Issue 2, January 2010

The Dying Art
Issue 2
January 2010


Published January 4th, 2010. Cleveland, Ohio. Published by the Editor. All rights to included works are reserved by their authors.


In this issue:
A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR
INTRODUCTION; Joseph Schneider
FICTION
"Dreams of the Wanderer"; Joseph Schneider
"The Den of Thieves"; Alex Glenn Friedman
"Time Won't Let Me"; Jeff Morin
"The Management Solution"; Dan Bieger
POETRY
"City Hum"; Nick Mercurio
"Daedelus"; Laura Harrison
"devilsfoodcake."; Andrew Treska
"Wearing teeth"; Amanda RH Davidson
END NOTE


A NOTE FROM THE EDITOR


     I'd like to thank those of you who have been taking an interest and reading this journal. The number of readings and responses and submissions for the last issue amazed me. This issue is less experimental in its fiction, and perhaps more experimental in its poetry. The fiction entries are grouped to a certain extent: "...Wanderer" and "...Thieves" are fantasy stories; "Time Won't Let Me" and "The Management Solution" are both science fiction.
     I would also like to recommend to readers a method for reading the poetry included in this issue. While the poetry here varies in subject, meaning, and aim; it all requires reading aloud to be fully appreciated. If you find that you are not generally a reader (or enjoyer) of poetry, try reading it aloud to yourself. Feel out the syllables as you do. There is a great deal of meaning to be gained from the physical feeling of a poem as it is spoken.


-Alex Glenn Friedman, Cont. Ed.


INTRODUCTION


     "Dreams of the Wanderer" comes from my devils.  I cannot speak for the other authors in this issue, but I find that the conflict between my inner doubt and my creative drive forms the essence of my writing. There is something deeply pervasive about this inner critic I have, who, at his worst, stops all writing whatsoever.  If the old, worn out adage is true, then some text must be better than no text.  Yet so potent is the argument put forward by my infernal internal nay-sayer, that it is rare that I can resist him.  So little is created by the time I surrender all my efforts.


     The mantle of the Wanderer comes from a negation on my part of a world of dreams called “Ehrat”. It is a world created when all other creation seemed finished and only the realm of sleep, dreams, nightmares, and visions remained- the world that seemed most blissful at first.  At its inception it could have been simply my Paradiso, an extended contemplation of heavenly majesty and truth.  Instead I at once injected conflict and discord into it.  My new world had to have a stronger connection with this one, and could not be a realm of saints alone (it would be too boring and no one would read it). So at the advice of my devils, I sent demons into the world to spread sin.  But with that I needed a figure to end the discord lest it make the world one of chaos.  Thus the Wanderer.  Yet even he (or she) does not fully counteract the agents of imperfection imbedded in the hearts and minds of the denizens of Ehrat.  He is selective. He destroys what a higher justice directs him to and no more.


     In Ehrat, the Wanderer is proof of a higher force operating in the world.  Yet, is that force benign or is it merely a force?  In Ehrat, are murder and adultery wrong? Or do they simply elicit a deadly reaction from the powers that be?  Is there an actual overarching Good of which the Wanderer is a part?


     It is not my devils that are silent.


-Joseph Schneider, Contributer




FICTION

"True glory consists in doing what deserves to be written; in writing what deserves to be read; and in so living as to make the world happier for our living in it."
-Gaius Plinius Secundus


"Dreams of the Wanderer"
By Joseph Schneider






David entered the mansion as he always had.  The servants recognized him, and led him to the chamber immediately adjacent to their mistress’ personal quarters.  He examined the door.  All around the door were intricate ornamentation and friezes of the lovers Arcula and Inculus in one another’s embrace, while the door itself was unremarkable.  A bell just above the door rang out.  On his first few visits, it had always made him spring to his feet.  Now he raised himself slowly and without any apparent emotion.  He opened the door, his lips forming a single name: “Miranda.”  The door closed.  


She was on her back.  He knew not to approach. First she would like to play a little game.


“Do you know much about Jipsion?” She asked without trying to sound smart or sweet.


“Hmm.  I can’t really say.  Only elements of the arcane interest me.  History though is, well, not something I particularly see much use in.”


“You always put on a different voice in these first few preparatory moments.  It is so different than what you use later.  I’m left puzzled, beloved, most puzzled.”


“Lady Miranda, you are so delicate in every word.  You are so different than what I know you are capable of doing.”


She grew perturbed.  “What I mean is, David, that I struggle to comprehend who you are.  I suppose I’ll find out when we are married.”


“Yes my dear.  Very many things shall become known between the two of us.  


“I desire to know as much as I can now.”


“So you shall.”


She seemed satisfied.


“Now, my lady,” David started again, “Jipsion was the father of Arcula, and forbade her from seeing Inculus.  Yet he was a wicked man, this Jipsion, and was visited by the Judge, who brought his life to an end.  However, he had a change of heart before death and requested that the Judge bless the couple he had formerly scorned.  Thus it is written by Talus the Scribe: ‘So the Judge, called the Dark Rider and the Wanderer blessed the two. And when they passed from this life their embrace became immortalized in the heavens.’ ”


“I see history is your companion,”


“It is a legend.  Its reality or unreality remains in dispute among the learned.  As you know.”


“Yes, as I know. But I am nonetheless glad that you decided to speak on those things.  For my husband is a wicked man.  You can see it in his eyes.  And this marriage was not of my choosing, and therefore is more kidnapping than anything.”


“There is no sense growing bitter in our moments of joy, my love.”


“Perhaps not.  Still, this moment may be felled by my feelings.  I will need some more gentle coercion.”


“As you wish, my lady.”




Thus they went on while the master of the house was already locked up in his bedroom, asleep.  That night, as with nearly every night, he slept near death’s bosom but was not taken away from life.  He was long in years, short in wits, and deep in illness.  He was conscious of two things: the first was an old legend famous in those regions, told to children and whispered among the wicked- the judgment of the Wanderer.  He did not quake at the thought, but laughed as he considered his second piece of knowledge.  Despite all evidence indicating the opposite he knew about the two of them.  Through all his aged madness, through all the unwhispered whispers that entered his ears, and over his own gurgled babbling he heard them, and in his dreams he saw them.  The latter he took as a sign from heaven.  Their idle lust, he believed, would be punished, and he recompensed.  Justice must be done.  


In the early hours before dawn David left that place down the main eastern road of Calix.  Nothing frightened him in the mile he walked back to his unobtrusive cottage and normally nothing intruded upon him.  The locals called it Skull’s Corner.  Wolves were a hassle now and then, but were ultimately as dangerous to him as flies.  So he was not concerned when he heard their howling die out and fast-paced rustling begin along the sides of the path.  With a deft touch he rolled up his sleeve and began pressing down on key pieces of a hefty bracelet that hugged his wrist.  The centerpiece block of silver opened up to reveal a small compartment wherein a red gem glowed.  Not wanting to be caught off guard after the night he had so slowly and carefully enjoyed, he decided to teach the beasts a lesson that night which would perhaps sere into their minds that his scent was the very scent of terror.  First there was only a flicker burning up from the gemstone, but it levitated upwards and with a flash engulfed David’s body in a huge sheath of flame.  Then the first wolf appeared.


It landed with a cackle.  David did not fully hear it at once.  However, the sound came again from the wolf’s mouth, but then it was picked up again all around him.  After a moment a smile, a distinct unmistakable smile crept into the wolf’s face.  An ear-to-ear grin.  Disgusted and confused David stretched out his arm and unleashed a stream of flame against the creature.  But it walked forward through the fire as if it were nothing.  Other wolves then appeared, without jumping from the bushes and foliage- they simply appeared around him, eleven wolves in total.  They leaped from their spots, David sent his fire out in a wide nova, engulfing the nearby trees and setting them ablaze.  But the wolves continued to sail through the air, though without any speed or significant progression.  As soon as he noticed it they were gone.  He couldn’t move.  The first wolf’s jaws were around his throat.  He slammed shut his eyes, awaiting the pain.  Nothing came.  His eyes opened.  He was alone.  Burn marks covered the trees, as if something had extinguished them.  He checked his bracelet- the gemstone’s light was gone.  Now he began to worry.


As he walked forward he began to hear it again, the strange cackling.  There was no sound of insects, nor wolves, nor animals of any kind.  His ears were full of the laughter.  The wind died away, the trees were still.  Clouds covered the moon, and the stars vanished from sight.  Holding his ears in pain as the volume of the sound increased, the voice laughing became hysterical, unrestrained.  It turned into screaming, first loud then progressively softer, until it was only a whisper.  The screaming whispers fell into harmony with a distant galloping.  The air became thick and smelled of smoke.  No fog or mist surrounded him, but his vision was blurred with a blotch of whiteness.  His stomach rumbled, then turned over; he couldn’t keep it down as he fell to his knees.  Raising himself up, the burning continued inside.  After a few more moments of stumbling, he fell again, and his mouth was forced open- from the inside.  A torrent of roaches marched out of his gullet, but as he squirmed, he soon felt their absence.  Blinded, he could not see them, nor could he hear them.  At the very least, he thought, the worst had passed.  And indeed that seemed to be the case.  Within a moment his sight began to return, and he began to wonder if perhaps he was simply asleep dreaming at Miranda’s mansion.  The screaming departed entirely, as did the galloping.  Stepping forward he noticed a small light in the distance, it was white mixed with blue and it lit up a large silhouette in the darkness.  The wind still was not blowing, the trees were not swaying, the stars were still missing, and clouds still devoured the moon.  Into great stillness, he took another step forward, and continued until he could see it more fully.  And so he did.


A hundred feet away there stood a horseman, wrapped in dark robes.  In his right hand he held aloft a silver mirror, while his left held the reins.  And from the left side of his frame, from an imperceptible leather black belt, there hung a massive, naked sword. It was sheathed in whisperings, and its scabbard was an infinity of tiny lights burning in and out of existence.  David stood in fear, and knew by instinct that this was the source of his troubles.  He also knew what it was that stood before him- he as well as everyone else in the area knew of the Wanderer.  Simply, he had believed it a myth.  “So you’ve come!” David cried.  Putting his hands together he focused for a moment.  The Wanderer was motionless.  A circle covered in red glyphs manifested above the rider, as did one underneath it.  A blackness filled the gap between the two circles, and half a dozen creatures, resembling blood-drenched skeletons, crawled downwards, and with long lances struck into the black void.  Satisfied after several minutes, the creatures nodded and withdrew.  And the darkness dissipated.


Unharmed and seemingly invincible, there stood the Wanderer.  David thought to run, but he as he gazed into the impenetrable shadow cast by the hood the rider, he could suddenly not pull himself away.  Again, he thought to attack with even more powerful spells, and spend himself completely.  Something stayed his hand and captured his mind.  He was frozen in place.  The dark rider at last dismounted, and strode towards the young man.  Grabbing him by the neck, the horseman easily picked him up off the ground.  He stared up at the blank obsidian face staring at him with eyes like two massive stars.  Then he raised up the silver mirror, and the young man saw his reflection.  “State your name,”  came a deep, hoarse voice.  “David...” And he remembered nothing more, except waking up now and then to the sound of wagon wheels and seeing the tips of sickly trees almost touching each other over the road...


