk. Doris had just used up the last of the blood from her previous victim, killed 15 years prior. The older woman figured the two of them could get at least 10 years from Andrea before needing to kill again.

Doris took an ornate goblet from a case atop the chest of drawers and filled it with blood from the tub. She drank deep, filled it again, then passed it to Janet. Janet looked at it with hesitation. The smell of copper was overwhelming. With a shrug, she drank. It tasted like she had a mouthful of pennies. Fortunately, she reasoned, she would only have to go through it once a year.

Doris drove Janet home, assuring her all the way there that no one would ever find Andrea's body, let alone connect it to the two of them. Janet accepted the assurances and made her way inside where she quickly fell into a deep sleep.

When she woke, she found herself with the body of a 20 year old. Her face was smooth, her belly flat, there was no grey in her hair and her breasts were once again where she wanted them. She felt an energy and vitality she'd thought lost forever and a powerful lust that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Yeah, I forgot to mention that," Doris told her when Janet mentioned it at the office. "It's a side-effect of the process. Why don't you come out to the bar with me and the guys from the mailroom tonight. I'll give you first pick when we bring them back to my house."

The rest of Janet's day was torture. She couldn't focus on anything, and her hands kept roaming over her tight young body. She was so preoccupied with her own desire, she didn't even think to be nervous when her boss asked if she'd seen Andrea.

"Um, no," she said, running her finger absently along her lips. "I haven't seen her all day. What did you need her for?"

The boss looked Janet up and down, smiling appreciatively. "Nothing you can't handle," he said absently. As she was leaving he said, "Listen, Janet, I don't think we're paying you enough. How would you feel about a 10 percent raise?"

"Well," she purred, leaning seductively against the doorframe, "I certainly wouldn't turn it down." She smiled at him and walked away. There were no further questions about Andrea after that.

Late that night, in one of Doris' spare bedrooms, Janet lay sprawled across a bed, her sweaty limbs tangled with those of her two lovers. She smiled, satisfied, shoving both men to the floor before rolling over and going to sleep.

Many similar nights followed, and she eventually moved into Doris' house as she was spending so much of her time there anyway. She began spending more and more of her time with Doris, and the men they brought home, and her friends and family saw progressively less of her. Eventually, they wrote her off altogether. It was for the best. It would have been difficult to explain how a woman who was pushing 50 managed to look like a college undergraduate.

Then, a year after her first goblet of blood, she and Doris met in the windowless room. Andrea's blood had been refrigerated, and her body long since disposed of. In place of the tub, a small camp stove sat in the center of the geometric shape.

"What's the stove for?" Janet asked as she accepted her goblet of blood.

"The next stage," Doris explained, indicating that Janet should drink. When Janet did, she continued. "Our youth and beauty depends on regular infusions of Andrea's blood. Eventually, we'll run out, and we'll have to kill someone else. I'm concerned that, sooner or later, we'll get caught."

"Don' you have someone t'dispaz...dispo...dis-dis..." Janet blinked, her eyes blurring. She didn't think she'd had that much to drink at the bar that night.

"I do have people to dispose of the bodies," Doris nodded. "And they're completely loyal to me. But, eventually, simple human error is going to lead the police to my door. So, I need a more permanent solution."

"Perm...puh...p..." Janet's mouth went slack and her eyelids grew increasingly heavy. Doris was a blur as her vision swam and the room tilted. Doris caught the goblet as it slipped from Janet's grasp, then caught Janet as she slid out of her chair.

"The books I taught myself from tell of a procedure to make this permanent. A single treatment that will give me youth, beauty and eternal life." She lay Janet's body gently down on the floor and her words began to fade in an out of Janet's awareness as consciousness dimmed. "I needed someone else like me, you understand. Someone who'd taken the blood treatment. Unfortunately for you, that means..."

Janet felt the room spin pleasantly as darkness washed over her. As from a great distance, Doris' final words came to her and she learned her fate. Doris was going to chop off her head. Then she would strip the flesh from Janet's skull, hollow it out and bake her heart in it. Once Doris had eaten her heart, she would never again need the blood treatment. There was a perfunctory apology, then the suggestion that Janet would have done the same in Doris' position.

As her last tenuous connection to the world slipped away, Janet was forced to agree. Her very last thought was a fervent wish that she'd thought of this first.

Then she thought nothing at all.

Into His Despair Shall Come Joy

2005-09-22T19:35:00.000-04:00

He sat on the edge of Heaven, looking down upon Creation, specifically, the planet Earth. He listened to her people, and knew despair.

"Why do you weep, my Prince?" He heard Gabriel behind him, and quickly wiped his tears on his sleeve.

"Oh. Uhh, no. No, I wasn't crying."

Gabriel came and sat next to Jesus, placing a friendly hand on the young messiah's shoulder. He'd always been fond of God's boy, and the lad had come to look on Gabriel as something of a favorite uncle. They'd talked frequently when Jesus was alive, and even more so after he died.

"Jesus," he said with a smile. "You are a horrible liar, for good reason." He put his arm around the boy, giving him a quick squeeze before removing his hand. "There is no shame in weeping for them. I have been known to do so myself."

Jesus bowed his head, sniffling. "I know. And I know they bring so much of it on themselves. But... their prayers... I..."

Gabriel nodded, understanding. "You hear them, and you want to answer them. You want to make it all right for them."

"I do," Jesus whispered, his knees up around his chin.

"You tried that once before."

Jesus sighed, weary. "And they killed me for it, I know." He turned to Gabriel. "I'd like to think they've learned something since then."

"I'd like to think so too," Gabriel shook his head. "But we both know they haven't."

"Then, what do we do?"

Gabriel stood, motioning for Jesus to do the same. "What we have always done. What your father has done from the very beginning. Give them opportunities to be great. To be kind. Give them the chance to love each other, and to find salvation in their own hearts."

"Will they?" Jesus looked down over his shoulder at the blue-green world turning below him.

Gabriel laughed. "There are always some that do. And from them we draw our hope. Now come," he clapped the young demi-god on the shoulder. "You feel up for a game of basketball? I got everyone together."

A small smile worked its way across Jesus' face. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

"There's a lad."

The angel and the messiah walked back toward Heaven. "One thing, though," Gabriel said as they walked. "I get Moses this time. That man is a demon on the court."

"Oh great," Jesus said. "Who do I get then?"

"You can take Mohammed," Gabriel offered.

"Good," Jesus replied. "And I get Buddha, too. But you have to take Lao Tzu."

"Awww, no fair! He sucks worse than Gandhi!"

Jesus rolled his eyes and laughed. "Fine, you big crybaby. If it'll make you feel better, I'll take Lennon too."

Gabriel smiled to see his young friend laughing. "As a matter of fact," he said, "that does make me feel better. Thank you, my Lord."

"Yeah yeah," Jesus brushed off the title as they walked on.

It was a great game, all told. In the end, Jesus' team won by 4 points, and even Lao Tzu scored a basket.

She Waits for Him

2005-09-19T20:01:00.000-04:00

It was cold, but she didn't mind. She was used to the cold, frankly, what with all the time she spent in this place. Sometimes she thought about bringing a chair and a book, to make the waiting go quicker, but she felt kind of silly. If anyone saw her...

She sighed. Her friends all told her to just give up on him. They said it wasn't healthy, always waiting on him like this. But they didn't understand. They didn't understand how much she loved him, how much he loved her. Yes, he'd changed over the years, but so had she. There were a few extra lines on her face, she'd gained a few extra pounds and a few extra inches around her middle. He never complained though, so how could she complain about him? No, her friends would never understand why she waited, or how she could love him as she did.

She wrapped her arms around herself, leaning back against a tree and smiling. She was remembering the day she first met him. It had been a warm summer day, and he had come upon her while she was swimming in the brook near her grandfather's farm. He surprised her, and then asked to join her. They'd spent the whole day swimming together, then had dinner that evening, and that night... well, she usually wasn't that sort of girl, but she'd known even then that he was the one. That there would never be another for her but him.

They shared so much. From the joy of him landing his dream job, to the sorrow of her father's sudden death. From the triumph of her successful business venture to the tragedy of his terrible accident, they shared everything. Loyalty, dedication, commitment. These were the things a solid relationship was based on. So few people understood that these days, especially her friends. She would show them, though. They would see what it was that made him so special. They would see what made him worth waiting for.

A sound made her look down towards the grave at her feet. The earth shifted and fell away, revealing two grasping rotted hands. She could barely contain herself as she watched him claw his way out of the ground. When he'd pulled himself fully out of his grave, she rushed into his decaying arms, kissing him passionately. His lips were mostly gone, but he was still the best kisser she'd ever known. And once she verified that there was still one thing that hadn't rotted away, she smiled wider, knowing she was in for one hell of a night.

A rough guttural moan rattled up out of his open mouth. She grinned and nodded. She was getting ahead of herself. Before they could have their fun, he had to eat. She took him by the skeletal hand and led him into the woods, where she'd tied her best friend to a tree.

She told her friends they'd see what made him so special. One at a time, they'd all see.

Right before he ate their brains.

The Force of His Will

2005-09-14T14:39:00.000-04:00

The stars sang to him.

He mused over the fact that most people didn't really understand that. Most people, even his closest friends, did not have a true understanding of just how his powers worked. At best, they believed he used a magic ring to make green stuff out of willpower.

He chuckled, spinning gracefully through the glittering vacuum to avoid a small asteroid field. What did that even mean, "make green stuff out of willpower"? It meant nothing. It was a false assumption made after watching him use his powers.

The ring was a lens, a means by which he could focus the Song of Creation into pure malleable energy. With his "magic" ring, he reshaped the very fabric of reality itself. Of course, it wasn't easy. The universe has a will of its own, so the will of the ring-bearers must at least be equal in strength.

And his most definitely was. He had proved as much on countless occasions. Since the day a dying alien gave him the greatest power in the cosmos, he had been proving that strength.

But now he wondered, for the first time, if his will was equal to the task before him.

He was among the last of the mighty ring bearers, remnants of the once-vast Cosmic Order of the Ring. The Custodians of the Cosmos, the mysterious ancient aliens who crafted the first rings in the early days of a young universe, had vanished. The cataclysm that followed claimed the lives of many ring bearers, until only he and a few others were left. Far too few to fulfill their duties as galactic guardians. And the universe tumbled into chaos, galactic civilizations falling, star-spanning empires splintering as lawlessness spread unchecked throughout the infinite reaches of space.

So he and the others had abandoned a duty that was increasingly becoming an exercise in futility. Instead, they set out in search of people to replenish their ranks; to find those with the strength of will and purity of spirit to wield a ring of power. He had found a few in his travels thus far. He had equipped them with rings, taught them the rudimentary skills they needed to use them and sent them back to the Custodians' homeworld, where they would meditate on the Song of Creation until they knew its melodies and harmonies, and could write their own verses at will. When they were ready, they too would take up the search for others, and when enough ring bearers had been found, the Cosmic Order of the Ring would return to bring justice to a desperate universe.

But he had begun to despair. It had taken untold millennia for the Custodians to build the Order initially. Though the rings extended the bearers' life-spans considerably, they were not immortal. Eventually those who wielded the rings of power would die, and he feared none would rise to take their place.

He thought then of days long past, of a time soon after he'd been given his ring, when he still lived on his homeworld, and shared in the adventures of his colorfully costumed colleagues. He had been new to the power then, and believed nothing to be impossible with sufficient application of will.

But then his friends had started dying, losing their powers or simply disappearing altogether. His homeworld grew increasingly grim and dark, and eventually so followed the universe at large until all hope seemed gone and life was mired in tragedy and misery. He had not felt joy in over a century, and he despaired of ever feeling it again.

A strange harmonic entered the Song of Creation then, and he felt himself drawn to a tiny planet orbiting a white dwarf star. He landed, and was immediately put at ease. Decades of weariness and trial fell from his shoulders and his spirit brightened. There, on that insignificant planet, far out in the uncharted reaches of space, the Custodians of the Cosmos still lived.

"Greetings, ring-bearer of Earth," they said with one voice. "We are not surprised it was you who found us. Of all who have wielded the rings of power, you are the greatest."

"You do me honor, Masters," he bowed. Then, he looked up, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Will you return with me? Will you take up your place in the universe, quelling the storm of horror and chaos that spreads like a cancer across infinity?"

There was a long silence.

Then, "We will not."

He was taken aback. "But..."

"You will."

He was dumbfounded. "Masters?"

They made a negative gesture. "No. We are not your masters. Not any longer. We have nothing left to teach you, no further wisdom to share."

"I... I don't understand."

"You do," they replied, smiling. "Or you would not be ready for the task which lies before you." One of them held out its hand. "Remove your ring," they said.

He did as requested, handing it over with some reluctance. He could not remember the last time it had left his hand.

But then, he noticed something odd. The stars still sang to him. He could still hear them, even without the ring. He felt himself become part of the Song. He did not try to bend the Song to his will, or to reshape his local reality to suit his needs. Instead, he joined the Song, adding his will to that of the universe until the Song of Creation echoed around him in a glorious fanfare. He knew then what his task was, what he was to become. The rings were merely tests designed to reveal the one being capable of becoming what he was.

He opened himself to the Song, letting it fill him, until infinity was at his fingertips.

Then God looked out over Creation, and worked his will upon it.

His Two Dads

2005-09-11T00:01:00.000-04:00

Joseph sat out behind his home, looking up at the stars. She'd just told him. Just told him about the child. But he never lay with her, so his wife was clearly an adulteress.

But, the thing of it was, she swore she was still a virgin. So much so, and with such conviction, he'd taken her to those who knew the details of such things and had it confirmed for him that it was so. He'd endured much derision and mockery when word of THAT got around.

But there was still the matter of the child.

So he was out looking up at the stars, pondering the mystery of his pregnant virgin wife, when God came to see him.

"Joseph."

Joseph looked around, startled. "Who...?"

"You know me, Joseph."

Joseph shook his head. "No. No, that just can't be."

"Yes it can, and it is." God heaved a sigh that filled the heavens. Always with these people he had to go through this. Did he need to set something on fire EVERY time he showed up?

Joseph fell to his knees and bowed his head in prayer. "O' Lord, I am not--"

"Right. Great. Thanks." God's impatience blotted the light of the sun, and distant thunder cracked in annoyance. "Listen, I wanted to come around and clear something up."

"Clear..." Joseph raised an eyebrow.

"The thing with Mary. The whole pregnant with no sex situation she finds herself in."