***
David heard voices but couldn’t open his eyes.


“What should his religious name be?”


“That will be decided soon enough.”


“I think he is becoming conscious.”


“That won’t matter in a few minutes when we perform the ritual.”


“If he breaks from this, we’ll know he is the successor.”


“No, if he breaks it and is pure of heart.”


David felt a deep burning, as if his entire body were on fire.  His mind was then plunged into darkness.  After what only seemed like a few moments, his mind was filled with the following images:


A figure of dazzling white light stood in an empty room, speaking to a figure cloaked in darkness standing opposite him, almost leaning against the wall.  In the cot lay a small figure, almost impish in comparison to the other two.  The contrast between the white and black seemed to mean nothing, as they both conversed in an official tone.  The dark figure bowed his head and departed through the open door.  The celestial being simply vanished.  Soon the room grew hazy, twisted, and transformed.  It was now barren and white, except for a hole six inches in diameter in the center of the floor.  A young man sat in his chair watching it.  First one insect came out, a fly, and it buzzed around until he easily swatted it on his first try.  Then fiery red ants crept up, and he smashed them all with both feet in one big jump.  There really weren’t that many of them.  And then termites came but he crushed them underfoot with a few stamps of his feet.  He looked at his shoes- there were no guts or insect remains to be seen.


He began to wait again, hoping for more little bugs to destroy, but he heard a rumbling, and more holes appeared in the floor.  From them more cockroaches than he could count began emerging.  What’s more, the young man became strangely tired.  A kindly, chuckling voice told him it would be a great idea to lay down, and so he did.  Cockroaches were swarming over his eyes and crawling up his nose and down his throat.  The young man sat up and found himself grabbing bigger and bigger armfuls of the creatures and dropping them on his head.  He crunched down hard on the ones in his mouth.  A burning surge from his gut flushed up his esophagus and out of his mouth.  Vomit stained his shirt, but the cockroaches all began to melt away from him.  Their heads and legs fell off, as did their entire exoskeletons.  The corpses started falling into the holes.  Out of the whole mess one cockroach remained whole.  The young man reached for it, grabbed it, and drew it towards his mouth.  Then he opened his eyes.


The young man woke up but couldn’t move.  His eyes were open, he could see the restraints and chains holding his body to the bed. Trying to twist his head proved useless- there was no give.  Then he began to struggle all over the rest of his body: legs, feet, hands, arms, shoulders, fingers, abdomen, toes- all nothing.  A thought occurred to him: “MMmmmmMmmmMMMm!”  No, he couldn’t open his mouth either.  He couldn’t feel anything in or on his mouth, or down his throat, but he could move his tongue, leaving  only one possibility: a binding spell.  He shot glances around the room: the window was open letting in orange sunlight onto a plain wooden desk and onto an open book on top of it, with quill and ink off to the upper right hand side.  Some time passed by, a few minutes full of blinking and confused thoughts, ideas, emotions, and a little amnesia.  With a sudden clack, the straps and chains unfastened.  At first put off, the young man immediately leapt from the bed and started pacing around the room.  The door was locked- he checked it two or three times.  The window, while not barred, had been enchanted and would permit nothing to leave once inside, this he learned from the tiny mound of singed fly bodies on the windowsill.  Finally, he checked the book.  Pages upon pages were full of large blocks of text, all in his own handwriting, all with the same repeating sentences:


“I am Jeremy.  Murder is a sin.  I murdered my brother.  I am a sinner.  I am Jeremy.  Murder is a sin.  I murdered my brother.  I am a sinner.  I am Jeremy.  Murder is a sin.  I murdered my brother.  I am a sinner.  I am Jeremy.  Murder is a sin.  I murdered my brother.  I am a sinner.  I am Jeremy.  Murder is a sin.  I murdered my brother.  I am a sinner.  I am Jeremy.  Murder is a sin.  I murdered my brother.  I am a sinner.  I am Jeremy.  Murder is a sin.  I murdered my brother.  I am a sinner...”


Repeated over and over.  How many days had he been here?


Flipping through the book he eventually found a dog-eared page.  When he unfolded it, he found a number three scrawled in blood.  He turned three more pages and found this small passage written in tiny letters in a crumpled up corner:


“My name is David, I have been imprisoned here for one month.  Every two pages equals one day.  The Dark Rider brought you here to test you.  Remember the mirror.  What was in the mirror is in your dreams.  Don’t trust the monks, priests, or the inmates here.  Demand release from the chief priest...”


“I am David.”  He said aloud, and believed it.


The door unlatched and creaked open.  Startled, David waited, but no one came in.  So he quickly decided to go out. The ceiling arched up twenty feet high ending in a fine, sharp point.  He could hear the sound of rain falling down, though unblemished sunshine continued to come through his window, and he had not noticed any clouds.  All down the halls were people clothed in black robes, with ashes smeared over their faces, reading or writing in large, leather-bound books, all mumbling in chorus:  “I am a sinner.  I am a sinner.  I am a sinner...”  Then David checked his own clothes.  They were black robes.  And he touched his face- and it too was covered in ashes.


Then a series of bells rang out, and more black robes streamed out of the rooms, and the whole black, chanting mass filtered down the far doorway.  He found himself gleeful, even happy.  He rushed back, grabbed his book and followed.  When he passed through into the sanctuary, everyone else was seated in the pews.  There was only one spot open along the entire naive.  There must have been several hundred other black robes present in what he heard some referring to as the “temple.”  No statues were anywhere to be seen, but up behind the high altar there hung a massive painting of a horseman clad in sable armor.  He wielded a two-handed sword with his right hand while his left hand held the reins.  His face was impossible to discern, but two glowing coals of eyes were etched in it.  Beneath it, a cadre of monks were bustling about with candles and platters of entrails and strange heaps of bloody things.   At length the rest departed to the wings of the temple, while an ascetic looking monk marched down the aisle chanting loudly but indecipherably.  It was not a different language, it was the common tongue, but the sentences made no sense:


“Deathly empty eschatons cannot be avoided in the bountiful mercy of the most low devils transpiring to aspire across space and time moving with boundless space or time across what is not crossable...”  Within minutes he was back up the naive and before the altar.  He raised his hands and started waiving them about madly.  From his fingertips dazzling lights danced and spun, rising and falling together, combining brilliant colors, shapes and hues.  He shouted incantations in the same manner as before, and the lights danced all the faster.  David looked around him, and his fellow black robes were all nodding off to sleep.  He wasn’t tired at all, but the same overpowering joy came upon him, and after a moment, he too was asleep and dreaming.


A tall figure standing astride a horse gazed at him with eyes like blazing stars.  He had no face, only a slate of obsidian with celestial orbs burning in his forehead.  Before him stood a shrunken, dwarf-like man, extremely fat and heavy set.  The dismounted rider held up a mirror, and the man could not but look.  David understood that the man had no choice.  The man nodded, but his face twisted into a sickly shape and his body rotted away in a few seconds.  At once the rider took his horse and approached David, who was a part of a massive procession, who all fell at the rider’s feet.  David was full of joy, singing hymns, chanting happily.  His arms started to smolder, and he looked at his flesh, and it was melting away.  Around him arms and legs and heads were toppling down to the ground.  But he was still so happy, he cried out in joy, asked to be devoured.  Before his eyes opened he watched his head become a skull, but did not believe that he had died.


The monk was now preaching.  He mounted the pulpit and threw back his hood, revealing an emaciated, elderly face that was clean-shaven with a shaven head.    


“Now, my beloved, none of you are slaves here.  Everyone is free to go whenever he so wishes.  He simply must ask.”  The inmates listened dutifully, most attentively.  “Ask and you will be released.  Ask and we will let you back into the world.  But know that our methods alone will determine if you are truly chosen or if you are truly sinful, irredeemably.”  The monk lowered his eyes, and a drowsiness fell over the crowd.  All David could see was a blank, black face staring at him from a mirror, and he noticed that as he blinked the star-like eyes blinked back at him.


When he woke up again the temple was empty.  A voice rang out behind him, and echoed throughout the sanctuary:


“Jeremy, it’s your time.”


”Yes my lord I know,” David found himself answering.  “You said we’d get to meet first thing this morning!”  His voice was happy, ecstatic.


He was speaking to a six and a half foot-tall man, entirely in black, with his hood drawn far over his head.  David could not look at his face, but instead stared at the talisman hanging round his neck.  His belt was made of fine, dark leather, unlike the coarse rope around his own waist.  He noticed one other thing as well: a massive sword hung from that belt.  After a couple minutes of obsequious chatter, the tall man guided David with a gloved hand to a large office just up the same corridor he had come down a little while earlier.  The office was perfectly orderly, dry, warm, and even slightly comfortable.


“Before we get started, Jeremy, I’d like to do two things: one, tell you a little bit more about our religious community here at Hillcourt Monastery, and, secondly, tell you a story.  Now about our community...there are so many places to start...hmm...”  David was smiling back with an empty-headed look of admiration.


“Yes of course, I should begin by reminding you of your voluntary status.  Once one reaches the rank of adept, only a special dispensation from the grand master can free you from your vows.  A mere neophyte like yourself may leave at any time.  My second point on this matter is as follows: we exist to try and assist the Judge in purifying humanity through penance and prayer.  This world is almost hopelessly corrupt, Jeremy, and we must work to undo the evil perpetrated in it.  We also work to find and purify the Judge’s successor so that the newly born Judge does not need to spend much time in isolation finding the one true path.


“Now the story.  It may be familiar to you already already, but it is one which I am nevertheless inclined to tell to you.  It’s the story of Tarquin Humilitas, a theologian and philosopher who was a monk of the Elieshites, they who venerate Eli’esha as the mouth of the one true God.  We here venerate the Judge as heaven’s supreme messenger and dispenser of justice.  Tarquin himself was not unfamiliar with the Judge. For you see, he did a great evil, for he was cursed with a hunger for human flesh.  A curse that came with enhanced physical abilities, which were of a most diabolical nature.  A curse that deformed the appetites so much that when they ran at their highest no will could resist it.  You may wonder what this curse led him to do.  Well, there were once two hundred cloistered monks, male and female, in two separate monasteries at the mountain of Ashog in the desert of Cerethoth.  While he was a monk there the curse fell upon him through a witch’s hand.  This witch played upon the weakness of Tarquin’s chastity and so had him in a, shall we say, weakened state.  He was a mere porter in those days, after all, and the sight of a fair woman must have been most welcome indeed.


“I see no need to delve into his later developments.  But in his years of guilt-ridden solitude on the mountain slopes, he formulated and eventually set down some of the most brilliant philosophical and theological precepts ever heard in all the world.  They are of personal import to me.  One of his principles of moral philosophy is popularly called ‘everyday is judgment day.’  What it means is that we should wake up expecting no dawn, and watch the sunset expecting the Judge to appear at our doors.  That is the basis of our religious community, in my estimation.  Making everyday the last day for every man.  Now then.


“Jeremy, you’ve made excellent progress this past month, and I was wondering if you felt ready to make, well, to make a clean chest of everything, to confess your sins, if you will.  That’s the whole reason for your being here.  Now I’m going to let you speak freely, so please do.  Now unload your burden.”


David felt himself relax.  Then these words came into his mind and he had to tell them to this man, this man he couldn’t even look in the eyes:


“You want me to tell you about Jacob.  That’s fine, I’ll tell you about Jacob.  He doesn’t talk to me anymore.  We haven’t talked in years.  You see, he and I once had a mutual friend named Joshua, whose parents-“


“Sorry David, but if you could speak on Miranda first and work backwards.  I think that would help you see better how your pattern of evildoing developed.”


“Allow me to disagree.  I happen to think my evildoing has nothing to do with her.”


“I’ll make an exception for this.  But only because you’ve been doing so well until now.”


“As I was saying, Joshua’s parents left our town a few years prior to my apprenticeship.  Joshua mostly favored Jacob, for reasons I could not understand.  But I did understand.  They were the same reasons why my parents always showed Jacob more affection.  Even as a teenager he was dashing, handsome, charming, smart, athletic.  Girls adored him too.  And he was always successful in whatever he did, whereas I had one talent- I could read books faster than anyone in town, and, as I discovered, outside of the town, and no one I met I at the academy could match me.  So the three of us, myself at sixteen, Jacob at fourteen, and Joshua at fifteen, were one summer fooling around a stream that flowed through an acre or two of forest in the back of our land.


“Our Father being no woodsman, it was overgrown, thick, and full of lively populations of deer, raccoons, and other animals.  The stream was not very wide- you could leap across it- but it was a few feet deep.  A recent rain storm had swelled the stream, bringing it to its full depth.  While swinging from a branch Jacob lost his grip and fell in, dashing his head against one of the many stones that filled the edges of the bank. He rolled into the stream, he was drowning.  For all that he meant to me as a brother, for a moment I hesitated.  This was, after all, my chance to be rid of him forever, and it would be only an accident.  Yet there was Joshua already running, so I had to join in.  There must be some way I could manage it.  No.  Not with him watching and helping out.  So, after half a minute, I jumped in, feigning that I had been stunned by the sight.  With a bare bones knowledge of medicine, gleaned from our Father, Joshua and I got him breathing again with some of the herbs around the area- we mixed them into, into, I don’t don’t know what.  I had just seen my Dad do it once.  Blood was coming from a gash on his forehead, so we wrapped his head in a shirt.  When he was stable, we hefted him up on our shoulders.  We both carried him back to the house, our parents rushed out at a distance.


“The back forty field was bright green at that hour, with the sun shining, dipping low in the sky.  It turned out that he hadn’t done any major damage to his head, which was lucky.  That moment of hesitation remained inexplicable to me for a long time.  For the remainder of high school, I couldn’t explain it.  My feelings for Jacob also changed.  You might say, it was like I had actually done the deed.  To all parties, save my parents, who were left unknowing, it was as if I actually had let Jacob drown.  To me he rarely spoke afterwards.  Likewise Joshua.  He would say very little to me outside of normal courtesy.  About the incident with Jacob- Joshua said nothing.  I can’t help but wonder if it contributed to Mr. and Mrs. Maria’s decision to move away.  I offered to keep up a long distance letter relationship with Joshua, but he laconically insisted that it be only with Jacob.  What Joshua told Jacob behind my back I will never know.  Now Jacob’s been off to the wizard’s academy for I don’t know how long.  Mom and Dad read his letters.  I’ve since just been following in my Dad’s footsteps and have been his apprentice for years now, getting a little money here or there from his sufferance.   It was enough, after savings, for a bit of ancient tech, but I lost that the other night, as you probably know.  And that’s all I have to say.”


“Don’t you know, David, that there was never anyone named Joshua.”


“Of course there was.  He was my best friend.”


“And Jacob is dead.  He drowned that day.”


“No he didn’t.”


“I need you to admit that you let him drown.”


David made no reply.


“I see.  Then I have no choice but to let you go from here.  But be warned, your parents sent you here to avoid the Wanderer’s wrath.  I am, after all, one of his disciples, the chief priest of his cult here in Anselm.”


“You’re lying, priest.   My parents did not bring me here.  And your whole scheme here is to find the next dark rider so that you can influence them to be benign to your order and gain favors like Arcula and Inculus.  Now, you can’t hold me here against my will, if I remember correctly.  Your vows prevent you from mistreating me.”


“Very well,” he said with a chuckle.  “But would you care to tell me about your parents a little.”  His voice was very calming, soothing, and persuasive.


David felt like complying.


But instead he replied: “Release me first.”


“Very well, I release you.”


After blinking once or twice the whole room was different.  The priest’s face was fat and lumpy, his frame short and bulbous, and his sword a mere dagger.  The roof in his office was leaking, the papers were in messy stacks, and some codexes were strewn about.


“As I promised I will tell you about my parents.  We live in this town, Anselm, always have, always will.  I don’t mind that, I’ll have you know. What else is there to see in this world besides bigger freak shows, wars, and a lot of weird looking forests, so no, I don’t mind living here.  I can see in your eyes that you don’t believe me.  You looked a lot tougher before what with all your pathetic little magic spells.  Well, listen, I didn’t agree to come here, and my Father is a two-bit healer, but I always delved into other things I wasn’t supposed to look into, like my past and the past of this planet.  I can still heal, but I can do so much more.  But enough about me.  It’s a gift anyway; if you’d please stop glaring at me, you old worn out sack of flabby skin.  I’ll get to everything.  Yes, my parents.  My Father had a favorite saying: ‘Life is full of suffering.’  Of course, he’d always preface it with a long sigh then a ‘Son,’ as if to say ‘Son, you know I love you but.’  But of course, not to say, well, what he meant to say was that you just can’t avoid pain in this world.  And what is your title?  Is there some title I owe to you?   I can’t imagine considering who I am and you who you are and what you’ve done to me.  Charles, is your name.  Charles Rind--- Rendebault?  Rendebault.  Yes, of course.  It took me a minute to see it.


“See, I didn’t kill my brother, I had no need to.  And now I wonder why you asked me about my parents when you know about them already.  Testing my memory?  Or perhaps my insight?  You had me pretty good, all nice and under control like one of your zombies.  How many do you actually have?  Let me think.  Maybe twelve?  Maybe one more or less?  I can’t get an exact track on them.  Well Charles Rendebault, here is the information you seek: my Father is a tall, short-tempered healer who works mostly among roots and herbs like a wild boar; my Mother is quiet as a field mouse, rude to outsiders, and cooks everything by boiling. I can tell what you want to know. Are they at all magically inclined, as I clearly am?  You can tell, can’t you, that I have a double-share, if not more, of spirit.  It has been mismatched, as it were, through a fault in the ancient system, with a human soul.  But I don’t suppose you know much about the primordial legends and myths.  You might not even know much about the Ancients, a relatively recent creation.  In all likelihood, you ignorant refuse heap of human misery, you probably could not even explain to me how I can know all these things, especially since the whole purpose of bringing me here was to either kill me, drive me insane, or domesticate me.  Which brings me to my only real question: why did you release me?”


To all this the priest only chuckled, then guffawed and laughed.  “No, my son, the title is Your Reverence, and no, my son, we have not been trying to any way alter you.  No, my son, we’ve been seeking out the successor to our lord and master.  The successor to The Judge does not always come from this region, in case you were otherwise ignorant, so we set up these monasteries throughout the continent and send missionaries abroad.  Our little cult keeps to itself, but your aunt happened to be a member, and she persuaded your parents to bring you down here. Apparently you complied.  We did not expect you to be so spiritually potent, as you’ve turned out be.  If you are meant to be the successor then you would be pure of heart, since you clearly are full of sin, then you are unacceptable.  In other words, there was nothing more we could do with you.  We could not cure you of the guilt you felt over your brother.”


“My brother is alive,” David replied coolly, “but for how long?  Who can tell?  Do you know your life span?  I know mine.  It is without end.  For I am the dark rider’s successor, and my first act is the abolition of this monastery.”  


The priest laughed, “And how would you know?”


“Because he already confronted me and I lived.  He did not dispense death to me, the punishment all sinners earn in his eyes.  Now it’s all returned to me, what I saw in the mirror.  What I saw was my face become a slate of darkness studded with two eyes like stars.”


“Well then, tell me about Miranda and all the things you’ve done with her.”


“She’s my entire world, so what if she is married.  That shouldn’t even enter into the calculations.  What matters most is making someone happy, wouldn’t you say?  Happiness is the end of human life?”


“I don’t think you believe that, another reason you are unworthy.”


“Oh, I take it you think that I think that life is all about power?  About control?  About domination?”


“That is my point exactly.  And it is Your Reverence still, if you please.”


“Well, Your Reverence, let me assure you that I am the chosen one.  I will prove it to you by passing judgment on you.”


“I do not think that wise, David.  We have her here you know.  She is one of our recent recruits.”  The priest smiled.  “She seems very content here and-”


The priest looked into the eyes of David, and suddenly lost the power of speech.  It was strange, his words were echoing, and David was smiling.  Another lie had failed.  But he was mesmerized now with the look in David’s eye.  None of his limbs were moving.


The priest stared blankly.  David rose up out of his chair, and whispered a few words. Keeping the chair’s arm firmly in his hand, the whole structure glowed for an instant, then its pieces broke down and reassembled into a spear.  The priest looked on in terror; he saw a red light flashing in his eyes and couldn’t move.  It was as if a dark specter from the long shadows in his office had reached out and grabbed him.  David through the spear with all his might, and the missile bored through the priest’s chest.


“Well, Your Reverence, I find you guilty of sloth, kidnapping, and intent to do malicious harm to an innocent man’s mind.  You were detecting my intention to kill my little brother, as evident from that story I told you, however, it was a passing moment, and it only just so happened that it seemed as if, for those seconds when he fell in, that I might be freed from the burden of being a failure in comparison to him.  So no, Your Reverence, I am not guilty, I am just guilt-ridden for not being a better man.  And now is the time for me to pass judgment on this pathetic little monastery here.  For it is true and I declare it: this order is ended, and I will hunt it down to the last, or scatter it like sheep by striking the shepherds.”  With that he pulled out his spear and continued down the hall.


Hours later; a hideous black plume of smoke, reeking of human flesh, rose into the air. The old and decrepit monastery was gutted by seething red flames.


All seen and approved by the Wanderer.