"Yes! I've found it most perplexing, and I cannot for the life of me figure out how--" Realization dawned. "Ohhhhh."

"There we go. Get it now?"

Joseph considered this news. "So, wait. My wife is pregnant with your child?"

"My son, actually, but yes. And don't worry, nothing untoward went on. I'm not really into that... at least not, you know, with...mortals."

Joseph nodded, dumbfounded. He grabbed around behind him for a chair, but ended up on the ground. "But... but... but..."

"But why? Simple. I want my son to be half human, to be someone like me, who can learn to be someone like you." There was a pause. Clouds raced across the sky, and Joseph fancied he was watching God's thoughts chase one another through his mind.

"Very poetic, Joseph. And somewhat apt. But, to finish answering your question, I chose Mary because she seems to have all the qualities I like best in you people. And if my son is going to be half human, I want him to come from someone worthwhile."

Joseph managed a short bow. "That's very kind of you."

"And then there's you."

"M-me, Lord?"

"Yes. Well, I'm not going to go through all this trouble finding the ideal mother for my child if he's only going to be raised by a complete lout. Hence, you."

Joseph bowed again, lower this time. "You honor me, Lord. I... I don't..."

"Just take care of my son."

And then Joseph was alone once more, looking up at the stars. And from that night on, they would never look the same to him again.

The Martyr Contingency

2005-09-09T00:22:00.001-04:00

He sat, slumped, in the chair behind the desk in the Oval Office. They'd need to find someone to fill this chair. Not the Vice President, of course. They'd get themselves a nice young handsome man, someone who did what he was told. Though, maybe the next one shouldn't be a complete idiot. That had gotten unmanageable after a while. But they couldn't use the Vice President. They'd cite "health reasons". He snorted, smirking. Not too far from the truth, and the old man had work to do before the end. He couldn't very well do it while having to get up and talk to the idiot people. No, they'd find someone else.

He stood up, considering turning on the TV. It wouldn't have made the news yet. It was done, that he knew, but it wasn't time yet for the people to know. They'd release it with just enough time for the evening news, but not enough time for a bunch of probing questions. There had been vague rumors floating around the Internet for a few hours, but no real news. That would change when he was good and ready. He set the remote down. Not time yet.

There were some who'd been wary of the idea. They thought it was too much. Too...severe. Maybe it was. But with the war going the way it was, and the total cockup of that stupid disaster... hell, things had been going downhill for a while, but that really pushed it over the edge. So, yeah. It was severe. Maybe even a bit much. But he didn't see much other way out of this. He had to think of the party. He had to consider the agenda.

Their boy was a good sport about it though. More so than he'd thought. He figured there would be resistance, a refusal at first, maybe even some crying. But no. He'd forgotten how happy the boy was when he was able to act like a hero, when he got to fly in a real jet and everything. Man, speaking of cock-ups. They didn't get half the mileage out of that one that they should have. Maybe that had been their first warning. At any rate, the boy was just excited he'd get to shoot real guns at some real Arabs. He wasn't thinking about the bomb they'd have strapped to one of the "terrorists". By the end of their conversation, he'd forgotten that unpleasant detail altogether. The boy was excellent at forgetting unpleasant details.

He paced the room a bit, thinking. He'd run some preliminary numbers, and he knew they'd see a solid bounce in the immediate aftermath. The opposition and the media would be quiet out of respect, and they'd just craft the legend. Oh sure, a couple of bloggers and that schmuck on Comedy Central might make some noise, but he was confident the talking points would drown them out. The kid in the press room did great indignant outrage, so he'd have no trouble shooting down any unhelpful questions.

He smiled. Death was always handy. Particularly if it's one big death, rather than a whole mess of little people. Suburban voters tend to get worked up when the little people die en mass. They don't seem to care much more about them in the day-to-day than he does, but kill a whole bunch of them, and damn do the middle class get riled.

But one death? One big death? Well, that just shuts them right the hell up.

So that's what they'd get. One big death to lament and fetishize and film retrospectives over. Then he and his gang could get back to work. The old man wanted to instate martial law, but he wasn't sure that was a good idea. This would get the media back in their pocket, and they'd keep the fodder in line. Better they had the assumption of freedom, than to give them something to fight for by taking it away.

He sighed. He had to admit, he was going to miss the boy. That guy was a hell of a lot of fun to hang around with. But, nothing for it now but to turn on the TV and watch their fortunes turn.

There was a click, and a vapid young-ish blonde anchorwoman was attempting to emote for the camera. "Tragedy struck aboard Air Force One today in a scene officials are calling 'something out of a Harrison Ford movie'." She paused. "Unfortunately, this story...does NOT have a Hollywood ending."

He smiled and switched to another channel. It was on all of them, and they were all striking the same tone, even using the "Hollywood ending" line he'd written.

His smile only grew the more he saw of the smoking wreckage of the plane, juxtaposed with pictures of his boy.

It was times like this that made his job worth doing.

The Last Hope

2005-09-07T21:00:00.001-04:00

The Captain sat in her high seat overlooking the bridge of her ship. They were six hours out from Earth's solar system, returning from a mission that took half her life to accomplish. She hoped they weren't too late.

The Earth was in dire straits, which had likely gotten worse in the decades her ship had been gone. The global ecosystem was failing, and the planet would not be capable of supporting human life much longer. Fortunately, in the year prior to the start of their mission, astronomers had found what they believed to be the closest habitable planet to Earth. An unprecedented international effort was undertaken then, and when it was finished, the very first long-range starship had been constructed. It was named the ISS Last Hope, and it had been home to Captain Susan Dell and her crew for the last 30 years.

Their mission had been simple: travel at best possible speed to the planet, rendezvous with the probe that had been launched the previous year and deposit an exploration team on the surface. The exploration team, using data gathered from the probe, would find the ideal location for and begin construction of the first extraterrestrial Earth colony. They would be left behind by the Last Hope to perform their mission, while Captain Dell and her crew returned to Earth to report on the planet, and provide navigation charts for the massive colonial ark that should have been constructed over the past 3 decades.

She ran her fingers through her close-cropped silver hair. It had been dark-brown and much longer when the mission began. She was 30-years-old then, the youngest captain in the Space Forces, chosen for her youth as much as her accomplishments, which had been many. All of her crew had been young, so young that she was the eldest among them. They'd had to be. The mission had been calculated to take at least 25 years, and the crew would need to be fit to see it through to the end.

But now they were old, the youngest of them well into their 50s. She had turned 60 last week, and each line on her face and silver strand in her hair had been hard-earned. She toyed with the patch over her left eye, scratching at the deep scar that ran under it from her hairline to her chin. She'd lost more than an eye and the best years of her life to this mission. She'd lost crew. She'd lost friends. She'd lost her husband.

Commander Robert Dell had been First Officer and the ship's Pilot. He was a roguish, cocky sort of fellow, typical of the best star pilots, but he had a warmth and humor that never failed to lift the mood of the ship. No matter how grim their situation, Robert had always been ready with a joke or antic to bring a smile to the faces of the crew. His quick thinking and peerless ability as a pilot had also served them well, especially when they came upon the debris of a ruined world and the vicious aliens that had destroyed it. Thanks to Robert's flying, and the valiant efforts of the crew, the ISS Last Hope escaped danger that day and brought a roving band of genocidal maniacs to justice. That is to say, the ship's Gunner had blasted every last one of them to vapor.

But it was the planet that had taken her husband from her. And her eye.

She shuddered and clenched her remaining eye shut. The memory was 15-years-old, but it still held her fast in its grip, and each year it took a little more from her. She remembered the walk through an alien forest, the strange smells, the odd sounds and the comfortable bed of moss cradled in the roots of a massive tree where they stole some blessed time alone. Then she remembered the crashing in the brush, the horrible roar and the searing pain across her face.

She remembered little after that, save waking up in their camp with a cold empty void in her heart where her husband used to be. Part of her wanted to die there on that planet, to lay her body down in the ground beside his and rot, as her soul would rot without him.

But she couldn't. She had her crew. Her ship. And The Mission.

The Mission. Robert had given his life for it, and she would complete it. Robert had given his life to save the people of Earth, and she could do no less than live her life for the same purpose.

So they left. They left behind a team of scientists, engineers and soldiers to begin the colony, to make this new world ready for the refugees of the old. She raised her Gunner, Lieutenant Carry, to First Officer, giving her the rank of Commander, and promoted a promising young ensign to the rank of Lieutenant so he could fill the vacant Pilot's chair.

She threw herself into their mission, pushing ship and crew to their limits and beyond to get home in time to save their people. No matter what the obstacle: asteroids, space-bourne viruses, pirates or a race of sentient killer robots, Captain Dell always found a way past, around or through it. She stayed focused on the mission, and the mission kept her sane.

And now they were approaching the outskirts of their solar system. They would be home soon. Their mission would be complete, and the people of the Earth would be saved. She heaved a sigh. Perhaps she would return with the colony ship, to end her days on the world that had ended her life.

She was roused from that thought by the beeping of the intercom. It was the ship's operations officer, Lieutenant Cohen.

"Captain."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant."

"Captain, I'm having trouble raising Lunar Station on comms. We're close enough now, we should have no trouble reaching them."

Something cold slithered up Captain Dell's spine. Were they too late? Had the end come while they were gone? Could they be the only ones left?

She shook her head. Such thoughts would lead to madness. There was another explanation. There had to be.

"Lieutenant, see if you can raise Central Command on Earth. Perhaps they're between shifts on Lunar Station."

"Aye, Captain."

When they finally reached Central Command, several hours later, the crew of the Last Hope received a brutal shock.

"Um, listen," a low-level functionary of the recently formed Federated Nations of the United Earth said through the comm channel, "we, uh, kinda figured on you people not making it back, so uh..." he cleared his throat, "we, um, made other arrangements."

"Other arrangements?" Captain Dell tried hard to keep her temper in check. "Are you kidding me, boy?" She didn't succeed. "I didn't pull my crew through decades of misery and danger just to be blown off by some child in a uniform." Her voice cut across the comm channel with an edge of steel. "Why am I even still talking to you? Find someone worth my time."

Finally, after several more lower functionaries, officials and ministers, she was connected to the Chief Executive of the Federated Nations. What she told Captain Dell and the crew of the Last Hope was chilling.

"Well," the younger woman said, leaning back in her plush seat behind a wide desk, "after thinking it over, we realized it wasn't the planet that was the problem, but all the damn people living on it." She paused to light a thin cigar. "So," she said, puffing away, "we killed them." She laughed at the shocked look on Captain Dell's face. "Oh, not everyone, obviously," the Chief executive said with a chuckle. "We kept the rich, the powerful, the elite. We kept a bunch of the poor around to work for us, of course. But we wiped out the middle class. Not good for much except bitching and moaning anyway. Anything that needed doing could be done by a machine, or some poor slob willing to work for a bottle of water and a handful of dried meat." She waved her hand dismissively. "So, yeah. Thanks for everything, but, y'know, we're fine."

"Fine?!"Lieutenant Cohen blurted out. "You're not fine! Yes, you may have slowed the depletion of your resources by a few years, but you've done nothing to reverse the damage to the ecosystem! If you want future generations to have a chance at survival, you still need to--"

"What part of fuck off," the Chief Executive growled, "do you people not understand?"

The line went dead.

There was silence on the bridge of the ship.

Captain Dell cleared her throat.

"Lieutenant Cohen."

"Yes, Captain."

"Does this ship have enough power to return to the new planet?"

"Of course, Captain."

"Even allowing for landing on the planet, taking on passengers and supplies and then taking off again?"

"Um... yes. But, Captain--"

"Good. I want you to do a long-range scan of the planet and locate any camps or slums where these laborers of theirs might be living. Then contact Major Thomas and have him prep his troops for a rescue mission. Pilot, bring us into a fast approach. Commander Carry," the captain said, turning to her First Officer.

"Yes, Captain."

"Once we're in range, I want you to target the source of that transmission and launch half our compliment of warheads."

"Aye, Captain."

Captain Dell walked up to her seat above the bridge. "Pilot, once that is done, I want you to coordinate with Lieutenant Cohen and get us to those people as quickly as possible. Once Major Thomas and the evacuees are aboard, set a course for the new planet and get us there, best possible speed."

"Aye, Captain."

She settled into her chair to wait. It shouldn't take long. She would save the people of this planet. She would bring them home.

She would fulfill her mission.

Goddess in a Short Skirt

2005-09-05T00:45:00.000-04:00

“Hey,” Charles said. “Dig the chick doing the schoolgirl thing.”

He looked, even though he didn’t generally go in for the schoolgirl look. Then he saw her.

“That’s no schoolgirl act,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Charles smacked his arm. “She’s got the white shirt, the socks, and dude… the skirt. Come on, look at that skirt!”

Oh, he was looking. But she still wasn’t a schoolgirl. She was what the schoolgirl mystique aspired to be. She was what all those skinny girls in fake school uniforms were trying to be when they tried on the look. She was a woman who knew what men wanted, and was prepared to make them earn it. A woman who could wear a short skirt, and not make men think of Catholic girls half their age. She was a dying breed, and she’d come there for him.

She stood behind the sofa, her hands pressing against it, her back to the door. She knew he could see her from where he was. She also knew he wasn’t coming any closer.

But she knew he wanted to.

And she knew just how much her skirt was showing him. She felt his gaze move up her legs, felt them linger on her thighs, drinking in her luscious curves before focusing on that tantalizing glimpse she’d let him have.

She felt his desire from across the other room, felt it through the throng of partygoers and their trivial muted lusts, felt it pulsing in waves of heat that flowed over her body.

She would bring him to her. It was the only way he could have her; the only way any man could have her.

She gave him a better look. Her posture and the view served to issue him an invitation. She knew he wanted her, and she wanted him. With a flick of her skirt, she sent her own desire back to him. It was a thick scent of August nights and close quarters, a damp musk that filled his senses and made him drunk with his need for her. He stared at her, and the vision of perfection she offered him. He wanted her, ached for her, but could not bring himself to go to her. She was a Goddess, a living work of art. A woman like her was surely beyond his mortal grasp.

She could still feel his eyes on her. He was worshipping her: very inch of her, every perfect curve. Others watched her now too. A group of skinny girls in tank tops and miniskirts left quietly. They knew they’d make no conquests here tonight. A drunk approached, reaching a hand out toward her ass. At a single word from her, his hand stopped and his face went pale. The drunk left quickly, and for the rest of his life could only be aroused by the memory of her.