David emerged from the monastery and headed up the second hill to the north, where he felt the Judge’s presence.  And there he was, standing atop the peak, as rain began to fall upon the town of Anselm.  The dark rider dismounted immediately.  He took off his mantle, his cowl, and his cape, revealing  a figure of intense, pure white.  His apparel was all white, though around his neck was a scapular of black with a single, rectangular piece no more than a hand’s length across hanging down to his ankles.  He flung down the mirror, and cast down his sword.  Then he turned to walk away.


“Aren’t you going to say something?” David demanded.


The former Judge, the former Dark Rider, the former Wanderer, looked back and said in a hard, hoarse voice, “No.  Take up my former mantle and do what must be done for justice.”


Then he turned and walked away, vanishing into nothing.


David laughed a little and threw on the pitch black black robes and fastened the glittering sword to his belt.  Then he picked up the mirror, and could not help but gaze into it.


There was a blank, dark slate, and two eyes like brilliant stars looking back at him.  At this he nodded his head in understanding, mounted his steed and started off at a gallop.


“Well, Miranda my love,” he began in a voice he did not recognize, “there is one last thing I can do for you, perhaps, by visiting your husband.  Then I think I owe Jacob a visit, so that we can settle who deserves life and who death!”


Thus continued the journey of the Wanderer.





"The Den of Thieves"
by Alex Friedman


    The end of the Golden Era and the Second Age of The Histories of Gilghim'hr was imminent. The enormous set of volumes that comprises the Second Age contains several thousand visions of this turbulent century, documenting many significant treaties and battles on the borderlands to the north. The capitol of Netheria was a great city, perhaps the only rival to Un for several thousand years. It was the very center of the Netherian caste system, and home to the vast majority of culture and civilization during this time. But the Netherian people were also becoming restless, perhaps sensing the changes and tragedies to come. Folk heroes and bands of thieves arose during this time of warriors, cults, and invasions. From the docks district of the Netherian capitol came some of the most daring. This story is composed based on visions of Gilghim'hr and some historical and literary additions. It documents a few of the thieves that would eventually found the Fellowship of Knives. 
I
    Fenton Ringo sat on the pier with a fishing line in hand. The cool breeze smelled of spoiled fish and brine. Fenton's sunburned neck hung about his shoulders like a condor's. He stared into the water, watching the shadows of fish slowly swim around his lure. He felt the slightest shift in weight on the line, and jerked his hand. He stood and raised his line out of the water. He pulled out a small carp. He shrugged and reeled it up and onto the pier. He wouldn't go hungry today. Fenton wiped the sweat from his large forehead and walked further down the pier, over to where his comrades sat.
    They were both substantially larger men than he, which was no great feat. Fenton was a smallish man, low born and of no discernible lineage. He was thirty five years old, of a brown complexion, with a receding wisp of muddy colored hair. His arms were long and thin, and he often kept them tucked behind his back. The larger of his two friends was a great dull eyed man, who stood a third of his figure taller than Fenton. He was simply called Jotun, lacking a surname as he was a freed slave. He was heavily muscled and young, mistakable for a warrior of the invading barbarian tribes to the north. His long brown hair was tied behind his back and wet with brine. Next to the crate upon which he sat lay a harpooned fish. The second of Fenton's associates was a skinny, graying weasel of a man named Jacque Sommer. This man was also at least a head taller than Fenton, and looked dangerous. He had sharp features, the nose and chin of lower nobility. Gray whiskers sprouted randomly from his dirty face, and he cast a single eye on Fenton as he approached.
        "That jeweler was on the ferry raft again. Dressed in puffy yellow like a bonny noble girl," said Fenton. This comparison drew a gruff chuckle from Jotun.
        "I saw him hand a bag to one of the old-orders in the square. The cloak just took it off him, no coin involved," said Sommer.
Historical note- The "old-orders" were priests of the multitude of dying religions that had been replaced by the Order of Netherian. With the decent of Asteres and other hero-kings into the ancient chambers of Netherian's Imperial Catacombs at the end of their reigns, Emperor Netherian took on a God-like status among public worshipers. "Cloaks" are members of the forbidden cults of old gods. 
        "Well, no coin that we saw," added Jotun, shrugging.
        "Let's get on that ferry tomorrow. See if we can get a word or two out of him. Or at least pick his pocket," Fenton said.
        "You're thinking too small. We could have picked his pockets today. Why tempt the dungeon or the stocks over three score bull?" Sommer said.

        "What risk, Sommer? Have you forgotten your feet?" Fenton said. There was a splash. Sommer turned slightly to see Jotun pull another harpooned fish from the gray-blue water. Jotun's harpoon was an imperial javelin he had stolen. He had fastened a green, ancient hook to it so that it might accomplish his task.

        "Jewelers have shops," Jotun said.

        "That they do," Sommer mumbled.

    Fenton sat down to clean his fish. The three men watched the ferries pass and discussed how they would find a way aboard by the next day.
II
    At sunrise, Sommer arrived at the public tavern. He had slept little. He handed an aproned woman a coin and asked to use her polish rag and an empty tankard. Sommer polished the side of the tankard until he could see a dull reflection of himself, and then took a small knife from his vest and began to shave with a pitcher of brine. He worked quickly, as a practiced craftsman might, to hone his whiskers into a tight and trim mustache. He scraped the knife against his throat with the stinging water, working about his chin and cheeks. He took the pitcher and splashed what remained of the cold brine on his face, then patted himself dry with the polish rag. When he felt satisfied, he bought a sea biscuit and left.
    Sommer walked up the dirt road of the docks district to a well. Sommer asked a woman there for a bucket, and it was granted. He drew water and washed his face and neck and hands. He returned the bucket and took to combing his short hair back with his hands. He then went to a tailor and spent the last of his few coins on a new pair of pants and a vest.
    Sommer stood straight at the docks, pacing and practicing his posture. Jotun watched from a crate and occasionally laughed at him.
        "You are so silly to look at, Sommer. I can see your pretty girl face without that old rat's nest on it!" Jotun said between bites of a smoked fish.
        "Guard, please remove this barbarous fiend from my sight. What should come of the children if they were to see such a savage?" Sommer said to an imagined sentry as he exaggerated a noble accent. Clean and postured, Sommer looked almost like a lower nobleman. He could at least pass for a merchant. Because he was tall and his nose was pointed, one might assume he was perhaps related to a 'true' Netherian. All that gave him away were his wiry muscled arms.
        "No, sir! I am but a meager servant! Do not send the guards for me!" Jotun said between chuckles.
    Fenton Ringo walked up the docks leisurely, carrying a satchel. He lifted three loaves of bread  from it and handed them out to his comrades.
        "I wouldn't expect you to steal on an empty stomach, lads," Ringo said.
        "Lads? Tut! I could be your father. I may well be your father," Sommer said as he bit into the bread.
        "Unlikely. I got my looks somewhere, and my mother were no prize," Ringo returned.
        Jotun laughed so hard he could barely manage to add, "You are both very ugly!"
    The three ate and jested as they prepared for what Fenton had described as 'our most foolish endeavor yet'. Fenton and Sommer reviewed the plan while Jotun listened intently. First, they would wait for the Jeweler to arrive at the ferry, returning from his dealings. They would cross the Netherian Delta by way of the ferry boat service by posing as a merchant and his hired laborers. On the ferry, Sommer would try to speak to the Jeweler and learn as much as he could about his dealings. They would sneak into the merchant's quarter and hide until nightfall. At quarter-night, they would rob the Jeweler's store. If no alarm was sounded, they would hide until morning and leave the quarter at midday.
    Jotun listened to the plan intently, his gaze shifting back and forth between his comrades as they spoke slowly and in turn, scratching with a stick in the dust. He thumbed at a scar above his right eye, a gift from a sentry that he had returned tenfold. Jotun was aware that Sommer was no lover of swordplay. He was far from unpracticed, but he preferred to avoid direct conflict. This showed in his plan, Jotun thought. If all went well, they might avoid a fight entirely.

III
  
    Sommer saw the yellow plumed hat from a quarter mile off. He kicked Jotun and stood. Fenton saw the hat too, and then the Jeweler. Completely garbed in yellow spring finery, the pudgy man strutted up the street from the road to the inner dock. The grey and brown rags clothing those around him only increased his luminosity. He walked with an enormous Volmarian bodyguard who carried an equally large spiked axe. Fenton cringed when he noticed the hulking escort.
    Sommer glanced over at the ferry dock. A ferry was just arriving. This was the one that the Jeweler would board, surely. Sommer pointed it out to Jotun, and the three walked to the admissioners.
        "A bull for you, two for the big man," said the armored man selling ferry rides.
        "A bull? 'Twas three pence yesterday!" responded Sommer. He had expected minor harassment for Jotun, but they had not anticipated increased fare.
        "Today is the feast of Saint Bimbos. Festivities in the court this night. A bull is the Netherian fare today, I am already being kind," said the armored man. He crinkled his brow in irritation. Fenton prodded Sommer. Sommer understood.
        "Fine, fine. Here are two. My servant will row," Sommer said. Two bullions were the extent of their coin. Fenton would have to find another way across. He moved back into the crowd to avoid the eyes of the admissioners.
        "Good enough, I suppose. Hard to be unkind on Saint Bimbos' day. You may board," said the man. Jotun and Sommer walked onto the large ferry. It was a raft constructed of thick logs, the width of each larger than a man's waist. Sommer looked down into the water. Fenton would not be swimming. Ravenous, carnivorous  fish prowled about beneath the grimy surface today. The fish were called Ogaru by the lowborn, which translated from old Netherian to mean "staring wolf". They regularly ate the poor drunkards who fell into the polluted delta.
    Fenton thought quickly. He saw the Jeweler coming, caught in line for the ferry twenty heads back. Fenton laid his satchel wide open on the ground and began to sing.
        "Remember men, to keep Bimbos' day- for a wise old saint was he..."
    Fenton went on singing, making up verses to the popular hymn as he exhausted the traditional lyrics. A few men through half-pence or crusts of bread into his satchel. As the Jeweler proceeded closer in the line, an admissions guard grabbed Fenton by the back of his neck.
        "No begging here, you fool. I ought to lay you out where you stand," said the burly guard.
        "Sir, I was simply singing for the sake of good Saint Bimbos!" Fenton pleaded loudly enough that the Jeweler could hear.
        "Bah, you think you can sing your way to the other side of the river? Begging on this dock is strictly forbidden. Off with you," he said, and threw Fenton to the ground.
        "Leave this bard be, you brute!" shouted the Jeweler. He reached a dainty, soft hand down to Fenton. Fenton took it and stood, brushing the dust from his knees.
        "I will pay your fare, lad. You may jest with me on the vessel until we reach the other pier. I hate to see a charming entertainer abused," said the Jeweler sneering at the admissions guard. He handed fare to the man collecting it and boarded. Fenton followed closely behind, smiling sheepishly at the bulky, angry looking body guard.
IV
    Jotun propelled the ferry at a deliberately slower speed than he was capable of. He knew his comrades were making some sort of unplanned progress, as he did not remember this conversation between Fenton and Sommer and the merry, girlish jeweler being part of the original plan. This assumption, along with occasional affirmative nods from Sommer, told him to buy as much time as he could without annoying the ferryman. Steadily he rowed, remaining quiet and calm.
    Sommer had injected himself into conversation with the jeweler, who had introduced himself as Elron. Between Fenton's jests, he had boldly joined Elron in hearty laughter- taking care to establish eye contact. He then thrust out his arm, bent at the elbow and with an open hand to offer the common handshake among merchants or craftsmen of similar trades. Fenton had not expected this, but it was characteristic of Sommer to make such bold moves. To Fenton's surprise, the Volmarian did not throttle Sommer. Perhaps his disguise would prove itself.
        "Who is this brilliant fool who jests so, sir? A servant to your household?" Sommer said. The jeweler took his hand clapped it with his left.
        "He is but a commoner I took pity upon. He is entertaining me as payment for his fare. Were he higher born, perhaps he could live as a poet! I am Elron, of the house of Jerome," he said.
        "I am Somerith, of the house of Fentonfather. I am a trader from the Nor'Eastern coasts," said Sommer. Fenton had to turn away to avoid snickering.
        "I have not been to those waters in many years. Not since my pilgrimage to the Port of Northern Star," said Elron.
        "Ah, yes. The monastary is there. My brother is a monk there," Sommer said.
    As the two spoke, Fenton looked to the approaching shore. The Merchant's quarter was protected by an enormous wall, like the other higher caste districts. The entrance was guarded by at least twenty men in mail and leather, most of which carried crossbows or bill hooks. A man with a mounted ballista watched the dock square from a gate house. The ballista could defend an entire township from attack by an unorganized foe. Even in this Golden Age, few weapons smaller than a canon where capable of such damage.
        "Bard? Your debt to me is payed in full. Be on your way when we reach the shore," said Elron.
        "Yes sir, thank you sir," Fenton said with a bow. Sommer gave him a sideways glance and began to speak to Elron.
        "Sir, I have not much knowledge of your trade. I would learn it, if I had a suitable teacher. Perhaps you would take me on for a few days as help so that I might learn? I ask only room to rest, and you would benefit from more hands during this noble feast of Bimbos- surely a time of great trade in your favor," said Sommer.
        "I... I am not sure. What of your brute?" Said Elron, warily.
        "Oh, my servant? He will be of great use to you. He can perform any hard labor or sentry duties. And he is well behaved," said Sommer. The Volmarian turned to Jotun and took note of him. Jotun pretended not to notice and went on rowing.
        "Indeed, I have labors that could be done. I suppose we shall arrange this. You will aid me for this holiday, and I will teach you to deal in the finer minerals," Elron said with a nod.
        "Excellent," Sommer said.
        "You will meet me in the merchant's quarter after midday. My store is on the eastern circle, there is a sign that reads 'Elron's Finery'," he said. The ferry pulled in to the port. Sommer's timing was near perfect. They shook hands and Elron headed directly for the merchant's quarter. The three gathered in the dock square and discussed their next move.
V
    As they squatted on a pile of shipping crates, Fenton spoke quickly with Sommer.
        "I cannot read either. We will have to ask someone about the shop. It will be risky, and if that big Volmarian sees me with you, there will be trouble," Fenton said.
        "Perhaps if we asked someone to scratch out the words in the dust, we could match them to the sign," Sommer said.
        "No, no. You are not thinking well," Jotun said. "This is easy. It will not be hard to find a great stuffed yellow canary like him, and we know what circle to look in. We will just pretend to know where we are going and walk through until we see him. He is so silly looking, I could find him anywhere."
        "That is a reasonable plan, but I could not join you in it. The two of you will have to go about it yourselves. I will hide somewhere that I can see you, and join you tonight for the hard work," said Fenton.
        "A serviceable solution. I will use the usual signal to tell you when we are ready to act. But I would have you know, this may require more than a day. If you have to retreat, we will act on our own and find you later, across the trench," said Sommer.
    Fenton nodded and stood. A guard had caught his gaze. He moved off abruptly into the crowd with a short wave to his comrades. The large man who had noticed Fenton swiftly pushed through the crowd toward him. Sommer chuckled. Jotun gave him a sideways look.
        "Rawlings, Royal Sentry of the Empire. Fenton's good friend from his old gambling ring," Sommer said.
    Fenton dodged and darted through the well dressed crowd of middle-men and merchants gathered in the square. His drab and gray garments stood out in the crowd of deep blues and reds and greens like a brick in a jewel case. Men wearing hats and women in plumed dresses were strange sights to Fenton, but he was not looking at them. Sharp eyed, Fenton caught sight of a narrow, dark alley way. As he ducked between the two buildings, he shot a harsh glare toward his pursuer. Fenton decided that he would now be the hunter. Rawlings, a man of substantial girth and muscle, pushed harder through the crowd, frustrated. The big, armored man stepped into the alley and brandished a fine short sword. He saw nothing but rubbish in the alley, so he took fifteen paces further to investigate it. It was then that Fenton spoke.
        " 'Lo Rawlings. I might have thought you were still in the stockades," Fenton said from three men's height above the littered dirt.
        "You filthy bastard, I will have my satisfaction when I throw you into the deepest dungeon in the empire!" Rawlings shouted, looking from side to side and as high up as his coiffed helm would allow.
        "No, I think you're going to lie here bleeding for awhile instead," Fenton said.
    Fenton stood with his feet wedged against the close walls high above the angry imperial sentry. The alley was barely spacious enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder as they walked through. Fenton spat and pulled a dagger from his sash, careful to keep his balance. He pressed the palms of his hands against the walls and pulled his legs together. He released his grip and dropped. Rawlings took a step back, finally able to see his nimble nemesis, and received a heel to the bridge of his nose. He toppled and Fenton tumbled over him to recover his balance. Rawlings tried to stand. Fenton dashed back to him and stomped Rawling's swordarm before smashing the hilt of the dagger into his forehead. Rawlings fell back to the ground and did not move, bleeding from his battered face. Fenton picked up his sword and admired it briefly. It was new, finely honed, and in excellent condition. Fenton slid it into has sash, then as an afterthought kicked Rawlings in the ribs, under his armor.
    Fenton climbed the wall again, and from the roof searched for a way to breech the merchant's quarter.
VI
    Sommer gave the gate guard the half-eyed glance he had seen merchants deliver so many times as he walked through the main gate in tow of a pair of noblemen. He was passing a second guard, a shorter man whose armor fit poorly, when Jotun was stopped.
        "Hold there, fellow. This is not Volmaria where you brutes walk freely. Where be your master?" said the first sentry. Jotun had a basic policy in these situations- an uppercut followed by a sharp kick in the guts- but Sommer grabbed his shoulder.
        "He is my servant, sir. He lags a bit around nobles as he is clumsy and liable to be in their stead. Come now," Sommer said as he pulled on Jotun's shoulder. The guard opened his mouth to protest further, but a woman's cry in the square distracted him. Sommer and Jotun quickened their pace into the upper circles.
Historical note: The upper castes' circles within the greater capitol city of Netheria were a world separated from those that housed the lower castes. Compared to the extreme poverty and squalor of the lower circles, simply walking into the upper circles must have felt like advancing three centuries forward into the future. The upper circles were paved, had public fountains, public gardens, police supervision, and Imperial child care services. 
    Jotun had to force himself not to stare at the gallantly dressed women that the pair passed on the streets. Many appeared to him to be of a race far superior to humankind, and some of them were just that.
    Sommer, who had a good deal of experience pretending to belong places, tried to remember all he had learned on the last visit he stole across the delta. He adjusted his posture and his stride. As they looked for the Jeweler he broke character only for a moment, covering his hearty chuckles with a feigned coughing fit.

    For Sommer had realized as he stood in the midst of such finery that this side of the river, not his own, was the true den of thieves.
VII

    Jotun knew it would be foolish to talk or tap or prod Sommer to gain his attention. He stepped lightly on the back of Sommer's ankle. Though this caused them both to stumble, Jotun was able to make it seem an accident. Jotun caught his comrade's eye and nodded toward the Jeweler. The plump man was still wearing his ridiculous outfit, and he was still easy to spot among the colorful inner city through his open shop window. But Jotun saw something out of place. Looped about the top of the Jeweler's chimney was a ragged satchel.
        "That son of a bitch," Sommer said.
        "You should go and greet that pretty bird before he has time to thatch his roof, Sommer," Jotun said.
        "That bloody lad could rob Netherian himself had he the luck to find himself upwind," Sommer grumbled.

    They walked to the storefront and let themselves in. The Jeweler's shop had a number of tables and counters, each upholstered in fine red velvet. Upon the velvet lay multitudes of fine jewels, most set in gold or silver. Each piece was arranged neatly and had its place. Beside the door to the street stood another rough looking bodyguard. This one seemed ruder than the Volmarian from before, but slightly smaller. He sneered at Jotun as the two entered the room. The Jeweler looked them over.
        "Greetings once again, good man!" Elron said.
        "Greetings. I have come to learn the trade, just as we agreed," said Sommer.
        "Indeed! I was just about to take supper. My daughter has prepared a fine meal in the dining quarters upstairs. Come and join me," said Elron. They climbed the stairs, and the Jeweler said to Jotun, "The servants take their meals in the kitchen."
    Jotun was not pleased, but he obliged the man and walked into the kitchen. There stood a maiden of perhaps sixteen; high born, Jotun noted, most likely the Jeweler's daughter. She wore a large sparkling pendant about her neck and had very mild features. Jotun bowed slightly and took a seat at a wooden stool near a side counter. The kitchen was somewhat small by noble standards, but still larger that the entire occupied space of Jotun's shack near the docks. The maiden was severely uncomfortable around the stalwart, grizzly featured man who had entered unannounced and without a word, but his docile actions set her at ease enough to lay a loaf of bread and a flagon of sweet wine in front of him before she hurried out of the room.
        "This is my daughter, Edwina," Elron said as she entered the dining quarters, "Where is supper? I'd expected it upon the table by now."
        "There is a ruffian in the kitchen and I wasn't sure of him," Edwina said. She caught Sommer's gaze.
        "This is Somerith, the man I mentioned would be staying here to learn my trade," said Elron.
        "It is my honor to meet you, Miss Edwina. That man is my servant, he won't trouble you. Perhaps he may be of service cutting wood or bringing water," Sommer said. He was struck by the girl's noble appearance and he made every effort to be cordial.
    Edwina nodded and walked slowly back into the kitchen. Jotun sat where she had left him, and he grinned broadly as he relished the wine she had set. The loaf had disappeared. He paid her very little notice. Edwina, careful not to turn her back on him, went about gathering the main meal onto a ceramic tray. She set it out on the table in the dining room and sat next to her father. After they had eaten, speaking only briefly now and again, the Jeweler bid his daughter to fetch Somerith's servant and then mind the shop. Upon her bidding, Jotun entered the dining room.
        "You may have a seat," Elron said to Jotun; and then to Sommer, "You should summon your friend from my attic. The stairs are in the next room."
    A wave of shock hit Sommer.
        "Eh? My friend, sir?" he said.
        "Yes, the skinny fool from the ferry. He is hiding in my attic. You should call him down, I must speak to the three of you," Elron said. A somber look had overwhelmed his plump features. He had dismissed his gracious tone of voice.
VIII
    Jotun pulled open the door to the attic. A wave of dust hit him in the face, increasing his annoyance with the situation. He snorted and shouted into the attic.
        "He's found us out, you bloody gnoll's wife! Come down here!"
    There was a thump and some shuffling and several blasphemous curses. Fenton appeared at the attic latch-way. He was covered in dust, hay, and cobwebs.
        "By Asteres' splitting crown, if you butchered this for us, you bloody fool, I will knock your hut into the bloody river!" Fenton said.
    Jotun's face relaxed and he shook his head.
        "It was your fault. He saw you in the square," he huffed. Jotun chuckled as he turned and walked down the three stairs back to the storage room, mumbling, "Push my hut in the river..."