No others approached. Not even the one she wanted. He was running out of time. Her offer would expire soon, and she would leave alone if need be. Only the strongest of men could satisfy her. Only the boldest need try. She thought he might be both, but he was proving to be neither.

She decided to give him an even better look, an even more tantalizing glimpse. She spoke in a breathy whisper that carried across the crowded party to his ears alone.

“What are you waiting for?”

She showed him again. Showed him what he could have, where she wanted to feel him. His desire was a physical presence in the room. It wrapped itself around her and penetrated her. She felt his lust inside her, and she knew he could feel hers, reaching out to him and grabbing hold, daring him to come to her, leading him to her.

But still he stood, unmoving, a forgotten beer getting warm in his trembling hand.

She stood straight, demanding the attention of those few who hadn’t given it. Every eye was on her, tracing the luscious curve of one perfect leg up under the hem of her skirt.

They all worshipped her now, every one of them, waves of lust buffeting her from every corner of the room. But she would have none of them, save him. She spoke again, once more whispering words for him alone.

“Here I am,” she said, her voice a soft purr with a hint of steel. “I am yours for the taking, if you have the will to take me. Take me,” she promised, “and you will feel passion you never dreamed possible.”

And yet he remained still, unmoving. He took a nervous sip of his beer, wishing for the courage he knew he didn’t possess.

And then it was too late. She pulled on her discarded panties and pulled down the hem of her skirt, giving him one last look at the glory that could have been his.

“You had your chance,” she said, this time loud enough for all to hear. She walked away, tossing a casual taunt over her shoulder as she sauntered out of the party.

“I came here seeking a man, but found a house full of boys.”

And then she was gone.

He ran from the house, finally jolted into motion by fear and regret, but she was nowhere to be found. She was gone from his life forever, and would haunt his every sexual encounter until the day he died.

The Traitor

2005-09-02T02:00:00.000-04:00

Jonah Atkins walked a slow circle around his lavish, well-appointed office. He stopped at the bar, pouring himself a glass of scotch, making sure the wine bottle was handy. It was an ancient-looking decanter, well-suited to the bit of theater he used it for. He had actually purchased the thing at a yard sale for a quarter almost five years ago. It didn't matter, though. They were always awestruck by it, as they were by his office. And once they'd drunk from it...well... He chuckled, taking a small sip of his drink.

The intercom buzzed. "Sir?"

"Yes, Jennifer," he replied.

The voice on the other end was uncertain. That was fine. Jennifer had been one of his many "students", and uncertainty was at the core of their conditioning. He expected them to turn to him for guidance in all things, which is why so many ended up working for him... in some fashion or another.

"Sir, there is a... Dana here to see you."

"Last name?"

"She won't say, sir."

"Does she have an appointment?"

A hesitation. "No, sir. But she insists on seeing you. I was going to call security, but wanted to check with you first."

He smiled. "Good girl. Always check with me first. And don't worry about this 'Dana'. I have a feeling I know what this is about. Make her wait another few minutes, then send her in."

"Yes sir," came the relieved response. "Thank you, sir."

The intercom clicked off. He crossed back to the bar, bringing the wine bottle to a small table in the far corner of his office. Oh, he definitely knew what this was about. Some out-of-town "high priestess" had gathered herself a coven, and learned of his school. Full of self-righteous empowerment and a crusader's zeal, she was no doubt here to "shut him down". He laughed, tossing a few pillows onto the plush couches near the small table in the corner. He'd made no friends in the larger pagan community since he rose to power. There was considerable anger at what many considered the "branding" of their faith.

He'd enjoyed a great deal of financial success selling pagan books, self-help manuals and pre-packaged ritual kits. His tax-exempt "Church of the Great Goddess" was the fastest-growing alternative religious organization in the country, surpassing even Scientology. Many pagans were wary of his commercial success, and the fact that he was the only male member of his church. The tendency for members of the church to break all ties to home and family caused some concerns among lawmakers, more than one had used the word "cult", but he usually managed to settle such concerns over a glass of wine.

He lifted the bottle, smiling as he swirled the blood red liquid around. The wine was key, of course. Without it, the hypnotic suggestions would not have taken as strong a hold, and his wealthier students would have been far less inclined to open their bank accounts to him. He also would have had a much tougher time convincing those two senators that his church was on the level. He put the bottle back down on the table, turning toward the door as it opened.

To say the woman who entered was beautiful was akin to suggesting it might be warm on the surface of the sun. This woman defined beauty, and negated all other applications of the term. The hem of her long black dress brushed the tops of her bare feet as she glided across the carpeted floor. She was tall, with wide hips and round full breasts. Her hair fell in dark waves around a face that was at once palest white and a deep dark brown. Her features seemed vaguely Asian, except when they didn't. To look in her eyes was to stare into infinity, and when she smiled, it was as though the sun itself had come to his office to shine for him alone. Her hair glittered when she moved, and he could have sworn he saw stars among her thick black tresses.

Without waiting for his leave, she sat down on one of the couches, gesturing for him to do the same. He did so, before remembering that he was supposed to be in control. He quickly stood, attempting to assert his dominance.

"You must be Dana." He tried to keep the quiver out of his voice.

"I am," she replied, staring directly at him. He found he could no longer meet her gaze unflinching. Doing so made him feel as though he were falling from a great height, the black void of space all around him, nothing to hold on to, no one to help him. He was alone, falling forever in a--

He closed his eyes, bringing himself back to the reality of his office. He didn't know who this woman was, or what cheap parlor tricks she was using against him, but he'd put a stop to that straight away. He lifted the faux-ancient decanter.

"Some wine, my dear?"

She smiled, as though sharing a private joke. "I would love some, thank you." Her gaze followed him as he reached for the glass he'd placed on the table earlier. He refused to meet it. Later, when those piercing eyes were glassy and half-closed, then he'd look at them. Then it would be her turn to feel the power of his personality.

It usually only took about a third of a glass to make the girls pliant. The wine was laced with a potent cocktail of sedatives and hallucinogens that made the drinker highly susceptible to suggestion. The effects tended to linger, even after just one dose, as he was discovering to his benefit in his ongoing dealings with the two senators. He filled her glass to the top. He'd never given anyone such a strong dose before, but something told him he'd need it with this one.

She accepted the glass, draining it in one swallow. He sat down next to her, waiting for her eyes to glaze over, her speech to slur and her head to loll back against the cushions. Then he'd dim the lights and begin the conditioning process, among other things. She...

She was still staring at him, and her eyes were still clear. "I suppose you're wondering why I've come to see you," she said, with no hint of slur in her voice. So stunned by this was he, that he failed to look away, and found himself staring deep into her eyes. Eyes that went on forever, deep pools of infinite void that pulled him down. Down into nothing, he was falling, falling without end, and this time he couldn't stop it, even with his eyes shut tight.

Her voice echoed around him, bombarding him with waves of sound. "Do you recognize me now, little man?"

"N-no," he stammered out. Somehow, he was naked. His paunchy belly and balding scalp revealed. And still he fell.

"No?" There was laughter in her voice, mocking laughter, directed at him. "Is it not my church that you use to strip the gullible of their fortunes? Is it not my name you invoke in your clumsy seductions of innocent girls?" The voice deepened with fury. "Did you honestly believe you could do such things and worse in my name, and I would not know? For how long did you think you could escape retribution?!" Stars swirled around him, her voice took on the quality of thunder and he fell even faster. "My daughters deserve better than to suffer for your petty ambitions and your venal appetites." She was all around him now as he fell. She was in his mind, devouring his soul.

"I-I'm sorry!" he cried out, his voice a thin whine nearly lost in the din of her anger. "P-please! M-m-mercy!"

Her laugh echoed across infinity. "No, little human thing," she said menacingly. "I believe you have me confused with someone else. There will be no mercy for you, and no forgiveness. You will send a message to all who would use me as a tool for profit and conquest."

Her laughter wrapped around him, and he knew then that he would never stop falling, and that it would be eons before he was granted the refuge of madness. And the sweet release of death would be forever denied him.

*****

Jennifer sat uncomfortably at her desk. She was starting to feel odd. Well, not so much odd, rather... normal. Yes, that was it. For the first time in what seemed forever, she felt a bit like her old self. For the first time in too long, she felt she could make a decision without asking Jonah first. It amazed her that she had not even realized how different she'd become. She had been studying law once, hadn't she? What was she doing working here? What had Jonah done to her?

She stood, determined to get answers from the man she was convinced had stolen not only her money, but years of her life. She flung open the doors to his office, words of accusation on her lips, and stopped short with a gasp.

"Jonah?"

He was seated at his desk, naked, his toupee lying limply on the desk in front of him. He stared dully into space, a thin sheen of drool covering his chin. He made no noise save a low, almost inaudible hum punctuated by soft grunts. But the thing that really gave Jennifer pause, the thing that made her turn and run from the building screaming, never to return, was the word that hung above his head, made from letters of pure fire.

WARLOCK

Upon This Fragile Thread

2005-08-31T14:00:00.000-04:00

Kate sat on a cot in the basement of her store, a flickering flourescent bulb causing a mild strobe effect that gave the room a sense of the unreal. One could pretend it was all a dream, or a sad drug trip, rather than the grim reality they'd all been forced to face in the past few days.

She had been fortunate. After 9/11, her boyfriend at the time, Zack, had converted the unused basement of her shop into a survival shelter. A series of large yacht batteries would provide power for decades if need be, and there was enough food to last even longer. Zack had been a bit strange, and something of a prick, but she felt grateful to him then, and hoped he was okay.

When the riots started, she led the customers in her shop down to the basement shelter. They assumed the authorities would restore order soon, but they hadn't counted on the severity of the riots. Before the phones went dead completely, one of the customers had managed to contact her husband. He was holed up in their house with their son, keeping the rioters at bay with a shotgun. He'd told her not to count on help from the police, as many of the rioters were in uniform. Or, the remnants of uniform, anyway.

That was one of the first things the rioters had done; tear their clothing to shreds, or simply discard them completely. They were part of a growing movement called The Prehistorics, and their mission seemed to be nothing less than the total eradication of all human civilization. Fortunately, in escewing the trappings of modern civilization, they were restricting their choice of weapons. Rocks and sticks were all they would use, so a few people armed with guns were usually able to fight them off. The problem was, more people joined them every day, leaving less people to fight them.

It was the Video, of course. That's what had started this whole thing. The damn Video. It had been broadcast over the Web the previous week, and the result had been rapidly escalating anarchy.

The sound of tearing paper roused her from her reverie. She looked over at Dave, one of the customers who'd taken refuge with them. He was slowly tearing pages out of his Bible, crumpling them up and tossing them in the corner. She couldn't blame him. After the Video, religion meant nothing.

The woman who'd called her husband held her little girl close. The little girl had been weeping intermittently since they'd taken refuge here, and her mother had spent most of her time comforting her. Kate smiled. There was something the Video couldn't change: a mother's love for her child.

Unfortunately, it had changed most everything else. No one could say for certain who it was who had leaked the Video in the first place, but all evidence pointed to a NASA employee. He had been part of a secret project devoted to deciphering and decoding data that had been stored on a strange collection of disks found on the moon over 30 years ago.

Once the Video had been leaked, top NASA officials had verified its authenticity, and revealed its source. During one of the manned flights to the moon, astronauts had discovered a cave, and the remains of an alien being inside. The being had not been dead long, and it was later determined that it was the astronauts' breaching of its environment that had caused the alien to asphixiate. The astronauts found an elaborate collection of highly advanced recording devices, along with what they assumed to be the storage media. They brought the disks back to Earth with them, along with as much of the equipment as would fit. Later missions retrieved the rest. Attempts to decipher the data on the disks led to reverse engineering of the equipment, which in turn led to many of the advances in digital media over the recent decades. Finally, after many years of hard work, scientists managed to decipher the data. What they found shocked them so profoundly that they decided to destroy it, thereby keeping it from discovery.

But one of the scientists, likely a low-level technician, stole a copy of the data and broadcast it worldwide. It seemed the alien had been recording the development of the human race from its earliest existence, to what purpose no one could guess. With the release of the Video, the people of the world were given a definitive account of human history, from their earliest days up to the late 1960s. It disproved every pre-existing historical account, both religious and scientific. It proved beyond all doubt that the greatness of human civilization was a lie, and the true history of the world was so disturbing that most people immediately lost their minds.

Others did not. They saw the footage, and were understandably distrubed by it, but believed that the world they lived in was real enough, despite the fallacy of its origins. They were determined to continue living their lives, the revelations of the Video be damned.

Unfortunately, such people were few, and becoming fewer. In the wake of the Video, houses of worship around the world were burned to the ground, religious leaders were lynched, and the great holy sites were either destroyed or vandalized. The Vatican was still burning, as far as anyone knew, and the Middle East had been laid waste when Israel, India and Pakistan emptied their nuclear silos. The Prehistoric movement had started up soon after, and was growing exponentially each day. With all of human history proved a lie, they decided to revert to a time before history and start the process of human development all over again. Kate wondered how long they would need to hide until the movement burned itself out and reason was restored to--

She noticed then that Dave had stopped tearing his Bible. She looked up and saw that the mother and her daughter were crouched next to his body, eating pieces of his flesh. They were naked and smeared with his blood, a wild gleam in their eyes. In the far corner, Lila and Jack, two others who'd taken refuge with her, began tearing at their clothes. She gasped in horror, drawing the attention of her savage companions. The mother picked up the large can she'd bludgeoned Dave with and, with a low growl, began to creep toward Kate. Jack looked on her with an animal lust, while Lila began grooming him.

Kate knew reasoning with them would be futile, so she did the only thing she could to stay alive. She smacked the can away from the young mother, and clawed deep gouges in the other woman's face. Then, ripping her clothing to shreds, she tore a hunk of meat from Dave's corpse and offered it to Jack, assuming a submissive posture at his feet. Jack ate it hungrily, allowing Kate to join Lila in grooming him. The mother and her daughter would join them later. After that, they would destroy the lights and the batteries, finally venturing outside to add their small tribe to the growing mob.

Kate would eventually bear Jack three children, before dying a few years later from exposure during a harsh winter.

Lost Time

2005-08-29T23:54:00.000-04:00

Chen Michaels took his wife and two young sons on the maiden voyage of his prototype time-traveling starship. The family immediately became lost, and wound up sailing the timestream across numerous galaxies, from one madcap adventure to the next, always with an eye toward their proper time and place. For a while, these adventures gave the family a sense of purpose. Chen actually posited the theory that they were meant to be lost, so that they might help as many people as they could, and learn as much as they can about the universe before finding their way home.