    Fenton and Jotun were greeted by Sommer's pained grimace as they entered the dining quarters. Elron watched Fenton enter, his hands clasped. Catching his eyes, Fenton stared into the least friendly glare he could recall recently receiving. Fenton returned the glare and brushed the attic dust off of his shoulder. He pulled forth a chair from the table and sat. Jotun stood at the doorway, arms crossed.
        "So you must think you have my lot well and stuck, eh? Pray you have words of value to share with us, lest you may find yourself at ill odds with your window pane," Fenton said with a sneer.
        "Rest your tongue, Ringo," Sommer said, "This man deserves at least our good manner, as he has not yet called for the guard."
        "True, Somerith, I have not," Elron said. He relaxed his shoulders and took his disdainful stare off of Fenton. He cleared his throat and began to speak further.
        "You seem proficient thieves, as I caught you only by accident and had few suspicions prior. I was returning from a trade across the square and happened to see you hang your satchel about my chimney. Had I been indoors, I am sure I would be a far poorer man tomorrow. I have been seeking thieves of late, in the dock's market. Only today have thieves sought me in my own home, most simply try to pick at my coin purse on the streets. But you see, it is your breed I require- and one cannot simply seek your kind at a guild hall. I was preparing to hire an assassin instead."
        "So then you have need of us?" Jotun said.
        "Indeed I do. I need to acquire a certain signet ring from my rival. A fairly worthless trinket to men of your meager standing, but to me it is more valuable than gold," Elron continued.
        "A noble's signet is his word. I believe I see how you plan to proceed, friend," said Sommer. A broad smile crossed his face.
        "My plot is not for you to consider. Simply get the signet from my rival's workshop tonight, and steal enough to make it appear a secondary trespass. Your work will be aided by the good Saint Bimbos, only the fewest of the guard will be on patrol in the merchant's quarter. And my enemy will not return from the feast until late on the morrow," Elron said.
        "What is this rival's name? I assume he is a jeweler like yourself?" Fenton broke in.
        "He is called Berzin of Komercetan. His warehouse is next to mine in the westerly square," Elron said.
        "Bring out a pitcher of wine. We will discuss this further," Sommer said.
IX
    It was night. The three thieves crouched on the roof of Elron's warehouse. Sommer watched torchlight move against the wall of the building next to them- Berzin's store house. Judging by the number of torches and what he had seen in short peeks over the roof's edge, there were three guards. In the alley between the two warehouses was a door into Berzin's. Jotun sat in the center of the roof, wrapping his arms and legs in dark colored rags. He had smeared soot over his face. This served to cover his light northerner's skin from the moonlight which would undo his camouflage. Fenton crouched next to him, testing his blades and rope. Sommer tapped the rooftop lightly with his knuckles to tell his comrades that he was now confident of the guards' pattern. They crawled over to where he now lay on his stomach. They whispered between each other.
        "Another few moments and they'll make that walk again. That's when you drop down on the one with the key. The one to the left," Sommer said to Fenton.
        "How big is he?" Fenton asked.
        "He's not so tough. He's limping a bit," Sommer returned.
        "Handsome girl, Edwina," said Fenton.
        "Aye. Pretty as the morning rise," Sommer said with a sigh. Jotun chuckled silently.
        "You fools, she is too small. What of your heirs? She would die of her child," Jotun said. Fenton smirked at him.
        "A woman must have child bearing hips," Jotun said. Sommer patted him on the shoulder and pointed to a sentry who was approaching for another pass by the warehouse door. His boots clacked hard against the trampled dirt alley.
        "Feel up to wrecking that bloke?" Sommer said.
        "Yes, he is weak," Jotun said,"I suppose she had a soft face."
    Another brief moment passed and they were silent. Then Jotun walked to the corner of the roof and lowered himself from it. He hung from his fingertips, his feet still a full story from the ground. He dropped, pushing off of the wall as he did, and rolled when he struck the earth. He had been quiet enough. The guard Sommer had pointed to stood across the alley. Jotun had waited for the wandering men-at-arms to pass before he dropped, and so he knew no one was watching as he crossed.
    Jotun wrapped his rag covered arm around the sentry's mouth and hit him hard in the lower back with the other hand. The man was winded, and Jotun kept his arm firm over his face until he stopped struggling. Jotun dragged him further back behind Berzin's warehouse. He knew the other two guards would not see him until Fenton's work was done.
    Fenton watched as the guards passed beneath him. They separated at the door, wordlessly; the first continuing toward where Jotun lay in wait. Fenton climbed quickly and silently down the frame of the building, fewer than twenty paces from the limping guard's turned back. Fenton watched him as he climbed, placing his feet or scratching for a grip only when the man's feet fell. His scraping gait covered any sound Fenton made very well. Fenton softly lighted upon the ground and crept behind the man with long, steady strides. He drew his newly acquired short sword and brought its hilt down upon the back of the sentry's neck between helmet and armor. The animation departed from the man with a jolt and he fell back. Fenton caught him and laid him quietly on his back. The keyring he had carried dangled from his thumb. Fenton took it and turned in time to see Sommer lowering himself down from the roof. The brick supporting him gave way. He fell twice his height and landed awkwardly, letting out a pained groan as he tried to stand. The other guard had seen them both, now.
        "Get it, lad!" Sommer hissed, motioning to the door. The guard shouted at them to halt. He drew a riveted truncheon. Fenton dashed to the door and unlocked it, but the guard was upon him. The guard raised his club. Fenton sidestepped the downward blow and lept back several paces.
        "You," commanded Jotun, "Stand down."
    The guard turned. He took a step toward Jotun and kept his aggressive stance. Like a tiger, teeth flashing in kind, Jotun lept at him. Jotun's forward hand caught the guard's shoulder, and with the momentum of the pounce Jotun drove his off hand into a straight punch. The blow connected with the guard's face and sent him careening to the ground, knocked senseless. Jotun stood, heaving, over the fallen man and Sommer. Jotun's hand was bleeding. Sommer looked to him.
        "A few of my toes on this foot are broken, I can't walk," Sommer said. Fenton shook his head and opened the door to the warehouse.
        "We need to finish this," Fenton said to Jotun, "Come with me in case there are men inside."
        "What if there are men still out here?" Sommer said. Fenton looked at his hand and then to Sommer. He handed Sommer the short blade he carried.
        "We will not leave you, Sommer. We will find the signet and come back to you with haste," Fenton said.
        "I will not leave you here, brother," said Jotun, "Guard yourself well."
    With these words, Jotun and Fenton slipped into the warehouse door. A chill ran through Sommer's hand as he held the sword. Sommer found himself cold and alone, crippled, leaning against the stone wall.
    
X
    Sommer tightened his grip on the short sword. He heard the clinking of armor coming from the side of the warehouse facing the street. Sommer set his jaw and closed his eyes. It was then that he swore his oath.
"The Oath of Jacque Sommer"
As I lay wounded here in this dire hour,
I swear by my life and this sword,
and by the vandal kings Ropeart and Kaenar:
I will not surrender myself to these thieves;
men birthed of a legacy of ill gotten riches.
I swear I will separate them from all that I can,
from this moment unto death.
Such is my duty to my oppressors.


    As Sommer opened his eyes, he saw a royal sentry peer into the alley. He held his torch high, illuminating the entire passage and himself with orange light. The sentry surveyed the fallen men on the ground, and then noticed Sommer.
        "You should best make peace with your gods if you intend to raise that sword, boy," the man said. As a royal sentry, he carried a similar short sword and wore mail beneath the hardened leather plates covering his shoulders and chest. He wore an open helmet of cast broze with Netheria's crest carved over its brow.
        "This sword bids you to do the same, knave," Sommer said in a low growl. He spat at the ground and raised himself from the wall, placing his weight on his good leg. He brought the sword to mid-guard and balanced himself with his other arm, bending it and clenching his fist. Sweat dripped down his brow and stung his eyes. He counted his breaths as the sentry approached him.
    The royal sentry stepped forward and stepped carefully over one of the fallen men. He took time to ensure his footing. He could see that Sommer was struggling to hold his fighting position, and that he was in pain. Sommer stared back at him, wide eyed. Sommer counted his breaths. His grip on the short sword was unsteady.
    The sentry jabbed at Sommer with his torch, his sword in his other hand. Sommer saw that this was a feint. If he struck to deflect the torch he would lose his hand to the sentry's sword. As the flame touched him, Sommer lunged for his adversary's face. He pushed himself from the wall with his injured foot and stabbed through the sentry's eye. Blood sprayed across Sommer's sword arm. This slaying blow provoked a seizing jolt in the sentry, and the torch pressed firmly upon Sommer's chest before falling to the ground. The felled sentry followed, falling forward onto Sommer and toppling him over in kind.
    Sommer remained were he had fallen, trembling violently, and wept. His hand acted against him, refusing to release the bloodied sword.
    There was a rustle at the door, Fenton and Jotun exited. Fenton carried a full satchel that jingled as he walked, and wore a long cut on his arm. Jotun was breathing heavily. Without a word Jotun pulled Sommer from the ground. He dragged him over his shoulders by the arm, and broke into a full run. Fenton followed behind.
    They ran into the night, eluding capture. They did not return to the jeweler Elron with Berzin's signet ring. Fenton wore it for many years.





"Time Won’t Let Me"
By Jeff Morin



Entry 127

I’ve just about had it, being the only person who lived through the changes.

I liked Seattle the way it was…even by the third turn it was recognizable as my Seattle…now it’s as foreign to me as Paris.

I could leave, but every other place would be the same…something new, some place to settle in, wait for the turn, start over.

I have a job this time, at least. But my girlfriend was never even born, so there’s no point in trying to look her up.

I agreed to this. I don’t even know why.

I suppose that I was scared.

I’ve always been something of a coward.

I told them I’d write down my experiences, take note of the changes, watch everything reformulate every time they sent a ripple through time.

I suspect that I’m not the only one, but the planet’s big, and I’m not supposed to tell anybody. Most people wouldn’t believe me, and it’s all so pointless…when the next turn comes, they’d all be different anyway.

Some things I don’t understand…like why the names of the animals at the zoo keep changing. TV stations keep jumping networks. Brand-names of cars. That sort of thing.

There was the turn that had altered the dialect of Seattle to something Asian. That was not fun…they retro’d that one out quickly.

It’s tough to carry on conversations about the most common-sense things, like how the Seahawks are doing, when people only remember them always being called the Inuits.


Sometimes I think that those people, sitting up in their Time Ship, are just playing at this point. When this all started, somebody made a mistake. A really big mistake, some random change at some point in history, that led to us to being on the brink of destruction.

They don’t know what it was exactly that they did…there was a lot going on, apparently.

But there’s been almost 200 turns since then, and they still don’t have it.

And I’m a ‘civilian observer’. Because I wanted to be.

Because I was a coward.

If I could get this wristwatch off, I could disappear into time. Never exist, or keep changing with the ebb and flow, oblivious.

Went to my parent’s house. Belongs to someone else. I don’t even know if they got together in this turn, or were even born. I could pop this thing off and pop out of existence.

A wristwatch disguising some form of time stasis. The geeks have a sense of humor at least.

I wonder if anybody’s going to read this, or if it’ll just be boxed as evidence?

Should I do things without consequence? I could do some really crazy stuff, banking on this not being the last turn, that changes will wash away anything I do. But sometimes the turns are very subtle, and things and people stay very similar.

I think I’ll stick to one-night stands and keep it that way.

Sometimes I miss long-term relationships.

When things were normal, I could tell you we’re all time travelers, living in the past and looking forward to the future. But not everybody celebrated the ‘now’.

But I’m doing something different. Time changes around me while I stand still. My past ever-changing, bearing no effect on my future.

I think I’m going crazy.

End of Entry





"The Management Solution"
by Dan Bieger




"Me?  I'll have a Steakman Martini.  Dry.  Up.  With olives.  I like olives dressed in martinis.  Yeah, it has to be Steakman.  Believe it or not, there's a difference in gin.  My brother tried to educate my palate to Sharpbeam and Cathay Gin but my tongue refuses the education.  The only martini that tastes right to me is a Steakman."

"You don't carry it?  Then, I'll have a beer."

"The local's fine."

"Would you turn on the HV?  Yeah, HNN.  They'll be broadcasting from the White Dome today.  Can't miss this one; it's a first in human history.  They're going to excommunicate a guy from the human race."

"Thanks.  Looks like we've got a few minutes till the big event."

" So, how do you like this place?  Been working here long?"

"Yeah, I've been here a couple of times.  Whenever I stay at the Hotel Perseus, I drop by.  Has a special feeling for me, you know?"

"I was program manager for this place.  We did this one and two other bars in the hotel.  We did the VR.  Actually, to say 'we' did them fixes too much credit on myself and most of the others.  After all, we had the Boy Wonder on our team and he did the design.  The rest of us just filled in on the stuff he didn't want to do."

"The Boy Wonder's a hell of an engineer.  Came out of a tiny school over on Greenfields.  It's an ag school, mostly, with an engineering college thrown in to earn accreditation.  Burbank U.  They're mostly known for their space hockey team.  Won the GCAA a couple years in a row.  The Boy Wonder played right wing.  Too much energy to be a goalie; couldn't sit still for any length of time."

"Yeah, it's quite a game.  Orbiting arenas and 3-D instead of two; jets on the players' hips instead of skates on their feet, inverted the goals in opposition, the team sport to top all team sports.  Takes an extraordinary mind to keep people above and below you in mind.; You have to constantly re-orient yourself top to bottom from offense to defense.  The Boy Wonder has that kind of mind;  it's what makes him such a hotshot engineer."

"Why do I call him the Boy Wonder?  It started on our first program together.  We worked at Wellsper Satellite Systems, part of the Starbus Corporation.  Wellsper's major line is stabilization systems for space stations and satellites but they have a minor in IT to help them make smart stabilizers.  That's what we did, Scott and I and the rest; we built controllers."

"Our first job together was a rush-job controller for the USG's Crab Pulsar Orbiter. Had to design and produce that baby in less than a year.   Getting a processor to work in that environment took state-of-the art engineering which is where the Boy Wonder fit in.  Just out of school, he didn't know the combination of technology and schedule was impossible.  He took the GAL-STD-1750N - it was just off the drawing boards in those days - and built a rad-hard nanoprocessor that's still ticking today.
Three-hundred-fifty-thousand lines of code playing on radiation-harderned electronics and we did it in ten months flat.  Forty-three engineers, thirty-five of them software guys.  Scott wasn't the technical director but the engineer who was knew enough to back off and let Scott have his way.  As program manager, I just stayed the hell out of both their way.
Well, mostly, I stayed the hell out of Scott's way.  I learned pretty fast that if I let him go, let him do it his way, we'd have a better chance of getting it done.  He pulled it off, too.  Twenty-seven years old at the time.  Everyone else on the team was at least five years older and five years senior.  That's why I called him the Boy Wonder.
You ever notice how engineers aren't thought very much of?  I mean, take Einstein.  Household name, right?  Or Chomsky or Hawking? Theorists.  Theorists make the history books and the talk shows.  The guys that do the work, you never hear about them.  If there was justice in this universe, they wouldn't be excommunicating the Boy Wonder today; they'd be enshrining him in an Engineering Hall of Fame or opening a new wing of the Smithsonian dedicated to his work.
He's just an engineer, though, so they're going to excommunicate him."

“Hell yes, I know what he did.  He gave FTL to the Trapezioids and they have selfishly declined to share that gift with humanity.  The Traps are more than willing to let us lease space on their FTL vans; they're just not willing to show us how it's done.
I know why Scott did it.  That's something they're not likely to talk about today while they have their little party.
The truth of the matter of the matter is that FTL is a Phroen achievement.  Everyone knows the Phroen use mental and physical quantuum entities as propellant.  No one knows how they do it.  No one until the Boy Wonder.  What the Boy Wonder did was to decipher the engineering behind the Phroen implementation  and then reproduce it mechanically.
This bar we're sitting in is the first step in the process.  The virtual reality that enfolds us as we sit here is a crucial aspect of the Boy Wonder's FTL drive.  It was while we were working this job that Scott - you know that's his name, right? Scott Townsend? - it was while we were doing this job that he got the idea of how to do Phroen FTL.
You wouldn't believe what we had to do to get this job.  Remember I told you good ole Wellsper's main line of business is space station and satellite stabilization devices?  Those systems depend on gyro technology, momentum wheels, stuff like that.  They make smart wheels now but the management at Wellsper has never been comfortable with the processor side of the business.  The Engineering Directors tend to come out of the mechanisms side of the house and processor technology seems more like black magic than engineering to those guys.
The Request for Proposal came out of North Ascension-Rockpit, the prime for the Hotel Perseus.  Wellsper has a long history of working with the NARks.   In fact, that job I told you about, the Crab Pulsar Orbiter, was a NARk contract."
Scot’s first look at the RFP for the Hotel Perseus VR bars convinced him we could use the GAL-STD-1750N to pull it off.  We wouldn't need a radiation hardened model and that would lower the cost considerably. He had the system designed before we finished writing the proposal.
That's when things first started to go wrong for the Boy Wonder.  Our beloved Directors at Wellsper got cold feet.  We'd never done VR before.  They weren't at all sure about risking the company fortune on some new gizmo that none of them understood.  Mechanisms, remember?
That was my major contribution.  That's why we program managers get the big bucks.  I hauled Scott out of that bid/no-bid meeting and sent him back to his cubicle.
That's another thing that drove Scott crazy.  He'd pulled off a major coup with the Crab Pulsar Orbiter but company policy is that only senior engineers get private offices and to be a senior engineer you have to be with the company at least ten years.  Scott got a cubicle.
I went back into the meeting to point out to those idiots that while we had never done VR, our sister division over on Boeing's World was a universal leader in the field.  What's the good of having all that technology in the family if we didn't use it?  The Directors understood that logic.  Well, they really understood that here was a way to transfer responsibility for the project from themselves to the sister division but they gave me the okay to go talk to Wellsper IT.  If I could get their support, we could bid the job.
Getting Wellsper IT to go along was a kick.  Not-Invented-Here is their major product.  Sure, they'd go along with us as long as we didn't need any of their resources and - most importantly - as long as we didn't endanger their patent on fluorine-based nanoprocessors.  At the time, the rest of the universe was still using carbon-based models and - rightfully so - they were jealous of their product."
Unfortunately, the GAL-STD-1750N Scott wanted to use is carbon based. My management and the management of our sister division wanted us to use the Wellsper 1000A; Scott wanted to use the –1750N. The only way to pull it off was to do two proposals, the primary and an alternate. It was a hell of a dance I danced selling an alternate proposal and I earned my salary convincing the Directors we had to do both versions to be sure of winning the job.
I convinced Scott the NARks would not want to tie themselves to Wellsper proprietary technology, they would - if we could win - select the -1750.  The Boy Wonder bought my logic and threw himself into writing another proposal.  They will never admit it but by the time Scott finished writing,  he knew the Wellsper 1000A better than the geniuses at Astronics who designed it.  He pointed out its strengths and weaknesses in words so subtle that Rockpit's evaluators were drawn to the -1750 and never knew why."
We won the contract.  Needless to say, NARk wanted the -1750.  Needless to say, our management was in schizophrenic ecstasy.  A 25 million dollar contract is hard to refuse but, gee whiz and golly, could we really do it?  After all, Wellsper IT was screaming their heads off that there was no way in hell it could be done.  They had to say that, of course. Anything else would mean their own design was not the only answer in the universe, the thought all their marketing was based on.
We did it.  We put the VR in this bar and the other two bars in this hotel and the systems work flawlessly.  Anybody wandering in thinks  he's back home, sitting in his favorite ambiance, surrounded by the fauna and flora that make life worth living.  The other patrons in the bar are muted into environs non-threatening and non-offensive so that, for the brief period of time a patron indulges, that patron is made thoroughly comfortable.
And you don't need to don goggles or any other techno-gizmo.  You identify your species at the door and the system follows your movements around the bar surrounding you with a holovision reality that is as real as anything else in the universe is real.
It's an engineering delight, a hell of an accomplishment, and it was Scott's design.  Three years, one-hundred-fifty engineers, and you - my friend - get to work in the best bar in the universe."