During their early adventures, there is an overwhelming sense of optimism among them, as they are flush with their faith in themselves and an unwavering devotion to their noble destiny. They are a family on a grand adventure, and they enjoy every second of it. They dine with interstellar royalty, study the early evolution of their own species and help bring peace to a galaxy ravaged by civil war. The two boys, Cru and Ski, grow from children to young men in this time, falling in love with alien princesses, forming bonds of friendship that reach across the ages and studying with the finest minds of every era.

30 subjective years pass within the paradox buffers of the timeship. In that time, the adventures of the intrepid family become increasingly grim. Where once they had encountered mad scientists with delusions of world domination or planets run by sentient computers, they find themselves more often at odds with psychopaths and monsters. An encounter with a race of warrior-telepaths leaves Chen’s son Cru completely mad, drooling and straitjacketed in a padded brig cell of the massive timeship. He stays that way for 5 years, until a friendly race of telepaths can be found to restore his mind. He never truly recovers, and will never be the man he once was. It begins to seem as though time and space are at odds with them, as they never again visit the worlds and eras of high adventure. Instead, the timeship seems drawn to those times and places where misery and despair have overwhelmed all else, and hope is nearly lost forever.

The journey of the Michaels family reaches its nadir with the tragic death of Chen’s wife to a space-borne plague. Following that horrible day, the family becomes a gang of pirates, striking out at each new era they come to and taking what they need until a time they can finally navigate their temporal starship. Chen no longer believes in their grand destiny of heroism and exploration. He refuses to believe they were meant to suffer as they have, and begins to blame himself for all their tragedies. He no longer even cares about getting home. He is focused, with brutal precision, on using the timeship to save his wife.

At last, Chen’s younger son Ski learns to plot a course through the timestream. They can go to any time they wish, at any place. After years of failure and missed opportunity, Chen can finally go back. He'd stolen a cure for the plague and would bring it back to her through time, forever negating this wretched destiny. For the first time in years, Chen Michaels has reason to smile.

Unfortunately, Ski has also made a rather shocking discovery. The increasing horror of their surroundings may be their own doing, as their travels have been disrupting the flow of history and evolution since they began. Now that they can navigate the ship, and travel directly to a specific point in time and space, it is possible they might unravel the fabric of the universe itself.

Chen must decide how much that matters to him, or if even one more moment with his beloved wife is worth the end of all Creation.

Henry and Gillian

2005-08-25T21:49:00.002-04:00

The old woman shuffled from one end of the kitchen to the other, tea kettle in hand. She smiled as the steam wreathed her face in a pleasant moist heat. She paused, letting herself enjoy the moment. By this point in her life, the small pleasures were the only ones she had left.

Until today, of course. Today would be a day of large pleasures. She smiled again, busying herself with the two cups of tea. She did so love having visitors. Of course, living so far out in the middle of nowhere, she could hardly expect them too often. But, she held out hope. She knew how to attract the right kind of people. She set out two plates, placing a cookie on each. She already knew the children liked their sweets.

Henry and Gillian were their names. They had just moved to town recently from the city. She knew the type. Well-to-do parents, professional people, fancy apartment in the city. Then one day they wake up and realize their children are going to be teenagers soon, and they'd rather they weren't teenagers on the city streets. So they sell their fabulous apartment, liquidate some assets and buy a nice little house in the country. One usually goes into consulting, the other generally opens a business in town.

She truly did enjoy these urban transplants. They were always so trusting, so quick to assume that horror and violence were unique to the city. So utterly dismissive of the provincial locals that they never count on finding monsters in their pleasant little getaway.

Never count on finding people like her. Or, more to the point, people like her finding their children.

It was the candy, of course. The candy and the dense forest. City children were all the same. All they knew of nature were city parks, or maybe the odd overnight at a campground. Sooner or later, they'd go out "exploring". And then they'd find out what nature really was. By the time they found her house, they were so desperate for food and someone to help them that their normally wary city instincts were buried under a child's instinct to seek comfort.

And what could be more comforting than a sweet old woman who keeps candy on her front porch?

She usually let them eat for a while before she'd come out, surprise them, then put their minds at ease when they thought they were in trouble. She'd invite them in to rest. She had no phone, but she'd usually offer to show them the way back to town, but would they like some tea and something more to eat first? They usually did, and these two were no exception. They seemed a bit older, maybe 12 or 13, but at that age the veil of maturity is thin and as easily torn aside as their urban sophistication. She dropped the pills in the tea and put everything on a tray to carry out to the parlor. They usually woke up in the oven, just as it was heating up.

She backed into the room, tray in hands, pushing the door open as she came. "Here we go, Henry. Gillian," she said, turning around. "I want you to drink all this tea down and--" The tray fell from her grip with a crash, the drugged tea soaking in to the carpet. A cookie was ground under Henry's boot as he moved in to punch her again.

She grunted as she hit the ground, just before Henry's fist smashed her face a second time. He kneeled on her chest, hitting her again. He stood and stepped back, but it was only to allow Gillian to move in and begin kicking the old woman repeatedly in the ribs before stomping on her chest. The old woman screamed for as long as she was able, eventually reduced to a keening gurgle.

She was dying. Blood filled her lungs and darkness fell across her eyes. Her ears filled with the rasping wheeze of her dying breath, so she only heard her ostensible victims' conversation as a muted buzz through her death rattle.

"You think she got any money?"

"Fucking better," Henry told his sister. "I ain't working at Mom's fucking fag shop for meth money."

"Well, if you think I'm sucking Russel's cock again, you can forget it," Gillian said. "This old bitch don't have money, you can suck the greasy hillbilly's cock."

There was a pause, then Henry grunted out a rough chuckle.

"What?" his sister asked, going through the old woman's pockets.

"I love how easy it was to sell her on the lost little kids routine."

Gillian laughed as well. "Yeah." The old woman felt hot breath on her cheek. It brought a memory of the steam back to her, but not pleasantly. The young girl screamed in her ear, "Never heard of GPS, you stupid old redneck bitch?! Huh?! Huh?!" The old woman wanted to turn away, but couldn't. All she could manage now was a spasmodic twitch.

Gillian stood, delivering another savage kick to the old woman's ribs before walking away.

The old woman lay there in agony for a time, moaning softly.

But not too long a time.

She was dead before the kids had finished looting her bedroom.

The World of Tomorrow

2005-08-22T19:30:00.000-04:00

He walked along the dark and deserted street, eyes darting to the left. He was passing another row of overgrown yards and deserted houses, and he'd heard enough stories of what lurked in the tall grass to be wary. He listened for any sounds that might indicate the presence of one of the growing number of savage humans who frequently squatted in the abandoned suburban homes, feeding off the packs of wild dogs and feral cats that roamed the old neighborhoods. Some had been known to attack travelers, particularly those who still bore the basic trappings of civilization.

Civilization. It still existed, just not in the old suburban areas. Those cities still functioning were walled fortresses, the trains that ran between them armed and armored against the primitive tribes that roamed the weed-strewn blacktop of the old interstates. Civilization also existed far beyond the suburbs, in the smaller towns of rural America. But those places were becoming increasingly isolated, cut off from their urban cousins by distance and a widening cultural divide.

He was from one of those towns, a small farming community in what was once Pennsylvania. He was traveling to the city to find a doctor, one schooled in medicine, who could do for his small town what the largely self-taught healers could not. He had been told that there was an old suburban town that had not gone completely savage, and maintained its old rail connections to the city. He hoped the rumors were true. He was not sure he could walk the full distance to the city. He had walked so far already, and winter would be upon them before he could walk back. It was his hope that, should he find a doctor willing to return with him, the doctor would own an electric vehicle. The cities were awash in electricity, and the joltcars, as they were called, could run for many hundreds of miles on a single charge. He had never seen one before. Back home, the mill only generated enough electricity to power the farm vehicles and the town center. Personal electric power was a thing of the distant past, not seen in the small towns since they'd passed the Peak.

He'd read plenty of accounts of life before the Peak, and could see depictions of it in the old movies they showed on the communal television at the town center. He was always so awestruck to see how people had taken electricity and their ease of movement for granted in those days. The days of cheap and plentiful oil. But those days were long behind them, and they'd left the wilderness of the suburbs as their bitter legacy.

His musings cut short as he emerged from the old neighborhood onto what a beaten and weathered sign told him was State Highway 46. To his right was the barren emptiness of one of the ubiquitous shopping plazas that had sprouted up alongside roads like this during the Oil Age. He remembered reading that they had been called "strip malls". From where he was, he saw that some of the abandoned stores still had intact windows. He surmised that this strip mall had been built during the time just following the Peak, and had been made impervious to burglary and vandalism. He approached one, and could see old merchandise still hanging from the racks inside. The windows themselves were scuffed and dented, showing the effects of numerous failed attempts to breach them.

He also saw a number of faded posters hanging inside them, their words so bleached by the sun they were barely legible. One poster promised "Free Power! Free Heating Oil! Free Gasoline!" to any citizens who reported homosexuals and "political dissidents" to the authorities. He almost wished he could gain entry to the store to grab the poster. He was an avid collector of historical relics, and there was very little in his collection from the time most people referred to as The Purges.

It had been the beginning of the end of the central government; a time when alternate lifestyles and opposition politics were a ticket to the firing squad as a crumbling authority tried desperately to keep its hold on a fragmenting society. It hadn't lasted long, and only served to hasten the suburbs' descent into barbarism. The scarcity of oil took its toll on the reach of the government, and by the time he was born, the federal authorities controlled little more than the territory immediately surrounding Washington DC. From what little news his town received of the outside world, he gathered they didn't even hold that much these days.

He moved away from the old storefront, setting his steps upon the cracked asphalt of the old state highway and turning toward the pale light in the east. It was hours yet until dawn, but the bright lights of the city could be seen for miles. He would keep walking toward it, holding out hope that he would find that train station he'd been told about, while despairing at ever succeeding in his desperate mission.

So intent on his goal was he, that he didn't hear the soft pad of calloused bare feet behind him until it was too late.

On the Eve of Battle

2005-08-21T10:54:00.000-04:00

The boy sat before the fire, knees drawn up to his chest, listening to the rough talk of the men around him. They were all veterans of many battles, and they traded tales of past glories and old defeats. The boy stared wide-eyed into the fire, gripping the handle of the old sword he'd been given that day. One of the veterans, a scarred one-eyed man, looked down at him.

"'Ere, boy," he said. "What brings a young lad like you to the front?"

"M-my da," the boy answered. "He was killed by a murder party on his way back from town. When the call went out for a militia..." he looked down, trying to hide his fear.

The one-eyed man smiled, not unkindly. "You thought you'd join up and avenge yer da."

The boy nodded.

"And now yer here, yer wonderin' why ye just din' stay home."

The boy nodded again. A single tear made its way down his cheek.

"Ah, don't worry now, son," the old veteran laid a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "We here was all like you once. You stick close to us come tomorrow, and we'll get ya through. Right lads?"

A rough chorus of grunts came from around the fire, but when the boy looked up, he saw them all smiling at him.

"Besides," an old man across from him said, "ye'll be fightin' fer Lord Rath, an' there ain't no better place to be in battle than on the side of Lord Rath the Bold."

The other men agreed heartily, each having a tale to tell of the heroic Lord Rath.

"Folks say he's the son of the War God, Zenus," one of the men said. "And that's why he doesn't age and won't ever die."

"Nah," the one-eyed man said, "he was carved from stone at the beginning of time, and given life by the great Goddess Urea."

The old man laughed. "Yer all a buncha fools and children. I bin fightin' fer Lord Rath since I was younger than the boy here, and I know his true story." Seeing he had an audience, the old man settled back against the rock he'd sat on, lighting his pipe. He blew out a thin stream of smoke. "First thing ya gotta know is, Lord Rath ain't immortal. Oh, he's a tough one ta kill, no denyin', and he don't age like we do. I'd say he's aged 10 years in the 50 I bin fightin' for 'im." His eyes focused on times past, the old man smiled. "Ah, but he's a good man. Brought years o' peace to this land of ours, he has, and--"

"Now Fergus," a deep voice settled on their circle from above, "you're going to swell my head so large with this kind of talk, I'll make an easy target for the Mad Wizard's archers tomorrow."

"Lord Rath!"

The men scrambled to get to their feet, but Lord Rath motioned them to remain seated. "No no lads, stay where you are. I just thought I'd come around and check on the men."

It was clear that, while they'd come to expect such treatment, the men felt singularly honored. They ran fingers through their hair and over their scalps, smiling and looking proud of themselves. "Oh, uh, doing just fine, my Lord." "Oh aye, all's well, Lord Rath." "Just waitin' for the morrow, sir."

Lord Rath flashed his own smile. "Good to hear, good to hear. Not too late tonight, men. We meet the Mad Wizard's forces tomorrow, and we've still half a day's march to get there." He was about to move on, when his gaze fell on the boy. "Here now, who might this strapping lad be?"

The one-eyed veteran clapped the boy on the back with a chuckle. "He's our newest recruit, Lord. Come to avenge his da."

Lord Rath turned serious, kneeling down next to the boy. "Your father," he said quietly. "He was killed by the Mad Wizard?"

The boy nodded, clearly overwhelmed by his proximity to the legendary Lord Rath. "Y-yes, my Lord. B-by one of his m-m-murder parties, Lord."

Lord Rath bowed his head, a look of sorrow mingled with guilt passing across his face. "I'm sorry, my boy. Such things should not happen in my land." He fixed a steely gaze upon the boy. "You have my word, son. Tomorrow, your father will be avenged."

The boy managed a weak smile. "Y-yes, my Lord. Th-thank you."

Lord Rath reached out for the boy's sword. He held it up, looking it over with a critical eye. "A stout blade," he said, handing it back. "No doubt a match for the heart of the one who wields it." He smiled down at the boy, who smiled proudly back up at him.

When Lord Rath was gone, the other men all spoke at once, beaming with pride at their visit from Lord Rath. "Well, boy," the old man winked at him. "A high honor indeed, and a mark of good fortune, on the eve of your first battle. Many men here would give much for a blessing from Lord Rath himself."

The boy just nodded, though he spent a great deal of time studying his sword while the men went back to telling their tales.

Later, as the fire dwindled to embers, the boy wiped blood from the blade of his dagger, slipping it back into its concealed sheath. The men around the fire appeared to be sleeping, and it would take close inspection by a keen eye to see their slit throats by the light of the dying fire.

Tossing the old sword into the brush, the boy made his way through the camp of slumbering men to the grand tent at its center. It would be a simple matter to sneak under the flap of the tent. Lord Rath's guards were half asleep at their posts. And the poison he'd coated the hilt of his sword with, poison he was immune to, should have the great lord himself in a deep slumber from which he would never awake.

A few moments later, the boy exited the tent the way he'd entered, making for the depths of the forest. His master would be pleased. When the army found their legendary commander the next morning with his throat slit, all the fight would surely go out of them, leaving this land ripe for the Mad Wizard's taking.

The Homecoming

2005-08-16T22:24:00.000-04:00

The massive starcruiser moved silently through the vastness of space, the exhaust ports of the great ion drives blazing like a quartet of suns. The Milky Way galaxy spun lazily before it, a stream of glittering jewels against the velvet drapery of the universe.

The engines were a low hum at the periphery of his awareness, a gentle rumbling beneath his feet. These sensations had been part of his life since childhood, and he wondered if he'd miss them when he arrived home.

Home. He let the word settle in his mind, still disbelieving. After all this time, his people were going home. Not that any of them had direct knowledge of their ancestral homeworld, of course. They, like the generations before them, had been born and bred among the stars, raised for the sole purpose of fighting in a millennia-long war that spanned hundreds of galaxies. Their entire species, down to the last child, had been taken from their planet by one of the factions involved in the struggle. With a little training and education, they proved formidable warriors and clever tacticians. They were considered among the brightest of the soldier races, and many rose high in the ranks of the armed forces and diplomatic corps. It was he, in fact, who'd finally managed to broker the armistice that put an end to hostilities and brought peace to a war-ravaged sector of space. In honor of their service, his people had been given this ship, along with the star-charts necessary to find their way home. For his own great achievement, he had been placed in command.

He looked out of the viewscreen. The ensign at sensors told him it would be several minutes before they could scan their destination planet. All were understandably eager. He'd heard the stories, of course. Every child did, as they were passed down from each generation to the next, a piece of his species' living memory. In his mind's eye, he could already feel the cool air on his skin, taste the salt of the oceans and hear all the sounds of the many forests.

He wondered how they would be received by those who'd been left behind. A race of placeholders had been created by the recruiting aliens, to keep the ecology balanced until the soldiers could return to take their rightful place within it. For himself, he was looking forward to shedding the trappings of technology and returning to the ways of his ancestors, to living as one with the land. He--

The report from the science officer roused him from his musings. There were some disturbing reports coming in from the initial scans. Average temperatures were considerably higher than predicted norms, the myriad of species had been reduced to a dwindling handful, the land was quickly turning to desert and the oceans had become toxic. What was worse, the placeholders had bred to the point of overpopulation, and a once-vast store of resources was almost depleted.

His people turned to him, unsure of what to do.

He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Though it was unexpected, they were not unprepared. Their ship was a modified deep-space colonial ark. Its systems contained an elaborate array of terraforming machinery. What's more, their computers held the DNA sequences of all known organisms that had existed at the time of recruitment. They could fix the damage with little difficulty. But there was still the matter of the placeholders.

The Neanderthal sighed, then shrugged, turning at last to his crew.

"They'll have to go."

The Race of His Life

2005-08-14T11:35:00.000-04:00

He was out for a walk.

The sun was nearly set, casting the western horizon in deep hues of red and purple. Stars crept across the sky from the east and a cool summer breeze kissed his skin. All around him the people of his neighborhood were enjoying the evening. Children ran about, frantically playing the last of their games before darkness called them home to bed. Young lovers walked arm in arm and older folks sat on their porches and lawns, watching the world around them.

He chuckled to look at them. Chronologically speaking, he had about 10 years on those older folks, though to look at him, one would swear he wasn't a day over 40. In fact, people were talking about how "well-preserved" he was, and their remarks were beginning to take on a tone of suspicion. He knew he'd likely soon have to leave this neighborhood, and the house he lived in, though he'd grown quite attached to both since he and his wife had moved here years ago, full of youth and the promise of family.

Sadly, that family had never come. Another side effect of the speed. That strange energy that allowed him to race a flashlight beam to its target and kept him young had also rendered him sterile.

He sighed. They had been disappointed, but not devastated. She'd had a promising career in investigative journalism, and the life of a superhero kept him away from home more often than not, so at times his sterility seemed a blessing. They had sponsored many needy children around the world, and they had many nieces and nephews on which to lavish their affection. So, though there had been no children, their lives had been full.

But then age, which seemed to all but ignore him, had finally had its way with her. She died in their bed just a few short months ago, with him by her side, holding her hand until the end. She passed without regret, having lived a life she would never have thought possible. In that last year before she died, when she knew her time was nigh, she put to paper all the many adventures of her life; both the fantastic ones shared with her husband and the grounded, yet no less exciting, adventures her work had led her to. She'd made him promise one day to publish them, when he no longer cared to keep his identity secret.

His pace increased as he moved out of his neighborhood, his surroundings beginning to blur as he moved beyond human speeds. He'd already made plans with his lawyer to publish his wife's memoirs within the next year. The proceeds would be divided between a journalism scholarship and a foundation set up to aid less fortunate children.

The world around him became a wash of color and he felt every molecule in his body begin to vibrate in unison. He'd been cautious about moving at the speeds he was approaching. He'd done a great deal of analysis of himself in his lab in the years since the accident had given him this speed, and he knew what could happen to him as he approached luminal velocity.

It didn't matter now, he thought with a smile. This leg of his race had been run. The slow life of a human man was behind him, along with that of a scarlet-clad hero. There were plenty others to carry on the crusade for justice. And with his wife gone, he was free to explore the limits, if there were any, of his power.

He felt his atoms begin to sing, and lightning crackled around him. His world was filled with blessed silence; he'd left the sound barrier far behind. Looking ahead of him, he saw the light begin to shift in hue, and he knew the moment was approaching.

Then he reached the point where there were no moments, where time itself stopped. In a final brilliant flash, he felt his body transcend its flesh, becoming of the same stuff as his soul. He became light, became energy, became speed itself...

And he ran, fast as he could, into the glorious unknown.

Dear Husband

2005-08-10T10:01:00.000-04:00

07 July, 2108

My Darling Husband,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that it finds you at all. Forgive the anachronism of ink on paper, but the networks are fraught with danger, and I trust to the vagaries of the flesh-and-blood messengers more than the relative certainty of circuitry and signal. I will leave this at a courier station on our return to the base.

The battle goes poorly. Hell, this whole bloody war is a horrific mess. My only comfort comes from knowing you and the children are safe within the dome of the City. You would not fare well in The Open. We may hold the coasts securely for now, but the interior of our nation is lost to us, possibly forever. The oldtimers tell us this used to be called The Heartland, and America's Breadbasket. I cannot even imagine what it must have looked like in those days, because all around me now is a ravaged dead landscape littered with the bodies of the dead and the rusting shells of our enemies.

Forget what the mediacasts tell you about the war. We are not winning. We never were. For every robot we destroy, the automated factories produce 100 more, each more advanced than the last. And the pollution from the factories kills as many of our soldiers as the enemies' guns. And the guns themselves... how can we fight something that is little more than a walking thinking weapon?

The worst of it is, of course, that this did not have to be. The robots were our creations, built to fight our wars for us and destroy our enemies completely. But they did their jobs too well. With no enemies left to fight, they turned on us. Their brutality, their cruelty, their inhuman capacity for violence... all of it came from us. We programmed them to be what they are, and they have only become more proficient at it in the years since.

Oh, my darling, my heart weeps. The knowledge that we brought this on ourselves is at times more crushing to my spirit than seeing the men and women around me reduced to ash or bits of charred flesh. I believe I have written of Lydia. She bunked beneath me in Basic, and was my gunner when we still had mech suits to pilot. Before the virus that made them the tools of our enemies. After that, we served in the infantry together. Last night we...

Forgive me, husband. Days have passed since I wrote the above. The pain of Lydia's death was too near, and I could not finish. I admit with shame that in my grief I lost myself in drink and the arms of another man. I fear that I am losing myself out here, that even if I return, there will be nothing left of the woman you married. Please do not judge me, or feel anger at my betrayal. It is you whom I love, and always will, but the closeness of another's body, the pressing of flesh to flesh and the ecstasy it brings are often the sole fragile thread that tethers us to that which makes us more than the machines we fight.

But I was telling you of Lydia.

Our unit stormed the largest of the robot factories several nights ago. Our mission was to infiltrate the control center and download the specs for the next generation of robots, so that a weakness might be found. Then we were to plant atomic grenades and vaporize the entire structure.

We were only partially successful. We destroyed the factory, but failed in our mission to gather vital intelligence. Lydia and I were part of the team that infiltrated the command center. We were near to completing our goal, when a sentrybot found us. It laid waste to our unit, only Lydia and I survived. Knowing I had a family, and she with no one at home, Lydia drew its attention to her so that I might escape and plant the grenades, and hopefully one day return home to you.

But what it did to her when it found her... it...

Beloved. More days have passed. I can barely write. My mind is lost in fog. Wonder that I did not lose this letter. Have not been sober. Euphora. It's a drug. I take it every day now. It dulls my pain and misery, and bathes me in chemical joy. I feel colors, see love... the children. How are the children? I miss my babies, but Euphora makes me feel them in my arms. Do not judge me. You cannot know.

Oh, husband. I am tempted to obscure the above, but I need you to know the fullness of our despair. It has been several weeks since the last of the Euphora ran out, and only today am I sufficiently recovered from withdrawal to write this letter. This letter. It is all I have left. We have no mission. Our officers are dead. We live like savages in squalid hovels, leaving only to seek what food can be found. The robots have overrun our positions and we are in enemy territory. I fear I will not live to see you and the children again. I can write no more now.

My dearest love. A scout is being sent to the City, to warn of the coming invasion. The robots move against the coasts, and seek the destruction of all human life. I pray this letter finds you before then. I will entrust it to the scout. I and what remains of my unit are taking the last of our weapons and launching a suicide assault on the advancing robot army. We hope only to slow them down, and we know that none will survive.

You must flee, beloved. Take our children and flee to a safe haven, if such places are to be found in this world. Tell our children of my love for them, and know that your names will be on my lips as I make my final stand against the machines.

I must close now. The scout approaches. Remember me always, dear husband, and see that our children do not forget me.

I love you.

An Eternity of Regret

2005-08-08T20:46:00.000-04:00

Blasphemel stood atop a rocky outcropping, looking out over a lake of fire. The screams of the damned were particularly grating today, and he wished there was somewhere he could escape them.

There wasn't, so he settled for a nice view. Not that there were many views in Hell one could call "nice", but the aesthetics of the lake were pleasing enough. He shrugged, and his leather wings rasped against one another.

He sighed. He missed having feathers. He missed soaring through the vastness of Creation, rather than over the festering pits of Hell. He missed the music of Heaven. He missed his friends. He missed being beautiful, and he missed Love. He missed... he choked back tears.

He missed God.

There. He thought it. Okay? He missed God. Not for the first time, Blasphemel wished he'd never rebelled. Never turned his back on Him. Never Fell for eons into Darkness, his angelic beauty burning away until only a charred vile demon was left.

Another scream broke his reverie. Damned humans, he thought. Wretched little ape-things. Why did God have to go and give them brains? And freewill? It was madness! He'd thought it then, and still thought it now. Blasphemel knew, first hand, what horrors the humans visited upon each other with their big brains and freewill. He always knew no good would come of God's grand "experiment".

But maybe, just maybe, he should have kept quiet about it. There hadn't really been any point in shooting his mouth off, had there? Where had it gotten him? Hell, that was where. Yes, looking back on it, Blasphemel should have known how their little rebellion was going to go and stayed well out of it.

But Lucifer had been so damned convincing. Up in Heaven, when Lucifer spoke to you, well, it was the next best thing to speaking to God. He'd felt special, important, just to be asked to join Lucifer's crusade. He thought he was going to make a difference. He was working to save Creation from a horrible mistake.

Too late, he realized he'd been little more than a pawn for Lucifer's wounded ego.

Of course, it was "Satan" now. Woe unto any demon who dared call Satan "Lucifer" to his face. That would get your wings torn off, then sewn back on, then torn off again, and the rest of you fed to Satan's hounds. Blasphemel shivered at the thought of them. Foul creatures.

He shivered at the thought of Satan, too. Of all the former angels, he had changed the most when he Fell. As beautiful as Lucifer was, Satan was that ugly. Gone was Lucifer's charisma and irresistible charm. Satan ruled by fear and cruelty. The other demons whispered that, where God had loved Lucifer best, so did He hate Satan most of all.

Blasphemel turned away from the lake and the screaming souls. Acid tears sliced gouges in his ravaged scaled flesh, falling to the bare rock with an audible hiss. He fell to his knees, claws raking the ground, and did something he'd sworn never to do again.

He prayed.

"Dear Lord in Heaven, forgive me!" he cried. "Please, forsake me no longer! I admit my mistake, and my black heart fills with naught but regret! Please! I beseech you! Take me home!" He buried his face in his hands.

"Please God, I want to come home."

There was no answer, save a deep mournful howling. God could not hear his prayer, but Satan had, and he'd set his hounds upon Blasphemel. They would be here soon. When they finished with him, they would drag his ravaged body back to their dread master and Blasphemel would suffer millennia of torture.

A thought struck him then. What if he ran? What if he hid? What if he found others like him, regretful and filled with bitter longing for a home forever denied them? He flapped his massive leather wings, flying far out to the edges of Hell's domain. An idea began to form in his mind.

Yes, he would find others like him. He would gather them to him.

And they would rebel.

The Everyday Savior

2005-08-05T20:33:00.000-04:00

Artwork by Rae Ann. Story based on an idea she came up with. Read part 1

He sat in filth, on a ragged moldy cot that smelled faintly of old urine. He was happy for it all the same, as it was the first he'd sat down in several days. He rubbed his temples. Miracles tended to make him out of sorts, but healing really gave him a headache. He sighed. It didn't matter. He'd take a week's worth of migraines if it meant more people could live free of disease.

"You should eat," a voice spoke behind him.

He shook his head. "There's precious little food here," he said. "Don't waste any of it on me."

A young woman came to sit next to him, resting her hand on his shoulder. "It would not be a waste," she said. "For what you've done..."

He waved her words away. "What I've done is simply what I can," he said. "I'll eat at... somewhere else." He'd almost said "home". But he hadn't had one of those in over a year. Not since...