“Look, there's our beloved President coming out of the Spherical Office.  See the group with him?  That's Ivan Romanovich, CEO of Wellsper Universal.  Behind him is Teddy Simms, Vice-President and General Manager of Satellite Systems.  They're behind this fiasco.  They have to be.  Otherwise, people will start asking questions they don't want to answer.
Still got a minute or two, I guess.  They have to shake hands and give off-the-cuff interviews for the traditional ten minutes before they get down to business.  Access, you know?  The President has got to seem accessible."
So, what happened?  Scott saw a glimmer.  Working with VR and nanoprocessors, he thought he saw a way to duplicate the Phroen drive system.  It was pretty raw.  He needed to stretch the technological limits, even use the Wellsper 1000A because that's a damned fine machine even though we didn't use it here in the Perseus.  He roughed it out at home and brought it to me to get my support.
At home.  Seems like the Boy Wonder never stopped working except to him it wasn't work; it was play.  Give him the right toys and Scott works passionately, indefinitely, and amazingly well for weeks and months at a time.  He’ll take time to play with his son and, I assume, he takes time to be with his wife.  The Boy Wonder rarely talks about his wife.  He talks about his son and whatever he’s working on at the moment as if nothing else in the universe exists for him.  I think it’s because engineers aren't comfortable with emotions.  It's politically acceptable to talk about your kids but to say you love your wife is stretching the bounds.  You can’t apply cause and effect to your feelings about your wife and applied engineering is all about cause and effect.  I often wonder how his wife - or any engineer's wife - put up with it.
Between us, we prepared a proposal for our management.  We showed them the possibilities and probabilities and the dollars and cents.  They had simulatenous heart attacks on the dollars and cents.  Scott needed new toys to pull this off and an engineer's toys are at the high end of the price spectrum.  The bottom line was: give him a billion dollars and he’d give Wellsper FTL.
It wasn't the money, you know?  A billion dollars was not impossible to Wellsper.  Given the right circumstances, our friend on the screen, Mr. Romanovich, would commit a billion dollars willingly but Mr. Romanovich never got the chance.  Our directors, ably led by Mr. Simms, just couldn't bring themselves to ask Corp for the funding.
Black magic, right?  The Boy Wonder, right?  Mechanisms, right?  Our management just couldn't bring themselves to back the project.  The risks were too great and not one of them had the technological know-how to follow what Scott would be doing or to know how well he was succeeding."
We asked for permission to take the idea to Wellsper IT and they gave us that much.  Wellsper IT, however, didn't think anything Satellite Systems might propose could be of value.  Oh, sure, we had pulled off the Hotel Perseus contract but only with their help and their technology.  Seems they had convinced themselves we had used their work and their ideas and their technology with our nanoprocessor.  It wasn't true but it suited them to think so. They threw us out."
We wanted to go to Corp but Mr. Simms felt that, if Wellsper IT wasn't interested, he wasn't about to put his neck on the line with Mr. Romanovich.  Permission denied.
We fought the good fight and we lost.  Program managers understand these things.  I was ready to go onto my next program.  Sure, I was disappointed with the mind-set of my bosses but I was and I am very happy with the salary they pay me and I love the job.  I lost this argument; okay, maybe I'll win the next one.
Scott isn't a good loser.  He doesn't believe in losing.  Remember those three GCAA championships?  Scott started looking for another way to get it done.
He found it at a VR convention.  We were demonstrating the kind of stuff we had put into the Hotel Perseus and the Trapezioids were very interested.  A couple of their engineers got Scott off into a corner trading war stories about VR and processors and dreams and possibilities.  Typical engineering bull session but the next thing you know he's got them chomping at the bit and Trapeziod engineers are running off to talk to Trapeziod managers and pretty soon the Trapeziod delegation is gathered around Scott like a media feeding frenzy.  They were willing to fund a prototype of his drive system.
Give us a Request for Proposal, I tell them, thinking if someone else is willing to foot the bill even my management has to be willing to take their money.
The Traps sent us a RFP in record time.  Old Simms, him that's up there on the screen grinning at the President's back, he nearly bust his gut.  Fifth or sixth best ass chewing I ever got.  He'd told us to drop the idea and he meant for us to drop it.  He wasn't impressed the Trapeziods would foot the bill.  Wellsper would be under contract to deliver a prototype and no one - not Wellsper, not Wellsper IT, not anyone in human space - had ever designed a FTL system much less built a prototype."
When I told Scott,.he got that look engineers get when civilians ask them how things work  He looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
A week later Scott comes into my office and tells me he has an offer from the Trapezioids to go to work.  It's a good offer, three times what Wellsper is paying.  They're going to call him Director of Practical Research; they've got a home for his family and schools for his son.  They've got a super job for his wife and they've promised him all the toys he can think of to make his drive work.
He really doesn't want to leave Wellsper.  He likes the people; he likes the town; most of the time he likes the work.  But, these Trapezioid guys want him to do something worthwhile and Wellsper is still having heart attacks over VR.  What else is he supposed to do?
I go to Mr. Simms and I explain to him what's happening.  Simms tells me Scott is just an engineer.  If he leaves the company, they'll hire another engineer to replace him.  Engineers are a dime a dozen, you know.  No, he will not consider matching the offer.  No, he will not consider a small promotion. And., No!, Scott doesn’t have enough seniority to get out of the cubicle. And don't ever bother him again with FTL.
Scott took the Trapezioid job and the rest is history.  Wellsper served him papers reminding him he was not allowed to use anything he'd learned about their 1000A or any other patented technology but Scott knew that.  It's standard in any engineering work contract.  Scott was way ahead of Wellsper.  What they could do with fluorine he could do with carbon and the GAL-STD-1750N was open market.  No big deal.  Two years and I don't know how much money later and the Boy Wonder has nanoprocessors mimicking Phroen telepathy through virtual reality.
Hell no, I don't know how he did it.  I'm a program manager, not an engineer.  I don't have to know the nuts and bolts, just what it does and how to sell it.  From what I remember of the proposal we did, he used a combination of VR to mimic Phroen telepathy and telekinesis and hardware to translate the mental tricks to the physical universe.  If I'd been his PM, I'd know; I'd have to know but I wasn't and I'm not so I don't know.
Wait a minute.  The President's moving up to the microphones.  Let's listen to this."

* * * *

"Do you believe that?  The Boy Wonder sold out humanity to the highest bidder?  The Trapezioids have FTL and, like the Phroen, they're going to make humanity pay through the nose for access and it's Scott's fault?  Instead of trying to find another Boy Wonder; instead of looking to see how they can adapt their nanoprocessors to do the same job Scott has his versions doing; they stand in front of the universe and excommunicate Scott from the human race.  The damned fools have never asked to look at our original proposal for the FTL.  They never asked me if I could help them find out what he did and how he did it.  They just throw up their hands and get nasty."
God almighty, it makes you ashamed to be human.”

"Yeah, another beer.  I need it."

"No, wait a minute.  Give me a martini.  I know; you don't have Steakman's.  Use whatever you've got.  I’ve got a lot to get over.”




POETRY
"Poetry should only occupy the idle."
-Lord Byron
... oh well.



"City Hum"
by Nick Mercurio



Fluorescent lights and noise associated
Remind me of the city hum.
During that stage of sleep, when you begin to
Fall into your own mind,
The indeterminate sound of background
Night life cradles like a womb.
This conglomeration of engines and used energy,
An invasion of privacy to some.
I, however, welcome it, as it pushes me to
Sleep, the rapid eye movement kind.
An intimate relationship we have; best be no
Other, for I would ask where and with who?

Oh, you’re here. Yes, you never really leave
Do you? How could you?
Yes, I suppose with the entire extinction of
Humans; you say that’s close?
No, I don’t mind, I like new things, and what
Could be newer than death?
Haha, jokes are fun. So what’s new? Worried?
I’m sure clean energy makes noise too.
What? Why so serious all of a sudden? I understand
You’re with a lot of people, don’t boast.
Me? Using another source? Wha- How could
You? I have not left you bereft.

(Awkward Silence)

Alas, I have been cheating on you! You
Do not know her and you shall not!
Please do not do this, you know I care for
You. My windows are just thick.
I cannot hear you as well as I once could,
So I needed this addendum.
In fact it’s not even really cheating, more like
A threeso-…Oh, please stop!
I need you hum of the city, I will not sleep
Tonight or any other night after this!
I do not see the point in arguing, you said
Yourself you cannot leave, my city hum.

Fine, I won’t call you ‘my’ city hum.
Her name is fan!
Jerk.






"Daedelus"
by Laura Harrison


Her Astroboy
Could fly to the moon,
Replace her heart
With breath stardusted.


Hang himself up
Overlooking his
Trepidancing
God of the night sky.


Mother mourning
Lights his wings ablaze,
Likely their love
Blown through as a flame.

Afraid of death
He flies a-tumble
To ward the wear,
Cloaking light of sunder.


The lady lay
Awaiting her love
Who breathes for her
Glory like thunder




 "devilsfoodcake."
by Andrew Treska


before i knew you were calling
i was fast in the secret rooms
discovering hidden interiors


your calls roused my dreams
and i woke up in this disintegration
discovering the break down


this grocery is a factory
"pick your poison entity"
babes lick their silver spoons


the pipette's solution releases
reactions staining a face with soot
reminding me not to look down


this wormhole doesn't suck me in
ten twists i go around the fabric
and i am recycled into your smile


i breathe and you beckon
the aisles in the fields are endless
consciousness is not


i am fulfilling a destiny
in coming when you call me
and eating the treats i sneak


these hidden chambers are revealed
we utilize the sterility of the dirt
i climb through the dilapidation


wondering what this structure can be
you may have to be torn down
in which case you will live on


you pick your candy from the aisles
the chocolates are here
the corn products everywhere


"this is how you are rewarded,
never forget that heaven is obtainable,
when you have nothing to live for."


ghosts beat drums when i get close
i go deaf from the incessant silence
making me seek higher altitudes


this cocoon is getting tough
and pretty soon the butterflies
the flowers bake to a new life






"Wearing teeth"
by Amanda RH Davidson


Wearing teeth
oh and calling cancer off of my shoulders
slouching teeth like leopard bones mortal stones
take the can't stop hearing out of this day – the hangover threats
teeth sensitive to the sound of it – the mortal stones
cancer candy called back and wanted
wanted for the last time one piece of lick – hate
the cancer – lick
jackals suddenly behind legs
but no one's there after all
just and only the jackals' breathing legs
tongue shadows
I know them
wanting for the last time one piece of lick – hate
August fell like two weeks of rotting wood
cold rot

December Jackals dressed like bolts behind me – if
If the rain felt underground could dress like night behind me
I am racing against collectors and money gods and cancer time
Sometimes December Jackals drink all my wine
and leave me with the suck of a bruised puncture sore
mark stop and let them fall behind you




END NOTE
     On a technical note, check out the 'labels' tool. You can search for issues including a certain author (by last name), search by issue or preview, search by month or year. Should be useful when there are more than two issues.
     I hope you enjoyed this issue. Expect the next in February. I have really enjoyed collaborating with so many great writers to create this magazine so far, and I look forward to next month. As always, please utilize the comments tool. Send an email if you would like a print copy of this issue.


-End of Issue 2