He stood up, slowly. He was beginning to feel stiff. Regardless, he had to move on. The longer he stayed, the greater the chances of it happening again. The people, the questions, finding himself revered... No. Never again. Not after what happened. He clenched his fist. Why did he ever let the old preacher talk him into that television ministry? All the people he could have helped, all the lives that could have been saved, and he'd wasted months preaching nonsense and performing parlor tricks for wealthy fools.

He smiled, remembering the way he'd finally quit the ministry. Officiating over the marriages of 100 homosexual couples simultaneously on global TV put him slightly out of favor with the devout Christians at the television studio.

"Ah, so you do have a smile." He'd forgotten she was in the room. "I was wondering where you'd hidden it."

His grin turned sheepish. "Sorry. I have... a lot on my mind."

"I don't doubt it." She crossed over to him, reached up and kissed him.

He touched his lips as she pulled away. "What..."

"I get the feeling you'll be moving on," she said. "I figured it was my last chance." She looked over her shoulder as she left the room. "You won't be forgotten, Dan." Then she was gone.

No, he thought as he made his way to the other door, the one that led outside. He wouldn't be forgotten. Everywhere he went, he seemed to leave behind... disciples. People who dedicated their lives to spreading his message and continuing his works as best they could.

He pulled his tattered coat tighter around himself and walked down the street, head bowed against the wind. It was a simple message, or so he thought. And he didn't really preach all that much. He just talked to people about being kind to one another, caring for those less fortunate, showing tolerance for those who are different. He just talked, but the more he did, the more people listened. He--

A van pulled up next to him, tires screeching on cold asphalt. There was the loud rumbling of the door sliding open, then a sack over his head, a sharp pain at the back of his skull and then... nothing.

He woke atop a hill. He was cold, dressed in little more than his underwear.

"Ah, you awaken at last, Mr. Nicholas." The voice was even colder than the air, with more than a hint of menace. "No doubt you are wondering where you are, who I am and why you are here."

"I'm more concerned with the location of my pants," Dan said wearily. "But you seem eager to talk about yourself, so don't let me keep you."

A tall thin man with graying hair stepped into Dan's field of vision. He was well-dressed, and conducted himself with the air of casual superiority attained only by those born to money. "Charming," he said. He began to pace in front of Dan, gloved hands clasped behind his back. Dan shivered and rubbed his arms with hands made of ice.

"My name is unimportant," the thin man said, "as is the name of my organization. All you need to know is that we are here to deal with people like you."

"L-like m-m-me?" Dan wished he could stop his teeth from chattering.

"Messiahs," the thin man said. "Saviors. Prophets. We exist, as we have for thousands of years, to prevent the Second Coming."

The thin man laughed at Dan's confused look. "What? Did you think you were the only one?" He laughed more, and was joined by two large men who laughed with him. "No. You are simply one of many. Yes, you've managed to elude us for a time, and you've built yourself quite a following. But we can put them to use. We'll see to it your message is... tweaked, to bring it more in line with the way we see the world."

"A-a-and w-what w-w-way is that?"

The thin man smiled, a smug self-satisfied smile. He'd wanted Dan to ask him that. "Isn't it obvious? There are two kinds of people in the world: men of worth and pedigree, and those upon who's backs we stand. And if those people suddenly decide to stand up," he spread his hands, "well, where does that leave us?"

"And if I d-don't co-co-co-operate?"

The thin man chuckled. "Who said we needed you to?" He gestured, and one of the large men came forward, handing him something. "We have a more... permanent way of dealing with you people."

And he held out his hand, revealing three large nails.

As Dan's arms were grabbed roughly by the two large men, the thin man leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

"And just so you know, we're planning to blame the queers this time."

The Everyday Messiah

2005-08-02T21:29:00.000-04:00

Artwork by Rae Ann. Story based on an idea she came up with.

Dan stared at the picture. "I don't get it," he said.

The photo girl looked confused, and a little nervous. She looked as though she was going to start freaking out any minute. "I'm--I'm sorry, sir. I--" she looked at him, finally giving up all pretense of trying to act professional. "I have no idea what the hell that is."

He knew what it was. He could see what it was. What he couldn't see was why it was. Why, instead of the dumbass glamour photo of him in a tux that he was about to be charged an arm and a leg for, was he holding a picture of himself as Jesus?

"Umm, okay." He stared at the picture some more, then up at her. She was gazing as though hypnotized at the radiant halo around his Jesus head. He looked back at the photo, and the weirdest thought crossed his mind. It occurred to Dan that he looked pretty good with long hair. He'd always wondered if he would. He took a bit of solace in the mundane thought, and latched onto another. Ownership.

"Can I keep it?" he asked, with a tone that suggested he was going to anyway.

The photo girl took a step back. "I sure as hell don't want it. Take it."

He took the photo and walked through the mall in a daze, reaching his car and driving it home on instinct. He set the photo down on his kitchen table and stared at it.

"What. The. F-" The door opened. His roommate walked in, exchanged a few pleasantries, glanced at the picture and walked into his room.

A few seconds later he walked back out and picked up the picture. He studied it for a minute.

He looked up at Dan. "You look good with long hair," he said casually.

"Thanks. Yeah, I thought so too."

The roommate studied the picture a bit longer.

"Why the hell are you dressed as Jesu--"

"I don't know!"

The roommate quickly handed the picture back to Dan. "Uhhh... okay, dude."

Dan held up his hands. "Sorry. Sorry. It's just that, I wasn't dressed like Jesus for the picture. I was in one of those glamour picture shops in the mall--"

"Dude," scorn dripped from his roommate's voice. "You went in there? Why?"

"The hot chick out front pimping the place."

"Right. Carry on."

"Yeah, so, I was wearing a tux or some crap, trying to chat this girl up, feeling like a dork and getting my picture taken, but when the picture comes out..." he threw the picture at his roommate.

"You're Jesus."

Dan gestured affirmatively at him. "Exactly. How the hell did that happen? Some dude in back playing with Photoshop? I dunno..."

The roommate shook his head. "No, dude. I mean you're Jesus. You're the second coming, dude!" He brandished the photo. "It's the only plausible explanation!"

Dan snatched the photo back and chased his roommate out of the kitchen. He went to his room and tossed it onto his nightstand. He stared at the photo some more until falling asleep.

That night he dreamed of enlightenment, and when he woke, a long-dormant part of his brain woke with him. He knew things; things about the world, people, the universe... himself. He shook his head. He didn't want to know these things. Now that it was happening, he realized he didn't really want his brain waking up after all. He tried to will it back to sleep. He didn't want this. He was... he looked up at the clock.

He was late for work.

to be continued...

The Strength of Her Love

2005-08-01T22:23:00.000-04:00

"Ugggghhhhhh..."

God, but she was hungover. Cutting through the throbbing stupor in her head, she remembered brief glimpses of the previous night.

It was her 40th birthday party. Carl had spent weeks setting it up. It was at her favorite pub, with all her friends and only those members of her family she actually liked. He'd hired the finest chefs to cook her favorite foods and used the considerable connections he had as Editor-in-Chief of Newsplanet to get her favorite band to play.

And, far as she could remember, she got blind raving drunk an hour into it, made a pass at Carl's best friend, threw up and passed out. He caught her as she fell, of course. He always caught her when she fell, since that first day they met, hurtling down the side of a massive skyscraper. He caught her then, and every time since. Right up to last night, when she fell over unconscious after flashing her chest at the entire party. Her memory was fuzzy on the matter, but she remembered him taking her home, cleaning her up and putting her to bed with a glass of water and a big bucket.

And that was how intrepid girl reporter Lauren Lance entered her 40s. Of course, it was Lauren Lance-Kane these days, and she was pretty sure 40 meant she couldn't call herself a girl any more. It was funny; she'd fought the "girl reporter" label her entire career, but right now she'd kill for someone to call her a girl.

"How's my girl doing?"

She mustered a smile for him, slowly trying to raise her head. "Ohhh, you know--know me," she coughed. "'M ready an'...rarin'...uggghhhhh..." she slowly burrowed her head deep into the pillow. All that could be heard from her was a low moan, muffled further by the pillow. Then she was silent for a while.

Then, "...'m sorry."

He came to the side of the bed, sitting in the air a few inches above the bed, so as not to disturb her. "Don't be silly. It was your party. Though you really should have been there. The Slow Children played 3 sets." When she groaned, he smiled. "Don't worry. I captured the whole thing on a brain chip. When yours is feeling better, we can take a trip to the Sanctuary and you can use the Mentallus helmet to have another go at the party."

She started to cry.

"Hey hey," he rubbed her back. He always worried when she cried, given that it hardly ever happened. "Hey, what's... wait." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. "I want to talk, but you should drink this first. I went to retrieve it from the Sanctuary this morning."

She sat up gingerly, wincing a bit at the muted daylight that crept in through the closed blinds. She snuffled, her tears and hangover momentarily forgotten as curiosity got the better of her. "What is it?"

He held out the vial. "It's just a bit of Titanic serum. I thought it might help."

She took it, looking over the vial. "But that's dangerous for me to take," she said. "This stuff can kill me." She'd taken Titanic serum twice before, back when she and Carl were first dating, back before she knew he was The Titan. She dated him in his heroic persona for a while, and in that time had occasion to become involved in his adventures. One of those adventures involved the first time she'd taken Titanic serum, the second time she'd taken it was after they started getting serious. He'd just revealed his identity to her and they'd had the big talk. She knew he was essentially immortal, and she took the Titanic serum in the hope that she'd be able to share that life with him. It had given her powers like his for a day, as it did the first time, but when the serum wore off she was deathly ill for two days. Dr. Molecule looked her over and determined that the serum had completely compromised her system. If she took it too many more times, it could damage her irreversibly. Which was why she was a bit puzzled about him offering it as a hangover cure.

"It's not what you're used to," he said. "It's a much milder form. I had Doc Molecule help me make some. I was going to give you the vial last night, after the party."

She grinned sheepishly, then looked at the vial. "So, it's safe to drink?" She didn't wait for an answer and drank it all down. She immediately began feeling better. "Wow," she said. "Talk about hitting the spot." She examined herself. "Not feeling all that Titanic, though."

He shook his head. "You won't," he said. "Oh, you'll be a bit stronger for a day or so, more stamina, slightly faster. You'll heal a lot quicker, obviously," he gestured at her. Then he shrugged. "But don't expect to be throwing cars around or shooting raybeams out of your eyes. And flying is right out." He looked at her, and she could tell he was monitoring her vitals with his enhanced senses. "What's going on?" he asked.

She tried to laugh and brush it off, but she knew he wouldn't have it. She managed to buy some time while she got out of bed and got dressed, but finally had to steel herself for the conversation to come. Fortunately, at that moment, the front wall of their apartment was torn away. He was in costume before she could blink.

"Get to the safe room," he said, in the deep baritone of his Titan voice.

"I want to see what--"

"Now."

She left the room, bypassing the saferoom and instead making for the stairs to the roof. She'd have a much better view from up there.

What she saw when she got there took her a bit by surprise. An army of flying warrior women had descended upon the city. And at the lead was...

"Princess Hero," she heard her husband say. "What is this? What on Earth do you think you're doing?!"

"I am a princess no longer, Titan," Lauren heard her say. "I have forgone the cape of the hero in favor of the cloak of a queen. I am the Warrior Queen of Amaz, and I have come for my consort."

Lauren turned and ran for the stairs, so she only heard the first part of her husband's answer. "Dina," he said, calling her by her true name, "this is absurd. I have no inten--"

She raced down the stairs, knowing already what the Queen had planned. Magic. Amaz was a world of magic. For all his great powers, her husband was vulnerable to magic. She was moving pretty fast, so the Titanic serum must be doing something. Not enough to go toe to toe with Queenie out there, though, that was for sure.

Dina. She swore under her breath. She'd always been jealous of Dina. She didn't want to be, she'd hoped she was better than that, but...no. They had tried to be friends, for Carl's sake, but they really didn't have much in common, other than Carl, and Lauren preferred they not have too much of Carl in common. Bad enough Carl and Dina had so much in common. She was nearly as strong as he was, with most of his other powers. She could fight monsters and mad scientists with him and they could fly in outer space together. How does an "intrepid girl reporter" compete with that?

Carl had insisted he didn't want her to, that Lauren had something Dina never could, and that was why he loved her so much. She never asked him what that something was, and she actually did believe him, but she was happy nonetheless when Dina was called home to replace her mother on the throne. She and Carl had gone to the coronation, but hadn't stayed long.

And now Dina was back, and after her man. She stopped back in their apartment to grab something, then ran the rest of the way to the ground floor. She made it outside just as Dina was putting Carl under her spell. Lauren grabbed a large lead pipe that would have been far too heavy to lift any other day and cracked the Queen across the back of the head with it. It was hard enough to knock the bigger woman down.

"Get your hands off my husband, whore," she said. Behind her, Carl had begun to stir from his spellbound state. Before he could come around, Dina punched her in the face. She felt her nose break from the punch and cracked a couple of ribs when she hit the wall.

"You dare?!" Dina stormed over to Lauren, who pulled herself to her feet. Carl struggled to shake off the spell. "Your husband is mine, animal. As a favor to my new consort, I'd planned to leave you alive." She gripped Lauren by the throat. "Plans can change."

"Here's...grk...hoping..." Lauren choked out. She pulled one of the explosive charges The Knight Watchman left at the apartment from her pocket and shoved it down Dina's metal breastplate.

The explosion threw the two women to opposite sides of the street. Dina went down and didn't get back up. Her warriors gathered around her. She would live, but she'd be going home without a consort. The warrior women looked in Lauren's direction with grudging respect and gathered up their fallen queen. They left as quickly as they came. She felt herself falling, knowing the blast must have done her in. Then she felt strong arms around her, and a gentle deep voice in her ear, telling her it would be all right.

He'd caught her again. Like he always did. Like he always would. But she was happy to know that, sometimes, he needed her to catch him too.

True Tales From the Spiral Edge

2005-07-29T22:55:00.000-04:00

The Spiral Edge Diner is the greatest of rarities: an existential singularity. Only one of it exists throughout the grand infinity that is the multiverse. Travelers from the myriad parallel dimensions frequent the diner, and trade stories with one another.

Often, groups of the same person will share a booth. Five alternate versions of Elvis Presley meet for burgers every Tuesday night. Those Elvises from Earths without rock and roll listen with rapt envy to the stories told by the superstar Elvises. Tales of fame and fortune, and the pain and misery it can bring. Stories told in husky whispers of the Elvises that didn't make it; Earths where Elvis died by overdose, a variety of travel accidents and even a crazed fan; stories of washed-up Elvises, bloated caricatures lurching about the stages of the seedier Vegas casinos. One of the superstars tells the story of a messiah-Elvis, worshipped by half of America before and after his death at the hands of a CIA operative.

There are plenty of stories to be heard at the Spiral Edge; from tales of Aztec rocket scientists to a world without Christianity. Men and women with bright costumes and strange abilities relate wild accounts of aliens encountered in the Old West while traveling through time. A kindly old wizard tells cyborg children chilling tales of Earths with no technology while nuclear holocaust survivors share grief-stricken accounts with researchers from one of the utopian Earths. The diner even has a story of its own; that of two young lovers, each from a different universe, wandering the diner in search of the one story that can keep them together.

Anyone can hear these stories for the price of a cup of coffee and a little something in the tip jar.

Of course, if you’ve a story of your own to tell, then the coffee’s on the house all night.

Godworld

2005-07-28T22:32:00.000-04:00

Close to the center of the multiversal spiral is a universe. It is a universe like all the others. It has stars and planets and galaxies. But the galaxies in this universe are alive, the stars are sentient and the planets are host to deities.

One such planet, called Earth, is full of cities. The city of New York is built entirely of gold and light, and the sky above it sings each morning. Los Angeles is built primarily of fire and human flesh, while London gleams in silver and water. There are cities grown from trees, and towns that aren't there. Astral projectionists from the outer universes tour a crystal metropolis, while the souls of dead mortals are taken to their destination cities in carriages of mist, drawn by horse-shaped clouds.

Many of the deities who live here have created universes of their own, and peopled them according to their whim, casting them far out into the uncharted fringes of the myriad spiral arms, in the quantum nursery that holds the mundane realities. Some deities collaborate on a universe, each crafting a certain aspect of its nature.

One group of collaborators is having a falling out. The Goddess wants a raise, the pantheons are seeking more creative control, and the trickster gods keep trying to buy everyone out. The nature spirits have all but backed out of the project entirely, and everyone is pissed that God keeps trying to run the show.

Can this handful of deities share a universe, without driving each other crazy?

At the Crossroads of Immortality

2005-07-27T21:27:00.000-04:00

Jack Champion grabbed hold of the cane and slowly pulled himself up out of the chair. He'd started using the damn cane about 10 years ago. It had been about 5 since he'd been able to comfortably get into and out of his favorite chair. He muttered to himself as he slowly crossed the room to the kitchen. It was a modest home, but well-kept. His staff was very efficient, even the in-home doctor and nurses his kids had forced him to accept.

Martin met him at the kitchen, standing with a pose of deferential reproach. "Should you desire anything from the kitchen, sir, I would be happy to see to it."

He looked at Martin and scowled. Martin had been with him 25 years. Hired on just as his career as a world-renowned adventurer was ending. After Harold had...

It was still hard, nearly a quarter-century on. He grunted something non-committal to Martin and hobbled past him toward the library. Once there he shut the doors behind him. As he made his slow way to his massive desk, a familiar sensation traveled up his spine. He'd not felt it in over 30 years, but it always meant--

"Jack Champion," a voice came from the shadows, the same lyrical baritone he'd heard all those years ago, "how wonderful to see you again."

He stopped in the center of the room, gripping the small revolver in the pocket of his robe. Not much use against who he thought this was, but... "Dr. Eternal," he said, his own voice now thin and rasping. "Come to kill me on my deathbed?"

Dr. Eternal stepped from the shadows of a towering row of bookshelves and had clearly not aged a day since the first time they'd met in battle, almost 70 years ago. "Hardly," the ageless man said. "Though we last met as enemies, I hope that you will end this life my friend."

Jack considered his old adversary carefully. Of all his old enemies, Dr. Eternal had been the most challenging. With each plot and sinister gambit, the clues and riddles grew harder to solve, as though Dr. Eternal enjoyed challenging him. The immortal villain also differed from his other enemies in that he'd never killed anyone.

Until that last time.

"I know what you're thinking," Dr. Eternal said, dragging over a chair and helping the old adventurer into it. Jack was too shocked by the situation to complain.

Eternal continued, pacing a bit as he spoke.

"It's no coincidence that the last time we saw one another was the first time I'd killed someone during one of our little games."

"You still seem so surprised," Jack said. "You regularly plotted the takeover of the world," the aging detective ticked off his fingers. "You owned, at one time, three separate doomsday devices." He fixed his old enemy with a stern glare. "How could you not think someone might get hurt?"

Dr. Eternal looked away from Jack. "I was a fool." He shook his head and began to talk. "Before I was granted immortality --oh yes, it was given to me, more on that in a moment-- I was little more than a drunken pickpocket. I stole just enough money from the people in our small village during the day so I could buy liquor at night."

"Little changed when I became immortal," he continued, "save that my exploits became more dangerous and my drinking more prodigious." He chuckled ruefully. "It took a three-month hangover before I finally quit drinking entirely."

He shrugged. "After that I just wandered around doing whatever struck my fancy. I was going to live forever and could not be killed. I made a name for myself in the army, but then had to vanish when my persistent youth became alarming to those around me. I took up thieving, mercenary work... anything that kept me moving. I continued on that way until one night in Berlin, 1939."

"The night we met."

Dr. Eternal smiled and stared into the distance, reliving the memory. "Yes. A good night it was for me, too. You were there on a secret mission for which you'd been hired by the British government. I was a Nazi officer--"

"I was told later that you were spying for the Americans."

The immortal smiled, spreading his hands wide. "I was. But I was also spying on both for the Russians. I was always up to something." His eyes gleamed. "But after that night, I knew I'd found a higher calling. I knew almost from the first moment that you were going to be a force in the world, and I wanted to be a counterforce."

"Why?"

Another sigh, and Dr. Eternal looked down at the floor. "I was bored. After almost 300 years, I wanted my life to mean something. The man who'd made me immortal had to trade his immortality for my mortality. I was returned to the prime of my life, and he aged before my eyes." He shook his head again.

"I never understood why he gave this to me, or what I was meant to do with it. After killing that girl, I hid myself away. I'd killed before, but this was my first innocent. I couldn't bear to face you again. Somehow, our game was no longer so fun to play. " He sighed. "I went back to drinking for a couple of decades, but finally quit again. It was while I was drying out that I had time to think on my life, and how it could mean something; and about what I was supposed to do with my immortality."

There was a brief silence, during which Dr. Eternal looked up at the old adventurer. "I'm supposed to give it to you."

There was a brief pause, and Jack smirked.

"Well, obviously."

He pushed himself slowly and with great effort from his chair, waving away Eternal's offer of help. He walked the rest of the way to his desk, and settled himself in the large chair behind it. Dr. Eternal took a seat across from him.

Jack looked across the desk. "I knew that was why you'd come the minute you told me it was given to you. The thing is," he shook his head, "I don't want it."

"But--"

Jack held up his hands. "Oh, don't get me wrong. Old age is a pain-in-the-ass. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit interested in taking 25 for another spin." He shook his head again. "But no. Thank you, truly, but I'm fine with dying. I've lived my life, as fully as I knew how. I don't mind leaving it."

Dr. Eternal considered this. "Your life had meaning," he said eventually.

Jack nodded. "It does."

Dr. Eternal rose, nodding. "I understand. Perhaps I am meant to keep this," he mused. "I too will be released from this life only after I've given it meaning."

"Perhaps," Jack said, then coughed. That cough turned into a fit, which led to Jack doubled over, hacking uncontrollably.

He waved Eternal off again when the other man tried to help him. "I'm fine," he said. "Happens a lot these days." He sat back wearily in the chair behind his desk.

Dr. Eternal stepped forward, so that he towered over Jack. "Then allow me to make you another offer, if you are not interested in my first."

Jack looked up at him as he approached and smiled. "Yes," he whispered as Dr. Eternal's hands closed around his throat. "Yes, I think that will do nicely."

A Chat Before the Storm

2005-07-26T11:10:00.000-04:00

"Noah."

He looked around, pausing in his labor, hammer poised above the plank he was nailing to the frame of the ark.

"Noah, it's me. I thought we might talk a bit."

"Mmmmph Brmmmph Frgmmph." Noah spit out the nails he'd been holding in his mouth. "Sorry, Lord." He cleared his throat and tried to assume a respectful posture. He was never quite sure how to act when speaking to God. Not for the first time, he wished someone else had been chosen for this task.

"Well, they weren't. I picked you. Get used to it. Now, let's talk a moment."

"Yes Lord," Noah said with a slight bow. "And of course I would love nothing more, but I really do need to get this done before--"

"Don't worry about that. I've stopped time so we can talk."

"Okay." Noah sat down. Now that he thought about it, a bit of a rest might do him some good. "What would you like to talk about, Lord?" A thought struck him and he stood back up, looking nervous. "Is there some problem with my work? I am trying my hardest. I can--"

"No, no. Nothing like that. You're doing fine. I just thought we might... chat a little. That's all."

"Oh." Noah sat back down. "Okay."

There was a long silence. Noah fidgeted a bit. Just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable, God spoke.

"So, things are going well?"

"Yes, Lord."

"Good. Good."

There was another long silence.

Noah cleared his throat. "Um, Lord?"

"Yes?"

"Um, well, was there anything else?" Noah shifted his feet. "It's just that, I know you stopped time and all, but I really want to get the ark finished, and I still have the animals to gather, and I'm a little concerned that I'm not going to have nearly enough room for all of them, what with the spatial restrictions and--"

"Oh, don't worry about that. This ark is blessed by me. You'll have exactly as much room as you need. I wrote the laws of physics, after all. I can break them if I want to."

"Right," Noah said. "Of course. Well, if there's nothing else, I've been wanting to test the dragon traps. They're going to be the hardest to get onto the ark and--"

"No dragons."

"Lord?" Noah was taken aback by this. "I thought you said--"

"No dragons. No unicorns, chimera, griffins or any other magical creatures."

"But why, Lord?" Noah was a bit confused. God had clearly said two of every animal, so naturally he'd thought...

"Let's just call them a failed experiment and leave it at that."

"As you say, Lord." Noah turned to get back to work, then stopped. "Was that all, Lord? You seem to want to talk about something." He hoped he wasn't overstepping his bounds. It was hard to tell with God sometimes.

There was another silence, though not as long as the others.

"No, I just... well, yes. There is one thing..."

Noah waited a moment before prompting, "Yes?"

A great sigh echoed across the heavens. "Well, Noah, I was just thinking... do you... do you think I'm being a little harsh?"

"'Harsh', Lord?"

"You know, wiping out the entire human race except for you and your family. Thinking on it further, I wonder if maybe I could just give everyone a stern talking-to instead."

Noah cleared his throat and shuffled his feet again. He felt very uncomfortable. When God had first come to him and told him to build the ark, he'd been very honored, particularly since it meant he'd also been chosen to restart the human race. But, sometimes, talking with God was... confusing, to say the least.

"Well Lord," he said hesitantly, "I look at it this way: You are the Lord God. If you say it is so, it is so. If you believe humanity needs to be wiped clean and begun again, then there must be a good reason." Noah shrugged. "Who am I, who are ANY of us, to pass judgment on your wisdom?"

Noah heard a chuckle, and it sounded like distant thunder.

"I suppose you are right, Noah. Thank you. For everything."

"Of course, Lord." Noah picked up his hammer and got back to work. He could tell God was finished. He resumed hammering.

Not for the first time, he found himself really needing a drink.

With Trepidation in the Face of Providence He is Reborn

2005-07-24T19:49:00.000-04:00

It wasn't time yet. That's what she said. It wasn't time.

He sat in his safe place, knees drawn up to his chin, staring with great intensity at nothing. He rocked, slightly. He felt so eager.

But it wasn't time yet. That's what she said.

He wished it was time. He wished he could go now. He knew things would be different. He just knew it. The loneliness he'd carried around with him, the fear that always gripped him, all that would be gone. He knew it. He wanted to go where everything would be better.

Except she said it wasn't time.

So he waited.

And doubt entered his mind.

What if things weren't better? What if it didn't wash away this time. He'd done this before, after all. He drew his knees up closer and tightened his grip on his legs. He buried his face in his knees. Things always seemed better at the beginning, but he always managed to do something wrong, which led to everything unraveling and him ending up back here.

Waiting.

For it to be time.

He hoped she would come see him before he left, instead of just telling him when it was time. He liked it when she came to see him. But she was busy. She had a big job. So sometimes, she couldn't come.

So he waited.

His mother sat in the midwife's office, hand resting on her ample round belly. The midwife was telling her it could still be a week or two yet, and to be patient.

"It's likely this is just false labor," the midwife said.

His mother laughed without much humor. "Fells pretty real to me," she said.

The midwife flashed her a smile that was meant to be warm and supportive but, given the circumstances, just seemed patronizing. "I'm sure it does."

He sat with his knees up and rocked again. Something was happening. He knew it. She wasn't here, but he was getting ready to go.

In the midwife's office, his mother felt something warm splash against her thigh.

Something strange was happening to his safe place. It seemed familiar, whatever it was. He thought it meant he'd be going soon.

And then she was there, a bright shining light in his soul. She asked him if he was sure. Everything had gone so horribly last time. She assured him he'd earned a longer respite.

He told her he was sure. He needed to get it right, to make up for the horrors of the last time that were of his own making. He needed to do this to reach his final rest.

She smiled down on him then, and lay her blessings upon him, and he began to go.

His mother grit her teeth, grunting, and the midwife looked up at her from the end of the exam table.

"It's time."

Tales of the Godworld

2005-07-23T20:11:00.000-04:00

She heard sobbing from behind the door and wasn't sure what to expect. The last time they'd been together didn't go well and it would be millennia before she forgave him, perhaps eons, if at all. But he'd been so desperate when he called. He'd sounded so old. Despite their history, she was a little worried about him.

Standing in the shimmering hallway, she grit her teeth and reached for the door. It swung open just before she grabbed it, revealing a snuffling and red-eyed God. "You came," he said.

"Well, yes," she sputtered. What had happened to him?

"It's them," he growled, leading her into an opulent cathedral, done in a garish and uncomfortable mix of Jewish, Christian and Muslim symbolism and architecture.

"You've remodeled," she quipped as they sat in a comfortable pew.

"Them again," he said, gripping his head. "Ohhh, they won't let me be. Pulling me every which way..."

"I told you this would happen if you micromanaged them," she said.

"Oh fine," he snapped at her. "Mock me, then."

She glared at him. "I think maybe I will. You locked me in a convent for 3000 years, you have a lot of nerve expecting sympathy."

"That was eons ago!"

"It was THREE THOUSAND YEARS! That's barely the lifespan of a civilization!" She breathed in through her nose, then out, slowly. "No," she said. "No, I am not having this argument with you again. I don't have to argue with you any more."

"Well then why don't you... aagh!" He gripped his head. "Shut up! No you shut up! I'm the real God! I'M THE REAL GOD!!" He stared up at her, a feverish gleam in his eyes. "You'll see. They'll do it you. It's not like it was when we were pantheons. That made sense. That, I could handle. This..." He shuddered, then stared at her. "They'll twist you, split you and turn you against yourself." He smiled crookedly. "They'll drive you mad."

She met his gaze unflinching. "They're driving you mad because you're letting them." She stood, scorn apparent on her face. "What happened to the God with whom I birthed the universe? The God who wrote the laws of physics, and designed the first human. Where is that God?" She drew herself up to her full infinite height and looked down at him. "He can't possibly be here, because all I see is a whining human puppet."

He growled. "You don't say that to me."

"I'll say it until you prove me wrong."

He glared up at her, then stood. "What do you suggest I do?"

"Let them know you're tired of their nonsense, and to stop killing each other over you."

He threw his hands up. "That's why I sent my son--"

"To tell them to be good to each other, and to love each other," she said. "And they killed him for it."

"That's why you've got to tell them so they learn," she smacked her fist into her open palm. "Hit them with an Act of God. But make it clear it's you, and make it spectacular. They watch a lot of TV, and are harder to impress than they used to be. When everyone is reeling, put it all back exactly as it was. Then tell them to behave or else."

"And that's what you'd do, I take it?"

"That's what I have done. You know that better than anyone. No one starts a war over me twice."

He approached her, smiling tentatively and nodding. "Right, right. Those were some fun times, yeah?"

She scowled at him. "Not really. Besides, they ended when you betrayed me."

He sighed, then flashed her the smile she fell in love with, back at the beginning of time. "You want to do the Act of God?"

She smirked. "That's the least you can do." She gestured for him to lead the way.

"You know," he said as they walked away, "Making the universe was fun. We could--"

"Oh," she said. "Oh, I just tasted bile." She laughed derisively. "No, I might be willing to talk to you again, and might someday be your friend..."

"But there is no way you're ever doing that with me again."

In His Lament Undaunted

2005-07-22T15:37:00.000-04:00

He sat on the edge of the bed, naked, a cigarette held loosely between two fingers. Early morning sunlight shone brightly through the window, and the smoke from his cigarette spiraled upward along a shaft of light, as though seeking the source.

He took a drag and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke wreathe his face. He finally put the cigarette out in a battered ashtray next to the bed. He'd been holding it more than smoking it, lost in thought and bitter longing.

She was gone.

He lay back on the bed. He could still smell her scent, mingled with the smells of stale sheets and old mattress. He inhaled deeply, hoping to capture that essence of her so he would never forget it. There was so much he wanted to remember, so much he knew he'd forget as the memories of her faded and others more vibrant took their place.

Last night had been the last time. The last time he'd see her perfect body, laid out naked before him. The last time he'd taste her lips, her sweat and the sweet tanginess of her sex. He would never feel her hair between his fingers, or her nails across his back. Never feel the warm tightness of her as he slipped between her legs, or the soft roundness of her breasts in his hands.

Never again. For last night was the last time for each of them. Neither of them had wanted it, but both knew it was unavoidable. They cried when they came (together, as they always did) and held each other afterward, weeping until sleep took them.

When he woke, she was gone. She'd told him she would be the night before. She wanted to go to them, rather than making them come to her. That way, she'd reasoned, he would remain unknown to them. At least until his own number came up. He had wanted to run when she got her notice. He'd brought her to this grimy old hotel as a prelude to their escape. But she would have none of it. She knew her duty. She was a patriot.

He rose from the bed finally and dressed, making his plans as he did so. They would be together again, in a way they never had before.

He walked out, tossing the key to the old man behind the desk in the lobby as he left the hotel. She would be a few days in processing, he thought, crossing the street. It had begun to drizzle, and he flipped up the hood of his sweatshirt. After that, he figured, allow a few days for transport and she should make it into the food supply some time next week.

Then it was a simple matter of eating a meal, and timing his suicide before his body could fully digest it.

And then they would be one, forever.

A Mission Through Time

2005-07-20T19:40:00.000-04:00

Jesus stood atop the mountain, overlooking the vastness of the desert. He sighed, looking down at the ground on which he stood. The man standing next to him fiddled absently with one or two of the machines on his belt. He didn't want to be stranded here, and now would be an awful time for the translator to give out.

"And you're sure?" Jesus said sadly.

"Oh yes," the time traveler said, not without pity. "Trust me, it's all well documented by my time."

"But," Jesus implored him, "this can't be. Not wars. Not hatred. Never have I spoken in favor of such things. At least, if my worship is spread as far as you say, there are no more poor? No more starving people? Surely a faith based on my message..."

The time traveler shook his head. He felt so bad, saying all this. But, this is one of the things he'd always promised himself he'd do with a time machine. "You would think so, but no. Your name is used by rich men to cloak themselves in virtue while they keep the poor impoverished and increase their own wealth a thousandfold."

"But these are the very things I speak out against! Does no one truly hear my message?"

The time traveler rocked back on his heels. It was weird, seeing Jesus this way. As a man. Again, he took pity on the young savior. "Well, not everyone uses your name as a tool for their own ends. There are many who try to live by your example, who truly believe in your path." He shook his head. "But, while they are numerous, they are also without power."

Jesus nodded, and looked out again over the desert. "They would have to be," he mused. He turned back to his visitor. "And, this comes to pass... after I am killed?"

"Crucified, yes," the time traveler admitted. "Your death becomes central to your worship. The cross itself actually becomes your symbol."

Jesus blanched at this. "That horrible Roman torture device? THAT becomes the symbol of my worship?!" He looked up at the sky, arms outstretched. "Father, why?! I have done all that you've asked! Why do you lay this destiny before me?!" He fell to the ground, weeping.

The time traveler knelt down next to him, patting him awkwardly on the shoulder. "Sorry, man," he said. "I just thought you should know." And then he stood, turning away from the anguished messiah and activating his time machine. There were other things he'd promised himself he'd do with this thing, and he wanted to get to them.

He materialized many hundreds of years later, on a small island in the Caribbean at the end of the 15th Century. He hid in some bushes and waited until the last of the smaller boats had made their way back to the three ships. Once they'd gone, he approached who he assumed was the chief of the tribe.

"Excuse me!" he called out, walking toward the stunned natives. "Don't be alarmed! I come in peace!" He stopped well short of the chieftain and his people, holding his hands out in what he hoped was a peaceful gesture. "I don't mean to intrude, but there's something I think you should know about those men you met today..."

The Open Closet

2005-07-17T21:17:00.000-04:00

She lay under her covers, shaking. The covers were pulled all the way up her face and she peered over the edge of them, toward the closet door.

It was open, just a little. And she knew what was behind it. What had always been behind it, for as long as she could remember. The reason she never went in there, why her mom still needed to get her coat for her. She knew what lived in her closet.

She knew, and she called her dad anyway.

"What is it, princess?" he asked softly as he came in. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Hardly. She'd woken from a particularly lovely dream, only to find... it perched at the end of her bed. It had been staring at her, like it often did. She usually closed her eyes and it would go away. It had only ever just watched her. But this time it had spoken to her. It told her to scream.

She'd screamed for her daddy. And now he was here, and she knew why it had told her to scream.

"Nuh-no, Daddy," she said, trying to calm down. If she could keep him away from the closet, maybe even get him to take her back to bed with him and mom.

The closet door creaked. Her dad looked over at it.

"Aw, was it this creaky old door? No, honey, look," he opened the door wide, looking back at her. "It's just your close--"

He was pulled up into the closet. She heard a muffled scream and his feet kicking the wall of the closet and then nothing.

She lay in the dark for a very long time, and nothing happened. She sobbed silently and tears streamed down her face. She wanted her mother. Wanted her so badly but didn't dare call her.

Then, it came out the top of her closet, skittering across her ceiling and down the wall behind her bed. It sat perched on the wall above her head, reached down and roughly wiped her tears away with a scaly dry thumb. Her sobs increased, and she clutched the covers to her.

It climbed down over her to the foot of her bed, where it perched again and told her to do something else. Then it crawled down under her bed. It lay under her bed, directly beneath her and talked to her. Whispered horrible things. Told her it had her daddy under there with it. And that he might still be alive.

So she screamed. Screamed for her mother.

Homage

2005-07-17T21:08:00.002-04:00

He played it clever. That's why he was still in the game. Why they never caught him. He did his work far from home. Never where he lived. Not ever. The safest place to be from him was living next door.

Until last night. Until his neighbors had been found hung by their own intestines, their organs left preserved in jars lined up on the kitchen counter. His signature, right down to the order of the organs' placement. The news was already reporting the murder as "clearly the work of the so-called Surgeon."

But he hadn't killed his neighbors. He never killed where he lived. Not ever.

His hand shook as he opened his front door. He had already shut the door behind him when he realized someone else was in his house. And he knew, just with one look, that the young man in his living room was another killer.

Before he could even think, the younger man had sliced his belly open. He stumbled backward into his favorite armchair. This couldn't be happening. All the times I'd done this to people, how could I be... an idea struck him.

"Vih-vih-vigilante?" he managed to croak out. He wasn't long for this world, but he knew he still had some time left. From what he knew of his victims, that time would be spent in agony. Someone's form of justice, he supposed.

"You clearly don't follow the news." The young man's voice was cold, detached. Is this what he sounded like to his victims?

"I don't... un...derstand." He was bleeding out, and desperately trying to keep his intestines in. He knew he wouldn't, though. But at least now he knew why everyone always tried.

"Others of our profession have met similar ends," the young man said, coming to stand over him. "Killed by their own methods. Your butcher friend, up in Ohio, for example."

He knew who he was facing then. The one who had them all nervous. There'd been plenty of hunters, of course. Every killer ran across them eventually. Tortured souls left behind by a victim who dedicate their lives to hunting down killers. One of his hunters had actually worn a costume. He would have laughed at the memory as he often did, if his lungs were working properly.

No, this one made them all nervous because he didn't act like a hunter. He acted like one of them, a killer that killed his own. He'd heard the police had captured him. Apparently, he’d heard wrong.

"Apprentice," he said.

"That's the name they gave me," came the answer.

"So, I'm your latest 'mentor'?" That's what the few notes to the police had called his victims.

"Yes." The Apprentice taped his mentor's hands together, and gagged him. "I've mastered your methods, killed as your proxy, and will now do you the honor of taking your life in your name." He pulled his bound prisoner's intestines out and began looping them around his neck.

"But I did want to add, on a personal level, just how much I've enjoyed your work."

A Boy and His Robot

2005-07-16T18:48:00.000-04:00

Headquarters was quiet at night. No technicians or analysts or military officers. No visiting politicians with their wealthy industrialists in tow...

He stopped and leaned on the railing, looking out into the massive hangar silo. He'd never noticed all those people before, when he'd started here. Of course, he'd been just a boy then; a precocious child from the country who'd happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. As the years passed and he grew older, he became more involved in the organization, rising quickly through the ranks. Then he came to learn what it took to keep this place running.

He sighed. Sometimes, he wished he hadn't. Wished he'd taken that private sector job when he'd had the chance. But he could never leave this place. Never leave...

"Increase illumination to 65%," he said, and the light grew brighter accordingly. He sighed again. This was pointless, he told himself. It wouldn't work any better than any of the other times. But he was feeling nostalgic. "Initiate activation sequence," he said.

In front of him, lights and indicators came alive. Computer screens began scrolling data, and spotlights played across the magnificent form of a giant robot. Its eyes flickered. He held his breath. Its voice modulators clicked on and it attempted to speak. "To-to-to-to-to action-n-n-n-n-n-n-n--" It became stuck in an endless loop. Just like the last time, and countless times before.

"Abort sequence and reduce illumination," he said through gritted teeth. As soon as everything had come to life, it all shut down, leaving him in the dark again. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the railing. It had been ten years since his best friend had spoken to him. Ten years since his last ride in the belly of the giant robot that had fallen to Earth ten years prior to that.

The organization's best scientists and engineers had been unable to discover just what had caused the robot, which had required little to no maintenance in all its years of service, to simply stop working. Of course, they'd never been able to understand why or how it had worked at all. They'd managed to reverse engineer some technology from it. The flying cars would have been impossible without it, and without the chemical analysis of the robot's skin, they wouldn't have the transformative "magic" armor worn by the orphaned teenagers of the Action Team Monster Fighters.

But for all that, they couldn't get the robot working again. Not since his twentieth birthday; the night he'd lost his virginity to the girl who would become his wife, and the mother of his son. For a while he blamed himself for the robot's silence, that somehow he had betrayed his mechanical friend. He'd been assured such thoughts were foolish at best, but for want of any other explanation... well, he still sometimes wondered if there was some truth to it. He reached out and touched the massive arm of the dormant robot. "I am so sorry, my friend," he whispered.

"Daddy?"

He turned at the sound of his son's voice. "Takashi. What are you doing up so late?"

The 7-year-old boy approached his father, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "I woke up and you were gone, so I came looking for you."

He smiled at his son. "And you knew where I'd be, eh?"

The boy nodded. "You miss him."

"I do."

"Me too."

He laughed softly. "How can you miss him, Takashi? You never knew him."

"I know. But I wish I did."

They shared another smile, though his was somewhat pained. "Me too," he said softly.

On impulse, his son reached out and touched the robot, then quickly pulled his hand away. He slipped his hand into his father's. "Can we go back to our quarters now?"

His father squeezed his hand. "Of course," he said. They turned and walked away, but not before little Takashi snuck one last glance over his shoulder at the sleeping robot.

"Good night, robot," he whispered.

Later, long after the boy and his father had returned to bed, the robot's eyes lit up, glowing brightly for the first time in a decade. It moved its head slightly, looking in the direction its old friend and his son had gone. It spoke softly.

"To action," it said, a sound like contentment echoing through its mechanical voice. "Soon, to action once again."